Part 1 is here: Venetian Dreams: An Introduction
Part 2 is here: Venetian Dreams: Water Buses and Islands
Part 3 is here: Venetian Dreams: The Obligatory Museums
The best thing about outdoor spaces is that they are free. They tend to involve you in, or allow you to witness, the real life of a place. They satisfy the greed of wanderlust. On a cold and wet day, they can be just that: cold and wet. That’s real life for you.
Canal Di San Marco, Castello and Sant‘Elena
When the Grand Canal has finished snaking from north to south, it greets Canal Di San Marco (Saint Mark’s Basin).
If you visit Piazza San Marco (or Saint Mark’s Square) - the prime tourist spot of the city - Canal Di San Marco is next door. When the water levels rise, the basin and the square become as one. Stepping-stones provide a walkway through the flood. It was wet, but it wasn’t that wet.
Instead of visiting Piazza San Marco first, we decided to meet a little of the city. Starting at Palazzo Giustinian, we walked along the water’s edge from San Marco district, or sestiere, into Castello. Across the water, we could see the island of La Giudecca, the grand domed of church of Santa Maria della Salute and, to its left, Dogana di Mare. The latter sit at the tip of Dorsoduro district and, with a map in hand, are easy to identify. I recommend buying a waterproof city map before leaving home. Dogana di Mare is an old customs house and in the shadow of the great churches’ dome, the customs house has a feature of its own. On top of a short white tower, sits a golden globe, and on top of that stands a woman who points with the wind.
We slipped past Piazza San Marco to find a very small public garden called Giardini ex Reali. It’s size exemplifies the lack of green space in Venice, but we were on a quest to find more. We raised our noses snobbishly and walked on.
Past the Doges Palace and past the Bridge of Sighs, we headed eastwards. In the summer, this is a place of funfair rides, sweet treats and pickpockets. In the cold, we walked past closed tourist attractions and enjoyed the peace. Pink lampposts, nearby islands, a wide promenade and gentle waves set the scene. It was dry, but cold. A young couple sat on a bench sideways. Silhouetted against the water, they faced each other. With her legs folded, they tucked neatly inside his. With locked eyes, they were eighteen or nineteen and in lust.
Small detours allowed us to view the alleyways and the houses where people live. The streets wore washing and communal dead-ends told us of life, but people were few. It was ideal. Street hung washing delights me. Colourful t-shirts, empty jeans, billowing jumpers or well-washed whites, there is something quite beautiful about washing. Freshly hung or nearly dry, washing is a storyteller. It dresses streets, adorns gardens, and adds life whenever it dries. It provides a public exhibition of a private world.
Whether in Zanzibar, Barcelona or Venice, street hung washing is a travelling favourite. It means so much more than historic relics or tourist draws. Money and power make landmarks. Washing is part of the life that all of us live. I could travel the world taking photographs of drying clothes and die happy. Such images would create an exhibition so colourful, so real and so levelling, that I could never leave.
Back in Venice, on an archaic hotel television, I watched a weather forecast sponsored by Confetti. That was before I started to see confetti everywhere. There are other ways to create colour in streets. On an unguided and unscripted walk along Canal Di San Marco, we always returned to the water, the promenade and confetti.
Now when I shut my eyes, small colourful shapes, cut from paper, pattern my eyelids. We saw so much confetti that it’s left a indelible image in my mind. A small girl held a large bag aloft, and she threw it to the world. It filled her sister’s hood, spread wildly across the pavement, scattered all across Venice and then travelled with the wind to Rome. We saw it thrown once, but it was everywhere.
Then, we found green. It was landscaped and tamed. The promenade continues to the tip of the Castello district and circles the largest park we found. In fact, two parks sit alongside each other. They create a large public space, with swings, trees, benches, statues and archways. They are Giardini Pubblici Park and Parco delle Rimembranze. A group of young people rollerbladed and cycled by. Young families strolled. It was quiet, but not empty.
We walked over a bridge, and when Giardini Pubblici became Parco delle Rimembranze, we found ourselves on the island of Sant‘Elena. Centro storico is all islands, but Sant’Elena has retained its island status in name. It’s a lovely part of town. Gated communities live there. Perhaps there are threats from parkland wolves, degenerates or rabid tourists.
We walked along a wide, tree-lined pedestrianised street called via 4 Novembre - not via five Novembre - and turned left at the gated community onto via 24 Maggio. Why the streets are named with number is a mystery to me. We crossed the river, which has an accessible bridge, with ramps, and followed the locals along Pakudo Sant’ Antonio. There were rows and rows of fabulous washing hung over this street. Rio Terra di San Guiseppe took us to Parco delle Rimembranze. On the other side of the park, we took a Vaporetto back to San Marco.
That was the end of a lovely walk. It was simple and easy, and there was green.
If you follow it, you can see Piazza San Marco beforehand, afterwards or both.
Piazza San Marco
Piazza San Marco is a famous square, that’s not square at all. It’s trapezoid. You can get there on a number 1 or number 2 Vaporetto. It’s signed posted all over Centro storico for walkers. You can’t miss it.
If you travel within the safety home, you can see it here:
Piazza San Marco All Round View
Of all the buildings in the Piazza, the Basilica is the most impressive. It has five domes and is impressively decorated. It’s also free to get in, and not much is in Venice.
I bought an Eyewitness Pocket Map and Guide for Venice, which I’d heartily recommend. Its size, content and style make it a good companion. The map of Vaporetto routes is particularly useful.
The guide contains a particularly impressive diagram of the Basilica and Doges Palace, with explanations. It seems that Saint Mark’s body has a symbiotic relationship with the history of Basilica di San Marco. Venetian’s monks stole it from Egypt, it was lost in a fire in 976AD and then reappeared in 1094 when the church was consecrated. Apparently, it now lies in the altar. Or does it?
Ultimately, Piazza San Marco is a large public space, covered in paving slabs. The buildings and water that enclose it, are what makes it special. Doges Palace, Museo Civico Correr, Basilica di San Marco, Campanile si San Marco and Saint Marks Basin make this square a natural magnet for day-trippers and tourists.
Tourists can’t sit unless they pay to. Pigeons can. Personally, I prefer Trafalgar Square, with its multiple steps, gushing fountains and low walls, all available as seating and picnicking. Trafalgar Square also has many free public events and free toilets. Piazza San Marco wants your money.
It was quiet when we were there, and these are the benefits of travelling in the cold.
The Grand Canal
You can see this by Vaporetto or foot. I suggest a bit of both, mixed with some sightseeing. It’s a wide waterway filled with boats and dressed with buildings.
The Jewish Ghetto and Cannergio
The Cannergio sestieri, or district, with wide streets and public spaces, buzzes with a mix of locals and tourists. It has shops and is a place to buy everyday goods. Small alleyways lie off the main thoroughfare. Schools and green space demonstrate that there is more to life than tourism.
The main thoroughfare runs from Fondamenta di Santa Lucia (Santa Lucia Railway Station) to Strada Nova. Although there was no flooding during our stay, raised walkways, like tables, lay along parts of this road. Important routes in Venice keep raised walkways at the ready.
The through road hosts bustling market stalls, bread and sweet shops, and an odd mix of products. The stalls aspire to attract locals and tourists alike. Outside Campo Santissimi Apostoli we saw approximately 50 locals protesting, against what we could not tell. Men pushing two wheeled trolleys rushed goods to their point of sale.
Near Fondmenta Nove, where we took a Vaporetto to San Michele, abandoned and boarded up convent buildings stood next to the imposing white church of Santa Maria Assunta. This was on Campo dei Gesuiti. The sight of the ostentatious religious building on this wide, and empty, avenue of boarded up windows was quite striking. I wonder what the Jesuits would think. After all that effort to build it, it now stands next to desertion.
Cannergio is the home of the Jewish Ghetto, and attracts tourists away from San Marco. It was the first Jewish Ghetto ever and this was exciting news to me. 'Geto' in Venetian dialect refers to a foundry, and the Jewish population replaced the foundry. The name refers to what went before and nothing more.
We went to the Jewish Ghetto with a courtesy umbrella from our hotel. We turned it into a circular walk of sorts. I will describe it, and you can follow if you choose.
Starting at Fondamenta di Santa Lucia (Santa Lucia Station), we walked along Rio terrà Lista di Spagna, past the rain-soaked market stalls and raised walkways. We crossed a canal at Ponte Guglie, strode along Rio terrà San Leonardo, with its bread and sweet shops, and then headed northwards onto Rio terrà Farsetti. The synagogue signs lead to the ghetto, and we opted to follow these westwards.
We met Campo Ghetto Nuovo via an old gateway. In secular times, the gate would close at midnight. Christians then guarded it, paid by the Jews. It was an odd scenario.
The gate was no more. Instead, there was a big sign that said “Campo de Gheto Novo” clearly welcoming us or warning us away.
The Jewish population of Venice was confined to live in this area from 1516 to 1797. That is was the first ghetto is not something for Venice to regret. When other countries choose expulsion, Venice chose to resist. As a merchant city, Venice wanted to retain Jews. They placated the church by creating the ghetto, and it is told, that the Jews didn’t really mind. They enjoyed the benefits of a gated community. They did complain about being squashed.
In Barcelona, the ghetto streets are so narrow that one can imagine the cramped conditions. In Venice, most streets, ghetto or not, are narrow, and there are few public squares. Campo Ghetto Nuovo has a large and pleasant public square, with trees. TREES. In some ways, it seems spacious. You don’t get the same sense of overcrowding. The Venetian Jews built up instead of out, with buildings growing taller and taller.
Napoleon tore down the ghetto gates in 1797, but the people chose to stay.
Hitler deported and killed 200 Venetian Jews, during the Second World War, and it was then that ghetto lost its Jewish focus. According to the Jewish population of Venice, there are now about 600 Jews living in Venice and Mestre, and very few in the ghetto. All the same, the ghetto is experiencing resurgence. It hosts Jewish community activities, synagogues, Jewish community administrative offices, a museum, a rest home and a social centre.
While we were there, Campo Ghetto Nuovo also hosted a green sentry box, with armed men inside. Other photographs suggest that this is new, and we wondered if it might be due to recent Israeli and Palestine conflict.
We walked southeast through Ghetto Vecchio, past a synagogue and kosher shop. It was a little late for the museum.
Instead, we walked along Cannaregio Canal - the second largest canal in Venice – past more gateless gateways, well-kept buildings and shops. Reaching the lagoon waters, and driving rains, we wove our way back to Santa Lucia Station. We passed Parco Savorgnan, one of Venice’s rare parks, and the leafiest alleyway in town.
Having walked from Ca’ d’oro to Fondamenta Nuove before, we covered a lot of Cannergio on foot. I preferred it to the San Marco or Dorsoduro districts. The latter focus heavily on churches and tourism and Cannergio does not.
Dosoduro
It was in the Dosoduro sestieri that we found the Peggy Guggenheim museum. Our visit to the district started well. It was raining lightly, but manageably. As the day progressed, the rain continued abated. Suddenly, tolerance levels found themselves exceeded, and we frog marched back to the hotel.
The sights probably didn’t get the attention that they deserved, but we covered much of the region and had churches coming out of our bottoms. If you like churches, Venice is for you. Even for a non-church enthusiast, like me, some of the Dosoduro sights are well worth a repeat visit.
From the Guggenheim Museum, we headed south to Fondamente Zattere al Gesuati. The Zattere’s run along the edge of Canal Di San Marco, provide a view of La Giudecca island and, without any tourist ‘sell’, provide a great opportunity to walk alongside the urban landscape with the lagoon lapping at your side. This is where sailors and fisher-folk once lived. It now has a relatively suburban atmosphere.
We followed the basin-front to Ponte Lungo, where we turned right onto Fondamente Nani. There we saw a boathouse. It was so similar to those that sit on the edge of the Norfolk Broads that my heart sang. This was in Squero di San Trovaso. From across the canal, in front of the boathouse, we saw upturned gondolas, perhaps waiting for the rain to stop. We learnt that this is where gondolas are made and repaired. I felt oddly at home.
We crossed the bridge and turned back southwards, passing the church of San Trovasco, and its three wells. Instead of collecting groundwater, the residents would collect rain. It was raining when we went by. Churches and wells seem to exist in partnership in Venice. If you see a church, a well is usually to hand.
We turned again, right, onto Fondamente Bontini and proceeded along the road as it turned into Fondamente Ognissanti. There, we passed a former convent, now a hospital. We learnt that it once housed nuns that escaped Torcello during the malarial days. I was tempted to go in. The building looked bold and shabby on the outside, but large signage indicated a professional interior. I have a nosiness for such places. The grit of life must live inside.
The reason I loved this walk, despite the rain, is because I got to see not one, but two boathouses. From the bridge at the end of Fondamente Ognissanti, we stood looking directly over the Squero (boathouse) and it was more impressive than the first. Even though the rain was now soaking through our trousers, and there was an ugly building site to our left, I found myself delighted with the view. To our left was the realism of construction, and to our right the fairytale world of boats.
From the narrow Calle della Chiesa, we turned right onto the Fondamenta Bontini, and then left across the canal. We found ourselves in a piazza between two great churches, with San Sebastiano on our left and Angelo Raffaele on our right. The oddly shaped public space felt good to walk through. We continued along the Fondamenta Pescheria, and over a bridge protected by a startling encased Jesus.
We briefly looked at the church of San Nicolo dei Mendicioli, rebuilt many times since the 12th century and, undoubtedly, a highlight for some, and then headed back the way we had come; along the Fondamenta Barbargio, and then back across the canal into the courtyard of Santa Maria dei Carmini Church. The huge gothic building before us, stood astern and imposing. The building does not encourage fun. There is no fun to be had here, it says.
Then we stepped into the Rio Terrà della Scoazzera and our rain-soaked hearts rose. Rio Terrà della Scoazzera transforms into a large square, called Campo Santa Margherita. The square hosts trees, more glorious trees. Lined with homespun cafes, and boasting an irregular shape, the piazza is warm and welcoming, even on a cold and wet day. There is a quirky building that sits alone in its heart. Apparently, this is the Scuola dei Varoteri. It once housed furriers. Campo Santa Margherita is a Venice highlight.
At its northern tip, we left Campo Santa Margherita and the Dorsoduro district. We found a wonderful shop selling freshly made bread, pizzas and soya milk all for a reasonable price. Feeling cheered by our first and last successful shop in Venice, we headed for warmth.
Rialto Bridge and Market
Rialto Bridge crosses the Grand Canal. Rialto Bridge is the oldest of the Grand Canal’s bridges. As bridges go, I didn’t find it very impressive. It’s a sight worth seeing, but not a wonder of the world.
The oddest aspect of Rialto Bridge is that it hosts three walkways. If you take the middle walkway, you could miss the whole bridge thing altogether. Shops line either side of it and hide the canal. The tourist hellholes, that they probably are, stood shut for winter.
There is a good view of the canal from the side walkways and tourists gather to snap, snap, snap.
Rialto market is close by. It’s smaller than Norwich market. The focus is on fresh food. Artichokes in water, courgettes wearing flowers and old Seville oranges fill stalls. We bought oranges and they were dry and tasteless. Fresh dates were expensive – four for €1.50 – and perhaps Rialto market isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be.
There is an impressive line of seafood stalls.
You can see a little video of the Bridge and Market here:
Rialto Bridge and Market Film
Final Venice Tips
Recommended Websites:
viewer.arounder.com
europeforvisitors.com
museumplanet.com
Recommended Resources
Eyewitness Pocket Guide and Map: Venice
Insight Fleximap: Venice (it’s waterproof)
Fabpants Recommends: I’m enjoying the resurgence of morose music.
I rated The White Lies as ‘Fucking Awesome’ at Latitude Festival last year and truly enjoyed their bottom of rung support slot at the Concorde2 last May. Do I like their number 1, bestselling album? Hell no! During the first track, I had to stop myself from yelling out ‘Oh, will you please stop wailing’. It’s stadium wank rock. What a shame.
Alas, it is not to be.
Fortunately, there are more doom and gloom mongers for 2009. Where’s there’s misery there’s hope. It’s not very often that I’ll praise an NME giveaway, but their ‘Pictures of You’ album - made up of covers versions of The Cure - is brilliant.
When Dinosaur Jr’s cover of ‘Just Like Heaven’ came on I found myself back at college. I used to have that very song on a cassette mix-tape, made for me by one Mr Banyard in 1989. It had the same abrupt ending too.
Download MP3: Dinosaur Jr - Just Like Heaven (courtesy of coverlaydown.com)
Initially the drums on this track confused me, now I love them:
Download MP3: Marmaduke Duke – Friday I’m in Love (courtesy of 8106.tv)
The Cure revival was evident in town yesterday. In one pub, they played a best of CD on a loop. There’s something wrong with that in a public environment. In another, they played several tracks mixed in with a great selection of tunes. It was a far better mix than at the Silent Disco later. Last night, the Silent Disco DJ sets were surprisingly poor. I expect them to be poptastic in a highest common dominator dreadful pop kind of way. That’s a detour though.
Crystal Stilts ‘Alight of Night’ secretes gentle and soothing misery. Gloomy, warm and lovely. The Jesus and Mary Chain, they imitate, but are not. Crystal Stilts are a little one dimensional and certainly have room for improvement. This song is rather wonderful though:
Download MP3: Crystal Stilts – The City in the Sea (courtesy of Frocksdemilo.files.wordpress.com)
Download MP3: The Jesus and Mary Chain – April Skies (courtesy of bnc.yi.org)
Finally, I highly recommend the Maupa album ‘Run Sleep Run’. Maupa create bleak, desolate and beautiful music. Allow the album to seep into your subconscious and bestow a visual imagery of dour industrial towns, and gloomy alluring lands.
Download MP3: Maupa - Run Sleep Run (sorry, this link is dead)
Download MP3: Maupa - Milky Eyes (sorry, this link is dead)
Sunday, 8 March 2009
Monday, 2 March 2009
I Hate Firefox: A Guest Entry by Grumpy Missives
Here comes the second article in my guest entry series. If you hate Microsoft, have you ever thought that you could be wrong?
Why does Apple get away with being such a big bastard monopoly without the world calling them evil?
That’s by the by. Today, we’re here to learn about Firefox.
Firefox? Lovely free software, open-source code, not-for-profit, faster than light, visits your ailing granny at the weekends and so on.
Don’t act like a corporation and no one will think you are one. Firefox have foxed the world.
They do make money. They really do. Check out the Mozilla Corporation if you think they don’t. That’s all I have to say. I’ll let Grumpy do the rest.
I Hate Firefox
by Grumpy Missives
OK, well the title of this article is a bit over the top, but hopefully it will Google well and I want to be heard.
"Well why use it?" I hear you ask. There are two main reasons why I use it:
Reason 1
I develop websites and I need to test that my creations don't break in Firefox. Damn Firefox.
Reason 2
Firefox does not understand Microsoft's domain policy. If a hypothetical company somewhere near me uses a domain policy to stop employees from accessing dodgy websites, Firefox will not understand. This leads to a situation where a certain employee can access his webmail, and even listen to low quality Myspace songs at work. The horror, the horror.
That doesn’t stop me hating it.
There are a few things that I don't like about Firefox and I’m going to rant about them now. Buckle up, here goes.
Reasons to Hate Firefox
Evangelists
First on that list, by far, is the Firefox evangelists. How Firefox has managed to attract such blind loyalty and devotion from so many otherwise normal people is a mystery. Apparently, 25% of non-porn traffic (NPT) on the Interweb is devoted to bashing Internet Explorer and praising Firefox. Which is astonishing as 74.9% of NPT is Facebook status updates and Twitters saying "At my desk...scratching my balls" [citation needed].
Fussy HTML rendering
The evangelists lead me on to the second thing I hate about Firefox. Generally, it would appear that most are web designers endlessly droning on about Firefox's superior adherence to web standards. Well, a giant whoop-de-do. I'm sure that the millions of amateur website creators out there are very happy that although their website looked great in Dreamweaver and IE, it’s unusable in Firefox. This is teaching them valuable lessons about coding standards, not frustrating the hell out of them.
I tend to develop websites testing mainly in IE and then later in the other browsers. This has lead to many fascinating hours spent trying to figure out the strange take that Firefox has on displaying websites. Run a search for "Firefox" and "Whitespace" to find some of the many millions of other souls damaged by this monster.
Don't get me wrong, I love web standards but that’s because I am a geek. Firefox's unwillingness to forgive normal people making mistakes when creating websites seems malicious, especially when Firefox's own adherence to standards is a bit suspect.
Automatic Updates
The third thing that I hate about Firefox is the automatic updates. In my personal list of bad updaters, Firefox gets first prize. Third place goes to AVG anti-virus for really pointless in-your-face updating. Second place goes to the Adobe updater for repetitively poking me for a reaction. What sane person could be expected to care that Adobe reader just went from version 9.1.1 to 9.1.2. It's just bloody-mindedness.
Firefox is the shitty update king though. It's like an attention starved child who's learned a new trick. [Update] Mozilla seem to have somewhat sorted this out with later versions of Firefox 2 and with Firefox 3. It still recently reduced my full screen YouTube video back to window size, to tell me something i didn't want to know. So I decided to keep this in as a permanent reminder.
Cookies
Being a paranoid sort of chap, I like to tinker with my browser cookie settings. I dislike the idea of being tracked across the internet by Google and Doubleclick. If I have a fondness for music blogs and Hello Kitty, that's my business. As a web developer, I know that cookies have their place. Deleting all of my cookies when the browser closes can lead to some frustration and an inbox full of password reminder emails.
Internet Explorer and old versions of Firefox make it nice and easy. Just go to the browser privacy menu and choose to accept first-party cookies and reject third-party cookies. OK not a perfect solution, but pretty good and very easy. Plus the cookies that slip through give my spyware checker something to complain about.
How do you do this in the new versions of Firefox? Well, start by rolling up one trouser leg and hopping in a circle three times. Next, start Firefox and type "about:config" into the address bar. You may get a warning at this point along the lines of "What are you doing Dave?". Type network.cookie.cookieBehavior into the snazzy filter field at the top. Right-click on this option and choose "Modify". Change the value to 1 to disallow all third-party cookies; change it to 2 to disable all cookies; change it to 0 to accept all cookies. Then kill yourself if you got a step wrong.
Me: The IE Apologist
So what browser should you be using? Well Opera has a nice interface but web developers suck at testing with it. Safari can be fast but the weirdly absent or minimal status bar freaks me out. Firefox has some pretty cool extensions but I seem to remember not liking it for some reason. Chrome looks to have some great user interface features, but Google's record on privacy is scary. Lynx is for people who like their information very dry, like a red wine that adds fur to your tongue.
I'll be sticking with Internet Explorer for the moment. Yes, I know it (so far) treats web standards with contempt, and Microsoft is the devil that killed Netscape. Also hackers will always target the biggest browser with their shenanigans. However, it’s easy to use and every website is tested for it.
At least every website is tested for IE 7, IE 8 so far doesn't work with any websites in default mode but that's another story.
The most recent security flaw also showed that Microsoft can get a patch out in under a day, if it is reported widely enough in the press. I have always felt that the crazy pace of growth on the Internet at the end of the 90's, was partly due to MS bundling IE with Windows. Every owner of a new PC got that tempting little "Internet" icon on their desktop, just begging them to buy a modem. The loss of the crappy little browser that was Netscape was a small price to pay for those heady days of HotOrNot and Fark.
Grumpy Recommends:
Download MP3: Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy – I Came Here to Hear the Music (courtesy of thelookback.com)
Why does Apple get away with being such a big bastard monopoly without the world calling them evil?
That’s by the by. Today, we’re here to learn about Firefox.
Firefox? Lovely free software, open-source code, not-for-profit, faster than light, visits your ailing granny at the weekends and so on.
Don’t act like a corporation and no one will think you are one. Firefox have foxed the world.
They do make money. They really do. Check out the Mozilla Corporation if you think they don’t. That’s all I have to say. I’ll let Grumpy do the rest.
I Hate Firefox
by Grumpy Missives
OK, well the title of this article is a bit over the top, but hopefully it will Google well and I want to be heard.
"Well why use it?" I hear you ask. There are two main reasons why I use it:
Reason 1
I develop websites and I need to test that my creations don't break in Firefox. Damn Firefox.
Reason 2
Firefox does not understand Microsoft's domain policy. If a hypothetical company somewhere near me uses a domain policy to stop employees from accessing dodgy websites, Firefox will not understand. This leads to a situation where a certain employee can access his webmail, and even listen to low quality Myspace songs at work. The horror, the horror.
That doesn’t stop me hating it.
There are a few things that I don't like about Firefox and I’m going to rant about them now. Buckle up, here goes.
Reasons to Hate Firefox
Evangelists
First on that list, by far, is the Firefox evangelists. How Firefox has managed to attract such blind loyalty and devotion from so many otherwise normal people is a mystery. Apparently, 25% of non-porn traffic (NPT) on the Interweb is devoted to bashing Internet Explorer and praising Firefox. Which is astonishing as 74.9% of NPT is Facebook status updates and Twitters saying "At my desk...scratching my balls" [citation needed].
Fussy HTML rendering
The evangelists lead me on to the second thing I hate about Firefox. Generally, it would appear that most are web designers endlessly droning on about Firefox's superior adherence to web standards. Well, a giant whoop-de-do. I'm sure that the millions of amateur website creators out there are very happy that although their website looked great in Dreamweaver and IE, it’s unusable in Firefox. This is teaching them valuable lessons about coding standards, not frustrating the hell out of them.
I tend to develop websites testing mainly in IE and then later in the other browsers. This has lead to many fascinating hours spent trying to figure out the strange take that Firefox has on displaying websites. Run a search for "Firefox" and "Whitespace" to find some of the many millions of other souls damaged by this monster.
Don't get me wrong, I love web standards but that’s because I am a geek. Firefox's unwillingness to forgive normal people making mistakes when creating websites seems malicious, especially when Firefox's own adherence to standards is a bit suspect.
Automatic Updates
The third thing that I hate about Firefox is the automatic updates. In my personal list of bad updaters, Firefox gets first prize. Third place goes to AVG anti-virus for really pointless in-your-face updating. Second place goes to the Adobe updater for repetitively poking me for a reaction. What sane person could be expected to care that Adobe reader just went from version 9.1.1 to 9.1.2. It's just bloody-mindedness.
Firefox is the shitty update king though. It's like an attention starved child who's learned a new trick. [Update] Mozilla seem to have somewhat sorted this out with later versions of Firefox 2 and with Firefox 3. It still recently reduced my full screen YouTube video back to window size, to tell me something i didn't want to know. So I decided to keep this in as a permanent reminder.
Cookies
Being a paranoid sort of chap, I like to tinker with my browser cookie settings. I dislike the idea of being tracked across the internet by Google and Doubleclick. If I have a fondness for music blogs and Hello Kitty, that's my business. As a web developer, I know that cookies have their place. Deleting all of my cookies when the browser closes can lead to some frustration and an inbox full of password reminder emails.
Internet Explorer and old versions of Firefox make it nice and easy. Just go to the browser privacy menu and choose to accept first-party cookies and reject third-party cookies. OK not a perfect solution, but pretty good and very easy. Plus the cookies that slip through give my spyware checker something to complain about.
How do you do this in the new versions of Firefox? Well, start by rolling up one trouser leg and hopping in a circle three times. Next, start Firefox and type "about:config" into the address bar. You may get a warning at this point along the lines of "What are you doing Dave?". Type network.cookie.cookieBehavior into the snazzy filter field at the top. Right-click on this option and choose "Modify". Change the value to 1 to disallow all third-party cookies; change it to 2 to disable all cookies; change it to 0 to accept all cookies. Then kill yourself if you got a step wrong.
Me: The IE Apologist
So what browser should you be using? Well Opera has a nice interface but web developers suck at testing with it. Safari can be fast but the weirdly absent or minimal status bar freaks me out. Firefox has some pretty cool extensions but I seem to remember not liking it for some reason. Chrome looks to have some great user interface features, but Google's record on privacy is scary. Lynx is for people who like their information very dry, like a red wine that adds fur to your tongue.
I'll be sticking with Internet Explorer for the moment. Yes, I know it (so far) treats web standards with contempt, and Microsoft is the devil that killed Netscape. Also hackers will always target the biggest browser with their shenanigans. However, it’s easy to use and every website is tested for it.
At least every website is tested for IE 7, IE 8 so far doesn't work with any websites in default mode but that's another story.
The most recent security flaw also showed that Microsoft can get a patch out in under a day, if it is reported widely enough in the press. I have always felt that the crazy pace of growth on the Internet at the end of the 90's, was partly due to MS bundling IE with Windows. Every owner of a new PC got that tempting little "Internet" icon on their desktop, just begging them to buy a modem. The loss of the crappy little browser that was Netscape was a small price to pay for those heady days of HotOrNot and Fark.
Grumpy Recommends:
Download MP3: Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy – I Came Here to Hear the Music (courtesy of thelookback.com)
Sunday, 1 March 2009
Venetian Dreams: The Obligatory Museums
Part 1 is here: Venetian Dreams: An Introduction
Part 2 is here: Venetian Dreams: Water Buses and Islands
We visited a few museums in Venice, including the Doge’s Palace and the Correr Museum, but the Peggy Guggenheim Museum was by far the best. What follows is one opinionated person’s view of the museum trail.
The Doge’s Palace
When we decided to visit this museum, we were cold. Please bare this in mind. The aim was to spend a little money on warming up. It was the only aim. The museum did not fulfil this requirement. It failed miserably. It was colder inside than out. Everyone wore coats, hats and gloves and some still rubbed their hands together to make warmth. It was fucking freezing.
The first few rooms were full of columns. Initially, a column or two is interesting, but the scene soon gets dull. Monumentally dull. I could take no more. We entered a vast room filled with more defunct ancient roof bearers than any that preceded it and walked straight out. We were cold, bored and more interested in the ancient art of heating. Don’t get me wrong, an ornate column can be a work of wonder, but a collection of columns, that hold up nothing, in bitterly cold and mostly bare rooms, is for the hardcore.
This sums up the general ambience of The Doge’s Palace. It is cold, repetitive and mostly empty. They could condense the contents into fewer rooms, and it would be far more interesting. Did I mention heating? And, what about seating?
The Doge’s Palace is a vast museum to walk around, and every chair or bench is dressed with rope to obstruct weary rest breaks. The only place that they heat and seat is the cafe. Here, they insisted that we pay for an exorbitantly expensive table service. Meanwhile, a kinder pricelist for self-service stared straight at us. We are not above serving ourselves.
In the museum's display rooms, the staff sat or stood in corners, wrapped up in thick coats and looking miserable with the climate. Some hovered over air conditioning units that gave off as much heat as an old fart.
Aspects of the museum were impressive. They have a map room, called The Shield Room, which is to die for. Large painted maps of the world adorn the walls and vast globes take the centre. I like maps. I would like a map room. This is an impressive map room.
The palace also hosts a notable armoury, with crossbows, armour and swords. Some of the swords are so big that only a giant could lift them. It’s hard to believe that such items are truly a part of human history and not fantasy. I can’t help but be amazed. I should be shocked. They are brilliant, but brutal. I like defensive castles too. Hot boiling tar on your head anyone?
Yes, I’m a pacifist beguiled by the wonderful, wild and violent society that inhabited this earth in medieval times. Wandering minstrels, castles and armour: they are all like a fantastical dream.
Perhaps one of the most famous aspects of The Doges Palace is the bridge with a harrowing name. The Bridge of Sighs is named after the groans of devastated prisoners. It served as a space between courtroom and cell. It’s easy to walk over it without realising its full significance. I did and had to backtrack.
Unfortunately, the museum lacks information about the prisoners and the prison cells. Throughout, it fails to reconstruct history in an imaginative or inspiring way. This is a shame. I love learning about prisons. My fascination with prisons is worse than my penchant for castles. I suggest that the museum curators visit Kilmainham Gaol. It could teach them a lot about sharing history and firing up the old grey matter.
It was only on my return home, that I learnt that Casanova once lived in a Doges Palace prison cell. It seems that the rampant young devil had seduced too many high-class wives. Charged with ‘irreligious behaviour’, Casanova found himself in a prison cell. Casanova escaped in 1756 and it’s said that on the Golden Staircase, which has a ceiling so bright and garish that it hurts while it impresses, a guard mistook Casanova for a politician and let him out. Such stories written on a plaque would certainly have fuelled more interest. I guess that’s why you pay for a Secret Itinerary tour or an audio guide, but the entry tickets were truly pricey and we opted against having a talking machine or person.
Despite the poor presentation and welcome, the palace has a lot to offer. In the rooms, there are laminated information sheets, but they are quite dull to read.
The Palace includes an impressive courtyard and there are grand rooms, in perfect condition, where important governmental business once took place. The rooms that politics once breathed life into are truly striking and, if you have any interest in the political affairs, a visit is essential. The Hall of the Senate is a place where you can truly imagine the lives of the rich and powerful. Fine wooden seats line the edge of the room, opulent paintings line the walls and ceiling, and the grand decadent environment that decision-makers met in, is breathtaking. You can imagine the high and mighty arguing and debating the fate of all, whilst dressed in the finest clothing that Europe had to offer.
Next door, the Grand Council chamber lives up to its name. The ceiling, decorated across the entire room, is magnificent. The room is the largest in the palace. It hosts a stage that I’d love to see a gritty punk rock indie band perform on. The grit and the glory would contrast so beautifully. In my mind’s eye it has already happened and my heart has soared.
We so needed a sit down by the time we reached these rooms, that the long lines of benches that we weren’t allowed to sit on were a form of mild torture. To sit and marvel at these rooms would have been delightful. A few well-placed benches in the centre of the room would be most popular.
I encourage you to view the palace here. Really, it is impressive and my criticisms should not prevent a visit. This website provides a fantastic viewing service.
Arounder Venezia
I have thoroughly enjoyed reliving the memories from the warm comfort of home. I still wish I could have climbed the Giants’ Staircase, which leads from the courtyard, and seen the large statues up close. Erected on the upper parapet in 1567, they depict Mars and Neptune. The staircase, like the benches, was roped off.
The Bridge of Sighs is currently dressed in adverts on the outside, and perhaps undergoing work.
Museo Civico Correr
Not permitted to buy a ticket for just the Doges Palace, we gained a pass to Biblioteca Nazionale Marciana and Museo Correr. We would rather have saved our pennies, but c'est la vie. At the end of a cold day, we decided to see what the ‘other’ museums had in store. Somewhere along the line, I got the impression that once in Museo Correr we would gain entrance to the National Library (Biblioteca Nazionale). Perhaps I was wrong or we didn’t find the right door. It was late and our time was up.
In the Museo Correr, we found many statues, most with missing limbs and penises. If a witch ever turns you into stone beware. You might lose something that you’ll miss. Icarus and Cupid feature heavily. Thalia was there. If you are a fan of Antonio Canova, his work fuels much of the collection. There are paintings, coins and armoury.
To me it was much like a non-capital city museum and a bit lacking. It was a place to while away some time and pick up a few new facts, but nothing blew my mind. Mostly, the visit led to intrigue. I call this intrigue ‘The Case of the Missing Members’.
Peggy Guggenheim Museum
Of all of the places that we paid to visit in Venice, this is by far my favourite. One in five pieces is a masterpiece, the gallery is warm and welcoming and the collector’s life is as interesting as the collection itself.
The museum is set in Peggy Guggenheim’s home, where she lived with the art all about her, sunbathed naked on the roof, and invited people in see her amazing collection. She connected herself with the art world and its people, put on exhibitions and helped artists to escape from the Nazi’s. She died when I was seven. There are many photographs of her in the home, with some of the art placed exactly where it is today. A sofa that she sat on, sits in the centre of the same room.
We found friendly staff, reasonably priced refreshments and a free ten-minute talk on Peggy’s life. Peggy Guggenheim discovered and funded Jackson Pollock, lost her father to the Titanic, lost the one true love of her life to a minor operation, and persuaded the British courts that modern art really is art. Importing art is cheaper than importing objects. She helped many artists into Britain.
My favourites in the collection include:
Victor Brauner - Consciousness of Shock
Check out the rudder. This has a wonderfully surreal boat theme going on.
Vasily Kandinsky - Upward (Empor)
Blake’s got a new face.
René Magritte, Empire of Light, 1953–54
It’s light but it’s dark. It’s crisp.
Gino Severini - Sea=Dancer (Mare=Ballerina)
The paint really does escape onto the frame. The colours are brilliant in real life.
Jean Metzinger - At the Cycle-Race Track (Au Vélodrome)
This reminds me of my brother-in-law’s obsession with the Tour de France, but is a really impressive piece, even for those of us that pootle. The cyclist moves so fast, that you can see right through him.
Campanile
The Campanile is a tower, rather than a museum, but it’s historic and tells a tale.
I like climbing tall towers and looking down at the world. From Cromer Church to Happisburgh Lighthouse, I like towers.
At the Campanile in Piazza San Marco, there’s a lift. You don’t have to climb. No one showed us the stairs and the lift took us straight up. We didn’t have to queue. We never had to queue in Venice. It was cold. It was even colder higher up.
The air was freezing limbs and lungs, but the ascent was easy. We hadn’t worked for warmth.
“I think my little finger is going to fall off” I heard a man say. His accent was from the north of England. It’s cold up north. Imagine how I felt.
It was worth it. It’s always worth it. From the top, we could see Piazza San Marco, Centro storico, the Lagoon, La Giudecca and San Giorgio Maggoire islands, and lots and lots of sky.
The tower has been reconstructed and repaired many times since 1173. We stood on the 1912 version.
The first version acted as a lighthouse, supported a torture cage, and wobbled in an earthquake. It’s said that Emperor Frederick III of the Roman Empire rode his horse up it in 1452. Good for him.
It gained a new face in the early sixteenth century and Galileo demonstrated his telescope from its heights in 1609. In 1902, it fell down. Within 10 years it was back, rebuilt to the 1514 specifications.
It has bells, five of them, so it’s a little like being up a church tower. Instead of calling people for mass, the bells were there to communicate messages. The fifth one, called the 'Bad One, forewarned of executions. The prisoners held in the cages, dangling at the side of the tower, must have dreaded this bell.
Revolutionaries from the Veneto Serenissimo Governo group climbed the tower in 1997, thinking they had liberated Piazza San Marco. They held the tower for a few hours. In 2006, to the annoyance of police, they bought back the tank that they used to storm the square. I find that quite funny.
Stood 98.6 metres high, my imagination filled itself with prisoners, executions and revolutionaries, and my eyes, watering with the bitter wind, marvelled at the view.
Fabpants Recommends: I won’t name any names, but someone close to me was singing Barry Manilow the other day. It really made me want to hear the song. It’s the only cure for earworm. You’ll cringe, but you’ll secretly enjoy it. I have to share these moments. I don’t know why, but I do. It’s not good for any of us.
Download MP3: Barry Manilow - I Can't Smile Without You (courtesy of infonistacrat.com)
Here’s the aftercare package.
Eula are straight outta Indie Alley, where the soft and the shouty unite rebelliously. If you need a bit of lively indie-pop, here it is:
Download MP3: Eula - Housewolf (courtesy of infonistacrat.com)
Going back in time a little, here is a track from 2006 EP called ‘Applause Cheer Boo Hiss’. I recently rediscovered it and had to listen to it repeatedly. It’s still special. Don’t you just love rediscovering little lost numbers? "Look at those girls, so young, so young, still piss their pants."
Download MP3: Land of Talk - Summer Special (courtesy of margheritaferrari.com)
As for new releases, what about Abe Vigoda’s new EP? The cover of Stevie Nicks’ Wild Heart is rather special. The original has been beaten and battered to death by this copy. It's fucking brilliant:
Download MP3: Abe Vigoda - Wild Heart (courtesy of resonatormag.com)
‘Don’t Lie’ gives 1980s gloom music a 2009 edge. It’s reminiscent of Echo and the Bunnymen et al, with a secretly bright chorus.
Download MP3: Abe Vigoda - Don't Lie (courtesy of aolradio.podcast.aol.com)
Just in case you were wondering, and you probably weren't, the new album ‘Tight Knit’ by Vetiver is rather dull, despite the varied styles that it incorporates. It's a finger picking folk journey through the flatlands of the soul. It's a gentle album for sleepy Sundays. If all you want to do is sit and grow grey hairs, then it might be for you. "Every day that I'm away from you shakes me up inside." I do like the 'Everyday' song. It's rather lovely. That's why I'm sharing it. Unfortunately, an album is the sum of its parts.
Download MP3: Vetiver - Everyday (courtesy of subpop.com)
I started with a cheesy tune, so I may as well end with one. This is probably worse. The Lily Allen ‘Fuck You’ song has got to be great to sing along to at 1am in a club. I can just see myself wagging around a mockingly accusative finger. I say mockingly, because don’t hang out with bigots. I say fuck you, fuck you very, very much.
Download MP3: Lily Allen - Fuck You (courtesy of eamel.net)
Oh, I saw Sprectrum at The Freebutt yesterday. The less said the better.
A man had his erect penis out in public on Friday night. He was wearing a body harness, rubber latex chaps and, probably, a cock ring. Most of us were wearing t-shirts and jeans. Whilst returning my eyes to their eyeballs and my jaw to my face, I had to admire the bravery. I also had to giggle. I don't see a big cock pointing at me from the corner of the dance floor very often.
Part 2 is here: Venetian Dreams: Water Buses and Islands
We visited a few museums in Venice, including the Doge’s Palace and the Correr Museum, but the Peggy Guggenheim Museum was by far the best. What follows is one opinionated person’s view of the museum trail.
The Doge’s Palace
When we decided to visit this museum, we were cold. Please bare this in mind. The aim was to spend a little money on warming up. It was the only aim. The museum did not fulfil this requirement. It failed miserably. It was colder inside than out. Everyone wore coats, hats and gloves and some still rubbed their hands together to make warmth. It was fucking freezing.
The first few rooms were full of columns. Initially, a column or two is interesting, but the scene soon gets dull. Monumentally dull. I could take no more. We entered a vast room filled with more defunct ancient roof bearers than any that preceded it and walked straight out. We were cold, bored and more interested in the ancient art of heating. Don’t get me wrong, an ornate column can be a work of wonder, but a collection of columns, that hold up nothing, in bitterly cold and mostly bare rooms, is for the hardcore.
This sums up the general ambience of The Doge’s Palace. It is cold, repetitive and mostly empty. They could condense the contents into fewer rooms, and it would be far more interesting. Did I mention heating? And, what about seating?
The Doge’s Palace is a vast museum to walk around, and every chair or bench is dressed with rope to obstruct weary rest breaks. The only place that they heat and seat is the cafe. Here, they insisted that we pay for an exorbitantly expensive table service. Meanwhile, a kinder pricelist for self-service stared straight at us. We are not above serving ourselves.
In the museum's display rooms, the staff sat or stood in corners, wrapped up in thick coats and looking miserable with the climate. Some hovered over air conditioning units that gave off as much heat as an old fart.
Aspects of the museum were impressive. They have a map room, called The Shield Room, which is to die for. Large painted maps of the world adorn the walls and vast globes take the centre. I like maps. I would like a map room. This is an impressive map room.
The palace also hosts a notable armoury, with crossbows, armour and swords. Some of the swords are so big that only a giant could lift them. It’s hard to believe that such items are truly a part of human history and not fantasy. I can’t help but be amazed. I should be shocked. They are brilliant, but brutal. I like defensive castles too. Hot boiling tar on your head anyone?
Yes, I’m a pacifist beguiled by the wonderful, wild and violent society that inhabited this earth in medieval times. Wandering minstrels, castles and armour: they are all like a fantastical dream.
Perhaps one of the most famous aspects of The Doges Palace is the bridge with a harrowing name. The Bridge of Sighs is named after the groans of devastated prisoners. It served as a space between courtroom and cell. It’s easy to walk over it without realising its full significance. I did and had to backtrack.
Unfortunately, the museum lacks information about the prisoners and the prison cells. Throughout, it fails to reconstruct history in an imaginative or inspiring way. This is a shame. I love learning about prisons. My fascination with prisons is worse than my penchant for castles. I suggest that the museum curators visit Kilmainham Gaol. It could teach them a lot about sharing history and firing up the old grey matter.
It was only on my return home, that I learnt that Casanova once lived in a Doges Palace prison cell. It seems that the rampant young devil had seduced too many high-class wives. Charged with ‘irreligious behaviour’, Casanova found himself in a prison cell. Casanova escaped in 1756 and it’s said that on the Golden Staircase, which has a ceiling so bright and garish that it hurts while it impresses, a guard mistook Casanova for a politician and let him out. Such stories written on a plaque would certainly have fuelled more interest. I guess that’s why you pay for a Secret Itinerary tour or an audio guide, but the entry tickets were truly pricey and we opted against having a talking machine or person.
Despite the poor presentation and welcome, the palace has a lot to offer. In the rooms, there are laminated information sheets, but they are quite dull to read.
The Palace includes an impressive courtyard and there are grand rooms, in perfect condition, where important governmental business once took place. The rooms that politics once breathed life into are truly striking and, if you have any interest in the political affairs, a visit is essential. The Hall of the Senate is a place where you can truly imagine the lives of the rich and powerful. Fine wooden seats line the edge of the room, opulent paintings line the walls and ceiling, and the grand decadent environment that decision-makers met in, is breathtaking. You can imagine the high and mighty arguing and debating the fate of all, whilst dressed in the finest clothing that Europe had to offer.
Next door, the Grand Council chamber lives up to its name. The ceiling, decorated across the entire room, is magnificent. The room is the largest in the palace. It hosts a stage that I’d love to see a gritty punk rock indie band perform on. The grit and the glory would contrast so beautifully. In my mind’s eye it has already happened and my heart has soared.
We so needed a sit down by the time we reached these rooms, that the long lines of benches that we weren’t allowed to sit on were a form of mild torture. To sit and marvel at these rooms would have been delightful. A few well-placed benches in the centre of the room would be most popular.
I encourage you to view the palace here. Really, it is impressive and my criticisms should not prevent a visit. This website provides a fantastic viewing service.
Arounder Venezia
I have thoroughly enjoyed reliving the memories from the warm comfort of home. I still wish I could have climbed the Giants’ Staircase, which leads from the courtyard, and seen the large statues up close. Erected on the upper parapet in 1567, they depict Mars and Neptune. The staircase, like the benches, was roped off.
The Bridge of Sighs is currently dressed in adverts on the outside, and perhaps undergoing work.
Museo Civico Correr
Not permitted to buy a ticket for just the Doges Palace, we gained a pass to Biblioteca Nazionale Marciana and Museo Correr. We would rather have saved our pennies, but c'est la vie. At the end of a cold day, we decided to see what the ‘other’ museums had in store. Somewhere along the line, I got the impression that once in Museo Correr we would gain entrance to the National Library (Biblioteca Nazionale). Perhaps I was wrong or we didn’t find the right door. It was late and our time was up.
In the Museo Correr, we found many statues, most with missing limbs and penises. If a witch ever turns you into stone beware. You might lose something that you’ll miss. Icarus and Cupid feature heavily. Thalia was there. If you are a fan of Antonio Canova, his work fuels much of the collection. There are paintings, coins and armoury.
To me it was much like a non-capital city museum and a bit lacking. It was a place to while away some time and pick up a few new facts, but nothing blew my mind. Mostly, the visit led to intrigue. I call this intrigue ‘The Case of the Missing Members’.
Peggy Guggenheim Museum
Of all of the places that we paid to visit in Venice, this is by far my favourite. One in five pieces is a masterpiece, the gallery is warm and welcoming and the collector’s life is as interesting as the collection itself.
The museum is set in Peggy Guggenheim’s home, where she lived with the art all about her, sunbathed naked on the roof, and invited people in see her amazing collection. She connected herself with the art world and its people, put on exhibitions and helped artists to escape from the Nazi’s. She died when I was seven. There are many photographs of her in the home, with some of the art placed exactly where it is today. A sofa that she sat on, sits in the centre of the same room.
We found friendly staff, reasonably priced refreshments and a free ten-minute talk on Peggy’s life. Peggy Guggenheim discovered and funded Jackson Pollock, lost her father to the Titanic, lost the one true love of her life to a minor operation, and persuaded the British courts that modern art really is art. Importing art is cheaper than importing objects. She helped many artists into Britain.
My favourites in the collection include:
Victor Brauner - Consciousness of Shock
Check out the rudder. This has a wonderfully surreal boat theme going on.
Vasily Kandinsky - Upward (Empor)
Blake’s got a new face.
René Magritte, Empire of Light, 1953–54
It’s light but it’s dark. It’s crisp.
Gino Severini - Sea=Dancer (Mare=Ballerina)
The paint really does escape onto the frame. The colours are brilliant in real life.
Jean Metzinger - At the Cycle-Race Track (Au Vélodrome)
This reminds me of my brother-in-law’s obsession with the Tour de France, but is a really impressive piece, even for those of us that pootle. The cyclist moves so fast, that you can see right through him.
Campanile
The Campanile is a tower, rather than a museum, but it’s historic and tells a tale.
I like climbing tall towers and looking down at the world. From Cromer Church to Happisburgh Lighthouse, I like towers.
At the Campanile in Piazza San Marco, there’s a lift. You don’t have to climb. No one showed us the stairs and the lift took us straight up. We didn’t have to queue. We never had to queue in Venice. It was cold. It was even colder higher up.
The air was freezing limbs and lungs, but the ascent was easy. We hadn’t worked for warmth.
“I think my little finger is going to fall off” I heard a man say. His accent was from the north of England. It’s cold up north. Imagine how I felt.
It was worth it. It’s always worth it. From the top, we could see Piazza San Marco, Centro storico, the Lagoon, La Giudecca and San Giorgio Maggoire islands, and lots and lots of sky.
The tower has been reconstructed and repaired many times since 1173. We stood on the 1912 version.
The first version acted as a lighthouse, supported a torture cage, and wobbled in an earthquake. It’s said that Emperor Frederick III of the Roman Empire rode his horse up it in 1452. Good for him.
It gained a new face in the early sixteenth century and Galileo demonstrated his telescope from its heights in 1609. In 1902, it fell down. Within 10 years it was back, rebuilt to the 1514 specifications.
It has bells, five of them, so it’s a little like being up a church tower. Instead of calling people for mass, the bells were there to communicate messages. The fifth one, called the 'Bad One, forewarned of executions. The prisoners held in the cages, dangling at the side of the tower, must have dreaded this bell.
Revolutionaries from the Veneto Serenissimo Governo group climbed the tower in 1997, thinking they had liberated Piazza San Marco. They held the tower for a few hours. In 2006, to the annoyance of police, they bought back the tank that they used to storm the square. I find that quite funny.
Stood 98.6 metres high, my imagination filled itself with prisoners, executions and revolutionaries, and my eyes, watering with the bitter wind, marvelled at the view.
Fabpants Recommends: I won’t name any names, but someone close to me was singing Barry Manilow the other day. It really made me want to hear the song. It’s the only cure for earworm. You’ll cringe, but you’ll secretly enjoy it. I have to share these moments. I don’t know why, but I do. It’s not good for any of us.
Download MP3: Barry Manilow - I Can't Smile Without You (courtesy of infonistacrat.com)
Here’s the aftercare package.
Eula are straight outta Indie Alley, where the soft and the shouty unite rebelliously. If you need a bit of lively indie-pop, here it is:
Download MP3: Eula - Housewolf (courtesy of infonistacrat.com)
Going back in time a little, here is a track from 2006 EP called ‘Applause Cheer Boo Hiss’. I recently rediscovered it and had to listen to it repeatedly. It’s still special. Don’t you just love rediscovering little lost numbers? "Look at those girls, so young, so young, still piss their pants."
Download MP3: Land of Talk - Summer Special (courtesy of margheritaferrari.com)
As for new releases, what about Abe Vigoda’s new EP? The cover of Stevie Nicks’ Wild Heart is rather special. The original has been beaten and battered to death by this copy. It's fucking brilliant:
Download MP3: Abe Vigoda - Wild Heart (courtesy of resonatormag.com)
‘Don’t Lie’ gives 1980s gloom music a 2009 edge. It’s reminiscent of Echo and the Bunnymen et al, with a secretly bright chorus.
Download MP3: Abe Vigoda - Don't Lie (courtesy of aolradio.podcast.aol.com)
Just in case you were wondering, and you probably weren't, the new album ‘Tight Knit’ by Vetiver is rather dull, despite the varied styles that it incorporates. It's a finger picking folk journey through the flatlands of the soul. It's a gentle album for sleepy Sundays. If all you want to do is sit and grow grey hairs, then it might be for you. "Every day that I'm away from you shakes me up inside." I do like the 'Everyday' song. It's rather lovely. That's why I'm sharing it. Unfortunately, an album is the sum of its parts.
Download MP3: Vetiver - Everyday (courtesy of subpop.com)
I started with a cheesy tune, so I may as well end with one. This is probably worse. The Lily Allen ‘Fuck You’ song has got to be great to sing along to at 1am in a club. I can just see myself wagging around a mockingly accusative finger. I say mockingly, because don’t hang out with bigots. I say fuck you, fuck you very, very much.
Download MP3: Lily Allen - Fuck You (courtesy of eamel.net)
Oh, I saw Sprectrum at The Freebutt yesterday. The less said the better.
A man had his erect penis out in public on Friday night. He was wearing a body harness, rubber latex chaps and, probably, a cock ring. Most of us were wearing t-shirts and jeans. Whilst returning my eyes to their eyeballs and my jaw to my face, I had to admire the bravery. I also had to giggle. I don't see a big cock pointing at me from the corner of the dance floor very often.
Wednesday, 25 February 2009
Venetian Dreams: Water Buses and Islands
Part 1 is here: Venetian Dreams: An Introduction
Venice Waterbuses, Otherwise Known As Vaporettos
In winter, the waterbuses, or Vaporettos, are warmer than the museums. They offer views, transportation and the gentle buzz of people. Instead of covering chairs and benches with rope, or shooing relaxed bottoms away, the buses invite you to sit. In most of Centro storico, the price for sitting includes an expensive drink. By expensive, I mean normality times four.
Vaporettos are welcoming and most of Centro storico is not. Once sitting comfortably, and embracing the warmth, the wide berthed water boats provide an optical feast, with sights to assimilate with the finest of visual memories. Views in Venice are as striking as those of an Austrian village, with homely fairytale houses and a backdrop of mountainous snow, or of the Norfolk Broads, with its reeds, birds and dragonflies, on a bright and lonely day. In Venice, tall, shabby buildings defy nature and tell of history, expansion, merchants and whim.
Used well, a 72-hour travel card, at the high price of €32, is a recommendable purchase. You can sit inside. You can sit or stand outside. Outside you can see more. Sometimes there is no room in the warm. On busy Vaporettos, the indoor seats prompt polite competition. Bags hold seats for imaginary friends and commuters move reluctantly. Resentfully, they mumble their displeasure, only to brightly request likewise, when their turn comes around.
Outside provides the perfect opportunity to take photographs and capture images in your mind. Medieval buildings, immersed in water, caught as a memory, can merge with real life, literature and film. Held in place, the images provide high-grade fuel for the subconscious and dreams. Even in the cold, jostled by others, and impeding the onboard staff, the Vaporetto provides for a slightly otherworldly experience.
Tied on and tied off, they move from one water platform to the next, traversing the Grand Canal and the islands and lagoon.
You can buy a travel card at the airport or ticket booths, and stamp it on the Vaporetto platform before your first trip. The platforms show timetables, routes and, frequently, an electronic board that displays how many minutes you’ll have to wait. They are remarkably easy to use, and the real world has its place.
The Lagoon Islands
The travel card takes you far. So, instead of looking at churches, badly broken statues and ancient columns, we visited the lagoon islands, via the public waterbuses. I recommend doing this, even in horrible weather. We had no option; it was wet every day. Perhaps sleet is better than rain.
San Michele (Cimitero)
One of the striking aspects of the historical city centre (Centro storico) is that it is full. There is little green and there are few public places. There are more churches than I would care to remember, and never a graveyard attached. If half of the churches were torn down and transformed into parks, it would be a vast improvement for the city, its people and wildlife. No one can need so many churches. Fitting more worshippers into fewer churches would be far cosier. There would be more space to enjoy natures own creation.
Where do children play ball? Where do the old, the lost and the lonely sit and soak up a little of mother earth’s offerings? Where do lovers go at sunset? Gondola rides are expensive, waterbuses are very public and standing on a bridge will eventually give you sore feet.
Where you may wonder, do they place their dead?
Words cannot articulate the sheer humbling beauty of San Michele, the cemetery island. Only minutes from the Fondamente Nove vaporetto stop (bus route 42 or 52), you can see it from the Centro storico. The Venetians created the walled cemetery island in 1807, when they had no place for graves, tombs and those without breath.
Perhaps Venetian lovers, the old, and the lonely, go and sit with the dead. Instead of placing their deceased in a series of small oases in a bustling city, the Venetians give them their own island. I have never seen a place so respectful for the dead, and if it were possible, I would wish that everyone was buried, or remembered, on such a cemetery island. It’s hard to believe that it was once a prison. It’s a place of stirring tranquillity.
Fields and fields of small white crosses found us, dressed with flowers, photographs and telling inscriptions. They were warm and welcoming, not cold and obsolete. For ten years or so, the dead live in such shallow graves. Then their bones move to a dedicated space or communal ossuary. While the remains may move elsewhere, the dead stay on the island in commemorative form and leave their mark on a world that’s lost them.
There are walls and walls of plaques that host the names of the dead, and a place to fit a photograph and flowers. Couples sit together, families have plots, and those that died young still look young. There are chapels, tombs, and flowers, so many pretty flowers.
It was quiet on the island. Barely seeing a soul, we ambled along, thinking of the people in the photographs that once laughed, cried and died. The sleet gently fell onto our hoods, and even it seemed respectful.
Murano
From San Michele we boarded the number 42 Vaporetto once more, and alighted at Murano. Murano is an island famous for its glass. In Venice’s main historical centre, there are shops that specialise in Murano glass. They mostly sell trinkets for the tourists. There was such a shop right by our hotel.
To be on Murano island (or the series of islands that comprise it), made one realise, or at least believe, that the brash sales technique and the commercialisation of its glass is not of Murano’s own making. Murano is beautiful and well presented. It appears to be much more loving of its populace and public space than the city’s shabby heart.
For the most part, the buildings do not sit at the water’s edge. Instead, there are wide pavements that run along the canals, public squares and places for residents to keep their own boats. Chairlifts help the elderly or infirm to travel from one land mass to the next. It feels considerate and kind.
To celebrate their glass-based history and present resurgence, the island hosts glass art in public spaces. We saw a glass lady, a glass Christmas tree, and what appeared to me to be a wonderful clump of sprawling blue Marram Grass, glass, swaying in the breeze. The island has been famous for its glass since the thirteenth century, and for some five or more centuries before then, glassworks lived on the neighbouring island of Torcello.
Murano’s children are probably sick to death of stories about glass. There is a glass museum, which they probably have had to visit on school trips since 1861. The museum has been there that long. They have glass works there that go back to 1BC/1AD, in the form of small and dainty glass jars and fanciful bowls. 2008 years later, they demonstrate remarkable skill.
There were some delightful seventeenth century vases, with swirling colours running through them, but I was more impressed by the later works. For example, a duck designed by Toni Zuccheri in 1979 and then made by Venini in 1982, and some amazing detergent bottles designed by Maria Grazia Rosin, executed by Vittorio Ferro, and ground by Eugenio Rizzi, in 1992. I had no idea so many people are involved in making one item of glass. You can view the bottles and the duck on these websites:
Maria Grazia Rosin – Detersivi
Toni Zuccheri – Duck
It is hard to imagine someone with the space and desire for the centrepiece in the last room. It was six times the size of our dining room table and consisted of a glass ornate garden with an intricate fountain. If we had it, I think our friends would be both shocked and impressed. It would fill our living room and you’d have to view it through the window or door.
The most fascinating aspect of the Murano Glass museum wasn’t really the glass, but the history. In the past glassmakers held reverence, and were ‘treated like nobility’. In the fourteenth century, they had immunity from prosecution, they were allowed to carry swords and their daughters could marry into affluent and blue-blooded families. They weren’t allowed to leave the Republic, because they, and their skills, were so treasured, but sometimes they risked all and did. They were the only people in Europe that knew how to make glass mirrors and the price of seeing oneself is high.
I bet the Swansea copper makers wished that they’d enjoyed the same privileges.
The museum receptionist played solitaire on the PC and whiled away the sleety day.
At Murano, our trip started at the lighthouse at Faro. We would have liked to have gone up the lighthouse, but it was closed. After the Glass Museum, we got back on the Vaporetto at the Museo stop. It was still sleeting. We opted against another Murano walk, although it would have been lovely in the dry.
Burano
Next stop, Burano. Here the winds were harsh and the driving sleet was bitterly cold to walk through. All the same, in any weather, this is a stunning island. We rested our legs for some 40 minutes on the way from Murano. From the boat, we saw strange small islands, some as small as a building, with the ruins of a building on them. Imagine living in a building the size of the island it sits on.
Burano doesn’t offer a glass museum or a cemetery. It offers lace. We opted not to see the lace, apart from in the shop windows, which we swiftly passed by.
Lace is not for us.
Instead, we ambled through the brightly coloured streets, where each house glowed with a vivid rainbow colour. Without a shabby home in sight, the paintwork stands in stark contrast to Centro storico and its sorry flaky buildings. We imagined that it was warm and the wind was still. Neither was the case. All the same, Burano is enchanting and delightful and this is the memory that will stick. Taking a stroll on the residential streets and over the tidy bridges raised many a smile and a little dance or two. The latter may have been to warm up.
Burano also sells reasonably priced drinks, and, at last, we found an open cafe that we could sit in without feeling like we’d suffered the royal tourist rip off. Okay, a plate of chips cost €5, but we stuck to drinks and all was well. It was cosy and wonderful, apart from the toilet, which had a concertina style door and was not so pleasant.
It was so very windy and cold, and the driving sleet was so relentless, that we ended our lagoon island tour there. I would have liked to see Torcello, the island that has a Basilica, Bell Tower and Archaeological museum, but no details on Multimap or Google Maps. It’s lack of mapping is sad considering that in 5AD it was the largest settlement in the lagoon. Silt and malaria had their way. Across the grey skies, it looked rather bleak.
Part 3 is here: Venetian Dreams: The Obligatory Museums
Fabpants Recommends: Spector really knew what he was doing before he lost himself in his oddities. Estelle Bennett died this month. This track is a brilliant sing along classic. So come on, be my baby...
Download MP3: The Ronettes – Be My Baby (courtesy of dawnbakescakes.com)
I watched Slumdog Millionaire whilst in Venice, and it mainly reminded me of what a great track ‘Paper Planes’ is.
Download MP3: M.I.A. – Paper Planes (courtesy of wordsworthmedia.files.wordpress.com)
Today, I have been listening to Malajube’s – Labyrinthes. The first track 'Ursuline' sounds like it’s trying to escape from a turbid pool of slime. I had to skip to the next track. That sums up the album. It’s a dull affair. If you like to listen to music that you really have to work for, then you might enjoy this. You can then seek out likeminded anoraks and sneer at me. I skipped, skipped, skipped.
Instead, of living in the present, I will return to these tracks from their 2006 Trompe-l'œil album. They have more spunk.
Download MP3: Malajube – Ton Plat Favori (courtesy of daretocarerecords.com)
Download MP3: Malajube – Pâte Filo (courtesy of daretocarerecords.com)
Download MP3: Malajube - Fille à plumes (courtesy of astro.ubc.ca)
Download MP3: Malajube - Montreal -40c (courtesy of astro.ubc.ca)
Venice Waterbuses, Otherwise Known As Vaporettos
In winter, the waterbuses, or Vaporettos, are warmer than the museums. They offer views, transportation and the gentle buzz of people. Instead of covering chairs and benches with rope, or shooing relaxed bottoms away, the buses invite you to sit. In most of Centro storico, the price for sitting includes an expensive drink. By expensive, I mean normality times four.
Vaporettos are welcoming and most of Centro storico is not. Once sitting comfortably, and embracing the warmth, the wide berthed water boats provide an optical feast, with sights to assimilate with the finest of visual memories. Views in Venice are as striking as those of an Austrian village, with homely fairytale houses and a backdrop of mountainous snow, or of the Norfolk Broads, with its reeds, birds and dragonflies, on a bright and lonely day. In Venice, tall, shabby buildings defy nature and tell of history, expansion, merchants and whim.
Used well, a 72-hour travel card, at the high price of €32, is a recommendable purchase. You can sit inside. You can sit or stand outside. Outside you can see more. Sometimes there is no room in the warm. On busy Vaporettos, the indoor seats prompt polite competition. Bags hold seats for imaginary friends and commuters move reluctantly. Resentfully, they mumble their displeasure, only to brightly request likewise, when their turn comes around.
Outside provides the perfect opportunity to take photographs and capture images in your mind. Medieval buildings, immersed in water, caught as a memory, can merge with real life, literature and film. Held in place, the images provide high-grade fuel for the subconscious and dreams. Even in the cold, jostled by others, and impeding the onboard staff, the Vaporetto provides for a slightly otherworldly experience.
Tied on and tied off, they move from one water platform to the next, traversing the Grand Canal and the islands and lagoon.
You can buy a travel card at the airport or ticket booths, and stamp it on the Vaporetto platform before your first trip. The platforms show timetables, routes and, frequently, an electronic board that displays how many minutes you’ll have to wait. They are remarkably easy to use, and the real world has its place.
The Lagoon Islands
The travel card takes you far. So, instead of looking at churches, badly broken statues and ancient columns, we visited the lagoon islands, via the public waterbuses. I recommend doing this, even in horrible weather. We had no option; it was wet every day. Perhaps sleet is better than rain.
San Michele (Cimitero)
One of the striking aspects of the historical city centre (Centro storico) is that it is full. There is little green and there are few public places. There are more churches than I would care to remember, and never a graveyard attached. If half of the churches were torn down and transformed into parks, it would be a vast improvement for the city, its people and wildlife. No one can need so many churches. Fitting more worshippers into fewer churches would be far cosier. There would be more space to enjoy natures own creation.
Where do children play ball? Where do the old, the lost and the lonely sit and soak up a little of mother earth’s offerings? Where do lovers go at sunset? Gondola rides are expensive, waterbuses are very public and standing on a bridge will eventually give you sore feet.
Where you may wonder, do they place their dead?
Words cannot articulate the sheer humbling beauty of San Michele, the cemetery island. Only minutes from the Fondamente Nove vaporetto stop (bus route 42 or 52), you can see it from the Centro storico. The Venetians created the walled cemetery island in 1807, when they had no place for graves, tombs and those without breath.
Perhaps Venetian lovers, the old, and the lonely, go and sit with the dead. Instead of placing their deceased in a series of small oases in a bustling city, the Venetians give them their own island. I have never seen a place so respectful for the dead, and if it were possible, I would wish that everyone was buried, or remembered, on such a cemetery island. It’s hard to believe that it was once a prison. It’s a place of stirring tranquillity.
Fields and fields of small white crosses found us, dressed with flowers, photographs and telling inscriptions. They were warm and welcoming, not cold and obsolete. For ten years or so, the dead live in such shallow graves. Then their bones move to a dedicated space or communal ossuary. While the remains may move elsewhere, the dead stay on the island in commemorative form and leave their mark on a world that’s lost them.
There are walls and walls of plaques that host the names of the dead, and a place to fit a photograph and flowers. Couples sit together, families have plots, and those that died young still look young. There are chapels, tombs, and flowers, so many pretty flowers.
It was quiet on the island. Barely seeing a soul, we ambled along, thinking of the people in the photographs that once laughed, cried and died. The sleet gently fell onto our hoods, and even it seemed respectful.
Murano
From San Michele we boarded the number 42 Vaporetto once more, and alighted at Murano. Murano is an island famous for its glass. In Venice’s main historical centre, there are shops that specialise in Murano glass. They mostly sell trinkets for the tourists. There was such a shop right by our hotel.
To be on Murano island (or the series of islands that comprise it), made one realise, or at least believe, that the brash sales technique and the commercialisation of its glass is not of Murano’s own making. Murano is beautiful and well presented. It appears to be much more loving of its populace and public space than the city’s shabby heart.
For the most part, the buildings do not sit at the water’s edge. Instead, there are wide pavements that run along the canals, public squares and places for residents to keep their own boats. Chairlifts help the elderly or infirm to travel from one land mass to the next. It feels considerate and kind.
To celebrate their glass-based history and present resurgence, the island hosts glass art in public spaces. We saw a glass lady, a glass Christmas tree, and what appeared to me to be a wonderful clump of sprawling blue Marram Grass, glass, swaying in the breeze. The island has been famous for its glass since the thirteenth century, and for some five or more centuries before then, glassworks lived on the neighbouring island of Torcello.
Murano’s children are probably sick to death of stories about glass. There is a glass museum, which they probably have had to visit on school trips since 1861. The museum has been there that long. They have glass works there that go back to 1BC/1AD, in the form of small and dainty glass jars and fanciful bowls. 2008 years later, they demonstrate remarkable skill.
There were some delightful seventeenth century vases, with swirling colours running through them, but I was more impressed by the later works. For example, a duck designed by Toni Zuccheri in 1979 and then made by Venini in 1982, and some amazing detergent bottles designed by Maria Grazia Rosin, executed by Vittorio Ferro, and ground by Eugenio Rizzi, in 1992. I had no idea so many people are involved in making one item of glass. You can view the bottles and the duck on these websites:
Maria Grazia Rosin – Detersivi
Toni Zuccheri – Duck
It is hard to imagine someone with the space and desire for the centrepiece in the last room. It was six times the size of our dining room table and consisted of a glass ornate garden with an intricate fountain. If we had it, I think our friends would be both shocked and impressed. It would fill our living room and you’d have to view it through the window or door.
The most fascinating aspect of the Murano Glass museum wasn’t really the glass, but the history. In the past glassmakers held reverence, and were ‘treated like nobility’. In the fourteenth century, they had immunity from prosecution, they were allowed to carry swords and their daughters could marry into affluent and blue-blooded families. They weren’t allowed to leave the Republic, because they, and their skills, were so treasured, but sometimes they risked all and did. They were the only people in Europe that knew how to make glass mirrors and the price of seeing oneself is high.
I bet the Swansea copper makers wished that they’d enjoyed the same privileges.
The museum receptionist played solitaire on the PC and whiled away the sleety day.
At Murano, our trip started at the lighthouse at Faro. We would have liked to have gone up the lighthouse, but it was closed. After the Glass Museum, we got back on the Vaporetto at the Museo stop. It was still sleeting. We opted against another Murano walk, although it would have been lovely in the dry.
Burano
Next stop, Burano. Here the winds were harsh and the driving sleet was bitterly cold to walk through. All the same, in any weather, this is a stunning island. We rested our legs for some 40 minutes on the way from Murano. From the boat, we saw strange small islands, some as small as a building, with the ruins of a building on them. Imagine living in a building the size of the island it sits on.
Burano doesn’t offer a glass museum or a cemetery. It offers lace. We opted not to see the lace, apart from in the shop windows, which we swiftly passed by.
Lace is not for us.
Instead, we ambled through the brightly coloured streets, where each house glowed with a vivid rainbow colour. Without a shabby home in sight, the paintwork stands in stark contrast to Centro storico and its sorry flaky buildings. We imagined that it was warm and the wind was still. Neither was the case. All the same, Burano is enchanting and delightful and this is the memory that will stick. Taking a stroll on the residential streets and over the tidy bridges raised many a smile and a little dance or two. The latter may have been to warm up.
Burano also sells reasonably priced drinks, and, at last, we found an open cafe that we could sit in without feeling like we’d suffered the royal tourist rip off. Okay, a plate of chips cost €5, but we stuck to drinks and all was well. It was cosy and wonderful, apart from the toilet, which had a concertina style door and was not so pleasant.
It was so very windy and cold, and the driving sleet was so relentless, that we ended our lagoon island tour there. I would have liked to see Torcello, the island that has a Basilica, Bell Tower and Archaeological museum, but no details on Multimap or Google Maps. It’s lack of mapping is sad considering that in 5AD it was the largest settlement in the lagoon. Silt and malaria had their way. Across the grey skies, it looked rather bleak.
Part 3 is here: Venetian Dreams: The Obligatory Museums
Fabpants Recommends: Spector really knew what he was doing before he lost himself in his oddities. Estelle Bennett died this month. This track is a brilliant sing along classic. So come on, be my baby...
Download MP3: The Ronettes – Be My Baby (courtesy of dawnbakescakes.com)
I watched Slumdog Millionaire whilst in Venice, and it mainly reminded me of what a great track ‘Paper Planes’ is.
Download MP3: M.I.A. – Paper Planes (courtesy of wordsworthmedia.files.wordpress.com)
Today, I have been listening to Malajube’s – Labyrinthes. The first track 'Ursuline' sounds like it’s trying to escape from a turbid pool of slime. I had to skip to the next track. That sums up the album. It’s a dull affair. If you like to listen to music that you really have to work for, then you might enjoy this. You can then seek out likeminded anoraks and sneer at me. I skipped, skipped, skipped.
Instead, of living in the present, I will return to these tracks from their 2006 Trompe-l'œil album. They have more spunk.
Download MP3: Malajube – Ton Plat Favori (courtesy of daretocarerecords.com)
Download MP3: Malajube – Pâte Filo (courtesy of daretocarerecords.com)
Download MP3: Malajube - Fille à plumes (courtesy of astro.ubc.ca)
Download MP3: Malajube - Montreal -40c (courtesy of astro.ubc.ca)
Tuesday, 24 February 2009
Venetian Dreams: An Introduction
Being a child of water, I used to marvel over the idea of Venice. A city built on H two O, where the sun glistens on ripples and ripples create calm. The vision in my mind was fantastical. If it courted romance, it was the romance of life. For I’m in love with life and that I can’t deny.
I marvel at life. I cry for life. I fear losing it more than anything else on earth. My heart and mind are so enamoured that it hurts. It hurts in the best kind of way. I want to live for a thousand years, or maybe more. I want to touch, smell and see the world every day, forever.
I want to paddle oars between buildings that should never exist, in a beautiful place, alone. All the while, and in my dreams, a gentle sun is there and it’s warming the nape of my neck.
Over time, my Venetian dream faded like an old photograph.
Fantastical places attract people, people attract greed, and the fairy-tale becomes a parody of what it once was. The gondola becomes a desperate attempt to feed a relationship, a relationship that is withering because of compromise and false hope. The city becomes expensive, and instead of supporting real life, it supports an ‘idea’ and the commercialisation of that idea.
Yet, Venice remains fantastical. The historic city of Venice (Centro storico) is shabby and it smells. The cafes, restaurants and museums are overpriced. The bread is dry, hard and powdery. Dog poo litters the pavements. Centro storico sells its past in the form of ugly masks and dull artefacts. Selling love like a commodity, Centro storico has forgotten how to love itself. It has forgotten how to love its guests.
One hundred and eighteen small islands form Venice or Venezia, and the fact it is a city at all is a miracle of humankind. Water laps directly against buildings. Slowly houses, hotels and businesses, built where flood plains, shallow waters, or marshes might be, are submerged or washed away.
Alleyways, bridges and boats: these are the means to mobility. Cars? No. Vans? No. Motorbikes? No. Bicycles? Not really.
To get about one must use waterbuses, traghettos, water taxis and feet. To get to hospital an ambulance boat will take you, with screaming sirens and relentless waves. Cliff might turn to sand, battered by the emergency wash, but buildings appear to remain. The Grand Canal snakes through Venice’s heart. Away from it, motorboats are far fewer.
With no road traffic, the city centre enjoys a rare peace. One can meander quietly and without pause. It’s easy to miss this pleasure until you leave the islands and see busy roads for the first time in days. Cars create anxiety and their absence allows calm.
The temperature in February is comparable to that in the South Coast of England. While England cooled off in the snow, and my friends stayed home from work, Venice grimaced in soggy and sometimes horizontal sleet. The wet weather melted on impact, and the wind ensured that bones would freeze. Even the museums were cold, truly cold.
Where is the hospitality? The hospitality is away from the centre, St Mark’s and hotels. It is in the waterbuses, the lagoon islands and the Peggy Guggenheim museum. The posts that follow will provide an account of my three days in Venice. I hope that you enjoy sharing the experience with me.
Part 2 is here: Venetian Dreams: Water Buses and Islands
Fabpants Recommends: With a V for Venice theme in mind, I would like to start nostalgically with two tracks from Velvet Underground. It’s easy to forget how great The Violent Underpants truly were.
Download MP3: The Velvet Underground – I’m Sticking With You (courtesy of glogster.com)
Download MP3: The Velvet Underground – Pale Blue Eyes (courtesy of anyones-guess.com)
Now that you’re all settled in a sweet and gentle place, it’s time for some melon twisting. Melon twisting will keep you young.
Beirut have a new album out. It’s made up of 2 EPs. It’s rather tasty and it’s rather odd. It’s called March of the Zapotec / Realpeople: Holland. My Middle School’s Brass Band appears on it. Okay, it doesn’t. I like to pretend it does. It makes it even odder to listen to. I imagine children in red and white uniforms and a mad conductor. Whatever you think of Beirut, and I’m not sure myself when I listen to this collection, you have to admit that it's a curious challenge. I rather like this little number. Listen to the full release if you want to lose your mind.
Download MP3: Beirut – My Wife (courtesy of wordpress.com)
On a more not ‘old enough to be jaded’ note, I am enjoying the return of Flobots to the UK without actually seeing them. Sadly, I missed their Brighton gig last Friday. I bet it was marvellous.
Download MP3:Flobots – We are Winning (sorry, this link has died)
By the way, now I have it - in its full format - YES YES YES - I can’t get enough of Marissa Nadler’s new album. Mistress is currently my favourite track. I can’t find it out there in MP3 format to stream. You’ll have to buy the album, you lucky sods. I already posted ‘River of Dirt’ from the album, so I hope you listened.
I marvel at life. I cry for life. I fear losing it more than anything else on earth. My heart and mind are so enamoured that it hurts. It hurts in the best kind of way. I want to live for a thousand years, or maybe more. I want to touch, smell and see the world every day, forever.
I want to paddle oars between buildings that should never exist, in a beautiful place, alone. All the while, and in my dreams, a gentle sun is there and it’s warming the nape of my neck.
Over time, my Venetian dream faded like an old photograph.
Fantastical places attract people, people attract greed, and the fairy-tale becomes a parody of what it once was. The gondola becomes a desperate attempt to feed a relationship, a relationship that is withering because of compromise and false hope. The city becomes expensive, and instead of supporting real life, it supports an ‘idea’ and the commercialisation of that idea.
Yet, Venice remains fantastical. The historic city of Venice (Centro storico) is shabby and it smells. The cafes, restaurants and museums are overpriced. The bread is dry, hard and powdery. Dog poo litters the pavements. Centro storico sells its past in the form of ugly masks and dull artefacts. Selling love like a commodity, Centro storico has forgotten how to love itself. It has forgotten how to love its guests.
One hundred and eighteen small islands form Venice or Venezia, and the fact it is a city at all is a miracle of humankind. Water laps directly against buildings. Slowly houses, hotels and businesses, built where flood plains, shallow waters, or marshes might be, are submerged or washed away.
Alleyways, bridges and boats: these are the means to mobility. Cars? No. Vans? No. Motorbikes? No. Bicycles? Not really.
To get about one must use waterbuses, traghettos, water taxis and feet. To get to hospital an ambulance boat will take you, with screaming sirens and relentless waves. Cliff might turn to sand, battered by the emergency wash, but buildings appear to remain. The Grand Canal snakes through Venice’s heart. Away from it, motorboats are far fewer.
With no road traffic, the city centre enjoys a rare peace. One can meander quietly and without pause. It’s easy to miss this pleasure until you leave the islands and see busy roads for the first time in days. Cars create anxiety and their absence allows calm.
The temperature in February is comparable to that in the South Coast of England. While England cooled off in the snow, and my friends stayed home from work, Venice grimaced in soggy and sometimes horizontal sleet. The wet weather melted on impact, and the wind ensured that bones would freeze. Even the museums were cold, truly cold.
Where is the hospitality? The hospitality is away from the centre, St Mark’s and hotels. It is in the waterbuses, the lagoon islands and the Peggy Guggenheim museum. The posts that follow will provide an account of my three days in Venice. I hope that you enjoy sharing the experience with me.
Part 2 is here: Venetian Dreams: Water Buses and Islands
Fabpants Recommends: With a V for Venice theme in mind, I would like to start nostalgically with two tracks from Velvet Underground. It’s easy to forget how great The Violent Underpants truly were.
Download MP3: The Velvet Underground – I’m Sticking With You (courtesy of glogster.com)
Download MP3: The Velvet Underground – Pale Blue Eyes (courtesy of anyones-guess.com)
Now that you’re all settled in a sweet and gentle place, it’s time for some melon twisting. Melon twisting will keep you young.
Beirut have a new album out. It’s made up of 2 EPs. It’s rather tasty and it’s rather odd. It’s called March of the Zapotec / Realpeople: Holland. My Middle School’s Brass Band appears on it. Okay, it doesn’t. I like to pretend it does. It makes it even odder to listen to. I imagine children in red and white uniforms and a mad conductor. Whatever you think of Beirut, and I’m not sure myself when I listen to this collection, you have to admit that it's a curious challenge. I rather like this little number. Listen to the full release if you want to lose your mind.
Download MP3: Beirut – My Wife (courtesy of wordpress.com)
On a more not ‘old enough to be jaded’ note, I am enjoying the return of Flobots to the UK without actually seeing them. Sadly, I missed their Brighton gig last Friday. I bet it was marvellous.
Download MP3:Flobots – We are Winning (sorry, this link has died)
By the way, now I have it - in its full format - YES YES YES - I can’t get enough of Marissa Nadler’s new album. Mistress is currently my favourite track. I can’t find it out there in MP3 format to stream. You’ll have to buy the album, you lucky sods. I already posted ‘River of Dirt’ from the album, so I hope you listened.
Monday, 23 February 2009
A Guest Entry by Henry Grubstick
Way back when, before I felt threatened by the purple sprouting broccoli plants that loom ominously outside my window, I sent out a message. I invited my kind to come forth and write guest entries for my blog.
For the next few Mondays, far better storytellers than I, will entertain and enlighten you. If you wish to take part, please do contact me. If you so request, your identity will not be disclosed. You are free to tell the story that you never dared tell, or the share the gripe that you have no place to publish. Alternatively, you could share a happy thought or two.
The first entry is by my dear friend Henry Grubstick. It's called 'Jim'.
Spoiler Alert: only read the next three paragraphs if you like Movie Trailers or Book Forwards
Having read 'The Swimming Pool Library' by Alan Hollinghurst, earlier this year, I can’t help but draw comparisons between 'Jim' and Hollinghurst's 1988 gay classic.
In contrast to the Corry - the gym in Hollinghurst’s novel - Donny's is not a ‘male only’ hub, where exercise, showering, and public nakedness, provide an established backdrop for titillation, penis watching and cruising. Donny’s is your run-of-the-mill gym.
At Donnington’s, women flirt with male instructors and plausibly heterosexual men find themselves in oddly homoerotic situations. The following story provides a hilarious portrayal of one man’s challenge to complete his exercise routine in an environment tense with embarrassment.
Jim
A place where you run for miles, but go nowhere. A place where minutes can feel like hours...
by Henry Grubstick
It’s the end of another working day, the beginning of another familiar journey. A short trip in the car and the gym is soon in sight. Donnington's gym is by no means a remarkable building.
The shape of “Donny's” exterior is shed-like. It would offer no surprise to see a troupe of boy scouts inside. I can see them now working on the latest ethical awareness badge, whilst dodging the local paedophile, otherwise known as Arkela.
Pulling up to the wood-lined gym, the wonderful beach-like sound of tyre on pebbles fills the air. Opening the car door brings forth an uncommon fusion of sounds. Cheesy house music and gym machinery unite with human grunts. A drag queen on reception would not be out of place. Focusing the ear, one could mistake the sounds for that of a wag roast, but it's rowers rowing, cyclists cycling and runners running.
Thump. I shut the car boot, grab my kit bag and head inside. As I open the entrance door, the sound of gym equipment gets louder and louder, like the growing sounds of thumping anticipation. I enter a door marked ‘Male Changing’ and walk into a different, albeit musty, world...
Men of all shapes and sizes, spanning all of society’s subsets, unite in the need to wear appropriate clothing. In this state of half undress, the type of pant worn by the average gym goer says a lot about not only about their fitness levels, but of their social standing and life history.
I see evidence of this all around the room. Up first is a dulling white airtex Y-front. This is a man in his fifties, in fairly ill health. A fellow packed off to the gym by his partner - a disappointed housewife with a long deserted sex life. The Y-front wearer's gym kit was purchased some time ago, perhaps in the 80's for the weekly game of squash. It consists of a Dunlop polo shirt, white. Patrick shorts, white. A non-de script trainer, white. All contrasted by a pair of socks, black! Pulled up just below the knee.
Looking to my right, I see a man strutting around the changing room in a blazing purple pant. Looking closer this pant has a distinctive psychedelic 70's pattern. The owner of this undergarment is a “dude” in his late forties who I reckon is looking to regain some semblance of his youth.
Joining the gym was most likely his idea. Other recent ‘youth re-gaining’ ideas include the purchase of a Triumph motor cycle, wearing an earring in his left ear once again, and, no doubt, Viagra and wife swapping with the neighbours every second Saturday in the month. His gym kit has a distinct scent of retro chic emphasised by the original Fred Perry polo shirt. This guy should have watched American Beauty a little more carefully...
Sulking in the corner is a ‘cartoon character emblazoned boxer shorts’ wearer. In this GP referral case, Homer Simpson has been employed to cover up an ailing penis and a hairy chubby bottom. More distinctive than his choice of pant, is the bulging belly flowing over the head of donut Simpson. “D’oh!” methinks. The extremity of this man’s poor health is matched by his role of office joker. This clown's chosen gym attire is a T-shirt obtained by drinking ‘special offer’ alcohol. The catchphrase “If Lost Please Return to Pub” shouts in large lettering from its front. The t-shirt is coupled with a sweat-inducing pair of jogging bottoms. This is a man ‘found out’ at the gym – a blobby peg in a largely healthy hole.
The pants are bad enough, but one thing always notable about male changing rooms is the attitude to nudity. Some men are very proud of their private parts, whilst others shy away. Sadly, for me, one such gym member with “pride” is not just my boss, or my bosses’ boss, but my bosses’ bosses’ boss: Archie MacDonald.
“Jim”, he says boldly, “how are things in marketing these days?” Every syllable seems to dictate another swing of the penis.
“Things are going just great, fantastic in fact!” I reply whilst desperately thinking, “Don't look at the cock. Don't look at the cock! Oh God I looked! I looked!”
For a white Scotsman in his late fifties, his penis is pretty brown, distinctly Afro-Caribbean in fact. Think Peperami. Scientifically, I would love to know why the humble common or garden penis changes colour the older you get. It must be something to do with it being locked away without sunlight. Note to self, look into nudism, fast.
The awkward thing about conversations like these is that you can't tell the truth. In reality, things at work are going about as well as a trip on the Titanic. However, when dealing with work people, a positive spin must be put on things, even if it makes you look like a cock. Well, at least not an ageing cock...
“Well that's super, SUPER! We need you folks down there to help bring in the bucks!” I don't know if it was just me, but I could have sworn he pointed his crotch at me whilst saying “SUPER”. I look down into my kit bag, and make it more of a struggle than it really is to grab my shorts. From the corner of my eye, I look at Archie overwork the drying of his back.
On goes my kit and I thank God once again that the awkward 10 minutes, that is the male changing room experience, is over. I think I'll shower at home after this session...
I enter the gym, swipe my card, and spot Liam the gym instructor.
“Hi Jim, how are you today?” He says.
“I'm good, thank you. And how are you?” I reply, praying for the obligatory “very well” rather than a brutally honest and graphic answer.
“Very well.” How many times has this poor bloke replied with that answer today I wonder? Everyone asking how he is, but not really wanting to know. An odd tradition we hold dear in this country. I'd love to spend a day answering frivolous questions honestly one day.
“Good music, this evening” I lie, making polite conversation.
“Yeah, it's Chicane. I've rigged the PC into the sound system” Liam replies.
“Oh, but the only thing is I like Tetris, I really like Tetris and MSN, so ignore the bleeps. That's either the blocks rotating or a new message.”
“Okay,” I say bluntly leaving things there. Customer service is clearly not what it once was. Up until this conversation, I had worked out under the happy illusion that gym instructors keep an eager eye out, just waiting for a struggling member that needs advice. But, no. It seems that the young gym instructors of today are into Tetris and MSN. Still can't blame the poor bastards, they do basically nothing for hours on end, everyday, in near social isolation.
Out of the relative safety of the male changing rooms, I'm now mingling with both sexes. The fairer sex, women, have a somewhat different attitude to the gym. They view it as they do most things, as a social activity. As I take a slurp of water from the fountain, I catch sight of one such example. Melanie, I think she's called.
For such a regular gym goer, Melanie is in dreadful shape. She's tall, about 5'11, has dyed blonde hair and is a good fourteen stone, size 16 /18 perhaps. She's here every time I'm here and doesn't seem to get the main goal of the place; that is to get fit. As I wipe my mouth, I see her get off the stepper, having completed the first part of her fitness routine for the evening.
“Bloody-hell!” She cries. “That's seriously hard work”. Melanie struggles to keep her thoughts to herself.
“You were only on there for five minutes,” Liam pipes up. “What level were you on?”
“Level 3”. Melanie answers. “I had to keep it low, my feet kept slipping”.
Melanie looks up and starts getting into Hollyoaks, which is displaying subtitled on one of the six LCD TVs. Like a toddler, she's mesmerised. That is until she spots her friend.
“Hi!! How are you? So nice to see you!?!” She enthusiastically cries to her friend.
“I'm great. How are you after the work dinner the other night?” Melanie's friend replies.
“I'm well, but you know me, I ate way too much again. That carrot cake was too hard to resist”.
I zone out of Melanie's conversation and warm up for 15 minutes on the exercise bike. As I slow down to finish on the bike, I look round and see Melanie. She’s finished talking to her friend and has turned her attention to Liam. Somewhat trapped in his role of gym instructor, Liam is the object of her flirting for the next 10 minutes. After which Melanie walks out of gym, with a whopping five minutes of gentle exercise completed. ‘Astonishing’, I think. However, more astonishing still, I see Melanie clamber into a top-of-the-range BMW Z4 sports car.
I don't mean to sound bitter, but how can she afford such a wonderful sports contraption? What on earth can she possibly do for a living? Perhaps I’ll never find out. I have my suspicions that, during the negotiations, the car dealer gave in, simply to get rid of her.
With my warm up on the exercise bike completed, I limber up, defiantly stretching as I walk over to the weights. This is where the serious business starts; where men who you never see in the changing room practise their art, the art of, err, lifting heavy things. They take it more seriously than life itself. Some work in packs “spotting” each other, some stay alone.
I spot a conjoined pair, whilst pumping some moderate iron. Of the two, there is always a master and an apprentice.
The master is clearly a gym junkie with muscles in places where, well, I have fat. He leads the pumping and sets the weights for his junior apprentice.
“Now what I've done for you, is, I've put you straight up to 70kg” He says in his Mockney accent.
The apprentice, who I assume is a work colleague - and gym-virgin press-ganged into tonight's workout - looks more than a little nervous.
“Are you sure this a good starting point? I've not been to the gym for a while”.
“Yeah, course it is. In ‘Health and Fitness’ they say you should always lift weights that are too heavy for you to lift.” He confidently barks back.
Whilst I slowly and carefully pull down my 45kgs, I can't help but laugh. What illogical nonsense, I think. I watch as the poor bloke's eyes nearly pop out as he manages just five repetitions. I have a feeling we won't be seeing him at the gym again. In fact, he'll struggle to move tomorrow.
“Not bad! Not BAD!” His dark master yells. He quickly hops onto the bench and has a go himself, confidently pushing the weight 12 times. Clearly, this was just an exercise of showing his colleague how strong he is.
As I move on to the next piece of equipment, I think about how odd the weights section of the gym is; what with the ‘pairs’ barking orders at each other, whilst throwing about ‘Top Gun’ style homoerotic encouragement, and, then, the solo weightlifters who take sneaky looks at one another. Much like my brief encounter with Archie, I feel myself sucked in and although I don't want to, I can't help but take a look at what others are doing. Before I get too deep into this culture, I move away. I accelerate to the treadmills.
Now, sadly, I've never been the fastest runner, but at least, I like to think, I try. Today is not my day. Whilst putting my all in, a German “machine” rolls up next to me. This is the antithesis of Melanie. She's about 5'4, with sharp dyed red hair and has serious running gear on. Without an ounce of fat on her body, she boasts a strong Bavarian look. She soon catches up with me speed wise, but to add insult to injury, she takes out a book whilst running.
Here I am giving it my all. Thoughts of ‘not falling off’ occupy one side of my mind and the heavy will to ‘not to get a stitch’ absorb the other. Meanwhile, the girl is literally doing two things at once. I notice that as she reads, she even turns the pages athletically! I slow down as she speeds up. Then suddenly ‘Beep beep. Beep beep’. She takes a phone call via means of a cunningly concealed hands-free kit, and as I suspected reveals her strong German accent.
“Dieter,” she says.
Unfortunately, I can only hear half the conversation. My mind is seriously intrigued by the other.
“You make sure they are ready, I don't want things to go wrong like last time”.
Another pause, whilst my ears tune in.
“Make sure you remember to pack the batteries.”
“Oh and I hope it'll be good and hard. Yes, a real good treat, yeah?”
Unlike Melanie, whose occupation I have little idea of, I have strong feelings that the German works in the sex industry. Perhaps some kind of dominatrix...
Dejected by my comparable lack of success on the treadmill, I move to my last exercise of the evening – the rower. As I get closer to the Concept 2 machines, I realise that my luck is out. It looks like I'll be rowing next to the worst possible “work-out buddy” imaginable.
It's the dreaded “sex-man”!!
Now I'm certain that you're wondering what puts the ‘sex’ in sex-man. Is it perhaps a virile look and appearance? No. Is it a comical Ron Jeremy beard and haircut? No. Is it an embarrassingly ‘always erect’ weener? No. Though, in fact that would be rather funny.
It's far worse than this. The sex-man is known as the sex-man due to the over exorbitant grunts, groans and, well, quite frankly, sex noises that he makes whilst exercising. Sadly, for me, I'm going to hear these first hand tonight.
I row. A subtle “Errrrrrr” bellows out from intercourse man. As his row gets more intense, his vocalisations build up.
“Errr ohhh errrrrrr, hooowwwwlll errr.” It gets worse. As the grunts grow, his face goes bright red.
“Hoowl howl ohh ohh ohhh ohhh ohhhhhhh”
As I begin to row faster, I find myself caught up in it.
“Haaa haa haaa haaa haa”
My heart rate rises, I begin to sweat and I start to make my own, albeit far quieter, exertion noises.
“Haw haw” I gently murmur. I'm certain no one can hear the noises but me, but, as sex-man and I row like a game of tennis, our noises fall into a weird symmetry. We go faster and faster. In fact, as I look at his bright red face with all the sweat, sounds and grunting in the air, I actually feel like I'm having sex with him.
Things heat up as bonk-man goes into overdrive and nears the end of his workout.
“Err err ohhh ohhh hooowwwlll, hooo hooo hooor”
“Haw haw,” I can't help myself. Shit, I'm being pulled in. I feel like this angry-looking, bald, red man is violating me.
“Grrrrrrrrrroaaaaaaaaann,” goes shag-man.
“Haw haw,” I weakly omit.
“Oooohhhh ohhh ohh,” sex-man grunts his part.
“Haw haw haw,” I meaker.
“Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh yeah,” sex-man releases on his finish.
Beep, beep beeeeeeeep.
Our workout finishes in tandem. Sex-man is worn out and panting. It would not surprise me at all, if he came in his pants, right there and then, on the rower. We exchange an awkward glance. I feel unclean and abused.
I end my work out with a stretch. It’s grunt, groan and pant free. I get in my car and drive home. I am pleased to have completed another awkward workout at the gym.
Grubstick Recommends:
Download MP3: Roxy Music – Virginia Plain (courtesy of jonashellstrom.se)
For the next few Mondays, far better storytellers than I, will entertain and enlighten you. If you wish to take part, please do contact me. If you so request, your identity will not be disclosed. You are free to tell the story that you never dared tell, or the share the gripe that you have no place to publish. Alternatively, you could share a happy thought or two.
The first entry is by my dear friend Henry Grubstick. It's called 'Jim'.
Spoiler Alert: only read the next three paragraphs if you like Movie Trailers or Book Forwards
Having read 'The Swimming Pool Library' by Alan Hollinghurst, earlier this year, I can’t help but draw comparisons between 'Jim' and Hollinghurst's 1988 gay classic.
In contrast to the Corry - the gym in Hollinghurst’s novel - Donny's is not a ‘male only’ hub, where exercise, showering, and public nakedness, provide an established backdrop for titillation, penis watching and cruising. Donny’s is your run-of-the-mill gym.
At Donnington’s, women flirt with male instructors and plausibly heterosexual men find themselves in oddly homoerotic situations. The following story provides a hilarious portrayal of one man’s challenge to complete his exercise routine in an environment tense with embarrassment.
Jim
A place where you run for miles, but go nowhere. A place where minutes can feel like hours...
by Henry Grubstick
It’s the end of another working day, the beginning of another familiar journey. A short trip in the car and the gym is soon in sight. Donnington's gym is by no means a remarkable building.
The shape of “Donny's” exterior is shed-like. It would offer no surprise to see a troupe of boy scouts inside. I can see them now working on the latest ethical awareness badge, whilst dodging the local paedophile, otherwise known as Arkela.
Pulling up to the wood-lined gym, the wonderful beach-like sound of tyre on pebbles fills the air. Opening the car door brings forth an uncommon fusion of sounds. Cheesy house music and gym machinery unite with human grunts. A drag queen on reception would not be out of place. Focusing the ear, one could mistake the sounds for that of a wag roast, but it's rowers rowing, cyclists cycling and runners running.
Thump. I shut the car boot, grab my kit bag and head inside. As I open the entrance door, the sound of gym equipment gets louder and louder, like the growing sounds of thumping anticipation. I enter a door marked ‘Male Changing’ and walk into a different, albeit musty, world...
Men of all shapes and sizes, spanning all of society’s subsets, unite in the need to wear appropriate clothing. In this state of half undress, the type of pant worn by the average gym goer says a lot about not only about their fitness levels, but of their social standing and life history.
I see evidence of this all around the room. Up first is a dulling white airtex Y-front. This is a man in his fifties, in fairly ill health. A fellow packed off to the gym by his partner - a disappointed housewife with a long deserted sex life. The Y-front wearer's gym kit was purchased some time ago, perhaps in the 80's for the weekly game of squash. It consists of a Dunlop polo shirt, white. Patrick shorts, white. A non-de script trainer, white. All contrasted by a pair of socks, black! Pulled up just below the knee.
Looking to my right, I see a man strutting around the changing room in a blazing purple pant. Looking closer this pant has a distinctive psychedelic 70's pattern. The owner of this undergarment is a “dude” in his late forties who I reckon is looking to regain some semblance of his youth.
Joining the gym was most likely his idea. Other recent ‘youth re-gaining’ ideas include the purchase of a Triumph motor cycle, wearing an earring in his left ear once again, and, no doubt, Viagra and wife swapping with the neighbours every second Saturday in the month. His gym kit has a distinct scent of retro chic emphasised by the original Fred Perry polo shirt. This guy should have watched American Beauty a little more carefully...
Sulking in the corner is a ‘cartoon character emblazoned boxer shorts’ wearer. In this GP referral case, Homer Simpson has been employed to cover up an ailing penis and a hairy chubby bottom. More distinctive than his choice of pant, is the bulging belly flowing over the head of donut Simpson. “D’oh!” methinks. The extremity of this man’s poor health is matched by his role of office joker. This clown's chosen gym attire is a T-shirt obtained by drinking ‘special offer’ alcohol. The catchphrase “If Lost Please Return to Pub” shouts in large lettering from its front. The t-shirt is coupled with a sweat-inducing pair of jogging bottoms. This is a man ‘found out’ at the gym – a blobby peg in a largely healthy hole.
The pants are bad enough, but one thing always notable about male changing rooms is the attitude to nudity. Some men are very proud of their private parts, whilst others shy away. Sadly, for me, one such gym member with “pride” is not just my boss, or my bosses’ boss, but my bosses’ bosses’ boss: Archie MacDonald.
“Jim”, he says boldly, “how are things in marketing these days?” Every syllable seems to dictate another swing of the penis.
“Things are going just great, fantastic in fact!” I reply whilst desperately thinking, “Don't look at the cock. Don't look at the cock! Oh God I looked! I looked!”
For a white Scotsman in his late fifties, his penis is pretty brown, distinctly Afro-Caribbean in fact. Think Peperami. Scientifically, I would love to know why the humble common or garden penis changes colour the older you get. It must be something to do with it being locked away without sunlight. Note to self, look into nudism, fast.
The awkward thing about conversations like these is that you can't tell the truth. In reality, things at work are going about as well as a trip on the Titanic. However, when dealing with work people, a positive spin must be put on things, even if it makes you look like a cock. Well, at least not an ageing cock...
“Well that's super, SUPER! We need you folks down there to help bring in the bucks!” I don't know if it was just me, but I could have sworn he pointed his crotch at me whilst saying “SUPER”. I look down into my kit bag, and make it more of a struggle than it really is to grab my shorts. From the corner of my eye, I look at Archie overwork the drying of his back.
On goes my kit and I thank God once again that the awkward 10 minutes, that is the male changing room experience, is over. I think I'll shower at home after this session...
I enter the gym, swipe my card, and spot Liam the gym instructor.
“Hi Jim, how are you today?” He says.
“I'm good, thank you. And how are you?” I reply, praying for the obligatory “very well” rather than a brutally honest and graphic answer.
“Very well.” How many times has this poor bloke replied with that answer today I wonder? Everyone asking how he is, but not really wanting to know. An odd tradition we hold dear in this country. I'd love to spend a day answering frivolous questions honestly one day.
“Good music, this evening” I lie, making polite conversation.
“Yeah, it's Chicane. I've rigged the PC into the sound system” Liam replies.
“Oh, but the only thing is I like Tetris, I really like Tetris and MSN, so ignore the bleeps. That's either the blocks rotating or a new message.”
“Okay,” I say bluntly leaving things there. Customer service is clearly not what it once was. Up until this conversation, I had worked out under the happy illusion that gym instructors keep an eager eye out, just waiting for a struggling member that needs advice. But, no. It seems that the young gym instructors of today are into Tetris and MSN. Still can't blame the poor bastards, they do basically nothing for hours on end, everyday, in near social isolation.
Out of the relative safety of the male changing rooms, I'm now mingling with both sexes. The fairer sex, women, have a somewhat different attitude to the gym. They view it as they do most things, as a social activity. As I take a slurp of water from the fountain, I catch sight of one such example. Melanie, I think she's called.
For such a regular gym goer, Melanie is in dreadful shape. She's tall, about 5'11, has dyed blonde hair and is a good fourteen stone, size 16 /18 perhaps. She's here every time I'm here and doesn't seem to get the main goal of the place; that is to get fit. As I wipe my mouth, I see her get off the stepper, having completed the first part of her fitness routine for the evening.
“Bloody-hell!” She cries. “That's seriously hard work”. Melanie struggles to keep her thoughts to herself.
“You were only on there for five minutes,” Liam pipes up. “What level were you on?”
“Level 3”. Melanie answers. “I had to keep it low, my feet kept slipping”.
Melanie looks up and starts getting into Hollyoaks, which is displaying subtitled on one of the six LCD TVs. Like a toddler, she's mesmerised. That is until she spots her friend.
“Hi!! How are you? So nice to see you!?!” She enthusiastically cries to her friend.
“I'm great. How are you after the work dinner the other night?” Melanie's friend replies.
“I'm well, but you know me, I ate way too much again. That carrot cake was too hard to resist”.
I zone out of Melanie's conversation and warm up for 15 minutes on the exercise bike. As I slow down to finish on the bike, I look round and see Melanie. She’s finished talking to her friend and has turned her attention to Liam. Somewhat trapped in his role of gym instructor, Liam is the object of her flirting for the next 10 minutes. After which Melanie walks out of gym, with a whopping five minutes of gentle exercise completed. ‘Astonishing’, I think. However, more astonishing still, I see Melanie clamber into a top-of-the-range BMW Z4 sports car.
I don't mean to sound bitter, but how can she afford such a wonderful sports contraption? What on earth can she possibly do for a living? Perhaps I’ll never find out. I have my suspicions that, during the negotiations, the car dealer gave in, simply to get rid of her.
With my warm up on the exercise bike completed, I limber up, defiantly stretching as I walk over to the weights. This is where the serious business starts; where men who you never see in the changing room practise their art, the art of, err, lifting heavy things. They take it more seriously than life itself. Some work in packs “spotting” each other, some stay alone.
I spot a conjoined pair, whilst pumping some moderate iron. Of the two, there is always a master and an apprentice.
The master is clearly a gym junkie with muscles in places where, well, I have fat. He leads the pumping and sets the weights for his junior apprentice.
“Now what I've done for you, is, I've put you straight up to 70kg” He says in his Mockney accent.
The apprentice, who I assume is a work colleague - and gym-virgin press-ganged into tonight's workout - looks more than a little nervous.
“Are you sure this a good starting point? I've not been to the gym for a while”.
“Yeah, course it is. In ‘Health and Fitness’ they say you should always lift weights that are too heavy for you to lift.” He confidently barks back.
Whilst I slowly and carefully pull down my 45kgs, I can't help but laugh. What illogical nonsense, I think. I watch as the poor bloke's eyes nearly pop out as he manages just five repetitions. I have a feeling we won't be seeing him at the gym again. In fact, he'll struggle to move tomorrow.
“Not bad! Not BAD!” His dark master yells. He quickly hops onto the bench and has a go himself, confidently pushing the weight 12 times. Clearly, this was just an exercise of showing his colleague how strong he is.
As I move on to the next piece of equipment, I think about how odd the weights section of the gym is; what with the ‘pairs’ barking orders at each other, whilst throwing about ‘Top Gun’ style homoerotic encouragement, and, then, the solo weightlifters who take sneaky looks at one another. Much like my brief encounter with Archie, I feel myself sucked in and although I don't want to, I can't help but take a look at what others are doing. Before I get too deep into this culture, I move away. I accelerate to the treadmills.
Now, sadly, I've never been the fastest runner, but at least, I like to think, I try. Today is not my day. Whilst putting my all in, a German “machine” rolls up next to me. This is the antithesis of Melanie. She's about 5'4, with sharp dyed red hair and has serious running gear on. Without an ounce of fat on her body, she boasts a strong Bavarian look. She soon catches up with me speed wise, but to add insult to injury, she takes out a book whilst running.
Here I am giving it my all. Thoughts of ‘not falling off’ occupy one side of my mind and the heavy will to ‘not to get a stitch’ absorb the other. Meanwhile, the girl is literally doing two things at once. I notice that as she reads, she even turns the pages athletically! I slow down as she speeds up. Then suddenly ‘Beep beep. Beep beep’. She takes a phone call via means of a cunningly concealed hands-free kit, and as I suspected reveals her strong German accent.
“Dieter,” she says.
Unfortunately, I can only hear half the conversation. My mind is seriously intrigued by the other.
“You make sure they are ready, I don't want things to go wrong like last time”.
Another pause, whilst my ears tune in.
“Make sure you remember to pack the batteries.”
“Oh and I hope it'll be good and hard. Yes, a real good treat, yeah?”
Unlike Melanie, whose occupation I have little idea of, I have strong feelings that the German works in the sex industry. Perhaps some kind of dominatrix...
Dejected by my comparable lack of success on the treadmill, I move to my last exercise of the evening – the rower. As I get closer to the Concept 2 machines, I realise that my luck is out. It looks like I'll be rowing next to the worst possible “work-out buddy” imaginable.
It's the dreaded “sex-man”!!
Now I'm certain that you're wondering what puts the ‘sex’ in sex-man. Is it perhaps a virile look and appearance? No. Is it a comical Ron Jeremy beard and haircut? No. Is it an embarrassingly ‘always erect’ weener? No. Though, in fact that would be rather funny.
It's far worse than this. The sex-man is known as the sex-man due to the over exorbitant grunts, groans and, well, quite frankly, sex noises that he makes whilst exercising. Sadly, for me, I'm going to hear these first hand tonight.
I row. A subtle “Errrrrrr” bellows out from intercourse man. As his row gets more intense, his vocalisations build up.
“Errr ohhh errrrrrr, hooowwwwlll errr.” It gets worse. As the grunts grow, his face goes bright red.
“Hoowl howl ohh ohh ohhh ohhh ohhhhhhh”
As I begin to row faster, I find myself caught up in it.
“Haaa haa haaa haaa haa”
My heart rate rises, I begin to sweat and I start to make my own, albeit far quieter, exertion noises.
“Haw haw” I gently murmur. I'm certain no one can hear the noises but me, but, as sex-man and I row like a game of tennis, our noises fall into a weird symmetry. We go faster and faster. In fact, as I look at his bright red face with all the sweat, sounds and grunting in the air, I actually feel like I'm having sex with him.
Things heat up as bonk-man goes into overdrive and nears the end of his workout.
“Err err ohhh ohhh hooowwwlll, hooo hooo hooor”
“Haw haw,” I can't help myself. Shit, I'm being pulled in. I feel like this angry-looking, bald, red man is violating me.
“Grrrrrrrrrroaaaaaaaaann,” goes shag-man.
“Haw haw,” I weakly omit.
“Oooohhhh ohhh ohh,” sex-man grunts his part.
“Haw haw haw,” I meaker.
“Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh yeah,” sex-man releases on his finish.
Beep, beep beeeeeeeep.
Our workout finishes in tandem. Sex-man is worn out and panting. It would not surprise me at all, if he came in his pants, right there and then, on the rower. We exchange an awkward glance. I feel unclean and abused.
I end my work out with a stretch. It’s grunt, groan and pant free. I get in my car and drive home. I am pleased to have completed another awkward workout at the gym.
Grubstick Recommends:
Download MP3: Roxy Music – Virginia Plain (courtesy of jonashellstrom.se)
Friday, 20 February 2009
Gig Review: Zombie Zombie – The Late Review....
Zombie Zombie, Freebutt, Wednesday 28th January 2009
In the midst of mud and cancelled acts, Zombie Zombie blew my mind at Bestival. Nothing could have prepared me for the wild enthusiasm of Cosmic Neman and Etienne Jaumet. The security had no idea how to get them off stage. It was brilliant, charming and cooler than fuck.
Despite this, deep inside a fear worm wriggled; was it a one off? The Freebutt is now one of the worst venues on earth. Once it was the best. Could the poor environment induce a hideous failure from this fine French duo? Hell, no.
Give these guys a stage and they will party. They probably party in their own bedrooms. As long as there are analogue synthesizers and drums, Zombie Zombie will frighten the foundations of both buildings and souls, and the world will be happy. It’s weird, wonderful, downright dirty and it’ll make you grin until it hurts.
Jaumet gives it the big fish, little fish. Jaumet give his all. For he is Lord of Theremin and he is Lord of the Synth. And he is the Lord of the Dance say I. Surrounded by towering equipment, he is grinning, bouncing, tapping buttons, twiddling knobs and letting his hands channel frequencies like a man enraptured. His enthusiasm is relentless and it shines through like healing rays of sunshine.
And then there are the beats. The goddamn beats. Late last year, I sang Cosmic Neman’s praises. Check out the Herman Dune review. Cosmic Neman is Néman Herman Düne. It’s the very same dude. This guy is the God of Drumming. His distorted to fuck vocals complete the act.
The act is complete. It is so fucking complete. I am still enthusing 23 days later.
Fabpants Recommends:
Download MP3: Zombie Zombie - Driving This Road Until Death Sets You Free (courtesy of stopokaygo.typepad.com)
In the midst of mud and cancelled acts, Zombie Zombie blew my mind at Bestival. Nothing could have prepared me for the wild enthusiasm of Cosmic Neman and Etienne Jaumet. The security had no idea how to get them off stage. It was brilliant, charming and cooler than fuck.
Despite this, deep inside a fear worm wriggled; was it a one off? The Freebutt is now one of the worst venues on earth. Once it was the best. Could the poor environment induce a hideous failure from this fine French duo? Hell, no.
Give these guys a stage and they will party. They probably party in their own bedrooms. As long as there are analogue synthesizers and drums, Zombie Zombie will frighten the foundations of both buildings and souls, and the world will be happy. It’s weird, wonderful, downright dirty and it’ll make you grin until it hurts.
Jaumet gives it the big fish, little fish. Jaumet give his all. For he is Lord of Theremin and he is Lord of the Synth. And he is the Lord of the Dance say I. Surrounded by towering equipment, he is grinning, bouncing, tapping buttons, twiddling knobs and letting his hands channel frequencies like a man enraptured. His enthusiasm is relentless and it shines through like healing rays of sunshine.
And then there are the beats. The goddamn beats. Late last year, I sang Cosmic Neman’s praises. Check out the Herman Dune review. Cosmic Neman is Néman Herman Düne. It’s the very same dude. This guy is the God of Drumming. His distorted to fuck vocals complete the act.
The act is complete. It is so fucking complete. I am still enthusing 23 days later.
Fabpants Recommends:
Download MP3: Zombie Zombie - Driving This Road Until Death Sets You Free (courtesy of stopokaygo.typepad.com)
