| Thursday, March 31, 2005 |
 | According to Jonathan King's lawyer, "(King) has been granted parole by a parole board who don't necessarily have any love for Jonathan King." Presumably the message he is trying to get across here is that the parole board released him despite not being a group of starstruck Jonathan King fans, but it does lead on to the question of how many people currently qualified to serve on a parole board currently have any love for Jonathan King. That's any love whatsoever for Jonathan King. Bear in mind when considering this question in particular his currently-standing conviction for molesting teenage boys, and also his cover version of "It Only Takes a Minute". How many parole officers would be in danger of leaping the desk, pumping his hand enthusiastically and crying out "Jonathan! It's an honour finally to meet you. Father Abraphart and the Smurps? Classic! Don't you worry, Jono - we'll have you out of here in two shakes of a lamb's tail." Is that the kind of danger we need to guard against in the modern probation service?
Elsewhere, as we learn that the current exploitation of the Earth's resources is endangering future generations and potentially outstripping our host's ability to replenish itself, as if for the first time, let's not lose track of the important things. Like always returning promptly your friend's dragon sword, and certainly not flogging it on eBay. At various times I have pondered whether it would make good financial sense to quit my job and instead capture and sell l3wt full-time, but it is beginning to sound too damn risky, so I guess I might just have to keep the UN peacekeeper gig. At least the helmets are stylin'.
So, that's all good. Meanwhile, Zimbabwe goes to the polls today, in a fascinating contest where mass turnouts may yet oust the oh, who are we kidding? The Zimbabwean constitution is refreshing in its approach to electoral systems by actually having corruption built into the constitution, with 30 seats in Parliament being within the gift of one Robert Mugabe. Crazy 'tache, crazy guy. Interestingly, the Zanu-PF party has centred its campaigning on the idea that the MDC is funded by Tony Blair - slogans have included "Bury Blair". This is perhaps the only policy where Robert Mugabe and Brian Eno find themselves sharing a stump. Which is a shame, because even the briefest consideration reveals that duo as a potential supergroup for the twenty-first century. Eno's instrumentation combined with Mugabe's vocals... it could be "Lodger" all over again.
Speaking of oppressive dictatorships, the official North Korean news site is purely belter. Since North Korea has yet to get itself together to administrate its own national web listing, it is hosted in Japan, as in decadent, aggressive imperial power Japan. Genius. The DPRK is probably the only nation to have a .com homepage.
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| Tuesday, March 22, 2005 |
| Hang on... Helen Gentry, 62, wants to pound Judge Greer? That's filthy. Although I suppose this is essentially an argument about who has the right to decide whether or not a tube should be pushed into and taken out of a lady, so perhaps the whole thing has gone a bit porno. Not usually the sort of thing you'd want the executive branch to get involved in, but then I'm sure Tom DeLay knows what he's doing. There is no contradiction between arguing for an end to big government and demanding the right to interfere in states' applications of existing law in individual cases. Allowing a competent spouse to make judgements based on his wife's wishes is as a principle invalidated by the desires of her parents. We have always been at war with Oceania.
Saturday involved a hilarious number of commitments and potentials, which I dealt with in a mature and sensible fashion by taking myself totally out of the game with a Friday of shocking overindulgence, starting at lunchtime at the Mango Tree, continuing in the afternoon at Balls Brothers and culminating messily and at some length at the Marquis of Granby. Dad pub. Totally.
So, I did not march to bring the boys back home (and put them back in Northern Ireland, where they belong). I did not attend any of the many phases of Bran the Blessed's birthday party. I did not make it to Sadie Coles HQ, go suit shopping, or snap and buy an iBook. Or an iPod. Or a photo iPod. Or an iPod Shuffle. Or a Tapwave Zodiac. Or an Advent T9400. Or a Mac Mini. At this rate when I do snap it will be heard in China.
I certainly did not go to the Rhythm Lounge, or to Duckie, which was a shame but would probably have killed me. Also, apparently, they no longer play Chant of the Ever Circling Skeletal Family, as guaranteed a floor filler as I have ever heard. In the hands of a pop alchemist like Justin Timberlake, I truly believe this could be the feelgood hit of the summer.
What I did do was drag my bones up to Tufnell Park for the end of the knit-in. By the time I got there the resolution to knit a huge scarf in celebration of the return of Dr. Who had broken down entirely, and, in the manner of the post-breakup Spinal Tap, everyone was working on their own projects.
Then a quick hop to the Poetry Library. I hate that the Poetry Library is closing, as one can only truly hate the sudden removal of something you should have used far more. Simultaneous inconvenience and shame, and not in a good way. Bouncing beneath London, where I was privy to a heartening moment where a discussion sparked by two fellows noticing that the minigoth to my right was reading Patricia Cornwell, and then the person next to them joined in, and so on until by the time I got off a subterranean mobile book club had kicked off. This was significantly more heartwarming than my usual engagement with literature on the Tube, which centres on a struggle not to tell people that a) it's Mary Magdalene and b) she's buried under the Louvre.
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| Sunday, March 13, 2005 |
| I for one welcome our technologically ept masters. A network outage, which causes backup ethical considerations to kick in. Should one at the very least attempt to look busy, in order to avoid discouraging others, or luxuriate in unexpected helplessness and relax with a good book?
Twenty years ago, wanting to be connected constantly to an electronic web that carried the thoughts and desires of others was a Gary Numan album. Now it's a necessity for the active office. Whether that is progress I am not sure.
Meanwhile, elsewhere in the world, the followers of the slain Aslan warn that their cause will only become stronger with his death. Well, I think we could all have seen how that would play out.
Myra Connell grew up in Northern Ireland and now works in Birmingham as an Acupuncturist and Zero Balancer.
Unless Myra Connell is the only one, I see no reason for her not simply to be an acupuncturist and zero balancer. Actually, I'm not sure I see any reason for her to be a zero balancer at all, but that's a whole different kettle of tie-dye. Like the word "herstory". I understand the reasons, but it doesn't make my stomach wall any less pitted. Which puts me in the camp of the forces of evil, I realise, but… but the fact that "history" is "history" is etymological accident. It's not like the assumptive chairman, for example. I realise that my feelings about that are probably exactly of the kind of the feelings of somebody who would describe many things I perceive as politeness or simple consideration as bone-gnawingly insane political correctness. A phrase, incidentally, I am prepared to bet money will crop up in the Sun's sterling attempts to throw the gypsy down the well in the days to come.
So, anyway, I was at a women's writing forum – a group of writers talking about their experiences of being women in the publishing industry, which is of course far bigger than the mechanistic process of writing, and which involves the word "herstory" rather a lot. Many of the stories were about battles with publishers, agents and editors. Preethi Nairi recounted with horror that her latest, semi-autobiographical book is currently planned to be put out by HarperCollins with a white, blonde model on the front cover. Another author bemoaned that she could never find her books in shops because all books written by women were published with turquoise covers and pink lettering, presenting a sea of sea-anenome spines to the browser. A teacher of creative writing commented, rather wickedly, that one of the themes of a piece of creative writing she had received was "girls who are hated by their stepmothers, by a student who believes that her stepmother loves her". My favourite moment never happened, unfortunately. A writer, referencing another's stated desire to tell the stories of bad women, responded that she wanted to write not bad women or good women, but real women. "It's a statistical fact that at some time in their lives 50% of all married women" she began, and I prayed that the statistic would be that half of all married women have at some time in their lives not been real. Regrettably, depending on who you ask, it was just adultery.
Meanwhile, a great headline that ultimately leads nowhere: OMAC to work with ISA. Because even the One Man Army Corp needs sound financial advice.
Elsewhere, apparently anytime you make any threat or possess matter involving a school or function it's a felony in the state of Kentucky. This is a pretty awesome piece of legislation. Making threats involving a school is reasonably easy to duck - "I'm going to destroy your school", "I'm going to drop a school on you" - these can all be avoided. Possessing matter involving a school is also not too hard, unless you are a pupil, a teacher or , in which case you are screwed. But possessing matter involving a function? Even limiting our notional functions to the seven characteristic functions of life, that means that anyone found in possession of food, eyes, skin or a bottom is going to be had up on felony charges. How does that get enforced?
And elsewhere again, leadership is about taking difficult decisions, even if they are unpopular, sticking with them and seeing them through.
No it isn't. Leadership is about making good decisions, even if etc. Simple difficulty is not the criterion for the sort of decisions a leader should make, although it might serve to explain why Mr Tony Blair is acting as he is - because he believes that the role of a leader is to make life as awkward as possible for himself and others. Legislation making mandatory the carrying of ID cards containing a picture of the carrier attempting to sex a pangolin can only follow.
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| Monday, March 07, 2005 |
| There's a soft point of sharp pain at the roof of my mouth, thanks to an inadvisable bite into a hot spring roll at a birthday party. I am an idiot. The party was, incidentally, lovely - the hostess in particular looked fantastic, as did the bullethole-ridden zombie.
The conversation at the party covered many fascinating areas, in particular feminist science fiction and fashion (both of which I must talk about more), and also featured the term "chav", which I read far more than I hear and which got me thinking. The most convincing etymology I have seen applied to "chav" is from "chavo" (Romany), probably through "charver" (North-East). It doesn't exactly describe a gypsy, much as "pikey" does not describe precisely a traveller, but it always seems to me to have some sympathies with negative portrayals of the Roma - the cheap clothes, the illiterate children, the ostentatious jewellery, the constant, near-subliminal criminality. It's a very elastic term, though - ultimately, it seems possible to expand it to include almost anyone who is recognisably chavvy, and around you go. And, because it has undergone this semantic transformation to describe a class, a lifestyle, an attitude, a level of actual or apparent poverty (the Burberry cap is significant here - a cap is far cheaper than a suit, and also far easier to fake), an unpleasantness it can be applied by anyone to anyone. Anyone, perhaps everyone, can be bullied by a chav, or mugged by a chav, or raised by chavs.
Thought experiment. What if it came from chaver (Hebrew, friend, companion). Would that change anything?
Elsewhere, Lifehacker comes up with this guide to PC maintenance. Most of these things I do already. Buying a Mac never seemed so wise before.
Is this the filthiest worksafe site ever?
Further afield, albino squirrel and bouncing hedgehog.
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| Communication through tears.
Two sides, installed at different locations, communicate over the Internet. On Side A, Tear Well allows a sad person to express his/her feeling by pumping a traditional water pump, the water representing her/his tears. The tears are sent over to Side B over the Internet, where teardrop sculptures called KU act as networked surrogates.
As soon as Side B receives the crying signal, KUs start to cry. When a viewer on Side B wipes KUs’ tears, KUs stop crying. At the same time comforting response is sent to the sad person to cheer them up.
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