Since the holiday extracts are mostly auto-biographical, I get to do a run of book and movie reviews in the alternate regular posts, which is awesome. It's lovely to be home, and to sleep and eat regularly, but it's not exactly inspiring. Returns are usually the ends of narratives after all, the denouement to a mystery or adventure. The word narrative, is the best way to segue into a fairly minimal chat about the movie 'Stranger Than Fiction', which we just recorded a fan commentary for over at Film Bin. Yes, the world has turned, and things have returned to normal. Job applications and research hover over the upcoming weeks, as do more recordings and writings on various subjects. To the point we shall go!
This is a toughie, and so as always the best place to start is to say I love 'Stranger Than Fiction'. Now, I didn't watch it for a long time because for some reason it scared me, but in preparing for it as a commentary that barrier was broken, and it is recognised for a wonder once again. It belongs in the extremely small set of movies given by 'Groundhog Day', 'The Truman Show' and 'Stranger Than Fiction', all films which act as restrained high-concept vehicles for previously wacky comedic performers, but which also have very deep souls and life-affirming properties. We couldn't think of any more examples during the commentary, so if any of you do then please let me know.
'Stranger Than Fiction', bizarrely made by the director of 'Quantum of Solace' and 'The Kite Runner', is high concept indeed. It's about an Internal Revenue Service auditor called Harold Crick, who has no life and is on autopilot, and who begins to hear a narrator describing his life as that of the lead character in her book, who is very soon to die. From there we follow Crick, a superbly restrained Will Ferrell, as he tangles with the consequences of this revelation, the ongoing narration, the advice of a literature professor played by Dustin Hoffman, and eventually his writer herself, the brilliant Emma Thompson. It's a fascinating and quirky film, and one that defies categorization. If there's anything I love, it is a narrative which defies falling into any genre. It's also funnier than you think it will be, and features Maggie Gyllenhaal (Swedish nobility) and Queen Latifah (not Swedish nobility) in supporting roles.
This is one of those films that I wouldn't want to detail the plot of in any depth as it shouldn't be spoilt. There are certainly people who will hate it, and people who will love it, unlike the universally loved 'Groundhog Day'. The visual design is striking if a little stark, and the sheer initial disconnectedness of the characters from their environment can be very offputting. It is the same disconnectedness that we see all around us, an abstraction into the media world instead of the physical world. It may not be dangerous, but it is certainly a waste of life-time. It's also a major point of the character arcs for both Crick and his author, an extremely pertinent one.
Without going into plot, one of the most interesting things about this film is that it averts the romantic comedy pretext you think is going to resolve the movie and instead ends in an intelligent moral dilemma, which doesn't resolve in the easiest possible way. Nothing in this film resolves in that easy way; It's refreshing, it is thought-provoking, and we do see Dustin Hoffman jump into a swimming pool. If that doesn't sell you, then I don't know what would without going into details. The only outstanding question that I really want to think about at length outside this entry, and will on repeated viewings, is what the story Emma Thompson's character actually is writing is about, as if it does correspond to the events of Harold's life in this film then it would be truly crazy and strange. That's the real question in retrospect.
It's fun to re-watch and re-read the good things in my library. I wonder why I stopped?
O.
Sunday, 31 August 2014
Saturday, 30 August 2014
Holiday Ramblings II: "Trains, Dives and Chicken Baguettes" (Day 2)
More holiday extracts; There were eight days in total!
When last I wrote the two-decker TGV was heading ever closer to the phantom like first timecheck that was Avignon, but that phantasmic city was still far further away than I thought. Now a day later the destination of the latest and last train is Barcelona, the first proper venue for this holiday. There are only four more hours to go! Marseille will be returned to in a few days, as will a disappointing hotel, and will be left for discourse until then.
The TGV was nice, but this AVE train from Marseille to Barcelona is far far more luxurious and less antiseptic. In a callback to my earliest plane trips they even handed out free earbuds so you could listen to the in-train movie. Yes, there was an in-train movie! It was in French though, and looked terrible. Who needs a movie when the scenery is gorgeous, anyway? While leaving Aix-en-Provence just a few moments ago, there was a marvelous aqueduct (or possibly viaduct), and the rest of the countryside is wonderfully bucolic and verdant. That's the south of France in a nutshell: Extremely pretty. It's also wildly impractical but that's another story for another writer.
Predictably the only thing not going well so far is food, the perennial bugbear of the traveller. My diet has been almost exclusively chicken baguettes and bottled water for a day and a half now and at some point the tolerance for those items will snap, especially here in France where they put mayonnaise and salad cream on seemingly everything. You're ruining food, people, ruining it! Umm, perhaps that was an extreme reaction on my part, brought on by mayonnaise fatigue. There is still one baguette waiting to be eaten, sneering in my bag, but hot food awaits in Spain when there will be no pressure on catching trains or coaches or worries about the Tube or Metro. Happy days will come again! I care about food a lot, which is why the seeming impossibility of ruining a chicken baguette is so vexing. It vexes me. The other problem with travelling is sleep, but that has always been impossible on holidays, and so is barely worth mentioning. I'll sleep at home when it's all over, probably for a week!
Part of my time travelling so far has been spent thinking about the long-term frictions between the French and English, and the best conclusion I could reach was that the two sets of body languages must be built on antagonistic foundations, and that the perceived arrogances on both sides are from some deep and mutual difference in the very way we've developed as cultures, as well as the deep history between these two countries. It's not all just 'frog legs' and clichés by the truck load surely? I say this while firmly enjoying some of those clichés, to be fair and honest. Is it possible there is a total dichotomy in how we move and react? Is this all some symptom of the sleep deficiency? Does that explain the dancing sheep in the aisle? Oh, blast you, French cinema!
Much later, it is dusk, and I sit at the foot of the steps to the Museum of Art, at the edge of the magic fountain and waiting. The performance will start in three quarters of an hour or so. Looking back it was a good day, although I'm just a bit disappointed with the accommodation again, having landed in another supposedly dubious area, although I never have gone anywhere and not been warned about pickpockets. It happens relentlessly every time I go to a city anywhere, so perhaps it's not so bad an area after all? In any case, putting that aside, there is no window so it is certainly not a great room, only a hatchway into a chimney like square in the middle of the block. You can see light if you lean out, but you also get all the noise from adjacent rooms, floors, and building. It's weird, and the hatchway doesn't lock.
My primary reason for returning to Barcelona is about to be fulfilled: The Font Magica. It's a highly complicated set of dozens of moveable water jets and lights, that are controlled and orchestrated to go to music usually, which I'll explain tomorrow. There are far more people here this time than last, again illustrating the difference that visiting in high season can make, clouding the enjoyment more than a little. The black market re-sellers of beer and water are circling and people are gathering in masses all the way up the steps to the museum itself, and down the avenue known as The Cascades. It's rather overwhelming. Thankfully the walk around Montjuic and the quest for food was relaxing beforehand, and now it's time to relax and see what happens.
O.
When last I wrote the two-decker TGV was heading ever closer to the phantom like first timecheck that was Avignon, but that phantasmic city was still far further away than I thought. Now a day later the destination of the latest and last train is Barcelona, the first proper venue for this holiday. There are only four more hours to go! Marseille will be returned to in a few days, as will a disappointing hotel, and will be left for discourse until then.
The TGV was nice, but this AVE train from Marseille to Barcelona is far far more luxurious and less antiseptic. In a callback to my earliest plane trips they even handed out free earbuds so you could listen to the in-train movie. Yes, there was an in-train movie! It was in French though, and looked terrible. Who needs a movie when the scenery is gorgeous, anyway? While leaving Aix-en-Provence just a few moments ago, there was a marvelous aqueduct (or possibly viaduct), and the rest of the countryside is wonderfully bucolic and verdant. That's the south of France in a nutshell: Extremely pretty. It's also wildly impractical but that's another story for another writer.
Predictably the only thing not going well so far is food, the perennial bugbear of the traveller. My diet has been almost exclusively chicken baguettes and bottled water for a day and a half now and at some point the tolerance for those items will snap, especially here in France where they put mayonnaise and salad cream on seemingly everything. You're ruining food, people, ruining it! Umm, perhaps that was an extreme reaction on my part, brought on by mayonnaise fatigue. There is still one baguette waiting to be eaten, sneering in my bag, but hot food awaits in Spain when there will be no pressure on catching trains or coaches or worries about the Tube or Metro. Happy days will come again! I care about food a lot, which is why the seeming impossibility of ruining a chicken baguette is so vexing. It vexes me. The other problem with travelling is sleep, but that has always been impossible on holidays, and so is barely worth mentioning. I'll sleep at home when it's all over, probably for a week!
Part of my time travelling so far has been spent thinking about the long-term frictions between the French and English, and the best conclusion I could reach was that the two sets of body languages must be built on antagonistic foundations, and that the perceived arrogances on both sides are from some deep and mutual difference in the very way we've developed as cultures, as well as the deep history between these two countries. It's not all just 'frog legs' and clichés by the truck load surely? I say this while firmly enjoying some of those clichés, to be fair and honest. Is it possible there is a total dichotomy in how we move and react? Is this all some symptom of the sleep deficiency? Does that explain the dancing sheep in the aisle? Oh, blast you, French cinema!
----
Much later, it is dusk, and I sit at the foot of the steps to the Museum of Art, at the edge of the magic fountain and waiting. The performance will start in three quarters of an hour or so. Looking back it was a good day, although I'm just a bit disappointed with the accommodation again, having landed in another supposedly dubious area, although I never have gone anywhere and not been warned about pickpockets. It happens relentlessly every time I go to a city anywhere, so perhaps it's not so bad an area after all? In any case, putting that aside, there is no window so it is certainly not a great room, only a hatchway into a chimney like square in the middle of the block. You can see light if you lean out, but you also get all the noise from adjacent rooms, floors, and building. It's weird, and the hatchway doesn't lock.
My primary reason for returning to Barcelona is about to be fulfilled: The Font Magica. It's a highly complicated set of dozens of moveable water jets and lights, that are controlled and orchestrated to go to music usually, which I'll explain tomorrow. There are far more people here this time than last, again illustrating the difference that visiting in high season can make, clouding the enjoyment more than a little. The black market re-sellers of beer and water are circling and people are gathering in masses all the way up the steps to the museum itself, and down the avenue known as The Cascades. It's rather overwhelming. Thankfully the walk around Montjuic and the quest for food was relaxing beforehand, and now it's time to relax and see what happens.
O.
Friday, 29 August 2014
Book: 'A Tale Of Two Cities' by Charles Dickens (1859)
My history with the works of Dickens is not comprehensive, essentially composed of reading 'A Tale Of Two Cities' and 'David Copperfield' in their entireties and falling out of 'The Old Curiousity Shop' and 'The Pickwick Papers' at very early stages. The lack of large scale drama, or the personal natures of the stories somehow didn't appeal. Only 'A Tale of Two Cities' so far is a classic and a book I have and will reread. 'A Tale Of Two Cities' is special without being atypical, and streamlined in ways his other books weren't.
So, it's a tale of two cities, those cities being London and Paris, both cities I have passed through very recently indeed. They look quite different now, London especially, and they form the backdrop for a novel I reread while on holiday. It's quite difficult to summarise, but an attempt must be made. We begin in the years immediately preceding the French revolution, where a victimized and imprisoned French doctor, driven beyond his wits, his rescued by his long absent daughter and a mutual friend, leading to a new life in London. Then we roll forward to the daughter falling for another French exile and marrying, a family, the revolution, and a valorous journey which puts the husband's life into certain doom at the Guillotine. Unlike a standard historical potboiler tragedy, the man is saved, and he is saved by one of the first anti-heroes in fiction and it is fascinating.
The two strands to the story of 'A Tale Of Two Cities' are the narrative around Dr Manette, his daughter Lucie and her husband Charles Darnay, and the story of Paris itself through the revolution. It's hard to know how much of it was planned carefully, but the lovingness of the family unit is directly contrasted (juxtaposed?) with the horrific barbarity of a city on fire with murder, vengeance and cruelty. If ever there was a demonstration of two wrongs not making a right, it was in the aftermath of the French revolution, a period so revolting in its causes and effects that the best parts of humanity itself were suspended.
Dickens revelled in domestic and personal stories, which were in many ways the only types widely available at the time, Wilkie Collins only inventing the full length mystery with 'The Moonstone' in (1868) and Dickens himself building the idea of a ghost story himself. Here the intertwined historical catastrophe that was France, and in the not too distant history at that point in time, with the joint destinies of Manette's family and their friends really supply two entirely different scales of storytelling. It is exceedingly strange that I should like this book, having said all that, and ultimately it has to be down to the innate genius of Dickens, the extreme stripped down nature of the book compared to his others, and the one character who stands the work on its head and makes it distinct from other examples. That character's name is Sydney Carton, the self-confessed failure, the holder of an unrequited and unfulfilled love for the Manette daughter and the man who goes to die for her husband so that the family might get away unscathed. He is the true agonized hero who comes through in the end, not only sacrificing himself for the woman he adores, but orchestrating the final plan to deliberately make that sacrifice. Is he unique in Dickens literature? Can anyone say? Certainly he is the first point of empathy for the individual estranged from humanity to a large extent, mostly by his own actions and self-loathing. Many people can connect to Carton rather than the otherwise perfect characters of the family he saves, especially in the valour of his dying moments.
Perhaps the appeal is in the scathing puncturing of both sides in the revolution? Or is there an anti-French prejudice peeking through in the narrative? It's hard to say as the revolution did more damage in that respect than any amount of novel writing could. Is it the odd Dickensian humour of Jerry Cruncher and Miss Pross? Or is it all down to the mixed scales of the narrative adding immeasurable depth to what can be conceivably be called a juvenile adventure? Is it a juvenile adventure really? Whatever it was it must have been groundbreaking at the time.
O.
So, it's a tale of two cities, those cities being London and Paris, both cities I have passed through very recently indeed. They look quite different now, London especially, and they form the backdrop for a novel I reread while on holiday. It's quite difficult to summarise, but an attempt must be made. We begin in the years immediately preceding the French revolution, where a victimized and imprisoned French doctor, driven beyond his wits, his rescued by his long absent daughter and a mutual friend, leading to a new life in London. Then we roll forward to the daughter falling for another French exile and marrying, a family, the revolution, and a valorous journey which puts the husband's life into certain doom at the Guillotine. Unlike a standard historical potboiler tragedy, the man is saved, and he is saved by one of the first anti-heroes in fiction and it is fascinating.
The two strands to the story of 'A Tale Of Two Cities' are the narrative around Dr Manette, his daughter Lucie and her husband Charles Darnay, and the story of Paris itself through the revolution. It's hard to know how much of it was planned carefully, but the lovingness of the family unit is directly contrasted (juxtaposed?) with the horrific barbarity of a city on fire with murder, vengeance and cruelty. If ever there was a demonstration of two wrongs not making a right, it was in the aftermath of the French revolution, a period so revolting in its causes and effects that the best parts of humanity itself were suspended.
Dickens revelled in domestic and personal stories, which were in many ways the only types widely available at the time, Wilkie Collins only inventing the full length mystery with 'The Moonstone' in (1868) and Dickens himself building the idea of a ghost story himself. Here the intertwined historical catastrophe that was France, and in the not too distant history at that point in time, with the joint destinies of Manette's family and their friends really supply two entirely different scales of storytelling. It is exceedingly strange that I should like this book, having said all that, and ultimately it has to be down to the innate genius of Dickens, the extreme stripped down nature of the book compared to his others, and the one character who stands the work on its head and makes it distinct from other examples. That character's name is Sydney Carton, the self-confessed failure, the holder of an unrequited and unfulfilled love for the Manette daughter and the man who goes to die for her husband so that the family might get away unscathed. He is the true agonized hero who comes through in the end, not only sacrificing himself for the woman he adores, but orchestrating the final plan to deliberately make that sacrifice. Is he unique in Dickens literature? Can anyone say? Certainly he is the first point of empathy for the individual estranged from humanity to a large extent, mostly by his own actions and self-loathing. Many people can connect to Carton rather than the otherwise perfect characters of the family he saves, especially in the valour of his dying moments.
Perhaps the appeal is in the scathing puncturing of both sides in the revolution? Or is there an anti-French prejudice peeking through in the narrative? It's hard to say as the revolution did more damage in that respect than any amount of novel writing could. Is it the odd Dickensian humour of Jerry Cruncher and Miss Pross? Or is it all down to the mixed scales of the narrative adding immeasurable depth to what can be conceivably be called a juvenile adventure? Is it a juvenile adventure really? Whatever it was it must have been groundbreaking at the time.
O.
Thursday, 28 August 2014
Holiday Ramblings I: "Adventure" (Day 1)
No sabbatical goes unpunished, and so it is for any readers still hanging on! For next week or two the regular posts will be alternated with holiday extracts prepared with no little effort. You have been warned. So, today an extract, tomorrow something regular, the next day an extract and so on until eight days of travelling are done.
Ah, adventure, that thrilling sense of journeying into the unknown, into the new, and exploring things as yet unexplored. It's fun, isn't it? Yes, even despite horrific three o'clock morning starts! Well, perhaps not, as those three o'clock starts are deadly but let's move on from that, and concentrate on being able to watch the sun rise from total blackness, rendering it romantic retroactively. Sometimes the best romance is retroactive, which is why we have the term 'rose tinted goggles'.
So, to the adventure, that long overland trip to Barcelona and Marseille, which are apparently distinctly different cities on the Mediterranean. The former I've visited before, and the latter never even considered, but which forms a good stopping point for an epic overland journey. It's all about adventure, or mindblowing stress, as you crawl to London in the dark hours, then cross London, ride the rail over to Paris, cross Paris, and then ride those same rails finally down to Marseille. All in all, a fifteen hour trip, with additional four hour legs to and back from Barcelona on separate days. If anyone tells you it's mad to do this, then they're right. You're reading the ramblings of a mad person.
Later in the week we'll cover Marseille, during the proper stay there, but for now let us address the question of why to visit Barcelona. In point of fact it's not a visitation so much as a revisitation, that city being the first place I went to outside of the United Kingdom. From the heights of Montjuic to the aquarium to Park Guell it was lovely, and capped by an awesome experience at the Font Magica. All these things await, as do new and interesting experiences. Also, they serve icecream until almost midnight, for those so inclined. Hopefully this time I won't be chronically hungry and avoiding restaurants the whole time.
London is approaching finally; Dr Watson described the city best and briefly in 'A Study In Scarlet', so maybe you should read that for the more interesting prose. Instead, as we approach, I note the drab tower blocks and flat suburban sprawl, and the warm sunshine of the southeast of England. If you peek over the side of a flyover as you zoom by, however, there's always a chance of seeing something very charming and very old. Such is the curious nature of old capital cities.
Much later now, and crossing Paris was far less pleasant than crossing London, and the odd nature of France evident in the military shutdown of the Gare de Lyon for half an hour. They patrol railway stations with armed military? Eventually the super fast double decker TGV did depart and now I'm taking a break from a new story called 'The Alien Landing Centre'. Only my sister will understand that title, as she understands most things.
Here's a question: 'If an adventure goes on a long time, is it still an adventure?' Is the journey the adventure or is it the spirit of the traveller? Maybe it's both, and a healthy dose of stamina mixed in to keep it all going? The stamina is the key. Three o'clock starts, the military, multiple city crossings and an endless diet of chicken baguettes are enough to get anyone down, but yes it is still an adventure. Even if it goes without hitches it is still an adventure surely! After all, the potentially mean streets of Marseille await, in a journey that has gone from morning gloom and will end in evening gloom, to be continued in the morning to Spain.
From gloom to gloom the day did go, and from moon to moon I went alone.
O.
Ah, adventure, that thrilling sense of journeying into the unknown, into the new, and exploring things as yet unexplored. It's fun, isn't it? Yes, even despite horrific three o'clock morning starts! Well, perhaps not, as those three o'clock starts are deadly but let's move on from that, and concentrate on being able to watch the sun rise from total blackness, rendering it romantic retroactively. Sometimes the best romance is retroactive, which is why we have the term 'rose tinted goggles'.
So, to the adventure, that long overland trip to Barcelona and Marseille, which are apparently distinctly different cities on the Mediterranean. The former I've visited before, and the latter never even considered, but which forms a good stopping point for an epic overland journey. It's all about adventure, or mindblowing stress, as you crawl to London in the dark hours, then cross London, ride the rail over to Paris, cross Paris, and then ride those same rails finally down to Marseille. All in all, a fifteen hour trip, with additional four hour legs to and back from Barcelona on separate days. If anyone tells you it's mad to do this, then they're right. You're reading the ramblings of a mad person.
Later in the week we'll cover Marseille, during the proper stay there, but for now let us address the question of why to visit Barcelona. In point of fact it's not a visitation so much as a revisitation, that city being the first place I went to outside of the United Kingdom. From the heights of Montjuic to the aquarium to Park Guell it was lovely, and capped by an awesome experience at the Font Magica. All these things await, as do new and interesting experiences. Also, they serve icecream until almost midnight, for those so inclined. Hopefully this time I won't be chronically hungry and avoiding restaurants the whole time.
London is approaching finally; Dr Watson described the city best and briefly in 'A Study In Scarlet', so maybe you should read that for the more interesting prose. Instead, as we approach, I note the drab tower blocks and flat suburban sprawl, and the warm sunshine of the southeast of England. If you peek over the side of a flyover as you zoom by, however, there's always a chance of seeing something very charming and very old. Such is the curious nature of old capital cities.
----
Much later now, and crossing Paris was far less pleasant than crossing London, and the odd nature of France evident in the military shutdown of the Gare de Lyon for half an hour. They patrol railway stations with armed military? Eventually the super fast double decker TGV did depart and now I'm taking a break from a new story called 'The Alien Landing Centre'. Only my sister will understand that title, as she understands most things.
Here's a question: 'If an adventure goes on a long time, is it still an adventure?' Is the journey the adventure or is it the spirit of the traveller? Maybe it's both, and a healthy dose of stamina mixed in to keep it all going? The stamina is the key. Three o'clock starts, the military, multiple city crossings and an endless diet of chicken baguettes are enough to get anyone down, but yes it is still an adventure. Even if it goes without hitches it is still an adventure surely! After all, the potentially mean streets of Marseille await, in a journey that has gone from morning gloom and will end in evening gloom, to be continued in the morning to Spain.
From gloom to gloom the day did go, and from moon to moon I went alone.
O.
Monday, 18 August 2014
Abandonware
Abandonware is curious, a fascinating concept that lives in the crack of rationalisation between being illegal in the real world and somehow just a little bit justifiable to those weaker of will or willing to be persuaded. The definition of abandonware is vague but in the vast majority of cases it refers to computer software that has been ignored by its owners, is still interesting or useful, is no longer supported, or has been obsoleted by the advance of computer operating systems. Masses of old computer games can be classed as abandonware, and may be found on the Internet on various distributing websites that endorse this questionable (for legal purposes) practice. Do you want to play the original 'Railroad Tycoon'? Then probably this would be the only way, in combination with an emulator program like DOSBox, which will for the purpose pretend to be an extremely old DOS system. It's actually rather neat.
A second curious thing about Abandonware is that it doesn't only apply to software, but lots of technology which has been left behind. My favourite application of this legally invalid but morally arguable idea for obtaining things is television. Say, for example, you wanted to watch 'Crazy Like A Fox', the 1980s television show. There is no legal way to obtain said show, and probably no illegal way either as it's quite obscure. Now, if the creators are not making it available and probably never will and you see an imaginary bootleg copy and want it badly, is it okay to take the bootleg as the makers have not provided a way to get it properly? The answer is no, a thousand times no, as it is theft but... The weaker part of the will does want to take that definition and shake it around a bit. 'Batman' or 'Phil Silvers' would have been better examples but they are finally being released, ruining this rather silly argument. It would be interesting to see what would happen if I did run across 'Crazy Like A Fox' though, not having seen it in thirty years. In memory it's cool.
As humans we seem to feel entitled to get things that we feel we ought to be able to get, and it's very tempting to go along with it. I have abandonware games on this computer right now - go, ridiculously obsolete 'Railroad Tycoon', go! - and am hypocritical to come down the mountain on myself but I am wrong, albeit in a way that harms no-one. Literally no-one. It's strange how so many of those old games have a much higher 'fun quotient' despite being technically far inferior. Does technical polish of necessity make things less entertaining? Contemporary movies would seem to indicate 'yes'.
Moving topic, this is likely the last Quirky Muffin for almost two weeks as I depart for a long-awaited Wednesday to Wednesday trip to Marseille and Barcelona soon. There shall be coaches and trains and maybe even boats, as well as fountains, aquaria, museums and reading by the ocean. It will be lovely and restful and stressful and ever so slightly silly. Hopefully they won't catch me until the bullion has been handed over to Curly Jo behind the No Bells Casino. You didn't read any of this. Look away, look away, there's nothing to see!
With that it is time to stop. Normal service will resume eventually. Oh, and if anyone at Sony is reading this, please bring out 'Crazy Like A Fox' on DVD. We need Rubinstein and Warden back to appreciate ludicrous 1980s television. After all, "what could possibly go wrong?"
O.
Note: There is still time to put together a couple 'Wordspace' episodes to partially fill the interruption, but time is pressing and so they can only be threatened and not promised. There, aren't you all relieved?
A second curious thing about Abandonware is that it doesn't only apply to software, but lots of technology which has been left behind. My favourite application of this legally invalid but morally arguable idea for obtaining things is television. Say, for example, you wanted to watch 'Crazy Like A Fox', the 1980s television show. There is no legal way to obtain said show, and probably no illegal way either as it's quite obscure. Now, if the creators are not making it available and probably never will and you see an imaginary bootleg copy and want it badly, is it okay to take the bootleg as the makers have not provided a way to get it properly? The answer is no, a thousand times no, as it is theft but... The weaker part of the will does want to take that definition and shake it around a bit. 'Batman' or 'Phil Silvers' would have been better examples but they are finally being released, ruining this rather silly argument. It would be interesting to see what would happen if I did run across 'Crazy Like A Fox' though, not having seen it in thirty years. In memory it's cool.
As humans we seem to feel entitled to get things that we feel we ought to be able to get, and it's very tempting to go along with it. I have abandonware games on this computer right now - go, ridiculously obsolete 'Railroad Tycoon', go! - and am hypocritical to come down the mountain on myself but I am wrong, albeit in a way that harms no-one. Literally no-one. It's strange how so many of those old games have a much higher 'fun quotient' despite being technically far inferior. Does technical polish of necessity make things less entertaining? Contemporary movies would seem to indicate 'yes'.
Moving topic, this is likely the last Quirky Muffin for almost two weeks as I depart for a long-awaited Wednesday to Wednesday trip to Marseille and Barcelona soon. There shall be coaches and trains and maybe even boats, as well as fountains, aquaria, museums and reading by the ocean. It will be lovely and restful and stressful and ever so slightly silly. Hopefully they won't catch me until the bullion has been handed over to Curly Jo behind the No Bells Casino. You didn't read any of this. Look away, look away, there's nothing to see!
With that it is time to stop. Normal service will resume eventually. Oh, and if anyone at Sony is reading this, please bring out 'Crazy Like A Fox' on DVD. We need Rubinstein and Warden back to appreciate ludicrous 1980s television. After all, "what could possibly go wrong?"
O.
Note: There is still time to put together a couple 'Wordspace' episodes to partially fill the interruption, but time is pressing and so they can only be threatened and not promised. There, aren't you all relieved?
Saturday, 16 August 2014
Story: Wordspace, XVI
(Part I , XV , XVII)
Excerpt from the journal of Lies
"We had decided that it was too dangerous to leave the Destructives in the Zone unmonitored. Between them they had the means and power to destroy us all many times over, if they had but the unity and desire. Fortunately none of them had ever been willing to take that final mad step, it being suicidal and self-defeating in the extreme. Throughout all history the death of a Word had seen its replacement by an equivalent youngling, but all of us at once? No-one was willing to take that risk, even a Destructive, but who knew what might happen in the future?
The three of us, Truth, Mystery and I, conspired and devised a way for one of us to be placed in the Zone. Logically, Mystery or myself were the obvious choices, although the danger of uncontrolled truth was not ruled out completely. Ultimately the commonly held misconception that I spoke nothing but untruth was held to be an an advantage to our plot and an opportunity was found for me to excise my uniqueness and conceal a false attempt to break out the Destructives. Then all it took was a swift rush to judgement by a panel of the Lesser Abstracts, egged on by then chairman Righteousness, and I was exiled forevermore.
The tedious details of the journey to the Zone I might write later, excised for in a rush to get to that thrillingly terrifying moment when the Portal closed behind me and I was lost in the wild prison of all our worst inmates. To my surprise all was quiet, and none of those malcontents I had been sent to monitor and infiltrate were around. It was disappointing in the extreme! There was no option but to explore further into the prison and see what might occur.
The Zone, as I understood it, was a massive dome formed naturally from impenetrable jargon. Some of us had speculated that the Zone was not natural at all, but instead the consequence of some massive explosion or impact, but the jargon defeated all analysis. There were even theories that the Zone was the origin point for us all, a secret garden of hope in the far past, but belief in such unprovens was beyond most of our capacities.
That first day in the Zone I walked haphazardly, always moving close to the centre, but never directly. In here somewhere were War, Crime, Disorder, Chaos, Strife, Sword and all the others, and care had to be taken. For long, long hours there were no signs of life, until I discovered the camp. A number of abodes had been carefully constructed, and studded the slopes of a small indentation in the foundation. I watched from behind an outcropping as War emerged from one of the huts and slapped Chaos on the back before heading off to chat with Strife. The Destructives had made peace with one another? Were they now united?
This all required some thought, so I returned to the Portal and began the activity that gave me mental focus, and started this garden. Later I would go back and contact the residents, but then it was time to plant. Perhaps I will write about that first contact later.
For now, I rest."
End of extract.
Excerpt from the journal of Lies
"We had decided that it was too dangerous to leave the Destructives in the Zone unmonitored. Between them they had the means and power to destroy us all many times over, if they had but the unity and desire. Fortunately none of them had ever been willing to take that final mad step, it being suicidal and self-defeating in the extreme. Throughout all history the death of a Word had seen its replacement by an equivalent youngling, but all of us at once? No-one was willing to take that risk, even a Destructive, but who knew what might happen in the future?
The three of us, Truth, Mystery and I, conspired and devised a way for one of us to be placed in the Zone. Logically, Mystery or myself were the obvious choices, although the danger of uncontrolled truth was not ruled out completely. Ultimately the commonly held misconception that I spoke nothing but untruth was held to be an an advantage to our plot and an opportunity was found for me to excise my uniqueness and conceal a false attempt to break out the Destructives. Then all it took was a swift rush to judgement by a panel of the Lesser Abstracts, egged on by then chairman Righteousness, and I was exiled forevermore.
The tedious details of the journey to the Zone I might write later, excised for in a rush to get to that thrillingly terrifying moment when the Portal closed behind me and I was lost in the wild prison of all our worst inmates. To my surprise all was quiet, and none of those malcontents I had been sent to monitor and infiltrate were around. It was disappointing in the extreme! There was no option but to explore further into the prison and see what might occur.
The Zone, as I understood it, was a massive dome formed naturally from impenetrable jargon. Some of us had speculated that the Zone was not natural at all, but instead the consequence of some massive explosion or impact, but the jargon defeated all analysis. There were even theories that the Zone was the origin point for us all, a secret garden of hope in the far past, but belief in such unprovens was beyond most of our capacities.
That first day in the Zone I walked haphazardly, always moving close to the centre, but never directly. In here somewhere were War, Crime, Disorder, Chaos, Strife, Sword and all the others, and care had to be taken. For long, long hours there were no signs of life, until I discovered the camp. A number of abodes had been carefully constructed, and studded the slopes of a small indentation in the foundation. I watched from behind an outcropping as War emerged from one of the huts and slapped Chaos on the back before heading off to chat with Strife. The Destructives had made peace with one another? Were they now united?
This all required some thought, so I returned to the Portal and began the activity that gave me mental focus, and started this garden. Later I would go back and contact the residents, but then it was time to plant. Perhaps I will write about that first contact later.
For now, I rest."
End of extract.
Friday, 15 August 2014
A new experience
What a funny experience, one that was completely new. Never having had a lectureship interview, and despite it being such a temporary position, the different format of the recruitment process was quite the surprise. You have to give a presentation as well as go through the interview, and may well have to spend the day with your fellow applicants, or even two days. On other occasions that might prove to be awkward but on this occasion we all colluded. There was collusion! A conspiracy! Madness! Actually the lack of competitiveness was refreshing in the extreme, its atypicality being the most interesting part of a process that was clearly going to be unsuccessful personally from very early. Such is sometimes the way of things.
Oh, new experiences, you are to be treasured. So much of life is doing things we've done before that sometimes it becomes an endless cycle of 'déjà vu' and aimless confusion. The new experience reminds us that sometimes we get peaches instead of bicycles, and that pools can be filled with bedsheets instead of water. "It's a funny old life," as the mad weaver once said to his illusive friend, before munching on his crunchy wafer.
So, on new experiences there will be one more interruption to the Quirky Muffin in the near future, as the beloved and adored (and deluded) author takes off for the second of two week-long holidays, paid off by the nefarious earning from the last job. Yes, another holiday, a final trip! It will be an odyssey, a rail epic encompassing three countries, and specifically the cities of Marseille and Barcelona. If you see someone in loud Bermuda shorts, a dopey bucket hat, and carrying an entirely incongruous coat or backpack that will be penniless me. Please don't point me out to thieves and cheese salesmen. wonderfully, Marseille and long distance continental trains are both new experiences! Huzzah! We'll see how they compare to long distance continental coaches. The only problem with the journey is in crossing London and Paris in the same day twice, but that's potential achievement and the website called 'The Man In Seat 61' has a good guide for doing it! Hopefully I'll be able to pull off conclusion to a serial story to see the Muffin through the break, but no promises are made.
One wonderful thing about long surface journeys is the potential for reading and writing and thinking. Truly, they mostly degenerate into long periods of restlessness and passive weariness but sometimes one can get so much done! There will be more story content coming out of this holiday than out of the several weeks beforehand. It will be wonderful, and there will be a penguin themed gift of some kind. Every holiday has to have a penguin gift. Penguin gifts are automatically new experiences, and some new experiences are good. Just like penguins.
O.
Oh, new experiences, you are to be treasured. So much of life is doing things we've done before that sometimes it becomes an endless cycle of 'déjà vu' and aimless confusion. The new experience reminds us that sometimes we get peaches instead of bicycles, and that pools can be filled with bedsheets instead of water. "It's a funny old life," as the mad weaver once said to his illusive friend, before munching on his crunchy wafer.
So, on new experiences there will be one more interruption to the Quirky Muffin in the near future, as the beloved and adored (and deluded) author takes off for the second of two week-long holidays, paid off by the nefarious earning from the last job. Yes, another holiday, a final trip! It will be an odyssey, a rail epic encompassing three countries, and specifically the cities of Marseille and Barcelona. If you see someone in loud Bermuda shorts, a dopey bucket hat, and carrying an entirely incongruous coat or backpack that will be penniless me. Please don't point me out to thieves and cheese salesmen. wonderfully, Marseille and long distance continental trains are both new experiences! Huzzah! We'll see how they compare to long distance continental coaches. The only problem with the journey is in crossing London and Paris in the same day twice, but that's potential achievement and the website called 'The Man In Seat 61' has a good guide for doing it! Hopefully I'll be able to pull off conclusion to a serial story to see the Muffin through the break, but no promises are made.
One wonderful thing about long surface journeys is the potential for reading and writing and thinking. Truly, they mostly degenerate into long periods of restlessness and passive weariness but sometimes one can get so much done! There will be more story content coming out of this holiday than out of the several weeks beforehand. It will be wonderful, and there will be a penguin themed gift of some kind. Every holiday has to have a penguin gift. Penguin gifts are automatically new experiences, and some new experiences are good. Just like penguins.
O.
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