I’ve been living in Sydney (on and off) for about six a half years and I’ve never made it to any sporting event. I mean one in which I would actively participate. Until today when I joined the crowd and enjoyed unparalleled experience of Sydney’s own City to Surf.

Honestly, I didn’t feel like talking about it until this morning as I wasn’t quite sure if I would run. One reason was my world-famous laziness, however, there was also an official one (in case somebody pretended to be interested) — my sore right foot. The second obstacle was healed by my wonderful therapist just in time so I only had to fight my reluctance. I won. Shite. Now I’m sore all over.

So for the first time this millennium, lucky Sydneysiders and even luckier visitors could see me running. And what a picture it was! I saw some Japanese tourists taking photos of me off Vaucluse, obviously trying to capture arrival of foot-and-mouth disease to Australia.

Nevertheless, I have to admit I wasn’t by far the funniest of the family-reunion-styled bunch of 65.000 workout-hungry earthlings.

I noticed at least two Borats in mankini, champs pushing supermarket trolley with slabs of beer (that got gradually emptied as the race progressed), a fellow pushing his mum in a wheelchair (this member was actually faster than me, bugger!), and even guys carrying their laziest mate on a stretcher. Where were my friends? Where were my brothers when I needed them most? I could have enjoyed a free ride trough Australia’s poshest suburbs without a drop of sweat!

Instead, I was left to jog through 14k route. And yes, it does hurt. Especially if it’s the only 14k one has done ever since leaving high school. Chasing chicks cannot count, as it rarely involves actual act of running.

Sun was spitefully beaming at me, vile volunteers were throwing cups of Gatorade at me, bored millionaires at front gardens of their luxury mansions were recklessly watering me with hoses, leisurely smoking cigars, big bands along the route were torturing me with jazz tunes, yet nothing could stop me from finishing victoriously in my new track record.

Looking forward to your congratulations.

One day in March Gabriel landed in Sydney. After shaking hands, we made it to the city, lunched together, hanged out for a while, had a dinner in a local Czech restaurant and after couple of beers, we started making music the very same night.

I appreciated Gabriel’s visit ‘cos not only brought he eight-year-old Bacardi waiting to be terminated by two displaced Slovaks, he also tuned my guitar. Thank you, brother. Would you have three weeks on your hands plus dosh to burn, pop in anytime, it needs tuning again. And please don’t forget the bottle!

As it happened, Gabriel also unintentionally brought the vibe with him. So much for the chances.

That night we penned She has a soul, a subtle piece about a girl searching for Mr Right. As it’s widely known and I’m happy to discuss it over and over would the need arise, there’s no Mr Right — but Gabriel and/or myself.

However, our heroine overlooks Gabriel and has never heard of me. She might be sort of drowning, instinctively searching for meaning of life and love. For the record, I’m quite aware that meaning of life is 42, though I’m not sure if our dear audience knows that meaning of love starts with Gabriel’s or my telephone number. (For these who are about to call: Gabriel handles northern hemisphere, I do the southern one.)

Without knowing the reason, composing was a piece of cake. Straightforward. Summer breeze. It wasn’t until Gabriel returned to U.K. that he realised what was behind the breeze and consequent ease. It was a girl. A genuine babe somewhere out there, radiant, peachy, vibey, relaying waves of desire and motivation over the oceans.

Indeed.

However, by the time we realised who the lucky one was, she was gone. Never mind. Her long distance vibe inspired a tune. That is what most struggling songwriters long for. Including lousy pretenders like Gabriel & me.

It’s been well over a month since any of us had a second to spare to add content to this site. Few things happened, though. Charlie blowing out his first candle, Tony resigning as a Prime Minister of United Queendom and Apple releasing their long anticipated iWonder. And, not to forget, Emilia coming over to check out our world. Welcome!

We’re rolling on!

I just went through a funny ordeal: had a DVD stuck in an optical drive. It couldn’t be ejected and had to be physically removed from a dismantled drive. Sounds cool now but I warn you not to try it at home. Surgery can change into autopsy any second.

I was watching a DVD movie the other day and once I finished I was to eject it from my MacBook Pro’s SuperDrive. Hitting the eject button, DVD disengaged and after few seconds engaged again, disappearing and reappearing as a mounted device on a desktop. Obviously, my Mac enjoyed the movie too and decided to keep it for itself.

Funny, thought I. Something’s going on. Tried over and over to same results, fighting the film. Tried to restart and hold the trackpad button. Nothing, or rather the same again. At this moment, normal people call technical support and give up. But since when am I normal?

The very first thing I did was to search Internet forums. How to get a jammed DVD of the drive? People come up with different ideas, they use credit cards, paper clips, tweezers, turn computer upside down, or whatever else, just to trick the drive to release the offending movie. So I tried all of these, slowly coming to a sad conclusion: I will have to dismantle the whole bloody thing!

Love Actually running on a fully functional, yet semi-dismantled MacBook Pro which still has the SuperDrive top casing removed.

What can I say. Got repair guides from the Internet (www.ifixit.com and powerbookmedic.com are a great source), all necessary screwdrivers, summoned my two assistants (one of whom took photos) and conquered the Mac. It takes roughly 30 screws to get to the drive.

However, once I had a drive, I still didn’t have a movie. So even the SuperDrive had to be dissected into pieces. Then, finally, I had my beloved DVD back. It was brand new few hours ago and now looked at me beautifully scratched by a credit card (which I rendered useless, too) and punctured by tweezers (they survived).

Now, talking about autopsy is one thing and trying to operate without qualification is the other. Yet, I put it all together. Drive was a bit tricky though with proper pressure applied to its screws it engages and releases discs far better now than before. I know ‘cos I let the laptop run while still on a slab, adjusting the screws for the best performance.

This is me enjoying a glass of bourbon while Peter is admiring my precise work.

The rest was a piece of cake. Top casing with keyboard, screws, memory, battery, more screws and ready to fire! All good.

And what was that movie, you might ask? I answer very quietly, OK? Notting Hill. You won’t tell anybody, promise?!

Lately, I got into trash movies. You know, ones that nobody watches, and even if someone does, he or she is embarrassed to talk about because they’re so awful. Awful to the point that people want to forget them straight away, however not dreadful enough to become cult classics. For now, of course, as I smartly suspect they grow into the league of finest same way the best wines do.

Yes, these are the movies I watch lately. It all started rather accidentally as one night I decided to watch something different. That different was Because I Said So. Although I expected a bad movie, I was dying for it to finish. Still, I just couldn’t storm off. The movie was so tragically atrocious that I just thought - hey, what if they did it on purpose to create a timeless masterpiece that Quentin Tarantino would scrutinise and appreciate? I haven’t had a chance to talk to Mr Q lately, but I believe he wouldn’t. It’s creepiness and freakiness that’s missing. Important ingredients, mind you!

Than I ran into another one, that goes under a name of T4xi. For those who are trying to find a reason for such a stupid name, there’s a hint. Maybe it’s a sequel. Or maybe it’s a sequel of a sequel. Or, what if it’s a sequel of a sequel of a sequel. Yes, that must be it. One might also encounter this disaster under a pseudonym Taxi 4. Without letting too much out, it’s a French comedy. An evidence that Gaulish flicks can be as hopeless as their American counterparts. Fortunately, not all of them are.

And next example: I attempted to see… Hm… An older one… How was it called?? So bad I even forgot its title. Body? Bladder? Belly? Yes, that’s it! Bingo! Real hard core stuff about Afro-American businessmen. Impossible to dig, impossible to cope with. Outstanding gem. I couldn’t distinguish between all them niggaz, they were all kind of blending into one. Pity they weren’t wearing badges. Anyway, I can still highly recommend it to those who are about to enter the trade.

And there is so many others that I just can’t get out of my mind. Take Date Movie. One gets sick just mentioning it. Still better than Basic Instinct 2. And the ultimate epic of the nineties, probably first movie I ever walked out on, Showgirls. Though, I have to admit, it was so extremely grim that it’s already on its way to be a cult classic. A piece of crap is turning into masterpiece.

Thinking about it, I might be doing the best thing: watching trash means watching future finest. See, how clever? So would you know of any marvels-in-waiting, please do not hesitate to let me know. A short email or comment will do. And thanks for watching!