Archive for the ‘Blah blah’ Category
Here they come, with their empathy and being a bit thoughtful about their use of language, the bastards.
I am fucking sick to death of the right wing, Daily Express-reading, UKIP-voting (Fox News-watching, Trump-supporting) fuck knuckles pretending that somehow the concept of using language in a more empathetic manner is some massive lefty plan to suppress their gobs. You can still use those words if you want, ya dinosaur, but you’re on the wrong side of history. If you wanna fight that battle, go for it, but there are better, more important battles to fight than the one that allows you to still call someone a faggot cos that’s what you’ve always called “them.”
Last night I heard my mama singing a song ooh eee chirpy chirpy cheep cheep
Agadoo doo doo push pineapple shake the tree.
100m world record holder, World Series MVP, first British person on the moon, Wi-Fi inventor, professional illustrator.
One step up from a chimpanzee
Battered sausage, chips and gravy please, duck
Found a note where I’d scribbled this all down, but somehow forgot to mention it here at the time…
In a local bar in July, they played these three songs in a row.
When I was a teenager, I thought it was really cool that a band named themselves after a watch. And they had a club! A SOCIAL club! How do I join? Can I send off a stamped addressed envelope? Do I get membership card? A badge?
*Searches eBay for “BW” music stand thingy*
And then they played this in the bar:
It was July. Now, I am very much in favour of this sort of behaviour. Christmas songs, some Christmas songs, are wasted on only being heard for one month a year. And nobody is ever gonna stop me listening to Mariah whenever the hell I goddam want.
This keeps on going. Will it ever stop? Well, I guess this post exactly one year from now would be a good time to stop doing it.
A decade of sleep has a nice ring to it. But, also, wouldn’t it be nice if this kept on going until the day it is no longer updated because I am dead?
Click here to see it full-size.
I’m not really interested if someone copied someone else here, because you actually don’t know for sure (see also, Tokyo Olympics logo), just, how did the committee who approved this
not at some point notice that, oh, it’s not the same, but it’s a bit reminiscent of the other World Cup, some would say the World Cup…
Somewhere along the way, my site lost its links page. It seems to me (based on nothing but a hunch and a minor amount of clicking) that the Internet changed when we stopped adding links to our Web sites. Sure, the whole Web 2.0 thing was massive, but in my corner of the Internet, that is the corner where people do their own little projects without overly trying to monetise things too much, and where having your own Web site is a cooler thing than just having a Tumblr, Twitter, Instagram, etc., in that corner, having a links page was a great thing. We linked to things we liked, sometimes those sites linked back, and all those sites linking to each other benefited in a little way.
But, somewhere along the way, my site lost its links page. I vaguely remember deciding to not have it as a separate page and just have a bunch of links at the bottom of the menu on the homepage. (Aside: you don’t hear people say “homepage” much anymore, do you? This is how slow and gradual being old takes hold.) And then there must’ve been a bit of a re-jig of the home page and now there are no links on that page. It was never intentional to remove them, not that I remember, anyway. It’s possible I cut and forgot to paste them whilst redesigning. Why I would’ve needed to do that, though, I have no idea.
When I noticed this last week, I made a decision. I could just go and find the old HTML pages that I try to keep semi-organised on my hard drive and recopy and paste those links back in, but it also felt like an opportunity to do a blog post, too. So below are sites (that still exists) I have ever linked to on a Flip Flop Flyin’ links page. If nothing else, this post is worth bookmarking for a bored afternoon when your Feedly is light on new things to click on. They are in alphabetical order. Should you be a stalker and have archived copies of my site, you may well notice that there are some new links in there, too. So 100% of you won’t actually notice that.
From a purely rooting point of view, I want the Diablos Rojos to win tonight. It’s game six in the first round of the playoffs (that is to say, the quarter-finals). The Diablos won the first two games at home last Tuesday and Wednesday, and the Toros de Tijuana won their three home games over the weekend. It’s a best-of-seven series. The Diablos absolutely need to win tonight. And if they do that, game seven will be tomorrow night.
This season, the Diablos’ stadium is a lot smaller (less than 5,000 capacity), and getting tickets is a pain in the arse. They have an online ticket sales but my non-Mexican credit card doesn’t work on their site, so when I want tickets for playoff games, I have to go to queue up when the tickets go on sale. For the first two games of the playoffs, my pal Samuel and I arrived 75 minutes before the advertised start time for ticket sales, and we were about 130th in the line.
Once the Toros won game four and assured us of a game six, they announced the sale of tickets on the next day. I was there about an hour and a half early, and the line was a whole lot shorter, but crucially, when I was choosing which section and row to sit in, I could see on the screen that way more people had used the online booking. Not so many tickets still available in my preferred section.
Which brings us to tonight’s game. There’s a part of me that kinda wouldn’t mind if the Diablos lost. When I am there in a couple of hours, I will of course want them to win, but right now, the thought of the Diablos winning, and not knowing what kind of time suck and ballache will occur tomorrow when I want to get a ticket for game seven… well, it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if they lost. The thought of getting tickets for game seven, and if they win that, the next two home games in the semi-finals, stresses me out, too much. (I’ve typed about ticket stress before here.) Plus, it’s my girlfriend’s birthday on the same day as a possible game one of the semi-finals, and her birthday party on Saturday, the same day as game two. And if the Diablos were to get to the Serie del Rey (that is, the final) then, gosh knows how tough it’s gonna be to get non-online tickets from the ticket booth.
All of this comes down to my semi-ambivalence to the idea of playoffs. The Diablos were by far the best team in the Mexican League. So there we go. End of story. Diablos were the best team. But no, we have to endure the idiocy of playoffs where an eighth best team in the league could still conceivable be “champions.” In my head, I know that my team were the best team this year, yet we still have to go through this charade. Last season, the Diablos were the best team in the regular season, and won the championship in the playoffs, too. My joy – and it was proper joy – was partly because the coin toss-iness of the playoffs had not got in the way of proving what I already knew. And it’ll be the same tonight. I just want them to win so that what I already know will be confirmed by the record books. And if they don’t, well, the record books in my head will keep a note, and I won’t have to stress about tickets anymore.
Update, 26 August: Diablos won 14-1. There will be a seventh game tonight. Tickets go on sale at 11am. I will, of course, traipse over to the stadium to buy a ticket, return home, then go back to the stadium for the game. I’m not gonna say it’s a hard life, just, y’know, it’s essentially 2-3 hours wasted in the middle of the day.
I was moderately ambivalent to New Order’s music until seeing them live at the Reading Festival on 25 August, 1989. I didn’t dislike them, just not really a massive fan. Until this show.
This was the setlist:
Round & Round
All the Way
Every Little Counts
Your Silent Face
Bizarre Love Triangle
The Perfect Kiss
Aside from New Order, it was a pretty good line up that day. I saw everything on the main stage: Gaye Bykers on Acid, Spacemen 3, My Bloody Valentine, That Petrol Emotion, Tackhead, Swans, House of Love, and the Sugarcubes.
A couple of weeks back, a friend and I went to the Cruz Azul vs. Venados game. Cheap tickets because it was a Copa MX game. The Mexican cup is very much a second tier competition here. After the game, I was in a local bar with a pal. We finished chatting, got the bill, paid, got the change, left a tip, and stood up to leave. Very literally less than 10 seconds after doing so, the flat screen telly mounted on the wall above our table fell off its bracket thingy, onto the seat that was still warm from my delightful bum cheeks. Therefore, I have found Jesus*. Vote Ted Cruz**.
* Not really.
** Please don’t.
I was in the park, the Columbus Circle edge of the park. I had a long walk through the park, ended up in a part of the city that I didn’t recognise. It had that 70s cop movie feel, this part of the city. I took a photo of a tall building with my phone and put it on Twitter. While I was tweeting, a kid told me he liked my baseball cap. I was happy. Maybe I could finally meet some of the people I’ve had contact with since I started the baseball site. I took a short cut down a few steps into an alley. The alley was full of tiny tiny cafes, each with one or two tables at most, all decorated like old fairground rides. Nice colours and lettering on the signs. A waiter told me there was no exit at the end of the alley, but I could get to the other end through his cafe. I climbed up the stairs, and there were lots of low low tables and cushions and people drinking tea. I stumbled as I went out of the door. Stumbled kinda into a table. Two women and a man, all way cooler than me, were sat at the table smoking. I apologised. They asked me “what’s your life?” I told them, “I live in Germany, well, not Germany anymore, I used to, I, I live in Mexico City now.” The woman with short hair told me I was living the dream, and they all got up and jumped onto the bus that was passing. And I was lying in bed, thinking, don’t wake up. You’re in New York, you’ve gotta meet those people. Don’t wake up. And I slowly realised — slowly, like you swim back to the surface after diving into water — that I was awake. And, goddamn it, I wasn’t in New York. Fuck.
Fun thing I learned about Welwyn Garden City last week from Wikipedia: it’s both a garden city (like, duh) and a new city. Thus, Venn:
This song still sounds brilliant, doesn’t it?
I’m not a massive fan of superhero stuff. When I was young, I liked the old Adam West Batman, and I remember that I loved the old Spiderman cartoon, too. I watched an episode of it recently on YouTube: the animation is bloody awful. I’ve seen some of the new Batman films over the years, a couple of the Spidermans, obvs, the three 70s/80s Supermans. But on the whole, superheroes aren’t really my cup of tea. I don’t hate them or owt, just, y’know, put your underwear on first, dummy.
Saw a poster for something called Ant-Man the other day. Now, I have no idea if Ant-Man is a good character or a good film or whatever, but jesus, it’s very hard to work up any enthusiasm for a bloody ant. What are his superpowers? The ability to be burned by a magnifying glass? The power to not be able to cross a line of talcum powder?
Yep, the only Ant-Man I care about is this one. I’d deffo go see a film about that superhero.
Thanks to the generosity of a couple of friends (gracias Pepe y Samuel), on the last day of June, we had guest list tickets for the Flaming Lips concert at the Auditorio Nacional, a big concert venue with: (1) a capacity of around 10,000, (2) Latin America’s largest pipe organ, and (c) some woefully under-staffed bars. Queues of 50-odd people waiting for plastic cups of beer. Fuck that shit. I’d rather not drink than participate in such business. The show was general admission within each of the various price categories. Guest list tickets were, it seems, all up on the balcony, about 35km from the stage.
It was a weird night for me. My girlfriend and her pals seemed to really enjoy it. All around us seemed to enjoy it. All of the people downstairs seemed to enjoy it. Me? Not really. There were some pretty lights, I’ll give them that. But all of the dancing creatures, it was a bit Teletubbies meets “Stonehenge.” It kinda felt like all of the theatrics were covering up for a set of songs that were, on the whole, sounded fairly average.
But, a good night of post-concert boozing hanging out with friends, chatting, listening to music, was kinda the perfect way to start a mini holiday: three nights in Real del Monte. It was a perfect start in an unexpected way: because of the drinking and the late night, it kinda forced me to not wake up and rush around in the morning. The plan was to be up, out, and at the bus terminal for about 9am. Tired brain told me NO.
I was a bit stressed about work stuff, so a few days away seemed like a good idea. I would be revisiting Real del Monte (or Mineral del Monte, not sure which is the proper name, but you see signs for with both names in the area), a place I’d first visited a couple of years back. It’s just outside Pachuca, which is about 90 minutes on a bus northeast-ish from Mexico City. It’s a pretty simple journey: subway to one of the main bus terminals in Mexico City, have a look at the bus times, find one that is going soon, buy a ticket.
The guy checking bags and metal detecting asked where I was from. I told him Inglaterra, and he asked, in English, how was the correct way to say “Tott-eng-hem Ho-spor.” I told him he was close and pronounced it as clearly and English-ly as a member of the Royal Family. The bus journey is nothing special, really: no particularly nice landscape or owt. I listened to Marc Maron’s interview with Barack Obama over the sound of a dubbed version of the Will Ferrell and Zach Galifianakis film “The Campaign” blaring from the bus’ TV speakers.
Once in Pachuca, there’s a dude directly outside yelling the destinations of various small combi buses. I told him I need to go to Plaza de la Constitución, he pointed at a combi. I squeezed into the tiny van that waited until it was rammed full of people (that is to say, had about 10 people inside) and we were off. I’d made this journey once before so kinda knew where I was going, but I was sat in the middle and couldn’t really see out of the window. By the time that everyone else had got off, I asked him where the plaza was, and he took me a few hundred yards further and told me to nip through the market and there it is.
I followed his instructions, bought a new cable for my phone in the market (it’s pink with tiny blue UV lights inside and only 35 pesos!) asked another guy where to get the Real del Monte combi and was soon in an almost identical tiny vehicle heading out and up above Pachuca. It’s a nice wee journey. I like the contract of arriving in Pachuca, seeing a relatively decent-sized city from street level, then a few minutes in the hills and the same place looks pretty small.
The combi stopped at various points in Real del Monte before getting to the central square and church-y bit, where I got off. I knew there were a handful of hotels, but I didn’t bother booking a room. It was a Wednesday, not really tourist-y season, no special festivals going on, and most importantly: I love arriving somewhere and not knowing where I’m going to sleep. I wandered to the hotel I stayed in last time. Door was locked. It was about 2pm. Knocked on the door. No answer. Knocked again. No answer. So I asked the security guard at the museum next door and he said they’re probably having their lunch.
So, I just went to another hotel instead. I was very thankful that I only bothered to pay for one night in advance, cos when I got to the room, the view was of a breeze block wall about 30cm from the window. Ho hum. I couldn’t be arsed to make a fuss, so I just dumped my stuff and went back out to get some food. And food, dear readers, is pretty much the main reason for visiting Real del Monte.
When one lives in a foreign land, as some of you might have experienced, food from your home country is one of the things you miss the most. There’s a level of comfort that dribbles through the mind, like a slow-moving river of melted white chocolate, when I think of British food like Marmite, Branston pickle, scotch eggs, pork pies, Cornish pasties. And in Real del Monte, they have pasties. Oh yes, muchos pastes. (Eff why eye: the Spanish spelling of pasty: paste. Plural: pastes.)
Real del Monte has a strong English–specifically Cornish–influence. Back in the day, when the people in this area found stuff in the ground, they need to mine it. Load of Cornish people came over to work in the mines and they brought three things in particular with them: well-good mining techniques, pasties, and football. Real del Monte was the first place in Mexico where football was played. I saw several ceramic tiles painted in bright colours around the town celebrating the football history and there was a big advert painted on a wall for a football museum which I couldn’t find, sadly.
The pasties are great. It’s been two-and-a-half decades since I was in Cornwall, but the “tradicional” variety of pasty in Real del Monte is as good as I remember any being in Cornwall. I say “tradicional” because pasties come in lots of varieties in Read del Monte. At Pastes el Portal which is, in my opinion, the best of the pasty places in Real del Monte (and have no fear, I tried several) you can get mole, beans, chicken, sausage, tuna, and “Hawaiian.” They also do sweet pasties: peach, apple, pineapple, strawberry, coconut, chocolate, and vanilla. (I tried the vanilla one and mmm, mmm, mmm, delish.)
I had a couple of traditional carne con papas pasties, then had a wee walk around. I went to the tourism booth outside the town’s indoor market and asked the nice people there a few questions. Specifically, about the opening hours of the English cemetery. On my last visit, we walked all the way there and found that the gates were locked, so I wanted to be sure. They were friendly, so I signed their guest book thingy and got a wee map of the local area.
It started drizzling, so I stopped for a beer in bar. The bar had Old West-style saloon doors. Inside there were lots of pictures of two things: Club América football team, and naked women. The toilet had no door, it was simply a urinal in the corner of the room with a curtain for privacy. It looked like you might vote there, not piss.
Another bar, this time with insanely loud music (yeah, grandad…) and I was soon back at the hotel, in bed, and asleep well early, and having a dream about getting back to Mexico City to find my apartment had been burgled. Joy.
I tend to wake up early quite a lot anyway, but on holiday, it’s pretty much a given. 7am is late for me on holiday. 7am, though, is still very early, it would seem, for the cafe owners of Real del Monte. So was 8am. Basically, it was 9am before anywhere was open for any breakfast. I went to a place around the corner, ordered the desayuno Realmontense from a bored-looking owner, a man whose who being screamed “the waiter/waitress isn’t here yet, so I’ve gotta deal with this shit.”
The breakfast was shite. That weird concentrate orange juice that is way too sweet, coffee that comes pre-sweetened, even the bread was sweet. Of all that, I had a few sips of the orange juice. The main part wasn’t sweet, thankfully: chilaquiles verde with chorizo.
I went back to the first hotel that I tried and there was someone there. Yes, he did have a room for two nights. Do I want to see the room? Normally, I don’t bother with that business, but after the breeze block view, I did. Lovely big room, lovely view over the town. I paid, went back to the other hotel, packed my stuff and checked in to the new place, where, incidentally, the lobby was full of pictures of Marilyn Monroe.
I asked the guy where I need to go to get the bus to a nearby village called Huasca de Ocampo, and traipsed off in the direction he told me to go. Up and above the main part of Real del Monte, to the main road that runs by the town. There was an old lady waiting there. I asked her. She told me to wait for the green bus. Plenty of buses went by, vaguely slowing when they saw someone stood at the corner. The sign on the front of the bus was really small, so I was squinting. Is it… is it… yes! I stook out my hand, the combi screeched to a halt, and I sat on the only available seat. The teenage girls sat across the way kept glimpsing at me, the gringo. The driver’s CD player was blasting out eighties hits. Arthur’s Theme, I Wanna Dance with Somebody, and Careless Whisper. As we bombed around the curvy mountain roads, I looked down and figured that, if I was gonna die in a bus accident, I’d quite want George Michael to soundtrack my demise.
Huasca de Ocampo seemed to be a smaller version of Real del Monte. A perfectly lovely little Mexican town. As far as I can tell–and I’m obviously no expert–small villages fall into two categories here: Pueblos Mágicos and non-Pueblos Mágicos. An explanation: the Magical Villages Program is something that the tourism board do to promote, err, tourism around the country. There are 80-odd of them, of which I have visited ten. Some are better than others. Some are indeed magical. Some, well, you get the feeling that the mayors of some of them used their influence to get the magical status. You can see it straight away: the streets are cleaner, the town squares are tidier and there’s generally an air of expecting tourists.
First thing I did was have a wee look inside the church in the town square. Tick. Yep, that’s that done. A nice cup of coffee (that is to say, not thick with sugar) and I asked a taxi driver how much it was to go to the nearby Basalt Prisms. Just 60 pesos. Muy bien. The Primasa Basálticos are these tall colums of rock in a ravine kinda thing, with a waterfall that does its water-y business there. It was quite lovely. Here’s some photographs:
50 pesos entrance fee. Impressive stuff. Not too crowded with tourists. I was pretty much the only non-Mexican there as far as I could tell. Half way around the ravine, there were a couple of souvenir shops and a place selling drinks. I saw other people with cocktail-y kinda things, and assumed they must be just fruit punch or something, but no! Actual alcohol. I asked if they had a beer. Yep. 50 pesos. Okay, seems steep, but it’s a tourist place, and it’s hot, so sure. It wasn’t steep. It was a caguama, a nearly-a-litre bottle. So I had this huge beer, and I’d kinda seen everything, so, well, I wandered around again, just with a massive beer in my hand. And boy was it worth it. It was nice to look at everything a second time, notice things I’d not seen before. I don’t know how it’s taken me this long in life to look at things twice at a tourist attraction, but I will be doing it again, caguama or not.
At the entrance/exit area, I asked the ticket woman if I could wait around here for another taxi to drop someone off, so I could jump in and go back to Huasca. She told me I needed to call for one. I had no credit on my phone, so asked if she could call one for me. 50 pesos. Bloody hell, that’s a bit steep to make a phone call, but, pfff, I guess it’s better than just waiting around for ages. When the taxi driver arrived, I saw the woman give him 50 pesos. Aaaah, my suspicious mind was embarrassed. It was just paying in advance for a taxi. I felt bad. The driver and I chatted all the way back to Huasca. He asked if we spoke ingles in Inglaterra. I confirmed that we did. And he said, “”aaah, like the United States…” He, like seemingly every taxi driver I talk to in Mexico, was a Chivas fan.
Back in Huasca de Ocampo, I had lunch: trucha al a diablo. Trout in a spicy sauce. Bloody lovely it was, too. Dead tomato-ey, spicy, and served with rice and tortillas. After lunch, I made a half-hearted effort to look more at the town, but really couldn’t be arsed. I’d seen the basalt prisms, which was why I went in the first place, so found a parked combi, and sat inside with a load of locals until it was full and we were heading back towards Pachuca. I got off at the junction where I got on in the bright afternoon sunshine, and by the time I was back at the hotel it was cloudy and a bit rainy. It’s another lovely thing about Real del Monte: the English weather. I know it’s a crappy thing that ex-pats always say when they live in hotter countries, but it’s true: I miss the British weather. And it is nice knowing that when I get bored of the sunny-every-dayness of Mexico City, I can nip up to Real del Monte and wear a coat and wipe the rain off my glasses.
I spent the evening in the hotel listening to podcasts and drawing. As you might have noticed on the blog recently, I’ve been doing a lot more simple things, brightly coloured. Not sure why this has been happening. I’ve been specifically doing a lot of things that I refer to as mountains. They are not, I guess, what one would normally consider mountains, but they were mountains to me. I kinda think they are drawings that combine some of the colours of living in Mexico, with shapes or landscape, balloons, and stuff. I dunno, they feel really Mexican to me. I’m enjoying them. You can see a whole load of them here.
And while we’re talking about drawing, here’s one I did of the Prismas Basálticos. I did a pen drawing in my notebook while I was there, photographed it, and then drew over the photograph in the Brushes app on my iPad:
It was a bad night’s sleep. Not sure why, cos the bed was ace. I love those hard mattresses with big plump pillows where you can make an inverted V shape around you head so that every time you turn over, there’s still a load of pillow there. It was all perfect, but I was awake a lot. It was nice, though, when I heard the rain on the tin roofs outside. Rain on tin roofs: second best sound in the world. (Best is obvs rain in a forest or jungle.)
Another breakfast debacle the next morning. This time I asked what type of coffee they had, and specifically was it pre-sweetened. Yes it was.
Do you have it without sugar?
“No.” He told me they had Nescafe.
No thanks, what type of tea do you have?
“Camomile, mint, green.” They had no black tea.
Sigh. Okay, nothing thanks, just orange juice, please.
He looked pissed off with me for being a picky English prince. He brought me some good chilaquiles (I don’t eat chilaquiles often, so when I’m out of town, I like to indulge myself) and asked if I wanted an Americano. Yes, I’d very much like that, please. He came back with a mug of dark liquid that tasted exactly like Nescafe. Cheeky bugger was trying to trick me. But I drank it.
As mentioned above, last visit, we’d tried to go to see the English cemetery, the Panteón Inglés, but it was closed. It’s a long uphill walk because the cemetery is on top of a hill. Nice place for a cemetery, no doubt, but it was quite a warm morning, and I couldn’t be arsed, so I got a taxi. Best 35 pesos I spent.
A fifteen peso donation for upkeep. It was kinda nice, kinda odd, to see so many English names in a Mexican
graveyard cemetery. (Update: I just read on Eamonn Griffin’s wonderful Benches of Louth blog that “if it’s got a church in it, it’s a graveyard. If it hasn’t, it’s a cemetery.”) Specifically, loads of Cornish surnames. You don’t have to spend long in the panteón to learn that mining wasn’t good for the health back in the day. Lots of graves of people in their 20s and 30s. It was a nice place, though. All the graves bar one were facing England. I don’t usually feel any swell of patriotism, but I did when the woman who took my donation told me about that. There is one grave, though, that doesn’t. The grave of an English clown who lived in Pachuca, who specified that he wanted his grave to not face England.
Still sunny, a very pleasant downhill saunter back to the town. I’d kinda done all the tourist-y stuff I wanted to do, so after lunch (pasties!) I went back to my room and did a simple sketch of a drawing I wanted to do while I was in town: a drawing of the view from my hotel room window:
Line drawing complete, feeling good about what I’d done, I went out for a beer. Not really in the mood, so it was just a beer. It was raining like billyoh. Kinda soaked, I saw a beautiful sight: an actual coffee shop. A place with a proper machine. I sat down, listened to the wonderful selection of 1950s rock ‘n’ roll they were playing, and had two wonderful Americanos.
I accepted the internal shame of having the same thing again and again and had pasties for dinner, did some more mountain drawings, and sleepy sleepy slept.
I woke with a plan: start working on the drawing of the view out of the window before I go out for breakfast, then finish the drawing afterwards, hopefully quick enough to be out of the hotel before the 1pm checkout time.
It was Saturday morning, and bloomin’ heck, Real del Monte felt totally different. The Pueblo Mágico-ness was kicking in ready for the weekend tourists. Cafes and restaurants that had been closed were suddenly open and I had a lovely load of eggs and coffee at one of them while an absurdly-loud-for-the-time-of-day TV blasted out the sound of three woman yelling and cackling interspersed with pop videos. This type of TV show seems very popular in Mexico.
Back to the hotel, I packed up my stuff, then dragged the chair back to the window to continue drawing. I’d finished with 40 minutes to spare, so went over to the good coffee place, had another Americano ready for an afternoon of travelling. This is how the drawing turned out:
And here’s a wee clip of the process of drawing:
I checked out and went to Pastes el Portal and picked up what I had ordered earlier in the morning: a box of pasties to bring home.
The reverse journey–two combis–back to the Pachuca bus terminal was dominated by the smell of the warm pasties on my lap. Oh my. It was a delight.
On the bus back to Mexico City, the woman in front of me was one of those people who reclines all the way just because they can. Those people need to be made extinct. It’s a 90 minute journey not an overnight flight to New Zealand, luv, calm the fuck down with the selfish behaviour.
I did another iPad drawing on the bus, which was fun. I started drawing quick doodles of things I saw along the roadside at various points. Basically, I was making notes, but as I did more and more, I realised I was doing a composite of what the roadside outside of Pachuca was like, and, y’know it ended up like this:
Y’know, it’s kinda hard to believe that when I was doing my travels in 2008, I used to write blog posts like this every day. I’m out of practise. This one took ages.
Last night, I was lying in bed, watching an old episode of Carpool that I’d not seen before.1 It was one with Richard Herring. And even though I am still very much aware of him (that is to say, I listen to most episodes of RHLSTP), I stopped reading his blog several years ago. I used to read it every day, and it was an inspiration to actually blog about daily mundane crap myself. But until I saw him talking about it on Carpool, I’d not even thought about his daily blog for a long time. I had a wee look and yep, he’s still doing it. And I kinda felt like a failure. This blog, the one you are now reading, used to be like that to a certain extent. I would write stuff all the time. And then at some point, I kinda stopped. I now why that was, (and if you were around back in the day, you may have an idea), but it tailed off in 2010 and once I bought an iPad and started drawing on the iPad, iPad drawings basically replaced the typed word. Occasionally I’d write (most notably when I was in Belize last summer) but the desire soon went away again.
I’m not gonna promise myself that I’m gonna do it every day again, but I should, and I want to. I want my early morning ritual to be writing, not clicking things I don’t need to look at on the Internet. I always felt that the writing on the blog helped the artwork. Things came up in words, and came out as drawings or picture stories. I need that back in my life. And “my life” is something I’ve been thinking about a lot of late. The realisation that my work is nowhere near — nowhere! — as popular as it used to be a decade ago is slightly crushing. My ego isn’t enjoying it, so the other parts of my brain have to do something about it. One of the things that happened to the blog was Twitter. When that came around, things that would’ve been 100-200 word blog posts, ended up as 140 character tweets. That’s a good thing and a bad thing at the same time. Economy is good, but not fleshing out sometimes feels like a missed opportunity. And this past year I’ve become less and less happy with how I use Twitter. Right now, I feel like I need a break from it. I’ve not tweeted at all for three days now, and every time my mind has a thought that needs tweeting, I stop myself, make a note, and maybe that thought will be a blog post tomorrow or next week.2
As I posted a couple of months back, we got a cat. She is called Cyndilauper. She went through a few names before she became Cyndilauper. Even before a cat occurred in my life, I liked the idea of calling a cat John Paul III (or Juan Pablo III en español). When it became clear that the cat was female, she was Juanita for a while (a name of an Underworld song and a Flying Burrito Brothers song whilst hinting at the JP3 idea). I really wanted her to be Britneyspears but that was poo-pooed by the girlfriend, so she ended up as Cyndilauper.
When I was watching Carpool she jumped up onto the bed, ran over my belly and stood next to my shoulder and looked at me. This isn’t the look of “stroke me, Englander!” it was the look of “move your cup of tea from the bedside table because that’s where I like to sleep, dude.” I complied, she took her place and I drank my tea faster than I’d’ve liked just cos it’s boring constantly holding a mug. It made me realise how, despite my desires for a minimally decorated apartment, you always need things like bedside tables.3 I do, though, kinda miss that student-y thing of just having a mattress on the floor. Even though at the time I was very keen on having a real bed. The next time I’m single, I’ll be going for the mattress on the floor again, though. No need for a bedside table then.
Anyway. Let’s see how this blogging thing goes, shall we? Right now I’m dead positive about doing it, even though a good friend of mine, whose finger is way more on the pulse of current Internet than mine, tells me that nobody reads blogs any more. It’d be nice to prove her wrong.
1. It’s interesting how we’ve come to this place in TV, huh? Small cameras and cars equals dead cheap telly. There’s the Jerry Seinfeld one where he showed off his collection of lovely vehicles. There’s the James Corden karaoke thing,4 there’s the Carpool one mentioned above, and Peter Kay’s really quite enjoyable Car Share.
2. This one doesn’t need to be a blog post, but: that one black cornflake in a box of cornflakes. Is that just a missed moment of quality control or is it there just to creep us out a little bit?
3. There’s a note in a notebook that I made earlier in the year to write a story about someone who lives as minimally as he possibly could. The main thrust of this was to get to the idea of him not having chair because if he wanted to sit, there was a toilet. I had the idea that is pretty horrible: him watching TV, eating pizza, and shitting at the same time.
4. If I sing along to “Fancy,” I kinda feel that the concept of fanciness must sink a little in its heart and mutter to itself, “no, you’re bloody not.”