On Gyming It Up part 2 (here's part one)
Certain sensibilities have crept to the surface of our collective conscious over the past few decades. Somewhere close to the top of this heap of human conceptions is the desire to promote a healthy lifestyle. This desire to transcend the natural deterioration of organic matter is probably an offshoot of the oft-lamented Enlightenment project[1]. Among the many parts which gave shape to the body of this intellectual movement (along with the promotion of rationality, equality and subsequently the dispersion of superstitions, holy blood-lines and the like) was the establishment of the human being as the new centre of the universe. Nature was a chaotic malaise that would soon bend to our unreasonably impressive reasonableness[2]. It is implied then that humans possess an immense power, the power to control reality through reason. As we harnessed the combined powers of our considerable intellects we would conquer nature and leave some of her less than desirable aspects like (but not limited to) ageing, sickness and death bruised and beaten into submission...
and bada bing bada boom a work out
bench 60*8, 95/4*5
chins 95/4*5
seated row 94/4*5
OHP 2(22.5)*8,5
[1] For the purposes of this essay, the idea that the Enlightenment was a phallocentric phenomenon will be treated as axiomatic.
[2] Nisbet: The Sociological Tradition, pp 21-44
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Thursday, November 27, 2008
86.
Her Great Aunt was kidnapped a long time ago. Now she was too. Were these felonies somehow related? She couldn't be sure. The Bald Man was waffling on still, better pay attention.
"You have been brought here for a purpose. A very important purpose indeed. Do you understand?"
Canada scanned the room as subtly as possible, the octabug had retired to a neutral corner, the door, which was indiscernible from the walls was shut, no immediate points of escape were apparent.
"You're allowed to talk little one, we're all friends here. Nod or say yes." He was back to good cop, that game usually involved a foil, but he seemed content to play both roles.
"Um, no. What are you talking about. You're not making any sense."
His eyebrows revealed a slight exception to this last comment, but he managed to stay in character.
"Of course, of course. I don't want to overwhelm you Miz Canada."
"Canada will do." She was pushing it.
"I think I may have jumped the gun, perhaps it's better that I do the talking and then I'll field your questions and/or snarky comments at the end. O.K?" He kicked over the mini table, spilling the uneaten burger over the floor. "This is important, important enough that I've brought here at great risk to myself. You see, the world is in trouble, big trouble and only you and I and your miserable friends can save it."
"I can play the piano, what the hell are you talking about?"
He bent down and half-heartedly slapped her, "That's your last warning. We haven't got much time. The genes are -"
Whirooooooooo!!!!
"Oh for *&%$ sake. Now what?" Some kind of alarm was sounding.
"You have been brought here for a purpose. A very important purpose indeed. Do you understand?"
Canada scanned the room as subtly as possible, the octabug had retired to a neutral corner, the door, which was indiscernible from the walls was shut, no immediate points of escape were apparent.
"You're allowed to talk little one, we're all friends here. Nod or say yes." He was back to good cop, that game usually involved a foil, but he seemed content to play both roles.
"Um, no. What are you talking about. You're not making any sense."
His eyebrows revealed a slight exception to this last comment, but he managed to stay in character.
"Of course, of course. I don't want to overwhelm you Miz Canada."
"Canada will do." She was pushing it.
"I think I may have jumped the gun, perhaps it's better that I do the talking and then I'll field your questions and/or snarky comments at the end. O.K?" He kicked over the mini table, spilling the uneaten burger over the floor. "This is important, important enough that I've brought here at great risk to myself. You see, the world is in trouble, big trouble and only you and I and your miserable friends can save it."
"I can play the piano, what the hell are you talking about?"
He bent down and half-heartedly slapped her, "That's your last warning. We haven't got much time. The genes are -"
Whirooooooooo!!!!
"Oh for *&%$ sake. Now what?" Some kind of alarm was sounding.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Happy Thanksgiving America
I hereby move to institute Thanksgiving as a national holiday in New Zealand, all in agreement say I. In essence we are a bastard state of the good old USA, why not take the good with the bad. I own neither pilgrim black boots nor red Indian moccasins, which may preclude my walking a mile in someone elses exotic footwear, which may explain my total lack of understanding as to the events that led ultimately to the origin of said holiday. What I do know is that if you divide the law of attraction by the average karmic output of the ether then all in all saying thank you is probably a good thing. Thank you. Thank you very much.
P.S. A special thank you to America for all the cool stuff like the internet (one favour: please work on your foreign policy, cheers).
P.S. A special thank you to America for all the cool stuff like the internet (one favour: please work on your foreign policy, cheers).
bushido
I recently re-watched the Last Samurai and it reminded me of an ad hoc lesson that I put together once for my young men. It was based around one of the many analogies of dubious distinction that emerge around the periphery of Mormonism, we like those, but if the shoe fits, that means you get to marry Cinderella.
Eastern culture has always fascinated me, I think early exposure to really badly dubbed Kung Fu movies is where the love affair began. Ever since I can remember I've wanted to be a Buddhist monk at Shaolin Temple, and later, after I discovered Akira Kurosawa, I thought I could have been a passable Samurai in feudal Japan. Fate had other plans, sanity prevailed, and I ended up here, a denizen of the 21st century.
As I reflect on what could have been, I'm reminded of the old Samurai ways and see certain parallels to gospel living. I wont expand on them too much, but here's a little sample, I'll leave the rest to your imagination. A Samurai dedicated himself totally to his training, the alternative was death (usually at the hands of another swordsman) which is always a good motivator. We are engaged in a battle with spiritual death on the line, in order to be victorious we would do well to emulate the discipline of these ancient warriors.
The piety of the Samurai toward his master was above reproach. The life of a retainer was typified by absolute loyalty and service to their master. The Bushi would literally give their lives in defence of their lords (or end them if they failed to do so). Now that's what I call commitment. Am I endorsing oibara or seppuku? No, but if you want a measure of dedication, this one's hard to beat.
Eastern culture has always fascinated me, I think early exposure to really badly dubbed Kung Fu movies is where the love affair began. Ever since I can remember I've wanted to be a Buddhist monk at Shaolin Temple, and later, after I discovered Akira Kurosawa, I thought I could have been a passable Samurai in feudal Japan. Fate had other plans, sanity prevailed, and I ended up here, a denizen of the 21st century.
As I reflect on what could have been, I'm reminded of the old Samurai ways and see certain parallels to gospel living. I wont expand on them too much, but here's a little sample, I'll leave the rest to your imagination. A Samurai dedicated himself totally to his training, the alternative was death (usually at the hands of another swordsman) which is always a good motivator. We are engaged in a battle with spiritual death on the line, in order to be victorious we would do well to emulate the discipline of these ancient warriors.
The piety of the Samurai toward his master was above reproach. The life of a retainer was typified by absolute loyalty and service to their master. The Bushi would literally give their lives in defence of their lords (or end them if they failed to do so). Now that's what I call commitment. Am I endorsing oibara or seppuku? No, but if you want a measure of dedication, this one's hard to beat.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
My Eulogy
For fun Fast forward to my death. What would the world look like>>
"We are here today to celebrate the passing, sorry I'm a little nervous. To celebrate the life of our dearly departed friend, the late Loren Hopkins. He was a good man, a kind man, a man of rare and misguided breeding. His scruples we're always wound tighter then a supermodel's butt cheeks, but we loved him. It all started on a beautiful day in 19...blah blah blah."
2 minutes later...
"Damn we'll miss him. Would anyone else like to say anything?
Anyone?"
A dark figure entered from the back of the chapel, he was wearing shutter shades -- a gimcrack that Kanye West had regrettably reintroduced into the sphere of socially acceptable fashion -- and a black three quarter coat. He solemnly marched to the podium and removed his shades. Gasps pinballed throughout the audience.
"Trust me to be late for my own funeral, a few complications almost kept me from being here tonight, but, well, here I am; With apologies to Mark Twain 'The rumours of my death have been greatly exaggerated', who when you think about it is actually dead now." *Loren paused as if expecting an additional response to this inane insight, it however was easily overpowered in the minds of the onlookers by his surprising revivification.* "Ahem, I appreciate so many of you being here tonight." *In truth the number of attendees left something to be desired.* "And I hate to send you home disappointed, but while I was sitting at the pearly gates waiting for my number to be called I realised that there was something I'd forgotten to do here. As quickly as possible I made arrangements for my return. Many kind things have been said tonight most of which (like my death) were exaggerations. I never quite lived up to my end of the bargain down here, so I've decided to make a comeback and settle my unfinished business. I'm sure you'll all understand, second chances are uncommon, so do what you can when you can and do it the best. It took me a while to learn that, I was 29 years old when I lived for the first time. You'll have to excuse me now, I should be writing. Thank you. Peace out."
There was no solitary clap building in a crescendo to a rousing ovation. There wasn't much of anything in the way of response. Silence hung over the congregation like a very unpleasant cloud.
Then one man stood up. "If you're you, then who's that lying in the casket?!?"
'Ummm."
And so it was that Loren returned to the land of the living.
"We are here today to celebrate the passing, sorry I'm a little nervous. To celebrate the life of our dearly departed friend, the late Loren Hopkins. He was a good man, a kind man, a man of rare and misguided breeding. His scruples we're always wound tighter then a supermodel's butt cheeks, but we loved him. It all started on a beautiful day in 19...blah blah blah."
2 minutes later...
"Damn we'll miss him. Would anyone else like to say anything?
Anyone?"
A dark figure entered from the back of the chapel, he was wearing shutter shades -- a gimcrack that Kanye West had regrettably reintroduced into the sphere of socially acceptable fashion -- and a black three quarter coat. He solemnly marched to the podium and removed his shades. Gasps pinballed throughout the audience.
"Trust me to be late for my own funeral, a few complications almost kept me from being here tonight, but, well, here I am; With apologies to Mark Twain 'The rumours of my death have been greatly exaggerated', who when you think about it is actually dead now." *Loren paused as if expecting an additional response to this inane insight, it however was easily overpowered in the minds of the onlookers by his surprising revivification.* "Ahem, I appreciate so many of you being here tonight." *In truth the number of attendees left something to be desired.* "And I hate to send you home disappointed, but while I was sitting at the pearly gates waiting for my number to be called I realised that there was something I'd forgotten to do here. As quickly as possible I made arrangements for my return. Many kind things have been said tonight most of which (like my death) were exaggerations. I never quite lived up to my end of the bargain down here, so I've decided to make a comeback and settle my unfinished business. I'm sure you'll all understand, second chances are uncommon, so do what you can when you can and do it the best. It took me a while to learn that, I was 29 years old when I lived for the first time. You'll have to excuse me now, I should be writing. Thank you. Peace out."
There was no solitary clap building in a crescendo to a rousing ovation. There wasn't much of anything in the way of response. Silence hung over the congregation like a very unpleasant cloud.
Then one man stood up. "If you're you, then who's that lying in the casket?!?"
'Ummm."
And so it was that Loren returned to the land of the living.
Monday, November 24, 2008
you wouldn't mind indulging my free writing habit would you?
I was just thinking that if a giant hairy arachnid happened to attack me right now I'd probably still lie here doing nothing. Do you know what this means? Absolutely nothing, it's like absolute zero but without the Kelvins, I'm like the immovable unreachable temperature at the bottom of the ocean of the universe. The second law of thermodynamics need not apply here I've reached the point of abject unreasoned putridosity. It's really quite something. Nothing left to do, but to bask in the delayed onset of hopeless oblivion. Sweet Joana Nothin' take me now.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Why is God a Fractal 3.
As we venture further into the unknown speculative recesses of my internal imaginative flux, we will first look at the decision making process for all sentient creation from a bottom-up perspective before we take a god's-eye-view (mainly because I find it difficult to conceptualise what the latter would entail). When we last left this topic we spoke of monkeys. I just can't help myself.
It's been said that a million monkeys typing for a million years would at some point reproduce the entire works of Shakespeare. An astute commentator observed that with the advent of the internet this notion has been proven false, but just imagine if they did, would it mean anything?
I think it was Camus who used a similar example to tease out how we go about creating meaning for ourselves in life. Some dude lives forever and reproduces the Iliad or the Odyssey, can we say that this event has any merit, given that on an infinite timeline it's inevitable that someone would produce an identical work (I guess it depends on how much you like Homer). Looking at things on a mortal scale, because we're working with a literal deadline -- whether we like to acknowledge it or not -- we face the prospect of being limited in what we can do for purely practical reasons. This makes our choices (like writing an epic poem) a lot more meaningful, because they are now subjected to some form of prioritization, which in all likely hood isn't arbitrarily driven. Our discriminating tastes come into play using the time we have in whatever way we see fit. Like the old saying goes "time is what stops everything from happening at once." We may want it all and want it now, but conditions don't favour the disciples of instant gratification here. We're left to make our way in the world slowly but surely one decision at a time. How we go about choosing is a whole 'nother can of worms that I'll deal with later, the why (as in why our choices matter) will have to do for now.
Sorry eternal monkeys your efforts seen through this paradigm don't amount to much. The limitations of mortality open the way for meaning to mean something. However, when we open our scope and include God in the domain, unfortunately this model doesn't fit. God is an infinite being who does far more then write about heroes with tragic flaws, he makes them. Which doesn't bring us any closer to the celestial selection system. Perhaps I've been asking the wrong question, Why is God a fractal isn't big enough, it's just a less general version of why is there something instead of nothing?
next: extrapolations that could lead to a resolution of the mysteries of the universe, but probably not.
It's been said that a million monkeys typing for a million years would at some point reproduce the entire works of Shakespeare. An astute commentator observed that with the advent of the internet this notion has been proven false, but just imagine if they did, would it mean anything?
I think it was Camus who used a similar example to tease out how we go about creating meaning for ourselves in life. Some dude lives forever and reproduces the Iliad or the Odyssey, can we say that this event has any merit, given that on an infinite timeline it's inevitable that someone would produce an identical work (I guess it depends on how much you like Homer). Looking at things on a mortal scale, because we're working with a literal deadline -- whether we like to acknowledge it or not -- we face the prospect of being limited in what we can do for purely practical reasons. This makes our choices (like writing an epic poem) a lot more meaningful, because they are now subjected to some form of prioritization, which in all likely hood isn't arbitrarily driven. Our discriminating tastes come into play using the time we have in whatever way we see fit. Like the old saying goes "time is what stops everything from happening at once." We may want it all and want it now, but conditions don't favour the disciples of instant gratification here. We're left to make our way in the world slowly but surely one decision at a time. How we go about choosing is a whole 'nother can of worms that I'll deal with later, the why (as in why our choices matter) will have to do for now.
Sorry eternal monkeys your efforts seen through this paradigm don't amount to much. The limitations of mortality open the way for meaning to mean something. However, when we open our scope and include God in the domain, unfortunately this model doesn't fit. God is an infinite being who does far more then write about heroes with tragic flaws, he makes them. Which doesn't bring us any closer to the celestial selection system. Perhaps I've been asking the wrong question, Why is God a fractal isn't big enough, it's just a less general version of why is there something instead of nothing?
next: extrapolations that could lead to a resolution of the mysteries of the universe, but probably not.
leauge world champs, how sweet it is
I'm still recovering from the best day of my life.
Last night the New Zealand Kiwi's defeated the Australian Kangaroo's in the final of the rugby league world cup, 34-20. This isn't an alternate reality or some elaborate fantasy that I just concocted, this actually happened. The Aussie's have had a strangle hold on the cup since time immemorial it feels like (really since 1975, longer than I've been alive!). No one except the players themselves and their family members gave our boys a chance of winning, the monotonous march of Australian dominance looked set to continue, but the dynasty came crashing down on the back of uncharacteristic errors by the roo's (cheers Billy), some controversial calls from the ref and a rare display of heart from the Kiwi's. I never thought I'd see this in my life time. If you look at the match up and the expectations going in this was the biggest sporting upset of all time. Yeah Boy!
Oh, I worked out too
box squat (32cm) 60*5,100*5,140*2,130*5,130/3*3
power C&J 90*3,95*3,100*3
volume: 3755kgs
Saturday, November 22, 2008
85.
One of Simon's epiphanies that may or may not come back to haunt him later:
"Thank you sir. I can't wait to open this up."
Simon walked out of the store, his chiper radiant aura infecting all unsuspecting bystanders, most of whom shrugged it off and went about their business. He held in his hand a tiny shiny box containing an iPod.
Although somewhat unstable in person, Simon was a thoughtful fellow in private. He regularly kept a journal, a simple legal pad and 2B pencil his favourite instruments of record. A week after his purchase he wrote...
"Thank you sir. I can't wait to open this up."
Simon walked out of the store, his chiper radiant aura infecting all unsuspecting bystanders, most of whom shrugged it off and went about their business. He held in his hand a tiny shiny box containing an iPod.
***
Although somewhat unstable in person, Simon was a thoughtful fellow in private. He regularly kept a journal, a simple legal pad and 2B pencil his favourite instruments of record. A week after his purchase he wrote...
Dreams from my Ipod
Why can't we all, whether we lean left or right, be like the opposing earplugs of my ipod. Whenever I leave them alone for any amount of time they become almost inseperably intertwined. You can blame chaos theory or you can accept that these tiny speakers are more than just fancy Q-tips®, sure they clear out the occasional stray globul of wax, but they also impart knowledge or uplift with music, it's not what they take out it's what they put in. I wish we could open our ears and other parts of ourselves and just listen and be together like these strange sound cords that I carry with me everywhere.
I hope we're ready when the time comes, because I can feel change is on the way. Something is going to show us all the underlying unity of the universe. I've been having wierd dreams lately. I get the sense that something big's going to happen, maybe as soon as tomorrow.
The next day Simon's house exploded.
Friday, November 21, 2008
"push through the pain barriers"
Sometimes doing something half-arsed seems better than doing nothing at all. I wouldn't recommend adopting that as a life principle, but when you start to feel the flakes of flakiness fall on your head, don't be fooled, that's not dandruff, that's the world pitifully trying to hold you down. At times like those it's probably best to er on the side of action. So I dusted off me head and mailed in another work out, snail mailed, it got banged up during delivery, but it got there in the end...
bench 20*40;40*40;60*14,12;
bench (p-grip) 60*6
dead hang chins 98(me)*8,6
power clean: 100 missed it, 100 got it
bench 20*40;40*40;60*14,12;
bench (p-grip) 60*6
dead hang chins 98(me)*8,6
power clean: 100 missed it, 100 got it
Thursday, November 20, 2008
84.
Death becomes her, as she walked she tried not to worry about it. Why did she think entering the forest was a good idea? That didn't really matter anymore a near death experience justified almost any action that followed it. She kept going.
"Deborah it's so good to see you." Hearing voices, not a good sign no matter how welcoming they sounded.
"Yes, this is Mayor Salin." said Deborah. "Who, wh are you?"
No reply.
She stood for a while assessing her situation. Pros: 1. She hadn't seen or heard a frog for about half an hour. 2. This was the most spontaneous thing she'd done since she started seeing a psychologist. Cons: 1. Bad lighting. 2. mysterious voices that knew her name. Mental note: find a new psychologist.
A new sound broke her concentration it sounded like a rifle. Against all reason she followed it like bread crumbs in a fairy tale, like string in a labyrinth and found her way to a clearing. It was little relief to discover a man there firing a rifle, as she'd suspected, worse he seemed to be missing his head.
"Deborah it's so good to see you." Hearing voices, not a good sign no matter how welcoming they sounded.
"Yes, this is Mayor Salin." said Deborah. "Who, wh are you?"
No reply.
She stood for a while assessing her situation. Pros: 1. She hadn't seen or heard a frog for about half an hour. 2. This was the most spontaneous thing she'd done since she started seeing a psychologist. Cons: 1. Bad lighting. 2. mysterious voices that knew her name. Mental note: find a new psychologist.
A new sound broke her concentration it sounded like a rifle. Against all reason she followed it like bread crumbs in a fairy tale, like string in a labyrinth and found her way to a clearing. It was little relief to discover a man there firing a rifle, as she'd suspected, worse he seemed to be missing his head.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
the bebo years part 1
author's note: When you start cannibalising your own work an angel loses its wings. Over the next few days I'll repost some of my favourite blogs from my bebo account before I shut it down, don't want to over do the social media thing. Enjoy...
In honour of it being rugby world cup year combined with the timely happenstance of the pig symbolising (for the chinese among us at least) the hopes and dreams of this forth coming period (aka 2007), an animal whose skin in the formative days of the aforementioned sport was used without shame as the implement around which our national pass time was built; yes all these things considered have lead to my playing the game that I once thought was for pooftahs, which has now become my outlet for alpha male aggression. Gods of league forgive me! I'm a rugby man. The count down to the world cup has begun. I see myself playing on the All Blacks or Manu Samoa or even maybe the PlayStation. Perhaps I'll have to settle for club footy. Ponsonby here I come.
Later...
"I PUT IN WORK AND IT'S ALL FOR THE KIDS, BUT THESE KATS THEY FORGOT WHAT WORK IS" -- dMx
Thank you DMX, hardcore gangsta rapper, for your keen insight into the decline of civilizations moral fibre. Your soulful christian anthems combined with your cuss riddled lyrics are a source of constant inspiration to us all.
All sarcasm aside, my nigga has a point. I never truly appreciated hard work until I started playing rugby, well more specifically going to rugby training. From the moment that I handed over control of my person to the powers that be at ponsonby, those sadistic despots have run me ragged. I never knew it could be like this, hell on earth. Just what I needed. We kids are a sorry soft lot these days. Thank goodness for psychotic rugby coaches who take you to places that you never thought existed.
I keep this up and my longtime ambivalent relationship with my arch nemesis laziness (refer to my super powers in the above profile [blogger doesn't have a place to display these]) could come to an end. The earths foundations tremble at this prospect. DMX you are the man, so it's time to man up and do some work baby. RRRRRRR WHAT!
In honour of it being rugby world cup year combined with the timely happenstance of the pig symbolising (for the chinese among us at least) the hopes and dreams of this forth coming period (aka 2007), an animal whose skin in the formative days of the aforementioned sport was used without shame as the implement around which our national pass time was built; yes all these things considered have lead to my playing the game that I once thought was for pooftahs, which has now become my outlet for alpha male aggression. Gods of league forgive me! I'm a rugby man. The count down to the world cup has begun. I see myself playing on the All Blacks or Manu Samoa or even maybe the PlayStation. Perhaps I'll have to settle for club footy. Ponsonby here I come.
Later...
"I PUT IN WORK AND IT'S ALL FOR THE KIDS, BUT THESE KATS THEY FORGOT WHAT WORK IS" -- dMx
Thank you DMX, hardcore gangsta rapper, for your keen insight into the decline of civilizations moral fibre. Your soulful christian anthems combined with your cuss riddled lyrics are a source of constant inspiration to us all.
All sarcasm aside, my nigga has a point. I never truly appreciated hard work until I started playing rugby, well more specifically going to rugby training. From the moment that I handed over control of my person to the powers that be at ponsonby, those sadistic despots have run me ragged. I never knew it could be like this, hell on earth. Just what I needed. We kids are a sorry soft lot these days. Thank goodness for psychotic rugby coaches who take you to places that you never thought existed.
I keep this up and my longtime ambivalent relationship with my arch nemesis laziness (refer to my super powers in the above profile [blogger doesn't have a place to display these]) could come to an end. The earths foundations tremble at this prospect. DMX you are the man, so it's time to man up and do some work baby. RRRRRRR WHAT!
Monday, November 17, 2008
nanwrimo post mortem
this feels brilliant -- I have an old methodology which says: start slow, finish strong, and that's what I does. I learned a great many things from this over ambitious undertaking. What stands out most is that I hate writing fast. Hated. For me there's a difference between talking and writing. Talking is a spontaneous act (unless you're a politician in which case you just need to ensure you always bring a teleprompter). Writing allows for a more deliberate, thoughtful treatment of words. NaNoWriMo isn't writing it's crapping on the page.
I like to look at it in terms of Mac or Windows. Windows develops their wares on a quick timeline and sends them out into the market finished or unfinished, doesn't really matter to them (see Vista). Apple goes for quality every time and usually hits. One day around the middle of November the penny dropped and I realised if I belabour the choice of my words anymore I'm not going to finish this damn thing. So I went all Microsoft and started crapping away (you can always release version 7.0 a short time later right?) sometimes you just need to drop your standards, but what wondrous crap I've wrought, crap like you wouldn't believe. It wasn't fun, but it was worth it I almost even like writing fast now, so time to start polishing up my crap --. Oh wait, this didn't actually happen yet, back to the writing.
*Me releasing words into the wild* "Fly my pretties, fly!"
I like to look at it in terms of Mac or Windows. Windows develops their wares on a quick timeline and sends them out into the market finished or unfinished, doesn't really matter to them (see Vista). Apple goes for quality every time and usually hits. One day around the middle of November the penny dropped and I realised if I belabour the choice of my words anymore I'm not going to finish this damn thing. So I went all Microsoft and started crapping away (you can always release version 7.0 a short time later right?) sometimes you just need to drop your standards, but what wondrous crap I've wrought, crap like you wouldn't believe. It wasn't fun, but it was worth it I almost even like writing fast now, so time to start polishing up my crap --. Oh wait, this didn't actually happen yet, back to the writing.
*Me releasing words into the wild* "Fly my pretties, fly!"
Sunday, November 16, 2008
A moment of silence...
Randy Couture lost to Brock Lesnar. Cpt. America got beat, a sad day. I drowned my sorrows doing this...
box squat (high) 60/2*20;10
power snatch: 60/1*10
volume: 3600kgs
Saturday, November 15, 2008
a progress report for your unending entertainment
I may pass the magical quintuple digit barrier tonight. Meaning that I'll only be 15,ooo words off target. I'm transcribing the myth of the extinction of the dinosaurs related to me by Quinton Fitzgerald Olberstaff, an obscure member of the British Royal Society. He did his best work during the 19th century. He's really old. I'm not sure if I'll mention him too much in the story proper, but apparently he was the missing link in a previous life, during which time he engineered the extinction of the dinosaurs unleashing the most voracious genocidal midget t-rex that ever lived on the super-continent of Pangaea. Mr. Olberstaff continually assures me that I'm not making this up.
Friday, November 14, 2008
on the shoulders of giants: a series celebrating the burly strong men of yesteryear
Don't mock the leopard skin, Joe Greenstein could bite a nail in half (among other things); today I had to settle for:
bench: 60*5;80*5;90/2*5,8;
chins: 98/5*5
inc bench: 70/2*6
chins (n-grip) 98/2*5
volume:
Manhood, Mormon style
Donny Osmond threatens to make a man out of me
If there's one thing I like doing here it's recycling old journal entries...
I woke up one day this week and decided I wanted to be a man. This was surprising news to everyone. Vince Lombardi (of the green bay packers) said: " winning isn't a sometime thing, it's an all the time thing. You don't win once in a while, you don't do things right once in a while, you do them right all the time. Winning is a habit, unfortunately so is losing." Substitute winning for man or manhood and you'll get some idea of how I felt. Do I wake up some days and think, you know what I don't feel like being a man today? Sure, happens all the time. I don't exactly say those words but my actions reflect that thought process: I don't feel like waking up early or doing the dishes or being nice to people or whatever. Lehi reminded his wayward sons " arise from the dust my sons and be men and be determined in one mind and one heart united in all things, that you may not come down into captivity." The saviour gives us an understanding of what true manhood is... asked:" what manner of men ought ye to be?" & answered: "Even as I am." Remember manhood isn't a some time thing it's an all the time thing. So what are you waiting for? Be a man.
An addendum, the attributes of manhood:
1 THOUGH I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal.
2 And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries, and all knowledge; and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, and have not charity, I am nothing.
3 And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give my body to be burned, and have not charity, it profiteth me nothing.
4 Charity suffereth long, and is kind; charity envieth not; charity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up,
5 Doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil;
6 Rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth;
7 Beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.
8 Charity never faileth: but whether there be prophecies, they shall fail; whether there be tongues, they shall cease; whether there be knowledge, it shall vanish away.
9 For we know in part, and we prophesy in part.
10 But when that which is perfect is come, then that which is in part shall be done away.
11 When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things.
12 For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.
13 And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity.
(New Testament 1 Corinthians 13:)
Thursday, November 13, 2008
83.
ribit, ribit
"If you don't mind I was here first, and as you can see the situation is dire. Now you've said your piece about the 80's, horrible decade, but we've got our own problems to deal with." said Erhard
"With all due respect sir, with a wardrobe like that, you look to be the least qualified to make any comments on what was or wasn't, is or isn't fashionable. The 80's had its short comings to be sure, but it's ready to make a comeback." said Davis
"OAUGHUEHHE" said Daly and Koopa.
Erhard snuck a glance at his outfit, it was bright yellow and red, of course he knew that already, but he wasn't used to being insulted by strangers that materialised in brilliant flashes of light, he found it to be rather rude; All the more so, because his reclamation of the proverbial talking stick was so short lived, he'd been disarmed by the cocky guest almost immediately. He tried again" "Who said anything about fashion?" was all he could come up with. After that he thought of a million other things that would have been a hundred times wittier.
Melanie was about to make a psychological breakthrough and disencumber a portion of her inner child before these two strange men appeared on the scene, although they were no less strange than the man she was already dealing with, perhaps they leaned a little closer to normality than this ever-groaning zombie guy and for that she was resentfully grateful. Here she was getting bailed out again, same old Mel. Between these freaks, the redundant, overly abundant frogs; and the worst date of her life (the only date), she couldn't see how an invasion from the eighties could make things any worse.
"Authors with bad ideas, the return of the 80's, I don't understand." she said.
It looked like Erhard's attempts at heroism were marginally interesting at best to these people. They obviously couldn't be bothered with anything he had to say. Sometimes he didn't know what the point was in trying.
"All will be explained, friends." pronounced Davis, which was a rather forward relational label given that none of the group knew anyone else's name.
A ball of light surrounded them and shrank in on itself until they all disappeared. That's when Brandon showed up (and died).
"If you don't mind I was here first, and as you can see the situation is dire. Now you've said your piece about the 80's, horrible decade, but we've got our own problems to deal with." said Erhard
"With all due respect sir, with a wardrobe like that, you look to be the least qualified to make any comments on what was or wasn't, is or isn't fashionable. The 80's had its short comings to be sure, but it's ready to make a comeback." said Davis
"OAUGHUEHHE" said Daly and Koopa.
Erhard snuck a glance at his outfit, it was bright yellow and red, of course he knew that already, but he wasn't used to being insulted by strangers that materialised in brilliant flashes of light, he found it to be rather rude; All the more so, because his reclamation of the proverbial talking stick was so short lived, he'd been disarmed by the cocky guest almost immediately. He tried again" "Who said anything about fashion?" was all he could come up with. After that he thought of a million other things that would have been a hundred times wittier.
Melanie was about to make a psychological breakthrough and disencumber a portion of her inner child before these two strange men appeared on the scene, although they were no less strange than the man she was already dealing with, perhaps they leaned a little closer to normality than this ever-groaning zombie guy and for that she was resentfully grateful. Here she was getting bailed out again, same old Mel. Between these freaks, the redundant, overly abundant frogs; and the worst date of her life (the only date), she couldn't see how an invasion from the eighties could make things any worse.
"Authors with bad ideas, the return of the 80's, I don't understand." she said.
It looked like Erhard's attempts at heroism were marginally interesting at best to these people. They obviously couldn't be bothered with anything he had to say. Sometimes he didn't know what the point was in trying.
"All will be explained, friends." pronounced Davis, which was a rather forward relational label given that none of the group knew anyone else's name.
A ball of light surrounded them and shrank in on itself until they all disappeared. That's when Brandon showed up (and died).
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
The Fundamentals of my procrastination are still strong
"We don't tell ourselves, 'I'm never going to write my symphony.' Instead we say,'I'm going to write my symphony; I'm just going to write it tomorrow.'" -- Steven Pressfield.
I tell myself this all the time. Oh, is it tomorrow already I meant um, how bout that weather eh? I talk a good game, but when it comes to delivering, performance anxiety somehow keeps showing up uninvited. I've really got to start taking those pills. Well, it's nanowrimo time and what better time to break bad habits than an arbitrarily designated international writing month. The average misery of the general populace must explode around this time of year. But it's all for a good cause and as I was saying why not follow the herd this time around if the herd is worth following and deliver on my word, deliver some words, do something unbelievably crazy. I feel fate pushing me forward. My time has come.
It's not easy staring Destiny in the face, she's got a sexy name, but don't be fooled she's one ugly demanding bitch. The journey so far has been characterized by fits and false starts, not to mention woefully low word counts, but every day the count gets a little better and I almost feel confident about calling off my long term relationship with Procrastination. I don't know where she got that name from, but I don't really care the attraction I feel toward her is intoxicating and the best part is she lets me do pretty much whatever the hell I want.
So at this point I can't get too complacent, my natural inclination is to do nothing. But not this time, mother *&%*^##@, it's time to stand and deliver. We bringing this baby home boys and girls.
Destiny awaits, in all her monstrous glory.
I tell myself this all the time. Oh, is it tomorrow already I meant um, how bout that weather eh? I talk a good game, but when it comes to delivering, performance anxiety somehow keeps showing up uninvited. I've really got to start taking those pills. Well, it's nanowrimo time and what better time to break bad habits than an arbitrarily designated international writing month. The average misery of the general populace must explode around this time of year. But it's all for a good cause and as I was saying why not follow the herd this time around if the herd is worth following and deliver on my word, deliver some words, do something unbelievably crazy. I feel fate pushing me forward. My time has come.
It's not easy staring Destiny in the face, she's got a sexy name, but don't be fooled she's one ugly demanding bitch. The journey so far has been characterized by fits and false starts, not to mention woefully low word counts, but every day the count gets a little better and I almost feel confident about calling off my long term relationship with Procrastination. I don't know where she got that name from, but I don't really care the attraction I feel toward her is intoxicating and the best part is she lets me do pretty much whatever the hell I want.
So at this point I can't get too complacent, my natural inclination is to do nothing. But not this time, mother *&%*^##@, it's time to stand and deliver. We bringing this baby home boys and girls.
Destiny awaits, in all her monstrous glory.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
ON GYMING IT UP an essay in many parts #1
while I was at University I wrote many essays , it's comforting to know that this type of important work is going on in academia...
“Lack of activity destroys the good condition of every human being, while movement and methodical physical exercise saves it and preserves it.” -- Plato[1]
The modern male is a complex entity. This essay will peer into one of the great developments of the late 20th and early 21st century, in regards to masculinity: that most manly of institutions, sometimes referred to as a health club, but better known as a gym. In these pockets of society – some dingy and dungeon like, others polished with the sheen of corporate culture – you will find matrices dedicated to the development of the perfect male form[2]. The dual sites under investigation are the gym and man (women not included, sorry). We will investigate how men utilise gyms in an attempt to simulate a cultural ideal: the visual ideal of male perfection. First, we will examine how our modern concept of manliness originated by taking a brief detour through the Enlightenment. Secondly, Plato and Baudrillard will help us to tease out what an ideal social form is and how it is that we go about simulating one. Finally, (with the necessary theoretical ground work laid) we will step into a gym and observe in that context how the male body can be read as a text, which simulates the ideal form that society has constructed for it. Let’s begin to disentangle some of that complexity and see if we can’t make some sense of these manly pursuits.
break parallel back squat 60*5,100*5,120*5,130/2*5
power clean 60*5,80*5,90*5
inc press 70*10
chins (n-grip) 97*10
volume:
[1] http://www.quotegarden.com/exercise.html
[2] The same can be said for the female form but due to space constraints this essay will limit itself to the question of masculinity.
“Lack of activity destroys the good condition of every human being, while movement and methodical physical exercise saves it and preserves it.” -- Plato[1]
The modern male is a complex entity. This essay will peer into one of the great developments of the late 20th and early 21st century, in regards to masculinity: that most manly of institutions, sometimes referred to as a health club, but better known as a gym. In these pockets of society – some dingy and dungeon like, others polished with the sheen of corporate culture – you will find matrices dedicated to the development of the perfect male form[2]. The dual sites under investigation are the gym and man (women not included, sorry). We will investigate how men utilise gyms in an attempt to simulate a cultural ideal: the visual ideal of male perfection. First, we will examine how our modern concept of manliness originated by taking a brief detour through the Enlightenment. Secondly, Plato and Baudrillard will help us to tease out what an ideal social form is and how it is that we go about simulating one. Finally, (with the necessary theoretical ground work laid) we will step into a gym and observe in that context how the male body can be read as a text, which simulates the ideal form that society has constructed for it. Let’s begin to disentangle some of that complexity and see if we can’t make some sense of these manly pursuits.
break parallel back squat 60*5,100*5,120*5,130/2*5
power clean 60*5,80*5,90*5
inc press 70*10
chins (n-grip) 97*10
volume:
[1] http://www.quotegarden.com/exercise.html
[2] The same can be said for the female form but due to space constraints this essay will limit itself to the question of masculinity.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
82.
"This was a brutal experiment in random atom distribution." said Salvation.
"Indulging your venomous tirade is probably the worst thing I could do right now, but since we're not going anywhere, does it really matter how the atoms were distributed? One atom is as good as another. I'm sure this will retard your whining for at least, oh say about 2 seconds." said Mystery Mountain.
"A failed experiment..."
"Indulging your venomous tirade is probably the worst thing I could do right now, but since we're not going anywhere, does it really matter how the atoms were distributed? One atom is as good as another. I'm sure this will retard your whining for at least, oh say about 2 seconds." said Mystery Mountain.
"A failed experiment..."
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
hope prevails
Imagine a world where it takes 20 minutes to load Microsoft word document.
Welcome to my world...
He felt an internal vice slowly crushing his intestinal tract, sending distress signals to his extremities. Responding would incur a net cost of at least $2000. Consequently his primal rage would be realised in more peaceful ways. Specifically, a non-response appeared to be the only valid option, that or purchasing a boxing bag for the next laptop inspired mental melt down.
NaNoWriMo prodded his back like hooks attached to a large vehicle ready to be dragged in a vaudevillian freak display. It hurt for now, but once he overcame the initial inertia that's when the real pain would kick in.
A jump start was in order. Loren had heard of a secret cure to the condition that afflicted him. It was called work (and definitely dressed in overalls).
There had to be other possibilities. Where to seek inspiration though? Then he remembered what people in the Olympics do when they want a little extra juice in the tank. Remember the expression "this baby runs like Ben Johnson on steroids." Loren immediately began searching through his magic bag (which he'd stolen from Sport Billy). Just when he was about to give up he pricked his finger on a syringe of hypergraphia. He strapped up and got ready for a heavy dose, but as he gazed at the disturbingly large vain protruding from his arm he heard something in the distance, it sounded like hope.
He plodded slowly out into the living area. Barack Obama was just elected President of the United States of America.
A number of soundbites replayed in Loren's mind
"It doesn't matter what happens to me now, I've been to the mountain top." "Let freedom ring", "From coast to coast, from sea to shining sea", "yes, we shall overcome". "YES WE CAN."
Loren dropped the syringe, he didn't need synthetics, if he wanted it badly enough he could self- generate his own compulsive writing disorder. The world just changed, so did he.
Welcome to my world...
He felt an internal vice slowly crushing his intestinal tract, sending distress signals to his extremities. Responding would incur a net cost of at least $2000. Consequently his primal rage would be realised in more peaceful ways. Specifically, a non-response appeared to be the only valid option, that or purchasing a boxing bag for the next laptop inspired mental melt down.
NaNoWriMo prodded his back like hooks attached to a large vehicle ready to be dragged in a vaudevillian freak display. It hurt for now, but once he overcame the initial inertia that's when the real pain would kick in.
A jump start was in order. Loren had heard of a secret cure to the condition that afflicted him. It was called work (and definitely dressed in overalls).
There had to be other possibilities. Where to seek inspiration though? Then he remembered what people in the Olympics do when they want a little extra juice in the tank. Remember the expression "this baby runs like Ben Johnson on steroids." Loren immediately began searching through his magic bag (which he'd stolen from Sport Billy). Just when he was about to give up he pricked his finger on a syringe of hypergraphia. He strapped up and got ready for a heavy dose, but as he gazed at the disturbingly large vain protruding from his arm he heard something in the distance, it sounded like hope.
He plodded slowly out into the living area. Barack Obama was just elected President of the United States of America.
A number of soundbites replayed in Loren's mind
"It doesn't matter what happens to me now, I've been to the mountain top." "Let freedom ring", "From coast to coast, from sea to shining sea", "yes, we shall overcome". "YES WE CAN."
Loren dropped the syringe, he didn't need synthetics, if he wanted it badly enough he could self- generate his own compulsive writing disorder. The world just changed, so did he.
Monday, November 3, 2008
81.
If you go back far enough everything is the same thing. ACTGACT knew this well. He came from a long string of similarly coded lines. of course it didn't really matter what he knew or even what he thought the preservation of the whole was the important thing. Mutations would come and go, there had been untold numbers of variant strains, and variation had been tolerated until now.
Base chemicals that came together to form the building blocks of life were a rarity in the universe, but the probability of there continued existence had become less and less stable in the past few years. ACTGACT sat barely listening to the proposed plan by one of the monkey double helix's, he wasn't convinced that this conference could achieve anything concrete. The human DNA and all others barely even communicated anymore. All he wanted to do was his job, and then do whatever happens when he stopped working. Maybe when he moved onto the next phase of being things would go back to being the same again.
Base chemicals that came together to form the building blocks of life were a rarity in the universe, but the probability of there continued existence had become less and less stable in the past few years. ACTGACT sat barely listening to the proposed plan by one of the monkey double helix's, he wasn't convinced that this conference could achieve anything concrete. The human DNA and all others barely even communicated anymore. All he wanted to do was his job, and then do whatever happens when he stopped working. Maybe when he moved onto the next phase of being things would go back to being the same again.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
The Real Jesus
One of the great inadequacies of my personal spiritual experience is the inability to imagine the difficulty of a God having difficulty with the human experience. Jesus was half man, half amazing (or God if you prefer), of course he was going to be better equipped than us at deflecting temptation and enacting all things righteous. It was all part of the plan, as they say. Yet in my attempts to humanize the being whom I've accepted as my deity (with the desire to better understand him) I can't say that I have been inordinately successful nor hopelessly disappointed. Jesus was how he was, I am that I am, what manner man ought I to be? Like him. I can only process this in momentary fragments of insight that seem underwhelming on reflection, mainly because they seem to do an injustice to subject under consideration. Take for instance, when I play rugby league and receive for my troubles an exceptionally hard tackle, which momentarily disables my entire person. My immediate thought upon regaining consciousness would be to retaliate in kind (or worse), which I'm guessing is a result of my humanness. Jesus on the other hand would, first of all would not be playing a violent contact sport and if tackled under any circumstance would no doubt be puzzled, yet willfully tolerant of the offender. This is truly amazing to me, and not in some incredulous way, but in a truly wondrous manner. To reward aggression with mercy rather than retaliation is doable once or twice or even for the very best of us several times, but to do it consistently, without fail, always seems to reside, for me, in the realms of the almost unbelievable. It was not fantasy though, it was Jesus, he provided a better way than where our natural inclinations would normally lead. I don't fully understand it, but I'm grateful for it.
late entry
This work out actually happened yesterday, but I'm logging it today, somehow I'm slipping. In other news my special NaNoWriMo production sits at a formidible 832 words. Somebody stop me.
bench: 40/2*30;20
chins: 98/4*6
inc bench: 60*4,5
hammer row: 100/2*7
seated row: 77/2*8
volume:
bench: 40/2*30;20
chins: 98/4*6
inc bench: 60*4,5
hammer row: 100/2*7
seated row: 77/2*8
volume:
Saturday, November 1, 2008
It Begins
A pinch and a punch for the first of the month, white rabbits no returns. It's November, which means a whole lot of guys are going to grow moustaches and wanna be writers everywhere are going to kill themselves trying to spew out 2000 words a day. It's NaNoWriMo time. Can we do it? I think Obama holds answer...
Obama/Biden 08
Obama/Biden 08
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