The Bed and Breakfast man

Big answers.

Vice. They set up a whole department in the police force to combat it, but now that I'm trying to give a couple of them away for a week or two so as to help with the baby making, there's not a copper around to hold my hand through it all.

What is my tax dollar paying for?

So I've decided to make the world a better place instead seeing as I can't sleep.

Simple plans are often the best, and being the simple type my plans are damn near foolproof.

The Cronulla riots a month or two back. The war in the middle east. White supremacist groups. Doily factories. Lets look at these undesirable aspects of the world in which we all live and finally work out what to do.

Here is my blueprint.

Blow up shoes in the shape of a banana.

Simple, effective and a boost to the local economy.

Set up a perimeter of riot police around the area of unrest. Everyone coming into the area is stopped.

"Good afternoon Sir, here for the riot are we"?

"Yeah pig, and there's nothing you can do about it"!!

"Not trying to stop you sir, just need you to sign for these and put them on, and then you're free to enter the melee. That's the ticket, just your size too. Have a nice day sir, through the barricades and off to the left. NEXT. Here for the riot are you sir? Very good. Just sign for this clown suit and in you go. And this gorilla outfit for the little lady. Very nice. Have fun, off to the left if you please".

What riot?

And why stop there. Hire James Bond to infiltrate the terrorist cells and replace their clothes with tutus. All bombs could be exchanged for those fake jars of nuts with spring loaded snakes. How much authority would the Taliban be seen to have dressed in morning suits and scuba flippers?

It wouldn't necessarily make Bush and Howard look any sillier, but there's a limit to how far a good idea will run.

Well there's my brain slightly more melted than when I woke this morning. What else have I got?

Achievement.

It bugs me a little.

I'm not an Everest climbing sort of bloke. Hillary and I probably share similar quantities of chest hair, but seriously. I'm not at the other end of the scale either, reading about great achievement from my armchair and believing that I could do it if I could be buggered. Achievement in this world needs revising.

Just to change the subject, Mrs A. is off to bed. She whacked a mozzie tonight and I pointed out that the pointy part of its head was probably still in her arm. No amount of tweezering fixed the problem. Now she's worried that the NASA developed mattress may have matter transference qualities and that she may wake tomorrow half human and half insect. Well at least she was worried when I made the suggestion.

Anyway, redefining achievement.

Walking up a mountain may be physically very demanding, but the human body properly trained can do it. What about learning the kazoo so well that you are invited to join the London Philharmonic as first kazoo for a concert to honour the Queen?

That's achievement. Something so utterly ridiculous becoming reality through effort that would not normally be considered by the man in the street. Possibly not even by the man in the bathtub.

Or inventing a perpetual motion machine that functions at a temperature of absolute zero where all motion theoretically ceases, and then using it to end pollution and the greenhouse effect.

Or even getting a perfect score in pingu.

I think that may be enough tonight.

Saturday

My little sister had a few mates over for a do on Saturday. I have to say how inordinately proud of her I am, how much I love her, and how bloody lucky Mick is. But to be fair, she is pretty lucky too, to have found a bloke who keeps her heart in the air and her feet on the ground.

And yes I'll feed the cat while you're in Fiji.

Navigation

I bought a Navman yesterday. I got sick of spending so much of my time on the road for work pulling over to look at the street directory, made worse by the fact that I often forget my reading glasses, or worse still the directory itself.

Also I like gadgets.

Between Strathfield car radio, (conveniently located at Camperdown rather than Strathfield), and work it refused to talk to any satellites.

I had turned it on, said yes to the disclaimer that came up on the screen asking me to promise not to use my in car navigation system while driving as it may cause an accident, looked for prepared readiness in the drop down list under state, finally having to settle on New South Wales, typed in works address five times before I learned how to save it, and spent the trip back alternately watching the screen tell me it was still searching the heavens, and picking the unit up from under the brake pedal every time it launched itself from the cradle with the suction cup on the windscreen when I went around a corner or over a bump.

Over lunch I tried to get it working and finish the setup. The list of languages and voices amused me, but the lack of petulant child or grandmother I feel was a glaring omission. I decided against the American voice, no offence intended, but Eddie the Shipboard Computer as my driving companion would have sent me round the bend.

Did you like that? Round the bend. Mercy.

I settled on a female, country neutral voice and switched it back on. No satellites in the office apparently, so I walked outside. Having previously set the coordinates for work and the volume to full, I got five feet from the roller door when a female voice screamed at me to go five metres to the left to reach my destination. It scared the bejesus out of me, but at least it was working.

When I left for the night I set her back in her cradle four or five times, pulled over four or five more to readjust the cradle so as she was supported by the dashboard and let her do her job. Firstly she wanted me to turn right out of the driveway. To the right is a blind corner on a busy road. I always go left, turn right at the next corner and take a few back streets to get to Addison road. The moment I did the Navman ordered me to make a U Turn. Nazi concentration camp commander should be one of the voice options.

I ignored her and surreptitiously watched the screen to see what she would do. She squinted for a moment, received signals from the geostationary orbits in which satellites spend their days, readjusted and told me to turn right in one hunderd metres. So far so good. At Addison Road she wanted me to go straight, up behind Newington Private School and then past Stanmore Video Ezy which is owned by my Uncle. I wanted to turn left and then right up Crystal Street avoiding the winding back streets and speed humps.

She readjusted again, but started to look a little pissed off.

By the time we got to the intersection with the Oxford Tavern she suggested we stop off for a beer and try to work out our differences. I pointed out that as I had chosen the female voice, and that the Oxford had topless waitresses it may not be the best plan. She pointed out that I could adjust her gender in the set up menu, but I decided that two blokes in that sort of pub on a Monday afternoon could lead to trouble and kept going.

She started to get snooty.

I was waiting for some sort of comment on the car I drive, or my aftershave, but she settled back into giving imperious demands. I ignored a couple more, and instead of going down Johnston Street in Annandale I opted for the back way through Leichhardt. By the time I hit the ANZAC Bridge she was giving an almost constant stream of orders.

In one kilometre keep right then keep left. Keep right now, then keep left. In five hundred metres keep left, KEEP LEFT.

The accuracy was astounding. If I changed lanes on the Harbour Bridge I was told in no uncertain terms to haul my rear end back where I was supposed to be. The lanes are confusing if you don't know them, and missing your exit can lead you kilometres out of your way.

When I turned into my street there was a hint of relief in her voice when she said the destination was in 40 metres. Just to make sure I understood, she said DESTINATION loudly and with an air of self satisfaction as I parked the car, launched herself from the cradle once more and turned herself off.

Linkage.

The Henson Park Hotel in Marrickville, a block or two from work, is a nice little pub. Good staff, cold beer, all the usual stuff. And one sign that I love. On a door between the bottle shop and the pokie room is a sign that says,

"Door swings both ways"

I fully support and endorse an establishment that gives doors who are proud to express their sexuality, and are no longer attached to closets in any way, meaningful jobs in the public eye. Kudos to you Henson Park.

Other things that have kept me amused this week are;

Splashback. I've managed to clear up to level 17.

Sidewalk chalk guy. I think I may have linked to this before, but I just found it again and it is worth a look.

And the site that Scientific American describes as "the finer points of relativity in less time than it takes to eat a sandwich". Maybe I eat too fast.

I'm also ordering a t-shirt, now that they have got back to me to confirm that they ship to Australia. (via)

Burning Up

I burned my left forearm on Sunday. More seriously than I realised apparently. It's all swollen, and red, and the burn area looks like some sort of mutation special effect from a cheesy sci fi movie. I may even go to the doctor if it doesn't get better in a week or so.

But I've been excused from washing up duties by Mrs A.

I'll have to break my leg and see if I can get out of taking the rubbish out next.

Extortion

There wasn't a suit in sight. The queue consisted entirely of king gee wearers. Plumbers, brickies, fitter & turners, butchers, bakers and candlestick makers. The majority looking a little bit lost. The guy in front of me rang someone on his mobile.

"Bro, it's me. What's my mobile number? Nah don't look it up it should be on your screen. Really? Alright, but hurry. I'm in a bloody florist shop".

I told the lady who served me that I wanted roses sent to Mosman. She started by showing me the ones for $200.00. I caught my wallet as it tried to flee the shop.

"I love her dearly", I said, "but not that dearly. Those ones there, $35.00, can I get ones like that"?

"Yes", she said, "but tomorrow they will be $65.00 and $20.00 delivery".

"Hand grown by the Dali Llama I assume", said I. " If I pay for them today can I have them at that price"?

"Yes but we won't deliver them. You'll have to take them today".

"Why"?

"Because".

"Ok, so if I want something sent and don't want to fork over $200.00 what can you show me"?

"Well we have half a dozen here for $85.00".

Why are the ones below them $45.00"?

"No babys breath".

You expect people to pay $40.00 for babys breath"??!!!

"Yes, and they will".

"She told me not to bother you know. Said it was a waste of money and overly commercialised".

"All us women say that. It's rubbish though. We don't mean a word of it".

I ordered and paid. She knew I would.

Going too far.

I would that I could afford to be a hard core eccentric.

It's not cheap you know. Generally you need a large home, a grandiose nature and a hobby or a habit that marks you out from the crowd. Collecting things like twelfth century roof tiles or Victorian teapots. Waking the neighbourhood each morning playing reveille on a tuba dressed in a pith helmet. (Have you ever seen a tuba in a pith helmet?). Shaping the hedges to resemble your favourite Greek God and holding tea parties for ducks.   

If you live in a flat whilst exhibiting those attributes you are just a nuisance and a council problem. If you live in a small, yet well fortified estate and claim heritage back to Boudicca then you have the admiring noblesse oblige of your peers, and reporters will beat a path to your door for those natty stories that come at the end of the news to make you feel that the world is still alright, even though they've just spent an hour telling you it isn't.

To be honest, Australia isn't a country that tolerates eccentricity well when it is in evidence in the average man on the street. Larrikin yes. Eccentric no. Running nude down George St in broad daylight is a display of larrikinism and would attract a chuckle and expressions such as, "Goodonya ya silly bastard" and "'Bout bloody time someone did that".

But talk to a street light and there's more paddywagons pulling up around you than there are women who don't know how to tuck their underwear into the back of their jeans.

In the UK eccentricity is manifold in its expression. Here it is not. But I enjoy wearing my tongue firmly in my cheek. I enjoy the act of being a little different and attracting comment. And I enjoy spending an inordinate amount of time waxing and blow drying my moustache and watching from the corner of my eye as people watch me from the corner of theirs. Mrs A. and I were accosted on the golf course just last week by a terribly nice chap who stopped mid swing as I came into view, and called across the fairway, "Fuckin' awesome moe mate". I even bought a pipe to set the mood further, and am currently in the market for a smoking jacket, a fez and a large country estate.

Being a member of the Handlebar club suits my need for expression in this area, and the increase of similar clubs across the world shows that I am not the only one. The handlebar club is one of the oldest, but the German clubs are generally the most prolific, and therefore have the most sway in the movement. But as I said, it's all tongue in cheek, eccentric gatherings with a liberal dose of charity work thrown in for good measure.

Even America are getting into it. If anything that had to be good news. The most prominent nation on earth could only increase the success of these clubs, which for mine is a good thing.

Then I found this. (Watch the trailer).

To be honest I thought that firing guns into the air was more a middle eastern extremist  sort of thing. The "No more patriotic endevour" bit seemed a little full on. But what affected me most was the lack of friendly oneness with ones fellow hirsute. The obvious need to win at all costs.

But it was the last words that chilled me. Why you would equate friendly international competition to WWII I don't understand.

Take note of the second one.

Ten Top Trivia Tips about Johnny the Horse!

1. According to the story, Pinocchio was made of Johnny the Horse.
2. Johnny the Horseolatry is the mindless worship of Johnny the Horse.
3. It takes forty minutes to hard-boil Johnny the Horse!
4. Pound for pound, hamburgers cost more than Johnny the Horse.
5. Johnny the Horse can turn his stomach inside out!
6. Fish travel in schools, but whales travel in Johnny the Horse!
7. During World War II, Americans tried to train Johnny the Horse to drop bombs.
8. Oranges, lemons, watermelons, pineapples and Johnny the Horse are all berries.
9. Only one person in two billion will live to be Johnny the Horse.
10. Johnny the Horse was the first Tsar of Russia!

I am interested in - do tell me aboutherhimitthem

(via)

Linkage.

Did you know that Chuck Norris has counted to infinity. Twice. Is there nothing that man can't do?

Cute point & click game.

Exercise is good (for you). This should be added to weight watchers booklets.

And now I'm off furniture shopping.