I think most of life is like this.
Thursday, 6 October 2011
The silent majority
Imagine walking into a beautiful house, old enough to have character, architecturally pleasing and tastefully furnished. In the hall, on the large woven rug covering the dark oak floorboards, sits a fresh turd. I think its clear what the defining feature of the experience will be: not the handsome cut stone fireplace, but the happy brown log staring up at you from the Persian.
Sunday, 25 September 2011
Mr Sparky's Fabulous Blue Juice
I have been really very busy, both at work, where trying to ignore my officemate takes up all of my time, and at home, where I do my work and brainstorm wedding themes with the future Mrs. Droid (apparently death panel liberal big government socio-facist won't be appropriate, so we are going with the Smurfs).
Also there was an earthquake and a hurricane and I took those as clear and incontrovertible evidence that I should stop writing my log on the web, but now various Republican Presidential candidates have confirmed that natural disasters are caused only by God's disapproval of events in Washington DC. I'm so glad that these fine men and women aren't letting centuries of evidence based learning stand in the way of furthering their personal agendas. Clearly they have all missed their calling and should be Democrats or climate change scientists.
Anyway the hurricane that was actually a tropical storm caused some local flooding here and knocked out power. We were warned beforehand to prepare, because power and water might be unavailable for a few days. Yet it was somehow still a surprise to people when their power went off and didn't come back on for several days.
Frantic Caps Lock mothers used the last of the charge on their smartphones to scream into the void (the comment section on news webpages); they simply couldn't go another day without power because they had to run sterilisation equipment for their infants. Initially I thought such right thinking socially inclined people should indeed have the restoration of their electricity prioritised, but then I realised they meant bottle sterilisers for milk. Perhaps they should have used their smartphones to look up alternative childcare methods instead, such as those practised by millions across the world who don't have access to electricity at home? In fact I suspected bottle sterilisers weren't common when I was born. I asked my mother what she used to do: "Oh, I sometimes used to sterilise your bottles with bleach."
Explains a lot really.
Now I appreciate a hot shower and so I really appreciated it when my power came back on after just 24 hours. But there were those less fortunate than me for whom the situation soon turned dire. Perhaps they needed to sterilise children or watch Jersey Shore reruns on TV. Instead they were forced to actually talk to their family members and go to bed when it got dark; a terrible and depressing prospect I'm sure you'll agree (especially if your family members haven't showered). And as livid avians ate into the battery life of their phones, soon even the temporary respite of leaving empty threats and pointless pleas on the power companies facebook page was denied them.
Take a moment from your electricity blessed day - checking penis enlargement email, warming the toilet seat in the microwave, cooking marshmallows on a wire coat hanger jammed in the wall socket - to immerse yourself in their pain: The power has been out for twelve hours and society as we know it is breaking down. Mother is slumped against the wall sobbing, fruitlessly flicking the light switch up and down. Junior sits on the couch wailing and repeatedly slamming the remote into his head. Your daughter lies on the carpet, bleeding to death after she tried to dock her ipod with the cat. Mournfully their eyes turn to you, and in your hands the last working electronic device. The look in their eyes turns to something like hunger and you back away, suddenly afraid. Stumbling into the hall you leave the front door open and run out into the street in your filthy vest and shorts. In your desperation you fumble the car keys and lose precious seconds as the snarling beasts that were once your family approach. Desperately you fling yourself into the SUV and floor the accelerator, sending a hissing Junior flying through the hedge and into the neighbour's fatally unheated outdoor pool. At every intersection the lights are out, but you don't even slow down. Glancing at your lifeline on the passenger seat, you wonder just how much longer you have yourself before you turn. No risk is too great now, you are racing to Starbucks before the ipad flatlines. With just seconds left you pull into the parking lot and jumping from the still moving car you sprint to the entrance, the nearly dead ipad and its charger clutched against your chest. But this is when the real tragedy occurs, and you can no longer hold back the tears. Starbucks is closed. It lost power in the hurricane.
Also there was an earthquake and a hurricane and I took those as clear and incontrovertible evidence that I should stop writing my log on the web, but now various Republican Presidential candidates have confirmed that natural disasters are caused only by God's disapproval of events in Washington DC. I'm so glad that these fine men and women aren't letting centuries of evidence based learning stand in the way of furthering their personal agendas. Clearly they have all missed their calling and should be Democrats or climate change scientists.
Anyway the hurricane that was actually a tropical storm caused some local flooding here and knocked out power. We were warned beforehand to prepare, because power and water might be unavailable for a few days. Yet it was somehow still a surprise to people when their power went off and didn't come back on for several days.
Frantic Caps Lock mothers used the last of the charge on their smartphones to scream into the void (the comment section on news webpages); they simply couldn't go another day without power because they had to run sterilisation equipment for their infants. Initially I thought such right thinking socially inclined people should indeed have the restoration of their electricity prioritised, but then I realised they meant bottle sterilisers for milk. Perhaps they should have used their smartphones to look up alternative childcare methods instead, such as those practised by millions across the world who don't have access to electricity at home? In fact I suspected bottle sterilisers weren't common when I was born. I asked my mother what she used to do: "Oh, I sometimes used to sterilise your bottles with bleach."
Explains a lot really.
Now I appreciate a hot shower and so I really appreciated it when my power came back on after just 24 hours. But there were those less fortunate than me for whom the situation soon turned dire. Perhaps they needed to sterilise children or watch Jersey Shore reruns on TV. Instead they were forced to actually talk to their family members and go to bed when it got dark; a terrible and depressing prospect I'm sure you'll agree (especially if your family members haven't showered). And as livid avians ate into the battery life of their phones, soon even the temporary respite of leaving empty threats and pointless pleas on the power companies facebook page was denied them.
Take a moment from your electricity blessed day - checking penis enlargement email, warming the toilet seat in the microwave, cooking marshmallows on a wire coat hanger jammed in the wall socket - to immerse yourself in their pain: The power has been out for twelve hours and society as we know it is breaking down. Mother is slumped against the wall sobbing, fruitlessly flicking the light switch up and down. Junior sits on the couch wailing and repeatedly slamming the remote into his head. Your daughter lies on the carpet, bleeding to death after she tried to dock her ipod with the cat. Mournfully their eyes turn to you, and in your hands the last working electronic device. The look in their eyes turns to something like hunger and you back away, suddenly afraid. Stumbling into the hall you leave the front door open and run out into the street in your filthy vest and shorts. In your desperation you fumble the car keys and lose precious seconds as the snarling beasts that were once your family approach. Desperately you fling yourself into the SUV and floor the accelerator, sending a hissing Junior flying through the hedge and into the neighbour's fatally unheated outdoor pool. At every intersection the lights are out, but you don't even slow down. Glancing at your lifeline on the passenger seat, you wonder just how much longer you have yourself before you turn. No risk is too great now, you are racing to Starbucks before the ipad flatlines. With just seconds left you pull into the parking lot and jumping from the still moving car you sprint to the entrance, the nearly dead ipad and its charger clutched against your chest. But this is when the real tragedy occurs, and you can no longer hold back the tears. Starbucks is closed. It lost power in the hurricane.
Monday, 11 July 2011
Inner Piece
My officemate is selling a car. I know this because he has taken five calls about it already this morning.
He is not a particularly quiet phone user. On the contrary, he is a particularly loud phone user. Two further shining gifts in this area has the universe bestowed upon him: the first an accent so strong that his (otherwise perfect) English is essentially indecipherable, forcing him to repeat every sentence until the beleaguered party on the other end of the phone gives up and just pretends to have understood; the second a predilection for embracing his squeaky side when he gets excited, which happens whenever he has to repeat himself, the result is that anyone within earshot feels like they are being assaulted by a full orchestra of terrified mice simultaneously playing tiny chalkboards with their little mouse claws.
Working at the same time as one of these phone cataclysms is all but impossible.
There is a brief respite. I prise my hands from my face and mournfully attempt to regain some vestige of the concentration necessary to work.
"Whargarbbbllll Hu Hu Hurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr."
Further down the corridor from our office of uninhibited aural joy, there is a room in which a man sits, apparently dying of tuberculosis. Why he has chosen our work place to do this I do not know, only that he joins us on several days every week. I cannot confirm his ailment: I am scared to approach him lest it is transmittable or perhaps because I might be blown through a window (or wall) by one of his great effusions.
"Uhh Bwharrrr Burrrrrwhak Bwhak" and then a tiny, solemn, "Gack".
At one point in the past he kept his office door shut, but now he has taken to leaving it wide open. It must have been clear to him that no barrier wrought by mortal hands could possibly contain the force of his apocalyptic mucosal eruptions.
"Uhwarrr Uhwarrrrrr UH-WaH-HA-HA-HARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRUBBBBBRRRLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLURR."
How much more can we take? Why does no one else say anything? Is this not what the secretary is for? To tell terminally ill people that they no longer have to come to the office?
My officemate is on the helium again, knifing through the eardrums of another hopeful car owner. Incidentally, his love of high pitch extends beyond his voice. A case in point, he has two desks and two chairs and of these two chairs one was brutally, soul-crushingly, heartbreakingly squeaky. The slightest movement while sat in it would set off a chain of squeals, schreechings and metallic shrieks, the infernal gnashing of great robotic teeth. For several months he would sit in only this chair, despite having an almost silent - and in everything other respect indistinguishable - alternative. One weekend I went to the office specially and emptied half a can of WD-40 into the chair's mechanisms, striking deep within the bowels of the beast and finally slaying the demon. The next week my boss came in to talk to me after my officemate had gone home. He sat in the chair and immediately looked surprised, "Did you oil this?"
"Yes", I beamed.
"Hurrwah Hurrwarhl HURRwah HurRRRRWARRRRRRRRRGGGARRRWARRRQGAKKKKKK"
A seventh call. The person on the other end isn't a quiet phone user either. I can hear his barked questions from my side of the office. In fact he is so vociferous in his wish to confirm all the details, that it is some time before my illustrious officemate can start to tell him in fluent dolphin that the car's airbag sensor is broken.
"Hack Hack Hack uhHurrr uHurrr UHURRRRR uWWWWARRRRGGGGBBBBLLLAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGUUHHHHHRRRRRRRRRRAKAKAKAAKAKAKA URHwwwwwu wu", followed by a soft, almost inaudible, "oh god." He has taken to saying that more frequently of late. I fear for him.
And now another noise, a constant dull knocking adding its voice to the proceedings. What is the origin of this villainous newcomer? I come to realise that it is my own head, slowly knocking against my desk.
He is not a particularly quiet phone user. On the contrary, he is a particularly loud phone user. Two further shining gifts in this area has the universe bestowed upon him: the first an accent so strong that his (otherwise perfect) English is essentially indecipherable, forcing him to repeat every sentence until the beleaguered party on the other end of the phone gives up and just pretends to have understood; the second a predilection for embracing his squeaky side when he gets excited, which happens whenever he has to repeat himself, the result is that anyone within earshot feels like they are being assaulted by a full orchestra of terrified mice simultaneously playing tiny chalkboards with their little mouse claws.
Working at the same time as one of these phone cataclysms is all but impossible.
There is a brief respite. I prise my hands from my face and mournfully attempt to regain some vestige of the concentration necessary to work.
"Whargarbbbllll Hu Hu Hurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr."
Further down the corridor from our office of uninhibited aural joy, there is a room in which a man sits, apparently dying of tuberculosis. Why he has chosen our work place to do this I do not know, only that he joins us on several days every week. I cannot confirm his ailment: I am scared to approach him lest it is transmittable or perhaps because I might be blown through a window (or wall) by one of his great effusions.
"Uhh Bwharrrr Burrrrrwhak Bwhak" and then a tiny, solemn, "Gack".
At one point in the past he kept his office door shut, but now he has taken to leaving it wide open. It must have been clear to him that no barrier wrought by mortal hands could possibly contain the force of his apocalyptic mucosal eruptions.
"Uhwarrr Uhwarrrrrr UH-WaH-HA-HA-HARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRUBBBBBRRRLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLURR."
How much more can we take? Why does no one else say anything? Is this not what the secretary is for? To tell terminally ill people that they no longer have to come to the office?
My officemate is on the helium again, knifing through the eardrums of another hopeful car owner. Incidentally, his love of high pitch extends beyond his voice. A case in point, he has two desks and two chairs and of these two chairs one was brutally, soul-crushingly, heartbreakingly squeaky. The slightest movement while sat in it would set off a chain of squeals, schreechings and metallic shrieks, the infernal gnashing of great robotic teeth. For several months he would sit in only this chair, despite having an almost silent - and in everything other respect indistinguishable - alternative. One weekend I went to the office specially and emptied half a can of WD-40 into the chair's mechanisms, striking deep within the bowels of the beast and finally slaying the demon. The next week my boss came in to talk to me after my officemate had gone home. He sat in the chair and immediately looked surprised, "Did you oil this?"
"Yes", I beamed.
"Hurrwah Hurrwarhl HURRwah HurRRRRWARRRRRRRRRGGGARRRWARRRQGAKKKKKK"
A seventh call. The person on the other end isn't a quiet phone user either. I can hear his barked questions from my side of the office. In fact he is so vociferous in his wish to confirm all the details, that it is some time before my illustrious officemate can start to tell him in fluent dolphin that the car's airbag sensor is broken.
"Hack Hack Hack uhHurrr uHurrr UHURRRRR uWWWWARRRRGGGGBBBBLLLAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGUUHHHHHRRRRRRRRRRAKAKAKAAKAKAKA URHwwwwwu wu", followed by a soft, almost inaudible, "oh god." He has taken to saying that more frequently of late. I fear for him.
And now another noise, a constant dull knocking adding its voice to the proceedings. What is the origin of this villainous newcomer? I come to realise that it is my own head, slowly knocking against my desk.
Wednesday, 6 July 2011
Just a small one
The celebrations for the unveiling of Congressman Penis's Weiner have smoothly dovetailed into those for America's independence. I went down South to see Sometimes Friend and in a park on the evening of the 4th of July we enjoyed a spectacular display of fat people wearing insufficient clothing and families sporting patriotic paraphernalia manufactured in China. There were also some fireworks.
Like many apartment complexes here, mine is blessed with a small outdoor pool that opens during summer to collect beetles, ticks, incautious children and the occasional deer. The radioactive-blue water looked quite inviting, especially as the humidity here is vile, so one day I wandered over to read the rules of use.
There was a notice with the expected statement of opening hours and a reminder not to let unattended children use the pool lest they forget to surface. Otherwise the area was plastered with large signs which all had a similar theme and demonstrated a worrying lack of faith in the basic decency of my neighbours. For example:
"The New York Dept. of Health and Sanitation recommends that all those who have difficulty controlling their urinary or bowel functions wear suitable incontinence protection in addition to their bathing suit.
"Children must wear swim diapers."
"No urinating, defaecating or expectorating in or around the pool". (Expectorating? Who expected that?)
I decided not to go for a swim.
Besides Congressman Weenus's Peenor the other big news event in the New York area was the legalisation of gay marriage. Those who were against the move explained their motivations using skillfully crafted arguments such as "I'm not a bigot, I'm just a traditional American" (replace with the nationality of your choice to find the dictionary definition of bigot) or "We 're not anti-gay, we're pro-marriage" (for people who aren't gay). I suppose my problem is that I just don't hate gay people enough to deny them the rights I take for granted. But I'm sure if the Tea Party comes to power they'll set up reeducation camps to help people with problems like mine, teaching core values like homophobia 101, the dangers of mixed race marriage and how the bible shows us that public healthcare is a sin in the eyes of the Lord.
Like many apartment complexes here, mine is blessed with a small outdoor pool that opens during summer to collect beetles, ticks, incautious children and the occasional deer. The radioactive-blue water looked quite inviting, especially as the humidity here is vile, so one day I wandered over to read the rules of use.
There was a notice with the expected statement of opening hours and a reminder not to let unattended children use the pool lest they forget to surface. Otherwise the area was plastered with large signs which all had a similar theme and demonstrated a worrying lack of faith in the basic decency of my neighbours. For example:
"The New York Dept. of Health and Sanitation recommends that all those who have difficulty controlling their urinary or bowel functions wear suitable incontinence protection in addition to their bathing suit.
"Children must wear swim diapers."
"No urinating, defaecating or expectorating in or around the pool". (Expectorating? Who expected that?)
I decided not to go for a swim.
Besides Congressman Weenus's Peenor the other big news event in the New York area was the legalisation of gay marriage. Those who were against the move explained their motivations using skillfully crafted arguments such as "I'm not a bigot, I'm just a traditional American" (replace with the nationality of your choice to find the dictionary definition of bigot) or "We 're not anti-gay, we're pro-marriage" (for people who aren't gay). I suppose my problem is that I just don't hate gay people enough to deny them the rights I take for granted. But I'm sure if the Tea Party comes to power they'll set up reeducation camps to help people with problems like mine, teaching core values like homophobia 101, the dangers of mixed race marriage and how the bible shows us that public healthcare is a sin in the eyes of the Lord.
Sunday, 12 June 2011
The price of fish
There is some concern here over the rising cost of the petroleum derivative known locally as 'gasoline' or 'gas' (in contrast to 'gas' which is now also used to fuel vehicles and which, to avoid confusion with the shortened form of gasoline, is often referred to via the longened form 'natural gas'. Makes sense.)
I have to admit I hadn't been giving it much thought, what with the price being so ridiculously, fantastically cheap compared to the real world (where the dragons and commies are, doing their freedom hating and bereft of proper religion and morals) that I just fill up wherever and whenever; I had been considering running my cellphone off it and giving my vacuum cleaner a miniaturised V6.
However as people who weren't punished for their parents' sins by being born outside America know, cheap gasoline is a constitutional right and a vital component of functioning, healthy, democracy in that it allows one to drive three hours for a really good cheeseburger.
While in a DC hotel room, struck down by conferencitis, I took the opportunity to flick through the cable news channels (I don't own a tv*). It was a holiday weekend so most were covering the fuel apocalypse, because holiday isn't just a state of mind, it's a place you drive to.
One news crew had gamely spent some money on gas and driven their van out to a gas station forecourt to interview the hard pressed populace on how they were coping with the breakdown of civilisation. One woman, a decent salt-of-the-earth type with pearlised smile and dyed hair, was asked if the price of fuel was affecting her? "Oh yes definitely." she affirmed, standing beside her large black SUV. How so? "Well we've been cutting down on unnecessary trips, and trying to combine others when we run errands."
Imagine that.
Plenty of Americans do recognise that 'climate change' might not be a purposeless liberal socialist science conspiracy but a genuine possibility, and that declining reserves mean that the price of fuel can only increase on average. They tend to buy smaller cars of Asian origin with high fuel economy. Recently hybrids have become very popular, but some older, more efficient options remain overlooked. Diesel engines? Buses? What are you, from space?
The price of gas is very serious though for those whose livelihood depends directly on it. Taxi drivers, who have to give half their takings to the dispatcher, but pay for fuel out of their own half, like to tell me this when I happen to require their services, before they mention that only tips can keep the wolves from the door. Wolves who have been forced to work in the repossessions sector because of the poor economy and dwindling number of buffalo. As one driver recently related to me "You might drive almost an hour and end up with only twenty bucks, but that's before you've bought gas for this," indicating his car, an ex-police Ford Crown Victoria, which he lovingly referred to as a "piece of shit." The primary benefit of the Crown Victoria is its powerful engine and easily rebuilt body. Useful for a hard day hurtling down alleys knocking over boxes and trashcans or chasing the Dukes of Hazzard. Or for casually ramming other cars and converting cyclists into flying objects, as taxis are want to do. Not known for its fuel economy, the basic unit on the Crown Vic's fuel gauge is the daily oil output of a small Sultanate.
Later the driver pulled over at the side of the road, cocked his finger and pretended to shoot some deer. Then he offered to take me bear hunting.
It seems that taxi drivers think gas prices are controlled entirely by the American economy: global financial crises and civil unrest in the Middle East are largely irrelevant. Accordingly, they know how to fix the economy. Along with malaria, homosexuality, seasonal affective disorder and socks lost in the wash, it is "Obama's fault" TM. All of the stimulus money should have just been divided among the people. For a start, this would allow taxi drivers to pay off their "$5000 credit card debt."
It is not clear to me why Barack Obama should take financial advice from people who have unfortunately managed to get themselves into thousands of dollars of debt.
*A lady from the cable company phoned me to tell me about how their great offers could save me money on my tv bill. When she asked who my current tv provider was and I replied that it was no one and that I didn't own a tv, she became very quiet. I could imagine her hitting the panic button, or perhaps just whispering, "freak". It's probably got me on some kind of watch list.
I have to admit I hadn't been giving it much thought, what with the price being so ridiculously, fantastically cheap compared to the real world (where the dragons and commies are, doing their freedom hating and bereft of proper religion and morals) that I just fill up wherever and whenever; I had been considering running my cellphone off it and giving my vacuum cleaner a miniaturised V6.
However as people who weren't punished for their parents' sins by being born outside America know, cheap gasoline is a constitutional right and a vital component of functioning, healthy, democracy in that it allows one to drive three hours for a really good cheeseburger.
While in a DC hotel room, struck down by conferencitis, I took the opportunity to flick through the cable news channels (I don't own a tv*). It was a holiday weekend so most were covering the fuel apocalypse, because holiday isn't just a state of mind, it's a place you drive to.
One news crew had gamely spent some money on gas and driven their van out to a gas station forecourt to interview the hard pressed populace on how they were coping with the breakdown of civilisation. One woman, a decent salt-of-the-earth type with pearlised smile and dyed hair, was asked if the price of fuel was affecting her? "Oh yes definitely." she affirmed, standing beside her large black SUV. How so? "Well we've been cutting down on unnecessary trips, and trying to combine others when we run errands."
Imagine that.
Plenty of Americans do recognise that 'climate change' might not be a purposeless liberal socialist science conspiracy but a genuine possibility, and that declining reserves mean that the price of fuel can only increase on average. They tend to buy smaller cars of Asian origin with high fuel economy. Recently hybrids have become very popular, but some older, more efficient options remain overlooked. Diesel engines? Buses? What are you, from space?
The price of gas is very serious though for those whose livelihood depends directly on it. Taxi drivers, who have to give half their takings to the dispatcher, but pay for fuel out of their own half, like to tell me this when I happen to require their services, before they mention that only tips can keep the wolves from the door. Wolves who have been forced to work in the repossessions sector because of the poor economy and dwindling number of buffalo. As one driver recently related to me "You might drive almost an hour and end up with only twenty bucks, but that's before you've bought gas for this," indicating his car, an ex-police Ford Crown Victoria, which he lovingly referred to as a "piece of shit." The primary benefit of the Crown Victoria is its powerful engine and easily rebuilt body. Useful for a hard day hurtling down alleys knocking over boxes and trashcans or chasing the Dukes of Hazzard. Or for casually ramming other cars and converting cyclists into flying objects, as taxis are want to do. Not known for its fuel economy, the basic unit on the Crown Vic's fuel gauge is the daily oil output of a small Sultanate.
Later the driver pulled over at the side of the road, cocked his finger and pretended to shoot some deer. Then he offered to take me bear hunting.
It seems that taxi drivers think gas prices are controlled entirely by the American economy: global financial crises and civil unrest in the Middle East are largely irrelevant. Accordingly, they know how to fix the economy. Along with malaria, homosexuality, seasonal affective disorder and socks lost in the wash, it is "Obama's fault" TM. All of the stimulus money should have just been divided among the people. For a start, this would allow taxi drivers to pay off their "$5000 credit card debt."
It is not clear to me why Barack Obama should take financial advice from people who have unfortunately managed to get themselves into thousands of dollars of debt.
*A lady from the cable company phoned me to tell me about how their great offers could save me money on my tv bill. When she asked who my current tv provider was and I replied that it was no one and that I didn't own a tv, she became very quiet. I could imagine her hitting the panic button, or perhaps just whispering, "freak". It's probably got me on some kind of watch list.
Thursday, 5 May 2011
Like the A-Team, but balancing balls on their noses
It is with great sadness that we must announce that due to unforeseen circumstances, Osama Bin Laden will not be appearing on the next season of 'Dancing with the Stars'.
It was delightful to see the youth of America outside the White House, celebrating in their quintessential way: as if their college football team had won the game but with some nationalistic chanting thrown in. Actually with all the chanting and yelling and air punches and jumping up and down it looked quite a lot like the scenes in certain Arab nations after September the 11th. Minus the kalashnikovs and the effigy burning but plus baseball caps and college sweatshirts, which easily compensate in terms of visual unpleasantness.
At least according to the comments on cnn.com, some Americans are demanding they should see the results of Osama's fateful last photo op, with arguments along the lines of 'This is what I pay my taxes for!' If that's what people here are paying their taxes for, it's no wonder that public healthcare is in such a bad state.
It leads one to wonder if through the human race's incessant struggle: all the pain, sacrificed lives and anionic surfactant, anything is ever really learned. I think the answer is, "No, not really". Well not with any permanence or by the majority of us anyway. Which is rather sad.
Not wanting to paint a totally bleak picture (like a watercolour of the Slough trading estate), many people did react with restraint and understood that the nefarious one's pelting to death with herring didn't mean that a new age of golden prosperity would descend upon the troubled corners of the world (fifty inch plasma screens and a hummer for everyone if you would be so kind as to stop the stonings). So that's good. I can hang out with those people.
It was delightful to see the youth of America outside the White House, celebrating in their quintessential way: as if their college football team had won the game but with some nationalistic chanting thrown in. Actually with all the chanting and yelling and air punches and jumping up and down it looked quite a lot like the scenes in certain Arab nations after September the 11th. Minus the kalashnikovs and the effigy burning but plus baseball caps and college sweatshirts, which easily compensate in terms of visual unpleasantness.
At least according to the comments on cnn.com, some Americans are demanding they should see the results of Osama's fateful last photo op, with arguments along the lines of 'This is what I pay my taxes for!' If that's what people here are paying their taxes for, it's no wonder that public healthcare is in such a bad state.
It leads one to wonder if through the human race's incessant struggle: all the pain, sacrificed lives and anionic surfactant, anything is ever really learned. I think the answer is, "No, not really". Well not with any permanence or by the majority of us anyway. Which is rather sad.
Not wanting to paint a totally bleak picture (like a watercolour of the Slough trading estate), many people did react with restraint and understood that the nefarious one's pelting to death with herring didn't mean that a new age of golden prosperity would descend upon the troubled corners of the world (fifty inch plasma screens and a hummer for everyone if you would be so kind as to stop the stonings). So that's good. I can hang out with those people.
Thursday, 31 March 2011
Exit Cat, pursued by vacuum cleaner
They are still asleep, but the Idiot awoke some time ago and embarked upon her demented agenda. Now she has finally tired of headbutting cupboards in the kitchen and whining at the light fixtures. She returns to the bedroom, jumps on the bed and immediately comes close to falling of in astonishment with the shock of remembering that we exist. She has probably been gone for less than a quarter of an hour. Recovering with the sort of rapidity that only a true imbecile can muster, she decides that it must already be night again and settles down to sleep between them.
None of this is unusual, instead it is an exercise in nauseating monotony that I witness every morning while sitting on the corner of the bed. But now breakfast has waited too long.
I make my way over to the woman. I have known her the longest and she is the primary provider of food. A good smack in the face should get the lazy ape going. Poised gracefully on her belly, I raise my paw ready to execute a firm jab in the expectation of a respectful apology and a swiftly prepared meal.
Instead, chaos. Grunting in her sleep, she turns over, hurling me across the bed in the process. The bed itself becomes a raging sea, great waves of blanket rolling and crashing as the woman shifts to a comfortable position. Struggling to stay afloat on the metaphor I spy the Idiot at the centre of the maelstrom, a pitiful look of terror on her face, tossed one way and then the other as she battles against inundation. Her tail is the last thing to disappear, waving a mournful goodbye. It is turning out to be a bad day on the high seas, and I choose to vacate the bed.
Not all is lost though, the man is now awake and heading to the bathroom. In accordance with tradition I wait for him to close the door behind him, before pushing it open a crack and ramming my head through the gap to stare at him. He looks at me in disgust from the porcelain throne. I indicate that I am ready for breakfast, withdrawing my head just in time to dodge the thrown toilet roll.
The Idiot, once again recovered from a traumatic experience, is waiting her turn at the door. Lacking my subtlety she flings herself into it so that it flies wide open. While the humans take their showers the Idiot paces the bathroom and mewls pathetically. Important work no doubt, but not for me. Let her run the risk of getting wet I say.
Once we have coaxed the recalcitrant humans into the kitchen our work is still not over. We must constantly petition them for food, lest they forget and start doing something stupid. Our desperation grows as, stubbornly negligent in their duties, they attend to all sorts of inconsequential tasks, like feeding themselves, all the while babbling to each other in their ridiculous hairless monkey tongue. Can they not see that we are starving? Or at least that I am, who cares about the Idiot anyway? She can probably subsist on her own flatulence.
At last the bowls hit the ground, and I am so weak with hunger that I almost don't stop to inspect the Idiot's food first. It is always important to check that she hasn't been given something that would be wasted on her unrefined palate. A whole goose perhaps, or a capybara.
As I daintily bury my face in my delicious breakfast, smearing it all over my mouth in a dignified manner, I keep a watchful eye on the vacuum cleaner looming in its corner. It waits to pounce on the unwary, but I have the measure of it.
Slurping on the last chunks of "fisherman's choice", I hear a strange clunking noise. OH MY GOD THE VACUUM CLEANER! TAKE THE IDIOT PLEASE, NOT ME!
But no, it is the humans; they have used breakfast to distract us, escaping from the house under cover of mechanically reclaimed fish paste. Cleverer than I thought. Well they won't pull this trick on me twice, tomorrow I'll be ready. I'm sure I couldn't possibly be this hungry again tomorrow...
The internet is for cats. Use it wisely.
None of this is unusual, instead it is an exercise in nauseating monotony that I witness every morning while sitting on the corner of the bed. But now breakfast has waited too long.
I make my way over to the woman. I have known her the longest and she is the primary provider of food. A good smack in the face should get the lazy ape going. Poised gracefully on her belly, I raise my paw ready to execute a firm jab in the expectation of a respectful apology and a swiftly prepared meal.
Instead, chaos. Grunting in her sleep, she turns over, hurling me across the bed in the process. The bed itself becomes a raging sea, great waves of blanket rolling and crashing as the woman shifts to a comfortable position. Struggling to stay afloat on the metaphor I spy the Idiot at the centre of the maelstrom, a pitiful look of terror on her face, tossed one way and then the other as she battles against inundation. Her tail is the last thing to disappear, waving a mournful goodbye. It is turning out to be a bad day on the high seas, and I choose to vacate the bed.
Not all is lost though, the man is now awake and heading to the bathroom. In accordance with tradition I wait for him to close the door behind him, before pushing it open a crack and ramming my head through the gap to stare at him. He looks at me in disgust from the porcelain throne. I indicate that I am ready for breakfast, withdrawing my head just in time to dodge the thrown toilet roll.
The Idiot, once again recovered from a traumatic experience, is waiting her turn at the door. Lacking my subtlety she flings herself into it so that it flies wide open. While the humans take their showers the Idiot paces the bathroom and mewls pathetically. Important work no doubt, but not for me. Let her run the risk of getting wet I say.
Once we have coaxed the recalcitrant humans into the kitchen our work is still not over. We must constantly petition them for food, lest they forget and start doing something stupid. Our desperation grows as, stubbornly negligent in their duties, they attend to all sorts of inconsequential tasks, like feeding themselves, all the while babbling to each other in their ridiculous hairless monkey tongue. Can they not see that we are starving? Or at least that I am, who cares about the Idiot anyway? She can probably subsist on her own flatulence.
At last the bowls hit the ground, and I am so weak with hunger that I almost don't stop to inspect the Idiot's food first. It is always important to check that she hasn't been given something that would be wasted on her unrefined palate. A whole goose perhaps, or a capybara.
As I daintily bury my face in my delicious breakfast, smearing it all over my mouth in a dignified manner, I keep a watchful eye on the vacuum cleaner looming in its corner. It waits to pounce on the unwary, but I have the measure of it.
Slurping on the last chunks of "fisherman's choice", I hear a strange clunking noise. OH MY GOD THE VACUUM CLEANER! TAKE THE IDIOT PLEASE, NOT ME!
But no, it is the humans; they have used breakfast to distract us, escaping from the house under cover of mechanically reclaimed fish paste. Cleverer than I thought. Well they won't pull this trick on me twice, tomorrow I'll be ready. I'm sure I couldn't possibly be this hungry again tomorrow...
The internet is for cats. Use it wisely.
Sunday, 13 February 2011
And so
Finally I have moved back onto unhallowed ground. No longer am I shackled by the chains of a federally owned internet connection, burdened by its inhumane prohibitions: no gambling, no porn, no arranging to meet prostitutes on craigslist - even if you don't kill them - and no supporting religious or political groups.
I now live in New York state. It seems that a lot of you have the impression that this is near New York city. It is true that some of it is very near, or indeed in, the city. The vast majority is over an hour's drive away. And rife with turkeys and deer, both driven insane by people who say 'kawphee'.
I have a pleasant apartment on the edge of suburbia, before the farms proper start, but the turkeys already sense the lessening of man's grip and wander about with gay abandon. Sometimes they sit in the tree opposite my door, watching and softly gobbling amongst themselves.
Because there are no public transport links to my place of work, the first step to escaping was to obtain a driver's licence. Tricky when one needs to visit a DMV office to do this and there is no public transport. I found a friend, or at least someone gullible enough to drive me, and cleared some time in my diary for a serious waste of time.
It was therefore a pleasant surprise to find that the queue moved swiftly at the local DMV and in less than half an hour from my arrival I was looking forward to my third driving knowledge test in America. You may remember that I passed the first two (on account of being awake and literate, in order of importance), but that was in a different state, so not only didn't it matter but in fact some of my previous correct answers would now be wrong. State's rights are firmly in support of not letting big government do anything so oppressive as to impose a uniform driving code across the country. I had prepared myself by unlearning what I thought was right, including some pieces of obvious common sense. The exam room was just off the main room and we were called in one at a time to maximise disruption to those already sitting tests. I was given a piece of paper with multiple choice questions on it and another sheet with boxes in which to mark the answer. I tried to be cautious, but after five minutes and having triple checked the answers I could stand the boredom no longer and turned in my script. I then waited on a solid wood bench reminiscent of Victorian schooling while the ladies behind the counter figured out that two of us had finished already. This took a while. In the meantime a gangly teenager with acne came in with his parents, who presumably thought he might be kidnapped or raped if he entered the examination room alone. Clearly he had prepared well because the first part of the exam was a vision test and he had left his glasses at home. He seemed confused when he was told that he couldn't take the exam and would have to leave. I started asking myself, 'am I really going to share the road with these people?'
Then the other examiner called out "Who took the motorcycle test?" A young man with a buzzcut stood up eagerly and moved to the counter. Loudly and humiliatingly he was told, "I'm going to need you to write answers in the boxes". My train of thought gained momentum. Moments later I was presented with a temporary learner's permit.
The next stage was something called a '5 hour prelicensing course'. This involved another favour from a friend, because such courses are only given at a few places, usually nowhere near public transport, and you can't drive on your own on a learner's permit. I soon discovered this hadn't stopped most of the people attending the class from doing just that in order to get there.
The class consisted of two teenagers; a woman a bit younger than me; a woman a bit older than me three men, one sane, one not and one indeterminate because he kept falling asleep; oh and me. The teenagers were there because they had never had a license before, nor had the young woman. The remainder, myself excluded, had all lost their licences, by which I mean the legal euphemism for had them confiscated, rather than just dropped them down the back of a sofa. In some cases it wasn't clear why, in others it was blindingly obvious: "How many DUI's do you have?" the older woman had asked the man next to her when she arrived. She had two it turned out. One of them bad enough to have destroyed her car and led to her waking up in a cell. She also mentioned her previous heroin problem to provide extra colour. She was one of the people who had driven herself to the class even though she only had a learner's permit. Who were these people I was going to share the road with?
The class was better than I expected, mainly because the people were fascinating and the teacher had many interesting stories of his own to share. My favourite was about the man he once had at the back of the class who spent the first half hour flipping him the bird. When prompted as to why, the man explained that as a New Yorker, he knew how to drive and didn't need to be patronized. What injustice had led to him losing his licence? Well he had once purposefully run someone off the road for cutting him up. And when that person had pulled up behind him later at a gas station, he had grabbed his trusty lead pipe from the footwell to explain how things were going to be. It was desperately unfortunate for him that the other driver had held up a gun and his New Jersey State trooper badge. Just another great person to share the road with.
At some point we were told about car safety and the damage accidents can do. I think Miss DUI said something about a visit to hospital. In a game of oneupmanship, the large bearded man behind me mumbled something about hitting a tree, a collapsed lung and losing an eye. That explained the glassy stare. He had also driven to the class illegally.
Part of the class was taken up by watching videos, one was about Princess Diana. Knowing that I was British, the instructor asked me, "What do we know about how Princess Diana died?" As I opened my mouth to answer, the bearded madman behind me spat, "We'll NEVER know what really happened to her". I stared at the instructor for a while. I was thinking of maybe finding a way to hike to work, or live at the lab forever.
Eventually the class ended, and the instructor himself was good enough to drive me back to my cell at the lab, because he lived nearby. On the way he told me a story about someone throwing acid at a car. Really was it worth leaving the lab at all?
Then the long wait for a road test began. Still it was an American driving test, so nothing to worry about. The internet suggested it was easy compared to the UK test (just point the car in the right direction and avoid other vehicles). I asked around to find previous recipients of the prestigious New York state driver's licence. Apparently a postdoc before me had taken it five times before he passed. Oh well, it happens with some people. And he'd moved away, so I wouldn't have to worry about him driving around. I found a graduate student. He took the test five times as well. Shit.
I passed, first time thank you for asking. After some necessary but unpleasant time with a used car salesman I bought a car and moved away from the lab. Now we have come full circle, back to the beginning of the post. I am told by the people at the apartment offices that the other tenants in my block are really nice. I met one the other day as I was walking out my door. "Harrrllllo" she gargled at me from over her walking frame as I smiled and greeted her. "Could you tell me where the laundry is?" I suggested, hoping to profit from the experience. Looking above me and slightly to the left, she began humming as she shuffled off. I think I'll ask the turkeys next time.
I now live in New York state. It seems that a lot of you have the impression that this is near New York city. It is true that some of it is very near, or indeed in, the city. The vast majority is over an hour's drive away. And rife with turkeys and deer, both driven insane by people who say 'kawphee'.
I have a pleasant apartment on the edge of suburbia, before the farms proper start, but the turkeys already sense the lessening of man's grip and wander about with gay abandon. Sometimes they sit in the tree opposite my door, watching and softly gobbling amongst themselves.
Because there are no public transport links to my place of work, the first step to escaping was to obtain a driver's licence. Tricky when one needs to visit a DMV office to do this and there is no public transport. I found a friend, or at least someone gullible enough to drive me, and cleared some time in my diary for a serious waste of time.
It was therefore a pleasant surprise to find that the queue moved swiftly at the local DMV and in less than half an hour from my arrival I was looking forward to my third driving knowledge test in America. You may remember that I passed the first two (on account of being awake and literate, in order of importance), but that was in a different state, so not only didn't it matter but in fact some of my previous correct answers would now be wrong. State's rights are firmly in support of not letting big government do anything so oppressive as to impose a uniform driving code across the country. I had prepared myself by unlearning what I thought was right, including some pieces of obvious common sense. The exam room was just off the main room and we were called in one at a time to maximise disruption to those already sitting tests. I was given a piece of paper with multiple choice questions on it and another sheet with boxes in which to mark the answer. I tried to be cautious, but after five minutes and having triple checked the answers I could stand the boredom no longer and turned in my script. I then waited on a solid wood bench reminiscent of Victorian schooling while the ladies behind the counter figured out that two of us had finished already. This took a while. In the meantime a gangly teenager with acne came in with his parents, who presumably thought he might be kidnapped or raped if he entered the examination room alone. Clearly he had prepared well because the first part of the exam was a vision test and he had left his glasses at home. He seemed confused when he was told that he couldn't take the exam and would have to leave. I started asking myself, 'am I really going to share the road with these people?'
Then the other examiner called out "Who took the motorcycle test?" A young man with a buzzcut stood up eagerly and moved to the counter. Loudly and humiliatingly he was told, "I'm going to need you to write answers in the boxes". My train of thought gained momentum. Moments later I was presented with a temporary learner's permit.
The next stage was something called a '5 hour prelicensing course'. This involved another favour from a friend, because such courses are only given at a few places, usually nowhere near public transport, and you can't drive on your own on a learner's permit. I soon discovered this hadn't stopped most of the people attending the class from doing just that in order to get there.
The class consisted of two teenagers; a woman a bit younger than me; a woman a bit older than me three men, one sane, one not and one indeterminate because he kept falling asleep; oh and me. The teenagers were there because they had never had a license before, nor had the young woman. The remainder, myself excluded, had all lost their licences, by which I mean the legal euphemism for had them confiscated, rather than just dropped them down the back of a sofa. In some cases it wasn't clear why, in others it was blindingly obvious: "How many DUI's do you have?" the older woman had asked the man next to her when she arrived. She had two it turned out. One of them bad enough to have destroyed her car and led to her waking up in a cell. She also mentioned her previous heroin problem to provide extra colour. She was one of the people who had driven herself to the class even though she only had a learner's permit. Who were these people I was going to share the road with?
The class was better than I expected, mainly because the people were fascinating and the teacher had many interesting stories of his own to share. My favourite was about the man he once had at the back of the class who spent the first half hour flipping him the bird. When prompted as to why, the man explained that as a New Yorker, he knew how to drive and didn't need to be patronized. What injustice had led to him losing his licence? Well he had once purposefully run someone off the road for cutting him up. And when that person had pulled up behind him later at a gas station, he had grabbed his trusty lead pipe from the footwell to explain how things were going to be. It was desperately unfortunate for him that the other driver had held up a gun and his New Jersey State trooper badge. Just another great person to share the road with.
At some point we were told about car safety and the damage accidents can do. I think Miss DUI said something about a visit to hospital. In a game of oneupmanship, the large bearded man behind me mumbled something about hitting a tree, a collapsed lung and losing an eye. That explained the glassy stare. He had also driven to the class illegally.
Part of the class was taken up by watching videos, one was about Princess Diana. Knowing that I was British, the instructor asked me, "What do we know about how Princess Diana died?" As I opened my mouth to answer, the bearded madman behind me spat, "We'll NEVER know what really happened to her". I stared at the instructor for a while. I was thinking of maybe finding a way to hike to work, or live at the lab forever.
Eventually the class ended, and the instructor himself was good enough to drive me back to my cell at the lab, because he lived nearby. On the way he told me a story about someone throwing acid at a car. Really was it worth leaving the lab at all?
Then the long wait for a road test began. Still it was an American driving test, so nothing to worry about. The internet suggested it was easy compared to the UK test (just point the car in the right direction and avoid other vehicles). I asked around to find previous recipients of the prestigious New York state driver's licence. Apparently a postdoc before me had taken it five times before he passed. Oh well, it happens with some people. And he'd moved away, so I wouldn't have to worry about him driving around. I found a graduate student. He took the test five times as well. Shit.
I passed, first time thank you for asking. After some necessary but unpleasant time with a used car salesman I bought a car and moved away from the lab. Now we have come full circle, back to the beginning of the post. I am told by the people at the apartment offices that the other tenants in my block are really nice. I met one the other day as I was walking out my door. "Harrrllllo" she gargled at me from over her walking frame as I smiled and greeted her. "Could you tell me where the laundry is?" I suggested, hoping to profit from the experience. Looking above me and slightly to the left, she began humming as she shuffled off. I think I'll ask the turkeys next time.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)