Maasai men en route; the longest leg

The figures of this story are so real and at the same time so fictional that you don’t believe. These nine guys decided to join us one afternoon in Nairobi, Kenya, and have populated our living room ever since. The long journey from Kenya to Kuwait, then to Norway, and finally to UK with us claimed its toll. Their legs hardly bend, and the body is completely motionless. Anyway, they are tall and otherwise fit looking chaps. In the past, in another life, all of them were strong members of the family branch. Over the years, many of them became involved in army circles, as they made good weapons. Two of them are still carrying spears, and wouldn’t let them go with exception of vacuuming days. The smaller of these two tends to lose his grip on his spear if I happen to shove him off balance, but even then he’ll claim it back sooner than I read his mind.

The wives of our friends would have joined their husbands, but were framed in undisclosed circumstances. They were accused for their husbands' disappearance.

Our friends belong to the previously semi-nomadic “Maasai people”, and the language they should speak is called “Maa”. Although, they all are very slim, a group of three out of these nine clearly stands out taller than the others. Sometimes, the “Maasai” are incorrectly called “Masai”. Perhaps in this story, we should call the short ones by that name. 

As you know, Kenya is a republic with, nowadays, a pretty open and democratic coalition cabinet. Some unnamed neighbouring countries of Kenya have not been so much “open”, and our Maasai and Masai pals have come to know it. In the mid 1950’s and early 1960’s their home country was in continuous unrest, and vegetation in hiding places was fatal for many. In periodic family meetings, called “Annual Ring”, memories of the fallen relatives were, and are still, cherished, and the new sprouts of the family tree are welcomed. Quite likely, a sense of rootlessness makes these guys so stubborn, still and quiet that they almost resemble wooden carvings. At one point, we even hired a botanist for rooting out the reasons, but in no time he had to give up weeding.

 

Homesickness springs up easily. When feeling like it, the guys get together for a traditional dance, “Square Root”. Although so stationary, this dance easily produces new runners. The most senior Maasai-man doesn’t understand this modern dance at all; he doesn’t see the wood for the trees. When not dancing, the guys like to study the root script of their favourite horror video game “Weak end of chainsaws”.

Leading semi-nomadic life, maintaining old customs, and at the same time building up a new stoned (wooden?) life in the UK, would be ungodly hard and wouldn’t work. Semi-nomadic folks used to have semi-permanent settlements, but a part of a year they would also move with their animals for better, semi-green grazing lands. They were familiar with travelling long distances by foot and eating extremely little when the sun was up. Have you ever tried to feed a Buckingham Palace guard with a sandwich? No, they don’t eat anything in daytime either; they pretty much only stand all day long. What we know for sure is that the wondering years of our Maasai and Masai are definitely over as they have now adopted a standing policy of their own.

I don’t know if they eat at night when Pirjo and I are asleep, but if they do, they definitely have to be on a very strict diet as almost nothing disappears from the fridge. If the tall guys feel different from the others, and by force tend to share the major part of available nutrients to themselves, who cares. On the other hand, regarding the balance of power, the both groups have only one spear, and the Masai beat the Maasai by number. Anyway, I have figured out that they only follow a culture based pecking order that we don’t understand. Still, it is only the tall guys that are able to reach the two lowest shelves in our fridge. I suppose they like sausage meals with vegetables. The short guys will sooner or later bite the dust, no.

The names of the characters in this tale are: Robert, Raymond, Gunwar, Vernon, Claude, Roger, Irvin, Taylor, and Swietenia, or Mr S. who belongs to a different generation from the others. As Kenya was under British rule until year 1963, the boys got common English names. Mr S. was named such a long time ago that he doesn’t remember it himself.

As far as I know, Robert and Raymond are twins, or “twigs” in their own dialect. They look so alike that one could suggest they were carved from one and same piece of wood. 

Their mother was a no-nonsense-type of character. She was an old Muhuhu lady with long straight arms that kept the boys in order until it was their time to move on. A local old wood carver took them as apprentices, and kept them in his workshop for more than ten years. Honing their skills was a laborious job as the two soon revealed their true nature. According to the old man, their best or worst asset was "lie ability". Blame the mother? Rob and Ray are definitely the laziest of the nine chaps and their energy is clearly wasted in daydreaming of a basketball career as net posts. Hands tucked deep in trouser pockets don’t help much in practicing anything but self control. The twins do everything together, and in a way close their cousin out of their circles. Muhuhu tribe is dark by nature, almost mahogany, but in a state of anger the appearance may adopt even darker stains.

So, Rob and Ray have a cousin, Gunwar, who represents the opposite side of a manly character. Gunwar’s father was a military man and named his son by a Danish lady farmer whose acquaintance he appreciated. The lady’s name wasn’t spelled exactly the same way, but the old man preferred its macho modification. Unlike his cousins, Gunwar is a tough piece of lettuce. Constant handling of a heavy spear has sculptured his trunk and the muscles of his arms hard as mahogany, almost jacaranda. Although Gunwar may have a warlike temper, he’s never got involved in any warlike actions. Still, he would make many a good weapon too.

This is not the case with the five out of six Masai chaps. Three of them: Vernon, Claude, and Roger are slobs, honestly described. They are lazy like the twins, but as they are three, they are much more efficient in it. The VCR-group, as we call them for simplicity, is intensively assisted by our two “thinkers”, Irwin and Taylor, in watching TV. It’s needless to say that we call them the IT-men. As the “slobs” only idle and hang around, hands in their pockets like the twins, the “thinkers” keep on wondering whatever occurs to them. They spend most of a day mumbling nonsense, but consider it most intelligent. This uttermost laziness can be described by quoting author Kurt Vonnegut. He described the role of semi-colons by calling them “transvestite hermaphrodites”; by him they don’t do anything or suggest anything. The botanist whom we hired for the weeding spell could know something about it.

The sixth young man, Edward, has found himself between a rock and a hard place. He knows that he’s the favourite of the old man, but he would also like to make friends with the VCR and IT guys. Mr S. can’t stand the attitude of the “slobs” and “thinkers”. According to their mother, Edward and the other five are stepbrothers having a different bee. Though, the other five are real brothers to each other. Anyway, the affairs between the bees and the boys’ mother were so brief that no real father figure was present when the guys grew up in her shadow. They only saw their fathers, at a distance, wooing other ladies. The bees have only one thing in mind. Sometimes the old Muhuhu woman grieves not to have thrown herself at the mercy of a wind...

Whenever possible, Edward spends a lot of time listening to the stories of the old man Swietenia. In his youth, Swietenia lived in the middle of war zone and got wounded a couple of times as stray bullets or shrapnel tore up his side. This happened long before his time to become "a piece of art" as he describes his essence today. He even claims to have stood upright on the barricades during one of the quite few military coup attempts. He is still so proud of the white flag that was hanged on his shoulders. Edward absorbs every word of the stories, and because of that he carries a spear where ever he goes. If only he had been one of the heroes in that time; carrying a pure white flag must have been a big honour.

Mr S. is the grand old man and the leader of this congregation. He tries to keep his “sons” in order, but it is a hard slog. His remaining time is limited; he knows it as a part of him is already turning pale. His toes are cold. The time when his toes will be covered in warm dark soil are not so far. The future of the young generation is naturally often in his mind. A good thing is that they all have a permanent job in souvenir and decoration business, and in that sense their future is not immediately jeopardized. Anyway, there is this gap between the two generations that makes the constructive interchange of thoughts so complicated. Still, there is one thing in this world where he agrees with the boys: Alan Titchmarsh's family counselling programs on TV provide the young with seeds of wisdom. They also like to watch Woody Allen movies.

There is a chance of separate episodes (the old times of Mr S.) to appear in these pages. The other alternative is that they will later be published as a "New York bestseller" by The Berkley Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc., 200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016.

All photographs published in accordance with Pirjo’s definitive Copyright © 2011 clause that can be verified every day from 12.30 to 17.30 if she is available.

Copyright ©2011 Esa Pekka Klemetti

Things happen

Last night, together with my twin sister and two brothers, I entered a new phase in my "life". We were separated big time. We four had been together and formed such a solid unit for so many years that the thought of being apart even for a short period of time had always been painful. Now we have split up our relationship and won't be able to go on as one family. Physical ties were always so important to us. I don't really understand what really happened, but it seems that the most unexpected turns in life come suddenly. I know that the circumstances of our separation were somewhat violent, but still losing my sister and big brother, and having only my little brother with me, is unbearable. I hug him all the time.

As children, we naturally grew up playing together, and it was only in young adulthood that our relationship grew deeper. The whole teenage was literally a one big walk hand in hand, and over time we came to believe that we couldn't be separated but be the "best buddies" for life. The bigger and stronger of my two brothers was always the leading figure, but as a youngster his role was more guiding than ruling. It was about to change. Gradually, his habits started disgusting us because he made us three do most of his dirty work. Occasionally one of us girls got hurt, and then our BigB was sorry too. However, most of the time he just didn't care what happened to us; he was such a daredevil. It took quite a time before he even realised that he also had a little brother. When he finally did it, our LitlB had all his attention. Good for the both of them.

Already as little kids, we used to pull our brothers' hair as a joke, but I don't think the guys took it bad as also they knew that there was something more behind all that teasing: something that would have a much bigger role as we got older. The boys' hair was about the same colour as our girly hair, only longer, and our little bro's hair was curly. We walked home together from school, and the three of us hid under BigB's overcoat when it was cold. In summer, when there was no need for thick clothing, my little wag bro used to hop about in front of us like trying to make us follow. It was his way to tease us and wake attention, I suppose.

At school, we two girls always shared a desk in a class, and later we of course did the school work together.The sports at school and later were a major joy for all of us. Although, in our school only the boys participated in rougher team sports, we girls followed them faithfully to every football and hockey match - and shower. This was no surprise to the other guys as they knew what it was all about. After the boys had taken their shower, we girls thoroughly dried them and their hair. In a class, our LitlB almost all the time hid under the desk, but everyone was used to that too. BigB sometimes scratched his hair when he though no one saw.

Then we grew older, and the things started to change. At some point, BigB became interested in watching gals and in liking them. No question that he would have asked them out, but we three made a note of it. Jealousy, needs to participate or just pure curiosity made our kid brother sometimes lift his head; angrily or not, I don't know. Still, we all got along pretty well. Finally, after finding some extra courage and asking someone out, there were times when we Girl Scouts had to do some preliminary exploration for BigB by wandering from one "base" to another; we never properly learnt baseball terminology. Anyway, it was the little bro who was in a real trouble as his space was limited. We tried to give him a bit of freedom, but the gals didn't allow him to interfere (no pun intended). At that time, young women had to be very selfish. This applied to the BigB's gals and to us. Later, we all played together with his girlfriends as it was a necessity that they felt at home and well come (yes, two words). Finally LitB got some work too. This little wag, our LitlB, was an adventurous chap and occasionally grew fast: if he had nothing to do, we at times needed to cool him down and put to sleep. Still yesterday it was an alternative; today it is the only choice.

As a grown up, our BigB became somewhat cocooned in his own world, and still yesterday he was steadily settled down in safe bachelorhood. He had a job as an IT person, but even then it was us girls who did the most of his work. And what was our reward: later in the evening we had to play with LitlB and have a good wash before going to bed. LitlB didn't care; he liked our company and his relatively comfortable lifestyle. 

So, eventually BigB reached 6’3” in height and of course lived together with us. It meant that we girls were busy, and LitlB was stressed as we girls grew quite big too. Was there again some jealousy; who knows. LitlB perhaps had some sort of growth anomaly, and BigB wouldn't take him out for show because he was really small. A grand family secret we had there, eh. Nevertheless, we still got along rather well.

Then last night, BigB decided to make an exception and go out to see his old hockey pals. They met in a pub not far from the place where we finally broke up. I had to serve my brother with drinks and my sister did the same with cigarettes; too many altogether. At some point, I had to defend us all as one of the other guys got nasty. It hurt - the both of us. Already for years I've had a sturdy waist band with a marvelous belt-buckle, and it just happened to scratch this other guy's cheek some. There was a bit of bleeding and a big bouncer, bigger than BigB and an awfully polite hunk, chucked us out of the pub - all four. These people are so sensitive; now I know they have never seen some real bleeding. BigB didn't have enough money for a cab and decided to take a train home. It had snowed, and the streets were icy. Things happened.

Those who have Internet access can read my whole story as it will soon been saved on a cloud. The Sky Network is expected to buy all rights for making a mini series of our life. 

February 31st, 1977 The Huffington Post Canada  Violent Cuttlefish Traffic reporter Breaking news. Last night, at the Freeport railway station, Freeport, Ontario, a still unidentified male, according to the police estimates 6’2” tall and 45-55 years of age, was cut in half at the waist by a commuter train. No witnesses have been found for this tragic accident. As it seems, the man was alone, returning home from a nearby pub. It is possible that, as his both hands were in the pockets, he accidentally lost his balance and fell on the rails from an icy and slippery platform. It can be concluded that his right hand was in the pocket as it also was cut off, and the part down from the wrist was remaining there when the body was found. Police has excluded any foul play; the victim didn't have much cash, but had an expensive looking gemstone ring in the middle finger of his right hand.

The Sun, galaxies and cockroaches

The Sun is our good and trusted friend although it will eventually engulf the Earth. That's something "really good friends" sometimes do, but with time and care. Bon appétit. According to the eminent physicist Stephen Hawking, nuclear catastrophes, wars or our actions by polluting this planet may however make it inhabitable long before the Sun takes over. The mid-nights in the northern hemisphere prove that the sun is persistently checking on us - its future snack.

And then, before we go any further, if you think you are allergic to chocolate, you actually may be allergic to cockroaches. According to the FDA, every 100g of chocolate contains about 60 cockroach particles; every chocolate bar about six (see abc-NEWS for full report). Cockroach allergy was first reported in 1943, but was really proven to exist in 1959. However, it is not only chocolate that contains pieces of cockroaches and their droppings - read the report and empty your fridge.

So, our friend is a yellow dwarf of spectral class G2V. Its surface temperature is about 5505C, and its mass is about 2 x 1000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 kilogrammes, take or leave a few. In about 5 milliard years, again take or leave a few, it has consumed most of its hydrogen fuel and will start burning heavier atoms and expanding; it will become a red dwarf. That will be about the time for starting the countdown for the Earth, and our relationship will be shifting to the next level. The Sun is entering an expansive phase; our Earth will be having some good time, but just briefly. Of course, there is a chance that some black hole may take its advantage and do it first. The nearest known black hole,V4641 Sgr, is about 1600 light years away, but it only is the nearest we know. Being swallowed by one of them would be an ultimate crushing experience, I guess. Vaya con dios, sayonara. These two choices are so far apart as can be. Wheter to be burnt in a bright flame, or to be shrunken into something smaller than we can imagine provide us a rather wide scale if there was a chance to pick up one. If you would like to get some new perspectives, read about space-time continuum, related to the black holes. Do it and get confused. Good for your psychiatrist.

For now, I don't reckon there is much sense to feel sorry for the mother Earth and its "siblings" that will go too. Anything, even slightly resembling human intelligence has existed only less than 2,5 million years, and before the time is up, there is plenty of time for the "humans" to evolve back into eyeless cockroaches that are able to travel to distant galaxies with no space suit and take a nice tan caused by high radiation. Now the Sun keeps us in proper course, and is not bad at all if we don't go too close. It makes us squint our eyes, and may give freckles to some, but so what. However, when it itself gets freckles, the consequences may concern us all. The first reports of sunspots come from about 2400 years BP, and were done by a Chinese astronomer Gan De. The sunspots and the solar wind have been claimed to be responsible for interferences in the magnetic field of the Earth, and thus for a number of problems with transmission that is broadcast over the air. Radio, TV, mobile phones, Internet and even the length of mini skirts have allegedly been affected. As the cycle of sunspots seems to be about eleven years, and as now in 2012 we are approaching the high season, or Solar Max, the skirts should be lengthening soon, or then shortening; who would know the mechanism of interference there?

If the jogging shoes and socks were much closer to the Sun, they would definitely be incinerated and useless; the important brand tags would be gone. However, by keeping them at a decent distance, they only dry comfortably. Most likely, the sunspots do not interfere with their function or length. Good for the brand. Solar wind consists of charged particles, electrons, protons and some other heavier ion stuff, blowing off the Sun especially during the periods of a Solar Max. However, the solar wind has little to do with drying socks. Though, the actual wind that we and the socks encounter is also caused by the Sun. As the sunshine doesn't heat all parts of the Earth (sea, land and atmosphere) equally, lighter warm air rises, and heavier cold air from cooler regions replaces it making a wind blow. So, if you get hot and sweaty in summer and try to cool down the heat in a cool wind, it is the Sun that does them both. Its role is somewhat ambivalent. The effect of the Sun and other makers of the weather can be studied here. Good for Crystal Wicker.

Regarding cockroaches, the solar wind actually has a role in the protection of our human presence. Real cosmic radiation that comes from the explosions of supernovae and from outside our galaxy is mainly responsible for the mutations in the genome of all species; it is a major factor in adaptive evolution. In part for the solar wind, only a small fraction of cosmic radiation enters the biosphere, and if the circumstances remain such as they are, cockroaches may have to wait another couple of millions of years before having any chance. Anyway, rumour has it that they are very patient. Good for them.

January 15th, 2012, at 10:00am, the Sun was shining at about 30 degree angle in Manchester, UK (53o28'N 2o14'W). Although there is no snow, extremely few cockroaches stay mobile in the outside temperatures of North West England in winter. Good for us. 

The Sun is a great heating device. Unlike in Nordic countries, here in Manchester the Sun warms up our apartment also in winter. Most winter days, there is no need to use electrical power for heating, and at night a bit cooler bedroom is a guarantee for a good night sleep. Cosmic radiation of course penetrates me and Pirjo all the time, but we don't feel a tickle. Instead, our computers and especially big memory banks (as Google's) may feel a tickle or two. According to a controversial theory, cosmic rays may affect computers' memory modules by causing "mutations", i.e. errors in the data of memory chips. For defence it has been suggested that, not only servers, but also home computer users should start using Error Checking and Correction (ECC) memory modules, or then store them vertically (smaller target), live under sea level, build an apartment inside a mountain or get one at lower levels of a multi-storey building. Also, it might be a great idea not to move to Chernobyl or Three Mile Island. Pirjo and I have considered not to move to Chernobyl, although, based on our lively moving history, our relatives may find it hard to believe. Neither are we going find a place underground. Sleeping in upright position is out of question. I have a strong feeling my personal memory modules work just fine. Good for me.

For many northerners, staying tanned is a socially significant sun related matter. When we lived in Kuwait, getting somewhat tanned was no problem. Constant sunshine was actually a bother if you had to walk from one building to another in an office outfit. In summer, when daily temperatures went up to 50C, walking two hundred meters was no fun.

Beaches in Q8 were almost empty as the people down there are not exactly "swimsuit material". Showing off a trained body, male or female, is a cultural issue. Appreciating sunshine is a cultural issue too; too much is too much, although there are exceptions. For avoiding misunderstandings, the man on the right is not tanning himself. Oh, my God...but good.

Tee-off time for a golf round was before 6am as already at 9am it was too hot to play. At some point there was a chance to get some extra radiation also from other sources but the Sun and other galaxies. During the Second Gulf War, we were aware of the threat of dirty bombs, but eventually Saddam didn't have any. Nevertheless, the bunkers at our golf course wouldn't have been for much protection as their roofs were pretty non-existent. No matter what, my golf ball took shelter quite often; water hazards were no problem in the Q8 desert.

Although, it is out of the context of this talk, I would like to provide you with a golf experience; it just shows how dry it was. It's a short video that was taken some ten years ago in Kuwait. At that time we worked there. Our offspring was visiting us over the Christmas time 2002, and I played quite a number of golf rounds with our son Miika. Well, Kuwait, or Q8, is almost completely sand; water for irrigating such waste areas as golf courses is strictly regulated. You'll see that fairways down there are not so green. Actually, everyone had a small piece of AstroTurf hanging on a golf bag, and all the strokes outside greens, or browns, were executed on it. Putting surfaces were pure sand too. After the hole was finished, we always brushed the sand of the "browns" smooth for the next group. There was no way to avoid having close acquaintance with local farmers as they often drove their cattle over the fairways. 

I'm not going to talk much about Global Warming, although it has so much to do with this topic. The Big GW is something we people are responsible for, and the cockroaches are completely innocent. If the sea levels were going to rise some eleven meters during the next one hundred+ years, perhaps The Summer Olympic Games would be held somewhere where the Winter Olympic Games are held at the same time. I would like to see 100 meter hurdles race to be done on skis. What about pole vault? The Olympic Games wouldn't be held in Los Angeles, New York, Sydney or London, that is for sure, as the competitors and the audience would need scuba diving equipment. I have a feeling that the Dutch buried an idea of dry Olympic Games a long time ago. On the other hand, hypothetical 2112 Games spectator stands would be underwater, and the audience would have a completely new perspective to the events. Instead of doves and pigeons, in the opening ceremony, there would be a school of herrings and breams released. I don't scuba dive, but good.

As a friend, the Sun has an assisting and informative role too. If you have any to add, please let me know: 

1) As a showcase light, it illuminates the Moon for everyone to admire it at night. If you don't remember which way does the crescent show when the Moon is growing or shrinking, just remember that the Moon is a cheater: When it looks like the letter D, it actually is not "Diminishing", but growing. The social life of wolves and people is invigorated by the sunlit Moon as their howling keeps the other wolves alert and many people awake. Perhaps the wolves find it good.

2) Together with the shadow of the Earth, it provides us with info about the course of months, and together with the shadow of an odd pin it tells us the time of day. This of course is something you might need if you don't have a watch. For setting up a solar clock you need to know where north is, and for that you may need a watch. Why, just read a bit further. So, if you don't know the points of compass, you need a watch for defining them. But if you have a watch, you don't need a solar clock. Life is sometimes a bit complicated. 

3) Because at noon the Sun is in south, in the northern hemisphere you can use your wrist watch as a compass: Hold the watch horizontal and point the hour hand at the sun; the bisector between that point and the noon on your watch points to the south. Surprisingly, north is in the opposite direction.

4) Daytime, the Sun allows us to charge the batteries of our flash light as we don't need it. If available, we can do it by using a solar panel charger. Electricity, provided by solar panels, may also help us in drying the previously mentioned jogging shoes and socks at night. Good for them.

5) Excessive sunshine is a great means for fading too bright coloured furniture and wall paper.

6) Cockroaches don't like sunlight. They have a good tan already, and allegedly their social life is minimal. On the other hand, according to literature, some so-called intelligent species communicate by filing their extensions. Who knows if it is good for anyone, or then yes.

Kuwait is one of the most polluted areas in the world. According to my car dealer, this is the reason why cars in Kuwait do not have catalytic converters; no use crying over spilt milk. Anyway, the setting Sun created extraordinary light effects over Kuwait City. During our four year stay in Q8, we didn't see cockroaches any more often than here in UK; perhaps they all were gassed. Gas, or petrol, in Q8 was 0.006 Kuwaiti dinars per a litre at that time; it was equal to 15 Euro cents. Are you still smiling? It was pretty good for us.

A "grand-ad" (he's in advertising) of future cockroaches, taking in some healthy radiation. 

And then, if you didn't happen to know: Amazon.co.uk is selling an adorable toy item, "Solar Bug, Crazy Cockroach - Eco Friendly Toy, Black". Psychological warfare has already begun. However, at least one counter force has taken an early action. An organisation called The Fright Fest at Great America had in 2011 already the 21st annual celebration where cockroaches are consumed alive by people with special needs. The "Madagascar hissing variety" that they use is about the size of a mouse. So, our future friends are evolving already. Now we have to only wait and see; it will be a long wait, and that's not good.

Bon appétit, sunshine.

 

What are the nights good for?

At night, there sometimes is a really dark space between someone's ears. In August 2011, rioters in Manchester used the dark night for setting a building, next to us, on fire. It was almost midnight, and at some point Pirjo and I put the clothes on and packed passports in handbags as we thought also our building would be evacuated, but for smoke.

For some weird reason, stupidness seems to condense most effortlessly in a big group at night.

For the most of us, the nights are dedicated for sleeping and dreaming whereas the days are for more active purposes. Savielly Tartakower, a Polish Chess Grandmaster, sometimes explained to his students: "Strategy is knowing what to do when there is nothing to do; tactics is knowing what to do when there is something to do”. According to this, the nights would be more or less the time for planning things and the days for executing the plans. However, in my opinion, the utilization of night- and daytime is somewhat inconsistent. There are things that can't be done in any other way, but then there are some that could be done also in a different way. 

It all started at some point in the late 1950's when I was hunting worms at night in our garden. I had a torch that revealed the daredevil creatures that poked their heads up from the ground. They did it at night as night is their working time, and the dew helped their survival. Except if they met me. The hunt was so exciting that I had the janitor of our house as a sidekick. I was about five years old. After collecting a large enough sample, we added some fresh grass on top of the soil in a tin jar where the worms were hidden. The jar went to a shady place in the garden, and was taken along when fishing was topical. Many, many years later, at night one August, I tried torch-fishing with a fishing-spear and a friend. It was fun, although we didn't get anything. The fish should be struck with the spear spikes longitudinal to the fish, not perpendicular, as we later learnt. For its fast reactions, the fish always turns before the spikes reach it. 

Anyway, for a small kid the nights were something different. It wasn't possible to go out every night, but when it happened, there was something special in the air. Probably it was only the dark. Some years later, I learned that at night it was (and is) possible to do things that in daylight would be more difficult, or forbidden by my mother. It was much easier to hide and move unseen; this was extremely useful when trying to frighten the s..t out of our neighbour, a single middle aged lady. Even the thought of being invisible made my spine shiver, or was it the skin(?); some parts of the body shivered anyway. The nights at that time were a bit chilly too. I wasn't afraid of the dark; it was me who was the ghost. Nowadays, the nights stay pretty warm as there is no need to go out hunting worms. Moreover, it would be awfully difficult in our today's backyard; a worm that can poke its head through fresh tarmac would be a rare and a frightful opponent to anyone. And this would cover the fish, our janitor and me. Still, I'm not afraid of darkness; I only have to be careful about not hitting my toes on furniture when going to the fridge in our unlit apartment. As an interim conclusion, I would say that hunting worms, playing a ghost, torch-fishing and kicking furniture with bare toes is definitely best to do in the dark. 

So, considering the night-time somewhat special, started early. On the other hand, it is no wonder as in the most parts of Norway, Sweden and Finland the days of short summers are about 24 hours long, but during long winters darkness or night is the prevailing condition. If you go and review the situation north from the Polar Circle (66° 33′ 44″ N), you'll be able to experience the so-called midnight Sun in summer, and no day at all in winter. In Tromsø, Norway, where we lived some three years, in summer the Sun literally didn't go down for three months, and in winter it didn't go up. One January, when my wife was visiting our son in Montreal, I once woke up after a Sunday afternoon nap, at around 6pm. I took a shower, had "breakfast" and went to work. It was first in my office at the university that I realised it was still Sunday evening.

Already in May, the day in Tromsø lasts 24 hours as in February the first sunrise is still a couple of weeks ahead. High in the mountains, you can already see some signs of light, but sun rays do not yet bend down on the earth here.

The ration of being awake and asleep and the management of darkness have to be under control, otherwise something like what happened to me in Norway may occur. The so-called sleeping stages were first described in 1937 by Albert Lee Loomis. Nowadays, we know that surfing in delta-wave is easy with even not so good balance, and that the periods of rapid eye movement (REM) are those when you are dreaming and more prone to wake up. Also, in the beginning, right after falling to sleep, delta sleep (or slow-wave-sleep - SWS) is more common than REM sleep. Perhaps for this reason, at least I don't see dreams on airplanes as sleeping periods there are short, and I'm only SWS'ing. Would be practical to be able to record the dreams that one is too tired to watch or has missed for other reasons. Also, sometimes the dreams end at a critical moment, and it would be great to see the sequel later in privacy. As far as I remember, a few days ago in BBC News they told that recording dreams and storing them on a DVD disc could be possible in future. On a flight from North America to Europe, where you move your watch about five hours ahead and which in terms of illumination is a "twilight zone", setting your biological timer for recording the thing you want, could be a problem. Also, "dreaming hygiene" could become an everyday worry for many if "dream catchers" became real. 

There are many who treat jet lag with Melatonin hormone, the "hormone of darkness" as it's called too. Melatonin secretion takes almost completely place in darkness, and light blocks it. Melatonin causes drowsiness unlike Melanin or (even worse) Melamine. A couple of years ago, when we still lived in Kuwait, I heard that someone had, in a pharmacy, asked for Melamine pills for jet lag. Well, with a Melamine supplement you may really get thoroughly fixed. It goes well together with Formaldehyde if someone would like to try. As a result, you could have a future as a table top. Which ever of the three you use, you'll be pretty confused the next few days - and nights.

After returning home, it is naturally nice to retreat in your own bed and have a good night sleep there. After an airplane, it is a heaven. But, what if the Sandman doesn't come, and you only toss and turn in your bed? You may be in jet lag, or the bed is too comfortable. However, if your nose is running, eyes are itching and your breathing wheezes, you may have caught flu on the plane. Or then, you should have aired your bed sheets, tidied up your home (all clutter harbour dust), and put your Teddy-bear into a freezer (for a minimum of 24 hours) before leaving for the trip. During your absence, dust mites may have taken over your apartment, and their poo is now causing your trouble. If you had frozed the Teddy, it would be healthy too. I don't know if detached dust mite poo is an issue in a freezer. If you haven't travelled, and the symptoms (non-specific flu like things, no fever) kick in, look at yourself in a mirror, and get a cleaning lady. Don't put the kids into freezer; they may still be able to sleep as especially really small kids produce more Melatonin. 

If you simply can't sleep, perhaps it is time to pay a visit to a restaurant, and try to relive some moments of your "business trip". But why does the concept "nightlife" exist alone; where is "daylife"? Why is it more exciting to go out at night and not in bright daylight? Is it because the "sleeping time" is closer, and anticipating company is one of the first priorities in "nightlife"? Or is it that the wrinkles don't show when the lights are down? Alone, the chances for tripping and soiling the clothing is much bigger in dark. Night clubs should be opened already at 8.00am for having proper "daylife". Musicians wouldn't have to stay awake as long as they do now; I know they hate it. It is true that many of us go to work, and there is not much time for "night-clubbing" in daytime. Daytime traffic could also interfere with going to a restaurant in a limousine, and a drowsy dance girl would be a killjoy. Anyway, there should be an alternative...!

In the nature, for numerous predators, night is the actual hunting time. The reasons mentioned in the beginning apply to them very well. At night, human predators are prowling their pray too. In another story, I already mentioned a slang expression "swooper", who according to the Urban Dictionary is a person trying to seduce his friend’s or another man’s girl, with utter disregard to respecting anyone. Also, he may be an observant barfly, almost always male, waiting for a female to get very drunk, and when the time is right, swoop in and take her home to f..k her brains out. Pharmaceutical aids may become handy for a swooper-guy. Again, for me it is unclear, why do the swoopers hunt only at night. Of course, there is more prey to choose from, but the discos and night clubs are not that dark. Dim they may be, but occasional bright flashing lights interrupt Melatonin secretion for sure. So, wouldn't an alike windowless environment, daytime, be just as favourable for a predator person. And except males, this can be applied to female "cougars" as well. Whether the "cougars" would use pharmaceutical aids for hunting is still an open question; my best guess is: no, it wouldn't work (here I'm not referring to pharmaceutical aids). 

Of course, traditional burglars have a window of opportunity at night (no pun intended). At least, they set their alarm clocks ringing at the time when other, seemingly more respectable, people go to sleep. Well, it is something they themselves have not selected; their actual "working time" is only circumstantially practical. The days are for scouting. According to some reports, a great number of active burglars suffer from sleep deprivation. A "burglar-swooper" professional combination would be a sophisticated development, although really nasty. Signs of break-in wouldn't exist, but carrying out both tasks could be exhausting over time and would be considered aggravating circumstances in court. If a burglar-swooper suffered from severe sleep deprivation, the danger of burning fingers would be obvious. Having the lights on all the time could help; Melatonin production should be kept as low as possible.

Swooping is a military related term too. A swift, stylish manoeuvre, meant for surprising the enemy, is sometimes called a "swoop". But, why do these attacks so often take place at night, or early in the morning when it is still dark? Do they think that the enemy doesn't know? They drink coffee too. In Hollywood films the enemy never knows, but in the real life they haven't read the manuscript. When swooping the enemy at night in movies, the good guys always have their own face smudged with camouflage make-up. Why doesn't the enemy use it? Are they supposed to be better targets, or is their skin too sensitive? Also, why are the sentries of the enemy always turning their back on the swooping god guys? Haven't they seen older movies? I just wonder. 

Why are adult entertainment programs broadcasted at night? Let's imagine that all XXX rated films would come e.g. 10.00am - 14.00pm. If you had children and preferred them not to get some "education", you could always adjust the parental control settings on your TV set. On the other hand, if the kids were able to study various items on TV, quiet and awkward moments at a dinner table and on car trips would be history. Absolutely too often the kids only sulk and talk quietly on the backbench. There always would be something to talk about on long car rides. For example, you yourself could start a discussion by asking:"Kids, have you tried to do the same gymnastic exercises as the lady on TV?" Then of course, the kids could use their artistic talents and make drawings of the programs to be taken to school and grandparents. 

And finally, some of the readers may have got abstinence symptoms about that no references to Kurt Vonnegut have come up in the text. Here is an aphorism from his book Mother Night: "We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be". 

Good Night!

Are you a swooper or a basher?

Last night, I finished author Kurt Vonnegut’s Timequake - I think the fourth time. Vonnegut told me that writing is actually easy: You just mix about twenty-six phonetic symbols, ten numbers and maybe eight punctuation marks in different combinations. Also he explained something else:

Tellers of stories with ink on paper, not that they matter anymore, have been either swoopers or bashers. Swoopers write a story quickly, higgledy-piggledy, crinkum-crankum, any which way. Then they go over it again painstakingly, fixing everything that is just plain awful or doesn’t work. Bashers go one sentence at a time, getting it exactly right before they go on to the next one. When they’re done they’re done.

At the end of this writing, you’ll find some “official” definitions for these two terms. However, let’s for now just stick to those above...OK?

Every now and then I talk much. The way of talking is perhaps also related to the style of writing. If the talk comes out as a continuous flow of words or in clusters, may define if you, as a writer, are a swooper or a basher. I reckon, this concept can be applied to other fields of life too. Let’s try to find out, and surprisingly do it with the help of a stationary bike.

My daily fifty minutes stationary bike spinning is a one hour effort. It takes fifty minutes of riding and one or two short breaks for sipping water and drying sweat. However, biking is not the only fun involved as there is plenty of time for thinking, planning and looking back on the things that have recently happened. I usually ride late in the afternoon before dinner; enough time has passed since the previous meal, and the pleasant bodily feeling after spinning is just what a young man needs for evening activities. Also later, falling asleep is a matter of only two or three minutes. We don’t have a dog anymore, so I could say that a stationary bike is a 57-year-old man’s best friend, wife excluded or included. It depends.

A couple of weeks ago, on Saturday, I decided to do my exercise after going to grocery store. Pirjo, my wife, was making pizza, and thus shopping was naturally my pleasure. At night, there had been some precipitation, even sleet, and I was wearing jogging shoes and an old brim hat. The hat is also an old friend as in summer it is my sunglasses and in autumn and winter it is my umbrella. In terms of a man’s best friend, I’m not sure where does the brim hat go in the stationary bike-wife scale.

Now, as it is winter, my hat is more tanned than my wife. Though, my wife and the hat have one common feature: they both have pins attached. Pirjo in her ear lobes and the hat has Flag of Canada pin, holding an adjustable band tight. Pirjo is half Canadian as are two of our three kids. The bike is Norwegian.

I have read about 90% of authors’ John Irving and Kurt Vonnegut books, combined. Spinning the story and the logical progress of the tale is amazing in their books, with exception of Vonnegut. He is more stationary, just as my bike, but still amusing and pretty much on top of the “issues”. Although, his stories just go on and on, jumping from one thing to another with no semi-colons (and this is an inside joke between us; no suffering), Vonnegut was an observer of his time. The revolution was coming from the sky? At that time it was, I think. John Irving, on the other hand, is a semi-colon enthusiastic. I’m sure, instead of cereals, he has semi-colons with milk for breakfast. Still those two were friends.

Well, at this point I’m only stripping myself and pulling on my biking pants (Oh boy, still a Canadian expression). Sorry for this interlude: If, in Montreal, you go and tell a shop assistant girl you need trousers, she just stares at you dumb. If, in Manchester, you tell a girl you need pants, she’ll direct you to an underwear department. Trousers are “pantalon” en française. Most likely the English word “pantaloon”, which also means trousers, has been borrowed from the French language. I suppose, the pantaloons have really long legs.

The first 8 to 10 minutes I only coast and wait for the sweat start running. If my dietary preparation has been OK, I’ll just watch and see. One of Heartbeat episodes is just beginning on TV, and Nick Berry hasn’t yet faced his Sergeant the first time. Sergeant Blaketon is a feared and exhaustive personality. The biker’s mind is not at all exhausted, and it’s pleasurable to recall the morning’s path: 

When returning from the grocery store a few weeks ago, I felt my bladder was full to the brim. When I sat down on the toilet seat, it broke. In the mornings, I usually do my things, and brush my teeth at the same time. The wash basin in my bathroom is 90o to the right from the seating direction, and turning to rinse the mouth is the crucial factor here. I have to do it tight sitting on the ring, however, at the same time briskly leaning to the right. This will perhaps concentrate the pressure of my behind on only one side of the ring. Often, I turn completely and end up sitting sideways. Considering toilet seat anatomy, as it seems, the outcome of this may over time be disastrous. I just wonder if the manufacturers really pay attention to the wide colony of sideways sitters and their needs. Any strain tests of loo seats in your plans, hello? 

The wooden seat ring consisted of two pieces that apparently had been glued together, and now had come apart. I decided to fix it myself. DIY euphoria started kicking in. In this way, I could enjoy the rest of the day without bothering for another shopping spree; a toilet seat shopping spree. Anyway, I knew it should be done some other day.

Ten minutes is gone, and I’m doing the first check-up: The legs are a bit stiff after yesterday’s too long ride, but breathing is not bad at all. Heartbeat is 115-130; nothing unusual. I’m not sweating, yet. Nick Berry, who also sings the name melody of this age old TV series, is now running after someone he won’t catch. I’ve seen this episode at least four times before. His Heartbeat-heartbeat is probably about the same as mine.

After lunch, I decided to fix the toilet seat as using it in its condition would have been dangerous for my central body parts. When making the final diagnosis, a surprising detail came up. One of the supporting plastic props had at some point fallen off, and the seat ring definitely was no more in balance. Cranky utensils like this cause most home accidents; I had been very lucky. There was no other way, but to carve a new wooden prop, and glue it in place. Carving took almost an hour.

I knew that I have screws of suitable length, but what to use for connecting the separated wooden blocks? There was nothing in the toolbox, but the kitchen table had a solution. I emptied a half full cigar box, and cut the tin lid and the bottom part to correspond the curvy shape of the seat ring. Screws in the corners of the two plates looked stable, and the seat was almost like new. This took another hour; however, the whole repair project was completed in one try. I had a real basher feeling.

As I showed it to Pirjo, she didn’t completely agree with me. I tested it immediately, and didn’t find any deviation from normal - in bowel function. Neither did I find any problems with the function of the seat. Flushing was a pleasant experience. I regret that I promised to get a new seat next week.

A skilful DIY man is able to find a solution in emergency situations. As it happened, it finally took about two weeks before I got a new seat. On the other hand, a responsible DIY man always makes an assessment of the used methods. This can only be done by testing the longevity of the construction; a sort of follow-up study. The DYI product has to be exposed to all the functions of everyday living. In this case, a cracking posterior joint started endangering the health of my soft tissues. A pinching trap.

Spinning clock is now approaching 15 minutes, and sweating has already begun. When the legs and body have warmed up, everything gets even easier. In the beginning, there often is a period of time when I just have to wait for the legs to adjust, but when it’s over, only time matters. The time from 10 minutes to 20 is a stupid period whereas going from 20 to 30 minutes is more interesting: I’ll come to know what the day’s spinning really will be. I promise myself that if it doesn’t feel right, I can have a break at 25 min, but I know I’m cheating. Pirjo often tells me not to kill myself on the bike, and I’m not going to, but still there is some excitement in watching the clock run and to keep pushing on. The first lap will be about 32 or 33 minutes today. I have it somewhere in the back of my head, but I don’t confess it to myself yet. Let’s first get to 30 min. I’m already wet like a Christmas tree after a malfunction of candles, and occasionally have to wipe my forehead with a small towel, hanging from the handlebar. Sometimes, when I do it, the resistance belt of the bike falls off and I have to fix it. This of course is annoying and interrupts the exercise. Anyway, I have the side panel attached with only one screw, and getting it back in place takes only a few minutes. The clock I can’t stop, but I’ll add those minutes to the end of my spinning. If I were inclined to swoop, perhaps I would repair it the next day, but no: spinning has to be finished.

After morning coffee, I usually have some porridge. With an egg, cooked in a microwave-sort-of-egg-thing, porridge is a healthy choice; lots of salt is essential. It keeps a man standing until afternoon. Minor efforts like fixing a toilet seat go so easily. One of my tasks is vacuuming. As Pirjo takes care of feeding us, and I’m not so much of a cook, I do the vacuuming and sweeping dust. Vacuuming actually is a manly effort as there is a lot of lifting and rolling. First you have to make the flat as vacuumable as possible. This means lifting all chairs etc. on the tables and emptying sofas (at some point they have to be rolled over for getting access to the space underneath). Taking off your loafers is important as they are a nuisance. Before vacuuming you have to have a mug of coffee and to switch a radio on. Then I’ll do the flat as a real basher: without breaks (no pun intended).

Thirty minutes is up, and I decide to do another two or five. Finally, the first brake will take place 36 minutes after starting. My eyeglasses, forehead, neck and arms have to be dried. After a sip of water I’m ready for the second go. The first minutes after even a short pause are ridiculous as I have a feeling that the resistance has shifted to lighter. The feeling will disappear very soon. Anyway, the 40 minute stake is approaching fast.

When I’m on my way home from work, I usually go to a grocery store. It is a delight as there you see people that you otherwise would miss. You’ll meet a lady, who for some reason always is there at the same time. She may look different, but I’m sure it’s her every time. She is standing in front of you, wondering where the butter case is. Again today, she doesn’t find it when I’m there. But as a swooper, she is always there. Also, I’ll meet a basher cash keeper girl, who always tries to charge me for my age old “Tesco canvas bag” that has stains and really doesn’t look like “a second ago off the rack” item. Then I’ll meet a young mother, whose two or thirteen kids are just poking around and asking me silly questions, like: “What is in your pockets?”, or, “Why do you have that hat”? I really like them a lot. Tabasco I find easily. Next time I’ll give them a Tabasco bottle (advise to put it in a pocket) and see what will happen at the cash counter. Spicy afternoon, enjoy it. I’m done. The husband of the young lady with two or thirteen kids surely is a basher, but doesn’t it make his wife a swooper...? If you check the definitions in the end...according them it doesn’t.

If I don’t go to a grocery store directly on my way home, I’ll obviously go there later. How intelligent. Anyway, in that case I’ll go to a different place: Instead of the Main Street, I’ll go to Mocha Park...the notorious Mocha Park. Over the last three years that we have lived here, Mocha Park stores have been robbed about as often as I change my underpants. I maintain good hygiene. The liquor store there is for some reason a hot spot, and the two Pakistani guys who keep it have security arsenal better than the US Army in Afghanistan. They would survive a nuclear war in their shop, and have fun all that time. If the butcher and veggie lady next to them joined the party...I can only imagine. In Vonnegut’s swooper-basher categorization, in my opinion, Mocha Park is a “twilight zone”. If you check the definitions in the end...plenty of the both are present.

Forty-five minutes is over, and it is time for another check-up. The legs are a bit tired, but no problemo there. Breathing is easy, but the fingers haven’t liked the handlebars. The palm of my right hand is a bit sore, and I have to change the position on the handlebar quite often. Anyway, I know the last five minutes I could do without breathing. Or, perhaps I would cheat a tad.

The fifty minute point of teasing groins is approaching. I’ve got the pace. Now I know I could go on as long as I wanted and bothered. Anyway, I’ll stop at 50 min, as this has to be fun, no torture. Tomorrow there will be a day too. Legs and breathing have never been a problem, but the hands were today. Water mug is waiting on the table if Nick Berry will allow me to get there. He’s smiling, OK, but I know it’s not all there is. Below that smirk face, there is a firm police man who doesn’t fear any danger. The only exception is his doctor wife, who overrules Berry right and left. They both definitely are bashers: His “customers” are nicked, and the door slammed shut behind; her patients either die or don’t die. Anyway, in part Nick Berry helped me to carry out today’s exercise easily; this was a one break day. Sounds like bashing.

In writing I’m a swooper; in stationary biking I’m a basher. Contemplating on the bike probably belongs in the swooper department. Attacking vigorously DIY projects or other matters, according to Pirjo, makes me a super basher. The only problem is that often the finished project has to be repaired afterwards. This again makes me a primary basher, but a secondary swooper. 

According to Wikipedia, the verb “swoop” means:

1) To attack swiftly in a military offensive.

2) Fixed wing aircraft, bird, bat or insect flight.

3) In Australia, a bird that attacks a person to defend its nest is said to swoop the person

According to the Urban Dictionary definition “swooper” is a person who would try to seduce his friend’s or another man’s girl, with utter disregard to respecting anyone. Also, he may be an observant barfly, almost always male, waiting for a female to get very drunk and when the time is right, swoop in and take her home to f..ck her brains out.

According to The Free Dictionary the definition for “to bash” is:

1) To strike with a heavy crushing blow.

2) To engage in harsh, accusatory, threatening criticism.

3) Slang: A celebration, a party.

According to Wikipedia, the topics which attract bashing tend to be highly partisan and personally sensitive for the bashers, the victims or both. Common areas include religion, nationality, sexuality and politics.

My suggestion is that for now (meaning the time for digesting this writing) we’ll still keep these last definitions tucked here:

Then we’ll just sit on it. No pinching.