Thursday 21 June 2012
Schrodinger's Mailbox: Epilogue
Today I decided it was finally time to check the mailbox. Inside were seven letters containing bills from utilities companies, an absurd number of flyers and circulars, and one dead cat.
Monday 18 June 2012
Schrodinger's Mailbox
Life as an adult can be difficult, and there are still certain responsibilities I haven't gotten used to. Paying for the likes of water, electricity, and gas is one of them.
But before you think I'm getting all #firstworldproblems on you, let me put your mind at ease. I don't hate or resent having to pay bills; such transactions are entirely reasonable in nature. No, it's the act of paying bills I hate or, more specifically, can't be bothered with. The typing of endless information into an online form, or else the phonecall to a line that starts off automated before plunging you into human interaction without warning, or else trying to locate a Post Office that is open at sane hours of the day: each choice a task so arduous it could be chronicled by Tolkien. They haven't yet devised a payment option that doesn't strike me as the biggest inconvenience of all time.
The solution to my woes came to me by accident, in the form of a well-known thought experiment that I've unknowingly been carrying out for the last two months, the same amount of time that has passed since I last checked the mailbox. Partly because the tiny little key that opens the box is missing. I know that it is somewhere in the flat, but its exact location is unknown and its absence unlamented, so the search was called off before it even got started, largely because of a nonsensical complacency: I'm so certain that I could find it within two minutes of looking that it's like I've already found it, and if I've already found it, why would I need to look for it?
Because of this attitude, I find myself in the perfect situation. It goes without saying that nestled in the mailbox are several letters from utilities companies, all requesting money. It's been two months: of course the bills are mounting. However, because the box has not been opened, and the letters containing the bills not retrieved, it is impossible to say with absolute certainty that such letters exist. So at the same time they exist and do not exist, a glorious paradox that both critiques the Copenhagen interpretation of quantum mechanics and means I do not have to contend with the reality of my debts.
I'm sure Erwin Schrodinger could only dream about such a practical application of his theories.
But before you think I'm getting all #firstworldproblems on you, let me put your mind at ease. I don't hate or resent having to pay bills; such transactions are entirely reasonable in nature. No, it's the act of paying bills I hate or, more specifically, can't be bothered with. The typing of endless information into an online form, or else the phonecall to a line that starts off automated before plunging you into human interaction without warning, or else trying to locate a Post Office that is open at sane hours of the day: each choice a task so arduous it could be chronicled by Tolkien. They haven't yet devised a payment option that doesn't strike me as the biggest inconvenience of all time.
The solution to my woes came to me by accident, in the form of a well-known thought experiment that I've unknowingly been carrying out for the last two months, the same amount of time that has passed since I last checked the mailbox. Partly because the tiny little key that opens the box is missing. I know that it is somewhere in the flat, but its exact location is unknown and its absence unlamented, so the search was called off before it even got started, largely because of a nonsensical complacency: I'm so certain that I could find it within two minutes of looking that it's like I've already found it, and if I've already found it, why would I need to look for it?
Because of this attitude, I find myself in the perfect situation. It goes without saying that nestled in the mailbox are several letters from utilities companies, all requesting money. It's been two months: of course the bills are mounting. However, because the box has not been opened, and the letters containing the bills not retrieved, it is impossible to say with absolute certainty that such letters exist. So at the same time they exist and do not exist, a glorious paradox that both critiques the Copenhagen interpretation of quantum mechanics and means I do not have to contend with the reality of my debts.
I'm sure Erwin Schrodinger could only dream about such a practical application of his theories.
Tuesday 12 June 2012
Tales from Barcelona 3
Interlude: You Get What You Pay For
Ryanair CEO Michael O'Leary hates you, your friends, your family, and your favourite childhood pet, and will continue to do so no matter how often you pay to use his airline.
Every time someone books a Ryanair flight, Baby Jesus cries.
Ryanair's terms and conditions includes sections dedicated to its "right to cancel flights on whims and fancies," its "right to fly you to an airport other than the one advertised, or to a different country altogether if the mood takes us," and its "right to plant drugs in your luggage if Ryanair staff are bored." The terms and conditions document runs some 500 pages, and is designed to rob customers not just of their rights, but of their dignity.
Ryanair specifically requests that airport security frisks its customers particularly roughly, regardless of whether or not they set off the metal detector.
Ryanair pilots spend the entirety of each flight idly daydreaming about anally fisting you without lubrication. Ryanair co-pilots think about what deep fried kitten would taste like.
It is forbidden to look Ryanair stewards and stewardesses directly in the eye. Any breach of protocol regarding this rule will result in the guilty party being ejected from the plane. Whilst midair.
All products sold on Ryanair flights contain nuts. That includes duty free items such as alcohol, perfumes, and stuffed toys. In addition, the stewards and stewardesses rub every seat with nuts before take-off. O'Leary has hated people with nut allergies ever since a classmate's condition forced the cancellation of a promised school trip to a local cake factory.
Ryanair charges its customers for breathing, with one complete in-and-out cycle costing 10p. The cost rises to 50p per cycle if the oxygen masks drop (supply and demand in action). In the event of the plane plummeting to the earth and wiping out everyone on board, passengers' billing information is recorded on the black box, and the debt is passed on to the deceased individuals' families.
O'Leary caused controversy when claiming the ash clouds that disrupted travel in April 2010 were "mythical." In the past, he has made similar statements concerning armadillos, table tennis, Margaret Thatcher, the Great Fire of London, and Lithuania.
There is at least a 50% chance that the next time I fly it will be with Ryanair. My greatest hope in life is that one day I'll be able to get that percentage down to zero.
Ryanair CEO Michael O'Leary hates you, your friends, your family, and your favourite childhood pet, and will continue to do so no matter how often you pay to use his airline.
Every time someone books a Ryanair flight, Baby Jesus cries.
Ryanair's terms and conditions includes sections dedicated to its "right to cancel flights on whims and fancies," its "right to fly you to an airport other than the one advertised, or to a different country altogether if the mood takes us," and its "right to plant drugs in your luggage if Ryanair staff are bored." The terms and conditions document runs some 500 pages, and is designed to rob customers not just of their rights, but of their dignity.
Ryanair specifically requests that airport security frisks its customers particularly roughly, regardless of whether or not they set off the metal detector.
Ryanair pilots spend the entirety of each flight idly daydreaming about anally fisting you without lubrication. Ryanair co-pilots think about what deep fried kitten would taste like.
It is forbidden to look Ryanair stewards and stewardesses directly in the eye. Any breach of protocol regarding this rule will result in the guilty party being ejected from the plane. Whilst midair.
All products sold on Ryanair flights contain nuts. That includes duty free items such as alcohol, perfumes, and stuffed toys. In addition, the stewards and stewardesses rub every seat with nuts before take-off. O'Leary has hated people with nut allergies ever since a classmate's condition forced the cancellation of a promised school trip to a local cake factory.
Ryanair charges its customers for breathing, with one complete in-and-out cycle costing 10p. The cost rises to 50p per cycle if the oxygen masks drop (supply and demand in action). In the event of the plane plummeting to the earth and wiping out everyone on board, passengers' billing information is recorded on the black box, and the debt is passed on to the deceased individuals' families.
O'Leary caused controversy when claiming the ash clouds that disrupted travel in April 2010 were "mythical." In the past, he has made similar statements concerning armadillos, table tennis, Margaret Thatcher, the Great Fire of London, and Lithuania.
There is at least a 50% chance that the next time I fly it will be with Ryanair. My greatest hope in life is that one day I'll be able to get that percentage down to zero.
Thursday 7 June 2012
Tales from Barcelona 2
Chapter 1: Me and Barcelona
It started six years ago, as I exited the Metro station outside of Sagrada Familia to be confronted with the most amazing structure I have ever seen with my own eyes, an insane church straight from the mind of one of the few men worthy of the tag "genius." It ended with a classical version of "The Winner Takes It All" playing in the underground, followed by the ABBA version soundtracking my last minutes in the airport a few hours later. Of course, that's assuming that the story has come to a close, which seems unlikely. Chances are I'll find a reason to return to Barcelona.
On my first visit I fell in love with the place, even after accidentally finding myself on a date with another guy, being assaulted by a prostitute whilst walking along La Rambla, and spending the early hours of one morning asleep on a bench. Or maybe because of those things; a city isn't worth much if you don't have stories to tie you to it. I tried to fit everything in - the Picasso museum, the Joan Miro Foundation, the Nou Camp, Parc Guell, Montjuic - and despite my best efforts only managed to scratch the surface. Still, the impression I was left with was overwhelmingly favourable.
That goodwill was wiped out almost entirely by my second visit, although I'll be the first to admit that I got the mechanics of the trip wrong from start to finish. Much like this year, the primary reason for flying out was the Primavera music festival. However, at times it was disastrous: flights with Ryanair at ungodly hours of the day from Liverpool to "Barcelona" Reus, which is actually close to two hours outside of the city centre; a ridiculous schedule of moving from hostel to apartment to hotel to hostel; the combination of the above conspiring to deny me the time needed to enjoy the beats and rhythms of the city. Add in some poorly thought out food choices and some truly brutal hangovers, and the good times - the actual festival, basically - were contained in one tiny part of Barcelona, rendering the rest of the holiday superfluous. Still, Primavera was enough fun to convince me to return.
What follows is primarily the story of my third visit, although I reserve the right to veer from a linear path in order to ramble on about other experiences - and about nothing in particular - whenever the mood takes me. Hopefully you'll enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed living it.
It started six years ago, as I exited the Metro station outside of Sagrada Familia to be confronted with the most amazing structure I have ever seen with my own eyes, an insane church straight from the mind of one of the few men worthy of the tag "genius." It ended with a classical version of "The Winner Takes It All" playing in the underground, followed by the ABBA version soundtracking my last minutes in the airport a few hours later. Of course, that's assuming that the story has come to a close, which seems unlikely. Chances are I'll find a reason to return to Barcelona.
* * *
In many ways, Barcelona is something of a mess, a perennial work-in-progress, the spirit of which is best embodied by Antoni Gaudi's aforementioned masterpiece, which started construction in 1882 and won't be finished before 2026 at the earliest. A sprawling mass of high rises that seems eternally stuck in the 20th century, punctuated only occasionally by breathtaking architecture and the odd modern glass structure, still trapped beneath the weight of a dictatorship that came to an end less than 40 years ago. The constant regeneration that has occurred since then has had a relatively limited impact, and in many respects Barcelona is a relic.
But a city should never be defined solely by appearances. Barcelona is one of the most alive places you could ever hope to spend time in; not in the "never sleeps" sense, like New York or Berlin, but in the sense that during the peak hours of human activity it is absolutely relentless. It hasn't been neutered like so many major cities; tourist traps exist, but wandering off the beaten track pays off big time, and any given back alley can be a hub of activity, home to an amazing restaurant or a blink-and-you'll-miss-it bar. I could spend an entire post elucidating about the grid system much of the city was built in. And although the regeneration moves at a slow pace, it remains a sign of the constant evolution that is likely to continue well into the future. Barcelona has a character completely of its own, and for that it should be cherished.
* * *
On my first visit I fell in love with the place, even after accidentally finding myself on a date with another guy, being assaulted by a prostitute whilst walking along La Rambla, and spending the early hours of one morning asleep on a bench. Or maybe because of those things; a city isn't worth much if you don't have stories to tie you to it. I tried to fit everything in - the Picasso museum, the Joan Miro Foundation, the Nou Camp, Parc Guell, Montjuic - and despite my best efforts only managed to scratch the surface. Still, the impression I was left with was overwhelmingly favourable.
That goodwill was wiped out almost entirely by my second visit, although I'll be the first to admit that I got the mechanics of the trip wrong from start to finish. Much like this year, the primary reason for flying out was the Primavera music festival. However, at times it was disastrous: flights with Ryanair at ungodly hours of the day from Liverpool to "Barcelona" Reus, which is actually close to two hours outside of the city centre; a ridiculous schedule of moving from hostel to apartment to hotel to hostel; the combination of the above conspiring to deny me the time needed to enjoy the beats and rhythms of the city. Add in some poorly thought out food choices and some truly brutal hangovers, and the good times - the actual festival, basically - were contained in one tiny part of Barcelona, rendering the rest of the holiday superfluous. Still, Primavera was enough fun to convince me to return.
What follows is primarily the story of my third visit, although I reserve the right to veer from a linear path in order to ramble on about other experiences - and about nothing in particular - whenever the mood takes me. Hopefully you'll enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed living it.
Tuesday 5 June 2012
Tales from Barcelona 1
Prelude: Remembering the Dead
The Cure went on stage at ten fifteen on Friday 1st June for their Primavera 2012 set, and they stayed there for the next thirty hours. In the buildup to the festival, the weak-willed promoters had continually acquiesced to Robert Smith's repeated demands for more time, eventually allowing him and his band to both headline the second night and close the third and final night without interruption.
The Cure played many of their obscure songs, b-sides, and album tracks more than once, whilst dropping in their hits at a rate of one approximately every two hours. They saved "Boys Don't Cry" for last. "Play Boys Don't Cry" shouted every single Primavera attendee at least once during the course of the band's set. "Not yet," Robert Smith replied calmly each time. "We're going to play another mostly instrumental cut from one of our less popular albums. We know that's what you want to hear really."
The thousands of loyal Cure fans in attendance never did give up hope that they would hear "Boys Don't Cry," and remained rooted in front of the San Miguel stage for the entirety of the performance. Their happiness was diminished, however, when they realised that the band's selfishness had robbed them of the final day of the festival. En masse, they unleashed their anger along the coast of East Barcelona, razing much of it to the ground. Many of the male rioters were visibly in tears, softly singing Cure songs to themselves and repeating the question "why does Robert Smith hate me?" to no-one in particular. It took three days to get the violence under control, and amidst all the destruction over 50,000 people died.
Their blood is on your hands, Robert Smith. Their blood is on your hands.
The story that follows is dedicated to their memory.
The Cure went on stage at ten fifteen on Friday 1st June for their Primavera 2012 set, and they stayed there for the next thirty hours. In the buildup to the festival, the weak-willed promoters had continually acquiesced to Robert Smith's repeated demands for more time, eventually allowing him and his band to both headline the second night and close the third and final night without interruption.
The Cure played many of their obscure songs, b-sides, and album tracks more than once, whilst dropping in their hits at a rate of one approximately every two hours. They saved "Boys Don't Cry" for last. "Play Boys Don't Cry" shouted every single Primavera attendee at least once during the course of the band's set. "Not yet," Robert Smith replied calmly each time. "We're going to play another mostly instrumental cut from one of our less popular albums. We know that's what you want to hear really."
The thousands of loyal Cure fans in attendance never did give up hope that they would hear "Boys Don't Cry," and remained rooted in front of the San Miguel stage for the entirety of the performance. Their happiness was diminished, however, when they realised that the band's selfishness had robbed them of the final day of the festival. En masse, they unleashed their anger along the coast of East Barcelona, razing much of it to the ground. Many of the male rioters were visibly in tears, softly singing Cure songs to themselves and repeating the question "why does Robert Smith hate me?" to no-one in particular. It took three days to get the violence under control, and amidst all the destruction over 50,000 people died.
Their blood is on your hands, Robert Smith. Their blood is on your hands.
The story that follows is dedicated to their memory.
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