vendredi 24 septembre 2004

All ears for the bright side of the dark The malfunctioning iPod dilemma has been solved by temporarily costly measures that suit me and the Kid both. For my French Mac-loving reader, I'll put in a good word for what must still be the best "Apple Store" in Paris, now that I've tried several over the years and always end up here. It's dangerously close to home, while Magic Mac now has a website. Why, however, are so many people buying the iPod mini? They say it's a best-seller and white-wired travellers have mushroomed in the subterranean tunnels. This again I can't understand, preferring to hide most of my circuitry under my clothes. The mini may be precisely what it says and pretty to boot, but who really wants a 4 GB fashion accessory at a rip-off price when you can acquire 20 GB for not so very much more? In the shop-window of false economies for the sake of show, the iPod mini strikes me as a top-shelf luxury offender. Details of my radical decision will follow once the next battle with Apple has also been fought and won. I'm banned from blogging much tonight because my parting jibes at the Factory, about Siberian yoghurt and a stained school tie long stored pending lab tests in 2020, so revolted people that they begged me to keep the rest of my "humour" for the morning. So before disappearing into more of the X-Files (or something), let me for once say something nice about Apple. The French version of the music store has begun living up to its promise and I'm belatedly surprised that the quality of its AAC files, at 128 kbs, is just fine. Ever the perfectionist, I generally opt for 192 kilobits per second, even with AAC. Why, oh why, did I take so long to discover 'The Divine Comedy'? I do not mean Dante. A feller named Luke gave the precocious late developer I've always been the answer. For reasons related to a recent visit to the bank, I'm currently trying to resist his suggestion to follow this remarkable path back to some of its roots among a bunch of 'Violent Femmes'. This reminds me of the Wildcat. Not because of the adjective, but because it was she who ... em, virtually, took me by the hand to see another Nick in action. He and lyrics of the kind stressed-out girls at Cambridge University once listened to before slashing their wrists -- or was that Leonard Cohen? -- are helping me on my way to the Filthiest Mood of the Week Award. If you're not turned on, even perhaps highly amused, by some of the videos currently available from Nick Cave & those Bad Seeds, then what can I say? You're beyond redemption. 9:19:15 PM  link   your views? []

jeudi 23 septembre 2004

In and on the air, upstairs and underground Anybody else noticed all the "synchronicity" (Wikipedia) in the air right now? Or is just me? Monday's ears caught Mozart's 'Rondo à la Turque' three times in half an hour on the Métro, first on a Hungarian box zither and last as the wretched call tone on somebody's mobile 'phone. Yesterday the name Toronto was everywhere I looked, today it was the band, Marillion, scarcely mentioned in one context before it cropped up in an unrelated news story. But to be synchronicity -- unless you're among the sceptics (on Jung at Skepdic) -- coincidences have to be meaningful, and these weren't. Just there... No big deal, except that all the past times I've noticed such small oddities, they've presaged unexpected changes. What's new for newsreader fans (and probably already blogged about all over, but I want to add to the ads) is that Brent and his comrades get a huge pat on the back. The long wait for NetNewsWire version 2.0 is over, if you're on Mac OS X. The beta is beautiful. I'd flirted, out of curiosity, with the Newsfire "aggregator" too. Neat and nice to look at, yes, but now Mr Simmons has come up with the goods, I've ended the brief affair. A paid-up NNW user, I was briefly disappointed on downloading and installing 2.0 without a glitch (a perfect automatic pick-up of all my old newsfeeds, etc), to see that the weblog editor had gone. That instant passed when I spotted MarsEdit (Ranchero; free to NNW regulars) and realised what the team had done. Very clever. And still I get to keep my indispensable notepad. At the Factory I'm converting lots of people to Really Simple Syndication (Aaron Schwartz explains), because once they've discovered what hides behind those mysterious RSS/XML acronyms, none of them have looked back. A friend of mine, stuck with Windows, had trouble recently with a "zipped" document (i.e. one that's been compressed in size a little or a lot to send over the Internet) and I learned today, to my astonishment, that not all Windows computers come with the equipment to "unzip" them. This gives me a good excuse to remind people that VersionTracker for Windows software exists along with the Mac pages (even if few people bother to bung reviews in on the "dark side"). It was thus a matter of moments to be able to tell my friend about Freezip and suggest installing it. Computers are a constant reminder that you, too, once found the simplest things impossibly complicated, usually because of the words used. The UC Berkeley Library lists an apparently easy handful I'm often asked to explain, but more importantly, links on, at the bottom of the page, to much richer jargon and slang sites. When it comes to oddities, Eleanor has again excelled herself. One of my fine friend's latest contributions to NPR takes us deep under Paris streets to where "cinephiles say they've been celebrating movies underground for decades" (Real Audio broadcast). I guess I'll forgive her for beating me down into the "empire of the dead", as Kevin Kelm called part of Underground Paris (triggur), but then I only bothered to go to the Louvre after more years here than I dare admit without embarrassment. She and her editors come up with such good notions and sometimes odd ideas for stories about life in France that "eleanor's ear" has become one of the blogrolled "places I drop in" to find out what's going on in these parts, especially after I invited myself along on a "blind date". Did you make up that quake in the voice, Eleanor, or was it for real? Above ground, I'm very sad to announce that Lee is preparing to leave both district and town. Scarcely does the lass seem to be back from travelling to wondrous far-flung places and giving us admirable accounts that she's warning us that soon 'odessastreet' will be no more. Not as a blog, unless I can persuade Tony to start one from the very same building, but losing Lee will be like saying "adieu" to an old and good friend and one of the finest writers around the quartier. We only met the once, when she was carrying very heavy stuff up six flights of stairs, but somehow that doesn't make any difference. So what's the new name going to be, Lee? 10:03:02 PM  link   your views? []

lundi 20 septembre 2004

Bear hugs and dead worlds "What greater love can one have for another than to wrap him in a massive bear hug, ruffle his hair (because you know that it really irritates him) and tell him that you love him." That's the Squip's -- purloined -- peace of mind for the day. She also gives us an iPod song, but given the choice, I pass on her (or londonmark's) notes on embracing "Friends" at 'Dusting My Brain'. The sex of cyclones comes next from that curiously cleaned cranium! Should I confess that I like having my hair ruffled? That's why I keep it short, adding the instruction "but not military, thank you," which usually proves to be a pointless plea. It's not that I can't see what they're doing before they give me my specs back, but having my hair cut tends to send me to sleep... I also, as you know, like ruffling feathers. That's why I write some things long. And I'm still gunning for Apple. In true friendship, Squip didn't hug me but mailed me what seems to be the definitive discussion of music box battery bugger-ups at the iPod Lounge. Mine currently works fine while charging, but like the X-Files, this excellent site's thread claims that "the TRUTH" is out there. Somewhere... Thanks, Cindy. With appropriate timing, since today I had a Thought for a friend in dire straits, some lovely software which does star charts that work -- though still I believe these workings have very little indeed to do with the stars -- has been updated again. This version of L'Astrologue is unfriendly to Mac OS 9. So's Apple, which has just ditched the "old" operating system on desktops forever, according to Australian IT's 'Farewell to a Familiar Face' (via the marvellous MacDevCenter). It's the usual flurry of insults that accompanies a new incarnation of L'Astrologue at VersionTracker I find amusing. "What can you say about a software developer who releases an update ON the day of a solar eclipse? For the uninitiated, an eclipse is representative of great 'instability.' Not an auspicious sign for an astrological software program." So someone opines. Yes. Well. The 'I Ching' is all about instability and change, which doesn't stop that working either once you've taken the time to study it. I'm glad to see that Augustine's God Interviews are still going famously -- even giving her time for the man in the moon and a ghost writer (Blaugustine). I think it's a woman in the moon, myself... Still being in an execrable mood, I went on last night from 'The Silence of the Lambs', which I had seen before, to 'The Shining', which I haven't and found a nice bedtime story. Contentedly chilled to the core, my only complaint about this film is that I don't think ghosts work the way it suggests. When it comes to dead things, for lack of music in the Métro 'Les Inrocks' engrossed me in an interview with a Franco-Russian novelist I'd never heard of, Antoine Volodine, who gets a slightly out of date page at Un Monde à lire. His latest novel, 'Bardo or Not Bardo' (in French) sounds like a must for me. Volodine apparently tells a great fable about a nonagerian lama, an ex-KGB agent and a clandestine utopian on his deathbed, set in the Bardo (Reluctant Messenger). "Desperately funny," says the review, and good on the death and decay of the Soviet Union. Who wants a hug? Scully might. When Mulder's not looking. 10:18:59 PM  link   your views? []

dimanche 19 septembre 2004

On the behaviour of boxes & sundry bloggers... My iPod's battery has been playing up, says it's charged, then kills the magic soundbox between five and 20 minutes later. I'm among the latest big batch of poor sods complaining about this just after their guarantee -- almost needless to say -- expired. Some say there's no real problem (MacRumors), Mark recently found a home-done swap (with Apple's disapproval) is "surprisingly easy" (Boing Boing), Ted's made a "pack" (Speedfactory) and Steve's boys knew about this all along (Apple -- one of many). So, for that matter, did I, almost from the day I bought it. "From the Support page: 'If your iPod fails to hold a charge and it's more than a year old, you may need a new battery. Click Continue to order iPod battery service for $99 USD. This program is not available in Europe at this time'." That was Slashdot in November last year (my italics). The "program" is now available in Europe. The cost? 130.96 euros (Apple.fr)? At tonight's rate: 159.43 dollars. Ninety-nine was "highway robbery", a Slashdotter rightly said. I have two words for Apple France and their 159.43 dollars, not for the first time, nor the last (more expensive Macs than US ones with bad video cards, endless delays over the iTunes Music Store, illegal practices in trying to prevent the use of external DVD players): "Screw you!" As ever, I shall put it more diplomatically when I inform the local chiefs of my latest gripes with the makers of the Rolls-Royce of computers. That's but a handful of links stocked to date. When I've cracked it without breaking the iPod, I'll say how. Who knows? Maybe it'll work in the morning now that I've moaned. Know what I watched last night? 'The Silence of the Lambs'. Felt better after that... So why the cellphone pix? They're no clearer than usual, but the tree across the road is now in very autumnal mood, like the window box of the nice old dear who gets to see me typing in summer with no clothes on. Out back, however, my geraniums seem to think I've got green fingers. If I can keep boxes like that happy for more than a year, then why can't Apple? Should it be news you want (I've had my dose for the day), we learn from several places in the blogosphere that NewsIsFree now brings us a new kind of newsmap. Along with premium services. Will they change their site name if nobody else has nabbed YouGetWhatYouPayFor.com? Siona's blog has a front page link to free iPods. Do you believe it? I confess I didn't try... But then she, like me, is "inordinately affected by the weather. It took me a long time to admit this; for years I refused to acknowledge that my moods might be linked to something as improbable and distant as the sky. I was a rational person, I thought; my emotions were linked to that which mattered, and not some butterfly flapping its wings in the Amazon. Now I'm less embarrassed by my sensitivity. I'm an animal. I reside in a body that resides in the world that itself reclines under a pulsing membrane of pressure and weather and rain. How can my own cells ignore the atmosphere around me? How can my bones disregard the heaviness of the air? How can I not fail to respond to the sun on a clear day? It's more embarrassing to me now to think that I once believed I should be capable of ignoring all this. I'm attuned to the world. We all are. And I no longer mind" (at 'Nomen est Numen', via the ever mindful Kathryn). There's something in the air. Ataegina's caught it too: "Comme le lieu de l'attraction cosmique, flot continuel de mouvement la pesanteur, la chute, les éléments réels, incontournables. la spécificité du langage physique, à la fois vivante et magnifiquement naïve." That's how she starts her admirable thoughts for the day. A spot check of some others on the blogroll unfortunately currently finds many of them into "election fever", uncomfortably close to news for my taste tonight. How come many of them are all the nasty things I might so soon after 'Many 2 Many' wondered why "all wikipedia [meta] articles sound the same while every blog sounds different? "...perhaps multiple truths deserve multiple pages. Isn’t that why the Web itself has succeeded? Now there's a thought. 9:20:18 PM  link   your views? []

vendredi 17 septembre 2004

'Note de service': a plea against petitions Gosh, it's been ages since I wrote a "service note"... But we all know horror stories. The Factory's full of them, mostly in events we have to report, occasionally on the premises. This week has seen another "inside" one coming to a climax, where the action -- or more correctly, immobile stance -- of a bunch of people has outraged dozens of other journalists into signing a protest petition. Today, a sixth person asked why I refuse to put my name to it, because "you agree with everything in it". Yes I do, but by this morning I'd decided that since this log exists, I'll use it to tell those who care why I'm being difficult again (and say "sorry" to others thus sent elsewhere for entertainment). Good people, I will not sign any petitions inside the Factory -- this "multi-national" one, or a previous one sent upstairs by many in the English-language services -- while we still have trade unions. Such protests and dealings with management are their job. As a former, elected union "official" who took a back seat about 12 months ago after two dozen years trying to do that job in various workplaces, I think we should tell the unions what we want. If they don't do it, first kick their butts, then vote them out. On arriving in France, I was appalled to find how many journalists' unions there were. In Britain, life was simple. There's one. It survived Thatcher. It's active today, with a strong membership, despite the growth of a generation which knew nothing but Thatcherism and union-busting. In the early '90s, I researched and wrote an article about why there are so many unions in the country I chose as home, as much for my own edification as for equally bewildered friends and colleagues. The answers proved to be historical and sometimes sordid ones we have to accept. People complain that these unions waste time bashing each other. True. They do. Many say they're disabused because some union officials used that elected role to do nothing but advance their own careers and those of buddies. True. Several have. Some argue that the latest petition -- whose substance I can't write about here without breaching my employment contract -- is a "saute d'humeur", a joint expression of shared disgust. True. It is. In part. There's more to it, however, and the protest should be channelled properly and as effectively as possible. Like it or not, the elected representatives of the workforce remain that channel. Hundreds of people voted for them. So let's use them! If they disagree with each other, then bang their heads together until they see sense. I used to do that, sometimes from a minority position, and it worked. As in any huge workplace, many of the legally imposed meetings between unions and management I attended were exercises in sometimes deliberate mutual incomprehension. The minutes, available to all to peruse, include tragi-comic records of ego-stroking and bad faith nobody would believe if I were foolish enough to publish extracts as a script for a play. Yet, decent things occasionally got done. AFP, like other mass production units from Hollywood to Hanoi's armaments factories, has endured crisis after crisis. We've seen managements come ... and go. In the old days, I had names for some of the big bosses. There was an uptight, humourless "Unterseeboot Kapitän" with his almost rimless specs (I thought "Labour Camp Commandant" too harsh even for him). We had the "Fat Controller", lover of thick cigars and armagnac, witty fencing master with words -- and a man who made dangerous decisions concerning the Internet as the "second wind" of the written press when he knew almost nothing about it. Sadly, it took strikes by the journalists and other personnel to get rid of one or two of a succession of bosses and their senior officers when lots of us thought their rescue plans were our disasters. At such times, even the French unions got their act together. I was there. I'm not on active service now, but even when I agree with angry Factory hands, whatever their target might be, I'll never forget how wrongs were and are still best set right. You may object to the alleged "hotpants" I wore a couple of times in summer. You may find my sense of humour wearisome. You may accuse me of swimming against the tide. You may consider me naïf and ancient in my attitude, but I'll go on paying my union dues. I will not sign petitions. It's easy. It makes you feel better. It's cheaper than paying annual union membership fees. It's quicker than surgically inserting sense into skulls and lobbying elected delegates. And I don't believe it gets us anywhere. 9:46:25 PM  link   your views? []

vendredi 10 septembre 2004

Special relationships Never short of discoveries, friends to keep, semi-organised heaps of stuff to read and ideas to explore, I find the hard part of definitively returning to the Factory after a fragmented summer break isn't the work and the company. Both can be great fun. Will I ever happily accept the intrusion of time and schedules into my days, though? Reason says such "constraints", like work, are essential, that I'm lucky to earn a living in ways I enjoy and mustn't resent what Tony's called sworn enemies of the serious drin- thinker. I do too much thinking anyway. But ye gods, how I look forward to eventual retirement". Again, I'm fortunate: I've no excuses to get bored. This notion was brought to mind by recent words with some of the annual lot of those whose "careers" have just drawn to an end. It's evident that what a few fear is less tedium than being cut off: that I can understand. Before the iPod, vast tracts of my music collection sat there as highly recommended or promising sounds I was saving to hear and sometimes write about after my own time to quit comes. The little, white 20 GB design masterpiece changed this; every day can bring surprises, many worth writing up ... but when? I felt the same on seeing the whole of Paul Verhoeven's notorious 'Basic Instinct', rather than just catching steamy bits on telly. I loved it. Many don't, considering the tortuous plot absurd, repugnant, slick and twisted. David Perry was kinder, but still found that Verhoeven "hasn't the slightest restraint from making this film into a teenager's wet dream" (Cinema Scene). I wasn't quite such an imaginative teenager. Not that way, anyhow. Since a journalist's job includes finding an angle, the review I most enjoyed is by Ian Waldron-Mantgani, who bit the bullet -- or took an ice-pick to the heat -- in February 2003, declaring: "the sucker is almost eleven years old. Could we be ready to stop sniggering about it and admit to its status as a modern classic?" (UK Critic) It's nice when somebody says things to save you breath. Meanwhile, I find the magic musical box's hard-wrought store of sound for every occasion, place and mood proves to contain a prodigious number of love songs, many well written and often in French. Probably I'll soon blog more on this year's exploration of the voices of women round the world. Yet something lacks. Lots of fine singers express feelings on love from all angles, frequently when it's all supposed to be over; but I'm short on songs by and about people who willingly lose their hearts to a lifelong dream come true, find this conviction can't be completely shared ... and still don't want their ticker back. Given my insatiable curiosity for what people say with music, this can mean only one of two things: either virtually nobody else is quite so silly or I should maybe try to write some. What I won't write about gave me, far and away, the best hours of pure joy I've known in ages. There's no telling what'll come in the end of a stubborn bid to make a small, hopelessly spectacular contribution throughout spring and summer to the improvement of Franglo-American understanding. My tracking down of work done by one of the special women who first set me on one unexpected path has taken me well into the 13 episodes of a superb story of a time when Anglo-US relations had to grow and did. If it weren't for Susannah York's presence, I'd be unaware of 'We'll Meet Again', a 1982 British television achievement she starred in. The World War II drama about what happens when a Flying Fortress bomber group lands to disturb the peace of a Suffolk village has a few of the flaws of a series, whose episodic nature must affect plot structure. It remains a first-rate change from movies, with a real grasp of the complex relations between the arrivals new to England and mostly to warfare on one hand and on the other, the class-conscious world of wary villagers grown used to making do without bananas, ice cream, coffee and cigars. They are accustomed to the absence, if never the sudden bad news, of those they love. Initial clashes and high friction are inevitable, but what's particularly well handled by the three writers and four directors, a team headed by Tony Wharmby, is the persistence of misunderstanding and resentment alongside the slow birth of mutual respect. Only after episode four did I take a willing rather than sensible break, when the end was less of a cliff-hanger than some. The format makes for some predictability -- the way a few villagers react to the bomber group colonel's surname, Krasnowici, or how US flyer gets timid local girl with hostile father infatuated and pregnant, leaving one guess what happens next -- and very strong character development. York as village doctor Helen Dereham and Michael J. Shannon as the air base's executive officer Major Jim Kiley are superb leads, while the rest of the cast (IMDb) I've seen so far turn in performances ranging from the merely acceptable to outstanding. If it's fight-filled war film you like, 'We'll Meet Again' isn't it. Neither the budget nor the intention show us much more of the dangerous bombing runs deep into Europe than the villagers and ground crews see. Such scenes as there are integrate wartime footage into freshly shot aerial sequences, which on the whole works. I guess it's one of the reasons for the occasionally grainy texture that swiftly ceases to bother you as you're drawn into an irresistible drama. Any shortage of big surprises is no loss to a realistic, often subtle story about bridging a culture gap which is engaging and usually manages to avoid melodrama. I've stumbled on a classic well worthy of its shelf-space. For all my sometimes blogged wrath at some appalling forms the ties take today, I suppose I must admit, like any other resident of continental Europe, that there is a "special relationship" linking the United States to the Britain I left behind, whether or not we like it. I don't know what Americans make of 'We'll Meet Again'. This dramatic account of the wartime origins of that invisible bond may make me more generous about a confounded, sometimes confusing alliance. I've perhaps too long been persuaded that if the Britain I grew up in became politically good at anything, it's the art of balancing on hedged bets, to the lasting admiration and exasperation of neighbours on either side. No wonder British humour is sometimes utterly incomprehensible to anybody else. Wouldn't yours be if all you often had to sit on was a fence? 6:54:45 PM  link   your views? []

mardi 7 septembre 2004

Silly comments Looking at faces during my underground hour, I felt more charitable to the Parisian species. Smiles remained almost totally absent, but it dawned on me that yesterday's elbow-shove and "damn the rest of you" behaviour was part of the end of summer ritual. Now many are defying the sunshine by practising their January faces. It was their success in looking as careworn and miserable as they remained tanned and gaily dressed that touched me. As a species, however, Americans still confound me. A superior psychological thriller made, in 1999, as a first feature by Canadian-born director Gregory Marquette, 'Innocents' or 'Dark Summer' (IMDb), came my way. In commendable sleeve notes, Marquette acknowledges an occasional debt to Hitchcock, Kubrick, the Cohen brothers and David Lynch, but the film is very much his own, a first-rate début inspired by events in his life. His cast includes Connie Nielsen, Mia Kirshner, Anne Archer and Robert Culp. Once I partially recovered last night from the impact of the tale, with all its twists and turns -- which were still working on my mind in the morning -- I was curious to see what others made of it. That none of the American critics who slated the movie could read Marquette's notes is neither here nor there. The film should stand on its own merits. It does so in the eyes of some commentators at the IMDb, though I wouldn't go as far as somebody who thought it the best thing since 'The Silence of the Lambs'. Marquette's fatal decision, however, was to choose one of France's most gifted actors for the main role. Jean-Hugues Anglade, who has never bothered with a bad movie as far as I know, may have shared my amusement at a uproar which took the film's rating at the IMDb down from the 8/10 I'd reckon it deserves to 4.9 probably for one reason alone. A woman in Texas summed it up best: "The lead character played by this Jean Hughes Anglade was absolutely yummy -- for a French guy." Why am I suddenly glad that the couch-potato masses of Americans who came to Paris this year have returned where they belong? They may be a mildly entertaining diversion since they don't realise most people can understand what they're saying but prefer to keep that secret to themselves. Still, la rentrée does have its good points... 10:28:50 PM  link   your views? []

lundi 6 septembre 2004

'Wish you were here'? Think twice Today I killed six people in a lift, one bullet each at point-blank range. Some said it was a cold-blooded act, others thought it was my first public service of "la rentrée". Never mind why. If I have to do it again, I'll explain about the five yoghurt pots. zzz Since I honestly did avoid all news for a whole week until yesterday, I'm glad to say that now I've caught up, this is not the place to come even for "insider views" gleaned at AFP on events ranging from the sad to the horrific. If you want a brief, incisive overview of the hostage-taking in Iraq of two French journalists over this country's "headscarf ban" on Muslim girls in state schools, you'll get one from Eleanor, who occasionally works for the Factory and sometimes for NPR, where she made one of several reports on it to mark last week's first school day of la rentrée here (Real audio clip). I have Eleanor to thank for adding NPR to my shortlist of good media bookmarks. The Kid's own school year at the lycée of her choice in Versailles got off to an excellent start. That's great news, but it usually comes bitter-sweet: she'll now be seeing much less of her fine young lad and I'll not be seeing her on Saturday mornings any more. The time nears when I'll have to stop calling her the Kid. zzz You have Tony to thank for cuts I've made in Saturday's account of my summer; he's the friend who added a firm "It's a bit too long" to kind remarks about my first bid at a dialogue of the absurd. Regrettably, I can't yet afford to hire him as "official blog sub". For instance, I planned to say nothing of la rentrée, but the barbarians seem to have repossessed their city with such brutality this year that I wonder how I survived so many previous Septembers without music firmly plugged into my ears in self-defence. In the wake of a small Chinese incursion, throughout August I watched the Japanese move into Losserand Street, where the best butcher is now a sushi joint. So is the café just downstairs on the corner diagonally opposite from the one where I watched gang warfare become murder in spring (May 5 entry). There is yet more sushi a little further up the road. This is among the surprises for the returnees who have wiped politeness off the streets, pleasure off many faces and agreeable travel out of the Métro in a weekend. What's a little more alarming is that the handful of local gangsters among an immigrant north African population have already risked a direct territorial confrontation with the Chinese. Some of us witnessed the first spat in a long-doomed restaurant just opposite the Canteen a few weeks back. That place has already changed ownership half a dozen times since I've been there. Sam tells me there have been several fights since. Of course, they end with the "Arabs" (who aren't) being physically thrown out. I've already seen enough of how "Chinatown" communities in Paris are run to know that nobody mixes with them and gets away with it. As in many other towns, the police also know that such communities are "self-regulating" and usually leave well alone. I hope the north Africans will realise this before it's too late. zzz Also today, I sought out the view of a bright Russian friend on the latest tragedy in which schoolchildren became the victims (BBC) of the mess left by the disintegration of the Soviet Union. This was in the light of one theory doing the rounds that the hostage-takers could not have got into the Beslan school so heavily armed unless there was complicity as well as disarray in the security forces. He remarked -- with exaggerated dark humour, it's true -- that the Factory sometimes seems like one of the many huge French companies where lords of misrule and corrupt practices have left a legacy of their own. Yup. The humour sometimes comes the same colour as good coffee. We may conclude that la rentrée has happened. It's a normal, sunny early September day, warming to the heart. 9:49:20 PM  link   your views? []

samedi 4 septembre 2004

Private Assignment Now there's a noble woman. Unlike her less worthy comrades in Special Ops. Two high-ranking officers, Major Issue and General Confusion. As to NCOs, Corporal Punishment was nasty. I got on better with his cousin "Gee, I cracked it." Was she an NCO? She wore neither pips nor stripes, sometimes no uniform at all. The Communications Officer? They just called her 'Commie'. Of the others they said "Even mention our existence and you're dead." Jesting apart -- am I ever anything but serious, dear visitor? -- today you find me home from an unusual if banal summer mission. Not for the Factory, which isn't expecting me back until Monday. Indeed, if they knew, I'd be hung, drawn and quartered. Was I in Paris? Who's to say? Not me. No postcard stands, no modern medicine, so much desert that it was like Afghanistan used to be before the Soviets moved in. The locals were wild, proud and mostly friendly. Somebody fed the pigeons. My flowers survived, droopy after what people tell me was a bad mix of heat and cold. For a week, I've seen no news. I'm told the world's as mad and wonderful as usual. Little different from the Kabul I recall. A ragtail postman occasionally looked in what passed for a mailbox, grabbed a handful and left the rest to stew. They should have called that box Poste Restante; its contents were doubtless penned with all the variety of Auden's 'Night Mail' (Newearth), but never read. Luck chose the chancers. Back to "Mac OS X for unknowns," and (I'd hoped) to blogosphere, it was a drag to find it was debriefing time. He perched on the desktop, peaked cap discarded, too much hair for an officer, a couple of top buttons missing, a half-eaten pizza on the floor. Sunny side down. I first took the shaggy brute for an extinct techie. He stank of overflowing ashtrays, finished off my Diet Coke, and had that gaze brought on by nights of problem-solving. But there was his uniform, singling him out as one of the five percent, just another rebel hostile to the madding crowd. "Hmm," he said without preamble. "Before you're going anywhere, chum, you've got to deal with me. Where are we?" "Dunno. Some call it the shadow cave. Some the Passion Play. Others--" "Do they now? Like Jethro Tull? That's old. Remember the rabbit who lost his specs?" "Wasn't a rabbit. It was a hare. Did you take the blue pill?" "A story at any rate, old boy. Room for stories here?" "Good ones, if possible." This ... thingy of yours," he said, squishing a filthy fingernail into a wormhole in the Apple, "is in a mess. A right old mess. I'm Colonel Panic. Delighted to meet you." "Oh blast!" I said. "The pleasure's scarcely mutual. It's been so long I didn't recognise you." "Shit happens. Haven't done much maintenance of late, have we?" "How long's it going to take?" "God knows, chum. Maybe a few minutes. Maybe a few days. Depends what we find inside, doesn't it? Got any tools?" "Of course." He inspected them. "Yes, these should do the trick. Apart from that! Chuck it out. Know where it comes from?" "It's a stray. Shouldn't be there, forgot I had it." "I'll tell you what that was," he said, watching a German tourist coach splinter the remnants of the plastic case he'd thrown out of the window. "Part of the sodding Monopoly game." "Gates's game?" "The very same. Billy boy. If you'd bothered to take a decko, there was a great read in SVMMac. A chat with that other William fellow. Gibson. They still here?" "Who? The tourists? So it seems. William Gibson?" "Yes, laddie. William Gibson, literary giant, still straddling 'cyberspace'. It's in Frog, of course. He's had children. Most of 'em just don't know it. Know what he says?" "I imagine you're keen to tell me." "When he wrote wotsit--" "'Neuromancer?'" "Hole in one. That's it. Said he'd 'never have imagined the ubiquitous nature the Internet would take on'. His very words." "Nobody did." "Wrong. He also said 'Open Source is faithful to the real nature of computing. It's not a bid to monopolise everything, like Microsoft'. Classic example. Nothing new." "So what is?" "Not much. Fellow thinks the Web is as significant as the first cities. 'We have to get to new kinds of towns,' he said." "What does he use?" "Macs. Thinks highly on 'em. Doesn't think much of science fiction." "William Gibson doesn't think much of science fiction. Right." "Seriously. He thinks SF is better for 'apprehending the present' than seeing where we're going." "So do I." A second butt burned a fancy new hole into the carpet. The creep glanced down as I stamped it out. He lit another, looking back at the ceiling. "Sorry about that. Bloody fags. Messy as your Mac. Just published a brand-new book too." "Colonel--" "Brand new in Frog anyhow. 'Identification des schémas'." "What that's supposed to mean? Forget it. This is fascinating, but--" "Dunno exactly. 'Pattern Recognition,' I think. I'm told it's worth the time." "Pattern recognition? Always was. Seeing things afresh. All that shit. But Colonel, if you are one--" "Great man, Gibson." The dying cigarette found the outskirts of an ashtray. "Colonel?" He turned his squint on me. "Of course I'm a colonel. What makes you think different?" "Where do you think you're going?" "Here of course. And now. Catch the flying nanosecond, make it eternity. You know. Just like Mum. Zen's the word." "Sod this for a game of soldiers! I don't see what on earth you're driving at." "On earth? Where the bloody hell d'you think you've been this summer? That summer, as was. Or wasn't. May the good Lord send us an Indian one. That's what she always said." "Who did?" "Cat's mother. Meant what those Yanks call 'the fall'. But you know all about that, don't you, old pal?" "Look, this really is neither the place nor the time--" "Then just tell me what's the place? What's time? Tell me that." "Frankly, you're getting up my nose!" "You're making this up, aren't you?" "Me? You don't exist." "Does she exist?" "Who?" "You know perfectly well. The woman you saw yesterday." "Which one? I've been all over the shop." "Dead bloody right. All over the place so long they call you the shoplifter. Always picking up all kinds of bits and pieces, chum. Think they haven't noticed? Her of course. The head woman. What a name!" "Yes, and what a woman! What's more to the point is that she's a damned sight more to the point than you've been. Colonel. You're supposed to be helping me fix the Mac." "Like heck I am. All right, a bit. I'm really here to give them a debriefing." "Who?" "Them. The famous Five and Three-Quarters. Out there. In the real world. Five and three-quarters? More like a quarter, I'd reckon. If that..." "Shall we get on with the job?" "What job? You want this ... thingy of yours working just so you can tell them all about it?" "No way!" "Know something, chum, that was rich from you. Mighty rich. Fool! What have you done with the king?" "Which king?" "Lear." "Never touched him. Last bloke I chatted with was Icarus." "Never heard of him. Now Shakespeare, there's a succinct writer for you. A cosmos in a play, world in a paragraph kind of man. 'All the world's a stage'--" "He fell down." "Who did?" "Icarus." "Comes to us all, mate. Tumbleweed tapestry of life. Magnificent weave of the cosmic web. Matter over mind. Same thing, really, isn't it? Now do you want to tell 'em all or not?" "Tell them what, you warped asshole?" "Delirium, that's what it is. The whole bang shooting match. Eternity's Joke. The present moment? Bullshit. Never was one. Said it yourself. So you are going to tell them?" "What, the Laughing Buddha? Ha bloody ha." "No. Her. You silly wretch." "I'm no such thing." "Always were, chum." "Things change." "Do they? All looks the same to me. Same old world, same stories. Forever and ever. Amen. You telling them?" "No fucking way! Is that clear? No way. She is real, she's somewhere out there, she's ama--" "You don't want to go mistaking her for the White Goddess now, do you?" "I never did." "Liar!" "Lear. Liar. What next? I'm going to trash you. Enough's enough. People have to know when to stop. Colonel? My ass. But first tell me what was so rich?" "You don't want me to fix the Mac?" "Not any more. I can manage that on my own." "I've got right up your nose now, haven't I?" "Yes. Now you have." "Best place to be, old soldier. Always was. Sticky fingers in your skulls." "Who do you take yourself for? Samuel Beckett? Harold Pinter? William Blake? Albert Camus?" "None of 'em. I'm just your kernel, a small bit of the machinery that makes you tick. Should that happen to be the word for such an erratic clock. Half the time you're unconscious." "Life without sleep. World without mind. Amen." "That was my line, scribbler. Not yours. You're getting good at plagiarism. You'll steal all and everything--" "Everything and nothing." "There you go again... You go on pilfering, you'll wind up like them." "Like who?" "Les autres, mon cher. Mon brave! Like in the film." "The film I saw the other night? 'The Others'?" "Another perfect shot, Captain, if I may say so. Good, isn't she? Nicole Kidman. You should write it up one day." "Already been done." "That never stopped you so far. Want my advice? Stick to films, old boy. Music. Literature. Finer things of life... Scared you, did it?" "Not once I understood about the ghosts. Like you. I've got it now." "What have you got?" "The others. Those French writers, philosophical fellers. Sartre." "Sartre? Chap was a nihilist! Existentialist. Worse than Camus." "No he wasn't, not completely. Anyway, he's very dead now. And Camus did look on the bright side sometimes." "So did Brian, Life of. Jokers. Camus? 'The Outsider'? One great big identity crisis. What a whopper. Dying to see--" "That's it. Out you go. This instant!" "I can't, chum. Sorry and all that, but I can't." "Why not?" "'No man is an island.' Not one single manjack. No woman either." "You're such a shithead. I was going to steal that!" "What did I tell you? Nothing new under the sun." "Yes there is." "What might that be? Could I have a pair of hotpants too?" "I am not wearing hotpants. This is September." "A very nice one. Off to a lovely start. Give me some hotpants." "I haven't got any, but there's a spare pair of shorts in the drawer. You can take them with you. Don't bother to say goodbye." "Which drawer? There are thousands of them, millions maybe. Even billions. An infinite universe of drawers. It's an open and shut case." "The sum of --" "-- all your fears!" "Get lost. Go!" "Simply can't oblige, chum. Impossible." "If I pick you up bodily and throw--" "Bodily? Now that's another one." "Another what?" "Rich. Very rich. Stop looking like you've seen a ghost." "They don't exist." "How do you know? You have the gall to come to me looking for answers? That's pretty insolent of you, I'd say." "In the first place, I never invited you. Secondly, I never wanted answers from you. There are plenty of other people around for that, thanks. Let alone Gibson's global network." "You mean the shalady? Just for instance?" "Are you trying to tell me I'm schizophrenic?" "Sometimes, old boy, we do wonder. Don't you?" "Never for a split sec--" "Personality, chum. Want evidence? First, you think I'm a Colonel. Joke number one. And then you say I don't exist. Then you start to accuse me, of the few friends you've got, of straying from the point. That's pretty damned conclusive, isn't it? When have you done anything but stray from the point? Ever? Take one look at this blog of yours." "You're no friend of mine. Don't you dare be so presumptuous and take your sorry ass out of here." "I truly can't do that, old chap. You have just one redeeming factor. One. And I hope to God God knows it when you try to get to heaven." "There is no God." "Blasphemer." "There's no heaven either." "Maybe not. But try this one. What if, always perhaps, 'God is Love'? That's all, nothing else." "Now you're the plagiarist. Reading minds or what? Can you do time travel too? Colonel. You nicked my best line. I've been putting a shine on it for years." "Your best line? Thief! You ... you Buddhist." "That's not true." "Maybe it isn't at that, chum. You know where you should be right now?" "No. Where should I be right now?" "Locked up. Somewhere so permanent, secure and unreachable only God can find the key. Should he, she or it be so inclined." "No chance! I've been locked up half my life. Locked out, often enough. I'm not going there any more." "Want to know what your sole redeeming factor is?" "Not really." "Lear. Liar. Lair. You've swallowed the bait, you're in the lure now." "Find another word for it. Just one more." "Again, old pal, sorry and all that. I'll tell you all the same. You steal everything, the whole bang shooting match. You look everywhere, high and low. In corners. Even the drawers." "Doesn't everybody? Isn't that the name of the game? Really? And is it really stealing?" "Not when you do it right, old soul." "Oh yeah? And how, mon colonel, are you supposed to 'do it right'?" "You know." "Do I?" "Always been an open secret. No secret at all, in point of fact." "What is it then?" "You take the lot and you make it your own." "That's it? So what?" "That's all, old chap. All there is to it. Heaven, hell, places in between. Know what's so difficult?" "I can guess." "Try me." "Remembering it and knowing where to stop and where to start." "In a nutshell. Or a ker--." "Always starting over?" "'Always coming home.' Forever and ever. A--" "Fine, thanks. Now you've solved the riddle of the universe, would you be so kind as to fuck off?" "No. Anyway, you're wrong. As ever." "Why?" "Don't ask me, chum. What's the army know? Ask a nuclear physicist, ask a brain surgeon. Get your head examined. Oh, and try asking artists too." "What sort of artist?" "Any kind apart from a piss-artist." "Now you're taking the piss." "Knocked the stuffing out of you?" "No." "Good." "By the way." "Yes?" He looked startled, a shimmer in the dark when the lights went out. "You can't go." "Why not? I never said that. Packed my bag already." "You're part of me." "Oh yes? And how do you feel about it?" "Odd. All in my head?" "Not quite, old son. Out there as well." "Where?" "Now that's still for you to find out. Good luck. Adieu." "Wait." "What now?" "Is there ... a formula? A magic word?" "Of course. It's common knowledge." "You mean I'm the only one not--" "Yes, laddie." "Want to tell me what it is?" "Certainly." "Yes?" "It's my name." "So what's your name?" "Say 'please'." "Please." Say 'Ahh'." "Ahhhhh..." "Now you're talking." "What's your name ... please." "Clint Eastwood." "You're joking." "'course I am. I haven't got one." "No kidding. That was boring, wasn't it?" "Certainly was." He took the hotpants. Hesitated. "Want to know something else?" "No thank you." "Thought not. You'll never make a philosopher." 6:23:05 PM  link   your views? []