Ray Harryhausen

I didn't know who Ray Harryhausen was until about five years ago. But I remember the movies. I remember Jason and the Argonauts fighting the skeletons. The ogre thingy fighting the sabre tooth tiger. I remember cursing Clash of the Titans for getting the mythology wrong. And then seeing the more recent once, and taking my years of resentment for the original back.

But Ray Harryhausen was the man that made the skeletons fight, gave life and character to the ogre thingy, and made Medusa stone-turningly ugly. With a great rack. ​

And I remember watching these movies, when I was younger, and thinking that there were so many movies with better effects out there and they looked kind of hokey. And they did. But my first mobile phone compared to today's standards was a brick. My first car didn't look as... actually, it looked better. 1971 MGB, and for my money, most cars today just don't look as cool (mine had a roll bar). But my first computer was a brick, with another brick to display the images, and another brick to put a disk in and play a game where bricks dropped on a blocky impersonation of a person.​

So progress should happen, and can happen, and I welcome it. And if it weren't for Mr. Harryhausen's effects we wouldn't have progressed to a Star Wars that seemed real; an ET we believed was alive; ​a Jurassic Park that even today looks more authentic than any other film out there. And for us jaded Gen...whatever the hell most of us are, I have no idea what generation I'm supposed to fall in to.. we need to re-watch those films, rediscover the artistry and passion and ingenuity that went into creating them, and maybe, just maybe, we'll end up with something that people to watch. 

Competition

Many years ago, before I had grey in my hair or groans in my bones, I went to University. I learned a tonne of stuff that I promptly forgot, and loads more stuff that I half remember and still hesitantly quote from time to time.​ And a smattering of things that, if reincarnation happens, I'll probably get reborn knowing. 

But one thing I never really learned was how to be competitive. I mean, winning is great and all, but in the top three was usually good enough for me. Maybe the top five. Top ten depending on how many people were there.​

The link between University and competitiveness has to do with beer. And two stories. ​

I went to Salzburg, Austria, for my sophomore year to (slightly) study and (mostly) travel. The first story is to do with a party we had, where we decided it would be a good idea to drink half-litres of beer as quickly as we could. Now, I was the smallest of the guys doing this (hard to imagine now, I know, but I'm slowly kicking adult-onset diabetes' arse. Or at least gently and unstrenuously ​pushing it around). I was also the youngest, by about six months, which meant because I was from the UK I'd been drinking about five years longer than most of the people there. So I could drink. I had, however, only recently developed a taste for beer. Anyway, I digress. We had the beers, we popped the tops, and I finished mine first. That upset one or two of the guys, who demanded a rematch, because they couldn't believe this shortarse youngster from poncy England could beat them. And I knew I couldn't do it again so I told them. They insisted. I explained that it wasn't that I couldn't drink beer fast, but that I was going to puke cos putting that much fluid in my stomach at once would lead to a disaster. They insisted, and I proved them and myself right. So competing not fun.

Fast forward a year. Back in the US, the Salzburg groups would have a "keg off."​ The older group bought two kegs, invited everyone from both groups around to a house, and had a race to see who could kill the keg first. So the drinkers were all excited about this prospect, because no young year had beaten the old year in the history of the Salzburg keg off, and we thought we had a shot. Then the beer started pouring, theirs was clear as only American beer can be, and ours was dark and foamy. And I remember one guy from our group being about as pissed as I've ever seen someone about losing a competition they were preordained to lose. Comments along the lines of "It's bullshit," and "It's not fair," echo through the years.

But the year after that, we were the old Salzburgers. IT was our turn to get the keg, and guess who was at the forefront of the move to get the thickest heaviest beer possible, and roll the keg on the way? The same guy who bitched about them doing it to him the year before. Hurrah for competitiveness. ​

So the whole point of this meandering, misty-eyed look back, is actually the Clipper Race. People keep asking me what you get if you win the race. And you know what? ​Never crossed my mind to ask. Don't care. Because when you finish something like that, the first thing I'll get is an amazing sense of accomplishment. I should be a pretty damned good sailor at the end of it. Memories. Stories. And isn't that enough? Why does there have to be something you 'get' if you win. Winning the race isn't why I'm doing it. Is that why half the people I know are doing marathons and triathlons and tough mutters? To win?

No, it's the sense of accomplishment. But for some reason when I say it's a boat race they immediately think of winning. I'm going to start asking them what they get if they win their triathlon.​

Although having said that, considering the whole race is made up of fifteen races, I'd love to get the yellow pennant on one of the fifteen.......​Or how about a Clipper Keg Off?

garments

So here's the thing. I'm currently sitting on the roof of the house I'm living in right now, wearing three items of clothing I anticipate taking on the the boat race with me, ​and I'm as happy as I've been in quite a while.

I mean, the wind is shitty. It means regardless of the cover, I'm going to have to deal with a bunch of debris in the pool. And one of my neighbours has this extractor fan ​that gets moved when the wind is above half a knot, so I hear this incessant squeaking that would probably be solved with a squirt of WD40. My laptop has even hinted a couple of times that it would like nothing more than to take of and see how far the gusty, almost chilly wind would take it.

Almost chilly, cos I'm starting to put together the basics of the kit I'm going to need to make it round the world.​

Pair of bamboo boxers, Harken pants, and an Icebreaker top.

And here's the thing. In looking in to the clothing I'll need for the race, I'm kinda changing how I look at clothing in general. Because bamboo isn't a traditional clothing  textile, but if you've never tired it I would recommend you get a pair of bamboo undies now. Don't matter if yore sailing round the world, just try a pair. Trust me. ​Had bamboo sheets for a couple of years and they;re great, but bamboo underwear? You'll like it. And so will your partner.

So the Harken pants. I like them, I just haven't really had the chance to try them properly. But they're flexible, not cold as I sit on the roof in what feels like a force seven wind.​

And the Icebreaker top. I didn't buy it. My parents got it, on a day they went swimming with wild dolphins they still remembered that I mentioned pure merino wool base layers, and got me one. And it's brilliant. Now don't get me wrong, I'm sat on the roof and chilly, but it's taken me half an hour, squinting out one eye and clumsily ​hammering away at my keyboard to get this far, and actually feel cold. And what I'm wearing isn't supposed to do what it's doing pretty well right now, and that's why it's brilliant. 

That, and the fact my folks decided to get it for me even on a day they should have only been thinking about themselves, kicking off an item from their bucket list. And it's why I'm doing the race and sailing round the world, instead of being a fully signed up member of society. I'd rather buy and try and wear the clothes. The thought of being on this roof and having to worry about a child is enough to make me run for cover. Wait, no, that's the wind. Bloody thirty or forty knots right now.

But I'l be back down soon enough, and wearing non-sailing clothes, and eagerly awaiting the next batch that I can drunkenly test.​ So watch this space cos it's all for science.......

Deductions.

What would happen if every tax payer in the country changed their ​deductions to 15, in effect stopped paying taxes?

Say we did it January 1st, 2014. All of a sudden, what would the government do without our money? Would they be able to function? Or would they start to listen TO us, legislate FOR us, work WITH us?

We hear about obscene amounts of money being spent on re-election campaigns. We hear about the money coming from lobbyists, corporations, and odious people like Sheldon Adelson, and we forget that this money influences politics, sure, but it's not used for anything other than influence. It's not the money that funds Head Start, or Meals on wheels, or any of the wide range of things being affected by the sequester right now. That money ultimately comes from us. 

Now, I have no problems with paying my taxes. I appreciate that it's necessary if I want to drive on decent roads, have a fire department and police department if I ever need them, and so on. But my problem comes when, instead of worrying about the people needing chemotherapy, or food assistance, they worry about planes being late. Flying is a pain in the arse regardless. And I don't want to see crashes or twelve hour delays as a result of cuts. But for the most part, waiting on tarmac for an extra three hours isn't a matter of life and death. Chemo and food can be. 

If there were any Senators or Congresspeople suffering from Cancer and reliant on the chemo programs that have been cut, bet you the funding would have been found. But it's the flying that they do, from fundraiser to fundraiser, that's most directly affected by the sequester (that they themselves put in to encourage them to work together), and the first thing they felt necessary to work on. ​

So. If I stopped paying taxes on January 1st, 2014, and took that $1000 a month and gave it to something that actually helped people, and if everyone in the country did that, we'd probably manage to wipe out, say, childhood poverty within the year. I don't know the numbers. But I'd rather the money went to someone more deserving of it than a government that only functions to make sure that enriches itself.​

Or, you know, our elected officials could stop being ​shitty, career politicians, and do the jobs they're theoretically in office for. In every other job you'll ever have, you'll encounter people you don't get on with, or like, and you still find ways to do the job. Why can't the government put on it's big boy pants and learn to do the same? If they did that, there's no need for self-imposed sequesters that are shown to be just words when there's a workaround for the only thing that inconveniences them.

Random comments that'll probably piss you off.

• Lindsay Graham is saying that the FBI dropped the ball with the first Boston suspect. Senator Graham, you know what dropping the ball is? Not voting for something that 90% of the country supports.
• And while we're at it, Congress aren't allowed to talk about any of this crap until they sort out the clusterfuck they're making of our economy.​
• Saying you "regret your comments," isn't an apology. You're just sorry that other people aren't as big a pricks as you. Nate Bell, you're a prick.
• In fact, the government should just shut up. Saying 97% of what Planned Parenthood does is abortion should disqualify you from office. So should changing your mind on something solely because it affects you personally- you should have the grace and intelligence to see the other person's point of view before ​it affects you. And evolving on an issue isn't evolving, it's running to catch the train when it's already left the station.
• Boston was horrific. So is calling for the captured suspect's torture. Does he have citizenship? Try him as a citizen.​
• Boston was horrific. So was West, Texas. And yet not one politician is clamouring about the many balls dropped, from too much ammonium nitrate stored, to the State of Texas knowing about it and not doing anything. ​But hey, too much government regulation is a bad thing, right?
• Ann Coulter is proof that we should allow abortions up to the 205th trimester. ​
• The only reason NFL players are afraid of gays in the locker room is ​that they're afraid gay guys will look at them the way they look at women. All the gay guys I know are more respectful than that.
• "Some people say," is not reporting. Shut the fuck up, Fox News. Some people say that you're full of shit.​
• Speaking of reporting, getting it right should be more important than getting it first. The number of media outlets that buggered up during the events in Boston is criminal, especially in those instances they named innocent people as suspects. ​
• This is all for now.​

By the People?

When government can't pass something that 90% of the population are for, even with a majority of votes, then the system is broken.​

We're not talking about getting rid of guns. We're talking about responsible gun ownership. That's all we're asking for. And if you want to be a responsible gun owner, what's wrong with getting checked out before you buy one?​

Oh, that's right, nothing, because 90% of the country has no problem with it. So why can our elected officials not vote, for once, what the majority of the country wants? We don't have "government of the people, by the people" any more. They aren't us, when their salary is $174k. This is four times the median US income. They aren't us, when we don't get to write legislation that will benefit us. They aren't us, when they get a pension (after completing six years "service(!)". They aren't us, when they don't have to worry about health care costs ever again. They aren't us, when they have people giving them money for job applications (which is all running for office is).

I can't write legislation specifying every stop light heading west-east in Las Vegas will be green between 230-3pm every day.​ I pay in to a pension every paycheck, with no guarantee it won't disappear between now and my retirement. I can't just go out and get another job without having to worry about medical coverage. And I'm damned sure no one's ever given me money to try to get a job.

But looking at the phrase "government of the people by the people," I'm realizing it is true. There's just two different people being talked about. We are being governed. We're being legislated about as hard as we can be, from being limited to the medical procedures that are available to us, to the crap we're allowed to put in our bodies Monsanto good, Marijuana bad!) so we are being governed. We're just not being governed by ourselves. 

We're being governed by the other sort of people. We're being governed by entities that, since one of the most disgusting pieces of legal bullshit ever, are now technically people. It's the companies, the corporations, the special interests, that are governing us now. Those are the people in the "by the people." They're the ones who are allowed to pump shit into our bodies. They are the ones who have vast funds to poison the political discourse with lies and bullshit, and guide our 'elected' officials through the legislative farce we have these days. 

Because, when 90% of the country is for something, and the vote is lost, then government is lost. It's lost it's way, and it's not by us any more. We aren't included. We don't have much of a say in how the country is being run. Because with all the money needed to apply for the job-- sorry, I mean run for office--​ there's not much of a chance that you or I can do anything about it. 

800

It's true that the older you get, time feels like it goes by quicker. ​It feels like it's taken five hundred days for the last two hundred to go by, Two hundred for the last hundred, and ten for the last fifty. Which means the next eight hundred will take ten, if my maths is right?

But it's been a busy hundred. ​Two new years have come (In Vegas, you can't escape the Western New Year, with it's drunken twats paying idiot prices to get into clubs they can't move in, or the Eastern New Year with the red-and-various-animal-motif decorations). I turned 33 in a spectacular non-event. Got a new kitchen in the house. Redesigned my website. Started writing properly again. Started watching what I eat, laying off one sort of sauce while rediscovering my love for Sriracha (vote Sriracha lays, everyone!). I have even. . .wait for it. . .started working out.

Sort of. By working out, I mean swimming. But compared to the sedentary lifestyle I usually maintain, anything is good, right? And it's not too hard this time, either. Five minutes the first day is now fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes of swimming laps in a pool that's about 68 degrees is better than three minutes of blowing like a beached whale after climbing two flights of stairs. ​Because I've only got 800 days.

Actually, it's less than 800 days. As the countdown is to my last day at work and first day at being an unemployed sailor (read: bum), I should mention a couple of clipper things. Sent off another payment, started buying gear, and signed up for my level 1 training. 4-11 October, I'll be getting the shit knocked out of me as I start to really learn how to sail, not the half-arsed 'look-I-have-a-boat' bollocks I do right now. According to past crew member accounts, it's going to kick my arse. So much so, that on the 13th October, when I'll be headed to Salisbury to celebrate a 100th birthday, I'll probably be moving more stiffly than the birthday girl.

But hey, I've got a dry bag and a pair of Harken Sailing pants (and some bamboo underwear, more on those later), so at least I'll look the part. ​

A conversation on a sunny October day.

I had a conversation with some bloke at a stall set up for evangelizing a couple of months past. Some time in October it would have been, cos Mum was in town and we'd headed to the Asian Food Festival at Silverton Casino for some middling Asian food. The stall didn't have much in the way of.... well, anything really. There was a table, couple of chairs, and a sign with several 'brain teasers,' of the sort designed to trick you by asking almost-right-questions. Such as "How many animals did Moses take into the Ark?" So we stopped and answered them between ourselves, and one of the guys manning the stall came up to us.

We repeated our answers back to him, and he seemed impressed that I knew that it wasn't just two of each animal that went into the Ark, but several each of the herding animals. He was less impressed that I didn't realize the question asked about Moses, not Noah. But then he asked how many of the ten commandments I'd broken.

"Oh, I'd say nine of them." Mum was surprised. "Nine?" "Yep. I haven't killed anyone as far as I know." "You haven't committed adultery. You're not married." "I have. Even thinking about sex outside of marriage is considered adultery in some passages of the bible, and as I'm not married it's definitely adultery. "

By this point the guy is looking at me as though I'm a disgusting star pupil. I knew the theology, but I'd broken it. And then he notices my shirt. It's the teach the controversy shirt, with the devil burying dinosaur bones, so he asks about it. I told him it's making a joke about the people who believe that the devil buried fossils to confuse mankind away from the belief that the world is six thousand years old.

"So you believe in evolution?" He asked. "No I don't." "You don't?" Both Mum and the guy seemed surprised. "No. What's the point. Evolution just is. To me, believing in it makes as much sense as believing in that table over there. Whether I believe in it or not doesn't matter." "But you can see the table. You can't see evolution. Have you ever seen a cat turn into a dog?" "Actually, if you look at a Cheetah, it's evolved to be much more dog-like than other cats. The claws don't retract because of the way it hunts, which is similar to a lot of dogs. And even the call is more of a bark than a meow. So it's adapted and picked up the similarities that make dogs successful hunters. "But a dog has never turned into a cat." Mum's turn. "That's not how evolution works. It's a progressive change over many generations. Viruses evolve, and you've heard of them becoming immune to antibiotics?" "Well, yeah." "That's because they live much faster life cycles than bigger animals, so evolution happens much more quickly."

So by this point I think he worked out he wasn't going to sell us on un-science, so he brings up the topic of morality, and heaven, and whether we think we're moral people. To which we both respond we think we are.

He asks if we think we're going to heaven. And neither of us say we think we're going. Because we don't think it exists. He talks about heaven in the bible, and I ask him where. Because heaven is a fairly recent invention. Even Jesus didn't talk about people going to heaven when they die, it was all about the Kingdom of God coming to Earth and all the good and righteous people joining in there.

And it was great to see my Mum get in to the discussion. She doesn't usually go for this sort of thing, but to have some random guy tell her she's not a moral person, when she's one of the most selfless people I know, actually pissed me off a bit. Call me an immoral person all you want, but leave Mum out of it. She's give you the shirt off her back if you needed it. And while I try to be, try to live without hurting other people, I'm not brilliant at it. I've hurt people, and will hurt more, I'm sure. But this guy actually had the gall to tell us that we weren't moral because we hadn't been born again. He seemed willing to go on for a while until I gave him a spiel about guns.

I consider myself a moral person, and I don't own a gun. I don't have one because I'm not willing to entertain the idea of killing another person. And if you're telling me that the ten commandments are the basic requirement to be a moral person, then as a moral person you cannot own a gun because you're opening yourself to the possibility of killing another person, and that, to me, is immoral.

And for some reason, that's pretty much where the conversation ended. He put up with the evolution, and the heaven, but bring up the gun and he didn't want to talk about it any more. And this is what I don't get about guns. Jesus didn't have a gun. Hell, he got pissed off when Peter used a sword to defend him. So what is it that makes guns and Christianity in this country go arm in arm? I know a guy who called one of his kids Psalm, and then posts pictures of kids shooting to protect their second amendment rights. I know people who go to church regularly, then make comments about "Proudly carrying a weapon." Why is this something to be proud of? I'm proud of my Mammoth ivory turtle necklace cos it's pretty unique and I made it myself out of extinct animal. I'm proud of my friend's achievements. But saying you're proud of being a gun carrier just doesn't make sense to me. Especially when you hold yourself up as a paragon of morality due to your (less than) strict adherence to a collection of writings from quite a while ago. And when you're actively prepared to break one of the rules you hold up as something that shouldn't be broken.

Please, can anyone explain?

In the meantime, here's a link to the t-shirts, cos they're awesome.

Motivation pt. . . .who knows?

Couple of years ago, I started counting calories. Did it for a couple of weeks, and I was genuinely surprised and pleased with the results. I lost about ten pounds, just by paying attention to calorie intake. Bear in mind, I didn't pay attention to the type of calories; it was all about the magic number: 1890.

So for six weeks I drove my friends crazy, only going to bars I could get the calorie count for food online. I got adept at finagling calories from day to day, so I could have another drink if I applied the calories to the following day, meaning eventually I'd skip a meal for the booze. But, in six weeks I lost ten pounds.

Lost. It's generally such a negative word except for when it comes to weight and virginity. Depending on your situation. But If you lose weight, it's not like losing your keys. You son't spend hours searching for them, retracing your steps, wondering where they cold have gone. Same thing about weight-- does anyone actually look for the weight they've lost? And virginity. I"d be willing to bet money that everyone reading this right now knows exactly where they left that. But, I suppose, some people do try to find it again.

Regardless, six weeks, ten pounds, and I still ate shit and drank. . .really good stuff. I just cut back on all of it. And now I'm doing it again. This time around, however, I weigh more to being with so I'm allowed 1960 calories a day instead of 1890. And I'll still lose a pound a week, leading a completely sedentary lifestyle. And, if lat time around is anything to go by, by just eating less of the crap. And when I get home, I log in to my little app on my phone, and find out I've got 161 calories left for the day, unfortunately I'm the guy who works out I can have a double Highland Park single malt, instead of a small packet of instant oatmeal and half an orange.

But here's the point about motivation. I have more motivation right now than I've had in a hell of a long time. And it's not the motivation that there's some sort of weight loss challenge going on at work right now. To me, weight loss ins;t a competitive thing. But to me, the motivation is that if I don't lose the several extra kilos I've been carrying around (sorry, American readers, I'm going metric from now on), then my first week of training for the race is going to kick my arse, and not in a good way. I want to finish the first week of training, and be able to celebrate a 100th birthday party two days later. I want to finish the first week of training, and not think 'what the fuck have I let myself in for.' I want to finish the first week of training, and think 'Brilliant, I can get fit by counting the number of calories rather than the type.'

Cos right now, giving another test with socks and sealskins in an icy pool, the Highland park calories are the only thing stopping me from running into the house crying like a sad bastard.

Jealousy

I am a very jealous person. Most of the time, though, it's stupid jealousy. It's jealousy I could do something about if I was. . .well, someone I was jealous about. If I had more motivation or self-confidence or commitment, I could be the sort of person I'm jealous about easily, and not be jealous of them.

Sure there's some sort of vicious circle, completely stupid and needless thing going on there, but I think that's a lot of what being human is. Stupid, needless insecurity. Too much if...then, and not enough when....then.

But Right now, I'm jealous for what I feel is a totally acceptable reason. I'm jealous, because right now in London is a boat show, and people who will, in the near future, become a part of my life, are walking around an object that will become more meaningful to me probably than my condo ever was. They got to see the first full outfitted clipper 70. There's eleven more coming, so who knows if that'll be the one I end up living on for a year, but still, I'm so incredibly jealous right now, because to me it's still just a theoretical goal. I haven't seen the boat, I haven't met up with any of the other people who are going on the race. The only thing I have is the sealskins socks I'm wearing, over a pair of hiking socks, over a pair of merino wool base layer socks, in the pool that I had to break ice to get in to (I know it's winter, but 27 degrees in Vegas? Seriously, fuck off).

But I did find out the dates for training today, so I have a rough idea of when the goal will become more tangible (October). So while they get to do all the things I'd love to be doing right now, and all I have is some waterproof socks and an ice-covered swimming pool, eventually I'll be there, jealous of the people tucked in their nice warm beds while the pants-shittingly-frigid waters of the northern Pacific seep through the very socks I am this moment testing out in a frozen pool.

Except I probably won't be all that jealous.

Working Out

is something I'm going to have to start to do. And not in a generic 'oh, I really must lose weight, doctor cholesterol heart murmur blah blah blah' way. As in, I've got to undo the damage done by countless years (20) of drinking, happy hour fried food specials, desk jobs, and general lack of physical activity. Or sailing round the world is going to kick my arse. Well, the sailing bit is probably going to kick my arse regardless. I mean, that's why I'm doing it. The mental and physical challenge is what attracted me to the whole thing in the first place (with learning to sail competently a close second, and running away from responsibility a middling third). But reading other people's accounts of their experiences on previous races, I've got to start preparing by the sound of it. Hoping to do the first week of training in September or October (we find out the training schedule next week), and right now going up three flights of stairs isn't the best feeling in the world.

So we'll see how having a tangible motivation works. I hate going to the gym, and just as well I can't afford a membership while paying for the race. There's a 25' pool in the back garden of the house I live in, but it's bloody freezing right now (good practice for the North Pacific maybe?). There's a bike in the garage hidden behind kitchen cabinetry. See? already making excuses before anyone starts giving me shit about it. And tomorrow's not the day to start, driving to LA and back to see a show.

Then it's Wednesday. Wednesday I'll get back to Vegas, probably around 3am. I'll sleep til I wake up, eat breakfast (something with protein I'm led to believe by the couple websites I've half-heartedly visited), put on some laundry, watch netflix, then maybe do a pushup and four crunches.

Baby steps to Working out. Wouldn't want to overdo it my first day.

Oh dear.

It is, as far as I'm concerned, two hours in to the new year. And I already want to punch people. Mostly it's cos of the TV station on.

I'm not sure which station it is. I don't even care. All I know it was a fairly decent New Year's Eve, with good food, and wine, and mead, and company and conversation. Nothing to stick out and say 'holy shit, that was an awesome end/beginning to the year,' but nothing to cringe about. Until Inside Edition comes on TV. Everyone's gone to bed or home, except me. Drinking another bottle of wine, and enjoying hiccoughs. And then Inside Fucking Edition has to remind me that while 2012 was a shitty year, nothing really changes on New Years.

Because there's still a bunch of bullshit that we have to deal with. Kim Kardashian is pregnant. Giraffes use their necks to fight for territory. People video stupid shit. And Inside Edition will be there to remind us of all the crap that makes us less. . .intelligent. . .nice. . .human.

So this next year, let's be better to each other. Let's care about important things, instead of what KK has decided to do to keep herself in the headlines, or photos people liked on the internet, or things that National Geographic taught us years ago. Let's not care what our neighbors are doing, unless they need help. Let's hold our peers and employees and employers and elected officials accountable. And let's turn off the tube, and the reality shows, and gossip, stop the shit, and be the people we suspect we're capable of being.

You may say that I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one. I hope some day you'll join us, and the world we be as one.

-John Lennon

900

Where the hell did the last hundred days go? Although thinking about it, there's been a tone of stuff go on. I moved in to a house and learned how to lay carpet, plaster a wall, clean a pool, install a kitchen faucet, and lay roofing shingles. There's been a lot of movement at work with people coming and going. Nearly finished editing (video editing, not the horrible type of editing) the first short I wrote. Took up shaving with a straight razor. Saw Cloud Atlas twice. Reconnected with a couple of friends in person. Cut back on drinking. Thought about working out.

And on the global front, Obama got re-elected. The Mars Rover discovered ancient stream beds. Benghazi and Newtown and Sandy and Syria and Egypt and Instagram have been in the news.

And in 900 days I start my next major adventure. It's forever away, and yet if the last hundred days are anything to go by, it'll be here before I know it. Before I'm ready? Not mentally, I could leave tomorrow. Physically, I've still got some work to do. And by still, I mean I should start. I've started buying the things I'm going to need for the trip-- an S-biner by Nite-Ize bought on a whim from Home Depot. They've been recommended by past crews, and it was just there, so it has begun.

I also started sending checks. Two so far, so I've at least paid for the first two training sessions. Only another ten to go.

But here's to the next hundred days. Sitting in the airport, headed up to Eugene for my first Christmas off since, I think, 2001. And quite possibly my last until after the race. But that's a ways away, in time and distance, so for now have a good one and take care of yourselves. And here's wishing common sense to all this season.

Of no fixed abode

Being homeless is tiring. Not that I was properly homeless; I still had a job, and a car, and friends with couches and spare rooms and beds. But when most of what you own is in a POD, and the rest of it is in the boot of your car (and the back seat and the passenger seat), there's a mild sense of fatigue that never seems to go away.

I moved out of my condo on the 6th of July. Closed the door to a stuffed-to-the-gills POD, and drove away from the place that had been my home since March 2005. That's longer than I've been blogging, or able to grow facial hair. I put in bamboo flooring, and re-tiled the fireplace and entrance. BluRay's weren't available for sale, and no one had heard of Lady Gaga. I had six roommates in that time, changed show, got two promotions, and started going grey. I wrote a book, and two screenplays.

The point is, a lot of shit happened in those seven years. It's the longest I've lived in a house since I left England in 1995, and the place I moved in to isn't going to be home in the same way. I don't own it; I can't, as my credit is shite. The condo went from $229k when I bought it, to $245k when I refinanced three years later, to $280k four months after I refinanced, to being sold in July for $75k. That's not a lot of money for the time and effort and emotion, but it's the way of the world. Now I'm in a new place, which is older than my old place, and definitely a different experience.

When I moved into my condo, it was barely lived in. Everything was clean. It was the equivalent of getting a five year old car with ten thousand miles on the clock. This new one? It's been lived in. A lot. By a lot of cats. And some people too, but mostly cats. There's a certain voyeuristic pleasure in moving in somewhere, and finding those little things that hint at the sort of person who lived in a place before you. Of course, depending on what you find, this can last a while, or be gone almost instantly.

For me it was pretty instant. Along with enough animal fur to stuff a king size mattress ground into the carpets (there's one room I've just shut the door to. I'm dealing with that one next month), I've so far found a business card for a strip club in Idaho, a pair of unopened white thigh high fishnets, instructions for putting on a condom, and three boxes of cereal.

Oh, and five porn DVD's.

To be fair to the last owner, they were in the trash. To be unfair to the owner, the trash can was upside down, so when I picked it up, two of them made a break for freedom (Horny Moms and Big Rides), one did the obligatory circumference roll until it was flat (Nina Hartley's guide to alternate sex), and the other two lay there unashamedly, as did their titles (Dragon girls #7 and No Spring Chicken #4).

Coupled with the mirrored ceiling in one of the bathrooms, and the blue neon light in the bedroom, it really makes wonder about the people that lived here. Not too much though.

Regardless of all that, I now have a fridge and an oven and a bed of my own. One of the carpets is ripped out and (mostly) replaced. New sink and cabinet in the master bedroom. An unpacked box as a nightstand. And a tonne of stuff I'm going to have to figure out what to do with in another two and a half years, when I will once again become voluntarily homeless.

At least that's something to be grateful for; my homelessness is voluntary. That's why I hesitate to call myself actually homeless. I haven't been one of those poor sods who has little choice in the matter. I haven't had to worry about where the next meal will come from, or a secure place to sleep, and I won't be in that situation next time either. I prefer the moniker 'Of no fixed abode.'

And I can't wait for the next time I wear that label.

Democracy

Silly people, thinking that Democracy is for you! There are two things everyone should want in a democratic election. 1. As many people as possible voting to get a true reflection of the beliefs and viewpoints of the populace, and 2. Everyone who votes to be as well-informed as possible.

Currently, there's a push against both of these things. By changing voter laws in Florida, Texas, Wisconsin, Ohio, and Pennsylvania, by requiring ID and changing the hours people can vote, you limit the people taking place in the election and disenfranchise thousands of people. Apart from the fact that voter ID fraud is minimal (check out www.truchtaboutfraud.org for the statistics), surely you want to give people as much opportunity to vote as possible? I mean, the damned election has been going on for two years! You can't tell me they get two years to posture, blather, skirt the issue, and lie, and then we get almost no time whatsoever in which to cast our vote? If you want voter ID laws, then fine, require voter ID. BUT if that's the case, then it should be the state's responsibility (and financial burden) to provide voter ID to everyone eligible to vote.

Second, we're not well-informed. If Romney can put out a performance that is all presentation and no substance, and be declared the winner of a debate, then we're done. Yes, one of the skills of debating is the presentation. But I don't blame Obama for not having the best responses, rebuttals, comebacks. It's hard to debate when the person you're debating all of a sudden seems to have a completely different point of view from the one you expected. According to Romney, he is FOR financial regulation. He is FOR increasing taxes on the wealthiest members of society. he is FOR medical coverage for people with pre-existing conditions. But the debate is the first time he was for any of those things.

And as long as people argue about 'who won the debate,' and base that determination on delivery, we won't have an educated populace. As long as candidates can go out there with their pre-prepared soundbytes, and don't have to have any accountability to what they're actually saying, the debates are a waste of time. They aren't about informing the populace any more; they're about giving the 24-hour news machines fodder to chew up, regurgitate, digest, and any other food metaphor you wish to use.

Elections are about the Super-PACs. They're about the money that TV stations and websites and (decreasingly) print media stand to make off the election. They're about who can shout longer and louder and get people to believe them, because as long as the delivery is good, that's all people seem to care about any more.

Basically, we all like polished shit. We don't care that it's shit any more. And that makes me want to not bother with part one of what it takes to make democracy work. I'm almost looking forward to moving away, to not having to listen to two-year campaigns, to people who vote based on crap and falsehoods someone with a nice delivery told them.

I'm looking forward to not voting. But not just yet. I'm still going to fulfill my obligation to be as informed, educated a voter as I can be.

999

A couple of posts ago, I talked about the yacht race. This is how many days I have left, before I say goodbye to the company I've worked for for eight and a half years. It'll be 11 years almost to the day by that point. The exact starting date of the race hasn't been announced yet, and probably won't be until January of that year. But I like to have things to look forward to, so 12 Jun 2015 is the most tangible date I can give myself. I don't know which ports we'll end up sailing in to. I don't know where I'll go at the end of the race. And I'm actually excited about that.

I've had a career. I decided when I was pretty young that I wanted to do theatre professionally. I've been a lighting tech, run sound, automation, stage management, even acted and been paid for it. I started my own company with a couple of friends, wrote scripts, built sets, hung lights- and on one memorable occasion, a snow machine with a squirrel fan which blanketed the audience. I've loaded and fired pyro.

I've programmed automation for three Cirque Du Soleil shows. I've gone from an hourly employee, to Show Lead, to Assistant Head. I've gone from having a problem with authority to being the authority.

And I'm only 32, and ready for something else. Automation, theatre, is comfortable for me. I have no problems operating a multi-million dollar system with people's lives in my hands, while two thousand people watch in awe. I'll take a screwdriver or a wrench to just about anything, especially when I've got a bunch of people waiting for me to either continue the show, or cancel it.

So the way I see it, I've got 999 more days until the end of my career. Will I continue to progress in that time? Who knows. My bosses know I'm making this trip, so are definitely less likely to consider me for promotion, but I'm fine with that. I have 999 more days to work on finishing some of the writing projects I'm working on. I have 999 more days of 2am shopping, and 24 hour bars, and showgirls and slot machines.

I have 999 more days of paying for the trip.

Guns

Guns scare the fuck out of me. I see the point of them, to an extent. I love game, and hunting is the best way to get it in the US. But I didn't grow up around them. I had a friend in England who had an air rifle, and we would shoot targets on a rock in his back garden, but that was the extent of my exposure to guns until moving to Louisiana at 15.

While there, a friend of my brother's waved his mother's .45 (I think it was) around in our faces to show off one day. It wasn't until later that the incident really worried me, because that's when I found out that statistically, that's how most of the kids killed by guns die.

And the idea of becoming a statistic sickens me. I have goals, and plans, and stories to write and experiences to. . .experience, and I don't want some little twat to take that all away from me.

I'm not saying that guns need to be banned. That's not going to solve anything. But in the light of the recent horrific events in Colorado, I feel like both sides of the argument are missing the point. On the one side, you've got the people who are pro gun, who are saying that if someone had been armed in the threatre, then the loss of life wouldn't have been as high. The trouble with that argument is that Colorado has some pretty liberal (in the sense of lax, not in the sense of what conservatives think liberals want) gun laws. There was nothing to prevent any one of the people watching the movie from taking a gun with them, and unless you're going to make it compulsory to carry a gun, there's no way to make sure an innocent bystander will be armed.

On the other side, you've got people complaining about the root causes of gun violence in this country being poverty and income inequality, which is why the US has a higher level of gun violence than any other western society. Now, I agree with this to an extent, but if you think about the mass murders in this country, they don't have anything to do with that. Columbine, Virginia Tech, Fort Hood, and now Aurora, none of the gunmen have been from impoverished backgrounds.

The problem is, no one is willing to have an open conversation about guns in this country. If you are pro gun, understand me when I say I DO NOT want to take away your right to bear arms. I just want there to be some system in place to keep a bit better track of who has what. And if you're anti gun, understand that you'll never get rid of guns in this country, and you shouldn't have to if people are willing to be responsible and sensible about owning the damned things.

K, rant over. But one last statement. Part of civilization is being able to have a civil conversation about things that affect all of us. Let's start trying that again.

The Future.

Three years. I have to make it three more years. Three years of living in Las Vegas, the stupid hot summers, dusty windy winters, constant construction, and twenty-four-hour whatever you want. It's been eight, so it's less than half the time I've been here already, and when you look at it that way it's much more survivable.

It's not that I hate Vegas any more. It's grown on me. It's like a mole that you hate when you're young, cos everyone makes fun of it. Then you grow up, realize that those people don't really matter, and accept the mole as a part of who you are. I'm accepting now that Vegas is a part of who I am, and I don't really mind it too much.

It's just a matter of getting out before the Vegas mole metastases.

But I have a plan to get out. Actually, this week I'm signing a contract to get out. And as a result of that contract, and money paid, Sometime in July of 2015, I'm going to be a part of a crew on a round-the-world yacht race. It hits six of seven continents, ten boats, eleven months, fifteen ports of call, and about 450 crew over the course of the race.

I've known about the race for a little over a year. But about six weeks ago, out of the blue, I said fuck it, and decided instead of talking about the race, I was going to do it. Emailed the recruiter to arrange a time to talk about the race while I was in the UK, but instead of just talking, I actually went in and did the interview. Got accepted. Come pay day, I'm sending off some money, along with the signed contract, and that's my life for the next four years sorted out. No more buying computers, or cameras, or rounds of drinks, cos all the money is going to the race. It's expensive. But I'm at the point where I feel like I can't afford to NOT do the race. I need a kick in the arse. I need a challenge. I need to get the shit kicked out of me as only the Northern Pacific Ocean can do. I need to go away for eleven months, get out of my comfort zone, out of my rut, and see more of the world-- at least the wet parts of it.

So for now, that's what's going on. At some point, I might ask you for money. It's expensive. But I won't ask just yet. Right now, I'm just letting you know if you want to visit Vegas while I'm here, you got three years. And if you're already here, then we'll hang out at some point. But three years is it. Then I'm gone.

Motivation pt. IV

So here's the thing. It doesn't matter where it comes from, as long as you can find it for a while, use it, and make it to where you're going. Tonight was necessary. Very Necessary, to use the title to a Salt-N-Pepa album that has absolutely nothing to do with this post. I'm not going to talk about Sex. I don't want to shoop. But I do want to keep a hold of the feeling I have inside right now, cos it's a good one. It's a little to do with the Manhattan and Martini and double Whiskey, but mostly to do with the conversation of the last two and a half hours.

I went to Europe with 29 lucky people my sophomore year of University. I wish I had the arrogance to claim they were lucky cos they went with me, but no. The reason they were lucky is because Holy Fuck! Europe for a year when you're nineteen! So I went over there with these people I knew a little or a lot or nothing about, and after the year I knew a little more or a little less about all of them. But the funny thing about being over there is that while I made some of the best friendships of my life, that wasn't even the important part. It set me up for what was to come.

To come was now. And not now in the sense of some fleeting moment that is always just gone, but now as in a state of mind. It makes more sense to measure your life in states of mind, or transitions from one to the next. So I like to think that everything was leading to here, it is the recent discovery of friendships I laid years ago that is going to get me out of this now, and in to the next.

Confused? Good, me too. Should probably have had a single.

So here it is. I've been lucky in my life that I've had almost no one I've been close to die. Grandparents, Great-something-or-others, a cousin, but I was younger than twelve for all of them, and no one recently enough to affect me, until Greg a couple of months ago. And his death has been in the back of my mind since in found out about it, because fuck, thirties is too young to die, and because the conversations I'd had with him in the couple years before had made me feel not so alone.

When part of your crutch, one of your coping mechanisms is taken away, it hurts. And you go back to some of the things you've gone through before, because there's something of a regression whether you want there to be or not.

Here's the thing, though. You're never alone. Never fucking alone. No matter how bleak, how helpless, how unique you feel, someone else has been there before, is there right now, and is going through what you're going. And you lose sight of that in the bollocks of living your life, and saying the things you're supposed to say to the people you're supposed to say it to, when all you want to do is scream, or sing, or tell someone to stop being a twat. And while I'm way too much of a pussy to ever let the totally minor hardships that I come across in life-- loss of value in my house, grey hairs, less than satisfactory performance in the sack-- push me to the point of ending it all, it takes some convincing to remember that I'm not alone sometimes.

I'm rambling. Going back and looking at the rest of this post I can see that, but it's still helping me get to what I want to say right now. So if you've made it this far, and you're still following the tenuous thread of this badly grammaticized post, here's my point.

Take the time to talk to people. Share yourself, and let them share themselves. Because you never know what you can give to each other, and you never know what the other bugger's going to take away from the conversation. An almost-three-hour, mildly-alcohol-encouraged conversation made me get to this point:

We're both better than we'll admit to, and while that's somewhat endearing, it ain't going to get us to where we want to go. And we're both worse than we want to be, because that's just the nature of being alive. There's always lapses regardless of your moral code or belief system, and as long as those lapses don't affect your ability to be a member of the human race, you're ahead of the game. Because after tonight, I understand it isn't BAD to use a friend for the people he knows. And I think he's in the same place, and gods I wish I was in a point to be used. And I feel more motivated that I have in a long time, and if I never get rid of this white-hot, soul-twitching, stupid-pose-in-front-of-the-mirror-inducing feeling, then it's too soon and I'm not ready yet and don't take my keyboard or my drink or my internet access away just yet, and I'm sorry and you need to fuck off or raise a glass and say here's to all of it in all its glory and disappointment and wonder, and just understand that motivation is wherever you force it from.

Greg.

I don't remember the first time I met him, but it would have been during a Salzburg orientation meeting. He was one of the people I'd be spending a year abroad with, and we all had to go through them, so I assume he was in them. The thing is, moments in your life pass by unnoticed, and you never think on them until years later, and you find that the memory is gone. Can't have been important, you tell yourself. We called him the Patriarch, cos he was older than all of us, and the name lent itself in a year we were studying Art History like it was going out of style. He was lucky enough to get one of the only two single rooms that the UP Salzburg Centre has to offer, and he would stand on his balcony, cigarette in hand, and survey the courtyard-- and mutter comments about Schneibel under his breath. Or maybe he didn't, but this is how I remember it. I do remember he was there, with Bri and Ali, on the day I got back after a night of extra-curricular activities. And he wondered why it took me so long to start enjoying all that Europe had to offer.

After Salzburg, we were part of a great group of friends who hung out with each other and, to be honest, whoever the fuck wanted to hang out with us. It wasn't until after University, when I moved away because working on a cruise ship seemed like a better idea than getting a real job, that I lost touch with him. Then he went into the Army, and I don't think we said two words to each other in twice as many years.

It wasn't until FaceBook that we started to reconnect. Say what you will about the evil timewaster, it IS a good way to keep in touch, reconnect, and bombard people with game notifications. It was good to catch up, and to find out that he was going through some of the same things I was. Drifting apart from people, through no fault of anyone's but life, it was a comfort to know that there was nothing wrong with me. While other people were getting married and having kids, he made it okay in my mind to not want any of that. And when I coerced him into coming down to Portland for our 10-year Reunion, it was because I was selfish and wanted someone to grumble with.

The last time I talked to him was January. He asked me to write a letter of recommendation for Seattle University. He'd decided to go back to school, Seattle University, to join the Therapeutic Psychology Program. I'm lucky, because I got a chance to let him know what I thought of him, how highly I valued our friendship, even if the letter was for a specific purpose. I didn't have to embellish.

Fuck, this is hard. I'm going to miss you, Greg. I'm going to miss your 'Ladieth Man' impressions. Your opinions, your stubbornness, your compassion, your generosity, your friendship.

Thank you, old friend.