The moving finger rants

It is now possible to have a mocap system that links directly (and accurately!), in realtime, to a fully realized 3D set. Both the motion-capture system and the set in which it is to be rendered are simultaneously available to a sufficiently skilled technician, who can manipulate elements of same as required while the motion-capture is still continuing, from a single laptop. This might not excite you in the way I've just described it, but what you must consider is the fact that we have these tools available. This in itself has potentially broad-reaching effects about the nature of storytelling in the 21st century. And, which is much more important, as a direct result, tonight was possibly the first time ever that the following phrase has been uttered, honestly and without irony, to an actor:

Don't worry. Stand still and I'll rotate the world around you.

Oh yeah baby. If there were ever a reason why I got myself into acting, it's this.

~

The Muppets do Bohemian Rhapsody. Presented without any further comment. I'm going to have terrible mosh neck when I wake up tomorrow, and it's entirely the fault of Dr Teeth and his Electric Mayhem. Okay, partially their fault and partially the fault of Penelope Spheeris.

(You should follow that last link; I'm giving you a no-honk guarantee.)

~

It transpires that I gots a smartphone app. Some of you should remember the pajh-inna-box of old. Now it has an app. This would be unsurprising in itself were it not for the fact that Googol Play allows user feedback comments, most of which are about how awesome I sound. There's one there from user Jessica Rabbit thus:

I own many, many tts voices but this is the best, yet! [...] this male, u.k. voice is the most natural sounding and also elegant & sophisticated! [...] I can listen to this imaginary Englishman throughout my day helping me with my appointments and such!

I suspect the real Jessica Rabbit would say LOL somewhat less, being a lady who knows what elegant and sophisticated actually means. If this were the real Jessica Rabbit commenting, none of you would see me for dust.

I'm not bad. I just sound that way.

I spent two hours today scouring the town for sambal oelek. It doesn't help that I've only ever seen the word written down and I have no idea how to pronounce sambal oelek^[0]. Jordan Valley: nothing. Kamco: rien. All the little Asian shops: devoid. So, as I'd expected, I ended up hiking across the Meadows to the fabulous Lupe Pintos again, muttering to myself about how I should have just gone directly there in the first place.

Lupe Pintos not only had sambal oelek but also two other types of sambal I'd never even heard of before. Lupe Pintos also has a ten-quid minimum card purchase, so having swiped the necessary jar of unpronounceable goodness it's time to help myself from the wall-sized range of chilli sauces. I'm running low on some of the basic staples and, besides, one can never have too many chilli sauces.

Once I was done in Lupe Pintos I popped across the road to the Co-op for garlic, and while there I beheld this:

Goddammit.

A post about the new Doctor Who is coming, I promise. In the meantime I'd like to talk about some old Doctor Who. And the Beach Boys. And the Archbishop of Canterbury. But mostly I'll be focusing on Doctor Who. All will become clear. I hope.

Some time ago a good friend left me a copy of some music by a band known as The Pixies, a Boston-based alt-rock ensemble, to which I've only just now got around to listening. They sound like this. They produced this in the distant past year 1990:

Listen ye and be amazed. (It's quite good.) Specif, listen and note ye how similar it is to this, of which it is a direct cover version:
( In which there are further embedded media )

Bear with me and try, if you can, to ignore the brass line from All the Strange, Strange Creatures. The bassline is identical. I only noticed when Murray provided a version without the brass line in it during the first episode of Season 5. It's right after Eleven tells Patrick Moore to pay attention, when Rory and Amy are driving the Mini to the Hospital (00:40:15). I once wrote fanmail to Murray Gold and asked him if this was an unconscious ripoff or a deliberate homage. I'm beginning to realise why he never replied.

I understand that there are eight notes and that, as a result, there are a finite number of permutations to which one can subject those eight notes. But I must be forgiven if I am occasionally suspicious.

While we're on the subject of cultural homages—because I'm sure that's what these are—let's just observe that Paradise Towers was a total ripoff of J. G. Ballard's High-Rise. I'm not judging. I'm just saying.

Apparently this weekend was the anniversary of some fictional (and highly unlikely) thing that didn't happen to a bloke who probably never existed, involving a story during which he was crucified and then entombed in a chocolate egg from which he escaped on the third day, or something. Apparently on these occasions the Archbishop of Canterbury is obliged to give a speech of some kind. Apparently, according to what I can tell from BBC news (about 01:07 in), the Archbish makes reference to popular culture.

It's probably unseemly to involuntarily shout woo! from the congregation while the Archbish is giving his address. So it's probably a good thing that I was only watching the BBC stream. Nonetheless it's good to know that the cultural information flow goes both ways.

Frankly, we've always known that Rowan Williams was a leftie Who-fancying nerd. His problem is that, as chief spokesperson for a monolithic, regressive, medieval, omnipervasive, misogynistic, homophobic, repressive, anachronistic, capricious, conservative, disingenuous, perfidious organization, he's never been allowed to say so.

Since at least the 1970s, the Doctor has been swanning out of police boxen and teaching people that they were actually lefties all along. It's good to know that he's managed it with the Archbish. of Cantab. as well. As always: the Doctor shows the way.

I wanted to drink something specific this evening. So I tinkered around, added this and that, finally got it perfect, and only then realised that I'd just invented the daiquiri. I'm not quite sure if this makes me a genius comparable to Constantino Ribalaigua, or whether I'm just a hundred and fifty years too late.

Part of the problem was that, after a double bacon cheeseburger, cajun fries, and short-stack maple pancakes I was extremely thirsty but very, very full. Basically I wanted a long cold lemonade, but short. So I set about inventing the concentrated essence of lemonade.

The concentrated essence of lemonade

• Juice of one large lemon and one lime.
• Two shots sugar syrup.
• Dash Angostura bitters.
• It wasn't working at all until I added half a shot of tequila.

Shake very well over ice and strain into a chilled Nutella glass.

Perfect.

My shot measures are Imperial, so each shot here is one and a half ounces. They were a christening present from my godfather (who displayed remarkable prescience in determining, when I was three months old, exactly what present I'd value most when I turned out the way I did). They come from a silversmiths in York that has a five-digit phone number on the box, which tells you how old I am.

And now I am no longer thirsty. Job done.

Although now I'm considering combining the drink with a layer of pineapple-coconut hydrocolloid foam... it may be that my problems are deeper than those of mere hydration.

Yesterday, stormsearch and I went to Homebase and bought screws, rawlplugs, Polyfilla™ and an electric drill. Holy hell, I think we're adults. When did that happen?

This weekend, we fix ALL the windows.

Last night a well-known Edinburgh bistro reopened as a tapas-style Scottish restaurant. I was invited along for free food and booze.

Tapas has become a big thing lately. Spanish restaurants started it, then the Indian places and, later, the Chinese places started moving in. I think the business case is that you can serve tiny portions for almost the same price as a regular main course, and get everybody to order six of them. So in this case they're doing a Scottish menu, local ingredients, all done as small portions for sharing.

For the Grand Reopeningapalooza, all the portion sizes were reduced further to canapé-scale, usually served on spoons, as a sort of tasting menu. You got one mouthful, went oh or eh or occasionally even bleh but more usually oh or even ooh!, and then waited twenty minutes for the next mouthful to come round. In the meantime, the drinks were flowing. They had a good selection of Scottish ales and ciders—none of which I bothered trying since I already know them all very well—and a very competent bartender selling local-ingredient cocktails. Example: there was a Tom Collins on the menu made with Scottish (Hendrick's) gin. They call it a Tam Collins.

On booze and bragging rights

The special cocktails of the day were a local daiquiri and some kind of rhubarb martini. Both looked fascinathing, but I pride myself on my daiquiris, so out of professional interest I'm going for one of those first.

Waitress: It's made with apple juice from the local farm.
Yr. corresp.: Which local farm? Belhaven, Laprig...?
Waitress: ...um. It's a nice man called Peter.
Yr. corresp.: Oh, that's Belhaven Fruit Farm.

Turns out actually it's Thistly Cross, which is associated with Belhaven Fruit Farm but not actually the same thing, but I knew what I meant. I was at least correct enough to impress the shit out of the waitress, which is what counts.

On shellfish and squeamishness

The first course came round on individual spoons, and the waitstaff were very careful to ask do you eat black pudding? Of course I eat black pudding. Black pudding is delicious. The second course was oysters. Nobody asked if I eat ciliated bivalves. Jehane demurred, but I subscribe to the except-sodomy-and-Morris-Dancing principle of trying things once.

Based on extensive research, then, this is what oysters are like.

You're presented with a grey, fleshy, mucosal mass wallowing in a pearlescent shell. Drizzle over it the red wine and onion sauce and squeeze over it the wedge of lemon. The lemon juice will squirt skywards first, making a desperate bid for your eye: this is a natural law, like gravity but in reverse. Turn the lemon around and try again.

Raise the shell to your mouth and try not to think too hard about what you're doing. Down the hatch.

The oyster will remain stubbornly in the shell and you'll get a mouthful of red wine (which I can't drink), onion (which I loathe), and lemon juice (which nobody drinks). Quickly, now—because every moment gives you more time to think twice about what you're going to put in your mouth—poke the mollusc a bit until it comes free. Swig. Oh, God, it's huge and you have to chew! It's got the consistency of chunky snot and it tastes of onion and the fishy smell you get at the end of a dilapidated pier. Swallow as soon as possible. Resolve never to do that again.

Spend the next 24 hours with a debilitating migraine. Once you've regained the power of sight, spend another hour reading up on Paralytic Shellfish Poisoning.

Oysters, it would appear, aren't really my thing. Fortunately there was a fantastic rhubarb-and-ginger martini on hand to take the taste away and to take my mind off it.

(Apparently drinking vodka with oysters isn't a good idea, even if it is Blackwoods (Scottish!), but it was an emergency.)

On selective hearing and second helpings

I wave the waiter away when he comes round with a tray of something we've had before: a breadcrumbed bauble nestled on a bed of tomatoey stuff, which I remember being delicious. Alas, we're tasting canapés, not pigging out at the restaurant's expense. Nonetheless, a mouthful every ten minutes isn't exactly providing me with adequate sustenance—especially not with all these cocktails.

J stops the waiter and asks what it is, then takes two.

J: We haven't had the lemon sole yet.
I: He said lamb rissole.

Oh well. Bonus food!

Afterwards, we went out for quesadillas, because we were still hungry. All in all, a fantastic evening, modulo the minor shellfish poisoning. I'm told it's only rarely fatal.

This time, they're on our side. There's a noisy bastard across the street. The music is coming out of his flat, reflecting off the shiny new building across the road, and spraying all over the area. I wouldn't mind so much if he didn't have such terrible taste in music. (Eighties, and not a power ballad in sight, just the shitty stuff.)

We called the Council's Noise Team. After three phone calls they passed it on to the Police. The Police passed it back to the Noise Team. The Noise Team said they were sending somebody out. When somebody turned up, it turned out to be the Police. I wish they'd make up their minds.

In the meantime I'd wandered down to the street to work out which flat the noise was coming from. A nice gentleman from the club next door let us in to the stairwell. (Do you want in? *mighty kick* There.) No answer at the flat door. And I'd had a chat with the chap from the flat below mine, who'd also come out to find out what was going on, and then we saw the Police turn up and go inside. (*mighty kick*.) Ten minutes later, one of the rozzers comes back out and stands on the street outside. The music is still going on.

I pop down to chat to him. Apparently they're waiting for the joiner. If there was a fracas or somebody was actually in danger, they'd just kick the door down, he tells me, but since there isn't and nobody is, they can't. A long time later, a joiner's van pulls up. Somewhere along the way another police car has turned up too. The joiner's van has more flashy lights than the coppers do.

Throughout all of this, J's phone is ringing every five minutes with an update from either the Noise Team, the Police, or other random organizations that may or may not be remotely involved. (Bring bring. Hello, this is the Noise Team. We've passed your complaint on to the Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band. Really? I'm no longer surprised. Bring bring. Hello, this is Vivian Stanshall. We've passed your complaint onto some bloke we met in a pub. I don't know if he's any use, but he might be able to pass your complaint on to Sting, who is at least the singer for the Police. By now, in case you couldn't tell, the incessant Eighties music has started to infect my brain, Cypress Hill's going insane, got no brain, crazy insane.) The general upshot of all of this is that, even if the music wasn't keeping us awake, the interminable phone calls are.

There's a satisfying sound of sawing and hammering from the flat across the road and then, by virtue of another phone call, J learns that the policeman wants to come and take a statement. At this point, dear reader, I should observe that aside from musical shenanigans, I've had a bloody awful day at work and I have since come home and had a couple of drinks.

Specifically—and who knows, this might be relevant—I've been drinking Moscow Mules. Cocktail apparati and discarded ingredients are in evidence in the kitchen.

J: Throw away the limes.
I: What?
J: Hide the limes!
I: There are only two limes!
J: Yes, but it looks like there are a lot more limes!
I: That's because you cut them into pieces.... look, do you think this is police procedure, that it's in the handbook? Keep an eye out for discarded limes? Your honour, I could tell straight away that he was one of those lime-users?
J: You have to blog that.

Bloody good job I wasn't making daiquiris, I suppose.

Fortunately, the policeman doesn't even bother to look in the kitchen. While taking statements, he explains that, since the gentleman across the road hasn't let them in, he hasn't actually refused to turn the music down, so there's not much they can do except give him a warning. If it happens again, though, he's on record, so then they can seize his stereo and stuff. For now, all they can do is put the frighteners on him.

Two minutes later, when he gets done with my statement, there's a sudden cessation of noise from the street, and the policeman's colleague lets himself in. They've seized his stereo and stuff, and while they're at it, they've arrested him for good measure. Apparently, he believed he was under threat from persons unknown, and was compelled to defend himself by means of the broadcast of shitty Eighties tunes. He was unwilling to refrain when asked politely to do so by two carloads of baton-wielding rozzers, so a £300 Samsung amplifier is now in a locker somewhere marked as Exhibit A, and the owner of such is currently learning to sleep on a bench in a cell. Despite all of this, the bobby describes the guy to us as he appeared sane.

(Apparently they get the joiner to fix the door again after they've finished. That's nice.)

It's nice when the boys in blue are on my side for once, but it's still going to take me another hour before I can get to bed. I hate talking to policemen.

And I have another unused lime left.

Stripsearched outside the Scotmid! Oh, the ignominy In Nomine.

There are a metric shitload of yellow-jacketed rozzers lining the route. I was happy to perform my civic duty and help prevent three of them (three of them!) from being bored for five minutes. Since I had to chat to them anyway while they were asking me what these things in my wallet were (business cards, what do they look like?), I found out that they were from out of town—which explains why there's nary a one to be seen on a Saturday night, when we actually need them.

It also explains why they were actually polite and friendly while infringing upon my rights to freedom of movement. Local coppers don't bother with that bit.

It fails to explain why, if this guy really is God's BFF, he needs all of these policemen and railings to protect him. Or why he apparently needs protecting from people who wear cloaks.

Farther up the street, I'd passed a barbers who'd decided to treat the crowd as an opportunity:

Yes, dear reader, I had to go into the shop and ask what a sea parting was. Then I had to have the joke explained to me. Then I had to hide my face and slink away in shame. It's not that hard, if I'd thought about it.

Modulo a minor interruption from Lothian and Borders' Finest on the way, I got the shopping home before it defrosted, and then headed out to work bright and early to avoid the crowds. Bad move. I got to the top of the road just as the Popemobile rumbled past. I have never, in my life, had such a strong urge to flick the Vs at a passing car. The pavement was packed solid with people who might have thought badly of me, so I held it in.

Five seconds later, a man with his arm in a sling walked past me. Then an old man with crutches. It was too much. What, you mean you've not been healed? Then I legged it.

And then I got into work an hour early, so instead of doing work, you get a blog post.

(Note to new-ish readers: I'm antireligious and antitheist. I'm picking on the Pope this week because of sheer proximity. Next week it'll be someone else's turn.)

This is the view from the Library at work:

The wind was heading straight towards me from the Castle and I could hear the music and smell the gunpowder. There was about a one-and-a-half second delay between the son and the lumière. Didn't get much work done for the last hour.

This is the view on my way home:

I love this city.

Also! Now I've worked out how to get photos off this dog-awful phone camera^[0] (I've only had it since 2008), a selection of other daguerrotypes are presented for your edification below the cut. Most of these were sent as text messages at some point.

( Herewith, the cut )

Hungry now.

( Context is unnecessary )

(00:09:26) Scott Macdonald: Your rather astute skills in logic and reason fall apart when dealing with matters of redheads.

I want that on my tombstone.

...Assuming, of course, that I'm not allowed to have Here lies pajh, surrounded by his victims, or Here lies pajh \ He was Great \ Actually hold on a second \ He's still alive.