Random Shit for the Week........

Ugly Car of the Week –

Jeep Compass.

Really? Another Jeep model? What is this supposed to be – a mini version of the Cherokee? An upgraded smaller rounded-corners version of the Wrangler? A kid’s Libery? A Patriot? Hmmm? I’m confused. Answer me that one Chrysler. How many fucking jeepy-SUV models do you really need? No wonder your profits for Q1 2008 stunk like a dead skunk… Oh, and by the way, fire the person in charge of styling. This thing is ugly.

Frustrating Song Of The Week -

“Say What You Need To Say” or whatever the fuck it’s called by Jon Mayer. OK then Jon, instead of saying what you need to say 39 fucking times just say it already. Chorus repeat x24 is a little boring fade to close. Piss off.

Subtle musical disappointment of the week –

“Pretty.Odd” by Panic at the Disco. Pretty fucking odd, indeed. Sgt Peppers on Vicodin, perhaps? Whatever it is it isn’t the Panic that I was expecting. I don’t care if Fall Out Boy copied you mercilessly, at least they still sound good. Poncy wankers. Go be explorative on your own time and when you’re done, come on back with some music we really want to hear.

Book Of The Week –

“War Stories II – Heroism in the Pacific” by Oliver North and some other dude. Intriguing short capsules of the major campaigns in the Pacific theater plus the obligatory first-hand accounts. Pretty good actually but to tell you the truth I am just biding my time until I get “Six Bad Things” by Charlie Huston from the library…

Subtle musical intrigue of the week –

“Saturday Nights, Sunday Mornings” by Counting Crows. Ass-kickingly good. So good that any review I can possibly do stinks compared to this one (courtesy of AllMusic.com):

After 2002's Hard Candy with its hit single "American Girls," which was used in a television commercial, followed by a best-of and a live offering, it seemed that just maybe the Counting Crows had said everything they needed to and may have simply slipped quietly into rock & roll history. Not so. Saturday Nights & Sunday Mornings is a reminder, in many ways, of just how special this band is at their best. As a group whose debut album, August and Everything After, sold over 15 million copies, was released to such widespread critical acclaim in 1993, and was easily their most commercially successful offering ever, they are one of the few bands that still exist, let alone have a following. They sounded out of time then, with their roots stuck deep in rock's past, where songwriting craft, excellent musicianship, focused production, and wide-ranging aesthetic ambition resulted in carefully constructed, poetic, and sometimes over-thought albums. Not surprisingly, they still sound that way, and that's a good thing. Their music touches on everything from the Beatles to the Band, from Bob Dylan and Van Morrison to early R.E.M. and Tunnel of Love-era Bruce Springsteen. Don't be surprised to read and hear critics bemoaning that music like this in the 21st century has no place in the American pop pantheon. That's nonsense.

The album is a kind of concept offering: it is divided into halves denoted by the title, and it has two producers. Gil Norton handled the first six cuts (Saturday Night), and the album's closer, and Brian Deck the remainder (Sunday Morning). Over an hour and 15 songs, CC dig deep into the theme of Saturday night, which just might be the loneliest night of the week, and the protagonists in these songs are devoted to obliteration, wasted desire, and isolation in the midst of a world that seems to be enjoying itself. The protagonists in these first six songs are looking for connection and community through every means necessary, but it is always just out of reach. Self-hatred, a brazenly honest expression of self-loathing, and the obsessive, urgent drive to blot it out fuel every song on this half of the recording. The second half is informed by the sick, bleary, light-of-day regret that is realized amid a hung-over dystopia that these feelings have only been stripped to the raw marrow by the previous night's excursions into pleasures and deluded ideas of meaning via looking for emotional and psychic redemption in all the wrong places. It refuses to succumb to complete despair, but it comes oh so desperately close.

The set comes roaring out of the gate with urgent rolling snare drums and enormous guitars creating a pulpit of overdriven rock & roll crackle that allows the protagonist to shout from a street corner, a piss-stained doorway, or a rusty fire escape perch, at passersby who scurry quickly by, shaking their heads at the madness in dingy prophet who might just be a reincarnated Hubert Selby, Jr scribbling his character studies orally. He's a "Russian Jew American/Impersonating African Jamaican/What I wanna be's an Indian/I'm gonna be a cowboy in the end." His companions are "skinny girls who drink champagne, go down on him and drag him past the grittier side of night/past railway cars and tranny whores/and morning spreading out across the feathered thighs of angels." That's just the setting for the truth that this character lays out: "Where do we disappear? Into the silence that surrounds us/And then drowns us in the end./Where they push you out to keep you in/And say, 'Come again...' He's the king of everything because he's the king of nothing."

Sure it's frontman Adam Duritz at his most unhinged and exposed, soaring above a band that understands every utterance of every syllable he's letting pour out of his mouth like poetically inspired vomit. And sometimes poetry is vomit. The brooding opening in "Hanging Tree" lays a foundation for the sheer nakedness and anger of the protagonist, who claims without irony that: "I am a child of Fire/I am a lion/I have desires/And I was born inside the sun this morning/This dizzy life of mine keeps hanging me up all the time," and this is what sets this disc apart from anything in the Counting Crows past. There is a directness here that paints vivid vignettes; pictures that the listener can take in, can empathize with — but that's not the point. These songs, particularly the rockers on the first half, like the previous two tunes, the loose, country rock groove of "Los Angeles," the skittering, "Walk on the Wild Side"-inspired swagger of Sunday, that's tempered by the Baroque pop of Boyce & Hart in the refrain and the bridge, containing an urgency and freedom this band hasn't shown with this kind of focus. One thing is for sure: this may have been truly mainstream rock & roll in the 1970s, but in an era where the charts are as likely to place Flogging Molly and Nickelback in the Top 40, this is outsider music.

The album's second half is, expectedly, less urgent, and has a more reflective focus. Though "Washington Square" is a respite, reflecting the not-quite-light-yet return home, it's a likely descendent of Kris Kristofferson's "Sunday Morning Comin' Down." It's layered with hovering pianos, atmospheric ambient sounds, a lone finger-picked acoustic guitar with other acoustic stringed instruments like a banjo, a 12-string, a harmonica, standup bass, and hushed drums, which reflect the opening of the new day as the most beautiful and desolate place on earth. It's the briefest moment of peace, and Duritz makes the most of it. "On Almost Any Sunday Morning," with its ghostly harmonica, 12-string guitar, and elemental backdrop music, the light of day becomes the most unbearable period of separation, regret, and recrimination on the album. The singer isn't looking for Jesus, he's looking into the endless mirror of the soul. That tenet of honesty that runs through every song here can make it seem as if Saturday Nights & Sunday Mornings is an hour-long confessional. But it's not because the people who inhabit these songs are all different individuals in various states of being. Lost in the void of pain, substance abuse, dissociation, blame, and self-examination, these glimmers of poets, lonely gods and angels, enemies, friends, and the clear view of the walls between the individual and the community, the individual and the Divine, and the individual from her or himself, are profound. This is roots music, where mandolins, pianos, cellos, a fiddle, and restrained drums are the most painterly and expertly executed musical frames for these songs. The Fender Rhodes in "Anyone But You" carries a bit of the perversity of its lyric. But it's the stinging single, "You Can't Count on Me," with its lithe piano lines, and woven six-string acoustics introduced only after jagged lead lines. At the end of the verse, where the protagonist confesses he knows just what a creep he really is without a hint of being patronizing — Dan Vickrey and David Immerglück's guitars push Adam Duritz to spill it all and he finally does: "I watch all the same parades/As they pass by on the days that you wish you'd stayed/But this pain gets me high/And I get off and you know why/So if you think you need to go/ If you wanted to be free/There's just one thing you need to know/You can't count on me." This is followed by "Le Ballet d'Or," a song that recalls in its refrain and in its direct revelation Blind Faith's "I Can't Find My Way Home."

Who are these unsightly, disturbed people? And why are their stories and private confessions framed in the most empathic, insistent, and sometimes utterly gorgeous music to come from a big-time music studio in a dog's age? They are you. They are us, just as we are — at least some of the time. Saturday Nights & Sunday Mornings will most likely be a deeply misunderstood and unappreciated offering by a band that has no idea how to do anything but be itself. Counting Crows have finally given us the true other side of August and Everything After, where questions become answers we don't want to hear. The evidence is in the last track, the rocker "Come Around." It's the sum of all the ambiguous tales from those earlier records, where the manic, wild-eyed girls and wandering rock & roll boys looking for beauty get older, but don't necessarily grow up. Now they have to answer for broken love, wasted life, and day-to-day loneliness where the price regret extracts doesn't bring redemption, and looking to the horizon brings only a reflection in a dirty window. Is there a choice to do anything but do it over and again in a ragged, ever shrinking circle? Rock & roll can't answer that, and the Counting Crows know better than to provide a simple silver lining. Saturday Nights & Sunday Mornings is a rock record in the grandest and most polished sense of the word: it wears its lineage proudly, and imparts emotions directly and brazenly honestly no matter how pretty or shiny the picture is. The kids may not understand, but they don't have to.

Get it.

Stupid shit of the week –

The rubber band gatling gun. The Disintegrator. Wish I had one at work…

The Chaos Theory

1st Configuration:

"In the conservative region far from the chaotic edge, individual elements coalesce slowly, showing no clear pattern..."

2nd Configuration:

"Self-organization elaborates in complexity as the system advances toward the chaotic edge."

3rd Configuration:

"In the intermediate phase, swiftly developing complexity within the system hides the risk of iminent chaos. But the risk is there..."

4th Configuration:

"Approaching the chaotic edge, elements show internal conflict. An unstable and potentially lethal region."

5th Configuration:

"At the edge of chaos, unexpected outcomes occur. The risk of survival is severe."

6th Configuration:

"Order collapses in simultaneous regions. Survival is now unlikely for individuals and groups."

7th Configuration:

"Partial restabilization may occur after eliminating destructive elements. Survival partly determined by chance events."

A Cautionary Tale

I heard a voice of warning,

A message from on high:

"Go put your house in order,

For thou shalt surely die.

Bid all your friends a long farewell

And set your business right -

That little black train is rolling in

To call for you tonight."

A Bold young man kept mocking,

Cared not for the warning word,

When the wild and lonely whistle

Of the little black train he heard.

"Have mercy, Lord, forgive me!

I'm cut down in my sin!

O' Death, will'st thou not spare me?"

But that little black train rolled in.

Go tell that laughing lady

All filled with worldly pride,

That little black train is coming,

Get ready to take a ride.

With a little black coach and engine

And a little black baggage car,

The words and deeds she hath said and done,

Must roll to the Judgement bar.

O' see her standing helpless,

O' hear her shedding tears.

She's counting these last moments

As once she counted years.

She'd turn from proud and wicked ways,

She'd leave her sin, O' Lord!

If that little black train would just back up

And not take her aboard.

So mark ye now this story,

Don't mock and say "Not real!"

For 'tis a foolish young soul who steps aboard

When Death rides at the wheel.

So, I think that's original, but it has been lost in the depths of time. I wrote it down on a piece of letter paper a dozen years ago, and I see nothing that attributes it to anyone else. Maybe it's an original work, maybe not.

Been A While?

So yeah, it has... WTF? Well, you know. Bit of this, bit of that, O fuck a little bit, fight a little bit, follow the Cav...

Yeah anyway.

So I was going through my old box of crap and discovered a few old journals from my days traipsing around Europe a dozen years ago. Makes for interesting reading... Here follows a few tidbits I gleaned over the years:

"Poem" - Harold Pinter 1964

Always where you are

In what I do

Turning you hold your arms

My touch lies where you turn

Your look is in my eyes

Turning to clasp your arms

You hold my torch in you

Touching to clasp in you

The one shape of our look

I hold your face to me

Always where you are

My touch to love you looks

into your eyes

Well, I dunno about you, but I kinda like it!

Random Thought:

Say - you know those old 1980's American cars with the horrible styling? Yeah, just about every bloody American car from the 80's. Anyway, those ones with the luggage rack thingies on the back? Did anyone ever put any luggage on the bloody things?

Fugly fugly fugly.

NOPI Tunervision - all about cars. Yeah, right!

WARNING!! This is a gratuitously male-oriented posting... but fuck it, read on.

http://www.nopi.net/

http://www.speedtv.com

The greatest show on TV right now. When the football is sucking on a Sunday night, just tune into the Speed network, sit back and relax, and look at some very, very nice um... cars.

See this is a how about the "tuner" lifestyle. Thanks to shit-assed movies like The Fast and The Furious" we have been all but invaded by "tuners". Hey, I have a Toyota Supra. I'm going to put two-tone metallic gloss paint on it, put gull-wing doors, a humongous fart can, chrome heads and blah blah blah and take over the fucking world. Does that make me a tuner? No. Apparently I need to be one of two things - either an incredibly scrawny Southern-fried white boy with a lame goatee and a Starter cap turned backwards, or a heavily tattooed Asian/Hispanic, either way I'm going to be constantly blathering about my 22's, 12-inch GRW-7's, widebody flaring on my downforce kit or the new supercharger package I just put in enabling me to drop a 1/4 at 13.32 on my new race-pressure Hankook's...

Please, someone give me the definition of a "tuner". Is it a nice way to call someone a "Rice Boy"?

I don't even know the terminology. But, I do like the show. Hmm, wonder why? I believe it is because Charity Hodges is the most amazingly composed, literate interviewer on television right now. Seriously, when she asked DJ Hax if it was possible to scratch and drive at the same time, everyone standing there and watching at home on TV looked at him, to see what his reaction would be. Not at Charity, or her stupendous, gravity-defying bumpers barely restrained by her red tank top. No way. All eyes were focused on DJ Hax.

No, really. Charity, I know you're only there for the eye candy, but I have to give you mad props, yo - as long as you are wearing a low-cut, off the shoulder top and little teeny weensy black hot pants, you have my attention. And his. And his, and his and his.

Oh my, what a tough life this is for some people. Yes, definitely very high-brow. 'Nuff said. But really - this is a show about cars, right?



Um, yeah. Whatever.



No, really:



Mmmm, fancy.

Thanksgiving 2007

I'm thankful for a lot of stuff...

You?

How about stating the obvious?

Don't you love it when soemone throws you an open-ended question? Ever wonder where it may lead?

Here's the one that I'm talking about - the good old "Hey man, what's happening?"

Yeah, you're setting yourself up for disaster.

See, I'm a pretty practical kinda guy. The next time someone asks me, as I'm gettig off the elevator "What's going on?" I may just bust out "Well, as you may be aware there's political unrest in Pakistan, Chile just suffered a 7.7 magnitude earthquake, there was an oil spill in the Black Sea, and the New Zealand Rugby Football Union is reviewing their coaches." There, shove that one down your gullet.

But the best one is, the next time I'm taking a piss in the mens room and Jack says "Hey Frost, what's happening?", well hell, I may just call it like it is.

"Hey Jack, how are ya man? What's happening? Well, I'm urinating. How about yourself?"

Erg. Those questions make me cringe. Fingernails on a chalkboard, anyone?

Hmph pt 2 - redux? I don't really know what that means...

Well, what I said still stands...

In the meantime I have spotted you a few more times.

Let's just say Ms. W that I miss you. I miss your smile. I miss your infectious grin. I miss the way you make fun of life, spit in the eye of propriety, shake you glossy tailfeathers in the nose of anyone who has an opinion other than yours... I miss our chit-chattery about nothingness, about the o/w people on your floor that are going to kick the bucket within the next year (BTW does the large diabetes-ridden woman still work here?).

In short, I miss you and your friendship and the good feelings it gives (I hate to use past tense here...).

If you so choose to reach me, you know where I am and how to get in touch. If not, just send me a sign. I don't want to devolve into a stalker-type like Waldo.

No I Don't Fucking Well Habla Espanol...

Well excuse me.

Here I am, Sunday morning, just having dealt with another prospective buyer for my old van.

A couple of questions however:

1) Did I unwittingly advertise it in Hispanic-only websites and newspapers?
2) Am I expected to sit around home for a total of seven hours starting at the time you said you would be there and never arrive, waiting for you?
3) What do ten-year old minivans with 156,000 miles on them actually look like south of the border? Are they plated with gold? Can you eat breakfast off the engine block? Do you open the doors and the holy choir of angels flies out in a blinding flash of light?
4) If I give you my phone number, and I can't answer it, and you get voicemail, have you perhaps thought about leaving a message? Or can you not understand the Inglese before it goes "Beep". Seems to me that's pretty much standard wherever the fuck you are.

See, here's the deal. The van's been on the market since May. Advertised every Thursday and Sunday, with an ongoing online ad as well. Now, yes, I have had a lot of calls. Unfortunately, the people who do arrange to come and take a look at it don't fucking well show up. I think I am running at about a 7% - 12 % success rate. And, if they do show up, they can't make up their minds over it and promise to call back "later in the week". Yeah right. My success rate on that is even lower.

An example of my frustration - this retired dude who lives down the block (not Hispanic!) bikes past my house every day. Sees the van with a "For Sale" sign on it, stops and asks me some questions. Has his own old Jeep to get rid of, unsure if he really wants/needs it etc etc etc... Takes it for a couple of test drives, likes it and then proceeds to tell me it's over-priced. Tells me what a dealer would sell it for. Stop right there. I am not a fucking sleazebag dealer. I am a private seller. Oh, and take a look at the other prices out there: the day he told me it was overpriced, I found 16 other vans 1998 or older with more miles on them than mine for more money. Tell me mine's over-priced, how fucking dare you. Then, a week or two later, after telling me he wants it, swings by on a Saturday morning while I'm mowing the lawns and tells me he bought another one. Identical, but with 60,000 less miles on it. Here's the kicker - bought it from a woman who just lost her husband and didn't need the van any more. Bought it for "what I offered you" (his words). He didn't like it when I told him that technically, by telling me what dealers buy the cars for an that mine was over-priced, that doesn't constitute an offer. I just feel sorry for the lady who sold it - should have received at least $2000.00 more than what this guy "offered".

Oh well, whatever...

I really am surprised by the number of Hispanics intersted in the van. I suppose a lot of them want the vehicle to drive back south after the summer work is over. I just get confused by them all. They are all the same. Or are they? Yes, judging by this weekend's performance they are. Last Monday a husband and wife stopped by to take a look and drive. Name was "Martin" or "Marteen". Since it got dark, they arranged to come by Wednesday during the day to take a look. I was off all day, so would have worked well. Didn't show up. Yesterday morning a fella called asking if I had the van for sale. Gave him all the details, mileage, color etc etc. He wanted to come over and look at it at 9.00am. Name? "Marteen". Same guy? Dunno, but I think so. So, I'm out in the garden cleaning stuff up, waiting for him to stop by, and this Trugreen Chemlawn truck pulls up. Totally random, out of the blue. This young senor gets out, wants to take a look at the van with his brother. He speaks better English, as I don't habla Espanol. Tomorrow at 11.00 work for you? Yeah sure I tell him. So, rest of the morning I wait around for "Marteen" to show up, never does. Fuck it, I think, I have a life to live. Dude calls at 1.57pm saying "I am at your house to look at the van but you are not there". "No" I tell him, since I expected you to arrive four fucking hours ago. Arrange to have him come and take a look this morning. 9.00am. Truck pulls up with four fellas in it. One is the guy who stopped by yesterday morning. The other is the old fella who swung by on Monday night and never showed up on Wednesday. One of the others is the mysterious "Marteen" who I thought was the old guy. The other dude just stands there leaning against his truck giving me the hairy eyeball. Confused? Yeah, so am I. Apparently "Marteen" is going to call me later this week to tell me if he's interested or not. Or his dad is or..... whoever.

What are the odds?

I am just about fucking done trying to sell this thing.

Hang on, phone's ringing, back in a mo.

On the bright side, I just had a call from another person interested. Hopefully that will pan out. And he's not from Mexico or parts south. Just South Minneapolis.

Cross your fingers!

Hmph

So, such a funny turn of events we see...

Here I am, working to ressurrect a friendship from the brink of disaster when it gets closed down on me. Not after much discussion and hashing out of positions, expectations etc, but with the following:

1) I've blocked your email
2) I've given my two weeks notice
3) Don't bother trying to contact me

Not having even been given the chance to say goodbye and good luck in your future endeavours, I bade you farewell. I could well have infringed on your personal territory, emailed, called, stopped by, but I chose not to. I can't say I really figured on your leaving, but then again, I didn't see you for like three weeks or so, then maybe you had. Or, maybe you were just being a sneaky bastard and avoiding me, turning away before being noticed, heading the other way behind big sunglasses and a fake brunette wig. I don't know.

So, mentally, I had you gone. Physically, yeah, I guess as well.

I had been steering my thinking away from the physical toward the more mental, toward the more friendly friends instead of the fuck-buddy friends. Let's face it, that was never going to work out. Not only because a) I was/am the wrong man for you; b) you are too much of a woman for me; c) I never wanted you to "fall" for me (if indeed that's what you may have considered it to be...); and d) I hate myself with a fucking vengeance now for ever thinking infidelitous thoughts.

I had thought my change of thinking may well have shown up in my last few emails, but I guess not. When I was asking how things went on your dates, I was serious. When I asked such questions regarding your feelings for prospective beaus, I was serious. Yes, I fucking well care. But I now can presume that this line of thinking did not get expressed clearly. And for that I am sorry.

So, you were gone. Hell, I haven't even watched Flight of the Conchords. Fucking tape is still sitting on my desk.

Then la-di-da-di-fucking-da who do I see waltzing into the cafeteria the other day?

You wanted to hug me and tell me how sorry you were? What was stopping you?

The First To Never Know...

This post kind of comes about from something a good friend of mine shared with me... Made me think of past experiences, what could have been done differently, what could have been said differently, and all that.

Part One - a (little) background.

"Welcome to my office," the Doctor says, waving her hand in the direction of a rather comfortable-looking couch along one of the walls. "Please, take a seat, relax, and let's begin..."

See, I am the youger brother. I have an older sister. Growing up, I always thought she was a pain, being mean to me, spiteful, etc etc etc. We had some rip-roaring arguments between us, coming to blows more than once. In fact, I rather badly hurt my hand when I whacked her over the head.

It always seemed like she got all the attention. She would have an argument with Mum or Dad, and there I am, forgotten about, left to mind my own business, "We'll talk to you later...". As I got older, these issues became more and more frequest, often rising in the level of hostility between all parties involved. And, the more I got pushed to the sidelines, the more pissed I would become.

This kind of carried over into my "social" life. I always felt like I never really had a good, solid bunch of friends. I went from school to school, never really settling down, making friends, only to move to another school a few years later, and having to start from scratch. So, I suppose I always felt kind of on the outer. Thus, I would come home from school, into argument city at home, and my parents never really figured it out why I liked to spend so much time in my room.

I loved my room - it was my sanctuary, my little bit of me, my zone away from all the shit I had going on outside it. And to keep my mind level I had my hobbies - those that I could partake of in my room. Nothing dodgy, just listening to music, playing with electronic stuff trying to figure out how stuff worked, and building models and dioramas of those models. I must say, I was actually very proud of how some of those turned out. I guess I had a lot of time to perfect my craft...

Well, time goes by, and I'm at the end of high school, going into college, and still my sister is taking up way too much of my parents time and efforts. Shoot, she's even moved out by this time, living in a completely different city. But still..... Things kept on getting worse, even with the distance between all of us. It took a failed suicide attempt to finally get them to see that maybe there's a "problem" with her. Now, I hate that word - there's a stigma attached to it. But, what other options do you have? "Issues"? That's just a PC way of saying "problem". So, long story short, They took her to a place down in Palmerston North to have her "evaluated".

Turns out my sister is bi-polar. But was I informed of this fact? Was I given the chance to figure out what this means, what we can do to live with this, how we can change ourselves to help the situation? Nope, nuh uh...

Things finally came out in the open about three weeks before I was due to leave the country. Mum and my sis were having another contrtemps in the kitchen one evening. These had admittedly become less frequent, but when things did blow up, watch out Hiroshima. But, byt this time, I was 21, I was sick of it, I had had enough. When I asked what was wrong, Dad told me to leave. Why? Just go. Nope, sorry Dad, not going to fly. I was fed up, with my sister for flying off the handle, for Mum and Dad flying off the handle, for not knowing, not being involved, for being "forgotten".

My Irish came out. When Dad told me, again, to leave, I told him to fuck right off. That sort of shit dowsn't sit well with a guy like him, and when he firmly attempted to right my course, I pushed back. I was bigger than him, and after a second whereby he ended up against the legs of the kitchen table, and I opened my mouth up and, probably in one long unintelligible roar, told them all what the fuck was up, I left. I lost it, went on up to my room and just let it all out.

"Can you tell me what happened then?" asks the nice, patient Doctor (if indeed she is a doctor, which I doubt, but hey - it's nice to talk...)

Part Two - Looking back.... ahh, hindsight's a bitch.

So, after all of that, turns out I finally did get my parents attention. Mum gathered me up after all was calmed down (weird how the storms always blow over), off to the liqour store, pack of smokes and out to the beach. There, over about a three hour period at sunset, we let it all out. She about her childhood, my sister, my Dad, what the problem was, what we could do, how it was (though hard on her) a good thing that I was headed 13,000 miles in a different direction from there with no agenda and no timetable. For my part, it was all about how I had wanted to be treated, how I had wanted my voice to be heard, my thoughts examined etc etc etc. It was a pretty rough time. But, we needed it. More than we thought. After a lot of tears, a teensy bit too much booze and some stress cigarettes, we were back home, determined to live out my last three weeks in peace and relative harmony.

"And now, what do you think when you look back?" she asks, gently prodding me along...

Part Three - What I think.

I think things could have been different. I regret now the lost opportunities that my sister and I didn't take advantage of, where we could have both become stronger together. It's unfortunate now, that, here I am entrenched in MN, with the chances to get back home so few and far between, and with my sister there being almost no fucking chance whatsoever that she would come here on her own (let alone be able to afford it being unable to work with various ailments and welfare etc...). Anyhow, it's strange, but I feel closer to my sister than ever. We don't talk much - she not having a reliable source of internet, me not being big on phone calls (yeah I suck) - but when we do we connect. She was my best "man" at my wedding nine years ago, and I can't wait to see her next year when my family now travels down there. It will be the first time (other than pics or video) that she will have met Gretchen (now 4), and London is a little different as a 7-year old that she was at 1 1/2 last time we were down there.

I wish now that everything was different. But then again, don't we all at some point in time?

DeathKill Football League Blog #1

So, here I sit, having played King Solomon to the rest of my league...

This is now the eighth year I have been doing this Fantasy Football stuff, and my word, how it has evolved. From back in the day when it was my Brother-in-Law doing all the calculating and tracking with Excel spreadsheets, getting the scores and stats from the paper, to now - fully automated website, easy as pie. Joerg, I don't thik you got enough credit for the effort you put in.

But still the role of Commissioner is an important one. As much as one would like to automate the whole process, it still takes one guiding hand, one stern overseer to make things run correctly. Now, I don't consider myself super stern, but if I see stupid shit going on, then I will do my best to stop it. And in other cases, it is always good to open up an argument or two, for the sake of debate. After all, this is a democratic country, right? As much as Marcus may say "fuck off you foreigner" in whatever warped sense of humor he may have, like it or not I am here to stay. And yup, you agreed on me being Commish. Suck it up, big fella.

So, we're here for another season. After the fiasco that was last year's finances, it has been great to get everyone paid up for their setup fees and entry fees in advance. Makes it a hell of a lot easier for me to keep track of. The finances are the worst fucking thing about fantasy sports - figuring out who owes what, who owes what but has a little bit taken out as winnings, who wins everything and how much is outstanding that these guys need to pay to that guy who then needs to cut a check to this fella who then turns around and says "hey, use this as my entry fee for next year"... it gives a guy a headache. But, that's what I signed up to do, and I like the challenge. Pity my math sucks.

This year should be interesting. After a few years being overrun with guys from Target corporate, we have a couple of new faces, this time from my neck of the woods. No, I don't mean New Zealand, but my place of business. And by the way, to whoever wins, give Bobby or Rafferty a holler, since they are Financial Advisors, they know how to turn your $500.00 into a 126.4% increase over a three-year period, right?

Down to brass tacks - I think I had a pretty good draft, given the fact that I had the 8th pick. Not a bad pick, but I have never had the ability to get one of the top three draft picks in all my time in this league. Sure, I would love to have LJ or LT on my team, but that didn't happen, so I made the best of it. I think I got a steal in Travis Henry, and was amazed that I walked away with Reggie Bush. I have a feeling that Bush will have a better year than Brian Westbrook of the Eagles who, in our league, went six picks higher. Westbrook is playing with a questionable QB in McNabb, Bush is playing with a stud in Brees. Bush has also seen his production ramp up significantly in the latter part of last season as his experience increased and New Orleans figured out how best to use him. Like I said, I think I got a steal right there. My other sneaker pick? Jamal Lewis. How many of you out there have no idea who he played for last year? That's right. And with a powerful O-Line, Cleveland is going to fo their best to relieve the pressure on whoever their QB may be (probably Quinn) by running the ball. JL is back after a year figuring out his reconstructed ankles and is saying that he feels better than ever, making cuts he hasn't made since college, quicker acceleration etc. And he's only 28 - over the hill? I think not people... Kellen Winslow as well - if they're not handing off to Jamal, then it's a quick drop off to one of the future stud TE's. He caught the most passes as a TE last year, and this year he's only going to get better. As for the other TE's out there - Gonz hasn't done shit for the last few years for KC, and Gates for SD is only getting more and more coverage on him. Winslow's year, is what I reckon.

QB - Tom Brady, always a threat with the corp of WR's he has, and my back up is Alex Smith of San Fran, on the verge of a breakout year as he gets more experience undre his belt. No matter how many carries Frank Gore has for SF, remember half of those are dump-offs, and that counts as a pass for my QB!

Kickers - I have the most accurate in the league in Kaeding - sure he's not a Viniateri or Wilkins, but he's going to get 90% or more that are snapped to him through the bars...

My receiving corp I am not too sure on, but I think I got in well with Houshmawhatshisname from Cincy early, and a couple of quiet sleepers in the Jackson boys Darrell and Vincent. Joey Porter for Oakland, if Cuante is throwing his way, look out statistice and points, here I come.

Defensive/Special teams? I got fucked over on that pick, but I'm not bitter. We'll see. I have a feeling that some people didn't look at our scoring system before making their picks, and we'll leave it at that.

But here I seem to be, tooting my own horn. I'm not about that though. Lots of things can and will happen this year, so I will roll with the punches, wherever they may come from. Everyone in our league has the ability to have a great year, and in the end, it's the Owner that manages his team the best that wins it all.

That, and a little bit of luck.

The Joy Of Being Unwashed...

I have to admit - sometimes being all stinky-dirty is fantastic. I just got back from three days camping on the North Shore - no showers, no swimming (Lake Superior is waaaaay too cold right now...), dusty campground and Crocs.

So, here I sit, enjoying my filth. I have dirty, messy hair. I smell like a campfire. My toes are encrusted with filth. I have more whiskers than I know what to do with. My nails are a mess - dirty, ragged, broken... The only things I did on the cleanliness front are semi-regular addition of deoderant and brushing my teeth.

I have had jobs in the past where I come home covered in dirt and crap - oh, sometimes I long for the days as a landscaper, but nowadays it's the office life for me. Thus my enjoyment of the great outdoors and the filthy pleasures it brings.

You can call me "Pig Pen".

Just thought I'd share before I shower up and get back to normal...

Tree-Huggers Unite!!! (so I can get you all at once...)

Sonar banned in Navy's SoCal exercises

Tue Aug 7, 11:24 AM ET

LOS ANGELES - A federal judge has banned the Navy from using high-power sonar during exercises off the Southern California coast, ruling that the strong underwater sounds can cause widespread damage to whales and other marine mammals.
U.S. District Judge Florence-Marie Cooper issued a temporary injunction Monday, rejecting a Navy request that she dismiss a lawsuit filed by the Natural Resources Defense Council.
The council says the Navy planned to use so-called mid-frequency sonar over thousands of square miles of ocean in an area rich in marine life. The council contends the high-power sonar causes marine mammals to beach themselves and leads to other harm.
The injunction will force the Navy to comply with federal environmental laws protecting marine life, said Joel Reynolds, a senior attorney for the NRDC.
"We don't take issue with the Navy's judgment that it needs to use this technology," Reynolds said. "Our concern is when they test and train, they do so in a responsible manner."
The Navy said it would appeal the injunction, arguing that sonar is a vital tool in detecting submarines.
"To the extent this court decision prevents us from using active sonar, it potentially puts American lives and our national security at risk," the Navy's Third Fleet commander, Vice Adm. Samuel Locklear, said in a statement.
The Navy maintains that it already minimizes risks to marine life. It has monitored the ocean off Southern California for the 40 years it has employed sonar without seeing any whale injuries, the Navy said in a news release.
The Navy has planned a series of 14 training exercises using sonar. It says it has already carried out three of these and has found no evidence of strandings, injuries or behavioral disturbance to marine mammals.
Reynolds said the ban would remain in effect until his organization's lawsuit is settled.
___
Oh, watch the greenie tree-huggers rejoice! What's next? If the Navy somehow manages to detect submarines without the use of sonar, they won't be able to fire a torpedo at it in case it hits a whale, a tuna, a dolphin, some squid, herring, or krill? The Air Force won't be able to fly because they could hit some birds? What about their missiles? Heaven forbid if they were to loose one of those bad boys off in an area that may have birds in it. Oh, that's right, the whole sky may have birds in it. So, instead of firing missiles or guns at each other, we'll just have you land and throw rocks at each other. Soldiers won't be able to use their rifles in case they miss their target and take out an errant squirrel? Fuck that, ladies and gentlemen. The greenie's have gone too far.

Besides, do they really ever read or study what the Navy is doing regarding the environment? I bet not. If they did, then maybe they would take a look at this:

http://www.whalesandsonar.navy.mil/documents/Sonar_Marine_Mammal%20_Fact_Sheet.pdf

Pretty interesting reading. Looks like the Navy may actually give a shit, contrary to what the NRDC may say.

Assessing My Own Mortality

Since the I-35W bridge collapsed on Wednesday evening, I have spent a bit of time looking into my own mortality. I sit back and think, why was I not on that bridge?

You see, I should have been. Every day, I leave work at 5.45pm. Driving from my building where I park my car, I travel around the back of the Metrodome, up 11th Ave to Washington Ave, turn right across 35W then left, onto the ramp and onto the bridge. That takes twenty minutes. Twenty minutes added on to 5.45pm gives us a time of 6.05pm. Thus, at 6.05pm on Wednesday I should have, would have been on that bridge.

At 6.05pm Wednesday August 1st, 2007 the I-35W Mississippi River bridge collapsed, all 450 odd feet of it, 65 feet down into the river below.

But I wasn't on it. Why not? For some strange reason, I decided to leave ten minutes early that day. Ten minutes earlier taking me over the bridge at 5.55pm. I never leave early. If anything I leave later more often than not. But something told me to leave early that day. What is was, I do not know. I wonder what it was? Was it some internal feeling of unease? Was it some greater power watching out for me? I know my call was not as close as some, but still, it's unsettling. Some people changed their routines and ended up in the midst of that collapse, others changed their routine and missed it. Like me.

The No. 43 Cheerios/Betty Crocker Dodge, driven by Bobby Labonte, commemorated the I35W bridge tragedy Sunday at the Pennsylvania 500. The car is sponsored by Twin Cities-based General Mills.

The Death Of Free Speech (at least at work) ???

So, within the last day, the place where I work has shut down access to Blogger.com (amongst other sites...). Apparently, it falls under the category "Social Interaction and Networking", or something like that.

Please answer me this question - why is "Social Interaction" a bad thing? Why can't people network? Isn't that how you meet people of similar interests and ideas as yours? Isn't that important to the way we live our lives? Isn't that something that the values of our company should hold near and dear? Or do they want to piss off their workers even more than possible?

This is just ridiculous. In my career at work I have put up with a lot of shit, but their new internet policy is for the birds. For example, fantasy sports got shut down, as it fell under the banned category "Games". Now, games leads one to think along the lines of poker, solitaire etc. Y'know - the stuff where you have to download the game or an .exe file or something like that. A program that you have running all the time on your desktop that you play inbetween calls... Not fantasy sports. What do you do - you set a lineup, check on news and notes, perhaps email your league members here and there... You can do it on your lunch-break, or on your downtime at work. Shit, my boss even thinks that's ridiculous. How many millions of people play fantasy sports? How fucking many? Has it harmed America? Are business hours being lost to "wasted time" on such sites?

With the implementation of the new internet policy... wait a minute. I don't even think it's a new policy. I believe they updated the systems they used to use to monitor what sites are "bad"... If it was a change in policy, you would think they would have to announce it, don't you? So my question leads me to wonder, who makes these categories up? Who decides these things for the employees? Do the employees get a say in things?

The other thing that bugs me, is that when the site is blocked, it has a link to click on to get more information about your company's policy. Do you think that link takes me anywhere? That's right, it does not.

I then wondered, who do I ask about these things? My boss is leery of me doing this. He doesn't want me to get "red-flagged". Fair enough I told him, and thanks for your concern. But, what kind a place do I work for that would put someone on a watch list for asking such questions? What are they, the fuckin' Stasi? Therefore, I am going to contact Human Resources and ask. What have I got to lose? If I get dismissed or some other consequence for asking, then I take that to the Office of the Ombudsperson and state my case... If it goes there, then theere's always the threat of legal action. After all, if a guy can get unemployment benefit after telling his boss to "fuck off", I can ask the question what's behind our internet policy without fear of recrimination... It's pretty simple really... knock out any access to porn you might have. That seems to be the only bad thing we can do at work. Oh, and maybe knock out any access to Al-Jazeera or Hamas or Hezbollah or Arab Islamic radicalism or white supremacism or bomb-making, terrorism, anything like that... Or is that taking it a step too far? Is that considered anti-constitutional in not allowing freedom to express religion? I wouldn't be surprised if it is.

And, by the way, if Al-Jazeera is not blocked, these fuckers will hear about it in no short order.

Long Way From Home

There are times in everyone's lives when one realises that they are a long way from home.

In my case it's exactly 7580.31 miles between New Zealand and the United States. And I say home in a general sense of the word. My home is here, but my homeland is New Zealand.

So, the following is a copy of an email I just sent Mum and Dad a few minutes ago... A lot of things have been weighing on my mind recently about their health. A background as such: My mother has Lupus and Arthritis, and suffers the odd migraine. It's definitely not as bad as it has been in the past, and I distinctly recall the days where she was laid up in bed with the curtains tightly drawn suffering from both a head migraine, but also a stomach migraine (at least that is what she called it... ). In other words she could barely open her eyes, and could not move. But she's a fighter, strong-willed Irish RC background... Dad on the other hand is a different story. Years ago he had an operation on his varicose veins. During that operation he had an anaphalactic reaction - not to latex, or prescription medicines, a bee didn't sting him in the OR, but to the anesthetic. For more information, take a look here:

http://www.netwellness.org/question.cfm/8842.htm

Interesting (and honestly quite frightening) reading. Since that time, his heart hasn't quite been the same - neither as strong or as regular as you would like. Combine that fun fact with what happened a few yeaars ago, you start to worry. A few years ago, Dad had stomach pain. Thought it was gas, and paracetomol took care of most of it. But, it kept recurring, to the point where, finally, Dad got himself off to the doctor. That's not as easy as it may sound. Mum and Dad live in a little town of barely 800 people in the middle of New Zealand's South Island high country. It's an hour and a half drive to the nearest "city" which is really a large town - Oamaru, on the East Coast of the South Island. Fortunately, NZ has a great healthcare system, and they promptly diagnosed diverticulitis, or a twisitng of the bowel. So, Dad went in for surgery. Unfortunately, during surgery (and no, not the anesthesia, he has a Medic-Alert bracelet and file about that) the surgeons found a couple of lumpy things tucked in under the folds where his gut had twisted up. Turns out these were cancerous polyps. 8000 miles away from my homeland and I find out the old man's got cancer. Fuck. I don't exactly have a few thousand bucks laying around for a plane ticket home. What to do? Well, faith in the NZ healthcare system, my Dad's tough Pommie bearing (that's English, and not the Toff English, but the hard East End of London English, fank you very much, geezer!), and a couple words with the Good Lord above, he fought through the removal of these polyps and the subsequent tratments to the affected areas.

Now a couple of weeks ago Mum sends me the following:

We are sick of going up and down to hospitals. Len is having a colonoscopy this coming Friday. That's when they put the camera into the bowel - just hope it doesn't show any nasties this time! He's improved a hell of a lot over the last three months but it's meant having weekly blood tests which means trotting off down to the doctor - who, incidentally finished up in Kurow, two Fridays ago. I think I was her last patient. She took a biopsy off the weird patch on my lower leg! Haven't heard back about it yet. Pleased my eyes seem OK - just a few floaters and flashes. Doc at hospital in Dunedin, reckons I am rather young to be getting them and is getting me an appointment for an MRI - another trip to Dunedin - just to check what is causing some other weird vision things I've been seeing. Thinks it could be neurological. Apparently she discussed my responses to her questions, with all the other registrars, and they were all rather intrigued. Whatever. Quite looking forward to it actually as it might explain the head pains and migraines I've been having for years.

Um ,yeah, just a bit nervous... So, I have been sitting here wondering, waiting etc, desperately wanting to know more, but knowing I just have to bide my time. So tonight, I just wanted Mum and Dad to know how I've been feeling etc. I'm not good at putting these things into words, so excuse the hesitations, re-writes etc that this took. It's not exactly the way I spoke it out to myself, but Mum and Dad, here's how I'm feeling...

How are you doing... I know it's been a wee while since I last emailed you, but I have been thinking a lot about human frailty and getting older and stuff...

It seems that the most news we have had recently from you guys concerns your health - Dad going into hospital to get his heart and tubes checked out because something didn't seem quite right... Then, upon hearing that, it's back off to the hospital for his colonoscopy, oh and by the way they removed a couple of polyps to run biposy's on. Doc thinks it's going to be OK but going to hear back? Then you are in because of your headaches, taking MRI's etc... To tell you the truth it's all a bit worrying to me.

Now I appreciate you keeping me informed of what is all going on, and I am sure that as soon as you hear anything back, I will be informed in due course, and I appreciate that. Don't get me wrong. It's just hard for me to read this sometimes being so freakin' far from home, and knowing just what an effort it would be to get back home in case something was to ever go wrong etc... I just wanted to share with you the concerns I have. I hope you can understand where I am coming from as well... By no means should you stop letting me know, and don't worry about me... I'm just being a worrywort, but for some reason I always tend to think of the worst-case scenario... I think that's more due to my preference for planning things out, preparing for any and all eventualities. Or maybe I am worrying out of turn, shit, I don't know.

I just wanted to get that off my chest is all...

Oh, and when I say "I" it stands for all of us here.

Anyways, have you heard anything back about all the tests and stuff yet? If and when you do, please let me know and don't soft-soap things for my behalf. That's all I ask.

Come to think of it, we've been through this all before, so I am probably repeating myself for no good reason, but as I said above, I just wanted to let you know. Thanks for listening.

So, read and think of it what you will. That's my feelings there. I'm a long long way from home, and it won't be easy to get back if all goes to shit on a shovel, but deal with it I shall.

Smell: an addition

So, I have an addition to my favorite smells. Namely Campfire smoke.

I was camping this weekend, and realised that another of my favorites is the smell from a campfire. It permeates every fuckin' thing, but it does smell so good.

Combine that with the smell of BBQ and a good cigar, that's a three-peat that can't be beat.

Mmmm, that smell!

I like to think I have heightened olfactory senses. Sure, they may not be as good as a dog's senses, but I have a pretty good nose. So, as I sit here at my desk at work, suffering in the cloud of sharp, eye-watering, overdosed cheap-ass perfume the lady over the wall is wearing, I thought about the smells in my life that I have come to love.

Weird subject maybe, but that's me.

You may think it's going to be chock-full of the usual ones - perfume, incense etc. No. Though I am a fan of Coco Chanel.

Anyway, here they are, in no particular order:

1) Spaghetti Bolognaise simmering slowly over a low flame. Now this takes me back to my childhood... no, I'm not Sicilian and am not remembering "the old neighborhood", but I'm remembering Thursday evenings when Mum was at tennis and Dad was still at work, I would make dinner. Invariably that would be my special Spaghetti Bolognaise. Brown ground beef in olive oil, but be sure to add freshly minced cloves of garlic... but it was really the sauce that got me going - it would waft throughout the kitchen area, a nice blend of tomatoes, herbs and garlic, with a dash of red wine... Mmmmmmmm, and though I have tried many times to re-create it, it just doesn't quite smell the same as the good old days.

2) Diesel exhaust - weird. But I like the sweet-smelling cloud of blue or black smoke when a bus takes off, or a truck belches. Smells manly. If only I could bottle it! Sell it for an extreme profit.

3) BBQ - doesn't matter what's on the grill, it smells good. Smells even better during winter, as the smoke hangs around and inundates everything. Here in Minneapolis I used to walk about 15 minutes back and forth to where I parked my car on Washington Ave, and my route would take me past one of the city's firehouses. These guys grilled all the freakin' time, and in winter it was specially inviting - I could smell it for at least a two block radius either side of the firehouse. And of course, since I was walking back at just around dinner time, the ol' tummy was rumbling.

4) Fresh coffee - open a new can, breathe in, mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm. I'd be of absolutely no use as a drug dog.

5) Cigar smoke. Otherwise known as Eau De Man. Sitting on the back deck, holding a fresh glass of Vitamin B & C (Beam and Coke for the uninitiated), wreathed in cigar smoke... perfect.

When we talk about the flip, however, there are just too many to answer. But hark back to the lady over the wall... At work we are supposed to have a policy where we are sensitive to multiple chemical sensory effects or some such bullshit. Problem is, how do you make someone aware that their $4.97 WalMart special is giving you an aneurism without coming off as an asshole? Trick is, you can't. Especially when you're stuck in an elevator. That brings me to another tangent - smelly elevators. We have a lot of "business partners" from the sub-continent who eat spicy shit all the time. Not saying that I'm not a fan of curry, but these guys sweat that shit out. And it pongs, and you get tagged with that. You can only hope, having entered an elevator where there are traces (!) of this lingering stench, that when you reach your destination, no-one else is going to get in. Because there is no way that this new person is not going to think it was you, is there?

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