Ten

That's the number of drafts of blogs I have. Ten.

It's a ridiculous number. Some of them are re-hashes of earlier drafts. Some of them are things I wanted to say but didn't feel I should because of work, or other people's feelings (and sometimes the two are the same thing). 

The shitty thing about it is, this blog's become indicative of where I am as a writer. Remember about four years ago, when I was going to be a writer, that's all I was going for and it was newly rediscovered and awesome and kept me going and made work bearable? I'd write all the time and I'd blog (and sometimes the two are the same thing).

Now? I make half arsed attempts to get anything down. My characters wait, frozen at whatever part of the narrative I lost interest in them, in the same way my thoughts and musings and philosophies are black words on a white screen seen only by me. I chip away, maybe a page here or there. I chip away, maybe starting a new entry that I just don't care about.

So what happened?

Hell, if I knew the answer to that I'd do something about it. All I'll say is, I didn't like my job. I didn't like going in and doing the same thing over and over, listening to the same petty bullshit from the same petty people. I didn't like listening to people complain about things they didn't like, and then never making an attempt to fix it. I didn't like trying to fix it, and being let down time and time again.

Maybe one day I'll write down exactly why I left. After 9 years, it was such a small event in the general cirquel jerk that it barely qualified in the grand scheme of things, just a twat being a twat for the thousandth time. But it was what I needed, I suppose, because that night I sent out emails and started looking, really looking, for a new job, a new life, a way out that was much more immediate than the Clipper Race (which is, among other things, another way out).

And I got one. Russia for four months, and now Florida. A new show, new people. Hotel rooms instead of mortgage payments. Microwaves instead of kitchens. Buses and minivans and aeroplanes instead of cars. Maybe it'll be worth writing about. Maybe it'll kick me in to gear, force me to clean up the drafts that are languishing on my hard drive and on my blog page. 

We'll see. Something might be changing. I fucking hope so. Watch this space. Periodically. I mean, don't just check it every day, cos I've got a new show to do and we're working long hours and the internet connection in the hotel isn't always great and sometimes I'm just tired. 

But anyway. Time to look forward.

Out of practice

I used to be good at traveling. Eager. Prepared. Able. Security was a breeze. Sleep was possible anywhere, in almost any position.

Now nervous. Barely ready. Discomfort no matter how I shift and adjust in my seat with a whole row to myself. Can still do security, because let's face it it's not hard to look around and see what other people are doing. But for a chunk of my life, from 15 to 24, I was in transit every couple of months. Now, maybe two flights a year, generally short ones.

I used to be able to speak French. Not well; I was never fluent. But I could converse. Now, I listen to the flow of dialogue around me and can maybe pick out a word or here that just makes me realize how out of practice I am at speaking other languages. Hell, I don't even fell comfortable using the three Russian words I know, whereas years ago I would have done my damnedest to try something, anything, that was better than apologetically stammering English.

I used to be able to sleep. I could do it for hours. Days, probably, if school and work hadn't got in the way. But now I just don't have the stamina for a full night's sleep. The intent is there, the willingness is there, but apparently intent and willingness will only get you so far. I'll lie there, lament my inability to close escrow on a full night's sleep, and wonder if that's it, I'll never be as good as I once was at traveling, communicating, sleeping.

So maybe it's not just a lack of practice. Maybe it's just a part of getting older. But I'm going to try and practice the hell out of traveling, sleeping, and speaking in the next couple of months. I'll let you know how it goes.

And no euphemisms were intended in the writing of this entry. One thing I haven't lost is the ability to make innocent things sound dirty. No practice needed there.

Dear Congress

This is how a budget works. 

You have a certain amount of money that you take in, your income. Out of that income you have to pay for all the necessities. Food, shelter, transport, communications, looking after your pet, things like that. If you have anything left over then you can spend it on non-essential items like a movie, or treating yourself to a nice meal, or hookers and blow. Whatever your thing is (and I reckon most of Congress is more into the third option than the first two).

If two people are in charge of the budget, then they have to work out between them what constitutes an essential item, and what is frivolous. To keep it simple and adhere to gender sterotypes, Dad wants to play golf and Mum has a thing for shoes. And the kids get piano lessons and playstations. Now, if income allows, both get to do this and everyone is happy, although Dad thinks those new pumps are ugly and Mum doesn't get why hitting a tiny ball 70+ times around a lawn is fun. But when there isn't enough money to do these things as much as they'd like, well, then they cut back. Dad plays every other week, and Mum only gets one pair a month instead of the two or three she'd like. And the kids get recorder lessons and they miss out on one of the generations of Call of Duty.

What they don't do is stop buying food. Or shelter. And what they really don't do is ask their bosses for a pay cut. Hell, they don't even ask their bosses for a pay cut when things are great and they have enough money to save up a little, or pay off some debt.

And what they really don't do is start blaming each other and calling each other names and trying to get the kids to hate the other parent. 

And what they really really don't do is start taking bribes from one kid to keep the playstation but get rid of piano lessons because little Johnnie doesn't seem to be as fond of you as the other parent.. Not if they're good parents, and decent people. 

This is the simplest way I can put it for you, our corporate-sponsored representatives. But just in case you don't get it, in the above example you're Mum and Dad, and we're the children. Income is taxes. Food and shelter and communication are the part of the social contract that comes as a part of being in a country. Golf is military spending, and shoes are investment in infrastructure . Playstations are tax breaks for corporations earning record profits, and pianos are foodstamps.

Make sense? 

I just hate that I've framed it in terms that has you as the parents and us as the children, because gods know you're the ones acting like petulant children. You're the ones pretending that sticking your fingers in your ears is a good way to communicate, you're the ones trying to blame your sister for the felt pen scribblings on the wall even though you have blue smudges on your fingers.

If we are the children though, then maybe we can apply for emancipation. Maybe we can get away from our bickering parents, and find a nice foster home. One with parents who don't fight all the time, and blame each other for their own shortcomings, who understand how a budget, or a fucking country, is supposed to work.

22

That's a bit of a number jump. If you're keeping track, it should have been 578. But things happen. 

The number was always a count down to my last day at LOVE. I had it timed perfectly. I'd just make it to my 11th anniversary, then leave and head to the UK to devote my life to Clipper for a year and a bit. Not knowing the exact date that the 15-16 race will leave, 12th June gave me a concrete day, something to mark how close the race was getting. 

But just like that, 578 becomes 22. In 22 days I'll say goodbye to the show I've worked on for almost 8 years (2899 days by my reckoning). Numbers numbers numbers. 

But it's time. And when you've accepted the fact that you're leaving at some point in the future, it makes it much easier to leave sooner. Why wait, if it's going to happen?  

When I was first approached about working on the Winter Olympics, I said no.  Not because of the whole Russia in winter thing. I'd just become so used to the idea that 12th June 2015 wold be my last day. I'd work through, because I knew I could pay for Clipper doing that. 

But part of the reason for doing Clipper was to challenge myself. Jump out of the rut I increasingly find myself into. Be involved in something that I'd be able to look back on after the fact, and say "holy shit, we did that!" And I realized at some point between May and now that going to Russia, working in a new country with new people on a new system and a new show can be all those things too.  

Plus, "holy shit, the Olympics!" 

So there it is. 22 days. All of a sudden the future is more murky than it has been in a long time, and I don't mind. I feel more like myself now than I have in a long time. Or maybe I feel like what it was like to be 19, jumping on a train and seeing where it would take me, not worrying about money or the language I couldn't speak when I got there. 

I just don't feel 19 when I wake up in the mornings any more. Numbers numbers numbers. 

600

It feels closer now than ever. Or course, that's a stupid statement, because if you're counting down days until an event, then every day is bringing it closer.  

But it feels closer, because a couple weeks ago I finished my Level 1 training week. A week living and sailing on a 69' clipper sailboat, one that's already circumnavigated the globe four times, really helps put what I'm signed up to do in perspective. 

Mostly. Because there's not really a decent way to mimic the sort of conditions you'll get a thousand miles from the nearest land. And I'm glad we didn't do that this time around. The weather was great for the most part, almost a perfect build in conditions, starting out easy the first day and strong enough the last day that learning about storm sails was actually appropriate.  

Despite the easy conditions the first couple days, it wasn't exactly easy to do. The sails can weigh up to 300kgs (that's over 600 lbs for Liberia, Myanmar, and the US). And hauling one of those up a 30m mast (100') is pretty knackering (tiring). Especially when you're getting less sleep than would be ideal, because of the squeaky fender just the other side of the hull from your head, and people have to pass you to use the facilities. I'll be buying stock in an earplug company, and gods bless Richard Branson for the fetching red eye cover he provided on my flight over. It's surprising what you'll sleep through when you're actually being physical all day. 

And I think that was my second biggest surprise of the training. I didn't seize up, I didn't collapse in a jellied heap or have my heart explode out my chest like I half-expected. Don't get me wrong, at the end of the day the narrow, seemingly damp, unpillowed bunk was collapsed into as though I'd never move again, but every morning it was back up and at it again, and I was able to. Every time a sail was sweated up, or pulled up on deck, as a team we got it up and out and up. I've got a hell of a lot of work to do to get fit enough for the race, but the week gave me a sense of what I need to improve on (everything).  

It was also good for me to learn something new. And I mean really learn, and have other see what I was doing, and be able to judge. And when you feel like you're getting the hang of something, and it's starting to feel good, and there's a little bit of confidence, well that's when you're going to fuck up. I forgot what it was like to do that, and probably rediscovered in the hardest possible way; on a 68' sailboat on two hours of sleep and high enough winds that reefs are not inappropriate. 

Day 3 sucked for me. It felt like every time I touched a winch or a rope, I fucked up. And that annoyed me, which would make me screw up again, self-repeating and self-defeating until I didn't even want to go to the pub at the end of the days' sailing. Called my dad. Whined to him a bit. He laughed at me, which is probably what I needed.

I got over the day, and felt great at the end of the week. Great in that sailing is something I can do, and am not atrocious at (got the RYA competent crewmember cert to prove it). Not great in that my ankle was giving me gyp, I had the grip strength of a four year old, and walking on dry land felt weird cos it wasn't moving. But regardless of that, and regardless of day 3, I still think this is exactly what I need to do. Bugger off for 11 months, sail round the world, and finish up a changed man.  

Weight for it....

I have become obsessed. Obsessed with weight, and obsessed with waiting. You probably guessed the waiting part from my insistence of counting down the 600+ days til the Race.  

Ah, but the weight. I first realized I needed to do something about my weight when I had to buy two new pairs of jeans. Now, going from a 34 to a 36 is explainable if you switch brands, because apparently different brands use different inches. But I've been wearing Guess jeans for years, and I noticed that they started using the smaller inches. I bought a pair of 36" jeans. 

This was enough to motivate me to do nothing about it. So six months later, with another brand and another 36" fit, I finally started working on it. And it's not just about vanity. I'm doing my level 1 training for the race 4-11 October, and I expect it to kick my arse. And my theory is, If I have less arse to kick (and gut, and jowls, et. al) then it might not be so bad.

The long and short of it is, through a careful regimen of not eating as much crap, I lost 23 lbs in four months. I started using a skinnier notch on my belt I've never used before. And I'm back down to 34". Except that I'm not when it comes to actual measurements. 

As I'm in full on 'buy lots of stuff for Clipper to fill the time between now and my race actually leaving, while justifying it that I need to test things on my training legs' mode, I'm buying more clothes than I've ever bought before in such a short period of time (except maybe the annual school uniform restock odyssey). And as I shun human interaction when at all possible while buying stuff, I use the internets for most of my purchases.  

But this presents the problem of what size actually am I? When I measure according to sizing guidelines, I'm a what the fuck 39" waist. But then when I measure my 34" jeans they're 40". Except the 32" inseam uses the inches I grew up with, not these mysterious waistline inches. Basically, I might be going round the world in some really ill-fitting togs.

Oh, and the other weight. I have a box at home with all the supplies I've purchased for the race so far. Fleece, several merino wool items, headlamp and leatherman, silk sleeping bag liner, clothes line, silica gel, sealsinz socks, and nite-ize biners. And it weighs 4.58 kgs. Because I'm only allowed 20-25 kgs of gear to get me round the world, depending on how competitive the Skipper and Crew I'm allotted are. I'm shooting for 20Kgs, but that's also going to have to include the gear I've bought so far, my camera for sure, Docs for shore, maybe a laptop, couple of jigsaw puzzles to kill time with on the boat, and one of those foot bath thingies cos I reckon that'll be just what the doctor ordered i the middle of the Southern Ocean.

So my life feels a bit like weight, and wait, and weight some more. But weighti-- bugger, waiting doesn't last forever. Just look at the 13-14 crew who leave in less than a month.

700

I gotta stop doing this. 

Six more entries counting down, by the century, how many days until I'll probably leave Vegas for the race? But then it was more than a year ago since I got accepted and signed the contract, and that year has, in parts, flown by. The eternal quest to earn enough money has sure made it zoom. 

So. Since the last number (which, for those of you keeping track, was the two years and a day one), what's gone on?

Oh gods, a shit tonne. Some of which I'm not ready to write about. And probably legally shouldn't. But there's other, better stuff, so on to that. 

I'm almost back in to writing. If writing is a cold pool in your backyard (not like mine last week. 90°? Seriously? Vegas is messed up), then for the last year or so I've been dipping my toe in. Right now I'm at the point where I've decided to get in, but I'm just at that awkward groinal stage where you know it's going to be unpleasant and you should just get it over with, but there's only so far your testicles can crawl up into your body to avoid the pain. But it's the hardest part, and then you're in-- except you forgot about the belly and nipples and oh shit that's cold!

So I guess using that analogy, once I get through this almost-writing spot, I've got one more hurdle to get over and then I'll be back where I was supposed to be a couple of years ago. Hopefully between this countdown and the next, there'll be a few count-up posts about words written, or characters abused, or short films finished...... a year and a half in the making, and Diet might almost be ready.

Wages

I've decided that I'm a corporation from now on. And I'm not sure why more people aren't opting for this. Think about it, you get all of the benefits of being a person, and none of the bothersome parts, like being a member of society and having to actually abide by a bunch of stupid laws. 

So while I live and work in Las Vegas, in a state with no state income tax, paying federal income tax alone is tiresome to me. So As far as anyone else is concerned, from now on while I'm earning in Nevada, as a corporation I'm actually earning in Grand Cayman. So I'm losing money, and I'd like the Federal Government to give me a tax refund please. Because as a corporation I'd like my tax incentives for creating jobs... I need people to work in the markets, restaurants, and bars, so obviously I should be thanked for that.

Also, the corporate punishments and laws just sound a lot more appealing. I mean, who knows, I could fly in to a rage one of these days with the arsenal I've collected at home, and just take out a bunch of people. But I've noticed that when corporations kill people, they mostly have to pay some fines that are sometimes as high as 1% of their income. Sorry, income? I meant profit. And it's the same with stealing. So I'm going to opt for the no-jail-time, pay a paltry sum option of punishment, right?

And jobs. The idea of applying and interviewing just sounds tedious. So I'd like a couple of no-bid jobs from the government, please. And prevailing wage, of course. Cos it makes perfect sense that the government pays more for me to do the same job as if I was doing it for someone else.  

And by me and I, I still mean me, the corporation. I think this is a good move for me. Less taxes, less chance of going to prison after a murderous rampage or a klepto-spree. Easy jobs forever. And I do mean forever, cos hey, I now technically can't die. Being a corporation is great, you should try it! 

I just have to decided if I want to be publicly traded. Sounds kinky. 

Nine Years/Two Years. And a Day

Yesterday, it was nine years since I started working for MGM and Cirque Du Soleil. And tomorrow, it'll be two years until I leave them behind and start my round the world race.   It's a strange thing to look back on all that time, and think about what's gone on.

Both my siblings got married, and one had a kid. I bought a house and I lost a house.  My first friends passed away. I got promoted twice, to join the ranks of salaried middle management, something I never aspired to because damn the man. I put on a bunch of weight, I shaved my head, I grew it out again. I hit puberty! and was able to grow a beard for the first time (which is helpful for hiding the bunch of weight). I went to Austraila and dove the Great Barrier Reef, and the Aquarium of Western Australia. I dove with sharks. I took my parents sky diving.

I started a theatre company. I left the theatre company in very capable hands. I wrote two scripts for said theatre company, and showed up on stage (I wouldn't call it acting) in three of the productions. I started blogging. I decided to become a writer. I wrote several short stories, a full novel, three quarters of a second novel. I wrote two full length screenplays. I have ten more pages to go on another, and I'm half-way with a fourth. I wrote five shorts (one of which was pulled out of my arse in an hour). We produced one, and we're in pre-production for a second.

I bought a boat. I decided to sail around the world (not in my boat). I started going grey.     Nine years ago Facebook wasn't a thing. Neither were smartphones. There had never been a black president. 3D was still just Captain EO. Micheal Jackson was still alive. No one had a Mac. And I met a shit-tonne of people, some of them amazing, some of them less so.     

So two more years. What will happen?  My hope/thoughts/plans:  I'll finish book two and book three. I'll break ground on another idea I've had kicking around for the past week, and possibly even finish it. I'll film this second short, finish it in a timely manner, and get it out there and noticed.

I'll work on treatments for what I've already finished, and finish what I've already started.   I'll find an agent. I'll sell my boat.    I'll learn portion control. I'll shave my head again. And I'll meet many more people, some of them amazing, some of them less so. I'll celebrate a 100th birthday in October, after finishing my level 1 training for the Clipper Race. And I'll probably bore you all to tears by going on and on and on about how I'm going to sail round the world in 2015.

But fisrt things first. Time for a beer. 

Murder

Unless I pull my act together, and soon, I need to stop calling myself a writer. Compared to what I did, and could and should do, I'm a writer in the same way that fishermen are swimmers. I'm paddling. Standing at the edges, maybe dipping a rod in and hoping for a nibble, but....no, I lost the image. Sorry. ​

But here's the thing. The past week, I've been going through some soul searching. Once I found it, battered and slightly soiled under a box full of Japanese sushi serving sets I've used twice, I took a decent look at it. And it's a crappy thing to do after a couple of years, when you think it's all progressing and everything's going well, but then you find out that it's not, and it's definitely not. ​

I decided I was going to be a writer in 2009. Or rather, I found it again. I realized I enjoyed it, I'm not terrible at it, and it's much cheaper and more satisfyingly frustrating than therapy. 'I'm going to be a writer" was my declaration to the world that year. ​

And I was going to be. Hammered out the first draft of a novel in six and a bit months. Got three quarters of the way through the second book in a series of three within a year, while I was waiting for someone who is almost family and almost a professional editor get back to me about the first book.​

It wasn't her fault I stopped. It was Ira Glass's. Or rather, He does a great speech about why people give up. I read my own shit, and just wasn't happy with it. It wasn't what I wanted it to be, wasn't as good, had holes I didn't know or want to bother filling. So I moved on, put it in a folder on a hard drive and pretended that it was exactly where I wanted it to be. ​

But then this week, I've had an itch under my skin that's impossible to scratch. A feeling. An uncomfortableness with where I am. Because doing some spring cleaning of my hard drive, I found the folder, and the files, each chapter labelled and ready to be edited. And the last time I even opened any of them was in Two Thousand and Fucking Ten. Three damned years ago. ​

Now, it's not like I've done nothing in the intervening time. Three screenplays, five shorts (one of which we actually filmed and is so close to being done), an In Memoriam (one of the worst things I've had to write), stage play, and countless work emails and crappy blog posts. 

None of it was the trilogy though. And finding them shook me.​

​(Can you really find something that isn't lost? I mean, in the back of my mind I always knew I had this folder with these documents with these character and events and emotions and actions and all, but I was ignoring their existence. But I digress). 

Two Thousand and Fucking Ten. Seeing that in the last opened, and actually reading what I wrote distant years ago, shook me. There were all these people, people I'd created, and cared about, and rewarded or treated like shit depending on what sort of day I'd had or booze I'd drunk, and they were waiting for me. Here's the thing though. They're only waiting for me if I finish. If I continue the stories, the threads of their lives, then they've been waiting. But I don't finish them, take them to where they're headed (I still remember what's going to happen to them all), then what have I done?

They're not waiting; they're dead. And If they're dead, I murdered them. Created these characters, these people, and led them on a twisted dance, and abandoned them mid-dosey doe. And I don't know if it's worse to murder someone, or to make them dance a dose doe. So in the interests of doing neither, I'm going to try and get back into it. Reacquaint myself with these buggers that took on lives of their own, and filled my life for a good year or so. Watch this space for updates, word counts, and all other sorts of boring things that I need to do to remind myself that I'm progressing.

Not that anyone's actually going to read this. I've noticed the best time to post, for optimum views, is around 1030am, right when everyone takes a break at work. So being 1030pm, I'm assuming you're all responsible and in bed. Good for you. ​You're not Tomar, working towards the second mission, or Brokes, trying to hold the first mission together while light years from home. 

But then if you were, I'm about to do some horrible things to you.​

More random comments that might piss you off.

• Can we stop calling big banks "too big to fail?" They aren't too big to fail. They have failed. The moment they needed the federal government's help, they had failed. 
• The fact that a company can claim copyright infringement on a similar phrase seems wrong. The only think "Eat mor chikin" and "Eat more Kale" have in common is 'Eat.' They may as well sue subway for "Eat Fresh," cos that's 50% similar rather than 33%.​
• Don't ask for gifts if I'm not invited to the party. That's just cheap and tacky. If you don't like me enough to invite me, I don't like you enough to spend money on you. ​
• If you make up shit, then you're lying. If you're lying, you don't get to call yourself Christian based on your OWN DAMNED TEACHINGS.
• When juicing, peel the lemon.​
• ​I find it interesting that so many of the people who are for coal and oil dependency also don't believe the Earth is old enough to have created coal and oil.
• If you're a college student, there's no good reason for you to vote GOP. They killed a bill to make the interest rate limit 0.75%, but advanced one that can increase it to 10.5%.​
• Also, Oklahoma. $645 million in three years in tax subsidies to oil companies, which would have built tornado shelters for all the schools in the state. ​If, you know, Oklahomans were more important than oil companies to these douchebags (they make sure their city hall had one though).
• ​Diet is so close to being done, so why not start on another project? Filming in July.

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.