2014 — 9 May: Friday
I've woken up1 with an ear-worm — to be more precise, a fragment of a lyric — that will drive me nuts until I chase it down. Quite why I should have the chorus of a piece of rap music with the line "Cisco Kid was a friend of mine"2 circulating in "the canyons of my mind" puzzles me. Turns out it's performed by Cypress Hill, Method Man and Redman (which means nothing to me, or to my Copernic desktop search engine) from the soundtrack "How High" (ditto). A pot campus comedy directed by Bob Dylan's son Jesse. Most odd.
Now, about that non-dimmer switch? Better replace them both, I suppose. [Pause] Done. Now, how about a spot of breakfast? It's already 09:43 after all, and there's some fruit to be stewed (since I scoffed the last of the previous batch as a wicked treat yesterday afternoon). Bite me.
Next task?
Upgrade the firmware in my Oppo Blu-ray player to the latest Beta. Done.
Allowing...
... Brenda's gang of thugs direct access to bank accounts... what could possibly go wrong? Wonder if they'll start with Amazon and co. Doubt it, somehow. (Link.)
I returned from...
... my lunchdate and afternoon chat bearing the pair of unwanted DVDs (film plus extras) included with Len's Blu-ray of "Ace in the Hole", which was made the same year I was, though in black and white:
Waiting for me...
... on my front doorstep was another DVD. Sadly, its cover artwork uses a device (a white background) that has just (at first3 glance, ludicrously) been patented by Amazon. Quite what the US Patent and Trademark Office chap was smoking on that day beggars belief:
The weekend weather is looking rather atrocious; today has been pretty glorious, by contrast.
I think...
... this comment, appended to an interview with Jonathan Meades by Stuart Jeffries, is glorious:
Given that the position of God has clearly been vacant throughout human history, I would urge Jonathan to apply — he won't, of course, being far too sensible... Long, long ago, I was watching a Meades documentary with my father, as mother dozed next to him. During a particularly verbose, bile-soaked monologue, my Dad appealed angrily to the screen: "Who does he think he is — Fanny Dancecock?" and I sprayed a fine mist of pear cider into my sleeping mother's face.
I still recall his description of some areas of Aberdeen, which I joyfully transcribed here.
I notice...
... it's been raining, steadily, for some time now — now being somewhat after midnight in this case. Nonetheless, we've arranged a walk for Sunday, so the sun had better get his hat on by then.