A Norwegian Blue
though possibly migrated.
Thus inconclusion . . .
A lot of Fusstival over nothing
And yet again it seems as though I can’t do anything right. However, there are many benefits to this frequent practice, one of which is that I’m getting really rather good at it. Though, quite frankly, I’m just not getting the recognition that I deserve.
I could list many recent examples, citing such evidence as the scrambled neurons of my brain, the terrifying tragedy of my finances, and even the careless misplacement of my job. But I won’t do that. Instead, I shall regail you with tales from backstage at Reading.
Verily, it was a land of marked contrast to the arena “out front”. And this wasn’t just as a result of the apparent generation gap. Oh no. Instead of the standard fayre of mediocre greasy festival catering, there was an endless supply of luxurious food served on large silver platters by many many buxom wenches. Whereas the arena was flooded with Carling branded fizzy-piss lager-substitute, backstage we were drenched by free flowing waterfalls of champagne. And any much-noted fashion dilemas or disasters were entirely avoided by the removal of all clothes, as everyone cavorted naked in a writhing pile of carefree lust. And all the while musical deities imparted to us mortals their insights into the arcane secrets of musical genius. All well and good you may think, but as it transpired, the velvet padded toilet seats had a fundamental design flaw.
To those of you that were not privy to this backstage utopia, rest assured that you were among a select group of people of exceptional calibre that I also didn’t invite in. Indeed, I myself am honoured that anyone would think that I would have been able to blag them in as well, as unfortunately Mr Mean Fiddler has an entirely differing opinion of my importance.
In fact, I could have benefited from some allies to give me a hand on the Friday. I had assumed that the last thing I’d have wanted want would have been more competition. However, it turns out that Brandon Flowers can really run very fast. So perhaps I did make an error of judgement, after all.
01 September 05 | Comments (1)
MT-Blacklist:
Dark Rum (4 parts), Kahlua (1 part), double shot espresso coffee,
2 scoops chocolate ice cream, spices to taste (cinnamon, cardamon, nutmeg),
40mg crushed Prozac.
01 September 05 | Comments (61)
The First Amongst Sequels
Look - I like the title. OK?
It's hardly my fault that you're reading a post that I haven't thought of any actual content for yet.
So, as a re-starter, if anyone suggests titles for posts, I'll come up with some content. Sometime.
For the record, it has been lovely having such high quality squatters while I've been away. Fortunately, I'm already on some medication that should help clear this up . . .
Writes of Passage
Activity on this site has been temporarily suspended due to danger of mental instability.
the woes of advancing technology
For the first time since 1989, the Pilton Pilgramage (aka Glastonbury Festival of the Performing Arse) is well underway and though I am in the country, I am not there. I didn't think that this situation would be weird or annoying for me, as I usually work there in some form or another and this year I just wasn't up to it.
However, so far I have had a dozen or so texts from people trying to make arrangements to meet up on site somewhere or on the blag for free beer or other pleasurable substances. The bastards are all having fun without me. Bastards.
Right then - I've got a lot that I want to write about. So I'd best get on with it.
In a minute.
I've just got to get this procrastinating out the way.
Latest Score: Mouth 2 , Brain Nil.
Here at the heart of the Evil Empire, it would seem that things aren’t going so well up at the top. Not that anyone actually tells usinthemiddle anything, but there’s no hiding from the chilling ripples of a major disturbance in the force Farce. Not when the ripples are as blatant as they were this morning, when during a meeting which had seemingly passed well beyond the deathly-dull point, someone VerySeniorandSelfImportantIndeed (Deputy) accidentally referred to the euphemistic process of “Vacancy Management”, a friendly and ForwardLookingManagementActivity to which we were only introduced less than a fortnight ago, as ‘the current total suspension of all recruitment for the foreseeable future and beyond.’ Gulp.
Being a Monday morning, and given that I spent most of the weekend engaged in the many varied and exhausting processes of moving house (albeit on occasion somewhat tangentially), Brain function was idling at least one timezone behind Mouth activity. The ensuing debate covered much ground, but VSSII (Deputy) was admirably evasive, particularly concerning the accuracy of her abilities to predict beyond the foreseeable future. Opposing forces swiftly massed on grounds of strict organisational hierarchy to an even 3-a-side, and those from above defended well. Or rather they didn’t. I’d just have liked them to. They tried hard, I suppose, but failed dismally. The upshot being that, somewhere just over the horizon, there is going to be a half-arsed organisational restructuring lying in wait to spring forth an efficiency ambush. Though I think that the crucial element of surprise may now have been blown, given that in terms of the ambush, they’re still in the shop buying the bullets. The high point of the encounter was probably not when I suggested that VSSII (Deputy) might benefit from reading a second book on organisational management. Ideally one published sometime after the 80’s. And ideally one that is actually in some way relevant to the sort of organisation that we are supposed to be. She glared at me in what I understand may actually be her first ever silence. I had finally overstepped the mark. And so I apologised wholeheartedly for my inclusion of the word ‘second’.
Following straight on from the morning debacle, I got back to my desk to discover that a big pointy arrow of irony has been fired into it, albeit using a more modern manner of weaponry. I had an email, notably from a very senior HR person, insisting that I have no choice but to attend the internal recruitment and selection training course next week, as I have not yet done so and it’s policy and a job requirement not an option blather blather blather etc. . . . I curtly replied that my previous declinations still apply, if only on the grounds that my review of the course materials suggested nothing other than the training being a 2-day waste of any intelligent person’s time and cognitive capacity. I also casually suggested that perhaps her time would be better spent drafting the organisation a decent redundancy policy. The reply just received was a short ‘Do you know something that I don’t?’
I have felt very awkward and distinctly uncomfortable not being able to explain to everyone else in the office why I have been both laughing and groaning out loud today.
Perpetual Movement
Given that I technically started moving 2 days ago, you’d have thought that I would have started packing by now, wouldn’t you?
I still contend that it’s the planning that is the most important part.
Bugger.
Review: My Life – The Year so Far.
It is often the case that not being sure what to expect about something allows me to more easily appreciate the subtler of its fineries. And while this is the case with The Year so Far, its subtler fineries are interwoven with its explicit dirges. Interwoven, so that like the proverbial coin, the Year so Far is a product of its two extreme and inseparable opposites. And in order to try and make sense of this, I find myself trying to separate the inseparable and dissolve the insoluble. Which leads me to a recurring and pertinent question that I keep coming back to: just what is this story about?
The plot, or at least the sum of the events that make a valiant attempt at a nearly convincing impression of a plot, moves with many surprising twists and turns, but only it would seem at some of the most unexpected and unwelcome points in time. There are, however, too many uncomfortably slow passages. Too much space when nothing happens. Just nothing at all.
As a narrative it is far from linear, being no more than a collection of tenuously connected tales that barely hold together as a coherent piece. Yet somehow, the plethora of annoyances emerge from the chrysalis of the story transformed into something much greater than the sum of their parts. In fact, much greater than the sum of their parts could ever have even dreamt of becoming.
I found The Year so Far to be hard going in many places. Not only is the storyline barely even ephemeral, being woven as it is around a robustly intangible structure. But also the style varies. Without warning. For no reason. No apparent reason. It’s confused. And confusing. There are flaws. There are moments of brilliance and beauty. Both sides of the coin again. The main character is too inconsistently unstable to empathise with, and too superficially self-indulgent to be believable. The dialogue swings with grating ease from the irritatingly intense machinegunfire of multi-voiced cacophony, to the beautifully emotive stilted silence which makes for a haunting background noise to the whole piece. As always the valiant overuse of swearing adds essential colour to the dingiest of shadows. Though the disgraceful underuse of any musical score or other accompaniment is simply an unqualified triumph for the twin failures that are self-confidence and self-discipline.
Overall, The Year so Far is a compellingly banal yet disturbingly enjoyable experience that defies classification.*
[and so scores a middle of the road 3 out of 5 sparkling neurons]
*Unless you happen to use a workable classification system that has scope to reference Metaclassical Post-Historical de-Reconstitued Unmagical non-Realism.
Nostra-dumb-ass
In my time I have been a foreteller of many things, and lo, and verily, and the suchlike, many of my foretellings have so come to pass.
This is my best reason of all for trying to quit the foretelling malarky.
Though sometimes I do just get it wrong.
For instance:
At the turn of the year, I foretold that we were entering the Year of the Magnificent Cleavage. Even though there has been some fine and fun cleavage, it has not yet earned the title of Magnificent. And so either:
1) It has not yet come to pass or
2) I am really missing something.
Double Damn.
Ordering my life
Needs to happen.
But here chez Chaotique, it’s just not going to happen in a hurry.
Though if I were to order my life, I’d probably go for a number 4, a 15, a 26 with a side helping of 33, and for an 'of course', I'd have an all-explaining 42. Then I'd wash this tasty dish down with the heady pleasures of a fine vintage ’69.