UK residents cannot have failed to notice the media attention given to the latest ‘enfant terrible’ of the youth-fashion wardrobe, the hooded sweater (or ‘hoodie’, as street parlance would have it). Well, wait until they get a look at this new French-designed version by Anticon, ideal for budding young anarchists and street toughs who strive for anonymity when about their nefarious business…
(Link courtesy of BoingBoing)
Charles Stross has sold more than a dozen novels to publishers, but has done so in such a short period of time that less than half of them are actually in print yet. He’s a hot property, a supernova of the notorious Scotland set whose grip on the leading edge of British (and arguably world) SF grows stronger season by season. Stross’ writings are a case study in the talent that exists in this clade, and ‘Accelerando’, his latest to be published, a prime example of how invention and skill can combine in a synergistic fashion. Continue reading Book Review: ‘Accelerando’ by Charles Stross
…you just can’t be bothered to cook. Fantastic. Decadent western capitalism is officially a bad thing, but the fringe benefits are pretty cool.
It was starting to rankle, basically. Namely the banner-infested tedium of myspace; I’ve seen a few blogs on here now, and they look infinitely more professional, and as a domain name this is far more professionally aspirational IMHO. So, a new home for the unrestrained ranting of the Armchair Anarchist. Who knows whether this will mean I’ll post more regularly than I did before. We’ll just have to wait and see.
First bit of news; I was woken up at quarter to six this morning by what I thought was the sound of rain on my window. At first comforted by what I assumed was a perfectly normal manifestation of one of my favorite calming sounds, a more-fully-awake portion of my brain informed me that for some reason the rain was not drumming on my window at all, but in my hallway…turned out not to be rain at all, but domestic water pissing through the ceiling of my hallway, dripping down the hall light fitting and dribbling alarmingly close to the main fusebox of The Hall Of Mirrors (my humble abode).
This has happened before; my upstairs neighbour is a man with some mental health issues (plenty of backstory here, but not sure about the legality of ranting wholesale about the guy). He also drinks a lot, and alternates between hyperactive screaming rage fits and catatonic withdrawal from the world around him. Occasionally he just gets drunk and passes out…sometimes leaving a tap on. After a few rings of his doorbell (he was there, I could hear him walking/stomping about) which failed to coax him out, I decided to go back to bed; it seemed he had finally noticed the problem, as the flow steadily died off over the next fifteen minutes. Knowing his somewhat unpredictable responses to people who exist outside his own head, I am not going to try to talk to him about it today either. This means that I will have to call PHA, our mutual landlord, from work tomorrow, to try to convince them of a problem in another tenant’s flat that I know from past experience said tenant will not mention. Other obstacles to getting this sorted involve the fact that the buggers will want to send someone round during the hours in which I work, which will make orchestrating the whole affair a convoluted Kafka-esque nightmare. At least it will give me an excuse to pester them about all the other work they have promised on my flat recently and still failed to deliver. Selah…
Well, it’s midday on Sunday, and I have writing of a less self-indulgent nature to be getting on with. To all faithful Blog-readers (yes, all three of you), please sign up to be updated from here from now on; myspace will stay live, with a link to here as the last blog entry, but no more updates will be issued there. The Velcro City Tourist Board now has decent premises, and all future business will be conducted herein. Thank you.