No I do admire those who strive for excellence in sport and yes I know that very few countries have a record any less bad than China.
But the Free Tibet flag stays while the Olympics are on.
But the Free Tibet flag stays while the Olympics are on.
Is it wrong to wish it was Autumn? We have had such a damp summer that I would prefer to wake up tomorrow with the leaves turning gold and a cooler breeze, less humidity. There's also something about that time of year, perhaps a throwback to school days, in that it always feels like a time for new beginnings.
The one with the Vampire.
I scribbled a lot over the last few days about my vampire story. Trying to avoid the obvious cliches raises some challenges because a lot will have to be explained to the reader without just having a character spout it in a long dialogue.
I keep a huge notebook of story ideas and I'm folding some into it and trying not to overwhelm the main story. The idea of a labyrinth is one I am trying to decide on today. Myth is quite a powerful tool for writing and the obvious mythological labyrinth stories would add a bit of power.
The location is still either Cadiz or Istanbul. I think I may just decide after spending a weekend in both over the next few months. One or the other will feel right. I can get by in Spanish. I can say 'Good Morning' in Turkish.
Cadiz, which I have not yet been to, is an extremely significant place for me according to astrology. My line of Pluto goes right through it - not off by a few miles but literally right through the island of the old town which is tiny (have a look on Google maps and you will see how freakish that is). Pluto is death and rebirth in broad terms, evolution and change and a bunch of other stuff (again you can easily Google it - its years since I was a practising Astrologer).
I scribbled a lot over the last few days about my vampire story. Trying to avoid the obvious cliches raises some challenges because a lot will have to be explained to the reader without just having a character spout it in a long dialogue.
I keep a huge notebook of story ideas and I'm folding some into it and trying not to overwhelm the main story. The idea of a labyrinth is one I am trying to decide on today. Myth is quite a powerful tool for writing and the obvious mythological labyrinth stories would add a bit of power.
The location is still either Cadiz or Istanbul. I think I may just decide after spending a weekend in both over the next few months. One or the other will feel right. I can get by in Spanish. I can say 'Good Morning' in Turkish.
Cadiz, which I have not yet been to, is an extremely significant place for me according to astrology. My line of Pluto goes right through it - not off by a few miles but literally right through the island of the old town which is tiny (have a look on Google maps and you will see how freakish that is). Pluto is death and rebirth in broad terms, evolution and change and a bunch of other stuff (again you can easily Google it - its years since I was a practising Astrologer).
I read 5 or 6 books at once. But every now and then I drop the Jap literature and wierd folky tales and go back to an old favourite like Squire Haggards Journal. Probably number 2 in the list of all time politically incorrect books I own behind 'Unnatural Selection'.
How can you not love a book set in 18th century England that starts:
Dec 10, 1777. Rain. Amos Bindweed d. from Putrefaction of the Inward Parts. Jas. Soaper hanged for stealg. a nail. His last words were: 'May you all rot.' Recd. from Thos. Gadgrind the sum of 0£ 0S. 1 1/4 d, the farthg. being bad. Shot unusual poacher in a.m. In p.m. rcvd. a writ for 33£ 5S 6 3/4d. in respect of some pigs bt off Jeremiah Rhubarb, which all had swine fever so I did not pay him. Ate a pease puddg. for dinner but it was bad , so gave what remained to my wife, and consumed two botts. of Madeira to expunge the taste.
ITEM: to purgatives, 0£ 0S 1/4 d
How can you not love a book set in 18th century England that starts:
Dec 10, 1777. Rain. Amos Bindweed d. from Putrefaction of the Inward Parts. Jas. Soaper hanged for stealg. a nail. His last words were: 'May you all rot.' Recd. from Thos. Gadgrind the sum of 0£ 0S. 1 1/4 d, the farthg. being bad. Shot unusual poacher in a.m. In p.m. rcvd. a writ for 33£ 5S 6 3/4d. in respect of some pigs bt off Jeremiah Rhubarb, which all had swine fever so I did not pay him. Ate a pease puddg. for dinner but it was bad , so gave what remained to my wife, and consumed two botts. of Madeira to expunge the taste.
ITEM: to purgatives, 0£ 0S 1/4 d
I'm engaged in a battle of wills with this website. It has lots of functionality that I refuse to explore on principle because I like being lazy. Ultimately there will be no victor. I will learn a few neat tricks and it will have to put up with the fact I am not interested in realtime chat.
I have a new format for Breakfast TV shows. The presenters have to actually eat their breakfast while doing the show. Complete with burnt toast, kids that don't want to get up and go to school, dogs that hang around under the table waiting for scraps, final demands from the Electricity company, and right at the end they have to try to start the car only to find that it won't.
And now over to the weather centre.Who wants this last piece of bacon?
'Muuuuum, I can't find my hockey boots'.
And now over to the weather centre.Who wants this last piece of bacon?
'Muuuuum, I can't find my hockey boots'.
Esprsso Tales #2 - Give us an hour for magic
It was my greatest ever visit to Focus. I had bunked off school cos it was Friday morning and grey and raining. I had 21 promos stolen from Revolver (their post just gets shoved inside the crappy unlocked wooden door so we nick it most days).
Focus is run by the typical record shop owner - balding, ugly, way past 30, supernaturally knowledgeable about music. He knows me.
I sell him the promos even though most of them are by bands no one has heard of. Then I go to look for my music with 20 notes in hand. You can smoke in Focus - they have an ashtray on the counter which is civilized. First time I tip my ash he sort of speaks to me (but not looking at me).
'Got some new stuff from a guy who was selling half his collection. Lot of Bootdust label stuff. Kept it over as you usually show up on Fridays'.
'Double fucking Chemistry on Fridays man'.
He smiles. Pulls a stack of records off a pile under the counter and places them in front of me like a royal flush.
Without even touching it I can see this is amazing shit. For a start there's one in a red sleeve- an original copy of Bathsheba Suarez 'Queens Of The Night'. Original sleeve. In England.
'Who sold you these?' I ask inhaling a massive lungful of smoke to calm myself.
I pick the top record off the pile. The silver writing is a little blurry on the label. Vin Cedarhead & The Lone Wolves 'Salina Hellraiser'. Mint condition. It could have come off the press an hour ago in Wichita.
I cannot possibly afford all these records but I need them more than I need blood or oxygen. This happens once in your life.
I turn Tess & Leones 'Shoot up the jail for ya' in my hands. Not a scratch. Rae Moonstones 'Movin like a lil Devil' the same.
'This is the whole label. The history of the whole label. Leatherface, Prairie Evie Lambert, Bad Belle Kirby. The whole fucking lot.'
He nods.
'I can't afford them all. I'll take 'Queens Of The Night' today. Can you keep the rest back for me?
He nods.
It was my greatest ever visit to Focus. I had bunked off school cos it was Friday morning and grey and raining. I had 21 promos stolen from Revolver (their post just gets shoved inside the crappy unlocked wooden door so we nick it most days).
Focus is run by the typical record shop owner - balding, ugly, way past 30, supernaturally knowledgeable about music. He knows me.
I sell him the promos even though most of them are by bands no one has heard of. Then I go to look for my music with 20 notes in hand. You can smoke in Focus - they have an ashtray on the counter which is civilized. First time I tip my ash he sort of speaks to me (but not looking at me).
'Got some new stuff from a guy who was selling half his collection. Lot of Bootdust label stuff. Kept it over as you usually show up on Fridays'.
'Double fucking Chemistry on Fridays man'.
He smiles. Pulls a stack of records off a pile under the counter and places them in front of me like a royal flush.
Without even touching it I can see this is amazing shit. For a start there's one in a red sleeve- an original copy of Bathsheba Suarez 'Queens Of The Night'. Original sleeve. In England.
'Who sold you these?' I ask inhaling a massive lungful of smoke to calm myself.
I pick the top record off the pile. The silver writing is a little blurry on the label. Vin Cedarhead & The Lone Wolves 'Salina Hellraiser'. Mint condition. It could have come off the press an hour ago in Wichita.
I cannot possibly afford all these records but I need them more than I need blood or oxygen. This happens once in your life.
I turn Tess & Leones 'Shoot up the jail for ya' in my hands. Not a scratch. Rae Moonstones 'Movin like a lil Devil' the same.
'This is the whole label. The history of the whole label. Leatherface, Prairie Evie Lambert, Bad Belle Kirby. The whole fucking lot.'
He nods.
'I can't afford them all. I'll take 'Queens Of The Night' today. Can you keep the rest back for me?
He nods.
ESPRESSO TALES #1 - Immigrant Song
There was a tremor and a loud thump outside.
Murmured conversations ceased. Silence and tension took their place.
In the darkness very faintly a sound grew, a high pitched chattering.
'Puta Madre! Chick Peas!' hissed one of the largest Kidney Beans. 'A shopper has picked up Chick Peas and put them back in our frontage!'
Uproar. Beans turned and twisted in agitation passing rumour around the tin.
'Quiet! Quiet!' the large bean bellowed.
The hubbub died down.
'What can you hear Old Father?' The large bean had leaned slightly toward a small bent companion who rested near the side of the can which was closest to the chattering.
'I cannot understand much of it' replied the old bean slowly. 'They are excited and a little afraid.'
Later that evening as the store was emptying a young bean who had wriggled to his mother, thanks to several people checking their label for salt content, curled close to her and whispered 'Mama, why doesn't Papa like Chick Peas?'
'He says they are a simply a utility pulse dear' 'He finds them dull and overrated'
'But Mama, does he also dislike the Lima beans who are on our other side?'
'He thinks the Lima beans are snobbish. They seldom mix with us. They are rather stuck up by all accounts'.
'And the Adzuki beans above us?'
'They keep themselves to themselves ...they are inscrutable but no trouble'.
'What is the noise the chick peas are making Mama?'
'They are singing.'
The little bean nestled closer. 'Mama, what are they singing?'
'They sing of grief a sad song for the loss of their friends and their homeland and they wonder if they shall ever see them again.'
'Does Papa not like the singing?' asked her son, peeking gingerly past her at his scowling father.
'No he does not. We do not harmonize when we sing so he does not see why they should.'
The young bean settled himself next to his mother and listened intently.
'It's kind of beautiful though' he yawned. 'Goodnight Mama'
He slept and, although he had no way of knowing it, he dreamed of the Nile.
There was a tremor and a loud thump outside.
Murmured conversations ceased. Silence and tension took their place.
In the darkness very faintly a sound grew, a high pitched chattering.
'Puta Madre! Chick Peas!' hissed one of the largest Kidney Beans. 'A shopper has picked up Chick Peas and put them back in our frontage!'
Uproar. Beans turned and twisted in agitation passing rumour around the tin.
'Quiet! Quiet!' the large bean bellowed.
The hubbub died down.
'What can you hear Old Father?' The large bean had leaned slightly toward a small bent companion who rested near the side of the can which was closest to the chattering.
'I cannot understand much of it' replied the old bean slowly. 'They are excited and a little afraid.'
Later that evening as the store was emptying a young bean who had wriggled to his mother, thanks to several people checking their label for salt content, curled close to her and whispered 'Mama, why doesn't Papa like Chick Peas?'
'He says they are a simply a utility pulse dear' 'He finds them dull and overrated'
'But Mama, does he also dislike the Lima beans who are on our other side?'
'He thinks the Lima beans are snobbish. They seldom mix with us. They are rather stuck up by all accounts'.
'And the Adzuki beans above us?'
'They keep themselves to themselves ...they are inscrutable but no trouble'.
'What is the noise the chick peas are making Mama?'
'They are singing.'
The little bean nestled closer. 'Mama, what are they singing?'
'They sing of grief a sad song for the loss of their friends and their homeland and they wonder if they shall ever see them again.'
'Does Papa not like the singing?' asked her son, peeking gingerly past her at his scowling father.
'No he does not. We do not harmonize when we sing so he does not see why they should.'
The young bean settled himself next to his mother and listened intently.
'It's kind of beautiful though' he yawned. 'Goodnight Mama'
He slept and, although he had no way of knowing it, he dreamed of the Nile.
Shiny.
I'm now torn between getting a Sony Vaio or a Macbook. I have always avoided Macs but they do look cool. Maybe I've got sunstroke. Its hot and summery and various multicoloured bugs are headbanging against the windows.
Perhaps I should write an article on 10 reasons to buy a Mac (or not to).Hmm.
I'm now torn between getting a Sony Vaio or a Macbook. I have always avoided Macs but they do look cool. Maybe I've got sunstroke. Its hot and summery and various multicoloured bugs are headbanging against the windows.
Perhaps I should write an article on 10 reasons to buy a Mac (or not to).Hmm.
