The Grand Adventure

I quote...

2006-09-01T05:16:00.000+07:00

"There's no way I'm ever letting that thing mount me in my life."

I just think it looks stylish...

Mum

2006-08-10T20:09:00.000+07:00

(You may commence mother jokes at will.)

For those who came in late:

Just before Christmas 2005, my mother had a stroke. There's no such a thing as a good stroke^[1], but this was a really bad one - an intracranial bleed of grade 5 on scale of 1 to 5. Apparently most folks who bust out a grade 5 bleed die. Of those who survive, most never wake up. In those who do, there can be any amount of brain damage.

My mum did surive, she did wake up, and despite a bastard-load of complications, she recognises everyone, she's coherent, she's capable of real conversations and of doing a lot of things for herself. She hasn't recovered to the state she was at before the stroke, and that may or may not ever happen, but she is in an amazing way considering what she has been through. I could hope for nothing more in myself than the strength that she has shown, again and again, since December. Mum, I don't know if you'll read this, but if you do, please know that I couldn't be more proud.

I've written this because - as you probably know, if you're reading it - I'm lazy with email, and a lot of people ask me how my mum's doing. Many of those same people - you know who you are - have prayed for her, or sent their thoughts and good wishes. For all of that, I thank you.

[1] Well, there is, but we're not talking about alone time in the shower right now.

Origin

2006-07-06T06:36:00.000+07:00

OK, so last night was Game III of the State of Origin, to which Cam had lined up tickets. It was an awesome game, made more so by the vocal NSW contingent in front of us being silenced with four minutes remaining. Sweet, sweet victory.

In other news, on the cab-ride home, I saw our great and benevolent leader, The Honourable John Howard, Prime Minister of Australia. He was being driven in a Holden Statesman, C of A plates, plate number: C1.

Of course, me being me, my first thought was "It'd be cool if he had three more cars like that, for different cities, or whatever, 'cos then the fourth one would be called C4."

Spam

2006-05-31T09:32:00.000+07:00

Checking my old hotmail account today, I see that Miranda_69 has sent me something about:

I'mLookingForSomeStrangeCock

I wonder who told her.

Geography

2006-05-31T07:04:00.000+07:00

I just learned that there's a place called "Gunn Point".

I'm moving house today.

"Don't talk to me about your problems, boy. I've lived my life at Gunn Point for the last fifteen years."

etc.

Marketroid

2006-05-17T15:11:00.000+07:00

From Ninemsn:

"An unidentified green object streaked across the Queensland sky last night, before landing on a property between Toowoomba and Warwick near the Great Dividing Range."

"The object, which looked like a comet, was spotted by hundreds of people and airport control towers across south-east Queensland at around 6:30pm last night."

Coincidence that this happens barely a month before Superman Returns is due to come out here?

Rim

2006-05-10T13:41:00.000+07:00

Had some Thai chow at Cam's place the other day. This bein' the 21st century and all, we ordered it online.
Shortly thereafter, Cam got a confirmation/thank you email that went a little sumpin'^[1] like this:

*Hello Cam*
We thank you for confidence that you testified to us. We remain fully at your disposal and we hope to re-examine you in the near future.
The Manager Pacific Rim Thai Restaurant

I hope for them to re-examine him in the near future too.

[1] Or "sonsin'-sonsin'" if you prefer.

Disbelief

2006-05-08T07:22:00.000+07:00

Watching movies, they say, involves a suspension of disbelief. I know this, and no film title acknowledges it more than the Mission: Impossible series. Accordingly, when watching Mission: Impossible III, I was willing to let Tom Cruise base-jump off a building through a sheet of plate glass and be OK, to one-shot numerous bad dudes under incredible circumstances, to find an abandoned and practically unscatched black Mercedes in which to make a getaway from an aerial assault on a bridge, &c., &c.

I was not, however, prepared to suspend disbelief enough to allow for Tom Cruise doing mathematics with a white pen on a window^[1] to figure out the trajectory for his next zany stunt.

[1] cf. Russell Crowe's John Nash - a mathematical genius in A Beautiful Mind.

Fly

2006-05-08T07:16:00.000+07:00

Got a new pair of jeans on the weekend, after my old ones developed a small hole (of their own accord) and then a much bigger one (of my making). I just want to point out what a convenience it is to be able to put your junk away post-urination without having to undo your entire button-fly.

Ric's

2006-05-05T09:24:00.000+07:00

About a thousand years ago, I was in the crapper at Ric's, in the Valley, and saw this graffiti. I had my camera on me at the time, so I snapped one off. Then I took this photo. Make of it what you will:

Bold

2006-05-01T11:45:00.000+07:00

I've been using Thunderbird at work for the last few weeks. It's not bad, but I don't think it can live up to the claim made in this screen-shot:

(apologies for the crappy quality - I was in a hurry)

Race

2006-04-27T12:24:00.000+07:00

A pretty long time ago, I swore off announcing people's birthdays on here. If I remember rightly, the last birthday I announced was my cousin Kaeleigh's first.

Just now, I got the news that Kaeleigh's gone and got herself a sister.

Congratulations to Danielle Feline^[1] and Shane Maxwell^[1] (nice middle names, guys!).

As I say, I've sworn off birthday announcements. But I feel justified in this one, for at least three reasons:

(i) it's my blog, and I can do what I damn well please;
(ii) it's not a birthday, in that bullshit once-a-year sense, but a Birth Day, in that arguably less-bullshit once-a-lifetime sense. A wholly different creature; and
(iii) I can steal an oft-used line from a mate^[2]:

Now you can race 'em!

[1] I would have put surnames, but being the caring, involved kind of guy I am, I dunno if she took his when they wed, or if they have one of those modern marriages where the husband and wife don't love each other (points to the first person - not Marcia or Cam - to pick that reference)

[2] Thanks, Zac

Tram

2006-04-13T11:56:00.000+07:00

My tram hit a cab this morning, and knocked it into another cab.

It was cool.

Melbourne

2006-04-03T08:22:00.000+07:00

The last couple of days I've been holding on to a secret, but I can let it out of the bag now that most of the important parties (my Mum and Dad, my old boss) have been told:

Marsh and I are headed to Melbourne - me tomorrow, her at Easter - for at least three months. Fingers crossed for more work after that. Should you find yourself there, let me know. We'll catch up, and if I like you enough, you've probably got yourself a place to stay as well.

(Is it a problem for you to ask?)

That is all.

Topical

2006-03-22T10:58:00.000+07:00

A while ago, I happened to be listening to the old Redgum tune, I Was Only 19. I noticed somethin' a bit off, but didn't bother blogging it, 'cos I had my chance back in the late seventies when it was released. Admittedly I was born in the late seventies, and there were few to no blogs around at that time, but hey, they're just excuses.

But then Aussie hip-hoppers The Herd covered the song, bringing it squarely back into the realm of popular discourse. So now I'm allowed - by my own self-imposed rules - to bore you with my observation:

"Franky kicked a mine the day that mankind kicked the moon
God help me... he was goin' home in June".

It got me wondering. Mankind kicked the moon on 21 July, 1969. So if Franky kicked a mine that day, he still had eleven months left in his tour. It's not exactly getting shot by a drug dealer the day before you retire from the force. (McBain: Mendoza!!!).

And one for the vets out there: would Franky have even known, that far in advance, that he was going home in June?

To the non-Australian contingent: this post is regarding Australian Vietnam War ballad I Was Only 19. If you're interested.

And finally to Franky, if you're real and not just a fabrication of John Schumann's: Sorry about the legs, mate.

That's all, really.

Black

2006-03-07T14:37:00.000+07:00

...as in, "that's the pot calling the kettle b~". But nonetheless, a crass observation for you:

My co-worker, the aforementioned Graham, does the worst farts of anyone I've ever worked with, possibly ever met.

And yes, that includes me.

Hug

2006-02-27T10:04:00.000+07:00

EXT BOTANIC GARDENS     DAY.

MARCIA and DAYNE are walking through in the Botanic Gardens near QUT in town. Seeing a shady spot, they sit down.

A RANDOM PERVE with a camera walks by in the distance, taking photos with the camera clearly pointed in the Marcia-and-Dayne direction.

          MARCIA

     What's this perve up to?

          DAYNE

     Dunno. Taking photos of us to smash himself off to, I guess.

(minutes pass, in which the Perve gets closer)

          PERVE

     You found my favourite tree.

          DAYNE

     Hmmm.

          PERVE

     I love coming down here.

          MARCIA

     Yeah, it's nice.

          PERVE

     It's like a big hug you can sit under.

          DAYNE and MARCIA
               (together)

     Uh, yeah...

Perve continues walking around the gardens, snapping photos.

After some time, Marcia and Dayne stand up, ready to continue on their way.

          MARCIA

     I was wrong... he wasn't a perve, just a freak.

Marcia turns her head, and notices that the FREAK (nee Perve) is in fact still right behind her, well within earshot.

Marcia and Dayne hightail it out of there.

But come on! A big hug you can sit under?!

Dusty

2006-02-17T11:20:00.000+07:00

Genres of music into which the CDs were organised at the music store I was in earlier:

Popular
Sentimental
Classical
Country
Blues/Jazz
World
Slim Dusty

You'd be proud.

Religious

2006-02-09T10:48:00.000+07:00

"I don't wanna get religious with you, or anything," said co-worker Graham the other day, "but God knows everything."

What's up with that, dude?

I don't wanna get geometrical with you, or anything, but the square of the hypotenuse of a right-angled triangle is equal to the sum of the squares of the other two sides.

I don't wanna get metaphysical with you, or anything, but why do you think we're here?

I don't wanna get cryptozoological with you, or anything, but you'll recall that a minotaur has the head of a beast (a bull, specifically) and the body of a man, whereas a centaur has the head of a man and the body of a beast (a horse, of course). Interesting, don't you think, particularly in light of the fact that the minotaur is universally portrayed as brutish, whereas the centaur - with the head of a man - is almost always noble, if sometimes cruel?

But rather than say any of these things - or the sensible response, nothing - I foolishly asked Graham, "What's up with that, dude?" He proceeded to get religious with me. Of course.

Occasional

2006-01-30T13:25:00.000+07:00

Just a quick one to let y'all know that - once again - internet access has become irregular, so forgive me for blog and email slackness. That is all.

Stumbling

2006-01-14T08:44:00.000+07:00

Because I don't waste enough of my life on the internet, I was looking at the extensions for the Firefox browser last night, and came across StumbleUpon. It's described (somewhere - I didn't note the link) on the Firefox site as "like channel surfing for the web", and that's pretty much exactly what it is. I spent most of last night reading about cacti, playing various stupid Flash games mostly involving things crashing into other things, and a whole bunch of other useless shit that I can't be bothered relating here. If you're using Firefox, check it out (Tools > Extensions... in the menu).

Smooth

2006-01-12T20:57:00.000+07:00

As requested, here's the photo of me shortly post-shave. In my defense, I think I look like neither a child nor a woman, but admittedly not like the kind of man you'd ever want to speak to either... it's a delicate balance.

And yes, the astute reader will note that I'm not exactly clean-shaven in this photo, but whatever. I was too lazy to get onto it in that four-second window after shaving.

Evil

2006-01-04T15:52:00.000+07:00

No, Zac, I'm not talking about the chick of that name from some years ago, and no, Sean, I'm not talking about Rottenbox, but about those evil monopolists, Microsoft, and their would-be evil monopolist competitors^[1] over at Google. Whenever there's a bandwagon to jump on, you know I'll be there, but I usually take my sweet-ass time getting on it, and this time 'round is no exception.

I've finally started the hopefully not-too-arduous process of migrating from my tried-and-true hotmail account over to my pretty old but long-inactive gmail account. In a slightly ironic twist, it's not because I want to support Google's oft-quoted "Don't be evil" guideline/principle/commandment/whatever, but because MS have (as far as my custom is concerned at least) shot themselves in the foot by disallowing POP3 access (i.e. hooking up your mail client - e.g. Outlook - to access your webmail - e.g. hotmail) while Google, for now at least, are still happy to let me do same.

Of course, you don't give a flog why I've done it - in the unlikely event that you give a flog at all, you just wanna know the new address. The part of the address before the @ is the same, but the domain has changed from hotmail.com to gmail.com. I'll be checking the old account regularly though, in case that traffic doesn't die off as rapidly as I'd like. But help a brother out, would ya?

Dayne out.

[1] If that's not a contradiction in terms...

Shaving Cut

2006-01-03T11:30:00.000+07:00

This Christmas, I was given, among other things, a beard trimmer (or two). After the past few days at the beach sans shaving equipment, I was pretty shaggy about the face, so the trimmer(s) saw a bit of action this morning. A little too much, as it turns out - a careless nick in the mo' made it necessary to chop the lot. If you're most guys, this probably isn't such a tragedy, but if you're me, as I happen to be, then your face serves pretty much as a caution to ugly, bearded men everywhere, warning them of the shame and degradation to which they too will be subjected if they're ever foolishness enough to shave the face.

That's what it feels like at the moment, anyway. I've grown and shaved a few beards before, and my revulsion at my my own appearance has usually worn off pretty quickly, so I'm hoping that'll be the case this time as well. I'll definitely be growing the beard back ASAP, but in the meantime, it is way more comfortable in the Queensland summer.

Of course, until that happy day when I once more join the ranks of the bearded, I doubt I'll be seeing a whole lot of action, if Marcia's comments ("You look like a woman"; "you look like you're twelve") are anything to judge by.

Return

2005-12-19T18:22:00.000+07:00

For reasons we won't go into right now, Marcia and I have returned to Brisbane, and look like sticking around for a while.

In other news, Cam and Cait arrived from Melbourne today, and they, Marsh, Zac and I met up in the food court of the Myer Centre. I got my lunch from a joint called "Mongkok".

Heh heh.

Victory!

2005-12-10T09:13:00.000+07:00

That's what we told everyone when we got back to the office after the basketball match. Of course, we were bullshitting.

52-24 was the final score. None of the 24 points were mine, although I'd like the record to reflect that:

(i) I was involved in a number of sexy assists;
(ii) I absolutely creamed one player when going up for a block (unsuccessful, but that's hardly the point now, is it?)
(iii) Thai cheerleaders wear some weird outfits. Mini-skirts, stockings, way too much make-up... these are thirteen year old girls we're talking about. Now I'm as prepared as the next man to make molesterous jokes, but come on...

But the strangest thing I saw yesterday - stranger than the cheerleading outfits, stranger than the drinking-milk-from-a-baby's-bottle race, stranger even than the billboard promoting heterosexuality (it's a girls' school) - were the young girls in T-shirts that had a big swastika on them, and the name "Adolf Hitler" printed above it.

Clearly there was no pro-Nazi malice behind the wearing of these shirts - the Thai people would hardly be "Master Race" material, as far as old Adolf was concerned. If anything, the T-shirts were being worn with the same kind of ignorant "hey that's a cool picture" attitude that exists in the minds of almost anyone in a Che Guevara t-shirt - but holy crap it was a strange thing to see.

Verification

2005-12-10T08:49:00.000+07:00

Comment spam, like all spam, is the work of the devil.

Of course, from even the most nefarious and evil of intentions, some good may yet spring.

Without comment spam, there would have been no need for comment verification.

Without comment verification, I would never have seen this little gem when replying to Cam's comment on Gourmet Sand:

Marvelous

2005-12-07T21:07:00.000+07:00

Las Cacho seems to think his food prices are pretty damn good...

But his internet prices? Well, they're OK, I guess...

That cracks me up.

Filler

2005-12-07T07:13:00.000+07:00

This post is mostly just here so that the really long post title from a few weeks back ("Krungthep...") disappears off the bottom of my "I Said" recent posts list over there on the right.

Call me an O.C.D. motherfucker, but it's been bugging me.

Silence

2005-12-07T06:48:00.000+07:00

The astute reader may (if they give a shit about such matters) have noted that the 27th of November has come and gone without any report regarding my performance in the Bangkok marathon. It's true, I was a lamer, and didn't train enough for it, so "run a marathon" is still sitting there on my "Things To Do Before I Die" list, uncrossed-out^[1].

On the topic of "Physical Pursuits For Which Dayne Is Vastly Underprepared" however, the school at which I work (Khemasiri) is having their sports day this Friday. The company for which I work (who place me at that school) is entering a team, and because they're largely English, there are quite a few decent football (soccer) players among them.

Of course, Khemasiri learned its lesson on that score last year, apparently, so we've been assigned to play basketball against the Thai teachers, and despite being shit-house at basketball^[2], I've been volunteered ("Hey you, you're kinda tall"). On paper, this looks like a walk in the park (a team of 6'-plus twenty-somethings vs a team of 5'7" folks of varied ages), but you don't understand - these fuckers have been training constantly for the last three months, whereas I slipped out once during a cancelled lesson to shoot a couple of hoops. And I think that means I've now played more basketball than most of the rest of my team...

I'm also pretty sketchy on the rules (the guys in the same colour as me are my "team", right?), so I'm bound to be a source of endless amusement/frustration on the day as well...

Details to follow this weekend, I guess.

[1] I'm sure that's not a word, but whatever.
[2] As you'll know if you've ever shot hoops with me before... any of the three times in my life I've done it.

Censored

2005-11-23T07:07:00.000+07:00

"Yippee ki-yay, motherfucker!"

Anyone even remotely conversant with classic action movies will immediately recognise John McClane's cocky (if not that witty) retort to Hans Gruber's disparaging "cowboy" remark.

Of course, if you're watching Die Hard on Thai TV, like I was the other day, it's a bit of a different thing... it's a bit more "Yippee ki-yay, <silent motion of lips>". But that's cool. You expect that kind of thing - and pretty heavy cutting of gun battles etc - when movies are shown on TV.

Now, last night, Marcia and I went and saw Harry Potter: The Goblet of Fire^[1]. I could go on about Harry looking about 25 years old now, the fact that Ron Weasley has suddenly ("one school year" later) got bigger arms than I have, but whatever - although it is worth noting that Hermione has gotta be past the age of consent now... sweet! Gone are the days of feeling guilty about my "Hogwarts" game in the shower...

But I digress. Prior to the movie (and prior to the "All Hail the King of Thailand" clip that they play before every movie), there was an ad for some company selling ringtones. Funny thing is, the song that was being used as a ringtone in the ad was DMX's "Party Up". If, like me, you're not familiar with this tune, here are a few lines that were played in the ad:

All your mens up in the jail before, suck my dick.
and all them other cats you run with, get done with, done quick,
how tha fuck you gonna cross the dog with some bum shit?,

Having seen the gusto with which the censors flourished their scissors on Die Hard, I can't say I was expecting to be told to suck DMX's dick while I was watching Harry Potter.

[1] And yes, Pawel, despite Marcia's rolled eyes, we stuck around long enough to see your name in the credits. Nice work.

Sproutin'

2005-11-22T06:34:00.000+07:00

Between Cam's Movember effort^[1], having recently re-watched Starsky and Hutch and Marcia having bought me a pair of aviators on the weekend, I'm feelin' a strong urge to shave off the beard and keep only the moustache.

[1] Give generously, people. If I get prostate cancer in thirty years, and find out that it can't be cured because you didn't dig deep enough... ooh, I'll be pissed!

Success!

2005-11-20T18:02:00.000+07:00

Tap

2005-11-19T19:19:00.000+07:00

"Dai deum nam tee mai sa-aht mai"

According to the Thai phrasebook I've got, the (hypothetical) doctor might ask this if you show up presenting any kind of gastro complaint. It translates as "Have you drunk unpurified water?"

But that's bullshit. I'm here to tell you that you can drink Thai tap water with no noticeable ill-effects. Or maybe you can't, 'cos between you and me, you're sort of a pussy, but for someone with the nigh-on-indestructible constitution^[1] of yours truly, it ain't no thang. I've been quaffin' the local brew for weeks now, and I'm pretty sure that my occasional bout of squirty bum-bum^[2] is due more to the hyper-spiced foods of which I've been partaking than to the "unpurified" water I've been into daily.

That is all.

[1] Have I waxed monotonous on R.C.T. (Robust Constitution Theory) on this blog yet? If not, remind me to bore you with my thoughts on that one time.
[2] That's the medical term, of course.

Errata

2005-11-19T10:12:00.000+07:00

Browny, you were right. In my haste to share the fun of moto rides with the world, I managed to confuse speeder bikes (as stolen by Skywalker, Organa et al on Endor) with landspeeders (as sold by Kenobi, Skywalker et al to raise money for their passage - "myself, the boy, two droids and no questions asked" - on the Millenium Falcon).

In other news - I'm not using my Australia-to-Canada phonecard much these days, so if you can make use of it, go ahead. To be honest, it might have expired by now, but if not, there oughta be almost 10 bucks credit left on it.

The phone number is 3018 3300.
The PIN is 1771 7000 6382.

Knock yourself out.

Landspeeder

2005-11-16T17:03:00.000+07:00

Traffic in Bangkok can get pretty ridiculous at times, so the enterprising Thais have come up with a system of motorbike taxis ("motos"). They're pretty fun, but for my money, the best thing about 'em is that you feel like Luke Skywalker in Return of the Jedi, zipping between trees on a stolen landspeeder. Well, I do, anyway.

Dayne's tips for moto trips:

(i) Learn enough Thai to say "BTS. Ten baht?^[1]" 'cos that way, you look like you sort of know what you're talking about, and aren't just a walking, talking target for opportunistic price-gouging (a.k.a. a complete tourist)
(ii) Keep your knees in, so as not to lose them on the wing mirrors of the numerous cars that you're zagging between.
(iii) Keep your head either to the left or the right of the driver's head. He may or may not be wearing a helmet, and you definitely are not, so if you stop suddenly (or OK, crash) you don't want to end up with a mouthful of his helmet/skull.
(iv) Don't freak out too much if the driver rides the wrong way down the street, or swerves into oncoming traffic, or goes for gaps that you're sure he can't make. He knows what he's doing.
(v) Have fun. Even if you're not the kind of Star Wars nerd that gets off on the landspeeder thing, you can totally feel like you're the hero of an action-comedy, and the driver is your nutty sidekick, and you need to pull a quick getaway after pulling off some zany stunt or other. Seriously, it's fun.

[1] "BTS. Sip baht." It's not really that hard.

Connectivity

2005-11-16T07:17:00.000+07:00

It's on! A few short hours after I slagged off our apartment building's management for tardiness, they showed up with their pet internet geek in tow. It was the work of but a few minutes for the dude to hook us up, and now I'm chillin' chillin'^[1] in my bedroom, gettin' all bloggy and shit.

I know this isn't that exciting for the average reader, but I'm pumped about it. I'll actually start checking (and even replying to!) email now... gimme a few days and it'll be like I was never gone.

[1] Intentional repetition of the word "chillin'", the present continuous form of the verb "to chill," colloquially used to mean "to relax"^[2].

[2] Damn English teaching! It's controlling my mind!

Delays

2005-11-14T16:17:00.000+07:00

The standard joke around here, if someone is late for an appointment or whatever, is that they're "running on Thai time". Apparently the management in my apartment building is running on Thai time, 'cos that whole "internet in a few days" thing I said turns out to be "internet this Friday at the very earliest". So I'm still:

(i) using internet cafes to stay in touch; and
(ii) using that (the internet cafes thing) as an excuse for my lazy attitude towards staying in touch.

Further updates when I feel like it, I guess.

Krungthepmahanakhonamonrattanakosinmahintharaayuthayamahadilokphopnoppharatratchathaniburiromudomratchaniwetmahasathanamonpimanawatan

2005-11-05T18:36:00.000+07:00

or Bangkok

I would have entitled this post "Bangkok", but Marcia did that for her blog entry on Bangkok, and we can't be having matching names on our blogs now, can we? That'd be like showing up to a party in matching DSQUARED Chip Chip Motherfucker hats, or something.

So instead of "Bangkok", you get the above, which is the full (partially archaic) Thai name for the city. It (apparently) translates as something like:

"The city of angels, the great city, the residence of the Emerald Buddha, the impregnable city (of Ayutthaya) of God Indra, the grand capital of the world endowed with nine precious gems, the happy city, abounding in an enormous Royal Palace that resembles the heavenly abode where reigns the reincarnated god, a city given by Indra and built by Vishnukarn."

Personally, I just think the city's hot, dirty, smelly, chaotic and friggin' cool. And I certainly haven't seen any angels or gems yet. Although I have seen:

(i) an elephant walking out of a petrol station (I always thought they were steam-driven);
(ii) dudes with carts selling fried insects (haven't partaken yet, but you'll get the lowdown when I do);
(iii) raindrops roughly the size of new-born babies... I'm exaggerating, but this tropical rain is some serious shit;
(iv) families of four tooling along, all crammed onto the one fucked-out 125cc motorbike;
(v) one snapped-out, fat, red Englishman climbing into a cab with four ('cos three's just not enough to really satisfy) hot Thai chicks...

...and a bunch of other crap that I've forgotten about already.

We moved into our place the other day, and have begun the home-ifying process... For those who will/might/should come to visit us, our street is:

Thonglor Soi 20
Sukhumvit 55
Bangkok
10110
THAILAND

If you find an online map website that actually covers Bangkok, let me know, and I'll come back here and link the address to it.

We'll be getting the internet connection hooked up in the next few days. Better and more frequent blog postings to follow. Dayne out.

Labels

2005-10-28T20:54:00.000+07:00

I've never really been one for brand label shit, but living in Thailand's gonna make it tough to stick to that philosophy. Like, last night, we were walking around, and there was tonnes of stuff, all your Nikes and Diesels and Billabongs and what have you.

I have to admit, I was tempted by all that stuff, but not as much as I was by the cap with the label: DSQUARED Chip Chip Motherfucker.

Sabotage

2005-10-26T15:24:00.000+07:00

Is it just me, or does Hotmail fuck up (presumably intentionally) when you're using Firefox as your browser?

As in, when I hit reply, I get all the HTML mark-up in the message body text box. I've noticed it on a few different computers now.

And yes, I know that I'm connected to arguably the greatest informational innovation in the history of the human race, but no, I can't be bothered.

Business

2005-10-24T22:54:00.000+07:00

Cool things today:

The monkey on a leash that was pulling down coconuts so they didn't ripen and fall on unsuspecting farang.

The fact that I was wearing my "Monkey Business Open 24 hours" T-shirt when watching the above.

The truck that was driving around drumming up business for tomorrow night's Muay Thai fights, complete with dude on loudspeaker, using his very best "Vote 1 Goldie Wilson III for Mayor of Hill Valley" voice.

Oh yeah, and we started training for the job we'll be doing for the next twelve months. Almost forgot that...

Thanks

2005-10-22T17:01:00.000+07:00

To everyone that I didn't get to see while I was back home in Australia, or didn't see again, or didn't see enough of, or saw but ignored 'cos I was busy, or saw when they were secretly hoping to avoid me, my apologies.

And to everyone who helped me out while I was back home (i.e. practically everyone), thank you.

Now come and fucking stay with us in Bangkok. The house is open.

Revisited

2005-10-22T16:51:00.000+07:00

Oh, and yeah, I returned to the toilet in K.L., and yes, it was everything I'd hoped it could be, and more.

Samui

2005-10-22T10:42:00.000+07:00

"So when I say 'whose house?', you say 'Beer's House!.....

Whose House?!"

I'm pretty sure that doesn't get annoying after three straight days, but I'll ask Marsh and let you know. We've arrived on Koh Samui after three very restful flights (another way to annoy a girlfriend: sleep soundly while she can't get a wink). Unfortunately we've managed to just catch the beginning of the rainy season, and you can kinda see why they call it that, but it's still plenty warm. After not doing a whole lot yesterday, we got a-wandering this morning, down past Ninja Crepes, Ninja Place, Ninja Net Station (greetings from same) and Beer's House, loaded up on some cheap and tasty eats, bought the biggest thongs/flip-flops on the island (i.e. only two sizes too small) and hightailed it back to Ninja Crepes for a coupla beers (c'mon, it's like, practically 10am...).

I'm still in two minds about my plan to drink the local tap-water, but I'll let you know how that goes as well...

Pits

2005-10-21T14:23:00.000+07:00

So we're sitting in Kuala Lumpur International Airport, and far be it from me to reduce everything to toilet analysis, but you've got to respect a culture that has, side by side:

(a) top-notch Western style toilets, complete with bidet and funky little dispenser of soap and paper specifically for cleaning down the seat before you park your precious ring on it; and

(b) pit toilets.

I'm a bit disappointed in myself that I went for option (a), but it's cool... we've got a pretty long wait for our connecting flights. Details to follow.

Negative

2005-10-19T09:38:00.000+07:00

No Irwin sightings, unfortunately, but Marcia got to mess with kangaroos, koalas and the oft-overlooked wombat, so the day wasn't a complete writeoff...

Hunter

2005-10-17T04:35:00.000+07:00

Today, weather and health issues permitting, I'm gonna take Marcia to Australia Zoo, natural habitat of Steve "Crikey" Irwin, The Crocodile Hunter. In a general sense, I'm pro- the good work that he does, raising people's awareness of wildlife issues etc., etc., but still, part of me sort of hopes he's there today, and that he doesn't like the look of me...

Premature

2005-10-11T04:16:00.000+07:00

OK, so the comment spamming motherfuckers have driven me to it. After deleting (no shit) eighteen advertisements for ways to deal with premature ejaculation (handy I'm sure, but no thanks) I've switched on word verification. Apologies for the annoyance.

In (possibly related) other news, Marcia touches down in circa eight hours. I'd be lying if I said I'm not a little bit pumped... although I'm sure she'll be shattered by the (again, circa) seven hundred and forty-two straight hours she's had travelling, or however many it is between east coast Canada and BNE.

And finally, you may also have noticed that I've not been replying to emails of late... but connection problems accessing hotmail have now been put to bed, so future delays in responding can simply be put down to my usual slackness.

I need sleep now.

Roman

2005-09-30T12:02:00.000+07:00

You know how peeing on someone is known as a "golden shower"? Well, something I only learned today is that vomiting on someone is known (in certain circles) as a "Roman shower". Bet you didn't know that.
How did I learn that? Well, I was chatting to Lorna (aunt) today about vomiting, about ipecac syrup (i.e. vomit-inducer that you give to people if you need them to throw up, e.g. kids who've just got into the rat-poison, or whatever). It transpired that she had some ipecac in her first-aid kit.

Those of you who know me well enough can probably stop reading now, because this is the sort of story that writes itself.

For the rest of you (and for my personal entertainment):

Adult dose is 30ml of ipecac syrup in 200ml of water. If no effects after 30 minutes, repeat.

So I took 30ml of ipecac syrup in 200ml of water. There were no effects after 15 minutes, so I took another dose, slightly more ipecac, slightly less water this time, and sat down on the internet to do a bit of research into ipecac (classic Dayne move, researching the barn door after the horse has bolted).

This was when I learned about Roman showers. I also learned that one of the side-effects of ipecac was lethargy, and that's a bit annoying, 'cos I'm about to go out, buy a new pair of boardies, have a few drinks, whatever. And the lethargy was starting to kick in.

Fortunately, the research was cut short at the moment, by the ipecac doing its thing. I hightailed it into the bathroom, increased the contents of the toilet bowl a few times, and here I am, right as rain, wide awake, perky, and ready to head out.

Roman showers, eh?

Impressions

2005-09-28T20:22:00.000+07:00

You know you've made the right one when the leaving card your workmates get you has had "Ode to the Stealth Ninja" stapled into it (thanks again, Jo!):

(clears throat)

"Hi-yah!", the stealth ninja screams silently,
the black night yielding to his unheard cry;
o'er roofs and chimneys, power lines and trees,
an ashen blur under a moonlit sky.

Never falt'ring, knowing not of fear,
the ninja exudes prowess as he kills.
His foes' flesh by his ninja balls^h is seared,
as he makes full use of his ninja skills.

Alas, his life lacks glamour, fame or praise,
no recognition for his noble deeds;
preventing golden fields from being razed,
by horrid mechanized monstrosities

So let us mourn the ninja's lonely quest,
'gainst evil, till death shall he never rest.

I'm not sure what ninja balls are, but foes beware.

Alive

2005-09-24T13:59:00.000+07:00

OK, after devoutly swearing that I'd let everyone (i.e. everyone in London) know when I got safely to Australia, I of course got here and didn't do shit for well over a week. But never fear, folks, the Dayne we know and love is alive and well and safely ensconced his hometown of Brisbane, Australia, for at least the next few weeks.
Tales to tell, thanks to give, reproduction of the Ode to the Stealth Ninja - kindly inserted into my MMC going-away card (thanks Jo!) - apologies to the proprietor of Bradley's Spanish Bar, Hanway St, London, and more to follow, but for now, I'm gonna go wash the sand off me.

Mixer

2005-09-09T17:58:00.000+07:00

So last night was the away day for work. As ever, the away day was followed by an extended session of Extreme Drinking^®. Even so, I think I would feel OK this morning, if it wasn't for the half-and-half Talisker (scotch) and Budvar (beer). To quote an upstanding young fellow I used to live with, "fuck I feel ill".

Nomenclature

2005-09-07T15:03:00.000+07:00

I was sending a text to Greg this morning, and when searching for his name in my phone's address book hit the "4ghi" button one too many times - accidentally choosing to search under 'H' instead of 'G'.

The first name listed under 'H' was one I'd obviously put into my phone when drunk, and then promptly forgotten about:

"Hot Slut".

I can't say I'm proud of that, but it's sorta funny.

Peeves

2005-09-01T23:02:00.000+07:00

A couple of things that get me:

(i) referring to travelling somewhere as "doing" it. e.g. "We did Amsterdam last July." It just pisses me off. I don't know why.
(ii) referring to the city of Brisbane, Australia as "Brisvegas". This came into being around the time that the casino opened in the old Treasury building at the top of Queen St Mall. I'm pretty sure it was all started when certain commercial radio personalities tried to push the idea that Brisbane would be "The Las Vegas of the Southern Hemisphere", or some such bullshit. I'm used to crap like this from the media, but it kinda fucks me off that the general public has taken to it so much.

I realise of course that by telling you guys this, I'm pretty much inviting everyone I know to tell me about the time they did Brisvegas, but that's OK, because:

(a) I got to vent; and
(b) I reckon I could take you^[1] in hand-to-hand combat anyway.

[1] OK, well, maybe not you personally, but definitely anyone else who reads this.

Commentary

2005-09-01T20:03:00.000+07:00

Here's a post to be filed under both meta, the category for blogging about blogging, and boring, the category for shit that no-one cares about.

You might have noticed that the Comments (0) link below looks a bit different. Commenting used to be supplied by Haloscan, and while they did a decent job, I've decided to change over to native Bloggercomments, because there seems to be no limit to the number of comments available on Blogger, and because they'll notify me by email, at no cost to me, when someone comments, and because it's nice to have a blog that's all made by the same guys, not cobbled together like some kind of Frankensteinian MacGyver blog, and because I just friggin' wanted to, OK?

Of course, it'd be kind of sad to lose all^[1] of everyone's old comments, so if you want to read the older ones, you can still click on the weird underline (___) that appears to the left of the comment link below to get to the Haloscan comments. But don't leave anything new there, 'cos I won't read it.

[1] When I say "all", I mean something like "the most recent 300"... like I implied above, Haloscan have a limit to the number of comments they'll store per blog.

Potter

2005-09-01T18:53:00.000+07:00

Not Harry, but the colonel from M*A*S*H.

I know it's not exactly topical, but why the hell did he put up with all the madcap antics from Hawkeye, Klinger, et al? Fair enough, Colonel Blake was a piss-ant and they could walk all over him, but Potter? He was a rootin', tootin', WWII-reminiscing, no-nonsense son of a gun... he should have eaten those wacky characters alive. Seriously, what's up with that?

Combat

2005-08-30T21:31:00.000+07:00

I seem to have a strange tendency to become "combat-ready" (and profane, but that's no surprise) in my sleep. Glover is acquainted with this phenomenon ("You fuckin' want some of this?"), and after this weekend just gone, so is some random boxer (the dog breed, not a proponent of the fistic^h arts). I was catching a bit of shut-eye in the sun in Gladstone Park after a long Saturday night, when I heard a deep bark. By the time I was awake, I was already on my feet, with a pointed finger, a big dog in front of me, and my own voice (albeit deeper than usual) ringing in my ears. "Back off, motherfucker!" I had apparently told this dog, and this, coming from rapidly-growing quarry - the foot-high lump on the ground was now a six-foot guy yelling in his deepest, most "alpha" voice - seemed to do the trick. He backed off.
Afterwards though, just like after the Glover incident, I wondered - if I can leap to my feet and make all "menacing" while I'm not even conscious, what else could I do? Hypothetically, could I have kicked the shit out of the dog before I even woke up? Could I have done (or OK, tried to do) that to Glover? Or is it all just some adrenal defense mechanism that wakes you up if there's any real action to be had? I think there's some Googling to be done... although the only hit for "fighting while asleep" seem to be a link to some Pokemon-related shit. More investigation required.

Flag

2005-08-23T16:00:00.000+07:00

I just noticed that in the "Blogger Bar" you can see at the top of this window, over on the right hand side there's a little button that says "Flag". If you mouse-over it, it tells you it's there so that you, the reader, can "notify Blogger about objectionable content". I was gonna freak out about that, and get all "censorship is bad!", especially given that one my favourite pastimes is to heap abuse on those I love. But it turns out that Blogger aren't quite that uptight - to quote the website: "one person's vulgarity is another's poetry". So even if you flag me a bunch of times, the Grand Adventure will still be around, it just won't get listed anywhere on Blogger, to minimise the chances of pure, innocent kiddies running across it by accident.

Knock yourself out.

That said, on a related topic, I've recently learned that another of my friend's parents are now reading The Grand Adventure. I'd almost feel dirty telling you that Cam just about shat himself on the back seat of Dave and Kim's Seat Arosa on the way to the airport in Dublin...

Space

2005-08-18T23:18:00.000+07:00

Well, well, well. After years of living in London, months of highly irregular blogging habits, weeks of deportation uncertainty, days of Thunder, and hours of high-speed, south-bound aerobatics, young Chris - the one with the Universe - has made his way back to the Old Country - that being South Africa - and started blogging with unexpected regularity again.

Dude, 3 Lancaster is that much quieter without your monkey-ass around. Thanks very much for making the last couple of years the foolish escapade that they were. There's a lot more I could say about Chris, but I think I'll let him speak for himself:

Chris, have yourself a wicked time back home, and I look forward to running into you again in the not-too-distant future, be it in one of our homelands, or somewhere new. Just make sure you knock next time...

Slainte

2005-08-18T20:10:00.000+07:00

OK, so I told you that Cam was in town. At the beginning of the month, he and I headed to Ireland. After an almost sleepless night in Heathrow, we awoke to a huge queue of people at the BMI check-in counter. Fortunately, this queue was almost entirely composed of technophobes who were afraid to use the self check-in machines, so we managed to jump that queue with only a few scowls being thrown our way.

In Belfast, our first port of call, we stayed at the International Youth Hostel, and our roomies in the hostel were a mixed bag. On the positive side of the dorm ledger was Joe the English Guy (as I'm sure he's known to his friends), a decent sort of a dude with whom we hung out for the duration of our time in Belfast. But on the negative side of the ledger was Cocksy McSnores - not his real name, but an accurate appellation, given that his two most distinctive attributes were (i) a penchant for sleeping "cock-out" style, always a treat in a shared room; and (ii) a tendency to snore at a volume that can only be described as "burlesque".

Apparently, through the night, I sleepily asked, "Is this guy taking the piss?" and "Will you just shut the fuck up?", but the answer to both of those questions was clearly "no".

Fortunately, Cam, Joe and I were reaonably liquored up from a jaunt that evening that had taken in the famous Crown pub - an ornate Victorian affair across the road from the also-famous, heavily-bombed Europa Hotel - so despite Cocksy's snoring and unconscious knob-flashery, we managed a tolerable night's sleep, and the next morning, leapt aboard a tour bus to travel much of the gorgeous coast of Northern Ireland, highlights of which included Carrick-A-Rede rope bridge, Giant's Causeway and the Old Bushmills Distillery. By a stroke of luck, our tour driver, Frank, had told us that when volunteers were sought on the Bushmills tour, they were selecting people for a taste-test at the end, so on top of the one shot of Bushmills that all tour-goers received, the lucky few received about another eight shots of whiskey for "tasting". Guess whose hand went up the quickest...

We returned to the hostel that night to find Cocksy gone, which was a treat. So after a night of decent sleep - the first in a while - we booked ourselves on a black cab tour around Belfast, as per workmate Alana's recommendation, and toured around to various sites and murals related to the whole loyalist-Republican deal - "the troubles", if you will - thereby subjecting ourselves to occasional aggressive quizzing from our gruff and burly driver to ensure that it was all sinking in.

After that, it was on to Dublin, to stay with Dave and Kim.

The watchword for our time in Dublin was "competition" (that's the way Kim likes it), and so, in addition to the obligatory Dave-Dayne arm-wrestle (Winner: Dave),

and the unspoken but very real Stinkiest Fart competitions (Winner: Cam, by a country mile) there were handstand competitions, cartwheeling competitions, Donkey Konga competitions (Winner: Anyone but me), can-you-drink-a-Guinness-so-that-the-head-falls-between-the-two-lines-on-the-pint-glass competitions, wrestling competitions, endless Rock-Scissors-Paper competitions to decide everything^[1] - so much so that Cam has now developed an uncanny - and frankly disturbing - ability to predict my Rock-Scissors-Paper behaviour.

But it wasn't all just light-hearted, competitive foolishness - we also dealt with a few more weighty issues,

such as:

of course, a visit to the Guinness storehouse;
important overuse of the word "slainte" (def: "cheers", pron: "SLON-cha");
chillin' with deer in Phoenix Park;
tolerance of a couple of annoying English girls, presuably lured to our table by Dave and Cam's charming personalities - or something;
the crucial carving of a fake penis out of a sausage;
the very necessary terrorising of Cam and Dave with aforementioned fake penis

All in all, despite the fact that Dave and Kim were no doubt glad to see the back of us - for reasons flatulence-related if nothing else - much fun was had. Thank you, guys.

[1] e.g. Who rides shotgun in the car? Who gets the back seat with marginally more legroom when Kim's riding shotgun? Who gets the bigger steak from the barbecue? What movie should we watch? Which street should we take when we're wandering around? Which pub should we go into? Should get another beer? Whose turn at Donkey Konga is it? You get the idea.

Excuses

2005-08-16T18:44:00.000+07:00

Excuses of the lamest variety, that is.

I promised posts regarding Ireland, Chris, and occasional defamation of Cam. The only reason I haven't posted the Ireland and Chris ones is because I keep forgetting to bring the appropriate photos to work.

The only reason I haven't posted the Cam-defamatory one(s) is because I'm slack. But it's true that Cam is a complete chappy. And clearly I'm not the only one who thinks so:

Canada

2005-08-10T21:00:00.000+07:00

OK, so when last we spoke of Canada, I was waxing illiterate on the joys of Prince Edward Island, correctly identified by one lucky reader as the home of Anne of Green Gables.

So after a few days there, it was off to Marcia's hometown of Fredericton, also known as Freddy Beach, presumably for its complete absence of beach.

Fredericton is a gorgeous little city on the Saint John, sporting an abundance of greenery (always a good thing), despite being the capital of the province of New Brunswick. Frederiction is also home to Clan Franklin though, which, while I'm a fan, can still be a little intimidating, particularly when you be stayin' in their house for a while.

For the most part, Fredericton was a quiet-side kind of a time - bear in mind that the primary reason for this trip to see McLobster again for the first time in months. But there was still fun to be had, including (in no particular order):

Watching Marsh play soccer ("She's not averse to a bit of the rough stuff," to quote her dad)

Meeting up with Steph and Anna again (having met 'em both in London previously)

Hanging with Team Fun (although it was 2/3 of Team Fun most of the time, since Jillian was on a camp for a good part of the time)

Meeting a bunch of Marcia's old friends (enumeration to follow)

Eating an 'I'll have the large' tiger-flavoured ice-cream. (Dude, it's North freakin' America. Didn't I learn on P.E.I.? "Large" translates as "fucking ridiculously, fill-two-pro-wrestlers-with-some-left-over-for-lunch-tomorrow large")

Steve defending his purchase of Subway stamps on eBay. ("It's straight-up smart")

Marcia's gift to me of a Roots t-shirt. (My selection was in no way influenced by the presence of the word "Roots", nor that of emblems representing "Canada" and "Beaver")

Swimming in the Saint John at Mactaquac, and walking past the Mack Daddy Shack (Well, it was really a road called Mactacaddy Road, but I couldn't look at the sign without seeing "Mack Daddy")

On my final night there, a plate of ribs that must have come from a mastodon, or something. (I was ready for it this time though, and had fasted for the week prior to going out)

Getting my arse handed to me by Blake and Jon Geneau in Foosball, every single time.

And of course, last but not least, camping in Fundy. This was deserving of its own paragraph at the very least, so I'll hit the Enter key twice, right about now

Fundy National Park is on the coast of the Bay of Fundy, home of the highest tides in the world. We headed there for a couple of nights, accompanied by
Marcia-friends (again, in no particular order) Gabe, Anna, Erik, Steph, Blake, Tristan, Ted, John C.

Camping in Fundy, and I would guess in Canada generally, is everything that old Disney made-for-television movies have taught me that camping should be. You're in a pine forest, squirrels get into your food if you don't secure it (little marshmallow-eatin' fuckers), a cougar perched on a rock wouldn't look too out of place - in short, you can easily imagine yourself as a plucky ten-year-old boy with a grubby face who ran away to the mountains when his Pa died in a mining accident. Or something.

Nights were the usual quiet, drunken, mallow-roastin', parked-by-the-campfire,
accidentally-brand-your-calf-by-standing-too-close-to-the-barbecue-plate kind of affairs that nights tend to be when you're camping (unless you're Gabe and/or Blake, and start feelin' all adventurous).

Daytimes were more of your maintain-a-furious-pace-hiking-through-the-bush eco-challenge-style affair, punctuated with inviting swimming holes and invigorating waterfalls, custom-made for leaping off. (For photographic evidence of same, see also Marcia's blog).

All in all, Canada was a fantastic destination, made more so by friendly Canadians, strangers and friends alike, including (here's that promised enumeration, again in no particular order) Maureen, John, Steve, Kelli, Jillian, Myrna, Terri, Anna, Steph, Airlie, Gabe, Erik, Tristan, Blake, Ted, John C, Jon G., Roxie, June, Shane, Ross, Andrew a.k.a. G., Aynsley, Celina, Barb, Jamie, Sue, Mike, the cabbie who delivered me back to the hotel after my drunken melodramatic wander down to the Halifax waterfront, and of course, most importantly, Marsh. Thank you to all of you.

Chronology

2005-08-08T16:55:00.000+07:00

I've been kind of out of circulation a bit lately, what with various jaunts, trips, excursions, outings, expeditions, synonyms and what-have-you, so I'm a bit behind on the blogging. I've made the decision to catch up chronologically, rather than tell you what's been going on lately, and then come back to the older stuff.

So, without giving away the surprise ending, blogs to come will include, in this order:

1. The Rest of Canada
2. Ireland
3. Chris's Farewell

There might be some other stuff lightly sprinkled in the middle (I'm guessing a bit of Cam-defamation, mostly), but those are the forthcoming highlights. Are you as excited as I?

Marcia

2005-08-04T18:57:00.000+07:00

In a move carefully engineered to mess with the accuracy of my "He Said" section over there on the right, Marcia (a.k.a. Leafy McLobster, a.k.a. Junior, a.k.a. Dawg, a.k.a. CHOMP!!!, etc.) has gone and started blogging. Keep abreast^h of her antics - e.g. hitting on the political elders of her hometown, ostensibly in some kind of sting operation - at Growing Pains and Pleasures

The E. stands for Eleanor, by the way.

Eire

2005-07-29T21:46:00.000+07:00

So the aforementioned Cam and I are off to Ireland tomorrow. Don't expect to see many updates on the ol' Grand Adventure, 'cos I'll be busy doing... other stuff.

Probably not the same type of "other stuff" I did last time I said that though... I don't think Dave's into that sort of thing.

Cam

2005-07-29T19:42:00.000+07:00

What can I say about Cam? My feelings regarding this young fellow are probably best expressed in the song Time for Revenge, a haunting, almost magical ballad by the incredibly handsome and talented group Contraband. But they're also nicely summed up in the photo below.

Anyway, the bitch is in my neck of the woods for the next little while, so postings for the next few weeks will probably have a higher-than-average number of references to flatulence, Cam's questionable sexuality, and... well, not much else, really.

Dude, it's sweet havin' you in town. But you are, of course, a complete chappy.

Canada

2005-07-29T16:16:00.000+07:00

If, on the morning of 7 July 2005, you had asked me what I thought the most I would ever pay for a cab ride would be, I would probably have said something like £80 (circa A$200), and even that would have to be under some pretty screwed up circumstances, like, oh, let's say, a hypothetical series of bombings that brings both public transport and traffic to a grinding halt on the day that I have to travel well over a hundred kilometres across one of the bigger cities of the world so that I can get to the airport to fly to Canada to see the girlfriend I haven't seen for months^[1]. For example.

Coincidentally enough^[2], this is exactly what happened that day. But I was way off on the price of the most expensive cab ride of my life (so far). Turns out that a ride from Willesden High Road to Gatwick Airport (South Terminal) is roughly £170. Do the conversion into your currency of choice. It hurts.

But anyway. I got there, and it was truly awesome. From that movie-style "meeting again in the airport" moment, to that movie-style "parting again in the airport" moment, and through all the less sappy and emotional, regular-travellin' type stuff in between, my time in Canada was fantastic.

First stop was Halifax, Nova Scotia. A pretty city, with more bars per capita than any other in Canada (apparently), Halifax is the final resting place of almost half the corpses recovered from the Titanic^[3], and the location in which I ate my first McLobster - a name I found funny enough to bestow upon Marcia ever since. Please join me in referring to her as such... she seems to love it. There was also a fairly big night out with a faction of McLobster's posse. I'd love to tell you more about it, but recollections are hazy at best...

So after a couple of days in Halifax, and an unintended intrusion on a wedding photography session^[4], we headed to the red-soiled (heh heh: soiled) Prince Edward Island, home of erstwhile flatmate Kesh. The weather was questionable, which was a pity, 'cos one of the big deals with P.E.I. is the beach, but it was still a good time - meeting up with Clan Franklin once more, chowin' down on a big-ass lobster dinner in which I distinguished/disgraced myself by eating approximately the entire mussel population of the North Atlantic as an entrée, hanging out (the next day) in Charlottetown with Marcia-friend Airlie for another gigantic meal (hello, North America), some a-shootin' of some pool and the a-watchin' of a movie. There was also an incident on Brackley Beach that necessitated me discarding my underpants, but the less said about that, the better...

[I'll cut off this entry here, because I'm coppin' pressure from various quarters vis-a-vis blog delays. Further Canadian-style shenanigans to follow...]

[1] I agree that on a day like that, in which dozens of people lost their lives and hundreds were injured, it's pretty selfish for me to focus on my inconvenience. So what's your point?
[2] Well, it would have been a coincidence, if you had asked me that, and I had replied in that way.
[3] Historians are divided as to whether this includes the guy who clanged off the massive prop in the James Cameron movie - Dayne's runner-up for most unintentionally funny cinematic death, after Brad Pitt's automotive double-bounce in Meet Joe Black.
[4] Hey, they were in the public gardens... what did they expect?

Arrival

2005-07-25T23:42:00.000+07:00

In the not-too-distant future, there'll be an entry about my recent Canadian adventures, but in the meantime, because some people are getting antsy, I'll share a bit of happy news:

My hat arrived today.

Safe

2005-07-14T01:16:00.000+07:00

Hi y'all. So 7 July was a big day for London. Still celebrating getting the 2012 Olympics, then getting blown to shit, and then, to top it all off, I leave, right when they needed me most (...or somethin').
I'll post a bit of a bigger entry some time soon... the main purpose of this one is just to let everyone (who hasn't heard via some other vector of information) know that I'm safely ensconced in Canada, far from the Land of Exploding Public Transport.
Apologies if you've been worried... phones were a pretty hit-and-miss proposition on the day, and this is the first time I've been near a computer since.
Like I say above, longer entries (heh heh) to follow, but like I also said a while back, I'm off to do... other stuff.

(Speaking of which, Marsh says hi)

Busy

2005-07-06T23:30:00.000+07:00

So I'm off to Canada tomorrow. Don't expect to see many updates on the ol' Grand Adventure, 'cos I'll be busy doing... other stuff.

Giving

2005-07-05T19:02:00.000+07:00

From the Idea-That-Everyone's-Had department...

Today, like most days, I was walking down Sutton Walk, near Waterloo Station. This is a popular hang-out for your begging types, and also for buskers and Big Issue salespeople. Buskers and Big Issue salespeople I respect - they're there doin' stuff for the cash that you give them. For some beggars I also have, if not a lot of respect, then at least a measure of pity and understanding - anyone can be down on their luck, and what's to say that I won't find myself forced into a position like that someday?

But today, the beggar in question was a young dude, sitting in a fucked-out, ratty blanket with a paper cup in one hand and a novel in the other. The guy was making no effort at the whole begging thing, and this, more than anything else, guaranteed that my change was staying locked in my pocket.

As I looked around, it occurred to me that Sutton Walk is kind of a shithole... nothing major, just your basic pigeon-shit-and-cigarette-butt cocktail strewn around the place. Now if this dude had been there, cleaning the joint up, he'd have been a lot more likely to get a Dayne-handout. Actually, not true: if the dude had been there cleaning, I would have figured that he was a paid cleaner, and there's no way I'd insult him by tossing 50p into his hat. But if there was a sign saying "Volunteer Cleaner On Duty", or some crap like that, then I'd be likely to dig a bit deeper.

So I got to thinking about the realities of a "Volunteer Cleaner" scheme, staffed by your homeless population. Issues that occurred to me (transitioning to a Q&A format^[1]):

Q: Where do the cleaners get the stuff they need - i.e. mops, detergent, brushes, gloves, etc.?

A: From some kind of Volunteer Cleaning Station, set up around the city at a cost of approximately fuck-all... a few buy-in-bulk-and-save bottles of detergent, bleach etc., plus an armory of mops, brooms, buckets, a volunteer to staff the fucker, and a stack of the all-important "Volunteer Cleaner on Duty" signs.

Q: What's the incentive to the homeless person to do it?

A: They get to keep all the money that they make - and I suspect that'd be a lot more than your average novel-reading layabout-style homeless guy makes. It'd be nice if the Volunteer Cleaning Station could somehow take a cut from the proceeds, to make the whole thing self-sustaining, but I don't know how feasible that is.

Q: What's to stop someone from just taking a sign, then just kicking back and reading a novel next to it?

A: That'd piss me off. There's no way I'd dish out shrapnel to a guy who did that. Would you? So what's the point of him doing that?

Q: If you have an army of people cleaning up the city, what's to stop your average Joe from turning into a complete slob, trashing the city because he knows that the cleaners are always just around the corner?

A: From a cynical point of view: nothing - there's the chance that having a mother-type figure cleaning up after them would encourage your average Joe to revert to a kind of childish/bad flatmate mentality. From an optimistic point of view: an increased sense of personal responsibility around the place generally. And from a realistic point of view: hopefully shame, at least. Could you just toss shit on the ground, safe in the knowledge that someone's gonna clean up behind you? If so, then you, sir, are a prick.

Q: What about the task of co-ordinating the cleaning, so that you don't have two guys doing the same job three hours apart, and that kind of thing?

A: I'm willing to let market forces take care of this. If you come into work, and Bob's sweeping the footpath outside the train station, and you toss 50c his way, then you come out at lunch and Aaron's doing the exact same thing, you're unlikely to throw 50c his way as well. Aaron'll get the message eventually, and clean something that actually needs it.

Q: What's to stop people making their own signs and freelancing?

A: Nothing. Go for it. They make themselves some money, and we all get to live in a cleaner city. Come and talk to the guy running the station if you like... I don't mind forking out a bit of detergent every now and then. It's not like it's the kind of commodity that he can then flog off on the black market.

There are probably a few more problems with it - anyone? As far as I can see, the sustainability issue's the biggest bitch, because it's tough to see a solution other than charging the cleaners for materials, and that's kind of self-defeating. Any ideas?

There's also no doubt some various council and employment-law hoops to jump through, and you'd have to ensure that the cleaners don't go polishing the wooden stairs out front of the old folks' home, and stuff like that, but I reckon that for (say) 500 of your local currency units, be they A$, £, US$, whatever, a person could set up a kind of trial scheme and at least see how it goes.

There's the possibility that the world is even more populated with pricks than I realised, and that the whole thing would fall on its arse, but I'd hope that's not the case.

[1] As an homage to Cryptonomicon, of course.

Vocabulary

2005-07-04T19:55:00.000+07:00

So I've moved out of my room, but I'm still staying in my house at the moment. To replace Chris and me, we've found two Latvian brothers. We met the one brother, John, first, and got talking about him and his brother. It came up that they weren't just brothers, but twins. I asked "so are you identical twins?"

John/Zans's English is OK, but clearly his vocabulary doesn't stretch to the word "identical". He was confused. That's cool. So I asked if they looked the same. "Not so much now," he said, "but..." At this point he held one finger in the air, "wait a minute"-style, then raced off to the bedroom. He came back brandishing a small, framed, black-and-white photograph of two kids, maybe two or three years old, dressed in some kind of old-school Latvian garb.

John/Zans: This is us. I don't know which one's me.

Dayne: Ah... yeah dude, that's 'identical'.

Cosmetic

2005-07-01T22:18:00.000+07:00

Unless you're using some kind of screen-reading software, or are here for the first time, or have an incredibly bad memory, you've probably noticed the overhaul that the ol' Grand Adventure has undergone.

I decided it was easier to just use one of the different templates that Blogger offer, rather than actually figure out what was going on. ("If it ain't broke, don't fix it. If it is broke, just fuck it off and get a new one.")

And in other matters cosmetic, you'll soon see me sporting this little treasure:

Mind the Gap

2005-06-27T23:28:00.000+07:00

Every cloud has a silver lining, they say. This big fuck-off gap that's spontaneously started appearing between the title and content (see above) of my most recent post (in Internet Explorer, at least - haven't checked on Firefox yet) is a pain in the arse, or in the parlance, a "cloud".

The silver lining is that I get to entitle this post - about that gap - "Mind the Gap", which anyone who's been on the London Underground will recognise as the time-honoured warning about the gap between the train and the platform, and which readers of the Baroque Cycle (hi Cam!) may recognise as a line uttered by the character Saturn, clearly as a fictional precedent to that modern-day Underground warning.

Patches

2005-06-27T17:49:00.000+07:00

A tip for the bearded reader:

If you have two tasks ahead of you, and one is trim your beard, and the other is drink half a dozen beers, do them in that order, otherwise you run the risk of doing what I did.

(Don't worry babe - it's not really that bad, and it'll be totally grown out in a couple of days)

Falling

2005-06-27T17:29:00.000+07:00

It's summer, and in London, that means 'tis the season for people to start collapsing on the tube. Every summer, TfL run a "Beat the Heat" campaign^[1]. The campaign's targeted at all and sundry, but you can totally pick who's gonna go down first. Today, for example, I saw two fallers, and they both fit the profile to a tee - waifish build, pallid, sickly-lookin', female. One was even pregnant - i.e. had a little parasite^[2] sapping whatever strength she did have.
The pregnant chick hadn't actually fallen over, but had got off the train because she felt like she was about to. So I ran down a tube employee, got him to come and see her. He asked her all the usual questions: was she feeling OK? (not really); did she need anything? (just a bit of a rest); did she want to sit down? (she's alright, thanks); did she want some water? (that'd be great). He got on the radio: "This is eastbound Jubilee platform, Tower Hill end. We've got a pregnant woman not feeling too good. Can we get some water down here?". The response: We'll see what we can do.

Seriously, "we'll see what we can do"? The chick's after a glass of water, not a fucking airlift to the maternity ward. Get a bit of heart, guys.

[1] Cue jokes about my ongoing "Beat the Meat" campaign.
[2] By the way, I just read your email, Faline. Congratulations!

Denied!

2005-06-27T17:22:00.000+07:00

It turns out my first time was a complete failure. I didn't have access to the internet over the weekend, so it's just now that I've learned that I was outbid on a very cool hat.

Although given that the winning bid was £37 + postage (for a freakin' hat, people!), I kinda get the feeling I wasn't the only loser in this auction.

Virginity

2005-06-23T00:11:00.000+07:00

So, almost 10 years after the eBay phenomenon came into being, I've finally leapt aboard that bandwagon. Those of you who know me - particularly those who hung with me in Brisbane just before my departure to the UK - will not be surprised to learn that, despite Marcia's disapproval, I'm currently the highest bidder on this puppy.

If the mood takes me, I might even wear it in the Bangkok marathon, but I doubt it.

Marathon

2005-06-14T18:16:00.000+07:00

For a few years now, there's been a vague notion in my mind that I'd like to run a marathon at least once in my life. I've never run that distance, but I've pushed out 21km before, so it's (maybe) feasible. I've been living in London for something approaching two years now, and London having the cool climate that it does, it would be sensible to take advantage of that, and run my one and only marathon here.

Did that sound convincing? Or did your bullshit detector start going crazy, right around the time you got to the word "sensible"? It should have. I (of course) have managed to let the London marathon come and go twice without entering, but now that I'm moving to Bangkok - regularly described as "so humid that you can hardly breathe, let alone move" or similar - I've decided to register for the local marathon there, on November 27th. Admittedly it's in Winter, and it starts at 3:30am, but it's still gonna be a killer.

So will I be able to handle it? Not sure. But it was Glover's appraisal that tipped the scales and convinced me to register:

"A marathon is a goodly distance, and you will be fucked in ways you don't even want to imagine for a couple of weeks afterwards, but I'd guess that you'll be able to finish it with only a little preparation (of course, I don't know how fat you've gotten in London). My advice is to bear in mind that the guy in front (or behind) is hurting as much as you are, if nothing else it's more fun to think about how much he's suffering rather than focus on your own pain. Every now and then it's OK to start laughing for no apparent external reason while you contemplate it."

And one final question: how fat have I got in London? Well, not very. My BMI is still well within tolerances, and I'm nowhere near Zac in his prime (think "side of beef stuffed inside a human carcass" - Hi Zac!). I could stand to drop a couple of pounds, I guess, but you wouldn't point and laugh with your friends if I walked by. Well, not about my size, anyway.

We'll see how it goes. Updates in late November - sooner, if I get motivated enough to blog my training regime, or something equally boring. Wish me luck.

Sunburnt

2005-06-09T00:06:00.000+07:00

I am. It's cool¹.

[1] Yeah, I know. It sounds like I'm one of those stupid, image-is-everything melanoma promoters. But seriously, London sunburn's like nothing. Red for a day, then straight back to my usual lighter shade of pale, with no real pain or "tight skin" sensation. It's pretty cool.

The Common Touch

2005-06-02T19:56:00.000+07:00

So we moved offices the other day, to the south end of Blackfriars Bridge, pretty much. If I walk downstairs from work, head to the river and turn left, in a couple of minutes I end up on The Queen's Walk.

I reckon it's been a while since she's been for a stroll along there though.

Turtles

2005-05-27T00:17:00.000+07:00

The observant reader may have noticed that The Leopard's Tale - Dan Zwolenski's account of his efforts at snow leopard conservation and his subsequent Asian travels with Glover - has been taken off the Venture Out list and been replaced with Aztec Gold - Dan Zwolenski's account of his efforts at sea turtle conservation and his subsequent South American travels on his own.

I'll be heading over there regularly for my share of vicarious backpacking. Feel free to join me.

Crew

2005-05-26T23:50:00.000+07:00

So it's like this:

Chris is shooting his final short film this weekend.

Because of a little problem I solved for him, I get a credit in the Crew section as Technical Advisor. Or maybe it's Technical Adviser, with an 'E'. Whatever.

Anyway, the upshot of it all is, does anyone know where in London I can get my hands on a live rooster at short notice? It only has to be for a day, and I'm willing to fork out up to and including a tenner.

Why? See, I've got an agreement with Chris, that if I can provide a rooster, he'll write it into a scene, and I can get a further credit as a Cock Wrangler.

Anglicised

2005-05-18T05:16:00.000+07:00

My name is Dayne May.

Arguably the greatest fictional martial artist in recent film history is Pai Mei.

Aside from the untidy detail of different spellings, we share a surname.

I have thus adopted Pai Mei as an ancestor.

In the name of all that is completely fraudulent, I beseech you, my dearest friends:

If anyone - particularly an inquisitive Canadian lass - asks, say that yes, Dayne May is a direct descendent of Pai Mei. It'd mean a lot to me.

Thanks.

Empty

2005-05-11T23:48:00.000+07:00

For the first time in a long time, my email inbox has been completely cleared. So if you're expecting a reply from me, but you haven't got one yet, it's because I'm ignoring you.

Please, just go away!

Bells

2005-05-06T20:20:00.000+07:00

Because I'm shit, this is belated, but you're used to that:

Just a quick word to congratulate Danielle and Shane (a.k.a. Fanny Smell and Maxwell) on their wedding this weekend just gone.

I hear everything went well, and that it was really good and nice. Actually, different adjectives and adverbs were used (magically, beautiful, special, etc), but it was chicks telling me that, so I've translated.

Anyway guys, again: my congratulations (and yeah, Shane, I'll be a shoulder to cry on when I'm back in The Land Down Under).

Photos available here.

Away

2005-04-26T14:37:00.000+07:00

> it would seem that you plan to extend the stay away

Such was "Justin Thyme"'s deduction in a recent comment, and yeah, he's right.

I've told a bunch of people this, in individual conversations or emails, but for (my) convenience, here's a quick summary of my movements over the next months:

Early July: Canada for two weeks
Late July, early August: Ireland for a week^[1]
Late August: Eastern Europe would rock. Cash be on the tight side though, so we'll see.
September: Return to The Land Down Under for a brief period - a month or so, it looks like.
Mid October: Get my monkey arse to Bangkok for a year of teaching English.

The standard joke^[2] is that there'll be a generation of gorgeous little Thai kids running around with exactly one English verb and one English noun in their vocabularies. I'll leave it to you^[3] to figure out what those two words might be...

[1] Cam, we gots to be sortin' shit out on this point. And Dave and Kim, because it's important to "just ask, man": may I(/we) stay with you guys in Dubbers?
[2] Apologies to those who've already heard this line ad nauseum.
[3] "I'll leave it to you," he said, showing uncharacteristic restraint in his use of profanity.

Limelight

2005-04-24T21:57:00.000+07:00

So, after stealing the (aforementioned) limelight by writing what seems to be the most widely read entry on my blog ever, Marcia (a.k.a. Cute, a.k.a. Marshy Marshersons, a.k.a. Yeah Yeah Yeah yeah yeah yeah, a.k.a. Character, a.k.a. Dawg, etc., etc.) has gone and left me, to seek fame and fortune back in her homeland. Well, I'm taking liberties with the truth here, but the point is, after much foolishness, drunkeness, arboreal imprisonment, experimentation, terror over Icelandic scenery, extreme Sunday laziness, explosion of worlds, bitching about lack of a goodbye blog, European Vacationing and more, Marsh has taken her leave of the Land of St. George and is safely ensconsed in the family home once again. I'm not about to wax too emotional on the matter, because you guys'll all give me shit and that terrifies me, but Marsh, I will say that 3 Lancaster was so much the better for your presence, and your leaving marks the end of an era around here. Can't wait for (i) Canadia in July; and (ii) Thailand in October.

Take care, babelingtenonious.

Ego

2005-04-24T21:32:00.000+07:00

As you probably know, either through long association with me, or from the byline at the top of this page, I'm accustomed to people telling me that I'm egotistical and arrogant.

At least, that's what I always thought they meant, when they told me that I had a big head. But yesterday, I saw "Mr Jones", Chris's first short film from his course with the New York Film Academy, in which I play the title role. I'm now convinced that actually, no-one thinks I've got a swollen ego, but that for years, everyone's just been trying to inform me that physically, my cranium is oversized. Seriously, in Mr . Jones, I'm built like a toffee apple in a suit.

Hirsute

2005-04-11T22:10:00.000+07:00

I hear that 90% of female white-collar workers, and 80% of male, would prefer their male co-workers to be clean-shaven. The women I understand, since (I also hear that) 99% of women allegedly find clean-shaven men more attractive, and who doesn't want to work with hotties, but the guys? Screw you, fellas.

Cardiff

2005-04-11T22:07:00.000+07:00

Went to Cardiff this weekend just gone, Marcia's last in the UK.

We were pretty bad travellers this time (not like Iceland), not really going to see or do very much. But points of note were:

1. Singing. Weird. Everyone in our hostel seemed to be singing 24-7. It was almost like being in a musical; so much so that I started singing everything I said. But that was too much trouble, especially when you can butcher a tune like I can, so I gave it up pretty quickly. For now.

2. Cardiff Castle. Situated in the centre of town, you can't really help but go to Cardiff Castle. At the very least, you're forced to check it out every time you walk by, standing there guarded by its stone lions, bears, wolves, seals, monkeys, pelicans &c. Got a decent hand-stand photo out front of the Roman fort inside the castle.

3. Brains S.A., the local brew. The official line is that S.A. stands for "Special Ale". Lonely Planet makes a joke about it standing for "Skull Attack". Marsh and I, though, are convinced it stands for "Sleeping Ale". Brains is a smooth drop, but after a half-dozen pints, we were both ready for bed. Not that slumped-against-the-stairs-with-vomity-drool-on-your-shirt kind of sleep either, just a general, couple-of-drinks-lying-in-the-sun-after-lunch kind of sleep. Pleasant, but annoying when you're in a new city for only a few days and wanna see and do stuff.

4. Nightlife, part (i). The Brains S.A. had done a job on us, but we managed to haul ourselves out of bed at around 10pm to check out the nightlife. A quick lap of the High Street - mile-long queues of eighteen-year-old girls in matching short-skirt-and-bare-shoulders uniforms, accompanied by twenty-year-old boys in matching tight-shirt-and-rugby-shoulders uniforms - was discouraging. We grabbed a quick bite at Subway - whose bouncer of course wouldn't tolerate me sitting on the seats - then went in search of somewhere with decent music and less of a queue. As if we'd willed it into being, the Sandringham appeared. A hotel with indistinct-but-OK-sounding music pumping out the door, and best of all, no line. One pound each cover charge, and we're in. Then we discovered why there was no line and minimal cover. It must have been a trick of the Cardiff air, or something, but "decent music" was the furthest thing from what the Sandringham had to offer. It was like a cruise ship had run aground in central Cardiff - late-middle-aged drunk people bumping and grinding flirtatiously to all the worst eighties "classics"; fat guy making out with ugly girl in a too-well-lit corner; young, attractive, presumably-suicidal staff. Marsh insisted that, if a good song came on, we had to dance at least once, but I knew I was safe, and I was right.

5. Nightlife, part (ii). The Sandringham closed at 1am, so we poured back into the High Street with the fifty-somethings and went in search of happier hunting grounds. Of course, we hadn't learned our lesson with the Sandringham, so we found ourselves in a younger, slimmer version of same. The atmosphere was better - dimmer lighting, cooler layout, sexier crowd - but the music sucked just as badly, and I'm pretty sure it was the same dodgy DJ talking over the top of it. We of course stayed until closing (2:30am), but as we bailed, Marsh noticed that her jacket was missing. This shat me, because I'd been sitting next to it the whole time, but at least that made it easy to develop a shortlist of suspects, beginning and ending with the three English guys who'd been sitting across from us. In London, that would be the end of it - you'd curse their names, wish them all a horrible death and be done with it, because you'd never see them or the top again. Cardiff's way smaller though, so Marsh and I made a bee-line for the front door, spotted 'em, ran them down and - tap, tap... "Mate, your coat looks a bit tight" - got it back. And not even a hint of fisticuffs, which was refreshing.

Guest

2005-04-04T22:21:00.000+07:00

A little while ago, I promised Marcia a guest spot on my blog. Be warned: it gets a bit off-colour towards the end. Then again, if you've been here before, you've probably got a pretty high tolerance for "off-colour".

So with no further ado, here she is. The little lady herself, Miss Marcia Franklin (with, of course, notations by your humble correspondent):

As you may or may not know, I’m heading back to the land of the maple leaf quite shortly. In light of this, I recently asked Dayne’s permission to address his friends and family through his blog. I felt that they needed to be collectively warned about his persistently annoying behaviour. In my absence, I believe that one or more of them could become the next victim of his quite irritating and often even infuriating acts of annoyance. So here it is: family and friends of Dayne Jacob May, be warned! The following is a list of things that he likes to say and do to annoy me, and you could be next on his list!

10 OF DAYNE’S VARIOUS EFFORTS AT BEING MORE ANNOYING THAN I WOULD HAVE EVER THOUGHT POSSIBLE:

1. Inventing songs where there is only one word (examples being both "Marcia" and "yeah") and repeating this word over and over and over again. Sometimes he also likes to mix it up by changing his made up tune to that of the White Stripes song, "Seven Nation Army".
2. Repeating the word "yeah" 6 times, three in a bass voice and then three again in a higher voice. He also mixes this one up but simply repeating the word "yeah" about a hundred times – often on my voicemail while I’m working so that when I find time to listen to the message I’ll be annoyed at how useless it was.
3. Repeating inside jokes that maybe only one or two people understand because he knows that this will drive everyone else around him (especially me) crazy, an example being "Mondays between 7 and 8" which was repeated on a constant basis between him and an old housemate, Adam, even though no one else understood what it meant for weeks.
4. Telling tales of his younger years that are so completely fabricated the listening party doesn’t even know how to respond. Examples of this would be "remembering" (after watching Kill Bill vol. 2) "when he was trained by Pai Mei" and (while staring at the waterfall Gullfoss in Iceland) "when he was a young waterfall."
5. Inventing competitions when there is absolutely no need for competing. An example of this was while we were in Iceland and he announced that he was sleepy. When I agreed that I was sleepy too, he quickly and loudly responded "sleepier!" (Variations of this can occur when he wants to "race" in the tube stations and such when I am in absolutely no mood for racing anywhere).
6. Insisting that tall = cool, therefore making him cooler than me as he is clearly taller.
7. Referring to himself as Earth’s Greatest Warrior and insisting that he can fight ninjas with his superior skills. He also refuses to believe that I can have any dreams that do not contain, at least for a second, ninjas.
8. Adopting a voice and using only that voice for days at a time. Examples of this are his pirate voice (taken from Steve the Pirate in Dodge Ball), his Mr. T. voice, and his 80-year-old grandpa-style laugh. An even more annoying variation of this was when he tried to be the character Sam Fisher from his XBox game Splinter Cell. He dressed in black and constructed a Fisher-style headlamp out of toilet paper rolls, then "grabbed character" (i.e. me) from behind and dragged me out of the room.
9. Insisting that it wasn’t him who did something (e.g. pinched or slapped me), but instead someone else entirely. I can always clearly see that it was him (so it’s not him trying to be tricky) and it gets even more annoying than usual when he tries to blame someone that I’ve never even met and is in Australia (Cam, you have often been blamed – don’t let him get away with it!)
10. The fact that he is, at the end of the day, seriously perverted. Because family is reading this, I won’t go into detail, but be warned: he cannot be trusted around young children, most of all his own future children. He also thoroughly enjoys announcing things in public places just to see my face turn a deep shade of purple, the most classic and disgusting being (on the tube one night, in a loud voice, repeated several times) "Marcia, you have a lovely vagina."

So that’s it, you have been warned. I hope none of you have to suffer through the torture that I have for the last 6 months. Just kidding, it’s been amazing. I’m really gonna miss my hugely annoying and perverted boyfriend while away from him this summer. I love you, Dayne!

Marcia (a.k.a. Cute)

Adoption

2005-03-31T14:37:00.000+07:00

I spoke to my mum and my sister (Jaimie) on the phone last night. I've been in the UK for almost 18 months now, and from Jaimie's surprise at my continued Australian twang, apparently she was expecting me to have picked up an English accent by now. I told her that that would be unacceptable - if I was gonna get a new accent, I'd at least get a cool one, like some Hispanic accent, or an Irish accent or something.

Also, I've long struggled to weed out any idioms in my speech that I pick up from "being around someone else too much". I think this goes back to some crappy online personality test I took years ago, which pretty much implied that if you pick up all your friends' sayings and turns of phrase, then you are a weak-minded fool, but if people around you pick up your turn of phrase, then you're a Jedi master.

On the other hand, I think it's still important to acknowledge that your vocabulary and manner of expressing yourself will change over time.

But how to reconcile these two seemingly contradictory drives - the urge to, on the one hand, acquire new words, phrases and sayings, and on the other, to be a Jedi master? The only way forward that I can see is to acquire new turns of phrase, but only to do it consciously. To actively decide, "yes, I like this saying. I'll use it,".

So, after that long preamble, I'm going on record, saying that I have consciously adopted the English use of the adverb "well", meaning "extremely".

Example usage: "Dude, did you see that chick on the other side of the bar? She was well tasty."

Bleach

2005-03-23T00:42:00.000+07:00

I recently bleached my hair.

There are three schools of thought when it comes to what I look like:

(i) A Super Saiyan. The dark beard and brows, not to mention the lack of musculature and the fact that Saiyans, and indeed Super Saiyans, are flights of fancy, kinda give the lie to this one though.
(ii) An Icelander. While we were there, locals addressed me more than once in Icelandic.
(iii) A twat.

I'd say (iii)'s most likely.

Iceland

2005-03-21T20:48:00.000+07:00

"There are four things you can never be insured for in Iceland: water damage - if you drive through a river; sandstorms; undercarriage damage and driving on F-Roads. F-Roads are roads for four-wheel drives... not really roads."

So said the guy at the rental car place in Reykjavik. Marsh and I spent a long weekend - Thursday through Sunday - in Iceland, and yes, it's true. It really is a weird friggin' place. I mean, honestly. Sandstorms?

Thursday and Friday were good. Fairly run-of-the-mill tourists-in-a-capital-city type stuff, but good. We went to the National Museum of Iceland, and the National Photogallery of Same, checked out the National Gallery, searched for the Iceland Phallological Museum - cocks from over 80 animals, apparently - but never found it, despite a little B&E at Laugavegur 24. Ate some incredibly expensive seafood, drank some insanely expensive beer, and met a maniacally enthusiastic cab driver^[1].

Then Saturday came, and we got to see "the real Iceland". We hired a little grey Volkswagen Polo for the day and drove east through Thingvellir National Park, where I jumped out of the car to do some push-ups on a partially frozen lake.

The day's exercises seen to, we continued eastward to Geysir - the natural water jet from which all other geysirs take their name. Geysir itself - sealed by tourists throwing crap into it - now only goes off after earthquakes, they say. I was, of course, hoping for some Richter scale action to set the big fella in motion, but there was none to be had, and so, like thousands of tourists before us, Marsh and I had to content ourselves with Geysir's little brother Strokkur, about fifty feet away.

Strokkur, while smaller than Geysir, still blows about 25m into the air, and the upside of Strokkur is, it goes off every five minutes or so. All in all, the whole area is wicked - ground that's warm to the touch in places, pockmarked with holes filled with water too hot to immerse your hand in, all set in a landscape of snow and ice, sometimes so close to the holes that a small child could underhand a lump of ice into the hot water. Otherworldly.

After that, we headed to Gullfoss, "Golden Falls", a 32m waterfall just down the road from Geysir. Gullfoss, also set in a landscape of snow and ice, was pretty magnificient, especially to a hot-climate monkey like me, and the somewhat-treacherous icy path out to the cliff overlooking it made it all seem like quite the adventure.

All this stuff was within 100km of Reykjavik, so it was still pretty early in the day by the time we left Gullfoss. At Marcia's suggestion, we decided to check out the Blue Lagoon - Lonely Planet says it's over-rated, but it sounded cool anyway. We decided unanimously - i.e. the two of us agreed - to take "the long way" to the Blue Lagoon, which was back to the west, on the other side of Reykjavik. We set off south, and after a few wrong turns, found ourselves in the middle of probably the weirdest landscape I have ever seen.

A lot of the "main highways" in Iceland aren't much more than gravel roads. Most of the traffic that they see seems to be massive 4x4 tourist buses, and so, while they're plenty wide, the roads - even the ones that aren't F-Roads - are ripped up, corrugated, steep^[2], winding, precipitous and without guardrails - always a treat given that they're foggy as a motherfucker as well.

All this, in a landscape made entirely, as far as the eye can see in every direction, of busted-up lava rocks covered in moss. You don't really notice it at first, but after an hour or so of this, it really starts to dawn on you how unearthly the whole scene is. The occasional lone house that you see does nothing to assuage the sense of weirdness. If anything, it acts as a kind of counterpoint to the bizarre setting, highlighting the strangeness rather than acting as a welcome lifeline to normality. You can't help but wonder what kind of freaky people be livin' in those houses. By the time we got back to regular roads, Marsh was gripping the door handle with a sweaty hand, and we were agreed that a unicorn prancing across the street in front of us wouldn't have been out of place. The in-flight magazine on the way over mentioned that Peter Jackson should have shot Lord of the Rings in Iceland rather than NZ, and there's a good case for it. Again, otherworldly.

But. As I say, we were on our way to the Blue Lagoon, and although it took us longer than expected to get there - due, no doubt, to some kind of troll magic - we made it, and it was well worth the freaky drive through Middle Earth. The Blue Lagoon was as blue as - probably bluer than - any swimming pool you've ever been in, filled entirely with geothermally heated seawater that's almost uncomfortably warm in places, and covered in a fog so dense you couldn't see the far side, only a stone's throw away. True, they've kinda touristed the place up a bit, and true, there were tourists there - like the American kids who were amazed at how "gangster" it was - but even taking that into account, kicking back in that water was a highlight of the trip.

That was about it in Iceland itself - having avoided water damage, sandstorms, undercarriage damage and F-Roads - but there was one final highlight:

On the flight back to Heathrow, we were sitting next to an Icelandic actor named Ingvar Sigurðsson, who's apparently in London auditioning for the role of Silas, the freaky and violent albino monk in the movie of The Da Vinci Code. He was a pretty cool dude, although maybe not quite as cool as his IMDB photo makes him look.

[1] Enthusiastic? What do I mean? I'm glad you asked:
-(us) "Hi."
-(him) "Hello."
-"Can you take us to Hotel Cabin?"
-"Welcome!!" (to be said as loudly and as enthusiastically as you can physically manage)

[2] On a few of the hills, I had the Polo down to first, and had it working hard by the time we got to the top.

Appeasement

2005-03-14T17:59:00.000+07:00

Camden, in north London, is known for the ease with which a punter can buy weed on the street. Guys'll be walking down the street, muttering "Skunk, skunk, ganja, weed, ganja", and if you're up for it, you make eye contact, he offers it again to make sure, and you iron out the details of the transaction while looking furtively around for the cops who don't actually give a shit.

Not long after arriving in London, on a trip to Camden, I was advised not to make eye contact while I was walking down the street - with anyone, "just in case" they were a dealer^[1].

Camden, by the way, isn't that hardcore. I of course ignored the advice, made eye contact as normal, and if someone offered me weed, either ignored 'em, or gave 'em a quick "nah, mate" and carried on.

This eye contact thing, though... it's turning into a bit of an issue. I suspect it's all got to do with the winter making some people cranky, but either way, in the past two weeks or so, I've talked my way out of three fights, all stemming from me making eye contact with people^[2].

Three fights. Two weeks. For some people, that'd be par for the course, but I haven't been in a serious fight since... well, ever, really. Before this winter, the last time I even had to talk my way out of any shit was a drunken night at the Regatta almost two years ago.

But I'm sick of appeasing fuckheads. I'm going on record, right now, with the following:

I will continue to make eye contact as normal. Anyone who wants to take a swing at me for it can do so, and in doing so, accepts whatever consequences come. If that means I get my arse handed to me twice a week for the next three months and never land a punch, so be it.

Updates as and when available.

[1] The assumption being that I didn't want to be dealt to.
[2] And, no, I wasn't trying to screw any of them.

Props

2005-03-09T06:00:00.000+07:00

For a while now, I've been stealing Reubs's cool idea, to underline stuff whenever something occurs to me, then slap the something up in a ToolTip. For a footnote-crazy fool like me, it's perfect.

So thanks, Reubs.

A Pile of Shit

2005-03-09T05:56:00.000+07:00

I'm not even gonna link to IMDB on this one.

Don't go and see Hide and Seek - the "spooky" movie with Robert De Niro, Famke Jansen and Dakota Fanning. Do something productive with your time instead, like lying in bed and trying to lick your own perineum, or something.

Cracking up under the pressure

2005-03-09T04:56:00.000+07:00

Today was a day of good news and bad. Bad before good is customary, so:

I was chewing gum at the gym, when I felt a crunchy, not-at-all-like-gum sensation. I've had a similar thing happen about six or seven years ago^[1], so I was pretty sure what had happened, and when I spat out the gum (& co.), it was confirmed.

The slowly increasing pressure against my back teeth, ratcheting up every time my zany wisdom teeth decide to make another bid for freedom^[2], had finally done what dentists and orthodontists been warning me about for years. One of my molars had finally cracked under the pressure, literally, and a corner got crunched off one of my back teeth.

(Sorry Mum... I'll get something done before more damage is done to all that expensive orthodontic work. No, really. I will.)

Of course, me being the movie geek that I am, my first thought was none of the following:

(i) "Shit. That can't be good."
(ii) That apology to my mum above.
(iii) "This is bound to start hurting like a bastard in a second." (it didn't)
(iv) "At this rate, my entire skull is gonna collapse before I reach age 40." (it probably will)

Nope. My first thought was:

"Cool. It's like that scene in Kill Bill Vol. 1, where the young (animated) O-Ren Ishii gut-stabs the paedophile who killed her parents, and in agony, he bites down so hard that his teeth all just explode."

So that's the bad news.

The good?

My latest purchase from Amazon arrived today. A Sony NW-E99 Network Walkman - 1GB capacity, no HDD, tiny as... something pretty small. An exploding tooth is a small price to pay^[3].

Actually, now that I think of it, the other cool thing about the tooth incident is that it's kinda like being a spy, with a false "suicide" tooth filled with cyanide, to bite down on and break in the event that I'm found by the enemy. Except I was just in the gym, so that would have been a waste of a good spy. Lucky there was no cyanide. Or enemy, for that matter.

(Don't bother with comments to the tune of "you're a ten year old boy stuck in a man's body". I've heard it all before - and thought it, and thanked my lucky stars for it.)

[1] That one wasn't wisdom-tooth related though, just an unfortunate run-in between an old filling and a Mintie.
[2] They are zany. Like a lot of people's wisdoms, mine are big and fat and stuck in a mouth that can't accommodate them. So they're all over the shop. Rather than growing parallel to the other teeth, I've got one wisdom growing at, like, 30^o to the other teeth, another practically growing backwards - i.e. up into my brain - and a third growing at right angles to the proper direction - i.e. straight into its neighbour. I can't remember where the fourth one's going... probably making a break for my heart or something.
[3] Although, yes, you're right. RRP + an exploding tooth is a bit steep.