Thanks to this stupid Nigerian, from now on, whenever I reach into my pants to re-adjust Johnny during a flight, I have to worry about being jumped, beaten, and have the fire extinguisher blasted at me.
Ben doesn't eat.
Lunch after a 67.1-mile (107.4 km) non-stop ride with 1400 ft of climbing.
(Yes, lunch at 9:19 PM. My meal times have a +/- flexibility of 8 hours.)
64.1 kg (141 lbs) Current BMI (64.1 kg / 1.87² m) = 18.33
For what it is worth, Reinhold Messner and his brother, Günther, trained themselves to climb for days on mountains with half rations or no food at all.
I was much heavier twice in my life. Here's 1993. 80 kg (176 lbs) BMI (80 kg / 1.87² m) = 22.88
And here's 2003. 80 kg (176 lbs) BMI (80 kg / 1.87² m) = 22.88
It took 6 full meals a day to maintain that level of weight. So much time was spent eating. I didn't like it.
Lean is better.
Here's me after a 1021.6 km tour. (Another pic here.) The bike behind me weighs 45 kg. 60 kg (132 lbs) BMI (60 kg / 1.87² m) = 17.6
And this is after a 411.5 km off-road tour. The bike and trailer behind weigh more than me. 60 kg (132 lbs) BMI (60 kg / 1.87² m) = 17.6
Lean really is better: I got more done. Besides, sandbagging unsuspecting people is hella fun :-P
Since I won't be able to get into the overcrowded churches tonight — packed to the brim with, you know? The kind of Catholics only slightly better than than what the Jesuit Fathers call, "The 3-Bs Catholics." I.e. the kind who only attend church 3 times: Born, Bonded, and Buried — I am riding to mass tonight.
At least that means I can eat as much as I want without guilt — or gout.
The special effects are wonderful to behold, but it's the even more wonderful ironies that I appreciate more:
The film was conceived, shot, and/or produced in America and New Zealand: 2 countries where an alien race / culture colonized, driven out or subjugated the indigenous race / culture;
The people / culture / race that's profiteering off this film (about colonizers and imperialism) are descendants or socio-historical beneficiaries of such colonialism / imperialism.
The film also re-affirms my view that some liberals out there like to take on or borrow the mantle of others' oppression as a license to feel indignant — and either profit from it, restrict the freedom of others with it, or engage in ultimately self-serving, self-glorifying, pseudo-intellectual, tautalogical acts of punitive pedagogy with it.
Jake Sully returning on the back of a Leonopteryx (a red dragon-like-creature), as the newly crowned leader of the Na'vi (i.e. "Blue Monkeys") to rouse the natives to fight against the evil imperialists is nothing but a CGI rehash of Tom Cruise in his red samurai armor leading the charge in "The Last Samurai."
And, oh yes, Jake, like Tom, got a bit of native "tail" on his extra-terrestrial safari as well. Damn! I guess there are SPGs in every country, continent, island, city, and planet, eh?
Blaming "The White Man" is so passé, Mr Cameron. May I suggest a new meme: "Blame the Bankers"? Hell, toss them to the bottom of the ocean along with the lawyers. (Then you can film The Abyss 2: The Dead Rejected, where the ocean hurls forth their carcasses back on land.)
Well, I wake up in the morning at 11:47 And I can't believe I have to face the horror of another fucking day And the magnificent magnitude of my morning erection Merely mocks me like the sun in it's optimistic greeting of the day Managing to manifest a modicum of motivation I meander to the kitchen make a mission out of mixing Nescafé But the milk is going off and coffee by itself is bitter And there's ants all through the sugar and the supermarket's miles a-fucking-way
My life is pretty sad! But I know that I should be glad I could be a starving Ethiope Or a policeman in Baghdad Policeman in Baghdad! Baghdad!
At 11:53, I instigate the day's ablutions In the hope my constitution can be altered by some action on the bowl But the total non-existence of colonic animation Seems to me the perfect metaphor for the utter constipation of my soul By 11:59, I have decided that my life would be immediately improved By a carefully written list of short-term goals But by 12 o'clock, my list consists of, one-dot: put some pants on Two-dot: go to the shop, buy some prunes and Panadol
My life is pretty shit! But I know I shouldn't whinge about it I could be a Palestinian Driving buses on the Gaza strip
Yeah, how bad can it be? Some people have it worse than me I could be an Ipswich prostitute Or Gary Glitter's family
I have no right to cry Some people have it worse than I I could be a thalidomide kid With something in my eye Something in my eye! My eye!
At 12:30, I realise I'm feeling so dejected That I've totally neglected the beginning of the Jerry Springer show So I settle on the sofa try to focus an iota of my motor-neurons On the brilliant insights for which Jerry is known And although on any other day a show entitled "Midgets, Midgets, Midgets" Would excite me like a virgin at her year eleven ball Today, those little jelly-wresting fellas fail to free me of my misery Instead they simply serve to make me feel three-foot tall
But how bad can it be? Some people have it worse than me I could be a junior lifesaver on the Banda Aceh beach Or a woman in Afghanistan Or a jew in the Ku Klux Klan Or the architect of the World Trade Centre Or a bobcat driver in Bam, Iran
I could have my identity mistaken As a bomber in an underground station I could be a peace-loving speech-writer In George W's administration
Yeah, I know that I don't have the right To be unhappy with my life I could be Hitler's mother Or Shane Warne's wife
Yeah, I know that I shouldn't be bitchin' I could be in a worse position I could be a 3-nippled naturopath In the days of the Spanish, the Spanish inquisition
I know I have no right, no right to cry Some people have it much, much worse than I I could have a serious nut allergy And be shipwrecked on an island with a crate of Snickers bars, A jar of Nutella and a fresh baked pecan pie!!! Some people have it worse than I!
(Tim Minchin)
A taste for irony has kept more hearts from breaking than a sense of humor, for it takes irony to appreciate the joke which is on oneself.
In a North London, top-floor flat, All white walls, white carpet, white cat, Rice paper partitions, Modern art and ambition. The host’s a physician, Bright bloke, has his own practice, His girlfriend’s an actress, An old mate of ours from home, And they’re always great fun. So to dinner we’ve come.
The 5th guest is an unknown. The hosts have just thrown Us together for a favour, Because this girl’s just arrived from Australia, And she's moved to North London, And she’s the sister of someone, Or has some connection.
As we make introductions I’m struck by her beauty. She’s irrefutably fair, With dark eyes and dark hair... But as she sits I admit I’m a little bit wary, Because I notice the tip of the wing of a fairy Tattooed on that popular area Just above the derrière. And when she says: “I’m Sagittarian,” I confess a pigeonhole starts to form And is immediately filled with pigeon, When she says her name is Storm.
Conversation is initially bright and light hearted, But it’s not long before Storm gets started: “You can’t know anything, Knowledge is merely opinion,” She opines, over her Cabernet Sauvignon, Vis-a-vis, Some unhippily Empirical comment made by me...
“Not a good start,” I think. We’re only on pre-dinner drinks, And across the room, my wife Widens her eyes, Silently begs me: 'Be nice.' A matrimonial warning, Not worth ignoring. So I resist the urge to ask Storm Whether knowledge is so loose-weave, Of a morning, When deciding whether to leave Her apartment by the front door... Or the window on her second floor.
The food is delicious and Storm, Whilst avoiding all meat, Happily sits and eats As the good doctor, slightly pissedly, Holds court on some anachronistic aspect of medical history, When Storm suddenly insists: “But the human body is a mystery! Science just falls in a hole When it tries to explain the the nature of the soul.”
My hostess throws me a glance. She, like my wife, knows there’s a chance I’ll be off on one of my rare, but fun rants. But I shan't, my lips are sealed. I just want to enjoy the meal. And although Storm is starting to get my goat, I have no intention of rocking the boat, Although it’s becoming a bit of a wrestle Because, like her meteorological namesake, Storm has no such concerns for our vessel:
“Pharmaceutical companies are the enemy. They promote drug dependency At the cost of the natural remedies That are all our bodies need; They are immoral and driven by greed. Why take drugs When herbs can solve it? Why use chemicals When homeopathic solvents Can resolve it? I think it’s time we all return to live With natural medical alternatives.”
And try as I like, A small crack appears In my diplomacy dike. “By definition,” I begin, “Alternative medicine,” I continue, “Has either not been proved to work, Or been proved not to work. Do you know what they call 'alternative medicine' That’s been proved to work? Medicine.”
“So you don’t believe In any natural remedies?”
“On the contrary, Storm, actually, Before we came to tea, I took a natural remedy Derived from the bark of a willow tree. A painkiller, virtually side-effect free, It’s got a weird name: Darling, what was it again? Ma- ma- maspirin? Baspirin? Oh yeah: aspirin! Which I paid about a buck for Down at the local drugstore."
The debate briefly abates As my hosts collect plates, but as they return with dessert, Storm pertly asserts:
“Shakespeare said it first: There are more things in heaven and earth Than exist in your philosophy… Science is just how we’re trained to look at reality, It doesn't explain love, or spirituality. How does science explain psychics? Auras; the afterlife; the power of prayer?”
I’m becoming aware That I’m staring, I’m like a rabbit suddenly trapped In the blinding headlights of vacuous crap. Maybe it’s the Hamlet she just misquothed, Or the sixth glass of wine I just quaffed, But my diplomacy dike groans, And the arsehole held back by its stones Can be held back no more:
“Look, er, Storm, sorry, I don’t mean to bore you, But there’s no such thing as an aura, Reading auras is like reading minds, Or tea-leaves, or star signs, or meridian lines... These people aren’t plying a skill, They are either lying, or mentally ill. Same goes for people who claim to hear God’s demands, And spiritual healers who think they've got magic hands.
By the way, Why do we think it's okay For people to pretend they can talk to the dead? Isn't that totally fucked in the head? Lying to some crying woman whose child has died And telling her you’re in touch with the other side? That’s just fundamentally sick. Do we need to clarify here that there’s no such thing as a psychic? What, are we fucking two (years old)? Do we actually think that Horton Heard a Who? Do we still believe that Santa brings us gifts? That Michael Jackson didn't have facelifts? Are we still so stunned by circus tricks That we think the dead would Wanna talk to pricks like John Edward?
Storm, to her credit, despite my derision, Keeps firing off clichés with startling precision, Like a sniper using bollocks for ammunition.
“You’re so sure of your position That you’re just closed-minded. I think you’ll find Your faith in science and tests Is just as blind As the faith of any fundamentalist."
“Well that’s a good point, let me think for a bit... Oh wait, my mistake, that's absolute bullshit.
Science adjusts its views based on what’s observed, Faith is the denial of observation, So that belief can be preserved. If you show me That, say, homeopathy works, Then I will change my mind, I will spin on a fucking dime, I'll be as embarrassed as hell, But I will run through the streets yelling: It’s a miracle! Take physics and bin it! Water has memory! And whilst its memory of a long lost drop of onion juice seems infinite, It somehow forgets all the poo it’s had in it!
You show me that it works and how it works, And when I’ve recovered from the shock, I will take a compass and carve: 'Fancy that!' on the side of my cock."
Everyone is just staring now, But I’m pretty pissed and I’ve dug this far down, So I figure... in for a penny, in for a pound!
“Life is full of mystery, yeah, But there are answers out there, And they won’t be found By people sitting around Looking serious and saying: 'Isn’t life mysterious!' Let’s sit here and hope, Let’s call up the fucking Pope, Let’s go watch Oprah Interview Deepak Chopra...
If you must watch telly, you should watch Scooby Doo. That show was so cool... Because every time there was a church with a ghoul, Or a ghost in a school, They looked beneath the mask, and what was inside? The fucking janitor or the dude who ran the water slide!
Because throughout history, Every mystery ever solved, Has turned out to be... Not magic!
Does the idea that there might be knowledge, Frighten you? Does the idea that one afternoon On Wiki-fucking-pedia might enlighten you, Frighten you? Does the notion that there may not be a supernatural So blow your hippy noodle That you'd rather just stand in the fog Of your inability to Google?
Isn’t this enough?
Just this world? Just this.. beautiful, complex... Wonderfully unfathomable... natural world? How does it so fail to hold our attention That we have to diminish it with the invention Of cheap, man-made myths and monsters?
If you’re so into your Shakespeare, Lend me your ear: “To gild refined gold, To paint the lily, To throw perfume on the violet… is just fucking silly."
Or something like that.
Or what about Satchmo? "I see trees of green, Red roses too... "
And fine, if you wish to Glorify Krishna and Vishnu In a post-colonial, condescending, Bottled-up-and-labeled kind of way, Then whatever, that’s okay. But here’s what gives me a hard-on: I am a tiny, insignificant, ignorant bit of carbon. I have one life, and it is short And unimportant… But thanks to recent scientific advances, I get to live twice as long As my great great great great uncleses and auntses.
Twice as long to live this life of mine. Twice as long to love this wife of mine. Twice as many years of friends and wine, Of sharing curries and getting shitty, At good-looking hippies With fairies on their spines And butterflies on their titties.
And if perchance I have offended, Think but this and all is mended: We’d as well be 10 minutes back in time, For all the chance you’ll change your mind.
