Bollocks. Complete and utter. Let me explain.
A friend of mine recently purchased a shiny new HP home computer. ‘Twas a sight to behold. Lovely. Big. Shiny. My friend is many years my senior and I was brought ‘round to help because, quite frankly, I am younger and by default should know all about ‘puters. Which is bollocks, too.
Trust me. Youth indicates no more a capability for ‘puters than it does for atomic and molecular physics. Youth (I include myself in the demographic) is good for nothing.
Let me carry on. We get the thing out the box, plug it in and switch it on. Shazam, the power surges through and we see a beautiful hill of grass on-screen. Oh look. There's a tree.
We hear a gentile churning sound that seems to indicate that something magical is working inside. Steadily, small icons (see my lovely grasp of ‘puter lingo, here) pop up all over the grass hill, and things appear to be working.
Tens of little icons appear; little portals into worlds of digital mania. Wonderful. Fantastic.
Only. Everything. Everyting. Is in Spanish. Mierda.
Think you can easily find the button that says “change your language settings here” when the button that says “change your language settings here” is in the bloody language that you don’t understand?! Da Vinci bloody Code.
See where I’m going? Computer is personal again? My arse.
“I thought you knew all about ‘puters. You’re young.” My friend looks for reassurance.
“I know nowt about ‘puters. And what I know about Spanish is even worse.” I give him none.
Anyhow. We try some more. We look through the documentation that the kind HP folk have bestowed upon us. 6 manuals and 8 DVDs. I. Kid. You. Not. And all in English, but none in a language we understand. They talk about rebooting, operating systems and safe modes. May as well be in Spanish.
Trying to cope with our lingo nightmare, we do what all men generations before us have done. We toss the instructions into the bin and continue staring at the screen.
Thankfully, the word “Start” is still in English. But as we proceed to find no further guidance or success, the word itself becomes a taunt. An irritating form of sarcasm that the programmers at HP surely know about. Start?! Start what?! Enigma bloody machine.
We proceed to change every bloody setting on the ‘puter, hoping that one of them we stumble across could actually be the language one.
Currency is now the Zimbabwean dollar, the time zone is Central East Asia and all decimal places are set to minus six. Lovely versatility they offer you, here. But still. No language.
“What do you need a ‘puter for anyway?” I grumble at my friend.
“For surfing the interwebs” he replies, knowledgably.
And still. We stare at the screen.
Our trance is broken by a pop-up message that includes the words “error illegal”.
“Well, I think it’s broken.” I offer my best diagnosis.
“You’re good for nothing!” he moans.
“I know.”
“Want a beer?”
“Okay.”
Computer is personal again? My arse!
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Friday, April 18, 2008
Greenwashed (and loving it?)
Revealed: a cow has a bigger carbon footprint than a Hummer. I'm all for being a responsible caretaker of the environment, but am growing a bit jaded from all the greenwashing nonsense marketers are throwing our way. You too?Having said that, here's a lovely ad for the Discovery Channel. Single-click to view. Double-click is an unnecessary waste of energy.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Bunnies, bunnies everywhere...
The White Rabbit is a creature of folklore and much mystery.
It (he) appears in many tales; Alice in Wonderland, Harvey, even Who Framed Roger Rabbit? And of course, at this time of year, there are many more bunnies about than usual.
The pooka is part real, part fantasty, part always good, part certainly unknown.
Anyhow, for the past 2 years in Antwerp, I've been followed by a White Rabbit. And this very week stumbled across another.
It's the same artist... I think. But it always appears to get closer to me each time... The first time I found him. Now, he seems to be finding me.
The closest thing I have to a name is Nightwalker.
Who is it? What is it? And why?
UPDATE: Here he is. Nuage.
Whichever the answer, it's quite delightful, mystical treat.
See:
It (he) appears in many tales; Alice in Wonderland, Harvey, even Who Framed Roger Rabbit? And of course, at this time of year, there are many more bunnies about than usual.
The pooka is part real, part fantasty, part always good, part certainly unknown.
Anyhow, for the past 2 years in Antwerp, I've been followed by a White Rabbit. And this very week stumbled across another.
It's the same artist... I think. But it always appears to get closer to me each time... The first time I found him. Now, he seems to be finding me.
The closest thing I have to a name is Nightwalker.
Who is it? What is it? And why?
UPDATE: Here he is. Nuage.
Whichever the answer, it's quite delightful, mystical treat.
See:
Friday, March 14, 2008
I fought a lesbian and won.
She stared at me gobsmaked. As if she could not believe I had just done what I just had. To be honest, I could not believe it either. And neither could the ten or so onlookers, who were doing what onlookers are known to do, but from the safety of their bar stools.
Through her stare, I could tell that she was slightly upset, too. This was possibly to do with the fact that my right foot was firmly lodged in the crevice of her posterior. Possibly not the best place to lodge a foot, granted, but it’s trajectory and intention was firm and resolute. I had planted it there for a good reason.
That’s right. I kicked a lesbian. Right up her bum. Thwack.
I had my reasons and am unrepentant. Not that I am a lesbian hater. On the contrary. She could have been a donkey. The fact that I use the word ‘lesbian’ to describe her is neither here nor there.
Let me explain. I have inserted flights of fantasy in appropriate parts to make me feel better about the whole affair.
In my local bar, there is much tom foolery. Tom doesn’t appear to mind. But notwithstanding this, much is said and done in jest. I love it.
I was (innocently?) minding my own business (which means I was drinking my sixth or seventh Duvel, telling jokes to the barman), when the lesbian in question, also drinking Duvel, seemed to take an instant disliking to me. Sometimes my jokes are really bad and unfunny – which is what Duvel can do – so I almost empathised with her.
But anyway. She just seemed to not like the very presence of me. Call it a chip on her shoulder. Call it a dislike of bald, slightly chubby men drinking Duvel. Call it what you want.
I cannot fathom a reason for it; she just did not like me.
She began a bout of name calling. Now, as a native English speaker, I am particularly fond of the creative use of the language. Nothing thrills me more than the apt selection of words to accurately describe what you feel. When you convey, accurately, what you feel to another, and that other accurately understands what you intended, you can consider yourself a good communicator. Well done.
So I was rather disappointed when all she could fathom to speak was “Hey, gay boy!”
Strange. I suppose I should be impressed by her wonderful ability to state the obvious. But as a veteran bar-goer, I have learnt that such uninteresting jibes are best left on the bar floor. Which only seemed to incite the lesbian more.
She continued her verbal hissing, summing up her English vocabulary as best she could and continued with her attempted torment.
No problem. I had been abused by bigger, uglier and fiercer people than her. And perhaps she was letting off a little steam, and I was the whipping boy. Again, no problem. The world is surprisingly peaceful with a glass of Duvel in your hand.
However, things began to escalate when she repeatedly walked past me, bumping in and knocking my jacket and jumper on the floor. Repeatedly. Now, I know that my dress sense is perhaps somewhat lacking in that there is no sense, but to express it in such fashion was somewhat misplaced, I felt.
It was at this point that I became vaguely irritated. It was my favourite pink jacket that she was disrespecting. Call me what you like, but disrespect The Pink, and I become slightly perturbed.
“Just ignore her,” came the support from the barman. Ignorance I do particularly well. But repeated ignorance is difficult for me. As is silence.
At which point my transformation occurred. From gentile bar-goer to therapist.
Yes. Therapist. An attitude adjustment therapist. And I believed that my services were indeed required.
I then promised myself, that the next time she performed her usual trick, I would enquire as to the nature of her disagreement. Which meant I would ask her what the hell her problem was.
When she passed my way again, she did the same again as expected. I quickly got up; but then she began to run!
A glorious chase ensued. Which was quite impressive and amusing, as both my legs were far drunker than I had originally thought. And someone seemed to have installed a glass door which I had not noticed before. She ran outside, and I struggled with the new found door with an impressive amount of speed.
Anyhow, I caught up with her, just outside the front of the bar. And without hesitating for moment, lodged my foot into her backside.
It seemed to have the desired effect. I walked back in. To some degree of applause and cheering. And the barman shouting out at the lesbian that she was not welcome back inside.
But for the next few hours, up until now, I felt pangs of guilt for kicking a woman.
What a ghastly and utterly detestable thing to do. But then again… if a woman can forget to be a woman, then can a gent forget to be a gent?
And perhaps, some people only understand a thwack. No amount of patience, talking or cajoling will achieve the speedy, quick result of a thwack. It gives clarity to a bad situation.
But I don’t think it will make me popular with the pacifists.
It does make for a good bit of story telling, though.
Through her stare, I could tell that she was slightly upset, too. This was possibly to do with the fact that my right foot was firmly lodged in the crevice of her posterior. Possibly not the best place to lodge a foot, granted, but it’s trajectory and intention was firm and resolute. I had planted it there for a good reason.
That’s right. I kicked a lesbian. Right up her bum. Thwack.
I had my reasons and am unrepentant. Not that I am a lesbian hater. On the contrary. She could have been a donkey. The fact that I use the word ‘lesbian’ to describe her is neither here nor there.
Let me explain. I have inserted flights of fantasy in appropriate parts to make me feel better about the whole affair.
In my local bar, there is much tom foolery. Tom doesn’t appear to mind. But notwithstanding this, much is said and done in jest. I love it.
I was (innocently?) minding my own business (which means I was drinking my sixth or seventh Duvel, telling jokes to the barman), when the lesbian in question, also drinking Duvel, seemed to take an instant disliking to me. Sometimes my jokes are really bad and unfunny – which is what Duvel can do – so I almost empathised with her.
But anyway. She just seemed to not like the very presence of me. Call it a chip on her shoulder. Call it a dislike of bald, slightly chubby men drinking Duvel. Call it what you want.
I cannot fathom a reason for it; she just did not like me.
She began a bout of name calling. Now, as a native English speaker, I am particularly fond of the creative use of the language. Nothing thrills me more than the apt selection of words to accurately describe what you feel. When you convey, accurately, what you feel to another, and that other accurately understands what you intended, you can consider yourself a good communicator. Well done.
So I was rather disappointed when all she could fathom to speak was “Hey, gay boy!”
Strange. I suppose I should be impressed by her wonderful ability to state the obvious. But as a veteran bar-goer, I have learnt that such uninteresting jibes are best left on the bar floor. Which only seemed to incite the lesbian more.
She continued her verbal hissing, summing up her English vocabulary as best she could and continued with her attempted torment.
No problem. I had been abused by bigger, uglier and fiercer people than her. And perhaps she was letting off a little steam, and I was the whipping boy. Again, no problem. The world is surprisingly peaceful with a glass of Duvel in your hand.
However, things began to escalate when she repeatedly walked past me, bumping in and knocking my jacket and jumper on the floor. Repeatedly. Now, I know that my dress sense is perhaps somewhat lacking in that there is no sense, but to express it in such fashion was somewhat misplaced, I felt.
It was at this point that I became vaguely irritated. It was my favourite pink jacket that she was disrespecting. Call me what you like, but disrespect The Pink, and I become slightly perturbed.
“Just ignore her,” came the support from the barman. Ignorance I do particularly well. But repeated ignorance is difficult for me. As is silence.
At which point my transformation occurred. From gentile bar-goer to therapist.
Yes. Therapist. An attitude adjustment therapist. And I believed that my services were indeed required.
I then promised myself, that the next time she performed her usual trick, I would enquire as to the nature of her disagreement. Which meant I would ask her what the hell her problem was.
When she passed my way again, she did the same again as expected. I quickly got up; but then she began to run!
A glorious chase ensued. Which was quite impressive and amusing, as both my legs were far drunker than I had originally thought. And someone seemed to have installed a glass door which I had not noticed before. She ran outside, and I struggled with the new found door with an impressive amount of speed.
Anyhow, I caught up with her, just outside the front of the bar. And without hesitating for moment, lodged my foot into her backside.
It seemed to have the desired effect. I walked back in. To some degree of applause and cheering. And the barman shouting out at the lesbian that she was not welcome back inside.
But for the next few hours, up until now, I felt pangs of guilt for kicking a woman.
What a ghastly and utterly detestable thing to do. But then again… if a woman can forget to be a woman, then can a gent forget to be a gent?
And perhaps, some people only understand a thwack. No amount of patience, talking or cajoling will achieve the speedy, quick result of a thwack. It gives clarity to a bad situation.
But I don’t think it will make me popular with the pacifists.
It does make for a good bit of story telling, though.
Tuesday, March 04, 2008
Sunday, March 02, 2008
Whatever happened to honesty?
I’ve lost patience with the people who practice patience and try to ‘protect’ feelings. Whatever happened to honesty?
Everyone just accepts everything from anyone, these days.
I have a friend who has a sexually transmittable disease. It is fatal, if untreated. Or if you don’t know that you actually have it. Yet he sleeps without protection with many, many people. But he says nothing. Knowing full well what he has. He is killing the innocent. Or even the semi-innocent, depending on your view.
I have another friend who is having an affair with a married man. She thinks it is cute and lovely and fabulous to have a man who “loves” her in return and spends good money on her, purchasing lavish gifts. But sweetie, there’s a clue in the title. How can you trust and dedicate your love to a man whom you met whilst he was cheating on his original love? Do you think, honey, that faithfulness is a particularly strong character trait in your new love? On the other hand, do you know what it would feel like to be the wife of a man who cheats on you? Can you imagine how utterly destructive and worthless that would make you feel?
I know another who has an attention deficit disorder. Whose family dumped him when he was very young. Whose aunt had to raise him instead. People understand that he “had a hard life”, and are thus very accepting and forgiving of him. But this of course now gives him an excuse to be disruptive wherever and however he finds himself. This of course gives him an excuse to be socially inept. This gives him an excuse to behave in an inappropriate way in circumstances that absolutely depend on appropriate behaviour (whatever that is). Many words are spoken by this man. But there is little substance. He craves for attention. He gets it. But again, there is little substance to this man. The performance he gives on a daily basis is fake and based on the past. The long, forgotten and perhaps not so bad, if even, unnatural past?
I know of another friend, who craves for a relationship. She is 31 years old. Yet she has spent most of her lived and living life with her parents. Or failing that, locked in her own house. Trying to meet the man of her dreams. But locked away – by her own choice – in her living room. Watching TV on a Saturday night. But, at every opportunity that she gets with me, she will complain, cry and be frustrated that she is still alone. Still not met the man of her dreams. Or the father of her children.
“Do what you’ve always done and you’ll get what you’ve always got,” I tell her. She doesn’t seem to get that, just yet. However, when she does – if she does - , she may be 63, and too old to do anything more about it without assisted help.
I know even another friend. Who has been violent with the very people whom he tells me that he loves. He has been violent not once. But thrice. Violent. Physically. The people he loves (or loved) then carried visible bruises, blood and broken bones.
And yet not one says anything. Nothing.
For fear of upsetting. For fear of hurting their feelings. For fear of ‘getting involved’.
Before I go any further, you should know, if you don’t already, that I am not Mother Theresa. And I could be one or all of the people I have just described.
“They are grown folk. Let them sort it out on their own.” confident and trusted advisors tell me.
But I am tired of being sweet. Of being nice. Of being considerate. Some things just need to be said.
Am I the one to say them?
Far too many people are taking the horse-whisperer approach. Whispering sweet nothings to the injured, sick horse who really needs good, solid help. Without which it will surely die.
That horse really does not need a soft whisperer, but the sight of a cocked, loaded gun point to its head.
The time is short, and this fairy tale that you live in is all but about to end unless you realise that the crap that you believe or are performing on another r is hurting someone. It could be you, it could be someone else.
Bottom line is that somewhere, somehow, someone is going to die, whether physically, mentally or even just a part of their incomplete character. Unless you change what it is you are doing.
If you listen, you can at least take the responsibility for causing the extended, happier life of someone. Instead of impending doom and / or unhappiness. Which, if prolonged, I believe ends in doom anyway.
Can we… should we… be a just a little bit more honest with each other? The cost could be high. But the cost of not doing so is, I am almost certain, even higher.
I could use your honesty. Could you use mine?
Everyone just accepts everything from anyone, these days.
I have a friend who has a sexually transmittable disease. It is fatal, if untreated. Or if you don’t know that you actually have it. Yet he sleeps without protection with many, many people. But he says nothing. Knowing full well what he has. He is killing the innocent. Or even the semi-innocent, depending on your view.
I have another friend who is having an affair with a married man. She thinks it is cute and lovely and fabulous to have a man who “loves” her in return and spends good money on her, purchasing lavish gifts. But sweetie, there’s a clue in the title. How can you trust and dedicate your love to a man whom you met whilst he was cheating on his original love? Do you think, honey, that faithfulness is a particularly strong character trait in your new love? On the other hand, do you know what it would feel like to be the wife of a man who cheats on you? Can you imagine how utterly destructive and worthless that would make you feel?
I know another who has an attention deficit disorder. Whose family dumped him when he was very young. Whose aunt had to raise him instead. People understand that he “had a hard life”, and are thus very accepting and forgiving of him. But this of course now gives him an excuse to be disruptive wherever and however he finds himself. This of course gives him an excuse to be socially inept. This gives him an excuse to behave in an inappropriate way in circumstances that absolutely depend on appropriate behaviour (whatever that is). Many words are spoken by this man. But there is little substance. He craves for attention. He gets it. But again, there is little substance to this man. The performance he gives on a daily basis is fake and based on the past. The long, forgotten and perhaps not so bad, if even, unnatural past?
I know of another friend, who craves for a relationship. She is 31 years old. Yet she has spent most of her lived and living life with her parents. Or failing that, locked in her own house. Trying to meet the man of her dreams. But locked away – by her own choice – in her living room. Watching TV on a Saturday night. But, at every opportunity that she gets with me, she will complain, cry and be frustrated that she is still alone. Still not met the man of her dreams. Or the father of her children.
“Do what you’ve always done and you’ll get what you’ve always got,” I tell her. She doesn’t seem to get that, just yet. However, when she does – if she does - , she may be 63, and too old to do anything more about it without assisted help.
I know even another friend. Who has been violent with the very people whom he tells me that he loves. He has been violent not once. But thrice. Violent. Physically. The people he loves (or loved) then carried visible bruises, blood and broken bones.
And yet not one says anything. Nothing.
For fear of upsetting. For fear of hurting their feelings. For fear of ‘getting involved’.
Before I go any further, you should know, if you don’t already, that I am not Mother Theresa. And I could be one or all of the people I have just described.
“They are grown folk. Let them sort it out on their own.” confident and trusted advisors tell me.
But I am tired of being sweet. Of being nice. Of being considerate. Some things just need to be said.
Am I the one to say them?
Far too many people are taking the horse-whisperer approach. Whispering sweet nothings to the injured, sick horse who really needs good, solid help. Without which it will surely die.
That horse really does not need a soft whisperer, but the sight of a cocked, loaded gun point to its head.
The time is short, and this fairy tale that you live in is all but about to end unless you realise that the crap that you believe or are performing on another r is hurting someone. It could be you, it could be someone else.
Bottom line is that somewhere, somehow, someone is going to die, whether physically, mentally or even just a part of their incomplete character. Unless you change what it is you are doing.
If you listen, you can at least take the responsibility for causing the extended, happier life of someone. Instead of impending doom and / or unhappiness. Which, if prolonged, I believe ends in doom anyway.
Can we… should we… be a just a little bit more honest with each other? The cost could be high. But the cost of not doing so is, I am almost certain, even higher.
I could use your honesty. Could you use mine?
Friday, February 29, 2008
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Because citizens are people, too
Far be it for me to criticise the all-knowing Seth Godin, but this is just getting ridiculous. His latest post is about what to call people that marketers interact with. I'm serious. That's how silly it's become.
The marketing illuminati settled on the word 'citizen'. Unbelievable.
gapingvoid
Marketing is now a theoretical, academic discussion that has lost touch with reality. It's not about actually going out to speak to people, listening, selling, and treating others as your equal.
These folks have lost touch. If the grandest of marketers has resorted to calling the people he interacts with as "citizens", then I'm hanging up my marketer's hat.
The marketing illuminati settled on the word 'citizen'. Unbelievable.
gapingvoid
Marketing is now a theoretical, academic discussion that has lost touch with reality. It's not about actually going out to speak to people, listening, selling, and treating others as your equal.
These folks have lost touch. If the grandest of marketers has resorted to calling the people he interacts with as "citizens", then I'm hanging up my marketer's hat.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Smurfs, my hat and the cravat
In any event, during one of the interviews he gave, he said something which stuck with me ever since. He was asked about how and why he keeps so defined, muscular and fit. He spoke, “Some people invest in cars, in houses or art. I just choose to invest in my body.”
A few nights ago, I was at a club where some young thing began dancing and gyrating in front of me with his T-shirt off. Nipples like bullets, abs like tire tracks, pecs like small climbable hills and biceps like peaches (Australian ones, not French).
It was an impressive sight to behold. I tried to communicate this to the said young thing, but only managed to slur something and then pass out. The floor was impressively soft, but in a very hard kind of way.
And it was while I was comfortably lying on the dance floor that I began to reflect on the issue of one’s body and how you can take care of it.
I am very impressed and respect these men and women of muscle. It looks attractive, and the amount of time and discipline that it takes to get and stay that way is surely quite noteworthy.
Could I do it – get it - too?I don’t know. I think I may just lack the discipline gene. Anything that requires repetition, a bit of effort and discipline is somewhat lost on me. Mind you, that’s not completely true. The only thing that I do with discipline is not doing anything that requires discipline at all.
Which brings me to the subject of hair. I am victim to what they call ‘male pattern baldness’. This of course implies that there is some shape or design to the actual baldness. Which is complete and utter bollocks, if you don’t mind my saying.
Male pattern baldness has no pattern at all. If anything, it is a haberdashery of disorganised follicles that cannot grasp simple concepts, like growing in a straight and consistent line.
And so, I’m giving my hair one last chance. It’s swansong. To shine, to grow. Because it’s worth it. I’m wearing a hat in this interim period to cover my shame. Which has opened a whole new world of strange behaviour from friends and onlookers.
What is it about a hat that makes other people want to take it off when they see you? If you’re wearing a scarf, do I try to take it off to compliment your neck? If you’re wearing trousers, do I quickly pull them down because I want to glance at your knees? Do you see how silly this notion is? If I’m wearing a hat, please leave it on my head. Unless you want me to return the compliment and glance at your knees.
Interesting, too from one friend, who preferred that I remove my hat when eating. Why? I’m not using my hair to eat, so it can remain covered, yes? Similarly, I don’t use my bum when I eat (this part, I’m sure you already realise, comes later), so it too can remain covered. I’ve very fond of the gent who said it to me, but relations were strained when I suggested that he remove his cravat when we ate. Not for any other reason. Other than it was cravat. And that is ridiculous.
Friday, January 25, 2008
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Local music for local people
This past Saturday I was invited to go see Belgian artist Daan and his band. Though I never quite understood anything he sang or said, it was nonetheless an excellent performance.
He sang in German, English, French, Flemish and Clingon. Though I'm guessing the last one.
Hard to describe; a mixture of Johnny Cash, Alison Goldfrapp and me singing in the shower.
This tune was the highlight of the night:
He sang in German, English, French, Flemish and Clingon. Though I'm guessing the last one.
Hard to describe; a mixture of Johnny Cash, Alison Goldfrapp and me singing in the shower.
This tune was the highlight of the night:
Sunday, December 09, 2007
Thursday, December 06, 2007
Bits and pieces
Writing this one on the fly, so short sentences and quick thoughts are the order of the day.
Firstly, you should know that I'm feeling somewhat rebellious of late. I'm wearing the L headphone from my iPod in my R ear. And you know what, I don't care.
Christmas markets are being built in and around Antwerp now. So very exciting and cool...
Expect more soon.
Heard some music from this dude / band, which is quite profound. A wee twenty-something with some even more profound lyrics. He sings something like "You are not your job, you are not the clothes you wear. You are the words you speak." Hmmm...
Anyhow, some other music from him / them:
Also, have signed up to Facebook.... an experiment in spamming friends. Vague irritation from the people you love. I'll keep you posted.
Firstly, you should know that I'm feeling somewhat rebellious of late. I'm wearing the L headphone from my iPod in my R ear. And you know what, I don't care.
Christmas markets are being built in and around Antwerp now. So very exciting and cool...
Expect more soon.
Heard some music from this dude / band, which is quite profound. A wee twenty-something with some even more profound lyrics. He sings something like "You are not your job, you are not the clothes you wear. You are the words you speak." Hmmm...
Anyhow, some other music from him / them:
Also, have signed up to Facebook.... an experiment in spamming friends. Vague irritation from the people you love. I'll keep you posted.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
The Sirolux Conspiracy
What started out rather pleasantly has now ended in what I can only describe as the recognition of an awful, awful conspiracy.
You see, I had never walked into that room before. And the man before me was a stranger. Resplendent in perfect white, with an even whiter smile.
He had a lovely head of golden, flowing hair. Not curly, but golden as one would expect.
The room itself was spotless. It was as though a beautiful, rotund cherub had been eating bags of white marshmallows and passed a bought of musical wind. A lovely, clean, pure smell.
But in spite of all of this pleasantness, I was a nervous man. And the shining man before me knew it all too well. But before I could open my mouth to plea, he motioned me to it. A big chunk of machinery at the other end of the room.
It needed no introduction. I had seen it before. The Sirolux 3000. The Weapon of Dental Reconstruction. The Dunking Chair of Dentists.
I was at the dentist. And the Sirolux 3000 would be the home of my lifeless, limpless, carcass for the next 36 minutes.
The only nice bit of the Sirolux 3000 is the liquid motion at which it lowers you into an horizontal position before the dentist begins prodding and poking about.
It was at this point I thought of calling him “Tooth Fairy”. I mean, he did look rather angelic in appearance. But I thought the better of it when he proceeded to put both of his hands in my mouth. They were much bigger than I had originally thought.
And it was whilst I was being lowered into my dental coma by the Sirolux 3000, that I began recognising signs of international conspiracy.
It’s not that I don’t like dentists, (or electronic chairs, for that matter). It’s just that I kind of feel, well, hard done by these men in white.
I mean, you spend some significant part of your life, every morning, every night, rinsing, flossing, brushing, and spitting. All in the name of clean teeth. Only to have to make the painful, fearful, sweaty, nervous trip to the dentist on regular occasions and sit on his Sirolux.
What on earth for? Had they forgotten to tell us something? Could they not just write some instructions down? Are they keeping it secret how to really keep your teeth clean?
Do you see? The preventative measures aren't helping.
So this is my theory. I think it is all part of a cruel, dental plot. The Dentum Illuminati. Like the mafia, but for dentists, who ensure that toothpastes and toothbrushes don’t actually help your teeth… they make them worse.
I mean, think about it: if someone would invent a really good toothbrush, the dentist would be out of a job. See what I’m saying?
So, as the Sirolux 3000 and dentist began shaking and spinning and drilling about, he mentions to me that I should go and “see his friend”, the Gum Specialist.
Say what? I have to go to a gum specialist?
“But aren’t you a dentist?” I mumble with an impressive amount of diction, considering his hands are still in my mouth.
“Oh yes, but my specialism is teeth, not gums, you see.” he gently replies.
Well blow me down and dump a can of fluoride in my mouth. Which is exactly what he did.
Call me provincial, but isn’t this gum / dentist thing also just a little bit… well… silly? I mean, whilst you’re studying to become a dentist, you’re in the general mouth region, aren’t you? Would it kill you to read up a bit on the things that hold the teeth in? Why not make the effort to look but ten degrees lower and consider the gums, too? It’s like learning how to drink and enjoy wine, but having no actual idea how to get the bottle open. Quick. Call the Cork Specialist.
And again I smell a conspiracy.
But Tooth Fairy was adamant. To the Gum Doctor I must go.
So anyway. I now have to pay Tooth Fairy and Gummy Bear protection money.
And every morning, every night, I look at my toothbrush and toothpaste. Yes, it does say on the tube that it is 99% effective in preventing any tooth problems. Which of course also implies that it is 1% pretty bloody ineffective.
You see, I had never walked into that room before. And the man before me was a stranger. Resplendent in perfect white, with an even whiter smile.
He had a lovely head of golden, flowing hair. Not curly, but golden as one would expect.
The room itself was spotless. It was as though a beautiful, rotund cherub had been eating bags of white marshmallows and passed a bought of musical wind. A lovely, clean, pure smell.
But in spite of all of this pleasantness, I was a nervous man. And the shining man before me knew it all too well. But before I could open my mouth to plea, he motioned me to it. A big chunk of machinery at the other end of the room.
It needed no introduction. I had seen it before. The Sirolux 3000. The Weapon of Dental Reconstruction. The Dunking Chair of Dentists.
I was at the dentist. And the Sirolux 3000 would be the home of my lifeless, limpless, carcass for the next 36 minutes.
The only nice bit of the Sirolux 3000 is the liquid motion at which it lowers you into an horizontal position before the dentist begins prodding and poking about.
It was at this point I thought of calling him “Tooth Fairy”. I mean, he did look rather angelic in appearance. But I thought the better of it when he proceeded to put both of his hands in my mouth. They were much bigger than I had originally thought.
And it was whilst I was being lowered into my dental coma by the Sirolux 3000, that I began recognising signs of international conspiracy.
It’s not that I don’t like dentists, (or electronic chairs, for that matter). It’s just that I kind of feel, well, hard done by these men in white.
I mean, you spend some significant part of your life, every morning, every night, rinsing, flossing, brushing, and spitting. All in the name of clean teeth. Only to have to make the painful, fearful, sweaty, nervous trip to the dentist on regular occasions and sit on his Sirolux.
What on earth for? Had they forgotten to tell us something? Could they not just write some instructions down? Are they keeping it secret how to really keep your teeth clean?
Do you see? The preventative measures aren't helping.
So this is my theory. I think it is all part of a cruel, dental plot. The Dentum Illuminati. Like the mafia, but for dentists, who ensure that toothpastes and toothbrushes don’t actually help your teeth… they make them worse.
I mean, think about it: if someone would invent a really good toothbrush, the dentist would be out of a job. See what I’m saying?
So, as the Sirolux 3000 and dentist began shaking and spinning and drilling about, he mentions to me that I should go and “see his friend”, the Gum Specialist.
Say what? I have to go to a gum specialist?
“But aren’t you a dentist?” I mumble with an impressive amount of diction, considering his hands are still in my mouth.
“Oh yes, but my specialism is teeth, not gums, you see.” he gently replies.
Well blow me down and dump a can of fluoride in my mouth. Which is exactly what he did.
Call me provincial, but isn’t this gum / dentist thing also just a little bit… well… silly? I mean, whilst you’re studying to become a dentist, you’re in the general mouth region, aren’t you? Would it kill you to read up a bit on the things that hold the teeth in? Why not make the effort to look but ten degrees lower and consider the gums, too? It’s like learning how to drink and enjoy wine, but having no actual idea how to get the bottle open. Quick. Call the Cork Specialist.
And again I smell a conspiracy.
But Tooth Fairy was adamant. To the Gum Doctor I must go.
So anyway. I now have to pay Tooth Fairy and Gummy Bear protection money.
And every morning, every night, I look at my toothbrush and toothpaste. Yes, it does say on the tube that it is 99% effective in preventing any tooth problems. Which of course also implies that it is 1% pretty bloody ineffective.
Sunday, October 07, 2007
Ritual and Sacrifice
It’s the year 2007. We have the Internet, high definition TV, self-cleaning ovens and hybrid cars.
But in spite of all these wondrous advancements that make the life of modern people easier, there remains one savage, brutal and ghastly task. One activity that has not developed over the ages; one that has not become easier.
If you have not guessed already, I am talking about the demonic task of laundry. Laundry at the laundro-mat. Even the barbaric Mayans had no such ruthless ritual of laundry at the laundro-mat. Look away now if you are of a nervous disposition.
Laundry. I used to enjoy it. But no more. Each visit to the laundro-mat results in penance. In sacrifice.
And the high priestesses of washing (women) leave us peasants (men) in ignorance.
Ask a question to a high priestess and she will give you an answer in a language none of us understand; the language of Colour, Softener and Spin Cycle.
Now, please understand, I am not being chauvinistic. I believe that women, still to this day, have had to work harder than men to achieve. But, perhaps in silent revenge, they have made a pact with women all over the planet, to – much like the Freemasons – keep the proper ritual and practice of laundry secret.
The result is catastrophic. Men, like me, are forced to sacrifice many socks (only one at a time, mind), colours and shapes per visit to the laundro-mat.
I think the god (who is not really a god, just someone with lots of mismatching socks) of laundry is well pleased with the feed after each of my visits.
My visits to the altar - the Wishee Washee as it is called colloquially – are almost always a plight against despair. Other men gather, too. There’s almost always a priestess there. With a knowing glare, a book which she pretends to read, and I think a hidden camera.
The men know of her powers. Of her strength. But our inert will to succeed (some call it stupidity) prevent us from asking the priestess for wisdom. We men look amongst each other. The question is obvious. What temperature?
A magical coin is extracted from one of the peasant’s pockets. Well, let’s see. There is a selection of 5 temperatures on the washing machine. 20 is too cold. And surely 80 is too hot. We want clean clothes, not boiled potatoes. And so we take the difference between the two and end up with a choice of 40 or 60. The magic coin is flipped, heads it’s 40 and so on.
Our first challenge is passed. Or is it? The priestess pretends not to notice our endeavours. She makes no comment, but exhales a series of “Pfhmss” and “Tsk, tsks” just to try and make us loose concentration, I believe.
We are unwavering. Next it’s to decide where to actually pour the powder. And what if you have powder blocks? What are you supposed to do then?
Tears well up in one of the men’s eyes. The pressure is too great. He breaks rank and looks to the priestess. She points slowly to the East. Which is more or less in the direction of the pictorial instructions that are hung from the wall. Blasted. Instructions.
We can tell the look in her eyes. She thinks we are idiots. She knows much.
Next we proceed to put our washing in. I feel brave. I put everything together. I want to get out of the hellish place as fast as possible, so I make no separation. “It don’t matter if you’re black or white” as the song goes.
I can feel the eyes of the high priestess down the back of my neck. I break out in a cold sweat.
The other men, sensing her displeasure, have bolted.
She clears her throat with a giggle and proceeds to say nothing.
The machine speaks to me. As soon as I close and lock the door, it says “38 minutes” until the cycle of death is completed.
It is at this point that the black magic bursts forth from the deepest crevices of hell, and – without opening the door of the machine – internally combusts each and every item of clothing within.
Water and powder cannot produce such chaotic effect. No. A darker force is at work here.
If you can, stay away. The Wishee-Washee is no place for men.
But in spite of all these wondrous advancements that make the life of modern people easier, there remains one savage, brutal and ghastly task. One activity that has not developed over the ages; one that has not become easier.
If you have not guessed already, I am talking about the demonic task of laundry. Laundry at the laundro-mat. Even the barbaric Mayans had no such ruthless ritual of laundry at the laundro-mat. Look away now if you are of a nervous disposition.
Laundry. I used to enjoy it. But no more. Each visit to the laundro-mat results in penance. In sacrifice.
And the high priestesses of washing (women) leave us peasants (men) in ignorance.
Ask a question to a high priestess and she will give you an answer in a language none of us understand; the language of Colour, Softener and Spin Cycle.
Now, please understand, I am not being chauvinistic. I believe that women, still to this day, have had to work harder than men to achieve. But, perhaps in silent revenge, they have made a pact with women all over the planet, to – much like the Freemasons – keep the proper ritual and practice of laundry secret.
The result is catastrophic. Men, like me, are forced to sacrifice many socks (only one at a time, mind), colours and shapes per visit to the laundro-mat.
I think the god (who is not really a god, just someone with lots of mismatching socks) of laundry is well pleased with the feed after each of my visits.
My visits to the altar - the Wishee Washee as it is called colloquially – are almost always a plight against despair. Other men gather, too. There’s almost always a priestess there. With a knowing glare, a book which she pretends to read, and I think a hidden camera.
The men know of her powers. Of her strength. But our inert will to succeed (some call it stupidity) prevent us from asking the priestess for wisdom. We men look amongst each other. The question is obvious. What temperature?
A magical coin is extracted from one of the peasant’s pockets. Well, let’s see. There is a selection of 5 temperatures on the washing machine. 20 is too cold. And surely 80 is too hot. We want clean clothes, not boiled potatoes. And so we take the difference between the two and end up with a choice of 40 or 60. The magic coin is flipped, heads it’s 40 and so on.
Our first challenge is passed. Or is it? The priestess pretends not to notice our endeavours. She makes no comment, but exhales a series of “Pfhmss” and “Tsk, tsks” just to try and make us loose concentration, I believe.
We are unwavering. Next it’s to decide where to actually pour the powder. And what if you have powder blocks? What are you supposed to do then?
Tears well up in one of the men’s eyes. The pressure is too great. He breaks rank and looks to the priestess. She points slowly to the East. Which is more or less in the direction of the pictorial instructions that are hung from the wall. Blasted. Instructions.
We can tell the look in her eyes. She thinks we are idiots. She knows much.
Next we proceed to put our washing in. I feel brave. I put everything together. I want to get out of the hellish place as fast as possible, so I make no separation. “It don’t matter if you’re black or white” as the song goes.
I can feel the eyes of the high priestess down the back of my neck. I break out in a cold sweat.
The other men, sensing her displeasure, have bolted.
She clears her throat with a giggle and proceeds to say nothing.
The machine speaks to me. As soon as I close and lock the door, it says “38 minutes” until the cycle of death is completed.
It is at this point that the black magic bursts forth from the deepest crevices of hell, and – without opening the door of the machine – internally combusts each and every item of clothing within.
Water and powder cannot produce such chaotic effect. No. A darker force is at work here.
If you can, stay away. The Wishee-Washee is no place for men.
Monday, September 24, 2007
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Maybe next year again
53 kilometres. Only.
That’s how much I managed to walk during the Dodentocht; Belgium’s infamous 100 kilometre walk of fame. Or pain.
I had thought I could do it all, but a friend of mine said that it would take 50% will power AND 50% training. Will power I had, but training was somewhat lagging, if even perhaps, completely absent.
Seriously, though. The walk may well have been one of the most wonderful, if not altogether painful, experiences of my life.
It all starts off with such a to-do, and people are cheering and singing. Locals come out from their houses and pubs to support you on the street side. And it’s through some beautiful farm-land parts of the country, too. See (more pics on Flickr) :
But as you get deeper into the walk, very few people talk or sing anymore. And all you generally hear is the sound of feet walking on the ground.
You get a lot of thinking time, too. It’s quite cleansing. I guess. And in the end, the race is only with yourself.
Perhaps next year again. Perhaps.
In the interim, I’ve also had some fantastic other experiences that involved neither walking nor pain. Hooray!
My philosophy at the moment is to try and say yes to everything. Avoid avoidance. Within reason, of course, but then again, reason has never been one of my fortes.
The results have been fantastic.
I’ve been to a Jamaican Independence Day Celebration, which was phenomenal. Traditional food, traditional people, traditional fellowship and fun.
In fact, the amount of times any Jamaican I had met mentioned the word “fellowship” and “fun’” in conversation was more than I could remember. It seems they know something. What people.
I’ve also had opportunity to travel into the countryside of Belgium. To a place called Kasterlee and surrounds. Really beautiful. I met the locals here, too. And a particularly interesting man whose great-great-great grandfathers had lived in the same village as he.
He showed me around the town, showing his birthplace, where his family were born, where he built his business.
He was incredibly proud of his heritage; which was impressive, but all within the same, small village. And yet, that didn’t seem to matter.
When he tells you about his life, it turns out he built a very successful business. Out of nothing. When everyone perhaps thought he would have failed. A business that lasted for 30 plus years.
It seems then, that greatness – whatever or however we think of it –can happen in small , tiny villages that no-one can remember the name of – as well as in the biggest, fanciest cities.
In the meantime, Antwerp has also hosted some tango sessions (I feigned injury, but took photo’s) and some guild festivals. It’s been lovely.
Finally, I had the pleasure of attending two church services in a week. My. What theatre.
Ancient churches, ancient traditions and beautiful choirs and orchestras. Playing the most beautiful, operatic music that stuns even the most ardent of atheists. Both churches were packed to capacity. I was amazed.
Perhaps next year again. Perhaps.
That’s how much I managed to walk during the Dodentocht; Belgium’s infamous 100 kilometre walk of fame. Or pain.
I had thought I could do it all, but a friend of mine said that it would take 50% will power AND 50% training. Will power I had, but training was somewhat lagging, if even perhaps, completely absent.
Seriously, though. The walk may well have been one of the most wonderful, if not altogether painful, experiences of my life.
It all starts off with such a to-do, and people are cheering and singing. Locals come out from their houses and pubs to support you on the street side. And it’s through some beautiful farm-land parts of the country, too. See (more pics on Flickr) :
But as you get deeper into the walk, very few people talk or sing anymore. And all you generally hear is the sound of feet walking on the ground.
You get a lot of thinking time, too. It’s quite cleansing. I guess. And in the end, the race is only with yourself.
Perhaps next year again. Perhaps.
In the interim, I’ve also had some fantastic other experiences that involved neither walking nor pain. Hooray!
My philosophy at the moment is to try and say yes to everything. Avoid avoidance. Within reason, of course, but then again, reason has never been one of my fortes.
The results have been fantastic.
I’ve been to a Jamaican Independence Day Celebration, which was phenomenal. Traditional food, traditional people, traditional fellowship and fun.
In fact, the amount of times any Jamaican I had met mentioned the word “fellowship” and “fun’” in conversation was more than I could remember. It seems they know something. What people.
I’ve also had opportunity to travel into the countryside of Belgium. To a place called Kasterlee and surrounds. Really beautiful. I met the locals here, too. And a particularly interesting man whose great-great-great grandfathers had lived in the same village as he.
He showed me around the town, showing his birthplace, where his family were born, where he built his business.
He was incredibly proud of his heritage; which was impressive, but all within the same, small village. And yet, that didn’t seem to matter.
When he tells you about his life, it turns out he built a very successful business. Out of nothing. When everyone perhaps thought he would have failed. A business that lasted for 30 plus years.
It seems then, that greatness – whatever or however we think of it –can happen in small , tiny villages that no-one can remember the name of – as well as in the biggest, fanciest cities.
In the meantime, Antwerp has also hosted some tango sessions (I feigned injury, but took photo’s) and some guild festivals. It’s been lovely.
Finally, I had the pleasure of attending two church services in a week. My. What theatre.Ancient churches, ancient traditions and beautiful choirs and orchestras. Playing the most beautiful, operatic music that stuns even the most ardent of atheists. Both churches were packed to capacity. I was amazed.
Perhaps next year again. Perhaps.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
The Death Walk
I’ve done it. Passed the point of no return. Mentioned it publicly. And made several bets.
For in a momentary lapse of common sense, I’ve signed up to participate and agonise in the infamous Dodentocht, a 100 kilometre Walk of Death through some towny bits of Belgium.
Now, 100 kilometres would not be a problem if it were a leisurely walk over a period of time. Say a few days or so. Even months.
But no such loophole.
The challenge is to complete the task in under 24 hours. Hyena’s and vultures are set upon the carcasses of those who do not make it back in the allotted time.
Strange what passes for fun in these here parts.
No, but seriously. The whole shebang seems to be arranged with such a social spirit and has a revered history to it. "Walking for a better world" the slogan says.
And nearly 10,000 walkers and countless nurses, masseuses and blister poppers all gather to celebrate the two appendages we call our legs and the apparent masochistic abuse of them.
In my preliminary excitement I’ve made a few bets with several friends who have offered unending support. “Idiot”, “Are you mad?” and “You’ll never make it” comfort and encourage me on.
But, the goal is clear. To make it though. Silliness aside, it’s also for a good cause. And it’s nice to do something so steeped (if even, not at all) in Belgian tradition, goodwill and loving.
The thought of being able to do something based on sheer willpower alone; without the very slightest interference of training, preparation or knowledge, drives me to succeed.
That and the promise of two cases of Duvel if-slash-when I make it.
As if to add insult to expected injury, the walk doesn’t particularly aim for anywhere. It’s a circular route, and you end up where you started.
Again, strange what passes for fun in these here parts.
Anyhow, along with some work colleagues, and much bravado, we’ll be setting off at 21h00 on Friday 10th August, and hoping to still complete before Saturday night 11th August.
I’d do a bit of live blogging from the event, but am channelling all my energy – even that which my fingers would use for typing - into me pins. Expect some photo’s, though.
P.S. Related in a totally unrelated way, check out these slick ads:
For in a momentary lapse of common sense, I’ve signed up to participate and agonise in the infamous Dodentocht, a 100 kilometre Walk of Death through some towny bits of Belgium.
Now, 100 kilometres would not be a problem if it were a leisurely walk over a period of time. Say a few days or so. Even months.
But no such loophole.
The challenge is to complete the task in under 24 hours. Hyena’s and vultures are set upon the carcasses of those who do not make it back in the allotted time.
Strange what passes for fun in these here parts.
No, but seriously. The whole shebang seems to be arranged with such a social spirit and has a revered history to it. "Walking for a better world" the slogan says.
And nearly 10,000 walkers and countless nurses, masseuses and blister poppers all gather to celebrate the two appendages we call our legs and the apparent masochistic abuse of them.
In my preliminary excitement I’ve made a few bets with several friends who have offered unending support. “Idiot”, “Are you mad?” and “You’ll never make it” comfort and encourage me on.
But, the goal is clear. To make it though. Silliness aside, it’s also for a good cause. And it’s nice to do something so steeped (if even, not at all) in Belgian tradition, goodwill and loving.
The thought of being able to do something based on sheer willpower alone; without the very slightest interference of training, preparation or knowledge, drives me to succeed.
That and the promise of two cases of Duvel if-slash-when I make it.
As if to add insult to expected injury, the walk doesn’t particularly aim for anywhere. It’s a circular route, and you end up where you started.
Again, strange what passes for fun in these here parts.
Anyhow, along with some work colleagues, and much bravado, we’ll be setting off at 21h00 on Friday 10th August, and hoping to still complete before Saturday night 11th August.
I’d do a bit of live blogging from the event, but am channelling all my energy – even that which my fingers would use for typing - into me pins. Expect some photo’s, though.
P.S. Related in a totally unrelated way, check out these slick ads:
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