I have forsworn my rights to a long weekend, the long weekend most of Europe has at the moment in honour of a resurrected Jesus flying up to heaven after hanging around here for awhile, in favour of taking some four weeks of vacation this summer and still managing to have something like a Christmas holiday at the end of the year. And the F-word has been refused his 'bridge day' (a day off school and public sector workers are often given to make up a really substantial weekend when a stat holiday falls on a Tuesday or Thursday) so in any case it wouldn't have been a proper long weekend en couple. Nonetheless we're off to Düsseldorf again this aft. I'm very fond of his friends there. And oh, the beer, the beerhalls. Oh. And as you may have been able to tell from yesterday's post, I'm in quite desperate fucking need of a break from this place.
Speaking of, I've found a new blog I like attached to the local expat magazine, which I don't like. The great thing about Only in Belgium is it manages to find a stupid stat or story about this place more or less every day. And they're never a surprise. Just a "well, yeah."
Oh well. Accentuate the positive. The beer, the beerhalls. And the Rhine. Lovely big river, and we will sit next to it and drink beer if the weather holds. One of my problems with Brussels is there's no water, just the sewage river that's been buried. Initially that was distressing because of the gross sewage factor and because not having a river, lake or coast to the city made it difficult to orient myself; now that I'm oriented it's more a question of there being no relief to my mind; no water to stare at to relax a little bit. And somehow a city without water seems dirty to me. But having such a thought in relationship to thinking about the Rhine, however tenuously, calls up Coleridge's poem about a different, more 'romantic' time when Cologne (the city we'll TGV to before taking a local to the nearby Düsseldorf) and North Rhine Westphalia was not as clean as one notes these days:
In Kohln, a town of monks and bones,
And pavements fang'd with murderous stones
And rags, and hags, and hideous wenches;
I counted two and seventy stenches,
All well defined, and several stinks!
Ye Nymphs that reign o'er sewers and sinks,
The river Rhine, it is well known,
Doth wash your city of Cologne;
But tell me, Nymphs, what power divine
Shall henceforth wash the river Rhine?
I love me some Coleridge. It's personal, because his poems started plucking strong chords with me when I was very young, so I really do love him. Back in the days I used to vary my inebriations more I would wake up, lie in bed, and quite often the first line that presented itself to my pained consciousness was a thousand thousand slimy things lived on, and so did I, and it was somehow as though Coleridge was chiding me. In my imagination, he's a chubbier Nick Cave. About 40 years old. And fucks like a beast.
Can you imagine, if there is an afterlife in which we retain our consciousnesses more or less as we understand our consciousnesses, how strange and ghostly it must be for the souls of the dead to see how the living create new imaginings of them? And not being able to clear up any public misunderstandings by going on Oprah. Not being able to clean up your image by starting an NGO. Not being offered career-resurrecting film roles by Quentin Tarantino. Not being able to grow old or fat or graceless or to make bad facial-hair-type decisions so that people stop being interested in you sexually. And still, everybody having all these strange ideas and emotions about you, these strange constructions of you. How weird.
giovedì, maggio 21, 2009
mercoledì, maggio 20, 2009
The limits of the zoological approach
I am really having a hard time being here at the mo, especially since having the chat at work with my managers about when and how I'd like to leave next year - it means that now there is no chance they'll take the step of firing me (very expensive in Belgium), which means I'm almost definitely now here for another 14 to 16 months. It feels like a prison sentence today.
Of late, since I decided to take a more zoological approach to life with this nation of fuckwits, I've been having an easier time overall. As much as I'd like to slot entire nationalities into comprehensive stereotypes, you do find multiple intelligent and resourceful people here able to have an idea and take it to some sort of natural conclusion without accidentally suffocating themselves on it, and then when you find those people it's such a lovely surprise. And if you remind yourself that you're not here forever, some of the stupid things the Wallonians do, like name their dogs Caramel, or descend into utter blank-faced, lobotomized shrugging confusion when you scream profanities at them for nearly running you over on pedestrian crossings, or take 8 months to proceed through any bureaucratic process, get quite - well - 'cute' isn't the word. 'Zoologically interesting' probably works better.
The thing is, zoological approach or not, this is a bad, unhealthy place with the same endemic corruption as one finds in Italy, the same manipulations of power, the same culture of immunity and being above the law once you have a certain amount of money or a certain amount of fame. All the way from the child-rape-and-snuff-party-lovin' elite (multiple people claiming to have been victims came forward to identify and testify; no follow up) to TV presenter and children's author Gie Laenen (sentenced to four years in prison a year ago for sexually assaulting 25 boys over a 30 year period last year; has not yet been arrested to begin his prison sentence and, apparently, will not be) to an annoying 26-year-old TV presenter, David Antoine, who killed a pensioner with his Audi last year while she was using a pedestrian crosswalk and he was talking on his fucking cellphone (his license was suspended for two months and he has to do 100 hours of community work).
In all those cases and hundreds more, there's a pervasive, revolting tendency to fail to protect the most vulnerable in favour of protecting the ruling classes. And the ruling classes don't even use their immunity to develop any sort of competence. They just use it to give the world excellent basis for those persistent rumours Madeleine McCann is here - in the fucking paedophilia capital of the developed world. Retch. Tout court, this place is disgusting and hay fever isn't the only way it makes me fucking sick.
I guess it's been given an excellent example of victimizing the defenseless with impunity by its dominant religion. I love how the Catholic Church pretends to be falling all over itself to address instances of child abuse at its institutions in the past, and still goes through every arduous and expensive legal channel it can find to prevent its child abusers from being named or facing criminal prosecution. When Mum converted I tried hard to respect her decision and her revelation, but I had to ask eventually how she could stomach the very, very old corruption of the Church as an institution. She'd actually brought it up with her spiritual advisors, and they'd helped her draw a distinction between the spiritual and the political sides of Catholicism, which had reassured her. Which, I forebore from pointing out at the time and will struggle to continue to not point out, out of respect for her decision and her revelation, is marvellously fucking convenient for the political side of Catholicism.
Of late, since I decided to take a more zoological approach to life with this nation of fuckwits, I've been having an easier time overall. As much as I'd like to slot entire nationalities into comprehensive stereotypes, you do find multiple intelligent and resourceful people here able to have an idea and take it to some sort of natural conclusion without accidentally suffocating themselves on it, and then when you find those people it's such a lovely surprise. And if you remind yourself that you're not here forever, some of the stupid things the Wallonians do, like name their dogs Caramel, or descend into utter blank-faced, lobotomized shrugging confusion when you scream profanities at them for nearly running you over on pedestrian crossings, or take 8 months to proceed through any bureaucratic process, get quite - well - 'cute' isn't the word. 'Zoologically interesting' probably works better.
The thing is, zoological approach or not, this is a bad, unhealthy place with the same endemic corruption as one finds in Italy, the same manipulations of power, the same culture of immunity and being above the law once you have a certain amount of money or a certain amount of fame. All the way from the child-rape-and-snuff-party-lovin' elite (multiple people claiming to have been victims came forward to identify and testify; no follow up) to TV presenter and children's author Gie Laenen (sentenced to four years in prison a year ago for sexually assaulting 25 boys over a 30 year period last year; has not yet been arrested to begin his prison sentence and, apparently, will not be) to an annoying 26-year-old TV presenter, David Antoine, who killed a pensioner with his Audi last year while she was using a pedestrian crosswalk and he was talking on his fucking cellphone (his license was suspended for two months and he has to do 100 hours of community work).
In all those cases and hundreds more, there's a pervasive, revolting tendency to fail to protect the most vulnerable in favour of protecting the ruling classes. And the ruling classes don't even use their immunity to develop any sort of competence. They just use it to give the world excellent basis for those persistent rumours Madeleine McCann is here - in the fucking paedophilia capital of the developed world. Retch. Tout court, this place is disgusting and hay fever isn't the only way it makes me fucking sick.
I guess it's been given an excellent example of victimizing the defenseless with impunity by its dominant religion. I love how the Catholic Church pretends to be falling all over itself to address instances of child abuse at its institutions in the past, and still goes through every arduous and expensive legal channel it can find to prevent its child abusers from being named or facing criminal prosecution. When Mum converted I tried hard to respect her decision and her revelation, but I had to ask eventually how she could stomach the very, very old corruption of the Church as an institution. She'd actually brought it up with her spiritual advisors, and they'd helped her draw a distinction between the spiritual and the political sides of Catholicism, which had reassured her. Which, I forebore from pointing out at the time and will struggle to continue to not point out, out of respect for her decision and her revelation, is marvellously fucking convenient for the political side of Catholicism.
martedì, maggio 19, 2009
Alternatively, of course . . .
Watching the odd episode of A Bit of Fry and Laurie these days. I don't know if those two have ever been funnier. Including in Blackadder, which I loved them in. Maybe it's just the state of mind I'm in these days . . . a state of mind which makes sketches like this seem like the funniest thing ever:
I've said it before and I'll say it again: I'm glad Hugh Laurie has found a way to make bajillions of dollars and enter the self-loathing erotic dreams of millions of women on House. But I don't get it. I don't understand how he 'makes' it with something that crappy, with a fucking hospital drama, to a greater degree than the brilliant, brilliant things he's done in the past. It's one of the great mysteries of the capitalist age, as far as I'm concerned. Hospital dramas in a more general sense are a mystery to me. I've never really got them. Oh well. It's given me time to do other things, like watch A Bit of Fry and Laurie repeats.
One sketch was rather striking given the current expenses scandal agitating Britain:
I've said it before and I'll say it again: I'm glad Hugh Laurie has found a way to make bajillions of dollars and enter the self-loathing erotic dreams of millions of women on House. But I don't get it. I don't understand how he 'makes' it with something that crappy, with a fucking hospital drama, to a greater degree than the brilliant, brilliant things he's done in the past. It's one of the great mysteries of the capitalist age, as far as I'm concerned. Hospital dramas in a more general sense are a mystery to me. I've never really got them. Oh well. It's given me time to do other things, like watch A Bit of Fry and Laurie repeats.
One sketch was rather striking given the current expenses scandal agitating Britain:
lunedì, maggio 18, 2009
If you aren't Dutch, you're not selling fast enough
Saw a Werner Herzog documentary last night, How Much Wood Would a Woodchuck Chuck . . . did I mention how much I miss weed? It was great but if I was high it would have been revelatory. As it was, by the end I was wondering what the fuck he was on in the 1970s. The film lingered on the auctioneering competition beyond the point that a straight person could be expected to be interested in. I think that's the great thing about the sort of drugs I like . . . they lengthen my attention span.
Anyways, there are no great twists or surprises in it, so though I recommend you watch it I have no hesitation in telling you it's coverage of the 1976 World Auctioneering Championships, and that the winner was Steve Liptay, who came from Bowmanville, Ontario, and who now runs an auction house for cars on the east coast. A great many of my intimates in Canada were from Bowmanville or its surrounds, and it did my heart so much good to hear that accent again - your standard Canadian accent but with a bit extra. Being away from Canada so long, working with a collection of Brits, and living with a man from a country where the word 'groin' is polysyllabic has made me very fond of my own accent, and the Canadian accent generally. There's a softness and gentleness about it. Like a sober, unprovoked Irish person.
But back to the movie. I liked it a good deal but I'm pretty convinced if Herzog wasn't high whilst putting it together he had been holding his breath and twirling. I have a certain distrust of it because in the English version, the subtitles saying what the people are saying in English whilst Herzog dubs them over in German are visibly not very similar to what the people are saying. It makes them seem rather more empty-headed than is probably quite fair. I also think it's rather odd he chooses the language of auctioneering as the new and perhaps final language of capitalism when - you know - it's awfully fucking old, isn't it? It's the oldest language of capitalism. The first language of capitalism. I think I either missed his point here, or his point wasn't very good.
Speaking of, have you ever heard of a Dutch auction? Flower wholesalers use it because flowers are time sensitive, and no matter how fucking fast an auctioneer goes, he can't be as fast as a Dutch auction. I went to a flower wholesalers with Elvis a couple of years back and I couldn't believe it, it was like a roomful of Jeopardy! contestants hitting buzzers. The idea is to start buying at a high level and then wind the price down; as soon as you see a price for the lot you're willing to pay, you hit the buzzer. Fast! Superfast.
I don't know why all auctions don't use it. I would love if there was some comparative study I could look at to see which style of auctioning fetched the highest bids - Dutch or English. My instinctive guess is that as a norm Dutch auction prices would be higher, but that possibly average English auction prices would be higher because occasionally you'll get buyers wrapped up in a bidding war pushing prices beyond projected levels. It would be very hard to imagine fine art sold in a Dutch auction, for example. It's interesting. There's a different idea in these types of auctions about how markets and competition work, though they're both capitalist, both competitive. It's just the Dutch auction appears 100x more efficient - if you're willing to do without occasionally hitting prices outstripping any reasonable expectation of what the price should be.
Anyways, there are no great twists or surprises in it, so though I recommend you watch it I have no hesitation in telling you it's coverage of the 1976 World Auctioneering Championships, and that the winner was Steve Liptay, who came from Bowmanville, Ontario, and who now runs an auction house for cars on the east coast. A great many of my intimates in Canada were from Bowmanville or its surrounds, and it did my heart so much good to hear that accent again - your standard Canadian accent but with a bit extra. Being away from Canada so long, working with a collection of Brits, and living with a man from a country where the word 'groin' is polysyllabic has made me very fond of my own accent, and the Canadian accent generally. There's a softness and gentleness about it. Like a sober, unprovoked Irish person.
But back to the movie. I liked it a good deal but I'm pretty convinced if Herzog wasn't high whilst putting it together he had been holding his breath and twirling. I have a certain distrust of it because in the English version, the subtitles saying what the people are saying in English whilst Herzog dubs them over in German are visibly not very similar to what the people are saying. It makes them seem rather more empty-headed than is probably quite fair. I also think it's rather odd he chooses the language of auctioneering as the new and perhaps final language of capitalism when - you know - it's awfully fucking old, isn't it? It's the oldest language of capitalism. The first language of capitalism. I think I either missed his point here, or his point wasn't very good.
Speaking of, have you ever heard of a Dutch auction? Flower wholesalers use it because flowers are time sensitive, and no matter how fucking fast an auctioneer goes, he can't be as fast as a Dutch auction. I went to a flower wholesalers with Elvis a couple of years back and I couldn't believe it, it was like a roomful of Jeopardy! contestants hitting buzzers. The idea is to start buying at a high level and then wind the price down; as soon as you see a price for the lot you're willing to pay, you hit the buzzer. Fast! Superfast.
I don't know why all auctions don't use it. I would love if there was some comparative study I could look at to see which style of auctioning fetched the highest bids - Dutch or English. My instinctive guess is that as a norm Dutch auction prices would be higher, but that possibly average English auction prices would be higher because occasionally you'll get buyers wrapped up in a bidding war pushing prices beyond projected levels. It would be very hard to imagine fine art sold in a Dutch auction, for example. It's interesting. There's a different idea in these types of auctions about how markets and competition work, though they're both capitalist, both competitive. It's just the Dutch auction appears 100x more efficient - if you're willing to do without occasionally hitting prices outstripping any reasonable expectation of what the price should be.
domenica, maggio 17, 2009
The Making of the English Sewing Jessica
I was in quite a bad mood all weekend. Couldn't tell you why, exactly, but feeling very misanthropic indeed. I think it's The Making of the English Working Class. That is a fucking downer of a book - very good, very engaging, but very bleak, and you look at that country now and you know it doesn't have a happy ending, right?
So I refused to see anybody or have civil conversations and instead sewed. A bag, some boxers, tailored some shirts. Read about the disenfranchisement of the weavers. Watched Irma Vep. Thought about all the different ways different nationalities suck. But mostly sewed. It's frustrating and calming at the same time, sewing, or at least it is for me because I don't grasp what I'm doing yet. Getting there, though. The boxers were most exciting because I had never sewn a fly before, and had had no idea how to. There are all these new concepts that are forcing their way into my spatial awareness, which is a bit odd because I haven't been using my spatial awareness much over the past few years.
Although if I think about it, I think the chanciness of my mood has to do with Friday's work meeting where we more or less went through the likelihood that I'll leave in a little more than a year if they're not able to transfer me to the Asian magazine. It was already true before the meeting but saying these things out loud makes them so much more real. And thinking back, that made Friday night sleepless. Well, for about an hour and a half, which counts as a sleepless night by my tree-sloth standards. For about an hour I lay there thinking 'it's lots of money, what are you doing thinking about leaving, you're going to be indigent some day' and then I spent half an hour thinking about all the ways in which I'll avoid being indigent, and then I fell asleep. It hasn't been bothering me since then in an out-loud kind of way, but I think it's been playing havoc with my mood.
So I refused to see anybody or have civil conversations and instead sewed. A bag, some boxers, tailored some shirts. Read about the disenfranchisement of the weavers. Watched Irma Vep. Thought about all the different ways different nationalities suck. But mostly sewed. It's frustrating and calming at the same time, sewing, or at least it is for me because I don't grasp what I'm doing yet. Getting there, though. The boxers were most exciting because I had never sewn a fly before, and had had no idea how to. There are all these new concepts that are forcing their way into my spatial awareness, which is a bit odd because I haven't been using my spatial awareness much over the past few years.
Although if I think about it, I think the chanciness of my mood has to do with Friday's work meeting where we more or less went through the likelihood that I'll leave in a little more than a year if they're not able to transfer me to the Asian magazine. It was already true before the meeting but saying these things out loud makes them so much more real. And thinking back, that made Friday night sleepless. Well, for about an hour and a half, which counts as a sleepless night by my tree-sloth standards. For about an hour I lay there thinking 'it's lots of money, what are you doing thinking about leaving, you're going to be indigent some day' and then I spent half an hour thinking about all the ways in which I'll avoid being indigent, and then I fell asleep. It hasn't been bothering me since then in an out-loud kind of way, but I think it's been playing havoc with my mood.
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