Today is my 30th birthday.
30 is one of those landmark birthdays where you sit back and look at your life as it is and compare with where you thought you'd be at this point. Let's take a look, shall we?
A. Where I thought I'd be:
Happily married, at home with my Pirate, having some people to dinner to celebrate.
B. Where I actually am:
At my parents' home in the USA, back where I started, feeling old and wondering when I'll see my Pirate again.
Now before you panic let me assure you this has nothing to do with any kind of marital issues. Pirate and I are still madly in love and horny as hell and all that gross newlywed stuff. The problem is immigration issues. I'm stuck here, waiting on my spousal visa, without which I cannot return to the UK. They said it could be as long as 10 weeks.
My aunt knows the Honorary British Consulate for the Detroit area, who is a very nice man and is trying to push things along for me and shorten that 10 week estimate. Meanwhile the Pirates-in-Law have contacted their MP to push things along from that side. With any luck if they both push hard enough they'll meet somewhere in the middle and I can get the fuck out of here.
So here I sit, in my parents' house, feeling old, wondering how I ended up back here again. I feel rather like I've been playing a board game, and drew a bum card or landed on a crappy square that sent me back to "GO" while everyone else is playing on, now half a board ahead of me.
Oh yeah, and I gained 6 pounds over the holidays. 2009 is off to a great start.
Showing posts with label general fuckupedness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label general fuckupedness. Show all posts
Monday, January 12, 2009
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
Stay off the roads
for I am having my first driving lesson on Saturday.
Now, I can drive perfectly well. I've had a valid driving license for 13 years, with a near perfect record (1 speeding ticket, which was so long ago it's now off my record).
The trouble is that I've only ever driven an automatic transmission. Well, that's not completely true. I drove a manual (an old Chevy S-10 pickmeup truck) for one month my senior year of high school. I hated that truck and begged my parents to sell it, which they finally did to shut me up. (The replacement was a gas-guzzling 1987 Buick LeSabre which promptly received the nickname "Manatee Mobile" for it's flat grey color and gentle, lumbering, boat-like ride.)
But now that I'm in England I have to learn to drive a manual properly, for the simple reason that Pirate's car is a manual and he, quite understandably, does not want me to be dependent on him for lifts. Nor do I wish to be dependent. I can cope quite nicely with a bicycle, thank you.
But there will be times when I will simply need to be able to drive his car, and to do that I need to be able to drive a manual well and safely.
The problem is that I fundamentally resent the need to learn. As far as I can tell there is no need whatsoever for manuals transmissions to exist anywhere outside of professional racing vehicles. I grant you it's probably very helpful for Louis Hamilton. I'm sure he's better at shifting than any automatic, and in his profession fractions of a second matter.
But for the average idiot going to work and the shops there is no need for it whatsoever. It is a dangerous, archaic technology that could and should be completely replaced by newer advances. There are a myriad of alternatives, every single one of which is preferable to a standard stick shift, but which are perplexingly slow to catch on. They are:
But instead of any of these sensible alternatives, I am forced by the nature of circumstances to exert time, money, and mental energy (none of which I have in excess) to learn to use a dangerous and outmoted technology.
I repeat: Stay off the roads (of Bristol this Saturday from noon to 2).
Now, I can drive perfectly well. I've had a valid driving license for 13 years, with a near perfect record (1 speeding ticket, which was so long ago it's now off my record).
The trouble is that I've only ever driven an automatic transmission. Well, that's not completely true. I drove a manual (an old Chevy S-10 pickmeup truck) for one month my senior year of high school. I hated that truck and begged my parents to sell it, which they finally did to shut me up. (The replacement was a gas-guzzling 1987 Buick LeSabre which promptly received the nickname "Manatee Mobile" for it's flat grey color and gentle, lumbering, boat-like ride.)
But now that I'm in England I have to learn to drive a manual properly, for the simple reason that Pirate's car is a manual and he, quite understandably, does not want me to be dependent on him for lifts. Nor do I wish to be dependent. I can cope quite nicely with a bicycle, thank you.
But there will be times when I will simply need to be able to drive his car, and to do that I need to be able to drive a manual well and safely.
The problem is that I fundamentally resent the need to learn. As far as I can tell there is no need whatsoever for manuals transmissions to exist anywhere outside of professional racing vehicles. I grant you it's probably very helpful for Louis Hamilton. I'm sure he's better at shifting than any automatic, and in his profession fractions of a second matter.
But for the average idiot going to work and the shops there is no need for it whatsoever. It is a dangerous, archaic technology that could and should be completely replaced by newer advances. There are a myriad of alternatives, every single one of which is preferable to a standard stick shift, but which are perplexingly slow to catch on. They are:
- (the obvious) automatic transmission (A surprising number of people don't know that every car with an automatic can be put manually into a low gear for when you need it, such as descending steep inclines or getting out of snow banks. You've got more control than you think.)
- clutchless manual (This is an option on both the Smart Car and the Toyota Yaris. You still change gear when you want to, but there is no clutch to operate. The car does the clutching for you. Much easier to drive, and still affords all the control of a stick. WHY OH WHY HASN"T THIS CAUGHT ON YET???)
- spiral transmission, such as are found on the Toyota Prius and several Lexus models. This is not an automatic transmission because there are no gears to transmit. Instead of gears of different sizes, the transmission is one, great, conical gear with a spiral arrangement of teeth. When you accelerate from a stop it is completely smooth. This freaked the hell out of the Pirate when he rode in my parents' Prius 2 years ago at christmas. I think ultimately this will be the winner in the transmission war (that I'm attempting to start).
But instead of any of these sensible alternatives, I am forced by the nature of circumstances to exert time, money, and mental energy (none of which I have in excess) to learn to use a dangerous and outmoted technology.
I repeat: Stay off the roads (of Bristol this Saturday from noon to 2).
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Seeing Ghosts
I don't believe in ghosts. I almost wish I did. If I could dismiss what I saw as ghost it would be easier. I would know that it was just a figment of my imagination, brought about by the unfortunate combination of memory and a bit of undigested cheese (as Ebenezer could no doubt tell you). But what I saw was made all the more petrifying for being absolutely 100% flesh and blood real.
My grandmother has been dead for 10 years.
(Is your skin crawling yet? Mine still is.)
I saw her again tonight. Her hair, her clothes, her manner, carriage, bearing, demeanor, mannerisms, gestures, lipstick, shoes, all of it exactly as I remember her from when I was a girl. Everything from the little flyaway hairs around her face that escaped her soft bun to the string of pearls around her neck, the tailoring of her skirts and the T-strap, high-heeled shoes: identical.
I was at the Theatre Royal in Bath watching Patricia Routledge star as Queen Mary in Crown Matrimonial. Darlene Johnson, who played the Countess of Airlie, is the spitting image of the woman I remember has having dominated my family for the first 2 decades of my life. I couldn't take my eyes off her, not even to focus on the stunning performances of the rest of the cast.
I am, quite literally, still shaking. I actually had the feeling, during the play, of wanting to go up and talk to her. I'm not sure why. Maybe I wanted to get close enough to smell if she wore the same perfume, too. Maybe I wanted to yell at her, or hug her, or ask her questions. Maybe all of that. (Warning: unresolved issues imminent.)
The thing is, I don't miss her. I wasn't that upset when she died, and I rarely think of her. When I do it's usually to thank my lucky stars that she won't be around to ruin another Christmas. You see, my gramma wasn't a very nice person. To put it less subtly, she was selfish cow.
Selfish really is the word. She wasn't evil, or belligerent, or malicious. But was extremely petty and bitter, had an immesurable sense of entitlement, and was above all the utter center of her universe. As far as she was concerned the entire world existed to cater to her whims. Basically, all her unsavory behaviors over the years can be traced back to this single, all-consuming need to constantly be the center of attention.
I'll give you an illustration. When my mother and father got married, my grandmother (mom's mom) wore head-to-toe white lace. I should tell you at this point that gramma was a looker. Stunning figure. Even when she died at the age of 82 she still had the best legs of any woman in the family. When she was young she could have been a movie star. Mom, as it happens, inherited grampa's looks, and while a lovely woman, she never had that silver screen elegance that gramma had. So when gramma showed up at her own daughter's wedding in a floor-length, fitted, white lace sheath dress you can bet your sweet bippy it was with the subconscious (if not outright deliberate) intent to steal her daughter's thunder on her own wedding day and out-shine the bride. Justifiable homicide if you ask me.
I suppose she was a kleptomania of sorts, spending her entire life stealing other people's thunder. This need to always be in the spotlight manifested itself in other ways, notably her morbid response to grandpa's terminal illness.
When I was about 4 my grandfather was diagnosed with liver cancer. Whether the diabetes came before or after that I don't know, but I've been told that at the time he was given 3 months to live. He finally died when I was almost 20.
In the intervening 15 years a lot of considerations were, by necessity, dictated by grandpa's needs. Housing, food, travel arrangements, time and location of family gatherings, that sort of thing. I know dealing with grandpa's illness was difficult for her, and it certainly wasn't made any easier by the fact that he was just as self-centered as she was.
In my entire life I don't recall ever having a single conversation with my grandfather. I'm not certain that he ever addressed me directly. He came to everything -- band concerts, graduations, all that -- but he never spoke to me. To him I was a complete non-entity. And I suspect he felt much the same about gramma. He probably took her completely for granted and never thanked her for a thing or apologized for making everything so tough for her. Instead he shouted at her (a lot) and peed in the kitchen sink when it was too much effort for him to go upstairs where the only toilet was located.
Her response to this was to try to skim off as much attention from the rest of us as possible, and she did it by insisting that she was the one who was dying. (Never mind that she had the constitution of a horse until 30 seconds before a sudden heart attack finished her off.) Every stinking year is was (as she placed the back of her hand wearily across her forehead like a melodramic victorian heroine) "Oh, I'm sure this my last Christmas! I won't live to see another one!" or "This is the last time I'll be at your birthday" or whatever. No matter the occasion, it was sure to be the last one. (I can remember mom muttering responses under he breath like "Thank god for that" and "promise?" and "you better be right this time." Even "I can arrange that."
This constant insistence that every event was the last she would live to witness came with an interesting corollary. Just to make sure that we knew she didn't want to die (god forbid she should get something she wanted, she wouldn't be able to complain any more!) she would constantly exclaim "Oh, if only I could live long enough to see Marley (my brother) _____!" The blank could be anything: get a girlfriend, graduate grade/middle/high school, college, grad school, get married, anything. The golden grandson was her only reason for living. I was, well, a non-entity. Not once did the words "I only hope I live to see CB ________" ever escape her red lips.
This was, I realized later, the major source of the sibling rivalry between me and my brother. I was convinced for the better part of my life that everyone liked him better, loved him more, and felt he was in every way superior in talent and more important to the future of humanity. It took me a long time to realize that, actually, it was only gramma and grandpa who thought that.
Gramma seemed to know this, too, and made a huge point of always emphasizing how she treated us equally (with a tone of voice that suggested it was against her better judgement). Every year at Christmas and birthdays she would hold my arm firmly and tell me in no uncertain terms that she spend exactly the same amount of money on my gifts as she had on Marley's.
???
Who does that? Why the need to point it out? For one thing, it never occured to me think otherwise. More importantly, if it was so obviously true, why state it at all? One doesn't spend a lifetime repeating obvious statements unless there is some reason to believe the contrary.
The thing was, I didn't care a whit how much she spent on my presents or Marley's. Even after her incessant reassurances I still didn't care. But I do wonder now how many times she was lying through her teeth. I mean, I was a kid. What the fuck did I know how much anything cost?
This obsession of proclaiming equal spending on us kids (the only 2 grandkids in the family, by the way, on either side) also speaks to my grandmother's deep-seated shallowness and materialism. Balanced material spending meant equality between grandkids because material goods were the most important thing in life, so if they were equal than any other discrepancies in treatment were inconsequential. I can't really blame her for that one, though. She grew up and got married during the great depression, and the fear of ever reverting to that way of life again really scared the crap out of her. When the old bat finally died we found over $10,000 in CASH squirreled away in shoe boxes throughout her house, hidden (really well in some cases) because she never did trust the banks after 1929. The Depression definitely scarred her, as it did many of her generation.
A bizarre twist in gramma's proclaimations of equality were the instances when she would lean over my shoulder and whisper in my ear "You're your grandpa's favorite, you know." She did this several times in my life, usually after I helped my grandfather up or down a flight of steps at church or out of the car when there was ice on the ground. He never spoke to me; I was a glorified walking stick, but my reward for my efforts was to be told I was the favorite.
Again, if it's true, there's no reason to say so out loud and plenty of good reasons not to. But I was just cynical enough to think at the time "Pfft. Whatever. I bet you said the same thing to Marley 15 seconds ago." Possibly the only astute observation I ever made of my grandparents in their lifetime. The rest of this stuff I didn't think about or realize until after they were dead.
But this is all the shit that came flooding back to me when I saw that actress on stage tonight. I suppose it's no wonder I was shaking. I don't have any photos my gramma to share with you (it was years after she died that I got my first digital camera, and all the old prints are in my parents' basement), but if you see Crown Matrimonial this week (and I highly recommend that you do), take a look at Lady Airlee, and you'll have a pretty fucking accurate picture of what she looked like.
My grandmother has been dead for 10 years.
(Is your skin crawling yet? Mine still is.)
I saw her again tonight. Her hair, her clothes, her manner, carriage, bearing, demeanor, mannerisms, gestures, lipstick, shoes, all of it exactly as I remember her from when I was a girl. Everything from the little flyaway hairs around her face that escaped her soft bun to the string of pearls around her neck, the tailoring of her skirts and the T-strap, high-heeled shoes: identical.
I was at the Theatre Royal in Bath watching Patricia Routledge star as Queen Mary in Crown Matrimonial. Darlene Johnson, who played the Countess of Airlie, is the spitting image of the woman I remember has having dominated my family for the first 2 decades of my life. I couldn't take my eyes off her, not even to focus on the stunning performances of the rest of the cast.
I am, quite literally, still shaking. I actually had the feeling, during the play, of wanting to go up and talk to her. I'm not sure why. Maybe I wanted to get close enough to smell if she wore the same perfume, too. Maybe I wanted to yell at her, or hug her, or ask her questions. Maybe all of that. (Warning: unresolved issues imminent.)
The thing is, I don't miss her. I wasn't that upset when she died, and I rarely think of her. When I do it's usually to thank my lucky stars that she won't be around to ruin another Christmas. You see, my gramma wasn't a very nice person. To put it less subtly, she was selfish cow.
Selfish really is the word. She wasn't evil, or belligerent, or malicious. But was extremely petty and bitter, had an immesurable sense of entitlement, and was above all the utter center of her universe. As far as she was concerned the entire world existed to cater to her whims. Basically, all her unsavory behaviors over the years can be traced back to this single, all-consuming need to constantly be the center of attention.
I'll give you an illustration. When my mother and father got married, my grandmother (mom's mom) wore head-to-toe white lace. I should tell you at this point that gramma was a looker. Stunning figure. Even when she died at the age of 82 she still had the best legs of any woman in the family. When she was young she could have been a movie star. Mom, as it happens, inherited grampa's looks, and while a lovely woman, she never had that silver screen elegance that gramma had. So when gramma showed up at her own daughter's wedding in a floor-length, fitted, white lace sheath dress you can bet your sweet bippy it was with the subconscious (if not outright deliberate) intent to steal her daughter's thunder on her own wedding day and out-shine the bride. Justifiable homicide if you ask me.
I suppose she was a kleptomania of sorts, spending her entire life stealing other people's thunder. This need to always be in the spotlight manifested itself in other ways, notably her morbid response to grandpa's terminal illness.
When I was about 4 my grandfather was diagnosed with liver cancer. Whether the diabetes came before or after that I don't know, but I've been told that at the time he was given 3 months to live. He finally died when I was almost 20.
In the intervening 15 years a lot of considerations were, by necessity, dictated by grandpa's needs. Housing, food, travel arrangements, time and location of family gatherings, that sort of thing. I know dealing with grandpa's illness was difficult for her, and it certainly wasn't made any easier by the fact that he was just as self-centered as she was.
In my entire life I don't recall ever having a single conversation with my grandfather. I'm not certain that he ever addressed me directly. He came to everything -- band concerts, graduations, all that -- but he never spoke to me. To him I was a complete non-entity. And I suspect he felt much the same about gramma. He probably took her completely for granted and never thanked her for a thing or apologized for making everything so tough for her. Instead he shouted at her (a lot) and peed in the kitchen sink when it was too much effort for him to go upstairs where the only toilet was located.
Her response to this was to try to skim off as much attention from the rest of us as possible, and she did it by insisting that she was the one who was dying. (Never mind that she had the constitution of a horse until 30 seconds before a sudden heart attack finished her off.) Every stinking year is was (as she placed the back of her hand wearily across her forehead like a melodramic victorian heroine) "Oh, I'm sure this my last Christmas! I won't live to see another one!" or "This is the last time I'll be at your birthday" or whatever. No matter the occasion, it was sure to be the last one. (I can remember mom muttering responses under he breath like "Thank god for that" and "promise?" and "you better be right this time." Even "I can arrange that."
This constant insistence that every event was the last she would live to witness came with an interesting corollary. Just to make sure that we knew she didn't want to die (god forbid she should get something she wanted, she wouldn't be able to complain any more!) she would constantly exclaim "Oh, if only I could live long enough to see Marley (my brother) _____!" The blank could be anything: get a girlfriend, graduate grade/middle/high school, college, grad school, get married, anything. The golden grandson was her only reason for living. I was, well, a non-entity. Not once did the words "I only hope I live to see CB ________" ever escape her red lips.
This was, I realized later, the major source of the sibling rivalry between me and my brother. I was convinced for the better part of my life that everyone liked him better, loved him more, and felt he was in every way superior in talent and more important to the future of humanity. It took me a long time to realize that, actually, it was only gramma and grandpa who thought that.
Gramma seemed to know this, too, and made a huge point of always emphasizing how she treated us equally (with a tone of voice that suggested it was against her better judgement). Every year at Christmas and birthdays she would hold my arm firmly and tell me in no uncertain terms that she spend exactly the same amount of money on my gifts as she had on Marley's.
???
Who does that? Why the need to point it out? For one thing, it never occured to me think otherwise. More importantly, if it was so obviously true, why state it at all? One doesn't spend a lifetime repeating obvious statements unless there is some reason to believe the contrary.
The thing was, I didn't care a whit how much she spent on my presents or Marley's. Even after her incessant reassurances I still didn't care. But I do wonder now how many times she was lying through her teeth. I mean, I was a kid. What the fuck did I know how much anything cost?
This obsession of proclaiming equal spending on us kids (the only 2 grandkids in the family, by the way, on either side) also speaks to my grandmother's deep-seated shallowness and materialism. Balanced material spending meant equality between grandkids because material goods were the most important thing in life, so if they were equal than any other discrepancies in treatment were inconsequential. I can't really blame her for that one, though. She grew up and got married during the great depression, and the fear of ever reverting to that way of life again really scared the crap out of her. When the old bat finally died we found over $10,000 in CASH squirreled away in shoe boxes throughout her house, hidden (really well in some cases) because she never did trust the banks after 1929. The Depression definitely scarred her, as it did many of her generation.
A bizarre twist in gramma's proclaimations of equality were the instances when she would lean over my shoulder and whisper in my ear "You're your grandpa's favorite, you know." She did this several times in my life, usually after I helped my grandfather up or down a flight of steps at church or out of the car when there was ice on the ground. He never spoke to me; I was a glorified walking stick, but my reward for my efforts was to be told I was the favorite.
Again, if it's true, there's no reason to say so out loud and plenty of good reasons not to. But I was just cynical enough to think at the time "Pfft. Whatever. I bet you said the same thing to Marley 15 seconds ago." Possibly the only astute observation I ever made of my grandparents in their lifetime. The rest of this stuff I didn't think about or realize until after they were dead.
But this is all the shit that came flooding back to me when I saw that actress on stage tonight. I suppose it's no wonder I was shaking. I don't have any photos my gramma to share with you (it was years after she died that I got my first digital camera, and all the old prints are in my parents' basement), but if you see Crown Matrimonial this week (and I highly recommend that you do), take a look at Lady Airlee, and you'll have a pretty fucking accurate picture of what she looked like.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Confession
Do you ever add things to your 'To Do' list that you've already done just so you can cross them out, thereby improving the ratio of crossed-out items to un-crossed items?
Yeah, I thought so.
Isn't nice to know we're all that pathetic?
Yeah, I thought so.
Isn't nice to know we're all that pathetic?
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Everyone's an expert
If you suffer from back pain or have recently given birth, you've no doubt experienced this phenomenon: everyone, absolutely bloody everyone, has an opinion on your condition (or how you should be raising your baby), and they are all convinced that there opinions are more correct than the countless medical professionals you've been seeing. And then they get pissy when you ignore them or tell them to mind their own beeswax.
And before you get all huffy, this isn't just about unsolicited advice in the comments box, it's about every fucking person I meet who feels they have to give me their 2 cents worth, and then by way of legal disclaimer, point out that if I ignore their advice and suffer a re-injury that it's my own fucking fault and all sympathy goes out the window. That's my favorite part. The old "if you don't do as I (random person who's never met me and has no medical qualifications) say you'll suffer for it and it will be your fault for not taking my advice, which is obviously so much better than everyone elses!"
So for the benefit of anyone else out there thinking of telling me exactly what I'm doing wrong regarding my back:
Anyone else have any advice for me? Thought so.
And before you get all huffy, this isn't just about unsolicited advice in the comments box, it's about every fucking person I meet who feels they have to give me their 2 cents worth, and then by way of legal disclaimer, point out that if I ignore their advice and suffer a re-injury that it's my own fucking fault and all sympathy goes out the window. That's my favorite part. The old "if you don't do as I (random person who's never met me and has no medical qualifications) say you'll suffer for it and it will be your fault for not taking my advice, which is obviously so much better than everyone elses!"
So for the benefit of anyone else out there thinking of telling me exactly what I'm doing wrong regarding my back:
- I'm not doing nothing about it. After regular physical therapy, pilates, and an on-going course of chirpractic therapy and daily exercise and stretching I am at a point that I could live a completely normal life with only a few tiny adjustments (such as not carrying a heavy grocery bag in one hand, but using 2 lighter ones to balance the load instead).
- I know problems don't clear up overnight (how could I not???), but symptoms sometimes do.
- If any medical professional, at any time had ever said to me "if you go back to rowing you'll damage your back forever and i strongly advise against any further rowing or sculling" I would have taken that very seriously indeed. But every medical pro I have seen has strongly advised me to continue!!!!
- This is because of the nature of my injury. I have a degenerate disk. That means one of my spinal disks has no fluid in it. The fluid is what makes the disk firm. Now it's wilted and soggy and cannot, on it's own, maintain the proper spacing between the vertebrae (L4 and L5, specifically). "On it's own" means that I need my core muscles to compensate by holding my spine up properly. Rowing is an excellent core-strengthening exercise, and keeps a lot of movement in the back. I've now had 2 professionals tell me that the best thing I can do for my back is keep rowing.
- Of course I have considered the problem of pregnancy and child-rearing, and asked my doctor and my chiropractor about it. They both said that I will likely suffer fewer back back problems during pregnancy than the average woman for the very reason that I'm doing so much to strengthen my back and my core now. As for babies, same rules for lifting heavy objects apply.
Anyone else have any advice for me? Thought so.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Why Philip Pullman should be SHOT,
or at the very least have all his fingers lopped off with bolt cutters so he can never write another godawful fucking horrible awful book again.
I don't have enough bad things to say about His Dark Materials, and very few good things to say about it.
After everyone told me how great they are, and given my general taste in reading, I fully expected to enjoy them. Expected it so much that I even splashed out and bought nice editions of all three books at one go, with sturdy acid-free paper and everything so they would last and be wonderful treasures on my book shelf that one day my kids could read. Really, I did.
My kids will never read these books. Not until they're at least 30.
Are you getting the sense that I didn't like them?
Minor, run-of-the-mill criticisms include trivialities such as:
THEY'RE FUCKING TERRIFYING. THEY'RE HEART-WRENCHINGLY, SICKENINGLY, NAUSEATINGLY, GUT-TWISTINGLY TERRIFYING.
When it comes to frightening children, Pullman makes Walt Disney look like Mother fucking Theresa.
Now I don't have a problem with a bit of scary stuff and suspense. You need conflict to create drama, and you need drama to make it worth reading, otherwise it's all a bunch of Dick and Jane crap. But there's a line.
Harry Potter is not the be-all and end-all of kids' adventure fiction, far from it, but for the purposes of comparing His Dark Materials with magical adventure fantasy fiction aimed at a similar age group it will suit well enough.
In Harry Potter there is a thing called a Dementor. It's a scary being that sucks people's souls out through their mouths. That's creepy. It's a fate worse than death. In His Dark Materials there's a thing called a Specter. It attacks adults and eats their consciousness effectively making them zombies. Same concept, really. The difference is that JK Rowling doesn't graphically describe scenes where a father is attacked by a dementor, but while fleeing has carried his 3-year-old son into a river, who is then dropped into said river as father becomes a zombie, and flops about, drowning, screaming, crying, begging his father to pick him up. Dad ingores the kid. Mentally, he's gone. Baby is drowning in river at his feet.
It's sick.
It's incredibly sick.
Pullman's brand of terror happens to be the one that pushes my buttons the most. It's not blood and guts and brains being spattered about. Most kids don't find that stuff scary, and neither do I. What terrifies me is separation. I had wicked separation anxiety as a kid, and still struggle with it from time to time. This was triggered by a traumatic event that happened when I was 2 or 3, where I thought my mom was being taken from me forever. What Pullman does is to think of every kind of painful separation -- physical, emotional, spiritual, whatever -- and then throw it at you, over and over again in waves, in every conceivable permutation: children being separated from parents, friends from friends, people from daemons (souls), you name it, he takes it away.
I'm still angry at Pullman because I can't get these images out of my head. I wanted some light reading for the holidays. I chose some "children's" literature that had been recommended to me by several people whose judgement I generally trust. Damn near ruined my Christmas. I spent every day in tears, shaking with terror.
The only reason I read all three was that by the end of the first book, if I had stopped, it would have been like turning off a horror movie at the scariest part, which I know is the worst thing you can. You have to watch to the end so you can see everything comes out OK eventually. That was the one and only reason I kept reading.
I still have every book I've ever owned. When I read a book, I keep it (unless it's a library book, obv). These are the first ever books I've deliberately gotten rid of. When I got back from Pirate's I woke up, grabbed the books, and took them straight up to Oxfam. I don't even want them on my shelves. I don't want to look at them. Fucking awful books.
I don't have enough bad things to say about His Dark Materials, and very few good things to say about it.
(Warning: Spoilers Ahead)
After everyone told me how great they are, and given my general taste in reading, I fully expected to enjoy them. Expected it so much that I even splashed out and bought nice editions of all three books at one go, with sturdy acid-free paper and everything so they would last and be wonderful treasures on my book shelf that one day my kids could read. Really, I did.
My kids will never read these books. Not until they're at least 30.
Are you getting the sense that I didn't like them?
Minor, run-of-the-mill criticisms include trivialities such as:
- the main character wasn't terribly likeable or sympathetic
- in fact, most of the human characters were complete cunts (except for Lee Scoresby, who gets killed for the very reason that he's the only decent dude therein, and in Pullman's world we kill off all the nice characters just make sure you cry that little bit extra)
- The plot wasn't tied together very well at the end. You read and read and read looking to see how it all connects, and there's this never-ending section of crap to slog through that isn't really relevant, and then one character shows up on the last page and explains everything in 4 sentences. Not the best story-telling in the world.
- Several key things never get explained (like how the knife came into being), and are just left dangling
- they weren't nearly as anti-religion as I had been led to believe
THEY'RE FUCKING TERRIFYING. THEY'RE HEART-WRENCHINGLY, SICKENINGLY, NAUSEATINGLY, GUT-TWISTINGLY TERRIFYING.
When it comes to frightening children, Pullman makes Walt Disney look like Mother fucking Theresa.
Now I don't have a problem with a bit of scary stuff and suspense. You need conflict to create drama, and you need drama to make it worth reading, otherwise it's all a bunch of Dick and Jane crap. But there's a line.
Harry Potter is not the be-all and end-all of kids' adventure fiction, far from it, but for the purposes of comparing His Dark Materials with magical adventure fantasy fiction aimed at a similar age group it will suit well enough.
In Harry Potter there is a thing called a Dementor. It's a scary being that sucks people's souls out through their mouths. That's creepy. It's a fate worse than death. In His Dark Materials there's a thing called a Specter. It attacks adults and eats their consciousness effectively making them zombies. Same concept, really. The difference is that JK Rowling doesn't graphically describe scenes where a father is attacked by a dementor, but while fleeing has carried his 3-year-old son into a river, who is then dropped into said river as father becomes a zombie, and flops about, drowning, screaming, crying, begging his father to pick him up. Dad ingores the kid. Mentally, he's gone. Baby is drowning in river at his feet.
It's sick.
It's incredibly sick.
Pullman's brand of terror happens to be the one that pushes my buttons the most. It's not blood and guts and brains being spattered about. Most kids don't find that stuff scary, and neither do I. What terrifies me is separation. I had wicked separation anxiety as a kid, and still struggle with it from time to time. This was triggered by a traumatic event that happened when I was 2 or 3, where I thought my mom was being taken from me forever. What Pullman does is to think of every kind of painful separation -- physical, emotional, spiritual, whatever -- and then throw it at you, over and over again in waves, in every conceivable permutation: children being separated from parents, friends from friends, people from daemons (souls), you name it, he takes it away.
I'm still angry at Pullman because I can't get these images out of my head. I wanted some light reading for the holidays. I chose some "children's" literature that had been recommended to me by several people whose judgement I generally trust. Damn near ruined my Christmas. I spent every day in tears, shaking with terror.
The only reason I read all three was that by the end of the first book, if I had stopped, it would have been like turning off a horror movie at the scariest part, which I know is the worst thing you can. You have to watch to the end so you can see everything comes out OK eventually. That was the one and only reason I kept reading.
I still have every book I've ever owned. When I read a book, I keep it (unless it's a library book, obv). These are the first ever books I've deliberately gotten rid of. When I got back from Pirate's I woke up, grabbed the books, and took them straight up to Oxfam. I don't even want them on my shelves. I don't want to look at them. Fucking awful books.
Monday, November 26, 2007
Weekend musings
All through this weekend I kept having the thought, "ooh, this is SO going on the blog!"
and now I can't remember what half of it was. I'm sure i thought it was important at the time. What is important now is that my faulty memory has become my editor, so you're getting the benefit of reading the condensed version, with all the extra, unnecessary bits conveniently forgotten.
Friday
Cycled to the Pirate's after work. The first 16 miles is more or less level, but of the last 9, 6 are uphill. Ouch.
Cool Thing That Happened On The Cycle Ride, Part I:
I was leaving Bristol via the Bristol-Bath Cycle Path. I was still within the city, and up ahead of me I saw a motorcycle. There were 2 teenagers on it, and a third climbing on. Fucking punks. Motorized vehicles are NOT allowed on the path. If I wanted to play chicken in traffic I'd use the fucking roads -- they're a lot more direct. I passed by them, trying not to make eye contact. Then I heard the engine rev behind me, and they came tearing past me. They disappeared quickly into the darkness, since they were moving fast and had no lights on. I stopped and got out my mobile phone.
"999 emergency. What service do you require?"
"Police"
I waited while they connected me.
"Avon and Bristol Constabulary. How can help?"
"I'd like to report 3 youths riding a motorcyle on the Bristol-Bath cycle path near Whitehall road."
"3 youths on a moped?"
"Not a moped, a full-on motorcycle. Traveling east-bound at approximately 25 miles an hour, with no lights on."
"Can you describe the youths?"
"No, but would you like the number plate?"
"You got the registration number???"
"X-ray eight eight niner, bravo alpha mike."
"Ah. That motorcycle was reported stolen this evening."
After a few more details, describing the teenagers, giving a more precise location, and my personal details, I hung up feeling a tad smug. Also a tad nervous, as they had headed up the path in the direction I was traveling and I was worried about encountering them again.
And I did.
About 10 minutes later I head the whine of a motorcycle engine coming toward me. I knew they were riding without lights, so I immediately pulled off onto the grass. A second later I saw them. They whizzed past me and made a sharp right turn, off the cycle path and onto a road. I didn't know the name of the road, but there was a middle-aged couple walking nearby.
"Excuse me. Do you know the name of this street?"
They did, and the nearest cross street. I got out my phone again.
After the momentary rigamarole I said to the operator "I just phoned a few minutes ago about a motorcyle on the Bristol-Bath cycle path."
"Yes," said the helpful operator. "I remember you." Thank heavens. By a stroke of luck I'd got the same woman.
"I just wanted to let you know that I've seen them again. They came back on the cycle-path west-bound, then got off it and are heading west-bound on Colston Road from [whatever] Street."
"Oh! Super! Thank you for that information."
"You're very welcome."
As I hung up the phone I heard a siren go on not more than 2 blocks away from me and heading in the direction I had described. Yes!!! Go get 'em, Smokey! I let out a cheer. I hope they nailed those little shits to the wall.
(I'm kinda bummed they never called me in to ID a line-up, though. That would have been cool.)
Now feeling extremely, insufferably smug, I continued on my way. It was completely dark before I even left the house, and eventually I came out of the city bit, where there are street lights illuminating the path, and into the more desolate suburbs. Further and further into the countryside I traveled, and the darkness became more and more complete.
It was cold; very cold. Only 1 degree C by the thermometer, and wind chills making it feel below freezing. All I could see was the cone of light from my (amazing, utterly bust-ass) headlamp shining on the path and the trees on either side of me. I looked up and saw a full moon shining above me in a barren, cloudless sky. That gave me an idea. I turned off my headlamp.
It wasn't dark at all. I could see quite well by the moonlight. Everything was beautiful shades of blue and grey, the moon casting stark shadows of the bare tree branches across my path. ("Whose woods these are, I think I know...") Without my headlamp, the rabbits and foxes paid me no more heed than were I a passing deer running deftly through the woods, and they did not flee from my approach. I passed over the river several times, and saw it create a perfect, silent, unmoving black line through the white fields, which were already becoming bright and shimmery with frost. ("Between the woods and frozen lake...") It was beautiful and haunting. I felt as though I was the only person alive on the planet, and not in the least bit afraid. I was exhilerated by the sheer emptiness, the vacant, life-less feeling of my surroundings.
Finally I began to put some effort in to warm my body up. I had layers upon layers, but I knew I would get chilled if I didn't keep working. I still had more than an hour of riding before reaching the warm arms of the Pirate. I put my headlamp back on and put the hammer down. (And miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep.")
and now I can't remember what half of it was. I'm sure i thought it was important at the time. What is important now is that my faulty memory has become my editor, so you're getting the benefit of reading the condensed version, with all the extra, unnecessary bits conveniently forgotten.
Friday
Cycled to the Pirate's after work. The first 16 miles is more or less level, but of the last 9, 6 are uphill. Ouch.
Cool Thing That Happened On The Cycle Ride, Part I:
I was leaving Bristol via the Bristol-Bath Cycle Path. I was still within the city, and up ahead of me I saw a motorcycle. There were 2 teenagers on it, and a third climbing on. Fucking punks. Motorized vehicles are NOT allowed on the path. If I wanted to play chicken in traffic I'd use the fucking roads -- they're a lot more direct. I passed by them, trying not to make eye contact. Then I heard the engine rev behind me, and they came tearing past me. They disappeared quickly into the darkness, since they were moving fast and had no lights on. I stopped and got out my mobile phone.
"999 emergency. What service do you require?"
"Police"
I waited while they connected me.
"Avon and Bristol Constabulary. How can help?"
"I'd like to report 3 youths riding a motorcyle on the Bristol-Bath cycle path near Whitehall road."
"3 youths on a moped?"
"Not a moped, a full-on motorcycle. Traveling east-bound at approximately 25 miles an hour, with no lights on."
"Can you describe the youths?"
"No, but would you like the number plate?"
"You got the registration number???"
"X-ray eight eight niner, bravo alpha mike."
"Ah. That motorcycle was reported stolen this evening."
After a few more details, describing the teenagers, giving a more precise location, and my personal details, I hung up feeling a tad smug. Also a tad nervous, as they had headed up the path in the direction I was traveling and I was worried about encountering them again.
And I did.
About 10 minutes later I head the whine of a motorcycle engine coming toward me. I knew they were riding without lights, so I immediately pulled off onto the grass. A second later I saw them. They whizzed past me and made a sharp right turn, off the cycle path and onto a road. I didn't know the name of the road, but there was a middle-aged couple walking nearby.
"Excuse me. Do you know the name of this street?"
They did, and the nearest cross street. I got out my phone again.
After the momentary rigamarole I said to the operator "I just phoned a few minutes ago about a motorcyle on the Bristol-Bath cycle path."
"Yes," said the helpful operator. "I remember you." Thank heavens. By a stroke of luck I'd got the same woman.
"I just wanted to let you know that I've seen them again. They came back on the cycle-path west-bound, then got off it and are heading west-bound on Colston Road from [whatever] Street."
"Oh! Super! Thank you for that information."
"You're very welcome."
As I hung up the phone I heard a siren go on not more than 2 blocks away from me and heading in the direction I had described. Yes!!! Go get 'em, Smokey! I let out a cheer. I hope they nailed those little shits to the wall.
(I'm kinda bummed they never called me in to ID a line-up, though. That would have been cool.)
Now feeling extremely, insufferably smug, I continued on my way. It was completely dark before I even left the house, and eventually I came out of the city bit, where there are street lights illuminating the path, and into the more desolate suburbs. Further and further into the countryside I traveled, and the darkness became more and more complete.
It was cold; very cold. Only 1 degree C by the thermometer, and wind chills making it feel below freezing. All I could see was the cone of light from my (amazing, utterly bust-ass) headlamp shining on the path and the trees on either side of me. I looked up and saw a full moon shining above me in a barren, cloudless sky. That gave me an idea. I turned off my headlamp.
It wasn't dark at all. I could see quite well by the moonlight. Everything was beautiful shades of blue and grey, the moon casting stark shadows of the bare tree branches across my path. ("Whose woods these are, I think I know...") Without my headlamp, the rabbits and foxes paid me no more heed than were I a passing deer running deftly through the woods, and they did not flee from my approach. I passed over the river several times, and saw it create a perfect, silent, unmoving black line through the white fields, which were already becoming bright and shimmery with frost. ("Between the woods and frozen lake...") It was beautiful and haunting. I felt as though I was the only person alive on the planet, and not in the least bit afraid. I was exhilerated by the sheer emptiness, the vacant, life-less feeling of my surroundings.
Finally I began to put some effort in to warm my body up. I had layers upon layers, but I knew I would get chilled if I didn't keep working. I still had more than an hour of riding before reaching the warm arms of the Pirate. I put my headlamp back on and put the hammer down. (And miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep.")
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
Goat fixes airplane. Or does it?
Read this article, and see what you think:
Goat Sacrificed to fix Nepal Jet
now scroll down.
Were you shocked? Are you apalled that there are people in this world who think the best way to go about repairing a technological device is to sacrifice an animal to appease a god?
Next question:
Do you profess to be a person of faith? Do you follow any religion?
Because if you do, if you genuinely believe in divine intervention, than this story should be perfectly reasonable to you. But would you get on that plane? I'm betting not. I would wager that even those among you who practice a religion find this sort of behavior rediculous, as well you should.
But that should tell you something about just how much you actually believe in supernatual, superstitious, religious hocus-pocus.
If you really, truly, deeply, at the very heart of your being, think that there is/are sky fairies who watch our every move, pay attention to what we are doing, give a shit about what we are doing, answer prayers, intevervene, and all the rest of that, than there should be nothing at all strange about how the Nepalese maintenance went about repairing a malfunctioning jet.
If you really believe in god, put your money where your mouth is: fly Air Nepal.
Goat Sacrificed to fix Nepal Jet
now scroll down.
Were you shocked? Are you apalled that there are people in this world who think the best way to go about repairing a technological device is to sacrifice an animal to appease a god?
Next question:
Do you profess to be a person of faith? Do you follow any religion?
Because if you do, if you genuinely believe in divine intervention, than this story should be perfectly reasonable to you. But would you get on that plane? I'm betting not. I would wager that even those among you who practice a religion find this sort of behavior rediculous, as well you should.
But that should tell you something about just how much you actually believe in supernatual, superstitious, religious hocus-pocus.
If you really, truly, deeply, at the very heart of your being, think that there is/are sky fairies who watch our every move, pay attention to what we are doing, give a shit about what we are doing, answer prayers, intevervene, and all the rest of that, than there should be nothing at all strange about how the Nepalese maintenance went about repairing a malfunctioning jet.
If you really believe in god, put your money where your mouth is: fly Air Nepal.
Friday, July 27, 2007
Listen up, my bearded and veily freinds!
For a little light weekend reading, here's an (unoffical - i typed it myself) transcript of a portion BBC Radio 4's 'Now Show," which first aired last friday, 20 July 2007. It's a commentary by Marcus Brigstock, a scathing and hilarious endictment of organized religion. Prepare to be hugely offended and laugh your arse off:
"I'd like to start this week with a request, and this one goes out to the followers of the three Abrahamic religions: the Muslims, Christians, and Jews. It's just a little thing, really, but do you think that when you've finished smashing up the world and blowing each other to bits and demanding special privledges while you do it, do you think that maybe the rest of us could sort of have our planet back? I wouldn't ask, but I'm starting to think that there must be something written in the special books that each of you so enjoy referring to that it's ok to behave like special, petulent, pugnacious, pricks. Forgive the alliteration, but your persistent, power-mad punch-ups are pissing me off. It's mainly the extremists obviously, but not exlclusively. It's a lot of 'main-streamers' as well. Let me give you an example of what I'm talking about.
Muslims: listen up my bearded and veily friends! Calm down, ok? Stop blowing stuff up. Not everything that said about you is an attack on the prophet Mohammed and Allah that needs to end in the infidel being destroyed. Have a cup of tea, put on a Cat Stevens record, sit down and chill out. I mean seriously, what's wrong with a strongly-worded letter to The Times?
Christians: you and your churches don't get to be millionairs while other people have nothing at all. They're your bloody rules; either stick to them or abandon the faith. And stop persecuting and killing people you judge to be immoral. Oh, and stop pretending you're celibate -- it's a cover-up for being a gay or a nonce. Right, that's two ticked off.
Jews! I know you're god's 'Chosen People' and the rest of us are just whatever, but when Israel behaves like a violent, psychopathic bully and someone mentions it that doesn't make them anitsemitic. And for the record, your troubled history is not a license to act with impunity now.
So, when the letters come (and I'm guessing they will), I can gaurantee that each one of those faiths will be conviced that I've singled them out for special criticism.
[In mock Arabic accent] Why did it have to be us? Islam is a peaceful faith!
[In upper class British accent] I don't see what's wrong with being Christian? We're a peaceful, loving faith.
[In affronted, huffy voice] How dare you after all we've been through! We Jews know how terrible violece can be.
You see, all of them will be convinced that they're the ones being picked on. The Abrahamic faiths are like scousers: they're always conviced they [in scouser accent} have it harder than everyone else.
And why is it that all of these faiths claim to be peaceful, when even a most fleeting glance at a history of warfare will tell you otherwise? The relationship between religion and warfare is very similar to the relationship between Ant and Deck: you could have one without the other, but I'm not sure anyone would see the point. I wouldn't actually like it, but it would be refreshing to hear one of them come out and say [in working class London accent] "Our faith's violent as you like. We love a scrap, us lot, we do. Our special book says 'fight fight smash maim murder kill fight fight.' That's why I signed up to be honest. I'm a bit naught, know what I mean?" But yet all of them claim to be peaceful religions. Yeah, peaceful right up to the point where someone takes something they think is theirs, or says the wrong thing or looks at them funny. Then it's fighty smashy kicky punchy all the way. I know this'll upset a lot of people and frankly I don't care. I'm getting so sick of religious people screwing it up for the rest of us.
Please don't kill us, seriously. As far as I'm concerned this is the only chance we get. When we die it's all over -- there's no virgins and pearly gates waiting for us, no big, beardy man saying [in deep, echoing voice and upper class accent] "Right, so how do you think that went, then? Killed a lot of people in my name I see. Not really what I had in mind. Um, tell you what, have another go as a worm."
While we're at it, I'm sick of religious people forcing their children to define themselves by their parents' faith. A four-year-old is no more a Christian than he is a member of the Postal Workers' union. [in child's voice] "We want a fair working wage, decent working conditions, and time allotted to see the new Transformers film."
This week Lydia Playfoot, who took Millay School in Horsham to the high court so she could wear jewelry to prove she's staying a virgin for Jesus, lost her case. Good. I'm glad. I don't care how many times her parents claim it was her idea, rules is rules, and if you want to wear a ring that tells everyone you're not having any sex you can get married like the rest of us. Now, the lawyer for the chaste Miss Playfoot said the question for the judge was 'What are the religious rights of school children in the school context?' Well, I'm no judge (not yet, anyway), but if you want my opinion, none. No rights. No religious rights whatsoever. Schools are for learning. If you want to have a little pray before maths so that Mr. Figures won't set too hard a test, or prevent the P.E. teacher from being a collossal pervert, then go head, fill your boots. If you want to pop on a feathered headdress and chant and dance and mumble and sacrifice something you can do that on your own time. (Or take a drama course, pretend it's art, and get a degree in it. That's what I did.) The lawyer, Mr. Diamond, argued "secular authorities cannot rule on religious truth." Hmm. Well, Mr. Diamond, I'm going to assume you're not related to Neil Diamond, becuase he rocks. Yes, I like Neil Diamond. And Prince. And I'm married -- go figure. But the point is "religious truth" is a foxy one, buecasue religion, by it's very nature, doesn't tend to concern itself with truth. There simply isn't time for truth. By the time all the singing and candle-lighting and toadying and condemning and hiding from science is done truth has given up and gone down to the pub for a pint. Here's the truth: faith is about as interested in truth as I am in hangning out with Anthony Warrel Thompson, ie, not very.
Now, I know that most relgious folk are moderate and reasonable and wear tidy jumpers and eat cheese, like real people. And on hearing this they'll mainly feel pity for me, rather than issue a death sentence. But they have to accept that they are the power base for the nutters. Without their passive support the loonies in charge of these faiths would just be loonies, safely locked away and medicated -- somewhere nice with a view of some trees where they can claim they have a direct channel to god between sessions making tapestry coasters, watching Teletubbies and talking about thier days in the Hitler Youth. The ordinary faithful make these viscious, tyrannical thugs what they are. See, I get angry that show like Celebrity and Big Brother and insert-title-of-wretched-show-here still fill our lives with vapid, pointless emptiness, and I wish the producers' development exectives would crawl back under the rocks they emerged from, but the truth is they sell stuff that people consume. Without the audience to prop it up, Heat magazine and fundamental religious fanatacism goes away. Imagine what humanity might be capable of if we had that much spare time! We could explore space properly, have decent look in the sea, find a cure for James Blunt, anything!
Thank you very much. Letters to the usual address."
"I'd like to start this week with a request, and this one goes out to the followers of the three Abrahamic religions: the Muslims, Christians, and Jews. It's just a little thing, really, but do you think that when you've finished smashing up the world and blowing each other to bits and demanding special privledges while you do it, do you think that maybe the rest of us could sort of have our planet back? I wouldn't ask, but I'm starting to think that there must be something written in the special books that each of you so enjoy referring to that it's ok to behave like special, petulent, pugnacious, pricks. Forgive the alliteration, but your persistent, power-mad punch-ups are pissing me off. It's mainly the extremists obviously, but not exlclusively. It's a lot of 'main-streamers' as well. Let me give you an example of what I'm talking about.
Muslims: listen up my bearded and veily friends! Calm down, ok? Stop blowing stuff up. Not everything that said about you is an attack on the prophet Mohammed and Allah that needs to end in the infidel being destroyed. Have a cup of tea, put on a Cat Stevens record, sit down and chill out. I mean seriously, what's wrong with a strongly-worded letter to The Times?
Christians: you and your churches don't get to be millionairs while other people have nothing at all. They're your bloody rules; either stick to them or abandon the faith. And stop persecuting and killing people you judge to be immoral. Oh, and stop pretending you're celibate -- it's a cover-up for being a gay or a nonce. Right, that's two ticked off.
Jews! I know you're god's 'Chosen People' and the rest of us are just whatever, but when Israel behaves like a violent, psychopathic bully and someone mentions it that doesn't make them anitsemitic. And for the record, your troubled history is not a license to act with impunity now.
So, when the letters come (and I'm guessing they will), I can gaurantee that each one of those faiths will be conviced that I've singled them out for special criticism.
[In mock Arabic accent] Why did it have to be us? Islam is a peaceful faith!
[In upper class British accent] I don't see what's wrong with being Christian? We're a peaceful, loving faith.
[In affronted, huffy voice] How dare you after all we've been through! We Jews know how terrible violece can be.
You see, all of them will be convinced that they're the ones being picked on. The Abrahamic faiths are like scousers: they're always conviced they [in scouser accent} have it harder than everyone else.
And why is it that all of these faiths claim to be peaceful, when even a most fleeting glance at a history of warfare will tell you otherwise? The relationship between religion and warfare is very similar to the relationship between Ant and Deck: you could have one without the other, but I'm not sure anyone would see the point. I wouldn't actually like it, but it would be refreshing to hear one of them come out and say [in working class London accent] "Our faith's violent as you like. We love a scrap, us lot, we do. Our special book says 'fight fight smash maim murder kill fight fight.' That's why I signed up to be honest. I'm a bit naught, know what I mean?" But yet all of them claim to be peaceful religions. Yeah, peaceful right up to the point where someone takes something they think is theirs, or says the wrong thing or looks at them funny. Then it's fighty smashy kicky punchy all the way. I know this'll upset a lot of people and frankly I don't care. I'm getting so sick of religious people screwing it up for the rest of us.
Please don't kill us, seriously. As far as I'm concerned this is the only chance we get. When we die it's all over -- there's no virgins and pearly gates waiting for us, no big, beardy man saying [in deep, echoing voice and upper class accent] "Right, so how do you think that went, then? Killed a lot of people in my name I see. Not really what I had in mind. Um, tell you what, have another go as a worm."
While we're at it, I'm sick of religious people forcing their children to define themselves by their parents' faith. A four-year-old is no more a Christian than he is a member of the Postal Workers' union. [in child's voice] "We want a fair working wage, decent working conditions, and time allotted to see the new Transformers film."
This week Lydia Playfoot, who took Millay School in Horsham to the high court so she could wear jewelry to prove she's staying a virgin for Jesus, lost her case. Good. I'm glad. I don't care how many times her parents claim it was her idea, rules is rules, and if you want to wear a ring that tells everyone you're not having any sex you can get married like the rest of us. Now, the lawyer for the chaste Miss Playfoot said the question for the judge was 'What are the religious rights of school children in the school context?' Well, I'm no judge (not yet, anyway), but if you want my opinion, none. No rights. No religious rights whatsoever. Schools are for learning. If you want to have a little pray before maths so that Mr. Figures won't set too hard a test, or prevent the P.E. teacher from being a collossal pervert, then go head, fill your boots. If you want to pop on a feathered headdress and chant and dance and mumble and sacrifice something you can do that on your own time. (Or take a drama course, pretend it's art, and get a degree in it. That's what I did.) The lawyer, Mr. Diamond, argued "secular authorities cannot rule on religious truth." Hmm. Well, Mr. Diamond, I'm going to assume you're not related to Neil Diamond, becuase he rocks. Yes, I like Neil Diamond. And Prince. And I'm married -- go figure. But the point is "religious truth" is a foxy one, buecasue religion, by it's very nature, doesn't tend to concern itself with truth. There simply isn't time for truth. By the time all the singing and candle-lighting and toadying and condemning and hiding from science is done truth has given up and gone down to the pub for a pint. Here's the truth: faith is about as interested in truth as I am in hangning out with Anthony Warrel Thompson, ie, not very.
Now, I know that most relgious folk are moderate and reasonable and wear tidy jumpers and eat cheese, like real people. And on hearing this they'll mainly feel pity for me, rather than issue a death sentence. But they have to accept that they are the power base for the nutters. Without their passive support the loonies in charge of these faiths would just be loonies, safely locked away and medicated -- somewhere nice with a view of some trees where they can claim they have a direct channel to god between sessions making tapestry coasters, watching Teletubbies and talking about thier days in the Hitler Youth. The ordinary faithful make these viscious, tyrannical thugs what they are. See, I get angry that show like Celebrity and Big Brother and insert-title-of-wretched-show-here still fill our lives with vapid, pointless emptiness, and I wish the producers' development exectives would crawl back under the rocks they emerged from, but the truth is they sell stuff that people consume. Without the audience to prop it up, Heat magazine and fundamental religious fanatacism goes away. Imagine what humanity might be capable of if we had that much spare time! We could explore space properly, have decent look in the sea, find a cure for James Blunt, anything!
Thank you very much. Letters to the usual address."
Friday, July 20, 2007
It's coming, I swear
I'm so sorry, guys. I know I've been rubbish about posting lately. I've been so busy i havn't had time to fart, never mind anything else. I havn't forgotten about you, though, and I still love you all.
Here's the past week in summary, titled "Why the Pirate is a Complete and Utter Muppet"
1. Last week he said "Let's go see Chicago at the Hippodrome." I said "Ok" and asked him what night he wanted to go. "Friday," he declared. Fine. I bought tickets for last Friday. On Thursday I emailed HIM to ask about his cricket schedule for the weekend, and he said "I'm playing in Aldershot on Friday."
???
I wrote back and reminded him about Chicago, and asked how he planned to finish a cricket match at 7 pm, shower, change, and drive 2 hours back to Bristol in time for a 7:30 curtain.
"Shite shite shite shite shite shite" was the response.
As it happens he left the match early (was all through batting), drove 100 mph, and got here at 8 o'clock. He missed the Cell Block Tango, but saw everything after that.
Wally.
2. Sunday Pirate had no cricket, owing to the rain. He's been saying for ages that he wanted to go to John Lewis and buy the biggests, softest, fluffiest feather pillows money could buy, so I suggested we spend the afternoon at the mall. Sadly the auto show and the rain meant that there were double the crowds and half the parking spaces of normal. After salivating over the Aston Martins we made it into John Lewis, who were, rather serendipitously, having a pillow sale. I shit you not.
After a salesladay gave us a thorough introduction to the finer points of pillow purchasing, Pirate decided to get one of the crazy expensive ones that normally go for £70 but were marked down to £35.
Did you notice that? Yes, ONE pillow. ONE.
I have spent every single weekend at his house for the past year (minus only the 3 months last fall when he was overseas on business). And he buys ONE pillow.
Putz.
So I said, rather tactfully, that maybe I should buy one of the cheap ones (since I can't afford to blow £35 on a pillow, even if I thought that was a good idea) so that I would have someplace to lay my head when I stayed over. I thought this would clue him in to the fact that he really needed to buy 2 pillows. Did it fuck.
He said, "that's a good idea." And so there I was having to buy my own fucking pillow so I'd have something to sleep on when I go over to his place.
I can't describe to you my level of annoyance, or my surprise at the breadth of his cluelessness. I asked my dad, that automatic handy-dispenser of wisdom, if I was over reacting. "Yes and no," he said. "His head was in the up and locked position, but men are like that so there's no point getting upset about it. It's like shouting at the rain." *sigh*
3. Yesterday he was returning on the train from London to his home near Chippenham. He rang me from the train and said "Damnit, I must have slept through my stop. We're coming in to Bristol Parkway and I don't remember going through Chippenham at all."
We figured out later that's because there are 2 routes from London to Bristol. The one that terminates at Temple Meads goes through Chippenham. He got on the other one, that terminates at Parkway and misses Chippenham completely.
Dufus.
4. In order to get to Chippenham he had to go on to Temple Meads and connect there to the other line. So as long as he was in town he came round for dinner. Which was nice, as I had slow-roasted a beef brisket in red wine and garlic for the last 4 hours, and it was smelling goooooood.
I met him at the station, and smiled at the sight of him, all dooded up in his brand new made-to-measure blue pin-striped suit. Day-am! There's hot and there's hot. That man can wear a suit. Oh yes.
He opens the jacket to put his ticket away, and discovers that the weight of his enormous wallet (which was probably full of pound coins for parking meters) had pulled the lining right out of the jacket, and there were 2 huge holes in it. It was the first time he'd worn it.
The man is on a roll, really.
I'll be gone for the weekend. Have a good one, and I'll see what I can do about posting the lurid bits of the Summer Ball next week. Don't get sunburnt! :-D
Here's the past week in summary, titled "Why the Pirate is a Complete and Utter Muppet"
1. Last week he said "Let's go see Chicago at the Hippodrome." I said "Ok" and asked him what night he wanted to go. "Friday," he declared. Fine. I bought tickets for last Friday. On Thursday I emailed HIM to ask about his cricket schedule for the weekend, and he said "I'm playing in Aldershot on Friday."
???
I wrote back and reminded him about Chicago, and asked how he planned to finish a cricket match at 7 pm, shower, change, and drive 2 hours back to Bristol in time for a 7:30 curtain.
"Shite shite shite shite shite shite" was the response.
As it happens he left the match early (was all through batting), drove 100 mph, and got here at 8 o'clock. He missed the Cell Block Tango, but saw everything after that.
Wally.
2. Sunday Pirate had no cricket, owing to the rain. He's been saying for ages that he wanted to go to John Lewis and buy the biggests, softest, fluffiest feather pillows money could buy, so I suggested we spend the afternoon at the mall. Sadly the auto show and the rain meant that there were double the crowds and half the parking spaces of normal. After salivating over the Aston Martins we made it into John Lewis, who were, rather serendipitously, having a pillow sale. I shit you not.
After a salesladay gave us a thorough introduction to the finer points of pillow purchasing, Pirate decided to get one of the crazy expensive ones that normally go for £70 but were marked down to £35.
Did you notice that? Yes, ONE pillow. ONE.
I have spent every single weekend at his house for the past year (minus only the 3 months last fall when he was overseas on business). And he buys ONE pillow.
Putz.
So I said, rather tactfully, that maybe I should buy one of the cheap ones (since I can't afford to blow £35 on a pillow, even if I thought that was a good idea) so that I would have someplace to lay my head when I stayed over. I thought this would clue him in to the fact that he really needed to buy 2 pillows. Did it fuck.
He said, "that's a good idea." And so there I was having to buy my own fucking pillow so I'd have something to sleep on when I go over to his place.
I can't describe to you my level of annoyance, or my surprise at the breadth of his cluelessness. I asked my dad, that automatic handy-dispenser of wisdom, if I was over reacting. "Yes and no," he said. "His head was in the up and locked position, but men are like that so there's no point getting upset about it. It's like shouting at the rain." *sigh*
3. Yesterday he was returning on the train from London to his home near Chippenham. He rang me from the train and said "Damnit, I must have slept through my stop. We're coming in to Bristol Parkway and I don't remember going through Chippenham at all."
We figured out later that's because there are 2 routes from London to Bristol. The one that terminates at Temple Meads goes through Chippenham. He got on the other one, that terminates at Parkway and misses Chippenham completely.
Dufus.
4. In order to get to Chippenham he had to go on to Temple Meads and connect there to the other line. So as long as he was in town he came round for dinner. Which was nice, as I had slow-roasted a beef brisket in red wine and garlic for the last 4 hours, and it was smelling goooooood.
I met him at the station, and smiled at the sight of him, all dooded up in his brand new made-to-measure blue pin-striped suit. Day-am! There's hot and there's hot. That man can wear a suit. Oh yes.
He opens the jacket to put his ticket away, and discovers that the weight of his enormous wallet (which was probably full of pound coins for parking meters) had pulled the lining right out of the jacket, and there were 2 huge holes in it. It was the first time he'd worn it.
The man is on a roll, really.
I'll be gone for the weekend. Have a good one, and I'll see what I can do about posting the lurid bits of the Summer Ball next week. Don't get sunburnt! :-D
Monday, April 30, 2007
Misadventures in mechanical ineptitude
Everything I touch breaks.
It's not my fault, i swear. I'm not doing anything wrong. It's just that everthing is shit and falls apart under my gaze.
Take my bike. Please.
I bought it a year and half ago, and didn't really start using it until just over a year ago. In that time i've
I had also noticed that when I set out I was having to use a much lower gear than normal, and I was really huffing it. I attributed this to my being really out of shape and got annoyed with myself.
After I fixed the TWO punctures in the tire (I've gotten good at this), I attempted to re-connect the rear brake. It was really hard to squeeze together. When I finally got it in place I spun the wheel. It stopped instantly. It was pressing quite hard agains the brake. Well, I thought. That explains why it's been such hard-going. My brakes are out of alignement and I've been effectively riding with the brake on the whole way. So I disconnected the rear brake and decided to carry on with one brake.
I gave the wheel another spin. It wobbled. I spun it again and watched it very carefully. It was definately wobbling. The wheel itself was warped.
At this point it's getting late (almost 8 in the evening), I'm tired (more on that later), my back hurts, I have a bicyle with a warped wheel and one functioning brake. I call the Pirate. "Come pick me up."
He did, very cheerfully. And he brought me a banana to eat while he loaded my bike in the trunk. What a doll.
We got home and I showed him the rear wheel. "No problem," he says. "All we need to do is adjust the tension on a few of the spokes to pull the wheel back into rights."
That was when he discovered that three of the spokes on my wheel were broken, which is why it was warped.
"Your wheel is fucked."
"I can see that."
"You can't ride your bike."
"Obviously."
The problem here is that I needed the bike the following morning, early, to get to the boathouse because I coach a team of novices. The Pirate couldn't drive me because he had to leave for Oxford for a cricket match. The only alternative was for me to take the Pirate's bike.
I love the Pirate's bike. It's one of those goofy, Dutch-style jobs. All it's missing is a wicker basket and yorkshire terrier. Actually, the "sit up and beg" posture is quite comfortable for my back.
So Sunday morning I took the P's bike, leaving him with my beat up piece of shit which he now has to load in the car and bring to me in Brizzle at some point, and set off for the boat house.
My novices are adorable, they really are, but we've been plagued by problems all year, the most annoying of which is the unreliablility of my launch boat. It doesn't start, and if it does start, it stalls whenever you idle it. And it's a bitch to get re-started on the water, especially given how fragile my back is.
So we got through half our outing when the motor died on me and i had to paddle myself back into the dock, where I threw up my hands in despair. Grrr.
THEN!
Oh, you're going to LOVE this.
For the past 6 months Pirate has been bragging about his wonderful bike with his amazing reinforced tires and how he never gets a flat or a puncture. Just keep that in the back of your head, ok?
So my girls have left, I'm the last one at the boat house, I get everything put away and locked up. I unlock the bike and look down and...
lo and behold! a flat tire! (the rear one, natch.)
ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME???
Don't ever let me hug you. Everything I touch breaks. Don't even get me started on my printer.
It's not my fault, i swear. I'm not doing anything wrong. It's just that everthing is shit and falls apart under my gaze.
Take my bike. Please.
I bought it a year and half ago, and didn't really start using it until just over a year ago. In that time i've
- replaced the crank arms (16 pounds plus labor)
- replaced the ball bearings (25 pounds)
- replaced the brake shoes (10 pounds plus the Pirate's labor)
- repaired no less than 5 punctures to the rear tire (2 pounds for the puncture repair kit, several hours of annoyance)
- jury-rigged the rack, which broke
- gotten grease up the sides of my right leg every time i ride it because the chain guard broke and connot be replaced
I had also noticed that when I set out I was having to use a much lower gear than normal, and I was really huffing it. I attributed this to my being really out of shape and got annoyed with myself.
After I fixed the TWO punctures in the tire (I've gotten good at this), I attempted to re-connect the rear brake. It was really hard to squeeze together. When I finally got it in place I spun the wheel. It stopped instantly. It was pressing quite hard agains the brake. Well, I thought. That explains why it's been such hard-going. My brakes are out of alignement and I've been effectively riding with the brake on the whole way. So I disconnected the rear brake and decided to carry on with one brake.
I gave the wheel another spin. It wobbled. I spun it again and watched it very carefully. It was definately wobbling. The wheel itself was warped.
At this point it's getting late (almost 8 in the evening), I'm tired (more on that later), my back hurts, I have a bicyle with a warped wheel and one functioning brake. I call the Pirate. "Come pick me up."
He did, very cheerfully. And he brought me a banana to eat while he loaded my bike in the trunk. What a doll.
We got home and I showed him the rear wheel. "No problem," he says. "All we need to do is adjust the tension on a few of the spokes to pull the wheel back into rights."
That was when he discovered that three of the spokes on my wheel were broken, which is why it was warped.
"Your wheel is fucked."
"I can see that."
"You can't ride your bike."
"Obviously."
The problem here is that I needed the bike the following morning, early, to get to the boathouse because I coach a team of novices. The Pirate couldn't drive me because he had to leave for Oxford for a cricket match. The only alternative was for me to take the Pirate's bike.
I love the Pirate's bike. It's one of those goofy, Dutch-style jobs. All it's missing is a wicker basket and yorkshire terrier. Actually, the "sit up and beg" posture is quite comfortable for my back.
So Sunday morning I took the P's bike, leaving him with my beat up piece of shit which he now has to load in the car and bring to me in Brizzle at some point, and set off for the boat house.
My novices are adorable, they really are, but we've been plagued by problems all year, the most annoying of which is the unreliablility of my launch boat. It doesn't start, and if it does start, it stalls whenever you idle it. And it's a bitch to get re-started on the water, especially given how fragile my back is.
So we got through half our outing when the motor died on me and i had to paddle myself back into the dock, where I threw up my hands in despair. Grrr.
THEN!
Oh, you're going to LOVE this.
For the past 6 months Pirate has been bragging about his wonderful bike with his amazing reinforced tires and how he never gets a flat or a puncture. Just keep that in the back of your head, ok?
So my girls have left, I'm the last one at the boat house, I get everything put away and locked up. I unlock the bike and look down and...
lo and behold! a flat tire! (the rear one, natch.)
ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME???
Don't ever let me hug you. Everything I touch breaks. Don't even get me started on my printer.
Sunday, September 12, 2004
When it rains, it pours
damnit, why does all the good stuff happen right before i leave????? yesterday i was with a fellow with whom i've been really close since arriving in Jolly Old. maybe it was because i was leaving that he finally decided to strap on a pair and do what he's been wanting to do for months, or maybe i'm just so stunning that he couldn't stop himself any longer, but boy did i need that. i havn't been kissed in six years (yeah, that doesn't make me sound desperate), but DA-AMN!
so it was a good day. Later i was out with a girlfriend of mine having a send-off drink at a local pub (pleasantly illumintated with flattering green lights) when the fittie who works at the local bakery (and with whom i've been flirting like a demon for 3 months) walks straight up to me and starts chatting me up. he recogonized me, and came over to ask my phone number. GODDAMN IT!!! I'M LEAVING IN 6 HOURS! WHY NOW?!?!?!? (do you sense my exasperation?)
but wait, there's more. i just got an email this morning from a lovely friend of mine on whom i had a terrible crush back in my undergrad days. he's 6'4", speakes 5 languages fluently (only 2 of them indo-european), plays every stringed instrument known to man including the lute and mandolin, has a base voice that could melt frozen chocloate and is every bit as rich, and is a snappy dresser to boot. he's in london. lemme say that again. HE'S IN LONDON! NOW! AND HE WANTS TO SEE ME! AND HE'S STILL SINGLE!!! AND I'M LEAVING IN 6 HOURS!!!!!
somebody shoot me.
so it was a good day. Later i was out with a girlfriend of mine having a send-off drink at a local pub (pleasantly illumintated with flattering green lights) when the fittie who works at the local bakery (and with whom i've been flirting like a demon for 3 months) walks straight up to me and starts chatting me up. he recogonized me, and came over to ask my phone number. GODDAMN IT!!! I'M LEAVING IN 6 HOURS! WHY NOW?!?!?!? (do you sense my exasperation?)
but wait, there's more. i just got an email this morning from a lovely friend of mine on whom i had a terrible crush back in my undergrad days. he's 6'4", speakes 5 languages fluently (only 2 of them indo-european), plays every stringed instrument known to man including the lute and mandolin, has a base voice that could melt frozen chocloate and is every bit as rich, and is a snappy dresser to boot. he's in london. lemme say that again. HE'S IN LONDON! NOW! AND HE WANTS TO SEE ME! AND HE'S STILL SINGLE!!! AND I'M LEAVING IN 6 HOURS!!!!!
somebody shoot me.
Monday, September 06, 2004
must be getting old
i was accosted today by a half dozen children (and i do mean children--the oldest was no more than 10), who pulled me off my bike and tried to rob me. it was pathetic. they clearly had no idea what they were doing, and i had nothing worth stealing. finally the impetulant punks literally demanded the shirt off my back (i just bought this shirt at a regatta. i love it. it says 'set the water alight'), to which i announced they would have to take it off me. i was acutally hoping they would, just so i'd have an excuse to pound the midget miscreants (some stress relief would do me good right about now), but they caved. i'm looking forward to riding my bike home. if they're still on the path setting up little barricades i'm just going to plough right through them. can we say "bowling for street urchins?" as i rode off, i actually found myself muttering "kids these days. what's the world coming to?" yep. gettin old.
Thursday, August 19, 2004
Head Jobs
Let me preface this tirade by taking a moment to say, right off the bat, that I love England. I have had one of the most fantastic years of my life, met hordes of fabulous people, and pushed my academic, athletic, and social limits outward. It’s been a year of challenges, rewards, and satisfaction. That said, I have one minor beef (besides the weather, which naturally goes without saying): several of the members of the aforementioned fab horde have accused me on numerous occasions of playing mind games. I find this as ironic as I do irritating. Not only have I never before been accused, even jokingly, of such manipulative, juvenile pursuits, but most of my friends back in the Land o’ W have at some point insisted that the reason I have spent the last 6 years of my life in a lonely, dateless trance was a result of my very refusal to manipulate hapless men to my cave with deceptive feminine wiles and guilt-spawned mind fucks. But in America, a lone and righteous existence is the price one pays for refusing to stoop to the level of a Jerry Spring guest. So for all the men out there reading this, as well as for a certain acquaintance of mine, let me say this for the record:
Now hear this!!! Not all women are shameless, power-mongering succubi who use men to their pleasure until they’re nothing but dry, emasculated husks to be discarded with the other recylables. Contrary to popular opinion, there are a few of us out there who are dead honest, who will answer any question put to us with shocking and occasionally painful truth, who have no interest in manipulating people to get what we want, and WHO DON’T. EVER. UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES. PLAY HEAD GAMES.
There is a reason for this attitude, and it goes like this. If I were to lure a man, black-widow like, to my chamber, my home, and my life under the inherently false pretenses of emotional manipulation, it would be an inherently hollow and meaningless relationship. If I become romantically involved with another person, and I hope some day that I might, it needs to be because the other person WANTS TO BE THERE, not because they’ve been duped into a commitment they don’t really feel. Head-games, mind-jobs, and brain-fucks are all, therefore, ultimately self-defeating and a huge waste of time. I have better things to do with my pathetic, lonely existence. Thank you.
Now hear this!!! Not all women are shameless, power-mongering succubi who use men to their pleasure until they’re nothing but dry, emasculated husks to be discarded with the other recylables. Contrary to popular opinion, there are a few of us out there who are dead honest, who will answer any question put to us with shocking and occasionally painful truth, who have no interest in manipulating people to get what we want, and WHO DON’T. EVER. UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES. PLAY HEAD GAMES.
There is a reason for this attitude, and it goes like this. If I were to lure a man, black-widow like, to my chamber, my home, and my life under the inherently false pretenses of emotional manipulation, it would be an inherently hollow and meaningless relationship. If I become romantically involved with another person, and I hope some day that I might, it needs to be because the other person WANTS TO BE THERE, not because they’ve been duped into a commitment they don’t really feel. Head-games, mind-jobs, and brain-fucks are all, therefore, ultimately self-defeating and a huge waste of time. I have better things to do with my pathetic, lonely existence. Thank you.
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