Vacant — See?

At this stage, I feel it might be worth pointing out that there shall be a slight stifling of activity between now and next, owing to some necessary, albeit half-cooked, preparations I must complete before then. Jourth, a title somewhat less punnable than Maith (Jourth By Jourth-West? Jourthie Girl?), is thusly what I recommend setting your watch for (aside from general time-keeping, that is). It shall signify a positive plateau of opportunity (or potential, if you wish to alliterate), with no competitive mounds or alternative avenues to distract from the task at hands. Wait a minute, say you, you can't exactly halt the revolution for a week — what of the looming lackaday threat? Surely it will not lay down and wait? Well, I have no intention of halting the revolution, only the tenor of my presence therein. That is why I leave you in the capable hands of Chanties himself, Johnny The Stirrer Beehive, who today is a burden lighter, and the Bedium Medium. I shall also even mention ol' Halfway, although one will need a finger crossed. Nevertheless, a daily visit won't hurt and I, for one, shall be doing so. For the moment, then, the revolution is in their hands.

Perhaps you are wondering as to the nature of my non-revolutionary preparations. While not giving too much I way, I will tell you that I am intending to visiting my erstwhile sister, Alice Evens (not Evans) on the coast, to attend a matter of relocation. It's sure to involve excitingly sealed envelopes and strange moustaches. And it does, in certain ways, involve the revolution, although being personal, it will not directly aid the cause. Still, it can't be avoided, and it shall be nice to see the somewhat equivocal but always delightful Ms. Evens once more. Our last meeting was soured my considerable tension and I am hoping my task will leave room to mend our manners while I am there. So that's that. Please do not cease your letters of support. If there's one reliable thing in this entire rickety operation, it's our postal service. Ooroo.

Lotophaging

A cake is sliding layer by layer off the table as a I tap. Two spindly sisters and one gangly activist are splayed unconsciously across a mound of discarded food stuffs and spent party poppers, snoring somehow. I wait for the kettle. This is going to be quite the cleanup. Not only does the host have to contend with an array of spilt food and drink, but the vomited and dribbled product of the same, which abounds gracelessly around fallen bodies. In addition to this, "Viva la revolucion!" has been crudely sprayed on nearly every visible surface, betraying Ben's presence, not to mention the room's once-loyal stylist. Most of all, though, there's the smell. A mixture of bad weed (thanks, Harry), bad alcohol (thanks, Harry) and suffocated armpits. That boy's one step away from a twelve-step.

Mingling for three weeks has more than taken its toll; I feel like sawdust. But I've fared far better than most, possibly even all. I'm awake, for starters, and quite close to sobriety. And I'm already reflecting. Somewhere along the line our common cause was blurred by beer, song and myriad other sybaritic pursuits, and I fear the extended recovery period will prove a thorn. Ben and that tall Portuguese woman (great slacks) will each need at least a week's worth of showering, I'd wager, and Johnny The Stirrer (a recent and inevitable christening) will be out of action till he finds all his fingers. But while it's a less than ideal opening*, its symbolic function, independent, as it is, from the actual goings on of the event, will be strong enough to mark this admitted indulgence as something of a success. That's a hard thing to say with the smell of purged stomachs and badly mixed liquor, but I'm optimistic. Whatever the outcome, I think we'll each emerge slightly different(ly). It certainly put whatever remained of my abstinence to the test. And I'll cease to look at Harry as a benign innocent. Still didn't get me to dance, though.

There's something wonderfully superior about surviving this, particularly with a pot of tea to rest on. If I wasn't so sober I might even murmur "spiritual". Potential hasn't been squandered, merely delayed. And that's nice. After this I'll sit outside with the rest of my tea and wait for the morning to start looking like it's supposed to.

*This will not be made a joke of.

Q. Anni

To continue with this somewhat belated celebration, I shall, for one time only, answer some of the more interesting questions I've received from commenteers and e-mailers of late. But be warned: this shan't become a habit.

Dreary45 said...
When people ask my favourite colour, I always say you're my favourite Hugh.

Thank you. You may come to the picnic.

Flower said...
Do you ever consider the trail of human ruin your schoolboy provocations leave behind? To my mind, your desperate pursuit of infamy seems to stem from a deeply ingrained sense of insecurity pushing against an equally ingrained hunger for recognition. A hunger for recognition is, of course, the subtext of blogging, but you seem to aim higher and mightier, as if expecting distinction from outside the community — a Pulitzer, perhaps? Yet at the same time you seem highly self-conscious about coming across that way, and possibly even the notion itself, hence the knee-jerk callowness. What do you make of the argument that art is fundamentally an indulgence of its creator? Or that pretensions are prerequisites for all conscious art? Do you believe, as I do, that hyperselfconsciousness inhibits the creation of art?

Sometimes I look in the mirror and cry.

Petre said...
You're strange. But don't change.

I've nothing else to wear.

Jill Blomb said...
The strong erotic undercurrent in almost everything you write seems to me to be a manifestation of a repressed sexual condition. Are you impotent or just not getting any?

No, I'm just very liberated.

Kathryn said...
Does the word "apparently" carry any more weight than "allegedly"?

I think "allegedly" is the more skeptical of the two, so in terms of the speaker's belief, I'd say "apparently" would carry more weight, yes.

Big Boy said....
Best and worst post, stat.

Best: apologies, but I scrolled dutifully through the backlog (a rather dispiriting experience) and was unable to find a sole post that would warrant such a distinction. No false modesty — obviously I love myself deeply. But if you insist on pressing a gun to my head, I'd probably yelp a few of the better ones atop my head — Martha's Day, Milkhill Puppy, Herring George (on a good day), We're Not At Home To The Broke Of Heart, As Black As That, perhaps. Maybe even the sheer terribleness of the restored Things In Chairs, or the whorey clunk of The Fleshy Mexican Crowd-Pleaser. None would particularly leap out upon inspection, and my gun-totting antagonist would no doubt be disappointed, but them's the ones I dislike least.

Worst: tough one. Certainly I'd include the worst offenders of the Everyone Has An Opinion series: everyone's pretentious; boo to you, God; art rots, photos shoul' be real, film oh film et al; and, especially, It Was So Much Better Way Back When. Sickening, embarrassing, ugly jejune sludge, the lot of it. The mid-2005 one on blogging was particularly rank. If I had to pick one, though, I'd still say the first of the only two topical posts I ever did (the second is nearly as bad). Utterly detestable stab at, I dunno — irony? The sort of thing you'd paste in a very sane suicide note by way of explanation. In fact, I'm going to go back on my word and delete the two fuckers right now. No principle can sustain their existence.
And they're gone.

Roderick Summer said...
Your self-indulgence astounds me. Do you ever stop talking about yourself?

I pray the day will come, but right now it's the only subject I'm sufficiently versed in. I disguise it well, no?

Roderick Summer said...
No.

Oh.

BarBRA said...
Why is it that all the females in your posts are either prostitutes or elusive one-dimensional objects?

What can I say? I write what I don't know.

Wilbert Peach said...
What keeps you going?

The frightening realisation that I still haven't mastered punctuation.

Anni Get Your Versary

In the natural course of things, one is occasionally offered the luxury of retrospect, which, depending on the circumstance — curious pride and the throes of disillusionment, respectively as follows —, will either lead to a renewed vigour in present tasks or a stultifying nostalgia for past ones. On such occasions it is important to maintain a veneer of abject objectivity, if one is to benefit from the activity, and it was with this in mind that I took to the archives to assess the journey thus far, something which, I hoped, would act as much-needed adrenalin for Phase Two.

What struck me most prominently during the delve was not, as might be expected, the sediment (the dirty stuff) or similar such juvenelia, but the sentiment. Not the wellreadiment (the qwerty stuff), not the whathesaidiment (the flirty stuff), not even the dropdeadiment (the shirty stuff). No — the sentiment. The véritable; the Dear reader, hear my heart...; the tap, tap, tap of my tears; the hhonest to ghod; the All That is Good and Proper. The point, some might say. Now, I'm not one to shoo or shy from sentiment on principle, nor do I mind, on occasion, exposing the ugly underneath, but I have found that sentiment, when expressed rawly, can sometimes bind a piece so firmly to a place and a time and a feeling that divorcing it from its context and appreciating what it has to offer is nigh on impossible, particularly as its impetus and audience drift further apart. Moreover, it often erodes ration, although admittedly that isn't always a bad thing. Take the following, from August 8th, 2006:

Tuesday. Big day. I hate people.

What are we to make of that? Nothing. It's perfunctory to the point where only its author could ever find anything of value in it, and even then he'd have to squint. It adds nothing, it gives nothing, you get nothing. It's an event horizon of callow vanity, the kind of treacle that gives literacy a bad name. Now compare it to this slight retraction posted two days later:

Errsday. I made the mistake of gibletting my ego, ergo my soul. Now I just hate myself.

While we still have the unfortunate voicing of an unfortunate sentiment, we now have a sense of craft, even humour, to fall back on, ensuring that audience pleasure is at least a possibility, if only a slight one. But it was to be a while yet before I reached the level of this decidedly unsentimental nugget from February 23rd, 2007 (the day ain't even mentioned!):

Blustered down from generation to generation in bold, steady bumps, Valentino fascism, as I've dubbed it, has inherited from the old world a certain, or rather uncertain, capricious nature which initially seems at odds with the very notion of lineage tradition, but is in fact a reflection of the underlying instability inherent in all forms of fascism, indeed the very thing which accounts for its formidable, and frankly frightening, adaptability. It almost put me off my cereal, I'll tell you.

From then on the road began to smooth out. I eased into a rhythm and found my feet, dancing steadily ever since. But those glaring stains continued (and continue) to haunt me. What could I do — delete them? No. This is a document. The assets of this medium are its rawness and immediacy — process laid bare. I considered erecting stern condemnation notices on the offending posts, but again that would be betraying the form. After all, this is not the place for discipline, or at any rate it doesn't have to be. The flaws are but facets of the whole, and often the whole is the better for it. Let us not bemoan sinking standards or, God help us, lapses of talent: they are the wasted posts, writ with a hand on the keyboard and an eye on the mirror. Let us instead bound ungracefully forward, arse-first but not looking back, and plant our fallible faces on history's asphalt. Not for the press, not for the prestige, not for the presence, but for the sheer oxen pleasure of articulation itself. It may prove the promulgation of nothing in particular, but that nothing in particular will be our nothing in particular; nay, that nothing in particular will be us.

No. It's less than that. But it sure as hell beats WoW.

Remaithance Man

An intestinal horn wailed pathetically across the just-about-night, scattering the odd bird and irritating the odd bat. The scuffing of paws followed and we began to see ominous red and white flashes through the trees. Stan stuck his fist into his mouth and prayed. I kept still, looking intense. Suddenly a dirty great hound burst through the clearing and shook vast webs of saliva in furious, putrid arcs. Being a dedicated reactionist, Johnny was the first of us to load his musket and bring it up to his eye. But before he could add an inch of steel to the foaming beast, its heavily armed employers appeared from the foliage and surrounded us. Stan covered his eyes. I kept still, looking intense.

"See? What did I tell you? The dog never fails," said one of the shorter soldiers. "And you said we'd never find 'em."
The recipient shrugged.
"Well? Don't you have something to say?"
The recipient shook his head.
"Go on."
The recipient sighed.
"I'm glad we dragged the guillotine all this way," he said, rolling his eyes.
"There. That wasn't so hard, was it?"
Johnny Beehive raised his musket defiantly.
"Vous ne nous ramènent alors que nous sommes vivants !" he cried, accidentally firing a shot in the air and killing a displaced pigeon.
"Well, of course not," said the short solider. "What the hell did you think the guillotine was for?"
Just then the unwieldy wooden structure rose into view from behind the trees, and with it three very tired looking men and a tangle of shipping rope.
"Lambinent," said Stan.
"C'est l'extrémité, garçons," I sighed. "Nous avons eu une bonne course."

Suddenly a phlegmy baritone thundered out of the darkness.
"Unhand esas comadrejas, sucios aristócratas!"
The guards turned, waving their muskets uncertainly in the diminishing light.
"Los lobos ciego no ve el travieso búho," came the voice again.
The guards began firing randomly into the trees, scattering all manner of odd birds and bats.
"No golpearás la blanco si no tienes los vidrios apropiados."
Desperately, they tore apart the foliage, scraping and scratching and musketting. Then, flashing dramatically across the moonlight, a tall, gangly silhouette swung squarely into frame and posed a bit. It was Ben, wielding six steel posts and a fetching brown vest. After distributing three of the posts to Johnny, Stan and myself, he briefly attempted to take on the guards with the remaining three, but only began to do so successfully after the awkwardness of the his methods forced him to drop two of them first. Soon, however, we realised our posts were no match for the reloaded muskets and legged it. Led by the jungle-literate Ben, we escaped our captors in no time and wound up by a secluded river with breath to spare.

"Remercier la baise de Ben !"
We raised invisible glasses.
"El ano del mono nunca se lame enteramente. No ha terminado."
We looked at our saviour and nodded sagely.
"Néanmoins," said Stan, "Nous avons léché cette soirée. Buvons loin et caressons la nuit."
And, putting our hands to our lips, we did just that.

Manifesto

"Maith, such as I conceive of it, asserts our complete nonconformism clearly enough so that there can be no question of translating it, at the trial of the real world, as evidence for the defence."

1. Let no lesser scribes participate -- Maith must be meritocratic if it is to truly lead the way.

2. Let no one say anymore that they have nothing to write about - any (s)crap can be turned into a post at no cost.

3. Let no fictitious elements infiltrate your posts -- all ideas and opinions expressed must be real.

4. Let no standard of logging be created by critics -- a post inadvertently obscured by an error is equal to a post drawn explicitly by a genius.

5. Let no meals of the day, under any circumstances, be mentioned, particularly breakfast.

6. Let no detail be denied to Maith -- prolificacy is the chief objective.

7. Let no relativist ideals affect your judgement -- justification must not come from within. Posts must be valued objectively by those qualified to do so.

8. Let no considerations of truth or fact define your posts -- imagination is our greatest weapon; truth, our greatest hindrance.

9. Let no worthless banality be published. Posts must significantly add to the stockpile of human knowledge.

10. Most of all, let Maith be open to everyone, for logging must be popular art.

The Dawn of Legs

Times have been good and bad to me. I'm not sure whether that makes them simply indifferent, but the balance is pleasing nonetheless. The good manifested itself most recently in the form of a relative stranger, who sat rather near me on a train. Now, I'm not one to start conversations with strangers for no good reason, but here, I thought, I had one.
"Why wake?" I asked suddenly. (One of those rare occasions where the brain tricks the mouth into speaking without properly presenting its case first.)
"Excuse me?" The gaze was indignant. He had funny eyes.
"Just, you know — why?"
"Why?"
"Yes — why?"
"I'm getting off soon," he said, turning away.
I shrugged. The next stop passed and we were both still there.

"Do you have girlfriends or what?"
He glared at me. I tried to look as genuine as I thought I was being.
"No," he enunciated coldly, still glaring.
"See that's what I mean."
After seemingly wishing me dead, he turned away again.
"Actually, you've probably got more of an advantage when it comes to meeting people," I continued.
"That's ridiculous," he snapped back.
"I'm not shitting you, man. That heart-string appeal really flips the birds. You should be up to your neck in pussy."
"Well, I'm not," he said, welling.
I made my eyebrows an arch of sympathy and started again.

"Look, I ain't messing with you. I'm just curious." I put my hand on his shoulder. He shrugged it off.
"It's not all about sex," he said sourly.
"No, of course not," I agreed. "Walking along a beach with a loved one on a starry night: that's what it's about, man. Frolicking in the fields, rolling in the greens, wandering aimlessly. All that shit."
The train stopped.
"Since when was life about walking?" he called out as he wheeled off onto the platform and disappeared.
"Frolicking," I said to myself. "Life's about frolicking."
I suppose he could roll into a meadow and tip himself over, but it wouldn't be quite the same. Still, he'd made this wholly functioning man cherish his blessings, and that's got to be worth something.

Tempted though I was, I did not frolic on the way home, nor did I navigate through any sort of field or meadow. I did, however, fix myself one bitching cup of black coffee. Standing by the sink and enjoying every lick, I conceded that this pleasure was open to him, too. And that's worth something. Probably wouldn't get the view, though.

Times Are Bound

I'm proud to announce that a special hardback collection of the first three years of The Times is now available from Fantagraphics Books for $62.95. With beautifully etched illustrations by E. H. Shepard and a glowing foreword by Clive James, this limited edition anthology has been lovingly hand-bound and includes bonus cut-out moustache and beret. Dig:

"Now it exists in the real world. God help us all."
-Inga Clendinnen.

"Compelling, worthwhile and readable: three things this book is..."
-Kathy Hunt.

"Rampant obscurantism done as artistic achievement. Kid needs a life."
-Bob Christgau.

It looks pretty good on a bookshelf, too. And for all those value-mongers out there, I have written fourteen new articles specifically for the book which will not be available on this website. All that in addition to a thirty-page introduction detailing the conception and development of The Times. That's 379 fully annotated pages, not including the substantial foreword, introduction and afterword sections.

I shall field as many questions as I can predict. Firstly, have I redrafted any of it? In short, no. I want this to be a living record, documenting every half-cock, soggy grouse and wheezing sentence. Obviously I've not the balls to let the weaker pages slip by without severe footnotes, but all the text has been reproduced in its entirety, punctuation and all. Secondly, why pay $62.95 for a glorified print-out of a freely accessible and frankly mediocre website supplemented with additional material I could probably exhaust in a single browse in a bookshop? Well... Good point. But if you're looking for a gift obscure enough to delay the inevitable disappointment and allow you a swift getaway, look no further. Make sure you get a guide-dog or something first, though.

A Pause for Sunday

The warm glow of Maithteenth has all but faded, and with it the innocent air of possibility that surrounds the early days of revolution. Henceforth, it will be hard work and dedication, marked by the occasional guillotining and student lock-up. The momentum of the moment will not take care of the labour necessary to keep this train afloat — not now that the wooze of the night is behind us. No; it is time to clamber out of that stranger's bed, smiling wanly on the way, and salvage the remaining waking hours chiseling your renaissance prose. Maithteenth celebrations may have clogged your head somewhat, but if we are to really earn our page in history, we can not afford to underwhelm the expectant. Again.

For some among us, preparation takes an especially carnal form — in stark, quivering contrast to that of dedicated sportsmen. Not subscribing to this ritual myself, I can not, entirely, sympathise. Indeed I was more than a little irked when a breathy Ben phoned me immediately after one of these 'inspiration sessions' to talk shop, something which rapidly became an impossibility in the face of his then-pet's incessant interjections. But next to Stan, who cracks his knuckles via a room full of Scarlet Ladies and generally requires at least a week to recover, these indiscretions were small kittens indeed. Personally I think that we should forgo such distractions until this thing really gets off the tracks. That way, if it is destined never to be, it will not be for lack of effort or dedication.

I shall conclude by detailing my own set-up that others may be inspired and follow. In accordance with my lot, I am nestled among a native garden in a small, homely studio. Bookshelves line three of the four walls, with the remaining housing my desk. The typewriter on which these words were writ is suitably antiquated, and complimented by the oven-brown paper I insist on baking. Staring back at me is an etch of Voltaire or someone, inspiring and writerly. Non-glossed paper. Next to him is a nude of George Eliot I drew from a dream, and next to her one of Thackeray I drew in anticipation of sexism allegations. Manuscript paper has been deliberately strewn around the room and there is no radio. The walls are white, after Forster's metaphor. And I wear plaid. Suitable beginnings for this cultural revolution, no?

Rising Thumb

It seems a shame that the bulk of communication enacted by the young & coming takes place in increasingly impersonal domains, where anonymity and illiteracy have supplanted intimacy and empathy as the new perks of interaction. Newspapers, magazines and other printed text (you know, books and shit) have been around for yonks, but they were always tempered by the rigours of editing and public demand, and were never in themselves enough to do away with the old face-to-face. Certainly letters appear to be the forerunner, but they too were kept in check by the limitations of the postage service and its relative non-immediacy compared to the modern equivalents. Thus, for the first time in our history, art, journalism and social skills will cease to be the necessities of a prosperous world. No, civilisation hasn't quite slipped into the sea yet, but with the flaky cocksores of the SMS generation poised to take over at the click of the nursing home door, how far away can it be?

I fondly recall the days when the strength of an opponent's argument was directly proportional to the amount of spit that was on your face at the end of his speech. In those days, you really had to have balls; weak arguments would simply collapse in the face of a grimacing adversary. Consequently, a decent standard was maintained and all parties were the better for it. Comparable situations today don't have this benefit. Spared of having to stare directly into the eyes of their audience, people are free to let any thought that pops into their ugly, misshapen heads out into the world. No more can the inherent humanity of a mano-a-mano or womano-a-womano or mano-a-womano change your mind about spurting off on some vitriolic rant. Now the enemy is faceless, and any impulse can be instantly gratified.

We are in for a dismal future, my Bens. A time when published opinion no longer has to comply to editorial standards of journalistic excellence, where even the numbest what-I-had-for-breakfast loggers are legitimate. It will see the crumbling of the barrier between author and audience. Criticism will be supplanted by competition. The artist, the author, will no longer be revered. Onloggers, in their peculiarly mundane way, are bringing about the destruction of a cultural system that has been in place since we split off from the other apes; that of art as sacred; that of the artist as enlightened; that of the semi-colon. With their dangerous prorogation of DIY, they will undo culture itself and level out civilisation into a meaningless, communist spread of accessibility. I call an end to them all! But what can you do when the problem is compounded by market-savvy giants like Google™ offering a wide variety of services free of charge and allowing any fucker with a pair of fingers to prattle on endlessly about his horrible life, or lack thereof? The biggest of business thriving on the smallest of people. Today, Yesterday, Tomorrow — Guess what?, So I was doing this cheek, right?, Heeeeyyyyy. Oh, I can't look.

One Stop Stop

Ah, now here's a blip. With my dual miseries out of the way — the fuckers kept me till four — I am free to drip, drip, drip into the hours rejoice. What's that — thirty? Well, thirty-three. Well, thirty-five. Stop me if you've— The point being that the previous marked day, in May, was, by all accounts, severely lacking in the whelm department. In fagged, it was so piddlesome that some thought it the end of the matter, rather than what it actually was: the beginning. But thisteenth is where we really begin the begin. Ing. I'd do the dance, but I'm too into lacteal — though in a non-arrogant, 'stud in student' kind of way.

Now, I know what you're all thinking. You're thinking, 'He doesn't know what I'm thinking. He has no idea. He's just pretending to know what I'm thinking.' Well, in a way, you'd be half-right. The wording, I'm sure, would differ quite substantially. But I am a medium of substance. Like literature. I concern myself not with triffles of style or steed. I aim for the bones of the matter. The philistines can toy with the meat. Worth, then, is that peculiar substance which hones in on the skeleton, as if a dribbling, mutant X-ray. As if, hurt by the ways of the world, it shuts off its senses and drowns in the toilet bowl, a tragedy heightened by low-angle viewings and improved by vigorous editing.

Oh goody. This is not, this is not! a trumble (9ah!) or anything of that ilk, creed or ilk. It is butter deeply dodgy clutch of powder which the faintest of breezes could scatter. I thus suggest you keep your facial orifices in check, or wait for the cold to conclude if you have one. Summer, then. When the winds are low. Plus, it'll look better with the sun beating all over it and grey summer skirts nearby. Rabbits, gardenias, ugly small people. The distraction helps, believe me. Hm? Oh good, it's over. I hope you realise how much this hurts.

The 365th Postman

Well here I am. Please accept the fact that this is the 365th post and I won't have anything particularly enteresting to say (also accept the fact that yesterday I breakfasted on peach and oats, mm yum). Anyway, hello — and, well, goodbye. I think I'll break a bottle on something to celebrate the occasion.

Placeholder #2

Not even a yeah yet? Farg.

Placeholder #1

May 15th.

A Matter of Maith

Fear not, my flock. While my performance on the day in question admittedly left more than a little to be desired (I was away for most it), I feel the main issue here is one of profound misinterpretation. This is not an event that, in the words of a certain beehived contemporary, draws to a close. Rather, it is a drastic shift in practice that shall continue for as long as its exponents can sustain it. Maith, then, was merely to signify the beginning of the renaissance, not the whole of it. Renaissances are seldom confined to twenty-four little hours.

Nevertheless, my pitiful eighteen words could, with the addition of an extra letter, have spelt disaster if it were not for the efforts of a certain beehived contemporary, who gallantly stepped up to the plate in the absence of the promised one and bunted the fury of expectant fans. This semi-Herculean feat has since earned the lion-faced Limey a certain prized place on my altogether uncertain ladder, and with it the infamous platter of dubious merit. While not yet a second home, as it is with Bodo Yodo, it is, at the least, a favoured hotel, whose staff now know him exclusively as Oh, him again. Congratulations think sorry I are in order. Sorry, I think congratulations are in order.

But it will take more than just a few cursory nods to the eighth to bring about this cultural revolution. It will take persistence, hard work and perseverance. And it will require absolute vision — or, failing that, competent dictation software. Your propheteering narrator will not let you down. Again. Well, he may.

Umma Bathos

This is a small blip to reconcile the anniversary issue. The big blip will follow. Well, it may.

5808

The mushing of clouds, the flashing of lavs, the bubbling of brooks will mark the coming of something truly truly. No, not quite the Second, but something to do in the meanwhile. It promises to be as underwhelming as all the prior attempts, so you've no excuse not to hop on board. Pack now. The Beehive, the Medium, the Pervert, the Standard and yours truly truly. Real heads on blocks stuff. Renaissance, then a month of nothing much. To celebrate, to cheer, a third full year. And by full I mean negligible. Quick, quick, the train arrives late and leaves soon. Bah bah bah.

And after the inevitable throw-off near the equator (tuned, if memory serves, to G flat), we shall shrug our collective selves and unpack the picnic we'd packed in case it proved as underwhelming as all the prior attempts. That was the fun of it, we knew that. In fact we all half-secretly hoped for it not to eventuate. What fun is that work, that standard? How could it ever compete with friends, a picnic and non-oppressive desert heat? Sure, posterity may wish otherwise, but posterity can wait. For now, there is you, there is — oh wait.

Oh the anguish of effort! What worth is it? We kid — we kid week out — with the notion that we are selflessly achieving an end over the Moment; that we are sacrificing the joys of experience for the benefit of personkind; that we are, God help us, sculpting the nothingness into something tangible so as John and Jane Doe can live better, fuller lives. But we (they!) know it is not a grave weight, nor is it altruistic. That explanation, or excuse, only continues because many people do get pleasure from it. Really? says cavemonet, I thought I was the only one. But I digress: Onwards! Let us fail and rejoice in Ecuador. Pack a desert luncheon; it is pleasure in spite, not because, of the fall. 4.U.C. the failures of life are but failures of expectation. Which is not to say you should dispense with yours. It shall be the weight of 5808 that makes it — er — good. Am I right, girls?