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.

The Nickel Queen

Wednesday afternoon in the orifice, and I'm completely out of inspiration. Surprise, surprise. The only thing that has really been keeping me going all week has been specualtion as to who will die on Neighbours in 2005. Yes dull, isn't it?

TVWeek had this little snippet in it on Monday: "Be watching Neighbours next year when one of the most-loved and longest-serving characters dies of a heart attack! We can't tell you who it is, but we can say it's a guy", and so all week, it's been:

"Lou!"
"No, Harold"
"Maybe it's Karl or the Toad"
"The Toad is too young to have a heart attack"
"He's a fat bastard though, and they have heart attacks"
"Hmm"
"They wouldn't kill Karl off, not since he's just left Susan for Isabelle"
"Yeah, but she'll leave him soon too, she's admitted she doesn't love him and she stood him up at the alter"
"Exactly, too much story. It can't be Karl"
"No, it's definitely going to be Lou who carks it"
"Well, Lou's got no family in the street, so he's no loss really"
"But Harold has got a family now, so we get to see their reactions. Isn't that the point of a soap death, all the tears and hand-wringing and stoicism?"
"It has to be Lou because Paul Robinson is back and he'll need his house."
"But Valda owns that house now"
"Where is bloody Valda? Her husband has just died and she's nowhere to be seen"
"Yay, now she's free to marry Lou"
"Well, there's a storyline then. As long as he's divorced from Trixie"
"What a waste of screen time that was. And then the Rocco storyline"
"They were both Lou storylines, his biggest two of 2004."
"And they were both shit"
"Yeah"
"Maybe it is best they kill Lou then?"
"Maybe it is"
"Yeah, I hope it's Lou"
"Always liked Tom Oliver though, ever since his sterling performance in The Nickel Queen"
"The what?"
" Aussie film, 70s, starring Googie Withers, John Laws, Ross Thompson and TO. Don't worry. You'll never be able to find a copy. Bloody funny though"

And that has been pretty much the intellectual high-watermark of my week. Sad isn't it.

There is something that I have noticed slowly creeping onto my 17.1" TFT screen with alarming alacrity (if you don't know what alacrity is, checkthis—I had to) and it is giving me the shits. It is the mis-spelling of definite. Well, it is actually the mis-spelling of DEFINITELY that I notice all over the web. No you bastards out there murdering the English language, although you might slur your words and dribble when you speak so it sounds like "definately" , that is not right. There is no A in definite, just like there is no fucking I in team.

W O A H

That was a long time ago, then, wasn't it? 2 years, 4 months and five days, and half a world away, give or take the 11 hours in difference between Clapham Old Town and Melbourne. And certainly a prophesy unfilfilled. And, for that matter unpublished, until today. Until the likes of Darp and Dawei reminded me that I had, somewhere in the damp swirling mists of my past, entered all the right details into yet another database, and all I needed was to choose a template. Et voilá!

Not that this particular template will be around for long, but I have a spooky feeling I may have made a similar idle promise before. But I really and truly am hoping to be a little more conchy this time around, despite the facththat there is SFA going on in the world that warrents my comment at this time on a Friday afternoon. And a Friday afternoon when beer beckons.

Thank god The Coffeeshop and " Lou's Place", the mingingly titled "A Good Hair Day" and Dr-Karl's-surgery-slash-Toadie's-legal-consulting-room burnt down last Friday, or there really would not have been anything at all to talk about for the past week.