Project Noob Box

Some of you may be aware of my penchant for Lan Parties; the gathering of people for the purpose of connecting computers together and playing games.   Now you may say that it's not cool and we are nerds, and those statements would be undeniably accurate.  You'll find we don't mind though as after all, there are worse groups to be associated with such as the Australian Labor Party.

As we have aged these parties have evolved with us.  While it is still best described as several puerile males embracing their computers and eating junk food, there is another group that needs mentioning; the families.  These annexed members now quite often out number the lanners.  Their needs can not be disregarded as it's become as much about them as us.  Disastrous to be sure, but unavoidable.

Inconceivably it seems that there is a limit to the number of times a female can watch "The Notebook" or "A walk to Remember".  The girls have practically begged us to let them play with us*.  So I have come up with a solution.  I disassembled 3 old PC's and installed them in a primitive box dubbed "the Noob Box".  Now we have three spare computers that the girls can play on when they get bored with gossip.  Problem solved.

At this point even I will concede that the Noob box is on the dark side of geekishness.  Enjoying Lans is one thing, building a computer project specifically for it is another.  But what fun is life if we can't explore the dark side sometimes?

*denotes a presumptuous and most likely false statement

Marrying the job

Have you ever stopped to consider that you spend 40 hours of your week with workmates?  Its insane.  Forced to associate with these randoms, each possessing varying degrees of tolerability, day in, day out.  Don't get me wrong, some of my workmates are NORMAL.  Some not so much.  There have been occasions where a convenient blunt object would have been invaluable.
It is just ironic that you focus so much effort in finding the right girl and marrying her just to spend the majority of the best part of your week talking to Derek.  Or Mary, Bob, Steve-o.  You get the idea.  I exchange more words with those I work with than my own family.
But what is the solution?  You could marry someone rich, then you both just continuously holiday on her fathers dime.  Or marry Derek.  Well perhaps not Derek, but someone at work that wasn't TOO annoying.  A tough assignment to be sure.  At least you could carpool.  I guess an alternative would be to not work at all, live it up in your in-laws garage, you both hanging around the corner shop on your BMX's.  Sounds fulfilling doesn't it?
Unfortunately my wife is not rich, she won't work with me and her parents garage has been deemed "inappropriate" by those child welfare snobs.  I guess it will be back to work for me tomorrow.  I just hope my kids remember who I am......    
  

Kiss life

I watch the kids with envy sometimes.  Jasper's biggest concern is putting his pants on so the zip is at the front.  Eli is satisfied if he can get his considerable store of boogers to his mouth before lunch.  Zach would trade it all for 5 minutes alone in the fish tank while Cheyenne sees world peace and obtaining a lollypop as equally valuable  achievements.

KISS.  Keep It Simple Stupid.  A great strategy for life.  I've spent the last 12 months endeavouring to simplify my existence.  To whittle down life to the barest essentials, allowing me to focus on the things that matter and free up time, that slippery little sucker.

I'll admit the journey has been predominately more enlightening than successful, at least measured by the goals I started with.  The problem I discovered is that I did not have a concrete plan for my free time.  Sure, I had a generalised intention, but nothing specific.  Spare time it seems is like water.  If you don't have a container prepared it will slip through your fingers.

My advice for life simplification?  Find somewhere you want more time.  Write it down, be specific.  Then when you adjust your timetable you have somewhere for that time to go.  Now I just need to work out whether I give up blogging or showering....

I smell smoke...

Coming home from work is one of those make or break moments.  Get it wrong and the night can become an intolerable mess.  Get it right and things can still be a mess, but at least there is no yelling.

  There is no greater conflict going on today than the global phenomenon of the tired worker returning to the stressed home maker.  You may read about Afghanistan in the paper but do not be fooled; the greater war is right under our noses.  If you want to something about world peace it needs to start here.

My own homecomings are somewhat hit and miss, and I concede that any failing is largely on my part.  Still, I am learning perseverance!  I guess it becomes a little like the Israeli/Palestinian conflict where we continually argue  over the same bit of land, and when we tire of that we just destroy each other until the next ceasefire.
Today greeted me with challenges I had not previously encountered.  I got home and listened eagerly to Renae recount the trials and tribulations of the day, praising and admonishing each child in turn.  I then said "Renae, thats sound very interesting but why is the wok on fire?"

Renae had left the wok on the stove with oil in it and the ensuing inferno was enthralling our four small children.  Never fear! Our well drilled team had the fire under control in short order, and we all laughed heartily about it later over a peaceful dinner table.  Yes thats what happened.  Mmm, I don't think so Max.
I won't bore you with incredibly embarrassing details but lets just say the lino in front of the fridge will never be the same and Renae will probably display some sort of post traumatic stress symptoms when the wok comes out again.

So men, when you come home from work don't forget to do your bit for world peace and listen to the wife, but be sure to cast an eye over the kitchen first.
  

Facebook celebrity

One night the wife was preparing for a party with the girls.  Normally this doesn't take long. Kids have the effect of making most activities perfunctory.  Tonight was different.  There was apparently a good chance of being facebooked.

Facebook is like having your own private papparazzi.  Those 300+ friends you've collected are privy to your every movement and only too willing to snap a quick photo of you and post it online.  You can't buy that kind of attention, and you probably wouldn't want to.  Suddenly your rent-a-crowd is posting all manner of things about you in to the webosphere.  Its certainly not like you get a chance to censor what your mates think is appropriate sharing.  "Hey Bob, any reason you posted that pic of me looking completely retarded?", "Which one do you mean Barry?", " You know the one, where I'm scratching myself with one hand and spilling my beer with the other."

If you were smart you'd blackmail all your friends with your collection.  Suddenly that shot of your mates mullet or crew cut rats tail combo is worth $20 bucks.  At the very least it could be held as insurance against being facebooked yourself.   I guess the motto here people is think before you facebook.  You never know what that person might post about you!

The problem with kids

The problem with kids, well one anyway, is they get sick.  Being new to this world they just want try everything, including all the nasty viruses lurking about.  I found out recently that having four kids in a house makes handling illness not unlike a pandemic response.

First Contact: At 0200 attended distress call.  "Something happened to my body," states my three year old.  No kidding.  Its a miracle!  Somehow that sausage and vege at dinner has been transformed in to about four litres of Irish stew.  It might not feed five thousand but it could have come from that many.  How is that even possible?  Anyway the clean up crew is alerted and the civilians are scrubbed and decontaminated.  Or so we thought.
By the next day another falls sick.  House goes in to lockdown.  No dancing, no sports, no visiting friends.  TV and washing machine do overtime.  Start throwing out food as no one is eating any.
Despite going to Defcon 1(or whatever the worst is) they all still get sick.  Its not fair really.  Little zombies stumble about the house falling asleep and puking in random places.  Why can't they puke in a bowl?  Do they not know its coming?
Ah! What's that I hear?  One three year old has bit the other and the 5 year old is telling them to get out of her room?  Yes, we are on the mend.  Nothing shows that a child is feeling better than belligerence.
So hope and pray that the kids continue to fight like cats and dogs tomorrow so we can all get back to normal.  Only problem is I think I've got some Irish stew coming myself.  :(

Service

Having eaten out quite a bit the last couple of weeks I've been thinking about the kind of service you get and how it varies.  Often I find that the quirky service is far more interesting than what I've eaten.
Take my recent experience at a wedding reception.  Being a restaurant of some note they were apparently reluctant to leave water jugs on the tables, choosing rather to roam the room replenishing peoples rapidly diminishing glasses.  Nothing wrong with this in theory, as who knows what disaster could befall guest left to their own refilling devices.  What did intrigue me however was the insistence of my waitress.  If I declined a top up she cast an incredulous look and said "Are you sure?".  The first time I just politely declined again and thought nothing of it.  By the third time I was concerned.  Why was this girl so darn worried?  Did I look parched?  Does she think I haven't thought this through? Its not like I'm running a marathon here.  It doesn't take much effort to digest salmon and figure out a way to steal your neighbours dinner chocolate.
My brother James also had an encounter with diligent service.  He and I were attending a cricket game with a few mates and James volunteered to go to the canteen for pies, a job that required a few trips.  Now James is a big fella, and our concerned service lady thought that he had just consumed 9 pies and was coming back for more.  "Don't you think you've had enough?" she volunteered disapprovingly.  "Its not all for me," he protested but I don't think Jenny Craig bought it.
Perhaps the funniest service incidents occur when you try something new.  Renae and I tried Yum Cha with a friend recently and were shocked to see our custard tart divided with a pair of stationery scissors.  Ok then.  If you don't mind can you also cut this thread off my shirt its driving me crazy.
Theory time.  For you budding restaurateurs out there, forget the food.  Well, not completely of course, you need to serve something, but focus on the service.  Make your service people interesting.  Put them in Zippy hats and give them a pair of scissors and you'll never look back.

Its all in a MAME

Being a Uber-nerd I have built an arcade machine for home. Its kind of mandatory if you wish to participate in the online community with any authority. Which I do. Cause AFAIK I am l33t lol OMGBBQ.

The boys have grown quite attached to the arcade, often demanding to play the "fighting game". Thats right. No pacman, no space invaders, no wonderboy. They are only concerned with one thing; brutally tearing each other apart with animated avatars. I am so PROUD!

Unfortunately these gladiatorial encounters are rather one sided. Jasper has picked up the concept like a young Luke Skywalker, jumping and ducking while pushing several buttons at once. He never saw me do this, he just figured it out by using the force. Eli is the exact opposite. He is more like Ja Ja Binks. He has no force. He is negative in the force. He REALLY has no Kung Fu. (Eli you are still cool BRO)He thinks he is just watching a particularly violent cartoon, which curiously always ends with the guy on his side of the TV dead.

I know you are all thinking that little kids shouldn't play violent games, maybe you're right. Strangely though it doesn't seem to stir them. In fact they fight less during the day if they know they will get a turn on the "fighting game" at night. Still, I did notice Jasper attempting to axe kick a stuffed animal. Weird.

I reckon it would be a great way to sort out differences. Having a disagreement with the wife? Throw on Mortal Kombat and sort it out pixel style. Last time we fought I think Renae won the argument by removing my spine. Ouch. And not at all allegorical.

Eels rejoice!

They've done it. The blue and golds' are going to the big one, the GF, the premiership decider. Who would have thought it was possible.

Three months ago I was reading through a Eels forum and debating how large the can of whup-ass was going to be this week. I proposed 30 points, many others thought we'd be done by 50. It seemed a little pessimistic but hey, this is Parramatta, anything is possible.

How were we to know that as we contemplated our next flogging the Eels were on the cusp of greatness. Winning 11 from 12 they have surged to the grand final like Kelly Slater, carving up the shore break and giving the geeks a sand facial(That was little over top dude-Ed)(PS. I don't really have an editor).

So are we done yet? Will we win the big one and send 100,000 Eels fans in to a state of total uselessness? Will we hear Peter Sterling lose all self control and whoop as Mortimer dives over to seal the game? It remains to be seen.

But having got this far they're alright in my books..... BLAH BLAH BLAH. Rubbish! If they don't win I'll hate them all! Its not done yet boys. I know that 3 months ago in 15th place you all had units at the Gold Coast booked for early September. Don't let that cancellation fee go to waste!

Win for me boys, win it for Sterlo, and I suppose you can win it for yourselves too. I'm off to debate how big the can of whup-ass you'll be opening will be.....

September dash

Two things are certain in September; weddings and magpies. If you aren't avoiding one you're avoiding the other.

It raises the question of why do they do it. I'm not referring to the imminent nuptials but rather our feathered friends and their police state tactics. Obviously we are all aware that they are breeding and protecting their young, but I seriously question their risk assessment abilities.

I can hardly envision Grandma Smith dashing across the road and scaling their gum tree, intent on guzzling down some Maggie chicklettes. Yet when she ambles past on her wheeley walker she gets the whole show, beak snapping, feathers flying, that awful shadow hovering her. Luckily she has her bingo trophy to wave it away with or she could lose a hearing aid.

So how do you deal with it? Not everyone has a bingo trophy. It seems the smart people have developed a technique I have dubbed zippy hat. This is where you attach a number of zip ties to your helmet or hat to give a porcupine effect.

I was privileged to see one in action today. Boy rides down street, Maggie hovers close to head but never actually strikes, boy responds by throwing his head back occasionally. I'm not sure what the head throwing was attempting to achieve except perhaps a trip to the chiropractor but the Zippy hat seemed to work. Might have to make one....

Will have to conduct further tests of course. Who can fathom the far reaching effect of the Zippy hat? It may have countless applications outside maggie deterrence. It could hold your keys perhaps a spare donut.

Its gold when you think about it. I guarantee if you wear one of these around you'll most likely avoid that other September certainty too. Now go make one!

Warning to parents

Parents beware! Organised children's sport has many pitfalls for beginner parents. It is so easy to succumb to visions of your child excelling through extraordinary skill and determination, their hunger for success unrivalled. Other parents glare at you enviously while you pretend not to notice that your child is a sporting god.

Of course its not like this. What really goes on is profoundly more mundane. We have recently joined Little Athletics which presents a few challenges to would be super-Dads. My child for example is not naturally very talented. In running races her place card usually also represents the number racers involved. As she saunters over the line and receives her place card she exclaims "Look Dad I got 5 and I AM 5!"

Which brings me to the next point. Kids just don't care about winning like we do. They don't compare themselves to others, judge themselves according to what others may be doing. "You want me to jump in the sandpit? I guess I could do that. Only if I get MCDonalds later though."

But to be honest most of us can deal with this. Kids are kids right? As long as they have fun its cool. I'll just sit here under the umbrella and watch. Life is good.

But then the pleading starts. We need someone to ref, run sideline, measure, rake, cut oranges, wash jerseys and usher crying kids back to their parents. Thank you so much.

How did this happen. Instead of basking in the glory of my child's success I get sunstroke while trying to organise everyone else's kids. I get abused by parents who were too smart to get suckered in like me. And heaven forbid you get something wrong, because then they question your professionalism as an official. Yeah, it might not be obvious but I don't actually use stopwatches for a living.

But its ok. While I wait for my daughter to finish her race I can always console myself that there will be McDonalds after.

Welcome to the Compost

Why blog. Because I can? Because its there? Because I'm a narcissistic twit who wants everyone to know whats in my head?

Those of you who circled the latter are no longer my friends and must leave, but for the rest of my adoring fans dying to know my inner most thoughts I have some shattering news; this blog is largely a self interested project.

Journalling is something I've long wanted to do. To reflect on my thoughts in some structured way is uniquely soothing. When your ideas and passions hit the page they somehow become validated, as if spending two hours pondering how to paint your arcade machine was Australian of the Year material.

So why blog? To organise my thoughts. To lay down all the things that trample through my head day and night. To sooth the mind. So join me if you want and don't forget this twit when you vote for Australian of the year.