Lord · John · Marbury

Nothing intimidates quite so much as the blank page. Silence overwhelms in its power, and yet manages to remain, as Bacon put it, the virtue of fools.

My lovely aide Caprice brought to my attention today that this space has fallen into a state of severe neglect. I gladly accept all responsibility for said state. My time of late has been occupied with all manner of activities, due largely to our peculiar weather. I’ve taken to experiencing Columbia in all her glory á pied, revelling in the colour that surrounds us. Rather than surrender to the crisp inevitable decline of winter, the harvest gropes backwards, squeezing the summer for all its juicy worth. Much like myself.

While I still greatly enjoy the unexpected pleasure of Hot Fuss, the compact disc I’ve referenced many a time in this ‘blog’, I realized that the musical sun does not rise and set upon the Killers. Faced with the possibility of burn-out, I resolved to avail myself of music in a similar vein. On one of my many recent adventures on foot, I sought the informed opinion of an employee of an establishment called Tower Records. One would think that, "Does your establishment peddle discs containing the work of artists of an ilk synonymous with the Killers?" is a fairly straightforward question, but one would be, unfortunately, wrong.

After a quarter of an hour of miscommunication, however, I was directed towards a band called Franz Ferdinand. The natural assumption is that a musical group that derives its name from that of the most significant assassinated personage this side of Julius Caesar would be dour and disagreeable, but Franz Ferdinand is neither of these things. The happy pulse of their dark, Glasgow-born beats makes me yearn for younger days, when the thought of Yours Truly hosting a "dance party" would not be a laughable prospect. Regrettably, I’ve a feeling my contemporaries would frown upon such a suggestion. I certainly cannot see my fellow ambassadors attending such an event, especially when a healthy majority associate Franz Ferdinand with the start of a world war, not the start of a memorable soirée.

It’s rather a shame that it is not in fact my taste in popular music that occludes my social standing. I’ve long been of the notion that a party without open discourse is like a banquet without alcohol. It is a notion that, apparently, is as antiquated as its master. And unlike its master, it is but a figment, a fragment, a hypothetical nothing that has no summer to pillage.

Pardon me whilst I return to my dancing. My revolution has not yet ended.

There's never enough time in one's day. One must sift through an onslaught of choices, of information. One is faced with the neverending threat of overstimulation. Television exhorts you to buy this, to laugh at this, to believe that. The proverbial strings of the American populace are continually lifted with unbearable facility.

As long as the sun never sets on the Roman British Empire, all is messy technicality.

"Three may keep a secret, if two are dead." Delightful quotation, that. The speaker eludes me, but it is nonetheless apropos.

If a tree falls in the forest, is it considered genocide?

Perhaps we should ask the terribly disorganized and disposed individuals from Kundu currently facing trial. I'd hazard a guess they've much to say on the topic of strings and empires.

Kundu, Colombia, Allemagne, Constantinople, Atlantis...

Thy banners make tyranny tremble when borne by the red, white, and blue.

Ah, yes. I remember now.

It's been ages, has it not?

My disenchantment with this 'blogging' thing has decidedly hit its plateau. I am not terribly impressed; however, I am not one to deny its considerable influence in modern society. The gigabyte is, apparently, far mightier than the sword. This, I might add, only serves as evidence that our world is not sufficiently acquainted with swords.

I am and will always be severely lacking in the area of self-control. This is not a recent development. It manifests itself daily in all forms of indulgence of varying degrees of social acceptability. An excellent example of this is my purchasing the compact disc containing the song I mentioned in my blog entry prior, a disc entitled Hot Fuss. The unfortunate tale of the young man and his gender-confused paramours is far easier to digest upon multiple listens. I've also taken a liking to another song on this disc, a melancholic ode to a ménage à trois gone awry and the resultant jealousy of the odd fellow out. I highly recommend this disc, as it is also highly good for dancing, solo or otherwise.

Speaking of a ménage à trois gone awry, it does not fail to astonish how global news organisations, and, rather more importantly, a particular global "superpower", as it were, time and time again manage to gloss over the whistling teakettle that is the relationship between China and Japan. (Naturally, I've said the same of India and Pakistan, but there's been a lesson learned there, yes?) The tenuous at best diplomatic relations between the entities of East Asia are far more worrisome than the majority of what currently graces the foreign agenda of the United States, and yet this is not common knowledge. I've got my theories, but alas, I'm the dissolute in Hyde Park with the battered soapbox spouting garbled portents of apocalypse. My word counts for naught but garnish at the smorgasbord of international diplomacy.

If you at all care, I shall be where I have always been. And, it seems, always shall be.

It seems I've rather neglected this particular venue of late. I feel an extraordinary sense of regret. In all of the hubbub regarding this fad, this "blogging" thing, no-one bothered to mention the almost overwhelming sense of duty instilled in the dark recesses of one's heart to one's audience.

This particular web site employs that peculiar invention, the "Friends List", wherein a random assemblage of acquaintances, enemies, former conquests, and utterly charming and deranged people who you've never met in the entirety of your existence congregate under the banner of "friends". This new set of "friends" commands a sort of obligation that borders on matrimony, frankly. And, being as I decidedly am a bachelor of a confirmed nature, I've no use for the matrimonial thing, as it were. I choose rather to relish the privileges without all the fuss and legality. Strings, dear, sweet readers, are not your friends.

In actuality, I've frightfully little to report by way of news regarding Yours Truly. Absolutely none of my aforementioned "friends" offered me any book recommendations. Therefore, I was forced to venture into the wilds of suburbia to an establishment selling books as well as coffee, music, and film on disc. (Correction: the coffee was not served on disc. Hopefully this is not a needed correction, but I feel I must offer it regardless.)

While browsing for reading material, I overheard a song that simultaneously perplexed and amused me greatly. In said song, the singer commented to a second figure that he'd been informed that the second figure was dating a boy who resembled a girl with whom the singer had been involved during the February prior. Which could, quite possibly, be an insult. One would need to see both paramours to adequately assess.

This is what you've been missing, dear "friends". Perhaps I should return to the land of quills and seals.

Heathens. Senseless, absolute savages.

I've done my utmost to grasp the American fascination with all things collegiate and basketball, particularly the practice of divining the outcome vis-a-vis a series of brackets that would make the most weathered of genealogists cringe.

I certainly consider myself a man of sport. However, the designation of "Madness" to this particular form of entertainment is, I must say, not especially far from reality. In Europe, we go to extraordinary lengths for the sake of what you call 'soccer', but this is more often than not a by-product of extreme inebriation. Not that I don't advocate alcohol consumption in the workplace, you see. However, a significant portion of what I've witnessed has occurred under the influence of absolutely nothing. I am, understandably, perplexed.

I'm positively itching for something to captivate my attention for more than twelve seconds at a time. Apologies for the employment of cliché, but "read any good books lately"?

Despite rumours to the contrary, I am most certainly among the living.

And so extraordinarily bored.

The Chinese, for once, generally have their minds in the right arena. While the Occidental World falls over itself in an attempt to celebrate martyrdom through the consumption of trees and chocolate, the Chinese have proclaimed this the Year of the Cock.

This, I believe, is a far more worthy cause for celebration.

Anyone who feels so compelled to honour the ingenuity of our Eastern friends need only speak up. Maison de Marbury is a twenty-four hour institution specialising in sex, alcohol, and catty namedropping as sport. All of which are easily enjoyed solo, but much more rewarding if shared with others. The more the merrier, I say.

I'd always had my suspicions, Gerald, but finally the confirmation:

lordjohnmarbury's LJ stalker is leotmcgarry!

leotmcgarry is stalking you because they think you are the one who made anonymous abusive LJ comments. They are also not very liked around here!

As Aught Four indelicately heaved its last overwrought breath and oozed its way into this unfamiliar beast we now face, I "did my thing", as it were, and charmed the trousers off diplomat and dilettante alike.

Alas, these are but the details I'll forget by this afternoon, whereas the details writ ineffaceably upon the corroded walls of my memory are ones I must, per a gentleman's code, keep to myself.

And keep them I shall.

My, the District of Columbia becomes an utterly different place this time of year. Twinkling lights, garland of every possible color and persuasion...the place is possibly overflowing with cheer. It warms the heart, in a sort of forced Dickensian way.

At the moment, beyond the usual round of exhausting galas for which my staff gleefully volunteer me, my Yuletide schedule is quite perplexingly blank. One of the hazards of confirmed bachelordom is that at the end of the day, you truly are alone. And not in the voluntary Greta Garbo sense, either.

"I turned the gas down, I got into bed. I said some words to the close and holy darkness, and then I slept."

Funny how it's the terminal drunkards who exhibit the most understanding.

I thought I'd rather enjoy the intimacy of this particular form of communication, but I'd no idea what an enlightening experience it would prove to be.

For example, I've now spent far more time accidentally contemplating certain parts of certain people's anatomy than I'd ever fancied myself doing.

I find this whole tradition of giving thanks over gluttonous amounts of food terribly charming. Quaint, even.

My evening was spent with a nice glass of port (or, rather, several) and The Economist. Though, if you must know, I am thankful for lots of silly little things. Those of you reading are amongst those things.

(Yes, I called you silly. I mean it in the most endearing of lights, naturally.)

My, this is fun. And I've just started!

Rumor's had it that all the President's men do their blithering and blathering through this particular venue. Being as I am a complete and utter whore for inane gossip, I decided to take a bold risk and start my own outpost for such drivel. Ergo, this.

I can hear you all locking up your proverbial daughters as we speak. Have no fear, your silly little secrets are safe with me.

(Your daughters are entirely a different story.)