You are not tired, because you are no longer technically awake. You are no longer aware of time. No longer right or wrong, there is no longer a you.

Your mouth, having lain dormant for hours, has a warm tang. The dull hum of computers lulls you comfortably like the steady beat that is all an embryo ever knows.

A feeling that can be sustained for hours, or days, as you move through the desaturated ebb of humanity in which you play no part.

There is a euphoric sense that you are progressing, moving forward, as you accomplish the task you are performing. You are engrossed in the process of creating, and you bend your entire existence towards this feat. Your conciousness has shifted forward to your eyes and your hands.

And then the phone rings. You could perhaps quicken your conciousness, drag it back into the world, but lack the inclination. Sentences are difficult to form, and the yabbering coming down the line is muted into the background. Something has been lost, but no emotion yet exists to encompass your reaction. Something is lost...

I spend a good deal of time in this state.

There's not a lot I enjoy more than going along to one of Shaun's gigs, or jamming with him on a Monday night over pizza. But one would be forgiven for wondering whether I was ever plagued by demons - some grizzling gremlin crouching on my shoulder, on the grainy periphery of my vision - that I should be better than him. No no no nonononononono NO! Of course not! Get that thought right out of your head! This instant! My path is clear to me - I enjoy my profession and do not lack for creative output! And although no longer at the top of my game, I can still belt out a few tunes when the situation calls for it... I don't need the groupies, the traveling, the recognition. I'm a programmer!

But still...

He's only my little brother, and one of the defining characteristics of little brothers is that you get to show them how to do stuff... but gone are the days where I'd sit in my room pumping out the Metallica riffs while little Shaun would sit waiting for me to show him a few more chord progressions, or where my stern countenance would provide the advisory role of aged wisdom while he slapped away at a few tunes he'd meticulously composed.

No, for better or worse I've moved on to a different part of my life where creating music plays little part. Now the boundaries of my creative world have moved to enclose computer programs and online rants. These things I do better than Shaun. The Argument is Over.

Little does our hero know...

And then my browser inevitably crawls straight into the manically grinning toothy facade of Rock God Seshna. Double-take! WHAT!? WHAT IS THIS!? Awesomely groomed wild sideburns whistling in the harsh wind, manipulating his hordes of wailing groupies with wild swinging windmills, this ENIGMA explodes all over the internet with alarming elegance, wending hypnotic spells and alluring visions that invariably draw the humble reader into his conjoured world. Channeling raw character through cracks in language itself to form glacial blog formations; pressurised gas that escapes the confines of his mind to crystalise and foment in the open atmosphere, forming icy droplets of soliloquy.

Yes, with this new personification of his rock essence, Shaun has yet again begun to co-opt a whole genre of culture in which I had carved a small place for myself. Though it has not yet occurred I can clearly see the moment approaching where my role has reduced to a Monday evening session where my authored works are allowed to bask in the trickles of light his literary shadow has not yet soaked up.

The ironic insult, of course, being that the very weapon he would use against me on the Internet - the personified Rock God - is a very echo of the musical betterment from the past!

Betrayed!

I am left to ask myself: what do I have left? I guess I did get to do the whole Uni thing - at least I've got that over him. Yes, that's it! I shall lord the erudite backwash of my tertiary training over him! The path that leads to the title Ba Sc (Hons) Comp. Sci is no merry walk in the park I'll have you all know!

Of course then there's Matty. Not content to just do Comp Sci like I did, he's gone ahead and done a double major with Mechatronic Engineering. I see it now; the little bastards have conspired to totally undermine me! Their festering plot has flourished under my innocent inattention, and I have awoken to it almost too late. I shouldn't have stopped here, this is twin country.

Accept my fate; move to another creative area and fortify; or resort to crude sabotage and name calling?

At least I can still beat em up.

I assume I can still beat em up.

Seshna's blog has moved to cechner.com
[Presumably] to celebrate the move, Director Bob has written him a screenplay.

As requested by Lee, here is a rundown of Sith. As you can see it is short, not very ranty, and without pictures. I'm certain there are more than enough reviews of this movie floating around.

I felt that posterity demanded some kind of place-marker, as this will probably be the last midnight screening I go to. I vaguely recall dad taking me to see the original trilogy when I was young, and felt maybe there should be some meaningful closure to my role in this cultural phenomenon.

The night
Was good. We had a crew and got down there at 9ish, which put us roughly in the first fifth of the line. The posse of ten included myself and Carla, Scroop and Director Bob. Conspicuously absent was Leedrick, who left the country in favour of watching the movie with us. My siblings also attended, but unfortunately I could only get them tickets in another cinema. We still got to mingle with them, and they had a good time.

The queue was unaggressive and stinky as only a room chock full of wimpy geeks can get. I waited in the soft drink line for about 45 minutes, of course missing the moment the line went into the cinema - making a bit of a mockery of my three hour wait in the queue. This is what you get when your girlfriend bats her eyelashes at you thirstily.

I took no camera, but Thursday's West Australian had a half-page picture on page 3 in which you can see the back of Simon's head off to the left side. I am sitting just off frame (this is my claim to fame - I was once sitting next to a guy whose back you could see in a picture of the West Australian.)

For some reason they let the Cinema 16 queue in two hours early (we were in Cinema 11, my siblings in 4), and proceded to blast the audience with quotes from the earlier movies, in what I assume was an attempt to build up a geeky fervour before the screening.

On the movie
Hayden Christensen comes good, but I'll never be happy as long as I know Ryan Phillippe was being considered[1]. Way Of The Gun and Crash are masterpieces as far as I'm concerned.

I would have been more pleased with the movie if I weren't left with the distastefully cheesy memory of Darth Vader screaming NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!! to the skies, pitifully waving his fists in the air. Now every time I see him I'll be half expecting him to flop to his knees blubbering and rubbing his eyes.

Mace Windu rocks, but in a soft-metal sort of way. The freaky and understated coolness of having Samuel L Jackson play a Jedi Master is offset by how inappropriate it is in the movie. He basically comes across as a cardboard cut-out with a wicked purple light-sabre.

Terrible directing, worse dialogue. Great action/CGI/characters. Obi-wan was the focus (which is as it should be,) not Anakin (how much flexibility can you get - his role is pretty much set in stone from the beginning.)

Anakin: You are so beautiful
Padme: (combing hair in the moonlight) Maybe it's because I'm In Love.
Anakin: (eyes watering) No. It is because I am In Love.
Paul: (eyes watering) NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!

I straight-up enjoyed this movie. It was sweet, and by sweet I mean totally sweet. I do miss Jim Henson's muppets. I give it eight Mylochs for exceeding my expectations (which were high, following positive reviews.) And yes, I am a little sad that it is over.

Footnotes:
[1] IMDB on Ryan Phillippe: http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0000202/news

Read my surname out to yourself. CECHNER. Try a few different permutations, possible different pronunciations. The truth is, unless I have put you through the standard 15-minute induction, you just mispronounced my name. Don't feel bad, its natural. It's one of those weird mind twisters that the brain is not set up to understand.

Another form of this test is to pronounce my name to someone (phonetically: Seshna), then very carefully spell it to them, while they write it down. Now have them recite the letters they wrote. I can almost guarantee that they will have written C-H-E-C-H-N-E-R or put an 'S' in there somewhere, or some crazy shit.

My name is like some kind of in-built security device. Somebody could steal my wallet and be writing my name on some document while reading it directly from my credit card and I guarantee they misspell it. My name by its very essence resists being copied. My name should be encoded on computer CDs and used for copy protection.

These phenomenon have some very interesting psychological side-effects. Quite a few of my quirks can probably be explained by my having to negotiate so delicately through every-day social interactions wielding this bulky handle.

I remember every award I've ever received in Primary School, High School and Uni because of a single common moment in each of them. That instant where the announcer - whose only job is to pronounce the names of all the different recipients - first glances at The Name. The Name has ambushed them unawares, as if a huge fucking circle just dropped in their game of Tetris.

People who know me often chuckle when they hear me on the phone because I go to great lengths to avoid saying The Name:

Them: What name should I book this under sir?
Me: Paul is fine thanks.

Or if I absolutely need to give my surname, I'll just spell it outright:

Them: And your surname, sir?
Me: C - E - C - H - N - E - R[1].

Of course, people's natural curiosity and need to maintain some kind of repoire often leads to the question:

Them: Oh, how do you pronounce that?
Me: Never you fucking mind how you pronounce that.

Or if they go out of their way:

Them: is that pronounced 'Chechner'/'Kechner'/'Checkner'/'Chekrier'[2]?
Me: Yep[3].

I remember one day I was running late to catch a plane. The plane was boarding and I was tapping my foot at the check-in counter (still with the anti-terrorism disrobing countermeasures to pass through) when the registrar informed me with a look of polite confusion that I didn't appear to have a booking. I ran through some quick mental aerobics: was it possible I had the wrong flight/terminal/date? No, I had the itinerary in my hand. Who had given it to me? The person who booked it - the company secretary. Oh, wait a sec...

I turned to the registrar and said

Me: Are you sure you spelled it correctly? C-E-C-H-N-E-R?
(tap tap tappity tap)
Registrar: Hmmm... yes sir, nobody by that name on this flight...
M: *sigh* How about C-H-E-C-H-N-E-R
(tap tap tappity tap)
R: Ah! Here you are sir...

When the time comes, I'm not sure I'll be able to maintain a clean conscience while inflicting this crazy legacy on the poor woman I've chosen to marry. I can just imagine the mental warping effect that the first few months will have on her as she makes the many hundreds of little behaviour adjustments necessary to survive. I'll just shake my head sadly when I hear her on the phone saying '... that's right, Cechner: C-E-C-H-N-E-R.' You've done it now, you poor fool... never say the name first!

On the up side, I generally have a guaranteed unique ID that becomes ironically simplistic in the digital world. You need to find me? What other bugger would have cechner (at) gmail (dot) com, cechner (at) hotmail (dot) com, cechner (at) yahoo (dot) com or indeed cechner.com? I could use cechner as my password without fear of anyone guessing it, the chances of someone getting the spelling right are mathematically about zero.

Notes:
[1] Pronouncing The Name seems to open neural pathways in the brain that directly sabotage the pathways that get used when interpreting the follow-up pronunciation. Therefore the wary Cechnerite will avoid pronouncing it all together.
[2] 'Checkrier' is officially the most bastardised spelling of my name I've ever witnessed.
[3] Needless to say, I answer to any of these different names. To make an issue of it is a waste of time.

Every secret she whispered is forgotten
Every drop of ink she ground into paper will drift away in ashes
Theres no such thing as wasted life, so Ill save my pity for myself

...in which our intrepid protagonist finds himself deep in Western Australia's unpopulated wilderness with only his wits, girlfriend, three dogs, a booked-out campsite of tourists and a car full of food and camping gear to survive.

I love fishing and camping. I'll freely admit that I am perhaps one of the least competent fishermen to ever associate himself with that tag - where some guys can readily associate the subtle signature of the yanks and tugs on their line with some specific fish species and weight (in pounds, no less,) I have difficulty recognising a fish when it's in my hands. And when Mark points out a hole to hit where he reckons hungry fish may be waiting to die, I'll often nod dumbly and yell with delight when my cast results in a wet sinker. If there's going to be a group picture taken at the end of a fishing day, I'll be the guy helping someone else hold up their prize catch. You get the idea...

That aside, I've often fancied myself a decent camper. Though I don't go often, I always enjoy it. My tents jump together so quickly they often get mistaken for Transformers (in my minds eye, at least,) and I don't mind eating with grotty hands, burning the soles of my thongs on the campfire, or sleeping in the cold on a hard floor.

Notable exceptions to my rugged facade include: an inability to tolerate mosquitoes in my tent, and my ardent fear of sleeping with dirty feet (I'll go to great lengths to ensure my feet are pristine in my cozy sleeping bag.) Other than these reasonable compromises, I'll generally feel comfortable telling people I'm a bit of the outdoorsy type. People who don't really know me, at any rate.

Recent events have shifted my perspective in this matter somewhat, however. A few weeks ago I went on a short camping trip with my girlfriend and some of her mates, and learned a bit about myself in the process...

My first lesson came with the realisation that my previous ideas of bare living involved a powered campsite, only one deli within walking distance, and moderate showering facilities with hot water (but I'm man enough to put up with those water-saving shower roses they often have.) And of course I never go camping without all the conveniences my mate Mark (and his Utility Vehicle of the GODS - aka the Uterus) could bring, including a pergola nearing circus tent proportions, all BBQ goods you could possibly want, all the fresh fish you could catch (and subsequently deep-fry or smoke,) and sometimes a full sized fridge stocked with a literal ute-tray-load of home brewed beer.

So it would be fair to say that I got a bit of a shock when I discovered my new campsite not only was absent of any showering facilities, but had only the long-drop toilets[1] and was completely unpowered. Life for the next two days would be tough, but not impossible.

However, my optimism begun wearing thin pretty quickly. I soon found myself despondent when my electric toothbrush began to show signs of a waning battery. Oh, I hid the fear well, but my gaze ever wandered disconsolately toward my leather toiletries bag.

Then came the realisation that I was a complete food snob! That's right, as far as I was concerned, I only brought the bare essentials - namely six porterhouse steaks, a kilo of bacon, a bag full of mushrooms, two tubs of butter (one mixed with freshly crushed garlic), a dozen eggs, sandwich ham and salami, and a bunch of bread, buns and hot-dog sausages. In other words, enough to see us through two nights and one day. Snacks, of course, included dips, salsas, and marinated stuffed olives.

It turns out everyone else brought cereal, bread and tinned minced meat things. Feeling bad for them, I cooked up plenty of extra stuff for each meal, but it turns out they all preferred their own 'food'.

Of course, we brought a separate tent for the dogs. Carla set that one up while I slept.

The entire second day was wasted on a sore neck and shoulder. I don't understand how I can be expected to sleep on a bare blow-up mattress like my cave-dwelling ancestors probably did - I now understand that evolution has removed from us the ability to sleep in such rude conditions.

Having been out-camped by a bunch of girls (did I forget to mention that?) I drove home quietly, my ego bruised. The next day I went out and did some work on my car (this always makes me feel better[2].)

OK, so when I say I worked on my car I mean I changed my tyre. Because it was flat. And my car was driving all wobbly.

So the nuts were on really tight, and while I was removing them I hardly even noticed that sweat was dripping on the ground. Barely worth mentioning really. Then when I'd finished I threw things about in the boot of my car.

I carefully left some grime on the bathroom sink when washing my hands so Scroop would know I've been doing some manual labour and couldn't be bothered cleaning the sink (it will probably just get dirty again when I do more car work anyway.)

On to another subject: I'm pretty sure that because programming is a completely male dominated area we can consider it a manly thing to do. Very much like coal mining, fist-fighting, football and such.

Footnotes:
[1] A long-drop toilet is basically a hole in the ground with chemicals way down out of sight. Fortunately being a guy means you can avoid approaching such facilities significantly longer.
[2] I've only ever really worked on my car this once, and I did feel better afterwards, so this statement is technically true.

... in which our intrepid protagonist tackles the monumental undertaking of hosting and fully catering a curry and cocktails night, with a guest list nearing thirty people.

Back-story...
Years ago a boss of mine held an impressive curry night for his programming team (the Track Management team) and their Significant Others; probably about ten or twelve people in total. Sociable gastronome that I am, I fell in love with the idea of bringing a large but homogenous group of friends together to celebrate food. And so for around two years the Track Management team discussed organising another night of festivities.

The epoch in the Track Management continuum was not, as one might suppose, my leaving the team, but the arrival of one Chef Michal - a master of culinary specialities with a wanton need to please people with food. The stage had all of a sudden been set. This was no longer an ordinary, or even modest, proposal.

I'll cut much of the organisation story short, but to say that out of respect for the possibly dire (and unmentionable) repercussions of forcing many people into a medium-sized living area with many pots of curry, I tried at first to keep the guest list to a maximum of fifteen people. Unfortunately this covered only the Track Management crew, Scroop + other and only four of my own out-of-work friends. Little did we know, but this would all change...

The last week...
We knew from the outset that this would be no cheap affair. A tentative guess at the cost came to $500, which included food for seven different curries, cocktail ingredients (mainly Gin and Campari) and equipment hire (a few hundred dollars for tables, table cloths, serving bowls and platters, plates, cutlery, 10 wine glasses, 15 martini glasses, 20 water glasses, a deep-fryer and a cocktail blender.)

The Menu as originally composed by Chef Michal. A revised and heavily edited version of this was printed and made available on the night.
TO START
Samosas - Lightly spiced beef samosas with mango chutney
Pakoras of cauliflower, onion, potato and spinach served with mint and garlic yoghurt
Ground Lamb kebabs grilled over open coals accompanied by vinegar, chilli and ginger

TO MAIN
Butter Chicken
Boneless chicken thigh simmered with curry, turmeric, coriander and garam masala. Finished with butter, cream and freshly ground almonds – for those of mild heat disposition.

Lamb Rogan Gosht
Shoulder of lamb cooked with onions, capsicum, paprika, chilli, cumin and fresh curry leaves- for those of medium heat disposition.

Japanese Bean Curd
Pressed bean curd with carrots, potatoes and onions in a medium Japanese style broth – for those of medium heat disposition.

Cockles and Clam Masala
Vongole, clams, cockles and mussels lightly steamed with vinegar, lemongrass, ginger, garlic and star anise. Finished with coconut milk, fresh coriander and mint – tangy and fresh rather than spicy as such.

Thai Curry of Beef
Fresh beef cooked with lime leaves, galangal, candle nuts, lemongrass, coconut milk and chillies. Finished with palm sugar and fish sauce – bordering between medium and hot.

Pork Vindaloo
Leg of pork, deboned and marinated in vinegar and spices for 24 hours. Cooked with onions, garlic, fresh tomatoes and spices – for those who want to hurt themselves the next morning.

TO ACCOMPANY
Palak Paneer - Baked ricotta cooked with spinach, butter and garam masala.
Dhal - Lentils simmered with tomatoes, onions, ghee and spices.
Rice - If you need to know please leave.
Roti - Indian style bread
Naan - A different style of Indian bread
Riata - Yoghurt, cucumber, garlic and cumin to sooth those curried palates.
Tomato Kasanda - Tomatoes cooked with curry powder, chilli and sugar.
Fresh mango chutney - Mangoes, honey, coriander, cashews and mint.
Tomato, mint, Spanish onion salad with vinegar, lime, sugar and fish sauce.

TO DRINK
Lasi
Various cocktails

TO HOST
Paul Cechner The host.
Lucien Sims The bar.
Simon Fitzpatrick The helper.
Michal Pisarek The cook.

The last week was spent shopping (the spices alone came to in excess of $100) and it was then that we got the depressing feeling that we were possibly pushing ourselves into bankruptcy. On Friday I hastily amended the requested donation amount to a more oppressive $30 and hoped that everyone would understand. Fortunately on the original invite email I had specifically noted that the ~$20 request was still to be decided upon.

Michal was waiting for us when we got home from work Friday. So the time spanning the moment I got home through to after midnight was spent cooking four curries. I learned a lot, and it was actually very entertaining, but it did decrease my longing for an evening eating the stuff.

Saturday...
Saturday was filled with highs and lows. I was dead tired from the last few nights' lack of sleep, but was really looking forward to the festivities. The cost had risen from the estimated $500 to in excess of $800, and neither of us had been paid in almost a month!

Probably the most stressful moment was in the evening when people started cancelling. In all, there weren't many of them, but they all seemed to call within the same half-hour period. Even to this day I get an apprehensive chill every time the phone rings - it has become a harbinger of bad news to me now.

On the other hand, the weather forecasts had been wrong and it was going to be a beautiful night. The repercussions of this were astounding - suddenly we could invite whoever we pleased; the gates were open to have a fully-fledged all-friends-invited party! I even invited my two brothers and one of my little sisters, which in retrospect was one of the best decisions I made that day.

I discovered, however, that there is no way to nicely invite even the closest of friends (or perhaps especially them) at the last minute, and ask for a donation of $30 to boot. I didn't want people thinking they were invited because I was trying to make up numbers. The good thing about friends, though, is that you can trust them to give you the benefit of the doubt.

The night...
I've just sent out a thankyou letter to all who came. I'll include here what I wrote:

Compadres,

Thanks to all who attended the Curry Festivities. The night went off without a hitch, and I couldn't be more pleased with the result.

The food surpassed even my expectations, and the ambiance of the dining room was jovial and comfortable. In fact, the bartender Lucien, when faced with the unexpected situation of being without any rowdy drunkards, made the snap decision to play that role himself. I'm sure we can all appreciate the effort it must take for a bartender to play both sides of the bar.

One thing everyone can agree on, I think, is that the night would not have been possible without the hard work of Chef Michal. His selfless devotion to the food throughout the course of the night kept him from sampling the rich diversity in the ebb of humanity continually flowing around him. His social self-banishment was certainly the party's loss.

As for myself, the tiredness in my bones from two days and nights with very little sleep were totally swept away upon entrance of the first few guests (two of my own siblings, no less.) My own role as maitre d' and host kept me in the enviable position of social butterfly all night, and gave me an excellent excuse to dress in my most formal of dinner-wear.

Lucien, Michal and I would like to thank all of you for making the night a delectable success. The costs in time, money and sweat that went into the evening were by far dwarfed by the fun we all had.

We hope you all had half as good a night as we did, and met a few people you didn't previously know. I will certainly be enjoying the curry we made for the next few weeks.

The hardest job I had all night was collecting money off people. Although everyone understood completely the need (indeed, some even said that it was relatively cheap,) I couldn't help but feel like a bit of a cad. In the end though, even this became a pleasant excuse for talking with everyone at the party.

As any party with a cocktail blender is wont to do, there was some degeneration by the end of the night into a weird cocktail experimentation. At one point we were sampling curious concoctions of ice-cream, mango, campari, gin and Ice-Magic. I'll say no more on this subject, or the concept of mixing these with red wine in general...

The morning after...
I spent the entire day Sunday cleaning the house. There was linen to wash, about six dishwasher-loads to process, and three large rubbish-bags of rubbish to dispose of. Wine and cocktail hangover. Panadol. Hangover. Curry breakfast. Wine... and... Cocktails...

Would I do it again? Certainly. I would probably try to make the night a bit cheaper though, and do something that requires a little less preparation. Michal already has some ideas, and Lucien is keen to have another go, so we'll all see.

Poor quality photos can be found in the latest album in the gallery.

My little brother just had a go at me for not having posted in a while. I don't like this kind of pressure... I'm no dancing monkey.

So instead of pointing out to him that I do occasionally write things in the 'blather' and 'News' sections that he can just go and read, I thought I'd pontificate publicly on a simple lesson I learned several years ago, while I was seeking finance for my first car.

I needed $15,000 fast. So I started ringing around the various banks to find out what kind of loans I could get, what conditions, interest rates, or whatever (I'm not really interested in matters relating to finance, so don't ask me who I went with. My criteria ended up coming down to who would give me the money the fastest.)

Anyway, the useful lesson I learned was given to me by the useless drudgards (I think I just made that word up) at National Australia Bank. Having had several bad experiences with NAB before, I wasn't really interested in using their services, but I thought I should at least put up a semblance of thoroughness, so that when relating the story people would listen to me as though I were some credible source. Of course, I wasn't intending at the time to actually explain it that way.

Most banks ask a slew of questions and tell you at the end that they will get back to you within a few weeks. NAB, however, turned out to be in possession of some curious technology that enabled them to give me a summarily prompt 'No, it turns out we will not be able to finance you...' after just the 12th or so question.

The more I think on it, I believe their space-aged technology was actually capable of interpreting my character from the answers I gave. One of the final answers, for example, was probably a little more revealing than I had intended. In response to their 'how much would you say your monthly expenditure totals?' I should have probably pondered a little longer before replying, as 'Does that include my alcohol expenses?' was probably not construed in a favourable light.

I hope my insight might prove useful to any of you reading who may at some stage seek a loan. You should understand that monthly expenditure includes all expenses; asking them to explain probably made me look like a fool that would not be able to repay a loan.

A photographic accounting of the events described here can be found in my photo section.

It is said that the men of my generation shuffle through existence apologetic and emasculated under a heavy yoke. Testosterone-based drives are stigmatised as neanderthal and the physical attributes developed over the countless millennia for everyday survival have reduced to redundant side-effects, useful for opening jars and reaching objects off high shelves.[1]

Future generations will no doubt also look in hindsight on this time as an awkward phase in our development as a species; today men understand that there is a whole universe of unacceptable behaviour - traps just waiting to be tripped at any moment - and self-censor their own behaviour often to the point of absurdity. On the other hand, men are still viable targets for sexist 'blowback' humour based perceived stereotypes, resulting in television idols such as the tragically socially retarded and isolated Raymond, who apparently is Loved by Everybody, but at what cost?

There exist, however, primal pockets of resistance. Our culture holds anomalies that a self-effacing automaton of a man may seek for refuge from this cultural oppression. One such bastion is The Poker Night.

Saturday night found a shady group of unkempt gents cloistered in a smoky room. We joked, smoked and gambled our way through a gruelling nine-hour 'Texas hold-'em' fest. No quater was given, no elbow room for weakness. Pleasantries were left at the door. Social mores became irrelevant. It was a deadly showdown.

Director Bob put himself forward as rookie of the match, an effective strategy for avoiding alpha-male clashes. His delight continued unabated through the night, even when he was forced to delve past his cash reserves and blew his inheritance (presumably pilfered from his parents.) He left skimped with empty pockets. Total sympathy for his plight: none. This is no amateur hour, baby.

Kris, ever the level-headed ice man, came back from near devastation to finish up ahead. An early bad run did nothing to dampen his cool resolve, and his unabated persistence saw Lady Luck as his bitch.

The most excitable of the group (at least in the earlier hours) was Cam. He burned bright like a candle in an incinerator, and left early in the pursuit of another agenda. Later in the night he brought back some tottie (such irreverance is allowable even when referring to The Poker Night, such is its power!) but according to the house rules that night, couldn't bring them in (while they had their tops on, at least.) So he departed again.

Ben proved to be the true master of the game. His technique left him unobtrusive in the corner until a single hand almost beggared Scroop. He made his move near the last leg of the night, and in a single hand jumped from a break-even at best to the prize pig. He left soon after, disproving the theory of the Gamblers Syndrome.

Mike has a reputation as a reckless maverick when it comes to poker. He practices the art of 'poker technique without any technique.' Unfortunately, this playing style left him standing by vending machines begging for change.

Shane was the paradox of the table. The guy I would vote most capable and probable of kicking someone else's ass, he came sporting a little perfume-smelling envelope with kisses on it, containing his gambling allowance. If he was anyone but Shane, he would have been laughed out of the house. Because he's Shane, we all nodded sagely at the prudence of the frugal.

Scroop fared well over the course of the night. His common sense almost saw him cash in near the end of the evening (while marginally profitable), but Kris and I managed to keep him playing. I spent the last few games elicting his profits from him. He brought the exceedingly large and totally non-phallic stogie, which was passed generously and frequently to the left-hand-side (me.)

I spent the first half of the evening playing host - cooking, serving drinks and the like. Then I rained down some DOOM on the heads of my DOOMED mates, to end up ahead over all.

Sunday was written off. My children will inherit the headache I earned Saturday night. The cough I developed will be haranguing me the length of my days. The always-present mess in our house has given notice and is moving out in disgust.

But I will look forward, always forward, to the day of the next The Poker Night. I will suffer these pains in selfless service to my fellow man, in recognition of shared genetic pride.

Footnotes:
[1] And I don't doubt that leaps in jar-opening technologies and compact step-ladders will further reduce usefulness of the next generation's stock, until this gender becomes a genetic cul-de-sac.

At some point during a lengthy argument today with an unabashed capitalism apologist, I realised that a fundamental cause of friction in our argument was more a matter of naïveté or cynicism (depending on your point of view) than political polarisation.

The argument centred loosely on the relative societal benefits resulting from the generosity of philanthropic billionaires.

Arguably, the discourse began with a fairly polemic Scroopular statement: "Society needs more people like Bill Gates." I don't believe it would be fair to say my reaction was knee-jerk, but I did take the bait, quickly pointing out that the generosity of the private sector is hardly solid scaffolding with which we can address societies many ills. Riposte: of course this was not what he was saying - but that society is without doubt better off for the donations of these people.

Counter point - point - counter point. Much was discussed, but as interesting as a blow-by-blow account here would be, it would actually detract from the main thesis of this rant, which is: in the end I discovered that we each actually took offence at the motivation of the arguments more than the arguments themselves.

That is, Scroop took offence to the fact that I would even bring into question the actions of seemingly charitable individuals because it's their own private affairs. With respect to what they do with their money, what right do we have to question their motives, or besmirch their good intentions with suspicious accusations? Scroop believed that I was revealing a blindly far leftist agenda simply by asking why we should not assess the social costs of this transaction between a private entity and the broader public.

I, on the other hand, would encourage anyone to question anything that effects themselves or the society in which they live; so while I wouldn't say that the Gates foundation should be dismantled or their incredibly generous work to worthy causes should be overlooked, I would say that only a fool would keep their hands out and their eyes closed. In fact, I firmly believe that in all things that interact with society, all possible social costs should be measured. To quote Thomas Jefferson, "the price of freedom is eternal vigilance".

Needless to say, when we realised the true sources of our disparities we swiftly made amends. Barriers were dropped, tears were shed and we swore we'd never argue again. Although I believe Scroop still holds a rather disapproving view of my perpetual scepticism, I think we each share a better understanding of the others respective dispositions, and how they influence our language and colour our respective points of view - the raving sceptic and the blind apologist.