Last week’s post was described by The Prof as a perfect distillation of an apoplectic.me post – presumably in the hope that I would JUST STOP ALREADY!!! Well, I won’t. Because I distilled it even further, and it was presented on Broadcasting Giant Eddie Mair‘s Radio 4 PM show on 5th August.
A search of apoplectic.me for the word “memory” comes up with 50 hits – almost a quarter of the posts on the blog. Hardly surprising, when one thinks that in the weeks following The Event, I couldn’t remember my age, where I was, who the person in the chair next to my hospital bed was, or whether or not I was the Vice President of the United States.
Eventually, memories come back. Even now, Beth notices that my memories of thirty or more years ago seem to be more readily accessible than those from this week. Maybe you find the same thing. Continue reading My Name is Joe – Pt. 1
Now we’ve been married for as long as the three-and-a-half weeks I was in Brooklyn’s Methodist Hospital before my transfer to the Rusk Institute, I thought it might be time to scribble down some thoughts about what just happened – figure out what it was all about….
A couple of weeks ago, I wrote about whether a computer could write a successful musical.
I’m pleased to report that the conclusion of Ivan Hewett’s Telegraph article and Cat Gale’s Sky Arts documentary seems to be “Yes, a computer can write a successful musical.” And I’m even more happy to relate that the answer is also “No, a computer can’t write a successful musical.”
This weekend, Longsufferinggirlfriendoftheblogbeth and I staged a wee karaoke party to celebrate, among other things, the first anniversary of my fortieth birthday.
Hat tip to @Pab_Roberts for drawing my attention to the lovely fact that the word karaoke is a bimoraic clipped compound of the Japanese kara 空 “empty” and ōkesutora オーケストラ “orchestra”. We had great fun, and were glad that, that night, the clocks went back in Edinburgh (and the rest of Scotland and the other countries that comprise the islands known as Britain, and Ireland, too – Ed.).
This brought my attention to the issue of sleep and fatigue, which I’m surprised to find has rarely been discussed on the blog…. Continue reading Never As Tired As When I’m Waking Up
I’m back in uni for the second semester (well, trimester) of the 2014-15 academic year.
Well, there’s an opening line to strike excitement into the hearts of men. Didn’t they say in first semester to start a flash piece strongly? Yep. So, if you’re looking for that sort of thing, please think about checking out my piece in the first issue of the new international journal of English-language poetry and short fiction, Brain of Forgetting.
I shouldn’t have been able to see Glen Coe from Brooklyn. It’s thirty-two hundred miles. Yet the last thing I saw was a cairn.
Well. We have to talk about the be-kilted elephant in the room, slumped in the corner, clasping a sticky bottle of Buckfast to his chest.
Longsufferinggirlfriendoftheblogbeth tells me that referendum questions in the States are usually comprised of statutory legalese. Below that, they’re explained in less comprehensible terms for the voter. But the choice on Scotland’s #indyref ballot paper was stark.
As I dragged my case up the street I could see, even from a distance, the man gather himself. Maybe it was a quicker exercise than he expected, because I was still fifteen yards away when he said — not shouting, but with an invested intensity intended to carry the message down the hill:
I’m so f—ing scared.
The people at Shelter had asked him for his phone number. And he’d given it to them, in a moment of clarity. But now he could see this would allow them to fit it all together, particularly since he’d been on trial twice. Had I ever been on trial? That’s scary, too.
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Hello, Dear Reader. And belatedly, Happy Stroke Month. To mark the occasion, the Apoplexy Store has re-opened.
— Ricky Brown (@ricky_ballboy) May 16, 2014
A massively smaller selection of stuff, but much pithier, I think. The bad news is, given what’s been cut, you’ll have to hack my phone if you’re looking for a t-shirt of Stroke Bloke looking lithe in a dress.
It’s Saturday, 15 February as I write this, sitting in Loudon’s Cafe. I’m listening to early Billy Bragg, when — and he’s doing it again recently — his fascist-killing guitar machine did the job of all four members of The Clash. And this is from a John Peel session, so it’s got that fab “Billy live” sound.