Ephemeral Isle
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Monday
3 October 2005
A Sense of Proportion
The lengths that Mary went to in keeping track of her boyfriend struck many people as excessive.
Tuesday
4 October 2005
Title
Text here
Take Two
Now that is one weird way to start a column. Just goes to show that I shouldn't try to fix a broken navigation link on the site without checking Ephemeral Isle in case I'd had started the next day's column set up. If I don't do that, I'm going to have a lot of people surfing in and going, "Title? Text here? What kind of lazy ass, surreal column is that?" Well, that's what happens when you're a highly successful, jet-setting guy at the top of his trade and in demand all around in the great media centres of the world. Yeah, between my career, idyllic family, comfortable home, and whirlwind social life it's a wonder that I don't have someone on the payroll full time just to catch those little glitches.
Ah, who am I kidding. My life is crap at the moment-- or rather, I wish it was, because crap would be a step up. It's more like under felting of the crap in my case.
Cut to the chase, I've sprained my thumb. It's not the worst of my problems (Oh, that is the understatement of the year!), but it's a problem that is aggravating enough that I can distract myself with petty pains and inconveniences. It's also a learning experience. If I'm ever called upon to dispense words of eternal wisdom I can always say, "Never slam a door without getting your thumb out of the way first."
It's also one of those injuries that reminds you of itself on a regular basis. I got hold of one of those high-tech bandages that sticks to itself and taped my hand up so that the digit in question is now partially immobilised, but "partially" is the operative word. That's a lot when your talking about an opposable thumb. Your average dolphin or sloth doesn't run into this, but when a human being sprains a thumb it keeps coming back to haunt you-- especially if it's only partially immobilised. If you're sitting at the keyboard and reach for the space bar, the alt button, or even left click the mouse, you quickly discover that the tiny bit of play inside the bandages is enough to give you that little stab of pain that is the sand in the spinach of life. Shaving becomes a "good enough" job, anything in the right hip pocket might as well be on the Moon, putting on a jacket with an elastic cuff is an ordeal, and going to the toilet is an adventure when you are not left handed and out of practice for such an eventuality.
On the other hand, it is a good excuse not to do the dishes, pick up anything off the floor that requires more than one hand, and is a good excuse for not doing any more typing than the pain threshold will allow, so you have an excuse for ending a column abruptly like this.
Wednesday
5 October 2005
Anti-Climax
"It's a bird! It's a plane! It's... Hang on, it is a plane. Sorry about that."
Thursday
6 October 2005
Job Department
...and the Floating Heads of Judgment will stop tormenting you.
Friday
7 October 2005
Cheese Bits
Emma and I were
singing in the car this morning. We tried starting out with the
Alphabet Song, but she only goes up to “G” and then skips to the “LMNOP”
bit that everybody just slurs through like the straightaway on a bobsled run
anyhow, so we just gave up and turned it back into Twinkle, Twinkle,
Little Star, which she knows by heart; especially the “like a diamond in
the sky” part that she is especially proud of.
We considered having a go at Where is Thumbkin, but it’s no good without the thumb business, which isn’t practical while driving a car or being strapped into a car seat, so we settled for The Farmer in the Dell even though I have great misgivings about that song.
It starts off straightforward enough,
The farmer in the dell
The farmer in the dell
Hi-ho, the derry-o
The farmer in the dell
So far to good. Then we discover that,
The farmer takes a wife
The farmer takes a wife
Hi-ho, the derry-o
The farmer takes a wife
No problem. After this it progresses through the appearances of children, nursemaids, cows, dogs, cats, and rats as each one showing up leads to the appearance of the next. But then we come to the last verse, which throws us a curve,
The cheese stands alone
The cheese stands alone
Hi-ho, the derry-o
The cheese stands alone
What the…? How did cheese get into this? Not even what kind of cheese, like a decent English Cheddar or a nice little provolone that goes so well with smoked ham, but a generic “cheese” that brings to mind that horrid American processed variety that lays over fast food burgers and convenience store nachos like industrial plastic waiting to set.
Previously we seemed to have set a fairly well established pattern with animate objects, and mammals at that, being the centre of events, and now they’re bringing in dairy products. Worse, the cheese in question has been screwed. Everyone else got something else in the next verse, but the cheese? No chance. It just “stands alone”; unloved, unwanted.
Okay, fair enough. Not everyone scores at the party. But in that case, why bring cheese into this in the first place? Just to show that cheese has a social disadvantage? Couldn’t some more popular milk derivative have been substituted? Why not “Hi-ho, the derry-o/ the yogurt had rather a nice time”, or “Hi-ho, the derry-o/ the ice cream was a big hit, but the chocolate mouse made a bit of a fool of itself”? At least it would be better than “Hi-ho the derry-o/ they put custard on the rhubarb crumble whether you wanted it our not”.
Not that I have anything against custard, or having it on my rhubarb crumble, but I’d rather like to have a say in the matter. Is that too much to ask in this day and age?
Sorry, seem to have strayed there.
I mean, what's wrong with cheese, anyway? I'm rather partial to it myself. Give me a good wedge of Stilton and nice glass of tawny port by a nicely made fire on a frosty night and I'm as content as any man can be. In fact, one of the frustrations of my life is that my three-year old daughter is so allergic to the stuff that for her a grilled-cheese sandwich might as well be called a grilled-death sandwich, but most focus groups have rejected such a suggestion.
It's even more of a bother when we go out to eat. For some reason lost in the mists of time, chefs seem to believe that a children's menu should be dominated by cheese pizza, cheese burger, fried cheese sticks, cheese sandwiches, and cheesy fries. Cheesy fries?! You mean I can't even get a plate of chips? Right. A bowl of ketchup and a spoon, please.
Best to stick to fish restaurants. Not as much cheese on offer there and fish & chips are always a safe option. Besides, seafood stands a better chance of getting past Emma's culinary discrimination circuits. Where I could never get her to touch a beef burger or put sandwich to lips I can talk her into taking a bite of her fish and she'll often surprise me by eating half the calamari with a particular relish for the tentacles.
And I have yet to encounter squid smothered in melted cheese-- whether it had ever been forced to stand alone or otherwise.
Monday
10 October 2005
Inner Life of the Artist
Beatrice regarded herself as the incarnation of the muse Terpsichore sent to Earth to bring a little beauty into the souls of mortal men. The rest of us thought she was just plain nuts.
Tuesday
11 October 2005
Aviatophobia
The other passengers could sense that Bill was struggling with his fear of flying.
Wednesday
12 October 2005
New Gadgets Department
Whether Stalinist, Trotskyite, Nazi, Maoist, Baathist, or Islamofascist; nine out of ten totalitarians agree that the Biblio-BBQ™ makes book burning a breeze.
Thursday
13 October 2005
One Day in the Garden
What started as a relaxing game of croquet soon became a grim, Bergmanesque allegory of Simon and Marge's relationship.
Friday
14 October 2005
One Day in the High Street
For some unfathomable reason, Emmett regarded himself as a fashion pioneer.
Monday
17 October 2005
Bondage
Don't talk to me. I am
extremely depressed. This is one of those black days when one of
my fondest dreams has been snatched away from me. Paraphrasing
Wodehouse, I have drunk the cup of life to the lee and found a dead mouse in
the bottom.
To be blunt, I have been passed over yet again for the part of James Bond. After being pipped at the post by Dalton in the '80s and Brosnan in the '90s I thought I was sure to get it this time. I thought that all this rumour mongering about not being able to cast Bond was just a ploy on the part of Eon Productions to bring my demands down from its heady 2/6 a week and all the tea I can drink. Now it looks as though I've priced myself out of the market.
Bloody typical! I find out that the Walther PPK went to that pretty boy Daniel Craig, who is such a girl's blouse that he admits he was frightened by riding in an open-deck, high-speed assault boat driven by an over-enthusiastic Royal Marine with nothing between himself and a grim death except his precarious grip on a wet, slippery hand hold. Is this what we want in a Bond? I ask you!
Worse, with him in the role my last hope of sauntering suavely into some supervillain's lair are now dashed. There comes a time when every man realises that he's never going to say "Bond, James Bond" and since I'm only a few years behind Brosnan in the age stakes, I guess my boat has sailed or bird has flown or whatever metaphor is most apropos. I suppose I have no choice but to wait another ten years so I can be cast as M or replace John Cleese as Q. I sure as hell am not going to settle for Indescript Civil Service Type Who Gets Offed By the Baddie In the First Ten Seconds of the Pre-Credits Teaser.
It's a shame, because personally, I think the world is ready for a sedate, tweedy James Bond who wears wire-rim spectacles, looks as if he is in perpetual need of a hair cut, wears a tuxedo like a rumbled sack, and reacts to ravishing femme fatales with an expression generally associated with rabbits caught in headlights. And I'm sure my catch phrase "Milk, no sugar." will make everyone forget "Shaken, not stirred."
Look at the wonderful contrast I could have brought. I can just see the audience prick up its collective ears as I leap into... Okay, walk over to, fumble with my keys, drop them at least once before unlocking the door, and then get carefully into my Honda Civic before pulling away from the kerb at a safe speed. If that doesn't get them on my side, there's always my plethora of gadgets, such as my Swiss Army knife, my retractable pen, and my folding pocket magnifying glass with the broken rim so the lens rattles around free, but I still keep it because you can't find a good-quality reading glass with a leather case these days.
With me as Bond, the films could have gone in a whole new direction. Instead of focusing on 007's exploits saving the world from crazed madmen with death rays, we could have shown the public what the world's most famous spy does in between confronting Blofeld and bedding Pussy Galore. Imagine:
- Bond reads the morning paper (Ba da Ba Dah!).
- Bond checks his e-mail (Ba da Ba Dah!).
- Bond jiggles to tap on the kitchen sink to stop that annoying drip (Ba da Ba Dah!).
- Bond nips down to the shops for a pint of milk (Ba da Ba Dah!).
- Bond takes the Aston Martin in for an oil change (Ba da Ba Dah!).
- Bond discovers that the rechargeable battery has gone duff in one of the extension handsets of his cordless phone and has to leg it all over town on a rainy Saturday looking for a replacement, but he has a hell of a time of it because he can't remember his phone's model number (Ba da Ba Dah!).
- Bond puts his feet up and has a bit of cheese and a glass of rather vile chardonnay while watching an old movie on the telly. (Ba da Ba Dah!).
Sean Connery, eat your heart out.
Tuesday
18 October 2005
Great Moments in Chess Computers
As their first step in creating the most powerful chess computer in history, Phil and Don try to remember what the "little horsey" does.
Wednesday
19 October 2005
Not Even On the Curve
An over-cranked 3.9 GHz processor, a 2.5 GB DDR SDRAM, a 300 GB 20x hard drive, and a water-cooled motherboard hooked into a 10 MB broadband Internet connection and Herb prefers reading a "book".
Thursday
20 October 2005
Great Moments in Media
In 1939, RCA produced a transparent television to prove to the public that it wasn't just a box with a bunch of tiny people inside obsessed with amateur theatrics.
Or was it the fiendish prototype of the transparent Dalek?
Friday
21 October 2005
Trafalgar Day
Today is the two hundredth anniversary of Lord Nelson's glorious victory over the combined French and Spanish fleets at the Battle of Trafalgar that gave Britain mastery of the seas and sealed the fate of the Emperor Napoleon.
Bells will ring across the globe today and by special dispensation civilians are allowed and encouraged to fly the white ensign in celebration. So, if you happen to have a duster somewhere, run it up the mast and splice the main brace. It's sippers all 'round!
Monday
24 October 2005
One Day at the Aerodrome
"Huh! I guess you do need seatbelts when flying upside down."
Tuesday
25 October 2005
Leon Theremin: Agent of Metaluna?
There are those who believe that Leon Theremin's work in developing the musical instrument that bears his name had a more sinister purpose.
Wednesday
26 October 2005
Time Out
I'm moving Zen, my trusty computer network, to a new location, so I will be out of cyberspace until Monday. Enjoy the weekend.
Monday
31 October 2005
Halloween
Dracula Turns In His Grave
Warning: This radio play was reviewed by professional bad-radio listeners. Do not attempt to listen to it at home.
As I write this I'm listening to the worst adaptation of Dracula in human history. And I saw Dracula Vs. Frankenstein, so I know of what I speak.
If the appropriate Halloween fare is a tale of nightmares and horrors, then this Dracula is the ticket; though not for the reasons intended. There have been some excellent adaptation of the classic Bram Stoker novel that have graced stage, screen, television, and radio, but this was not one of them This was more akin to falling down a rabbit whole and landing on a pile of Ed Wood videos. Imagine if the people who made that foul War of the Worlds of last summer had taken it on themselves to cap their triumph by storming the walls of radio and you get the idea. Like the producer of that painful bit of cinema, Thomas Jackson, the adapter/director for this production of Dracula decided to move it to radio without a thought that adapting a work to another medium means adapting it and not dumping the entire book into the script so that it becomes a soggy dough of a play that clocks in at nearly THREE AND A HALF HOURS.
From the first moment that the presenter scraped the microphone on the desk behind the theme music I knew that I was deep in AV school territory. She had such a weak voice that I thought that her bit was an introduction tacked on by NPR, which specialises in hiring the speech-impaired and inarticulate, but then the play started and a chill ran down my spine as I realised that she was the Dame Judi Dench of this bargain basement Mercury Theatre on the Air.
There was titanic
awfulness here. Speeches went on forever. Scenes better done on
radio were avoided in favour of ones that were completely inappropriate for
the medium. Transitions were like being shoved out a window. There was no sense of atmosphere. Or pacing.
And there were Germans who didn't know how to pronounce their own language.
It was enough to make strong men gasp and clutch their brows.
As is typical in this sort of production, the cast was far too young, far too enthusiastic, far too lacking in voiceover training, and none of them could act their way out of a wet paper bag. I could only sit in wonderment as I listened to an English maid with a Midwestern twang, a Van Helsing with a thick American accent and a pronounced lisp, and a Renfield whose fits of madness sounded like he was mumbling his way through the phone book. Oh, and Dracula kept blowing into the mike, which made his vanishing from the plot for for over two hours a blessing. In all, less a performance than a recording of a really bad first read through of a very opaque script.
Oh, and let's not forget the sound effects of the we-bought-this-BBC-effects-tape-and-dammit-we're-going-to-use-it school of radio, which sometimes made me wonder if this a straight production or some sort of parody. Sound effects are meant to enhance the atmosphere and promote the suspension of disbelief. In this case, it was more like dropping a more than usually heavy manhole cover on them. Take these examples: two people walking casually sounded like they were sprinting on a gravel track, a clock ticking was more like someone sharpening carving knives next to the mike, wine and brandy was dispensed only from jugs, Dracula bit cucumbers, and people kept church bells in their bedrooms to announce the time. It's a wonder that they didn't rattle a bit of tin for thunder.
Though to be fair, the music gave the sound effects a run for their money. Dragged kicking and screaming from some stock library, it was utterly inappropriate and distracting, but royalty free, with the latter probably the primary reason for the choices. I will admit that I enjoyed the chase music slapped on to the turgid dialogue scenes, but sometimes it sounded less like Dracula than Flash Gordon-- not surprising, I suppose, given that the episode introductions had the air of a horror tale adapted to a Saturday matinee serial.
As near as I can gather, this was a web-based production for Universal Studios Online by the Underground Freeway Theatre Company, which was some sort of now-defunct Los Angeles fringe group. Rumour has it that it succumbed to a stake through the heart.