MonthOctober 2008

I think “mon” means “man”, but I don’t think “Och!” means anything.

After work today, I dropped in on the only local maker of traditional kilt of my people, the Scots. Versions of this garment were often worn while the Scots were fighting their traditional hated enemies[1]. So naturally there’s a lot of history wrapped up in the kilt.

For my wedding, I’ve opted for a modern incarnation, namely a waist-belted kilt with sporran and various accouterments, worn with a sort of waistcoat and mess jacket thing with little silver bits all over it. This is opposed to, say, a wrapped great kilt. Which, really, if you’re going to wear, you need to be carrying a claymore[2] and possibly killing an Englishman.[3]

Various conversational fragments from my visit:

“I would like a fine, fine kilt.”
“Of course ye would.”

“Aye, ye’ll be needin’ wider pleats, as ye’re a big lad.”

“I learned tae make kilts for my brigade in the army. We had a sayin’, ‘If the kilt doesnae hang right, we hang the man that made the kilt.'”

I have immediate faith and trust in this guy to make me a damn good kilt.

[1] The Scots.
[2] A big sword, as opposed to the antipersonnel mine. Though the swords could equally validly have “This end towards enemy.” written on it. Possibly in runes.
[3] Or another Scotsman. See [1].

Fill ‘er up, thanks. With regular unleaded. And with RACISM.

Annette and I went out to get dinner tonight, and on the way I filled up the car at the local petrol station. As I approached the counter, there was a dude (who I shall refer to as “Fuckstick”) already there and in conversation with the attendant. The following conversation took place as I walked up and stood behind Fuckstick:

Fuckstick: “…just go back where you came from.”
Attendant: “Sir, I can assure you..”
Fuckstick: “New Zealand doesn’t need you.”
Attendant: “Sir, I..”
Fuckstick: “Fucking ragheads. Go back to Iraq.”
Me: “Dude.”
Fuckstick: “What? Fuck ’em. Muslim terrorists. Fuck.”
Me: “He’s not Muslim.”
Fuckstick: “What?”
Me: “Look at his turban. And his beard. He’s a Sikh.”
Fuckstick: “All the same to me.” (He leaves)
Me: (To attendant) “…on behalf of the entire Caucasian race, I apologise.”
Attendant: (Gesturing towards departing Fuckstick) “I get that all the time.”

Fuckstick didn’t even look like any of the usual options you would expect. No popped collar and rugby shirt. No skinhead haircut and big boots. He just looked like a regular guy.

The whole thing made me slightly bummed out, and continues to do so.


When I read about someone killing another person, my reaction is pretty much “That’s terrible.” – I’m slightly saddened for the deceased, for society, and indeed for the killer (in decending order of sadness) and I hope that the family of the deceased can cope, and that humans continue to evolve so that this sort of thing no longer happens, and that the killer is kept the hell away from other people he[1] can harm, and that he maybe sorts out his shit enough to cease being a fuckstick.

However, when I read about someone killing, or even mistreating, a cat .. well, my reaction is such that if I saw that person on fire, I wouldn’t even piss on them to put them out. I hope they die in a fire. Alone. And afraid.

This is a rather odd dichotomy, given that if you asked me, I would tell you that people are obviously more important than cats.

Perhaps one has this reaction because people can in general look after themselves when contending with other people, and cats clearly cannot.

[1] Statistically, it’s bound to be a dude.

Vomercial Sites Only

I spent a little bit of time today wondering why a particular web site of mine couldn’t be browsed to, actually ended up checking my bind config to make sure that the domain was present and resolving, only to realise that “.vom” is not a valid top level domain.

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