http://paul.cechner.com/rob/karaoke.mov

Consider this my punishment for not putting anything up for ages at a time.

Bob's latest project is a stunning exploration of the psyche of Rock God Seshna. Laid bare are Seshna's roots, his views on Rock and Bitchez and secrets to windmill success.

The interview is worth the look if you've ever aspired to rock greatness or know Seshna personally.

Bob's article, Seshna's article, and the documentary (big download).

A typical evening in my house consists of me shifting between the T.V., kitchen and my computer (in my room) while Scroop fidgets on the Internet. The ambient noise is that of Scroop's constant and insistent utterings of amazement and jocularity, and I swear he probably does it even when I'm not around. The first few months living here had me running to the technology room at every exclamation, but now it's merged with the character of the house itself to something my subconcious filters out.

Nevertheless, a couple of nights ago I found myself intreagued by the festive whooping and cheering coming from Scroop's room, and couldn't help investigating...

PAUL yells from his computer, not willing to make the investment of going to Scroop's room

Paul What are you going on about?

SCROOP, ever the performer, enjoys drawing out the expectation

Scroop Oh man! Yippee!

Paul ...

Scroop Gmail just got multiple email address management!

Paul Oh sweet!

PAUL quickly visits gmail to check out this new functionality

Scroop Yeah, isn't it!? Now I can respond to confirmation emails in gmail and can send work emails from my work address!

Paul Wow! This rocks! And they've added a delete button!

SCROOP abruptly stops dancing...

Scroop Pfft. There was a key sequence before, so it was easy enough.

Paul Hey fuck you man! You browse with your mouse - a delete button was called for.

SCROOP turns and walks back to his room

Scroop Whatever.

Our house is a constant stormfront of joyous excitement and heated arguments.

WARNING: this rant casts my lifestyle in a vaguely positive light. I must stress, children - do not try this at home! I am a trained professional!

Perhaps there is a template for survival - how a person should live day-to-day. I suspect this bible is available in chapters and impressed on us during our formative schooling years. But I generally snuck fantasy books into class and let the teacher's wisdom wash past me Charlie Brown-esque.

I have indicated in the past that I don't plan my life much, relying more on luck than purpose to get me from one interesting scenario to another. Funnily enough this seems to work out.

For example, many people consider on a daily, or perhaps a weekly basis which bills are due. This process may involve searching through carefully archived mail or something. This is probably why my friends answer the phone when I call them, and I can rely on them calling me if they need to talk about stuff.

My process is a little simpler, more direct, and doesn't involve much thought. If I try to make a call and my phone doesn't work, I pay the bill. Sometimes I have to call Optus and talk to an Indian guy who may or may not gruffly demand to know why I let my bills lapse, but I am a calm ocean of Buddhist Zen.

I like to think of this as 'event-driven survival', where I don't even consider doing something until events make it necessary. The most obvious questions: what is an event? and what is necessary? Answers: an event is not receiving mail informing me that I should pay a bill, and necessary is when continuing without taking action will adversely and immediately affect my lifestyle.

Recently I have found myself in a situation that will test the limits of my age-old system. I plan to go overseas in just over a month, and this requires me to have a passport, plane ticket and money.

First, events drove me to purchase a ticket today. The event was Carla faithfully sending me links to cheap tickets and the necessity was my inability to go on looking into her eyes without at least putting as much effort as she does into getting me out of the country.

Second, events drove me to finally apply for a passport. The event was that it seems I need a passport to navigate the flight ticket-purchasing system, the necessity was the afore-mentioned need to buy a ticket immediately.

Next is the money. This is more problematic, of course, but I'll explain how the system falls into place. This explanation will hopefully go a long ways to describing why things often seem to come together nicely for me right when I need them to.

It turns out it costs $150 to get a 10 year passport. This was unexpected, but only because I am in some ways quite stupid. This surprise expense has become another straw in my already burgeoning straw-supply on my trembly-kneed camel's back, and I realised that I stand in danger of getting to the UK unacceptably impoverished if I don't act soon.

Considering this new dilemma caused me to think for the first time about the various assets surrounding me, where I may be able to draw money from, which gullible old ladies I know of that do not have current encyclopaedia collections - that kind of thing. I realised that I could possibly be rescued by an aspect of event-driven survival that many would consider a disadvantage.

See an event-driven purist, a person who truly only does things that he or she really needs to, doesn't often pull in loose debts. I, for example, have in the past thrown out fallow fields of uncashed cheques, gift vouchers and free rides. This is bad, right? Fortunately, someone who understands their inner nature like I do creates inbuilt protection measures against losing vital documentations that they understand on some lower level will probably prove important at some later date. No, of course I don't file it anywhere - this manifests itself as a massive pile of partly-indispensable paperwork that gathers on my desk.

So I get to work, my mind on money, and start the trawling process. Yes! of course! I haven't done my tax in over 4 years now, and surely I'll get something back... of course it would mean an end to my Paul-vs-Taxman tournament (Paul 4, Taxman 0, by the way) but it may provide a small windfall taking into account business expenses (I'm a programmer, computers are expensive.)

Then there's medical bills. I have gone through a few decent operations in the recent past, and still have the various bills, overdue-bill notices and collection-agency kneecap payment plans lying around. Yes, it became necessary to pay the bills. No, I didn't go to Medicare or HBF to collect my winnings. Cash for Paul.

This is how it usually works: one action leads to several others in a chain-reaction of smoothing out the wrinkly skin of my too-long-in-the-bath unorganised self. The system is by no means perfect: sometimes things don't ever seem to become necessary. Paying car registration, for example, has always been tricky when the damn Police refuse to vigilantly check your registration sticker.

So I may keep you updated on how things go, if I have to.

The only good is knowledge, and the only evil is ignorance. - Herodotus

Intelligent Design is at the center of some steaming controversies in the U.S. (and no doubt soon in Australia) at the moment[1], and I think it's probably because people are less intellectually equipped to fend off the quasi-theologists.

Beginning

In summary: certain Christian groups claim that schools should recognise Creationism (the theory that humans are a result of an intelligent designer's intervention) as an alternative to the popular Darwinist theory of evolution.

The truth is that science and theology are not necessarily conflicting schools of thought. In fact, science and theology aren't even in the same playing field. In particular, the argument for natural selection doesn't preclude the existence of God. You'll find A Brief History of Time sprinkled very liberally with Hawking's assurances that God can exist alongside the theories espoused therein, and further, how theology and science have no business elbowing each other at all[3].

Middle
What is interesting is what seems to be a revisitation of anti-Darwinism, in the form of the 'controversies' surrounding Intelligent Design. ID proponents claim that the controversies are that ID is not represented in the schooling system. Modern scientists claim that ID is not a science at all[4] (and therefore there is no controversy), and that the supposed controversy is a veiled attempt to put God (one God in particular) back into the school agenda.

This speaks poorly of the level of education in schools, I think. In its most honest form, this is a group of people saying that Darwinism is an unlikely theory that is propagated by scientists because they have no better answers to Creationism. In essence, it is supposed to be a global scientific conspiracy. The fluff about schooling not providing an ample platter of scientific alternatives is merely a sugary coating that makes this pill easier for the central-American populace to swallow.

My thesis here is basically that this 'controversy' is a by-product of the general public (at least in the U.S.) getting less educated. The more confounding Darwin's theory is to the general population, the easier it will be for ID proponents to put forth their 'scientific conspiracy' theories. How many people will be taken by this idea, for example, when 20% of U.S. adults think the Sun revolves around the Earth, and fewer than a third know that heredity involves DNA[5]?

I'm sure there has always been body of people trying to get God incorporated into schools' agenda. The ID debate is merely these people taking advantage of a canny populace to dishonestly progress their agenda by attempting to discredit Darwin's theory of evolution. It is, in effect, a contrived debate; even if the theory of evolution was unlikely, it is still the prevailing scientific theory, and as such merits a place in the science class.

End
So here's the question: New revolutionary theories can be expected to be denounced by reigning powers that have an interest in maintaining the status quo. But what exactly does it mean when old skepticisms come back? Is it due to a lower rate of education, or could it be a rise in religious fundamentalism? Who's going to be next to try to seize the opportunity afforded by a dumber population?

Or has it already happened? The scientific community still seems to be at odds with a large portion of the general populace over the issue of whether human pollutants have lead to global warming; this skepticism must be coming from somewhere. I wouldn't be surprised to find out that the countries most receptive to the "ID in schools" proponents provide the surest footholds for compromised conservative critics of global warming[6], or perhaps those who believe that middle-eastern nations are inherently more inclined towards terrorism.

Update 2005-09-30 - Controversy! Pennsylvania parents take their school to court for including ID in the science curriculum.

Footnotes:
[1] Controversy? Anti-evolution stickers on schoolbooks removed, Bush's endorsement, and Australia follows?!?
[2] Pastafarianism has gained followers as a result of this debate. Visit http://www.venganza.org/index.htm for more information/merchandise.
[3] Hawking explains that if there were a perfect creator who, for whatever reason, provided us with scientific evidence that allowed us to arrive at these conclusions (e.g., Darwinism) scientifically, one could not use science to prove that God exists, as his observed evidence is by definition infallible. Similarly, theologists cannot expect to disprove prevailent scientific theories.
[4] See http://www.edge.org/documents/archive/edge166.html for an essay on why ID is not a legitimate school of science.
[5] New York Times - Scientific Savvy? In U.S., Not Much
[6] This Boston Globe article not only links Hurricane Katrina with Global Warming, but outlines how much energy companies have spent to de-educate people to these links.

I wrote this entry on the 24th June, 2005. Subsequent events (documented herein) prompted me to forget to post it. I'm posting now to fill a gap while I compose a horrifying account of recent events... startling!

As a computer geek, I have a mandatory video game persona. I explored this fully before and during my university years, but wantonly smothered it in the middle of the night just before I entered the workforce. The kind of late-night self abuse one subjects oneself to is just not viable if one must maintain steady working hours.

A unique opportunity arose a few weeks ago when I learned that I would be bedridden for a few weeks due to some head-altering surgery. I knew I'd have some serious me time ahead of me because I'd probably have bloodied bandages wrapped around my battered cranium, and would probably be on all types of perscribed drugs.

So I decided to coax my little gamer child out of his dark closet. I went down to EB and purchased World of Warcraft. I knew perfectly well how addictive this game could be, and I knew that it would totally consume me in a way that was only safe in an environment where I could hermit myself for weeks on end.

Little did I realise how much pain I would be subjected to post-op, however. After sleeping a good 40 or so hours straight (though annoyingly enough being woken for drugs and checkups every hour) I managed to drift off home somehow and found myself in my own bed at home. But if I forgot to take my pain-killers every three hours I'd be subjected to the kinds of cranial torment you would only expect those 'Whack-a-Moles' to suffer.

I struggled into the computer seat and hooked myself up where I knew I needed to go. I connected and started playing. And now I constantly find myself losing all track of time... yes, I am subjected to a weird kind of masochism where I immerse myself until my head fells me, when I go and take drugs and suffer for the next 45 minutes until they kick in, whereby I jump back onto the machine and start the cycle all over again.

I dance around in a semi-lucid state, mumbling to the various well wishers that come around and try to suck them into my Warcraft world. So far Director Bob and my two brothers have acquiesced.

My character is buff, and my ear is killing me.

My treacherous body has put me through a lot in the last few years. I've had bits removed, sewn together, broken off and malfunctioning. I've paid for synthetic bits. I've been on long and strong courses of anti-biotics to combat chemicals my body has seen fit to course through its various ducts. I'm more machine now than man.

Furthermore, I've had friends with various serious illnesses that have forced them to seek professional help so that they may deal with the abuse their body puts them through.

So I feel fairly comfortable in saying that I'm familiar with our medical system, and doctors in particular. I'm equally sure I'm breaking no new ground when I say they both suck.

'But what about our Oooorgaaaans!?' I hear you wail; 'Doctors protect our precious internals!' And you may reasonably believe you have some statistical data to back that shit up. Why else would we have an aging population of people scrounging for every second of longevity that modern science can provide? Why don't people drop off from plagues or whooping cough any more? If we lost all our doctors, would we not descend into third-world conditions?

Sure, these all may seem like fairly obvious justifications for the existence of this lofty profession of Doctor, but anyone who has been churned through the health system, been left hanging at the end of an expensive line for months in expensive waiting lists only to end up with an expensive bill and no real explanation for their malady will probably have this same lurking suspicion that they just don't know what they're doing. That's right - we have no real way of challenging their diagnosis, and they have no real incentive to ensure we get the best treatment that will ensure we never need to come back and line their pockets again. Perhaps if the Medical Board wasn't run by a bunch of back-scratching doctors they'd feel some professional inclination towards observing their duty of care more closely.

This is why the last ten years or so have led me by the nose to the conclusion that most doctors -- expensive specialists included -- are nothing more than overpaid anti-biotics dispensers. If I were bold enough to liken myself to a house with severe structural integrity problems, manifesting in long crumbling cracks along my (attractive) supporting walls, a series of visits to a specialist I subjected myself to a few years ago resulted in: an expensive series of rock-band posters covering said cracks; and renewed gold-plating on my doctor's toilet-roll dispenser. In other words, five visits to one specialist at over $100 per visit, plus pathology expenses, and the result was a strong course of anti-biotics: precisely the same as a free visit to a bulk billing doctor.

Dentists are no better - they too seem to have backed us up into a cul-de-sac where we have no recourse. When I visited a dentist on the subject of a broken tooth, and happened to mention that I hadn't had my teeth looked at by a 'professional' since I was a kid, he had to have a little quiet time. His eyes widened and I swear he started whispering prayers of thanks under his breath. From that moment on, I was his best friend. He still calls me from time to time (well, his secretary does) to warn me of the assured DOOM waiting around the corner should I miss another six month appointment.

So this coming Monday I am subjecting my broken frame again to the tender mercies of some guy I've only met a few times, who I trust is worth his pay check, who I hope feels some inclination to excel at his chosen profession. He seems nice enough, but one stranger looks pretty much the same as any other when you are at the sharp end of the scalpel...

But I'll survive as long as I retain one hand for jammin', one eye for reading and half a brain for conversing with Scroop.

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

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.