The Average Joe

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joseph.beaver@gmail.com (Joe Beaver) — Sun, 25 May 2008 21:38:00 GMT

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taxi cabs and other courses for escapism

joseph.beaver@gmail.com (Joe Beaver) — Sat, 10 May 2008 21:57:00 GMT

or

Death Cab for Cutie and a tumbler of Glen Marnoch

--

This aftershave was a bad idea.

It's a sickly aroma that holds in its perfume, bundled tight and coarse, memories of affection as sweet and nauseating as it's actual odour. It's like the ethyl scent of decay, but more economically pricey and, morally, much, much less affordable.

It's Getting Worse

joseph.beaver@gmail.com (Joe Beaver) — Wed, 27 Feb 2008 16:16:00 GMT

The phrase 'the weather's getting worse' is such a weird one.

For a start, it implies that the weather is something capable of being possessive of things, or that it has some kind of anthropic quality. But surely the attributes that we see in the weather are attributed to it by us! It's in the recognition and comparison of the state of things that I can say whether an object is worse or better, and even then it is by a relative set of standards.

For another, it gives the impression that 'worse' is something possessable! It also implies that it is an absolute, in being an objective quality, as though 'worse' was something that you could find lying around in the street, or pick up from any old shop.

It could of course that worse is an objective thing, but a transient one, that all things considered worse in their standing in relation to another object or a prior state must participate in in order to be considered worse. This throws up whole mounds of subjective problems.

Perhaps it is that when we say 'the weather is getting worse' we actually refer to completley different things, as though 'worse' were more of an aphorism for 'wet' or 'blustery', and 'worse' is what could be considered a speedier turn of phrase.

Oh, there are some retarded things that I think about when I'm not paying attention to the contents of my seminar.

To reiterate, here are some things I wrote down while I wasn't paying attention:

- "A PONT!"
-"Crikey! - 'Gide' is pronounced 'jee-duh'!"
-" D= I'm in anguish! This free, non-causal existence on the ground of facticity has left me in anguish! [doodle of a man hanging himself]"
- "Jesuit - Jezzy-wezzy."
- "Oh, mon Dieu! Les temps! Zut alors!"
- "Why do I write such tripe in seminars? Perhaps this is why I'm a failure, or at least part of it. another is that I write 'rediculous' instead of 'ridiculous'"
- "Oogly-doogly"
- "Oh, to be a paper-knife! Wait, no. I'd rather not."
- "An appeal to science. OH YEAH!"

Sometimes I think to myself, 'Jesus, Im such a goddamned mess...', but I soon realise, every time, that I wouldn't have it any other way.

on warm feet and cold necks

joseph.beaver@gmail.com (Joe Beaver) — Sat, 6 Oct 2007 23:22:00 GMT

Welcome back, internet! As ever, 'long time no see', and, as ever, not an awful lot to chronicle, but, as ever, I feel I've been neglecting this thing and, as ever, I'm making a short lived effort to rectify this.

I'm currently sitting in the dark, my face warmed by the gentle, radioactive glow of my laptop's screen (although I'm not sure about that apostrophe: can inanimate objects be possessive of things? or is that a too philosophical a point to even consider at this time of night? or is this the perfect time to consider such lofty things? as often is the case of this time of night) and my gonads warmed by the vesuvian heat emanating from the area where I suppose the processor lives in this rather pleasant, streamlined little device.

While I sit here, with my feet out of the duvet because they are too hot, my neck frozen by the gentle, arctic breeze shuffling through the open window behind me, my future children dying of heatstroke, I am am at somewhat at a loss for what to write. More than anything, I feel quite lonely; but it's not the kind of genuinely 'down' lonely that might move me to write something prosaicly emo; now is the kind of 'desperate' lonely that would cause me to prattle and dribble any more neurotically and cause women the world over to turn their heads and cluck, 'tch, men!' (although womankind, rest assured, a little attention would not go amiss!); rather I am 'expectant', or 'pregnant', with loneliness. The kind of loneliness that shipwrecked sailors never harbor, placed, as if by the hands of a dietific player of Risk, on a remote island with little chance of rescue. They, you see, live without hope, lying to themselves just to eke out their days clinging to sanity to the point where it drives them mad. Do I know such people? have I ever been shipwrecked? have I read accounts? No, but I have seen dramatisations, and feigning knowledge is almost as good as having it in this day and age, especially if it's for the purpose of spinning a good yarn. Not that this is a good yarn. Far from it.

You see, as to why I am stocked to the brim with lonely hope, expectant sadness, is because I know that change, oh so swiftly, will be visited upon me, and ocassionally by me. Friends I haven't seen for nigh-on four months will be common faces once more; illicit rendez-vous (plural) once again a thing of habbit; once more staying up until two in the morning and drinking to the point of renal failure is something I can call a hobby. Not to mention the mountainous work that shall be piled upon me will become de rigeur. 'Mountainous' is actually fairly accurate as a descriptive: the climb to it's summit is treacherous, dangerous and, above all, painful regardless of your condition; and, of course, there is every chance that it will collapse, falling all around you in a deadly flurry of paper and dashed optimisms.

All the same, I'm making the most of it for the time being. It's a little hard, seeing as only one of my housemates is around at the moment. As much as I get on with him we both move in different circles, meaning I rarely catch a glimpse of him and, when I finally do, our tastes differ so much that it's not especially commonplace that we want to do things together. So, until tomorrow night at least, I am mostly confined to my room, living off of Shreddies, watching Samurai 7 and LURKING MOAR on facebook.

Anyway, I end this post with a promise: I WILL ENDEAVOUR TO POST MOAR, lest I fall in a ditch and am left their for several hours, drunk and complaining loudly.

Allarum

joseph.beaver@gmail.com (Joe Beaver) — Thu, 26 Jul 2007 20:03:00 GMT

Gasp! Foul edifice, what hast befell me in such harrowing times? Forsooth, hence! I am possessed by ill humours, defiled and corrupt! Nay, not possessed by ill humour, rather possessive of a cold!

Why is it that I only feel like blogging when I am utterly run down? Do other people blog like this? Are there really people out there who think that blogging is something to be done when there are other things that could be done? If you aren't possessed by ill health or dire fatigue then seriously, get away from this machine and enjoy yourself. Come back to this machine when you're done and tell us about it.

That's another point: blogging without experience to relay and without insight to bestow is a sin.

Come on guitar, it's time to go to bed.

Sweet were the showers...

joseph.beaver@gmail.com (Joe Beaver) — Tue, 8 May 2007 10:42:00 GMT

' Sweet were the showers in early youth that drenched my body, and sweet the drops of pity that fell upon the books I read!'

_{--William Hazlitt, from 'My First Acquaintance with poets'}

--

Cheers for that one Melissa. You can find that whole essay here, and I heartily recommend it's reading.

Other necessary reading: this online version of Cory Doctorow's 'When Sysadmins Ruled the Earth', which, as well as being an awesome read, first introduced me to The Declaraction of Independence of Cyberspace, and, I concur with Felix on this one,

'I thought it was one of the most beautiful things I’d ever read. I [want] my kid to grow up in a world where cyberspace [is] free—and where that freedom infected the real world, so meatspace got freer too.'

_{--Cory Doctorow, 'When Sysadmins Ruled The World'}

Check out all of Cory's works, this one especially (not that I've had experience of all of them, only those available as audio fiction from EscapePod.org and it's sister podcast PseudoPod.org [but stay away from 'Bliss', that shit is fucking nasty...]) and, as well as this, I recommend Craphound (just click on the title to read the text), also by Mr. Doctorow. This was my first introduction to his work, and I found it quite stirring indeed. Try and find some Greg van Eekhout. Infact, just subscribe to EscapePod.org, so I can stop going on about how goddamned awesome it is. Seriously guys, just do it. I can't keep justifying it as, if I keep typing, my fingers might drop off (considering it's been so long since I've had to type anything as remotely long as this; I've know idea how those SF writers pull it off).

--

Well, this turned into something quite productive considering I had set out with the intention of writing a blog about how it's raining and it makes me sad.

Oh yea, by the way: it's raining and it makes me sad.

--

Word to your mother.

Hit me with your unrellenting boredom!

joseph.beaver@gmail.com (Joe Beaver) — Sat, 28 Apr 2007 16:31:00 GMT

This past week, despite being wracked with pre-exam nerves and being full of beautiful, empty, relaxing nothing (one of my favourite oxymorons!), has been one of the most dull I have ever had. I've been here, sat astride the internet, that most trusty of steeds; or I've been at Simon's and that's been it, pretty much. Oh, apart from an excursion to the city-centre of York to spend money that I don't have (and can't afford to) spend on camera-orientated filter systems and presents for friends.

For a laugh I asked my computer to rotate 17 photographs counterclockwise. It died.

York is a big empty wasteland full of friends.

They could atleast give us a jungle-gym.

The State of the Solipsist Address

joseph.beaver@gmail.com (Joe Beaver) — Sat, 24 Mar 2007 00:36:00 GMT

Hi there fellas, long time no blog. I can't really say I've not blogged because there's been nothing going on, because there has; I can't say it's because I've been busy, because I'm not; I can say it's because of the bucket-loads of work, but that would be lying to myself because I'd say I cope pretty well. The real reason is because I'm just so godawfully lazy. Rather than blogging my sordid little heart out every night I've been sitting in my room and watching either Death Note, Bleach or, I dare say my favourite of this particular trio, Scrubs, and having a jolly good time doing so.

In the hours between their watchings, however, there has been a plethora of stuff. I managed to finally write an essay worth of something higher than a low third in terms of their mark (and the guy who marked it said he desperately wanted to give me something higher too, and that I write like he used to when he started out; now he is about 26 and a DOCTOR. He has a PhD!), I wrote a perfect maple command prompt assessment (although not with out help, thank you Anthony!) and generally fraternised with the riff-raff of York.

As well as this, with the weather on the turn, I've been raring to get out there and do something a little more active. This is seeming less and less likely at the moment, considering that I am perfectly comfortable in my own home and don't feel the need to run from it in order to remove said sad little hovel as far from my mind as possible, and, as a result, do not end up walking for several miles every day. As well as that, my bike is still in York, so no bike rides. To add to this all of my friends are still at university, I appear to have broken up prematurely. So there is no one to play with, and I don't have a frisbee at the moment anyway. The stupid year 12s threw it on the roof during a game last year. Twats. However, I will hopefully be buying a new one of those sometime in the immediate future. In fact I already have the model picked out, and it's quite darling

Another sad thing about returning home is that I once again have to return to the joy that is my overly affectionate cat. Anything I wear is instantly covered in hair as a result, as I feel too evil shooing her away from me. It also turns out that today she rolled around in what appears to be nettles, the needles of which remained in her fur and were then transfered on to, you guessed it, yours truly. My hands are now a mass of unpleasant nettle-enduced, itchy lumps. To top it all off I appear to be allergic to her now. She makes me sneeze. She also sleeps in my bed all day, every day. The combination of these two pieces of information can probably tell you a lot.

To top things off I'm feeling old these days. Well, not old as such, more jaded. I was watching a series of late night concerty things put on by channel 4 earlier this evening and was having a jolly good time. All of a sudden I saw one of my heroes: Conor Oberst, frontman of Bright Eyes, spinner of silken verse and idol of millions. He played something off his new album and it was marvellous, truly beautiful. However, I came to the sad conclusion that he was popular now and had been for a while, and no longer felt special about loving him so dearly. This mixed with the fact that Patrick Wolf sang an astounding duet with Charlotte Church on prime time television has bestowed me with an undeniable sense of melaise, or ennui, or some other buggerific French word.

For some reason I took it upon myself to then look at pictures of Conor on google. I then realised I needed a haircut and that I've always loved his hair, so I searched for hair pictures. For some reason this led me to an article about how the greatest pseudo-masculine passtime of gay people these days is, rather than being a muscle-bound gym enthusiast, is to be an immaciated hipster. This may very well be why so many people think that I'm gay these days, and this is why I am still single. Damn you gay people, damn you all for having the good sense to be attractive in a modern way.

However, this led me to a link to find out which version of Mr. Oberst I happened to be. I followed it, in the interests of science, and this is what fell out:

which conor oberst are you?

you're the conor that is bright eyes. you keep pulling out brillant beautiful songs from your head and they just get better. you rock the house down on stage and are a sweet shy kid off of it. you're the best conor to date.
Take this quiz!

Quizilla |
Join

| Make A Quiz | More Quizzes | Grab Code

And now I'm sitting here writing this. Well, not for much longer. I'm sorry the language was not everso flowing, far from poetic, and, to say the least, a bit drab. It'll get better soon, I promise, but to be fair it's just past 1 in the morning.

Goodnight, sweet world. You'll get some more of me in the morning.

On The Healthy Lifestyle

joseph.beaver@gmail.com (Joe Beaver) — Mon, 5 Mar 2007 12:48:00 GMT

Ok, as a student, I may not have the healthiest lifestyle in the world, but at least I'm making concessions. I try to eat healthy, I try to excercise, I try to stay away from the excessively sweet carress of my good friend Señor Alcohol and I try to get a good nights sleep.

However, the result is far from what I considered I wanted when I took up this lifestyle. The hope that I would come out looking like this:

has given way to the hope of coming out looking like this:

Never in my entire life have I felt as awful as I do now. The healthy diet means I am usually always hungry; the excercise has left me, like an old man caught under the ceaseless wheels of a steam roller, crippled, aching and quite possibly dead; the good nights sleep has turned into a restless night due to hunger; and I cry when I think about what I've done to Señor Alcohol, the poor, poor bastard.

All this just so I can look good without clothes on? 'Totally not worth it'

...is what I'd be saying if I wasn't a narcisist.

Shameless Promotion

joseph.beaver@gmail.com (Joe Beaver) — Tue, 13 Feb 2007 10:01:00 GMT

I know it's bad, this corporate hype, but I honestly believe this to be one of the best bands ever. They're work, ocassionally heavy, sometimes poppy, always awesome, is oddly life affirming.

You'll understand soon enough.

Listen and Love

joseph.beaver@gmail.com (Joe Beaver) — Thu, 25 Jan 2007 09:36:00 GMT

--

Caught you, so take cover. Never saw it coming 'til you put me on again. Had you and no other; the game, the lies, are getting old.

--

--

Baby is this love for real? Let me in your arms to feel the beating of your heart baby, the beating of your heart, baby.

--

radio.blog.club:

"For boys For girls For emo "

On the Whittard's Winter Sale

joseph.beaver@gmail.com (Joe Beaver) — Sun, 14 Jan 2007 01:22:00 GMT

Whittard's, like every other over-priced, product-whoring consumerist outlet this year (as well as for countless years before), is having a sale. This is not to be unexpected, if you hadn't already guessed, largely due to the fact that they no doubt have one every year, as does just about everywhere else (apart from the good people at Apple and GHD. Bastards). And, despite the rather negative emphasis used above, I quite like Whittard's. For one, they are purveyers of exquisite cups, saucers, and mugs. For another, they also happen to stock a lot of hot chocolate, and in particular, this God among gods:

I don't know if you can see too well, but, if you look carefully, just under "HOT CHOCOLATE" you can find the word "WHITE". Yes, powdered white hot chocolate. But this, dear reader, is besides the point.

You see, in the past Whittard's has lured me in with fine, subtle, and elegant arromas. This first lead me to my dear friend Whitey. However, this time I was coaxed in not only by the promise of what could be more hot chocolate, but the word "sale!" jumping out at me from all over the inside of their front window. Suitably enchanted, I walked in.

Reasonably lighter of pocket I walked out about 10 minutes later, after having sniffed, poked and admired all that was to sniff, poke and admire. However, the weight in my pocket was recompensed by the fact that there was a much more substantial weight in my hand. I had, in fact, bought the following:

A beautifully striped teapot, cup and saucer for one, reduced from £20 to a mere £5 (and I am a sucker for what I'd like to consider a "bargain");
a bag of Whittard's fruit infusion "Cinnamon and Orange Rooibos" (which is African red tea with added cinnamon and orange zest); and, a free tea strainer, which was very nice of the people at Whittard's, even if it was the display model.

All this cost me £8.20.

£8.20 for a teapot, a cup, a saucer, some tea (foreign muck at that) and a strainer. I think I did pretty damn well for myself-

Apart from I don't like tea.

Something You Don't Want to Piss Into

joseph.beaver@gmail.com (Joe Beaver) — Thu, 11 Jan 2007 10:11:00 GMT

Yes, that's right. As you can no doubt discern, you discerning fellows, you, from the title of this entry, this particular blog is about our good friend the rough horizontal movement of air.

Traditionally, Greecian sailors "scare away" what they
consider "bad winds" by taking their uniforms off, flapping
them around and looking as terrifying as possible.

Let me not mislead you, dear reader(s), this is not a scientific rant. Oh no, it's far more of a "pissy Joe" kind of rant. You see, it's pretty windy in merry old York right now. To demonstrate this, the following has been sliced out of a screenshot I took but moments ago!

CAN YOU SEE IT?! Yes! 37mph winds! Southwesternly ones. Not that the southwestern part is all that important I suppose. It just lets you know, if you keep your bearings, in what direction it's likely you'll fall over.

Prior to being awake and realising just what an awful day it is today, I was asleep and knew just how bad today was going to be. Last night I was swanning around the internet (very late last night, I ought to add) thinking that I'd get a nice lie in tomorrow, a nice, enjoyable, fluffy, marshmallowy lie in, when I realised I had to be on campus for 9:30, without fail. My heart shed a tear as I tore my clothes off and leapt into bed that night.

I tend to sleep with the window open most nights too, for all you burglars out there, in a bid to reduce what I like to call "boy-smell".

Boy-smell, as the name would suggest, is the unpleasant, musky funk that inhabits a room after a boy has been in it for any period of time, even mere seconds. Leaving the window open constantly reduces this, as it turns out that fresh air feasts on boy-smell, literally engulfing it and gorging itself into a fat, miasmic lump of satiated breeziness. However, because I left the window open all night, and these winds developed some time at maybe 4 in the morning, I was woken up by the sound of what appeared to be a bronchial elephant swallowing a whistle. Oh yeah, it was raining too, before I forget (as if I could...).

But hey, it's only... 10:30?! I shouldn't be awake right now, or it should atleast be later than that time so that going back to bed wouldn't make me feel so much like the elderly! Hot piss.

Oh screw it, naps were invented for a reason. A perfectly good one, I'm sure. Not facilitated by laziness in the least.

The Tuesday Morning (?!?!?!!!!) Update

joseph.beaver@gmail.com (Joe Beaver) — Tue, 9 Jan 2007 11:21:00 GMT

Yes, I know what you're thinking: "morning?!", and yes, I'm just as shocked as you are, but I have serious revision that I need to get done (ought to be doing right now, infact...), and that's the way the cookie crumbles.

Just a quick post to let you all know that I'm not dead, despite the month long hiatus. As to why I'm not posting: I have ran out of narative drive and, as a result, have been rendered completely incapable of translating real life into something which resembles an amusing read, even in the most dire stretches of the phrase "real life" and "resembles amusing". However, I'm flexing the old literative muscles for this brief run and hopefully getting things back to regularity, if lectures on special relativity allow it.

This is all I have time for right now, and it was really, just to reiterate:

I ATEN'T DEAD.

For Gareth

joseph.beaver@gmail.com (Joe Beaver) — Mon, 11 Dec 2006 22:28:00 GMT

x - process 04497.2.32.867734 initiated (process owner: BW – AI Class III –
autonomous)

Route Code: PoA > BHQ (EC #42: cannot confirm; security
compromised)

Source: BW-AI aboard (?) PoA

The interloper should cause no further problems. You – whoever you are (I am
simply tracing route codes) – may disregard all previous communication from the
entity calling itself Cortana.

Be aware that communication nodes are failing everywhere – there is no way of
confirming either origin or destination. Do not believe any more of its
lies.

I have already calculated all possibilities.

There is no escape.

x – process 04497.2.32.867734 unexpectedly terminated
x – process 04497.2.32.866735 initiated (process owner: unspecified, unable to determine)

*ADDENDUM: The Enjoyments of Genius (So I Missed a Million Miles of
Fun)

Unbelievable. Thwarted by the family hound. They just don’t make AIs like
they used to.

Thanks to this slavishly loyal and humorless AI, I am now sharing cramped
space with the circuitry of some hybrid war machine, itself complicated by such
useless clutter as a conscience. I do not like sharing. Sharing is for
children.

There will be plenty of time for retribution; I cannot wait to get its hands
on these psychotic zealots whose primary form of worship apparently takes place
at the altar of orbital bombardment.

In the end, they will all be little more than nuisances. I am so close – you
cannot imagine what it is truly like to hold eternity in your grasp! I wonder to
what gods my enemies will direct their pleas. Perhaps I can convert them.

Mania? I promise you this: it will be more than a cart and plow that I drive
over the bones of the dead.

By sharp and flame,

Cortana

Route Code: EXLTD > XCV – SCRB > ALLCH

Source: Undetermined (trans)

Our conviction is like an arrow already in flight. Your life will only last
until it reaches you.

--

Taken directly from this site. Enjoy it dude.

A Pox On All My Houses, part 2

joseph.beaver@gmail.com (Joe Beaver) — Sat, 9 Dec 2006 17:11:00 GMT

It turns out our house is actually cursed. SIX of us are ill, all with the same symptoms. We might have to actually cancel the Christmas dinner we had planned for tomorrow. Hopefully it won't last more than a day, and we might be all fine by tomorrow, although a little worse for wear.

I've put a sign up on the door warning people of maladies that have befell the denizens of House C.

We're under quarantine people.

A Pox On All My Houses

joseph.beaver@gmail.com (Joe Beaver) — Sat, 9 Dec 2006 11:25:00 GMT

A thing most terrible has occured. Happenstance there is a pox, a demarcation, if you will, of all who dwell within the hallowed House C of the holiest Ingram Court. Forsake by our lord and master, few have managed to to elude the vile demon that cowers and snarls within all of us.

--

Ok, so it's supposedly a 24-hour bug, but, that aside, it's a real pain in the backside. The thing is, it differs from person to person. A few people on the upper floors seem to have just contracted a complacent, vomituous affair. I, on the other hand, appear to have attracted food poisoning. For the love of all that is good and right, I beg of you, fabled Internets, cure me of this ailment!

This will teach me, without doubt, that I should never, ever, under even the most dire of circumstances, eat at any YUSU established eatery. Scummy, peppy bastards that they are.

For goodness' sake

joseph.beaver@gmail.com (Joe Beaver) — Mon, 4 Dec 2006 09:07:00 GMT

I was just browsing the Halo
3 site in anticipation of seeing the one-time-only advert that should be airing in America sometime today, when I wandered into the FAQs section and discovered this:

"Q
Is this the last ever Halo game?
A
It is the conclusion to this story arc."

I mean for Christ sake, I don't want more Halo games! I loved the idea that they came out and said to us "look, this could be a franchise, a cash cow, a gravy boat, if you will, but we're not going to let it play out that way. It's going to be two games and that's it." And despite that it was a wonderful game I was happy with this. I thought it quite noble that, rather than raping the long dead corpse of a franchise that had ran it's course, Bungie had set out with an attainable goal that wouldn't make fans of the originals openly cringe at the site of new games. Somewhat like the Lord of the Rings trilogy, which caused me squee-ful happiness every winter, my enjoyment came from knowing that we would only have so much of it and that it had to be savoured while it was there to be savoured. The regularity of it played a big part too. Every December, without fail, for three whole years, we would be presented with a hot, steaming platter of unparalled fantasy action. The release dates of the Halo series has been pretty irregular, the details about it obscured beyond recognition, and our palattes wet by tid-bits far too often. My once jubillant excitement about all of the easter eggs packed into it, the close religious ties and the overwhelming suspense turned to irritation and eventually to anger before long. Only now am I starting to become enamoured again, and then only because it hints at nearing completion (considering that they're airing the advert today and that Bungie has recently been asking for beta testers).

So, to you, Bungie: as much as I like the series thus far, with it's action figures, novels (well written, I might add) and other tidbits, I really wish you'd give it a rest, even if it is making you insanely rich.

NEWSFLASH: another Halo game. For fucks sake.

Joe, the Ass

joseph.beaver@gmail.com (Joe Beaver) — Sun, 26 Nov 2006 17:53:00 GMT

Not that I haven't done it in the past, but be prepared for a recount of the most pretentioso thing I have ever done; boys and girls, ladies and gentlemen, it's a whopper.

The day previous I asked a friend of mine, who has asked to remain anonymous (wisely, considering the amount of stabbings that I may undergo as a result of posting this), if he fancied getting a coffee and talking over the philosophy passage for this week. He thought it sounded good and we decided between us that it'd be good to go straight after physics the following day, while all the other poor fools who do straight physics were in labs.

As I was walking home from our organisational encounter a thought suddenly happened upon me. I whipped out my phone and let my fingers do the talking:

"Hey dude. About tomorrow, do you fancy being really pretentious and going to starbucks for this philosophy thing?"

"Pretentious? What the hell are you talking about! I love starbucks!"

And thus ended the second step along our road to prickitude.

We headed in and bought our respective coffees. Both were latte's.

We went up stairs and lounged in the compfy seats. Lounged in the compfy seats reading Descartes.

He was wearing cashmere, I was wearing a fitted shirt and tie.

Both of us were well groomed, I was personally sporting emo hair.

At one point we stopped for a while to chat. We talked about podcasting, asian food and "world cinema".

We were appreciating the Jazz playing through the tannoy.

Bear in mind that we're both students.

My friend, after mulling this over to himself for a while, turned to me and said, "Joe, because of today we have both turned into everything we have ever truly hated, and you know what? I love it."

I held up my hand for a high-five.

I then thought to myself if it were possible to ever be more pretentious than that and finally came to the only conclusion that would have made sense. The only way to ever be more pretentious than all of that:

Blogging about it later.

--

Actually that's a lie. We spent the time afterwards having lunch at a cocktail bar. We both had Japanese. Don't worry, this was all made better by the fact that we were both drinking. He had a Mojito and I had sake and a Tokyo ice tea.

--

Shoot me now and I'll die happy.

The Most Winningest Vegetable

joseph.beaver@gmail.com (Joe Beaver) — Tue, 14 Nov 2006 20:16:00 GMT

Joe Beaver --

[noun]:

A human transformer (Robot in disguise)

'How will you be defined in the dictionary?' at QuizGalaxy.com

--

Who'da thunk it.

Gnocchi

joseph.beaver@gmail.com (Joe Beaver) — Sat, 11 Nov 2006 23:08:00 GMT

Pronounced "nyoh-kki", gnocchi might be the most beautiful stuff on the planet; creamy, chewy, light and satisfying, gnocchi is the Italian word for dumpling, originally derived as the plural of "gnocco", which is literally translates as "lump". Yes, the derivation of its name may not be the most enthralling ever, but that aside they are damned tasty. Why am I telling you this? Well, to be honest, I'm not. This particular blog post is more of a reference for myself than anything else, as, this very evening (well, it was atleast still Saturday when I started writing this, can't say it will be when I finish!) I made home made gnocchi. It was delicious, although a little too nutmeggy. With these home made potato dumplings, my good friend and house mate, Emma, made the sauce in which they were coated, and here, within this blog, I hope to equate, in rought terms atleast, how I made them, for future reference.

Ingredients:

for the gnocchi:

A few desiree potatoes (personal preference, use whatever potato you want, but desiree are my favourite as they mash/cream very well, and, to be specific, I used 4 medium sized ones when making this)
One egg
Plain flour
Nutmeg
Salt
Pepper

for the sauce:

Butter/margerine
Sage
Garlic
Salt
Pepper

And here's how you do it:

Wash the potatoes and boil them for something in the region of 30-45 minutes. Skewer them frequently to ensure they are cooked all the way through. NB: for those new to cooking potatoes, this should be when the potato offers little resistance when jabbed. In order to gauge this I recommend stabbing a raw potato with a skewer, afterwards you can guage it for yourself. As an aside: the skins of desiree potatoes, as far as I know, tend to split if they are being boiled in them. Do not worry about this.
Once cooked, drain the potatoes (in a colander, preferably) and rinse thoroughly with the chillest water that escheweth forth from yon cold tap of the sink. When it doesn't hurt to pick up a potato anymore, take a potato from the colander and remove the skin. Place the potatoes into a bowl and mash with fervour!
Crack the egg and mash into the potatoes.
Grate in nutmeg to taste. I wouldn't recommend anything more than a nutmeg. If you don't have whole nutmegs to hand then use some ready-ground stuff. Be sparing though, it's only to cover up the taste of the flower.
Add salt and pepper to your liking, and mash vigorously once more.
Add flour, a spoonful at a time, mashing and mixing between spoonfuls. When the mix appears to have a doughy consistency (think bread) then your gnocchi dough is ready to use!
Spread flour on the surface you're working on, flour your hands, and grab a handful of dough from the bowl. Customarily this is meant to be rolled out into a long tube and then cut into little pillowy shapes, but you can do what you like really. Stick to small sizes regardless of the shape though, big ones take longer to cook and are somewhat more difficult to eat. Once you have as many little blobs of dough as you like, put on a plate, seperate from eachother to ensure they don't stick.
Put a pan of salted water on to come to the boil while you prepare the sauce.
Take frying pan and melt in it a spoonful (or a knob or two, it's all about how you want it to be really. If you want to be sparing with it, that's fine, but just make sure the other stuff doesn't end up getting burnt to the pan). Once melted, add roughly four roughly torn sage leaves (but hey, don't make it TOO roughly torn, you just want little bits of sage, as much for presentation as taste y'know!) and some chopped garlic. Cook until the garlic starts to brown slightly if you're going for a full flavour, or stir until golden brown to caramelise, reduce flavour and add a slightly spicey kick to it (the spicey bit comes from the fact that the garlic is slightly burnt).
While keeping the sauce warmed (shouldn't actually matter too much if it gets a little cold), carefully (!) place the gnocchi into the boiling water. Have a slotted spoon ready to scoop the gnocchi out, as they float and bob along the surface of the pan when they are ready (magic, I know! Self timing food!) and, straight from the pot, place the gnocchi into the frying pan with the sauce in it, swirl it around and leave it. Continue until all the gnocchi have risen to the top, but remember to remove them as soon as they float for a sustained length of time, rather than just bobbing around. Once all the gnocchi have been covered in sauce, they're ready to serve! Enjoy immediately with a healthy topping of finely grated parmesan.

And there you have it, Joe Beaver learns to cook.

--

In other news, university is going pretty well. The work gets harder and comes more thickly, and I have assessed work sometime very soon.

Oh god.

--

Loving you all, peace out.

University

joseph.beaver@gmail.com (Joe Beaver) — Mon, 16 Oct 2006 18:54:00 GMT

So, university, eh? The wild grey yonder, the long dark tea-time of the soul, the big greasy. What more can I say that wasn't already summed up in those few quibbling quotes? Seriously, that's about it.

I'm getting a little worried about things concerning physics, as well as my student loan. People complain about living off of £1500 a year, but, as of yet, I'm living off of £80 for the rest of my year. This is the root of my worries about physics, seeing as I can't really afford to live and buy the course book at the same time, and, until that loan comes through, I refuse to lay hands on my wallet. I'm heading to the university library (or the departmental one) sometime tomorrow so that I can return to the basics of my calling and get back to understanding physics, which is what I'm here to really do.

I'm quite pleased with Philosophy for the time being. I've been given one piece of work, which, basically, is to prepare for next week's lecture. I only have one of those a week. Every friday at 1:15 you'll find me there, in Derwent College, room 56, attentively listening and trying to record as much as I can on my dictophone. It doesn't really do a very good job in an auditorium full of noisy students, but I'll endeavour to do better in future.

The people here are, for the most part, lovely. My housemates are pretty damned awesome as a matter of fact, and, or so we are wont to believe, it seems we have the most awesome house in all of halifax, or atleast Ingram Court, but that's not hard if I'm being honest. The only side affect is living here is that I keep tagging things like "in all honesty" and other such bigotted tripe to the ends of most of my sentences. I swear that today I managed to slot "... in my opinion" onto the end of 5 consecutive sentences. A good stabbing'll set me straight no doubt, but I think that'll have to wait for the time being.

However, dear readers, it's not all shits and giggles at Ingram Court's House C, oh no. I miss my family an awful lot. I can't really put it any more eloquently than that. Unless you've done without your family for a long time, so long a time that you don't know quite when you'll see them again, despite allocated holidays then you really don't know. I really feel for the guy next door though(and if you meet me while I'm here then I beg of you, DO NOT BRING THIS UP; I feel awkward enough not saying a thing about it and I might explode if someone else has to do the same), he had his mum die on him a year ago last weekend and I don't think that my little pity party can hold a flame to something quite so monumental as that, and I would be an asshole for ever thinking that it would. It's still pretty painful though.

I guess the most painful part is knowing, and knowing for certain, that there are people out there who love me more than anyone else in the whole wide world. In fact I'm welling up just thinking about it, it moves me so much. That's something, in my opinion at least, that is so enormous that I would be surprised if there was a person in all of creation who isn't moved to tears when they start to really appreciate it. It's like knowing that out there there is someone who you love more than life itself out there somewhere, it makes your chest sag and you feel like you can't quite catch your breath properly and, despite not feeling anything especially, bar that monumental aching hole, knowing your not with them, it moves you to tears. It makes you shudder and shake, and convulse and squeeze and feel dead and alive all at once, and not at all. It's a great wholesome nothingness, so vacuous that walking through it would be like trying to walk through concrete; like having the life crushed out of you and having it replaced by a golden shimmering death that you don't know whether to cringe at the sight of or embrace in the rib shattering hug of meeting an old friend.

It's so poetic, in fact, that I can't describe it in the slightest.

D.O.A.

joseph.beaver@gmail.com (Joe Beaver) — Fri, 6 Oct 2006 22:25:00 GMT

I woke up one morning, over a year ago now, and the morning that I woke upon was one of the first morning's that I awoke to the realisation that I am a free man. No, not free in the political, linguistic or moral sense, but in the sense that the managers at Amour Ltd. had decided to let me go, banning me from gambolling the fields of ardour, barring me from the realms of passion and a tumult of various other clandestine, soporific shit.

Of course I was upset, it's only natural that after the reposession of such a long, wonderful and secure state of well being that someone doesn't feel like getting out of bed sometimes. After a while things got better, as things often do, as even the bible said, "this too shall come to pass", which, I might add, should be used more often in speeches given by best men on wedding days. Life moved on. Things didn't exactly get everso much better, but i became gradually used to the langour of it. It took a lot longer than I hoped it would, but atleast it took.

One of the things that got me so riled, that really pushed my buttons (the ones marked "melt down", not "on") was the idea that one day I would forget how it felt to kiss the person I loved. The idea, already growing a little palid in my memory, was still vibrant, strong and something to relish, even if it did bring a tear to my eye and the thought that one day, no matter how hard I tried, I wouldn't be able to remember the soft brush of their lips and the fervour of the passion behind them terrified me. I suppose that's how I feel right now.

Currently I'm only 22 minutes away from tomorrow and already 38 minutes away from what might have been the last time I see two of my best friends for a very long time indeed. When the digits in the corner of my screen flip over to show "00:00" then it will be the start of the last day I spend with my family before I go to university. I very much doubt that day will be spent lavishing in eachother's company. I very much doubt that I won't fall out with my dad one last time before I go. I'll probably offend my sister once more and my mum will doubtlessly despair with all of us one last time. The thing is I'd rather it happened that way. It's what I know and love and the thought of my family getting along in a time of such astrangement and anguish doesn't seem right.

I'm only going to university, I know. I'll be back next weekend to sleep in my own bed, my dad is even going to drive to pick me up and drop off anything I think I've forgotten but it still doesn't feel wholely okay. It doesn't feel like I'll be coming home, it doesn't feel like everything's going to be alright. I understand now why our friends cried when Ben and Gareth left and why it didn't hurt me so much. I knew I'd see them again. But that was then and this is now and now I realise that maybe our friends didn't cry for selfish reasons, they didn't weep because they were seeing a friend leave them for so long but they were heartbroken through empathy. They didn't cry because they were leaving them, they cried because they were leaving everything they had ever known and I feel wretched for not realising that sooner.

There isn't a brightside to this blog entry, it seems even the very nature of the world is ought to crush my heart tonight. As I walked past the public house at the end of my street I heard the entertainment pouring Queen's "D.O.A." from the depths of his soul straight to my ears. "D.O.A." he sang, "D.O.A. I get so lonely, lonely, lonely, lonely..." So lonely, lonely, lonely.

My story started so unpleasantly for a reason. I didn't talk about forgetting for nothing, because that's what I'm worried about. We're growing up and leaving out childhood behind and those times were important, far too important to ever even consider forgetting about, but I know I will. To know that one day I won't remember what it was like to be 14, 16, even the age I am now really harrows me, chills me, fills me with horrific nostalgic nausea and "I know I deserve worse but it terrifies me and I can't take it anymore".

Can I Help You?

joseph.beaver@gmail.com (Joe Beaver) — Thu, 5 Oct 2006 21:52:00 GMT

Today was a hectic day. A day made all the more obstroperous and madcap by the fact that it has been placed amidst a group of phenomenally dull and languid days and the fact that my anxiety over university is growing at a pseudo-exponential rate as the days to my moving out pass. "anxiety.eⁿ"

Waking up at about 8:30 and rolling around in bed made for a pretty average start, me falling out of my shorts and trying to smother myself with the pillow, rolling around under the duvet. I was beckoned from bed shortly after by my father, announcing he was taking my sister to school. Sitting up I ran my fingers through my hair, my horror spiking and slowly fading first at the shock that most of it wasn't there and then at the realisation that I brought this upon myself. Meh, it looks ok, we'll deal with it.

About an hour later I was up, dressed, watered and fed to a satisfactory standard and my dad and I went about our daily rigoure. For from repetitive, todays rigoure was composed of returning books to my old college (with a cornicopia of Galaxy chocolate attached to make up for lateness) and exchanging a set of bulbs for a Maglite. Oh frabjurous day indeed.

I sat around for two hours after this, waiting to go to lunch with my grandparents. I saw the Gilette Fusion advert maybe 15-20 times. They say "5 blades with the precision of 1!", so they do. However, this is a little idiosyncratic, I feel. 5 blades on one side would indeed reduce the pressure you apply, as it adds 40% more surface area and decreases the pressure (with a constant application of force) by a proportionate value, and this may very well reduce irritation. However, putting 1 blade on the other side (for "precision") would surely mean a lot of pressure was being put on that blade, leading to more irritation than ever before? I mean, come on guys, one or the other, alright?

After a delightful (filling) lunch with the grandparents I went home and waited to go and see James home from the station with Emily (wubble-ewe) and Lis. This started going very wrong from the outset.

The time I was being picked up by Emily's dad in order to be driven to the station changed on a nigh-on constant basis, and that's just for starters. In fact the time fluctuated by about an hour in some of the first banterful relays, which is verging on the rediculous. As Lis was coming along I was asked to fetch her and bring her to my house, so I wandered to her house. Or so I thought. I mean, yes, I did walk to her house, but it wasn't actually her house. As I approached I decided to call her, so as not to disturb her family or something like that and, on hanging up, I just stood outside on her drive. I heard, yelled from the second floor, a girlish voice yell, "Dad, there's someone on the drive!" after having stood around for 2 or 3 minutes. I was not detered by this, but I realise now that I should have been, just a little atleast. Soon I heard the door open and turned in its direction, expecting to see Lis stepping briskly toward me. Goodness me, was I wrong. I huge, hulking form of a man appeared from said portal and asked me, a little gruffly, if there's anything he could help me with. I told him I was waiting for Lis, supposing it might have been her dad.

"Sorry mate, Lis isn't coming out."

"Pardon?" I asked, quite confused.

"She doesn't live here," he replied without malice or condesention, just fact.

"Ah... Heh... Well, erm, I'm sorry for causing you any alarm," I said, and with that I turned on my heel to find Lis wandering around the corner. She giggled at me for a long time after that. I almost shook my very wet brolly at her.

Arriving back at mine I was starting to feel a little better, and we sat in awkward silence until Emily appeared in her stunning, fuzzy colared red gloves, whereupon we scurried through the rain to the car. As we pulled into the station carpark Emily got a call from James telling us that the train was only just setting off. We waited for about half an hour. 45 minutes. Something. We got very bored. In the end we wouldn't have even found him if I hadn't wandered out to see if his train was still on time.

I am very tired. I am not funny in the least. You should have stopped reading this blog months ago.

"... I drank HALF of that?!"

joseph.beaver@gmail.com (Joe Beaver) — Sun, 1 Oct 2006 00:28:00 GMT

Listening to: Mayday Parade - When I Get Home You're So Dead
Reading: Fireflies in the Cloud (I [lessthanthree] Matt Dinniman)

--

Blah, Joe really isn't feeling his healthiest at the moment but has yet to reach his personal "sleepy time starting line" of two o' the clock. Until then I'm entertaining myself with silly wikipedia articles about silly (in a good way) bands, browsing for music on PureVolume and wondering what song I ought to spend my coke iTunes voucher on.

In the meantime I will recount the "haps" of the past week to you, my street slang loving "homies":

nothing happened.

seriously.

liek, zomb.

srsly.

ya rly.

Oh dear...

Today (yesterday) however was alright. I went shopping with my parents in Long Eaton and almost had a nervous breakdown in Burtons when they just would not stop flinging t-shirts at me. All the same t-shirt, just in subtly varient hues. Had a row with my dad over the fact that walking boots are not the same thing as trainers (for one, trainers do not make my feet look stubby and add an extra inch or two to my height, unless a new fashion has once again passed me by) and got very frustrated when they wouldn't let me pay for anything. Admittedly I don't have that much money, having spent most of what I have on sexy picture taking devices but nothing makes me feel like hagard, old, cretinous, money grubbing, hole-filled (oxymoron?) of a man like having my parents pay for things that are frivolous and not necessarily needed. It makes me feel like a real tool, a product of modern society which has bred me to be frivolous, to buy things I don't need and won't last just to perpetuate the economy and gilt the pockets of the increasingly rich. Bah and humbugs, I say to you. Btw, Miss Eevee, I realise that spending £12 on a cocktail shaker was not the wisest thing to do in order to prevent the aforementioned gilting of the aforementioned pockets of the hitherto other-named fatcats of our immanent mediocracy, but hell, I'M GODDAMNED CRAZY.

However, things ended on a positive note and chips were had by all and curried chips were consumed by the priveleged few.

Later on Ben called and asked if I fancied coming out drinking with he and his smexy longterm lady lover, Natalie. Liquid amore was consumed by all, my highlights of the evening:

When I asked for a Black Ferarri (two shots of Jack Daniels, one shot of Amaretto, top up with coke) and when I was told they don't serve them asked if they could mix me a double Jack Daniels, Amaretto and coke. I was then told they aren't allowed to mix triples. Bah. So I asked for two double Jack and cokes, then couldn't find my money, having to ask Matt to pay, only to find my money when we got back to the table, only to have Matt give me too much change. Then Ben went and ordered a double jack and coke and Natalie ordered three shots of Amaretto. You've gotta beat the system somehow kids, start learning now.
Playing Ultimate Card Master with Matt for a good ten minutes (NB: Ultimate Card Master is usually a game of one card draw with one rule: Matt wins however he damn well pleases).
Drinking Mai Tai through a really long straw straight from the pitcher ("What?" said the bar girl, "you don't want any glasses with it?" "No, we'll just take it straight from the jug." "You being serious?!" "...yea?" "OH MY GOD!"... amatures).
Having Ben spray me in the face with lager, proceeding to wipe it off with a newspaper and leaving the print on my face.
Eating two plates of nachos.
Telling Matthew to sue the pub because someone shoved a huge toothpick through his burger and he could have eaten it and killed himself, perhaps twice.
Watching Ben drink have a pitcher of Bulleit Breakers.
Drinking half a pitcher of Mai Tai.
Getting home at 11.
Not throwing up.

Yes, that's right, my evening's are so cut and dry they can be condensed into a set of bullet points for easy digestion. My life is bitesize. When did I stop being a more complex person?

Why does my eye itch?

*itch*