hirez: (My name is legion)
Perhaps it's just me, but I don't wonder that the sort of people who bang on about all the things they used to do are much better off being ignored.
hirez: (Armalite rifle)
Dear Commerzbankers. See this? World's smallest violin.

Words/phrases that no longer mean, er, anything: 'sharing', 'extremely seriously', 'public interest', 'reach out to'.
hirez: (Armalite rifle)
I dunno that it's worth the wear on fingers, brain and keyboard to fulminate about the supreme uselessness of Guardian journos, but I may as well get it out of my system here rather than gesticulating outside the newsagents. And, really, the Guardian motoring section is more of a tick-list inclusion in one or other of the Saturday throw-outs, along with 'Me and my spoon', 'Pictures of rich people you don't know', 'Useless man's opinion', 'Useless woman's opinion', 'Advert for bicycle-shaped objects' and 'Advert for very mildly pervy underwear'.

So. Guardian mithering section. This week's mithering was one or other of the blokes that write the 'What I watched and you didn't you hopeless pleb god I wish I was as good as Charlie Brooker.' They'd given him some oil-burning Jag and presumably told him not to Troy Queef the thing because it might make George Monbiot cry. Thus him + sig. other beetle off up the M40. And get stuck in the snow. So have to spend the night in Stokenchurch.

How on earth do people that useless manage to live in towns and not get run over by milkfloats or mugged by pensioners?

Obviously, the Guardianista agenda is that large cars are just icky and any opportunity to cast them in poor light must be leapt upon, but that's kind of expected to be the sort of subtext that requires attentive reading. It's a bit bloody desperate when the entire article boils down to 'I can't drive and cars smell of poo!'

Meanwhile the other utterly useless tellybloke is interviewing Simon Pegg and is so completely wet that a Young Ones reference has to be carefully explained.

Lest anyone get the idea that I'm about to start jabbering about Men's Rights and sod off to join a drumming circle peopled by useless bastards... Actually, fuck it. Men's Rights and drumming circles? Useless bunch of bastards. You wouldn't catch anyone who was, y'know, actually any good at stuff having owt to do with that malarkey.

Oh. Hold on. Bit of a leap there. See, what I think is going on is some broken thinking about equality through abdication of competence. There was an article in the same Guardian a couple of weeks ago about some bloke feeling like he didn't measure up because his dad did DIY (to the level of extension building), plumbing, sparking, car-mending and presumably the rest of the Heinleinian competency checklist. And none of these things went badly wrong enough to require the appearance of a smirking Nick Fucking Knowles to make a Heartwarming Documentary.

So anyway, it seems to me that competence and knowing stuff is seen as inimical to equality, which is so far beyond fucked up that I don't know where to begin with it.

And I think that's kind of the thing. It's a massive point-missing exercise, just like their AssangeWikileaks 'coverage'. They're trying to make it all about his personality (hacker - it's either missing or impenetrable to that lot) rather than the sodding data. And the silly bastard should totally go to Sweden and do his bloody time rather than bleating about being caught. Jayzus. (Although, scene-whores, right? Let's not pretend they don't exist.)

Further lest: Stewart Lee nails what's wrong with Top Gear. It is well worth fifteen minutes of your time. Who knows, while you're occupied with that, one or more useless 'celebrities' will have used up their Warholian allotted time and will have been shot by sandmen for attempting to evade Carousel. It's win-win.
hirez: (dissent)
Since it's January, the media pseudopod of Global Corporate Headquarters has withdrawn the sub-appendage concerned with trying to sell us expensive perfume[1] and has extended the one which is busily selling cheap holidays in other people's misery.

The advert on heaviest rotation features Mr & Mrs Redknapp. Now, while I didn't go a bunch on whatever popular beat combo she apparently fronted, I wish her no ill-will and it's nice to see someone making a decent fist of a second career. However, that glottal stop really does drive me up the wall. I would imagine Thos. Cook (it is that lot, isn't it?) didn't spare much expense on the thing, but the diction and the forced M&S-style vocal langour make it come across as if it were one of the six-bob local ads they had on ATV in the seventies called 'sunspots' . Tacky bikini shots[2], some wobbly captions via a transistor-powered genlock the size of a small lorry and a very local (for Smethwick) voiceover promising us a 'Bostin time in Playa des Americas'.

This of course was entirely impenetrable for small children from rural Gloucestershire who understood 'holiday' to mean 'long weekend on a windswept beach at the pointy end of Pembrokeshire in the space between the last of the winter wheat going in and the Andoversford YFC ploughing match'

This leads me toward the subtext of said advert. We, as passive media-consumption nodes, are understood to spend the first part of the year planning and/or looking forward to this alleged 'holiday' and the second part remembering it wistfully and/or lying awake at night wondering how to pay for it.

An entire year failing to live in the now for the sake of a week or two lying about feeling vaguely guilty you're not having more fun?

Fuck. That.

I reject the entire tree of assumptions inherent in that view. They are too horrible to contemplate.


Other than that, the sun was bright today, so I made a start on the pruning.




[1] The book 'Deluxe' is a fine thing and I commend you all to seek out a copy.[3]
[2] Given the amount of oil being vomited from passing tankers back then, all bikini shots were tacky and smelled of benzine.
[3] Curse my memory. The book's called 'Deluxe' and it's written by Dana Thomas.
hirez: (Trouble with my worms (i))
As discovered by the estimable Karen here.

Which is to say that only this AM I read a Yule-thingy that was really very good indeed (As found my young Mr. Nation here), so this isn't me bagging on star-dot-fic so much as whichever desperate publishing house that has seen fit to bash out a Strictly cash tie-in nov. I'll not point directly to the website, but you may rest assured that it's really very bad indeed.
hirez: (Default)
[Poll #1631148]
hirez: (Bunny Eye)
A friend used to have (maybe still does. Who can say?) a thing for 'Two months off' by Underworld. I finally listened to it properly about ten minutes ago and now I'm filled with this wierd ache for things that didn't quite happen.

I will listen to more music like this so summer will turn up. Yes. Bittersweet. That is what it feels like.

I had my hair pruned at the weekend. There's about half of it left.

I believe I would like to set up a website that's only open from nine 'til half-five. It'll be closed on Wednesday afternoons and all day Sunday. I believe I was tangentially inspired by this thread on the Postfix list.

Mad thing.

Bad thing.

(Well, I say 'bad'. I mean 'batshit fucking insane and with any luck your entire fucking culture is doomed you malignant lackwits')
(Grim article. Don't read it. Especially don't read the comments. I mean really.)

B0rg3d

Jan. 8th, 2010 02:05 pm
hirez: (Trouble with my worms (i))
War3z d00ds, skinflints and the useless, front and centre.
hirez: (Lomo)
Lomography.

Another few rolls back from the special chemist.

Features lurking in the moonlight waiting for the camera, buildings, Sno-cats and blown Dodge Chargers. (The last two from the second half of the Wisconsin experience.)
hirez: (Trouble with my worms (i))
http://residentialaliens.blogspot.com/2009/10/future-bristol-from-colin-harvey.html

(Yeah, I'm shameless. What can I say? I rather like the validation.)
hirez: (irradiated)
That there BattleStargate Voyager Universe thing, right?

Might be a good thing. I was cheered to note that Scalzi is creative consultant. On the other hand, The last starfighter (or Ender's game) isn't/aren't that good.


Also. You know them 'feelgood' films, yes?

They don't work. At the climax of the sodding things, when the rest of the audience are smiling through their tears or whatever happens for people for whom films are made, I'm sitting there more blackly depressed than usual since the blasted film has just thrown the essential desperation of modern life into disturbing relief.


On the other hand, a throwaway line on Making Light about the Dutch being the sort of people who'd run generation ships right, coupled with daft ideas about RepRaps, VASIMR and space-bakfiets, seems to have gone somewhere odd.

I just put it here so I can rediscover it in eighteen months time and feel rather horrible about it.
hirez: (Radiation)
Spam of the day is oxtail )
hirez: (Armalite rifle)
Meme: INTJ. As discovered using a real Myers-Briggs test which, IIRC, involved sticking pins into a workbook. Clearly the white heat of technology had cooled somewhat by the early eighties.

Twitter: Usual username.

Related lolwhut: Queryfail; get it right up ye.
hirez: (Aspirational message)
If there's anything you want to ask or think you should... Actually, no. Mind yer own f-ing business.
hirez: (Armalite rifle)
I've been meaning to regale you all with a tale of modern manners in which I was going to make a comparison between Jerome K. Jerome's story of transporting cheese from Liverpool to London (Chapter 4 of 'Three men in a boat'. There's an OCRed version that you can Google if you don't already know it. I can wait while you look, it really is very funny.) and my own minor adventures in transporting a large carrier bag stuffed with unwrapped items from the Lush shop or boutique.

But, y'know, fuck it. I've been having fun fixing computers, which means I carry on like a coffee-driven Tourette's (Sufferer? Celebrant?); I have a new (to me) HST book to read on the public transports of despair and I'm the far side of a couple of bottles of beer. Res ipsa loquitur.

Instead, people I don't know are being banged up by Johnny Foreigner for the crime of being funny-looking while in possession of pills bought in a shop, corporate America is acting like the own the place and are thus guardians of our morals, the American gummint are acting like they own the place and are thus guardians of all our data and people I do know are getting shite for the crime of being female in public.

To slightly misquote H.L. Mencken[1], this would be one of those times when a normal man must be tempted to spit on his hands, hoist the black flag, and begin to slit throats.

I mean, modulo a distinct lack of power in re. any sort of geopolitical bargaining position, I'm not entirely sure why I put up with any of this. It's not like the ruling clans in either Washington DC or Dubai are going to go "Shit, chaps. Half a dozen Livejournallers have had a couple of scoops on a Friday night and are sounding like they'll cut up rough. It's time we scarpered. Out the back and run like bloody fuck!"



[1] With the right sort of mind, one can learn an awful lot from reading HST.
hirez: (dissent)
For the first time in, um, seven years I'm largely at the mercy of the public transport system for this getting to and from work business.

After some in-depth swearing while trudging home from a couple of odd places in the pissing dark, it seems to me that a transport system that nearly works is significantly worse than one that doesn't work at all.

Y'see, if you've the good fortune to live somewhere with an integrated transport plan that's run by a benevolent dictator, the bits will tend to fit together and there might be some redundancy in the system. Thus if bus X is missing you can get bus Y or train Z which will punt you in the general direction of where you want to be.

On the other hand, if you have no functional public transport, you'll have made other arrangements and the question of missing bus won't apply.

However, a nearly-working system is about as much fun as being stuck in a Skinner Box with the food-delivery control set to random. There is no particular backup transport and while the bus is likely to arrive more or less when the timetable says it will, there's a good likelihood that it won't. But not quite a large enough likelihood to formulate a concrete alternative arrangement.

It rots your head if you set store by unreliable people. Ditto sodding transport.

Elsewhere, I'd look upon the current set of 'Please come and visit us we need your money' adverts from various bits of the US with slightly more favour if a chap wasn't quite so likely to be treated like a criminal by the immigration polis.
hirez: (safety chicken)
Bukkake stencils.

Signed 'wanksy', obv.
hirez: (psyche-out (i))
Guess. Go on. I bet you can't.

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