Could someone please explain to me why articles in the New York Times are split up over so many pages? It’s like a Fighting Fantasy book. Start off on the first page, make your choice, then get sent to page 29, then 17, then end up finishing in the Sports section killed by an orc. Call me unadventurous but I find this makes things a bit hard to read.

British newspapers seem to manage the amazing feat of having almost all stories ending on the same page that they start. What is the rationale for the NYT’s behaviour? Is there a calculation that can be made to judge the status given to a story depending on page and position, and every journalist is fighting to get the headline, their name and the first paragraph ahead of everyone else, never mind the reader? I don’t know, if they want to be famous and respected journalists maybe they should concentrate on writing good articles. Perhaps I’m just being naive here.

I was looking through my images directory and I found this scan from Milk And Cheese:

I, of course, have both wine and gin.

“That bloody landlord,” said Jeff suddenly, “has stolen my cat.”

Marge looked up from the sprouts. “What the bloody hell are you on about now?”

“I’m telling you. I haven’t seen him all day. It’s that bloody Chris down at the Coach And Horses.”

“You haven’t seen that damn cat for weeks, he’s always out doing whatever it is he does, doing his business in other people’s gardens most likely. Why the hell are you worried about it now? Are you going to wash those spuds or what?”

“I love that cat, and I’m not having some pint-puller take him away from me. I spoke to Dave this morning and he said he’d seen him down there.” He gestured with his beer can meaningfully.

“What on earth would Chris want with your cat?”

“He stole that rabbit from Mike’s son last year.”

“You bloody asked him to steal that rabbit, you wanted to wind Mike up.”

“Yes, but he stole it, didn’t he? He was quite happy to. And Dave says he’s got him.”

“For heaven’s sake, just wash those spuds will you. And put that fag out. You’ll make the gravy smell.”

Jeff slapped the arm of the chair. “God, I can’t take this much longer.”

“What?” Marge shouted from the kitchen.

“I said, I can’t take this much longer. Sitting here watching telly while that bugger’s got me cat.”

“You could always come in here and help.”

“I mean, look at this shite. No football, just some cock about gardening.”

“Look.” Marge came through into the living room, wiping her hands on a tea towel. “I know what this is about. You are not going down to that pub. I’m sorry, no.”

“Don’t you tell me what to do. That bastard’s got my cat.”

“Bollocks. You just want to go down there and get pissed, just like last week. You’re not coming back here at midnight waking the kids up again. I’m not having that.”

“I told you, Dave said he had him.”

“Your bloody brother will say whatever you ask him to say.”

“That’s not true, that’s my brother you’re talking about, he’d never lie. You’ve always had it in for my family, haven’t you? And you never liked that cat.”

“Oh for… fine. No, fine.” Marge waved the tea-towel at him and walked back towards the kitchen. “I’m not getting into this again. You lay the table. Dinner’ll be ready in half an hour.”

“Jeff? That was Dave on the phone. He says he’s going to be late, he has to drop the kids off at their mum’s, and I asked him about the cat and he says he just thinks he saw a cat there… Jeff?” Marge looked around the clearly empty front room, TV still on Changing Grounds. “Where the bloody hell has he gone? He’d better not be at that pub.”

She picked up the telephone and called his mobile. “Jeff? Where are you?”

“I’m getting my cat.” In the background was the clink of glasses and the murmur of conversation. “I’ll be there in a minute, I just have to get the cat.”

“You get back here right now.”

“Don’t you tell me what to do… yeah, cheers… got to go now.”

“Jeff? Jeff?” Marge tried to dial back, but only got his voicemail. “The cheeky bugger.”

Everyone at the table had finished and in the silence their eyes had all slid to Jeff’s place. Marge had insisted on serving out turkey, sprouts, peas and potatoes, and they sat there on the plate getting gradually colder.

Dave coughed briefly. “Um, maybe I should give him a ring, see what he’s up to?”

“Give me your phone, I’ll do it. He only hangs up if he thinks it’s me,” said Marge. “Kids, clear the table. Your dad’s not going to be here for lunch today.” Dave handed her his phone and she dialled Jeff’s number.

“Dave?”

“No, it’s not your brother, it’s your wife. Don’t you dare hang up on me. I know you’re in that pub boozing.”

“I am not boozing.”

“Don’t give me that. Dave told me he never said Chris had your cat, just that he thought he might have seen a cat, and Tricia next door says she saw the little fleabag pissing in her geraniums this morning.”

“I may have had to buy a couple of drinks but that’s just to get at the information I need. Anyway, it was never about the cat in the first place. I thought Dave said he said Chris had him, but really, I’m just here because I promised Alan I’d come along to the pub quiz, I said I’d go. I told you that before, I never said it was just about the cat. I can’t let a mate down.”

“What? You didn’t say that earlier. You said it was about the cat. You’re just down there getting pissed. Where’s that cat? And anyway, Alan hates you, and you always lose at pub quizzes.”

“Psschhht… brrrbbzz… it’s breaking up… see you later, I won’t be much longer.”

Will Jeff find his cat? Has Chris the landlord really stolen it? Look for future thrilling installments, only on Light From An Empty Fridge!

Well, you might have noticed there’s a new column to the right. Instead of actually blogging the various things I look at here, I’m putting them in a sidebar. Not everything, obviously, otherwise the page would be enormous – no, just those things that fall between “wish I hadn’t clicked on that” and “OMG MUST WRITE ABOUT IT”.

I don’t really have much more to say, except that I went into the city to get some vegetables, almost missed the closing time at Reading Terminal Market but managed to get a vast quantity of non-animal produce for just over $6, and, bonus! found a state liquor shop on 12th Street, just by the Convention Centre – can’t really have a Convention Centre without alcohol I suppose. Not a particularly good one, sure, and staffed by one person who gave less of a shit than any retail worker I’ve ever met, but it sold wine and that’s what counts.

Actually, it mostly consisted of a massive selection of jug wine for the booze cognoscenti. Jug wine is not something that really exists in the UK, but imagine a glass bottle the size of a large pumpkin filled with sweetish rotgut, for a relatively small amount of money. The “real wine” section consists of some Californian stuff, a small section of New World wine that I bought from, and a wooden wine rack containing “premium wine” – read, foreign, either with a fancy bottle or French.

I’m sorry, but French wine sucks. I’ve never bought a bottle of French wine that was worth the money. I imagine this is a joke that the French play on the rest of the world, keeping the best stuff for themselves and only exporting the crap so as to be able to laugh at les Americains et les rosbifs, but they deserve to be paid back for this by gaining a reputation for producing shit wine. I don’t care whether you’ve bought a bottle of wine in France for twenty francs that was better than sex – this is propaganda I’m talking about. Sneer at French wine as the drink of the ignorant and pathetically snobbish. Maybe it will send a message.

Basically, when I’m looking for wine, I have simple criteria: (Australian/Chilean/South African) (Cabernet/Merlot/Pinotage/maybe Shiraz). I don’t honestly know an awful lot about the stuff except that I like it, and I’ve settled on these factors as being the most likely to produce something drinkable. Oh, I can bullshit for lengthy periods about it, but then I can bullshit about practically anything for lengthy periods, it’s my job. I don’t really know anything.

I’ve got a fridge full of onions and peppers and “green squash” – that’s a courgette – and even compact lemons ten for a dollar, so I’m not discouraged apart from by the fact that I know I’ll have to go back to work tomorrow and talk about my personal development plan, which should be good for a post or two. I even managed to get the train back immediately after I left the shop, because it was fourteen minutes late! Doesn’t get much better than that.

It’s a challenge between what I watched on TV last night, what I have in my Gameboy Advance right now, and what I’m doing this morning.

And the results, in order:

1. Final Fantasy Tactics Advance
2. Stealing mustard from work
3. State Of The Union Address

I don’t think the result was really in doubt. The SOTUA never stood much of a chance, bit of an outsider, no support, didn’t know the right people. Mustard theft put up a good fight but, in the end, couldn’t really stand up to something that was actually designed to be fun rather than an excuse not to go to the supermarket.

[1] In small sachets. In the canteen they are left out in a bowl for people to take, and there are no staff nearby. I also lift tomato sauce, horrible fake mayonnaise and occasionally pickle.

[2] Is this a Bushism? Grammatically suspect. “America will never seek a permission slip to defend the security of its people” perhaps, or “We Americans will never seek a permission slip to defend the security of our people”, but “America” is not a plural noun.

I thought I wasn’t going to watch this, but I failed. I’m sorry. I just switched on.

Really – why is this sort of bullshit unchallenged propaganda allowed? Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t this just the President telling us how great he is without anyone else having the opportunity to say “now hang on a second, that’s bollocks”, and having it broadcast on network TV?

It’s the thirty-second periods of applause after each paragraph that really get me. What kind of a political forum is this where everyone is agreeing with him?

Oh god, they’re cheering his suggestion that his tax cuts should be permanent, now. Christ. This is really painful. “Protect them… from frivolous lawsuits”, and we all know what that means – big corporations don’t have to face legal challenges. “My administration is promoting free and fair trade”, no, don’t think so. Cheer the Great Leader!

“We should… (act) as good stewards of taxpayers’ dollars” by running up record deficits, presumably?

The comedy is that I heard a spokesman saying something along the lines of “this will be the President of the United States giving this speech, not a candidate for office”. Obviously there’s no electioneering going on here.

More applause. Applause after everything. Boasting about healthcare, seniors etc etc, not mentioning the deals with the pharms industry that prevent price capping of course. “We will preserve the system… that makes America’s healthcare the best in the world.” And of course, nobody ever goes without healthcare because they can’t afford it. No sir.

Oh God, here comes the drugs stuff. He’s proposing extra drug testing in schools “to save childrens’ lives… we love you and we do not want to lose you”. Think of the children. Isn’t the War On Drugs a ridiculous concept yet? Apparently not.

On to STDs… can’t wait. “Double Federal funding for abstinance programmes” – yes, I knew it. The sort of programme proved worldwide to be the least effective, and this is a good thing. Marriage now… “principled stand for one of the most fundamental and enduring symbols of our civilisation”… “union of a man and a woman”… “our nation must defend the sanctity of marriage” (against judges allowing same-sex marriages).

Religious charities. Give them money, basically. Prisoner re-entry funding (not a bad idea in itself, quite the opposite) but he emphasises at the end “including from faith-based groups”.

God, this is such cock. I can’t cope now. He’s reading out a letter from a small girl called Ashley Pearson. “If you can send a letter to the troops, please put ‘Ashley Pearson believes in you’… if you or your friends see a man or woman in uniform, say thank you”. Cheers, wild applause.

Can’t cope! Must switch off TV! Cannot cope with closing god-referencing wank! Oh wow, it’s finished, that’s it. Breathe. Breathe. The country you live in is run by a blatantly lying god-botherer; don’t let it worry you.

I’m just glad I missed all the “war on terror” stuff. That would have driven me insane.

The sizeable blog gap you may have noticed here, and the relative paucity of entries this week generally, is a result of my not giving a fuck about anything at the moment. Consider the following and tell me, honestly, if you could find them interesting[1].

The fucking Democratic primaries

I mean, seriously. People take the piss out of anarchists, trots etc for having massive internal debates about policy and tiny ideological details which don’t matter – these ones are televised and there are huge NPR specials covering them. It’s just a “who’s the most mainstream?” competition. The only even vaguely good candidate, Kucinich, had no chance from the start and everyone knows it.

Because I think the current administration are dangerous lying arseholes I’m supposed to be care which slightly-less-dangerous lying arsehole challenges them? This, I swear, is the worst part of being “left” or “progressive” (or whatever label you want to pick to mean “not scum”) in America[2], the assumption that you must be a rabid Democratic supporter[3], want Bill Clinton’s babies and endlessly email all your Friendsters with the latest funny story about WMDs, despite the fact that said Dems have been pathetically rolling over for Bush for the last two years.

Light From An Empty Fridge is the blog that says “Fuck Dean, fuck Kerry, fuck Friendster, fuck all of you”. (Light From An Empty Fridge is the blog that is not displaying much positivity today.)

My fucking job

As if to taunt me, my job has managed to be even less interesting since I’ve been back than it was before. It’s not only failing to stimulate me now, it’s actually sucking the energy out of me. Guess I shouldn’t have gone down into the basement when I heard that strange noise.

I’m not going to go into any of the following issues which have been fairly thoroughly covered previously:

• stupid location miles from anywhere
• boring suburbanite co-workers who don’t go out after work
• mind-numbingly tedious and repetitive tasks that have somehow got worse since I came here, because clearly despite three years’ experience before this I know nothing about programming in this environment and have to be put on noddy work forever
• endless management-speak[4]
• no promotion for four bloody years whilst at the same time mocking me by producing, after lengthy and expensive consultation, a “technical job ladder” that is so vague as to be utterly worthless i.e. exactly what was intended all along
• can’t get another one here because nobody will give me another visa and if I leave this I’ll lose my current visa, apartment etc and have to pay early lease termination fees and it would have to be in the UK anyway and I wouldn’t be able to go for interviews while I was here so I’d have to find a place in the UK with no money and no job while I did that
• bastards bastards bastards god why was I so stupid it was a fucking awful idea to come here
• cries

Instead, today, let’s talk about the hideous quiet. I just made a recording of fifteen seconds of what it sounds like to be here right now, which I am providing for your edification:

This was found on the board of a hamburger joint in New Mexico. Not by me. » Continue reading “Board”

It is cold outside, and the cable for my iPod’s headphones keeps freezing. It sticks out from under my jacket like a coil of dried white spaghetti, which is very inconvenient until it warms up and softens.

The buttons on the iPod are also very difficult to operate if you are wearing gloves. I’m not sure exactly how they work, but it’s not by simple pressure, because I can apply pressure with my leathered fingertips and that doesn’t activate anything. If I put the flat of my finger onto the button and press while moving it around, sometimes I get a response, but if I take my gloves off the slightest touch of a finger triggers them. You can forget using the scroll wheel with gloves on, too.

You don’t really need controls for an iPod, though, apart from “play” and “pause”. When the buttons light up, it’s actually scanning your brain and working out which song you should listen to next. Not the song that you want to listen to, you understand, the song that you should listen to. For instance, when it plays twenty Diamanda Galas songs in a row, what it’s saying to you is “You downloaded all this Diamanda Galas because you were curious, but you don’t really like it, do you? You should really delete it. I’m going to make sure that you do.” Or when I plug myself in on the way to work, worst hangover ever, and it starts up with Squarepusher at a volume that I don’t remember setting quite that high, it’s saying “Maybe this will teach you to drink less, you alcoholic”. Or when I mysteriously end up with an entire Wheatus album that I don’t remember ripping – hard to determine whether it’s the whole album rather than one track repeated ten times – it’s telling me that they may sound stupid but they also sound like they’re having fun so maybe I should think less and bounce around more, eh? And dye my hair. White, obviously, to match the iPod.

The other thing you should know is that iPods lose battery life faster if you play fast songs on them. Playing really slow processional music or dolphin noises will make it last for up to a decade. 250BPM industrial nosebleed will kill it in a matter of weeks. (I might try to propagate that one, I think some people would believe it.)

qwghlm.co.uk: blunkett policy maker

Give Guardian readers an on-the-spot fine, and then deport them to Guantanamo Bay.

Also check the Daily Mail-O-Matic on the same site.