Scold The Phone

At 5.30 this morning, my “smart” phone won an iPad. I think my smart phone is pretty dumb:

·         It didn’t turn itself onto silent while it was out there entering its number into strange competitions. The answering SMS alerted me to what it was up to

·         It entered into competitions in Great Britain, where it is unable to go and collect the prize

·         It doesn’t have hands, so what is it going to do with an iPad?

Schoopid smart phone.

… and, I’m pretty sure my Blu-Ray Player has been returning movies late to the rental place.

Soup Strainer Strain

I know that some people like Movember. I find it confusing and hard work. Certain workplaces end up looking like seedy gay bars or 1930s RAF officers clubs and that’s confusing. What I find hard work is the threat this month represent to my manners and reputation.

Late in the month, I have to check men’s faces very carefully before I know if I can laugh or not. I have to judge a complex set of inputs such as length-of-bristle-over-lifestyle-commitment before I know if I can giggle. Movember lulls you into a false sense of hairy hilarity and I am never saying to another senior manager, “Dude, the Harley Davidson Memorial Village People Tribute Band called. You’re late for rehearsal.”

It's Not That Hard

I think pilots are a bit smug. It’s the same with priests and doctors. In fact, anyone in a position that commands authority through the use of arcane knowledge seems to have membership to this smug-club.

Non smug-club members couldn’t possibly understand the cleverness of what the Smuggies do. If we did understand, we would join the elite club and wear special robes or uniforms to mark us as better and smugger. These Smugs make sure their clubs are hard to get into by talking in jargon… or Latin. Or in smug tones over the intercom.

Well, I’ve busted the pilot club wide open and I wasn’t even awake at the time. I can now fly a helicopter and it only took me about half an hour to learn.

Last night, without any instruction, I mastered pitch, collective, cyclic, and rudders on an R44 Helicopter (or something that looked like it. My dream state wasn’t too specific about make and model).

I was landing, hovering, sliding and auto-rotating like an advanced beginner inside 20 minutes. By the end of the first part of the dream, I had enough hours in my unconscious log-book for me to convince a guy who owned a general purpose, imaginary, helicopter business to give me a go. He was an astute businessman though. He set me a three month probation period. But, it wasn’t all his way. I was feeling confident and negotiated into the conditions that, “if we could buff it out, it wouldn’t count as a real crash.”

I told Smurfy when I got to work. He said, “What are we still doing here then? Let’s get down to the airport and borrow one of those Black Hawks that are in town for Obama.”

“Oh, Smurfy,” I said, “Silly, unrealistic, Smurfy. I can’t fly anything powered by a jet turbine. Not yet, anyway.”

“Ok, what do you feel confident with then?” he asked.

“I think we’ll be just fine with something made by Bell,” I reasoned.

“That oughta be enough until you log some more hours, then,” he was being supportive, but I could tell that I’d let him down a little. “Why the competency gap with jet-turbine?”

I came clean, “Well, it’s not so much the mechanics, it’s the user interface. I know how lots of sorts of engines work, but I’ve never really seen how you start up a Black Hawk. I know how to get Bell helicopters started because of Magnum’s friend. You just reach up and flick all the switches by the left of your head, to the “on” position. It’s exactly the same as starting the Millennium Falcon.”

“That doesn’t work if your cap’s on the right way round though. Magnum’s mate, TC, swings his cap around,” Smurfy added.

“Right. I’ll have to remember that.”

The other people in the room were a little concerned. At this point. Smurfy hadn’t cracked a smile and I was giving it my best WE COULD TOTALLY DO THIS, face.

“And another thing,” I said. “I’ve watched Das Boot a couple of times so I reckon I’ve got diesel powered subs down pat.”

Smurfy, again a little disappointed, “So, no nuclear?”

“No. I don’t know how far to push those uranium rods in. Total guesswork until I’ve had that dream,” I explained. The North Atlantic fleet was safe for the moment.

Then this morning, I came across this: (Space Shuttle Discovery) and now I know how to get into space. There aren’t that many buttons.

Man About The House

There’s a franchise called ‘Hire a Hubby’ and it is remarkably true to its name. They’re a bunch of guys who promise to come round to your house and do odd jobs, or not, as the case may be.

A friend of Emergency Contact’s called them and got one of the Hubbies to come around and give her a quote on putting up some fly-screens. His professional opinion:

“Nah, it’s too hard, love.”

Not being put off, she did get the guy to paint her attic (not a euphemism). He seemed ok with that, and when he was around coating her interior (not a euphemism), she asked him how much it would be to strip back her draws (not a euphemism). His professional opinion:

“Easier to just get some new ones, love.”

For a little extra, they'll sit on your couch and drink your beer for you.

Ute Racing - The Next Step

As we all know, ute racing is the greatest thing to happen to Australian motorsport since that kangaroo bounced across the track at Bathurst and got reduced its composite atoms. Anyone who disagrees with me is wrong and I can back it up with a subtle blend rhetoric and violence. But the organisers of ute racing have not quite thought it through.

In case you didn’t know, ute racing is so good because the guys drive like they stole the vehicle. I have never seen such insouciant disregard for the laws of physics or personal safety. The weight distribution means they’ve got an insane amount of power over a set of wheels that are barely attached to anything. It must be like driving a sperm. I can only assume the drivers are confident they can nick another ute in time for the next race, because the one they’re in isn’t going to make it.

But, why not go all the way? When they prang, I wanna see tools and cement flying out the back. I wanna see guys in hi-viz vests getting pinned by ladders that come spearing off the rooves into the car in front. I wanna see arguments for whose got the job, when two towies arrive at a crash site at the same time.

Oh I Want A Home, Where The Buffalo Are Hunted Down By Apex Predators

The story out of Zanesville, Ohio this week of the animals leaving the zoo and then getting shot en masse by law enforcement has been interesting to me. Not just because I love, “Elephant on the loose, police have released a description” type stories, but also because it has been so instructive about the locals.

First of all, there was a notably nutty gun owner, who had just done time for naughtiness, who had hundreds of animals on his property. And not just puppies and kittens. As of writing the count was 49 animals shot including lions, tigers and bears (it’s frightening and the local sheriff cares, cha cha cha).

The animals getting out has been described as an escape. I don’t think that’s fair. The guy opened the cages. That’s not escaping, that’s accepting an invitation.

Watching Sheriff Matthew Lutz (Donut scoffing local cop from Central Casting) being backed up by Terence Stamp pretending to be a local Emeritus Zoo Official (have a look and see if I’m wrong) I was struck by how much faux sadness there was at having to shoot the animals. I swear those boys have never had so much fun in their lives. They went on a big game safari hunt and didn’t have to spring for an airfare. They’ll be hailed as the good guys at the end of it, as well. What’s the bet there’ll be a few more exotic rugs in front of fireplaces in Zanesville homes soon?

“Wow Grandad Mat, that sure is a fine looking lion rug. Did you hunt that? Was it scary? Is it hot in Africa”

“Sure did son. It was a bit scary, but not hot. I bagged that bad-boy down on Fifteenth and Main.”

Terence Stamp said something illuminating about local attitudes, too, “It’s like Noah’s Ark wrecking right here in Zanesville Ohio.”

Ahuh. That’s an ex-director of a zoo. Someone who you’d hope would have a bit of a grasp of zoology, biology and maybe even evolution. Noah’s ark, hey?

Anyway, also as of writing, there were two monkeys still on the loose. I like to think they’ve gone into hiding in a vacant house and are really making themselves at home. Going through the fridge, watching telly.

Cut to the bathroom. Two chimps are in the bath:

Chimp 1: Oo oo, ah, ah, ah, aaahhhh.

Chimp 2: Well run some more cold water.

Chopper Squad

Talking to a tired mother, KK, this morning, I learnt one of those parental tricks that quite amuse me.

She’d had a “Tooth-fairy Incident”. Her kid had woken up in the middle of the night and found that the fairy had not yet delivered. He’d gone into KK’s room to complain and was guided back to bed. Seeing that she was in for a long night of waiting for him to get back to sleep before she could pull the tooth-money-switcheroo, KK said,

“Your room’s quite messy, I’m going to take the tooth out to the kitchen so the tooth fairy doesn’t fall and twist an ankle. You can go and look for your money in the morning.”

“Nice work, KK,” I said, admiring the elegance of the deception. It also threw in an implicit criticism of the child’s housekeeping.

“So, I was able to get it done instantly, get back to bed, and he got his three dollars, ‘cause the tooth was in good shape.”

“Well, all’s well that… wait. There’s a price differential based on the condition of the chopper?”

“Yeah!  Ones that can be ‘re-used’ get a better price. Makes ‘em clean their teeth.”

The logic is irrefutable, but the bit that confirms for me that kids are idiots, is the re-use clause.  

The iQuit

Scene: Obscenely lavish private hospital room. Steve Jobs lies, almost in state, among life support  machinery. A private aide enters.

Steve: Is it done?

Aide: Well sort of…

Steve: Whaddya mean “sort of”?

Aide: Well, we released something.

Steve: Something doesn’t sound like what I was expecting. I’ve been hanging on for the iPhone 5. Where’s the iPhone 5?

Aide: It’s still on the backburner. We want to release something that actually makes and takes phone calls. We’ve released the iPhone 4S.

Steve: Ah, that fuckin’ does it!

Steve tears the drips and support gear out of his nose and arm. The beeping turns to a unbroken tone.

End scene.