Swearing at Bus Drivers

Thanks Dave for the Octopotamus...

Long gone are the days of my youth, days spent swearing at bus drivers and being an all around insolent little twit. No, these are gritty days, hard times to be of the over-informed - anything you've ever wanted to know is at your fingertips, instantly, bringing along it's heady weight. And the future is no brighter, as we are on the cusp of a very dull and dark time that lacks any cultural richness, a time when the only movies that get made made are an endless stream of Crocodile Dundee remakes...

There comes a time, for some it's their twenties, for others, like me, it's their thirties, when a person has to decide whether to shed all the adventure and excitement, and the wonder that comes with it, and come to grips with the concept of life. This is an ugly prospect, to be absolutely certain - this business of growing up or remaining a child forever. You can choose to pick up the harmonica and play along, but in the end, you are saddled with the choice. But for those who are lucky enough, those who can read between the lines, those like myself who squeeze in between those lines, there is a nice little space in there where there is no need to choose. It's not limbo, it's something far, far better.