- A Cock and Bull Story - Not the 'greatest film ever' as one review on the front of the box would have me believe but still pretty funny. I've tried to read Tristram Shandy a couple of times and failed pretty early on, I was in a way hoping this film would give me an 'in' so the next time I tried I would get on with it a lot better. Not sure that that's going to happen.
- The Snow Devils - Last of the Gamma 1 Italian SF drek and probably the worst / best of the bunch.
- Attack of the Giant Leeches - again!
- It's Alive! - A deliriously bad fever dream of a movie which, if I've got this right, was a made-for-TV remake of a movie that never actually got made. Notable for containing the most pathetically unconvincing rubber monster suit ever shot by a professional crew. (This film should not be confused with any of the other five movies called It's Alive!. This one has the honour of being the first - and worst.)
- Fright Night - above average and, dare I admit it? mildly erotic mid 80s vampire flick.
- Cigarettes and Alcohol - not sure to make of this one at all.I have no idea why I find Jarmusch's films so funny but I do and this one was no exception. As an added bonus (if you can call it that) I got to see Steve Coogan playing a character, loosely based on himself, called 'Steve Coogan' for the second time this month.
- Secretary - Maggie Gyllenhaal, James Spader. The best rom-com I've seen for a long while but not as brilliantly wonderful as people had lead me to believe - I was slightly pissed off by the title sequence which seemed to imply that a typewriter fitted with a seriffed font was producing sans seriffed lettering and a whacking great boom shadow in an early scene meant it took some time for me to settle into it.
- Take the Money and Run - my loathing of Woody Allen's later films hasn't soured my view of his earlier, funnier films. I found this genuinely, laugh out loud funny.
- Titan AE - Full of sound and fury, kids' American Manga SF which signified nothing but (occasionally) looked great.
- The Swarm - There are good films, there are bad films, then there is Irwin Allen. The Swarm was supposed to be the disaster move to end all disaster movies (in one sequence a nuclear plant blows up killing Jose Ferrer, Richard Chamberlain, and 32 thousand off-screen extras - this comes immediately after one of my favourite lines from the movie: "In all your fail safe techniques, is there any provision for an attack by killer bees?" ). Except it wasn't a Disaster movie; it was just a career destroyingly bad disaster. Warner Brothers thew millions into advertising, and making a vast number of prints, of what turned out to be one of the most unintentionally hilarious movies ever made. The Swarm is masterpiece of wrongness. Made on a huge budget, with more star names than the average, and a polished crew - all standing on a script full of the most unspeakable, howling bad dialogue ever written... Crane Played by Michael Caine finds something at the ravaged picnic site where two picnickers have been stung to death by a brazillion Bees.]Brad Crane:
Plastic. It's a piece of a plastic cup. There are pieces all around here.He starts pointing out the other fragments.Brad Crane:
Look. Look, there. There. There.Cut to: General Slater, played by Richard Wydmark who is not even bothering to disguise his usual: "What the fuck am I doing in this piece of shit?" facial expression.
General Slater:
What's so significant about that?
Brad Crane:
I'm afraid to speculate. But,
I think, the bees, did this.
Major Baker:
Are you saying these bees eat plastic?
Brad Crane:No, no. But I'm wondering. Your
American honeybee has a weak mouth,
that couldn't even break the skin,
of a grape. But it looks like this species,
is tearing up, plastic cups, possibly to
line their hives. Now, if this is true,
they didn't, just get here. I mean,
the invasion, didn't, just now begin.
They have been here some time.
Breeding. Increasing.
General Slater:
So?
Brad Crane:
Well, suppose these bees, are
using plastic, to insulate their hives.
General Slater:
No bee is that smart.
Brad Crane:
Suppose these African bees are.
Allen's other movies aren't good, but this one is brilliant. It's not often you get to watch a movie in which everything went wrong. - La Dolce Vita - I love Fellini's movies. I haven't a scooby what they're about but I just love wallowing in the dreamlike decadence of them.
- Throne of Blood - Kurosawa and Fellini in one week? Have I finally run out of crap movies to watch? Probably not, but there were none I fancied watching within easy reach and I needed to reset my quality control standards. I was, sorry to say, a bit underwhelmed by Throne of Blood. For years I have avoided watching any of Mr K's movies because, many years ago, I was rendered catatonic in a cinema by my first encounter with his work - the three hour cut of Dersu Uzala - and until last year sometime I managed to avoid watching anything else he had done. When I finally got over my reluctance and watched Ran, his samurai reworking of King Lear, I was blown away - sheer, unmitigated, fucking genius. Maybe I was unfortunate in watching Ran first, but ToB came over as dry run for the good stuff that came later.
- Confidential Report - Just to complete some sort of black and white Arty Auteur Filmy hat trick, an Orson Welles. Back to the trash.
- This is Spinal Tap - I laughed.
- Robinson Crusoe on Mars - sliding myself back into the bad movie habit. Despite it's dreadful title this is pretty damn good for an SF movie of the period. The director, Byron Haskins actually understood Science Fiction and didn't treat everything as a dressed up cowboy movie. It doesn't, for a refreshing change, insult the intelligence of the audience by explaining the most basic of facts in mind-numbing, simplistic detail: "Yes Johnny, Mars - sometimes known as 'The Red Planet' - is a very long way away...". And it wasn't just plain wrong about everything. How space ships in movies make that whooshing noise on the soundtrack as they fly through airless space is a mystery, but at least this show built in a delay between light from a distant explosion in space and the mysteriously transmitted noise of the bang reaching the planet-bound observer. Whatever medium sound travels through (even mysterious movie space medium) it's always going to travel slower than light.
- Moon Zero Two - an unashamed dressed up cowboy movie. A Space Western complete with low gravity bar-room brawls, claim jumpers and loads of other Cowboy cliches in space suits. No cattle stampede though. It needed a cattle stampede. Three thousand cows in space suits running amok in slow motion? That I would have paid money to see. Not great but bits of it were interesting and all of it was a hell of a lot better than most other Space Westerns - especially Outland ('High Noon in space' my arse!).
- Equinox - Dreadful. An object lesson in how not to make movies in so many departments, lessons the makers obviously learned because, having spent six and a half thousand (1960's) dollars, and two years making this near unwatchable zero budget mess, they have gone on to become multi-Oscar winners. Everyone has got to start somewhere. (Thanks for the steer, Bill).
- Devil Girl From Mars - A set-bound adapted play, pitting the assembled residents of a lonely Scottish Inn against the evil Machinations of one - count them - one! Matriarchal Martian who needs Men! to replace the dwindling feeblenesses of the 'inferior sex' of her own planet. Apart from the dubious delights of the leather fetishist's wet-dream of the alien's costume, it had nothing going for it at all - she spoke terribly properly too. Very BBC, it was like watching Invasion of the Light Program Continuity Announcers.And now, The Archers. Phil tells Jill: "All your bases are belonging to one..."
- Cat Women of the Moon - from man starved Martians to man starved Selenites. And a double dose of Deja-Vu: the 'plot', and some of the props of this piece of crap were recycled in the atrocious Missile to the Moon (qv), of which I am quite fond, and the spaceship sets were reused from the junky Project Moon Base (also qv) watched a few weeks ago. The opening sequence is a hoot as our heroes grimace their way through the heavy acceleration of take-off looking like the 'before' characters in crude indigestion commercials. Incidentally the crushing forces of take-off have absolutely no effect on our heroine's twin, conically pointed chest. Lying flat on her back on her couch, pressed own by G forces equivalent to the weight of an elephant, her tits point skyward like twin spaceship nose-cones - by gum, they built bras well in the 50s!
- Target Earth - Better than average 1954 low budget B movie SF which started with a would be suicide waking up to find the city deserted (which also happens to be the way one of my favourite SF movies The Quite Earth starts) and intelligently built up a nice edgy paranoia feel which lasted up to the very second the clunky ("For Mash Get Smash!"like) robots that have invaded the city appear on the screen - and suddenly it's all evaporated. All that hard work gone - Pouf! - with a single shot of a crappy bow-legged, cardboard monster. Then we're in the land of The Military sitting in small rooms pointing at maps and telling each other how dreadful the situation is before launching the usual air strike by stock footage while Scientists feverishly peer at an oscilloscope, trying to find the alien invaders' Achilles' Heel before the final reel. The bits with the lost and confused survivors are great, the rest of it is period, by the numbers, low budget B movie.
- Batman - The Adam West Burt Ward 1966 version, which just gets funnier every time I watch it..
- The Werewolf of Washington - this is why I watch movies with crap titles. Every now and then, under the piles of Robot Monsters and Teenagers From Outer-Space, I stumble on a long forgotten gem. The Werewolf of Washington is such a gem; a bizarre, surreal satire of the downfall of Nixon - done as a werewolf movie. It's great. A badly cropped version of it is legally available here. Dean Stockwell camps it up outrageously as the Lycanthropic White House press secretary. Very 1973. Very funny.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Groan - This Month's Movies
May
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
It's not often you get to buy the same thing from two different second hand sales on two different continents. I don't mean a identical objects; I mean the same object.
About thirteen years ago I was in America, getting over the break-up of long term relationship by running away to join the Hollywood circus twenty years too late. I was thirty-five and, as a friend so wonderfully put it at the time: "Having my mid-life crisis while I was still young enough to enjoy it."
So, there I was in California nearing the end of my six month's Tourist Visa and needing to buy presents for people back home. What do I get for the woman I had lived with for the last twelve years and who had precipitated my flight to America in the first place? Answer, a second-hand, hugely heavy grey metal 1940's Rolodex - and a signed copy of Joan Blondell's semi-autobiographical novel. I think we both had a big crush on Joan.
The Rolodex I bought at a huge 'swap meet' at the Pasadena Rose Bowl. That was a strange day. I have never seen so much second-hand military hardware for sale in one place before or since. Every stall seemed to have bits of obsolete weaponry. Sometimes it was hard to tell what the things were, various sized chunks of Army-green machinery with serial numbers and 'Property of the US Government' stamped all over it. None of it looked lethal in itself but I'm sure you could have built a couple of tanks out of the parts lying around.
(Johnny Cash's One Piece at a Time just popped into my head there.)
I can't remember what else I ended up buying that day but that's where I got the Rolodex. It still had a few of the previous owner's cards in it. Whoever he was was something in the writing game because they were all numbers of writers and literary agencies. One card had Ray Bradbury's number. I didn't phone him.
The book I bought in a bookstore on San Vicente Boulevard.
Fast forward to five or six years later. I'm now living with Merriol who, to be honest, is not as keen on Joan Blondell as I am, but is very fond of office equipment. I guess a fascination with the tools of your trade is an occupational hazard whatever your line of business. Personally I find the Viking Direct catalogue an odd choice of bedtime reading, but there you go. One day, in passing, I mention the rather substantial and stylish Rolodex I had lugged over from the US all those years before and was immediately subjected to one of those reverse-engineered fits of jealousy that women can knock up at the slightest provocation. 'How dare you buy something for someone else that I might have wanted at least a year before you knew I even existed?' One of those. Retro-fitted guilt tripping.
Fast forward to last Saturday. Holly's school is having a table top sale. Smaller than the swap meet in California, three or four tables instead of the several hundred at the Rose Bowl, and no sign of any tank parts. The first stall inside the door, was being run by Callan, my ex's ten year old daughter. In front of her, in the centre of the table, was The Rolodex. So I bought it - again; for Merriol. I bought it once once in the Twentieth Century, once in the Twenty-first.
I'm not doing it again.
About thirteen years ago I was in America, getting over the break-up of long term relationship by running away to join the Hollywood circus twenty years too late. I was thirty-five and, as a friend so wonderfully put it at the time: "Having my mid-life crisis while I was still young enough to enjoy it."
So, there I was in California nearing the end of my six month's Tourist Visa and needing to buy presents for people back home. What do I get for the woman I had lived with for the last twelve years and who had precipitated my flight to America in the first place? Answer, a second-hand, hugely heavy grey metal 1940's Rolodex - and a signed copy of Joan Blondell's semi-autobiographical novel. I think we both had a big crush on Joan.
The Rolodex I bought at a huge 'swap meet' at the Pasadena Rose Bowl. That was a strange day. I have never seen so much second-hand military hardware for sale in one place before or since. Every stall seemed to have bits of obsolete weaponry. Sometimes it was hard to tell what the things were, various sized chunks of Army-green machinery with serial numbers and 'Property of the US Government' stamped all over it. None of it looked lethal in itself but I'm sure you could have built a couple of tanks out of the parts lying around.
(Johnny Cash's One Piece at a Time just popped into my head there.)
I can't remember what else I ended up buying that day but that's where I got the Rolodex. It still had a few of the previous owner's cards in it. Whoever he was was something in the writing game because they were all numbers of writers and literary agencies. One card had Ray Bradbury's number. I didn't phone him.
The book I bought in a bookstore on San Vicente Boulevard.
Fast forward to five or six years later. I'm now living with Merriol who, to be honest, is not as keen on Joan Blondell as I am, but is very fond of office equipment. I guess a fascination with the tools of your trade is an occupational hazard whatever your line of business. Personally I find the Viking Direct catalogue an odd choice of bedtime reading, but there you go. One day, in passing, I mention the rather substantial and stylish Rolodex I had lugged over from the US all those years before and was immediately subjected to one of those reverse-engineered fits of jealousy that women can knock up at the slightest provocation. 'How dare you buy something for someone else that I might have wanted at least a year before you knew I even existed?' One of those. Retro-fitted guilt tripping.
Fast forward to last Saturday. Holly's school is having a table top sale. Smaller than the swap meet in California, three or four tables instead of the several hundred at the Rose Bowl, and no sign of any tank parts. The first stall inside the door, was being run by Callan, my ex's ten year old daughter. In front of her, in the centre of the table, was The Rolodex. So I bought it - again; for Merriol. I bought it once once in the Twentieth Century, once in the Twenty-first.
I'm not doing it again.
Monday, May 19, 2008
People are weird.
The other day in Oban, I was escaping taking the kids to see The Singing Kettle by doing shopping, I saw this trolley outside Lidl. Nothing particularly unusual about it apart from it's not attached to all the other trolleys in the rack by one of those coin-operated dongles. I hate these things. I hate having to pay to borrow a shopping trolley. I know it probably cuts down the number that end up in canals or people garages but I personally feel insulted that I'm not trusted to take one back without having some of my money held hostage. So, after being shown this trick by shelf-stacker at Farmfoods*, I have a key from a corned beef tin on my keyring. The fat bit (of the right sort) of a corned beef** tin key is just about almost exactly (well near enough) to the diameter of a pound coin to enable to to push it into a shopping trolley dongle and, with a twist, when you've freed it from the other trolleys, you can take it out again. When I return a trolley I never chain it back up again so that the next person who comes along doesn't have the hassle of finding a coin etc. etc.
I guess I'm not the only person who knows this trick, because outside Lidl in Oban,there was this liberated trolley just sitting there waiting for someone to go shopping with it. As I stood there trying to decide whether or not to go to Homebase first, a bloke walked up to this particular trolley, stopped and looked at it. (I was standing far enough away for it to be obvious this was in no way MY trolley). He looked at it very closely. Bent over and peered at it. He worked out that it wasn't attached to the other trolleys. He hesitated - then he moved away, took a coin out of his pocket, and freed another trolley and trundled it into the shop.
Why?
No idea. I went to Homebase. When I came back to Lidl half an hour later the trolley was still there. I took the trolley. It was a fine trolley. Nothing wrong with it at all. Walking around the shop I estimated from the number of people in there just starting their shopping that at least half a dozen people must have bypassed it and dug money out of their pockets to get a chained up, unsuspicious trolley of their own.
People are weird.
* I shop in all the best places.
** Or 'Corn beefed' as I originally typed.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Well, I didn't get short listed as a best of the 'Daddy' blogs possibly because I'm not an American Christian, (which, from my casual reading of the other contenders, they all seemed to be to a man), possibly because I haven't written anything about ye kids for a while, which, when you think about it, is pretty much an essential qualification for a 'Daddy' blog (that, and a penis). As I said in another place earlier today:
Not cold fusion (or even room temperature superconductors) but it's nice to have my kids back on form.
*This is not a euphemism for anything.
'It's all my kids' fault. As soon as I put myself up for it they stopped doing anything weird, humorous, silly, or annoying - damn them! Now the short listing is over I fully expect them attempting to abseil from their bedroom window using dental floss, or do something science-shatteringly, physically impossible, like make a working room temperature cold fusion reactor with two potatoes and a paper clip.'About half an hour after writing that I went to pick up Holly from Debs's house. Debs who was fulfilling the role of Village Taxi* for the afternoon, was ferrying at least four families' worth of sugar soaked children from a classmate's party in the next glen. She arrived a short while after I got there with a car-full of face-painted kids: the usual fairies, pirates, and butterflies - and Holly. Holly's face was painted a pale blue with short, darker blue, vertical streaks all over it. She looked like she had just been involved some bizarre, prolonged toothpaste accident.
Me:
"You look nice, sweetheart, what are you?"
Holly:
"A waterfall."
"You look nice, sweetheart, what are you?"
Holly:
"A waterfall."
Not cold fusion (or even room temperature superconductors) but it's nice to have my kids back on form.
*This is not a euphemism for anything.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
If The Sun Shone All Night Would The Potatoes Grow Any Faster?
Well the plumbers seem to have vanished again (it's Late Spring, I think they migrate) leaving is with a working toilet and sink. But without finishing off a couple of things. It's a very well ventilated working toilet and sink they've left us with, because they haven't filled the holes they bashed through the walls to feed the pipes out. Lots of daylight to be seen from inside - even if you don't stick your head down behind the toilet for a closer look. This hasn't been a real hardship as we are enjoying a spell of the hottest weather I can remember having around here for years: uninterrupted sunshine, picnic teas with the kids, the sides of the roads dusty and gritty - not covered in the usual sticky rain-sodden sludge, I have had a sudden urge to play boulle, drink Pshitt, and ride a moped. The weather feels very Southern and French. It's not like the normal, grey, sodden West Coast we all know, love, and endlessly moan about.
Just to add to the flavour, the other thing the plumbers haven't finished yet is the manhole where they joined the new drain onto the existing system.
All through this lovely, hot, sweltering, perfect summer weather - we have had an open sewer in the back garden.
Just to add to the flavour, the other thing the plumbers haven't finished yet is the manhole where they joined the new drain onto the existing system.
All through this lovely, hot, sweltering, perfect summer weather - we have had an open sewer in the back garden.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Just poking around on my counter to see if the expected sudden rush of a visitor had pushed my readership up into double figures when I noticed this:
My counter can't count.
I also just noticed that the picture of the 'Free CD' that used to be over there ----> has gone and vanished. Which means...
Arse!
...yep. The webspace attached to a long defunct email address has been reclaimed by the owners. Damn them! How dare they reclaim their own property? A whole load of pictures from the blog and forums I have posted to have evaporated. Bum! Luckily I seem to have made a backup and will now have to go find where all the empty spaces are and redirect the links to their new home.
Any and all help appreciated, just go here: http://the-junk-monkey.com/Blog/blog/
find a picture you like and see where you think it should fit in the World Wide Web. Should be easy, it's just like a jigsaw - except all of the bits are rectangular.
Here's one to start you off.
My counter can't count.
I also just noticed that the picture of the 'Free CD' that used to be over there ----> has gone and vanished. Which means...
Arse!
...yep. The webspace attached to a long defunct email address has been reclaimed by the owners. Damn them! How dare they reclaim their own property? A whole load of pictures from the blog and forums I have posted to have evaporated. Bum! Luckily I seem to have made a backup and will now have to go find where all the empty spaces are and redirect the links to their new home.
Any and all help appreciated, just go here: http://the-junk-monkey.com/Blog/blog/
find a picture you like and see where you think it should fit in the World Wide Web. Should be easy, it's just like a jigsaw - except all of the bits are rectangular.
Here's one to start you off.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Further to sorting out Dan's computer problems yesterday; they're not all over. While I was fixing him up installing this that and the other, and getting him up and running again I kept having real trouble steering the cursor. The mouse just kept sliding all over the place, and the cursor would wang off uncontrollably into another corner of the screen. I was about to take the mouse to bits, preparing to de-gunge the rollers, when Dan stopped me.
Apparently, religiously, once a week, his Home Help lady polishes his mouse mat with furniture polish.
Apparently, religiously, once a week, his Home Help lady polishes his mouse mat with furniture polish.
A couple of weeks ago Dan's computer died. The Big Blue Screen of Death.
Pretty scary at the best of times - but on a Mac????
Dan needs his computer. He's all but housebound after the stroke and the computer is a necessary life line. I dropped the machine off at the local computer repair shop who booked it in for a good looking at in their first available slot; which was ten days later (busy people). A couple of days ago they phoned me with the news that the hard drive was indeed totally snuffed. There were no recoverable data and what did I want to do with the large paperweight that had been Dan's laptop?
To cut a long and boring story (down to a short and boring story) it cost £70 to get a new hard drive installed. It would have cost that much again to install the OS. It seemed crazy to to pay for a highly trained professional Microsoft certified computer repair person to sit in front of the machine and watch status bars crawl across the screen and occasionally hit the enter key. So this afternoon I spent a merry couple of hours watching status bars crawl across the screen and occasionally hitting the enter key in as confidant a manner I could muster, stopping only to turn the machine upside down and round this way and that (while it was still running) to find the COA number I needed to stop XP imploding after 30 days. (Why don't they ever put those things where you can bloody see them easily? I nearly broke my neck trying to read the one off the back of my machine the other week.)
So Dan is back on line. My good deed for the day.
Pretty scary at the best of times - but on a Mac????Dan needs his computer. He's all but housebound after the stroke and the computer is a necessary life line. I dropped the machine off at the local computer repair shop who booked it in for a good looking at in their first available slot; which was ten days later (busy people). A couple of days ago they phoned me with the news that the hard drive was indeed totally snuffed. There were no recoverable data and what did I want to do with the large paperweight that had been Dan's laptop?
To cut a long and boring story (down to a short and boring story) it cost £70 to get a new hard drive installed. It would have cost that much again to install the OS. It seemed crazy to to pay for a highly trained professional Microsoft certified computer repair person to sit in front of the machine and watch status bars crawl across the screen and occasionally hit the enter key. So this afternoon I spent a merry couple of hours watching status bars crawl across the screen and occasionally hitting the enter key in as confidant a manner I could muster, stopping only to turn the machine upside down and round this way and that (while it was still running) to find the COA number I needed to stop XP imploding after 30 days. (Why don't they ever put those things where you can bloody see them easily? I nearly broke my neck trying to read the one off the back of my machine the other week.)
So Dan is back on line. My good deed for the day.
Thursday, May 08, 2008
Short blog tonight. The galloping trots that have knocked over the kids in turn over the last week has just claimed its third victim. And when did it strike? Last thing at night. Brilliant timing. I need to sleep. I'm trying to work out if I could duct tape myself onto one of the toilets.
Until normal service is resumed: here is some crappy music:
Phoebe, here's the code to do that: just substitute the usual HTML Dalekspeak pointy brackets for the squiggly ones
{embed controls="smallconsole" autostart="true" src="http://207.228.243.82/crud/defenders1.mp3" height="15" width="50"}{/embed}
Until normal service is resumed: here is some crappy music:
{embed controls="smallconsole" autostart="true" src="http://207.228.243.82/crud/defenders1.mp3" height="15" width="50"}{/embed}
EDIT: I turned off the autostart. It was driving me crazy. But it still works if you click the play button.
Oh, the joys of parenthood. No sooner have we got number one daughter back on her feet and well enough to go back to school when number two starts regularly vomiting on the hour, every hour.
There's nothing to be done (apart from cleaning her up and giving love and cuddles - oh, and getting the order right is good as well; clean THEN cuddle is much the best arrangement).
It's a bug that's galloping around the village at the moment; a couple of days of adding to the laundry pile from both ends and then they are pack to normal. Still, it gave us something to talk about at the school gates. I spent half an hour this morning swapping vomit stories with the rest of them. Sometimes I wonder what the mums talk about when I'm not there. They probably spend most of their time discussing topics like Wittgenstein's view of the transcendental nature of the ethical. I'm sure I lower the tone.
There's nothing to be done (apart from cleaning her up and giving love and cuddles - oh, and getting the order right is good as well; clean THEN cuddle is much the best arrangement).
It's a bug that's galloping around the village at the moment; a couple of days of adding to the laundry pile from both ends and then they are pack to normal. Still, it gave us something to talk about at the school gates. I spent half an hour this morning swapping vomit stories with the rest of them. Sometimes I wonder what the mums talk about when I'm not there. They probably spend most of their time discussing topics like Wittgenstein's view of the transcendental nature of the ethical. I'm sure I lower the tone.
Wednesday, May 07, 2008
Today was supposed to be the day that Thebestofblogs.com was to have announced the short-lists for this year's Best Blogs That No One Reads awards and, in full confidence and expectation of being short-listed, I've been honing my electoral skills which, following recently successful and near successful election campaigns in London, Zimbabwe, and the US, have led me to come up with a platform of promising to Ban Bendy buses, nuke Iran (whether they ask me to or not), and sending gangs of machete wielding goons round to my opponents' houses* but, as the more astute of you will have gathered from the uncomfortable use of some sort of conditionalish tense at the start of this long and cumbersome sentence, they haven't announced them at all due to unexpected, and unspecified, delays - so I'm off to re-think my campaign strategy. And learn how to write short sentences.
I will do most of the re-thinking while sitting on our NEW TOILET! [Small fanfare!] Finally, tonight after four months of waiting, and three days of work (spread out over two weeks) the plumbers have finally connected all the pipes and we have a flushing toilet upstairs at last. Another step forward in the never ceasing, onward march of nineteenth century technology. Huzzah!
You have no idea what a great feeling this is. Why everyone in the house wants to pee at exactly the same time is a mystery to me but we all do and, with luck, this should cut my hopping up and down yelling: "Pee faster!" at the kids time down by half. This is a good thing.
Okay, the toilet has nothing between it and the rest of the world - at the moment you walk up stairs and there's a toilet and hand basin staring at you from the other end of the landing - hello! - but soon I'll've built the walls round it, and hung the door which has been part of the obstacle course in our hallway for six months, and the plumbers will have fitted the cover over the open newly formed junction in the garden (at the moment you can flush the toilet, stand on it, stick your head out of the window, and peer down into the trench to make sure it gets there. Sort of like Pooh Sticks but with real poo) and all will be well.
* - actually, as most of the other nominees appear to live in Minnesota, I may have to renage on that last one.
I will do most of the re-thinking while sitting on our NEW TOILET! [Small fanfare!] Finally, tonight after four months of waiting, and three days of work (spread out over two weeks) the plumbers have finally connected all the pipes and we have a flushing toilet upstairs at last. Another step forward in the never ceasing, onward march of nineteenth century technology. Huzzah!
You have no idea what a great feeling this is. Why everyone in the house wants to pee at exactly the same time is a mystery to me but we all do and, with luck, this should cut my hopping up and down yelling: "Pee faster!" at the kids time down by half. This is a good thing.
Okay, the toilet has nothing between it and the rest of the world - at the moment you walk up stairs and there's a toilet and hand basin staring at you from the other end of the landing - hello! - but soon I'll've built the walls round it, and hung the door which has been part of the obstacle course in our hallway for six months, and the plumbers will have fitted the cover over the open newly formed junction in the garden (at the moment you can flush the toilet, stand on it, stick your head out of the window, and peer down into the trench to make sure it gets there. Sort of like Pooh Sticks but with real poo) and all will be well.
* - actually, as most of the other nominees appear to live in Minnesota, I may have to renage on that last one.
Monday, May 05, 2008
Bank Holiday weekend. The roads suddenly fill up with cars with oddly coloured number plates, vast leather clad Germans on huge American motorbikes, and the camp sites are full of people living in small versions of their houses they have towed there from a long way away, or small plasticated bags with stick in the corners. I have ranted on before (endlessly) about how I hate camping - short Googling pause as I search the blog and find out that I haven't ranted on endlessly about my hatred for camping - okay...
Why I Hate Camping
by Liam Baldwin (aged 48).
by Liam Baldwin (aged 48).
Camping is evil.
The End
That's it. No ifs, buts, or ands; camping is dead pure evil. Why anyone would deliberately make themselves as uncomfortable as possible is beyond me. The outdoors is great. I love it. Wonderful stuff outdoors. Go out the front door turn left there it is - very lovely. Can I go back inside now where there is electricity, and indoor plumbing, and warmth, and fewer insects, internet access and all those other things the human race has spent the last few thousand years getting together because IT IS BETTER THAN SITTING IN A WET FIELD NEXT TO A BUCKET OF YOUR OWN BODILY WASTES.
"Ah!" says Merriol, "You don't crap in a bucket there's a toilet block at the camp site."
"And running water?"
"And running water."
So what's the point in going? You've got running water and flush toilets here?"
"But we'll be sleeping outside!"
"But you'll be unconscious! How will you know?"
I mean what makes the act of sleeping on a lumpy slope protected from the lashing rain by a flimsy bit of material three inches away from your nose in ANY WAY superior to sleeping on a mattress, under a nice thick downy with a bedside light and a good book if you have trouble nodding off. (The lashing rain a barely noticed, almost theoretical, noise the other side of heavy duty layers of plaster, timber, stone and glass?) None.
Even worse are the people who drive their entire fucking house sized Winnebago to a camp site and hook it up to all the services, burn food they've brought with them in their on-board fridge which they sit and eat while watching satellite TV. What is the fucking point?
Camping is what people do when there is no alternative. Refugees camp. Nomads who need to follow their herds camp. People odd enough to think that climbing mountains is fun, camp. I like civilisation. Civilised people do not camp.
That was a shortened version of my standard anti-camping rant. On a good day, when I really get going, I can bring Roman plumbing, Ghengis Khan, and the International Space station into the argument.
Anyway.
The point of this is: Friday. Merriol takes the girls camping. She meets up with some friends and they have a jolly time being uncomfortable in a field for a night, leaving me alone to get on with some necessary woodwork before the plumbers come the next day to work on the upstairs bathroom.
I seize this opportunity to work unhindered on improving the sanitary arrangements in my house by lying on the sofa and watching badly dubbed Italian SF movies till two in the morning, while consuming twice my own body weigh in tortilla chips. (I did the woodwork on Saturday morning as Merriol glowered at me with one of those little black clouds over her head like you see in cartoons.)
Today (Sunday) it feels like I have spent most of the day washing bedding and endless piles of clothing as Holly has been copiously, and violently, ill from both ends, all over the place. One night's camping and my number one daughter is a gastro-intestinal disaster zone. A day in bed and plenty of water to drink and she's looking and sounding a lot better but if I ever needed any empirical evidence that was it.
Camping makes you ill. Full stop.
"Ah!" says Merriol, "You don't crap in a bucket there's a toilet block at the camp site."
"And running water?"
"And running water."
So what's the point in going? You've got running water and flush toilets here?"
"But we'll be sleeping outside!"
"But you'll be unconscious! How will you know?"
I mean what makes the act of sleeping on a lumpy slope protected from the lashing rain by a flimsy bit of material three inches away from your nose in ANY WAY superior to sleeping on a mattress, under a nice thick downy with a bedside light and a good book if you have trouble nodding off. (The lashing rain a barely noticed, almost theoretical, noise the other side of heavy duty layers of plaster, timber, stone and glass?) None.
Even worse are the people who drive their entire fucking house sized Winnebago to a camp site and hook it up to all the services, burn food they've brought with them in their on-board fridge which they sit and eat while watching satellite TV. What is the fucking point?
Camping is what people do when there is no alternative. Refugees camp. Nomads who need to follow their herds camp. People odd enough to think that climbing mountains is fun, camp. I like civilisation. Civilised people do not camp.
That was a shortened version of my standard anti-camping rant. On a good day, when I really get going, I can bring Roman plumbing, Ghengis Khan, and the International Space station into the argument.
Anyway.
The point of this is: Friday. Merriol takes the girls camping. She meets up with some friends and they have a jolly time being uncomfortable in a field for a night, leaving me alone to get on with some necessary woodwork before the plumbers come the next day to work on the upstairs bathroom.
I seize this opportunity to work unhindered on improving the sanitary arrangements in my house by lying on the sofa and watching badly dubbed Italian SF movies till two in the morning, while consuming twice my own body weigh in tortilla chips. (I did the woodwork on Saturday morning as Merriol glowered at me with one of those little black clouds over her head like you see in cartoons.)
Today (Sunday) it feels like I have spent most of the day washing bedding and endless piles of clothing as Holly has been copiously, and violently, ill from both ends, all over the place. One night's camping and my number one daughter is a gastro-intestinal disaster zone. A day in bed and plenty of water to drink and she's looking and sounding a lot better but if I ever needed any empirical evidence that was it.
Camping makes you ill. Full stop.
Thursday, May 01, 2008
Groan! My film diary is getting longer. Not because I'm watching any more movies than normal but because I'm feeling the need to witter on about them in print for longer. I normally punt up a copy of my Everything I've Seen list up here once a quarter, but until my prolixity wanes (now there's a name for a vaudeville act!) I'll do it once a month to save Blogger's servers from crashing.
April
April
- Starship Invasions - every now and then, people in various governments of the world get it into their heads that they should support their local movie industry by throwing minor shitloads of money at it. I guess they do it in order to assert some kind of cultural identity in the face of the perceived evil and pernicious overwhelming of everything by the Hollywood machine. In France they end up with long, beautifully shot swashbuckling adventures, in Britain we end up with long, beautifully shot movies about the upper-classes being terribly vague in excruciating detail. In Canada they get shit like Starship Invasions, a film so bewilderingly bad that greatness ensues.
Canadian Astro-Crumpet
Christopher Lee has done some crap in his time but this must count as the bottom of the barrel as far as he's concerned. It's even worse than End of The World which he made in the same year - in which he played the leader of a bunch of aliens set to destroy the world by disguising themselves as nuns - at least he was allowed to try and act in that one. The director of this pile of poo hit upon the genius idea of having all his aliens (and there are at least three types) communicate by telepathy, which means that all the actors get to do is look meaningfully at one another, or occasionally flare their nostrils menacingly, while voice-overs, recorded in a dustbin behind a steelworks somewhere, tell us what they are thinking. It's brilliant! The whole movie was probably shot in a week and they just whacked the sound in afterwards. It's one of those bewilderingly incoherent movies that looks like it was edited together from a bad TV series, but wasn't. I loved it. - Project Moon Base - A very long 63 minutes; which it turns out (thanks IMDb) WAS edited together from a bad TV series. Most of my time watching it was spent admiring the cunning way 2000' 35mm film reels from the editing department had been used as computer spools...A trick also later used in Zontar:The Thing From Venus
- oh god, I am watching too much of this shit!
...and waiting for the heroine's rather peachy, hot-pant clad bum to appear again.
The guy on the right is saying: "Hi, how's it hanging?"
It's the sort of movie where our crew on the first trip to photograph the far side of the moon wear t-shirts and shorts, dinky little caps (to solve the "If she's weightless why is her hair hanging straight down?" quibbles from nitpickers like me), and had bloody great hand guns strapped to their hips. The film would have been a lot more interesting if anyone had actually fired one of those guns while weightless. - Voyage To The End of The Universe - another American International (bastards!), re-editing of an Eastern European movie I now need to see in the original cut.
It looked beautiful - what I could see of it between the atrocious Pan and Scan and the moronically written translation. - Serenity - A film which would have been an okay bit of SF nonsense if I hadn't recently watched the entire series of Firefly (to which is this sequel / conclusion) but, because I had, it became a thoroughly entertaining bit of SF nonsense.
- Ladyhawke - an almost great film rendered nearly unwatchable by a dreadful, dreadful score which lurches from one bit of mid-eighties synthesised, pseudo rock-operatic, guitar-wank to another. It must have sounded so cool and hip at the time - and for about 25 minutes afterwards - but it doesn't really sit very easily in the timeless late-medieval tragic fantasy world the film was trying to create. (I know, "timeless late-medieval" is oxymoronic. How about 'mythic'? It's hard to get a mythic quality from a film when there's a bunch of session musicians with mullets doing their best to nail it wall screaming in your ear:"This isn't timeless - it's 1985! - and always will be! Rock and Rollllll!" The only film I can think of that got away with this sort of thing was A Knight's Tale, but that used rock music that had already sunk deep into the audience's collective unconsciousness. It was already dated - and let's face it, for the MTV generation Queen's We Will Rock You and Bowie's Golden Years ARE mediaeval). Matthew Brodrick's accent lurched backwards and forwards across the Atlantic a few times during the show too.
- Conan the Barbarian - what a beautiful film! Testosterone driven bollocks - but lovely to look at. Funny too.
- Beyond The Time Barrier - reputedly shot back-to-back with The Amazing Transparent Man with a shooting schedule of only two weeks. That's not two weeks per movie - that's for the both of them! two feature films knocked off in 14 days - and they look like it. Beyond the Time Barrier does have one redeeming feature however; a terrific set. For a cheapo sf film made in Texas it has the look of a much more expensive film (that is until anyone actually starts talking - or, for the second time on my TV this month, wiggling their nostrils at each other while they communicate telepathically). After some interminable setting up, our hero lands in the usual doomed underground civilisation of the future with its giant pyramidal modular set which, with very little redressing, serves for offices, bedroom, corridors, laboratories - everything. It's a nifty bit of design. All walls, doors and windows are equilateral triangles. I spent most of the running time looking at the walls. It's all pretty groovy until the director or editor had the spiffy idea of using an equilateral triangle as a wipe between scenes - and suddenly the whole thing looked like a crappy Buster Crabbe serial from the 30s. The leading lady was dead good at pointing as well, and she pointed a lot. Usually with her whole arm, and usually at the doorway she wanted the hero to leave by - which was pretty often, what with him being an all-American red-blooded male, and her being a telepathic deaf mute with pointy tits.
- I Diafanoidi Vengono da Marte - (AKA Diaphanoids, Bringers of Death; Gamma I Quadrilogy Vol. 2 ; The Deadly Diaphonoids; The War of the Planets etc. etc.) Laugh out loud 1966 Italian Space opera which made no sense whatsoever. Something to do with some sort of hive mind from Andromeda (represented on screen by a vague green light and an off-screen grip with a smoke machine) invading people's minds and making them outrageously over-act. There are four movies in the Gamma One series. I have the other three sitting downstairs and if they are all as mind-bendingly dreadful as this I will have to ration myself before I do myself an injury. As always with make up the story as you go along, cruddy Italian SF translated into English Lite by bilingual illiterates, the thing was chock full of unforgettably awful dialogue like this: (A whole space station has just vanished in front of everyone's eyes.)
Military Commander: "What do you make of it?"
*ie still Zero!
Scientific Adviser: "It's Zero, to the tenth power*. - All I can offer you is a sum of questions: Did something happen? - if so what? Then we can ask Why? - - - and How?"
Everyone turns and solemnly stares at the general's desk until the editor eventually notices the scene has ended and cuts away to some model spaceships. - Кин-дза-дза (Kin-Dza-Dza) - Two hour long Russian absurdist SF movie which made me laugh more than anything I have seen for ages. (It was supposed to be funny.)
- The Wild, Wild Planet (I Criminali Della Galassia) - Not Fair! Episode one of the 'Gamma Quadrilogy' turns out to be not terrible! An Italian SF movie with a budget and some groovy groovy design - how can this be? This is what the future looked like when I was a kid. Cars with fins all over the place and perspex domes on the top! Oval skyscrapers! Girls with capes and kinky boots! It was nostalgic watching. Some weird special effects, dodgy model work and a plot that came out of the SF ark, but better than it had any right to be dammit. I hope the other two sequels I have, and yet to watch, are far far worse.
- War Between the Planets (Il Missione Pianeta Errante AKA Mission Wandering Planet, Also AKA Planet on the Prowl, War Between the Planets, & That Piece of Shit with the Stupid Helmets.) After last night's momentary lapse - in which I wondered, while watching the almost passable Volume 1 of this series, if my overexposure to this stuff had rendered me incapable of recognising crud when I saw it - tonight's Gamma I Quadrilogy Vol. 3 has restored my faith in the sublime crappyness of the 1960s Italian movie industry. I'm used to bad science fiction making no sense but it usually takes some thought to work out why it makes no sense - the longer you have to think about it before its internal logic starts to unravel is some sort of measure its worth (as SF). Really bad science fiction makes no sense without you having to think about it at all. Really really bad SF movies like this one just leave you incapable of thinking.
- Gojira - A 1954 Japanese black and white classic which deals with the trauma of the destruction of Nagasaki and Hiroshima and the responsibilities of the scientist to the greater good - which sounds a lot better than 'I just watched the original Godzilla thanks to The Guardian newspaper who gave it away free the other week'. It's a pity about all the sequels and remakes which turned Godzilla into a sparring partner for a wildly weird and wonderful range of Monsters of the Week, because the original Godzilla turns out to be a great little movie which, rubber-suited sumo guy representing a 350 foot tall reptilian metaphor for nuclear war stomping on models apart, had some terrifically understated and touching moments. Brilliant soundtrack too, the music is wonderful.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Emigration, a short story I wrote a while back, has been published today in the on-line SF magazine Mythaxis. It's not the greatest story in the world (it's not the best story in this issue) but I was quite pleased with it. For once I managed to write a story that made some sort of sense, didn't fall apart within three minutes but, more importantly, I finished it. Often when I write stuff it never comes to any conclusion, it just runs on and on, without getting anywhere in particular, in a shapeless soon to be abandoned mass.
I have no idea of how to construct a story. I'm great (or at least I think I'm great when I'm not thinking I'm rubbish) at jokes and absurdities, and I can, with a bit of work, get a character to cross a room and open a door without letting vast numbers of ambiguities slip into my sentences, but story? Forget it. I have no idea how to construct even the simplest story. I didn't write this one. I found it. It fell out of a bigger thing that I had been working on for ages on and off (mostly, you will have guessed, off) and then, one day, I suddenly realised in the middle of all this waffle was this little moment which was actually working and was complete in itself. I took it out, polished it a bit, and Gil (Editor in Chief at Mythaxis) liked it enough to help me give it a final buff-up.
Two new cartoons over on my other blog this week...
...and the plumbers have been turning up when they said they would (after four months of not quite getting round to it) and laying pipes all over the place for the upstairs bathroom.
Things are going suspiciously all right.
I have no idea of how to construct a story. I'm great (or at least I think I'm great when I'm not thinking I'm rubbish) at jokes and absurdities, and I can, with a bit of work, get a character to cross a room and open a door without letting vast numbers of ambiguities slip into my sentences, but story? Forget it. I have no idea how to construct even the simplest story. I didn't write this one. I found it. It fell out of a bigger thing that I had been working on for ages on and off (mostly, you will have guessed, off) and then, one day, I suddenly realised in the middle of all this waffle was this little moment which was actually working and was complete in itself. I took it out, polished it a bit, and Gil (Editor in Chief at Mythaxis) liked it enough to help me give it a final buff-up.
Two new cartoons over on my other blog this week...
...and the plumbers have been turning up when they said they would (after four months of not quite getting round to it) and laying pipes all over the place for the upstairs bathroom.
Things are going suspiciously all right.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
There Will Be Bratz
Bratz™ the multi-ethnic bimbo dollies that have invaded our house recently, have strange, psychologically disturbing, weirdly detachable feet. Bratz™'s* shoes, unlike Barbie™'s infinitely losable shoe-shaped bits of plastic, are moulded onto their feet, so, when you want to change their outfit and have to have matching shoes to go with it (which if my limited watching of Sex and the City is to be believed, is possibly the MOST important thing in the Universe) then you have to change their feet.
Yesterday, when rearranging the clothing of her new dolls and swapping their feet to match, daughter number one discovered, that because Bratz are multi-ethnic and therefore have a wide variety of skin tones, when you swap their feet over they are often the wrong colour - leaving the dolls looking like they're wearing cheap pop socks under their Manolo Blahniks - or have been wading through bleach.
There is a roaring trade in spare Bratz feet on eBay.
*Sorry about the punctuation overload there but where do you put the apostrophe after Bratz™? Bratz' ? Bratz's. - Is Bratz singular? A Bratz? If so, is the plural Bratzs? The Bratz's shoes? Another reason to hate them.
Yesterday, when rearranging the clothing of her new dolls and swapping their feet to match, daughter number one discovered, that because Bratz are multi-ethnic and therefore have a wide variety of skin tones, when you swap their feet over they are often the wrong colour - leaving the dolls looking like they're wearing cheap pop socks under their Manolo Blahniks - or have been wading through bleach.
There is a roaring trade in spare Bratz feet on eBay.
*Sorry about the punctuation overload there but where do you put the apostrophe after Bratz™? Bratz' ? Bratz's. - Is Bratz singular? A Bratz? If so, is the plural Bratzs? The Bratz's shoes? Another reason to hate them.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Wrapping
Happy Birthday Holly, Six today and the proud new owner of several new dollies.
I used to hate Barbie™ - that seven foot tall, Arian ideal, micro-headed, super retrousse-nosed plastic bimbo I was so determined to keep out of my daughter's life - but, after the last two days, she has been replaced in my number one loathing spot by Bratz™. A whole set of hydrocephalitic, micro-nosed, multi-ethnic bimbos who make Barbie™ look like Andrea Dworkin by comparison.
My house is now full of small plastic mutants. I have no idea why kids' toys are so weirdly distorted like this. If any of us saw a Barbie™ or any of the many Bratz™ girlz made flesh and walking down our local high street we would, no matter how liberal, caring and inclusive we though we were, pick up a stick, point at them, and yell: "Freak! Freak! Freak!"
Donald Sutherland spotting Malibu Barbie™
coming out of Woolworths.
I used to hate Barbie™ - that seven foot tall, Arian ideal, micro-headed, super retrousse-nosed plastic bimbo I was so determined to keep out of my daughter's life - but, after the last two days, she has been replaced in my number one loathing spot by Bratz™. A whole set of hydrocephalitic, micro-nosed, multi-ethnic bimbos who make Barbie™ look like Andrea Dworkin by comparison.
My house is now full of small plastic mutants. I have no idea why kids' toys are so weirdly distorted like this. If any of us saw a Barbie™ or any of the many Bratz™ girlz made flesh and walking down our local high street we would, no matter how liberal, caring and inclusive we though we were, pick up a stick, point at them, and yell: "Freak! Freak! Freak!"
Donald Sutherland spotting Malibu Barbie™coming out of Woolworths.
Aside from the fact I think they are ugly, and I hate the shallow "Passion for Fashion!" message of the things, what I have really come to loathe about them is the fucking packaging. "Easy to open" my arse - the boxes have a "Now Easier To Open Packaging!" tag on them. God knows what it was like before.
After opening a couple of these things I wrote down the procedure to get one of these overpriced cheap plastic dolls out of its wrapper. (Bear in mind I had opened a couple already and had streamlined my operation from the random slash and rip I started out with.)
All I can think is the Third World sweatshop piece worker who assembled this masterpiece of packaging was thinking: "Fuck you, rich western daddy!" as she stuck every vengeful piece of needless tape into a new and improbible place. "How dare you spend all that money on this plastic garbage for your kids; when I have to do this shit to stop mine from starving?"
Good question. I wish I knew the answer.
Woohoo! 27 days to The 2008 Eurovision Song Contest!
After opening a couple of these things I wrote down the procedure to get one of these overpriced cheap plastic dolls out of its wrapper. (Bear in mind I had opened a couple already and had streamlined my operation from the random slash and rip I started out with.)
- Cut 3 pieces of tape to get into box.
- Struggle to open the box while wondering what the tape was there for as it is so well constructed as to be nearly un-openable even when they have been removed.
- Peel 3 more pieces of tape from the outside of the box which hold the piece of plastic which, in turn, holds the cardboard inner sleeve which (finally) has the doll attached to it.
- Bend cardboard inner sleeve almost in half to get it free of the box.
- Cut two pieces of tape that hold together the two halves of the folded cardboard inner sleeve.
- Open cardboard inner sleeve (while wondering what the tape you have just cut was actually for as the two halves of the sleeve turn out to have been glued together.)
- Cut or remove six pieces of tape stuck to one half of the sleeve. This lets you get at the plastic coated wire twists that hold the doll into place against all the plastic supporting struts - also held in place on the sleeve by yet more bits of tape. (On my first couple of dolls I wasted time and effort needlessly freeing these as well.)
- Pull the doll forward and away from the sleeve, then, with a long sharp pair of scissors, cut all the strings (at least eight) sewn through the dolls hair into the cardboard. Be warned: The string is EXACTLY the same colour as the doll's hair.
- Slide doll upwards free of double-sided vacuum formed transparent packaging designed to stop the the doll's psychologically damaging, weirdly detachable feet falling off in transit. (The removal or cutting of near invisible elastic bands may be called for here.)
- Find secret compartment box hidden in base of cardboard inner sleeve which contains: a limited warranty (90 days RTB), an advert for more ugly, big-eyed mutant dolls, and the obligatory nasty plastic comb which is held in place (INSIDE a tiny box!) by another near invisible elastic band threaded through two holes in the side.
- Give doll to daughter who vaguely remembers asking you to open the damn thing and is now too old to play with it.
All I can think is the Third World sweatshop piece worker who assembled this masterpiece of packaging was thinking: "Fuck you, rich western daddy!" as she stuck every vengeful piece of needless tape into a new and improbible place. "How dare you spend all that money on this plastic garbage for your kids; when I have to do this shit to stop mine from starving?"
Good question. I wish I knew the answer.
Irony Gap
Woohoo! 27 days to The 2008 Eurovision Song Contest!
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Holly had a birthday party this afternoon. She'll be six in a couple of days so we had a few friends in from from school and a couple of mums roped in to help. (M and I do 'pathetic' very well.)
One of Holly's best friends at school is Jodie. Jodie's mum, Caroline, is landscape painter, you can't walk into a craftshop round here without seeing her prints of seascapes and moody mountains on the walls. The other day, half jokingly, I suggested that instead of just dropping Jodie off at the party and running away, she should stay and paint the kids' faces - being as she knew one end of the paintbrush from another, and I was desperate to think of some way of keeping the kids amused while I hid in the kitchen. (My plan for the whole party being to stay in there as much as possible and threw piles food out to them at regular intervals. Good plan. It nearly worked.)
Much to my surprise (and relief) Caroline said yes.
When I told Holly that Jodie's mum was going to do face-painting at her party, her first reaction was to jump up and down in the universal littlegirl bodyspeak for great excitement: "Hurray!" she yelled, "She can paint mountains on my face!" - that was her second reaction too - and her third. All suggestions of more usual facepainty subjects were stoutly ignored. And so today - when everyone else had pretty butterflies, and tigers, and dinosaurs on their faces - Holly had the sun setting over the Arnamurchan Peninsular plastered all over her for the whole party.
She loved it.
I love her.
I hope she's still as weird and funny when she's sixteen.
One of Holly's best friends at school is Jodie. Jodie's mum, Caroline, is landscape painter, you can't walk into a craftshop round here without seeing her prints of seascapes and moody mountains on the walls. The other day, half jokingly, I suggested that instead of just dropping Jodie off at the party and running away, she should stay and paint the kids' faces - being as she knew one end of the paintbrush from another, and I was desperate to think of some way of keeping the kids amused while I hid in the kitchen. (My plan for the whole party being to stay in there as much as possible and threw piles food out to them at regular intervals. Good plan. It nearly worked.)
Much to my surprise (and relief) Caroline said yes.
When I told Holly that Jodie's mum was going to do face-painting at her party, her first reaction was to jump up and down in the universal littlegirl bodyspeak for great excitement: "Hurray!" she yelled, "She can paint mountains on my face!" - that was her second reaction too - and her third. All suggestions of more usual facepainty subjects were stoutly ignored. And so today - when everyone else had pretty butterflies, and tigers, and dinosaurs on their faces - Holly had the sun setting over the Arnamurchan Peninsular plastered all over her for the whole party.
She loved it.
I love her.
I hope she's still as weird and funny when she's sixteen.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Aldi
I went shopping today. Dumped Daisy on my mum (thanks, Mum!) and shot off to Oban as fast as I could. 30 miles to The Big City! Bright lights! (Red, red and amber, green! Amber, red!) - more than one shop!
Spring is here at last. It's sort of sneaked (snuck?) up on me this year. But driving down to Oban all the familiar signs were there: primroses on the roadsides, lambs in the fields, and fucking tourists driving at 40 mph in the middle of the road looking at them.
I prefer shopping in Oban to shopping in Fort William. One of the main reasons, apart from the fact Oban is bigger, better and, well, just not Fort William, is the fact that most of the shops I use there (Tesco, Aldi, Lidl and the wholefood shop) don't play music. I hate music in shops. I hate the way the crap they play gets into your skull no matter how hard you try to ignore it. I hate the fact that hours after I come out of a store I suddenly find myself humming a Wham! song, or even worse singing it. I also resent the feeling that I am being manipulated somehow. The music in shops round here is either the amateur inane drivel that passes for our local radio station Nevis Radio (hearing its sub Hospital radio wittering usually makes me head straight for the exit) or mood enhancing music that is presumably carefully chosen to put me in a certain frame of mind, and presumably thereby more susceptible to attractions of whatever the shop is trying to shove off onto the general public this week.
Aldi*, that bastard lovechild of Lidl and Marks and Spencers, has started playing musak. Fortunately they haven't gone down the Radio Local road but presumably have a CD player stacked with music from a playlist approved by Herr Aldi or one of his minions. At first I was annoyed that another of my safeplaces has been invaded by the relentless encroachment of earworming music but I left the shop feeling baffled, unable to work out what level of hypnoshopping I was supposed to feel while having Silver Machine by 70s SF Psychedelic rockers Hawkwind played at me at almost subliminal levels.
**A female diger.
Spring is here at last. It's sort of sneaked (snuck?) up on me this year. But driving down to Oban all the familiar signs were there: primroses on the roadsides, lambs in the fields, and fucking tourists driving at 40 mph in the middle of the road looking at them.
I prefer shopping in Oban to shopping in Fort William. One of the main reasons, apart from the fact Oban is bigger, better and, well, just not Fort William, is the fact that most of the shops I use there (Tesco, Aldi, Lidl and the wholefood shop) don't play music. I hate music in shops. I hate the way the crap they play gets into your skull no matter how hard you try to ignore it. I hate the fact that hours after I come out of a store I suddenly find myself humming a Wham! song, or even worse singing it. I also resent the feeling that I am being manipulated somehow. The music in shops round here is either the amateur inane drivel that passes for our local radio station Nevis Radio (hearing its sub Hospital radio wittering usually makes me head straight for the exit) or mood enhancing music that is presumably carefully chosen to put me in a certain frame of mind, and presumably thereby more susceptible to attractions of whatever the shop is trying to shove off onto the general public this week.
Aldi*, that bastard lovechild of Lidl and Marks and Spencers, has started playing musak. Fortunately they haven't gone down the Radio Local road but presumably have a CD player stacked with music from a playlist approved by Herr Aldi or one of his minions. At first I was annoyed that another of my safeplaces has been invaded by the relentless encroachment of earworming music but I left the shop feeling baffled, unable to work out what level of hypnoshopping I was supposed to feel while having Silver Machine by 70s SF Psychedelic rockers Hawkwind played at me at almost subliminal levels.
I just took a ride*Aldi, for those who have never encountered it is the Fortnum and Mason of budget shopping, Cheap but smart - well, smarter than Lidl anyway. Pile it high and flog it cheap Euroshopping. It's the sort of place where you hear customers berating their children: "You gonnae no do that any more, Craig, or I'll batter ye!" between the ante pasto, and Kalamata olives - I digress**.
Buy fish fingers
in a silver machine
Buy fish fingers
and I'm still feeling mean
Buy fish fingers
I got a silver machine
Buy fish fingers
Do you want to ride
Buy fish fingers
see yourself going by
Buy fish fingers
other side of the sky
Buy fish fingers
Well I got a silver machine
Buy fish fingers
It flies sideways through time
Buy fish fingers
It's an electric line
Buy fish fingers
To your Zodiac sign
Buy fish fingers
It flies out of a dream
Buy fish fingers
It's anti-sceptically clean
Buy very sterile fish fingers
You're gonna know where I've been
Buy fish fingers
In my silver machine
Buy fish fingers
**A female diger.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Daddy, Do You Want The Biggest, The Smallest, Or The In-The-Middlest?
It's bloody typical isn't it?
I nominate myself for a highly prestigious blogging award* and then, suddenly, out of the blue - nothing happens. For days now, since introducing my beloved family to an eager and waiting world, life has been so utterly uninteresting that the only thing worth mentioning has been the fact there is nothing worth mentioning.
The weather is balmy, the kids are being normal, I haven't tried to kill myself or cause myself grievous bodily harm in any humorous manner since the bonfire incident, the plumbers didn't turn up to finish (ie start) the upstairs bathroom for the umpteenth week in a row, nothing.
Meanwhile:
I am so tempted to write to Mr Lakeland again. (Though, after the dead end that was the Chemical Free Ant Stoppa Tape Saga(ette), I don't think there's really a lot of point.) Today, because I didn't immediately bin the catalogue as soon as it arrived a couple of weeks ago - and Merriol found it, there arrived in the post a large cardboard box containing many plasticy delights from Lakeland including:
Lakeland Ecoclean Bathroom Cleaner
- Spring Water Fragrance
*too subtle?
I nominate myself for a highly prestigious blogging award* and then, suddenly, out of the blue - nothing happens. For days now, since introducing my beloved family to an eager and waiting world, life has been so utterly uninteresting that the only thing worth mentioning has been the fact there is nothing worth mentioning.
The weather is balmy, the kids are being normal, I haven't tried to kill myself or cause myself grievous bodily harm in any humorous manner since the bonfire incident, the plumbers didn't turn up to finish (ie start) the upstairs bathroom for the umpteenth week in a row, nothing.
"There were no wrecks and nobody drownded,
'Fact, nothin' to laugh at at all!"
Meanwhile:
I am so tempted to write to Mr Lakeland again. (Though, after the dead end that was the Chemical Free Ant Stoppa Tape Saga(ette), I don't think there's really a lot of point.) Today, because I didn't immediately bin the catalogue as soon as it arrived a couple of weeks ago - and Merriol found it, there arrived in the post a large cardboard box containing many plasticy delights from Lakeland including:
Lakeland Ecoclean Bathroom Cleaner
- Spring Water Fragrance
I cannot wait to find out what water smells like.
*too subtle?
Friday, April 18, 2008
New readers Start Here:
This blog has been nominated as a best blog over at Thebestoftheblogs.com in the Best Daddy Blog category. (In a moment of shameless self-promotion I nominated myself. It's in the rules; it's allowed.)
So, confidently expecting a doubling of my readership here, I would just like to take this moment to welcome both of you with a quick rundown of the Dramatis personæ:
My parents live next door; Merriol's parents live about 300 miles away. We have two ducks in the yard.
This blog is a way for me to keep sane, and let off steam, and reassure myself I am capable of coherent thought after a long day looking after the psychotic dwarfs that are my children.
It not is here to promote any great ideas I may have once had. It is here purely to keep me sane. With only the kids to talk to for most of the day -
It's that or think about naked ladies more than I do.
So here I am, and here is where I waffle on about my love of dreadful SF movies - I suspect I just lost one of you - acting, my kids, my unintentional attempts to get a Darwin Award, scriptwriting, my cartoons, the infrequently annual No Shit Sherlock Awards for statements of the blindingly obvious, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera...
Soon I will ask you to vote for me over at Thebestoftheblogs.com in the most pitiful and pathetic looking font I can find - the results to be announced sometime before the Zimbabwean election results finally come in.
If I make the short list.
So, confidently expecting a doubling of my readership here, I would just like to take this moment to welcome both of you with a quick rundown of the Dramatis personæ:
Liam (me)
- 48 year old, sometime actor, full time stay at home dad to:Holly
- aged 5, inventor of 'Fish Tennis', tragic comedienne, and big sister of:Daisy
- aged 3, surreal interior decorating master who, together with mum:Merriol
- (aged XX) who spends her time throwing herself in front speeding piles of NHS paperwork in order to allow doctors to actually see patients occasionally, all live in a semi-converted Victorian School (with inadequate comforts) on the wetter side of a tallish mountain in Scotland. My parents live next door; Merriol's parents live about 300 miles away. We have two ducks in the yard.
This blog is a way for me to keep sane, and let off steam, and reassure myself I am capable of coherent thought after a long day looking after the psychotic dwarfs that are my children.
It not is here to promote any great ideas I may have once had. It is here purely to keep me sane. With only the kids to talk to for most of the day -
"Daisy, can Daddy listen to some of his music now? We've had the Lazytown CD on three times now? Pleeeaaase!"
- I need a lifeline to cling too,
a little project that I can work on and half-write in my head during the day while my body, and what's left of my brain after six years of child-caring, gets on with the tedious routines of the day.It's that or think about naked ladies more than I do.
So here I am, and here is where I waffle on about my love of dreadful SF movies - I suspect I just lost one of you - acting, my kids, my unintentional attempts to get a Darwin Award, scriptwriting, my cartoons, the infrequently annual No Shit Sherlock Awards for statements of the blindingly obvious, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera...
Soon I will ask you to vote for me over at Thebestoftheblogs.com in the most pitiful and pathetic looking font I can find - the results to be announced sometime before the Zimbabwean election results finally come in.
If I make the short list.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Fixed the kids' computer yesterday.
For a couple of weeks now they have been playing on it without sound - which is not a great hardship as they mostly play with painting and colouring packages. It's been silent ever since M and I unplugged all the peripherals, moved it, and plugged everything into another old computer that has been sat around for a couple of years. We did this on the off-chance that it worked (it didn't) and it was better than the one they have (almost certainly - apart from the fact it was dead).
After putting their machine back where we'd got it, and plugging everything back in, the sound refused to work. I tweaked and checked every setting I could find but nothing I did made any difference. My eventual conclusion was that, by moving the machine, we had dislodged something inside. Yesterday I took the case off - then switched it off at the mains (doh!) - and carefully took out everything in the expansion slots (the fact that I am almost certainly getting my terminology wrong here shows how much I really knew what I was doing), I examined each one of them carefully as if I did know what I was doing - "Hmmm", I hmmmed knowledgeably, just in case anyone was looking. "No obvious scorch marks, no big holes, cracks, or Barbie parts glued to them... well they look all right to me.*" - I put them all back in their homes again. I screwed the casing back on and plugged the speakers into the sound card.
Not the modem, the sound card.
The speakers had been plugged into the modem. When we had reassembled the machine, after trying out the other one, we had put the jack in the wrong socket.
Sometimes I feel so fucking stupid it hurts.
*Visual inspection of electronics is a life skill everyone should cultivate. Circuit boards are fascinatingly pretty. Don't understand a sodding thing about them but they look wonderful.
For a couple of weeks now they have been playing on it without sound - which is not a great hardship as they mostly play with painting and colouring packages. It's been silent ever since M and I unplugged all the peripherals, moved it, and plugged everything into another old computer that has been sat around for a couple of years. We did this on the off-chance that it worked (it didn't) and it was better than the one they have (almost certainly - apart from the fact it was dead).
After putting their machine back where we'd got it, and plugging everything back in, the sound refused to work. I tweaked and checked every setting I could find but nothing I did made any difference. My eventual conclusion was that, by moving the machine, we had dislodged something inside. Yesterday I took the case off - then switched it off at the mains (doh!) - and carefully took out everything in the expansion slots (the fact that I am almost certainly getting my terminology wrong here shows how much I really knew what I was doing), I examined each one of them carefully as if I did know what I was doing - "Hmmm", I hmmmed knowledgeably, just in case anyone was looking. "No obvious scorch marks, no big holes, cracks, or Barbie parts glued to them... well they look all right to me.*" - I put them all back in their homes again. I screwed the casing back on and plugged the speakers into the sound card.
Not the modem, the sound card.
The speakers had been plugged into the modem. When we had reassembled the machine, after trying out the other one, we had put the jack in the wrong socket.
Sometimes I feel so fucking stupid it hurts.
*Visual inspection of electronics is a life skill everyone should cultivate. Circuit boards are fascinatingly pretty. Don't understand a sodding thing about them but they look wonderful.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
This morning after dropping Holly off at school, it being an unusually not raining and sunny day, Daisy and I spent a little longer than usual hanging around the gates talking to the other mums. As we nattered this huge hydraulic cherry picker lorry thing slowly inched its way into the school playground. A van full of blokes in hard hats and flurescent jackets arrived shortly after. They all piled out of the van, and after a few minutes of blokish talking to the cherry picker driver and blokish pointing, and consulting bits of paper on clipboards, they deployed the cherry picker and two of them went for a ride. Up and up they went. Nowhere near any buildings, or pylons, or cables; just straight up into the air. One of the pair had a pair of binoculars and had a good look around - then they came down again.
The school is at the back of the village and is just about the highest building around. The playground is certainly the highest level space they could have set up their machine without having to demolish someone's garden or build something to stand it on. They must have had a good view of the whole area.
I left before they had finished coming back down again and before I succumbed to the temptation to go over and ask them what they were doing. I need more mysteries in my life. I would like to think they were lost and trying to find their way to the main road though I doubt it but I'll never know now.
The school is at the back of the village and is just about the highest building around. The playground is certainly the highest level space they could have set up their machine without having to demolish someone's garden or build something to stand it on. They must have had a good view of the whole area.
I left before they had finished coming back down again and before I succumbed to the temptation to go over and ask them what they were doing. I need more mysteries in my life. I would like to think they were lost and trying to find their way to the main road though I doubt it but I'll never know now.
Monday, April 14, 2008
I nearly set fire to my head today. I'll set the scene: A couple of months ago we had some horrendous gales which knocked over a couple of trees in my Mum and Dad's garden. To make it easier to clear up in the immediate aftermath, to give Dad room to chainsaw the trunk and bigger branches into logs for the fire, all the smaller branches were heaped in my garden - where they've sat for ages waiting for something to be done with them.
A few weeks ago I decided that the weed and scrub infested patch of garden outside my kitchen window was going to be cleared of all the weeds and scrub and become a vegetable garden. So, from time to time, as the weather and kids have allowed, I've been grubbing up all the incredibly invasive and evil Common Snowberry (aka Symphoricarpos albus, aka "Bobblebush"), Common Nettle, and Raspberries that had woven this impenetrable mesh of roots all over the place. The Snowberry was the worst. It's tenacious stuff Bobblebush. Digging it up is like trying to dig up a mattress. As I wrestled this bastard stuff out of the ground I threw all the roots, and sticky-uppy bits, into a huge heap in the garden (a different bit) where they've sat for ages - waiting for something to be done with them.
Today was the day I did something with them.
Down at one end of the garden is a big hole that was supposed to be a pond but I got bored with digging it - and then we got kids and we didn't think having a pond with toddlers was such a good idea - and I really was bored with digging the hole. Big holes in the ground are great for burning things in. These days the proto-pond just gets garbage piled in it till we get bored of doing that - then we burn it.
Today was sunny and bright, with a light wind from the west (ie away from the house) in short, the perfect day for setting fire to a hole in the ground. So: empty in the waste paper bin, lob on a bag containing six months worth of old candle ends - and apply match. Whoomf! Spend the next four hours throwing things on top and getting all hunter-gatherish and primitive - Fire! Mongo like Fire. Fire good. Fire is our friend - until Merriol comes home from work and asks me why I am being all hunter-gatherish and primitive in my only decent shirt? (Answer: "Erm? - It was the one on top of my shirt pile this morning?") She made me go change it.
From time to time the bonfire would burst into sudden and impressive crackling and roaring life. Sometimes it would just sit there and smoulder until poked. When it flared up, sparks and hot ashes flew into the air. Occasionally a nearby part of the garden would start to smoulder and need some water thrown at it. During one of the more spectacular flare-ups I heard another crackling noise, like the one coming from the bonfire, but a lot closer. I turned around to see what was making the noise - and the noise moved with me.
I'm glad to say it didn't take me THAT long to realise my hair was on fire. A few slaps round my ear and it was out.
I've never set my head on fire before. It's not an experience I think I'll repeat in a hurry.
A few weeks ago I decided that the weed and scrub infested patch of garden outside my kitchen window was going to be cleared of all the weeds and scrub and become a vegetable garden. So, from time to time, as the weather and kids have allowed, I've been grubbing up all the incredibly invasive and evil Common Snowberry (aka Symphoricarpos albus, aka "Bobblebush"), Common Nettle, and Raspberries that had woven this impenetrable mesh of roots all over the place. The Snowberry was the worst. It's tenacious stuff Bobblebush. Digging it up is like trying to dig up a mattress. As I wrestled this bastard stuff out of the ground I threw all the roots, and sticky-uppy bits, into a huge heap in the garden (a different bit) where they've sat for ages - waiting for something to be done with them.
Today was the day I did something with them.
Down at one end of the garden is a big hole that was supposed to be a pond but I got bored with digging it - and then we got kids and we didn't think having a pond with toddlers was such a good idea - and I really was bored with digging the hole. Big holes in the ground are great for burning things in. These days the proto-pond just gets garbage piled in it till we get bored of doing that - then we burn it.
Today was sunny and bright, with a light wind from the west (ie away from the house) in short, the perfect day for setting fire to a hole in the ground. So: empty in the waste paper bin, lob on a bag containing six months worth of old candle ends - and apply match. Whoomf! Spend the next four hours throwing things on top and getting all hunter-gatherish and primitive - Fire! Mongo like Fire. Fire good. Fire is our friend - until Merriol comes home from work and asks me why I am being all hunter-gatherish and primitive in my only decent shirt? (Answer: "Erm? - It was the one on top of my shirt pile this morning?") She made me go change it.
From time to time the bonfire would burst into sudden and impressive crackling and roaring life. Sometimes it would just sit there and smoulder until poked. When it flared up, sparks and hot ashes flew into the air. Occasionally a nearby part of the garden would start to smoulder and need some water thrown at it. During one of the more spectacular flare-ups I heard another crackling noise, like the one coming from the bonfire, but a lot closer. I turned around to see what was making the noise - and the noise moved with me.
I'm glad to say it didn't take me THAT long to realise my hair was on fire. A few slaps round my ear and it was out.
I've never set my head on fire before. It's not an experience I think I'll repeat in a hurry.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
I've Added Things To My Birthday Wish List. I Couldn't Find A Pencil So I Added The Last One In Lipstick!
Holly will be six in two weeks and we have done nothing about as yet apart from buying her a DVD of the The Singing Ringing Tree, a film I haven't seen since it was shown sliced into episodes on the BBC back in 1964 (I was 5). It had an evil dwarf, a weird talking fish, a singing ringing tree, a prince that turns into a bear and a petulant Communist princess. It's a movie which, if the reviews and bloggings about it (This is a good one) I found on a short hop around the web are to be believed, traumatised a generation.
I have vivid memories of it 40 years after having seen it. I think Holly is just the right age for it. I do so want her to get the full flavour of the weirdnesses and darknesses of real Fairy Tales. And not just the happy tra-la-la formula Disneyfied versions.
I grew up reading Grimm's Fairy Tales, which are not exactly My Little Barbyland, and having the bejeasus scared out of me by the Daleks on Dr Who (the real Daleks. Not the touchy-feely "Love me, I'm misunderstood." modern Daleks. None of this "We Are The Daleks! What is our motivation in this scene, Duckie? Motivate! Motivate!" Not that kind of Dalek; the real Daleks - evil fucking ruthless evil fucking fucking scary fucking evil things. Nazis in buckets. God! they were scary. I really did used to watch Dr Who from behind the safety of Dalek-proof furniture - though, now I come to think of it, I remember the Cybermen being the ones who really used to put the willies up me*.)
I don't think we scare our kids enough these days.
I was regularly scared - in a controlled and safe way. It was only make believe and it was obviously make believe. As kids we bought into the fantasy of Dr Who. We were willing participants. We could see the dodgy sets were made from stacked milk crates and bubble wrap and we knew all the corridors looked the same because it was the same corridor shot from 100 slightly different angles, and every planet The Doctor landed on looked suspiciously like the same abandoned quarry they filmed in last season, but we knew all that - and we chose to ignore it. We joined in. We could see the strings holding the characters up in Thunderbirds. It didn't stop us clinging to the edges of our seats in excitement. (Thunderbirds you could watch sitting on the Dalek-proof furniture not hiding behind it; Thunderbirds was exciting, not scary). These days, with the advances in CGI, and the increased size of the TV screens, and the fact that what they see on it is in colour - which it wasn't when I were a lad - I worry that my kids won't have that gap to jump. They won't have to actively suspend their disbelief like we did. When everything looks real, where is the space for their imagination?
I'm glad to say that Holly at least seems to be making that jump. I may have rattled on about this before, but some of her favourite videos are things like Chorlton and the Wheelies, The Clangers and Bagpuss. Ancient shows which use (by today's standards) very clumsy stop-motion animation. What they do have however is room for the kids to imagine. And some funny scripts. What they see on the screen in toys coming to life. Real toys, just like theirs.
Stotting around Google looking for The Singing Ringing Tree I also found this:
*Stop writing your own jokes at the back there.
I have vivid memories of it 40 years after having seen it. I think Holly is just the right age for it. I do so want her to get the full flavour of the weirdnesses and darknesses of real Fairy Tales. And not just the happy tra-la-la formula Disneyfied versions.
I grew up reading Grimm's Fairy Tales, which are not exactly My Little Barbyland, and having the bejeasus scared out of me by the Daleks on Dr Who (the real Daleks. Not the touchy-feely "Love me, I'm misunderstood." modern Daleks. None of this "We Are The Daleks! What is our motivation in this scene, Duckie? Motivate! Motivate!" Not that kind of Dalek; the real Daleks - evil fucking ruthless evil fucking fucking scary fucking evil things. Nazis in buckets. God! they were scary. I really did used to watch Dr Who from behind the safety of Dalek-proof furniture - though, now I come to think of it, I remember the Cybermen being the ones who really used to put the willies up me*.)
I don't think we scare our kids enough these days.
I was regularly scared - in a controlled and safe way. It was only make believe and it was obviously make believe. As kids we bought into the fantasy of Dr Who. We were willing participants. We could see the dodgy sets were made from stacked milk crates and bubble wrap and we knew all the corridors looked the same because it was the same corridor shot from 100 slightly different angles, and every planet The Doctor landed on looked suspiciously like the same abandoned quarry they filmed in last season, but we knew all that - and we chose to ignore it. We joined in. We could see the strings holding the characters up in Thunderbirds. It didn't stop us clinging to the edges of our seats in excitement. (Thunderbirds you could watch sitting on the Dalek-proof furniture not hiding behind it; Thunderbirds was exciting, not scary). These days, with the advances in CGI, and the increased size of the TV screens, and the fact that what they see on it is in colour - which it wasn't when I were a lad - I worry that my kids won't have that gap to jump. They won't have to actively suspend their disbelief like we did. When everything looks real, where is the space for their imagination?
I'm glad to say that Holly at least seems to be making that jump. I may have rattled on about this before, but some of her favourite videos are things like Chorlton and the Wheelies, The Clangers and Bagpuss. Ancient shows which use (by today's standards) very clumsy stop-motion animation. What they do have however is room for the kids to imagine. And some funny scripts. What they see on the screen in toys coming to life. Real toys, just like theirs.
Stotting around Google looking for The Singing Ringing Tree I also found this:
A sculpture called The Singing Ringing Tree Which lives on a hillside in Burnley Lancs. And very lovely.
*Stop writing your own jokes at the back there.
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
"I Know it Like the Back of My Own Hand"
Apart from sometimes.
I didn't recognise the back of my hand the other day. I can't remember the exact circumstances, I was probably upstairs in the office doing something or other trivial, but I do remember I was scratching the knuckles on my left hand when I became concious of the fact that I had been doing that a lot recently. An awful lot. I looked at my hand and had a really horrible moment of 'what the fuck is that?'. 'That' was my hand. Nothing weird about it, no sudden pustular growths breaking out, no suddenly noticing I had grown another finger in the night. It just looked so sodding OLD.
My hands were grey, cracked, and wrinkled. I really had trouble reconciling what I was looking at with the fact that I was looking at a bit of me. Parts of my 48 year old body were suddenly looking like the less attractive parts of Boris Karloff's make up in The Mummy - and he was supposed to be 3,000 years old! (Mind you ancient fictional Egyptian princes like Im-ho-tep didn't do the amount of washing up and laundry I do). A couple of days of slapping the kids' emollient cream over them at every opportunity and they were looking more like the the dirty pink things I'm used to seeing at the end of my arms but for a day or two I though someone had destroyed the portrait of me hidden in the attic.
It made me start to wonder how many people would recognise the backs of their hands if, say, they were presented with photos of their own hands to pick out of dozens of others. After a fruitless hour trying to find if anyone has ever done this simple experiment (The Institute for Improbable Research seemed like a good place to start) I spent another hour or so constructing a double blind trial to establish whether people really do know what the back of their hand looks like. (It involved hidden cameras and gloves.) I've added this experiment to my list of Pointless Projects I Will Never Get Round To Undertaking along with those I listed here a long time ago.
To wit:
But if there is someone out there with a truckload of money and a burning need to know...
I didn't recognise the back of my hand the other day. I can't remember the exact circumstances, I was probably upstairs in the office doing something or other trivial, but I do remember I was scratching the knuckles on my left hand when I became concious of the fact that I had been doing that a lot recently. An awful lot. I looked at my hand and had a really horrible moment of 'what the fuck is that?'. 'That' was my hand. Nothing weird about it, no sudden pustular growths breaking out, no suddenly noticing I had grown another finger in the night. It just looked so sodding OLD.
My hands were grey, cracked, and wrinkled. I really had trouble reconciling what I was looking at with the fact that I was looking at a bit of me. Parts of my 48 year old body were suddenly looking like the less attractive parts of Boris Karloff's make up in The Mummy - and he was supposed to be 3,000 years old! (Mind you ancient fictional Egyptian princes like Im-ho-tep didn't do the amount of washing up and laundry I do). A couple of days of slapping the kids' emollient cream over them at every opportunity and they were looking more like the the dirty pink things I'm used to seeing at the end of my arms but for a day or two I though someone had destroyed the portrait of me hidden in the attic.
It made me start to wonder how many people would recognise the backs of their hands if, say, they were presented with photos of their own hands to pick out of dozens of others. After a fruitless hour trying to find if anyone has ever done this simple experiment (The Institute for Improbable Research seemed like a good place to start) I spent another hour or so constructing a double blind trial to establish whether people really do know what the back of their hand looks like. (It involved hidden cameras and gloves.) I've added this experiment to my list of Pointless Projects I Will Never Get Round To Undertaking along with those I listed here a long time ago.
To wit:
- An international data base cataloguing the times between the appearance of a swimming pool in a movie and the time someone falls into, is pushed into, or is discovered floating face down in it (depending on the type of movie).
- An international data base cataloguing the times a swimming pool appears in a movie and no one falls into, is pushed into, or is discovered floating face down in it (depending on the type of movie). Because it annoys Phoebe.
- The definitive episode by episode guide to the number of times characters say: "Omigod!" in Friends (the resulting site to be called www.theonewheretheysayomigodalot.com)
- A detailed survey of the extras in Babylon 5 pinpointing (with screencaps) the appearance of a particular hat which seems to be in every episode of at least the first 3 seasons.
But if there is someone out there with a truckload of money and a burning need to know...
Sunday, April 06, 2008
New coin designs were revealed to (and instantly reviled by) the waiting British public this week.
£1.88
I'm not sure about them. It's clever but is it... what? Art? I don't know. I haven't made my mind up yet. I just know that, apart from that moment when a new design of coin or note turns up in your pocket, no one actually looks at the things for more than a moment. We look at money for as long as it takes to work out the value of the coin before handing it over but that's about it. Occasionally we might have a: "Coo, not seen one of those before." when something about the shiny round thing in our hand looks different (it usually means someone's slipped a Zloty into your change at the supermarket) but the novelty soon wears off.
I was surprised to see that they are still going to make pennies.
Why? Pennies are all but obsolete. There is nothing you can buy for a penny these days. Their only uses are to be given as that psychologically important piece of change for items marked up at £299.99. ("It was a bargain, honest! Less than three hundred quid!") and to lurk unnoticed in trouser pockets till they get their chance to clog up a washing machine filter.
How much does it cost to make a penny?
It's not as if they are even very attractive. Old pennies... * - (read this next bit in a croaky old 'When I were a lad, Cadbury's Creme Eggs were twice size they are nowadays, and plums actually tasted of something' voice:) - ** When I were a lad, Pennies were bloody great big things; the size of Wagon Wheels and all sorts of colours, from shiny, freshly-minted (or shiny, fresh from experiments with HP sauce), to blackish, almost featureless, discs used so often and for so long it was sometimes impossible to work out which particular HRH was on the front. Is that George the Fourth? or Edward the Whateverth? (I was always rubbish at my Royals). Some of them were green with the amazing, ages-old patina that makes Bronze statues so wonderful to look at, even when the sculpting is shite. Old pennies were great and as a kid I loved them. I always had this ambition to own a penny from every year of the century - but kept spending them before I got anywhere near realising it.
... and Cadbury's Creme Eggs were bigger - and so were Wagon Wheels.
Today, prompted by the news of the new issue, I pulled down my box with all the old coins that I have acquired over the years. It's not a 'collection', just a place I drop all those Zloties, Kopecs, and other unspendable bits of metal that have turned up in my pockets over the last couple of decades. Holly was fascinated with them, which is not surprising really as there are lots of weird and wonderful bits of coinage in there from all over the world. She really liked the ones that had crinkle-cut edges or holes in. I strung one of the ones with a hole on a piece of cotton thread and made her a pendant. There were a lot of old pennies in there too.
Modern pennies are piddling useless - and rust; there's a lot of iron in them. They look coppery but will stick to a magnet. Coins shouldn't rust! Rust isn't sexy or good looking. They'll look really rubbish when they get old.
Let's just dump the things. Every year the price of everything inexorably rises. Every year the penny in your washing machine is worth less and less. How worthless do they have to get before someone has the courage to junk the things?
*start of weird punctuation.
** end of weird punctuation.
£1.88
I'm not sure about them. It's clever but is it... what? Art? I don't know. I haven't made my mind up yet. I just know that, apart from that moment when a new design of coin or note turns up in your pocket, no one actually looks at the things for more than a moment. We look at money for as long as it takes to work out the value of the coin before handing it over but that's about it. Occasionally we might have a: "Coo, not seen one of those before." when something about the shiny round thing in our hand looks different (it usually means someone's slipped a Zloty into your change at the supermarket) but the novelty soon wears off.
I was surprised to see that they are still going to make pennies.
Why? Pennies are all but obsolete. There is nothing you can buy for a penny these days. Their only uses are to be given as that psychologically important piece of change for items marked up at £299.99. ("It was a bargain, honest! Less than three hundred quid!") and to lurk unnoticed in trouser pockets till they get their chance to clog up a washing machine filter.
How much does it cost to make a penny?
It's not as if they are even very attractive. Old pennies... * - (read this next bit in a croaky old 'When I were a lad, Cadbury's Creme Eggs were twice size they are nowadays, and plums actually tasted of something' voice:) - ** When I were a lad, Pennies were bloody great big things; the size of Wagon Wheels and all sorts of colours, from shiny, freshly-minted (or shiny, fresh from experiments with HP sauce), to blackish, almost featureless, discs used so often and for so long it was sometimes impossible to work out which particular HRH was on the front. Is that George the Fourth? or Edward the Whateverth? (I was always rubbish at my Royals). Some of them were green with the amazing, ages-old patina that makes Bronze statues so wonderful to look at, even when the sculpting is shite. Old pennies were great and as a kid I loved them. I always had this ambition to own a penny from every year of the century - but kept spending them before I got anywhere near realising it.
... and Cadbury's Creme Eggs were bigger - and so were Wagon Wheels.
Today, prompted by the news of the new issue, I pulled down my box with all the old coins that I have acquired over the years. It's not a 'collection', just a place I drop all those Zloties, Kopecs, and other unspendable bits of metal that have turned up in my pockets over the last couple of decades. Holly was fascinated with them, which is not surprising really as there are lots of weird and wonderful bits of coinage in there from all over the world. She really liked the ones that had crinkle-cut edges or holes in. I strung one of the ones with a hole on a piece of cotton thread and made her a pendant. There were a lot of old pennies in there too.
Modern pennies are piddling useless - and rust; there's a lot of iron in them. They look coppery but will stick to a magnet. Coins shouldn't rust! Rust isn't sexy or good looking. They'll look really rubbish when they get old.
Let's just dump the things. Every year the price of everything inexorably rises. Every year the penny in your washing machine is worth less and less. How worthless do they have to get before someone has the courage to junk the things?
*start of weird punctuation.
** end of weird punctuation.
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
Every Movie What I Have Watched in 2008 - Part One (of Four)
Sorry, but it's that time of the year again.
Jan
Elektra
- Comic book based flick about 'Back from the dead' female assassin with issues. I gived up after 15 minutes when I realised it wasn't going to stop looking like a car commercial. Terrence Stamp appeared in flashback as the aged martial arts master and looked bored out of his skull, if he couldn't be bothered why should I? Presumably he was getting paid to be there; I wasn't.
Cavegirl
- I can do no better than quote one of the IMDb reviews of this piece of shit: "a woefully unfunny film, with none of the 'so-bad-it's-entertaining' elements which similar films sometimes provide." Yep, that just about sums it up.
Hamlet
- Ethan Hawke in the title role and a cast of worthies totally at sea in a total fuck-up of a movie in which the director spends most of his time trying to point the camera at the BACK of
whoever is speaking's head in order to make the lousily-recorded, mumbling and whispering that they are doing totally incomprehensible.
Only Liev Schrieber (as Laertes) looked like he had a clue what his character was meant to be saying and then said it with a clarity and conviction that just made everyone else look even more lost. I lasted 30 minutes before hitting the off button.
Hairspray
- I love the original. This watered-down, fat, slick incredibly bland, mush made me want to puke. Dreadful. Which is a pity cos Mrs. JM bought it for me as a pressy and I wanted to like it so much. (In retaliation I bought her Love Actually which see had long wanted to see but had never got round to watching. She hated it; so we're even.)
Jan
- Cat People
- Jacques Tourneur's lovely little 1942 chiller. - Dlug
- Horribly realistic and compulsive Polish 'based on real events' crime film, with some slightly odd subtitling. Thanks M, I finally got round to watching it. - Zeta One
- Abysmal late 1960s British Ultra Soft-core Porno SF exploitation shite. Total pants with no plot but lots of nekkid tits (like THESE!) bouncing about (a bit). - Missile to the Moon
- second Matriarchal Space Bimbo movie of the night, with no nekkid tits this time (dammit!) but one of the most genius bits of American Desk Drawer acting ever. It's a well know fact of life that the only reason you ever open a desk drawer in an American film is to pull out a powerful (loaded) handgun. Only reason. The only thing Americans keep in the top drawers of any desk is firearms. Early on in this movie one
of our aged scientists does just this. He opens a desk drawer and pulls out a luger which he slips into his pocket. A few minutes later his partner becomes aware of unexplained things happening out on the missile launch pad and decides to investigate - but first!... he goes
to the desk and pulls open the top drawer. But what's this? The gun has gone! He stares into the desk drawer for a moment. No Gun? Drawer. Open. No gun? How can this be? A look of blank incomprehension registers on his face (not unlike that on William Macey repeatedly saying "Hi Honey, I'm home!" in Pleasantville and receiving no reply). He shuts the drawer - and after a moment - it's crazy but it might just work - pulls open the top drawer ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE DESK - and Whew! pulls out a powerful (loaded) hand gun and rushes off to investigate... - Empire of the Ants
- and then there are those moments, usually at about 3:30 am like this one was, when you find yourself watching Joan Collins running round a mangrove swamp screaming at variably sized, giant, radioactive ants when you think to yourself, "Why AM I watching this shit? I really must get a grip." Bergman and Kurosawa for a bit I think... - Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea
- okay, It's not Bergman but it's not AS trashy as giant Radioactive ants - though equally scientifically dubious (apparently the world is DOOMED to a horrible death by hotness after a spark from a passing meteorite caused the Van Allen Radiation belts to catch fire and only firing a nuclear missile into it from a
particular angle will cause the belts to pop like a balloon and save the human race from a severe crisping) okay it is as trashy but at least Irwin Allen won an Oscar! (though, admittedly, not for this film). I'll get to the good stuff next week. - TXH 1138 The Directors Cut
- This ain't the film I saw all those years ago. It's visually stunning but I wish it hadn't been fucked about with. I now need to see the original again. - Ed Wood
- Lovely film. My favourite Tim Burton movie. - Bride of the Monster
- and after a movie about Edward D Wood Jr what could be more appropriate than a movie by Edward D Wood Jr.? Starring Bela Lugosi in his next to last completed movie Bride of the Monster contains one of the greatest bits of weird acting of his career (and that's saying something). There's a moment towards the start of the film where a hapless victim wakes to find himself strapped to the Doctor's diabolical surgical table and about to be experimented upon.
Hey, what gives! "Soon," gloats Dr Varnoff (Bela in white coat and stethoscope), "you will be asa bik as a chiant, wid the strength ov twenty men, or -- like all the others, DEAD!" He throws the lever. Lights flash. The victim convulses against the straps binding him tothe table then falls limp. Bela registers horror (or something) and steps forward. Dons the stethoscope, listens to the man's heart.
Nothing.
His shoulders slump another failure.... Then. In a truly inspired moment of acting genius (Bela is so in the moment here) he discerns a possible glimmer of hope and... stethoscope still in place - listens to the man's head! .. and then his wrist! ...only then does he finally give up hope. - Plan 9 From Outer Space
- or another. RIP Vampira, the actress who played her, Maili Nurmi, died two days ago. - Frankenstein's Daughter
- better than expected drive-in monster-movie drek from the director of the dire Missile to the Moon. Best line: "From here on in, I decide what is evil." - The Importance of Being Earnest
- A dreadful 2002 remake which seems to exist only because someone lobbed some taxpayers money in the film makers direction. - Carry on up the Khyber
- Sod all those Merchant-Ivory, Helena Bonham Carter swanning about in muslin and soft focus, picture-postcard "terribly terribly" crud. This is the way to make movies about The Raj. - The Doomsday Machine
- again. Deliriously weirder on a re-watching. - Timechaser
- (MST3K) a whole movie full of people who never worked again. - Living in Oblivion - Brilliant
. I love this film.
- Gog
- Funniest ending to a crap movie I have seen for ages. Aged, venerable Herbert Marshall bursting into the control room of the atomic reactor waving a flame thrower to destroy the OTHER killer robot on the loose. I nearly wet myself I was laughing so much. - Lady in Cement
- I gave my brain a rest from killer robots, V2s on Venus and the other
absurdities of cheap 50s SF movies and watched Frank Sinatra sleepwalking as a private eye. Some of the worst sound I've ever heard on an American movie. The film was on the Free to Air Movies4men channel and I spent most of the running time wondering why a channel with such a butch sounding name was showing endless commercials for Dove beauty products, fabric conditioners, and 'Lite' mayonnaise. Movies4Men who shave their pits and look after themselves while watching fat old crooners running around waving guns? - The Abominable Dr. Phibes
- cheesy, bizarre, camp, and very funny. - Dr. Phibes Rises Again
- more of the same. - Scream and Scream Again
- 1970 British horror/SF movie with some really great hand held camera-work and a plot that almost worked if you didn't think about it. - The People Vs Larry Flint
- Mr Smith Goes to Washington - with porn. - Hercules Unchained
- I attempt to watch a Steve Reeves movie without thinking of the Rocky Horror Picture Show once - and fail as I knew I must. Shot in the same quarry as every other Italian Movie of the period and stuffed full with gems of mangilated movie Inglish, hilariously camp performances, and the only stretch war chariots ever put on screen. - Phantom From Space
- A masterful use of stock footage and very little plot. The highlight of the movie for me was watching a bunch of scientist and police hero types happily standing around an abandoned Alien's space suit sat on a shortish table, the top of which was about level with their nads, telling each other the suit was so radioactive that they shouldn't touch it. Clever that.
- Star Wars
- it's 10 years since I last saw Star Wars. 1998 the New Improved with Added Jabba The Hutt Special Edition came out. I was working in Leicester on an aborted feature film called Dirty British Boys with Shashi Kapoor and some bloke from Brookside, one night most of the crew piled into town to see the New Improved! Star Wars (with added Jabba!) in the cinema. I fell asleep. I fell asleep again last night. I think I may have finally grown up. Star Wars, I have finally realised, isn't a particularly good film. - Knight's Tale
- The late Heath Ledger having fun. Enjoyable nonsense. - Beyond The Valley of the Dolls
- right off my Whatthefuck?ometer this one. Don't know what to make of it but I laughed a lot - I think I was supposed to. - The Invisible Man
- the 1933 James Whale original, not the best of Whale's films but fun. - Kiss Kiss Bang Bang
- More fun! What's going on? I don't watch films to have fun! - The Phantom of the Opera
- The 1943 Claude Rains Nelson Eddy affair. The DVD transfer was lovely I loved the Technicolor. Pity the movie wasn't much cop. - Shrek the Third
- bought as a Christmas pressy for the kids. I was rather disappointed. Beautiful to look at but the story was so thin. - Vynález zkázy
- a rather wonderful 1958 Czech weirdness of live action and animation based on a Jules Verne novel. Any movie which contains shots of roller-skating camels is okay by me. - War of the Robots
- early Al Bradly movies. (A mysteriously awful compulsion.) This one is famous for containing the longest and dullest space battle ever committed to film and certainly wins some sort of special award for reused footage. The same three shots get used over and over again - and then used again as back projection behind the "set" of the space fighter. It's one of those movies in which if you see someone going up a flight of steps, you will sure as hell see them coming down them later. Maximum use of minimal sets. There's one 'battle' late on in the movie between our heroic PVC clad crew and an neverendless supply of killer robots in wigs, that takes place in a single doorway. Zap! Next Zap! Next Zap! Next, (change the angle) Zap! Next Zap! Next... - Return of the Killer Tomatoes
- The best 10p I've spent in a charity shop for a while. Crude, stupid, and funny. - Mighty Jack
- Oh my dear god! Two episodes of a late 60s live-action, Thunderbirds type, Japanese Spy thriller TV series about the crew of a giant flying submarine combating international terrorists threatening the world with unmeltable ice, edited down to a totally incomprehensible movie-length mess. Off the scale on the old bewilderometer - at least 92.7 Centi-WTF?s per minute. I had absolutely NO idea what the hell was supposed to be going on. None. One IMDb reviewer hit the nail on the head when he described this film as having "all the logic of a fever dream". - Humanoid Woman
- an American slashed to ribbons version of what must have been an extraordinary Russian movie called Cherez Ternii K Zvyozdam. Despite being cut from 148 minutes to 90, cropped from it's full 2.35:1 aspect ratio to a square 4:3, dubbed by second rate actors making the script up as they went along, and crappily transferred to DVD from a very dodgy tape copy (it even had drop-out at one point) enough of the poetic, lyrical qualities of the original shone through to make it one of the most interesting looking films I have seen all year. There is, apparently, a restored version out there but not yet available on DVD with English subtitles. I have a new mission: see the original and see Sandy Frank the producer who butchered it for the American market, and a quick buck, rot in hell. - Casshern
- Japanese UberGrand Guignol SF real life Manga/Animé which had me enthralled for 141 bewildering minutes of incomprehensible fighting, philosophising,
flashbacks, flash forwards, (and flash sidewayses for all I know) in which several characters died more than once, even more got to deliver portentous speeches while slowly descending stupidly wide staircases, and just about everybody had mystic revelations, including our hero who seemed to have his while in the very heart of a nuclear explosion -
which he survives. All the way through I kept thinking I hope this design team gets to work on any movie they make from Philip Reeve's Mortal Engines books. The look is perfect.
- Back to the Future
- Amazingly the first time I have watched this. I've seen most (if not all of it) in bits over the years but never sat and watched start to finish before. Great fun. - Back to the Future ll
- ditto! - The 39 Steps
- the pointless colour remake with Kenneth More proving (nice chap though he probably was) that he was no Robert Donat and vacant space that was Taina Elg (who?) was certainly no Madeleine Carroll. - Weird Science
- my catchup with all those films I never actually watched during the 1980s but are now dirt cheap on video in charity shops binge continues... This one cost me 20p. Which is about what it was worth. - The Riddle of the Sands
- my fascination with the not very good acting of Michael York continues; what DID people see in him? - Back to the Future lll
- Ditto previous BTTF comments up there. Glad that's out of my system at last. - Singing in the Rain
- never seen it all the way through before. It's Great! - The Mutant on the Bounty
- again! I managed to watch this piece of drek again! I was half way through watching it before I realised I HAD seen it before - and it was shit then too. But, being too knackered to pick up the remote, I kept my eyes pointed in the general direction of the screen and hoped I would fall asleep. I didn't. It was too awful to fall asleep to. - She Gods of Shark Reef
- Dear gods! that was dull. - The Crater Lake Monster
- creaking, zero-budget, There's Something in the Lake Eating Tourists, rubber dinosaur movie that wasn't anything like as funny or scary as it tried to be - well it was, but not in the ways the film makers intended.
Elektra
- Comic book based flick about 'Back from the dead' female assassin with issues. I gived up after 15 minutes when I realised it wasn't going to stop looking like a car commercial. Terrence Stamp appeared in flashback as the aged martial arts master and looked bored out of his skull, if he couldn't be bothered why should I? Presumably he was getting paid to be there; I wasn't.
Cavegirl
- I can do no better than quote one of the IMDb reviews of this piece of shit: "a woefully unfunny film, with none of the 'so-bad-it's-entertaining' elements which similar films sometimes provide." Yep, that just about sums it up.
Hamlet
- Ethan Hawke in the title role and a cast of worthies totally at sea in a total fuck-up of a movie in which the director spends most of his time trying to point the camera at the BACK of
whoever is speaking's head in order to make the lousily-recorded, mumbling and whispering that they are doing totally incomprehensible.
Only Liev Schrieber (as Laertes) looked like he had a clue what his character was meant to be saying and then said it with a clarity and conviction that just made everyone else look even more lost. I lasted 30 minutes before hitting the off button.
Hairspray
- I love the original. This watered-down, fat, slick incredibly bland, mush made me want to puke. Dreadful. Which is a pity cos Mrs. JM bought it for me as a pressy and I wanted to like it so much. (In retaliation I bought her Love Actually which see had long wanted to see but had never got round to watching. She hated it; so we're even.)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
