Qualvista

Wond'ring Aloud

2015-02-09T01:39:00.002+00:00

Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't know anyone was here.

So, it's a day until my 26th birthday. God I got old fast. Last I remember I was 21 and fresh out of university. This blog is a useful time capsule, in that I posted frequently during my formative university years but my time spent on actual paid work has been neglectfully left undocumented. 2011? No idea. 2012 got a single post of mournful nostalgia but after that nothing materialized and so we've had 2013 and 2014 play out with not even a peep. It's now The Future of 2015 and I still don't know what the hell I'm doing. Are things going well? I guess you could say so. On the plus side 1. I have my own house. This is quite a achievement for someone my age and in this housing market. I didn't actually do anything to deserve it, instead I had the good fortune of having my grandfather die and leave me half a house to sell. Plus, having an understanding sister who was happy to lend me her half of the money so I could put down the deposit on my house, on the understanding that she'd get her money back when she wants to buy a house of her own. Now my grandmother has died too my sister should be able to recoup her money easy enough. Also on the plus side 2. I have a reasonably good means of employment at a highly respected publishing company. Is it making me happy? Well, maybe indirectly. I'm not hating it or actively disliking it, which is certainly a step upward.

On the negative side we have the personal relationships angle, something which I've always sidelined. Don't get me wrong, I'm not lonely. I have good friends (a fair number) and get along very well with them, but anything, well, more intimate has always eluded me. Also, this may sound bizarre but it's something I've never actively pursued. I've never resolved to get a partner. I've never cared enough. I still don't care enough. My main worry is that this makes others unhappy because they think I'm unhappy, even though I'm not. I just, don't care. It doesn't worry me except when I think about it worrying other people. Worrying by proxy. Argh, suddenly got cramp in my hand. First time I try to type a blog in literally years and my hand seizes up. Typical. Even when I try introspection my hand tries to stop me. But it still all boils down to what I was searching for at university and what I conclusively failed to attain. A sense of purpose. A sense that I know what I'm doing with my life. I still haven't got that, and I've never had it. With work these days it's too easy to forget about this lack of purpose with short term goals like making sure the website doesn't crash, but that isn't purpose. The website doesn't leave a mark that will last beyond me. Of course I suppose a lot of people get past this desire to leave a mark by having children, but to me I don't really see the point of that. The human race is doing just fine producing children, it doesn't specifically need mine. All I want is for someone to recognize, after I'm just a name on a stone in a cemetery, that I existed and did something.

Bah, I haven't changed. So much post-modern angst just waiting to explode. Time changes some things whilst so much else persists. It's surprised me how much I've been affected by the death of my grandmother. I keep thinking about her absently, expecting her to ring at 5pm on a Sunday afternoon, then realizing the thought is stupid. When my grandfather died I was just 14, not really old enough to properly understand I think. I was sad that I wasn't going to see him again but it didn't really impact my life. Without my grandmother, it's different. There are no grandparents left. My Dad's father died when I was a baby and his mother when I was 8, so again there wasn't so strong a connection. My Nan I spoke to regularly every week, and saw more often than any other elderly relative combined. She lived to be 84 but was never in great health. But she was always, at least until near the end, strong of personality. She was immensely proud of my sister and myself, and lived vicariously though us and my Mum. More than anything I just want to talk to her. Nothing else. I keep wanting to pick up the phone and talk to her. I guess that's a natural reaction. It makes me feel so sad knowing I can't, and won't be able to ever again. It'll pass eventually.

I make zero promises about future postings. All I will say is, it would be nice.

Where Did I Go Wrong?

2012-08-05T02:03:00.002+01:00

A long, long time ago,
I can still remember how that music used to make me smile.
And I knew if I had my chance,
That I could make those people dance,
and maybe they’d be happy for a while.

'What happened to this place? I used to write so much, and now I can barely manage to bring out a blog post in a month or so. Instead, I horde drafts and half-finished ramblings before pushing them out at the last minute and pretending that I have been secretly writing masterpieces. I say I want to be a writer, but without actually writing, constantly, that claim cannot be adequately substantiated. So I have come to a decision. That is to say, I have elected to take the easiest path possible, because it seems that I have developed a propensity to avoiding hard work at almost all costs. I will forsake Qualvista. In other words, I will let it die. For the previously eight months it has pretty much been on it's last legs, and I haven't had the will to update it anywhere near as frequently as I used to. I suppose that if it continued it would only be a maximum of once or twice a month, similar to how I update my games-related blog at GameSpot.'

If you read through the first paragraph you may be confused. A few months? Nothing has been written on this blog for two whole years! It's true: Qualvista did die, and it was a great shame for me personally. I wrote the first paragraph in October 2010: Here I sit on the early morning of August 5th, 2012. I have never written for anyone in particular: I have only ever written for my own enjoyment. A combination of leaving university, getting a job and growing up meant that I abandoned this pursuit which I once so much enjoyed. And it has saddened me over this last year of 2012 how much I have neglected the things which give me pleasure in life, such as writing, listening to music and reading. I spend so much of my day doing work from which I only get a fleeting sense of fulfillment that I realize I need greater meaning in the things I do. Looking back at my blog posts I understand that frankly, I told the truth only infrequently when writing this blog. Not that I ever downright lied, but I don't think I ever removed the journalistic, broadsheet mantle I had placed upon myself: A newspaper column writer who churns out a couple of paragraphs ever Saturday and then spends the rest of the week in the bar sipping Martinis through a straw. God what a pretentious sentence the previous one turned out to be! See, I'm doing it again, I really can't stop myself. I try to tell the truth and look where it gets me: I immediately devolve to simile and metaphor.

But I have been through, and deleted most of the blank blog posts I created in months past with dates in 2010 and 2011, who only contained a title and not a single word of prose. Is this a fresh start, a new beginning to Qualvista? I promise nothing, and I can only deliver disappointment. Can it recover and once again become the bastion for my own sanity? Reader, if you can and are willing to read such nonsense God help you. If you thought James Joyce was unreadable he had nothing on me. Procrastination can only get you so far, and in tune with the times, I've got a gold medal in procrastination for the last two whole years. I've worn it proudly around my neck and sung the praises of idleness to the rooftops. If there is a resolution I can make, it can only be to get fit and write more. That is all I want. That is if I am willing. That is if this movement of zeal does not wither and die like so much that has happened, and will happen, in my life.

But the procrastination is over. The hard work begins here and now!

Postmodern Dread

2010-10-20T18:12:00.011+01:00

And so the world went on as it always had done, with the Earth rotating slowly, and stately on its axis whilst innumerable carbon-based lifeforms scurried hither and thither across its surface. And nobody actually noticed immediately when asteroid 15382 Vian suddenly veered out of orbit from the main belt and made a seemingly unscheduled detour our of the Solar System to parts unknown. In fact, it wasn't until a week later when a tired astronomer at the Jet Propulsion Laboratory in Pasadena, California happened to see that 15382 Vian didn't appear on the latest deep space imaging, that anyone released the asteroid was missing. But by then 15382 Vian, which had picked up some considerable speed once it had passed Jupiter, was out past Uranus and far enough away to prevent anyone on Earth from pinpointing its location or accurately tracking its trajectory. Scientists at the Jet Propulsion Laboratory were baffled. The Small-Body Database Browser, which stored information on all of the main belt asteroids, showed nothing to indicate that Vian would inexplicably deviate from its usual orbit, let alone find it's own means of thrust from which it could break out of the main belt. In the end, the Advisory Committee at NASA called 15382 Vian an "anomalous reading", that's its disappearance was "inexplicable", and suggested that actually the asteroid had never existed in the first place. After a year or so, 15382 Vian was mostly forgotten, and looked upon by astronomers and the scientific community at large as an interesting curio: The asteroid which disappeared.

What they totally failed to recognise was that Vian was not an "anomalous reading". It's true purpose was far more disturbing, and ultimately this minor miscalculation would prove disastrous.

A brief introduction to something I cooked up whilst I was bored. I hadn't actually decided what Vian was up to: I guess it was something to do with aliens but I'll leave that up to your imagination. Also interesting to note that everything factual in the introduction is true: There really is a 15382 Vian, and the Small-Body Database Browser really is hosted by the Jet Propulsion Laboratories at Pasadena. Nobody can accuse me of not doing proper research.

Truly Awful 60's Songs

2010-09-30T17:49:00.006+01:00

Helen Shapiro - Walkin' Back to Happiness
Helen Shapiro manages to encapsulate everything that failed about the 1960's in a single song. No mean feat, given she only has a few minutes to do it. "Walkin' Back to Happiness" wants to destroy your immortal soul through the use of kitsch imagery, and it can succeed if you allow it. Helen Shapiro was one of the 60's icons which could only have worked in that decade. If she had been around in the 70's she'd have been lumped alongside the Carpenters, and any decade later than that would have seen her totally relegated to the Easy Listening shelves. Even I am not that cruel, but this song is certainly suitable for masochists who really want to punish their auditory canal.

Leapy Lee - Little Arrows
Dear Lord preserve us, this song is just about one of the very worst things music has ever produced. I'm sure it was a massive success in getting prisoners of war to confess to horrific crimes, but as a form of entertainment you'd be better of putting a shotgun in your mouth and guessing what happens when you pull the trigger. I would rate this as one of the worst songs ever written, period, but I don't want to give it that honour because it simply doesn't deserve it. Every second listening to it makes you want to hunt down Hammond & Hazlewood and perform unspeakable acts of violence upon them and their families.

The New Vaudeville Band - Finchley Central
I kind of have a grudging respect for The New Vaudeville Band: They played their act very well, and they never broke cover. They wanted to do vaudeville, and that's what they did, unflinchingly to the end. However, that doesn't mean that there songs were good though; they most certainly were not. Finchley Central is simply one of their worst (or greatest?) simply because the lyrics are so memorably irritating. "Finchley Central, is two and sixpence, from Golders Green on the Northern Line". See what I mean? Only worth a listen if you want to laugh whilst grimacing in pain. Still, the best of this quartet, if that means anything.

The Rockin' Berries - He's in Town
I guess these guys hadn't heard of the word melodramatic, because this song is so far past melodramatic it is essentially swimming in honey covered rats. The orchestration is indeed so lush and the voices so melodic that it is best listened to whilst punching yourself in the face if you don't want to pass out in sheer boredom. If you try to imagine a tropical sunset and a group of hula girls dancing on the shoreline, you might just be able to save yourself from wanting to throw yourself out of the nearest window, although I find that a pair of earplugs are a good alternative. And to think, this is the decade which generated The Beatles.

Goodbye Church View Road

2010-09-25T14:30:00.005+01:00

At the junction with South Lawn,
The road sign which once welcomed pedestrians
To Church View Road is ripped in two,
The old, rotting wood splintered,
Likely when some vandal decided in a moment
Of abandon to launch a momentary vendetta
Against a piece of street furniture.

The pond, with yellow and red fish in the garden
Of Number 28 is still here.
And each morning I would walk past
Said pond to school, and in the afternoon
I would return.
Today, the fish swim lazily and without purpose.

Church View Road.
An ironic name, considering after the houses
Were constructed in the 50’s, it was
No longer possible to see the church.
I pause, and look towards the top of the street.
I remember a telephone box,
Never used, used to stand up there.
I can’t see it now, or even notice
Any indication it had ever been there.

But I’m here. Standing outside Number 16.
My childhood home, of which so little persists.
New double glazing, new attic conversion,
New double wooden gates which block the view
Of the garage, new varnished wooden fence
Which replaced the brick wall my grandfather built
On a hot summer’s day.
Indeed, aside from the pebble-dashed exterior
And the porcelain tiles announcing “16”,
There is nothing I recognise.
Even the plants in the front garden are different.

But I do not feel upset, or angry.
How can I? Things must change.
We moved from old homes and built new ones.
And I am placid, until I look next door,
At our semi-detached
Partner of Number 14.

It was here, oddly enough,
Our next door neighbour used to live.
An elderly widow, with few friends besides us,
And a remote family who visited seldom.
Her house was stuck in 1965;
The original windows, drainpipes and guttering,
She even diligently used the original oven,
Original moulded sink, original wallpaper,
And until the door fell off the 40 year old fridge,
She used that too.

And even though we moved away, across town,
To a larger, creakier house in a nearby village,
We stayed friends; Her visiting us every Birthday,
Every anniversary, every Christmas Day.
She wasn’t just a friend: She was family.
But then, one fine week in April,
I didn’t need to cut her lawn anymore,
And I would never set foot in her house again.

So now, looking up at her grand old house,
I feel nothing but rage and sadness.
For the new owners of Number 14 have
Ripped her industriously manicured plants from
Their beds; the once fine lawn invisible beneath
The oily mud and stacks of bricks,
The frames of the old windows lying in pieces
Beneath gleaming white double glazing,
The new breeze-block portico half built,
The wrought iron gates removed,
The garden wall demolished,
The old mint green garage doors
Now just a sheet of sliding steel.

Everything of which I remembered, or cherished,
About her house, has been
Systematically removed from existence.
Unlike us, she didn’t move away,
Or part with it voluntarily. It was taken away.
So that when I return home, and look up an old picture
Of her house on an online street map,
It registers as just a memory of what that house
Has become today.
In time no doubt, it will be as beautiful as ever,
But not to me.

So Goodbye Church View Road,
Where you can’t see the church at all,
And the trees in the gardens are gone.
You can't keep me pinned back in the past,
I'm going back to where I belong.

What has happened has happened,
What’s next is undecided.
So I've decided that my future lies,
Far beyond Church View Road.

With thanks to Sir Elton John for inspiring both the title and the final two verses.

Polar

2010-09-09T15:57:00.007+01:00

This is the story or a bear, or moreover, of a Polar Bear, named Polar. Not a real bear you understand, but a cuddly bear. He can't be called a teddy bear because he isn't a teddy: He's a polar. If you search online for pictures of toy Polar Bears you will, unless you know the right phrase, be hard pressed to find a bear that looks like Polar, because it seems like the cuddly bears of today strive for anatomical realism, and Polar in no way looks like a realistic bear. He was manufactured by Gund, who continue to make cuddly animals to this day, and in a way, he is an icon of the 1980's. And actually until today, I had no idea that Polar was famous in bear terms. Of course, Polar is not the actual name of the brand of cuddly bear here. According to Gund, the bear is called Snuffles, and is their most successful cuddly toy to date. He was designed in 1980, and is relatively unique in that he looks up at whoever is holding him. Whilst the Wikipedia article shows Snuffles of various colours, shapes and sizes (all of whom look vaguely frightening if I must say), manufactured since 1980 up until the present day (his 30th Anniversary year), my Polar is pure white and 13 inches tall. And he has been with me, more or less, since birth. He can be seen hanging out in the background of several of my baby photographs from 1989, and my Mum recollects that I was initially frightened of him (probably because as a baby, a white bear that was approximately the same size as me likely seemed quite threatening). Today, he is the only cuddly toy I own.

Considering he is the same age as me, he's looking pretty good. His nose is a little worn, his tail is fraying (bears have tails?! Yes they do) and and his fur under the arms is falling out, but other than that, he is still as huggable and soft as ever. Why am I bringing up in such exquisite detail my affectionate relationship with a cuddly toy? Because I would like to believe that in the event of a fire, Polar would be one of the first things I grabbed to save. You can have your computers and games and CDs, because they are replaceable. But to me, Polar has become irreplaceable. Even though I could buy a new Snuffles bear, it wouldn't be Polar: It would just be a new Snuffles bear. To me, Polar is a physical manifestation of my childhood. I look at him and can vaguely remember, with weakening certainty, what things were like back then. Unlike my sister, who was so attached to her cuddly toys they literally went on holiday with her, Polar never really left my bedroom, and to be honest I didn't hug him much. He was just... there. Like an old friend. Sitting in the corner, smiling benignly. Never passing judgement or wanting for anything. And for that, just for being there, I am grateful.

Of course, all this might be a tad weird and creepy, so if you're freaked out, I apologise.

Disappear Here

2010-09-06T13:41:00.012+01:00

Bizarre. I think that's the best word to use to describe "Lunar Park" by Bret Easton Ellis, the novel I have just finished reading. It is extremely unlike his previous books in many ways (I have read them all aside from "Glamorama", which I shall endeavour to read next). I suppose the best way to describe the novel succinctly is 'Bret Easton Ellis does Stephen King', even though this is woefully inadequate. "Lunar Park" is basically a fictional autobiography meets horror adventure. It's narrated by Bret Easton Ellis (who I shall refer to as simply Bret from hereon in in order to differentiate between the author and the character), whose background is remarkably similar to the author's, up until the point he marries a fake celebrity actress and father's a son with her. He moves into a McMansion (a large, tasteless house in a new neighbourhood) with his family, and tries to begin a suburban life. However, it quickly is established that the house and Bret are haunted by something horrific, and reality soon blurs with fiction as many of Bret's characters start to effect his life. Throughout the book you aren't really sure whether it's Bret's father who is haunting him, or if it's the literary monsters he has created (most pointedly, Patrick Bateman from "American Psycho"). Maybe it's both. What is more pointed is that Bret doesn't really notice that his characters are coming to life. He is visited by a student at the local college called Clayton, who apparently bears a striking resemblance to a young Bret, Patrick Bateman and who's name and demeanour are similar to Clay, the protagonist of "Less Than Zero". Clayton also apparently drives the same car which Bret used to drive during his late teens, which his father had given him.

Bret is also interviewed about a series of Bateman-inspired murders (possibly undertaken by the character himself, or a copycat) by Donald Kimball, the detective sent to investigate the disappearance of Paul Owen in "American Psycho". Bret seems unaware of this, until is it discovered that Donald Kimball may have been an alias used by someone else. Moreover, Bret's next door neighbour is Mitchell Allen, a minor character from "The Rules of Attraction". Bret says that he remembers him from college and also his bisexual affair with Paul Denton, a similar fictional character from the same novel. Bret shows a huge reluctance to grow up throughout the novel, still hoping he can behave how he did in his twenties, but drinking far too much and experimenting with a variety of drugs. His real-life friend Jay McInerney shows signs of wanting Bret to shape up, but is happy to encourage Bret's reckless behaviour in spite of his family. The novel has a definite "American Beauty" feel about it, in that Bret is evidently unhappy with his middle-aged suburban life and wants to break free, but cannot do it without making a fool of himself. The haunting of Bret's house is the physical manifestation of these worries and desires: Freudian angst against his father, fear that people would copy Patrick Bateman in real life, problems of bonding with his son, Bobby. Overall, "Lunar Park" is far from Ellis' greatest novel, but it is nonetheless an interesting change.

Rising for the Moon

2010-08-31T19:03:00.008+01:00

I travel over the sea, and ride the rolling sky,
For that's the way it is, that is my fortune.
There are many ears to please, many people's love to try,
And every day's begun rising for the moon.

There's a heart in every place, there's a tear for each farewell.
For that's the way it is, that is my fortune.
I'll lure you as the lace that the wayward gypsies sell,
With the sinking of the sun, rising of the moon.

Rising for the moon, the sun has set and it is dark,
But the star of the enchanted tune is bright as any spark.
The chorus of the dusk regail the evening lark,
Whose every day does start rising for the moon.

We travel over the sea, and ride the rolling sky,
For that's the way it is, that is our fortune.
There are many ears to please, many people's love to try,
And every day's begun rising for the moon.

I had no real reason for wanting to repeat these lyrics verbatim here, but it was mainly done to fill space and make it look like I wrote more than I could. Still, I think Sandy Denny really did a great job at writing this song. It's a simple tune, but nonetheless very catchy and emotionally deeper than it might first appear. Much of Fairport Convention's stuff which they did later isn't very good, but this song is one of the exceptions to that rule. And night owls like me will appreciate the references of enjoying the night more than the day. Who is to say that the day is over just because the sun has gone down? Some people simply rise for the moon. I most certainly do not intend any sexual references which might be read into the previous phrase. Please strike them from your mind immediately. I don't even know why I mentioned it. Probably because that's what "The Sun Also Rises" by Ernest Hemingway is actually about. It's true. Look it up.

Things are going to be OK

2010-08-29T23:23:00.008+01:00

"What's the point of OK? Well, what's the point of anything?" OK Soda slogan.

In 1993, The Coca-Cola Company wanted to try something different. They launched a brand new soft drink, ostensibly marketed directly at members of Generation X and Y, with an offbeat and controversial advertising campaign. The drink was called OK Soda (or just OK), and was mainly sold using a variety of unusual techniques, including sarcasm, reverse-psychology and even outright negative publicity. Ultimately, OK Soda wasn't a success and never went into full-scale production, and consequently it was discontinued in 1995 shortly after distribution testing had ended. The tale of the brief life of OK Soda isn't simply the story of the failure to market a brand of soft drink: It can be viewed as an analogy for the state of consumerism today, where we are not told simply what to buy, but also how to feel, think and act. OK Soda was the brainchild of Sergio Zyman; the man responsible for the New Coke fiasco of the mid-1980's, where Coca-Cola changed formula, and then abandoned their new version after a huge public outcry. Zyman was rehired to The Coca-Cola Company, and because of his successful marketing of Diet Coke, was given a new lease to design a new drink which captured the one demographic which Coca-Cola felt it was missing out on; Those misanthropic, confused, yet ever so hip Gen Xers. The company had done some research during the 1980's which suggested that "Coke" was the second most commonly recognisable word in the world, behind "OK", a word of acknowledgement or mediocrity. Zyman believed that OK had brand potential, and decided to market a drink towards the very people who were openly sceptical of advertising.

Thus, OK Soda was born. Zyman's initial predictions were that OK Soda would be a resounding success, and could quickly secure at least 4% of the US national beverage market. OK Soda was launched on a test marketing basis; being delivered to specific areas of the United States where the take up in different population demographics could be recorded. An unusual aspect of the testing was that four different can designs were also launched, and each location where OK Soda was available could compare and contrast the designs for themselves. Unlike the bright red of Coke can designs, OK Soda cans were uniformly grey and black, with intermittent splashes of red around the logo and in pictures. Text on the cans encouraged drinkers to call an 800 number where they could record their various thoughts about the drink, including a warning which stated that "Your comments may be used in advertising or exploited in some other way we haven't figured out yet". They also assured the drinker that it was good to think that "Things are going to be OK" (OK Soda's main slogan). TV and print adverts openly stated that the flavour of the drink wasn't important but was nonetheless "fruity", and that they were really just marketing the 'feeling' of the drink. The idea behind this campaign was that Gen Xers knew that they were being manipulated by mass-marketing, and so in order to counteract this, OK Soda would simply be cool and upfront about it.

Some of the television adverts featured messages apparently left at the 800 number's answering machine, even if they were entirely negative. One famous example included an angry woman stating "You don't know what I've been through in the last month. I really resent it. I'm tired of you people trying to tell me things that you don't have any idea about. I resent it." before hanging up. In the end though these interesting advertising techniques backfired. Nobody, not even the Gen Xers seemed to 'get' OK Soda. In the test markets it sold poorly, and it was officially pulled from production before it was rolled out nationwide. Furthermore, it apparently it didn't really taste very nice (a mixture of a dull orange soft drink and flat Coca-Cola), which has to be factored into its failure. But perhaps it was something more than that. Any product which states on it's side "There is no real secret to feeling OK" isn't going to particularly motivate anyone to ever purchase it. People might feel OK, but that's no reason to triumph it, or use it as a product statement. Overall, OK Soda was an OK idea, borne of an OK premise, and it met an OK demise.

Deutsche Demokratische Republik

2010-08-28T04:40:00.023+01:00

The German Democratic Republic was a flawed nation. For one thing, it never really needed to exist. If it were not for the Cold War, Post-War Germany might have remained a single nation, and the hideousness of the Cold War may have been avoided altogether. Instead, the Iron Curtain cut the country in half; a division which kind of persists to this day, despite the Berlin Wall coming down. The reason I bring this up is because I've just watched "Good Bye, Lenin!" a German-language film set in 1989-1990, during the collapse of the GDR. It revolves around an East German family, Alex Kerner, his mother and sister. Alex's mother is a staunch Socialist, and falls into a coma shortly before the Wall came down. Upon awaking in 1990, the doctors tell Alex that any further stress may kill her. Therefore, he decides to pretend that the East Germany she has always known still exist, and goes to considerable lengths to keep up the facade. The film is very funny but also highly poignant, and asks many questions about how society and the individual interact. It presents a nostalgic half-longing for an East Germany that no longer exists, and actually, in real life, never existed. The GDR was extremely authoritarian towards it's citizens, as apparently "The Lives of Others" demonstrates (which I want to watch at some point). Still, the bureaucracy of the GDR and its mismanagement is what really has a lasting legacy.

Take this example: After the Second World War, the Berlin Stadtschloss (City Palace) was heavily damaged as a result of the allied bombardment, and was basically reduced to a burnt out shell from its former Prussian glory. It was still considered possible to save the palace, but unfortunately it was located inside the Soviet Zone. In 1950, the ruins of the Stadtschloss were torn down and in its place was built Palast der Republik (Palace of the Republic) a staggering modernist concrete structure very much triumphing the typical design philosophy of Communism. It was used as the seat of the East German Parliament, and also as an arts and cultural centre, housing restaurants, a theatre and even a bowling alley. However, shortly before reunification in 1990 it was discovered that the building was contaminated with asbestos, and it was closed to the public. Throughout the 90's it stood empty and unused, before in 2003 the German Parliament decided to demolish the building with the hopes of one day reconstructing the former Stadtschloss. And yet, despite this building being a symbol of much that was wrong with the GDR, many people protested against the demolition of the Palast de Republik. Kind of makes you reconsider how people can become attached to something they previously despised. Kind of like Stockholm Syndrome, in a way.

Bringing the Yearlings Home

2010-08-15T15:10:00.009+01:00

Just gotten back from Fairport's Cropredy Convention 2010 (known unofficially and previously as Cropredy Festival), and feel tired, but no longer dirty, thanks to a nice hot shower. Camping for two days in a wet field near Banbury hasn't opened my eyes to the joys of camping any further. I still hate it. I partially think this might be because the tent I was in was a small two-man one which we've had since I was seven and doesn't have room to swing a cat in, but I think mainly camping doesn't appeal because I like the creature comforts. As much as I complain on this blog about the pervasiveness of technology or consumerism and how bad it is, most of the spare time I had when I wasn't listening to the music at the festival was spent camped out in the back of my Dad's car, eating Blue Ribands (I pronounce them rye-bands, and I don't care) and enjoying the fact that the rain was getting the car wet but not me. Nevertheless, the festival was a great experience, despite the poor weather. For one thing I saw one of my favourite bands from the 1960's and early 70's, namely Fairport Convention. Never mind that half of the original members are now dead or not involved (Richard Thompson is still very much alive), it's still Fairport. They took to the stage on Saturday evening, after Martyn Joseph, who I will dub as a Welsh Bruce Springsteen meets Bob Dylan's acoustic days. He was actually my favourite act, because he actually had a message to give alongside his music. Still, Fairport were also very good, but only when they played their old stuff.

On Friday, my favourite artist was the 60's American band Little Feat, who had the previous day lost their drummer Richie Hayward. He had been absent from the band for several months, and even though such a close friend of theirs had recently died, they played magnificently. I enjoyed very much their rendition of The Band's "The Weight". The headliners on Friday were Bellowhead, who I suppose would call an experimental folky Rock band, and whilst the small orchestra of members which made up the band sounded great, some of their slower songs weren't so good. It was their fast jigs that really got everyone moving. Moving back to Saturday, and half of Fairport's own headlining set was dedicated to putting on the highlights of "Excalibur", a Celtic Rock Opera which was so over-the-top and Hard Rock it seemed mightily out of place at a Folk/Indie Rock festival. Fairport were assisted in this endeavour by a variety of guests, but the "Excalibur" extravaganza lasted far too long, and the rain seemed to mirror the dramatics of the music by coming down even harder. Still, former Fairport member Dave Swarbrick made several unscheduled appearances on stage near the beginning of their set, and even coaxed the other members of the band into a great unrehearsed rendition of "Sir Patrick Spens". Finally, at the end of the night we were treated to the classic "Who Knows Where the Time Goes?", which still can never sound so good without Sandy Denny singing it and is now indelibly linked in my mind to my recently deceased Godfather. Then it was the stormingly great "Matty Groves", to which I sang along loudly, before finishing with "Meet on the Ledge". For some reason the final song left most of the audience in tears; I guess I'm not yet old enough to reflect on the inherent sadness of the lyrics. All in all, an excellent musical experience, where I listened to a lot of new acts (which I have conspicuously failed to mention at all in this posting). Just a shame about the weather.

The Graduate

2010-08-13T00:24:00.002+01:00

Just like Benjamin Braddock, I am now a graduate. If anyone knows of any married older women named Mrs. Robinson looking to have a brief extramarital affair with a 21-year-old graduate with a mediocre degree in Philosophy, please get in contact (I jest, please do not; I don't think it would be an entirely sensible idea). Graduation itself was nice, and made me half wish that academic dress was the university standard, like at some of the Oxbridge colleges, although I suppose it would be a terrible hassle having to constantly wash it. Still, my blue tie matched perfectly with the university colours, which was a happy coincidence. That, and the weather was pretty nice, if a little windy. Still, if there is anything which the film "The Graduate" shows is that you can't do nothing with your life: You always have to be doing something, even if it isn't important. "Ben, what are you doing?" "Well, I would say that I'm just drifting." I have to stop drifting and start going somewhere. But unless you know where you're going, you won't get anywhere. What am I saying? Even I find it very difficult to put into simple terms the way things work. You can see the way the world operates and how actions occur, but actually explaining how these things happen is far more complicated.

Much like this blog post really. Each, or at least most, of these postings have been an attempt to express how I feel or what I'm interested in, but honestly I doubt any of them have even come remotely close. Wittgenstein was seemingly correct: Without language you cannot appropriately express thought. But I think you can have ideas which cannot be expressed, but because they can't be expressed, they cannot be shared. Only through communication can you give credence to any idea. I suppose that's why most philosophers haven't been embraced by the popular media: Although their ideas might have been the best, they are often the worst people to actually communicate their ideas. A bit like politicians really, although not as universally untrustworthy. If I wanted someone to watch my shopping whilst I went to the Post Office, I would definitely leave Immanuel Kant rather than Thomas Jefferson. The worst thing Kant would do would be to eat an apple, whereas Jefferson would declare my shopping deserved independence. I kid, I kid. I also respect Jefferson. I have nothing further to say at this juncture.

Less Than Zero

2010-08-03T23:53:00.017+01:00

"Nobody was saying anything at all." Elvis Costello, 'Waiting for the End of the World'.

When I suddenly became a massive fan of the novels of Bret Easton Ellis I don't know, but last month I read his first novel, "Less Than Zero". I started at "American Psycho" and then worked backwards with "The Rules of Attraction". Now I need to start working forwards onto "The Informers", "Glamorama" and "Lunar Park". His most recent novel released this year, "Imperial Bedrooms", is apparently a sequel to "Less Than Zero". I am picking up definitely themes in Ellis' novels, most notably heavy drug use, drinking, and moral apathy. Characters go out to parties, get drunk, have sex, then go to sleep and wake up and do it all over again. It makes you realise what a terrible world they live in and how absolutely nobody is satisfied or has any kind of real happiness. Wikipedia calls it "Postmodern dread", and I kind of like that. His first three novels certainly deal with very similar subject matter. In "Less Than Zero", our main character of Clay, who is perhaps the most reluctant character to engage in this excessive and pointless consumerism, nonetheless comes back from college to Los Angeles over the Christmas holiday and basically does nothing for two weeks but go to parties, hang out at his friends houses, drink and take drugs. In "The Rules of Attraction", more or less the same thing happens, but this time it takes place in Camden College; a liberal arts university on the west coast. And then in "American Psycho" the same thing happens again, but it is coloured by the fact that protagonist Patrick Bateman likes to rape, torture and murder people. But still, no one notices and nobody cares. I read Ellis for a good dose moral bankruptcy and societal apathy, because it reminds me how prevalent it has become in the world today. It's great satire.

Bret Easton Ellis as a man though, I cannot fathom. Have a look at his Twitter feed. I cannot tell if he is purposefully being bizarrely funny, melodramatic and weird, or if he is actually like that: His characters are just mirror images of his own personality. I'm wondering if he's actually writing as the character of Bret Easton Ellis (he stars in "Lunar Park"). The Tweet where he says "Not to sound too much like Bateman but the James Perse t-shirts and hoodies I bought a week ago are the best clothes I've worn in a year..." had me in stitches, because it is exactly the kind of think Patrick Bateman would say, always going on as he would about bespoke suits and the best kind of mineral water. Reviews for "Imperial Bedrooms" have been rather mixed if not to say polarised, but I'll probably read it eventually anyway. I actually looked up Ellis' various playlist songs from his website using Spotify, and it introduced me to the great song of X, a Los Angeles Punk band who never really got hugely big but were kind of big in the late 1970's and early 80's. Also got me into early Elvis Costello, so I have to thank him for that as well I guess. Just remembered and note to self: Must read, "The Outsider" (also known as "The Stranger") by Albert Camus. Cannot believe I didn't read such an important philosophical novel whilst I was studying.

Maybe You're Right

2010-07-29T17:50:00.007+01:00

I have regrettably become, once again, awfully behind schedule when it comes to putting out these blogs. I even recently contemplated ending Qualvista entirely to focus exclusively on A Note of Criticism, but I thought that I would still like to have a place where I can write what I want, when I want (ish), without any kind of limits on what I might want to say. A Note of Criticism is all good, but because I have to write in a certain style, and not my natural flow of writing (however awful that might be), it can never truly replace Qualvista. Besides, this blog is now becoming a grand old institution, considering in the life of the Internet things don't last particularly long, and I have been writing practically every month since 2007. Or at least, the dates say I have been writing every month. I logged on and started an article on each listed day, but that doesn't necessarily mean I finished it on that date as well. I could change to the new Blogger editor, which would list the date as the day the post was published, but if that was the case then you'd get a day a month where I wrote in a huge burst and then nothing the rest of the time. I hope that in 2017 I will be able to still look at what I wrote on Qualvista, even if I have stopped writing on it by that time. I would hope that I would still be writing then, preferably professionally, but we'll see. Writing well is not the same thing as being paid to write. The more I write the better, because then I can try to shift from simply writing something which is alright into writing something truly great. That would be amazing, but I still believe it is quite a way off, if it is indeed possible.

More recollections from Berlin: At one point I was approached by a student and asked the way to the Humboldt University library. I was forced to admit that I had no idea where the library might be since I was equally unaccustomed to Berlin, and that I suggested he return to Unter den Linden and was more likely to find someone who might know the way. Also, on the flight back, I sat next to two philosophy students, from Harvard. I have rarely felt truly stupid in my life, but those two were frighteningly intelligent. They knew more about philosophy that I ever have, and they were in their first year. I was brave enough to strike up a conversation with them and told them I had just graduated, and we mused for a while about the great and good in philosophy (no quarter was given to the likes of Heidegger). Indeed were were chatting so animatedly we were told to talk quieter by the stewardess because people were trying to sleep. The experience was illuminating but disconcerting. The Harvardians were evidently utterly passionate about philosophy, above and beyond anything I have ever felt, given that the frequently launched into full blown philsophical arguments under their own steam whilst I sat next to them pretending to nap, and read philosophical texts for fun. People who read those books for fun are likely to be either A. crazy or B. insanely crazy. I can imagine that in a few years they'll be running the US State Department. Nonetheless, Fight Fiercely Harvard!

Alone in Berlin

2010-07-25T20:22:00.012+01:00

I have just returned from my very first overseas solo endeavour; four/five days in Berlin, Germany. Although I have documented my entire time in a diary, I feel slightly self-conscious in repeating verbatim everything I wrote down, since I did become a little obsessive-compulsive at remembering German street names and U-Bahn stations, and thus some parts are just listing how I travelled from one place to another, and what directions I took. Nonetheless, I fully enjoyed my brief holiday alone. The main downside of travelling on your own is sitting in restaurants. Having to order for one takes a little getting used to, and it is at times like that when you think it would be great to have someone to talk to. Plus, I felt rather paranoid that everyone was either looking at me or wondering why I was dining alone, but that's probably my normal state of paranoia just ramping up a notch. Anyway, my first solo sojourn was excellent fun, only marred by the fact that coming back my plane was delayed by a chemical spillage at Luton Airport, and thus I missed my bus and had to spend a night at a hotel at the airport. Still, Berlin is excellent. I almost always felt safe and comfortable, and it was only around Checkpoint Charlie I didn't like. It felt unfinished and touristy, and it was the only place in the entire city where there were beggars. Still, the Checkpoint Charlie Museum was definitely worth the price of admission, and has to be one of the weirder museums I've visited. If you didn't take the time to read the displays you would think that the museum was a bit of a let down, but the stories on the walls were totally fascinating.

An example I could remember off hand was of a child who fell into the Spree River, but because the river was in East Berlin but the bank was in the West, nobody could dive in to save the child without being shot at by the East German guards, and consequently the child drowned. It opened the door for new legislation which made sure that in such an eventuality again, an emergency button could be pressed to allow a rescue to be attempted. Potsdamer Platz was also a very modern square, with lots of high-flying modern architecture. Hardly any old buildings exist because it was bombed extensively during the war, and then also because the square had existed right in the middle of the course of the Berlin Wall, and so what was once one of the busiest plazas in Europe was reduced to a wasteland. Looking back on the trip though, one of the things that has struck me is that for all I saw and did, there was so much I missed. Although I went to and toured the magnificent Pergamonmuseum (featuring the Pergamon Altar), I didn't go into any other museum on Museum Island. I didn't see any of the preserved sections of the Berlin Wall (apart from a small section in Potsdamer Platz), and I only looked around Alexanderplatz for a few minutes. Just shows how much there will be still to do when I go back.

P.S. Now I've got back I've started reading "Alone in Berlin" by Hans Fallada; a novel I bought on for the title alone. I couldn't resist it.

Pass the Sunglasses

2010-07-11T17:11:00.032+01:00

The sun beats down without recourse to the needs of the general population, as the weather has become decidedly clement. It's a nice change from all that rain we've had recently. Taking advantage of the need, I went into Oxford and bought some new sunglasses, which I will require for when I go on my planned excursion to the great German city of Berlin next week. The pair I bought in Debenhams were relatively cheap and non-designer (seriously, over £100 for a pair of glasses? I'm only willing to pay that for glasses that will last for years and years), but have the exact appearance of a pair of Ray-Ban New Wayfarers (a style similar to the sunglasses Audrey Hepburn wore in "Breakfast at Tiffany's"). So I am pretty happy with them style-wise, and since they aren't the real deal as it were, it didn't cost me a bomb to get them. Just a shame that at the moment there seem to be relatively few opportunities to actually put on sunglasses because previously our general climate hasn't been, shall we say, Summery. Interesting that sunglasses really have only developed since the beginning of the 19th Century, but didn't become popular until the 20th. I expect that prior to that people simply didn't spend so much time in direct sunlight (come on that's patent nonsense: What about all those people working in the fields every day? If anything they spent more time in the Sun).

And now, a quote from Paul Rudnick about writing: " Writing is 90 percent procrastination: reading magazines, eating cereal out of the box, watching infomercials. It's a matter of doing everything you can to avoid writing, until it is about four in the morning and you reach the point where you have to write." Can I put that percentage up to 95%? Seriously I don't understand why I have found it so difficult to write anything recently. I used to be able to write quite a bit every week, but now it's good if I can manage even a single post, article or entry. So consider this my admission that I need to act to improve the volume and quality of what I write. It might take some time, but if you work at anything hard enough, you raise the chances significantly of being able to succeed. There's some liberating advice for you.

Fighting for Independence

2010-07-04T14:32:00.004+01:00

I fight for my own independence and piece of mind every second and every day of my life. One thing I have to get used to now I have returned to my family home is the diminished sense of freedom. How apt that it is Independence Day today. Whilst at university I was more or less my own agent. For better or worse, I lived by my own agenda. And I enjoyed it immensely, not having someone yell at you for sleeping too late, or for eating badly, or for not doing your washing. But at the same time, I didn't really do myself any great favours by ignoring or putting off things which needed to be done. Now I'm back, it is tempting to regress to late childhood once again, but I know that that isn't possible. I want to stand on my own two feet, but to achieve real independence means to have become either entirely self-sufficient, or to have built a new system upon which you can rely. Sometimes you have to comply with others wishes to get ahead. Individualism can never make you really happy, because as "Into the Wild" showed, "Happiness is only genuine when shared." Nonetheless, although I must follow certain rules or guidelines, I do not really do so with genuine gusto, if you catch my meaning. I do so reluctantly, and although I wish I could commit myself to fully engaging with the situation, I have developed such avoidance techniques that can distance myself from the problem. Even writing this very posting is technically 1. an avoidance technique and 2. breaking a rule set down primarily for my own benefit.

As I have stated, it might be done with the best of intentions, and although I offer myself the very best of advice, I very seldom follow it. I am very illogical. What is even more confusing is that I like my illogicality. So much of my time I am stable, dependable and constrained I feel it is good to have a part of you which remains wild, untamed and bottomless. The issue with the anarchistic views express by the likes of Kropotkin or even Oscar Wilde in his 1891 essay "The Soul of Man under Socialism" is that the solution they offer would throw up such terrible problems. On the face of it, the picture Wilde paints is beautiful. "One will live. To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all." But it's all too perfect. It doesn't realise the innateness in man to have conflict. It's so sad to admit it, but strife is one of the few common aspects of almost every period of history. Very seldom has there been an extended period of peace and harmony. The abolition of private property or the state would devolve us into hunter-gatherer types, where what is 'mine' is what I hold. Striving for a common good only works so long as people agree, and this does not always happen. Perhaps the topic has veered slightly off course, but nonetheless, I live in this state of semi-independence for the timebeing, and I shall make of it the best I can.

"And you wise men don't know how it feels, to be thick as a brick." Jethro Tull, 'Thick as a Brick'.

21st Century Blues

2010-07-02T21:06:00.009+01:00

"Who's escaped those weary 20th Century Blues?" Noel Coward, '20th Century Blues'.

Been listening to quite a bit of 1930's, 40's and early 50's music recently. I like call it "Music for the Post-Apocalypse", since it would no doubt be in the soundtrack to a Fallout game, or something from BioShock. Plus, I feel that if the apocalypse did come along and I survived, it's all I would want to listen to. I'm determined to learn eventually all the lyrics to "The Major-General's Song" from The Pirates of Penzance by Gilbert & Sullivan by heart. One of the most lyrically complicated songs I've heard, with the possible exception of versions of "I've Been Everywhere" by Johnny Cash or Rolf Harris. And on second thoughts, "The Elements Song" by Tom Lehrer, which has the same tune as "The Major-General's Song". In matters vegetable, animal and mineral, I am the very model of a modern Major-General! Makes me kind of wish I was one, if for the fact that being a genuine Major-General is nothing like the song or Light Opera actually suggests. Ah, my eyes become tired with the brightness of this screen. Anyway, yes, the blues. In the 2oth Century, I guess Noel Coward was fed up with the materialism and with the sense that nothing really mattered. Now in the 21st Century the same problem continues, but it has been changed because our consumerism is so pervasive. If Coward thought it was bad when he wrote that song, it is fifty times as bad today. So much time each day is spent seeing things which need buying or watching other things demand you buy them.

I guess you could call me a supporter of Enoughism, which is the idea that when we get to a critical point of buying everything we need, our lives actually get worse if we buy more; things we don't need, but simply want for the purpose of wanting. You can't be downright anti-consumerist, because that would result in a total withdrawal from mainstream society and living like a hippy who thinks this is 1968. I have just discovered what I suffer from. I have noticed the existence of the philosophy of futility, in the words of Columbia University's Paul Nystrom from 1928. Nystrom described the philosophy of futility as being the disposition in people which is caused by the mindless monotony of the industrial age. Because people feel this angst and are unhappy, they seek to solve it by having gratification in various material goods, but this in turn causes more futile feelings, which in turn increases consumption, and thus is the vicious circle complete. You buy more to feel better, but buying more only makes you feel worse, so you buy even more. The longer I look at Capitalism, the greater I am convinced that it isn't healthy for humanity. A system which values the acquisition of material goods, or links happiness to earnings seems just cruel. You only need to look and see that in the end what you have doesn't really matter. It's what you do that counts. And yet, I worry that the process is insidious and is not slowing. The lust for consumerism will be a difficult beast to slay.

The Last Day

2010-06-26T13:04:00.009+01:00

"All those moments will be lost in time like tears in rain." Roy Batty, Blade Runner.

Well, this is it. The first day of the rest of my life. No more university is currently booked, and all my attention should be focused on finding a viable means of employment. But, deep down, I really am immensely apathetic. Much of my mind has become accustomed to days which pass doing not a whole lot productive. Laziness, that's what it is, in plain and simple terms. I wrote a while ago about the goodness of idleness, but perhaps they were right after all that "idleness warps the mind." The last thing I want to do in my life is to be stuck in a job which I neither enjoy nor find engaging. Few people find such a job, but I really cannot countenance the idea that that is all I am destined to be: Unhappy, or unfulfilled. I want to make a difference. Who doesn't want to make a difference? You show me a line of tyrants and leaders down through history who wanted to make a difference, positive or otherwise. Each of them nonetheless left a mark, but so many people are consigned to the dustbin of history; the memory hole in "Nineteen Eighty-Four" where they neither exist nor ever existed, because there is nobody left who knew they existed in the first place. I realise that nobody will ever remember anyone when the world is burnt to a crisp in a few million years by the expansion of the Sun, but memory, or the persistence of thought is something which is fascinating and often occupies a lot of my mind. I know Plato existed because I have read his writings. I know the RMS Titanic sank in 1912 because there are many news reports documenting it, and the wreck still lies at the bottom of the ocean. But in 2410, when I, my possible children and children's children will be dead and buried, who will remember the young man who wrote this blog? Will it even exist, or did it exist? Who can say.

There is a reason the above quote from Blade Runner has achieved legendary status, and it isn't simply because it's a good corny line to be used in a death scene (although it is that as well, I grant you). It's because of the truth in the line. Everything, even the works of Shakespeare, are tears in the rain. Who is to say in the year 10,010 AD that whatever humanity might have evolved into will even have any detailed records stretching back to this point in time. Of course, this is all another bought of endless speculation. I can speculate till the cows come home on what might or might not happen in the future. So what I suppose I am trying to say is that we can only make and shape the future as we impact on it. You might not be able to start or end wars, or solve the energy crisis or cure cancer, but what we can do is take another step along the beach, and watch as the tide washes our footprints away. On the spine of £2 coins it says "Standing on the shoulders of giants." Whilst it might appear this way, we aren't really standing on the shoulders of giants. We're standing on the feet of colossus. What has happened has happened. What is next is undecided.

Fear and Loathing in Southampton

2010-06-23T18:36:00.016+01:00

I am gripped by a sudden and all-encompassing sadness which has just washed over me, and I am not entirely sure where it has come from or what it is doing. Perhaps it's because I'm so confused and lost. I mean, I've come to the end of my time at university and where I go from here is entirely undecided and almost totally up in the air. Up until this point in my life everything was clearly planned out: Go to school, pass GCSEs, go to Sixth Form, pass A-Levels, go to university. But now I've passed out of that, I have another long series of hurdles appearing on the horizon and it is my job to fault them once again. In the words of Pink Floyd; "No one told you when to run: You've missed the starting gun." But not only did no one tell me when to run, no one told me where to run: It's up to me where I want to run to. Problem is, I just don't know. There is so much I don't know. If Philosophy has taught me anything, it's that people think they know too much. In reality we are all severely suspect to interference and misinformation. You know that history is bunk because it was written by people. What actually happened will be decided by who writes the history books. That's a very cynical and dangerous approach to take, but I've started to believe in it. Truth is you shouldn't because people are all we have. What else to we have to rely upon? Don't go bringing up the religion card as this point because I won't buy it. As a pessimistic realist philosopher, that business doesn't fly with me. Has anything caused more or bloodier wars? I doubt it.

I was just thinking, Aldous Huxley's "Brave New World" is such an amazing novel. It is often viewed today in the shadow of Orwell's "Nineteen Eighty-Four", but they are in fact extremely different. I'm not trying to put down the greatness of Orwell, but Huxley's work just feels very different. "Brave New World" is a false utopia, whilst "Nineteen Eighty-Four" is simply an out and out dystopia. The citizens of the World State are brainwashed into believing that the world they inhabit is perfect, and World Controllers like Mustapha Mond (one of the greatest character names ever) are there to pacify the population and keep them from discovering anything which might go against their world view. Alas, I notice that I have flown wildly off-topic. Such is the way with over 90% of the postings on this blog. My mind is so scattergun, as I have previously stated, and so I rarely can hold my attention to a single subject for long. Funny, since usually I consider myself very single-minded. If I decide on something, it is done. Problem is, at the moment there is nothing to decide and nothing to do. We have to find something to occupy our time. I wish I knew what.

Plundered My Soul

2010-06-22T10:12:00.018+01:00

Been listening to the remastered version of The Rolling Stones "Exile on Main St." recently. It sounds more or less the same, but the Deluxe Edition comes with a few new/old tracks, including the newly overdubbed "Plundered My Soul". The song itself is a mixture of original instruments from the 70's and then a newly recorded voice and guitar track by Mick Jagger and Keith Richards. There was a BBC Imagine documentary called "Stones in Exile" on recently which piqued my interest in the album again. My Dad says that "Sticky Fingers" might be their best album, and I'm possibly inclined to agree with him, because that album is more cogent that the sprawling mass than is "Exile on Main St." It's The Rolling Stones very own 'White Album', in that it is undoubtedly a fantastic and elongated assortment of tracks, but it doesn't have such a unified voice. In fact, it is the lack of unified voice which gives it its strength. "Sticky Fingers" has a unity and flow that are magnificent, but it is not as eclectic as "Exile". The documentary was pretty good but was mainly comprised of still images and testamony from when the band relocated to Villefranche-Sur-Mer on the Riviera, rather than actual video. Still, it was an interesting watch nonetheless, and it certainly interviewed the great and good.

Best thing of the remastered version though is the extra tracks. In terms of sound the actual album sounds almost exactly the same as the previous CD release, but never before has an album by The Rolling Stones been rereleased with bonus content. It's maybe a slight victim of the Loudness War by being slightly too loud in a couple of places, but overall it's great. And a good knock-on effect of this hype is that their other albums have been discounted in stores and on Amazon, so I'm tempted to get some of the albums I have previously overlooked because they were expensive. Like The Beatles, The Stones can get away with charging over £10 for an album because people will undoubtedly buy them. I'm used to getting my albums for £5 or less, considering most music from the 1960's has now been on general release for approaching fifty years. I consider the price should naturally decrease over time. I wonder what is going to happen to audio recordings in the future when copyright runs out on them. Even some songs from the 1930's are getting pretty close to that date. Stuff by the likes of Django Reinhardt. I just suppose it will mean that anyone could share the recording without having to pay for it. People will undoubtedly still pay for a good quality version of it. That's why people still buy classical music.

The Fall and Rise of My Computer

2010-06-18T19:15:00.005+01:00

Well, what an exciting 24 hours in the life of my computer it has been. Still not entirely sure if everything is back to normal, but I've run deep virus checking scans and cleared just about every temporary Internet file I can think of, so I am keeping my fingers tightly crossed and touching wood at the same time. It began at about 3AM last night. I had been playing a game (Mass Effect 2 if I recall), when suddenly it jammed. This was surprising, since it had never done it before and the computer had been very good at not jamming in recent months. Anyway, I was able to quit to desktop, and since it was late I turned off the computer and went to bed. Jump forward to this morning, and when I start up the computer I discover that it can't connect to the Internet, McAfee Security has been disabled and the sound card wasn't working. In essence, it seemed that my computer had been crippled and was dead in the water. I immediately suspected some kind of virus or malware, but couldn't think off-hand of how I might have acquired such digital woe. Anyway, throwing caution to the wind I phoned McAfee to ask them what I should do. After a relatively brief wait I was connected through to a nice woman who was seemingly calling from India. After parting company, on the spur of the moment with a whopping £59 for her help, she was unfortunately not able to connect my computer to the Internet, and thus couldn't help. She told me to call BT Internet to ask if their was a connection issue.

Thus, I called BT, and was connected to a gruff but extremely reasonable man, also in India. After I tried to connect to the Internet physically via an Ethernet cable and still couldn't establish connection, the man from BT assumed that it was my adapter which had faulted, and told me I would probably need to go to PC World or somewhere to have it fixed manually. I thanked him and called McAfee back, and got a different by equally pleasant woman in India again. After I told her what the guy at BT had said, she said that she would refund my money because they were unable to solve the issue, which I was pretty pleased about. By this point, I had resigned myself to the inevitable hard drive wipe and operating system re-installation, since System Restore wasn't ordinarily working on the computer. So I put in my Windows 7 disk (eternally grateful I paid a little extra to get that disk), and was greeted with a message asking whether I wanted to reinstall Windows... or restore my hard disk using a system image. I had set up the computer to automatically back up each month to the second hard drive, but I didn't realise that that back-up included a system image of the computer's previous state. So I followed that option, and after about 45 minutes of updating and recalibrating, the computer was back. Overall, I had only lost 15 days worth of stuff, which was hardly anything. So in the end, the story seems to have had a happy ending.

E3 Doesn't Stand a Chance

2010-06-14T15:47:00.009+01:00

This week heralds the Electronic Entertainment Expo: The annual Event of the Year for the video games industry. There have been pretenders at the throne of E3 in the past, but none have managed to shake its grasp. Indeed, even the previous downsizing and then up-scaling of the Expo have done nothing to prevent E3 from continuing to grow in importance within the fiscal year. There is the Autumn 'holiday' season as the Yanks call it, and then there is the May run-up to E3 where a few big titles are launched with the hope of cleaning up at the awards. It is also customary at E3 for various undisclosed games to loosen their jaws and spill the beans on what they are working on. But most of all, E3 these days seems to be a competition between the Big Three manufacturer's (Sony, Microsoft & Nintendo) to fight it out over who has the biggest display booth, or who has the best organised and most interesting press conference, or who has the biggest stars supporting their games. In recent years Electronic Arts and Ubisoft have also been invited along to this Mardi Gras Fish Fry as like extra hangers-on, who provide 'meat in the room', to borrow a phrase from "In The Loop". Ubisoft last year was almost a literal car crash of a press conference with James Cameron groaning on and on about, supposedly, the video game of Avatar, and Electronic Arts showed off some delightful casual games for small girls. It was clear they hadn't got that hang of who was actually watching their conference.

Still, I have high hopes for this year. By the end of the event last year I had reached the stage where I was literally fed up to the back teeth with E3-related news and gossip, because I had reached a saturation point where I physically could not absorb any more news, previews, interviews, etc. So this year, in order to not go completely insane (instead of just reasonably insane), I'm going to try not to go too overboard when it comes to the Expo. Just take it slow, steady and easy going. GameSpot really ramps up seriously when E3 rolls around because of its importance, so it's important to keep a cool and reasoned head. Anyway, that's about it for now. Maybe write more later, but at the moment I feel like I am suffering from a terrible Writer's Block. I really don't like it.

Converse Repeater

2010-06-09T20:37:00.009+01:00

I'm rather tired at this precise moment in time but I really wanted to write a blog post because I wanted to know what it felt like to write something in a stream of consciousness style without any planning beforehand because I thought it would be good to get some practice. J. D. Salinger did stream of consciousness and it was probably his most boring work, so if this ends up as deathly dull I apologise humbly and profusely for wasting your most valuable and precious time. You deserve better. I would turn Bruce Springsteen up, but I'm slightly worried about upsetting my next door neighbours, although I believe they may be either deaf or blind, so if they did get angry and come round, at least they couldn't either hear or see me. I don't believe they are both, but something about the way they shout at each other and there dog suggests that they aren't entirely happy. Or maybe shouting at each other is the best way to find some tiny aspect of happiness in their daily routine. Doing too much which is ordinary is very upsetting. You should always strive for the extraordinary; defeat the tedium of the normal. Again, you deserve better. In fact, I would so far as to suggest you are better than that. Not that I can judge your sentimentality, but I am only making an educated guess, which is as good as any random guess is ever going to get. Nobody can "guesstimate". There is a guess, or there is an estimation. Always hesitate to speculate. Always speculate to accumulate. If nothing else, please remember that. It will be important.

I think I might actually be gaining a second wind, which is saddening. I didn't want a second wind. I wanted to get to the end of this next paragraph, stop writing, publish the post, turn off the computer and fall into bed and sleep until 9:30am tomorrow morning, whereupon I shall wake up, make myself a cup of tea and a bowl of porridge, and then perhaps go and do something productive. But if I get a second wind I won't feel tired right now, so I will stay up stupidly late doing absolutely nothing interesting or informative, then go to sleep before waking at 1:00pm and cursing myself and my stupidity. So I would rather go right now. Perhaps if I will myself I can still do the right thing. Nothing is certain except that which you have decided. I have therefore decided that nothing has been decided. None of this has happened yet. I don't know where I'm going and that scares me. But as much as it scares me, I know that I cannot avoid it. I will still have to walk that way eventually. We cannot stand still, as much as we might like to. If time stood still, nobody would ever do anything. Is this making any sense to you? Please, I did advise you at the beginning that little here would make much sense, so if you have progressed to this late stage your endurance is commendable. But I would advise that you pursue more interesting lines of reading. John Steinbeck, or F. Scott Fitzgerald for example.

Repeat, conversely.

Face for the Radio

2010-06-08T06:58:00.017+01:00

So, three years on student radio have come to an end. Or have they? In fact, I discovered that I might be able to do an addendum show next week, so I may just do that. I might change the name since I talked for however long about how it was the 'last' show. Looking back, in the three years I've been broadcasting a lot of things have actually changed with the station. For example, when I first arrived we had to record all of our songs played on paper, file them after the show, and then it must have been some one's tedious job to go through all those pieces of paper and collate the songs played. That is thankfully no longer the case; Now songs played from the system are automatically logged, and if you play a CD or from a iPod, you can manually log songs directly to the computer. There was also no proper keyboard for the computer. Instead, you had to make use of this tiny one-handed thing which felt like something an Operator from The Matrix films might use to jack-in. The main problem was that if you when to hit a key, you were liable to hit four or so keys around it, so that anything you attempted to write was a random jumble of letters and numbers. Logging songs became a tiresome and rather difficult process, but I got used to it. Getting a real, standard Mac keyboard was a great leap forward though. Made just using the computer a lot easier.

But all that is over now, and it is time to move on. Time waits for no man. It was fun, and it was interesting, but nothing lasts forever. I would thank the experience for helping to develop my music takes a little further. I am still very close-minded when it comes to modern music and very easily dispel most stuff out of hand, but there are at least a few things I now see the beauty of. Still, they don't come up to the standard of the older stuff, and I doubt they ever will in my eyes. I suppose all that is left to say is to thank anyone who might have listened to me ramble on Monday evenings or Thursday mornings (in 2007 that's when The Yesterday Programme was scheduled. It was a horrible time because nobody listens to the radio at 11am, even less than those who listen at 8pm). I hope you learned something, and I hope you enjoyed learning it. Perhaps I will return to some form of radio or print broadcasting in the future, but as of this moment, those scenarios remain undecided and indistinct.