Some time ago on MTV (that's MTVyoorp, or whatever version shows in happy sunny Cambridge) there was a very odd video for a song called "Angels" by an (apparently) even odder bloke called Bobby Conn. On Saturday, the Guardian had a brief interview with Mr Conn, because he's got a new album out. Apparently it's a politically-tinged glam rock record, which sounds exceedingly strange.
And while we're on the subject of bizarre records, they also had a short chat with Ivor Cutler which is well worth a look. They even manage to almost kill him while they're there.
http://www.epsilonminus.com/darquedungeon/ is good as well, in case you still haven't seen it.
The Barclay twins have agreed to buy Conrad Black's controlling stake in Hollinger, which owns the Telegraph. So we can probably look forward to them doing the same thing to the Torygraph that they've been doing to the Scotsman - i.e. turn it into the Daily Express. With any luck they'll even stick Andrew Neil in charge of it, and we won't have to put up with his pernicious influence up here any more. Obviously my heart goes out to any Telegraph readers out there, but frankly I'd rather have them pissing on you than pissing on me.
69 Love Songs is 2 hours 52 minutes 41 seconds long, and is available from Amazon for 13 quid. I listened to it yesterday, and it's still as good as I remember. I think a lot of my friends might enjoy this album *hint*.
sclerotic_rings posted some very worthwhile pieces on Sunday, concerning SF authors and fandom. Those of you with a passing familiarity with these things will probably be amused. He's also posted a link to a rather nice article about very big spiders. Real ones. Tarantulas. Bird-eating spiders. That sort of thing. It probably isn't recommended to arachnophobes. "The particular species of wasp that feeds on the goliath is the size of a sparrow."
Rennes-le-Chateau. The Holy Blood and the Wholly Bollocks. The priest is known to have been on the take. There's no mystery, right? Gaah. And can we give up on the Myers-Briggs thing too? Some vague speculation of Jung's that even he didn't place much weight on doesn't a valid basis for a psychometric test make, OK kids? And Jung wasn't actually up to much as a psychologist anyway.
The weekend. 'Twas good. Fiona was up, and on Friday we stayed in and watched the highly excellent Hana-Bi. More Kitano films lie in my/our future, I'm sure. Saturday we went to K Jackson's. It was John McDermott's 40th, so Richard and Derek were there. Fiona's own account is a bit more detailed.
There's an amusing flash thing at http://homepage.mac.com/webmasterkai/kaicurry/gwbush/dishonestdubya.html, and it's exactly what you'd expect.
The Grauniad also featured an an article about what it's like to be in The Fall. Warning : contains interview snippets with ex-Fall members including Marc "Lardy-Boy" Riley.
Raw Spirit. With spirit. It's very good. This week at bedtime I have mainly been accompanying the new Iain Banks book with
Wednesday's Guardian had some fashion photographs. It looks worryingly like we're approaching the return of the puffball skirt. I can't help wondering which fashion disaster we're going to have reprised next? Kicker boots? After the Chopper (yuch) going back into production, it would take a lot to surprise me.
The Daily Abscess this week dubbed Al-Jazeera "Al-Qaeda television". In a banner headline on the front page. What a crowd of pricks. Come the revolution, I'm going to personally take pleasure in stabbing the editor (and any surviving ex-editors) through the eyeballs with sharpened bicycle spokes. I haven't decided what I'll do with the rest of the staff. Or the fuckwits who read it.
Anyone who hasn't read Bridge of Birds . . . must.
(Incidentally, seaching Amazon for "Bridge of Birds" returns four editions of the Barry Hughart novel "Bridge of Birds" and one of the Poole Bridge Replacement Environment Impact Assessment Ornithological Study. Go figure)
On Tuesday gingiber and anonymouSETH came round for gougère and a trawl through my box of old photos. At some point I should find a way of scanning these. Some of them, anyway.
On Wednesday I shifted a tumble dryer for sibelian and purplerabbits, which turned out to be no trouble whatsoever. I was worried it would involve some actual work moving it, but it didn't.
On Thursday I went to the pub with Andrew, Andrew, Phil, Sandy, Steve and (briefly before he left) Ken. On Friday I went over to Andrew's to pick up a couple of CDs, listen to some Swedish psychedelic bands, fiddle with his camera (which seemed to have survived a fall some time ago entirely unscathed), have a chat and some tea, and see John Miller for the first time in about three years . . . the last time also having been him dropping round Andrew and Lorna's while I was having a cup of tea, in fact. He seems well, and looks more like Jet Black than ever (except a lot thinner).
Have any of you (that I don't already know about) read House of Leaves? What did you make of it?
Steven Stein created this cut-up of Kennedy assassination coverage. His label, Tommy Boy, was unable to officially release it because CBS refused to grant clearance for the use of Walter Cronkite’s voice. It was instead released as a white label 12-inch single in 1986. Goodness. "And the motorcade sped on", of course.
On Saturday, I went to Ascension and talked to Lara and Seth and Paul and Donna and James and Darren and Helen and Nicky and John and Jenny and Nick and Sharon and . . .
I didn't talk to Ed, though. I was talking to John and couldn't catch his eye, and then he was gone. There were several people drifting about who looked very like people I know who live a long way away. In at least two cases, I wasn't the only person to notice this. Very odd. Perhaps people look the same wherever you go. Perhaps there are only a finite (but admittedly large) number of faces, and we're all really cabbage-patch dolls after all.
What a horrible thought.
Sunday evening. I have to go and talk to the Social tomorrow. They want to know what I've been doing about finding work. I can tell this is going to be a very stressful and depressing experience.
Oh, and in case there was any lingering doubt . . .
How evil are you?
All sweetness and light, as I keep telling you.