This is a tough one. Who wins? Depends on context, I reckon. In Bert's car with the speakers cranked up to some level below maximum, it's got to be CCR, and preferably Suzie Q at that. Standing at the bus stop opposite the KPA (1) waiting for the nightbus and listening to the music from the union with my arms round my girlfriend and a silly hat on - it's going to be CSS every time. Let's make love and listen death from above.
So really it depends on your mode of transportation. Soon I will become owner of my mum's car (2). Then I'll presumably need to find a new acronym.
References:
1. Mambotango (2009) "I read the news today...", a blog entry in the Never Settle blog, http://mambotangoneversettle.blogspot.com/2009/06/i-read-news-todaykpa-expose.html
2. Mambotango (2009) "The market for lemons", a blog entry in the Never Settle blog,
http://mambotangoneversettle.blogspot.com/2009/06/market-for-lemons.html
Monday 20 July 2009
Wednesday 8 July 2009
shuffle
This post is about being my own boss.
I have good days and bad days, good weeks and bad weeks. Last week was good, very productive, very focused, ordered, structured, etc. But I kept working at that demonic pace until Sunday night and then cracked; lost the rhythm, the beat of the work and, as a result, self-confidence. Since then I've been struggling to get back into that beat or to find a new one. Yesterday I thought I might be finding a new one but this morning it was gone again and I struggled to get out of the house and onto my bike. When I finally did, my MP3 player assisted with the final, Sisyphean hill one has to go up before Keele (the one where people at the top throw rocks down on you as you climb (1)). Shuffle: Jeff Buckley "Everybody Here Wants You", Sublime "KRS-One", Son House "Grinning In Your Face", Gym Class Heroes "7 Weeks". So good I had to blog it. Now I have to try to crack the whip over my own head; but at least I have my teachers (the first three of these tracks) to give me some perspective on what I'm doing, and my fieldwork assistant/soundtrack ("7 Weeks") as a reminder of exactly why we did it to begin with.
References:
1. Dick, Philip K. (1982) Blade Runner: Do androids dream of electric sheep? New York: Ballantine
I have good days and bad days, good weeks and bad weeks. Last week was good, very productive, very focused, ordered, structured, etc. But I kept working at that demonic pace until Sunday night and then cracked; lost the rhythm, the beat of the work and, as a result, self-confidence. Since then I've been struggling to get back into that beat or to find a new one. Yesterday I thought I might be finding a new one but this morning it was gone again and I struggled to get out of the house and onto my bike. When I finally did, my MP3 player assisted with the final, Sisyphean hill one has to go up before Keele (the one where people at the top throw rocks down on you as you climb (1)). Shuffle: Jeff Buckley "Everybody Here Wants You", Sublime "KRS-One", Son House "Grinning In Your Face", Gym Class Heroes "7 Weeks". So good I had to blog it. Now I have to try to crack the whip over my own head; but at least I have my teachers (the first three of these tracks) to give me some perspective on what I'm doing, and my fieldwork assistant/soundtrack ("7 Weeks") as a reminder of exactly why we did it to begin with.
References:
1. Dick, Philip K. (1982) Blade Runner: Do androids dream of electric sheep? New York: Ballantine
Friday 3 July 2009
the trenches of the everyday
Grim title I know, and totally unfitting for what I am about to pronounce: I love Keele. It has taken a while, but today I suddenly have those butterflies in my stomach that are the surest sign of such things.
Why? Well you can never fully answer that question when it comes to love, but the events that immediately preceded the butterflies suggest some elements that might fit into the answer, and once again these events took place in the KPA, as all the best things (procrastination, dancing, drinking, footsie, you name it) do (1). I had just finished 'saving the day' for another defenceless civilian (in this case my sister; yesterday it was my girlfriend; what can I say, I am superfantastisch) and was celebrating with a cup of Earl Grey (trying to stay off the coffee, not because of the earlier top-up exposé (1) but because I've already had 5 cups today and I'm steaming). (I'm now going to cut down on the bracketed asides, as they are cluttering up the text of this blog post).
So there I was with my Earl Grey and the newspaper. I stood outside to enjoy the post-rain air. The barman came out for a smoke and we chatted about my girlfriend, the fat cats who live next to the KPA, and two kids fighting on the bus. I finished my tea and returned to my work. And that's when I got the butterflies, because I suddenly realised that I have been working at Keele for barely 2 months and already it feels like home and as if I am part of the circuit/scene, whereas in my own college of the University of London (which I intend to anonymise in this blog) this has never happened, even though many of our bar staff were pretty damn hip, cool and eccentric... in fact I think it never happened partly because they were pretty damn hip, cool and eccentric and although I was quite definitely eccentric (or at least I imagine myself to be), I was not pretty damn hip or cool.
Ok, so why does this blog post have this stupid title? Because I am thinking today about vanguardism, Subcomandante Marcos of the Zapatistas, and approaches to struggle (2). Gramsci's notion of the 'war of position', a kind of 'cultural trench warfare', the long struggle for, among other things, hearts and minds (3), and the anarchist notion of 'Temporary Autonomous Zones' (4) are what I have in mind when I think of my interactions with the barman as a kind of political act, as a creative performance of the type of spaces that might belong to a world 'to come' (5), a type of world that we might hope to create. Simply put, these kind of interactions don't seem to happen as much in central London, where bar staff, waiters, shop assistants are more likely to be in a hurry to serve another customer, are less likely to have 'regulars', are less likely to feel a tie to the place they work or the locality within which that place is located. Right? Perhaps. Perhaps not. Anyway it's an idea I have, and an element in a rationale for a new love.
References:
1. Mambotango (2009) "I read the news today...", a blog entry in the Never Settle blog, http://mambotangoneversettle.blogspot.com/2009_06_01_archive.html
2. Subcomandante Marcos (2003) "I shit on all the revolutionary vanguards of this planet", a communiqué from the EZLN to ETA, http://flag.blackened.net/revolt/mexico/ezln/2003/marcos/etaJAN.html
3. Gramsci, Antonio (1971) Selections from the prison notebooks of Antonio Gramsci edited and translated by Quintin Hoare and Geoffrey Nowell Smith. London: Lawrence & Wishart
4. Day, Richard J.F. (2005) Gramsci is Dead: Anarchist Currents in the Newest Social Movements London: Pluto Press
5. Patton, Paul (2007) “Derrida, Politics and Democracy to Come” Philosophy Compass 2/6: 766-80), available online
Why? Well you can never fully answer that question when it comes to love, but the events that immediately preceded the butterflies suggest some elements that might fit into the answer, and once again these events took place in the KPA, as all the best things (procrastination, dancing, drinking, footsie, you name it) do (1). I had just finished 'saving the day' for another defenceless civilian (in this case my sister; yesterday it was my girlfriend; what can I say, I am superfantastisch) and was celebrating with a cup of Earl Grey (trying to stay off the coffee, not because of the earlier top-up exposé (1) but because I've already had 5 cups today and I'm steaming). (I'm now going to cut down on the bracketed asides, as they are cluttering up the text of this blog post).
So there I was with my Earl Grey and the newspaper. I stood outside to enjoy the post-rain air. The barman came out for a smoke and we chatted about my girlfriend, the fat cats who live next to the KPA, and two kids fighting on the bus. I finished my tea and returned to my work. And that's when I got the butterflies, because I suddenly realised that I have been working at Keele for barely 2 months and already it feels like home and as if I am part of the circuit/scene, whereas in my own college of the University of London (which I intend to anonymise in this blog) this has never happened, even though many of our bar staff were pretty damn hip, cool and eccentric... in fact I think it never happened partly because they were pretty damn hip, cool and eccentric and although I was quite definitely eccentric (or at least I imagine myself to be), I was not pretty damn hip or cool.
Ok, so why does this blog post have this stupid title? Because I am thinking today about vanguardism, Subcomandante Marcos of the Zapatistas, and approaches to struggle (2). Gramsci's notion of the 'war of position', a kind of 'cultural trench warfare', the long struggle for, among other things, hearts and minds (3), and the anarchist notion of 'Temporary Autonomous Zones' (4) are what I have in mind when I think of my interactions with the barman as a kind of political act, as a creative performance of the type of spaces that might belong to a world 'to come' (5), a type of world that we might hope to create. Simply put, these kind of interactions don't seem to happen as much in central London, where bar staff, waiters, shop assistants are more likely to be in a hurry to serve another customer, are less likely to have 'regulars', are less likely to feel a tie to the place they work or the locality within which that place is located. Right? Perhaps. Perhaps not. Anyway it's an idea I have, and an element in a rationale for a new love.
References:
1. Mambotango (2009) "I read the news today...", a blog entry in the Never Settle blog, http://mambotangoneversettle.blogspot.com/2009_06_01_archive.html
2. Subcomandante Marcos (2003) "I shit on all the revolutionary vanguards of this planet", a communiqué from the EZLN to ETA, http://flag.blackened.net/revolt/mexico/ezln/2003/marcos/etaJAN.html
3. Gramsci, Antonio (1971) Selections from the prison notebooks of Antonio Gramsci edited and translated by Quintin Hoare and Geoffrey Nowell Smith. London: Lawrence & Wishart
4. Day, Richard J.F. (2005) Gramsci is Dead: Anarchist Currents in the Newest Social Movements London: Pluto Press
5. Patton, Paul (2007) “Derrida, Politics and Democracy to Come” Philosophy Compass 2/6: 766-80), available online
Thursday 2 July 2009
cheese on a bike! #1
I have been a keen cyclist for several years now. 'Keen' doesn't quite catch the fullness of the cycling part of my identity, however; I have in the past toyed with the titles of 'militant cyclist' and 'cycleterrorist', which although too nasty to actually adopt, do capture a larger part of how I look at it. I used to be an advocate of Critical Mass (1); now I am not so sure about it, partly agreeing with my friend Ern who has recently decided never to do another Mass "because there are too many nutters" eager to be confrontational with motorists and the police. The fact is, I do often feel that to be a cyclist on today's roads is to be at war; it's just that I don't want to get pulled into whatever battle the nutters within the Critical Mass decide to launch us all into (and I have this concern about the Direct Action Movement as a whole, unfortunately).
This was the reason I decided to begin a series of blog posts dedicated to explaining why I often feel that to be a cyclist on today's roads is to be at war; the immediate cause of me initiating this series were a couple of events. Yesterday I cycled home from university in the sweltering heat. As I pulled up at a set of traffic lights (halfway along the stretch of the A525 known as Pooldam), a blue hatchback pulled up alongside me with the windows wound down. A man in the backseat pointed a foghorn at me and blasted me with the sound. Today I cycled to university from home, and as I entered the university car park, passed a minibus from which a crowd of schoolkids were pouring. One girl shouted "Cheese on a bike!"
People frequently feel the urge to shout at me as I cycle past, whether they are on foot or in a car. I don't know why, and I don't really care, even though the inexplicability of it does irritate me. I'm just trying to do my thing; I'm not harming or threatening you by doing so. Nothing more to say.
References:
1. Critical Mass describes itself as an "informal and anarchic celebration and promotion of cycling" http://www.criticalmasslondon.org.uk/main.html
This was the reason I decided to begin a series of blog posts dedicated to explaining why I often feel that to be a cyclist on today's roads is to be at war; the immediate cause of me initiating this series were a couple of events. Yesterday I cycled home from university in the sweltering heat. As I pulled up at a set of traffic lights (halfway along the stretch of the A525 known as Pooldam), a blue hatchback pulled up alongside me with the windows wound down. A man in the backseat pointed a foghorn at me and blasted me with the sound. Today I cycled to university from home, and as I entered the university car park, passed a minibus from which a crowd of schoolkids were pouring. One girl shouted "Cheese on a bike!"
People frequently feel the urge to shout at me as I cycle past, whether they are on foot or in a car. I don't know why, and I don't really care, even though the inexplicability of it does irritate me. I'm just trying to do my thing; I'm not harming or threatening you by doing so. Nothing more to say.
References:
1. Critical Mass describes itself as an "informal and anarchic celebration and promotion of cycling" http://www.criticalmasslondon.org.uk/main.html
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)