Adventures Of The German Amateur Scrabble Society, 1939-45

The German Amateur Scrabble Society (GASS) were having a rough time. They hadn’t won a tournament since the Kaiser wore a pointy hat and morale was low. At the last big tournament both sides had been bogged down with consonants until America showed up late with the vowels and it was all triple word scores after that. GASS had been beaten bad, told it was out of the European league altogether and limited to forming three letter words - and then only for defence.

So when a brash new coach, with promises of a glorious and poly-syllabic future rose up from the ranks of disenchanted former crossword players, GASS was ready to listen and he was promptly elected head coach. This new coach, Andy they called him, then annexed Austria for its good spellers and Czechoslovakia for their abundance of 14 syllable words full of ‘Z’s and ‘K’s.

Finally though they went too far. One morning they went over to Poland’s clubhouse and beat the shit out of them while Poland was still making coffee. That having worked pretty well they went up the road and captured the Belgian Vowel Works, in Antwerp. Then they beat up the Dutch and Norwegians for looking at them funny. By now Britain had heard about it and had put together a few of the lads in a mini bus with some ‘E’s and ‘O’s and an experimental ‘Y’, and sent them over on the channel ferry. They were all good spellers but unseasoned, lacking the flem required to pronounce many Germanic words. Meanwhile France dropped all its tiles on the floor and began to cry.

Things looked bad for a while, England was beaten back, Australia went home and the Canadians insisted on ending every word with “eh” which was some fucked up arctic-rules thing only they understood. The Germans sank shiploads of new replacement letters and England soon had to begin recycling old words like “hark” and “forsooth”. Vowels were rationed and it was sometimes difficult to find a whole sentence for Sunday tea.

After a while Andy, on advice from a porcelain teapot, decided to turn all his players around and have a go at Russia. The Russians however had done this before with Napoleon and knew just what to do. They burned all their tiles, hitched up and headed east with GASS armoured letter carriers chasing right behind them until they were all the way to Moscow in the centre of the board, with its glittering Red Star. By now Germany was having to truck new letters a thousand miles to fuel front line spelling and the weather was turning. When winter hit the Germans were still being supplied with tropical words like “orchid” and “bananas” which quickly froze up until they couldn’t be removed from their little wooden holder-things. It was then Russia turned, and a million vodka fuelled Heroes of the People’s Scrabble Forces attacked. Words like “подстрекните” and “рыбы” rained down on the hapless GASS forces who were totally unprepared and quickly surrounded - with only four ‘E’s and a ‘K’ left between them. “Eeek”, although appropriate, is not a proper word and soon the Russians were on to the finals in Berlin.

Meanwhile Japan had coaxed the Americans into a game in the Pacific league* and they enjoyed it so much they came over to Europe to join in the big Invasion ’44 game in Normandy which they won and soon they too were off to Berlin to play with Andy. Andy, in anticipation of the match, shot himself in the head. Most of the remaining GASS team ran off to South America and everything was back to normal except some of the poor countries got switched around and Russia kept eastern Europe and wouldn’t give it back.

*America won the Pacific tournament after developing a word as bright as the sun and playing it on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Japan was then forced to withdraw, as it was on fire.

Creation Story

And the Lord did jack the world into being, for there was no Mrs. Lord, and all creation lay drying on his divine belly. Except one little spatter that landed on the heavenly headboard and which did not get wiped up with the holy sock. This spatter became known as Australia and it thrived in the dark humid environment of what the Lord liked to call the Creation Station when he had the other gods over to watch hockey. The other gods would just roll their eyes for the Lord was always going on about some Mary chick he knew in Canada, but nobody had ever seen her. Then the story changed and this Mary was from Jerusalem and was in fact pregnant. It doesn’t count if its immaculate, they told him.

Eventually the Buddha got a plasma screen and the other gods stopped going over to the Lord’s all together and he was left to brood in his cloud-filled bachelor’s paradise for eternity. Eating frozen pizza and listening to harp music in his underwear all day, he had no desire to be clean. And so Australia thrived, a dried crusted speck with nice beaches on God’s headboard and if you look closely you can still see it there to this day.

How John Cusack got the malaria

I heard about this guy once. He was called John Cusack and his friends called him that except one guy. That guy didn’t like John Cusack and called him John Cue-sack and one day he gave John Cusack a cup of malaria and that’s a disease and he told John Cusack it was lemon-barley cold medicine but John Cusack didn’t have a cold but the guy told John Cusack it would make him high and STOP HIM FROM GETTING FUTURE COLDS so he drank it and now he’s got the malaria.

That’s why John Cusack wears all black and he sweats a lot.

Here It Is - Day 1 of SJ's All Day Christmas Spectacular Extravaganza and Special Christmas Video

Well here we are again at the 1st Annual SJ Super Christmas Spectacular. A tradition as old as this blog which is about 10 months. So far this is the first Christmas we’ve come across, and there may be more, so lets just try and get through it.

An unusual event this morning, our decorative light-up miniature pine tree seems to have attracted a clutch of wrapped packages, coincidentally labelled in the same names as many of the people who live here. I figure possession is nine tenths of the law (and possession of 9/10ths will get you a trafficking charge), so we’re keeping them.

Not one but two iPods in the pile. A big 30GB video player and a cute little Nano which is currently working through a Steely Dan discography so I don’t have to listen to “Must Love Dogs” which is on the satellite and serves as more proof that John Cusack just isn’t going to come good and shouldn’t be allowed to play with the other actors anymore.

Had a round of Jr. Monopoly this afternoon and I was all prepared to dominate but was stunned to find the new Monopoly-land to be an over-regulated bureaucratic nightmare. Here is a market beaten flat like plate steel. Cripe sake, you can’t even buy railroads…you just get another turn. There are no utilities! No Tax! What sort of pabulum-spewing false utopia is this? No example at all for kids…when we were young you weren’t playing right unless someone quit in tears. The only thing we took more seriously was Risk which usually ended with the board and all 5000 tiny pieces going up in a pre-emptive strike. What’s it like these days? “Take that Kamchatka! I rolled a six, that’s a harshly worded diplomatic letter for you! Two more and I’ll embargo your ass.”

SJ trudges on toward the new year, seven past the end of the world and we’re still clinging to the surface of this wet rock like slug-slime. But I guess even slug-slime has a use and I wish the slugs well as they march by.

Thanks everyone for your support over the past 300-odd posts. Meanwhile here’s a little video to keep you going with music by the above mentioned Steely Dan and starring (in order of appearance)

Dan The Fish (as The M.C.)
Jack and Jessie
P4
Tank Commander Hanzi
Stumpy
Polly

This is the rare missing reel that explains how Hanzi lost his arms….Enjoy!

Hanzi's Back - Day 1 of SJ's Two Days of Christmas Spectacular Extravaganza And Free Termite Inspection

In another media-coup SJ is proud to present secret shots of Tank Commander Hanzi starring in the traditional Christmas production of Othello Kitty – Shakespeare’s most beloved tale of a German tank commander’s betrayal by a Japanese marketing gimmick.

Luckily opening night was here in the village, over at the Lutheran church hall, and I managed to get tickets up in the balcony. I couldn’t get any video because the whole thing was live to tape for some big re-broadcast in Russia where Hanzi is a mega star so security was tight. I did get a couple of still shots but I couldn’t use the flash so they’re not the best…

You may notice Hanzi has lost another arm, this only added to the performance. There were none of the usual gesticulations and walking around so often bogging down Shakespeare’s plays and we were free to bask in Herr Hanzi’s shrill, staccato, Bavarian delivery.

In the stirring death scene Hanzi is brilliant as the fallen Othello, pushed over simply for being limbless and not well stuck down. Here we see Desdemona, played with great subtlety and craft by Plastic Cat, mourning Othello’s demise as the Russians close on Berlin, thereby indirectly saving Christmas.

Truly inspiring.

Flaming Inuit Zombies - Day 1 of SJ's Three Days Of Christmas Spectacular Extravaganza and Bare Knuckle Boxing Match

Moving along it was stinking hot today, humid as a sumo’s loincloth although not as baby smooth. Don’t question it.

P4 and I spent the afternoon at Castle Wolfenstien killing Nazis and zombies. She especially likes me to use the flamethrower, makes a disturbing guttural laugh to see S.S. soldiers rolling around on fire going “AAAAHHHHH!” (funny, it sounds the same in German). I might get her one for Christmas (a flamethrower, not a flaming nazi) and don’t worry, I wouldn’t let her use it in the house. Not after the grenade incident.

And spending a summer afternoon incinerating nazis with your daughter really makes you appreciate what you’ve got. Really makes you glad you’re not an Inuit seal hunter stalking your prey across the frozen arctic wastes. That would suck. I don’t know anything about seal hunting or arctic survival beyond aim for the head and wear a scarf, and there's probably more to it than that.

The Trials of Bonnie

Bonnie had been happy waiting tables at the diner. Sure it got rough sometimes on the night shift but you learned to take it, close yourself off to it somehow. Then he’d come along, smooth talking Clark, hanging around the diner every night, told her he’d take her away, make her a queen. And she’d gone with him, lord help her, even though Momma cried.

And where were they now? No money, no place to live – flat out busted – and all Clark wanted to do was sit on her lap and suck her tit. At least back at the diner she got paid for it.

Rage Against Linda - Day 1 of SJ's Four Days Of Christmas Spectacular Extravaganza and Cockfight

Alright it’s on. These are my summer holidays. Last day of work today before two weeks off for Christmas. I am home and just had some left-over Mongolian beef and rice. Then I had a dirty great smoke and I’m currently running a cultural experiment.

I recently acquired four Rage Against The Machine albums – about 75 songs – and I was so pleased with it I went out and got the Linda Ronstadt 4 CD Box Set. I’m now listening to all eight albums on random.

The Eagles-like 70’s high-desert rock, Spanish ballads and pure soulful voice of Linda Ronstadt juxtaposed with Rage’s bass-driven Metal/Hip-hop/Skater fusion goodness. Linda does an a cappella cover of Queen’s We Will Rock You which is breathless and eerie. Meanwhile Rage does Bob Dylan’s Maggie’s Farm in a way I suspect Dylan would have if he could of back then without people passing out from fright.

I suppose the difference is with Linda if you take away the music the voice carries on just fine, with Rage if you got rid of the jams it would sound like someone yelling at a dog.

This is my conclusion. Experiment over. More beef…

They're all the same

A friend of mine was telling me about a fella his ex-wife had been seeing briefly a couple of years ago. The reason my friend met him is because he and his ex-wife remain close and live near enough each other the kids move back and forth freely. He did not like this man his ex-wife was involved with, considered him shiftless and shifty at the same time. “I’m pretty sure he was a pot head” he told me.

“How do you tell?” I asked

“Because he lies a lot. Pot heads are all habitual liars.”

I was quite surprised to hear this for several reasons. My friend is not much older than me (and therefore should have been exposed to plenty of pot in his life), he himself drinks at least a bottle of wine a day and more if they have a party, which is often. They? My friend is gay. I mention this because I find it ironic that someone who was once married, presumably from purely societal pressures, who then plucked up the courage to come out, and was blessed with a family and even a wife who supported him and continue to do so…I find it ironic someone like that would be so quick to label people.

Back in logic school they talked about cause and correlation. Let’s assume it’s true most paedophiles like pizza occasionally. Should we then assume Italians are paedophiles since they invented pizza? And since most Italians are Catholic would it be right to say most Catholic Priests are…ok bad example, but you get the point.

You shouldn’t judge people based on their socio-economic-gayness. Yeah yeah, it’s rude and mean and not politically correct and who fucking cares. The reason you don’t do it is because you are very likely to be at least partially wrong and so will any decisions you made based on those views. Who loses in that situation? You, stupid.

My friend was wrong to make the assumption and I was wrong to assume he wouldn’t.

Then again, I smoke pot so I could be making the whole thing up. You just can’t tell with some people.

The Poo Wire

Mrs. Joe was in the laundry room tonight when she called out

“What do I do with this wire I found in the sink?”

“That’s the poo-wire from last time the kids plugged up the toilet. It had poo on it.”

“Well do you want it back out in the shed?

“Hell no, woman. Poo…on…it”

“Well throw it out then.”

“I don’t know… they plugged it three times in one week, maybe we should hang on to it, not literally, just in case.”

“Well, what do I do with it then?”

“Ahhha!”, I said edging out the side door, “this is the crux of it.”

“The what? Why do you talk like that?”

But by then I was outside and safe.

Christmas Story

I suppose we better do a Christmas edition SJ.

They say Jesus was a carpenter like his dad while his brother Brian was an electrician. He also had a sister called Cheryl, who did hair for a while and then ran off with a smooth-talking Philistine who later turned out to be a Cretan. Anyway very little is known of Jesus’ carpenter days, the days between when he was plopped down in a manger until he started going around to parties turning everything into wine.

After his apprenticeship, young Jesus went to work with Joseph building cheap modular dwellings on land Joe had scooped up in the big recession of 12BC. But fathers and sons don’t always see eye to eye and after an argument one day Jesus cried “You’re not my REAL dad!” and ran off start his own business, building high quality crucifixes for the Roman market. “Immaculate conception, my ass” mumbled Joseph.

Jesus’ business thrived and he soon had a staff of 12 and a legion of hanger’s-on. He started living the high life, rarely showing up at the office but hanging out by the sea of Galilee instead where he threw a daily big fish fry and booze-up for everyone. “Jesus you’re cool” said Peter then pissed himself laughing until fish came out his nose. But Jesus didn’t notice for he had dropped a holy lot of Phoenician stone tablet acid and was looking over the crowd tripping “Wow…it’s like…it’s like I’m the…the…I’m the Shepard…YEAH! I’m the Shepard and they are my…sheep…no lambs, little lambs…hahaha. Fuzzy little lambs!” And Jesus did grab a stick and stumble about whacking people in the knees until he had them more or less in a circle. “Awesome”, said Jesus, and it was awesome.

At one particular gathering, a big supper, they had Lenny da Vinci come by to do a bit of a sketch and they ended up smoking some good Venetian hash he brought with him. Old Lenny went on all night about flying machines and secret codes he’d put in paintings just to fuck with people’s heads. The last thing Jesus remembered was Judas betting him a bag of coins he couldn’t carry one of his big crucifixes all the way up to the top of the hill at Calvary…

+

Several days later Joseph took a walk up the hill and stopped on the spot where his son had suffered so. He looked up at the rugged cross, how the iron spikes that had pierced his boy’s wrists had split even the great timbers, such was the force of their application. “Stupid kid “Joseph said “I told him to use softwood …but what do I know. I was just his dad.”

Owl Fishing Continues In UK

Whatsamadda? Don’t like poems? Fuck ya then.

G’day and welcome to Friday. Today we have some disturbing news from the UK involving owl fishing. I know, it’s hard to believe this sort of thing still goes on but I guess since fox hunting became such an issue, your average country squire needs another distraction.

The photo is by Nick Oliver and was published in that sanctimonious little rag called Reader’s Digest (the pages are perfect size for out-house use).

“A vole’s eye view of a barn owl in Suffolk, UK, taken with a camera trigger and a lure attached to a fishing line. One twitch of the lure and…”

Really this is too much. I can remember being a lad of 5 when we lived in Longtown, Cumbria, waiting for the school bus in the winter morning twilight. From the frost furred trees a silent winged ghost passed over me close enough to feel the presure wave of it's wings. I watched for that solem beast every morning after, but never saw it again.

Apparently because some fucker was flying it around on a fishing lure. Poor innocent nocturnal predator dropping in for a tasty snack only to find he’s instead got hold of a hand-tied fishing vole with a dirty great hook. The feisty little owl would try to free itself and the mean country squire would let it spin out a while, liberty seemingly at hand, until he YANKED up hard on the line to set the hook and began hauling it back in. Poor little wings flapping like mad but to no avail. Oh what sport! “Quick Georgina, get the net, he’s lovely. We’ll take him home for the cats eh?”

Vicious bastards.

'77 Grand Taurine-o

Taurine-o, taurine-o
Like acid amino
Tastes like bile
But after a while
Everything’s peachy keen-o

Prevents brain rot
Like it or not
I Tried to stop
And then I forgot

Now I’m of improved mood
Though I’m off my food
Still it’s the best I’ve ever felt.
Excellent healing though I
Can’t shake this feeling
I may be Theodore Roosevelt.

SJ Live II

The Taurine controversy rages on. Will the vile make me big or small, will I get to the tea party on time? Clearly more debate is needed, although I don't believe we should tie up the UN with this sort of thing.

JR and I are working from home again today so any comments to the blog will be dealt with more or less straight away (please allow for a delay if I happen to be doing mathematical operations like counting on my toes when the comment comes in).

Well better get to it. Enjoy your day.

SJ

Hippy Beer

click for make big

Well well, look what the Missus found in town the other day. Does it not seem ironic to be promoting a "hemp" based product as an energy drink? Of course the brown-shirted neo-zipheads who run this joint wouldn't stand for anything actually made with marijuana. No, on closer inspection this concoction has slightly less THC than whole milk, but it has buckets of this stuff…

Pantothenic Acid? Guarana Extract? Glucuronolactone!? 108mg of caffeine – whoa baby but don’t let that fret you. What about the one-thousand-three-hundred-sixty milligrams of Taurine. What medieval sorcerer’s herb is this? Does it make one see devils and winged horned beasties? Sounds like a fucking wood preservative to me.

Should I drink it?

Quitline Angel

Just in case you ever want to quit smoking in Australia, here is a handy little ad from the government. It’s one of a series they made the tobacco companies apply to all their packaging. The others show grisly photos of gangrene (from reduced circulation) and the ravages of mouth cancer which is heady stuff to be sure, but this one is my favourite on so many levels. So much so that I scanned it right off the pack for you people who insist on reading this crap, thereby forcing me to eject more.

Here we have an excellent example of marketing techniques straight out of the book. The text is in no-nonsense, left justified Arial. Black, red and white – the serious colours. But it’s the condescending little photo-play that I love best. The man on the left is a Dirty Smoker. This is indicated for us by the way the shot is cropped so he has no headroom behind which creates a visual tension. The tones are cool and bluish and he’s lit obliquely from behind creating fairly harsh shadows. He needs a shave and holds the phone like he’s listening to Asian Schoolgirl Confessions in the bathroom. He is a Dirty Bad Smoker, that’s for sure.

The photographs are separated by a diagonal slash of telephone line to let us know the two people are indeed communicating by telephone in case we missed the fact the man is holding a telephone and the woman has her professional Telephone Angel head rig on. And isn’t she an angel? Shining golden hair, warm soft lighting. She is framed so her eye level is slightly above his and she’s given plenty of headroom which relaxes the shot visually. She is smiling because she can help the Dirty Smoker even though she is above such things. It really is an act of mercy and kindness. She may ask him to bark like a dog to prove his worthiness of her telephone advice, but that’s seems fair considering the enormous gift she is about to bestow on this wretch of a man, this degenerate tobacco fiend.

At some point the Dirty Smoker will break into fits of sobbing as he admits how he used to smoke with his morning coffee almost every day, how he once smoked in plain sight of a school…how he once gave a cigarette to a work colleague who was out. Several months later that colleague died of complications from a burst appendix. He told himself it was a coincidence. And through the sobs our Telephone Angel will make soothing sounds from a list she has been given by a person who writes government lists and the Dirty Smoker will repent his evil ways, blubber at her feet and ask her out on a date. The angel will smile knowingly and tell the man he is cured and, no, she cannot date him as he is unclean and will always be so. But she will still wish him a nice day before disconnecting to move on to the next haunted being requiring her divine attention.

The Reformed Dirty Smoker will feel as though he has been released from the bonds of nicotine. He will feel as though he has his whole life to begin afresh and he will also feel embarrassed about asking such a perfect creature to even consider dating him. He will realize the only thing he can do now is stalk her every move, living vicariously through her perfect-ness. He will throw a roll of duct tape and an Asian Schoolgirl uniform into the back of the car and head off in search of his one, true, Angel.

You see? He really was a degenerate. You could tell from the photo.

White Christmas Unlikely

Goldangit I forgot my power supply for JR at work for the second day in a row. I’m already at 50% batteries and it’s the weekend. First thing tomorrow I am going to have to rise early, hitch up the team and journey across the river into Town to hunt down a second power supply, and a spare battery if they are in season. I bet I’ll go to every computer shop in town and they will either not stock it, have just sold out, or plain never heard of it. I’m picturing myself saying “Nooooo, Hewlet-Packard has been around a while, I’m pretty sure. I actually bought it here…in this store…two months ago…from you.”

Meanwhile P’s 3 and 4 and myself are off to Carols By Candlelight in the park up the village. Says here it starts at 6:30pm….Christ sake (hmm, I suppose it is too) it’s 36c outside with a sun that’ll take the paint off your car in an afternoon and they expect us to go stand under it holding an open flame and singing songs – Christmas songs at that. I think we’ll mosey up there a little later when the frogs get going, the mosquitoes rise up and its safe outside for white people. Hey, Australia’s got the world’s highest skin cancer rate you know. Somebody broke the ozone layer over Antarctica and there’s bloody ultra-violet light getting in everywhere.

World Of Tomorrow (and early next week)

Years ago I was renovating an old building and came across a box of Popular Mechanics from the 1940’s-60’s. They were full of articles about the great future in store for everyone. Computers would run everything in the futuristic 70’s and by the unimaginable year 2000 people would be living in cities under the sea. Curiously a “top scientist” predicted the first moon landing wouldn’t be until around 2013. Probes would need to be sent first etc. He didn’t count on Kennedy and the cold war. They didn’t count on environmental snags either. Everything was a nuclear powered disposable wonderland, plastic and asbestos were our friends . There was no internet but you could send a letter by ballistic rocket post which launched the mail in an arc through space and had it half way around the world in 90 minutes. The mail sack was jettisoned over the destination and the rocket …sort of went…away and the mail parachuted down to be collected by the local postal service and distributed to the recipients. Yes what a rosy old time we were going to have…twenty channels on the TV, some of them in colour with smell-o-vision and all this was going to be ours by the year 2000. Yeah, well here are my own few predictions for the future...

In The Future:

-Women will gain the ability to make themselves understood
-Men will say “Ohhh! I see now.”
-The sun will explode.

I’m just not sure in what order.

Sunrise On The Second Floor

I have found, in the office environment, its not correct to yell out “HAHAHA EAT THIS FUCKERS” as you deposit 10 (ten, dix, V) big, fat, completed jobs in the tray. So I just set them there and tip-toed away. A shriek was heard from the downstairs office as I neared the top of the stairs.

I can see the sun rising on my stack of plans and files and the makings for 15 assorted offices, lunchrooms, meeting rooms, and blah blah rooms are about to hit the factory, delivered as promised, today. People who, all along, have been about as helpful as a hangnail (I got that one down at Boy Howdy’s Colloquialism Hut, out by the airport), people who offer to order you lunch and then forget, people who shrug when asked the most basic of questions like “Do we own any more copy paper, anywhere…at all?” These people now find themselves very very busy. Like the silly grasshopper who played all summer while the industrious ant was building an aphid ranching empire, they find they have 7 (seven, sept, VII) days to complete 10 jobs with 5 more to follow PLUS (and, +, as well as) everything the other two planners spew out. HA I say again.

But I won’t get too cocky in public until it’s all built and installed, with no fuck-ups. It’s by no means the biggest job we have going, but it’s the biggest I’ve ever worked on and there are about a thousand (1000, mille, many, see: shit-load) ways it can go wrong yet.

You can lead a deer to a hole in the ground, but you can't make it be your friend.

When I was four I dug a hole in the woods. It was about 6” deep and at the bottom was a loop of tree root I had exposed. I had dug away with a stick until I could get my little hand through the loop which somehow then assured me it was deep enough. I packed up my stick and headed back to the house absolutely secure in my belief I would return the next day to find a deer caught in my ‘snare’. I returned the next morning a little worried about how to handle my newly caught deer only to find the hole much as I’d left it. Some of the dirt had sloughed back in, the root had dried out and it didn’t seem near as impressive as it had the day before. I was not disappointed as much as perplexed. I had assumed that merely creating the necessary conditions would cause an irrevocable chain of events – the deer would see the hole and think “Hey, that wasn’t there before, I better stick my foot in there and…ooh I’m stuck. Curse the humans and their big brains.” – and I could then come along and set it free so we could be friends and I’d be the star of the bus-stop with my own pet deer that came to play-school with me. My coat hook at play-school had a sticker of a playful Holstein calf above it and I was considering how to approach Mrs. Johnson about having it changed to a deer. Surely she’d at least have a Bambi somewhere.

Thirty odd years later I wrote a blog on a popular thing called the Internet, you may remember it. It was a service for your computer where you could buy crap, get instant weather information and view images of people having various objects stuffed up them. And on this blog I posted this image from Swedish National Geographic where I had added my own text which I translated into Swedish with some on-line translator. I have no idea if what the translator came up with actually makes any sense in Swedish but it didn’t matter. The idea was to make out like I’d been sent the image, which clearly mentions my name, but couldn’t read the rest because it was in Swedish. I figured at least one net-geek with nothing else to do would try to prove his or her on-line prowess by running the text through a translator and then telling me it said “Skookum Joe is a bad, bad man”, which is what it was supposed to say, or maybe something even better after it had been de-translated. Discussion would then ensue on what it meant, there would be material for more posts and the “fact” it had been published in the first place would slip quietly into acceptance. And that was the goal, to convince people something was real by distracting them with the details, in this case the translation problem.

As it turned out I don’t think anyone even read the text, as all the comments were then about polar bears. Once again my deer had escaped. It’s human nature to believe, or want to believe, that of all possible outcomes the one we want most is what will indeed transpire. And we are constantly thwarted by it. Many stories of disappointment begin with “I just thought…” and follow a chain of assumptions which lead ever deeper into the murky swamp of human wiring. The answer is simple, lower your expectations.

That doesn’t mean going around expecting the worst, for that would be just as foolish as always expecting the ideal outcome. No, what I mean is set up the conditions as best you can and if the deer does not come, well then maybe it’s a rabbit trap. I did not expect the Swedish thing to work, I hoped it would, I thought it might, but I did not expect it to and so I wasn’t disappointed. Besides, I got nothing against polar bears.

Those Aren't Two Pillows

What’s all this photo sharing guff? All these camera and printer bundles which specifically highlight the share-ability factor. Now you can press a button and inflict blurry images of whatever shiny thing caught your eye last on people around the world. “Hey look, Dad sent another picture of the new gutters. Sure does like them gutters.” It’s eye-spam. It’s worse than someone telling you about a dream. But this isn’t about that, this is a story about Kenny.

Before they were married, Kenny and his Missus would often travel to visit her parents, a small German man with an almost too cheerful wife. Gloria was great, I helped them move once and had to return the rental truck back to Vancouver 4 hours away and she made me sandwiches and cookies and cake for the trip. Whenever Kenny and his wife visited they were housed in the spare bedroom, across from the parents room at the end of the hall in a nice suburban home with tidy lawns, a green garden shed and nary a pink flamingo.

Now, after they were married they lived with the parents for a little while and by then there was a baby so the parents moved into the spare room and gave Kenny and Co. the larger room. Early on in the caper Kenny’s brother came to visit and they drank many beers together and sang songs and talked in the strange pseudo-accent his brothers had developed among themselves. I have spent many such nights with them where we laughed and attained levels of intoxication exceeding government warnings, and I can attest to the quality of the experience.

About 5am the next morning Gloria rolled out of bed, chipper as a German’s housewife, to make fresh muffins for breakfast. Shortly after that Kenny rolled himself down the hall to the bathroom where he said farewell to the last two beers from the night before, which had ended only 3 hours earlier, and fumbled his way back to the room. He crawled back under the covers, pulled them over his head, curled up to the Missus and went back to sleep.

At half past six Gloria brought her husband a tray of fresh muffins, orange juice and coffee as well as toast just in case he didn’t feel like a muffin. She put the tray down, walked over and opened the drapes and window. Morning sunlight filled the room, bringing with it the soft scent of dewy grass and roses and it was only then that she noticed her husband and son-in-law together in the bed sleeping peacfully in the 'spoon' position. Kenny's autopilot had not yet re-calibrated to the new room. It should also be noted at this point that Kenny prefers to sleep nude and as it turns out, so do Germans. Gloria thought it prudent then to simply leave the tray and make her exit. How the two gentlemen came to separate in an honourable way and without loss of face is unclear, but the incident was never mentioned again.

Kenny has a flair for getting away with stuff like that. All I know is if it had been me there would have been nine types of trouble. But then again I didn’t know the German that well.