Adventure Rocket Ship

(Probably. I have never seen chucklevision. It were all Pogle's Wood round here when I were a lad.)

The wing at $work where all the coder types are lumped together occasionally has something of a miasma of 'enthusiastic bicycle ride and couldn't be arsed to shower'. Which, if we're going to call an object that has more than one name by a different one, let us use that which the middle class would assume a stereotypical working person might employ...

... That's self-consciously scruffy coder-boy privilege right there.

Anyway. Sometimes it pongs a bit. Of late it's been quite bad. I had assumed that since the chairs are a bit old and came from one of the gamer floors, they'd soaked up the essence of excited joystick-waggling and were replaying same in some odd alternate-sense event because it was a bit warm, the aircon wasn't quite coping and the inmates were returning from The Outside glowing with health.

(And since I am one of those people who've been going Outside and having long walks while the weather is amenable to such random behaviour, I was somewhat concerned that I was patient-stinky-zero.)

Then it got worse. It mutated from 'Stand this PHP-fondler in front of the jet-wash' to 'Actually worse than that time when a tramp shat themselves round the back of the aircon and the daft buggers used the jet-wash to aerosolise the tramp excrement so as to make sure it was sucked up by the ventilation fans.'

It smells like something's died. Other than hope and ambition, obviously. After about half an hour, your nose gives up. Which is more or less the smell version of an intransigent power noise gig. However, people being people, the smell of dead things is also competing with a half dozen different flavours of 'air' 'freshener', which just gives me a headache.

It may or may not have been bin day in Bath when I wandered out this lunchtime, but wherever I went there were bags that ponged of dead things.

Even now, there's a strange tang at the back of my throat, which I guess can only be nose-tinnitus. Or I am patient-stinky-zero and the near-miss on the road the other month, where I wondered if I had died or not, actually happened.

Tags:
Big Black, Jacques Pepin, Jamie Oliver, Julia Child, Mario Batali, Pizzeria Mozza, Poker, Rapeman, Scoops, Shellac, Steve Albini

I dunno about you lot, but seeing 'Big Black' and 'Jamie Oliver' in the same tag-space is a bit odd. Ok, yer man Floyd used a Stranglers tune for his end credits, but I don't suppose we'll be hearing 'Cables' during teevee primetime.

From this, which talks about Albini's food weblog-thing.

In slightly more local news, I have flavour-bomb strawberries again. Well, I say 'have'. I mean 'have eaten them, go on and get your own'.

Ran round the site yesterday (avoiding the cricket nets) and didn't expire. Good. JH-R 1, lung bugs 0.

Threw raw materials together in approximation of food, including fresh herbs from the garden. Once I'd wrestled them from the slavering teeth of a mob of slugs. I'll have to do something about them that doesn't involve explosives or launching them into the next street with a fire extinguisher. We got complaints last time. JH-R 1, slugs 0. (But they're grim and mithering invertebrates and they'll just come back like Sam Raimi villains.)

Via Boing^2:

"Everything you love, everything meaningful with depth and history, all passionate authentic experiences will be appropriated, mishandled, watered down, cheapened, repackaged, marketed and sold to the people you hate."

Abso-fucking-lutely.

From this. (Mr. Jalopy is a jolly good chap.)