Heya,
Oh dear, I've just opened my 3rd can of E2 (E squared) It's 69c a can down at Fresh choice..., - it's 2:49pm and I haven't had breakfast or lunch yet - no, I'm not doing the 40 hour famine or anything. I've just been on Lappy since early.
What I have been doing is learning and well, having fun at the same time. I've finally got my head round CSS (Cascading Style sheets), and found that really, they're pretty simple. I'll make a short guide to "going CSS" or something, in the near future. I can see it's going to revolutionise my web stuff.
So check out http://starstuddedsuperstep.com/s59, right click and "view source". There's minimal formatting there, because it's all in the CSS file! Sweet as.
Small Town Poets plays in the background. I take another sip from my can of "Berry Blast" E2. I look at my Nokia 6015 and see that it's 14:53. I recollect that my lappy (Toshiba Satelite 2450) is running of my Dad's laptop (Toshiba Satelite A10) power cable...
Watch out, this is me on dial-up. Broadband coming soon, I'm going to have to work on that "time management!"
Be excellent to each other!
Friday, 9 March 2007
Kiwis want to keep Section 59
Hi peoples,
make sure you check out
http://starstuddedsuperstep.com/s59
I has the latest updates on the Section 59 debate that is currently raging in New Zealand, as well as a step-by-step guide to emailing the MPs in Parliament about the issue. Just new to the site also, is a list of the internet polls that you can vote in, that are related to Section 59.
For those of you who don't know what it's all about: Sue Bradford seems to think that smacking is strongly linked with child-abuse, and as such, is desperate to make any form of smacking AT ALL, illegal in New Zealand.
This is a prime example of the State jumping in on the family, interfering and telling us what to do at a level that they should not.
The evidence is overwhelming: loving discipline that includes smacking from time to time is not harmful. Illegalising smacking WILL NOT lower child-abuse rates in New Zealand.
Get a life! Check out this link:
http://www.scoop.co.nz/stories/PO0702/S00296.htm
Be excellent to each other!
make sure you check out
http://starstuddedsuperstep.com/s59
I has the latest updates on the Section 59 debate that is currently raging in New Zealand, as well as a step-by-step guide to emailing the MPs in Parliament about the issue. Just new to the site also, is a list of the internet polls that you can vote in, that are related to Section 59.
For those of you who don't know what it's all about: Sue Bradford seems to think that smacking is strongly linked with child-abuse, and as such, is desperate to make any form of smacking AT ALL, illegal in New Zealand.
This is a prime example of the State jumping in on the family, interfering and telling us what to do at a level that they should not.
The evidence is overwhelming: loving discipline that includes smacking from time to time is not harmful. Illegalising smacking WILL NOT lower child-abuse rates in New Zealand.
Get a life! Check out this link:
http://www.scoop.co.nz/stories/PO0702/S00296.htm
Be excellent to each other!
Wednesday, 7 March 2007
The intersection
"...The fuel-injected Holden HSQ V6 in 2nd gear tore out of a side street and turned right into Middleton road. Three men were in the black vehicle which had the front part of a body kit on it, and darkened side and back windows. The pair of fluffy dice hanging from the rear-view mirror danced about, alive..."
Adjusting the black plastic visor on his silver coloured bicycle helmet and lowering his elbows, the figure crouched low over the handle-bars of his 12 speed road bike. Though well over 30 years old, the bike still held together nicely, the front brakes needed a bit of alignment to stop them rubbing against the wheel. The gear change in between the handle bars, and the white tape handle-bar grips peeling off a bit, losing their stickyness. A decent quantity of a mixture of oil, dust and dirt coated the axles of both wheels, the chain, and the back sprocket. Despite the lack of attention and care it's rider gave it, the bike handled some fierce torque on the cranks.
Adjusting the black plastic visor on his silver coloured bicycle helmet and lowering his elbows, the figure crouched low over the handle-bars of his 12 speed road bike. Though well over 30 years old, the bike still held together nicely, the front brakes needed a bit of alignment to stop them rubbing against the wheel. The gear change in between the handle bars, and the white tape handle-bar grips peeling off a bit, losing their stickyness. A decent quantity of a mixture of oil, dust and dirt coated the axles of both wheels, the chain, and the back sprocket. Despite the lack of attention and care it's rider gave it, the bike handled some fierce torque on the cranks.
On his feet, the cyclist wore a pair of “Roman” jandals. They had had a hard life, but considering that they had only cost $9.99 on sale at The Warehouse, you'd understand why they were now beginning to fray and come apart in places. If you asked the cyclist, he might reluctantly admit that, yes, they were actually his brother's jandals, on a permanent loan, - and without permission. In a very original combination, the figure on the bike wore a pair of navy Faded Glory jeans, bought at WallMart, now starting to rip up the backs of the legs. Size 32, and really too long, “hipsters” wouldn't be the word, but try to picture him walking along, constantly pulling up the belt loops to stop the jeans falling down. Underneath his 3/4-zipped up navy hoody that a mate from Spain had given him, was his tee-shirt. Given to him by a friend who ran a computer shop, it was a black tee-shirt with the AMD logo on it. A pair of last-gen iPod earphones, with only the right ear-phone in his ear - completed his costume.
Contrary to the common held belief that “anything portable that plays music is an iPod”, held by such people as his parents, and the old ladies who conducted the exams at the end of term and semester at University, the object plugged into his head-phones was not an iPod. Rather, this was the 30gig Toshiba Gigabeat (Music sounds better in colour). “World wide suicide” by Pearl Jam was playing, and from time to time the cyclist mouthed some of the lyrics, a pained expression on his face.
Though it was against the law in his home-land of New Zealand, the character on the bike had a Sig Sauer pistol in a chest holster, under his L size tee-shirt. One of his Mum's “long-lost” victronox kitchen knives, - the one with the red handle, was strapped to his right leg just above the ankle, wrapped in a piece of rough but thick fabric. Aware of the fate of Russian soldiers running into the square with only one round, the man on the bike had two spare cartridges, one in each front pocket of his jeans (which made them harder to keep from falling down), each one loaded with 13 shells, ready to clip into his gun when the previous magazine ran out.
If you were standing on the sidewalk, you would have found it strange to see the swiftly moving cyclist reach up under his tee-shirt, deftly pulling out his automatic hand-gun, and concealing it under his arm-pit with his right hand while he held the handle-bar with his left. Cycling down the fairly quiet Middleton Road, heading up to the intersection with Ilam Road and the notoriously busy Riccarton Road, the man on the bike threw a quick look over his shoulder. As he brought his eyes back to the horizon in front of him, he heard the sound he knew was coming. The fuel-injected Holden HSQ V6 in 2nd gear tore out of a side street and turned right into Middleton road. Three men were in the black vehicle which had the front part of a body kit on it, and darkened side and back windows. The pair of fluffy dice hanging from the rear-view mirror danced about, alive.
The deep voice of the short but solidly built Scottsman in the back resounded within the walls of the speeding vehicle. “We'll nay try this time orright? This taime he goes down.” The driver of the car kept his eyes on the road, while the slender young man in the passenger seat let forth a string of swear-words. What this young guy needed was just a kick up the backside, and a hair-cut. He'd fallen into the wrong crowd during his last year of high-school, and he was wearing the same pair of jeans that he had been the day he met the other two in the car. “Billy, will you please just kill the lad, then we can be on our way?” The man in the back-seat adjusted his collar, too tight around his neck.
Billy had never killed a man before, let-alone fired a real gun. But he had convinced the other two that he was the man for the job, convincing them with the excellent kills/deaths ratio he had once got when playing the Half-Life mod, Specialists with his mates back in the day. He picked up the mini-uzzi that was cradled in his lap, pulled out the magazine and then clipped it in again. “Right, let's do this.”, Billy nodded.
The figure on the bike, who went by the name of Darren – felt a shiver run up his spine as he heard the car close behind him.
As the front bumper of the black holden came into contact with the slim back tire of the road-bike, Darren performed the lightening fast move, bringing his legs up and sliding onto the bonnet of the fast-moving vehicle. The slipstream over the vehicle propelled Darren's body up the windscreen, and he slid over the top of the car, leaping up, facing forward, running in the air, prepared for the impact with the tar-seal road. As you will know if you have tried this, it is impossible to stay on your feet after jumping of a fast moving vehicle. Bringing his right hand over his head, and using his left hand to take some of the impact, Darren rolled once, and coming forcefully to his feet, stood in the center of the road, as a huge canvas-sided truck advertising Pam's peas passed by, missing him by inches. Still holding his trusty SIG in his right hand, Darren rested it on the wrist of his left arm, taking aim at the black holden which had spun round and was beginning to acclerate towards him. At 4 lamposts distance, approximately 200 metres, Darren pulled the trigger twice. The first bullet went through the middle of the front windscreen, and into the shoulder of the Scotsman in the back of the vehicle. As a scream of pain errupted from his lips, the second bullet ripped through the front right tire of the holden.
The windscreen shattered, and impossible to see through, the cool-faced driver struggled to apply the brakes, spinning 90 degrees, passenger door facing Darren. The rim of the wheel which had been hit cut into the hot tar-seal, and the caved-in front windscreen reverberated as the car came to a stop. Billy's arm reached out through the passenger window, holding his mini-uzzi.
Darren heard the bullets biting through the air, thudding into the ground behind him and to his right. Swerving from side to side, running low and jumping, Darren crossed the road. Biff. A bullet embedded itself in the back of his left thigh and he roared in pain. Taking cover behind a glossy black VW Polo, Darren forced himself to concentrate, to ignore the pain. He pulled himself underneath the VW until he could see the petrol door. He aligned his pistol just a bit below the door, where he knew the tank would be, and then emptied his magazine, moving his gun slightly towards the front of the car as he fired.
11 bullets impacted with the car in quick succession, and with deadly accuracy. A sheet of flame burst out from where the line of bullet holes had ruptured the petrol tank. Pulling himself out from underneath the car with a good deal of effort, his right leg beginning to throb. Sitting with his back to the rear tyre, and facing the footpath, Darren dropped the first cartridge, and pulling a new one from his pocket, quietly inserted it into his hand-gun. “Dear Lord”, he prayed “help me get through this one”. Holding his weapon with both hands, muzzle pointed towards the sky, he listened, waiting for the sound he was sure would come.
There it was, the sound of a car-door being opened very slowly and cautiously. This was going to be touch and go, as Billy was very trigger happy, and though the min-uzzi was not the most accurate of sub machine guns (SMGs), the short range and heaviness of fire would render it deadly. The horrendous sound of the mini uzzi shattered the silence that had prevailed for the last few seconds, drowning out the faint sound of two police cars that were speeding towards the scene. Billy did not know where Darren was, only that he was behind the car somewhere, and that he needed to die. He emptied his new magazine into the car, bullets thudding into the ground, shattering the windows, and several hitting the tank of fuel. Darren heard the big rush of air, as air was sucked into the tank to provide the oxygen required to produce a decent burst of flame, followed immediately afterwards by a terrific explosion.
Acting only by instinct, the hunted, still crouching low, ran forward towards the fence of the house he was facing a few steps. Turning on his heel, SIG in his right hand, and his left arm shielding his face, Darren ran towards the vehicle he had been sheltering behind. Leaping, right leg first onto the bonnet, he jumped through the sheet of flame that suddenly shot up. Landing hard on the ground, Darren fell onto his right shoulder, trying to lessen the impact on his left leg. With perfect aim, Darren fired two bullets – one hit Billy's weapon, rendering it useless, the other impacted with the hand in which the SMG was held.
Out of the corner of his eye, Darren saw the grenade, speeding through the air towards where he was. His left hand instinctively grabbed the grenade before it hit the ground, and, sweat clouding his eyes, he counted: “1, 2”, and then threw it back to where it had come from...
Thursday, 9 November 2006
well, it's the end of an era.
Uni is as good as over. at 2:30 today I've got my last exam, Economics.
I thought that fact deserved a post.
Freedom!!!
I thought that fact deserved a post.
Freedom!!!
Friday, 27 October 2006
One way to kill Yourself
Work out the exam's time, two or three days before it will be upon you.
Agree to go on the bread run - biking round the central city early in the morning, picking up bread from bakerys and cafes and dropping off to a charitable organisation - on the morning of the test. This duty will require you to get up at 6:30am, biking out into the listless morning smog, alone, listening to something fairly hardcore on your Tosh Gigabeat.
Put of studying until pretty much the day before the exam.
Spend the night before your study day in a pup tent in the back yard.
Know the feeling of having your life sucked out of you, and wander about aimlessly, looking for anything to do - anything but study.
Look at the clock on the Mac G4 that you're using to display the 2003 First Year Statistics paper exam solutions, and see that the time is 1:09am on the morning of your exam.
Feel that surge of joy, that glimmer of rebellious satisfaction at knowing that you're up really late, being really cool. Studying hard.
Time for a break. Just spend 5 minutes blogging about it.
If you're lucky, you'll get four something hours of sleep. Bed not made. All bedding in the tent, damp from being out there over a week now. Sleep on the mattress. Who cares.
Two or three bottles of E2 or Lift+ should see you through the day.
screenshot of the mac G4 at 1:15am coming...
Agree to go on the bread run - biking round the central city early in the morning, picking up bread from bakerys and cafes and dropping off to a charitable organisation - on the morning of the test. This duty will require you to get up at 6:30am, biking out into the listless morning smog, alone, listening to something fairly hardcore on your Tosh Gigabeat.
Put of studying until pretty much the day before the exam.
Spend the night before your study day in a pup tent in the back yard.
Know the feeling of having your life sucked out of you, and wander about aimlessly, looking for anything to do - anything but study.
Look at the clock on the Mac G4 that you're using to display the 2003 First Year Statistics paper exam solutions, and see that the time is 1:09am on the morning of your exam.
Feel that surge of joy, that glimmer of rebellious satisfaction at knowing that you're up really late, being really cool. Studying hard.
Time for a break. Just spend 5 minutes blogging about it.
If you're lucky, you'll get four something hours of sleep. Bed not made. All bedding in the tent, damp from being out there over a week now. Sleep on the mattress. Who cares.
Two or three bottles of E2 or Lift+ should see you through the day.
screenshot of the mac G4 at 1:15am coming...
Wednesday, 18 October 2006
Thursday, 21 September 2006
Tuesday, 5 September 2006
Heading over to Hoki
"...A slapstick sort of show, with a guy making smart comments, and a roomful of people laughing..."
That morning, I had had to get up early, to go to work. I had gone to bed the night before, my packed bags lying on the ground beside my bed. Wakened by the ear-splitting alarm clock at 4:30am in the morning of Saturday, the 28th of February 2004, I lunged at the clock, smashing down with my fist on the snooze button, anxious not to annoy the sleepers. Well, I did the normal stuff, pulled on my grotty old work clothes: the Nike sports shoes that I found at a garage sale, with a disgusting brown mess over the front of them, all bread crumbs and stuff that just etches itself into anything when you work at a bakery, the screwed up shorts from under the bed, and the old polo shirt, light blue in colour, and which I tend to wear unbuttoned at the neck, due to the strenuous work… Anyway, to cut a fairly long story short, I arrived at work, having locked the front door with the key on the keychain with the ancient Koosh on it, that I have and biked in the dark, along Wiltshire, into Berkshire, right into Apsley, right into Withels, and then left into Maidstone. From there, you know, it is really a pretty straight run. You just keep going till you get to the corner of Maidstone and Waimari, and the Bakery is just down a bit. After work, I biked home. Why am I telling you all this stuff which isn’t even part of the story, you ask? “No comment”. I arrived home, anyway. I think I was going to have a shower, but I sort of ran out of time. Anyway, who needs showers? Now, the plan was that Mum or Dad was going to take me down to Church Corner, just opposite Growers Direct, to the bus stop. Apparently I was going with Alpine. (The bus company). Man, you know, a funny thing happened. A couple of days ago; when I’d rung up about the costs, and times of the different busses going over to the West Coast, I had rung Atomic, (another bus service). I booked a seat, for the Saturday morning. Anyway, later, maybe a couple of days later, I’d decided I wanted to leave later in the day, so that I could work at the Bakery. So Mum rang Alpine, and asked to book a seat for a certain Andrew Moore, for 1:30pm on the Saturday. Well, believe it or not, I was already booked. Somehow, even though I’d rung up Atomic, the Alpine people had me in their records, and the Atomic people hadn’t even heard of me!!! Phuakahhhh!!! There is no possibility, at all, (at least, I don’t think so), that I could have rung Alpine, having not read correctly, the name, (which was Atomic), and had not listened closely, when the receptionist spat out her garbled: “goodmorningalpinebusservicesyourspeakingwithwhoever” and I didn’t hear that I’d rung the wrong place!!!
Well, I was getting pretty frantic, at around about 1ish, checking with Mum that she was sure that she had booked the right day, time, and that it was definitely 1:30pm at opposite Growers direct, and where was Growers Direct, and was she sure that it was Atomic?, which way would the bus be coming, I didn’t have enough money to pay for the seat, did she, when would we have to leave… Well, as it turned out, we got there in time. Mum popped across the road to buy some stuff at the Vege shop, (Growers Direct), while I leaned one the roof of our white 92 Toyota Corolla, which has done just over 200, but you wouldn’t know it. I’d given Mum my card, and confided in her the pin, and she was going to get $35 for me, so that I could pay the guy, - the bus driver. I’d be reimbursed at the other end anyway, but this just made it a bit simpler. Mum got back, I’d already unloaded my big “Rugged Gear” suitcase thingy on wheels, which doesn’t look all that rugged, my large backpack, and I think there was something else, too, just can’t remember. So, I left the stuff on the footpath, the side of the road where the cars are coming out of town, and heading out West, I spose. We got in the car to wait for the bus, because Mum reckoned it was cold. I was still unsure as to which way the bus would be coming from, and it was disconcerting to watch busses passing us, on the other side of the road… At last, I spotted a whitey colored bus with a bit of writing, - or so it seemed, from afar. As it came round the corner, a good 400 meters away, I was fairly sure as to it’s species, and Mum and I were both out of the car, standing at the side of the road when I could properly read: “Alpine”, on the front of the bus. Sure enough, it was. The bus pulled up, the driver got out, and pre-empted me: “Andrew?” he asked, and I agreed, feeling satisfied with the organization of the company. So I handed over the money, a twenty, a ten and a five, and jumped on the bus, after getting my stuff in the back compartment. I was sitting a few seats behind the driver, and, until we got past Darfield, we were stopping occasionally to pick up more travelers. The driver had the radio on: A slapstick sort of show, with a guy making smart comments, and a roomful of people laughing. The guy at the wheel grunted, too, to show his appreciation, when there was something extra “special”. But then, next time I listened for it, he’d already turned it off. Phew. I had been kinda worried that we were going to have to listen to it the whole way. It must have been about halfway between the Russley Roundabout, and Darfield, that we picked up another, fairly notable traveler. I never got her name, and I’m not all that worried that I didn’t. The notable thing as I saw it, was that she talked, - talked, - talked. She would have been, what, late fifties, and was sitting across, and ahead a seat or two from me. She talked, virtually the whole way, (on and off, admittedly), to a couple who were sitting directly in front of me. They were “old”, too, and so, they got on alright. They talked about nephews, nieces, houses, grandchildren, travel, anniversaries, husbands, etc. I was quite happy just to listen, half-heartedly to what they were saying, (and it was really the other woman who was the main talker, the other two just listened, and popped comments in, here and there, when they found a gap. The bus driver, also, (who appeared to be fairly knowledgeable on virtually any subject, (such as Asian drivers, and so on, mainly stuff to do with traffic, roads, and the like.), could be relied upon to give a fairly authoritative account of whatever they were talking about. You know how bus drivers are? Plenty of time to talk, and accumulate gossip, and come up with their own views on anything you want to talk about…
So, anyway, as I’s saying, I was content with just letting the talk wash over my head, I read a few pages of the Fellowship of the Ring, but I’m not much good at reading in cars, and with the particular atmosphere, it was even harder. I looked out the window, at Middle Earth, and checked my cell-phone, to see if I was still in range of a cell tower. At Arthur’s Pass, we stopped for fifteen minutes. I just stayed in the bus, most of the time. Then, about fifteen minutes out of Arthur’s Pass, just before the Otira Gorge, we were underneath the trees, which were joining, some of the time, above the road, blocking out the sunlight, when -. I heard the bus driver say something about a “nasty one” I looked out the window, and, sure enough, there was a scene of carnage, on the side of the road. A metallic blue car, Sort of Nissan Skyline style, - only, you don’t often see metallic Skylines, completely staved in at the front, - a white ute, more of a truck, then a ute, - you know, with the wooden back, and no nose? Double cab style, with engine under and between the front and back seats. Didn’t look as though it had taken it too hard. I caught a glimpse of someone lying face down, and other people crouching round. The bus didn’t slow down though. We sped on, quite a bit more, I suppose, sobered. I looked at my cell-phone to see if I was in range, so I could ring for help. Even if I had been in range, they more than probably would already have been alerted to the situation.
As it happened, we approached Hokitika from Greymouth, which meant about fifteen minutes extra. Still, what’s ¼ of an hour, in a four hour journey? We dropped a load of people off at Greymouth, and then headed into Hokitika. It was raining hard, as we pulled up at the travel centre. The travel centre is probably just about the centre of the tiny town of Hokitika. The population is only 3000 souls, and so many more mozzies. Looking out the window, through the driving rain, I saw a van. Not just a normal van, this was a nine seater, a Nissan, a dirty great diesel, grey in hue. Well, that as good as told me that there was someone to pick me up.
The Mc Garveys. As I got out of the bus, and ran round to the back, to get out my stuff, I looked back and saw Jonathan, and his Mum, Sonya, getting out. I manhandled my weighty “Rugged Gear” suitcase down to the ground, up, over the curb, and leant it against the bench seat. I then grabbed my gianormus backpack and got back under the shelter of the overhang of the travel centre. I did what you do, when you meet people, I said hello. Then, it seemed the most natural thing to start walking to the van, dragging my cumbersome load behind me. Jonathan took it upon himself to carry the bag. Now, in one of these vehicles, you’ve got the front two seats, one in the middle of these, I recall, then three more, (in the middle of the van), with another set of three right at the back. Behind these back seats was the boot. The boot was opened, and my luggage was jammed in. We did it quick, due to the rain. Then, as if in mutual consent, Jonathan and I took seats in the middle of the van. And, yes, we did remember to shut the boot. Well, what do you talk about, when you’ve just met someone, and you know that the trip you are on will be over in a matter of minutes, and that after this, there will still be three weeks to talk about whatever you feel like? I told them briefly about the smash I’d seen, the weather back in the Garden City, stuff like that.
Well, that just about gets us to the place where we wrap it up. I had intended, when I sat down to type, to write a story of the time I spent over on the West Coast, and chiefly, regarding the work I was doing. However, my fingers got away from me. And, unleashed, incase you’ve never experienced before, in my writing, they just go wherever they want. So, there you have it. Three odd pages on a trip in a bus to the other side of the country.
(written about two and a half years ago)
That morning, I had had to get up early, to go to work. I had gone to bed the night before, my packed bags lying on the ground beside my bed. Wakened by the ear-splitting alarm clock at 4:30am in the morning of Saturday, the 28th of February 2004, I lunged at the clock, smashing down with my fist on the snooze button, anxious not to annoy the sleepers. Well, I did the normal stuff, pulled on my grotty old work clothes: the Nike sports shoes that I found at a garage sale, with a disgusting brown mess over the front of them, all bread crumbs and stuff that just etches itself into anything when you work at a bakery, the screwed up shorts from under the bed, and the old polo shirt, light blue in colour, and which I tend to wear unbuttoned at the neck, due to the strenuous work… Anyway, to cut a fairly long story short, I arrived at work, having locked the front door with the key on the keychain with the ancient Koosh on it, that I have and biked in the dark, along Wiltshire, into Berkshire, right into Apsley, right into Withels, and then left into Maidstone. From there, you know, it is really a pretty straight run. You just keep going till you get to the corner of Maidstone and Waimari, and the Bakery is just down a bit. After work, I biked home. Why am I telling you all this stuff which isn’t even part of the story, you ask? “No comment”. I arrived home, anyway. I think I was going to have a shower, but I sort of ran out of time. Anyway, who needs showers? Now, the plan was that Mum or Dad was going to take me down to Church Corner, just opposite Growers Direct, to the bus stop. Apparently I was going with Alpine. (The bus company). Man, you know, a funny thing happened. A couple of days ago; when I’d rung up about the costs, and times of the different busses going over to the West Coast, I had rung Atomic, (another bus service). I booked a seat, for the Saturday morning. Anyway, later, maybe a couple of days later, I’d decided I wanted to leave later in the day, so that I could work at the Bakery. So Mum rang Alpine, and asked to book a seat for a certain Andrew Moore, for 1:30pm on the Saturday. Well, believe it or not, I was already booked. Somehow, even though I’d rung up Atomic, the Alpine people had me in their records, and the Atomic people hadn’t even heard of me!!! Phuakahhhh!!! There is no possibility, at all, (at least, I don’t think so), that I could have rung Alpine, having not read correctly, the name, (which was Atomic), and had not listened closely, when the receptionist spat out her garbled: “goodmorningalpinebusservicesyourspeakingwithwhoever” and I didn’t hear that I’d rung the wrong place!!!
Well, I was getting pretty frantic, at around about 1ish, checking with Mum that she was sure that she had booked the right day, time, and that it was definitely 1:30pm at opposite Growers direct, and where was Growers Direct, and was she sure that it was Atomic?, which way would the bus be coming, I didn’t have enough money to pay for the seat, did she, when would we have to leave… Well, as it turned out, we got there in time. Mum popped across the road to buy some stuff at the Vege shop, (Growers Direct), while I leaned one the roof of our white 92 Toyota Corolla, which has done just over 200, but you wouldn’t know it. I’d given Mum my card, and confided in her the pin, and she was going to get $35 for me, so that I could pay the guy, - the bus driver. I’d be reimbursed at the other end anyway, but this just made it a bit simpler. Mum got back, I’d already unloaded my big “Rugged Gear” suitcase thingy on wheels, which doesn’t look all that rugged, my large backpack, and I think there was something else, too, just can’t remember. So, I left the stuff on the footpath, the side of the road where the cars are coming out of town, and heading out West, I spose. We got in the car to wait for the bus, because Mum reckoned it was cold. I was still unsure as to which way the bus would be coming from, and it was disconcerting to watch busses passing us, on the other side of the road… At last, I spotted a whitey colored bus with a bit of writing, - or so it seemed, from afar. As it came round the corner, a good 400 meters away, I was fairly sure as to it’s species, and Mum and I were both out of the car, standing at the side of the road when I could properly read: “Alpine”, on the front of the bus. Sure enough, it was. The bus pulled up, the driver got out, and pre-empted me: “Andrew?” he asked, and I agreed, feeling satisfied with the organization of the company. So I handed over the money, a twenty, a ten and a five, and jumped on the bus, after getting my stuff in the back compartment. I was sitting a few seats behind the driver, and, until we got past Darfield, we were stopping occasionally to pick up more travelers. The driver had the radio on: A slapstick sort of show, with a guy making smart comments, and a roomful of people laughing. The guy at the wheel grunted, too, to show his appreciation, when there was something extra “special”. But then, next time I listened for it, he’d already turned it off. Phew. I had been kinda worried that we were going to have to listen to it the whole way. It must have been about halfway between the Russley Roundabout, and Darfield, that we picked up another, fairly notable traveler. I never got her name, and I’m not all that worried that I didn’t. The notable thing as I saw it, was that she talked, - talked, - talked. She would have been, what, late fifties, and was sitting across, and ahead a seat or two from me. She talked, virtually the whole way, (on and off, admittedly), to a couple who were sitting directly in front of me. They were “old”, too, and so, they got on alright. They talked about nephews, nieces, houses, grandchildren, travel, anniversaries, husbands, etc. I was quite happy just to listen, half-heartedly to what they were saying, (and it was really the other woman who was the main talker, the other two just listened, and popped comments in, here and there, when they found a gap. The bus driver, also, (who appeared to be fairly knowledgeable on virtually any subject, (such as Asian drivers, and so on, mainly stuff to do with traffic, roads, and the like.), could be relied upon to give a fairly authoritative account of whatever they were talking about. You know how bus drivers are? Plenty of time to talk, and accumulate gossip, and come up with their own views on anything you want to talk about…
So, anyway, as I’s saying, I was content with just letting the talk wash over my head, I read a few pages of the Fellowship of the Ring, but I’m not much good at reading in cars, and with the particular atmosphere, it was even harder. I looked out the window, at Middle Earth, and checked my cell-phone, to see if I was still in range of a cell tower. At Arthur’s Pass, we stopped for fifteen minutes. I just stayed in the bus, most of the time. Then, about fifteen minutes out of Arthur’s Pass, just before the Otira Gorge, we were underneath the trees, which were joining, some of the time, above the road, blocking out the sunlight, when -. I heard the bus driver say something about a “nasty one” I looked out the window, and, sure enough, there was a scene of carnage, on the side of the road. A metallic blue car, Sort of Nissan Skyline style, - only, you don’t often see metallic Skylines, completely staved in at the front, - a white ute, more of a truck, then a ute, - you know, with the wooden back, and no nose? Double cab style, with engine under and between the front and back seats. Didn’t look as though it had taken it too hard. I caught a glimpse of someone lying face down, and other people crouching round. The bus didn’t slow down though. We sped on, quite a bit more, I suppose, sobered. I looked at my cell-phone to see if I was in range, so I could ring for help. Even if I had been in range, they more than probably would already have been alerted to the situation.
As it happened, we approached Hokitika from Greymouth, which meant about fifteen minutes extra. Still, what’s ¼ of an hour, in a four hour journey? We dropped a load of people off at Greymouth, and then headed into Hokitika. It was raining hard, as we pulled up at the travel centre. The travel centre is probably just about the centre of the tiny town of Hokitika. The population is only 3000 souls, and so many more mozzies. Looking out the window, through the driving rain, I saw a van. Not just a normal van, this was a nine seater, a Nissan, a dirty great diesel, grey in hue. Well, that as good as told me that there was someone to pick me up.
The Mc Garveys. As I got out of the bus, and ran round to the back, to get out my stuff, I looked back and saw Jonathan, and his Mum, Sonya, getting out. I manhandled my weighty “Rugged Gear” suitcase down to the ground, up, over the curb, and leant it against the bench seat. I then grabbed my gianormus backpack and got back under the shelter of the overhang of the travel centre. I did what you do, when you meet people, I said hello. Then, it seemed the most natural thing to start walking to the van, dragging my cumbersome load behind me. Jonathan took it upon himself to carry the bag. Now, in one of these vehicles, you’ve got the front two seats, one in the middle of these, I recall, then three more, (in the middle of the van), with another set of three right at the back. Behind these back seats was the boot. The boot was opened, and my luggage was jammed in. We did it quick, due to the rain. Then, as if in mutual consent, Jonathan and I took seats in the middle of the van. And, yes, we did remember to shut the boot. Well, what do you talk about, when you’ve just met someone, and you know that the trip you are on will be over in a matter of minutes, and that after this, there will still be three weeks to talk about whatever you feel like? I told them briefly about the smash I’d seen, the weather back in the Garden City, stuff like that.
Well, that just about gets us to the place where we wrap it up. I had intended, when I sat down to type, to write a story of the time I spent over on the West Coast, and chiefly, regarding the work I was doing. However, my fingers got away from me. And, unleashed, incase you’ve never experienced before, in my writing, they just go wherever they want. So, there you have it. Three odd pages on a trip in a bus to the other side of the country.
(written about two and a half years ago)
Friday, 4 August 2006
Raspberry Coke
Raspberry
Coke for sale
email me at theboybiggles@gmail.com
to stock up on raspberry Coke. I've got
plenty of boxes (24X600ml) available
Coke for sale
email me at theboybiggles@gmail.com
to stock up on raspberry Coke. I've got
plenty of boxes (24X600ml) available
Monday, 24 July 2006
Sampson I
"...If the Pantene racket had been up and running back then, they would have made a mint from this group..."
Sampson glanced round. His band of loyal devotees appeared to be in a state of phsycological decline. Exponentially, a universal deppression was weighing heavy on the shoulders of them all. These were the Sampsonites. A bunch of "the cool dudes" who followed Sampson round, observing everything he did, re-enacting his awesome moves which he used in his frequent clashes with lions, annoying princes and several thousand opponents who he pulverised with the jawbone of a donkey.
This was one pretty special guy, as Sampson's band had recognised. Sampson was happy for them to follow him round and join in with him on his excursions. Usually, they were an excellent team, dispersing and destroying their parasitic enemies. All the guys in the band had long hair. If the Pantene racket had been up and running back then, they would have made a mint from this group. They all struggled to keep their hair from being knotted, dirty and smelly. All save Sampson. Sampson never needed to brush or wash his hair. It flowed over his broad shoulders and down his strong back, down, past his knees, just now dragging along the ground. Addmittedly, the hair dragging on the ground did get a bit dirty. Nothing a bit of Persil wouldn't remove, though. Unfortunately for Sammy - Persil wasn't around back then, just like Pantene. Sampson made do with the many flowing brooks of crystal clear liquid that issued out of the backs of most of the cities they camped outside. Obviously the old settling ponds were doing a good job... The point is, though - Sampson's rich, full red hair had each one of the six signs.
But they were despondent. Johnarus, one of Sampson's closest friends had just that afternoon taken his life. Along with the rest of Sampson's follIowers, Johnarus prized his fairly long, slightly curly and brown hair. While not being up to Sampson's standard or length, Johnarus had spent a lot of time looking after his hair, often shaking his head up and down in time to whatever tunes were playing - his large crop of hair flinging wildly round, getting in peoples eyes. Alas for Johnarus. Brought before the council of the Baldisthbest, his hair had been condemned. That afternoon, his hair was to be removed from his head in public.
This was the same as the death penalty for young Johnarus, as well the devious members of the Baldisthbest council knew. After the hearing the chop, the blind-folded Johnarus who couldn't bear the shame of an uncovered head, ended his life.
Sampson himself, was devestated. Johnarus, whom he had had such great hopes in, whom he believed to be a sincere and righteous Jew, following God, and himself, had killed himself.* Johnarus had done the thing at the time, which he believed to be fitting, even if not right. It was a noble thing to do, showing the World that what he believed was more important that his life itself.**
To be continued...
*For a Christian to commit suicide, is this a damning sin? No. Jesus died for all our sins. Perseverence of the Saints, and Irresistible Grace explain that none of God's children will ever totally fall away. Thus, for instance, Johnarus, in his backslidden state, commiting suicide, is ending something that God created, in a way that God did not intend it to be ended. Of course, suicide is a sin. But since Johnarus was a believer before he murdered himself, there is no reason to believe that he wasn't really a Cistian simply because he sinned. To God, even a small sin is as great as a "big" sin. To God, all sin is abhorrent. Especially the sin of not coming to Him and confessing our sins, and letting him rule our lives. This is the worst sin of all that will ultimately damn us.
**For the Christian, the day of one's death is more blessed than the day of one's birth. In birth, we enter a world of sin. In death, we enter eternal bliss and holiness.
disclaimer: I wrote this quite a while ago. All characters are entirely fictional except Johnarus
Sampson glanced round. His band of loyal devotees appeared to be in a state of phsycological decline. Exponentially, a universal deppression was weighing heavy on the shoulders of them all. These were the Sampsonites. A bunch of "the cool dudes" who followed Sampson round, observing everything he did, re-enacting his awesome moves which he used in his frequent clashes with lions, annoying princes and several thousand opponents who he pulverised with the jawbone of a donkey.
This was one pretty special guy, as Sampson's band had recognised. Sampson was happy for them to follow him round and join in with him on his excursions. Usually, they were an excellent team, dispersing and destroying their parasitic enemies. All the guys in the band had long hair. If the Pantene racket had been up and running back then, they would have made a mint from this group. They all struggled to keep their hair from being knotted, dirty and smelly. All save Sampson. Sampson never needed to brush or wash his hair. It flowed over his broad shoulders and down his strong back, down, past his knees, just now dragging along the ground. Addmittedly, the hair dragging on the ground did get a bit dirty. Nothing a bit of Persil wouldn't remove, though. Unfortunately for Sammy - Persil wasn't around back then, just like Pantene. Sampson made do with the many flowing brooks of crystal clear liquid that issued out of the backs of most of the cities they camped outside. Obviously the old settling ponds were doing a good job... The point is, though - Sampson's rich, full red hair had each one of the six signs.
But they were despondent. Johnarus, one of Sampson's closest friends had just that afternoon taken his life. Along with the rest of Sampson's follIowers, Johnarus prized his fairly long, slightly curly and brown hair. While not being up to Sampson's standard or length, Johnarus had spent a lot of time looking after his hair, often shaking his head up and down in time to whatever tunes were playing - his large crop of hair flinging wildly round, getting in peoples eyes. Alas for Johnarus. Brought before the council of the Baldisthbest, his hair had been condemned. That afternoon, his hair was to be removed from his head in public.
This was the same as the death penalty for young Johnarus, as well the devious members of the Baldisthbest council knew. After the hearing the chop, the blind-folded Johnarus who couldn't bear the shame of an uncovered head, ended his life.
Sampson himself, was devestated. Johnarus, whom he had had such great hopes in, whom he believed to be a sincere and righteous Jew, following God, and himself, had killed himself.* Johnarus had done the thing at the time, which he believed to be fitting, even if not right. It was a noble thing to do, showing the World that what he believed was more important that his life itself.**
To be continued...
*For a Christian to commit suicide, is this a damning sin? No. Jesus died for all our sins. Perseverence of the Saints, and Irresistible Grace explain that none of God's children will ever totally fall away. Thus, for instance, Johnarus, in his backslidden state, commiting suicide, is ending something that God created, in a way that God did not intend it to be ended. Of course, suicide is a sin. But since Johnarus was a believer before he murdered himself, there is no reason to believe that he wasn't really a Cistian simply because he sinned. To God, even a small sin is as great as a "big" sin. To God, all sin is abhorrent. Especially the sin of not coming to Him and confessing our sins, and letting him rule our lives. This is the worst sin of all that will ultimately damn us.
**For the Christian, the day of one's death is more blessed than the day of one's birth. In birth, we enter a world of sin. In death, we enter eternal bliss and holiness.
disclaimer: I wrote this quite a while ago. All characters are entirely fictional except Johnarus
Wednesday, 21 June 2006
UDB*
SalutationS
I am at a loss to know what to upload as my next blog.
So, based on the largest number of requests by individual people, for one of the two following subjects, I will proceed.
First option is an article I wrote in Ireland, and is altogether quite entirely relevant to a particular bill which at this time is being put to the New Zealand Parliament. It will not be edited from the original cut, and so should therefore have a certain degree of contoversiality attached to it.
the second option would be another story about Darren Raxworthy and his colleagues. I can't brief you on that at this stage, however.
In the meantime, please check out
www.bigglesfliesthemainland.bravehost.com
*UDB stands for User Decides Basis
I am at a loss to know what to upload as my next blog.
So, based on the largest number of requests by individual people, for one of the two following subjects, I will proceed.
First option is an article I wrote in Ireland, and is altogether quite entirely relevant to a particular bill which at this time is being put to the New Zealand Parliament. It will not be edited from the original cut, and so should therefore have a certain degree of contoversiality attached to it.
the second option would be another story about Darren Raxworthy and his colleagues. I can't brief you on that at this stage, however.
In the meantime, please check out
www.bigglesfliesthemainland.bravehost.com
*UDB stands for User Decides Basis
Tuesday, 30 May 2006
The Router
"...Hiding his face behind an outer of 24 SPC baked bean cans, Darren pulled his SIG from his pocket. Switching the laser on, Darren aimed for the right tyre of the black Holden..."
The day before tomorrow, 1545 hours.
He spat the hairpin from between his teeth, into his idle left hand. Many soldiers take a small photo of their sweet-heart into action, but Darren however, was content with the hair-pin as a keepsake. His hand trembled, shaking almost arthritically as he slipped the hairpin into the left pocket of his jeans. Casting a hurried glance over his shoulder, and out through the back window of the Suzuki minivan, Darren rested his right hand on the keys, which were in the ignition. “Jase!”. Darren spoke quickly, and under his breath. “Give 'us five” Jason returned. “It's this fog mate. You know, water resonates at 2.4 gigahertz, and my wifi runs at 2.4 as well” “Huh”, responded Darren. “Pretty dodgy reception, can't you back up to the corner?” Darren swung his arm round behind his seat, grabbing hold of his well-used and threadbare back-pack. He pulled out an antenna. “This any good?” It had a good solid base, which was magnetic, and a roll of cable attached. “Fantastic – but we need a pig-tail, bro” Darren was pretty up on the lingo, but he wasn't as clued up as his younger brother, when it came to computer speak. “Yes... I suppose we do” Darren agreed thoughtfully. “Give me that thing you were chewing on” Hesitating for a moment, Darren produced the hairpin. It was a very nice hairpin, slimline, not wavy, but a straight, almost cylindrical piece of metal, bent 180 degrees in the middle. Prising the two ends apart slightly, Jason slotted one end of the hairpin into the appropriate hole in his PCMCIA wireless card in his Laptop, and the other end, he slipped into the end of the antenna cable. The passenger window winding mechanism of the van was broken, so that the window wouldn't wind down properly. A couple of nails, slotted through holes in the door panel held up the glass.
Jason got eye-contact with his brother, and pulled out the two nails. Darren sucked the air in between his clenched teeth, grimacing. The glass fell into the bottom of the door, but didn't break. Jase slapped the antenna onto the roof. “Beauty” Jason's grin was contagious. “Yep, gotcha... She's just sniffing the packets now... See, what this program does is, it access the router and checks out the post data, kind of reads the log, which is a very small file, stored on the firmware, inside the router itself... Jason spoke to himself, and so as not to leave Darren in the dark. “Instead of spending weeks, you see, sniffing the packets, it can do it all at once – should take a few minutes and we'll have our key.” Darren looked quizzically at his brother. “Sniffing; it's like, looking for patterns in the way the data is encrypted, works a treat” Jason trailed off, concentrating on his job. Darren fiddled with the radio, and found one station. “Cheap blimmin Suzuki vans...” Don't Panic by Coldplay was playing; Jason's eyes lit up and Darren lowered the volume sufficiently. Humming under his breath, mouthing the words of the song: “we live in a beautiful World...” Jason looked up “Right, she's copying. It's bigger than I expected, but what can you expect from Access?” They were here to borrow a database from their friendly neighborhood library, only, they'd forgotten their library cards, and so were bypassing the conventional withdrawal procedures. In fact, it was a tad more serious than that. The database consisted of a list of names and organisations that were deemed “potentially harmful to the state” With this database, for at least a few weeks, they could remain one step ahead of the enemy.
Since an early age, Darren was sure he had some measure of ESP. He found he was, more so than others, able to sense the presence of other people, before he saw or even heard them. When he and Jase, as young boys used to play Age of Empires together, It was always Darren that said when it was time to stop. Not so much because they weren't supposed to be playing, but that they'd been playing for too long... More often than not, Darren now thought, belligerently, Mum and Dad got home soon after we stopped. And now Darren, taking his right hand off the keys, and letting it rest on his coat pocket which hid his SIG Sauer, he glanced at the rear view mirror. “How long's it got?” “twenty-five seconds” Jase returned. Fifty meters behind them in the fog, Darren made out the figures of four men walking towards a tidy 99 Holden Commodore. “Bro! do your thing, there's some guys going to a car!” Darren spoke quietly and hoarsely. Fn+F6. Jason held down the keys on his Toshiba Satelite 2410. Since simplifying the source code the other day, Jason had been able to speed up the program's load time. Within two seconds, waveJam was open and Jase had jammed the radio wave that remote car keys operate on. Darren had no idea how it worked, but Jason seemed to be pretty keen on it. “Right mate, she's copied”. Jason grinned. Jase pulled the antenna in, waving unhelpfully at the men who looking towards the van. Pulling his head back in to the van, Jason looked strangely at Darren. “They're flippin getting in the car!” Darren swung himself over the flimsy driver's seat, into the back of the van. “Drive”, he ordered simply. Jason acted quickly, turning the keys even before he was seated. “Plenty of cars have keys and remotes, bro.” Darren breathed heavily. “This isn't Germany”. It was not, in fact, Germany, they were in the southern side of Auckland, New Zealand's largest city. The back tires spun, and the back of the van skewed round as Jason accelerated. “Gotta teach him to blimmin drive”, Darren thought to himself.
Lying full length in the back of the van, head facing the back door, Darren shouted “flip the boot!” The van veered into the center of the road as something happened in the boot opening mechanism. A convulsive shiver racked Darren's body as he punched the back door of the van. The back door swung violently open, and Darren hooked his feet round a bar of metal in the driver's seat. Hiding his face behind an outer of 24 SPC baked bean cans, Darren pulled his SIG from his pocket. Switching the laser on, Darren aimed for the tyres of the black Holden, that was now accelerating fast towards them. Darren clenched his teeth in a triumphant grin as he heard the distant and harsh “psshhh” of the Holden's right tyre. Whoever was driving was managing all right, Darren thought, as the black vehicle continued the pursuit, gaining on the white Suzuki minivan with the single wide blue racing stripe. Leaning out of the rear passanger window of the black Holden was a heavily built man wearing a German Army overcoat. With the hood low over his eyes, he aimed his M16 with grenade launcher attachment at the speeding minivan. Something violently struck the back of the passenger seat of the van. Darren spun round, and seeing the grenade rolling along the floor of the van towards him, he instinctively leaned round, grabbed it, and flung it out the door.
30.05.06, 800 hours.
Darren was sitting back in his office, leaning back in his good old office chair. Bit of a story behind the chair. Darren had received it along with the Toshiba Satelite 2410, when he started work for an IT company several years ago. But when his job was made redundant, the proprietors had let him hang onto his laptop and office chair. A large cup of tea held to his lips, in his right hand, Darren wiped his brow as he read one of the smaller headlines on the front page of the Herald, Auckland's daily newspaper. “4 die in horrific explosion” As Darren skimmed over the text, he saw “Police believe the explosion was not an accident”, and then down at the bottom of the article, “full coverage on pages 2-3”. The phone rang, and it was Darren's other brother, Lionel, who was in their base office, in Christchurch. “Mate! I got the list this morning!, this is going to be pretty useful...”
Thursday, 18 May 2006
the greenhorn's guide #1
home networking
please don't try this at home...
No longer is networking a specialised activity. Now even you can set up and maintain your own network.
the RJ45 (lan) to Serial converter;
plug it into your serial port.
the Serial to RJ45 cable.
please don't try this at home...
No longer is networking a specialised activity. Now even you can set up and maintain your own network.
the RJ45 (lan) to Serial converter;plug it into your serial port.
the Serial to RJ45 cable.To set up your own blindingly fast home network, you'll need one of each of the above components. You'll be able to connect any two of your computers that have serial ports. If you require a larger network, consider investing in a printer switch:
The printer switch
Using as many printer switches as you require, you should theoretically be able to create a network of the size you require.
Or if you're really keen on being on the cutting edge, and you've got an RJ45 (LAN) port on the back of your computer, good for you. Sometimes however, LAN ports have been known to pack up a bit. Should you run into any trouble with yours, try resetting it, with one of these handy gadgets:
The irreplaceable RJ45 reset cable
The printer switchOr if you're really keen on being on the cutting edge, and you've got an RJ45 (LAN) port on the back of your computer, good for you. Sometimes however, LAN ports have been known to pack up a bit. Should you run into any trouble with yours, try resetting it, with one of these handy gadgets:
The irreplaceable RJ45 reset cableHave fun networking!
Friday, 12 May 2006
Neenish Tarts
A pack of 6 Neenish Tarts
only $4.99 + $3.50 p&p anywhere in NewZealand.
high-quality, home-baked Neenish Tarts
high-quality, home-baked Neenish Tarts
email me today to place your order
picture not of actual product, but very similar each tart is approximately 6cm in diameter
Saturday, 6 May 2006
Spilt Beans
Countdown had SPC baked beans (in rich tomato sauce) for 25c. With a limit of four cans per person, it was possible to go in and recieve, printed on the bottom of the reciept: "your savings today: $4.40". Poorly designed cans, the ones that give grocery boys nightmares. It could have been that some elderly can-production line designer who wanted his name to live on through the ages, created this flaw intentionally. Suffice it to say, that when all was said and done, my "savings today" was $26.40. It's always a good feeling, when you spend some of your hard earned* cash, that you spend $6 and walk out with 24 nutritious meals.
As the Nissan Serena's brakes started to apply themselves, I flicked my wrists, loosening up my fingers. Stepping out of the van, I was carrying no less than 44 cans of fairly cheap, and potent baked beans. It's not everyday that you find yourself outside at night holding 44 cans of baked beans, so I decided to "experiment".
In my first experiment, I re-discovered the rudimentary principle of centrifugal force. The 20 cans on my left and the 24 on my right pulled at me with slightly un-equal G-force, resulting in an extremely fast but drunken looking spin. Coming to the conclusion that if I wanted to retain the use of my arms, I should start slowing down, I found that it wasn't going to be easy. I'd built up such a heck of a lot of momentum. I pictured the Chinese lady next door's mother-in-law, turning in her bed at the sound of 44 cans of baked beans scraping on our exposed aggregate driveway.
At that stage of my impromptu Physics degree, I decided that I wanted a double major: A MBSci, majoring in physics, and applied modern art. Finding 8 more cans just inside our front door, I proceeded to stack up the 54 baked bean cans. Considering the fact that the cans aren't designed for stacking, I considered the feat something of an achievement.
*speaking for myself
As the Nissan Serena's brakes started to apply themselves, I flicked my wrists, loosening up my fingers. Stepping out of the van, I was carrying no less than 44 cans of fairly cheap, and potent baked beans. It's not everyday that you find yourself outside at night holding 44 cans of baked beans, so I decided to "experiment".
In my first experiment, I re-discovered the rudimentary principle of centrifugal force. The 20 cans on my left and the 24 on my right pulled at me with slightly un-equal G-force, resulting in an extremely fast but drunken looking spin. Coming to the conclusion that if I wanted to retain the use of my arms, I should start slowing down, I found that it wasn't going to be easy. I'd built up such a heck of a lot of momentum. I pictured the Chinese lady next door's mother-in-law, turning in her bed at the sound of 44 cans of baked beans scraping on our exposed aggregate driveway.
At that stage of my impromptu Physics degree, I decided that I wanted a double major: A MBSci, majoring in physics, and applied modern art. Finding 8 more cans just inside our front door, I proceeded to stack up the 54 baked bean cans. Considering the fact that the cans aren't designed for stacking, I considered the feat something of an achievement.
*speaking for myself
Saturday, 29 April 2006
cycling on a dodgy tire
"...a nod of mutual agreement about anything in-particular to the heavily built second-hand-dealing, and balding giant, who is a frequenter of Christchurch's garage sales..."
Yesterday I looked at the tire of my brother's bike. The back tire was looking a bit dodgy. the canvas was starting to show through, and the tube was bulging out a bit. Early this morning when I looked at the front tire, I saw that it, too was almost at the end of it's journey, so to speak.
...I drifted into semi-conciousness. automatically raising my wrist to infront of my face, where I could read my watch, I saw that it was 6:40am or thereabouts. Quickly pulling on my brother's pair of shorts, that are getting close to the length of a pair of 3/4's, but not quite. Pulling my jersey with the t-shirt still inside it from last night, over my head, I stood up. My 70's as, and very comfortable flowery orange mattress was on the floor. screwing up my duvet and large double sheet, which, when folded over does the job, and threw it between the large inset wardrobe, and the other clothes cupboard, - ontop of a box with some other clothes on it. My pillow followed suit. Folding the mattress in half with my foot, I was able to open the bedroom door and head for the bathroom. Just a few drops of cold water.
And dammit, I've got a sore throat. Drinking a couple of handfulls of the water doesn't help. Deciding that socks would be wise, I head back into my room and find a clean pair of sports socks that almost match. Ready for whatever the day might throw at me, I went down to the kitchen to unpack the dishwasher. Having got the dishwasher out of the way, it was time to check out the Garage Sales in the Buy-Sell. With a well laid out list of half a dozen or so promising looking Garage sales, I was just about ready to go. Back in my room again, I pulled on my Jeans, tightening the belt one notch more than I did usually. strapping my helmet over my NY cap, and having put the list I'd made, and the mapbook out of the car into my backpack, I walked to the front door.
Lifeless and heavy, sullen and all-enveloping, the mist hit me. With not even a look back at the closing wooden door behind me, I strode into the forboding environment. Almost blivious to the rain drenched seat, and briefly wiping some of the water off with my hand, I pulled the bike out of it's stand and jumped on. The sponge handle-bar covers were pleasently soaked. It was about 7:15 as I pulled out of our driveway. a few minutes later, as I pedalled furiously down Maidstone Road, (a straight and long road, heading towards where I was), I slowed my pace a bit. Putting my earphones in my ears, I then (fool-hardily) pulled out my iPod and stuck the 3 1/4 jack into it, - which made the screen light up. I think it was Ray Comfort who was speaking, but it was too early in the morning for evangalical motivation, so I switched to Poor Old Lu
First stop, 111 Maidstone Road. This garage sale was not a little bit a complete and utterly miserable failure, and so with little more than a nod of mutual agreement about anything in-particular to the heavily built second-hand-dealing, and balding giant, who is a frequenter of Christchurch's garage sales, I thanked my hosts and lost no time getting on my way...
Yesterday I looked at the tire of my brother's bike. The back tire was looking a bit dodgy. the canvas was starting to show through, and the tube was bulging out a bit. Early this morning when I looked at the front tire, I saw that it, too was almost at the end of it's journey, so to speak.
...I drifted into semi-conciousness. automatically raising my wrist to infront of my face, where I could read my watch, I saw that it was 6:40am or thereabouts. Quickly pulling on my brother's pair of shorts, that are getting close to the length of a pair of 3/4's, but not quite. Pulling my jersey with the t-shirt still inside it from last night, over my head, I stood up. My 70's as, and very comfortable flowery orange mattress was on the floor. screwing up my duvet and large double sheet, which, when folded over does the job, and threw it between the large inset wardrobe, and the other clothes cupboard, - ontop of a box with some other clothes on it. My pillow followed suit. Folding the mattress in half with my foot, I was able to open the bedroom door and head for the bathroom. Just a few drops of cold water.
And dammit, I've got a sore throat. Drinking a couple of handfulls of the water doesn't help. Deciding that socks would be wise, I head back into my room and find a clean pair of sports socks that almost match. Ready for whatever the day might throw at me, I went down to the kitchen to unpack the dishwasher. Having got the dishwasher out of the way, it was time to check out the Garage Sales in the Buy-Sell. With a well laid out list of half a dozen or so promising looking Garage sales, I was just about ready to go. Back in my room again, I pulled on my Jeans, tightening the belt one notch more than I did usually. strapping my helmet over my NY cap, and having put the list I'd made, and the mapbook out of the car into my backpack, I walked to the front door.
Lifeless and heavy, sullen and all-enveloping, the mist hit me. With not even a look back at the closing wooden door behind me, I strode into the forboding environment. Almost blivious to the rain drenched seat, and briefly wiping some of the water off with my hand, I pulled the bike out of it's stand and jumped on. The sponge handle-bar covers were pleasently soaked. It was about 7:15 as I pulled out of our driveway. a few minutes later, as I pedalled furiously down Maidstone Road, (a straight and long road, heading towards where I was), I slowed my pace a bit. Putting my earphones in my ears, I then (fool-hardily) pulled out my iPod and stuck the 3 1/4 jack into it, - which made the screen light up. I think it was Ray Comfort who was speaking, but it was too early in the morning for evangalical motivation, so I switched to Poor Old Lu
First stop, 111 Maidstone Road. This garage sale was not a little bit a complete and utterly miserable failure, and so with little more than a nod of mutual agreement about anything in-particular to the heavily built second-hand-dealing, and balding giant, who is a frequenter of Christchurch's garage sales, I thanked my hosts and lost no time getting on my way...
Monday, 10 April 2006
Raxworthy Tune
Exclusive from the Raxfiles
and here by popular demand
we bring you the RaxTune
what are the raxfiles? what's all this about?
Darren Raxworthy here - whats the go?
Ask me lad - Yo - I'm in the know.
Yo - every chance you get you blow.
Take it nice and easy bro.
Come on kid, on with the show.
Don't go fast, you gotta go slow.
Raxworthy Yo!
Whats the go?
Keep it up bro
Make the show
Most of them say go with the flow
Ask the guys who earn their dough
They don't hang their jeans down low
All wear their fluro glasses though.
Come on kid, let's do this bro
We'll get the job done even so.
Raxworthy Yo!
Whatda go?
Keep up bro
Make da show
Saturday, 8 April 2006
The Midas Touch
"...The very youngest, meanwhile, desperately hanging on to her daddy's back pockets..."
This afternoon, Mum and I crashed a 50th Wedding Anniversary, which, I am led to believe, is more commonly termed: "Golden Anniversary". Seeing as the celebration was over in Dallington Area (Breezes Road), I typed this up on the drive home. Mum helped me out with, you know, wording some of the more tricky parts of it... It was real funny, in the (church) hall, after the celebration, seeing the young children (not a few), darting round the crowded hall. In stark contrast to the majority of the population who appeared to be chronologically challenged...
violently repelling the milling throng of hunger-stricken pale faced children and toddlers, the elderly men formed perimeters around the heavily laden tables. Without pausing for any pleasentries and seemingly oblivious to the hopful, tear stained complexions of a generation beyond their venerable comprehension, the men set to their task.
In one corner of the modestly decorated, and well lighted room, 5 younglings between the ages of 10 and 2 sat obediently, their subdued impatience just showing through the older two's faces. The next two youngest of the group of children, ever looking up to their big brother and sister, also were looking expectantly at the several tables that the room boasted. The very youngest, meanwhile, desperately hanging on to her daddy's back pockets.
I happened a glance around the busy room, noticing one or two of the more adventurous women, who, still in the higher end of the age bracket, were venturing forward to the tables. Daddy glanced at his wife, and with almost imperceptible eye movement, the mutual agreement was concreted. With an equally low level of emotion showing, Daddy raised his head, signalling his prodgeny that they were at liberty to "tuck in".
Like so many racing hounds being released from their cages onto the track, the mangled half-corpse of a rabbit alluring them, exhorting them to greater efforts, the children sped to the tables...
This afternoon, Mum and I crashed a 50th Wedding Anniversary, which, I am led to believe, is more commonly termed: "Golden Anniversary". Seeing as the celebration was over in Dallington Area (Breezes Road), I typed this up on the drive home. Mum helped me out with, you know, wording some of the more tricky parts of it... It was real funny, in the (church) hall, after the celebration, seeing the young children (not a few), darting round the crowded hall. In stark contrast to the majority of the population who appeared to be chronologically challenged...
violently repelling the milling throng of hunger-stricken pale faced children and toddlers, the elderly men formed perimeters around the heavily laden tables. Without pausing for any pleasentries and seemingly oblivious to the hopful, tear stained complexions of a generation beyond their venerable comprehension, the men set to their task.
In one corner of the modestly decorated, and well lighted room, 5 younglings between the ages of 10 and 2 sat obediently, their subdued impatience just showing through the older two's faces. The next two youngest of the group of children, ever looking up to their big brother and sister, also were looking expectantly at the several tables that the room boasted. The very youngest, meanwhile, desperately hanging on to her daddy's back pockets.
I happened a glance around the busy room, noticing one or two of the more adventurous women, who, still in the higher end of the age bracket, were venturing forward to the tables. Daddy glanced at his wife, and with almost imperceptible eye movement, the mutual agreement was concreted. With an equally low level of emotion showing, Daddy raised his head, signalling his prodgeny that they were at liberty to "tuck in".
Like so many racing hounds being released from their cages onto the track, the mangled half-corpse of a rabbit alluring them, exhorting them to greater efforts, the children sped to the tables...
Friday, 7 April 2006
the elusive character returns...
"...he shows just the slightest weakness; turning up the collar of his well weathered Rodd&Gunn jacket..."
An almost remorseful, longing look back at the door, then stoically turning his head and setting off into the blinding rain, the foul expanse of nothingness which lay before him. Oblivious to the violent storm, he shows just the slightest weakness; turning up the collar of his well weathered Rodd&Gunn jacket, enabling the biting particles of what is commonly called rain to impact with the back of his neck and almost unnoticably but systematically, collectively drench the back of his t-shirt. And you guessed it, because beneath his jacket, and beneath his brother's "neo-esque" "physically pin-striped" navy jersy, was the Santorini t-shirt, promoting, as always, the idea that consuming vast quantities of Ouzo was what kept the wearer going.
Two comments of arbitrary point and value were made to the Chinese man at the bus-stop, who did not deign to respond. Taking the unambiguous seat a few behind the driver, he settled down for the short trip, attempting the impossible: one or two moments of rest to make up for his troubled, horror-stricken night of sleeplessness.
A very poor bus-driver who should not have been given the job patted the accelerator and, when turning right at an intersection, would invariably turn into the right hand lane if it was empty. Only until a car, came down the right hand lane towards the bus would the driver wake from his reverie and pull into the correct lane on the left hand side of the road...
to be continued - if level of demand has an inversely proportional relationship to the enjoyment I would take from continuing...
to the days
An almost remorseful, longing look back at the door, then stoically turning his head and setting off into the blinding rain, the foul expanse of nothingness which lay before him. Oblivious to the violent storm, he shows just the slightest weakness; turning up the collar of his well weathered Rodd&Gunn jacket, enabling the biting particles of what is commonly called rain to impact with the back of his neck and almost unnoticably but systematically, collectively drench the back of his t-shirt. And you guessed it, because beneath his jacket, and beneath his brother's "neo-esque" "physically pin-striped" navy jersy, was the Santorini t-shirt, promoting, as always, the idea that consuming vast quantities of Ouzo was what kept the wearer going.
Two comments of arbitrary point and value were made to the Chinese man at the bus-stop, who did not deign to respond. Taking the unambiguous seat a few behind the driver, he settled down for the short trip, attempting the impossible: one or two moments of rest to make up for his troubled, horror-stricken night of sleeplessness.
A very poor bus-driver who should not have been given the job patted the accelerator and, when turning right at an intersection, would invariably turn into the right hand lane if it was empty. Only until a car, came down the right hand lane towards the bus would the driver wake from his reverie and pull into the correct lane on the left hand side of the road...
to be continued - if level of demand has an inversely proportional relationship to the enjoyment I would take from continuing...
to the days
Thursday, 6 April 2006
1107 hours 06.04.06
"...at the un-just time of 715 hours, his accursed alarm shattered a blissful but meaningless dream..."
Deftly flicking the lid of his laptop up, the elusive character paused to think. The laptop, a Toshiba TE2100, showed that this man had taste, but not enough experience to be as elite as his exterior, his mannerisms and appearence would appear to mirror. (The TE2100 though having the coveted TOSHIBA badge, is not infact made by Toshiba - and is of cheaper design and manufacture, than, say, the Satelite or the all-powerful Qosimo)The fact that he was wearing his younger (but slightly taller and more solid) brother's ex-army jersy says a fair bit as well. The cuffs fair down over his wrists where they should probably have been tucked under. The black t-shirt advertising the Greek Resteraunt in Town is hidden by the jersy, so the people behind him don't realise that it's Ouzo this guy is running on. He's wearing a pair of jeans (size 32) (the belt helps), which, slightly flared, cover his Jandals ($9.99 at the Warehouse). This is without a shadow of doubt, a man of fashion - his finger's obviously on the pulse, two or three steps ahead of most of the other first year students in the room, (although they probably think he's quite behind them). We left this elusive and well-dressed man, pausing to think. Even as he pulls the USB wireless card out of his bag and carefully but directly reaches round the back of his laptop plugging it in (the result of many years of practice), the thought hits him - "why am I here?". Why is this man here? Because he woke up in the morning and came here.
At the un-just time of 715 hours, his accursed alarm shattered a blissful but meaningless dream. Roughly dragging his body accross the edge of his sleeping platform, he leaned over the side, hands on the floor, till he could reach the red cabinet. Silencing the vile noise, he pulled himself back under his duvet...
To the falsetto lyrics of a couple of Chris Martin's earlier and better songs, and concerned about the battery level in his mp3 player, the tired man shot off down the long and unforgiving Maidstone Road. As always, it was pedal to the metal and just the one goal in mind - the journey back to base. A quick stop at the best little bakery in New Zealand, this involves a painfully long wait for three women, obviously each striving to attain the stereotype of the middle-aged upper middle class woman, ordering and or waiting for their coffees.
With the four cheese and bacon knots securely stowed in his bag, the man was ready for anything the day might throw at him...
Anything, but the Management Science lecture!
Deftly flicking the lid of his laptop up, the elusive character paused to think. The laptop, a Toshiba TE2100, showed that this man had taste, but not enough experience to be as elite as his exterior, his mannerisms and appearence would appear to mirror. (The TE2100 though having the coveted TOSHIBA badge, is not infact made by Toshiba - and is of cheaper design and manufacture, than, say, the Satelite or the all-powerful Qosimo)The fact that he was wearing his younger (but slightly taller and more solid) brother's ex-army jersy says a fair bit as well. The cuffs fair down over his wrists where they should probably have been tucked under. The black t-shirt advertising the Greek Resteraunt in Town is hidden by the jersy, so the people behind him don't realise that it's Ouzo this guy is running on. He's wearing a pair of jeans (size 32) (the belt helps), which, slightly flared, cover his Jandals ($9.99 at the Warehouse). This is without a shadow of doubt, a man of fashion - his finger's obviously on the pulse, two or three steps ahead of most of the other first year students in the room, (although they probably think he's quite behind them). We left this elusive and well-dressed man, pausing to think. Even as he pulls the USB wireless card out of his bag and carefully but directly reaches round the back of his laptop plugging it in (the result of many years of practice), the thought hits him - "why am I here?". Why is this man here? Because he woke up in the morning and came here.
At the un-just time of 715 hours, his accursed alarm shattered a blissful but meaningless dream. Roughly dragging his body accross the edge of his sleeping platform, he leaned over the side, hands on the floor, till he could reach the red cabinet. Silencing the vile noise, he pulled himself back under his duvet...
To the falsetto lyrics of a couple of Chris Martin's earlier and better songs, and concerned about the battery level in his mp3 player, the tired man shot off down the long and unforgiving Maidstone Road. As always, it was pedal to the metal and just the one goal in mind - the journey back to base. A quick stop at the best little bakery in New Zealand, this involves a painfully long wait for three women, obviously each striving to attain the stereotype of the middle-aged upper middle class woman, ordering and or waiting for their coffees.
With the four cheese and bacon knots securely stowed in his bag, the man was ready for anything the day might throw at him...
Anything, but the Management Science lecture!
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