Some people dance

Some people spend their spare time catching up on reading for work; others use it reading for leisure. Some work around the house, if they’re able, others in the garden, if they’re willing. Then there are those who, lest they be struck by lightning, use what little time they may have, sat on a comfy sofa, moving every once in a while to change the DVD.

This time I saw The Curious Case of Benjamin Button on a television with a working contrast and incidentally on Blu Ray. I say ‘incidentally’ because if you’re noticing things like how black the blacks are then how good can a film be? It was beautiful, intimate and terribly sad; but then it’s based on an F. Scott Fitzgerald story. I know I will love this film many years from now.

Much as I do Doctor Zhivago, which I watched on Tuesday for the first time in a very long time. Were it made today it would be derided by critics, as I believe it was when first released; but the public loved it – good for them. It’s a mix of stilted English and faux Russian accents and some typically gorgeous set pieces but at well over three hours it was long enough for the faults to melt away. There are “two kinds of women” says Komarovsky, and I once briefly wondered if that was the message, but really it’s about two kinds of love. In the past I was never convinced by the passion for Lara, preferring the selfless love of Zhivago’s wife, Tonya. I’m still not, but it was easier to love the right things back then.

Some people love, some question, others live for the thrill. Some change the DVD. It would be churlish to say I didn’t enjoy Avatar, I’ll be happy to watch it again, I’m sure I’d enjoy the 3-D experience should it be re-shown in the cinema and I may even take my daughter. Because ultimately it’s a fair ground ride or a fast food ‘treat’ and there’s nothing wrong with this except that it’s also deluded, perhaps even dishonest. I can forgive the occasionally crap dialogue and the lazy use of a voiceover, but the none-too-subtle environmental message was opportunistic, lacking any sincerity. I don’t mind eating a burger - but it really pisses me off when someone tells me it’s a steak.

In bed with JavaScript

Option A.

If only I’d had more time I could have given my daughter that holiday, mowed the lawn, cleared out the garage, read that JavaScript book… when you’re as ill as I was last week you start making all sorts of rash promises. The JavaScript pledge came not only as a result of my near death experience, but my tinkering with the blog and the acceptance that fun though it can be, “try it and see” isn’t always the most effective way to learn.

Option B.

I’ve been playing around with a “Tweet this” function for a while and plugged in Tweetmeme, though I’d looked at Topsy and for a short while implemented Blogger’s own share buttons. Being me, despite everything working fine as it was I decided to change it all around and spent an age “rolling my own”. Hence the thought that tucked away on my shelf were a few books that might explain what it was I was playing with.

But do I start on these or after a month-long cessation of hostilities resume the war on Troy? Having started as a challenge it was proving to be a really good read until I managed to distract myself with work. It’s early in the story; Paris has been rescued from death at the hands of Menelaus and spirited away to have his way with Helen, whilst the armies give battle outside the walls of the city. So it’s a choice between thousands who live or die at the whim of the Gods, or one developer who will live or die at the whim of JavaScript. Maybe I’m overselling it?

Run for your lives!

So when did they start allowing girls into the Scouts? For some reason I haven't quite fathomed I'm quite pleased that Little Miss R decided on Cubs rather than Brownies. Having said that I've noticed each meeting is preceded with the boys having a game of god-only-knows-what, usually involving a ball, whilst the girls choose to take the register. Oh well, small steps. It was 'science night' on Monday and I was the designated parent helper for the evening. Simple things such as the demonstration of air pressure with a piece of paper and an upside down jar of water; I'd forgotten how much fun science could be. I'd also forgotten how frightening children can be, especially when they run in packs.

Then there's been the World Cup. I love how you can say 'World Cup' and unless you're American you know it means football and the biggest single sporting event on the planet. England are out - deep breath - there I got that out the way and managed to avoid swearing. Naturally I'm disappointed; as I was four years ago and four years before that. It's inevitable. We were dreadful from the start but whilst we limped on there was always hope. Thankfully Little Miss R remains interested due in no small part to the dedication of her teacher who organised the sweepstake at her school. I'm told he supports West Ham. A teacher and a West Ham supporter - how brave is that?

Compassion fatigue

Some months ago I watched an episode of the English language version of Wallander in which one of the characters described compassion fatigue. I was unaware it had been given a name. That's not to say I wasn't moved by events in the news, at that time the earthquake in Haiti, it's more that I was conscious of recognising the signs. I can't remember if this was supposed to be 'normal' but a recent exchange of comments on another blog had me thinking about this again.

My offense was to question whether there was any context in which not knowing a person, for example in another country, should stop one from caring for their predicament. Their response was that I didn't care, that no-one really cares about people far away and I was admonished for being a 'smug twat'; perhaps they were right. Such a robust reply can sometimes curtail rather than encourage debate, but that's a subject for another day; I need to consider what 'care' really means, what it's worth, for the simple reason that sometimes I switch off. I don't imagine I'm alone in this, heartbreak occurs every day, we can't possibly respond to every tragedy but how do we choose those to which we do?

The boo Rooneys

Actually, no, I don’t care that you’ve travelled thousands of miles or how much the objects of your derision earn. How does spending any amount of money afford the right to treat other people like shit? It’s not only an inability to tell the difference between not trying and not being any good, it’s the endemic response to failure that irritates. It’s the culture that celebrates bullying chefs, which encourages us to dispense with those who fall short of another’s subjective view of perfection; they’re only human beings, plenty more where they came from. Shout abuse at those who disappoint and applaud the arrogant but talented pricks, ability is all that matters… when I see all this it reminds me that sometimes I don’t like you very much.

From the office of bad comparisons

I am trying very hard to get over my disappointment in the recent behaviour of the U.S President. I am failing. Serves me right for being swept along in the general euphoria but I guess I'm no different from the billions of other dolts who populate this planet; I want something or someone to believe in.

It took until today for Barack Obama to even suggest an environmental impact as the inevitable risk of our search for the black gold, to oh-so cautiously encourage people to think about their addiction. Not that he put it that way of course. It's far easier to spew out the nonsense of yesterday; comparing the psychological impact of the Deepwater Horizon oil spill to that of the 9/11 attacks. Those would be the events in which 3000 people lost their lives and countless more in the aftermath. What a tit.

Mister Furious

President Obama is furious. I know this because he said it twice; but this was stage-managed fury so it wasn't terribly convincing. I've little time, nor (I hoped) had he, for people who would vent rather than act, but since the U.S government is unable to do anything he expends much of his energy on that favourite political pastime, making sure we know who to blame. That'd be British Petroleum, formerly BP but helpfully renamed by the White House so the xenophobes know which b*stard foreigners to hate. No one doubts who is responsible but just in case, hint that British Petroleum are withholding all the facts, or better still that they're not working with the necessary sense of urgency. Because when people are emotional they'll swallow any old sh*t.