When routine bites hard

"Right and wrong," he says and stops; his head shifts, and the stiff downward lines of his mouth and bad eye show. "Right and wrong aren't dropped from the sky. We. We make them. Against misery. Invariably, Harry, invariably" - he grows confident in his ability to negotiate long words - "misery follows their disobedience. Not our own, often at first not our own. Now you've had an example of that in your own life." Rabbit wonders when the tear-trails appeared on Tothero's cheeks; there they are, like snail tracks. "Do you believe me?"

~ John Updike. Rabbit, Run.

Somewhere I'm lost

What follows was written on December 19th, but polished and added to over the past two days. My uncle John, a psychiatrist, recommended I document my experiences as a sort of exercise in anger-management or, if you will, an exorcism. The reports of travel chaos in the mainstream media, he suggested, lacked the human touch that adds much needed pathos and credence to otherwise arbitrary news. It has somehow extended to over 2000 words, which I feared might happen. Indeed, John and I postulated the idea of developing the story into a publishable narrative in which the pointlessness, meaninglessness, and hopelessness of the protagonist’s struggle against airport travel mirrors the overarching decay and futility of society as a whole. Conceptually, the book would reflect the argument, void of description or narrative flair, self-aware, ironic, and observing itself as a piece of composite art and, by that definition, unnecessary. I fear that may be pushing things. None the less, here is the original account. Enjoy at your leisure.

*****

Facing the helpless misery of chemotherapy Christopher Hitchens wrote in Vanity Fair that he felt “swamped with passivity and impotence: dissolving in powerlessness like a sugar lump in water.” Although I’m saved the grave and the profound, clear as I remain from the threat of Cancer, I’m writing this from my room of the hotel in which I’ve been holed for the last two nights thanks to the weather in the British South-East, so, without being overly self-reverential, I think I’m beginning to appreciate what he means.

As I lie in my latest set of lodgings in Houston, Texas, courtesy of the Hilton family, I unconsciously adopt the mode of the reflective. “Never cry over spilt milk, as it may have been poisoned” were the immortal words of Ross Tremain. I’m afraid I can’t share in his appreciation of the ironic in this instance. Now that I’ve become an active victim of travel chaos, a humorous metaphor about milk smacks of the delusional rather than the hopeful.

On Saturday I was due to fly from here to London Heathrow, arriving back in Blighty on Sunday morning at 7am. Needless to say, that did not transpire quite as my family, friends and I had hoped.

The Independent carried the severity of the incoming snow, and the ensuing and inevitable travel chaos on its front page on Saturday. Little did I think it may actually affect the plans of your humble blost. As happens under these kinds of circumstances, one’s desire to read the published news shifts from the informative to the curious. However, it has since become habit to check the lobby computers for weather and travel updates every hour or so, such are the limits of the stranded traveler’s capabilities.

After over three years of trans-Atlantic travel I’m well-versed in the rituals of the efficient and diligent flier. As usual I checked-in to my flights precisely 24 hours in advance, selecting carefully chosen seats on both flights: near the front to ensure a quick exit, always on the aisle, away from any lavatories, and, where possible, next to an untaken seat. Of course, I made a thorough investigation into the likelihood of my second flight staying on schedule, and was reassured that the aircraft was dutifully on its way from delay-free Japan, and all signals suggested things were operating normally. Reviewing my itinerary I noted that I’d only be afforded about 90 minutes between connections, but flying back meant that the horrors of customs would be saved until I was firmly on home soil, and so I wasn’t especially concerned.

My concern rose slightly, however, when my first flight was delayed by half an hour, but I knew my way around Houston Airport well enough to dash across to my required terminal with time to spare. Picture the look of dread and nervous anticipation, therefore, that befell my whole person as I arrived at the gate to find it had been delayed by over five hours. This, we were all told, was because Heathrow would not be opening until Midday, and this calculated delay would put us high on the list of incoming flights at that time. The convenience of this seamless compromise sounded somewhat suspicious, so I enquired, “Is this delay realistic?” I was assured that, yes, it was.

I’d elected to take along just two books with me: The Last Tycoon by Scott Fitzgerald, and a book of select poems by Thomas Hardy. The Hardy collection is delightful to dip into on journeys, undemanding enough to provide light amusement, while dense and powerful enough to keep the mind ticking over at a decent rate. Fitzgerald, as ever, somehow combines the humour and light-heartedness of the American joie de vivre with the melancholic and the bittersweet. The Last Tycoon was incomplete at the time of Fitzgerald’s death in 1940, and this story of Hollywood in its prime, presents the idiosyncratic enterprises of the ambitious individual, and the burgeoning promiscuity of a generation in which all wars have been fought and all ideological boundaries explored.

Before the five hour layover was complete I’d read both books back to front, and yet, what depressed me more than anything was the inability to find a bookstore that shelved anything besides Robert Ludlum and Patricia Cornwell books (I refrain from calling them novels). Ah, the sickening airport paperback with its embossed fonts and gold lettering: the dregs of society’s waning literacy.

At last, and not without the exhaling of many lungs and the formation of a few wry smiles, we all boarded our plane to London, albeit five hours behind schedule. We were relieved to relinquish our passivity and the malaise of helplessness that accompanies air travel. I stepped onto the plane only to find that my carefully chosen pew was filled (literally) with an obese Yanqui woman who offered little explanation for why I found myself in such an awkward and embarrassing impasse. I scuttled back to the door and, stifling my trepidations and donning the charming smile that has become the toast of many fellows around the world, asked the stewardess what the best course of action would be now that I had no seat. After a moment in which she conferred with her colleague, I was told that there was another aisle seat free in row 26. Now, given the furor of the past 5 hours, and the lingering concern that we were not in fact going to reach London, I felt that the offering of an explanation, or even an apology was in order. Not so. Surely, even if only out of an involuntary respect for human politeness, the attendants should have waited before I’d boarded the plane to ask me whether I would be comfortable exchanging seats. Obviously, I would not have been, especially at this stage of proceedings, but their concern would have softened the blow somewhat. Regardless, I took up my new seat and found that I was accompanied in the regular row of three by just one other, meaning a free coffee table in between my new friend and yours truly. Just as I was getting comfortable and spreading my salad of distractions and various other necessities around my person, undoing my shoelaces, and generally broadening my person into the vacant seat beside me, a skinny and fidgeting teenager came and plonked himself down. My dismay would have been foregone had he been there to begin with, but to arrive at such a late hour and sabotage my little home-making was a step in the direction of retaliation.

The army of stewardesses delivered the meal options with untoward zip and vim, which, had it been another day, may have raised my concerns, but given the unassailable fact that we were now 36,000 feet above ground and floating atop the clouds of North America, the meal came at no better time. By this point the fidgeting teenager and his glossy locks of black hair had exhausted the Sky Mall magazine twice over, and instead of occupying a position alongside the devil himself in my mind, he had now become a figure of some humour. Settling, therefore, I gulped back the accoutrements of any successful long-haul flight: two sleeping pills and a box of Vitamin C. Because of the five-hour delay, Continental, to their credit it must be said, had dealt every passenger with a card promising a free alcoholic beverage. I took them up on no uncertain terms, demanding a glass for my miniature bottle of red wine (the plastic sort – imagine the terrorizing one could do with a two inch shard of glass).

Picture the scene, if you will, of your humble and exhausted blost reclining in his seat, sufficiently boozed and drugged up, satisfied to allow the remaining six hours pass by in what would seem but a moment. Picture then, the following.

We had been flying for about 2 and a half hours. As my resistance against the disease of travel seemed nearing its end, the captain came over the address system at what can only be described as a rather inopportune time. “Ladies and gentlemen”, he stammered, “unfortunately, due to the adverse weather conditions in London at the moment, Heathrow have decided not to open today”. Silence. A mild yet increasing sense of panic and urgency crept from the back of my mind to the front. Was it really the case that I would be forced once more into the helplessness and hopelessness of airport navigation? Will we be diverted to Paris perhaps, or Glasgow with their almost utopian infrastructure of dealing with climatic issues? What about Dublin even? My thoughts were interrupted half a second later when the captain continued: “regretfully, this means we’re going to turn the plane around and go back to Houston.” He clicked off. My head fell back against the head-rest without making a sound. My eyes rolled back of their own accord into the depths of nothingness. My mouth was closed and it felt as though my lungs had failed. There was no anger, no sighs, no turning to one’s neighbor, no gasps, no voices, nothing. The silence was penetrating.

Your being crawls with futility. What was there to do or say? Groggy and nauseous with resignation I fell asleep.

I awoke as the plane touched down on the tarmac of Houston airport and just as the captain reappeared for what I hoped was the only time since my departure into ignorance. He assured us that, upon exiting the aircraft, we would be directed left towards the service desks where we would be handed documentation entitling us to one night at the local hotel, and from there we could retrieve our baggage. The first-class passengers, we were all assured, would instead be directed right. Wankers. It was now 2.15am, one hour after I was originally expected at the arrivals gate at Heathrow Terminal 4. As I was stumbling down the aisle towards the doors I caught a glimpse of a flight-map screen; the resultant loop of yellow that documented our simple and pathetic journey across to Ohio airspace and back was almost poetic. I wish now I had taken a photograph.

The news about the turnaround was, as Bertie Wooster would have said, a bit of a facer. And yet, what perturbed me most of all was the news that the passengers, including myself, were expected to make their own re-reservations; we would be offered no preferential treatment, let alone any help or pointers. And so, at 3 o’clock in the morning nearly three hundred disillusioned travellers got on the phone and immediately got put on hold. For four hours. Were it not for my diligent and sympathetic father, awake and alert after having woken early to pick me up (or not) from the airport, I doubt I would have made it home for Christmas. Three more hours listening to the recorded messages of Continental’s sales team was not the most appealing prospect after five meaningless hours spent in the night’s sky.

So here I lay, awaiting the onward flight, filtering the incoming weather reports through a sieve of both optimism and resignation, garnished with a festering sense of hostility, which, it so happens, was beautifully summarized by the infinite eloquence of Thomas Hardy in the closing stanzas of his poem The Impercipient.

I am like a gazer who should mark
An inland company
Standing unfingered, with, ‘Hark! hark!
The glorious distant sea!’
And feel, ‘Alas! ‘tis but yon dark
And wind-swept pine to me!’

Yet I would bear my shortcomings
With meet tranquility,
But for the charge that blessed things
I’d liefer not have be.
O, doth a bird deprived of wings
Go earth-bound willfully!
Enough. As yet disquiet clings
About us. Rest shall we.

Post-script: It would be wrong of me not to point out that Continental, presumably in opposition to the totalitarian decrees of BAA, conducted themselves at all times (apart from that minor seat altercation) with due dignity and diligence, maintaining a veritably comforting air of professionalism and helpfulness. I dare say, were it not for the American fervor of the pilots and all involved, that plane would have never left the runway in the vain hope that Heathrow would, in the end, open its doors. One struggles to imagine a British Airways flight taking off when unsure of its destination. Continental gave it fair old go, and I do not begrudge them taking the handle and firmly cracking the whip.

Balls

As one gets older the obligation at Christmas to spend a little more money and devote a little more effort on gifts for loved ones grows exponentially. At the age of 11 or 12 the need to buy a thoughtful present for your step-mother is nonexistent, but get to the ripe old age of 21 (by all accounts, a verified adult) and suddenly I’m expected to call my father ahead of time and double-check that he hasn’t already bought her the Keith Richards autobiography. Then again, she did buy me a Kindle for Christmas, so the ball is arguably in my court.

Being a male, I left the last of my shopping until the late afternoon on Christmas Eve. I expected the shops to remain open long into the night given the hordes of men like me who had failed to think of anything appropriate and decided to let department stores make those types of decisions for them. Alas, they closed early.

I am being rather harsh on myself; I did foresee the typical last-minute nature of Christmas shopping, so I hadn’t utterly rammed myself. One thing did frustrate me, however. Thinking of my beloved girlfriend’s father, and wishing to put forward the best possible impression as always, I’d compiled a shortlist, from which I’d later select the best option, of possible gifts that would present your humble blost as thoughtful, sophisticated, intellectual, but also slightly edgy. He readily admits that he rarely has time to read, so the normal route of book-buying was closed off. With that in mind, I’d chosen the following possibilities: a DVD copy of Kiyoshi Kurosawa's Pulse or George Sluizer’s The Vanishing, or perhaps Neutral Milk Hotel’s masterpiece, In The Aeroplane Over The Sea.

You, learned and educated reader, will sympathize and share in my outrage when you discover that I could find none of the above, anywhere. As Mark Kermode once declared, in “Film School 101” you watch The Vanishing. In the case of Pulse, it’s another film that has lingered in my mind ever since I watched it about a year ago. At the time, it was neither scary nor particularly attention-grabbing, and yet I would now consider it an absolute classic. Lastly, what more needs to be said about Neutral Milk Hotel? Well, their album was recently listed 16th in Q Magazine’s rundown of the best albums of the past 30 years, which, I do not need to confirm, is an outrage (it was placed behind two Oasis albums, two U2 albums, and a Coldplay record).

The shopping megaplexes of High Wycombe and Ealing offered no respite, to the detriment of my prospects with the future in-laws. I hereby broadcast my apologies. And so I’m left with another ball in the court of guilt and embarrassment.

Rabbit, Fly

During one of my many hours spent in airports over the seasonal period, which I will get to in another post, I browsed the books of Borders bookstore in Houston “George Bush” International Airport. Sifting my way through what I call the ”airport novels”, the ones with gold and heavily embossed lettering, a minimum of four hundred pages, and font you can read from ten paces, I found the debut novel of John Updike, Rabbit, Run. Motivated by an overwhelming sense of indignation and entitlement (more on that later), coupled with the Borders boycott promoted by Christopher Hitchens, I stole the book. I found an aisle away from the security cameras and tucked it into the back pocket of my carry-on as inconspicuously as my principled hands would allow. In retrospect I now realize how stupid that was. If I’d been caught I suppose I would have been told never to darken the terminal doors again with my thieving hands, let alone been allowed to get on my flight. But I got away with it, so it doesn’t matter (probably a mistake then to broadcast this information). Moreover, I can report, not without a tinge of pride, that the book is a masterpiece. From the first pages it grabbed me by the proverbials and never let go. Updike’s ability lies in the inimitable heft of his language. There are, admittedly, moments of drabness and unremarkability, but the periods of forehead-smackingly powerful description and psychological composition reverberate with such vigor that it’s like having your genitalia squeezed again and again with some respite, but without ever really letting go (in the best possible way, of course). An early scene in which our protagonist, Rabbit woos and makes love to Ruth, a woman who is, one would say, on the portlier side, is one such moment, and has revolutionized the way I shall read sex scenes from now on. To give you some idea of this, I’ll quote from the scene. Writing and describing sex, especially when seen out of context, always has the ability to repulse and induce the most ardent perverts into a cringe. Regardless, let’s see how this fares:

Rough with herself, she forces the dry other breast into his face, coated with pollen that dissolves. He opens his eyes, seeking her, and sees her face a soft mask gazing downward calmly, caring for him, and closes his eyes on the food of her again; his hand abandoned on the breadth of her body finds at arm’s length a split pod, an open fold, shapeless and simple. She rolls further, turning her back, cradling her bottom in his stomach and thighs. They enter a lazy space.

It takes a few pages to get the rhythm of Updike, but his use of the language is profound. Without wishing to spoil your reading of it, for those of you who haven’t already rushed to the shops, I shan’t ruin the ending, although it must not remain unsaid that the concluding denouement stands as a forerunner for the most saddening and heart-wrenching passage of literature I have ever read. It is hard to see, being up to now an Updike virgin, how he could possibly improve beyond this post of literary perfection.

The Salvation Army

Which army bears a red flag and a kettle? Which army propitiates Christian propaganda to the unfortunate young? The answer in both cases is the Salvation Army.

Performing my annual bout of charity for the seasonal period, yesterday I trotted over rather naively to the local outpost of the Salvation Army, and found myself in the company of a stout little woman (very pleasant) and a burly bloke with a handlebar moustache (very sinister). Both addressed each other as “captain”. They were, I assume, volunteers. This branch was solely concerned with the fostering of unfortunate children in the area, providing them with a play room, complete with games consoles, and ping-pong and pool tables, along with a decent sports hall. Apparently, the attendees are taught music, maths, and reading and writing. You will acknowledge my concern, therefore, to see the following words emblazoned in huge black lettering against the white walls of the sports hall, and below an ominously centered crucifix:

Blessed is the man who fears the Lord.

And, arguably worse:

The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom.

“The fear” sounds especially threatening, implying that fear itself is not adequate, but rather “the fear” that derives only from encounters of the divine sort will suffice. Both quotations are from Psalms. Next door to the sports hall and games room is a Chapel, and it was only after I noted the religious iconography that I spotted shelves of the Holy Bible lining the walls of the games room. I hope you’d agree that the nervousness I felt was understandable.

After a brief introduction to the kids, aged between about 5 and 15, in which they sang a splendid rendition of Rudolph the Red-Nose Reindeer in sign-language, my cohorts and I played a brief game of dodgeball with our new friends. One small boy did get gratuitously flattened by a ball to the face, but even so I think the game was cut suspiciously short by the handlebar man. The remaining hour was spent handing out Christmas gifts to the kids that had been donated by generous members of the community, to which we had contributed a few baseball gloves and footballs and so on. Somewhat disconcertingly, the gifts were amazing. Every message to Santa had been answered. Girls were receiving huge boxes of craft supplies, jewelry sets, and cosmetics. The guys were adorned with all kinds of action figures, board games, sports sets, K’nex and Mechano: all of it brand new. I quickly stifled my untoward sense of envy. For a moment, upon seeing the luminous faces of drooling and expectant children, I though a better name for the center might be the Salivation Army. My sense of pride, on the other hand, was impossible to stifle. Although we were brief in our visit, and somewhat detached in our manufactured friendliness, watching the children sing, applaud as we walked in, and take off like a kicked kitten when we played dodgeball was absolutely wonderful.

Meanwhile, the black words stared lingeringly back at the children, reminding them of the price they pay for their tight-trope walk of fortune and misfortune. What encouraged the owner-operators of this outpost to think that those words of scripture were appropriate for a place of learning, optimism, but, ultimately, poverty? Both quotations employ the word “fear”, surreptitiously and under-handedly tarnishing the joys and innocence of youth. Like a father baying after his daughter at a high school disco, the “fear of the Lord” preys on the unconscious mind of the kids. Not only do they find themselves on the lowest rungs of society, but also they must be inculcated into the most horrid, base, and sinister elements of religious ideology. Why? Where do these people, volunteers, carers, “captains” get off on terrifying those children? The more I ponder it, the more sickened I feel, and the more I regret not having confronted one of those responsible.

Should we be surprised, however? Was I ignorant to this sort of mass religious inculcation? Is it more widespread than I imagined? Does it, indeed, spread beyond Mormon and Catholic Missions to the impoverished of the planet and into our back yard? Is Christianity synonymous with the Salvation Army? So it seems.

While I type, these children are being handed gifts, amazing gifts, charitable gifts with one hand, and fed lies, threats, and horror stories with the other, all in the name of religion.

The Pot is Full

Looking back I was perhaps slightly dogmatic in my assertions yesterday, particularly now that I can't get a second allusion out of my head with regard to Greenwood's Be Good and Stay Quiet. Being a principled and experienced Radiohead exponent, I know all too well that to succumb to the almost overwhelming temptation to listen to bootleg recordings of unrecorded songs somewhat taints the end product. It's hard to explain exactly why that is, but Videotape is a case in point, although something like Nude is an exception. And so, when early performances of new songs trickle down through the ether in ever-increasing standards of recording, I tend to avoid as best as possible listening to them over and over again. Fellow fanboys will know the demands this makes upon one's person (see Give Up The Ghost, for example). With this in mind, it's notable that hearing Be Good and Stay Quiet ebbing and flowing through my speakers earlier today, Thom Yorke's obscure performance of an unnamed track in New York this year sprang resolutely to mind. Before today I’d only listened to this recording once. It's understandably been titled "Let Me Take Control", or "A Walk Down The Staircase" by fans, and unquestionably falls into the no-play bracket, being as unnervingly perfect as it is. Why has this track now invaded my previously untroubled listening of Greenwood’s piece? In what way does this unnamed song overlap with The Present Tense? Well, by Yorke’s own guarded and sarcastic admission, he “only [has] one trick on the guitar now” (see link below), and the creative output he enjoyed while touring with his band, Atoms for Peace, has led to more than a couple of songs similar to these two. Greenwood’s score, possibly without meaning to or even realizing, has synergized the two songs into a beautifully erudite and simple offspring. For reference, here is the video of Yorke performing the untitled song. (My heterosexuality has by now, been well evidenced, but I do say he looks rather delicious.)

Norwegian Wood

Jonny Greenwood's second movie score has surfaced as a CD in Japan, and it seems set to be released sooner or later to real people in England and stuff. Never to be outdone, however, trolling the web has proved successful, and I've nabbed myself a free copy. The soundtrack, which includes some old CAN classics such as Mary Mary So Contrary, was made for the Japanese film adaptation of Norwegian Wood, a novel I haven't read by Haruki Murakami (itself titled after The Beatles' track). 'Norwegian Wood' does sound like the name for a blue powder one might find on the top shelf of a secluded shack in the souks of Marrakesh, alongside things like ground rhino horn. Nevertheless, there are moments of supreme beauty on the album, even to the ears of a blost fairly unfamiliar with classical music. The track, I'll Come See You Again, for example, echoes the most ambitious and soaring tracks from Greenwood's previous score for There Will Be Blood. What stuck out from the soundtrack, however, was the track Be Good and Stay Quiet, an unusual piece, firstly because it employs a guitar, but primarily because it reminds me of something quite specific. When I posed this to The Dutton he suggested it sounded something like the first ten seconds of Radiohead's Jigsaws Falling Into Place, but admitted he wasn't fully content with this answer. Reliable and long-serving to the Radiohead cause as The Dutton is, I was rather surprised to find myself alone on this one. To me it sounds exactly like the chords of Thom Yorke’s as yet unrecorded song, The Present Tense, so much so that it raises interesting questions about the song’s origin. Indeed, before the second and final performance of this track in Boston earlier this year, Thom dedicated the song to his band-mate; “This is for Jonny”, he said. Was the dedication motivated by a sense of indebtedness to Jonny for composing the piece? Was it motivated by Jonny himself who so likes the track that he’s created his own rendition for a movie score? Either way, it’s a powerful track in its own right, and well-suited as an advertisement for the score as a whole. Seek it out.

Please Ask For One

This time last year a small circle of my friends and I went to see Stewart Lee perform his show, If You Prefer A Milder Comedian Please Ask For One, named after a less than satisfactory visit to a certain high street coffee chain. It so happened that we missed the opening thirty minutes of the show, and embarrassingly shuffled in only to find ourselves seated in the front row, and plum in the centre. This was due in part to our unanimous desire to eat our dinner, but principally because one of our team was reliably late (though so wayward and flagrant is he in his routine tardiness that he manages the paradox of being both reliable and unpredictable). Maintaining the stature of the professional, Lee barely broke his stride, although he did turn his back and walk conspicuously to the rear of stage, as though facing the without almost demanded he confront such arrant latecomers. The ensuing moments of suppressed laughter were rather contorting, it must be said, but also tinged with a subtle yet acute sense of guilt, so high is my admiration for Lee. Overall, my appreciation for the show was incomplete, circumcised as it was, until recently when I got my pirating mitts on a copy of his DVD (see below). It has been my long-held opinion that Lee should concentrate his commercial and merchandizing efforts on audio reproduction. His monologues are just that, and are rarely enhanced to a notable degree by the addition of visuals. This latest, however, is the exception and also perhaps his best. Regardless, in my clumsy and technically obtuse way I have carved the audio from its original and spliced it into chapters that would fit easily onto your iPod (other portable music playing devices are available). As a gift from me to you, in time for Christmas, here is a custom built zip file for your auditory pleasure. Indeed, it may help you to decide whether or not I should cast aside my loyalties and imbibe instead upon the royalties, and upload the full show to YouTube. The choice is yours.

If You Prefer A Milder Comedian

Hugh Laurie said recently that, as a teenager, he had listened to his Monty Python records so attentively and with such regularity that he could even hear the background fizz of tiny fuses being lit to create gunshot effects. In my case, the same is true of Stewart Lee, which is why he occupies a strongly contested seat among the heavyweights of the banner. His 2004 comeback routine, Stand-Up Comedian has passed through my speakers, in one form or another, somewhere between forty and fifty times. I know every line, every pause, every tonal inflection, every bout of laughter, and every round of applause (even if embarrassingly perpetrated by a single audience-member). And yet, dear reader, it never fails to make me laugh. Over the last couple of years, in which I've ventured forth to actually see him perform, he has mentioned on more than one occasion how some "cunts" have pirated his material online. Your humble blost felt it impossible not to writhe shrinkingly into his chair at these points, as I have, it is widely known, comprehensively circulated his 2007 show, 41st Best Stand-Up Comedian, in bitesize chunks around YouTube. One should be aware; I haven't profited from these videos in any way, and I've made sure not to succumb to the temptation to add the dreaded "advertising" that YouTube proposes on an almost daily basis in my inbox. Advertising on YouTube, as we all know, is a byword for thumb-screwing. I do, however, have his 2010 routine crudely chopped up and idly waiting to be uploaded to YouTube. My question to you, my most ardent and deranged followers, is: should I do it? Had it not been for Stewart's public reprimand I probably wouldn't think twice. Isn't it strange?

For now, never alone again.

Writer's block manages its own paradox: at once, a self-indulgent condition that barely passes for an affliction, let alone a reality, whilst also managing to be a euphemism of sorts. It is not simply a block, rather an active assault, debilitating, ravaging all capacity and lucidity of mind. I shall wait, however, until I have experienced it myself before writing more on it, as the hiatus you and I have experienced over these long and unnecessary months apart resulted from wanton laziness on my part for which there can be little excuse. Nevertheless, far from excusing myself, I shall go one better and tell you that I don't care. I observed the intervening months of silence and passivity with just that, garnished with a liberal handful of indifference. Writing, one must remember, should never become a crutch. It is a luxury and not something one should come to host with tired mundanity, regularity, or the ingratitude that's borne out of over-familiarity. It is precisely upon this principle that freedom of speech must be reinforced, not to resolve it as a right, but as a privilege (its exercises becoming that much sweeter as a result, like a chocolate bar enjoyed without having been paid for). As Roberto Bolaño concludes in his curious text, Antwerp, a collection of prose-poetry that, taken in one long and stuttering dose, begins to resemble a novella.

Of what is lost, irretrievably lost, all I want to recover is the daily availability of my writing.

Quite so. As if intoning the severity of the future maladies that would cut short his life, Bolaño views the "availability" of writing as of paramount importance to his existence. Allowing for the nuances and quirks of translation, one questions what is meant by "availability". Whatever form the challenge to that availability takes, it must be met head-on, and here it begins.