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Bookshelf with Neasden Postletwaite.
Oct. 26th, 2009 11:19 pmGrim. I rather thought I might like those Stieg Larssons, too.
Bedtime story.
Oct. 12th, 2009 11:45 pmThe splendid ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
orogeny, who put up with a nervous and jetlagged stranger on the drive up from Newark to, um, Woods Hole some three year ago, has sold a story to Strange Horizons. It's bloody good stuff. Go read the thing.
orogeny, who put up with a nervous and jetlagged stranger on the drive up from Newark to, um, Woods Hole some three year ago, has sold a story to Strange Horizons. It's bloody good stuff. Go read the thing.A comedy of modern manners
May. 9th, 2009 12:30 pmIs it just me and/or the noisy mob of people on that there FriendFace, or has it become utterly impossible to keep up with the blasted thing? A screenful seems to be about 45 minutes back in time, which since I can only look at the thing once a day or less, appears broken-as-designed in all relevant respects.
I think I'll blame Twitter. In that FB have aped the UI and the punters have aped the usage model.
I think I'll blame Twitter. In that FB have aped the UI and the punters have aped the usage model.
When bored, shop dangerously.
May. 18th, 2008 10:54 pmPost beetling up the organic farm shop for local and organic produce, local cheese and local softgrain flour for the bread-machine, I pointed our Swedish car in the direction of Lidl, because now it's been in the Guardian it's ok to shop there.
Lidl raspberries are better than Tesco, but not as good as PYO (Look, just weigh me on the way in and then again on the way out. I'll pay the difference and promise not to crap in the corner of your field).
I'm saving the Lidl Value Champagne for next weekend, just in case it sends me on a paint-stripper fuelled rampage.
I really must write down my coping strategies for having no short-term memory, but I keep forgetting.
Lidl raspberries are better than Tesco, but not as good as PYO (Look, just weigh me on the way in and then again on the way out. I'll pay the difference and promise not to crap in the corner of your field).
I'm saving the Lidl Value Champagne for next weekend, just in case it sends me on a paint-stripper fuelled rampage.
I really must write down my coping strategies for having no short-term memory, but I keep forgetting.
God bog gob dog
Mar. 9th, 2008 11:09 pmDoing without a bathroom started as a bit of an adventure, but has become a bit of a faff. Still, I'm given to understand that it'll all be sorted by the middle of the week. A thin layer of plaster dust really does go well with a throat full of phlegm.
Less housepr0n and more reader's wives, should that sort of voyeurism light your boat.
Less housepr0n and more reader's wives, should that sort of voyeurism light your boat.
Do I mean cyberpunk? Is there perhaps another sub-genre that I've happily missed that has rubbish and badly extrapolated SFnal near-future tropes scattered about the place. For (previous) example 'Kosovan one-shot railgun'.
Anyway. Another in the sequence of plainly odd telemarketry experiences. As opposed to telemarquetry, which is decorative veneer work performed at a distance. Perhaps due to radioactive trees or corrosive halitosis. Or indeed tellymarquetry, which is where you take one of those dreadful old television cabinets with the doors on the front (so the owner could pretend not to have one or that it was a drinks cabinet: "We only keep it for the children. They do love a gin & tonic after they've done their homework.") and disguise it further so it's easily mistaken for a model village.
The voice on the far end of the phone is... Nearly beyond description. As if some woman had learned her script phonetically from a chap with one of those buzzy-throat-things who's first language was Polish rather than English. I t w a s c o m p l e t e l y w i t h o u t i n t o n a t i o n o r e m p h a s i s, thus impossible to render as text. I sat and listened, extranced with the strangeness, while she (Well, I say 'she'. I wondered if it wasn't a speech-synth, but even those things have more expression. Or some Burroughsian tape cut-up experiment. Or Cyberwomen bent on enslaving us with zero-percent credit transfer and cash advance deals.) droned on and on. It was hypnotic. So much so that I'd stopped listening to the words and was just marvelling at the noise.
Oh. In the post this AM was a card from mater. On the front a trio of (well-presented) cross-dressed blokes, on the inside a message beginning 'I saw this and thought of you... '
Cheers, mum. :D
Anyway. Another in the sequence of plainly odd telemarketry experiences. As opposed to telemarquetry, which is decorative veneer work performed at a distance. Perhaps due to radioactive trees or corrosive halitosis. Or indeed tellymarquetry, which is where you take one of those dreadful old television cabinets with the doors on the front (so the owner could pretend not to have one or that it was a drinks cabinet: "We only keep it for the children. They do love a gin & tonic after they've done their homework.") and disguise it further so it's easily mistaken for a model village.
The voice on the far end of the phone is... Nearly beyond description. As if some woman had learned her script phonetically from a chap with one of those buzzy-throat-things who's first language was Polish rather than English. I t w a s c o m p l e t e l y w i t h o u t i n t o n a t i o n o r e m p h a s i s, thus impossible to render as text. I sat and listened, extranced with the strangeness, while she (Well, I say 'she'. I wondered if it wasn't a speech-synth, but even those things have more expression. Or some Burroughsian tape cut-up experiment. Or Cyberwomen bent on enslaving us with zero-percent credit transfer and cash advance deals.) droned on and on. It was hypnotic. So much so that I'd stopped listening to the words and was just marvelling at the noise.
Oh. In the post this AM was a card from mater. On the front a trio of (well-presented) cross-dressed blokes, on the inside a message beginning 'I saw this and thought of you... '
Cheers, mum. :D
The wheelbarrow sinfonietta
Jun. 21st, 2006 12:21 amIt's all a bit odd really. For the most part, I'm feeling reasonably cheery. In that there's a bunch of stuff that I should probably worry about, but worrying won't fix any of it, so, um, stincle. Previously I would have been near catatonic with fear, thus unable to work during the week and boozing heavily at the weekend. (And the bits of weekend that didn't involve beer would have involved grinding paranoia because of the hangover.)
So when I did drink beer last, I burned off the hangover with a jolly nice beetle about on my pushbike. All very fine.
Even so, I get the impression (or perhaps give off the impression?) that I'm somewhat detached from people. For instance, I've been commenting up a storm (or more probably a brief shower with a mild northerly breeze) but abandoning 95% of the things while thinking "Nah, that's redundant / patronising / over-familiar / presumptuous." (Or, worst of all, make me look like some desperate hanger-on.)
On the other hand, the running's going well and I'm going to have to revisit the shop of trouserage in order to discover what trendy filth I must struggle to avoid. For someone with a terrible history involving Lionels, I've become rather attached to boot-cut jeans. It's a pity no bugger had the common decency to inform me what a complete Clarkson I looked in any other flavour.
Actually, the running and the eerie calm are more than likely connected.
There was probably some other things but, pfft. Whatever.
So when I did drink beer last, I burned off the hangover with a jolly nice beetle about on my pushbike. All very fine.
Even so, I get the impression (or perhaps give off the impression?) that I'm somewhat detached from people. For instance, I've been commenting up a storm (or more probably a brief shower with a mild northerly breeze) but abandoning 95% of the things while thinking "Nah, that's redundant / patronising / over-familiar / presumptuous." (Or, worst of all, make me look like some desperate hanger-on.)
On the other hand, the running's going well and I'm going to have to revisit the shop of trouserage in order to discover what trendy filth I must struggle to avoid. For someone with a terrible history involving Lionels, I've become rather attached to boot-cut jeans. It's a pity no bugger had the common decency to inform me what a complete Clarkson I looked in any other flavour.
Actually, the running and the eerie calm are more than likely connected.
There was probably some other things but, pfft. Whatever.
Simultaneous translation
Jan. 3rd, 2006 03:11 pmJeggsy Dodd and The Early Years. I'm only about six months behind the times. Soon my trousers will out-mass Mercury and the flappy bits will achieve relativistic speeds.
Woke up this morning at the correct time after a pleasant night. Dropped off sharpish the night before thinking cheerfully of Plot.
So the Saab misfired like a bastard (because the damp's got in the works) and caused the driver of a Golf to lean on its horn somewhat. Presumably my complicated hand-signals, meaning 'Look, the poor beast's got a shoddily installed 'alarm system' that's all chocolate block and insulation tape wired across all the electrial system like a terrible parasite. Give it a chance to warm up, there's a love.' were interpreted as 'Fuck off or you'll be wearing that bloody steering wheel anally.' Which would be a dreadful and unfortunate misinterpretation.
Google Earth is terribly good fun. Especially when being driven by a sad bugger of a map geek who can remember where his friends live. Want postcode and proper contour maps.
Woke up this morning at the correct time after a pleasant night. Dropped off sharpish the night before thinking cheerfully of Plot.
So the Saab misfired like a bastard (because the damp's got in the works) and caused the driver of a Golf to lean on its horn somewhat. Presumably my complicated hand-signals, meaning 'Look, the poor beast's got a shoddily installed 'alarm system' that's all chocolate block and insulation tape wired across all the electrial system like a terrible parasite. Give it a chance to warm up, there's a love.' were interpreted as 'Fuck off or you'll be wearing that bloody steering wheel anally.' Which would be a dreadful and unfortunate misinterpretation.
Google Earth is terribly good fun. Especially when being driven by a sad bugger of a map geek who can remember where his friends live. Want postcode and proper contour maps.
