|Oh dear, it's
started, with five hours of pretty-firework carpet-bombing currently
underway in Afghanistan. Speaking as part of the
will of the world, I hope they're using some mightily
clever terrorist-seeking missiles. How on earth are the terrorists
going to get out of this one, when they're all so easily
distinguishable from civilians, when they've likely got access
to far better intelligence and running-away equipment? Gah.|
And opening fire the day before an American public holiday, so that
their government buildings will be empty should anyone feel
like retaliating, is extremely reassuring for people who live in
other countries. God bless America, as the man says.
art in Antwerp; a series of pumps and glass retorts that
take freshly-cooked food in at one end and - a few
plastic tubes, heating elements and stomach acids later -
extrude near-enough faecal matter. Also, by the same
artist, a couple of tattooed pigs. Superb.
"Finally, it becomes my turn. It seems I have waited for an eternity. I take my sheaf of papers, clip them to the clipboard, and sit. I stare in awe at the form. Two hundred sheets, in the tiniest of print."
The terrible truth about God's omniscience, fresh at
|The art of malevolent redundancy: a plastic bag saying
two things, in every language imaginable; that it may suffocate
children, and that I the consumer should retain the bag for
future reference. No other information.
"The yellowing plexiglass covering the Chair is too wet to see
through so after I've pushed my address card in I read the paper. It's
the usual. Economic concerns. The price of brass is rising. The London
Chair Authority are agitating for more pay, but to be honest the system
could carry on indefinitely without them. The rails are iron and will
last for decades yet, the Chairs just as solid."
Matt goes with the flow in a particularly magnificent
I hope the dark legions of London Underground privateers aren't
|The Foldover Game is picking up again, if anyone's
been missing it particularly. Must automate game creation. Hm.
||The art of rhetorical questioning: a WH Smiths cashier asking
if I'd like a free copy of the Daily Mail with my Private Eye.
|Parallel plot strands being something that the "interactive" radio
drama Wheel of Fortune used effectively the other week. Happily, you can
listen to the whole thing online through an audio-streaming
widget that lets you flip between streams when a segment finishes.
From so far as I've
dabbled, it seems to be the careful build-up of implication, the listener's
inference giving context to vague snippets of dialogue, so much so as to
make a coherently advanced plot. Very clever stuff.|
But a red-and-green film would be much better, in terms of result. A
hundred people streaming out into a cinema foyer; some crying, some
laughing, and all of them incapable of conventional discussion -
sheer probability decreeing that none of them had watched exactly the
same story unfold.
|And another idea insufficiently dystopian to work into a 'Clone,
an idea I had when I was about six or seven - splitting
a TV signal into two channels of choice, monochroming them and
overlaying them on the same screen; one in red, one in green. Two
headphoned viewers - one in red glasses, one in green - can then
enjoy entirely different viewing whilst sharing a sofa.|
Which is completely pointless, but now I see potential for clever-trousers
arthouse nonsense. Two films, one soundtrack. Random foreign dialogue,
captioned differently in each colour, with only intonation or
sound effect cutting across both. White-on-black caption screens to
give the audience the option of changing their glasses. If you want
the happy ending, put your red pair on now.
|An idea that occurred to me a few hours before the announcement of
an entire T. S. Eliot poem on a stamp;
posters advertising books (primarily on bus-stops or the Tube),
but - in addition to title and author and the odd review quote -
printing the first twenty pages or so. Drug the indecisive,
snare the indifferent.
||The art of exaggeration: a man tinkering with the settings on
the burglar alarm above his shop, thoughtfully selecting one of the
five or six ear-piercing ringtones.