How Country are you?

If you're real Country, you know what usually happens shortly after the lambs drop. If you need a subtle hint, think Barbecued lambs' tails and Rocky Mountain Oysters. What? That's subtle. Country subtle ;)

Many years ago, after getting the lambs into the holding pen there wasn't anything left for us boys to do so we decided to play Rodeo with the Ram that had been locked up in the nearby stable.

My mate climbed on top of the Ram and grabbed a couple of handfuls of wool, but the Ram just stood there, chewing some hay, probably wondering what was going on and why this fool of a kid was sitting on his back.

Now being a Ram he was not only responsible for impregnating the whole flock of sheep all by himself, but he needed to get the job done in a real short space of time. In order to tackle a big job like that all by himself a Ram needs a big set of tackle, and our Ram was no exception.

As my mate sat on the Ram's back and kicked his heels trying to get the Ram to start bucking, the Ram moved around and two things became very obvious.

And I got an idea how to get this Ram Rodeo underway.

I stretched out my foot and tapped these two things with my toe (really, it was just a tap.) and the Ram exploded. He leaped into the air and spun around and my mate went flying and as he crashed to the ground my mate's little brother and I roared with laughter.

We each took a turn riding the Ram and it didn't matter how good a handful of wool you got, each ride ended with the same result. That Ram did not like anyone touching his tackle, but who could blame him? With what the men were doing to the lambs outside maybe he thought it was finally his turn, and over the years he'd probably become real attached to his balls ;)

Imagine a dirt road, full of pot holes
With a creek bank, and some cane poles,
Catching channel cat.
I’m a little more country than that.
- Easton Corbin

Police, small town vs big town

Oddly enough, despite what I was originally going to write, there's not a huge difference between the two. You get good cops in both bunches, you get bad apples in both bunches. I think there's a bigger difference in small town versus big city cops, but even then you still get the same make-up. You get power tripping cops in small towns just as you get nice cops willing to lend a hand in big towns.

Growing up in a small country town in Australia my experience with the police was probably different to that of my American "small town" counterpart, but probably also not dramatically different. I think the big difference between Australia and the U.S., at least small town different (and maybe it's changed from 20 years ago, too), was how you handled the cop pulling you over.

Here, you turn off the ignition, wind down the window (maybe just a little if you're overly cautious), place your hands on the steering wheel in plain view then wait for the cop to approach your car.

In Australia, my father taught me to leave the car and meet the cop halfway, between the cars, on neutral ground so to speak. I don't know if this was a country thing, or a family thing, but I had no problem doing that the one time a Cop actually pulled me over in Australia. Of course that same act also almost got my uncle shot when he did that here in the U.S. when he got pulled over for speeding. (Being an international businessman with a lead foot that was something that happened to him with some frequency.) With his hand ready to draw his pistol the cop apparently ordered my uncle to return to his car and put his hands on the steering wheel. My uncle wisely complied.

Before we were married my wife-to-be and I got lost visiting friends in Oakland. I convinced Liz to pull up on the Freeway behind a CHP Officer writing a ticket, and before she knew what I was about to do (she probably thought I'd wave the officer over to the car) I had the door open and was out of the car, strolling along the Freeway shoulder and up to the officer.

"Good afternoon, sir," I said, by way of greeting (or something similar, although I don't think I'd yet adopted the American practice of calling everyone 'sir'.) "Are you almost finished here? We're a little lost."

The Chippie was either brand new on the Force, or just stunned that someone would actually pull up behind him, get out of their car, and ask him for directions, because he made no attempt to shoot me. He replied that he was almost done and requested that I return to our car, which I did (and I suspect Liz probably chewed me out, I can't remember :D) and when he was finished writing his ticket he came over and helped us on our way.

A year or so later we were pulled over when the officer behind us noticed our vehicle's registration sticker was overdue. I knew I'd put the new sticker on because I'd already expressed my doubts to Liz about the safety of such a system. In Australia your rego sticker goes on the inside of your car's windshield, whereas here in the U.S. it just gets stuck on your rear license plate, exposed to the elements...and the first tea leaf to come along that wants a registration sticker, and that's what had happened to us. Some bastich had peeled the sticker off. (Or it blew off in the wind, but that's doubtful.) I forget exactly what I said but I attracted the officer's attention and he leaned over to peer in at me sitting in the passenger seat, so I told him that I'd just put the new sticker on last week. He not only didn't write a ticket for not displaying our registration sticker (although we did have the current papers in the glove box) he clued me in to taking my knife and making several slices across the sticker, jig-sawing it so no thief in their right mind would try to peel it off because all they'd get would be tiny triangular pieces.

Of course we've also been pulled over a couple of times and received tickets, which we've deserved for the most part. The one I feel we didn't deserve was what I'll call a "Tailgate Trap".

The bike cop was parked on the median strip on the far side of the traffic light-controlled intersection. The light would go green and everyone would accelerate through the intersection, which crossed a 4-lane (each way) Highway with two lanes in the middle for turning traffic, so we're talking a 10-lane wide highway. The first cars would get to the other side, see the bike cop, and do what practically everyone does when they see a cop; they'd hit their brakes and slow down so the cars behind them would bunch up for no reason other than there being a bike cop sitting in the middle of the road...a bike cop who promptly pulled the last vehicle over and ticketed them (us) for tail gating. After he wrote our ticket I watched as he rode back to the intersection and parked in exactly the same spot. If they have ticket quotas (and I'm not saying they do) I'm sure he wrote his entire month's quota of tickets that day.

Many years ago, a friend and I used to ride into town on a Sunday afternoon, ride down the alley, and climb the fence into the back of the Newsagency (the very one where I'd later find myself employed) where we'd go through their dumpster looking for magazines with no covers. (I would later learn that while some magazines went back to the publisher in their entirety, other publishers required nothing more than the cover to issue credit.) Playboy and Penthouse were always top on the list but we also kept an eye out for computer magazines. On this occasion we were preparing to climb over the fence when a voice asked us what we were doing. How a V8 can creep up on you without you hearing it I have no idea. We turned around and it's a cop car. My friend quickly tells the driver we were there because he needed to take a piss. Like a cop, who is trained to be suspicious about anyone not in uniform, was going to buy that.

Now me? I was brought up that when you get busted you're better off telling the truth or you'll only make it worse for yourself, so I told my friend not to lie then turned to the cop and told him we were planning to climb over the fence to look for Playboy magazines.

My friend chimed in again. He just couldn't shut up. "He wanted to look for pornos," he says, "I'm just after computer magazines." There's petty theft and robbery, and there's grand theft auto and grand larceny (& others). But when you're stealing magazines it doesn't matter whether it's Playboy, Penthouse, or PC Gamer, it's still stealing. Despite his protests I was sure my friend was not getting on the cop's good side.

I don't know if there are similar programs here in the U.S. but back home you could take your bike into a Police Station and they'd take out their little tools, look up the latest number in their little book, then stamp the appropriate number into the bottom of the frame of your bike & record your particulars in their little book. Then if your bike ever got stolen or turned up at the Cop Shop, they could see if it had one of these numbers stamped in the frame and identify the owner. My friend and I had both just got new bikes a few weeks before and we'd had them "registered" at the Cop Shop, so when the Cop asked if they were our bikes (if we were prepared to steal magazines we'd probably steal bikes, it's a logical assumption...and true, sort of ;) so it was a simple matter to show the Cop the numbers on our bikes and for him to ID us. After receiving a stern warning we were sent on our way, and off we rode, arguing over the semantics of lying and the difference between stealing PC Gamer and Playboy.

A few years later while at the local video arcade my neighbour rode up on what I knew was a stolen bicycle. I was in the office when he came inside so I had my friend, who also worked there, keep an eye on him while I slipped outside, jumped on the stolen bike and promptly rode it around to the police station. Unlike my previous encounter with the police, this time I was not averse to lying to the Cops, and I told them I'd "found" the bike down by the river. I gave them my name & number in the event that nobody claimed it, but they never called me back so I knew it must have found its way back to its rightful owner. I did tell my parents what I'd done and they thought it was hilarious. My Mum even got to play dumb when my neighbour's Mum told her about his bike being "stolen". Mum asked if he'd gone to the police, and she said my neighbour's Mum Um'd and Ah'd before saying he couldn't do that as it wasn't actually his bike. Mum said she found it very hard to keep a straight face for the rest of their conversation.

Dad used to love to drink so Mum, who was not a big drinker, was often the designated driver while Dad got plastered. Driving home from one family gathering we got pulled over at a Random Breath Testing station. The cop asked Mum if she'd been drinking and Mum said No. Dad leaned over and practically giggled as he said, "But I have!" He was in great humor and the Cop smiled, too. He was probably very happy to see the drunk guy in the passenger seat and not behind the wheel. Mum had to blow into the bag anyway but she got the all clear then we were sent on our way, but Mum was not happy with Dad. Years later Liz would be pulled over and breathalyzed while I got to recreate yesteryear's scene from the passenger seat. Like Mum, Liz was not too happy with me, either. What can I say? Like father, like son.

When I worked for the Newsagency, the same one my friend and I used to raid for coverless magazine, my alarm was set for 3am, I'd be at the shop by 4, and when 9 o'clock rolled around it was quitting time and the rest of the day was my own. Customers just starting their day were baffled that I could greet them so cheerfully at 8:30 in the morning. When I'd explain that I'd already been up for 5 hours they'd ask how on earth I could get up that early. I'd point out what a glorious day it was outside and how in half an hour I'd be heading out to enjoy it, maybe play a round of golf, or even hit the beach. For some reason they weren't happy with this explanation, and they'd leave the shop even grumpier than when they came in. I guess some people just aren't 'morning people'.

My first duty at the shop was not to open up, but to receive and count the fresh-off-the-truck bundles of newspapers, then make up & deliver the order for the local power station. Because the newspapers were always dropped off at the front of the store I'd always pull up at the front to make it easier to load the papers into my car, and I'd parallel park to facilitate loading, even though the space were marked for angle parking.

One morning I was inside when I noticed a light outside, and no, it wasn't a UFO; it was a Police car, pulled up behind my parallel-parked car.

Thinking the cops may have thought the car was stolen and abandoned I ran outside to let them know the car was mine, and found myself arguing with the cop over parallel parking in angle parking spots at 4 o'clock in the morning. As far as the cop was concerned it didn't matter what time of the day (or night) it was; the spots were clearly marked for angle parking and I was parallel parked.

"It's 4 o'clock in the morning," I told him. "There's no other cars around."

"But it's angle parking."

"I'm only parking for a few minute and it's easier to load the papers this way."

"But it's angle parking."

I recalled a friend getting busted for Public Indecency (& whatever the formal charge is that equates to "Pissing off a Cop by being a smart arse and talking back to him") when he'd taken a leak on someone's lawn while staggering home at 4 o'clock in the morning. When the cop had asked the almost obligatory "What do you think would happen if everyone did this?" my friend, a professional Gardener & Groundskeeper, had replied, "Well, speaking from a professional point of view, the excessive amounts of nitrates would kill the lawn." For answering the Cop's question he got to spend the rest of his night in jail.

"So what if everyone parked like this?" the Cop asked me.

"It's 4 o'clock in the morning," I argued with him, "there IS nobody else. If there were, I'd have angle parked."

I don't know how many times we went back & forth but we wasted far more time than if he had just said, "Don't do it again," and let me go on my way (which he eventually did anyway after ordering me to re-park correctly). Or yes, I'll admit, if I'd just said, "You're right. I'm sorry. I won't do it again."

But it was 4 o'clock in the morning! I was the only car there!

But it's angle parking.

My final encounter with the police was when I was house sitting for a friend who lived in one of the better parts of town. Driving to work from his house I would drive down a very long straight road, and most mornings you would find me doing a little more than the posted 60kph (35mph) speed limit.

On this particular morning a car followed me out of my friend's neighbourhood. When I turned onto this long road he followed me and that was when a little voice inside me said "That's a cop."

I accelerated to just shy of 60kph and the car stayed right behind me but I wasn't going to go over the speed limit. I got to the end of the road, signaled correctly, and made the turn...and the car stayed with me. I was about two blocks from the Newsagency when flashing blue lights lit up my car from behind and finally confirmed my suspicions.

I pulled over and the cop pulled up behind me, and I did what you do NOT do here in the States.

I opened my door, hopped out, and walked back towards the cop car.

The passenger door opened and a cop got out and met me in the space between our cars.

"I'm on my way to work," I said to him, pointing down the road, "I just had two blocks to go!"

"And you almost made it," the cop said with good humor.

There was no ordering me at gun point to get back into my car. No hostilities. Just a cop and a citizen having a chat at 4 o'clock in the morning on the side of the road.

While following me down that long straight road they'd run my plates and learned that I did not live in that neighbourhood, nor did I appear to be going home, so they'd pulled me over to check me out. The cop ran my driver's license, everything checked out, and with no further reason to stick around we wished each other a good day and went our separate ways.

But that was 20 years ago, in a small country town. I suspect thing are a lot different now.

Retirement Homes

I found an interesting post on a Blog (I amaze myself how I find this stuff, sometimes) about outfitting Retirement Homes with LANs, to give the elderly folks something to do as they wait out the remainder of their days on this earth.

If you think about it, most Retirement Homes are very passive places. Old folks sit and watch TV, read the newspaper, or talk quietly among themselves. Or they sit & stare out the window as if wondering who will arrive first: Their kids & grandkids, or the Grim Reaper.

Several years ago I was out door-knocking (I think I was trying to raise money for a charity) and I went into a Retirement Home, thinking the old folks in there would probably be generous and willing to donate to a charity. But the second I walked in and saw all these old folks sitting there, waiting (& you know what they're waiting for), I changed my mind. But by this time I was already well inside the main sitting area, and one of the Orderlies was making his way over towards me.

I looked around at all the old folks just minding their own business and I asked myself what the hell had I been thinking.

And then I saw my Great Aunty. My Mother's Grandmother.

She used to live just a few doors up from us and I'd visit her all the time when I was a young boy. Then...I stopped visiting her. I can't remember why. Maybe it was because she'd been "put in The Home". (How cold does that sound? You "put your parents in a home".) Even though she'd been more of a Grandma to me than my actual Grandma, I hadn't thought about or seen her for years.

So I walked over and sat down next to her and re-introduced myself, because I had no clue if she'd remember who I was. I can't have been more than 12 years old the last time I saw her, and at this time I was a young man in my 20s. I explained how we were related, and sat and talked with her for a little while, although she seemed more inclined to chat with her neighbor than me, and why not? Who was I to her? Just someone who'd walked in off the street, really. I was just someone who popped back into her life for a few minutes, then walked out on her again. Like everyone else I left her there, out of sight out of mind, to be forgotten until...you know.

I'm sorry for everything both my parents went through during my father's last years, that it wasn't a Bam! You're dead! Now get over it! situation. But I'm also glad my father was able to spend his last days, weeks, months on earth in his own home, that he had the dignity of dyign in his own bed. That's how I'd like to go.

Or take one last walk up into the mountains, and not come back down.

Or would I be happy in a Retirement Home if it had a LAN? Would I be content fragging the shit out of my geriatric neighbors? Or would it still weigh heavily on me every time my kids left with my grandkids, that maybe this goodbye is our last goodbye?

And here we go again...

It's the twelfth of January, already. How did that happen? We're almost two full weeks into the year, just like that.

This year promises to be a big one, too. I'm not talking about any of you, I mean for me. I was born in 1969 so this is the year I turn 40.

Thank heavens there's a couple of mates who'll hit the big Four-Oh before me ;)
Don't bother clicking their links, the slack buggers haven't updated their Blogs in donkey's :P

40 years old.

Technically I'm already in my 40th year, because each birthday actually celebrates the culmination of another year since you were born. And because I was born on August 30th, and there's just 7 1/2 months until my birthday, if you believe life begins at conception then I'm already over 40 years old.

What have I done during these past 40 years that's actually note worthy?

When I was about 4-5 I fell out of a tree, dropping approximately 15' to the ground where I struck my head on a concrete lawn edging. Oh yes, there was blood.

At maybe 8-10 years old I pushed a basketball out to my little sister and probably saved her from drowning.

As a teenager I won a couple of ribbons for athletics in High School, and even represented my school in an inter-school tournament.

I also finished second in a regional marathon (my first & only), then waited around for the presentation ceremony where I discovered that just as in life, there's no prize for coming in second; you're just the first loser.

At 19 years old I crashed my grandparents' car into a very large tree. The tree survived, the car did not.

At 20 years old I competed in the Victorian State Karate Championships, where I had the dubious distinction of being eliminated by the eventual Winner of my Division. It wasn't really that big of a deal. Just like in Karate Kid, anyone with their Sensei's approval could compete :P

In my late 20s I flew to the U.S. to meet a woman I'd met on the internet. Later we got married, and eventually had two kids.

I also completed my University degree here in the States. I graduated in absentia, but my parents were still proud of me.

And that's been my life, so far.

What haven't I done?

The only goal I set for myself (that I recall) which I never actually accomplished was to race Puffing Billy.

I also don't own a classic (pre-70's) Ford Mustang, but there's still time for that ;)

Oh, I also never became a millionaire by 30 years of age, because the system I had for betting on Horse Races worked brilliantly in the data gathering stages, but failed miserably when it was actually put into practice.

CANNONNNNN BAAAAALL!!!

When I was in High School we had four Houses that competed against each other (yes, just like Harry Potter :P) in the annual Athletics and Swimming competitions. Somehow (don't ask me, I don't know how) I was actually elected House Captain two years running. Actually I think I know how: because nobody else was stupid enough to accept the nomination.

Being House Captain meant I had to inspire the troops, so to speak, which really meant when people were asked if they wanted to run the 100m, or the 200m, or do the High Jump, the Shot Putt, the Discus, etc, and nobody was willing to volunteer, I had to do it. There were a few people who actually volunteered to compete in all of the events, but they were the athletic-types who were actually good at doing that sort of thing. Such as one of the 100m Sprinters who turned up with his Track Spikes, then made the starting official (one of the teachers) wait while he hammered down his starting blocks for when he Took His Mark! and Got Set!

During the Swimming competition when there was again a lack of volunteers, I was once more called on to take part in just about every swimming event, including the diving. My diving repertoire consisted of a pike (which I screwed up trying to do a full tuck), a back somersault, and a forward somersault. Lucky we only got three dives or I'd have been out of tricks. Actually I have one more dive in my stable but it wouldn't have scored very highly.

Bone, I agree, if I were on the Dive Team in the Olympics, and if I knew I was totally out of the running, I would absolutely consider doing a Cannonball, but with my own special twist that I call The Stomper. It starts out just like a Cannonball, but just before entry you straighten out and stomp the surface of the water as hard as you can. Apparently it creates a very loud splatting sound and generates a lot more splash than a standard Cannonball. It never seemed that impressive when my friends did it, then again, everyone else said nobody did The Stomper quite like me...credit probably goes to my big feet :P

So I did the Diving for my House and messed up with the Pike. I think I came fourth out of about 10 competitors. I also did the butterfly, breaststroke, freestyle, and backstroke events, as well as the backstroke leg of the 4x50 relay for my House. During either the Butterfly or Breaststroke both myself and several other competitors were DQ'd for kicking the wrong way, and I think only two swimmers had legitimate finishes. So I botched the diving, and the butterfly or breaststroke, but my unsung hero moment came during the 4x50 relay.

Just as we'd had a Ringer turn up at the Athletic competition with Track Spikes and Starting Blocks, we had a couple of Ringers at the Swimming competition, too. They looked impressive, in their Speedos with matching caps & goggles, and I had the honor of starting against one of them for the opening Backstroke leg of the 4x50 relay. We were neck and neck down the pool, until I gave it everything I had and pulled just a tiny bit ahead to tap the wall ahead of my opponent. I'm not saying I beat him decisively, but I hit the wall first and he hit it second, and he knew it.

Some of our greatest accomplishments in life receive no recognition, no ribbons or medals. We know what we've done, and sometimes that's enough.

"Someone beat me," said my opponent, as he clambered out of the pool. "Someone beat me! Who beat me?"
(Sometimes other people know what we've done, too.)

Amused by his shock and disbelief I remained quiet, and nobody else volunteered my name. If anything, everyone seemed puzzled that he was making such a big deal out of not hitting the wall first. It would be nice to think my opponent learned a lesson in humility, a lesson which he carries with him to this very day, one which has helped him achieve success in the rest of his life.

Never underestimate your opponent, even if he is wearing knee-length baggy, board shorts. He just might kick your arse ;)

I don't dream of WoW

One of today's WoW Insider articles asks readers to describe any WoW dreams they've had. For as much time as I've put into the game you'd think I would constantly dream about playing, especially as it's one of the last things I do (often for several hours) right before going to bed, but I don't recall ever having any dreams that featured WoW, and I'd know because I can remember my dreams.

So I've never dreamed about WoW (that I can recall) but I have dreamed about work before.

One of my strangest work-related dreams was related to a 3-week job I got shortly after returning to Australia in '97, where I was part of crew distributing Wheelie Bins.

In the morning we'd arrive at the storage yard and load up the back of the truck with Wheelie Bins. They came with lids on but no wheels, so they were able to be stacked on top of each other, much like giant, green plastic cups, and once the truck was loaded we'd set off to make our deliveries.

A couple of guys would start on the back of the truck and it was their job to assemble the Wheelie Bins. They'd take down down a Wheelie Bin from one of the stacks, grab a wheel one from one tub and an axle from another and snap them together. Then they'd slide the axle through the two plastic sockets on the base of the Wheelie Bin, grab another wheel and snap it onto the other end of the axle, and there you have it, a Wheelie Bin, which they'd toss off the back of the truck to the guys running along behind.

The runners' job was to catch the bin, run to a house and drop the bin off in the correct orientation (facing the street), then run back to the truck to catch another bin. Rinse & repeat. Following behind the runners was a guy with a handheld computer which had a database with every single address on our route. His job was to key in the ID number on the side of the bin with the corresponding address, as proof we'd made the delivery; he needed the bin facing the correct way so he could read the number at a glance and key it in to his computer while heading to the next house and Wheelie Bin.

As tough as it sounds, it was actually a fun job. There was only 5 or 6 of us on the crew, so there was no room for people who didn't get along or for people who didn't pull their weight. We got up early, we worked hard all day, and if someone called it quits the Foreman would go to his list and when we'd turn up at the yard the next morning there'd be a new face. This only actually happened twice during the 3-week job, which apparently was a record. The Foreman said it was not unusual to begin a job with one crew, and by the start of the second week have a completely different crew. We also set another record in that our 3-week job was actually a 4-week job, we just completed it with a week to spare. Possibly because we didn't have the turnover of other crews.

So there were two parts to the job. Assembling the Wheelie Bins on the back of the truck, and running behind the truck delivering the Wheelie Bins. As you ran along behind the truck, catching Wheelie Bin after Wheelie Bin, running from truck to house to truck again, the muscles in your legs would start to burn and you'd think, "I wish I was on the back of the truck."

The Foreman was pretty good at his job. He'd switch us up so everyone got a turn on the back of the truck, assembling the bins, and everyone took a turn running behind the truck, delivering the bins. We actually switched around several times each day, because when you were on the back of the truck assembling the bins, you were constantly bending over to get wheels & axles, then standing up to toss bins off the back of the truck, then getting a new bin and bending over to get more wheels & axles, then standing up again. All that bending over and straightening up took its toll, and your lower back started to really fucking hurt, and you'd look at the guys delivering the Wheelie Bins and you'd say to yourself, "I wish I was running along behind the truck."

This was just a 3-week job, and yet in that short three weeks I still managed to dream about work. When I told the Foreman I'd dreamed about making Wheelie Bins he said that wasn't unusual, at least one person on every one of his crews mentions dreaming about the job. I wasn't the only one on our crew, either.

Not only did I dream about making Wheelie Bins, I actually woke myself up reaching for an axle to put the wheels on the Wheelie Bin. I was actually glad I dreamed I was making the Wheelie Bins. I don't think my sleep would have been too restful if I'd dreamed I was running along behind the truck all night ;)

Who's in your Facebook?

What does it say about your school days when you're a fan of Facebook and finding old friends, but that you'd rather not look up your old classmates? Or if you do find them, that you'd rather not send them a Friend request.

Yeah, there's a handful of people that I still (sort of) keep in touch with from decades gone by, and there's probably a few others that I'd consider sending a Friend request if I found them, but when I think back on my school days, and think of my classmates of yesteryear, most of them can pretty much go fuck themselves.

It occurs to me that I'm letting my son down, perhaps, by not being the father to him that my father was to me. Then again, my son is growing up in a far different world than that in which I grew up.

I don't recall when or how it started but my father taught me how to fight from a very early age. We'd wrestle on the living room floor and I'd try my hardest to beat him. Picture a 6 y/old using all his strength against a grown man. I learned how to slip holds, apply arm bars and hammer locks, how to endure pain (& lack of oxygen) while working out an escape plan. That was one of the lessons my father taught me.

Later when I went to school I joined the kids on the playground in the mock battles that kids in schools in most countries around the world probably hold. Picture an 8 y/old well versed in wrestling, and used to using every last ounce of his strength in an effort to overcome a much larger, far stronger opponent, suddenly taking on kids his own size. In my naivety I had no idea that I was one of the toughest kids in school. If my school had had a wrestling team, I'd have probably kicked arse.

I had a blast wrestling with all of the other boys, but apparently they didn't have as much fun wrestling with me. I was devastated the day one of my friends stopped me from joining one of our battles, telling me I was too rough, that the other kids didn't want me to take part. Thinking back, I'm surprised I never seriously hurt anyone. I never actually became The Toughest Kid in School because while I love wrestling, I hate fighting. I'd talk my way out of most fights if I could, and if I couldn't, rather than fight back I'd just try to stop my opponent from hurting me.

I recall during one Physical Education (Gym) class we were playing a game of baseball. I was one of the basemen. One of the more athletic guys (who was considered one of the toughest kids in school) made a good hit and rounded the bases, stopping at mine. He then tried to be intimidating and shove me off the base. I resisted so he threw a mock punch at my face. I caught his fist and twisting it, applied a standing Arm Bar, then used that leverage to drive him face first (literally) into the ground. Then I let go.

He jumped up and called out to the P.E. Teacher, "Did you see that?"

The P.E. Teacher had seen it, as did probably everyone present, because he was umpiring the game and so watching the action very closely. So not only had our Teacher seen me drive this guy into the ground, he'd seen him shove me first, then throw a punch at my face. I forget exactly what he said but he clearly felt my schoolmate got exactly what he deserved.

One time I was given Out in a game of Cricket when I accidentally played the ball back onto my own wicket. Given the budget of our public school we just used one-piece, solid metal wickets with the bails welded on top, instead of the 5-piece wooden wickets used in most games. After I struck it, the ball slowly rolled backwards along the ground and tapped the metal wickets behind me. The guy playing Keeper appealed and our Teacher declared me Out. I was a bit ticked at this, and let out an incredulous yell "What?!" because I didn't believe the ball had struck the wickets hard enough to dislodge the bails. Yes, they were one-piece metal wickets, so the bails couldn't be dislodged, but my opinion is that had the wickets been made of wood, the bails would have remained atop the wickets.

My classmates were quite amused by my yelped "What?!" and most likely mistook it for confusion on my part, thus implying ignorance of the rules of Cricket. School kids love to make fun of kids who aren't as smart as them, so I was the brunt of much teasing in the locker room after the game. I sat there in raging silence, getting madder and madder as my schoolmates kept up their incessant teasing, and eventually I felt my top lip begin to quiver and curl up in an unmistakable snarl. I tried to stop it but with my schoolmates relentless teasing that was impossible.

When my schoolmates saw my lip begin quivering it then became the focus of the teasing, until they realized it was not the quivering lip of someone almost in tears but the snarling lip of someone trying very, very hard not to kill someone. And so they stopped teasing me, all but the one kid who'd been the Keeper, so everyone literally piled onto him to make him shut up. Which is kind of funny, now that I think about it. They were having lots of fun teasing me, but when they realized how far they'd gone, and that I was desperately trying to hold back the green machine they quickly shut up, and were equally quick to shut down the one guy who didn't want to stop.

They had no qualms with teasing me to the point of what they thought were tears, but when it became obvious that I was actually getting really pissed off, they stopped. Some of who were considered the toughest kids in school were willing to tease me up until it looked like I was going to fight back, and then they stopped. Looking back on this, I think I probably had a reputation as someone who wouldn't fight back (in fact I lost the fights I did get into because I wouldn't fight back), but I think everyone also remembered that I was the one who'd been asked not to take part in the playground battles. It's possible that everyone was a little bit scared of me, of what I could do if I ever got really mad and fought back. They were more than happy to tease me, and tease me they did, but only up to a certain point.

Years later, while I was working on the Census, I ran into one of the guys who'd teased me that day. He invited me into his apartment and offered me a cold drink and we sat down and chatted and reminisced about the old days. He was living with one of his oldest friends and the two of them worked shift-work at the local Mill. They hadn't seen any of the old gang for 10 years or more. Come to think of it, at that time, neither had I.

I was born and raised in a small country town in rural Victoria, Australia. We were just like the kids in most small country towns here in the U.S., most of us wanted to graduate High School and get into college so we could get the hell out of town and never have to go back except to visit our parents. We've moved on, created a new life for ourselves, made new friends. And only occasionally do we ever think back on the people we grew up with, and wonder where they are and what they're doing now. But usually we don't waste too much time on those thoughts, and in some cases we conclude that look back at our childhood days with the simple thought, "Fuck 'em!"

Amazing feats

I've done what I consider some pretty amazing stuff in my life.

While chasing down an errant basketball I once hurdled a 4-foot high fence. This is 6" higher than an Olympic Hurdle. The rules of our playground game were who ever got to an out-of-bounds ball first kept it for the throw in. Two other kids beat me to the fence but they stopped and put their hands on top to vault over. Realizing that would slow me down I just leaped. I have no idea how I managed to clear it, but I did, and I got to the ball first.

While walking through a park one spring day I heard the beating of wings and felt movement in the air behind my head. Without even thinking about it I dropped to my knees and the furious magpie passed through the space just recently occupied by my head.

Both of these feats are nothing compared to an event that occurred during one of my karate classes. As a warm-up we used to play a very physical version of basketball, but we weren't allowed to use our hands, not to tackle nor to handle the ball, any other body part was fair game though, which is how I scored one of the few goals ever scored, with a head butt. That impressed everyone in the Dojo and several other people attempted head butt goals but nobody else was ever successful.

That's not the amazing bit though.

During one such game the ball flew so high into the air that it hit the ceiling of the Dojo, which was actually an industrial warehouse leased by our Sensei. I was underneath it at the time and with everyone yelling and Senpai Robbie rushing towards me I quickly headed the ball away to a team mate...but Senpai Robbie kept coming at me, very, very quickly, which confused the hell out of me because I didn't have the ball any more.

I yelled "I don't have the ball!" but Senpai Robbie kept coming.

Then he leaped into the air, straight for me.

I dropped to my knees and ducked my head and with a very graceful leap that can usually only be performed by highly trained ballet dancers or martial artists Senpai Robbie leaped over my head...and caught the fluorescent light that had been knocked loose by the basketball.

He leaped over me and while in mid-air caught a fluorescent light.

Then he landed on the other side of me, still running, and unable to check his momentum in time he literally ran into and up the side of the Dojo wall. Just like they do in the movies he took a couple of steps along the wall before dropping back down onto the floor, all the while holding the fluorescent light in one hand. You don't see them do that in the movies.

I've seen Martial Artists do some amazing things, but it's always something they've practiced many, many times in order to perfect it. I'm not saying what they do is not impressive, it's just it's all rehearsed. Senpai Robbie catching a falling fluorescent light in midair, then running up, across, and down a wall, still holding the fluorescent light; that was amazing.

Knott's Berry Farm

Tonight after work we took the kids down to Knott's Berry Farm, and despite it being summer it was relatively empty and the kids were able to practically walk on to most of the rides as soon as they joined the queue. They also played a couple of the games, one had them picking out a plastic duck to win a prize, depending on the number of the bottom of the duck. For $5 they got three picks but they sort of had more than that because as soon as they saw the ducks they were grabbing them all. I handed over $5 and JE promptly showed the guy his duck, which had a #3 on it. Good lad. Amber turned over a #1 but the guy gave her a #2 sized prize because he said she'd turned over two #1 ducks, which she probably had...actually she'd turned over even more than that :D

JE also did the Strong Man challenge where you swing a large mallet and try to make the bell ring. He got an inflatable hammer for his effort and I almost passed out blowing it up for him :}

I rode with the kids on one ride, then Liz took them on the Merry Go Round, and while watching them go around memories came back of a childhood summer spent at Lakes Entrance in Victoria, where my grandparents currently reside. Every summer there is a carnival at Lakes Entrance, and it's also become one of the hot spots to see in the New Year. Or at least it used to be, not sure if it still is. As well as the carnival there was always a huge fireworks show right before midnight and the road along the esplanade would be closed as people lined up to watch the fireworks being set off from a barge in the estuary.

Many years ago one of my uncles was working the lucky ticket booth at the carnival. It was an early version of the lotto scratchies. You bought a ticket and peeled open the cardboard flap, and if the number revealed was one of the lucky numbers on the giant board you won a prize, probably cash. For some reason I have a feeling that my uncle had told my father he'd make sure he won, but the ticket he got was not a winner. I think this made my father mad at my uncle and we didn't go in to the carnival. Being a very young lad with a child's twisted sense of logic I recall thinking that because we hadn't won that meant we couldn't go in. I do remember asking my parents about that but they didn't seem to want to talk about it, which is probably why I think my dad was angry with my uncle.

I don't remember where we went, probably visited a few of the stores along the esplanade, but on our way back we did stop and spend some time at the carnival. Admission was free, you just paid for the rides and sideshow games. You actually bought a sheet of tickets for the rides and just tore off what you needed for that particular ride. I remember that we had some tickets left over at the end of the night, and before we left my parents gave the remaining tickets to another man for his family. I do the same thing myself now, although I think the actual physical tickets are getting phased out. The OC Fair had signs saying "This ride X tickets", etc, but they were actually credits on a magnetic card that you swiped each time you entered a ride, and when you ran out of "tickets" or credits you just recharged the card at the "ticket" booth.

Back to the past and the Lakes Entrance carnival. I had a turn on a Merry Go Round, but this one was a rather strange Merry Go Round. Instead of animals it had bicycles that you pedaled as the Merry Go Round turned. The lower platform was fixed in place and the bikes' wheels would actually turn as you rode around. Before the ride began I remember pushing on the pedals with all my might and I recall the Merry Go Round turning a little bit. My father also took a turn at the shooting gallery with the air rifles (BB guns). They were real working air rifles that you don't see these days for all sorts of legality issues, but back then you paid your $2 and got 4 pellets and you had to knock over 4 metal ducks to win a prize. 3 didn't cut it, you had to make every shot count. Being a more than decent shot my father was able to win a couple of prizes at the shooting gallery, and when I was older I followed in his food steps and the shooting gallery was always a guaranteed prize-winner for me. It's also a macho thing among guys visiting the carnival together, or maybe just with country boys where shooting comes as natural as breathing; if your mates can knock over 4 ducks you better be able to as well, or you can expect to get teased for the rest of the night ;)

So my memories of my childhood carnivals are mostly good, and I hope tonight's trip to Knott's will be remembered equally as fondly by my two children, even if remembering that carnival from yesteryear did make me a little melancholy.

I'm getting better, but life still has its moments

Not too long ago I wrote a post about coping with the loss of my father, and how I felt I was at a turning point in the grieving process, and I was right, I was, but life still has a way of creeping up on you and while I'm learning to deal with the loss of my father, that doesn't mean I'll ever be over his passing.

Today I was in Bestbuy getting a new car stereo installed, which took 2 hours so I had plenty of time to kill. I was browsing the DVD section when I saw a tin of John Wayne movies, 15 of them, for $15. My Dad loved John Wayne movies, so this is totally something I would have bought and sent home for him. Life is...was...still is full of those moments, where I'll see an item that I know my Dad would appreciate, but life has changed because now there's no point buying those little gifts. But that doesn't mean I don't see them and still think how much Dad would have liked it.

So in the car on the way home I was listening to my new, favorite Country station, which I thank Xinh for finding for me, and a line from one of the songs that was playing as I pulled into the drive of our house went "I took a swing at my father one Christmas, never dreaming it would be his last."

Well I never, ever took a swing at my father, because there's a damn good chance if I'd ever done that it would have been my last Christmas, but when Mum & Dad's Christmas card arrived a couple of years ago and I opened it and looked at their signature I started crying, because a tiny little voice inside of me said that it would be the last time I got a Christmas Card from Mum and Dad, and it was right; that was my Dad's last Christmas on this earth.

If you only take home one thing from this Blog, let it be this: When you see a little "something" that you know would make a perfect gift for a loved one, buy it for them, and give it to them straight away. Fill your life with happy moments that you can fall back on when the sad moments threaten to overwhelm you.

Shaving, and learning to live again

I prefer to shave with a blade, but during the week I can't shave in the morning unless I want to get to work late (getting up even earlier is not an option ;), so I either shave in the evening or I use my electric razor at work when I get in.

Now I don't care what Mr. Kiam promised you, no electric razor can shave as close as a blade, and I much prefer a blade shave to an electric razor shave. I'm thinking I should bring a blade to work though, because while I was halfway through my shave this morning I thought "What if the power in the building went out now?" And the answer is I'd be there with half my face still covered in stubble.

Way back in High School one of my classmates accepted a bet from a friend to not shave for a month, and by the end of that month he pretty much had a full beard. I've known a few people like that, who could shave in the morning and by the evening look like they hadn't shaved at all that day. One guy I worked with would occasionally shave off his very full mustache at the start of the week and by the end of the week would have a full mustache again. So my classmate didn't shave for a month, but when it came time to pay up his friend offered to double the bet if my classmate would shave off half his beard and leave it like that for a week. I think that might have been his cunning plan all along, but he needed my classmate to have a full beard to pull it off. I think the wager was $50, doubled to $100, which was a lot of money to a 16 year old in the mid '80s, so my classmate accepted and for the rest of the week he wore half a beard.

I'd rather not have half a beard at work, even for a day, so I think I'll bring a blade razor in to work, just in case. Maybe I'll shave with it, too, instead of the electric. Because I normally use a blade my face doesn't like the electric razor, so it feels all hot and itchy for a while, even after using an Aftershave Moisturizing Balm

"A balm? Quick, throw it in the trough!" Obscure Monty Python Reference :)

- - -

So I've been feeling rather melancholy as of late. That's usually what happens when my old life resurfaces and reminds me of what I left behind. When my Uncle said he'd told my Dad about JE (3 years ago when he last visited Australia), Dad had said it wasn't fair, meaning we were over here and he was there, and he rarely got to see me or my son (in fact only once in 2001). My Uncle agreed but reminded Dad of his own situation. My Uncle lives in Cleveland with his youngest of two daughters. His older daughter lives in Melbourne, Australia, and has five children. My Uncle has never seen three of his own grandchildren.

That's one of the things that tears me up over my Dad, how he never got to see my daughter. Sure he saw her pictures but he never got to see her or hold her. And it's not fair, but sometimes that's just the way life is. And this is something I really need to come to terms with, before I can get over my father's death. Nine years ago I made the choice to leave my old family behind, move 10,000 miles away, and start a new life with my wife and her family. I didn't have to make that choice, but in a way, I also feel like I had no choice; it was just something I had to do, because living the rest of my life without Liz was not an option. I also still need to come to terms with that as well. Yes, nine years later I still have not fully accepted that decision, but I'm here now, I'm here to stay, and that's not going to change, so I need to accept it.

It only occurred to me later that talking to my Uncle was like preaching to the choir. Everything I'm going through, he's already done. He also left his two teenage daughters behind and moved to another country to be with his new wife, although his younger daughter later followed him. I told my Uncle that Liz and I sometimes talked of retiring to Australia, but I really can't see that happening. How can you move to another country and leave your children and grandchildren behind? I said to my Uncle. Well, he never sees his grandchildren (his younger daughter doesn't have kids) because they live in another country. The only way we'll retire to Australia is when JE and Amber get older if they say they want to go live in Australia, and we'll follow them.

I'm writing this down here because while my Blog is accessible to the general public, I don't always write for you; I sometimes write for me. Putting my thoughts down in writing helps me get them straightened out. This is a decision making process I use, because with everything written down I can clearly see what my choices are and the benefits from each choice, and more often than not I'll know what I plan to do before I even finish writing.

In putting something down in writing it also helps me come to terms with the situation, because I'm forced to confront it. There's no ignoring it, no pretending the problem doesn't exist. It's here, it's real, and I must deal with it because it's not going away until I confront it.

The first time I wrote this I teared up writing about my father never getting the chance to hold my daughter. That still makes me sad, writing this now, but after rereading what I wrote I'm more at peace with it. I've begun to accept it. I miss my Dad, a lot. I will always miss him. I also still miss Jonno, my best friend who died over 15 years ago at the too young age of 19. But I long ago came to terms with Jonno's death, although visiting his grave would still bring me to tears. That's only human, to mourn the ones we love. And it's human to move through your grief, then beyond it, and accept the death of your loved ones and resume living your own life. It's not long ago that my father died, only two years ago in fact, almost to the day. It took me quite some time to get over Jonno's death, or rather, learn how to live my life without my best friend there by my side. While I've been living the last nine years of my life without any of my family here, they've always been no more than a phone call away. Everyone is still just a phone call away, except for my Dad. Had to pause there to regain my composure. I really shouldn't be writing this at work but I just feel I need to get it out now, right this minute. It's like I'm at a pivotal stage of my grief, and getting this down right now is going to help me tremendously.

I honestly don't think I'll ever "get over" my Dad's death, instead I'll learn how to live my life without him. This is like the decision I made (and didn't make) nine years ago. I will learn how to live my life without my father, because the alternative is not an option.

T-Ball, week 2

Today was the first day of what is promising to be a very hectic weekend, if your weekend started on a Thursday, which mine doesn't, but sort of did, but let's skip the semantics coz it's not important.

This week has been 1/2 day week at JE's school, so he got off school today at 12:25pm. I picked him up, we grabbed some food at the local Chinese Food Court and headed home. At 3:30pm we tootled off to T-Ball practice and arrived right on time on account of someone choosing to have an accident 2 blocks from the field, which required the presence of a large Fire Truck with flashing lights, which meant the rush hour traffic felt compelled to slow right down and rubber-neck as they drove past.

We arrived at T-Ball practice in time to field some hits from Coach Jesse, then it was warm-up and stretch time, and I'm glad we did that, because then we split into two groups. One group hit the outfield and practiced catching, while Coach Jesse's group stayed in the diamond (along with yours truly) and practiced batting.

Now some of the kids were typical 6-year olders and I pretty much ran around between the pitcher's plate and home plate fielding little flubs of hits, but some of the other kids were batting machines. These kids had me running into the outfield as they belted balls all over the place. And it wasn't a fluke. For some of the kids a big hit was, but two or three of our kids can hit the ball, and I mean HIT it, consistently. One of the kids belted line drive after line drive and I barely had to move a step as he hit the ball straight to me time after time. Remember I said I was glad we warmed up earlier? I'm sitting here typing this and I feel like I'm 5 years younger, like when I still used to play football because my legs are SORE! I weighed myself after my shower and the scales tried to tell me I'm 191.8 lbs. I'm not sure whether or not to believe them because that's getting darn close to my High School weight again. But I'm glad I'm not still carrying around those extra 15 lbs I've somehow lost over the last few weeks or I'd probably be even more sore.

Practice ran for 1 1/2 hours (including a mini-game) so we raced home, stopping for food on the way, ate, changed, then headed back out to our Boy Scout meeting, dropping A. with the in-laws on the way. Around 8:30pm we were finally back home again but I still couldn't sit down and relax. After a shower I got JE into bed, read him a story, then had to change the sheets on his bed because my Uncle is staying with us tomorrow night before flying on to Cleveland so we're putting him in JE's bed (a Queen) while JE is sleeping in A.'s bed, A. is staying with the in-laws for the next 2 nights. Saturday morning I have to get up early to take my Uncle back to LAX then JE and I have to race back to Arcadia for our very first T-Ball game at 9am. After that I might be able to relax, maybe :P

For some reason I was thinking this evening about what my life would be like if I hadn't met Liz, and the chain of events would quite possibly have been something like this:

Lived with parents from '98 to '05 until Dad passed away. Continued to live with Mum keeping her company until '06 when she met her new man. Bought Mum's house off her in '07 when she remarried and moved out, then lived in the house I grew up in for the rest of my life, all alone, coz everyone left but me. Strangely, real life is almost exactly the opposite. Little sis and her husband currently live next door to Mum, or they will until Mum moves out later this year, when she remarries and moves in with her new husband. Older sis initially bought a house around the corner and later moved to Melbourne. Me, I met a girl and moved halfway around the world.

Life is strange, sometimes.

Dinner, and a show

I met Liz and the kids for dinner at Souplantation last night, and after we'd sat down at our table another young family sat down at the next table over. Their two kids were perhaps a year or so younger than ours, but they were also there with Nan and Pop. Dad set their littlest one up in a high chair and Pop took the seat next to her, and at one point I glanced over to see Pop give his baby granddaughter an affectionate pat.

This really got to me and I looked away but the damage was already done. In fact looking away made things worse because now I was looking at my own daughter whose Pop never got to see her or hold her before he died.

The tears welled up and I hung on to them as hard as I could but my son who was sitting next to me was quick to notice and he asked why I was crying. I told him I wasn't but he could see quite clearly that I was, or at least trying not to and failing miserably. He insisted that I was crying and when Liz told him to be quiet he got upset and turned away. So I grabbed him and pulled him close while he tried to pull away and I gave his hair a scruffing. When I stopped he asked me to do it again, so I did and it made us both feel better.

Then Liz asked me why I'd been crying and before I could attempt to explain the tears welled up again. "No, don't tell me now," she said.

Well dear, now you know why.

Reflection

Every now and then as I come into work, I look at the city skyline and I think to my self "What am I doing here?"

I'm not really questioning whether or not I should be where I am in my life, it's more that reality is intruding for a minute (hate it when that happens) forcing me to reflect on where I've come from and where I am now.

I come from a place 37 years ago and 10,000 miles away (although I really only came here to the U.S. in 97-98). It was a small country town in rural Victoria, Australia, with a population of 15,000 people, where everyone may not know your name but they know who your parents or grandparents are, and a lot of people know a lot of other people's business, which is just the way it is with small(ish) country towns. I used to live in a country with a population of approx. 20,000,000 people, and now I live in a megatropolis with a population the same as my home country.

So every now and then I actually notice the towering buildings surrounding me, and I stop for a second as my mind catches up on the past 37 years and contemplates the journey I took from there to here.

At least the Crocs didn't get him.

Crikey, Steve! You're a bloody idiot. But at least the Crocs didn't get ya, hey?

My daughter has no say in it

This is the song that will be played at her wedding reception during the daddy-daughter dance.

My kids freak me out

by doing exactly what I did when I was their age.

A couple of years back I was talking to my Dad on the phone when JE ran across the sofa. He ran across the cushions, but not in the middle of the sofa, he ran across the front of the cushions, where your knees go. Now it's only a 1-foot drop to the floor but it was a wooden floor (maybe even slate, it was at a relative's house on the other side of the country, so I've only ever been there once) and JE was young and fragile and my startled exclamation made my Dad laugh because he knew JE had done something I would have done at his age.

As the wheel turns.

Our daughter, who's not even two, has taken to pushing her small chairs across the floor to our desks and then climbs up to stand on them. This freaks me out as well!

I know a lot of kids break bones playing and just being kids...but I don't want the kids with broken bones to be my kids! I was bad enough as a child and I have the scars to prove it.

Kids, please, just calm down and sit down here in the middle of the floor in this nice, padded room, far away from anything harmful...now stay there for the next 20 years.

Thank you. I feel much better.

Happy Birthday, Dad.

I miss you :(

Eccythump, this one's for you

I've brought over a lot of stuff from Australia, including almost an entire suitcase full of Games Workshop miniatures (1.5" high, plastic models for table top battle games). One of those games was Necromunda, a game Eccythump and I spent many months playing and arguing over, on account of the rules being a little ambiguous and so Eccy and I could never agree on exactly which rule applied in each situation.

A week or so ago, JE discovered the clear plastic storage box containing the Necromunda game, the box of which is decorated with savage looking punks with bright red mohawks wielding very BIG Guns. Guns deserves a capital G because they have really BIG Guns.

Being 6-years old JE immediately wanted to play with this fascinating looking game, unfortunately many of the pieces are missing, on account of me leaving the game in the care of my 6 year old nephew for 6 years. I don't blame the nephew, I left it for him because he'd always wanted to play with it but I knew exactly what would happen if he did, and I left it to him anyway. The plastic models were also mostly unpainted on account of me being a lazy bastard, and Eccy and I didn't really care about them being unpainted, we just had fun playing and arguing and spending quality time together.

Today I bought new paints (on account of the old ones being dried up, after 5+ years of non-use ;) and just spent over 2 hours painting 6 models. And the following pics are the results of my 2+ hours of concentration. Not fantastic, not bad, but not great work either. But then all I wanted to do was get a few models painted for JE to play with, and he's not going to care about a slap dash job, he just wants to play with them.

Aah, Eccy. Those were the good old days. When are you next coming to visit us? It's only a 15-hour plane ride ;)

Here's the best of the pics. One of them is not so hot, but it shows 5 of the 6 models I painted, all together. The pics are clickable and will blow up to Epic Proportions if you do so. Fairly warned be thee, says I.

Use Google for good, not evil

Actually it's not so much evil...just googling the wrong things, and not even the wrong things, really, just sometimes I google my previous life, like the Twin Cities Archery Club. I used to belong to this club. Shot in a few tournaments with them. Won a few trophies. Had a good time with the gang. I just googled them now (as you can probably tell) and it made me depressed. Not because of anything that's happened, just because this is one more chapter in my life that's closed to me now. I know the President and Secretary. I could email them...but there's no point. We might email each other back and forth, and then we'd stop, and life would go on, as it always does.