but no-one was saying it July 28, 2006  

Thought that looked a bit too good to be true. Points to note: testosterone does occur naturally in the body (though they do calibrate the 'suspicious reading' levels to the point where they're pretty uncontestably suspicious), and that so far only the A sample has tested positive - he's not busted until the B sample also tests positive.

All I'm asking for is that I be given a chance to prove that I'm innocent. Cycling has a traditional way of trying people in the court of public opinion before they get a chance to do anything else.
  Floyd Landis

Which I think is slightly rich given that this court of public opinion is precisely the one that lead to all the main favorites for the race (none of whom, by the way, have been charged with anything or had any of the allegations proven) being forcibly withdrawn immediately prior to the Grande Depart. What's the difference between Floyd Landis, Ivan Basso and Jan Ullrich? One got to ride the Tour, neither of the others has failed a dope test!

I've figured out a way to duplicate the effects of seeing River Queen. Alternate between watching 5-minute chunks of Lord of the Rings and The Piano. After about three hours you'll have had the equivalent of seeing River Queen, without having had to go through the tedious stage of actually watching it. You'll probably have been a bit confused and have a slightly incoherent picture of what happened - I assure you, this is a deliberate effect and faithful to the original.

Some motorists make a point of giving their engine big revs as they pass a cyclist. I'm absolutely mystified as to why they do this. To show how much power they have at their control? That's like driving a forklift truck into a gym and using it to raise and lower the weights. You're kind of missing the point of why people are doing what they're doing.

Mind you, I also don't understand why anyone would want a hydraulic clutch, so I've come to accept that there are certain headspaces that I'll never understand.

Also slightly mystifying: why NZ hip-hop MCs feel the need to make cultural references that have absolutely no application here. At one point, Opensouls (who are - and let's be frank - very, very good) make a comment about someone "acting like they just escaped the slave ships" (Optimist). Since the only historical slavery in NZ was Maori-on-Maori, and that certainly didn't involve ships, it's a bit jarring. Presumably it's a metaphorical usage, because "a historical legacy of decades of systematic marginalisation, both economic and cultural, only recently being countermanded" is a bit hard to fit into a decent tune. Or possibly he's after the US market, in which case fair enough.

like you weren't thinking it July 26, 2006  

Madagascar is a film about sublimation of homosexual desire. Early in the film, it's made clear that for Alex the Lion, food serves as a proxy for sex (note the sequence when he's talking in his sleep to a piece of filet mignon, using a seductive voice and sexualised language and making hand gestures miming stroking someone). Later, on the island, his problems can be summarised as an inappropriate desire for his best friend, Marty the zebra. In the straightforward narrative of the film, he literally wants to eat Marty - a desire he fights with and finally overcomes.

At all points during Alex's struggles on the island, his desire is a thinly-veiled reference to sexual longing. It's not so much a lust for blood, as just lust. At one point, he has a dream that parodies the famous 'rose petal' sequence from American Beauty, but with falling steaks instead of petals. In the original sequence, the Kevin Spacey character is struggling with inappropriate sexual desire for his daughter's best friend, and the sequence ends with his wife noticing him masturbating. The parody ends with Alex waking up licking his best friend's buttocks. The reaction is frantic backpedalling, denial, and a spurious explanation (counting stripes) - not dissimilar to how a failed homosexual advance might be disclaimed. Later, when Alex loses control and tries to eat Marty, he bites Marty on the buttocks (rather than, say, the throat). For Alex, it is indeed all about the booty.

This helps explain why the ending of Madagascar is so unsatisfactory: having established that Alex has an uncontrollable desire to eat Marty, gosh, he somehow manages to control it! He ends up diverting his desire for steak (i.e. Marty) into sushi. Obvious subtext: honey, have you ever tried - you know - not being gay? Fish is a perfectly acceptable substitute.

The above may seem like a smart-ass piece of over-analysis, but I'm perfectly serious. I do genuinely think that it's a fairly obvious homosexual subtext (see also the X-Men movies), and it does help explain why the ending grates so much.

Heather also made the interesting observation that all of the main characters in Madagascar are played by actors who are either Jewish or black. Though this is presumably more of a coincidence than anything else.

All of these musings are prompted by the fact that Madagascar is now Rebecca's favorite movie. She asks to watch it every day, screams with delight whenever someone has a pratfall, sings and dances along with the soundtrack, and repeatedly urges to see certain characters. She still thinks that the lemurs are squirrels, but we're working on that.

Today's soundtrack: the Futureheads' cover of Hounds of Love, the Phones' wolf at the door remix.

The hot water on my floor at the office is on the blink. So shortly after arriving at work, I'm forced to wander the building with a towel clamped under one arm and my work clothes under the other, looking for a shower cubicle on another floor that's not in use. Well, it's one way to meet people.

soaked to the skin July 25, 2006  

And so, as the UK edges towards the point where the entire country spontaneously combusts from the heat, I'm happy to report that the rain and gales have finally stopped over here in NZ. Having spent most of last week dealing with winds ranging between gale and hurricane force, torrential rain, sleet, hail and occasional snow, we've had a couple of days of clear, brilliant sunshine. This means that the countryside is slowly getting a chance to drain. The weather forecast was forced to point out last week that after the past couple of weeks of continuous hosing, the ground in the southern North Island was now basically completely sodden, unable to absorb any more water - and as a consequence, we could expect a lot more slips and erosion as the water ran off through soaking gound. A number of minor slips duly occurred, closing various roads and railway lines and removing large chunks of the properties across the road from us. So we're all pretty glad to have had a few days to give everything a bit of a chance to recover. Roll on spring, says I.

The AA is calling for our Give Way rules to be rethought - and not before time. Our Give Way rules are, frankly, ludicrous. In practice, 'Yield to the right' is harder to use than 'Yield to whoever isn't crossing the centre line'. This is also the main basis behind the requirement for people arriving from overseas to have to sit the written component of the NZ driving test. So now, just as it's looking like we might get some traction on getting this annoying hangnail of a requirement removed, I've gotten around to getting my NZ licence. Yay me! A night or two of reviewing the road code (it's all the little stuff - like the maximum speed you're allowed to pass a school bus, for instance - that trips you up), and the worst part of the proceedings turned out to be waiting in the AA's local offices for about half an hour queuing.

The maximum speed to pass a school bus when it's stopped to let off passengers is 20kph, for those of you who didn't know.

The local youf around Newlands have taken to spraying gang tags on things. The main tag is 'Newlands 056' or 'Westside 056'. Handily, the main place I've seen these has been on bus shelters. It's handy because that's the bus number for the Newlands-Paparangi route. A youf gang taking their name from their bus route: it's almost Canadian, isn't it?

like a rocket July 22, 2006  

One 'eck of a Tour so far. Just when you thought someone was putting a bit of authority on the race... Looked like Landis had definitely cracked: the Alps are not a forgiving place to have a bad day. Eight minutes behind meant that there was realistically no way he'd win. Until, of course, he rode his heart out, took a 130k breakaway, and produced one of the best rides the Tour has ever seen, ever. Astonishing. With a bit of luck, he'll win (he just has to make up about 30 seconds on Perreiro, which he should manage in today's time trial) - and deserves it thoroughly. Pity, mind - I was supporting Andreas Kloden. Still, chapeu!

Worth reading: the Guardian's analysis of sports drinks by actually checking published biomedical literature. Worth reading if you've ever wondered whether PowerAde is actually any better than dilute OJ with a pinch of salt (answer: no, it isn't). Notable results are that chocolate milk is an extremely effective recovery drink (which I'd long suspected after comparing the nutritional contents listings on a pack of chocolate milk with those on a protein shake - plus, I really like chocolate milk), super-oxygenated water works entirely through the placebo effect, and that the old roadie trick of swigging flat coke actually has a solid physiological basis.

While watching Chicken Run with Rebecca:

Me: Look, Rebecca, a montage!
Rebecca: No, daddy, they chickens.

It's all been a bit fraught the last few days. Rebecca has had a rather nasty virus that's laid her down flat for a few days, and Heather's got it too, and it's been raining heavily. Everyone's a bit blah, no-one's sleeping properly, the DVD writer is stuffed, and it's all a bit damp. Morale could be higher. Still, it's supposed to be sunny on Saturday.

chain reaction and mutation July 13, 2006  

When I was in uni, I knew several guys who didn't smoke, but carried zippo lighters. Partially out of pyromania, but mainly as a tool to try and meet women - offering to light their cigarettes, see. I asked one if it worked: "not really," he replied gloomily, "and when it does, you only meet chicks who smoke."

I'm starting to wonder if I'm carrying my chain tool in the same spirit. The last time I used it myself was about a year and a half ago, but it's getting a fair bit of action for other people. On the way in today, at the intersection of Bunny St and Thorndon Quay (large intersection with multiple traffic streams), I saw a bloke coming across from my left snap his chain. He got to the side of the road OK, but then the lights changed and my lane started moving. I pulled up, grabbed his chain from the middle of the intersection, and went off at the side. The car behind me very kindly stayed well back during this procedure. Handing the bloke his chain, I discovered that he didn't have a chain tool. So for the second time in a month, my chain tool was put to good use sorting out someone else's bike.

Carrying a chain tool is clearly a good way to meet people. Mainly men, I'll admit, but some of them do have shaved legs (though as far as I know Cyrus is not among this number).

carrying water July 12, 2006  

The BBC published an interesting article about cycling in London last week. It's interesting partially because of the author's impetus for taking up cycling (mild psychological trauma caused by only just missing being in the London bombings), and partially because he lifts the lid on the informal sport of commuter racing. Of course, the first rule of commuter racing is that you don't talk about commuter racing, but rest assured that it's a well-established subculture. You see someone ahead of you and think "I can catch them", and you give it some wellie. Bonus points if you overtake someone on a road bike when you're on a mountain bike, or for people in lycra if you're not. Everyone does it. Not everyone admits it.

And in this spirit, I feel compelled to point out that I started the Ngauranga Gorge just behind a group of three other riders last night. They started fast, pulled about 100m ahead of me, then tired about halfway up - one of them turned off to Johnsonville, and I caught the other two at the bottom of Newlands Road and dropped 'em just by the JW meeting house. Childish it may be, but there's a lot of satisfaction to beating someone to the top of a hill.

Similarly, we watched Hell on Wheels last night. It's an excellent documentary about the 2003 tour, focussing on Team Telekom - specifically on Erik Zabel and Rolf Aldag. Absolutely beautiful cinematography: from the huge landscapes that the Tour moves through, to the paced speed and swish of the riders moving on, it's breathtakingly shot. The 2003 Tour was an incredible race: on a knife-edge until the second-to-last day, with some devastating crashes (notably Joseba Beloki's appalling crash on the Cote de La Rochette), hard-fought victories (it was definitely not a cakewalk for Armstrong), and heroic efforts (whatever else may be true about Tyler Hamilton, he did ride the entire Tour - and win a stage - with a broken collarbone). Focussing in on one team - a major team, yes, but a team that didn't actually do all that well - and on a couple of riders within that team managed to convey the spirit of the race without becoming lost in the barrage of hype or Lanceismo that the contemporary coverage did. An extremely good documentary, a work of passion about a sport that conveyed that passion and justified it, and just a stunning visual film. Well worth the price of admission.

take out the washing on the Siegfried Line July 10, 2006  

In the 1980s, the infamous alternative comedy team The Comic Strip made a movie called The Strike, about a bloke who sells a script about the miners' strike to a Hollywood studio, how it gets rewritten bit by bit, and the dreadful abomination that results when it's filmed. Arthur Scargill ends up being played by Al Pacino, and saving the day in an exciting denouement that involves a motorcycle chase. As the film goes on, more and more of the screen time is given to the supposed movie being made, a hilarious bad Hollywood production number based tenuously on one of the pivotal moments in the British union movement from the 1980s. If you've not seen it, it's worth it.

Anyway, spurred on by recent Hollywood rewrites of the second world war (notably U-571, which simply took a vital and daring commando raid conducted by the Royal Marines and recast it as having been done by the Americans), Churchill: The Hollywood Years is a bit of an update of the trope. It's got the same hands at the helm (writer/director Peter Richardson), and is a parody Hollywood version of Churchill's role in the second world war. It's hilarious. Churchill is presented as a gung-ho, maverick US Marine ("You want a war, Adolf? You've got one!") played by Christian Slater. Princess Elizabeth is played with an excruciatingly bad English accent by Neve Campbell. I laughed until milk came out of my nostrils. A good comparison would be Blackadder meets Team America: World Police. The cast could be adequately summarised as "a good swathe of UK TV comedians for the past two decades". Not recommended for the Americans, but other people should enjoy it.

I think the whole Hollywood revisionism annoyed people a lot because much of Britain's self-image is connected to the second world war. A small nation, surrounded and outgunned by the Forces of Evil, rallying the population and triumphing, everyone equal in determination to win and willing to put up with privation, spirit of the Blitz, etc - it's a good national myth. And they get annoyed when people start to play with it.

While gardening yesterday, I went to get a watering can out from underneath our house. Opening the door to the underground section, I discovered how admirably watertight the base of our house is. It's so watertight that all the water that had got in during last week's torrential rains hadn't been able to get out. Opening the door to the underhouse space (about 3 foot high) I was presented with a four inch deep puddle of water that stretched from the door (handily located at basically the lowest point under the house) for about ten feet by three feet. Not a good thing to see under your house, particularly when you're trying to keep down the moisture inside. Foreseeing a long afternoon of bailing, I did a bit of thinking. Ten minutes of work later the problem was being solved. I dug a small hole at the bottom of the pool so as to get a definitive low ground point, then put one end of a 20m hose there, weighted down with a brick so it wouldn't move. I then took the other end of the house to the storm drain in the middle of our drive (probably about half a metre or so lower than the puddle). Crouching down, I put the end of the hose in my mouth and sucked mightily until I got a mouthful of dirty water - at which point I spat it out and let the hose droop into the storm drain. Since the water was now flowing through the hose (initially started by my sucking, now being pulled by gravity due to the height difference), it was effectively sucking more water in at the top end as it went through. So it quietly drained the puddle without recourse to time spent bailing or an electric pump. Took about six hours, but didn't require any further interference. It's an old aquarium keeping trick for draining fishtanks to clean them. Who said goldfish never teach you anything?

It has now been pointed out to me that COBIT does have a process area dealing with the user lifecycle. This is course DS5 Ensure Systems Security. I feel such a fool.

read your pamphlet four times - it don' make sense July 06, 2006  

So Wellington is basically underwater at the moment. At least, the parts of it that aren't busily collapsing under the continued onslaught of rain are. This is just showcasing the advantages of living at the top of a dirty great big hill (or at least, far enough up it so that you don't get flooded, far enough down it so that you aren't going to slip off).

While I didn't think much of Underworld's last couple of albums, I'm still rather a fan - I'd stand by the assertion that dubnobasswithmyheadman is one of the finest albums of the 90s. So I got out Underworld's entry in the Back to Mine compilation series. And you've got to love any act that will start a 60-minute compilation off with an 11-minute long funk workout. Yup - they start a compilation of their favorite music off with Gil Scott-Heron's classic political funk track about Reagan's election in 1980 and Republican politics at the time, "B Movie" - a beautiful, rolling funk exhortation against the government. Subtle and building, it's well worth the price of admission alone (and the fact that Underworld have liked it for the better part of two decades goes a long way to explaining the beauty that is tracks like Rez or Cowgirl).

I'm currently doing a fair bit of work with IT best practice structures - notably COBIT and ITIL. I'm also listening to a fair bit of reggae and hip-hop at work. And it's quite confusing to be working away on an ITIL process audit while listening to Roots Manuva singing about ital visions.

Has anyone else noticed that COBIT doesn't actually have a process area or control objective dealing with actually giving users access to the system? Bit of a weakness if you ask me.

possibly hazy by evening July 05, 2006  

Well, that was a remarkably refreshing interlude. Just got back from a week in Auckland visiting the family up there. All had a good time; Rebecca got to spend much time romping around with her grandparents/aunts & uncles/cousins. Excellent weather, too: sunshine every day, lovely warm house, absolutely great. Everyone concerned had a good time and would do it again in a heartbeat. Now we just need to plan our next trip up...

While we were in Auckland, Heather's mother very kindly lent us her car to zip around. It was an interesting experience. Heather's mother drives what I think we can safely call a wee car. Specifically, it's a Daihatsu Move: 600cc of raw power. Those of you with motorcycles bigger than this may now laugh hysterically at the thought of a four-seater car running on a 600cc engine. However, once you get behind the wheel, it's a strangely compelling ride. The actual car body is very light, so it's quite responsive despite the small engine. It's a bit top-heavy (so you don't want to corner too hard), but is otherwise very nippy. It's exactly what you need in a town runabout: enough engine to get a couple of people around, and able to cope with motorway speeds, but not too grunty and gas-guzzling.

Of course, you get utterly no respect on the roads and get cut up constantly. And the reactions when your friends see what you're driving are often hilarious.

While we were in Auckland, Cat gave us a yell and suggested that we hook up to see the 30th anniversary production of Glide Time. Glide Time is an NZ classic - a comedy written in 1976 that spawned a TV series, Gliding On, that stamped itself on the national psyche. It takes the mick out of the vast government bureaucracies that were pretty prevalent until they were all sold off in the 80s. A good production, though Craig Parker (ex-Shortland St, probably best known overseas as the elf who gets it in the neck at Helm's Deep in The Two Towers) was playing being a bit of an Ac-Tor and jarred slightly. Otherwise all the actors were bang on. Recommended if you get a chance to see it.

Well done Matthias Kessler. Stage 2 of the tour, he made a very nice breakaway, stayed in front, looked like he had it sorted, and then got caught in the last couple of hundred metres. Undeterred, he got up for stage 3 and thought "Sod it, I'll try again", made another nice breakaway, and got the stage win (with the sprinters cutting it slightly too fine and making it in 5 seconds behind him).

Of course, all my tour predictions evaporated with the sudden withdrawal of all the favorites. Dearie, dearie me. It's worth pointing out at this juncture that none of the people accused of doping have had the charges proven, and that some of them (say, Ivan Basso, who won the Giro d'Italia recently) have been tested out the wazoo anyway. However, the accusation is that they're indulging in the kind of doping that's impossible to detect (homolagous blood transfusions, say), and that the Guardia Civil have reasonable evidence for the accusations. Either way, all the favorites are out of the tour - my biggest sympathies are with Alexandre Vinokourov, who wasn't accused but who had too many of his other team members pulled out so that his team was automatically withdrawn. Regardless, I'm still wearing my CSC strip, although if pressed I'd have to tip Levi Leipheimer as my favorite to win.

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