Victory for the woodpecker in his battle against the peanut feeder. There is only one plastic element in the entire set-up. He found it and trashed it, so now I have a non-hanging peanut feeder.
I have made my homepage XHTML compliant, and will get to work on the other pages.
Since I spend an inordinate amount of time either reading books or listening to music, I have created a page that shows what is current.
From the Sinn Fein spokesperson on human rights (can I let that go without a comment? yes I can):
"We are against the exploitation of violence in any way,"
Marvellous stuff. [the full story is here in the Belfast Telegraph, and I picked up the tip-off in the Register]
Posted by Gerald at 8:24 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBackBefore the Ashes series got underway there was an incredible amount of hype - partly because the media has upped its tempo since the last Australian visit four years ago, and partly because England are actually quite good again.
But, and it's a big but, most experts, pundits and punters, plus me, thought that Australia would win the series. The excitement was because we thought we would give them a run for their money. My own bet was on 3-1, with England winning the second Test to level the series and then getting a good old-fashioned arse kicking.
That England are 2-1 up, with one to play, brings double delight. Firstly, we have turned over the mighty Australians. One of the most complete sporting teams in the history of sport, the Australians can be compared to the 1980's West Indies in cricket, the 1990's Chicago Bulls in Basketball, and the 2003/04 Arsenal team in Football.
England are ahead not just by playing well, they are ahead because they made Australia play badly. Cricket is the most tactical and psychological team sport around and if you can make the opposition lose their cool, you are half way to victory. This was amply illustrated on Saturday when the Australian captain finally lost it in one of the most satisfying sporting moments of the year. The Aussies "don't like it up 'em", and frankly we are loving it.
The other reason to celebrate is the sheer excitement of the games. This is becoming one of the greatest test series ever played and for the first time in many years, football has almost been forgotten.
Every match has swung one way and then the other, and apart from an England drubbing in the first, it has been impossible to predict the results even into the last 30 minutes of play. A 2 run win, a draw with 9 down on day 5, and a 3 wicket win after enforcing a follow-on. This is the stuff of cricketing dreams. My cup truly runneth over.
The final test starts on September 8th, giving my finger nails time to grow back, and whatever happens, and whatever the result, there will probably be some grown men crying at the end. I might well be among them.
Posted by Gerald at 9:00 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
Joe, a popular-science writer, takes his partner Clarissa on a picnic in the Oxfordshire countryside, but the planned blissful afternoon is shattered by a ballooning accident.
Joe joins several other bystanders in rushing to the stricken balloon, but tragedy cannot be averted. Jed, one of the other men, urges Joe to pray in the aftermath, and Joe, the rationalist, feels embarassment and discomfort in refusing.
A traumatic and troubling day, but as Joe lies in bed that night he receives a phone call from Jed, who says "I love you."
What follows is part psychological thriller, part exploration of love and humanity. Joe struggles to fit Jed into his rational world where everything can be broken down like a machine, and Clarissa is the main casualty of his confusion.
Enduring Love somehow manages to be an addictive page-turner and a piece of touching and thought-provoking literature, and is highly recommended.
5 stars (out of 5)
Posted by Gerald at 7:10 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBackFive flights in 22 days, of which three were two-legged affairs. So eight flights really.
I have ascended 270,000 feet and descended 82,300 meters; been pressurised and depressurised; buffetted & turbulated; spun & tumble dried.
I used to think that flying dehumanised people. Herded like animals for the slaughter house, lined up and counted, tagged and scanned, and squeezed into a metal tube with neighbouring passengers well within, uncomfortably within, our personal space.
Now I think it might do the opposite - re-humanise. The herding still happens but it is part of a bigger process, a process that strips us bare, de-layers us until all that is left is the soul. The very essence of humanity.
First we are deprived of movement. Wedged into battery cages, strapped-in and told not to move until our hair catches fire. Next our hearing is reduced as the engines spin up, and is reduced further by the pressure drop. Ever wondered why aircraft don't maintain constant pressure to save your hearing? ..now you know - its deliberate sensory denial.
Vision is next to go. A tiny scratched and greasy window with a view of the clouds, or the back of a seat. You might have a miniature TV, so small and so close that watching it causes your eyes to deform, or a larger, distant screen which is tantalisingly just out of focus, like a hazy afternoon. The seat, walls and carpets are all designed to lack any visual texture.
Oral sensation was doomed from the start. The food tastes the same whichever mini-dish you eat from, and somehow has the same texture. Close your fogged eyes and the lettuce, bread and pasta will seem identical. This is why airline rice is sulphur-yellow - so you know it is rice. Carrots and bright pink salmon are an airline favourites too. Chicken or fish? Beige or pink.
Starved of external inputs, the brain desperately latches onto anything available. Like a veal-calf craving salt, the typical passenger will read anything in reach. The in-flight magazine rarely lasts beyond the taxiway, then its on to the duty-free magazine, the safety card, the life vest notice, their own clothing's washing labels, and finally, counting the window rivets.
It is at this abyssal point that the either brain's higher functions shut down completely, and we crawl back into the oceans.
But it needn't be. We are at our purest when naked, and there is no greater nakedness than this. Just a soul flying through the air, "30,000ft above the earth, and it's a beautiful thing"
A chance to reconnect with ourselves, a frame frozen so that we may study the picture. This is not introspection - there are no layers left to peer beneath. This is oneness by default, the kernel of being.
This is zen .
Posted by Gerald at 12:46 PM | Comments (1) | TrackBack
I have been in Munich all week and it has not been pleasant. Although this is not entirely the fault of the city.
Jetlag was my initial malaise. Having coasted through the weekend, and thinking I had got off lightly, I have been waking up at irregular times all week.
That it is now five nights since I arrived back from Seattle leads me to think it might not be just jetlag. My reserve culprit is a haunted hotel room, albeit with a lack of direct evidence.
Whatever the cause of fatigue, my mood was worsened by horrendous weather on the first morning. It was just spotting with rain at the point where I decided to use a combination of public transport and Shanks' ponies to get to the office. How Zeus must have laughed heartily as the deluge, er, luged. My shoes are no longer squelching, but the bitterness remains.
And finally, my work this week is duller than a school assembly.
Still, I have a three day weekend to recover, and to reacquaint myself with the garden. Hacking and slashing will be in order methinks.
A snippet from a BBC News story
It was at the Medway Maritime Hospital that he drew a picture of a grand piano and then apparently "stunned" health and social workers with his performance at the keyboard. [described in a previous BBC report as "a virtuoso performance"]
However, newspaper reports now suggest he was only able to play one note continuously.
Huh? Surely there is sufficient difference between a virtuoso performance on the Old Joanna and playing one note continuously for most people to be able to make a judgement.
Even I, when abusing my grandparents piano at a tender age, didn't believe I was creating anything other than a racket.
But there you go.
Posted by Gerald at 7:30 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBackLife in the flânerie garden continues to meander its way through a cosy summer. The blackbirds, having raised two families, have deemed their job done and moved on. Or they got shot and eaten by a Frenchman. Either way, they are no longer around.
The wood pigeons still dominate and the sparrows, who arrived late, have stayed. Bless 'em.
But occasionally something arrives which gives rise to the phrase "what the fuck is that?!"
In June it was the Greater Spotted Woodpecker. A handsome bird if ever there was one, and now an infrequent visitor to the peanut feeder. When last observed he spent some time investigating how the feeder is attached to the tree and appeared to be figuring out a way to remove it. Without success so far.
Last week, (s)he was trumped by a Red-legged Partridge (Alectoris rufa), or so my bird book says. It was either a juvenile or a female. The Red-legged Partridge was introduced to Britain in the 1600s by Charles II, having brought them from France to provide target practice for guns (its says here,) which is a bit of a bum deal. Hopefully he or she will return.
Posted by Gerald at 1:11 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBackFrom the Air Canada duty free catalogue, here are some descriptions of perfumes. All you have to do is tie the descriptions to the names. If your brain survives the experience.
Women
The perfumes: Miracle So Magic by Lancombe, Eternity Moment by Calvin Klein, Chance by Chanel
The bullshit:
The most unexpected [...] fragrance. Association of original combinations, waves of extreme freshness composed with floral notes and sensual, sweet and spicy elements. From one moment to the next, the fragrance evolves. For every moment is unique.
Inspired by the excitement and exhilaration of falling in love, a unique and complex interpretation of floralcy - a "fresh-squeezed floral". For the woman who makes the most out of every moment and believes in the possibilities of modern day romance.
A fun, fresh new attitude. Fragrance for the life of the party! The sparkling new fragrance is vivacious, fun, spirited. Come out to play with a magical new bouquet of narcissus, clover and wild rose.
Men
The perfumes: Be Delicious for Men by DKNY, Brit for Men by Burberry, Dolce & Gabanna Pour Homme by Dolce & Gabanna
The bullshit:
A fresh oriental woody fragrance exemplifies the modern British man; a scruff elegance and style without effort.
[...] is a sign of masculinity, personality and distinction. [...] is a blend of true irony and casualness. A stimulating dynamic freshness expresses its personality.
The new fragrance for men. Mascualine to the core. Melding the raw lushness of nature with the powerful sophistication of the big city with crisp, wet greens, rich woods, green apples and intoxicating coffee, [...] is a fragrance for the modern man.
Posted by Gerald at 7:39 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBackGin and tonic please
Bourbon?
No, gin. G-I-N, gin. With tonic
Do you want tonic with that?
Yes, you prick, I want gin & tonic squared
and later,
Could I get a taxi please
You want dresses?
It's okay, I'll walk
I can see why people might want to bomb this country. I'm not condoning it or anything but when Nation Shall Speak Peace Unto Nation, it only works if both are listening.
I don't have this trouble with immigrant Americans. Today's taxi drivers were Somali and Indian, with seven and twelve years in the hood respectively. They understood me, I understood them. No-one needed to draft a UN resolution to make their point.
Why this gulf of understanding? Another republican plot?
My Indian driver was an old Sikh. There are only old Sikhs and young Sikhs. A Sikh will celebrate his twenty-fifth birthday then wake up the next morning as a fifty year old. That 'weirds me out' as they say around here.
Mr Singh (a guess, but a good one) muttered to himself throughout the journey. Initially I thought he was talking, but it was very flat and repetitive, and reminiscent of Kabaddi. Once we got some speed up, he used the cover of wind noise to break into song. It was always on the edge of hearing, but had a soothing soporific effect.
My new business idea is the Singing Sikh Taxi Company. It will be faddish and short-lived, and will be dumbed down to suit its audience. The logo will be a Sikh version of the laughing cow, and the song selection will be primarily show-tunes. If I can get the cost down, the roof of each car will be swathed in turbanage.
I know what you are thinking... you are thinking I am a business genius. Thank you, I am.
Posted by Gerald at 1:13 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBackI don't really understand this story. Or rather I don't know the facts, or supposed facts. I do know that it is a big story here in the US, but my exposure to it in the UK has been very limited. I guess I should have kept up with Jack's posts on multiply.
To this extent, as far as this story is concerned, I am a non-American Joe Public, or the Man on the Clapham Omnibus, and as such my views are a hint, a sample, a flavour of how the world at large sees this story.
So this is what I know so far (and this is likely full of errors and omissions):
- Somebody in the administration (unknown) was pissed at somebody else (Mr. X). Mr. X might be a US ambassador to somewhere. He might also be an outspoken critic of the administration. Anyway, someone didn't like him.
- Mr. X has a wife, the unimaginatively titled Mrs. X, who is a CIA agent (as an aside, how cool is that?)
- In order to get at Mr. X somebody in the administration got a White House staffer (Karl Rove) to leak the fact of Mrs. X's employment to two journalists. Or Karl Rove did this on his own initiative.
- The journalists published the story and Mrs. X's 'cover was blown' (a quaint term; is it a camping reference?)
- Somebody investigated the facts surrounding the story and asked the journalists to reveal their source, which they refused to do. It went to court and the judge demanded that the source be revealed. One of the journos complied, the other went to jail and has been there for six weeks.
So that is what I know. Here is what I don't understand:
- Why did the journalists reveal the identity of a CIA spy? What is the national interest here? It looks like national disinterest to me.
- Once one of the journalists revealed the source, why was the other sent to jail?
- Didn't Karl Rove commit a crime by giving the story to the media? If so, what is happening about that?
The media seem to be very hung up on the jailing of one of their own. It reminds me of when a police officer is killed and the police chief says he won't leave in stone unturned in the hunt for the killer. Shouldn't that be the case whoever the victim is?
My other concern this morning is over a girl that is missing in Aruba (I don't know where Aruba is). It's Day 76, or something close to that. Why does this girl get nearly 3 months of coverage?
To begin with I assumed she was the daughter of someone famous, but I am doubting that now, and am plain confused. For sure it is a tragic tale, but other girls must have gone missing since without the merest hint of coverage.
US news media is not for the casual viewer. You either have to watch daily or not at all. Every story seems assumes prior knowledge. This is a scary country and I want to go home.
Posted by Gerald at 4:14 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack"Have you just flown in from Australia?"
No, I flew in from Miami, and I'm English anyway
This happens more often than it should, but the hotel dude then redeemed himself by apologising for the whole George Bush thing.
"Y'know we're sorry about that. Really sorry. I worked on the John Kerry campaign here in Seattle and we got 87% of the vote"
Well fuck dude, you shoulda been in Ohio or Florida.
87% though. If it's true, I'm impressed. Even in an enlightened city like Seattle there are going to be people who vote for Bush accidentally, or through mental illness.
It did occur to me that the floppy-haired hotel dude was a little too apologetic. Like he was hiding a dirty secret. Maybe he is the child of one of those toxic right-wing vixens that seem to be everywhere on television here. Or he has been blowing Rush Limbaugh.
*Shudder*
Posted by Gerald at 3:05 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
Transmission follows three separate, and only tenuously linked, characters - Arjun the Indian programmer, Guy the English marketing consultant and Leela the Bollywood actress.
We start with a computer virus released into the wild and then learn the backstory of Arjun, who we (safely) assume was behind the virus. He moves from India to California, to the land of milk and honey. But nothing is ever as good as it first seems and Arjun becomes embittered by corporate America.
Guy runs the Tomorrow* marketing consultancy. He is something of a charicature - all cliches, excessive optimism and dotcom bullshit. His grip on his business, and his life, is increasingly illusory as the investors start to chase results.
Leela is a packaged product of the movie industry, dominated by her mother and uncomfortable in the limelight. Having her image as the centrepiece of a worldwide virus affects her deeply, while others suggest it was all a marketing stunt.
The book is well written, and while the disparate threads make it a little disjointed, they do gradually mesh and successfully deliver their underlying message - that everyone is owned by others, and no-one is in control of their lives.
The ending is deliciously ambiguous. Not to everyones taste, but enough for me to consider 5 stars. However, it falls short due to a slight lack of polish
4 stars (out of 5)
Posted by Gerald at 7:31 PM | TrackBackFor some reason this one caught my eye:
Breast Milk For Sale
posted 08/11/2005
My baby won't take the bottle and I have 3 months of frozen breast milk. Mother and baby both in excellent health, baby is 11 months old and has had only 1 cold. Price Negotiable.
[from The Stranger]
Posted by Gerald at 10:10 PM | Comments (2) | TrackBackWhere: Seattle Times
Quote: It was Helen's rich history in Auburn, her volunteerism - helping with a community supper and a program for disadvantaged senior citizens - and her ability to answer judges' questions that made her the winner.
Perfectly good alternatives: voluntary work, volunteer work, volunteering
Posted by Gerald at 4:30 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBackDenver, the mile-high city. I wonder whether living in a city that is a mile above sea-level automatically qualifies you for the mile-high club. If it does then thats 2.1 million people with something to smile about. Or most of them anyway. Add 8.6 million people in Mexico City too.
This is not a completely random musing, it is merely semi-random. I spent 30 minutes in Denver today, or 4 minutes if you exclude time spent inside aircraft. Not long, but long enough to run a mile.
I have now stepped on the soil (or polished floors) of six states - Florida, California, Washington, Illinois, Virginia and now Colorado. The latter three were in transit only, and I have not included them on my official list :-)
Posted by Gerald at 4:30 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBackI am trying to figure out the best colour/font scheme for the site. This will take some time, possibly years.
While in progress, there will be several versions of the site.
www.flanerie.org for the current preferred version and then
www.flanerie.org/index1.htm (and index2, index3, etc) for other versions.
Red definitely doesn't suit the site, and will be banished shortly.
Posted by Gerald at 2:46 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
