The Narrow Way*

Often I think about the very narrow area of the internet that I seem to inhabit. A few petty m3 in an infinite black holed, unmapped synthetic universe. The exploration of the spheres of my and many other's imperfect vision. The radiation reach of these interests and concentrations is puny. The dull thud of inaction and then meekly shouting unstructured sentences into a vacuum. My limited but regular daily view of the local blog-scape, predictable social media sites, news and music. I might laugh, I might cry, I might take notes or I might just look away. 

I'm glad I ditched Twitter though, but it did leave a peculiar if catatonic void. A bit like chewing on supermarket own brand pretzels, sipping warm cola or binge watching BBC3 (a thing I've never done). Somebody said that we should all cut our toenails more often and have to confess the frequency of the act to at least one trusted soul who is not a Catholic priest.

Music consumption is normally via YouTube (I still like CDs though) which, due to my habits, tends to regurgitate predictable guitar based rock music and guitar repairs and reviews. It's all guitars and second hand Maserati purchasing experiences at the moment. On the rainiest days I search in Wikipedia for movie making histories in order to see how well stars and creators are aging. I worry about their incomes. Birthday dates are also important. Personal interests not so.  Those odd Dunfermline Athletic goals still cheer me up, if I need a fix of sporting action.

eBay auctions are like rummaging through the remains of a car boot sale where an earthquake or drone attack has just taken place. I'm only there for the typing errors and the missing bits of critical information and I won't be paying $99 for shipping either no matter how genuine the parts are. It's a blood sport but without the blood.

So that's the unreliable road map to personal oblivion, but it's entertainment and most likely education too. I'm pretty sure I'm missing out on loads of good virtual stuff but a rut is a rut is a rut. For a healthy escape and internal peace I head for the kitchen. I do like to cook up a slight storm using a strong onion. I may well stare blankly out of the window if I feel light headed enough. Sometimes I can see a familiar cat up a tree.

*Yes, it's a track on Ummagumma.

Colonial Dustbin

A wise man once said "as breathing is my life, to stop I dare not dare". It was probably Spike Milligan. If I Google it I'll only get adverts for SCUBA equipment or inhalers so no real point. Thinking about how you go about breathing isn't really healthy. No more than thinking about digesting or thinking about how to walk or any other automatic physical action. Thinking about thinking is also quite difficult. I'm doing it now and it's not getting me very far in terms of understanding thinking.

Thinking about thinking is called metacognition. It’s the process of reflecting on how you think, learn, and process information. It involves being aware of your thought patterns, questioning your assumptions, and evaluating the effectiveness of your problem-solving strategies. Aye, right, give me impulsive benign retribution every time.

It’s like stepping outside of your own mind and observing how it works or more likely how it doesn't. Self examination generally leads to emptiness and disappointment, having an innocent mole removed from your posterior or feeding some ongoing delusion. Nothing wrong with a bit of positive delusion now and again. Here's some we prepared earlier.

I'm now thoughtlessly typing this and none of it matters, these are only more fleeting blips and virtual messages from the suburbs of the heartland of some battered old colonial dustbin, but there's always a bit more to come ...

Port Edgar Daily Photo

Grimsby fishing boat GY-HCA Leah Brooke lies high and dry in the boatyard at Port Edgar. She's looking pretty dilapidated at the moment and may well be beyond the point of economical repair and redemption. She was certainly afloat just a few years ago but I suspect she's now an orphan with no responsible owner and not much of a future ahead. Sad and/or worried face with which to close this paragraph 😟. 

Port Edgar takes it's name from Edgar Aetheling the brother of Queen Margaret; the actual queen in Queensferry. They lived about 1000 years ago and somehow she's a saint too. Bloody royals, they get everything named after them and the names stick. It's our heritage of course. Angry face 😡 to close this one.

Inner Monologue

Well thank fuck January is over. I'm not sure why I thought this but I did, momentarily. Back to normal now.

Somewhere above or below I may try to create an abstract and unrealistic black and white chalkboard representation of the inner monologue of an ordinary person trying to correct a mistake made when entering information into a web page and being unable to go back to make the required correction. You see time travel is, as yet, not quite possible over every medium. Very frustrating but only to be expected at this stage in our development. 

Next: The beast that is Chinese AI will not save the world and more on living in a Colonial dustbin.

Dopamine Receptors

Medical stuff of no real consequence: The other day I attended a clinic in Edinburgh's Western General Hospital. The staff were kind and helpful but the hospital complex has a dystopian feel to it that slightly unnerved me. There was a lack of colour and clear signage and of course it was busy and I'd not been there before. I had to ask for directions three times which is odd for me, I'm usually good at finding my way. Anyway I found the correct clinic in time for the appointment. The procedure followed and was over and done with quite quickly. 

The technical and physical parts of it were however unexpected. I thought a chat and a blood test would be all that would happen but it appears my case warrants a more intrusive investigation. In these situations you can feel like a small piece of meat and that's discomforting and strangely numbing. The anticipated sanctuary of  nice thoughts or an out of body experience was denied me. My brain and nervous system would not follow my reasonably clear instructions. It was uncomfortable. The staff were very professional so I've no complaints other than against my own internal wiring. In Trump's catastrophic USA  the 15 minute session would have cost me a kidney.

It's all over now. Just a few minutes and a few words and I'm driving home still wondering why I just can't self medicate some dopamine across my muddled receptors. Maybe I'm not producing enough, maybe other things are restraining it, maybe I'm just worn out of my life time supply. We lose control sometimes and just thinking "happy place" isn't effective or enough to overcome the creeping anxiety. This lab rat can't follow the internal instructions and the real world becomes hyper real, briefly, perhaps even beautifully. 

Smokehead

Sucker for some different design, street wise image and vacuous punky and edgy content but it's OK because all about actual whisky? Welcome to Smokehead. And yes I do feel at home and not at all exploited despite never actually having tasted any of it. One day I will, I signed up for the newsletter and now have a jaunty discount code. Their HQ is down the road in Broxburn so that's all pretty authentic in my book. Yes, the authenticity of Broxburn as a Scottish powerhouse of the alcohol industry is something I've never had to question. 

You can get burned though, Scottish business life is risky and fraught with self inflicted disaster. I can remember a time when it was cool to like and invest in BrewDog (not them again and no, I'm not fixated). Methil no more, Bathgate no more etc.  Those were the days but they were really not the days at all. It's just the distorted versions of the past playing out on rose coloured rewind. Let's just revise and realign our history a bit more. Up next, my unbridled thoughts from the dark heart of the "Colonial Dustbin".

Light Rain and Moderate Inconvenience

 

Crowded House: "Everywhere you go, always take the weather with you." Most songwriters want to write a lyric like this, or so I imagine, one that means something and yet means nothing at all. It carries it's own truth but it isn't true, or is it?

Economic success: The government (any colour you like) has to harp on about economic growth bringing prosperity. Is that actually a real thing? Growth can only be good if it's somehow shared and managed responsibly. I'm not convinced our current crop of leaders has any kind of vision of what that might look like. I've never heard anymore than, for me, a set of triggering and meaningless buzz words. Build houses, extend Heathrow etc. Who wants growth that only benefits those who become rich? Who wants growth when the rich avoid tax and accountability?  Our friends at Brewdog (there are other examples) fairly grew the business with their "punk" ideas, branding and decent enough beer. Well done. However they can't pay their staff a living wage nor can they treat them fairly. Fuck your punky economics. I want people to be safe, healthy and happy first. That should be the top priority.

Rain brings with it some moderate inconvenience. You get wet. You also get weather warnings. One day the water will run out though or it'll all land up in the wrong place and we'll only get some if we pay. On the other hand we just might get flooded. You can get too much of a good thing.

This rambling bullshit was brought to you by ... Monday afternoon and a bit of rain.

South Queensferry Daily Photo

 " I wanna stay with the cinnamon swirl, 

I could be happy the rest of my life,

 with the cinnamon swirl."

Neil Young.

I'm pretty sure that almost nobody of my generation could go into a cafe and see these and not think the same way and then inwardly hum the tune. Actually, I'm probably completely wrong in thinking this.

The Who - Who Are You

Saw the live "Classic" Rock Show last night in the Usher Hall Edinburgh where they nailed this song well and truly. I was impressed. Probably did it better than the Who could've done live ... well maybe. Tour bus parked up, as below, if you're interested in that sort of thing. Covers bands eh?

Nobody Needs My Opinion

 

Looking out onto the modern world from a safe distance is both a luxury and a trial. There's no shelter from the noise or the silence. Hard to say which one is worse. We all have our own thoughts. It's true that nobody really needs to hear anybody else's opinion but you never know when you just might receive it anyway. You can try to deal with that or just ignore it and walk away. Perhaps consider heading for the hills.

Fixer Upper

Local spotted survivor: In my opinion a good, superficial buffing would sort this troubled beast out, some bondo-epoxy applied here and there along with cleaning up the obvious carbon deposits on the valves. Tyres could do with renewal too, an oil change and then you're good to go for another thirty years*. People forget the old Range Rovers and Discos had loads of utility parts from the Leyland logistics bin. Switch gear and electrics from the Sherpa van, dials and clusters from the Morris Marina. Things were simpler then and cash was king. 

Actually not so, some still complain about the instrument screens and window switches on current Maserati cars coming from Jeep or Chrysler and the amount of standard Volkswagen bits and pieces that are common to Porsche, Audi and Lamborghini models. It's all the same mass produced, out sourced, economies of scale stuff and ultimately it all turns to rust eventually. Either that or it's indestructible plastic waste that'll be with us for another 10000 years. Happy motoring.

*Maybe an EV conversion / heart transplant with a Tesla dual motor, front - induction / rear - permanent magnet set up?

Kill Switch

For reasons I can't explain I had to have one of these. In acquiring it I had to negotiate the Amazon shopping matrix. I survived. It's either that or travel to an actual shop far, far away and add bad gases to the atmosphere. I'm sorry but also not sorry.

RIP David Lynch

 

Seven years of daily milkshakes in the same establishment. I call that admirable dedication bordering on insanity. Perhaps it's untrue. True or not it's the sort of thing I'd like to be remembered for but hopefully only by people who remember their own version of events and not some secondhand or distorted account. RIP David Lynch, a director who's work will continue to be misunderstood because it's perfectly normal to be misunderstood. The narrow spectrum of normal rules everything, as contrary and undefinable as it is, they still apply across all art forms.

Not Raining

As it wasn't raining or uncomfortably cold yesterday I decided to clean this car. However it may need done again by the time the event comes around in May.

It's Closing Down

1. Why is it that in the local press it's always reported that the "popular" restaurants, pubs and wine bars are closing down? Never news about the shitty ones. Happens on a regular basis in Edinburgh's Stockbridge, Bruntsfield and Morningside areas apparently.

2. I wonder if once we have fully embraced Artificial Intelligence if we'll all fully embrace Artificial Stupidity? Maybe that's already happened, it may be that a hardly noticeable revolution has taken place and remains unreported. They're always the most successful kind. Subtle knives etc.

3. By the way, McAfee Tech Mate is running in the background right now. 

4. "Some days I want more but on other days I'm content with something less." Anonymous Cat.

5. "Paths are made by walking." Franz Kafka.

Guttered

 

We had the gutters cleared yesterday, hence the picture. Gutter cleaning is never a DIY task due to the heights involved. I imagine that if this photo was submitted to some kind of Guardian "Britain at Work" photographic contest that it would come in comfortably at third place. It may only be beaten for second by a monochrome study of a bearded twenty something bloke in a Joy Division T-shirt staring intently into his laptop screen whilst seated in a dimly lit corner of a Manchester Starbucks. 

The winner would of course be a study of an elderly female toilet cleaner outside Preston ASDA enjoying an evening cigarette break beside the trolleys in the parking lot drizzle. Special mentions would also be given to various NHS workers (all types in numerous stressful situations), a Goth girl sweeping up dust beside the inactive Jaguar production line and various well composed studies of bus drivers in London tolerating loud and confused American tourists who are sporting MAGA hats.

Band Practice

Band practice: Edinburgh's Capital Models resumed business for 2025 with our first get together of the year. There was a new mixer and some rather yummy walnut cake to try. Also the challenge of playing older original material from the band's early days, well before I joined. Four fifths of the band are pictured below. The main mover and shaker of the outfit, Mr CBQ was missing, somewhere on the other side of the lens. All pics by CBQ.

 

SB Strat

George in what looks like a floating guitar case that's not floating at all. SB Strat stands for Sunburst Stratocaster but the case is currently home to a Les Paul Junior double cutaway and of course a startled looking cat for a short period of time.

N.B. Today's blog entry contains 376% less words than yesterday's entry. So be of good cheer! 👍

Last Waltz '76

In another wayward Bob Dylan connection beyond yesterday's auction sites piece, I rewatched the Band's farewell concert, the Last Waltz. Famously filmed by Martin Scorsese -  about whom we probably all have opinions. Generally regarded by God knows who as "the best live concert film ever" (it isn't) I chose to get reacquainted with this historical work. I'd not seen for many years and wondered how it stood up so long after it's 1978 release (the concert was in '76). In a nutshell it's pretty messy and a little peculiar and of it's time, the mid 70's wasteland. The filming and the audio are actually fine, the style and content however are a bit strange, grimy looking and obviously dated. The Band's performances are split by special guest appearances for whom they also provide backing. This gives the concert a patchwork and incoherent quality. The encore is the first song in the film and so it goes on randomly as the various turnarounds take place.

The Band: Playing is crisp and tight, most of the songs still work well for me, good live arrangements too. Not so great was Robbie Robertson's shrill and thin guitar sound (his playing is top drawer though). I became more irritated with it as it carried on, pretty much into every tune. A bad guitar tone can kill the mood. There's a weird halo effect on him too that's annoying, his smiley face is pretty much in every stage shot. The literal spotlight kid. I can understand something of the various band member quarrels that took place in the aftermath. The congestion on the stage doesn't help, I can imagine it as being a pit of body odour and foul breath, someplace you'd want to get away from quickly. Apart from pinup Robbie the rest of the band look like nameless misfits -  but after all they were just very talented but plain and ordinary guys and that was part of their appeal. Rick Danko, Richard Manuel, Levon Helm, Garth Hudson, Robbie Robertson were that Band.

The interviews: Slotted in randomly it seems, don't impress me either. The "road" gets way too many mentions, of course it was a thing at the time, a common band experience they all could moan about and cover in their songs. Despite the inspiration it provided for countless tunes and lyrics it still gets a bad rap. Poor old road. The obvious drug influences running in the background don't allow for actual clarity of conversation either and I didn't feel any sense of understanding or empathizing with the musician's plight or situations. They seemed just a bit creepy and unaware, set up in their dark and sombre temple of artistic privilege. Maybe they were all just tired and worn out by the whole experience: precious, fickle things. What does it all mean anyway? The audiences will move on once you go, no matter how much the seem to love you now.

Guests: OK, Van Morrison's bit is terrible. He looks like a poundshop Freddy Star and despite the energy he exudes it's really just embarrassing to watch him. He's not aged well even at that point in his career. Neil Diamond: I was never a fan but this isn't his finest hour either, gravelly and grumpy looking. It's hard to watch Neil Young too, for some reason he's doing a coked up and truly dull version of "Helpless", a weak and laboured song if ever there was one. On the plus side I liked Ronnie Hawkins and Muddy Waters (old guys just doing what they could), Eric Clapton was "professional", Bob Dylan was himself really, all you'd expect and no sign or mention of his alleged tantrums. Joni Mitchell looked light years ahead of all the three chord blues plodders by singing the freshly written "Coyote". A lyrical and tuneful masterpiece by comparison with the rest of the fare in my opinion. I also enjoyed the bare-bones back lot filmed performance of "Evangeline" along with Emmylou Harris's spectral and effortless vocals. And so the mist returns for a time and the waters close over as darkness falls.

In the end:  When this was filmed I'd moved away from progressive and heavy bluesy rock. I was listening to stuff like Little Feat, Poco, Steely Dan and occasionally the Band and Dylan. All phases pass and tastes change. It's a hollowed out chunk of history now. Perhaps those were the good old days, perhaps not. People have died and moved on and the world's a different and more complex place, well my world is. I don't think I need to watch this film ever again but many of the songs are still in my head and that's not a bad thing. That's what songwriters want. So long and thanks for all the ... mental turbulence.

Interested?

The internet now thinks that I'm at that critical age when I might be enticed to bid for and purchase items belonging to or associated with dead and possibly living rock stars. Hard to tell sometimes. Almost every day I'm invited to take part in an auction to buy up their discarded stuff. Guitars, notes, photos and posters, collections of tat mostly but clearly I'm just not a fan at the correct level.

The prices are mostly daft and well beyond my means and the majority of items are really only mildly interesting at best. You know that those "in the know" have already paid top dollar for the meaningful, rare or famous pieces, so they are gone by now. 

Here's a rather random set of Bob Dylan stuff that's for sale. None of it appeals to me but browsing and wondering is much more interesting and less dangerous than buying and regretting. You have until the 18th to decide the fate of these foolish things.