Skander-san's Adventures Beyond the Ultraworld 10 or Death of 100 Cuts

Number 10. Nice round decimal number. As is 100.

Everything goes along swimmingly today, jogeburi here, single-time men-saburi there. Yeah, give us something to challenge ourselves fellas!

And so they do: first they ask us to do one-handed men. With right fist on hip and our shinai in our left, away we swing. Ichi. Ni. San. Shi. Go. Rokku. Shichi. Hachi. Kyu. Jyu. My god that's tough! For an unfamiliar left arm like mine, it really is hard (and now, it actually is hard as stone, as a result of doing this repeatedly). My arm was aching after 10 of these unfamiliar swings. Pounding aching. "Do it again". I aint no skinny, freckled, chicken-chested nerd person who doesn't see the sunlight, despite having a blog. Oh no! And yet my (now rippling) bicep was totally thrown by having to swing this shinai back and forth, from 45° behind the head to our imaginary opponent's now nicely sliced open forehead, held only by my left hand.

Now the tricky thing was not actually the strength needed in the arm to raise the shinai, but the strength required to stop it at the right point. Not letting it swing too far forward so it is lodged deep within my victim's brain and takes two hands and a leg to wrench it out and move on to the next screaming psychopath. And to stop it, we use tenuchi. Tenuchi describes the squeezing of the shinai handle to give you more control of your implement. You see, if I was to just swing a sword at you and your beady eyes staring at me, and didn't use tenuchi, my blade would probably bounce off your skull after cutting ever-so-slightly into it. Just a wee cut. But if I use tenuchi, that is, a tightening of the grip at the end of my stroke to take control of it, I would be able to pass through the barrier that is your skin and skull and hairline with absolute surety, and, well, there'd be a lot of blood and those beady eyes would be kinda dulled.

The other thing that single-handed men help with is getting the line right. Each stroke is mean to come straight down the centre of the body, not waving the shinai around like a proud Pole in Rome with his red-and-white flag. The left hand is the driver, the right hand steers. So the left hand is really like a brain-numbed Pole on a kielbasa production line 20 years ago, eternally repeating the same tasks, day in, day out. Raise, strike, return to kamae, raise, strike, return to kamae, raise, strike, return to kamae. While it's the right hand which gets to lark about, decide this cut should hit the do, the stomach armour, this one should hit from the right at a 45° angle, this one should take out my opponent's wrist, decide which stroke to play. All the while my poor old solid, reliable southpaw just keeps on truckin', raise, strike, return to kamae, raise, strike, return to kamae... And one-handed men sure makes you know what your left and right arms are doing, and how!

So with aching left arm, we launch stright ito something else to test us: that's one hundred double-time men-saburi. It doesn't sound so hard. All we have to do is step foward and swing ourselves a nice, centred men cut, and then step back while doing another. Fifty times. With our left arms pounding. And it's not so easy. Making sure every part of every stroke is as good as it can be, that your footwork is correct, your kiai is strong enough and you have a vague idea of where you are in the 100 cuts. And so we struggle through this, breath coming shorter. Ichi. Ni. San. Shi. Go. Rokku. Shichi. Hachi. Kyu. Jyu. Ichi. Ni. San. Shi. Go. Rokku. Shichi. Hachi. Kyu. Jyu. Ichi... and make it to the end! Hurrah! "How was that?" wer're asked, "hard?". Our response, in unison: "Hai!". "Excellent", he says, "One hundred more". Groan.

Ichi. Ni. San. Shi. Go. Rokku. Shichi. Hachi. Kyu. Jyu. Ichi. Ni. San. Shi. Go. Rokku. Shichi. Hachi. Kyu. Jyu. Ichi... Jeez this is getting tough. I'm losing concentration, my strokes are all over the shop like a mad woman's custard, I'm starting to think I might not be able to make it to 100 again. Exhausted. And then the kiai kicks in. "Kiai louder" he says, and as I do, like a revelation from the Lord, the clouds open, a shaft of light catches my eye and the Virgin Mary is there, smiling softly, just like at Fatima. Well, nothing like that at all really, no light, no madonna, and especially no revelations to pox-ridden children, but the louder I kiai, the easier it is to execute the stroke. And the better I seem to be doing it. Real mind-over-matter stuff.

So there are two things at work here, in the death of 100 cuts: the zen of repeating the same motion over and over again, focussing on it in the most minute detail, refining it, again and again; and the mind propelling the body forward, like those slight mothers who can lift the car their children are stuck beneath.

La Mala Educaçion

Go to see Pedro Almodovar's Bad Education.

Best, smartest, most rewarding flick I've seen in a while

Skander-san's Adventures Beyond the Ultraworld 9or WTF?

The one where nobody seems to recall what we did the week before. Except me. Cunts.

I push the envelope a little again this week, rocking up 15 minutes late. Yeah, I can get into insolence when I want to. But I haven't missed a jot this time. They've only just started the warm-up, the old laps of the dojo thing, and I can see why: there are only 15 of us initiates here. After last weekend's massive crew of more than 50, it's v strange to have a grand total of 20 people forming the initial warmup circle.

So through the warm-up we go: ankle rotations, hip rotations, neck rotations, star jumps, calf rises, and then into the hemisphere things, first the left side and then the right side. The place looks so empty. Strange. Then the saburi, which are the practice cuts we do, 30 men, 30 side men, you should know the drill by now. But today, instructor Vu throws in a new one: the anchor-shaped saburi. Just in case anyone thought we may have been getting somewhere with this bloody art, he throws this in to make us all feel like a bunch of right dickheads. The idea is basically to get us back to practicing our footwork. I know my left heel likes to edge its way back in towards the centre of my being, so we must look a terrible bunch, because, of course, I am one of the best. Suck. This anchor movement, which I'm sure has a Japanese name that I'm unaware of, or unwilling to recall, involves us making men cuts as we move in, surprise, surprise, the shape of an anchor. Well, a half-curve shape anyway. So we move to the right, right foot sliding first and left foor following, with its toes, as ever, two fists out from the heel of the right foot. The difference here is that we are now facing a 30° angle inward. So our second movement is to the left, and here is where it gets confusing: we have to lead with our left foot, and follow with our right, and reverse our stance so our feet are in the inverse position to what we've been told for, like, ever, all while executing the stroke . WTF? We have been taught to always lead with the right and follow with the left, so this is basically turning our newly-constructed origami world upside-down, or at least folding it inside out, if I want to keep my metaphor alive.

30 of these then. And another 30. And oh, shit, I've fucked up a bit there, my feet are all over the place and I'm having a bit o' trouble with my balance when I'm not thinking about it. There we go. Another 30. Now 50. Okay, we get the idea. Moving from left to right and bacl again, always cutting to the same point in the middle, where we began. Which is quite a change, as we've only been cutting straight in front on previous occassions.

Thank god that's over. Now we line up for kiri-kaeshi, the 15 of us and 5 seniors, and I notice that I'm opposite the the oldest bloke in the beginners' course. Ands I notice that he wasn't for installment number 8 on our road to kendo enlightenment. Which was the essential lesson where we learnt how to receive the kiri-kaeshi. Which isn't that hard, but if you don't know what you're doing, it's godawful. For me, that is, godawful for the guy who does know what he doing when the other bloke has not got the faintest fucking idea. Anyway, "hanashimasu" is called and we begin. And this bloke has seriously no idea. He's waving his shinai around and looking like a right dickhead, and there's no time, and less inclination on my behalf to actually show the fucker what he should be doing. A pointed "You weren't here last session, were you?" and one or two tips sufficed, and "kotai" was called, meaning we all move round one place ('and the little one said "roll over" and they all rolled over and one fell out.' But I digress).

So I'm up against my next partner, and she was here last session. I sigh "Thank god you were here last time, that bloke has no idea what to do". Famous last words? She seems to have left her brain at home as well, and gets the whole motodachi thing wrong too. "But you were here last time!" my exasperated mind cries silently. Yeah, I know, I sound like a whinger. Well, I am having a bloody whinge, because it shat me half to tears.

At this stage I'm casting my eye around, and realise I am the last in line to get any practice with the seniors, who might actually be able to help my technique, and that won't be for a good, ooh, 8 more kiri-kaeshis. And that my next few partners weren't here last time either and have no idea and it's all gone very very pear-shaped as far as I'm concerned, and I'm all "What the Fuck is going on with you cunts? Can't you get this right? It's not that hard at all". The instructor notices the crappiness of what so many are doing, and so guess what? We have stop and go right back to basics. Infuriated, I am.

Now my issue with all these guys and their motodachi (I've decided receiving sounds a bit ner-na-ner) is not that they're getting their footwork wrong, or holding their shinai a little limp-wristedly, or any of the other things that the seniors are picking up. Being the tallest of this bunch, I naturally have a longer reach. But a lot of these people, and I won't single them out, but they're a specific group—you know who you are—simply don't fucking move backwards far enough during the exercise to maintain the proper distance between the two parties. Which leaves me trying to get my technique right with my target being three feet in from of me instead of almost 3 metres, and doing these funny wee men cuts which are a) wrong, b) exceptionally bad in terms of helping me perfect my technique and c) effeminate and pansy. It drives me crazy. And led to me using my right arm more than I should (this whole kendo thing is left-hand drive—and left foot for that matter) which in effect drags my strokes down, rather than out—ie my right hand has taken over in the strength department when it's meant only to steer the shinai, because the the targets I am hitting are simply way too close. It's like trying to swing a cat in a phone box. I am still feeing the effects of this now—I still get feedback from seniors telling me to stretch out further, a problem which has its genesis in these bastards' misjudgement of space.

They're better now, much better, but that night, I coulda killed a handful of my colleagues. Lucky there aren't proper swords in the dojo. As far as I know.

Today is my last day in my current job. It's only been a three-monther, but it's been one of the more enjoyable projects I've undertaken over the last coupla years. And so has the view out over Williamstown, watching the big red ships move slowly into the Yarra, which was an awesome way to zone right out when the stupid cow with the English accent was (in fact, IS) whinging that, yet again, it's not HER fault she hasn't done her work. SHUT UP. But her aside, the gang here have been a welcoming bunch–which isn't always the case with gun-for-hire project work.

Anyway, I don't have anything lined up, so I'm looking forward to some quality time with the playstation and my CV until after Easter. And I have some plans for the house too–like getting a phoneline put in.

On days like this, you know, turning points, I tend to get overly sentimental. Or so I'm told. As I type this, I've taken to riffing on my employment history. Which is really just an excuse to mention that I once worked for this crazed German who dresses like Indiana Jones and exhibits real human bodies. That still creeps me out.

Ding Dong the King is Dead

The Amazing Race outrated The Footy Show in Melbourne last week, The Hun's "Hot or Not" column tells me.

Suck dogs' balls Eddie.

Media Watch

A handful of tidbits I picked up from Virginia Trioli and Stephen Mayne on 774 last night:

1. Melbourne has the highest percentage talkback radio listenership in the world at about 30% of radio listeners.
2. The Hun has the highest penetration rate of any newspaper in the world at around 700,000 copies for 4,000,000 people, assuming a readership of about 3 people per paper (that's me assuming the readership level). Still, that makes it read by more than 50% of Victorians, on average, daily.

What does that say about us?

And then there were these:

1. Metropolitan Sydney has the lowest figures for 6pm news-watching, at around 8% of potential audience.
2. Perth has the highest rate at about 13%.
   
   
3. And incidentally, Sydney also has the lowest rate of people watching Desperate Housewives.

in the absence of an appropriate forum

How about Toadie's new love interest?

Skander-san's Adventures Beyond the Ultraworld 8or Urban Legend

Ok, the fun part of this week's Adventure was that it took a grimy, inner-city construction-site feel. Kinda like that arena in Tekken, the one that flat-top cocksmoker Paul Phoenix calls home—all cyclone fencing, graffiti and el-trains.

Again we had a celebrity instructor, and being a Sunday Session, we had the full complement of seniors too. For some reason there were a shitload of us beginners there–like a good 25, which is about the max I've ever noticed, and possibly more than that in seniors too. So much so that it was chockas on the floor of the dojo when we separated into our respective ranks and commenced our kiri-kaeshi. For those of you who have been waiting in anticipation of an explanation of kiri-kaeshi, it's about 200 words away. We beginners are told to line up opposite our partners–nine steps away, to be precise–and after a rei, start hacking away at each other–which is pretty much the best description I can offer, as our new instructor shook his head and whinced in disbelief. He calls us all in, muttering something about how ridiculous we all looked and who the fuck told us to do it this way. Robbie. Like every other Sunday morning, we can't hear jackshit over the clattering of experienced shinai, but for the very first time, a sane solution in offered: let's all walk out to the back carpark of the dojo, where everyone can hear properly. Ad this from a bloke with a fairly strong voice, as opposed to our usual instructor who is hard enough to hear without background interference. So yeah, I'm kinda like, um, good idea.

Outside we troop, to the concrete carpark with a single car and a skip parked in it, overlooked by an empty 5 storey construction site with scratchy red scaffolding, you know, labourer shit. So with a roll of the eyes and a shrug of the shoulders, we get the full story on kiri-kaeshi:

The aim of kiri-kaeshi is to practice all the skills we have learnt. All of them—our footwork and our shinai work, attacking and receiving. So lets start with the attacking side first–all post rei and sonkyo (the bowing bits). The attacker takes a step back, and then kiais to the motodachi, in this case he shouts some form of "kiri-kaeshi" to tell the defender he is about to commence kiri-kaeshi. This basically means "get the fuck ready, I'm about to lay a blow on your skull", therby encouraging the defender to defend himself by holding his shinai horizontally above his forehead to take any attack. And sure enough that attack comes, in the form of a lunging, straight men cut.

From there we snap, and I mean quick-smart, into a position fists-to-fists, knuckles-to-knucles. If we were wearing the kote, or gloves, we'd bash our fists into one another's, but as we're bare-fisted, it's a kinda symbolic thing. Whereupon the motodachi takes a step back with his left leg, holding his shinai erect, with his left fist at the base just out from his left hip. This is how we receive the first men cut of a series of four, taking a further step back, ayumi-ashi style, where our feet cross-over walking style, after each cut and moving the erect shinai from side to side in time with our back leg to receive the men cuts as they come from first the right, then left, right, left. As the receiver moves back ayumi-ashi, the attacker moved forward okuri-ashi, or the special kendo shuffle that was the first thing we learnt.

So we've made it through four cuts, another five to go. But this time the motodachi pushes the attacker back using the same footwork, the attacker stepping backwardwith each stroke, the defender advancing, defending five cuts this time, right, left, right, left, right. Once that's done, both participants return to kamae and the attacker begins his routine, perhaps not starting with the "kiri-kaeshi" kiai this time, coz we're only half way through the bloody thing.

And so he attacks again, beginning with the straight men, all the way through the nine cuts and ack tothe stat one more time. For the finale: another straight men cut, but this one followed through, past the motodachi until the attacker thinks they're safe enough not to be struck down from behind, and can return to face his opponent.

At this point the two return to where they began with the motodachi now in the position of the attacker, and the attacker where the motodachi was. And so we begin again, in the opposite role to before. "Kiri-kaeshi!"

Yeah, it's pretty full on. They tell us that the Japanese that study kendo at university (yes, they can take a bachelor-type degree in a martial art over there, like sumo, or kendo, or karate, judo, aikido) they spend a whole year on kiri-kaeshi. Getting it right, reforming their technique, doing it again. And I can see why, when we've only really been doing it for 3 weeks, and even then a bit off-and-on and skewiff and misdirected and stuff, and quite frankly we're shithouse. But we will improve.

Neighbours Tragic

This weekend in Melby, the Saturday Hun featured a whole magazine dedicated to 20 years of Neighbours. Apart from putting a picture of Lisa Armytage (Beverley Robinson #1: the brunette) next to a piece about Antoinette Byron (whom I remember playing a psycho nanny to Daphne Zuniga's dull, depressive Jo on Melrose Place), there was an full-page piece by the owner of www.erinsborough.com, a bloke called Alan Shade, and a reference to three, yes, 3 great Neighbours websites. That makes even a soap-tragic like myself shudder. The first cab off the rank was Neighbours.com which is über-crap considering the show has been around for 20 years and has a following of something like 6 million poms a day and about a million of us. Another was perfectblend.net, which features a shitload of character bios n stuff, but will always play second fiddle to erinsborough.com. And so erinsborough.com gets this big-up from the Hun, with retrospectives and highlights and stuff are appearing all over the place, and ya know what: they're down.

I mean, it's like Alanis Morrisette's take on irony: you get all this publicity, and before it's even published, you've done something wrong, somehow, somewhere, and your site has disappeared on the very weekend you get this press. Irony. Maybe.

Skander-san's Adventures Beyond the Ultraworld 7or Will be Warriors

Episode 7 in the enthralling series detailing my experiences as a novice in the local kendo dojo. The action this episode takes place on the Wednesday following the St Jerome's Laneway Festival and the Trainspotting-inspired job interview.

This is the week I arrive 45 minutes late because 1) I'm flat-knacker at work, having to launch my site in 10 days time, and 2) I seriously can't be arsed. It's one of those things, when you've got a shitload to do, you can fit more stuff in, and when you're bone idle, the day flies by and you realise that you haven't so much as washed the dishes. Yes, that means we don't have a dishwasher chez skander. Well we do, and his name is skander. So over the last few weeks, I'm working like a bastard, doing mega-hour days and still fitting in enough time for the good things like alcohol and pot and food . So, at this point, I seriously can't rouse enough interest to get me to the dojo on time. Can't rouse enough interest to leave work, and so I do one of those deflection things were I blame someone esle for not being able to make kendo on time when I know full well that it is my fault and my fault entirely. And this is basically because they have that Japanese-inspired self-responsibility thing going there, where you're just plain expected to be together enough to get there on time, every time, else you're showing disrespect.

So, I thumb my nose at this crappy mantra that reminds me somehow of Anthony Robbins, and rock up 45 late. At least I fronted. But so late in fact that I've missed the warmup all together and the seniors make me go and do a mini version all by myself, most probably just for their own amusement. After I've gone through the motions, I get to join the group again, and notice that our usual instructor has gone AWOL, and we're being taken by a very obviously kiwi-bloke with a huge gap between his front teeth. And he's got us doing kiri-kaeshi. At this point I should say that it took me a long time to find the correct spelling of kiri-kaeshi today because it usully kiai-ed loudly and quickly before we enter into kiri-kaeshi, and usually something like "IKISH", which for a pedantic former Japanese scholar is truly frightening. So now Robbie, our kiwi instructor- for-a-day makes this word sound more horrific than I had previously thought. And he's got a helluva different training style, which is something we don't really learn until the coming Sunday when they try to unlearn us half of what he's had us do.

And so the big thing he tells us is that we need to swing our shinai around more, getting more angle into our 45° men cuts to the head, so that we're looking more and more like helicopters. The opther thing he does that is different is that at the end of the class, he selects 5 students he thinks have best picked up today's instructions, pull them out the front and gets them to demonstate to the rest of us. Ha! Particularly when they are the ones pulled up the next session for doing things the wrong way. Oh the schadenfreude!

And schadenfreude is a very good thing to take one's mind off one's own traumas, which this week, apart from terminal disspiritedness, include that pair of blisters the size of 20cent coins, one on the ball of my left foot and the sole of my right big toe. Yes, my feet, a pair of otherwise unremarkable size 10½s, have a habit of getting themselves into trouble. Like when I fell down the stairs last September and broke my big toe. Yes, the same toe that now lives half in agony and half in fear of agony as a result of its ingrown toenail, which itself is half dead. And so unbelievably attractive. But when you're sliding around on these particular parts of your feet with large flaps of dead skin hanging from the sole, proving the only cushioning for the ultra-senstive tissue below, it gets kinda dangerous. In an anticipation of pain kida way. And then you realise that is why everyone else is wearing these funny martial arts style sockette things. And that the guy who gave you the advice the first week about the blisters becoming calluses was right. And that the kiwi guy is urging you all to find a beach to wade in at 10pm on a Wednesday night—in Melbourne. He clearly doesn't know much about Melbourne to be urging us to put our feet in Post Phillip Bay at all, let alone in the DARK). Now that's a recipe for an infectious disease.

Skander-san's Adventures Beyond the Ultraworld 6 or Memento

I'm going to be kinda brief this time around, seeing as it was a good 3 or so weeks ago, and my memory aint what it used to be. Well, it isn't that bad, they just blur into one another. . But I do know it was the first time we were taught kiri-kaeshi.

Now kiri-kaeshi is a bit of fun. It's the regular drill that kendo students (and masters, while I'm at it) use to practice their skills. And believe me they practice it over and over again. And then some more. What was that I said somewhere earlier about muscle memory? We're sure as hell getting there. But I don't think we got fully into the routine of kiri-kaeshi, so I won't bore you with that one till my next retrospective installment. Which will hopefully be later this arvo, as I'm in the skiving mood.

Having cast a cursory look over the previous installment of Skander-san's Adventures, I've recalled a few details. There was a repeat of the disgusting hyperhidrosis incident, this time precipitated by one of those heatwaves full of the super-dry 39° days that the Royal Ambulence Service revels in. Fuck it was hot. Still around 28° at kendo time, and with the dojo being former factory with an awesome sawtooth roof with few openable windows, I was not alone this time. Thank God for that.

And we finished up with a 15 minute condensed version of shinai maintenance 101. We all gathered around on the floor and pulled apart our weapons, which really aren't much more than four strips of bamboo, a whole bunch of strangely synthetic felty stuff, and a piece of yellow string. Well, the adventurous of us pulled apart our shinai, and the tepid woosy types sat there watching, thinking they were taking in all they need to know, but knowing full well that if they ever have to do anything like repair their sticks, they're going to be royally fucked. Mwahahaha!

busy busy busy

lack of posts due to three eleven hour days at work, one 14 hourer and an a full day of photoshot today. I've got to launch a site by midnight monday, and I got better things to do right now than hang out with my computer. Like getting riotously pissed.

But first I've gotta hit a christening. Let's hope I don't spontaneously combust. Good weekend, y'all.

Magic Monday...

Rather sketchy for a Monday. What with St Jerome's Laneway festival, company all (ALL) taking Monday off, cheeky halves and lashings o' Melbourne Bitter, all dished up on a pleasantly post-yum cha stomach, I deserve all I get.

I don't know if I made any sense in the job inteview this morning.

LadyCracker

As homage to the woman who made my day, I give you her meme:

Choose a musical artist/band and answer only in their song titles:

Garbage

Describe yourself: When I Grow Up
How do some people feel about you? Shut Your Mouth
How do you feel about yourself? I Think I'm Paranoid
Describe your ex-partner: #1 Crush
Describe your current partner: Supervixen
Describe what you want to be: The World is not Enough
Describe your current mood: Special
Describe your friends: Fix Me Now
Share a few words of wisdom: The Trick is to Keep Breathing

In the worlds before Monkey...

Primal chaos reigned. Heaven sought order, but the phoenix can fly only when its feathers are fully grown. The four worlds formed again and yet again as endless aeons wheeled and passed. Time and the pure essences of Heaven, the moistures of the Earth, and the powers of the Sun and the Moon all worked upon a certain rock—old as Creation, and it magically became fertile. That first egg was named Thought, Tathagata Buddha, the Father Buddha, said, 'With our thoughts we make the world.' Elemantal forces caused the egg to hatch, and from it then came a stone Monkey. The nature of Monkey was irrepressible!

Did you know there were 13 "lost" episodes of Monkey? 13 that were never dubbed into English, never shown on the ABC. Well, there were. And they found 'em a year or two back. But the really good bit is this: they were dubbed last year. By most of the original voice cast! Which is bloody lucky because less than a month after they finished dubbing these "lost episodes" the voice-actor who played Pigsy—easily the most recognisable of the bunch—kicked the proverbial.

=

Vale Peter Windthorpe

Skander-san's Adventures Beyond the Ultraworld 5or Apt Pupil

Having missed last Wednesday's kendo sesh due to the incomparable presence of one Mr David Mitchell, I decided to keep a somewhat low profile this time around. That is what I decided. But that's not what happened.

Sometime after the warmup, I got afflicted by a disease I have now identified as hyperhidrosis. And not just a little bit o' extra sweat round the pits or nothin'. It was streaming, streaming down the sides of my face for an good hour and a half. It was a fucking nightmare. My tops were soaked through, both of 'em, my fisherman's trousers were wet. I was a laughing stock. Stock was the bloody-well right word too. And yet it only seemed to come from my head. That's what I couldn't get. Why had this suddenly happened? It wasn't like I was training twice as hard as ever before, yet even the instructor commented "that's a lot of sweat there". Poor bloke put his hand on the small of my back at one point, and I'm sure it was not a pleasant experience.

Was it because I hadn't washed the shirt since the last kendo? Like, as if the hint of male in it from the week earlier had evinced from me some impossible reaction, drawing out all my reserves of seat? Not likely, really. Or because I had drunk a ship-load of water during the night before, which I needed to dispel? I mean, we'd had a fairly quiet Saturday night, a couple of DVDs and a pizza [Japanese Story, very good, Plots with a View, very bad]. Not even any wine for God's sake. Then again, I couldn't look any alcohol in the eye on Saturday—during the day that is, as I'd been spending most of the early hours of Saturday morning downing cheap champagne and stubbies of beer at a great rate of knots. In my white t-shirt, brogues, baggy jeans and a boxy jacket 80s costume. The costume went down well, as did the grog. As did the cheeky half. Which is what I have put this bizarre unstoppable- sweating episode down to. God aging is a cunt.

On the upside, we learnt passes. I spose that's what they're called, three steps and then a lunge into a men. Then two steps and a lunge into a men, and then one, and just the lunge—which can be quite difficult from your kamae. And then it was the turn of the good old kota, or wrist cut. By this stage, as well as looking like I'd just walked out of Port Phillip Bay (à la a clothed male Bo Derek, as opposed to that scene in Flash Gordon where Flash emerges from the slime with his blow wave intact), I had developed a slight pain from standing on the ball of my left foot for two hours—in other words, a blister on the sole of my foot. Diddums.

Then we're worded up: for last 10 minutes of class, we're going to face off against the seniors. I think every single beginner's stomach did an ickle backflip at that—we're gonna what? Are they gonna hit back? What if we fuck it up? Are we, like, duelling? Help!

But it was a piece of piss. And fun. Charging at the blue-clad seniors and whacking them on the helmet (men) with our men cuts. Yeah, fun. And then with some kota cuts to their blue-padded gauntlets (kota). Except of course for my unfortunate situation, and the fact that somewhere during my second or third pass, I felt that squelch on the ball of my foot and realised that, hey, my blister had burst. All yummy and pussy n bloody n stuff.

When it was all over, which wasn't long as we were only given 10 minutes, Mau, our instructor, gathered us all around to tell us that that usually doesn't take place till week 6 or 7. And we're on week 3. Hah! Does that mean we're shit-hot or what? I'll got for shit-hot, and try to ignore the excessive-sweating thing.

Sorry Folks (subtitle: Fuck off)

I just received an email that began "Sorry Folks".

Any time I receive anything with the endearingly quirky term "folks" in it, my automatic reaction is to destroy said piece of communcation immediately due to the imbecility of the sender. Nothing beyond that word can be deemed of any possible worth whatsoever.

2 good things

The first is a story I heard on AM yesterday ["Good Morning, I'm Tony Eastley"]. It seems some of the fundo loons in the states, the same ones that re-elected the monkey king, have actually come to their senses and realised that the end of the world is not nigh, and that perhaps, it is not actually their God's will that we should use it like the town bike. Although they have to eschew terms like "environmentalism" because to the untrained ear, that sounds all too similar to "darwinist" or "evolution", they have come up with their own twee term for people who care about their planet [ooh, that might be just to close to evolutionism itself— how does the Bible justify the universe, you know, planets and stuff? Hang on, I've always wanted to know how it explains dinosaurs, too.] and that term is... creation carers. Doesn't that sound like fun? Well it does to me because apparently it wasn't meant to happen like this and it's got Karl Rove screaming down the phones to his moles in the ministries, pleading for them to stop the rot—they can't have the electoral base thinking for itself now can we? Suck dogs' balls Rove.

The second good thing is that tomorrow, Britain's first supersoap Eastenders, turns 20. That's be Feb 19, 1985 it hit the airwaves. And Neighbours is to follow, hitting the double-decade on March 18.

I first came across Easties in Fallowfield in Manchester, sleeping on the couch in some friends' lounge room while she and her flatmates all piled in on Sunday for the omnibus. Oh, what a joy an ominbus is: two-an-a-quarter hours of soap in a row, with no ads! And not just any soap, but the gritty, grimy, depressing lives of a bunch of poor east end sods.

The storyline that made me appreciate the show, lying there hungover in a grotty Mancunian student flat, was the Tiffany Mitchell exit plotline—no driving off a cliff on your wedding day here. What happens is that she finds out that her mum and her husband have been at it by no other medium than overhearing them talking about it on the baby monitor. Yes, the baby monitor. She rushes up the stairs, falls down them, and ends up in hospital, unconscious and badly injured. Did bovver-boy husband Grant push her? Did she fall? Did cuckolding mother Lousie push her? But lo, she doesn't die. She recovers, and is able to leave the hospital on Xmas day, what joy!—the soap opera Chrissie day episode is something of a tradition over there I hear—and so she does. Only to be mowed down by her father-in-law—one of the finest soap characers of all time, Frank Butcher—on his way back "down the mo'away from Manchestahh". Ah, wonderful stuff.

The 20th anniversary double length ep involves two separate murders—Andy Hunter and Dirty Den Watts to breathe their last. It's be the second time for Den, who had been shot multiple times and left for dead in a canal, only to resurface again 11 years later. He surely has to be one of the nastiest, most sinister, lecherous characters soap has seen. And we think Paul Robinson is bad. Pah!

And he was

You know how, when you really like something or someone—like a web-buddy or a band or in this case an author—there is a certain amount of trepidation, that niggling worry that when you finally get them in person, they are not going to live up to your expectations and therefore forever ruin your enjoyment of whatever it is. It's like those expectations you build up when you get really excited about a new film. And then you see it and it's verging on shithouse. And you get really pissed off with yourself and your intended and your infatuation and well everything.

David Mitchell lived up to the infatuation. What a genuinely nice, smart, down-to-earth fellow, almost shy with his stutter and his vewy, vewy soft rs. He read two passages from Cloud Atlas—the first consisted of the first few pages of "The Ghastly Ordeal of Timothy Cavendish", encompassing the rooftop cocktail party, and the second began with the legend of the origins of fire from "Sloosha's Crossin'" and ended with the raid. I reckon he read rather than spoke simply because it's tough to get up in front of bunch of people and dissect your own processes, particularly with regard to creative endeavours. And those who do are wankers. But while reading, he told those following along not to mind any differences between what he was reading and the text: as an author one is continually editing and re-editing one's work, he said, it is impossible not to, even long after it's gone to the publisher. What other gems did he drop for us mere mortals? That Tim Cavendish and Luisa Rey both appeared in Ghostwritten, similar to the way Eiji and number9dream developed. That he's got a 2½ yeaor old kid. That Cloud Atlas was inspired by Italo Calvino's If on a Winter's Night a Traveller, or the frustration of it. That he doesn't want to be known as the "wacky structure" guy.

The only way I can see him fucking up this wonderful relationship we've developed over the last 3 years is by writing a genuinely crap book. And that, my friends, doesn't seem as though it'll happen. Ever. The next one's about a 13 year old boy, vignettes set to a deteriorating domestic environment. So, yeah, I think he'll be stuck with the "wacky structure guy" moniker for a while yet.

Sign it, damn you

In keeping with the japanese theme of my day:

C O N G R A T U L A T I O N S to the United Nations
The Kyoto Protocol is born

Cloud Atlas

I am boning up all day today. My favourite novellist, a young chap by the name of David Mitchell is in town. And he's at Readings in Carlton at 6:30 tonight, just a hop, step and jump from where I am. Yay! But it does mean I shall be missing kendo.

This guy rocks my world. I can't get enough of his writing, and it's not simply because he and I are both japanophiles. If I could write, I'd write like him. He's almost too smart by half, and that's my role. In another life, I would be him. Aaaargh.

Since his first novel, Ghostwritten, he's been shortlisted for the Booker Prize twice—first for number9dream, and then last year's tour de force, Cloud Altas. As pretentious as I can be, I don't think I've ever had an occasion to use "tour de force" before. But nothing can describe that book better—it blows the mind.

Best. Book. Ever.

Skander-san's Adventures Beyond the Ultraworld 4or Honour Amongst Sheathes

This week's Sunday Session started off with our "first full warm-up", according to the instructor de jour: "Beginners (such an endearing term), you have just experieincee your first full warm up" he said. It really wasn't that different from the ones we had done before—a bit longer with more hip rotations, perhaps—but perhaps I am just feeling a little jaded because we practised rather than learnt this day. Or because I do not feel particularly inpired at the mo'.

And practise we did. We even had to dump the shinai and simulate our swings without them. And I actually got picked up a few times for not extending my left arm to its full extent. Ever since the notorious Sardinian moped incident of 2002, I have a bunch o' trouble with the ol' left shoulder. Most probably because it is a good inch shorter than it used to be. fucker.

Swings were perfected. First sans shinai, then one-handed, which is tough on the old left arm after a couple of series of ten swings. To the point where we all seemed to be doing the right thing, apart from me still having a spot of bother with the full left arm extension. The other thing that is doing my head in is the parallel feet thing. My left heel quite likes keeping the position it always has kept, namely slightly tucked in towards the right. And that's not parallel. Which means I have to keep my mind on it, reminding it where it should be and forcing it there because it is not a natural position for my old size 10½. So, I've got to keep my mind on a whole bunch of things at once and yet on nothing at the same time. I spose that's zen for you...

What we did end up learning was the ritual of the rei, which is the process you go though when facing your opponent. And it's kinda fun—we enviously notice all the 'seniors and juniors' as they're called getting on with it, while we're swinging in the breeze, so there is a certain joy in moving on and actually facing someone. The rei, which is the bow, begins the ritual as follows: stading approximately 9 paces from your opponent, shinai at ease, you bow the 15° degree/eye-contact bow; come to attention, with your thumb on the tsuba; take three strides forward, drawing you shinai on the second step and coming into kamae on your third; now we descend into sonkyo, but with our shinai crossing at the tip; and then back up to kamae. At the end of our 'bout' we reverse the ritual, sheathing our shinai in the sonkyo pose, and taking five small steps backwards, rather than 3 larger ones. Then bow again, and we're done.

What resembled a proper training then followed: we line up along either side of our half of the dojo, rei to one another and complete our enjoining rituals, then practise 10 men cuts each way, and complete our rituals—which actually make it a helluva lot easier to hold that constant eye contact we're meant to be holding, and give us a brief excuse for a bit of emotion or familiarity at the end of each bout. Then we all move one place to the left. New partner, same practice. It's certainly much more fun than simply lining up and swinging in the air.

Finally we were shown what the do cut is: the cut to the waist. But we didn't get to practice that as we were out of time and my parents awaited me with some yum cha and a room full of my old crap to either keep, sell or toss out. Instead we were shown the do and how to block it. Pity I can't make tonight. I feel I'll be left behind.

Load shipping

I've had this feeling for a little while—well, since last Thursday with the whole Lawman wrestling bizzo— and now I've come across a spoiler implying as much. It's just a pity I couldn't have posted it yesterday on the day it deserved...

Love match 2005:
Lyn Scully vs Jared "The Toad" Rebecchi

heart

They look as scared as we are. Bring on the Load!

Come fly with me

Fluffy came across this nifty little world map, visited countries generator thing. And like her, it's made me realise that there is a whole ship-load of countries out there that have not yet been graced by my presence. And they don't know what they're missing out on. Well, not yet, anyway.




So, after a Friday and a Sunday evening talking about it, we're going to try to marshall some funds and get hopping over to NYC for this wedding we've been invited too. We've heard there are some airfares going for about $1,000 around, which doesn't seem to bad. And it's what the missus wants—I can't let her down after only 3 months of marriage. We might even be able to do a day trip to Canada so I can fill that part of my map in.

My favourite painting in the world is in the MoMA in New York. And I'd be very happy whiling away half a dayin front of The City Rises by Umberto Boccioni

The best part about all this, and particularly once I have acquiesced and we have been, is that there are a couple more functions we've been invited to in various parts fo the globe. So while she wants the New York City wedding, I'm personally more keen on the Brazilian one in January. And while we're there, Chile, Argentina, Peru, Bolivia, and even Colombia, perhaps. Which is the one continent yet to have been tarred by my brush, if I can put it that way. Bring on the red pixels, I say.

Further down the track, we've both agreed that the Iran-Syria odyssey is on the cards for sometime in the year after that, hopefully before Georgie-boy gets there. Or Johnny starts making stupid fucking racist fearmongering belligerent calls about the place (too late!). You see, my grandfather gave me a travel diary long ago. It only had one entry in it: Isfahan. In the north of Iran. So I want to witness what he saw and wrote about. Before moving on to other parts of the Med I've been storing up, like Palymra and Craq des Chevaliers.

Skander-san's Adventures Beyond the Ultraworld 3 or The Silent Kiai

I arrived 15 minutes late to the dojo on Wednesday. It was half-purposeful. Oh hell, it was intentional. Not only had I read the bit in the handbook where it says 'lateness is a sign of disrespect and will not be tolerated', but I wanted to see if they meant it. And I was up to the boss level fight in EarthLurker with my strange creatures in Jade Cocoon 2 and I just had to get up to the 3rd level of the earth world ['Groundwork'] before I left. Which I started at five-to-seven and still got there within 20 minutes. And beat the beast. Ha!

It was back to mostly novices again tonight. And they were well into the warm-up routine. Those crazy Japanese. They really do have a thing for ritual. So I bowed, shuffled and joined the circle mid-way through the calf rises. And they're still making themselves known my calves, now, two days later.

Again it was mostly practicing our single men cuts. 30 at a time, over and over again, with the prowling instructors ready to slide their shinai between your ankles if they're getting too close together, or to prevent you from swinging back further than the mandated 45° behind the head. The first time they do that, holding their shinai up to stop your shinai in its tracks, I tell you, it gives you qute a fright. Because you can't see them and you're certainly not expecting to hit something. And they do it silently. I think I must've jumped a good foot in the air the first time I got pulled up.

A lot more footwork, a lot more men. And then something new. Like an unexpected gift, and I don't count syphillis and its ilk in this analogy, we were bidden face an opponent. Of the same height. So of course, when I turn, I happen to be opposite the smallest girl in the whole class, a sweet little chinadoll with big eyes and a cheeky smile. Then again, there is only one other bloke in the class who is over six foot. As the number of attendees was uneven I get saddled with of the experienced fellows in blue. Actually, by the end of the session, I'd faced off against three of them. And, not wanting to be too much of a suck (which is damn-near impossible as a 'mature-age student', even in an all-ages class), I'm glad I did. It meant that I got a bit o' special attention. And someone to say "you're coming along quite well there" at the end. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

So we're facing each other. Me and the encouraging middle-aged bloke who started "in the May class two years ago". And we're in kamae. With our swords crossed. With our eyes focussed on one another. Now that's a concept that's hard to get used to. It's kinda like a staring competition, where you can't laugh or smile or break eye contact, and you're all 'how soon till I get an excuse to look away?' It's all so serious. Then again, the point of holding their gaze is that it gives you an excellent level of peripheral vision.

And this time we're to maintain kamae, maintain distance and, no, you'll never guess what else. Hands up those who said 'practice our footwork'! You got it. This time though, the main instructor was calling 'forwards' or 'backwards' in Japanese for each step, and we had to react and move as a pair. I must have gotten a little cocky, because my partner in blue told me 'don't anticipate which way he'll call'. But then he kept doing it himself, so I could rightfully smirk . Kendo suck.

Once that was out of the way, more stroke practice was in order. This time facing a partner—the first time we've actually had a chance to swing the shinai in the general direction of an opponent. Yay! So our opponent holds his (or her) shinai horizontally above their head, about 2 fists out from the forehead, and we get to whack it. The general idea here is to teach us to master the finish of the stroke; that is, to teach us where the stroke should end—in other words, embedded an inch or so in our opponent's forehead. Again, eyes locked on one another's, not watching your shinai, not watching their shinai, but straight ahead, our gaze focussed on our oppoenent's gaze. And away we go. Firstly against one instructor, then another, where everyone else is chopping away at fellow students. See, now I get more feedback from the professionals; indeed, two professionals. Like having a private tutor. Yeah, I'm a fucking dork.

The last act of the play this time round involved a little introduction to the kiai. We all know what it is, we've just never heard the word. Ki means spirit (as in genki, meaning health) and ai means yell. So it's the spirit yell. But we all know it as those strange screams Bruce Lee, or any other martial artist, does. It is meant to capture and concentrate the spirit, thereby focussing the manoeuvre you're trying to execute. It's got other physiological purposes too, but I haven't sussed them fully—along the lines of reticulating one's breathing and stuff. This is the reason behind the "ichi... ni... san... shi..." business we constantly have to recite. Though most of the class are moderately to very shit at the shouting bit. I mean, come on guys, it's not that fucking hard. All it takes is a teensy-weensy bit o' courage, that bit that will override the embarrassment of losing count and shouting out 'ichi' when you've already completed your 30 or whatever reps.

What did I tell you, I'm a mature-aged student. We are all fucking nerds.

There was a fitting little addendum to the nerd action this night however. Put your hand up those of you who came in late. Sure enough it's about half the class. 100 extra star jumps please. 60 extra calf raises. You won't be doing that again, now will ya?

Turd Blossom

Did no-one else notice the similarities between the Bush and Howard campaigns? Bush used gay marriage as his touchstone issue to 'get out' the conservative vote. Howard tried it, but Tania Plibersek trumped him by agreeing. Now we have to endure a pointless, ideological debate on abortion . Why? Dennis Glover puts it all in perspective. It's all about making conservative voters identify with your agenda , without necessarily spelling it out or targeting their hip pockets. Call it subliminal politics. It scares me.

Skander-san's Adventures Beyond the Ultraworld 2or Episode Two: The Phantom Sensei

Sunday morning 9am. Back into the nasty nylon fisherman's pants I picked up in Cambodia under threat of interminable wailing, pleading, and desperate competition among the touts outside Banteay Samre. "You buy from me, mistaaaaah".

And off to the dojo. It's lucky it's local is all I can say.

The motley group of greenhorns dressed in everything from lairy boardies to dirty trackies was this time matched by an equal-sized group of fully-fledged club members, all helmetted and clad in their blue keikogi and hakama. Laps around the dojo first, then star jumps and calf-rises. And on to the quite elaborate stetching routine. First the left hand side of the body: top of the left foot and wrist; then the left achilles and bottom of the left wrist; left calf and a lateral stretch to the left wrist; left quad, and finally left hamstring. All the while shouting the count to eight in Japanese. Twice. And then on to the right-hand side of the body. And finally the groin and the neck.

"Ichi... Ni... San... Shi... Go... Roku... Shichi... Hachi..."

Now we go through a whole series of stroke-practice-cum-warm-up exercises. 30 jogeburi—large swing cuts ending at knee height, 30 nanameburi—large swing diagonal cuts to knee height, 30 single men—short swing cuts to the head, 30 single diagonal men—aimed at hitting the skull on a 45° angle, 30 double men, 30 single diagonal men and finally, "not for you beginners", 30 double-time double men cuts. Phheww. And we don't even get taugh men until the last 20 minutes of today's session, so you can image what we all looked like.

Now we separate into the newbies and the old-hands. You mean even when we complete this introductory course, we'll still have to sacrifice our Saturday nights for our Sunday mornings? Okay, so it might be be a boon for my liver but it's going to murder my social life. I'd hoped they were all here to aid and encourage us neophytes with our awkward footwork and over-zealous swings, but no. They head off to their side of the dojo, turn their backs to us as through we are the hideous mangled result of an ice-cream-van/motorcycle accident to be patently ignored, and begin charging each other with kiais reminiscent of Brain Damage. While we return to footwork practice, sneaking envious glances at the experienced practitioners.

And I tell you, this footwork practice is not easy. Bare feet, gym floor, the aim is to use sliding steps on the balls of your feet. So it's okuri-ashi, the small steps leading with the right foot, where the feet return to the same position after each pair of steps, right foot slightly in front of and parallel to the left, and ayumi-ashi, where the same sliding technique is applied to normal walking strides. Now try telling those two commands apart at 30 paces. And so we move up and back, up and back, across the dojo, over and over again, always beginning with and returning to the kamae.

The kamae stance—back straight, knees slightly bent, feet in the usual position, shinai pointed at your opponent's throat, a fist's length out from your abdomen—is considered the most stable, and therefore the best position to attack or defend from. So, all movements, cuts, slices and steps, all return to this position. What we're all aiming for here is muscle memory, so these movements become second nature.

And I think we're getting there. While the boys (and girls) in blue continue to charge each other, we continue practicing our footwork and our cuts. What more did I expect in my second class? It's certainly different from the few sessions I went to at the Melbourne Uni Kendo Club all those years ago, where it was all grab a shinai and off we go.

Today we have the senior sensei supervising our session, a little old Japanese man who I'm sure has a viscious temper and a stern, economical way with his words. He watches the contenders, but every now and then turns his attention to us as up and back, up and back we go. Is that a faint self-contented, almost Howardian smile I see? Yet not a word do we hear from him throughout our 2½ hours in the dojo. Not a peep.

Finally we learn the men cut. It is intended to hit the forehead and slice it open. On the first step (always the right foot) the shinai is raised to 45° behind the head; on the second step, when the left foot joins the right, parallel with its toes still aligned to the right heel, the cut is made, stopping abruptly where the forehead would be, so basically your sword is embedded just an inch or so into your opponent's skull. And then—this is the bit I like—as we return to kamae slowly dragging the sword back to its restive position pointed at the throat, the blade would slice deeper into the brain and then down the face. You know, just to make sure.

See, it does sound fun after all.

Man Overboard

I've been playing this song on belt-repeat for the last few days. And it doesn't even have a chorus. A classic from '85, and the only really big one from Do-Re-Mi, I think it's the anger I'm fancying, [I had a job interview on Friday, grrrrrr] but there's also a kinda Australian suburban æsthetic going on, which reminds me of storytellers like Paul Kelly and Mick Thomas.

More properly, I have a thing for the jaded rock-chick, all fucked-up and sexy like Shirley Manson, but who doesn't? Would you believe these feisty feministic lyrics were penned by a former Big M girl?

I try not to stand too close to myself.
I try not to listen to the things I say.
They say there's no such thing as self-abuse,
But you wonder how I can be trusted
If I'm finely-tuned or well-adjusted.
Oh, pity about you.
Oh, pity about me.
What’s the pity about that?
Every time she comes inside,
You had to run.
You had to run.
You wish that crush would go away.
You're not the only one.

Squinting in broad daylight,
Drumming up a conversation,
Parson's brass is pealing, appealing,
Drumming up a congregation.
Hands reaching for a glass of water,
Dry socks and razor rash,
Your shoes under my bed,
Dandruff to my cigarette ash.

I've tried to play it open-handed,
I've tried to make a fist of this.
Even when the questions are candid,
my arrows miss.
I've heard about your fragile ego,
Your shield, your sword,
What am I expected to do?
Shout "Man overboard"?

Come around when I’m asleep
Roll around and try to wake me.
That's alright, you've got to go now.
Words overtake me.
Your pubic hairs are on my pillow,
Your stubble in the sink,
Your words under my skin,
Your table manners stink.

I’m proud of all the things I love—
You want to spar for trivia.
In a vase with insincere I-love-yous,
Next door's camellias.
I'm sick and tired of this position,
Hatched underneath the wall.
A crutch under stress,
No matter when it's gone.
I'm bored, staring at the ceiling
While you point out my flaws.
I watch the wallpaper peeling
from slamming doors.
You talk about penis envy
Your friends applaud.
What am I expected to do?
Shout "Man overboard"?

Come across to other girls
Look around, start a rumour.
Tell us why things raise a smile at parties,
Like anal humour.
Are you addicted to attention?
Do you do it for effect?
Your wit out of control,
Misunderstood and hen-pecked.

As a lyrics nerd, I've been trying to nut out all the angry stuff she's getting at, but have been having trouble with the bit before the vase. If anyone has any idea what she's saying there, let me know because it's really shitting me.

And anyone know where I can get hold of a copy of The Happiest Place in Town?

Skander-san's Adventures Beyond the Ultraworld or Enter the Dojo

So along I trooped on Wednesday evening, all kitted out in the closest things I have to (dreaded) exercise clothes—I think I must be the only male in the entire western world who has still not stooped to the level of actually owning a pair of tracksuit pants. Through the torrential rain I trudged, shinai in hand, head bowed to Kura-Okami, the god of rain.

Upon arriving at the building, I was bade remove my shoes. No surprises there. And into the gym-like dojo. A rag-tag bunch of drowned rats like myself were milling around, some with, some without shinai. It was a bit of a nighmare actually, like that first day in a new school: some kids know each other and are all chummy, while others like me stand around twiddling their thumbs, waiting for the bell to ring.

And it did, kinda—out with the $135.00, and before we knew it, we were all being taught about the ancient art of kendo. About how to handle the shinai—it is an ersatz sword , so should never be a) held by it's blade or b) stepped over or c) fondled without permission of the owner. About bowing to the "High Place" upon entering and leaving the dojo, each and every time you leave the gym-surface for the carpet or the vestibule: this should be done to approximately 30°, focussing one's attention on the ground 1½metres ahead; how to show appropriate respect to one's adversaries in the dojo, in this case maintain eye contact and bow 15°.

See, it's all fun and games. Not at all a cult like my love surmises. I made the mistake of taking her to an aikido class once. I was never allowed back.

So once we were instructed in the niceties of the art, it was time to start bashing each other with our bamboo poles. Well, not quite. First, there was a half hour of warm up and stretching. A lot of stretching, mostly calf stretching, because most of the people there were weak as piss and don't have strong, masculine calves like moi.

So now we can lunge at each other with out teeth bared and our shinai ready to slice some mother-fucker's head off? Again no. Now we learn the age-old eastern arts of crouching, kneeling, paying respect, centring, meditating, and some sort of simulation of prayer. Which is all fine and good if you don't have a bloody ingrown toenail on your left big-toe meaning the thing is next to useless most of the time, but hurts like buggery whe pressure is applied the wrong way. Which the movement from crouching to kneeling and back again did. Ouch is an understatement. Throbbing pain that distorts your universe until you feel like Munch's Scream is more appropriate. In comparison, buggery is quite a pleasant experience actually.

[how funny that the Norwegian for scream is skrik, so close to shreik, but I won't even start on The Amazing Race at this stage of the day]

Now, drawing you shinai is actually quite fun—a simulation of drawing your katana, just like Toshiro. But it isn't something that is too easy to explain. Just imagine you're unsheathing a Japanese longsword.

The next stage we the impure moved onto after drawing your shinai, was how to hold it. Left hand at the base, right hand just behind the tsuba, with the V-shapes formed by your grip aligned with the tsuru which symbolises the cutting blade. Haaaaaaiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii-ya!

So finally, we get to wave this fucken thing around? No. Now we learn footwork. (It's always the way, isn't it? Try watching eastern movies—a whole different form of narrative.) Left and right feet parallel a foot apart, right heel aligned with left toes. Easy. Now try getting about and always returning your feet to the same position, and god help you if you rest on your heel at any time. That, it seems, is the cardinal sin. I have always wanted to be able to steal around like they do in those Japanese films, silently sliding the shoji back and pounce on my unsuspecting victim as he, I dunno, fornicates with some fourth-level courtesan. And now, without using my heels, it seems I can! Woo Hoo!

So now it's coming up to 2 hours, and it's time for all good greenhorns to get back to their normal lives. But now, yes, now, we ge to wave the stick around. 20 like this please. Ok. 20 more. Ok. Now try 20 this way. yeah, c'mon, my noodle house closes in 15 minutes and I don't want to starve tonight. Or eat wedding sausage. I'm actually quite partial to wedding sausage but not as a meal. 20 more this way. Louder. In Japanese. I can't hear you. 20 more. 10 more each side. ok, you can go now.

Phew.

Would you believe I'm looking forward to Sunday?

Shinai or shinai not?

Taking a leaf from Jonas' book, I'm making a start on a month without beer. Not alcohol, just beer. The humble prince of beverages and friend of the poor man, for the next four weeks the amber ale is consigned to history, like Madge Bishop and Mark Latham. And hopefully, as a pleasant little side-effect, I might finally be able to kick the fags too.

So no more beer. Hmm. I've survived almost 48 hours so far, which means I have only approximately 624 to go. And I would bloody choose February too, wouldn't I? The hottest month of the Victorian year, and I spose I'll be poncing about on red wine or gin & tonics or campari or some such. How about vodka + campari + tonic, no straw? Or a nice big pitcher of Pimms? I wouldn't be unhappy if that was waiting for me when I got home each night. Yes, that's starting to sound a bit better.

And on top of this I've decided to join up at the local kendo club for a 7-week exercise in doing something other than drinking beer and watching crap telly of an evening. But then this too has backfired with the news that the intro- classes are held every Wednesday evening and every Sunday morning. Yep. Sunday bloody morning. Every Sunday morning for the next 7 weeks. That in itself requires the sort of discipline I am trying to give myself, but it also precludes going anywhere for the next 7 weekends—not down to the beach or off to the country. No sudden trips to Sydney for a party or a random overnighter on the TT line. Fuck, it means I'll barely even make it across the river for the next 2 months. God knows what St Kilda will look like by the time I'm a fully-fledged warrior of the stick!

January 2003 Omeo Valley

North Eastern Victoria, January 2003. Half the state is alight.
The fires burnt out Omeo Valley on Australia Day. What's more Australian than that?

Devastation, no?

That isn't a sun setting behind the mountains. It's the main fire away to the north, where the arm that torched the valley above came from. It got south into Omeo too—the cricket pitch, the official safe-haven, caught alight. There were 7 different fire fronts I could see that evening, stretching along the horizon from the west to the east. Three of the four exits from the valley were blocked by fire, and the southern one, the open one, the one I had powered through that day, had only had the all clear that morning.

How's that for gravitas?

I go out on friday night and I come home on Saturday morning

It's Friday night. I'm leaving the pub. Melbourne has been stinking all week long, and tonight is no exception—move determinedly enough and you'll break out in an uncomfortable sweat—but it's past ten and the evening is cooling down a bit. I wander down to the closest main street, and start that craning neck thing you do when looking for a cab, walking backwards and that.

Eventually a yellow falcon with a white light on top comes by. I jump into the front seat, like you do. I see the driver's name is something I can't put a nationality against.

"Busy night mate?"
"It's okay" Heavy wog accent.
"Where you from mate?"
"Macedonia"
"Oh nice" (I spose) And I start going on about this Albanian rug I've got. And even if the Macedons and the Albanians do hate each other, they're next-door neighbours. He sorta cuts me off. I've mentioned the wife.
"Ah you married mate?"
"Yes"
"You ever, you know, cheat on your wife?"
"No"
"Why not?"
"We've only been married two months" A fact. "Do you?"
"Yes. You have to mate"

So you can see, it's starting to go a little off the usual course of pissed-passenger/sober-taxi-driver repartée. My responses start becoming more and more monosyllabic—if it is possible to be more or less monosyllabic, as opposed to just simply monosyllabic.

"Sometimes I take the headjob in the taxi" he tells me. "You know, if they have no money. It's not so bad."
"Ugh" I'm sure you do, Mr middle-aged, married, Macedonian taxi driver.
"My wife no like the headjobs." Pause. "I like the headjob. And sometimes also from the man." Curiouser and curiouser. "Have you ever had the headjob from the man?"
"No" I lie.
"Why not? "
"Never been propositioned, I spose"
"It's the best mate, the best. The man, he know what to do. The woman, she no idea."
"Ugh" I'm repeating myself.
"You a handsome man" Fucken oath! "why you never been with a man?"
"Dunno"
"Oh, the man, he's so much better. You know, I also suck the dick sometimes..."
"Really?" ok, two more sets of traffic lights.
"Yes, really. Is not so bad."
and then
"Maybe we go somewhere quiet, I suck your dick?"
WHAT?!?
"You like that?"
"No, sorry mate, I'm already running late for my mates. Not tonight." Not ever Mr middle-aged, married, macedonian taxi driver with three kids (did I neglect to mention that?)
"You sure? What time you go home? I pick you up. You know. I suck your dick. I like it."
"I don't know what time I'll be finished, sorry mate."
"I'll give you free ride. You handsome. I like to give you headjob. You will like it. I'm very good. And I drop you home after. Is easy"
"Just here please mate, at the 7-11" Still a few blocks to go but I don't want any more of this.
"You sure you no want? We can go round corner here, is dark."
"No thanks mate," handing over the approximate fare.
"Here, I give you my card. You want, you call me when you finish here, I give you headjob, no charge for ride home. Sounds good, yes?"
"Ugh"
"Here you call me"

So I took the card. And used it for roaches.

The moral of the story?

Don't. Wear. Pink. Polo. Shirts.

An ingrown toenail and a benign cyst

I was reading a little more of the Graham Greene book this morning on my way to the doctor's surgery—a bulk-billing one no less— when I came across this:

"... Mrs Montgmery was satisfactorily widowed..."

What a wonderful turn of phrase. All very straight-forward and unabashed and, well, old fashioned. And he wrote it in 1979.

Spleen Central

Let me get the Labor Party thing of my chest. What a bloody cop out! No Kevin, no Julia, just a bunch of scared little men (and women) hiding behind Big Kim. All this faux unity. I mean, it's like some sort of baudrillard-ian simulation of unity—if we all hide the knives behind out backs, look at the camera and smile, everyone will think we're just one big happy family. When it's so fucking obvious that there is no unity, just those same unelected shadows from the NSW/QLD Right in the background with their threats and arm twisting. (Does the name Eric Roozendaal ring a bell? Of course not. A year or so ago he was a prime Anyone-But-Crean mover and shaker in ALP NSW Headquarters, now safely shoe-horned into the NSW Legislative Council). Do they think that some sort of QUITE BLOODY OBVIOUS façade of 'unity', some papering over of differences for the camera, like those sets they use in Hollywood that looks like a house but is only a clapboard image of a house held erect by triangular struts and will topple in the slightest gust, and a complete bloody whole where any sort of policy should be, will help them to look more attractive to the Australian public? We're wiser than that, buckoes.

The things you have to do, for a start, are bloody well apologise for cocking up the last election, in particular, whoever-the-fuck was responsible for the atrocious preference deal in Victoria which put in a reactionary religious conservative in the senate ahead of a 'fellow-traveller' of sorts from the Greens. Now whoever did that deal to try to save Jacinta Collins should be taken out and summarily shot.

NOW.

No, fuck that. THREE MONTHS AGO.

Then how about some policy? Perhaps a policy that doesn't involve throwing money at the well-feathered middle class? Perhaps something with just a small smattering of 'bold', something that recognises that there ARE single people without kids who vote, like Medicare Gold did for the 80+s. Not that it won their votes, but they're rusted on to John Howard anyway. At least Julia had some sort of vision. Unlike the rest of you fuckers.

Just something that you guys care about. Other than your own hides (and superfunds), apparatchiks. But if you care about it, and you believe in it (whatever it is), people will hear and see conviction, and perhaps be more inclined to listen. As opposed to difference for difference sake, or damn mask of unity you are insisting on wearing, and quite frankly, you've made yourselves look like first-class fools.

Ok, that's off the chest. I can move on.

Celebrity Drink Driving

When this all started out about a week ago, when the entire Commonwealth of Australia heaved that long-awaited sigh of relief that Mark Latham had finally given up his postmodern-dance-cum-brainstorming- exercise-cum-streetfight style of political leadership, I was firnly in the Kevin Rudd camp. Former diplomat, experienced shadow foreign minister, seasoned Lateline performer, and one of the most plain-speaking and comprehensible of the current (fairly poor) crop of federal Labor MPs. But the it took Julia Gillard just three words to haul me over to her side of the party, near the canapés and the bust of Engels. Their impact was slightly delayed—it wasn't till over the weekend that the words of Canberra's answer to Kath Day-Knight really sank in. And I switched sides (something I've been known to do before). And what were those three little words?

Independent

Foreign

Policy

Whisper those words in my ear and I'm yours. No strings attached.

Which kinda raises the question of why I was in the Rudd camp at all, when both he and Bomber are the stauchest "supporters of the US alliance", if I can use that euphemism, in the ALP. Change, perhaps. I have nothing personal against Kim, but I do have a beef with his so-called supporters, like that right-wing cabal of Stephen Smith, Wayne Swan and Stephen Conroy, all three career politicians who wouldn't recognise an unstacked branch if they walked into it. Not that they probably ever have. The worst thing that could possibly happen is that Bomber be elected unopposed.

But I can tell you now, the ALP is that fucked, he probably will. I want Kevin Rudd to run, nonetheless,—make it at least a teensy-weensy bit interesting, maybe a 3-way contest with the redhead in the other corner—but the guy's a wuss. He looks like a wuss and he acts like a wuss so you can bet, whenever he does eventually announce his intentions, that he'll take the wussy option and drop out. Run Kevin, run you bastard.

Something else I found today: hot on the heels of bogan Australia's favourite piece of follicular face furniture, the minging Shannon Noll, blowing 0.11 on the breathalyzer, another notable Aussie has been busted DUI. This time round, New South Wales' best have pulled over Kylie Kwong's minivan and scored another celeb scalp. Her excuse: she'd had a glass of wine four hours earlier, and hadn't eaten. Okay, I am personally familiar with the exaggerated affects of alcohol on an empty stomach— it makes for a cheap night out when eating is cheating—but that must have been one fuck-off fishbowl of a glass of gewürztraminer to get you a reading of 0.07 four hours later. Yes, four hours later.

the fifth sentence

"'You are not one of the Toads.'"

Doctor Fischer of Geneva or The Bomb Party, by Graham Greene

The instructions:

1. Grab the nearest book.
2. Open the book to page 23.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the text of the sentence along with these instructions

via old moshimoshi.

(it's actually page 24, sentence 3, coz there were only two sentences before the chapter ended on page 23—or is that cheating?)

pancreatitis

It was the handshake that done it.

red rain

You know when you think about something, however briefly, and somehow the spheres connive to bring that thought into your reality? Sounds more high-fallutin' than it is.

Por ejemplo: I'm on a bus in Guatemala, squashed seven-to-a-row with the Quiche Mayans and their baskets of avacados, listening to Celine Dion's number from Titanic on the radio for the umpteenth time, when suddenly out of the recesses of my mind drifts this thought like a stinking sulfur gas: "Whatever happened to Genesis?" Yes, it's sad and embarassing. But in the state of near-meditation I had reached bumping along the ridges between Panajachel and Antigua Guatemala, hipbone to hipbone with silent stony-faced Guatemalans, that strange TV-Week thought crossed my mind: "What of Genesis? They used to be all over the radio, and I dont reckon I've heard them for years." Maybe it was the caustic crapness of Celine's worldbeater that took my mind wandering through a high altitude association game, but there it was, Phil Collins' ugly mug in my mind's eye. So later, I wander out to find something to eat in Antigua, and come across a tiny little bar with a buxom matron serving taco-encilada type comida and, importantly, beer. And as I tuck into my cheesy, avocadoey, chickeny quesadilla-things, with a wink from my new best friend, out of nowhere ... "Billy, Billy don't you lose that number..."

Scary isn't it?

Espcially when the Guatemalans have this awesome native music, marimbo chapina, they play on massive xylophones made out of gourds.

But wait, there's more: the reason I remembered that story is not unassociated with Genesis. You see, I've been encountering Peter Gabriel music repeatedly in the last few days: in the cinema, some new movie they were advertising used "Salisbury Hill" as it's main tune (maybe Cellular, or Million Dollar Baby, both of which look shite); in the gym, Triple M (I know, but the powers that be must like it) pumped out "Don't give up" with the populous precision of a political mastermind; and then of the three random cds I grabbed to put onto my new work computer, one was "So".

What a bloody good album.

deeper and deeper

Not only am I deeply involved in an elicit affair with the characters from Final Fantasy X-1 (in particular Lulu and Wakka, I have to admit), but there seems to be no limits to the depths of nerdiness that I can sink.

First, there was this appearing in the Neopets News, a full 2 months after my darling little Mutant Kacheek and Halloween Zafara were summarily and, dare I say it, mistakenly, robbed of their doting owner:

Today we are implementing a new way to deal with people who break certain Terms and Conditions. If you break more minor rules, your account may only be SUSPENDED for up to 72 hours (rather than frozen completely). During your suspension you will not have access to any part of your account. After the suspension period is over, your account will be returned to you.

That said, depending on your account history and which rule you break, you could still get frozen immediately (a "suspension" is not "automatic"), and you WILL be frozen for breaking the rules more than once. Hopefully this "second chance" will make things more understandable and fairer for everyone.

So I shot off an email that arvo requesting that my case be reviewed. I will admit to a certain level of nerdishness, but, in all seriousness, my nerdicity does not reach the depths of the dank and smelly caves of people who can do what I have been accused of, that is, cheat/crack a Flash game. In fact, my nerdism rating was surprisingly low—15 out of 100. Even I was surprised. And while I was rigging that up, I came across this awesome little baby of a site, if you are into things like the periodic table.

To which I must admit more than a cursory interest. It was physics and biology I hated at school. Chemistry I could do. And while I'm on The Periodic Table, it's well worth checking out Primo Levi's novel. A very interesting and well-written autobiographical tale told through analogies to certain elements. It was a pity the poor fellow topped himself.

But back On Topic. So I fired off an email to Neopets, and do you think I have heard anything? Nooooo. Not a jot.

Harrumph.

I can but hope.

So instead, I find myself casting about for another MMOG to get myself neck deep in. First there was Ragnarok, which I had seen packing out the internet cafés and online gaming venues in Thailand a few years back. Believe me, it's leaps and bounds ahead of where it used to be, but they still want $$. And that's somewhere I'm not ready to go yet. There were a couple of others I surfed by, until I came across this little gem—MapleStory. It looks fucken amazing. To a japanophile (what, you couldn't tell?) the prospect of this über-anime, super-cute world had me barring up in no time. All there was to do was download the client. So, here we go. Left click.

Nada. Niet. Zip. Nothing. Damn bloody Koreans. I mean, you'd think that a country where playing online computer games is more than simply a competitive sport for pimply teenagers—it's a fucking national pastime with competitions airing on primetime TV—could actually work out how to get their download links working. But no.

ah, that's better

Whaddaya reckon? Much better isn't it?

Crap Crap Crap

No, it wasn't a New Year's Resolution, but I am trying to make this thing more interesting (maybe it should have been, although I try my darnedest not to make any resolutions whatsoever). Maybe when I get round to changing the 'look and feel' (god how I hate that phrase) it might perk up a bit—which will probably be some time in April, at the rate I'm going. But right now, no offense to the superb yankee designer who put this skin together, it lacks. And not in a good, yoni kind of way.
(the definition is right down the bottom, which I could easily have cut-and-pasted, but I wanted you to do your own dirty work)

But come back here so I can point you to a riverbed carving of a yoni, complete with a quincunx of lingas (I don't think I have ever, in my 5 years of knowing what that word meant, had a opportunity to use it in a sentence that wasn't a definition). Or this of hundreds of 'em at Phnom Kulen, which is the holy mountain where the ancient khmer quarried all their stone for the unspeakably magnificent monuments at Angkor. And to think the Khmer were building these while Europe was drinking mead, running around in hair shirts and wielding 30 kilo hunks of dull blunt metal they called swords?

If that doesn't whet your appetite for Cambo, nothing will. But if it does, check out talesofasia.com. It's chock full of all the tidbits you'll need to get around everywhere in SEA, from Indo to Myanmar and Vietnam and back again, by the jungle tracks, whether or not they've been dashed upon the rocks by monstrous earthquake-induced tidal waves... speaking of which I had a mate on the beach at Patong, Phuket, that fateful day, who managed to grab his belongings and run like Billy-Oh. One very lucky boy.

But back to the main point—glaringly obvious from my first line: the harder you try with these things, the worse the result is. It is inevitable. Like those dreaded teenage stunts where you call out to your mates "hey fellas, look at this!" only to tumble off the railings and end up walking round school with your arm in a sling and a self-inflicted black eye.

Well, at least it got you out of swimming.

Breaking up is hard to do

This gem from an email I sent this morning:

I spose we are all ageing, aren't we, hauling our baggage where 'ere we go. If only there could be such a thing as an emotional porter, you know, someone you could acknowledge occasionally and tip scantily, and there they are, shouldering your battered-leather burdens for you, carrying them for you to unpack or no at your leisure. I'd like one of those big old trunks that stand on their end and open like a book, with little compartments for things like lost car-keys or mobile phones, larger ones for grievances and prejudices, and then hanging space for those long-held, worn-in and comfortable grudges we all carry. And a nice smiling foreign fellow bent double under its weight, but simply happy to have the work, Sahib. Terribly colonial, isn't it? But then we could concentrate on the delights of life, like gin and pétanque and The OC and tantrums and love affairs and never have to worry about a thing. Because that's all done by my man here.

Yep, back at work.