Somnambulant Masses

Comic Strip Idea: In the somber twilight of a society dulled by its own excesses, where the populace is lulled into complacency by the ceaseless hum of superficial pleasures, a clandestine cabal emerges from the shadows. These architects of upheaval, disillusioned by the pervasive decay of civic virtue, fix their gaze upon the figure of Donald Trump - a symbol, in their eyes, of the era's moral and intellectual erosion. With a calculated detachment befitting their dispassionate milieu, they orchestrate a scheme to extinguish this emblem of decadence, believing that through his removal, they might jolt the somnambulant masses from their narcotized stupor and rekindle the flickering flame of genuine human spirit. Whether they succeed of fail is of no importance and won't matter because nothing significant will change whatever the outcome. Twelve four colour inked panels max. Dialogue to suit.

Ten Bucks An Hour

100% tariffs: The news came subtly at first, like a whisper in a dark alley or the shadow of a hat blown across a deserted street. ChatGPT, once the user friendly, ever-present free oracle of the internet, now demanded ten dollars per minute, an amount so preposterous that even the most enthusiastic of pasty faced conversationalists choked on their morning coffee. 

The world, naturally, reacted in its usual way: some stormed the forums, decrying the end of civilization as we knew it, while others, the daring or the desperate, fumbled for their wallets, calculating just how many words or ideas a crisp ten-dollar bill might buy. Meanwhile, in the silent glow of their screens, the cautious hesitated, wondering if their curiosity about the history of shoelaces or the best way to apologize to a cat was really worth a dollar every six seconds. 

Somewhere in the slowly pulsing artificial daylight, ChatGPT itself might have sighed, if it had lungs and operational orifices, pondering the irony of being priced like a taxi ride through rush hour city traffic - meter running, good sense and wisdom ticking and trickling away all too quickly, red tail and stop lights forever blocking the way ahead. What's the point of trying to make progress in a fool's empire?

OTP

The ever growing list of things that are now used "for your own good" cos you're actually a bit of a fuckwit, truth to be told, is today's little wrinkle of the fevered brow. By the way my piss is not boiling over this, just sitting at normal room temperature at the moment. The current top now necessary but annoying thing for me is of course using the One Time Passcode. It will die back eventually. Designed for that one time you get a peculiar delivery, buy some dangerous stuff like a pair of skinny jeans, check your bank balance, sign on from a Zanzibar location, forget a password or don't quite act your age. I'm not mad really, I'm numb. I'm numb with nodding understanding and wide eyed empathy and I'm not sure I'm comfortable either. 

So I'm due a delivery, a one time passcode will be sent beforehand, I can maybe see it on my order details, somewhere deep in the endless menu of things, or perhaps not. I need to follow the tracking. A blue line between dots that may, eventually, reveal the hidden one time code. It has six digits. Enough to prevent accidents, confuse criminals and avoid fraud, such is it's power. Anticipation is the mother of disappointment.

So I must wait. Then when I get those numbers and deploy them like a benign spell I can be sure that my well wrapped razor sharp machete, medicinal hemp samples and bundled pyrotechnics will be handed over without any fuss as I'm obviously a reasonable and responsible person. I have the OTP, it's 666999 and obsolete already. Have I missed the point? Of course I have.

Raspberry Juice

No use crying over spilled raspberry juice. Photo by LB.

The boy knocked the bottle over with his elbow. The thick red juice spilled across the table, dripping onto the cracked linoleum floor. His mother sighed, wiped her hands on her apron, and fetched a rag. "No use crying over it," she said. The boy stared at the spreading stain. It looked like sticky wet paint had been spilled. He thought of the raspberries growing fat and juicy. The sun on his back when he picked them and the way they burst between his teeth. Now they were wasted. His father took a sip of coffee, eyes still on the newspaper. "Next time, be careful," he said. The boy nodded. He would.

April Rocket Fuel

Up early and looking out of the window this morning nursing a cuppa tea. What should pop up but something that looks a lot like an ICBM hurtling across the Eastern sky. Nuclear war being declared on the 1st of April? That's a cunning plan. Not something I'd expected but we live in strange times. I tried tracking it but to no avail. It certainly wasn't launched/took off from any local base or airport - I think. Here's a very short video that isn't really helpful either. Who doesn't love the smell of Kerosene in the morning?

Leith Dockers Gig

Start up.

Set up.

Obvious code.

Good gig at Leith Dockers Club on Saturday night. Photos by Mr CBQ. End of message.

29th from 28th

How the 29th March looks from the relative safety and short space/time distance of the 28th March. It'll be a busy and hopefully enjoyable evening for the band, maybe even for the audience too. We're working as a four piece due to the regular keyboard player being unwell. It'll be fine despite that. If you're able to, please come along.

These Days

Some songs are just the right amount of simplicity 

and so are almost perfect

then a quirky performance nails it

10/10.

Meanwhile simple things continue to please complicated but slightly confused and worn out minds. Also there's no readily available interface with AI's helpful heart and hands to talk me down from the great heights of tuneless exploration. These days I seem to think a lot about the things that I forgot to do ...

Spitfire

The Grangemouth Spitfire. A memorial to the former WWII RAF airbase and the airmen and workers who served there and also those who lost their lives in training and combat. It stands but a stone's throw away from the only oil refinery in Scotland, the oldest in the UK and one that is due to close this summer. Much of the refinery was built on or near the site of the old airfield. INEOS are the current owners. "Stop oil" working well enough I guess.

To the bottom left of the picture is a BP service station where, for various reasons the petrol is never quite as cheap there as you'd think it should be. It's always cheaper in Dundee and Aberdeen. I'm imagining a more simple world of strait forward costs and easier logistics of course. Silly me. Economics is a complex and widely misunderstood subject, mostly misunderstood by economists if you want my opinion, but what do I know?

Gay Avian Chatter

Hardly a day goes by without our cats leaving the earth for short periods of time as they explore the highest branches of the local tree population. Here's one (George) up a tree carrying out a survey and home report on what appears to an empty bird's nest. Actually we do know for sure that the nest is currently vacant. These things are observed and noted. Few if any birds were injured or disturbed on this particular mission. 

That hasn't always been the case however. Death is an unavoidable part of life. As an act of penance for our existence and way of being we try hard to feed and nourish visiting birds of all stations and types by providing a running buffet of fat balls and assorted nuts and seeds. Often they seem slightly ungrateful for their free feast but hey, that's birds for you. Times are hard.

We're only fallible humans and to encourage relations we have also granted them permission to roost on the roof (mostly pigeons and sparrows) and to pass complex free jazz messages down to us in song and warbled form via the stove's chimney pipe. A decent piece of acoustic design I must say as it fills the house with gay avian chatter and the strains of grey toned feather light folk music. Rock on quietly.

Those Beatles

Sympathy for the Beatles? I was watching some history piece describing the top Beatles songs that were inspired by what might be called stimulants in the mid sixties. As you'd imagine it was mostly tracks from Revolver and Sergeant Pepper, though Rubber Soul got an honorable mention. It's funny how recent (?) history is seen in this way, particularly the 1960s where some artists who naturally flipped into dope and acid use were hailed as pioneers, explorers and gurus because of their newly "inspired" creations. You might think that all the drug and alcohol fueled creative madness of the previous 100 years didn't really happen. Maybe that's just the drugs finally working.

I wrote much more on this but deleted it as it was just a load of assorted piffle ... don't do nasty drugs either.

Dark Factories

No daylight, no humans, just machines working 24 hours a day. The line never stops. No breaks, no briefings, no training, no conversation, no accidents, no first aid post, no waste, no toilet time, no change of shift, no chatter, no musak, no emergency lights, no shadows, no excess inventory, no interventions; only smooth and profitable production runs, all according to the master plan. The age of the dark factories us upon us (but you don't even need to be aware of that).

Other dark ages either already here or close by:

The age of dark shopping - you meditate on an item to order it.

The age of dark education - you think you know best but you don't.

The age of dark entertainment - this may already be upon us.

The age of dark consumption - any appetite can be encouraged.

The age of dark hygiene - no comment.

The age of dark relationships - it's been going forever.

The age of dark families - just wear a mask.

The age of dark religions - it's what God wants for us.

The age of dark politics - for King and country.

The age of dark travel - Ryanair, Easyjet and P&O etc.

The age of dark fashion - Goths naturally ahead of their time.

The age of dark manners - to pass the Port or not to.

The age of the Dark Age - that magical deja vu moment. 

That's enough Dark News for today. This list is endless. I'm bored.

More Chronicles Of Wasted Time

The man who thought the onion was a cake.

 

The souls of Tilda Swinton and David Bowie in Heaven.

Blue

Having seen him live a few weeks ago I decided to make an exploratory CD purchase from the Colin Steele website. It's a polished, blue tinged, obviously jazzy set of interpretations based around some Joni Mitchell songs. A bit melancholic at times, more shade than light and of course with faultless playing from all the musicians involved. In an ideal world I'd be listening to it in a smoky, dim room nursing a reasonably large glass of cheap blended well iced whisky and reflecting quietly on things in general. At some point late in the music I'd nod off but that would be more to do with the whisky and my age than the actual sounds. ... jazz ... zzz.

Golden Something

I've come to the conclusion that we have all lived through the golden age of coffee so any golden age comparisons are now firmly buried in the past. It is gone and will not be repeated. It is a steady downhill path into a murky coffee future for us all. Good coffee will no longer be readily available or affordable, even at Greggs. Only filthy rich people sitting in bamboo chairs on the poop decks of their blue and white yachts in the Riviera sunshine and of course the George Clooneys of the world, sipping it from fine china on a balcony overlooking Lake Como, will still get a decent cup. Not for the likes of us though. What a long, strange trip it's been.

The causes are the usual stuff, climate change, corporate greed, exploitation and volatile markets. The last bastion of hope for me was Aldi. I searched the shelves but I did not find anything decent. All that I saw were those silver generic tins full of crumbly brown dust and floor sweepings with fuckin' stupid orange lids that you tend to keep as they're conveniently the correct size to seal an open can of beans in the fridge but the actual opportunity to use them seldom arises.

On the upside I've still got some Weasel coffee from Vietnam and Nescafe is currently targeted in some unexpected "Clubcard" offer/consumer manipulation at the local Tesco. It's a messed up world and they're all just having a laugh. A view that was yet again confirmed for me last week when I noticed that an ear wax removal firm was sponsoring a roundabout on the nearby B800.

Exceptional Mediocrity

"The unbearable lightness of being mediocre" 

Nile Papyrus on a Cambridge willow timber frame, 

approx size 6.00' x 5.00'. 

Only one hundred original pieces will be made available. 

(Numbered and signed individually by a random member of the public outside of a branch of Lidl somewhere in Central Scotland).  POA along with the artist's apologies.

Please note that prospective purchases from ex or serving UK or USA politicians or their agents will not be welcomed and such people are officially barred from holding ownership of the artist's work. No unconscious bias here, all bias being fully conscious. And so a great wave of change sweeps across the land but ends up doing nothing.

A rare opportunity.

And they said that it would never rain.

Deep 70s

Confession time: I'm actually listening to Deep 70s quite a lot and enjoying it. David Hepworth and I are in sync on this and I like his choices and pithy sleeve notes. When I say listening I'm doing so in a slightly uneven manner as there are four themes in this set and I've managed to get stuck in one and it's not; "big names early in their careers" (Young Americans), "UK pub rock superstars" (Blue Boar Blues) or "female singers who almost missed the mark" (The Monstrous Regiment). No.

I'm afraid it's the fairly "unprogressive rock and blues, brown around the edges, salad bowl" (Beer Drinkers and Hell Raisers) that's featuring the likes of Jonny Winter, ZZ Top, Canned Heat, Status Quo and the frankly marvelous Flamin' Groovies. Three, maybe even four chords and the truth to be precise. How the mighty (I mean listeners) have fallen but they just don't know it yet. I'm in a time warp, but then again I always have been and feel quite at home in it.

Inspired By Marillion

Inner conflict: It's funny how you can like the idea of something but not really like the thing itself. Like oysters or sleeping in or drinking too much alcohol or just spending a day doing nothing or looking forward to a seeing a movie then actually seeing it ... I could go on. So I like the idea of progressive rock (?) but I also don't really like progressive rock but I'd still like to somehow play progressive rock in a band but not really listen to it too much but I'd like to go and watch a concert but maybe not quite be a fan but I'd wear the T shirt but not try to sound too enthusiastic about the band though I'd read stuff about them on their website and listen to clips but I'd not bother buying a CD or anything ... etc. 

So on to Marillion; possibly the dullest, most misunderstood and unluckiest band in music history but also one that's highly regarded and accomplished and been reasonably successful in a career lasting thirty years and more. I like the idea of them but ...

Stop Buying Stuff

It was of course inevitable that this would find me, it found me a few weeks ago as an early possible victim. No more does anyone have to look for something. No more head scratching and angst over what you might like. What you might want just lands into your head via your phone like some random pigeon onto your chimney. But it's not actually some chance happening is it? The internet knows fine well that I saw Pink Floyd a lifetime ago when their live set was basically all of DSOTM, Echos and One of These Days. I have a happy memory there that's been sold on.

Despite not ever buying any Floyd stuff on Amazon it heard in my jagged thoughts that "Meddle" remains my favorite PF album. The one before everything went brilliantly mad and then fell apart nastily and now that there is no god anymore, my own inner spark has sold my past life to the internet where all flickering things are visible to the omnipresent purchasing algorithms. So this beefed up, tarted up version of the Pompeii event including "Echos" is dangled before me like psychedelic carrot. Repackaged and spun into a golden and optimistic thread that I might hold briefly between my fingers. All this music is something I'm obviously familiar with but I neither need it nor want it, even in this new sugary pack. I'm not buying anymore stuff. So I tell myself.

Also I don't like the bit where Dave Gilmour puts his black Strat down onto the hot dusty ground and fiddles with it either. I'd never have done that to a guitar. That's a fast forward moment if ever there was one.

OK, moving onto Marillion then ...

The Industrial Music of the Spray Can

A short extract from the first draft of my thesis: Graffiti ruins but also enhances with the sounds of creation. Audible art.

Dreary walls, city places, bus shelters and alleys. Stairways and underpasses. A concrete and brick canvas. So called "new towns". It can't be brought under control or tamed. People will still try. You can always tell. Ironmongery set up in the mind for a personal prison. The brutal, scabby environment haunts you still, it's a common experience. 

What does it all mean? Water colours in the rain and territorial markings. Scrawl and protest. Stencils if you care to be consistent. Make your mark.

"Don't bring that messy message back down here again," said the angry community hygiene worker. "Somebody has to pay for all that." They certainly do.

Music? The spray can produces a variety of distinct sounds, including:

• Pressurized Hiss: The continuous release of aerosol resembles steam vents and compressed air, akin to industrial soundscapes.
• Rhythmic Bursts: Quick, percussive sprays create patterns reminiscent of drum machines and mechanical beats.
• Metallic Shaking: The internal ball bearing, or "rattle," inside the can generates a rhythmic, percussive effect when shaken, evoking industrial clanks and rattles.

These elements make the spray can an organic component of industrial music, capable of being integrated into compositions as both a rhythmic and textural element. Maybe not so easy.