Dirt!
 Letter in The Age, Thursday 29/11/2001. |
I feel a bit stuffed. Last night I was over at Josh’s place, watching the first double episode of the new Star Trek – Enterprise – The Generation After Voyager, over a few beers.
Before we got started, there was also a side-splitting conversation with Josh’s mate Pete, about a new industry we invented: dirt farming. Topics included dirt farms ("that’s the beautiful thing about dirt. No problem with droughts"), dirt farmers ("I’ve been a dirt farmer all my life. My father farmed dirt, and his father before him"), the export of dirt ("Australia exports the finest dirt to the world!") and the current state of world dirt markets.
Anyway, after I got home, had a long phone call with a friend, and went to bed zonked, I had trouble sleeping. Not sure quite what it was, though my bloody neighbours leaving the gate open downstairs (the one that bangs loudly whenever there’s the remotest gust of wind) didn’t help.
Umm, that is, the gate bangs loudly whenever there’s the remotest gust of wind. Not the neighbour.
Tonight, after playing a few George Harrison songs loudly, I finally watched the Star Wars Phantom Menace DVD I bought last month. Great stuff, quite spectacular. But it’s the kind of movie that emphasises how small my 48 cm TV is. Thank goodness I was able to use the DVD player’s Zoom function to see it a bit better, though no doubt any movie purists reading are tut-tutting right now and mumbling about aspect ratios.
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The art of computer repair
They say that computer programming can be more of an art than a science, and that might well be true. In fact, dealing with computers sometimes seems like an art – a black art to be precise. There are times when they appear not to follow any kind of logic whatsoever, just the opposite you’d expect from computers.
Take, for example, yesterday’s case of my ex’s computer display not working. I go and look. Check the connections. Everything’s plugged in okay, but nope, it’s definitely not working. Logic dictates that it is probably either a problem with the monitor, or the video card.
Okay. So I come back later, lugging along another monitor, and another video card. Plug the replacement monitor in, and presto, it works. Okay. So it must be the monitor that’s faulty, right? So I shut down the computer, and ponder where a good place to buy a cheap monitor might be.
Just before I go, I plug the old monitor in again. I’m not sure why. And I’m also not sure why I turn on the computer again. It boots up. Perfectly. Display ‘n’ all.
Weird. Black art, I’m telling you.
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Walk
 – The Age, Green Guide, Thu 22/11/2001 (Thanks Gerald) |
I felt bloated after dinner – I probably ate too much. So I went for an evening walk.
The weather was gorgeous, the sun was just going down, and I told an angry dog in a garden to fuck off. Felt much better after that.
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Early morning shower
I woke up at 4:15 to try and catch the Leonid meteor shower. Judging from reports in the paper, it promised to be a truly spectacular display, with hundreds of meteors streaking across the sky.
In fact, judging from reports this morning, it was. Just a shame that from where I was, there was a blanker of cloud, leaving absolutely nothing visible! Bugger. Took me ages to get back to sleep, too.
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Lantana
Last night I thought I’d go see Lantana. All day I had kept hearing people say it’s really good. I’d had lunch with Mike, and he said he’d seen it and that it was probably the best Australian film he’s ever seen.
After lunch I went to buy the soundtrack (because I’d heard it’s really good too, and it’s by Paul Kelly whose music I really like, so hey, how could I not??) and the guy in the shop said "Hey, have you seen this? I’ve heard it’s brilliant!"
So it was time to see it. Alas, I had nobody to go with. I felt a little self-conscious, and a teensy bit sad and pathetic walking into the cinema on my own, but hey, that’s the way it goes sometimes.
By golly, I think Lantana is brilliant. About the time I was watching it, it was winning no less than seven AFI awards. So Mike, the guy in the shop and I are not the only ones who think so, apparently.
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Dreamy
I had a dream last night. It’s reasonably rare that I remember them, so I thought I’d document this one:
I had gone over to Elizabeth Street, something to do with my shoes, perhaps getting them fixed? It didn’t happen, but I was heading back to work on Exhibition Street. I saw a tram coming, only it wasn’t a tram, it was a bus that had a tram’s route number on it (109), but it was on the wrong street. I caught it anyway. I got on. Although I had a ticket, I didn’t show it to the driver, who didn’t seem to be interested.
After a block or two, the bus started to swerve. Suddenly it swerved right over to the right, through a fence and into a park (that doesn’t really exist). The bus stopped. The handful of other people on the bus and I seemed to be okay, though surprised. The bus turned around and headed back for the road, but went through another fence.
Then the bus was swerving around again. It hit a tram stop. I saw a person in front of the bus, but then they disappeared (I presumed hit by it). I did the hero bit and went up to the front of the bus. The driver seemed to have collapsed. I pulled him out of the seat – he didn’t resist, and I put my foot on the brake, and the bus stopped.
Bizarre dream, eh? I wonder what on earth it means!
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What more do you want? Blood?
I feel a bit drained today. Must be because I gave blood last night. Boom boom.
It had been years since I’d given blood. The Blood Bank’s hours aren’t exactly convenient for me. Then I happened to hear that the mobile blood bank would be paying a visit to my neck of the woods, so I thought I’d better leap at the opportunity and get down there.
To my surprise and delight, it was quite crowded when I rolled up at around 6:30pm. A lot of people seemed to be stopping past after work, including a guy I recognised from the train who slightly resembles East Timor hero Xanana Gusm�o – in fact I bet that’s the only reason he keeps the beard.
Despite the 6 years since I’d previously donated, they were able to find my records, but I had to fill out a lengthy form so they could figure out if my blood was worth taking. During the accompanying interview a few people overtook me in the queue – it’s amazing how a bit of overseas travel and a recent(ish) relationship with someone from overseas can impact how many questions they ask you.
The lady took a small sample, and seemed impressed that my haemoglobin level was 17 – whatever that means. Obviously I’m living healthier than I thought I was. My blood was deemed worthy, and I joined another queue.
I sat waiting, thinking of all the popular culture blood donation references I could. Hancock as The Blood Donor: "A pint? That’s very nearly an armful". Pete Townshend’s song "Give Blood". Neil in the Young Ones, when told "You may feel a bit of a prick", replying "So what’s new?"
And of course, Ultraviolet. Arrgh! What if this was all a Code V front?!?
I lay down, and the lady stuck the thing into my vein and slurped out my blood. The number of times I got asked if I was feeling okay was a bit of a worry, but all went well (except for a few drops spilt when she took it out) and I wandered into the next room for some food and drink. Then went home, vowing to do it again soon, and happy in the knowledge that I’d done a bloody good deed.
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The true nature of the universe
Naturally I lost all my money in the Cup. It’s what usually happens. In fact, if I could bet that I’d lose all my money, I’d clean up!
Just encountered a bloke at the supermarket who had abandoned his two small baskets full of groceries at the checkout and gone off somewhere. I took his place, and he came back and said "I was there".
"You had gone", I replied, but he looked the type to start mouthing off at a moment’s notice, and I had a kid with me who doesn’t need gratuitous swearing added to his vocabulary, so I didn’t make an issue of it.
Strangely, despite getting his way, he decided to push it further: "I can do what I want", he said, confirming that indeed he really did think universe revolved around him. Then as if to qualify it he added, "within the law".
Yeah, I was thinking. Unfortunately there’s nothing in the law that says you can’t be a complete arsehole.
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