The Present Tense

No one else is this good. Nor has there ever been anyone this good. I get the feeling that this may be one of those rare, unimprovable moments (see Videotape 18/5/06 and Last Flowers 16/4/05). Listen at least ten times for full effect.

C. E. Hitchens

A plethora of topics, events, and discussion points to report upon come gushing forth in droves as soon as I unlock the door to my cobwebbed blog account. Where to start? Well, our maestro, Christopher Hitchens is, as you can probably tell, quite an impressionable fellow, so much so that some even appear to adore him more than I, dare I say, we do. YouTube accounts set up in his name have sprung forth, unfurling archives of wonderment that we may have never known existed were it not for the Internet generation. Kill a few hours by going direct to this page, engrossing yourself in the archives of this long-standing admirer. For a quick hit to keep you in check for the start of September, see this vintage clip of Hitchens locking horns with a Republican journalist in 1988. Watch patiently until the eighth minute in which our hero proves why he's been a figure of such controversy long before the publication of god is not Great. Further, for additional gratuitous humour, watch Hitchens don a leather jacket, cast off the issues at hand, and perform a ten minute stand-up set in Washington: a must for us Hitchenites.

Et in Arcadia ego

Robert is not one to disappoint his public. I see the stalwart few have come back again and again, rampantly and fervently in search of their master. Fear not, saplings, for he has returned. My summer in what I now shudder to call home was a raving success. I saw the mastery of Stoppard's Arcadia on stage, I absorbed the spectacle of Blur, live in Hyde Park, I had my senses flummoxed by Derren Brown, I cried laughing as Stewart Lee broke the final taboo in comedy, and saw my beloved Southampton trounce the pretenders, Northampton. I traveled to Copenhagen, Berlin, Prague, Munich, Paris, Brussels, Hohes van Eiffel, Rotterdam, Amsterdam, and sunny Marbella. My mind is richer for it, dear reader. Do not think that I was holidaying on these trips. Oh, no. My travels were penned, etched into the pages of a journal, aching to sprout from their surroundings. I read philosophy and science, clutching at the very straws which sprung me to these places, reminding me of friends, moments, and loved ones. Plenty has passed since I have been away and not a stone will be left unturned. The inexhaustible bank of my memory will be stretched and violated in every which way in order to bestow such gifts upon you, do not fear. There is more, but it shall wait.

Back Soon

This blog will be back from 24th August. In the meantime, click and listen.

One Last Hurrah

I'm perched once again within an arm-rest infested cluster of airport departure chairs. I'm still sane, but barely. I leave for Blighty this evening, not to return to Tucson until August, and likely not to frequent this page in a manner befitting my audience. I apologize in advance. My mind numbs with the pleasures of home and there are far too many distractions on holiday to piece together a coherent strain of thought. I'll use the opportunity to vocalize my opinions rather than change them. Indeed, I've never been so sad to leave the States, even during a period of unseasonably cool weather here in Arizona: good preparation, no doubt, for the unpredictability of England. As the climate warms here so do I toward the notion of calling America home, at least for the foreseeable future. It was Orwell who highlighted the wealth of names we ascribe to Britain, not to mention its divisions: the British Isles, the United Kingdom, the UK, Britain, Great Britain, and I'm positive I've missed a couple. It indicates a nation unsure of itself, disjointed and fractured. As individuals, the people of Britain are educated and tolerant, but as a collective they're cynical, introvert, and intolerant. Watching scandal after scandal unfold in British politics over the last few weeks (not to mention the greatest travesty of them all - Brown remains PM) has left me remarkably grateful not to be a recipient of all the media guff that comes with it, and grateful to be blogging at a fairly safe distance. So, I shall take up the reins again in August, dear reader. I wish I had a protege to hand over to for the time being but, so far, no one has volunteered (I admit, the bar is set pretty high). Wish me a safe and pleasant crossing. I pass on my sincerest good-will for the Summer months. Enjoy yourself, as I shall be. Before I go, a sweet little girl of five or six, barely three arm-rests away from me, has just exclaimed to her oafish mother, "Mum, that man looks like my Dad!", and accompanied her assertion with an outstretched finger. Absolutely fantastic.

Iran and Revolution

My silence surrounding the situation in Iran is not for want of trying, dear reader. Every time I broach an opinion or formulate an exposition, I'm outdone by the print media and my online contemporaries. If you have been a good bloggist you will undoubtedly already have discovered Michael Totten's specialized blog over at Commentary magazine. His knowledge of the Middle East and its intricacies is astounding, while his devotion to the area and its politics makes me feel like I shouldn't even attempt to comment. Don't neglect his regular blog either, as he's posted a wealth of images and video alongside a salad of the latest journalism, all of which are devoted to the protests and developments as they unfold. It would be irresponsible to condense his coverage into a single soundbite, but he did offer us this in jest:

In case you just woke up from a week-long nap, there is an uprising in Iran that may change the country forever.

What's more, Christopher Hitchens appeared on CNBC earlier today during The Kudlow Report to discuss the issues at present. He lamented President Obama's silence and apparent lack of support with the Iranian protesters, many of whom take severe risks in doing so (far beyond what may cause you or me to stay at home), and clarified his own position, one of solidarity with the demonstrators.

They should know that we are on their side, unconditionally.

This is a position I share. It's fairly clear for all to see that, whether you watch the videos posted on YouTube by the protesters, or delve into the details of how the 1979 revolution shaped the country that has since decayed under Khomeini's theocracy, Iran tinkers on a knife-edge. One heroic surge could topple the regime; all evidence suggests that it's already on its knees. Hitchens quotes Lenin's definition of a revolution and suggests that "both conditions of that definition have more or less been fulfilled". In fact, Lenin eloquently remarked earlier that a revolution involves:

A crisis in the policy of the ruling class which causes fissures through which the discontent and the indignation of the oppressed classes burst forth.

The reaction of Ahmadinejad and his cronies is indicative of a ruling class in crisis ("The situation in the country is in a very good condition") and the cracks are surfacing.

Ad Hominem

Hating a band by default is completely acceptable in the case of Coldplay, Kasabian, and the Killers. As if further proof were needed in the case of the latter, I offer the following:

Only U2 and Radiohead rank higher in the pantheon of globe-conquering rock bands. But now the Killers' time has come, says singer Brandon Flowers.

As if U2 should even be mentioned in the same breath as Radiohead. And what about Floyd or the Stones? You're an idiot, Flowers, with sordid pretensions above your lowly station of teenage pop-rock. Wanker. Further, I've just noticed the inexcusable employment of the term 'rock band' in the above. I'd like to see Flowers go up to Yorke and say that to his face.

YouTube Wednesday

Damien Rice popped into Nigel Godrich's basement some time after Radiohead performed their set there, post-In Rainbows, to good effect. See this sublime solo version of 9 Crimes, a song I never took to like some people, but now I feel strangely converted. The tempo is much slower and the lyrics are sung with emphasis. He seems to have adopted a Thom Yorke-ism as well, singing "no no no" repeatedly over the piano to finish the song. Meanwhile, Blur reunited on stage as a four-piece for the first time in almost ten years in East London's Rough Trade record store a couple of days ago. Here's a short, and yet brilliant clip of the song, This Is A Low. Radiohead fans: feel free to gloat about the fact that when Radiohead announced they'd play a secret gig there in late 2007, there was such a ruckus that they had to move the performance to a larger venue down the road in order to accommodate all the veterans who journeyed in with less than twelve hours notice.

P.S. Now that YouTube have the High Quality button (which I strongly recommend you click), why is there not a function to toggle it on or off indefinitely, rather than click on it every time I open a new video, thus interrupting the flow and causing distortion? Idiots.

Another Ridiculous Conundrum

Here's another one for my philosophically minded friends. On the basis that the image you see in a mirror is the reflection of your former self, due to the time it takes the light to travel from your person to the mirror and back again, if you were to line up a sufficient number of mirrors, so as to be reflecting one another back and forth, would you eventually see yourself as a foetus?

For Tim Dutton

"Goddammit," Doc Daneeka expostulated politely in an uncommon excess of exasperation, "what's the matter with you two men anyway? It just isn't right for a person to have a low temperature all the time and walk around with a stuffed nose. Just look how cold I am right now. You're sure you're not holding anything back?"

"You're dead, sir," one of his two enlisted men explained.

Doc Daneeka jerked his head up quickly with resentful distrust. "What's that?"

"You're dead, sir," repeated the other. "That's probably the reason you always feel so cold."

"That's right, sir. You've probably been dead all this time and we just didn't detect it."

"What the hell are you both talking about?"

"It's true, sir," said one of the enlisted men. "The records show that you went up in McWatt's plane to collect some flight time. You didn't come down in a parachute, so you must have been killed in the crash."

"That's right, sir," said the other. "You ought to be glad you've got any temperature at all."

Doc Daneeka's mind was reeling in confusion. "Have you both gone crazy?" he demanded. "I'm going to report this whole insubordinate incident to Sergeant Towser."

"Sergeant Towser's the one who told us about it," said either Gus or Wes. "The War Department's even going to notify your wife."