Can be found here.
I have nothing to add.
28.8.10
27.8.10
WR: Come on now, Newsweek.
Rock radio may have gone soft, but 'Exile on Main Street' is still musical Viagra.-Newsweek article on how remastered Jagger kind of pales but is still Jagger and indie kids are pussies
This, at least, is undeniably true. Fittingly, the album starts off with the best song about erectile dysfunction ever written, to my knowledge at least. When I was fifteen, I was not aware that it was about erectile dysfunction, but it definitely became my teen angst anthem.
The video is worthwhile as well.
This, at least, is undeniably true. Fittingly, the album starts off with the best song about erectile dysfunction ever written, to my knowledge at least. When I was fifteen, I was not aware that it was about erectile dysfunction, but it definitely became my teen angst anthem.
The video is worthwhile as well.
26.8.10
Tendon, we need to talk
Look, I like that you make great ropes at half the price of Mammut. I like that you're a Czech company and small and not notably evil. But I have an issue: What the shit is a womens' climbing rope?
I get that the gender divide thing is lucrative. At least women's clif bars taste marginally better, but they have less calories and protein which kind of defeats the purpose of a clif bar, and the New Age woman dancing under a moon on the wrapper is kind of irritating. Women's bike shorts also somewhat make sense, although I bought men's bike shorts because they were cheaper and they work just fine (maybe because I have the ass of a small man). In almost every sport there is a women's edition of something, usually pink or turquoise and covered in those really annoying flowers, to show that we women athletes are sassy yet feminine, obviously. I like that in our grand capitalist economy I can buy skis for my weight and gloves that fit my hands, but I would appreciate less pink in the marketing and more common sense.
As a woman (pseudo)climber, I weigh about as much as your average fourteen year old boy and I'm sure your rope can't tell the difference. If I fall, I just need a rope that won't snap, regardless of my gender. The only logical way to market a women's rope would be to say it's lighter (say a 9) for our frail frames, but the Tendon women's rope is a solid, midweight 10.2 mm.
So yeah, Tendon, stop abusing the gender marketing thing so flagrantly. I suppose I should be glad that your rope isn't pink.
Remotely related: Beth Rodden is a sexpot.
I get that the gender divide thing is lucrative. At least women's clif bars taste marginally better, but they have less calories and protein which kind of defeats the purpose of a clif bar, and the New Age woman dancing under a moon on the wrapper is kind of irritating. Women's bike shorts also somewhat make sense, although I bought men's bike shorts because they were cheaper and they work just fine (maybe because I have the ass of a small man). In almost every sport there is a women's edition of something, usually pink or turquoise and covered in those really annoying flowers, to show that we women athletes are sassy yet feminine, obviously. I like that in our grand capitalist economy I can buy skis for my weight and gloves that fit my hands, but I would appreciate less pink in the marketing and more common sense.
As a woman (pseudo)climber, I weigh about as much as your average fourteen year old boy and I'm sure your rope can't tell the difference. If I fall, I just need a rope that won't snap, regardless of my gender. The only logical way to market a women's rope would be to say it's lighter (say a 9) for our frail frames, but the Tendon women's rope is a solid, midweight 10.2 mm.
So yeah, Tendon, stop abusing the gender marketing thing so flagrantly. I suppose I should be glad that your rope isn't pink.
Remotely related: Beth Rodden is a sexpot.
25.8.10
The Umbrella from Piccadilly
My translation of Deštník z Piccadilly, my favourite poem by Jaroslav Seifert (Nobel Laureate in poetry and one of the best Czech poets). I started it a few months ago and took a hiatus when I misplaced the original collection. By the time I found it it was finals season at university and I was not feeling particularly romantic. It may have been translated before and my version may not really approach the towering heights of the original, but I quite like it.
He who is lost in feeling
should fall in love
perhaps with the Queen of England.
Why not!
Her face is on every stamp
of the ancient kingdom.
If, however, he asks
for a date in Hyde Park,
he can be certain
of waiting in vain.
If, however, he is even a little sensible
he will wisely say to himself:
But of course, I know,
It's raining in Hyde Park today.
When he was returning from England,
my son bought me on Piccadilly Circus
a walking umbrella.
When I need to,
I have above my head
my own small sky
which may be black,
but in its taut wires
can stream the mercy of God
like electricity.
I open the umbrella, even when it's not raining
like a canopy
above a book of Shakespeare's sonnets
that I carry in my pocket.
There are moments, however,
when I am terrified
even of the brightly lit bouquet of the cosmos.
Regardless of its beauty
it menaces with its infiniteness
which is all too similar
to the sleep after death.
It menaces with the chill and emptiness
of its thousands of stars
which lie to us at night
with their light.
The one they named Venus
is simply monstrous.
Cliffs still boil there
and like gigantic ocean waves
mountains rise up
and flaming sulphur rains.
We always ask where hell is.
It's there!
What use, though, is a frail umbrella
against the cosmos!
Anyway I don't even carry it.
I have my hands full
with walking
clutched tightly to my Earth
like a night moth in the daytime
to the rough bark of a tree.
All my life I've searched for the Eden
that used to be here,
and traces of it I found
only on the lips of a woman
and on the contours of her skin
dewed with love.
All my life I've yearned
for freedom.
Finally I've found the door
through which it is possible to enter it.
It is death!
Today when I am old
once in a while a lovely woman's face
passes through my lashes
and her smile stirs my blood.
Shyly I turn to look at her
and I remember the Queen of England
whose face is on every stamp
of the ancient kingdom.
God save the Queen!
Oh yes, I very well know,
it's raining in Hyde Park today!
He who is lost in feeling
should fall in love
perhaps with the Queen of England.
Why not!
Her face is on every stamp
of the ancient kingdom.
If, however, he asks
for a date in Hyde Park,
he can be certain
of waiting in vain.
If, however, he is even a little sensible
he will wisely say to himself:
But of course, I know,
It's raining in Hyde Park today.
When he was returning from England,
my son bought me on Piccadilly Circus
a walking umbrella.
When I need to,
I have above my head
my own small sky
which may be black,
but in its taut wires
can stream the mercy of God
like electricity.
I open the umbrella, even when it's not raining
like a canopy
above a book of Shakespeare's sonnets
that I carry in my pocket.
There are moments, however,
when I am terrified
even of the brightly lit bouquet of the cosmos.
Regardless of its beauty
it menaces with its infiniteness
which is all too similar
to the sleep after death.
It menaces with the chill and emptiness
of its thousands of stars
which lie to us at night
with their light.
The one they named Venus
is simply monstrous.
Cliffs still boil there
and like gigantic ocean waves
mountains rise up
and flaming sulphur rains.
We always ask where hell is.
It's there!
What use, though, is a frail umbrella
against the cosmos!
Anyway I don't even carry it.
I have my hands full
with walking
clutched tightly to my Earth
like a night moth in the daytime
to the rough bark of a tree.
All my life I've searched for the Eden
that used to be here,
and traces of it I found
only on the lips of a woman
and on the contours of her skin
dewed with love.
All my life I've yearned
for freedom.
Finally I've found the door
through which it is possible to enter it.
It is death!
Today when I am old
once in a while a lovely woman's face
passes through my lashes
and her smile stirs my blood.
Shyly I turn to look at her
and I remember the Queen of England
whose face is on every stamp
of the ancient kingdom.
God save the Queen!
Oh yes, I very well know,
it's raining in Hyde Park today!
22.8.10
WR: Ah ouais, ah bon.
Another car ride tune - Quebec ska, Les colocs, whose musical career ended when the lead singer committed harakiri. This song is pretty cheerful, though, and features depanneurs, tabernac!, and hitting on way too young girls. Solid way to spend an afternoon I suppose.
20.8.10
I love you Canada
Land of weed and bears, pretty much.
Strange to be reading the BBC (and using highspeed internet) in a place where warm water is somewhat of a commodity and getting the daily paper involves a bit of a trek.
Strange to be reading the BBC (and using highspeed internet) in a place where warm water is somewhat of a commodity and getting the daily paper involves a bit of a trek.
19.8.10
From a Newsweek article on logic
Even when we intend to deploy the full force of our rational faculties, we are often as ineffectual as eunuchs at an orgy.
Thank you, Newsweek, for keeping it classy.
Thank you, Newsweek, for keeping it classy.
17.8.10
To do after a long bike trip
Read books, repeat quotations, sleep, enjoy the feeling of a mattress, eat cream jogurt constantly while not getting any physical exercise at all, get violently ill, meet puppies, drink beers, ride trams, argue with the national government, buy old books in a frenzy, listen to grandparents.
So far so good.
Also:
Domorodci na pobřeží slonoviny
Posílaj si ráno slony pro noviny.
Když je cestou ztratí, hloupí slonové,
musí zpátky do trafiky pro nové.
Unrelated minor rage: Perhaps I am hopelessly pedantic and old-fashioned, but stop making movies out of Dr. Seuss books that don't feature Dr. Seuss illustrations - you're making a trite piece of shit out of a nicely illustrated poem. Gargh.
So far so good.
Also:
Domorodci na pobřeží slonoviny
Posílaj si ráno slony pro noviny.
Když je cestou ztratí, hloupí slonové,
musí zpátky do trafiky pro nové.
Unrelated minor rage: Perhaps I am hopelessly pedantic and old-fashioned, but stop making movies out of Dr. Seuss books that don't feature Dr. Seuss illustrations - you're making a trite piece of shit out of a nicely illustrated poem. Gargh.
16.8.10
Today in the main town square (under the tail almost)
I saw two somber men on the porch of a pub drinking halfliters of pilsner - and eating slices of watermelon.
1.8.10
The land overflowing with mead
"Find the land overflowing with milk and mead."
-prophecy to the leader of the Slavic tribe that became the Czechs (sound advice as to what to look for in a country)
Ah yes. No mead in sight, but sunset on tramlines, old staircases in musty apartment buildings and real beer and real bread as we pack our bags and look southwest, all the while anxiously scouring the Internet for at this point overdue news from Bolivia. My stalwart cycling companion is in the courtyard, putting the finishing touches on what has become affectionately known as the caravan (think plastic Carrefour bags and interestingly placed bungee cords). I laughed at him until he pointed out the cucumber poking out from in between my extremely professional drybags. Our dreams are ambitious to the point of farfetchedness, but euphoria is mounting.
Teeth to the wind!
-prophecy to the leader of the Slavic tribe that became the Czechs (sound advice as to what to look for in a country)
Ah yes. No mead in sight, but sunset on tramlines, old staircases in musty apartment buildings and real beer and real bread as we pack our bags and look southwest, all the while anxiously scouring the Internet for at this point overdue news from Bolivia. My stalwart cycling companion is in the courtyard, putting the finishing touches on what has become affectionately known as the caravan (think plastic Carrefour bags and interestingly placed bungee cords). I laughed at him until he pointed out the cucumber poking out from in between my extremely professional drybags. Our dreams are ambitious to the point of farfetchedness, but euphoria is mounting.
Teeth to the wind!
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