Oh Noes

There are a couple of problems with today.  Firstly, one of my alarms was broken.  One said it was seven thirty, the other said eight twenty.  It's obvious which one I wanted, alas it wasn't to be so.  I ended up being a minute or so late, but nothing too problematic.

Then I fell over.

Then I stubbed my toe.

It turned out to be one of those days.  Everything keeps messing up, but then again a day like this will come along every now and again.

The trick to it is simple - keep your head down until bedtime and hope your alarm works the following day.

It's ruddy cold too, so I expect my hot water to crap out today.  Good luck to you, crazy deity who keeps making me bang my head!

Alarms That Blows my Mind

So earthquakes are exceedingly common in Japan.  I don't think people outside this area realise just how common they are.  This isn't stupidity, it's simply that we only ever learn (and subsequently talk about) massive earthquakes that destroy everything.

What they have for their mobile phones here is quite interesting - it's an earthquake early warning system.  When a quake is about to hit, a specialised alarm sounds.  I say specialised, because it appears that the manufacturers have all gone with the same signal (although this could be pure coincidence).  One of the things you learn in geography is that earthquakes can be predicted with the same accuracy as carbon dating, that is to say within a hundred million years.  When there hasn't been an earthquake for a century, the next one will be big.  Their way of predicting is also in-line with the way yellowstone authorities have predicted an eruption; the ground is bulging upwards at an alarming rate, and there hasn't been a serious eruption in some time.  It could explode tomorrow, or within the next 10 million years.

Basically, when the warning sounds you have all of ten seconds to get away.  Unless you are next to the epicentre, at which point the alarm sounds simultaneously.  Unfortunately the epicentre is where the most warning is needed, but the least is given.  Such is the limit of technology.  Regardless of the fundamental limitations of such a warning system, it still strikes me as incredible that they have stuff like that available to everyone with a phone.  It's remarkable how well it seems to work.

The upshot is that we had a paltry 4 today.  It barely shook the room, but it was interesting what the staff did with the information they were given with the early warning system (which doesn't give information as to how large the quake will be).  They all just stood there, stock still.  They didn't move, didn't dive under desks, they just stood there.

It also interests me what would have if an earthquake occurred at right angle to the track of a fast moving train.  The really big quakes can move metres, and a train track is less than a metre wide.  Would the train just  continue in a straight line, even if the track wasn't underneath it?

Fog Of War

So I've neglected writing over Christmas, as is my wont (it being a holiday and all).  The things I have to report are few, but nonetheless I shall endeavour to hold your interest.

So my keyboard broke (I told you it wasn't interesting!).  On that same day, I embarked upon a four hour quest to buy a keyboard in my local area.  At one stage I was so desperate as to contemplate hopping on a train Tokyo bound until civilisation reared up in the windows.  I stopped at three electronics places, none of which sold keyboards (much to my amazement).  The first was a homely electronics type of shop, selling fridges and whatnot.  I didn't much expect them to sell anything computer related, but I thought I'd check.

The amiable individual manning the desk drew a fantastic map of the local area, directing me to the next place I might try.  At this point my round-the-county trip was only on forty five minutes.

I headed to the second store (it being a geekstore, the proper term I'm not sure of) which sold all things game related.  I'm not talking silly board games that are so thirty years ago, I'm talking computer games.  It wasn't a pokey GAME (tm) (C) (how is this retailer still alive?) store either, it was large.  There were rows of games for every system on racks far too tall for any local to reach.  I ended up helping a grown man pull down a game that had me reaching fractionally above head height, but that's neither here nor there.

How I suspect this type of store survives, is with the sale of manga.  Manga (pron. mang-ga) is basically comic books, but as Japan attracts a certain type of person (I am at pains to ensure the reader realises I neither fraternise, nor condone said archetypes existence) it's best not to say comic book.  When uttered within earshot of the wrong person, the results can be catastrophic.  I have personally witnessed a man talked into stupor about the difference(s) between the two mediums and why one is vastly superior to the other - and this was between two like minded individuals resulting from a mere slip of the tongue.  A layman walking into this trap might well face catatonia.  The same is also true for cartoons, called anime here (pron. ah-nim-may) but I have a hard time making fun of those who would assert a difference between Western and Japanese cartoons.  Essentially, western cartoons are for kids.  Japanese cartoons can be for kids, but can also be for adults.

This, for example, is from a random search of 'violent anime,' on the ubiquitous search engine.

Think Kill Bill.  The scene where that little girl goes mental and starts slaughtering fools with a massive sword. That would never pass censors, but in cartoon form it's perfectly acceptable - apparently.

SO I've completely lost my train of thought, but I was in this shop that sells all things games (headsets, and microphones etc) except it didn't sell mice or keyboards.

I ended up spending another hour and a half riding to the nearest mega-outlet shopping district area mall type affair, to head inside, take five seconds to locate a keyboard, buy it and leave.  The grand total to reach this nirvana of convenience was around three hours and forty five minutes.  The journey back was a pain on account of someone summoning a solid wall of wind that I fought through for the remainder of the journey, but I eventually made it home.  This circular journey taught me two things; ask for directions at every turn because you'll inevitably get lost and; don't ever ask for directions because they'll confuse you and make you even more lost than before, if that's even possible.

So the keyboard works, even if all the keys are different to what it says on the actual faces.  I also took apart the old keyboard to see what was inside it, and they're incredibly simple things.  Two pieces of clear plastic with metallic stripes on them, with a rubber nipple under the key so when you press it down, the pressure causes the two surfaces to contact, with the nipple forcing the key back up when it's let go.

In other uninteresting news, I have to create a lesson about schools in England.  One of the more enterprising teachers in one of my elementary schools has successfully identified that all the English lessons provided by the state are utter bunk, so she demanded I create my own.  I was less than impressed with her choice, not only in content but in the manner of 'asking.'

Anyway, as a lecture style of lesson seems to be her intent, I've made a slideshow.  I'll do a couple of activities with the kids to ensure they're not completely comatose by the end, but here is my creation:

Life in england

I had to amuse myself with the title, and most of the text if I'm honest.  There's no way the kids are going to understand any of the writing.  Also, notice the first page of the slide (after the title).  It's a barnstormer of a line graph chart thingy.  I wanted the kids to know they're not in for a fun lesson, they're here to learn and by golly, they will.  Also, it will take a couple of minute to explain which is perfect on account of it being a 45 minute lesson and me only having 20 odd slides.

I had to email friends to remind me the names of my old primary school (to source pictures) and the houses of the secondary school I attended, completely forgot those as well.

The reason for the title?  I couldn't sleep again.  I've figured out that my body runs a 26 hour day, whereas society only runs at 24 hours/day.  When I was on holiday, I regularly 'lost,' two hours every day, but felt refreshed, energised and happy.  It's only when you run into the contrast of working on the wrong time frame that you realise how messed up we as humans are - worked from 9-5 to earn money to do nothing of merit with our lives.  You would at least think the ten people who own the world would at least let us be happy, but money is built on misery I suppose.  Damn you Richard wossname, who owns virgin records and owns entire countries.

On the flip-side, I wonder if there's a vocation where you can wake up at any time you like, work for the requisite number of hours to pay the food bill, then sleep for fourteen more hours?  I'm thinking writer, but I keep coming back to that so I'm reasonably certain it's a bad idea.  Or a good one.  I'm so tired right now I'm nowhere near sure.

It makes me laugh that people insist that sleeping twelve hours a day makes a person depressed.  That's pure jealousy talking, not science.

Panic Stations!

So I just had a powercut.

Nothing particularly remarkable about that, especially considering this wasn't a weather based cut, but one from ghostly apparitions flicking the switch on my fuse box.

It turns out that running my microwave, PC and a heater is too much.

Previously, I found out that running my PC, air conditioner and hoover were too much - but I digress.

I groped my way to the box, flicking the switch with some effort.  Everything turned back on except the PC, so I went to press life into it.  Alas, nothing happened.

Panic set in, and I whipped out the PSU.  About fifty presses later and nothing was happening.  I gave up, put it on the side (still fully attached) and with a last gasp, I pressed the power button.  To my surprise it worked.  I let it get past BIOS (to ensure the mobo, cpu and mem were fine) then turned it off again.  I loaded the PSU back into the case and turned it back on.  Everything fine.  I then screwed it into the case, turned on the computer and sat back; to a blank screen.

Oh.

I threw logic out of the window and surmised that the screws must have shorted.  I took it out of the PC and nothing happened.I repeated the same process as before to no avail.

I was about to crack open the myriad christmas presents I have on the floor (to entertain me during this long, bleak afternoon) when it fired up.  Now I'm sitting here completely perplexed.

I was previously running the heater and PC on the same bar, so I've split them up, I don't know if that will stop this from recurring, but it makes me feel better inside.

I wonder whether it's an overheating issue?  If the heater and PC are fighting for leccy on the same bar, does that cause it to 'work harder,' (obviously it's an inanimate object, so it doesn't 'try,' to do anything) to get the juice it needs?

Combined (at full juice) my heater and PC need 1500 watts (plus 2 screens and speakers), which seems like quite a lot to me.

Thoughts are very much welcome as to why it wouldn't load up, and ways of avoiding this issue in the future.

I checked the program I was running at the time, no corrupt files, bonus!

I'm going out for a half hour run now, of course I'll turn the computer off in case it goes all arsonist on me.

The PSU doesn't smell funny either, which suggests to me that it's not overheating.  I don't know.

Patents Infringed, BT Ceases to be Relevant

One example

One example of an alleged infringement is Android's ability to allow a music download if a smartphone is connected to a wi-fi network, but to prevent it when the device only has access to a 3G data link.

(Seven Minutes, Countdown Begins) / (There is my Dike)

So apparently the average person falls asleep within seven minutes of going to bed.  Everyone thinks they're special, which makes them not so special - but in this regard I feel I am, if not unique, then gifted with sleeplessness.  Last night for example, it took me over an hour to get to sleep.

How do I know, I hear you cry.  Well, I went to bed at 11.25, stared at the ceiling (or the backs of my eyelids) and looked at my clock some time later; at which point I was greeted with an indication of it being 12.45.  As such, I'm rather tired today.

This isn't a rare occurrence.  I would guess at the average getting-to-sleep (I'm sure there's a technical term for it) time for me being around forty five minutes.  That's an incredible amount of unproductive time.  It's time where my body is not recharging, where my brain isn't regenerating and where I'm not playing games/reading books/watching movies/laughing at Bill Bailey.

If the average person sits on the bog for decades of their life, then I lay on my bed doing absolutely nothing for even more decades.  Twenty one hours per month.  That's a day every month.  That's two weeks a year, lying down, staring at the ceiling.

I've tried herbal shampoo, floral decorations and the 'music,' of bamboo rustling in the wind.  Nothing works.  The only way I can guarantee getting to sleep within an hour of lying down, is to ensure I am ruddy tired before going to bed.  I'm not talking 'I only got six hours sleep last night,' tired (which is what I am now), I'm talking the 'I just went on a seventy-two hour heroine, booze and cocaine bender,' kind of tired.  What's more, the average person requires eight hours of sleep a night, but can function on less.  If I get eight hours, I wake up with a headache, feel crappy and generally zombie my way through the day.  A good nine hours, and I mean nine without being woken up in the middle of the night, the kind of sleep mummified Egyptians excel at, then I'm golden.  That morning is like the blissful awakening, the following day will be fantastic and nothing will stop that being the case.

Now obviously I'm an average person, which makes me suspect we've all been duped.  Our working days are perfectly calculated to ensure we do the most amount of work with the least relaxation time to ensure we're the most productive we can be.  I suspect, therefore, that we need much more sleep than we're led to believe in order to keep us productive.  It's just a theory of course, but one worth thinking about.

Therefore, as an addendum - if anyone has a job with flexible working hours, like a writer for example, then I'm all ears.


#EDIT#  Just came out of a lesson, 'are you sure that's right?'  The kid was adamant that his lesbian was leaning against the wall (I understand the spelling differences, sheesh).  This kid has a particularly nasty form of DATT Syndrome (-head All The Time) so I left him with his lesbian bicycle.  Have fun with that.

Situation NAFU

I remembered about the military lingo website I looked at a while ago.  It had a ton of extra-linguistic direction, showing how to communicate in military sign language ala every action movie you've ever seen.

That last sentence had two red underlined words, try to guess which ones are spelled incorrectly.

Anyway, on this website (the information I gleaned ensures I can now competently hold my own in any hostage situation) there were some cool acronyms that have passed into everyday usage.  One of the relatively common ones is SNAFU.  I dearly love this word, because it could easily be a real loan word.  The usage has changed somewhat, as a snafu is a tight situation, or a sticky one if you're so inclined.  It's common enough that the red wiggly lines aren't showing up, but uncommon enough that I've never heard it in normal conversation.  It essentially means: Situation Normal, All messFed Up.

I think this conveys a mixed message; do you want reinforcements or not?  Who knows.

Anyway, my current situation is nowhere near nafu, it's probably best translated as simply SN.  Therefore, to alleviate boredom (and give me something to write about) I've been trawling the darkest, foulest depths of the internet, resulting in many BBC hits.

This links to some rioting in china.  This is something that happens dozens of times every day, so I don't know why the beeb chose to hone in on this example.  There are thousands of reports of organised protests, by the communists own admission.  This probably means the situation is far more SNAFU'd than we might expect, primarily because those damn commies never tell the truth.  Damn them.  Also damn the capitalists, who in their rush to deny every human being (except themselves) basic human rights, won't even let the poor crap in peace.  It says a lot when it's cheaper to get a man to clean out your portaloo every week, rather than pay the equivalent tax to the government.  The pipes that were laid costs a few dollars to maintain, it costs a few dollars to pay a man to flick some switches here and there, then it costs a few hundred dollars to make sure the mayor has enough cars, hookers and solid gold, ivory plated statuettes to impress the president when he video conferences.

In other communistical news, this article shows you how to create the perfect cigar.  I'm waiting for some pompous fart to point out that tobacco is a drug, and in creating this slideshow the BBC is condoning the use of heroin, crack and/or marijuana, the well known ultimate super drug.  Quick, no one point out that the ingredients are rather difficult to get a hold of, contained as they are on an island that some might call xenophobic.

I honestly didn't know that one should not inhale the smoke into ones lungs.  When I move on from cigarettes and heroin, I'll be sure to heed the advice of this article.  Of course, once I move on from heroin there is only one final destination, with a stopover at marijuana alley.

If you need a reason why religion should be banned, this is it.  Among the crimes committed by the group of punks: looking unsavoury, asking for money, uhm.  Thank christ (see what I did there?) these nutters aren't let loose in any built up area of England.  'Oi mate, got twenty pee, need some fags like.'

There are several terrible things about this story.  Firstly, the people 'fighting,' for their rights think that becoming a punk and listening to shit music is a teenagers way of acting out.

Firstly, I don't know how many thousands of years people in Jakarta have been listening to punk music, maybe it is a part of their cultural heritage, but I seriously doubt it.  It's yet another form of globalisation (yes, me teaching English, IRONY HAHAHAHAA.  Sigh.) that undermines the traditions of the country.

Secondly, punk music is garbage, why would you want to do that?  Why?

Thirdly, 'acting out,' didn't happen before the war, or even after the war, or even in the fifties.  Those hippies have got a hell of a lot to own up to.

Fourthly, Muslims aren't even an ancient and historical part of Indonesia.  They only recently decided to enact spastic, nonsense, made-up law, or as it's known elsewhere 'shariah,' law.  This boils down to, essentially, the ten people in command can punish you for any action, and because there's nothing written down, the response can be anything we want it to be.  Oh, and there are no trials.  Nice.

Fifthly, 'They are Aceh's own children - we are doing this for their own good.  Their future could be at risk.  We are re-educating them so they don't shame their parents.'  Okay, so that's obviously complete and total Orwell.  Which one is it?  Are you 'saving,' them, are you protecting their futures, or are you saving their parents.  When you have to give three crappy reasons for illegally imprisoning your own population, I feel you're starting on the moral back-foot.  Good luck to those who are being re-educated, and good luck to those making up and enacting these faux laws - I fear for your safety once these kids wake up and realise they live in a society that values you less than their mobile phones.  Imagine a country like that eh, where people are the most common (and therefore cheapest) commodity available.  They'd be downtrodden, ground into the dust.  Going to work every day, without a soul, no sense of self.  It'd like being on the tube in rush hour.

Lastly, this old article made me chuckle.  At least the religious nutters in the land of kiwis have got a sense of humour (and no sense of self-preservation apparently).

The Fondness of Stevenage

So the yuropeonz are making a satellite system to watch everything we do, in order to fine us.

I'm not even joking.

They're making a group of so called 'sentinels,' to monitor who's producing what environmental discharge, in order to fine any lawbreakers.  This will, naturally, extend into watching through your window to make sure you're law abiding, but I assume it might take a while until the lense required for that is developed.  It won't be until 2020 that the climate system is operational, so do all your ill-deeds now, before the voyeur satellite is launched (presumably some time before the climate system becomes sentient and takes over the nukes.)

One interesting tidbit gleaned from the article is where it's being made.

Stevenage isn't exactly the first place I think of, when high-tech (hi-tech) industry is mentioned.  This is stupid of course, as my whole family is/was involved in aeronautics and kill-onautics at BAE systems which is a forerunner of pretty much all advanced tech in England.  The problem is that my view of Stevenage is worlds away from the hermetically sealed labs of spacecraft creation.  In my mind, I liken the creation of extra-terrestrial objects to the creation of bacteriological weapons, and as a result the umbrella corporation.  If you don't know what that is, you're not nerdy enough for this blog.  Sorry.  I'm going to have to ask you to leave.

If you do know what that is, then I'm going to have to ask you to get out of your house more often, and possibly get more exercise, while certainly eating more healthily.  As a result, I'm also going to have to ask you to leave.  Sorry.

But look on the bright side.  Stevenage, while not quite Newcastle, Manchester or Hull, still has enough burnt out cars to provide scrap metal aplenty for the ship.  They can make any number of mistakes (something you wouldn't often want to hear uttered around a space mission) and still have enough material to build plenty of spares.

There will be pieces of old Nissan flying around the planet yet, just you wait.

As an addendum, to address my attempt at writing a novel in November (an admirable website called nanowrimo taunted me into starting), I failed.  Quite miserably, I might add, with some 12,500 words written over the course of the month.  The story was about... well something that's for sure.  In those 12,500 words I only managed to establish three scenes within the structure, one of a prison, one of an airship, and one of the airship attacking the prison.  As such, I fear it was a terminal case of the BrÖntes, describing every minute occurrence.  Where it doesn't stack up is in the interest, as I am quite willing to read her work, I would be unwilling to subject a self-aware being to my story.  Quite inhumane.


Also, check this madness out.

Let's Not Go Then

So today is one of the public open days for the Tokyo Motor Show.  It's one of the biggest shows, if not the biggest motor show in the world, and I have a ticket to go.  So am I writing this from inside the giant convention centre?

No, I'm sat at home because I missed the train.

I was at the convenience store buying some breakfast (I'm so sick to my stomach at my own stupidity that I can't even eat that which I bought) when a bent-double old lady appeared.  She was slower than a snail riding a tortoise, but being the gentleman, I let her go ahead of me in the queue (she's spent about ten minutes sidling up to the queue, so technically she was already in it, I guess).

She paid, incredibly slowly I might add, and went on her slow merry way.

So I reach the train station just as the crossing signals were blaring, and had to watch behind closed barriers as my train pulled up to the platform, loaded passengers, and trundled past me.

Very occasionally I get extremely angry, upset, annoyed, frustrated and sad all at once.  When this happens, I tend to become extremely lethargic, so upon being a moron (i.e being nice to the old lady in the shop, as everyone knows that only idiots are nice) I got home and just zoned out in front of the TV for at least an hour.  I still haven't eaten, but I'll get round to it eventually.  There are no fast food restaurants around here, so luckily I can't get a pizza or takeaway.

Every cloud has a silver lining however, and this particular lining is multi-faceted.  Firstly, I don't have to spend the day with those whom I don't want to, plus I don't have to spend over a hundred quid (in train fares, admissions, food, and the Tokyo Gaijin rugby club awards ceremony in Tokyo.).

The downsides are simple: I can't go to the rugby club party (something I actually wanted to do earlier in the week), which undermines my whole effort to integrate (previous attempts include ripping hamstrings in order to prove I'm keen to play for them) and will probably ensure I'm sidelined come January; I won't be able to buy everyone their presents, or their christmas cards.  Christ knows when that's going to happen, now.

There's nothing to be done, I guess.  Except, of course, sit here seething.

I can do that with aplomb.

Time

So I've finally got enough time to write a post, between the time I've spent decidedly not doing university work and avoiding the teachers in my office, after I accidentally down-scaled the print queue, from A4 to B5.  Whoops.

So at the weekend I went to an old boys game at Iwasaki, followed by a bout of ridiculous drinking.  A few things struck me, but I am going to proceed in chronological order so it might take a while to get there.

First up, the game was a simple friendly game of touch.  We played on a pitch that was, quite literally, an inch underwater due to heavy rain the night before, and was never one of the best to begin with.  In essence, it was a bowl of mud, with some mud thrown in for extra mud.  I forwent socks in favour of the South African style no socks.  A choice that I'm glad I made, all told.

An hour before the match I went outside and started place-kicking; something I've not done for a very long time.  I was surprised at how enjoyable it was, but my hamstrings hurt like hell afterwards.

I was hitting around 45% when I was kicking from the pitch, but I couldn't actually place the ball on any firm ground - it floated away before I could kick it.  I therefore switched to the corners, aiming at the uprights from the side.  The aim being to hit the only post visible from that angle.  I managed to squarely hit it once and graze it a few times.  I managed to get bloody close though, and the majority of my attempts were exceedingly close.  I would probably give it a 75% hit rate for normal conversions, which is okay I suppose.  It turns out that having a patch of grass to kick from, rather than a puddle, makes things substantially easier.

The matches were fun, but being touch aren't really worth commenting on.

So I was originally supposed to stay at the after-party until 10.30 at which point I would catch the last train home.

Interestingly, the last train home did not, in fact, go home.  It stopped half a dozen stops before my transfer station, so it became impossible to go home.  Having got a lift to the station, I trudged back to the party.  It's amazing how bright the night is here, I could see the local big city radiating light over the brow of a hill as I walked, and even thought there was no sound, it looked like a there was a massive incandescent fire rolling around just out of view.  That or a jellyfish.

I can't decide whether that view was because the city is just so bright, or because that particular area was so vast and rural.

Anyway, trudge I did, and upon re-entering the party a small arm-wrestling competition had broken out.

Being the foreigner, I was invited to challenge one of the underlings (everyone is ranked by ability in everything, so the club had a champion who designated who should compete with who).  I dispatched the underling (a lock I believe) raising an eyebrow here or there.  I then competed with the old master, a prop who was more prop than man, but under his belly lied a strong arm.  I beat him, setting up a title fight with the king of the fiefdom.  It was a surprisingly long battle, with a man who weighed 135kg's (another prop.)  The table took a battering, with it bowing in the middle (we were both holding onto either edge, so we were essentially folding it around our elbows.)  After what felt like an eternity, he relented, allowing me to slam his hand down in glorious victory.

After about ten minutes of recovery time, he asked for a rematch.  I made him promise that this was the last (my shoulder still aches) and we were fighting for national pride once more.  The man hits the gym regularly, and he isn't weak, and in this second fight, as he was straining with all his might, he sprang a leak.  As blood burst forth from his nose, his elbow began lifting, and at its peak was three inches off the table; at this point he was essentially scrummaging my arm off the table with his whole body.  This had ceased to be an arm wrestle.  The table was decidedly more U-shaped than when it began, meaning that to win, we needn't push the opponent far.

After much blood, and four people holding the table down, I was declared the victor.  It was more of a technical knockout as I don't have the ability to bend others to my will, I simply hold out long enough for them to wear down and tire out.  It's an extremely slow process that involved more than a few words of swearing.

Anyway, after this, I settled down with an orange juice and wore the night down talking to a crazy woman and the man who introduced me to this particular club in the first place.  It was quite interesting, but I would have rather been at home.

I bedded down in the club room (on a futon, with a pillow and everything) to be awakened (after the worst nights sleep ever) the next day.

At this point, I would like to add a few photographs, but wouldn't you know it, home beckons.  I'll finish it up tomorrow.

So it's now tomorrow.

I wanted to show you the picture of me sleeping, but my friend deleted it, so now no one will ever see!

What I will show you is this:

This was shortly before some seriously crazy shit happened.

Everyone appears relatively sober at this point.  It's worth noting that the stuff they're holding up is showing support for one of the towns affected by the earthquake, something akin to 'do your best.'

That must be a captivating stain on the floor.

I have completely zoned out in the picture.  Your guess is as good as mine as to why, why goddamn I look terminally stupid.  Also, I don't know why I'm wearing shorts.  It's three degreee outside (hence why I'm wearing my coat inside).

Also, this was taken immediately prior to the main event of the evening - naked rugby.

A group of lads went outside (in the freezing night) completely starkers.  One of them had a headband on, securing a strange flag.  I don't know why.

This was in front of everyone as they took photographs and videos - they seemed to love it.

Interestingly for me, it was also in front of some of the kids.  There was obviously nothing sexual, but these guys would have been arrested, locked away for 25 years and put on the sex offenders register in England.  Remember, naked =/= sex.  Yet another reason why christianity should be outlawed (and all religion for that matter).

I don't have any photos of that.  Sorry ladies.

Please Waiting

So it was originally my plan to write about the weekend, which was rather different to the normal.

Instead, I ran around obtaining presents, preparing to send a big package to England, with some of the least imaginative, boring 'presents,' to ever be gifted.  It's exceedingly difficult to find presents that are interesting when everything is either vegetables (in my hometown) or prada (at the local outlet mall).

I also did a bit of teaching in-between, but don't worry, it wasn't a lot.

In the meantime, check out this advertisment that was taken down due to death threats.

You know it's going to be good when it's suffixed with 'deaths threats.'

No, I Can't

First up, once again, Jeremy Clarkson is my hero.

"I'd have them all shot. I would take them outside and execute them in front of their families."

The reason I think the strikers are stupid is a relatively simple one.  Striking will change nothing.  Two million people sounds like a lot, but there weren't actually two million people striking.  There were two million individuals on strike, without a coherent voice.  Before you turn around and say 'their demands were simple, fewer fees and a lowered retirement age,' that's all good and well, except there is no representation.  Who will the government strike a deal with, who is their representative?  There are probably dozens of sub-unions within such a group, and none of them are worth bothering with in terms of negotiations.

The only real way to enact change, as has been proven for millennia, is with force.  Egypt didn't change (although it hasn't really changed at all) governments by petitioning local politicians to 'please, if you wouldn't awfully mind, stop being corrupt please?'  This strike is as riled as a mob in England gets, and I'm pretty disappointed if I'm honest.

Two million people milling around while enjoying a day off work is ineffective, to say the least.  The potential for change within such a small group is amazing, and was left bizarrely untapped.

Give me a megaphone, fifty thousand people and a million matches, and I will deliver unto you a change in government.  And lots of toasted marshmallows.

In other news, I found this government website that's designed to encourage hackers to out themselves.  The idea being that the government will use this as a promotional tool, recruiting anyone who can break the code.  What I actually think is happening is far more interesting; anyone who breaks the code will be seen to by Jeremy Clarkson and his shotgun.  That way, all the intelligent people in England will be dead, and everyone can live happy in a safer world.

Regarding the quiz, see the title.  It looks like hex, but I'll be damned if I can be bothered to figure out the values underneath them.  It's not even text, so I can't just copy it all into a converter.  Also, the smallest unit of hex is a nibble.  Bit, byte, tera, peta, giga, mega, kila, and a nibble.  All computing terms.  Someone had a sense of humour with the last one!

In other news, this video is of a dance that's particularly cool, from the lost travellers website.  I like the fact it's sped up, it adds something entirely new to the whole idea (namely being able to discern the change in sunlight and direction, without having to keep a fixed point of reference).  Obviously the video isn't meant as an end in itself, but it's interesting.

#EDIT#

It's good to see that igor has found a new job as the Egyptian tourist minister (or something).

Tall Versus High

So what makes something tall, and another thing high?

Apart from copious amounts of marijuana, I could only think of one thing.  If someone knows the actual difference, please feel free to stop me now.

So my theory is this:

If something is touching the ground, it's tall.  Buildings are tall, non-flighty animals are tall, as can be a flying animal if it is touching the ground.

A plane is tall when it is on the ground, but once it reaches the air it is flying high.  Much like the smoker.

So that's my little theory on these matters, does anyone know the actual answer?  (I've struggled to find the answer on the internet.)

Twenty Eyes, and the other fifty

So, I went to my Friday school today.  The observant among you may notice that today is Monday.  The very observant among you may notice that it's not necessarily Monday for everyone, some prefer to exist in front and behind my day.  It might even be Thursday somewhere, but that's awfully close to being 'discworld talk (TM).'

The point is, the Friday school are having an open day of sorts, inviting parents (they're still called parents here, not guardians like England), government officials (and other teachers) from around the place, into a pit of terror.  Normally I don't get particularly nervous for these things; so I didn't this time either.

It's really very simple.  These people are here to do a job - they're not out for murder.  Other teachers, with whom I occasionally converse, are of the opinion that screwing these events up means the end of the world.  For the native teachers, what it actually means is a retooling of prior knowledge, ensuring their practices are kept up to date.  More often than not, older teachers tend to stick to routines they formed in their younger years, and sometimes they need, at most, a refresher course.

For the ALT's it's essentially the interview for next year.  If you fail this, you're far more likely to be kicked out.  Considering they can replace you at a whim (which I suppose means yes, they are out for murder), their standards are above those held to schools in England. Unfortunately, this means the awesome half drunk/drunkard English teachers, and brain heavy science teachers are a rarity.  Such is the way of a conformist society, these traditional archetypes of sixth form learning guidance experts are in no way present in Japan.  I can understand their reluctance to expose the pupils to such bastions of knowledge as the drunk or genius at too young an age - such brilliance would surely corrupt young minds - but to deny the general population of these amazing creatures is wasteful to the extreme.  If I make it into a university, I'll report on my hunt for these elusive mammals.

So referring to the title, I was watched by three teachers from the other elementary school I work at, three women of unknown origins, a man who is head of the school district (of course it's a male manager, don't be misandristic) and a motley crew of unknowns.  I assume the unknowns are known to someone, otherwise they made a mockery of the formidable school defenses (consisting of a barricade to cover the entrance, and more lockable doors and windows than a greenhouse).

These events are always rehearsed by the school teachers involved, to point of boredom (in my case at least).  This particular lesson was planned for two months before the fact.  Let that just sink in.  A forty minute lesson, two months in the planning.  The Japanese teacher involved is the nicest woman in the world, but she has no confidence in herself.  She is apologetic for everything, even when I make a mistake it somehow becomes her fault.  I know a lot of people who are annoyed by this kind of behaviour, but it really doesn't bother me.  Helping this kind of person achieve something is a pleasure, and in this case it was fun to act with her in this particular charade.

I didn't help her nerves by messing up the introductions however (it was a three pronged attack plan, I introduce myself, the Japanese teacher introduces herself, then the kids introduce themselves to each other, except I forgot that last part.)  I apologised profusely afterwards, but the damage to our working relationship may well be permanent.  If not our partnership, then her blood pressure will certainly never recover.

Anyway, after a few stumbles (all on my behalf) we finished the lesson.  Who knows how it was perceived at large, and indeed I will never know.  The objective analysis of lessons, and the results thereof, are privy only to the higher-ups.  As if that kind of thing would be useful to the teachers involved.  That's just heretical.

Then again, Japanese sensibilities are somewhat frail, so criticism would likely result in hari kari all over the place - and that could get messy.

Why Life is so Frightening

So I was trawling the web, and pulled out this fantastic article.  (Check out the pie graphs at the bottom of the page).

It's from a fake religious website, created to illuminate the masses as to the demons present in religious worship.

They do a pretty good job, but the religious nutjobbery on display paled in comparison to the dire writing.  I understand that it takes effort to write that badly, but I damn near stopped reading several times, because more than a few sentences require re-reading.

If it teaches you nothing, let it teach you that religion is bad, m'kay?

I just had to e-mail the team playing on Sunday in the representatives match - I can't play on account of my entire body falling to bits, and primarily consisting of fat anyway.

This, immediately after I was sent a link to all the cool shit they get, all the pictures that are taken of them and their presence on local TV and in the papers.

Now my body chooses to destroy itself.  Thanks.

To illustrate how bad it is, my right forearm is half the size of my left (muscle wastage moves particularly quickly in Japan, apparently) and my legs have disappeared.  I am looking for them, but I don't know where they are; only bone is left.

I am extremely fat around the middle too.  The fattest I've been since I was a kid.

All things considered, I'm in the worst shape I've been in for a long, long time.

It's going to take months to get back into sport.  Months.

#edit# As an edit, check out this article from the very same site.

The number of people who think this site is real... simply astonishing

Headphones

I just washed my headphones for the umpteenth time.  Previously, the left ear had stopped working (presumably due to all the washing) so I assumed they were about to give up the ghost.  I usually go through headphones like diabetics go through insulin (that's a lot of headphones, in case you were wondering).  This pair have lasted me a fair while, more than a year now, in fact.  They went extremely well with my Sony Walkman (MP4 Edition) because both were seemingly indestructible.  I broke the mp3 player, took the back off by accident, went swimming with it in my pocket and generally abused it - but it kept on ticking.

In fact, the only reason I don't still have it is rather annoying - I broke the locking switch, which meant it was permanently locked in the 'off,' mode.  The electronics withstood a beating; the centuries old switching technology was the first thing to break.  Typical.

Anyway, I plugged my headphones into the computer (expecting a shower of sparks) and found that now left and right are fully functional.

What?

In unrelated news, the BBC are up to their old habits again.  Their insistence on hiring 'experts,' who label everything material as merely 'stuff,' and equating this 'stuff,' with human beings, more specifically our size, simply undermines any respect the organisation once had.

They could at least throw in a few 'things,' here or there.

Besides, I can't relate to this 'stuff,' being measured in people.  Apart from being macabre (I'll have a humans worth of pork, please) it is incredibly boring.  I want all my 'stuff,' to be measured in dragons, from now on.  I want 1/58th of a dragon of wood to make my new patio, please.

Grow the hell up please, BBC.

To quote a post below the article: 'Congratulations for your contribution to the great dumbing down of society. Was this article originally destined for the CBBC website?'

Defending the Little Guy

Normally, I would watch news like this, and sympathise with the little guy.  In this case, Iran and Iranians are being forced out of Nuclear aspirations by the rest of the world - while we all use oil like it's going out of fashion.  Although oil has ceased to be fashionable, and keeps getting more difficult to come by (expense is a byword for ease of procurement, in this sense) the Iranians are being told to keep using oil, coal and gas to generate their power.

Let's say, as a bi-product of producing cleaner energy, Iran got hold of some nuclear weapons.  Let's just pretend that's what would happen, for a moment.  Iran loses all sense and bombs america.

What will happen?  Well, now the americans have developed missiles that can travel at mach 5 (this is an old article, but the successful tests have been replicated recently), it won't be long before they wedge a nuke onto it. So the leaders in Iran blow up Manhattan, then the americans destroy the entire middle east.

Maybe that scenario is somewhat drastic.  Let's run the simulation again.

Iranians blow up New York, americans annihilate the middle east.

No, you see, no matter how you play it out, there isn't going to be a microbe alive in Tehran, let alone a person.

Russia and america have all the nukes, so why can't the rest of the world?

Before you start saying something along the lines of, 'oh but Iran is a bad place and they're dictators and whatnot,' let's look around the world.  If you want to punish criminals and criminal behaviour, why don't we place embargoes on every single politician in England, and then work our way to america.  Lock up everyone who makes more than a few millions dollars a year, because there isn't a chance they didn't obtain their wealth legally - then make your way to Europe, where those at the helm of the union are lining their pockets illegally.

When you've enacted that period of cleaning, go find Sepp Blatter.  Put that crook in prison.  Someone, please, do that soon.

Then put Formula one in the hands of someone who doesn't suffer psychotic breaks whenever anyone talks about holding an american F1 round.

Then, when we've cleaned out our own rubbish, let's 'fix,' Africa.  There's a whole continent of dictators and despots hanging around there.

After that, the whole world will be infinitely better, and we can get to work on 'helping,' the middle-east.  There's naivety, then there's claiming we romp around the world murdering civilians in other countries for their own good.

But I digress - this was originally supposed to be about video games.

So the Iranians who play this game complained about it being a game, depicting what is going to happen to them in a few months.

My point would be this: obviously america is a psychopath who has Iran in its sights, so stop playing games and bloody run away.  Especially if you think that battlefield 3 will affect public opinion, because you know, we're all dumbasses here.

I was also asked to write something for a little book the sixth year teachers are making for their kids, as they're moving on into their new schools at the end of this year.

I wrote this, with the expectation that none of them can understand English.  I wrote it in the hope that some of the more curious (and frankly, more intelligent) students will ask what it means, and the teachers or parents can then translate for them.

I hope this year was fun for everyone.  English can be difficult, but it is important.  We don’t learn English to study for tests, we learn English to speak to other people.  If you meet new people, you will learn about yourself, Japan and the world.  I hope you will grow!

I enjoyed this year, and I hope you did too!

Don’t stop smiling!

J Sam J

Well, No More Sports

So yesterday I went down to the Tokyo Gaijin rugby club.  They had a friendly match, and afterwards was a trial for the representative team comprised of the best from our league.  The idea is that this team would go on to face a team from another league.  I was expecting a reasonable level of ability from this team (being as they were, the cream of the crop) but the level was rather confounding.  People really don't enjoy tackling, so every break came from poor defence rather than solid attack.  It was faster paced however, and that is more enjoyable to both watch and play in.  I would have liked the opportunity...

Anyway, I went down to the club with a niggling hamstring injury, hoping to prove that I wasn't arrogant, expecting to waltz into the select team - and hoping to prove that Tokyo Gaijin were
my primary team.

What ended up happening though, was me ruling myself out of contention for at least another month.

In short, I pulled my other hamstring.  It was foretold by the club old boy, who said, "if you try to nurse a hamstring, you'll do the other one."

He was completely correct.

The problem is simple: if I don't turn up and rest the original hamstring, it would have been fine for the select game, but I wouldn't have been able to play in it.

If I go down, I risk hurting myself further but at least show willing.

I don't know if that's a bonefide catch 22 situation, but it's certainly how it felt.

Also aiding in my downfall: not visiting the gym in a month in order to rest my hand.  When I went running after the bike crash (the root of all my physical problems over the last month or so) everything swelled up; especially but not limited to my hand.  It hurt a lot too, so I decided that I'd refrain from physical activity until it was fully healed.  It's X number of weeks on since that, and while movement has returned, the pain remains (I have a lump in my hand, presumably a mangled mass of blood and muscle).  This hiatus means my body is not ready for physical exertion when called for, and much like couch potatoes the world over, I am roughly similar to granite, flexibility wise at least.  I'm also like a leaf, in that I tear easily.  Like leafy granite, then.

I am teetering on a line between devastated and incredibly frustrated - I was damned either way so it was out of my hands, figuratively speaking, but the outcome is still unsatisfactory.

On the flip side, I can tot up the non-human damage.  Kiss forty quid goodbye (train fare, food, drink) along with eight hours of my life (three and a half hours to get there, four and a half on the way back (I got lost, the line I wanted to get branches out like a Christmas tree, because that's, you know, the logical way to build a train track) double parentheses, wahoo!) for the grand total of five minutes rugby and two busted hamstrings.

Not the best return on an investment, although with those losses I could work the markets like a seasoned trader.

The upshot is simple; I will end this half of the season (they split it between the Winter breaks) on my ass getting fatter, like everyone else at Christmas time.  But without the Christmas dinner.  On the plus side, that means no horrible vegetables like broccoli or brussel sprouts.

Dungeons and Geeks

So I've been listening to a random podcast, focused on the rather well known board and dice game of Dungeons and Dragons.  People who played this game were the original geeks.  I don't know when the game was invented, but it must be around the time computers were starting to become useful and geeks latched onto both.  Computer games weren't popular until much later - however the dungeons and dragons style numbers game is perennially popular.  There are lots of games that roll magical random (as random as computers can be, which they can't) numbers to determine myriad statistics within the game.

I've never played dungeons and dragons, and I've never really wanted to.  Listening to these guys play doesn't really change my views, but it strikes me that for a solid game, fixed to a physical board with real dice it has an amazing amount of variation.  Anything you want to do can be done, which is incredible considering that nothing is actually being done.  The freedom, in essence, is juxtaposed with the simplicity.  As things become more complicated, they become more constrained, with games at least.

This is only an issue because I've started playing Skyrim, a free-form game set within the same ruleset as dungeons and dragons (it's 3D, but everyone has numbers attributed in the background).  I've noticed that as this game is touted as being a build your own adventure, it falls far short.  The problem is that there are rules.  For everything.  I can do an amazing number of things, like pickpocket people, rob their houses, save maidens, kill dragons, but I have to obey the game rules, which often pulls me out of the world.  For example, if I want to rob someones house, I have to make sure the doors are closed, otherwise they'll see me.  Even if there isn't a person within five miles.

It also helps that the people playing DnD on the cast are absolutely hilarious, whereas I'm by myself when I'm playing games, and I'm nowhere near as funny.

That's the obligatory nerd portion of this months blog complete.

And in keeping with the geek theme:

How to Break a Leg and Influence People

I've not broken a leg, don't worry.

I played rugby on Sunday, with a massively bandaged right hand.  It looked like I was beginning a particularly unusual mummification process - particularly gruesome considering I'm still alive.

I didn't re-hurt that particular area, but what I DID manage to do, was get a massive headache.  I was holding one of the little opposition players off the floor, when someone belted me with a forearm to the face.  This put me out for a few seconds, and besides from the image of a big, fat, wobbly forearm coming towards my nose, I remember not much of anything for the next ten minutes or so.  Apart from the headache.  I also scored a try at this stage, apparently.  Buggered if I can confirm it though, so let's all pretend it happened.

That try aside, I scored two others; definitely.  One was from a sublime pass, I was standing extremely flat (as I'm wont to do in Japan, the defence holds off for far too long, allowing a head of steam and certain gain-line advantage) and one of the defenders chose to shoot out and try to nab the ball in mid-air.  He failed, I walked a few feet over the line.  It was all very easy, thanks to a sublime pass.

The other came from a break from the halfway line.  I pushed away from the would-be tackler, ran outside the covering defence, scooted past the full-back (at this point I had slowed down somewhat) with about four cover defenders pushing me ever closer to the line (this was deep into the second half, and I'd been causing them troubles for about sixty minutes, whenever I got the ball there were four shirts in front of me).  I dived, dobbing the ball down one handed while flying through the air superman style, lest one of them try to tackle me partway through.  It was worthy of a television replay, alas none was forthcoming.

The real trouble started with ten minutes left.  I once again broke through the midfield (having started at fullback I was moved to outside centre), beat everyone with the full-back to go, decided to ship it onto the winger who wasn't anywhere near me.  My only option was to push a pass backwards fifteen feet, where despite a valiant effort, he was nabbed by a defender.  A couple of phases later and I was ready for an inside ball, except, and I don't know why, I blew my hamstring.  It exploded like a drag racer, I was short of disengaged pistons, but it felt quite terrible nonetheless.  Why it should happen so far into the game is anybodies guess.  Oh, and this was five minutes after I landed badly on my right wrist while I was diving at a try scorer to be.  He was definitely going to make the line, but I was running as fast as possible and wanted to exact some revenge for being punched, beaten, kicked and generally done ill to.  So I did.  Childish, yes.  Worth it?  No. Now both wrists hurt.

I'm deliberately leaving the bad play until last, and as such, the last good thing to come from the game was some of my tackling.  I stopped at least three definite scoring opportunities, one with a tackle that was perfectly legal, leaving the attacker winded.  While he was on the floor making like a grounded fish, I dived onto the scrum half (at this point there were two defenders and fifteen attacker) which was perfectly legal, as no ruck had formed - causing him to spill the ball backwards, allowing my team to catch up and, eventually, poach some possession.  I was particularly proud because milliseconds prior to the tackle I had slipped, causing me to be on one knee during the impact.  As I rose onto my feet, the natural forward momentum and position I'd adopted were perfect.  One of those lucky flukes that works, I suppose.

Now the bad - my first take at full-back was as inauspicious a start as is possible.  I took the ball up, not realising my entire team expected me to kick.  I took it into contact with no one there to help.  They inevitably got the ball, shipped out it to the backs and scored.

Looking back, it was bloody stupid to run it in, let alone where I eventually chose to do so.  I should have taken it onto the wings and let a few of them tackle me, allowing me to release an outside player.  Or kick it.  But kicking is no fun.

Other bad things - I gave away about forty eighty bajillion million penalties.  No matter what I did, it was wrong.  I was pinged for not releasing the tackler (I was on my feet, had let go, did a theatrical hand waving ceremony to prove that I had let go while jumping back over the tackled player, picked the ball up and ran off, (no one else was there) only for the whistle to go).  I then tackled a chump, deciding not to let him touch the ground.  In doing I again came foul of the referee for something.  I don't know what this time.

Then, after another break (they happened all over the place, made by any number of players) I was a cog in the passing machine, taking a tackler out of commission, passing backwards to the next person.  Except it was forwards apparently.  It was only forwards insomuch as backwards is forwards in the southern hemisphere.  But we are not in the southern hemisphere.

The one that makes me chuckle is the tackle when I got a forearm to the face (no broken nose, amazingly, although it is sore.)  I had the player in the air, forearm to the face, went down, penalised for not rolling away. To be fair, I didn't roll away.  To be fair, I didn't do much of anything.

So in summary, it was a game of mixed outcomes for myself.  I scored a few, our team lost.  I made some great tackles.  I busted every part of my body.  My running broke the gain-line.  I was penalised more times than everyone else on the pitch combined.

It was lots of things, and interesting was certainly one of them.