Art · Nouveau · Ho

While there, he took photos of doorbells.

He took to putting the doorbell photos up online with little stories, or descriptions, or single sentences, about the people he imagined would live behind them.

Eventually, Andy self-published a book of the photos and the stories. The Doorbells Of Florence won a prize, got picked up by a publisher, and had a reading (as a sort-of-launch) tonight. Andy is as engaging and funny a reader as he is a writer, and although the downstairs room at Stanford's was suffocatingly hot, it was a very entertaining evening. I heartily recommend this excellent book. Read excerpts here, and then go buy it from Amazon.com or Amazon.co.uk.

Andy now lives in America. As an American living in the UK, I can relate to this. My friend Ally Shaw is another traveller: Chicago to San Francisco to LA to London. She, too, has just self-published a book: The Desperate Ones. When I describe this book to others, I usually use the words "poetic cyberpunk." Words like "dystopian" and "apocalyptic" usually make an appearance too. Her city, Pottersfield, can't be found on any map, but it's beautifully, densely imagined-- and it is dying. I'll let her tell it:

Dominion Capital has slated the walled city of Pottersfield for obliteration. Those within must survive or be subsumed. While hackers invent a resistant religion from Dominion Capital's tech discards, they discover survival rests with one man: Rhubarb Ward, a war veteran and ex-con whose military issue implant holds the key to the future of Pottersfield. Rhubarb is newly released from prison when he meets Lola. Fierce, cunning and addicted to the drug blue, she is the secret to his captive past. While the city's wealthiest residents are lifted out, the rest are trapped behind. Among them are a history professor obsessively recording his memories as he forgets them, a suburban runaway compelled by the glamor of implosion and a call girl bent on meeting a new god even if it means martyrdom. Their lives intersect with a certainty that only some will survive to see the strange new world that blooms in the exit wound of the disappeared city.

I have a personal bias towards this book, since I helped edit it. Luckily it's the sort of book that rewards multiple readings, as all the spiderweb-like links between the various characters and their stories become clear. It does contain sex, drugs and violence; it also contains some unearthly beauty.

I'd love to know what you think of it. Meanwhile, what are you reading at the moment? Anything good?

That hasn't happened in a while. The last time I can think of was that Tower of London gig in '06. (My work in the interim has come from people just offering me things, or from phone calls that say "Aaaaaggghsomeone'sdroppedoutcanyoudoit.")

But last Thursday, I auditioned in Oxford for a production of Handel's Julius Caesar, and the next afternoon I got an email saying I'd got the title role.

So I'll be singing Caesar in early October. Handel's opera has a romantic plot involving Cleopatra, but the dastardly schemes of the villainous Ptolemy ensure that there's plenty of drama. The music can best be described as "Baroque awesomeness."

I'm going to have to cut my hair off.

This is going to RULE.

Yes, that's Donald Swann as in Flanders and Swann. Like Dudley Moore, he was a better composer than the comedy stuff gave him room for. He was also a big old fantasy nerd: he knew JRR Tolkien and set quite a few of his songs to music. (They're good, if a bit simplistic in places. Treebeard's song is my favourite. I rather prefer Stephen Oliver's settings, composed for the BBC radio dramatisation back in the Second Age.)
( How was it? )

wyte_phantom

Within the past few years I've happily acquired several good friends who are into reenactment. Last summer, out of curiosity to see what it was all about, I went to Berkeley Skirmish and really enjoyed it. Tatton proved that Berkeley hadn't been a fluke: it was seriously lovely.

One of the highlights for me was meeting a band called Squeake's Noyse. Anne-Marie (pipes, harp, vocals et alia) and Thor (drums, vocals) were very friendly and invited me to join them for a set on the Sunday, which was great fun. We discovered, among other things, a mutual love of Guillaume de Machaut. Anne-Marie's site has some lovely sound files: go and listen.

As always, deep and heartfelt thanks to the usual suspects (you know who you are, you reprobates!) for making a relative newcomer feel so welcome. And lastly, a very happy post-birthday to the only person who can enter and exit a wheelie bin elegantly: the fair and deadly wyte_phantom. Cheers!

I'm offline till Monday (celebrating wyte_phantom's birthday in a field in Cheshire), so if you want to contact me, try the mobile. Also if you leave me an annoying comment, I will not be able to retaliate till Monday, so now would be an ideal time to annoy me. Just sayin'.

Peter Davies of the English Democrat Party ["Putting England First!"] was elected Mayor of Doncaster in the 8 June elections. His manifesto included various money-saving promises: to cut Council salaries including his own; to eliminate "PC jobs" from the council; to abolish translation services for non-English speakers; and to stop Council funding of Doncaster's annual gay pride day.

On his first day in office, he gave an interview with the local BBC station. He was asked some questions about how he intended to put various parts of this manifesto into action: Transcript here; MP3 recording here. It's a riot. It is possibly the best thing since Paxman v Howard in '97. Highlights include the characterisation of "PC jobs" as "all these people who are, sort of, controlling thought processes and this sort of thing".

The abstention* and defection of Labour voters in the most recent UK elections has left, not a vacuum, but a sort of political black hole, sucking any kind of crap towards the centre of gravity: witness the two BNP members elected to the European Parliament. Attention, British electorate: if you didn't vote, this is your fault. On the other hand, it is kind of a brilliant move to have sent two BNP guys where they'll be surrounded by contemptuous foreigners and powerless to do anything about it. Hmm. Maybe next election you could send them all there?

*I nearly typed "abstinence." Mm-hm.

A new way to keep the cat off the kitchen worktop [Page contains embedded video, but no sound]

Camel versus bin. Did you know that the bin is the ancient enemy of the camel? Neither did I. But this young one does.

Ursula Le Guin is famous for the clarity and insight of her writing. Now the world-renowned author of Earthsea and Changing Planes brings us... Cat T'ai Chi.

Do you have a cat or other creature-companion? Post a photo in the comments, will you? I miss my cats.

(Also: YouTube video of a playful baby anteater.)

Thou blind man's mark, thou fool's self-chosen snare,
Fond fancy's scum, and dregs of scattered thought;
Band of all evils, cradle of causeless care;
Thou web of will, whose end is never wrought:
Desire, Desire! I have too dearly bought,
With price of mangled mind, thy worthless ware;
Too long, too long, asleep thou hast me brought,
Who shouldst my mind to higher things prepare,
But yet in vain thou hast my ruin sought,
In vain thou mad'st me to vain things aspire,
In vain thou kindlest all thy smoky fire,
For Virtue hath this better lesson taught:
Within myself to seek my only hire,
Desiring nought but how to kill Desire.

library_keeper

Sonnet 129

THE expense of spirit in a waste of shame
Is lust in action; and till action, lust
Is perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame,
Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust,
Enjoy'd no sooner but despised straight,
Past reason hunted, and no sooner had
Past reason hated, as a swallow'd bait
On purpose laid to make the taker mad;
Mad in pursuit and in possession so;
Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme;
A bliss in proof, and proved, a very woe;
Before, a joy proposed; behind, a dream.
All this the world well knows; yet none knows well
To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.

Love is too young to know what conscience is;
Yet who knows not conscience is born of love?
Then, gentle cheater, urge not my amiss,
Lest guilty of my faults thy sweet self prove:
For, thou betraying me, I do betray
My nobler part to my gross body's treason;
My soul doth tell my body that he may
Triumph in love; flesh stays no father reason;
But, rising at thy name, doth point out thee
As his triumphant prize. Proud of this pride,
He is contented thy poor drudge to be,
To stand in thy affairs, fall by thy side.
No want of conscience hold it that I call
Her 'love' for whose dear love I rise and fall.

My love is as a fever, longing still
For that which longer nurseth the disease,
Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,
The uncertain sickly appetite to please.
My reason, the physician to my love,
Angry that his prescriptions are not kept,
Hath left me, and I desperate now approve
Desire is death, which physic did except.
Past cure I am, now reason is past care,
And frantic-mad with evermore unrest;
My thoughts and my discourse as mad men's are,
At random from the truth vainly express'd;
For I have sworn thee fair and thought thee bright,
Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.

As an unperfect actor on the stage,
Who with his fear is put besides his part,
Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,
Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart;
So I, for fear of trust, forget to say
The perfect ceremony of love's rite,
And in mine own love's strength seem to decay,
O'ercharged with burthen of mine own love's might.
O, let my books be then the eloquence
And dumb presagers of my speaking breast,
Who plead for love, and look for recompense,
More than that tongue that more hath more express'd.
O learn to read what silent love hath writ:
To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.

Moscow's police chief, Vladimir Pronin, said “It’s unacceptable – gay pride parades shouldn’t be allowed.” Of course, that was before he got sacked when one of his senior officers went on a killing spree. This Times article suggests Luzhkov's head may be next on the block. Not a moment too soon, methinks.

The Dutch Eurovision entry has threatened to boycott the final if violence is used against gay marchers, as has happened in the previous two years.

The organisers of Slavic Pride speak up here.

Meanwhile, someone needs to sit the Moscow mayor down and explain a bit of history to him:

Tchaikovsky
Diaghilev
Nijinsky
Nureyev
Eisenstein
and more.

-- have lunch at the little Saturday food market in the square (but the line for coconuts is way too long. Damn.)

-- get the Tube to Outer Wherever for an audition, noticing that even though it's a weekend the Tube is functioning and gets you there on time

-- find that the audition is in a very large, very nice house full of friendly people

-- have a little time beforehand to wander around the garden (pleasant, flowery)

-- sing decently well for people who appear to like it, and have a pleasant chat afterwards

-- on way back to Tube, make friends with a large and playful ginger cat

-- have a smooth journey home, and notice that Help for Heroes is having a bake sale outside the station and cakes are 2 for 1

-- reflect that there's a birthday party tonight and buy ridiculous amounts of cake

-- notice that, improbably, the food market in the square is still going! And now the line for coconuts is much shorter.

-- COCONUT LOVE (this is all fattbuttsheep's fault)

-- prepare to attend mothninja's birthday celebrations, noting that there may well be Bloodshots.

-- Skål för fan!

Edit (some hours later): There were Bloodshots. There were many Bloodshots. So very many. And now there is a very pretty full moon. This is definitely a Good Day.

The National Portrait Gallery's photograph of the month is of Alan Moore and Melinda Gebbie.

Making Reading Fun Through Trickery has been one of somethingawful's finer Photoshop contests. (See also: honesty in fantasy book covers by mightygodking.)

Kate Beaton's Tesla the Celibate Scientist, of which you can buy sepia-toned prints.

The Star Trek Failure Generator: a handy resource for when your technobabble goes wrong. Not, in fact, a page just saying "WILLIAM SHATNER" in big letters.

Mightygodking's Nerdiest Sentence Ever Typed competition. Heavy on the comics and gaming nerdery; after reading the entire thread I swear you'll be able to smell the pungent basement-room-after-6-hour-D&D-marathon aroma. This is not necessarily a good thing.

Lastly: the two extremes of the Web are idiocy and inspiration, and collegehumor has a little of both. Here's We Didn't Start The Flamewar, a little song that tells you everything you need to know about online stupidity. By contrast, if you haven't yet experienced the justly famous Doctor Who/Eminem/Benny Hill mashup, then you're in for a treat: it's guaranteed to lift the spirits of even the most world-weary Time Lord.

(Of course, if you're a true nerd, you'll already have seen all these. In that case, you may now sneer at me. Bring it on, Federationinsigniapants.)