So yesterday, I went into downtown Bath. Of course it's never referred to as "downtown" - that's an Americanism (one which I like) - it's Bath's city centre.
In years gone by, I'd have walked there, but not nowadays. I'm not going to blame that one my living in the US, I'm going to admit, fairly and squarely, that I just couldn't be arsed walking. This is understandable when you consider the walk home (all up steep Bathonian hills).
I parked in Henritetta St, and walked to the Pulteney Bridge and round by the weir passing by many buildings of great Georgian architectural splendor. I took pictures as I went, feeling like a real tourist in my own home town. The sun was out, but low in the sky, and so whilst the pics were OK, they weren't great.
I'm here for probably another two weeks, so I'll hold off on publishing these pictures, and re-shoot them on a sunnier day.
On Pulteney Bridge, however, I met a typical Bath resident
A typical Bathonian
I then preceded to with all due haste to the infamous Café Retro, scene of years of Saturday lunchtime caffeine abuse by myself and my henchmen.
Café Retro.
Once ensconced there, I reacquainted myself with their frighteningly strong coffee:
Click to enlarge
Coffee and a good book
...and partook of a traditional English Breakfast (don't click on that if you're one of these whiny vegetarians, who can't stop themselves from commenting on any dish with meat in it. By all means be a vegetarian, just quit whining about other people's non-vegetarian meals).
Retro was it's usual self, with cool music (Van Morrison and Sneaker Pimps were two albums I heard being played), cool people (heck I was there, wasn't I?), and cool staff. As I said to the owner, who I met afterwards in the street, "The service was so good, I thought I'd walked into the wrong place."
I should explain that his penchant for cute young ladies, meant that over the years, the staff were sometimes easy on the eye, but not so easy on the stomach if you were hungry, as he tended to go for looks over ability when recruiting waitresses. There are exceptions to this, however, but I'm not going to name names.
The English winter, although mild this year, has necessitated my wearing one of my more heavy-duty black turtleneck sweaters, and the warmer, heavier black leather jacket is in constant use. It might not be Wash Park, but the uniform is on all the same. Actually, if you knew Bath, you'd know that uniform was fitting right in.
I then spent the rest of the day wandering around Bath city centre, revisiting favourite shops, and discovering the infestation of mobile phone shops was far deeper than I could possibly have imagined. It boggles the mind, really it does. I mean, people only buy new mobiles every few years, and as, these days, British citizens are handed a mobile phone as they leave the womb, you wonder just who's left to buy them.
If you live in Colorado, Bath is about the size of Boulder. It has a lot more going on than Boulder, but shares that slightly smug air of bohemian superiority that Boulder has.
In the evening, I went over to my friend Tim's place, and after playing the United States of Whatever CD, we sauntered over to...
The Porterbutt
The 'butt was my 'local' from 1992-1999 and still is whenever I'm in Bath.
Tim and I have had many adventures over the years, and a lot of them involved the Porterbutt.
The pub is run by a married couple, two ex-hippies, who have no concept of time. Or rather, have the concept of time, but don't care for it.
Under current British licensing laws, pubs are supposed to call "last orders" at about 10.50pm, and then call "Time" at 11.00pm. This means that they're not supposed to sell alcohol past 11pm. Patrons then have about 15-20 minutes to drink up and leave. It's an oppressive concept, that horrifies most American drinkers I've met.
The Porterbutt, however, has a slightly different approach. They call "Last orders" at the requisite time. The regulars get their orders in, and slowly drink, until any visitors have gone, at which point, the wooden shutters on the windows are closed, and those remaining, quietly continue our evening.
In the past 10 years of going there, I've neverbeen asked to leave, no matter how late I've stayed. It's brilliant. It's how pubs should be.
The clientele are a good mix. Old men with their dogs, punks, blue-collar workers, and then Tim and I.
The landlord and landlady, Helen and Andy, were keen to catch up on what I've been up to in the year since I was last there. The jukebox - an old vinyl 45's one was as well stocked with classic pop, rock, and punk music as ever, and blared out across the pub. This helped drown out the traditional Irish music session, going on in the saloon (every Friday night. And you thought it was the English oppressing the Irish? Ha! Go to the Porterbutt - it's the other way round!).
I bought a CD single today. Not something I normally do, but I heard this excellent little number on the radio, twice in the past two days, and am hooked. It's only a minute and a half long, but given my recent immigration hoo-haa, it's seems like it's gonna be my new theme.
It's Liam Lynch's, "United States of Whatever".
If any of you tried to access this site earlier today and it looked, err.. shall we say, a bit f***ed up, blame Mozilla.
If you have a Blogger-powered site, never use Mozilla to edit the template. Why? Because when presented with the template-editing page, it totally spazzes out, and deletes about a third of the HTML and or Javascript code. Of course it doesn't tell you this, you have to spot it, before you hit Save.
Obviously, I didn't and ended up spending an hour or more recreating my main page, by hand. Deep joy.
So. You've been warned.
Despite my most rigorous and precise use of hand-crafted HTML in every DMfM entry, whenever I insert pictures with captions, something goes doolally, after it's put through the Blogger system.
Last night's Caffeine and Curries post was a prime example. The first picture - perfectly centered on my preview page, and in the raw HTML, but left-aligned on the finished page. The subsequent paragraphs - a different font, and far too large a size.
Hmmmm. Maybe it is time to bite the bullet, and switch to MoveableType?
Following my usual plan for adjusting to the British time zone, I stayed awake on the flight, stayed up until 10 or 11 last night, andthen slept for 12 or 13 hours, waking at midday today. Knowing me
as you do, where I normally average 4 or 5 hours sleep a night, 12+ hours will give you some idea as to just how tired my body was, after 4 hours sleep in the preceding 55 hours.
My rental car.
Early afternoon, I drove over to Bristol to see my friend John. We sauntered over to his favourite café, The Naffeteria. For those of you unfamiliar with British colloquialisms, "naff" means unfashionable, outdated, awful. Combine that with 'cafeteria' and there you have it. It's all about us Brits doing ourselves down.
The Naffeteria
The coffee - which by the way was excellent - comes in three sizes, plus one unlisted size. Small, medium or large is on the menu, and then there 'bowl'. The bowl size is just that, a bowl of coffee. It's the same bowl they serve the very large helpings of freshly made soup in, to give you an idea of just how big it was.
A bowl of latté
I had the soup - curried parsnip - and it was good, although it was very filling, which left almost no room for my bacon sandwich. This sandwich came with the Naffeteria's own homemade tomato ketchup (which was also yummy).
The afternoon was then spent putting the world to rights, and me doing email, whilst John attempted to do his tax return.
This evening, true to our nationality, we headed down to The Star Of India, and engaged in that traditional old English custom of eating life-threateningly hot Indian curries. For the record, I had a Tandoori Chicken starter, followed by a Chicken Balti.
The Balti curry, named after the Balti dish it's cooked and served in, is unique to Britain, invented by British Indians, and very popular over here. There's an incredibly rich flavour to it, which is quite indescribable, but trust me, it's damn good!
Not wanting to break from tradition, this was all washed down with, what else? Pints of Kingfisher. It's an Indian lager, and a mainstay of the millions of Indian restaurants in Britain.
OK, so this entry has been a little "Dear Diary", and whilst I normally try to avoid that, it's too damned late (4.30am) to dress it up as some sort of eloquent masterpiece.
Tomorrow is largely unplanned so far, except there's a fair chance of my battling the forces of heartburn, in my old Saturday morning haunt, Café Retro. The evening will be spent with my partner in grime, the boy-wonder to my Gadgetman, Tim. It will involve Tim re-acquainting me with exact trans-dimensional co-ordinates to the almost mythical place from which we draw our super-human powers, namely (drum roll) ... The Porterbutt.
Being in the UK, it's easy to forget it's Thanksgiving back in the US.
Every year since I've lived in the US, I've spent Thanksgiving Day at my friends Franny and Charlie's house. Right from my very first , I was invited, and it has become a tradition that has carried on ever since. I'm a little sad to be missing it this year, but my being in the UK at this time is all to a greater purpose - if only so's I can celebrate many more Thanksgivings in the US!
For the record, I think Thanksgiving is a superb holiday. Two days off, and no-one expects you to buy presents or send cards! Add to that, the tradition of seeing friends and family, and stuffing your faces silly with food (remember the M-Plan diet?), and you're on to a winner!
So, if you're celebrating Thanksgiving today, wherever you are in the world, I wish you all the best, and hope that you have a great day!
There's something, that in my jet-lagged state, I totally forgot to tell you about yesterday.
In the process of getting my plane at Denver International Airport, on Tuesday night, I was "specially selected" THREE TIMES at various points, to be specially searched and quizzed.
First it was my suitcase at check-in, where I had to walk with an elderly lady who pushed my case to the other side of Nebraska, to be X-Rayed. Oddly enough, they didn't find any bombs in it. She had to have a rest on the way back, such was her health condition. Something tells me that if I'd been an International Terrorist, I could just possibly have over-powered/out-run her.
Then going through the metal detectors, the fact that I had so many gadgets and wires in my hand luggage, meant that I was singled out for the entire contents of my bag to be emptied out and re-X-rayed, whilst I explained what each and every gadget does.
Then, as if that wasn't enough, I get to the actual gate, a mere 10 feet from the actual plane, and I'm pulled asside and asked to take off most of my clothes, whilst the pervs on security detail get to fondle me all over, including my genital area!. Whilst doing this, they also emptied out my hand luggage and checked it, despite my protestations that it'd been done a mere 50 feet earlier, and that I couldn't possibly have had time to manufacture a bomb in the meantime.
OK, so I'm a male travelling alone, and I'm under 50, but as profiling goes, that pretty much sucks. Perhaps it was the English accent (the "Shoe-bomber" was English), but really, do I look like a terrorist? No smartass comments needed on that one thank you.
Maybe given my blond hair and blue eyes, I could possibly look like one of the Bader-Minhoff (or however you spell it) terrorist group, but weren't they all arrested, or retired or something?
Then again, maybe it was my Hugo Boss aftershave, that made me so dammed alluring that even the most closeted of security guards couldn't resist a quick pat-down.
As much as I'm not a patriotic Briton, I do love British Airways.
The food, even in economy class, err, sorry "World Traveller" (call it what you like, there's still fuck-all leg room) is very good. True to their Britishness, they don't hold back on the alcohol. It's all free, and you can have as much as you like, be it beer, wine or spirits. So far, I've managed a modest V.A.T and a small bottle of red with dinner.
Frankly, though, seasoned trans-Atlantic travellers such as myself know not to over-indulge in the free booze, as in addition to the usual affects of alcohol on the body (I'm mainly talking about dehydration here), you have the aircraft's so-called air conditioning system, sucking every last drop of moisture out of the passengers. At least, the ones in economy class.
We're currently 3796 miles from Heathrow, and our Boeing 777 is showing a really quite good range of movies and programs. Being a Triple-7, everyone has their own TV screen and a choice of 12 channels. You can really tell that we're on British Airways and not United Airlines, if only because they haven't censored the crap out of the films.
I'm watching Insomnia whilst I type. Al Pacino is doing his husky-voiced grizzly cop routine, and Hilary Swank is looking like a really convincing female impersonator (drag queen). Robin Williams has yet to make his entrance, but my eternal optimism says there's every chance he won't be his usual manically irritating self-absorbed self.
...meanwhile, a couple of hours later...
So, the second movie I've chosen to watch the end of, is Eight Legged Freaks. As B-Movies go this has all the necessary ingredients for a rollicking good time:
• An entirely predictable plot.
• Lots of shock moments
• David Arquette
• Big spiders
The acting is nothing to speak of, but then that's not why people watch this sort of movie. It's all about the spiders, and boy do them lads have all the best moves. Robin Williams could learn thing or two from them.
It's now 3am Mountain Time, and I had four hours sleep last night. It's 10am Greenwich Mean Time, and in a couple of hours, I'm facing driving an unfamiliar hire car, in London after being awake for all but four of the last 45 hours. That's OK though, because a quick jaunt down the M4 at speeds of no less than 80mph with all those other cheery British motorists will get enough adrenaline flowing around my bloodstream to keep me awake until the evening.
I don't bother trying to sleep on the flight. There's no point. I'm not someone who moves about much in their sleep, but there's so little room in economy class seating that it's impossible to relax enough to be able to sleep. Honestly, all those animal rights activists want to quit worrying about veal calves being put in crates, and switch their energies to the far more inhumane confinement of air travellers.
Just to reinforce what worthless scum us coach class travellers are, the plane's safety film constantly showed us pictures of the Business and First class accommodation.
Having worked in the airline industry (on the IT side) I don't resent the Business and First class travellers, because the exorbitant fares they pay keep the cost down for the rest of us.
Mind you, the lucky sods have fully reclineable seats that turn into beds, real cutlery, and the cabin crew will rub their feet for them. In economy class, the nearest you can get to that, is if you're not careful coming out of the bathroom, and they run over your feet with the drinks trolley.
Having given up on the video entertainment, I now have my soundtrack provided by a minidisc of Groove Armada. If you don't know them, think laid-back post-club Sunday morning. Easy listening for Generations X and Y.
Talking of morning, I'm about ready for my breakfast. Now where's that nice British Airways lady, with the properly made tea?
...or lack thereof
So, I'm currently sat on the floor of my office at EID Towers, with nothing but my Apple iBook, and a stripped down DSL connection (no network, just me and the modem).
Around me the super-efficient team of removals men are hard at work, carefully packing everything that's not nailed down into boxes, for transportation to DMfM Towers.
I couldn't do their job. Not because of the heaving lifting involved, and not because of the tedious wrapping of every single little knick-knack, to ensure its safe passage to the new residence, either.
No, I couldn't do their job, because I don't have the steel-like will power they obviously have, in not either laughing, or retching, at the utter filth, dust, dog hair, cat hair, old soda cans and computer parts, that are matted into the labyrinthine orgy of network cables, and carpet of the EID main office.
I'm considering writing to His Infallablness, Mr Pope, and suggesting these lads are all candidates for canonisation, or at the very least, a complimentary Papal Dust Buster.
They say an untidy desk is a sign of genius. Going by that yardstick, I must be sodding Albert Einstein.
But now, it's just me, sat on the carpet, with the iBook, the DSL modem, just 432 wires, and enough old dog hair to make an entire third Golden Retriever.
And As For Me...
Tonight I'm catching direct flight to Her Most Britannic Majesty's, "Little Island Off The Coast Of France". I leave Denver at 8.30pm local time, and arrive in London Heathrow nine hours later.
This is the first time I've taken the British Airways direct flight, since I moved to the US. Normally it's a 12-hour process, involving a change of plane at Chicago or Washington D.C.
United Airlines claims to have a direct flight from London to Denver, but the sneaky little bastards fly the plane to Chicago, make you get off the plane, and on to another plane, upon which they then stick the same flight number. Frankly I don't think they're really getting the point with the concept of a direct flight.
I expect I'll be prodigiously writing more missives whilst on the plane, but I hereby go on record, to state that under no circumstances will I be penning rants about how awful airline food is. Partly because it's really not that bad these days, and partly because it's all been done before, and by funnier men than me.
Until I managed to erase something I'd just spent ages writing, overwriting the document, with a copy of the post below this one.
I've been accused, but more than one person, of being very negative, cynical, and down on everything.
If you feel that I am, it's possibly because you've only read some very recent entires. In fact, chances are you're a fairly new DMfM reader. As it says in the intro, this site is a mixture of reportage, humour and ranting. Given that 2002 has been just about the worst year of my life on record, it's hardly surprising if I've seemed a little less than Mr Jolly Robins.
Those of you who know me personally, will know that I am, in fact, a tremendous optimist, and I think that's evidenced by some of my more positive posts in recent months.
Check back through the archives, to find something lighter and possibly more amusing.
By the way, the archive links are having a bit of problem. It's something buried deep within Blogger, that generates the archive links. If you want to look at an archived month, click on the link, then edit the URL it produces, adding in "/archives" as shown here:
What appears in your address bar:
http://dialmformax.com/2002_06_01_grimbo_archive.html
Add in "/archives" like this:
http://dialmformax.com/archives/2002_06_01_grimbo_archive.html
When I get back to the US, I'll work on fixing this problem.
We've all been there:
Teenage Waiter: So like, what would you like to drink?
Me: Coke please, regular Coke.
Teenage Waiter: Is Pepsi OK?
Me: Have you tasted it? Of course it's not OK. It's vile, and it tastes nothing like Coca-Cola.
I get the feeling it's an established fact, that if you like Coke, you don't like Pepsi, and vice-versa. So why do they ask if it's OK as a substitute?
One of these days, I might try smiling sweetly, and saying, "No, it's not OK. Now be a dear and run next door to Wendy's and get me a Coke."
I don't know what the heck the Coca-Cola Corporation are playing at, but it seems like 95% of restaurants, diners, and other miscelaneous eateries, all serve Pepsi products.
Some people like Pepsi, and that's fine. I don't.
This past week has been a real soap-opera week for me. I'm not going to chronicle it all it here, because to be honest, a lot of it's only really of interest to the people involved.
However, I have discovered that I have to leave the US pronto-presto, a few days earlier than planned, before my grace-period at the end of my visa expires. This, combined with a house move, happening the same week, means I've been a tad pre-occupied with that, and therefore not writing so much!
The good news, is that I'll get to have two or three weeks in my native Britain, visiting family and friends, and my former employer will foot the bill, including a hire car, hotel and food!
So, in the coming weeks, expect lots of reports from 'the old country', as I reacquaint myself with Britain, my home city of Bath, old friends, and familiar pubs. Actually, the pubs are set to feature heavily.
I'll be visiting people in various parts of the country, and amongst the cities that'll be getting a mention is Bristol - the city I was born in. London will only get a mention when I (or my paid agent) goes to the US Embassy to have them stamp a new visa in my passport (whilst giggling at the awful picture in it.
In case you're wondering, the picture was taken just before I grew my goatee, and due to the awful lighting and exposure control of the Photo-Me vending machine I used, I look like Nicholas Witchell
I'll be taking my iBook with me, so expect reports from wherever I am. One of the projects will involve my friend Tim getting DSL, and setting up his website. There could be another Name-the-domain competition out of it!
Alternatively, the domain name will be decided by a panel of highly-trained experts in such matters. Well, OK, perhaps that should read, "Max and Tim, in the Porterbutt pub, after six to eight pints of Guinness.
And when I return? Well, then the fun really starts! But I'll tell you about some potentially exciting work developments in my next installment!
Something dear to the hearts of all British DMfM readers, is no doubt Indian cuisine.
For those of you in the US, still labouring under the misconception that British food is bland and tasteless, you should know that the British are obsessed with highly flavoured, and highly spicy hot Indian food. There's a massive Indian/Pakistani/Bangladeshi population in the UK, and like Mexican restaurants in Colorado, there's an Indian restaurant approximately every 100 yards along the streets of Britain.
Incidentally, just as a side note, if you're in Denver, the Indian restaurant that is nearest to British Indian one, is Little India, at 6th and Grant. If you ask them nicely, they'll make the curries good and hot, unlike a lot of Denver Indian restaurants who seem to tone down the heat. I've never understood why they tone it down. I mean, Coloradoans eat enough hot and spicy Mexican food, so it's not like they can't handle the heat.
Anyway, the point of mentioning Indian food, is to bring you the story of a chapatti that was baked in Bangalore, India, and has (allegedly) had the face of Jesus appear on it. The full story is available here.
Personally, I think it looks as much like John Lennon circa 1979 as it looks like the Son of God.
Given that this is a BBC News webpage, it may or may not still be available when you read this. The Beeb seems to have a habit of moving stories about (to different pages) after they've been there a while. If you don't see the story, just type in "chapatti" into their search box.
Thanks to John in Brizzle for the lead on this one.
WARNING: This product contains rants
It's possibly only those of you who've studied British history, and a handful of those who've lived in Britain, who'll know who the Luddites were. A short explanation is available here, and a more detailed one here.
In modern Britain, the term Luddite is used to describe people who refuse to except advances in technology or methods.
So anyway, I'm reading another blog, a few weeks ago, by a woman who's a tech support person, and she's (justifiably) complaining about users asking for tech support on their PDA's
Her point was entirely justifiable. Why should she have to support such things, they're not part of the corporate network. No, it was some of the comments left after it that got my back up.
Here's my comment:
Surely Palm PDA's are a personal thing, so why the fuck are execs calling your help desk about it? Or is it that they're forced to carry them by the company?
My suspicion is that they all bought them because they'd read in GQ that it was a cool and edgy thing to have, if you're a professional bullshitter... err.. I mean corporate executive, so they bought them without realising it said "Brain not included" on the box.
Personally, I love having a PDA. I have a memory like a seive and it has saved my ass on numerous occasions, reminding me that I have appointments across town, a whole hour before I'm due there.
As for these sanctimonious Luddites, who harp on about "ooh well I have a pen and paper, and it works just fine", screw you, you pious fuckers! I don't want to hear about it. You were quite happy to accept the electric light, and hot running water in your homes, so get over yourselves and quit looking so bloody self-righteous.
Sure, I used to have a paper-based organiser. It grew to be the size of a couple of house-bricks, such was the amount of extra paper I needed to add to accommodate all the information I needed. But then the PDA came on the market, and was the size of a packet of cigars, but held the same amount of information (as the Filofax, not the cigar packet).
I have nearly 300 names and addresses in my PDA, and there's no fucking way I'd want to have to leaf through page after page of notebook, when I can just type their name, and the PDA finds all their details, and can dial the number for you.
Also, one of the biggest pains with paper organisers, is when people change their address or phone number, and you have to white-out or scribble over it. Much better to be able to just edit the record.
Hmmm... I think I feel a rant coming on.
And boy howdy did I!
During the last pledge drive, after being on-air for a couple of hours, I filled in a five-hour shift as Phone Supervisor. This is a fiddly little admin job mostly, but also involves supervising the volunteers answering the phones.
On my shift there was a woman who spent the entire time bleating on and on about how she didn't like this, and she didn't like that, and she doesn't believe in this, or indeed, that.
Ignoring the lengthy political grandstanding and preaching she was doing, her biggest gripe was with technology.
She gave myself and the other volunteers a sermon about how evil cell phones are, and went on to tirade against people who - get this - actually have the gaul to answer them when they ring in her presence.
I'm not talking about people she's having dinner with, breaking off to yack at length on the cell phones. No, she was bitching about complete strangers within earshot of her, daring to answer phone calls. Like we should all stop to accommodate her. Give me a break lady.
Of course, there's little or no chance of her reading this, because guess what? When it comes to computers she, "doesn't believe in them". Yes, apparently, they don't exist. They're just a figment of the imagination.
I think she's thinking of CompUSA's customer care.
It's like those people who, when interviewed, not only say, "I know nothing about computers.", but are proud of their ignorance. These are the same people who think they're being oh-so-fucking-amusing by claiming that they "don't even know how to program their video recorder".
No. You're not being amusing, you're just saying to the world, "I'm too stupid and/or pompous to be able to understand this gadget that 9 year-old children can easily operate."
Not amusing, just asinine.
What do you people expect? You think the rest of us are going to be in awe of your ardent resistance to technology? No. We're going to think you're a pompous dumb asshole, who thinks they can slime their way through life, above it all.
Maybe these people don't need a particular new gadget or technology, but what gives them the right to be so damn condescending about people who are less afraid of trying new things?
It's the "early adopters" who help iron out the flaws in systems. It's the "early adopters" that prove a technology on a mass level, and thus drive the price down.
So put the quill down, light another candle, and stop being so ungrateful to them, you assholes.
Where have I been? What's going on? Why no new posts since Friday?
Well a lot has been going on both in my private life, and with my computer systems.
Today I wrote a very long rant about modern-day Luddites, but it's not quite finished, and I have to dash out to dinner!
Normal DMfM service will be patchy for the next couple of weeks anyway, because I'm going to be moving house, and travelling abroad. Provided my trusty iBook is well again, it'll be coming with me, and I'll be reporting live from wherever I end up!
Hang in there kids! And thanks for your continued support.
* (It's a train station in north London, and a play on words, so don't even bother writing to tell me I've misspelt Houston.)
As much as I like to espouse the coolness, elegance and reliability of Macintosh computers (provided they're running OS X and not that dreadful OS9), I'm having a problem with my iBook. It's at a very low level on the hard disk.
I own a copy of Norton Utilities, and that is currently on it's third pass over the disk.
Anyway, the point of telling you that, is that I do most of my DMfM writing on the iBook, as due to my (and the WPCC'S) wireless network, I can work wherever in the house, garden, garage, or neighbour's house, I like.
I have a few things in the development stage, and guess what? They're on the iBook. Harrumpf.
So, here we are then. Err...
Well, it's Friday night, and I have the place to myself. Well, myself plus four animals, or just "Five animals" if you've ever seen me after my sixth Guinness.
I'm listening to the dulcet tones of Belle & Sebastian, with their catchily-titled CD, "Fold Your Hands Child, You Walk LIke A Peasant". It's not my CD, but I've a feeling that some Belle & Sebastian CD's are going to feature, somewhere in my near future.
I'm reading Beer Mary's Rant-O-Rama, which is always good for a humourous and energetic rant about something. If you've not been there, I highly recommend it. It's often theraputic, if only to know there's someone more pissed off with the world than you.
I was there to learn how to operate the . I sat in, watched, learnt, and after a bit, operated all the equipment. I also read the weather, various announcements, and generally tried to make Susan giggle whilst on-air.
I was operating the 'decks' and the sound board, minidisc decks for trailers, and satellite link (for the news).
The more I did, the more I just know that I want to get into radio as a career. So much so I'm going to look up broadcasting courses, once I get settled after this month's upheaval.
So, here we are:
Click to enlarge
Susan gets her groove on!
Welcome to Jazz Klub. Great!
Quite lidderally sensational, mate.
The Brits among you will get the caption references. The rest? Ask a friendly subject of Her Most Britannic Majesty - but not me!
It occurs to me, that despite all my talk of the WPCC, I've never shared a picture with you.
So, here you go:
Click to enlarge
You've no doubt seen those Apple "Switch" commercials on TV.
I wonder if they show them in Europe? Maybe they have Euro-versions featuring Max look-a-likes in black turtlenecks, fashionable thin black-framed glasses, sipping weapons-grade espressos and espousing how Macintoshes running OS X are as resource-efficient as their European cars?
Well, anyway, thanks to Danelle for supplying the following link, a spoof advert by a former American, now living in Canada.
Given that one of my options for next year, is moving to Canada, and making a life there, and that I'm such a Mac fan, she thought it doubly appropriate.
Anyway, click to play.
So, anyway, Saturday night I was due at the home of Mark & Danelle.
The occasion was an evening of beer and Catchphrase. My suspicion was that I was only invited because of my convincing Roy Walker impression.
The evening's excitement, however, didn't start there.
In my haste to leave the house, I copied down the directions into my PDA. I should really have just printed out the email they arrived in, but in an attempt to save the planet, just scribbled it down in the gadget. That was my first mistake.
So, I'm barrelling along I70, looking for 58th St, when I should be looking for Kipling St. Eventually, somewhere near the Utah border, I realise that I may have gone just a little bit too far west.
I make the call. The call that let's the world know:
a) I can admit when I'm wrong
b) I'm secure in my masculinity
Yes, contrary that male cliché, I ring, and... ask... for... directions.
So we sort that out. I was on Route 58, not 58th St. I set off to find I70 again, and due to a slight miscalculation on my part, mixed in with a very arse-about-face road layout, I end up on the wrong carriageway, heading West instead of East.
But that's OK folks, because I don't head in the wrong direction for long. Oh no, my truck has other ideas.
Without warning, and just past a junction, it dies. No warnings, no strange noises, no smoke, no loud bangs, just dies.
Somehow, against all odds, I manage to get it restarted, and drive off. This little victory is about as short lived as that of the bloke who anchored the Hindenburg up good and tight.
Just past the next off-ramp, it died again. Again, no warning lights to tell me what was up.
So I call Mark, and thanks to the miracle that is Mapquest, he finds where I am, and arrives in his car.
He then used his aged 1600cc car, to tow my 5000cc V8 truck. Quite how it managed this, is a testament to late-eighties Nissan manufacturing standards.
We pootled along the hard shoulder of the highway, to the next off ramp, stopping only once to re-tie the rope. All the time my servo-assisted brakes are getting less and less responsive, until eventually they're so unresponsive they could have got jobs in Qwest's DSL Customer Support office. This means that whilst I'm being towed about six feet behind Mark's car, I have almost no way of avoiding hitting him, were he to have braked suddenly.
Just to add to the excitement, the lack of engine power in the Mountaineer means that the power-steering is dying away with each turn. By the time we reach the gas station, I'm doing an impression of King Canute, as it's taking me two hands and all my strength to turn the wheel.
Of course, Mark drives to the wrong side of the pump for my vehicle, but buy this stage, we're past caring. We figure it's probably just out of gas, although as I said, the low fuel warning light never came on, and the fuel gauge needle was only just in the red.
I stretch the petrol pump's hose across the back of the Mountaineer, and drive the nozzle home, locking the trigger open. Mark and I chat about how all the signs point towards it just being a lack of fuel. I relax.
I relax just long enough to let go of the pump's hose. Ordinarily this wouldn't be a problem, except tonight, the hose is already stretched as far as it'll go, and so half a second after my hand leaves it, the hose springs gazelle-like ouf of the gas tank,and bounces across the courtyard, pissing petrol everywhere, because the trigger is locked open!
The final jolt on the ground causes the trigger to pop out, and cease the flow of flammable fossil fuel (can you say aliteration?), but not before a good 100sq ft of concrete, the side of the truck, and my shoes have all been doused with about $3 worth of gas.
Anyway, after paying for the petrol, plus the $5 million dollar environmental clean-up operation that was required upon the surrounding land, we headed off to Mark's house.
We played Catchphrase, as promised, and drank beer. Mark and Danelle were a team, and Mary and I were a team, and the rest of the crowd sat around and played with Moose. We didn't have any need for hecklers, as we all heckled each other.
The first question for my team:
Max: It's the capital of France.
Mary: Belgium?
And they wonder why the rest of the world thinks that Americans know nothing about anywhere outside the US.
Needless to say, "Belgium" became the answer given to a number of questions, by all of us at some point during the evening. It was never, however, a correct answer.
My truck made it home safely, and true to the blogging cause, all of us who had been playing Catchphrase were online by the time I got back to DMfM Towers
With all the excitement of the truck breaking down, playing Catchphrase, honing my Roy Walker impression, and wrestling Moose, I was awake for hours after getting home.
Miles was curious to know the origins of the drool that was on my jeans. I assued him that it wasn't mine.
I confessed to him, that it was from Moose, who even at only four months old, is already producing enough saliva to re-stock Colorado's depleated water reserves.
Max: But you're still my favourite dog in the world Miles.
Miles: (silence)
Max: Miles, are you sulking?
Miles: Belgium.
I buggered up the site's template, whilst trying out some design changes. I have a plan to revert it back to how things were, but it'll take time, and it's waaaaay too late to do that now.
Update
After a lot of judicious cutting-n-pasting, I've managed to get the template back to where I was when I started this move. It's kind of reminiscent of try to use the Linux operating system - hours and hours of faffing around to achieve almost nothing.
Still, at least the blog title is now up-to-date.
I'm moving this site to our new home at: dialmformax.com.
Please click the link above, then update your bookmark.
There Now
OK, that went smoothly, but for one thing. Changes to the template (like renaming it from Englishman In Denver) aren't being saved. This, friends, is yet another problem with Blogger.
That "Coming Soon" page on Dial M For Maxwell had errors in it, when viewed from a Windows browser.
This happened, because in an effort to get the exact font I wanted, I decided (against all reason) to use Mircosoft Word, and then save the document as a webpage. Will I ever learn? Clearly not, it would seem.
Microsoft Word creates webpages that have more extraneous crap flying out of them, than a herd of very startled buffalo.
Stupidly, I thought a Microsoft browser (on Windows), wouldn't have a problem with a Microsoft-generated web page (from a Mac).
It's this kind of fluffy-bunny wide-eyed innocence that's going to get me killed one of these days.
Anyway, I used a handy-dandy little built-in Mac OS utility to grab the text I wanted, and ran that through Adobe ImageReady, and plopped it all on the page.
When I first started this site, all links to other sites, just went to the site concerned. After a while, I changed it so that every link would open in a new window. The idea being, if when you went there, if you weren't interested in what I was linking to, you could just close the window, and be back at EID without having to wait for the page to reload (handy if the visitor counter, or comments system servers are running slowly)
Whilst investigating stuff I want to do with the new site, I've found a bit of javascript that lets you the reader choose where links open in the same, or a new, window. I've implemented this feature here, even though I'm about done working on EID in its current incarnation.
The good news for me, is that it involves less HTML code each time I link to something!
You can test the new feature with this link to Dial M For Maxwell.
Certain so-called friends of mine, have been known, on occasion, to refer to me as Captain Faff.
For you non-British readers, the word 'faff', in verb form, means to waste time not getting something done, to procrastinate, to over-complicate matters, or spend time on stuff that isn't important. The noun form of faff, describes an activitiy that is unnecessarily difficult to complete.
Despite my reputation for procrastination, I have finally settled on a new name for this site, and a new domain name.
Actually, part of the delay was caused by my holding out for maxturner.com to become available. It expired on the 7th October, and seemingly hadn't been renewed by its owner, but a month later, it still wasn't available, so I gave up.
As you may recall, I consulted with you for opinions on what new domain name I should register. Thank you, all of you for your kind time and brain cells. An even bigger thanks to my elite team of advisors, who I used for more detailed opinions on the shortlist of possible names.
I nearly went with maxturner.net, or maxturner.org, but it all sounded a bit dull for a site such as this. The final nail in the coffins of those domain names was an astute observation by Jodi, which was echoed by another friend of mine later the same day, that I should have something a little more fun.
Just as I was about to hit the hay, late two nights ago, inspiration came to me. It wasn't from the list of suggestions you sent in. Sorry. I'd always hoped to use one of them. Instead, it just came to out of nowhere!
The new site, which will really be a continuation of this site only cuter, will be called:
In case you're wondering why I'm saying Maxwell, and not just Max, it's so that it has the same number of syllables as the movie from which it's a (hopefully) humourous derivation.
For the record, I like to be called Max. You can call me Maxwell if you must, but I prefer Max. Calling me Maxi, Maxie, Maxo or any derevation thereof, will just prove to me what unfunny and unoriginal dickwads some people can be.
I'm hoping that the graphical style will be similar, but not the same as, elements of that movie's poster and/or title.
I have a lot of work to do on it, as I'm going to be moving from the Blogger system to MoveableType. This, combined with designing a new look, and recovering all the old archives and moving them, may take a fair bit of time.
My hosting for the new site is all set up, and I've stuck a "Coming Soon" page in place at the new URL.
So, set your phasers to: dialmformax.com
Tonight I journeyed to deepest, darkest Westminster, a suburb of greater Metro Denver.
The occasion was a meet of Denver Metro area bloggers. Present were:
Click to enlarge any picture.
The Men and Women of Literature
David, Cindi & Mary
Can't talk. Drinking.
Max and Mary
Mark, David, Cindi and Mary
Mark and Max doing their Cher-after-plastic-surgery
impersonation, singing, "If I could turn back ti-ime..."
All-in-all a good time was had by all. I took a lot of stick about wearing the WashPark Uniform, and about having a cell phone. The hypocracy of the latter being that Danelle - the main instigator, was the only person to actually get a call on a cell phone, whilst we were there. Harrumph!
Same time next week guys? Or would twice a week be better?
I'll be sure and wear my "Cher Fishnet Body Stocking" next time.
You may remember, about three weeks ago, my making a passing reference to going to a sushi-making evening. I mentioned (in a footnote), that I have found I have a skill I wasn't aware of - namely making a good suhi roll. I spoke of a picture being taken. It was a film camera picture, and now that the film has been developed, I've been sent said picture, and scanned it into my mac.
Look at the roll on this guy!
Click to enlarge
And yes, I am wearing the " WashPark Uniform".
Is it just me, or does the current season of Saturday Night Live seem a bit weak?
Letting Will Ferrell leave was their biggest mistake. I mean, it's a topical comedy show, and he's the guy who does the President for heck's sake!
Not only that, but he was the strongest performer on the last several seasons.
Now who do we have?
Rachel Dratch, Chris Parnell and Maya Rudolph, are good, but the rest of the cast are weak, very weak.
Darell Hammond was great as Bill Clinton, but those days are over. Now he's been almost relagated to a supporting role.
Chris Kattan? What can I say? Apart from Mr Peepers, you're not funny. Camp? Yes. Gay? Maybe. Funny? No fucking way.
Jimmy Fallon needs to stop adoring himself so much. Jimmy, you're a pretty young lad, now quit grinning at yourself and move on.
Tracy Morgan, who if he stops playing the race card for a minute, is a good performer, seems to have been largely written out of the new Fall 2002 season.
Horiatio Sanz manages to be both the show's token Latino and token fat person. I'm sure he's thrilled about that. He's an adequate performer, but he's constantly pigeon-holed into the same 'aren't fat people funny' roles.
And then there's Amy Poehler, who frankly, creeps me out. I think it's the crooked gap-toothed grin that does it. By the way Amy, if you're reading this, that whole "one-legged girl" thing? SUCKS. It wasn't funny the first time, and it sure as shit isn't funny after you've dragged it out these three or four times.
There's a whole bunch of almost nameless white middle-class guys in supporting roles, who are neither funny nor entertaining. I'm not going to bother trying to find out their names because none of them have managed to make me laugh yet.
Finally, there's the writers. What the hell has happened to the writing team for this season? There must be something other than the departure of Will Ferrell that's made this season truly suck, and I think the writing team are part of the problem.
One little gem remaining in the show is Weekend Update. The writing is some of the only good stuff the show has this season. Also, Tina Fey is cute. I think it's the glasses, and the fact that she writes. But that's still not enough to make Jimmy Fallon's constant grinning bearable.
Saturday Night Live? Barely. It's looking rather frail.
from the Shock-Value Headline Dept.
Another favourite online haunt of mine, for sheer, unadulterated silliness is RatherGood, if only for this.
WARNING: This product contains rants
It's that time of year again. It's time for children and youngsters everywhere to be pressurised into dressing up into ill-advised costumes, and frog-marched to the front doors of strangers, to practice the quaint art of extortion.
I'm not sure who to feel more sorry for; the kids - half of whom look terrified when the scary man with the goatee and the funny accent answers the door - or us childless adults who are forced to either participate in this inconvenient and expensive ritual, or hide at the back of the house with the lights off.
I realise that this might just make me sound like some grumpy old man, but that's just fine with me.
So far in life, I've chosen not to have children. Part of that choice, is choosing not to have to participate in all the work and rigmarole involved in child-rearing. So, why is it that I should be expected to spend time and money, answering the front door 9,842,943 times in one evening, to dish out sugar-filled badness to these ungrateful little tax deductions, that I've never met before?
Actually, talking of tax deductions, there was one family's children, back in Littleton CO, who genuinely made me laugh with their (or their parents') humourous costumes. There were three of them, and one young lad was dressed in a dark suit, carrying a briefcase, with a badge on, saying "I.R.S. Agent". When I opened the door to them, he shouted, "This is an audit! Hand over the candy!"
But that family aside, the whole evening is just one big excercise in embarrassment.
The kids are embarrassed that they've been cajoled into dressing up and begging for 100% tooth-rotting junk by their parents, and I feel embarrassed that I have no sodding idea whatsoever what kids want in terms of candy. Still, at least we're all entertaining the parents.
These parents, whilst expecting the rest of us to join in with their asinine frivolities, will be the same people who are the first to use the "Do you have kids? No? Then how can you possibly understand" line of attack, to defend anything their progeny have done that pisses off us non-breeders. I mean, which is it people? You can't have it both ways!
I suppose that by now, some of you will be thinking I hate children. I don't. I hate bad parents.
You know the sort. They infest restaurants with themselves and their brood, and then totally fail to act, when junior decides to scream the place down. "Oh just ignore him. He just wants the attention."
Hello? Isn't that the fucking point of being a parent? Being attentive to your children's needs?
And the same goes for when they let the kids run rampage around the place. Of course they'll say, "Well, I need time to relax too". Fine. I understand that, but hire a goddamn babysitter next time, and leave the ankle-biters at home. Why should the rest of the restaurant suffer because you don't want to do your job properly?
Like I say, it's not the kids I hate.
I know a lot of kids, brought up by good people, who are well-behaved, and never annoying. It's not rocket science, it's just called, making a sodding effort.
And Another Thing
Whilst, I might not agree with some people and their religious beliefs, I think it's their right to hold those beliefs, if that's what does it for them
However, to paraphrase George Orwell, "some religions are more equal than others.". Or perhaps that should read, "Some religions are more bullshit than others."
I mean, pagans. Purrleease! Get a grip people. It's not like you had these beliefs handed down to you across the generations. I mean, most of the previous generations of pagans were burnt at the stake, in the name of Christianity! Which is odd, because I'm not sure I remember Jesus teaching that we should be that violent.
If that kind of pre-packaged religion-by-Ikea nonsense floats your boat, then fine, go for it, but don't expect me not to smirk. It just looks like people with too much time on their hands.
It all reminds me of that episode of Red Dwarf, where Kryten was due to die, and be replaced by a new robot. He was fine with it, because he knew he was going to Silicon Heaven. Lister spent ages trying to explain that there was no such thing as Silicon Heaven, and it was just a programming ploy to make him except a lifetime of selfless giving, followed by death.
Oh yeah, and stop claiming it's your holiday. First off, there are a whole bunch of Christian claims on the date too, and secondly... how can I put this? IT'S NOT A FUCKING HOLIDAY UNLESS YOU GET THE DAY OFF Put down the tree bark, and get a clue.
Update
It's taken me so damn long to write this, that it's now late on the 31st.
It was a damn cold evening with temperatures around 17 Fahrenheit. Consequently, the candy extortionists were a little scarce, with all but the most hardy of parents pushing their little tykes towards my door.
Consequently, I currently have about three times my own body weight in candy, lying around the front room. So if any of you need the sugar hit, come on over.
Oh and for the record, some of those kiddies where cute as buttons! - See? What the hell is happening to me? It must be all that sugar!
p.s. Pics of the dogs with cute Halloween headgear to follow.
