I’ve tried to enjoy schlepping water, thinking that it serves to keep us to some human roots.
Annoyances and upsets with the iPhone 4S have been more than offset by its screen, the silkiness of its surfaces, the camera, and the third-party market for both software and hardware.
After they finished watching the Bond movies, I figured the next series John Gruber and Dan Benjamin would discuss on The Talk Show would be Stanley Kubrick’s oeuvre. But Gruber refused — too personal for podcasting, he said. Disappointed, I rewatched 2001.
Instead of acknowledging the wisdom of leading from behind, the Right jumped on the Obama administration’s handling of Libya as yet another example of at best incompetence. They lost me there.
Steve Jobs we lost at the age of 56; when Frank Lloyd Wright reached that age it was still only 1923, the time of merely his second comeback with Tokyo’s Imperial Hotel.
It’s amazing, given the adulation he enjoyed elsewhere, that the Israeli public knew from the start not to trust this US President.
Nobody from usesthis.com has asked me what my setup us, nor is likely to anytime soon. So I’m just going to mouth off here about it. But first, some background.
On the Leon Wieseltier/Andrew Sullivan spat, Walter Russell Mead seems to want to have his strudel and eat it too.
Defeat in the Olympics bid may focus the mind in the Oval Office where it should be: Afghanistan.
There’s nothing else around here except empty desolate pretty hills. The Israel Trail passes by a bit to the west. It’s a hot July Wednesday morning. Things are reasonably busy. The shops are mostly franchises, almost all homegrown — Super-Pharm, Aroma, Tzomet Sfarim, Cup O’ Joe’s, LaMetayel, Mega, Fox, Castro, H&O.
ames Lileks almost never talks about his wife in his Bleats. Not every one of his entries can be a winner but there’s enough casually great writing there to inspire. He never talks about his wife. Is this because he has a policy not to? He’s such a blogging machine, I wouldn’t wonder if he has a separate, private blog for his own eyes only wherein he chronicles his life not as father but as husband.
There’s much good sense in cordoning away much of life when writing a blog for Dr Allen Sundry and Mrs All. It’s not necessarily of general interest, and Lileks has other fish to fry, acting as pop historian, posting images of matchbooks and Americana, but it does remind you that his frank chronicling of humdrum domestic events — fridgeblogging — is more of an artifice than it appears, proving the new adage that it takes a lot of work to make something appear natural.
So it would be wise to follow his lead and keep the domestic partner aspects of life a mystery. We just used the inflatable mattress for the first time. Her parents are staying over and we’ve been evicted from the bedroom. Hmm. I softened a little when her mother made matzah brei and a simple Israeli salad after the concert tonight, but still. If you cranked me up you’d see I’m cranky. Knock knock, can I get to my clothes cupboard?
The concert. I’m glad they enjoyed it. It was Bach’s St Matthew’s Passion. Never heard it before. I know why. What a crashing bore. And very very long, about 2.5 hours. It was in a big impressive church, St Bartholomew’s. I’ve said it before so I’ll say it again: music written before the invention of the train bores me. I think maybe the relentless pleasurable rhythm of train travel forced composers to up the ante. What was the point of music when it was now no more interesting than the sound of sleepers and track whizzing by? This inaptly-named Passion stuff makes modern pop seem dazzlingly inventive and intricate. On and on go the same old phrases, the same old resolutions — it must happen fifty times. Looking at the Wikipedia entry on the piece, it seems I have heard it: it appears in a number of movies that I’ve seen. But two hours of it by a mediocre orchestra + a church with muddy accoustics = doze.
So now it is revealed: I’m a hen-pecked philistine. And there’s you thinking it can’t be done, you gotta be either one or the other.
Drunken revellers are currently shouting outside on the street here. We get that quite often. Once somebody knocked at the door at about 3am. Almost scary; any drunken sot with a momentary penchant to show off could punch a fist through our living room window. So I’m a paranoid hen-pecked philistine.
We may go see The Rocky Horror Show tonight at the Theatre Royal down the street, but I’m having a hard time convincing Irit’s parents that it’s not Queen: We Will Rock You for which they’ve already got tickets. I started explaining what RHPS is — “kind of science fiction” — and got a plot summary back that it’s set in a future where pop music is banned and whatnot. Tim Curry once said RHPS is just a way for some kids to seem cool and reject others, though apparently he’s softened on the thing lately. I see now in my mind’s eye the huge close-up of him with mascaraed eyebrow raise. A big man, a hero, is our Mr Curry. I used to semi-believe Dr Frank-n-Furter was actually the woman in Rising Damp, Frances de la Tour.
So while sitting through this concert, after awakening from my doze, I entertained myself by perusing my notebook. I’ve been on the same one since August 2006, possibly my longest period ever for a single nb as I’ve not been nb’ing lately (shame, as it’s therapeutic, or at any rate, calming and centering) and it’s good to be reminded of moments and forgotten details and perspectives from up to nine months ago. Perusing it was a last resort from boredom but a rewarding reminder why I bother nb’ing in the first place. There is so much in life we forget, and it’s difficult to know which memories and perspectives we’ll return to regularly and create a memory groove, so notebooks are great in helping to keep others alive.
To a different kettle of fish: the homecoming press conference held by the 15 UK sailors kidnapped by Iran, in which their commanding officer make a lucid and dignified account as to what happened (though he doesn’t explain how they let themselves be pictured eagerly exploring their going-home-presents from Uncle Mahmoud). Even if his judgment is challenged, as I imagine it will be, nonetheless it’s a sober and persuasive account.
The sailors’ return was as big a story in the US as here in the UK. It was top story for a while today at nytimes.com, and is right now top story at washingtonpost.com and at drudgereport.com. Here it’s the top story at the BBC and the second story both at the Daily Mail and the Telegraph. Interestingly, however, both jpost.com and haaretz.com ignored the story completely, focusing instead on Israel’s own hostage situation, another promise by Abbas to get Gidon Shalit released. You think the British account would be very relevant, showing how the Iranians treated their British captives.
I disagree with Charles Krauthammer’s take that this episode was Britain’s Humiliation — and Europe’s. I think Blair has done well to get them back. It seems it could have gone the other way, as it has before.
Why is this entry entitled “Bee Fur”? That’s the name of the current notebook. Or should such details remain private?
I Like it Here
Too Frou-frou for a Fry-up