5/31/2004

You're my wife now :  Burning Flipside is an art festival at a pukka location in the Texas Hill Country. What can I say? It's flaming hot, things are burned, costumes are worn. Tenses are confused, verbs are conjugated and there's a creek to swim in to give relief from the merciless sun.

Flipside has a new recruit in me. I had a better time than I imagined possible. My stick critter received critical acclaim, I introduced the B52 to the battle against any temporary bouts of sobriety and I broke a very large monkey's arm. In a large campground, it's amazing how power and monkey juice can quickly go to your head. Armed with a bullhorn and a golf cart, a select group of volunteers got to rampage around the dirt tracks marshalling arriving traffic and doing gratuitous donuts around cattle grids. It sure was a blast, with very few incidents despite the massive tanks of propane, various petroleum products and dry ice. I even got married on Friday night. Bonza.


As Papa Lazarou might say, "You're my wife now."
posted by Garreth at 7:21 PM

5/26/2004

Curiouser and curiouser :  Strange times, and they are about to get stranger.


Two days ago I agreed with a friend that we should not try to build last-minute flame throwers into our hobby horses.

Yesterday I was taking a milkshake to someone who has pneumonia. I found myself wishing I had cup-holders in my car. A sure sign that I am getting more Septic by the day. Positively gangrenous.

Today I was chatting to a shop-owner in her shop and she took off her top to demonstrate that she was a hot librarian.

Whatever next? Oh yes. Flipside - an art festival in which I am camping with a group of lovely folk who put up a giant mushroom and a giant monkey's head amongst all the mayhem of 1300 artists.
posted by Garreth at 2:34 PM

5/24/2004

Danger, danger, high voltage :  During Friday night's escapades, I found myself saying on a long, late night stroll,

"Looks like I chose the wrong night to come out in swimming trunks and high heels."

My feet are paying the price of wearing cut-off cowboy boots with no socks. The abrasion caused my feet to skip the blister stage and move straight to gouge and slash.
posted by Garreth at 1:09 AM

5/23/2004

It's like rain on your wedding day :  Today we disarmed the monkey - this involved taking six, thirty foot long arms from the wooden sculpture with ropes, scaffolding, and the noon-day sun. I was first to arrive on the scene and scaled the monkey for some tranquility. I spent the next four hours up the monkey, helping to unbolt the arms from the shoulders. I was standing on the shoulders of giants. A giant monkey god called Hanuman to be precise.

The plan was then to go to a training session for the upcoming Burning Flipside event at which the wooden sculpture is to be burnt. The training was to enable me to greet people at the event, and make sure they were knowledgeable about the dangers and pleasures of the event. One key danger is the strength of the sun and its effects on unwary revellers.

I didn't make the training. I had sun stroke.
posted by Garreth at 9:29 PM

The new black :  Pipe-cleaners. Have you ever bought a few bags of pipecleaners and just sat down and played with them? You can make structures, hats, animals, wireframe Elite spaceships, anything you like. They're great. Cheap too.
posted by Garreth at 10:31 AM

5/20/2004

Ra ra ra. Me me me :  I did this, blah blah blah, I did that.

One day I was driving through Mighty Mighty Loughborough - the small town I went to school in. There were a few of us in the car, school chums, if you will.

"I did that sculpture," said Jim, pointing at a large installation, as we drove down a street that I wasn't familiar with. I was even less familiar with the fact that Jim had been commissioned to make public works of art while still at school. He'd only mentioned it because we happened to be passing.
posted by Garreth at 2:41 AM

The thing about rules :  is that if you abide by them for long enough, it's great fun to break them. So here I go. Here are the blogs I read when I can.

A tale of a perky student in the US . I've been following this one for ever. Think sassy, smart, occasionally goopy but always entertaining.

A charming mother with a nice boyfriend. A more mature while at the same time reassuringly immature view of life, occasionally from the wrong side of a bottle of wine or seven.

A lady of the night's tales. Of course I used to read her before she got her book deal.

This man married an ex's rotege. He's a great reader and writer, he's British, and he doesn't like the French.

There are a few more, and a few more Live Journallers.

So how do I spend so much time in front of this infernal machine each month, if it's not reading such things?
posted by Garreth at 2:21 AM

Heat exhaustion :  I met someone the other day. I nodded hello and he asked me how I was today. The word 'today' alerted me to the fact that this might have been someone I had already met. I peered at him. Normally I am pretty good at remembering the faces of people I have met, if not their names. After some far-too-overt peering, my brain registered nothing.

"Have we met?" was my way of saying, "Who the jumping buddha on a superdream are you?"

"I'm Bon. We met on Saturday."
"Born?"
"Bon."
"How do you spell that?" This would surely distract him from the fact that I had misplaced him somewhere in the last three days.
"B-O-N. Yeah, you jilted me."
"???"
"Yeah you wanted to marry me, but then you disappeared. Left me at the altar."
"Ah. Yes. I'm still trying the visa angle."
posted by Garreth at 2:10 AM

Grave :  I met someone the other day who had Graves' Disease. She had previously been unsuccessfully treated with a double dose (20 milliCuries) of radiation. For three days she hadn't been allowed to be within ten feet of anything living. Everything she touched was contaminated. After using her lavatory she had to flush three times.
posted by Garreth at 2:03 AM

Insomnia :  The internet is evil and should be stamped out as soon as possible. That said, I see the BBC have made a nice weather map of the world out of war. It would be better if they could have coloured the conflicts according to casualties per square inch of CNN column coverage or something.

Good old Britain. It almost makes me feel homesick when I learn of the evolution of the Gunpowder Plot. Many hundreds of years ago, disgruntled revolutionary types decided that it was time to stuff many, many barrels of gunpowder under the House of Commons. This is less of a house and more of a comedy workshop held by the best stand-up comedians in all of the land who stand up and represent their consituents. The conspirators wanted to nuke parliament. Who can blame them.

This week in British (English) politics, someone managed to throw condoms full of purple flour at the Prime Minister (the best piece to have in a chess game). John Prescott - some kind of toady to the PM - was obviously concerned that the powder might be dangerous and put some paper over it. After he finished laughing at the last fish-based joke. After all the people in parliament are still selected by a process of elimination in a stand-up comedy tour, and they are quite amusing. (No really, they are quite funny and clever, or at least their writers are).

When George W Bush visited the UK, his car was allegedly rocket-propelled-grenade-proof. People in the US don't arse about with condoms full of flour. They blow up government buildings and turn people into hamburgers. In England (Britain) they throw foodstuffs. My hat really went off to John Prescott when he lamped someone who threw an egg at him. I shall call him Pancake Prescott, and endeavour to throw some butter and milk at him too.

Actually, I think I might be home-sick - I miss British comedy.
posted by Garreth at 1:43 AM

Phone call :  R: "Hellloooooo." (my standard greeting if caller ID gives you away)
D: "Hey Ron, it's Dennis. How are you?"
R: "Good, good. How are you?" (always good good to repeat yourself)
D: "I'm good, still in rehearsals."
R: "I'm on top of a monkey at the moment. Kind of hard to explain."
D: "I haven't checked my email this morning, and I wondered if we are still on for tonight?"
R: "Yeah, sure..."
K: "LIGHT IT!" Ke is cupping his hands to his mouth as he yells from 30 feet below
R: "..hang on..." R mbles with plug and extension cord.
K: "IS IT ON?" Ke is not used to his plug operator being on the phone.
R: "HANG ON. Hang on." Sparks jump across all three spark gaps in the monkey's flamethrowers.
B: "MAKE IT WORK!" The pyromaniac monkey architect yells too now. The propane is turned on, and noisey fire issues forth from the flamethrowers.
D: "Hello?"
R: "YAY. Er. Hello, can I call you back in about five minutes?"
posted by Garreth at 1:23 AM

Top tips for medium term English visitors to the US :  If someone tries to sell you an AT&T phone, shoot them in the face.

If you are driving and see a big red sign on a pole that says STOP, carrying on driving. They are a pain in the arse put up by big oil companies and car brake specialists to stimulate sales of their products.

Go for breakfast with a local and watch them buttering English muffins. Smirk and make lewd comments.

If you want to use a bank, find a Bank of America branch - they are often conveniently located by large roads. Firebomb the Bank of America branch at night to avoid injury. That way you won't be tempted to open an account there. If you inadvertantly find yourself with a Bank of America account, don't be tempted to shoot the bank in the face. Simply close your account and firebomb every branch that you see. At night.


Accept the sins of the Welsh and Scots and be prepared to be called a Brit. Even though the Scottish invented income tax.

Don't be intimidated by alcohol vendors who sell six-packs and twelve-packs. The individual containers are smaller, the beer and cider is weaker, and remember the prices are only in dollars - the archaic, almost worthless pyramid-based currency of an ailing economy. Don't be tempted to mock the US currency, despite all of the notes looking the same. Come on now, they've made an effort with the 20 dollar note - it has a slight blue tinge to it now, so not all of the notes are green. Yeesh. Australians and the Dutch have it down, and probably most of the new Euro countries by now. Plastic notes that you can take swimming, shovel angel dust up your nose with, and still pull out and recognize the denomination of.
posted by Garreth at 12:24 AM

5/19/2004

It's all bad :  Stuff like this is what clogs up the internet. Maybe there's some way of recycling on t'internet, so that it does collapse under the weight of "my favourite shapes are blue circles, and I am most like Benny out of Top Cat."
posted by Garreth at 4:28 PM

Things are bigger in Texas :  A larger than average bird decided to evacuate its bowels above me today, deep in the heart of Texas. That means extra good luck for me. Bueno.
posted by Garreth at 4:18 PM

Texas-sized rock block :  First it was the size of the bird poops on my car that hacked me off. Now it's the size of the insects that feed on my legs.
posted by Garreth at 8:24 AM

My first tattoo will say - "Has his ass kicked by girls" :  Just like Carl Lewis didn't show up for our 10k showdown, the word must have got out about me entering the sparring arena - no-one showed. A little disappointed, I joined the regular boxing class. I got to do some defense work with one girl - about five feet tall, but weighing far more than me. She's lost 80lbs in 18 months through boxing, and has a fringe which covers her eyes so you can't see what she's thinking. Which means she's motivated, sneaky, and hence kicked my ass. I was always taught not to hit women, which makes it tough for me to box with them. That's my excuse anyway.

Bruce jumped in to spar with me. He noticed that I panic when I get attacked heavily, and admitted later that he was glad I wasn't sparring yet. He also said he was surprised that I managed to hit him with a cross. Not as surprised as I was to learn that it was a cross that caught him off guard.
posted by Garreth at 7:47 AM

5/18/2004

Risk Profile :  I haven't bought myself a Porsche, not even one of those tricksie little twin-turbo nutcase ones. I am not having a mid-life crisis. That was so five years ago. I am however taking more risks. I looked in the mirror, and the words of Kenny Rogers sprang to mind, as they often do. I could tell I was holding aces.

So I'm going to have a crack at full-on proper sparring tonight. I told Bruce about my accelerated time-line for getting out of the country, and he agreed that I could get an opportunity to have the living Jehosephat beaten out of me. The catch is that my health insurance ran out about a month ago.

Right, I'm off to burn my mouth by trying to mould a gumshield to it following instructions written in Spanish.
posted by Garreth at 2:23 PM

If you love someone, let them go :  She's reasonably well travelled for an American. She's spent time in both California and Texas. There is a higher percentage of Australians overseas than there are Americans with passports. For an American though, she's been around.

I want the best for her. I think she should see more things, and go more places than I can take her to. It has been brief and packed with joy, and I know that we've both benefitted from our time together. The honeymoon period is over - we have had a great three months together. It's not like we're married - I could never be bothered with the official paperwork. I know I treated her far better than her last husband - the guy who is still on the paperwork.

She's done a quarter of a million miles - that's four times around the world, but never seen anything outside of a few states. If you love her, let her go.

I don't think my Saab is a her at all though. More of an it. La voiture becomes the car, the it. And it knows I care, but I shalln't let it go. I'm going to hang on to it. Maybe I can show it the joy of turbo once more, now that I've found there's no power going to the APC solenoid.
posted by Garreth at 1:40 PM

5/14/2004

Monkey Business :  I was working away up high, wiring a monkey arm to receive its flamethrower, pondering the imminent and calculated destruction of something so worth. It reminded me of the K-Foundation burning one million smackers. Proper English money too, not these filthy septic tokens.

A gentleman appeared below me and started talking to someone. I looked down, and his friendly face seemed familiar, but I couldn't place it. A while later, he looked up and said that he recognised me. I hesitated, hoping that my memory would yank back his name so that I could respond. My memory had other ideas. It has very clear rules about not producing the goods while I need them, but then thrusts them forward while I am shopping for fruit, or thwarting bank robberies.

"I met you at that party."

Come on memory, what's his name?

"You know?"

Remember damn you, remember.

"We shared that hooker."

What the? I don't remember any rock star parties with hand-me-down ladies-of-the-night.

"You know, we smoked that hookah together?"

Ah. I recall. But even though he told me his name again, my memory is still refusing to share his name with me.
posted by Garreth at 11:43 PM

5/13/2004

Neck snapping :  The Saab and I got home last night, and were spotted by a friend as we parked. He invited half of us over to his place where some other friends were. We watched many wondrous things, including some of the music videos of Michel Gondry. We then went on to watch a few episodes of Mr. Show. It made me pull a muscle in my neck through laughing too hard. I like laughing.
posted by Garreth at 1:03 PM

Bunch of Canadians :  In the rest of the world, I am English. In the US, I am British. I think Americans invented the "Rest of the World" for their marketing maps. I suppose being recognised as a Brit is a change from being labelled a Russian or Australian.

Ah, the ex-colonies. How they have such quaint little sayings, they've done so well.

I am now 'down' with something I am 'up for'. When I go 'hang out' with a 'chum' I am really spending time with chopped fish. And I can talk about sharing a nice bit of crumpet with a friend without blushing.
posted by Garreth at 12:16 PM

Public Relations :  A tall man phoned me yesterday, and told me he was working on the flamethrowers for the giant six-armed monkey effigy. I dropped what I was doing to go and help out. It didn't take long for me to drop what I was doing, as it was essentially a whole heap of nothing. I rushed over to Dave's house.

Dave lives on the East side of town. In the olden days, the city planners guide of Austin had different zones clearly marked - a zone for white people, a zone for black people and a zone for hispanic people. The city planners don't have maps like this any more, but the East side is still considered a black and hispanic neighbourhood. Around where Dave lives, there are many black people.

Dave's landlady and housemate are very understanding. For several months there has been a 30 foot tall wooden monkey in their garden. Its arms hover over the trees and bushes, and one hangs over the sidewalk. Attendant on the monkey are a number of people who come to help in its building, and the associated beer and music which such a task requires.

Arriving at the monkey, I helped truss the arms - an amusing task which allowed me to use a power saw, some glue, and a screw-gun. It also allowed me to balance on scaffolding and ladders while we worked. As always happens when you are up high on the monkey, some passers-by started to yell out questions. Sometimes the passers by ask if you were smoking crack when you started the project. The stock answer is, "No." Sometimes the passers-by then ask you if you want to buy some crack. The same answer applies. A man in a truck stopped to ask what we were doing.

"Building a giant monkey."
A puzzled look came back my way.
"With six arms." I thought this might clear things up a little.
"Like a sculpture?"
"Exactly. A big wooden sculpture." This was going to be easy. He had twigged quickly. But then a co-trusser added,
"And then we're going to burn it in the Hill Country at the end of the month."
"What are you going to burn all that wood for?"
"Fun."

It probably seems strange to see so much work and materials going into something that is going to be burned in two weeks time. I'm not sure I can explain it. I know I'm going to miss climbing around in its structure - it's like being an overgrown kid in a giant tree house. Only this time the kid has powertools and a set of wires and propane lines to install to get the flamethrowers working.
posted by Garreth at 9:30 AM

5/11/2004

Something of the knight about me :  The sun taught me a lesson yesterday, so today's walk was after sunset. The highlight of three hours of trudging was something I stumbled across by chance. I was busy crossing a bridge. The bridge was busy crossing the Colorado River. People were crowded around the edge of the bridge keeping their camera flashes busy. They would point, and in the gloom and flashes below the bridge, there would be darting flashes of brown.

It was hard to see at first, but then if you looked along the edges of the trees below the bridge you could make out the motion. Fleeting glimpses of colour against the green leaves all spewing forth in the same direction. I found a path down to the trees below, and stood under a tree and looked at the flashes coming towards me. Bats. Bats flying dangerously close to the top of my head. I stooped a little and found an information post. Living under the bridge is the world's largest urban bat colony. Not hundreds, not thousands, but millions of bats nested there. They stream out to feed nightly on a ton and a half of insects. I should get some for my tent when I go camping.
posted by Garreth at 10:54 PM

Sometimes you tell the day by the bottle that you drink :  Living your life through lyrics is not as easy as it sounds. Saturday I'll go with "K", and Monday will become "HEB apple juice". I'm not sure whether to call Friday - "Blackthorn" or "Smirnoff". And what if I want to drink HEB apple juice on a Friday?

I think the answer would be to drink certain things only on certain days. That means narrowing it down to seven drinks or less. How am I going to fit Stella Artois into that? I haven't had a Stella in seven months, but I can't imagine never having a Stella again. That might mean I have to sacrifice fluids on one day of the week, to effectively reserve the right to drink Stella on that day in the future.

It's hard work being wanted dead or alive.

posted by Garreth at 5:43 PM

5/10/2004

The Gatlin boys came callin' :  Monday nights see a group of Austin residents converge on a house in South Austin. Once the discussion group is convened, tea is shared, and individuals discuss their personal experiences about the topic of the week. The general theme of the group is spiritual development, and topics have included "Current Influences on Spiritual Path" and "Personal Experiences of god".

There are many paths and belief systems in presence at the meetings. One path was about to be presented this evening by a Hyde Park resident, but he couldn't attend. He had to go for a walk in the dark. This is his story:

"One morning, I woke up and something changed. It was one of those moments like when you're bereaved and you suddenly look for god or God or something to make sense of it all. This particular morning I was receptive to divine inspiration. I was like a liquid in space - searching for some gravity and a container to give me shape and a form I could be happy with. It could have been anything that gave me a new road to walk on my journey through life. If the Mormons had knocked on my door, I probably wouldn't be telling this story, I'd be busy beating my five wives. If I'd picked up a copy of The Dice Man, I'd probably be rolling dice right now to figure out whether to invade French Canadia or continue telling this story."

"But it was none of these things that shaped my life. It was some yawping from my speakers that re-shaped my life - the revelation were carried by the voices of Jon Bon Jovi and Kenny Rogers. The lyrics gave me the values, ethics and very instructions on how to be a better person. I took them to heart - it's all there in 'The Coward of the County', 'Livin on a Prayer', 'Wanted Dead Or Alive', and 'The Gambler'. There are plenty of other songs, but most of the other Kenny Rogers stuff I looked up was such dire drivel that I realised it could not be the true gospel."

"The songs changed my life. The very next day I walked 'these streets' for about two hours. I did so without a loaded six-string on my back (my six string was in hock apparently). I got sunburn, and then I realised that I should have 'the night on my side', so I went for a walk at night too. 'Sometimes I have to fight to be a man' so I went to a boxing class, and punched the short-sighted, cross-eyed asian kid for a bit. He couldn't see me coming. I didn't play for keeps, mainly because I knew I'd be coming back. On Wednesday. I talked to Jonny, the pro-fighter at the gym who is normally a man of few words. He maybe saw the light in my eyes - the fervour of a proselyte on a Bon Jovi mission. He told me his story, of how he used to be a hood on the streets, how he messed people up, and how he'd been shot. That all changed when he found boxing - now he literally lives for the fight, because that's all that he's got. Wooah."

"There are other things I have learned - not to give my favourite whisky to any dying poker players on trains to nowhere. I haven't had cause to use that one yet, or to shake hands in the light of day with anyone, but these are sure to be useful tips from old Kenny.I haven't grasped the full meaning of all of the commandments, but I'm halfway there."
posted by Garreth at 10:18 PM

5/09/2004

I walk these streets, a loaded six-string on my back :  After a hard Thursday of flame throwing and monkey making, I didn't pay too much attention to the message on my voicemail. I was pleased to have been invited to a Friday night party, but did the aural equivalent of skim reading on the other details.

By Friday evening, after some 'chicken on crack' boxing my energy levels were too paltry for me to even dream about moving from my house. My phone rang and the screen told me that it was "Dave My Hero". This made my phone into the bat phone - the call was coming from my equivalent of Commissioner Gordon, and I was now a super hero in demand. I thumbed the button on my cell phone which bore the symbol of a green handset. The handset in the symbol does not resemble my cell phone, but fortunately this did not stop my cell phone from connecting me to Commissioner Gordon. After a brief discussion and some coin tossing to determine who was going to phone to find out further details about the party, I hung up. Dave My Hero Commissioner Gordon called back shortly afterwards, and I did the trick with the button with the picture that doesn't resemble my phone again. Dave's voice was in my ear again, and he told me that it was a super hero party, and that we should meet there in two hours dressed as super heroes. I was already a super hero on the inside, but not so much on the outside.

Two hours to rustle up a super hero costume at seven o'clock on a Friday night. I thought of a friend's approach to problem solving for inspiration. The general plan was to approach any problem in three stages. The first stage was to ignore the problem and hope it went away. The second step was to throw money at the problem to see if that made it go away. I can never remember the third stage, so I set about stage one, and resolutely refused to believe that there was any costume problem.

After 90 minutes of studious problem ignoring ignorance, I went to buy some cider from the petrol station nearby. In Britain, they don't sell alcohol in petrol stations. Perhaps this is an approach to discouraging driving while drunk and thirsty. In Australia, I've bought booze from a drive-thru grog shop - you don't even have to get out of the car to get loaded. The US approach seems to strike a middle ground - you have to be sober enough to drive to the petrol station and stagger into the store to pick up the booze.

With my cider in my hand, I walked home and stopped by a local coffee shop to say hello to a chum. Stage one of the super hero costume problem resolution strategy was still in effect. I had ignored the hell out of the problem for a good two hours, which meant that I was already late to meet Dave My Hero aka Commissioner Gordon. I returned home and attacked a bottle of vodka for some problem-solving inspiration, given that I wasn't in a position to go to stage two and throw money at the problem.

Dave is My Hero. It said so on my cell phone. It must be true - I always believe what my phone tells me, even if it contradicts the instructions given to me by the voices in my alarm clock. Maybe I could dress as Dave and claim that I was Dave My Super Hero. Probably not too convincing though. There was nothing else for it. I went to my cupboard and pulled out my Lord Satan costume. Well it said Lord Satan on the tag in the costume shop, but no-one really thinks that someone with ginger hair wearing a tight red polyester jump suit with a satin cape looks much like Satan. More Santa if anything. But I was in a total Mister Benn moment when I bought it - I had never spent an hour in a costume shop before.

Inspired by vodka, clad in red polyester I made a mental note that if I stood up straight at any point in the evening, I would probably castrate myself given the tightness of the outfit. I put on my red Elvis sunglasses and mentally conjured up the name "Hellvis" to describe the super hero that had just burst forth from the cacoon. Hellvis left the building, and strode up to the coffee shop to wave at his chum, before setting off to the party.

Many, many, many hours later, three decidedly worse-for-wear super heroes sat discussing menu choices at a Whataburger drive-thru window. Hellvis, Dave My Hero and Slacko the Clown were at a total loss as to what disgusting grease injected sugar products to order. Dave My Hero lived up to his name, and came through with the goods at the last moment. He blurted out something about all of the desserts and some onion rings, and before long we had escaped the super villainous fast food debacle.

Scarcely five hours later, Saturday rapped loudly on Hellvis Lord Santa's skull, and he whisked himself off to a "project party". The project party is the renamed "work day", an event at which projects are undertaken to prepare one of the theme camps for the upcoming Burning Flipside event. After a hard day and night of hangovering, projecting and partying, he arrived home again, and put himself to bed. None of this explains what happened when he woke up. He had an urge to listen to Kenny Rogers and Bon Jovi. Strange things are afoot, as he types post 665 in his blog.
posted by Garreth at 6:23 PM

5/07/2004

Stiff upper lip/beak :  Boxing classes have only got better since I started, three months ago. Bruce the gym owner has been putting people through their paces for many years. He is the proverbial brick outhouse - a foot shorter than me, 15 years older, and ten times as fit. He imparts wisdom to us as we train, and there are signs around the walls to help reinforce the message.

"If you want to box, TRAIN, if you want to win, TRAIN HARDER."
"Fatigue makes cowards out of men."
"Victory belongs to the most persevering - Napoleon." (Not to be confused with HMS Victory, which belonged to Lord Nelson's Mediterranean Fleet)

Bruce works his pupils hard, but there is a great atmosphere in his gym, and between yelling at us to try harder, he finds plenty of time to talk smack to everyone. One minute he is shouting at us all to "suck it up," which I think has something to do with breaking through pain barriers, the next minute he is telling the musicians that they have no rhythm and that the English got beaten out of America already, and their latest representative is about to get his ass kicked again.

Bruce has special messages which he bawls to me.
"Loosen up!"
"Git your knees up. Ah don't want you dying on that mountain."
"You're queen is a whore!"

The mountain Bruce is referring to is Mont Blanc, whose lofty peak I plan to summit in early July. The training intensity at Bruce's KO Boxing is generally in the 'wild chicken on crack' zone - fast bursts of high output activity punctuated with short breaks. I've always wanted to be more of a chicken on crack person, but apparently mountain climbing isn't that kind of activity. You wouldn't expect a chicken to fly for sixteen hours straight for example, not even it had plenty of rocks under its wing. The fact that I'm the heaviest I've ever been in my life doesn't bode well for lugging my ass up 15,771 feet of glacier.

Today, Bruce joined in the training session, and took time to spar with each of us. It was quite amazing to be brutalized by someone who has to move a foot towards you to be able to hit you in the nose. The tables were turned in the wind-sprints outside though. This is a new exercise in which the group has to sprint about 40 yards and then turn around and sprint back. I like this exercise. I can coast alongside Bruce for ten yards or so, insult him, and then accelerate away to the finish line. Fight him on my own territory, if you will.

At the end of today's session, I was quietly trying to stretch my legs and avoid complaining about the pain in my shins. Bruce comes along, wiggles my ankle a bit and sums up my problem.

"You're just too god-damned stiff all round."

I'm typing this with an ice pack on my shin, thinking about how to become less of a chicken on crack, and more of an enduring alpine goat. I climb Mont Blanc in less than two months. I'm sure Bruce's voice will be ringing in my ears all the way up the glacier - telling me to suck it up.
posted by Garreth at 3:31 PM

5/03/2004

How to talk like a Septic part four :  Replace the adjective 'big' with 'big ass', as in:

"Look at that big ass country we haven't invaded yet."
"That chick's got a big ass ass."
posted by Garreth at 10:31 PM

Lost turbo found alive and well and living in da hood :  A few months ago, I had the dubious pleasure of picking up a car for a film production I was helping with. I was excited as I set off for the garage in my Saab. My Saab was jealous, and decided to eject one of its wing mirrors as we approached the garage, and I arrived with a tinkling of glass and less peripheral awareness than usual.

The car I picked up made my pulse race. It was a '98 Oldsmobile. Immortalised in the Public Enemy song, "You gonna get yours", in which Chuck, Flava and the boys wax lyrical about the speed and power of their '98. Ever since I first heard the song, I have been prone to shouting, "Suckers to the side, I know ya hate, my '98. You gonna get yours." The last time I did it, I was paddling a canoe, overtaking some innocent lake users, dressed as a pirate with half a flask of rum in my belly.

I got into the vast '98, and carefully reversed from the garage forecourt, and eased the steering column gear selector into drive. After a discrete distance, I prepared myself for the g-force, and floored the accelerator of the outsized iron crate. I looked expectantly at the speedo, thinking the sheer luxury of the vehicle was masking the sensation of speed and acceleration that must surely be happening all around it. I watched the needle crawl up to indicate 45 miles per hour, and felt totally robbed. The car didn't "blows 'em all away." It sucked. I delivered the pimp-mobile to the set of the film, and later returned it to the garage to pick up my trusty Saab, all the time thinking of re-writing the lyrics to reflect my true love - the Saab. Not many words rhyme with Saab, it turned out. So I left the song.

Lately, I have been covering many miles in my car - appointments to help build giant six-armed monkey gods and the flamethrowers associated with such a project, going to watch women with broken necks balance on top of each other, and to build hitching posts for hobby horse tethering - you know the kind of thing. Two strange developments have surprised me. The first is that I now drive with the reckless carelessness of a Texan - I think nothing of swerving across three lanes inches away from other automobiles to make an exit from the freeway. The second is that my boost gauge, after a little tweaking, is indicating that there is positive boost, allbeit small, at the intake to my engine. Which means my turbo is almost thinking about working. There is hope for the widow's son - I shall go the ball. By jingo, that turbo will work. So watch it, suckas to the side - plenty of words rhyme with Saab Turbo. My '85 Saab Turbo. You gonna get yours.
posted by Garreth at 10:12 PM