I had to give it up. Smoking six cigars a day has been killing me, goddamn i love it though. it makes me feel so alive.
this is what briar tung thought to himself as he stubbed out his seventh cigar for the day in an ashtray he'd fashioned from a disused dog bowl that used to belong to his neighbour, Bette Midden. Briar had only two weeks until the Olympics was starting, and he somehow had to conjure up the form to defend his 200m IM title. People nowadays take for granted that he is better than Michael Phelps, but you have to remember, back in 2012 Phelps was gunning for his world record 18th gold medal in this event. Briar gained a mental edge by stubbing his cigar out - the third of the day, if you must know - on Michael Phelps' coach's hand, couple hours before the final. He'd been this close to being thrown out of the games. Anywho, that was all water under the bridge now. Tung and Phelps' coach were married now, even though Burt Oast continued to coach Phelps. Tung kept trying to convince him to convince Phelps to switch to track and field, with only limited success.
briar tung's uncle, bey Barre, was a very, very fat man. even still, he could run the 100m dash in under 11 seconds, and was the one who'd originally turned tung onto sports. hell, if he could win gold at the senior olympics, while smoking a shisha pipe, briar tung could do anything. and he did, much to the delight of people all around the world. he was a modern day tiger woods, someone who really captured the imagination of people large and small. it might have been his cigar habit, people were sick of having idols who were better than them in every way.
Bey Barre was now a commentator with seven olympics. he covered dressage and athletics, plus a little diving here, a little rugby there. man for all seasons, you could say. he would give briar a pep talk just before the final, just in case he hadn't blown the cobwebs out. it went a little like this:
Briar Tung, I stand before you a broken man. The race is over, and you haven't won. You had more talent in your left scrotum than every other competitor in the field, but your concentration let you down. as soon as you lost concentration, you lost technique. you started to worry, and the race was already lost, even though you were a full body length and a half in front.
By this time tung was so worked out he'd yell out - STOP! no!!! to which his uncle would say, oh, why ?you gonna prove me wrong? you gonna prove me wrong?! YOU GONNA PROVE ME WRONG?!?! AAAAARRRRRGGGGGHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!! they'd then each share a quiet hug. and tung was so focused and ready to jump out of his skin the opponent didn't stand a chance. especially if they were rattled by their coach being attacked earlier in the day.
The End
Monday, July 06, 2009
A disaster story
Petersham, NSW 12:57
John Matlock was sweeping his driveway. same driveway he’d been sweeping every day for nigh on 6 weeks, ever since he was born, apart from a few years when he hadn’t been sweeping. he looked up the street, then down the street, then up again. ain’t that a kids rhyme? he thought to himself, chuckling angrily. Chuck, as he liked to be called, picked up the paper off his lawn, then cast a sideward glance at his neighbour, Bette Midden. she normally picked her paper up at roughly the same time, and even though they’d gotten into fisticuffs a few times over the years, they held a deep respect for each other, because they eached subscribed to the same paper.
John Matlock was sweeping his driveway. same driveway he’d been sweeping every day for nigh on 6 weeks, ever since he was born, apart from a few years when he hadn’t been sweeping. he looked up the street, then down the street, then up again. ain’t that a kids rhyme? he thought to himself, chuckling angrily. Chuck, as he liked to be called, picked up the paper off his lawn, then cast a sideward glance at his neighbour, Bette Midden. she normally picked her paper up at roughly the same time, and even though they’d gotten into fisticuffs a few times over the years, they held a deep respect for each other, because they eached subscribed to the same paper.
but she wasn’t there this morning. strange, he thought to himself. that was when John Matlock looked up the street again and almost had a movement – there wasn’t a single person in the whole street. he quickly pulled out his mobile and called a few random friends and family – no answer. this was starting to freak Chuck out. he’d served in
Williamstown, NSW 12:58
Mary Gaberdeen was a truck salesman, working for the department of criminal affairs and multiculturalism out of williamstown, near
Look, I told you already, I need you to pick up the kids – no, Hawn, that’s not fair – look would you just listen to me for a minute?! Fine, I’ll pick them up. Bye for now!
This was turning into a real clusterfuck of a day, she thought as saliva squirted into her mouth. Her belly was like an angry sea, sloshing around juices and prompting her to seek out food to remedy this unpalatable situation. She decided to head for Allan Hot Food, a place somewhere - i don't know where - that did the best chips and gravy. She checked her wallet for a money, and there was some for her to buy lunch. But just then the phone rang again. It was Hawn.
Look, what do you want now, honey?
Hawn started speaking, but in the middle of the sentence she heard the faintest yelp, and then the line cut out. She was absolutely buggered if she knew what was going on, but it started to freak her out. She was below quota for the month, her tummy was rumbling, and now it didn’t seem like a single human soul was around her for now. Things were getting weird. She started the walk to Allan hot food, slightly freaked out by the quietness for this time of day.
Madison and Tony were making out. They'd been going at it for a while, their relationship had finally reached the point where this kind of action was possible and indeed desired by them both. They were around the corner from the local cinema, listening in, or at least pretending to. As the pressure built between them, Tony had to take a breather for air. He had a blocked nose. All of a sudden, they looked around and there was no one there.
Hey, where’d everyone go?
I dunno honey, don’t worry about it at the moment.
But there was a nagging feeling in the back of Tony’s mind that maybe, just maybe, things weren’t alright. He pulled out his phone and started to record the couple as they resumed their intimate throes.
Hey, where did you learn that dance?
It’s called the Mabinoggian, Tony. I learned it from my grandma, she was an irish dancer back in the sixties. It’s the last thing she taught me before she died.
Woah, Tony replied.
For some reason they decided to take a peek into the drive in, but despite the crashes and bangs from the latest reese witherspoon flick, no one else was around. this was starting to get really weird.
The Government had assembled its finest men and women to deal with the situation. Kevin Rudd called across to his deputy Julia Gillard.
A trace of a hint of a tear appeared in Kevin's eye, but it disappeared in much the same way a shitload of people seemed to have in the last hour and fifteen minutes.
A man in a defence uniform stepped forward to the table to brief them. He looked harried and old, like he just couldn’t handle this situation.
S-s-sir, at approximately thirteen hundred hours eastern standard t-t-t-t-t-time, some kind of energy disturbance appeared over the country. It has the effect of getting rid of people. As far as we can tell, more than half the country’s gone – Geezuz christ, called out Kevin Rudd – I’ve made contact with the only four people left in the country outside the ACT, all of them localised to the eastern seaboard. A couple called Madison and Tony, a lady called Mary Gaberdeen and an old guy called John “Chuck” Matlock. the
Thankyou chief superintendent brigadier Stevenson. I know you’ve lost family in this. So have I. The important thing for us to remember that we were elected to serve the australian people. and while there may only be a few left here, at any given time there are thousands of them overseas. it is to them that we are now responsible.
No one was prepared for this situation, but they had no choice but to deal with it now. This was really happening.
Bring them in, Julia
the prime minister’s lush office had been transformed into somewhat of an ad hoc ops room, with plush couches, big screen monitors, telefax machines and desks, and a dozen people repeatedly tapping away, empty cups of coffee sprawled across the floor, hundreds of bags of lolly gobble bliss bombs stacked in the corner.
kevin rudd had assembled a small team of what remaining civil authorities there were. there was an engineer, a finance man, a schoolteacher, julia gillard and brigadier stevenson. julia walked in with four confused souls.
what are we doing here, asked ‘chuck’ matlock. I need to call my wife
my kids, my prime minister. can you tell me what happened to my kids?! cried out mary gaberdeen in anguish
tony and
thank you julia. you can leave now. kevin had julia gillard running a small brown bag team, assasinating the few remaining foreign spies in
ladies and gentlemen, you’re probably wondering why you’re standing here before me. I’m afraid I have some bad news. you might want to sit down. won't make a frickin lick of difference though. Kevin wasn't too worried about swearing now. two days ago an energy wave of uncertain origin struck
the room fell into awed silence. it was as if they were in some disaster movie, only this was the real thing.
it hasn’t taken long for the world to respond, kevin continued. the
someone rushed in the room and called out ‘ mr prime minister, mr prime minister! come quickly!
No I will not come quickly! what is it woman?
all the lost people of
kevin rudd’s jaw dropped as far as his tendons would allow it. this was a disturbing new development. his thoughts wondered to his wife, therese rein. she’s alive, he yelled out
THE END
***
Post scriptum. The preceding slightly fantastic tale was inspired by my reading of a pretty, pretty, pretty lame disaster book. As is my wont, and I am wont to do, i refused to keep reading once I realised this. I remember a book i read called Earth Abides, and it looks a whole heap better in comparison. It had none of the ridiculous flourishes of some books, it was believable, and kind of eery. it is my great pleasure to recommend that book.
This is a story inspired by, rather than about Tooley Daley
nodgrass was ill at ease. he’d just eaten a chocolate croissant that sat badly in his estomago. that’s because it was a piece of shit – literally! figuratively speaking, of course! but these kinds of stomach ailments wouldn’t put him off his task at hand. tooling off in public. his idol was Tooley Daley and he made sure to offer a sacrifice – thousands of thousands upon thousands of little boys – each day, in his own special way. nodgrass finished himself off then returned to his desk, where his boss awaited him
where you been, noddy?
just out for a minute, what’s up boss?
it’s this report, noddy. I need you to take a look for me. I have a meeting next week and I’m just gonna go over there for a little while.
no probs boss. anything in particular you want me to look for?
yeah, someone lost a rare two dollar note in there. that’s the main thing
where you been, noddy?
just out for a minute, what’s up boss?
it’s this report, noddy. I need you to take a look for me. I have a meeting next week and I’m just gonna go over there for a little while.
no probs boss. anything in particular you want me to look for?
yeah, someone lost a rare two dollar note in there. that’s the main thing
with that nodgrass redirected his vision away from his boss’ abs and towards his computer screen. he had a learning difficulty.
THE END
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
SOO yesterday
well, in the absence of a grand thesis, A Sports Guy offers the following thoughts and recollections from another episode of the greatest game in the history of sports' greatest series of games... State of Origin!
The game just wasn't that good. It picked up in the second half when NSW got close, but it was ultimately characterised by opportunities blown rather than seized. That's not what footy's all about! In particular, the Lockyer and Folau tries were an absolute joke. Inglis, ok, he's as hard to stop at the line as Willie Mason in his prime, harder actually. But those two soft tries were pretty much the game - apart from that NSW defended well on their line and the Qld attack wasn't great. All four halves had quiet nights, other than a bit of passing.
I obviously haven't watched enough football this year, at least with the sound up, because I now fully understand my mate G Man's dislike of Gus Gould. Gould has something to offer, no doubt. There are precious few voices out there with the spark of life. But he just can't expand enough to fill a void that big, much as he tries. A large percentage of Australians were praying he would keep poking Rabs in the ribs last night. His warm up speech was woeful. I think he might need a holiday.
Thank Christ Jarryd Hayne's not a QUEENSLANDER!!!, otherwise things would be grim, grim, grimmer. He made Billy Slater look like a slouch, though Slater was tired. Reading an SMH article about his resurgence as a man and player, I was struck by his comment about being impressed by how hard the Fijian side trained during the World Cup*. People said the same thing about Michael Jordan - he trained as hard as he played. Could something so simple be the key to success? Probably helps to be a hulking freak of an athlete too.
It must be a strange experience for Craig Bellamy. He's normally used to his finely crafted well honed Melbourne team doing what they do. But this team was a shambles, poorly assembled and full of players who must surely hate him. How else do you explain the David Williams chip ahead and Jamie Lyon run into touch in the dying minutes? The use of Josh Morris was embarrassing, while Farah, Wallace and Gidley all had virtually no impact. I think Nate Myles kicked better than Wallace last night. Lockyer didn't kick a lot, but his little chip at the end to force a repeat set was pure class - something only Joey Johns or Shifty Sherwin could have done.
For me the low point of the game was Paul Gallen being stuck in a tackle 30m away when a fight broke out involving Hard Man Mick Crocker (or is he an Enforcer? or a Grub? No, that's Gallen. That reminds me, remember when Tonie Carroll used to be Darren Lockyer's Protector - no wait, Minder? It looks like Sam Thaiday played that role last night, but what I really want to say is, can we please call him Darren Lockyer's Angel? That would be great.)
I think we can look forward to Game 3. NSW won't give a flying f*ck and neither will Qld. As a result we might get a decent game. Hopefully there'll be a few selection surprises, such as Les Biles being installed as a selector, Jason Alchin as NSW coach and Jason Taylor as starting NSW halfback. NSW truly blew it, but Qld is a much better team anyway so that's alright. In the long tea break of the soul, NSW players will surely admit that 'twas their fate to play in a Qld-dominated era. These things wax and wane, like the grime in a shower and NSW will have their chance again. That may be little consolation to them as they drown their sorrows for the next 72 hours.
* Not a real World Cup
The game just wasn't that good. It picked up in the second half when NSW got close, but it was ultimately characterised by opportunities blown rather than seized. That's not what footy's all about! In particular, the Lockyer and Folau tries were an absolute joke. Inglis, ok, he's as hard to stop at the line as Willie Mason in his prime, harder actually. But those two soft tries were pretty much the game - apart from that NSW defended well on their line and the Qld attack wasn't great. All four halves had quiet nights, other than a bit of passing.
I obviously haven't watched enough football this year, at least with the sound up, because I now fully understand my mate G Man's dislike of Gus Gould. Gould has something to offer, no doubt. There are precious few voices out there with the spark of life. But he just can't expand enough to fill a void that big, much as he tries. A large percentage of Australians were praying he would keep poking Rabs in the ribs last night. His warm up speech was woeful. I think he might need a holiday.
Thank Christ Jarryd Hayne's not a QUEENSLANDER!!!, otherwise things would be grim, grim, grimmer. He made Billy Slater look like a slouch, though Slater was tired. Reading an SMH article about his resurgence as a man and player, I was struck by his comment about being impressed by how hard the Fijian side trained during the World Cup*. People said the same thing about Michael Jordan - he trained as hard as he played. Could something so simple be the key to success? Probably helps to be a hulking freak of an athlete too.
It must be a strange experience for Craig Bellamy. He's normally used to his finely crafted well honed Melbourne team doing what they do. But this team was a shambles, poorly assembled and full of players who must surely hate him. How else do you explain the David Williams chip ahead and Jamie Lyon run into touch in the dying minutes? The use of Josh Morris was embarrassing, while Farah, Wallace and Gidley all had virtually no impact. I think Nate Myles kicked better than Wallace last night. Lockyer didn't kick a lot, but his little chip at the end to force a repeat set was pure class - something only Joey Johns or Shifty Sherwin could have done.
For me the low point of the game was Paul Gallen being stuck in a tackle 30m away when a fight broke out involving Hard Man Mick Crocker (or is he an Enforcer? or a Grub? No, that's Gallen. That reminds me, remember when Tonie Carroll used to be Darren Lockyer's Protector - no wait, Minder? It looks like Sam Thaiday played that role last night, but what I really want to say is, can we please call him Darren Lockyer's Angel? That would be great.)
I think we can look forward to Game 3. NSW won't give a flying f*ck and neither will Qld. As a result we might get a decent game. Hopefully there'll be a few selection surprises, such as Les Biles being installed as a selector, Jason Alchin as NSW coach and Jason Taylor as starting NSW halfback. NSW truly blew it, but Qld is a much better team anyway so that's alright. In the long tea break of the soul, NSW players will surely admit that 'twas their fate to play in a Qld-dominated era. These things wax and wane, like the grime in a shower and NSW will have their chance again. That may be little consolation to them as they drown their sorrows for the next 72 hours.
* Not a real World Cup
Sunday, June 07, 2009
A Sports Mailbag
Continuing the fine tradition of completely ripping off The Sports Guy, here’s A Sports Guy’s first ever mailbag. Actually, I didn’t really open a bag with mail from these people, but I like to think if they did write and it ended up in a bag, I would open it and read and reply as follows.
Q: Oh yeah, I am feeling it. Nadal out, then two come from behind five set victories which sandwiched me knocking off a local hero. And now the final against the amazing Robin Soderling, who the last time I checked has lost every single one of the nine times we’ve played. My question is, after I win the French, thereby equalling but effectively also surpassing Pete, what should I focus on next?
-- R. Federer, Paris
A Sports Guy: Look, I don’t blame you for being cocky. You’ve got a little of your swagger back, even as you look more vulnerable than ever. If you do win the final, you will be hard pressed to find new challenges. How does simply staying at or near the top sound? Nadal ain’t going away, Djokovic has broken through once and, assuming he doesn’t lose interest, has at least one more slam in him. Andy Murray’s got the hunger (Wimbledon, anyone?), and there’s a couple other up and comers that sense that their time is coming. I wouldn’t be surprised to see a non-Nadal/you slam winner as early as Wimbledon or the U.S., which is something you couldn’t have said confidently the last, what – five years?
Your trajectory now is sadly only downwards, but only someone like you could be disappointed with what that means - winning two, maybe three more slams in the next few years, with an outside chance of a sentimental victory at Wimbledon afterwards when you’re well and truly into the Legionnaire’s hat phase of your career.
By the way, I disagree with your statement that winning the French will allow you to surpass Sampras. Obviously you’re implying that because he never won on clay and now you have, you’re at last the better champion. Thing is, not only did Sampras never won on clay, he never even make the semis. This is your fourth final in a row, with only Nadal standing between you and the last three trophies (though he stood between you and the trophy in the way Jaws stood between swimmers and carefree frolicking in the ocean). It’s only total Slams that will really let you surpass Sampras (winning more Wimbledons would be a nice touch), but you long ago surpassed him on clay.
Q: I don’t get it. I beat Nadal, and then unlike almost every other giant killer in grand slam history, I win several more matches to get to the final. Yet people think Federer will win. Surely he’ll be easier to beat than Nadal. What gives?
-- R. Soderling, Paris.
ASG: That’s a fair point actually. Not only does no one except Roger Federer’s psychoanalyst give you a chance of winning, not even the analyst wants you to win. Despite (or is it because of?) Federer’s unbearable loss at Wimbledon followed by his choke at the Aussie, people love him more than ever. After the Australian Open you couldn’t have even convinced his wife that he was the number one anymore, yet still he’s the people’s favourite. Along with Robby Ginepri, he really is the people’s prince. Sorry Robin.
Q: You know how I was incredibly philosophical and mature about my loss at the French? It was all lies. It kind of sucks being number one now.
-- R. Nadal, Mallorca
ASG: Chin up buddy, you’re still young. You’ve been around for what seems like ages, but you’re only 23. You’ve easily got another four, five years at your peak, if you’re so motivated. In fact, I’d kind of like to see you pick up another three or four French Opens. Assuming you keep picking up the odd other slam, in the eyes of the public this will actually elevate the French, which has always played Cronk to the other slams’ Inglis, Smith and Slater.
But you better get used to guys structuring their game on how to beat you, not Federer. That’s what makes it so hard for tennis players now – they have to figure out how to beat you and Federer. But it will also bring the standard of play to another level. Anyone who can beat both of you – in the same tournament – will be something to behold. Sorry Robin.
Q: How long am I gonna have to hold up the fort until some other decent Australian players come along? Currently the next best player after me is Pat Cash, and he’s ranked 112 on the Seniors Tour. The XYs are in worse shape now than the women, and they only have one active player. I just want to settle down and become a colour commentator, I could so do that. I mean, how the hell is Darren Cahill getting paid by ESPN?
-- L. Hewitt, Adelaide
ASG: I totally agree that you’d make a great commentator. You’ve never been afraid to speak your … [searching for the right adjective] … [still searching] … active mind and you’d be an asset to any commentary team. Australian tennis is in worse shape than men’s basketball – at least the NBL gets media coverage when it dies in the arse. Bernard Tomic, where are you??
As an aside, you can hold your head up when you retire, assuming you retain full use of your neck muscles. Now is as good a time as any to honour some of the greatest lesser great names in tennis. That’s right, I’m talking about… the Two Slam Wonders. Without checking the sport stats vault [Whatever that is, I want one. It would need to be updateable and searchable, and I’m only really interested in Rugby League, Basketball, Tennis, World Cup Football and maybe cricket and some olympic sports. There must be websites with this information, but I want it in a single resource, at my fingertips, and the more quirky stats it has the better. A Sports Gal would be so ashamed of me right now.] I get the feeling that women’s tennis has produced more of these than men’s tennis. Winning a second Grand Slam really carves out a space for you. It says ‘the first one might’ve been a fluke, but this one wasn’t, I swear to god.’ Hmm, right now the only other member of the TSW club I can think of is another Australian, Pat Rafter. Great player to watch, would’ve won Wimbledon if it wasn’t for Crying Pete and Crazy Goran. Sorry, where was I?
Q: When will people start calling me supercoach?
-- M. Meninga, QLD
ASG: After handing over defensive coordination to Trevor Gillmeister, offensive coordination to Neil Henry, substitution coordination to Kevvy Walters, on field drinks supply & tactical update coordination to Alfie Langer, team bonding coordination to Julian O’Neill and TV viewer irritation coordination to Ben Ikin, I’m not sure you’re technically a coach any more. But you’re definitely a supersupervisor. You’ve got more people to thank than an Academy Award winner.
Q: I’m a lifelong NSW supporter and I’ve had a gutful! Those banana benders had better enjoy the next few days, because they’ll be in a world of pain come game two. The NSW boys are gonna come back with such fury, such passion, such determination and such skill that the cane toads won’t know what hit ‘em. CAAARRNNNN NSW, FIRE UP!!!!
-- Passionate NSW supporter, NSW
ASG: Oh dear, I’m hallucinating again. NSW doesn’t have any passionate supporters. There can’t be that much difference between country NSW and country QLD. But I guess there’s a world of difference between Brisbane and Sydney. Whatever it is, Sydney once again lays claim to some of the lamest sports fans in the world. Of course, individual teams have some crazy loyal supporters, but in terms of overall fan base, match attendance, amount of noise and atmosphere generated we suck. Go team!
Q: Oh yeah, I am feeling it. Nadal out, then two come from behind five set victories which sandwiched me knocking off a local hero. And now the final against the amazing Robin Soderling, who the last time I checked has lost every single one of the nine times we’ve played. My question is, after I win the French, thereby equalling but effectively also surpassing Pete, what should I focus on next?
-- R. Federer, Paris
A Sports Guy: Look, I don’t blame you for being cocky. You’ve got a little of your swagger back, even as you look more vulnerable than ever. If you do win the final, you will be hard pressed to find new challenges. How does simply staying at or near the top sound? Nadal ain’t going away, Djokovic has broken through once and, assuming he doesn’t lose interest, has at least one more slam in him. Andy Murray’s got the hunger (Wimbledon, anyone?), and there’s a couple other up and comers that sense that their time is coming. I wouldn’t be surprised to see a non-Nadal/you slam winner as early as Wimbledon or the U.S., which is something you couldn’t have said confidently the last, what – five years?
Your trajectory now is sadly only downwards, but only someone like you could be disappointed with what that means - winning two, maybe three more slams in the next few years, with an outside chance of a sentimental victory at Wimbledon afterwards when you’re well and truly into the Legionnaire’s hat phase of your career.
By the way, I disagree with your statement that winning the French will allow you to surpass Sampras. Obviously you’re implying that because he never won on clay and now you have, you’re at last the better champion. Thing is, not only did Sampras never won on clay, he never even make the semis. This is your fourth final in a row, with only Nadal standing between you and the last three trophies (though he stood between you and the trophy in the way Jaws stood between swimmers and carefree frolicking in the ocean). It’s only total Slams that will really let you surpass Sampras (winning more Wimbledons would be a nice touch), but you long ago surpassed him on clay.
Q: I don’t get it. I beat Nadal, and then unlike almost every other giant killer in grand slam history, I win several more matches to get to the final. Yet people think Federer will win. Surely he’ll be easier to beat than Nadal. What gives?
-- R. Soderling, Paris.
ASG: That’s a fair point actually. Not only does no one except Roger Federer’s psychoanalyst give you a chance of winning, not even the analyst wants you to win. Despite (or is it because of?) Federer’s unbearable loss at Wimbledon followed by his choke at the Aussie, people love him more than ever. After the Australian Open you couldn’t have even convinced his wife that he was the number one anymore, yet still he’s the people’s favourite. Along with Robby Ginepri, he really is the people’s prince. Sorry Robin.
Q: You know how I was incredibly philosophical and mature about my loss at the French? It was all lies. It kind of sucks being number one now.
-- R. Nadal, Mallorca
ASG: Chin up buddy, you’re still young. You’ve been around for what seems like ages, but you’re only 23. You’ve easily got another four, five years at your peak, if you’re so motivated. In fact, I’d kind of like to see you pick up another three or four French Opens. Assuming you keep picking up the odd other slam, in the eyes of the public this will actually elevate the French, which has always played Cronk to the other slams’ Inglis, Smith and Slater.
But you better get used to guys structuring their game on how to beat you, not Federer. That’s what makes it so hard for tennis players now – they have to figure out how to beat you and Federer. But it will also bring the standard of play to another level. Anyone who can beat both of you – in the same tournament – will be something to behold. Sorry Robin.
Q: How long am I gonna have to hold up the fort until some other decent Australian players come along? Currently the next best player after me is Pat Cash, and he’s ranked 112 on the Seniors Tour. The XYs are in worse shape now than the women, and they only have one active player. I just want to settle down and become a colour commentator, I could so do that. I mean, how the hell is Darren Cahill getting paid by ESPN?
-- L. Hewitt, Adelaide
ASG: I totally agree that you’d make a great commentator. You’ve never been afraid to speak your … [searching for the right adjective] … [still searching] … active mind and you’d be an asset to any commentary team. Australian tennis is in worse shape than men’s basketball – at least the NBL gets media coverage when it dies in the arse. Bernard Tomic, where are you??
As an aside, you can hold your head up when you retire, assuming you retain full use of your neck muscles. Now is as good a time as any to honour some of the greatest lesser great names in tennis. That’s right, I’m talking about… the Two Slam Wonders. Without checking the sport stats vault [Whatever that is, I want one. It would need to be updateable and searchable, and I’m only really interested in Rugby League, Basketball, Tennis, World Cup Football and maybe cricket and some olympic sports. There must be websites with this information, but I want it in a single resource, at my fingertips, and the more quirky stats it has the better. A Sports Gal would be so ashamed of me right now.] I get the feeling that women’s tennis has produced more of these than men’s tennis. Winning a second Grand Slam really carves out a space for you. It says ‘the first one might’ve been a fluke, but this one wasn’t, I swear to god.’ Hmm, right now the only other member of the TSW club I can think of is another Australian, Pat Rafter. Great player to watch, would’ve won Wimbledon if it wasn’t for Crying Pete and Crazy Goran. Sorry, where was I?
Q: When will people start calling me supercoach?
-- M. Meninga, QLD
ASG: After handing over defensive coordination to Trevor Gillmeister, offensive coordination to Neil Henry, substitution coordination to Kevvy Walters, on field drinks supply & tactical update coordination to Alfie Langer, team bonding coordination to Julian O’Neill and TV viewer irritation coordination to Ben Ikin, I’m not sure you’re technically a coach any more. But you’re definitely a supersupervisor. You’ve got more people to thank than an Academy Award winner.
Q: I’m a lifelong NSW supporter and I’ve had a gutful! Those banana benders had better enjoy the next few days, because they’ll be in a world of pain come game two. The NSW boys are gonna come back with such fury, such passion, such determination and such skill that the cane toads won’t know what hit ‘em. CAAARRNNNN NSW, FIRE UP!!!!
-- Passionate NSW supporter, NSW
ASG: Oh dear, I’m hallucinating again. NSW doesn’t have any passionate supporters. There can’t be that much difference between country NSW and country QLD. But I guess there’s a world of difference between Brisbane and Sydney. Whatever it is, Sydney once again lays claim to some of the lamest sports fans in the world. Of course, individual teams have some crazy loyal supporters, but in terms of overall fan base, match attendance, amount of noise and atmosphere generated we suck. Go team!
Thursday, June 04, 2009
Beak Reader
Falling fancifully in my tree
A thought was intercepted
Steal my berries will you, c^^t
For I’m a beakreader
Tis a gift I’ve had since birth
and honed with hours of practice
Some birds fear me - with good reason
They’re not used to being eavesdropped
Many stories I have heard
But one sticks in my craw
A tale of lust and mystery
concerning a macaw
A thought was intercepted
Steal my berries will you, c^^t
For I’m a beakreader
Tis a gift I’ve had since birth
and honed with hours of practice
Some birds fear me - with good reason
They’re not used to being eavesdropped
Many stories I have heard
But one sticks in my craw
A tale of lust and mystery
concerning a macaw
Monday, June 01, 2009
Sometimes fleeting, rarely absolute…
Guest Post by Gavel
Witnessing scenes of unbridled joy can be fun…
Last night was cold and wet. Luckily I was warm watching TV. A game of footy, two dud teams. Sharks (hehehe) and Eels (hohoho) - both sans their best players on SOO duty. This year, even with their best players, these teams hover between poor and frail.
Anyhow, players ran one-out from dummy half, or made simple passing moves at a modest pace. The Eels soon led a low-scoring affair. Ho hum. Until about 12 minutes from time when the Sharks jagged a try to draw level! Not in the script. Then with 5 to go Shark skipper Barrett sent a wobbly drop kick one centimetre over the cross-bar. The Eels were not up to the challenge, and before we knew it the full-time siren signalled victory to the underdogs.
That was when something funny happened. Now there wasn’t a ‘crowd’ as such, only small pockets of fans dotted around the ground. However there was one noticeable group of about 30 or 40 Shark fans, all decked out in their matching blue Sharks jerseys. This group was right on the boundary fence, and the final play involved a Shark taking the ball into touch right under their noses.
They erupted in glee, and so did the Shark players, who all raced over to that area and jumped on top of each other. Scenes normally associated with grand final victory. Fans and players, relief, joy, redemption, victors at last, grins, shrieking, whooping, group hugs, dancing, the whole bit. Players on one side of the fence, the fans right there with them on the other side. It was a party!
It was stupid, and yet I couldn’t help thinking it was nice to see people so happy! The high for those fans and players was so intense, it made me wonder…
Now most people would have heard about the notorious Sharks this year. Matt Johns sex scandals, bankruptcy, the CEO and the female staffer with a black eye, prostitutes & sex toys in the dressing sheds, star player drug bust, major sponsors bailing out. This week the team captain fined for a racist remark. And oh yes, nine losses in row… and counting.
That’s as low as a club can get. The frustration of the players, the disappointment and angst of the fans, would have been building for months, reaching a crescendo of misery with the succession of scandals and disasters of the last month.
Three aspects of the joyous celebration struck me.
Firstly, the group aspect. A group of fans. A group of players. I was struck by that. Sharing the emotion with their comrades almost seemed to be itself a factor in its escalation.
Secondly, expectation. More accurately, lack thereof. Eels were favourites, the bookies had opened a market on whether the Sharks would ever win again. Eels led until the last minutes. Had the sheer unexpectedness of the victory made it that much sweeter? I was struck by that question.
Thirdly, the very depth of emotional low that immediately preceded the fine event. What a turnaround! Do we first need a depth in order to scale a height? That thought also struck me. I was thrice struck.
Whatever the psychological mechanics, the net result appeared nothing less than ecstatic joy. Of course, when they woke this morning (or possibly this afternoon) the mood may have been tempered somewhat with the realisations they still have a terrible team, are still last, and still devoid of prospects. The club’s survival still hangs by a thread. And its culture is still derided and despised.
Perhaps therein lies the rub. The Sharks had plummeted so low that one very ordinary, narrow win was cause for such uncontrolled joy and celebration? Ah, the sweet relativity of success.
Witnessing scenes of unbridled joy can be fun…
Last night was cold and wet. Luckily I was warm watching TV. A game of footy, two dud teams. Sharks (hehehe) and Eels (hohoho) - both sans their best players on SOO duty. This year, even with their best players, these teams hover between poor and frail.
Anyhow, players ran one-out from dummy half, or made simple passing moves at a modest pace. The Eels soon led a low-scoring affair. Ho hum. Until about 12 minutes from time when the Sharks jagged a try to draw level! Not in the script. Then with 5 to go Shark skipper Barrett sent a wobbly drop kick one centimetre over the cross-bar. The Eels were not up to the challenge, and before we knew it the full-time siren signalled victory to the underdogs.
That was when something funny happened. Now there wasn’t a ‘crowd’ as such, only small pockets of fans dotted around the ground. However there was one noticeable group of about 30 or 40 Shark fans, all decked out in their matching blue Sharks jerseys. This group was right on the boundary fence, and the final play involved a Shark taking the ball into touch right under their noses.
They erupted in glee, and so did the Shark players, who all raced over to that area and jumped on top of each other. Scenes normally associated with grand final victory. Fans and players, relief, joy, redemption, victors at last, grins, shrieking, whooping, group hugs, dancing, the whole bit. Players on one side of the fence, the fans right there with them on the other side. It was a party!
It was stupid, and yet I couldn’t help thinking it was nice to see people so happy! The high for those fans and players was so intense, it made me wonder…
Now most people would have heard about the notorious Sharks this year. Matt Johns sex scandals, bankruptcy, the CEO and the female staffer with a black eye, prostitutes & sex toys in the dressing sheds, star player drug bust, major sponsors bailing out. This week the team captain fined for a racist remark. And oh yes, nine losses in row… and counting.
That’s as low as a club can get. The frustration of the players, the disappointment and angst of the fans, would have been building for months, reaching a crescendo of misery with the succession of scandals and disasters of the last month.
Three aspects of the joyous celebration struck me.
Firstly, the group aspect. A group of fans. A group of players. I was struck by that. Sharing the emotion with their comrades almost seemed to be itself a factor in its escalation.
Secondly, expectation. More accurately, lack thereof. Eels were favourites, the bookies had opened a market on whether the Sharks would ever win again. Eels led until the last minutes. Had the sheer unexpectedness of the victory made it that much sweeter? I was struck by that question.
Thirdly, the very depth of emotional low that immediately preceded the fine event. What a turnaround! Do we first need a depth in order to scale a height? That thought also struck me. I was thrice struck.
Whatever the psychological mechanics, the net result appeared nothing less than ecstatic joy. Of course, when they woke this morning (or possibly this afternoon) the mood may have been tempered somewhat with the realisations they still have a terrible team, are still last, and still devoid of prospects. The club’s survival still hangs by a thread. And its culture is still derided and despised.
Perhaps therein lies the rub. The Sharks had plummeted so low that one very ordinary, narrow win was cause for such uncontrolled joy and celebration? Ah, the sweet relativity of success.
Friday, May 29, 2009
Language
It's been said, I have a ponshon for languages. I don't doubt this, although I have no idea what a penchant is. Being in Italy has awakened my foreign language brain module, but I don’t feel like it’s yet wiped the sleep from its eyes nor stretched the stretches out of its sleepy limbs.
I am troubled by the access to Italian grammar that I have. The LP book contains but a few phrases, useful though they are. We’ve also a tiny Italian phrasebook, with a decent mini-dictionary at the back. But what I really like when I’m learning a language is a nice thorough guide to conjugation, prepositions and other key words like ‘more’ and ‘too’. Without this, how the hell am I going to construct whatever sentences suit my fancy at the minute, such as “Do you have life insurance?” Hang on, the little book might actually help me figure this out… “Ha l’assicuarazione della vita?” Alright!
As I was saying, the mini-dictionary is decent, and does include some verbs and some conjugations, but it doesn’t spell out the rules that I might determine for myself how to conjugate some newly discovered verb. Anyway, this might all be an excuse for me not to immerse myself fully in the oily waters of the Italian language and frolic in the frothy bubbles of the Venetian dialect. Mi piace questo reggiseno! E tuo?
Perhaps I’ll go and join the Potsdamer Institut for Klimaforschung, thus combining my love of languages with my love of institutes. Wifey encourages this development, so long as she gets first dibs on housespousehood. And the child still sleeps. But before any of that could happen, I’d have to establish myself as a bona fide climate scientist, and I’m yet to do this. In fact I have a fear that perhaps I’m only good for studying, not doing science.
The other night I was reminded of a habitual dream I used to dream, in which I am somewhere about a school or campus, and vaguely uneasy, because yes I’m late for, or have completely forgotten to go to German class! Oh no! I’ve actually missed a heap of these classes! Granted, my German has fallen from a great height, so even down here it’s ok. There’s not too much to worry about. But it’s not like me to miss classes! Ah, blast. Hang on, am I even studying German? Apparently so. Sometimes I realise in the dream that I’m not any more. But the dreams have always taken place at a time when I don’t study German. What a strange recurring dream.
I am troubled by the access to Italian grammar that I have. The LP book contains but a few phrases, useful though they are. We’ve also a tiny Italian phrasebook, with a decent mini-dictionary at the back. But what I really like when I’m learning a language is a nice thorough guide to conjugation, prepositions and other key words like ‘more’ and ‘too’. Without this, how the hell am I going to construct whatever sentences suit my fancy at the minute, such as “Do you have life insurance?” Hang on, the little book might actually help me figure this out… “Ha l’assicuarazione della vita?” Alright!
As I was saying, the mini-dictionary is decent, and does include some verbs and some conjugations, but it doesn’t spell out the rules that I might determine for myself how to conjugate some newly discovered verb. Anyway, this might all be an excuse for me not to immerse myself fully in the oily waters of the Italian language and frolic in the frothy bubbles of the Venetian dialect. Mi piace questo reggiseno! E tuo?
Perhaps I’ll go and join the Potsdamer Institut for Klimaforschung, thus combining my love of languages with my love of institutes. Wifey encourages this development, so long as she gets first dibs on housespousehood. And the child still sleeps. But before any of that could happen, I’d have to establish myself as a bona fide climate scientist, and I’m yet to do this. In fact I have a fear that perhaps I’m only good for studying, not doing science.
The other night I was reminded of a habitual dream I used to dream, in which I am somewhere about a school or campus, and vaguely uneasy, because yes I’m late for, or have completely forgotten to go to German class! Oh no! I’ve actually missed a heap of these classes! Granted, my German has fallen from a great height, so even down here it’s ok. There’s not too much to worry about. But it’s not like me to miss classes! Ah, blast. Hang on, am I even studying German? Apparently so. Sometimes I realise in the dream that I’m not any more. But the dreams have always taken place at a time when I don’t study German. What a strange recurring dream.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Susudio
I may just have discovered Phil Collins' inspiration for this song. The Italian verb Sudare means 'to sweat'. Assuming he had a few problems in translation, the chorus of this song means 'I'm sweat-sweat-sweating'. What a revelation! This could be my career highlight to date.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Springtime in Venezia and the weather is warm. Big surprise!
As I write this, I am looking into the Cannaregio apartment that my family and I have been staying in since last Friday. On the wall in front of me there is a watercolour of a big white cruiseship entering Venice, browns and blues and mustard. To my right, three windows line the wall, and through them I can see old tiles and older tiles, wires and antennae, the odd rooftop deck and in the distance, a hazy blue grey horizon. Rain must be coming, I think, until I look up into the bright blue sky. Just a dirty sky then.
The whole thing is 32 square metres, twice the size of the Saarbrucken apartment I called home for a year waaaaay back in 2000. It feels small because of the design, not the absolute size. The bathroom is a walk in closet, narrow enough to make turning around a difficulty. The kitchen is a kitchenette, fitted out with gas hotplates but no oven. The bedroom is probably the nicest room in the house. No need to make things cramped there. Just a nice big bed, beautifully firm yet soft (how do they do that?), a set of drawers and a wardrobe. There is room for little Saskia’s portacot to sit beside the bed.
The worst feature of the bedroom is the low doorway, against which I have crushed my lovely head at least three times.
We are on the fourth floor, and despite my best intentions I do not foresee any of us (save Saskia) gaining weight this holiday. Not only do we need to drag our sorry carcasses up four flights, but there’s a 7kg baby, a three kilo pram, a variable weight backpack and any shopping we may have been foolish enough to do. Last night this included 18 kilos of water, half naturale and half frizzante. I was comforted only by the though that we weren’t drinking osmium, 22.4 times denser than water.
I continue to be amazed by our little girl Evie. Just now she put herself back to sleep by plunging her head down onto the recently abandoned dummy lying in her cot. She has been sluggish this morning and is covered in mosquito bites, the poor thing. Dio mio, for a fly screen. The day before yesterday she rolled over for the first and second times. The first time Rebecca and I both missed, as we studied our phones with new sims intently. I looked down, saw Evie on her stomach, nonchalant as you like, and gasped in shock and delight. A few hours later, the scene was repeated, fortunately I saw the whole thing. Sadly for Rebecca, she was in the can at the time. Even worse, her parents saw the whole thing too (Evie rolling, not… you know).
Evie charms and woos people wherever she goes. I can almost see her ego swelling as she fells one stranger after another with her knockout smile. It has been hot and I hope she’s not suffering for it too much.
Venice is an amazing city, in a totally different way to how Saskia is amazing. It’s like a golden rock rolling downhill into a bottomless chasm, onto which hundreds of thousands of people keep flinging themselves. It’s hard for me to imagine how this charming, difficult city has a future.The people grow old and the local population wanes, the city gets dirtier and dilapidateder, supplying it with food and energy gets costlier, tourists demand more and more, but contribute little to the infrastructure needs of the town. And if those crazy scientists are right, sea level rise is a’coming too. But I love the lack of cars.
Today I’m off to the Ludoteca, an ye olde church being used for an art exhibition by some Aussie artists. I’m supposed to bath Evie before we go, but it’s getting on and I don’t want her to go totally psycho and still be 45 minutes away from Rebecca.
I’m finding myself more and more in harmony with the Tao these days, though of course having said that now I’ve thrown it off balance and it’s disappeared. )Incidentally, I also discovered there is no Tao on airplanes.) I’m thinking of my family and friends. I’m wondering if the Bulldogs beat the Dragons.
The whole thing is 32 square metres, twice the size of the Saarbrucken apartment I called home for a year waaaaay back in 2000. It feels small because of the design, not the absolute size. The bathroom is a walk in closet, narrow enough to make turning around a difficulty. The kitchen is a kitchenette, fitted out with gas hotplates but no oven. The bedroom is probably the nicest room in the house. No need to make things cramped there. Just a nice big bed, beautifully firm yet soft (how do they do that?), a set of drawers and a wardrobe. There is room for little Saskia’s portacot to sit beside the bed.
The worst feature of the bedroom is the low doorway, against which I have crushed my lovely head at least three times.
We are on the fourth floor, and despite my best intentions I do not foresee any of us (save Saskia) gaining weight this holiday. Not only do we need to drag our sorry carcasses up four flights, but there’s a 7kg baby, a three kilo pram, a variable weight backpack and any shopping we may have been foolish enough to do. Last night this included 18 kilos of water, half naturale and half frizzante. I was comforted only by the though that we weren’t drinking osmium, 22.4 times denser than water.
I continue to be amazed by our little girl Evie. Just now she put herself back to sleep by plunging her head down onto the recently abandoned dummy lying in her cot. She has been sluggish this morning and is covered in mosquito bites, the poor thing. Dio mio, for a fly screen. The day before yesterday she rolled over for the first and second times. The first time Rebecca and I both missed, as we studied our phones with new sims intently. I looked down, saw Evie on her stomach, nonchalant as you like, and gasped in shock and delight. A few hours later, the scene was repeated, fortunately I saw the whole thing. Sadly for Rebecca, she was in the can at the time. Even worse, her parents saw the whole thing too (Evie rolling, not… you know).
Evie charms and woos people wherever she goes. I can almost see her ego swelling as she fells one stranger after another with her knockout smile. It has been hot and I hope she’s not suffering for it too much.
Venice is an amazing city, in a totally different way to how Saskia is amazing. It’s like a golden rock rolling downhill into a bottomless chasm, onto which hundreds of thousands of people keep flinging themselves. It’s hard for me to imagine how this charming, difficult city has a future.The people grow old and the local population wanes, the city gets dirtier and dilapidateder, supplying it with food and energy gets costlier, tourists demand more and more, but contribute little to the infrastructure needs of the town. And if those crazy scientists are right, sea level rise is a’coming too. But I love the lack of cars.
Today I’m off to the Ludoteca, an ye olde church being used for an art exhibition by some Aussie artists. I’m supposed to bath Evie before we go, but it’s getting on and I don’t want her to go totally psycho and still be 45 minutes away from Rebecca.
I’m finding myself more and more in harmony with the Tao these days, though of course having said that now I’ve thrown it off balance and it’s disappeared. )Incidentally, I also discovered there is no Tao on airplanes.) I’m thinking of my family and friends. I’m wondering if the Bulldogs beat the Dragons.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
human kindness
sitting, huddled over his computer, perpy tapped away at the keys. with his beak. for perpy was a bird! but in fact, perpy was, like you and me, a robot. bruce got to thinking - if i can't snap out of this funk then i'll never achieve my goals in life. and if there's one thing i want to achieve in life, it's my goals! perpy pecked a hole in bruce's teeth until bruce cried with pain. stoppit! it was all too much so perpy went to bed, and bruce followed her. as is so often the case these days, the bed was cold, so perpy warmed it up by releasing body heat. for this bruce was thankful and bruce thanked perpy in the usual way - a five star salute to the dog star sirius, using only a teaspoon and some bubic. they were so tired - dog tired - that they very easily entered a state of almost dreaminess, and this was a real pleasure.
Sunday, May 03, 2009
a sports guy
In which we realise the folly of predicting the future, and pass judgement on all 16 NRL teams.
A frequent way of gauging how a team is doing is to check out how their opponents have fared. Lost to team x? Well that's ok if team x has been on fire lately. Beaten team y? So what, so have everyone. Only problem is this doesn't seem to have been very informative thus far. Or to be more explicit, my tips have been unfailingly failing of late.
Eels - turned the corner or just lucky to run into a Cowboys team that did the opposite of turning the corner (Took a step backwards? Nah, too cliched. Let's say the Cowboys turned around, headed back to the corner they'd just turned, saw the Eels lying face down in their own vomit, picked them up, nursed them back to consciousness and then drank the dregs of whatever it was the Eels had been drinking)
Cowboys - doing shocking, but you can never write off a team with JT, Matty Bowen and Aaron Paine. Hang on, sure you can. Good things to miss the semis. Which reminds me - have you noticed how somehow Cooper Cronk has snuck into Melbourne's elite four? Everyone keeps saying you can't write off a team with Greg Inglis, Cameron Smith, Billy Slater and... Cooper Cronk. What the? From now on I'm calling Cronk Ringo.
Sea Eagles - assuming Brett Stewart returns in 10 weeks, Sea Eagles are hoping 20 points is enough to sneak in to the top 8. Because they can't lose with him and can't win without him. And I still think he can win top try scorer of the year.
Storm - remind me of the Bulldogs of 2007. Gutted by a bad loss to end their season, they never really got rolling. They kept promising to... but never did. Still, any team that's got....
Titans - remind me of the Titans of 2007 and 2008. They need to tank a few games now so they can turn the corner in the second half of the season.
Rabbitohs - I hate to say it, but I don't think they can win with Jason Taylor as coach. Sure, they've got a stack of other problems, but the comp's pretty close this season and a good coach makes a big difference. He's helped make them competitive again, but like Ivan Cleary with the Warriors, doesn't appear to be capable of getting them over the hump from threateners to genuine contenders.
Sharks - I've tipped them more times this year than they've completed sets. Surely they've gotta pull together for Sticky and pull out a win against (...checking their next game...) the Panthers. At Penrith. I am definitely tipping the Sharks to win that one.
Roosters - Brad Fittler, wonder coach. I just wanted to see what those words would look like together. The Dogs have got some good players coming through this season, so the Roosters are looking specials in 2010.
Knights - ever noticed how the media is suddenly taking them seriously, and pretending that they've taken them seriously since the preseason? And that Brian Smith is a good coach again? For Smithy's sake, I really hope they don't tank in a grand final qualifier.
Broncos - I had them down as the only consistently good team this year til they stunk up the joint at Novacastria. Only team I would bet my wife's savings on to make the top 8.
Raiders - they are good things to put together a run at some time this year and have Matty Johns tell us how they are going to dominate seasons 2011-2014, once their young blokes get some experience. Someone remind him no one good has stayed in Canberra into their prime since Clyde, Sticky and Tooley (look up Roy and HG's State of Origin commentary).
Panthers - equal 7th, in the 8 on for and against. A couple of losses away from Elliot getting fired. Wait, they re-signed him? For two years? I love my footy!
Dragons - Dragons fans are shitting themselves because everyone expects them to play consistently now they have Wayne "Zen Master" Bennett as coach. I don't think the rest of the comp minds StGeorge being favourites now either. That's ok, because even if they don't win this year, Wayne's building something very beautiful.
Warriors - everyone's tip to go on with things this year after their spirited finish last year. Just blew games against the Dragons and Storm because they have too many Kiwis in the side. Is there a player with a higher games odometer than Steve Price? It's more than just first grade games too, this guy hits it up and tackles and charges down and still plays rep footy, what, five years after leaving the Dogs? Unbeeeeeelievable.
Bulldogs - preseason good things to miss the eight this year, once again no one in the media admits surprise at their form. To be fair, they haven't set the world on fire, but they're topping the table despite losing two points in the Penrifgate. Was anyone else suckered by the write up a few weeks back in which Jamal Idris was touted as a potential 100m sprinter? Maybe after lap band stomach surgery. Patten made a bust, passed to Idris only for Idris to pass back to him. Would Usain Bolt do that? I don't think so.
Tigers - Is Tim Sheens a master coach? I'll have to do some research and get back to you on that. In the mean time, I'm scared by the parallels between Taniela Tuiaki and Matt Utai. And Tank goes much better with Tuiaki's name too. Let's hope he catches a few bombs before he becomes a head case.
Eight rounds in, and I don't think we've learned too much. No one is quite looking premiership material yet, but a few have ruled themselves out. In fact I can state quite confidently (i prefer to make confident bad predictions rather than unconfident bad predictions) that the table has settled into two rough groupings. The upper half (ending at the Warriors) and the lower half (Cowboys down). Don't expect much movement between those two groups.
In a side note, foxsports is reporting that Tim Sheens (or the all mighty and all powerful selectors) has showed loyalty to the Kangaroos side that lost last year's world cup final, by picking them for the anz test. Am i missing something, or is loyalty normally shown to victorious sides? I can just see Sheens informing players who missed out. Yeah, sorry mate, but Lockyer played too poorly in that test last year to be dropped on poor form this year alone. Good, I knew you'd understand. Now can we just quickly go through your lines for the media tomorrow? "Mate, I just gotta keep playing my game and not worry about the selectors." Perfect. Alright, catcha later...i love you too.. catcha". Click.
I love my footy!
A frequent way of gauging how a team is doing is to check out how their opponents have fared. Lost to team x? Well that's ok if team x has been on fire lately. Beaten team y? So what, so have everyone. Only problem is this doesn't seem to have been very informative thus far. Or to be more explicit, my tips have been unfailingly failing of late.
Eels - turned the corner or just lucky to run into a Cowboys team that did the opposite of turning the corner (Took a step backwards? Nah, too cliched. Let's say the Cowboys turned around, headed back to the corner they'd just turned, saw the Eels lying face down in their own vomit, picked them up, nursed them back to consciousness and then drank the dregs of whatever it was the Eels had been drinking)
Cowboys - doing shocking, but you can never write off a team with JT, Matty Bowen and Aaron Paine. Hang on, sure you can. Good things to miss the semis. Which reminds me - have you noticed how somehow Cooper Cronk has snuck into Melbourne's elite four? Everyone keeps saying you can't write off a team with Greg Inglis, Cameron Smith, Billy Slater and... Cooper Cronk. What the? From now on I'm calling Cronk Ringo.
Sea Eagles - assuming Brett Stewart returns in 10 weeks, Sea Eagles are hoping 20 points is enough to sneak in to the top 8. Because they can't lose with him and can't win without him. And I still think he can win top try scorer of the year.
Storm - remind me of the Bulldogs of 2007. Gutted by a bad loss to end their season, they never really got rolling. They kept promising to... but never did. Still, any team that's got....
Titans - remind me of the Titans of 2007 and 2008. They need to tank a few games now so they can turn the corner in the second half of the season.
Rabbitohs - I hate to say it, but I don't think they can win with Jason Taylor as coach. Sure, they've got a stack of other problems, but the comp's pretty close this season and a good coach makes a big difference. He's helped make them competitive again, but like Ivan Cleary with the Warriors, doesn't appear to be capable of getting them over the hump from threateners to genuine contenders.
Sharks - I've tipped them more times this year than they've completed sets. Surely they've gotta pull together for Sticky and pull out a win against (...checking their next game...) the Panthers. At Penrith. I am definitely tipping the Sharks to win that one.
Roosters - Brad Fittler, wonder coach. I just wanted to see what those words would look like together. The Dogs have got some good players coming through this season, so the Roosters are looking specials in 2010.
Knights - ever noticed how the media is suddenly taking them seriously, and pretending that they've taken them seriously since the preseason? And that Brian Smith is a good coach again? For Smithy's sake, I really hope they don't tank in a grand final qualifier.
Broncos - I had them down as the only consistently good team this year til they stunk up the joint at Novacastria. Only team I would bet my wife's savings on to make the top 8.
Raiders - they are good things to put together a run at some time this year and have Matty Johns tell us how they are going to dominate seasons 2011-2014, once their young blokes get some experience. Someone remind him no one good has stayed in Canberra into their prime since Clyde, Sticky and Tooley (look up Roy and HG's State of Origin commentary).
Panthers - equal 7th, in the 8 on for and against. A couple of losses away from Elliot getting fired. Wait, they re-signed him? For two years? I love my footy!
Dragons - Dragons fans are shitting themselves because everyone expects them to play consistently now they have Wayne "Zen Master" Bennett as coach. I don't think the rest of the comp minds StGeorge being favourites now either. That's ok, because even if they don't win this year, Wayne's building something very beautiful.
Warriors - everyone's tip to go on with things this year after their spirited finish last year. Just blew games against the Dragons and Storm because they have too many Kiwis in the side. Is there a player with a higher games odometer than Steve Price? It's more than just first grade games too, this guy hits it up and tackles and charges down and still plays rep footy, what, five years after leaving the Dogs? Unbeeeeeelievable.
Bulldogs - preseason good things to miss the eight this year, once again no one in the media admits surprise at their form. To be fair, they haven't set the world on fire, but they're topping the table despite losing two points in the Penrifgate. Was anyone else suckered by the write up a few weeks back in which Jamal Idris was touted as a potential 100m sprinter? Maybe after lap band stomach surgery. Patten made a bust, passed to Idris only for Idris to pass back to him. Would Usain Bolt do that? I don't think so.
Tigers - Is Tim Sheens a master coach? I'll have to do some research and get back to you on that. In the mean time, I'm scared by the parallels between Taniela Tuiaki and Matt Utai. And Tank goes much better with Tuiaki's name too. Let's hope he catches a few bombs before he becomes a head case.
Eight rounds in, and I don't think we've learned too much. No one is quite looking premiership material yet, but a few have ruled themselves out. In fact I can state quite confidently (i prefer to make confident bad predictions rather than unconfident bad predictions) that the table has settled into two rough groupings. The upper half (ending at the Warriors) and the lower half (Cowboys down). Don't expect much movement between those two groups.
In a side note, foxsports is reporting that Tim Sheens (or the all mighty and all powerful selectors) has showed loyalty to the Kangaroos side that lost last year's world cup final, by picking them for the anz test. Am i missing something, or is loyalty normally shown to victorious sides? I can just see Sheens informing players who missed out. Yeah, sorry mate, but Lockyer played too poorly in that test last year to be dropped on poor form this year alone. Good, I knew you'd understand. Now can we just quickly go through your lines for the media tomorrow? "Mate, I just gotta keep playing my game and not worry about the selectors." Perfect. Alright, catcha later...i love you too.. catcha". Click.
I love my footy!
Monday, April 27, 2009
The return of Selby
Well, I barely believe it even though I've seen it with my own eyes.
Selby is back.
I was rather surprised to receive an apartment buzz about 15 minutes ago, as it is late and we weren't expecting anyone. It was my neighbour from downstairs, telling me to come and see, a bike was there. This came in the wake of me putting up a sign in the foyer last night - with none of the messages contained in my previous post, i hasten to add. My neighbour's english is not the best, so there was some nuance missing in our conversation, but there is something very fishy going on here, and my poor wife is now wracking her brains trying to figure out whodunit. The most plausible scenario we've come up with is just bizarre but sometimes, the truth hurts. Wait, I mean sometimes, truth is stranger than fiction.
Selby!
Selby is back.
I was rather surprised to receive an apartment buzz about 15 minutes ago, as it is late and we weren't expecting anyone. It was my neighbour from downstairs, telling me to come and see, a bike was there. This came in the wake of me putting up a sign in the foyer last night - with none of the messages contained in my previous post, i hasten to add. My neighbour's english is not the best, so there was some nuance missing in our conversation, but there is something very fishy going on here, and my poor wife is now wracking her brains trying to figure out whodunit. The most plausible scenario we've come up with is just bizarre but sometimes, the truth hurts. Wait, I mean sometimes, truth is stranger than fiction.
Selby!
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Farewell Selby, I hardly knew you
I can't believe it, but I have to. Some time between Friday night and today (Sunday morning) someone stole my bicycle - Selby, I called her - from our foyer. I stupidly hadn't chained her - pretty much the first time - but she still should have been protected by a locked front door. I am working through the seven stages of grief and right now I'm going through sadness. Poor Selby. There's also a little rage left over, though that's mostly subsided. It got me thinking, if there was some way I could leave a message to the thief - putting a note up on our building, or on our street, or on every telegraph pole in enmore - what could I say to make them feel bad? Or uncomfortable? Or to turn them off ever touching Selby again? Or to make me feel better? Or should I come to terms with it and stop the wheel of karma? When I suggested this to my wife she thoughtfully noted that I don't believe in karma. Sigh.
Possible messages
- i hate you i hate you i hate you
- i often rode Selby bareback and i have a bum disease
- i love you and last night i fantasised about you
- a witch doctor has cursed the bike and whoever rides it now
- i got so angry when i found the bike was stolen that i beat up some innocent people, including my loved ones
- if you plan on selling Selby, you're getting ripped off if you get any less than $400
- i forgive you
- you, your children and your children's children are banned from enmore! for three months.
- i'll see you next week eating the pudding
- you have 48 hours to return Selby before bombing commences
- if you wanna get involved, next week we gon' help the unemployed
- i know who you are, where you live, and what your insecurities are
- Selby likes to be taken out just before dusk, she needs attention several times a week, and go easy on her gears, they've had a tough life.
- the combination to the lock you also stole is 6362
- do you know who i am?
- smile - you're on candid camera
- your a looser
- you'll regret the day you ever messed with me. raaarrgh!
- i never got a bell for Selby but it was my dream to get her one of those honking clowny type ones. it would mean a lot to me if you helped me realise this dream.
- enjoy her, you lucky s.o.b.
Possible messages
- i hate you i hate you i hate you
- i often rode Selby bareback and i have a bum disease
- i love you and last night i fantasised about you
- a witch doctor has cursed the bike and whoever rides it now
- i got so angry when i found the bike was stolen that i beat up some innocent people, including my loved ones
- if you plan on selling Selby, you're getting ripped off if you get any less than $400
- i forgive you
- you, your children and your children's children are banned from enmore! for three months.
- i'll see you next week eating the pudding
- you have 48 hours to return Selby before bombing commences
- if you wanna get involved, next week we gon' help the unemployed
- i know who you are, where you live, and what your insecurities are
- Selby likes to be taken out just before dusk, she needs attention several times a week, and go easy on her gears, they've had a tough life.
- the combination to the lock you also stole is 6362
- do you know who i am?
- smile - you're on candid camera
- your a looser
- you'll regret the day you ever messed with me. raaarrgh!
- i never got a bell for Selby but it was my dream to get her one of those honking clowny type ones. it would mean a lot to me if you helped me realise this dream.
- enjoy her, you lucky s.o.b.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Fridge Feelings
This evening I felt the satisfaction and pride of having an empty fridge. Vegetables eaten, leftovers finished off. I am a fortunate son of Goddess, and so do not need to worry about where my next meal is coming from.
There is also the satisfaction of a full fridge - a week of meals and snacks laid out before one's eyes, packed snugly and with tetris-like efficiency. For me this satisfaction is occasionally tinted - albeit to a minor degree - by the time old fear of wastage, spoilage and of you will, shop soiling.
Freezer feelings are separate to fridge feelings. Pantry feelings are too, but are closer kin to fridge feelings.
There is also the satisfaction of a full fridge - a week of meals and snacks laid out before one's eyes, packed snugly and with tetris-like efficiency. For me this satisfaction is occasionally tinted - albeit to a minor degree - by the time old fear of wastage, spoilage and of you will, shop soiling.
Freezer feelings are separate to fridge feelings. Pantry feelings are too, but are closer kin to fridge feelings.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Right and wrong
Alright, I'll say it. The Tao is Silent is a delightful book. There. I said it.
That's not exactly the preface that this deserves but I'm not of a mind to worry about matters such as that at the moment.
The this is this:
If you want to get at the plain truth,
Forget about right and wrong.
For the conflict between right and wrong,
Is the sickness of the human mind.
I'm not sure if this is Lao Tse quoted in an Alan Watts book, or Watts himself. Must be the former.
~~~
Incidentally, the neighbour(s) across the way have had a penchant of late to repeat certain songs repeatedly. Sex on Fire by Kings Of leon and I'm Alone With You (Tonight) by.. who's that by again? Perhaps strangely, this repetition doesn't bother me (yet).
That's not exactly the preface that this deserves but I'm not of a mind to worry about matters such as that at the moment.
The this is this:
If you want to get at the plain truth,
Forget about right and wrong.
For the conflict between right and wrong,
Is the sickness of the human mind.
I'm not sure if this is Lao Tse quoted in an Alan Watts book, or Watts himself. Must be the former.
~~~
Incidentally, the neighbour(s) across the way have had a penchant of late to repeat certain songs repeatedly. Sex on Fire by Kings Of leon and I'm Alone With You (Tonight) by.. who's that by again? Perhaps strangely, this repetition doesn't bother me (yet).
Thursday, April 09, 2009
Having a baby and tiredness
I know I should be going to bed earlier. After all, little one could wake up at any moment. The earlier you're in bed, the more sleep you get, and the healthier and happier you are. But I *can't* go to bed earlier. I'm too weak. I want to stay up and drink tea and surf the innernet. I need to decompress after an easy day at the office.
What does it matter, what does it all mean?
A few thoughts on this. I've just started reading The Tao Is Silent, by Smullyan. In it, he talks about the difference between allowing oneself to sleep when one is sleepy, and forcing oneself to sleep because it's sleepytime. So i'm sadly in the latter category at the moment. I don't know what kind of life I'd have if I allowed myself to sleep when sleepy - if I could even do it. I'd probably get fired for starters, plus go to sleep around 7pm. Can you believe my eyelids start getting heavy around 7 or 8? I have well and truly bade farewell to my old late night self. And yet - an even later self has emerged, nappy in hand, somewhere between 12:30 and 1:30 recently.
But let me now backtrack and say that I feel lucky. Little Miss Hammertime has caused us very few problems. My health is fine, despite occasionally interrupted sleep. From my straw poll of other parents, I think we're pretty darn lucky. The devil of sleeplessness and concomitant insanity and rage and desperate resignation has not bedevilled us, nope, not at all.
My new goal, as of this sentence, is to get in a nap - hang on, not to nap, but to allow myself to sleep when sleepy at some point this weekend. I am going to Canberra for the wedding of a close friend - maybe too close. No, not too close after all.
Canberra, where I'll allow myself to sleep when sleepy. I'm excited!
What does it matter, what does it all mean?
A few thoughts on this. I've just started reading The Tao Is Silent, by Smullyan. In it, he talks about the difference between allowing oneself to sleep when one is sleepy, and forcing oneself to sleep because it's sleepytime. So i'm sadly in the latter category at the moment. I don't know what kind of life I'd have if I allowed myself to sleep when sleepy - if I could even do it. I'd probably get fired for starters, plus go to sleep around 7pm. Can you believe my eyelids start getting heavy around 7 or 8? I have well and truly bade farewell to my old late night self. And yet - an even later self has emerged, nappy in hand, somewhere between 12:30 and 1:30 recently.
But let me now backtrack and say that I feel lucky. Little Miss Hammertime has caused us very few problems. My health is fine, despite occasionally interrupted sleep. From my straw poll of other parents, I think we're pretty darn lucky. The devil of sleeplessness and concomitant insanity and rage and desperate resignation has not bedevilled us, nope, not at all.
My new goal, as of this sentence, is to get in a nap - hang on, not to nap, but to allow myself to sleep when sleepy at some point this weekend. I am going to Canberra for the wedding of a close friend - maybe too close. No, not too close after all.
Canberra, where I'll allow myself to sleep when sleepy. I'm excited!
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
I am still
unable to judge your present feelings, as to past events. I am a widow. I just feel so goddanged inspired. That's why I'm letting it all hang out - so to speak - for the very first time. I love. I sing. I dance, often while wearing clothes inside out. Have you ever ironed your clothes inside out? It hurts! Now that that's been said and done, we can all breathe easily. Pomegranate, Mr Neville? Do you love? Can you smell my whole life? I have been tricked, hoodwinked and I cannot believe it! A cautionary tale indeed.
~~~
There once was a man named Begbagda
he always poke his mind
and wished that he'd be wined
that's why they called him DeChauncey Begbagda
~~~
day in day out
i smile not pout
cause you're inside my brain
a vision splendy
you are trendy
quite unlike john wayne
what a hottie
yummy body
the most lovely face
how is it
that this here twit
is even in the race?
tell me that you like me
and i'll sigh a deeply smile
tell me that you love me
and i'll name our first son Gile-
s
~~~
There once was a man named Begbagda
he always poke his mind
and wished that he'd be wined
that's why they called him DeChauncey Begbagda
~~~
day in day out
i smile not pout
cause you're inside my brain
a vision splendy
you are trendy
quite unlike john wayne
what a hottie
yummy body
the most lovely face
how is it
that this here twit
is even in the race?
tell me that you like me
and i'll sigh a deeply smile
tell me that you love me
and i'll name our first son Gile-
s
Friday, March 20, 2009
Finding joy in a moments
It's amazing how relaxed a man can be after a single glass of wine. These days I not only don't drink much, I don't desire to drink much. It's not a frustrated feeling, just an acknowledgment of the reality of having a supercute three and a bit month old baby. But tonight, it's the end of the week, a big week, and the wife and I are having a glass of wine.
From time to time I wonder about the good life, or the good moment. I'm enjoying this one now, even though I didn't plan or predict it, or maybe because of that. Once again, I get the feeling that the minute you start searching - and hoping to find - you're lost (searching for the pleasure of it is a different thing).
Here's to calling the search off.
By the way, I keep getting the urge to let fly with some massive cursewords at inappropriate times. As above, not out of frustration, just my own silly sense of humour.
From time to time I wonder about the good life, or the good moment. I'm enjoying this one now, even though I didn't plan or predict it, or maybe because of that. Once again, I get the feeling that the minute you start searching - and hoping to find - you're lost (searching for the pleasure of it is a different thing).
Here's to calling the search off.
By the way, I keep getting the urge to let fly with some massive cursewords at inappropriate times. As above, not out of frustration, just my own silly sense of humour.
Friday, March 13, 2009
public transport observations
- there's an inexhaustible supply of ineligible L-bus hailers
- there's an inexhaustible supply of heartless bus drivers
- you can count on seeing someone run for the bus/train before too long
- you can never quite tell which emotions will be invoked by seeing someone run and miss. sometimes schadenfreude, sometimes bellylaughter, sometimes deep sadness, sometimes frustration.
- you can count on someone unnecessarily running at strathfield train station. i find this both amusing and incredible frustrating. no, there's no train there, so you don't need to push past everyone and sprint faster than you've ever done in your life and if you just poked your head up you wouldn't need to sprint all the way to the platform before realising all of this. i do understand the anxiety induced by having your view of the platforms obstructed by going underground from one platform to the next.
- the space dimensions of a train will always make it a different ride compared to a bus. you got levels, you got places to hide and hide trash, you got multiple carriages separated by flirt with death. trains are much more likely to be dreamt of than buses for these reasons and others.
- sometimes i understand why people sit at the edge of a vacant seat, but mostly i loathe folk like that
- very rarely i understand why people don't move down the back of the bus, but pretty much all the time i shake my head at people like that.
- many people are so anxious about missing their stop.
- people never talk to each other on public transport
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