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Feeling rather sadface at the moment, for various reasons - a list which includes "still feeling sick and exhausted despite sleeping all evening" - so shall talk about some awesome things, and should-be-awesome things. I want to put something about Barack Obama on that, but I suspect that I won't feel right posting about Barack Obama until I can devote the time and energy to explaining why I'm quite frustrated about him as well as still pleased by some things about him, too.
Earlier this evening I took on the guitar tab for Black Sabbath's Iron Man, mostly just the opening riffs - not only are they pretty awesome, but it's also good practice for learning to do hammer-ons and bends. I love my Vox Valvetronic AD50VT amplifier - it has a lot of settings that emulate a range of amp styles etc, so by adjusting a few knobs, I can get it to sound just right for different music styles. (For Black Sabbath: UK 80s amp style, crank the gain a bit, throw in some reverb, and go.)
The guitar practice is a good lesson in patience, actually. I'm enjoying it, and I know I'm getting better - I'm much, much better than I was when I started, and I'm gradually improving over time. But I want to be good at this already, I want to play awesomely, and I can't. I try to believe that I will be able to, but it's going to take a long time.
Usually it's hard for me to sustain interest in something like this - I think it helps that playing guitar is consistently fun, and errors don't persist. I don't practice guitar for a few minutes, then look at what I've done and sigh at how much it sucks. One day I'll probably work on recording music I play, and so I will then have something that persists after I put the guitar down, but right now, it's just the memory of enjoyment.
I find myself reluctant to watch the first few episodes of the No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency, despite having heard good reviews of it. I'm wary of it, I think, because the same people who recommend the series are often people who recommend the books, and I have some trouble with the books. Alexander McCall Smith always seems to write a little condescendingly to me - even when he's dealing with very adult subjects, his African-native characters, up to and including the intelligent and resourceful Precious Ramotswe, seem to be written like children's book characters. Up to a point, they're written like children. It bugs me a lot, and I read the first book, but beyond that, I just couldn't bring myself to get into it.
It weirds me out that so many people give the series such outstanding reviews. I find myself doubting my perceptions of the book - I mean, so many people say it's so wonderful, so am I the one who's wrong when I find the writing so problematic? Am I judging too harshly because I know that the author of this series of books about a black woman in Botswana is a white man?
And yet, the reviewers are generally white non-Africans, and even the non-white reviewers who praise it whose responses I've read have been American, and y'know, not that I want to bag on Americans or anything, but Americans of all races have a tendency to be a tad reductionist in their assumptions about African people, especially African natives from rural areas. (As do people from Europe and Australia and quite a lot of Asia.)
I'm in kind of an awkward position, really, in terms of speaking on this one. On the one hand, I am, in some respects, African, and I care quite a lot about the peoples of southern Africa.
On the other hand, I'm white, and I'm also Australian. I don't have major Authenticity credentials for critiquing the depictions of Botswanan native women.
On the gripping hand, no, really, it read like a children's book, even when the subject matter was adult, and Precious Ramotswe is written like the characters of kids' adventure books. I wanted to love it, and I couldn't bring myself to do so.
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Went to see a doctor this morning. Have antibiotics, slogged home.
Had an odd experience on the way there. I was walking past a block of Homeswest flats, on the way to the bus stop. Homeswest accommodation is government housing, and these flats, from what I've seen, contain an odd mix of people - from very old people to very sick people to stereotypical young(ish) bludger types.
Some of the residents are noticably mentally ill.
Now, I hope you all know that I am not one who tends to be judgemental about disability. Please keep that in mind as we go into this little story.
As I was approaching, I noticed a forty, forty-fivish man standing on the footpath in front of the flats. He looked vaguely twitchy, maybe like he was in a bad mood, mostly preoccupied.
Then, as I got near, he looked at me, and I saw his face twitch...
... and I flashed to episodes of Lie to Me, and discourses on micro-expressions, and in particular, the ones that indicate imminent premeditated violence. Because that was the way his face had moved. So I sidestepped just as he launched himself towards me, moving hard and deliberately, almost charging at me, going past me with a gap of inches, straight through where I had been, would have been had I not dodged in anticipation.
I have a bad cold, I felt like hell, and I had my camera gear in my backpack - I didn't feel up to confrontation. But my first thought was that he was trying to force contact, start a fight or mug me. (I had eighty bucks in my pocket, which I could handle losing, but no way in hell was some lowlife getting my camera.) So I half-turned, enough to keep him in sight. He came to a stop a few feet away, turned and glared at me angrily. I met his eyes, stood a little straighter. He looked away and started pulling what looked like a phone out of his pocket.
I walked on.
Chas suggests that he was probably crazy1, not a mugger.
1: No calls of "ablist language", please. As a mentally ill person myself, I do draw a boundary between recognising "mental illness" and just calling people "crazy"; trying to body-ram me as I'm walking past, minding my own business, is on the "fuck you" side of the boundary.
While I was at uni, I bought a copy of 84 Charing Cross Road at the used bookshop. I haven't read it in years, but it's a delightful, wonderful book, and it was only $3 for paperback happy.
Meanwhile, today's photos. I got around to trying out my flashgun for "bounce flash" - off my bedroom ceiling, in this case - to take a picture of my guitar, resting on the gig stand.
In the background you can just see part of my amp. It's not the whole of the guitar, but if you want a general look at what a Gibson Les Paul Studio looks like, hey, google it. I don't have the energy to move to where I can get a better shot of the whole thing.
Second photo is one I took at Sir Charles Gairdner Hospital while changing buses. Things which are slightly disconcerting: Fire trucks, lights ablaze, pulled up outside the Emergency Department... especially when, even though they're settled there and the sirens are off, a couple more trucks are pulling up while you're waiting for the bus.
( Photo of that below. )
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