Monday 20 August 2012

“It’s not you, it’s me”

There is a set of clichés that constantly capture my attention. It is the ‘people weren’t supposed  to be with the same person; people aren’t inclined to monogamy; that people, men in particular, evolved from a beast and where misquoting Darwin by claiming ‘survival of the fittest’ equates to ‘spreading the seed’ as far as it will go (a rationality that would logically put rapists at the height of the pyramid). 
 
This viewpoint sometimes claims that our society has evolved to suit monogamy as a plastic and unnatural entity. Monogamy is explained quazi-historically as a way to guarantee the furthering of men’s (a rich white man’s) bloodline without too much quarrel. Today, they say, it is nice to have a life partner to help with children and the like, help out financially and for companionship. However, thanks to the invention of contraceptives, sex doesn’t mean ‘furthering of your bloodline’ unless you want it to. We have these incredible bodies, why not make the most of them? Of course, not everyone is ready to evolve past certain attached emotions including jealousy that paint the non-monogamy seeker as apparently more advanced or knowledgeable. Let alone any arguments about weird ‘I’m my own grandpa’ type loving which, if it is not about procreation, all these peeps who want us to believe their opinions are valid because they not only have a copy of Darwin on their shelves for all to see, they’ve even broken the spine so it almost looks as though it’s been read.

But there is a problem with this point of view. So long as someone believes that people have, in the past and currently, lived in a monogamous relationship and have been perfectly happy and at bliss, then they would have to wonder why it is that so many people have this ‘natural inclination’ to not be monogamous; or to not strive for it. I would think that even if someone could prove that there is a natural inclination to some sort of existence like polyandry or polygamy; this is not necessarily something that should be encouraged. Rage, fear, hatred are all supposedly natural emotions, but so is the want to move beyond the tyranny of existing without being able to control and remove these emotions when they are not appropriate. Morality itself, devoid of any religious or political structures, is a ‘natural’ inclination of man. Man, via morality, is something to be surpassed. Rejecting this idea is a very religious concept; that we are all born into sin, or that life is dukha; unsatisfactory and should be avoided or corrected by abstinence.

But do polyandrists and polygamists really review this supposed natural inclination? Surely if there is peace, happiness and love to be found in a monogamous relationship, then that should be the penultimate goal. If it is the case that this is a false goal, then so be it, but this should come later, after monogamy has failed, not as a pre-empted defeatist attitude to life.

The problem then is in asking the question of why people initially seek out polygamy or polyandry. If one person can satisfy someone’s needs in a particular way, then it is not an issue, if they can’t then it still isn’t an issue at the beginning of a relationship. At the beginning of a relationship, there are endless desires that can be fulfilled. How would a person ever know that their new partner is unable to fulfill their needs in particular ways at the beginning of a relationship? At this point, the person is without this knowledge and the possibilities are endless. One knows no different.
 
At this point, the finite amount of possibilities only occurs to the person because it exists only in their own ability to satisfy the needs of the other, rather than in their understanding of the other’s ability to satisfy them. This is the only true understanding that one has at this point. He or she may not know the limits of the other in companionship, in knowledge, in interests, in sexual abilities, in many things, but he or she knows their own limits. They know this all too well.

This may well be the true natural inclination that spawns a life removed of monogamy as a goal, one who is too scared to hope that only one other person will find them interesting enough, knowledgeable enough or sexually able enough for that person not to get bored or dissatisfied with them. Their answer is to lower the bar, to not even try.
 
Sadly so much of the debate around this type of morality is dictated by the religious right. I don’t think they have much to offer in this respect. I get that Jesus wouldn’t have been too keen on the whole horizontal folk dancing. JC, being the son of God and all would be brilliant at most things. He turned water into wine, so you’d think that his bedroom athletics would be quite decent, but think again. Firstly, there would be a lot of expectation. Secondly, if he lived up to that expectation, which I dare say he would have, his partner(s) would say what exactly? The usually appropriate word to say is “God” as in “OH god, oh god OH oh oh GOD.” Which most men would take as a decent compliment, but to JC, it’d just make him think of his dad and then, bang, no more of that type of thing really, he’d want to go play Nintendo. And before you start going “Oh, that is just a lame re-telling of the whole ‘can god cook a breakfast that is so big that even He couldn’t eat it?’ argument… yeah… I know…

This post’s Lame Joke:
A man escapes from prison where he has been for 15 years. He breaks into a house to look for money and guns and finds a young couple in bed.

He orders the guy out of bed and ties him to a chair, while tying the girl to the bed he gets on top of her, kisses her neck, then gets up and goes into the bathroom. While he’s in there, the husband tells his wife: “Listen, this guy’s an escaped convict, look at his clothes! He probably spent lots of time in gaol and hasn’t seen a woman in years. I saw how he kissed your neck. If he wants sex, don’t resist, don’t complain, do whatever he tells you. Satisfy him no matter how much he nauseates you. This guy is probably very dangerous. If he gets angry, he’ll kill us. Be strong, honey. I love you.”

To which his wife responds: “He wasn’t kissing my neck. He was whispering in my ear. He told me he was gay, thought you were cute, and asked me if we had any vaseline. I told him it was in the bathroom. Be strong honey. I love you too!!”

This Post’s ‘Michael’s dumb pet hate’: People that say oooo “…as Descartes said ‘cogito ergo sum’” (with a hard ‘g’ sound) as if it’s some sort of badge of learning. Did he really say that there champ? While it may be a simplification of what he did say….blah. Maybe this is a touchy subject for me because a long time ago, just after the publication of my first novel, this total douche from Boston or somewhere called me a philistine because I apparently didn’t understand the big man. He went on to say that he did, because he’d read the original in French (apparently, but I didn’t touch that one). Anywho, I made the mistake of responding to this email, which is a bad thing to do. Weird people that write to you about a book usually are like really drunk friends: they only tell you one of two things – how much they love you or how much they hate you…

This post’s inappropriate over share: I’m in the situation now where any lame ‘let’s do it/how’s your day going’ type joke that I make around my wife just seems inappropriate. This is not because I’m all growed up and proper, just because the other night I was in a bit of a dark mood and having a late night wine leaning up against Trotsky and looking at the beach. Anyway, it was really cold and by the time I came back in, the LoML was all like “you’re freezing” which I made a joke about her liking calipos and me being considerate (I’m not going to spell it out exactly), which made me laugh for about a week and now anything I say just seems to pale in comparison. I’ve peeked. There’s nowhere to go but down from here dear readers.

Monday 13 August 2012

Shanks very Max Muchy.



There’s all this talk lately about sporting success and failures and money and the like. I think that there is a bit of unjustified criticism of Olympians not winning. Especially when they only came second?? And then there is the counter sinchilectualist arguments that say ‘who are we to judge, we’re a bunch of fatties that couldn’t hold a candle to them.’ Which is a good point to make maybe, but I am not so sure it’s that cut and dried. Surely we, as a populace that greatly advantages sports people through many areas  (public investment and taxation policy to start) have some sort of ability to be upset? I am  not talking about this being past the point of basic manners such as the many “what went wrong?” type questions that have been asked of an athlete as they have gotten out of the pool in a rush of emotion. I am not sure about this idea, but it seems to me that sport and the Olympics are merely the latest casualty of this need to base everything in economic terms. 'How many dollars a gold medal costs the Aussie battler' type rationalising that has plagued everything from natural disasters (floods and the like) through to carbon trading. You barely hear any commentary about whether or not something is a good idea or a good thing. Olympians can still swim more than a few laps of a pool in no time at all, but I think it may be more that we are too gutless to judge, rather than too quick. It takes some gumption to say - 'hey, s/he did well, swam fast, whatever' because someone saying that is identifying with that performance - seeing it as a goal to be attained/respected. Hanging shit on someone for being not worthy in some way doesn't require much forethought.

But no, my concern is more that observing things in pure economic terms generally misses the point. As someone, Barry Jones I think, said - the easiest way to increase the GDP of a country is to make cars less safe. All that extra work for panel beaters, doctors, lawyers etc will be great for the economy. The point is that economics and the concept of a dollar was never supposed to measure intrinsic value, unlike the media and social commentary which is supposed to, or at least point out weird shit.

Queensland Premier Campbell Newman has recently been cutting services and sacking the public sector left, right and centre on this mantra that Queensland is $65 Billion in debt, yet has admitted the upcoming Gold Coast Commonwealth Games will cost the state $85 Billon. For my understanding, there is no talk of cutting that back. We just can’t for some reason, yet we can get rid of major health, education and publically funded welfare organisations by the gaggle. For example, if you want a heart transplant in Qld nowdays..yeah, sucks to be you, we can’t afford that, but we can’t afford not to have shiney people jump over things and throw things for no apparent reason.

It would be interesting to see how far this (mis) use of economic terms goes though. Are we going to see things like how much the police cost us? How much a fire costs to put out? Maybe is someone’s house is burning down, it’s just too costly to fund a fire dept to put it out. Those trucks aren’t free you know. Surely judging the Qld Police in terms of how much money it costs for them to make an arrest on average (annual running budget divided by number of arrests made), let alone how much it costs us for them to convict someone of a criminal offence would be an awesome figure. It would make the very concept of police seem considerably more useless than the ‘glorified janitors’ label that many, including myself, who have ever tried to get them to actually do something concerning a serious criminal offence would perceive them. Then that begs the question: how much money is too much to pay for an arrest? $100, $200. I am sure the figure would be in the thousands. I’ll have to look into that.

But getting back to sports people; one thing that has always fascinated me is why someone would interview certain types of sports people. Jockeys are probably the funniest, though hard to ridicule properly in the written word. Rugby League players and boxers would be vying for second place in this contest. Boxers, like jockeys are hard to ridicule in the written form, but football players, league players are always such a waste of time.

“So Hassah matey, you had a good game there, what are yuz thoughts coming out of the match? You seemed to have a good game plan?”

“...Yeah, fanks Dougie [not his real name] yeah, well the boys an I wannad to like, put the ball ova da line more times than the other...you know...um...”

“The other team?”

“...yeah, yeah ... that’s right. And we like, also wanted to stop them from like...putting the ball over our line...”

SU-perb.

And you can never go past the sinchelectualism of a former player turned commentator...

''...importantly the team that wins game one goes on to win the series 71 per cent of the time''

Or in other words - the team that wins the first game of a three game series - about two thirds of the time, wins the series - way to support that whole 'footy players are a bunch of carpet shitting, racist rapist morons there Dougie [not his real name]

This post’s lame joke – Eric the White Horse and his mates raced a pack of greyhounds one day. The race was pretty tense, not only were there a lot of bets on it, pride was at stake. After the race, Eric and his friends walked into the local pub for a post-race beer and debrief.
“That race was insane” Eric started. “I was in the lead all through the first lap, then got to the third last corner, I had all these pins and needles in my legs and then pain, so I had to pull over.”
“You’re kidding!”exclaimed Roger, Eric’s best friend. “You know I was coming second until you pulled out, then I was in the lead and flying to the finish, but then, sounds like the same thing; pins and needles and pain and I had to stop coming into the second last corner.”
“Excuse me.” interrupted Sammy, one of the greyhounds. “I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation and I’d just like to say that the EXACT same thing happened to me. I was in the lead until the last corner, having a great race against you guys until pins and needles, then pain. I would what all of this means?”
“Well” replied Eric. “Fellas, I think we have seen something strange today. Just when we think that we’re all smug and knowledgeable, something like this comes along. An experience like this shouldn’t be shunned. Because, fellas, forgive me if I’m wrong, but have a look at what we’ve witnessed today. A talking bloody dog.” 

This post’s inappropriate over share: I have really ugly feet. I know I should spend some more time with a pumas stone and clippers or something so that they wouldn’t be too ugly, but what’s the point?

Wednesday 8 August 2012

Does size matter ?

This guy that I grew up with – lived down the street from me and we went through school and uni more or less together had that ‘handsome Dan’ kind of look about him from a young age and certainly had an ability to charm and impress people, especially women. However when it came to it, he was hung like a tic-tac.

I, on the other hand always considered myself a mongy looking person and was never really into charming people too much, never had to I guess, and I was always a little too arrogant and nervous as a kid. I remember as an awkward teenager being curious about how I fit in the scheme of things. I remember reading something like Cosmo or a similar mag’s many articles about what is average/normal in terms of manliness/substance and thinking that I was roughly a little on the plus side of normal (I made the mistake of assuming their measurements were of a flaccid, rather than fully erect reading). So I was happy about being normal. This was re-enforced by the fact that I went to a boys’ boarding school, so had access to a quite large amount of fairly hard-core porn. The guys in it were what I considered average, normal, the same as me. It wasn’t until after I bought my first condom that I re-examined this point. The saucey picture on the front of the extra large condom packet was of a man and woman seemingly in the middle of it, but the girl was spooning the guy…which made me believe that there was no way known mine was any where near that size so I mistakenly bought the average size.

Recently, as sadly I found out that my childhood friend’s life so far hasn’t been too good, He doesn’t have much, if any of the things in life that I have, yet we came from the same street.  I have been pondering which is more important: looks or substance. Would I trade, for a day, a week or forever substance for that certain male cuteness and the gift of the gab? I really don’t know. I don’t think so, but that’s pretty easy for me to say given that I am talking about a hypothetical trade that is in no way possible. What about people that I see as sensual and sexy? I don’t know a thing about most of them. I couldn’t tell you what the first conversation I had with my now wife was, but I could tell you what she was wearing when I first met her. I guess this may be my answer…bugger.

This post’s lame joke - a horse walks into a bar, orders a beer, sits down on one of the tables and starts reading his paper. The bartender brings over his beer, as the horse gets out a ten dollar note and gives it to the bartender. The bartender, on seeing that the horse is reading ‘The Courier Mail’, figures he’s not that bright, so decides to short change him, returning with a two dollar coin. The horse says nothing and continues reading his paper. After a while, the horse gets up and orders another beer. The bartender, making conversation says ”you know, we don’t get many horses in here” to which the horse replies ”at eight dollars a beer, that’s hardly surprising”…

The Post’s inappropriate overshare – well, I think I’ve already covered that one.

Monday 6 August 2012

Letting go and looking back


Last Friday night was the first night in almost nine years that there has not been a cot set up in our house. 

This is a strange feeling, but at the same time wonderful and has made me ponder times gone by.
The cot that has been in our house for nearly nine years, the Taj Mahal of cots, I built when the LoML was expecting our first child. It is a beautiful cot and I really enjoyed making it, mainly because I enjoy doing things like that, but also because it allowed me to have some sort of control of a weird situation.
You see my dear reader, being a first-time-expecting parent must be no where near as scary as being a first-time-expecting grandparent. They tend to go completely looney. I am not sure whether it’s a fear of losing your daughter a little further, being a little less important, but oh my god, did my in-laws fall out of the crazy tree and hit every branch on the way down. 

Expecting your first child is such a rush of emotion and a time when the universe is forcing you to yield to a certain inevitability; a lack of power. You either completely admit that the control you always thought you had was just a childish way of learning good behaviour. ‘what would jebus do?” as a question to avoid the reality that there doesn’t appear to be anyone at the wheel. At least I don’t think so. I certainly hope not, because if there is, she doesn’t like me very much. I think to not fess up to that lack of control, that hope that Locke or Kant are right and Machiavelli or Hobbes are mistaken, turns people into crazy people. There seems a lot of people that have not made this connection. They have pride in a work ethic or a false association with creativity while wasting their lives selling houses and owning stuff.  

The first-time-expecting grandparent however. Urgh. What a pill. I remember seriously contemplating taking up a job on the other side of the country just to get away from those arseholes. I remember them interrupting the mid-wife two or three times during labour by phoning the ward, leaving the LoML and me alone during the whole thing (they work in the hospital and knew the direct line). I remember them annoying the LoML so much, she poisoned their rose garden at 30+ weeks pregnant. To this day it still makes me laugh that they could never get roses to grow...must just be too dry...sorry, this is turning into a rant...
So the cot that I built has stood up to four children, but only just. It is built higher than commercially available cots. It sits at roughly waist height, which gives far less strain on backs and knees, creates a groovy little storage space underneath and provides a little more shelter from older siblings. It made sense to me at the time, despite many claims of “if it were so much better, why can’t you buy cots like that...surely someone smarter than you would have come up with that by now (buy now...bye now)”... But then so much of what we have in society has no reason or efficiency motivation behind it. It just is that way because it is that way. 
There is no reason VHS won over BETA, it just happened.

But people in that situation always want to paint control there and ignore the signs. If they are humble to some big cosmic ballet, then good things will happen devoid of their actions and intentions. Don’t get me wrong, I am not a non-realist, or a scientistic person. I believe that there are a thousand times more things going on in the universe than humans will ever be able to get a decent grasp on. But a non-diverse and unitary all-powerfulness capable of expression? The only thing that comes close to that is our own minds, and we fall pretty short on that point a lot of the time.

But I find myself being drawn back into the control thing. The girls now have purple turned bunk beds and their room looks fab. I am hesitant to let go of my cot. Should I put it in the shed? It may come in handy? Friends of mine had an accident and had another child when their previous youngest child (of three) was 18.
Should I get rid of it? I really don’t want to, but the time has passed. I shouldn’t hang on to it, it should go to a new family that can hopefully enjoy it as miuch as we have. But I still feel so torn about letting it go. But no, it must go on to the next step in its life, as must I. On to eBay with you my old friend.

This post’s lame joke:  a horse walks into a bar and a drunk at the bar says ''di...do yoio know thad they named a wishkey afda you?''....and the horse replies ''what? Eric?''

This post’s groovy identity seeking quote. I applied for a teaching job the other day and one of the questions I was asked on the form is “what is your favorite quote?” I thought that this was quite strange. You don’t see job sheets actually asking decent questions very often. To name your favorite quote; that is a question that you could really tell a lot about someone from how or if they answered this question. My first reaction was just to re-quote the question and say “how did you know?”  But I thought that may be a little silly. So I put in one of my favourite gems from the wonderful Mr Jung:
“We should not pretend to understand the world only by intellect. We apprehend it just as much by feeling. Therefore, the judgment of the intellect is at best only the half of truth and must, if it be honest, come to an understanding of its own inadequacies”

This post’s inappropriate over-share: I am currently trying to give up coffee. I drink too much of it, but I think giving up drinking coffee is like being stabbed with a knife, but slower and louder. I know, that’s a pretty lame over-share, but I can’t think too straight about anything else.

I brought you here sir, for I am Spartacus

I have recently re-watched two movies – Empire Records and That Thing You Do. Both these movies have always been massive favs of mine, but I have, without really wanting to, come across a ‘fan version’ or something; an extended version. The thing is, while I have always loved these movies, the versions that I have seen recently make them ten times better movies. They make so much more sense. In Empire Records, there is a character removed (the tow-truck driver’s wife) who, while it is a small role, changes the story about Lucas and makes so much more sense. Birko, Jane and Marc are so much more rich and developed characters, but the main people were Joe and Rex. In the extended movie, Joe has these two wonderful dialogues, one with Jane and one with Lucas about his thoughts on the whole thing. Rex, at the end of that scene about ‘I was lying about your hair, it looks stupid…you’re just a washed up imposter’ rather than lamely quoting Hendrix, says something like “yeah, well, maybe” which is so much better.
That Thing You Do seemingly edited out so many parts of the movie that make it make sense. Little things here and there, but the thing that really got me was there was a whole back story to Tom Hanks’ character having a boyfriend. I always noticed a sort of gay vibe to Mr White, but never really thought that much about it until I saw the extended version, which gives Mr White such a better role in the story.
This post’s lame joke  - My parents live in a town that is so small –
  • they had to kill two old men to start a cemetery
  • the new year’s baby was born in August..
  • they only have half a cricket oval, which means that they generally only win a quarter of their matches
  • when a girl gets pregnant, everyone knows who the father is, even when the girl isn’t so sure.
  • motivational speakers go there for a holiday..
  • everyone has their birthday on the same day..
  • the main street ends in a dead end…both ways
  • their local environment plan is to put in flyscreens
  • they can see themselves in the mirror with their eyes closed
  •  they don’t count sheep, the sheep count them
  • they don’t have tourist stubbie coolers, they have tourist tallie coolers..
  •  they don’t have a rain gauge, they just take the ducks out of the pond when it’s a sunny day..
  • no one has to ask why the chicken crossed the road, everyone knows man..

This post’s inappropriate overshare – I was given this cuddly dog named Alfred when I was three or so. He is one of the three cuddly toys I had when I was a kid, but I have never really liked him. He was always so frowny and condescending towards me and the things that I do (I am Tyler Durden’s low sense of self). Anyway, my son Ruben has him now, except for he has had the little tongue ripped off and looks kind of stupid, which is the first time in 30 years I have been able to look at him, but I am still shamed into believing I am treating him poorly.

Thursday 2 August 2012

Man Caves and Envious Lounges

 Have I told you, dear reader, about my new mancave? I have always had a man cave in some form or another.  I wouldn’t be a true, red-blooded Aussie if I didn’t. Well, maybe I would, but still. I recently ebayed a green leather lounge to go in it. I think that is the final addition to a fully functioning man cave.  The introduction of a sheet wall heightened its appeal, initially for saw dust blocking, but its powers of keeping kids on their best behaviour is what has truly shone through.

The evolution of my mancaves starts a long time ago; the first one that I was truly happy with was in our flat in Camp Hill about eight years ago. It was a post second world war wood duplex that, like most of Queensland, has had a lower floor put in even though the roof of that (which is the floor of the house) is only about 6 foot 2, and given that I am six foot five, presented a problem that required me saying a nasty word every so often.  It also required me to use a noun, an acronym, as though it were a verb. Nevertheless, I remember on many occasions writing, studying or marking in a wonderful old chair and feeling the morning intensity peacefully soothe its way into my soul. But this was packed up and garaged saled off in various moves and then a wish to get rid of everything and travel around the countryside.

So the latest incarnation of my mancave all started with an old garden table that I turned in to a saw bench by nailing a couple of old bits of wood as guiderails. It was initially only a temporary measure, to cut up wood for a number of frames for my fantastically talented wife. However my mothers in law were so offended by its very nature that I decided I had to keep it. I recently bought a Triton saw bench, but will have to hide that if they ever visit our house again, which is unlikely (I will have to tell you that story some day, but not today as it is quite a depressing story and I’m in too good of a mood).

I have such fond memories of my father’s garage/workshop area, but it was never a place of gathering or relaxation, just of building stuff. Or poking stuff. I have memories of talking to him as he was happily planning something out. But there was nowhere to really just sit; to just be. This is the difference between a normal wussey garage and a mancave: the ability to sit somewhere very comfortable and contemplate, or maybe only contemplate contemplating. Also for my kids to sit on and converse while fixing something, or for my wife to sit on and converse while I’m fixing something and for one other reason, but ‘shhhh’ we’re not talking about that here, and besides, in hindsight there may well have been a little too much over-sharing about that lately. http://www.smh.com.au/lifestyle/life/blogs/citykat/take-it-from-a-36yo-married-father-of-four-with-a-great-sex-life-monogamy-is-underrated-20120719-22bp8.html

So as I contemplate my new green couch, it occurred to me that I have come a long way in terms of carpentry, metal work and fixing type skills. I was never overly looked on as the shop A and Shop B type in school.

When I was growing up, I was lucky enough to have both grandfathers in my life, teaching me this that and whatever. One was a retired agricultural scientist and the other a retired engineer/mechanic. They were both so clever with their hands and minds that they could pretty much fix anything, even a rainy day. One grandfather used to have a few old mowers and small engines or the like that he would make me pull apart and put back together. At first he helped and instructed, then as I got older he would have it disassembled before I arrived and I would have to put it back together. As i grew older still he would throw in parts that didn’t belong to the item and/or take some simple parts away that I would have to make. Just simple things like carburettor cables, gates or switches. This was nothing much to people of his day though. His brother was always referred to as the ‘plastic bottom boy’ for fixing a transfer case on a Toyota using moulded plastic and a few other things.

But in school, I was one of the smart ones. We weren’t welcome in Shop A or B. We were seen as smart, but useless. We weren’t from cattle farms or wheat farms, so apparently had no knowledge of anything real.
The problem that confronts me today is that, while this isn’t true, I was never much fond of metal work until very recently. But this wasn’t about ability. My Shop B teacher used to scoff at me and my attempts to follow instruction. He was one of those ‘measure something three times, cut once’. Which really means ‘measure something four times, change your mind, realise that there is a better way to do things, get a cup of coffee, make a smart arse comment about something, measure the new line three times and then still fuck it up’ types. I have much more of a ‘work out what you really can’t mess up, and the rest - just kinda go with what you think works at the time’ philosophy.

But I digress, I couldn’t follow instruction. Not because I didn’t have the skill, just not the patience, so I was always off breaking stuff and getting into mischief rather than doing what I was supposed to. Which is why my wrought iron and tin-plate book end is beautiful. It is absolutely perfect and puts a smile on my face every time I see it at my mother’s house.

You see dear reader; my Shop B teacher had this theory that he could sort out the men from the boys by using a permanent marker to identify whose work was whose. No one could ever breach this fortress of discipline and truth. Pity he didn’t know the fact that white board markers make permanent markers not so permanent. So wherever the dodgy job I did on my bookend is nowadays, I really don’t care. The one I claimed as mine is perfect. But doesn’t this mean that that weird ugly Shop B teacher was in a way right: I just don’t have the faculty for Shop B? I don’t think so, but can’t really prove that. At least I have a groovy green leather lounge in my man cave to ponder this thought. Maybe I’ll need a fridge down here soon too.