One thing I forgot about my most recent post - the guys doing the helmet testing told me to tighten my head strap (the one that goes around your temple to the back of your head) - which I did. When I got home, I had a dent in my forehead from where the uncomfortable bloody strap had been jammed into my skin.
That strap is now back on the old setting. Yes, the helmet slid slightly when backwards pressure was placed on it, but if it's too bloody uncomfortable, I won't want to wear it.
The other thing they told me is that from the anecdotal evidence they have collected on bike/car crashes, roundabouts are about the worst place to be on a pushbike. You either get hit from behind by an impatient driver that wants to overtake you in a one lane roundabout (almost happened to me today, thanks to a dickhead in an Audi, who I caught at the next lights), or you get hit from side on by someone that fails to see you - or decides to not give way because you are small and vulnerable, so you slam into the side of their car.
Make that van, or ute. The most common vehicle that fails to give way to me is the tradesman's ute (or van). The most common type of vehicle that tries to overtake me in a roundabout is the black BMW - replaced today by the black Audi. Seriously, given all the wankers driving BMW's these days, can someone tell me why we didn't nuke the Germans as well, just for the heck of it?
Saturday, 13 June 2009
Ugh. Riding when out of shape is no fun
6 months of sitting in the car have clearly taken their toll. Whilst riding through Olympic Park today, I spied a rather scientific looking collection of gadgetry up a side path, and some Dilberts standing around with clipboards talking to cyclists. I didn't get what it was all about, so on the way back, I stopped for a look.
The Dilberts turned out to be from the Uni of NSW, and they were evaluating bike helmets and percieved risk and speed. I think. They asked me a few questions about my helmet, then measured my weight (eek!) and height before getting out a large set of calipers and measuring my head from various angles. They might have been secret Phrenologists for all I know. They then studied my helmet, evaluating how it was constructed and its size and so on.
Then came the interesting bit. They put a strap through the helmet and asked me to put it on. They then attached a set of handheld scales to the strap and pulled on it from various directions. I think what they were measuring was how much force it took before the helmet started sliding off my head - forwards, backwards and sideways. I was advised to tighten the temple strap a bit - which I did - but otherwise they thought I had it done up nice and tight. When you get flung off a bike (as has happened to me), the last thing you want is the helmet shifting under the G-force and exposing part of your noggin to the road surface/car bonnet/tree etc.
I've seen plenty of people riding around with their straps so loose, it's obvious that the helmet will simply flick clean off their head if they are ever walloped by something. What is the point of wearing a helmet if you aren't going to do it up properly, so that it flings off just when you really, really need it?
People are boneheads. I don't need to prove that to you.
For my troubles, they gave me a $15 voucher. Oh, and they told me that I now weigh over the dreaded ton. Eeek, as I said before. Time to do lots and lots and lots of km.
Before I finished up, they got me to ride up and down a stretch of path where they had some speed measuring devices setup, and asked me to estimate my speed. I thought I was doing 25km/h, but they told me I was doing 27 point something. I think they were collecting data for using in analysis of bike crashes - to get some idea of how cyclists percieve speed.
They are also doing a study of helmets that have been through a crash, to see how the helmet performed on impact. Unfortunately, I threw my crashed helmet out a year ago, so I couldn't help them out.
Their marketing skills sucked, I have to say. They had one badly lettered sign up on the bike path, which I completely failed to see, and the only reason I stopped was because there were other cyclists there before me. When I was there getting my head read, a few more turned up to see what it was all about. The only reason they got any customers is that Olympic Park on a weekend seems to have a large number of altruistic, older cyclists zooming around - the sort of people who will pop in and help out if they see someone who needs it.
Apart from that, I felt like a chick when I went riding today. I spent some time outside observing the weather and thinking, "What shall I wear?" If I had gone at say 8am, the answer would have been simple - every item of cycling clothing that I own. But by 12.30pm, it had warmed up to a lovely 21 degrees, although the sky was full of threatening clouds.
I ended up going with my summer rig, with the addition of an undershirt and nothing more. Within a few kilometres, I was regretting the undershirt, thinking that I was going to start sweating like Henry Rollins at a particularly tough gig. But then the clouds rolled in, and the temp immediately dropped 3 degrees (it's handy having a temperature guage in your bike computer). That was enough for my thighs to get chilled, and I decided to keep the ride short instead of motoring miles out into the western suburbs. I discovered that I have been riding through Harris Park on some of those rides - the scene of Indian-on-Leb bashings recently. I usually go through Harris Park early in the morning, and have noted the large number of Indians playing cricket on the sports grounds. I have never seen a Leb out that way though - I guess they don't get out of bed before noon.
Speaking of which, I was served today by a woggy looking bloke, and he had clearly plucked his eyebrows. What do you think of that?
The Dilberts turned out to be from the Uni of NSW, and they were evaluating bike helmets and percieved risk and speed. I think. They asked me a few questions about my helmet, then measured my weight (eek!) and height before getting out a large set of calipers and measuring my head from various angles. They might have been secret Phrenologists for all I know. They then studied my helmet, evaluating how it was constructed and its size and so on.
Then came the interesting bit. They put a strap through the helmet and asked me to put it on. They then attached a set of handheld scales to the strap and pulled on it from various directions. I think what they were measuring was how much force it took before the helmet started sliding off my head - forwards, backwards and sideways. I was advised to tighten the temple strap a bit - which I did - but otherwise they thought I had it done up nice and tight. When you get flung off a bike (as has happened to me), the last thing you want is the helmet shifting under the G-force and exposing part of your noggin to the road surface/car bonnet/tree etc.
I've seen plenty of people riding around with their straps so loose, it's obvious that the helmet will simply flick clean off their head if they are ever walloped by something. What is the point of wearing a helmet if you aren't going to do it up properly, so that it flings off just when you really, really need it?
People are boneheads. I don't need to prove that to you.
For my troubles, they gave me a $15 voucher. Oh, and they told me that I now weigh over the dreaded ton. Eeek, as I said before. Time to do lots and lots and lots of km.
Before I finished up, they got me to ride up and down a stretch of path where they had some speed measuring devices setup, and asked me to estimate my speed. I thought I was doing 25km/h, but they told me I was doing 27 point something. I think they were collecting data for using in analysis of bike crashes - to get some idea of how cyclists percieve speed.
They are also doing a study of helmets that have been through a crash, to see how the helmet performed on impact. Unfortunately, I threw my crashed helmet out a year ago, so I couldn't help them out.
Their marketing skills sucked, I have to say. They had one badly lettered sign up on the bike path, which I completely failed to see, and the only reason I stopped was because there were other cyclists there before me. When I was there getting my head read, a few more turned up to see what it was all about. The only reason they got any customers is that Olympic Park on a weekend seems to have a large number of altruistic, older cyclists zooming around - the sort of people who will pop in and help out if they see someone who needs it.
Apart from that, I felt like a chick when I went riding today. I spent some time outside observing the weather and thinking, "What shall I wear?" If I had gone at say 8am, the answer would have been simple - every item of cycling clothing that I own. But by 12.30pm, it had warmed up to a lovely 21 degrees, although the sky was full of threatening clouds.
I ended up going with my summer rig, with the addition of an undershirt and nothing more. Within a few kilometres, I was regretting the undershirt, thinking that I was going to start sweating like Henry Rollins at a particularly tough gig. But then the clouds rolled in, and the temp immediately dropped 3 degrees (it's handy having a temperature guage in your bike computer). That was enough for my thighs to get chilled, and I decided to keep the ride short instead of motoring miles out into the western suburbs. I discovered that I have been riding through Harris Park on some of those rides - the scene of Indian-on-Leb bashings recently. I usually go through Harris Park early in the morning, and have noted the large number of Indians playing cricket on the sports grounds. I have never seen a Leb out that way though - I guess they don't get out of bed before noon.
Speaking of which, I was served today by a woggy looking bloke, and he had clearly plucked his eyebrows. What do you think of that?
Cyclists who ride like Mr Toad
This article in The Spectator cracked me up:
She describes nearly cleaning up a cyclist who came zipping out of a side street, not looking where he was going and yapping on a mobile phone with his head down. Sheer stupidity. I have no sympathy for these fools when they take a tumble - idiots like that have nearly cleaned me up on a few occasions when I have been twirling the pedals. They're a bloody menace to one and all.
Given that I hope to start riding to work again regularly next week, I have to be careful to restrain myself from turning into one of them. It's so easy to go with the flow and behave like an arsehole when others around you are acting that way. Must resist.... must resist. Remain a decent human being...... do not get absorbed by the Bastard Bike Borg......
Top-gear city cyclists are a law unto themselves. They’re a hardcore bunch — the very antithesis of a benevolent Boris or those daffy Mrs Tiggy-Winkle handwoven folk who choose to cycle only when the sun is shining and they’ve bought something pretty to put in their baskets. City types are not bumbling about on their bikes merely for fun. They’re going hell for leather and, like most people on the road, possess a deeply competitive streak. Obviously they have every right to cycle to work, just as we motorists (still) have the right to drive, yet road-sharing on this particular stretch is rife with danger. I know many of we car-owners are guilty of driving with the poop-poop arrogance of a Mr Toad, but two-wheeled tyrants can be every bit as bad. I’ve witnessed some of these louche Lords of the Lycra behaving like schizophrenic eco-warriors. One minute they’re compliant, staying faithful to the Highway Code; the next they’re acting as though they have the personal protection of an armour-plated Hummer. They are inconsistent, which is worryingly confusing.She's quite right. Some people get on a bike and think that sitting in the saddle is an excuse to go mental. Things that they would never dream of doing in a car become quite normal behaviour when on two wheels.
She describes nearly cleaning up a cyclist who came zipping out of a side street, not looking where he was going and yapping on a mobile phone with his head down. Sheer stupidity. I have no sympathy for these fools when they take a tumble - idiots like that have nearly cleaned me up on a few occasions when I have been twirling the pedals. They're a bloody menace to one and all.
Given that I hope to start riding to work again regularly next week, I have to be careful to restrain myself from turning into one of them. It's so easy to go with the flow and behave like an arsehole when others around you are acting that way. Must resist.... must resist. Remain a decent human being...... do not get absorbed by the Bastard Bike Borg......
Friday, 12 June 2009
The small annoyances of starting a new job
I'm not really starting a new job - it's just a change of surroundings. After spending the last few years working at client sites, using the client's computers and phones and desks and things, I have now moved into the office of the company that I am actually supposed to be working for. It's an odd feeling, given that I have worked for them for a few years, but have never spent a day in the office.
I spent most of today in the office sorting out the basics.
To start with, I had to find a place to sit. Not as in a cubicle, as there are no cubicles, but as in a chair on which to place my bottom. I have been allocated a few feet of space at a long bench where half a dozen of us sit side by side, and there were six spots this morning and five chairs. Since the office is very much NOT a 9-5 establishment, when I got there, only about 20% of the staff had arrived for work. It was simply a matter of wandering the floor to pinch what appeared to be a spare chair. I hope I got that right. In the time I was there, no one came in and screamed about their missing chair.
Here's a funny thing. I have spent over 15 years working in organisations that place great store on who gets what sort of office etc etc. I watched enormous amounts of energy and political capital being expended on gaining another square foot of office space for this manager or that executive. I never really gave a toss - so long as I was paid, I was happy to work sitting on a milk crate in a store room.
These days, I am making more per hour than every manager I have ever worked for - in some cases, a lot more - and I find myself working at a few square feet of cheap melamine, with no view, no pot plants, no art work, no secretary, no naugahide lounge chairs, no bookshelves, no parking space; sitting cheek by jowl with others in the same boat. And I don't mind at all. I don't believe offices should be made to be too comfortable - when they get that way, the people inside them never leave. They never go out in the field and visit their underlings, or their customers; and they tarry at the office over trivial matters instead of going home to the wife and kids. Offices should be spartan and just pleasant enough to keep the health inspectors away - that way, people come in, tear through their work and then bugger off to somewhere nicer. When people prefer their office to the beach, it is time to rip out the comforts.
Wives - if your husbands are not coming home early enough, tell their boss that you want your husband evicted from his office and stuck in the pokiest, nastiest, smelliest, coldest cubicle that they have. (I say "wives" because I have had beers with many men over the years that admitted to delaying their departure from the office to avoid bathing and feeding the kids and putting them to bed).
Then there was the phone. We have VOIP phones, and mine was not working. It was sitting there with a little clock-like thing going around and around on its digital face, and that is not good. A phone should not have a little clock going around and around. I had to call IT to come up to have a look at that one. Turns out the bloke that installed the phone connected it to the wrong socket. But without a working phone, I had no network connection for my new laptop.
"New" laptop is a better description. The bloke next to me laughed when I pulled it out of its rather battered looking carry bag. He said, "When I started here 5 years ago, I was given the next model up from that one. I am on my third laptop, and my first one was a later model than what you've got. They've really dug around in the parts bin to find you a machine".
As I collected the laptop, I asked the help desk bloke to reset my network password. I had tried to logon remotely last night to read my email, and couldn't get in.
"Oh yeah", he said, "The bloke who built the laptop for you reset your password. It's on the sticky note on the side of the case".
I could have throttled him. I tried a dozen times to logon from home, and thought that I had stuffed up my password. Gee, thanks for telling me, guys.
The office has wireless, so I tried connecting to that.
No dice. It turns out that IT had not configured the authentication settings properly.
So I sat at a nearby vacant desk and plugged in there. The laptop came with the bare bones in terms of the software that I need, so I then tried to install the stuff I needed.
No dice their either. Turns out the system was pushing dozens of patches onto my laptop in the background as I sat there, and it wouldn't load the stuff I needed whilst that was happening. It took nearly an hour for Outlook to start up and get to the point where I could read an email.
So I thought I would browse the intranet, and see what company news I had been missing.
No dice. You need approval to do that, and although my access had been approved, it had not been actioned. I could get to the internet and read the newspaper, but not read the intranet. Weird. Nor could I access a single network folder that I needed to get into.
At least I managed to fill out a timesheet and print it.
By the end of the day, the help desk was well and truly sick of me.
I gave up and went home early. I had spent 6 hours getting to the point where I have a chair, a "laptop", a phone that works, access to email and bugger all else. Talk about a day flushed down the toilet.
The only good news is that I found a Japanese restaurant nearby that looks half descent. I couldn't do anything for an hour whilst the help desk fiddled with something, so I went for a walk around the area. A nearby cafe also makes very good coffee. All in all, next week can only get better.
I spent most of today in the office sorting out the basics.
To start with, I had to find a place to sit. Not as in a cubicle, as there are no cubicles, but as in a chair on which to place my bottom. I have been allocated a few feet of space at a long bench where half a dozen of us sit side by side, and there were six spots this morning and five chairs. Since the office is very much NOT a 9-5 establishment, when I got there, only about 20% of the staff had arrived for work. It was simply a matter of wandering the floor to pinch what appeared to be a spare chair. I hope I got that right. In the time I was there, no one came in and screamed about their missing chair.
Here's a funny thing. I have spent over 15 years working in organisations that place great store on who gets what sort of office etc etc. I watched enormous amounts of energy and political capital being expended on gaining another square foot of office space for this manager or that executive. I never really gave a toss - so long as I was paid, I was happy to work sitting on a milk crate in a store room.
These days, I am making more per hour than every manager I have ever worked for - in some cases, a lot more - and I find myself working at a few square feet of cheap melamine, with no view, no pot plants, no art work, no secretary, no naugahide lounge chairs, no bookshelves, no parking space; sitting cheek by jowl with others in the same boat. And I don't mind at all. I don't believe offices should be made to be too comfortable - when they get that way, the people inside them never leave. They never go out in the field and visit their underlings, or their customers; and they tarry at the office over trivial matters instead of going home to the wife and kids. Offices should be spartan and just pleasant enough to keep the health inspectors away - that way, people come in, tear through their work and then bugger off to somewhere nicer. When people prefer their office to the beach, it is time to rip out the comforts.
Wives - if your husbands are not coming home early enough, tell their boss that you want your husband evicted from his office and stuck in the pokiest, nastiest, smelliest, coldest cubicle that they have. (I say "wives" because I have had beers with many men over the years that admitted to delaying their departure from the office to avoid bathing and feeding the kids and putting them to bed).
Then there was the phone. We have VOIP phones, and mine was not working. It was sitting there with a little clock-like thing going around and around on its digital face, and that is not good. A phone should not have a little clock going around and around. I had to call IT to come up to have a look at that one. Turns out the bloke that installed the phone connected it to the wrong socket. But without a working phone, I had no network connection for my new laptop.
"New" laptop is a better description. The bloke next to me laughed when I pulled it out of its rather battered looking carry bag. He said, "When I started here 5 years ago, I was given the next model up from that one. I am on my third laptop, and my first one was a later model than what you've got. They've really dug around in the parts bin to find you a machine".
As I collected the laptop, I asked the help desk bloke to reset my network password. I had tried to logon remotely last night to read my email, and couldn't get in.
"Oh yeah", he said, "The bloke who built the laptop for you reset your password. It's on the sticky note on the side of the case".
I could have throttled him. I tried a dozen times to logon from home, and thought that I had stuffed up my password. Gee, thanks for telling me, guys.
The office has wireless, so I tried connecting to that.
No dice. It turns out that IT had not configured the authentication settings properly.
So I sat at a nearby vacant desk and plugged in there. The laptop came with the bare bones in terms of the software that I need, so I then tried to install the stuff I needed.
No dice their either. Turns out the system was pushing dozens of patches onto my laptop in the background as I sat there, and it wouldn't load the stuff I needed whilst that was happening. It took nearly an hour for Outlook to start up and get to the point where I could read an email.
So I thought I would browse the intranet, and see what company news I had been missing.
No dice. You need approval to do that, and although my access had been approved, it had not been actioned. I could get to the internet and read the newspaper, but not read the intranet. Weird. Nor could I access a single network folder that I needed to get into.
At least I managed to fill out a timesheet and print it.
By the end of the day, the help desk was well and truly sick of me.
I gave up and went home early. I had spent 6 hours getting to the point where I have a chair, a "laptop", a phone that works, access to email and bugger all else. Talk about a day flushed down the toilet.
The only good news is that I found a Japanese restaurant nearby that looks half descent. I couldn't do anything for an hour whilst the help desk fiddled with something, so I went for a walk around the area. A nearby cafe also makes very good coffee. All in all, next week can only get better.
Thursday, 11 June 2009
I am turning into my parents
Ever eat fennel as a kid? Not me. I was a peas-only, brussel sprouting-detesting kind of kid. I don't mind brussel sprouts these days, although it took a spell of commercial vegie picking to convert me. The only way to eat them is to arise at sparrow fart, when a heavy frost lies upon the ground, and to pick the baby sprouts as the sun peeks above the horizon and provides enough light to work by. When the stems are icy cold, the sprouts snap off cleanly and stay fresh and crispy. It's hell on the hands, but sprouts require that level of dedication to perform for your taste buds.
Take those fresh, crisp, cold sprouts and boil or steam them lightly - just enough to remove most of the crunch - and then douse them with salt and butter. Eat. If they make you feel that way, fart. Enjoy. The eating that is.
The things that we regularly get in the shops are a parody of a proper sprout - they remind me of mini-cabbages and have the flavour of old, wet socks. No wonder kids refuse to eat them. I refuse to eat them most of the time.
Fennel was another one of those things that I turned my nose up as a kid, possibly because mum insisted on boiling it to death and serving it like a limp face cloth. It's taken me 25 years to get over that.
Tonight, I made a fennel gratin. It was dead easy.
To start with, I chopped the fennel up so that it would fit nicely into a gratin dish - I chopped it roughly into 8 or 10 pieces. It turns out that I used the lid of a gratin dish, but that made no difference. After buttering the lid and laying out the fennel and making the cheese sauce, I had a glance at the recipe and found that you are supposed to simmer the fennel for 10 minutes or so first, and then drain well.
Oops. Good thing the sauce was still in the pot, and not all over the fennel.
So I boiled it, drained it, drained it some more and laid it out again. Funny how it didn't lay itself out perfectly the 2nd time around. On went the sauce - a basic white sauce with whatever cheese I could find in the fridge (which did not include Gruyere, which is what it really needed) and some nutmeg. Not enough nutmeg. Or nutmeg that was no longer fresh.
Over the top of that went some breadcrumbs. More grated cheese should have been sprinkled on with the breadcrumbs, but I had run out of cheese. Into the oven it went, half-cheesed.
Out it came half an hour later, crispy and crunchy on top and smelling delightfully of aniseed. And not of nutmeg. The nutmeg must have had it.
The kids thought it looked and smelled disgusting. That's their bad luck. It all went - not even any leftovers for lunch tomorrow. The kids gave me the same look I used to give my parents - how can you eat that stuff?
I will have to make them meatloaf next.
Take those fresh, crisp, cold sprouts and boil or steam them lightly - just enough to remove most of the crunch - and then douse them with salt and butter. Eat. If they make you feel that way, fart. Enjoy. The eating that is.
The things that we regularly get in the shops are a parody of a proper sprout - they remind me of mini-cabbages and have the flavour of old, wet socks. No wonder kids refuse to eat them. I refuse to eat them most of the time.
Fennel was another one of those things that I turned my nose up as a kid, possibly because mum insisted on boiling it to death and serving it like a limp face cloth. It's taken me 25 years to get over that.
Tonight, I made a fennel gratin. It was dead easy.
To start with, I chopped the fennel up so that it would fit nicely into a gratin dish - I chopped it roughly into 8 or 10 pieces. It turns out that I used the lid of a gratin dish, but that made no difference. After buttering the lid and laying out the fennel and making the cheese sauce, I had a glance at the recipe and found that you are supposed to simmer the fennel for 10 minutes or so first, and then drain well.
Oops. Good thing the sauce was still in the pot, and not all over the fennel.
So I boiled it, drained it, drained it some more and laid it out again. Funny how it didn't lay itself out perfectly the 2nd time around. On went the sauce - a basic white sauce with whatever cheese I could find in the fridge (which did not include Gruyere, which is what it really needed) and some nutmeg. Not enough nutmeg. Or nutmeg that was no longer fresh.
Over the top of that went some breadcrumbs. More grated cheese should have been sprinkled on with the breadcrumbs, but I had run out of cheese. Into the oven it went, half-cheesed.
Out it came half an hour later, crispy and crunchy on top and smelling delightfully of aniseed. And not of nutmeg. The nutmeg must have had it.
The kids thought it looked and smelled disgusting. That's their bad luck. It all went - not even any leftovers for lunch tomorrow. The kids gave me the same look I used to give my parents - how can you eat that stuff?
I will have to make them meatloaf next.
WTF?
There I am, sitting at a red light. I look to my left, and the lady in the car next to me is flossing her teeth.
WTF!!??
Hippies and greed
If you've ever perused my blogroll, you may have noticed that I follow the Dr Housing Bubble Blog, which I think is a great read in regard to the distastrous US housing market meltdown, and all that followed in its wake.
Don't you just love the concept that the people, nay, the speculators that dove into the housing market with wild abandon, solely in an effort to garner buckets of filthy lucre and become richer than Croseus - were hippies in their youth?
Who generally has enough money and a long enough financial track record to borrow lots of money for speculation? (which used to be called "investment" whilst people were making money, but quickly became "speculation" when the market tanked). People in their late 40's or early 50's - that's who.
In other words, people that came of age in the late 1960's and early 1970's. The Age of Aquarius and all that.
Remember John Lennon singing something about "imagine there's no money"? Personally, Lennon makes me want to puke, but a big chunk of a generation grew up thinking that property was theft and showering more than once a week was a "downer".
The most of those meat heads grew up, got jobs and en masse created the biggest speculative bubble in history.
Oh, the irony.
Those bloody hippies were always a smug, self satisfied bunch of wankers; in it only for themselves. I hope they get to spend their retirement in a homeless shelter. As they used to say in around 1973 - "bad karma, man".
Don't you just love the concept that the people, nay, the speculators that dove into the housing market with wild abandon, solely in an effort to garner buckets of filthy lucre and become richer than Croseus - were hippies in their youth?
Who generally has enough money and a long enough financial track record to borrow lots of money for speculation? (which used to be called "investment" whilst people were making money, but quickly became "speculation" when the market tanked). People in their late 40's or early 50's - that's who.
In other words, people that came of age in the late 1960's and early 1970's. The Age of Aquarius and all that.
Remember John Lennon singing something about "imagine there's no money"? Personally, Lennon makes me want to puke, but a big chunk of a generation grew up thinking that property was theft and showering more than once a week was a "downer".
The most of those meat heads grew up, got jobs and en masse created the biggest speculative bubble in history.
Oh, the irony.
Those bloody hippies were always a smug, self satisfied bunch of wankers; in it only for themselves. I hope they get to spend their retirement in a homeless shelter. As they used to say in around 1973 - "bad karma, man".
Wednesday, 10 June 2009
Are you a manic knife sharpener?
I am pretty keen on keeping my kitchen knives sharp. This is something I inherited from dad, who spent decades searching for the best way to put an edge on a blade. Luckily for me, he found a good solution years ago, and passed it on. I use a sharpener apparently favoured by professional fisherman, who like a sharp blade for filleting mounds of fish.
Until today, I had always thought it a good idea to keep all the knives nice and sharp. Apparently not:
Not that I am in the habit of keeping a knife around me for sticking into someone else. But I will keep this in mind, next time I am honing a knife with the intention of dismembering a tomato for a sandwich.
Until today, I had always thought it a good idea to keep all the knives nice and sharp. Apparently not:
Now you may be thinking this will dull the knife and make it less effective in a last ditch combat situation. This is not so. The fixed blade knife is not intended to be razor sharp. The damage is caused by the sheer size and weight of the knife. Do you remember the instructions that came with the bayonet? They said the attached sharpening stone was to remove burs only, and not to sharpen the knife.
The most important reason not to sharpen your combat fixed blade is that heavy, sharp knives tend to cut into bone when used for thrusting, and therefore “stick to ribs”. A slightly less sharp knife will deflect off of bones and into soft tissue where it will do the most damage. Your knife does you no good if it’s stuck in the guy on the ground.
Not that I am in the habit of keeping a knife around me for sticking into someone else. But I will keep this in mind, next time I am honing a knife with the intention of dismembering a tomato for a sandwich.
A cyclist not to be messed with
This is one way to keep arrogant boofhead wankers who think they own the road under control.
I'd be carrying more than 30 rounds though. I'd get through that just getting to work. Need another 30 for the trip home.
I'd be carrying more than 30 rounds though. I'd get through that just getting to work. Need another 30 for the trip home.
Farty pants
Further to my "country cousins" post, I don't think I managed to adequately convey what the farty pants looked like.
Imagine puffy pleated pirate pantaloons.
Now imagine rapidly filling them with gas.
Now imagine them deflating.
Farty pants.
Imagine puffy pleated pirate pantaloons.
Now imagine rapidly filling them with gas.
Now imagine them deflating.
Farty pants.
Does punishment work?
I have heard many an argument that "punishment does not work".
Hmm.
Consider the activities of quite a few British MPs at present, diddling and fiddling their expenses. Although many have not undertaken outright fraud, the smell of something rotten hangs over the heads of all who have pushed the edge of the envelope in regards to claiming from the taxpayer.
What is the result?
Cabinet ministers have resigned under pressure, giving up oodles of perks and a big chunk of salary. A swag of MPs have said that they will not stand at the next election after being pressured by their local constituents. They are losing not only a source of income, but the chance to be part of a powerful elite. Others have paid tens of thousands of pounds in capital gains taxes that they may not be legally obliged to pay, but they have paid in order to atone for their sins.
That sounds like punishment to me.
Serious punishment. They're not being sent to prison (well, it might be too early to say that in some cases), but the mighty have fallen enormously. Power, prestige and pay have all been anihalated.
The effect on British politics has been electric. The punishment of the most odious sinners has provided a salutory lesson to the rest - I dare say that we won't see anyone trying to fiddle their expenses for a decade or so, until the lesson needs to be learned again.
In other words, the punishment of some will improve the behaviour of most of the remainder, as well as improving the behaviour of some of those being punished.
Sounds like punishment works just fine to me.
Hmm.
Consider the activities of quite a few British MPs at present, diddling and fiddling their expenses. Although many have not undertaken outright fraud, the smell of something rotten hangs over the heads of all who have pushed the edge of the envelope in regards to claiming from the taxpayer.
What is the result?
Cabinet ministers have resigned under pressure, giving up oodles of perks and a big chunk of salary. A swag of MPs have said that they will not stand at the next election after being pressured by their local constituents. They are losing not only a source of income, but the chance to be part of a powerful elite. Others have paid tens of thousands of pounds in capital gains taxes that they may not be legally obliged to pay, but they have paid in order to atone for their sins.
That sounds like punishment to me.
Serious punishment. They're not being sent to prison (well, it might be too early to say that in some cases), but the mighty have fallen enormously. Power, prestige and pay have all been anihalated.
The effect on British politics has been electric. The punishment of the most odious sinners has provided a salutory lesson to the rest - I dare say that we won't see anyone trying to fiddle their expenses for a decade or so, until the lesson needs to be learned again.
In other words, the punishment of some will improve the behaviour of most of the remainder, as well as improving the behaviour of some of those being punished.
Sounds like punishment works just fine to me.
Tuesday, 9 June 2009
Junee licorice factory, fooling about with camera settings
After all that, the Green Grove factory is a great place to stop for a tour, a feed and a coffee. I ignore the guff about them being organic and simply enjoy the best coffee for a hundred miles in any direction; good reasonably priced food and an always interesting and entertaining tour of the factory. Yes, they make licorice here, as well as lots of other chocolate coated goodies. The first time we visited, I think we spent $100 on chocolate and licorice, and a few hundred more on some art work. I love to watch stuff being made. I could sit in a car factory all day and watch cars being put together, or a steel mill and watch steel being poured. A licorice factory is much more fun - if you like licorice. I am no fan of it, but I get a kick out of watching people pouring raw ingredients into machinery at one end of a room and seeing a guillotine slicing up little licorice sticks for packing at the other end.
The secret is obviously out. The place was completely packed on the weekend. The carpark was overflowing, tables were being fought over and they'd run out of half the food on the menu by the time we ordered. Who cares - it's great.
Country cousins
Notes made after a night at the pub with the in-laws:
- Met dero couple. Between the two of them, they didn't have a full set of teeth. Most upper front teeth on both missing - could have a tonguey without opening their mouths. Age - 37. Looked 60+. Woman half my height, twice my weight. Bloke skinny as a rake. Wore cowboy hat indoors at all times.
- Met lesbian. Last bloke she bonked was my brother-in-law.
- Heard about school affairs. Lesbian took up with English teacher whilst 15 or so. Another girl took up with the History teacher. Not seen as out of the ordinary.
- Wife beating - considered nothing much, so long as woman throws the first punch
- Read local paper that morning. Cops nabbed a bloke who did a runner and smashed up his new Commodore. Turns out he had pulled an armed robbery on the local RSL and made off with twenty grand. Part of that was spent on the Commodore. Brother-in-law fixed the brakes two days before prang. Thanked the Lord he was paid in cash before cops got the robber.
- Robbers pay better than hospitals. Much complaining about town idiot who was doing something important for the local state health service. Took them two years to pay brother-in-law for servicing the health service cars. Dairy no longer supplying milk to hospital due to unpaid bills.
- Height of fashion - being seen in jeans with a pair of KT26's.
- Many drunken cries of "get faaaarked, you old bastard"
- Saw more mullets and rat's tails in one round of drinks that a year in Sydney
- 50% of locals smoke
- Height of fashion - board shorts for a formal dinner
- Pub dinner - unidentifiable, stringy meat and three veg boiled in a bag, doused with grey gravy
- Pub sold beer bottles that need a bottle opener to open, but could not find bottle opener
- J discovered that not one, but two of her associates are serving time in prison
- Height of fashion - middle aged woman wearing billowing pants. Drunken bloke at bar asks, "What happens when you fart?" Even I cracked up at that. You'd have to see the pants to understand.
- Got better food and coffee in Junee than Five Dock
- When did people stop drinking coffee with chicory?
Filleting Jared Diamond
As much as I enjoyed his books, I thought he had gone a bit nuts by the time he wrote his latest one on collapsing societies. Too much time in the jungle without wearing a hat.
Read the transcript here, or listen to the podcast, to get an alternative view.
My favourite bit about why Easter Island has no forests - nothing to do with erecting all those enormous heads. When the Polynesians arrived, they brought rats with them. The rats had no predators on Easter Island, so they went forth and multiplied - to plague proportions perhaps? The rats feasted on the seeds of the pine trees, so no more baby pine trees. As the people cleared the land for agriculture etc and moved on, the forest did not grow back thanks to the rats.
Population collapse - nothing to do with eco-suicide. In 1722, a Dutch ship arrived and various European plagues quickly did most of the population in.
In short, Diamond tells good fairy stories that sell well.
Read the transcript here, or listen to the podcast, to get an alternative view.
My favourite bit about why Easter Island has no forests - nothing to do with erecting all those enormous heads. When the Polynesians arrived, they brought rats with them. The rats had no predators on Easter Island, so they went forth and multiplied - to plague proportions perhaps? The rats feasted on the seeds of the pine trees, so no more baby pine trees. As the people cleared the land for agriculture etc and moved on, the forest did not grow back thanks to the rats.
Population collapse - nothing to do with eco-suicide. In 1722, a Dutch ship arrived and various European plagues quickly did most of the population in.
In short, Diamond tells good fairy stories that sell well.
The trouble with aid
My head is totally stuffed with cotton wool at the moment - came down with an evil cold this morning, so I blame any horrible prose to come on germs.
I had to turn up my car stereo this morning to hear a Counterpoint podcast on Foreign Aid, particularly aid to Africa. As I am having trouble thinking straight, I hope I get this right (and the bloke being interviewed was awfully hard to understand).
Assertion 1 - more money leaves Africa each year for tax havens that the west donates in aid. Therefore, tax havens should be closed down.
Assertion 2 - Africa does not need more aid (as Bono et al keep telling us) - it needs less, and it needs to be given set targets as to how aid will be wound down over a decade or two.
Assertion 3 - a lot of the policy prescriptions that have been attached to aid in recent years have done more harm than good, and have benefited some donor countries hugely. Eg, a country is told to privatise their water supply system, which they do, and the French move in and take it over.
Apart from being almost impossible to understand, it was an interesting talk. The rest of that Counterpoint episode is also one of the best I have heard this year.
To assertion 1 - if so much money is leaving Africa, it tells us something. It tells us a lot. It tells us that the investment climate sucks, and it presumably sucks due to god-awful government, corruption and thieving bureaucrats. If a Swiss banker is offering a dull, 6% return on your money with minimal (if any) tax, versus a 5% return in Africa with the possibility of not only all your profit being stolen, but your capital as well - where would any right thinking person put their money? I have no issue with giving money directly to Africans, such as sponsoring kids, but giving money to governments is madness. Giving money to our own governments is madness - witness NSW at present, and Victoria under Kirner and her lot. Total disaster. Obama looks like he is going to set a new record for utterly shite government, bettering even Gordon Brown. Whitlam was the four horsemen of the economic apocalypse rolled into one.
If our own, relatively clean and well run western governments can be such total arse-wipes that should have their spending powers ruthlessly amputated like the Black Knight in The Search for Holy Grail, why on earth should we give African despots anything at all?
Assertion 2 - spot on. The sooner they get weaned off aid, the better off they'll be. Do we get a heroin addict to clean up by giving them more heroin?
Assertion 3 - more than likely, knowing the perfidious French.
My brain is too gummed up to think properly.
I had to turn up my car stereo this morning to hear a Counterpoint podcast on Foreign Aid, particularly aid to Africa. As I am having trouble thinking straight, I hope I get this right (and the bloke being interviewed was awfully hard to understand).
Assertion 1 - more money leaves Africa each year for tax havens that the west donates in aid. Therefore, tax havens should be closed down.
Assertion 2 - Africa does not need more aid (as Bono et al keep telling us) - it needs less, and it needs to be given set targets as to how aid will be wound down over a decade or two.
Assertion 3 - a lot of the policy prescriptions that have been attached to aid in recent years have done more harm than good, and have benefited some donor countries hugely. Eg, a country is told to privatise their water supply system, which they do, and the French move in and take it over.
Apart from being almost impossible to understand, it was an interesting talk. The rest of that Counterpoint episode is also one of the best I have heard this year.
To assertion 1 - if so much money is leaving Africa, it tells us something. It tells us a lot. It tells us that the investment climate sucks, and it presumably sucks due to god-awful government, corruption and thieving bureaucrats. If a Swiss banker is offering a dull, 6% return on your money with minimal (if any) tax, versus a 5% return in Africa with the possibility of not only all your profit being stolen, but your capital as well - where would any right thinking person put their money? I have no issue with giving money directly to Africans, such as sponsoring kids, but giving money to governments is madness. Giving money to our own governments is madness - witness NSW at present, and Victoria under Kirner and her lot. Total disaster. Obama looks like he is going to set a new record for utterly shite government, bettering even Gordon Brown. Whitlam was the four horsemen of the economic apocalypse rolled into one.
If our own, relatively clean and well run western governments can be such total arse-wipes that should have their spending powers ruthlessly amputated like the Black Knight in The Search for Holy Grail, why on earth should we give African despots anything at all?
Assertion 2 - spot on. The sooner they get weaned off aid, the better off they'll be. Do we get a heroin addict to clean up by giving them more heroin?
Assertion 3 - more than likely, knowing the perfidious French.
My brain is too gummed up to think properly.
Monday, 8 June 2009
Clouds
Cool clouds, with moon. I liked the way this cloud ended in a sheer face - something you don't see every day.
In a jam
Blogging has been non-existent over the long weekend due to the need to make a 1300km round trip to buy some jam.
Well, ok, we did some other things along the way, but one thing we did return with was a box of very delicious jam. And mustard. And relish.
This is all from a mob called Catania Fruit Farm out at Griffith. They are well worth a visit - we try and drop in every year to restock the cupboards, and I have learned through bitter experience to buy up all the Five Cup Relish that I can get my hands on. I bought four jars this year - the last of his stock. It is just the most perfect thing to have with bacon and eggs, bar none. It's hot, but not too hot - not blow your head off hot. Just an elegant sufficiency of hot.
The Shiraz Jam is made with shiraz grapes, which is a bit different. The other oddment that we bought was tomato and passionfruit jam. There was another couple in the shop when we got there, and the woman exclaimed, "How wonderful, my mother used to make this, and I loved it", so we bought a jar to see what it is like. We've bought a lot of jam from this mob, and they've never sold us a dud yet, so I expect it will be good.
The bag of licorice that J bought from them didn't even make it home to get photographed.
Well, ok, we did some other things along the way, but one thing we did return with was a box of very delicious jam. And mustard. And relish.
This is all from a mob called Catania Fruit Farm out at Griffith. They are well worth a visit - we try and drop in every year to restock the cupboards, and I have learned through bitter experience to buy up all the Five Cup Relish that I can get my hands on. I bought four jars this year - the last of his stock. It is just the most perfect thing to have with bacon and eggs, bar none. It's hot, but not too hot - not blow your head off hot. Just an elegant sufficiency of hot.
The Shiraz Jam is made with shiraz grapes, which is a bit different. The other oddment that we bought was tomato and passionfruit jam. There was another couple in the shop when we got there, and the woman exclaimed, "How wonderful, my mother used to make this, and I loved it", so we bought a jar to see what it is like. We've bought a lot of jam from this mob, and they've never sold us a dud yet, so I expect it will be good.
The bag of licorice that J bought from them didn't even make it home to get photographed.
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