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I managed some lightish gym work this morning. As I suspected would happen, it was the muscle on the chest (the legendary "pecs", although, since it was only the right one, I guess that the correct term is "pec") that caused me the most dificulty. I played it light and careful on the weights, just to make sure, and there was definitely no chance of any personal bests on the cross-trainer or rowing machine. Just proud not to have given up half-way through.
Last night I watched the first ten minutes of Prime Suspect (I haven't seen the rest), and immediately spotted who the murderer was. Forget the script. Just look at the actors. Works every time. (I learnt this trick from someone who, when we were watching the opening episode of Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy said to me. "It's him. He did it." Obviously, since I had read the book, I knew that she was right, so I asked if she had read the book as well.
"Oh no. It's just that Ian Richardson wouldn't have taken the part if it wasn't the baddie".
Quite.
Five books arrived this morning and I want to read three of them first. Restless by William Boyd is meant to be one of his best yet, and Boyd is yet to write a bad novel. Richard Dawkins' The God Delusion will be the book I shall wave at the enthusiastic African Christians who knock on my door on occasional Sundays. None of this "well, you haven't got any proof" to which the response is "ah, but you have to have faith". Here's quality material that hammers the whole thing. Excellent for us evangelical atheists.
And I am Alive And You Are Dead is a weird book that only a Frenchman could write that is sort of a biography of Phil Dick. I have a programme from 1977 of Phil Dick's appearance in France at an sf convention, where he gave a speech of sheer muddled lunacy. Of course, at the time, we were unaware that his brain had probably been mangled by some kind of stroke (the "vision of light" described in VALIS) and that whatever was going on up there was nothing to do with what had been in his head prior to this so-called epiphany.
The other two are the last two books from Paul Auster. I must say that Travels In The Scriptorium is rather, er, thin.
And I taped David Mamet's Heist a couple of nights ago as well. Mamet, Ricky Jay and Auster all kind of intermingle in my mind for some odd reason (actually you can probably throw Jim Jarmusch and Tom Waits into the mix here as well). Rebecca Pidgeon, high up on the Birks fancies list (and, I suspect, high up on the Harrington list too) appears, to add to the potential enjoyment.
+++++++++
I've been playing my 'A' game at 3-6 on Full Tilt the last couple of nights and the look of the 5-10 games makes me think that this could be a profitable enterprise at the weekends over the next few months. I haven't even bothered with Party for the past couple of days. If I want rakeback against a bunch of Europeans, there are better deals around.
Last night I watched the first ten minutes of Prime Suspect (I haven't seen the rest), and immediately spotted who the murderer was. Forget the script. Just look at the actors. Works every time. (I learnt this trick from someone who, when we were watching the opening episode of Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy said to me. "It's him. He did it." Obviously, since I had read the book, I knew that she was right, so I asked if she had read the book as well.
"Oh no. It's just that Ian Richardson wouldn't have taken the part if it wasn't the baddie".
Quite.
Five books arrived this morning and I want to read three of them first. Restless by William Boyd is meant to be one of his best yet, and Boyd is yet to write a bad novel. Richard Dawkins' The God Delusion will be the book I shall wave at the enthusiastic African Christians who knock on my door on occasional Sundays. None of this "well, you haven't got any proof" to which the response is "ah, but you have to have faith". Here's quality material that hammers the whole thing. Excellent for us evangelical atheists.
And I am Alive And You Are Dead is a weird book that only a Frenchman could write that is sort of a biography of Phil Dick. I have a programme from 1977 of Phil Dick's appearance in France at an sf convention, where he gave a speech of sheer muddled lunacy. Of course, at the time, we were unaware that his brain had probably been mangled by some kind of stroke (the "vision of light" described in VALIS) and that whatever was going on up there was nothing to do with what had been in his head prior to this so-called epiphany.
The other two are the last two books from Paul Auster. I must say that Travels In The Scriptorium is rather, er, thin.
And I taped David Mamet's Heist a couple of nights ago as well. Mamet, Ricky Jay and Auster all kind of intermingle in my mind for some odd reason (actually you can probably throw Jim Jarmusch and Tom Waits into the mix here as well). Rebecca Pidgeon, high up on the Birks fancies list (and, I suspect, high up on the Harrington list too) appears, to add to the potential enjoyment.
+++++++++
I've been playing my 'A' game at 3-6 on Full Tilt the last couple of nights and the look of the 5-10 games makes me think that this could be a profitable enterprise at the weekends over the next few months. I haven't even bothered with Party for the past couple of days. If I want rakeback against a bunch of Europeans, there are better deals around.
