Minimalist Shoes

Still don't know what I was waiting for and my time was running wild, a million dead-end streets and every time I thought I'd got it made it seemed the taste was not so sweet. So I turned myself to face me but I've never caught a glimpse of minimalist shoes until a few days ago. Now I own a pair. I've no idea what I'm doing anymore.

It seems that in the 2018 paper for the Journal of Sports Sciences, Devon R. Coetzee defined minimalist footwear as having a sole and upper that weighed 200-gram (7.1 oz) or less and were highly flexible, a heel height of 20 mm (0.79 in) or shorter, and a "heel-toe differential" of 7 mm (0.28 in) or less. They're supposed to be good for the feet and the foot area's general health and well being. So the trial begins. I've always seen myself as a complicated minimalist.

Cats Gain the Advantage

When our cats were kittens we cat proofed the garden gates to stop them jumping up on them and escaping over. The two gates are about seven feet high. However now that the cats are adults none of that matters and naturally they like to take the piss by climbing across and along the top of the gates and then jump down onto the other side. Clearly our resistance against cat instincts has proved to be futile. 

We call this situation the "Zippy Paradox", it goes like this: If you do some work to prevent the cats from getting out a safe area but they eventually do get out of that area then you need to have a simple way to allow them back to safety. There is an answer of course. Life isn't just a meaningless set of puzzles, or is it?

Golden Filter

Sometimes you just need to view your small part of a big and often crazy world via the "golden filter". The golden filter makes everything err ... golden in a way that suggests some kind of higher life form at work and gives clearer perception and a "glow up" to the commoner. This philosophical revelation was once only available to ordinary people after imbibing at least six pints of a dark and often quite heavy beer or for those of a lighter frame, five or six gin and tonics. Thankfully those days are almost gone and a temporary dose of happiness can now be found somewhere on the right hand side of any reasonable photo editor under the filters icon.

Random Marks of Crisis

"There is a crack in our world and a panic – a sense, across Europe, that the peaceful times are over. But it’s a kind of panic combined with a feeling of numbness, one that says ‘I can’t really do anything so maybe I’ll just party, or nod, or look away because right now I’m completely overwhelmed.' " Somebody said this recently but I'm not sure who.

Every so often a fake cow will appear in your mirror.

Once this mixture was all the rage. For cakes, bakes, drinks, arty sharks, fake cows, keys and more unrelated content go no further than where you just might find yourself to be. We are all verbally challenged pilgrims lost out on the road to oblivion or thereabouts. Embrace the uncertainty of it all.

"Gimme Back My Bullets!"

"No, I'm keeping them and will recycle them by turning them into useful key rings. They're currently on my night stand resting. Please don't ask me about used ammunition again."

In other imagined news: "John (followed by a string of random digits and letters) you've been chosen to receive a fully funded full English breakfast with all the trimmings if ..." I just can't click on these messages. I never did.

On the day of the Pope's funeral. I've no personal issue with this Pope, perhaps he was a decent fellow as is being reported. However the overall sense I have, looking at the scenes, the crowds and the ceremony is one of sad absurdity and needless ritual. Then there's the VIPs, royals and politicians, most of whom couldn't give a shit, jockeying for positions and needing to be seen and photographed. A tedious mockery of position and importance, they're all just other people. 

Meanwhile we're happy because the "Rainbow" cats are back home with us.

Lost Keys

I have found some keys - but they are not my keys. They might be yours. They are/were on the stone lintel over the blue gate. You, both of you, as there are two different keys, may have left them there for good reasons. Reasons I don't know or care to know. That's your business. All I'm doing is reminding you that your lost keys are there so in a sense they are not lost as I've told you where they are. 

All you need to do now is retrieve them. Of course something quite different may be going on here, something sinister, secret or simply a private arrangement. Anyway you didn't plan it very well because it was easy to spot the keys in the position you'd placed them. I could have taken them but I didn't, another person might. I'm far away from this place now and by tomorrow I'll have forgotten the whole thing.

Then there's the tiny plastic frog ...

Satisfaction

 

I cleaned up this somewhat neglected log burner. Quite a satisfying thing to do. I doubt that it'll burn any better but it's lost the dirty haze of carbon deposits that had built up across the glass and door mechanism. Should've taken a before pic for a proper comparison.

Glen Esk Daily Photo

Nice enough day outside but no firm plans to go out anywhere further than a few steps away. No intentions of ranting about anything either. Peace in our time. And as for the urge to add just one more stupid sentence ...

SMEG Trivia

I recently stayed in a large and very comfortable hotel that had placed SMEG fridges in each room. I thought that these were going to be full of the usual mini bar items but all that the fridge contained was two small gin bottles, two bottles of tonic, two dried lemon slices and two monogramed glasses. Odd. The thing was that the fridge wasn't even cold, the contents were hardly chilled, a pint of milk would not survive in there, even in a Scottish winter. I actually thought that it was broken so it was reported to reception as defective. They said, "it's all fine, it's not a fridge at all, it's a cooler". 

To me that's a whole new thing; it looks like a fridge, but it's not really cold so it's only a cooler. Hmm. These SMEG coolers cost about £999 each (no kidding). That's a lot of cash for any fridge but a lot more for a mere "cooler". With over one hundred rooms in this hotel, each with a SMEG, the economics are crazy. Crazy unless the gin company took the hit and installed them. Now they're crazy. The thing is as they only contain gin, how quickly do you recover your SMEG/gin investment? When mini bar munchies strike it's the peanuts, crisps, beer, coke and wine you dig in for, not gin and tonic, nice enough as it is. All niff-naff and trivia I know but to me this is a slab of simply disastrous business economics and not very cool.

Widdershins at Duck Duck Go

Old or passionate politicians and activists confuse me with their unerring sense of purpose. The notion that argument changes things deeper down is a peculiar one. If you "win" an argument what do you really win? Life's tawdry tapestry shows us that few people actually change their mind in that moment, if ever. They go away and silently grumble.  Argument tends to hammer in nails and harden resolve. Perhaps a generation later there will be a shift when the nail eventually rusts, perhaps not.

If you can just sit back and take comfort from whatever you find. Binge TV shows, books, movies, podcasts and music, binge whatever entertainment you like. None of it matters much, it's temporal and it provides no long term satisfaction either but it passes the time. Like leaving a comedy gig or film show unsure of what you were really laughing at; you can't quite put your finger on what you experienced but it was probably OK. You saw other people who laughed along with you.

Alternatively run Widdershins and chant around some sacred spaces, old trees or standing stone circles wearing only well worn tennis shoes on the night of the summer solstice and see what happens next. There may be consequences and Hell's own sweet fire will still beckon. Who knows. I'm heading for the hills right now.

You Tubing

Deciding to kick-start a YouTube channel is a bit like deciding to go to the gym regularly or befriend someone who lists “crypto investor” in their bio. So you're full of optimism, wine-fuelled delusion, and the vague hope of becoming mildly successful without ever leaving your couch. On the plus side, you get to fiddle about with stuttering images, wear T-shirts and shorts while inwardly pretending to be polished and professional and possibly gain thousands of followers who adore you for being “talented” in a quirky way as you edit videos munching on a cold burrito. 

Then along come the pitfalls: the soul-crushing pressure to be consistent, the existential dread of a video getting 13 views (12 of which are you "testing"), and the sudden realisation that the algorithm is less a helpful friend and more a moody ex-wife who ghosts you but needs you to pay the bills. Still, armed with caffeine, unhealthy snacks, and an ever-growing collection of cat related mugs, you march on, because deep down, there's always the faint, flickering hope of becoming the next musical sensation by happy accident and maybe even hoovering up some lucrative (?) gigs. Yes, Capital Models have a new YouTube page. (Still in the development phase). Let's not forget impossible songs either.

Elsewhere on the interweb I've discovered that about 7% of the world's population are older than me. A sobering thought and statistic. I'm guessing that many of them are the folks I'm regularly stuck behind in the queue at the local Co-op.

New Machine

Mr Flymo has entered the chat: The afternoon hung heavy with the sweet, sultry promise of something new, the kind of day where the light seemed to spill slowly, like treacle across the black railings. There was a bearable tension in the air while the slow clock ticked, back there on the pale kitchen wall.

He sat with the stillness of a man whose heart beat to the rhythm of a calm, almost narcotic anticipation, glancing now and then down the road that wound like a lazy ribbon through the grey hush of this dull suburban community. The old lawn mower, rusted and obstinate, lay discarded in the garage like a relic of a less dignified era, and in it's place, though not yet arrived, lived a gleaming promise. The new machine, all shiny plastic and controlled quiet, humming on electric power. 

It symbolized something ineffable: novelty, precision, a kind of modern and bright grace that whispered of a cleaner reinvention. It was made in and shipped from China, hardly an exotic thing these days. He slowly smoked half a cigarette, supped warm coffee, watching the shadows lengthen, waiting for the delivery truck as though it were summoned forwards by some imaginary green light at the end of his own driveway.

Meanwhile, a few miles away, the skies above Falkirk released an unexpected and unseasonal hailstorm upon the town. Another day was passing.

Macchiato

 Macchiato at McMoo's Cafe. This is mostly how I roll.

9/10.

Robot Chuggers

Nobodies fault but mine? In the city today, using card payments at a stationary shop, a pharmacy, a burrito cafe, a Japanese cafe and a Tesco. With each card transaction came a request to donate to charity. When did this become commonplace? I know nothing to zilch about the causes mentioned via a few blurry pixels on a card machine's tiny screen either. I'm fine with making informed donations when I choose to but don't press this onto me and every other customer each time someone spends a relatively small amount of money. 

Here was I simply trying not to grumble but it's David Cameron's Big Society dream haunting us from the Tory graveyard. Government backs off from aid and assistance and charities are pushed into corners. Times are hard I know but I don't need the guilt trips and the random passive aggressive bombardment that these messages send. Don't abdicate responsibility to a robot device just because our lords and masters have abandoned you. Also don't use language like "it's cool not to donate" when I choose not to donate. FFS.

Maybe going back to dirty cash isn't such a bad idea.

Back home, here's some boats resting.

The Modern Lawnmower

"This has all the makings of a ponderous, man of a certain age, type of rant about the steady decline of civilization and the death* of meaningful, well designed and high quality engineering," said that same, predictable bloke as he rested his pen. He may have been me once, some time ago. I recognize the temperament and viewpoint, but I'm now travelling way too fast to take that test. Changes. 

*Death's too strong a word. Most likely there are plenty of Swiss watches and a few other odd but expensive items out there that would pass muster.

Intimate Problems

There is a particular indignity that accompanies the male body in it's inevitable decline, a slow betrayal that begins not with some great calamity but with small, ceaseless irritations. Among these is the burgeoning menace of nasal hair. Strangely white, twisted and wiry, and possessed of a perverse will to grow, this is among the most maddening of things. For a man in his late sixties, the nose becomes a battleground, not of respiratory illness, grave affliction or extra sensitivity to bad odours; but of a constant, ticklish discomfort, as though nature had conspired to mock his remaining dignity with each curling filament. 

No sooner is the nasal hair trimmed, sometimes with trembling hands in awkward scissor moves, sometimes with infernal little barber driven machines (not so often), than it sprouts anew, poking and prodding from within like the rude laughter of time itself. It is like a drunken reminder, trivial yet persistent, that the body is no longer one’s own but now a kind of overgrown garden, demanding maintenance yet offering no real reward.

I have no theory on this other than to blame such growth spurts on cheese, wine and the poor ventilation of the soul.

Thirty Three And A Third

 

You know that feeling you get when you realize that everyone else knows about something that you don't and you've suddenly to decide should you investigate or explore that thing or just leave it there and stay happy and ignorant. Until recently I had not heard of the 33 & 1/3 series of album review books; they're mostly about rock/pop albums (in a short book form). A friend of mine is considering writing one, well submitting a draft to add to the list, so I'm now doing my own slightly sluggish exploring. 

I bought the one above from Bloomsbury, seemed a good omen, it's not some tiny book either, more of a really long essay I suppose, maybe 30k words. Led Zep was a fair bet as a start and a taster or so I thought. I'm a jaded and faded fan, familiar with their myth, magic, music and downfall but I mostly wanted to see what was/is different about this brand of book. 

Looking at the long title list (200+) it's a mix of the odd and the predictable. They'd be collectible even addictive for some folks and a decent gift idea should you ever be stuck. This one is well enough written, a bit like a Rolling Stone or Cream article on mild steroids; a world weary mix of background chatter, confusing detail, quotes and interviews and the author's experiences and most importantly, ta da! The author's personal opinions. I should add that I did fall ever so slightly asleep a few times during my sporadic reading spells. An age related thing.

You don't have to like a band or artist to take one of these on (but it probably helps with the research), you just write what you feel, drink Scotch whisky all night long and die behind the wheel etc. You know the tune.

Glass, Iron And Bubbles

Out of kilter photography: The wrought iron poets with their peculiar, angular attempts at space, form and wordsmithery are long gone. "Tone deaf!" said the surly modernists from their concrete plinths. Nobody was listening anyway.

Tourists stand there, confused, as they might in any city. Too many thoughts to think. The bones and girders may remain but none of how it was put together is easily fathomable. Particularly so when your head is full of bubbles on top. No abuse of alcohol was involved on the day either. Not even a single emergency ice cream either, just physics.

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?