John Walker's Electronic House

Extraordinary things are afoot.

It is endlessly obvious to observe, but it remains remarkable when so many ‘coincidences’ all occur at once, in so helpful a way.

So much is providing me with answers and angles for my thoughts on Story, and how it affects one’s life. I presume that a large part of this is like that tricksy sensitivity to a certain word that can haunt you everywhere you go. Suddenly everyone is saying “eschew”, and you can’t stop hearing it. (I’d love it so much if someone were to be experiencing that for the word “eschew” when they read that). So perhaps I’m just more keenly noticing the occurrences of the idea of Story, despite no increase in its appearance. And yet, despite such rational thoughts, it’s still flipping odd. It’s a good job I carry a notepad around with me, as it’s getting written on with almost every conversation I have. This means one of two things: I’m onto something interesting here, and it will be great to cobble it all together; or this is all so incredibly obvious that everyone’s already got a deep understanding of it, so much so that it appears regularly in their conversation.

Oh yes, there’s a third option. I keep bringing it up.

So here’s a snippet from tonight. And again, a coincidence, I swear it.

Driving Jo home, she sees a plastic bag doing an American Beauty impression, which reminds her of the character in the film observing that every single thing has a story. She points at the empty service station cardboard coffee cup on my dashboard, bearing some dreadful legend like, “Coffee Cuddles” or whatever it might be, and says, “That mug has a story. It was made in a factory by a number of people, designed by someone, used by someone else. It has a whole story to tell.”

I’m aware that this, to a large extent, is observing that time is linear and that actions have consequences. But to the extent that’s important to all my brain-whirring, it’s about recognising Narrative in everything. And I think there’s a lot of common ground between these two ideas, which is all crucial. Thinking back to the thing about Bush and Kerry below, the central point of the thoughts (and goodness knows, it’s hard to make that argument with any conviction – further emphasising the point I suppose) is that people refuse to recognise consequence when thinking about what to do next. I had an enormously frustrating email conversation with someone who refused to even engage in this notion when telling me I was wrong. I may well be wrong, but I’m not going to learn how when someone refuses to even acknowledge consequence and take it into account when deciding what to do next. I think it ties in to recognising life as a narrative – a story, where the plot so far cannot be ignored, and the direction in which things are heading must be taken into consideration.

Because what we really need is a good ending. And a good ending does not necessarily mean a good tomorrow.

Please, someone, make it your impending plot to open a coffee shop called Coffee Cuddles.

A slightly more upbeat post for the day of birth.

I weighed myself this morning – 15.7.

I’ve lost half a stone in the last fortnight. And just by being a bit sensible and walking a bit.

At this rate, in 31 weeks I’ll be completely invisible.

And then I’ll float stuff around in front of you.

Weird.

It’s my birthday today, and I was going to write all sorts of nonsense about turning 27, and how strange that is, with various ideas that had come to mind during the previous day.

But now John Peel’s gone and died, and I just want to cry instead.

I don’t know whether it’s appropriate or not to link this, but I’m going to. It’s clearly my main memory of him.

http://www6.thdo.bbc.co.uk/radio4/hometruths/0303bridesmaid.shtml

I did meet him once, when doing something at Radio 1. He was sat on my stuff, and I was almost too afraid to tell him. He was incredibly lovely. I’m sad.

This needs to be written down, to be referred back to. And more fun to do it publically, because then people can remind me of it at key moments.

I’ll finish the SF/SM story soon, promise.

Last Wednesday, I had one of the most important and valuable evenings in recent memory.

I went to see a favourite film of mine, Before Sunrise, with two friends from college – Hannah, in my year, and Jo in the year below. It turned out that it was also one of Jo’s favourite films, and Hannah had heard much good about it. And it really is exceptionally good. I’ve been reading about Bazin recently – a man who is often credited with having ‘invented’ film study – and about how he believed that film was an attempt to capture God’s creation. He argued that when something was filmed, it was to film God. It’s far more complicated than that, and his books are hard to find (hoping to have some by my birthday – ON WEDNESDAY – so I’ll have a better understanding). The idea resonates with me strongly, and it’s a thought I’ve been struggling to put words to for a couple of years now. Clearly I have yet to, but I’m getting there. But still, as I watched the film it was strongly buzzing around my head. This is a large part due to my learning of Bazin through another Richard Linklater film, Waking Life. A film in which the central couple from Before Sunrise/Before Sunset appear, and made in the years between the two. Waffling.

One of the extraordinary elements of Before Sunrise is the sense of place the film gives. It’s set in Vienna, and the city is the third character of the film. I realise I’ve gone on about the film here before, but briefly, Linklater’s loving depiction of the location is generous to the viewer, allowing time for the place to be soaked in. One shot in particular stood out for me. It was simply the train leaving the station, viewed from above. In terms of narrative, the shot is not vital, although it serves to demonstrate that they are indeed going to stay in Vienna for that night – there’s no getting back on the train. But for me, at that moment, something about the care of the shot – the rust colours all so perfectly caught as to appear Autumnal – gave me a glimpse of God. I felt a moment of connection – something I’d later call communication. This isn’t the biggest deal – I often do similar. But read on.

After the film there was much conversation, and it was agreed that dinner was necessary to further this. So to the best Indian restaurant of all, the Eastern Eye in Bath. On the walk there, we decided that after food, we’d go to my flat to watch Waking Life, as Hannah was bored of Jo and my referring to it without knowing what we were talking about, and more as an excuse for both Jo and myself to watch a film we learned we’d both seen very many times already.

But it was the conversation over dinner that has inspired this convoluted and wandering diatribe. We all three began by almost confessing to one another than our Christian lives weren’t brilliant at this time. But all three of us non-conformists, we found this a difficult phrase to sit comfortably with. And through a process of sharing snippets of ideas with each other, we eventually put two very obvious twos together, and came up with a four that was staring us in the faith.

We all three are dissatisfied with Church. The institution that currently exists bears little to do with any Biblical manifestation of a Church, and the current trends and styles are so tiresome and tedious. But with this comes enormous peer-group pressure. If this is what Christians are doing, and we are Christians, surely it is we who are at fault? The small few who find the drivelly, Jesus Is My Girlfriend music (thank you to whoever it was who gave me that phrase), and empty, thoughtless sermons of the Free Church services (let alone the dreary hymns, 70s tamborine music, and expository sermons of the Church of England), to be so wrong. Is it not we who fail to understand or connect to that which the masses so eagerly wish for? And the paradox is formed.

We want something different, and yet feel as if we are wrong to not want what it is. And to discuss this with others, others who are as passionate as you – it’s liberating. But more liberating was to hear others speak of how important their relationship with God is, and how they communicate with him. It was all admitted, rather than told, so used are we to the pressure to be just like everyone else. To hear Jo speak of her love for God, and how important her work as a skate worker (youth worker working with young people who board/blade) is in her relationship with God – it was uplifting. I felt myself soar to listen to her. Despite it not matching the trends in its execution. Shock and horror.

So finally a number of things are beginning to click in new ways.

Chatting with Jo since, we’ve both felt this sense of liberation, of a weight being lifted, and of a greater acceptence of being ourselves. There’s a lot more to this, but I don’t seem to have the words for it tonight. But it’s about breaking free from the bizarre contemporary shackles of the modern church, and acknowledging that Christianity is bigger than crappy boyband-esque worship songs and ‘daily quiet times’. It’s bigger than pretending that the Bible says things it doesn’t and then preaching on them, or refusing to think about the difficult bits, and instead having stock answers brainwashed into your head. It’s bigger than WWJD bracelets and Gumbell-approved Alpha courses.

What we eventually realised was that our Christian lives weren’t that bad at the moment. They just don’t appear so when measured against the expectations of the people we have no desire to be like. The obvious four.

You just wait until I’ve actually read one of these Bazin books.

With Bath’s Film Festival, I appear to be attempting some sort of personal record for movie consumption in a single week.

From last Saturday to tomorrow:

The Philidelphia Story (cinema)
The Corporation (cinema)
Hero (cinema)
Le Temps du Loup (DVD)
Before Sunrise (cinema)
Waking Life (DVD)
Waking Life w/ commentary (DVD)
The Big Lebowski (DVD)
Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas (DVD)
All Quiet On The Western Front (cinema)
A Tale of Two Sisters (cinema)

So, recommendations to feed this habit.

Saturday – Part 2

Defeating terrorism and staring at some sealions can work up quite a hunger, so it was with with a sense of brave adventuring that we decided to forage for food. Food can often be very difficult to find in America, sometimes requiring that one walks for as far as a metre before any can become available.

We decided the most sensible place to search for sustenance would be what the locals describe as a “mall”. These are small, rural market places, offering the wares made by locals. There is a picture of the one we visited below.

Here we found a stall that served what we learned was a local delicacy: 400lb lumps of meat set between two loaves of bread. It was a delightful experience, and we left, carrying our bellies in the complimentary wheel barrows pushed in front of us.

I want to try and express why Saturday was such fun, and I think it’s best captured by explaining that before leaving this ridiculously monolothic behemoth of Capitalism, we made sure we went to the very top so we could look down the middle. Along the way there was celebration and expressed fear at the very existence of bendy escalators, and analysis of the tummy-feelings experienced when leaning over the barrier at the top. This is the difference. People who sit in bars all day would have entered to find their store, purchase, and leave. The Right Sort of People go to the very top to have a look down the middle.

I forgot to point out something we encountered during the morning, and as tempting as it is to pretend we saw it after lunch, I cannot lie. However, its inherent humour is stronger than any mortal sense of chronology.

There was a tram ride at some point, happening in and around one of these journeys, which resulted in some very tedious shopping for jeans, woven by the tiny hands of barely-paid neo-slaves in developing nations. A pair bought by both Will and Dan. They hate children. Especially foreign ones.

Our next mission was to discover the street we’d been tipped to visit: Haight. With Dan at the map, our meandering route took us through some fantastic stumbled-upon moments. It was as if we were walking from scene to scene in a film, with new sets and interesting characters waiting on their queue at our arrival. Some highlights:

Noticing a sleeping-bag using queue outside a theatre promising a Hanson gig:

With all the ensueing renditions of “Mmm-bop” in mock post-puberty bass voices that one would expect for such a sight.

An incredible building, astonishingly being used for a San Francisco games show. We stood outside, sneering at it from afar, secretly wishing that someone attending would see us, and being a big enough geek to attend a games show, recognise our faces from the UK magazines they get in Borders.

But most remarkable of all was a Harley Davidson gathering down a sidestreet. They had hurtled past us at tremendous speeds and offensive volumes, and we accidentily followed them to their destination. It was the live band that drew us – a collection of men who looked in their forties or fifties, playing some bluesy rock with a competence far too great for the meagre audience in front of them. Which weirdly included a tall man wearing a long, blonde wig, and a young woman dressed as an old lady, dancing in front of them. However, by this point in the day, it didn’t really seem all that weird. Just another part of the San Francisco scenery.

There are more pictures of the bikes (and the rest of the trip) here, but this one is too good to not celebrate.

It’s too small to see on that reduced picture, but this is from 1903. It didn’t appear to possess quite the raw power that others around it demonstrated. I have no interest in Harley Davidson bikes whatsoever. But to see so many of them, all in one place, they looked pretty cool.

I won’t bore you with the details of our shopping spree through Haight, but they included finding the best t-shirt ever, arguing with the guy behind the counter in an anarchist bookshop, and walking out of a clothing store because it sold a sweatshirt bearing the American flag along with the slogan, “Try burning this one, asshole.” I got so far as getting my lighter out of my pocket.

We then went to the Greatest Record Store Ever, called Ameoba Records. Go there. Fly there now. Quite remarkable.

And made all the more extraordinary by being the shop we were about to go in when Will bumped into an old friend. Which was made all the more extraordinary by my having said a couple of hours previously, “The only thing left to do now is bump into someone we know.”

Saturday Part 1

Or as Will Porter describes it, “The best day”.

Saturday was a “free day”. As I’ve mentioned before, these are days I would normally dread on such a trip. Sitting in a miserable, dark bar from breakfast until, well, breakfast, may be the sort of day that sets Kieron’s heart alight, and if he is correct, those of 99% of games journalists. However, when in a city in another country, I’d prefer to be on the outside.

The fuel for this righteous fire comes from Montreal. That was a trip… I forget when, to go and look at Prince of Persia while it was still being developed. We had a whole Sunday free, no plans, and an entire, beautiful city to explore. I heard tales of a giant Biosphere thingie, and rumours of a Monkey World. And having watched the dreadful television coverage of the Montreal Comedy Festival for years upon years, I also knew quite how much tourist-kitsch and interesting stuff there was to look at. But when you’re in a party of five, and you don’t have any money beyond that pouring from the PR’s wallet, it’s difficult to fight against the current towards the nearest, dankest, least pleasant bar available. This was made all the more agonising because of the volume of incredible sights appearing in front of us as we walked around. The night we arrived there was a French-language music festival on the streets outside our hotel, with live bands around every corner. And we watched for about three minutes before being dragged to a bar. The next morning was Montreal’s Gay Pride, and despite stumbling upon the route quite by accident, people still weren’t prepared to stay for more than ten minutes. So we could sit in a bar.

So yes – I don’t like “free days”. They tend to be anything but.

However, before leaving, Will and I had made a pact to use the day wisely, and under no circumstances were events to occur such that we didn’t see sealions.

Before setting off, there was some sensible use of the (bonkers) Hotel Triton foyer massage chairs. Me left, Ben right. Thanks to Dan for some of the pics below, including this one.

Will, Dan and myself set off bright and early (actually before 10am) to transfer to our new hotel, and then explore. We couldn’t check in immediately, so we checked our bags, and then asked the man behind the counter at the (poshest ever) hotel for some tips of where to go and what to explore. He produced a handy map, and began scribbling all over it with helpful directions and top tips. And then told us that there was a hill with an old fashioned tram service running on it. “It’s called Nob Hill”, he said, as the three of us looked at each other and smirked. Nob. Funny.

So our first destination on this epic and extraordinary journey was the pier. We knew to visit Pier 39 – that was where the action was. And boy, was it ever. Not only were there enormous numbers of tacky tourist shops, but also an arcade in which Dan could display his (surprisingly good) Dance, Dance Revolution skills:

And Will was able to FIGHT TERROZRIZM:

It’s sad to report that during his time on the elite force’s side, Will sustained a terrible injury. Captured on film above, Will managed to ever-so-slightly use one of his muscles, leading to days of sustained pain and annoyance for anyone near him.

Terror firmly under check, and an appropriate number of arrows highlighted while over the top of other arrows pointing in the same direction, we left, to SEE THE SEALIONS! It came true!

Sealions are great. A lot of very boring people will say something like, “It’s extraordinary the way they are so clumsy on land, but oh so very graceful in the water.” Yawn. This is what should be said in future: “The are so very lazy, and yet will go to remarkable lengths just to annoy their friends.”

We watched many of them choosing the most awkward paths to the water possible. Nevermind that they could just roll one inch to their left, they had to crawl over about a dozen of their fellow sunbathing chums, hitting them all in the face on the way, rousing angry barks and some furious glares. They are my heroes. I now model myself on them.

Phewie, it was a packed day. More next time.

Friday

Friday was a day during which they actually had the audacity to expect us to do some work. Oh, and what work.

We began with breakfast in a cafe next door to the (bonkers) hotel, which took an astonishing 35 minutes to prepare and serve a bowl of cereal. Special commendation to them for that – it can’t be easy. They didn’t appear to have been especially carefully arranged in the bowl, but perhaps it was too sophisticated for my ill-educated eye. I coped. Unfortunately the other PR with us, Bo, burned the place to the ground with her evil glare.

And then… then, we were forced to work. Those hateful slave-driving Nazis dragged us kicking, screaming, nay, wailing, to Lucas Valley, and up to Skywalker Ranch. THEY ARE SO CRUEL.

At this point I would like to put one of the photographs of the Ranch to illustrate, but unfortunately we’re not allowed to publish them. So instead I’ll link to someone else’s photograph from their website, so LucasFilms murder them instead. I’m sure it’s the property of www.dagbladet.no and so on.

It’s pretty cool to get to go there, and the photo above is one of very few anywhere on the internet, so it’s a treat to see it and look around. Which makes me a complete git for this being my second visit.

Almost evil Will Porter was a very excited little puppy. You see, Will has a condition that I should explain. Will likes Star Wars Episodes 1 and 2. I don’t think there’s an official charity set up yet for people with this, but clearly there’s a lot of research needed, and hopefully one day there will be a cure. For now, just send you money to me, and I’ll absolutely definitely make sure it goes to him straight away. (Cheques with Will’s name on them are not acceptable, for some reason).

Our arrival was not exactly ceremonial. We pulled up outside the Ranch to be greeted by a guard (no, not a Stormtrooper, you hideous geek) who asked us if we would get back into our van and drive to a carpark around the corner and hide, because some “VIPs are coming”. Apparently the sight of us would have been more than their Very Important Eyes could have coped with. I remain convinced that she had become confused, and we were the said VIPs. Confused by our scruffy appearance, she didn’t realise our import, and made a terrible fool of herself. Luckily, while in the other carpark, we saw a lizard.

Inside is great, and you haven’t seen it and I have so I’m best. But very best of all are the two cabinets in a hallway between two rooms. Upon those shelves lie some excellent items, including:

The original lightsabre handles from the films
An AT-AT used in Jedi
Indiana Jones’ hat and whip
The golden statuette from Raiders
The Holy Grail itself
Willow’s wand

but casting a shadow over all else:

Howard the Duck’s guitar

Oh yes.

We then did some of what we were really there to do, which was go down the road to Big Rock and look at some computer games. What a terrible hardship.

Black Rock also contained the gift shop. I bought, and I cannot tell you how proud I am of this, a Skywalker Ranch oven glove. No, you can’t touch it.

There’s every likelyhood we did something exciting in the evening.

Thursday

I knew that the lovely Will Porter would be on the trip. Even though he’s from the evil enemy bad people at PC Zone, he’s been there a short enough time to not be completely horrid. It’s good to know there’s someone you know on such trips, because otherwise you can spend many days in the company of boring people who want to do nothing but sit in dark bars all day long. This has happened too often. Will and I agreed to do no such thing in the ludicrous amount of spare time we would have.

The plane journey out was supposed to be just under eleven hours. Which is far long to be anywhere, let-alone crammed into the economy seat of an aeroplane located inconvenient distances from interesting afternoon strolls. But to make it extra-special, we were allowed to get used to our seats for a bonus hour and a half as the plane sat around on the ground in the UK. At first we were sitting still because someone who had booked in had decided to not get onto the plane, so they had to root out his luggage in case it was all filled up with bombs. How does that happen? Someone checks in, puts their luggage on the plane, and then… what? Goes home? Becomes engrossed in a magazine in the airport Smiths? Suddenly is overwhelmed by a desire to live like Tom Hanks in that there film, and is too busy working on his astonishingly poor accent to care?

But then they discovered an “electrical fault”, and we had to go back and be fixed. I like to think this is very much like Jimbo the Jetset, and the plane informs the pilot of his/her problem by a large mouth beneath the cockpit. But I wish they wouldn’t pass the same information on to us. I don’t want to be told that there’s an electrical fault. I’m about to spend eleven hours 39,000 feet above my squishy-squashy death in this thing, and I really have no desire to hear about the frequency with which things go wrong. But more especially, I absolutely in no way wish to hear these words forty-five minutes later emit from the on-board tannoy: “Well ladies and gentlemen, the engineers came and had a look at the problem, but they couldn’t find anything wrong. It seems to have fixed itself. So we’ll be on our way shortly.” WHY WOULD YOU SAY THAT?! Don’t tell me that! You have an electrical problem that prevents our taking off, and you tell us that it can just come and go as it pleases? ARGH! Tell me, “Well ladies and gentlemen, our engineer looked at the problem, fixed it, and then right there on the spot invented a device that prevents anything from ever going wrong on a plane ever! What luck!” Lie to me about this! What are we going to do? Sue him when it turns out to be a lie and we’re all dead and on fire?

The flight was long and annoying and my bum hurt and the movies were crap. Fortunately I sat next to Dan from Playstation.com, whatever that is, and he was a lovely man too. The flight looked like this:

Going in that direction, it adds eight hours to your day. Which means that it’s mid-afternoon in San Francisco, and long past bedtime in your head. So after settling into our (bonkers) hotel, we were taken out to a Chinese restaurant. Our (bonkers) hotel was literally the other side of the road from China Town, so this seemed ideal. But one of the PRs, Tim, had us walk for over five hundred trillion miles, throughout which we grumbled and moaned and looked longingly through the windows of beautiful looking Chinese restaurants with plentiful seating and pretty walls. But no, Tim marched us straight past them, ignoring our pleas. Eventually we stopped outside a really grotty looking place. It looked like a cross between a laundrette and a cheap diner. And it was ridiculously full with people queuing outside. But still, Tim ignored our begging. We eventually fought our way in. Instead of ordering, Tim asked the waitress to “bring us food”.

And oh my goodness. I can say without fear of hyperbole, that I had the very nicest food I’ve ever eaten in my life. Incredible, utterly incredible, flavours. And sat the other side of the restaurant: Francis Ford Coppola. So yeah, Tim was right. The show off.

The hardy went on to some bars. The sensible went back to the hotel. Which was bonkers.

Jetlag is cruel. Last night, I rather stupidly decided to stay up for the third debate, and accidentily knocked myself back into San Francisco time. My poor woozy head and confused tummy. It’s getting hungry at all the wrong times.

Talking of which, having eaten in restaurants for nearly every meal for five days, I have managed to undo the three pounds of weightloss achieved, and put on one hundred million billion stone. So I have quite a way to go now.

Actually, I’m back where I was when I first reported, which seems fine to me. Starting over, really.

So, day by day then, starting with Thursday.