Whooops there goes a thousand kilowatt dam …

I have enjoyed James May's Toy Stories over the last few weeks on TV3. I found it strangely refreshing and psychologically uplifting.

I tried to think why. I think it was because it was all about building or constructing things slowly and meticulously. It was about creativity and getting lots of people involved in the creative enterprize.

It made a sweet change to the usual diet of humans and objects being shot and blow up in every direction.

But sadly the programme has finished.

And what will replace it on Mondays evenings and 7:30?

The programme is called Destroyed in Seconds! How ironic. It brings viewers "clip after clip of the most shocking destructions ever captured on film."

Think I'll go out and buy some leggo.

Down and down I go, round and round I go, caught in a spin ...

Sunday morning training. Racewalking. Feeling good. Feeling fast. Flying along Kilarney at a good 6 minute km pace. Passed some cars illegally parked on footpath.

Along past the firestation. Really flying now. Foot clips something on the ground.

There is that knowing moment. I am going down and there ain't nothing I can do but land well and break no bones.

Grazed knee, grazed hands, grazed elbow ... grazed shoulder  ... no broken bones.


Girl-with-water-bottle offers water for inital cleanup - so those bottles have some use afterall. Thanks Girl-with-water-bottle.

Limp a couple of km to A & E clinic. Arrived with bloody leg, bloody hands, bloody elbow, bloody shoulder. Get patched up and  tetanus shot. Limp home.

Flying high in April ... shot down in May.

When I find myself lying flat on my face ... I pick myself up and get back in the race .... that's life ...

Don't you know that you're my hero ...

Most Nu Zulundus have never heard of Jose Rizal.

To Filipinos, he is the quintesssential Filipino - "the pride of the Malay race".

The problem with the word "hero" is that it is thrown around with gay abandon these days. The result – any old celebrity can be referred to as a hero. So a football star becomes a sports hero. You get my drift.

Joseph Campbell, the great researcher into the place of myth in human culture and consciousness was a lot tougher with his conception of hero.

One writer suggests that according to Campbell, “a hero is any male or female who leaves the world of his or her everyday life to undergo a journey to a special world where challenges and fears are overcome in order to secure a reward (special knowledge, healing potion, etc.) which is then shared with other members of the hero’s community”.

Rizal fulfills this conception almost perfectly.

Born in 1863, Rizal recieved an excellent education in the Philippine captial, Manila. Reading Rizal's dairies, you get the sense of an intense, passionate and very emotional human being.

Apparently as a young kid he was inspired by the sight of a moth circling a candle flame and slowly and inexorably being drawn into its light and the death that awaited. It was a metaphor that remained with him through till his brief 35 years.

As a young man, Rizal, like many educated Filipinos, left Manila for further study in Spain.

He earned degrees and a doctorate in medicine - opthamology. He was a polyglot learning over ten languages including English. However, he was best known for his writing - and his two novels Noli me Tangere (the English version was originally called The Social Cancer) and El Filibusterismo. It is these novels that fundamentally make him a hero. In them, he took on the Spanish regime and in particular the corruption, despotism and vice that was rife among the Spanish frairs, priests and hierarchy in the Philippines.

And thus, when he eventually returned to the Philippines for second time, he knew what awaited him. A furious Spanish establishment had him first exiled, then jailed and finally executed by a firing squad on December 30, 1896.

But his books ignited in the Filipinos the desire for freedom and self goverment. The night before he died he wrote a poem dedicated to his beloved Philippines: Mi Ultimo Adios or my last farewell.

The opening lines begin:
Farewell, my adored Land, region of the sun caressed,
Pearl of the Orient Sea, our Eden lost,
With gladness I give you my Life, sad and repressed;
And were it more brilliant, more fresh and at its best,
I would still give it to you for your welfare at most.


A good website with resources on Jose Rizal

JRJRJRJRJRJRJRKRKRKJRJRJRJRJRJR

You've got to accentuate the positive, eliminate the negative and don't mess with Mr in-between

Negative numbers folks! Now for some that was a bit if a mathematical turn-off in days of yore back in the old school yard.

But of course we do need them when it is particularly cold. Put on a bathing costume (alright - togs in Nu Zulun) and test out the difference between 27 degrees (centigrade) and   -27 degrees.

Your account's in the red - again negative territory. "Heh Frankie boy you owe me $35". I like to rephrase that "No, you owe me $-35" sounds better eh?

Read a summary of a class I was about to teach yesterday.

Places taken                              38
Place available                         -13
Maximum Number                    25

Fascinating I thought as I searched for a bigger room, because -13 meant that I had 13 students too many for a 25 seat room.

25 -38 = -13
25 seats taken by 38 students leaves 13 students with no seat.

Remember musical chairs worked on this mathematical principle.

One less chair than the number of people prancing around to the tune!

X-1 chairs and X people

 X-1 - X = -1 (one person has got no chair!!!!)

And of course Mr In-Between is zero, nada, zilch, zip, naught, nil, nullity, nothing and very close to diddly squat and nearby to stuff all.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - Mr In-Between +++++++++++++++++++

Well I said shake rattle and roll ...

There are words for a vehicle of the quality I am about to describe - clanker, clunker, dunger, clapped-out, bomb, wreck, rattle-trap, dilapitated heap-of-junk.

It thundered up to the bus stop. We intending passengers peered at it intently - keen on establishing just what it was, and where it was going.

Then slowly we made it out - for there taped on the scratched windscreen was what looked like a hastily-scribbled-out note with the number of our bus on it  - 863 express.

It was a relic from, as they say folks, a bygone era. We boarded this travelling museum piece.
It was as dire on the inside with consequences. When it idled, it shook, rattled and vibrated with all the vitality of one of those so-called weight loss machines that supposedly reduce the quivering dimensions of a robust arse.

Well, it shook rattled and rolled us into the city. And I swear I lost 1 kg.

Thanks North Star for this trip back in time to experience a vehicle that would seldom even be found in a third world country.

But the whole thing is also a metaphor - the use of outdated methods or equipment for doing today's task.

The result again is a lot of shake, rattle, and roll and very little progress.

What's it all about alfie?

Algebra - now folks, there's word to send chills and shudders up and down many a spine, young and old alike!

For the old, there are distant shoddy memories of sitting in cold clammy classrooms doing endless meaningless manipulations of letters and numbers.

"Okay everyone, do exercise 7b ...  all the odd numbers!"

The answers to all the even numbers were in the back of the well worn, dog-eared, hulking-great text book.

For the young of today, sadly, the experience is not too dissimilar. Sadly, many teachers are ill-equipped to make the experience of algebra an exciting one.

The heart of algebra is recognising patterns, generalities.

The fish and chip shop up that there road.  Chips   $2.00      Fish    $3.00        Hamburger    $4.00

lets see now, I'll have  3 lots of chips.... aah  5 fish,  and  uuum ....  2 Hamburgers

Chinese attendant scribbles down on scrap of paper:
$2 x 3 + $3 x 5 + $4 x 2  = $29 thanks

Now this fish and chip shop worker has just done algebra whether he or she knows it or not.

The cost of chips times the number ordered, the cost of fish times the number, the cost of hamburgers times the number, all added up.

t = 2xc + 3xf  + 4xh  (usually written as t = 2c + 3f + 4h)
where t is total cost, c is the number of chips ordered, f is the number of fish, h is the number of hamburgers

Now what would you like?  7 chips, 10 fish, 20 hamburgers (you'll get fat on that lot I can tell you!)

Shut up and tell me the total cost!
t = 2x7 + 10x3 + 4x20
t = 124
So that'll be $124 please ....
Whaaat!

Now question: What does c mean?

A: chips

B: the number of chip (portions) ordered

Answer is B

Eeeh darn  .... we have just put up the price of hamburgers to $5 ... that will put cat among peeogins

heck as like ... simple

t = 2c + 3f + 5h

aaah
next please!!
aah well I'll have 1 chips, 1 piece of fish and 1 hamburger   (cheapstake!)

$10 please

When love comes in and takes you for a spin, Oo la la la, c'est magnifique.

Some so-called survey of language experts has said that the most romantic word in the world for love is the French amour.

One can't help but notice that all of the languages favoured in the survey are European, while the one disfavoured is Asian.

Now, dear gentle and patient reader, for crying out bl%dy loud, what kind of rabid Euorcentric crapola is this? It demonstrates that the spirit of the old colonial days is alive and well.

There are over 7000 languages in the world. Are these so-called experts on intimate terms with all of them?

This in fact is claim that no self respecting linguist would make. On what basis can you possible make the claim? It highlights of course to the critical thinker the different between opinion and fact.

I am a sociolinguist and understand, I hope the relativity of this sort of question. Having lived in the Philippines, I think, when it comes to love, words like pagibig and pagmamahal have a lot going for them.

But of course such words would not have registered on the so-called language experts radar screens.

No indeed, love can be said in many languages, and in each language for its speaker, it becomes the most romantic word for love in the world.

I'll stick with Bill and agree that "a rose by any other name would smell as sweet".

You put your left sock on, you put your right sock on ...

One thing often overlooked in discussions on running or race walking is the humble sock.

Now it is not often folks that I recommend things. But I wish to recommend a brand of socks.

The brand is Balega and they are without a doubt the best running sock I have had the pleasure to racewalk in. Here's a connection to their site.

The brand is made in South Africa. Of course they cost more than your cheaper makes. But, folks, the outlay is well worth it!

Here is a sock with comport and longevity. A pair will definitely outlast a pair of running shoes! In the words of John Campbell - Marvellous!

Where can  buy them I hear you ask? Shoe Science have them. And no I do not get any commission.
They are just bl%^dy good socks!

So set 'em' up Joe, I’ve got I little story I think you should know …

Some days like this last Tuesday I would not chews again. However, it was in many respects innocuous compared to the trials of others as you will see:

I had booked in to see my dentist for a routine check up and a very minor repair to a small broken filling. Now, I am okay with the dentist, we runners and race walkers understand pain. But, I was not looking forward to this visit, because I had to acquaint myself with yet another new dentist at this location – the fourth incarnation of my original dentist.

Now folks, I like the feeling of a familiar dentist – one I have known, and come to rely on for good judgment, skills and (in terms of my wallet) fair play - a tried and tested fellow.

But now, I had to accustom myself to yet another dentist – the fourth in four years.

Anyhoo, I rolled up and was confronted with a middle aged Indian man who spoke with a Kiwi accent – so I surmised a New Zealander by birth.

He was most amiable, and to his credit, explained every step of the journey of put-in-new-filling, examine, clean and polish.

During the examination, he found a smallish hole in a large filling. Don’t ya hate that! Again, to his credit, he showed it to me – smoke and mirrors. Well, actually a large mirror. Yes, I could see it, as he picked away at it. Very small – but of course, yes folks, here was a case for deep excavation and a new filling.

Unfortunately, one or so events during this above journey sort of concerned me. The instruments knocked off the table to the floor. And the strange case of the missing dental tape “Now I thought it was in the draw”. Then there was the nurse, the dental assistant, who kept disappearing to double as a receptionist until the real receptionist arrived.


The dentist thus, had to adopt two personas whilst filling my tooth – nurse mixing gooey stuff and dentist using gooey type stuff.

It was all a bit bizarre.

He remained amiable – and by the time I strolled into reception to pay my bill and book for the major excavation, the receptionist had fronted. I booked my appointment for the excavation for the next day – 8 am – “get it over and done with” said I.


Then it was the bill for the mornings journey – $370. I staggered, I swayed, my knees buckled. “I need water” I cried. For the first time, I really knew the meaning of gobbed-smacked.

I remonstrated.

“How much for tomorrow’s major excavation?” I enquired. $350 – I staggered, I swayed and you know the rest.

I remonstrated.

Quietly and carefully, they explained the costings. They showed me previous sums I had forked out to previous incarnations of the current dentist.. I understood inflation. I acquiesced.

Back at my office, I calmed down … until … I remembered the dropped instruments… the lost tape … the nurse who came and went .... my imagination took flight.

“OMG” I cried, at my desk. I am in for a painful day tomorrow – maybe even death on the dentist chair. Panic quietly and inexorably set in. Irrationality took over in my skull. “Dead by lunchtime,” I mumbled.

And to calm my nerves for the events to come – tonight, as I write, some liquid refreshment. A cup of English breakfast tea.

So make it one for my tooth and one for the dentist … and another for my tooth and ….

Just watch the smoke rings rise in the air. You'll find your share of memories there.

It was on a Monday, a smidgen after sunrise, and I was sitting in the bus shelter contemplating, as you do, the week that stretched before me. What cheered me that warm January morn was the pungent smell of fresh air.

She came out of a house near by, ambled to the side of the bus shelter and lit up a fag.

I was down wind and the stink of smoke assaulted my nostrils. I sat there for a while feeling somewhat miffed, as you do.

Then I told her how her smoke was intruding into my zone. She backed off well away from the bus stop, and all was once again, as they say, well with the world and my snout.


One of the joys of being in running and walking clubs is that no one (at least to the best of my knowledge) smokes. Drink - yes; smoke - no.

I detest the smell of cigarette smoke. I feel sorry for smokers. There is no more pathetic a sight in the whole universe than a lonely soul hovering outside of a building having a fast drag on a fag.

They say (whoever they is) that addiction to Nick O'teen is the worst of addictions. I can't imagine what it is like to wake up in the morning, mouth like a well worn jock strap, wheezing and coughing, craving for that first fag.