I am experiencing a vague sensation of emptiness.

I sponsor some kid somewhere in the world through Oxfam.

When I filled out the forms, I specifically requested to sponsor a boy from Cambodia. There were about a dozen Cambodian refugees working in a factory in which I had an office job and they are among the most beautiful and gentle people I've ever met. I picked a boy because a sponsored boy will eventually rescue a girl from poverty whereas sponsoring a girl could mean she loses so much when she eventually marries. (See, I thought this through before signing on.)

I wanted to see if anyone anywhere in the world had set up any websites or to find any news items containing any evidence of misappropriation of funds or wastage, but 12 pages into a google search revealed nothing, so I feel better about that.

What I dislike is the fact I have no idea where the kid is I sponsor or whether any of my stipulations have been met.

I don't feel like corresponding with the kid, I just want to know where he or she is and how they get on.

From what I gather, my money is probably being used in Africa as part of consolidated funds to build communities. That's all well and good, but that's not where I wanted my money to go. I picked Cambodia because they're not at war. They're not under threat from an evil regime - as far as I'm aware, but most of all, I won't spend years sponsoring a kid only to have a corrupt regime come in and destroy everything my money is being used to build. See Zimbabwe for details.

I want to know how my kid gets on but since I started my sponsorship, I haven't heard dick from anyone.

I might consider stopping my sponsorship with Oxfam and switch to World Vision but if I do that, I'm going to let some kid down in some part of the world. Who knows how long he or she has been waiting for a sponsor, they get one and everything goes along swimmingly well for a stabilisingly long period of time, then suddenly the support is withdrawn - Why?

Two aspects of the World Vision site that piss me off are they don't have Cambodia as an option and if you check this out...

http://www.worldvision.com.au/childsponsorship/search/
child_search.asp?orderby=longest

Order by??? ORDER BY???

Who's the sick son of a bitch who thought that up?

These are children, not hamburgers. You don't order a child for crying out loud, you sponsor one or two or however many you can afford. They're not commodities to be ordered, bought and paid for. The more I think of this crass description, the more it pisses me off.

Although I'm left with misgivings about my personal wishes for sponsorship probably not being respected, I think I'll console myself with the belief that someone somewhere is grateful for my sponsorship dollars, even if I'll never know where or whom. At least I won't have to correspond.

*sigh*

Had a lot to say tonight but I dislike grandstanding.

I started writing it all more than an hour ago and deleted it 30 seconds ago.

Shit happens.

Little gems in email...

I actually bought your book last January, while I was in San Diego taking care of my parents. I read some of it to my dad and he laughed so hard he had to take his heart pills. It was great, you almost killed my dad. :-) So it's time to leave and I take your book to read on the airplane. I sad down at the busy airport to wait. The book was on my lap, unopened and I was just kind of staring off into space. Airports never seem to have enough air and I get kind of sleepy. The person sitting next to me got up and left, dragging her very small child with her. She seemed cranky. Kids do that to you though. A minute later, the person on the other side, gave me and your book a dirty look and got up and left. I then realized that some people might not be as pleased with my choice of reading material as I was. Go figure. I doubt it would have helped if I'd told them I sort of know the author. Anyway, I got on the airplane and sat down, with the book on my lap again. I admit, this time it was pre-meditated. I was hoping I could get a little extra room on the flight. A woman sat down next to me and started talking. I hate talking on airplanes. I need 2 1/2 feet of space between me and another person's breath for comfortable conversation and then I need them to not be a boring moron. Rarely do the two go together. So I angled the book more towards her, hoping the title might have the same affect on her. As soon as she noticed it, she shut up and started looking around. She seemed a little nervous. There were some empty seats on the plane and as soon as the attendant said people could move if they wanted to, she jumped up, hit her head and went to sit somewhere else. The book didn't work on the second part of the flight, when a guy sat next to me, but that was okay, because he was good-looking. The 2 1/2 feet of personal space is only necessary if I'm sitting next to a really ugly person or a women. I'm not dead yet. The next time I flew, even though I had read the book, I took it anyway. It worked again. I'll never need to pay for a first-class ticket to get more room, as long as I have your book Rat. I'm trying to find another book that has fucker and murder in the title to see if it still works. Maybe it was your picture. :-) This is a true story.

And to think I used to curse this woman out no end. heh, it' more fun being bad.

Day traders are all fucking bastards.

I turn my back on a stock that's been going down for 90 minutes thinking it was all media hoopla that saw it jump 16% since opening and back off by 5 points in 90 minutes - I lose interest in it for one hour and the cunt's bounced back up to an intra day high.

Fucking bitch.

I've been rather productive today.

I put more goss in the goss page at The Pad and there's some right amusing stuff in there and it's great finding more of it all the time.

I blogged a fair bit earlier for I had things on my mind and freely dumped them here.

I've answered about 40 emails today and all of them were good ones to answer.

I updated the other journal (of which you here know nought) which is getting a fair bit of interest up after only 3 weeks.

I also made time to do some other bit of writing for which I shall eventually be paid. (Got it in 8 minutes before deadline - phew!)

While I was poking around the bits and pieces, I also paid the regulatory lip service to those who expect me to do so.

So, all in all, not a bad day. Trouble is, now I want to have something to eat and the dog is going to do his level best to put me off because he's a fucking greedy fat red oink.

I'll probably be up for another 3 hours yet so I wonder what wonderful organisations of 1s and 0s will parade across my screen in orderly fashion tonight.

When history bites you on the arse...

I had a look at who's been poking around The Pad this morning and the following referral link appeared:

http://search.msn.com/results.aspx?q=stigma%20of%20pedophile&first=21&FORM=PERE2

Curious about how someone got to The Pad from there, I did my own search and it came back with one of the earlier blog entries I did shortly after finding out about the filth's blog - the catalyst for my returning to regular bloggery.

Whoever clicked on that would have been given one of my typical rants on the subject so if they're on my side, I hope they went away moderately impressed. If they're on the other side, I hope they realise there's yet another vigilante out there from whom they can expect no quarter. Stigmatise the fuckers to the max, I don't give a shit about them and I sincerely hope they all die today.

It's a catch 22 situation though. I also know from experience that someone who needs help won't approach anyone who appears to be on some sort of crusade or warpath. People in that frame of mind are frightening.

What I am pleased to report is due to activities elsewhere in the e-bog, my name is being passed around as someone who gives really good advice and people I don't know are asking for my help.

I'll admit I like doing what I can, which is very limited anyway, but at the same time I'm acutely aware of the potential for backlash. It's for that reason I keep reiterating - almost insisting - that nothing I say to anyone should be kept private, secret or in any other way regarded as off limits to others. I won't spread what's said to me, but I'll take responsibility for everything I say in return.

All this forthrightness - I hate to say it, is for my protection against false accusation. People will turn to friends who'll give them an honest answer before they'll turn to an agency that won't. That's my position anyway. And I've been through the system before - it stinks. It's a last resort and all the good intentions in the world won't make up for that one missing element - honesty.

I also never tell anyone to keep what I say private for the very practical reason, if something I say doesn't quite make sense or makes you feel uncomfortable, then for goodness' sake run it by someone else! I don't know everything and I'm bound to get it wrong some of the time, but I'll own up to that when it comes back.

The point is, as I put myself out there, I'm being honest with people and I can see that's what comes across and if putting a Band-Aid on a cut knee (as it were) is all that's needed, then so be it. I've been saying to the doomsayers for nearly 20 years, "If you don't like what I'm doing, then bloody well do it yourself." I've had that very rare privilege of being on the receiving end of some perfect advice. Just a tiny bit of conversation and an email and it has made an impression that stays with me today.

What I found out is when someone can tell you why you're thinking a certain way, you can then begin to figure out how to deal with it. Agencies get their info from books and tutors who are relying on studies which are inherently flawed and always will be. The woman who told me what's what realised what I've always known and that is there's no substitute for one's own experience especially when dealing with others. And that comes back to honesty. It shows. Moreover it shows in abundance when it's missing and that is why I discount agencies as adequate resources in and of themselves. The trouble is, there just aren't enough "friends" to whom people in need can turn.

Leading back to that paradoxical aspect of lending a helping hand being a form of therapy for those doing the lending, maybe it is and maybe it isn't. I does depend on the circumstances in which the helping hand is offered and the motives behind it. At what point does it become usage of the person looking for help? My answer to that is it becomes unhealthy when the focus of the relationship between provider and recipient keeps returning to the reasons for which the recipient put their hand up in the first place. I dislike even focussing on anything to do with the initial problem and that includes solutions. I would rather look to day to day practicalities and deal with issues as they arise. It takes the focus off the problem preventing it taking on unmanageable proportions and forming the basis for interaction. You don't get that with an agency, you get that from friends, especially those who are prepared to share the journey once you've got over the hurdle which brought you together in the first place.

I realised I'm not actually needed after a while.

Far from being disappointing, it's the outcome for which I strive. I draw away fast when it gets to the needing stage. I dislike feeling needed. In fact I almost fear it. I enjoy being wanted. Agencies are needed, they are not wanted. I spurn dishonesty and insincerity in dealings with people, which is how I came to despise that dippy trollop from Vegas - for those who know Dopey - and why I dislike agencies.

When I see "yours sincerely" at the bottom of a letter I've received from someone trying to sell me something, I bin it immediately because the one thing the author is not is "sincere". The message I've been leaving at the bottom of my missives in the circles in which I've been moving is "Please keep us up to date." I've been leaving that because I genuinely want to know how the person fares after reading my replies to their questions. So far, the responses have been overwhelmingly positive. I also wouldn't dare doing what I've been doing alone. There are others around whom I trust and support and from I have been honoured to receive trust and support. No way could I do it alone, no matter how positive the feedback is.

Now, from where did all this come?

Someone searched for "stigma of pedophiles" on msn's search engine and this blog came back on the returns. I've made a hobby of getting sites shut down (and more). I'm in the thick of things, but the fact remains, I dislike the association between me and filth. So much so I've spelled out my reaction to justify what I do - because of that loose association made by a search engine return. I'll own up to being a bit pissed off that I even felt a need to justify myself (probably because of the anonymity provided by the web - who the hell is this ChatRat person anyway?) when there are so-called do-gooders trying to tell the world that reformed filth don't need to justify themselves, they've paid their debt to society, and the stigma attached to them is doing more damage than anything else - driving them underground away from the help that could prevent them reoffending.

Blah blah frickety blah - heard it all before.

Now take the victims into account and ask them what they'd like done to the filth. I bet you London to a brick you get a different reaction. String the fuckers up and be done with it. The cost of keeping them alive isn't worth the returns they provide and a noose is reusable.

My stuff speaks for itself. The trouble is, not enough people see it and fewer take the time to see it for what it is. Don't keep my stuff secret, I don't like being kept in the dark where nobody can see what I'm doing.

click - and a whole new collection for the search engines. *sigh*

(Time to compose this entry: 105 mins)

Looking through blogland again for the last hour and a half or so, one might be forgiven for thinking nothing changes in the lives of the lovelorn.

One might be forgiven, but then again, one might not - and I can hold a grudge for a very long time.

Yeah, I think that says enough about what I'm thinking at the moment.

Oh me oh my.

I opened an email this evening to the chorus of Alphaville's "Forever Young". Guess from whom it was.

I spent quite a bit of time at a particular friend's place in February of 2000. Dave was a mutual friend of Chris's and mine and, sensitive to what I was going through, there wasn't much conversation. I don't know if it were planned or not but at some stage, Dave put a cd into his mountainous stereo and the first song to wash over the room was a song by The Hollies: He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother.

The floodgates were opened and I wept freely.

Now here's part of the email to which I referred above:

Ratface!
My God it's been years. How ya been? I've been ok, there has been a lifetime of events in the past year, both exciting and tragic. on the 27th of July 2005, my brother Tim was killed in a trailbike accident, the family has been pretty upset for the past week and a half, the hardest thing was singing "He Ain't Heavy" at his funeral and then carrying his coffin to the hearse, and I know that song holds a deep meaning to you as well. Now it also holds great meaning to me.

I told you Matt was special. I told you all the kids I've known over the last 16 years or so are special. I'm so looking forward to bridging 4 years worth of absence. We have so much to talk about but as you can probably see, picking up the threads from where they were left should be as easy as falling off a barstool.

This is a retrospective I have retrospected from a few years ago. The entries have been dated but not changed except to neaten them up a bit. I'm putting it here now because it made me laugh.

Since the World Trade Center disaster, I've been absolutely bereft of anything to write. I haven't posted a newsletter, or made (or even visited) the MSN communities I belong to.

It's coming up to what would have been my beloved little brother's 21st birthday and I'm getting really depressed about it. (That puts this entry at some time just after September 2001 but before October 11th)

Words are powerful little buggers. They can be delivered visually or aurally, but they have amazing power. They can make you angry, they can bore you to death, they can make you laugh or cry, they can make you think and they can inflame passions of every variety.

Finding the right words is a marvellous skill. What impresses me most about words is that so much can be said with one or two carefully chosen words.

"Oh really?" I hear you ask.
"Listen to yourself." I like to reply.

Today is November 22, 2001. It has been a month since I wrote that bit up there and I'm still depressed about Christopher. I loved him so much and although it has been a year and 10 months since he died, I still miss him.

I discovered that in Diaryland.com, someone has made a reference to me and the old "Chatratspad" on Austnet. (The place where it all got going...) That's where I clicked on a link and ripped a counter from Site Fights to put on my page 1.

Now I can tell how many people are ignoring my website. (Almost the entire population of planet earth!) So why do I continue to come here and do things on the site? Because it's an almost permanent record, my contribution to e-history, that proves I was here and to some extent what I was like. (I appear, indeed, to have mellowed a tad.)

This is getting a little bit maudlin, so I'll crawl back under my stone until next time.
In the meantime, get a hold of my other bit of e-blattery, The Swamp.

The Swamp - my newsletter

Lots of love for November 22, The Rat.

Well, now it's January 6th, 2002. What's changed?
Osama bin Bastard's address has changed, that's for sure.

I've seen quite a few pictures intended to be funny with him in them, but, and I make no apologies here, I don't find them funny. Which is odd, because I find most things funny. I guess it's because I have so much revulsion for him.

Last week I had an email conversation with my newest best friend, Chris Locke - Rageboy.
Today I discovered his "Favorite People" list on Amazon.com's Listmania bit, and I'm on it!! Tell me that didn't make me go all soft and sentimental!!

Am I happy yet?

Well, it's coming up to the 2nd anniversary of my little brother's death - January 31st.
How the hell should I feel? I'm doing my bestest, really I am!

Poor ol' Duckface. Last week, my old boss and I were going to see Rat Race, and George sent Duckface an SMS message or two. Actually, they were both forwards from my phone. Poor Matt! (Yes, that's the same Matt whose cd cover I put in here the other day.)

I keep telling everyone that I'm a bastard, but no-one actually believes me!

Go see Rat Race! It's done by the immortal Zucker brothers - you know, Flying High, Top Secret, Ruthless People - very funny guys. Rat Race is no exception. It's a bad fillum, go see it.

That's it for me from today. I couldn't be bothered doing any more journal for now.
But as long as you're here, use the email jiggy boo, it really does work and I really do respond to it.

Lot's of love and big girly kisses on your bottoms for 6/1/2002,
The Rat.

January 17th... It's Friday. YAY!
What am I still doing at home? I should have been at work about an hour ago.

Well, I was chatting merrily away in Philosophy & Absurdity, starting at the bottom of the chatter's pile again, and I remembered there was something I really wanted to do.

I really wanted to upload some of my music files to this site...

Well I started and it was taking for ever - you know how it is - and I clicked a button somewhere to see if even one of the files had finished uploading, and guess what! I killed the upload thing.
All that air-time wasted. I feel like Michael Jordan when some prick has gone and pinched the hoop.

Oh well, shite happens.
Now I spose I better get to work.

Lot's of love etc...
The Rat.

Tuesday, February 26th 2002. I'm sitting in an internet cafe in the city. Why am I doing this? The reason is simple - if absolutely stupid. My computer at home lives in my older brother's bedroom. I also have my very own modem and my very own ISP account. But because the machine is in his room, he won't let me in there to use the puter. HE uses my puter, his modem and his ISP account, but only when I'm either not home, or he is pretending to be in bed. Why don't I put the puter in another room? I hear you ask. Because there is simply nowhere else to put it and the 2nd phone line socket is in his room. The room used to be mine, but I moved out of the house for four days and he moved in. You can just tell how much we care about each other... Pathetic is the word I use most often to describe him. Just the other day, I bought a bottle of milk. I opened it, used what I wanted and put the bottle back in the fridge. Then James bought a bottle of milk, opened it, used some and put that bottle back in the fridge. Just so he wouldn't be using my milk - like I care if he does, shit, it's only milk. So, when he's home and I want to get on the world wide timetrap, I have to go out and pay per hour at an internet cafe. Just to give you even more of an idea how pathetic he is, when the room was actually mine, I didn't care how much he went in there to use the puter or look at titty pics on the e-bog. (I think he doesn't know any other titty pic site besides Yahoo groups...) Now the shoe's on the other foot, and I can't even use my own goddam puter. If you think this is fucked and to what degree it is fucked, use the form mail jiggy boo on page 1 or page 4 and I'll put all the responses up on a very special page. Who can be the most vitriolic in their appreciation of how pathetic an individual my older brother James is? Lots of love for Tuesday, The Rat.

Well today was Monday March 18, 2002. I worked my arse off today after bugger all sleep last night.

It's almost midnight, so what am I doing up at this hour, my eyes stinging from lack of sleep? You may remember from my last journal entry that my puter was in a Danger Zone. Well because of rear-guard action by the Prince of Puerility and Patheticness, I went in there and took the damn thing out and set it up in the kitchen. Now I type loudly while he tries to watch tv and I LOVE IT!!!

I can chat to my heart's content now - and I do - and people are actually starting to visit this site which makes my juices wobble convulsively through my tubes and parts...

Which reminds me, I must change my irc ident so it puts this site up, then you can all talk about it with your e-friends... won't that be fun!

I'm going to bed now, it's 7 past midnight on Tuesday morning... *YAWN*
Byeeeeeeee

Saturday, March 30, 2002. I'm still stiff and sore from work - does it ever end? Am I ever going to do the work I should be doing and start getting paid what I'm worth? Maybe.

The Dark Prince of Puerility and Patheticness strikes again.

The puter, now removed from his room and in the kitchen has been superceded by a whiz bang laptop which plays dvd's in his room or on the telly.

To prevent unauthorised access, said laptop gets its wires unplugged from the telly and packed away in the Dark Prince's room at the conclusion of each use.

Like I care? I have what I want in the kitchen. It also didn't cost me nearly a year's salary and I do more with it than store pathetic reminders and titty pics from yahoo.

Oh, and my job isn't about to disappear or be downgraded like his is.

But I really do need a bigger machine, mine crashes if I forget to clear the crap out of my hard drive. No matter... I can double everything with just a few hundred dollars - not a few thousand for something which I won't ever get full value out of!

I must confess, I do enjoy being superior to the Prince.

Today is Saturday, April 27th.
I've just read Terry Mertens's e-zine called "All You Need to Know".
I'd give you the link, but the archve is not readable unless you're a subscriber.
(The link is now over there on the right and you should click on it.)

However, if you email Terry at t_mertens72@yahoo.com and beg for inclusion to the list, I'm sure he'll let you subscribe and then you can have a good laugh like I just did.

I hate having to watch what I say in case there are people reading who somehow feel that they are in some weird position to expect that I behave a certain way and say certain things.

Well fuck it. I'm pissed off. First on the grizzle list is my moderately bizaare boss. The undisputed world champion of double handling, and maker of decisions that border on the spectacular for their degree of shortsightedness and managerial ineptitude.

I won't bore you with details, but I just gotta get this offa ma chest..

Get and stay the hell out of the warehouse and do something administrative in your flamin office for a change. You can't even get the paperwork right, what with double orders, orders that aren't due until May and June mixed in with the orders which should have been out last month.

But now, as I fall slowly to sleep at this keyboard, I am overwhelmed yet again with the loss of my beautiful little brother, Christopher. It has been more than 2 years since he died, but the wounds in my heart are as fresh today as they were on January 31st, 2000.

Saturday May 9, 2002. It's 3.00pm and, as usual, I'm falling asleep at the keyboard.

The reason for it this time, is that I only got about 45 minutes sleep last night. There is only one word for why this is happening: Legacy.

I'm here doing this at all because I think I yet again offended someone I'm not in a hurry to offend, but the trouble is, that just by being myself, people just sometimes get offended.

They don't see the fact that I'm just me being me and saying and doing all the things I feel like doing when I feel like doing them without waiting for or even expecting permission from the people around me to say and do what I like.

Every now and then, it feels like I have to tip-toe through the bloody tulips and mind my p's and q's or whatever else.

The hatemail I got after my edition of The Swamp - titled "Revenge is a dish..." set me off like a Palestinian tourist at a Jerusalem bus stop. (Ooooh that's bad!)

Sometimes I don't mind getting abusive emails. Actually, straight up abuse I can cop quite sweetly. It's the "You offended me." type emails or messages that get me depressed faster than a footprint in dog poo.

So, a rule of thumb: If I offended you in some way, click on the X in the top right hand corner and quietly fuck off. I don't want to know.

If you feel like hurling abuse at me, use the email jiggy boo on page 4.

That's what it's there for, but be prepared to see your contributions in "My emails" with a smart arse remark from me, coz that's what I do, boys and girls. (Or hasn't anyone figured that out yet?)

Anyway, it's time to get on with something a bit more serious, so see ya next time. (or not.)

Well, it's next time.. Monday, May 20th 2002.

I'm bored again. (That's not why I'm doing this, it's just that I couldn't be bothered getting into all the chatrooms I usually go into because, chances are, if I'm bored, everyone else will be too boring for me to justify the time it takes to get in there.)

More news on the job front: We're all taking two weeks off from July 1. What's the bet I don't get holiday pay. So, what the fuck am I supposed to live on for 3 weeks???

My wonderful brother lurks like a bastard in the next room. I'm sorta thinking I'll surf around for something tittilating, but not while he's there. The reasons are too numerous to bother with, and besides, I'm bored.

The Swamp turned 1 year old on Saturday! To commemorate, I posted a collection of e-mails I got from subscribers. A battle of the sexes type thingy, but I felt these were good enough to re-post. Rare indeed.

Most battle of the sexes type thingies just piss me off. I find them akin to racism and that's a no-no if you're standing next to me. I mean really. Not much makes my blood boil, but racism and stupidity will do it in .3 of a nanosecond.

Short fuse, huh.

I make no apologies for it, though. How much hatred and violence and suffering is the result of racism whether that be racial, ethnic or religious intolerance. Why can't people just agree to disagree. Their point of view is just as valid and interesting as your point of view - or mine for that matter.

I love having philosophical discussions on the merits of customs and religions. Concerning religious discussion, it is a real exercise for me not to lose my cool and get nasty, but if I can't make people question their own beliefs with reason and compassion, I'm never going to do it abusing them.

Why do I want to make them question their beliefs?

Because I believe in the authority of one. Not the authority of an organisation - a concept. When people are subordinate to a belief, they no longer have autonomy. Autonomy is important to me.
Anyway, enough of this clap-trap. I'm going to bed.

So, you be the judge. Have I mellowed or do I just pick my moments with a little more discretion?

Give us some opposition!

Not HALF an opposition, a real opposition. The poms had us on the ropes yesterday, but we got one for by the close of play. Incredible leg spinning delivery from Shane Warne bowling Strauss around his legs out of the rough and I said to one of my cohabitators of Casa Highett that we would rip through them and have them all out by 160 in the second dig.

Well as at the time of writing this, we have the poms 6/95 in their second dig with all the recognised batsmen out. 160 is looking like a longshot!

Even if we do roll them for 160 in the second dig, it leaves us chasing 260 for a win with 2 days and probably more to get them. We murdered them in our 2nd dig at Lords and the result was 200+ run win to Australia because the poms just rolled over in their 2nd dig.

Naturally I want Australia to win, but a test is 5 days dammit. The Aussies are so bloody good we are in the habit of wrapping these things up inside 4 days. It's great for us, but it's not terribly good for cricket. Think of all the lost gate takings when a test is only 3 or 4 days long.

Ok, so at the end of third day, we've landed ourselves back in poo by going out too often and too cheaply. We've made ourselves look like a bunch of farmers' daughters this time.
(Time to compose this entry: 5 mins)

6 hours later, I went to bed.

If this keeps up I'm going to have to ditch the total bastard image.

Doc Ell told me something a couple of weeks ago which stopped me in my tracks and I've been giving it a bit of thought. Why do I do the things I do? Frankly, because I enjoy it. Why I enjoy it is what seems to be at issue here. He's a bright cookie, the Doc, but it's the time he's willing to spend with others for which I really respect him.

I do it because knowing I can make someone else feel a little bit better also makes me feel good. To me it's just natural human behaviour, community spirit without the draining effects of altruism. I get on the net to interact. If that interaction means more to some than the usual banal chit-chat, then so be it. I feel I've achieved something, even though the only benefit I get out of it, my recompense as it were, is just to see the person with whom I've interacted has come away from it with something more than just a few wasted minutes. It's the mutual growth and the learning that drives me. People underestimate the intrinsic value of learning. Our instinct to learn is only equalled by our instinct to survive. We crave it. It's better than sex and I'm not saying that to be funny, I'm saying it because it's true. It's also better than food. Even infants will put off eating if they're fully engaged in some intellectual pursuit.

Do I learn from what I do? What I do certainly makes me think. If I'm offering something to someone, it has to be right and it has to be reasonable. It has to be real and putting all that into words is not easy. The wrong word can ruin the entire sentiment of the message and that makes me think very very carefully about what I'm saying. I do it because I enjoy it. If someone else gets something out of it, that's a bonus. I want those bonuses so that's why I do what I do with great care.

Someone left a message to say I was wise. That also struck me. I hadn't considered myself wise since my teen years and that's nearly half my lifetime ago. Now I just consider myself as having learned from experience. If that defines wise then so be it. I suppose someone who doesn't learn from experience is a fool, but consider this:

Some people don't take kindly to what I do. Even though I put my whole heart and soul into it, I stand to be attacked and people don't generally hold back on the internet. If they don't agree with what you're doing or suspect your motives, they give you merry hell. Sometimes that hurts. Sometimes it hurts a lot. How wise is it to repeatedly set myself up for that? And I do. When I do what I do, it's really me people are seeing. What I do, I do with love and I've no doubt that comes through. (It sure as shit shows when I'm tearing strips off some lying scrote or ignorant toerag.)

Of course some people don't come to the internet for that and having it arrive by the bucketload can be the last thing they want. I know it's not something I particularly enjoy getting lumped with. I neither need it nor want it. Sometimes I manage to get the approach right - humour is often the best way - and I think I'm astute enough to get it right most of the time. I sure get to hear about it if I'm not but that's ok.

Since I resumed this blog on pretty much a daily basis, I have been blessed to meet nearly 30 people I would be proud to call friends. Which is not to say those I considered friends before are no longer, of course they are. They're just moving in different circles from the ones in which I am presently moving.

Doc Ell also gave me another pertinent bit of advice which today I finally got around to taking. It took me longer than I imagined it would to come up with a solution, but I think the result is ok. I'll run it by the Doc at some stage this weekend or maybe early next week.

I haven't been as contented as I am at present in a long time. That is due in large part to Doc Ell and Liz whom I don't think quite realises how much I treasure her friendship and Doc Ell whose comings and goings restored the balance after I became so unbalanced upon seeing that infamous blog which shall still remain nameless here. (Feelings of vengefulness are a fine thing if taken in moderation.)

Anyway, that's my bit of bloggery for now. It's early afternoon here in Melbourne, this city I love so much. It's the middle of winter and again, the sky is mostly blue with fluffy white clouds skipping briskly by in the fresh south westerly breeze. The sun is streaming through the windows, my headphones are on, my coffee cup is about to be replenished, the dog will sleep for another 45 minutes and all is unbelievably well in my world right now.

I just thought I'd stop by here just to let anyone else who might be passing that at present I am bored off my tits.

It's times like this I should pick up the scattered remnants of consciousness and work on those projects I want to work on over this coming weekend but right now I just couldn't be fucked.

One of the youngsters posed me a rip-snorter of a question and giving him an answer worthy of the question shifted my head into overdrive and now I'm done answering that, I'm back in 2nd gear and not much is working at full steam.

Ah well, the cricket's on and Australia's under the pump. Time to go get distracted by something of national importance.

(Time to compose this entry: 4 mins)

Another one of those heartwarming moments...

I put off going to the doctor all afternoon and found something better than I had hoped on the big old worldwide time trap. One of the kids I used to know a few years ago has kicked on. This is the sort of thing that just makes my rough hard exterior just melt - sorta like a leper in a wind tunnel without the mess.

Above is the cover of the cd he's planning to release in November this year.

Matt, to me, was another one of that rare breed who seems to want to give more than he takes which is what should make his music worth getting. I confess I haven't heard it, but now that I know where he's playing, I've got it in mind to go and have a listen. There will be something there if he's got a regular gig, publicans aren't stupid. It might not be my style but then even the worst crew can put together the occasional gem and I'm not a music critic.

I'll get the cd regardless when it comes out. I have a suitcase full of total shit kids have given me over the years, but because it's theirs and they've put effort into it, that's what turns it from trash into treasure - NOW you know. I got Sally Boyden's cd when she recovered from anorexia, I met her when I was doing a career expo thing at a civic centre about 6 or 7 years ago (I'd had a crush on her since I was 10 years old). Another girl I met a couple of years ago put out a disk with her boyfriend. I got one of those too, not knowing what to expect and I was pleasantly surprised. So, to me, Matt's disk will be special, not because of what's on it, but because it's his. I may not have seen him or heard from him for 4 years now, but it doesn't mean I'm any less proud of what he's done - and from what I know, it's all his own effort.

Matt's not the first of the kids I've known who has kicked on but he is the latest. I never get tired of finding out what they're all up to, where they are and all the rest of it. What I especially never tire of is catching up with them - even after all these years.

Something else I found just a few minutes ago...

"I am following Mr. Chatrat's advice and keeping this journal informed"

See, it's beginning to work. Now, I want all you lurkers to run away and follow my advice as well and if you've paid close attention, you should realise what my advice to this person was. What makes this little inclusion particularly noteworthy is all I did was leave a comment on his web journal.

Now here's something right out of the Twilight Zone - guess what this person's name is.

Come on, ONE fucking guess.

I had a doctor's appointment on Monday.

I didn't go. I still haven't gone. What's the point?

He's going to scowl at me because I've gone off all the lovely pills and potions he spent 8 whole minutes prescribing and the test I took last week is either going to confirm my suspicions or his. If it confirms mine - that I'm better at healing myself than others are at healing me, my test will have come back as negative on every count. If the test confirms the doctor's suspicions, I'm fucked anyway and he would have called me by now.

I figure I'm right again - as I usually am at least 95% of the time. I'll probably go and see him tomorrow. I'll get a referral for another test in 3 weeks and leave it at that. I hate all this fussing and poking about, it gives me the heebies.

More later.

Last night, I sat up longer than is good for an ostensibly sane person redesigning the dustjacket of that bloody book. Out with the old, in with the new and that means I've also done more work on the inside of it as well. I had no idea there were so many typographical errors in it. I'm truly ashamed of that. It's just carelessness, but retyping the whole thing - all 44,000+ words of it - is a mind numbing chore.

At this point, as far as the book is concerned, all I really want to do is get on with the 2nd edition.

Anyway, here's the new cover as it looks in the hands of those with a credit card and a "can spend" (about $15) attitude:




This is the new front cover which to my way of thinking is a tad more sophisticated than the old cover by virtue of that most paradoxical of sophisticated qualities: Simplicity.







This is the bit of the new back cover that amuses me just enough to share with you. Before I put that great big red word in that Photoshopped barcode, it reminded me of labia majora. (I'm just not sure whose.)


My advice is just to register your interest at this stage. You can get the book that looks like the revised edition, but you may as well wait another week or two until it genuinely qualifies for that description and get it then. If you register your interest by Griping, I'll get an idea of how quickly I should finish this project before getting down to the next offering.

So now that you've seen another bit of the stuff I've been doing, it should give you a fair idea of all those things about which I'd been uncharacteristically enthusiastic a few weeks ago which have remained entirely neglected because I can only concentrate on 4 things at once. (I am, after all, a male.)

If I were a woman, I would neo-feministically tell any mere male who happened to be perusing this blog that I had been neglecting the other projects because whilst concentrating on the 4 things on my mind over the last 3 weeks, I've also been cooking, cleaning, vacuuming, laundering and breastfeeding the twins whilst keeping up with The Young and the Restless and telling anyone who'd care to listen what I think of Sandra Bullock's latest hair style.

The male retort, naturally, is you couldn't do shit all if I weren't making sure the finances enabled to you do these 7 things in half-arsed, ad hoc fashion and if you applied yourself to just the one task and did it properly, I might not have to work at all. Bitch. Now get off your fat arse and get me a beer.

(Is it obvious I'm single?)

(Time to compose this entry: 46 mins)

I think I'm physically turning into a fetus shaped adult.

Oh, you're thinking, here we go...

Nothing of the sort. Don't be so bloody cynical. It's all my dog's fault.
You know about the greedy red cocker spaniel pig, the would-be hairy balloon dog that passes for the resident pet de la Casa Highett, it's a bastard of disproportionate magnitude. He's not a big dog, just knee high, but he stares and stares and stares and the only way to get relief is to curl up one's legs so your face is hidden from his view. Only then will he lose interest and plop himself down on the floor.

Right in the middle of the loungeroom.

Get up and he gets up. Head for the kitchen, he follows. What happens when you get to the kitchen? He sits and fucking stares and stares and stares. God help you if you ever get anything to eat. Then he sits and stares and shivers and whimpers. It's like he hasn't been fed for days. The fat little fuck eats more often than do I.

I can't stand it. I've had enough. The slightest movement produces a stare of epic dimensions. An hour to us is like 35 seconds to him when it comes to staring. Forget to dissuade him with the knees up caper and he thinks it's an invitation to put head on lap and stare at point blank range.

We live in an open plan house here. There aren't any doors in the living area. To get away from the little furry bastard means sitting in the toilet or standing in the laundry or the bathroom. He thinks it's unreasonable that the human inhabitants of this house should possibly consider eating without giving him his share at least. That would mean he would eat up to 12 times a day. He'd be bigger than the house.

I so desperately want to push his face through the wall and kick his fucking arse til he DIES, I am that fed to the back teeth of this interminable staring habit he has. I won't, of course. I find cruelty to animals distasteful. He's also old, nearly deaf and fairly clumsy so I doubt we could even give him away to a good home. It's also not like he has a bad life either. He always has clean fresh water in the same place all the time, he gets fed twice a day and bits and pieces 3 times more. He gets walked every day and has outings with doggy friends twice a week on top of that. It's not a bad existence. It's a conscious struggle we have to keep him at his optimum weight about which we tend to worry because he's deceptively fluffy and pretends to be constantly starving. But he's just fine.

It'll be so good when he finally dies though. The peace and quiet, the uninterupted meal times, not having to worry about stepping on him in the dark... If he weren't so damn good looking, I'd be so tempted to take matters further to ensure his rapid deletion from the register. He is, however, one damn fine looking dog so we're keeping him still.

I do have other reasons for disliking housepets but that's another story for another time.

(Time to compose this entry: 17 mins.)

Torn between two authors...

I prefer to model my writing style on that of the late great Douglas Adams of whom I shall be in eternal awe. But for sheer audacity, RB is it. Think of a cross between Ali G and Einstein and you're getting the idea. Now throw in a bit of de Bono, Ford (Henry, not Gerald) and a dash of Jim Henson and you'll either hit the nail on the head or lose the plot entirely. For those who don't understand, my only advice is to drop your pants so the air can make it to your brains.

Anyway, before I was distracted from what I was doing by the sudden appearance of a Gripe, I was myself cruising blogs and the punters haven't let me down. If I often appear to be unjustifiably distemperate, it's because I have been deprived of the life-sustaining enthusiasm of people who think. It doesn't really matter to me over what people cogitate, it only matters to me they don't behave like sheep.

The following bits for which I cruised blogland earlier today are amusing to me for various reasons but above all because of their raw simplicity - like a fat bratwurst baguette and some piquant sauce or other.

So, for those times when risotto and bruschetta just doesn't do it for you, here's the full-fat version of life:

i am in a strange mood. if i try to demean your personal beliefs or opinons dont be angry i just feel like making people doubt themselves. nothing personal
(Neither is murder, it's just a family thing usually.)

Partying and reading.
Lately I've been feeling much more than indifferent towards life, which is always a good thing. Thursday night was the OAR concert. The opening acts were both awesome. Even though they only played one song I knew, I really enjoyed OAR's set. It was just great to dance and observe the drunk people.
(Only when they fall down and can't get up again.)

WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
Okay, I was gonna edit my last post to add this, but it's so awesome it deserves its own entry:

WE DON'T HAVE TO TUCK IN OUR SHIRTS THIS YEAR!
(It is, after all, the little things that matter in this life.)

I hate it here. I have nothing to do and no one to talk to. Josh didn't even want to talk to me tonight. I think that the relationship is over. Im sick of the pretending. Everything is not going to be ok. It sucks and its going to continue to suck. Sure I met a guy that seems nice, his name is Kevin, but I'm sure in three weeks or so the fact that he is a guy will prevail and show that he is just another asshole. Im sick of all the people who keep telling me that I made the "right" choice. Fuck off, I'm miserable and nothings going to change that. I guess the only thing good about being here is that my dad used to be a bartender and has a copious amount of alcohol. I've gotten trashed every night since I moved here. I have a feeling that by the time I move again there won't be any alcohol left in the house. HAHA, I will prolly be going to AA meetings by then too. I hate this place.
(But she'd be determined to hate Paradise too, it would seem. Motto for the day: If it feels good, fuck it up.)

Shit I think I'm out of milk
(Now the whole world knows.)

got this shit called neutrogena oil free acne wash...i think its actually killing my face instead of helping it.
(I would have told you that if you'd taken the time to ask. Go on, ask me what I think of Herbal Essences.)

HAHAHA
(14:34:41) Larkaen: I met the lead singer of creed last night at denny's
(14:34:50) ibhamp: really?
(14:34:53) Larkaen: Yep
(14:35:04) ibhamp: did you tip him well
(This was just too good not to pinch.)

Here is the update, I went camping with Nick, Andy, Alie, Finch, Kurt, Mer, Liz, Brandi, Laraesha and Trevor and it was awesome! First day we went to Michigan Adventures where we all had a pretty good time except for Andy and Laraesha during the rides because they have a slight fear of rollercoaster but i expect you may too if you fell off of a house.
(Fell off a house... good point. Have to remind myself not to do that in future.)

*****************************************

A quarter for the therapy jar -
I finally figured out why mom and I didn't get along while me growing up. Aside from the fact that you can't have two alpha females in the house and not butt heads all the time. It's because she doesn't talk to me.

Oh, there's the appearance of talking, but it's not really there. It's like going to the dentist where they babble at you and ask you lots of questions, but they don't really want you answer because they've got their fingers in your mouth along with something sharp and pointy.
(This gets the prize for stating the obvious and using the words sharp and pointy in the same sentence.)

****************************************

(haha, I am a posting fiend tonight!! You will suffer through a months worth of backlogged babble! Be afraid!!)
so i went downtown with my annoying aunt who doesnt let her daughter live, and my cousin who asks so many unnecessary questions...it was bland.
(Bland? Bland is rice pudding not annoying aunts.)

did i ever say how much i love my wonderful boyfriend?
(Probably. Did I ever tell you you'll change your tune one day?)

Dear Saritonin Receptors:

Please hold on a little tighter.

Yours, as ever,
Am
(I wonder if they got the message considering the address was incorrect.)

Nothing's like it used to be
I'm back. I'm tired. My throat hurts from talking too much. Had a grand old time at Venita's BBQ. She nearly got killed, but that was the entertainment.
(I'm sure she's killing herself even now.)

I would love to party with some of these people. I'll even bring my own milk.

We have leftovers from last night's reception filling the fridge here. Lots of slices of roast beef. I'm thinking of heating it up, splashing it liberally with gravy and adorning the empty parts of the plate with lovely roast vegetables. It's as close as I'm going to come to bratwurst in a bread roll, although we have quite a few of those here as well.

David Bowie is presently robbing me of my power to think very clearly. There's a starman waiting in the sky and he's making it less than easy to think about German sausages or anything else for that matter.

I'm thinking more of the Discovery team and hoping for all I'm worth they make it back alive and healthy. I don't much care for tragedies. No doubt I'll have something else I'll wish to blog later tonight. I still can't update the Batcave sight, although at least now it's visible. I'd pay for hosting but that just seems silly when I get what I want and someone else is happy to pay for it. When I want more than my present service provides, then I'll start paying for hosting. Simple.
So then, done for now. More later.

Phew. Got all that html stuff out the way for the chap in Florida. Finished it at about 6 in the morning, then I slept until lunchtime. So what. It's Saturday.

Bit annoyed about the wedding reception my dad put on at his place. I was given to understand it was last weekend but it turned out to be today. James was asked to help out with the spit roast, nobody was else from this household was even told about it. Last time dad's friends put on a reception, I was invited to help out with serving the drinks and meals and they offered me $50 for the night. (This was 20 years ago and $50 was huge back then.) Anyway, they were so impressed with me, they gave me $100.

This time, I don't even get an invitatation to help out, not a word one way or the other. I think I know why though. James sat opposite dad's new g/f when he intro'd her to the family and he had no choice but be nice to her. I didn't and it must have been pretty clear from the outset that the new g/f and me were of like mind, but at opposite ends of the reality spectrum. Unless I'm listening to her talking about her native country as she was growing up, there just isn't going to be common ground for conversation. Dad seems to be avoiding us now anyway. Haven't heard boo from him for 2 weeks since I rang him asking if he was coming up.

Anyway, now that I've finished what I set out to do with that html stuff, I have time to turn my own attention to the stuff I wanted to do before I got sidetracked. Those lovely people at Batcave finally got my bit of e-space back up and running, even though as of two days ago I still couldn't log in to update it. So much for a weekend worth of upgrading everything, I've been out of the smoke for a whole week. Probably a good thing, but the trouble is when you get an idea you want to put somewhere specific and circumstances prevent that, it's a bitch trying to resurrect the idea when it's all fixed again. The idea goes cold in the interim. The other thing I've got cooking is another project which looks like it might have to be one of those efforts best tackled a bit at a time but on a very regular basis rather than getting around to it when I feel like it.

I told you about it all the other day and the good thing about bloggery is it's all on sort of permanent record - unless I decide to cheat, which sort of defeats the purpose of blogging.

It's just a shame an idea occurred to me earlier tonight but I wasn't near enough to the machine to add it to the draft currently in existence and I had another of those "Oh God, where's my pen?" moments. I have more than thirty notepads lying around all over my house because if I can't get to the puter to capture the moment, I write it down. A notepad costs about 40 cents and mine are just littered with some of the most fantastic little snippets capturing whatever thought I had when I wrote them, and today I spent 20 minutes slapping my pockets looking for a damn pad or a pen and I was bereft. I felt so naked and vulnerable, like a thief had just made off with my pants. People who don't have a writing bug have no idea what those who do are apt to experience - and at the worst possible times.

Why do I have all these notepads lying around the house? Because I always forget to put at least one in the car or one in my pocket or backpack and that means buying another one. I'd feel sorry for the trees but I don't do that sort of thing. Well, not often anyway.

Don't buy yourself a cocker spaniel. My cocker spaniel is obsessed with food, even by cocker spaniel standards. He sits there and stares expecting food every waking moment of his life. He's not fat but if he had his way, he'd be a hairy balloon. He sits and shakes when he believes it's time for him to have a feed. Then he starts barking until he gets what he wants. He's a furry telemarketer without the telephone, always getting exhuberant at dinner time and not giving up until everyone's gone to bed. Then he spends 20 minutes sniffing the floor and jumping up wherever there may be a single molecule of something edible. He has been staring me out non-stop for the last 3 hours and I'm ready to shove the little bastard in the oven.

Jump on the machine and blurt because I happen to be in the mood to do so and spend the next however long in pitched psychological battle with the bloody dog. If you're really really lucky, all those thoughts I was having before this series of eerily predictable events robbed me of the urge to write will deposit themselves back into my cerebrum somewhere and I'll get to enjoy them all tomorrow. You just get to read them.

(Time to compose this entry: 84mins.)

I've had a marvellous day today.

I have this bit of hair at the front of my head that hangs down to my chin whilst the rest of my hair is typically male, ie short. I've been reading Rageboy's blog and getting ideas of my own. Now I know he cruises blogs so I have to say this right up front, mine's typical of me, not researched at all and therefore not remotely informative, probably not terribly consistent, and is not supposed to be an observation of any of the latest pop-cultural icons. Mine's an ego piece rooted in nothing but absurdity. It's not even supposed to be a parody but for the moment, it's just some wordage without all the lovely bits and pieces which combine to make any sort of saleable effort.

Knowing me, it'll probably remain unfinished for three more years before I decide to get dedicated to it and then self publish as I did with The Swamp.

But what, I hear you ask, has this got to do with a bit of hair that hangs down from the front of my head?

Well aren't you glad I asked myself that very question on your behalf.

Whilst I've been writing that, downloading the last of the pics from the Summer Trip and turning them into html files, I've had the headphones on and I've been listening to my favourite music all day and now it's half past one in the morning and I have the same three tracks on repeat and that, gentle readers, is why I'm such a wonderfully good mood. That bit of hair that hangs down over my face has just about been shaken out of my head because I'm just so getting into the music. It's like being a hippy without being dirty.

The three tracks being repeated, courtesy of Windows Media Player are "Going Home" by Mark Knopfler, "Amazing" by Alex Lloyd (He's an Aussie, btw) and "Run" by Collective Soul.

I also read a couple blogs of the kids and I count myself as luckier than you no matter what trifiling good fortune you think you may have had since the weekend. And to top all that off, there was a truly eye-opening episode of Catalyst on the ABC tonight:

Teen Brain - July 28
With a spate of teen bashings, teen road death, and plain incomprehensible teen behaviour, many people are wondering about teenagers today. Why are they so impulsive…so thoughtless…so stupid? Scientists used to blame the hormones – while society blamed the parents. But stunning new research is overturning everything we understood about how teenagers think. Surprising discoveries are not only unravelling the mysteries of teen behaviour, they are posing a challenging question for society – if the brain doesn’t mature until the age of 25, at what age should we consider someone a morally culpable adult? This week on Catalyst we pit teen son against Dad in the brain scan machine, visit a juvenile jail, and meet a few teenagers who’ve done some really stupid things – as we go inside the adolescent brain.

Click the title for a full transcript of the story. You'll be surprised - and I shall be ever so much more vindicated all over again. If there were any doubt before about why I'm so fiery about teenagers, experience what I saw tonight and maybe if you disliked teens before, you might think of changing your tune. Looking back over the years, some of my best rants have been about the lack of consideration for this inspirational age group. Anyway, I could go on and on, but I'll refrain for now. Go away and do something considerate for a change.

(Time to compose this entry: 18 mins)

I missed yesterday, sorry about that.

I'll let you in on a little secret. Somebody out there, somebody I've never met before, never spoken with, exchanged fewer than a dozen emails with entrusted me with the keys to his server.

Fancy that. There is practically no limit to the amount of damage I could cause were I so inclined, but far from that, all I've done so far is look for the best place to deposit the files it is expected of me to place and done just that. Thank the powers my machine doesn't have any viral type crud that shouldn't be there, no spyware, adware, malware - none of it. I would jump off something unnaturally high if it turned out I'd accidentally buggered this guy's machine.

I'm telling you this because on one hand it's nice to be trusted, but on the other hand, IT'S BETTER TO BE WORTHY OF IT.

Someone handed me a $400 fee for some writing I did for them last week. Then I find their boss issued me a request for another invoice for the same bit of writing. Hmm... $800 for what turned out to be about 10 minutes worth of carefully constructed article. That's a pretty attractive hourly rate for an amateur - $4,800 per hour. Could you imagine the tax on that?

However, I adhere to the practice of being a bastard, not a lying toerag. They'd have worked it out eventually and although I would be happy to treat it as a joke, unfortunately business doesn't operate that way. I presented in person and advised the manager this invoice has already been paid and as much as I would like to have the extra $400, it might be a tad unseemly to take it. I was thanked for personally bringing this to his attention and I watched, albeit somewhat ruefully, as the duplicated thing was binned. I could have rung them up, kept the request then sent them another invoice in a few weeks and I doubt anyone would have noticed until June next year, but it's me that stares back from the mirror and I'd rather know I'm as pure as the driven snow than constantly be wondering when the knock at the door won't be neighbours or salespeople.

Which reminds me, I handed in my model handguns about 15 years ago because I just didn't want them anymore. I handed them in at a police station because they were authentic replicas and would fool anyone. 10 years ago, they outlawed them anyway and the cops came around to ask me to hand them over. Duh. I cheerfully showed them from one end of the house to the other inviting them look wherever they would, in the garage and my car. These chaps were from the large station at Moorabbin, I'd handed my guns in at Cheltenham - a minor station by comparison and apparently the paper work got lost. Makes one wonder what else goes astray from time to time.

I get along well with cops, don't know why. If they knew about The Swamp, they'd probably shoot me on sight. lol.

(Time to compose this edition: 21 mins)

And I feel more vindicated than I have in such a long time right now.

See that entry I made a couple of blurts ago? The one telling you what I think of the younger generation (though not so of the generation younger than that, I might add. - Not as much anyway) and why?

Well I'm just here to tell you the exchanges I've had this weekend subsequent to my telling everyone over the age 35, who is dead from the neck up, that once again I am right and I have more than ample proof.

Moreover this isn't a pecking contest and I take no joy from this vindication except that which vindication naturally brings. Believe me, I don't enjoy the fact 95% of you have your heads in unsavoury places. I may not be the greatest, but you people aren't even in the fight.

I'd copy and paste what has proved the highlight of my day today, but out of the immense amount of respect I have gained for the author, I'm going to ask permission first.

Oh if only all of you knew the things that I know...

I just realised what an intellectual snob I can be.

It all came to me in a rush as I hit my head on the bathroom floor about 20 minutes ago.

Don't look so surprised. After drying my hair off, I straightened up so I could look in the mirror to brush it (my hair, not the mirror) and the sudden loss of blood pressure made me fall down and I hit my head on the floor. It happens sometimes and yes, I've stopped taking those stinking things the doctors keep encouraging me to take in order to prevent this sort of thing from happening. Doctors just have no sense of fun and adventure.

Anyway, it occurred to me how irritating it is when I see morons using words the meanings of which they are either more than likely completely oblivious or it's a nice word they've found in some lexicon somewhere and they've adopted it as their intellectual trump card.

Those in the know, those with half a brain don't give a toss about that sort of thing. True intellectual giants don't rely on keywords or phrases to win a put-down scrap, we have methodologies for dealing with upstarts and they are way more effective.

I saw a wonderful line in a blog this afternoon, "You don't have to remind me how inferior my people are, I already feel bad enough being one." Now that is the mark of a superior person. Made me laugh too.

Then I saw another one which amused me mightily because the author was using that class of word normally reserved for the extraordinarily enverbiaged articulator - but mis-spelling them. It was done so often it had to be deliberate because they were perfectly placed otherwise. And that highlights the difference between those who are actually smart and those irritating prolls who merely drop a fancy word here and there and do so inconsistently and generally at odds with the rest of what they're saying.

Dolts.

Amazing, isn't it, the things you can think as you pass out momentarily after a shower.

Christ, my head hurts now.

(Time to compose this entry: 16mins)

I'm on the biggest feel upbeat binge at the moment.

The one woman on this planet I respect more than any other was really cool when I ran an idea past her via email. It's not a big thing but to me it's pretty important.

Why are there so many suicidal teenagers out there? I really believe it's all down to piss-poor schooling strategies. You don't drum info into people and get them to parrot it back, it's absurd. And what's more, the info being pumped in is useless to them, pointless to them, meaningless to them and it's shoved into them under duress. Do this or else.

Piss off.

What I want to learn, I'll learn for myself. It'll be faster, easier and a billion times more effective.

Anyway, the point is how to reach out to these kids and turn on a light somewhere? Not make wholesale changes, not throw money at anything, not make false promises or bullshit programs, no counselling - I hate counselling with dire passion anyway - but talk. Scanning blogs, the biggest complaint is "Nobody understands me."

What in God's name is up with that??? I was a teenager once, I know what the issues are, what's on their minds because I remember none too fondly what I went through when I was a teenager. It's not a fun time, it's fucking horrible.

You're expected to be the best at everything you do - or at least up there, you're expected to go chasing after sex as soon as the first person in your age group gets urges at 13 or so, you're supposed to get stuck into alcohol - even though it all tastes like total shit until you get used to it and then you have to like the right KIND of booze. I hate beer and always have. Anything else is supposed to be a chick's drink. Piss off. I like having a once a year binge, maybe twice depending on circumstances, and I love a quiet Cointreau on ice every now and then. That doesn't make me an alcy but it also means I don't 'fit in'. Tough.

I have to like the right kind of music. Pig's arse to that, I like 80s and a certain kind of music and nothing anyone says is going to change the sort of music I like. I'm not supposed to like ANY boyband music. Well the Beatles were the first boyband but that little fact gets ignored. I don't like much boyband music, but when a song comes along that I like, I don't care what anyone says, I'm going to listen to it whether it's Aerosmith, Van Halen or Savage Garden. Tough shit if anyone objects.

And these are the sorts of pressures our teenagers face day after day after day. On top of the requirement to wear cool clothes. I knew a kid who never wore anything the other kids were wearing and Nick was one helluva switched on cool kid. Nothing phased him, he was a smart, polite, neat, clean and brilliant kid. He had his own style and everyone around him just accepted that he was the same but liked the same stuff they all liked but in his own way. That's how he was the first time I met him and that's how he was the last time I ever saw him.

How tough is it to fight down that sort of peer pressure? It's damn tough. If you don't fit in, you get bashed and mocked - not teased, I mean humiliated. That's what our teenagers are facing day after day. They're arming themselves against other teenagers because one crew skates and the others don't, or wears the wrong brand of shoes... You name it, this is what our teenagers face day after day after day. Would any of you adults care to function in a warzone without complaining, without training for it, without any help from anyone you thought you could trust?

I didn't think so.

And you know what? It's all down to the way kids are schooled. School is set up to be competitive. They're hell bent on putting a quantifiable, identifiable and permanent label on how much a kid knows and they do it over and over again to reinforce a kid's place in the hierarchy. How much did you get for your English test? I got 85%, I got 63%. "You're an idiot!"

No, I'm not a laboratory rat that goes down the tunnel and gets the cheese to prove a point. I do things my way and the teachers don't like it, they are confounded by it and so I don't get the magical cheese.

If it weren't for the fact the rest of society looks for those champion cheese getters because that's the only proof they have a person is worth hiring, this world would be shaped by those who don't follow the prescription. I don't need to rattle off examples here, you can do your own research into the histories of some of the 20th century's most influential and amazing individuals to see who the lab rats were and who were the mavericks and the avant gardists.

Teenagers know what they want. What they don't know is how to get it. My point is that if decent people ESPECIALLY their parents don't help them to achieve what they want to achieve, the possibilities are not good. The teenager could place their trust in the least possible trustworthy person who bobs up and says "I'll get it for you", they could tear away altogether and damage that all important foundational relationship with the family or they could land in blogland telling the entire planet they cut themselves to ribbons because it bleeds a lot and feels nice and they want to die anyway.

Enough is fucking enough!

Teenagers are so vital to everything. It's well time those people who call themselves responsible adults looked around to see what sort of a difference they can make in maybe just one teenager's life. One each! What's so bloody hard about that? Relive your own teenage years listening to what todays teenagers have to say, listen to what they're feeling, their thoughts on politics, relationships, the environment, war, healthcare, education, technology and everything else. These kids are the ones who are going to be in charge of the planet when we're old and past it. They're going to be making the music, the movies, the ads in the papers... they're going to be designing the clothes we'll be wearing and the buildings we'll be living in, the cars we'll be driving and they'll be producing the food we're going to eat.

And you want to ignore these kids??? Are you fucking INSANE? It's our future we're shitting all over if we ignore teenagers now people. If you abuse teenagers now, then you've got your head up your arse and the consequences for you later should be as catastrophic as the foundation you build when you do. In case you hadn't noticed, every last one of them is so very vital, so impossibly important. They're so wise when you give them the space to express themselves you have no idea. And if you do and you still do nothing when you know you could, then for shame on you. If you think teenagers are like runaway trains, then get the train back on track - DUH. They won't bite you, they just swear a lot. So what, so do I. Click around.

And one more thing, don't be condescending if you ever get the chance to talk to a teenager. They are more than likely superior to you in every way except in years. They are worthy of your respect, treat teenagers as you would a friend. Listen to them as you would a friend. It's not a big ask is it?

Or is it?

(Time to compose this entry: 50 mins)

Have you ever stopped to look at the scenery in a multi-level underground carpark?

These man-made caves have always fascinated me; the ramps, the simplicity and perfect functionality of them, the order and practicality of them which were they not so would make them useless to everyone. There are no directions telling you how to use a multi-level underground carpark, just signs pointing to the way out and what you should do in case of an emergency. Nevertheless, processions of traffic move in perfect order most of the time.

Call me heartless but I also like looking at the corners and the walls to see how many might be wearing a part of the carpark on the side of their slightly redesigned rear fender or nearside door. Price you pay for being careless I'm afraid.

I like the massive air conditioning ducts pumping in fresh air from the surface lest those on the 6th level down suffocate from carbon monoxide poisoning, I like the pure simplicity of the exposed fluorescent tube lighting and how Hollywood makes them all spew sparks when they're smashed from their sockets. I like the cold stark grey cement walls and floors and how the roof always appears to be much darker.

There is just such an indelible stamp of terra firma and homo sapien purpose in an underground carpark. I think I most enjoy the fact the things are so practical and well built but there is absolutely zero ornation in them. Descending 6 levels of concrete cavern into the depths of the city having to look at pretty painted murals or masses of advertising banners would be more than I could tolerate - I'd park at the station and take the train in.

Multi-storey carparks are only enjoyable when the weather is warm. It's not nice getting out of the car on the 4th floor of one of those things, all open to the wind and the elements, birdshit everywhere, and being assaulted by the freezing blasts of polar air apt to whip through multi-storey carparks because there isn't anything taller than 4 foot 6 to stop it. The views are alright, but unless it's warm, you're not going to stand there staring out at the passing traffic too long. Hypothermia tends to set in after about 45 seconds.

No wind chill factor in the underground models, just the audible breath of the ducts and squeal of tyres on the smooth cement surface from the floors above and below. Marvellous things.

(Time to compose this entry: 13 mins)

They've taken the cricket off the telly.

Pricks.

The last thing on earth I can think of that I'd rather be watching is a camera jammed up the arse of a cyclist doing the Tour de France. Put the bloody cricket back on. I mean this first test at Lords has been an absolute cracker.

The world's best cricket team playing the Old Enemy in one of sports longest rivalries in the history of sport, easily the longest by decades in the world of cricket - the world's most civilised sport.

We're the best. The Australian team I mean. No other team comes close to us but we're on a weeny bit of a form slump at the moment and the wicket at Lords is dodgy as hell.

Sorry for all you non-cricket types but if you get confused by the lingo here, it's because you're not civilised enough to have taken the time to become acquainted with this beautiful and elegant sport.

Indeed the batsmen have had the worst of this test in the first two days. As I type this 23 wickets have fallen, Glenn McGrath got his 500th test wicket yesterday, Ricky Ponting passed the 7000 test run mark today and Australia looks set to ensure the English team doesn't win a test at Lords for another 2 years, making this a losing streak seven and a half decades long at this ground. Sux to be a pom, huh.

The ball has been swinging like hangman's noose in a hurricane, deviating both ways after pitching and worst of all, grubbing and jumping. How the hell is a batsman supposed to think about playing shots on a wicket like that? Of course the bowlers think it's Christmas. This is where they get to improve their averages, strike rates and hero status.

The next test is at Headingley, not as happy a hunting ground for the world's best cricketing nation, but the poms don't have much in the tank. They just don't believe they can beat us in a series. A game maybe, but not a series. And I have this feeling we here in the Antipodes place a tad more value on The Ashes than do the English. We won them first way back in the 19th Century and we've had them since the 1980s. They're OUR fucking Ashes.

Truth is, the original urn has only been off Blighty once for a visit out here during the Centenary Series, what gets shipped abroad is just a replica of the original urn, but it's the thought that counts - plus knowing we're the best.

It would seem I'm over my bunge-ness from last week. Truth be known, I only poked my nose in there for about 3 days and it was just the surrealness of it that got me tetchy. Yes tetchy.
I'm happier now I bullied my former boss and won. Haven't heard yet whether or not he got shafted, the Hobbit hasn't emailed me and I haven't called him back. Good kid, the hobbit. Just short and well, hobbit-like.

Tour le Frog is still on as we travel downhill staring up 14 lycra covered arses wondering what's going through the minds of the camera operators. Pervy gits. If they were giving us wholesale panoramic views I'd be right in there glued to the screen because where they are on day 19 is Chatrat territory.

Yes!

Did you not know?

There's a tiny little spec on the map in the Puy-de-Dome area, near where the Tour is now and in the Puy-de-Dome area is the wonderfully picturesque little hamlet of Chatrat. Google it, it's fucking gorgeous. These mutants on wheels are travelling through this area and instead of giving us a look at the scenery, all we're getting is mass freckle. Nice if you're gay (or not, who knows) but terminally dull for me I'm afraid.

Speaking of Google, my bloggity blog got approved to carry their Ad-Sense jiggy boo. I'll bung under all the useful stuff over there ----> so it's out of the way and if you feel like making me spectacularly wealthy, click the links. Go on you hosers, I've given you a laugh or made you think, just pay me back by clicking a link. It's not like I'm asking for money.

I must admit to being rather surprised this sort of thing would be permitted by the hosts of this 'ere bit of melodrama but hey, if they're going to advertise it on their homepage, who the hell am I to knock back an offer of easy earnings? If they kill the blog, I'll be rather sad, because now that I've started putting a bit of time back into it, it'd be a shame to lose it - even if I'm not saying anything remotely useful or informative, but there's gotta be something in it if you're still reading it.

Must be hero worship. Don't worry, it's not a bad thing. I have my heroes too. But my heroes don't appear to be as good as your hero so for that I am most humbly grateful. lol

Have a howlong.

(Time to compose this entry: 30 mins)

When I go surfing the net for information, it's usually because I'm in a mood for wiping out some filth. Don't know what magnitudinous sort of bitching you'd call that but it gets me annoyed and serious minded and my output gets thoughtful or even maudlin.

When I go surfing the net for fun, just to see what's out there, I come across stuff the likes of which I've posted here a couple of times this week.

When Rageboy goes surfing the net, he comes up with this:

Perhaps this is old news and I just haven't kept up with the latest medical developments (Shivambu Shastra otherwise known as Self-Urine Therapy). If so, and you're up to your third eye in piss already, you might want to pick up some of this stuff.

Now do you understand why he's my idol?

O Re-bully a bully today.

Don't you just hate bullies? There are two types of bullies: There are bullies who bully because they can and you can't do anything about it. They not only have power, they have authority and they use it to make you fear them and their uberness. They think they are superior to you in every way and enjoy letting you know everything you like, everything you do and everything you say is worthless crud. You're there because the bully hasn't bothered to remove you yet and believe me, that day is coming.

Then there are the more compassionate bullies who like to tease but also stop to help you out if you're in a jam - but they'll still tease you about it later.

The latter is an irritant, the former a God damned nightmare.

It so happens I've worked for a couple of bullies and indeed, that was the case in my most recent job. Anyway, I wanted a certificate of separation for my own selfish reasons and was told on my last day that it would be posted to me. Two weeks went past and still nothing, so I ring him and ask what's happened to it. I get a curt response, "I'll check with payroll where it's at."

Excusing the poor grammar, I thank him for his time and hang up. Friday, nothing. Monday, nothing, so I ring again. Same answer. Tuesday, nothing, so I ring again and this time I give him my fax number. Wednesday, nothing so I ring again to be told the fax number I gave him doesn't match the one on file. (I doubt there IS one on file.) It can't be faxed because we can't guarantee the security of the fax. I pick myself up from the floor and tell him the fax is in my kitchen. He also tells me he's not the postman therefore there is nothing he can do about it.

Today I ring him and get this same rubbishy sort of response so I tell him, it's now 1pm, and if I don't receive a fax within the hour, I'll take the matter further. He says "fine, take it further."

So I emailed his boss - the CEO of the company and sent a copy BCC no less to one of his underlings in the department saying if I don't get that fax by 4pm, I'll take the matter further again. It took me 45 minutes to craft, the fax arrived 90 minutes later, 45 minutes inside my deadline.

I came this ---> <--- close to texting his mobile phone to say "See what you can do if you really try." But I didn't.

So, what, you might ask, did I put in that email?

Well I'm glad I asked myself that very question on behalf of all of you.

About 2 months ago, the fat bastard turned on me. We were matey for 2 months prior to that. When he turned, I bought a diary - one of those big jobbies of things you get at newsagents when they're cheap in April and they're trying to flog them off at a 75% discount. They make a loss, but they want the space and what in God's name am I going to do with a damn diary of all things? I've got a blog. I don't want a diary.

But under the circumstances, I just thought it'd come in handy. I kept in the backpack I took to work every day - disdaining the impractical briefcase because such things are pure wank anyway - and every time I felt slighted or caught the boss doing something he ought not to have been doing, it all went in the diary.

Today, the diary disgorged its secrets into an email 2 A4 sized pages long.

Naughty naughty boss.

One of the other chaps who departed the department a few weeks earlier was terribly thrilled to get the news and hear this bit of gossip and promised to contact the other kids still there and get the lowdown on the fallout for me. Out of compassion, I emailed a copy to him. (He rang me up and we laughed hard. Compassion be buggered, we revelled in my bit of revenge.) I told him he could make use of the information in any way he saw fit, and far is it for me to dissuade him from making full use of his right to freedom of expression.

H - I - N - T H - I - N - T.

Didn't say any more than that, but what better vector for revenge than youthful exhuberance.
Liam the Hobbit - as he was affectionately known only to me - because he reminded me of the other Liam of internet fame, the Yoblit of Canuckstan - with whom everyone falls instantly in love without having the slightest idea why. Yoblit, old son, perhaps you might think of changing your nick to Liam the Likeable after that particularly amusing episode of Get Smart.

I forgot what else I was going to say so I'll say something else I wasn't thinking of before I had something else I wanted to say. (Don't look at your screen like that, you'll get a bad case of the blippies.)

The other something else I just thought of - the latter else, not the former else - was to do with blogs. If I come back before midnight and blog something else - which if I go surfing the blogs again is very likely to happen - it'll appear above this entry. On other days in the last week when I've done just that, I look at the earlier entry and the opening sentences just look totally out of place. It bugs me for two reasons: firstly, because it makes the first sentences look totally out of place and secondly because I know it's just too much of a hassle to try to edit it so it doesn't look out of place. Changing stuff makes it look forced and I like wordage to flow like warm honey.

And a last bit of info for this entry, the blippies are those looks you give something you don't quite understand and probably won't take the time to examine carefully enough. Blippies have one thing their favour. They are not gawpies. Gawpies happens when you DO take the time to try to get your head around what it was that gave you the blippies in the first place.

Current mood = pissed off - and not in a good way.

Got the music playing, downloaded a memory tonight - We Belong by Pat Benatar (that weird chick with the fucked up hair.) Played it twice in a row, bunged it on the playlist of WMP - for some reason I seem to be able to get better sound quality out of wmp than Winamp even though Winamp is a better program - and now I'm going through the playlist with all those songs I love so much and the reason for the bruises from my knees half way up the front of my legs and on the sides of both my hands. Damn I might have made a rockin' drummer for someone.

And I'm pissed off because that's my reaction to the memories that came flooding back because of a stupid television show.

*Sigh*

Anyway, I've had a bit of a time in the last 24 hours. Left lots of messages on ppl's blogs and my golly goodness, don't people get angry!

Here's the drum: It's a publick dockyooment unless you make it privayte. Capishe? There's no point turning the internet into your own little diary if you don't want people looking at your dirty laundry. You have nobody to blame but yourselves if oddbods like me happen to wander past, see what you've written and comment on it. You don't have to display your stuff if you don't want to, it's as simple as that.

The good news is, I culled a few more bits and pieces that amused me:

My comments (as usual) are in blue.

The public library system of northern South Carolina is fucked.I suggested to the two librarians that the library use firefox(a simple request -- nothing too technical) and explained to them what it was. I was met with a blank stare.Conclusion? Dillon South Carolina is, so far, painfully retarded. I think I'm going to eat at this strange diner I saw up the street.
(Good move, they're cooking crumbed fried brains. Save some for the librarians.)


Being of the male persuasion myself, my advice is to become a lesbian. Males are all worthless hosers who don't grow up, never become responsible, and when women say we only want one thing and get confused because they're giving their man that one very thing, what they should remember is MEN ONLY WANT ONE THING AT A TIME. That's why we cheat.Sorry babe.
(Some woman was complaining about the men she knew.)


6. What's under your bed: the floor.
Can't argue with that.

I may attempt to enjoy this evening a little more than I usually do, as i've not got to work tomorrow. Given my new "healthier" lifestyle and desire to save money I can't extend my drinking tally by much, but I can at least stretch slightly on my one night without a following day of work. I'm now going to get the hell out of here to stare at some heating soup or something of that ilk. Piss off.
Never signed off with "yours sincerely" in his entire life...

I also got a response from Scotland Yard. They shut down a website less than 24 hours after I reported it and gave me a link to a mob called Inhope. Maverick eat your heart out! Maverick was one of the very first identities I discovered on the internet back in 1998. I want to have this guy's babies. For those who don't know, Maverick was and perhaps still is, responsible for the closure of more child porn websites than anyone else in the history of the internet. And this guy had style. He was a hacker who left his tag on sites he shut down. I haven't heard from him in years. I tried finding him several times but every dumb arsehole, it seems, has adopted Maverick as a nick. Fuck you, Tom Cruise.

Here's another cute little thing I found via links I got from Scotland Yard...


ID the creep. It's a flash game put up through the CyberTipline in the U.S.

This image is a link. You can click it and it'll take you straight to the game.

Play the game it'll be good for you. Here's the cheat:
In the chatroom section, everyone is your enemy.

Things were never this complicated when I was a kid. We only had to watch out for strangers in the park. Now you can't even get privacy in your own damn bedroom. Then again, we didn't invite 6 billion people into our homes on a daily basis 30 years ago either. So I've been having an up and down day today. I got another site shut - yay - but every site I find hurts. I found a massive big beautiful resource - yay - but it brings home the magnitude of just how fucked up people can be and to what lengths they will go to fuck up others.

And there's more to it than just that. We throw billions of dollars of aid at these people and this is what they do with it. Those individuals lucky enough to get a hand out use it to victimise those who still have nothing.

It's no wonder some people find it easy to just give up. They don't all get immediate response from one of the oldest constabularies on the planet.

I won't be surfing blogland tonight, sorry to say. If you want to get some good quotes for yourself, you can wade through the dross yourselves and pick out whatever takes your fancy. I'm just too emotionally exhausted to bother. Maybe tomorrow I'll me in a mood more inducive to energetic bloggery. Gripe if you like. It's good for you.

(Time to compose this blog entry: 41 mins.)

Found some more funny shit to put in The Pad. Just thought I'd mention that while I'm listening to the first 4 songs on my playlist for the 4th time in a row. Lot of 4s today - as you will soon see.

And today is the 19th - wow, that's really spooky.


And this pic isn't what I just put up in The Pad either. This is just something that's been on floppy disk around here for yonks.

I remembered the password to my Topica account tonight. Edition number 103 was dispersed into the internet tonight but what looked all nice and dandy on the screen before I clicked that mesmerising post it now button arrived in all those in boxes totally furgled. How disappointing.

It was my first one in 5 months. Five MONTHS. It wasn't that long ago I left this blog alone. I have no idea who half the people are who are subscribers to The Swamp and I wouldn't be at all surprised if most of them have forgotten who the hell I am and delete my latest effort thinking it's spam.

And if that's not all, I changed the password to bring it into line with most of my other passwords so I don't forget it again and got absolutely bombarded with offers to receive spam on a regular basis. Page after page after page of it. I have this nasty sinking feeling there were ticks in some of those boxes (that's check marks for strangers up north) and I missed some of them and I have inadvertently signed up for crap I don't want. Of course it's not spam if you ask for it, it's self flaggelation. (That's a fancy way of saying you get your own jollies without taking your pants off.)(Nicht floggen sie monster.)

I have to stop doing these things. Getting back on an old horse is bad news. It evokes memories and too many of mine are memories I would prefer remained buried. I love The Swamp. It's my pride and joy and I'm going to have to make a commitment to either keep it going regularly now or if I let it go like this again then I must just consign it to the dustbin of two times two good years worth of something I enjoyed doing while I did it before I moved on. Amazing isn't it. It's four years since I started The Swamp and four years since I first blogged.

Google sent the webcrawlers out again on Friday last week. I know this because the content of the returns has updated The Pad and there's a datestamp on it. How satisfying to know that my nick has been the first return in Google for nearly 3 years. Weeeeeeeeeeee.

I feel like taking the Saab for another run tonight, just because it's a Saab and I know I shall have to part with her pretty soon. I don't particularly want two cars and the Mit is, after all a more sensible, more invisible, easier on the juice, and generally more civilised car. What a shame. I really do like my beautiful ugly beast Saab. Passion over pride I think. I would love to keep her but I need to be sensible. It's pointless being sentimental about cars. They are a convenience and they're expensive to run and own. You either get value out of them or you get rid of them and that's all there is to it.

Memories again. Sometimes I just wish I didn't have them. People should be born 20 years old. It'd save a shitload of headaches.