TuNesday: Rumer

I like to think that I approach my music the same way I approach my diet: varied and adventurous, nothing too fishy and a lot of cheese. So when I first hear this next artist on Radio 2 a few weeks ago, I was sure that I was listening to another throw-back tune from my childhood. I couldn't remember it clearly, but it seemed to evoke a deeply-buried southern memory - like climbing to the top of a (surely haunted) barn and jumping into a pile of corn cobs. Yes, my early childhood really WAS that simple. And beautiful. And I think those are two words that  fit this song perfectly. With more than a touch of Karen Carpenter, Rumer's 'Slow' seems to cuddle up to me like a handmade quilt and lets me nestle in its embrace with the smells of autumn playing in the front yard. She's an odd pop star, having admitted in a recent interview for Radio 1 that she didn't know who many of the current chart artists were. Does that make her removed, perhaps a bit aloof? Maybe... but maybe it makes her a more honest artist, as well. And in a musical calendar that has too many X-Factors and '(your country here)'s Got Talents, I for one am extremely happy that someone can still make this kind of music, and that it can get out to people like me. Like I said: I loves me some cheese. Enjoy.

Confessions of a Childhood Crush #1: Erin Gray

Like most hetero guys my age, I grew up with pretty predictable celebrity crushes:  2 of Charile's Angels, Justine Bateman, the tennis girl scratching her ass, Mindy, Weird Shapeshifter Lady from Space 1999, Batgirl, Wonder Woman, Mrs. Stemper (technically my kindergarten teacher but a celebrity to me) and, of course, gold-bikini Princess Leia. Guys who liked girls wouldn't be guys who liked girls if we didn't sucumb to at least one or two (or all) of the ever-present media's image of what sexy was. Of course, "sexy" changes... looking at some of the 'hot' women of my childhood makes me wonder whether anyone in the 70s had breasts, or hips or any curves at all.

I'm not going to over-analyse it. I'm just going to add her to 'The List': Erin Gray, AKA Colonel Wilma Deering from Buck Rogers of the 25th Century. Colonel Deering, with your skin-tight pre-lycra suits (the ONLY thing to be seen wearing in the future, apparently) and your ridiculously ill-fitting helmet, you made my transition from 9 to 10 so very easy. Sexier than all the Star Trek ladies combined, and with a bit of moxie to boot... that freeze-frame laugh at the end of every episode won me every time. You made Twiki bearable. You almost made me forget about Hawk and his silly feathair. Colonel Wilma Deering, thank you for making me look so forward to the future.

Putting the 'P' in "Peak 8"

I've been pretty fitness focused lately - doing a new routine called Peak 8, aimed at getting the most out of what our bodies are genetically inclined to do: run like hell for short periods of time. It is crazy hard and most days I leave the gym feeling more than a little bit queasy, so you'd forgive me, dear reader, for making the odd locker room faux-pas. Many times (more than other men might consider reasonable, or heterosexual, probably), I've walked into the showers without a towel or even soap. I'm sure my colleagues thought I was just there for a look-see, but I really was just in a post-workout haze. I've also, of course, forgotten clean underwear (making the rest of day quite daring, really), socks, deodorant... you name the socially unacceptable locker room behaviour and I've probably stumbled upon it once or twice in my day.

Today, however, was worse than normal. Today, BEFORE my workout, I did my normal routine:

1. Walk into changing room.
2. Give a macho nod and 'what's up?' look to other gym goers while avoiding all eye contact AND sightlines that would lead to penises, asses, or other body parts.
3. Strip off (remembering Unwritten Rules of Eye Contact from #2).
4. Put workout clothes on.
5. Strap on heart rate monitor.
6. Attach iPod.
7. Run iPod chord under the shirt and attach the little clippy thing INSIDE my shirt so it looks like I have a reverse nipple in the middle of my chest. Classy.
8. Get water bottle. 
9. Fill water bottle.
10. Put water bottle on sink.
11. Pee in rubbish bin.

Hold on... I did what in the where now? Yes, only a few embarrassing drops of pure golden shame, but today, for some reason, after setting down my water bottle on sink, I slid over one place and started to pee in the bin. The bin RIGHT NEXT to the six or seven available urinals. Only for a second, and without any witnesses... but W. T. F.??

I'm thinking it's a good thing I won't be playing in this weekend's game because I may have already taken one too many shots to the head this summer...

Crimes Against Technology: The Flymo

From where I'm standing, Karl Dahlman has a lot to answer for. And, for the record, about ten minutes ago I was standing in a yard full of half-cut grass. I had spent the previous hour or so trying to manhandle my hover mower around my pretty un-demanding lawn. Let me say those two words again: Hover. Mower. A flying machine with deathblades attached to the bottom of it that is meant to whizz around the garden like some 25th-century robot, effortlessly allowing me to clip my grass to perfection while sipping my Pimms and enjoying some late afternoon sunshine. That's what it's meant to do. What it actually does do is to engage me in an hour-long struggle, fighting against my lawn and the laws of physics to garner a mangy lawn that looks more like garden alopecia than a putting green. And, to my mind, Karl Dahlman is to blame. 46 years ago, Karl Dahlman invented the Flymo, Britain's #1 lawnmower, and people like me have been cursing his appropriation of hovering deathblade technology ever since.

Don't get me wrong: spinning blades, hovercrafts, lawn mowers in general: all very cool. I'm a big fan of Krull, and strapping a couple of his awesome whirring knives onto the bottom of a hovercraft sounds like a truly magnificent marraige of science fiction and DIY. And, to be fair, combining blades and suction works very well in other industries... like grooming, for instance. Who could malign the Flowbee, back in the day? An amazing product that does exactly what it says it'll do: it cuts your hair and sucks it up. And although the IDEA of a feather-light mower that simply glides over your lawn is really quite inspired, the reality just doesn't live up to the hype.  

Maybe it's me. Maybe I remember too fondly how easy cutting grass with a petrol mower is. Maybe I've been spoiled by its power, consistency, lack of a frickin chord and ability to cut grass longer than an inch in length. But as I look out over my lawn, clumps of uncollected grass mocking my eyes where ever they turn, patches of uncut grass standing defiantly erect giving me the green finger time and time again as I survey the results of my considerable efforts, I think: no. No, it's not me. It's Karl Dahlman and his infernal machine. Damn you, Karl Dahlman. Damn you and the hovercraft you rode in on.

WTF, OMG and R U F'N SRIUS?

I'll admit it: I'm a snob when it comes to certain things. Bad teeth really get to me. And although I am guilty of the odd fashion faux pas now and again, I instantly judge people who wear track suits as a matter of course. Bad table manners, not saying 'please' and 'thank you', interrupting... all on the list of thing that make me go 'hmmm'. Is it fair? Nope. Am I being a superficial jerk when I do it? Probably. I'll tell you what though... nothing gets my goat quite as much as bad grammar.

Now, don't get me wrong. I LOL and BRB with the best of 'em. I'm all for the evolution of language. I'm a big fan of Stephen Fry, one of the most educated modern men I can think of, and even HE gets cross when people attack the use of slang and swearing... if language never changed, where would English be now? Exactly: it wouldn't be, period. So I'm all for evolution.

But I received this in an email today, and I'm wondering whether I'm out of touch, or whether this person needs to go back to school (skool?):

"Cheers seppo haha should haver but as the end to regular season just realised my error ;) look 4ward to seeing u all on sunday and gert put thru my pacers agen"

It took me a while, but I think what it should have said is this:

"Cheers, Seppo. Ha, ha. I should have put '...as the end of the regular season'. I just realised my error. I look forward to seeing you all on Sunday and to getting put through my paces again."

OK, I know. I get it: I'm OLD and this is the way kids speak these days. But, seriously? The only punctuation is the emoticon; the only capital letter is at the very beginning. Sure language can (should) change, but can't (shouldn't) it also remain coherent? Are we to lose commas, periods and vowels altogether?

Oh, I don't know. It's after nine. Maybe I just need to drink my Bovril and go to bed...

Say What?

As a kid, teenager and young adult, I was part of a fairly small group of friends who avoided using drugs of any description. Some of us (like me) did it because our religion advised us against it - others made different personal decisions. The end result was that those of us who abstained had a very different experience than those who chose to indulge, and without being judgemental I can say that I'm happy about the choices I made. I didn't start drinking until much later in life and still don't any great attraction to other kinds of drugs. Sure, I've had the odd experiment - special brownies, herbal teas and one or two incredibly good nights with Mother Nature's mushrooms, but I could count on one hand how many times I've gotten high on anything other than alcohol. Don't know why - maybe I'm too uptight, maybe I'm too skint... maybe I just really don't like not knowing what's going into my body. For whatever reason, the monkey has stayed well and truly off my back for most of my life, and I've never been even slightly tempted to offer him a piggy-back. Until now..

A report in yesterday's Huffington Post explains 'How Teens Are Using The Internet To Get High'. When I first read this, I thought it was something more akin to what The Onion might publish, and I kept expecting to get to the punchline. But it never came... this is for real! Turns out that companies are marketing songs that are intended to induce specific reactions in your brains, giving you all kinds of non-chemical alterations. From 'sexual', to 'relaxed', 'hallucinogenic' to 'euphoric' - you can buy a tune to change your mood. They advertise it as a "completely safe, non-addictive binaural beat" that will provide the listener with "an ultra-happy mood and an increased confidence." Seems pretty innocuous to me... though I'd like to see some research on whether it works. Most opponents to the technology are worried that because it's marketed to give you the 'same effect' as real drugs, that people who "i-dose" (seriously, that's what it's called) will eventually make the jump to marijuana, cocaine and the like. I'm not sure I buy that argument, but it's worth considering and bearing in mind. Me..? I'm more concerned about it being a scam than a gateway.


But it turns out that stuff has been around for AGES. Wikipedia tells us that Heinrich Wilhelm Dove discovered binaural beats in 1839.  Fast forward a few hundred years of scientific research and it now appears that we have a mainstream society that is so 'tuned in' that what started as funky bit of cognitive research is now a marketable way to achieve altered states.

Personally, I think the jury is still out on this one. I'm not entirely convinced that it works, nor am I entirely convinced that if it DOES work that it's as harmless or harmful as the lovers and haters would like us to believe.  It's hard for me to imagine 'Fast Times at Ridgemont High' with people pouring out of a smokeless VW campervan with their headphones on - or Cheech and Chong having the same digital appeal. It also seems a very lonely thing, to get 'high' on your own in this way. Like I said, I choose only to drink my drugs, and when I do that it's usually with friends because being out with them is a major part of why the experience is worthwhile. So sitting on my own listening to binbeats doesn't really grab me as much. 


For me, for now, it's just really interesting. Who'd have thunk it, eh...?

Wememberance Wednesday

Sixty-one years ago today, my mom was born. Four years and three hundred, thirty-nine days ago, she died. I'm no mathematician (I even have problems spelling 'mathematician'), but to die at the age of 56 in the 21st century seems really fucking unfair. Is it ironic that when I used to whine 'that's not fair!', my mom used to reply 'who ever said life was fair?'

Please understand that I see my mom as a human being - and that to me, means a couple of things. Sadly, it means that she was flawed. She had some major issues, dealing (or not dealing) with stuff that I can't even begin to imagine. And she didn't always handle it well. Her alcoholism and subsequent poverty is very clearly the reason she is no longer with us. Well, that and a medical system denies basic health screening to the poor. But make no mistake: she drunk herself into a situation where getting well again was always going to be tough. Her early years were tough, I'm told, and her adult life had its share of tragedies, too. I remember going to get her in a hotel room in Arizona, where she had verbally abused the staff for weeks as she quite literally tried to drink herself to death. I remember that she lost everything, systematically, because she was hurt, afraid and lonely. I remember all of that.

But I also remember how generous she was. I remember the first time she felt 'rich' and gave my brother and I each a $100 bill. I remember that well into our adult lives, we were her world, and everything she had she wanted to share with us. I remember her heartbeat and how, as a small child, I would nestle into her chest and fall asleep. I remember the first time I broke a bone, and how she would look after me when I was ill (which I was, a lot). I remember her driving me to practice, picking me up, and teaching me softly what was right and wrong. I remember her driving me to my first college lecture, and how I had to stop myself crying before I went into the room. I remember telling her about the first time I masturbated, and my first one-night stand. I remember the Christmas in Paris, when she packed a small artificial tree and we unwrapped tiny chocolates as our presents. I remember her husband, my father, as well as her boyfriends, girlfriends and pets. I remember so many good things about her; she is so much more to me than the last few years of her life.

I can't say honestly that I always honour her as I should. I make mistakes she's warned me about, I do some of the things she tried to teach me to be better than. But today, sixty-one too short years after she was born, I look at my daughter, named after my mom, and I hope that Mom sees and knows the very best thing I've ever done. A good friend of mine assures me that she does, and I'm choosing to believe it.

Happy Birthday, Mom. You are greatly missed.

TuNesday: Bombay Bicycle Club

I used to tell people that I didn't have a 'type' of anything. Maybe it was my attempt to be universally tolerant, or avant-garde, or maybe even it was a good way not to piss anyone off. Food...? Mexican, Italian, Chinese, French, whatever. And music... country, folk, rock, classical - I 'loved' it all. Turns out, I was only part right. Turns out that what I'll accept, and what I'd recommend are two totally different things. Turns out that what I'll settle for and what I'll seek out vary considerably. I haven't listened to a country song since I left Pullman. And music? Well, this is the third 'TuNesday' I've written and it's the third folky song I've picked. So I'm beginning to think that I have some types, and this is one of them.

I emplore you to check out 'Bombay Bicycle Club'. Their new single 'Ivy and Gold' has that same kind of simple,  honest resonance that strikes me in the likes of Mumford and Sons, Jason Mrantz and even a hint of Simon and Garfunkel in their day. Have a listen here:

Before this, I enjoyed 'Always like this' and 'Magnet' and have been impressed by their live performances on the summer festival scene. I had to admit, though...previous releases like 'Evening/Morning' and 'Dust on the Ground' haven't grabbed me as immediately like this one, but I hear foundations of a sound I think I'll like a bit more as I listen a bit more.

TuNesday: K'naan

OK, I'll admit it: I'm enjoying watching the World Cup. Or, as one newspaper over here smugly put it (in a sarcastic attempt to Americanise it): The World Series of Soccerball. Yes, we Americans do tend to excel more in sports we invented and, to be fair, the sports we've invented really only appeal to us and a handful of places we've been. But the same could be said of Soccer - and the British can't even claim to be very good at that any more.

One of the things I've enjoyed most about this year's tournament has been the 'offiicial' theme song: Wavin' Flag, by K'naan. Of course it's cheesey, and of course it's a bit Coca-Cola corporate rah-rah, but for some reason lines like 'let's rejoice in the beautiful game' makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Maybe it's the beat behind it... a steady, resonant 'thump' that moves in and out of focus. Maybe it's the superficial simplicity of the song - it evokes the simplicity of the game, really, and the almost universal appeal of the competition. But I think it goes more deeply than that. The version released for the World Cup is a little disappointing... the message of K'nann's original song have been watered down significantly. The original song is strong - it speaks of war, and struggle, and the ability of the human spirit to overcome extreme adversity. That song is about so much more than football, (or Coca-Cola), but probably wouldn't have made a very good theme song. What's left is still moving, though, and to my ears the beat and more optimistic (marketable) lyrics are just about enough.

I'm still not convinced that I'm a lifelong fan of Soccerball, but at the very least, this summer, I've enjoyed myself. And I turn up 'Wavin' Flag' every time it comes on.

FYI, K'naan has done other stuff, too. Born into a war-torn Somalia, he's known for his fusion style and politically-charged lyrics and has been quoted as someone who avoids associations with 'gangsta rap'. He's collaborated with Keane, Bryan Adams and Mos Def, and is currently on tour supporting Lenny Kravitz. All in, well-worth a listen long after the final whistle.

Wecipe Wednesday: Fish n' Chips

Step #2 in my 'build a better blog' project: themed entries. Or, this case, themed entrees. I'm deciding that every Wednesday, I'll feature a recipe that I've tried the previous week. I do all of the shopping and cooking for the adults of the family, so what I make is really up to me. There are only a few no-no's:

1. In general, it can't be spicy. The Wife doesn't do spicy; even black pepper is pushing it. This will explain the relative wussiness of some of my choices. It will also explain my habit of attacking my innards when I'm left alone in for a weekend. From 0-16,000,000 on the Scoville Scale in three days.. not advisable. Fun, but smelly - and more than a little uncomfortable.
2. Only non-fishy fish. Although one of us (not me) is keen on all things nautical, my indulgence in les fruits de mers is limited to tuna (preferably tinned), cod, haddock, prawns and the like. The idea of eating mussels, oysters or baby squids sends all the wrong kinds of shivers down me timbers. If anything other than skill and knowledge was holding me back from Masterchef, it's this.
3. Ingredients have to be available in West Wales. This is probably not as limiting as you might think, but it is a factor. I can't (without difficulty) get proper tortillas, or things like artichokes out of season. It's not a barrier, but it is a hurdle.

Right - with that in mind, my first sharing is a simple one. I bought two nice cod loins from the fishmonger. The place sells fish and flowers, which to me seems very odd. Best case, you'll get flowery-smelling fish. Worst (and more likely) case is that you get fishy-smelling flowers. Not sure how that works. Anyway... 

For one of the loins (I just like saying that word), I followed(ish) this recipe for the batter, courtesy of Emeril Lagasse via the Food Network.com site (http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/emeril-lagasse/fish-and-chips-recipe/index.html):

• 1 (12-ounce) bottle of beer 
• 2 large eggs
• 3 cups flour, in all
• 1 teaspoon baking powder
• Salt and pepper
• Essence, recipe follows

Now, when Emeril says 'Essence', he means his cajun spice mix that you're meant to have prepared earlier and have to hand. I had no Essence, so I just used season-all and cayenne pepper. Seemed to do the trick. As I was only making one piece of fish, I also just eyed the ingredients, trying to keep the ratios the same. It means I used a lot less of everything, except the beer, the 'extra' of which seemed to disappear rather quickly.

Chips were easy enough... a couple of good-sized reds peeled and put through the chipper. Rinsed, soaked in cold water for a few minutes and then drained thoroughly before being put into very hot oil. Salt immediately after removing from fat, even if you still have to cook the fish (like I did). 

A large helping of peas perked up with fresh mint from the garden and the meal was good to go.

Probably the best Fish and Chips I've had, so thank you Mr. Lagasse! The batter was crisp (very important) and didn't hold much of the grease from the fryer. Cod was firm, juicy and dee-lish.

Pictures next time, methinks, to help tell the tale. Suggestions for next week...?

TuNesday

First heard Mumford and Sons late last year. Thought they were a poor Irish band - they remind me of the good bits I can remember about a stag do in Liverpool, drinking beer, singing and listening to a 2-man Irish folk band into the wee hours. Turns out they're a bunch of super-rich kids from London - faith and begorrah! - but don't let that get in the way of this sound. It's rural, it's earthy and it gives me goodebumps (those are the best kind of goosebumps, dontcha know). Only three songs have gone mainstream so far. I missed the first release, 'Little Lion Man'. The Cave, their second single, is pretty awesome - and it's what got me hooked in the first place. Have a listen here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fNy8llTLvuA. I'm not sure yet what to think of their latest (Roll Away Your Stone, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O-1V92iWtQY). I fear it may be a bit samey... hoping they have more surprises left in them.

The song really gets to me is 'Winter Winds'. It still makes me want to cry, and I'm not sure why. You can listen to it via the link, below. What do you think...?

What's in a Name?

One of the most charming and frustrating facts about Wales is that some things haven't really changed over here in a long, long time. Take language, for example. However evolutionary it is worldwide, English is still quite - descriptive - in this neck of the woods. You have the normal English variety of illustrative naming: what we might call Saran Wrap or plastic wrap is 'cling film' (because it's a film that clings); 'golden syrup' is predictably a sweet yellowy syrup and you pretty much know what you're getting if you order 'cheese on toast' in a local cafe. And you don't even need to speak Welsh to be able to see that the Welsh do it, too: 'popty-ping' is delightfully Welsh for 'microwave' ('popty' means 'oven' and 'ping' means... well, 'ping').

The true locals take it even a step further and give such descriptive monikers to people.  Clive y Gof is 'Clive Blacksmith', John Ceunant is 'John (Hopkins) who lives at Ceunant Farm', John Busses drives the local school bus and Carol Tal is Carol (Evans) who is 6'2". Back home, my surname is my father's legacy. Most of us have very little choice and some of us spend a great deal of time trying to find out where that name has come from and what, if anything, it means.

I guess it's the Welsh version of some Native American naming traditions, with a modern twist. Here, you are known by what you do, where you live, or who you are - things, unlike my surname, over which I can exert some degree of influence. And it makes me think - if I wasn't blatantly the only American in town, what would my Welsh surname be? How would I be known? What characteristic about me makes me identifiable and unique to my community? I'd hope that it's something honourable, or creative; I'd be very sad if it was 'Tim TV' or 'Tim Bullshitter'. But then, that's up to me, isn't it? I mean, it sounds pretty commonsensical, but it's also empowering. I can literally be anyone, as long as I actually AM someone.

Don't get me wrong, there is still the odd cryptic (and often intimidating) cognomen. For instance, don't be afraid  if you're offered 'spotted dick'... it's a cakey dessert, not an embarassing condition. Of course, 'pudding' itself is not what my American friends and family might be inclined to think of. It can range from sweet to savoury, from breakfast sausage to dessert and many places in between. But that's the subject of a whole 'nuther (and somebody else's) blog...

LOC # 63: Not every joke is a knock-out.

This is me, getting back on a saddle of blogging. As I read blogs of friends and friends of friends, I am reminded that not everything that's blogged is earth-shatteringly important (no offence, B and/or Craig). Sometimes, it's just the process of expression that is important, and sometimes it's more important to you than to the one or two other people who might be interested in what you have to say (sometimes).


So what am I waiting for, I ask? Am I waiting for that one moment of supreme clarity and inspiration that will change the lives of my two followers (see above)? Am I waiting for that ePiphany that will launch me into the stratosphere of web infamy? I need to remember that, like good comedy, sometimes you need lesser thoughts to make the better thoughts seem even more amazing, right?

In every aspect of our lives, we need the Laurels to go with the Hardys. We all need our Shemps to bring out the genius of our Moes, Larrys and Curlys.


Some entries are bound to be the warm-up act, the fluffers of the blogosphere. Consider this to be just that. This entry is not the main act, and there might be several other warm-ups before, or even between my moments of real magnitude.  


Even so, be forewarned: the blog is back. I may not always have anything important to say, but at least I'll be saying something.

LoC #35: Embrace Yestalgia

Yestalgia [yes-stal-juh] noun. A positive and healthy appreciation for past experiences.

I live in a wonderful part of the world. I don't have to lock my doors at night, I know both of my neighbours, and the police are respected, not feared (they don't even carry guns). The weather will never be tropical, but all in all, I feel pretty lucky to live where I do. Every once in a while, though, I get real pangs to be back in the Pacific Northwest, or even just on American soil. Here are five of the things that I miss most (in no particular order)…

1.    Mt. Rainer. When I show people pictures of where I come from, with The Mountain watching over us, most of them reply with, 'And you came here, WHY…?'. It's only when I show it to someone else that it hits me how majestic, how powerful that mountain is.

2.    Mongolian Beef from Tea Leaf II. I have even written them to ask them for their recipe. I can make it here, but not nearly as good as it is there. Me love it long time!

3.    Outdoor basketball. Where I went to college, there were no fewer than 29 outdoor basketball courts, and we played on them rain, shine, or finals. You could go alone, or with some friends, and either way you'd be playing a game in minutes. If you did happen to go alone, you were sure to add someone who was just walking by, looking for a game. Hours, days, weeks. Endless summers.

4.    Seasons. Traditionally, Wales has two seasons: Spring and Fall. It never gets too hot, it never gets too cold. There's never a drought, but it can go weeks without a break in the rain. When it's nice (like it has been this week), it's glorious. But I miss being really hot. I miss being tanned, and the contrast of an ice-cold Coke as it fizzles down my dry throat. Crazy as it seems, I miss dust.

5.    A common past. I was home over the summer for a 20-year high school reunion, and saw people I hadn't seen in decades. A lot of conversations started with 'do you remember when…', and, to be honest, until that moment I hadn't. But the memories were warm; they were lovely. They reminded me that I am FROM somewhere, and that my life is so much more than what it's become here in Wales. I have embraced Wales as my present and future, and everything pre 1996 seems an eternity ago. But when I'm home, or speaking with someone from home, I remember. A simpler time, a simpler me. Good times, hard times, times when I thought I'd die of a broken heart or die from laughter. I am thankful for those connections.

Is there a lesson here, other than 'take care to appreciate what you have ', or 'you don't' know what you got 'til it's gone'? Probably not, but those sayings are famous for a reason: they are true, and we'd all do well to remember them. Look around, look behind, look inside… be aware, and be grateful.

LoC #73: Keep It Simple, Stupid (KISS)

Bloggoal for today, #1:    Find a funky new blog template. Check.

Bloggoal for today, #2:    Write shorter blogs. Check.



Unintentional word invention, 'bloggoal' (rhymes with 'foggoal' or 'smoggoal'): Check.

LoC #51: Stay Forever Young

Off an on (mostly on) over the past 14 years, I've been playing and/or coaching American football here in Wales. It's been a great experience, and I have the UK AF scene to thank for the majority of my social network, as well as a large stockpile of 'do as I say, not as I do' stories for my daughter when she's older. It's a tough sport to get supported… money and resources are tight. There is in-fighting and, especially at the moment – there is a real lack of faith that the people in charge of the sport on a national level have the best interests of AF at heart. On the positive side, however, it's the kind of football most Americans can only dream about after high school. Being involved over here is an opportunity that I think only we ex-pats can appreciate. Not being nearly big (or good) enough, I – like 99% of the rest of high school players – thought that my last game in 1988 was going to be my last kitted game.

We were not a good side. At Olympia's Capital High School, Wayne Sortun had broken new ground as a first-year head coach. They'd eventually bear fruit, but during the summer of 1988, surrounded by old-school assistant coaches and players too young to know better, his progressive methods earned him only cynicism and scorn. What radical changes did Sortun make to Black Hills prep football…? Unthinkably, he cut players, More than that, he cut STARTERS for breaking the rules. He let younger players challenge for spots traditionally reserved for Seniors. He introduced Sports Psychology to the team. As a formal coaching tool, this was unheard of at the time. Instead of running 'The Gauntlet' and screaming 'You're slower than the second coming' at struggling players, Sortun had the team meet off the field, to participate in trust circles and motivational visualisation. When the word got out that the football team was playing games and daydreaming, parents and boosters were up in arms. Players didn't understand his methods, parents didn't trust his credentials. The result of all of these factors was a 1-7 season that put Sortun and his innovative approach to coaching on the chopping block. Luckily for him and for the programme, he was able to convince the school and the boosters that there was a method to his madness and, over the next ten years took the Cougars to two 3A State Championships.

So, when I left Capital, I thought my gridiron days were over for good. That all changed when I arrived in the tiny town of Aberystwyth, Wales, in 1992 to find the fledging Tarannau Aberystwyth squad. 1992 was their first season – well, with pads anyway. They'd played the entire 1991 season (full contact) without a shoulder pad or helmet between them, but a lucrative sponsorship deal with a local beer distributer meant that in '92 they could play in shoulder pads and helmets. As an exchange student visiting for only a year, I declined the opportunity to play, opting to join the less dangerous basketball team instead. That was no less of an adventure, but that's the stuff for another blog. It wasn't until 1996 that I decided to join Tarannau, and I haven't really looked back. I've been lucky enough to play for (and lose) two UK championships. I've earned a few awards along the way, not the least of which is having two numbers retired for the South Wales Warriors. But playing football has really only been half of the story, and it's the other half that I'd like to share with you.

Being part of the British sporting community has been a real challenge. And please know that when I say 'sporting community', I mean a very small, very amateurish group of quasi-athletes playing a minority sport in the UK. It takes a different breed of Brit to become interested in AF, especially in West Wales. For starters, this is die-hard rugby country. Even though Wales, as a national side, hasn't been at the top of the world rankings for almost 30 years, they still consider themselves the heart and home of international rugby. As a result, every big, athletic young man is steered towards 'the egg', and funnelled through an elaborate, well-funded, but ultimately ill-advised 'system' of getting them noticed for representative squads. What we tend to get, then, are the left-overs – the guys that were either not good enough, or not interested enough in rugby to compete at the highest levels. At university (college) here, the AF teams struggle to lure big, athletic guys away from the rugby team – who normally have a lot more money, a lot more prestige, and a lot more groupies. Once we've got them, we have to keep them. And that means teaching them Football 101, Day One. As in… show them the ball (some for the first time), try to explain the basics of the rules (there are a lot of them!), show them how to tackle differently than in rugby, and, most awkwardly of all, show them how and why we wear all the 'kit'. The kit is the biggest and most obvious barrier to the game's popularity. In a country where grown men bash each other about for fun, the idea of wearing a helmet and shoulder pads is akin to putting on slippers and a tutu; you might as well dress them up in pink taffeta and put ribbons in their hair. Our only – and most effective – reply is: come and see for yourself. Come and have one session in kit, and you'll see a) how much fun it is to hit people and have it not hurt and b) how the game itself demands that the kit is worn. On one hand, it's a coach's worst nightmare – at college, we have five weeks, training twice a week, to go from 'never seen a football' to our first game. The first few sessions are bound to be frustrating, and move at a very, very slow pace. On the other hand, to go from 'never seen a football' to 'actually quite a good player' is very rewarding as a coach. You have a blank canvas to work with, and as the player grows and matures, you take some pride in knowing that you are partially responsible for his love of the game.

And, if it's one thing I've noticed about AF players in the UK – once they get the bug, they are hooked. It isn't available to them without a great deal of effort, and those that take the time to get involved at some level develop a real passion for the game. There are over 60 teams in the UK over the course of the year, with about 5000 players involved in some form of football. The annual NFL game in Wembley sells out its 75,000 seats in minutes, as the whole British football community gathers for its annual social event. The Brits, once they find football, love football. And that is what keeps me coming back. Don't get me wrong, there are still egos and, more and more, the 'rah-rah' attitude that defines American sport. And player commitment isn't exactly what you get back home. Then again, when players are paying £200 a season (twice a year) to play the sport, it's hard then to tell them that they aren't good enough to play, or to get angry when they miss practice. It's a hard balance to strike and has driven more than a few coaches from the game.

But for those of us who have stuck with it, the rewards are immense. I imagine it will be like when my daughter says her first word, or takes her first step. When a LB makes a good tackle, or a DB picks off a pass… the look of joy and accomplishment in their face makes all of the frustration disappear. Yes, there's also the part of me that thinks 'I had something to do with that', which is fulfilling in a selfish kind of way… but the majority of what you feel as a coach is empathetic joy in knowing that a few years ago, that guy who just sacked the QB had never put on a helmet before, or that guy who just returned a kick-off to the house used to run with the ball like a loaf of bread, and the work they've put in has allowed them to be successful. It reminds me of my first touchdown, as a freshman fullback against Aberdeen, and I know that, at that moment, everything in their world is OK. I wonder if they had their eyes closed, too…?

LoC #4: Always Laugh at Your Own Jokes

This is another 'Law of Comedy' that I remembered last night, and probably stems from telling WAY too many jokes that no-one else finds particularly funny. I remember thinking, back in The Day, 'Well, if nobody else is going to laugh, I'm going to!' And it seemed a pretty good motto to adopt (even if was self-serving), especially if, like me, after making with the funny you prefer the sound of laughing to that of tumbleweeds. Let's not forget all of those timeless adages about being able to laugh at yourself, and at life. It got me thinking of some of the laughable things I've done, and how true it is that if I wasn't able to laugh about these episodes in my life, I would surely be crying about them…

Believe it or not, I was a precocious little boy. My mother had taught me to know my own mind and to express it with as much dignity and courtesy as possible. Even at the tender age of 6, I knew what I liked and to what extent I was willing to tolerate persuasion to the contrary. When I was that age, my parents decided that we needed to make a long road trip to see my great-grandmother in Michigan. She was an old woman, and they thought it would be a good idea for my brother and me to meet her before she passed away. So we made the trip up from Tallahassee to Lansing, eager to bridge the generation gap and instil at least one or two good memories to be passed on. My great-grandma had other ideas… Great Grandma had a well-known and powerful motus operandi when it came to getting people to do things. In her attempts to entice someone to do something they'd otherwise prefer not to, Great Grandma employed one of the most powerful weapons of all: guilt. Now, guilt can be used with skill by lots of people in lots of situations, but no-one handles it like a grand-parent. After several failed attempts at asking anyone to do anything, Great Grandma would go right for the jugular: 'If you love me, you'll _____'. This worked on everyone, and she knew it. We all knew she'd do it, and we all knew that we'd succumb, eventually, to that ultimatum. Except for me, of course, and except  for when it came to broccoli. I did NOT like broccoli, and I knew that I did not like broccoli. When Great Grandma asked me to eat it the first time, I politely refused: 'No, thank you. I don't like broccoli'. On the second time of asking, I repeated my rejection: 'No. thank you. I don't like broccoli'. Great Grandma knew she'd have to bring out the big guns. 'If you love me, you'll eat your broccoli'. Exasperated beyond manners and much to my mother's humiliation, I responded with a frank, 'Why don't you just bug off, lady?'. We left the next day, and that was near enough the last thing I said to her.

When I was in the fifth grade, having JUST moved to the Pacific Northwest from a suburb of Memphis, TN, I decided that my slow, Southern drawl wasn't quite enough to make me stand out. (It was enough for them to put me into remedial reading, classes, though – it took me a while to convince them that not everyone who SOUNDS like Gomer Pyle thinks like him, too.) No, being tall, skinny and completely bumpkin-afied wasn't enough. After watching some promotional church video, I decided that what I really wanted to do to set myself apart was to wear an 'I'm a Mormon' t-shirt. So I had not one, but two printed up on blank baseball shirts and wore them with SO much pride (and joyful ignorance) that I was able to ignore the 'You're a what..? A moron?' comments and was big enough that no one dared to try to beat me up. It was probably an added bonus that my friends at the time were the AD&D-playing, pale-skinned nerds of the school – so my venture into uber-nerdom meant that even they had someone to snigger at. 

My very first day of high school (having JUST gotten over the whole 'I'm a Mormon' fiasco), I was still doing my best to isolate myself from the cool crowd. In an unprecedented display of adolescent chivalry (and a blatant play for my best friend's older sister), I went to open the door for two hot babes (they were Juniors, for Christ's sake!). With my sparkling green eyes and butter-wouldn't-melt-in-these-dimples smile, I gallantly pushed one-half of the double glass doors and oozed a sweet 'After you, ladies.' They went through, saying something incredibly complimentary, I'm sure (although you'd be forgiven if it sounded like just laughter to you), and I began to follow. Unfortunately, being so very new to the school (and, apparently, to concept of double doors), I failed to realise that between the two double doors as a very hard, and very immobile steel post. You see, the other door of the double was already open and I just assumed that what was left for me was the whole expanse of the doorway. A large 'thud' and me ending up on my ass heralded to a large crowd that I was very much mistaken.

There are lots of 'you have to laugh' episodes in my life involving Speedos – not the least of which is admitting that there are lots of episodes in my life involving Speedos, full-stop. However, one particular incident in college stands out as a time when I really wish I'd thought a bit more about how what I say gets heard (as opposed to how it sounded in my head). I used to swim quite a bit, despite being absolutely horrible at it. And, being me, I wanted to make sure that I had the right equipment for the activity… so, in a quiet little town in West Wales, on my way to the local swimming baths, I bought my first pair of Speedos. A catching hunter-green number, with white accents, I marvelled at how it could be acceptable to wear so little in public. But I trusted the salesperson that this was, indeed, my size and proceeded to adorn them before jumping in the pool. In the group changing room, and in a last moment of self-doubt, I turned to the gentleman next to me, looked down at my banana-hammock and asked, quite innocently, 'Does this look right to you?' It was only after I saw his look of horror that I realised how what I said might be misconstrued. Needless to say we both showered, swam and left the pool without making eye contact again.

The last one I'll share for now is something I've only just been told about, even though it happened over 20 years ago. Now, I was a decent athlete in high school… nothing spectacular, but nothing shameful, either. I mean, there are plenty of 'laugh-at-myself' sporting moments: farting on the takeoff of the long-jump, going sideways and landing into the other pole vault competitors, admitting to the whole team that I scored my first ever touchdown with my eyes closed. I was an OK athlete, but I never thought that I would be remembered for it. So when, upon re-connecting with a long lost friend via Facebook a few months ago, I was surprised to read her ask after two decades of non-contact, whether I still had my track sweats from High School. When I replied that I didn't and why would she ask, she commented that those sweats had been legendary in our three years on the same squad. Our track sweats were anything but legendary: they were bright gold, baggy and this was the 80s, so we pushed the legs up to our knees. There must have been something else about those sweats that made them memorable to her. Turns out, that something else was my something else. Unknown to me, I had spent three years on the track team being the unwitting subject of many a locker-room banter regarding the bulge in my sweats. Clearly, I'm not now making my living as a porn star, so I can't claim to be overly well endowed, but I was a big fan of boxer shorts - and those sweats, God bless them, must have hung in all the wrong places. To add insult to injury, the story now is that EVERYONE knew about it… everyone but me. I really wish I'd known that before doing that oiled-up synchronised body-building routine in nothing but cycling shorts my senior year…


And this only just scratches the surface. I haven't touched on the romantic, or sexual, or just-plain-stupid mistakes I've made – and believe me when I say that there are plenty of all three of those. But the point is (and I don't blame you for asking) that we have always done, and will continue to do things that are so cringe-worthy that we will be faced with a choice. We can either decide that those moments are too much to bear and cower in the shame of our indiscretion or our badly-placed foot, or we can elect to adopt a sense of perspective about who we are, and whether that faux pas really has the legs to worry about long-term. If we opt to recognise the beauty of our own fallibility, those moments that were so horrendously uncomfortable become something else, something worthwhile. Choose to laugh at yourself, and those moments become side-splittingly, spit-your-water-out, laugh-'til-you-cry funny. At those moments in our lives, despite how humiliating they must seem at the time, we all would do well to remember that the world is a very big place indeed. Don't' sweat the small stuff, and try to remember that 'You don't stop laughing because you grow old. You grow old because you stop laughing.' Stay young: laugh at yourself as much as possible.

LoC #12: Sometimes the Funny is Hard to Find

I was introduced to young man from the western United States yesterday. His teacher matter-of-factly said that I was a friend from college, who now lives in Wales. The look of confusion on the otherwise intelligent lad's face only started to dissipate when it was explained that it (Wales) was 'next to England'. I would have been shocked, appalled, frustrated, maybe even amused – if it wasn't for the fact that nobody, and I mean NOBODY, knows anything about Wales. When I mention where I live, I invariably have to explain the following things:

1. No, I don't know Prince Charles (or Princess Di). Or the Queen. Or Benny Hill. Or any other famous British person you might think of.
   
2. There is no 'H' in 'Wales'.
   
3. It's not 'in' or 'the same as' England… I usually ask the American whether he's happy to be called Canadian (or vice versa) to make this point.
   
4. We have running water, electricity and wear underwear (most of the time).
   
5. Yes, they speak funny here. Learning to pronounce places like 'llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch' takes quite a bit of time, practice and beer.
   

I guess it's not completely surprising. I mean, Wales isn't even recognised in the British flag – St. David's Cross is the only cross not included in the Union Jack – so if it's not given its props at home, why should anyone know about it abroad? But when you consider that Wales, as much as any of its Celtic cousins, has a rich, colourful past, connections to some of the most famous and powerful people in history, its own language and a legitimate claim to the discovery of the New World, it begs the question: why not Wales?

I can go into any major (and many minor) cities in the world and find my way easily to the local Irish pub – I know because I've done it. From Prague's Rocky O'Reilly's to O'Blarney's Pub back home. Irish pubs are as predictable as they are ubiquitous; anywhere you go, you're bound to find decent food, great banter, at least one good looking Irish waitress and a healthy mix of Irish tunes on the jukebox – from Enya to U2, B*Witched to Van Morrison. We all know about St. Patrick's Day, Leprechauns and the Gift of the Gab. You can't go many places in the world without seeing a shamrock; the Irish are everywhere.

And the Scots…? It's safe to say that films like The Highlander, Trainspotting and Braveheart, for better or for worse, put some idea of Scotland on the map. But even before then, you had John Logie Baird, Alexander Graham-Bell, Robert Burns, Lord Byron, Robert Louis Stevenson and, of course, Mary Queen of Scots. We all know about bagpipes and kilts, haggis and William Wallace. The Scots aren't nearly as famous as the Irish, but they still far surpass the Welsh in terms of worldwide notoriety.

So what's the deal? Why do Ireland and Scotland shine so brightly on the world stage, while Wales sits quietly in the corner, plucking is daffodil and munching on bara brith? It's not a question of culture or lack of national heroes. Scotland may have had the help of Hollywood and the support of literature to boost its international profile, but Wales has a rich, ambitious and bloody history worthy of any tinsel town epic. King Arthur…? Merlin…? Welsh! You could argue that Ireland's spud-fuelled diaspora sent them to the far corners of the Earth, spreading their legs, songs, art and beer along the way. But Wales was out there, too, sowing its seed in pre- and post colonial America, laying the foundation of constitutional democracy long before the hungry Irish arrived. Lewis and Clark confirmed the legends in the American midwest. If I had to pick the two things that have kept Wales in the shadows of its Gaelic brothers and sisters, the first would have to be an echo of the warcry of the recently much-maligned Mel Gibson. In a word, what Wales lacks most, is freedom.

Unlike the Irish and the Scots, both of whom managed to shake off the shackles of English rule to some degree, Wales has never been able to organise itself enough to go it alone. The Republic of Ireland, of course, gained its independence in 1921 and Scotland, while still part of Great Britain, re-established its own devolved law-making parliament in 1999. Wales has a parliament with some power, but for all intents and purposes, is still governed from Westminster. Repeated attempts at independence have all failed, except for the short rule of Owain Glyndwr, whose reign of an independent Wales ended with his disappearance in 1412. Wales, geographically isolated and relatively poor in marketable natural resources spends its days ticking over as a peaceful and obedient principality, despite a long-standing and deep animosity for the English crown.

The other barrier to getting to know, and to love, the Welsh is the one of the very things that makes them unique: the language. Welsh is a true isolationist tongue, having no romantic or Germanic antecedent - except, or course for the Wenglish that has crept in during modern times. We can all probably guess what a 'Tacsi' is, and that 'dim parcio' means 'no parking'. And then there's the modern classics like 'popty ping' which has replaced 'ffwrn meicrodon' as the word for 'microwave'. But, ultimately, Welsh (of which there are at least two distinct dialects) is pretty inaccessible to the western tongue. With 28 letters, including some real hum-dingers like 'Ll and Ff', it's unlike anything most of us will have heard before, and despite being the language of the bards, not very musical to the untrained ear. And whereas Irish and Scottish Gaelic are part of their respective heritages, Welsh is very much part of Wales' present, and very much tied into what it means to be Welsh. And I suppose you can't really blame them… the English did their best to stamp out the language, and to no small extent, the current vitality of the language is a testament to the durability of the people. So they've fought hard and proud to keep Welsh alive – maybe even at the cost of promoting themselves to the rest of the world.

Then again, maybe that was the plan all along. Most of Wales, unknown to most of the rest of the world, remains largely unspoilt in a rural expanse of winding roads, pristine coastlines and snow-capped mountains. Sheep outnumber the people, and I live in a village where people stop to say 'good morning' (or 'bore da') and bring you ice cream cones when they've noticed that you've been working in your garden all day. Even the capital of Cardiff is intimate and understated - a friendly place that doesn't seem that bothered whether you know about it or not, but will welcome you if you should chance to stumble upon her. You can't help but wonder whether Wales, as one of the world's best kept secrets, is that way by luck or by design… and whether anyone here really cares that you can't walk into a tacky Welsh pub in downtown Albuquerque. Maybe, just maybe, the country, like the language, is for the purists, and for those of us who don't mind making the effort to get to know her. This St. David's Day (March 1), celebrate the anonymity of Wales by joining me a pint of Brains' best while we sing a verse or two of 'Sospan Fach'. lechyd da!

LoC #1: Farting is Always Funny

There is something quite unnerving about setting up a blog. For starters, it means that I'm committing myself to having an opinion about something. Am I that opinionated...? Probably not. But I tend to think that some of the opinions I do have might matter. 


Take Law of Comedy #1, for instance: Farting is Always Funny. Now, obviously, there are the exceptions that confirm the rule. I doubt very much, for example, that you'd agree with that statement if you've ever had the misfortune to suffer IBS, or to be around someone who's suffering. I'd probably also want to eliminate any fart that resulted in an unexpected and/or unwanted follow-through. But, in general, farting is funny. And I'll tell you why...


Farting is the great equaliser. Like pooping's lesser-known but funnier cousin, everybody does it. The people who tell you that they never do, or tell you that they don't smile a little on the inside when (not if) they do - they're liars. I do it, you do it, my baby daughter does it, Abraham Lincoln, Margaret Thatcher, Adolf Hitler, Mother Theresa... all farters. Ugly people do it, as do the beautiful; your bottom doesn't care how pretty your face is... fact. There is even a Facebook group devoted to documenting famous farters. And yet, we all try to act as if it's the most disgusting and unnatural thing to have happened. I say embrace the fart. Accept that, at some point in your life, your bottom is going to make a sound, and maybe even a smell, that you'd rather not have shared. And it's going to happen whether you like it or not, whether you fight it or not.

It's not it's a new thing either. Farting has always been around, and it's always been funny. Chaucer thought so, Shakespeare agreed. But they were hacks when it came to funny farting. The oldest known joke, in all of human kind, is about farting. From the Summarians, circa 1900 BC: "Something which has never occurred since time immemorial; a young woman did not fart in her husband's lap." I'm not saying it was HILARIOUS, but it was funny... to them.


So I guess that's my first opinion: farting is always funny. The sooner we all accept it, the happier we'll be.