blurt

… my life is falling to pieces … somebody put me together …

Just a quiet Sunday. I’ve been playing around with SpamAssassin lately, trying to reduce the large amount of spam that I receive on a daily basis — about 80 messages per day. Thus far, it looks pretty good, but the documentation leaves a lot to be desired. I’ve searched high and low for an answer to my question, but can’t find one anywhere. I guess that’s just the joy of working with free software — you sometimes get less than what you paid for.

I think I managed to do myself some damage yesterday diving on the sand playing volleyball. The front, right side of my ribcage is pretty sore today. It’s the same spot that I cracked years ago playing touch rugby on a pair of tennis courts — who put that damn net post there? Anyway, I suppose it’s promising that it only hurts when I sneeze or cough (and sometimes, move) — not spitting any blood, and nothing is moving around inside. Just hoping that it’s not something behind the ribcage.

I’m falling apart. Between my recent dentist and optometrist visits, I have to see a dermatologist soon to have a cyst removed from the top of my head. And now the ribs. I suppose I should know where my local emergency room is, just in case. 🙂

… I know it’s done for me … if you steal my sunshine …

The supporters of the Bombers threw the team a beach bbq today at Huntington Beach. The place was nuts — there were people queuing literally for miles just to park their cars in the lots. I gave up on that, parked a half-mile away and walked over. The weather was fantastic, the food was good and the company superb, as per usual. They really are a wonderful group of people — not just the players, but the girlfriends, wives, kids, friends, everyone!

For an Aussie it’s funny to hear all the time about how Southern Californians should be so proud of and love their beaches. Between you and me, they are pretty average. There is a huge flat expanse at the back of the beach, then a hump and a sudden drop to the water. So basically, unless you get all the way down to the water — about 200 yards from the back of the beach — you can’t even see it!

What’s worse, especially at this beach, is how much crap you find in the sand. Where we were today, they have a whole bunch of fire-pits, which are great for having a bbq or just sitting around with a group of friends toasting marshmallows. The problem is that people bring their own wood down to the beach, throw it in the fire-pit, burn it and forget. Months later, the city comes through with their bulldozers, lift up the concrete fire-pit walls and grade the sand, along with ashes and anything else left within. Think about that for just a moment — when you find old wood, what do you tend to find sticking out of it? Yup, nails. Rusty old nails. Rusty, old, 3-inch, tetanus-carrying, sharp as buggery, foot-piercing, painful as hell, belong on a building site, nails. I pulled three out of the sand in the middle of our volleyball court. Lovely stuff. Thank dog only one person managed to step on one. Hopefully he’ll head off for a shot tomorrow.

That said, the sight of hundreds of fire-pits blazing was pretty amazing (rhyming not intended, but a bonus for you, my bored reader). It reminded me of something out of a post-Apocalyptic movie. But now I know why there was so much crap on the beach (coals, dead embers, and of course, the nails!) and so much crap in the sky above the beach. This country has some amazing sights to see, but the pollution along the beach at sunset, preventing you from seeing more than a couple of miles along the coast isn’t one of them.

The beaches here might be a major part of the social scene, but they don’t hold a candle to the “natural”, clean beaches of home. I guess they just feel like a lot of other things in this town — false.

… and I knew if had my chance … that I could make those people dance …

And into the world of blogging rode the one.

Moved everything from my rinky-dink journal to blogger and it seems to be all happiness and sunshine.

… I’m hairy noon and night, hair that’s a fright …

There’s this lady that works on the checkout at my local grocery store. She’s probably in her 40s or 50s and one of the friendliest cashiers that you’re likely to come across. But there is something that makes it sort of difficult to choose her line when it comes time to choose.

I’ve seen bald women before, although most of them cover their naked noggins with a wig of some variety. This lady decided at some point in her life to be, err, more creative than that. You see, she painted hair on her head. Yes, she is bald, but she has this black hairline either painted or tattooed on to her scalp. It’s just this big block of black on her cranium, and it’s really hard to ignore.

She served me yesterday when she opened up a register next to the line I was waiting in and motioned me forward. Lots of pleasantries were spoken, but I have to admit that I found it hard to look north of her nose, because it just looks so silly. I know that probably sounds insensitive, and well, I guess it is. But that’s how it looks. I know that she’s probably not bald by choice, but the painting? I’m thinking that was her choice in some way.

I hope she’s not ill, because she really is a very friendly person, and well, I don’t wish ill-health on anyone.

I think that when I lose my hair (and my forehead is expanding it’s real estate holdings), I’ll just stick with the cue-ball, rather than the eight-ball, look.

… I understand … things aren’t often planned …

I like to read magazines when I fly. They just seem to carry enough interesting information to keep me busy for a couple of hours at a time, without really getting me caught up in a long-haul reading session. I always try to buy a mixture of mags so that I can cover my moods and learn new things in a range of different areas. OK, and so that I can swap out the New Scientist magazine for Rolling Stone when a nice looking girl sits next to me. (Tip: never read a “men’s” magazine on a plane, you look like a complete wanker!)

It’s easy to get hooked in to a good story. You’re reading along and the story is getting interesting. You’ve turned the page a couple of times as it progresses, checking out the pictures before you start reading each page. And this is where some magazines make me wish that the editor-in-chief is on the plane somewhere.

(continued on page 149)

When I see that, my blood boils faster than the creation of a Dennis Miller analogy. What?!?! You want me to turn to the back of the magazine now? What?!?! A new story starts a couple of pages later, after the obligatory swatch of bad advertisements. Why am I flipping past stories I haven’t read yet? To the back of the magazine, where I’m bound to run into the scum of the ads — penis enlargement, term papers online, kama sutra videos, corporate logo watches, ugly women posing as models giving phone sex. Why?!?!

Is there some problem with finishing the story in one block? Why do I have to jump around? Since when did reading a magazine become a “Choose Your Own Adventure” experience? Is there such a thing as a defragger for magazines?

I have to imagine that it’s got something to do with marketing dollars — that advertisers can be gouged for more money when their ads are placed in the front of the magazine — apart from the back cover, of course, which is reserved for a Dell or Absolut ad.

Let me read my damn story straight through. To quote Larry Sanders, “No flipping!”