Friday, September 29, 2006

Flamingo, unlikely ally of the baboon.



I realize a lot of Dick is hard to swallow but there is an older post featuring him accusing me of stealing dirt from his front garden, if you are so inclined. It didn’t get any comments way back in March which just goes to show Dicks go in and out… of fashion.

Our next contestant is the Hen Lady who does the accounts at work. She’s one of those ultra-nervous, easily flustered, constantly complaining, tight lipped, dried-out, frizzy-haired absolute hens of a woman. Got the nervous system of a chicken, is what I’m saying. There are three offices upstairs, mine then the other planner’s and then her. Those two yack and complain (he’s like a 38 yr old Hen Boy) and commiserate with each other all day…like some twisted mother and son act. I think she has a crush on him.

Well this woman owes me 9 hours pay, at time and a half too, I believe. One of these past 13 hour days I didn’t get my hours to her in time, mainly because I was nowhere near the office that day. Actually I faxed them to her and when I saw her next I asked did she receive it. She smiled and said “Oh yes I did. But I’d already done the pay so I just paid you for a normal week.” No sweat, said I, assuming she’d just stick it on the next pay…I was, after all, late getting it to her.

Last week, as you remember, I was broadcasting by time delay from lovely Cronulla when once again the nine hours she owes me was not forwarded to my account by convenient electronic bank transfer - no once again I received a normal week’s pay. That’s twice. I figured ok, I’m not at work so maybe it slipped her mind…

Yesterday was payday and when I checked the account this morning there was a little overtime from this week…but no nine hours. Alright that’s three. I’m new there and I want to be careful just yet about getting into battles, although it can be arranged at short notice. I figured I’ll wait till she gives me my pay-slip just to be absolutely sure there isn’t some innocent mistake before I go and fluster her and set her complaining to god knows who about the big tall American bully, thinks he’s so flash…look at him, just waltzes in here disturbing us with his “ideas” and his calculator with too many buttons, clearly not refined like Chicken Boy. Chicken Boy has a briefcase. (I have a really cool backpack for my notebook and toys.) By the way, she has worked there only three months herself.

I didn’t get a pay-slip. Come to think of it I haven’t ever had a pay-slip. I hadn’t counted on this. Maybe I’ve got a fundamental misunderstanding of the system.

Did I mention my boss, one of the owners, used to work for my old company? So we were sort of work mates before, although he was an installer and I only saw him when he came in to the factory. And he happens to live near me, and I get a lift to work with him, which saves me about $30 a week in fuel and means we chat a bit twice a day, before and after the event, as it were. I put this to him on the way home tonight and he said something about no longer trusting her since “it” happened. Then he sort of tried to laugh it off so I didn’t ask him what “it” was.

They say knowledge is power, and they are right for once. I’m pretty sure this woman is close to being fired and I’m pretty sure I’m the only one who knows. I can wait for my nine hours pay, but such knowledge must not be squandered. I’ll ask her about the pay next time I see her and I’ll be so very very interested in her every word and gesture, tone and demeanor. I’ll know what the next move is after I see that.

NYD suggested flamingos for my Dick problem (never thought you’d ever hear that phrase did you) and I think it’s brilliant. Now we are going to find the Hen Lady’s flamingo.

Wednesday, September 27, 2006

An Ironic Solution

My neighbour Dick spent several thousand dollars two years ago on a new driveway and courtyard. It’s a stencilled concrete job with brick inlay and several coats of shiny sealer. Nobody is allowed to park on it. Not Dick, not his wife, not their upstairs tenant, nor his girlfriend or any of their guests. No, Dick makes them park on the street…but on top of that Dick doesn’t want them parked even in front of his house. So most days I have two neighbour cars parked in front of my place and two more across the road. Not much I can do, it’s a public street.

As you may imagine Dick is very particular about his front yard, especially the border along the drive-o-rama. Bunches of flowers frolic beneath small mango trees, the lawn is shorn to half an inch in height and the edges professionally clipped. My garden receives less attention and Dick likes to let me know by scalping a bit of my lawn on the boundary line to highlight the fact my lawn is a hippy to his marine sergeant. This gives me a chuckle and sometimes I let it get really long until he can’t help himself and comes over when we’re not home and mows it.

Now, the local council comes around every six months or so and picks up green waste (branches, clippings etc) and I always miss it. So this year I started putting stuff out two weeks early and I had a nice little pile of branches and shit growing out by the curb. A week ago a bit of wind blew the pile over so it was resting against Dick’s wheel because as usual he was parked in front of my house, not his. I knew he wouldn’t like this so I left it there and suddenly, sure as shit, he stopped parking there. “There”, said the Missus and I, “we should have done that long ago.” And for a week our curb was ours again.

I came home today to find three cars jammed along the curb in front of my house and my pile of branches moved over to the fence line, away from the road. Thing is, I just can’t get angry over something like parking or branch re-location…it would just be silly, The best I can do is a low level annoyance tinged with wonder at this funny hoarse-voiced, sun burned little man. That and sprinkle some big rocks in the long grass next to his car for next time he mows my yard. The bastard.

Monday, September 25, 2006

Revenge of Magno-Girl

Person 4 is magnetic. Over time she has magnetized all her belongings. No matter how tidy her room is, all she has to do is walk in and everything jumps out and lands on the floor. Some things are polarized and are repelled instead. Great drifts of flotsam build up down the back of the bed and behind the door…dolls clothes, a shoe, bits of string, homework...for a while there was a thriving shanty town under the bed. Gangs of Happy Meal toys roamed freely in packs. There are lost lunchboxes with bacteria evolved enough to make tools and weave crude cloth. At night you can see the glow of their tiny campfires.

When she leaves her room things follow her. There’s a sort of fan shaped pile of stuff spilling from her door like a river delta. Heavy things pile up at the door to form a formidable barrier, lighter objects like socks can be drawn all the way down the hall before being dispersed throughout the house. For some reason I often find her socks under my pillow.

But she’s a funny kid, does a fairly passable cockney accent. She’s also an avid reader of the blog and especially enjoys
Exile’s larrikin adventures and cheeky comments. Here, she made a picture for him…
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Isn’t that nice? Got a little stained glass border and everything.

I’m thinking of putting it on ebay...what do you reckon I should start the bidding at?

Saturday, September 23, 2006

Oops

Evolution inc.

A division of The Universe Group

FROM: Director of New Works

TO: The Development Team

RE: Casual Fridays


Since June 12, 4 billion B.C., Evolution inc. has had a policy of Casual Fridays where staff have been encouraged to propose more innovative designs for committee approval. In the main this policy has been quite successful with projects which may have otherwise been rejected being sent on for successful development ie: Self-Replication, the Prehensile Tail, Gills, and the Bumblebee. Of course some designs proved un-workable (the entire Dinosaur range) and had to be discontinued, but this was in the spirit of the scheme; to think a little outside the box.

Unfortunately it has become apparent that some of the designs proposed recently at Casual Friday meetings border on the silly, if not dangerous. The Homo Sapien Sapien range is a prime example. Clearly whoever proposed apes walking around on two legs ‘inventing’ things, was either taking the piss, or on it. Why the team leaders approved this design for further development is unclear (please see separate memo re: Team Leader vacancies) - yet approved it was.

There are now over 5 billion units wandering around the planet making things out of plastic, shooting each other and generally stinking up the place. Several decommissioning viruses have been issued but these particular apes seem to have an excellent anti-virus package (I will be speaking to IT in regard to it’s issuing of immune systems willy-nilly)and have resisted decommissioning thus far.

It is with this in mind, I am cancelling Casual Fridays until further notice. All Development Teams are to cease work on any projects involving Sapien Sapien until a meteor strike can be arranged and we can get this mess cleaned up. I will review Casual Fridays again at that time.



Jim Baxter

Director, New Work.

Friday, September 22, 2006

Training Video

Been a few years since I rode the Sydney metro. When I got into Central this morning from Cronulla I found I couldn't get out of the system without inserting my ticket into the turnstile. At first I thought this was stupid then I realized it's brilliant. Central Station is exactly that, all of Sydney's metro lines converge there as well as the State Rail and Intercity lines, you can go anywhere in the country from Central. No need to put ticket checkers on the trains when all you need is one guard at Central watching the exit lines for jumpers. Strangely, in such a busy cross-roads I couldn't find a newspaper.
Here's a little montage of the train ride back this morning.


Still looks like shit after Utube gets it. I have one other trick up my hard drive and I might replace it later, if it works. Until then, if you squint and sort of imagine you can get an idea of the countryside along the coast north of Sydney.

Thursday, September 21, 2006

Trivia Night in Cronulla

6pm - Wednesday

Well we had fun at the course today. They seem to have run out of things to teach me. One of the dudes had about 40 movies on a portable HD so I copied a bunch of them over to Jr. Then I realized Jr, being still a baby, did not have DivX codecs so I downloaded some of those and a converter and a nifty ripper while I was at it. Then I had pizza for lunch, the other choices being quiche (yuck) and curried sausages (yikes). Then I wrote some machine code, that is code which CNC machinery understands. CNC=Computer Numeric Control, so this is code which controls machines like the robots you see on assembly lines and various other manufacturing machinery like saws and routers and metal milling machines. I do not mean to imply I have learned everything about CNC, just everything I came down here for. Still got another day to go so we’re going to have a look at another program which does really cool stuff like design 3-D objects which can be carved out on, say, a 5-axis machine…throw in a block of aluminum and out comes a carburator, a block of plastic and out comes an Exile Action Figure with a cape and wizard wand.

The pub seems to get rowdier as the week progresses, music didn’t shut down until 2am last night and things seem to be ramping up already tonight. The music is tolerable though, mostly 90’s stuff. This is how room service works in the Taren Point Hotel.

Go out door, walk 38 steps through beer garden and into pub’s bistro.
Order and pay for food, receive table buzzer which goes off when food ready.
Walk 38 steps back to room and wait for buzzer to go off.
Walk 38 steps back and exchange buzzer for food.
Walk 38 steps back to room. Eat food.

Sure I could wait in the pub but there’s nothing sadder than a man sitting alone in a pub, not drinking and not there for any other apparent reason. The pretty office girls tend to start nudging each other and pointing. And just like when I was 16, giggly pretty girls make me nervous and unable to perform many higher brain functions. They smell nice though.

I missed dinner last night, but so far the food has been 2 for 2. Very excellent pizza on the first night and tonight a chicken burger with fries and salad which was entirely satisfactory. If I wasn’t so cheap I could have had steak or lamb chops or tonight’s special Salt ‘n Pepper Squid. Tomorrow we might try a nice cannelloni or maybe a steak burger. Bit wary of the steak burger because I could be disappointed. A steak sandwich here can vary from a nice bit of sirloin on French roll (as you’d expect) to a paper thin piece of flank steak that was beaten to death then run over, served on plain white bread. The latter is the more common offering. I have no idea what to expect from a steak burger. Well, I do, but what I expect may not jibe with what I get. The wheel of life.

The cricket (that’s a game, for US readers, like baseball on valium) must be over because the jukebox just cranked up – Neutron Dance (Pointer Sisters)…what did I tell you…office girl central …ahh now its You Spin Me (Right Round) …it’s the soundtrack to the Wedding Singer…oh wait…

Oh SHIT…it’s fucking trivia nite with Karri and Lorna! THIS WOMAN HAS A LOUD SPEAKER AND IS GOING TO CONDUCT A TRIVIA GAME…25 fucking rounds she says. Oh god. Oh dear god no.

Tuesday, September 19, 2006

remote feed

Good Day and welcome to Remotely Skookum, broadcasting by time delay from the lovely Taren Point Hotel in Cronulla, Sydney. Google it to see the palatial setting and the fully retro ambience – that is, it looks like a place pornos were once made, but now its too tacky. Is there a company somewhere that manufactures bed spreads in a pattern called “Cheap Motel Fiesta”? ‘Cause I’m sure I’ve seen this bed before.

No cable
No couch
No net

But they allow
My cigarettes
(-Roger Miller for the new age)

That’s right I have the only smoking-allowed motel room left in the free world or Australia (also means I can smoke, uh, other cigarettes in relative safety). I didn’t ask for it, karma. Good example of karma last night, cab driver was helpful and friendly so I told him keep the change ($1.70 out of $10), no big deal but he was genuinely happy which made me happy (tipping isn’t common here, so he wouldn’t have been insulted if I hadn’t)…when I opened the car door I found a two dollar coin on the ground. Two happy people and I was 30 cents up on the deal. Karma.

No Exile, I cannot post by cell phone. That would be stupid. What am I, a Malaysian private school girl with a constant sms feed on their angst-ridden cyberEnglish-laden blog? No, I’m a Singaporean public school…uh, 38 year old father of two, I mean.

Too bad there’s no internet connection. Actually there’s no phone, even. Too bad or I could use Jr’s webcam to have a family moment like in the demo video. “Hi everybody. Hold up the little one for me to see…ahhh she’s grown already. Hey, is that Steve from next door? Why’s he wearing my robe?”

Supposedly I can use my cell phone to connect the laptop but I don’t know what the roaming number might be and I like my phone bill under three digits. I can pick up hotspots at certain Starbucks and McD’s…at $5 a pop plus 20 cents per min. Or I can connect to the network where I’m taking the course and burst-send everything I write tonight…not that they mind me connecting but I can’t sit there typing all day. Its pretty cool, the course was put together just for little old me, so its just me and two instructors. Only one student but I still get the full class lunch – more triangle sandwichettes than you can shake a butter knife at. Some fruit juice would have been nice…programmers, it doesn’t occur to them to intake vitamin C, that’s why they all have scurvy.

I bet if Exo had planned it I would have got fresh orange juice and something on Turkish bread with a nice pesto sauce and a smoked salmon salad.

Sunday, September 17, 2006

SkookumJoe Gotta Go

SkookumJoe will be on hiatus this next week while I go down to Sydney for some software training. I suppose when I return things will have moved on and people will be communicating by esp and they'll laugh and taunt me for my quaint blog from way back in late to mid September. So be it.
I went into town today to get some pens and pencils for my Sydney trip, and somehow I came home with another computer. That's right there's a new addition to the baboon network, a little HP notebook called Jr. The little guy is all loaded up with 7GB of tunes, a few videos and games for the train and a nifty little external TV tuner for if'n I want to watch the Steve Irwin State Funeral on Tuesday.
Yes I'm taking the train like a civilized notebook owner. The train takes longer but there's more room and food. Nicer scenery. I loath busses and refuse to travel in the vile contraptions.
While I'm gone feel free to re-read some of my older posts about other trips, or that silly Baboon stuff or my adventure in Scotland or my famous expose of beloved Canadian children's TV characters Casey and Finnegan. Or don't...nobody's making you, crybaby.
I'm taking my camera and if you're all good I'll bring back some pictures. If I can find a hotspot I might try to post. See you Friday next.
SJ

Thursday, September 14, 2006

Why does Blogger's spell checker still not recognize "blog"?

Over at Dan Tarrant's blog he's got some political punditry (this is why I don't do much on current affairs, Dan must read about 30 different columns and blogs a day to keep up). Anyway, one of the articles he mentions got me thinking about the sort of person who becomes a soldier. Let's work it out together...
I reckon there are four types. The poor or lower middle class who are in it for a decent wage or free college, loners and misfits looking for a home, highly patriotic types often from families with a military history, and those who just want to kill people.
Now come war time, of the four groups who's likely to sign up? Only the last two. And that's all you need...people who want to kill somebody and people to organize it. I never understood why there was a need for a draft during the Vietnam war. In the US something like 28,000 people get shot every year. There's 28,000 shooters for your army right there...maybe a few less if they shot more than one person, but you get the point. Surely you'd get a lot more if was legal...hell, you get a medal if you shoot enough.
So get your gun-toting crazies and bangers and psychopaths into some camouflage gear and your flag-waving, bring-back-lynching, god is on our side dickheads in gold braid to order them about and let them practice soldiering and buggery until you need them to do what armies do. They go and kill people when diplomacy just isn't cutting it or you just want to conquer the hell out of someone. And when you've made your point, you bring them home and give them medals and a job for their trouble. In the prison system perhaps, where they can keep up the buggery at least. Boo-rah.

Wednesday, September 13, 2006

That's Not Proper Food.

Long day, half way to Sydney and back. Toured two factories. Robots and conveyors and electric-eyes, oh my. Little triangle sandwiches for lunch, ate 12. Boss fell asleep in the car. Long clear drool from lip to second button. Got a picture.

I have hashish. Sleep now.

Tuesday, September 12, 2006

More Jibber-Jabber

Two weeks ago it was shorts weather and everybody said, just like every year, "well, that's winter done". Past 4 days its been about 12c with storm after storm coming in from the South. Except for Tassie, there's nothing between here and Antarctica and winter southerlies are mean and wet. Tomorrow we could get wind from the west, the red center, and the temperature will jump 20 degrees. One thing I like about Aussie weather is it is always extreme. No rain for two years then floods. Freak windstorms as random and deadly as tornados. Mix in a bush fire and you've really got something....firestorms so big they send embers 2okm ahead of the main front to start more fires. This is a continent where the plants, animals and weather conspire to repel all invaders. The Aborigines aren't too keen on them either.
Working with the boss over at his house again today. Playing Let's Make A (too) Complicated Spreadsheet. I will try to user-friendly it after he finishes his part and emails it to me which he was supposed to do 2 hours ago. Key to a good spreadsheet, the golden fleece, is to fit the fucking thing on one page at 100% by resisting all suggestions, requests and demands to add "just one column that tracks some obscure thing important only to me". Tomorrow I get to go down the coast to visit one of our supplier's factories and see how they do things. Yesterday I was running the panel saw in the factory. Next week I go on four days training down in Sydney costing them $550/day plus accomodation and meals, as well as my normal wage. The new job is not at all boring so far. Haven't set foot in what I was calling my office last week.
A re-run of The Cosby Show was starting the other night, you know the opening credits where they all dance?. I called Person 4 and said "You know Raven on All About Raven? That's her on TV when she was about 5" to which Person 4 replied "hmmmm. She was smaller". I'm not positive, but I think she was being sarcastic. I'm so proud.
Person 4 was in trouble at school again, part of an ongoing feud with a little psychopath in pigtails. Talked to her tonight about it and told her there were two options, avoid the girl thereby ensuring there will be no chance she is implicated in anything requiring a teacher's attention...or punch her in the face. But, she must also take the consequences of punching her in the face including big teacher trouble and the chance it doesn't go her way and she gets a shit kicking. Her choice, just be sure it's worth it. When I was 10 I fell off the roof after being told repeatedly to stay off. I was only bruised and got no sympathy, but I also didn't get an "I told you so" either...I'd made my choice. I want her to always take credit for her accomplishments just as she should always own up to errors - though it requires bravery at times, she will be respected for it all the more. And if she ever decides she has good reason to punch a kid in the face, I will support her all the way and hold her hand while she pays the consequences.

Monday, September 11, 2006

JC



Been a Johnny Cash weekend. First song I can remember, when I was four, is Ring Of Fire. I remember wondering where exactly this ring of fire was, where it went and what the fuck held it up? I suspected he didn't mean a real ring of fire, but what then? Grownups were complicated.

I found three whole Johnny Cash albums, uh, somewhere and was listening to Cocaine Blues when the Missus came home and said she'd brought Walk The Line on DVD. Person 4 was out at a sleep-over or committing arson or something and I'm not sure if Person 3 was home or not. Never am. Anyway it's rare the Missus and I are home at the same time, never mind a Saturday night, so we settled in to watch the movie.

I only fell asleep for a bit in the middle, which is no indication of a movie's entertainment value, it's just me. But I thought it was pretty good anyway. Even picked up the old gee-tar for the first time in a while.

Sunday, September 10, 2006

Bike Story


About 20 miles this side of Chilliwack things took a disturbing turn. Tony and I had finally dropped out of the mountains and onto the freeway which led 50 miles or so into the city. It was warmer down in the valley and we settled into a cruisey 70mph in light weekend traffic. We had a system where, since my mirror was useless with Tony’s bulk perched behind me, I’d smack him on the leg when I wanted to switch lanes. Once on the left leg for left, twice for right, and he’d have a look and smack my shoulder if it was cool. By this point I was cramped up in the hands from the previous cold and 30 miles of heavily rutted road we’d passed on the downhill slide into Hope.

The trip through the mountains had started out clear and bright on a late August day. But it had got cold quick as we headed up into the Cascades, the road following the winding river in a series of long hills followed by switchbacks and more long hills. Up, right, down, tight left, up, right, down, tight left….climbing a little higher on each cycle, like going the wrong way on a rollercoaster. Nearing the summit we entered a right hander at the top of another long hill.

Until now I’d been taking them at 60-70mph even though the signs recommended 40. Being up-hill, the bike held the road well and powered through the turns easily. But this particular corner not only had signs, it had flashing amber lights warning it was a 40mph turn and I don’t know if I was tired or arrogant but I entered that corner at 80mph with a 200lb passenger. The reason for the fuss with the signs became apparent. This corner didn’t seem to end.

Little thing about corners, it’s a bad idea to brake in them, especially with 200lbs riding behind you. The corner just kept turning and we began to edge closer to the center line as I threw the bike as hard over as I dared thinking ‘if Tony spooks and sits up straight instead of leaning with me, we’re fucked’ – it would throw us over balance, and he’d done it before, although that time I’d recovered. But he leaned in with me, foot pegs too close to the road as we continued to edge closer to the center, even though I’d let off on the throttle, which was throwing weight forward, and was tapping the back brake trying to pull it back without locking up the wheel.

On a shorter turn we’d have been out of trouble by now but we were going through 180 degrees and still turning and I was riding right on the center line and still creeping out. Any further and I was going to have to lay it over or risk a head-on. A Ford truck with a big camper rounded from the other direction and his big extended mirror whooshed past my helmet, missing by about a foot. Tony, still in a lean began beating on my back as we straightened out finally and I could reduce speed safely. He kept hitting me until I punched his leg as I pulled into a rest stop at the top of the hill. He was swearing his head off as we took off our helmets. He thought I’d done it on purpose. I needed a cigarette, and we sat and smoked for a ½ hour until the trembling stopped.

We’d even hit a squall of thick rain at one point. Thick rain is rain trying to be snow. But now we were back down near sea level and we’d stopped to remove some of our outer gear. After the 15-mile-long hill down into Hope and the Fraser Valley, the road badly rutted and grooved from thousands of trucks straining against gravity on the descent, we were happy to be on good flat pavement which stretched straight ahead to the horizon in a pleasantly boring way. And then with Sardis somewhere behind us and the city fringes starting to become apparent, the bike decided it had had quite enough. We dropped from 70mph down to 40 so fast I thought the chain had broke and jammed the wheel. Tony’s helmet smacked into mine at the sudden deceleration and we coasted to a stop on the side of Highway 1 West.

Traffic zipped by, heavier now we were closer to the city. The bike didn’t want to start. I had a smoke and let it cool off a bit, trying to think. After another try I managed to kick it to life but it was running rough, the rpm spiking erratically as one cylinder refused to fire sometimes. I figured maybe one of the spark plugs was faulty. I didn’t have any tools but we flagged down a guy on a big Honda and borrowed his. I cleaned the plug and put it back in, thanked the guy who wasn’t that pleased to stop, and kicked it over. It seemed better, running smoother, if a little slow to respond. We set off again.

We soon got into traffic as we entered Surrey and crossed the bridge over the muddy Fraser into Coquitlam and Burnaby, the freeway lined with Carpet Warehouses and Furniture Barns. It was raining and I wanted to take it easy on the bike so we cruised along in the slow lane at 50mph, over the Second Narrows and into North Vancouver where we joined up with the Sea To Sky highway for the short run out to Horseshoe Bay and the ferry to the Island. We’d missed our planned boat and had two hours to wait for the next. The booth-lady gave us our boarding pass and directed us down to where the bikes wait to load.

I shut down the grateful bike, still not running right, and backed it into a spot under cover. The clouds came down and touched the sea in a salty drizzle and seagulls lined the piers not caring. I was bone tired and sat down on the pavement, leaning against the bike. There was a group of touring bikes nearby with Quebec plates. Big Goldwings with saddlebags and tapedecks, full fairings and padded saddles. Five or six men and women stood nearby, dressed in expensive matching leathers and they stared our way talking in French. We were a mismatched pair, Tony wearing two shirts, three sweaters and a windbreaker with a red knapsack on his back – and me in my dad’s old trials leathers which were too short in the pant and a brilliant red and yellow in colour - on our little green 500 triple. Tony told them to fuck off, and sat down next to me. Just as the boat arrived and began offloading, a guy and his girlfriend on a nice little Yamaha RD600 pulled up. The guy and I talked bikes and they smoked a joint with us just before we were directed to begin loading.

The tide was in and the ramp into the boat was steep. I’d almost thought the bike had settled down until it became apparent it wasn’t going to make it up the ramp. I just couldn’t get any power and with cars lined up behind me I had no choice but to wind it right out and slip the clutch, with Tony paddling his feet Flintstone style, and we finally made it up and stopped the bike near the front of the cavernous main car deck. I was that tired and that stoned that I refused to think about it just then and we headed up to the passenger decks, suddenly very hungry.

We got into the cafeteria before the line was too long and loaded up our trays with burgers and fries, large drinks and chocolate éclairs with whipped cream. Shuffling our trays along the rails toward the cashier, we encountered a blockage as a poor harried women with six children tried to organize drinks for them all. We lifted our trays and skirted around her to the waiting cashier who began to ring up our items while maintaining a cool air of detached boredom. We were sheep to her. The register stopped counting at $22 and as I reached for my wallet the lady behind us with the kids called out “come on, let’s go” to one of her brood. The cashier looked me directly in the eye and said firmly “you heard her, move along and make room”. Not knowing what else to do in my fuzzy state of mind, I grabbed Tony by the sleeve and we walked away with a free meal. Instantly I was hideously paranoid. We had to go back! But by now the lady had paid and they were arguing over plastic forks and napkins. Nobody was allowed to have ketchup for some reason. We scurried over to a corner and sat low eating our food, positive she was going to have one of those “hey, wait a minute” moments and the sour cashier would put her onto the two hoodlums with motorcycle helmets. I was way too stoned to try and explain to the poor woman so we ate our food and skedaddled back down to the car deck to sit with the bike.

The deck crew were getting ready to push us to one side when I finally got the bike to sputter to life and we limped off the ferry with a line of impatient cars following. By now it was dark and we were way behind schedule. I only had temporary plates and wasn’t supposed to be on the road after 9pm. It was quarter-to and we had 30 miles yet to go. On the way out of the dockside town of Nanaimo, as we headed South down the Island, the couple on the Yamaha zipped past and he tooted his horn. I gunned the bike to catch up and found the 40mph we were doing was in fact top speed at the moment and it was dropping. The group of Québécois tourers roared past and one of the women on the back fingered us.

It took us 3 hours to get the last thirty miles and it was close to midnight when the bike quit for good, a mere two miles from the destination. We left the bike in a hotel parking lot and walked the last bit. Finishing a six hour trip in closer to fifteen, on foot.

It turned out later that the bike had run out of two-stroke oil, though the bubble continued to show ¾ full, and had seized up back on the freeway. Eventually a second cylinder seized and by the time the bike quit for good it had been struggling along on just one burner which finally tired of doing all the work and joined its mates in seizure. One of the pistons had a hole burned clear through it, my Dad told me after he rebuilt it. He wouldn’t let me ride it after the rebuild and made me sell it shortly after to pay for the repairs.

I was only 17 and I sure missed the bike but I had had a great trip, got a free lunch and still had my pickup…the one with the 327 four-barrel Chev and the leaky fuel tank…

Saturday, September 09, 2006

Your Winner!

Thank you for your votes, the polls have closed. With twice as many votes (2), the winner is the legendary 1973 Kawasaki Mach III with its screaming 500cc, two-stroke triple. This was the street version of that year's factory works racing bike. As mentioned it had a 500cc, three cylinder, 2-stroke air cooled engine which red-lined at about 10,000RPM. Incredibly quick off the line with a top speed of 115mph (in my case). Even by today's standards that is fast, and for its time it was a fucking rocket.
On the fifth try, entering the down-hill right-hander at 80mph and winding it out of the corner into a mile long flat straight away. Laying flat on the tank, head down so I could just see the road over the gauges, elbows and knees in, holding her straight down the yellow-dotted. Watching the speedometer cross 100mph, 105,107,110,112....113....114...114....114.........
115 and on the brakes and into another sharp down-hill right, bike taking all the road to make the corner at over 90mph and then letting her wind down on another, shorter straight as we enter town limits at a ridiculously slow-seeming 70mph.
It was 1985, I was 17. It didn't get much better.
I will post the Bike Story tomorrow, Sunday. It occurred to me late in the race we could have had a problem if everybody picked a different car! So in appreciation for playing along I will try and do stories on all the cars that received a vote in the coming months.
I wonder if my Canadian bike license counts over here....

Friday, September 08, 2006

If you worked here, you'd be home by now

Bit of good news today. I found out I may eventually be able to work from home. They will get whatever techno-gizmo is required to connect my home comp to their local net over the phone line, so then I can access files etc from home.
This fucking rocks. An office that already has all my stuff in it.
This will be some time away yet as I have a shitload to learn in the next few months. But there's a chance....oh lordy let there be a chance
  • no need to set an alarm
  • no 40 minute drive each way
  • no fuel costs
  • private office with shower, toilet, kitchen, media center, sleeping area.
  • good excuse to get a laptop
  • more exposure to Persons 3 and 4
  • oh my god, the tax write-offs...phone line, laptop, PDA, wide screen LCD television...I mean computer monitor.

No need to get all het up just yet. But it's out there.

Thursday, September 07, 2006

Unrelated Jibber Jabber

Pick a car, any car...
Only 4 votes so far in the Pick-A-Car promotion, but hey, I'm happy to get those. The fact is I am running out of material. Although I really like most of the cartoons, they never really got any feedback, which is a polite blogger way of saying they suck...also I only have a few unused ones left (they come from a 1969 anti-heroin comic book called "Hooked" which was distributed in methadone clinics). The photos-with-sarcastic-comments (like yesterday's) do much better but I can't keep that up every day. The baboon stuff has a small following but, again, I can't run it everyday. I sometimes find stuff in the news I can use but that requires some knowledge of current events, of which I am lacking. People like Dan Tarrant are better at it and you really should read him for that sort of thing. That leaves the stories...problem is I can't tell the good ones from the bad ones; I can never tell what the response will be. I don't do this for praise, but I don't want to bore the shit out of people either. I was hoping the car promotion would pick the story for me. I do well with improv.
Steve Irwin...
Speaking of Dan, his current post is about Steve Irwin and I thought it was one of the better ones out there. Not surprisingly there are millions of pundits talking about old Steve. I heard on CKNW (Vancouver) today that Germain Greer said something like "the animals finally took revenge on him", she was being serious - bit harsh don't you think? Animals may defend themselves but I always admired them for forgoing the urge for revenge - unlike Miz Greer who is known for vengefulness and taking photographs of hairless young boys of indeterminate age...which is flat out fucking hypocritical. Some of the other posts I read included one by Surly Girl over at D-Flat Chime Bar which was a bit disappointing. She's a clever lass but she took the same easy kick at him that I would expect from people of more limited imagination. I find smugness annoying. I don't care if you like him or not but if you are going to write about it, at least look for a fresh angle.
My new office...
My progression from toiling factory machinist to high-paid architectural designer marches on. No sign of the high-pay yet, but the living conditions are improving. I am actually replacing a person who is off with a serious illness but will be coming back eventually. I am currently in his old office (emptied of personal stuff) and when he comes back one of us will get a new office....but for now I'm referring to the room upstairs, first on the right, as my office. At my old place, although I was 3rd in command, I didn't have an office, I had a desk in reception - outside the door to an empty office. It was like working in a hallway with people always standing next to me chatting with other people or reading over my shoulder. My old bosses reasoned that somehow if I were 6 feet further away from the factory floor everything would fall apart. But this is a real office. It has a window and if I stand on a chair I can look out of it (it's a factory, remember). And this is the best part, it has a door. My new job does not require me to deal too much with other people so I am free to close my door and work away undisturbed. This is unprecedented and, I must say, a great concept. The computer has reasonable speakers. It is air conditioned. That's better than most houses I've lived in. I was in there for 10 hours today CADing away and it was a joy. I don't ask for much, just to be left the fuck alone. My problem is I think everyone else is stupid except me...and that's probably not true. Another problem is that humor involving understatement doesn't do well in print form. You mustn't ever take anything I say literally...unless I literally say to take it literally, and even then you should add salt.

Wednesday, September 06, 2006

Clarification

I have no idea where this is, somewhere in the US I assume since they only sell Crown Victorias (or whatever that maroon pimpmobile is) in Canada and the US, and you can't buy "package liquor 24-7" in Canada.

What I found interesting was the author of the subtle roof-mounted billboard felt the need to underline the word not. Thou shall not kill. Surely things haven't degenerated so far that the local 24 hour grog merchant has to take it on himself to remind people of this basic civil nicety. Were some people confused? Not sure when to kill and when not to? "Jane sent me this lovely card, should I kill her or ask her to lunch?"

And it's a hell of a big sign. Check out the doorway, that overhang (technically a cantilever) is not liking the weight. Now I'm assuming the owner of the building rents his roof to the sign company who sold the space to a church group or some other stickler for biblical accuracy. I wonder if the people living in the neighborhood feel patronized, being (literally) talked down to or do they feel comforted by it's glaring presence..."Don't you do it! The sign will know"

Come to think of it I guess people who need to buy "package liquor" (what is that?) at 6am could probably use a little guidance. Soon other signs will appear - Socks before shoes. Don't drink bleach. Kittens do not take batteries. No need to teach your kids, no need to think at all. Just read the signs.

Tuesday, September 05, 2006

This May Sting...


Well I may have written myself into a corner with this latest promotion. I am thinking most of my good stories involve me doing something stupid. I don't usually go around telling people all the stupid things I have done, I prefer to let them discover it for themselves.
Do you like cop stories? There are police in quite a few stories, drugs and alcohol too. Usually all three. And although I almost always come out of it ok, I wouldn't want the younger reader to think I was glorifying such obviously delinquent behavior. Personally I don't care what the kids get up to these days, but I don't want them going around saying SJ told us to stay up 40 hours doing cocaine and then drive 40 miles to climb a friggin mountain because somebody thought it would be a cool thing to do (turns out it sucked - for them, I stayed in the car and slept).
And we can't have them slapping a sheet of plywood on a 1969 Mazda, lowering the tires and letting it putter down the railroad tracks while sitting on lawn chairs up on the "deck".
But I suppose back then we didn't have the video games and the rap music. No we had to make our own fun, the old fashioned way, with booze and explosives.
So vote soon and vote often (that includes you lurkers) and witness one man's humiliation - a badly written, mediocre story about his own stupidity. And a car.

Monday, September 04, 2006

Steve Irwin




Steve Irwin, better known as The Crocodile Hunter has died in an accident off the Queensland coast. Irwin was filming an underwater documentary when he was impaled by the barb of a stingray. His body is being flown to Cairns.

You can say at least he died doing what he loved, but it's still a damn shame. Australia could stand a few more role models like him. Steve Irwin was the face Australia likes to show the world but in a country becoming ever more cynical, selfish, intolerant and greedy, men and women like him are thin on the ground.

Saturday, September 02, 2006

Honest Joe's Used Stories

CURRENT RACE LEADER: #2 - 1973 Kawasaki Mach III
winner announced Saturday September 9 (SJ Time)

These are a few of the cars I have owned. On offer we have:

  1. 1972 GMC pickup
  2. 1973 Kawasaki Mach III (motorcycle)
  3. 1972 Toyota Corolla
  4. 1973 Ford Capri
  5. 1983 Nissan 4x4
  6. 1969 Datsun pickup
  7. 1976 Toyota Corolla
  8. 1974 Dodge Dart
  9. 1983 Skoda 1200
  10. 1980 Chevrolet 4x4
  11. 1982 Chrysler Lebaron
  12. 1976 Holden Torrana
  13. 1988 Mitsubishi Sigma
  14. 1993 Mazda 626
  15. 1992 Mitsubishi Magna
  16. 1983 Toyota pickup

Each of these cars has a story attached. Vote for your favorite Skookum's Old Car and I'll tell the story that goes with it. Tales of long chases and short crashes, road trips and acid trips, 4x4 adventures and narrow escapes of all kinds. Every car has a story guaranteed to thrill and entertain*.

VOTE NOW - Story on Sunday, September 10

*stories may not actually thrill or entertain, guarantee void in Utah.

Friday, September 01, 2006

You're All Invited

Did you know baboons and chimpanzees are the only other animals besides homo sapiens sapiens to wage war? That is attack others of the same species for advantage. They also counter-attack and understand the concept of revenge.
How's your Thursday then sunshines? Bloody Friday here and because Australia had a wicked-cool leftist government at one time there is a little thing here called the thirty-eight hour week.
That government is long gone. The Governor General fired them. You see most former British Colonies like Canada, Australia, India, New Zealand have, or have had at one time, a Governor General who is the Queen of England's representative in that country. So although the Prime Minister (same as president) is elected and runs the country there is an archaic law that says the Governor General can remove him or her (Canada had a female PM for about ten minutes in the early 90's) from office and appoint a Prime Minister until an election can be held. Its a bit like impeachment except it comes from outside. Some former colonies have removed this from their Constitutions, but some, like Australia still don't have a fucking Constitution or Bill of Rights. This is why the current government, a group of lads Mussolini would have got on with, can do damn near anything they want. But they've been so busy selling of bits of the country and playing guns with GWB and although they just threw out just about every other worker protection (you can now be fired for "complaining too much"), we still have the thirty-eight-hour week.
What all this means is that I get home by 2pm on Fridays now that I'm just a working stiff again. My first pay in 5 weeks went in today, it is a sunny spring afternoon KMFDM is supplying the background music. Person 4 has arrived home from school, I presume she still goes, she was wearing a uniform.
I am thinking of having a BBQ next Saturday. Should be good and you are all invited. Starts about 2pm till whenever, bring your own intoxicants, children welcome (good ones - not stupid, apathetic, insolent ones).
Anyway let me know if you are coming so I know how many steaks to get.