Geek Rock

Greetings, Gentle Readers.
At long last, I've decided to offer some more lyrics/poetry to the multiverse via the wonder and power of the interweb.  I wrote two poems almost a year ago now, with the full and express intent of rendering them as song. I've since noodled around with a few guitar chords, asked a few musically-inclined friends if they had any ideas, and thus far, not a note has been set down and no track has been recorded.  It could be because my words are crap, and that I'm a fair wordsmith, but a fundamentally mediocre poet.  The final word can only be issued by you, my long-suffering and eternally patient audience.  But first, the story.
Last year, the brilliant and unjustly maligned Lloyd Barker, taking time out from sweating incessantly over his Forge of Physics, was informed that he had defaulted on his university student loans, and that the collection agency was now after all of his assets in some sort of Rumplestiltskin-esque settling of debts.  Things looked grim, and Lloyd was sizing up his options, of which there were terrifyingly few.  Enter our boss, the Director of Science, who offered to settle Lloyd's debts out of his own pocket.  Oh, all right, out of his own credit card.  Point being, Lloyd was saved, everything was back on an even keel, and the camaraderie amongst our team reached an all-time high.  Lloyd is still dutifully repaying the redoubtable Richard Klinger for his magnanimity, but I personally felt that there ought to be some greater reward — some form of recognition that exceeds mere repayment or acknowledgment.
And so I wrote a bunch of geek-rock lyrics.  Just last week, I was introduced to "Beautiful Small Machines," Bree Sharp's most recent musical project.  A video collection on YouTube can be found here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lfx4UH659kQ&a=4oVf-d_DwKCv3jykLQhRb6G5vSn-jFJg&list=ML
and their home page (complete with Facebook/MySpace/iLike/etc. links) is found here:
http://www.beautifulsmallmachines.com/
I'd always rather liked her folk-rock style, but suddenly we find her amidst a bewildering swirl of synthesized electronica, and her lyrics are filled with echoes of the concept of geek-rock that I was trying to tap all those months ago.  I sent a message to her MySpace page, but I haven't heard back.  And so I decided to throw my work open to the four winds.  Whosoever can make these words into something that a radio station will play, or some varsity music store will stock will have my thanks, and may consider themselves free of any obligation to credit me in any way.  I just want the word to get out that Richard Klinger is a true mensch who ought to be celebrated for being an awfully nice and self-sacrificing individual.  Obviously, it would be great if Don DiLego and Bree Sharp sunk their collective metaphorical artistic fangs into it, but if anyone can create a recording with a hint of a melody and a bit of craft, then be my guest.
Here goes:

Richard, Richard

Richard, Richard Klinger
A man of science and distinction
Has more power in his little finger
Than the coefficient of friction
Stay around, let’s tarry and linger
Within the realm of his jurisdiction

CHORUS:
Richard, Richard Klinger saved the day
Dissociation constant — he’s got your pKa
Richard, Richard Klinger is the way
More awesome than thorium’s nuclear decay


Richard, Richard Klinger:
Caustic in any melée—
Refines bauxite
With hydroxide
Rewards you with aluminium pay*

CHORUS

Richard, Richard Klinger
A master of jousts, champion of duels
Kinetic energy of a stinger
That measures several gigajoules
Puts your troubles through the wringer
Lathes your worries with his tools

CHORUS

FADE

— m. cHAN


*In a nod to Bree Sharp, I would add a background vocal track asserting "aluminum!" I had actually considered that before (see next lyric), but she beat me to the punch in the song "Superconducter."

The Director

He’ll analyze yer
     fertilizer
     when the time is ripe

He’s no miser
     has a geyser
     for a phenotype

CHORUS:
The convection with direction
Puts the lady folk in heat
Their collection gets correction
If their apparatus is incomplete

He’s torrential
got potential
has great mgd (VEC-ARROW!)**

His differential
is intentional
and his body diagrams are free.

INSTRUMENTAL

CHORUS

No interference
gets his clearance
got supersonic scrutiny

Planck’s constant
gets despondent
when his wavelength finds your frequency

CHORUS

FADE

— m. cHAN


**Blogger doesn't render MathML very well. Actually, not at all. And the MathType that MS Word uses is even less effective. You may notice that the physics expression for vertical work against gravity requires a vector arrow over the acceleration value of "g," because it represents a vector quantity. The ASCIIMath code entity that expresses this character augmentation is an arrow named "vec."

In any event, it's late, and I've got lots of work to do yet. As always, comments and criticisms are invited. In a new and uninteresting twist, I would welcome a digitized music recording better.

For now, good night England and the colonies.

Cheers,

—mARKUS

iPhones are eVil

Greetings, gentle readers.
And so, after much ado about many things, Jules and I made it to Minden, Ontario.  Her parents, in addition to being thoroughly wonderful people, also have the stamina of blood-doped racehorses.  I didn't subject my own parents to the sort of extensive slideshows of South Africa that I unleashed on these poor people.  Into the wee hours of every night, twenty-three to the dozen, ground littered with the hind legs of donkeys, tiring the sun with minutiae until it falls out of the sky, I banged on about the most uninteresting things about Africa imaginable, and still these kind people feigned interest.  Astonishing.
The grounds in Minden were also amazing.  The lot opened onto the river, which flows rapidly and warmly (24°C) past the canoe and motorboat moored at the dock.
The verdant landscape and fantastic wildlife were not the main event, however.  As the family reunion began to take shape, it became obvious that the people were going to be the curiosities and spectacles.
Cousin Dave, for example, might be considered to be a disaster-profiteer.  Incidentally, the shuffles in family-relations are simplified for clarity.  If I show the slightest interest in genealogy, I suspect that my family will ambush me and expect me to deconstruct the entire patrilineal side of my genetic heritage.
The family member that I really appreciated was Cousin Norm.   Not only did he take control of the barbeque (to my enormous relief), but he did so with authority and ability.  The fact that he was smoking cigarettes over cooking meat was a bit odd, but the man knew his business, and I was not willing to tell him off.  He's also mastered more martial arts than I know languages, so I wasn't about to get uppity.
It wasn't until later in the evening that I got to play Cousin Norm at chess.  If anyone has ever played me at chess, you'll know what I do.  I don't lose, but I want to see what you do to try and win. Cousin Norm had a fantastic go with his queen before he accepted the draw.  Julie's father was astonished.  Wins are over-rated.
In any event, the weekend was a wonderful cascade of events that was ruined by two things: first, Lloyd was fired from Castle Rock.  That rocked things in a number of ways.  Jules and I weren't sure of the level of investiture we had in that decision, and how much we could have helped.  The second thing was the way in which Ontario deals with toll-based roads. We had a rental car, which is apparently not allowed on toll-roads.  No one actually spent the time to tell us this, and this led to a horrible route through ghastly roadways that led us back to Hamilton in just enough time to run to the plane before it started taxiing for takeoff. All of the good things that I had built up about the province were thrown out of the window.  By the end of it, I was glad to be rid of the place.  I still miss the people, though.  Oh, and the ice cream.
Cheers,
—mARKUS

Greetings, Gentle Readers.

Up at 0430h on Friday morning to catch the shuttle bus to the airport.  After hauling the multi-ton suitcase of doom up Bellamy Hill and arriving (we thought) with a few minutes to spare, we discover that I’ve left my mobile phone charging on my computer.  Since Jules was convinced that we need the GPS functionality of the thing, I sprinted back down the hill to go retrieve it.  No sooner had I successfully grabbed the thing, hastily stuffed it into my jacket, and made it down the lifts and out the front door, the thing rang.  Sure enough, it’s Jules.  The news?  The shuttle bus came early.  Julie’s message for me?  Hurry up.  By the time I made it back to the Hotel MacDonald, I managed to sprint across the intersection at which the shuttlebus (containing Julie) was waiting for the lights to change.  I hopped on board and proceeded to shed enough perspiration to fill the snorkels of every man, woman, and child in Belize. 

Tired, exhausted, and dehydrated, we finally got to the airport with enough time to check the gravitic anomaly that is the suitcase of woe onto the flight, grab a bit of breakfast, and board the plane in a leisurely fashion.  Now, I’ve done a lot of flying recently, and my general conclusion is that North American airlines have been duelling over profits for quite some time, so they’ve cut out all of the frills, like free meals and headsets, and things like elbow room.  That was the case for United as well as Air Canada.  This flight was WestJet, so I was willing to try and keep an optimistic perspective.  Maybe this airline would be different.  It isn’t. 

Packed like sardines to the point where I thought my knees were going numb from being pressed into the seat in front of me, we were informed that if you wanted food, or headsets, or oxygen masks, you had to pay for them.  The bright point was the pre-takeoff announcements.  I’ve heard dozens of these over the past few months, so I must confess to being a bit jaded.  They went something like this:

“Allo, my name is Domenic, and if you don’t like my French accent, then tough, because we’re both stuck with it.  I’d like to introduce you to your flight crew today.  Behind the bulletproof steel door that only we can open is the captain, Charles.  Sitting next to him, holding his hand and sometimes stroking his hair, is the co-pilot, Michel.  In the middle of the aisle, you can see my new girlfriend – we just met yesterday – is the unforgettable... erm [aside: what was her name again?]  Oh, yes, Melanie.  And standing next to me at the front of the cabin is the handsome and very single Claude.  He is taking numbers, so ladies, get them ready.”

“And now, it’s showtime as we start our safety presentation.  In the event that the cabin [muffled whisper] decompresses, oxygen masks [muffled whisper, slightly more urgent] will descend from the [whisper: “Later!”] compartments above your heads [whisper: “I’m doing a safety presentation!”]  For your entertainment on this flight, we have two bathrooms, one at the front, and one at the rear of the craft.  There are six exits, which... erm... that flight attendant in the centre of the aisle is pointing at: two at the front, two over the wings in the middle, and two at the rear.  Please try and locate the exit nearest you in case you need to use it.”

And so, despite the discomfort and the relatively inhumane living conditions, the little bit of levity went a long way towards preventing my cynicism and general grumpiness from spiralling out of control, much as it did on my last flight into Los Angeles.  That, and the fact that we don’t have to deal with American customs.  That’s worth a gold star in anyone’s book.

The flight was relatively uneventful, aside from the girl sitting next to me asking for a blanket and pillow.  If “sitting” could be used to describe being shoehorned into a space unfit for a battery-farm chicken.  Turns out that the plane was sold out of such amenities.  I offered my scarf, marketing it as something that “acts as BOTH a pillow and a blanket.”  She politely declined.  I played a little “Heroes of Hellas” until Domenic returned to the airwaves.

“’Ello ladies and gentlemen.  We are landing 20 minutes earlier than scheduled, which is clearly because of me, so let’s hear it.  Clap, clap?  [pause for applause]  You are about to hear one of those phrases that is like a song in my heart:  we are now beginning our final descent into Hamilton International Airport.  For those of you continuing on to Moncton, this is your plane, and we will be happy to escort you on to your final destination.  If you do decide to disembark, remember to take your boarding pass and piece of ID with you, and remember that we will only make one boarding call, so if you don’t remember those things, have fun in Hamilton.  For those of you leaving us, your luggage will be on the carousels in the arrivals lounge within the next 48 hours.  On behalf of myself and only myself, I would like to thank you for flying WestJet, and hope that you’ll be with us again soon.”

Interesting that Domenic, as near as I could tell, never made much attempt to put any zest in the French translations of his announcements.  I got one half-hearted attempt at a joke, I think, but the rest sounded pretty routine, particularly since I’ve heard the same announcements en Français innumerable times on both sides of the Atlantic over the past two months.

The John C. Munro Hamilton International Airport is basically a barn.  With a baggage carousel in it.  At the opposite end of the barn are the two car rental kiosks.  After collecting the outrageously heavy bag and loading it onto a creaking and complaining luggage caddy, we collected this rather stout and sturdy-looking red Dodge Avenger.  I’m used to renting econo-boxes, so this was a bit of a paradigm-shift for me.

Looking around, I noticed that all the vehicles were somewhat squat and blocky.  Trucks, jeeps, SUVs, sedans, station wagons, sports cars... all rather square and heavy.  I suppose that since Hamilton is a bit of a steel-town, it’s not surprising that they like their vehicles made with a maximum amount of reinforcement and substance.

And so, armed with a printed Google Map and our functional but inelegant vehicle, we headed off north for Minden.  A few minutes in, we realized a few things.  The Greater Toronto Area has a smeg-load of radio-stations.  There were roughly 3 within each MHz of FM range.  And after a quick surf, we soon realized that none of them were playing Journey.  Obviously the Boston (TM) Premium Audio system was going to waste.  Unfortunately, I had also forgotten my happy satchel of computer and audio-visual patch cords, so I couldn’t hook my netbook, iPhone, or MP3 player up to the car stereo.  Thankfully, there was a logical midpoint between Hamilton and Minden.

Newmarket is a quiet, sleepy suburb very reminiscent of Sherwood Park.  There are plenty of green spaces and forests, and there are gentle hills and valleys crinkling the topography of the town.  They also had a ripping Radio Shack (now The Source) located conveniently close to a Greek place that does fabulous chicken kebabs.  A happy lunch, and we were off to Cottage Country, Journey in tow.

A cottage in Cottage Country apparently doesn’t mean what I thought it meant when I was growing up.  A cottage now is a sprawling four- or five-bedroom, multi-story dwelling, each one with its own independent water, sewage, electrical, communications, and natural gas systems.  The country is lovely.  Trees grow in abundance along the river and lakeshores, as well in copses.  The herbs and shrubs are numerous, the air is sweet, and the insects are belligerent and tenacious.  The water in the dam-controlled rivers is warm and refreshing, and the sundowner times are pleasant and pacific.

But the next day, the placid environment was about to be overrun by members of the Dunn family.

And that is another story.

Goodnight England and the colonies.

—mARKUS

Retrospectives and Recriminations

Greetings, gentle readers.
Well, I am now safely back in Edmonton and once more ensconced in my drab and pedestrian existence. Thanks to input from one of my senior colleagues, I now have a scheme afoot to make work a more tolerable activity, but other than that, nothing significant has changed around my office during my absence.  The employee turnover seems overly high, training procedures seem spotty, and cliques in fiefdoms snipe at one another instead of cooperating.  Looks like I'll have to do something, or else start farming out the resumé.
Thinking back on the trip to South Africa, and anticipating any questions, the best part of the trip had to be watching Germany dismantle Argentina in the quarter-finals in Green Point Stadium, Cape Town.  The raucous singing of the German fans, and the torrents of quasi-intelligible shouting and raving by the Argentinian fans made for a lovely auditory as well as sporting experience.
A close second would be hanging out with the predatory wildlife, whether that be the sharks of Two Oceans Aquarium in Cape Town, or the cheetahs and birds of prey at the Spier Estate, near Stellenbosch, Western Cape.  The non-predatory wildlife, like the elephants of Addo National Park were also interesting, but not quite as fun.
Third place was an evening that constituted an aggregation of things.
A lot of people have asked me about the different laws and regulations in South Africa, and one of the things that hey are astonished to hear is that people are allowed to smoke cigarettes inside pubs, clubs, and bars.  Granted, in the Chrome nightclub in Cape Town, there was a separate smoking area, away from the dance floor, but that was probably more because it got very hot and sticky on the dance floor, and mixing that with stale smoke would have been aesthetically disgusting, not hygienically so.
All that aside, I quite liked the local pub just down the street from my cousin Liesl's flat in Kenilworth.  It wasn't too loud, the television was adequate for watching footy, it was large and airy, and the locals that I met were a solid bunch of terribly good blokes and ladies.  Somehow, it also always managed to be the right temperature.  Cape Town got cold often, and despite the doors being open to let air in, the warmth from the kitchen was always just enough to strike a comfortable equilibrium.
So it was that I found myself down at the local on the evening of the Deutschland-Uruguay match.  It was being played in Durban, and there was a frog's chance at a snake symposium of getting a ticket, getting there, and as I later discovered, getting off your plane.  A pack of private jets had blocked the runways, and a couple of thousand fans couldn't get to the game as their flights were diverted.
As usual, I found a couple of the local lads, and managed to shoehorn myself into the crowd at the bar.  There were two people with vuvuzelas — one was a huge, burly, barrel-chested Springbok fan about two people to my left.  The other was a woman in the darkened corner toward the exit.  The two of them started honking/buzzing at one another, and the spirit of fun (and annoying noise) hung over the crowd like the ghost of Christmas Present.  Everyone was getting into the spirit of thumping Uruguay, who were about as popular as the Totenkopfverbände at a Bar Mitzvah.
Uruguay had beaten South Africa 3-0 in the opening round of the World Cup, thus ensuring that even though Bafana Bafana thumped the French, they were still doomed to be the first host nation of the Cup to be dumped out at the first hurdle.  Strike one.  Then, after all of the other African teams had been dumped out of the competition, the last Africans standing (Ghana) were knocked out on penalties. By Uruguay.  Strike two.  How did that game go to penalties?  Luis Suarez prevented a goal with his self confessed "save of the tournament."  Problem:  he's not a goalkeeper, and anyone else using his/her hands to manoeuvre the ball is committing a foul.  It was cynical, and he was punished for it, but it denied Ghana the chance to be the first African nation to ever make the semi-finals.  Strike three.  TV commentators were remarking on the police escorts for the team as they went toward the stadium in Durban.
Not only were the phasers in the pub set to "party," the place was jumping, and the Germans were obliging the Africans with their clinical and exciting play.  Around half-time, I managed to tear my eyes away from the gripping spectacle above me to glance around the pub.
There were cigarette girls.  Honestly.  They had the strap-around-the-back-of-the-neck deals, and the trays in front of them, with rows of cigarette packs.  It was one thing that people were smoking in the bar, but this was something new.  Or rather, something old.  This was something I'd expect to see in "Carry on Spying" or some sort of French cabaret period-piece film.  They moved around the bar, seeming to hover together like a trio of ladybugs, which didn't seem to make much sense to me if the idea was to vend their wares to as many customers as possible.
Eventually, they settled at the blank spot at the bar which had been vacated by my friend, who had run off to answer the call of nature.  Coincidentally, next to me.
"Hey there," I said to the nearest (and shortest) of the three.  "How much are you charging for those cigarettes?
It was about that time that I noticed that the cigarette packs in the tray were about half of the size of a normal cigarette pack. And what looked like the sample cigarettes had about half of the diameter of the cigarette dangling from the girl's hand.  I looked from one to the other.
"Wait, you're selling these things, but you smoke a different brand..."
"Oh yes," she replied airily. "I smoke Camels.  I don't really care for these ones."
That threw me for a bit of a loop.  Some marketing genius was going to get lynched for this.
"So... if you don't like smoking them, how could you sell them to other people with any conviction?"
"We're not allowed to actually sell them," she said. "We are only allowed by law to be around and wait for people to approach us."
"That's easy," I said glibly. "You're very pretty.  People must approach you all night, non-stop."
She blushed and glanced over at her two comrades, who were busy doing something else.
"No, really... it's not like..."
"Well, here," I offered, reaching in my pocket for some cash. "How much for one of those packs?"
"They're 27 rand," she began, before running through what I assumed was a rehearsed speech.  She drew in a breath of air, not cigarette smoke and began. "We are prohibited from actually selling you cigarettes.  What you can do is hand the money to the bar, the bar will give you a pack from their supply, and then they will change inventory with my friend here."  She gestured toward the taller blonde behind her.
I'm sure that I had some sort of quizzical look on my face as I held out 30 rand, the barman took it, made change, gave some money to the blonde cigarette girl, then gave me my change and a 1×1×3 rectangular prism.  Presumably filled with cigarettes.
I opened the package, and the brunette with the cigarette tray watched me closely. I suspiciously pulled out a needle-thin smoke, and look at her suspiciously.
"If I smoke this, won't people think that I'm a homosexual?"
She giggled slightly.
"I wouldn't worry about that," she said.
"Well, why do other people buy these things?" I asked.  "Do they taste better?  They don't look more efficient..."
"I don't like them," she replied. "They don't have enough in them, and you really have to suck to get anything out of them."
I looked coolly at her as I imagine James Bond would have.
"You mean, I ought to be paying you 27 rand for the privilege of watching you smoke one."
"Oh, you... you're making me blush."  At that, she was off to the other end of the bar, her taller, blonder associates belatedly in tow.
In short, Germany was the good guy, I was some sort of quick-talking Lothario, and the world seemed like a better, brighter place the next day than it had the day before.  Not a bad third-place finish, as near as I can tell.

Cheers, and farewell England and the Colonies.

—mARKUS

The Return to the Commonwealth and Civilization

Greetings, gentle readers.
U.S. Customs officials are generally amenable folk.  In my case, whether it be through accident or intent, I had rather pleasant and expeditious dealings with them.  That being the case, I was also in a position to observe the inefficiencies of a system imposed upon these rather innocuous people and the impact that Homeland Security has on travellers into, out of, and through the United States.  I've not yet had the experience of entering the United States by sea, highway, or subterranean James-Bond-Übervillain express train, so I'm restricted to describing my observations of dealings with airborne travellers.
American citizens were generally treated with a tad more class, but my father can attest that as we entered the John Foster Dulles International Airport in Washington, D.C., and we were herded through door number four into our special shuttle container, and taken to a large, white, and sterile room without a clock and with plenty of queue barriers, We went into the right queue.  American citizens and holders of green cards went into the left queue.
In a strange twist of fate, those of us in the right queue weren't forced to wear yellow stars on our clothing, but we did notice, in the 45 minutes that we spent in the queue, that there were 10 out of the 14 available counters open to the queue on the left.  The queue on the right had 16 counters, but only one had an offical attending it.  In addition to watching the other queue clear out while we stood waiting and calculating how long we had to catch our connecting flights, we also noticed that people with ethnic garb, long hair, and other distinguishing factors spent an awfully long time at the one open counter.  They had to remove hats, glasses, etc. and stare into a video camera, have their thumb- and fingerprints taken, shed their footwear, and their fingers were swabbed and chemically analyzed for ions.
Hopefully, I shall have smuggled these words through my final experience with customs in Vancouver before some over-zealous protector of America's verdant pastures of democracy happens upon the concept that a male terrorist might smuggle sticks of C-4 up his urethra to the second knuckle, and thereby rewrite the entire system of searching passengers in transit to include violations of civil liberties that men like Alexis de Tocqueville would never have considered.  
I reckon that the evolutionary theory of punctuated equilibrium is a viable one.  I don't think the American populace are easily likened to the frog in the pan of water that does not react to changes in temperature, only in changes that exceed a certain rate, and therefore a slow and gradual increase in temperature will cook the frog without any reaction, while a swift increase in temperature will allow the frog to perceive the danger and leap to safety.  To describe people, or even the American people as being so myopic as to not realize that a situation is becoming untenable until it is too late is unfair.  That being said, I reckon that people settle into an equilibrium, or political rut, until there is a break in the equilibrium.  It need not be so startling as introducing a frog to boiling water, but a sea-change or a swing in zeitgeist can spread like a wildfire, and people, political systems, and institutions can shift dramatically befopre settling into the next comfortable plateau of development.
The troubles at the recent G12 summit-do-dah in Toronto give evidence that our current political plateau is comfortable enough that a few squeezes of human rights and freedoms are not enough of an impetus to spur a wholesale re-evalution of the system.  The question I pose is... how many knuckles up the urethra will the average voter take before one civil liberty lost is one too many?  This is no revolution-or-die frog scenario, but one that requires us to simply consider Aristotle's advice about the unexamined life.  Americans have already begun to respond.  Democrats hold both houses of Congress, the first non-white man is President and Commander-in-Chief, and confidence in the federal government is crumbling in the approval polls after only a year in office because the military interventions around the world are neither concluded, nor reasonably justified in their continuance.
Lesson to be learned from this particular aspect of my travels - next time, I'm going British Airways, and I'm going through Heathrow, Terminal 4.   Intercourse cheapskate North American airlines and their "credit-card-transactions only" food and drink policy.  To perdition also with the cattle-car mentality, and the riff-raff; the uneducated and uncouth masses that Donavan will no doubt affirm to be the soul-eroding company of trans-continental flights.
Actually, I'm becoming of the opinion that we went wrong giving up on the Zeppelin.  I don't want to sit in a rabbit-hutch next to that fat guy with the bladder-infection and Tourette's syndrome.  I want a deck.  I want an agora of discourse and exchange.  I want to talk to my fellow passengers without making reference to begging their pardon whilst jamming luggage into ridiculously small overhead bins.
I reckon that there are only two options.  
The best would be only to travel by sea and rail.  Those who haven't read my diatribes on post-traumatic stress disorder should know that I consider the decline of those modes of transport as popular choices for mass conveyance to be a primary cause.  Cause for some serious consideration when comparing Second World War veterans to Vietnam and Gulf War vets.  
The other is to become fantastically rich and travel first-class Virgin Airlines tout les temps.   But then you only meet other fantastically rich nutbars, and not real humans.
In any event, our society has become pigeon-holed, impersonal, and categorized enough without our current air transport system encouraging and perpetuating those sorts of socialization.
I know Richard Klinger would join me in rhapsodizing about the romance of the rail, and I've got many stories of the cool things I've done and the people I've met on trains in Portugal.  Actually, just getting places with my awful Portuguese was somewhat of a minor miracle.  Aircraft are all about maximizing profit per fuel expenditure in North America, and the passengers are just consumers to be filed, stamped, indexed, briefed, and debriefed in order to make up the numbers that push the operational budget indicator into the black.
In any event, I'm just about to set off for my final leg of the marathon journey home.  Time to recharge some batteries and set up for the last push.
Cheerio and good night, England and the Colonies.


—mARKUS

I'm a Ramblin' Man

Greetings, gentle readers.

Well, with the beaches and mountain faces of South Africa long left behind in the vapour trails of my travels, and with the past World Cup having lurched to an altogether foreseeable uninspired climax, we are left with two resonating questions.
First, what have I learned about travel in general?  In other words, I need to identify the areas of growth in knowledge and experience that would make future travels more efficient, enjoyable, economical, etc.  Second, what are the most lurid and graphic hedonistic excesses of this trip in particular?  There is evidence of demand for this sort of thing.  Thus far, I've been asked by three different people.  Because it offers the possibility of being interesting reading, it will therefore be dealt with later in the interests of increasing the magnitude of any potential suspense.
Travel
The biggest priciples that I've encountered as a person travelling the globe are twofold:  If given any options at all in the matter, I would prefer to travel alone and spontaneously.
Going solo creates dynamic situations that require improvisation and accommodation.  In addition, from my personal experience, I learn more about things, people, and events on my own than I do from companions.  The lyrics from Jethro Tull's "Teacher" jog through my head as I write this, but a critical point is time-management.  This is not to say that I derived zero value from travelling with others on this particular escapade, but I felt constrained, rather than liberated in my ability to experience and enjoy.  On the whole, I interacted with more people and discovered more interesting facts and angles of interpretation when experiencing things on my own.  As an example, my father, my aunt Jenny, my cousin Liesl, and I went to the Victoria and Alfred waterfront.  Once.  I've now been there once in my life.  Huzzah.  The time there was predominantly spent trying to get all four (passive-aggressive) people to do a single thing, coordinating how we were going to find each other if/when we split up at all, giving directions to one another, and generally milling about wondering where that other person from the group wandered off to.
One can only take so much of this sort of conversation:
My father: "Where are we going?"
Liesl:  "Where would you like to go?"
Me:  "Where can we go?"
Jenny:  "Is anybody hungry?"
My father:  "Where is the food place around here?"
Liesl:  "Are you hungry?"
Jenny:  "I don't know.  What does everyone else want to do?"
Liesl:  "There's the aquarium..."
Me:  "I'd like to see the aquarium."
My father:  "Where's the aquarium?"
Me:   "We walked past it on the way from the car park."
Liesl:  "The aquarium is really nice."
Me:  "OK.  Where's Jenny?"
My father:  "I think she went somewhere to eat."

That resulted in our quartet breaking up so that my father and I could go and see the aquarium, and Liesl went off with her mother to look at the shops.  The aquarium was very pretty, but my father didn't seem interested in water ecology, oceanography, or marine biology.  His most urgent aquatic interests lay in the state of his own watery bowels, which forced him to scuttle to the restrooms frequently.  That particular affliction also manifested itself frequently in airports, leading to the oft-murmured "Watch my bags" and my consequent uncomfortable shuffle in place in airports, waiting for his reemergence.  Incontinence on two different continents.  Sad, really.
Did I learn as much as I could have done at the aquarium?  Probably not.  My father was anxious to hurry through the exhibits at breakneck speed so that

1. he'd always know where the restrooms were located, and
2. he wanted to make sure that we were done and didn't lose contact with Jenny and Liesl, who, he was convinced, were going to leave without us in Liesl's car.  

Turns out that they were watching a performance at the amphitheatre, and were going to ring us on one of our mobile phones when they were done.  An hour later.  We also missed out on the cavern golf and the gem/mineral mine.  That could have been fun.  Oh well.
Next, there's the issue of planning versus improvisation.  I don't mind a bit of planning.  Maybe even a fair bit of it.  Too much, and suddenly, there is too much effort being put into tracking what boarding time is at what gate, and which relative is meeting us at which bus station at what time, and whose mobile number is needed in this specific circumstance, etc., etc.  The larger the travelling party, the more often is heard "Do we have time for...?" and the more often the answer to that question, regardless of content, is no.
Company is nice, people are good, friends and relatives are virtuous elements in one's life.  Sadly enough, I have had the most fun exploring completely foreign places on my own.  There are exceptions, of course, but I reckon that's the rule.
I'll continue by attacking air travel.  Flying places in North America is a hardship to be endured, not the sort of exciting or thrilling adventure I always felt it to be as a child.  South African Airlines did a fair job of making sure that no-one died of malnutrition or advanced desiccation on flights that lasted longer than 2 hours.  Apparently, United Airlines and Air Canada have no such compunctions.  They will sell you food (credit cards only) and drink, and maybe rub your lips with a sponge dipped in sour wine when you're reaching some of the nastier stages of death, but other than that, you're herded into enormous queues, crammed into rabbit-hutch-sized seats, and if you're flying economy - on a seat sale - that's accepting standby passengers, you've wasted your time if you spent any of it anticipating a pleasant experience.
One fellow was a reasonable sort.  A bit stand-offish and brusque, but he's American and I expect that sort of thing.  He was organized, got his carry-on luggage into the overhead bin, was sitting quietly in his seat reading as we waited for boarding to finish.  People were still filing in, cramming the ridiculously narrow aisles (all the better to fit you in) with their bags and bodies.  Two Asian kids in their late teens or early 20s were trying to push against the flow of people moving in to reach our American, who was minding his own business.
For 15 minutes, they clogged the aisle and made life miserable for other passengers, because they were pestering this poor fellow to switch seats in order that they might sit together.  Apparently, it took both of them to stand there, haranguing this innocent fella, and generally making asshats of themselves to achieve their goal.  Which they consequently did.  After a number of polite suggestions:

• "Why don't you switch for the seat next to the other one you've got?" the man protested. 
• "I'd really rather not move..." he pleaded.  
• "I was here first, and this is my assigned seat on my boarding pass." he reasoned.

The responding vacuous stares and pidgin English responses from his open-mouthed assailants, coupled with people making disgusted grunting noises and shooting deadly glares in his direction as they tried to sidle past the human roadblock of asiatic hormone confusion, eventually persuaded the man that it just wasn't worth it, so he packed up his stuff and moved to the back of the airplane.
That was one of the milder offences against human dignity and common sense that was regularly experienced through airports and airplanes and shuttles alike.
Must sign off now, but I'll be back with all of the lurid stuff, and probably a choice word or two to describe American customs practices as xenophobic paranoid schizophrenic histrionics gone horribly awry.
Cheers for now,
—mARKUS

A Final-and-Forget Mission

Greetings gentle readers.
In just a few minutes, I'll eat some tasty braai chicken and pork and shortly thereafter trot down the street past the enormous moving truck that's blocking the lane and down to the pub to watch my final — Germany v. Uruguay.
Not that Uruguay are worthy finalists.  Far from it.  They got to the Semi-Finals by drawing France, then beating South Africa (86th in the FIFA World Rankings), Mexico (15th), South Korea (52nd), and Ghana (37th).  Wow.  Awesome way to conquer the titans of the sport en route to the semi finals, where the first top-ten team they met promptly snuffed them out.
On the other hand, the Dutch have only managed to beat one top-ten team themselves in Brazil, and they had to yawn their way past over-rated Cameroon (a generous 11th), Denmark (26th), Japan (43rd), and Slovakia (34th) to get to Brazil.  Commendable patience in dealing magnanimously with the weaklings of the tournament.  Terribly Dutch.
No, Uruguay are not great opposition for a German team that disposed of the poorly-prepared English and the arrogant Messi-sideshow that was Argentina. (Ninth and eighth-ranked in the world at the time of the draw respectively, BTW...)  No, the reason that I want to see Paul the Psychic Cephalopod and all of his various magic sea-monster pals vindicated in their opinion that Deutschland will triumph over Uruguay is that Uruguay have made themselves the most hated team since Maradona's Argentina in 1986.
Both teams used handballs.  Both teams claimed that the infringements were "Hands of God." Unfortunately, the difference between the two was that Maradona cheated to beat the English, decent contenders of the day, and he consequently scored a fantastic solo effort later in the game that justified his reputation as the most skilled player of his generation.  Luis Suarez managed to irritate a tremendous amount of Africans by handballing because:

1. They eliminated the last African team in the final.
2. They eliminated the team with the squad with the youngest average age (24.1).
3. They had been taken to the brink of losing by a team that might generously have been considered the third-best of the African contenders to start the tournament.  A goal would have supported Africa's claim to be the next footballing hotbed.
4. Suarez is a bit of a moaning minnie about offsides and other infringements the other 99% of the time.
5. They blitzed Bafana Bafana 3-0 back in the group phase, effectively torpedoing them out of the next round — the first host nation in history to not progress to the second phase.
6. At least the Brazilians are South Americans who have the decency to play with black players, dammit.
7. Gyan's failure to score the resulting penalty destroyed any belief that Ghana deserved to be in the next round anyway.

Bottom line:  Everyone here hates Uruguay.  They are Africa-killers, cheaters, divers, whingers, and one-dimensionally dependent on their two strikers to shoot the ball.  That means that everyone is on my side.  Germany, the second-youngest squad in the tournament, now has a chance to prove that the balance of world footballing power is changing.

Here's the danger:  if Spain win tomorrow, but do not score four goals or more, they will be the lowest scoring winners of the World Cup in history.  I don't care how much Johan Cruyff lauds them as fantastic ambassadors of the world's game - tell Americans that Spain can win a World Cup by scoring fewer than two goals per game on average  (right now, they're on seven goals in five games), and they will say the usual "Yeah, that game is boring.  They all end 1-0."

Spain's last three games?

• Spain 1 - 0 Portugal
• Spain 1 - 0 Paraguay
• Spain 1 - 0 Germany

They might be entertaining games to the cognoscenti, but goals change games, goals win games, and most importantly, goals put bums on seats, and advertisers on HD satellite channels.

So bully for Spain if they pull off another 1-0 win.  Ruud Krol will babble endlessly about ball-possession, assurance in the midfield, etc.  Give me the freewheeling Germans any day of the week.  Like today.  I'm done dinner and off down the pub.  Also flying out tomorrow, so my next bit should be from North America.  Cheers, and thanks for paying attention.

—mARKUS

Just playing those mind games together...

Greetings gentle readers.
Part of the story of the Round of 16 was the relative lack of upsets.  With apologies to England fans, a neutral observer had to like Germany's chances before the game.  The other part is the matching of very similar teams with one another.  Paraguay and Japan both play a very defence-first, counter-attack-second style of play, while the Brazilians and Chileans favour speed and quick wing play, Spain and Portugal are both offensively-minded, short-pass, possession teams, USA and Ghana are both direct and physically-oriented teams, and Argentina and Mexico both enjoy flamboyant stretch passes to the inside-centre channels.  The only real contrast was the Dutch and the Slovaks, but even that wasn't much of a stretch as Robert Vittek and co., hot off a gunslinging victory against the Italians in group play, grew exponentially in confidence and swagger, and suddenly didn't feel like stifling the Dutch midfield so much as forcing interceptions and dispossessions, and barnstorming at the Dutch defence.
What was the result?  Well, with Portugal and Spain playing off, and Brazil facing Chile, at least one European and one South American country were guaranteed to advance to the Quarter-Finals.  No surprises there.  As for the other confederations, CONCACAF and Asia lost both their respective representatives, and then there were only three continents left.  Eight teams, four from South America, three from Europe, and one from Africa.  As we moved into the Quarter-Finals, the story looked like it was shaping up to be some sort of triumph for South America, and a vindication of Latin American footballing philosophy in terms of the accusations of simulations to deceive the officials, poor sportsmanship, disreputable behaviour and announcements, and devious fouling.  After all, South American teams comprised only 5 of the 32 teams that began the tournament (15.625%), but by the QFs, constituted 50% of the teams left.  The host continent was left with a single representative, while the previous two World Cup winners from Europe were gone by the end of the group phase.
Boiled down, this was turning into a metaphor for cultures, nations, regions, traditions, and languages to have it out on a football pitch. That being said, the big showdowns in the quarters were a mixed bag.  Four of the top five FIFA ranked teams were drawn against each other, with Spain the only favourite amongst the three "unfancied" teams.  Basically, the big boys were knocking each other out, while the small fry continued their rather easy road to the semis.
It was tempting to cheer for Uruguay, since they have the smallest national population of the final eight, and a FIFA ranking in the double-digits (19th), but I'm in Africa, and that makes a big difference.  First off, they were in a group that wasn't very strong.  South Africa played valiantly as hosts, but really, they were never going to get to the semis in anyone's books.  They were brave minnows, but they were positively colossal against the fractious and mediocre French, and the Mexicans came, got to the round of 16 against the other two soft pieces of opposition, and meekly went home.  So Uruguay wasn't really taxed at all for the first bit, and even managed to get some people here riled up by putting three past South Africa.  Popularity in SA = low, accomplishment on the "beating world-class team"-o-meter = next to nil.  Then they were the beneficiaries of some generous officiating to nudge past 52nd-ranked South Korea by a single goal.  If you're waiting for the part where they become the underdogs, struggling and defying impossible odds... you'll have to keep waiting. Their quarter-final opponent:  37th-ranked Ghana.
On the other hand, consider Germany.  They came out of Group D... the only group that had both qualifying teams win their games in the round of 16.  Then they beat ninth-ranked England (1 World Cup), to be rewarded with a fixture against eighth-ranked Argentina (2 World Cups).  Germany was sitting sixth on FIFA's rankings, by the way, based on the qualifying campaign that featured captain Michael Ballack and goalkeeper Robert Enke.  Neither is playing with the team at the tournament.
Brazil (2nd-ranked) was set up for a match against Holland (3rd).  Good thing that the heavyweights meet at these late stages of the tournament...
That left stuttering, stumbling Paraguay (30th) to prostrate themselves before first-ranked European Champions Spain.  Paraguay made such heavy weather out of squeezing past Japan in a penalty shootout that it boggled the imagination how teams like Côte d'Ivoire and Italy were out, and yet the way to the quarters opened up like some sort of Old Testament Red Sea before the Paraguayans.
The nifty thing that took over at this stage of the tournament manifested in different ways, but it was essentially the workings of a single phenomenon — the psych-out.
Arjen Robben began the quarterfinals' psychological duelling when he began to play with the Brazilian defence's minds.  25% of the time, he would feint, shuffle, dribble, and otherwise diabolically torment the Brazilian full-backs.  75% of the time, he would try and lure them into sticking out a foot before bodily flinging himself over the extended limb, and plunge to the turf in a crumpled, agonized, writhing heap.  His moaning body would roll about and his pale, trembling hands would brush away Brazilian hands extended to help him up until the referee awarded a free kick and/or a yellow card.  Then he would bounce sprightly to his feet and carry on.
The Brazilians lost it.  After going up by a goal, Robben's histrionics and (to be honest) terrible acting skills had unsettled the whole Brazil team.  Dunga was shrieking at the top of his lungs at every Dutch free kick that Robben won, and Kaká, started angrily snatching at shots from distance instead of delivering measured passes inside. Filipe Melo was probably the most tormented and wracked, however.  After a miscommunication left him blocking off his own keeper from a rather meaningless-looking cross, he then belatedly tried to slide out of the way and tipped the ball into his own net.  A little more aggravation and frustration later, and Melo had stomped on Robben in disgust at another theatrical performance by the Dutchman.  Red Card.  The Brazilians were suddenly disorganized, disadvantaged, and in thorough disarray.  By the time they had recovered a modicum of composure, Wesley Sneijder had put the Dutch up 2-1.  Brazil chasing a lead are a sad sight.  Talented footballers who see dribbling runs as expressions of artistic freedom and every curling drive to a top corner as a song of their soul are suddenly confronted by the reality that the clock is ticking and if they don't somehow jam a jabulani over that white goal line, their tournament is over.  Aesthetically perfect passing plays are replaced by hurried and panicked direct assaults, and somewhere in a favella outside São Paolo, a young dreamer huddles in a corner and cries.
Cynical, yes.  Was gamesmanship allowed?  Certainly.  Effective?  Undoubtedly.  Brazil are out, the Dutch are through to the semifinal in Cape Town.
Meanwhile, in the Clash of the Titans that millions have craved for decades, Ghana fold under pressure to the Uruguayans.  This game was a battle of nerves.  Ghana was more physical, more imposing, and faster.  The Uruguayans were cagier, conserving energy and even substituting on older, savvier veterans as the game progressed toward what seemed to be a 1-1 draw.  When Ghana unleash a final assault at the end of extra time, the ball is cleared off the line toward a Ghanaian head, directed back toward the empty net and then... is volleyball-spiked off the line by striker Luis Suarez.
South Africans who were holding a bit of a grudge against the team that beat Bafana Bafana 3-0 now had a whole new reason for hating Uruguay.  As near as I made it, Suarez made a cynical bargain, paying the price of a red card and a penalty kick to exchange a certain game-losing goal for an almost-certain goal.
Ghana turned to their tournament top-scorer, and hero against the United States in extra time, Asamoah Gyan, to win the game with the final kick of the game.  Score, and the game ends in a win.  Ghana would be the first African team ever to make the semifinals of the World Cup.  All he needs to do is score, and he's made history and earned the gratitude of a whole continent.
His nerves fray, and as he starts his approach to take the penalty, his eyes anxiously flit along the goal line, trying to spot a clear spot, some twitch of the goaltender, something that will give away which spot of the net will be open when he hits the...
crossbar.
He's out-thought himself and skewed his weight away from his foot before he struck, and ended up hitting the ball at a low and away point, scooping it too high and off the bar.
At that point, all of the Ghanaians are rattled, because the next thing is a penalty shootout, and although Gyan scores his, two of his team-mates make the same mistake and end up rolling tame daisy-cutter balls into the waiting arms of Muslera in the Uruguayan net, and canny old world-travelled vet Sebastian Abréu puts away the winning penalty away for the South Americans right down the centre of the net.  Poor Ghanaian keeper Kingson had deked himself out and leapt out of the way of the shot even as it was being struck.
The Germans got inside the Argentinians' heads very easily.  They just took the lead.  Argentina, beneficiaries of an outstandingly weak group had really only faced serious opposition from Mexico (15th in the world), and they beat them comfortably, trotting out 3-1 winners.  The Germans blasted the Argentinians down early in the first half, sprang enough quick breaks to make the Argentine defence afraid to support overlapping attacks, then isolated the attackers until the Argentinians were frustrated.  Then the hammer fell, and Argentina had nowhere to run.  Their plan A was spectacular, but they had no contingencies for chasing a game against an opponent that is tormenting your full-backs and is passing laterally through your defensive third at will.  Maybe if they had a Pablo Aimar or another such scheming midfield general, they might have conjured a plan B, but as it stood, they were trapped in a pit of their own devising.
Finally, Spain and Paraguay.  Spain won with unstoppable apathy.  They treated Paraguay with such contempt and dismissive casual play that by the time they realized that they needed to put in a goal to end it in the prescribed 90 minutes, they did so quite comfortably with now-top-scorer of the tournament David Villa.  Paraguay made looking like a bunch of hyperactive second-rate pub-leaguers seem really difficult.  They never really looked like scoring, let alone winning.
Tomorrow, the Dutch take on the dastardly Uruguayans here in Cape Town.  If I go, I am not taking that ghastly Fan Walk again.  Maybe I'll parachute into the stadium to avoid the crowds.
Wednesday, the Germans challenge the Spaniards in what should be the most explosive match yet, as the two remaining offensive dynamos of the tournament go toe-to-toe.
In the meantime, I invite any criticism, discussion, clarification, or augmentation of any of this rubbish.  Feedback is the lifeblood of intelligent discussion in the agora of ideas.
Until next time, cheerio and adieu.
—mARKUS

Enough about bloody England

Greetings, gentle readers.
I'm going to sew up this England thing as quickly as I can, so that I can start babbling inanely about my experiences, and Germany's auspicious rise to football supremacy.
Henry Winter, a noted writer for the Telegraph, reckons that England failed because of tactics.  Only two players on the team, he notes, play in a 4-4-2 system for their club.  He reckons that he failure to switch to a 4-5-1, the bizarre decision to play Gerrard on the left, and the usual old chestnut of playing Gerrard and Lampard in the same team all add up to an England team that are out of sorts, muddled, and needlessly defensive.
I do not disagree, but when trying to find the criminal in this particular mystery, tactics are not my prime suspect. Good players can always adapt to different positions and different systems, generally quite quickly.  José Mourinho proved that when he took over at Chelsea, and Arséne Wenger has earned great praise for shuffling one Thierry "I can't stop handballing" Henry from the wing into a central striking role.
The analysis that made the most sense to me was that of John Barnes, who said that England lack a footballing identity - a spirit or a collective personality that dictates the style of play.  Xavi Hernandez, following Spain's win over Chilé, said that La Furia Roja had found their "trademark style."  Germany has changed their style since the turn of the millennium from being the efficient, cold-blooded 1-0 assassins and penalty shoot-out heartbreakers of the 80s and 90s to the swashbuckling cut-and-thrust passmasters that they are now.  Having a managing team that included and continues to include a pack of strikers like Klinsmann and Bierhoff helped.  But the bottom line is that if you point out a national team, you can generally describe their method of play in terms of a general philosophy.  Holland thrive on flashes of individual brilliance that liberate team-mates from being marked by opponents.  The Japanese are counter-attack specialists that rely on fitness to contain other teams' attacks.  England?  In 1966, they were wingless wonders that played 4-3-3, and players like Greaves and St. John had no place in the structure. They were direct, they liked hitting balls over the top, and forcing opponents to face their own net.  England now?  They change their tactics to suit the players that the FA consider to be the most marketable, or the selections of the biggest Premiership stars.  Gerrard must be in the team, but Lampard and Barry cannot play wide, so they must be the central midfielders, and because Rooney needs another striker up front to play 4-4-2 (of course, they MUST play Rooney), that means there are only two central midfield roles... etc., etc.
A survey done about a decade ago in England asked people to vote for the person they considered the greatest Englishman that ever lived.  William Shakespeare just barely nudged out Isaac Newton for the big nod.  In order for England's national team to succeed, they must approach the game with the scientific discipline and mathematical accuracy of Newton, and, once they know which play they out to perform, audition the players to find out who is best suited to the roles that are required.  The current pattern of hoping a collection of disparate characters will somehow harmonize has proven ineffective.  England needs a cause, a vision, a theme in which all of the players can believe and to which they can subscribe.  If Gerrard absolutely must play on the left side, give him a Shakespearean motif that inspires him to make that sacrifice, and a Newtonian logic that shows a causal link to positive results.
Here endeth the lesson.
Now, as for yesterday's game, it was a bit of lunacy just getting there. And there the lunacy became fantasy made real.
First off, we decided to take the train from Kenilworth in the Southern Suburbs into Cape Town proper.  Normal Saturday service would dictate that there should be one train into town every hour.  Being a special occasion, what with the game and the Fan Park, and the Fan Walk, that amount of trains was doubled. My father and I waited for 20 minutes before the first train arrived, ten minutes behind schedule.  It was so absolutely jam-packed full of humanity that there was no way any person on the platform could board.  The platform was also getting uncomfortably full, and it was starting to get later in the afternoon.  After my aunt and cousin showed up at the station, we decided to take a minibus.  We jammed ourselves into the little vehicle along with another dozen people or so, and I found myself wedged uncomfortably into a seat with insufficient legroom.  My femoral length exceeded the distance between the seat-back of my seat, and the seat back of the seat in front of me, so my legs actually pushed the seat ahead of me until my knees locked in the spot, and every pothole became a fresh hammer to my patellae.  It was like Malawi all over again.
My father finally tallied that there were 19 people in the bus as we barrelled north on the Main Road.

Then we got to the Civic Centre Parade Ground, the point of origin of the Fan Walk.  Most of Cape Town's streets were closed to automobile traffic, so both streets and sidewalks alike were packed with pedestrians.  After a few blocks, we got to the Fan Mile - which has a very New Orleans/Rio de Janeiro Carnivál kind of feel.  People in garish costumes and stilts danced and gambolled around parade floats and small stages containing musicians and DJs.
The other three eventually tired of the increasing crush of humanity as the number of people increased, and the route became more and more funnelled.  Police had cordoned off a number of side streets, and all pedestrian traffic was directed into the single street that led to Green Point Stadium.  By the time my father, Liesl, and Jenny had abandoned the route, and began to try and elbow their way to the Waterfront, it was just after 1500h, and approximately 100,000 people stood between me and the gates.  Kick-off was to be at 1600h.
It was a warm, sunny day.  In fact, the warmest and sunniest day I've ever experienced in Cape Town.  As the minutes ticked by, and the seething mass of people slowly oozed past the samosa kiosks and porta-potties by the streetside, I became increasingly irritated at the fact that most of the people didn't... COULDN'T... have tickets, and were just larking about, stopping every few feet to take more pictures, wipe the runny noses of their brats, drink bottled water, or just stare meaninglessly into the distance.
Eventually, the clot of people that encased me slithered just off the main "Walk" street and toward the stadium entrance.  And then stopped.  It took another 20 minutes to get the fifty feet forward over the crest of a hill and get to a police cordon that stopped people from advancing to the queues for frisking and metal detection. I finally made it through that and into the stadium proper just as the national anthems were booming out over the PA system.
Then, I discovered someone in my seat, the last seat in row 10 - just spitting distance from the left goal-post of Manuel Neuer.  Don't worry, the two Deutschland-tat-bedecked gents in the row said, the seat just in front is open.  Blinking slightly, I shrugged and sat in the last seat in row 9.  I had just settled in and was getting used to such a low, flat view of the game when Thomas Müller headed the Germans into the lead at the other end of the pitch.  The Argentinian fans was aghast.  As I hoarsely bellowed abuse at a shocked and disbelieving Maradona for being a "bloated, cheating drug addict," two lads who had body-painted Argentinian uniforms onto themselves introduced themselves, and had the ticket for row 9, seat 16.  Ah, I tried to explain, these blokes here...
The two Germans looked at one another before the one in my seat (row 10, seat 16) jumped up and sprinted up three rows to talk to a man sitting next to a seat containing nothing but a German national flag.  He came back and told me that I could sit there, and the lads with blue and white cracked paint flakes all over themselves could sit in row 9.  I picked up my stuff and sat next to a very nice German fellow whose company had stationed him in South Africa, and whose English was superb.  I spent the rest of the game in row 12, seat 1, and it took until about the 30th minute for another Argentinian fan to show up with a ticket for row 10, seat 15.  One of the two German men then shifted and moved to an empty seat a few rows up.  A few minutes later, both he and the man sitting in my original spot had dashed off, and I spotted them later in the middle of a crowd of rabid German fans more directly behind the net.  Conclusion:  somehow, despite all of the security precautions and ticketing hullabaloo, these two had managed to get in without a ticket, and were just surfing around to any unoccupied seats.  That would have been supremely easy in Port Elizabeth, where sales were typically a couple thousand shy of capacity, and the weather kept another few thousand ticket-holders home.  The attendance at Green Point was announced at 64,100.  That means that, despite all of the warnings about total sell-outs, etc., the stadium was not completely full, so there might be just enough empty seats for the two freeloaders to get by.  And indeed they did.
As for the game - it was ridiculously one-sided.  The Argentinians hadn't really faced any opposition in their previous four matches, routing all of their opponents en route to being the highest scoring side in the tournament.  The Germans oozed confidence and technique.  They deftly coped with Argentinian offensive pressure, Friedrich, Boateng, Mertesacker, and Lahm effortlessly guiding Messi, Tevez, and Higuain into culs-de-sac and into touch.  The midfield belonged to the Germans, as Müller and Özil slid forward at the steady behest of Bastian Schweinstieger.
The Argentinians were all at sea, much like the General Belgrano in 1982.  They were obviously unaccustomed to being behind in a game, and certainly confused at having to play extended periods in their own end.  Tevez started doing what usually indicates the death-knell of a talented team:  he started to try and do it all himself.  Higuain stopped getting any service up front and found himself an isolated and floundering individual in the inside-left channel.
Nicolás Otamendi had a shocker of a game, and was the target of a lot of ridicule from the passionate Argentinian fans around me.  One particularly vocal lad right behind me must have learned his English from a really interesting source, because his imploring screams almost made sense, but not quite.
"Vamos, Tevez!  You come f**k on me now!  F**k on me here!  Vamos!  Vamos!" he shrieked, lunging from his seat and bouncing several rows down the aisle every time Tevez or Messi gained the ball before dancing elaborately out of bounds.
Three German goals later, the same lad was tapping me on the back and intoning solemnly that Germany will now win the World Cup.  I replied that we Germans love Argentina, because no-one else will shelter our war criminals.  He gives me a baffled look that shows that he doesn't quite understand the words, even if he did know who Adolf Eichmann is.
It was a bit odd that I wasn't quite jumping and cheering as Germany ruthlessly went up 2-0 through Klose, and then 3-0 when Friedrich scored, because I was also singing along with the "stand up if you love Deutschland"-type songs and generally having a good time in a mellow sort of way.  The fourth goal opened the floodgates.  It was deliriously amazing to be carried away by the exuberance of the previously happy, but restrained German fans (like myself) who suddenly lost their inhibitions and recognized that we were a part of history in the making.  This would be a result that would rock the foundations of world football.
Must run now, but will try and return, and post more pictures of the black eagle that I hung around with last week in the hopes that his talons will metaphorically grasp the vierte Stern as die Mannschaft's symbol suggests.
Cheerio for now,
—mARKUS

England? pt. 2

Greetings, gentle readers.

Yes, England is out of the World Cup.  Again.  In a slight change of pace, it's not as a result of penalty kicks or extraordinarily stupid red card offenses.  I've discussed how they were beaten on the field, but there are other factors to consider.
Strategy
The most obvious expression of strategy in a football squad is player selection.  There will be more on this later, but for now, let's just focus on who plays for the team, and how those players are chosen.
A key point of conspiracy theorists is the English FA, the body that first created the laws of the game and essentially invented the sport as we know it today.  They hire the national manager, oversee the training facilities, the youth squads, the officiating bodies, etc.  The question is:  do they interfere with a manager's selection process when it comes to players? 
Looking back at 1966, when England last won the Cup, Sir Alf Ramsay had a number of star-quality, talented forwards, but it was Geoff Hurst who got the big playing time and the big kudos ahead of Jimmy Greaves and Terry Paine.  The big indicator here is not who is played in the games, but who isn't.  Why include players in a 23-man squad if you have no intention whatsoever to use them in any capacity?  Why include Theo Walcott in the 2006 World Cup squad, and not play him for a single minute? 
Good thing that Michael Dawson was able to come in as a replacement for Rio Ferdinand in this year's World Cup... England are out of the tournament and he still hasn't received his first international cap.  Yup.  Never represented his country.  At all.  I guess he got a plane ticket to South Africa and a nice hotel for a couple of weeks. 
Good thing Ledley King was taken along for the trip.  There were suspicions that, having suffered most of the season with injury, he might be a bit fragile.  Crocking himself in the first match seemed to validate such an argument. 
Then there's Joe Hart.  Possibly the best player for Birmingham last season, though that's tantamount to being a gold medal-winner at the Special Olympics.  Thanks for coming out, Joe.  Next time, we'll even let you put on some gloves so you can keep your hands warm on the bench.
Stephen Warnock?  Michael Carrick?  Obviously lynchpins of the team.
The strategy bit is to pick a team, and then make sure that everyone is on the same page, working together towards a clearly identified, common goal using an established methodology.  Formations, passing, and that sort of thing are dealt with using tactics.  I'll get to that next.  Ciao for now,
Cheers,
—mARKUS

England? pt. 1

Greetings, gentle readers.
It's the last day of July, and the 100th anniversary of the founding of the Canadian Navy.  What does this mean?  It's time to examine history, since I have rarely had time to examine current events as they unfold around me. 
The enormous volume of column inches, blog pages, and café serviettes that have been dedicated to the inglorious demise of the English national team since Allemagne/Germany/Deutschland ran roughshod over them enters the realm of the legendary. 
Sighing as I do so, I will toss my tuppence into the matter.
What Went Wrong
England went out.  According to 170 years of tradition, England should routinely have the Jules Rimet/World Cup handed to them as a matter of course.  Every four years, the English press nail the declaration of supremacy to the mast, and hold up the players of the day to be the heirs of Nelson, and every year, quarter-final progession is met with mild disdain, and elimination is met with outright contempt.  Failure is never acceptable.  Yet fail they did.
The Evidence
Those that recorded the England-Germany game, or those with PVRs, or those with some sort of internet access that accommodates replays upon demand may want to try and follow along with my memories at this point.  I might be a bit foggy on some bits.  Those with the ability to replay these: please correct me if I'm wrong.
Goal 1 - Miroslav Klose scores.  Chipped ball over the middle.  The two English centre-backs are all at sea.  Matthew Upson is closer than Terry, but can't do any more than try to half-heartedly foul the German.  He fails, and Klose is past England's rear-guard to stab a ball in past a David James that originally left his line, stopped, then started back-pedalling.  No communication between keeper and defenders.
Goal 2 - Özil picks out Klose, who tags Müller, who finds Lucas Podolski, who effortlessly slots away the ball.  In exactly the way Podolski ought to have done a half-dozen times against Serbia in order to avoid this match.
Goals 3 and 4 - England commit too many men forward when they know that the ball has two outcomes - goal, or loss of possession.  Neither Upson nor Terry has the speed to outrun a dyspeptic slug, and the dynamic Özil and Müller duo rip England apart.  Johnson and "Scarlet Letter" Cole are the only English players that can even stay in the same time zone as the Germans.  Their tackling back looks as foolish as it is futile.

More when more time becomes available... including my evaluation of how England can improve.
Cheers,

—mARKUS

World Cup Update

Greetings, gentle readers.

So last night's footy was interesting.  First, the Italians went down 2-0 to Slovakia, only for a frenzied finish to wind it up with the Slovakians on the winning side of a heated affair, 3-2.  World champions Italy have now been bounced out of the first round of the World Cup for the first time in 36 years.  Good riddance, I says.  They started with their doddering old guard, and changed gears to their untested new blood too late in the tournament.  They were conservative even in their use of conservatism.  This also means that Martin Skrtel is still a going concern, keeping Liverpool participation healthy.
Simultaneously, the Super-Kiwis or All-Whites of New Zealand battled to a nil-nil draw against Paraguay, meaning that they finish the group phase undefeated, but without enough points to progress.  Regardless, this was the greatest World Cup result that that nation has ever accomplished.  How did they manage this?  I put it down to three factors: first, they left it all on the field.  This means that after every game, there was nothing left in reserve; nothing in the tank.  All of them ran their guts out and threw themselves into every tackle, from captain Ryan Nelsen to athletic but talentless sub Chris Wood.  Second, Mark Paston was superb as a shot-stopper.  Not the best at dealing with crosses or smothering rebounds, but his reflex saves were nothing short of astonishingly miraculous.  He would have been made to look foolish a number of times had reason number one not also been contributing — his defence was rugged and mobile, and the long, counter-attacking ball always made the opposition's midfield hedge their bets on going forward.  Third, there was the "oh, what the hell, nobody expects anything from us, so let's just try some schoolboy sh*t" factor.  Behind-the-back volley flick passes, chest-trap-side-foot-volleys, half-rainbow forward flicks, all sorts of nonsense that you never see at international level... New Zealand pulled out all the stops, and more than once left superstars like Fabio Cannavaro blinking and scratching their heads.  If your coaching staff prepares you for a pack of turtling muppets, and they suddenly triple give-and-go around you with knee volleys, you've got to rethink your strategy.  Sure, 50% of the time, the fancy-dan crap didn't work at all, but again, what did the Kiwis have to lose?  They rolled the dice and helped bring down the world champions.  Well done to them and coach Ricki Herbert.
Then, my father, aunt, and I toodled off to The Boardwalk, which is like a permanent fairground, complete with rides, arcades, casino, and amphitheatre.  After some indecision, I walked into a Greek restaurant and waited for everyone else to either join me or go somewhere else.  Either way, I was going to get some food and watch the Denmark-Japan match.  The marinated steak with feta and saffron rice was lovely, though I was a bit disappointed by the results of the game.

Japan scored two pin-point accurate direct free-kicks, and despite Jon-Dahl Tomasson getting a penalty consolation, the Japanese comfortably ran out 3-1 winners.  Daniel Agger became Liverpool's second World Cup casualty, after the elimination of Greece terminated Sotirios Kyrgiakos' run in the world championships.
As the Danes meekly bowed out, the Dutch barely broke a sweat as they swatted aside already-eliminated Cameroon.  The Netherlands take Liverpool's offensive midfielder Durk Kuyt with them into the round of 16.  Samuel Eto'o ended his World Cup campaign much as he began it... marked out of the play and marginalized from possession.  At least he managed a penalty in this final match, a minor victory in an otherwise dismaying series of performances.  African commentators on SABC had many assessments, frequently punctuated by sighs.
Today's matches feature North Korea facing off against Côte d'Ivoire in what should be a meaningless match.  Because of Portugal's earlier 7-0 triumph over the Democratic People's Republic of Korea, the Ivorians can only progress if they run up the score against the world's last hold-out Stalinists, and Brazil kicks merry hell out of the Portuguese.  Essentially, this means that there will only be one African representative in the last 16.
Spain, contrary to the expectations of many pundits, has yet to confirm qualification for the next round.  The Swiss managed to derail what most expected to be a thunderous and monotonous charge to the semi-finals. Former Liverpool winger Mark Gonzalez (born in Durban, South Africa), then defeated the Swiss with his goal as a second-half substitute, leaving a very muddled crystal ball for most prognosticators.
The Swiss have already won the award for the most linguistically adept, with Philippe Senderos answering press questions in six different languages at his last conference.  I despise the Hondurans, so I hope the Swiss stuff them.  The Swiss aren't an offensive juggernaut by any stretch of the imagination, so I'm probably looking at a 1-0 win, all things being equal.

Spain were supposed to win this group at a trot, and now face group leaders Chile.  The neat thing about this group is that  a team with six points could conceivably fail to reach the next round.  If it happens, I'm fairly sure that it would be the first time ever.  One scenario that would see that eventuality realized would be for Spain and Switzerland to win their games 2-0.  The pair of them would go through, and Chile would stumble out after winning both opening matches.  I reckon Switzerland misses out by one goal-for, so let's call Spain to win 2-0.
As for Portugal v. Brazil, I reckon that this is the anti-colonial games, so despite the fact that the throne of Portugal was relocated to Brazil for a while, which makes for a confused colonialist argument, I reckon Brazil does them no favours.  3-1 seems like an appropriate score to me.  North Korea will run about like Billy Whiz and the White Tornadoes on crack, meth, gunpowder, PCP, and cajun tarantula jelly.  The match should be fun as all dickens, as the last bastion of purist, post-Trotskyite communism makes a last stand.  That being said, I call Côte d'Ivoire to salvage some pride by knocking two past them.  I reckon the Red Robots of Pyongyang get one by playing on the Ivorian tendency to lose a bit of dicipline in the face of adversity.  2-1 Ivory Coast.
Just as a point of interest, a lot of the womenfolk 'round these parts have been pronouncing the Français bits as "Coat Deev Wow" most likely in reference to the abnormally large and well-defined pectoral muscles of the whole squad.
Comfortably ensconced in Cape St. Francis at the moment... lunch is on the braai, the beach is 100 yards away, the tide is coming in, and the surf is amazing, so I'm off to eat, splash around for a bit, and take some more snaps.
Cheers,
—mARKUS

Wild Africa

Well, after making a small trek to the interior and driving through one of the many national wildlife reserve parks, I now have a collection of photos of all sorts of African herbivores.  And possibly more than one creature that does not reside in the basement of the food pyramid. 

Despite the numerous signs, warnings, and pamplets that sternly forbid leaving your vehicle, dangling limbs outside of your vehicle, rolling your window down too far, or evacuating too much flatulence within park limits because of the number of flesh-rending monsters within the park, the most violent thing on evidence was probably a family of warthogs.  Lions, tigers, cheetahs, leopards, panthers, crocodiles, etc. were all probably napping in the unusually warm midday sun in some shadowy glade somewhere, or playing canasta in a cave.  In any event, they were nowhere to be seen.  We did come within arm's length of an elephant, however. 

Terribly nice old fella that was just walking past us to go hang out with his kids at a nearby water hole.
The amazing countryside and vegetation goes a long way toward explaining Tolkien's maps of Middle Earth.  As a kid, I always wondered why there were so many bends and twists and turns in Frodo's path toward Mordor. South Africa is a perfect explanation.  A straight line in any direction is interrupted by rivers, plunging chasms, sheer rock faces, swampy fens, or ridiculously thick and machete-proof brush-forest.  The magnitude of the Great Trek as an accomplishment should not be underestimated in the context of these sorts of geographic features.
In any event, we finished our wanderings in the bush just in time to come running back and watch the Italy v. Slovakia and New Zealand v. Paraguay matches.  Still hoping for the Super Kiwis to upset some apple carts.

Aside from the past that I reckon Mark Paston and Kelly Lipke were twins separated at birth, I have no further comment other than to say that I'll try to post some kind of summary afterwards, and before the Danes and the Dutch try and sort out how Group E moves on to the next round.

Cheers,

—mARKUS

More Footy.

Greetings, gentle readers.
I thought that I might be able to settle down for a week, now that I've got the England game this afternoon and the Uruguay - South Korea match on Saturday.  Plane is booked for Cape Town on Monday.  Should be a sedentary week, you'd think.  Not so.  The plan now is to watch the England match and then get up early the next morning in a blind panic in order to follow some of my family's childhood school friends as they go down to a little beach resort near Cape St. Francis (an hour and a half drive west) then stay with them until we have to drive back in a blind panic for Saturday's game.  Nothing can ever be relaxing or mellow on this trip, apparently.  No time for loafing around and wasting time.  Not on HOLIDAY, no sir.
Meanwhile, where was I in terms of the Round of 16?  Group C - I've gotta look at a thorough American win, and a slightly tighter English win. 
If I were to peg it down to numbers, I've gotta like Bob and Mike Bradley's squad to turn all of that anger and frustration at blatant injustice and vent it all over Algeria.  Any ref that interferes with that plan will do so knowing that he will spend the remainder of his officiating career on the Ross ice shelf, adjudicating penguin intramural games. Call it 2-0 with only two minutes of time added on at the end - the shortest stoppage time amount of the tournament.
I think John Terry has taken the fall for a lot of tensions and miscommunications.  As a result of his sacrifice, the team and the coach can move on to the next stage of their team-building without anyone else, like, say, Fabio Capello or captain Steven Gerrard, losing face.  To mix sports metaphors, I reckon Terry leaned into the strike zone and took one for the team, taking all of the media pressure off Wayne Rooney, Gerrard, and Capello, and letting them do their jobs while he's crucified in the press.  After the Wayne Bridge thing, his name is mud anyway, so why not give it all for the sake of the team?  I reckon England come out, guns blazing, snag a quick opening goal, poach another late in the first half, and then cough up a catch-up goal around the 58th minute.  Some nail-biting toward the end, but I reckon they take it 2-1.
Meanwhile, Ghana take on Germany as Australia battle Serbia.  I reckon the Aussie game will have a maximum of two goals scored.  Good news for Australia - Tim Cahill is back.  I reckon the Aussies are good for a set-play goal from a corner.  If Serbia's performance against Germany is anything by which to go, I reckon Serbia take the lead and try to sit on it, Australia get the late equalizer.  1-1 draw.
Germany are just as bitter and steamed as the Americans, but they're just a little less vocal about it.  Instead of implying that the refereeing is done by a pack of ignorant, biased monkeys who are too incompetent to cheat using subtly corrupt methods, Joachim Löw just stated that the team will get better before adding very quietly that they will do so whilst winning the game against Ghana.  Not exactly bombastic Mark Messier-style stuff, but an understated guarantee nonetheless.  No Miroslav Klöse (suspended), but Poldo has something to prove, and we haven't seen Schweinsteiger and Ozil really try to light it up yet.  Schweinsteiger seems to think that he should be replacing Ballack, so he's been sitting deeper and trying to coordinate plays instead of just wading in and launching some strikes.  I reckon Lahm will encourage him to get his elbows a little dirtier in an effort to create some offence, and will join up in some link play himself on the break.  I reckon Germany get a goal from distance, one on the break, and one from swift interplay in the high corner of the offensive 18-yard box. I don't think Ghana can summon more than a goal, but Asamoah Gyan has shown himself to be a game opportunist, so he might poach a first-half goal that amounts to little more than a consolation.  Germany 3 - 1 Ghana.
In other parts of the news, I missed photo opportunities with two different monkeys and a nightjar.  To be honest, I'd never actually seen a nightjar before, only heard them in Malawi.  In an attempt to get some sort of wildlife photography in here, I'll fire in a picture of the two house dogs.  If they weren't quite so rowdy, I'd be tempted to pull them in the house and use them for furry sources of warmth late at night.

Erm.. Oh, and at the England game, I'll be sitting in the twelfth row behind the corner flag to the lower left of the main televised pitch area.  I'll be wearing a St. George's floppy jester hat, if anyone is looking.
Well, it's bedtime for me, and until I rise, good night England and the colonies.
Cheers,
—mARKUS