Wednesday, March 31, 2010
How is it that a small man such as me has to wear large pants? What a strangely sized world we live in or what a strangely sized person I am or am I buying pants at the wrong places?.
If I was younger I'd become a Steampunk for Easter. However that seems a pointless thing to do at my age and nothing whatsoever to do with Easter. It won't happen.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
The problem of "avoiding the wrong hell" is an acute one for those earnestly seeking the truth. Good luck to you all, the odds are against you.
Back at the ranch it was fish finger sandwiches, what a marvellous warm feast to savour as we look out at the ongoing results of global warming and the start of British summer time.
Monday, March 29, 2010
The rain is drumming along with Albert King’s drumming, drumming the blues. It must be quite easy to be a blues drummer out of all the drumming genres and styles. Economic and blissfully alcoholic I’d imagine.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
This weekend has been a confused mass of fantasy viewing that, along with the sadistic habit of seasonal clock changing left me dazed and confused and tired. Friday gave us LOST, a nose dive into the predictable and bizarre; Saturday meant Tim Burton's 3D Alice in Wonderland at movies, almost wonderful; this was followed by Terry Gilliam's Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus on DVD; Sunday was the Australian Grand Prix on the TV and latterly on the way to the football in the car via the radio. It may be odd to lump movies in with sporting events but it's all shadows and colours running across glass in one form or another.
Apart from the expected experience of not scoring enough points in the Ozzy GP, Gilliam's opus was the most disturbing encounter. I want to love his stuff quite badly, I really do, it's weird, ingenious, mad and artistically unique but the constant barrage of dwarfs, rickety constructions, face slaps, mumbled lines and convoluted plots are hard to take in and follow. It's like reading a battered paperback novel whilst riding on a 1950s Leyland Tiger bus down a bumpy farm road at twilight - and every film of his is a bit like that. Maybe I need to watch it again and write down the amount of sad souls being culled so I can maintain a proper count. Here comes the chicken pie...
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Satan shall "deceive the nations which are in the four quarters of the earth," and shall "gather them together" to encircle and attack Israel.
-- Rev. 20: 7-9
The expansion of the European Union; NAFTA and global economics; a U.S. economy flirting with socialism and the election of an internationalist president in Obama. Don't bother buying any long winded or overly thick books or plan a trip anywhere near the Middle East.
Anyway moving swiftly on to the completely unbelievable last night's LOST teetered straight into Crazy town by delivering the line we'd all expected since fairly early on in the first series namely "this island is in fact Hell". Well of course that may or may not be the case and we'll debate that for years to come whatever the final ending. Even that desperate revelation was overshadowed by the spectacle of Jacob holding an impromptu hog roast after the ship wreck. Yum.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Meanwhile life is quiet in this particular parallel universe, my diet of questionable foods mixed with the real good stuff i.e. pasta, artichokes, sun dried tomatoes, oils, various herbs and spices continues unchecked. I feel fine. As for alcohol I do rub in a small amount now and then. It all leads to growing old gracefully by indulging in this physical and fiscal continuous improvement.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Gonna mail it to my local DJ.
Yeah an' it's a jumpin' little record
I want my jockey to play.
Roll Over Beethoven, I gotta hear it again today.
Monday, March 22, 2010
What with a new baby on the way, a long shopping list and me with my bad leg there was little alternative left than to visit the peaceful environs on the shore of the Lake of IKEA in the province of Costco, Tramland. And so it came to pass that I achieved a lifetime's ambition when in a good natured queue at the buffet style cafe of HM Prison IKEA. I observed a young member of staff behind the food counter about to go on a break but filling a bowl of thin chips and ladling them over with the legendary elixir of tan meatball sauce before heading off behind the lines of shining Hobarts. Transfixed by the sight I said to the other girl serving "I'll have whatever she's having", and I did.
Earlier in the day the bonfire failed to light thanks to too much green wood and not enough dry wood. Prior to that debacle I had the unhappy task of dispatching a distressed pheasant. One short sharp blow...
Thursday, March 18, 2010
A handy trap for the unwitting pedestrian or small animals and children with no road or pavement sense. Clearly there was the germ of an idea here once, to prevent drivers from irresponsibly parking on pavements - they do this because the car parks are perpetually overcrowded and clogged up with all the organisation of a 1970s scrapyard. A few months after their costly installation they are now abandoned, sticking up like part pulled wire and plastic teeth ready to impale the unaware or the careless. Should you slip or trip over any of these mini anti personal mines there are many ambulance chasing lawyers who will be happy to take up your case with Fife Health Board and the NHS - and they'll not ask for a fee. Ironically the A&E is only a few hundred yards away.
Initially the premise is: Human life and society are broken things but with time, intelligence and invention they can be repaired.
I'd like to offer an alternative view: Human life and society are broken things that cannot be fixed, their brokenness is an integral part of their being. So get over it, put down the spanners, the super glue and the booklets about retuning out of tune pianos...and live your life but be careful where you tread. If you feel guilty about this counsel of apparent despair, don't, your efforts didn't ever make any real difference anyway.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
There's nothing quite like losing 4 hours of your life watching your laptop tie itself into pathetic knots of self imposed Windows torture installing updates all across the sad little screen. The whole tedious update process illustrates perfectly what is wrong with computers and living with them. No other household item should or would behave like this; fridges don't stop chilling to get updated, cars don't pull over onto the hard shoulder for a refresh, TVs don't freeze whilst a bar of % information drags itself across the screen (OK I know Freeview boxes do this). It is just wrong. So I've a laptop like a sick puppy that's getting a red hot poker quietly inserted somewhere whilst I stand back, fume and share the pain.
Meanwhile more conclusive proof that Banks, their managers and their advertising agencies have neither a sense of shame or irony and that they do not understand how the public view their recent antics. How else could RBS use taxpayers money to show a TV commercial containing the following lines:
"Since 2004 RBS has taught 400,000 school children about money management".
Might have been an idea to include a few senior RBS managers on that particular course whilst you were at it, in fact why not collar a few of those "trained up" school kids and offer them a job right now? You couldn't make it up. I'm not sure which is worse their ice cream van bank or their seaplane bank, both seen buzzing the highlands whilst cloth capped ethnically appropriate crofters sing the Banks' praises to the tune of some torrid Gaelic lament.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Scotland's problems are pretty obvious but not easy to face up to - the burning desire to spend 48 hours a week numb and detached being the main one requiring treatment. While they like to talk about social mobility and brilliant careers and possible economic answers none of our political parties can fathom out the dilemma of what to do with a part population of 2.5 million people who don't really give a shit anymore. Perhaps they should close a few supermarkets.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Germaine Greer was on the radio talking like some old friend about how her father had returned home after the war: broken, drinking heavily and silent. "We never had a decent conversation" she said, " he remained silent in order to protect us from what he had seen and done, like many men who return from war". Germaine went on of course to discuss her feminist writings, failed marriage and various other things she had experienced. I was however not listening to any of that, I was hanging onto and mulling over "broken, drinking heavily and silent". Words that seemed in a vague and yet precise way to be some recipe for the make up of my own long gone father (mentioned in this old post), who went to war and paid the price for the next 30 years of his life. Sometimes I think I am gathering together the elements of some wonderful recipe of understanding, as these ingredients appear, change and come together. Then I remember that I cannot cook and cannot be bothered to cook. I am trying to feed and entertain ghosts, ghosts best left silent and hungry.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Friday, March 12, 2010
2 x Ham stock cubes, M&S Broccoli, S&M Cauliflower, regular carrots, chopped, diced, sliced, splayed and dehydrated onions, water and heat. Optional crocodile or alligator steaks to taste and mystery spices.
Heat and eat, easy as a pie in soup form and the fast food franchise is currently available, post a comment and send a cheque for £25,000 and away you jolly well go.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
In the crawl to get through to the lounge passengers adopt battery chicken facial expressions, yawn and stare into space, invariably arriving at the rollers and trays slightly surprised and despite numerous other travel experiences quite blank in the mind. They forget to take out their laptops, remove chunky belts, discard liquids or take off their jackets and then like scolded children obey the relentless last minute reminders to contain your paltry little collection of belongings in a plastic tray. Only once you have passed through the great electronic portal will you be allowed to experience the dubious privilege of flight - as a highly valued passenger, a potential target and more importantly a credit card holder.
There is of course no answer, we must be kept afraid and so the great white tide of terror has won by clubbing us into deathly obedience like wide-eyed seal pups. Our lives have become ruled by unbalanced risk assessments that see half empty and dull provincial flights to Southampton or Wick in the same light as those to Newark or Chicago and every poor Muslim traveller or olive skinned student is a threat. In the silent war that has been declared on life in the west we've only to look at our current set of overblown tactics and unfortunate reactions to know that we've lost it already.
Meanwhile outside the airport as concrete defence systems are set up to baffle attacks from Panzer Tanks or low flying Kamikaze pilots, ordinary travellers struggle to pass through these monuments to construction company profits and so enter the shrine of the travel gods. So do we feel safe, fly happier and sleep any more soundly? Not really, it's only a mater of time until some extremist pulls his rusty and flaming Hyundai into a branch of the Co-op or Morrison's. At that point it's time to get out and buy an island, any island.
Onto another matter altogether: "There were songs in that guitar"...hmmm.
I'm writing this watching "It might get loud" again.
Sunday, March 07, 2010
Today I've mostly been listening to 99 Red Balloons by a girl with hairy oxters and eating soup (I'm eating the soup not the girl). The soup and a healing visit to Dobbies cafe was a necessary part of my football recovery programme.
In the mean time I've seen the future, proving for once that I am not totally preoccupied with either myself or my childhood, the one spent serenely in what was then an unspoilt Fife - a few steps only from the raw and bleeding Eden. Anyway the future looks like this, invest all of your money now and get over the whole banking fiasco thing. Apart from all the obvious human rights, environmental and financial issues involved, any company called Build Your Dream cannot be completely wrong - tell that to Shoeless Johnston/Jackson.
Saturday, March 06, 2010
My first ever "full face" burger was purchased in Walcott Street in Bath in 1985 from a garishly painted Hero Burger shop. Up until then it had been only puny Bird's Eye efforts or nondescript greasy plain cheeseburgers for me, served up from mobile vendors. Little did I realise that my life was about to change and that my stunted and chemically reduced horizons were about to broaden. As I recall the Bath monster had peppered mayo and lettuce and I ate it walking down the street, it was wrapped in greaseproof paper and I was heading for the Saracen's Head pub on a Saturday afternoon, Joni Mitchell was on my Walkman. It was the perfect Road to Damascus experience for me and I have never looked back, finally I had found a burger that ticked every box. On my return to Ecosse from exile in Bath I was denied this experience for a few years until branded fast food outlets started to creep back across the border to what is indeed their true spiritual homeland. Angus I salute you.
This week's irrelevant play list:
Them Crooked Vultures - the Album of the same name.
Norman Lamont - the soundscapes album.
Madison Violet - No fool for trying.
Ukelilli - includes the Derren Brown song etc.
Impossible Songs - the wedding album (various ever changing artistes).
Captain Beefheart - Safe as Milk.
The Beatles - Abbey Road (again).
Friday, March 05, 2010
Thursday, March 04, 2010
She sings, she plays, she writes songs about Dr Who, Derren Brown and obsessive compulsive urges: Ukelilli. The good lady uke jockey played at Mr I's Secret CDs last night along with a rash of other gifted performers. Ms. U however did inject a welcome degree of humour and pathos into the evening with her offbeat songs and North American humour. As for the ukulele I'm not convinced about it as an instrument, any thing with less or more than six strings baffles me a bit, I've never gone much on 4, 5, 7 or 8 string guitars at all and the uke always sounds a bit out of tune - it's all an acquired taste I guess - and Eddie Izzard likes her and the shrunken head guitar it seems.
Tuesday, March 02, 2010
Meanwhile back in the safer realm of TV we are up to Series 6 Episode 3 of the mighty, magnificent and increasingly baffling LOST, or as a friend described it; "the ongoing dream of the Golden Labrador featured in the first series." That explanation certainly helps me make some sense of it all.