Luggage Restrictions

I am packing to move to Toronto. To that end, I’ve been looking at airline ticket prices and also the amount of luggage allowed. Now, different airlines have slightly different luggage limits. However, each airline imposes the same limits on every passenger who flies with them, regardless of how much they weigh. I don’t think that’s really fair. I weigh 155 lbs. I should be allowed more luggage than someone who weighs 250 lbs.

I propose an overall weight limit of - say - 330 lbs or so. If you’ve done too well at the buffet table and ballooned to 300 lbs, then I’m sorry, you’re only allowed 30 lbs of luggage. If you’re anorexic, on the other hand, I’m sure you could take your family along for free. So long as they’re happy in the luggage compartment.

Lip Reading

If I watch a foreign language video that has been dubbed, the fact that the lips do not match the words does not disturb me at all. However, if the video is not dubbed, but the audio is out of sync - even a little - I find it very disturbing and distracting. Why is that !?!

More On Cars

Here are three Jaguars - I got these images after searching for Jaguar XJ on Google Images. The first one is from a few decades ago, the second one is relatively new and the final one’s pretty recent. All are XJs.

Now, the latest one is much more aerodynamic than its predecessors. The second one itself is more sleek than the first one. My question is this - the people who designed the earliest car must have known it was not the most aerodynamic shape for a car. Aerodynamics must have been well understood by then - it’s not as if a breakthrough in physics in the intervening years led to people realising that the new shapes was more sleek. No, the people at Jaguar must have known all along that the second shape was a closer approximation of what they were aiming at and the third one even more so. So why did they not go with the latest shape from the start !?! I realise that aesthetics are not always guided completely by aerodynamics - look at Lamborghinis for instance - but nevertheless, they do play a big part. And for a given underlying “core shape” of a car, the engineering must be trying to make it as aerodynamic as possible. So why were the older versions of the same car model not as sleek and slippery as newer ones !?! Were there manufacturing challenges involved !?!

State Of Rage

Is it just me or does anger strike other people as being a pleasant sensation too !?! I know I find it intoxicating and addictive. I hate the thing/person/situation that made me angry, but the feeling of anger itself is strangely satisfying. When I do get angry, I feel the inner urge to fan the flames so that I get angrier and angrier (always on the inside of my head - I’m too meek to really get it out into the open). I find the final state of fury very, very nice.

If this state of rage is somehow punctured, I feel almost dejected. For instance, consider this scenario: I’m stewing over some minor news article that reported something I did not want to hear and my friend comes over and asks if I would like a spot of tea.
My friend’s just trying to be nice - I really cannot get angry with him for intruding on my inner tantrum. But the interruption irritates me. It deflates my anger, takes the winds out of the sails of my boat of fury. I try desperately to stay furious, but it’s no good. At the end of a couple of minutes, I’m not angry any more. Now, I’m not complaining about this new state of mind. I like it fine. But that transition is unpleasant - it subjects me to withdrawal symptoms which I really find nasty.

I wonder if other people feel like this too. Certainly there is no shortage of people in the world who are permanently in a state of anger. Maybe they are just too addicted to the intoxication of rage to let go.

A Question About Cars

Have a look at this car:

This is a Ferrari Enzo. It is a car built to go insanely fast. To that end it has a 6L, V-12 engine which produces 651 hp and 485 ft-lb of torque. It does 0-60 in 3.1 seconds and can go as fast as 226 mph. Predictably, it costs more than a million dollars to buy. All in all, it has very little in common with this car:

 This is a Toyota Prius. It's designed to be economical (fuel-wise anyway) - it is claimed to squeeze 66 miles out of every gallon of petrol. It has a 1.8L engine which produces 98hp and 105 ft-lb of torque. The electric battery does add power, but it still only get 134hp at most. Top speed: Unremarkable.

However, for different reasons, both cars share one common interest - reducing drag. Both cars would like it if the air surrounding them presented as little resistance to them as possible.

This brings me, in a very roundabout way to my question: I may be wrong, but I assume that, of these two, the Ferrari is designed for better aerodynamic performance - after all, it is more likely to be going at speeds where drag is a huge issue. So, if drag is a major player in economy and mileage and the Prius’ party piece is its endurance - why does it not try to emulate the Ferrari's body shape !?! Heck, why aren't ALL cars built to look like supercars !?! Maybe copyright issues may be a reason, the need for family cars to have rear seats and a boot may be another, but nevertheless, they can surely be made to look similar.

People With Experience Need Not Apply

I completed my graduate studies at UBC early this year. Since then, I have been practically unemployed (notwithstanding the occasional tutoring and other odd jobs). Now, one of the major barriers between me and 40 hours per week in a cubicle has been lack of industry (or as all the ads put it, real-world) experience. Almost all of the companies hiring people with my background require 3+ years of experience. Since the recession has helped lay off many, many people, there are loads of engineers/programmers/software developers out there who have 5+ years of work experience and are currently jobless. My total work experience in years: 0 (or, to put an optimistic spin on it, 0+) . This has not made for an easy job hunt.

Anyway, long hours searching for jobs (and swearing at companies asking for decades of work-ex) coupled with longer hours of not actually having a job have resulted in a minor epiphany. Most jobs demand heaps of work-ex. But there must be many jobs where work experience is not necessary. In fact, there must be jobs where having work experience is - or rather, should be - an actual hindrance.

Consider dishwashing at a restaurant, for instance. It's a minimum wage job. It's dull, monotonous and, since you are alone at the back away from the other staff and guests, lonely. The skills you need to perform an adequate job need, literally, minutes of practice. And once you start performing at that level of competence, there is no real incentive to perform any better. Even in those restaurants where the diswasher gets a share of the tips, these tips are not the result of his or her work, so why work harder than necessary!?!All in all, it's the kind of job you do for the bare minimum time you have to do it, and then move on. Under these circumstances, any person who has the work ethic to really try hard at dishwashing and take pride in doing it well is not going to remain a dishwasher for long. He or she will invariably find a more rewarding job doing something else. What this means is, the dishwashers who DO have lots of dishwashing experience... are incompetent slouches who couldn't get any other job.

Would you really want to hire such a person to clean your restaurant's dishes !?! Dishwashing, then, is a job where - if employers stop to think about it - experience is a disadvantage. (Not that employers do pause and think like this, but , you know, IF they did...)

I know this analysis won't apply to everyone, so if your ARE a competent and experienced dishwasher, please don't flip out. Take pride in being a rare breed.

I wonder if there are any other jobs that fall into this category. There must be some.

Ten Little Emails - A Story

The story has a lot of images and blogger was being a pain in the arse about them. I have therefore, put it here.

It's a word file and you may have to download and open it. This may not be worth your time.

Unfaithful Recollections - Chapter 2: Snobs

[[Chapter 1]]

I have never had to use the rape whistle my father gave me. This is just as well, because I strongly suspect it would have been as useful as the French-English phrasebook that was my mother’s gift. In which case, if I ever had cause to use it, I would have been fucked in a big way. As it were.

For those phrasebooks are useless. The point has been made many times, especially over the internet, where it has been argued with great passion and bad grammar. Nevertheless, for the benefit of those who may have missed out on those great debates (most readers), and of those who love a self righteous rant about the uselessness of said phrasebooks (me), I shall endeavour to say a few words about them.

Phrasebooks are neither sufficient, nor are they necessary. Let us say that you go to France, with one of these books at your service. To Paris, where there are literally dozens of places to see. You go up to one of the locals for directions.

You (slow and constipated): Pardonay mua, misyoo, may pooryay voo si voo play ditt mua le shema du Louvre!?!

Local: ...

Quite what the local says in response is irrelevant. He could give you clear, concise directions to the Louvre. He could tell you that he’s sorry, but he’s not from around there and he doesn’t quite know the way. He could tell you that his feet hurt and he has irritable bowel syndrome. It doesn’t matter. At the end of his reply, the two of you look at each other thinking one of you must be retarded, and both of you have a pretty good idea which one it is. For while the good book tells you how to ask the questions, when the answers arrive, you’re on your own.

But even if there were a phrasebook out there that lets you understand the answers – at least the simpler ones – it would be unnecessary. When you venture out to see the world, you go and see the world as packaged by the tourist industry. Anyone you meet during your stay in foreign lands is likely to be a tourist sector employee, and thus, at least functionally conversant in English. What this means is that you don’t need to speak that foreign twaddle. And even in places where people speak practically no English, they recognise key English words which allow you to navigate with relative ease. I have been in cabs whose drivers spoke no English whatsoever. However, I’ve never gone, “Airport!” and had the driver turn on me as if I called his mother a crazy slut. Airport, train station, prostitute, Holiday Inn, these are all common words everyone knows. Admittedly, the more respectable cabbies won’t take you to the Holiday Inn – they have to draw the line somewhere – but they know what you’re talking about.

So, to reiterate, phrasebooks are useless. Or so I used to think. I recently found that they do have a purpose, though it’s not what they are advertised for. They aren’t to help the earnest traveller converse with locals in their native tongue. They’re to help pretentious twats say, “Ooh, I speak a little French.”, or, “Ooh, I speak a little Italian.”

On the subject of pretentious twats, I have noticed a lot of these people in Canada. This is not to say that India is free of them, of course. However, there is a difference in the nature of the pretence in the two countries. In India, partly no doubt due to it being a poor country, the pretentiousness takes on a very materialistic form. It’s all about what you have and how much it cost you to get it. In Canada, on the other hand, it’s all about where you’ve been and what you’ve done. An Indian would take out an iPhone and go, “Look everyone, I have an iPhone…. Behold, it is shiny and it cost shitloads…. Do you have an iPhone!?! Wait, do you even have a phone!?! I do, I have an iPhone…. Look, iPhone…

…

…

iPhone!...”

The Canadian knows that this is meaningless trumpeting. Anyone could go to their local cell phone operator, sign a contract and, lo and behold, they have an iPhone too. BUT, “I was in Peru just last week, near Macchu Picchu in fact, taking photos of the place with the inbuilt camera, and I fell into conversing with the locals. The phone has a very useful Spanish-English phrasebook, really superb, I tell you, and I could really bond with the locals. You must go there. It’s beautiful and the culture’s great - and the people there are soooo nice. Went out of their way to come and talk to me. I was never alone for a day….. By the way, have you seen my notebook!?! I haven’t been able to find it since I came back. I know I had it ….. And did I lend you my camera!?!”

The interesting thing is, people change the nature of their snobbishness to fit the culture they’re in. I have friends from India who came here flaunting the “Look what I have” and changed over time to the “Been there, done that”. After a couple of years, one such friend decided that he just had to go see Europe. Not out of any love of European culture, or art or architecture, mind you. He didn’t give two shits about any of that. No, it was just so he could say he’d been there. So he went on one of those 10-day, multi-country European trip packages.

Day 1 saw them in Paris, France. City of romance. Loads of things to do, places to see, and, this being France, people to shag. The guide was waxing lyrical about the city and its joys. As they passed each landmark, he told them about the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower and the Triumphal Arch, about how they came to be and the people who made them. He told them about the Paris of bygone days, when magic ruled the earth. He regaled them with folk tales and fairy tales, tales of ancient villains and ancient heroes who roamed the streets of the city and the fields that had once stood in their place ere Paris was born. He showed them the Champs Elysees, where…

“Pardonnay mua…”

The guide turned around, irritated at the interruption. His eyes beheld a swarthy, pot-bellied Indian, laboriously reading aloud from a two-penny phrasebook, “Pardonnay mua, may kee es lay bateemon lay ploo saylaybray eesee !?!”

Guide: Pardon!?!

Friend: Pardonnay mua, may kee es lay…

Guide: I can speak English.

Friend: Oh… umm… OK… which is the most famous building here!?!

Guide: I…. Really….

Friend: Well!?!

Guide (indecisively): Umm… the tower, I guess!?!

Friend: Thank you.

He then took a camera from his right trouser pocket and took a photograph of the tower. From his left trouser pocket, he took a small notepad on the front page of which were jotted the names of all the countries which the trip was to show him. Next to France, he put a big check mark. Then,

“OK, that’s France. When’s lunch!?! And please, none of your frog legs. Show me the nearest Indian restaurant.”

Day 2 brought them to Brussels. Part French, part Dutch, the city showed them the best of both cultures. The guide showed them the stunningly beautiful Grand Place, the cheeky Manneken Pis, and the awe-inspiring Cathédrale Saints-Michel-et-Gudule. He told them of the history of the city and its people. He told us of how the European Union…

“Pardonnay mua…”

The guide turned around slowly. He’d been dreading this.

Guide: Yes!?!

Friend: Pardonnay mua, may kee es lay…

Guide: I speak English!

Friend: Don’t shout. So… which is the most…

Guide: The cathedral. Look at it for Pete’s sake!

Friend: I thought the pissing kid was funny.

Guide: Fine! Take a photo of that! Keep that as your Belgian memento!

Friend: Thank you.

Camera. Notepad. Checkmark.

“When’s lunch!?!”

The same protocol was strictly observed in Stuttgart.

The Day 4 city was Zurich. Here, my friend hit a snag. He did not have a visa for Switzerland. He wasn’t alone in this; half the tour members lacked the visa. The tour management had accounted for this. Those with a visa could go to Zurich and sample the considerable (and Swiss) delights of that city. Those without were to be put up at a charming rural German resort where they could do all kinds of German things (presumably making cars and eating sauerkraut) till the others returned and the tour continued.

My friend did not like this at all. He had seen Germany. He had the photo and the checkmark to prove it. On the morning of the 4^th day, when the privileged party had left for Zurich, he watched them go with longing. In his distress, he started pacing up and down in the open field outside the resort while his other denied tour-mates were wearing lederhosen and eating bratwurst. From where he was, he could see Switzerland. The border was only 500 metres from where he was, beckoning him, taunting him. He could so easily cross over and say forevermore that he had been to that blasted country, but bureaucracy denied him. There was a checkpoint only a few hundred metres from where he was. Musing on this all the while, he started to walk, somewhat absent-mindedly, towards the border. The guard at the check post saw him do so and started to walk over to intercept him (presumably to merely see his papers and let him in). My friend saw him approach and promptly lost it completely. Instead of turning back, or even pausing, he panicked and broke into a run for the border. The guard, now alarmed, started running too, to try and cut him off at the border. Tourists and locals were treated to a re-interpretation of “The Sound of Music” with my friend desperately trying to enter Switzerland before being caught by the obviously fitter German guard. Finally, panting like the out of shape engineering student that he was, he jumped over the border just ahead of the guard. And stopped. The guard, clearly not anticipating this admittedly unconventional manoeuvre on the part of a fugitive, nearly ran into him and only avoided collision by twisting his whole body out of the way and falling flat on the ground. From that undignified position, he looked at my friend with puzzlement and irritation. Both emotions intensified when my friend, instead of helping him up, took a camera out of his pocket, snapped his picture and checked off something in a small notepad. And then turned on his heel and walked back across the border with an air of quiet satisfaction.

There are no morals to be gleaned from this. My friend was not punished in any way for his pretentiousness. Instead, he got an amusing story he used to dine out on for years afterwards. At one of these dinners, he introduced me to a certain Mr. Rajinder Thind, of North Surrey, Vancouver. What happened thereafter is a whole different blogpost.

News Flash

New Study on Birthday Bumps Reveals Nasty Truths

By Yogababy, BBC

Friday 16, 2010

It's your Birthday! For most young people, these words conjure up happy images. It means parties, presents and a sense of growth and power. But for many of the nation's elderly, these words have traumatic associations. And it's not just the feeling of life slipping by as they get older. A new study by the American Institute of Geriatrics has revealed that more than 3000 senior citizens are seriously injured yearly by one of the most cherished of birthday traditions - the birthday bump.

The study, conducted by Prof. Henry Gustavsson of the AIG and Dr. Jason McNamara of Johns Hopkins University, was a broad study conducted over 10 years and studied over 300 thousand elderly people.

The study is widely considered a landmark in the field of geriatrics and has received great acclaim from peers.

It's Gets Worse With Time

"It's groundbreaking", said Miriam Ockley, a senior researcher at Johns Hopkins, "I believe it has opened the eyes of a lot of people and exposed birthday bumps for what they are. One of the report's major contributions is that it establishes a clear correlation between age and severity of injury suffered. In simple terms, older people get hurt more if you bump and kick them really hard. It's one of those things that make sense when someone's done the hard research and shown you the results, but would never strike you in a million years. That's greatness."

The study reveals that the birthday bumps are especially severe for the elderly, but can also cause severe trauma for the middle aged. Prof. Gustavsson recalls the case of one 45 year old man who had to be hospitalised after his sons - both on their high school football teams - gave him the full 45.

The study found that people of all races were equally prone to the injuries. It also showed that women were more likely to suffer injuries than men. However, the big, overriding factor seemed to be age.

"One of the reasons the study is so important is that it has shown that, as people get older, the number of bumps and kicks increases." said John Oswald of Massachussetts General Hospital. "Not only are older people more fragile, they also have to take more kicks up the,.. erm,.... backside."

Most middle aged people, however, are able to resist the bumps. "They can run, they can hit out, they can book vacations so they're in a different country on their birthday", said Allison Pratt, a senior citizens' advocate, "But once they get older, these things become more difficult. One of my clients managed to hold out for 25 years. They got him in the end though."

And when that happens, the outcomes are ugly. "When your arse has been spared for decades and suddenly gets, what... 70, maybe 75 hard kicks, it's caught off guard. I just came from the hospital. One of my clients has it really bad - he's 88." added Pratt.

Hidden Shame

A big reason why the problem wasn't revealed before now is the reluctance of the elderly to go to the authorities. "They're your family", said one respondent, "I mean, you don't want the police to take them away. Plus, if they go to jail for it, I'll have to face charges of my own. My mother was 66 when we got hold of her - she never walked again. So I just said I fell... like everyone else."

Advocates believe less than one in ten bump victims approach the police. "Oh definitely", said Pratt, "In fact, that could be an understatement. Some of us think it could be even less - like one in five. One thing is clear, though: It's a big problem and something's got to be done."

Criticism

The study does have its share of detractors, though. Martin Blumenthal of the the University of British Columbia said, "The study has its points. But really, it's much too early to tell. The study claims a positive correlation of injury with age, but Weiss et. al. (2007) and McHale et. al. (2007) have shown that birthday bumps on one year olds also tend to cause severe trauma, while ten year olds are fine - so the age correlation may not really mean much. I believe we should wait for more studies before taking any major steps."

Public opinion on the results is divided. Some say that it's time the government stepped in and did something about this. Others, like Keith "Bud" Douglas, 62, say that increased governmental meddling is precisely what this is all about.

"It's just a ruse to get that darn Obami more power. Birthday bumps never hurt anyone", he said from his wheelchair," I kicked the shit out of my friends, and my friends kicked the shit out of me and we're all just fine. It's traditions like these that have made this country what it is, and I'll be darned if some pansy tries to mess with 'em."

Bob

Bob the whale – a tragedy in 80 tons

Chapterlet 1: Ennui

Consider the ocean. Vast empty desert of water, stretching as far as whalesong can reach. Serene too. At least below the surface. A group of highly intelligent creatures with well developed brains are floating, apparently without aim or purpose, in that blue expanse.

These are whales.

They swim.

And they swim.

Then they swim some more.

Occasionally, they yell and click at each other.

Then they swim.

One of nature's most intelligent creations and all they do is fucking swim. Whales are the most bored creatures on earth.

All whales are bored. But they don't know it. They have never been otherwise. But now meet Bob. Bob is bored and he knows it. Meet Andy too. Andy isn't bored. He's special.

Andy: Hey Bob! Wassup!?! Wanna do some'n today!?!

Bob (giving Andy the stinkeye): Fuck off!

Andy (interested): Why whatcha doon!?!

Bob: What the fuck do you think!?! I'm swimming! Fucking swimming! That's all we ever do! Swim! Swim! Motherfucking swim!

Andy considers this. Bob's right. He IS swimming. So is Andy. They're both swimming. Andy is swimming with Bob. What's motherfucking!?!

Andy: Bob, what's motherfucking!?!

Bob: Forget it.

Andy (forgetting it immediately): OK. Hey Bob!?! Wanna do some'n today!?!

Bob's response scares Andy away. Bob's been a lot like this lately. All the whales have noticed. It's a phase. That's what the elders say, anyway.

Chapterlet 2: Visions of paradise

Under azure skies and a golden sun, the Paradise sailed serenely on the calm, blue sea. Rich folk lazed on sun decks sipping cocktails. Or read books. Or played tennis. Or swam in swimming pools. Or did any one of many things that they could have done had they just stayed at home.

Eventide. A band assembled on deck. The strains of Sinatra made themselves heard. People danced. And then, suddenly, shouts rang out. "Whale off to starboard!" There followed the commotion that always ensues after someone says, "Port!" or "Starboard!". Some folks ran to starboard, others to port and some to the stern. No one saw anything. People milled about aimlessly until, finally, 'Starboard' was sorted out. Everyone went to starboard. Then the guy who'd shouted it said he was very sorry, but he'd gotten confused - goodness knows how - but he'd meant to say 'Port' all along. Everyone called him a twat and crossed over.

They saw Bob.

He'd been swimming apart from the pod (he’d been doing that for days at a time lately) and had happened to see the ship in the distance. He'd approached and been entranced. Not only was the sight of this creature a welcome break from the monotony of the ocean, but from this wondrous beast emanated the most beautiful of sounds. None of the screeching that his companions liked to call 'song'. This was proper singing, he thought. This was... 'music' - he felt the word form unbidden in his mind. And then the music had stopped and lots of things on top of this being had come out to look at him. He felt self conscious. He dived below hoping no one would be offended by his curiosity. It suddenly occurred to him that this creature was much larger than he, and that he should probably be scared. But it seemed so gentle. Indeed, it had ignored him entirely. It was only the little creatures on its back who had come to see him.

And then he remembered. At the end of these interminable and insufferable swims lay something called 'the shore' near which krill was to be found. To be honest, krill was to be found everywhere. But the shore had the ‘best’ krill. That’s what the elders always said. Krill...the only food he'd ever known... Shitty, tasteless, krill...

Where was he!?! Oh yes... He'd seen these little things on 'the shore'. That explained a lot. This large floating thing wasn't a creature. It was a bit of shore. It had broken off from the main bit and was floating with these little things on it. Little things who wanted to be friends. He resurfaced.

The little things made a noise. They may have been yelling at him, and yet it sounded friendly - like they were glad he had come back. He had no words to describe what was happening. 'Cheering', said his subconscious. He agreed.

Someone threw something at him. He felt hurt. He had thought he was being liked. But then he smelled the thing that was thrown and was now floating close by. It smelled delicious. He gulped it down. It WAS delicious! 'Ham' suggested his inner voice. What a nice word - ham. He opened his mouth to ask for more. He was given more! Oh joy! These little things were Godsends! He'd found paradise!

He swam around the ship for a while and the people on board laughed and cheered at him. They fed him enormous (to them) bits of meat. They brought their little kids to look at him. Then they got bored and went back to the dance.

Bob didn't mind. The little things had disappeared but the divine music had started up again. He smiled to himself and fell asleep.

Chapterlet 3: Paradise misplaced

Bob woke up with a start. It was a new day, and for once, filled with meaning and excitement. He positively leapt out of the water with the enthusiasm that he hadn’t felt in years. And then he noticed that the ship had gone.

A cold (and massive) hand gripped his heart. Had it all been a dream!?! No, it couldn’t be! It couldn’t! He’d seen the ship, he’d heard the music. He had... no wait he could still taste the ham. The ship had to be there somewhere, hidden behind... something.

Clicks came from below. Frolicking a few fathoms below the surface with the joy of the never bored, Andy was calling to him.

Andy: Hey Bob! Whatcha doon!?!

Bob (swimming down): Andy!

Andy: Hi!

Bob: Shut up Andy! And listen... did you see a big thing yesterday!?!

Andy: Ur...ummm... I saw us... we’re pretty big.

Bob: No, really! It was here, and it was huge and it was there all day yesterday and now it’s gone!

Andy was worried. He liked Bob. And now Bob was talking funny. There was nothing in the ocean that big. Maybe Bob was... ah yes...

Andy swam to the surface, had a look and came back to Bob.

Andy (happy to be of service): Bob, it’s still there.

Bob (hope and delight marching across his face like an army): Really !?!

He shot up, broke the surface and looked all around. Andy joined him.

Bob: Andy... where is it !?!

Andy (rolling over onto his back to point a flipper upwards): There.

Bob: Huh!?!

Andy: The sky! It’s still there! You’ve been worried for nothing!

It was the only time Bob had hit another whale. He was sorry immediately, but the deed had been done. Andy had swum away in tears and refused to be consoled. The rest of the pod had always been worried about Bob and had kept their distance. They did so even more now. Over weeks, he swam further apart from them, until they were no longer in sight. Only whalesong, plaintive and piercing, occasionally carried the knowledge of their presence somewhere in the ocean to him.

Boring though they were, he missed them. Part of him wanted to return, to accept the monotony of that life as an unchangeable fact. Resign himself to fate, as it were. But the music, oh, the music... it called to him... he could never rest until he’d heard it again. It pulled him with a strength that homesickness and nostalgia couldn’t begin to match.

And so, there was only one thing to do. Find the little things. Learn their ways. Try and... erm... fit in or something. That meant finding ‘the shore’.

And then going onto it.

Chapterlet 4: The main bit of paradise

Hatherley Beach is a holidaymaker’s delight. The sand is fine, the sunshine is plentiful, and importantly, regular. There are sandcastles to make and winkles to pick. There are games of beach volleyball to play. And there are naked people to watch. For Hatherley is a nudist beach. So, admittedly, not quite every holidaymaker’s ideal destination.

Most nudist beaches attract the kind of stripper whose genitalia are well covered by either hair or body fat. But at Hatherley a lot of the nudes are actually worth ogling. Well worth ogling. In fact, truth be told, there usually isn’t much sandcastle building or winkle picking going on. It’s all about the beach volleyball at Hatherley. That and the ogling.

Tuesday afternoon had brought out a fine crop of oglable bodies to the shore. They had come out to impress with their tanned skins and their toned abs and their big, umm, their big, erm, just so. The oglers were in for a real treat. Only they weren’t paying any attention. They were all looking at Bob.

Exhausted and famished, Bob had found ‘the shore’. Or rather, it had found him. He had seen land and, swimming towards it, had ventured into the shallows. And the carpet that is the tide had been swept out from underneath him. And here he was, on paradise. And all around him were the little ones he’d been longing meet again.

Gosh, it was hot. His skin was burning. But it was alright. He was where he had longed to be. Now for the goodies! All through the solitary swim leading up to today, his mind had been raising visions he’d never seen before – telling him about filet mignons and chardonnay and Bach and soft jazz. It had waxed lyrical about moonlight sonatas and... and Monet... and safaris and bratwurst and apple pie. He didn’t know what any of those meant. He didn’t know how his subconscious knew them. But he knew, somehow, that these things were, and that they were wonderful, and that he had to experience them before he died.

And now he was here. Let the fun begin little people! Let’s see how one can live!

Chapterlet 5: The way to hell

But the little ones did not approach. No music played. No food appeared. Instead, some little ones who were all jet black made the others back away. A long way away.

“Oh don’t be scared”, thought Bob, “I’m not mean. I never hit any... well I hit Andy once, but I was sorry about that. Please stay.”

But the little ones stayed away.

“Could I please have some ... filet mignon!?! I don’t know what that is, but I know it must be nice. Please!?!”

But all they gave him was a squeeze of a wet sponge on his back.

“Mozart!”, he pleaded, “Beethoven! Play me something! Please don’t let me have done all this for nothing!”

But all they did was talk to him in their meaningless jibber jabber and pat him.

“Please, give me something!”

But all they did was sit and look sad.

For two hours he pleaded and begged. He asked for Jazz and they made him listen to their sighs. He asked for milkshakes and they covered him with a canopy. He begged for a Fry and Laurie sketch (he really had no idea what that could even be, but his mind had suggested it and it had intrigued him no end) and they tried to push him. And when they pushed (to absolutely no avail), he realised what they were trying to do.

“Don’t send me back!” he cried, “Oh please! Let me stay! I gave up everything to get here! You made me come here and now you want to push me away! You bastards! You utter bastards!”

But they didn’t listen. They just squeezed their sponges and fanned their fans and patted him and occasionally tried to push him.

Then, the pain started. Pulses of pain, almost unbearable, shot through his entire body as if his insides had been hammered. And then, just as he knew all the good things of the little ones without knowing how, he knew that he was dying. He made one final attmpt.

“Ham!” he shouted, remembering the only goodie he knew existed. “At least some ham! Please! I’m dying... oh I’m dying... please!”

But they didn’t even give him ham.

The pain increased, and now he welcomed it. It took his mind off his utter, utter despair. The throbbing, crippling agony of his dying insides was better than the pain of his broken heart.

At last, the tide came in and lifted him up. The jet black little ones started pushing him again. He did not resist.

The people on the beach saw the whale float out. They had saved him! Their hearts filled with pride and happiness! Oh how good it felt to help a helpless fellow being! Well done! Well done everyone! Hip, hip, hurray! Hip, hip, hurray! Hip, hip, hurray!

Bob was well out by the time they were done with the cheer. And so, as his limp body drifted into the deep, no one saw his tears.

Chapterlet 6: Epilogue

Far out in the ocean, unknown to humanity, is an island. A tiny, windswept bit of rock. A place so desolate that even jetsam and flotsam don’t come its way. But, every once in a while, a current that really shouldn’t exist brings something to its shores. Something biggish. Something Bob-ish.

Soft music plays over the land here. Close to the shore sparkle fountains of wine, and from slender, easily shaken trees fall filet mignons and apple pies and all kinds of goodies. And, if you venture a little inland, just a little, you will see, on a little TV set, a Fry and Laurie sketch being played out in whalesong.

First Date

It was his first date. He exuded charm. He radiated confidence. He oozed sexuality... Then he wiped it off with a tissue and apologised.

Paralympics

1. It seems a bit harsh to say this, but surely the Paralympics are far more elitist than the regular Olympics. Specialised equipment and facilities, as well as an environment which fosters an athletic culture among disabled people must mean that these are mostly events that only rich countries can afford to take at all seriously.
2. Good performances generally indicate large talent pools from which to draw gifted players. So does that mean that countries that do well in the Paralympics have a large supply of disabled people (at the time of writing, Russia, a notoriously violent country, is dominating the medals table in the 2010 Winter Paralympics, which must mean something) !?! Given that most countries that do well in the Paralympics must be rich, Western nations with great medical facilities, especially A&E, (Point 1), why do they have large disabled populations !?!
3. If the disabled populations aren't large in most of these rich countries (meaning small talent pools), does that mean (and again, this sounds harsh) that the performances are actually mediocre !?! I'm not saying they are (I've certainly been very impressed with what I've seen so far), but the fact that these athletes represent the best of a very small population (disabled athletes who can afford specialised training facilities/equipment), that is a possibility.
4. One way to test/refute Point 3, and simultaneously promote disabled sports (especially sledge hockey, which looks really interesting) would be to open the sports to regular people. This would inflate the talent pool hugely and simultaneously draw the attention/money of a great many more people to the sports. And then, when disabled athletes win gold (which would be often), everyone will know that they are the best in the world at their sport.

Sportswear

Who makes trousers for the speed skaters !?! Given the size of the legs on some of them, there's no way they're fitting into some ready-mades without ripping the things.

A Kind Of Parent

They say it takes a remarkable parent to raise an Olympic champion. Nowhere is this more true than in the case of the parents of the skeleton racers. It takes a special kind of parent to see their own child hurtle willy nilly down an ice tube at 90 miles per hour or more on a fucking tea tray - face first, no less - and go, "That's my boy!" "Go faster, go faster!"

An Incoherent Hello (To Ring In The New Year !)

I actually got feedback on the blog from one of my friends yesterday - it seemed a little pointless, he said - bluntly. This pointed observation was, of course, fine by me, since pointless babbling is the point of this blog. Whether my friend understood this point and was merely pointing it out for general benefit, or missed it altogether, is not the point of this post. The point is, his remark made me remember that I had a blog. Other considerations had driven it to the back of my mind round about the end of December, tied to the radiator in the basement and left it at the mercy of Providence. Perhaps sad, forlorn travellers in the overgrown and sinister backwaters of the internet wherein it is kept prisoner, might stumble upon it. And if they do, they should be made welcome. 

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Hello. Welcome to my blog, one and all (usually one, occasionally two).

This is not a blog where you get someone who picks up a topic and systematically puts up an argument in favor of or against it and then moves on to do the same thing with something else. This is not the kind of blog where you are treated to cute anecdotes about somebody's babies and how the whole family had a Christmas to remember. This is not even a blog about how I did the Grouse Grind. This is the kind of blog where you get someone who rambles on and on without rhyme or reason in a tone of unrelenting cynicism and if you continue reading you go mad with depression and want to smash the monitor and slit your throat with the shards. And then you realise that you have an LCD screen. MWAHAHAHAHA!!!! 

I assure you, this will happen if you faithfully and regularly read this stuff. At least, I like to believe so.

With that warning, I once again bid you welcome to my blog.

Well, not entirely mine. I share it with my alter ego (he does the manic; I do the depressive). He does Mondays, Thursdays and the weekend. I do the rest. He likes music and art and going on hikes and the beach and reading novels and all that shit. He's a #$%^%.

I'm not. I don't care for that crap. Actually, I just do not care.

I am a cynic and (on Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Fridays) this is my blog.