The wasteful Life of Waltre de Daltre.

5It's been three weeks since I started to listen the Brain Super Charger CD, and I must admit that things are beginning to change for the better. Maybe it's just because of the deep relaxation, or maybe it's Mozarts concerto for two piano's, I don't know why, but I can really get the sense that I'm in for something completely different.

It's like; the other day I was in a meeting at work. It was, as usual, not very entertaining and totally useless; but then one of the older men began to make noises. He was smacking his lips and letting out small grunts. I glanced over at him and realized that he was asleep.

The meeting went on without him, but every now and then he would grunt or smack his lips, and the expression on the big bosses face was a joy tee behold.

One couldn't help but smile.

We were all exchanging eye contact and trying not to smile, but it soon became too much for us to cope with. First one person started laughing, then another, and pretty soon we were all laughing.

The laughter woke the old guy up, and his attempt to act like nothing had happened really got us going.

The only person not amused by it all was the boss, but to his credit, he didn't tell the old lad off till he had him alone after the meeting.

The old guys response, out of the bosses hearing, of course, was: "Fuck him if he can't take a joke!"

I got me thinking.

Like; every person at that meeting had a totally different aspect of it - in that everyone saw the meeting without themselves in it - because everyone at the meeting could see everyone but themselves.

Do you get my drift?

It's like we all see the world around us, but we don't see what other people see, because they can see us, and we see a world without us; and as such, in a way, we are all observers of a world that is slightly different.

I was thinking about it all while shaving; and it occurred to me that while I can look in a mirror to see myself; I can only see one aspect of myself. All I can see is the front side. I suppose I could surround myself with mirrors to see myself from as many angles as possible, but I would still only be seeing the things that I choose to see.

In a way, we all distort what we see. Be it from prejudice, love, hate, hope, or self preservation, we all distort what we see; and to make matters even more complicated we all have our own little worlds within the bigger world, and we call a small part of that inner world our conscious mind. Our conscious mind is what we use to try to fool the world we see into believing we are something completely different than what we actually know, or think we know, ourselves to be.

But are we really what we think we are? I doubt it. I also think we are wrong in what we think other people are. We are obviously wrong on both counts.

How could one not be?

How can anyone actually get it right?

The world is illusion, there is no solid truth in it but that we are here observing it, and that we are jumping to wrong conclusions.

It's like; God made the world, and then He wanted to see what it was like from every angle.

Every crack in this world is teeming with life!

It's like: Let's see what it looks like from this aspect, or this one, and observers are all over the place. I have no doubt that as I type, seemingly alone, typing away in my computer room, drinking my beer, smoking my ciggy, that I am being observed, and that I'm being very carefully weighed up by spiders. They are observing me right now, and they are observing me with the same miraculous observation thing that I was while sitting in the meeting where the older gentleman fell asleep, and thus, he made the most profound statement that he was capable of making, and we all loved him for it.

We couldn't help but smile, and in a way God smiled too; because in a way we are all God looking at our wonderful creation.

"Do yee not know that you are God's?" Jesus said in bewilderment.

And we all live in bewilderment, and the only true feeling is bewilderment; ah but, it's also true that bewiderment can produce a feeling of awe and wonder, and what is life without such a feeling?

Waltre

Waltre put the CD into Jeans expensive looking stereo player before placing his ear phones carefully over his ears, then he tapped the start button.

A mans voice spoke very softly.

"To get maximum effect from this CD you should be lying down."

Waltre hit the pause button; took the CD out of the stereo player and placed it into a small boom box that was conveniently sitting right on top of the expensive looking stereo player, then he took the boom box into his bedroom and lay on the bed. He put his ear phones back on and tapped the start button..

The voice told about how much better he would feel after hearing the CD, but warned that for an hour or two after hearing the CD one might feel a slight anxiety. The calm voice said it was normal, it would go away, and that it was nothing to worry about.

"The soundtracks are designed to open a window into your unconscious mind and awaken your hidden potential. The first part uses the brain supercharger technology with its precise frequency combinations to re-direct the energies of consciousness and unleash transcendental states of blissful ecstasy and expanded awareness. The second soundtrack, Mozart brain boost, uses a specific musical formula known to enhance spatial reasoning. You have plugged in your brain to launch your consciousness into the ultimate mind journey."
Waltre took a deep breath, held it for a few seconds, then released it just as a high noted pinging sound hit him right in he middle of his head. Another ping hit him just to the left of the first one, then a soft pong gently dropped in to the right. A sound, like the noise crickets make, started to tickle an area on the left side of his brain. Then the sound of an organ, the type of sound that depicts deep space in movies, seemed to emerge as if from a distance. It slowly got closer, and closer, and closer, until it was a full blasting sound. Then it stopped, and a ping sounded right in the middle of his head again.

Pings and soft pongs hit him here, then there, and all the while the organ sounded different notes. The notes went high, then low, they retreated then came back again, and the sound of the crickets kept on moving very slowly from one part of his brain to another.
The sounds were in perfect harmony, and Waltre began to feel very relaxed. His breathing became deeper and slower. His legs and arms felt heavy. It was like his body was asleep, but his mind was wide awake. He was amazed by the fact that he could actually feel where the sound vibrations were touching his brain; it was like he was inside his brain, and his attention was completely focused on what was going on inside his head.

He caught the sound of a voice. It was barely on the conscious level. The voice came in then out, but it sounded calm and assured. He tried to catch it, to hear what it was saying, but the more he tried to hear what it was saying, the more it eluded him. He instinctively felt that to understand what the voice was saying he must completely stop trying to understand what it was saying. He knew that he had to let go. He knew he had to let go completely so as to even have a chance at hearing the words that the soft and gentle voice was saying.
His right hand index finger began to twitch.

Then it stopped. No pings, no pongs, no organ, no crickets, and no voice. There was just silence.

The silence was astounding. Waltre felt amazed at the beauty of silence. He could see that silence had a mystical quality, and in some strange way, it also had a sound. It had a sound that was a none sound, it was as if sound and silence were as one. It was like...

The first note of Mozarts brain boost hit him right in the middle of his head.
The shock of the first note caused his body to jump off the bed like it had been hit by a jolt of electricity.

The sound of the piano calmed him down. The music danced around inside his head, and he marvelled at the genius, the mind, the actual thing, the fact that Mozart had created this thing out of his own head!

"How did he know this stuff?" He thought, as Mozart's musical notes danced around his brain.

He sank into the sound. It was like Mozart was talking to him. He was saying it's like this, and this, and then it goes like this for a while, but then it goes back to this again.

Waltre smiled. It was a genuine smile, and it came from his deepest smiling self.

"What a scene?" He thought.

When Mozart had finished entertaining his mind, he felt wonder and astonishment, and he even felt a slight touch of amazement.

Then he had a nice afternoon nap, and he felt glad that he wasn't outside as the rain pattered on the window.

When Jack came home, he met Waltre in the kitchen. He looked at Waltre in a very strange way.

Then he went down to the basement.

Day four

Waltre awoke at 5;30 with a slight headache. His mouth was dry, and his nose was stuffed. He waited till the recluse, Jack, had finished banging around in the kitchen.

When he heard the front door closing; meaning Jack had gone to work, he decided to get out of bed.

With his first sip of tea he took his heart medication, then he inhaled his asthma medication, and then he took two pain pills.

After going on line he checked out the Drudge Report. Paul McCartney was having serious trouble with his ex-wife, President Bush was having serious trouble with North Korea, and the idiot in Iran was having serious trouble with his sanity.

What a scene! He thought.

He remembered what Meg Ryan had said to Tom Hanks in the movie Joe versus the Volcano:

"Ninety nine percent of the world is asleep. The one percent that is awake remains in a constant state of amazement."

Waltre didn't feel amazement, so, he presumed, he must be one of the sleepers.

Even the idea of being asleep didn't amaze him. He'd suspected it for a long time.

He checked his email. There was only one, and that was from a Yahoo group he'd helped to form so as to maintain his link to his birth place: Birkenhead, England.

The email came from Bill. He was continuing a recent theme about drowning ones sorrows in beer, and he lamented the fact that sorrows had learned how to float.

Waltre had already tried most of the worlds religions, and none of them had worked for him.

Buddhism said that sorrow is part of life, and Waltre agreed. He liked Buddhism, it had a lot of truth to it, but the real truth was that the Chinese took over Tibet while the Buddhist Monks chanted for peace.

Waltre didn't drink to drown his sorrows; he drank because he was three quarters Irish and one quarter English. Drinking was in his genes, and he had took to drinking like a cat takes to catching mice.

His slight hangover was almost over.

Waltre checked his pulse, it was slow and steady. The asthma medication had cleared his bronchial tubes and he had stopped coughing. The pain pills made his back hernia, his groin hernia, and his head, feel a lot better.

The news was just the usual news, and after reading the Drudge Report he began to feel bored.

"What now?" He thought.

Four days off from the duty of working for a living was a bit of challenge. It had not been a problem when he was a younger man, but now his options were limited to those of the mind, and his mind felt fuzzy and confused.

He decided to go downstairs and smoke a cigarette. He lit up. Then he decided to peruse the book shelves again. He'd read everything that the recluse, Jack, an avid reader, had passed on to him, it was all politically conservative stuff, but it had some truth to it. Jean, however, was not a conservative, and her book shelves were full of mystical subjects. He'd found an interesting book on her shelves written by a psychiatrist from Siberia that had actually found ways to cure schizophrenia.

She'd found out about the ways from Siberian Shamans.

Waltre took a look at a couple of books, but he soon put them back. Then he took a book off the shelf titled: "Super Brain Power". It had a "Brain Supercharger CD - Included - Free!" Or so it said.

The book was about merging eastern mysticism with quantum physics. It was about merging the left side of the brain with the right side, and it was about how to do it.

Waltre scanned the pages, taking in a bit here and there, and it looked like it was right up his street. The author promised that if one listened to the enclosed CD, one could immediately reach the levels of Buddhist Monks. "The sounds on the CD will take you to an altered state of consciousness." He promised.

The CD was still in the book.

The only essential was that one listen to it on stereo head phones, and while Waltre had a very nice stereo to listen to, he did not have head phones, but he quickly decided that he had to give the CD a shot, so he took a shower, and went to Wallmart for headphones. Then he went to Fred Myers for beer, and that's where we are now.

Waltre will put it to the test tomorrow.

Day three

The third day of work was like a warm summers breeze, and Waltre was at his charming best. He even managed to calm the Buddhist women down, but he was helped greatly by the fact that the Muslims managed to stay awake. At the end of the day the production numbers for the Foreign Legion Department were excellent, and Waltre left the factory feeling like he was floating on the hydrogen that they used to pump up the air bags.

As usual Sam was at the door bumming cigarettes, and Waltre gave him two.

"Have another one for the ride home."

'You wouldn't happen to be going by..." Sam said.

"No, I'm going to Portland and I'm already late." Walter quickly cut him off.

"Jeez, give him an inch and he wants yer bloody wallet!" Waltre thought.

He walked past the old Lincoln Town Car, and he was pleased to see that the windows were still intact. He made a mental note about he must not be prejudiced against rap music, and he worried, for a moment, about the karma he had sent out by wishing some one had broken the old Lincoln's car windows and stole the stereo.

He quickly apologized to the Universe and hoped his car windows weren't already broken!

He found that they weren't broken, but he suspected that in some parallel universe, probably in most of them, actually; he would now be standing beside his car looking at a smashed in window, and he'd be wondering where his stereo went.

"It's a good job I'm in this version of it all" He thought before dialing the radio to the Mexican channel.

He liked the Mexican music, and he was delighted to hear that the trumpets were blowing beautifully. He turned the radio up to it's fullest capacity and reversed out of the parking spot only just missing a big black woman.

"Hey!" She yelled.

Waltre put on the brakes and and rolled down his window.

"You almost hit me." The woman screamed.

"Yes, and you are very fat." He said.

"What did you say?" She shouted at the top of her voice.

"I said I'm very sorry about that."

"I can't hear a word you is saying." She yelled. "You ought to turn that music down."

Waltre turned the radio down.

'Sorry." He said with a big smile.

"Yer you ought to be too. I'd sue your ass, and Nikes too." She said as she turned away.

Wouldn't get much out of me. He reasoned

On the drive out of the parking lot, Waltre made another mental note. "I must watch my subconscious mind"

The traffic was as smooth as it could be for a Sunday, and the trip home only took forty minutes. He stopped at the Safeway store for beer, plus a frozen dinner, and once again wished that he'd took the time to fill in the Safeway card. He could have saved two dollars with the damn card.

Once home, after opening one, and then taking a deep swig, the beer was deposited in the already full of beer fridge.

"That damn recluse." He mumbled, as he arranged the beer so he could fit his six pack of pints in.

He took his pint of beer to his office, more realistically, the room where his computer was, and he turned the computer on. Then he turned on the Oreck XL professional air purifier, as well as another lesser known air purifier, plus the window fan, and another fan that directed the air to the window. Then he placed a towel at he bottom of the door so no air could get into the living room.

He'd promised Jean, who thought she owned the house, that he wouldn't smoke in the house.

He lit a cigarette. Then he pointed the mouse thing at the MSN logo and clicked. The MSN thing came on the screen. He entered in his user name, then his password, and clicked whatever it is he clicks to get onto MSN.

The slow dial up procedure began.

A very slight knock came on the door.

"Is that someone knocking on my door?"

He could hardly hear it; what with all the noise of the fans and air conditioning stuff, like.

He opened the door to find the recluse; who, by the way, thinks he owns the house.

The night before, Waltre had had words with the recluse. He couldn't understand why the damn recluse had decided to emerge from the basement to do his laundry, and potter around in the kitchen, after eight O'clock, when he knew damn well that Waltre had to be up at three thirty in the morning. The recluse, who thought he owned the place, got very angry. Then he went back to the basement...banging the door very hard, I might add.

Waltre expected an apology, but the recluse had knocked on Waltre's office door to tell Waltre about the latest antics of his cats.

"That damn Trixie, she brought a mouse into my room, and she played with it for hours."

Oh well, Waltre thought, I guess we aren't enemies after all.

"Was the mouse alive?"

"It was for the first two hours." He replied.

"They are animals." Waltre said. "Animals do things like that, and that's what makes us human, because we don't do things like that."

"You are right." He said with a drunken smile.

"Jean and Angela always petted the cats, and they got carried away with them."

"Cats are animals." Waltre said. "They are only allowed to be around us because they catch mice. Why else would we put up with that shitty fuckin thing that they shit in?"

Waltre could sense that the recluse had probably called Jean to complain, but Jean had probably told him to get his sorry ass together or Waltre would soon be moving on to better pastures and taking his six hundred dollars a month with him.

"Cat's are animals." Waltre said. "Imagine what it would be like to be a mouse."

"Hmmm."

"Imagine what it’s like to be smaller than a cat. Can you imagine it?"

"Hmmm."

Imagine a huge cat coming down on you, and imagine the look in its eyes."

"Okay."

"Would you like to be smaller than a cat?"

"No I guess I wouldn't." The recluse said.

"Now imagine what cats see when they see you." Waltre said.

"Hmmm, I'll have to think about that."

Think about it my arse. If you piss me off you are out $600, and cats make Hitler and Stalin look like they are compassionate.

"Fuck you and your cats." Waltre thought, as the recluse departed while pretending to think about a new viewpoint on cats.

"Think about what it would be like if you were smaller than a cat." Waltre threw at him as the recluse went back to the basement.


Waltre wnt back to the computer, and typed in Friday Night Philosophy into a heading. Then he remembered that it was actually Sunday night. So he drank the last of his beer and went to bed, but not before eating his frozen dinner, which was absolutely delicious.

Day two

The second day of the work week was easier, and Waltre felt energized by the thought that it was only a three day work week. Three twelve hour shifts were easy to take when one was on the second day, and especially so when one had four days off to look forward to.

It was a strange day. The Buddhists from Vietnam and Cambodia, that came to America after the Vietnam war, were complaining about the Muslims that had just recently came over from Somalia and Senegal. The Muslims were still on their fast, and many of them were falling asleep while operating their machines.

The Vietnamese women liked to get high production numbers, and as such they were in a bad mood.

"They no eat! They need eat!"

The Muslims weren't taking any notice. Ramadan is the holiest period of the year, and they weren't going to break their fast just because a few crazy oriental woman were pissed off at them.

Waltre spoke to Neurain about it.

"The fast is almost over." Neurain said. 'It might even be over today. We are waiting to find out what the moon looks like in Saudi Arabia. We'll know more at two o'clock."

Two o'clock came, and the moon said that the fast wouldn't be over till Monday.

"Such is life."

Waltre secretly admired the Muslims for actually doing such a thing. He had a hard time doing any of the "Thou shalt not" stuff. He particularly had a hard time when it came to the Muslim Virgins that paraded around the factory completely covered up.
Neurain had told him that the Muslim women could only show their face and their hands. They only show their bodies to their husbands, he'd said.

The Vietnamese woman didn’t like the idea of the Muslim women covering everything up, and neither did they like the sight of the American girls showing almost everything they had.

Waltre thought it was funny. The second generation Vietnamese girls liked to wear jeans that were tight around their arse, and even the Muslim virgins wore dresses that hugged their arses so tight that they could hardly walk!

Sex will find a way, he thought, as he watched a young Muslim girl wiggle along the white lines that signified a walking aisle.

"Give them a few more years and they'll be wearing very short shorts and skimpy halter tops." He decided.

The days numbers weren't much worse than the usual, so Waltre felt satisfied with his small part of productivity as he made his way to the exit where he hoped to find his car in one piece. The security wasn't as good outside the building as it was inside. A few cars had had their windows smashed recently, and few stereo's had been robbed.

"I hope they got that fat black woman's stereo" He thought as he went to the door.

Sam King was standing outside the door looking for a smoker.

"Hey man, do you have..."

Waltre gave him a cigarette.

"Related to B.B. King my arse." He thought as he made his way to his car. "And those fuckin chords on the piano do not make sense!"

"Three finger chords man. They are easy." Yer right.

His car windows were intact, as were the windows of the car that had spurred him into action only a day before.

"Fuckin cell phones!" He said as he turned on the ignition.

"Fuckin religion." He said as he drove out of the parking lot.

"Fuckin wasted lives!" He mumbled as he turned onto the main road and took his place in the heavy traffic.

"I'll have a good talk with my subconscious when it nags me about wasting my life again!" He thought as he drove home to his fridge full of beer.

Day One: Waltre De Daltre

It's funny how moods come and go. For instance; Waltre awoke, then rolled out of bed at 3:30, it was not a problem, and he did his usual routine before driving to work. However, just before he got to work he suddenly felt very sad. He felt so sad that he almost felt like crying. He couldn't put his finger on why he suddenly felt so sad, but he suspected it was because his subconscious mind was trying to get through to him again.

"It's probably trying to tell me about how I'm wasting my life away." He mumbled to himself as he guided his new Suzuki Reno into the parking lot.

He parked in his usual space, beneath the branches of a big Maple, and turned off the engine.

"It's got to be done." He mumbled. "Without this place the new car will have to go, and at my age I can't be arsed going through all that interview process again. I'll probably have to pump gas, and there's no company benefits, least of all health benefits, for gas station attendants."

As usual, he was among the early arrivals, so he decided to stay in his car for a while longer than usual.

Loud rap music arrived just before a Lincoln Town Car, and, as he expected, the car pulled in right next to his car.

The music jarred his nerves, and he looked over at the driver. It was a very large black woman. He recognized her as one of the smokers. She like to talk very loud on her cell phone during smoke breaks.

"I hate fucking cell phones." He mumbled before deciding not to smoke during the breaks anymore.

"I fucking detest Rap, and I fucking hate the idea of going into this fuckin place!"

The woman was in no mood to go straight to work either, and she kept the engine running as she listened to her choice of sound.

For Waltre, it was just the Universe kicking his ass again. It was telling him to shit or get off the pot. The rap music told him that he had to go somewhere else, and the simple choice was to go back home or get out his brand new Suzuki Reno and go to work.

'Some choice!" He thought as he reached for his badge.

'At least I'm a black badge!" He thought.

He hooked the badge onto his jeans pocket, and then he trudged slowly toward the entrance.

The smokers place was next to the entrance, and as usual the small white woman was laughing and shouting out her opinions.

"Does she never stop!"

He swiped the badge past the little red light, and the door opened.

The sound of the factory came to him only a split second before the energy of the place. The graveyard shift was almost done, and after working all night, they were ready to go home, but the factory was filled with their energy.

A small Oriental woman walked past him as she rushed toward the rest rooms.

'Hi Waltre." She said with a smile.

"Hi Yan." He replied with a smile.

He knew his smile was phony, and she probably knew it, but a smile was a good thing to receive at that God forsaken hour when a twelve hour shift weighed so heavily on ones soul.

"Ah fuck it." He thought. "I usually do better when I'm in this kind of a mood."

And he did, he picked up on the energy, and he wasted another twelve hours of his life, but he drove home in his new car, and he had a nice house to go home to, and the fridge was full of beer.

Moved again

No more of small town America, I'm back in the big city again sharing an old house with my old mate - ex-brother in law - John and a big screen telly that I finally figured out how to use.

John lives below the ground level and I live on ground level, but both of us use the back yard to drink beer, smoke ciggies, and discuss the world and life at large. It's a case of two aging men, farting and burping, drinking a lot of beer and doing what beer was meant to enhance. The art of conversation is alive and well in Portland, Oregon.

To be continued.

July fourth

The fourth of July, independence day in America, and the small town of Hillsboro, Oregon, was having a parade that passed right past my porch.

It started out with the cops flashing their lights while riding their moter bikes, then came a fire engine followed by a few tractors, and then came another fire engine. Amongst the many fire engines and tractors we got horses with riders on them, and I was reminded of G.K.Chesterton. He said: anyone that cannot see the strangeness of a man sitting on a horse is already dead from the neck up.

The strange thing about a parade in small town America is that almost everyone seems to want to see it. People place chairs along the route the day before the parade, then they wrap tape around the chairs so as to lay claim to the space. They do it in Portland too for the Rose Parade. I suppose it's even stranger, in a way, that people actually respect the strange custom, and even stranger still that no one even thinks about stealing the chairs while they are left out over night. As such the people that have their chairs in place can arrive just in time for the parade and be assured of a good view.

The street was lined with people three or four deep, and they cheered and yelled as the people in the parade threw candy at them. The biggest cheer of all came when the Hershy chocolate float came by. The next biggest cheer was for the VFW's. They marched with such a pride that I almost got the drift of it all.

A float with the local survivors of Pearl Harbour also got my attention. Four old men sat in the float, they were smiling and waving, and obviously still very thankful to be alive. Then a float came by with a big photo of local lad P.F.C. Charles Hennings who had recently lost his life in Iraq, and I could easilly imagine it to be a photo of my son who served with the Marines over there. I thanked God, once again, that my son came back intact in both body and mind. He told me that when he got back he actually kissed the tarmac of the airport that he landed in. He sent me this article today: http://www.taemag.com/issues/articleID.19267/article_detail.asp

Both my children are Americans, they know instinctively what America is all about, but it's still a big mystery to me. I still don't know what it's about, but I watched the parade and kind of hoped that I would pick up some clues.

A few jeeps came by followed by a few vehicles with machine guns on top. The machine guns were manned by small children.

Many more not so small children followed doing somersaults and waving flags. Then a float carrying about thirty very small cub scouts really got my attention.

Their eyes were full of innocence, and I remembered an old photo of myself when I was their age. I was a sea scout. The sea scouts didn't really take off like the boy scouts, but never the less I was once one of them, and I was just as innocent looking in that photo as the boys looked on the cub scout float.

I looked at their innocent eyes, and I remembered what it was like to be so innocent. When I was their age I played on bombed out rubble and lived in a pre-fab because the Germans had bombed our houses. I remembered stories that terrified me; stories about poor Mrs or poor Mr that didn't get to the shelters or decided to stay home. I had nightmares about air raids for many years even though I never experienced an air raid, I was born in 1948, I could imagine it, line after line of planes, and this is the first time in my life that I've even mentioned my childhood nightmares...I still get them, actually...and I wondered about what kind of nightmares the young children on the float might be having. But the truth is that what scares some does not scare others, infact, what is terror to some is a delight to others.

My son recently told me some home truths about the Marines, about the sheer and totally insane blood lust, and it explains why he decided to be a communications officer instead of an Infantry officer. Then just yesterday my daughter told me about how she had fallen out with some girls because they set up an innocent white guy to be beat up by a three black guys. One of the girls was going out with a black guy and he was very jealous, so feeling her sexual power she played the very innocent white guy to a position where he would get beat up.

I am amazed at my innocence, and I thought about it as I watched the parade.

Ah yis, it's a rough old world tee be sure, but America is still parading, and her people are cheering. I'll never get it. Maybe it's because of my nightmares. I don't know, but I do feel lucky to be living in America on this July the fourth.

The fourth...

This is a very good article, written by a man from India, about America's good side.
http://www.taemag.com/issues/articleID.19267/article_detail.asp

A Scouser to the rescue!

According to a newspaper report a poll reveals that only six percent of people in the USA are closely following the world cup. Seventy five percent show no interest at all, and nineteen percent don't know if they are following it or not. I'm sure the six percent consist of Hispanic's, those like me that were born in other countries, and some of the employees at Nike. The seventy five percent are working their arses off and can't see past the next pay check, and the nineteen percent are still trying to figure out the question and would like it to be repeated.

If not for Nike, my brothers emails from Birkenhead, and the Tranmere and Non-trfc email lists my world cup experience would be a lonely one. My son phoned me yesterday saying: "I see your boys are doing well." He said that he had planned on driving up from Eugene to watch the quarter final game on Saturday with me, but he had to change his plans. He said that should England reach it, nothing would stop him from watching the cup final with me, and he assured me that as the competition reached its climax he can detect a growing interest amongst the people in Eugene.

The competition is in deed at its more interesting stage.

Like everyone else I have not been filled with admiration by Englands performances, and if my life depended on a prediction I would probably go for Argentina, or Germany, or maybe even France, and what about Brazil, who knows when they will decide to turn it on. I can only be thankful that I don't have to make such a prediction because this world cup is still up for grabs. It's still anybodies guess, and, with the exception of Argentina playing well, and England playing awful, the best teams in the world have consistently been inconsistent.

I can easily see the possibility of Argentina and Brazil coming unstuck in the next round. Germany and France are picking up a lot of steam and could easily go all the way. On the other hand...

"You have to be big and tough to survive on these mean streets. The day his son was born, Wayne's father - thrilled by his son's huge hands and ears - cried out: "Look! We've got ourselves a prizefighter!" The Rooney clan with its working class, Irish-Catholic roots had produced another slugger." From Der Speigel: "Britains Back Street Boy." (Link below)

I just watched the Wayne Rooney press conference on Sky Sports via the Fox Soccer Channel, and it amused me to think that England's hopes are resting on a young Scouser with Irish roots that can't put four words together without saying "erm". "It's like, erm, I see myself, erm as erm part of the erm team, like." He says while scratching his head.

Don't get me wrong, it doesn't really matter that Rooney can't speak very well because he's got the ability to communicate sheer poetry with his feet and from the size of his heart. It's also amusing that it's obvious just by looking at him one can tell that Rooney has a lot of Irish blood, hence the tag potato face on the non-trfc list, but none of that matters to anyone, least of all to Rooney. For a lad that didn't get to kiss the blarney stone and get the gift of the gab, he seems to be communicating very well about what England need to do to win this world cup; and the way he teamed up with Nike to create that poster of him roaring like a warrior with Englands George Cross painted, still wet and shiny red, on his body says it all. For England to win this world cup they will need to feel the spirit that Rooney and Nike have tried to communicate. It's fair to say that Nike have ulterior motives, but can anyone say the same about Wayne Rooney?

No matter what happens in this world cup, be it a huge England victory, or just another case of mis-placed hope, I will always remember it as the Wayne Rooney world cup. He epitomizes Englands only chance.

England should not be playing in their white home shirts against Portugal, they should be playing in George Cross red shirts, red shorts, red socks and black boots. England needs to see and play in red and forecast death to the opposition with their show no mercy black boots. England is not Brazil, and they never will be, but England does have a talent that the Brazilian's will never have. England has pluck and grit, England has a stubborn streak, and England has a history of digging deep when the situation needs it, just like Rooney dug deep within himself to regain his fitness. It will take all of that and a wee bit more for England to win the world cup, but if they do win it through pluck and true grit, oh how much sweeter the victory will be.

The victory will be life inspiring, it will be a victory that touches us all at our deepest levels, it will give hope to a lot of bad speakers, and it will make a lot of English people cry, and lets face it, the English need to get the ability to cry. No more of this stiff upper lip crap, crying is natural, like, and erm, it kind of, erm gives a release, like.

Come on England, just do it, just get mad and see red, do it for ones own pride, but most of all do it for INGERLAND, and if you can't quite get inspired to do it then let the dreaded Scouser show you how.

http://service.spiegel.de/cache/international/spiegel/0,1518,417769,00.html

Rock and roll - England

The American commentator on ESPN said: "You can say what you want about the Brazilian and the German fans, but when the English fans get rockin an rollin they are a sight to behold, and for my money they are the best in the world."

The camera then showed the English crowd, and I have to admit, all national modesty aside, that they really were a sight to behold, and they were rockin and a rollin and shouting and singing and I looked at the very colorful sight of it all, and it felt good to see the English being English. When the English get going they even put the Irish, Scots and Welsh to shame.

If there's one thing I like about the Irish, Scots and Welsh, it's that they feel no shame in being patriotic. I like more than just that about them, of course, I've got the lot of them swilling around in my beer enriched blood, and in a way I identify with them all. However, seeing as the larger part of my blood comes from the wee Island across the Irish sea, as well as the type of beer that I drink; and seeing as I am legally a citizen of the Irish Republic, I identify with the Irish a bit more than I identify with the Scots and Welsh, and I love the Irish music. It reaches a part of me that can only be reached by listening to it. I can easily see why the American blacks once loved their soul music, it was personal, it was tailor made, and it spoke to them in a way that only it could. The blues, played with rich and heart felt guitar expressions, came out of soul music, and out of the blues came rock and roll.

Maybe that's why rock and roll speaks to all nations. It came, after all, out of a sadness of heart and from the realization of the folly in and of the human condition.

Rock and roll is the child of sorrow and pain, and maybe that's why we rejoice and feel so good when we hear it. Rock and roll is the triumph over the unjustness and the down right agony of it all. It's a triumph of our human nature over the nature we were all born into. Ah yis, we are all the children of Mother Earth, and she lets us know it time after time, and yet, some how, we alone, amongst the children of Mother Earth, try to be some thing different. We really don't know what it is that's driving us to be rebellious children, but we know, some how, that we don't like the ways of Mother Earth.

As well as being a citizen of the Irish Republic, I am also British, or I should really say I am English. My Grandad was English, and I was born and raised in England. I am Anglo/Irish. I feel no shame in feeling patriotic towards my Irish-ness, and I feel no shame in feeling patriotic towards my English-ness. Seeing as my children are yanks I feel a bit of patriotism there too.

Is there really any understanding of it all? I doubt it. There's not one iota of it all that makes any sense, you can talk about mathematics all you want, but what has that got to do with all those flag waving cheering chanting rock and rolling Englishmen. Is there a formula for it? Is there a formula for rock and roll music?

The English, upon hearing it for the first time, took rock and roll music to their heart. What does that say about the English soul? It could even be said that when one hears the words rock and roll people think of England, as in the American commentator saying "When the English get rockin an rollin..."

Think about it.

And I loved it. My heart was with all the rockin and rollin English supporters. I felt some thing that only seeing such a thing could deliver. I felt a feeling of at one-ness with them. They were me and we were we and we were all together.

If the people of this planet are ever going overcome the dog eat dog world of our mother Earth nature, we will need to be as one with each other, and it has to start some where. Destroying patriotism, like some people seem to want to do, seems to me to be the wrong way to go about it. Surely patriotism is the first step along the way to total oneness.

Can you here the coca cola song" "I'd like to teach the world to sing in total harmony..."

What a load of rubbish!

It'll never happen on this planet, but at least we can get a bit of harmony through patriotism.

I don't know, I don't know much of anything, and I'm probably making no sense what so ever; but I know I like a patriot no matter what country he belongs to...that is as long as he doesn't plan on...you know what I mean...there's just something about a patriot that I like; and I like rock and roll too.

Walter