Archive for December, 2010
I went for a wander downtown yesterday. Truth be told, I don’t often leave my neighbourhood because, well, it’s quite nice, and everything I need on a daily basis is here. But, I was looking at Google Maps, and noticed a museum on there that I’d not heard of before: Museo Mural Diego Rivera. It costs 17 pesos to get in, with an extra five pesos if you want to take photographs. I wanted to take photographs, so I stumped up that extra 26 British pence.
Two tangents. Number one: on the topic of money, cigarette prices were raised this week from 30 pesos to 38 pesos a pack. That’s, what, just over a 25 percent rise. That’s a heck of a price rise in one go. It still means that cigarettes are crazy cheap for the visiting Western wallet: £1.98 / €2.32 / US$3.07
Tangent number two: I want to see one of those TV-advert-washing-detergent style tests when it comes to flash photography in museums. I don’t doubt that flashes and touching a) damages art over time, and b) constitutes like sexual assault. But I’d like to see an artist paint two exact copies of a painting, and then do an experiment where one is left in normal conditions, and the other has flash bulbs going off in front of it every few seconds for a year or so, to replicate long term damage.
The main thing in the museum, and well worth the paltry admission price, is the big ass mural “Dream of a Sunday Afternoon in Alameda Park.” Absolutely crammed full of detail, lots of Mexican people on there, elements that I recognised, and others that I didn’t cos, frankly, my knowledge of Mexican history isn’t that deep. But even I could see that it goes from the Conquest on one side, through to the Revolution on the other.
According to this site, the mural was originally in a hotel foyer, but when that hotel was destroyed in the 1985 earthquake, the mural was saved, and now it has its own wee museo. The rest of the museum’s collection doesn’t amount to much, really, and were most of it in a bigger museum, I wouldn’t really pay a huge amount of attention to it, cos aside from the odd thing here and there, it wasn’t really overly impressive. And it was one of those museums where the guards stand a bit too close and follow you around. I understand the need for guards. If they’re not present enough, you get cunts like Banksy walking around and hanging their own tedious shite on the walls like they think they’re clever or something. (Oh, you really don’t know how angry I get just thinking about him. Breathe, Craig, breathe…) But when they hover, I find it impossible to actually pay any attention to the art. My mind just stops, and I start pretending to look at the art; it’s like I’m acting and my role is “person looking at art.” Except, this isn’t Hollywood or a West End theatre and I’m not Al Pacino or Laura Linney; I’m acting in a Manor Leas Junior School play and I’m a seven-year-old who is very bad at pretending to be enjoying looking at a painting. On top of that, the guards at this place never smiled. I was one of very few people in the place, and in every room I smiled at the guard, but not once was my smile reciprocated.
One thing that I particularly enjoyed about seeing this mural, a mural that I have never knowingly seen a picture of in my life, was how something I am working on, and have been working on intermittently since I arrived in September, is vaguely reminiscent of Rivera’s mural. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised because the idea for my drawing came after I saw his “Man, Controller of the Universe in the Time Machine” mural in the Palacio de Bellas Artes. I wanted to do something as detailed as a Rivera mural, but in pixels, and as a “first impressions of Mexico” type of drawing. Seeing “Dream of a Sunday Afternoon in Alameda Park,” though, has spurred me on to finish it. Here’s what I’ve done so far:
What you can see in my drawing so far is… front row, left to right: EZLN “leader” Subcomandante Marcos; the luchador Blue Demon; revolutionary hero Emiliano Zapata; Frida Kahlo; two Day of the Dead-style skeletons in green and red either side of an eagle stood on a cactus eating a snake, just like the Mexican flag; former L.A. Dodgers pitcher Fernando Valenzuela; Jesús Malverde, the “narco saint”; El Santo, another luchador; composer and band leader Juan García Esquivel; and Miguel Hidalgo, leader of the War of Independence. Behind those people, there’s a torta stand, a street sweeper, a shoe shine guy (not a guy giving another guy a blowjob as a couple of friends have suggested), and a woman selling corn snacks from a cart. On the other side of the road, there’s a cilindrero (an organ grinder, or as I tend to call them, cunts), and behind the trees, an actor/comedian called Cantinflas. Eventually—eventually—it’ll be full of people and things. Eventually.
Across the street from the Museo Mural Diego Rivera is this building. Obviously, a huge building like this in the centre of Mexico City dedicated to whatever idiotic space alien some two-bit sci-fi writer made up in his silly head was probably entirely funded with the generous and willing donations of members of this particular “church.”
I plan on eventually opening a church in Mexico City. It will be the Church of Depeche Mode. It seems to exist already on an informal basis, but I plan to write a book about the great god Gahan and his god pal Gore, and there will be adventures of how Gahan, Gore and the lesser god, Fletcher go around the world spreading joy. Not just spreading joy, but also tearing down walls in Germany so that people with mullets and snow-washed jeans can unite with their mullet and snow-washed jeans-wearing brethren. And how the former god Clarke left our holy warriors to sing with a girl. And how the former god Wilder blasphemously abandoned our divine group due to “increasing dissatisfaction with the internal relations and working practices of the group.” And there’s even a part of the book where Gahan dies and is born again two minutes later. And these tales will be illustrated with moody photographs taken by a Dutch man whose name I can never pronounce correctly. And we will worship their Depecheness and their Modean ways by the singing of their hymns from the hymn book, which shall be called Music for the Masses. Please turn to page 76, and let us sing “Never Let Me Down Again (Split Mix)” for it is fucking awesome. We will try and cram song titles into our sales pitch on the streets and university campuses of Mexico. We will promote a New Life! We will teach The Meaning of Love, and that People are People, and that if people ignore the Blasphemous Rumours they will Enjoy the Silence that comes from having Love In Itself. And I, some two-bit blog writer, will be rich forever. Rich, I say! And many chicks will want to blow me. And they’ll probably want me to do them in the pooper, too. And I will build my big office compound right next to the Scientology one, and we will laugh at the poor saps who give us money. (The more I think about this, the more it sounds like a good idea, frankly.)
On the way to the museum, I must’ve taken the wrong exit out the subway station, or turned the wrong way at street level, and ended up walking a block or two in the opposite direction. When I saw a landmark I recognised at the end of a street off to my right, and I’d regained my bearings, I decided it was time for a coffee and a bite to eat. There were two or three well-dressed elderly men outside a place called Cafe La Habana, which was quite nice to see; I’m a sucker for older gentlemen who don’t wear trainers and sweatshirts, mostly because I imagine my generation and the generation younger than me will be the most hideous generation of old folks, clothing-wise. (This comes from a 40-year-old man in jeans, a hoodie, and a baseball cap). It didn’t look empty or overly busy, which is pretty much my favourite thing when it comes to cafes.
Inside lots of square tables, a nice big wooden bar with circular stools, some with busted upholstery. On the walls, up to the high ceiling, lots of framed black and white and sepia photographs of Havana and, I assume, Cuban people. They even had copper fire extinguishers, which seemed to have brass plates with words engraved on the front. Above the bar was a huge photograph of the cafe itself. Being in there was like when you’re looking at a tree at dusk. Your brain knows the leaves are green, so you see green, but if you were to actually look at the colour of the leaves in that light, they may well be purple. In that cafe, my brain knew I was in a Cuban cafe in Mexico City, but if I actually looked and turned off my brain, it kinda could’ve been a northern social club in 1970s England. Here’s a couple of photos, but like a fool, I had the setting on macro, so while furtively snapping the pictures I didn’t notice that they were focussing on the foreground, but you’ll get the idea.
I kind of like that in this photo, the man in the middle is dining with an enormous human/lightbulb hybrid on one side, and a man with a transparent balloon for a head on the other.
As I’ve seen in a fair few other Mexican restaurants and cafes, there were a couple of TVs. One a flatscreen, the other a fatback TV. Seems like that should be the retrofit word for old tellies. The reception was fuzzy on the fatback, but it was kind of in my eyeline, so I ended up watching it. There were people doing some sort of dancing in a bright pink studio. And when that stopped, the camera cut to a sofa where a young man with gelled hair was being interviewed. I have no idea who he was, but he kinda looked like a soccer player. All the time during this interview was a man dressed in a furry gingerbread man suit behind the sofa, waving and being silly. A few moments later, the gingerbread man ran over to the middle of the studio, joined another man in a snowman suit, and did a kind of pile-on, like you’d do in the school yard. And a load of people—adults!—in pink or blue jumpsuits joined in. It wasn’t odd in the slightest.
The waiter brought me a menu. I ordered a coffee. He heard my flawless Spanish accent and brought me an English menu. He asked how I wanted my coffee: strong or light? Strong, please. With some milk, please. And sweet baby Jesus in a manger in Bethlehem, that was an awesome cup of coffee. Absolutely the best cup of coffee I’ve had this year. Maybe last year, too. Frankly, I can’t remember having a strong cup of coffee—or even a cup of strong coffee—that was as good as that. I’d ordered a chorizo omelette, too, and soon enough, I was taking this photograph of it.
And a lovely omelette it was, too. The frijoles refritos were better than most I’ve tried, (I’ve just noticed, when checking the spelling on the Internet, that “refried beans” is a mistranslation, and that frijoles refritos means well-fried beans, not twice-fried beans), and the omelette itself was a good half-inch thick. Best of all, was having the chipotle on the side. A proper marinated chipotle, not just the sauce stuff. Chipotle is a whole heap of spicy goodness.
I got the bill: 81 pesos (£4.22 / €4.95 / US$ 6.54). Generally, the place was fantastic. It’s about 15 minutes away on the subway from my place, but I foresee I’ll be visiting here many, many times. The waiter was super friendly, and, well, let’s not pretend this doesn’t make a difference: a couple of the waitresses working there were cute. While I’m in a Rough Guide to Chipotle and Cute Waitresses kinda mood, here’s the address, should you be here and fancy checking it for yourself: it’s on the corner of Bucareli and Morelos, just a block or two from Juárez Metro station.
On the way home from the museum, I went into a Radio Shack to get the cable that I didn’t buy yesterday. Something that I’ve noticed happens here a lot is that cash registers in stores seem to run out of change. This is no Argentina where cambio is prized like water in a desert, but nonetheless I’ve found that lots of people who work in stores end up rummaging around in their own pockets, or asking colleagues for enough change for the 200 peso note I’ve handed over.
Back on the subway, and as always, there are people selling stuff in the carriages. I’ve never taken a subway ride where the carriage hasn’t had someone selling sweets, gum, sparklers, toys. Today there was a kid selling little bubble thingies. I don’t know what they are called, but you dip the plastic stick with an O shape at its end into a small bottle of washing-up liquid type stuff and blow. I don’t know if it’s a general evolution in this product’s make-up, but here the bubbles seem to be made of something less poppable that washing-up liquid. When they land, they kinda stay there until they wither, and they’re a wee bit sticky, too. This little kid was selling them, and blowing bubbles into empty space, but they inevitably landed on people. Passengers were wafting them away, and the kid was ignoring the nuisance he was causing. I was stood in the doorway, and sat next to the doorway was an old fella in nice shoes, a lovely tweed jacket, with a handsome moustache and the balding yellowish grey hair of a smoker. He was ignoring the kid and his bubbles. One landed right on the top of his bald head. If you had placed it carefully with tweezers you couldn’t've done a better job at getting slap bang in the middle. He had one clinging onto the arm of his glasses, too. I wanted to alert him, but I didn’t. I caught the eye of a woman sat opposite him and she smiled conspiratorially, so I felt that alerting him would’ve been being a bad sport. Ho hum.
And another thing. I wonder what it must be like to be of an older generation and see an everyday word you use have its meaning changed. Gay, for example. This isn’t, by the way, the part of the blog post where I go on to lament that you can’t say darkie any more, gosh no. There would’ve been a time, before I was born, I imagine, that people used gay in the old sense of the word regularly, but now that version of the word is all but dead, because were one to use it in the sense of something being lighthearted or carefree, you would have to follow it with an explanation that you meant lighthearted or carefree, not homosexual. I guess that definition of gay is heading towards the history books where words like thither, mischance, and felicity live. (Yes, that was a “You’ve Got Mail” reference.) And there’s something very delicious when one thinks about the homophobes of the world having to use such a lovely word to describe something they hate. But I guess that’s where words like faggot come in, sadly; another word that’s original meaning has been dispensed with. I got to thinking about this when, on the subway, I heard an English-speaking tourist use the word nightmare. I wonder how far away the English-speaking portion of the human race is from using that word primarily in a sentence like, “I had to wait three minutes for a bus, it was a nightmare,” rather than “I had a nightmare last night about having sex with my dead uncle Tony in a battleship on Mars.” It can’t be too far off. Although I guess we don’t really have as many linguistic options to cover a hole in the language that nightmare would leave, compared to the rather small hole left by the original meaning of gay disappearing. Anyway, should you want to read a blog post about not being able to use the word darkie any more, you can find something like that if you go to Flip Flop Teapartyin’, my Sarah Palin fan site.
Anyway, thanks for visiting the blog this year. It’s not always been good or interesting, but it has at least plodded along, and there was a time there in the middle of the year when I seriously thought it would end for good. 2010 hasn’t been my best year. I wrote a book, which is something I am pretty darn proud of; but apart from that, I’ve spent way too much of my time feeling unhappy. Boo fucking hoo. But, onwards and upwards. 2011 beckons, and if I don’t write anymore before the Gregorian calendar does its thing, may I wish you a Happy New Year y Feliz Año Nuevo und Guten Rutsch!
There I am saying there are no clouds in Mexico City, and look at this grainily-photographed beauty that I saw when I went out of the house a few moments ago.
No dead hand this morning, but I did wake up face down in a rather attractive pool of dribble. Because I’d woken up so late yesterday, I set my alarm for 9 a.m. today. But I woke up before the alarm went off. I woke up, reached for my iPod, pressed the button and it was 8.08 a.m. I like waking up at times whose numbers are interesting because of other things. Like waking at seven-eleven, or seven-four-seven, or nine-oh-nine. If I wake at 9.09 a.m., I’ll have the Beatles song “One After 909” in my head. Not one of my favourite Beatles songs. As it is, I woke up at eight-oh-eight so I had 808 State’s “Pacific State,” a much nicer song, in my head.
I enjoy that feeling, when you know you’re awake enough to get out of bed, but it’d be really easy to drift back off if you allowed yourself to do it. You move over and the new position is even more comfortable, you stretch your legs and nothing could feel better. The brain is still a bit cotton wool, eyes still heavy, and it would make all the sense in the world to let go and float off again. And there’s really nothing stopping you, apart from the fact that there’s the tiny part of your brain taking notice of Sensible Craig’s plan not to oversleep. And you notice the traffic police blowing whistles on the street outside. And that noise drags you out of bed to go and Samuel L. Jackson and wash. Eleven lanes of traffic going east-west, and a one-way cross street going south only. There are traffic lights of course, but, and without wishing to be unkind or grouping all Mexicans together, traffic lights here often seem to be treated simply as suggestions. Thus the traffic police. On several occasions I’ve been walking across the street, with the green man telling me I have the right of way to suddenly find myself having to either stop or dash across because a car has decided that he’s gonna ignore the lights.
I’ve been in the habit lately of watching movies in bed before I go to sleep, but last night, I downloaded the Stanza app for the iPad, went to their list of Project Gutenberg free ebooks, and downloaded a couple. I’d forgotten how easy it is to fall asleep when you’re reading. And I kind of enjoyed reading on the screen. More than expected. For one thing, I could have the light off and read at the same time, which is a bonus for falling asleep, as I don’t have a bedside lamp, and would normally have to get out of bed to switch the light off, which kind of ruins the drifting off to sleep thing. Who knows long-term if I’ll get into reading ebooks, but I enjoyed reading a Kurt Vonnegut short story (“2 B R 0 2 B”) last night, and I had that nice hot-cocoa-in-a-comfy-armchair feeling, (a feeling that, to be honest, I’ve never actually experience in real life, and is just, rather depressingly, learned from television commercials, as what people – mostly women in the adverts because, as we all know, only women drink hot chocolate – do with a big cup of hot chocolate), when I also downloaded “The Hound of the Baskervilles,” a book I absolutely love, the paperback copy of which went to the municipal dump of my life when I left Berlin.
I think I might have to start using the generic words for iPod and iPad. I’m getting a little bit sick of typing those words, constantly mentioning Apple products. What do I call them, though? Wikipedia called the iPod touch a “portable media player, personal digital assistant, and Wi-Fi mobile platform” which is a bit of a mouthful if included in a sentence. For example, if I take an earlier sentence in this blog post and replace the word iPod, it becomes: I woke up, reached for my portable media player, personal digital assistant, and Wi-Fi mobile platform, pressed the button and it was 8.08 a.m. IPad is a bit easier, though, cos I can just say “tablet computer.”
And while I’m blathering on about it, is there a reason why one has to write lowercase “i” uppercase “P” other than Apples own stylisation of the names of their products? Isn’t it us all just so very mindlessly falling into line. I mean, I try my best to always write E.E. Cummings, K.D. Lang, The Xx, and such, just because it seems wrong to me that one person, for whatever reason, can choose to ignore the rules of the English language. When two words are crashed together, that annoys me, too. Like YouTube or EastEnders. But mostly it’s when the stylisation means a word looks weird when it’s the first word in a sentence. “iPad” at the start of a sentence looks silly. Where’s the initial capital letter? “IPad” looks weird, too. Logically, “Ipad” should be the way it’s done. Oh gosh, I sound like one those people who moans about any old shite now, don’t I? But then, deep down, I guess I might be that person anyway. And it’s not particularly deep down, come to think of it. I always seem to be a slight slight away from having a good moan. The other day, sat in a cafe, I’d taken my earbuds out (not the generic Apple ones which come “free” with a portable media player, personal digital assistant, and Wi-Fi mobile platform, because they seem to me to be the audio equivalent of going to a dominatrix and asking her to use a cheese grater on your cock; I have some nice Shure ones which, for earbuds, sound pretty good), I’d taken them out, and as I lifted the coffee to my mouth, saw that one of the earbuds was lying in the foam of the cappuccino. Ho hum. Bollocks. I pulled it out, and without thinking about it, licked the foam off the bud. I wish I’d thought about it, cos the bud tasted ear wax-y. Immediately, the ear bud stopped working. And now, a few days later, the sound coming from that bud is still about half the volume of the other one. So yesterday, I went to Radio Shack, that finest of Mexican electrical stores, to get a new cable for my other headphones; big proper cans, they are. Made by a company called Audio-Technica (of course, on the side of the headphones, that name is written in all lowercase letters). I love them. I bought them before heading off on my travels in 2008, and they sound fantastic. And more than that, they’ve been my companion for three years. They’ve gone everywhere with me. They’ve broken a couple of times, at the point where the big circular headphone bit meets the plastic band that goes over the head, but each time I’ve superglued them back together again.
(Interesting, SuperGlue is a brand name. But like Hoover, Google, Photoshop and Sellotape it seems to have become a genericised trademark. Looking at the Wikipedia page for genericised trademarks, I did not know that butterscotch was one. Escalator, too. And heroin. Heroin! Who knew? That article goes on to discuss the efforts of companies to stop their names being misused, citing the example of Lego trying to stop people using “Legos” the plural word for their plastic bricks. I must admit to being a big snob about this, but that’s one word that I really hate hearing. It sounds so wrong to my delicate English ears (they’re not really delicate, I’m just being a ponce). “Anyways” is another of those. “I could care less,” too. But that’s me slipping into that most lazy of British traits: making fun of Americanisms. All this thinking about words reminds me, though, how, having spent some time in the States, and doing a baseball-related website primarily aimed at Americans where I do use American spelling I am never sure when to use an “s” or “z” in some words. I used “stylisation” above. Is that correct? The (American English) dictionary on my computer says nothing about there been a British version of the word with an “s.” But I get the red line denoting misspelled words when I type it with a “z.”)
So, my headphones have been superglued, they’ve been around Europe, North America, and South America with me. A man who ran a hostel in El Calafate, Patagonia came close to begging me to sell them to him. And, as easily-replaceable objects go, I’m very attached to them. But when I moved into this apartment, I was sorting out my stuff, putting clothes in the closet, that sort of thing, and my headphones were on the bed. So was the cat. And the cat chewed through the cable. I’ve had to replace the cable once before, when I was about to leave Europe to fly to Toronto in the spring. And it was tough to find the exact cable I wanted. And it really makes no sense, cos it’s not like the cable is a particularly weird concept: all I want is a cable where the jack that slots into my portable media player, personal digital assistant, and Wi-Fi mobile platform is a L-shape, so the jack slips in, and the hard area that contains the jack is then parallel to my portable media player, personal digital assistant, and Wi-Fi mobile platform. It just fits nicer in the pocket like that, as there’s no half-inch hard pokey thing coming out, which would be easier to break when I shove my hand into my pocket. Over time, surely the hand bashing against the thing is gonna weaken it, and eventually the wires inside will snap. But maybe that’s the point, the bastards. Long story long: Radio Shack don’t sell the cables with the L-shaped end. Boo. What was the point of all this? I really don’t remember. Better have a look up there and see where all this began. Oh yes, I will moan about anything, given the opportunity. As you have just seen.
I woke up at 10.50 a.m. this morning. I don’t really like waking up that late. My teenage self loved it, but now I find myself irritated when I look at the shadow on the building across the way and can see that it’s past 9.30 a.m. I do, though, enjoy that I’m getting good at working out the time from the shadow; I can pretty much guess within 20 minutes before checking a clock. I wish I could tell you an exciting reason why I slept late, but sadly I cannot. I was watching 2001: A Space Odyssey for the third time in a week. I hadn’t intended to watch it more than once, but each of the subsequent times, I skipped the apes, and went straight to the Blue Danube spaceflight bit, because I adore that piece of music, and adore looking at the spaceships graciously floating through space.
And every time I watch it, I’m convinced I will understand it a bit more than last time. That never happens. I still don’t really get the Jupiter and Beyond the Infinite bit. One day…
I wasn’t tired, so flicking around the Guardian site, I watched the wee video of Paul Morley talking about Christmas music, which lead me to checking out the Wikipedia page for Slade’s Merry Xmas Everybody, which lead me to checking out lots more pages about Slade. By the time I’d done that, I noticed it was 3.40 a.m., so turned off the computer, turned off the light, and went to sleep.
When I woke up, I had a dead hand. I’d been sleeping on my front with my hand curled underneath, kind of in that position one would do as a child when one wanted to imply that someone was behaving like, ahem, a spaz. To the bathroom, as is normal when one wakes, and I lift the toilet lid, and my dead hand can’t hold it. It was kinda silly to see my hand being useless. Anyway, I saw something awesome when I began urinating. (I’m not talking about my johnson.) I’m talking about pareidolia. And, I think, this is something any (standing) urinating man can do. I’m sure a standing urinating woman could give it a go, but I don’t know how exact woman can be with their stream. (I’ve totally set it up so woman can do the thing where they talk about men not being able to piss straight and hitting the rim, seat, or floor, haven’t I?) Back to the topic in hand, as it were. If your toilet is the shape where the surface of the water kind of forms an upside-down egg shape, you can do this. You’re gonna need a full bladder to get it going perfectly. Aim your stream of piss just above the middle of that egg shape. If you imagine the egg is a face, you’re pissing just above the eyebrows. Okay, there’s lots of bubbles forming around the far edge of the water, and it’s coming around the sides, too, right? So, the top has a load of pissy bubbles, and the sides have less pissy bubbles, and there really shouldn’t be any in the middle or at the bottom. You know what it looks like? I’m gonna tell you, cos if you’ve not already gone for a piss to have a guess, you’ll be doing so imminently. The piss bubbles look like… Samuel L. Jackson in Pulp Fiction!
That was pretty much the highlight of my day, although the pretty woman in Starbucks writing “Have a nice day!!!” on my cup does come pretty close.
This is the first lengthy piece of text I’ve written using the iPad. Up until now the only time I’ve used the onscreen keyboard is for quick emails or tweets. Honestly, I don’t enjoy typing on the iPad at all. Partly, I guess, because I’m not yet used to the size of the keyboard, being somewhere in the middle of a handheld tiny keyboard and a regular laptop keyboard. My finger memory hasn’t developed the right patterns yet. But also, the size of the iPad makes it difficult, I think, to ever feel particularly comfortable doing it. I can’t hold it like a phone and use two thumbs to type. If I’m sat, I kind of have to put my knees close together, raise the heels of my feet and hunch over it. And to use it while lying on the bed isn’t comfortable at all; one has to bend the wrists to a point where it’s a bit painful and you look like a frozen-in-ice arthritic witch.
On top of that that the WordPress app is absolute shite. My typing is slow, but it’s way faster than the words appear on screen, and when that happens I notice a lot more “autocorrectos” occur. (That’s my own silly name for typo-style mistakes coming from autocorrecting errors.) The worst part of the WordPress app, though, is using it when the device is landscape. In portrait, there’s a simple blank page to type into; in landscape, there’s a sidebar with a list of previous blog posts. Several times during writing this post, my hand has brushed against that sidebar and tapped an old blog post into the active right section of the screen. Annoying enough; but there’s no autosave, so unless I tapped the save button every sentence or so, I’ve lost a bunch of writing. That first paragraph at the top of this post: I rewrote it four fucking times because of that. So this is the first, and possibly last, blog post written using the app. At least until some intrepid app reviewers tell me it has improved. Another thing about all this typing in an unnaturally hunched position is it makes me wanna shake my hands awake now. Still, First World problems like this aren’t real problems are they?
This has been on my mind for a while, but it finally came out when I began the drawing in November. I finished it off over the weekend. Anyway, it’s permanent home is over at Flip Flop Flyin’ here.
This is the view from my bedroom window. As you can see, it’s not snowing here. In fact, the last time I saw any precipitation of any sort since early November. Now, I realise that most of the people reading this are likely to live in countries that are cold and wet right now, so I don’t expect any sympathy, but it’s weird. It’s weird to be in a city where the weather has been virtually identical every day for a couple of months. It’s not particularly hot. One could wear a t-shirt in the daytime, but one can also wear a sweater and feel fine. And there’s virtually never any clouds. I miss clouds. I guess you only realise you liked something so much when you don’t see it any more.
Anyway, on the photo, you can see a roof with a black water tank in the middle. Just to the left of the tank is a spiral staircase. At the top of that staircase is a dog.
That dog spends all day every day on that roof. It makes me sad. I don’t know if it’s up there at night too, the roof is too dark to see properly after dusk. I really do hope that he’s taken inside, or taken for a walk in the evenings, cos he seems quite miserable up there, and spends a lot of time at the top of that staircase looking down.
Nothing better. Absolutely my favourite Christmas song. I was 14 when it came out, which probably explains why it’s my favourite.
Merry Christmas, y’all.
Another Christmassy re-blog. Drawn as a part of a series called Pigeon, which was done for the wonderful German web site Spreeblick.com. Archive of all the Pigeon strips here.
A wee wintery re-blog here. I made this in 2008 when I was in Bellingham, Wa. for Christmas. It was very snowy, so a prime opportunity for a snowman joke. This was part of a series called Pigeon, which was done for the wonderful German web site Spreeblick.com. Archive of all the Pigeon strips here.