TrippingOwl's Used Soul Emporium

I was at my dad's flat last night, taking the tiny, cramped lift up to the third floor.

Dad: There have been a number of break-ins in our building... hence the gate they've installed. You must've seen it.
Me: Sure... But I'm sure they haven't broken into your place. It's a fortress.
Dad: Yes.
Me: Is the other flat as secure?
Dad: Maybe. I don't know.
(later, looking at locks at my place.)
Me: That's not a fortress.
Dad: Oh, it's fine. This one doesn't work (pointing at heavy bolt) but it's fine.
Me: I like the bolt, though.
Dad: Mmm... Well.
Me: Would you find it acceptable for your place?
Dad: Yes...
Me: Are you lying?
Dad: Yes.

(It's pretty safe in my area.)

Professor Nutt, former head of the Advisory Council on the Misuse of Drugs, was sacked last month for highlighting the wrongheadedness of the government's approach to drugs - in its distribution of information and in its legislation. He suggested that erring on the side of caution (as with the reversal of the cannabis reclassification) can confuse the situation. He said: "I think the precautionary principle misleads. It starts to distort the value of evidence and therefore I think it could, and probably does, devalue evidence.” Alan Johnson said that by lobbying for a change in government policy, he had undermined the government's attempts to provide clear messages on drugs.

Several things.

First of all, the idea that the government provides clear messages on drugs is laughable. It is as clear as a nice G&T that many class A drugs are not nearly as detrimental to the health as tobacco and alcohol, yet they are outlawed while booze and fags are still available on every corner. That, to me, is sort of the opposite of a clear message, really.

Total hypocrisy. It is just that it is practical to ban mushrooms but not to do so with alcohol and tobacco, simply because to ban the latter two would criminalise too large a group of people. And - a point which the government wouldn’t necessarily shout too loudly - alcohol and tobacco are nicely taxed and bring in a tidy little packet every year. (I mean, the money for luxury duck houses has to come from somewhere...)

I wonder what would happen if someone had a quiet word about the fiscal benefits of taxing ecstasy?

I loathe hypocrisy, but I loathe it even more when it has direct negative consequences on the general public. The government claims to make the country a better place for having drug control laws. I contest this - strongly. There is no evidence that making drugs illegal has any effect on their availability. The black market is incredibly large; anyone could go out and buy anything, with a bit of research. If certain drugs were decriminalised, there would be safety controls on the contents of ecstasy pills, reducing the likelihood of adverse effects from whatever crap they happen to be cut with. Information on the effects and dangers of chemicals would be more widespread - instead of the “abstinence only” approach (which we laugh at when it comes to sex ed), and the taxes on these chemicals could fund a health plan to deal with drug dependence, addiction, drug-related health concerns, and studies to discover the exact short- and long-term effects of drugs on the human mind and body. I have in the past vacillated over whether or not to include seriously addictive drugs in my general policy on these matters. I conclude that yes; everyone knows it is extremely addictive. The state does not have the right to tell us what we can do with our own bodies. Everyone knows it’s an incredibly stupid thing to do; it is their choice. (Practically speaking, possibly the best thing to do would be to legalise to minimise the social harm (crime), but strictly control availability to avoid messes like child-addicts.)

Back to the original topic. I’m not entirely sure what my view is on whether or not Professor Nutt should have been sacked. It is arguable as to whether his comments can be interpreted as lobbying, or were comments that were relevant to his duty in a larger body of information. Let us assume that the former is the case for a moment. On the one hand, I disagree on pretty much every level with the current policy on drugs. It bears next to no relation at all to the actual health risks and social dangers of drugs. The government might be trying to provide clear messages on drugs, but those messages are just plain wrong. Alcohol kills thousands of people per year, while studies show that ecstasy kills less than 30. And I laud anyone who has the guts to stand up for the vastly unpopular truth and present it on a plate. On the other hand, however, it wasn’t Professor Nutt’s job to comment on or influence government policy. His job was to provide data so that the people in power had the right information with which to make policy decisions. The logical bit of my bwain says it’s not his job. The bit that agrees with Professor Nutt’s views vociferously demands that he not only lobby, but make drug policy decisions. Alas, this is not to be.

It is clear, however, that policy decisions are not based on the advisory data at all. The whole business is mystifying. The impact on society of, say, the recently-banned mushrooms was so small, yet some people went out of their way to criminalise a whole bunch of people unnecessarily. So, why do they do it? Policy may be totally political, because in so many other ways it makes no sense at all.

What I find interesting is that They (suitably paranoid indeterminate pronoun) think that this is what everyone wants. Certainly in America, being vocally on the “right” side of the drug war is a vote-winner. It may even be that in the UK (in circles in which I thankfully don’t move), strong anti-drugs policy is also a vote-winner.
Are they battering at the door of an empty house? Evangelising at a deserted Speaker’s Corner? Or does the vast majority of people really want all drugs except alcohol and nicotine to be banned?

Another, arguably even more depressing possibility is that the nanny state has rammed the idea that drugs are bad so firmly into its head that there is no room for other possibilities, not even when the truth about relative risk is so blindingly obvious. It may simply be that “drugs are bad” is part of the hardwiring of too many people in power.

I don't think it's too paranoid to say that it seems likely that Alan Johnson and compatriots must have been waiting for Professor Nutt to step out of line, ever since his news article and paper illustrating the absurdity of our attitude towards drugs. (It is titled Equasy, and draws a parallel between ecstasy addiction and addiction to horse-riding - a condition he names equasy -
which cause roughly the same level of harm - physical and social. His point is that we don't try to outlaw horse-riding.) He is exactly the right kind of liberal straight-thinker that the government would rather be on the other side of the planet.

Which brings me to a fun, stray thought. I've always thought of the States as being the more active of our two countries in terms of scare tactics in politics. But it seems to me that when it comes to drugs, the British government is just as bad. FEAR ALL DRUGS is the party line, and Professor Nutt was an interesting - and tragic - trial case of what happens when you test the boundaries of that.

I have great sympathy for someone dealing with what I would imagine be a great deal of frustration with an irrational and basically broken system. I am also a bit annoyed that Professor Nutt didn't see this coming and allowed that frustration to get him sacked from a position in which he might have done some (more) good, with a bit of manoeuvring behind the scenes. Of COURSE they were going to sack him. And I respect him for standing up for his views; I’m not sure I’d have stayed silent, in his position. In addition, it can’t be a bad thing that the drugs question has gained some publicity and that there is a bit of healthy debate going on. But really, the largest part of me says this:

Shame on Alan Johnson for getting rid of someone who tried to tell the truth.

Like Ares come the housemates
Taller than all tall men!

It’s one of those moments. You’re just about to step off the edge of the grassy cliff-edge and inhale - almost involuntarily - as deep as you can. You know it’ll be terrifying, and you know it’ll feel like you can’t breathe, your lungs are too full, and the wind will be whistling past your ears. I can’t wait for the fall; it feels like I’ve been stepping with tiny steps for months and months now, just as though I were mapping out how many foot-lengths. It feels like having been on crutches. I can’t wait to run. But it’s worth looking back, just for a minute, at the rocky and beautiful terrain behind me.

Crackity and I have been living together for six years. Tomorrow the GGG is - at least temporarily, at least in the most superficial sense - dissolved. Some of us remain in GG. Some of us move to deepest darkest south London. Some of us move to Budapest. So here I am, taking a moment to mark the occasion; we are separate.

My one-or-anothertime flatmates (bumpycat, crackity, egadfly) have all been cracking friends and great flatmates. I count myself incredibly lucky to have crossed lives with them all.

Bumpycat, well-cool army-boy extraordinaire, you were l33t housemate, saviour of poor, burgled trippingowls, and discoverer of glorious asian silliness to share with fellow geeks. Unspeakably glad to know you and your wonderful Korean familiar, and sorry to be leaving you in GG!

Egadfly, great friend and guardian of all things good, thanks for all the help on my work-in-progress. I don’t have to witness the absurdity to know it’s there. Er... Comforting.

And the amazon queen of midnight hair, dearest Iza (not technically a housemate, but GG is pretty much a really big house, right?), keep up the Jumper Puppets and frolics in the park. If you don’t pop in for coffee at my place in our easterly corner of the world, the capitalist swine will win and our plot for world domination will fail (along with Serious Plans for elimination of certain colours of the rainbow).

Crackity, scarecrow, it’s scary-level telepathy we gots. So you know what I’m thinking. There seems little need to elaborate. Mr & Mrs Jones, joyously geeky, indescribably rude to each other; hasn’t it been wonderful?

My Magnus O’puss (a cat joke WAS necessary, so there) isn’t nearly done, so I yet hurtle into the vast unknown, knowing that I have true friends, each with another piece of the map of this glorious illusion.

I hope this doesn’t come across as a eulogy. I look forward to many more great times with these people; with ALL of you! Don’t think you’re going to escape.

I want to learn how to stretch time.  Or maybe split my experience of the universe into two or three individual threads and then collapse them. Because, really, I don't have enough time.

I don't like not having enough time.  I don't like complaining about not having enough time, either; I'd much prefer to be able to just put my head down and get on with it.  But today I feel like a good whinge, because really, what else is LJ for, except to excite your friends with how much you have to do and how little time you have to do it in?  Bad time management, a few emergencies, and a large dose of stress mean that I've had very little time to call my own in the last six weeks.  Some commitments were unavoidable, some were made without thinking them through, and some were, in fact, genuinely well-thought-out choices, with which I am completely happy.   The end result was that the slices of time between these commitments became ever smaller, leaving less and less time to spend with Man before I leave the country.  Cue mild misery and frustration, because part of the nature of the problem is that I don't quite know how things turned out this way.  I seem to trip on something and my week is full.  The trade-off seems completely unnecessary; surely there should be time enough to do everything?

If only I could make lots of versions of myself, parallel-experiencing the same time in different locations - but be able to compartmentalise so I don't get too distracted.  So I want to lounge around at home all day, watching movies with Man, and I want to go and see everyone, and take lots of photographs around town, and I want to see my grandparents, and I want to help Crackity with his house-hunt, and... well, the list goes on.

/whinge.

For information on the recent state of my love life and kitchen, here is a picture titled Man Plus Onions:


Talents include making l33t breakfast, wearing pink shirts, and thrilling the socks off small, slightly insane girls with long hair.

Meanwhile, I rediscovered the joy of a decent digital camera, even though it takes BLOODY AGES of waiting in front of the computer to get the photos off.  I should really get a card reader.

I wonder if it's the same dude by whom egadfly was accosted for answers the other day.  I was carrying home some packing boxes from Sainsbury's just now and saw a tramp - looking decidedly the worse for wear - walking around on the corner, shouting at a rubbish bin and brandishing two small packets of Doritos (blue).  He harangued the bin for a few moments, then stalked purposefully off with the air of someone about to hold up a bank.

There seem to be more than a few crazies in this area.  Once I saw another homeless guy sitting (just resting) on the floor in a charity shop.  He told me about how he once swam in the sea and got attacked by a shark.  He told me some other stories as well, which are sort of plausible: maybe he's who's lived a rich and full life and has ended up down on his luck, but also possibly entirely made up by a delusional old man with no job.  He seemed quite lucid, though, and lovely and friendly.

There was also this corpulent orthodox Jewish man in his fifties sitting on a broken bench outside the library, one side of which had collapsed.  The whole setup made it seem as though he had sat on the bench, made it collapse, and hadn't bothered to get up.  The thing that made it truly bizarre was that there was a perfectly new, unbroken bench right next to him, which was empty of people.

And then there's the little old homeless lady who usually finds a bus stop or an empty shop entrance in which to sit, and feeds the FUCKING PIGEONS ALL DAY SO THERE'S ALWAYS A VILE MESS ON THE PAVEMENT.

Foamy needs to move into the area and do a little housekeeping.

Though by now the little old lady has become something of a fixture in this area.

Oh, and Crackity has seen a man sitting outside the library (probably on that same bench), looking into the distance and saying "There's a Tyrannosaurus Rex over there" over and over, as though he could really see it, and felt he needed to warn somebody, but could clearly perceive that no one else was seeing it...

A stray T-Rex in Golders Green.  Do you suppose it takes a break from maiming and killing on the sabbath?

It was recently suggested by a news presenter that pandas are not worth saving, basically because we are pouring millions of pounds into saving an animal that has little natural habitat to inhabit in the wild.

Now, apparently, someone has given us a reason. The Ig Nobel Biology award went to "Fumiaki Taguchi, Song Guofu and Zhang Guanglei of Kitasato University Graduate School of Medical Sciences in Sagamihara, Japan, for demonstrating that kitchen refuse can be reduced more than 90% in mass by using bacteria extracted from the faeces of giant pandas." (Full details of the other awards here.)

Surely this is groundbreaking stuff in our quest to minimise our "carbon footprint"?  Oh, and that phrase is beginning to annoy me.  You know what leaves footprints?  FEET.

In any case, I wonder if Chris Packham, said news presenter, realises that it doesn't matter how right you are; if you advocate allowing the extinction of a cute, fluffy animal, you're gonna lose.  There is no way you come out of this looking good, and nobody is going to stop saving panda-bears.  What, Pandas International are just going to close up shop?  I can already see it.  They'll post a shiny new bulletin and say, "Well, now that Chris Packham has told us not to bother with those cute but useless monochromatic bears, we're going to use the money we saved up for a rollerdisco.  BYO cheezwhiz."

My philosophy is this: you break it, you fix it.  It seems morally bankrupt to destroy the native habitat of a creature and then stop short of doing everything to restore it.  We have opened Pandora's box and there is pandemonium.  Chris Packham is simply pandering to the recession-pressured masses and our pandemic of apathy.  That pandour should be given a good pandy with a stiff ruler.

(Ok. Enough of this pandiculated verbal torture.)

West Wing panda-related humour:

Mandy: "Ping dies, Sing-Sing mourns - pandas, it turns out, mourn - and for Sing-Sing it seemed like the time was unendurable."
Toby: "I know exactly how he felt."

One by one, two by two,

wishes for kisses

in buckets, girl drew

thoughtless and thoughtful -

still liquid disturbed singly -

careless and careful

On slow stone drags her fingertips

waiting for the splash,

to each one pressed her lips,

sent them tingling down

like water down the spine

Dropped with prayer or curse

on coppered tongue

Stare after them, eyes

couldn’t lie; each one

a foreign currency of longing

to pay for sins as yet undone

Seen on LRB classified section:

"Two hefty, tattooed Brighton skinheads, 43/45. One writes, one reads. Want uncensored sex with bookish blokes who like rough drafts."

Do they need a third to keep an eye on the two intellectuals?

I thought I'd lost this post when LJ had a Moment a few days ago.  I'm very happy to re-discover it, and vow to write it in Word next time. (Until I forget and LJ bitchslaps me again.)

I'm thinking of applying for an MA in Classics.  I haven't decided yet, but the idea is becoming more and more attractive.  Until I returned to translating Bacchae not too long ago, I'd forgotten what that kind of academic stimulation can be like, and I realise that I rather miss it.  The reason it has taken me so long to come to this realisation is that Uni of Doom instilled a slow-burning, disappointed hatred of the British university system.

But this got me looking at my previous essays, because any MA program is going to ask me for some kind of proof that I'm not an imbecile.  They'll want at least an extract from my final year dissertation.  Whenever I read back over work I've already done, it always seems kind of two-dimensional, even though it was very engrossing at the time.  It feels sort of shallow, as though I never get to the heart of what I want to say.

So what has changed between now and the time when I wrote it?  I have.  As I get older, and my experience broadens and deepens, I have more information to apply to my work.  Not just in terms of absolute experience, but in approaches and modes of thinking.  I am more complex, able to draw more inferences and make more connections between abstract ideas and concrete facts.

There are a few books from my childhood that I occasionally go back and read again.  Dune is one of them - a good example, in fact, as it is so multi-layered. Every time I read it, I find something new - a very interesting marker for how I have changed.  My first reading was purely for the experience; the politics and more abstract ideas didn't really attract me, while the action and evocative imagining of the world were paramount.  Now it is the other way round; the action is almost incidental.

I have always tended to assume that what I am experiencing now is the highest possible form of thought that I can achieve - that I can tweak it by learning new skills or new methods of learning, but apart from these tricks I am essentially static since I have reached a certain level of self-awareness.  Not true!   A delightful discovery.  Our experiences give us more and more models against which to analyse and experience the universe, more context within which to build connections.  As long as we recognise this and remain open to our own development, there is no reason to stagnate.  (One of my greatest fears.)  My father seems a prime example of the other road.  In one sense he is very flexible, able to apply his mind to any problem.  However, having established a set of rather rigid parameters in his thinking, I think he limits himself.  The irony is that I have always felt that he judged my ability to analyse and reason as being inadequate - his own words were "You're not quite there yet."  (Patronising? Surely not.)  And you know, by his standards it may have been correct - but I have decided that his standards are not the ones by which I wish to measure myself.  The only standards that matter to me are mine.  I am on my own journey, my own personal evolution.

Meanwhile, I wonder about parenting methods.  The temptation (to which my father succumbed) is to explain about different modes of thought and reasoning to my children (if I should have them).  But is that wise?  If someone had tried to convey to me when I was a child and an adolescent what I now understand about my own mind, I don't think I would have understood it.  I lacked the self-awareness and knowledge to see "There is more", so at best it would just have been meaningless, at worst actively confusing.  My feeling is that the best way to educate children is not by holding out this holy grail of "high thought", but in fact by giving them as solid a base from which to build it themselves.

This means not giving conflicting information to children.  I have always been annoyed by other people's parenting habits.  Children are basically tiny machines waiting to be given instructions.  If they are given good, clear instructions, then they will work properly.  (On the whole.)  If they are given lots of conflicting bits of information, they will be full of bugs and will work sporadically and do wildly unexpected things, and in some cases become non-functional.  The best thing you can do is to a) explain everything and b) make sure that you are consistent.  Not just in words, but in deeds as well.  For example, "Don't cross the road when the light is red" is only going to make sense to a child if you avoid doing it yourself, even if there are no cars.   It's impossible to explain to a child:  "I crossed the road when the light was red, because I looked around and judged it to be safe.  But you are not yet capable of judging for yourself when it is safe, so don't do it."  Just wait for the fuckin' light, okay?

It's even worth explaining emotions.  "Mummy shouted because she was angry and afraid. She was angry and afraid because you crossed the road when the light was red.  It's dangerous to cross the road when the light is red.  Mummy was angry and afraid because she thought you would get hit by a car."  It sounds idiotic, but I really think it makes things much easier for the child, rather than having to cope with the hurt and incomprehension at an unexplained outburst from a beloved and trusted parent.

It is all about trust.  Children are actually quite rational beings until they are taught not to be.  They trust/believe that parents will act in a reasonable way, and it's when we don't that things start to go wrong.  As long as one is clear and consistent, the child will be able to form good structures on which to build more complex reasoning skills - in both practical and emotional contexts.  If they have this one stable base, the child can develop tools to deal with even an inconsistent world.

I have two questions:

1.  How?

And, possibly more importantly,

2.  WHY?!

Generally I don't like to bore people with my dreams.  They're always far less interesting to other people.  But this one made me giggle like a lunatic and I woke myself up.

egadfly, crackityg and I were standing next to a wall, and egadfly  told a joke.  I can't remember the joke, but I do remember the punchline that made me and crackity laugh like loons.  I wrote it down in my phone.


Mouse-baby flew up the hagosaurus.


.........


I want a hagosaurus.

Most of the time, my day at work is pretty uneventful.  From time to time, there are little high points or low points, such as when someone who can hold a decent conversation decides to drop in, or if I'm feeling lazy and the day obligingly stays quiet, &c &c.  From time to time, however, the day is made eventful by some or other addition to the community.  Today there was one such addition.

I still can't quite decide if it was a high point or a low point.

So this dude came in; wiry, average-looking, mid forties.  I introduced myself as his massage therapist, guided him to the room, and began the treatment.  He started up a conversation, the usual "How long have you been working here/where are you from/other random question" - not the stuff to move mountains, but the stuff that makes the world go round, I guess.  I told him that my family is from Hungary, and he says,

"Oh, yeah... I've been there.  The February last year."

Always nice enough to find people who've actually been to Budapest, but I had a growing suspicion that this person was going to have nothing original to say.

I was wrong.

He said, "Went to Budapest.  I missed the beach, though."

I murmured something to the effect that yes, indeed, Hungary is land-locked.

"I was really surprised.  I thought everywhere 'ad a beach!"

WHAT?!

I literally could not speak for several minutes.  I imagined his view of central Europe as a collection of countries floating gently in the ocean.  (Which ocean?  The Pacific, obviously.)

When I recovered, I asked him what he'd seen there.  He replied that he had visited the castle.  "And there were a very good shoppin' centre, with fountains and everything! It was underground."

I swallowed and soldiered on, "Yes, so, did you see any more of the city?"

He ummed a bit, talked about how the people weren't so friendly as in Croatia, then brightened.

"There were a very nice McDonalds!  Very nice, it was."

Defeated, I subsided into silence.

... I sometimes imagine what it would be like to black out all the lights on an underground carriage with lots of black paper.  This idea always recurs when, for whatever reason, the lights go off for a few seconds on the underground, leaving the carriage in dim light (as usually not all the lights go, just 80-90% of them).  For a moment my eyes go, "Ooh.  That's rather nice.  No glaring fluorescent light.  This is almost... peaceful."  But of course it doesn't last very long, so my mind inevitably wonders if you could MAKE the lights go out...

Ok, so imagine for a minute that London isn't turning into a police state, causing 50 armed officers to be waiting at Warren Street station.  How cool would it be? catafalqued  pointed out that it would be enormously interesting to see what's in the tunnels, which of course would be much more obvious with the lights out.  You could see all the abandoned stations, especially if you took a powerful flashlight with you.  (Bonus if you see Franka Potente running around in the dark.)

But if you blacked out all the lights, it could be the chill-out carriage where you could get that extra 40 minutes of shut-eye on your journey to work.

In the centre of Budapest, there is a little bar.  It is nominally a punk hangout, though the music ranges from punk to electro to goth.  (I guess it's what the terrible word "alternative" refers to, though that word is about as useless as "mainstream" when it comes to referring to a specific subculture.)  A certain gentleman connected with this bar has come up with a strange little idea: to translate and transcribe Emily Dickinson into "machine poetica".  (Here.)

I find it strangely comical and even rather endearing, and the idea of bridging two such vastly dissimilar media appeals to me.  A few posts ago I referred to the Cold War Modern exhibition, with some fascinating examples of socialist influence on art (and the space program.  Love those space-dresses).  Under the excitement of space exploration (before it became clear that there wasn't anything in our immediate vicinity of Earth than a couple of motes of dust and a bit of algae), there was the dark undercurrent of identity loss, not only to the System, but to an increasingly homogenised, mechanised, de-humanised computer culture.  (Yes, yes.  Obvious, I know.)  Techno-fear infiltrated the 80s media: Star Trek's Borg, Kraftwerk's Robots to name a couple of fairly common examples.  The Matrix was hardly a new idea at heart; the ultimate loss of identity and reality, and surrender to an alien, self-created cyber-hell.  I like this alternative version of that rather dark fairy tale.  Maybe I'm an optimist at heart?  Or is it the ever-so-slightly bloody-minded pleasure of forcing computers to quote poetry rather than going nuts and killing everyone on the space-station?  (Nobody said the two were mutually exclusive, of course.)  I bet Data's Ode to Spot made more sense in ASCII than it did recited.

But really it's the linguist in me that enjoys the idea of translating poetry into Machine.  The translation, while I am not familiar with any programming languages, feels similar to the process I go through translating from any language.  Unsurprisingly, the similarity is probably closest to Latin and classical Greek, which are extraordinarily logical and regular languages.  M suggests that "if a consistent syntax of human relations could be developed, perhaps translation between human languages would be easier."  I suppose this means that each language would have to have the same structure.  The Latin/Greek easily distinguishable cases would seem reasonable, and if we absolutely must apply word order, possibly German.  Though as is proved by the Latin language, a consistent word order at least superficially (to determine basic meaning rather than any focus on emphasis) becomes unnecessary. But humans are never entirely consistent, so actually putting this into practice would be a bit like trying to turn London Underground into an efficient transport system.

I should probably add at this point that the Phoenix is over 2 metres tall.  Here are a couple of other photos (courtesy of dear friend F) to give you an idea of the "vibrancy" to which egadfly was referring.





Of course, the first thing that crackityg  said upon seeing said Phoenix was "Why have you painted a chikkin on your wall?"  It was rapidly decided (apart from the general Wrongness) that "chikkin" is the only way that you can spell it.

Bedroom wall, 2am, paint.

A triumph call, a joyous shout

That shook the earth; men looked about

To see the shining source of sound,

Which split the world from sky to ground.

In my forays into internet dating, I have come across a number of ads which name-drop Mensa.   They are exclusively American men, even though there does exist a British Mensa.  A few observations:

a) It looks like Mensa is a much bigger thing in the States than it is here - which is somehow unsurprising in a country that glorifies the standardised test (in my opinion) even more than the British.  The IQ is an arbitrary number, and test scores are unable to determine creativity or personality.

b) There seems to be no other purpose to joining than to be able to say you're in it.  What, it isn't enough to be that smart anymore?  You have to join an organisation to show it?  When will people get over the need to say, "I'm better than you, nyah nyah nyahnyah nyah!"
Good old wikipedia quotes Dr Ware, one of the founders of Mensa:  “I do get disappointed that so many members spend so much time solving puzzles." (as opposed to saving the world.)  Quite right.  Anyone found not making use of their intelligence will have it confiscated.

c) It doesn't work.  Mentioning Mensa in an ad is supremely stupid, because people with low self-esteem, not so good with standardised tests, or simply not that well-educated/unconventionally educated, will be scared off.  But on the other end of the spectrum, anyone who really is smart will quickly realise that it is entirely made out of bullshit.  The only band of people that such an ad will attract will be other Mensans, and there aren't that many of them.  Who knows, maybe they'll inbreed themselves into extinction.  Or - oh! OH!!

They're causing global warming!  They're making a master race, and they will stamp out humankind and repopulate the earth entirely with flatfish and egos!  The id will have no place here!

Membership fees for Mensa seem to keep around the £45-50 mark.  I prefer to think of it as another well-cloaked Stupid Tax.  Oh, the irony.

It feels as though they are trying to prove something to someone - and they are using the wrong bench-mark to do it.  They look to an external source for validation, where true happiness and contentment come from internal satisfaction with oneself, unrelated to recognition by others.  Surely the greatest joy should be to be able to use that intellect, not to flaunt it?

Yes.  I am naive.

I do recognise that it helps people to meet other people with high IQs - a sort of social tool, I guess.  But it's still an organisation that pools people who define themselves primarily by their intelligence, which I think is sadly quite a narrow and limiting view.

I have not yet met someone who has said that they are in Mensa who isn't a jerk.  It's entirely possible that I have met any number of people in Mensa who have simply not felt the need to advertise that fact, and if so, good for them.  Otherwise, fuck Mensa.

I think he knows now.

So, I finally have access to photos from the summer of 2006 in Budapest.  This rather wonderful chapter included: a Morissey gig, a trip to Hegyalja festival where we never actually went into the festival, a non-existent Billy Idol gig and abortive attempt at a family holiday.

This is the highlight.



He never knew.

I've had a short attack of writer's block, which has meant that I've been unable to write even the shortest paragraph without sitting at the computer for lengthy periods and staring at the screen in blank amazement.  This has happened a few times in my life and as a fairly creative and expressive person, it's not pleasant.

I suppose it's been compounded by the fact that I haven't really had anything to write.  I mean, stuff has happened to me, but I don't want to be the sort of person who writes a "I went to the X and did Y.  Then I went home and ate dinner." blog.

However, it seems to have cleared up, due to some pretty damn' exciting things happening.  Oh, and the strategic injection of more Jeeves and Wooster than the human brain ought to handle, which has resulted in some idiotic Jeeves-related fan-fiction on my part.  Excellent for clearing out the system; not so excellent for public consumption, though!  What drip.  (Crawls away in shame, yes I am that person.)  This means a Megapost to report the key points of the last little while.

Item 1: Antichrist Lite and Angels Sale

On December 5th, Antichrist threw another of their excellent parties.  Unlike all the other Antichrists, however, this was almost empty.  In a club which boasts a capacity of 1200, the turnout was extremely low.  It did make for an interesting night, though; it was rather cool to experience the space without too many people.  The posse consisted of myself, tirinar , egadfly  and beloved, crackityg , our housemate E, and associated polish friends.  At around 4 o'clock, I left with tirinar  to camp out in front of Angel costumiers', who were getting rid of all their costuming and re-enactment stock to clear warehouse space.  We sat outside from 5am until 9, which was when they opened.  During the wait, I exhausted my entire repertoire of Communist jokes at tirinar and companions.  (Oh, no, it was my pleasure.  Really.)   There was all kinds of weird shit there...  In the sci-fi section I found these huuuuge latex boots with red scales on them.  I also found a matching set of gloves, and what looked like a top.  All these were far too big to fit me, but fascinating nonetheless.  The most intriguing piece of this costume, however, was something that looked like two cones fused together, with a big hole in the middle, and a tube sticking out of it.  (Don't even try to imagine it.  It's too weird for words.)  I stood there for about ten minutes trying to work out what it was.  Eventually it dawned on me: it was an inflatable head-dress!  Apparently you're supposed to blow through the tube and stick it on your head.  Holy shit.
I came away with a Roman-style shield, possibly made out of resin.  tirinar  came back with much loot, which was the important thing!

Item 2:  Christmas and New Year

Christmas with sister went as per usual, mit copious quantities of roast duck, some very cool presents and a sugar crash on Christmas day.
New year was truly excellent.  There was a house party and I was among friends.  I arrived at the party at around 23:30 on the 31st and left at around 9pm on the 1st.  It was a lot of party.  But it was all perfect: the gathering was quite small to begin with, though our numbers swelled at around 8am when people returned from Slimelight.  The whole atmosphere was one of friendship, relaxation and, oddly enough, respect. That last one struck me most of all, because not everyone knew each other, and yet... I guess sometimes things just come together.
I'm of the opinion that going out on New Year's Eve is usually a waste of time.  Everything is overpriced, overcrowded, and it's never as good as they say it's going to be.  A house party is so much better, because it's cheap, you control the music, and it's a fair bet that you'll like most (or in this case all) the people there.

Item 3: Cold War Modern: Design 1945-1970

I went on a small expedition to the V&A to look at propaganda posters, 1960s space suits, and silly toasters.  Check this one out, because it's certainly worth seeing.  It's fascinating to see how the era of nuclear threat and space exploration captured the imagination of designers of all description.  It feels as though the two are somehow inseparable, both essential elements of a particular atmosphere that permeated culture during this time.  The fear perhaps sparked a need to imagine a better world, while the space exploration mitigated that fear with hope that perhaps humanity could achieve more.  It feels as though it was more immediate, too; as though there was a sort of desperation and frantic growth during this period.  Of course, it's entirely possible that this is an illusion created by a very evocative exhibition. (A strange nostalgia-like sensation for a time that I have never experienced.)
Oh, and I want to drive a Messerschmidt micro-car, which is basically a one-person scooter surrounded by plastic.  It's tiny.  It's great.

Item 4:  Work

I'm getting out of there.  I haven't yet told my boss, but I'm thinking I'm going to tell him a leaving date of the end of March.  I want to have time to hand over to someone else, because if I just up and leave, there's a chance my boss will throw up his hands and say, That's it.  I don't want everyone to suffer because I leave, in other words.  And I genuinely care about what happens after I go, so I will leave carefully.  (Not in a tantrum, though that would be enormously satisfying!)  Having made this decision, I already feel better and more balanced, so it definitely seems like the right thing to do.  When E vacates our spare room, I will re-furnish it and start building my client base so that I can make money at home.  I'll try to build up a client base (so if anyone needs massage or knows anyone who does, please do let me know!), and the rest of time I'll probably temp until I decide what I want to do in the long run.

Ha!  I haz a little plan.