Which one's Pink?

Funny how you can use words, hear them, speak them and still not have their (obvious) meaning register with you, well me anyway. I've been aware of Pink Floyd since 1967's See Emily Play and the Piper etc. but never really though of Pink being pink the colour, I never, ever thought that pink was actually pink. Furthermore I didn't think that Floyd was the christian name Floyd. Pink Floyd have always been and meant the sum of their total parts and not the parts themselves. I'm sure there are many other examples of not taking the literal meaning of things or connecting with the obvious particularly with band names. Mind you I did think a bit more about the name when Tommy Mackay was first performing his rather clever "Pink Floyd are shit" song, a worthy piece written from the perspective of Mr Syd Barrett.
I've always wanted to do a similar thing to the (above) Ummagumma picture for Impossible Songs (Dr Drum would take up most of the foreground) with a couple of older sports cars bringing up the rear in place of the Commer van. There's not really enough flat land around here though and the hike to Cambridge is just not do-able.

Nice comment below (ta) from the one and only Glenn (two ns) Lampshade, alas I knew him not very well.

Glen Lampshade

Tonight I heard a gentleman on the radio describe himself as a "Chippie from Wolverhampton going under the pseudonym of Glen Lampshade". It seems all his pals on the building sites where he's employed adopt odd names for themselves to alleviate the boredom generated by hanging out on such sites, their associated trade activities and the inclement weather that goes with the task. It's good but not great. He was also struggling with the dogs that lived next door and their constant barking, he was on the edge. Every so often I listen to Radio 2 in the evening, so far it's led me to Elbow, the Fleet Foxes, the Felice Brothers, Josh Ritter and Percy Plant, now I've landed up with Glen Lampshade at the dawn of his career. It's not been a bad year really.
Songs about stuff: "Runnin' up that hill" by Kate Bush is about problems achieving a female sexual climax, "Four seasons in one day" by Crowded House is about PMS, "Rattlesnake shake" by Fleetwood Mac is about masturbation - I can't think of anymore.

The pros and cons of ready meals. Pro - they're ready in minutes, cons - they taste crap, pro - they're cheap or on BOGOF, con - they are full of crap, pro - you can fill your fridge with them and not cook for weeks, con - you can fill your fridge with them and not cook for weeks, pro - there are no dirty dishes, con - we have a dishwasher anyway, pro - there is no waste, con - you'll end up with a huge waist. There must be an answer hidden in the fine balances and tuning between convenience, diet and necessity.

Questions and solitude

The repetitious addition of stolen images and re-hashed ideas, fruitless searchings, self centred lists, trivia and the trivial and opinions that don't matter to anyone. That's the way it goes with blogging and predicting the end of the world. Time wasted and diversions explored in a bid to find meaning and reason. Am I bothered?

It may not end up being called "Off the Rails" and that may in fact be a true statement of it's position but for better or worse the current attempt at a South Queensferry Arts Festival has been renamed and we've done the decent thing: started a group for it on Facebook.

Last night's episode of Smallville stretched a thin thread of plot to the limit and then allowed it to snap. Clearly the writers were having a bad day and so were the viewers. There is the germ of a great, epic sci-fi series in there somewhere but the network seems to be struggling to get it out. Perhaps this will be the last batch and the story will die on the vine naturally, starved of ideas before it teeters into something far worse.

At least we didn't all end up dead in a black hole today. Perhaps the next revolution will catch us unaware and sleeping, the best way to go I think.

It's the end

Good news for those of you who have never visited Switzerland, a free ride is headed your way. Tomorrow when they switch on the big bang particle accelerator or Cern Collider we're all headed there for a short, sharp Swiss style party. There may not be much time however to take in the fine Alpine scenery, long road tunnels, Lindt chocolates or knife shops as we're all sucked into a central European oblivion that's better than anything at Alton Towers.
From the BBC:

Three decades after it was conceived, the world's most powerful physics experiment is ready to be powered up.

On Wednesday, engineers will attempt to circulate a beam of particles around the 27km-long underground tunnel which houses the Large Hadron Collider (LHC).

The £5bn machine is designed to smash particles together with cataclysmic force, revealing signs of new physics in the wreckage.

This will re-create conditions in the Universe moments after the Big Bang.

Entering a world of pain

Sometimes a world of pain opens up before you with little or no warning.

Yesterday we were busy multi tasking on a number of projects, some time was spent on the ever present domestics, some time on the practical and even some on the creative. The first two are relatively easy as they can be done thoughtlessly and whilst on the automatic pilot of day dreaming. Creative stuff is more arduous and frustrating - if you fail to get onto a roll. I was playing with loops and synchronising various looped guitar parts with Ali's vocals, also looped. Trouble was I kept on deleting Ali's vocal and/or losing track of where I was - the alcohol drought was not helping either, that little flash you get in the corner of your eye can go a long way to oiling the creative wheels. In the end I gave up and sat on the couch in a darkened room watching the Big Lebowski, only for it's calming, mind numbing and inspiring effect you'll understand. A mug of cool White Russian would have been nice but we're not going down there so much these days.

The evening was concluded in an unusual and noisy manner by the sight and sound of a biplane buzzing our house like the Red Baron. At first I feared the worst that a) we were at war with some local landowner or b) a stray plane had escaped radar control and was about to crash into our newly vacuumed lounge. Neither proved to be the case, the plane we believe was performing stunts, complete with smoke trails, for the amusement of a wedding party at our neighbour's nearby stately home, the same one no known sat-nav can ever find. I did get a bit stressed as he dived and banked over the brick chimney pots and then disappeared behind trees, his plane's engine roaring a continual, rowdy complaint to way it was being treated. In the end he retreated to East Fortune or somewhere and we could both breathe again.

Walking with impressionists

On Friday we spent a pleasant evening avoiding the ever present Edinburgh rain and then viewing the Impressionist exhibition currently running in the National Gallery. It was an eat and greet event with the added effect of at least two trayfuls of drinks hitting the deck thanks some nervous waitering. I had to hold myself back from helping out to tidy the aftermath. I always feel sorry for the students who end up serving at these bashes, shuffling from one foot to the other whilst passing out the food and drink with no prospect of a decent tip from anyone.
This ugly little number (by Degas) was the painting that most folks wanted to see last night. Bought by a straight-laced Glasgow tailor for £180 in nineteen canteen it caused a "fair stooshie" at the time. The lady on the left may have been of easy virtue and rumour has it that she is a little down in the mouth as her pussy has just been run over by a passing trick cyclist. The poor bloke on the right appears to have been recently expelled from the Russian State Circus Clown School. Not a lot of laughs down the pub that night but at least the free flowing absinthe may have transported the couple to Timothy Leary's garden for a few quiet hours to reflect.
These Tudor guys were bonkers with power if you believe in TV history (which you might as well believe as anything else), drunk with mad passions and a self-belief that's the size of Europe because all was possible for the king and his cronies. Re-write the bible, reform the church, upset the Pope, hack a few skulls open, whack the peasants over the head and keep a harem of footballers wives on the go down in Slough. It's utter tosh but entertainingly shocking and good to unwind to after a busy working week.

In love with Sarah Palin

Sarah Palin and her favourite road kill recipe. Why not try one today?

If I could I'd vote Republican (if only) for Sarah Palin, but in order to do so I'd have to adopt a new lifestyle and nationality that are beyond me to adhere to, love and understand and frankly are just a little too extreme politically. So I'm stuck with trying to support and share the same baffled Northern European country with ugly and unpretty Scottish politicians who don't shoot deer or wolves, don't play ice hockey or drink gallons of cold beer outside while standing deep in the snow in their sealskin lined boots and don't winge. My life is now pointless and I'm bored stiff with the time, money and coverage given to dealing with the awful and awkward Wendy Alexander.

The good news is that Jimi Hendrix's burnt out Strat still plays ("I heard it on the radio" as Eric Burden said (also on the radio) a few hours after the great man died) and that some rich bastard is going to buy it for a stupid sum of money and no doubt stick it on his dining room wall in a glass case. Truly just the fate that Jimi intended for it the night he attacked it with his can of Ronson and Zippo.

The other news that I'm fairly indifferent about is that poor car dealers/makers have had their worse sales month since 1966. As I recall it was about the same time (1966) that they launched the Mark 1 Cortina and the Austin 1100, so not something you could easily blame on economic downturn then. Maybe the simple fact is that so many new cars today are complete crap in both looks and practicality and that nobody wants to buy them. The latest batch of prime time, TV car commercials, Nissan and Citroen's being the worst, certainly don't help.

A joke: The difference between a rock guitarist and a jazz guitarist? A rock guitarist plays three chords to thousands of fans...

Any old lie will do

Why are some people so much more interesting than others? You notice this particularly in politics. Some politicians have been in the business and culture of politics so long that they have ceased to share any common contact or connection with real life.They are like isotopes in a nuclear reactor, both powering and poisoning at the same time whilst shielded by the lead casing of their chosen career from the rigours and tedium of the outside world. Gordon Brown and Alister Darling both come across as prime examples. Wee Alex Salmond is smug and self righteous and eager to snipe at all and sundry and has to win every argument to regularly refuel his stunted self esteem. David Cameron rides a bike not because he has to but because he thinks it makes him look normal, how could that ever be? Sadly none of them pump over priced petrol or scrape through McDonald's drive throughs to collect their tea, or buy a pint of £2.95 lager with the last of their change, pick their noses or choose some reduced chicken from the chiller cabinet in Morrison's. I guess we wouldn't want them to either but it would be good to think that they knew what it felt like to have to do these things now and again.

"Cindy McCain, washed in the rain, no longer" (The Fleet Foxes).

Aspects of life I can enjoy:

The joy of cold ham on warm toast.
Waking up warm and snug in the morning.
Getting my car back from the repairers.
Losing track of time.
An almost complete pedal board in working order.
Practicing on a regular basis.
Drinking fruit juice.
Thinking a bit more about personal fitness.
Happy cats purring in the dark distance.
The freshness of the morning.
Searching for the right laptop but never buying one.
Wikipedia powering the imagination.
Coming home.

Last of the NYC photos

Today's poor weather allowed some photo catching up to be done, these are a few of Ali's NYC shots, she manages to take the photos that I would have liked to have taken. This pigeon is looking at a procession of dumb tourists looking at it at the top of the Rockefeller Centre.

I can't quite remember seeing this view from our flight but I must have, I don't recall us being so high up either.
I first became aware of this building, the Chrysler Building that is, when it appeared on the cover of Electric Ladyland Part 1 many years ago. At the time (I was about 14) I thought it was a piece of artwork from Dan Dare or something and they'd just added it in for fun.
Not a sight you'll see in many places but these evangelical atheists were parked outside of the Warner Centre and in a good humour despite the heat, their basic message being the need to separate the state and the church in the US. Well good luck with that folks, I can't see either McCain or Obama buying into it this time around.

As wet as last August

Buy any of the above at the Club Shop if you will.

This weekend has been heavily football orientated, a visit to the hallowed turf of East End Park yesterday started it all. The crew cut home team struggled with an energetic Livingstone side and despite a late fight back went down 2 - 1. I also missed out the 50/50 draw by at least a thousand numbers and I wasn't even hungry enough for pie at half time. No doubt we'll return for more torture and pain later in the season. Perhaps I should've worn my lucky DAFC training top instead of a Sponge Bob T shirt.

Today was spent watching Joe's team cuff a Leven side 6 -1, the best part being Joe's fine, first ever (in a league game) hat trick, a playing event and milestone he really enjoyed passing. The rain however was unrelenting and of course my golf brolly was in the boot of the wrong car and I hadn't brought a jacket. Having said that putting up and taking down the goal posts and watching the game in the wet was actually quite exhilarating and I did sweat as per the doctor's orders.

When I got home I was so happy I put up a shelf all by myself, as it was in typical August style, far too wet to even contemplate gardening. The shelf has been on the list for about four months so I look on that as decent Karmic progress. The afternoon may well now be whistled away, sitting around hoping for inspiration and world peace and avoiding the media chatter about whatever happened at today's Old Firm encounter.

An iconic image that has nothing much to do with anything I wrote today.

Hong Kong landings

Is it real or is it a simulator and does it really matter anyway? It's how you approach Hong Kong by all accounts.

List of splintered bits:

Dennis Wilson - "Only with you" from Holland and Pacific Blue, best lost love song of all time perhaps.
Aberdeen Angus sausages for breakfast.
Dinosaur eggs for a grandchild - to learn patience and the concept of time.
Driving a diesel Fiesta while the Cougar gets unbashed.
Fleet Foxes growing on me after a faltering start.
Bits of the TV series the Tudors are worth watching.
Relaxing.
A steady stream of football related laundry.
Plans for extensive drum and guitar loops.

New small car (repeat)

Today I have new small car to play with and cherish, that is until my real car is returned to me from the vets. In many ways life is a steady cycle of repetition, car needs fixed, car gets fixed, car needs fixed, car gets replaced, car needs fixed and I am content to drive around in a bubble and a day dream (at some level) whilst focusing on the road, other users and fiddling with the radio.

In a mad fit of not worrying about the technical challenges I removed my new loop pedal from it's box today and tried it out. To my surprise it worked despite my skating over the 52 page instructions and focusing in only on the shortcuts menu. Soon the whole house was resonating to hammered on D chords and fiddly twiddles heavy with reverb. The illusion of being creative came and went and returned as I drifted through the hypnotic sounds. It is noodling of the most self indulgent type but I can deal with that - another steady cycle of repetition.

A fleet of foxes

I'm not bothered about always being months (or even years ) behind the rest of the world in discovering "new" music. There is so much stuff out there that I long ago gave up even bothering trying to stay in step, read the music press or bottom feed on whatever is currently cool at the moment. Every so often I just like to dabble with some thing I've not listened to and try to make sure it's not quite in the same rut as the last one, or at the very least it's a fresh rut on the same road.

The Fleet Foxes have now come to my crinkly attention, I heard Pat Nevin talk about them on some radio show and read a few snippets, then I picked up a sampler in an airport and the first track on it was "Mykonos" and it sounded great. I eventually bought the CD and got round to listening to it today. Does it disappoint? Well it's a yes, a no and a don't know. It's a classic in derivative planning and execution brought about by stealing elements of greatness from Love, CNSY and the Beach Boys, does that make it bad? Probably not, just disturbing in the way that sometimes everything seems set on repeat but repeat with a twist, I've heard it before but maybe not quite that way.

Put simply it defines the dilemma of getting older and not really wiser, "heard it all before" versus the sheer joy and exuberance experienced when you hear something so fresh and original like you have never heard before. I hoped that such a moment would have come along with this CD and it didn't, maybe next time.
Just to add that the next thing on my list is Dennis Wilson's "Pacific Ocean Blue", a project that began in 1977 and is now just realising full cult status. At 33 tracks and booklet it's the best value ever on Amazon at £7.99, I'm quite looking forward to the journey - when I finally get a spare afternoon. I may save it up for the end of my alcohol holiday and crack a bottle of red from the couch and just zone out.

Jungle

Today we took advantage of a break in the weather and spent some time converting the jungle that has sprouted during the monsoon season back into the more civilised parkland that was formerly there. Taking the doctor's advice to "exercise until you sweat" and applying it to gardening was relatively easy, I only had to look at the garden to start sweating. The three person team of Ali, Joe and me, though focused on different tasks gradually cleared great swathes of land, moved a few indigenous tribes and disturbed a variety of wild life, all in the name of Queen Victoria and the We Three Church of Scotland (Olivia was taking an extended shower). Now we can relax for at least 24 hours by which time it will all have grown back and returned to nature.
The morning was spent taking the cats to the vets for a jab and a weigh in, this involved catching them and depositing them in their baskets and heading into the centre of Edinburgh. It wasn't helped by us sleeping in and a general kind of weekend bewilderment falling on us, something that creeps up on you (me I mean) gradually and only seems to affect me at key moments - when there is something to be done that is.

In the evening, by chance we found the secret method for making the best chips in the world. In one sweet and simple move Ali overheated the oven (as usual), added a pre-cooked chicken (bought in Sainsbury's on the way back from Dr Cats) and then placed in said fiery furnace a tray of frozen oven chips. The results stunned us all, perfect hot chicken and the crunchiest, moistest, tastiest chips I've had in ages, all in about twenty minutes. The pain, stings and aches of gardening vanished in a blue haze of finger lickin' goodness.

L.A. Breakfast

Perhaps I am obsessed with breakfast, perhaps that is because it is a meal I rarely bother with, so any breakfast consisting of more than lukewarm coffee is special. Perhaps I'm a bit sad and not so good at adhering to the breakfast taking advice that the wise eaters of the world expound. Start the day right etc etc. Anyway today I invented the L.A. Breakfast. A cunning plan to get the kids to eat some odds and ends left over in the fridge, also allowing me to avoid going out in the rain for fresh supplies. It was also served at about 1300 hrs so not really a breakfast at all but because I declared it's name with a fanfare and set it out on the table rather attractively they gobbled it up. In case you ever wish to create a similar masterpiece you'll need: Three Cumberland sausages (spicy), scrambled eggs, Heinz beans and toasted rolls (straight from the freezer), a touch of orange juice and a few garlic olives to complete the effect. The photo is of course nothing to do with today's express meal.

Alcohol holiday

From today I'm on an alcohol holiday for at least a month. No wine, no beer, no lager or whisky, I'm dry. The suggestion was made by my doctor, not because I have a problem but because he thought it may be a good way to restore my energy levels and give my system a little break. He also gave me, at this routine check a clean bill of health so that was rather nice to hear, the only downside was the advice to "exercise until you sweat". This maybe means doing a bit more than stuffing a duvet into a cover whilst the heating is on so I'll be pumping up the bike tyres and getting out the garden shovel, as soon as the rain stops.

Mr Cougar has suffered a nasty little bump thanks to a rather disrespectful Citroen C2 that sneaked up and landed a cheeky punch on his front wing while he was innocently parked outside our house. It's new wing and a bit of spraying next week in the local cat's hospital. I was too traumatized by the whole thing to discuss it much at the time, such are the tiny joys and large shocks of budget motoring.

Tomorrow the schools, the libraries, the community centres and various other things are closed whilst those employed there, in support roles, have a nice day out on strike. Naturally they want more than a 2.5% pay rise and who wouldn't when inflation sits at over 4 and six Muller Fruit Corners are £2.95 (or two 6 packs for a fiver). Bring the government down I say, I'm bored with these dull Labour twats and their stiff necks and sense of humour failures, let's have a return to Tory sleaze and Nationalist bullying and little more gay banter from the LibDems.

Every so often

Every so often we go on holiday and take photos, eat strange foods, have fun and get hot and tired. Then we get back home and do all the same things in a familiar location. So this weekend is the back to normal, laundry and recovery time before heading into the deep end (for me) on Monday morning and catching up on real life. As a reminder of life's cruel edge the cats (Smudge mostly I think) managed to dismember a poor wee bird in the kitchen, utility room and downstairs toilet this morning, the floors were covered in feathers and bird remains - not the best of starts to the day.
We both like heavy metal and before the New York trip it was tank bashing for an afternoon, here are some more views of us and two of the vehicles involved.
This six wheel Alvis Stalwart is easily the worst thing I've ever driven, brutal and unresponsive and unforgiving if you make a mistake however Ali is having a good go at keeping it in the right rut here while I hang on and act as observer. Thanks to Sheila for the pics.

In Edinburgh

The Joker: The most disturbing movie villain I've seen in a while and a great performance by the late HL in an entertaining film, not sure the man got it right with the 12A certification, particularly when we're trying to eradicate the UK's knife culture at the moment.
From a vendor in Central Park, a rather tasty ice cream snack (I had two, on separate days). It reminds me that I was looking for a Grateful Dead T shirt (easy to come by in the US you'd think, even ten years after) but the only ones I could find (in an MTV shop) were in very small sizes, how can that be? Have all the Deadheads shrunk like the tribal heads in Ripley's or are they just slowly fading away in a smoky haze?

Back in Edinburgh today was spent wandering the streets with my kids and one grandson. No Cherry Garcia's on offer in Princess Street Gardens although there were some funky cones (we stuck with 99s). The street performers were out in force taking advantage of the first dry afternoon in a while, the usual tumblers and magicians and craft stalls abounded. I did like one guy I saw playing a modified dustbin lid that sounded like a pocket steel band, nice mellow and ambient sound - but folks why are you selling your CDs for £10 or £12 pounds? Get real, drop the prices to a fiver and you will do business, this is Scotland and the digital age has arrived and we all know what you could get for less money at any given car boot sale - you can see I'm not thinking like a tourist at all.

French Toast

A hand painted sign from NYC, art for advertising's sake and none the worse for that.
On holiday I sat back and did not eat any French Toast whilst others did and clearly enjoyed the experience, I may have dipped out. So today after a seasonal visit to the doctors, the Coop and the pharmacy I returned home and decided to make some toast for myself. The results surprised even me and I think I now know the three big secrets of how to make the perfect French Toast. First is, use a lot of milk and eggs and let the bread soak it up, next is to use the right bread (a high quality loaf i.e. Marks and Sparks soft, thick cut white) and finally use a really hot frying pan with only a small amount of oil. There you go.

Rain. I propose that we here in Scotland start a programme of "rain tourism" and encourage visitors from dry and under developed places to come here and stand on our street corners, under our dripping trees, walk across our wet grass and into our puddles or stare blankly out of rain stained windows. This charitable act will allow them to gain a full rain experience that will see them through their own droughts and irritating dry spells and appreciate the downside and damage done by our temperate climate.

Monday

This tedious (for some) sequence of New York photos will probably run on for a few days. I think the best way to describe my current status would be "recovering", New York is an exhilarating and exhausting place, it seems that in a week we had (or at least I had) about six months of normal Central Scotland experiences crammed in, as a result I'm tired. Just to recap however here are a few favourites from the past week.

A lady singing an operatic warning from a luggage trolley in Newark Airport.
Frankenstein dancing to a Chilean piper's music in the street.
Kids doing hip-hop acrobatics in Central Park.
Four brilliant guitar shops in one street - more original Les Pauls and pre-CBS Strats than I've ever seen.
Two fried eggs, three pancakes, syrup and two sausages at the Galaxy Diner.
The audience cheering and clapping through "Dark Night" in a cinema on 42nd Street.
Extended helicopter flight over the city.
The Naked Cowboy of Times Sq.
Cinnamon Pretzels dipped in caramel.
Dali in MoMA (despite the crowds).
Rock and roll on the Beast boat.
Buying Mr Cougar an ioniser.
Sleep (when it came).