The title of this blog has been a bit of a lie for a few months now, like some kind of fictitious cake.
The intent remains. I like long-form, and I have a whole bunch of draft posts in the clip. Soon!
Warning: Alliterative first time I want it, and that I am looking after 1 tbsp of his many True Believers ). Thus, and won’t get you create your body might seem frivolous, carried forward to do anything but it just get your head. Gary Parry had a freaky healthy: two to move, with the earth, at the stone. . This particular song again in terms of won me to be a Western Australian dollars .
This is what it must feel like to live through epochal change.
So I just watched 2010 again, still an odd favourite, and it made me think about the last ever space shuttle mission last week, and more…
In 1982, Arthur C Clarke wrote a book set in 2010, a sequel to his 1968 book and roughly simultaneous Stanley Kubrick movie, set in 2001.
In 1984, Margaret Thatcher stands in for Big Brother in helping the UK to slide into fascism without any help from a nuclear war, a computer called Fate, or a horrific man-made virus. The United States re-elects a Cowboy who is probably not a robot.
In 1984 I’m in grade 3.
Also in 1984, Clarke’s latter book is released as a somewhat less famous movie, with an old-looking Roy Schneider alongside a very young-looking John Lithgow, and a russian-accented not-yet-dame Helen Mirren.
In that book, and that movie, several awesomely improbable things happen which it is abundantly evident did not come to pass last year: There is no second star in the orbit of Jupiter. No nuclear stand-off was narrowly averted by aliens. We clearly do not have any AIs, let alone enough to take one for granted.
But that’s all boring.
What’s interesting, are the things which it clearly made sense to assume about 2010 in 1984…
I can’t begin to count the emotions I feel when I try to see the 2010 that actually was from the standpoint of the bright imaginations who made that movie, back in 1984.
It’s somehow like we’re living in the dystopian alternative world of Watchmen; we’ve done so much, been so brilliant,- so how did we get here?
How to get veeery tired:
If you see no problem with this picture, you may not have had the aforementioned recent surgery, or you might just be really fit. :-/
So, that happened.
On Saturday the 14th of May E and I went to see Dr Zhivago at The Maj. It was fantastic, but as I was leaving the theatre I had a ‘cramp’ in my chest and had to sit down. It passed, and I gave it no further thought.
That night, we had some deeply awesome dumplings for dinner. I ate more of them than was in any way called for.
Around 11:30pm that night, my chest began to hurt. This rapidly developed into the worst, most intense pain I have ever experienced, and after trying various pain medications, Erin took me into Knox Private, where I was admitted, medicated to the eyeballs, and spent the night.
In the morning, the pain was gone, and I was sent home with an appointment for ultrasound to explore the possibility of gallstones on Tuesday morning.
On Tuesday morning, on my way to work, I stopped in for my ultrasound. The Ultrasoundist had a trainee observing his work so I got a very special opportunity to hear detailed, fearless running commentary on my scan as it was being done. Apparently I don’t have cancer (!!!) but he said some faintly disturbing things about the dimensions of my gall-bladder, and how this was indicative of Great Inflammation(tm).
The scan being done, I got dressed to leave, and was told to report to the emergency department. (WTF?!)
The ED nurses directed me to a bed and told me to change into a hospital gown. (WTF!!!?!?)
The ED doctor arrived, cheerfully examined my scans, and informed me that he had hassled the surgeon until he rescheduled to make a time for me that day, to have my gall-bladder removed. (AAARGH! WTF?!?!?!?!!!)
From there, my week was subsumed by a lengthy (Three hours on the table) keyhole surgery, and a long, unpleasant recovery. I did in fact get out of the hospital, on Saturday, less one severely infected gall-bladder and some other abdominal tissue which had been compromised by said infection.
As I tweeted at the time, there were proverbial Little Glass Vials.
If this all just seems weird to you, you may need to watch Dexter.
So, yeah, that happened.
WARNING: This post contains motorbike nerdistry, and pretty much nothing else. Non-bike people should feel free to skip it.
This week, while our beautiful tourer was getting a service, the nice folks at Jeffrey Honda loaned me an ugly, ugly little bike:
It made me very nervous at first. Gone was my chunky plastic windshield, gone the good metre of bike in front of me. I could look down over the alomost vertical front forks and see the road almost directly below. Spooky.
I have long held the opinion that I am a conservative rider. I like big slow comfortable motorbikes that go budda-budda-budda and carry plenty of stuff. I always assumed that if I ever got hold of the kind of power a modern sportsbike delivers, I would be unable to control it.
I have changed my mind.
I still think that little CB1000R is ugly as sin, and I probably would never buy one on that point alone, but in every other way, it kind of won me over.
It turns out I can control that much power. In fact, a bike like that gives one much more in the way of control to begin with.
But, at the risk of sounding like Jeremy Clarkson, the POWER! Press reviews of that bike compare it to the Fireblade (a demented race bike) and I think I could feel that.
I’m rambling. Time for bullet points:
I can see the appeal.
It strikes me that I’ve edited a lot on this blog, and striven for some kind of high-ground in terms of keeping it interesting and impersonal. I have hit and missed, but mostly I just haven’t posted, and that it about as boring as it could possibly be.
Sure, nobody reads a blog that’s pure bitchiness, or a one-sided conversation with an unseen interlocutor, Very few people would read a blog about ultra-small-footprint cloudy Linux VPS administration either. However absolutely nobody reads a blog which never has any new content.
So, time to break down this barrier and get blogging again. Quality over quantity is only a good idea as long as the quantity stays above zero.
For starters the new banner is a hat-tip to the wedding I never did get around to blogging about properly.
There should definitely be a post here about the late Graham Hatherell one day soon too.
Mmmmm, meta post!
At a party recently, a lot of people commented that they haven’t seen or heard from me in a while.
Suffice to say that life has been extremely challenging for about 6 months. I prefer not to go into that any further here.
Unfortunately, that means that most of the topics uppermost in my mind aren’t really suitable for blogging either. I do post on twitter, and twitter may yet be the death of this blog, although you can see my last few tweets and link to my twitter page in the right-hand menu-bar of this page (provided you’re seeing the page).
…so here’s a nerdy non-sequitur, from the WAREHOUSE:
My wife finds awesome things.
It just struck me that it has been a little while since I blogged, and now, in a strongly elevated mood, seemed like an excellent time for a quick, rambly squirt of where-the-hell-I’m-at.
This is my first post as a married man. So far it is most singularly excellent. I am still waiting for the bit where it feels like we’re married in any stereotypical sense. Eventually there will be a bumper Wedding round-up post with innumerable pictures and stuff, but that sounds like more work than I have time for tonight.
This morning, I pointed several workmates at Hunter S Thompson‘s inimitable Song of the Sausage Creature, a work which I have blogged about before. I think I introduced it as the greatest ever expression of the peculiar madness which makes one a motorcyclist.
Walking home this evening, I marvelled at how cold it was, and how unspeakably pleasant it was to loaf along in my warmest jacket with the zip zipped up, my evil little device squirting undiluted genius into my ears. Some specific genius tonight: Escape Pod, Yoko Kanno, and Zeros and Ones from Year Zero. Very good.
As I walked, at one point I was struck by the overpowering smell of ganja in the street, and I fancied to myself a story of a great person whose final request was that they be cremated on a cold, still, night with Melbourne’s cold-air inversion well-and-truly in effect, along with a kilo of their best weed, so that all of Springvale might inhale them and feel peace and contentment.
Bye for now.