Events of 2009:Sunday 4th January 2009
Every year it's the same thing - I should have listened to Taz. All my web pages are coded by hand, as I say in my intro page, and all the main pages refer to the current diary page at the bottom. All those menus are coded individually and by hand. Taz recommended strongly (to the point of correctly implying I was a moron for not doing so) that I code a single php menu once, and then just link all the pages to that menu. This would, of course, make a lot more sense. However, here I am this year, re-coding all the pages by hand again. I learn nothing. Sunday 22st March 2009Someone had the bright idea of going to Las Vegas. The last time I went to Vegas was soon after I got married, and I remembered it as a town full of sound of fury, lights and whores, alcohol and carousing, celebrating that which should be eliminated from the human spirit. What the hell, I thought, maybe it's changed. This merry enterprise, as a concept, was predicated from a visit by my friend Killian, who was in Los Angeles for a few months on business. While he was here, he mentioned wanting to meet a friend of his sister's. All he knew about her was her name, her telephone number, and that she worked as a dancer in Las Vegas. Nadia was on the case immediately. She booked us a room, and some other stuff too, and the three of us headed out across the plains of Nevada. We were somewhere around Barstow, on the edge of the desert, when the drugs began to take hold. Because the drugs we had taken were mainly acetomenophen (what you Irish people would call "Paracetemol"), this meant that my nagging headache got better. This is Killian and me in a casino, feeling the burn:
Our first sign that Killian's dancer friend may have been understating herself was the frequent occurrence of her image on many street corners, huge billboards and the occasional bus. "Wait," he said as the first bus whizzed past us, "I think that's her!" And so it was. Las Vegas has not changed. I don't know what the opposite of "oasis" is, but this is probably the only place on the planet where that word would be used - it's in the middle of the desert, but it's a depressing cesspit of unattractive alcoholics, garish lights, uncomfortable sounds and professional losers. It makes the salt flats and featureless desert all around seem like heaven. There really is no sight more pathetic than a woman just slightly past the point where she could still be considered attractive dressed like she's twenty years younger, bringing drinks in plastic cups to loss-junkie animals at three o'clock in the morning. And there they are, throwing chips onto numbers and colours, and laughing about it with their new temporary friends: "Daddy needs a new pair of shoes!" Daddy wants stabbing in the teeth, more like. Monday 10th August 2009Good news: a Facebook fan page was set up for me. Bad news: it's for people who hate me. I don't even know some of those people! How can I have engendered so much hatred? It's something of a mystery, but I have added it to the Hall of Shame on general principle. Maybe I should try being a nicer person. Just kidding. Sunday 11th October 2009Today, I ran a half marathon in Long Beach, which is just over thirteen miles, in three hours and ten minutes. This is pathetic. No human being should be that slow. Here is what happened: 5:00 am - I am forced from my restful slumber. We have some driving to do and there will probably be "traffic", that epic scourge of all organised activity in Southern California. I'm pretty much asleep for the entire drive, and indeed the first half of the marathon. 7:30 am - As soon as we heard the starter's pistol, we snapped into action and stood in the huge line for the portable toilets. I didn't have to go, because I realised I was going to a marathon and followed standard evacuation procedures earlier that morning. It turns out that the pistol was just for "Wave 5", the people who thought they were going to finish the half marathon between two and two and a half hours. Ten minutes later, I looked back to the starting line, and they were still crowding through, to the forced sounds of encouragement from the loud DJ they hired as an MC. 8:00 am - It's finally time for "Wave 7" to start, so naturally we're about twenty minutes late even for that. Wave 7 is for the people who have no intention of doing anything impressive with their lives, ever. And we were at the back. 8:30 am - Dani and myself took the initiative early on, and decided to press ahead. We were running at an almost acceptable pace, passing lots of people, seeing lots of the city. After running for what seemed like an eternity, we finally saw it in the distance, and we could hear the band playing and people cheering - yes, we had reached the "1 Mile" marker. 9:45 am - Despite losing them in our dust about an hour ago, Dani and I can clearly see Nadia and Tanya ahead of us. We were looking for them in the field the whole time, and we have no idea how they managed to pass us out without us noticing. They deny everything, but we suspect foul play. Mile 8 - I'm not sure what time it is, but I remember seeing the marker. There was a family sitting in deckchairs watching the runners pass, shouting generic encouragement things that made me want to hit them: "Good job!" Really? "You got it!" Got what, exactly? There were two parents and two small children. However, I did not stop to punch them, because I was terrified. They were all wearing pig masks. I didn't need to see that at a time in my life when I was least equipped to run away. Anyone who has ever seen The Wicker Man will understand. Mile 9 - Dani's feeling the burn. So am I. Nadia is trotting happily along, on the sand, laughing at us. She thinks we can't see her. Dani has some sort of terrible foot pain, so we stop. She takes off her shoe and reveals seven nice, ripe blisters. They're ready to go. They want it. I can feel it. "Pop them!" I suggest. "No, you're not supposed to," Dani counters, trying her best reasonable voice. "No, what you're not supposed to do is run thirteen miles for no good reason! POP THEM OR I'LL KILL YOU!" Reason prevails (i.e everyone ignored me) and the blisters (who are named, by me, as Happy, Sleepy, Dopey, Grouchy, Beaky, Marylin and Mad Sweeney) are allowed to simmer. Mile 10 - I finally wake up. "What the hell! Where am I?" I touch my face - there is water. I thought I was crying, but in reality I was just sweating through my eyes. Mile 11 - This is no country for old men. I look down and see blood on Dani's shoe. From the position, my guess is that Mad Sweeney, the largest of the blisters, has jumped ship. I ask her if she wants to stop, but she says she's OK. We have learned over the past few miles that, while running is painful and stupid, stopping to catch your breath (or because everything hurts) is suicide. Your legs lock up and it takes several hundred yards to get going again. It's best to just put up with whatever your body is doing to you and keep running. Worry about it afterwards. Mile 13 - We see the finish line. Through some weird stroke of providence, I still have enough energy for a final sprint, with Dani in close pursuit. I just spent the previous three hours and ten minutes running. What the hell was I thinking?
After the race - We can't walk straight. But we can't sit down or stand either. It's very uncomfortable. We have to walk across the road to get to where we parked, but instead of stepping off the kerb, we stagger along to the wheelchair ramp, because it's easier. We're in that much pain. Monday 7th December 2009A family emergency prompted me to return to Ireland for two weeks. I didn't really prepare - I just clicked on the first flight out, threw a few things into a bag and went to LAX. As I approached customs, I noticed the TSA officers asked the man in front of me to open his laptop and turn it on. I'm not sure why - maybe they felt that if it was concealing a bomb, it wouldn't work properly. I was then gripped by a small panic. I suddenly remembered that my desktop background is the flag of Al Queda (below centre), with some Arabic tastefully scrawled along the top, backwards. I like the shock value when I explain it to people. My previous desktop background was the Luftwaffe symbol - an eagle gripping a swastika (below left). I wonder how much of the appeal of the Nazis lay in their lovely uniforms and attractive designs.
|
