any given sunday

Here I am trying to do the best I can with what I have, the raw materials at my disposal are flirting with their used by dates, but there's still a little time left. Very little. I can't help but feel things would have worked out more favourably than they have now if I had only started a little earlier. There's probably a good reason for this.

Maybe Indiana Jones can make me feel better, "it's not the years honey, it's the mileage", I guess, or something, so all is not lost. Not much wear and tear here, not until the season started anyway. After the last two games I've managed to convince my knees that I've been playing on concrete rather than grass, my left shoulder feels like it's hanging on by a single tendon, and at least once per game I feel like I've been knocked out. Feeling like your knocked out and actually being knocked out are probably as close to being the same animal as wining and almost winning, still black misty impaired vision occasionally accompanied by stars, making me feel like I've teleported to a different time zone (we play mostly during the day), are close enough to the real thing to fill me with healthy sense of unease.

Multiple near concussions aren't the best way to spend your Sundays. I used to go to church instead. I am currently in violation of the sabbath. I've considered pulling a Steve Young, implementing my own version of the sacred day, Monday sounds good this week or possibly Wednesday, I'm just not sure my ecclesiastical leaders will approve (I don't make enough money). Should I use what remains of my talent for running over the top of people before it fully expires or should I cut and run and pay homage to my possible creator, on the biblically designated appropriate day, leaving my taste for preternatural violence to other equally barbaric humans? I think we all know the answer to this question. God you understand, right?

What's that? No reply? Very well then. Christian Bale has given the big screen so many wonderful gifts, let me count the ways: full frontal nudity as a serial killer, his turn as a poster child for anorexia, as a brooding saviour of humanity with that fondly irritating lispy-wannabe-Clint-Eastwood-JC-voice, and let's not forget as a brooding vigilante with that fondly irritating lispy-wannabe-Clint-Eastwood-bat-voice. Somehow The Dark Knight was still good. With that wonderfully tuned instrument he delivered the immortal line quoting Katy Holmes before him"It's not who you are underneath, it's what you do that defines you." Is this ever more true than in the world of men? Some say I'm a misogynist, but they've got it all wrong I'm actually a misanthropist, I make a point to not interact with any of my team mates unless absolutely necessary. I strongly believe in equal opportunity discrimination. As of late, although working through a protracted drought of tries (aka touch downs), what I've been doing is just running rough shod over the competition. It's amazing how people start kissing your bum when they see what you can do.

This is a different kind of religious experience, paint me gold and call me Baal. Like I said I should have started this a lot sooner.

(just kidding, kind of)

zen mind crazy mind

This is madness. This is not Sparta. This is me perpetrating a pale imitation. That's OK though, the Spartans were gay. That's OK too. I'm not gay which is also OK. You get the idea. Doesn't political correctness make you sick? We've taken a wonderful ideal and through the sophistry of social engineering we've wrought a twisted bastardized version of what we always wanted. Isn't life grand?

I feel compelled to qualify every sentence I utter, which in many instances require their own qualification. Where's my luckdragon, it's the Neverending Story all over again. That's OK, it's all OK. During my infinite regress or recursive reflection depending on what way I feel like defining the quandary of my daydreaming, I reach maybe the third level down and I start loitering. There's far too much to take in here. I can almost hear Elton John singing.

Language is too beautiful not to use, I complain about having to explain everything, but deep down I want it to go on forever (The Elements of Style be damned! but only when I'm not using them). This blog can acurately be described as an incredibly prolonged argument with myself. I'm also in love with the passive voice and I am not ashamed. Writing this is a lot cheaper than seeing a therapist.

At present on the third level down when I start with Australia as a catalyst, things move quickly to rugby league. Which then morph roughly into how ridiculous this all is. Sure I just told you where my true love lies, but I also have a real fetish for absurdity, so I just can't help but feel immensely impressed with myself right now. I'm doing something that makes no sense and is about as likely to end in success as an atom exploding into a full blown universe. Hey, Pinocchio walked on water (or at least he could have being made of wood) and Jesus became a real boy (you know like he was like a God and then he magically became a fully fledged fetus, oh I'm qualifying again. Forget it). 

Sometimes strange things happen.  

P.S. This has nothing to do with anything except the most ridiculous buzzer beating 3 pointer since Robert Horry killed the Kings in 2002. LeBron's literal last second 3 yesterday will surely become the newest iconic shot in the NBAs pantheon of greats. I have a man crush on LeBron James. Shhh, don't tell anyone.

the logic of insanity

"Queenslander!" -- Billy Moore (look there he is >>)

 

Parochial insurgency and ardent jingoistic tribalism is (or are) one of the great challenges of our time. We draw imaginary borders around something and call it a nation-state or a city-state or any other arbitrarily constituted geopolitical epicentre; add ample portions of ideology to the mix, and similarly formed power-bases with diametrically opposed views, stir vigorously and wait patiently for the world to destroy itself. When people believe in something they'll go to any length, any circular argument, any hypothetical extrapolation , any anomalous counter-example, any act of terrorism,  any level of self-deception, to defend or perpetuate their personal prejudices. 

State of Origin is the grandest spectacle in rugby league. The best players from New South Wales and Queensland (states of Australia), each year, converge on whatever battle grounds the NRL sanctions for a 3 match contest of wits and nihilism where the object is nothing less than the complete annihilation of the opposition team. Off the field everyone's mates, on the field half of its population is trying to kill you. This is why we watch. Sport is our PC version of war.

In New Zealand (where I come from) the only showdown even comparably epic is The Bi-Annual Sheep Sheering Extravaganzapaloza. We have a small portal to the rest of the world by way of satellite TV, so when we're not transfixed by the externally imposed grooming habits of our ovine cousins we sometimes play make believe, just to experience how fun it is pretending to be someone else. As kiwi's (a cutesy nick-name for New Zealanders) none of us are from NSW or Queensland, but if you're a fan of rugby league you pick a side anyway. It's a lot more fun than looking at sheep.

This year I came to Australia to fulfill my life long dream of being paid to play a sport (life long, if I exercise a little revisionist history -- it's like when they interview people on Survivor who swear that they love 'the game' and have always wanted to be on the show, yet the show has only been around for half as long as they have -- I'm the prototypical slacker, I didn't really have any solid dreams for a significant portion of my early life). Mission accomplished. As long as I can retain my position in the senior squad I'll get a miniscule amount of cash each game. Hip, hip, hurray!

Are we feeding the worst parts of our human nature in indulging our desire for differentiation from 'the Other' by supporting these types of divisive contests, or is this a healthy form of release, satisfying unsavoury desires that when left to accumulate inevitably result in even more deplorable acts of violence down the line? This much I can tell you: Do you know why I came to the Gold Coast? Simply because I support Queensland. This was the incredibly rigorous thought process that ultimately directed my actions. I mean who can forget Billy Moore, in '95 walking down the players tunnel to the field ready for the final and deciding game of the series, screaming psychotically "Queenslander!" over and over again. That kind of irrational devotion captured my imagination. It was the tipping point. Am I crazy? Examining the evidence, I can only conclude: Yes. 

notes: 

• correct, I don't know what half the words in this post mean.
  
• State of Origin begins on 03 June 2009
• non-sequiturs are the glue that joins my paragraphs together

the end of an era

Yes it's true, I'm afraid to say. I'm too busy to maintain heaps and heaps of blogs, so with great sadness I bid a fond farewell to iLoren. You we're always there for me you little ripper. On to bigger and better things then eh. Everything that would have been posted there will now be here yada yada yada. I will still document the unlikely tale of my journey from ignoble slumdog wretch to impossibly fantastic geriatric league guy, until I change my mind and decide to do something else again.

guess what's back? The ever-lovable work out log, for your reading pleasure:

we're in season, it's maintenance time
front squat 100*5
a2g back squat 120*3,2
hang clean 60*5
clean 60*7,70*2 trickier than it looks, and it looks pretty dang tricky

Bonus league update
I curse the heavens. I didn't score again. In other news we won 38-10 against Burleigh. Hurrah.

the time is nigh at hand

My younger years included little in the way of physical activity (or any other type of activity for that matter). I was born under a small bridge in the south of Auckland and my parents tell me that I'm at least half troll. Do you have any idea what kind of impact that type of lineage has on a youngster? For a significant portion of my life I was forced into hiding as to conceal my monstrous awesomeness from the rest of humanity. Moving around during the day proved difficult as direct sunlight had the unfortunate of effect of transforming me into stone. Damn that hole in the ozone layer. During the day if I needed to venture out of the house in order to procure appropriate sized morsels of sustenance, I was forced to wear a long coat and hat similar to that of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles of the early nineties, except that I was a child and the only thing retailers stocked in my size were those shiny yellow plastic raincoats (with hat). Looking back it was a regrettable fashion choice, but these items helped protect my delicate skin from the suns harmful rays. I owe them a huge debt of gratitude. I could go on, but suffice it to say that my mobility was limited (troll anatomy takes a lot of getting used to), my will blase, and my surroundings unhelpful for my over all physical development.

As it was I eventually grew up. My aversion or more correctly my extreme allergic reaction to sunlight faded. My night prowls for the dead carcasses of creatures, which shall remain unnamed here, payed off in the form of extreme physical prowess, a recently developed habit of lifting large metal objects could have also been a contributing factor. So, I decided it was time to unleash the beast for good, but not here in New Zealand, a troll is never accepted in his own country, except by unscrupulous means. I'll conduct an experiment in Australia with myself as the test subject: playing rugby league in the number one rugby league nation on the planet (NZ's world cup victory notwithstanding). The most difficult thing will be that I may have to start up another blog (again) to cover it. I'm not so sure how successful a blog that covers randomly assorted topics (as this one is presently constituted) can be numbers wise. Going niche seems to be the way of the world now days. People who are interested in writing are probably uninterested in my sporting pursuits. Then again this is my blog and the content is up to me. People may not care what I did for my last workout, but here it is anyway (hey, I warned you I was half-troll):

OHP 50/3*8
Chins me/3*8
Power snatch 60/10*1
front squat 60/2*10

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

A Special Announcement

The world cup of rugby league begins today. This is marginally considered news in about three places on earth. As a leaguey I have great difficulty in comprehending how Rugby Union has such a tight strangle hold on the worlds-number-one-contact-sport-played-with-an-oval-ball spot. I really do. After all league is more barbaric and therefore more prone, in theory, at least to appeal to our residual brutish caveman instincts. Granted every imaginable form of cheap shot goes on within a rugby ruck, I have been the recipent of friendly uppercuts, well-meaning eye gouges and "sorry I thought your sternum was a trampoline" chest stomps, and that was all in one game, so union does have its own petty violence to bring to the table. But like so many things at the breakdown it's not clear what's going on, the camera is obscured, the refs view also, usually resulting in some inconsistant interpretaion of the rules at best or an incomprehsible gaf at a more frequent rate than you'd like. This is where my attraction to league begins to take hold, it's beautiful in its savage simplicity. You get six tackles to score or get smashed, then you kick the ball away and give the opposition the same oppurtunity. There are a few complex rules, the boundaries and goals are well defined. It's gladitorial and by definition insane, but that's part of the attraction. I'll never forget the rush of the first time, fearing for my life, recieving the ball and being encouraged by my team mates to run it straight as I was pulverised by 5 guys from the other side. You just can't beat that kamakzee moment of self-actualization, believe me you've got to try this sometime. I have a simple equation big hits=better entertainment, and there's no doubt that league trumps union and any other sport in this regard the great majority of the time. It's simple physics really, in league there's 10 meters of space to bulid up momentum to get pummled and in union there's maybe 3 or 4, of course with all the extra space leagues going to produce some absolute knock out hits, you've gotta love it. So, in the end it comes down to the usual macho posturing that you'd expect league is harder so league players must be tougher, I'm a league player, so I must be tough. Aristotle would have been proud.

And now for the special announcement: I'm moving to Aussie next year to play league at the grass roots level, just for fun. Wish me luck.

a to g back squat: 20*40,30*40,40*40
hang snatch: 60*3 (back gave out, called it a day)

volume: 3780kgs