Nixta Sinks

After a brief attempt at resuming work yesterday, I went and had lunch at a fine sushi place in midtown, though I can't recall its name. I went into autopilot though (partly because I was woken at 7:20 by our Cambridge tenant to tell me that there was a problem with paying rent because Barclays thought that my sort code was a Lloyds one - what fucking retards, I'm with HSBC!) and ordered hot sake and a beer. Incidentally, the Bond film I'm watching just now, written by Roald Dahl no less, informs me hot sake should be served at 98.4 degrees Fahrenheit. However, this seems to bear out my suspicions that Bond-san's assertion cannot be universally correct.

Well, rather than heading home immediately, I felt I should sober myself up with a walk. It was only half way through the walk that I remembered that I wasn't supposed to be drinking in the first place, but it was of course too late by then. I also decided that I should make the walk productive, and to that end began at Niketown in the hunt for a pair of size 11 Harris Tweed Terminators for Dr. Rufus. One does odd things when slightly tipsy.

The walk ended up back home, but not before I had visited Nicole at her store (shameless plug coming up), Circa Now on 6th Street @ 2nd Ave for some advice on where else to look (visit her store like the rich and fabulous do and ask for a Louche bag). I knew about Alife but Nicole very usefully pointed me to Nort which seems to only stock Nikes. She also, I think, was trying to remember Supreme (which the nice chap at Niketown told me was on Broadway & 14th... points for trying though), but I didn't get to go there in the end. In future I'll do a tour of these places.

And in other news, my Green Card arrived today! About bloody time. Now I need to figure out why my immigration lawyer wanted me to call him because he "wants to give [me] something". Could it be another bill? Or is it an arrest warrant? My Green Card process deserves a whole blog of its own.

How many times can you say "I'm not touching another drink, ever again" and still get shitfaced not long after, whilst at the same time not feeling like a big fat liar? Come on, if one broke any other promise with such regularity and frequency, one's fellow humans would be disinclined to believe anything one uttered in future. But this particular lie is in a class of its own.

Now, I should stop you right there before you tell me that no-one ever takes that particular sentiment very seriously. One of the very few things I remember from the pained hours after a solid evening of prodigious liquid consumption is that I am as earnest as can be when I proclaim an immediate move to a life of teetotalitarianism. My kidneys throbbing and attempting to forever leave my sides, my liver wilting and my lower bowels threatening to twist themselves inside out render that particular utterance forceful both in volume and intention.

And so it was that Wednesday was a day of sobriety following the Soho Grand debacle and a follow-up at the Musical Box (where op top of 4 pints of Brooklyn lager and a lager top, Tao divulged with copious exemplification that it was not Irish car-thief Damien "Damo" Lumsden who invented the Chocolate Cake shot but rather his Greek self).

Partaking of abstinence on Wednesday was problem-free. It was Thursday that caused trouble when Thomas "I'm not drinking" Sherman decided we'd go and meet a couple of his witty and successful ex-colleagues at Lucy.

Zagat are less glowing than CitySearch:

Amigos declare this “upscale” Flatiron Mexican “a hit” thanks to “haute” south-of-the-border fare (overseen by Patria chef Andrew DiCataldo) and “lovely” “white”-toned digs; others say it’s “still working out kinks”, e.g. sometimes-“absent” service, but all agree that “creative” cocktails make the “sexy” front lounge “a must.”

[ Editors note: What the fuck are Zagat.com on? Are they "quoting" a "group" of "reviewers"? This "Editor" "feels that" the whole "thing" smacks of dogshit"." ]

Anyway, they've done something about the "sometimes-"absent" service". They practically yanked the salad out of our mouths, having moments before promised us that we had as much time as we liked. To be fair, I think that there were three teams of enthusiastic Mexican waiters roving about the room independently, each with a slightly skewed opinion of what "finished" meant, and so as one group politely retired to the shadows, the next came and took their place (until it came time to ask for the bill, when they appeared to take a simultaneous 40 minute siesta). The food *was* exquisite and we did manage to avoid all alcohol for the entire evening, which gave this alcoholic a great sense of (Godsters close your eyes) "proud" achievement. [ Zagat note, "proud" is quoted from Emmanuelle Arsan's The Further Experiences of Emmanuelle, Harper Collins, 1976 ]

I learnt that:

WAFI makes for an excellent alias to assign a specific moron ("What A Fucking Idiot").

"No buddy likes layoffs"

Americans really do think they can make a difference in elections by telling other people what to think... I mean "canvassing". And good for them. But it's just not cricket.

One can have a splendid time sober

Tuesday night we caught up with Ms. Lindsay Campbell, of MGD fame (QuickTime required) at the Soho Grand: a pompous, disappointing venue not in the East Village.

That's not fair: it seemed like a nice enough hotel, and I was glad that the toilets at the bar were not manned by some unfortunate destitute because I resent paying someone $1 or $2 for doing something which I myself am not only perfectly capable of, but also well versed in, i.e. applying soap and water to my hands followed by a drying manoeuvre involving a towel (paper or cotton will do). Honestly folks, I kid you not, it's something I've been doing since I could reach the bloody sink (and I was taller than most children my age).

So what did I find so disappointing? The service was thoughtful and unobtrusive (unlike here - more tomorrow), the music (provided by a friend of Lindsay's) ideal for the comfortable bohemian setting, and the nibbles tasty... You should be able to guess by now that it was the life-size Doberman statues. And the drinks menu.

The sham of a specialty cocktail list was only outdulled by the quality of the drinks. It *is* true they were strong and didn't taste like it (goooood), but that's because they tasted like boiled sweets (baaaaad). It's just terrible. No more than 3 ingredients combined and then so awfully that one was reduced to drinking the blasted concoction merely to feel that the expenditure was in some way justified. The only possible exception was the Stoli Vanilla based Perfect 10, but even that was merely acceptable.

Fancy hotel my arse.

Regardless, it was splendid to see Lindsay again, meet her chums and (much to her unnecessary trepidation) her new man (oooOOOoooooooh). Much more than just a nice lad, but his name, as do so many, eludes me now.

The other point worthy of note (well, it struck me as odd, but perhaps hotels like this hire such staff) was the lone paparazzo lurking outside the front doors. He looked cold and miserable holding his camera at the ready for hours on end. His mission was apparently to snap one guest in particular (whose name, again, is evading my attempts to grasp it). The only reason I didn't walk away considering him a princess-chasing tit-snapping scrotum was that many of the guests seemed to be on familiar terms with him and the interaction was more appropriate for chummy doorman than irritating interferer. I still doubt he was staff, but I hope he got his picture.

Not too much to say, but is this not of some concern? I suppose no other planes have fallen out of the sky because of it, but how can a fly-by-wire aircraft with such supposed advances as the Airbus had when they first crashed (RealMedia)... I mean flew... allow its pilot to tear off its own rudder? That doesn't seem very clever now, does it? And press reports smack of Airbus not disclosing this information until forced to, you naughty corporate empire you.
[It's struck me that that article is in the Seattle Times, home of Airbus' competitor Boeing, so here's one from New York, where the thing happened (while I was on a train to work, I should add, prompting rumours of the city being closed off and trains being suspended which, thankfully, was not the case when I took the train back home that evening)]

By the way, don't pay any attention to the apocalyptic hollywood voice-over on the above video because we know that the pilots disengaged the automatic flight controls and generally fucked up in that semi-flight.

Thomas felt (or fell) ill and didn't do Saturday's Resumes/Creative night. And after I'd declared it on the internet! I hope he wasn't just feeling cranky on account of his Tuna & Broccoli diet. My guess is he wanted some kwality time with his missus.

Rufus is absent on some mystery jaunt for the weekend (and Robert hasn't updated Amoral.org for aeons) so there's nothing new for me to read on the innernet.

I failed to get a modem set up over the phone. How pathetic, and how dispiriting.

DJ Waxy Fresh created a new mix and fed me pasta while I engaged his future brother-in-law in computer (or console, as I was corrected) games, and yes, he did the mix and fed us while we played. I then sliced into his HTML page and beat it into shape (but let's not forget that it was I that gave him the shoddy Word-generated HTML in the first place - shame on me).

And I got back in touch with New York's DJ Stanlee, albeit in a phone-tag way.

Was that a productive day, or was I a slack-jawed pisshead? I feel like the latter (no offense intended to the individuals involved), but it reads a bit like the former.

So I didn't want to write anything about the election, OK? I mean, I can't even vote (not merely because I'm too incompetent to handle the ballot sheets and whatnot, but because I'm one of them Aliens with my very own Alien number). And so I decide that I shall partake of the excitement from a safe distance, and watch from the wings, as it were (or those very last seats near the back - hell, perhaps I'll just sit quietly in the aisle).

Seems fair.

Well now, I just got a telephone call which I answered rapidly, listened to in disbelief, and then foolishly hung up on. But before I hung up I noticed a few things:

1) It was an unsolicited call.
1a) I am on the national do not call register, which imposes big fines on unsolicited calls (and works a treat, I have to say).
2) It was a comedy American bozo-announcer voice introducing himself and telling me he's President and CEO of such-and-such a company (at this point I was fuming because of 1a, yet simultaneously soiling myself on account of the made-up voice).
3) He was calling to tell me about Celsius 911, the "new blockbuster movie" which exposes all the fabrications and lies of Michael Moore's outrageous Fahrenheit 911.
4) IT WAS RECORDED! Just send me a fucking e-mail. Perhaps the old voters really are so lonely that they need a recording to listen to - I hope I don't grow old.

Well, this seems like a cheap attempt to circumvent the exception to the Do Not Call register for political organizations and charities. I hung up then regretted it because now I want to know what this is all about. Is this some attempt by the Republicans to turn my opinion to exactly what it was beforehand on the execrable Mickey Moore and his even more revolting output, or is it an attempt to market a genuine blockbuster movie and get around having to pay the Do Not Call people some fines? Er.. Must be the former since this ain't no blockbuster, mammy (complete with excellent quotes: "They should set Moore on fire and feed him to the animals". Not even if they meant this instead.

Tomrrow I'm meeting up with the ridiculously tanented Sherman Foundation for an evening of fun and frivolity while I have the advantage of an evening to myself. Number one priority? Get my Resumé (or Curriculum Vitae, for you POMs) sorted out so that when my individual flights of fancy fail, I can present myself (efficient|effective)ly to prospective employers without too much headache.

Who better to refine my pamphlet than the illustrious (or perhaps illustrateous)Thomas Sherman? No, he's not related to the tank, although his grandfather, Henry "Ford/Detroit" Sherman invented the motorway, and was headhunted by the Nazis in the mid-thirties for his great idea (along which many German propaganda films took a proper gander at hurtling tanks in transit for promotional material in that tertiary Reich). Rather, Thomas is related to design. And as such I hope that he will help me crack that IT conundrum: How to get your resumé/CV noticed amongst the 11,243 other resumés posted by people who should by rights still be picking poppies in the fields of the Ardennes. What? I'm sure it'll all be clear as muck once Thomas has manipulated things.

Why did I mention this? No better reason than I am thoroughly looking forward to the side-show of creating in earnest the Mr. Shit-For-Brains, Cast'n'Blast, BunnyBoiler Kit, and "Catpain America Veterinary Suite" products.

God bless you one and all.

Today I spoke to perhaps the toughest acquaintance of mine to contact, Ms. Lindsay C (star of Broadway, and Busweiser commercials). Even her brother, happily in London now with his delightful Kylie-lookalike better half, complains (with complete resignation, I should add, through years of experience no doubt) that she is impossible to get hold of.

Amusingly enough she is on a "liver cleansing", whatever the hell that is. It's amusing, bordering on irony, because _I_ apparently recommended it to her the last time I was out here, and yet have no recollection of the fact.

Often, my life pieces itself together after the fact in this way, and occasionally I wonder if I should worry about that. Probably not; I'd only forget if I did.

People (let's not get carried away here, it's not in absolute terms a large number of them) keep asking me to comment on the election fiasco gameshow in this country here, so here it goes:

I've fuck all to say. Other people have said it all much better than I have already. You need look no further than The Daily Show (and if you don't have Comedy Central on tap because you're in the UK or some such bobbins, buy this book). And lets not forget to remember the broader issues here that will affect the everyday voter (in those places where their vote matters, which is hardly anywhere that matters).

We all know that with CNN, MSNBC, Fox News and other such crap, there's only one news program that counts. Enough about that now before talking about TDS becomes the new black (if it hasn't already).

I thank you.

P.S. I've just got around to watching this (via the very talented), also available for download, and felt I had to add it. Quite something. Perhaps the best thing I've seen in a while. Jon Stewart: You go, girl!

I've never really considered the option of not working as an option before. That is to say, if one were to propose to me that I took 4 weeks off from earning money and just sat around the apartment, occasionally tidying, and sometimes leaving for a walk around New York, I would have said something along the lines of "What the fuck are you smoking?".

Yet, when I consider this reaction, it's as far from my idealistic reverie as I could imagine. I should imagine furthermore that most people aspire to such a thing. If I were to list my primary aim in life, it would no doubt be to have all the free time (and money, of course, because I don't want to do this in a small stone shack in rural France) that I wanted to do merely those things that struck me as interesting at the time. When I was a small child (as opposed to the larger and more petulant one I have become) my ideal job was nothing more than "Millionaire", so at least in one thing in life (my unerring lackadaisical leaning) I have been consistent.

And so it is that unemployment has tiptoed upon me and wrapped its fingers over my eyes with a grunt of "guess who" for accompaniment. I have not worked now since September 10th, and I'm sure that I should find something to do, but I can't be arsed for some reason. True, I spent 3 weeks in Slovenia visiting my mother, and have only really spent one week here "readjusting" (a term of which my wife has had quite enough already) with no real end in sight before the takeover of my erstwhile employers is finalized. I did update my resume today, but I didn't send it to anyone.

Truth is, I find myself in something of a mid-life crisis. The very thing that I ridiculed Phil for a few years ago (both to his face and behind his back, a turn of phrase which he incidentally finds impossible to unravel, behind his back being in front of him as far as he can see). My career is dull as ditch water. GIS work is enough to crush the soul of the most enthusiastic lobotomee around. But I'm not much good at anything else. Should I get a motorcycle to reintroduce some energy (or at least colour) to my loins? Perhaps I should bleach my hair blonde? How about an earring? In the meantime I have taken up mild smoking again. I know! I'll join an acting troup. But this couch seems quite comfortable, and doesn't demand any particular method from me...

Honestly, I feel that I should take a month off to cut down trees, or club seals, or perhaps fish the North Atlantic. Perhaps I could deliver crates of Coors Piss Lite to dumb bastards across the North East of America. To be honest, all I really want to do is sell Cockerchiefs, Cast'n'blasts and Mr. Shit-For-Brains through www.youfuckingcunt.com, but even such minor effort for such great reward seems like a rather poor return.

I know! I'll have another drink and pass out. It's been a whole day after all.

I'm surely not *so* technically savvy that I've lost touch with the ordinary people of the world on technical subjects, am I? Actually, I quite pride myself on being able to explain technical things to morons in layman's terms. Sometimes, it's the only way I can explain things. But this? This is just too much.

I made it 3 paragraphs through the article when alarm bells began to clang every so lightly:

Intel's shift reflects a change for the chip industry, which is moving away from boosts in megahertz and gigahertz.

Gigahertz AND megahertz. I've never thought of using both! Genius!

But at the next paragraph I concluded my reading, reverting to google-eyedness and uncontrolled silent flapping of the lower jaw:

Instead it is looking to boost chip performance in ways other than simply increasing computational brainpower, also known as clock speed.

Now I never knew that "clock speed", when talking about processors, was just another way of saying "Computational Brainpower". Well well well. No wonder everyone's been looking at me cock-eyed for the past 15 years.

So, now I'm back and can dedicate myself to things that were left undedicated to beforehand, such as getting back to making updates to Nixta.com, setting up a new computer, and of course mawwiage.

No sooner do I arrive than I am depressed by the decreptitude of this place. Admittedly, I have been spoilt in the past 7 months (thank you, Messrs R. & R.) by living in Marylebone, but really! Tidy yourselves up, you shabby motherfuckers. Everywhere I look it's 99c stores, falling down awnings, rusty shop-fronts, dirt-covered doorways. I have to admit though that this site has a slightly more generous take on things, and good for you too, but I'm not falling for it.

It may be that a simple repaving of the sidewalks would add a certain charm to the place. Paving slabs would be nice. Instead, one suffers mile after mile of poured concrete sections bearing the scars of drunken or mentally challenged locals attempting forever to make their mark on their own walk of fame [You'll note the judicious use of double-quotes there to distinguish sidewalk "stars" from real stars such as Kevin Costner or one of those twinkling things in the sky (named after the real stars, I'm sure)].

Still, I'm glad to know that Luis loves Mariah, though for all I know they were probably the fuckers who left the used tampon in my stairwell (and yes, it does look like a drowned rust-coloured mouse from any proximity to the dratted thing I was willing to consider acceptable). I'll set my bloody squirrels on them if I find them.

Number of times I have been offered Coke or Smoke within 2 blocks of my house since returning: 4. Number of times offered sex: 0. London's figures over the past 8 months: 0 & 2 respectively. But I did live perilously close to Old Compton Street.

You total turd-burgling bastards, Blogger, though I must eventually love you dearly. It's true that you might provide some sort of minor reprieve while I upgrade (replace) my computer and (re)write Nixta.com, but really! Why do I have to open port 20 to allow your shoddy shithole bastard bollocksorama service to post to my nice and simple Microsoft IIS 5.0 FTP server (to which even Phil Penn is able to post, and he can't even use an iPod)? Why!? I suppose I shall have to post something about my discovery to the forums...

My dear readership must excuse the fact that this new Blog looks exactly like Dr. Rufus', but the truth is that it's just another step in the usurping him masterplan. Hell, even his GF lives by the mantra of "What Would Rufus Do", which reminds me - I need to get some hippie hemp bracelets made up.

And maybe while I'm at it I'll get one done that says "Blogger still can't spell-check itself". What a country!