hirez: (Challenger)
I do rather seem to have fallen out of the habit of having it journal-shaped. That is something of a shame, because there have been a whole set of moments where I've gone '.. and that should be written down somewhere so people could point and laugh.' all of which I have forgotten.

Still, while I remember...

As requested, nail varnish of the week:

OPI navy shatter over Rimmel lava red )

... Which seems to have mostly survived some vague car-bothering and some equally vague bike-bothering.

Both these things were massively overdue. I've been commuting (for the bicycle section of my inter-modal journey) on the SCR (road bike) since I-forget-when-maybe-March because the Courier suffered a puncture I couldn't fix. A third massively overdue thing. I'm sensing a theme here. Anyway. It's been jolly nice putting some miles on the SCR, and because the thing's got mudguards it's a lot less hateful for me and other people in the wet. That's obviously been something of a consideration for the last couple of weeks.

(During the rainy season prior to that, I was tooling around in Justyn's spare 9000, which has a boot and a mildly broken ECU. Thus there's nowhere to put a bike and the boost is set at FUUUUCCKK!)

Since it's a proper road bike, the mechanicals go wrong faster than the Courier. Especially when being coated daily in the nasty grinding-paste thrown up from a part-flooded bike path. I was going to pull it to bits and clean it this weekend anyway, but when it went 'PSSSHHHHT BLOP BLOP BLOP BUGGER' on Friday AM everything was suddenly a little too late. I slung the bike upside-down next to the rack at work and brought the rear wheel + spare inner + CO2 kit into the office so I could fix it with the aid of warmth, tea and a Halfords downstairs.

The hard-to-fix puncture on the Courier turned out to be something pinching next to the valve. I think. That tyre's stayed inflated for a week, so I'll call it a success.

A number of years ago I was slinging that bike into the back of the car in the dark and the wet and managed to miss the boot completely. This left a nasty scrape through the paint and the primer on the rear quarter, next to the other nasty scrapes left by SAAB-hating yout' or somesuch. Because of stupid bloody depression-related reasons, I left it and watched as it rusted quietly.
Since I was already in Halfords and experiencing some unexpected rush of manliness to the trousers (although hopefully actually a non-gender-related bloom of confidence and competence) I accidentally a pot of the rust-eating gubbins that used to come in five gallon cans when we all drove shite cars.

You may imagine my surprise when I belaboured the rusty crease with a fold of emery and discovered the bright metal appearing immediately. I was also cheered to discover that several weeks of nail varnish practice came in handy when applying both rust gubbins and primer.

Now all I need to do is find out which commonly available touch up paint is least unlike faded blue SAAB. It's like Famous Blue Raincoat, but with a non-porous heater matrix.

... I'm sure there was a whole set of other things going on.
hirez: (dissent)
I have a vague notion to dig out the record boxes, line up the collected Blue Mondays (Early pressing on stupidly thick vinyl with silver inner sleeve, later pressing with black inner on standard weight plastic, BM88, er, probably another one w/o the floppy-alike cutouts) and photograph them because Someone Is Wrong on Wikipeejah.

On the other hand, what's the point?

Also, there have been enough viral pictures of nude people reflected in the items they're selling that I have become convinced that a photograph will one day reveal that, while I thought I had found clean clothes and donned them in the approved manner, what had actually happened was some odd fugue-state and I had actually been going about my day in fishing waders and a motorcycle helmet.[1]

There are probably other things that the internet has rendered tiresome, but I have stopped thinking about them.



[1] Bluebell bloody Railway.[2]
[2] You are not expected to understand that, and should be thankful.
hirez: (Cooper-Clarke)
Following on from the throwaway sentence about what people would really do with time-travel...

... The obvious next question is 'What are the intersections of time-travel and Rule 34?'

(I have no bloody idea, myself. Apart from the relatively obvious RAH short.)
hirez: (muddy)
Person on the telly: "Ring now. People are looking for someone just like you..."
JH-R: "Christ. The poor, deluded fools. They're utterly fucked."

Lord save us from long-running webcomics. It's a complete bugger to attempt to catch up with them. (Questionable Content in this case)

Purton, low tide. You can see the wrecked barges in the river. I'm not a disaster-junkie at all, it's just a sense of completeness.

... On the other hand, the Lomo's not too chipper. New batteries, I hope. Wish I noticed before shooting off half a roll.

That there Red Dwarf thing. Yesterday's was a bit ho-hum. This one? Fuuu...

That low hum you can hear is Grant Morrison coming up to maximum RPM. Were he dead. I await Cav's metatextual analysis. But perhaps I am interrupting some 40K?

Who? Lose the orchestra. Nice to see Amanda Pays getting work again.

Nasturtiums: sprouting wildly.
Lavender: not so much.

A lesson for us all there, I think.
hirez: (posing)
A slight downside to the ride into work is that since I'm filled with endorphins (although I'm sure I read that the 'runner's/cyclist's high' was a complete myth the other month) I'm fit for nothing but staring out of the window and smiling beatifically at things:

"The server's gone on fire!"
"Hullo trees, hullo sky, etc."

Oh well.

I was pottering about Lidl the other week, and they had a pile of those magic lard-percentage scales on sale for just short of a tenner. Well, I say 'magic' I mean 'shoots HT up one leg, across yr crotch and back down the other leg' which through the power of cheap microprocessors means it can work out the amount of lard, water and muscle in your legs. According to its German robot brain, I hover on the cusp (unfortunately in astrology terms rather than singularity ones) of slightly too lardy/nearly right and could probably do with being damper. I shall take readings for a month and then poke the data into Excel to see which way the graph goes because I am a tiresome spod.

Pottering in Bath can be a bit of a trial. It seems that wherever I go I manage to pass an interesting-looking bookshop. Since I am constitutionally incapable of ignoring such things, my to-read pile is getting semi-perilous. I'd be in real trouble if I was cycling to and fro the whole time, but since there's been more public transport in my life than I'm really comfortable with, I have a head full of Chandler, Deighton and GK Chesterton.

Reading the Deighton (Yesterday's Spy. Fine stuff.) and then the Chesterton (The man who was Thursday. Ditto.) made me wonder about the reality of counter-terrorist networks and private intelligence services. Some Google provided this which, um, yes.

On the other hand, this fills me with countercultural glee. Clearly I am a foul old hippie.

Those things, coupled with the recent Kosovo/Kosova business, made me wonder if we're not now living in a Sterling/McLeod short story where previous notions of statehood (he who has the most armed bastards wins) are somewhat redundant and, at least within the EU, the whole thing is virtualised.

Although when one of the old superpowers send in the tanks it'll be back to 20th-century-normal. Still, here's hoping.

I rather like the idea of a People's Republic of Gloucestershire. However you can bet that rather than ethnic cleansing a program of enhanced relocation based on BMW ownership, the Revolutionary Committee's first move will be tax cuts for those with second homes... 'Holiday in Elmstone Hardwick' indeed.
hirez: (Cooper-Clarke)
A while ago, the splendid [livejournal.com profile] avocadovpx opined that he'd bought 'the sort of sweatshirt that [livejournal.com profile] hirez could get away with.'

In turn, I think I've bought a sweatshirt that only someone more rock&roll than I could get away with.

We shall see.

(These German types seem to have shorter arms, mind.)
hirez: (muddy)
I am by no means a morning person. I am even less a winter morning person. It seems entirely wrong to scramble out of bed while it's still dark and for the sun to rise over the TA building while I'm waiting for a bus. But that is what I'll have to do until I get my cycling legs back.

To distract myself, I've been carrying around the MP3 player I've had since well before they were fashionable. It has a memory capacity of all of 256Mb, mostly because it can't cope with the 2G card I bought it as a present. Filesystem agoraphobia or the rubbishness of FAT16, I'll be bound. This means that I've been chopping and changing the tracks on the device. If they transport me out of the tedium of trundling slowly through Lawrence Hill, they can stay. Otherwise, they're deleted as soon as I get home and replaced with the next hopeful. Thus far, Oasis and the Silicon Teens have been replaced by the Who Boys and Sketetal Family. AC/DC, Severed Heads, Boards of Canada and Robyn Hitchcock are through to the next round.

Since I'm now surrounded by Apple kit, I should probably purchase one of their music players. However, I'm a contrary sod. Mind you, a deal of the OS X documentation reads like someone trying to explain Unix to aliens[1]. None of this 'Here's what a passwd file looks like; edit it with vi' or 'Bung yer timeservers in /etc/ntp.conf. Bosh. Sorted.', it's all 'serverAdmin -manglewurzel ftmpsh -trousers=false'. Which I suppose is jolly good in its own way, because it's a lot like Unix in much the same way that HP-UX is.

On the other hand, it's a lot more like NeXTStep. Right down to the terminal working much the same way with drag & drop from the UI and Interface Builder lurking in the SDK like the ghost of GUIs past.

I wonder if there's a 'pock!' noise in the sound library?


[1] Damn. I knew there was something I'd forget. This resonates with me right now because I'm trying to read an enthnographic report on a software development team (provided by the splendid Jarkwoman, WMOMNBOLJ). Thus far it reads like aliens explaining hackers to other aliens. There's just no common ground (Actually there bloody well is. I keep meeting people with the hacker mindset in all sorts of non-spod places. I don't believe there's any particular excuse for failing to spot engineer/artist types anymore. Unless you're fucking stupid and annoying.) so the rituals of coffee, meetings and shouting at managers are explained as if they were the curious acts of some Pacific island cargo cult...

... Actually...

Anyway. The OS X documentation struck me in the same way. The cultural assumptions are missing. Which is a good thing if you realise it and re-examine those assumptions, but a bad one if you grouse about inadequate documentation and how Gentoo is clearly better.
hirez: (Laser goggles and raybans)
It's still only Thursday? Excellent. Having an unstructured week makes the time pass more slowly.

Thus far I have: Slept about the same amount as usual; bought a walking stick and a breadmaker, thus bringing the middle-class edifice to its knees; had to explain Moorcock to an excitable curry-house audience; cycled across Bristol in straight lines for a laugh (At least I know the location of Bristol Central Lawn Tennis Club now. Should I be among strangers at a party and the question asked, I can leap forward with a location-based answer) and then walked several miles home with a puncture; written some words; had occasion to use the internet for the purposes of making enlargements of holiday snaps and, um, some other stuff.

A notable and tiresome failure has been the idle quest (a chap must never give the agents of commerce the idea that their existence is anything other than a vaguely necessary evil for keeping the proles at bay) for black boot-cut jeans. Not one blasted shop, boutique or hut within the environs of that benighted pit up at Cribbs Causeway sold such things. Shops are just rubbish and must be stopped.

Via the well-controlled Making Light (who had wrabbed his norman lunch) we find a Wisconsin Scrap Trip and a farting rainbows t-shirt.

How many of y'all are going to be far to uberg*th to be spoken to in Leeds this weekend and thus save me the trouble of making smalltalk? (The malevolent sorts will get in my face, just to watch me squirm, obv.)
hirez: (Radiation)
The Martin-Marinetti Futurist Rocket Corps.

The payload of each projectile is an artist who will record the furious noise of rocket propulsion.
hirez: (Default)
Well played that there Ms. Pollock (aka Lady Bathory on alt.gothic in the distant past and I wot not on LJ) for being published in the largely non-cylindrical Steampunk Magazine. (via Messrs. b0ing^2)
hirez: (safety chicken)
Bukkake stencils.

Signed 'wanksy', obv.
hirez: (Box Frenzy)
If you're the offspring of a Goon Show enthusiast like me, the name 'spon' will resonate strangely. (You'll have to your own Seagoon routines, I'm feeling a bit dim today.[1]) Grandfather had a cow named Spon, and another called Platerack, but that's a different story.

Thus I was more pleased than most to discover Spon End and the associated website.

It appears the residents have never had to deal with the Spon Plague though.

[1] Probably for the best, since it would be about as bad as unfunny twits emitting lines from Python/H2G2/R&M/Fast Show/The entirely unfunny thing with the chins/Whatever the kids are 'down with' this week.[2]

[2] How long will we have to wait for the first painfully bad telly-thing featuring (whatever)-macros?
hirez: (tank)
There are too many people.

There should be a cull.

We can begin with the poor fellows afflicted with distended testicles or suppurating penis or whatever other terrible accident forces them to sit on the tube with their knees at an angle of 45 degrees. Shooting the infection-site would be a mercy and put them out of our misery.
hirez: (Happy cycling)
The clearly splendid types over at Lineout Records are giving away a(n) MP3 by the new model ELRmy (Yes, I read the NME in the 80s. I can handle it.) and it's very fine racket indeed. Howling guitars and lush production values. I am very much looking forward to seeing them in action on Friday night. (Is it sold out yet?)

Otherwise I've been having a wonder about that there fashion thing. The only sleeveless things you generally (for very small values of 'generally') see for blokes are g*th/metal t-shirts that have been hand-modified and wifebeater vests, and those are just underwear with an attitude problem. For the wimmins[1] everything comes in sleeveless (angle-grinders, pianos, sideboards with matching nests of tables. Everything.) as well as fully-sleeved. I can sort of vaguely see that in some sort of fashion-tradition manner, especially the 3/4 sleeved variant. I'd either be pushing the things up or pulling them down. Er. Probably. Were I given to wearing that sort of thing. Anyway.

However, it makes no sense at all for technical clothing. Either you want maximum wicking coverage and/or protection from the elements, or you don't. Gender presentation has bog-all to do with it. (Unless there's some complicated effect with sweat production in different areas that I wot not.) Yet blokes get the cap sleeves and the wimmins do without. Huh?

Wossatallabahtden, geezah?


[1] (c) YKW.
hirez: (Q-309)
So I'm staring gormlessly at FTV this AM, as anyone with a brain might when confronted with enough vacuity to pull lawn-bowls up a metre column of mercury, when the music swaps from cranked-by-the-yard techno to someone trying very hard to be Joy Division.

I have no idea who it was, but it sounded like it might have been Depeche Mode. I know that post-punk-pastiche is the new Tractor, but the only way it could be more mired in the 80s would be... No, I can't think of it.

Meanwhile, some joker's (Hooky, probably) managed to swap money for the right to use 'Blue Monday' in a Mars advert. Other than pitching the BPM up a bit to suit Internet Time, it's unchanged since 1983. And entirely timeless. But then I would say that.


Elsewhere, multiple security patches. That's a whole bucket of cat-wax.
hirez: (Riiight)
The last time we went to London, the 900 tried to reject its exhaust system.

This time, the exhaust is the only bit sans tinworm. Oh well, fun while it lasted and let's hope the 9000 is recoverable, otherwise there's going to be more cycling than usual in my future.

On the positive side, the Modernism ("I didn't know they were playing." "No, not the shit band. The thing at the V&A...") exhibition was really quite something. 'Still life with ball-bearings', constructivist theatre designed for collective farms, futurist clothing (a futurist suit), a combined X-Ray machine and acceleration-couch, Einstein's expressionist observatory, a Tatra, a zig-zag chair... (and the Skylon and some mad Japanese library that looks like it's going to turn into a rocket-firing turtle any second and Highpoint and and...)

All the good and interesting design and architecture of the last century in one place. (And some unfortunately utopian ideas about social housingm but there we are)

Marvellous. Perhaps this is the Grim Meathook Future we're warned about.

Anyway. Y'all have a week to go view it.

After that, there was B-Movie. A right old laugh and no mistake. Was half-deaf, tired and dealing with a mob of unruly personal daemons, so not match-fit by any stretch, but still managed to ramble and arm-wave in a hopefully entertaining style.
hirez: (Bunny Eye)
It'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.
hirez: (irradiated)
Since there've been pleasing developments on the de-larding front, I'm now emitting snot like an over-enthusiastic Doris Stokes. I'd fondly imagined that I'd be otherwise unaffected, but no. I am considerably thicker than a woodshed stacked full of stout planks:

Remembering my own name and where I work - fair enough.
Abstract concepts or anything requiring more than two variables - Not A Chance.

Very poor.

Otherwise, I firmly commend the set of you to beetle off and purchase Punk Attitude (assuming I can make the link work), which is a very fine thing indeed and happily contains no Sham 69.

Gog.

[FX: Stares into space in a gormless fashion]

This would happen when there's a failure of the Hell containment field at work. Arseo!
hirez: (muddy)
Round the corner from the house is a strange pound-shop run by a cheerful bearded fellow. I know that I'm supposed to find pound-shops a terrible sign of poverty and wossname and should probably be aspiring to shops selling coffee with complicated names and Mac accessories, but they're usually filled with mad objects. If you've got the right sort of mind, which is probably a whole other ramble.

I don't know about you lot, but it's a sign of something or other when you can buy 99pee USB accessories.

He also had a pile ("Eleven pallets out the back, mate. Bargain!") of mugs with various corporate logos. So I had to get several. Obviously. Pick of the bunch are the black ones that were supposed to have the complete periodic table on them. However, these just have the two rows of interesting elements from along the bottom, like wierdly minimalist green teeth. (Yes, I have people in mind for those)

Then there's the 'Corporate Technical Services' ones. That to me sounds like some shadowy black-clad IT team who carry out wet ops.
(They probably empty the dustbins, but that sort of thinking would indicate the wrong sort of mind, as mentioned above.)

There are many others. I shall go back in search of dead dotcom ephemera.

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hirez: (Default)
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