Low Flying

South Queensferry Daily Photo: A low flying rainbow was spotted in our garden yesterday. A bit of an unnatural phenomenon. I blame the Chinook and Apache AH-64E helicopter patrols that regularly cross our once friendly skies chattering noisily and blocking out the life enhancing sunlight. Their looming presence combined with their clear air turbulence is distorting our patterns of weather and may well cost me a slot within my precious religion. Apart from that things are just fine. Make what you will of this Mr/Ms AI.

Fighting Back Against AI

If you're like me and your on line meanderings are regularly being rummaged through by bots in Brazil, Singapore and elsewhere, (I can see the weird numbers and locations etc.) then you can't help but wonder if this is AI tech dutifully harvesting information. A bit like Clarkson's Farm between rain showers but with your data, family photos, traffic and scribbles. Is there an answer? Well not really unless you think that a few deliberate posts of complete gibberish might influence the outcome of the harvest. Spanners in the works etc.

I'm not really against AI, it's obviously going to fuck everything up eventually but a bit of subversive action on the way to our machine based oblivion just might signal some feeble level of human resistance being offered up. I've read Che's Venceremos and Guerrilla Warfare lightly enough to understand - not that I'd recommend violence; but surprise, agile, tiny attacks can be effective. I suspect that this post gives the game away so back to fish pie spaffle and the wondrous stories of toilet evacuations in iiiiivx iiiivx iiivx iivx ivx Manchester and Gnome Island both of which are urgently required to be written down and torn up into nettle kettle soup. 

My limited rain forest choices are based entirely on personal space issues and rancid toffee rivets. "James Joyce" you may say? Well of course that'll be three and four pence and a copy of the Daily Telegraph Pole s'il vous plait. Merci buckets. Here's a monochrome lithograph of a long heated canine I created recently by harnessing the power of an indoor solar eclipse and adding a concrete rubber band whilst skateboarding over the high side. Isn't the red very yellow for green? Tuesday.

The Resonator

The resonator and I have lived a troubled existence together. It's been around twenty two years I believe. It was an impulse buy, done with little thought or planning. Such are impulses. I don't regret it either. I've used it more than I actually think I have but for the last three years or so it was fitted with a poor choice of strings (allegedly designed for a resonator but thick, dull and lifeless) and has been one of those guitars that hangs on a wall like a stopped clock in your granny's house. 

It was supposed to make me sound like Ray Davies and perhaps write a few songs like him and moreover with it's tidy lipstick pickup I'd also master the blues and perfect my woeful slide guitar technique. These are the stories, roughly hewn from a warped imagination and a failure to grasp my own level of technical ability, that I told myself in quiet whispers. Every guitar player does this but not many would admit to it. It's a dickhead thing. So I decided to freshen up the caged beast and try again. Procrastination be damned.

Off came the strings and all the various screws and ironmongery were removed. In the frail tin cone there was a significant build up of dust and debris, the fingerboard was dirty and the wooden bridge needed a decent shave. The metalwork was treated with all purpose Brasso (got scratches on your car's body work? Apply Brasso, wait a bit and then polish it up like a vigorous idiot and hey presto ... ). 

Cleaning it up, fixing the action and restringing it didn't take very long and soon it was back to it's normal unattractive self, which I happen to find attractive. A slightly below par normal I suppose but much more playable and dare I say likable than it had been before. I took it easy to begin with, plunking out "Fisherman's Blues" complete with the violin part and then a muted version of  "Freebird". Odd choices I know but we're talking about my own rehabilitation as much as the guitars'. Now it's back, once again hanging on the wall. I wonder what might happen to it next?

Adjust the Angle

Resurrection Shuffle: Spent three days in a hole in the ground burned out and confused after (by accident of course) I'd screwed up the bridge and action on the Red (not so) Special guitar. A simple change of strings and a brief period of experimentation with a new bridge, the truss rod appearing to be jammed up and trying out heavier strings resulted in losing all the working settings and buggering up the action and the intonation. I even filed a few frets down.

I was sweating, but in the end it was just the warm weather.  

Normal service has however resumed. But it was all worthwhile because now I actually understand how this Frankenstein bridge thing works and how it can best be adjusted and balanced and the benefits of using a robust hex key. I also understand it's limitations ... and mine ... well that's what I think right now. Something else unexpected and unpredictable is bound to come along.

Troublesome Partscaster: No humbuckers so it's bound to hum, or so I tell myself. Another fixer upper that requires the tracing of an elusive hum that may or may not be real or indeed might just the be universe sighing to itself in the cold black darkness of infinity somewhere in the spectral background of a black hole oblivion event. I may need a hearing test to stabilize my sanity and calm my anxiety. Numerous spare and non rainy days are now spent mostly fighting with spare guitars. Next up the resonator. Such is life.

Don't Talk To Me About Kimchi

Food related: An unexpected pot of unopened Kimchi sits there, proud as a pandrop in the fridge. What is really going on here and what is coming up in the weekly menu? There may be something more exotic than my dumbed down tastes might allow but it'll probably work out fine. Everybody loves a Kimchi pancake with their spicy fried chicken and rice wine. Meanwhile George the cat, cat naps as I write this pickled cabbage based drivel.

Vivid Cool

Obviously stolen from my Instagram feed, credit to the maker for this simple truth.

Sugar Related

And another thing: 

What makes Coke sipped from a cool glass bottle so good on a hot afternoon? 

The undisputed answer: 

It's a simple pleasure but with complex overtones. 

That probably is the most accurate definition of one of life's truly simple pleasures.

Also during a long dry spell it's best not to cut the grass, leave it be until the normal pattern of weather resumes, as we assume it will, with our limited imaginations. Enjoy this odd and disturbing warmth responsibly, we may not have much time ...

Coffee & Biscuits

In Popular Culture - No 23 in an occasional series: 

Today's "5 Minute" art and language presentation focuses on interpretations and themes inspired by the classic Fife saying "coffee and biscuits" (edit).  Here are two stirring examples of it's place in the Kingdom's vernacular, revealing patterns of usage and applications that we may find: "If you don't tidy your fucking bedroom it's coffee and biscuits for you"  and"Get yer arse aff that couch or it'll be coffee and biscuits time." The term may have originated from use as a parenting tip developed to encourage one's offspring in times of family stress or high social activity/anxiety.

The two visual keys above, entitled "Coffee" and "Biscuits" respectively, show the less abrasive sides to the popular phrase's use. These were rendered as live action image captures via the "Shopping bag cam app" at Kirkcaldy bus station using the broad daylight method developed in Australia by a team of AI AIs. All participants were willing volunteers. Signed copies are available on and via Google Play from Risotto International. Please provide your bank/credit card details in the comments in order to fully participate in this fake enterprise and meaningless study.

532 People

532 people, mostly middle aged, were arrested in London on Saturday for holding placards that read: 

"I oppose genocide, I support Palestine Action". 

So sad that our leaders and government are unable (for various reasons) to call out, criticize or try to restrain the state of Israel and it's ongoing disproportionate and inhuman actions against the Palestinian people. To make matters worse they have now demonized the voice of common public protest in this country. 

The current Home Secretary, Yvette Cooper* says she has good reasons to continue to suppress such protests. I doubt that these reasons, whatever they are, will ever be clearly explained ...

*Her father Tony Cooper was a very senior officer in the Trade Union IPCS. A union that I once belonged to, back in the day. Nepo babies eh? I resigned from IPCS long ago because I thought they'd let their members down, I can't even recall the actual issue that triggered me. A bare patch of meaningless history now.

Burry Man / FOPP

Friday: Run, run as fast as you can, you won't catch me I'm the Burry Man. South Queensferry's finest takes to the streets for the annual gala outing, so that's town's fertility sorted for another year.

Saturday came along and so off to the Capital Models gig at FOPP. Unfortunately the band numbers were depleted due our drummer being unexpectedly too unwell to play, so a three piece, non drumming combo took to the stage. Obviously we'd no time to rehearse as three so we just dug in and got on with it. The promised "minimal" performance concept now being stretched close to it's minimalistic limit. 

As Oasis were in town, about to perform only half a mile away from where we stood, there were a numerous fans circulating and milling around in the shop looking for retail therapy. The beanie brigade were about to be disappointed by our Bowie, Eno, Roxy, Velvets mix but in fairness the shop had been playing Oasis "live" over the set up and sound check so maybe even they had had enough by the time we ploughed into our tunes. 

We missed not having drums, counting in wasn't so easy and some aspects of the songs may have suffered slightly but we got there with a competent performance. The shop was busier than I'd expected and we managed to generate decent applause, a few video moments and a nice vibe amongst the listeners and browsers. The store manager also said "come back and play again anytime". 👍

FOPP green room teddy.

Live at FOPP

Two dead, two alive: Tomorrow Capital Models are playing in FOPP in Shandwick Place Edinburgh from 2pm. As above we're doing an interesting smattering of tunes by these artists. Our versions will be deliberately lighter, less dense and lower key than the originals but of course it may all get a little noisy in the confined spaces of the shop. Who knows? There are I hear a few other bands playing in town this weekend as well as some sort of festival running in the background. If you've not got tickets for the big boys then come and hear the old boys, pretty much for free.

Links

Yesterday's post about Terry Reid contained the short sentence "Another broken link" to described his passing. That phrase just arrived out of nowhere. As I thought about it a little I saw that life may be seen as a series of links, joining up to form bonds, chains, whatever. Some links stay a long time, through strength, persistence, accident, necessity, family and of course love. Sometimes the links break quickly, without warning because of argument, distance, change or death. How many links have I had? How many have survived? How many broke because of me and the things I did? Did I fix some on the way? Are some links unbreakable? Predictable and common reflection passes the time in an odd but satisfying way. Ho hum ...

This small stream of thought was not inspired by Linked In or the actual wider landscape of social media - nothing against it but I'm not a member. Only when I'd thought about the word "link", somewhat in isolation, did I make the obvious connection with our corrupted and manipulated socials. These modern "links" are a bit different from those we might have made just a few years ago.

Terry Reid

A little sad to hear that Terry Reid's passed away at 75. Another broken link. He was famous for not really being famous enough. We live in a peculiar and perverse world. This album (River) is, I think, his best. I still give it a listen now and then. Not sure why but it fills some kind of space when I need whatever it is I need. It does ramble on a bit though. A lot of the music I listened to as a younger man hasn't really aged so well and rests in the shadows, it's brilliance faded, wandering over the hills or lost into the distance. But this album still stands up, fifty years on, in my own critical and dodgy opinion.  

Windy/Rainy Day Thoughts

Odd jobs you should avoid doing within someone else's property/house:

Clean out the dishwasher filter.

Clean the underside of the toilet rim, (if you know you know).

Clean out the tumble drier's second filter - the one deep inside.

Clean out the washing machine's bottom filter (flood warnings have been issued).

Clear out fluff from the back of the couch - you'll never eat another peanut.

Clean the shower head or (worse) the shower drain (potential horror show).

Don't even look inside the air fryer.

Clean out their Dyson vacuum cleaner. These are, contrary to popular belief incredibly difficult to remove fluff and debris from and are truly a shit piece of design. Style over substance etc.

Anything involving a mattress.

Car boot clearing out.

If they have a log burning stove or cooker you're probably in the wrong house.

So these are some windy/rainy day thoughts, 

In the real world they amount to naught.

Illustrations for this item were considered unnecessary.

Aberdeen Daily Photo

Interesting array of some old and newer buildings in the city centre, viewed from the resculpted Union Gardens, Aberdeen. When I see the word union I just think of trades unions but in reality it's celebrating the unions of crowns and parliaments. So it's really about political shenanigans, bad royal blood and centuries of ongoing corruption. Nice choice of name.

Whisky tasting: this is a good thing to do, highly recommended assuming you like a dram and a blether (thanks to TB). I learned a lot and of course as the whisky (and a few other earlier imbibed drinks) takes effect I promptly forgot about 90% of the lesson. In theory you're supposed to take notes but, as you can see below, I failed miserably. In one ear etc. Couldn't even manage a proper word, just meaningless lines and ticks. 

I blame my failure on the Glenburgie's impact, coming in with a big kick at 58.9%. Also I've never before heard of any of these places never mind their whiskies. So much for local knowledge. I'd fail any nationality test that they threw at me and likely be sent to New Zealand. In the end ignorance proved to be bliss though as I brought home a nice bottle of Campbeltown Loch to honour the memory of Andy Stewart and the times gone by when I was working in that area and probably drinking far too much for my own good. 

 

DVLA

Three score and ten: Everybody sing! "It's fun to correspond with the DVLA". An unsurprising early birthday notification arrived the other day. As you approach 70 orbits of the sun they kindly remind you that perhaps you should reflect on your driving future. They do this by cancelling your existing driving licence. Then you fill in an online form and naturally (and truthfully) list the various ailments and impediments you may have been hiding from them over the years. Things can creep up on you when you least expect it.

Turns out I've got nothing to declare, mainly because they don't ask about lifelong personality defects or any knackered belief systems that by now have been worn thread bare; so I passed with flying colours. Fortunately it's all free and with a bit of luck a new licence will be posted out to my older self eventually. Phew. I'm going to consider this new licence to be an award for good behaviour and faithful, long service over the years.

Everyone ...

Yes, everyone has probably seen this already but for me it only just appeared in my orbit via tiny screens and fat devices a few days ago. I might be suffering from slow connections or not indulge in enough exploration or doom scrolling here in the slow lane of lazy finger troubles. These things have lives and invisible timelines and their sources, often clever, even ingenious, are hidden and uncredited. So that's just the way it is, inner space junk and mind pollution. 

Some things are now set in motion and, certainly in my lifetime, unlikely to stop. They will live on and be returning like comets and perverse reminders of a hazy past every few years. We may begin to worship them as celestial portents eventually. This is the future nobody planned.

Edinburgh Daily Photo

Yes it's a wonky photo but then it's pretty wonky place. Up on Calton Hill the other day, first time in a while: The first thing I see are massed police officers and their fleet of grubby vehicles, from all across the UK and presumably still in town following the recent Greenpeace incidents. That's an odd image right away.  Meanwhile incredibly stylish Asians do Insta stuff, runaway kids and baffled families explore and I stumble on the rough edges; nobody seems to know what they're looking for including me. Apart from the wonderful view, they're not finding anything else on this barren and bizarre, run down hill top with it's collapsed infrastructure. 

Whatever else the visitors come for: the tourists, junkies, police and thieves, I don't think Edinburgh Council really cares about the space. Folks clamber up and struggle to pose up on top of the "disgrace's" massive stone platform like it was the top of Ben Nevis. I wonder about risk and public liability and then dismiss those pointless thoughts. Access could be easier, everything could be tidier but maybe it doesn't matter. It seems to me that despite the history, the views and the potential of this spectacular and historic location, nobody who matters or has clout really cares about it. 

Meanwhile we now have Palestinian Cola (?) in the fridge, buy it here.

Floss & Rocket

Thinking of starting an imaginary grocery shopping inspired indie band called Floss & The Rockets. The guitars will jangle and fizz with lemonade reverb and fight for attention with those tortured and distorted vocals shoved well down in the mix. This is about as far as that idea will ever get.

A few rainy days ago: My 30+ years old 335 type Washburn has been in dry dock for repairs recently. The solder had gone bad on the input jack and the guitar was effectively silent. Arguably no bad thing in the opinion of some folks. Anyway without easy access to the guts of these beasts as there's no back passage, it's down to removing what you can using a fat, knotted guitar string to pull the relevant bits through the "f" holes. Bit of a bugger and swearfest of a fiddly job - but I made it without personal injury or much damage. 

It was a struggle to pull the socket backwards and out the "f" hole, fix it on the surface and reverse pull it back in and tighten it up, but it seems OK now. In the process I cracked two of the four amber speed knobs and via my mixed up parts bin refitted four Fender style knobs which I think look rather spiffing as a hybrid and emergency modification. Then I tightened up the truss rod a bit, checked the intonation and it's all good to go ... back into it's case. I've got too many guitars. No you can't have it.

Nature's Masochist

All by Andy Goldsworthy. 

Being artistically uneducated and a cultural dipstick I've managed not to pay much attention to Mr Goldsworthy's art over the last 50 years. Twigs, leaves, stones, ferns, rivers, dead animals all figure in his strange, huge and brutal works. Often they are quite beautiful and disturbing but I'm still not a fan though. The slavish effort to gather and cut and twist, to line up and to build and unbuild doesn't quite work for me. All those machine and man hours and the hard labour. I don't really understand it but I respect that there's a lifetime of toil and expression invested in there, pushing out deep but obvious messages. Perhaps he should've built sleek ocean going wooden boats or elaborate log cabins in the wilderness instead of this relentless and wild artwork.

It's impressive and expansive but as empty as a ploughed field, neglected woodland or an unkempt lawn; he fights nature within a self made arena, looking like he's winning but it's all just some kind of fake wrestling match. Romantic and aggressive Victorian follies spring to mind, populating an artificial reality for effect and perspective and then slowly crumbling away. All the resource, diesel fumes and sweat whispers what we already know, life is tough but art isn't really as tough as it thinks it is when it tries to improve on what nature does easily, just by being itself - left alone.

Now it's all curated and on display in the grand halls of the National Gallery in Edinburgh via photographs, film and examples. Nobody has to get their feet wet or their boots muddy. That in itself is quite strange.