Revolving whore!

Dear Revolving Door,

All rubbish things in this world are the namesake for something bad, be it a movie, a song or a person and you, revolving door are no exception. For proof of how hated you are, one needn’t look any further than the fact that you even have a syndrome named after you.

You boast some fine features – you keep out the elements, you cannot be blown open, you like to silently slay people at random. But you were a bit put out that the world did not revolve around you, weren’t you? So you decided to make the world revolve within you, where you could maim innocent rat-racers. You would have us believe that you are but a marionette, but you do not fool me. You even stoop to hop on the green bandwagon to save your rotten image.

You were originally the brainchild of a Mr H Bockhacker of Berlin, who was granted a German patent back in 1881. As a little aside I note that those crazy Germans also give us the less nimble revolving restaurant. These pointless gyrating eat-houses are allowed to function unchecked by the authorities in 52 countries. I say if you want a 360 degree view try craning your neck, or, and this is a really novel idea, get up and walk around. The award for the most offensively named revolving restaurant is a close call between “Revolving Restaurant” in Cairo and “Blacktown Workers Club” in Not-Sydney (oh the shame). The prize for the most affected hipster revolving restaurant name goes to “@mosphere” in Kota Kinabalu. Tossers. But I digress.

Dreaded by suits of just the one walk of life, you, revolving door have your humble beginnings in misogyny.  Seven years after Bockhacker was granted his patent, Theophilus van Kannel prepared to make his mark in the world. Van Kannel refused to accept that he was expected to open doors for women, hence you were a gift to all men to help them bypass chivalry. How tough life is for white men.

So death carousel, I want you to know that I know you recently made an attempt on my life, and so I throw this gauntlet at you and I dare you to try it again and then we’ll see who is boss.

Kyrani

Wind Me Up

Dear Wind,

I have been thinking about you a lot recently. In fact, I’ve even gone to the trouble of correctly defining you so that I can properly criticize absolutely everything about you.

I have found that you refer to a number of things, but I’d like to start with your most immature node as an anally excreted gas. To break wind (or to find the activity amusing in any way) is to be of a lower class of human, unless done in the privacy of one’s bathroom (and in some arguments home/company). It is an assault upon our olfactory senses and proper sensibility, and by relation, the same could be said of you.

Perhaps better known of your definitions is as a weather pattern. Apparently you are the flow of air or gas around Earth. In other words, you surround all things and are everywhere. You are not, however it may seem, anything remotely akin to a God. You are in fact an irritant upon the eye of the world and the only reason I can see for you staying here is that we would in fact perish without you, which may be preferable depending on who you consult.

As a weather pattern, you create havoc. You ruin hairstyles, spread our litter-piles around, rile up the crazies and generally create a hostile, unliveable environment for those whom you sustain, myself and fellow humans.

You have also been the subject of mythology and popular culture. I’m going to single out the X-Men for this. Wind Dancer. Possibly the most annoying character ever created, it was difficult for me to tell whether she was using wind as a weather power or as a gaseous outburst from her anus. On the other hand we have Storm who definitely uses her wind as a weather element and can even use it to fly, which I think involves filling her lungs with a heated oxygen compound. Both of these characters are now dead*, which I think says more than I could ever say on the matter.

In closing, I would like to express my frustration at your gaseousness as I am thus unable to reprimand you properly with a gauntlet, and advise that I will simply have to make do with making a fist and banging it on my table in barely suppressed rage.

Adrik

*may not be true

Dirty Hobbits

Dear John Ronald Reuel Tolkien,

I am livid. I’ve considered myself to be a fan of science fiction for many years now, watching, writing and reading constantly now, but as a child, I could never afford to buy new books, so I had to opt for second hand ones. For this reason, I was frequently presented with seemingly normal science fiction novels with a short blurb, an exciting drawing of whatever was popular in science fiction at the time of publication (unicorns, busty women, dragons, spaceships, aliens and the like) and a handy pencil price-tag on the inner front cover.

I would excitedly take these home with me and read them only to discover, at varying points of my literary journey, that they were in fact part of a series. A series I did not own, nor have the capacity to own. In some cases I would have stumbled across the first in a series, and have thoroughly enjoyed myself until the end, when I realised that the story did not in fact finish at all and that I was once abandoned by the characters and world that I had been a part of for the duration of the novel.

You may be wondering what this has to do with you, my post-humous friend, but I think you probably know. As the author of the ‘seminal’ science fiction series, I am holding you personally responsible for the reams of drivel being published in science fiction and for the broken dreams of my childhood. Big calls, I know, but you’re dead, you can handle it.

I cannot fathom why some authors feel the need to wring every last character and scenario from a world and/or idea until they end up with literally tens of books about the same thing. Ideas grow stale, characters grow boring and readers, well, they turn away. I can see it’s a money-making scheme, I mean, you wrote ‘The Hobbit’ and subsequently wrote the ‘Lord of the Rings’ trilogy, and I suppose I should thank you for leaving it at three, but you see, your influence has lead to such never-ending sagas as the ‘Dune’ series (Brian Herbert is arguably equally responsible for that farce, but then, citing the case of your own son, Christopher continuing your ‘legendarium’, I believe you are responsible for this too), ‘Twilight’ and whatever drivel Terry Pratchett has dreamed up.

What happened to the single novel? To the world you could lose yourself in, ride the rollercoaster (or spaceship, or worm, or whatever) of until such time (generally 200-600 pages) that the story comes to a believable conclusion. What happened to it, John? You did. And for that, I’m coming to your grave and digging you up with my gauntletted hands and I’m going to slap your skeleton silly. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Adrik

Right On Time

Dear 389,

I like to make an example out of things. I’m not going to deny it.

The 389, as you are colloquially known is a public transport route that runs from somewhere past Bondi to the city. You wind past Westfield Bondi Junction (WBJ to some, an unfortunate acronym at best) through the back streets of Woollahra, then through Paddington, where you make my acquaintance, then onward to the city. The route is fine. I have no issues with your route. I do take issue, however, with the following facts which I believe bleed over into all forms of public transport in Australia (we could learn a lot from Japan).

Firstly, you are never on time. You are either early or late, whichever is more inconvenient for me. I’m sorry to be self-centred about this, but unfortunately it’s true. You like making my life hell. It is the only explanation. So if I arrive at my bus stop at say 8.30am and there is nothing but a proverbial tumbleweed waiting for me, I’ll check the timetable to see you are due to come at 8.31am and 8.41am. Invariably, your 8.31am variety will have been early. And your 8.41am variety will be late. Leaving me in a lurch. A frustrated lurch.

While in this lurch, I like to recite a mantra that another kindly soul has inscribed upon the telegraph pole; ‘when do the fucking buses come here?’. Indeed, 389, when DO they come?

Which brings me to my second irritating fact. You like to travel in packs. Preferably, it seems, in packs of three or more. I cannot fathom the reason for this. Cannot fathom it in the slightest. I would appreciate some feedback from you regarding this actually. You can reach me here.

I would very much like to hurl gauntlets through your windshields but I’m afraid of causing further insubordination in you. Which is ridiculous and deserves a gauntlet all of its own. Instead I will avoid you like some sort of widespread disease, which unfortunately is more difficult than I first thought.

Adrik

Totally Tubular

Dear Underground,

A man with immense wit and talent and a rather nice piano once said “we can be happy underground”, but he was wrong. So wrong.

There is ample evidence that hell is located beneath the earth’s surface. Peer reviewed sections of the bible tell us this is so, but for those who might require further proof, surely the word of these people will quell any doubts. If the temperature on the Tube is anything to go by, hell is surely located under London.

Watching throngs of people frantically tearing off layers of clothing as they enter the oven-like stations and trains is like watching some second rate burlesque show. The Tube has been described as “hotter than Miami” except on Satan’s days off when the trains circle at a cool cool 35 degrees, and they become a collection of moving Petri dishes. Every cough, sneeze and burp lingers in the stale air to be hoovered by nearby commuters for incubation and spreading on future journeys.

Even more infuriating is your Tube map which bears virtually no resemblance to London’s actual geographical layout. Add to this what will be years of pre-Olympic line closures, delays, stupid stop names (Tooting Bec, Arsenal and Elephant and Castle, just look at the state of it) and overcrowding and you’ve got yourself one nasty old public transport system.

The uncomfortable twitching of claustrophobes, germophobes and agoraphobes makes riding the Tube almost worthwhile but oh how I long for Tokyo’s pristine carriages, jingles, sprawling corridors, etiquette signs and even these guys. Even the Paris metro, with its funny smell and terrifying art nouveau entrances, is a more inviting option than the Tube.

So, Mr Folds, while I respectfully acknowledge that your endorsement of the insights of progressive sociologist Dr Dre was inspired, you were very much mistaken on the subject of subterranean realities. We can in fact not be happy underground, least of all on The Underground, which right this minute will feel the impact of my 1,435mm standard gauge gauntlet, now travelling along the Circle Line, because let’s face it, it’s not like anything else is.

Kyrani