Saturday, December 31, 2016

I miss #44 already

Obama hasn't left office but I already keenly feel his absence—because Trump is already shouting his opinion on anything that is in his face like a laser spot before a cat and as the heir taking over in three weeks his opinion matters more.

I saw a journo on a talk show dot point the excellence of Barack Obama and how while we're missing him now even before he's left wait until six months into a DT presidency—then we'll be missing him.

And we are missing him. Because Obama only has three weeks there's nothing substantive he can do now that cannot be immediately undone once he goes by not only Trump but also by the ghastly choir of repubs from the house with the backing of Trump.

The whole world is going to miss President Obama. I'm just hoping our reminiscences of his excellence aren't going to be held around a sputtering fire in the ruins of civilization that once was. 

Trump and the Republicans won the presidency by racial animus, misogyny and a barrel full of lies. 

And now they're the government. 

With such a foundation how can their rule be anything but failure?

Here's hoping I am wrong.

Friday, December 30, 2016

Thursday, December 29, 2016

Comedy lore imparted

One of the immense joys of parenting is imparting the knowledge of kewl movies, books and music. 

And TV shows ... and movies inspired by TV shows.

And that's how it came to be theboy finally saw Wayne's World

He loved it; he's seen WW on SNL before but never the whole movie. I paused it more than once to explain a joke and point out excellence in craft by the director. 

It's amazing to give those gifts to your child; to show them genius and for them to recognise it and love it too.

I would have been pretty devo had he hated it. But, given he loved it as a skit, I felt sure he'd love the movie.

It should of course be noted that he recreated the underpants-in-the-crack bit before the movie had even ended.

That boy's got talent

Pimped self with a tenth ping

On my last day I sent out another ping; a broadcast one to the senior peeps I'd worked for along with my CV, for if any work comes that they can see me doing.

It felt good to do it—except I got a date wrong and had to recall it then resend with a correction.

On that same last day I got a beautiful farewell from someone leaving his role but staying with the org. He deeply thanked me for being a great part of the team and for all the work I did. 

He had no investment in my happiness—he was off to a new part for a new job—but he took the time to show his appreciation.

It meant a lot. 

He was also the cat that spotted I got the date wrong and prompted me to resend.

We have to work with the people we work with. If we're lucky we work with people worth knowing.

They were all worth knowing. How lucky was I to finish out a project with awesome peeps by my side.


Wednesday, December 28, 2016

A paean to Dr Seuss

The other day I was atop the exercise bike in an ensemble of ladies PJ pants and no top but also no underpants.

I'm in my mid-forties and it had been about a year since I'd attempted a no undies ride.

I should have done what I did then and got off and got a pair but I elected to push on without them. 

The result? As Dr Seuss may have put it:

Old balls ... saggy balls ... sad balls

It was not a pleasant experience to have my aged scrotum hanging off the seat tip with a pair of seasonally appropriate balls hanging low either side and my pumping thighs brushing against them twice a second.

Underpants for bike riding (equals) recommended for men 40+.

Tuesday, December 27, 2016

Public toilets, public shaming

I was heading up the stairs to a public toilet when a teenage boy skidded his bike to a halt behind me. The loud, sudden noise sparked a fight (slash) flight reaction and I recoiled into myself, my fist raised and scream-yelled "JESUS" as per my default decidedly-lapsed x'tian upbringing go to curse. 

An old man, red-faced and portly, laughed at me—"you look like you're going to punch on, mate!" he said with giddy abandon at my response.

"No, mate," I said icily, "I have PTSD and that sparked my anxiety."

Without stopping to view his reaction I went in, went, then went back outside. Both he and the bike-rider were gone.

It was fucked having an F/F reaction in public, but made far worse for a fuckstick pointing it out and laughing at me.

That's life with a psychological injury; you have to put up with abuse from fuckwits for having one.

Monday, December 26, 2016

Did a Grandpa Simpson at the bus stop

With thanks to Abe Simpson.

It was the last working day of the year and after a cheery "Merry Xmas" to the nice bus lady in her striped Xmas hat that I walked off the bus at the station where I make my connection straight into the sound wave of a fuckwit with a petrol-powered leaf blower. Barely breaking stride I turned and walked straight back onto the bus and caught it to the next stop along.

Jesus, that was a week ago and I can still recall the sound wave as it crested my form and the panic it sparked that forced me back onto the very bus I'd just so expansively, and seasonally, exited. 

It was a Christmas UnMiracle.

What gets me is that battery-powered, less-insane-noise-causing leaf blowing and sucking devices do exist. The gardeners that swarm the public places of Canberra don't have to assail the environment with fumes of an auditory and nasal nature.They do it because no one has made them trade their fucked noisy gear in.

I sound like a cranky old man. But then I was born old, like Benjamin Button without the reverse aging, with dodgy feet, bad hips, and a spray of other defects that nearly killed me as the years wore on.

Anyway, it was lucky the bus hadn't burned off behind me or I'd have had to wait for the next one along with hands-clamped-on-ears and flag it down with an elbow.

That's life with psychological injury; it's like normal life but with moments of acute, juddering fear.

And it happened at the start of the day.

But I still made it in and finished up my project.

That's life with psychological injury; you have to go on with normal life in spite of it.


Monday, December 19, 2016


I had a mini-break for lunch, fast scarping sushi, before dashing back. Now I've gone to market I'm not beholden to artifice like a mandated break of X minutes at Y hours—I can just fly instead.

So I flew, flew right through what I needed to do and came up at the end of the day smiling.

This little piggy loves being at market.


Friday, December 16, 2016


I failed at the ninth ping and the shovel ready plan got blocked; though with excellent reasons. Hence the semi-fail; the plan has value but it's the implementation that is the tricky part.

That's okay. I look back at my life and I see a crazy mix of failure and success but with those failures assisting later successes.

Besides, I may find months later the plan is a go even though I'm not there to ride it to detonation

It happens like that for me. I do Quixotic charges with seeming no impact but a lightly scarred windmill and a trauma-afflicted horse. 

Then, months later, the windmill comes tumbling down.

So maybe that will be the ultimate conclusion of the semi-fail---that it's actually a slow burn to success.

I like the sound of that.


Thursday, December 15, 2016

Hobbit feet slippers actually worn as slippers

I didn't have any slippers that had a right foot—the only one with a right foot for the finding were the hobbit feet.

Yes, hobbit feet slippers from a delightful friend—much admired and worn by theboy but not practical as actual slippers.

But need was pressing so out I flopped out into early drizzle. 

They suit me; they look part of me. I am a hobbit in almost-size and in actual typical shape and dimensions—stout with an ample tum. My real feet are actually paddle-like, so flat that orthopedics do not work because there is no arch to support. 

So all I need now is a pipe, a wry smile and a second breakfast.


Tuesday, December 13, 2016

Construction complete

I completed my core project a week early—even with delays all the prep work I did made it quick to implement.

All that's left to do is cosmetic. Don't get me wrong—how a site looks is important. But what's most important is all the fucking links work.

And they fucking work.

I broke the seal on no Diet Coke; I had three on Friday as I forged through web changes with blinding speed and had two again today. I'm not re-hooked; I had it for caffeine 'cause I didn't get it together to take A2 milk to work for coffee. But that's how "Game on, mols" I went to get it all done; voiding my 18 month ban on guzzling my former dank mistress.

If I'm focused then I'll get to finish the purty-phase as well. It's the fun part—making a shit site look well gives you a fucking buzz. I'm lucky to have a job that provides such satisfaction. A job soon ending but a job fucking well done.

(Area man tidies up ranch after chasing away the town's no goods).

Monday, December 12, 2016

Wobbled; lost self in work

I had two wobbles from relived trauma, with tears rolling after the second. I trudged back to my desk, face ashen, determined to keep working.

I threw myself in, lost myself in work and purged the pain.

Sometimes I fall over; it will happen again.

But I always get back up; always.


Plug pulled

I had three days no-movement-build-up then WHAM, it all dropped this morning.

Normally this would be a stay home day. But it's not because I am working in a different plane of existence with an automatic cease date.

So I am fording on, undies in a bag just in case.

It's the price you pay for taking yourself to market—pushing yourself when you should not—but it's a world of deadlines meets triage and you just have to throw yourself into it.

Friday was the worst day, for I'd discovered a landing URL had changed which meant re-doing all the work I'd done. But I kept a log so that combined with searches meant just a solid near 11 hour day of music, a document with links loaded and patient, methodical combing through sites to change a link and owning text.

I got to the end in a daze, staggering off down the corridor to go home. Then my system clamped up and I spent days of abdominal discomfort before discharge.


UPDATE: I survived. Go me!

Friday, December 09, 2016


The fake news scandal of how facebook-fuelled ad-revenue driven fake news sites convinced white women to go with an orange groper continues with real world impact after a gunman went into one alleged child murder pizzeria and other pizza places have taken abusive threatening phone calls. The basic thrust is pizza was Clinton camp code for ritualistic child murder and these sessions happened in the back room of said pizzerias.

But I did laugh at the idea that if after phoning in abuse the caller then ordered a pizza.


Thursday, December 08, 2016

Old lady bus redux

I went to help an old lady onto the bus—she had two cast-clad legs and six grocery bags hanging off her arm. She said thanks but no thanks, because I could only help by taking the bags and she explained they needed to stay on her arm for when she got off.

She then talked at me for the rest of the trip. I didn't mind, she had a lot to say and a short amount of time to say it—and yes she mentioned both the Great War and the Great Depression.

I guess I just have a great countenance that says "old ladies, please converse". 

Blame your parents

I had my remaining natural hip scanned for degradation. Yes, some of that, but I don't need surgery yet—my comfort will determine when it gets done.

In the meantime he gave me praise for doing the right thing—exercise biking being the best exercise for a failing hip because it tones the muscle that keeps it together.

He had a work experience person in and he explained to her that I had been young for my surgery and that the damage to my left hip was likely caused during gestation; by the position I lay within my mother and the way she lay as well. This damage in addition to that caused by my breech birth.

"Blame your parents," he said. 

I know my body is not my fault—it was made and developed this way. But the shit I copped from those parents for my height, weight and lack of agility made for an unpleasant childhood—and adulthood because they kept that crap up after I left home.

I sat on the bus home flitting between happiness and anger; happiness at once again confirming how fucking awesome I am and anger at the bullshit I endured, and still endure, because of my body—and people's attitudes to it. 

But I'm still here, not in spite of it but because of it; this bullshit makes me strong.


Monday, December 05, 2016

Walked it off

Our building's sclerotic network landed causing no end of frustration—the price you pay when all your work is done via a network. At one point I yelled at SharePoint and that, combined with a brain-hurting email, meant I had to walk it off.

So I walked it off. It didn't help that much but the break at least short-circuited the anger build up so I went back to frustrated mode instead of under-the-breath muttering and sotto "WTF?" reactions when the fucking computer didn't do what I wanted it to.

It was an insane Monday with a fuck ton of work; but the work I did was good, hearty fare whose effects will last a long time.


Saturday, December 03, 2016


I went to the end-of-year fete in spite of the noise and crowds because, well, it was the fucking end-of-year fete.

I medicated as much as I could then slid in to enjoy myself.

It was my fault. I should have known that the fire engine display behind me would of course display its horn. It blared, sudden and loud, in a sonic wave aimed it seemed at the back of my head.

My body entered fight (slash) flight and I yelled brightly "gotta go!" and then headed with speed for the car. I re-entered the school grounds only to be assailed by a massed choir armed with ukuleles, their assault on musical reason adding a fat dollop of panic as I made it out the front only to be re-assailed by a screaming two-year-old whose uncaring and unhurried mother was glacially pushing that child along in a stroller.

I made it to the car but until the child was gone I couldn't unclamp my ears to get to my keys to open it and get to the ear muffs in the glove compartment. 

I babbled with rage about ineffective parenting to cover the screaming before I could risk going for keys, door and muffs. 

Then I spent 20 minutes with the muffs on surfing the web on my phone while I waited for the others. 

I love the end-of-year fete; it's joyous. But to go a place with children, noise and crowds is to expose multiple triggers to a deep pull—though admittedly it was a fire siren that triggered me; I was fine until then.

That's what it is to have this; that normal life is interrupted. But you can't sit in your house with ear muffs on; the world won't let you. You have to risk these things to get as much of life in while you still can.

So that's also what it's also like to have this; to have tasted death so closely it reminds you you're alive.


Thursday, December 01, 2016

Got a door fixed

Not only did I get the door fixed I got a story of how it got broke—and how to fix it for next time.

I had to sign it off with my finger. 

Later I pressed the button to see it sproing open and marvelled at my minor accomplishment.

Mikey see bad, Mikey order fix.