commonpeople

If you were hosting a Book Club meeting in your home and you wanted to play some background music, what would you choose?

Buddy and I watched Noam Chomsky's Manufacturing Consent last night. It was the first time we were properly introduced to his ideas and what he stands for, which is (I think) a form of socialist anarchism that has the potential for being true democracy. The documentary is now dated, filmed when the internet didn't exist and people still permed their hair. Chomsky looks a lot like Buddy's dad and made a lot of sense to me, especially in his criticism of North America's news moguls and blunders by the American government in the past decades. The documentary even presented some of the accusations levelled at Chomsky over the years and then proceeded to destroy them in the best John Stewart way possible, allowing the man to come out intact in the end.

It got us both thinking about politics and why we don't engage more with it. Any of it. And how a lot of Chomsky's predictions in the 80s have come true nowadays, but also how a lot of good has been done (his help to expose, for example, the atrocities in East Timor.)

Have you noticed around London these posters about benefit thieves? The ads are on TV too (saw one last night during The X Factor.) Here it is. These ads show people from working class backgrounds who realistically don't make more than 10 grand a year portrayed as criminals. Let's suppose, theoretically, that the people in these ads stole one grand in benefits. They get caught, prosecuted and ordered to pay back. Perhaps they even get sent to prison. Then let's suppose that in prison they meet 498 other benefit criminals who also stole a grand each. That's 500 thousands pounds in total.

Well, why are there no ads around town, especially in Canary Wharf, targeting bankers who manipulated the financial system for their own greedy reasons until we were all in a mess, and who are now still walking home with millions of pounds in bonuses? Surely one of those bankers is worth more than 500 working class benefit scroungers? These ads strike me as so prejudiced that I'm left wishing the best of luck to any dole scrounger and benefit thief out there.

On a lighter note, I learnt in The Guardian yesterday of this interesting photo game played with Flickr accounts. It's called noticings. I think some of you photographers would enjoy it. To me, it's a good exercise in paying more attention to the environment around you within a set of rules and structure (this month, for example, you get bonus points for photographing red things). It looks like I'm the only person in my borough playing the game so far. Won't you play with me?

I may have to quit NaNoWriMo this year... because of tendonitis.

I'm going to rest for a few days and see how it goes. If my hands improve, I'll continue even though I won't make the 50.000 finishing line.

A group of people stranded on an island - check. Mysterious going ons - check. Dark events in the past - check. Love quadrangles and sexy meaningful looks - check. Bad dialogue - check. A goth couple - check. A cute dog - check. About a gazillion episodes ahead of you before the truth comes out - check. If the producers of Harper's Island wanted a worthy successor to Lost they could have done much worse.

Harper's Island is a cross between The Bold and the Beautiful on a high budget with Agatha Christie's bloodiest plot lines and Sweet Valley High's characters. It's 90210 if you could enjoy a character getting murdered each episode. It's Jason Voorhees visiting Dawson's Creek. It's pretty bad but oh so addictive by episode 2. Like naturalbornkaos, I recommend you just watch it without investigating places like IMDB, otherwise you are likely to bump into spoilers.

Nothing like some sexy young people getting their heads chopped off to get you through winter!

This weekend, Kevin and I just chilled out at home and did my favourite thing in the world: nothing! Some books were read, some NaNoWriMo was written, some coffee was drunk and some trash reality TV was watched. Yesterday, we briefly walked around Victoria Park and I recorded my first two videos EVER on my brother's ancient hand-me-down digital camera. The first video is an experimental and heartbreaking portrayal of Kevin walking as a jogger goes past; the second video is a terrifying and gut-wrenching expose of seagulls going nuts over breadcrumbs.

Now I better stop procrastinating here and go kick some NaNoWriMo butt.

I’ve been lately listening to new albums by the Editors, the Raveonettes and White Lies (which I suppose isn’t one that's so new). Three perfect albums for this time of the year, keeping me company as I walk through Victoria Park, then down Regent’s Canal, on my way to work. The Raveonettes give me peppy pop from the 50s and 60s as seen through today's filter; White Lies give me big anthemic rock and the Editors give me Joy Division 2.0. I’ve got the new Editors' album in my shop but I don’t think you can buy it if you live in the U.K. Oh well, go to your nearest record store then – it’s really worth it.

My biggest surprise this month, though, has been Brett Anderson’s solo work. To be honest, I completely wrote him off after Suede broke up. They had run out of ideas by the end and his first solo single was, frankly, dull. But The Independent has offered eight of his tracks for free, from his last two albums ("Wilderness" and "Slow Attack"), and they are GORGEOUS. Really, really beautiful stuff that reminds me of Antony and the Johnsons's sensibility as seen through Nico's portentousness. Go here to download them then spread the word!

I’ve gone ahead and added his first solo album to my shop. I haven’t listened to it yet but I’m hoping it’s just as good as "Wilderness" and "Slow Attack".

For those with less discerning taste in music, I've also got X Factor reject Laura White's single for sale in my shop. I expect to have Jedward's new material by sometime next year. [/end music pimping]

Long time readers of this journal will remember how my apartment got flooded last year. This morning, I got a call from Kevin that it was happening all over again: water gushing down through our electrical fixtures in the bathroom, the walls wet and the wallpaper beginning to peel off. Luckily for us, Kevin had the day off so could easily place buckets in the worst areas and keep the water from reaching the carpet with towels. He called the housing association, Old Ford, while I tried the landlady from upstairs as well as Elery Crackhead (neither returned my calls - typical).

It turned out that the neighbour two floors above was flooded, affecting the upstairs flat as well as ourselves and the pensioner below us. Nearly everyone and their mother was called but when it came time for the housing association to speak to the guy, they told him he had the option to stay at work until 5 or return home to deal with the "leak". So he obviously stayed at work until 5pm, convinced it was just a minor problem. Boy, he must have sure been happy when he got home and realised the problem was a lot bigger than the housing association let on.

Kevin and I are becoming pros at dealing with disasters and calamities.

I haven't had internet at home for weeks now (months?) I was hopping onto neighbours' broadband until they found out and went into lock down. I can't really read Livejournal at work... so I'm a little out of the loop.

Let me know if I missed anything. The Bumfluff Telecom (BT) engineer should be visiting us today so, hopefully (fingers crossed), Kevin and I will be back to our crack whoring ways tomorrow.

BIG SLOPPY KISSES

Barack Obama, Dreams of my Father, 1995
Barack Obama’s first book is more like a novelised autobiography than a straightforward memoir. First of all, it’s divided into three acts, like a conventional novel – beginning with his upbringing in Hawaii (idyllic childhood), past his baptism by fire in Chicago’s poor communities (Barack playing one of John Grisham’s young lawyers against insidious corruption at all levels ala The Wire), culminating in his trip to Kenya in search of the final pieces to the jigsaw he calls “father” (a tour de force graced with humor and insight not amiss in one of Zadie Smith’s familial comedies.) His search for all the pieces that will complete his father’s story is an indirect search for his own self – a strong, self-assured, intelligent, multi-cultural, well-travelled person it turns out to be that unsurprisingly defeated America’s Republicans. This memoir's strongest message is that Obama can't be placed in a box - he's too much the man which America should become in the 21st century.

I wish my book club had discussed this book after the announcement of his Nobel Prize for peace; it would have accentuated even more the divide in our group as to the book’s qualities. Some (like myself) enjoyed Obama’s story, despite some corny self-mythologizing passages, because we sensed the big heart behind the pen. Others felt it was too calculated (the formal three-act structure a good example), smartly envisaging an eventual place for himself in the White House. I don’t think that's the case: Obama wouldn’t have been so candid about his use of cannabis, for example, if he wanted one day to be president (the memoir was written in 1995, when just to smoke but not inhale was a bullet to the foot.)

This memoir is an easy, enjoyable read and a good reminder that America chose the right guy.

Susan Boyle's new album has already 30 reviews on Amazon... and yet not a single one of them has heard the album, which comes out 24 November.

What's the secret to her magic?

Antony and the Johnsons, The Crying Light, Jan 2009
It's taken me just about nine months to finally appreciate the beauty of this album. Maybe I was already over winter when it came out, and there was no space for it in my spring or summer. Now that the fun is past, it resurfaced by accident on my iPod and made me pay attention to my soggy commute through Victoria Park and Regent's Canal. It also helped that I've been feeling kinda down and struggling with insomnia. I come home sometimes from work with a splitting headache and fill up the bathtub. There's no better way to unwind or test an album then soak in the darkness - just one candle and the stereo for company. I feel some of Billie Holiday's soul in Antony. Odd brass sections confuse me into believing the tower block is creaking. The songs play together like a story shared, culminating in the perfect "Aeon". I'm left wanting to hop out and sign up to the newsletter that will get me tickets to his next gig. Then I wonder if he's changing people who listen to him the way some bands have done in the past. Like the Velvet and the Smiths. I think he is. I think he has.

Last night, neenaw and I saw Diana Vickers star in The Rise and Fall of Little Voice in the West End. We were disappointed that no slebs showed up - not even this year's current X Factor contestants - but I did spot a footballer right in the front with his wag.

This kitchen sink drama tells the story of a young girl who lives in a godforsaken backwater with her alcoholic mother until one day an unscrupulous showbiz empresario discovers she has a beautiful singing voice and decides to milk her for all it's worth. When Diana first opens her mouth, you'd be forgiven for thinking she's lip synching - such is the beauty of her voice. It only gets better from there onwards, especially when she hits the piers' nightclubs and hops from one big band classic to the next. She can really sing, and act too! (Yes, I was as shocked as you.) Probably the person who should have won the X Factor last year, but oh well.

Afterwards, walking home down Bethnal Green Road, I spotted a drunk in the middle of the road, hailing cars, kicking buses and nearly toppling in front of incoming traffic. I followed him for some minutes, but when he failed to move to the sidewalk I picked up my mobile and dialled 999 for the first time in my life. The police showed up while I was still on the phone and asked the bloke if he was trying to walk home. He had a startled look on his face - he had tried, at first, to get into the police car's passenger side when they'd stopped and was having trouble putting one word in front of the other for the coppers.

Today, I dream of being rich and free.

Dear friend
how are you doing? i hope you are fine ,please don,t be suprise to receive my message, my name is Mary Tamba. i came accross your your profile at through friends online websites i decided to communicate with you, because i believe one can find a very good caring, understanding and God fearing person by all means in the world,
i hope to hear from you so that i can tell you more about my self with love and trust, and as well give you my pics, please kindly write me back so that we can know more about each other for further conversation.
yours new friend
Mary

Dear Mary,

My name is James and I've got the X Factor. Yes, it's true! I really do. And I'm fine, thank you. How are you? I hope you are well.

It was very kind of you to write. Maybe you heard about me through one of the X Factor fansites? To be honest, you are the first fan to send me an e-mail! LOL. But I'm hoping more will follow your example and stop slagging me off on the forums. And if the Lord is my witness, I'll win this year's X Factor.

Mary, you have no idea how scary it is to be on stage, staring down at Simon, Dannii, Cheryl and Louis! Plus those thousands of people praying you fuck up and get booted off. Thankfully, I made it through the auditions and did well in the Boot Camp. I'm not allowed to tell you if I got to the Final 12 so you'll just have to keep writing to me and watching the telly to find out! LOL.

Here's my photo. Next time I'll try to autograph one for you.

xxxooo James Carvalho

P.S. Is there any song you think would suit my voice and be popular with the viewers?

Antonia Fraser, King James VI of Scotland, I of England, 1974
The man who commissioned the translation of the Bible now popularly known as the King James Version was also a voracious gayer who fell passionately in love with boys from the age of 13 until his death at 58. Take a minute to savour that sweet irony. Antonia Fraser certainly didn't since, when she wrote this introduction to the man in 1974, she blamed his tendencies on his brutal separation from his mother, Queen Mary, and a harsh upbringing in Scotland. In many ways, James had a lucky reign: the power generated under Queen Elizabeth's rule came into its own under him, beginning Britain's expansion as a world power; he survived the Gunpowder Plot; knew Shakespeare (and perhaps even saw some of his plays performed for the very first time); and generally enjoyed a peaceful reign and various close relationships with pretty male courtiers. This book is a good introduction for anyone who doesn't know his story, especially because of the large amount of illustrations included. Sadly, though, the famous painting of him salivating over one of his favourites didn't make the cut.

Now that Livejournal is working with Google's AdSense, does that mean we'll soon be able to use Analytics on our journals?

I still don't understand why that feature hasn't been given to us. Would make things here a lot more interesting if we knew what exactly people typed into search engines to find us.

Last night, I visited Second Life for the first time. I did it because a friend suggested I beta test Blue Mars, a cross between WoW and SL, and since I've never played any of these games I thought it would be a good idea to see how Second Life works.

My first impression was good, but soon I got freaked out as people's voices popped in and out of my computer - usually inane conversation with thick London accents. Five minutes into it, a guy called Dingo introduced himself, said he was a hopeless romantic and asked if he could dance with me for ten minutes (I chose to play as a blonde chick), and soon afterwards he was asking if we could go somewhere more "quiet" and "romantic".

He also said he had started SL three weeks ago, was hopelessly addicted and loving it. I ended up falling into a pond by accident and not being able to fly out of it, so I logged out.

I managed to take only one photo - during my Salsa dance with Dingo (he reminded me a little of Peter Andre).



I spend all day in front of a computer... I'm not sure I want to come home and do the same! I think I'll just stick with my books for now.

However, I was thinking this morning: these virtual environments are perfect for senior citizens. There's that mixture of freedom of movement with the ability to share ideas, start projects or just chat which I think would appeal a lot to them - if it was introduced the right way.

Andy Warhol and I are stuck in the elevator. The lights have gone out and now there's only the faint glow of the buttons to help me make out his face. He stands a few feet away from me; he looks as if he's about to scream.

At first, he doesn't want to talk - perhaps he thinks the lights will come back soon and we'll continue our rise to the top of the Empire States. We'll never have to get to know each other. Then he begins to humm to himself, softly under his breath, what appears to be the midnight tune of an elevator song.

'I can't remember if we are too far from the ground,' I say. I'm the king of breaking silences with pointless comments.

'Why don't you open the doors and peer down the elevator shaft?' Andy suggests unhelpfully.

'Didn't you once make a film about this building?' I ask.

'Yes, when it was one of the world's tallest buildings.'

'Maybe it still is?'

'I doubt it.'

The next two hours drag by and I fail to ask Andy anything remotely interesting.

Rose Tremain, The Road Home, 2007
What a big disappointment. I loved Rose Tremain's Music & Silence as well as her recent short story, "The Jester of Astapovo", so I was looking forward to reading this award-winning novel. What I found instead was a cliché-ridden rags-to-riches tale of an immigrant, Lev, from an indeterminate Eastern European country who decides to try his luck in London because he can't find work back home and has a family to support. The first few chapters promise a look at London's world of struggling immigrants, but soon Lev is on his feet at the expanse of the story's plausibility and the narrative flounders.

Tremain pulls no stops with the generalisations when she paints some of the English as consumerist pigs and the theatre world, especially, as a cesspit of shallow pretentious idiots. Tremain gets it so wrong with most of her characters that I'm amazed she got an award for this and that people even like the book! There are glimmers in some passages of the Tremain I like, as well as a compelling character (mostly) in Lev, but it all keeps disappearing under the plodding, insipid narrative. Here's to hoping for a return to form in her next work.