Now I don't profess to be an expert on the subject, but the market belched me up some ambergris this week. I find much of my self worth revolves around making the right decisions, as I geuss it does everyones.
Last Thursday some bank shares that I had bought for $16.00 had an attack of the frenzies and despite the woes of the world lurched themselves upwards to $18.70 where upon I sold them....not all of them mind, I'm not that clever. They then fell out of bed and dropped back to $15.30 whereupon I bought them back again....the minute the money had left my bank account they dropped again to $14.95...I know, I know...it's a conspiracy, but there you have it...and there had I, $2600 of profit. I then also discovered that the exact same bank pays you 3.5% interest if you lend them your money, from which the government then takes 33%in in tax...believing as they do that if you earn interest then it is unearned money and they deserve a third of it. However, if you buy shares in the bank, then they pay you a 10% dividend, and they also pay the tax on it. Why am I telling you this...well it's simple...only two lost souls read my blog last week,...and they could have just accidently tripped the counter in their rush to get somewhere else... and the week before that, nobody....so the cat is hardly going to be let out of the bag anytime soon. It also goes to show that if you own the bank, you are a bloody sight more important than if you are a customer....oh, you and the rest of the world already knew that huh?
Two weeks ago I bought some cattle, mangy looking things they were, all forlorn, dapple bedraggled and covered in shit from being on the bottom of the truck on a long haul. I paid $187.50 each for them. Bought them home, washed them down, dried them off, gave them a drink and a decent feed, cleaned up the spare room, cos the neighbours were complaining about the lowing... and took them back to whence I had bought them, they fetched $300. I tell you it beats the bejesus outta working....the moral?...if you look and feel like shit, then they are going to put you on the lower deck of the truck, thereby making it a self fulfilling prophecy.
The P.A. left last week, no explanation...just left...half the world is off to hell in a handbasket, and P.A couldn't cope with whatever attack of the vapours had come visit her. There was prolly a time when I would have bought into whatever it was that was ailing her...taken her burden, and staggered around with it like an imbicile...those days have mercifully gone.
The Tongan however, now has half of Tonga working for me (or him...I'm not quite sure which), and a few of the outlying islands as well...there are women sitting under trees, children running everywhere, men in big hats...it's like a pentecostal revival meeting out there. How the work gets done is not my concern...that they are happy and doing it in their own way is fine by me...and it just proves you don't have be able to say "three thirty" to get ahead in this world.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Rolled, bowled and arseholed.
Saturday morning, and I have decided on an addition to the course that I normally ride. So, instead of heading West I head South. It's gentle and flat and green, and after 10 miles in half an hour, I turn right cross the river, and start to head west towards the beach. By this time it is after 10a.m and the temperature is starting to rise, but the race will be at this time, so I might as well get used to it. It is not as yet unpleasant, but as I hit what they call 'the divi' which is the first range of hills between the plains and the coast, I get a taste of the rest of the day.
It is fun going down the other side. The corners are tight and steep, and I am going fast enough to hold my own amongst a line of cars, I like that I have the skill to do this, it makes me feel important and slightly superior.
After another 10 miles, I turn right again, and head North. This is deliverance country, and has only recently been sealed. I havn't been through here in years, and never on a bike. It is beautiful, untramelled, the tide is in and there is a breeze blowing off the upper reaches of the harbour. People stop what they are doing, which is mostly sitting, and look vacantly at the loon on the bike.
At 35 miles, I reach the crossroads and turn a mile out of my way to go to the shop at the hotsprings...it is touch and go, but I don't think I have enough water to get me to the school tap at Pukekawa. Mrs Singh calls me "you stupid man", as she piles ice into my drink bottle until it overflows onto her linolium floor...the same floor she had just finished admonishing a man for dripping upon. 15 years ago when she first came here she was a customer of mine...now she smiles and gossips and gouges me $3.50 for a can of coke. It is just after midday by the clock on her wall.
5 miles further on and I am trawling up the hill to the land that my great grandfather bought in 1905, and to which his name is still attached. It still bares the brush strokes of the toil that he painted upon it...bamboo windbreaks, and camellias which over the years have crossbred into variagations of a hundred hues and patterns. I realise with a start, that I am older now than he was when he died in 1912. At the top of the hill, Mrs Singhs water is already warm.
At 50 miles come the three roads to temptation. The westerly is blowing hot, and the tip of my tongue is burning...the road is melting about me, and it makes popping sounds like I'm riding over bubble wrap. I've given up trying to count the hills, and have taken up trying to survive them.
At the top of a god forsaken hill on a nameless stretch of road, there is a small cemetary. In the middle, amongst the graves, is a headstone with a picture of Margaret upon it. She is young and beautiful and dead. One day I will stop to discover her story. Right now though I feel sad that while her beauty lives on her life has been extinguished.
Now, who would call a farm 'Silverado Lodge'...my swarthy mate is who, and it is always with a sense of relief that I see the sign with his name on it. It means the hills are almost gone, and soon I can rest with my figurative toes in the river at Mercer. It is 60 miles, and the skin is starting to peal off the tops of my ears, and I'm covered in a crystaline film of salt.
I read the business section from a discarded newspaper, as I sip tea, swill pepsi, and wait for my sandwich to arrive. The euphoria of Barracks inaugeration has done little to stem the haemorrhaging of the Dow.
I don't want to go, but have run out of excuses to stay. The on ramp to the expressway is steep and painful, and heralds a headwind as I descend down the other side. Come now the hard parts.
Now, in a province called Gaujing in Western China, there is a small wizened woman who works 12 hour shifts in a factory sweat shop. She is bitter and sad at the relentless grind that she has to endure on a daily basis...I'm making this up, but I'm sure a woman just like her made my bike shorts.
In part repayment to the Western world for her straightened circumstance, she has made a rough edge to her stitching. What does she care, that it, now, wet with sweat and toil and salt, starts to sandpaper the skin off my butt.
Finally I'm off the washer board that is the expressway, every bone I have feels rattled, across the river, and down the old highway, my legs feel strong, but everything else is hurting...there is almost orgasmic relief in lifting my butt off the bikeseat. I can see now why cyclists take drugs.
The sun is lowering towards the western hills and I'm into the final 10 miles. I enter almost surreally into a twilight zone, between feeling like I could bike forever, and imminent collapse...the wind is relentless, my water is gone, and I am muttering obscenities.
After 7 hours and 20 minutes I am done. 120 miles of hills, wind and heat. If I wasn't so beaten up I would probably feel elated...the Ironman will not be anywhere near as hard as this.
It is fun going down the other side. The corners are tight and steep, and I am going fast enough to hold my own amongst a line of cars, I like that I have the skill to do this, it makes me feel important and slightly superior.
After another 10 miles, I turn right again, and head North. This is deliverance country, and has only recently been sealed. I havn't been through here in years, and never on a bike. It is beautiful, untramelled, the tide is in and there is a breeze blowing off the upper reaches of the harbour. People stop what they are doing, which is mostly sitting, and look vacantly at the loon on the bike.
At 35 miles, I reach the crossroads and turn a mile out of my way to go to the shop at the hotsprings...it is touch and go, but I don't think I have enough water to get me to the school tap at Pukekawa. Mrs Singh calls me "you stupid man", as she piles ice into my drink bottle until it overflows onto her linolium floor...the same floor she had just finished admonishing a man for dripping upon. 15 years ago when she first came here she was a customer of mine...now she smiles and gossips and gouges me $3.50 for a can of coke. It is just after midday by the clock on her wall.
5 miles further on and I am trawling up the hill to the land that my great grandfather bought in 1905, and to which his name is still attached. It still bares the brush strokes of the toil that he painted upon it...bamboo windbreaks, and camellias which over the years have crossbred into variagations of a hundred hues and patterns. I realise with a start, that I am older now than he was when he died in 1912. At the top of the hill, Mrs Singhs water is already warm.
At 50 miles come the three roads to temptation. The westerly is blowing hot, and the tip of my tongue is burning...the road is melting about me, and it makes popping sounds like I'm riding over bubble wrap. I've given up trying to count the hills, and have taken up trying to survive them.
At the top of a god forsaken hill on a nameless stretch of road, there is a small cemetary. In the middle, amongst the graves, is a headstone with a picture of Margaret upon it. She is young and beautiful and dead. One day I will stop to discover her story. Right now though I feel sad that while her beauty lives on her life has been extinguished.
Now, who would call a farm 'Silverado Lodge'...my swarthy mate is who, and it is always with a sense of relief that I see the sign with his name on it. It means the hills are almost gone, and soon I can rest with my figurative toes in the river at Mercer. It is 60 miles, and the skin is starting to peal off the tops of my ears, and I'm covered in a crystaline film of salt.
I read the business section from a discarded newspaper, as I sip tea, swill pepsi, and wait for my sandwich to arrive. The euphoria of Barracks inaugeration has done little to stem the haemorrhaging of the Dow.
I don't want to go, but have run out of excuses to stay. The on ramp to the expressway is steep and painful, and heralds a headwind as I descend down the other side. Come now the hard parts.
Now, in a province called Gaujing in Western China, there is a small wizened woman who works 12 hour shifts in a factory sweat shop. She is bitter and sad at the relentless grind that she has to endure on a daily basis...I'm making this up, but I'm sure a woman just like her made my bike shorts.
In part repayment to the Western world for her straightened circumstance, she has made a rough edge to her stitching. What does she care, that it, now, wet with sweat and toil and salt, starts to sandpaper the skin off my butt.
Finally I'm off the washer board that is the expressway, every bone I have feels rattled, across the river, and down the old highway, my legs feel strong, but everything else is hurting...there is almost orgasmic relief in lifting my butt off the bikeseat. I can see now why cyclists take drugs.
The sun is lowering towards the western hills and I'm into the final 10 miles. I enter almost surreally into a twilight zone, between feeling like I could bike forever, and imminent collapse...the wind is relentless, my water is gone, and I am muttering obscenities.
After 7 hours and 20 minutes I am done. 120 miles of hills, wind and heat. If I wasn't so beaten up I would probably feel elated...the Ironman will not be anywhere near as hard as this.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
A Covenant with the Apocalypse
First thing every morning I find myself checking Americas financial and emotional pulse on an almost daily basis...it gives me a sense of longing, for all that I am, and can ever be, is a bystander to this great financial and social engine.
The first individual I always check is a girl who lives in Brooklyn...I'll call her Lisa...she is the powerless flotsam and jetsom of the American whirlpool, the first defenceless level of human pain for all that happens financially, and the one they take aim at when something foes wrong. She is gifted, immensely so, but doesn't always realise it. She is heart stoppingly beautiful, in a Carrie Fisher sort of way, with a vulnerability and honesty that is brutal, and worn on her sleeve like a badge. She is world famous...must be, I know about her, and I live on the other side of the planet...although she thinks that she is anonymous and insignificant. She is the person who is laid off from her job with no notice, which I as an employer find appalling, and one of the great travesties of the American system. Are the controllers of the peoples wellbeing so stupid that they cannot forsee that you don't save a company by firing a $13 hour worker. These jackals aside, I find it fascinating, and almost addictive, to vicariously watch her life unfold.
The second person I check upon is a 78 year old man who lives in Omaha, Nebraska.He is a savant, a mathematical genius, a man who is driven to a level of perfection that has rarely been attained by anyone in this worlds history. I worked it out once that he has made 95 cents every second, of every minute, of every hour..ya de ya, since Jesus was born. With this last crisis it is prolly down to a paltry 45 cents, but I'm sure that he will recover. He owns a company called Berkshire Hathaway, and it is one of my aims to take advantage of this world financial crisis and own just one of his companies shares...so that one day I can attend his companies Annual general meeting, and of course to meet him. The only problem is that the cost of one of his shares, despite being discountedby 40%, would still buy a medium size house where I live, and that always creates some conflict.
The third person I visit is a tall skinny fellow named David Letterman, who last thing at night, tells me what is happening in New York city...where, if I didn't live here, then I would try to live there...
My fourth person is Barrack Obama, although I don't visit him. A man whose soaring oratory, and gentle demeanour, seems to come from an honesty of 'self' that we should all aspire to...and whose fulfillment of promise fills me with such pride for the people of America who did the right thing by electing him. I didn't know however, before I tried to do it, that a foreigner cannot contribute to an American politicians campaign fund.
Meanwhile I continue to focus on this accursed Ironman, an event which before it has even started has stolen 10lbs from my midriff...and given me a life so narrow it feels as if I am living in an infomercial. I continue to pare my life into slivers, shaving the peripheries, and do nothing that doesn't contribute to progress towards this race. I loathe being this disciplined, it hurts, and it savages my Anglo Saxon Protestant work ethic, as I suffer the anxieties of not being a whole person. I have now six weeks to go before I fulfill my side of the covenant that I have entered into...I suspect that it will be a covenent with the apocalypse.
The first individual I always check is a girl who lives in Brooklyn...I'll call her Lisa...she is the powerless flotsam and jetsom of the American whirlpool, the first defenceless level of human pain for all that happens financially, and the one they take aim at when something foes wrong. She is gifted, immensely so, but doesn't always realise it. She is heart stoppingly beautiful, in a Carrie Fisher sort of way, with a vulnerability and honesty that is brutal, and worn on her sleeve like a badge. She is world famous...must be, I know about her, and I live on the other side of the planet...although she thinks that she is anonymous and insignificant. She is the person who is laid off from her job with no notice, which I as an employer find appalling, and one of the great travesties of the American system. Are the controllers of the peoples wellbeing so stupid that they cannot forsee that you don't save a company by firing a $13 hour worker. These jackals aside, I find it fascinating, and almost addictive, to vicariously watch her life unfold.
The second person I check upon is a 78 year old man who lives in Omaha, Nebraska.He is a savant, a mathematical genius, a man who is driven to a level of perfection that has rarely been attained by anyone in this worlds history. I worked it out once that he has made 95 cents every second, of every minute, of every hour..ya de ya, since Jesus was born. With this last crisis it is prolly down to a paltry 45 cents, but I'm sure that he will recover. He owns a company called Berkshire Hathaway, and it is one of my aims to take advantage of this world financial crisis and own just one of his companies shares...so that one day I can attend his companies Annual general meeting, and of course to meet him. The only problem is that the cost of one of his shares, despite being discountedby 40%, would still buy a medium size house where I live, and that always creates some conflict.
The third person I visit is a tall skinny fellow named David Letterman, who last thing at night, tells me what is happening in New York city...where, if I didn't live here, then I would try to live there...
My fourth person is Barrack Obama, although I don't visit him. A man whose soaring oratory, and gentle demeanour, seems to come from an honesty of 'self' that we should all aspire to...and whose fulfillment of promise fills me with such pride for the people of America who did the right thing by electing him. I didn't know however, before I tried to do it, that a foreigner cannot contribute to an American politicians campaign fund.
Meanwhile I continue to focus on this accursed Ironman, an event which before it has even started has stolen 10lbs from my midriff...and given me a life so narrow it feels as if I am living in an infomercial. I continue to pare my life into slivers, shaving the peripheries, and do nothing that doesn't contribute to progress towards this race. I loathe being this disciplined, it hurts, and it savages my Anglo Saxon Protestant work ethic, as I suffer the anxieties of not being a whole person. I have now six weeks to go before I fulfill my side of the covenant that I have entered into...I suspect that it will be a covenent with the apocalypse.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
I'd rather be fishing.
It is 8.30am and I have both hands full, front door keys in one hand, bike in the other. Pull the door shut, pocket the keys, and in one movement am clipped in and pedaling. There is a chill in the air which makes a pleasant change from the humidity of yesterday.
Mike has decided that he wants to bike with me today, but then in an attack of anal has decided to leave 15 minutes before me. I'm a little ticked, so set to work with a will. A slight tail wind helps my cause.
He has told me that he will turn around at 20 miles, and with 100 yards to go I blast past him doing 25 mph. He nearly dies of fright, and his head spins like a weather vane. He can't comprehend that I have caught him 15 minutes in 20 miles. I wave him goodbye, having ridden together for a good 75 yards.
The hills are no less brutal but I get to Mercer 15 minutes quicker than Wednesday, where I settle in to Pepsi, and Tea and a Ham sandwhich. A woman with a tight maroon top approaches, I look directly into her eyes, and her nipples become so hard that she looks like she is stealing the salt and pepper shakers. We both smile at each other as she passes. An old woman tries to take my drink bottle, she asks if she can borrow the sauce.
Back on the road, I find the morning chill was caused by a sou' wester, which is now blowing directly into my face. There is only one thing that makes you grovel quite so badly as a head wind, and that is a head wind after 54 miles of hills. I suffer a slow desication while I twist in the wind like a gibbet.
I stand in front of my front door after 94 miles, bike in one hand and keys in the other.
Mike has decided that he wants to bike with me today, but then in an attack of anal has decided to leave 15 minutes before me. I'm a little ticked, so set to work with a will. A slight tail wind helps my cause.
He has told me that he will turn around at 20 miles, and with 100 yards to go I blast past him doing 25 mph. He nearly dies of fright, and his head spins like a weather vane. He can't comprehend that I have caught him 15 minutes in 20 miles. I wave him goodbye, having ridden together for a good 75 yards.
The hills are no less brutal but I get to Mercer 15 minutes quicker than Wednesday, where I settle in to Pepsi, and Tea and a Ham sandwhich. A woman with a tight maroon top approaches, I look directly into her eyes, and her nipples become so hard that she looks like she is stealing the salt and pepper shakers. We both smile at each other as she passes. An old woman tries to take my drink bottle, she asks if she can borrow the sauce.
Back on the road, I find the morning chill was caused by a sou' wester, which is now blowing directly into my face. There is only one thing that makes you grovel quite so badly as a head wind, and that is a head wind after 54 miles of hills. I suffer a slow desication while I twist in the wind like a gibbet.
I stand in front of my front door after 94 miles, bike in one hand and keys in the other.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Came a Hot Wednesday
The parameters of life continue to shrink. Pain and fatigue will do that.
Everything that is extraneous has been culled in the name of focus.
Wednesday was a great day. Didn't get on the bike until 10am, by which time it was getting uncomfortable hot... my legs were tired from Sunday, so I was falling behind at every mark...but I made the Pukekawa school with two swigs of water left so for the first time I carried on. Made Mercer down on time but in resonable shape. On the way home had a slight tail wind...so, tanked up on sugar from the Pepsi, I started to stomp. Managed 20 mph for the 30 miles back home, and ended up 15 minutes quicker than Sunday.
Thursday night, midnight, couldn't find my cell. Rang the number, couldn't hear it. Took the phone to the front door, pressed redial, then scuttled down to the wagon to see if it was there. Couldn't find it.
Went to bed. In the morning reached over, and there was the cell...brain had turned to mush with fatigue and I wonder who I was ringing at midnight.
Friday night I went to the pools, then got some groceries, and then called into see some friends who were borrowing when they should have been repaying. I took a couple of bottles of wine, which he gulped and swilled without tasting and then emptied into the toilet at 2am. Financial pressure will do that.
Mike got me out the door this morning, which I'm not sure that I could have done on my own.
The humidity was 100%, my legs were concrete, and I had to keep leaning forward so that my momentum would continue in a forward direction. I was never so thankful to stop, my legs were chaffed raw, and Mike was appallingly cheerful at my discomfort.
I know this pain will pass, It is merely willpower trying to overcome the preservation of status quo...but living through it is a trial.
Everything that is extraneous has been culled in the name of focus.
Wednesday was a great day. Didn't get on the bike until 10am, by which time it was getting uncomfortable hot... my legs were tired from Sunday, so I was falling behind at every mark...but I made the Pukekawa school with two swigs of water left so for the first time I carried on. Made Mercer down on time but in resonable shape. On the way home had a slight tail wind...so, tanked up on sugar from the Pepsi, I started to stomp. Managed 20 mph for the 30 miles back home, and ended up 15 minutes quicker than Sunday.
Thursday night, midnight, couldn't find my cell. Rang the number, couldn't hear it. Took the phone to the front door, pressed redial, then scuttled down to the wagon to see if it was there. Couldn't find it.
Went to bed. In the morning reached over, and there was the cell...brain had turned to mush with fatigue and I wonder who I was ringing at midnight.
Friday night I went to the pools, then got some groceries, and then called into see some friends who were borrowing when they should have been repaying. I took a couple of bottles of wine, which he gulped and swilled without tasting and then emptied into the toilet at 2am. Financial pressure will do that.
Mike got me out the door this morning, which I'm not sure that I could have done on my own.
The humidity was 100%, my legs were concrete, and I had to keep leaning forward so that my momentum would continue in a forward direction. I was never so thankful to stop, my legs were chaffed raw, and Mike was appallingly cheerful at my discomfort.
I know this pain will pass, It is merely willpower trying to overcome the preservation of status quo...but living through it is a trial.
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