"Where's your shame?

It always looked fine in my mind's eye...

You've left us up to our necks in it. Time may change me, but I cant trace time." So all really need now is to design the hippy dippy Moonbeam logo and pyrographically but not pornographically start assaulting these here guitar headstocks with it. Easy Peasy.

...and then reality set in once again.

Wolves of Fife

An old legend has it that once, on the pilgrimage route between Cramond Island and Oakley a poor beggar sat begging at the ferry landing at La Punto de Cromby on the the dark and gloomy northern side of the river. Everyday he was there, holding out a rusty tin cup in the cold salt air begging for alms from the passing pilgrims and passengers. One day an arrogant  rich young man travelling on the holy way passed and cursed the beggar casually throwing some dirty seeds from the bottom of his pocket into the empty cup. The beggar responded by blessing the man with the words, "You fail the Deil and I with your disrespect, the Wolves of Fife shall stretch your neck!" Angry at the retort the rich man had the beggar flailed alive at the root of the ferry pier. Some say that as the beggar breathed his last the howl of a lone grey wolf was heard from across the barley field as a new moon rose. The rich man continued on his journey eventually making it to the Priory of Oakley where he spent a troubled night. Next day the beggar was buried in the common plot but his few belongings were scattered to the four winds. In the process the seed the rich man had cursed him with  fell onto the stony ground that formed the base of the pilgrim's road.

The rich man completed his pilgrimage but found no lasting peace. On his return journey back to Cramond, miles out in the Forth the the ferry struck the Beamer Rock in thick unseasonal fog and sank with the loss of all. A few days later the rich man's body was washed ashore and on a some chilly morning devoured by a pack of hungry wolves near to Dalgety Bay. So now, at the spot where the beggar died some say those cursed seeds still take hold once in every 35 years (the age the beggar was when he was killed) and bloom there on the cold stones somehow, from the beggar's spilled and still warm blood. They rise up, defiant through the rocks and ruins, a testimony and tribute to a poor Fife beggar and in warning and remembrance  of the quick and unjust anger of a rich man - and in the nearby woods, the great grey ghost of an old Scottish wolf still cries alone and prowls unseen in the June half light. Well some say that kind of thing anyway.

Something profound

To be continued...eventually.

Amazon Cloud Player exists

Name the bonkers film then...

It's handy reading the Independent some days. I found out that as of today (probably but maybe yesterday) Amazon Cloud Player automatically accesses all the music you've ever bought on Amazon and dumps it into Cloud Player, even if it was CDs or Vinyl and more importantly even if it was someone else's birthday or Christmas present. I came home to find my cloud has 377 songs in it - including some Take That mind you and some that I quite like. Now can I get this all on my phone?

Don't be alarmed

This summer we'll visit the actual studios where some of this hot action was filmed.

Today the confusing and politically correct bin collection rota switches, well tomorrow actually but the bins go out tonight in order to annoy local barking dogs and neighbours. Just as well, having wondered what he strange noise outside was (and routinely checking all our electronic devices) I went out to place the blue and black bins by the kerb. There I found my car in full alarm mode, hence the strange and unfamiliar  loud beeping ten minutes before and a WTF moment. Clearly some reprobate squirrel or weasel has tried to break in and steal my precious Joni Mitchell, Mozart and Gin Blossoms cassettes and extra strong mints, that's the problem with having an eclectic taste in music and mints and parking your car in a deep and dark forest.

Teeth falling out

Typical everyday scene on the nearby Fife Coastal Path.

Apropos of nothing: Not so good but surprisingly painless when an ex-tooth (a filling I suppose) just fragments and falls out for no reason other than you munched the final piece of Sainsbury's Rocky Road. Then it becomes lost in the digestive system and is pretty much unreachable without keyhole surgery. It's the Fife-time equivalent of a pork bullet for a Muslim. The sweet ironic hit of a sugar and chemicals mix and then the dull ragged feeling of something not quite right in the back end of your mouth sending you to dental hell for however long it takes to get an appointment. Actually all was fine until I probed it with a sterile cocktail stick. The moral of the story is, leave the last bit for someone more needy that yourself or God (who let's face it has not much else to do these days apart from keeping NM alive) will take out some terrible revenge.

Scotland the lost

Need to look a little harder maybe?

Having been charged £7 for enjoying a 26 minute parking slot in the "Drop Off" Zone at Edinburgh Airport I've been pondering the merits of private transport v public transport v staying at home and watching the world go by on GoogleTube.  Naturally I've concluded that I must from time to time venture outdoors and move from A to B and even as far as C if need be. Costs and charges have to be sucked up and gotten over but it doesn't stop me from thinking FFS. 

I did notice a certain hostile friction today at the super duper  "Drop Off" Zone as the sweating parking attendants tried with little success to shepherd unruly cars and anxious passengers into their idea of parked order. Even on a serene Sunday afternoon voices were raised, windows rolled down, horns blared, gestures were gestured and pedestrians loaded with luggage struggled to connect with expected vehicles...I just thought one more little thought, "welcome to Scotland, we really think we know our shit here but..."

Unfortunate mouse

This unfortunate mouse seems to have met a sticky end and, for some inexplicable reason, was deposited somewhat disrespectfully on top of the cowling of the electronic cat flap (yes we have two of them, that's cats and cat flaps). Naturally the cats are the prime suspects but nothing can be proved as all the evidence is pretty much circumstantial. I scooped him up and after saying a few interfaith type blessings gave him an appropriate woodland funeral. The post internment function went well despite the short time I had for preparation and planning. The catering was of a high standard with the sausage rolls and salad bucket in particular both deserving a special mention. Many thanks to Bambi's mum, the two naughty fox cubs, the robin, the woodpecker and a family of disturbingly inbred rabbits who also attended. I then played a slowed down and shortened version of "Ain't Nobody Got Time For That" on a rather distorted guitar and so ended the proceedings in what I considered to be a sweet and uplifting spiritual moment. The official version is here...

Cigarettes of the future

Yes that's right. It's the ultimate fate of the automobile that's yet to come. The love affair will die, spiralling away into oblivion. There will be a slow dawning, a gradual realisation that these washing machines on wheels are a thing of the past. We will no longer worship their stylistic subtlety, their speed and comfort or their extravagance and expense. They will  become extinct and so will petrol stations and forecourts and garages. Our world will no longer have these things,  but it will happen gradually. Firstly the fuel prices will be hiked up by wars and the SNP, then the roads will be too busy and angry, the infrastructure will break down as the routes and surfaces become unrepairable. At the same time virtual travel via the internet and other unreal means will become quick, commonplace and affordable and so we'll just stop...we'll stop exploring completely, we'll settle. Well I suppose other than the odd ride on some uncouth piece of public transport should we need to visit to see somebody or do something. Meanwhile the super rich will fly free in streamlined helicopters and humming private jets, high above out of reach and at improper speeds in five star comfort. Our only course of action will of course be to systematically take them out with our hand held rocket launchers as they streak across our grey skies...it'll become one of the brave new Olympic socialist sports by 2044. Having said all that I may just stick with the old Volvo for as long as I can afford it's stalwart protection and clunky comforts and where else can you listen to music in peace and occasional tranquility?

Washing the house down

I eventually got around to watching Part 2 of the Eagles' history. That wasn't so good. All serious pronouncements, justification and money troubles (too much money that is) mixed up with not a lot of good music, the 70s was their era really. It was hard to stay with it but it seemed like it was some important part of modern history, how not to behave when you're successful. I don't think anybody has cracked that one yet. The low key thrill of being unsuccessful, obscure, undiscovered and possibly overlooked may have some advantages for those wishing to retain their sanity and self respect.

After a while and some beer and sausages I went outside and washed down the house with a high pressure hose. It was a soothing and cathartic experience to remove all the bird shit, spider webs and debris from the white walls and made my evening. Then I applied varnish to guitars and spoke to cats about cat related matters, they ignored me for most of the conversation. Perhaps I'm rusty or they may have heard it all before. I should get out there and practice more often.

Moving on and backwards

When blogging - make the pictures large

Joni time and goin' back to Canada: Whilst bumbling around and ironing I watched two fascinating and contrasting documentaries this week. One was a conventional face to face interview between Joni Mitchell and a Canadian journalist. Joni now nearly 70 is chiseled, old, defiant, alarmingly lucid and self aware, violently self critical, clever and bright. She sits in some fortress Californian home, her own paintings on the wall, random guitars and glinting frames everywhere. She is a strange kind of wispy golden woman. Unattractively she chain smoked through the chat and always returned to her formative years in Canada to pin the blame and find the proof for her lifetime’s motives and actions. She was a talking lyric book, a feast of tangled memories and names and things that are to her still important and relevant - trying to make some sense of a life. A sign of ageing I’ve often seen, reliance on and recounting the past to make a more measured explanation of the long road here. She can no longer sing, she paints and holds court (with a spark or two) and lives the kind of life you’d imagine. She talks about the greats of song writing, the modern masters, artists and poets but nothing really sticks. She never liked poetry…I know what she means.  She struggles just to be in some place and to stop That’s what a lifetime of travel gets you, itchy feet and sore legs, aching backs and a stubborn inability to stop keeping up the illusion. I wont ever meet her, that’s probably a good thing. She's like some kind of weird spiritual mother but one best avoided...here come all those absurdities and the good/bad ideas.

Joe time and the long journey out of Eden: Then it was “the History of the Eagles” Part 1. I’ve not seen Part 2 yet but Part 1 was traumatic enough. Nobody was ever happy for too long in that band and strops, fights and bad moods coloured a lot of their history. Then along came loose cannon Joe Walsh in the mid seventies, a clown and a buffoon and another alpha male genius in the mix. I forget Joe Walsh periodically, maybe deliberately but of all the good guitar players out there he really had an effect on me. I recall the first gold top Antoria Les Paul and the James Gang’s Greatest Hits. It must’ve been 1973 and I was for a short time trying to learn to play almost properly. Something in Walsh’s playing, sound and phrasing on his James Gang stuff really went in deep. The arpeggio, the slide and echo, the bounce he got into his riffs, his harmonics and the busy filler pieces - or guitar field as Joni Mitchell calls it…more guitar field, more barnstorm. Maybe Walsh just had a simpler style than Page or Clapton, maybe they were too speedy and too far out of reach. Walsh was concrete and space, he stopped a lot and unplayed parts. He was also a crashing and untidy player, in and out of funk and classic bolero moments, unpredictable. So his career took a new and a lucrative path in the Eagles where he beefed up their sound but then he really sank in that corporate sludge of big band ego and he never did recapture whatever patchy magic was in the three James Gang albums or the Smoker You Drink. That’s what big bands do when they implode. We’ll see what he makes of things in Part 2 if I ever get a big enough pile of ironing to get round to watching it.

Get down from that cross, we could use the wood

Of course this means something.

Timber lizard in hibernation. 

Guitar headstocks that require sanding and varnishing and sanding and varnishing and so on.

When phones, cameras, all the electronic preachy shit we have and even simple file transfers let you down, (as they always will) it's good that you can rely on wood just to be...wooden. There's hardly a more pleasingly reliable material, easily worked (?), come by, burned, polished and ultimately turned into useful / useless objects - heat in extremis if you are desperate. Round here we specialise in the useless variety and have spent a number of years producing a great many useless but pleasing to us objects. Does that then make these things useful? Probably. Valuable? Not really. Wood working, design, injury, fatigue, repetition and the long practiced art of self deprecation, somehow they were all meant for each other and go hand in glove like a duvet, a kitten, cult membership and an atomic bomb.

New album

Those clever Goldfrapp electro twins may well have come up with a new album of music, songs and sounds. Father's Day gift anyone? Click here.

Tweet of the day

As a fan and a critic of all things to do with road signs I'm now on the look out for the sign(s) referred to below in a possible Tweet of the (other) Day. Truth is I seldom leave the confines of Fife these days, the borders and boundaries being something of a blur and so I've not had an opportunity to catch up on this new strident and historically correct sign language. Need to get out more and broaden my horizons but what with the guitar, driftwood and sculpture workshop taking off, currys to make, dishes to do and cats to entrap it's all too difficult right now.

Graham Spiers ‏@GrahamSpiers4 Jun

Just passed a sign saying 'You Are Entering the Kingdom of Fife'. One of the world's great road signs.

 Retweeted by Andrew C. Leggatt

The waterfall of eternal Zen

It was so sunny today that we lived in the garden. We ate pasta, trifle and olives, drank wine, water and pear lemonade and then jammed on various guitars drums and voices. It was a very fine day. Then at 1815 along came the clouds and that was that but the happy memories  remain and the waterfall will again start and stop and flow at the bidding of the sun another day. Sometimes everything is just the way it should be and the universe just moves to the tapping of your foot, the whistling of the birds  and the buzzing of a rare and lazy bee.

The significance of the trivial...

...is easy to say but more difficult to define. It's possibly untrue, unless you can somehow add all the trivial up till it reaches some point of significance, like a blog or a Twitter feed might do.  Like bad or accidental science, chaos forming up into creativity or just random constructions in twigs and Lego or bits of forgotten guitars banged back together in the hope that they/it might produce a decent tune.

A lukewarm cup of coffee.
Appreciating a Ford Focus.
A pen runs out.
An airport ticket is changed with no fuss.
A sunny day.
Falling asleep while travelling.
Waking up in a strange room.
Two over fried eggs eaten with brown sauce.
Cats jumping in a playful fight.
Reeling up a garden hose.
A battery runs out.
Messages on an answering machine.
Planning a trip.
Three items received in the post all hidden in different places around the garden.
The washing machine set to the wrong temperature.
Thinking of things but not doing them.
A charitable donation.
A spilled drink.
Looking out of a window.
A hot bus.
People out walking dogs and children.
Dirty laundry.
Serenity.

Samsung v Apple

If Samsung and Apple iPhoto were a married couple they'd be throwing china cups and pints of milk at one another, then storming out in a huge huff, then coming back in and slapping the other on the back of the head, swearing and pouting and then either setting fire to the wardrobe or slashing the seats in the BMW 5 series estate. Whatever way these guys are just incompatible and I'm getting a little tired of their childish behaviour. So here are some unedited photos of questionable cowboy guitar projects that are currently underway round these parts. Over and out Samsung.

The sword swallower's cat

There are only sixty genuine sword swallowers in the world. Here's one I saw at the Taste of Grampian  food fare and sword swallowing extravaganza in Inverurie. He's also Scotland's only practicing SS performer apparently. Long live the eccentric and scary world of street theatre I say. N.B. this guy also eats fire, juggles knives and does the old bed of nails routine - all whilst telling quirky jokes. He didn't have his cat with him on the day.

If albums were books

More lazy blogging (due to unseasonal seasonal weather and being busy entertaining numerous guests). This site is rather good if you like to see rehashed classic (?) albums re-imagined as books.

These are not the logs you are looking for

They certainly are not.

Imaginary Robin

There's not much worse than getting followed around by a figment of your imagination. This has been happening to me for a few months now - in the form of an over friendly robin. Frankly the tiny red-coated fellow is stalking me. Here, there and as John Lennon might have said, everywhere. But mostly in the garden. When I whistle, along he comes, winking and blinking and set to briefly enjoy my company before winging away into the safety of the shrubs from where he can safely observe my antics. I have encouraged him, saved his life (from the jaws of a cat) on one occasion and regularly fed him assorted nuts coated with second hand fat from the butcher shop in Limekilns. It's all my own fault really. Relationships can get complicated.

Blackie Strat

What it should look like.

Building up a Blackie Strat from EBay'd and found bits and beach combings. Well I've not done any building yet, just purloining the pieces and preparing to clean up, titivate and repair. There will be periods of doubt, disappointment and some frustration but I shall struggle through. Once completed this priceless mongrel  pedigree tribute to rock n' roll n' blues history will be priced at £350 or thereabouts. Form an orderly queue.

Smartphone ownership

My actual screen pic minus the ever morphing shortcuts.

Sadly the Samsung Galaxy smart phone honeymoon period is over. A fun and proud to have novelty for a few days it's already revealing a wider, possibly world wide "Emperor's new clothes syndrome" type of deception that I suspect everyone has been duped into following. OK it's not a total crock but one week in I'm hungry for a proper button to press, I dislike the stupid flicky screen. My clumsy flicks or nose wipes are generally misunderstood and it warps of into god knows where whilst covered in fingermarks. It moves in my pocket and resets or changes the view. It's always looking for some connection, like a Los Angeles hooker. It's always telling me something isn't available and it still chirps randomly (I suspect Googlemail) in some desperate bid to get my waning attention. Texts and typing are a muddle, I'm doubly confounded by the tiny non-button buttons and the irritating spell check that rattles on with unwanted suggestions all the time.

Them there's the camera, the one bit of mobile tech I had bonded with. I don't see it happening with this fickle baby. It wants it's own way all the time, it  blacks out in any sunlight, does the flicky thing to video when you least want it to and in a unforgivable way it refuses to mate with an Apple MacBook. That means that to get photos into the laptop (because I don't want to stuff everything on line unedited) I have to extricate the tiny memory card and then use an adaptor to regain control of the shots. Unless some unexpected Epiphany occurs it's headed for the bottom of a sock drawer or the bottom of the Forth.

Out of my system

The warden's house. A job for the summer, advertised once in a while and probably well worth it...I've signed up.

Here's the ferry looking steady...but it's anything but.

The green lump between the sea and the sky is in fact the island.

The old, ruined Aberdour jetty, made to look older by adding black and  white.  Once the centre for river traffic, ferries and holidaymakers.

Views of the mythical isle of Inchcolm set out in the Forth of Fifth or as we call it the Firth of Forth. It was the recent location of a magical family wedding. The island is a strange mix of the abandoned and the derelict and the stridently restored. Seagulls and puzzled explorers pick their way here and there in the remnants of the old abbey complex and Napoleonic and 20th century gun emplacements. The wind never stops blowing and the birds eye up unwilling targets, that's just the island life. All rather good and stiffly Scottish, the boat journey's pretty interesting also - as is the landing.

Obvious

Says it all really. Some things are just out there, hidden in plain sight.

Been playing this all my life

bacon tetris Share on twitter Share on facebook Share on more MAY 16

The act of arranging bacon strips on a frying pan in the most efficient way possible given the dimensions of your pan. The goal is to maximize the number of bacon strips on the heating surface without leaving any part of any strip uncooked.

"I have 100 square inches of bacon and only 36 square inches of frying pan area. Time for some Bacon Tetris."

In praise of black bananas

Some days life is just a steady, relentless set of missed opportunities, black bananas and misspelled blogging errors. Today I did have the time and inclination to repaint the badly painted and slightly embarrassing garage doors and somehow justify myself. Two great blue chunks of wood fitted, hinged and bolted into sympathetic holes grinning at me in a potential DIY sunny evening way. Alas, just as I'd digested the last of the Anster cheese and was about to revise my ongoing  ironing and kilt maintenance plans along came hail stones, rain and other general forms of warm Biblical pestilence. I imagined a leaf to be frog, blown grass to be locusts and midges to be scorpions, it was all over without the shouting. I resigned myself to a sober and unpainted fate and then watered the tomatoes and suicidal peppers in the conservatory whilst watching foolish people bidding endlessly on EBay for antique mandolins and banjos. Truly, the amusement never ends.

Garry Winogrand took this photo a while ago, probably part of a series and it's rather good and evocative I'd say. Nobody knows why she's holding her shoes, perhaps they don't belong to her at all.

Still life with anchovies

Today I've received most of my essential protein from anchovies, I hope the doseage works. I'll need all my fading faculties to get to grips with the new mobile phone that the confused pony tailed driver dropped off, in the exact time slot (as texted), this afternoon. I was pleasantly surprised at the smoothness of the transaction following last week's web based elongated ordering misery. So now I have the slim, dark and exciting smart phone. It's gleaming, modern and charging (asleep as it were) but we've yet to bond. A key point in relationships with the  inanimate technical objects that we use to connect us to the world; phones, Kindles, cars, laptops, web browsers and alcohol. If, even at this early stage we hit a snag then the marriage of man and machine can fail and stubbornly refuse to reignite the passion and promise that the first viewing on the web or on the forecourt suggested so strongly (the price must be a key factor here...). Clearly I need more anchovies, some red pepper dip and creamy chocolate cake.

The A - Z of Grim

Dark & Macabre: I make no apologies for this, I am simply passing it on.  I think Winnie and Xerxes met with the grimmest of endings.

Piper at the gates of doom

I didn't realise that some dumb trash can metal band had used this name. I could still shed a tear over the original chapter and the other night, when the sun hit the trees... I remembered a day.

LLL

Get ready for a new eating experience, choose from the Mach 1.5, the vertical drop or  the Temporary Time Travel options.

Breakfast at the Loch Leven Larder: it was a good experience, a nice eggy black pudding and spicy sausage combo launched into and washed away with a pot of tea and some thick seeded toast. The rainy view of the flattened out loch and desolate islands added it's own unique flavour. Loch Leven is the the east side's poor relation to the international playground that is Loch Lomond. Less bling and height and golf and hotels, no big misty Ben or crags or Glasgow patter. A flatter, sadder, plainer version of the midge riddled and fake tartan west, that's Fife /Perth/Kinross. No big boats or seaplanes or cabin cruisers, just the bird sanctuary, dotted gliders, traffic calming and determined fisher folk in leaky looking boats.  Good cheese counter also and tasty chocolate spread.

Phoney McRingring returns

File under "who gives a stuff anyway?": The good people at Three telephone systems peacefully capitulated to my stream of annoyed type emails and kindly called me back from a mysterious location hidden deep within the Indian sub-continent. A kindly chap, obviously aware of my recent history of mental health and my poorly expressed exasperation successfully negotiated with me and a deal was quickly struck. Good humour and rather weak signal came together to hurry the transaction along a bit also. Now I'm the potential proud owner of some fancy phone (delivery pending and illustrated above) and I've reduced my monthly bill by a whopping 33%. I'm getting some other free stuff also but as I dozed off somewhere around fifteen minutes into the slowly fading call and I didn't think it good manners to ask for a repeat of the details. Now I've no idea what it might all be. That's the way to do business I think. Stay on the edges of consciousness and don't worry too much.

If you are experiencing problems with call centre type  issues, button pushing and excessive hanging on the line then this site offers short cuts allegedly.

Other people's funerals

Your own personal Jesus.

Other things can rise up at will, a seasonal effect so I believe.

It's a bit of a shame that there is no such thing as eternal life. If you're not sure then go to a funeral, there's the proof. A dead person, lots of family, friends and hangers on/supporters and...that's it.

I was at one today out in the East Neuk, wonderfully mad sunlit weather, rolling clouds and white seas in a craggy church clinging for dear life to the water's edge. Beside it a battered graveyard, windswept and white with salt, back on a low cliff top overlooking the great mother sea, licking at the graves as if to beg for a taste. I heard all about the life lived, it was uplifting and interesting, he sounded like a nice chap, a square peg in a square hole, loved and liked he'd explored and fathered and befriended. Then a cancer and the fatigue of living beyond allotted years caught up. I didn't know him at all it seemed, others clearly did. I wished I'd known him better and as the old hymns rattled unsung around the kirk interior I was sad for myself that I'd missed some slim chance somewhere along the way.

So that's life, death and families. In the end we all run out of time and patience and fail to make that tiny bit of effort. One thing we all have in common 100% of the time. Then it's time to put that polished wooden box into the damp ground, say a few words and turn and walk away. Awkward chat suddenly turns lighter, people shake hands, hug or kiss, speak quietly, someone smiles, our steps increase, up the hill, away from the place where the dead live as their disturbed ground now closes in again. We go to a busy hotel were chairs are hurriedly moved into positions. We arrange ourselves in groups and  drink whisky and eat heavenly roast beef in a last supper (apart from the vegetarians who receive a hurried portion of hot mushroom risotto). Then bumper to bumper on the A92.

Upgrade your phone the easy way

It's that classic dilemma, that endless enigma, the constant problem, the itchy irritation, the still small voice whispering in your ear, the nagging doubt and the creeping dawning of a brave new wisdom; so what is really the better look, swept to one side or a fringe?

Bargain of the day: I ordered one roll of "all purpose galvanised fixing strip/band 10m x 12mm and they mistakenly doubled the order and sent two. Now I have an extra roll ready to ship to some needy part of our impoverished isle or to some other Third World Country (or maybe I just hold onto it for a rainy day). The best £2.99 ever, I take  back everything bad I ever said about the tax dodging, shipment delaying, book burning and music killing good people of that strange on-line sales company named after a South American River, Orinoco?

P.S. If you want to buy a phone from Three or upgrade - you can't. The department is shut and you must go on-line but your old order's blocking your account and the phone you want is no longer in stock anyway so you're stuck and they're sending you texts to say your upgrade is done but you can't get a delivery so you sit at home and ... wait. I think they need a new system.

19:32

The evening of May 14th.

Esoteric