The Necronomicon will be on hiatus for a while. There are things which I need to sort out in my head. Excuse me while I go take a long ride on a motorbike.
All I ask of you is this. Help me find a way of living with it.
|W|P|109099160335639533|W|P|A leave of absence.|W|P|Desmosedici@gmail.com
I just bought a pack of my regular brand of cigarettes. First thing I noticed when I stripped the cellophane wrapper off was a slip of paper inserted into the cellophane. I pulled it out and found that it was a foot long strip of paper detailing the side effects and consequences of smoking cigarettes. It also contained a severe admonition not to smoke. This warning was printed in 3 languages in very fine print on both sides of the paper and was worded very simply.
However, the intention of the goverment, in making cigarette manufacturers include this rather lengthy health warning in all the packs of cigarettes that they sell, is defeated by the fact that it takes this side of forever to read, and most smokers will throw it away after reading the first one. Furthermore, the language used in wording the warning was as dry as dust, and read like a excerpt from a law journal. It certainly did nothing to communicate the dangers and side effects of smoking, and it certainly didn't stick in my mind. I read it, I threw it away, and lit my cigarette.
And started choking. They have changed the formulation of the tobacco, I think. It tasted very different from what I am used to, and am still coughing from that one cigarette. Tasted like warmed over socks. They shouldn't do things like this without telling us. I have been smoking regularly for the past 20 years. My worst years were the late 80s and early 90s, when I went out clubbing a lot, and was smoking in the region of 4 packs a day.
I guess now's a good time as any to give up the coffin nails. I'll let you know how I get on.As you can see, I've been fucking around with the way the place looks. What do you think? Yeah, I know, it's a standard blogger template. But I think it kind of suits the minimalist look that I want. No frills, no extras, no bells and whistles. Looks very Zen. And changing templates is very hard work, as Meesh once said.
Thanks to Hummingbird for the assist. And now you know my main password.
I think I'll go back to watching TV now.
|W|P|109089715082665050|W|P|Face Lift.|W|P|Desmosedici@gmail.comWhen I was still a young man, and embarking on my journey to other lands far across the seas, I landed in a country where it was mountains, and fresh air, and dumb bastards chaining themselves to trees. It was a beautiful place, God's own country, as the locals liked to put it. And most everyone owned a gun, or at least a sporting rifle.
It wasn't such a big change for me, considering I came from a home environment where the head of house had a gun, as did all his subordinates. I was also fresh from an environment where guns were definitely the norm, as well as other high powered weaponry. But the fact that your normal Joe Blow citizen was driving around with a gun rack in his 4x4 was different. It made me wonder whether there was a strong chance of me being blown away, like what I had seen in the movies.
I met up with some young men of my age, and after the usual getting to know each other male bonding shit, and after they got over the shock of the fact that I spoke better than they did, I was invited for a deer hunt.
Deer hunts in the region I was in was drawn by lottery. At the start of the season, you put your hunting license into a ballot, and the draw would then allow you hunt your bag for the season. I was told that I could follow a friend's family out for the hunt. We went to a hunting lodge they had rented for the season high up in mountain country. It was autumn, and it was cold enough that you would think twice before pissing outdoors.
We had 2 weeks to go hunting, due to work committments and such. At the lodge, the night before the hunt, I was given a .308 as my rifle for the hunt. I said I wanted to bore sight it, and familiarise myself with it, and was told that I could do it in the morning. We spent the rest of the night drinking beer, and my hosts teaching me that whys and wherefores of hunting in the region. It is peculiar, but I have noticed that hunters everywhere, all over the world, are very superstitious, and they observe many taboos and such, especially before and after a hunt. I guess it's the fact that you come from one world, and are entering another, and taking something from it.
We started hiking early in the morning, the edge of the tree line, and worked our way downwards on the other side of the mountain. We came to a gully, which an animal trail crossed, and there we set up our various hides, and waited for an animal to show.
*Yes, I know about the movie. And this title was chosen very intentionally indeed.
|W|P|109081672239487120|W|P|The Deer Hunter*|W|P|Desmosedici@gmail.comI was just checking the stats for this blog a moment ago and noticed a funny coincidence. The number of page views had reached 2000, and the person who requested the page came from Belfast. And since I really only know of one family in Belfast who reads the Necronomicon, it simply has to be JHoo, since Ehoo is too small to reach the keyboard, and CHoo is busy scoffing down apple pie. Congratulations. A genuine original 'Desmo Owner's Club' pin is yours. Please collect your prize in person. Terms and conditions apply. Judge's decision is final. No correspondence shall be entered into. Proof of posting is not proof of receipt. Malaysian men of mystery, their employees and relatives are not allowed to enter this contest.
|W|P|109057383260568454|W|P|#2000|W|P|Desmosedici@gmail.com
|W|P|109055619044376414|W|P|Girl Friday|W|P|Desmosedici@gmail.comJust got back from a testing and commissioning on site. Turns out we can't actually do the testing and commissioning because the equipment has condensation damage. The vendor will be doing his best to clean it up. This situation has of course resulted in the obligatory finger pointing and blame storming that accompanies each and every fuck up that occurs on this site.
I wanted to have someone take a picture of me in my site gear just now. I really looked the business with hard hat, cordura jacket, dockers and boots, with walkie and tape measure and stuff slung from my belt...but we were too busy snarling and yelling motherfucker at each other.
|W|P|109055574048771661|W|P|More Power|W|P|Desmosedici@gmail.comI must once again apologise for the lack of serious updates in this blog. I know that my readers, all 3 of them, will be disappointed to know that this blog is actually still functional. I have just been busy of late doing my part to reduce the tree population of this world. We have been told by the powers that be that the project deadline is non negotiable and that no extensions will be entertained. I wish them the best of luck, because 60% of the equipment is still in manufacturing or in transit. And only expected to arrive in mid September. And this place is to be handed over in October. Congratulations and hardy har har. No way in hell we're going to make it.
I've also been having many conversations of late with some friends, and I am pleased to know that there are actually people who care enough about me and my well being. It's supposed to give me a warm fuzzy feeling all over, but then I go lie down till it passes. Whatever it is, I am glad that our paths have crossed. There is much to be said for the developments in digital technology.
|W|P|109054513463582586|W|P|Me Again.|W|P|Desmosedici@gmail.comI was on the way in to work this morning, and I saw this. Fresh. The cops were just getting out of their vehicle. The corner is a downhill lefthander, and the inside of the curve is slicker than a 2 dollar prostitute covered in jelly.
|W|P|109054308834735053|W|P|Dead Man's Curve.|W|P|Desmosedici@gmail.comRace day morning dawned, and found us crashed out in various states of undress and inebriation all over a friend's living room. The afore mentioned stripper's panties were now the proud property of the family dog, who took great delight in worrying them to death. We collected ourselves and piled into a truck to head out to the track, stopping at a diner on the way to fill ourselves with caffeine and depth charge our stomachs with donuts.
At the track, the consumption of 2 bottles of tequila the night before was making me dry heave into the bushes. And I had the sweats. The registration clerk took one look at me and told my friend to bring me to the track medic. I refused, and insisted on signing the entry forms in between bouts of heaving and racking.
I walked over to my bike, which was being attended to by a couple of friends. They looked at my ashen face, and told me that maybe I should sit out the race. Again I refused, saying that they were the ones who brought me here to get my race license, and by fuck I was going to finish my first race or die trying. Ah, the sheer stupidity and bravado of youth. The side effects of the tequila were getting really bad now, and I had to sit down with my head between my knees to stop the paddock from spinning around too much. The clerk-of-course walks up and asked me if I could stand up straight. I managed after a fashion, and he looked me in the eye and told me he could stop me from riding with a note from the track medic. I said I would be good if they would all just let me rest for a minute.
At this point a friend's wife walks over and looks at me says she knows exactly what I need. And gives me this ham and cheese sandwich...a big thick one... I wolf down the sandwich and begin to feel better almost immediately. And she gives me a can of V8, which I swallow. And I feel even better. So I turn and thank her, and she says don't thank me honey, thank the vodka I put in the V8. And she winked at me. Hare of the Dog indeed.
Much restored, I went to the starter's office to check my race start time and grid position. I found out I had about another 2 hours or so to go, and was 3rd from last on the grid, which suited me just fine. I returned to bike to find that the wheels were off and fresh tyres were being put on. I asked my friend why, since I couldn't afford new rubber, and he said it was a gift from the group, because if I crashed, which looked likely that I would, they didn't want me blaming the tyres. When I heard this, everything started going dizzy again, and I promptly turned and puked on the shoes of my friend's wife, who I didn't know was standing just behind me.
|W|P|109021809094040139|W|P|Virgin Killers Part Two.|W|P|Desmosedici@gmail.com
|W|P|109003708947004612|W|P|View From a Bridge.|W|P|Desmosedici@gmail.com
|W|P|108994395127889495|W|P|Girl Friday|W|P|Desmosedici@gmail.comThis will be the first, and I hope the last, time I ever blog on this subject.
I had a rather surreal lunch yesterday. A vendor came over, and after a site inspection, asked if I would like to join her for lunch with her technicians. I said ok, and we went to the corner shop in her car. As I got into the car, I noticed a flyer from a church, and a small 'Jesus' pillow hanging from her rear view mirror.
I then asked which church she went to, and she became very evasive. After some prodding, she revealed that she attended a Charismatic church in the east side of town. The name of the church meant nothing to me, being the heathen that I am, but we had a short discussion in the car about the various flavours of Christianity. And I discovered that she was very close minded about the entire Christian world. She didn't even know who the Jesuits are, when I told her I attended a Jesuit school sometime in the course of my rather chequered education path.
Over lunch, she then started asking me about my belief in God, and started trying to convert me, not very subtly I might add. It wsa almost like a hard sell from a pyramid marketing firm, without the politeness and the promise of yachts and Mercedes if I recruited 25,000 people, including my grandmother. I listened politely, because I have always held the belief that religion is a very personal thing. Religion, for me, as always been something that you have to choose for yourself, and while listening to someone espouse the benefits of their religion, being threatened with not getting into someone's concept of 'heaven' makes something in my head switch off.
I have friends, some of whom I met recently, who are Christians. And they struggle with their faith like everyone else. And I respect them immensely for it, especially those of them who blog about their faith. But someone I hardly know coming and telling me that I have to surrender myself obviously doesn't know me very well. I was then asked if I had ever seen God, and I replied, many times. I was then asked how, because she was obviously wanting to take my experience to show that her 'version' of God was entirely responsible for every factor affecting my life.
I clammed up, and flatly stated that my opinion of religion is that it is personal, and she used that as bait to decide that I was 'confused' and 'lost'. Those of you who know me in real life would probably have formed the opinion that self confidence is not something I lack, and that my sense of direction is a shade below a GPS in accuracy, spiritual or otherwise. I certainly have an unshakeable belief in good, and a faith, but don't tell me that I am wrong for being so because I don't subscribe to your religious dogma. I certainly could have had a good time messing with her concept of God in her head, but I thought she was ditzy enough without being subjected to a mind fuck from me.
The vendor gave me the impression of someone who had swallowed the teachings of her church whole, without examining what she was learning. I am not completely cynical, nor skeptical, but I certainly would question someone telling me that I am a heathen and will burn in hell. Perhaps I will, perhaps not. The journey to the great beyond is one most people make once, unless you're Buddhist or Hindu.
I have just re-read the entire post, and realise some portions of it may upset some parties. If so, please keep the hate mail to a minimum, and don't bother converting me. Better souls than you have tried and failed. And for that certain someone I spoke to about this yesterday, I thank you and love you for respecting my faith, as I unconditionally respect yours.
|W|P|108987064056441257|W|P|Unbeliever.|W|P|Desmosedici@gmail.comSomeone didn't have the balls to blog this.
|W|P|108978362429164324|W|P|Hernia City.|W|P|Desmosedici@gmail.comIf you have PMS, read this. 1. If you can't predict PMS, your boyfriend, even if he is a very good gynaecologist, probably won't be able to, too. Keep a menstrual diary and ask your gynaecologist or doctor to interprete it for you. Try to understand WTF is happening to your own pituitary gland and ovaries. Make an attempt to estimate when your mood is going to swing next and don't expect others to be ready for it 365.25 days per year. 2. If your mood is bad, it's definitely PMS. Please warn others to stay away from you. It's your hormonal problem and entirely yours alone. The rest of the world is innocent. If you don't and when the shit hits the fan, don't go around blaming others for it. The only one that you should blame is yourself. I have a better suggestion. If you detect mood swing, go hide yourself under the stair or attic and do not come out until your mood gets better. 3. If you expect people to console you, I'll tell you a better method. Console yourself! Yup! Get a mirror and talk to yourself. A pool of urine should work the same. It's better than lashing out at others and later his whole gang laughing behind your back saying you had a bad PMS Xtreme. 4. If you expect people to detect your PMS days from the rest of the days, be extremely nice to them the rest of the days. Like swallowing their cum when you are normal. Tell them that the day when you don't swallow, you are probably having PMS. So that they can cum in others' mouth instead of yours. Its nutritional value harbouring a million lives shouldn't go wasted just because of your unpredictable hormonal changes. 5. If you have ever heard of male PMS, it probably exists. But there's no way to predict it, not even the top urologist. Because males simply don't have the advantage of bleeding from a non-existent vagina. When you detect mood swing on a male, please be understanding. Leaving them alone would be best. They probably have better things to do than to entertain you. The best way to console them is to swallow while they are surfing porn sites. Keep this in mind and you'll never be wrong. 6. If you think you have the remotest hint that you are having a PMS, please don't farking choke the handsome doctor next to your table when he is having his Tom Yam Kung while you were lashing out at your poor boyfriend telling him to suck your PERIODIC TABLE! It's very uncalled for. He ended up having Chee-Cheong-Fun instead of a second bowl of Tom Yam Kung after being resuscitated by his nurses...
I was informed yesterday that this project has now consumed 1.5 million dollars worth of paper. And I'm drowning in paperwork. Someone give me a Zippo lighter so I can clear my desk. When I was away for a week, I returned to a 3 inch pile sitting in my in-tray. And triplicate copies of everything.
Sheesh!
|W|P|108977095034032319|W|P|Save the Rainforest.|W|P|Desmosedici@gmail.comHeading into another weekend. Jazzman is coming in to have a look at a Peggy 3 for sale in the city. He's planning on spending the night, and we'll probably go clubbing. Or something. It's been a madcap week, culminating in a frenzy of letter writing the likes of which have not been seen since I had to re-apply for my student grant.
The project is proceeding apace, and today a giant spreadsheet landed on my desk, listing the equipment requiring installation and the end date, some months from now. And I was asked if it were possible to work backwards from the end date to today to see if we could get all the machines installed by the end date. I looked up from my desk into the eyes of one of the project managers and started laughing. I simply couldn't help myself. There is so much work on the infrastructure that has to be in place before we can even think about starting the pre-installation work, let alone slamming the machine itself in the building, that it's a fucking joke. The drains are in the wrong place, there is insufficient electrical supply, the swing of the door interferes with the swing of the pendants, the air conditioning system is tested and balanced. A million and one details that have to be looked at and eliminated. And they want to ensure that the building is complete and ready for testing and commissioning by the end date. And after the end date, to audit, or test and commission, 1.5 million individual items of equipment, in the space of 18 days. Fucking hilarious.
I finally calmed down, and tried to explain the facts of life to the project manager. He took offence at that, and tried to push the blame onto the company I work for. To which I replied that if projects this size were actually handed out to companies that know what they're doing, as opposed to companies that were politically well connected, we wouldn't be in this shit storm.
I've also been invited to attend the company's family day in August as a beach on the East Coast. Considering the fact that I last visited that beach 7 years ago, I remembered why I never went back. The place went commercial and now sucks. So I'm thinking twice about putting my name down on the attendance sheet. I'd rather go sailing.
|W|P|108936585911769804|W|P|Sailing.|W|P|Desmosedici@gmail.com
|W|P|108933572603401259|W|P|Girl Friday|W|P|Desmosedici@gmail.comThe very first time I hit a racetrack was well nigh 20 years ago. It was located in the high desert, and was fairly small and tight track. An excellent motorcycle track. I was still a wet behind the ears bike rider, having just got my first genuine 100 plus horsepower motorcycle. It had 4 cylinders, was oil cooled, dual overhead cams and a 19 inch front wheel. Those of you who ride newer sports bikes will probably be sniggering now, but back then, this was considered state of the art.
I was invited to take part in a local club race, at the behest of several senior riders. I turned up earlier in the week for race school and to obtain my race license from the sanctioning body. I attended the classes, which comprised of classroom and track sessions. The classroom sessions seemed a little superficial to me, basically covering things like flags, right of way, corner markers and so on. Nothing I didn't already know, except that the statement "Oh, and by the way, we can't afford to have an ambulance stationed on track so it will take about a half hour before you can get medical attention." made me sit up straight.
We were taken out on the track and shown our wobbly way around it for several laps, before the instructor buggered off down the straight and into the distance. I proceeded to try and give chase and was catching up up with him when the braking markers suddenly loomed large in my visor. Trying to slow down 500lbs of motorcycle together with 150 lbs of rider was not easy. The front kept trying to tuck under and I kept trying to save it, and finally negotiated my way around the corner. By this time the instructor was long gone, and the rest of the pack had caught up with me. So this terrified bunch of newbies sort of stuck together like sheep and made their way round the track for the obligatory 5 laps within a pre set lap time.
We rolled into the pits, wide eyed and sweaty, buzzing with adrenaline, and the racing school crew were there to congratulate us, as were some of my friends. We each got a little laminated card which said we were now 'C' class riders. I was having a few celebratory brews with my friends, when one of the them said to me, "well, we'll see how you actually perform on race day." I asked him what he meant by that remark, and he said, "Oh, in this race school, no one fails to get a license."
Great. This now meant I still didn't know if I was race material or not. We went back to the city for more beers and partying, and finally crashed out in a friend's living room, one of us with a stripper's panties on his head, much to the disgust of the friend's wife.
|W|P|108926573080504843|W|P|Virgin Killers Part One.|W|P|Desmosedici@gmail.comGreece won the Euro 2004 finals, and the Project Director was kind enough to take us out for lunch. No, the rumours about him running naked down Telawi waving a Greek flag are not true.
There will be a stalker's meet tonight, and although the stalkee will not be attending, we intend to have a good time. Someone is going to get hugged, someone is going to get kissed, and someone is going to get kneed in the groin. It will be nice to put more faces to names. And drink lots of coffee.
4 hours and counting.
|W|P|108909335229941270|W|P|Just a minute.|W|P|Desmosedici@gmail.comBrothers. Ducatis. Cigarettes. Bench racing. Jokes. Coca-cola. Technical knowledge. Decals. The Club. A certificate confering legitimacy. Plans. Upgrade tips. Rides. Finances. Pictures. 2 a.m. in the morning. Hokkien Char. Fast cars. Faster bikes. Funny stories. Coffee. Racing lessons. A near death experience. Laughter. Plato. Brothers.
I'm Plato.|W|P|108872934880510633|W|P|Band of Brothers.|W|P|Desmosedici@gmail.com
|W|P|108872843131351434|W|P|Girl Friday|W|P|Desmosedici@gmail.comHad a great start to the morning. Went out on the balcony for a smoke before my morning crap, when I saw traffic backed up on the road leading out of the condo. Was wondering what the hell was going on, because the main road was definitely clear. After a shit, shower and shave, I hopped on the bike (very slowly, my back still hurts something chronic) and headed out. And there I saw Honda Civic, crashed into a dumpster parked by the side of the road.
The Civic had a boy racer look, and mismatched body panels. The passenger side door was open, and there was an Ah Lian sitting there, with her Ah Beng boyfriend talking to her, or more accurately, pleading with her. There were cars backed up on the road because the Civic was blocking an entire lane of traffic. The car nearest the Civic honked, and Ah Lian jumps out of her seat, and starts screaming and yelling abuse at the driver of the car. Ah Beng tries to restrain her, but she immediately starts hammering him and kicking his shins.
She then snatches his handphone and throws it into the traffic, hitting a moving car on the other side of the road. Ah Beng just stood there helplessly. I was considering taking a photo of the scene, but she caught my glance, and something in the way her eyes looked suggested to me that taking a picture would probably not be the wisest thing to do at that point in time. As I rode off, I wondered what precipitated the argument. From the position of the car, they were probably driving along having a heated discussion when she might have suddenly wrenched the steering wheel and steered the car into the dumpster. She probably found some other Ah Lian's panties in the glove compartment.
I caught CKM this morning at his place near where I work. He lives in a gated community of very high priced houses, with built in golf course. It wasn't bad, and I contemplated getting a place there myself. I picked up an air filter from him for onward transfer to Leo, and after a close look at the filter, reminded myself why there's so much money to be made in manufacturing. It was a simple affair of 3 pieces of 3 layered open cell foam, with a plastic frame and cut out holes for the trumpets. And a sticker price of US$110. The cost of manufacturing would have been US$30, tops.
And I also managed to pick up a nail in the rear tyre of the bike. I was charging into a corner at a sizeable fraction of local light speed when the rear end gave an almighty wobble and almost chucked me off. I pulled up at a traffic light and realised my fears of a puncture were correct.
|W|P|10886492283210883|W|P|Punctured|W|P|Desmosedici@gmail.com