Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Monday, March 14, 2011
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Boning Up
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Friday, February 11, 2011
On The Buses
My Grand-Pop, Bill, was a conductor on the number 3 bus which ran from Crystal Palace, where he lived, down to Brixton, past The Oval, around Trafalgar Square and on to Piccadilly and Oxford Circus. I can only vaguely remember being on the bus once but unless he was putting on a special show just for me I think it's fair to say that he was a character who probably enlivened more passengers than he annoyed.
Eventually he became too old for the rigours of issuing tickets and he took a part time job with the police training academy around the corner from his house. We had to pass the building on our way to visit our Grandparents and I can clearly remember the three of us in the back of the Cortina giggling as we repeatedly sang, "Hello Grand-Pop cleaning the lavatory". It seems rather patronising now and maybe indicative of the social climbing our family was engaged in. However, my father never took steps to admonish us so maybe it was just playful fun and not disrespectful of a man who worked his entire life starting with delivering milk from a horse and cart. Cow's milk from a cart.
I try to use the bus as much as possible as it always seems a more interesting way to travel. Obviously you can see out of the window but the people seem more inclined to express themselves on a bus. Everywhere I go in Boston seems to be on the same bus route, the 66. It runs from Harvard all the way to Dudley Station which takes over an hour and seems to travel between two countries. Harvard is affluent, clean, predominantly white and stuffed with bars and restaurants and the area around Dudley Station isn't. I volunteer at a school near Dudley Station, I pay weekly visits to the dentist in Longwood, I visit someone in Brigham Circle and I've recently got a job in Allston. All on the 66 bus route.
The first time I took the bus back from Dudley Station a man at the front of the bus was exhorting his fellow passengers to show more emotion, not a plea I would have thought was entirely necessary from my experience of Boston buses. "We keep it all bottled up man, not allowed to show how we feel. Gotta' let it out. To prove that he was as good as his word he proceeded to break down. He folded in two, touched his head to his knees and wailed while rocking backwards and forwards on his seat. I don't mean sobbed. I mean wailed. He really let it all out and was an example to us all as to the merits of free expression. It wasn't the sort of spectacle that one feels able to observe with impunity but as I was unable to concentrate on my book I pretended to read while trying to focus on his words which were blurted out through the tears and snot and dribble he was so freely expunging.
He paused to answer the phone which I thought might be an opportunity to glean something slightly more coherent but the caller was treated to no more comprehensible an explanation than the rest of the passengers were. Following the call there was something of a lull as he described to a woman who was sitting on the opposite of the bus to him that the caller, "Didn't know, he didn't know'', and it eventually became apparent that someone close to him, perhaps his mother, had just died.
How 'bout that?
Eventually he became too old for the rigours of issuing tickets and he took a part time job with the police training academy around the corner from his house. We had to pass the building on our way to visit our Grandparents and I can clearly remember the three of us in the back of the Cortina giggling as we repeatedly sang, "Hello Grand-Pop cleaning the lavatory". It seems rather patronising now and maybe indicative of the social climbing our family was engaged in. However, my father never took steps to admonish us so maybe it was just playful fun and not disrespectful of a man who worked his entire life starting with delivering milk from a horse and cart. Cow's milk from a cart.
I try to use the bus as much as possible as it always seems a more interesting way to travel. Obviously you can see out of the window but the people seem more inclined to express themselves on a bus. Everywhere I go in Boston seems to be on the same bus route, the 66. It runs from Harvard all the way to Dudley Station which takes over an hour and seems to travel between two countries. Harvard is affluent, clean, predominantly white and stuffed with bars and restaurants and the area around Dudley Station isn't. I volunteer at a school near Dudley Station, I pay weekly visits to the dentist in Longwood, I visit someone in Brigham Circle and I've recently got a job in Allston. All on the 66 bus route.
The first time I took the bus back from Dudley Station a man at the front of the bus was exhorting his fellow passengers to show more emotion, not a plea I would have thought was entirely necessary from my experience of Boston buses. "We keep it all bottled up man, not allowed to show how we feel. Gotta' let it out. To prove that he was as good as his word he proceeded to break down. He folded in two, touched his head to his knees and wailed while rocking backwards and forwards on his seat. I don't mean sobbed. I mean wailed. He really let it all out and was an example to us all as to the merits of free expression. It wasn't the sort of spectacle that one feels able to observe with impunity but as I was unable to concentrate on my book I pretended to read while trying to focus on his words which were blurted out through the tears and snot and dribble he was so freely expunging.
He paused to answer the phone which I thought might be an opportunity to glean something slightly more coherent but the caller was treated to no more comprehensible an explanation than the rest of the passengers were. Following the call there was something of a lull as he described to a woman who was sitting on the opposite of the bus to him that the caller, "Didn't know, he didn't know'', and it eventually became apparent that someone close to him, perhaps his mother, had just died.
How 'bout that?
Thursday, January 27, 2011
News just in...
In a shocking new development it has emerged that an unnamed person has admitted to leaving the guard off the hair clippers after, 'trimming my bush'.
More news as soon as she's out of hospital.
More news as soon as she's out of hospital.
Phew, that was close.
Good news.
I've just heard that I've got an interview with a global management consultancy business on Monday. I've been told that they're pretty informal but even so I thought I should make an effort to appear professional and thought a quick trim might not go amiss.
Bad news.
The guard was not on my clippers.
Good news.
I've stuck it back on, do you think anyone will notice?
Lucky I stopped in the nick of time or I could have looked a real fool on Monday.
Monday, January 24, 2011
Waste not, want not.
Our condo is so small that Peta and I are typically never more than a couple of metres apart. I would estimate that if I pressed myself close to the front door and she leaned out of the bedroom window we could be separated by as much as 4 meters but things haven't quite reached that stage yet.
Aside from the bathroom the only door in the flat is the bi-fold louvre door between the bedroom and the remainder of the living areas which seems to be designed for symbolic or ceremonial use. When I find myself in need of in need of privacy or tranquillity I tease, drag and bounce this door closed but I am still only spitting distance from Peta as she works at the dining table. I can still hear her tapping annoyingly at the keyboard or provocatively scratching her pencil across notepaper. When lying down to sleep I can still pretty much see her which makes me wonder why the door is there at all. Perhaps it is designed to create the illusion of privacy while maintaining the illusion of space.
There's no room for a washing machine so we are compelled to take the elevator to the basement where the spotless and efficient communal washing facilities reside. There is also a soft-drink machine and a table and chairs which suggests that a convivial hour or two could be spent discussing the merits of one soap powder over another with one's neighbours. Having spent some time seated on these chairs I can confirm that conversation does not flow but I have learnt some new folding techniques for large ladies underwear which I hope to be able to put to good use in the coming years.
This week however I was waiting for the lift, clutching my still-warm washing to my chest when a hitherto unknown neighbour, carrying a large cardboard box approached me with a question. My ear seems not yet attuned to the local accent so I leaned forward and pressed my good right ear in her direction and asked for clarification. "Do you need a miniature whisk?" was what I felt she said but not being acquainted with such a thing I assumed I must have misheard but felt that whatever she was offering sounded similar enough to what I thought I heard to warrant repeating the phrase in search of enlightenment. "A miniature whisk?" I echoed.
She confirmed that this was indeed what was being discussed and further clarified the situation by pulling what can only be described as a miniature whisk from the box.
I can't abide waste as much as the next man so while trying to conceal my surprise at something which looked like it would more at home in a dolls house I racked my mind for some possible use to which this object could be put. It was whisk like in every way, made of shiny, silver wire with a solid metallic handle but it was little larger than my index finger. I wondered whether her condo was even smaller than ours and in an effort to create an illusion of space it was filled with miniaturised objects. I also wondered what other Lilliputian items she had already given away, leaving her with a large cardboard box containing but a miniature whisk.
I remain ever conscious that everything we buy in America will have to be given away or shipped back to Australia when we leave in a few months. This is one of the reasons why I am less inflamed by my bike being stolen than I might otherwise have been. Peta is buying a pair of shoes a month so the chance of my bike making the cut when it comes to filling boxes seems quite remote and although a miniature whisk takes up much less room than a bike, even a miniature bike, it seemed rash to relieve my neighbour of her task when there was little chance of finding a miniature egg or a miniature pan with which to make miniature omelettes.
So I declined the kind offer and wished her well but I can't help but feel she's out there somewhere, trudging through the snow with her box and her burden in search someone who can find a use for a miniature whisk.
Aside from the bathroom the only door in the flat is the bi-fold louvre door between the bedroom and the remainder of the living areas which seems to be designed for symbolic or ceremonial use. When I find myself in need of in need of privacy or tranquillity I tease, drag and bounce this door closed but I am still only spitting distance from Peta as she works at the dining table. I can still hear her tapping annoyingly at the keyboard or provocatively scratching her pencil across notepaper. When lying down to sleep I can still pretty much see her which makes me wonder why the door is there at all. Perhaps it is designed to create the illusion of privacy while maintaining the illusion of space.
There's no room for a washing machine so we are compelled to take the elevator to the basement where the spotless and efficient communal washing facilities reside. There is also a soft-drink machine and a table and chairs which suggests that a convivial hour or two could be spent discussing the merits of one soap powder over another with one's neighbours. Having spent some time seated on these chairs I can confirm that conversation does not flow but I have learnt some new folding techniques for large ladies underwear which I hope to be able to put to good use in the coming years.
This week however I was waiting for the lift, clutching my still-warm washing to my chest when a hitherto unknown neighbour, carrying a large cardboard box approached me with a question. My ear seems not yet attuned to the local accent so I leaned forward and pressed my good right ear in her direction and asked for clarification. "Do you need a miniature whisk?" was what I felt she said but not being acquainted with such a thing I assumed I must have misheard but felt that whatever she was offering sounded similar enough to what I thought I heard to warrant repeating the phrase in search of enlightenment. "A miniature whisk?" I echoed.
She confirmed that this was indeed what was being discussed and further clarified the situation by pulling what can only be described as a miniature whisk from the box.
I can't abide waste as much as the next man so while trying to conceal my surprise at something which looked like it would more at home in a dolls house I racked my mind for some possible use to which this object could be put. It was whisk like in every way, made of shiny, silver wire with a solid metallic handle but it was little larger than my index finger. I wondered whether her condo was even smaller than ours and in an effort to create an illusion of space it was filled with miniaturised objects. I also wondered what other Lilliputian items she had already given away, leaving her with a large cardboard box containing but a miniature whisk.
I remain ever conscious that everything we buy in America will have to be given away or shipped back to Australia when we leave in a few months. This is one of the reasons why I am less inflamed by my bike being stolen than I might otherwise have been. Peta is buying a pair of shoes a month so the chance of my bike making the cut when it comes to filling boxes seems quite remote and although a miniature whisk takes up much less room than a bike, even a miniature bike, it seemed rash to relieve my neighbour of her task when there was little chance of finding a miniature egg or a miniature pan with which to make miniature omelettes.
So I declined the kind offer and wished her well but I can't help but feel she's out there somewhere, trudging through the snow with her box and her burden in search someone who can find a use for a miniature whisk.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Job Hunting on Craigslist
**Become a Sperm Donor -- Earn up to $1,200/Month** - (Cambridge) img et cetera
Too old.
"Foundling" - Emerson College Thesis Film seeking Key Cast - (Boston) tv/film/video/radio
Too young.
Sales Ninja / Ninjaette for PullnotPush - (Cambridge) sales
I don't know what any of that means.
***Snow Removal*** looking for someone to shovel **pays well** - (Norwood MA) general labor
Don't live between Norwood and Brookline (as attractive as this position sounds).
☼☼ JOBS FOR INTERNATIONAL CHARITY - $600-1000/WK - (Boston) img nonprofit
Annoying beggar. Done that.
Night Rider - (metro Boston) customer service
I like the sound of this one but I need my own vehicle. Someone stole my bike.
Chocolate Fountain Attendant - food/beverage/hospitality
Vehicle again.
Private Detective/Investigator - (Boston) security
No camcorder.
Are you a healthy male between the ages of 21 and 50? - (Brighton) et cetera
Getting warm...
Are you depressed? - (Belmont) et cetera
$75 big ones comin' my way!
Too old.
"Foundling" - Emerson College Thesis Film seeking Key Cast - (Boston) tv/film/video/radio
Too young.
Sales Ninja / Ninjaette for PullnotPush - (Cambridge) sales
I don't know what any of that means.
***Snow Removal*** looking for someone to shovel **pays well** - (Norwood MA) general labor
Don't live between Norwood and Brookline (as attractive as this position sounds).
☼☼ JOBS FOR INTERNATIONAL CHARITY - $600-1000/WK - (Boston) img nonprofit
Annoying beggar. Done that.
Night Rider - (metro Boston) customer service
I like the sound of this one but I need my own vehicle. Someone stole my bike.
Chocolate Fountain Attendant - food/beverage/hospitality
Vehicle again.
Private Detective/Investigator - (Boston) security
No camcorder.
Are you a healthy male between the ages of 21 and 50? - (Brighton) et cetera
Getting warm...
Are you depressed? - (Belmont) et cetera
$75 big ones comin' my way!
Monday, November 22, 2010
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
The Perils Of Boxing
Two steps forward, one step back. In boxing parlance that could refer to a double jab followed by a defensive hook but for the purpose of this article it will refer to my progress at the Harvard Boxing Club. I went again today after a tentatively successful experience on Monday where I felt more welcomed and part of a group rather than the old raspberry ruining everyone's fun by being totally uncoordinated and as slow of mind as of body.
Today though I left with a spring in my step. I had constructive advice from Coach (no idea what his name is, everyone just calls him coach) about my pathetic left hook, I was teamed up with Phillip (Archaeology Doctorate) who also tried to enlighten me as to the failings of my hook and I kept going right the way through our sit-ups and press-ups and although I need to pull a few faces to get through I thought that lack of decorum was a small price to pay for the sense of achievement afterwards.
The sit-ups were especially hard for the first 20 or so as I could feel where the swimming trunks I'd worn on Monday really rubbed against the tatami type floor and irritated my skin but other greater pain takes over and I just ploughed on.
I don't change after boxing as it's only about a 10 minutes walk away and I'm so sweaty that putting any other clothes on would be pointless so I just pulled up my hoodie and amble home. I finished cooking dinner (smoked salmon and potato quiche with a walnut and bean salad I will add) and thought I'd take a photo of the sores on my arse from the sit-ups. Imagine my disappointment as I tried to angle the camera in the bathroom mirror and noted the rather obvious patch of blood which decorated the shorts I was still wearing.
My previous confidence disappeared oddly enough. I imagined my proud walk as I left the gym, swinging my bag over my shoulder as I bid my fellow fighters good-night. I imagined what horrors I may have left on the gym mats we all have to pick up and put away at the end of every session and I imagine what people must have thought on that walk home through Harvard Square.
I know what they weren't thinking. None of them thought, Oh I bet he's got a small sore near his coccyx which he must have irritated while manfully ploughing though sit-ups at his boxing gym.
Monday, November 15, 2010
The Good Son - Michael Gruber
I finished this novel today and was quite pleased to have done so. It tries to combine an action and adventure story with a discussion about Islam and the possibility of peace. The manner in which this is achieved is unsurprisingly something of a contrivance but the whole thing hung together pretty well for me.
Pashtun culture, recent wars in Afghanistan and the many views on the possible establishment of a Caliphate were fascinating and I likes a good shoot 'em up too.
I marked a few pages in the book and am writing a few notes for my benefit rather than for anyone else (that is to say they won't make sense).
Legerdemain - Slight of hand.
On Women in Islam
I have the greatest respect for women. A modest woman caring for her family is one of God's greatest creations. But it is also true that when the head is full the womb is empty, as we observe throughout the West. IN whatever nations that accept the curse of women's education and freedom from the control of men we see a rapid decline in population; we see pornography; we see sexual disease. Not a single one of the so called advanced countries is reproducing its original population at replacement levels, an it is now clear that in a certain number of years all these nations will have Muslim majorities. This is because we understand that the function of women is established by God and anything that seeks to destroy that function must be haram.
On Cultural Imperialism
You look at us and you see oppression; we see stability and harmony . You see corruption; we see ties of family, friendship and mutual support. You see feudalism: we see mutual responsibility. You see the oppression of women; we see the defence of modesty.
Pashtun culture, recent wars in Afghanistan and the many views on the possible establishment of a Caliphate were fascinating and I likes a good shoot 'em up too.
I marked a few pages in the book and am writing a few notes for my benefit rather than for anyone else (that is to say they won't make sense).
Legerdemain - Slight of hand.
On Women in Islam
I have the greatest respect for women. A modest woman caring for her family is one of God's greatest creations. But it is also true that when the head is full the womb is empty, as we observe throughout the West. IN whatever nations that accept the curse of women's education and freedom from the control of men we see a rapid decline in population; we see pornography; we see sexual disease. Not a single one of the so called advanced countries is reproducing its original population at replacement levels, an it is now clear that in a certain number of years all these nations will have Muslim majorities. This is because we understand that the function of women is established by God and anything that seeks to destroy that function must be haram.
On Cultural Imperialism
You look at us and you see oppression; we see stability and harmony . You see corruption; we see ties of family, friendship and mutual support. You see feudalism: we see mutual responsibility. You see the oppression of women; we see the defence of modesty.
The Comeback Kid
If it's good enough for Evander Holyfield then it's good enough for me. While I suffered a few blows to the head and the ego last week he had to endure Tyson biting part of his ear off and still he boxes on. As do I.
I decided to give it one more go and if I still felt like an battered spanner at the end of the week then I'd call it quits. Only Monday today but it all went quite well and I feel heartened that I took my own advice and persevered.
On a less bright note I have to report that while I wasn't called upon to spar I did have to put a head guard on for the first time and watched my fellow boxers get into the ring and hit one another. Maybe not too much of a surprise in a boxing class but a new one on me and it was only the pity of my coach which spared me from the horror which will inevitably meet me once I am chosen from the throng and thrown into the arena. I see the possibility of tears, puddles of urine splashing on the floor of the ring and me with my eyes closed, my arms swinging wildly and coach trying to talk me down.
I decided to give it one more go and if I still felt like an battered spanner at the end of the week then I'd call it quits. Only Monday today but it all went quite well and I feel heartened that I took my own advice and persevered.
On a less bright note I have to report that while I wasn't called upon to spar I did have to put a head guard on for the first time and watched my fellow boxers get into the ring and hit one another. Maybe not too much of a surprise in a boxing class but a new one on me and it was only the pity of my coach which spared me from the horror which will inevitably meet me once I am chosen from the throng and thrown into the arena. I see the possibility of tears, puddles of urine splashing on the floor of the ring and me with my eyes closed, my arms swinging wildly and coach trying to talk me down.
Friday, November 12, 2010
Our First Guest
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IMG00048-20101111-1905.jpg
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Tuesday, November 9, 2010
The Best Of Boston
Myself and Hayley went to the Harvard Natural History Museum on Sunday and while we didn't stay for long I founds two areas of note. They had a marvellous collection of mineral samples and while I've not previously mentioned my love of minerals I did spend much of Saturday night fondling a large bar of what might have been calcite at Elspeth's flat which may have piqued my curiosity on the following morning. There were some very dark, black samples which may have been manganite, galena and antimony samples which I can heartily recommend.
It could all have gone downhill from there but no, the very next room housed the amazing (yes, amazing) collection of glass flowers made by Leopold and Rudolph Blaschka. They made marine animals out of glass for the purposes of display and education back in the 19th Century. Someone saw one of their jellyfish or something and commissioned them to make a huge range of glass flowers. These cats knew their glass and they clearly didn't get out much, the collection is stunning.
Before the Natural History museum we went to the Peabody Museum. Not so much.
However, Peta met us later in the day and we went to the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum which was probably one of the best museums I've been to for the following reasons, (a) small, (b) no explanatory plaques to reveal what I was looking at (c) it was closing an hour after we arrived (d) great garden.
It could all have gone downhill from there but no, the very next room housed the amazing (yes, amazing) collection of glass flowers made by Leopold and Rudolph Blaschka. They made marine animals out of glass for the purposes of display and education back in the 19th Century. Someone saw one of their jellyfish or something and commissioned them to make a huge range of glass flowers. These cats knew their glass and they clearly didn't get out much, the collection is stunning.
Before the Natural History museum we went to the Peabody Museum. Not so much.
However, Peta met us later in the day and we went to the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum which was probably one of the best museums I've been to for the following reasons, (a) small, (b) no explanatory plaques to reveal what I was looking at (c) it was closing an hour after we arrived (d) great garden.
No piles today
Following recent concerns over my health I am happy to report that I have no problems with haemorrhoids.
No pain when sitting down, no grimacing on the lavatory and no blood in my underpants. It's all gravy as they say. I think over here they say there are no lumps in their Cream O' Wheat.
When speaking of haemorrhoids I don't imagine that sufferers would enjoy thinking about either gravy or the aforementioned lumps but there you are. I am not suffering from them and while I pity those poor souls who have been neglecting their diet to such an extent that their farmers are playing up again I can't curb my enthusiasm solely to suit their delicate ears.
No pain when sitting down, no grimacing on the lavatory and no blood in my underpants. It's all gravy as they say. I think over here they say there are no lumps in their Cream O' Wheat.
When speaking of haemorrhoids I don't imagine that sufferers would enjoy thinking about either gravy or the aforementioned lumps but there you are. I am not suffering from them and while I pity those poor souls who have been neglecting their diet to such an extent that their farmers are playing up again I can't curb my enthusiasm solely to suit their delicate ears.
Customer Survey
Thank you to those readers who responded to our request for some feedback on your experience while reading our blog. The responses have been compiled and we will be revealing your suggestions over the coming weeks.
This week we wanted to focus on the most common response to the question, "What can The Boston Cheese Party do improve?" It seems that most readers are finding the blog to be preoccupied with matters related to dentistry and as one responded wrote, "Who wants to read all this misery? Just make up some happy shit."
So with these sage words in mind we would welcome to you to our special series, Happy Shit.
This week we wanted to focus on the most common response to the question, "What can The Boston Cheese Party do improve?" It seems that most readers are finding the blog to be preoccupied with matters related to dentistry and as one responded wrote, "Who wants to read all this misery? Just make up some happy shit."
So with these sage words in mind we would welcome to you to our special series, Happy Shit.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Another fun day at the dentist.
Thankfully a local anesthetic was allowed but curiously it was Pina Colada flavour.
Back again tomorrow for some more root canal.
Do I have anything else to write about other than my teeth?
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Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Throwing In The Towel
While my boxing career has yet to reach the heights of the late, great Frank Bruno I know what he meant when he said, 'Boxing is the toughest and loneliest sport in the world'. Those who have never lived the life of a fighter may strive to include mountain climbing in the lonely sports list but I can tell you from bitter personal experience that being punched repeatedly on the side of the head by a stranger is a pretty lonely experience.
That's why I find myself sitting here tonight considering my future in the ring. Tonight was my first day back at boxing and frankly I wasn't looking forward to it. I've been to the gym four times in the last five days in a vain attempt to ready myself for the physical demands of the class but I was unprepared for the mental scars which would result from being humiliated by a man half my age, with twice my strength who seemed a little irked at being paired up with me and explained that I'd learn nothing of he didn't go for me with real punches. School's out mister!
I have experienced the thrill of being punched in the head when training on King Island but on that occasion Elgin (the coach rather than the marble enthusiast) knew what he was doing and hit me a manner which suggested that he knew what he was doing and was sharpening my skills. My 'buddy' for this evening however took more of the school of hard knocks approach, making no allowances for my feeble reaction times and my limited capacity for prompt evasion.
Once we moved upstairs for pad work I was thankfully paired with George who is a delightful coach, humble, knowledgeable and considerate but the damage was done and I felt dejected and left class early (before we sang our club song and did that thing when you all get in a huddle and shout 'TEAM' while simultaneously throwing an arm in the air.
Admittedly I was already in a shitty mood not having quite recovered from the loss of my dear bicycle which caused me to head out the hills last night in search of the succour one finds in a cigarette. Things were that bad it was time to pull out the dramatic gesture! As I positioned myself on the hill next to the Harvard Observatory I pulled my tobacco from my pocket (where it has lain dormant for what seems like a month) and realised that I had no Rizla with which to construct my symbol of anger and frustration with which I would rage at the cruelties of a world that allows someone to receive an interim bill for $6000 for their teeth, have a bike stolen and have failed to take out insurance on either of these eventualities, all in the same week.
I now console myself with wine and have taken the additional precaution of 150mg of Tramedol which is in theory for my back but is in practise for my mood. I expect that's how it started for that Aussie bloke who played the Joker. 'Just a little something to take the edge of the loss of my bike'. And look where he ended up. But he didn't actually because that bloke with the beard says he was 'whacked' by a hit squad of star killers.
Glad I've got to the end of that posting.
That's why I find myself sitting here tonight considering my future in the ring. Tonight was my first day back at boxing and frankly I wasn't looking forward to it. I've been to the gym four times in the last five days in a vain attempt to ready myself for the physical demands of the class but I was unprepared for the mental scars which would result from being humiliated by a man half my age, with twice my strength who seemed a little irked at being paired up with me and explained that I'd learn nothing of he didn't go for me with real punches. School's out mister!
I have experienced the thrill of being punched in the head when training on King Island but on that occasion Elgin (the coach rather than the marble enthusiast) knew what he was doing and hit me a manner which suggested that he knew what he was doing and was sharpening my skills. My 'buddy' for this evening however took more of the school of hard knocks approach, making no allowances for my feeble reaction times and my limited capacity for prompt evasion.
Once we moved upstairs for pad work I was thankfully paired with George who is a delightful coach, humble, knowledgeable and considerate but the damage was done and I felt dejected and left class early (before we sang our club song and did that thing when you all get in a huddle and shout 'TEAM' while simultaneously throwing an arm in the air.
Admittedly I was already in a shitty mood not having quite recovered from the loss of my dear bicycle which caused me to head out the hills last night in search of the succour one finds in a cigarette. Things were that bad it was time to pull out the dramatic gesture! As I positioned myself on the hill next to the Harvard Observatory I pulled my tobacco from my pocket (where it has lain dormant for what seems like a month) and realised that I had no Rizla with which to construct my symbol of anger and frustration with which I would rage at the cruelties of a world that allows someone to receive an interim bill for $6000 for their teeth, have a bike stolen and have failed to take out insurance on either of these eventualities, all in the same week.
I now console myself with wine and have taken the additional precaution of 150mg of Tramedol which is in theory for my back but is in practise for my mood. I expect that's how it started for that Aussie bloke who played the Joker. 'Just a little something to take the edge of the loss of my bike'. And look where he ended up. But he didn't actually because that bloke with the beard says he was 'whacked' by a hit squad of star killers.
Glad I've got to the end of that posting.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Good news, bad news.
I'm sitting in the second row of a free screening of Four Lions, the new (first?)Chris Morris film.
My bike has been stolen.
Sent on the Sprint® Now Network from my BlackBerry®
My bike has been stolen.
Sent on the Sprint® Now Network from my BlackBerry®
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