Songs of February 2008 at Elementary Funk
Coding on the Road: Boingo a go-go
Bouncing along as the signals flare, across the day at the monitor's stare. On the road, writing lines of code here, there, anywhere and everywhere. No destination location, just a fixation on remote transactions and communications.
In the building of books and lending magazines, the surface suffices a poor device. Tasks to take breaking apart with the long wait and hate. Such hate irate and pause with the stalling cause.
Port 21, and even 22, where the passage ferries many through blue. Not here. Not where the books own the entire room.
Solution then to find an open hop; to bounce upon the spot. Boingo where the McDonald's goes. Catch a break with code to make. Offer low on the first, second and third. Not as low as fried chicken, cutting out and flying away minutes in the lonely desolte car park.
And see how this goes.
Wednesday, 27 February 2008
You Suck - Christopher Moore
Blood sucking comedy romance in a snip. Punches fine on a few of the jokes. Serves better on the rolling fallout of the romance that buds and flubs.
Pathetic, fallible and with even the flat points of humour (like keeping it light-hearted (do vampires have hearts)) manages a likeability almost all the way to the end. Almost. Short fall before the closing draw.
Such neuroses, so few fangs to penetrate the mind with. Reading within the reading an interesting view of the language, way to intrigue to the point of hammering the stake and proving it's best not to wander too close to the light for far too long.
Tuesday, 26 February 2008
El Cazador in Monticello
On the left, the non-smoking section. On the right, the chance to suck in waste molecules of chainers smoking the slow and ugly death race of lungs. For most days at the El Cazador, it's the cancer side with fewer diners and a quieter experience. Small price to pay.
Relatively as such on the prices for the lunch menu. Random select picks up what's possibly known as the Speedy Gonzales. One taco, one enchilada and rice on a heavy plate. Or any number of the lunch specials with various results.
Bean burrito, cheese enchilada and Mexican rice
Worn, over the whole shiny newness craze of plates and cutlery right out of the factory. Solid with the matte look, focussing on the food. Cooling and warm sapping out the longer the plan of destruction.
Whether this dish or another tasty option (Huevos rancheros - of "ranch-style" eggs topped with Mexican sauce, rice, beans and two soft flour tortillas) the fork sinks in easy and right away the stomach is full. Never mind the chewing part yet to pass.
Mexican food bringing up the snap reaction no matter what lies between the table and mouth, the time of day, the weather, the conversation or anything else. Without fail and ready to calculate the tip. Merely a mental hurdle as the ensuing mastication breaks away the pack and swallows victory.
Still, strange sense to sit down as the appetite goes belly up.
Sunday, 24 February 2008
Life of Pi - Yann Martel
Wonderfully delightful as the unreliable story unfolds from the words of Martel as Pi. Or as the narrator to the reader/listener. Engrossing slab of the novel floating on a puny boat in the middle of hallucinations, days of starvation and lips that bleed on the touch of air and water.
Revelations and ruminations on theism bind the pages of the book to the point of inner reflection. No heavy hand, more a temperate approach which takes to the spirituality of religion in a welcoming air of calm and rationale.
Engrossing really and the rock of the waves from stepping out into the first chapter to the last is rather madcap at times. Quite the crazy at several points along the way really.
One eyebrow finds higher ground for a long and hungry stay as the turning of the pages follow their way to the close. Interesting indeed of a read pleasant to the present. Reality remains a question of the philosophical construct and belief in faith. Words create worlds.
Life of Pi leaves the body and mind uncomfortably laying about even as the lab is looking to refute claims here and there of the fantastic and outright out there.
Friday, 22 February 2008
Black Hole by Charles Burn
Awash in similar faces, people in places of this graphic novel blend so much with one another even their tales of odd things and weirdities meld. Plot lines criss-cross to the point of jumping across each other.
A paper cut is very possible if the dust jacket stays on. Always a danger in any literary form. Much easier to read with the cover off, naked and free in the wind.
Not to say the pages themselves aren't wont to cut a fine slice of the fingers, but with one less layer a lesser chance. Plus removing the dust jacket keeps it looking nice when back on the shelf.
Deciphering the meandering lot that is their lives becomes part of the reading. Taking away the simple coast from one end to another. Nothing happens that isn't gross, so far as talking body parts go. Utterly surreal in so many scenes, a visit to the strange recesses of the psyche and a realm of just plain colourful black and white.
The malaise that is floating aimlessly on a lake nudges along the characters to where by the turn of the final page, it's not clear why it's now looking into a black hole. Save for the neat close.
Wednesday, 20 February 2008
Catcher in the Rye - J.D. Salinger
Coming of age through digression. And what digression. Holden Caulfield rambles on in such a fluid stream, of such a suddenly natural internal diatribe, it's a wonder whether there is anything else the matter. Definitely angry, hating the world so much so that finding a nugget of love is as hard as luck.
Never mind the caustic nature of his actions or the metallic flint of this tongue. What's great about this book is how it carries one thought into the next all the while essentially going nowhere in terms of speed. Doesn't ever feel like pushing too much from one chapter to the next.
A self-reflecting conversation taking a few passengers along the way and dropping them off at their stops, the pause and pace makes light work of getting to know the narrator. As much as it trails off into other things and wanderings, it keeps a hand steady on the who and why of this bloke.
Even the book itself, in the frame of mind, feels like wanting to jam itself into the back pocket to be read any time and anywhere the feet go. Attitude in the prose that thumbs its nose at society and not caring for it. Then sits down in the gutter by the side of a now broken payphone and asks nothing more than to be left alone.
Depressing and hopeless at the same time it is funny, wicked and just a treat. Quick work on taking page after page and then it's done.
Sunday, 17 February 2008
The Scarlet Letter by Nathanial Hawthorne
Dense thatch of words pinching the eyes. Layers of symbolism with poetic hints taunting an easy, leisurely read. No stroll in a back alley here. An all out or nothing task foraging to keep a hold of words, phrases and turns of the scene.
Parts glare bright in simplicity of metaphor while others look to cloak in a warm coat ready for the wintry walks. Feet slog through the marsh, pulling up each leg before having to do the same to the other in order to keep above and ahead.
Difficult comes to mind in parsing the structure and make up of the letters upon the pages. Hawthorne writes The Scarlet Letter in a wonderful style that causes a headache too long in the reading position. Not enough to trigger a nosebleed, thankfully (or woefully), but enough to render pauses. And plenty of them.
Struggling to recover the mental prowess to process chapter upon chapter, it's a book that does not lend well to taking a rest. And yet, it's the kind of book that makes rests a requisite lest the best of reading is done and uncommon.
Not a read for leisure; a read of pressure and texture.
Saturday, 16 February 2008
Snow way to wake up
Feeling like every other morning before. Only now with the heat closer to the floor. Beyond the door, a white shadow of the early day coats the outside from last night. Cool touch against a hot breath and the vapours chill. Cheeks rub the air listening out to the soft crunch underfoot leaving behind a trail of quiet spoken prints.
White on grey rocks and brown rails and every other colour beneath and jutting through. Snow enough to layer a side of the cake as the drag of the day warms itself to melt back the raw undercoat of the harsh ground below.
Powdery substance blankets the morning
One morning like any other not like any other.
Wednesday, 13 February 2008
Falling between the week
Days into nights with the sun and moon in clandestine meetings behind the clouds. Nothing rests well nor bright on the meridian. Not since breaking dawn over an endless horizon flying above the rest of it all to cross planes of time.
Clocks matter not when the vision brains itself into falling between the darkness of days ending in Y. Keeping an eye on things only when those things are on the membrane of the eyelid is the best thing to do.
Bright night lights don't matter an hour in the middle of the day when it's all narcoleptic on blackout. Insomnia catches wind on the other end and the two play a few games. Chess only with pawns, draughts with pieces of the same colour or even a crossword puzzle with no clues.
Time is a bender.
Wednesday, 13 February 2008
United 840 - Sydney to Los Angeles
Cavorting the Sydney to Lexington adventure involves three legs in the air. Sydney to Los Angeles. Los Angeles to Chicago O'Hare and then Chicago to Blue Grass Lexington. Long time in the air.
Longer if one of the legs, say Chicago, happens upon itself snowstorms and thick layers of white weather powder delaying the connection of other legs and leaving passengers aplenty at the airport.
Only time for a large slathering of movies to watch and pass and blackout to happens to be on the Sydney to LAX leg of the trip. Long haul, and without good movies, feels even longer.
December Boys
Daniel Radcliffe and three Aussie co-star kids running about a beach looking for parents. They being orphans and all born a December month. The parents in this case looking to test run how they'll be as a family unit and figuring out which of the orphan boys to call "son" and mean it. Underlying note of sadness with a few light points along the way. Overall a really nice warm glass of milk of a way to ease into flying back over the Pacific Ocean again.
Gone Baby Gone
Casey Affleck and possibly Michelle Monahagn standing outside on the street talking about something. And it's not even sure of remembering these two actors as actually being in the movie itself. Quite the blue tone though, like sepia only on a melancholy or down mood. Time for a nap.
Elizabeth: The Golden Age
Cate Blanchett returns as Queen Elizabeth in this sequel where the eyes are heavy, the night is low and the light wants to sleep away. One slow dance of a rather adulteress hint with Sir Walter Raleigh along with the subtitled opening sequence of events leading to her possible ousting is what little remains in the mind of this.
Time again for a snooze but after they pass out the ham rolls wrapped in cling wrap as the midnight snack.
Michael Clayton
How this movie finds itself playing on the small screen twice is possibly kicking out another film. All in all the only scene happens to be the minutes just before the end credits roll. Wondering why it's possible to see George Clooney sitting in a car in the same scene with no recollection of doing anything productive between.
Then again, it is the in-flight movie marathon.
Mr Magorium's Wonder Emporium
Closing out the roll but not the flight. Awake enough from the rough and tumble turbulence to see Natalie Portman pixie it up charmingly against Dustin Hoffman. Magic toy store that comes to life and fights against its own death. Wonderful atmosphere, odd characters, entertaining props and a quick yet strange film to eat up before breakfast tottles around later in the day/night/day.
Week near come and gone with the feet firmly on the Kentucky ground and the first and last cinematic shots obviously the better of the rest.
Monday, 11 February 2008
Rafferty's Restaurant and Bar in Lexington
Not on top of any kind of hill, Rafferty's Restaurant is quiet and roomy in the middle of the day. Just before the rest of anyone comes in for their dinner time dinners. No idea what the theme or mood of the eat hole is all about if there is one.
Supreme nacho appetiser - tower of crisp tortilla chips swamped in refried beans, meaty chilli, sausage bits, Monterey Jack and cheddar cheese, lettuce shavings, tomato chunks, sour cream and jalapeno peppers - kills the rest of the stomach from mashing down anything else.
Tasty stomach blocker
Easy, super easy to pick up and run from chip to loaded chip down the gullet. One after the other and it's the small simple things that leaves wanting to better pace or skip altogether next time.
Means nothing when the appetite has to face against the oncoming make up of dead cow on bread buns and slices of potato in an array of fries. On this day and at this hour, a half pound BBQ burger. Cheese and onions to boot with a good sort of fries on the side.
1/2 pound Backyard BBQ burger
Nestles in the hand comfortably to a bulge. Then the mouth opens wide to start the chewing inside. Juicy smell and tinge of slight char does well to work up the mawing jaw.
Defeat comes off the nachos where the pace on the burger is now slow, deliberate and complete. Shame is hanging the head where parts of a plate, case being the tortilla chips, stands defiant with few to one quarter of its ranks left to spar. Two at the attack undone in the end.
Sunday, 10 February 2008
Thricewise to the nines
Climbing ever closer out of the groove that is the second decade of life. Three away and three of nines. Nothing more than the usual unusual state of life, being and a sense of cold to the nostrils.
There is of course the need now to remember the age at checkout, check-in and working with the authorities.
Friday, 8 February 2008
Logan's Roadhouse at Pavilion Way in Lexington
Peanut shells and cracked nuts are the floorboards in Logan's Roadhouse. Every table with a bucket of nuts ready for a munch, munch to then crunch, crunch between the toilets and table stalls.
Dark lights pass overhead along slabs of meat at the entrance before taking a seat. Booths big and plenty, swallowing people who might be slamming down a fist on the tabletop. Not entirely an act out of the question of demand.
Flat screens on sports things all over the walls and ceilings. Nothing like chowing down on dead pig and cattle with pigskins and leather on fields of astro green.
Porkies for the plate, an easy option. Miniburgers always are. Built for dipping right into the sauce pop. No need to dispense with the pleasantries, just lay down the lids, squeeze in hand and bite down and chew. Taste of New York for the wife and a spud to boot.
Porkies with pulled pork, carrots, mayo, cheese and pickle chips with a serve of fries
Once, twice, how many now? Everything is fine and the server comes round and round with a pitcher of water. Always water, leaves the rest of the taste for what's on the plate. Logan's Roadhouse, where you can be yourself so long as someone checks up on you to make sure you're being yourself.
Down down after the pulling of the pork and slicing of potato forms, a feast for the brain awaits over by the Barnes & Noble under a waddling minute away.
No mind on the tinge of red in the lights. For meat in the butcher's shop to show the vitality of the muscle and maw. Eat up the competition, next course, the booth behind.
Thursday, 7 February 2008
Time travel turns summer to winter
Hours long the journey from tomorrow into yesterday. Today disappearing into the time ticking backwards at a standstill as people walk forwards and everything else moves sideways. Cross that line and cross it well, the sun always comes up tomorrow. In any way or fashion.
No places for shoes in suitcases. Packing tight, packing right, packing for the flight. Not enough and too much. Always looking for a better way to roll air into oblivion and negative space. Squeeze with all the might to compress a knuckle into a fist. Do it once more. Do it within reason.
Feeling the heat bead down the face waking up one day, the weather looms overhead days in the cold and chilly frost of the Midwest. Time to fly the skies with United. Dry air and dry water. Keeping up with the fluids and keeping the drinks cup sloshing with the simple yet vital nutrient of plain water. Water from the plane. Water on the plane. No waiter on the plane.
In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights, in cooling the breeze. Seasons to change and a mind runs free. Free for the snow to cover the ground and ice the veins. Sweat for frost and a day or two will repeat for history's sake.
Sunday, 3 February 2008
TNC 14: 83 Thai on Elizabeth Street
Walk right under the air conditioning unit straddling the entrance to notice the small space inside the Thai restaurant. Short stack from the wet outside, slippery when wet. Careful with the treading. Plenty of tables for couples or threeples. Nothing enough for a dozen on the ground floor.
Quick up to the first floor and thar be long tables for the group. Large, say a dozen or more with a mirror ball hanging from the rafters. Wood beams and the rest of the plumbing along the walls and ceilings show their presence.
Good wait time between stepping through and with the order, pausing for the casual glance of the menu. Pausing again for the stragglers to make a decision. So many choices. Beef. Chicken. Pork. Water in jugs of Thai writings or Korean. Icy cold, with no ice. Probably Korean.
White and lots of it painting the decor. Pink little bear dead on the table marker. Hangman game gone wrong. Nooseless. And then the food arrives in fairly short steps.
Fresh is the taste and the tables clear out the plates with gusto. Too much on a few plates and the spread feels the excess of food going. Cost is easy on ten dollars and splitting the bill with 20 others, painless.
Saturday, 2 February 2008
Kings take the Hawks to task
Much in the heat of things, unsettling with the humidity spacing out the eyeballs. Summer in the Sydney with the closing rounds of the basketball leaving few weeks before the finals.
Kings quick out of the corridors and hanging off the scoreboard. Points racking up moderately. Nothing too fancy. Nothing too quick. Lost in the flash of the Entertainment Centre lights. Long gone the watching of games and the Kings make teasing work of the Hawks. Energy saps with the pacing up and down of the boards. Walking hands are faster than this.
Between the rounds, little runs of go-carts tackling the witches hats. Mind going off elsewhere unable to keep a track of things. Of anything let alone everything.
With no more fight in them, the game is enough as a paltry slap in the face for the visitors from Wollongong. Taking time away from sitting on the bench to watch as Sydney commands the lead earlier, often and all the way to the final buzzer.
Sydney Kings 105 to Wollongong Hawks 86.
Friday, 1 February 2008
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