I was reading yesterday a little piece written by a woman with bipolar disorder. I think her point was something about her condition being invisible to the average citizen, but I found myself thinking I didn't regard her as disabled, but over-abled. Wider emotional repertoire. Greater mental range. More flexible brain. Psychologically double-jointed. 0-100 and back again in less than one second. Can - and does - go anywhere. The chief problem is that it threatens all those other people who are stuck with being normal. And granted, it can be difficult to harness. But I still reckon bipolar people are easy to sell.
Reminds me that it's now some years since I dated anyone who could genuinely be classed as mentally ill. No wonder I feel like I'm getting stale.
Tuesday, 31 July 2007
Saturday, 28 July 2007
It was bound to happen sooner or later
And now it's been done.
Unsurprisingly, it works, although I'm guessing the contemporary Qawwali masters have already amended their Wills.
Unsurprisingly, it works, although I'm guessing the contemporary Qawwali masters have already amended their Wills.
Just when you think you can get through a week without learning anything...
...along comes cornstarch.
What this has to do with North African remixes is something only a search engine would know.
What this has to do with North African remixes is something only a search engine would know.
Wednesday, 25 July 2007
A spot of freefall wouldn't go astray
Nothing wrong with me right now that being dropped from a considerable height couldn't fix.
Friday, 20 July 2007
Tuesday, 17 July 2007
For Make Benefit Glorious Race of Tour de France
When you stay up too late watching television you start to see very strange things. Such as this fellow, who has apparently just won his triathlon.
Saturday, 14 July 2007
Ms Shared Skitless: the debriefing
It now seems safe to conclude that Ms Shared Skitless has indeed imploded. Knowing her sense of timing, if she ever contacts me again she'll wait until I've forgotten her name (not the one I gave her, the one her parents did). This could be as soon as the week after next. In times gone by I might have got myself in a knot about feeling like I understood a day too late, but these days I'm just happy to feel like I understood at all. For every ounce of promise there was a pound of confusion, and while clearly a giving person, she was too paralysed by fear to actually give. There's nothing to miss.
Friday, 13 July 2007
Down the hole
"I GUARANTEE You’ll Lengthen your Drive and Cut your Handicap by 7-12 Strokes in Just Two weeks."
I got so excited. I read the endorsements ("What a difference it has made in my swing"); I marvelled at the exactness of the science. I pulled out my credit card. And then I realised they were just selling better ways to ruin a perfectly good walk. Talk about an anti-climax.
I got so excited. I read the endorsements ("What a difference it has made in my swing"); I marvelled at the exactness of the science. I pulled out my credit card. And then I realised they were just selling better ways to ruin a perfectly good walk. Talk about an anti-climax.
Wednesday, 11 July 2007
Fudge
I received a phone message from The World's Biggest Mining Town today, where a group of friends and former colleagues is locked in a room trying to solve The World's Second-Biggest Mining Problem (The World's First-Biggest Mining Problem being that too many people think they would only be happier if they had more stuff). Nothing unusual about this - every few months someone calls to ask me if I am ready to resume having no life in return for the satisfaction of being recognised as one of the select few who failed to solve The World's Second-Biggest Mining Problem (as if it wasn't already on my CV). This is usually a very short conversation.
This time I knew it wasn't one of those calls. The tone of voice was grave, the message curt. This could only mean one thing. Sure enough, I rang back, and was immediately asked for one of my old fudge recipes. I'm sure you know those little treats that mathematicians bring to work folded in aluminium foil, which they furtively unwrap and feed into the computer when they think no one's looking. I have something of a reputation for making fudge serve as a substitute for a proper meal. I don't know what is the mathematical equivalent of diabetes, but I do know that I am at high risk.
This was one of my old bosses talking. He's always a bit cagey when he talks to me, because he thinks I'm twice as good at his job as he is and could render him unemployed. This seems strange to me, because I can't even comprehend half of what he does. Plus there at least 57 other things I can think of in life that I'd rather do than his job. And anyway, my conscience would never let me to put him on the street where he'd have nowhere to plug in his plasma-screen TV. But the cageyness is infectious, so when I do anything for him I find it harder to think. So instead of helping him with his problem I'm just sitting here blogging about it. My head hurts.
This time I knew it wasn't one of those calls. The tone of voice was grave, the message curt. This could only mean one thing. Sure enough, I rang back, and was immediately asked for one of my old fudge recipes. I'm sure you know those little treats that mathematicians bring to work folded in aluminium foil, which they furtively unwrap and feed into the computer when they think no one's looking. I have something of a reputation for making fudge serve as a substitute for a proper meal. I don't know what is the mathematical equivalent of diabetes, but I do know that I am at high risk.
This was one of my old bosses talking. He's always a bit cagey when he talks to me, because he thinks I'm twice as good at his job as he is and could render him unemployed. This seems strange to me, because I can't even comprehend half of what he does. Plus there at least 57 other things I can think of in life that I'd rather do than his job. And anyway, my conscience would never let me to put him on the street where he'd have nowhere to plug in his plasma-screen TV. But the cageyness is infectious, so when I do anything for him I find it harder to think. So instead of helping him with his problem I'm just sitting here blogging about it. My head hurts.
Getting serious about road safety
It's about time we did something about the road toll. I've looked at the numbers and it's perfectly clear where the problem lies. While the death-rate for most road users has long been in decline, one group continues to crash the funeral party in unprecedented numbers - pedestrians.
Some apologists try to portray pedestrians as real human beings, as everyday members of society just going about their everyday business; in truth they are anything but. The people entrusted with optimising the quality of human interaction in our cities - traffic engineers - know that pedestrians are modern-day anarchists whose only objectives are to interrupt the free flow of testosterone on our streets, and to cripple the economy by making journeys without consuming resources or creating employment.
Unfortunately, while the social benefits of killing pedestrians are enjoyed by the entire motoring community, the costs are disproportionately borne by those individual drivers who take on the responsibility of making our roads safer. Drivers who kill pedestrians often have to swerve, and sometimes even brake and then accelerate back to speed, increasing brake and tyre wear, and consuming additional fuel. They suffer damage to their vehicles, necessitating time-consuming trips to the panel beater. Some of them even stop after the impact to telephone pedestrian disposal services, and while the telephone call is toll-free they may end up late for their hairdresser's appointment.
For their part, pedestrians remain defiant and insolent. Honestly, the way they carry on you'd think walking is something humans had been doing for millions of years. Or that driving a car wasn't a basic human right. They refuse to acknowledge the statistical proof that putting one foot in front of the other is an inherently dangerous activity that poses a grave threat to the productivity of the average hairdresser.
Fortunately, a socially-efficient solution is at hand. If pedestrians refuse to protect themselves then it is up to society to protect them from themselves. Henceforth all pedestrians will be required to travel within an armoured metal box designed to protect them from collisions with other road users. It is anticipated that for such a box to have sufficient strength it will weigh somewhere in the vicinity of 1,000kg (2,200lb). As such it will need to be supported upon wheels, and require a motor for propulsion. Pedestrians will be required to register their metal box with the authorities at nominal cost, and fuel for the box's motor will be taxed; these revenues will be used to offset the social costs of pedestrian activity. And then, you can be assured, our streets will be safer, and we will all be much better off.
Some apologists try to portray pedestrians as real human beings, as everyday members of society just going about their everyday business; in truth they are anything but. The people entrusted with optimising the quality of human interaction in our cities - traffic engineers - know that pedestrians are modern-day anarchists whose only objectives are to interrupt the free flow of testosterone on our streets, and to cripple the economy by making journeys without consuming resources or creating employment.
Unfortunately, while the social benefits of killing pedestrians are enjoyed by the entire motoring community, the costs are disproportionately borne by those individual drivers who take on the responsibility of making our roads safer. Drivers who kill pedestrians often have to swerve, and sometimes even brake and then accelerate back to speed, increasing brake and tyre wear, and consuming additional fuel. They suffer damage to their vehicles, necessitating time-consuming trips to the panel beater. Some of them even stop after the impact to telephone pedestrian disposal services, and while the telephone call is toll-free they may end up late for their hairdresser's appointment.
For their part, pedestrians remain defiant and insolent. Honestly, the way they carry on you'd think walking is something humans had been doing for millions of years. Or that driving a car wasn't a basic human right. They refuse to acknowledge the statistical proof that putting one foot in front of the other is an inherently dangerous activity that poses a grave threat to the productivity of the average hairdresser.
Fortunately, a socially-efficient solution is at hand. If pedestrians refuse to protect themselves then it is up to society to protect them from themselves. Henceforth all pedestrians will be required to travel within an armoured metal box designed to protect them from collisions with other road users. It is anticipated that for such a box to have sufficient strength it will weigh somewhere in the vicinity of 1,000kg (2,200lb). As such it will need to be supported upon wheels, and require a motor for propulsion. Pedestrians will be required to register their metal box with the authorities at nominal cost, and fuel for the box's motor will be taxed; these revenues will be used to offset the social costs of pedestrian activity. And then, you can be assured, our streets will be safer, and we will all be much better off.
Miss Nomer
Ms Scared Witless. I got her name wrong. It's actually Ms Shared Skitless. Not that it matters, because I don't expect I'll be hearing from her again, which means you won't have to hear about her either. Apart from the inevitable coroner's report.
Tuesday, 10 July 2007
10 reasons to pluck a G-string (among others)
10 reasons why one should play the guitar
1. It sounds better than scraping one's fingers with sandpaper
2. You don't have to pay someone else $100 to tune it
3. It's the only instrument that makes you think you're better than you really are
4. You can scare people just by not covering your fingertips
5. It's not too heavy to carry on your own
6. You can play and sing at the same time
7. You always have a spare G-string on you
8. If you annoy people in playing it, it's too big to be shoved down your throat
9. If you carry one in public people come up to you and ask you to play for them
10. It can remind women of something else
10 reasons why one shouldn't play the guitar
1. It's about as useful as scraping one's fingers with sandpaper
2. You can never get the bloody thing in tune
3. It makes you think you're better than you really are
4. You scare people just by not covering your fingertips
5. No one will ever help you carry it
6. You can play and sing at the same time
7. Women are always disappointed when you show them your G-string
8. It has a convenient handle that vastly improves leverage when the body of the instrument is to be applied to the player's head
9. If you carry one in public only drunk people come up and talk to you
10. Women are only interested in what it reminds them of if you're giving them the impression that you'd be any good at it
1. It sounds better than scraping one's fingers with sandpaper
2. You don't have to pay someone else $100 to tune it
3. It's the only instrument that makes you think you're better than you really are
4. You can scare people just by not covering your fingertips
5. It's not too heavy to carry on your own
6. You can play and sing at the same time
7. You always have a spare G-string on you
8. If you annoy people in playing it, it's too big to be shoved down your throat
9. If you carry one in public people come up to you and ask you to play for them
10. It can remind women of something else
10 reasons why one shouldn't play the guitar
1. It's about as useful as scraping one's fingers with sandpaper
2. You can never get the bloody thing in tune
3. It makes you think you're better than you really are
4. You scare people just by not covering your fingertips
5. No one will ever help you carry it
6. You can play and sing at the same time
7. Women are always disappointed when you show them your G-string
8. It has a convenient handle that vastly improves leverage when the body of the instrument is to be applied to the player's head
9. If you carry one in public only drunk people come up and talk to you
10. Women are only interested in what it reminds them of if you're giving them the impression that you'd be any good at it
Single men face problems of biblical proportions
The chief difficulty of being a single man is still having all your ribs. It's nearly impossible to buy, off-the-shelf, a corset that fits properly.
Monday, 9 July 2007
Love and unconsciousness
My favourite discoveries are unquestionably the ones about how we unconsciously influence - and sometimes make inevitable - outcomes that we really don't want. I'm excited right now (flawed logic alert), but by the time you read this, you won't be.
At a very early stage Ms Scared Witless commented that she didn't think men were aware of what women were thinking/feeling/doing. At the time I took that to be a generalisation with exceptions, as one does, such as when I say "women hate generalisations". But after a month of going around in circles I'm starting to think that she has never seen an exception.
Now, to have not seen an exception, she must never have encountered one, or not recognised one when she encountered it. Personally, I find it hard to believe that she has never encountered one, especially as she would be a person of interest to any such man. For she is considerate of what men are thinking/feeling/doing. I have labelled her A Good Woman.
At this juncture I could pursue some tangent about a sensitive considerate person being most compatible with an insensitive inconsiderate one, but I won't.
So it seems that she has never recognised a man for having any awareness of women. I'd have thought this was difficult to sustain through a couple of decades of adult life, but after a month of going around in circles I think I can see how she's achieved it.
Somewhere along the way she's concluded that men can't read signs. Whether this was her conditioning, early experiences, or the fact that 90+% of us can't read signs, I don't know. But once she's reached that conclusion, she's taken hers down and sacked the signwriter.
We now have a woman who offers men few indications as to what she wants. Her body language is occasionally warm but always sends conflicting messages, she disappears from contact for up to a week at a time without notice or explanation, and she rarely says anything that gives a man the slightest chance of knowing what she'd like him to do. And, because her name is Ms Scared Witless, if he does the wrong thing she goes into a tailspin.
So what's a man to do? Well, if he's the kind of chap who's used to reading the signs and doesn't do anything without an invitation, he soon realises that he's in an impossible situation, and bounces off. If he doesn't need an invitation, well, he's got himself A Good Woman, and there's no sense letting one of those get away without a fight.
I can't wait to discuss this with her. Except that she's disappeared from contact without notice or explanation.
At a very early stage Ms Scared Witless commented that she didn't think men were aware of what women were thinking/feeling/doing. At the time I took that to be a generalisation with exceptions, as one does, such as when I say "women hate generalisations". But after a month of going around in circles I'm starting to think that she has never seen an exception.
Now, to have not seen an exception, she must never have encountered one, or not recognised one when she encountered it. Personally, I find it hard to believe that she has never encountered one, especially as she would be a person of interest to any such man. For she is considerate of what men are thinking/feeling/doing. I have labelled her A Good Woman.
At this juncture I could pursue some tangent about a sensitive considerate person being most compatible with an insensitive inconsiderate one, but I won't.
So it seems that she has never recognised a man for having any awareness of women. I'd have thought this was difficult to sustain through a couple of decades of adult life, but after a month of going around in circles I think I can see how she's achieved it.
Somewhere along the way she's concluded that men can't read signs. Whether this was her conditioning, early experiences, or the fact that 90+% of us can't read signs, I don't know. But once she's reached that conclusion, she's taken hers down and sacked the signwriter.
We now have a woman who offers men few indications as to what she wants. Her body language is occasionally warm but always sends conflicting messages, she disappears from contact for up to a week at a time without notice or explanation, and she rarely says anything that gives a man the slightest chance of knowing what she'd like him to do. And, because her name is Ms Scared Witless, if he does the wrong thing she goes into a tailspin.
So what's a man to do? Well, if he's the kind of chap who's used to reading the signs and doesn't do anything without an invitation, he soon realises that he's in an impossible situation, and bounces off. If he doesn't need an invitation, well, he's got himself A Good Woman, and there's no sense letting one of those get away without a fight.
I can't wait to discuss this with her. Except that she's disappeared from contact without notice or explanation.
Sunday, 8 July 2007
The Fado Paradoxes
By now some of you are probably thinking that I have some kind of unhealthy obsession with death, and I suppose I should reassure you. Firstly, my obsession with death is anything but unhealthy, and secondly, I do have other interests. For example, I'm also quite keen on booty music. This, in turn, is why I'm not terribly interested in theology. Allow me to explain.
There was a time when I ran with the Salvationists, but was no longer welcome after I failed to stifle a laugh when I saw how puny the Y-chromosome was. The Annihilists had a space in wide midfield so I signed with them. After a few years' careless research I stumbled upon a world without paradoxes, in which even the Salvationists made sense in their own paradoxical kind of way. Consider, for example, the Fado Paradoxes.
In the remote mountain caves of Portugal, far from the prying friars of the Vatican, there are two small factories. One makes 12-string guitars; the other produces women with voices that will lift an unsuspecting individual from the floor of a crowded room and smite them against the wall. When these two products come together they produce a sound known as, for want of a better word, Fado. So far, so good. But here's where the problems creep in.
Paradox #1: Fado is so beautiful that it was clearly created in God's image. Therefore we have an image of a God that is half woman, half guitar. While this is undoubtably a pleasing asthetic well suited to the creative aspects of the work, it's simply not masculine enough for projecting omnipotence and descending pestilences upon Egyptians and stuff, for which it's much better to present as a fit old white man who could use a shave. And who wears a bathrobe. Neither of these are made in remote mountain caves in Portugal, although I'm sure a few of them work there.
Paradox #2: if Fado can smite people, and comes from remote mountain caves in Portugal, it must be God. This means that the existence of God is proven, and its character is known. If this got out there'd be an awful lot of theologians out of work. (The preachers would be OK - they could get gigs as DJs and spruikers.)
Paradox #3: Fado is a joke if you can understand the lyrics. If you cannot comprehend Portuguese you would think these women had watched as their entire families perished in civil war; if you can you just hear them crap on about going next door to borrow a cup of sugar, but no one was home. Therefore no one who speaks Portuguese can be Saved, in spite of the fact that most Portuguese-speakers worship both the guy in the bathrobe and any woman built remotely like a guitar. One should never learn Portuguese for this reason.
So you begin to understand why in millennia of theological writings, none has mentioned Fado. It's all too much of a threat. So I must take up where they didn't, and explain how Fado also offers us insight into what heaven must be like.
Clearly, if heaven exists, it contains 12-string guitars and women singing unintelligibly in Portuguese. Therefore, we can conclude that in heaven, no one speaks Portuguese (except of course the Fado singers, but we've already established that they're God anyway, and I suppose they need their own private language so they can keep the saints in dark about all the stuff those sinners got up to).
Now, you can take it from me that heaven also contains drum kits, electric basses, stage pianos, some wicked woodwinds, and women singing unintelligibly in Middle Eastern scales. And that all of these are not necessarily heard at once. Therefore heaven either has several rooms featuring adequate soundproofing, is extensive enough that all of these genres can be played simultaneously without interfering with one another, or is subject to different laws of physics to the rest of the universe. (Contentions that heaven is simply beautifully scheduled or that all new arrivals are issued with an iPod included in their registration fee are not upheld - in heaven the music is on-demand and live.)
Continuing with this argument, we see that the last of these is the case. We have all seen those pictures of angels playing harps on clouds. Now, I don't have to tell you that harps are heavy, and the ones they have in heaven, fitted as they are with electric coil pickups and multiple effects pedals, are even heavier. No earthly cloud is going to support one of these babies. Therefore water vapour has a far higher density in heaven than it does on earth. Which leads us to our final conclusion: if you're in heaven, and it's raining, don't go outside.
There was a time when I ran with the Salvationists, but was no longer welcome after I failed to stifle a laugh when I saw how puny the Y-chromosome was. The Annihilists had a space in wide midfield so I signed with them. After a few years' careless research I stumbled upon a world without paradoxes, in which even the Salvationists made sense in their own paradoxical kind of way. Consider, for example, the Fado Paradoxes.
In the remote mountain caves of Portugal, far from the prying friars of the Vatican, there are two small factories. One makes 12-string guitars; the other produces women with voices that will lift an unsuspecting individual from the floor of a crowded room and smite them against the wall. When these two products come together they produce a sound known as, for want of a better word, Fado. So far, so good. But here's where the problems creep in.
Paradox #1: Fado is so beautiful that it was clearly created in God's image. Therefore we have an image of a God that is half woman, half guitar. While this is undoubtably a pleasing asthetic well suited to the creative aspects of the work, it's simply not masculine enough for projecting omnipotence and descending pestilences upon Egyptians and stuff, for which it's much better to present as a fit old white man who could use a shave. And who wears a bathrobe. Neither of these are made in remote mountain caves in Portugal, although I'm sure a few of them work there.
Paradox #2: if Fado can smite people, and comes from remote mountain caves in Portugal, it must be God. This means that the existence of God is proven, and its character is known. If this got out there'd be an awful lot of theologians out of work. (The preachers would be OK - they could get gigs as DJs and spruikers.)
Paradox #3: Fado is a joke if you can understand the lyrics. If you cannot comprehend Portuguese you would think these women had watched as their entire families perished in civil war; if you can you just hear them crap on about going next door to borrow a cup of sugar, but no one was home. Therefore no one who speaks Portuguese can be Saved, in spite of the fact that most Portuguese-speakers worship both the guy in the bathrobe and any woman built remotely like a guitar. One should never learn Portuguese for this reason.
So you begin to understand why in millennia of theological writings, none has mentioned Fado. It's all too much of a threat. So I must take up where they didn't, and explain how Fado also offers us insight into what heaven must be like.
Clearly, if heaven exists, it contains 12-string guitars and women singing unintelligibly in Portuguese. Therefore, we can conclude that in heaven, no one speaks Portuguese (except of course the Fado singers, but we've already established that they're God anyway, and I suppose they need their own private language so they can keep the saints in dark about all the stuff those sinners got up to).
Now, you can take it from me that heaven also contains drum kits, electric basses, stage pianos, some wicked woodwinds, and women singing unintelligibly in Middle Eastern scales. And that all of these are not necessarily heard at once. Therefore heaven either has several rooms featuring adequate soundproofing, is extensive enough that all of these genres can be played simultaneously without interfering with one another, or is subject to different laws of physics to the rest of the universe. (Contentions that heaven is simply beautifully scheduled or that all new arrivals are issued with an iPod included in their registration fee are not upheld - in heaven the music is on-demand and live.)
Continuing with this argument, we see that the last of these is the case. We have all seen those pictures of angels playing harps on clouds. Now, I don't have to tell you that harps are heavy, and the ones they have in heaven, fitted as they are with electric coil pickups and multiple effects pedals, are even heavier. No earthly cloud is going to support one of these babies. Therefore water vapour has a far higher density in heaven than it does on earth. Which leads us to our final conclusion: if you're in heaven, and it's raining, don't go outside.
Friday, 6 July 2007
Love and nothing approaching clarification
Ms Scared Witless waited until the moment I assumed that she had shot through, then sent me a text message. She may not have revealed all of her commendable attributes, but it has to be said that her timing is one of them. The message itself was too indirect to have much impact, so - since she'd sat on a text and an email of mine - I decided to wait and see if anything followed. Today there's an email saying my last email confused her. That can't be right. Since when have I confused anyone?*
Meanwhile I have learned something (and since when has that happened?). Whenever I have initiated anything with this woman the best outcome I have achieved is confusion. When she's done the initiating we've got along fine. Hardly surprising for someone called Ms Scared Witless, I suppose. Last time she met she made the observation that most men weren't comfortable with women taking initiative (on which I, having spent most of my life in two of the most homophobic cultures on earth, have my opinions); from that it can be comfortably assumed that she is comfortable taking the initiative. So I've emailed her back and told her to do that. I'm sure that will only cause more confusion.
* yesterday, actually
Meanwhile I have learned something (and since when has that happened?). Whenever I have initiated anything with this woman the best outcome I have achieved is confusion. When she's done the initiating we've got along fine. Hardly surprising for someone called Ms Scared Witless, I suppose. Last time she met she made the observation that most men weren't comfortable with women taking initiative (on which I, having spent most of my life in two of the most homophobic cultures on earth, have my opinions); from that it can be comfortably assumed that she is comfortable taking the initiative. So I've emailed her back and told her to do that. I'm sure that will only cause more confusion.
* yesterday, actually
Thursday, 5 July 2007
Places I'd rather be
It's too long since I sat by the sea watching the pelicans land, and it didn't happen today either. So I'll listen to this instead. One day I'm going to put down this silly guitar and learn how to play the duduk. Then I might get invited to more parties.
Tuesday, 3 July 2007
Dates - the perfect laxative
If you're going to have every facet of your life transformed by Big Machines you may as well date one.
I can't remember what inspired me to join an internet dating site. I think I might have been shopping for a graphics card - no, wait, that was eBay. Ah, now I recall. There was that woman at work about 18 months ago. Sparks everywhere. We were developing into a serious fire hazard until we had lunch together. I've been scratching my head ever since. Anyway, I thought I saw her on this site and somehow figured it would make life less confusing if I got on there as well. It wasn't her.
But once on there it seemed like an opportunity, so I stuck with it. A key attraction was the ability, as a friend so eloquently put it, to "cut through the crap". But she was married, so what would she know? Another was the idea of "looking" without putting day-to-day energy into looking - if I directed that energy almost anywhere else I'd be fairly certain of having something to show for it, and absolutely certain that the world would be a better place for it.
There were, of course, potential problems. So many people might be lying that if you tell the truth no one will believe you anyway. Some people might be there because they are scared of contact with the opposite sex. They're there. Some might be there because they lack the social skills to conduct a relationship. They're there. Some might be there because they don't have a clue what they're doing. That was me.
I had forgotten something. I don't date. I just go along, and sometimes a woman comes along who I connect with. Sometimes something happens, sometimes it doesn't. But it has always happened naturally, and with as much honesty and openness as either was capable of at the time. This notion of searching for a person to fit a relationship, of meeting a stranger repeatedly in a spirit of blind optimism, trying to realise your intentions and protect yourself from their intentions at the same time, trying to impress them and protect yourself from them trying to impress you at the same time - who invented this? Why do so many people put so much energy into it? How can anyone believe that anything good could come of it?
I can't remember what inspired me to join an internet dating site. I think I might have been shopping for a graphics card - no, wait, that was eBay. Ah, now I recall. There was that woman at work about 18 months ago. Sparks everywhere. We were developing into a serious fire hazard until we had lunch together. I've been scratching my head ever since. Anyway, I thought I saw her on this site and somehow figured it would make life less confusing if I got on there as well. It wasn't her.
But once on there it seemed like an opportunity, so I stuck with it. A key attraction was the ability, as a friend so eloquently put it, to "cut through the crap". But she was married, so what would she know? Another was the idea of "looking" without putting day-to-day energy into looking - if I directed that energy almost anywhere else I'd be fairly certain of having something to show for it, and absolutely certain that the world would be a better place for it.
There were, of course, potential problems. So many people might be lying that if you tell the truth no one will believe you anyway. Some people might be there because they are scared of contact with the opposite sex. They're there. Some might be there because they lack the social skills to conduct a relationship. They're there. Some might be there because they don't have a clue what they're doing. That was me.
I had forgotten something. I don't date. I just go along, and sometimes a woman comes along who I connect with. Sometimes something happens, sometimes it doesn't. But it has always happened naturally, and with as much honesty and openness as either was capable of at the time. This notion of searching for a person to fit a relationship, of meeting a stranger repeatedly in a spirit of blind optimism, trying to realise your intentions and protect yourself from their intentions at the same time, trying to impress them and protect yourself from them trying to impress you at the same time - who invented this? Why do so many people put so much energy into it? How can anyone believe that anything good could come of it?
Sunday, 1 July 2007
Medical advice
Or in this case, advice to those general practitioners and specialists who either "treated" me or messed up my relatives and friends:
1. You are in the business of preventing deaths, not saving lives. There is a difference.
2. You spent a lot of time at university working on dead bodies. Then you've been expected to go out and work on living ones. There are some pretty surprising differences that I only found out about because you didn't.
3. Science is a rigorous process of learning from data, not a pulpit or a book of facts. Failing or refusing to collect data before reaching a conclusion is not science either, although it can still kill people.
4. When there is nothing intrinsically wrong with some part of the body, but it is not functioning correctly, there are two things you must do and two things you must not do. You must:
i. recognise that there is a problem, but that it is coming from somewhere else.
ii. investigate the problem or refer the patient to someone else, or both.
You must not:
i. shrug and do 5.
ii. interfere with healthy parts of the body having trouble enough compensating for whatever that problem is.
5. Telling a patient that there is nothing wrong with them, that they are "stressed", should see a psychiatrist, need some TLC, or just need to sit quietly and read a book are not effective treatments for genuine medical problems.
6. Most of your interventions, particularly surgery, are invasive and violent, and place patients at risk of complications that you were not trained to recognise. Conduct these interventions as a last resort (meaning that you first consult people who are trained to recognise these complications), and as sympathetically as possible.
7. If a patient is convinced that something isn't right, maybe something isn't right.
8. Yes, I know some of you are now dead yourselves, but your evidence has no bearing on my opinion.
1. You are in the business of preventing deaths, not saving lives. There is a difference.
2. You spent a lot of time at university working on dead bodies. Then you've been expected to go out and work on living ones. There are some pretty surprising differences that I only found out about because you didn't.
3. Science is a rigorous process of learning from data, not a pulpit or a book of facts. Failing or refusing to collect data before reaching a conclusion is not science either, although it can still kill people.
4. When there is nothing intrinsically wrong with some part of the body, but it is not functioning correctly, there are two things you must do and two things you must not do. You must:
i. recognise that there is a problem, but that it is coming from somewhere else.
ii. investigate the problem or refer the patient to someone else, or both.
You must not:
i. shrug and do 5.
ii. interfere with healthy parts of the body having trouble enough compensating for whatever that problem is.
5. Telling a patient that there is nothing wrong with them, that they are "stressed", should see a psychiatrist, need some TLC, or just need to sit quietly and read a book are not effective treatments for genuine medical problems.
6. Most of your interventions, particularly surgery, are invasive and violent, and place patients at risk of complications that you were not trained to recognise. Conduct these interventions as a last resort (meaning that you first consult people who are trained to recognise these complications), and as sympathetically as possible.
7. If a patient is convinced that something isn't right, maybe something isn't right.
8. Yes, I know some of you are now dead yourselves, but your evidence has no bearing on my opinion.
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