tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-71183202024-03-14T03:28:02.435+00:00Chris CopeDancing the polka with Miss El CajonChris Copehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09802450324154596848noreply@blogger.comBlogger137125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7118320.post-9434695078293179452015-09-17T12:17:00.000+01:002015-09-17T12:17:40.139+01:00A sense of place<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I lived the first four years of my life in Austin. I've not lived there since, but do my best to remain familiar with the streets and restaurants so I can claim it as my home, so I can drive places without a map. If I can't be cool, let me at least be cool by association. </div>
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After Austin, my family lived two years in Dallas (well, Irving), then to Houston for six years. So, 12 years a Texan in total. Across that time the most connecting place was Lake Jackson, where my grandparents lived. And after we left Texas it was to Lake Jackson we'd always return. I guess that's why I tend to think of myself as a Gulf Coaster, despite my habit of telling people I'm "from" Austin.</div>
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My uncle recently suggested I'm actually just a "wannabe East Texas redneck" and I suppose that's the most accurate description. The "wannabe" part, most certainly. </div>
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Because there are, too, the years spent in Minnesota: six in Bloomington, two in Moorhead and three in St. Paul. Eleven years a Minnesotan. But those years are stretched out across a space of almost two decades, with time in England, Nevada and California in between. I guess one of those years in Moorhead could also be conceded to the state of North Dakota.</div>
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Breaking that down into percentages of my life:</div>
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- 31 percent Texas</div>
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- 28 percent Minnesota</div>
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- 23 percent Wales</div>
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- 18 percent other</div>
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States are big, though; borders sometimes blur. So, when talking about the concept of place it's probably better to think in terms of region -- spaces of mindset. In my life, then, I've lived in nine different regions. Breaking <i>that</i> down:</div>
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- 25 percent Twin Cities</div>
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- 23 percent Cardiff</div>
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- 15 percent Southeast Texas</div>
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- 10 percent Austin</div>
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- 27 percent other</div>
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If who we are and where we're "from" are defined by the geographical positions we've inhabited, then I suppose it's appropriate that so much of me is "other." I realised this morning, though, that with Jenn and I committed to being here until at least 2019, I will soon find myself having spent the small majority of my life as a Cardiffian.</div>
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Which is depressing, because it's the region to which I feel the least connected. Whilst also being the one to which I have made the most effort to connect.</div>
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Of course, the idea of geographical location imposing identity is incorrect. Both for the individual and for those who interact with the individual. No one will ever accept me as being "from" Cardiff, no matter how much time I serve. <a href="https://youtu.be/nMhaehb5AnE" target="_blank">Texas might want you</a>, but Cardiff will passively remind you every day of your lack of belonging. If even 1 percent of you is "other" it might as well be 100 percent.</div>
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I'm not sure where I'm going with all this except to say that I desperately want to go home. But I honestly don't know what the fuck I mean by that.</div>
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Chris Copehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09802450324154596848noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7118320.post-7538396751788034092015-04-09T16:27:00.000+01:002015-04-13T11:11:22.948+01:00Alone on an island<div style="text-align: justify;">
A few months ago I saw <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-wales-31523228" target="_blank">this story</a>, which mentions that Cardiff and Vale University Health Board (i.e., the NHS trust to which I belong) is currently being investigated because of its piss-poor mental health services, and it awakened in me a feeling of familiarity and exasperation.<br />
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I can personally attest to the woeful inadequacy of the NHS in this respect, having sought help several times over the past few years and having always been left with a feeling that I am being ignored or seen as a burden.<br />
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Most recently, that was last month. After waiting four weeks for an appointment, I went to see my local GP on 16 March. Jenn came with me because I had told her how ineffective the NHS is at dealing with mental health and she hoped that two people asking for help might have greater effect. It didn't. The doctor offhandedly suggested my standards are too high –– I'm expecting too much out of life. Those weren't his exact words, admittedly, but that's more or less what I heard.<br />
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Beyond that, I was told there wasn't much that could be done for me apart from putting my name on a waiting list.<br />
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"Yeah, I've been on that waiting list before," I said. "It'll be 6 to 8 months before I get to see anyone, and then it will only be for five sessions. After which, I will not be allowed to request more counselling for at least 6 more months."<br />
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"The waiting list is shorter than it used to be," my doctor said.<br />
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"How long?"<br />
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"Shorter than it used to be."<br />
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The other stuff remains as true as it has always been. You get five sessions with a counsellor, each lasting just 50 minutes. It is barely enough time to properly introduce yourself let alone begin to identify and/or address any real issues.<br />
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At the end of those five sessions, those 250 minutes, those four hours and a bit (for fuck's sake, <i>Gone With the Wind</i> is 221 minutes long –– watch it with adverts and you will have invested more time in Scarlett O'Hara than the NHS is willing to invest in me), at the end of that they usually give you a pamphlet.<br />
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A pamphlet.</div>
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Good grief, man, I've told you that I've been struggling off and on for more than two decades; do you really think that can be remedied with a pamphlet? Do you think that no one before has ever thought to hand me a fucking pamphlet?</div>
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You know who does a better job than the NHS? The Mormons. Their answer –– pray –– is oversimplified, but at least they will listen and take you seriously. <i>And</i> they've got pamphlets.<br />
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I'm not even kidding: I have often thought about just calling up my local Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints ward and asking they send some missionaries round to try (again) to convert me. Just for the sake of having someone to talk to.</div>
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They'll send a nice, clean-cut kid from Montana and a big dude from Tuvalu who will give me a free book and all the pamphlets I could want and who will listen to me babble for as long as I please even though they don't really understand my point, and then the dude from Tuvalu will put his hand on my shoulder and say: "Brother, I just want us to pray on this."</div>
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None of it will actually help, but it will <i>feel</i> a lot more helpful than the great big pile of nothing-poop you get otherwise. Because let's think about it, y'all: one of the most common aspects of depression is what? A feeling of being sickly alone, of being irrelevant, of being unwanted, of being ignored. </div>
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What, then, is the worst way to address that feeling? To make a person wait a month to have a 5-minute conversation with an overworked GP, then dismiss him or her with the fallow promise of being placed on a waiting list that is months or years long.</div>
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"Don't call us; we'll call you. Try not to fling yourself off the M48 bridge in the meantime because fishing your body out of the Severn is a waste of resources for our already cash-strapped councils."</div>
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And that's an aspect of the process that isn't mentioned in the BBC story. You have to plead to be put on these waiting lists. The implicit message you will get from many GPs is that you should really just suck it up and join a flower arranging course or some such thing because these mental health resources cost a lot of money. They are for people who are really hurting, and the fact that you've managed to comb your hair and show up for your appointment on time is evidence that things aren't that bad for you. That incessant pain you feel is made up. You're being overly dramatic. Why don't you just <i>choose</i> to be happy?<br />
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And I only just realised this today: in all those short counselling sessions I've had, the counsellors have said things like, "I don't really think it's right to use labels," and avoided using terms like "depression" or "bi-polar disorder." It only just occurs to me this is not because they were being progressive in their therapy but because to use those words comes close to diagnosis, which might make me eligible for actual psychiatric care. And that's money they sure as hell don't want to spend. The BBC story I linked to above says the current waiting list for psychotherapy in Wales is 2 years. TWO FUCKING YEARS. That's 730 days of desperately fighting the urge to cause yourself harm; 17,520 hours of hell.</div>
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Ever seen one of those films where a character steps off a bus in the dusty middle of nowhere? The camera shows her suitcase (it's usually a "her" and she's usually wearing cowboy boots) being set down in the dirt, then you see the bus pull away –– you hear its whine of acceleration –– then there is silence. You see the character standing there, alone on the outskirts of the middle of nowhere, with a look on her face that says: "Uhm, OK. Dang. What do I do now?"</div>
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That's what it feels like after you've been handed a pamphlet and sent on your (not-so) merry way. Even in Britain, where the buildings crowd you, where the cars never stop, where people literally bump into you on the crumbling sidewalks, where you are always –– always –– within view of some security camera, the world seems suddenly desolate. You feel alone. You've got your pamphlet and not a lot else. And you think: "Alright, well that didn't go as I'd hoped. I don't feel any better at all. If anything, I feel a little worse."</div>
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If it happens to be sunny on this particular day you might be able to work up a bit of good ol' fashioned self-delusion and think: "Right. Fine. Looks like I'm going to have to Bear Grylls my way out of this and fix things myself."</div>
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But you can't. And deep down inside, you know you can't. Because depression makes you stupid. It staggers your memory (especially short-term memory) and robs your ability to think around corners. It feels as if your cerebrospinal fluid has leaked out and been replaced with <a href="http://www.mrsbutterworths.com/" target="_blank">Mrs. Butterworth's</a>.</div>
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If you're lucky, have an incredibly supportive wife and are blessed with the quirk of being easily addicted to ideas (Welsh, Strictly Come Dancing, motorcycles, etc.) rather than chemical substances, you may be able to muddle through. You'll come up with a new This Fixes Everything scheme every fortnight or so then forget about it just as quickly. You'll have some good days, have some bad days, have some terrible days, and eventually find yourself back to the point of feeling desperate and no longer in control of what goes on in your head, nor what it makes you do.<br />
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And each time you come back to that point, a single truth will grow ever larger and undeniable: no one fucking cares.<br />
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In 2013 in the UK, 1,713 people were killed in road accidents. In that same year, some 6,233 suicides were recorded. They've got safety cameras anywhere you look in this country, and traffic laws up the wazoo. But if you're struggling with the simple act of finding the will to get out of bed in the morning all they've got for you is a pamphlet.<br />
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You're alone on this island, son.</div>
Chris Copehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09802450324154596848noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7118320.post-48077541953383534502015-01-11T15:31:00.000+00:002015-01-11T15:31:00.079+00:0015 reasons to be cheerful in 2015<div style="text-align: justify;">
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One of my most consistent New Year's resolutions is a promise to be a more positive person. This is challenging for me because I naturally err toward cynicism. When life presents an opportunity to look at things in more than one way, I will most often opt for the view most bleak. </div>
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But I can't help noticing this has thus far failed to make me a millionaire. If anything, it's prevented me from taking enough risks, and has resulted in my being very boring to talk to at parties.</div>
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Meanwhile, I've long been a fan of people like <a href="https://twitter.com/shaycarl" target="_blank">Shay Carl</a> and <a href="https://twitter.com/ColtCabana" target="_blank">Colt Cabana</a>, both of whom frequently stress the importance of choosing to be happy.<br />
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Cynical Chris jumps all over the flaw in idea that happiness is a <i>choice</i> (and as such, so, too, is sadness). That simplistic mindset is insulting to the millions upon millions of people who suffer -- in the truest sense of the word -- with mental illness. But Shay Carl and Colt Cabana make me happy, and I admire their positivity, and that they have been able to make successes of themselves outside of the traditional success machine. I want to be like them.<br />
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So, let's give it a try. Below, I've phrased my resolutions, goals and plans for 2015 in a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Law_of_attraction_%28New_Thought%29" target="_blank">law-of-attraction</a>-style series of statements, as if all these wishes and wants are foregone conclusions. Because, yeah, life is that easy. We just say the stuff we want and that stuff comes to us. The poor, the unhappy and the dying are just dull-minded poor communicators.</div>
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Sorry, Cynical Chris is hard to suppress. Anyhoo, here are 15 reasons to be cheerful about the coming year:</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>1. Lo vado in Italia</b></span></div>
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I think that says, "I'm going to Italy;" that's the phrase I put into Google Translate, at least. Jenn and I have been invited to stay in a villa in Volterra, Italy, this summer. The folks doing the inviting are the same lovely crew with whom we spent this past Christmas.<br />
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Because the number of times I've previously been invited to stay in Italian villas can be counted on zero fingers, I feel inclined to not fully believe we are actually doing this. Maybe it was just something said in kindness under the influence of seasonal bonhomie and wine. If it does happen, however, I have already been given permission by Jenn to get to <a href="http://www.themotorcycleobsession.com/2015/01/andiamo-in-italia.html">Italy via motorcycle</a>.<br />
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That means a road trip of roughly 2,500 miles (combined), with my tentative route taking in seven countries: the UK, France, Belgium, Luxembourg, Germany, Switzerland and Italy. That's the sort of trip that would leave me wanting to attend more high school reunions, just for the opportunity to work in conversation starters like: "I remember when I was motorcycling through the Alps and stopped at this lovely little cafe..."</div>
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There is a possibility, though, our old pals at the UK Border Agency could spoil things. I'll soon be sending off the paperwork to renew my visa, a process that includes handing over my passport and being unable to travel. Last time I did this, the turnaround was pretty quick; if all goes well, I'll have my visa by mid-March. But it is not unheard of for British bureaucracy to move very slowly. </div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">2. I'll be seeing a lot more of Wales</span></b></div>
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Being sans passport won't stop me from continuing the <a href="http://www.themotorcycleobsession.com/search/label/Great%20Welsh%20Tea%20Towel%20Adventure">Great Welsh Tea Towel Adventure</a>, however. That's an idea I thought up for <a href="http://www.themotorcycleobsession.com/">my motorcycle blog</a>, giving me an excuse to go lots of places. I have a tea towel with a map of Wales on it; I've set myself the task of visiting all the places listed on it, even though some (e.g., Port Talbot) are places no one in their right mind would choose to visit for leisure. So far, I've visited <a href="http://www.themotorcycleobsession.com/2014/11/gwtta-newport-south-wales-casnewydd.html">Newport</a>, <a href="http://www.themotorcycleobsession.com/2014/11/gwtta-caerleon-caerllion.html">Caerleon</a>, <a href="http://www.themotorcycleobsession.com/2014/12/gwtta-monmouth-trefynwy.html">Monmouth</a> and <a href="http://www.themotorcycleobsession.com/2015/01/gwtta-kidwelly-cydweli.html">Kidwelly</a>, and already I'd say my ostensible goal of improving my personal attitude toward Wales is being achieved. My phone is littered with beauty shots of enviable Welsh road;</div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">3. I'm going to visit at least eight UK national parks</span></b></div>
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Amongst the <a href="http://www.chriscope.co.uk/2015/01/it-was-pretty-good-year.html">highlights of 2014</a> for me was the fact I managed to visit 10 of the UK's 15 national parks: Brecon Beacons, Cairngorms, Exmoor, Lake District, New Forest, Northumberland, Peak District, Pembrokeshire Coast, South Downs, and the Yorkshire Dales. I'm not entirely sure that time and finance will allow me to repeat such a trick this year, but I'm setting my sights on visiting at least eight. So far, I've already managed one: the Brecon Beacons (which is where the picture above was taken).<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">4. Northern Ireland, here I come</span></b><br />
Also in 2014 I finally fulfilled a resolution I'd been making since moving to the UK: I made <a href="http://www.themotorcycleobsession.com/search/label/Scotland%20trip">a trip to Scotland</a>. That means that the only UK nation I still haven't been to is Northern Ireland. Since this post is all about positivity, why not just state outright that I will be riding to Northern Ireland in 2015?<br />
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Even though I'm not entirely sure I'll get a chance to. The aforementioned Italian adventure will no doubt sap a great deal of my holiday time and financial resources. As will the next item on this list. So, I struggle to imagine exactly how a trip to "Norn Iron" is feasible. But hope springs eternal, and I have some very good friends in Dublin (apparently only 2 hours' drive/ride from Belfast) who I have pledged I will visit more often, so we'll see.<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">5. Jenn and I are running in the Twin Cities Marathon</span></b><br />
Because it's not good enough to <a href="http://www.chriscope.co.uk/2014/10/the-story-of-262-miles-or-how-thomas.html">run a ridiculously long distance</a> just once, Jenn and I have decided we want to run another marathon. It is possible that we will opt to run Dublin again, because that was awesome and provides a good excuse to see my Dublin friends, but we have our hopes pinned on being able to take part in the <a href="https://www.tcmevents.org/" target="_blank">Twin Cities Marathon </a>in October. Finances and the availability of vacation time may throw a wrench into the works, however.<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">6. I'll be seeing a lot more of Wales (pt. II)</span></b><br />
In addition to zipping my motorcycle up and down the country's myriad twisting roads, I'll also be seeing a lot of Wales' footpaths, coastal cliffs and hilltops. Jenn has a collection of 30 walks set in southern and western Wales, and we have given ourselves the general goal of tackling all of them in 2015. That's a pretty ambitious goal, admittedly, because it effectively assumes 30 weekends in which there is good weather. That's a pretty bold assumption where Wales is concerned, not to mention those times we might be elsewhere or doing something else during agreeable weather.</div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">7. Bang! I'm going to be doing so much DDP Yoga</span></b><br />
Health is a requisite part of any set of New Years resolutions. Last year, I found myself strangely enjoying <a href="http://www.chriscope.co.uk/2014/08/well-if-its-good-enough-for-jake-snake.html">DDP Yoga</a> -- a DVD-based yoga-like workout hosted by erstwhile professional wrestler Diamond Dallas Page. If nothing else, it was beneficial to my marathon training. But as the marathon neared and I found myself running as much as 30 miles in a week, I suffered a kind of emotional/physical burnout and dropped the DDP Yoga from my routine. I intended that action to be temporary but have struggled to get back into the swing of things. Mañana...<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">8. I'm finally publishing <i>Tales of a Toffee-Covered Llama</i></span></b><br />
I've no idea how I'll manage to do so, but I have promised myself that I will not let another year go by without publishing my third book.<br />
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On a side note: Publishers, how hard is it to email a form-letter rejection? I understand that you're busy, I understand that you get a shedload of submissions every day, but if you get a submission you're not interested in, how hard is it to at least put that poor writer's mind at ease -- give him/her a feeling of closure with you -- by firing off a simple cut-and-paste message along the lines of: "Thank you for your submission to Too Good For Your Literary Ventures. After careful evaluation of your submission, we have decided to give it a pass. We wish you the best of luck in your future endeavours."<br />
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It's not hard, y'all. And it makes the act of being rejected hurt just a little less.<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">9. I'm moving a step closer to becoming the next John Burns</span></b></div>
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One of the reasons Tales of a Toffee-Covered Llama remains unpublished is that over the last year my creative writing endeavours have taken a back seat to my writing constantly about motorcycles. Primarily, this writing has been for my motorcycle-focused blog, but in the last few months of 2014 a few freelance opportunities started popping up. In 2015 I'm hoping to expand upon that, with the hazy faraway goal of perhaps turning it into a profession. Some day. If being a novelist doesn't quite pan out.<br />
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<a href="http://www.johnburnswriter.com/" target="_blank">John Burns</a> is a writer for Motorcycle.com, and one of my favourite moto-journalists because he writes often about the emotional side of biking and its redemptive qualities on the soul. Equally good, if not better (though not as prolific, it seems) is <a href="http://babooti.com/index.html">Jamie Elvidge</a>. <a href="http://www.cycleworld.com/2014/10/03/bmw-k1600gt-motorcycle-road-trip-through-the-southwest-and-beyond/" target="_blank">This piece</a> about how she spent her Thanksgiving in 2012 is the sort of thing I wish I could be writing. Perhaps one day I will.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>10. You'll be hearing from me more often</b></span><br />
Part of being a good writer is writing a lot. The other parts are: reading a lot, and not being Nicholas Sparks. And as I said <a href="http://www.chriscope.co.uk/2015/01/it-was-pretty-good-year.html">last week</a>, prolificacy makes me feel better about myself. I'm hoping to return to my late-2014 habit of posting to this site at least once a week.<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">11. I am totally going to be on top of Christmas</span></b><br />
And by that, I mean <i>last</i> Christmas. I still haven't sent out Christmas cards for 2014. I will, though. I will, damn it, I will! Who cares that people will likely be receiving cards in early spring? Beyond that, I'm pledging to send my 2015 Christmas cards on time. No, really...<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">12. I'll be reading a lot more</span></b><br />
As I say above, one of the keys to being a good writer is reading a lot. I let myself down in 2014, only managing to read about 5 books. I can't now remember exactly which ones they were, but one of them was about professional wrestling. So, effectively that one doesn't count. I have long fantasised about being the sort of person who could read a book a week, but the truth is that I am an incredibly slow reader. Even back in the days when I was teaching in Ebbw Vale and had a 2.5-hour commute I didn't manage to read that much. Truthfully, a book a month will be a challenge. But that's the goal I'm setting for myself.<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">13. My Spanish will improve</span></b><br />
I distinctly remember promising myself at the start of last year that I would put in the effort to achieve Spanish fluency. Then I looked at the cost of <a href="http://www.cardiff.ac.uk/learn/choices/languages/spanish/" target="_blank">courses at Cardiff University</a> and sort of lost my momentum. Good lord, thems classes is pricey. I used to teach Welsh at Cardiff University; if we were charging anything on par with the Spanish department I was definitely underpaid.<br />
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For all intents and purposes, my financial situation hasn't changed over the last year, so I still can't imagine being able to free up £300 for courses, even though I know they are good-quality. But, hey, remember how I taught myself Welsh to the point of fluency using only internet tools? I'm pretty sure it's possible to do the same thing with Spanish. The incentive is that learning the language will give me excuse to go to a country that is warm and has really good motorcycling roads. If anyone knows of any good Spanish learning podcasts, let me know.<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">14. We're getting a new kitchen</span></b><br />
Remember a few months ago <a href="http://www.chriscope.co.uk/2014/09/may-contain-adult-content.html">when Jenn and I decided to sell our flat</a> and move to glorious rented accommodation? Yeah, we changed our minds on that one. Thanks to a facet of the law that extends to the times of Edward I, our flat is really hard to sell. While we figure out what the hell to do about our situation (Current plan: keep it until we die, thereafter willing it to the National Trust. -- Back-up plan: Establish close friendship with Prince William, ask him to give us our lease back when he becomes king), we have decided we should try to make it a little more desirable, i.e., more the sort of place we had hoped to move to after selling.<br />
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Stage 1 of that process for Jenn is getting a new kitchen. Jenn's plans for said renovation are ambitious to say the least, however (she wants to have one of the walls knocked out), so whether it actually happens remains to be seen. Perhaps this will just be the year that we finally manage to buy a wardrobe -- an item of furniture we've been wanting for more than 4 years.<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">15. Some super awesome fun stuff will happen that I can't even predict</span></b><br />
A year ago I wouldn't have predicted my getting free motorcycle tires and a trip to the Peak District; I wouldn't have predicted getting to spend a week house-sitting in a large country home in the South Downs; I wouldn't have predicted that people would want to pay me to write about motorcycles; I wouldn't have predicted getting to visit as many national parks; I wouldn't have predicted any number of the good and wonderful things that happened in my life.<br />
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And as such I suppose that's the great prize of life, the whole reason for carrying on: something's going to happen, and you want to find out what.<br />
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Chris Copehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09802450324154596848noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7118320.post-58511421724066012312015-01-04T22:40:00.000+00:002015-01-04T22:40:01.030+00:00It was a pretty good year<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-39lHKjafLjs/VKmOX9YYv8I/AAAAAAAAGEY/zV7H9p3lFgs/s1600/IMG_20150102_120804.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-39lHKjafLjs/VKmOX9YYv8I/AAAAAAAAGEY/zV7H9p3lFgs/s1600/IMG_20150102_120804.jpg" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
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Shortly before <a href="http://www.chriscope.co.uk/2014/10/the-story-of-262-miles-or-how-thomas.html">I ran the Dublin Marathon</a> back in October, someone (I can't now remember who) was telling me they had heard that people suffer from depression after such an accomplishment because suddenly there isn't anymore a specific and immediate goal to be always always always pushing toward. I told that person I wasn't worried about that happening to me, then I ran the marathon and promptly fell into a months-long malaise. Not so much a depression, but just a period of time that was mentally equivalent to saying, "blaaaaaaaaahhhh," for 60-odd days.</div>
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Which is a shame, because hitherto I was making a good run of it. When I read that last sentence it doesn't quite make sense to me, but I like the sound of it, so let's just move on. Anyhoo, my point is that from <a href="http://www.chriscope.co.uk/2014/07/statement-of-intent.html">July</a> or so I had been doing a decent job of keeping up with regular blogging. And prolificacy makes me feel better about myself. </div>
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So, let's get back into it, shall we chaps? It's a new year, what. New beginnings and all that. (Yes, I have been reading a lot of PG Wodehouse.) And what better way to start the year than to take a quick gander at the one that's just passed?</div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">January:</span></b></div>
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Things started out slowly in 2014, as exemplified by the fact I didn't even bother to make note of my resolutions/goals. I'm pretty sure, though, that one of them was to visit Scotland. Because I had been making that promise to myself for roughly a decade. I probably also promised myself I would finally take action and find a publisher for my book <i>Tales of a Toffee-Covered Llama</i>.</div>
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I honestly don't remember anything from the month, which suggests I was probably in a grumpy mood. One of the strange benefits of having swing-uppy-downy broken brain is that after I go through a black period of being miserable, said period gets wiped from my memory. So, when I look back at my life it is really not all that bad because I can't remember anything but first kisses, golden sunsets and swimming in rivers.</div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">February:</span></b></div>
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I was apparently grumpy in February, too –– obtusely communicating as much in <a href="http://www.chriscope.co.uk/2014/02/no-va.html">a blog post</a> about yet another of my father's cars that I ruined. Of all my father's cars, probably only one of them hasn't been damaged or totalled by me. </div>
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But, actually, things couldn't have really been that bad in February because that was the month I got a chance to test ride a <a href="http://www.themotorcycleobsession.com/2014/02/ride-review-triumph-bonneville.html">Triumph Bonneville</a>. I loved that bike so much that I came very, very close to signing my name to a loan agreement that would have inevitably had me by now weeping on a daily basis as I attempted to keep up with payments. At the last minute practicality took over, aided by the fact that the brakes on the Bonneville are awful.</div>
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It was also in February that I got a chance to spend a few days in York.</div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">March:</span></b> </div>
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In March I got it into my head that I was going to somehow will my book into being published and started my short-lived <a href="http://www.chriscope.co.uk/2014/03/how-to-become-professional-author-in.html">183 Days</a> idea. Ultimately it was a dumb scheme because it was a goal without a path. It was basically a lazy man's <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Law_of_attraction_(New_Thought)" target="_blank">law of attraction</a> and it didn't work. I still haven't come up with an intelligent way of ensuring my book gets published. </div>
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This isn't quite the post for getting into it, but the whole thing is incredibly disheartening. I spent close to a year working on that book, focusing on it so much that at times I would weep as I was writing. Now it just sits on my laptop and to date only one other person has read it (thank you, <a href="http://ribbledoot.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">Jenny Phin</a>).</div>
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Also in March, I celebrated my 38th birthday. Jenn took me to Exmoor National Park, where we went hiking, ate really good food, and smooched on a cliffside overlooking the sea. I started attending a really awesome literary event in Bristol called <a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/Kill-Your-Darlings/547862798557902?fref=photo" target="_blank">Kill Your Darlings</a>. Because such is the way with all awesome things, it didn't last very long. I find that comforting because it lets me know that even really good artists are shit at being consistent.</div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">April:</span></b></div>
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April was super-fantastico awesome because <a href="http://www.themotorcycleobsession.com/2014/04/visor-down-and-michelin-are-my-new-jam.html">I won a competition</a> that saw me getting to ride a top-of-the-line motorcycle around Peak District National Park, stay at Alton Towers resort, and have free new tires installed on my bike. This was probably one of the coolest things to have happened to me in a while and had come about thanks in part to my ridiculous dedication to <a href="http://www.themotorcycleobsession.com/">blogging about motorcycles</a>.</div>
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It's a strangely welcoming world, y'all. Who knew?</div>
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I know none of my friends or family give a damn about motorcycles, so I try not to burden people with all of it, but I find it amazing that simply riding around on a two-wheeled machine has changed my life so much. From April, thanks to the impetus provided by my Peak District adventure, I started to push myself ever more to explore this country that for so long I had been desperate to live in. And that has helped me start to remember why I wanted to move here.</div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">May:</span></b></div>
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I went to Scotland. Finally. And I went on my motorcycle, which meant that I got to see large swathes of the country. I got to stand atop Cairngorm mountain and look out on a great expanse of Caledonian forest. Ostensibly, I was there for a conference celebrating John Muir, and that actually turned out to be one of the best parts of the adventure.</div>
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I mean, I had gone to the conference primarily because it was a means of getting my employer to pay for me to visit Scotland. But the people I met and ideas discussed ended up affecting me quite a bit. It left me with a much more solid feeling about the incredible importance of natural areas. Ever since then, I've been trying to figure out how I can play more of a role in protecting and possibly even extending Britain's natural landscapes.</div>
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On the same trip I also got to spend a few days in Lake District National Park, which was also awesome even though I almost died of hypothermia atop Scafell Pike. All told, <a href="http://www.themotorcycleobsession.com/search/label/Scotland%20trip">I travelled more than 1,000 miles of British road and lane</a> on my bike over a space of a week. In that week, I managed to see more of Britain than I ever had before in almost 8 years of living here.</div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">June:</span></b></div>
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When summer hit, Jenn and I travelled to the United States, first to celebrate my grandfather's 90th birthday in Texas, then to spend the 4th of July with friends in Minnesota. I miss my friends and family so much that at times it's crippling. So, it goes without saying that this visit was the highlight of my year. My only complaint is that we didn't have more time to spend. My trips home are too few and far between.</div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">July:</span></b></div>
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I came back to the UK slightly reinvigorated and started putting more effort into keeping up with writing. Jenn and I also celebrated the 1-year anniversary of our wedding. The weather was good through most of the month and probably the best single moment came when we rode out to the Gower campsite that Jenn's grandparents have visited every year for more than three decades, and swam in the sea with them.</div>
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That was especially moving to Jenn. Her grandparents had a rough spell in terms of health not too long ago and had thought they would never again be robust enough to handle the cold waters off Wales' coast. Seeing them splash around (and last longer in the sea than myself) meant a lot.</div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">August:</span></b></div>
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My 20-year high school reunion came and went without my being there. For a handful of minutes I felt a little melancholy about not being back in Minnesota to see all the old faces –– especially those I'd not had a chance to meet up with during my recent visit –– but then I got a chance to go test ride some motorcycles and I forgot about it.</div>
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Robin Williams died and, well, I'm still upset about it.</div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">September:</span></b></div>
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In the waning days of summer <a href="http://www.themotorcycleobsession.com/search/label/Yorkshire%20Dales%20trip">I rode my motorcycle to Northern England</a> and spent some time visiting Yorkshire Dales National Park. It is almost certainly against the rules of my job to pick favourites but suffice to say that I really loved the opportunity to visit this national park. </div>
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A random highlight from the trip came when I was en route and stopped at a motorway services. Some guy came up to me and asked if I'd bring my motorcycle over to show it off to his elderly father. It turned out said father had been a motorcycle dispatch rider during WWII. Upon seeing me he lit up and told me the sort of true-life tales of derring-do that leave you incredibly thankful that you never had to find the courage to do the same things.</div>
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In the same month, Jenn and I also got to spend a week housesitting in an enormous house in West Sussex. We ate well, went for walks in South Downs National Park, and were kept company by three lovably dumb golden retrievers, an insouciant cat, and several chickens.</div>
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We are blessed by the people we know.</div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">October:</span></b></div>
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There was that marathon thing, of course. But also my motorcycle blog continued to pay dividends when it resulted in my being offered some freelance work. I write about motorbikes professionally, y'all. That is ridiculous and wonderful.</div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">November:</span></b></div>
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As I said, I sort of dropped into a constant malaise in the 11th month. There were still some high points, though. Jenn and I celebrated two years of marriage (remember that we were married in November 2012 but didn't have our proper wedding until July 2013, so we celebrate twice a year). And there were a number of motorcycle-related things I won't bore you with.</div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">December:</span></b></div>
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The final of this year's "Strictly Come Dancing" was amaze-balls, yo. I realise I don't blog about that show anymore but I still watch it religiously.</div>
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For Christmas, Jenn and I were again in West Sussex, visiting with the family in whose house we had stayed in September –– the mother of Jenn's best friend. There were nine of us in total, which included two young children who made Christmas a whole lot of fun. Sure, it's nice to get presents and eat great food and drink good wine, but it's all so much more enjoyable when you've got a 3-year-old girl on the scene going out of her mind for <i>Frozen</i> dolls. </div>
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There are countless other great moments –– camping on Sully Island, visiting Portsmouth for the first time in 14 years, trips to London, trips to Exeter, managing to see 10 of the 15 UK national parks, getting a chance to ride 11 different motorcycles, and on and on –– but what's important is that I can look back and say honestly: it was a pretty good year.</div>
Chris Copehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09802450324154596848noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7118320.post-9225962725427861582014-10-31T14:18:00.001+00:002014-10-31T14:18:31.273+00:00The story of 26.2 miles (Or how Thomas Magnum and I are the same person)<div style="text-align: justify;">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hEaN0pyomjo/VFKOh1SrIhI/AAAAAAAAFak/b1Mo0zeLvq8/s1600/IMG_20141027_224820.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hEaN0pyomjo/VFKOh1SrIhI/AAAAAAAAFak/b1Mo0zeLvq8/s1600/IMG_20141027_224820.jpg" height="640" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Shortly before the race.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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My official time in the 2014 <a href="http://dublinmarathon.ie/" target="_blank">Dublin Marathon</a> was <b>4:05:45</b>. That's an average of 9 minutes 22 seconds per mile.<br />
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I'm recording my time because I sense my older self will be interested in that information. Though I know my present self is not. Indeed, my present self gets annoyed at the idea of paying attention to anything other than the simple fact that I ran really far and I doubt I could have run much further. Or much faster.<br />
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Well, maybe a little faster. In training for the race I had been clocking pace times of roughly 8 minutes 30 seconds on long runs (and as speedy as 7:15 on runs less than 3 miles), which led me to assume it possible to complete the marathon in 3 hours and 54 minutes (i.e., a pace of 9 minutes per mile).<br />
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"Oh, sub-four and I'll be happy," I'd say when asked what time I wanted to achieve.<br />
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In truth, I hoped I could do better –– something along the lines of 3 hours 45 minutes. So, I'll admit there was a feeling of disappointment on the day. Or, rather in a very specific moment. At mile 25, my back was radiating with pain; my mouth and lips were tingling from dehydration; I could find no energy to put into my legs. I was propelling myself forward mostly through chant-huffing: "I can. I will. I can. I will. I can. I will. I can. I will. I can. I will. I can. I will. I can. I will..."<br />
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Jenn and I had only decided to enter the marathon a few months before, in mid-August. We had been toying with the idea of running such a distance together for a long time, even going so far as to sign up for the 2013 <a href="https://www.tcmevents.org/" target="_blank">Twin Cities Marathon</a>.<br />
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That fell through when urgent roof repairs ate up the cash we would have needed for flights. However, with the exception of being annoyed at having thrown away money in paying the exorbitant entry fee I wasn't terribly upset to have missed out. Hitherto, I had not run a long-distance race since 2005 <i>(a)</i> and my memories of such events were not terribly positive. That is to say, my memories of my performance in these events weren't positive.<br />
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That is, to a large extent, because I didn't know how to train. I had always figured that if you want to prepare yourself for running a lot, you should do so by running a lot. Turns out this isn't entirely correct. But therein you have the reason I didn't see any problem with signing up to run the Dublin Marathon about two months before the day.<br />
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Jenn, fortunately, was more realistic about the work ahead of us and produced myriad charts and graphs identifying when we should run and how much, along with advice on what to eat, and, most importantly, on what other exercise we should be doing. Which explains the whole <a href="http://www.chriscope.co.uk/2014/08/well-if-its-good-enough-for-jake-snake.html">DDP Yoga</a> thing.<br />
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I still found myself suffering <a href="http://www.chriscope.co.uk/2014/10/the-physical-and-mental.html">serious fatigue</a> as race day neared, but overall Jenn's system made preparing a lot less sucky.<br />
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Our friends, Donal and Isobel, put us up while we were in Dublin. Well, actually, that's something of an understatement. They basically served as super awesome surrogate parents. They fed us, gave us a place to sleep, ferried us around town, served as cheerleaders during the race, and were otherwise all-round amazing hosts. They even clothed us. On the morning of the race, Jenn discovered she had not packed her running tights; Isobel saved the day by lending a pair of her own.<br />
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Friends from the internet are the best kind of friends, yo.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-15iZ-eQYVk8/VFKhQVymZoI/AAAAAAAAFbk/IRxYAe8zYzI/s1600/IMG_0048.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-15iZ-eQYVk8/VFKhQVymZoI/AAAAAAAAFbk/IRxYAe8zYzI/s1600/IMG_0048.JPG" height="640" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Signing the wall full of good wishes for runners.</i></td></tr>
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The last mile of a marathon is the distance runner's two-minute drill, I suppose. It's the point that all the other miles have led to, the moment when all you do is push. And afterward, it is the thing you remember most vividly. Not that the other miles are throwaway, of course.<br />
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There is an episode of <i>Magnum P.I.</i> ("Home from the Sea") in which Magnum finds himself alone in the middle of the ocean, forced to tread water for an implicitly long time. As one is wont to do in such a scenario, Magnum passes the time experiencing a number of semi-hallucinatory flashbacks, many of them related to water-treading experiences both with his father and in the Navy SEALs. It is a surprisingly gripping episode and one that I often think about when running.<br />
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Some people think really deep things when they run; I think about Tom Selleck. Don't judge me. Anyway, somehow it is partially from that episode of <i>Magnum P.I.</i> that I get my belief that you can always run another mile. You can always push just a little more.<br />
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Mimicking Magnum checking his father's Rolex whilst treading water, I checked the £12 Casio on my wrist as I drew even with the Mile 25 marker. I realised that if I wanted to finish the race in less than 4 hours I would need to somehow run this last 1.2 miles in roughly 3 minutes. The slight twinge of defeat at knowing I would not achieve my arbitrary and irrelevant timing goal mixed with the exhausted relief of knowing that I <i>would</i> finish –– that I could and would survive the final mile –– and served as a sort of pinprick to the balloon of emotion that had been swelling up since I had gotten out of bed that morning.<br />
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I had not slept well, suffering anxiety dreams that I would arrive at the start line too late or that my notoriously unstable stomach would sabotage the day. As Donal had driven Jenn and I to the race my mind had been spinning with worries: Had I eaten enough? Was I hydrated enough? Was I too hydrated? Was I wearing the right gear for the weather? Would I be too cold? Would I be too hot?<br />
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All this minor panic affected my thinking to the extent I lined up at the start line with the wrong pace runner. Thinking I was standing next to the guy running 3 hours and 50 minutes I instead queued up near the bloke wearing a 4:50 banner. It was only as the crush of runners oozed toward the start that I realised my mistake. Agitated panic ensued and I spent the first part of the race trying to get beyond those runners who were planning to finish the race an hour after me.<br />
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In my head I wasn't trying to catch up with the 3:50 pace runner –– I recognised this would be impossible since he was now so far ahead of me –– but that information wasn't communicated effectively to the rest of my body. Filled with nerves and agitation I just sort of lost control and covered the first 3 miles in 22 minutes. Way too fast.<br />
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Keep in mind, too, I hadn't covered this distance in a straight line. Roughly 15,000 people turned out to run the Dublin Marathon, so in moving away from slower runners I had done a lot of zig-zagging around within a dense pack. I was expending far too much energy for so early in the race. Figuring this out, I spent the next few miles telling myself to calm down, sometimes even making little "whoa" gestures to myself.<br />
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"SMILE IF YOU'VE ALREADY PEED A LITTLE!" announced a sign being held by a woman in Phoenix Park. This was around mile 6, and I was finally calming enough to be looking around and taking in the incredible support of Dubliners. They were lining the route, banging drums, singing and shouting encouragement. To be a recipient of so much goodwill is a reason in and of itself to run a marathon.<br />
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You can see from the picture at the start of this post I had chosen to wear a shirt with the University of Texas Longhorns logo on it. Ireland is a long way from Texas but a surprising number of supporters knew the logo's significance.<br />
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"Go on, Texas! You're doing great!" people would shout. "Hook 'em!"<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7QY5w__o9CI/VFOC0w0f-3I/AAAAAAAAFb4/-eqL1ux0fv8/s1600/IMG_20141026_165858.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7QY5w__o9CI/VFOC0w0f-3I/AAAAAAAAFb4/-eqL1ux0fv8/s1600/IMG_20141026_165858.jpg" height="640" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>I wrote "Go Go Super Jenn!" on the wall of support.</i></td></tr>
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The size of the crowd increased or decreased depending on what part of the city we were running through, of course. In some places supporters were shoulder to shoulder, in stretches through park there might be just one or two people, but always, all of them, cheering and clapping and ringing bells and shouting and making the whole thing feel like a 26.2-mile party. I saw a man dressed as Elvis dancing with a woman dressed as a toilet. A little girl had set up a full drum kit and was playing with full gusto. Countless children offered high fives. One man stood on a wall playing guitar and joked with runners in his thick Dublin accent: "Ye's wouldn't happen to have some water? I'm really thirsty from all this singin'."<br />
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The hundreds of volunteers at the water stations moved at full speed to hand out drinks to runners without any of us having to break pace. They shouted and whistled and whooped support as we stomped through.<br />
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Many of the runners themselves were supportive, too. They were dressed in costumes or wearing wigs. They blew whistles or cheered at mile markers. Others inspired just by being there: some carried pictures of loved ones who had passed away. One man ran pushing his MS-crippled brother in a wheelchair.<br />
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Wearing my University of Texas shirt had been a good idea in terms of making me slightly identifiable within a crowd, but it was ill suited for the weather. I had trained expecting the sort of windy, grey, cold misery that all of us in the Soggy Nations experience in late October. But in a fit of climatological freakishness weather on this day was sunny and warm. The temperature rose to 20C (68F). The heat, combined with my unnecessary wasting of energy at the start of the race (many runners also <a href="http://www.irishmirror.ie/news/irish-news/dublin-marathon-2014-blood-sweat-4519598" target="_blank">complained of strong winds</a> but I honestly don't remember this as too much a problem), began to affect me just past mile 19.<br />
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By now I was going through water more quickly and unable to fully quench my thirst. The two pieces of toast I had eaten for breakfast felt like not nearly enough. All around me, a surprising number of runners had broken into limping walks. I felt weak, and some part of me started to wonder where I was going to find the energy to push on.<br />
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At mile 20 there was a family handing out bags of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jelly_Babies" target="_blank">Jelly Babies</a>, a soft candy. I had seen a few other supporters offering sweets and bits of fruit but to this point had paid little attention because, well, you know: candy from strangers. But in this case the stranger offering me a clear plastic bag of candy was a 6-year-old girl.<br />
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"Thankyouthankyouthankyou," I wheezed, giving her an enfeebled high five and trundling forward.<br />
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I accepted candy from a few other people further on, and by mile 22 was back to feeling confident I would finish the race. To underscore this and to resist the temptation to join the increasing number of people walking I had fallen into repeating to myself, in the style of the <a href="http://youtu.be/6pjliE37ENY" target="_blank">Team USA "I Believe" chant</a>: "I will not fucking walk."<br />
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After a time it occurred to me I was speaking to myself in negatives and the personal chant morphed into: "I can. I will."<br />
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At mile 25, when that emotional balloon burst –– filled with anxiety and joy and people's cheering and laughter –– I started sobbing uncontrollably. It was a strange sort of sobbing because my body was too dehydrated to produce tears. My lungs were too overtaxed to hyperventilate. I suspect that to an observer I just looked like someone who was trying hard to push through the last mile. And I was.<br />
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In that last mile the support of Dubliners increased exponentially. The crowds now heaved on each side of the route. Their noise was deafening. The race winner, Kenyan Eliud Too, had finished almost two hours beforehand but people were screaming as if I were in the lead. It was one of the most life-affirming things I have ever experienced first-hand.<br />
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When I crossed the finish line I discovered my back and shoulders had tightened so much I could not straighten to walk. I fell into a hopping limp as I moved along, breathlessly saying "thankyouthankyouthankyou" to the volunteers who ushered me along, put a medal around my neck, and gave me a bag full of post-run drinks and foods.<br />
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A little further on I found a place to stop and go through my post-run stretching routine. I did so gingerly and without much grace. Bending over to touch my toes I almost fell over. Doing a hip stretch required I lie down, so I eased to the ground and lie flat on my back, my arms outstretched.<br />
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I looked up into the blue sky and thought about the all-but-defeated skinny man in a University of Texas shirt now lying in the middle of a Dublin street. I listened to the crowd still roaring not too far away and the happy-exhausted chatter of others who had finished. I thought of Donal and Isobel, who I knew were somewhere nearby to take us back home to shower. I thought of Jenn and how happy she must be to be nearing the finish of her first marathon. And I realised that this, most peculiarly, was one of the best moments of my life.<br />
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____________________</div>
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<b>(a)</b> <i>EDIT: Actually, no, I forgot about running the Cardiff Half Marathon in 2007.</i></div>
Chris Copehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09802450324154596848noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7118320.post-78507588376219705102014-10-02T10:12:00.000+01:002014-10-02T10:12:07.799+01:00The physical and the mental<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The Dublin Marathon is in less than four weeks. The sooner those weeks pass the happier I'll be, because training has brought on oppressive fatigue. It is not just that I am sore and tired all the time but that I am mentally exhausted as well. And as such, I get too easily overwhelmed by life. Little things unpick me, as if I were one of Jenn's sewing projects.</div>
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That's Jenn in the picture above, of course, wearing one of her sewing projects: a cape she made for a fancy dress dinner party last weekend. For those of you playing along at home, "fancy dress" in the United Kingdom means "costume." Imagine my disappointment when I first learned this many years ago; I had envisioned a <i>soirée</i> with people in tuxedos and evening gowns. Anyhoo, the dinner party was one of those murder mystery things in which one of you is the killer and everyone has to figure it out.</div>
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The setting for said murder mystery was London in 1961. In black and white, with Jenn sitting on a train platform and the grim rowhouses of Grangetown just barely silhouetted behind her, she looks like part of the rebellious element that was bubbling beneath the surface at the time –– like a girl who might have ridden with the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rocker_(subculture)" target="_blank">ton-up boys</a>.</div>
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We had run 15 miles that day, but Jenn has inexhaustible talent for getting up for an event. Whereas I find that as I get older I am damned boring on even my good days. Fortunately, Jenn's friends have taught themselves to expect little of me.</div>
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On that 15-mile run I had failed to stretch properly either before or afterward and had developed an oh-so-slight pain in my right hip. Add it to the radiating pain in my knees, the ache in my toes, the shin splint in my right leg, the lower back pain and the mysterious and inexplicable pain in my hands. I didn't think much of it until this morning. </div>
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Last night I had come home from work and run 5.6 miles around Cardiff Bay, again without really taking the time to stretch. I had assumed my cycling home from work enough of a warm up. But through the first miles my right foot wasn't striking the pavement right. My shin ached and my hip ached and my legs felt heavy. I imagined myself tied to and dragging a boat down a canal. Because that's the way my mind works, yo.</div>
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"Golly, I'm tired. I feel like an 1840s canal pony."</div>
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Things evened out by the end of the run and I finished OK, but afterward was hobbling around the flat because of the ache in my hip. Overnight, the pain was such that I kept waking up. And that has pretty much taken all the wind out of my sails. I have fallen into a comedy Eeyore-esque moroseness and I feel utterly defeated.</div>
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My mind jumps quickly to worst-case scenarios. Jenn and I are planning to run 22 miles Saturday as part of the training, the peak before winding down to ensure we are ready for the actual race. I have lost faith in my body, though, and wonder if I will be able to complete this weekend's run. I wonder if it will cause damage that won't heal before the race. And instantly I envision myself dressed in normal clothes on the day of the marathon, sick with myself and limping, able to do no more than cheer Jenn's efforts.</div>
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Meanwhile, if you happen to be looking at this site on an actual computer or laptop you'll notice the look has changed. In hindsight, I wish I had taken a screengrab of the blog before changing everything –– just for posterity's sake. <i>C'est la vie</i>. I can't remember, but I think I had been running the previous since 2010.</div>
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The new look is considerably simpler, with less sidebar information. Simple is the new hotness, it seems, and I guess it makes sense. Quite a lot of people –– if not most of them –– surf the internet via mobile devices these days. Filling a page with sidebar columns is cluttersome and pointless since many mobile browsers filter them out. I'll admit, though, that I struggle to commit to simplicity. I could probably stand to apply even more minimalism.</div>
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My inspiration for the redesign comes from two people: <a href="http://chrisphin.com/">Chris Phin</a> and Chris Phin. Ever since we sat around on the floor of his and <a href="http://ribbledoot.wordpress.com/">Jenny</a>'s bare-bones flat in not-so-fashionable New Cross <a href="http://www.chriscope.co.uk/2005/10/part-i-london.html">almost exactly nine years ago</a> I have held strongly the view that Chris Phin Is Probably Right when it comes to things tech/internety. You know, the way Neil deGrasse Tyson is probably right about astronomy, or AC/DC are probably right about how to play a kick-ass guitar riff. Other people might have equally valid and possibly better opinions, but if you're looking for a safe bet these dudes are the ones who are probably right.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-aOeyReEeM6E/VCvwoaE5z1I/AAAAAAAAFMY/lj0fPpkyx2c/s1600/me_and_phins.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-aOeyReEeM6E/VCvwoaE5z1I/AAAAAAAAFMY/lj0fPpkyx2c/s1600/me_and_phins.jpg" height="546" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Jenny, me and Chris. Chris is holding up a London A-Z so "we'll remember where we were."</i></td></tr>
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Nine years ago we were sitting on the floor because, like all people in their 20s living in London, Chris and Jenny could only afford a single piece of furniture: a futon. It felt awkward for us all to be sitting on the futon at once having a conversation, and there were no tables upon which to set our drinks, so we took to the floor. Despite the fact I was in their flat and planning to stay a few days it was my first time to physically meet them; we had formed a friendship through our respective blogs. The wonders of technology, y'all.</div>
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Anyhoo, I'm wandering from the point. Chris and I stayed up late drinking and talking about said wonders, and it instilled in me a sense that he was probably right in his opinion of them. This is a feeling since reinforced by his professional career; he's written for and been at the helm of numerous tech-related publications.</div>
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His website is simple. Which means that simple is probably right.</div>
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Meanwhile, if you look at his simple website at the moment <a href="http://chrisphin.com/blog/whats-next/">you will see a post</a> talking about his recent decision to step down as editor-in-chief of <i>MacFormat</i>. The plan, it seems, is to go into business for himself, doing freelance, consulting and all the other things media professionals do when they come to their senses and decide they need to step away from the day-to-day slog.</div>
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Personally, I applaud this move, if not simply because the last few times I've seen Chris, chatting with him has been just a tiny, tiny, tiny bit challenging. Not because he's dull or any such thing but because he has for the past few years been so tremendously overworked. I had this feeling I was competing for his attention against the bazillion other things he had to do and felt guilty about it. You don't want to add <i>more</i> stress to your friends' lives; you don't want to be <i>another</i> thing they have to think about.</div>
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Going into business for himself won't necessarily reduce his workload but it will give him greater control of it. And hopefully that will result in less stress overall.</div>
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Aiding him in his freelancing effort, Chris' simple-design website also serves as a tool –– a shingle, to use old-school British lingo –– to communicate who he is, what he can do, and how to contact him. And again, here's me totally copying his moves.</div>
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In the past few weeks I've had a chance to write a few freelance articles for some motorcycle websites. Which is awesome on two levels: </div>
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1) People are <i>paying</i> me to write about motorcycles, yo.</div>
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2) It's a real step toward one of my major goals in The Five-Year Plan.</div>
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I don't think I've mentioned The Five-Year Plan before. It's a 12-page document I wrote up in July, outlining the myriad steps I need/want to take in order to get myself from what I am right now to something more like what I want to be. Effectively, it's an extension of the whole <a href="http://www.chriscope.co.uk/2014/03/how-to-become-professional-author-in.html">183 Days idea</a>, which fell flat because it lacked structure beyond just <i>really</i> hoping my writing career would take off.<br />
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The Five-Year Plan is more focused and includes just about every aspect of my life: career, relationships, health, etc. The part that deals with career sees me building incrementally toward professional writerdom and sets earning goals in terms of percentages of annual income. It's boring stuff if you're not me.<br />
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These recent freelance gigs –– which will likely help me achieve my earning goals for 2014-2015 –– pretty much fell into my lap. I am hugely grateful for my luck, but it occurs to me this won't always be the way things happen. Sometimes people will come from nowhere to offer an opportunity, more often, however, I will need to find them.<br />
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So, in simplifying my website I'm also trying to rejig it to serve as a little more of a tool. You'll notice, for example, the blog no longer has a title; it's just my name. Though, I have kept the "Dancing the polka with Miss El Cajon" sentiment in the subheading/description. I've added a portfolio section (which may or may not be a good idea). I'll add a contact section soon. It's all a work in progress; I'm not happy with it yet.<br />
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All this is quite exciting and feels very much like those happy moments when you are actually living up to the expectations and ambitions of your younger self. But then hip pain keeps you from sleeping for just one night and you wake up feeling that all is lost.<br />
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Training for the marathon is beating me up both physically and mentally. I find it so hard to recover from tiny little things, so hard to push myself through the molasses of tiredness. Here's hoping the 27th of October comes soon, and that I can survive all the way there.<br />
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Chris Copehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09802450324154596848noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7118320.post-74169699268504967992014-09-24T13:39:00.000+01:002014-09-24T13:39:34.457+01:00May contain adult content<div style="text-align: right;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iDkoaDXTVoY/VCKgv1OHffI/AAAAAAAAFIE/_AWsYDrdlUk/s1600/ImageResizeHandler.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iDkoaDXTVoY/VCKgv1OHffI/AAAAAAAAFIE/_AWsYDrdlUk/s1600/ImageResizeHandler.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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Jenn and I are trying to <a href="http://www.shepherdsharpe.com/results.asp?pid=3515253&eaid=781&sessionGUID=4A531348-E794-4BA8-B2AD-080D65B1ADB7" target="_blank">sell our flat</a>. Or, well, technically, it's Jenn's flat. She bought it before we met; hers is the only name on the lease. But it's the nature of marriage that you don't pay much attention to ownership specifics. It all blurs together. You don't sit down and say: "OK, I'll buy these oranges and you can buy those apples and we'll split the cost on this milk."</div>
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In Ye Olde Days, that was, of course, one of the primary motivations for marriage: a pooling of resources. Two adults working together to improve their general condition. Practicality, you see.</div>
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And it is indeed for practical purposes that Jenn and I are keen to sell the flat: to get ourselves into the position of being debt-free. Which will/would be of benefit when/if we move to the United States in a few years. Or just of benefit in general. Being debt-free, y'all; it's the new hotness. And I've worked out that if we could get out from under all our debt we could rent a two-bedroom flat/house (our flat is one-bedroom) and still have a quantum of funds each month to put into savings. </div>
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Simply using the profit of this flat as a deposit on a larger place won't work because the mortgage on such a place would be more than what Jenn could shoulder on her own, and my status as a Damned Dirty Immigrant (who is working and paying taxes to fund the housing and welfare of natural born citizens who stand outside the Jobcentre with their hands down their pants, drinking Stella Artois and shouting obscenities) prevents me from being eligible for such a loan or co-signing onto one with my wife.</div>
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If you're not terribly interested in my personal financial situation, I don't blame you. I get bored even thinking about it. Or, well, panicky-bored. That feeling where your brain simultaneously says: "Ugh, dude, I don't wanna think about this," and "AAARGH! I DON'T WANT TO THINK ABOUT THIS!"</div>
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Selling a flat, even though it is technically not mine, is, I think, the most grown-up thing I've ever done. And it induces a tremendous amount of stress. </div>
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Firstly, it consequentially results in my thinking about money <i>all the time</i>. I don't mean thinking about it in a City trader sort of way -- "I'm making the moolah right now, baby! Woo!" -- but more in the way Ukrainians think about Russia. I spend all day trying to work out various scenarios and solutions and equations, but at the end of each of them is the reality that I have extremely little wiggle room. There's a 17-gallon bucket to fill and I've got just 17 gallons of water. Things are OK unless someone gets thirsty.</div>
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Thoughts on how to handle money lead, of course, to thoughts on how to earn money. Specifically, how I'd prefer to be earning money. Cue the large <a href="http://youtu.be/XDm0ZOpGy1o" target="_blank">Sweetums</a>-esque monster of my mind to sing the same old lament of my writing career not being anywhere near as profitable or prolific as I'd have hoped it would be by the time I was 38 years old.</div>
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These anxieties stack on top of each other and mush together. It's like ice cream on a hot day. Life becomes the challenge of sitting there in the sweltering heat trying to tackle a 4-scoop cone without having any of it spill onto your hands or, worse, topple to the ground. And in the great quadruple-dip waffle cone of life the additional challenge comes in the fact the flavours are not terribly complimentary. It would be far easier to tackle them one at a time. But you can't. They are on top of each other and as time goes on they become more difficult to distinguish.</div>
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Panicky-bored. Panicky-bored. I don't wanna talk about this, man. I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT THIS. Where I'm going with talking about it is that strange feeling of realising that I'm an adult and not feeling terribly happy about it. I think because I am fearful that I am not terribly good at it.</div>
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And here Sweetums steps forward again to sing the Middle-class Woes: the feeling that I am a disappointment by scale. Do you get what I mean? Objectively, my life is pretty good; I have achieved some good things. But I feel that if you take into account the tools I've had to achieve those things I am ultimately a letdown. </div>
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I imagine myself in a large room full of mechanical parts. That is my life. And at the end of my life, God is going to walk into the room and say: "Well, what'd you manage to make, Chris?"</div>
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"This bicycle," I'll say. "It's pretty sturdy. I rode around on it quite a bit and it's held up. A few flat tires but pretty fun overall."</div>
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"Good, Chris. That's fine," he'll say. "But, uhm, well, you know... this room. All the parts and tools are in this room for you to have made a fighter jet. The parts and tools are here for you to have built a fleet of motorcycles. You've always had most of them. Then there were the times -- remember? -- that you put a lot of time and effort into developing some of the others. But you never really used them. A bicycle is good, Chris. And there are many people up here that, if they had presented me with even a drawing of a bicycle, I would have been very proud of. But you. With you, a bicycle is kind of disappointing. I think you've let yourself down a little. Ah well, you've got all of eternity to dwell on it..."</div>
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The fact that these feelings spiral from the simple act of trying to sell a piece of property convinces me even further that I am really not doing a very good job of being an adult. Or maybe I just don't <i>like</i> being an adult and resist it to the point of incompetency. I sense that I would be more enthusiastic about the whole thing if Jenn and I were planning to use the money to go on a massive road trip.</div>
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Chris Copehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09802450324154596848noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7118320.post-73776761522544304302014-09-10T08:00:00.000+01:002014-09-10T08:00:01.920+01:00I may not be a dog person<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wO4NunqDHw4/VA7JUiGsFmI/AAAAAAAAFAo/lP8nG7Cw0-s/s1600/IMG_20140905_202500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wO4NunqDHw4/VA7JUiGsFmI/AAAAAAAAFAo/lP8nG7Cw0-s/s1600/IMG_20140905_202500.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>We're spending the week with these bitches.</i></td></tr>
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Jenn and I are this week house-sitting for her best friend's mother. We are in a quite-large house in West Sussex, providing company and food service for three golden retrievers, a small cat and a handful of chickens. </div>
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It is, unquestionably, an enviable situation to be in. Literally within a stone's throw of <a href="http://www.southdowns.gov.uk/">South Downs National Park</a>, we are in one of the most English of English landscapes. There is a garden from which to pick fresh fruit and vegetables, a grass tennis court on which Jenn and I have been doing <a href="http://www.chriscope.co.uk/2014/08/well-if-its-good-enough-for-jake-snake.html">DDP yoga</a>, and a large patio where we eat our meals outside. </div>
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Thanks to the power of the internets we are both working remotely –– able to be here without having to take off time from work –– but with the rest of our time we have been running country lanes, eating massive pub meals, hiking the <a href="http://www.nationaltrail.co.uk/south-downs-way" target="_blank">South Downs Way</a>, and just lounging on the sofa reading.</div>
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The latter activity is probably the most idyllic because it is then that the dogs and cat (the chickens stay in their coop) will come to lounge with us. The cat nuzzles a place next to my thigh and occasionally headbutts my elbow for fun. The dogs lie near our feet, expel the heavy sighs of canines and fart shamelessly.</div>
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They are delightful and stupid, the dogs. All females, they are aggressive only for attention. If you pet one, another will muscle in and demand that your giving of affection be a full-body affair: left hand scratching behind the ears of one dog, right hand rubbing the belly of another, legs squeezing a third.</div>
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They are fun to be around, fun to go on walks with, and –– if you can get used to the smell –– emotionally comforting on a level that is sort of hard to explain. But, oh my gosh, are they a bunch of trouble.</div>
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These dogs are pretty well trained, but still much of our routine revolves around their pooping and peeing. I make sure they get a chance to go out and do their thing before bed, then I need to be up at about 6:30 in the morning to let them out, else they'll start barking. And still, twice so far we have been greeted in the morning with a special doggie present on the floor –– of which all three of the dogs have disavowed any knowledge.</div>
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"Which one of you pooped on the carpet?" I asked this morning.</div>
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They looked at me as if I had said, "Which one of you wants a steak?"</div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-q8OUrC4cGwk/VA7kzImh88I/AAAAAAAAFBA/v4W9JJQ6Wbo/s1600/IMG_20140909_121149.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-q8OUrC4cGwk/VA7kzImh88I/AAAAAAAAFBA/v4W9JJQ6Wbo/s1600/IMG_20140909_121149.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Effie was suspicious when I claimed to not have any food.</i></td></tr>
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Meanwhile, they will bark at anything –– especially things that are not there. One in particular, Effie, barks ceaselessly at the unknown. Perhaps there's poetry in that, but not at 7 in the morning. When not barking they are searching for food. Or finding some mud they can track into the house. Or strategically placing their hair on EVERY SINGLE THING.</div>
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I have always thought of myself as a dog person but in now actually living with the beasts I can't help but wonder if it's something I could put up with on an everyday basis. Because things only get worse when you take them away from the house.</div>
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On Sunday, Jenn and I took the dogs on a walk to a nearby pub for lunch. If you read just that sentence it probably sounds awesome, and for one or two fleeting moments –– watching these golden-haired dogs run across a field in the late summer sun –– it definitely was. But the rest of the time, I found myself emitting a constant soundtrack of reproach:</div>
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"Effie, get away from the road. Phoebe, come on, let's go. Sophie, leave that little boy alone. Effie, stop biting Sophie in the face. Phoebe, come on, let's go. Effie, leave that horse poop alone. No, I don't have any food. Sophie, leave that horse poop alone. No, I still don't have any food. Phoebe, come on, let's go...."</div>
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The responsibility of being a (temporary) dog owner was wearing me out. I had to pay attention to each little aspect of the world around me and consider how the dogs might respond to it, how it might respond to them: cars, people, other dogs, horses, woodland animals, the smell of faraway barbecues, tricks of the light, and, of course, all kinds of things that were not there.</div>
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It's exhausting. I'm not sure I could live this way. After all these years of thinking otherwise, it turns out I may not be a dog person after all.</div>
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Though, having said that, it's probably worth noting that in writing this post I twice found myself getting up and seeking out the dogs just to be able to pet them.</div>
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Chris Copehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09802450324154596848noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7118320.post-73382935315305737162014-08-15T17:00:00.000+01:002014-08-15T17:00:04.622+01:00What country is Ferguson in?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5jhgWy2sGwY/U-3NIDzYqRI/AAAAAAAAExE/04lWCZDVclw/s1600/police.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5jhgWy2sGwY/U-3NIDzYqRI/AAAAAAAAExE/04lWCZDVclw/s1600/police.jpg" height="240" width="400" /></a></div>
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I'm glad to see that the mood in Ferguson, Missouri, <a href="http://www.washingtonpost.com/news/post-nation/wp/2014/08/14/meet-the-missouri-highway-state-patrol-captain-who-is-taking-over-in-ferguson/" target="_blank">seems to be improving</a>. Though, I find it frustrating and troubling that it took so long and such upper-level intervention (i.e., the state governor and the president of the United States) to do the totally obvious thing of, you know, speaking with protesters about their grievances.</div>
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Generally, if people are protesting something it is because they feel their voices are not being heard. So, the way to calm them down is not necessarily to march a load of storm troopers at them, choke them with tear gas, and tell them to shut up and go home. I thought most of us already knew this. I find it distressing that an entire police force in America didn't know it. </div>
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But extending forward, beyond the specific issues of Ferguson, the thing that frustrates me most about this embarrassing episode is that it effectively vindicates the batshit crazies.</div>
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You know all those people who shoot up schools and movie theatres and workplaces in America? The reason they are armed to the teeth is that a number of other <a href="http://www.chriscope.co.uk/2012/12/adding-to-chorus-guns-in-united-states.html">people have worked very, very hard</a> to protect (and, in my opinion, misinterpret) their right to own such hardcore weaponry. Each time one of these mass shootings takes place, however, the rather obvious question comes up: "What American actually <i>needs</i> these kinds of firearms?"</div>
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After all, you don't hunt deer with a TEC-9. And, arguably, a good ol' fashioned shotgun is a more effective tool in protecting yourself against intruders because the scattering nature of buckshot takes some of the pressure out of having to aim properly. Machine guns and semi-automatic handguns are really only good for a military-style assault.</div>
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Publicly, the <a href="http://home.nra.org/" target="_blank">gun nuts</a> will talk around these points and try to hold to a philosophical argument about the nature of freedom. We're free, they say, and we shouldn't give away freedoms just because something bad happened. Because bad things always happen, and eventually you'll find yourself completely without freedom.</div>
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But pull a gun crazy aside, into a private conversation, and he or she will often say that one of the reasons it's important to interpret the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Second_Amendment_to_the_United_States_Constitution" target="_blank">Second Amendment</a> as broadly as they do is so they have the means to defend themselves against a tyrannical government. That's certainly the view of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bundy_militia" target="_blank">Cliven Bundy</a> and the whole <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sovereign_citizen_movement" target="_blank">sovereign citizen movement</a>. Those dudes are ready, yo. Ready to stand their ground against the unmarked helicopters and faceless jackbooters that haunt their dreams.</div>
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I used to live in the American West, so I've encountered a number of these dudes, or, at least, dudes who sympathise with them (it is almost <i>always</i> dudes, by the way). And when they would tell me they needed high-powered rifles so they could defend themselves against a an evil police state my reaction was usually along the lines of: "What? You are a paranoid nutcase. We live in <i>America</i>, man. We live in a functioning democracy. It's not some strange, terrible dystopia where you need to protect yourself against everyone, especially your protectors."</div>
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I mean, really, those guys are crazy, right? </div>
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Right?</div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KNVbc71saaM/U-3azFoOhAI/AAAAAAAAExQ/BVBYH8rz1gs/s1600/ap287279624779.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KNVbc71saaM/U-3azFoOhAI/AAAAAAAAExQ/BVBYH8rz1gs/s1600/ap287279624779.jpg" height="270" width="400" /></a></div>
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Scenes from Ferguson, Missouri, offer vindication to every batshit crazy, confirming their belief that the government has detached from its purpose and turned against its citizens for reasons unknown. Because, honestly, where's the reason behind responding to unarmed protesters the way Ferguson has done? </div>
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Look at that picture above. Click on it to make it bigger and take the time to examine it. I'm counting no less than seven faceless officers stomping toward a single individual. At least two of the officers have their weapons trained on the guy. One is brandishing a nightstick and has a pepper spray cannister. All of the officers have <a href="https://twitter.com/BFriedmanDC/status/499728733830676480" target="_blank">more body armour than the soldiers who invaded Iraq</a>. All have weapons holsters on their thighs. The single individual, meanwhile, has long hair and a flowery man bag.</div>
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Who wouldn't think of arming themselves against this kind of thing? Hell, to be honest, I am surprised by the incredible restraint shown by the citizens of Ferguson. And I am enraged by its police, who have given people good reason to fear and distrust them.</div>
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...</div>
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On a somewhat related note, I wonder how those Open Carry boneheads who flaunt their "rights" by <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/07/02/target-guns-ban_n_5551101.html" target="_blank">shopping at Target with a rifle over their shoulder</a> would respond to the sight of dozens of black people doing the same thing...</div>
Chris Copehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09802450324154596848noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7118320.post-22998936304238902832014-08-13T16:26:00.000+01:002014-08-13T16:26:12.026+01:00The guy I wanted to be<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-u3SwDtF8iFk/U-uDAcCvsXI/AAAAAAAAEww/s3gB9Njm_g4/s1600/robin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-u3SwDtF8iFk/U-uDAcCvsXI/AAAAAAAAEww/s3gB9Njm_g4/s1600/robin.jpg" height="228" width="320" /></a></div>
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"There's three things in this world that you need: Respect for all kinds of life, a nice bowel movement on a regular basis, and a navy blazer." -- Robin Williams (as Parry in
<i>The Fisher King</i>) </div>
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... </div>
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One of the stories that holds strongly in the canon of childhood memories is of the time I got sent to the principal's office for wanting to be Robin Williams.</div>
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I was in first grade and our teacher was having us draw a picture of what we wanted to be when we grew up. We were drawing these pictures to then have them posted in the
hallways of the school for an upcoming parent-teacher night. As almost always happened when given an assignment that required creativity, I found myself sitting at my desk,
stumped, and staring at a blank piece of paper.</div>
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This isn't because I lacked creativity as a child but because I was egotistical and competitive; I wanted my idea to be better
than anyone else's. I wanted the parents wandering the halls on parent-teacher night to look at my picture and think: "Lord, I wish this were my son. Instead, I produced an
idiot who wants to grow up to be a cowboy."</div>
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One of my biggest challenges in this task was that I had no interest in growing up. My father was a newsman and I had already picked up that quite a lot of grown ups are
dicks. Many others, I knew, were unhappy with how being a grown-up had turned out. Growing up meant going to work, and work was the thing that prevented my parents from taking
me swimming all day. To some extent, I saw my parents having to work as the reason I had to go to school. I didn't like school; I didn't want to have to grow up; I didn't want to
have to go to work.</div>
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Still, I sat there at my desk, forcing my 7-year-old brain to tackle the great and burning question of What I Want To Be. My initial thoughts were that I wanted to be
Superman. Because, you know, Superman. He is the best. I love Superman. One of the great tragedies of the modern comic-book mindset is that seemingly no one understands
Superman. In films and such they're always trying to make him edgy, or desperately relying on kryptonite to portray some element of weakness. The quintessence of Superman, what
he is and should be allowed to be, is Better Than Everyone. Always.</div>
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And that was essentially why I liked him. Sure, he was strong and could fly and shoot lasers from his eyes and create wind storms with his breath (every time I blew out
candles I imagined myself as Superman extinguishing a forest fire), but the thing to love about Superman is that he is really good at what he does. His only real flaw is the
fact he doesn't exist.</div>
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Robin Williams, however, did. I had seen him on "Mork and Mindy" and Johnny Carson and some other things. At that age, there was, of course, quite a lot of his stuff I had not
been permitted to see but somehow I was aware of his reputation -- that he was the guy no comic wanted to follow. That he was better than everyone else at what he did. He was
frentic and funny and those were things I liked being. So, I told my teacher I wanted to be Robin Williams and asked for guidance on how to convey this in a drawing.</div>
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"You can't be Robin Williams," my teacher told me.</div>
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Well, yeah, obviously. I couldn't somehow inhabit his body and <i>be</i> Robin Williams, but "stand-up comic" wasn't a part of my vocabulary and "actor" seemed too broad and
inaccurate -- television was littered with actors I had no interest in being like. My attempt at explaining what I meant was ignored and my teacher stood fast to her
conviction that I could not be Robin Williams.</div>
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"He's a filthy person," she said. "Why not be something else? Like a fireman."</div>
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Firemen don't get to be guests on Johnny Carson. Besides, what's creative about being a fireman? I stuck to my guns and said I wanted to be Robin Williams.</div>
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So, I got marched down to the principal's office. Mr. Green. A strange, spindly man whose belt was too high up his waist and whose favourite joke/nugget of wisdom was
to point out that a way of remembering how to correctly spell "principal" is to think of him as your "princey pal."</div>
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He stressed to me the importance of choosing something else
to be when I grew up, so I could draw a picture of it and have it up on the wall like everyone else. Because I wouldn't want to upset my mama and daddy, now would I? I have
never once referred to my parents as "mama" or "daddy," and something about those terms annoys the hell out of me, but I couln't help but concede to Mr. Green's logic. I went
back to class and claimed I wanted to be a pilot, solely because I was good at drawing airplanes.</div>
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Robin Williams, Bill Cosby and Steve Martin have always been my holy trinity of comedy and storytelling. Unquestionably, the Cos has had the greatest influence on my own
style, but no one would argue the fact that Williams is the better actor of the three. Put a pint in my hand and I will happily spend the next hour or so explaining to you, in
excruciating detail, why <i>Good Morning Vietnam</i> is one of the best films ever made. <i>Popeye</i> is considerably better than people give it credit for being. Williams' role in <i>Aladdin</i>
singlehandedly re-defined what we expect of a Disney film. The pathos is so well done in <i>What Dreams May Come</i> that I wept for a solid 40 minutes after seeing it. And if you
haven't seen <i>The Fisher King</i> you are a damned, damned fool.</div>
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There were times when Williams missed the mark, but the truth is that humans often do. Babe Ruth is famous for hitting homeruns, but he also struck out a fair few times. Overall,
Williams hit a lot of homeruns. A lot. In his acting, in his comedy, and in his ability to be a guy you wished you could be.</div>
Chris Copehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09802450324154596848noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7118320.post-57127453795968964742014-08-06T08:00:00.000+01:002014-08-06T08:00:05.970+01:00Veinte años<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-AgSMQFYA10A/U-DE6dNpF-I/AAAAAAAAEug/KXMI_AyOjSU/s1600/me.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-AgSMQFYA10A/U-DE6dNpF-I/AAAAAAAAEug/KXMI_AyOjSU/s1600/me.jpg" height="285" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>That's right, y'all. I've always been this awesome.</i></td></tr>
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My 20-year high school reunion is this weekend. The cliché of life makes me feel I should have something to profound to say about that, about the passage of time or some such thing. I'm not sure I do, though. I think this is primarily because I remember so little of high school.</div>
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Not because I was on drugs or anything; I just have a really bad memory. Or, well, no, that's not true. I have a limited-space memory -- only so much can fit in there. These days, my brain is being used primarily to store useless information about pro wrestling story lines, the technical aspects of various motorcycles I will never own, and some dying bits of the Welsh language. To make room, I have jettisoned most of my knowledge about life and experiences from 20 years ago.</div>
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Over the past few weeks, people from my high school have been posting to Facebook various embarrassing photos of themselves and others with captions about hair or awkward declarations that those days were the "best." Occasionally I get tagged in one of these photos, thereby allowing me to look back in admiring wonder at my incredible style foresight, having come up with <a href="http://macklemore.com/">Macklemore</a>'s haircut decades before he did.</div>
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Mostly, though, I tend to feel a sense of confusion. I'll look at pictures and not have any idea of the stories to which they are tied: Where was the picture taken? When, exactly? Who took the picture? What are we all doing? And so on.</div>
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The above picture, for instance. That's me, my best friend Paul, and Steph, a girl both of us dated at different points in our lives. We're at a restaurant; that much I can guess from the soda and chequered table cloth. TGI Friday's, perhaps? We used to go there a lot. </div>
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I'm making that face because I've got hard candy in my mouth, a strange addiction I carried through high school for fear of bad breath. And because it struck me as quirky. That's what you do as a teenager: you find something no one else is doing it and own it as part of your personality simply because you're the only one doing it. The candy. The hair. The tendency to wear purple. The pen around my neck.</div>
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I always wore as a necklace a pen hooked to a bit of leather shoestring. You know, because I was a writer. I felt the need to communicate this visually. Had tattoos been within my personal aura of acceptability I probably would have had the word "Writer" emblazoned on my forearm. The necklace broke in my senior year when someone used it as a means of tackling me in a pick-up football game, so I'll place the picture as having been taken in my junior year. </div>
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That makes sense. That was the year I was pretty hot for Steph. I'm willing to bet this pose was instigated by me -- not because I wanted to throw an arm around my best buddy but because I wanted to achieve cheap physical contact with Steph. If that's correct, I'd guess the picture was taken in spring 1993, during the height of my infatuation with her. And I'd suspect the photographer was my friend Sara -- primarily because she's the one who posted it to Facebook.</div>
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OK, well, perhaps I remember some things better than I thought. But all those are generalities. I can't tell you the story of this picture. I can't tell you anything about what any of the people in the photo were thinking/feeling at or around the time it was taken. Who's Paul looking at? Who else was there? Why were we there? I don't know.</div>
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So, I look at these pictures and feel confused. I feel a sense of amnesia, as if someone has shown me these and said, "Look, here's us when we were young." And I am left to nod befoggedly, feeling these pictures are not helping to fill in the gaps, but instead create new gaps. Silently thinking: "I recognise the faces but I don't know who any of these people are. Including the person who looks like me."</div>
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There is, too, a feeling of sadness. That is more a reflection of my present self and present circumstances.<br />
<br />
I live today 5,000 miles away from where these pictures were taken. These pictures reinforce my feelings of disconnectedness, that others look at the silly-haired kid in the photo and think: "Well, I recognise the face but..."</div>
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I won't be at the high school reunion, of course. Check the cost of a flight from London to Minneapolis for a clear understanding as to why. Many of my old friends will be. And I suppose the appeal of the thing is that it is like Thanksgivings when all of us were in college: everyone rolling back into town at once. All these faces come back to collectively help piece together the tales of old pictures, to help you piece together who you are by reminding you who you were.<br />
<br />
And I wonder if perhaps that's part of why I sometimes feel I can't figure out who I am. Because I'm so far away from anyone who can remember who I was.</div>
Chris Copehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09802450324154596848noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7118320.post-7933952518608538342014-02-18T15:40:00.000+00:002014-02-18T15:40:50.183+00:00No va<div style="text-align: justify;">
I guess it must have been the same summer Eric gave me mono, the two of us drinking from the same large jug of Gatorade as we paddled my parents' canoe down a section of Nine Mile Creek. It had rained a lot that summer, and the same rise in water that had allowed Eric and I to even make it to the bends through Moir Park –– let alone get turned over in them and almost drown –– had flooded a road further upstream.</div>
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I had come across the flooded road while taking a particularly circuitous route to summer school. </div>
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Summer school is a cruel thing. The fact that you are even there is an indication of how you feel about schooling during the regular school year. So being there when all your friends are not is even worse. Especially when it's not even your school. In summer, the idiots and slackers of both Bloomington's high schools were corralled into a handful of classrooms at Kennedy, the east-side rival to my west-side Jefferson.<br />
<br />
Through a cruel twist of fate, I actually ended up earning my high school diploma from Kennedy –– a truth that still burns my soul. Though, I take solace that my unintended alma mater <a href="http://khs.bloomington.k12.mn.us/node/3116182">has a place in the Harley-Davidson Museum</a>.<br />
<br />
Back to the flooded road, though, which was a good 5 miles north<i>west</i> of my house. Whereas the drive to Kennedy should have taken me 4 miles <i>east</i>. In taking such a route to summer school, one that put me on the other side of town with just 10 minutes before classes were set to start, why, it's almost as if I had no real intention of showing up that day. Though, I hadn't admitted this to myself. And, in fact, I used my lateness as an excuse for "needing" to ford the flooded road. <br />
<br />
Hindsight being all that it is, I suppose it's not surprising at all that a kid too stupid to keep himself out of summer school wouldn't be very good at guessing floodwater depth. But, by golly, was I shocked to hear my father's Chevrolet Corsica splutter to its death in the middle of that impromptu lake. Well, perhaps "shocked" isn't the right word. Baffled. Bemused. Something of a feeling of: "Well, hey, what do ya know? Cars and deep water don't mix. Fascinating. You learn something every day."<br />
<br />
I at least had the presence of mind not to open the door. I rolled down the window and saw that water was lapping at the door's bottom edges. Had I opened the door, water would have spilled into the car and flooded the floorboards. Not more than four months before this I had totalled my father's Chrysler LeBaron, and although he is an infinitely forgiving soul I sensed it would be in my best interests to extricate this car from the water as soon as possible. Parents are like that: they'll only let you damage so many cars per year.<br />
<br />
I climbed out of the window and managed to muscle the car back out of the water. Once I had ensured the car would not roll forward into the flood again, I tried to start the car. Nothing. <i>No va</i>. Internally, this was met with a perfectly even mix of concern and content. On one hand, I now had a perfectly good reason for not being at summer school. On the other hand, my father would be expecting me to pick him up from work that evening.<br />
<br />
This was more than 20 years ago, of course. There were no mobile phones. And though I was only 5 miles from home and no more than 300 yards away from an office building where they almost certainly would have let me use the telephone, I felt I was in the middle of nowhere.<br />
<br />
And it was in this moment that I was embraced by the great zen of unknowingness. I had no idea how to respond to this situation. So extensive was my lack of knowledge, so immense was my inability, that I could not even begin to think of how to respond. My mind just let go.<br />
<br />
I took off my boots, poured out the water and set them on the car's roof. The morning was warm and humid and my jeans were soaked to the knees. I found a blanket in the trunk, spread it out on the hood, then lay down and became one with not doing.<br />
<br />
I don't know how long I sat there, just staring at the sky and listening to the world around me –– birds, the heat-softened muffle of summer, occasional airplanes and traffic in the distance. Long enough for my pants to dry. Long enough for me to get hungry.<br />
<br />
Eventually I climbed off the hood, meticulously folded the blanket and put it back in the trunk, and put on my slightly damp boots. I know now that I had stumbled upon the correct means of dealing with an engine that's gotten wet: wait for the starter to dry. Had I thought to call a tow truck, they just would have hauled it to a garage and done exactly the same thing. I wasn't a mechanic, I just had not heard that Albert Einstein quote about the definition of insanity being that of doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result.<br />
<br />
But, of course, Einstein never actually said that. Maybe because he, too, had driven his father's car into a flood, tried unsuccessfully to restart it, sat on the hood for an unknown number of hours, then tried starting the car again and had the thing fire up straight away. So, sometimes you <i>can</i> try the same thing over and over and suddenly get a different result.<br />
<br />
That's what happened to me. I turned the key; the Corsica started up; I celebrated by going to get a donut.</div>
Chris Copehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09802450324154596848noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7118320.post-76704409752241436372013-09-25T15:47:00.003+01:002013-09-25T15:47:34.178+01:00Seventeen hours of my life<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>5:40</b> - The alarm on my phone goes off. My mind allocates exactly half a second of total alertness to allow me to hit snooze. I roll over and wrap my arms around Jenn.</div>
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<b>5:50</b> - The alarm goes off again. This time I am utterly confused, struggling to fully comprehend the concept of sound, let alone the sound I am hearing or its source. Amid some confused grunting I manage to click off the alarm and fall -- literally -- out of bed.</div>
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<b>6:00</b> - <i>Beep beep beeeeeep</i>. The <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Greenwich_Time_Signal">BBC pips</a> inform me of the time as I butter toast. For pretty much the whole of my life my breakfast has been two slices of toast, jam and tea. I sit down and eat these things at the table, listening to Vanessa Feltz on the radio explaining that things are not going well in her "<a href="http://www.chriscope.co.uk/2013/09/strictly-come-dancing-first-impressions.html">Strictly Come Dancing</a>" training. I hear Jenn get up and moan as she walks into the kitchen. In a few minutes she brings me a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, which I drink in one gulp. Breakfast done, I pack my things and get ready to head out.</div>
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<b>6:54</b> - I catch a glimpse of the time on the platform display at Cardiff Bay train station just as I bank my bicycle to the left. I like cycling this early in the morning. There are very few cars to contend with, and the stretch of my commute that takes me across the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cardiff_Bay_Barrage">Cardiff Bay Barrage</a> is particularly peaceful. The tide was in as I rode by this morning and the water calm. Looking across the channel I could see the sun rising over the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mendip_Hills">Mendip Hills</a> in Somerset and the lights of Weston Super-Mare and Bristol. </div>
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<b>7:00</b> - <i>beep-beep</i>. My little Casio watch marks the hour. I am in my office switching out of my cycling shoes and into a pair of running shoes. In the last month or so I've started going to a gym just across the road from my office. The gym is deplorable; it is like working out in the physical manifestation of a person's memories of regret. The gym used to be a large nightclub, notorious for tolerance of underage drinkers, which was shut down in 2006. Absolutely no work has gone into changing the interior since then. The DJ booths are still there, the dancer podiums are still there, the bar is still there. The only changes are the addition of weights and workout machines and shower/locker rooms that have been installed at the lowest possible cost. I would not go there were it not so incredibly convenient and cheap.</div>
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<b>7:17</b> - I am on the <strike>dance</strike> gym floor. Today is a sweaty day -- cardio. I choose a running machine from the many empty ones that are available. Generally I choose a machine that is as far away as possible from Weird Boxer Guy. He's there every morning along with a trainer who I'm guessing is a former boxer who got hit in the head one too many times. The trainer is probably about 5-foot-6 and speaks in a quick and totally incomprehensible Valleys accent. I mean totally incomprehensible. I used to work in the Valleys and never had trouble understanding people but this guy is impossible. Were it not for the fact that Weird Boxer Guy will respond to him in English I would assume him to be speaking another language.</div>
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Weird Boxer Guy rarely speaks, though. Generally he just mindlessly runs or cycles at really high speed, wearing a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sauna_suit">sauna suit</a> that makes him look like a jacket potato. Occasionally he and the trainer will occupy a little corner of the gym and he will do that thing of hitting pads that the trainer holds up. He strikes with a sickening amount of force. I mean, just from the sound of the pads you can tell there is tremendous power in the hits. I am certain a single clean punch from that guy would knock me completely unconscious. This is why I prefer to keep my distance.</div>
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<b>7:55</b> - I have just finished running 5k and rowing 3k. I did the run in 24:06 and the rowing in 12:30. My face is stinging from sweat. I usually like to work out until 8 a.m., so I look around for something to do. I climb onto a stair machine of some sort but can't seem to really get it going. According to the little digital display, the machine is under the impression that I weigh 190 kg (418 lbs.). I cannot figure out how to convince it otherwise. I decide to do push-ups until the top of the hour.</div>
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<b>8:40</b> - Freshly showered and dressed, I am in the office, eating porridge at my desk and reading <a href="http://rideapart.com/">RideApart</a>. This is the way I roll, yo. Since I started properly working out again I find I am hungry all the time. So each work day starts with an <a href="http://quaker.co.uk/products/oat-so-simple-original">Oat So Simple</a> pot of porridge. I'm sure this is a detail you really care about.</div>
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<b>9:05</b> - Jenn calls. She got the job.<br />
Earlier in the week she had applied for a position in Bristol that would see her taking on greater responsibility and taking home more pay. The implications of her getting a job in a city 50 miles away (30 as the crow flies) are exciting to think about. We'll almost certainly move there, but we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. In the immediate, I am simply letting her know how proud I am of her for getting the job. As I do this, I hear my voice arc exactly as my father's does when someone tells him good news. When we do this we sound like we're lying, like we don't care at all about your good news. </div>
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I can assure you that we are, truthfully, really excited for you -- we just don't sound that way. I have long had a fear this same disingenuous tone would also come out at shocking news. Specifically, I have found myself anxiously imagining a scenario in which the police come to tell me that a close friend or family member has been murdered, and I incriminate myself by not sounding very surprised or upset.</div>
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<b>10:00</b> - I tear into a cereal bar. I have been staring at the clock for at least five minutes, waiting for the top of the hours. I am hungry all the time.</div>
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<b>11:00</b> - I open a box of raisins. Hungry all the time.</div>
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<b>12:00</b> - Lunch. A ham sandwich and sea salt crisps. Hungry all the time.<br />
<br />
<b>13:34</b> - I am eating an orange, looking out on a rainy miserable day. Cardiff gets roughly 44 inches of rain a year. The average precipitation in St. Paul, Minnesota is 32 inches a year. But it's the cloud cover that really bothers me. Through September there will be breaks, sunny days, but by late October a great heavy grey blanket will have been pulled across this island that will not lift for at least 6 months. Very soon my cycle to work and home will both be in pitch dark. This causes me a tremendous amount of anxiety. Last winter I suffered a depression so bad and so impenetrable that I now fear the coming Long Dark. Really, I have anxiety dreams about it.<br />
On a slightly cheerier note: I have just checked and, according to the ever-reliable Wikipedia, Bristol gets just 35 inches of rain a year. It is also, apparently, "amongst the sunniest" cities in the UK. I think I may be grasping at straws here.<br />
<br />
<b>14:09</b> - I am eating a piece of courgette and lime cake that Jenn made. In my mind I have decided that her new job is part of a logical progression toward her one day being given an MBE.<br />
<br />
<b>17:02</b> - I happen to catch a glimpse of the time as I cycle past a bus stop display at the <a href="http://www.doctorwhoexperience.com/">Doctor Who Experience</a>. I am tired and not at all looking forward to the uphill climb back into Penarth. At Paget Road there is a 100-foot climb in a space of about 200 metres. Writing it out, that doesn't sound terribly impressive to me, but I assure you the hill is very steep and -- despite the fact I cycle up it every day -- very exhausting. In fairness, Paget Road has nothing on Bristol's Park Street, which is so intense <a href="http://youtu.be/tZgMQDSlyXA">elite athletes compete on it</a>. To avoid Paget Road, I go about a quarter of a mile out of my way to a zig-zag path that was recently installed. Climbing the hill is no easier here but affords one the opportunity of doing so without impatient drivers riding up behind you. On the whole, British drivers are overly aggressive and often <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-kent-23970047">completely blind to what's in front of them</a>. This creates a somewhat adversarial feeling to my evening commute that I try really hard to contain. I will admit to occasionally being one of <i>those</i> cyclists that you hear about.<br />
I realise, though, from conversations with in-laws, that some people drive poorly around cyclists because they simply don't know how to handle the situation. So they take less-than-safe actions in trying to simply speed past the whole confusing mess. If you are one of these people, here is my advice. Nay, here is my plea: <i>Count to 15</i>.<br />
I have found that in the overwhelming majority of urban situations an opportunity for a car to pass safely without risk to myself or others will present itself within 15 seconds. Really. I used to say 30 seconds but then I started counting to prove my point and found the delay time is dramatically less. So, if you find yourself "stuck" behind a cyclist, simply keep a distance great enough that you would not run over him or her were he/she suddenly to fall over, and start counting to 15. Within that time, scan well ahead of the cyclist (don't just target fixate on the immediate obstacle) and identify <i>safe</i> opportunities to pass. It's just that simple, and 15 seconds is not going to make or break anyone's day -- it's certainly less time than it takes to fill out a police report should you injure a cyclist, and considerably less time than the prison sentence you'd receive for reckless driving were you to kill someone.<br />
<br />
<b>17:37</b> - I am in the flat, drinking tea and eating biscuits.<br />
<br />
<b>18:50</b> - Jenn and I sit down to dinner. It is not so terribly exciting; I have made fish cakes, rice and peas while Jenn has been studying for her driving theory test, which is tomorrow (<i>EDIT: She passed!</i>). The meal is quickly made and quickly eaten because we need to get out the door soon to make our dance class. Thursday is Lindy Hop night, where we learn how to dance <a href="http://youtu.be/LAAAV7BB1HU">like this</a>. We aren't quite at that level, yet; after a year of classes I still have a tendency to suffer mental shutdowns, like when a computer freezes up because you've issued too many commands. Still, I really enjoy it. The teenage boy in me <i>especially loves</i> Lindy Hop class, because it means getting all handsy with about a dozen women.<br />
<br />
<b>19:24</b> - I am awkwardly hugging my motorcycle in the street, holding out the choke with my left hand as I start the bike and hold in the brake with my right. I have to hold the choke out, otherwise it will pull itself back in. According to the internets, this may have something to do with my throttle cable. I don't know this at the time, however, so I am left standing there with my hand up Aliona's skirt <i>(a)</i>, as it were, waiting for the engine to warm.<br />
Normally we would take the train, but this week the class is in a different, less-train-friendly location. To be perfectly honest, I am happy about this because it gives me an excuse to go somewhere on the bike. When I first came up with the idea of getting a motorcycle I told myself it would allow me greater freedom -- the ability to go where I want to go when I want to go there. But it turns out that I don't really have the desire or time to go places as often as I would have previously thought. Possibly, though, this is due to my having stifled such a desire for seven years. I haven't explored Britain at all, and perhaps the fact I haven't is the main reason I now don't; I have beaten myself down into an anti-adventure mindset.<br />
<br />
<b>20:35</b> - I am 'trucking' about in a small, hot room. Trucking is a move where you move side to side, as if skating. Groucho Marx does it <a href="http://youtu.be/_YrNQaXdOxU?t=1m29s">here</a> in comedy style. There are no mirrors in the room, so I can't tell whether I'm doing it right. It doesn't feel as if I am because the move is hurting my knee. Still, I am having fun. I genuinely missed my calling by failing to get into swing/Lindy sooner.<br />
<br />
<b>21:10</b> - We are back on the bike and heading home. We choose a circuitous route because both Jenn and I enjoy being on the bike. This is a happy development one might not have guessed a year ago, <a href="http://www.chriscope.co.uk/2012/12/an-incredibly-long-title-thoughts-on.html">when I first started all this talk of motorcycles</a>. Back then, her response was a pretty firm "No." In hindsight, though, this was not so much opposition to my having a motorcycle but to my buying a motorcycle -- an obstacle I would eventually find <a href="http://www.themotorcycleobsession.com/2013/06/how-it-happened.html">a way around</a>.<br />
In Leckwith, I choose to filter through a line of traffic stopped for a light, but do so timidly, so that when the lights change I am still between two lines of cars rather than out ahead of them. This is a bad place to be because although most drivers in the UK are content to have a motorcycle zip alongside them, they are unwilling to ease back at all and allow the motorcycle into a proper lane. I guess the thinking is: "Hey, you can't have it both ways. The law allows you to jump to the front of the queue, so either get to the front of the queue or don't filter."<br />
Fair enough. One of the benefits of my bike is that it can out-perform most people's cars, so I simply twist the throttle hard with aim of getting out ahead of the traffic. As soon as I do this, however, I realise I have not communicated my intentions to Jenn. I feel her legs squeeze me as she struggles to maintain her grip on the bike's thankfully largish luggage rack. Feeling her unsettle causes me to immediately close the throttle and she comes lurching forward, our helmets colliding. We get to another set of lights and I apologise profusely. She doesn't care, but the thought that I might could have thrown her off with such an idiot move will bother me for the next several days.<br />
<br />
<b>21:36</b> - I am eating a cereal bar and fretting over all the things I need to do before bed.<br />
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<b>22:40</b> - Having showered (dancing is sweaty business) and made everything ready for the next day, I finally crawl into bed with Jenn. She is already half asleep. Instinctively she rolls over and puts her head on my shoulder. I kiss her, then reach my right hand up to click out the light. <br />
<i> </i> <br />
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<b>(a)</b> <i>Aliona is the name Jenn gave to <a href="http://www.themotorcycleobsession.com/search/label/CharlieBravoFoxtrot">my bike</a>, after my favourite Strictly Come Dancing professional dancer, Aliona Vilani.</i></div>
Chris Copehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09802450324154596848noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7118320.post-22236906153275660812013-08-04T12:11:00.000+01:002013-08-04T12:11:00.176+01:00Seven things I've learned<div style="text-align: justify;">
Over the past month or so things have been pretty hectic in preparation for <a href="http://www.chriscope.co.uk/2013/07/speech.html">the wedding</a>, so I didn't get a chance to note an important anniversary: 12 July marked seven years of my living in Her Majesty's United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. OK, perhaps it wasn't all that important an anniversary. But it was an anniversary, the sort of thing one feels strangely obligated to blog about.</div>
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Meanwhile, if we have learned anything from the existence of <a href="http://www.buzzfeed.com/">BuzzFeed</a> it is that people love lists. So, here are Seven Things I've Learned Since Moving to the UK:<br />
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7) <b>Their understanding of "clean" is different.</b></div>
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My friend, <a href="http://littlefistsworld.blogspot.co.uk/">Dani</a>, lives in Houston and prides herself on her spotless baseboards. She goes through her Venetian blinds with a toothbrush. She irons her bedsheets. She washes her dishes, then puts them in a dishwasher. Despite her having two children a dog and a cat, you will not find dust in her home. Her case is, perhaps, just a bit extreme but exemplary of what many Americans strive toward. Dani has never been to the UK, but I reckon a visit here would see her slowly unhinge.<br />
It is not that Britons are filthy. Indeed, I read a statistic a while back claiming Britons use more bath soap and shower gel per capita than any other European country. But people here definitely have a different attitude toward the concept of "clean." Dust bunnies, cobwebs and water stains are easily found in the typical British home. Tea mugs are often reused with just a simple rinsing of cold water. Tea pots can go <i>years</i> without being washed out with soap. It is not terribly uncommon to detect the wafting aroma of rotting food in a kitchen. In certain UK regions, when washing dishes, people will get a dish soapy and place it on a drying rack without rinsing it first. Everywhere you look, the standard of clean is generally the same as you'd expect from a fraternity attempting to draw pledges: clean, but, you know, not <i>really</i> clean. They don't even sell Lysol here.<br />
When I first moved to Cardiff I found all this disconcerting; I didn't like living in an environment that wasn't antiseptic. But over the years I've adapted to it. Indeed, I now see it as a reflection of the fact that Britons are generally more laid back. They're not trying to maintain a fresh-out-of-the-box newness to everything and perhaps that helps to keep them from going crazy. <br />
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6) <b>The grass is not greener.</b> <br />
This is more of a lesson I've learned throughout my adult life, but one I have only come to accept (and at that not fully) in Britain. By and large -- war zones and Toledo, Ohio, serving as obvious exceptions -- one particular place is not inherently better than any other particular place.<br />
Well, no, see, even as I say that I don't believe it. Unless your value metric is based solely on the number of <a href="http://www.buffalowildwings.com/">Buffalo Wild Wings</a> franchises a place has, you have to accept that London is better than, say, Des Moines. But what I mean by using the greener grass cliche is that if you are unhappy in Des Moines moving to London will not necessarily improve your situation. Moving from Bloomington to Moorhead to Portsmouth to Fargo to Incline Village to Reno to San Diego to Saint Paul to Cardiff I didn't quite cotton to that; I have for long sections of my time in Wales been miserable. I am quite certain that there are myriad towns and cities better than the Cardiff region, but now accept that moving to them won't make me happy in and of itself.</div>
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5) <b><strike>Football</strike> Soccer is boring</b>. <br />
When you first come to a new place and want to fit in, you feel a tremendous pressure to like all the things that the people of your new location like. So it was with me and soccer. For my first few years in the UK I would force myself to watch every match that was televised on free channels and would occasionally go so far as to drag myself to a pub to watch big matches. I would tell myself over and over that I cared, that this stuff was important and was relevant to my fitting in.<br />
I have since come to realise, however, that most (though definitely not all) of the people who like watching soccer are not actually worth talking to. And the sport they get so wound up in is stultifyingly dull. It is just 90 minutes (sometimes more if you're unlucky) of watching a pack of undereducated rapists run around without direction. Occasionally, though far less often than you would expect, one of them manages to kick a ball into a space the size of a small house. For this they are paid more than the annual GDP of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tuvalu">certain Polynesian islands</a>. No thanks, I'd rather watch pure competition, like "Strictly Come Dancing."<br />
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4) <b>The word "cock" is always funny. Always</b>.<br />
I haven't lived
here long enough to understand this one, but you see it over and over
and over in pub conversations, comedy clubs and television programmes:
throw that magic word into the punchline of a joke and it almost
guarantees riotous laughter. Don't get confused; the British are capable
of cerebral humour -- stuff that is incredibly clever and brilliantly
planned out. But they unite on the hilarity of a cock joke.<br />
<br />
3) <b>Free health care is a really, really good idea that actually helps a market economy.</b> </div>
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Going against the claim of Britons being cheap are the billions and billions of pounds they invest each year in their public health care system. Some Americans (and, sadly, a tiny portion of Britons, too) look at that amount of money spent and see it as an argument against such a system. But ignoring the whole "people living healthier, happier, longer lives" thing, I think it is a system that can actually encourage capitalism.<br />
In the United States, one quite often weighs a job on the value of its benefits. A person will choose and stay in a job because of something like health care. Similarly, he or she will choose to turn down a job that doesn't offer good health care. Employers are forced to offer benefits and long contracts to ensure those benefits, for the sake of getting the best employees.<br />
The British system allows more fluidity. An employee here is relatively content to work on a short contract, content to move from position to position, because he or she knows that no matter what they'll still have those heath care benefits (admittedly, the UK's generous welfare system plays a role in this, too). I'm pretty sure that fully implementing a similar system in the United States would increase the ability of businesses to compete.<br />
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2) <b>Latinos make the world a better place.</b><br />
This may seem like a strange thing to have learned in Britain but as Joni Mitchell says: "You don't know what you got 'til it's gone." Live in a country where Latino food, music, humour and culture are only slightly more common than unicorns and you soon develop a deep and unabaited longing for <i>son clave</i> rhythms, flavourful food and all the other tiny little things so commonplace in U.S. culture that we don't even realise their origin. Express this observation to a Briton and he or she will helpfully direct you to a so-called Mexican restaurant like <a href="http://www.iguanas.co.uk/">Las Iguanas</a>, but you'll find yourself incredibly disappointed. It's similar to asking someone for a donut and being given a tree. The world <i>sin los Latinos</i> is just not as good.</div>
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1) <b>I need the sun.</b><br />
When I lived in San Diego I knew a girl who would claim to be suffering from <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Seasonal_affective_disorder">S.A.D.</a> every time it rained. It only rained three times a year, but, oh, did she moan on those three days. I knew people in Minnesota, too, who said they struggled through the short-dayed and sometimes-grey winters. But I always felt these people were ridiculous. You're not <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Birdman_and_the_Galaxy_Trio">Birdman</a>, gathering your super powers from the sun. Suck it up, Billy, and stop whining about a few little clouds.<br />
Then I moved here, where the sun disappears for months on end. From October to April you will not see the sun in the United Kingdom. Maybe it won't rain every day, but there will always be a thick, impenetrable blanket of cloud overhead. In the height of winter, you will find yourself going to and leaving work in nighttime darkness. Day after day after day of the same thing until one morning you wake up and wish very much that you hadn't. This last winter was full-on hell for me and I carry a trembling fear of the winter to come.<br />
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All of this having been said, it should be noted that I still live in the UK and have no immediate plans to leave. I complain about the place constantly, but if a nonresident were to do the same I would almost certainly do the quintessentially British thing of first identifying the solitary exception to the rule (the food at <a href="http://www.cantinalaredo.co.uk/">Cantina Laredo</a> is awesome) and follow it up with a catalog of ways in which where you're from is, in fact, the worst place ever. Then I would call you a cock and laugh uproariously.<br />
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Because although the primary lesson of living here has been that I will never stop being American, I feel now, too, that some part of me will always be British. <br />
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Chris Copehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09802450324154596848noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7118320.post-12849725420869862902013-07-28T11:55:00.000+01:002013-07-28T12:06:54.423+01:00Speech<div style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dRBi9IfXxYI/UfTzpEiCt5I/AAAAAAAABe4/jfznAl3Rb0s/s1600/1014140_10201029898884675_437110254_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dRBi9IfXxYI/UfTzpEiCt5I/AAAAAAAABe4/jfznAl3Rb0s/s320/1014140_10201029898884675_437110254_n.jpg" width="240" /></a><i>This is the speech I gave at Jenn and my wedding reception, 20 July 2013.</i></div>
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<i>(Addressing Jenn)</i> </div>
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"Time with you is perfect. Never boring. Never wasted." </div>
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That's one of my favourite lines, from a poem that is, on the whole, not very good. The poem is by Henry Rollins.
Which is proof, I suppose, we can find beauty in the strangest things. We can find love in odd pairings. Boy from Texas; girl from Devon; united by their love for "Strictly Come Dancing."</div>
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But it's true. Time with you is perfect. Never boring. Never wasted.</div>
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Remember when we first started seeing each other? I think it was our second or third date, when we were still in that awkward stage of thinking: "Oh, should we be smooching? I don't know..." We sat up until 3 in the morning, talking, until we were just too tired to speak anymore –– but unwilling to say goodbye. So, we just sat on the couch not saying anything. I put my arms around you, and we listened to the radiators clicking and the sound of each other's breathing.</div>
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That is what I'm talking about.</div>
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Remember the time we cried while watching Mr. Popper's Penguins? The time a lovely spring stroll somehow led to our wandering through a mental hospital? The time we dressed as professional wrestlers? The time we discovered that certain rocks, when heated in a bonfire, will explode? The time we went skinny dipping and were interrupted by an urban youth group? The time I went to the States for a visit, and when I came back you were there at the airport to meet me, and you held on to me for the rest of the day and wouldn't let go.</div>
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That is what I'm talking about. Time with you is perfect. Never boring. Never wasted. And I love you. I love you far more than I thought myself capable.</div>
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<i>(Addressing everyone at the reception)</i></div>
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That's the point of today, of course: Jenn and I standing up in front of all of you and declaring our love for one another. We say it to each other all the time, almost to an obnoxious degree, but a wedding is about saying these things in front of our friends and family, before God or whatever it is you want to call that thing that connects all of us.</div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-V_txLzTLdgw/UfT1A9mmEZI/AAAAAAAABfE/bN5v94LYtDU/s1600/1005215_10151574064848822_370234268_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-V_txLzTLdgw/UfT1A9mmEZI/AAAAAAAABfE/bN5v94LYtDU/s320/1005215_10151574064848822_370234268_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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So, I want to thank all of you for being here. You are an incredibly important and necessary part of today. I know it can sometimes feel otherwise; it can sometimes feel as a wedding attendee that you are getting dressed up in uncomfortable clothes, sitting in an uncomfortably hot room and not trying to look bored, just for the sake of filling out numbers.</div>
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But you are important. You make today what it is. Think how silly and self-indulgent this whole thing would be if it were just Jenn and me in this room.</div>
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I know that everyone has had to put effort into coming. The overwhelming majority of the people in this room have had to travel at least 50 miles to get here, most have had to travel several hundred miles, some have had to travel several thousand miles. And I am wholly aware that you have had to fork out hundreds and thousands of pounds, euros or dollars to do that. I cannot thank you enough. It means so much that you are here.</div>
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There are a few people who couldn't be here, of course. My grandparents, for example, aren't in the sort of health one needs for international travel. A number of my friends in the US simply couldn't afford to pay for flights. And there are also the close friends and loved ones who have passed away.</div>
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A wedding is a celebration of life. One of the unhappy truths of life, though, is that we have to suffer loss. And those losses are hardest to suffer on a day like today. It is heartbreaking to me, for example, that I never got a chance to meet Jenn's mother.
I can see her influence in Jenn and Jenn's family, though, and there is solace in that. The people who aren't here in the flesh are here in the sense that we carry them with us. A person is an amalgamation of the people he or she cares about, and all those who care about him or her.</div>
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The same is true of a marriage. It is more than just two people, more than the couple. It is also those persons who are so important to the couple: the people who get dressed up in uncomfortable clothes and come to sit in an uncomfortably hot room. See? I told you you're important. Again, thank you. Thank you for being here so I can stand up and say: "Everybody, this is the woman I love."</div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-CIqLRWu91YU/UfT3uQAH_YI/AAAAAAAABfk/FFE_ynzesKY/s1600/jenn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-CIqLRWu91YU/UfT3uQAH_YI/AAAAAAAABfk/FFE_ynzesKY/s320/jenn.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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So, everybody: this is the woman I love. I realise that because of the distances some of you have had to travel, you might not have had a chance to meet her yet. So, I'll introduce you. Her name is Jenn. She's from Devon. She is beautiful and fun and clever and wonderful. She sings along to almost every song on the radio despite the fact she rarely knows the words. She talks in her sleep. She likes walking around the house naked. And she has an absolutely filthy vocabulary. But she has, too, one of the purest hearts I've ever known. She is deeply caring –– about her friends, about her family, about people in general, and about the planet we all share. In what she does and strives to do she makes the world better.</div>
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That is especially true in my case: Jenn makes every day better. She makes every moment better. Time with her is perfect. Never boring. Never wasted. And I love her.</div>
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Chris Copehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09802450324154596848noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7118320.post-27127432310107920962013-07-07T14:33:00.000+01:002013-07-07T14:33:24.202+01:00Cowboy hats and Coors Light: My exclusive interview with Chris Cope<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-size: small;">- By Emma Carrbridge</span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></i><b><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">C</span>hris Cope stopped giving interviews</b> about three years ago, which isn't terribly surprising for a person who has yet to do anything of note. That he was ever being interviewed at all is probably more a testament to the desperation of Welsh-language media than anything else. The last time he did an interview in English was roughly four years ago, when he inexplicably served as a guest on the <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b0079fxq">Roy Noble</a> programme. The general consensus is that the show's producers thought he was someone else.</div>
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Nonetheless, when Chris' publicist (Chris) informed me the struggling author was willing to sit down with me for an exclusive interview, I decided to take him up on the offer. I did this in part because we are old friends -- we have known each other since fourth grade, when my mother made me square dance with him at school -- and in part because, as a construct of Chris' imagination, I kind of didn't have any choice. (The aforementioned square dance experience actually happened to Los Angeles-based artist <a href="http://www.erincooney.com/">Erin Cooney</a>, but Chris has imagined it into my own incongruous past.)</div>
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We meet on a sunny afternoon at a cafe in Penarth, the Victorian seaside village where Chris lives with his wife, Jenn. I am keen to ask about Jenn, of whom Chris hasn't spoken a great deal in public, as well as their exact relationship status, but first I am taken by his appearance. Wearing a white cowboy hat that reminds me of those satellite dishes they place on dogs to keep them from licking stitches, he greets me with a nod and a raised can of Coors Light.</div>
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I had heard about this. He is in danger of becoming a caricature.</div>
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"So, I guess we'll start with this," I say waving my hand at him as I reach into my purse for my notebook.</div>
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"What's <i>this</i>?" he asks, flapping his hands sarcastically but, in fact, correctly identifying the two things that are causing me the most concern.</div>
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He bought the hat as a joke a few years ago, when the two of us were tipsy on <a href="http://www.summitbrewing.com/">Summit</a> at the Minnesota State Fair. He wears it now with increasing earnestness. When jokes become truths there is cause for concern. I suppose I can concede him this; it is an eccentricity in Britain and he has always sought to stand out in small ways. But the beer is unforgivable. Coors Light. So many previous incarnations of Chris Cope would be appalled.</div>
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"I guess it's a homesickness thing," he explains. "It's like those Irish guys you'll meet from time to time at Irish pubs in the United States. They're really, really, really Irish -- more so than anyone you'll ever meet in Ireland -- because they miss home so much. Their homesickness makes them a bit stupid and subconsciously eager to reinforce national stereotypes. So, I miss America; I'm drinking crappy beer and I've stopped reading challenging novels. I'm also considering the merits of libertarianism." </div>
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He flashes his charmingly crooked grin. I offer him the accepting roll of eyes I can tell he is seeking, but can't help fearing that such joking, like the cowboy hat, reflects something he is trying to say about himself honestly. He talks a lot about homesickness these days, almost the way a committed dieter talks about food: it is the alpha and omega of his thought process.</div>
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In our personal conversations he talks about it in such depth that I had hoped to ignore it in this interview. But I ask him, anyway. I ask if he feels it means something, if there is a reason he talks about homesickness so much.</div>
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"I can't help it," he says. "It just is. And it eats me up. It kills me. But I guess another part of me wants to hold on to it in some way. To remind me, you know?"</div>
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"Remind you of what?" I ask.</div>
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"Well, that I want to leave Wales, for one," he says. "I have to. I'm not happy here. Whatever I can be, I won't be that here. This place is wasted time now. But saying that, things are pretty comfortable at the moment. In most ways, better than they've been at any other time in the seven years I've lived here. We've got a flat we own. Some friends. Good jobs. And it's not just me. On my own, you know, hell, I'd live in a car. But it's 'we.' And if we were to leave right now, where would we go? Jobs? A house? There are a lot of stresses and unknowns Jenn and I would have to tackle. It just wouldn't be prudent to leave <i>right now</i>." </div>
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I raise an eyebrow at the word "prudent." It is an old man's word. I sense Chris is using it deliberately, to convey a feeling of stodgy inadventure. He questions whether his declarations about prudence are relevant to him. </div>
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"At the same time, I can't let myself fall into something," he says. "Some pattern. That inertia that is so prevalent here. I don't want to wake up one day, 60-something years old and living in a semi-detached house in Barry or Rogerstone or some fucking place and think: 'Oh my God. The one life I have and I've wasted so many years of it.'<br />
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"So, I guess I feel I need to hold on to it -- the homesickness -- to remind me: this is not my place. Build now. Build toward leaving. I tell myself I'll leave on my 10th anniversary of coming here. Or before. I hope. I don't know how realistic it is."</div>
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He takes a gentle sip of his beer.</div>
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"I saw this quote the other day from JP Morgan," he says. "'The first step towards getting somewhere is to decide that you are not going to stay where you are.' I need to remember that. I've made my decision: I'm not going to stay in Wales. I need to hold to it."</div>
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Chris' confused and acrimonious attitude toward Wales is another thing I had hoped to avoid in this interview. His tone toward the UK region reminds me of a boyfriend I dated in college: silly and embittered. The boyfriend was in a band of sorts and after we broke up he produced an entire album highlighting everything he perceived to be a fault. Honestly, one of the songs was titled: "Red-Headed Girl Who Doesn't Know How to Eat Spaghetti the Right Way."</div>
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I decide to change the subject.</div>
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"Tell me about the motorcycle thing," I say.</div>
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Chris' eyes light up and he begins rambling off makes and models of motorcycles -- an indecipherable babble of letters and numbers that somehow have meaning to him. It is all stuff I have heard many times before, of course. And there are times I feel there is a little too much cowboy hats and Coors Light to it all. But on the other side, a motorcycle is just a machine -- a means of transportation. And zeal for that fits with the Chris I've always known. When we were teens, one of his measures for self worth was his ability to drive a car.</div>
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He didn't fill his head with facts and figures about cars in those days, nor keep a blog about them. But perhaps that is only because we didn't have the internet. No one knew what a blog was, and the only way to learn about things in those days was to go to the library -- a place Chris visited less often (and less enthusiastically) than the dentist.</div>
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Besides, he has always been a person of intensity. If he loves you, he loves you A LOT. Which allows me to finally steer the conversation to Jenn. For all Chris' lamenting of Wales, it is here that he met his wife. And, yes, "wife" is correct.</div>
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"Yeah, a lot of people have been confused by that because our wedding isn't until late July," he explains. "We were officially married back in November [2012], but it was a small thing."</div>
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Chris and Jenn wed on the weekend of Bonfire Night, primarily to avoid immigration issues that would have cropped up had they waited until their wedding date. However, they kept the summer wedding planned for the sake of Chris' friends and family. Most of us live thousands of miles away and some would not have been able to attend the November wedding on such relatively short notice.</div>
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"So, then I didn't really talk much about getting married because I didn't want people to not come to the actual wedding," he says. "That's what this wedding is to me -- the one coming up -- that's the actual wedding. Because it's about everyone being there and me saying, in front of all the people I care about: 'This is the woman I love.' I wanted them to be there for that. And I didn't want them to think it's not important just because Jenn and I will already have been officially married."</div>
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His shoulders drop a little and he lets out a breath. Staring at the Coors Light can and thumbing the opened pull tab, he says: "But I guess I feel kinda stupid about that now. </div>
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"Because, you know, first, I was finding myself sort of censoring Twitter updates, or what have you, not saying how awesome Jenn is. Because I didn't want to give away that we were married. But that's stupid. Hiding it. As if I was embarrassed or something. No. I should have owned it. I should have been shouting it."</div>
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I point out that this closemouthed behaviour is more in conjunction with the overall way in which he deals with Jenn on his blog. In comparison with so many other things, he doesn't seem to discuss her much.</div>
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"Because it's not a story," Chris says. "Jenn isn't a character and our being in love isn't a narrative. I have a tendency to treat my life otherwise, to give people nicknames and so on, and sometimes I've looked back and wished I hadn't shared that much. It's an odd thing for me, because I am such a fan of oversharing. I'll talk for as long as a person wants to listen, and then a few hours more. But a relationship -- that's not for someone else. It's not created."<br />
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I ask him about that which he does create: his writing. Late last year, Chris completed work on a book that at the time he claimed was the best thing he had ever written. A single literary agent in the United States chose to give it a pass and he seems to have been stalled ever since.<br />
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"I still believe in that book," he says. "I still think it's the best thing I've written. I don't know why I'm sitting on it."<br />
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Here he meanders into postulation that Wales is somehow to blame. I let the tangent run its course and steer him back to the issue of his writing career. <br />
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"I tell myself that I want to find an agent in the UK," he says. "I think that's possible, but first I need to readjust the book for a UK audience. There's no heavy lifting; it's just a matter of taking out references to corn dogs. Stuff like that."<br />
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"What book did you write that it was so corn-dog centric?" I ask.<br />
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"They're an important part of American literature," he jokes. "But, yeah, honestly, that's the point. There's not a lot of work to be done. But for some reason I'm not doing it. I got really, really down when my former agent gave the book a pass. But, you know, that was <a href="http://www.chriscope.co.uk/2013/04/the-art-of-failing.html">months ago</a> and every writer has to face rejection. I know that in order to get this book published I will have to overcome a hell of a lot more rejection. And maybe that's part of the laziness. Both those things. First, there was the severe depression I was suffering through the winter -- every year it gets worse, this whole homesickness thing. And secondly, there is an exhaustion that comes from thinking about the mountain I have to climb. I know I can climb it, but thinking about it makes me tired."<br />
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Chris has unwittingly touched upon one of the greatest frustrations of being his friend: he can "climb the mountain" but too often does not. Even this might be tolerable were he not so accutely aware of his own failings. Listening to someone rigorously identify each and every one of his weaknesses, yet fail to correct them grows exhausting after a few decades.<br />
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At the same time, his self-assessment is often unrealistically harsh. He seems to lament the fact that he is not a kind of eccentric renaissance genius.<br />
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"I suppose that's true," he says. "I've always wanted to be Johnny On The Spot for all things. Everything that can be done well is a thing I wish I could do. That would be my super power: the ability to do All the Things. Write novels, fix cars, throw baseballs, plant tress, whatever. I wish I could be good at all of it."<br />
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Admittedly, I can do all those things. I also have six Olympic gold medals, a Congressional Medal of Honor, and I frequently receive love letters from both Brad Pitt and Charlize Theron. But mine is a unique case. I point out to Chris that, unfortunately, the human corporeal experience is finite. Because of that, perhaps it is best to pick a few things and actually do them.<br />
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"Be a good husband," I say. "Be a good writer. Lay the groundwork that will allow you to leave Wales comfortably. Work on those things. Make them happen. Don't just say; do. Accept that you will never throw a baseball well and instead be the man you can be."<br />
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He looks at me. I frown because I've been drawn into lecturing him again.<br />
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"OK. I will," he says. "But I'm keeping the cowboy hat."</div>
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<b>~ EC ~</b></div>
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-- <i>Emma Carrbridge is a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist who is, in fact, a figment of Chris Cope's imagination. Partially his alter ego, partially a reflection of his own aspirations and partially the representation of his nebulous and impossible vision of a perfect woman, she is the author of 11 best-selling novels. She speaks seven languages and is the great-granddaughter of Cary Grant.</i></div>
Chris Copehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09802450324154596848noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7118320.post-30478895828868489902013-05-29T16:23:00.001+01:002013-05-29T16:23:37.635+01:00Probably the best day of the year<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-X0IoG7aSlfU/UaOOAWoaGSI/AAAAAAAABPA/2SBvVRaKOWc/s1600/SDC13332.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-X0IoG7aSlfU/UaOOAWoaGSI/AAAAAAAABPA/2SBvVRaKOWc/s400/SDC13332.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Left to right: Rich, Clint, Laura, Jenn, Carl and me</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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I had a car when Jenn and I first started dating. It wasn't much of a thing –– an old Peugeot that would later <a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-v7wYocxBr1o/TnBrzuiDXBI/AAAAAAAAAYE/-j6B9yL5I-c/w845-h506-no/IMAG0048.jpg">try to kill me</a> with failing brakes –– but I think it helped our budding romance. I was able to take her places. Specifically, I was able to take her to the various outdoor places of which Wales has an abundance.</div>
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Jenn is something of a country girl at heart. Or, at least, as 'country' as anyone from England can be. (Remember that southern England is the most densely populated area in Europe.) And when she is out in a natural space she feels reconnected, rejuvenated.</div>
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"This is my church," she told me a few years ago, when <a href="http://youtu.be/BmTW6iozXto?t=2m25s">the two of us hiked to the top of Pen y Fan to watch the sunrise</a>.</div>
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I suppose I'm the same way. I became the person I am when my family moved to Minnesota, where I was free to swim in Nine Mile Creek and wander the infinite woods on the banks of the Minnesota River. One of the things that drew me to Wales is its accessible natural beauty. This tiny bit of land that is no larger than the Chicago metropolitan region is home to three <a href="http://www.nationalparks.gov.uk/">national parks</a>, five <a href="http://www.landscapesforlife.org.uk/">Areas of Outstanding Natural Beauty</a> and a whole hell of a lot of other spots that are unofficially just lovely.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-cyVHwFXd4as/UaOXoh9h_2I/AAAAAAAABPQ/wkbU9PVSjNU/s1600/SDC13327.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-cyVHwFXd4as/UaOXoh9h_2I/AAAAAAAABPQ/wkbU9PVSjNU/s400/SDC13327.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Brecon Beacons National Park</td></tr>
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After the old Peugeot gave up on me in late 2011, I bought a £500 Honda that held up for less than four months. It was so cantankerous and expensive that Jenn and I decided we were better off without a car. After all, both of us have jobs that allow us to cycle to work, and pay cheques that by their minisculity (1) strongly reinforce such behaviour. Why get a car to only use occasionally, the rest of the time having it sit out on the road as a target for drunken chavs?</div>
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Because cars take you places, yo. One of the things I have learned from my recent <a href="http://www.chriscope.co.uk/2013/05/imbalance.html">exhaustingly long and unending bout of depression</a> is that I <i>need</i> the ability to go. Sometimes the place I go isn't so terribly important; I just need to be going. But frequently, back in the days when I had a car, I found myself going somewhere beautiful.<br />
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This is one of the truths about personal cars that environmental groups hate to admit: they can take you places that a public transportation system goes nowhere near. Such is the flaw of most public transportation: it takes people where they have to go, rather than where they want to go.</div>
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But I've come to realise, with increasing panic and anxiety lately, that getting to the places we want to go can sometimes be as important as getting to the places we have to go. So, I'm working on that. I am trying, desperately, to manage a way to bring some form of individual motorised transportation back into our lives, be it a car or a <a href="http://www.themotorcycleobsession.com/">motorcycle</a>.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not a motorcycle.</td></tr>
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Accomplishing that will still take some time. Fortunately, this past weekend we had something better: friends with cars. Jenn and I were not only able to get out to the sort of natural scenery that makes life worth living, but to enjoy it with some of the people who help to make our everyday scenery more tolerable.</div>
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Clint had devised the walk: an 8-mile circular stretch running from Torpantau to Fan y Big, staying always within the shadow of Corn Du and Pen y Fan. I realise these are probably just unpronounceable words to you. And even if you understood the meaning of the Welsh place names (2) your imagination likely wouldn't run wild. But put simply, this walk was the sort of thing I spend my days promoting for the UK's national parks.<br />
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Indeed, all the above unpronounceable places are to be found within Brecon Beacons National Park, one of the 15 members of the UK's national park family. Visit 'em all! Tell your friends!<br />
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Our friends and we had packed into two cars and trundled up the A470, then along a series of comically narrow roads (in Wales one is never more than a half hour's drive from the year 1250 when it comes to road quality), the six of us each bringing along bags loaded with sandwiches and crisps and fruit and chocolates and cakes and tea and coffee to consume along the way.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FFq2yILOjiQ/UaYQ5lmX89I/AAAAAAAABQw/5JCVnMoDspM/s1600/crew.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FFq2yILOjiQ/UaYQ5lmX89I/AAAAAAAABQw/5JCVnMoDspM/s400/crew.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">When your friends become a promotional photo.</td></tr>
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All these delights made the first long incline of the walk a challenge, but soon enough we were up onto the undulating ridge that eventually leads to Pen y Fan, the highest peak in southern Britain (3). The weather was perfect -- sunny and not too cold. A Briton would have phrased that differently, proclaiming the weather to be sunny and not too warm. But as an American I feel it is never too warm in Britain. "Too warm" is impossible to achieve here.<br />
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After a few hours of walking we found a spot, some 2,400 feet above sea level, and stopped to eat lunch. Stretching out in front of us was the endless quilt work of British farm fields, dotted with little villages and sewn together by hedge-hidden lanes. This was a <a href="http://www.chriscope.co.uk/2008/01/doin-it-celtic-cool.html">Mountain Dew Moment</a>, mis amigos. We just needed a rope swing.<br />
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Or, well, it was a British version of a Mountain Dew Moment: six people amiably sharing tea and chocolate biscuits. No one shouted "woo." Not even once. It's not the done thing, old boy.<br />
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We carried on to Fan y Big, then scrambled down to walk along the Neuadd River, stopping at one point to take off our boots and wade into its icy current up to our shins. For those of you playing along at home, don't be fooled by the word "river." It was a stream, no more than 10 feet across and never any deeper than one's knees. But it was still enough to completely soak Clint when he fell in. That's when you know you're having fun: when one of the group ends up falling into the water.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UN91_NDQKeQ/UaYXp8btqFI/AAAAAAAABRA/BoYOwjSI2y4/s1600/laur.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UN91_NDQKeQ/UaYXp8btqFI/AAAAAAAABRA/BoYOwjSI2y4/s400/laur.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Laura and Rich</td></tr>
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Fortunately, he dried out on the way back to the cars. Then it was back down to Penarth, where Jenn and I hosted everyone for dinner. Burritos and beer and red wine. Jello and ice cream for dessert.<br />
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We stayed up into the night playing dominoes, drinking all the beer and coming up with our own stupid jokes. There was nothing so terribly special about it, but for the fact it was happening. I have a personal rule that I don't drink more than three beers in a setting unless I am in a really good mood and can be certain the alcohol won't find its way to the dark side of my thoughts. I almost never drink more than three beers; on this night, I had five bottles of Corona.<br />
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With the beer gone and the day's hike wearing on them, everyone filed out of the flat a little before 1 a.m. -- an early night for that particular group. Afterward, as Jenn and I lie in bed, she turned to me and said: "I think that was probably the best day of the year so far."<br />
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Yeah, I think it probably was.</div>
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<b>(1)</b> <i>To my knowledge, this is not a word. But it should be.</i></div>
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<b>(2)</b><i> Torpantau = "Bottom of the hollows"</i></div>
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<i>Fan y Big = "Peak of the alluvial fan"</i></div>
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<i>Corn Du = "Black peak"</i></div>
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<i>Pen y Fan = "Top of the alluvial fan"</i><br />
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<b>(3)</b><i> This is what we in the UK National Parks PR wing always say about Pen y Fan: "the highest peak in southern Britain." I can't help but question that claim. Take a look at the land mass that is Great Britain (ie., the island that contains England, Scotland and Wales). I would argue that the whole of Wales could be classed as being on the bottom bit of that land. Which would mean that Snowdon should carry the "highest peak in southern Britain" tag.</i></div>
Chris Copehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09802450324154596848noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7118320.post-37751056659912180302013-05-13T11:59:00.001+01:002013-05-13T11:59:41.904+01:00Take me home, car. I'm drunk<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cXL-7be3LWo/UZCt3n_hHdI/AAAAAAAABIM/yizyFeKJjJE/s1600/642850-driverless-cars.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cXL-7be3LWo/UZCt3n_hHdI/AAAAAAAABIM/yizyFeKJjJE/s320/642850-driverless-cars.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Driverless cars, y'all. That is the future. Indeed, to a certain extent <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Google_driverless_car">the future is now</a>. But I find myself completely fascinated with the various news articles that predict driverless cars will be the norm within 20 years. A future in which cars drive themselves is one of my favourite things to daydream about. And I love that this is a future imaginable within my lifetime.</div>
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Because the thing is, old people are not very good drivers. I used to work as a member of the American Media Conspiracy and it seemed stories of senior citizens careening their land yachts into <a href="http://www.wsvn.com/news/articles/local/21010512191782/elderly-driver-crashes-into-home/">houses</a>, or <a href="http://www.khou.com/news/local/Wrong-way-driver-slams-into-motorcyclist-on-Southwest-Freeway-HOV-lane-206265141.html">motorcycles</a> or <a href="http://www.nydailynews.com/new-york/queens/dead-injured-elderly-driver-loses-control-car-queens-article-1.1325177">pedestrians</a> were almost weekly. Type the phrase "elderly driver" into a Google news search and be amazed at what a menace to society are your grandparents. Soon enough it will be your parents. And then it will be you.</div>
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That last one is the most important to think about, I suppose: one day it will be you. When I worked in the American Media Conspiracy I would frequently lean back in my chair and pontificate to any and all within earshot my opinion that licensing should be more stringent. I would lament the political might of the AARP and AAA and automakers, and their combined capacity to prevent any such measures from ever being seriously discussed.</div>
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But think about it a little more deeply, with or without various organisations' interests, and there is something very sad and cruel in such suggestions: you're taking away a person's freedom of movement, their freedom to go where they want to go when they want to go.</div>
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I have found myself thinking a lot about this in recent months because of the unexpected side-effect that came from Jenn and I getting rid of our car last year (1). My inability to just hop in the car and <i>go</i> has exacerbated my homesickness to the point of <a href="http://www.chriscope.co.uk/2013/05/imbalance.html">debilitating depression</a>. This is one of the reasons I have become so <a href="http://themotorcycleobsession.blogspot.co.uk/">obsessed with motorcycles</a> lately: they are a cheaper (and often more environmentally friendly) means of achieving that all-important sense of personal freedom. It is incredibly important to me.</div>
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One day, though, in, say, 20-30 years, my hips won't really be limber enough to throw my leg over a motorcycle. And afterward, in another 10-20 years, my eye-hand coordination won't really be quick enough that I should be operating a car. But I doubt very much that at that point I will be mentally content to just sit and watch CNN for the rest of my life.</div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-w3_2mZOvlX0/UZC8ptBD9II/AAAAAAAABIc/3E2Dx2-WJTU/s1600/Driverless-Car1.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-w3_2mZOvlX0/UZC8ptBD9II/AAAAAAAABIc/3E2Dx2-WJTU/s320/Driverless-Car1.png" width="320" /></a>In imagining my life that far forward, I feel tremendously relieved to think there will be driverless cars. I will not have to lie to myself about my driving ability ("Oh, my eyesight isn't that bad... and I'm only going down to the store...") to maintain personal freedom, I will be able to just get in my car and let it worry about the road. Perhaps auto manufacturers will even think to install some sort of voice software that will patiently listen to whatever rantings are going through my old-man brain. Imagine the scenario:</div>
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"Why, Mr. Cope, what a good idea you have," the car will say. "It's a shame there aren't more men like you, instead of all these kids with their boomity-boom music."</div>
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"Hey, car," I'll say. "Did I ever tell you about the burlesque dancer I fell in love with?"</div>
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"You have, Mr. Cope. But it's one of my favourite stories. Please tell it again."</div>
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I find this all to be an incredibly happy thought. What a wonderful future it will be. Seriously. It's going to be so awesome. Sure, there will always be enthusiasts who will want to drive cars manually, but most of us, old and young, will leave the driving up to the vehicle itself.</div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-DfQs52E3Rhw/UZDDVfJH3rI/AAAAAAAABIo/poS8dP2wzgo/s1600/IMG_20130513_111938.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-DfQs52E3Rhw/UZDDVfJH3rI/AAAAAAAABIo/poS8dP2wzgo/s320/IMG_20130513_111938.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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And it occurred to me the other day: when this awesome future arrives, what will happen to road signs? Cars will be navigating via SatNav and shared mapping and radar and lidar and so on, but they won't really be <i>reading</i> road signs, will they? I mean, take a look at the intersection on the left, which is what I see from my office window at work.. </div>
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Look at all the signage. A driverless car would not need three stop lights, placed in different positions to ensure they are seen. A driverless car would not need an enormous arrow telling it which side of the road to drive on. A driverless car would not need a box junction marking. A driverless car would not need 'No U Turn' signs. All this information could be communicated to the car electronically.</div>
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A few signs might be kept if they are useful to pedestrians. And perhaps at least one stop light for old-school manual driving enthusiasts, but much of the visual clutter could be removed.</div>
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Additionally, will these cars need street lights? Will the cars themselves need lights? In areas where there are no pedestrians, such as motorways, perhaps visual pollution could be eliminated. The act of driving cross-country at night could become a safe, high-speed stargazing experience.</div>
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I love to think about it. I love to imagine being able to go where I want to go when I want to go but with the added joy of being able to concentrate on other things. What an amazing future it will be:</div>
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"Did I ever tell you, car, about how I used to have to do all the driving myself?" I'll ask.</div>
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"Yes, Mr. Cope. It sounds exhausting. You also explained how the driver's licensing system was a racket controlled by the corrupt and unimaginative."</div>
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"Oh, Lord, car. It was. It was. Hey, do you mind putting on some music?"</div>
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"I'd love to, Mr. Cope. I certainly hope you're thinking of blaring ZZ Top again."</div>
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"Car, you are in luck. Because that is <i>exactly</i> what I was thinking."</div>
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<b>(1)</b> <i>I still had not earned my UK driver's license and the cost of insurance for a foreigner is insane.</i></div>
Chris Copehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09802450324154596848noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7118320.post-62039471628959345142013-05-03T14:58:00.001+01:002013-05-03T14:58:27.714+01:00Imbalance<div style="text-align: justify;">
So, let me just spoil your mood for a moment and tell you that in the past several months there have been countless times in which I have thought I was dying. Homesickness, financial woe, loneliness and their resultant depression are at fault here. Suffering them has become an inescapable, recurrent facet of my life. And in those moments when I've felt they were killing me –– eating me from inside –– I have often wished they'd just hurry up and get the job done.</div>
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But as I said in <a href="http://www.chriscope.co.uk/2013/04/the-art-of-failing.html">a previous post</a>, I am cursed with good genes and a healthy lifestyle. Death will not come for me anytime soon unless I force it, and I'm too awesome for that.</div>
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I have reached a point of extreme imbalance in my life. On one side I wake up each morning to Jenn, who I swear gets prettier every day. I'm sure I'm not just imagining that. I think it is physiological fact. Though, when I look at pictures of her and I when we were first starting to go out, she's damned hot there, too. Either way, I sometimes look at her and think: "What? How is this my life?"</div>
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And often just she is enough to outweigh the extreme misery of homesickness-induced depression.</div>
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I'm going to digress for second here, but, dude, where the hell did that come from, by the way? Remember when I was going crazy with need to move to Britain? Remember when I first moved here and only half-jokingly said I planned to throw away my U.S. passport because I didn't intend to use it anymore? Where's all that sentiment now? And how did things swing so far in the opposite direction? OK, yes, a lot of awful things happened, but how I feel is now so incredibly different from how I used to feel that it is hard to fathom.</div>
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Whatever the case, this homesickness-induced depression is so, so, so awful. I have had days in which I've sat there in bed thinking: "I can't go on." </div>
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Each breath hurts, such is the emotional pain. Every single intake of breath is filled with sorrow and ache and hurt and loneliness and fear and the terrible, terrible feeling that too many of my 37 years have been irreparably wasted. And then comes the awful realisation that even though I'm curled up in a little ball, crying and thinking, "I can't go on," in fact, I will. I'll keep breathing for years and years to come. And I'll have to endure this evil hurt for decades more.</div>
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This hurt is exacerbated by circumstance. Caused by or causing it all is the feeling that I have lost my creative writing mojo, that I will never be the writer I want so much to be able to call myself.</div>
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That, mis amigos, is imbalance. On one side is this incredible, beautiful woman. On the other side is every negative emotion one can generate. </div>
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I do want to go home. I'm not cagey about that anymore. </div>
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For a long time, it was the case that if someone asked me about moving back to the United States I would do that thing my father does when he's asked a question he doesn't particularly want to answer: starting his response with a protracted "Well..." and following it up with diplomatic language he hopes will bore the person into forgetting their question before he has to get around to actually answering it.</div>
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So, I used to say: "Weeeeeeeeellllllll, you know, I'll grant you that on the outset it can appear that there may be certain areas in which the overall quality of American life may perhaps rival or in some cases exceed that which is experienced in the United Kingdom. Climatically, for example, one might prefer the greater variations afforded to the United States, especially in terms of summer months. This all said, however, it's important to weigh other aspects...."</div>
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And on and on. Now, though, my answer is: Yes. I want to move back. If you can help me achieve that goal, let me know. Otherwise, stop rubbing salt into my wound (1).</div>
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Because the fact is, y'all, this is where I live. I am here now. And in as much I can either keep wishing each breath could be my last, or I can try to rediscover myself and the whatever-it-was that made me give up everything to come here in the first place.</div>
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This is a realisation I was coming to in November, as the rumblings of a new great depressive episode were becoming impossible to ignore. In the months previous I had managed to shake off an exhausting bout of depression and writer's block to complete work on a book I've titled <i>Tales of a Toffee-Covered Llama</i>. Already by that point the project's momentum was beginning to falter. I had written the thing and sent it off to my agent but was now doing little more than waiting. </div>
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Since then, of course, the agent has rejected the project, which was/is the source of all kinds of pain and confusion about who I am, what I want to be, or what I even can be. But I'm digressing.</div>
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The point is that I knew a depressive hell was coming and I wanted to counteract it. At roughly the same time, I had suddenly become <a href="http://www.chriscope.co.uk/2012/12/an-incredibly-long-title-thoughts-on.html">terribly interested in motorcycles</a>. The interest fed into by desire to fight against depression, to find a way to connect with this place that is my home at the moment, regardless of whether I want it to be anymore.</div>
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"When have I been happiest?" I thought. "When have I felt most myself, or, at least, most like the self I want to be?"</div>
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When I'm moving. When I'm in a car or pickup, trundling along with just my thoughts and the ability to go wherever I want. Often that 'wherever' is not so great or exciting –– in my teens I rarely drove beyond Bloomington's city limits –– rather it's the ability that's important.</div>
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I decided I should get a UK motorcycle license. Motorcycles are considerably cheaper to run than cars and better suited to the tiny roads of her Majesty's United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, whilst providing that all-important ability to just <i>go</i>. But additionally, I felt, getting my license would be an accomplishment, a thing done, that could bolster my confidence and help me to take on other challenges, like finding a way to get my book published.</div>
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Before long, the whole motorcycle thing had become an obsession with me, to the extent I even set up <a href="http://themotorcycleobsession.blogspot.co.uk/">a separate blog where I talk of nothing else</a>. But it turned out not to be the confidence booster I had hoped. Getting a license in the UK isn't as easy as when I got my license in the US.</div>
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Firstly, there are more tests –– five in total. <a href="http://www.chriscope.co.uk/2013/02/getting-in-gear.html">I started the whole process in February</a> and only finished yesterday. Secondly, it is more expensive a process. And thirdly, the tests are harder, especially the last one, which I failed twice before passing. This confidence-boosting exercise backfired. It filled me with anxiety and self doubt that was only exacerbated over the months by all the depression and homesickness and then the fact that my book had gone dead in the water. It ate up money I didn't really have and in so doing worsened the situation I was trying to fight against.</div>
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In March and April, especially, I felt myself drowning in frustration and sadness. </div>
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Yes, OK, let's step outside of me for a second and admit that much of this is a great big pity party. I am an educated white male with all the privilege that society still gives to such a status; I have a super hot wife; we live in a flat that we own; we live in a country that has had a stable government for several hundreds of years, which has been at peace with its neighbours for more than half a century, and which provides really great things like free health care and <i>Strictly Come Dancing</i>. There are literally billions of people on this planet who would lose their shit for the opportunity to have half of what I've got. And I'm sitting here going into death throes because my not-very-exhaustive efforts to get a book published were unsuccessful, I don't have bragging rights to claim immediate awesomeness in manoeuvring a two-wheeled piece of machinery according to the notoriously persnickety British standard, and I miss sunshine and Dairy Queen.</div>
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But it's the internal, y'all. This is what makes depression so hard for people to understand. I can list off my strengths all day. I can without exaggeration paint myself as the most incredible muthahuggah you have ever met. But that doesn't take the pain away. A defeat is a defeat regardless of context and it carries extra weight within the mind of a depressive.</div>
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In March and April, my book was rejected, I was turned down for a full-time job for which I had interviewed, and I twice failed the final motorcycle exam. These defeats left me feeling further away from the people and places (most of them in Minnesota) to which I would turn in such a situation. It felt like hell.</div>
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There's just Jenn trying to counterbalance all this incredible negative weight, and it's not fair. I want so much to fix myself, to be the better man I think (maybe "wish" is a better word) I can be. But I feel otherwise alone in trying to do so. </div>
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Family and old friends are thousands of miles away, as are the roads I would drive and the creeks and rivers I would swim. I went to the aforementioned provider of free health care, but in Wales that does not extend to mental health. I was told there was not really anything they could do for me. They had me go to the library and check out a book, so maybe I could sort things out on my own. In the introduction of the book it says this: "<i>It may not be wise to undertake [the methods prescribed in this book] while in the midst of an episode of clinical depression.</i>"</div>
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But then <a href="http://themotorcycleobsession.blogspot.co.uk/2013/05/finally.html">I finally passed my motorcycle exam</a>. The weather was perfect –– sunny and warm –– and as we rode the bikes back to Cardiff (the test had been in Newport) I felt so greatly content and at peace. I had the ability again, and perhaps that could help me rediscover my ability in other things.</div>
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Perhaps. It's hard to say. In the process of writing this post I received phone calls rejecting me in two jobs for which I had interviewed last week. I feel now the reality of my same old situation: I may have a license but I still do not have the money for a bike. I still cannot explore any part of this country I tried so hard to move to. I am still thousands of miles away from family and old friends –– both physically and financially. The energy with which I awoke this morning has slipped away.</div>
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After the second rejection phone call came I sat down on the bed and held my face in my hands. </div>
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"I'm not sure I can do this anymore," I said aloud. </div>
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But in fact, I will. And that's the most depressing part.</div>
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–––––</div>
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<b>(1)</b> <i>Seriously, yo. People will say things like: "Why don't you just move back?" </i></div>
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<i>Hey, why don't you just kiss my ass? Are you going to pay for an international move? Are you going to find me a job? Are you going to find Jenn a job? If your answer is "no" to any of these questions, shut your cake hole.</i> </div>
Chris Copehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09802450324154596848noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7118320.post-11589255214808953992013-04-12T14:57:00.000+01:002013-04-12T14:57:16.707+01:00The art of failing<div style="text-align: justify;">
I don't know how to start this blog post. I feel obligated to write something, feel an internal longing to try to organise the noise in my head with words, but I'm not sure I really care enough to do so.</div>
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I turned 37 years old last month. It used to be that on each birthday I would write a blog post or column (remember when I wrote columns?) pretending to lament the fact I was <i>still</i> not president of Cuba. It's an old in-joke –– a response to yet another spate of sustained failure. </div>
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Failure is what I do well, yo. It's not just a matter of never accomplishing things, but failing to accomplish them in such a way that is baffling, that leaves just about everyone, myself included, thinking: "Gosh, I don't understand how that happened."</div>
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That's the mark of an artiste. The guy who fucks things up completely, no one ever believes in him. But me, I <i>almost</i> get it right, even excelling in certain areas to make the failure seem all that more happenstance. A fluke. A one off.</div>
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Look at my history, though. Look at the past 20+ years of my life. Look at how many big ideas I've had. Look at how many times I've <i>almost</i> gotten things right. There's a pattern there, amigos. My failings are not lone misfortunes, they are the one consistency of my character.</div>
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But I'm jumping ahead. In high school, when all my friends were looking forward to going to exotic universities in exotic places, I was faced with an indeterminate number of months of summer and night school before I could earn my diploma. As our senior year drew to a close we were asked to state for all-time yearbook posterity what college we were going to and what our future plans entailed. I said I was going to the University of Havana and planned to become president of Cuba.</div>
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The faux lamentation of my continued civilian status started about a decade ago –– around the time I decided seriously that I wanted to be a writer.</div>
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Oh, hell. I feel like such a fraud to have ever called myself such a thing.</div>
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Last year I got a writer's bursary from Literature Wales. Amazing! They gave me money to sit in front of my laptop and tap away. Awesome! And that's exactly what I did. Fantastic! I wrote what I felt was the best piece of something I had ever written. Super-duper! </div>
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But since then it's gone nowhere. Classic Chris-style failure.</div>
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The book languished in the hands of an agent until recently and now I find myself wondering whether I even care anymore. Career-wise I am almost exactly where I was 10 years ago with my writing, possibly a little further back because I've spent so much time swimming in the stagnant pools of Welsh literature. </div>
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(I don't really mean that as an insult, just that if you're writing in Welsh, well, you're not going to go very far with it. The same things are written by the same people for the same minuscule audience over and over and over. It's a dead end.)<br />
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I can't help feeling I should stop.<br />
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When I was a teenager, my family was blessed to live in a house so large we had a room we didn't know what to do with. Down in the basement, I called it the Room of Forgotten Things. When there was an item no one really knew what to do with –– an old jacket, a possibly useable bicycle part, a silly hat –– it would end up in the RoFT. Don't confuse yourself into thinking this was a storage room, though. Things are organised in a storage room. People <i>store</i> things in them, to be used again. The RoFT was a place to throw something you couldn't quite get yourself to put in the garbage.<br />
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I use the word "throw" literally. We would just open the door to the room and heave the item in question into the air, usually shutting the door before the item landed.<br />
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This is where should go my writing ambitions: into the RoFT of my mind. Put it there with every other bad idea and dumb thing –– from the time I spent trying to get people to call me by my first name, to attempting to assimilate to Welsh-language culture.<br />
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But in this case, I suppose, the 'F' in RoFT stands for something else. It is the Room of Failed Things, and it is too full to close the door. Things spill out and suddenly attack me in the middle of the night.<br />
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I have been toying with the idea of giving up on writing. I don't know how serious I am in this because I don't know what else I'd do. I am cursed with good genes and a relatively healthy lifestyle. It's fair to assume I've got 50 more years on this planet; I need to be doing <i>something</i>. And if not writing, what?<br />
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<i>Comments have been disabled for this post.</i></div>
Chris Copehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09802450324154596848noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7118320.post-44425739664082494102013-03-08T09:59:00.000+00:002013-03-08T10:00:46.214+00:00Doug Stanhope: Come to America<div style="text-align: center;">
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"America is fucking great. It really is. I know you don't want to hear this from me but that's the truth. Brits love to bitch about America, and they love to hate America –– the government and the wars and the torture. But that's not life here, come on.
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Life in America is actually fantastic. Everything works; come here. I want you to be here. Just get a nonstop from Heathrow, go directly to Florida, walk down that ramp and tell me if you can't immediately sense: something's really good here.
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Rent a car. Get a convertible. Fill up the tank. Look at the price –– fucking $11 a gallon (in the UK). Look at the price; you're going to fill up your tank, you're going to fill up the backseat, as well. Just because it's that fucking cheap comparatively.
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Drive down big, empty highways. Drive to the beach. There'll be a half a dozen cabana bars open, it's only 8 o'clock in the morning, and they're waving at you. They're smiling at you and they're waving for you to come on in. They want you to be there. Because they don't know yet that you don't tip.
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Come on in. Come on in. Have a seat at the bar. She's going to hand you a big breakfast menu... You know what we have for traditional American breakfast? Choices. Yeah, lots of choices. You want some eggs? How do you want them done? We can do them 10 different ways. You want French toast? You want a waffle? Pancakes? We have chocolate chip pancakes. They'll put a whip-cream smiley face right on there for your fucking British ass. Or maybe you want a whip-cream frowny face to match that dour expression. You're still trying to fight liking here.
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Order a cocktail and she's going to do something you've never seen before: she's going to pour it like this, and it'll go up and down and she keeps pouring it. How can this possibly be right? In the UK when you order a mixed drink some scientist pops out of the floorboards in a lab coat, and he uses a system of weights and measures and a fucking stainless steel cylinder that assures that you will not get any more –– even the vapors –– of one measured ounce in your fucking $15 cocktail.
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Life here is really fucking good. Yeah, we have a lot of dumb people here, but you can afford to be dumb here. Everything makes sense. You're lost, you don't know where you are. Where are you? 77th Street? Go a block, you know what's next? 78th Street. It makes sense. You don't have to think. It's not like your roads that are all criss-crossed and mesh-mashed and they're all built 1,100 years ago for donkeys and carts, and you don't know where the hell you are or where you're going.
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Hitler did his best to help the UK and level that country flat so they could start over. Like "Extreme Country Makeover." And what did the Brits do? They spat in Hitler's face and built it back, brick by brick, exactly the way it was 1,100 years ago when it didn't make sense.
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Come to America, you can stay on my couch."</div>
Chris Copehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09802450324154596848noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7118320.post-78083035641089192722013-02-13T09:47:00.001+00:002013-02-13T09:47:38.210+00:00Ability and audacity<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-862C6SQP2dc/URtfS468HUI/AAAAAAAAA6Q/IrwnLXdnaW8/s1600/Senedd-007.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="192" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-862C6SQP2dc/URtfS468HUI/AAAAAAAAA6Q/IrwnLXdnaW8/s320/Senedd-007.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
I cycle past the Senedd every day. Well, every Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday. But still, it's kind of a nifty thing. If my life were a film and its producers strangely insistent upon keeping Cardiff as the setting, they would almost certainly have me cycling past the Senedd every day.</div>
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It's an establishing shot, you see. Nothing says "This story is set in Wales" quite so firmly as having someone pedal past the seat of Welsh legislative power. Of course, if the film were shown anywhere outside of Wales (or, indeed, in a fair few places within), the significance of the Senedd might not be immediately recognizable. I'm sure Americans would think my commute took me past a really swanky Holiday Inn.<br />
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I'm part of the elite 2.3 percent of Cardiffians who commute on bicycle (1), an act facilitated by a relatively temperate climate and a handful of traffic-free cycle routes. One of those routes is the one that takes me past the Senedd -- a roughly 1.25-mile stretch of car-free road connecting Cardiff Bay to Penarth. It is a route that suffers occasionally from inattentive skateboarders and frequently from strong gusts of wind that cut across the bay and Severn Channel, but those things are tolerable given the absence of speeding multi-ton metal boxes.<br />
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The other section of my commute, however, requires that I be on the roads: tiny, cars-parked-on-both-sides streets; hectic, there-are-no-rules intersections; and sooty, drive-as-fast-as-you-can city arteries. In Penarth I have to be alert for high-strung parents taking their children to work and drivers who are keen to do everything in their car other than, you know, drive (2). On the roads in Cardiff Bay I find myself dodging buses, white vans, and visitors to the city who DON'T HAVE A CLUE where they are going. And, of course, all of these people have to get wherever it is they are going <i>now</i>. No, now. Right now.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-QNEbX2By4ms/URtdhNSAE6I/AAAAAAAAA6E/KYa7wffIDRk/s1600/cyc.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-QNEbX2By4ms/URtdhNSAE6I/AAAAAAAAA6E/KYa7wffIDRk/s1600/cyc.jpg" /></a>"If cycling conditions remain much as they are across Britain, cycling will remain a very minor mode of urban mobility, practised mainly by a committed hardcore of cyclists who feel able to 'do battle' with motorised traffic," wrote Guardian reporter Peter Walker in <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/environment/bike-blog/2013/feb/06/cycling-infrastructure-ignored-little-change">a recent blog article</a>.<br />
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There is a sense of that in my commute, most certainly. When I get ready in the mornings -- pulling on Lycra, fastening Velcro straps, pulling on a high-visibility vest and clicking the clasp of my helmet -- I am reminded of the ritual of getting ready for a contact sport. I think of my brother when he played ice hockey, fastening all the pads, or myself before a rugby match, taping my ankles, knees and wrists.<br />
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On the road, too, my mind clicks in the same way it did when I played rugby, trying always to keep aware of and away from the 15 guys who wanted to tackle me. But getting hit by even the most vindictive prop is still preferable to collision with a Ford, so in the back of my mind there is knowledge that the repercussion for mistakes may be severe.<br />
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I have no doubt this is part of why the percentage of bicycling commuters is so low. If you were to ask my mother, for example, to navigate some of my route ("OK, Mom, you just need to zip across these three lanes, hell for leather, and move into this turning lane. When you get there, you'll probably want to not put your foot down because the gaps between cars are very small and you'll need to be able to get going again very quickly -- there will be a large van or truck behind you, which will give you exactly 3 inches of space.") she would patently refuse. Hold a gun to her head and she would seriously consider the bullet.<br />
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City cycling produces challenges some people are not willing to take on. It requires ability -- knowing the laws, being aware in what ways those laws are most commonly broken by drivers, and the physical/mental stamina and agility to maneuver through and amongst cars -- but also audacity. A confidence cranked to 11. Arrogance. The power to exude your will over people who can kill you simply by putting their foot down. Anyone who's known me for a while is probably aware that I am fully capable of being a hyper-aggressive ass. I generally try very hard to avoid being such a person, but on the road I find it hard to imagine how I could be anything else and still stay safe.<br />
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To that end, I often think it is not just the conditions that keep cyclist numbers low, but also those who are cycling.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LXtp-F4K97o/URtg2qBoXzI/AAAAAAAAA6k/x8BmeUoiX10/s1600/fyeah.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LXtp-F4K97o/URtg2qBoXzI/AAAAAAAAA6k/x8BmeUoiX10/s400/fyeah.jpg" width="266" /></a>There is the attitude, of course. Having spent many years on the fringes of the minority community that is the Welsh-speaking world I have learned that niche groups, communities of people outside the mainstream, are often littered with obnoxious, evangelical zealots. In the Welsh world it's the All-Welsh-All-the-Time hyper-nationalists who are desperate to turn any outsider's action into an affront; in the cycling community it's the people who reference the Dutch in every conversation and seem to place motor vehicles somewhere on the Evil List near Nazism and baby punching.<br />
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Then there is all this gear we're wearing. Oh, for the love of Pete, we wear so much purpose-built gear. Lycra, helmets, breathable windbreakers, Velcro straps, gloves, scarves, special bags, special shoes, lights, reflectors. And the cottonpicking high-vis. The phrases "bad-ass" and "high-vis" are almost never uttered in the same sentence. I hate wearing high-vis, but also can't deny that every time someone moves past my office window wearing high-visibility clothing my eye is automatically drawn to him or her. High-vis is supposed to make me see a person, and against the interminable gray of daily British life it is very effective.<br />
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I have to think it's all likely to put off a novice. It creates the feeling that you have to act a certain way, have to look a certain way, and have to spend a certain amount of money before you can even take part.<br />
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In the equally small and silly motorcycling world there is the word ATGATT: All the gear all the time. It's a term used for that guy who dresses like he's about to do the Isle of Mann time trial when he goes out to get milk. The ATGATTer's response, of course, is simply to point to his skin and note that it's all there -- a crash is going to have the same effect regardless of destination or intent.<br />
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The same is true for bicyclists. Indeed, I have lately been legitimately considering getting a <a href="http://www.bellhelmets.com/cycling/helmets/dirt/helmet-type/full-face/sanction">full-face helmet</a> (3). But there's no denying I look like a damned fool. And even if I don't look as silly as I feel, if I were someone trying to promote cycling I'd worry a person would look at me -- or any of the other roughly 9,000 commuting cyclists in Cardiff -- and think: "I don't have all that gear, nor do I have the money for all that gear, so cycling isn't for me."<br />
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What all of this means, however, I don't know. The reason I started writing this post was simply to note that I cycle past the Senedd thrice a week, which, as I say, is a kind of nifty thing to have in one's commute. Whether I actually enjoy my commute, and whether I think other people should be doing the same thing. I'm not sure.<br />
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<b>(1)</b> <i>A somewhat impressive figure if you consider that Welsh attitudes toward commuting via anything other than car are often quite similar to American ones. It is higher than the UK average but still a good distance from London, where as much as 10 percent of the population -- depending on neighborhood -- uses a bicycle</i>.<br />
<b>(2)</b> <i>Seriously, yo, if you text and drive I have nothing kind to say to you. I don't care how slow you think traffic is moving, nor how good a driver you think you are. I have friends who text and drive and, genuinely, I wish injury upon them. Nothing awful, nothing from which they cannot recover fully, but I think they deserve a very expensive accident that results in a major broken bone and months of discomfort.</i><br />
<b>(3)</b> <i>Not only would it provide considerably more protection in a collision, I think it would also signal to drivers that I may be insane and should be given wide berth.</i>
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Chris Copehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09802450324154596848noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7118320.post-32059433199426357912013-01-11T11:59:00.001+00:002013-01-11T12:33:20.009+00:00Plenty of blame, little action: The train commuter's woe<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b>CARDIFF</b> –– It is 8:33 a.m. and the train from Barry is full. Squealing into Eastbrook station, three stops from Cardiff Central, it is running nearly five minutes behind schedule. Passengers standing on the bare platform engage in a personal battle of will as the train comes to a halt: the ear-splitting noise from its brakes makes them want to move away, but to do so would result in losing one's place in the amorphous queue forming at the door.</div>
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They wince, turn their heads and plug their ears at the noise, and jostle for position. The doors open with a clunking hydraulic exasperation and those standing on the Eastbrook platform are greeted by the sight of the backsides of passengers already on the train. There is no place to sit. Bodies have packed into the small space near the doors.</div>
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There is a tiny moment of resignation –– a steeling of will –– and the Eastbrook passengers begin to muscle their way onto the train. Apologies are muttered, awkward glances are exchanged.</div>
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"Excuse me," announces a heavyset woman still on the platform.</div>
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The passengers in the door well of the train look at her apologetically, shift from one foot to another, but there is nowhere for them to go.</div>
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"There's another one coming just now, love," shouts the guard, who is standing at the other end of the train. "You'll have to wait for that one."</div>
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The next train is scheduled to arrive in 10 minutes. No doubt it, too, is running late. With a determination that would see her capped for her national rugby side, the woman lurches into the crush. A young man finds himself embracing her in a manner that can only be described as deeply intimate. The doors close and the train begins to trundle forward.</div>
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The train is a Class 142 Pacer, an almost 30-year-old diesel unit known to train buffs as a "Nodding Donkey" or "Skipper," due to its rough ride and tendency to derail. It is a train from a different time, a different Britain, when the population was shorter, thinner and fewer. Its door hinges are caked in grease. The floor is sticky. Its seats and walls are cut with graffiti.
On this morning, the windows are completely fogged from the breath of passengers. The air is heavy and damp, almost unbreathable. It is the sort of choking atmosphere to make one's clothes feel ill-fitting, to make the shower taken not an hour before seem for nought.</div>
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This is how it always is –– how it has been for a long while. On the Vale of Glamorgan Line, the Merthyr Line, the Rhondda Line, the Rhymney Line, and just about any other Arriva Trains Wales service rolling into Wales' capital city on the morning commute, the evening commute, school holidays, or special events like a rugby international match. The carriages are packed dangerously full and passengers wear the beleaguered posture of a people who know there is nothing they can do.</div>
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Privatisation has provided no options, no competition. This is the only choice in terms of train travel. The one accomplishment of privatisation, it seems, is in making culpability more difficult to determine. Ask who's to blame for the woeful state of things in Wales and you will rarely get more than pointing fingers.</div>
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"You will need to contact the Welsh Government for information on your enquiry," came the terse reply from Network Rail in response to questions about overcrowding on South Wales trains.</div>
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The issue of overcrowding is so bad that Arriva Trains Wales has allegedly been unwilling to cooperate with environmental organisations promoting train travel, for fear it will bring them new customers. It doesn't want any more business.</div>
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Faced with consistently brimming trains, the first question many passengers ask is: Why not add more carriages? If trains are time and time again arriving full of rumpled, unhappy people who have had to stand, cuddling a stranger, for the whole of their journey why not just make the trains longer?</div>
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For years, Arriva's response was that the platforms could not accommodate such a solution. Like the trains being used in South Wales, many of the area's train platforms were of a different time and not long enough for anything greater than a four-car train.</div>
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Then, in 2007, the Welsh Government forked out £13.2 million to extend some 42 platforms to ensure they were at least long enough to accommodate a six-car train. The work was carried out by Network Rail. In a July 2012 written response to plenary questioning by Assembly Member Eluned Parrott, Wales Local Government and Communities Minister Carl Sargeant said the aim of the project had been to "future proof the infrastructure to accommodate longer trains to provide additional capacity at such a time when demand necessitates."</div>
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Most daily commuters would have said such demand already existed in 2007. Six years on, however, not one of those extended platforms has been graced by a six-car train (the nature of the stock used by Arriva in South Wales means the number of carriages must be even; a five-car train is not possible). The largest passenger trains seen on South Wales Valleys lines are still just four cars long.</div>
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When asked to explain the situation Arriva Trains Wales took a month to respond. Their eventual reply was simply: "As this was a Welsh Government initiated project, you will need to speak to them."</div>
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And in an earlier Twitter exchange, the rail provider had stressed that the project was not their own: they didn't pay for it, they didn't do the work.
"Platform extensions funded by Welsh Govt and delivered by @networkrail," the company said on its official Twitter account.</div>
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It would be interesting to learn whether Arriva asked for the project, and whether longer trains were promised as a result of it. Was the whole thing a surprise? A rogue move by a Welsh Assembly keen to flex its platform-funding muscle? That's a question no one seems able to answer.</div>
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What is clear is that the need for six-car trains exists. According to Liberal Democrat AM Eluned Parrott, who has held frequent talks with Arriva, the company are "happy to operate larger capacity trains" but the problem they face is a lack of stock.</div>
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Funding for the private company's stock comes from the Welsh Government. In 2006 and 2007, the government put forward funding for an additional 17 diesel units, which would appear to contradict Arriva's Twitter claim that "(we) did not receive funding for extra trains."</div>
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It also contradicts Carl Sargeant's response to a question about capacity posed by Conservative AM David Melding.</div>
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"The Welsh Government has invested in extra rolling stock for additional and strengthened services in South Wales," he wrote on 28 November 2012.</div>
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Parrott appears to have been told otherwise by Arriva.</div>
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"It is my understanding that there are no second-hand units currently available in the UK," she wrote in an email. "A large number of suitable units are likely to become available as other parts of the rail network are electrified. The first of these units is likely to become available in 2014."</div>
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In July 2012, the UK government announced plans to electrify large swathes of the country's rail network, starting in 2014. Lines in the South Wales Valleys are set to be a part of that electrification process, but Parrott suggests it will still be worthwhile to purchase additional diesel units because South Wales will be one of the last places electrified. According to the BBC, electrification work may not even begin in South Wales until 2019.</div>
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This wide timeframe for electrification seems to vindicate additional diesel units. But at the same time, according to Parrott, it vindicates the decision not to fund new trains. New stock "would take approximately 2-3 years to deliver and would be redundant once the lines are electrified," she wrote.</div>
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New trains, she said, would need to be operational for 20 or more years to be seen as "commercially viable as an investment to one of the private firms."</div>
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One can't help but wonder why commercial viability is relevant when the Welsh Government is apparently expected to foot the bill, but, as Parrott points out, "buying new for 5-8 years service cannot be considered a good investment for the taxpayer either."</div>
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According to Plaid Cymru leader Leanne Wood, the reason the Welsh Government is stuck throwing money at a private company is down to a decision made by Tony Blair's government in 2003. At that time, the Welsh Assembly existed but it did not have the powers necessary to make decisions about Wales' rail network. A 15-year contract was entered into by the UK Department of Transportation.</div>
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"What the Department failed to do at that time," explained Wood, "was forecast correctly the growth in passenger numbers."</div>
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In light of the recent scandal involving First Great Western's bid to run the West Coast Main Line, the insinuation of bad maths is not hard to believe.</div>
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Wales is locked into its contract until 2018, said Wood –– a contract that means Arriva "are not required to do anything more, in terms of service provision, than is included in the franchise." Which means the Welsh Government has had to pay for most service improvements, the platform extensions, and additional stock. Network Rail has provided some funding as well.</div>
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Though, the Welsh Government may also shoulder some of the blame for all this. Quite often it appears one hand doesn't know what the other is doing. Requests for information were met with a number of responses that occasionally contradicted one another.</div>
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For example, a response from James Ardern of the Welsh Assembly Government Rail Unit claimed that six-car trains <i>are</i> being operated regularly.
This is a claim that contrasts both the experience of passengers and all available evidence. Indeed, if it were true, it most certainly would have been Arriva Trains Wales' response, rather than claiming it hasn't been given enough stock. A request for proof to substantiate the claim of six-car trains in operation has thus far gone unanswered. (Investigation for this story began in mid-November 2012)</div>
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The observed truth for South Wales commuters is that nothing is really changing, but with each passing year they are paying more for a substandard service. For the 10th consecutive year, UK rail passengers were last week hit with fare rises that are above the rate of inflation. In Wales this comes on top of a 6.2 percent fare increase that was implemented in August.</div>
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There are plenty of directions in which to point the finger of blame –– privatisation, pre-devolution government, infinite bureaucracy –– but that has little effect on the pertinent issue: people are still packing uncomfortably onto Cold War-era trains, and will be stuck doing so for the foreseeable future. South Wales commuters will be cuddling up to each other for a long time yet.</div>
Chris Copehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09802450324154596848noreply@blogger.com2Cardiff, UK51.481581000000013 -3.179089999999973851.323433500000014 -3.5018134999999737 51.639728500000011 -2.8563664999999738tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7118320.post-4930572177458748762012-12-14T14:35:00.000+00:002012-12-14T14:57:12.708+00:00An Incredibly Long Title: Thoughts on Hunter S. Thompson, Literature and Motorcycles<div style="text-align: justify;">
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When I was 18 years old I was an actor. I drove a Ford Mustang convertible and went out with a model. She drove a Kawasaki Ninja 500, with which she would swoop into my headlights as we sped from place to place, taunting me to chase after her. <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Carroll_Lynch">John Carroll Lynch</a> bought me beer.</div>
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As a standalone tale, I suppose that's impressive. Enough so that I was temporarily able to dupe myself for a moment as I was lying in bed the other night. I phrased my life in just that succinct way and thought: "Man, whatever happened to the rock n' roll me?"</div>
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The answer is that particular rock n' roll me never really existed, nor did I want him to exist. My dad had bought the Mustang and it simply had become mine by default. As soon as it was acknowledged as mine, I insisted upon trading it in for a pickup truck. Sitting in the Mustang on a rainy November morning, heading to a car dealership with me, my father took one of his trademark deep-breath sighs and said: "I can't help feeling this is a decision we're going to regret."</div>
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I didn't. I don't. Some 18 years have passed and still I class it as one of my better decisions in life.</div>
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The motorcycle-riding model had gotten rid of me several weeks before. And I only ever drank half of one of the beers Lynch gave me. The first paragraph of this post marks a very tiny period in my life, which was incongruous with the rest –– a version of me that I don't want and didn't want at the time.</div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I got started thinking about all this because of an email I got from my friend, Dale.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">"I was just having a look at your blog and I saw that you were reading <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B008IU9IVG/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1634&creative=19450&creativeASIN=B008IU9IVG&linkCode=as2&tag=danthepolwitm-21"><i>Hell's Angels</i></a>," he said. "I was just wondering what you thought about it.</span>"<br />
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<i>Hell's Angels: A Strange and Terrible Saga of the Outlaw Motorcycle Gangs</i> was Hunter S. Thompson's first published book, about spending roughly a year in the company of the same Hell's Angels who are generally credited with <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Altamont_Free_Concert">helping to kill off the 1960s hippie era</a>. Eventually his association with the club ended when he was severely beaten after commenting to an Angel: "Only a punk beats his wife." The Angel in question was at that time beating his wife and as such didn't take well to Thompson's admonishment.<br />
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I read Thompson's most famous book, <i><a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B003MQNI8A/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1634&creative=19450&creativeASIN=B003MQNI8A&linkCode=as2&tag=danthepolwitm-21">Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas: A Savage Journey to the Heart of the American Dream</a></i>, when I was 22 years old and was not terribly impressed. Though I never would have admitted this at the time. A nickname I had given myself was a variant of that which Thompson used for <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oscar_Zeta_Acosta">Oscar Zeta Acosta</a>. Like just about every other boy, ever, I was enamoured of the image of Thompson (a). Not so enamoured, though, that I ever picked up another of his books.<br />
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My friend, <a href="https://twitter.com/ClintJEdwards">Clint</a>, has an enormous (roughly 3 feet by 5 feet) framed photo hanging on his living room wall of Thompson peering out of a large convertible. Clint can do a good imitation of Thompson and is happy to slip into it whenever possible, such as when his cats are behaving strangely. Not too long ago Clint and I got into a discussion about Thompson and I decided I should try again with his work.<br />
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I deliberately chose <i>Hell's Angels</i> because it was Thompson's first book and therefore less likely to be influenced by the sense of self-importance that marks so much of his later work. Shortly before Thompson died, he had a regular internet column for ESPN and it was insufferable. It was so bad that ESPN buried it in the depths of their web maze and no doubt the site editor was quietly relieved when Thompson shot himself.<br />
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Thompson rode his 1970s fame and notoriety for two decades and was convinced that only he and certain key members of his generation really understood anything. Until I eventually heard him speak, I long imagined his voice as being exactly that of an old hippie I got stuck standing next to for an hour in the Nevada DMV. Looking as if he had been dragged to the DMV office behind a truck he spoke ceaselessly about how my generation didn't know anything, man, and his generation had done things, had changed the whole world. I simply nodded or made "Hmm" noises. When finally I was called up to the desk and knew I would be free of him, I said: "History will roll over you."<br />
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It will roll over all of us.<br />
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But back to Thompson. I was keen to see the reporter, the storyteller, the writer, rather than the ego. Of course, the truth is that Thompson always had that ego, way back to his Kentucky childhood. But it is tolerably restrained in <i>Hell's Angels</i> and because of that you are better able to see certain aspects of Thompson's style, which can be seen in every other thing of his that I've read.<br />
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The first thing is that Thompson is just a little bit boring, and he has a certain fondness for telling you things three or four times. He'll space it out, and say it in different ways, but as you carry on through a book or long article you find yourself thinking: "Didn't he already say this?"<br />
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Additionally, I find his meta-narrative just a bit tiresome.<br />
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The term meta-narrative is also just a bit tiresome, so I apologise. I studied creative writing and I still don't feel I totally grasp what "meta-narrative" actually means, but here is my best understanding: the meta-narrative is the world outside the book, the things that we "know" and which create the rules by which the book is playing according to us. For example, the idea that unprovokedly kicking someone in the teeth is wrong. If you put that scene into a novel it is usually understood that the teeth kicker is a bad person (and, indeed, that there are such things as "good" and "bad"). That doesn't have to be written anywhere in the book, the meta-narrative, the narrative of our lives and which we take into the reading experience, says it already.<br />
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Authors mold the meta-narrative, of course. As you read a person's work you get a sense of what he or she sees as good or bad, right or wrong, etc. And by the Hunter S. Thompson meta-narrative, the sportscar-driving, model-shagging, getting-my-booze-from-film-stars version of me presented in the first paragraph of this post was a righteous motherhugger.<br />
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And that's pretty much Thompson in a nutshell. Over and over and over and over he sets up his vision of the righteous dude. But frustratingly, he gives you nothing more. I find his writing to lack depth. For a man famous for creating a style of journalism that centres on the journalist he gives very little sense of who the hell he is, or what he's about. You get even less sense of the people he's around. What you get are those snapshots –– like the first paragraph of this post –– without any idea of their relevance or accuracy. Collected and put into a book, the snapshots help you guess some of Thompson's meta-narrative, but you're still stuck thinking: "Who are these people? Who is Thompson?"<br />
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<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Jeremiah_Sullivan">John Jeremiah Sullivan</a> is often (wrongly, in my opinion) compared with Thompson but in his work you can see so much of the depth that Thompson lacks. Whereas Thompson gives you black and white photographs, Sullivan gives you a 3D colour panorama.<br />
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All this having been said, however, Thompson's book may have had an effect on me.<br />
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I have decided that I need to get a motorcycle. Not want. Need.<br />
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One of the unmentioned truths of that Mustang-driving 18-year-old is that he had failed to graduate high school on time. All his friends went to college and he hung around for several more months taking night classes. In an attempt to give himself some sense of accomplishment, in late summer 1994 he took some courses and got his motorcycle license.<br />
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Unfortunately, he lived in Minnesota, where the weather can be uncooperative for as much as seven months out of the year. Possibly nine months if the motorcyclist in question is particularly averse to wet or cold conditions. In the North Star State a motorcycle is not a terribly practical item, especially not for the sort of person who chooses a heat-and-keys (b) GMC Sonoma over a Ford Mustang.<br />
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When that 18-year-old boy turned 19, he went to college in a place that was even colder and snowier for even longer stretches of the year. He bounced around a few years more and eventually found himself in a long-term relationship with a girl who swore she'd leave him if he ever bought a motorcycle, because, she said, he was too stupid and too short tempered to drive one and live. Quietly he agreed with her and never really thought about it again.<br />
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Until I met Dale. He and his wife, Ruby, live in Phoenix and I visited them when I was driving across the United States. They stuffed me in the back of their Mustang (there's some kind of weird synergy!) and drove me around town for pizza and beers and being hassled by midgets. On the way back to drop me off at my hotel they took me up to a spot that overlooked Phoenix and Ruby spoke poetically about riding up there on her scooter.<br />
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That evening planted a tiny seed in my mind, which lay dormant until two years later when I was back in Minnesota and renewing my driver's license.<br />
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"You still want the motorcycle endorsement?" asked the woman at the counter.<br />
"The what?" I said.<br />
"The motorcycle endorsement. You're licensed to drive a motorcycle. You want to keep that on your license, right?"<br />
"Oh, wow. Who knew? Yeah."<br />
"Then it'll be six bucks more."<br />
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A year and a half later, and I found myself working part time as a bicycle courrier whilst reading <i>Hell's Angels</i>. Jenn works for a sustainable transportation organisation that offers all kinds of free information –– bus schedules, bicycle routes, and so on –– to people, with the aim of encouraging them to reduce their dependency on cars. That information is put into nifty little reusable cotton bags and distributed via bicycle delivery. Every Wednesday, Thursday and Friday I would bolt a little trailer to the back of my bicycle and spend the morning cycling up and down the eastern neighbourhoods of Cardiff, delivering said packs. For two months I did this, clocking up 70-90 miles a week on my bike.<br />
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The rules of cycling on the road in the UK are not terribly different to the rules of driving and not at all different to the rules of motorcycling (but for the fact you cannot ride a motorcycle on a bicycle path, obviously). So, here I was, sharing the road all the time with cars and, prompted by my reading material at the time, I started to think...<br />
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It's a pretty nifty way to get around, the bicycle. Especially so in a British city, where the small roads get clogged up with cars. With a bike you can simply zip past all the standstill traffic. There's even a term for it here: "filtering." I don't mind the wet and the cold; the right gear really eliminates any discomfort. Yes, I have to be very attentive to what's going on around me, but I actually kind of enjoy that –– I see all kinds of things I would just ignore in a car.<br />
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Really, my only issue with cycling is distance and speed. Neither are greatly achievable on a bicycle. It is not really possible, for example, for me to cycle up to the Brecon Beacons to hike Pen y Fan when the weather's nice.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TECGZ_p5Bzk/UMsqqILYMPI/AAAAAAAAAlw/GgI01hqMQmM/s1600/2013-Yamaha-YBR125-Custom-EU-Midnight-Black-Studio-007.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TECGZ_p5Bzk/UMsqqILYMPI/AAAAAAAAAlw/GgI01hqMQmM/s320/2013-Yamaha-YBR125-Custom-EU-Midnight-Black-Studio-007.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
And that's how a motorcycle showed up in my thought process. On a bicycle I was showing myself that such a thing is practical for year-round use in the UK (c), that I could be confident and alert amid traffic, that I could tolerate the weather, and that such a means of transportation is well-suited to the smaller, slower roads here. Additionally, I am far more even-keeled than I once was. I am less likely to behave aggressively, or respond to a negative situation rashly.<br />
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The other argument against a motorcycle has always been cost. In a place like Minnesota, North Dakota or northern Nevada, a motorcycle <i>is</i> an expensive thing because it is something you own in addition to a car –– you cannot drive a motorcycle year-round. But here a motorcycle costs less because you don't necessarily need a car as well. And, it just costs less –– in upfront costs (I can buy a brand new one for as little as £850, or $1,370), upkeep, petrol, tax, MOT and insurance. I got a quote for comprehensive motorcycle insurance that was half what I used to pay for third-party insurance on my Honda Accord. Tax on one of the motorcycles I'm looking at would be just a 10th of what I paid for my car. And that same motorcycle averages 75 mpg.<br />
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Getting licensed in the UK is about as simple as it is in the US, but with the added benefit that a person does not need to have a car driver's license. I could be on the road by the weekend (d).<br />
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All this information is now swirling in my head, making me not just a little bit crazy. One of the most depressing aspects of my life this past year has been my lack of independent mobility. I cannot just get up and go to places, and if there is no public transportation I can't go at all. Most of the time I can ignore my frustration but all too often it mixes with homesickness and makes me so depressed that I feel like I'm going to stop breathing.<br />
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This is a solution, my brain/heart says. This is an actual, viable, attainable solution.<br />
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Sort of.<br />
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"I'm not against it," Jenn said the other day. "It's just that a motorbike is a luxury in our current financial situation."<br />
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She's kind of right. It would be less a luxury than a car, but still something of a challenge for two people trying to plan a wedding. Which is why I've decided to stop drinking (e). I'm pretty sure I spend at least £10 a week on beer and almost certainly quite a bit more. Rather than buying beer, however, I've decided that I will start putting that money in savings. Slowly, slowly, I can work toward making this a reality.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wokhCWOI94g/UMsycCphq5I/AAAAAAAAAmA/1M3zTvjtdDw/s1600/america.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="231" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wokhCWOI94g/UMsycCphq5I/AAAAAAAAAmA/1M3zTvjtdDw/s320/america.jpg" width="320" /></a>My hope is to be on a motorcycle by July 2013. In the longer term, I've decided, I want to get a <a href="http://www.triumphmotorcycles.co.uk/motorcycles/range/cruisers/america/2013/2013-america-motorcycle">Triumph America</a> or, maybe, a <a href="http://victorymotorcycles.co.uk/motorcycles/cruisers/judge/features">Victory Judge</a>, but really that's just because Victory is a Minnesota company (f). But both of those bikes are too big and too expensive for my dumb-ass self when I'm trying to get the hang of simply riding on a regular basis. I am inclined toward getting something ultra gentle, like a<a href="http://www.yamaha-motor.eu/uk/products/motorcycles/125cc/ybr125-custom.aspx"> Yamaha YBR 125 Custom</a>. Some needy little part of me wants so much to test my luck with a <a href="http://www.lexmoto.co.uk/ZS125-50.php">Lexmoto Ranger</a> because I could get a new one for so cheap. But reviews on that bike are so hard to find that it makes me suspicious –– especially as the general mood toward Chinese bikes is anything but positive. The few Lexmoto reviews I have found all too cheerfully suggest that it's a brand that will make me a better mechanic, for all the attention I'll have to give the bike.<br />
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So, to answer Dale's question, I thought Hunter S. Thompson's <i>Hell's Angels</i> was a bit dull and self-indulgent. But if an author's success is measured by his or her effect on readers, Thompson was a hell of a writer.</div>
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<b>(a)</b> <i><a href="http://www.gomer.co.uk/gomer/en/gomer.ViewAuthor/authorBio/1372">Siân Melangell Dafydd</a> once pointed out that Thompson is a requisite part of the American writer-boy canon. Every Yankee male that calls himself a writer must, she says, list Thompson, Hemingway, Kerouac and Vonnegut among their influences. In terms of the latter three I am guilty as charged.</i><br />
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<b>(b)</b><i> "Heat and keys" is a common term used in classified ads for budget cars. It means "no frills." The car has a steering wheel, heat and keys, and not a whole lot else.</i><br />
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<b>(c)</b><i> True, it does snow in Cardiff every once in a while but it is such a rare event that no one here knows how to handle it. Cars become just as useless as motorcycles.</i><br />
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<b>(d)</b><i> For any UK motorcyclists, I'm referring to the CBT. I realise that getting my full license via Direct Access will take a bit longer, but the point is that I could be on the road very quickly.</i><br />
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<b>(e)</b><i> Unless someone buys me a drink.</i><br />
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<b>(f)</b><i> I would totally ride a <a href="http://www.harley-davidson.com/en_GB/Motorcycles/sportster.html">Harley Sportster</a> if given one, but would probably scratch the name off the tank. Harley owners are usually dick heads.</i></div>
Chris Copehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09802450324154596848noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7118320.post-68306892704905041522012-12-11T23:01:00.001+00:002012-12-12T09:19:53.816+00:00The death of a language<i><br /></i>
<i><span style="font-size: large;"><b>To save the Welsh language speakers may need to look critically at themselves.</b></span></i><br />
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This week saw the release of the <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-wales-20677528">unhappy but not at all surprising news</a> that the number of Welsh speakers is again on the decline. According to 2011 census figures, only 19 percent of Wales' population –– or 562,000 people –– claim to be able to speak Welsh. This is a drop of 2 percent –– or 14,000 speakers –– from the 2001 census. </div>
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<a href="http://farm7.staticflickr.com/6043/6337941110_ee36f2b3d0_z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="http://farm7.staticflickr.com/6043/6337941110_ee36f2b3d0_z.jpg" width="320" /></a>The news is especially heartbreaking for Welsh language proponents because the previous census, in 2001, had seen an increase of speakers after centuries of steady decline. That was the first census taken after Welsh had become a compulsory subject in schools and, indeed, much of the increase in speakers at that time was amongst school-age children. The feeling at the time time was that young speakers meant longevity for the language, but 10 years on that doesn't appear to have panned out.</div>
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Parents are generally the ones filling out census surveys and they often have an overly rosy view of their children's abilities. As such, the Welsh Language Board estimated <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-wales-17020261">not too long ago</a> that only about half of those speakers listed on the 2001 census were actually proficient (i.e., people who could actually hold a conversation, rather than simply being able to regurgitate answers for a quiz).</div>
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For the 2011 census it doesn't appear the situation has changed much: 30 percent of Wales' claimed Welsh speakers are under the age of 15 (Welsh is a compulsory subject to age 16). In trying to soften the blow a little, Wales First Minister Carwyn Jones pointed to the fact that there had been an increase of speakers amongst 3-4 year olds. Toddlers are again being held up as this nation's best hope. At the same time, however, the Welsh-speaking first minister admitted that even he and his Welsh-speaking family <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-wales-20667976">default to using English in the home</a>.</div>
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The fact is: there are more people in Wales than 10 years ago but fewer of them, in both percentage and numerical terms, claim to speak Welsh. And of those left, half are not really able to speak Welsh, and even fewer are speaking it on a regular/day-to-day basis (I'm fluent in Welsh and have not held a Welsh-language conversation in seven months). Things do not look good for the language.</div>
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In the BBC story I linked to above there is an instant analysis side bar from Welsh-speaking reporter <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/blogs/thereporters/vaughanroderick/">Vaughan Roderick</a>, and one can already see who the Welsh-language community will be blaming for all this: those damned dirty foreigners. People like myself and Tony Bianchi and Jerry Hunter have come and driven out the native tongue with our irresistible and unforgiving English patter.</div>
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As long as I have been aware of the Welsh-language community it has been locked in a fortress mentality and the early signs I'm seeing from my Twitter feed suggest the response to the 2011 census will be another round of building up the ramparts. Blame the English. Blame modern culture. Demand more legislation. Get Steffan Cravos to chain himself to something in protest. Maybe write a few poems.</div>
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One of the things the Welsh-language world will not do, because it is very hard to do, is acknowledge and address the fact that it is itself part of the problem. The Welsh language is struggling because its speakers too often alienate the Welsh.</div>
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<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/David_John_Williams">D.J. Williams</a>, one of the founders of Wales nationalist party Plaid Cymru, said there is no such thing as a Welshman without the Welsh language. Some 2 million people listed their identity as "Welsh" on the 2011 census, which means there are at least 1.5 million people who would seriously disagree with Williams' claim.
Unfortunately, Williams' attitude seems to be quietly prevalent amongst Welsh speakers. </div>
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If pressed, I doubt a great number of Welsh speakers would outright say that a person cannot legitimately claim Welshness if he or she does not speak Welsh, though I can certainly think of a few who have. And I can think of even more who are willing to say as much through catchy turns of phrase like the one I heard from a fellow Welsh tutor last year: "<i>Does dim hunaniaeth heb yr iaith</i>" (a).</div>
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True, the fault does not rest solely on the shoulders of Welsh speakers, but in the flurry of handwringing, finger pointing and pondering that will come as a result of these census results I feel at least some time should be spent discussing the incredibly poor relationship between Welsh speakers and their fellow Welshmen. There is no <a href="http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2238472/Save-Wales-Welsh-Children-told-loo-ask-English-Architects-shunned-plans-arent-Welsh-ROGER-LEWIS-nutty-Welsh-Language-Society.html">Welsh Taliban</a> or any other such nonsense, but it is true that a large number of Welsh men and women feel alienated by and terrible animosity toward their Welsh-speaking countrymen.</div>
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I realised this last week when I found myself strangely defending the language against the vitriol of four Welsh people. My frustrations with the Welsh-language community are well documented and not worth rehashing, however suffice to say I'm probably not going to be hired to do PR for language campaign group <a href="http://cymdeithas.org/node/2123">Cymdeithas</a>. But in the face of my dinner companions' deep emotional frustration and anger toward the language I was by comparison Welsh's most stalwart devotee.</div>
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I feel it's worth mentioning that the people levying these complaints were all university-educated people who were Welsh born and raised. In three cases they are people who have lived elsewhere in the UK and the world, and have come back home because their love of Wales is so great. The reason I feel it's worth mentioning is that criticisms of the Welsh language are nothing new. Welsh speakers will have heard them dozens of times. But usually the only people with the audacity to express such things are chav blokes in Super Dry T-shirts who are four to five pints ahead of you in the drinking stakes, or insufferable cocks who write for sensationalist newspapers. And as such, I've never really listened to the people making criticisms.</div>
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Here, though, was a group of intelligent, educated, affluent and, in some cases, influential Welsh men and women who felt deeply angry toward the Welsh language and the bulk of its speakers. They felt that Welsh speakers had placed themselves on a sort of pedestal and were treating the country's majority with arrogant disdain. They felt alienated, pushed out, and condescended to. The latter are all aspects of my own experience in the Welsh community but I at least have the solace of knowing that the "You're Not One Of Us" attitude I've faced is true. I'm not Welsh (b). I'm a fluent Welsh speaker but if both sides of the D.J. Williams argument are conditionally dependent upon one another (i.e., one cannot be truly Welsh without speaking Welsh, but, <i>also</i>, one cannot truly be a Welsh speaker without being Welsh), then I can at least understand the "logic" of why I've failed to gain acceptance within Welsh-language circles. And, hey, I have my own massively larger, more influential and more diverse culture to fall back on.</div>
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But for the non Welsh-speaking sons and daughters of Wales it is an alienation that breeds a deeper bitterness than even I possess. As I ran through the standard responses to criticisms (c) one of the people I was speaking to grew so upset that she was shaking. She had spent two years in Welsh courses as an adult, she said, and had eventually given up because she felt she was being talked down to and patronised.</div>
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The other three all had their own stories of unpleasant interactions with overly aggressive Welsh speakers (sometimes campaigners' zeal for the language hurts their cause more than it helps) and the deep emotional frustration they carried as a result. I've heard similar stories over the years, and have had my own embittering experiences. Many Welsh speakers would be keen to do so, but I don't feel these negative attitudes should be wholesale ignored.</div>
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Welsh speakers' insular, alienating temperament is not the only reason the language is suffering. There is also the simple truth of living on a planet for which English is ever more the <i>lingua franca </i>–– especially in commercial terms. Wales, too, is an area with an infrastructure that is in some cases nonexistent and in most cases decades behind the curve. It lacks entrepreneurship and sufficient support –– both governmental and public –– for enterprise. Its folk traditions have been all but abandoned by even the most dedicated patriots, and it is part of an island that at certain times can feel very much like it is on the verge of becoming the 51st U.S. state. All that lack of uniqueness or self sustainability makes it hard to argue for learning a language that, with only insubstantial exception, is not spoken anywhere else.<br />
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There are a lot of pressures facing the Welsh language, but when its speakers make enemies of their own countrymen I can't help but fear it is heading incorrectably toward total novelty.<br />
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Welsh will never really die. Britain is too full of quirky enthusiasts and academics to let such a thing slip away completely. But at the moment, as things are, I don't see how it will survive as a legitimate language for too many more generations. Already it is estimated that only 3-5 percent of Wales' children come from a home where Welsh is the primary language spoken. How long before that percentage becomes zero? How long before no one ever really feels things through the medium of Welsh? How long before Welsh becomes only the purview of academics?<br />
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<b>(a)</b> <i>There is no identity without the language.</i></div>
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<b>(b)</b> <i>Indeed, lately, independent of any feelings toward Wales, I have found myself strangely and unintentionally resurrecting my Texas accent.</i></div>
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<b>(c)</b><i> Interestingly, the strongest defense I have found is one that no "true" Welsh speaker would ever use: that Welsh should be protected and nurtured because it is an intrinsically British thing.</i></div>
Chris Copehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09802450324154596848noreply@blogger.com12