Inedible horse – topical wall hanging
March 5, 2013
March 4, 2013
K²day: Stone Soup
16h42-17h50, 04-March-2013
Color me surprised this afternoon to discover that both of the newish modernish hip-coolish wifi-ready coffee houses in my neighborhood conform to the oh-so-dusty-European custom of being closed for business on Monday. Always learning in this life, we are…and always walking further than we intended as a result.
Less than three hours ago, right at the tail-end of a lunch best not recounted here, I had a truly great idea for a topic on which to write about today. I did, I really did. The thought made me smile, it made me laugh, it lifted my spirit and filled me with anticipation, and then it took a partner and danced straight out of my mind with nary a backward glance. Not that I am spending much time aching over subjects, mind you, but when you’ve got a good one by the tail (never by the nose) there is no escaping a slicing sense of loss when it breaks free and skips away.
Metaphors. I see I am not lacking for those today, oh no. Of course, me without metaphors is like a laundry basket without socks, or or or a bulletin board without thumbtacks. Uh, a money-showered celebrity without an entourage? Nope, it’s true…the good ones really won’t come when you call.
The chocolat chaud that was meant to share the ride today is already gone, and that is because it was not hot, not marginally so, and thus it was no more in three easy glugs. And that is especially bothersome, considering Le clair de lune, the neighborhood bar/café I tap-tap-tap from today, is part of an affiliation of like establishments called HotCafe. Ironic? Nah. The point isn’t nearly important enough to be considered so and should be released on its own recognizance.
At this point it is evident that the loss of my afformentioned certain-world-beating topic has left me in a place of riffing (read: scrambling, reaching, clutching, grasping, flailing…). Hmm. Should I write about Airmail, the rollickin’ new email program I started beta-testing over the weekend? Uh, no. Or maybe go on a bit about the dreamy handmade camera half-case my eyeballs and fingertips have been tingling over (for Leyna the Leica…avid readers will surely recall my naming psychosis) and that I am thisclose to ordering, as a 48th Birthday gift to myself from My Missus? Uh, no. My ongoing effort to integrate the complete recordings of both Louis Armstrong and Miles Davis into the TOK Tunes digital music library? No no no, heavens no. My surprise over CuzJ being a tad jealous over my imminent Iceland holiday, this despite his leaving days from now for Hawaii? Huh? Of course, I could just share a cat story…
And there it is again, that utterly brilliant topic, rearing its ghastly head as expected and just in time to miss the whole of today’s session of Fill-the-Cruelly-Oppressive-Blank-Space. Caged that slippery beast in a note-to-self this time, though, thus finally subscribing to the notion that writing is at least as much organization as inspiration (perspiration, preparation, presentation, elucidation, and mental masturbation aside).
The giant electrical plug
This is one helluva plug. I didn’t have time to look around the corner to see what it was connected to. Probably a giant vacuum cleaner or huge electric fire. It should be possible to find out but perhaps I’ll leave it to you to go and see. Let me know won’t you? 🙂
March 3, 2013
March 2, 2013
3rd law part 18
This is one of those time has no meaning days. I have a jobs list but nothing that won’t wait. In one sense it doesn’t make sense to use the internet on a day like this. If time has no meaning it means you have a lot of it going spare. If I use the internet the third law will kick in and that time will have gone. Decisions decisions.
I did just pop out to the back garden for a kickabout with a football with our youngest. The garden has no chance really. It is littered with cracked pots and broken plants, bashed by ball. The lawn itself is in dire need of attention, lots of muddy patches and where there is greenery it is often moss. There is really no point in doing anything about it whilst it is still used as a sports field. Perhaps I should get the groundsman from the school over the road to come in and give it some industrial strength attention.
It’s a good phrase, “industrial strength”. Handy for lots of situations though I’m not sure I can quote an example here, other than the one I just did. It’s a bit like “fair play”. Useful, generally. I’ve made myself think here, wondering what other phrases come into the same category.
The pause for thought is represented by a couple of carriage returns, invisible but hopefully obvious. I’m afraid I can’t think of another such phrase though if I do I’ll burst out mid paragraph, a kind of metaphoric “Eureka”. Eureka is also a handy word but not a phrase and really only meant to represent the fact that you have discovered something unexpectedly.
You won’t see this but I am writing this bit at a desk in the TV room. It used to be my study but that went out the door when we got a TV. It might surprise you to hear that our oldest was thirteen before we had a TV in the house. I eventually bowed to pressure from a daughter about to go up to high school who was worried she might not be able to keep up with the TV gossip in the playground, although I don’t think they call it playground at “big school”. Playground is for kids.
Although I effectively lost my study it is quite handy to have a room that I can shut the door on and not have to put up with the rubbish they have on. It isn’t all rubbish but the vast majority is. I usually end up in another room on my laptop indulging in a bit of third law, or writing stuff like I am now.
Most of my writing is done on a sofa in the living room or in the kitchen or the conservatory (with Colonel Mustard and the lead piping). That bit in brackets is an in phrase for those in the know. It isn’t quite an eureka phrase and certainly not worthy of a shout out, in case you are analysing every word for the promised expression of surprise and discovery.
That expression may never arrive. I do feel as if I should be offering a prize for the first person to spot such an expression but I won’t because I’ll probably be inundated with emails and comments with “entries” none of which will be right and all of which will be expecting some kind of response. Not that I don’t like comments. I’m a pretty gregarious individual and like to engage with folk.
That’s my rule for twitter. I only follow people who are real people and who have something to say other than “buy my left handed widget”, “offers on left handed widgets” and “sale of left handed widgets ends at noon”. I don’t even know what a left handed widget is and seeing as I am right handed can’t see what possible use I could have for one unless it is something like a fork which I hold in my left hand using my right to manipulate the knife. I might be completely wrong here. It may also be that left handed widgets can also be used in the right hand in which case they are mislabelled, misrepresented and quite possibly miss sold, though not to me as I won’t buy one because I won’t be following them on twitter. I don’t think I’ve ever bought anything through following a link on twitter. I do get a lot of my news through twitter mind you. Breaking news, you saw it first on twitter, hot action as it happens from first hand witnesses, unless that is it is just a simple retweet. In fact it is mostly going to come from retweets as I don’t know anyone who lives in a war zone and who is likely to be filling my stream with live action coverage.
I have been stranded in war zones on two occasions in my life. The first was on 9 11. I was at a conference in the USA. The whole thing fizzled out as the planes crashed on day one of the conference. Many of the attendees had not yet arrived and most who could, drove home leaving just the overseas visitors to spend a week around the pool and going out every night.
The second was during the July 7th bombings in London. I had been expecting to catch a train back north from Kings Cross that day but instead was “forced” to spend the whole afternoon in the pub, crashing out at my sister Sue’s place in Balham for the night. It was handy having a sister living in Balham (gateway to the South) but she lives in Cardiff now which is also quite handy for when you want to go and watch the rugby at the Millennium Stadium which I am wont to do every now and again.
I remember once staying with Sue in Balham after watching England play Wales at Twickers. Sue had been the “good Auntie” and taken Joe then aged three out in London for the day. Hamleys toy shop, that kind of stuff. It’s hard work looking after a three year old, especially when you are not used to it so when I got back from the rugby Sue was desperate for some adult company, a few glasses of wine and a meal. Unfortunately I had been on the pop at a corporate jolly all day and all I could do when I got in was collapse. Poor Sue.
Sue’s a violinist you know. When we were kids we used to play the sailors hornpipe together, her on the fiddle and me on guitar. We would repeat the tune playing the verses faster and faster until we could physically go no faster. Mam and day would be quite proud when they saw people stop outside our house to listen. We still do it as a party piece. That and “The Irish Washerwoman”. Fair play 🙂
Slipped that one in, the fair play. You can’t claim it as a new phrase though because it was in the original spiel on useful phrases. Spiel is also a very useful word but like Eureka, not a phrase. I might be being a little harsh on myself here insisting on the useful phrase being a phrase rather than just a word but there again rules is rules. If you make ‘em there is no point in breaking ‘em straight away though I know that “rules are meant to be broken”. That last phrase by the way is not one of the useful ones. It is interesting enough but not in my book useful, and this is indeed my book.
It would be no different if it was my ball and we were playing football. If it’s my ball we play by my rules. Period. Full stop. I don’t really like the word period, it’s too American and I don’t know why I used it.
3rd law part 17 here
3rd law part 19 here
March 1, 2013
K²day: I Walked Through Bedford-Stuy Alone
13h32-14h34, 01-March-2013
As I start in today the free wi-fi at neighborhood café Le Carrefour is down. After the mild railing I gave myself yesterday for my susceptibility to Internet distraction, though, this could be more a good thing than a bad thing…provided what ends up on this page over the next 60 minutes or so is of any use whatsoever.
On Tuesday, issue #8 of “Hawkeye” hit comic shops (and the Internet…DLing comics is as easy these days as DLing television programs), and as has been the case since an old friend turned my eyes to the book some months back, it broke straight through the clutter and delighted me no end. A super hero who lives and interacts among non-Avenger types in an apartment building is nothing new — since the 60s, only “old money” such as Batman and Iron Man have had the dosh to crib out in stately manors — but Hawkeye is certainly the first who slumlords and acts as Super for said building as well. And though this guy may stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the likes of Captain America and Thor when the fate and future of the universe is in the balance, the adventures chronicled monthly in “Hawkeye” capture our hero when he is “off the clock”. Oh, and did I mention mention that Clint Barton…uh, Hawkeye’s dual identity is known to all? Such a premise alone would certainly promise the comic a spot on the top tier from the get-go, however it is the brilliant delivery by the dynamic duo (sorry) of writer Matt Fraction and artist David Aja that delivers on that promise. If you are not yet among those of us lucky enough to already be digging on “Hawkeye”, last month’s Issue #7 is the perfect hopping-on point from which to go backward then forward.
What? You don’t read comic books? Really? Wow, if that IS you, then take a moment to feel both proud and fortunate that you have made it this deep into the third millenium with anything resembling a relevant personal culture.
A long time ago, in a galaxy yadda yadda etc., a friend of mine dissed me but good, saying “Kory, don’t sweat it…someday you’ll find the one girl out there who is into comic books.” Now this friend truly had no idea that I still kept a bit of a toe in all-things-comics, though as zingers go it struck a hard and perfect bullseye at my geeky heart, and its perfect delivery made it worth more than a laugh-and-a-half…deep good-natured yukking all around. Little could either of us have known just how prescient that insult would turn out to be, however, as the mid-point of this newly-unwrapped month will mark 13 years since I was saved by My Missus, a girl who is not only into comic books (though super heroes are far from her cuppa) but who actually put in a good amount of time working in France’s quite-healthy comic book industry…and have I mentioned that her collection is epic?
The Voice
She was a few tables away but I could hear her voice as if she was sat opposite, talking directly at me. I could see that others were speaking but hers was the only voice I could hear. Her pitch must have been tuned exactly for my ear. She didn’t seem to be talking loudly.
Talk was of grass seed, husband, New Zealand and a swimming pool that was one metre short of Olympic size. Odd. It was as if I was hearing one side of a telephone conversation because I couldn’t hear the other half of the conversation.
I wasn’t interested enough to record the conversation any more accurately than that. It wasn’t what she was saying that aroused my curiosity. It was the fact that I could hear her but no one else.
Breakfast, Holiday Inn Bloomsbury, Friday, March 1st
February 28, 2013
K²day: Digital Disposability
13h38-14h35, 28-February-2013
The window for a personal word or two is a bit tight today, so let’s see how I do at minimizing distraction and matching my typing to my thinking (write now, edit later).
I have a tendency to name inanimate objects. My first car was Erin, my bicycle is Stella, my computer is AppleKory (Apple MacBook => Apple core => AppleKory), my first cellphone was Louis, Ouizi is my mobylette, my chef’s knife is Larmurlok…and, really, I could go on and on. I have no idea if there is a name for what is obviously a psychosis of some sort, but if not I am certainly qualified and able to put one to it.
Inhabiting the same Black Market Café I mentioned in Tuesday’s piece, I once again find myself bronzed in the afterglow of a too-quickly-finished Cortado. A few more visits will be necessary before I can hang the moniker haunt or hangout on the place, however early signs are good as the Cortados are meticulously prepared and presented and the owner/baristra’s musical tastes work quite nicely for me (on Tuesday Herbie Hancock’s “Maiden Voyage” helped me settle into my seat, and today he is playing wall-to-wall jazz manouche selections).
If only I could follow my “write now, edit later” directive. Getting away from my desk to blurb daily is proving to be a terrific idea, but doing so has done nothing to stanch my talent for multi-tasking (or, more honestly, “to improve my ever-diminishing ability to focus on one thing at a time”). Perhaps I should employ one of those funky new applications designed to minimize distraction from writing, or — better yet — opt NOT to hop on the free wi-fi offered in an increasing number of neighborhood venues….must move…forward.
My Missus and I recently started watching a new television program called “The Ameri☭ans”, which airs in the U.S. on the FX cable network. At some point if the show continues to prove interesting I may share some thoughts on it, but I bring it up here only as a means for opening a discussion of how strangely easy it is now to find fresh freely-downloadable broadcast content via the Internet. It has been more than 10 years since my bottom jaw crash-landed on my keyboard at the sight of an episode of “Friends” playing on my computer screen (downloaded using a then-magical peer-to-peer file sharing software called KaZaA, which is the direct digital ancestor of Skype), and yet I remain astounded that within minutes after a program is first broadcast it can be pulled down over the Internet in pristine high definition a/v quality. And I refer not to the use of such authorized for-profit services as iTunes or Amazon Instant Video, but to free-use technologies like Bittorrent and the ever-growing number of file sharing and uploading sites (e.g., RapidShare, MediaFire, Hotfile, 4Shared, depositfiles, etc.). When TNT shows an all-new episode of “Dallas” — an oh-so-guilty pleasure — on Monday evening in the U.S., I can cue up a perfect .avi file of the episode for a with-my-breakfast viewing on Tuesday courtesy of eztv.it, Transmission (Bittorrent application I run on AppleKory), and VLC Media Player. And this is true these days for virtually every program emitted on U.S. and U.K. television, be it scripted sit-coms or dramas, documentaries, so-called “reality” TV, or live broadcasts such as news programs, award shows, and even certain sporting events. Of course, all of this begs the question, “Who is recording all of this content and making it available (and so quickly, too)?” After all, there is absolutely no money to be made in creating the digital files and sharing them via the Internet, and we are long-past the time when making the effort to upload…well, anything, can be attributed to fulfilling the hacker’s credo of doing it simply to show it can be done. Do the uploaders do it out of the pure goodness of their hearts, hoping that the tiny signature character strings they tack onto the end of the files they offer will result in the gratitude, respect, and admiration of the legions of downloaders who draw entertainment from the fruit of their labor?
So the 5th episode of “The Ameri☭ans” aired last in the U.S.. I downloaded it this morning in about 9 minutes time, and tonight My Missus and I will watch it from the comfort of our Paris home at 57BB, after which I am sure to toss it out with the rest of the digital trash.
February 27, 2013
“let spring commence”
The trim hedge,
once out of control, is now tamed,
its gangly tendrils mastered
and canopy forestalled.
Clippings lie forlawn, awaiting disposal.
Stiff-shoulders, job complete for another year,
the gardener sinks into his armchair and commands:
“let spring commence”.
K²day: Zinc Bars and Cellphones
15h47-17h00, 27-February-2013
Less than five minutes at my perch du jour and already I’ve been abandoned by the espresso that was meant to accompany me today, the only evidence of which I cannot even lick off the inside of the cup. <sigh>
A myth it is, the supposed superiority of the espresso offered in the cafés of France. Typically, the lauded beverage so often held up as a paragon of culture, sophistication, and refinement compared to “American” is no richer/darker/stronger/more flavorful/truer. The fact is that despite the relatively small size of a café (the beverage and not the place at which you might order and drink said beverage…yes, that CAN get confusing), honest imbibers are often able to make out the bottom of their cup through the brown-but-not-so-brown liquid. And it isn’t because the sugar in France is especially strong that a half-teaspoon of the stuff applied tends to go a long-enough way. Now this isn’t to say that all of the café coffee (un café au café?) to be had in France is bad — Au contraire! — but it is long past time for the popping of the bubble of primacy afforded to “un café” over its English-speaking brethren.
There. I wrote it, I take responsibility for it, and once I publish it the French Café Police will be able to hold those pixels against me as they see fit.
A man wearing a nondescript baseball cap just wrested all attention by pounding his cellphone on the bar twice with great force. One has to assume that the thing was already broken, but if not it certainly is now.
Wednesdays are more a “valley day” than a “hump day” in France due to the school system, in which kids at the maternelle and primaire levels do not have classes while those at the higher levels only have classes in the morning. Thus, depending on their age and interests (and the needs and capabilities of their parents), on Wednesdays kids across the country participate in a whole slew of daycare arrangements, sports programs, music lessons, art classes, theatre groups, game clubs, and the like. And the competition to get into these programs can be downright savage, and I am not ashamed to admit that over the years — my being the at-home parent — I have had to throw the occasional hip-check to get The Boy on the list for Swimming, for Tennis, for Sculpture (yes, Sculpture…see the accompanying photo of today’s masterpiece)… Of course, it is all in the name of liberté, égalité, fraternité…and betterment-of-the-organism, so “No blood, no foul”, right?
Lincoln A to Z D13 Birchwood
When I were a lad my first proper job, in 1984, was at Marconi on Doddington Road in Lincoln and Dave Hopkins and I used to nip home to his place at midday for a spot of lunch. Things were pretty easy going in those days and lunch wasn’t typically an hour. We would pop to the Birchwood to buy some fresh crusty bread from the bakers together with a bit of ham and maybe some cheese and swing by his place to eat it.
Hopkins was a dab hand at making tea and I was happy to be the good guest and wait whilst he warmed the pot and made a proper cuppa. Dave was more conscientious than I was and was usually the one to call time and drive us back to the factory.
There used to be a pub on the Birchwood called The Wildlife and on Friday afternoons we would repair there for a few pints, often not returning until 3pm at which time we would go straight to the canteen for afternoon tea. It wasn’t much of a pub but we were fresh out of college and our standards weren’t that high.
They were pretty halcyon, those early days at Marconi. The company took on around 50 graduates over a two year period and it was a happy go lucky environment with almost every night being a party or a night out in the pub somewhere or another.
The Wildlife was the venue for one of the more memorable activities of the Marconi days which was “star stiff”. Star stiff was a competition whereby 200 celebrities, selected for their likelihood of keeling over and dying over the following twelve months were divided up into 20 “stiff portfolios” of ten names. Twenty engineers from Marconi took part, each carrying one stiff portfolio.
The names of the celebrities were contributed by all the contestants and a computer programme was written to randomly allocate the celebrities across all the portfolios. Each person had a seed which was a celeb highly likely to die over the year of the competition. The seeds were usually made up of Formula One racing drivers, which in those days was a far more dangerous sport than it is today, rocks stars known for their high living and drug abuse, and other famous people thought to be already at the edge of the abyss.
We would all gather on a day in July in the pub and eagerly wait to see who the computer had allocated us for our stiff portfolios. As I said the competition lasted twelve months. The deal was of one of the names on your stiff portfolio died you were given a pound by each of the other contestants. This may sound a little macabre but in reality if a particular celebrity looked like popping off you might have one person willing him or her to die but nineteen people doing the exact opposite and willing them a long and happy continuation of life.
The competition made for some tense moments. Salvador Dali was burned in a house fire but it took him months to actually die. Richard Burton actually went and died the day after the twelve months was up. Jim Patterson, who had him in his portfolio was gutted. Nineteen pounds was a reasonable wodge in those days when a pint probably cost 50 or 60 pence. Richard Burton, being known for his fondness of the sauce, was almost certainly a seed. I don’t think any of the racing drivers died during the competition.
When the twelve months were up we would reconvene in The Wildlife, replace the deceased with new prospects and start again with a totally new random allocation of celebrities.
After three of four years the original gang at Marconi started to focus on their careers and went their separate ways. Life was never the same again though I do look back very fondly at what might be called the star stiff days.
The day grows old
The day grows old. Traffic has subsided on the road outside though I can still hear the occasional car drive by. The lights are full on illuminating the front room for all to see – the curtains have been tied up to let the new paint dry on the window sill. Anne has been busy.
The printer has been fixed, paper jam removed and new printer drivers installed on my laptop. The sound card doesn’t work though since I dropped the laptop on its side and jammed the headphone jack deep in. Ah well.
Someone has ridden by on a bicycle swearing angrily at another person unseen. Oh dear.
The TV which has been showing documentaries all night is now switched off. Good.
Anne is pottering away in the kitchen. She has been out to a school fashion show. Anne is on the committee of The Friends of William Farr, otherwise known as the PTA or at least it was in my day. I have never been on such a committee, perhaps an indictment of my apathy. If they asked me for a donation I would give it.
The brightness of this room seems out of place tonight. Perhaps it is doubly bright because of the reflections off the windows. The curtains would normally be shut. Stands to reason really. For all I know someone is stood in the front garden staring in at me. Wondering.
I will be off to bed soon enough. The routine will kick in. Check the front and back doors even though I know that Anne will already have done so. Brush teeth in downstairs toilet. I find it more convenient to keep the gear there as it saves me having to nip back upstairs before heading out to work. There will probably be a quick glance round the kitchen. Ours is a large kitchen with two kitchen tables. Very useful.
Tonight I made a point of tidying the kitchen before Anne arrived home. It isn’t fair on her to be confronted with a mess which can easily be the case with three lads in the house. It is done and she seems reasonably happy with it.
The clock ticks. A quick glance informs me it is telling the right time. Unusual! Must have a new battery. Good.
Looking around I am surrounded by books. You can never have too many books. One of the shelves also has a giant pencil which I bought as a souvenir from the pencil factory at Keswick in the Lake District. It has no practical uses and were it ever to need sharpening we would not have a suitable pencil sharpener for the purpose.
The vacuum cleaner is in the corner of the room under the desk. It is a Dyson. Strange. It is normally kept in the cupboard under the stairs. Unusual for it not to be tidied away. There must be a good explanation.
I’m off to bed now. Goodnight.