Fixing a hole in the world

Fixing a Strat: Maybe I'm more practically minded than I think, maybe I'm deluded. You can never tell really. Everyday I encounter people who think they are capable...but they are not and nobody's telling them, so they blunder on creating havoc on stilts. That's probably why the world's so screwed up, we're failing to stop them and they are just getting on with it, making things worse all the time. I must remember to do something about this next week and so commence the long overdue social revolution that's necessary to free us all.

So how hard can it be to be good at things? (I am haunted by this question. I am also haunted by other questions but I'm not very good at remembering what they are), and why is it are we often just mediocre at things? Anyway I'm good with Allan Keys and screwdrivers and fiddling with stuff. Probably accidentally good if that is actually similar to proper good, a kind of second rate but effective good which could be enough, so I'm mostly unprofessional but still a completer/finisher as well as being a compulsive fiddler. Britain needs more folks like me.

Carelessness: that's the big problem and it will kill us all. That's a basic truth that's never really occurred to any of the main political parties, religions or institutions and they practice it all the time.

Word of the week: Pyrographic.

Guitar Project

So you enter your guitar's serial number details and it tells you...a little bit about it; some vague dates and locations and that's about all. It's free to use and maybe, one day it will be a source of vital information. The top one is for a Fender Strat quite rightly dated about 1990, the other is for a Yamaha Pacifica that I did think belonged to this century rather than the last. This was purely on the basis of a lack of chips, dings and the build up of dirt and dust. All important details to be able to capture if the virtual guitar shop is going to proceed or even succeed. Just noticed that this site's not been updated since 2008 :-(

Turner Prize Nominations

These childishly painted and forlorn signs sit at a busy road junction pointing to a non-existent gallery. Somehow becoming a piece of art in their own right; abandoned, absurd and anti-artistic all at once.

Copper Trees

The sun sinks slowly and lazily into the west and shines a still copper tone across the trees as they struggle to turn a late green in this early May day. The fields  buzz in the distance across hedges and jumbled woodland. The birds twitter and coo and forget where they are going, cats run riot in feline slow motion on the cut grass and out on the waterfront the mad human optimists fish in the still evening water. For a short time all is calm and peaceful in this world within worlds.

Interesting artworks

The piece at the top was done by Alec Galloway from Skelmorlie in Ayrshire, his website and some fine examples of his other works (by the magic of electricity) can be found by clicking through this mystical portal just here. Somehow or other his work is also being featured on Tom Morton's late night radio show as well as appearing on Facebook.

The other picture is a cake type representation of LZ1. No idea who actually was daft enough to try this.

News-jackers

Today is a new and as usual rather unsanitary and blustery day and it marks my (almost) umpteenth consecutive day at work. Who ever said that the Europeans never did anything for us?   However the weather has now finally stopped working in our favour and god and the great fissures and isobars of air pressure are set against us on this small and exposed outcrop. Meanwhile I’m taking a crash course in news-jacking, the new form of advertising that catching on and killing the story but then lifting the brand. It’s almost religious in it’s concept. I’m still not sure what current story I can news-jack in order to shift more of our paper thin mp3s and herald the great up and coming but yet to be properly named virtual guitar shop. In fact the more I think of it I’m not sure which part is virtual, the shop, the guitars or the proprietor, it must be one of the three or I’ll get soundly done over under trades description.

Now that the demise of popular blogging (if you’re thinking of starting then don’t bother, I watch the stats) and the death of western civilisation are both imminent I’m getting strangely drawn into the spiral of knowledge and depravity that is Reddit. Controversial, repetitive and quirky it’s somehow less Spammy than the irritating Facebook and more visual than the  constantly gabbing Twitter. It does from time to time shock as it totters between gross teen humour and world-wide or deeply personal tragedy, you need to approach it with care but it is somehow cleaner and more compulsive now than the other social (and now highly managed and targeted) shit hot media darling things. Of course that could just be an illusion created by the clever dick creators who create all the things that we ordinary people just seem to readily encounter and then eagerly adopt. We swim like a school of Icelandic herring into their devious traps. Then once millions of moolah are generated and all our lives are ruined we seek pastures new and then devour the next next big thing. That may well be an event that’s open for some great feat of news-jacking. I’ve now known the term for all of ten minutes and I’m soundly bored with it already. Next!

Virtual Guitar Shop

First of all you get an idea...

Postmodern Family

At times you can learn a lot from TV comedy. How to be yourself or someone else,  how to behave, what to avoid, when to do the right thing, what to do in a tricky situation and that there is no normal (and there never was). Trouble is I'm a slow learner but it seems after a few years I'm now getting the hang of the whole grandpa thing, maybe the whole parenting thing. So we had a good day today, birthdays in the sun with food and noise, cake and balloons. Modern life isn't rubbish.

Kinda sad really

For Betelgeuse, a star with 1000 times the diameter of our own sun, the end is nigh. A million years from now (which is hardly a blip on the scale of the universe), it will explode into a supernova. Recently, astronomers in England have recorded Betelgeuse emitting an arc of gas that is nearly the size of our entire solar system. I presume nobody other than me confused this star with the character in the film of the same (well similar) name...Beetlejuice.

In praise of mushroom soup

The thoughts of the people who build websites, write books, compose music, draw, work in science labs and classrooms, develop empirical organisations or just build houses out of used up motor car tyres. Your ideas and actions make you special. You have that ability to put things together, to juxtapose, to compose and create something. Do you ever stop to think what type of people do that? Is that a normal thing to do? Are you troubled? Perhaps it’s just  that the uncertainty of it all that’s about you that’sjust getting to you. That feeling, that sure and resonant feeling that those who develop and cling onto high principles or absolute views, the seekers of truth and light are the most deluded of all human kind. It’s sad really. For them everything needs an explanation, then it can be described, catalogued and packaged and then because of the process it can be believed in and, in worst cases shared and pursued. In the scheme of things all that is quite unnecessary and wasteful. Scribbles on paper, pixels on screens, sound and fury, whispers carried away by a toxic breeze.

Somehow we never quite learn from history. At an early age everybody should be made to read a series of biographies, look at them candidly, take in a wholerandom life laid out and described, what did it amount to? School kids should visit graveyards and attend funerals, listen to eulogies and read obituaries and then discuss the choices those folks did or didn’t make and maybe learn something. Was the person happy and what did they achieve? How can we break this pointless cycle of repetition? Am I a passenger here or am I driving something? Of course if somebody happens to have invented or developed the wheel or the iPhone; carried out open heart surgery or built atomic weapons they may feel that their contribution was worthwhile – quite rightly. There’s a measure to be made and recorded. But what of a Sun journalist, a checkout assistant in Morrison’s, a Ryanair pilot, a vagrant, a soap star or a philosopher? In the end there is no value judgement to make, we do what we do and we are all equally fulfilled and unfulfilled. We just pass the time the best way we can.

It may be that all life is a bit part in some David Lynch film, walking on and off screen in the background, unnoticed by a daydreaming audience, disguised by our own indifference and anonymity; Mulholland Drive – “a load of moronic and incoherent rubbish” according to one critic. If you find any of these things troublesome then try sitting still and  dosing yourself with a mug of mushroom soup.

Like Audrey

Few people know about Audrey Hepburn's unsuccessful audition for the role of Emperor (with a capital E) in the 1983 film, Return of the Jedi.

The Fabulous Doodles

It brings a whole new depth of meaning to the word mediocre. Yes it's the boring routes a pen takes across  a page when disconnected from the brain during a long telephone call. If this is your experience then maybe it's time to leave this place and get a different job, apply here.

These are the days

Ineffective.

Inseminated.

Scottish Labour Day: I tried hard to read the articles about the Scottish Labour Party Conference. I saw the titles and gather that it was held in that scrubbed up working class haven and memorial to shipyards, mines and heavy industry that is ...Inverness (?). I was a little curious about the speakers, the policies; perhaps deep in the conference rhetoric there would be a lightning bolt of creative thought or inspiration. Perhaps a big firm NO to this and possibly a big YES to that. I tried hard to read the article but it was like painting in the rain. There they were; Johan Lamont with the lisp no one in the media dare mention, an anonymous train travelling man called Miliband, grey shadow puppets called Murphy, Alexander and Darling. Coughing and goggling, Tweeting but not trending, gossiping and thinking of shafting Margaret Thatcher - as if history ever taught us anything. In the margins some pints, spritzers and G&Ts, greasy steak pie and chips but alas no real substance. This is the best of Scottish Labour, trembling in the shop window in yesterday's underwear. My grandfathers are revolving in their graves, clenching their NHS dentures. Does anybody actual know a card carrying, subs paying Labour member these days? They are a dying breed, these political apologists and would be zombies. No angry young men here, they've all be shot or sent to the colonies. Just silly under employed graduates and union deniers embroiled in a deconstructed world of constant bickering and finger wagging. They are a doomed race but they don't know it. As somebody famous once said, “If any one of them was a real protagonist it wouldn't work at all.” So another conference has passed without significant insult or injury, just a few well stapled expense claims are outstanding and nearly ready for audit. Time has been truly killed and the enemy, and there is a real enemy out there, are having a damn fine smirk to themselves while they twiddle their fat fingertips above their laps .

Record Store Day: I was sitting thinking I'd like to go and support this in some way, maybe even make a purchase but a) I'm working b) I've no record player or deck or hi-fi system and c) Why Record Store? What happened to record shops? I never ever said anyone “I'm just popping down to the record store to browse the Dr Strangely Strange sleeves, be back in time for tea.” We seem to have absorbed a term here that has romanticised what never was all that pleasant a shopping experience. Being crushed in a smelly record shop thumbing through gritty sleeves hoping to find some blues or progressive bargain that...well I seldom found any. I'm sure it's all moved on, in fact FOPP and Avalanche are pleasant enough places to be but they are shops not stores. Still most of my grubby guitar based (and now long gone) collection was formed well away from the shops in the primitive Ebay primal soup that was school. Here in the this spotty, hairy and smoky setting records were swapped, stolen, bartered or sold for pre-decimal currency and then paraded like hard won trophies at lunch time. Carrying Blind Faith's first album (with the tits facing out) was the ultimate in ignorant rebel statements and shall aways be, eight years before the Sex Pistols...but Record Stores?

Inseminate a Panda Day: I'm kind of sad to hear that the exotic, sultry, doe eyed Tian Tain hasn't taken to the advances offered by her partner Yang Guang. Despite the obvious smoky eyes she's not showing signs “conducive to mating”. Perhaps somebody should nip out and get a Hoover, a bar of Galaxy, some stilettos and a bottle of Pino Grigio. It's clearly a tough and stressful life for male and female pandas in Central Scotland and now, despite Tian Tian's obvious lack of desire to breed (and in an infringement of her panda rights I suppose) they've got the dreaded turkey baster out. Nobody wins in panda sex wars. In what sounds like a somewhat elaborate operation “Edinburgh's Zoo specialist team and experts from around the world performed artificial insemination on Tian Tian in the early hours of the morning.” The statement also said that “both pandas and humans were sleeping today”. Oh well, they probably chatted for a wee while and then smoked a few fags whilst staring at the magnolia ceiling.

Lose the Lottery Day: Once in a while I purchase a lucky dip lottery ticket at the Co-op when I'm getting bread, milk and lentils, (I recall that the Co-op was known colloquially as the “Store”, now that title belongs to those remaining few records shops that are as rare as pandas, nearly). I lazily checked the numbers in today's SoS and sure enough I'd scored zero on the lucky numbers. I guess I'll work for another week and not dip my toes into the £1m+ property market just yet. The Maserati wont be getting ordered either. If only I could resist this guilty and impulsive pleasure, indeed had I not succumbed to the evil gambling gods all those years ago I'd probably have about £150 stuffed into some sock somewhere but I might have just blown it on cobwebby progressive rock Amazon CD purchases and Kindle downloads.

Cognitive Dissonance

More things I made earlier: It's that awkward feeling when you suffer the inner conflict of hosting two opposing thoughts simultaneously there in the hallowed space between your hard grey matter and your elusive mortal soul i.e. Coke is bad for you but it tastes good. Smoking can kill you but you want to do it. Only a twat owns a Maserati  but you really need one. Pain is bad but the relief from pain is nice. Alcohol will  hurt you but the dull thud of the drunken moment is worth it. Relationships are tough but you need to stick with real people. Speed kills but you love speed and that right foot is itchy. Freedom is your goal but you need to be tied down. Loud music hurts the ears but...all that stuff makes me feel alive again.

Sometimes I think of this blog as an improvised, elongated  artwork, the materials of which are mostly sourced from random Chinese origins and approved by interpretations of cat behaviour: At other times it's all just a short holiday from my critical faculties, those irritating parts of conventional thought that somehow keep you awake into the wee small hours like re-runs of Mad Men or QI and never really come to anything or provide satisfaction. Perhaps we are of an age where we all need a little more sleep and a little less stimulation. Even the Devil himself could understand that and would grant us the grace just to be...for a short while. Fear will freeze you but the heat of the chase will burn you up.  A nice holiday from the critical faculties, do send a postcard if you ever get there.

The soothing cream label set against the tobacco sunburst comes straight back to us from that foreign factory.

Wondering about the knobs

First aid repairs to a storm damaged door.

Here's another repair I did earlier (I'm wondering about those knobs, a touch of gold is needed I think).

Like a Hurricane: The west wind blew and beat upon the house and all that sort of thing and eventually and in awkward and potentially dangerous circumstances the garage door got broken. It clearly was a job for hammers and nails and well cut pieces of timber (basic guitar making skills really)  so I got right in about it without undue delay. Safety and security being the main goals in the project, a working door will be along in a later delivery. Now as is usual for around here some things are fixed whilst others are under repair and a small minority of other things are largely ignored.

Relax Western Europe: So you're wondering where all the old style bayonet  clip 100w light bulbs are these days? Fret no more, in a word that's possibly two words they can be found at Poundland.

Practice makes Pentatonic

Nice to get back to the basics and just practice runs on various pentatonic scale patterns with a little added distortion, delay and reverb and a screwed up guitar face applied to those deep extra blue notes. The pre-lawsuit tobacco sunburst is looking like a fast fret no buzzes agile bargain. Sore on the shoulder though after a sweaty hour's worth of practice.

Enormous photo montage

Claude Bawls the local tough cat. A cat from whom all other cats run in great fear and trembling.

Claude likes to roll around in any solid material in a bid to impress passers by.

Sky, sun and water at about 1900hrs somewhere in Central Scotland. 

These parts as viewed from the remains of the old pier. 

Wheelbarrow loaded with some flotsam but sadly no jetsam. 

About half a mile from home, into the wind and on a bike.

Stretching thin resources to their very limit: Due to my chronic lack of useful words to describe nothing in particular I've resorted to posting some of a busy weekend's images here upon this blessed and holy blog itself. Of course there is always other news but more on that later.

Freedom and censorship

A nice sunny day saw the garden of Karen and Fraser Drummond opened up for charity. Fraser is gone now but the garden, slowly coming back from what seems like the longest winter sleep, is returning  to a green and flowering life. All those rare and peculiar plant species and specimens are pushing back through and faithfully continuing with their programmed cycle. Nature's eternal optimism and stubborn spiral back to life is a good to see and appreciate.  There were tea and scones, friends and family and strangers and people who just like gardens and good causes, chat and laughter and live music to echo Fraser's own wonderful accomplishments.  There was also a grim serenity about it all yesterday, the paths and pools, the shrubs and trees all there, just being. Like sleeping dogs waiting for their master, they blossom and sit where they were planned and planted enjoying the feeble touch of a gentle April sun while we, mere passers-by in the garden, passed on by.

I haven't bothered saying much about Margaret Thatcher's death and nor will I, however this piece in the Guardian does well to describe the BBC's schizophrenic and awkward position in current British life. There's a big problem lurking somewhere that nobody is tackling, I can just imagine what Fraser would have had to say about it.

Coordinated in Nigeria

Serene driftwood in black and white.

Apparently weddings in Nigeria are all nicely colour coordinated, you learn something new every moment of every day and I'm sure that we can all learn a lot from Nigeria.

Head and neck removed

So this Japanese pre-law-suit old-timer came into the house via the Gumtree Motorcycle Diaries. It was found on a fascinating visit to an Alloa wheeler dealer, an interesting hour of greasy biker history, cash, antique banjos and guitars. I thought about it for a bit and as if by magic the pearl dot neck was miraculously replaced by a Gibson after some sweaty joinery and rigorous sanding. From this process a pretty decent shredder has emerged and strangely the old neck has improved the donor guitar. An unexpected double success from a £40 piece of surgery.