Fuck

After working hard to lose 18 kilos in three months, now they tell me this:

HP shows the way

Two lessons from Mark Hurd’s ouster:

1. It’s never a good idea to primp up your expense claims. Especially if you’re dinning out with your escort/mistress.

2. If you’re planning to hire a marketing consultant, with whom you’ll have to interact on a regular basis, just make sure she hasn’t acted in movies called ‘Intimate Obsession’, ‘Body of Influence 2′ and ‘Sheer Passion’.

I like Twitter

A wise man once wrote that compulsive tweeting is, essentially, an exercise in narcissism.

Only people who want everyone to know what they’re doing at every minute naturally gravitate towards Twitter, and it’s ability to let them broadcast utterly useless personal information to everyone in the world at any time.

That’s why celebrities just love it.

Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing.

Because, if you keep the faith, occasionally you will get intellectually stimulating tweets from Kim Kardashian (airhead bimbo/marketing-savvy reality star – take your pick) like the one below.

She may be a narcissist and an insufferable bore, but hey, she’s hot.

My Hobbes gone

My 6-year-old niece has decamped to Abu Dhabi with my trusted partner and confidant (pictured below, in happier times).

Ode to a turd

John Updike, my favourite author, wrote about adultery, sex and suburban angst with a whole new perspective. He also wrote a remarkable poem about human excrement.

The Beautiful Bowel Movement

Though most of them aren’t much to write about—
mere squibs and nubs, like half-smoked pale cigars,
the tint and stink recalling Tuesday’s meal,
the texture loose and soon dissolved—this one,
struck off in solitude one afternoon
(that prairie stretch before the late light fails)
with no distinct sensation, sweet or pained,
of special inspiration or release,
was yet a masterpiece: a flawless coil,
unbroken, in the bowl, as if a potter
who worked in this most frail, least grateful clay
had set himself to shape a topaz vase.
O spiral perfection, not seashell nor
stardust, how can I keep you? With this poem.

It was time for a haircut

We were sitting for a family dinner when my 6-year-old niece pipes up.

“Uncle, can I tell you something?”

“Yes, dear.”

“You look like a joker.”

On rereading Hemingway

Simple words.
Short, declarative sentences.
Tough, terse prose.