Nassim Nicholas Taleb: The Black Swan: The Impact of the Highly Improbable
Still reading it.
G.W. Dahlquist: The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters
It's long. I'm half way through it. Good so far. (***)
Derek Raymond: Nightmare in the Street
The only one I've never read. I've been saving it for a long time. He's wonderful. (*****)
David Allen: Getting Things Done: The Art of Stress-Free Productivity
I am currently revising. (*****)
Cross-eyed Mary
Jethro Tull: Aqualung: 25th Anniversary Edition
I always hated Tull. I must be getting old. I'll be listening to Tommy Dorsey before you know it. (***)
Glorytellers: Glorytellers
Geoff Farina from Karate has a new band. And yes it's on Southern and yes I'm biased. But that doesn't take away from its brilliance. (****)
Chrome Hoof: Pre-Emptive False Rapture
Not that I'm biased or anything. (*****)
If like me, you are moving from a Wordpress blog to a Typepad blog, and you want to move all your old posts with you, here is where you can find a useful script.
I am trying to find a better way to manage my blog. Something that (a) won't take me too long to learn (because I have no time) (b) will allow me as much control over the look and content of the site (or at much as a relatively tech-stupid person should have) and will (c) encourage me to use it more. That last bit is important because I feel like I need to exercise my brain a bit more in a non-work-related fashion.
Hmm.
Here I am again. I won't mince words : 2005 was a cold bitch of a year. Apart from the general and eternal struggle, I lost alot. I lost John Loder, my friend/boss/mentor/business partner, the impact of which I can only just begin to understand, 5 months later. I lost my cat, Pearl. And I lost The Beast, my 1973 Rover 3500 SD1. Significant losses, all of them. A car is less important than a pet or a best friend, but it was a special car, one that brought me great joy. 2006 ended with unanticipated tax bills wiping me out financially, just the kind of whipped cream and cherry that the year needed.
I gained some ground in 2006 too, and I don't want to appear too ungrateful, but the good and wonderful things I am holding close to my chest for now, so I can nurture them to the best of my pathetic abilities and share them with you all when the time is right. Good things are all too rare in my life now and I need to be a bit selfish about them for now. Sorry.
I am going to try to get back on track with some of my personal pursuits too ... things like writing, even the blog... and my photos and cooking, and just being a more fully rounded person again. My energies have been focussed in one or two particular directions lately and I need to find more balance.
Okay. That's all I can give. Pinkie toe in the water and that. Slowly slowly.
American Cities That Best Fit You: |
| 65% Washington, DC |
| 60% Atlanta |
| 60% Chicago |
| 60% Los Angeles |
| 60% Philadelphia |
Allolex made me do it. He threatened me with physical violence if I didn't. And then he threatened me with physical violence if I didn't change it to match my previous answers. He's kind of a bully really. I tried to explain that, like, I'm a woman, okay? And we are like, totally notorious for changing our minds. Pffffft.
Just because it made me smile. Check him out! Follow the photo link if you want to see a funny story by the guy that took this photo. And while you are there, click on his "I Pity The Fool" photo set, a series of photos of him and his Mr T doll posing in different settings.
Well, everyone else is doing it, right? Which is quite possibly the worst reason ever for doing anything. Truth be told, I'm not sure why I'm doing this.
A person who is very near and dear to me is lying in hospital, very ill. For the purposes of this adventure we shall call him Gandalf. Not very original, I know, but it makes sense to me, so roll with it. There is something wrong with Gandalf's brain. This is really unthinkable. Gandalf has an amazing, powerful brain and of all the things that one could imagine Gandalf without, his brain is just not one. Too many people depend on Gandalf's brain for anything to go awry. The brain is indeed a mysterious and magical organ, and therefore you perhaps can begin to understand why I'm calling my dear friend Gandalf at all. We all know that medicine is not the science they like to pretend it is. A lot of shamanism, slight of hand, prophesizing, soothsaying and guesswork goes into dealing with even the basic stuff like cysts, sprains and polyps - and all the little mishaps that can be attributed to moving parts not unlike those under the hood of your car. But what the hell are the men in white going to do when the grey jello in our heads starts misfiring? It's fucking scary, I'm telling you. I know, I know. I am thinking positive thoughts. They can do marvelous things with the head these days. Lots of people survive scary stuff. Gandalf is really stubborn, incredibly strong willed, and as I have said, very smart, so I'm counting on these qualities to help him through. I don't know what else to do cause I don't pray and I'm not a neurosurgeon and I don't even know any. So much for the six fucking degrees of separation. I could probably arrange a date with Viggo Mortensten if I really needed to, but can I conjure up a brilliant neurosurgeon? Can I, fuck. While Gandalf is being attended to, or not, by the NHS, I can do nothing but worry. Which seems pointless and selfish and certainly isn't going to help him at all, is it?
My own head is aching like no one's business. Two Feminax and one ibuprofen 800, a sweaty gym workout, and an extended hot bath have thus far failed to sort it out. It's so bad that I didn't even masturbate in the bath, which seems to be the only time I masturbate at all lately. The ache is either down to manifesting Gandalf's symptoms in my own body or the two-thirds of a bottle of Havana Club that I downed last night in an attempt to blot everything out. It seems like the less I drink, the harsher the hangovers get. I guess that's how it's supposed to work, huh?
Okay so now we're going to move on to more positive subjects. Like roast chicken. As I write, my flat is being filled with the sumptuous smells of a slowly roasting chicken. There is nothing quite like a roast chicken to make one feel homely and smug. Mine is roasting according to the great food goddess Nigella Lawson (I can never decide if I want her to be my mother or my lover. worrying?) at gas mark 6, for 20 minutes per 500g plus 30 minutes for luck. I have shoved half a lemon and about 7 cloves of garlic up it's bum. Or in it's chest cavity, more specifically. I recommend you stop reading this and go and duplicate my efforts immediately. We'll all feel much better afterwards, I assure you. One question though : why do the trussed up feet of my chicken keep coming undone and wiggling about in a most undignified fashion, as if the chicken spreading itself in a lewd pornographic pose for me? This never used to happen. Has the UK government bowed to some silly EU proclamation that dictates an inferior quality of string is now used to bind our chickens? Comments and suggestions gratefully received.
There are things that I should be doing and perhaps that is the best reason of all for this blog, to avoid them. Filing socks and underpants, sorting expenses, or dealing with how much money I owe the world are not activities that my own brain can seem to process, even at the best of times. Feeling guilty, hating myself, avoiding confronting my personal demons - that stuff I can do better than just about anyone.
This will get more interesting. I promise.
Recent Comments