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Not that I am mad (well, I am half-Irish and we are the men that God made mad), pissed off at the world, or reveling in a Napoleon complex. Nope, nothing like that at all. Quite simply, I love the colour red.
And, well, I have gone to another time and place now - but the writing is still funny and thought provoking and visible to one and all who chose to go looking for it.
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Today, It Was A Good Day
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Posted:Jul 1, 2008 6:07 pm
Last Updated:Jul 18, 2008 9:36 pm
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That is right, 9 pairs of fluffy white Nike socks. My feet are happy, so I am happy. How is that for being low maintenance. Nothing makes me happier than slipping on soft, fresh socks.
I even had it in a contract when I was playing semi-pro soccer that there were always to be two pairs of new socks for each game. (Sort of like the brown M&M rule in the Van Halen dressing room.) I changed socks at half time in most games - hey, I used to log 7-10 miles in a game: and these were not EPL caliber fields, more like pastures minus the cowpies (in most cases).
And after more than 1000 games logged and probably 4-5000 practices, you can bet that my feet need all the love that they can get. (Perhaps we should not think about the amount of heading of the soccer ball all of that entails: it is a wonder that I am not a drooling imbecile.)
Most important of all, the best way to my heart is through my feet. They respond well to being massaged and pampered and rubbed and kneaded. It is almost orgasmic. Just rub the knuckles on the base of my feet and I am yours for life.
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Posted:Jun 26, 2008 6:35 pm
Last Updated:Jul 1, 2008 7:46 pm
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I have never come across a more open phrase as “please be waiting” in all my time working. It is the ultimate in Japenglish. And of course, working for a Japanese company, with Japanese engineers and Japanese managers and Japanese and Japanese vendors, one does tend to hear a great deal of Japenglish.
But this is the most unique phrase of all: “please be waiting”.
It can mean everything from “Fuck off you miserable little nonce, you aren’t worth my spending any time getting information for you” to “I am not going to tell you the real reason and, if I put my head in the sand long enough, you will just fuck off and die” to “By not telling you anything, so that you cannot fucking nark me off to the big boss”.
And speaking of the big boss, we have this strange being that we worship from afar called “Tokyo Head”. (Bongggggggggggggggg) In fact, I think that some of the Japanese executives sacrifice leggy, blond strippers to him in order to bring fortune upon us. The business climate is not good right now: we need more leggy, blonde strippers ‒ a lot more leggy, blonde strippers. No sacrifice is too great to bring the world into order. And we have the Japanese executives to seek out and destroy.
I even have a Japanese alter-ego: sort of a Fallic-san. He is my connection to the other side of the cedar doors; the land of the Japanese executives. Actually, he is a pretty righteous dude. He likes Manchester United (it made him really popular with my daughters), the Seattle Mariners, and lots of beer. And, he has a majorly irreverent sense of humor that is incredibly un-Japanese. He was banished to Corporate America because he is in disgrace back in Japan. And if his impression of our GM is anything to go by, it is a well earned banishment.
It is this individual who introduced me to the phrase “Please be waiting.” And when he e-mailed me for some information and I replied “please be waiting”, he came up to my office and was laughing so hard he was almost wetting himself. He decided that we had to go out for a long lunch of sushi and beer (but, unfortunately, not a leggy blonde stripper in sight) to celebrate my ascendancy into a Japanese salary-man. Like I said, he is a righteous dude.
The American managers we have to work with (or for) are nothing less than a bunch of organ grinders monkeys. I do not think they could cluster-fuck an original thought up amongst the lot of them. But, oh well, I think that that is exactly what the Japanese managers are looking for.
Perhaps the biggest drawback for me about working in a Japanese company are the damned cherry trees and other assorted flowering trees that have been planted all over the campus to promote spiritual harmony in some and severe allergic reactions in others. I have had severe hay fever since March: so much for my ascendancy into becoming a corporate ninja like my Japanese associate, Fallic-san.
It is really difficult to appreciate the universal truth and beauty in a single cherry blossom through red rimmed eyes that are reduced to swollen slits and leaking tears and then taking that image and writing a haiku to capture the moment
Blurred pink dots gazed on
Through a glaze of drying tears
Sneezes forming rainbows
(And now we all know why I am a mathematician and not a poet: there are no jokes in poetry ‒ just subtle irony.) However, as I ascend the corporate hierarchy I must improve my haiku skills, my appreciation of art and sushi, my arse kissing, my Greek chorus like intonation; the drinking thing I have down pat.
So, when someone harshes your mellow at work in an e-mail, just sit back and think evil thoughts and send them a polite reply to “please be waiting”. It is the universal panacea.
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Thoughts Involving Forrest Gump, Martina Navratilova, Coldplay and Spanking The Monkey
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Posted:Jun 21, 2008 8:30 pm
Last Updated:Jul 1, 2008 8:07 pm
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Every now and then, my life show some semblance of a return to “normalcy”: and of course, what is normal to one person is quite abnormal to someone else. For me, life is served up in slices. (Not as a box of chocolates, as one F. Gump, Esq. would have you believe.)
I consider myself to be one of those assortment packs you buy with the different slices of cheesecake. I come in several flavours; there is working Fallic, musical Fallic, lazy, sofa-riding Fallic (a personal favourite), thoughtful Fallic and family Fallic ‒ sexual Fallic is a flavour that has not been made in quite a while though.
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Working Fallic has been incredibly busy of late. Nothing gives a production planner a brain hernia quite like planning through an economic downturn ‒ especially a down turn of a global scale. For example, we do business in China and right now Glorious Revolutionary Worker’s Silicon Wafer Plant Number 7 seems to have been converted into Happy People’s Cheap Crappy Plastic Olympic Shit Manufacturing Facility Number 1 until the end of July when all of the Capitalist Lackeys return to the Decadent West (yet ironically traveling east to do so) having spent all of their money.
Of course I might be wrong there; all of the workers might be being shuttled from photo-op venue to photo-op venue in a very sick “It’s a small world” sort of Disney way. “Look you capitalist pigs, gaze in awe at all the happy revolutionary workers ‒ and take no notice of that Tibetan monk over there. He is just an extra from the new “Mummy” movie. Movie effects are wonderful, aren’t they? Those bruises and that blood: it looks so real that you would think that he had really been beaten.”
“By the way, don’t forget to stop at our special Tiananmen Square Village Gift Shop and spend your dollars, pounds, drachmas, yen (we do not take the Euro) on a genuine plastic tank running down a western influenced, internet surfing, misinformed university student. Very nice and made at the Happy People’s Cheap Crappy Plastic Olympic Shit Manufacturing Facility Number 1 just down the road here.”
Anyway, I am back now from my sudden jump to the narrative voice of a Chinese government shill. Just lately, my average day has been 4am to 4pm with maybe a dive down to the cafeteria for a quick breakfast about 9:30 that doubles as a strategy session with my head of shipping.
However, shed no tears here people, I am paid hourly (and paid well), and I hit time and a half about 6am Thursday. I have even gotten one of the “lunch ladies” bribed/trained to bring me something to eat about 10am if I haven’t been down there. On the down side, I am fucking knackered today. I slept through my 5am alarm and so I have not been grocery shopping yet.
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Musical Fallic has been very busy too. A special emergency pack of cds was dispatched to my number one lady and musical buddy out there on the east coast. Everyone needs a musical conscience. I have _Safira, who even though she is on “hiatus”, or “sabbatical” if you will, from her blog, is still alive and kicking arse out on the east coast someplace. We swap notes on music all the time. She tells me to look up an unknown artist such as Ben Jelen and I tell her to check out Adele. And so it goes.
And of course there are the Glimmer Twins, my two daughters who seem to be developing musical careers and making good music (and surprisingly good money) almost by accident. 5GoatGirl was put on “permanent hiatus” last May when it looked as if the oldest was going to go to school in the Midwest.
The youngest kick-started her own project called Mister Blue Sky in January as a three-girl project with one other girl out of the original band and that girl’s sister on bass. Since then, another girl has been added who can play drums, guitar and piano as necessary allowing my to do some guitar and vocal work.
This band actually has two forms as they have been playing a lot of acoustic bookstore and coffee house shows. And now they have really began to play “plugged-in” shows around town. These shows have a tendency to branch into long jams and inventions as the music is allowed to develope it's own spirit.
Number-1 has also been playing with a band called AdamNevE (Adam and Eve) that she formed with her boyfriend. (Imagine James Blunt singing Bob Dylan and you can see what she sees in him)
In a musical left turn from the queen of the angry 2:30 power punk song, her new band is very folk/country oriented playing songs by Bob Dylan, Johnny Cash, Drive-By Truckers, Flogging Molly plus some original material. The power drumming, shredding guitars and angry lyrics have been ceded to Mister Blue Sky. Instead there is now an upright bass, banjo/guitar/dobro, fiddle and multi-part harmonies from the six people in the band. She refers to it as a musical collective.
Last night, I caught the first two sets from Mister Blue Sky at one venue and then drove across town to a bar to see the last three sets of AdamNevE. Fortunately I know the owners of the bar and guy on the door, plus a bunch of my mates were in there early and grabbed a table or I would not have gotten in. I can understand why my wants to give this a try: Why not, when you are 19? If she didn’t try to have a music career, she would always wonder what could have been.
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Lazy, sofa-driving Fallic has not been home too much of late: although I am sitting on my sofa now, writing and waiting for the girls to come down to watch Holland v Russia in the Euros at lunchtime. There is even concern among the chattering classes that my special, custom, arse indents are going to poof back out and my sofa will no longer be comfortable.
Of course, once that is over Family Fallic will be listening to music, playing guitars, maybe writing some music (the youngest has some fantastic lyrics that she wants to write some music for) and probably burning some cds for each other.
I know that my oldest wants to get my new Coldplay, Adele, and Madonna cds. The youngest wants to check out a couple of my old Pink Floyd cds for Interstellar Overdrive and Astronomy Domine and she wants a copy of the Nina Simone cd that I sent to _Safira.
We are also planning a trip to the local curry house tonight for a little Indian feast since all three of us love Rogan Josh, Chicken Biryani and Vegetable Kurma and Samosas and Mango Lassis ( and for me, Kingfisher beer).
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And as for sexual Fallic? The amount of high quality masturbation in my life should have left me with mis-matched forearms like Martina Navratilova (You know what I mean; a giant, swollen veined, lumberjack left arm and a normal right arm.) And yet, surprisingly, my arms are still evenly matched.
I also found out that I am sexually abnormal in my masturbation. “Ooh, how titillating, how salacious.” I hear you all thinking. But it is true. Even though I am right handed, I wank left handed. I have never thought anything of it. But no, that is indeed “different”.
I am a self-sexual freak. Right handed guys are supposed to spank the monkey right handed. Who’d of thunked it?
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So anyway, thoughtful Fallic is going to check out now. It is time for family Fallic and musical Fallic to merge into that one special package called “Dad”.
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Enthusiasms, A Man's Gotta Have Enthusiasms
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Posted:Jun 14, 2008 2:56 pm
Last Updated:Jul 5, 2008 3:13 pm
7052 Views
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So here it is, finally nice and sunny out, and I am locked up inside… “Now why is that?” I hear you asking, “We all know that you are English and with those fine Irish blood lines so you all but hide from the sun anyway.” But it not my Anglo-Irish penchant for terminal sunburn that is keeping my hidden from the bright light: oh no, it is nothing like that at all.
Quite simply, my limited edition Harold Hammerstorm (Harry the Hammer) Warhammer figure has finally arrived and I am giddy as a schoolgirl. (Hey, only 250 were sold.)
There are instructions to study and analyze. There is the all important decision of what kind of paint job to give the model. Obviously, at least to me, this is model is going to have to have a competition quality paint job.
For me, the figure painting is the meat and bones of why I collect toy soldiers. And although a lot of “serious” war gamers make fun of those who play and/or collect Warhammer and Warhammer 40K, for me it made a great deal of sense to get into these games after years of collecting Napoleonic and Ancient 15mm figures. (I still collect and paint historical miniatures.)
But the main reason for getting into Warhammer was that my daughters were fascinated by the figures. They were not fascinated by the Sassanid Persians, Hannibal’s Carthaginians or even (and, to me, this is heresy) Napoleon’s Imperial Guard. Many, many Saturdays and Sundays have been spent painting Orks, building Space Marine tanks and creating an Order of Bretonnian knights.
Pocket money was allocated and careful thought was given by both girls as to what was needed to complete an army. Long term plans were carefully hatched that would bear fruit when a battle was fought against someone else’s army. And most interestingly, the choice of armies to collect was a reflection on each ’s personality.
The oldest is a closet traditionalist. She is about political responsibility: albeit with a leftist slant (good thing too). She went for the Dark Angels Space Marines for the 40K game: the biggest, baddest, strongest fighting force in the universe. Her troops are carefully painted in layered dark greens with gold trim.
She also has a Warhammer Bretonnian army where she carefully researched our own family history and gave the army our family coat-of-arms and colours. She has men-as-arms with red uniforms and shields with a falcon holding a heart that took the entire winter to paint. This is her display army: if you are with her on a date and laugh at them, you will not go out with her again. And, yes, she does play WoW on-line with her boyfriend and he now paints soldiers with her.
Number two is a rock drummer. Number two is an “oi, you” fuck off nasty, in your face fighter. Number two has red hair and a temper. She also collects Orks for her 40K army. They are also “oi, you” fuck of nasty, in your face fighters. She loves the intricacies of building the models. (It might be the fact that I gave her glue, an X-acto knife, a cutting board, told her that cutting yourself with one hurts (and bleeds a lot) and turned her loose to make her own soldiers.) The painting is not her calling, I help with that a lot and her figures are simple to paint. But she loves to build the figures. Everything gets modified.
She also built herself a Beasts of Chaos army to fight her sister’s Bretonnians. This, in many ways, is similar to her Ork army. It is not a subtle army to play in a game. But every one of her figures is converted and built to her own imaginative standards. It is so cool and so good, that I often take it to play in local tournaments.
Every figure is on display in the second bedroom. There are six shelves on the walls with each army artfully displayed ready for battle. Each figure represents a night not spent staring at the television. The armies are a story of my daughters and my friendship. We are equals when we play together. Each person kibitzes the others efforts and adds ideas and thoughts to what is going on. I do not think that I have ever heard one criticize a figure belonging to the other.
All in all, I have probably got a $1000 - $1500 in models and figures in that room; some are still in boxes as one of us waits for inspiration to strike. And now that one is eighteen and becoming independent, and the other is heavily into her music, painting nights are becoming few and far between. But we still have them. It is when we sit there and talk about all that is going on in our lives.
And as for me, I play Chaos. I am evil. I have a World Eaters Chaos army dedicated to the Blood God, Khorne. I have built lots of vehicles to go with my army. There is a lot of blood red and bone and gold in the paint scheme. It is the personification of what I would love to be if I was just not such a nice guy.
And, in the same vein, I have a Chaos Horde for Warhammer to fight against those niiiiiiiiccccccccccce Bretonnians in the pretty red and blue uniforms. My horde is dedicated to Nurgle, the God of Pestilence. Everyone (or every thing) in the army looks diseased. Armour is covered in rust (and that is not easy to paint). And my Harold Hammerstorm will make a killer general for that army. Now I just need some inspiration to strike.
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And as for some of my friends out there:
_Safira would be a Dark Elves and Dark Eldar player. Both armies are dedicated to pain and pleasure.
impish_pixie would have a Wood Elves Warhammer army and an Eldar 40K army: her powers of good to counter _Saf’s forces of evil.
Tires would have to have an Imperial Guard army with tons of tanks: big tanks, bigger tanks and the biggest tanks he could find.
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So don’t be shy, let your inner-geek out and tell me about your hobbies.
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Lazing Away The Weekend In My Pajamas While Sipping A Screwdriver And Slow Cooking Curry .....
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Posted:Jun 7, 2008 12:13 pm
Last Updated:Jul 1, 2008 8:08 pm
7223 Views
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.....With Not Even Enough Energy For A Good Wank
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I had not realized that grieving can be so damn exhausting. That being said, I have lived life in a whirlwind the last four weeks: and there is no calm in the center of that storm. First there was the need to make arrangements to travel to Southern California. Then there were arrangements to make at work for who was covering what for me since I had about ¾ billion dollars in projects that I am managing.
Once in California, there were family issues such as the wake, obituaries, announcements etc. to help my mum with. There were relatives flying in at short notice from Norway and the UK that needed to be picked up.
And let me tell everyone out there, my sister’s driving skills match her cooking skills ‒ the only reason I let her drive to LAX was the fact that her driving skills are actually superior to her navigation skills (and she is a tech sergeant in the Air Force too). If she had navigated, I would have been habla-ing the ol’ espanol in Tijuana as I crossed the border. I plan to explore this issue more in a future post.
My uncle was sitting in the back of my mum’s Buick, asking in Norwenglish, why was everyone passing us on the right? I was wondering pretty much the same thing. He and I knocked back a beer and an aquavit as soon as the vehicle pulled to a stop.
And of course, my uncle’s luggage did not arrive until three days after he did. (But good man that he was, he did hit the duty free.) So next morning we were out shopping and I found out that he is worse than most women to go clothes shopping with. About the only thing he didn’t ask was for someone to hold his purse. But he and I did go and have a couple of drinks after that. (And we stuck my sister with the odious task of accompanying my aunt to go and pick up food: double bonus points on that one).
Over the next few days, all of the family returned to the civilized world (and in my sister’s case, North Carolina). I returned on the Saturday afternoon and was back at work the next morning at 4am. And with the exception of three days spent at the Sasquatch Festival over Memorial Day weekend, I have been working non-stop ever since- with one hiccup along the way. I have been managing to sleep two to three hours a night at most as I attempt to come to grips with all of the changes.
Then last weekend was my ’s graduation party. I chose to not go to this since my ex-wife and vast quantities of alcohol would be mixing it up. And since my chose this forum to announce that she was going to pass up school for at least a year, I decided to skip her graduation ceremony as well. The last thing that I wanted was to deal with an extremely pissed off, and probably pissed out of her mind, ex-missus who contends that the ’s deciding to skip college is my entire fault.
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Not that it isn’t…….. I am the person who asked her if going to school was what she really wanted to do. I actually thought that she should have a say in her own personal happiness. She was being bullied into going to a college she didn’t want to attend that was 1000 miles from home and that did not offer her first choice of major. This of course is entirely antithetical of what the ex has planned for her. The knows that on May 30th, all of the ex’s power to make decisions on her behalf ended.
The next major battle is going to be getting the $1400 that was given to my for graduating and which was “taken for safe-keeping” by the ex-wife. Regular readers will know that keeping money out of the Scrooge McDuck-like fists of the ex is nigh on impossible. I have told my that she is an adult now and has to figure this one out for herself. This will be a good test.
I crashed very badly Tuesday and Wednesday and was off of work for two days. I did not even log in and check my e-mail. I did sleep, albeit very troubled sleep, for about twenty hours on Tuesday. I could have worked on Wednesday but decided that another day off would be beneficial. Thursday and Friday were busy but uneventful: except for the “angrygram” that was sent to me by the ex telling me what a disgusting specimen I was for skipping the graduation (and by doing so, basically, justifying my not going.) My saw the angrygram and said the same thing, that she could understand why I would want to avoid the ex.
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So now we come to this weekend ………
I am having a “Jammy Day”
That is right, I am sitting here on the sofa, writing away, getting ready to watch Portugal v Turkey in the Euros (if the Portuguese national anthem, which seems to be at least three movements long, ever comes to an end), resplendent in my black paisley PJ bottoms and grey t-shirt (and carpet slippers). And let us get to the point here, I do not sleep in pajamas and none of my PJs look like the old 1950 stripey jobs that you seen in the classic movies. I even slept in until 8am this morning!
“8am” I hear you say, “Good God, man, you are truly becoming indolent and slothful.
Why we know from your previous posts that 5:30 is considered to be the pure essence of laziness in your mind.” But there it is ‒ I am relaxing. There are no plans to change out of my pajamas today.
I have the slow cooker on making a Dahl curry for me, and at 1 o’clock I will add the spinach to it. I have some left over Rogan Josh and Veggie Kurma in the fridge from dinner last night so that is taken care of. I have, however, worked hard enough to shower, shave and brush the teeth; and that is about the most arduous thing on the cards for today; unless I decide to get excited when Ronaldo scores for Portugal. Even wanking seems to be too large of an expenditure of energy today.
Should I feel cocktail inclined, there is a bottle of tequila and a bottle of vodka at my disposal as well as ice, a crystal glass, and various and sundry forms of mixers and juices: all in all a recipe for laziness if ever there was one.
And finally, there are model kits to be built, figures to be primed, and soldiers to be painted.
So if you will excuse me, I am off to visit my happy place ………………………….. and my drink is coming with me.
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Do Not Fear Death So Much, But Rather The Inadequate Life
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Posted:Jun 4, 2008 1:07 pm
Last Updated:Jun 19, 2008 5:27 pm
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I had truly planned on posting more and writing more: for the amusement of one and all. But somehow, life just will not give me the peace and tranquility needed to write down my thoughts of a more trivial nature.
You see, exactly four weeks ago as I am writing this, my father died. He did not pass away, or fade away: he died. One minute he was alive, and the next he wasn’t. It was that quick.
His health had not been the best since he had a heart attack almost four years ago (right after retiring). His health problems were exacerbated by his toughness and high pain threshold. He had his heart attack three days before he went to hospital ‒ he just thought he had the flu.
This time around, he went into hospital with pneumonia and he was released four days later. He came home and had a cuppa, took his dogs for a walk and then he talked to me for an hour about football, my job, and gave some coaching tips. We laughed at the carry on at Chelsea FC and talked about my girls’ various musical endeavours. I told him that I loved him and that I was happy he was home. I told him that this was the best that he had sounded in a long time.
He then called my sister and did much the same thing. He chatted with his grandson for twenty minutes about his budding football career. At 8 o’clock, my mum went and took a bath and when she came back into the living room, my dad was gone. I found out early the next morning as I was already asleep when this happened.
And now it is four weeks after, and after a week off of work spent in California, a really great Irish wake (although my father was not laid out in the front parlour as is traditional) where we sent a lot of my mum’s neighbours home drunk with my nephew driving their golf carts, and a lot of time spent just thinking about things, I have come to realize that there is not grief, per say, as much as there is a gaping void, a block of unfulfilled time that would have been filled with conversations with him.
I had a really great conversation, two days after my dad died, with _Safira (who is one of, if not my closest, friend) and we talked about grief. The sustaining thought for me is that I had nothing that was left unsaid with my father. Everything that needed to be said was said. The only things left to say were the things that couldn’t be said yet. And it is these non-conversations that leave me so saddened, as I miss being able to call him at any time and talk about anything.
He would be tickled that Portsmouth won the FA Cup since Harry Redknapp, the manager, was a friend of his. He would have delighted in the Champion’s League final with Manchester United beating Chelski in Moscow: and then been even more entertained by the goings on at Chelski in the aftermath of only managing to finish second in the League Cup, Premier League and Champion’s League and firing the manager because he “failed” so miserably.
I find myself still making mental notes of things that need discussing with him such as who is going to be transferred this summer, who is doing what to whom in the upper managerial offices at work, which opera I am going to go and see this fall: the minutiae that makes for a great friendship.
For, much more than losing a father, I have lost my best friend; this was the person whose interests mirrored my own in many instances. That is the void that cannot be filled. That is the 45 year conversation that has ended.
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The More Things Change, The More They Stay The Same
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Posted:Apr 12, 2008 8:11 pm
Last Updated:Apr 26, 2008 8:51 am
7143 Views
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I had been expecting to sit and write my first post this weekend as a resident of the State of Washington: the land of random U-turns. But in a surprise move (unless you know me really well), at basically the last minute I pulled one of those random U-turns that I so despise in Washington drivers and decided not to move.
It was a gut feeling, instinct kind of thing. I learned long ago to listen to those little voices in my head (but not the one that says “kill them all” ‒ that one I tune out.) I just woke up and knew that I was making a huge mistake by moving. The need to get away was first fueled by my fight or flight instinct.
(For those who are new to my story, I have mentioned before that I was one of those forlorn “abused husbands). Even after ten years away, the ex-wife can still be an ominous and forbidding presence in my life.
But as I am sitting here this evening, looking out of my patio door at the wood behind my place, listening to the birds sing and the brook run by, I know that on many levels it is a good move to say: albeit a potentially fatal one.
The manager of where I currently live was most amenable to my rescinded notice to move and we negotiated a new lease at a better rate and I got my bedrooms repainted into the bargain. I had really wanted to redo the second bedroom that has gone from being my girls’ room to being my rumpus/office/model making/workout room.
The story of why my girls are not visiting very much is a long and involved story and one that we will explore over time. Safira is probably the only person, other than my sister, who knows the whole story of what has gone on since the beginning of December and she has been a great resource of information and a source of strength.
My (relatively) new job is still going well. The twenty mile commute is nowhere near as bad as the thirty five mile commute that I had last year. And I have decided that the commute is worth it if I can live where I live now. I have the great luxury of basically having a license to roam at work and go wherever my curiosity takes me: lately it has been taking me to the various shipping departments. There are three different managers fighting it out for my services. It is always good to be wanted.
So since I have been gone for a while, tell me, what you have been up to lately?
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Beannachta
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Posted:Mar 16, 2008 7:38 pm
Last Updated:Jun 4, 2008 1:07 pm
7183 Views
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You’ve blessed me with friends
and laughter and fun
With rain that’s as soft
as the light from the sun-
You’ve blessed me with the stars
to brighten each night
You’ve give me help
to know wrong from right
You’ve give me so much
please, Lord give me too
A heart that is always
Grateful to you.
Irish Prayer
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It will not be long now …..
I am planning a return to posting.
And while I have been gone far longer than expected, there are extremely good reasons for this, deeply personal reasons for this. Those that are involved in my real life, those that have gone beyond a written and become spiritual partners, know of what I write; and of what I will write.
So, obviously much has happened, much is still happening, and there is still more that I feel is going to happen. I fell battered and beaten ‒ but not broken.
But look on the bright side: this gives us so much to talk about. And expect some very heavy subjects. This has been the Winter of My Discontent.
And if there are any questions about yet another Fallic absence that you just feel compelled to ask, then ask away. If you need some math homework help ‒ write down the problem. If you need a lead to some great new music, I would mention Kate Nash, Remi Nicole, Duffy or Ben Jelen (who was suggested to me by one of my closest friends _Safira). Even if you need to know what Warhammer army you should be collecting, then drop me a line.
And since tomorrow is St. Patrick’s Day then let me be the first to wish you a happy St Patrick’s day.
Slainte
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Truly Tasteless Vegetables That Go Pffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffft
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Posted:Nov 26, 2007 8:52 pm
Last Updated:Feb 17, 2008 6:55 pm
7429 Views
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And so Thanksgiving is over and done with for another year. And like in previous years, it seemed to consist of all that I most abhor. Although, let me say that there were no snakes involved.
I waited in lines: short lines, long lines, slow lines and the one line in particular at Ontario International Airport that was headed up by a little old lady who had a suitcase that was (I think) packed full of scissors, assorted gels, shurikans, chewing gum (sorry, I was thinking of Singapore for just a mo’), kiddy porn and perhaps a rocket launcher or TOW missile.
I got to fly on Horizon Airlines (a wholly owned subsidiary of Alaska Airlines) and got to fly on a Bombardier AS700. This is a wonderful airplane. It is what the Sultan of Brunei would give his mother-in-law to zip around in. It seems to seat 30 or so people rather comfortably. Unfortunately there were 76 seats on this plane (and quite possibly 90 or so people in those seats). If one thinks back to movies about India such as Gunga Din or Gandhi where they have all the people packed on the roof of the train, this was the flying equivalent of the featured locomotives. All that was missing were a couple of stray chickens and an old lady feeding me pappadums.
And unless you are a supermodel, hunger striker, or are anorexic, then there is no possible way you can actually fit into one of their seats. I had the supreme pleasure of sitting next to one of the ladies from the US Women’s soccer team on the way home. And this superior (and very hot) athlete could not fit comfortably in her seat. (And let me tell you, this player was an absolute sweetheart too; she is now my new favourite on the team.)
Every guy has the fantasy about the airline stewardess, but let me be the first to say that the two specimens on my flight to California would have been more at home dishing out slops to Oliver Twist. They were lunch ladies gone bad. They were built like the prop forwards on a rugby team and looked like they may have just come straight from the game.
I was given a tiny package of Knott’s Berry Farm shortbread cookies and a cup of coffee that was brewed around March or April. I did not complain as the first thing I would hear is “shut up and eat your fuckin’ cookies ‒ and don’t put any fuckin’ crumbs on the cabin floor. It would be a shame to have to hoover them up with your face.”
My two newest friends were also just a shade wider than the aisle; so every time they went from front to back, or back to front, they smacked every person in the aisle seats along the way. And then they got out the drinks cart. Just looking at the thing, I knew why my hostesses looked like they could lead the way “off tackle”. It also had about 3mm clearance on either side. I don’t think anyone lost a finger or toe to it, but then again any screams of pain would have been drowned out by the baby that cried all the way down.
The final leg of my triangle of abhorrence is my mother’s cooking. And I know, it sounds horrible to rank on mum’s cooking. I love everything about my mum except for the food she cooks. It is almost a cliché to make fun of English cooking, but let me share a quick Fallic’s mum recipe.
Truly Tasteless Vegetables That Go Pfffffffffffffffft And Melt Like The Dude That Got Douched With Toxic Goo In Robocop.
You will need the following.
A Pan
Water (Lots of, or you end up with a burned pan)
Salt (Lots of)
Vegetables (it does not matter what vegetable since they will all taste the same after cooking)
1) Peel the vegetables to remove the tasty, nutrient laden skin. It might be “yukky” and dad doesn’t do “yukky”.
2) Put the water in the pot
3) Put the vegetables in the pot
4) Bring to a rolling boil
5) Turn down heat to medium low
6) Leave to cook for 30 minutes or until all flavour has been either sucked out by the salt or evaporated away to drip from the ceiling.
7) Spoon "glop" into a serving container and say "yummy"
It has been a couple of years since I had feasted on the bountiful wealth that is my mother’s table (it is a table loaded with love) and after so long, I discovered that all of the vegetables she cooked all tasted the same. It is a combination of baby food and salt. The water left in the pan probably has more nutritional value than the vegetables.
I think that my regular dose of Thanksgiving hell is American revenge on me for events in the past. Probably, one of my ancestors was on the docks when the Pilgrims pushed off sometime in May or June. He (or she) probably said something like “Look at those wankers. Fuckin’ gonna fall off the edge of the world or summat, they are. Eaten by some soddin’ sea monster or and pillaged by some fuck-off nasty Spanish pirate, if I may be so bold as to say. All I know is, we’ll never ‘ear from them tossers again.” Fuck me, wasn’t my long lost relative completely off base with his inner monologue.
Quite possibly, the English were never meant to celebrate Thanksgiving. I am the focal point for a sort of cultural karma. Perhaps I can swap future Thanksgiving for Boxing Day off next year. Anyhoo Christmas is coming. And that gets me stoked. I am ready for my pre-fabricated totally man-made and un-natural tree to come out from under the bed and then I’ll break out the balls. (This will be the only time that any ball handling happens this year.)
Oh, and by the way, do you know what I had to give up to go and see mum and dad?
Half price socks: am I a great or what.
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It Is Not An Option. It Is Not A Solution.
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Posted:Nov 18, 2007 6:11 pm
Last Updated:Jun 19, 2008 12:43 pm
7842 Views
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There was so much to talk about this weekend: comfort food, the perils (and joys) of working for a Japanese company, football, music, training to eat my mum’s cooking, the average American’s lack of world knowledge that can be a source of such great fun if targeted correctly, etc. But all of that changed with a telephone call on Saturday morning.
My youngest had planned all week to come over and help me get ready to go to California. There were Christmas gifts for my parents and aunt that needed to be gotten ready to go to California in my luggage so that I did not have to go and stand in line at the post office. We needed to compare music collections and negotiate complex trades of cds such as “I’ll swap you American IV and V for Live At Folsom Prison.”
However, my oldest called me at 9am on Saturday to tell me that one of my youngest daughters closest friends (and first boyfriend) had, the night before, gone and gotten his father’s 9mm out of the closet, put it in his mouth and pulled the trigger. My was absolutely devastated when she found out later that evening.
For me, this is gutting on many levels. I have two daughters and the thought of one of them committing suicide is beyond my ability to fathom. I also have firearms, including several 9mm hand guns and a 10mm. All of these weapons are kept in a gun safe, they have trigger locks and the ammunition is kept in a separate locked cabinet. The keys are kept locked in my tool chest.
Then there was the inevitable question that my asked. “Why would he do it?” What do you tell someone in answer to that question? She said that she had talked with him on the phone on Thursday and that he was in a good mood and quite happy; much happier in fact than he had been recently. Perhaps he had already made the decision when he talked to her.
Surprisingly, at least to me, my wanted to still come over after her voice lesson and spend the day with me. In fact, she even added staying the night into the mix. We had several talks throughout the day about what had happened. But we also talked about normal things and made some plans for the weekend and worked on the projects already in place.
As I looked at things, pretty much anything within reason that she wanted to do was good enough for me. We did go and see Martian since it was on her movie list and she did not want to go and see something that was violent. We went and checked out her favourite guitar shop and admired and touched several Gibson Les Paul Customs and looked to see if they had any Kramers. We bought Red Vines, Jelly Beans, and Gummi Worms to smuggle into the movie theater. It seems that what she was in need of was some semblance of normalcy.
It seems that what my wanted was someone to just listen to her. On many levels she understands that what happened cannot be explained. And I know that it was not something that I could really explain to her. I could not even attempt to explain it. All I could do was to give her a guiding hand through the maze she was attempting to navigate. Death is very personal and everyone finds their way through it differently. I offered to call up my best friend and she could talk to her if she wanted, but she chose not to do that. She just wanted to talk and ask questions. In many ways, I am incredibly humbled that she chose me to be with.
One of the questions she did ask was did I know anyone who had killed themselves and I told her the truth. I had a friend who committed suicide by cop in order to not go to prison. He had been there before and he was not going back.
Dinner was a home-cooked affair and to help occupy her mind, I decided to initiate her into one of the “family mysteries”: the perfect Yorkshire Pudding. This is a recipe that her mother has been after forever and I have never given it up: both daughters have sworn never to reveal it on the family coat of arms. (And no, this is not my mother’s recipe either. It is my granny’s recipe.)
The result for my was the perfect toad-in-the-hole. A Yorkshire Pudding that was light and brown and crispy on the sides and puffed up perfectly golden around the sausages in the base of the pan. (And, as if by magic, the oldest showed up unannounced as it came out of the oven to dine and dash.) Comfort food a la Anglais, so to speak, and just what the youngest was requiring. And, oh, by the way, her year of vegetarian experimentation is over ‒ her downfall was a humble Chicken McNugget, dipped in sweet and sour sauce.
After an evening of cards, music and movies she headed off to bed about ten o’clock and we agreed that the hallway light would remain on and that her bedroom door would stay open in case she had nightmares like she had Friday night. She slept until nine thirty this morning.
However, all will not be right for some time for her. She had to go back to her mum’s house today. There she will hear from friends and have to talk to her mother about everything going on right now which she did not really want to do as dealing with her mother just made everything seem so much worse Friday night. There is school tomorrow and that will be another series of challenges for her.
And somewhere out there, there is another father thinking about this suicide. Only he will think about it for the rest of his life. He will wonder what he did, wonder what he could have done and just wonder why ….. And really, he will probably never really know. It only takes one moment of time, a moment of weakness and a moment of opportunity to all coalesce and the entire fabric of the universe can unravel.
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The Nose Knows - Or In My Case, It Don't Know (Or Smell) Shit
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Posted:Oct 28, 2007 5:00 pm
Last Updated:Nov 18, 2007 6:39 pm
7333 Views
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Anosmia is the absence of the sense of smell. Smell loss can be partial or complete, and can be a result of an injury, illness, or can be congenital. People with a normal sense of smell confuse the sensations given to them by their tongue (sweet, salty, etc.) with those they detect using their nose. So, people with anosmia also have a limited sense of what many people would regard as taste.
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Now until today, I did not even know the correct term for what I have: and actually it is Congenital Anosmia since I was born without a sense of smell. There are websites for people with this complaint (and it even seems that there is a hierarchy of anosmia sufferers with congenital sufferers as the tip of the pyramid ‒ sort of like armed robbers in prison).
Throughout my life, and my blog, I have made light of my lack of the ability to smell. After all, there are much worse senses to lose ‒ it is not like living life in perpetual darkness or in complete silence. I can feel, reach and touch. I can indulge in the complexities of speech and in combinations of words. All of my mental faculties are unimpaired: although I am sure that my daughters will tell you that I am a couple of pennies short of a shilling.
So yes, I am rather blasé about, what I perceive to be, a very minor impediment in my life. Today, however, I found out that there are a lot of people who seem completely weighed down and/or overwhelmed by this problem. And I was surprised to read this. Perhaps the fact that I have never smelled (anything) in my life would have to be the reason for this. I have no frame of reference to having lost anything.
I relate to food differently than most, but I still love to eat (and I am developing a bit of a belly to prove this). My lack of an olfactory sense does not impede my cooking although I could not dissect a dish and say “this needs more oregano and less basil”. I add spices as per the recipe and I season dishes with salt and pepper based on “taste”.
Taste is the other area that anosmia affects. How it affects it, I just cannot tell you. Food tastes to me exactly how it has always tasted to me. Vegetables taste “green” or “orange” or “white”. Chicken tastes springy, beef tastes stringy, fish tastes flaky. My sense of taste is texture and feel based as well as “taste” based. I know what “sweet” is, too me, as I know “salty”, “citrus” etc. It just may not be the same as how you taste chicken, beef or fish.
But, please, don’t take this as a sign that I am completely at ease with this condition. I could never have a gas oven since I cannot smell leaking gas. At all times at work, I am very cognizant of any chemicals around me since I cannot detect fumes until the effects start to kick in and it is too late. (And I believe it is in my personnel file where I am working now, since there are so many hazardous chemicals in any area you travel into.)
And much like I am sure that Stevie Wonder has to sometimes be unsure of just how his people are dressing him (stripes and plaids), or Marlee Matlin must wonder what people are saying when she cannot read their lips, I can get very paranoid about my personal hygiene. I cannot smell if I have bad breath, or if my pits stink; and this leads me to shower or bathe twice a day at least and brush my teeth all the time (or I have mints in my mouth). Of course, if someone else has bad breath, or stinky pits, I wouldn’t know.
So, all in all, if you have to be short of one of your senses, as I see it, the combined senses of smell and taste are far better to be missing than sight or sound. However, as sort of a cosmic kick to the ‘nads, even though I cannot smell anything at all, I still have severe hay fever every spring and early summer.
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After The Storm ..... A Follow Up
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Posted:Oct 28, 2007 4:17 pm
Last Updated:Nov 18, 2007 6:39 pm
7216 Views
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The music choices left for me in the last post were very interesting, intriguing and left me wanting more new music (yes Impish, I am planning on getting some Citizen Cope) so I checked in with my two daughters to see what the hip young things are listening to right now. What I found was that one is uber-hip and the other is retro-hip
Now “Animal” (my youngest , so called because her red hair and drumming style are eerily similar to the great muppet band drummer) is still in a very retro kind of mood.
Most of the music she is listening to right now is based around the work she is doing as drummer for 5GoatGirl or as singer/guitarist with Mr. Blue Sky, her acoustic project, or for her next project which is supposed to be a very heavy metal band tentatively called Queens-over-Aces. Any band will do for her to play in, as long as she can wear her combat boots or her knee high Docs that have _Saf wanting a pair too.
A quick check of her IPod showed this:
Iron Maiden - Hallowed Be Thy Name
John Lennon ‒ Working Class Hero
Lacuna Coil ‒ Heaven’s A Lie
Television ‒ Marquee Moon
The Beatles ‒ I’ve Just Seen A Face
With the exception of Lacuna Coil it is all classic music and most of it applies to her various projects.
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I also checked with girl-about-town, lead singer/guitarist, and leader, of 5GoatGirl, and football genius “Thing 1” (so called because of her rather unsettling physical similarity to a set of twins that she plays soccer with who are know as “Thing 2” and “Thing 3” ‒ or 1, 2 and 3 if you are in the correct clique at school). And she has also been banned by her soccer coach from performing and dancing in her 6 inch heels (a la Prince) as he can visualize her slipping and twisting or breaking an ankle and the soccer season going up in smoke.
Thing 1 is in more of a searching phase right now and has really exited the punk and hard rock that she has listened to, and played, for years now. In the next week, she has a "girls' night out" at a Feist concert (paid for by yours truly for her birthday) and a Ben Harper show to go and see. Every artist she was listening to is a personal favourite of mine right now.
Sarah Bareilles ‒ Love Song
Johnny Cash ‒ God’s Gonna Cut You Down
The Streets ‒ Such A Twat
Rufus Wainwright ‒ Across The Universe
Prince - Guitar
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Now my oldest and I went and saw the movie Across The Universe last weekend and it was quite a trip. The movie itself was really good and the music was fantastic (the plot is basically the ‘60s told through Beatles' music). But what was really interesting (and in many ways unnerving) was a theatre full of high school all singing along and dancing to the movie. It reminded me of the “Heigh-Ho” scene in Gremlins!
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As I Run Out The Door Into The Teeth Of A Gale ....
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Posted:Oct 20, 2007 10:20 am
Last Updated:Nov 10, 2007 8:26 am
7438 Views
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Just a quick word right now as I am on my way out the door to coach my youngest ’s football (soccer) match that kicks off at 11am. The forecast is rain, wind, small household pets and leaves blowing in from all directions: brilliant footballing weather, in my book.
Anyway, as most know by now, a great deal of my working life is spent doing mathematics with music swirling around to set just the right mathematical mood. My music collection is not thought of as a “collection”, rather it is considered to be an organic entity with a life of its own that is continually evolving (sort of a Torchwood thing, I suppose).
What I would like everyone who comes through here to do, is reach for their IPod, laptop, MP3 player, 8-track player, etc. and leave me a list of the last five songs listened too. I am always looking for new tunes to obtain. Who knows you might just inspire another wave of growth in my collection.
1. Incubus ‒ Anna Molly
2. The Outlaws ‒ Green Grass And High Tides Forever
3. Green Day ‒ Working Class Hero
4. Kanye West ‒ Stronger
5. Feist ‒ 1 2 3 4
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To link to this blog (Fallic40) use [blog Fallic40] in your messages.
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