Quietly disconnected

Fear not for the future, that never helps; so here's something that's true and relevant.

I was considering sharing the all new (?) music video by those riotous video makers OK GO. I saw it Tweeted via that "you must see/share/agree/protest/roll over and sleep on" account known as the mighty but vacuous Huffington Post. I follow it and go there from time to time in order to experience disappointment and the feeling of being patronised whilst still vainly hoping for substance, interest and meaningful content. It falls short in these areas but then again so do most things. Anyway as the video (OK GO) wouldn't load from the Huff post link  so I searched direct on YouTube where various versions were already being hawked. The video is of course wonderfully clever, has detail and organisation and "wow" factor shots rolling one into another relentlessly. There is a cast of thousands and various devices click in and out. The song is pretty crap however, not even cod pop or pseudo pop, not even good pop pop. So I watched and thought, "is this one for Face-booking along with a smart and savvy comment or quip, just to show I'm up to date, connected and informed?" No, not really, I'll leave it and remain quietly disconnected. The video can be found here if you want to see it.

That time of year

The leaves turn brown, amber and red, the nights are longer and colder. The world of living outside and sitting and avoiding wasps and flying beasts is a faint memory. There is a damp taste to the air, root vegetables return to the tables, soup becomes attractive and the logs are laid out and stockpiled for the coming cold. The grass stubbornly tries to grow but slowly gives up the fight and, one by one, the wild birds return to the feeders now that the harvest of insects and berries is giving no more nourishment. Winds pick up and fluffy clouds scurry across the sky, as if they had a very important appointment over in Norway or somewhere past the May Island. I look about for some thicker shirts and find coins, stale sweets and unfamiliar pens buried deep in winter jacket pockets. I wont need sandals or plimsolls either, not for a while now. In the distance the oil refinery lights are bright, the hot orange flare burns into the sky, some futile and temporary warmth but no match for the big and hostile weather systems, circulating and out on the razz, looking for trouble and finding it. Just when we're settling into this pattern, looking forwards and checking the horizon, I'm all easy-peasy and going with the seasonal flow...along comes the pooh-sticks envelope. Suddenly concentration, commitment and a steady hand are all required.

Tales of Brave Ulysses

RIP to the often abrasive but highly talented and influential bassist Jack Bruce. One of Scotland's finest. I only found this clip, one I've not seen before, thanks to a Twitter storm following the announcement of Jack's passing. It features Jack on the classic red Gibson EB that I coveted as a teenager and also Eric Clapton using (way too much) wah wah and noodling whilst playing on "the Fool", a hand painted Gibson SG that has also become something of a rock legend. Meanwhile Ginger Baker just hammers the drums and looks manic. Nothing new there then. 

In other news on the domestic front; I painted the bathroom and cleaned out and also polished the solid fuel stove. Blissful feeling getting these jobs out of the way.

Non-dairy almost

I present, the actual, one and only milk bomb original.

Who really understands the unsung, unheard of and unclear world of peanut butter based art? Founded in California in the late fifties by a disillusioned college professor and pentagram designer, the hidden school of PB&J art has struggled to gain recognition and respect. Only now, now that people generally "know better" is it emerging from it's undoubted dark age and gaining some kind of critical acclaim. "It's all too much, too late" some say, other's stay silent and are content to read minds because that's what they've always done. As for me I was an early convert/adopter and I have remained faithful despite weight gain, weight loss and financial difficulty. That's just how it is when you try to seek out the best things in life, obtain them and hold them tightly to your chest.

Love comes to you and you follow

Thanks to CBQ for loading this on his playlist and reminding me...

Day dreaming

i've got a dream about buying some land i'm gonna give up the booze and the one night stands, going finally settle down in a quiet little town and forget about everything or alternatively i might buy a porsche, cheaper than ferrari and more reliable than a horse. take out to the edge, right over some hedge and (truly) forget about everything. i used to think that it was so easy but then got allergic and a little sneazy now i'm growin' i'm growin' older. here comes the moonlight shining on some carbuncle it sees me out of here and into the jungle but i'm no rollin', i'm no rollin' stone. no not me, just a beatle and a player and a closet stoner.

Jack O'Lantern

Whenever Halloween might be it's not today but here's my offering to the gods of trashy festivals, autumn, winter and commercial indecency. Almost all my own work and now I've abandoned it to allow nature and the dark forces of the season to have their way and so return it back to the soil. That's how it should be. Remarkably no fingers were cut and no persons or animals injured in the long creative process that led up to this picnic table moment.

Fifty Nine Earth Years

As it's been a birthday weekend and therefore busy, sociable and altogether web unfriendly. I've not been in the least bit bothered about posting anything so here is a brief and truly unrepresentative set of little gems and images that fail to capture much. The panic will of course be over very soon and by at least 0800 tomorrow and normal life will have resumed in all it's complex and absurd splendour.

A burning slab of cake to celebrate, thanks to Mrs AGB.

Blurred birthday photo of the author wearing a Cookie Monster hat.

Some essentials. 

A trip to the butchers

Most Friday afternoon's I wheel home via John Whyte's butcher shop in the village of Limekilns; I get some things there for the weekend you might say. Crushed on the Fife coast between shipbuilding and industrial sites it's a quaint and attractive wee town, there's a couple of pubs, a cafe (bike advert), a wee shop and not much else, apart from the butchers which survives and slumbers on in a precious and unglamourous way. No till, no card machine, no pre-prepared nonsense and no overselling and no bargains, everything is a lot dearer than you find in the stupid supermarkets. That's because it's proper stuff, tasty and fresh and the regular customers keep coming back, often from quite a distance. As a business model it's probably fatally flawed for sustainability but it has a soul, something you won't encounter when you shop with the big boys.

iMac with Retina 5

Wistfully seeking out the apple page that demonstrates the new iMac Retina 5 with it's umpteen megapixal screen and more bells and whistles than you could ring or blow. Sadly all I got was the broken image above. It's still quite impressive though (based on the front page not the dead demo)...the final killer blow for the TV this time?

Fight Club non-tribute

A club devoted to fighting that may or may not exist yet it does exist in the form of the real tribute clubs that are based around it's fictional plot which may or may not exist depending on which one of the many well formed and/or ridiculous theories that you might subscribe to. Of course you may well have a life and not be bothered by this or by the self described and prescribed rules of film discipleship and ritualistic blogging. I don't really know but it's damn close to fifteen years since it was all released and unleashed upon a leaden and unsuspecting world. The consequences are still with us and reverberating around real and imagined worlds today.

Ghosts that we knew

So I'm still dicking around with guitars and in between important house related tasks have been making slow and confused progress with the various projects and masterpieces that are scattered around the place. You see when it comes to putting it all together there are so many options and few if any parts are actually a standard size so getting the right fit or even an easy fit can be struggle. Of course wood and plastic parts can be modified with the application of the correct tools and steady hand and more importantly a keen eye. Also as a wise man once said you should really measure twice and cut once, that is the law. It all boils down to making sure that the guitar neck pocket is as good a match for the neck and that's a fine trick if you can pull it off. So the ghost guitars are slowly rising from the dead (or at least a coma or a pretty deep session of intoxicated sleeping); next.

Duck Suit

It's an awful and tragic tale but one that suffers from some strange pieces of media reporting as well as hype and hysteria. I'm glad it's thousands of miles away and in another country, one with a bizarre legal system it seems. Anyway in one of the regular radio bulletins today I caught a South African reporter with a very strong accent give the following brief report: "Oscar Pistorius was in court today, as usual in a plain shirt, tie and wearing a duck suit." You may need to repeat it a few times. This trial and the sentencing fiasco will never be the same again for me, whatever the outcome. That's unfortunate.

Firebox

After the fire

So with a load of new logs to burn today seemed like a good, seasonal time to fire up old sparky (new sparky really) and do some solid fuel, log burned cooking. First breakfast, half a dozen logs and a lit match and in no time the hot plate was red and glowing. A full burst of bacon, black pudding and eggs were swiftly (almost) incinerated and consumed. The oven however remained slow to start, lukewarm and sluggish despite all the hotplate activity and fierce heat.  Little did I know...the beef stew casserole was placed in the oven and duly forgotten, a few more logs tossed inboard and I got on with other domestic matters. The oven was having none of that, once it heats up it goes like some fire storm. Incredibly and unexpectedly it hit 300 degrees and cooked the casserole in no time, blackening the potatoes and totally destroying a random selection vegetables. The moral of the story is if your cooking with logs in a cast iron stove don't turn your back for too long. This is a powerful cooking machine.

Logline

When it comes to that awkward time of year when all your stocks of precious logs are down or reduced to white ash blowin' in the wind, who are you gonna call? Well it might be an idea to call the logline or in fact visit the logline premises and get yourself a log delivery arranged so you have a nice selection of logs. That's just what we did today and now, after a cash exchange and a fair bit of labour and humping of logs the log store is nearly full and ready for whatever seasonal variations and dreadful conditions the wild Scottish winter may throw at us.  Of course I'm not smug about this, our circumstances and rewards are out there, moulded into the path that the universe is determined to take us upon. We stand (and sit occasionally), watching the skies, daydreaming and ever ready for the consequences and the awful but fully deserved fate that awaits us. There, I've said it all now.

Boxtrolls

These are Boxtrolls

These are not Boxtrolls

I know it seems unlikely that this might matter at the moment but come the day you will thank me for this piece of information. I'd hate for anyone to be confused about this.

We need to talk about heaven

On reflection then: There's an old Polynesian folk tale that says when somebody dies their soul is taken deep into the ocean and washed clean in the mighty Pacific currents from whence you first came. Whilst the cleaning process is going on  your soul is held steady and you relive all the happy moments of your life and you are enriched. The happiness breeds peace and acceptance and in a new and tranquil state your soul ascends slowly through the blue waters to be warmed by the first rays of the dawning sun filtering down into the deep. At this point you are, as if by magic or by the gods, transformed into an Angel Fish and you become conscious and aware but with no sense of purpose other than to be a fish. In this new and blissful state you live on until the cycle of life is complete for the fish you now are and you merge finally with the ocean and drift away with the tides and all the tiny particles and creatures borne by them. It's an interesting theory but not one I can't really subscribe to with any degree of enthusiasm...tomorrow I'll go to the cinema with the kids and watch the Boxtrolls, thereafter life may then begin to make more sense.

Silence of the alarms

In a feat of eye watering electrical engineering I've managed to fully repair and reinvigorate our state of the art burglar alarm. It's amazing what can be achieved with a Swiss Army knife, a roll of gaffer tape and a wonky set of stepladders. I also succeeded in ridding this fine old house of stray vampires and some uneasy and homeless spirits in the process. A good day's work.

Archie Gilkison

I've quietly been taking in the various stories, commemorations and musings formed up for the centenary of the Great War. Some good, some not so good; probably all very well intentioned. Here's a piece scavenged from the BBC about AG from Glasgow, describing his life and death. I think it's an interesting story and his work is impressive. The final poem is a belter:

I heard the piper blaw,

Wi my ain een I saw,

What ye can never knaw,

For I was Fey wha followed.

Archie Gilkison

1885 - 1916.

(and in more modern English)

I hear the piper blow,
With my own eyes I saw,
What you can never know,
For I was fated to die who followed.

She comes in colours

Always irritating when your body starts telling you it's getting on a bit, it generally does this via the language of pain. I wish there was some other method. The problem is that you can't really do much about other than meekly accept the fact that joints, muscles and various other bits of meat are starting to wear out. I'm slowly moving from the pink to the red but I do possess the secret weapon against any premature ageing of the mind and body and I'm about to turn it on and fire it straight into the seat / heart /sinew of the pain...Jazz Chords.