waider

Iain Banks (The Steep Approach To Garbdale) and C.S. Lewis (The Four Loves) write almost identically on the subject of being in love with being in love.

The above line is generally used as an excuse for having a second pint, but evidently it can also be applied to one-day commemorative events that have suddenly become festivals. St. Patrick's Day was the first one I was aware of that made the leap from National Day of Drinking to National Week of Drinking; now I see that Bloomsday, celebrating a book which takes place in a single day, has become the Bloomsday Festival. I'm sure Jimbo would be appalled.

A long time back, I recommended that people read Superchick, not least because it has a very, very good rendition of the fine Irish art of taking the piss out of your closest friends in ways which would cause a fight in most other cultures.
If you liked this book, you should buy the followup, Rock and a Hard Place.

If you did not like this book, or failed to purchase it, or missed my original reference, or indeed if you DID like this book*, you should immediately purchase Ride On, the third book of the series. You do not actually need to buy the first two, although I'm sure the author would like you to; there are some back-references you may be curious about, but they're not essential to the operation of the storyline, which by turns had me laughing and fighting off tears. As ever, the dialogue is easily the best part, but there's also the bungee-jumping story, which practically had me on the floor laughing, and there's the insane accuracy of the Irish countryside to match the previous insane accuracy of life in Dublin. Just go buy it already, and thank me later.

*this covers all eventualities. BUY THE BOOK.

Passed by this morning on my way to the office: Philip J. Dix engraving equipment and supplies.

Robert Anton Wilson has a blog. I read too much of this man at an impressionable age, dammit, but I haven't learned from my mistakes.

I walked past this, wondering what was going on, but too intent on errands to stop and check.

...as any fule no. Tip o' the hat to MetaFilter.

I've just finished reading Bill Hicks: Agent Of Evolution. It claims to be "the definitive biography by his lifelong friend". It's awful. Really, really, terribly awful. It seems like it didn't have an editor, the supposed lifelong friend spends a large proportion of his time talking about himself, and the "let's have a few people retell the same period over and over" style means you're constantly getting the same crap from different angles, and not in any sort of an interesting way. Frankly, I'm sorry I bought this; Bill Hicks deserves better.