They’re self-inflicted.

I’ve always been skeptical of images that keep jumping from one to another, as were Auguste and Louis Lumiere. They’re the team that previewed their Cinématographe, the first movie projector, on 28 December, 1895. The Lumiere brothers—who made some 2,000 films—also thought of the medium as a passing fad. Auguste decided to go into medicine, and Louis returned to the established medium of still photography.

And so, I’m using the the Lumiere brothers as my model for my video foray. If my moving pictures prove aesthetically rewarding, that’s lovely. If not, there’s always drugs and Leicas!

Unlike real life, where trapped animals really do need to chew off a leg to escape with their lives, Hildebrand was rescued and survived his ordeal. Still, the tale does sound like it was written by an unimaginative child.

Almost.

A child would have had the protagonist decide to change his ways, and not to continue to torture animals with starvation, frostbite, or some other flavor of miserable death. At last report, Hildebrand—who may lose part of his leg after his experience—will resume trapping.

The most recent development is identifying travelers with a machine that scans their ten fingertips for positive identification. I have yet to consider the larger implications for the further erosion of personal privacy and other civil liberties. Instead, I’m selfishly thinking about how it will affect me personally.

I can’t be sure of this, but I suspect that the next time I show up at the airport with only nine fingers, I’m going to get some sort unwelcome addition to my government file. At best, it means more delays for interviews with clueless worker drones, or at worst I may not be able to return to Japan if I’m put on some sort of Yakuza suspect list.

Feh.

“It’s all because of my new year’s resolutions,” Annie explained.

“Really?” I replied, “I thought no one kept new year’s resolutions.”

“Exactly,” Annie continued, “that’s why I resolved to eat more fatty foods, exercise less, and put on some weight.”

I hope I can remember that on new year’s eve.

The city of angels, the great city, the residence of the Emerald Buddha, the impregnable city (of Ayutthaya) of God Indra, the grand capital of the world endowed with nine precious gems, the happy city, abounding in an enormous Royal Palace that resembles the heavenly abode where reigns the reincarnated god, a city given by Indra and built by Vishnukarn.

That’s what King Rama I named the city in 1782 when he founded it across the river Bangkok, or Village of Wild Plums. Why this news has yet to reach the west is anyone’s guess. Personally, I’m going to use the airport name, BKK, since at least everyone agrees on that.

Although they didn’t solicit my opinion, I think they made a big musical mistake, one reflected in the new name of their band.

Buckets o’ Brains music sounded like just that: lots of neurons and adrenaline slopping around with unpredictable gusto. Neurological Meat Bouquets’ oeuvre is comprised of those tedious, conceptual “sound pieces” that are so rewarding in theory and so wearisome in aural practice.

I think the musical world needs more reckless epinephrine and less tinkling and diddling, so I shall return to my recording studio to add that very concern.

That was Antonia’s reaction when she came to this line in my new piece: “happily childless, keeps her aborted foetus in a jar.”

It’s not that easy to offend anyone these days, so I was quite chuffed to irritate an intelligent person. European, even.

I originally titled the piece, Eighty-Four Things About Twelve French Women, but Stephan suggested I use Eighty-Four Things About Twelve French Girls instead in order to make it a bit more French, a tad more “ooh la la.”

That proved to be good advice. Andrew gave me a wonderful two-word review, “Wonderfully impolitic!”

With two criticisms from two respected friends, the year’s off to a great start!