Reading about failed predictions for the future, I found this link to the life and work of an exceptional person, Norman Borlaug, this part being particularly telling.
Talking about lighting a candle instead of complaining about the darkness, and so on. See also this and this.
I cherish grassy rolling landscapes with dense trees and running water; I hanker after crisp cool days or slightly warmer clear ones; I am comfortable indoors, on wooden floors, and I am happy being surrounded by oblique light, shade or darkness; I don’t mind rain and some snow.
You can imagine what the mediterranean summer does to me, thrice sprinkling me with dust, salt, sand in the heat. Making me sweat. At least it is usually not humid. Humidity can kill me.
Last night there was a cool wind blowing, stronger than a breeze. We keep the windows open, so we can stay cool at night without air conditioning. In the morning, the whole flat was covered in a thinnest layer of dust, albeit crunchy to walk upon.
I usually write here to complain and vent my frustration, meaning that some good moments may go unrecorded. This is unfair in a way.
To celebrate a numerically significant anniversary of that fateful night in London, I took Jod to a five-star hotel in the outskirts of Aerosol for a midweek break. The multi-national staff were all outlandishly polite, surprisingly friendly and spectacularly effective; the bar was fabulously well-equipped and the bartender nothing less than a wizzard (I intend to be going back there); the food was delectable; the room the very lap of luxury (hotel management even threw in a complimentary bottle of bubbly and a fruit basket). It was not cheap but it was wonderful.
The clientèle consists mainly of Brits and very rich — thus nouveau riche – Russians. The unambiguous T-shirt of someone feeding the koi carp (although forbidden) on the first picture below and the selection of gilded and animal-patterned shoes (on sale in the hotel gift shop) on the second one bear witness to the presence of the latter. According to one of the restaurants’ sommelier, thanks to Russian patrons they sell a lot of a certain Bordeaux, Château Pétrus, at a modest 1810 euro a bottle.
But, hey, we had a brilliant time. Exquisite. A weekend between weekends. What more can one ask for?
After all these years, I think that this is still the best video clip ever.
I still do not really understand the lyrics.
When people of faith make sense. A very dense but interesting three minute sermon. You may listen to it here. Note also this: “the church changed its mind. And quite right too.”
Jod, following a lead from Dæmion, bought me a bar kit. She also restocked our bar with a bottle of Martini, a bottle of Bombay Sapphire, and a bottle of triple sec. So, now I can mix my own dry martinis and vodka martinis — with olives and all. Bliss! Economy! Alcoholism! In the comfort of my own living room. The joy of not having to negotiate clueless bartenders (in most bars bar Plato’s and Uqbar) and annoying bar crowds (in Plato’s and Uqbar, sometimes), if I don’t have to. If my martini sucks, it’s because I did something wrong, and the mistake will not be costing me $12. Similar things apply to Jod and her margarita habit (hence the triple sec).
Otherwise, I am happy I have found eV. Along with some others, she has made life slightly better in this dismal place. However, a word of advice: next time she gets into a random bar and they charge her $60 for a glass of white wine, she must take a look around and wonder why most of the female customers look like hookers. In this country, unlike, say, in the UK or the US, it will most probably be because they actually are. 
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