onward!
let 'em have it!
And what are we up to tonight? Helping Lisa move, that's what. More fun with lifting boxes. Ah, it takes me back - back when I were a lad^H^H^H student, it'd be a rare month that you didn't help at least one of your mates move flat. These days, we're all settled down and dull, and such willy-nilly moves are a thing of the past. So tonight's a chance to relive our student pasts - and to get slarnied on free beer and pizza, which helps.
We bought some shelves from MFI last night (cheap and cheerful, but so are we). This process is more involved than it sounds. We knew exactly what we wanted, having had a look around last weekend. We had catalogues with items circled in black pen. We knew how much it'd all cost. And could we buy the stuff? Could we bollocks. It's 5:30, the shop closes at 6, and the staff quite clearly didn't want to get involved in a potentially drawn-out commercial transaction that might cause them to have to stay past their knocking off time. It took us ten minutes to find someone who was willing to sell to us. At one point, we were actually pursuing one of the staff around the shop - he ducked into homewares and we lost him. I think he hid in one of the wardrobes. When we did actually manage to buttonhole someone, the actual commercial transaction took a total of five minutes (we knew what we wanted, and what the stock codes were). Another fine customer service experience.
Fascinating Guardian article on electronic mapping - provides a good overview of the state of the technology, and where it's likely to go (as in, where the money is). Worth a read.
i've got diamonds in my eyes 28 march 2002
the morning's mist, burned hanging in the cool spring air; embarassed recall.
Ooh. Ended up hooking up with a couple of friends (Alex & Martyn) last night, having a couple of beers and some Thai food, then heading back to their place and chilling. So far, so relaxed - right up until the point where I drank half a bottle of whiskey. I don't think I did anything particularly embarassing (I remember having my little finger stuck through my earlobe at one point, but that made sense in context), but syphoning down a lot of someone else's whiskey and then feeling unwell and having to leave suddenly is a bit boorish. So this morning I'm feeling mainly embarassed and contrite. I'll have to buy 'em another bottle of whiskey to make up for it. Of course, having bought them a bottle of whiskey it would be churlish to not have a wee glass with them... and so the whole sordid cycle begins anew.
Damn, but it's a nice looking day out there at the moment. A beautiful morning, full of promise - the sun shinging, the sky an unruffled blue, and not a breath of wind in the air. Nice to see that the seasons are respecting tradition: beautiful weather just before Easter, then it's forecast to turn manky when we actually have some bloody time off. In the meanwhile, here I am sitting inside, slumping down in my chair to protect my eyes from the reflected glare from the cars in the carpark. Ah well.
Right, that's entirely enough self-pity I think.
I noticed that the last paragraph of this article in The Register confirms my suspicion. It's really, really easy to mistype j2ee as j233. As long as it's not just me, then.
The new Michael Moore book, Stupid White Men, is now the bestselling book in the US. Despite slagging off GWB, and not being stocked in a number of major bookshop chains. Impressive. Which reminds me - new Mark Thomas series on Channel 4 last night (missed it due to drunkenness). Where'd this whole 'funny angry leftists' trope come from, anyway?
Today's soundtrack song: Achtung, by Shriekback. Closely followed by basscadet by Autechre.
and so, as the sun sinks in the west 26 march 2002
I used to call it the "Noble Cripple and Spade Year" -- it comes around every five years or so. When the Oscar Winner's alumni circle starts to look like the meeting table in "Judgment at Nuremberg," the Academy devotes a year to not looking like racist, Aryan-celebrity-eugenics-worshipping, cracker peckerwoods, and either gives an Oscar for the best dribbling retard performance, or jerks us off with a big, obvious, Slather the African-Americans With Trophies orgy to make up for the previous insulting, five-to-seven-year stretch when barely anybody of color was recognized at all, for anything.
Cintra Wilson, Salon.com [source]
And while we're at it: massive props to The Fencemaster for his actions with bernardmanning.com. See his summary and the media reaction. Nice one laddo.
we have the negatives 26 march 2002
Summer party photos! Jack's work do, 2001. Here, Heather is getting back down with her agrarian heritage and showing it who's boss.
Same as the last shot, but with much better definition on her deltoids and biceps. Phwooah!
Or: never let your colleagues talk you into anything.
It's the cherubic grin that I love here.
Heather and Henry, perfectly framed by people. This is shortly before Henry pissed on the inflatable football - we don't think the guy running it noticed.
A pile of puppies- taken at last year's Discover Dogs. One of the hands is Heather, who had to be forcibly prevented from concealing one of these puppies in her bag and walking away quickly.
King Charles spaniels. See previous comment.
Action shot! Jared shortly prior to becoming Dr Sizer!
Again, Jared about to graduate - but this time, from behind. Cunning!
"You're not coming in here in those trainers mate" - Jared negotiating with the bouncer. Luckily, he succeeded, and is now an upstanding member of society.
Heather doing a moviestar pose on the top of York Minster.
Jack looking peaceful on the York city walls. It was a nice afternoon.
Heather keeping a watchful eye out for barbarian invaders - York city walls again.
One day, last year, it snowed unexpectedly. Very unexpectedly. Bloody hell it was cold.
Still, it's all worth it in the end.
back by dope demand 25 march 2002 Thank god, we've got the iMac back. Turnaround of under the estimate - not bad. Just don't ask how much it costs to get Apple to fix things. Ouch, but worth it.
1969 in the sunshine 25 march 2002
One of those weekends. Towards the end of last week, Heather came down with the Mongolian Death Flu that's been sweeping around recently. The weekend thus didn't include much of the traditional hard physical activity; rather, there was a pronounced soup motif (like a leitmotif, but damper). Saturday was mainly spent lying around the place and doing light gardening. We managed to combine the two, and lounge around on the back lawn. I even managed to take my top off and get in about an hour's suntanning. Nice. The lawn is now in a state where such activities are pefectly doable - it's a bit scruffy, but it's looking better each week. And our bulbs are coming up. No flowers from the black tulips yet, but some of the daffodils and narcissi are starting to look very nice.
We mainly spent Sunday faffing around stripping the wallpaper in the living room. Previously, it'd had a somewhat nasty pink shade of textured (flocked) wallpaper all around. Thanks to some swift work with the steam stripper, half the paper has gone. The actual process of stripping the paper is pretty cool:
- You take a scorer. This is a handheld device that consists of a number of spiked wheels that can rotate independantly - the sort of thing that the Spanish Inquisition used to use to flay all the skin from someone's back, except in yellow plastic. You use this to score the wallpaper so that the steam can penetrate more easily.
- You take the steamer. This is basically an industrial kettle with a 3m flexible spout, and a handle at the end of the spout. The water in the tank boils, steam comes up the spout and out of the handle. You press the handle on the wall, and the wallpaper is steamed. This loosens it.
- You then use a scraper to remove the wallpaper. This is the mucky bit.
Of course, next comes the attempt to hang lining paper before we repaint. That could be more hideous. And then there's the flooring... my, this could all be fun.
Well, France has legalised cellphone jamming. You'll note that Nokia's reaction is one of bemusement, as rude phone behaviour isn't a problem in Finland. ECMing your citizenry into politeness?
I've just bought a second-hand fishtank. It's medium sized, but should be big enough to set up a decent highland Nepenthes terrarium. Excellent - I've been wanting to expand my nep setup for a while. Now we just have the question of where to put the damn thing... This is where the refitting the house comes in useful. And I've just ordered some lovely Phyllostachys nigra (black bamboo) from Fulbrook Nursery, which is only about 20 miles away. Mmm. Jet-black bamboo culms. Life is good.
Listening to Buffalo Gals (I know it came out in 1983, but I was waiting for the price to drop), you really notice that Trevor Horn's one of the producers. It's almost like listening to The Art of Noise at points.
Predictive text fun: in the sentence "bring your camera in case he has a psychotic episode", which word doesn't my phone recognise? That's right: camera.
And the company I work for (Convergys) has just won the Cambridge Evening News Business Award for 'Business of the Year', which isn't too shabby.
straight outta king's hedges 21 march 2002
In the good old linkfarm spirit, this article on 100 Dumbest Moments in Business is pretty compelling reading. For example, number 75:
Unilever subsidiary Lipton approves an ad in which a man standing in line for communion holds a bowl of onion dip, presumably to improve the taste of the body of Christ. Under protest, Lipton withdraws the ad.
Having moved over to Blogger is interesting. I've always just written this straight as HTML, but the blogger console interface has an interesting text parser. Obvious HTML markup (<a href=, for instance) is still parsed as HTML, but it does some odd things with the rest of the text. Line breaks are parsed as new paragraphs, etc. It takes a bit of getting used to. It's also slightly confusing that the preview pane doesn't recognise any text where you've included a paragraph marker that includes a CSS class. I use a couple of classes of paragraph tag (e.g. quote, caption, etc) to mark up bits of text. The blogger preview window, for some reason, displays some of my paragraph classes (caption), but not others (quote) - there's just a bit of a gap. Beats the hell out of me, but there you go. And it implements carriage returns in the editing window as <br> tags in the compiled HTML, which is rather annoying. It's still a pretty good tool, it's just that the implementation takes a bit of getting used to (and I still prefer just working in the raw HTML). But it'll do until we get the 'puter back.
On the advice of my physio (knee pain, cycling-related), I've been going to pilates classes recently. They're pretty cool. In contrast to yoga - where you spend an hour twisting your body into a variety of interesting postures in order to achieve spiritual enlightenment (with any subsequent ability to, say, tuck your ankles behind your head being purely a side benefit) - pilates is where you spend an hour twisting your body into a variety of interesting positions in order to, well, be able to twist your body into interesting positions. That is, there's no spiritual element at all - it's purely about strength, flexibility, and toning. Excellent - a class that concentrates on getting you looking good without forcing you to sit through a load of tedious mystical bullshit. No spiritual enlightenment for me, thanks - I just want to look good naked. Mind you, I've been doing it for three weeks now, and I still don't have abs that you could grate cheese on. It does seem to work - some of the longer-term members of the class are pretty toned. It also has the advantage that most of the other blokes who go aren't much cop muscle-wise, so that's a bit of an ego boost.
Of course, the main problem with any form of exercise that primarily involves lying on the floor, waving your legs in the air, and tensing your stomach muscles is that it's hard to avoid farting. Loudly. Did I mention that these classes take place in a confined space?
I've started wearing a watch. This comment will shock anyone who's known me for years, and bemuse anyone who hasn't. I like to throw these comments in now and again.
One of our annoying coworkers is going bye-byes tomorrow, in a splendid demonstration of leaving before you're pushed. He's sufficiently annoying that his manager refused to organise the traditional whip-round for a card and leaving present. In the end, one of our other coworkers (let's call him Tom) has organised the whip-round and card (I contributed 85p). We were quite interested to discover that the present "Tom" got this person was a t-shirt with the slogan "hapitwat" on the front (a la habitat). Annoying coworker is not known for a sense of humour. Now we're all really looking forward to the leaving ceremony tomorrow. Especially as it's just after we get back from the pub.
If I had to guess, I'd say that Margret suffers from a recurring dream. Night after night, I'm sure, she finds herself wandering through swirling, shifting corridors. She doesn't know where she is or how she got there, all she knows is she must find the mysterious Man With A Duvet. For it is vitally important - she can't say why, but it is vitally important - that she finds this man, steals his duvet, and then kicks him to death.
Things My Girlfriend and I Have Argued About.
My, that's not at all familiar.
our work is never over 21 march 2002
Sorry about the delay in updating this. We've had a few little problems. Specifically, the 'puter went pop. I'd just ordered a comfortable RAM upgrade, external CDRW, USB hub, etc - so it chose that evening to make a slight popping sound when I tried to reawaken it, and then refuse to do anything under any circumstances at all. Tsk. A couple of quick dissemblies later (non-trivial on an iMac), and the diagnosis is "it's definitely buggered". So, we drop the computer off to get it fixed. The computer which I use to update the web site (work PC is firewalled to FTP/telnet, which limits the options somewhat). So, no updates until the 'puter is fixed.
This is the point where I get a mention in the New Zealand Listener (Brits- think the Radio Times). Within fourteen minutes (he claims) my brother-in-law, Jim, emails me to mention this and to point out that the server hasn't died yet. I sit here fuming, as I can't for the life of me get bloody ftp or telnet access, and my attempts to create a blogger account don't seem to be coming up with much.
Most recent feedback: 2 weeks at least for the repair. Yikes. This could get interesting. Hmm. Time to start shifting the hosting.
Then, of course, I'm bored silly at work and really start playing with Blogger - and discover that the reason I couldn't get it to work is that Corpus (who do our web hosting based on a sweetheart deal that I'm not 100% sure that the current computer officer knows about) use a silly nonstandard name for the web ftp server. That sorted, and you'll now notice a little 'powered by Blogger' button at the bottom of this page. So there we go - we're broadcasting live and direct once more.
What is a blog, anyway? Is this? It's not just a link farm (hey kids! linkfarm.org is still available! buy now and avoid the rush!), but can a blog be more than that? Obviously sites like Metafilter are blogs - links, text, discussion. What about Memepool? Links, some text, no discussion, very zen? What about a pure and simple online diary?
Feh. Too much online introspection. Bring on the smut!
Well, if not smut. I was astonished the other day in Borders. So I'm standing there, waiting for Heather, vaguely looking through the DVD section to see if they've got the Black Books DVD, and I spot Sick. Sick is a truly wonderful documentary about the life, work and death of Bob Flanagan, an American performance artist. It's one of the most moving things I've ever seen, while at the same time being genuinely disquieting and shocking.
My fun coworker Lisa spent 30 minutes the other day brainstorming for a domain name. We all made suggestions, which she ignored. Ah well. She walked past such gems as:
- wankwankwank.com
- quackquackimaduck.com
- quack.me.uk
- canadianscooterchick.com
She ended up with wittydomainname.com. Some people are just too meta for their own good.
James Bond films are increasingly becoming the UK's equivalent of Godzilla. Notable recently is the use of famous new buildings for sets - for example, the Millennium Dome in The World Is Not Enough, and the Eden Project for the upcoming film. Contrast the tendency in the Godzilla movies to have highly accurate Tokyo cityscapes, often including notable new buildings. Of course, in Godzilla movies, the point is largely so that Godzilla can destroy the buildings that people hate or which are considered to have been wastes of money. Compare that with the disappointment of the audience when the Millennium Dome survived The World Is Not Enough. Not so far apart after all.
Fascinating article in the Guardian about radical plastic surgery. Extremely radical - adding wings, tails, etc. I note with approval that they interview Jim Rose about current trends in extreme body modification - Steve Haworth-style implants, tongue splitting, etc. A very good take on the fact that there's basically little difference between conventional, societally-approved body modifications such as facelifts, and unconventional, taboo modifications such as tattooing/piercing/implanting. End paragraph of the article:
This forces us... to confront what has become mainstream in plastic surgery. Surgical techniques have developed so quickly that we have begun to think it normal that 2 million people slice their flesh open each year in Europe and America simply to improve its appearance. Fifty years ago, facelifts - which, after all, involve dragging the flesh on your face back behind your ears - were seen as monstrous. Yet today we don't even bat a botoxed eyelid at the once-beautiful face of Cher, now drained of all expression in the desperate quest for a wrinkle-free face. If Cher and Michael Jackson have the right to disfigure themselves and yet still nudge their way into the mainstream, should Enigma and his horns be given the same rights?
Johann Hari, The Guardian
In other body modification news: yet another twerp getting chipped up and making a fuss about it. For crying out loud: a couple of tiny chips under the skin ain't going to kill you. Get it done sterile, and you'll be fine. Becoming part of the machine? Don't make me laugh, you're not doing anything that humans haven't been doing for millennia. Chips are the new performance art self-aggrandisement tool. Yeah, yeah, right - so you show up on a national pet database. So, as our American companions term it, fucking what?
Got the reissued version of the classic Rollins Band album, The End of Silence, on a week or two back. Having seen the buggers live a few weeks back, I wanted to relive my university years (terrifying - nostalgia at 26). Hearing it again, I'd say it's stood the test of time.
when those walls close in around you
when all those about you doubt you
when the world can live without you
get a grip, get a grip and keep it.
Rollins Band, grip
Just the way Rollins spits out the line "Get a grip and keep it!" cheers the hell out of me. The total fuck-you, I can take it, up yours quality. You've got to love a song that ends with the singer repeatedly screaming "You've gotta keep your self-respect!". Like I said - he's the gym coach that every depressed 15-year old needs.
Had an interesting discovery the other day. I bought a cheap crowbar from Mackay's £1 bargain bin, to remove the rather dodgy front fence (need to pull some nails). While drunk last weekend, I discovered that I could fit the crowbar through the hole in my earlobe. Man, I hope that my mother's not reading this. Anyway - the hole is at 12mm diameter (actually not that big), but it's a relatively small crowbar (about a foot long) and it somehow manages to fit. I may get a photo and post it. See previous comments about my mother.
Cambrian Carnivores have a copy of the recipe for "My Lady's Delight", an old English aphrodisiac/energy drink (ah, the days before Vitalise) made from the leaves of Drosera anglica, the English Sundew. Looks interesting, although a lot of work.
A brilliant idea that I picked up off Etiquette Hell: tying ice cubes to helium balloons and releasing them indoors. Who says that you can't make it rain?
over the horizon radar 1 march 2002
So we went to Paris last weekend. Nice. High points:
Day one, morning - take the train in to London. We can't get tube passes cheap with our tickets, so we say "fuck it" and walk from King's Cross to Waterloo. It takes us four hours. Well, about an hour actually walking, and three hours looking at stuff. Specifically, we walk to St Paul's, and have a saunter down the millennium piazza to the newly-reopened Millennium Bridge. Really newly reopened. Like, that week. Funnily enough, the bridge was massively crowded, and slightly disconcerting. They may have stopped it swayed, but it still bounced up and down a noticeable amount. Very cool, though.
Stuff we looked at included the truly excellent Saturday food market near London Bridge station (don't know its real name, but it's wonderful), and then on to the Tate Modern. Oooh. Modern art. I love it I love it I love it. Since I've always been slightly bemused by art of any sort, I don't find the bemusement factor in modern art a problem. I like Damian Hirst's stuff. I like Roy Lichtenstein. I like Joseph Beuys (though the fat motif is a little disturbing). Mm.
After being culture-schmultures, we walked to Waterloo and hopped on the Eurostar. The actual process of boarding Eurostar was more involved than that, but not by much. It's worth noting that my passport didn't get a particularly thorough investigation before the trip to France - compare this to the trip back, when I had to wait in the "ALL OTHER CITIZENS" queue for ten minutes. The UK is noticeably more paranoid than France was - hopping off the Eurostar at Gare du Nord wasn't any different to hopping off the Cambridge train at King's Cross. Off the train, down the platform, out the door - no mess, no fuss, and no customs or immigration.
Being keen as mustard, we decided to walk from the station to the hotel (about 20 minutes, which took 45 due to a couple of wrong turnings). We got to the hotel, dropped our kit off, and flipped on the telly. First thing we saw: new MC Solaar song. Style. Yeah, cool - we're in Paris, man, we're watching French hip-hop, yeah, we're cosmopolitan. We were so fucking cosmopolitan that we went out for a walk and ended up eating dinner in a sushi bar. Hip hip hip. Reasonable sushi, though nothing particularly exotic was available (think lots of tuna, lots of yellowfin, some fish eggs). Back to the hotel, picking up a bottle of scotch on the way. It's a hard world.
Day two, morning. We hop up and out of bed. Breakfast. Ah, ces miracle du La vache qui rit. We wander off to see the joyous sights of Paris. Down into le metro. A battered, romantic-looking French metro train rolls in. Doors open, and romantic French accordion music spills out. There's two buskers playing accordians. One of the other passengers is carrying a baguette. At this point, I start looking around for the hidden cameras - "Shocking tourists with stereotypical scenes". Nice though.
On to central Paris. Of course, Paris is sufficiently small that most of it counts as 'central'. We womble off along the Champs-elysees. A fun day of walking around Paris. A crepe outside Notre Dame cathedral (ham and cheese - nice), a walk alongside the Seine, squinting at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier - not in that order - culture! Culture! I'd also like to take this chance to say that I rather like the I. M. Pei glass pyramid in the Louvre. Nice.
Day three. Wake up, check out, metro to Pompidou centre. We get there at 10am to find that it doesn't open until 11. Bugger. Oh well, time to buy the souvenirs. Sorry, I said souvenirs? I meant chocolate for the workmates. 11am rolls around, and we get into Le Centre de G. Pompidou. Modern art, see comments above - some lovely Klein paintings, some pretty cool industrial design stuff, and all within a really excellent building. Blue piping. Mmm. Need more blue piping in our house. Water. Baby.
Eurostar home was mainly distinguished by a very annoying American woman who insisted on speaking at the top of her voice. Annoyance with value added stupidity - she booked a taxi at one point and could be heard clearly enunciating her credit card details. Tch. She was so irritating that after she got off, the Canadian couple behind us heard us going "Thank god that's over" and leaned forward to agree. You know you're annoying when even Canadians comment on it.
So, Paris: good. Two thumbs up.
Chris was off work yesterday, burying his ferret. We asked: no, it's not a euphemism, one of his pet ferrets died. We're still having trouble keeping a straight face, though.
And big ups to the UK government for taking steps to halt peat bog depletion. Nice one lads. This classes as 'something I don't mind my tax dollars going on'.
The Soldiers at Lauro
Young are our dead
Like babies they lie
The wombs they blest once
Not healed dry
And yet - too soon
Into each space
A cold earth falls
On colder face.
Quite still they lie
These fresh-cut reeds
Clutched in earth
Like winter seeds
But they will not bloom
When called by spring
To burst with leaf
And blossoming
They sleep on
In silent dust
As crosses rot
And helmets rust.
Spike Milligan
Another good man done gone.
