We Will Fight Them on the Couch

Oh dear, it's not often that I'm awake and/or of clear thought at 1:30AM on a Tuesday morning. Something must be wrong, and indeed it is.

I was wondering why in the last few days I've been feeling a bit down, off my feed, a bit of a grumpy bum. And then yesterday (Monday) I felt a strange and uncomfortable sensation in the back of my throat that no amount of ahem's seemed to shift. A curious soul as always, a torch and the bathroom mirror has revealed what I suspected, the telltale signs that the dreaded tonsilitis plague has come to town. It seems to visit very infrequently (probably 10 years since the last) but it's like a child-hood friend that you don't really like but seems to always visit at the wrong moment.

So, being a man of action, first thing is to call in my apologies to work tommorrow morning as sick leave is for just such occasions, present myself across the road to my local GP for a professional opinion on cause/remedy, and then purchase a small pot of red paint for the purpose of putting a large red cross on my front door.

I have been described during periods of illness, as being a rotten sod. I can accept that, in fact I would agree to it. I feel it's a persons right to be unjolly during these trying circumstances. Unsociable too, indeed very unsociable.

Very well, you vile microorganisms, you've picked the wrong chap to mess with. Oh yes, you may number in the millions perhaps billions and I number but one, but prepare for the first big battle of the second decade of the 21st century. At the risk of sounding crude, your arses (if they have arses?) are mine.

Now That the Fireworks Are Over

...and a happy new year 2010. Yes indeed a happy new decade too for that matter. There's something about round numbers that appeals to me, a slight appreciation of some sort of order, a conservative bent that appreciates things being tidy. It doesn't take long though, and the joy of messing things up, kicking the house of cards down if you will returns. I fluctuate it seems, thank goodness.

The question of new years resolutions raises its foolish head around about this time. Like many, I don't participate in this peculiar tradition, because I think if you want to commit to some sort of plan for your life you should do it whenever you damn well please, rather than time it with the calendar. I mean, say you have a good idea for yourself in August, why wait till January?

But perhaps, surprisingly, I have taken an interesting step towards a deeper appreciation for my fellow humans. Yesterday, I was in the city as I find the scene of busy shoppers and poor weather beguiling. There are usually many folk on the sidewalks requesting a donation from the passing foot traffic to help finance their desire to escape a life of financial strife, usually detailed in scrawled text on a piece of hurriedly ripped cardboard. Now I don't generally participate in the donation process for these people, my cynical mind suggesting that they probably won't spend it on the operation for their daughter they articulated on the grubby cardboard sign. In the usual style of the white collar bourgeoisie I seem to have found myself a part of, I presume the coin I toss into the poor souls hat will be liquidised that night and consumed, heaping further sorrow upon the sorrow. Instead my crumpled fiver tends to go to the big issue vendor for the following reasons:

- It's actually a pretty good read.
- It took some effort for the vendor to take action to improve their financial situation this way.
- The vendors are quite happy to chat, and are rather interesting people.

Whether it is making a difference to their lives, I'm unsure, but I do hope so.

However, yesterday something peculiar occurred. I gave an embarrassingly small amount of money to a chap who was not a BI vendor. Like many of the others, he too was sitting on the sidewalk leaning against a wall with a grubby hat in front of him soliciting donations. He didn't have a piece of woe enscribed cardboard in front of him, but instead was reading a book about engineering in Victorian era Britain. It was no picture book either, it was quite tome-like. I hoped the tinkling of the coins into his hat would not break his concentration.

I quite liked the idea that by giving the chap some loose change he may decide to continue to read. It's a good idea that charity can broaden the minds of recipients and those who fork over the readies at the same time. I'm not sure if I'll donate again, but perhaps I will if I see other street people ensconsed in the joy of the written word.

All the best.

Do the Evolution, Baby!

In the late 90's, alternative rock band Pearl Jam unleashed a thumping tune entitled "Do the Evolution". Quick paced with racing guitar work and vocals that have the passion and edginess only Eddie Vedder can evacuate onto the listening audience, it's a song that is great fun to jack up the volume to. A little strange though is the fact that the lyrics are rather dark, disturbed, and cynical which seems to be in complete contradiction to the music. So lets just concentrate on the title for todays post.

I've always been a person with a reasonably open mind. A curious mind certainly. But a recent event has convinced me that I had made a mistake which has thankfully been corrected.

So what was the mistake Dan? I'm glad you asked (curiosity show flashback there). It is this, that you can study something for as long as you like, you can think about it, speak to people about it, read about it, watch movies about it. But it is necessary to actually INVOLVE yourself directly in it to really start to understand it properly. Theory is great, but it only forms a foundation. The practical experience is essential.

As an example, around ten years ago I decided I wanted to learn to fly an aeroplane. As this is a costly activity I knew it wouldn't be a long term pastime but I went ahead with it anyway. I studied the theory quite intensely, discussed things extensively with the instructor and felt confident that I could achieve the goal. When learning to fly, the first hands-on experience is doing what are called "circuits" essentially taking off, flying back around the runway, landing, and then taking off again without stopping. It teaches most of the basic essentials. I was mortified to find that even with all my preparation I was crap at it. I fumbled the controls, I would land too hard or float down the runway, I would forget procedures. I couldn't understand it, even though my instructor assured me that I wasn't doing anything he hadn't seen other newbies do. Frustrated, I hit the books and theory harder but I couldn't see anything I'd missed. I returned the following week and had another go. The first few attempts were again rubbish, but then something clicked and I did a reasonably good circuit. And then another. Suddenly, the pieces fell into place and I was roaring around beautifully, and touching down smooth as silk. I can't explain exactly what it was that finally got me to understand how to do it, but what I do know is that even though the theory gave me an idea how to do it, it was the actual practice that tidied everything up.

I call that an evolution. and just like the occasional revolution, it's a good thing. But as the song title suggests, to evolve one must "do" and not just think about it. The phrase "Success is 10% inspiration, 90% perspiration" I believe quoted by Thomas Edison has never felt so true.

So This is Christmas?

A festive flair for the gallery in this post. Yes it's Christmas time again, and who doesn't like wearing a little red once in a while?

This is called, "This Is Not Xmas".

And now the ramble begins..... I'm actually not very good at doing the whole Christmas thing. I do remember enjoying it as a kid, but then something happened to me to spoil the whole thing. Enter the dissafected, cynical, smart-arsed teenage attitude, oh around the year 1988. Add a dose of compressing into one day the seeing of every person you have been trying to avoid all year. A sprinkling of showing gratitute for gifts you never wanted and will never use while your brain is not a cauliflower, and a pinch of "If we're not religious, why are we celebrating a religious festival?". Yes, it seemed my task on the day was to be a 'orrible little git. Job done!

Things have gotten a bit better, maybe.

Funny though, how I notice things that are not so good. Yesterday, I saw three seperate women completely lose it at my local shopping centre (which was heaving). I mean yelling and crying. One was because the attendant was having difficulty extracting her jammed receipt from his cash register for goodness sake. The pressure seems to be on and if the breakdown is going to happen now seems to be the perfect time.

Even yours truly is starting to lose his way a bit. For the last 15 years I've worked in an industry that views December as not much more than a cash cow. The heat is on to get all we can while the getting is good. Now, people who know me would say that I am a rather temperate person. Even during a crises I can keep my head. But last week somebody at work managed to find my "piss me off" button and bashed it several times, just like those people who think the more times you hit the button at the pedestrian crossing the sooner the lights will stop the traffic. I snapped just a bit, and gave back a volley of "back off!" suggestions. I am unfortunately not good at this, perhaps naively believing that the best way to resolve a disagreement is to discuss it sensibly. I wonder how far these things should be allowed to continue before one releases the F-bomb off?

I am however looking forward to a bit of down time after xmas. I call it "the decompression", a few days that start on boxing day and last for three days. To sit upon couches, read, sip cold beer, watch bad movies, think, smirk at my laziness, consider starting that painting I've never started (and probably never will), admire my feet, take afternoon siesta's, walk the Sydney streets, and be selfish.

How many more sleeps?

Pleasure Treasure, A Large Measure

Thumbing my way through a recently purchased paperback of non-fiction, I have received a small yet potent dose of Epicureanism and liked the taste of it. Now you, dear reader, being an intelligent and wonderful person who has accidentally stumbled across this blog in error or possibly pity, would immediately identify this as a philosophy of an ancient Greek called Epicurus. Yes, your such a smart bunny.

Essentially, what I'm talking about here is the issue of happiness and pleasure and the importance these have in our lives. I'm always amazed at how difficult we make it for ourselves in attaining these delights, when really it's there for the taking. I've been dreadfully guilty of this, to the point where feelings of shame and embarrassment are the result of indulgence in fairly simple pleasures. How ridiculous! Where did this come from? Consider:

- If you eat that you will get fat and it will rot your teeth.
- You can't wear that, it doesn't suit you.
- This is no time for laughter.
- Sex is for making babies only.

I'm sure at some stage, some do-gooding swine instilled some of these awful ideals into society. A pox on them. The Irish comedian Dylan Moran summed things up rather well:

"You have to have a good relationship with pleasure"

I particularly like the use of the word relationship in his phrase. Just like the emotional connections that are made with family, friends, and lovers, so to does one need to embrace pleasure and be at peace with it. Biologically, the human animal is hardwired with pleasure as part of the firmware and to ignore it, suppress it, abuse it, or hate it is not the way it was designed. Moran assists us further with a suggestion:

"...to lay face down on a large cushion, with a mouth full of chocolate, and something wonderful happening to my lower half"

Well, it's a suggestion anyways, and can be adapted to individual tastes.

The other thing that needs to be sorted out if happiness must be achieved is an appreciation of the self. Again, I have spent years worrying about my body image, intelligence, and perception to others. As time goes on, the realisation that you've got what you've got becomes more evident and again it's something you just have to make peace with. Now, I absolutely adore mocking myself, playfully denigrating my abilities and attributes. I think it's healthy, I really do. The reality is though that even though my confidence is not 100%, it gets better all the time. Some of the things that worried me are now accepted as part of the package. It must be made clear that it is not a display of defiance to change, but instead a refusal to allow stupid and petty hangups distract from the things that make life worth living.

Now, what did I do with that cushion and chocolate?

You've Got to Have Sole

The next addition to the Gallery.

Titled, "You've Got to Have Sole" this came out rather surprising. I always quite liked my feet, and there's no doubt that tickling my soles is enough for me to descend into a babbling mess pleading for mercy. But they are actually quite ugly. Ofcourse, they aren't there just for show, they're there for go.

Then again, a soul.... I mean a sole.... untickled.... is a sad soul.... I mean sole.

Smooth, Suave.... With a Dash of Delusional

Now, I don't want to keep banging on about this, but as clearly indicated in previous posts I am certainly a man with the style and sophistication of plankton. It's true, it's true, but what can one do?

In the hope that by evacuating this fact into the blogosphere the returned energy will transform me into S & S on legs (oh brother, this is what happens after a dull day in the office!), to whit:

Slouched upon my couch, I was indulging in a vigorous session of ponderification regarding the issue of existentialism. Climaxing with the realisation that I had no idea what existentialism even meant, I focused on the development of deep seeded envy for those who were smarter than I and could discuss the topic with ease and at will. When behold, out of the corner of my eye I spotted upon the television screen one of my favourite cartoons and was distracted enough to put all other thoughts out of my mind.

(It is perhaps prudent to point out how nicely I have shown the ability of my brain to shift gear so swiftly from sputtering along with complex topics to purring with the simple and childish. Just like my Vespa, my brain works much better when it is on a downward gradient)

Titled "The Three Little Bops", it is a triumph. Produced in the mid fifties, it is just short of seven minutes of wonderful jazz music and swingin' lyrics. As expected it is based on the "Three Little Pigs" fairytale, however there is no indication of a homosexual threesome arrangement, and the phrase "not by the hair of my chinny chin chin" is thankfully omitted, although the big bad wolf does exclaim, "...if I can't blow it down I'll blow it up" at one stage. Stop it, that mind of yours!

Essentially, the pigs are terrific musicians and the big bad wolf desires to join their group. However, his musical skills are inversely proportional to his enthusiasm and they give him short shrift. Ultimately, in what is a stock standard outcome for cartoons of the era he comes a cropper of a load of TNT. Extinguished of life, he is next noticed roasting (surprisingly happily) in the depths of hell, albeit with a sudden ability to play the trumpet with panache.

And here, here is where the phrase is uttered, words to live by:

"The big bad wolf he learned the rule,
Ya gotta get hot to play real cool!"

There's a lesson there for me...... somewhere.

*not seen the cartoon? You can find it on youtube, what are you waiting for?*