Euro Day 4: Old Stones and Cricket

Wednesday, July 4, 2007 and the Salisbury morning brings bright Sun and warm breezes. After one last Rokeby House breakfast, we bid our hosts, Karen and Mark, a smiling farewell and drove a few kilometers into the town center. I will note for the record that Dee declined the car keys for this short journey.

We were set on visiting Salisbury Cathedral. After a short stroll through quiet, narrow streets, we passed through the ancient arch and stood at the edge of the green space that skirts this, the tallest spire in the UK.

The free tour inside was led by our newest friend, Peter. A retired military man, Peter was the very model of a modern Major-General - and his knowledge of the Cathedral's history and architecture is vast. For 90 minutes he kept us all spellbound (even the kids!) with his stories and attention to detail. While there were so many highlights during this tour, seeing an original copy of the Magna Carta and the world's oldest working medieval clock are a few that stood out for me. It was only later that we learned the typical tour is scheduled to last only 45 minutes, and we appreciated Peter's lessons all the more.

With our time Salisbury coming to an end, our goal for the rest of the day was to meander our way towards Bath, taking in a few sights along the way. Our first stop - Old Sarum - which is the original site of what is now Salisbury. All that is left on that emerald-coloured windswept hill are the foundations of what once was. When the local populace decided to bug out in the early 1200's, they took whatever building materials they could, and moved them a few miles south to the town's present location.

After a good hour's worth of exploration at Old Sarum, we piled back into Blue Passat for the short drive to Stonehenge. Driving on the Salisbury Plain must be one of the more relaxing and idyllic trips one could make on a sunny day. Miles of green, undulating hills give way to spectacular vistas - always at just the right moment. Soon enough we were there - in the middle of nowhere in particular - amid the ancient stones of Stonehenge. While perhaps a little bit more commercialized since my first visit some 20-odd years previous, not much had changed around the site. The open fields, curious sheep, and low-key trickle of visitors were largely how I remembered things. I liked that visitors were now issued a device that provided an audio tour of the site (a feature common at many tourist destinations in England, so it seems). One big difference was the show of military force this time as compared to the 'hippie riots' that had punctuated my last visit.

After an hour or so of looking around and lunching on ice cream and scones, it was time to push on towards Bath - our next base of operations. Our actual destination was the village of Bathford on the outskirts of Bath - home to our next B&B, Eagle House. We'll explore the village of Bathford in another post, but suffice to say that it is ancient and makes liberal use of stone. Eagle House, some 250 years old, is magnificent with its stonework, gardens, and 12-foot ceilings. Certainly there was a different 'feel' than Rokeby House, and we knew we'd enjoy our stay.

After a bit of settling in, we decided it was time to dip our toes into Bath (yes, bad pun). While our guidebook suggested otherwise, we decided we might drive ourselves into town. John, our host, gave us excellent directions that would get us into the heart of town while avoiding the typical tourist congestion. The drive was not bad, although we got lost for a bit in the busy traffic. But soon enough we were in a public car-park at the Bath Cricket Grounds. This was a tip from John - not many people know that the car-park exists, and we had no trouble finding a spot for Blue Passat. As a bonus, some cricketers(?) were on the pitch holding a practise, and we spent a few minutes watching this very odd sport!

Expectedly, Bath is old and constructed largely of stone. After some 'roadhouse faire' at a restaurant in the central area of Bath, our plan for this evening was to avoid any real sightseeing. Rather, we intended to to sign on to watch a bit of street theater known as Bizarre Bath - which had run across during our Internet research. So, we found the pub at the appointed meeting time and paid our pounds. The one-man show did not disappoint. The best way to describe it is 'street theater meets Monty Python'. While it offers no historical education, we did get to spend 2 hours walking through central Bath being thoroughly entertained. Mind you, if you pale at the idea of a magic trick involving a rabbit named Stuart, a rucksack, and the River Avon, then perhaps you'd be better off to skip Bizarre Bath. My family, however, loved it.

The tour wrapped up at 10pm, and so it was time to find our way back to Bathford. Driving the twisting roads in the dark was not so bad, but I made a note to avoid doing it again. And so, a busy day came to an end inside the old, stone walls of Eagle House. Tomorrow, we would tour Bath properly.

Time Traveling in the Blogosphere

So I went and made a somewhat-public statement that I'd go back and finish the posts I started 6 months ago about Eurotour 2007. After re-reading my trip journal, I think this will be fun (for me) and uncomfortably close to watching someone else's vacation slides (for you). But since there's bugger-all going on here lately and my Vanity Project isn't being nominated for any awards anytime soon, what the hell. Let's do a Dallas Shower Scene and pretend it's July 2007 once more, shall we?

Eurotour Day 1 (and 2) was Monday July 9, 2007 and that was the day I had a heart attack. No one paid much attention, but it happened. You can read about it here.

Day 3: Suck It Up, Buttercup

After the horrors whose corporeal form was a Blue Passat, today promised more of the same. The game plan was to drive(!) 60 minutes from Salisbury down to Portsmouth; the present and historical home of the British Navy. I love ships - especially old ones - and this day was one I had been planning for weeks. The trouble was, I was not enamoured with the idea of more driving. And so, I avoided the topic as long as possible.

The morning stated with a lovely breakfast of smoked salmon and creamy scrambled eggs prepared by our hosts at Rokeby House. I think I enjoyed this much more than anyone else. All through the meal I studiously avoided any talk of Portsmouth.

After breakfast we wandered over Salisbury market looking for interesting things to buy. There were none. We wandered over to Salisbury Cathedral for a look-see. There was a funeral underway and we couldn't go inside. I'm sure there's more to do in Salisbury on a grey Tuesday morning, but it was not obvious to us.

And now, the picture that is etched in my mind forever more: my family imploring me (rather angrily) that we needed to get into the Blue Passat and go see Portsmouth. When you get leaned on by an 11 year-old, you better grow some stones (I heard some big kids say that once).

And so I did.

Karen from Rokeby assured us the drive was easy. Well guess what? It was easy! And the tire held! And 60 minutes later we descended from the high, flat plains of Salisbury and my breath froze in my lungs as I saw the vast, sweeping, grey-hulled expanse of history that is Portsmouth. I had never seen so many ships in my entire life!

In this, the birthplace of Charles Dickens, there really was more to do than we could fit into a single day. We concentrated our time, therefore, on the Historic Dockyards. Upon purchasing the deluxe tourist pass, the highlights included:

The soaring Spinnaker Tower and it's 23-mile view out to the Isle of Wight:

Nelson's HMS Victory - the oldest commissioned ship in the Royal Navy:

And Henry VIII's ancient Mary Rose - cast in a haunting, waxy light:

Add to all this a boat tour of the harbour, a chance to climb around another vessel or two, some museums, and a most excellent Italian meal, and you've got a jam-packed day of salt-water, barnacles, and history.

As we drove back to Salisbury at the tired end of the day, it occurred to me that I'd learned a few things. First, driving in England could be tolerable (barely). Second, I'd been reminded of how much fun a family could have together. Third, my sense of direction still sucked. We got lost in Salisbury (again) and ended up in the maze of one-way streets in the old part of town that all the guide books say you must avoid.

After a few rolls of the dice, however, we magically were spat out from the mouse maze of narrow streets and found ourselves back at Rokeby House. And thus ended the day with cups of tea all around and some quiet journal writing. Tomorrow we would be traveling back in time even further - Stonehenge and beyond!

Computer Boy, Heal Thyself!

Back in the mid-70's, my younger cousin Joe received the gift of a new calculator which, in those days, was an expensive rarity to be owned only by engineering-types who only grudgingly gave up their slide rules. But for a young teen such as Joe - a non-geek - to own such a device meant instant celebrity status. In truth, this fueled a secret loathing in some of us covetous types as Joe - again, a non-geek - seemed to collect and discard these sorts of treasures on a regular basis. That's a subject for a different post, I think.

His calculator came with a book that detailed all sorts of neat tricks with numbers. The only ones I really remember today are how to make the display read "Shelloil", and how to calculate (and graph) your personal biorhythms.

Now, I never really believed in biorhythms but the notion always stuck in my head. I suppose it's due to the same brain-wiring that makes me open up the Freeps every morning to read my horoscope (yes, that's 2 strikes in one sentence). The last few weeks have made me think again about biorhythms - specifically the point at which the Emotional, Physical, and Intellectual cycles intersect at their lowest points. This, of course, would be a good time to lock the doors, open a book, and wait it out. To do otherwise would guarantee a Very Bad Day.

Indeed.

These last few weeks would seem to prove that biorhythms are real. Everything I've touched has gone to hell in pretty craptacular ways. I've been dull-witted (really), quite moody, and fighting perpetual fatigue. The evidence is tangible:

• I installed a rather large closet organizer and, close to completion, I realized all the drywall anchors were installed backwards. I'm a reasonably handy fellow, but what should have been a 2-hour job turned into something closer to 5 hours.
• I've been napping - every day. I never nap.
• Closet organizer redux - It took me hours to realize that the (dozen) marks in the new hardwood floor were not a result of my awkward man-handling of the closet doors. Rather, they were caused by the metal legs of my step-stool where they had cut through the rubber feet. Lovely, huh? Thanks be to Xenu for creating matching wood filler.
• BandGeek, my 15 year-old daughter, is barely talking to me this week. We don't quite see eye-to-eye on setting appropriate levels of usage for MSN chatting and text messaging on cellphones. Apparently I'm over-reacting. In other words, my temper is to be avoided this week.
• The coup de grace - I inadvertently blew up my computer. With the PC case open, I moved the power cable to the CD drive every so slightly and exposed a heretofore unknown short in the CD power connection. This power lead also serviced 2 of the 3 hard drives in the PC - and they were toasted. Now, I've been an IT Guy for 25-ish years and I'm pretty handy in that department. In my neighbourhood, I'm the go-to Geek for PCs, plumbing, eletrical work, etc. Biorhythms don't care how clever I am, so it seems. It cost me 2 new drives, a whole bunch of re-install time, quite likely some videos I've been working on, and a great big glistening ball of my dignity.

This is just a partial list. It's been that bad. Just for giggles I checked my biorhythms for the past few weeks. As suspected, my cycles were at critically low levels. But, hey, things are looking up next week. I'm a believer now.

P.S. So why was Computer Boy here pushing wires around inside a working PC? He was checking for free memory slots in preparation for a few upgrades that would enable him to play Bioshock at decent settings. Sad, isn't he?

What Geeks Get In Their Stockings

Christmas is all about quiet reflection, lazy times with Loved Ones, and re-energizing the soul. It's not about presents.

Am I right? Of course I am.

So I won't say anything to the contrary. I'll just show pictures and smile warmly.





I love my family. And now I get to upgrade my video card.

News Flash!

I love old newsreels. I love their quick-cut soft-focus black-and-white style. I love their off-beat stories and over-the-top narratives.

I also love hyphens, so it seems.

So imagine the tingly feeling I got when I discovered - quite by accident - that venerable British Pathe Limited has digitized their entire library. That's 75 years of still photos and, yes, Pathe newsreels.

It's all out there at www.britishpathe.com and it's free. You can search their vast database, you can view the content, and you can even download videos. Just as good as the actual stuff are the comments tagged onto each bit of footage in the archive.

A random search on 'turtle', for example, yielded a few gems such as:

Professor Huxley introduces a new policy of encouraging public access to the animals.

Turtles crawl across a beach, a woman turns a turtle over and boys are cruel to turtles.

Quirky news from France and Florida.

Maybe it's not everyone's cuppa, but it's a cool little gift to me.

Oh, and the comment about imagining tingly feelings... you can ignore that... unless you're Billie Piper or some such, that is.... in which case you can imagine all you like so long as you video yourself imagining such tinglings and post the evidence so that everyone (and that means you Mr. Twist!) knows it.

Forget lolcats

Let's start a new meme, my friends. Lock up your citrus trees -- 'cause the Innertubes are clogged with lemon-eating babies. The horror...the horror...

Mind The Gap

I'm loathe to re-gurgitate someone else's re-gurgitated story on the Net, but this one is too good to let go unacknowledged. The voice of the London Underground, Emma Clarke, was recently let go from her job after 'management' discovered she was keeping a personal blog of spoof Underground announcements.

Listening to her MP3's will evoke much chortling, I guarantee. A few of my favourites:

"We'd like to remind our American tourist friends that you are almost certainly talking too loud."

"Would passengers filling in answers on the Sudokus please accept that they're just crosswords for the unimaginative and are not in any way more impressive just because they contain numbers"

"Do not drop litter on the train. Please use the tramps provided"

CanCon Despair

I read today that CBC has a few new made-in-Canadaland TV series lined up for January 2008.

Now, sit down. Comfy? Good.

One of the new series is a 13-part serialization of Coupland's JPod.

I'm not kidding.

The good news - I guess - is that Coupland, himself, is executive producer and wrote the scripts. Maybe the visual medium will translate Coupland's story better than print. But I'm not real hopeful.

The bad/weird news is that Alan Thicke is in the cast. Now, William Shatner would be sort of hipster-casting. But Alan Thicke?

I'm from Missouri, but you know I'll watch an episode anyways.

Oh, and another new series is MVP. A hockey-meets-Desperate Housewives soap that was shot in London over a few months earlier this year. I can't wait to see the JLC and Convention Center on my TV.

Oh wait, I can. Guess I better head to Chapters soon.

Now, Where Were We?

It cost a few extra coins, but I've ferried back across the River Styx and have left Death behind for awhile. After a week of visitations, funerals (two of them, actually), long-lost relatives, too many death certificates, and a quiet spot for ashes under a leafless Magnolia - it's time to cast these eyes back towards the Living.

Today was Winter Preparation Day at Casa Crazylegs. The lawn got one last trim, the pump has been pulled from the pond, the deck chairs and bikes have been crammed into the shed. I can, once again, fit the van into the garage.

Now - we wait.

I hate Winter a little bit more every year. Sure, all you glass-half-full types might have said something like, "I like Winter a little bit less every year". Not me, though. My hatred for Winter just grows.

It's not that I don't like snow. I like snow just fine. And cold? Bring it on, man. It's just that Winter has become much too ambiguous for me. Winter in Southwestern Ontario is decidedly an under-achiever these days, and someone ought to do something about it.

What has happened to the Winters of our youth? When was the last time we had to call out the army to rescue stranded motorists? Anymore, Winter is nothing but nothing but feast-or-famine snowfalls and a continuous cycle of freeze/thaw. We have a whole generation of kids who've never had that sense of entitlement for Snow Days.

So come on Winter. Show us what you got, or I'm calling Al Gore.

Surreal Life

So now it's over. Last night, surrounded by his family, Dad passed away. It was the oddest experience I've ever had. I've known death before, but I've never watched a person actually die. But that's what we did - just watched him cling to life, all the while telling him it was okay to let it go.

There were tears. Of course there were tears! The seven of us huddled around Dad's bed just kind of watching him, holding his hand, murmuring sadness. Soon his breathing slowed and we suspected the end might be near (the will of the body is impressive).

There were a few laughs, too. Dad's wife made a teary jest about 'the Energizer Bunny' that lie before us. I shared a secret dread that we might be living a sitcom moment - fast-forward an hour or two where Dad is still hanging on while our collective deathwatch succumbs to tired legs and hidden boredom.

At 7:10pm Dad's breathing stopped. He winced once, twice - his lungs drowning, giving up. And with JediBoy holding Dad's hand, he was committed to oblivion.

Not knowing what one does in these situations, we stood around the lifeless body and we told each other funny stories about Dad. The weight had lifted and a few of us dared to admit we felt better, somehow, someway.

We packed up Dad's things and the detritus of several days worth of living in a hospital room. We hugged the nurses - the amazing nurses. Then we drifted into the night without looking back. Dee, JediBoy, BandGeek and I - having not eaten since lunch - made our way to one of those interchangeable roadhouse joints and ate ourselves silly. There was little talk of Dad - just the happy-chatter of a family together.

The funeral arrangements are pretty much taken care of, so I now just await word on the when-and-where. Today I will write a eulogy. And it will be a happy one, I think.

When Did You Last?

True to my somewhat cynical nature, I tend to consider the darker side of things. When someone says, "What's the worst that can happen?", I'm usually the guy who can answer the question. I'm great at parties. To my credit, I can usually figure out a way to avoid the Worst. A footnote: This is not to say that I have no sense of humour. On the contrary, I chuckle and guffaw on a daily basis - and, in fact, there is no topic in which one cannot find humour - at least in the right company.

So where's this headed? I may in the minority, but the topic of Last Times has invaded my moments of lucid dreaming on more than one occasion. It's usually on those sleepless nights, in the lonely hours, where I ponder about the 'last time' I might do something before I die. Some examples:

When will be the last time I kiss my wife and kids?

When will be the last time I eat in a restaurant?

When will be the last time I am in complete control of myself and my dignity?

When will be the last time I see my beloved DisneyWorld?

You get the picture.

If that isn't morbid enough, I consider whether I would know - or would want to know - when these Last Times occur. Would knowing it's a Last Time be harder on your psyche? Would you do anything differently if you knew it was your Last Time? Do you do anything today with an actual realization that it may well be a Last Time? The excercise always leaves me felling small and melancholy - and I suspect it's all about becoming middle-aged, with a dim understanding that you're not immortal after all.

Things do end. Life is not fair, nor is it unfair. It simply is.

My Dad, all of 64 years old, has been fighting cancer for a little over a year now. We've know for quite awhile that the prognosis is terminal, and we've mentally prepared ourselves for the inevitable conclusion. This past Saturday we took one more final step together and admitted Dad to the Palliative Care Unit at Parkwood. Realistically, we're probably counting time in weeks before the rounds of chemo, radiation, morphine, tumours, pneumonias, and a hundred other Dreads finally collect the price they've sought for these past 15 months.

And then it occurred to me as I thought about the ambulance that took him away on Saturday afternoon. This a Last Time. This is the Last Time he will ever see his home: his own bed, the deck he loved to sit on, the walls he painted, the workbench he built, the turkey dinners he hosted, the once-happy woman he married some twenty-odd years ago.

I've been wondering what he thinks of all this, but I cannot bring myself to ask Dad about Last Times. I think such a question would belie a selfishness in myself - like looking into the eyes of a dying man to catch a glimpse of what lies beyond.

Things do end. Life is not fair, nor is it unfair. But sometimes I wonder.

Butterfly Wings

At this precise moment, I'm listening to the insufferable Kris Kristofferson doing his piteous warbling on an bondfide 8-track tape. If you must know, it's his classic(?) 1978 offering called Easter Island. It's torture, even for someone like me who owns the original version of Video Killed the Radio Star (Bruce Woolley and the Camera Club, not The Buggles' ripoff version).

How'd I get here - and why do I stay?

Rewind to a couple of months ago (something one cannot do with an 8-track!). My father-in-law, Clarence, sends one of his infamous Monday morning emails. In between the usual weather report from the Sudbury area and his rundown of local news, he asks if it's possible to copy 8-tracks to CD. Like the great guy *cough*idiot*cough* that I am, I say, "Sure! We can probably do it. I can show you how next time you visit. Just bring some tapes and a player and we'll figure it out.".

Clarence has the world's largest collection of 8-tracks. The Guinness people don't know it, but it's the truth. He does. His tastes run decidedly towards old-school cowboy music, but he throws in a Carlton Showband or Burl Ives here and there. He also has a modest collection of 8-track players that he picks up a garage sales and flea markets. His primal fear - his vast collection perishes (the tapes tend to break easily) or he runs out of players. Hence, his email.

Long story short, he brings me a player and 24 tapes. While Clarence is long gone back to the wilds of Northern Ontario, I sit here copying 8-tracks to CDs for him. I could have shown him how, but it's fussy, tedious work and I wanted a chance to come up with an easy system. Next time I see him, I'll pass the torch and he can beaver away at the remainder of his collection.

For now, I'm on tape number 8, with 16 to go. Got me some Stompin' Tom and Wilf Carter to look forward to - if I can just get through Kris. I'm sure he's a nice enough guy, but lord he sounds painful. I've learned my lesson well.

Low Rent Tableau

It was brief and hard to understand. I was driving too fast - my attention focused on merging into traffic from a parking lot. My mind, juggling too much input and too many decisions, registered the scene as humourous. When I changed my mind, it was already too late.

A family walked together down the street. They looked young. The street was one of those places always dusted with grey leaves that sometimes take their breezy orders from passing trains. The tracks inevitably perch on a high embankment that marks boundaries for the neighbourhood of grey leaves. The boundary says this is a place for the dispossessed - relying on welfare, workfare, angry machismo, one more training course, too much rent, and too much time.

The family really wasn't walking. They moved first down the sidewalk and then across an expanse of scrubby grass . They moved forward together, but they moved as an ever changing swarm - the four of them.

Mother - blond and small and emotional - arms gesticulating wildly at Father as she struggles to remain in front of him, face to face. She keeps falling behind, though.

Father - tall with patchy facial hair and adorned with ball-cap and backpack - walks with deliberate strides. Paying no attention to Mother and eyes fixed ahead, he has Brother's arm and is drag-walking him to whatever objective he had set.

Brother - small and scared and probably 5 years old - hangs lop-sided from Father's grip as he stumbles to wherever he supposed to go. I knew he cried and screamed.

Sister - blond like Mother and a protector for her younger Brother - follows Father with angry screams dampening her face. She uses a long, thin stick to weakly hit Father's backpack, but to no real effect.

I had driven a few blocks before my brain put it all together. These were people in crisis and sorrow, and I could imagine many reasons. I remembered this feeling. It's been so many years, but I remember the Kid-Me and his fears.

At the next block I turned the van around. I needed to see this family again. Maybe I would do something, but I wasn't sure I could help. Maybe I just needed to see Brother and Sister. They could be alright now and I wouldn't even know it if I didn't see them. Kid-Me made that snide smile because he knew that all the years hadn't dulled the ability to justify and lie on the inside.

But they were gone already. It had only been a few minutes, and I'd missed them. Two weeks have passed and I'm still bothered by it all. I hope they're okay now, but I doubt they are.

Best Line I've Heard Today (So Far)

The difference between blogging and flogging is that flogging leaves an impression.

Discuss - all you bloggers.

We Have Liftoff!

It wasn't perfect, but it'll do. As the late Tom Synder was known to say - fire up a colortini, sit back, relax, and watch the pictures, now, as they fly through the air.

Houston?

So we've been building this water rocket. Actually, I've been doing the design/build work whilst JediBoy as been the much-too-eager ground crew. Like most projects I start, my reach tends to barely exceed my grasp and the rocket-building took on new complexities at every turn.

The concept is simple enough: use a standard 2-liter plastic pop bottle as the main component, add some fins for stability, a nosecone for aerodynamics, fasten a parachute, and hack together a launching apparatus. Then you fill your rocket with water (about 40% full) and pressurize it with air. The launcher keeps it all together and, when you release the rocket, it flies. In fact, 100 feet is not an unusual target with these things.

We built the rocket. We built a lovely standing launcher to control pressurization and rocket release. We tested at every turn with small, controlled flights of about 20-30 feet. Everything just worked. Watch:

Today was our final test before going for serious altitude. The test - make sure the nosecone would fall off easily and release the parachute.

Here's the 'before':

And here's the 'after':

Yes, after 2 semi-successful tests, the nosecone failed to fall off when we increased the amount of water and air pressure. The additional thrust (we think) caused the nosecone to jam, and the parachute could not deploy.

But we will try again. London needs a space program.

From Whence They Came

When I'm really bored I like to check the tracking info for this blog and find out how people end up here. Obviously I exclude the 4 or 5 sick puppies who come here on a semi-regular basis of their own volition. Usually, it's pretty pedestrian stuff - somebody Googling for theater of cruelty or one of its isotopes. Other times it's someone even further to the right than I on the Bored-O-Meter who clicks 'next blog' just for giggles - and wins the lottery.

But sometimes.... sometimes I scratch my head and wonder what chain of events, what drunken scheming, what wild-ass lost bet led them here. So, here are some recent Google faves that inexplicably resulted in some poor bastard clicking a link to my Vanity Project:

tourist spots in London Ontario - a paradox, since Google should return no hits

Seinfeld hair - can't even imagine what they were after

crocs bare feet - do clowns 'go commando' inside their big floppy shoes?

bullwhips london ontario - makes me feel tingly all over

theater of cruelty pictures - sick individual or English lit major? You decide.

knights of the dinner table geocaching - a geek looking for fresh air and daylight. Godspeed son.

So, how'd you get here?

Kid Dork, 1965 - 2007 RIP

Sean Twist - noted pop culturalist, Guitar Hero, and guerrilla-writer for hire - was found dead today in his heretofore unnoticed Fortress of Solitude, somewhere in London, Ontario. The gruesome discovery was made by a delegation from Comic Retailers Against Poverty (CRAP) as they marched on Mr. Twist's residence. They had intended to confront Twist about lost revenues they claim resulted from his recent decision to focus his energies away from comic books towards hard-to-get overseas cartoon DVDs. Instead, they found themselves calling 911 after a brief slapfight over who should make the call.

CRAP spokesman Norbert Nerdlinger had this to say, "We were pretty shocked about what we saw through Sean's basement window. But, you know, we're still kinda mad because he's got like 9 people who read his blog and they don't buy comics from us anymore just because Sean went all nuts for anime or something. We think it's a warning. Just stay away from that Japanese stuff. I mean, Sean saw The Ring. He knew the risks!.".

Special Constable Doug (Doug) Douglas of London Police Services issued the following statement shortly after news of the Twist's death was leaked to the media:

There will be no official cause of death until the Medical Examiner's office has had an opportunity to do their job. You know, with laser lights and science stuff. However, we do not believe foul play is involved in this case. Observers at the scene of Mr. Twist's demise are pretty sure the cause of death was a 'head explosion'. The deceased was discovered clutching a computer monitor and the top of his head seems to have blown completely across the room. The following image was displayed on said computer monitor and we will be treating this as a solid lead.


While London Police puzzle over the this clue in what has been dubbed The Monitor Girl Mystery, crack reporter Natasha Duvet of The London Freak Press did an intensive Google search through an entire lunch hour and dug up a few juicy clues of her own.

According to Duvet, the mystery girl is, in fact, British actress/bombshell Billie Piper. "Our sources indicate that Mr. Twist was something of a fan of Ms. Piper. As well, Piper has apparently made some kind of sex movie. We believe there might be a link here and...oops, lunchtime's over! Must run now - reports of cougars attacking teachers or something out in Byron...".

Ms. Duvet added as she ran for her car, "You know, that Billie Piper has a nice smile. Makes me feel funny in my stomach.... shame about Sean's head exploding and all. Still.... that smile...".

Stay tuned for more lurid updates as the story unfolds.

Hard Time in the Internet Age

Apparently I've dodged a bullet, but I may be a wanted man. You might recall my abject failure in blogging from Europe last month. You may also recall my one small success in exchanging a few quick emails courtesy of a wide-open private wireless connection I encountered.

I broke the law, as it turns out. Using someone's WiFi signal without their permission is a crime in the UK. And the authorities are prosecuting. At first blush I thought this sounded a bit harsh. As I think about it a bit, I'm conflicted. It probably should be viewed as theft, but what is the best punishment?

Either way, I'm polishing my shiv.

David Tennant Saved My Marriage

For as long as I can remember, Dee and I have always had 'our show'. It's very seldom that we ever find ourselves sitting down in front of the TV at the same time, but we've always found 1 or 2 programs that we would make a point to watch together. Really, it's been an excuse to spend time with each other - and the fact that we always have a good snack and a good red wine only enhances the ritual.

Way back when, it was Twin Peaks (we're still pissed about the dancing midget ending). These days, we try to catch the Daily Show and we eagerly await the new seasons of 24 (aka Fucking Jack!) and Heroes. Lately we've been in a lull, however, as there really isn't much on the tube that we both agree deserves our limited, combined attention spans.

While our tastes are somewhat divergent in the general sense, I know she's a repressed geek. So I delicately introduced her to the The Doctor. As in Who. I have to admit something - I'm somewhat of a lapsed Doctor Who fan myself. This season I promised I'd watch every episode, with no exceptions. So one evening I casually popped in the latest epsiode that I had taped, and proceeded to watch The Doctor whilst Dee did a crossword.

Long story short - she's hooked. Now she's not content to wait 7 days between each CBC airing, so I've managed to.... ummmm.... 'find' a complete set of Series 3 that we can watch at our leisure. So now we have 'our show' again. Dee looks forward to each Doctor Who adventure, and has even wondered aloud what other 'stuff' David Tennant has done. I believe she's smitten.

I just don't have the heart to tell her there are only a few more episodes in a the current run. Maybe it's time to 'find' Series 2.