'You are trying to experience disorientation and panic': a lesson in helicopter survival

In the event that I am aboard a helicopter that crashes into the sea, I can survive. I'm certified.

Last week I took a trip over to Robert, Louisiana, where Shell Oil has a large training facility for most everything related to offshore oil production. It was the command center when BP's Macondo well blew out, sunk a rig and led to one of the worst oil spills in history. It's a place dedicated to education and safety - you are even required to back in to all parking spots to minimize the risk of auto collisions (a requirement, a later learned, that is actually common at work sites throughout the oil industry).

It is also home to one of the Gulf Coast's most renowned centers for HUET training, or Helicopter Underwater Egress Training. It is a class required of most everyone who might ever go offshore in a helicopter. Of course, that population is made up almost entirely of people who work in the oil industry - not just the roughnecks and roustabouts that work on the drilling rigs and production platforms but also the crews of supply ships and support vessels for those same facilities. And of course the parasite reporters who cover such things.

Shell had invited me and a couple other reporters to come check out the Noble Bully I drillship, which is drilling for the oil company about 70 miles off the Louisiana coast at the Ursa/Mars prospect in the Gulf of Mexico. It would take about a day to get there by boat, but only an hour or so by helicopter. Since we'd be flying over water - and since helicopters have a nasty habit of, well, crashing - we needed to be trained in escape.

The class kicked off around 7 am and began with a few terrifying videos of sinking sea ships and fleeing sailors. That was enough to get us to pay attention. The instructor said, quite soberly, that the most important thing you need to have in order to survive is something worth surviving for. For him, it was his wife, kids and grandkids. Maybe it's a girlfriend, he said. Maybe it's a cherry car. Whatever it is, you need to keep that thing in mind at all times if disaster does strike.

We proceeded to learn some nifty survival stats and strategies. The instructor extolled the virtues of life jackets, which may seem kinda obvious. But it turns out that, especially in cold waters (less than 59 degrees F), a life jacket can triple your chances of survival. In waters that cold, you won't survive more than one or two hours because the coldness will wear your body down. But with a jacket, even in frigid seas, you can survive up to six hours. Don't take 'em for granted.

Other tips: If there is a group of you lost at sea, lock arms in a circle and kick in three- to five-second blasts to create a pulse effect. It creates a target of whitecaps visible from the air. Kick in short bursts so it looks like a signal. Also, beware of static electricity caused by chopper blades when they lower a cable to pull you from the water - it'll travel right down the cord and the hook. Let the hook hit the water first so the static electricity dissipates.

That's all helpful info, of course, but that is not the aspect of HUET that gets the people buzzing. In the afternoon, we moved to the pool. We performed progressively harder underwater tasks like swimming through doors, inflating our coveralls as a flotation device, and so on. Then came the main event - the dunking.

The pool is equipped with the shell and spartan innards of a faux-helicopter cabin attached to a mechanism that lowers and spins the whole contraption upside down. Four of us at a time sat in seats inside, strapped in by a seatbelt, and were instructed on how to jettison the windows and the doors. After punching them out, you must find and grip a reference point so you don't get more disoriented and can find your way out when the frigid seawater rushes in (although we were in a heated pool during training).

"You are trying to experience disorientation and panic," the instructor told us.

And so there we were, strapped in to our simulated disaster cab. "Brace for impact!" someone shouts.

"Brace! Brace! Brace!"

We clutch our seat belts for dear life as the vessels crashes into the surface of the water. The cabin quickly fills. It's up to our ankles and then our knees, and then the whole thing starts to flip. Stomach, shoulders, neck - quick! take a breath because it may be your last! - and we're submerged, and still flipping.

Air bubbles everywhere as the water shoots up my nose and into my ears. The disorientation is kicking in heavily now. We must wait before the violence subsides and the vessel comes to rest before we can punch out the windows. We must remain strapped in even through this so the rush of water does not throw toss us around the cabin.

I'm upside down and searching for the handle that's supposed to jettison the door. I can't find it. Panic is beginning. Somehow my hand glances it and I'm able to push it open as my stolen breath moments earlier at the surface is reaching the end of its life span. I weakly get the door off and clutch for the seat belt latch. It comes off stubbornly and, using the reference point of the top of the open doorway, I push myself out and barely make it to the surface - arms flailing, as instructed, to clear the path of any potential debris from the crash - and gasp for breath. Safe. Alive.

Click here to see my video of what happens (on the surface). 

This is not embellished. I actually needed a little assistance from the scuba team that served as a safety net for this particular run-through. I had to do it again in order to pass the class, and pulled it off slightly smoother, or at least with less panic and no help from the scuba guy. The upside down thing is tough because, to jettison the door, you have to reach down a bit to find the latch. When upside down, you actually have to reach up a bit. It's tricky when disoriented to begin with.

Nevertheless, I am now certified. Two days later, I and some of my classmates flew out. We made it to the rig and back with no problems, thankfully. But I knew that, if we ditched, I would have shit my pants.

Tales of a plumbing refugee

We have been having plumbing problems for a while at our house here in Montrose. It's the bottom floor of a rented duplex on Sul Ross & Hazard. It started with a backed up sink, and then a backed up shower. As the problem worsened, nastier and nastier water started to fill the various basins in the house. A plumber would come and clean out the pipes, the problem would subside for a few weeks, and then it would return.

Fast forward to last week. We had spent Thanksgiving break in Big Bend National Park, which is pretty much the most incredible place I've ever seen. But it's a long way away. So after driving in the car for about 10 hours, we got home a little after midnight to find the plumbing issue had come to a head.

A foul odor was coming from the bathroom. I turned on the light to find the tile floor crusted about a half-inch think with... raw fucking sewage. It was mostly toilet paper, caked and soggy, but there were unmistakable globules of feces scattered about, as if some deranged easter bunny had come in and shit in secret corners and left his deposits there to crust over. The toilet and floor were covered in this stinking sludge. A thick black gunk covered the bathtub, which would not drain. It stunk. It was one of the most disgusting scenes I could imagine. (The image to the right was taken several weeks ago, but that is the sludge that had been flowing into our tub every so often. We came home to find our entire bathroom covered in this stuff - plus shit.)

Our landlord has been handling it, to her credit. She sent over a cleaner who spent about two hours scrubbing the shit out of the bathroom (literally) with a big bottle of bleach. She has put us up at a nice bed and breakfast just a block down the street, the Modern B&B, which is quite a nice place (and recommended). The chef makes the best omelet I've probably ever had, made to order. It all seemed well and good, just a relatively minor (if momentarily repulsive) inconvenience. Until...

Late Thursday afternoon I got a panicked call at work from the landlord. The plumbers had to replace a chunk of the sewer line because a tree had grown up right on one of the connections to the house and the roots had run rampant over the tree's 30-year lifespan. Obviously a substantial operation that required permits from the city because of nearby power and gas lines.

"Is the dog inside?" my landlord asked. Yes. "Can you come and let him out? I don't have a key and there's a gas leak. The fire department is here." I was about 30 minutes away. She said she would break down the door and rescue the dog if she needed to. This minor inconvenience had just turned into a life-threatening emergency.

CenterPoint, the local utility, had come the day before to mark off where the gas and power lines were. But apparently they mis-marked. The plumbers, digging with a shovel, nicked a gas line. It started spewing gas; apparently you could hear the hissing. You could smell it five blocks away. When I got home, fire trucks and policemen had blocked off the road for a block in both directions. The house next door was evacuated (ours was empty aside from the dog). Eventually the leak was stopped and the house was deemed safe to re-enter. Inside I had a newspaper, unread at the time, with a story about an explosion, initially blamed on a leaking gas line, that leveled an entire neighborhood in Indianapolis. O saw the story the next day, and shuddered.

Thankfully, the story remains only a frightening hypothetical. But it could have been devastating, and an unforeseeable conclusion to what started out as a simple plumbing annoyance (maybe not so simple, but still). We are still staying at the B&B; the plumbers, I think, were spooked because they have not been back to work since. I'm pretty sure the sole blame lies with CenterPoint because of their shoddy marking job. That's inexcusable. What's worse, when the landlord called them immediately after the leak was discovered, it took them more than an hour and a half to show up and set things straight. Luckily the fire department was able to stop the leak, but how that doesn't qualify as an urgent emergency that requires immediate action, I have no idea.

Anyway, we are all safe, and still essentially homeless, or, at least, unable to use what is actually now a very clean bathroom.

Deerhoof is the perfect band

Somehow I forgot how much I love Deerhoof. I was lucky enough to catch them on their way through Houston earlier this month at the new Walter's near all the art studio/warehouses on the north end of downtown.

It was not a full house. A friend who was potentially going to come along (and did not, his foolish mistake) asked if it would sell out. I was couldn't say for sure. In retrospect, I guess Deerhoof is not exactly the kind of band that packs 'em in. Their shows are a sort of performance art, from the awesome arm-pump-leg-kick dance moves of lead singer Satomi Matsuzaki to the furious and fascinating drum explosions of Greg Saunier. What's happening on stage somehow perfectly describes the chaotic but carefully crafted soundscape that emerges from the four band members. Deerhoof is often noted for being difficult to classify or described. I find myself experiencing that difficulty this very moment...

In Houston, they dished out generous helpings of what I consider their hits from The Runners Four and Friend Opportunity, as well as some of the hottest tracks from their latest, Breakup Songs. For me it was just one euphoric explosion after another, experienced in the tight three-minute pop-song format that they have upended, reassembled and reinvented into something wholly unique. There is no one else like them.

Pre-show, my wife and I were lingering around the merch table when Satomi casually seated herself and remarked on my wife's shirt. We realized who she was and couldn't help but relay to her that we had seen them twice in Vancouver, six years ago, with the first show being the first concert we had ever attended together. She seemed pleased to hear it. On the table were the usual vinyl recordings and T-shirts, but also something that is truly a blast from the past - a cassette tape containing the band's latest album, for $6. If you buy the tape you also get the mp3s, so it's actually a better deal than iTunes, plus you get a hardcopy. We were swayed.

Leave it to Deerhoof to take an idea that seems abrasive and turn it into something that's just perfect.

Halliburton exec gets off

In a truly unexpected turn of events, given the circumstances, the Halliburton tax executive who got caught with his pants down (allegedly) trying to solicit a prostitute north of Houston has had his court case dismissed.

A Harris County jury came back hung after prosecutors presented the case, which hinged on a sting operation by the Sheriff's department. It seemed fairly straightforward: cops pose as online hookers, find johns willing to pay them, set up a meet, agree to swap cash for services, handcuffs come out, and that's that. This time, somewhere along the line, the case fell apart.

CultureMap reported that Joseph Andolino's lawyer said the undercover officer who testified against the senior vice president of tax was not a credible witness. The lawyer accused her of altering officer reports and destroying evidence. The upshot: Andolino is a free and, in the eyes of the court, innocent man.

Not much more has emerged from the case than this, and you can be sure that Halliburton is happy to have it swept under the rug. If nothing else, it's some pretty rock-solid lawyering.

One other amusing part of the story, as the Houston Business Journal reported: This alleged solicitation, assuming it actually happened in the first place, would have occurred right around lunch time no a Thursday afternoon (Andolino and six others were arrested at 1pm). Let's just say that is a helluva lunch meating (or would/could have been).

Add Minus the Bear to your list of live bands (or: How to find a paying fan)

Minus the Bear has for years been on my list of band to see live. Their entry onto that list and my introduction to them occurred simultaneously. I have always remembered it as an example of the right way to disseminate and monetize music, proof that even in the era of post-physical music media, there is a way to cheaply find new - and hopefully paying - fans.

It was the summer of 2006 and I was making the drive from Northern California to Vancouver, BC, where I was a grad student. Minus the Bear's eponymous classic Menos El Oso had recently hit stores. I was only vaguely familiar with the band by name only, but somehow managed to get an in-studio performance they did at KEXP in Seattle downloaded onto my iPod. (I think I had subscribed to the radio station's podcast feed and it magically appeared there.) I decided to give the 30-minute podcast a shot and was subsequently blown away by what I heard. The podcast host was very enthusiastic about the band as well, which no doubt colored my impression. But it was undeniably good, unique and interesting music. Before I busted across the border, I decided to rid myself of the remaining American cash I had and headed to a record store somewhere there in the Pacific Northwest. The glitchy delays of "The Game Needed Me" from the in-studio were still echoing in my mind and I happily threw down enough bones to buy the CD (as well as The Avalanche by Sufjan Stephens, which is also solid). It's a purchase I never regretted, and those tunes carried me throughout my final year of J-school.

Fast forward to last Thursday and I found out with only a few hours to spare that Minus the Bear would be playing that night at Warehouse Live in Houston. With nothing better to do, I went and checked them out.

First of all, I had no idea they had such a dedicated following. That's a hard venue to sell out, and I don't think it did, but the place was utterly hopping with gleeful fanatics - people packed in, just giddy with anticipation. It was one of those electric pre-show atmospheres where people are just so excited to see the band that they let out a pre-emptive cheer before anyone is even on the stage. When the band finally did emerge, almost every song turned into some sort of singalong followed by sincere, unadulterated gratitude in the form of ovation. 

And they deserved it. They were tight.  Guitarist Dave Knudson is the real deal, a joy to watch and listen to. The most telling sign of the loyalty of their fan base (or perhaps an indication of the crowd's intoxication level, which was notably high) came when the band seemed to fuck up the end of one song. Not being very familiar with many tracks other than those from Menos el Oso, I didn't notice anything at first. But the song did seem to end rather abruptly, and the band members were looking around a bit sheepishly. It was then that a deafening uproar arose from the crowd, possibly the loudest moment of the night. Slightly baffled at this reaction, lead singer Jake Snider just kind of laughed, amazed. "Most people woulda said, 'I caught you,'" he said, still riding the wave of support the crowd was offering. The band then proceeded into the next song as if nothing had happened, and no one seemed the wiser.

As I said, I recognized a total of maybe four songs, including "My Time", which I had listened to for the first time only moments before I left for the show. While enjoyment of a concert is usually directly proportional to one's familiarity with the music, I still had a blast. I would see them again. The enthusiasm of the crowd definitely helped. There was more crowd surfing than you might expect from a mathy stoner-rock band like this one. There must have been a half dozen bodies hoisted up to ride the sweaty whitecaps, all told. Houston is apparently some sort of bastion of Minus the Bear fandom. The band acknowledged as much at the end of the show.

For me, it was the climax of a simple story set in this unsettled era of popular music - I heard the band in a promotional spot, liked the music, bought the music, enjoyed it, and then went to seem them play it.  If nothing else, it offers hope to young bands out there trying to make it. I guess it helps if you have something original to offer, as Minus the Bear surely does. 

The Giants win the pennant! - a fairweather reflection

I've been a fan of the San Francisco Giants my whole life, but I still like I'm fairweather.

It's just hard for me to follow baseball anymore. I invest so much time and energy into the NFL and NBA seasons, I feel like I need to take the summer off. Baseball is the biggest grind - day in, day out - for both the players and the fans. The game, to me, is compelling for its tradition, its longevity, its role as the presumptive pastime of our nation (even if that unofficial role was usurped by football long ago).

I took my wife to the first baseball game she had ever seen. It was in Beijing, during the Olympics. The match was between South Korea and the Netherlands (the Asians mercy-ruled the poor Europeans in four or five innings I think). She grew up in China and had absolutely no concept of what was happening - the strike count, a fly ball, running the bases, all abstract nonsense. These are things that most Americans seem to understand at birth. But when I tried to explain it to her, I found myself getting confused when trying to describe even the most basic concepts. It's a game that is incredibly intuitive in a lot of ways, but to explain it somehow saps it of its magic. It's really quite ineffable, and is much better experienced sensually and through cliche - the crack of the bat, the smell of the grass, the hot summer evenings, the fleeting moments of intense focus broken up by zen-like re-adjustments of a glove or tracing shapes in the dirt with your cleats. It's because of those things, and not my failed attempt to explain what was actually happening, that my wife had a blast that day - just a nice afternoon at the ballpark. It's simple, possibly even pointless, but so much depends on it.

But I digress - the fact is that the Giants are world champions for the second time in three years, which incredibly puts them in league with some of the greatest teams ever to swing the collective bat. (I can't help but wonder what would have happened last year if Buster Posey hadn't suffered that brutal leg injury... I want to say three-peat.) They are a thrilling team to watch, packed with colorful characters, and so obviously a cohesive unit. A model sports franchise, in my opinion. I just wish I could consider myself a bigger fan.

I did go watch them play when they were in Houston for a series late in the summer. They won, obviously, and by the 8th inning, there were only Giants fans left at Minute Maid Park, quite a few by my counting. Now the Astros are moving to the American League, which disgusts me partly because I have no use for the AL and its ridiculous DH, but mostly because that leaves me with precious few opportunities to see my favorite team play in the flesh, save for the odd inter-league series every few years.

And one more thing - the Giants' championship run this year made me a little sad because it came only a few weeks after my cousin, who was just a few months older than me, passed away after a painfully short battle with cancer. He was one of the biggest Giants fans I knew, and he deserved to see them win one more. The romantic in me assures the cynic that he was watching from some cloud up there, or perhaps from a different dimension entirely. And maybe he was. It's just too bad his physical self was not here to join us in rejoicing. He would have led the cheers. We miss you Nathan.

Downhole services - Halliburton tax man gets stung near Houston

A senior Halliburton executive got caught with his pants down in a seedy area north of Houston this month when an online dalliance led to handcuffs and a mugshot.

Joseph Andolino was allegedly soliciting the wrong kind of downhole services and found himself snagged in an undercover prostitution sting that netted six other men, according to a release from the Harris County Sheriff's Office.

He appeared in court on Friday and his lawyer said he was not guilty. A hearing was rescheduled for October 30.

Halliburton tax man Joseph Andolino, caught
allegedly soliciting illicit downhole services

The 59-year-old is listed among the oilfield-services giant's top corporate executives with a title of Senior Vice President - Tax. The company has confirmed that Andolino "is a Halliburton executive".

It was unclear whether Andolino's time with the pressure pumping pros would have a happy ending.

"We expect our officers and employees to maintain high standards of professional and personal conduct, but we do not comment on personal matters," a Halliburton spokesman said.

In the sting, female deputies with the vice squad posed as online escorts and arranged to meet Andolino, among others, at a location near north-bound Interstate 45 and Farm-to-Market road 1960, an area near Houston known for whores and human trafficking.

"Once the suspects arrived and made an agreement with the undercover deputies to receive sexual services in exchange for money, they were arrested," the Sheriff's department said, adding that all seven men nabbed in the sting were charged for prostitution.

Forays into sexual transgression is not exactly an uncommon thing in the oil industry. Just consider the names of some old and existing oilfield outfits and brands: BJ Services, Thrustmaster, Ballgrab... the list goes on. Back in the day, oil conferences were not the stuffy corporate glad-hand parties they are now, but flesh-fests teeming with loose and busty women selling the hottest downhole tools. 

I heard one story the other day (unconfirmed) of a top executive with one of Halliburton's competitors who was sent to Venezuela to negotiate a contract. Business is apparently still done the old-school way down there, and the executive was surely treated to the finest food and the tastiest strip clubs Caracas could offer. One particular pole dancer mesmerized him, and he fell madly in love. Apparently his wife and kids were in town along with him on a work holiday of sorts. the exec divorced his wife within days, swearing his love and life to the woman who had captivated him so by stripping on stage and shaking her stuff. 

Ballgrab, for offshore mooring

Oilmen are probably no more likely to have a dirty sex streak than other professionals. Anytime a buncha dudes sit around for days on end without a female for miles will give in to unhealthy urges of varying shades of moral gray. The booming Bakken oilfields of North Dakota are not just putting the nation's roustabouts to work; prostitutes are flocking from across the country to ply their trade in the man camps up north.

I guess there is something about guys who make a living probing holes deeply with powerful tools to the point of a sticky liquid explosion, all over your hands, your face... It's hard work.

An 'inelegant' debate

Talk about "inelegant" phrasing.

The term that defenders of Mitt Romney et al have used to explain the Republican's tone-deaf and often dismissive statements applies ten fold to what Sierra Club lobbyist Melinda Pierce told Politico reporter Andrew Restuccia about the uber-controversial Keystone XL pipeline.

This is what she  said:

“Clearly, if the president were to go forward and approve the project even after review has shown that it’s damaging to the environment  ... we’ll call a spade a spade.”

A spade, huh? Ouch. 

The story is about how green groups are acknowledging that their supposed win in January, when the Obama administration did not approve the pipeline, won't amount to much when he almost assuredly goes ahead and approves it early next year (assuming he is re-elected). This seems like a foregone conclusion to me. 

The only reason Obama denied the original application was because Republicans forced his hand with a provision in an otherwise unrelated highway bill saying that he had to decide within 60 days whether to grant a permit for the pipeline. When forced, he said 60 days was not enough time to finish a review of the environmental impact of the pipeline, and denied the the application. 

This was an unintended political gift for Obama because it allowed him to burnish his green credentials and fire up a large portion of his base. In his heart of hearts, I think he knows the pipeline is an inevitability, and to fight it would give his opponents easy fodder to attack him on issues like jobs and the economy, where he has proven vulnerable. 

The main argument against the pipeline is that it will speed up development of Canada's vast and filthy oil sands, which is one of the biggest deposits of oil in the world. There are all kinds of environmental concerns associated with the oil sands, most of them valid. Keystone opponents say the US should reject the pipeline and the oil it brings so as not to promote oil-sands development. The problem is that the Canadians will not stop producing the stuff either way, and the oil will eventually have to go somewhere. So why not bring it here? Not accepting it on principle is not a very salient argument against it because, economically, it's a bit naive. Furthermore, we already import almost a quarter of our total oil from Canada (2.7 million barrels per day last year, according to EIA), and a big chunk of that is from the oil sands. Keystone would allow more Canadian oil to flow to the US, it's true. But so much already does.

I'm pretty ambivalent on the whole thing. I'm not wild about the oil sands in general, but I also know that there is no stopping their exploitation, and the US will need that oil no matter what. Whoever the next president is will approve the pipeline, I think that's a given. Obama has been able to parlay the issue into a political victory, and when he (seemingly) reverses course, well, apparently he will be called a "spade" for it. Nothing elegant about that.

An unambitious reboot

In what is something like my tenth effort to restart this blog after, again, failing to maintain even the slightest shred of continuity, well, here I go again.

Yes, I have moved on in life. I spent the better part of three years in China and Singapore and moved back to the US at the end of 2010. I re-emerge married, with a dog, and living in Houston, writing online for an international oil and gas newspaper. Meanwhile, the Leaner has fallen into disrepair.

This new iteration will no doubt reflect my interests as they exist now. I suppose they are not a whole lot different than the last time I felt the need to spout off into cyberspace. But my work as an energy reporter skews my interest toward the mechanisms that fuel our world. So readers, if there are any, can expect a fairly regular dose of commentary related to energy news of the moment, if not the day.

My professional focus on energy and business has no doubt colored my viewpoint of how the world works compared to how I approached things years ago. I am not such a bleeding lefty in terms of economics (mainly because I understand economics better) and I hold a grudging respect for the forces that power our world despite the often ugly means to vital ends. Maybe living in Texas had made me more sympathetic to the "other" side as well.

Nevertheless, the Left Coast Leaner will maintain its moniker, primarily because I don't feel like coming up with a new one. But it is obviously geographically inaccurate, for the time being, and possibly a slight political stretch. But I am still fiercely on the side of the social liberals and believe in a big, well-funded government. I believe renewable energy is the way of the future, and should be helped along as such, but am also quite certain that our hydrocarbon-based society is not going away in our lifetime and to believe otherwise is just fanciful. I have no patience for truth-benders and fanatics on either side of any argument. I value and respect style and precision, but am also lazy. I will be a Sacramento Kings fan until they move to Seattle or Anaheim next year (and probably even still then), and I think the Maloof brothers are evil, incompetent fucks. I like movies, I like books, I like sports and music.

This reboot, assuming it takes, will be a work in progress; blogger has a lot more features now than it did two years ago. I will start with the writing part, and I guess go from there. I'm not that great a blogger, in part because I don't read that many blogs or websites outside fantasy sports analysis. I read the Wall Street Journal and Houston Chronicle and the New Yorker in hardcopies, and countless press releases and RSS feeds at work.

I'd be happy if you joined me.

By the way, I will most certainly keep up my old standards of absolutely untimely posts, possibly focusing on events that occurred weeks or months prior. I am doing this solely for the sake of getting words on (virtual) paper and breaking the corrosive rhythms of my increasingly predictable life. I don't really expect many people to read, but am grateful for those who do (and even more so for those who come back).

And one final disclaimer: this blog in no way reflects the views of anyone affiliated with my employer (or my employer itself) and all thoughts expressed here are mine only.

An ode to disc golf in Singapore

Not a lot going on in Leaner land, but I thought I'd direct your attention to something I wrote about Singapore's tiny disc golf scene, such as it is.

This column originally appeared in last Sunday's Straits Times, and can be accessed here, provided you have a subscription. In case you don't, I've also reproduced it below. Lemme know what you think.

Round of disc golf, anyone?

Standing on the 18th green, putter in hand, I test the direction of the wind with a pinch of grass before I line up my shot. A moment of breathlessness as the putt heads towards its target... and drops! Birdie. It’s my best golf score yet.

But this is no ordinary game of golf. This is disc golf.

Its rules are identical to those of the traditional game. But instead of balls and clubs, this game uses discs – not Frisbees – of various moulds to reach the target, which can be a tree, a pole or, on a proper course, inside a metal basket.

Disc golf has been a hobby of mine for nearly half my life. I’ve won money in tournaments and have played courses on four continents: North America, Europe, Australia and Asia (I have not yet made it to the course that exists in Antarctica).

Singapore does not have a formal disc golf course. But that does not mean the game is not played here.

A couple of times a month, a group of us meet for a round. The size of the group varies, and it consists mostly of expatriates. Sadly, locals rarely venture beyond the invite list.

Disc golf can be played anywhere where there is a handful of open acres, preferably with a few trees for obstacles.

Such places are surprisingly numerous in Singapore, and we take our show all over the island, setting up nine portable “baskets” made of canvas and netting to create impromptu courses.

We’ve been known to take over the open spaces near MRT stations like Kallang, Bedok and, most recently, Outram Park, throwing discs and trying to make par.

Passers-by observe us with a mix of awe and bemusement. Many stop to watch the strange sight of ang mohs chucking things in a field.

Rarely does a round pass by without one of us explaining to an inquisitive onlooker what it is we’re doing (“It’s just like golf...”). Once that’s understood, it’s all chuckles and suspicious smiles as they wait for us to demonstrate.

A hefty drive – up to 150m with a good pull – never fails to elicit oohs and aahs and, of course, an enthusiastic “golf clap”.

At first, these occasional weekend rounds were enough to satisfy my disc golf habit.
But after a few months here, I was getting urges to play on weekdays, in the mornings, in the evenings – whenever I could. But Singapore doesn’t have anything resembling a permanent course.

So I decided to build one.

One day about a year ago, I was in a taxi in Upper Serangoon and happened to pass by the old Bidadari Cemetery. My eyes got wide. Such a boundless expanse of unused public land is a rare sight in Singapore. In short, it was the perfect place for disc golf.

I did my research and learnt that Bidadari had been a mostly Muslim and Christian cemetery until it was closed in the 1970s and exhumed beginning in 2001.

It has apparently been slated for development for the last several years, but the only perceivable sign of civilisation is the North-East Line’s phantom MRT station, Woodleigh.

In the meantime, I’ve designated some tees, collected some fallen branches and stuck them in the ground for targets and – voila! – it’s an 18-hole disc golf course. I hope the ghosts don’t mind.

Yes, disc golf is fun to play. But for me, it has also been a vehicle to explore and interact with new and local landscapes.

I’ve played courses in vastly different settings, from the ancient redwood forests in California to the crags of the Rocky Mountains. Each individual spot reveals its own unique flora, fauna and history. Bidadari is no different.

Photographers armed with telephoto lenses stand quietly near Hole 8 trying to catch a glimpse of the rare and brilliant birds flying from branch to branch of the sprawling banyan trees.

At Hole 2, the seeds of saga trees, hard and red as rubies, fall to the ground. An old man gathers them to line the bottom of his wife’s fish bowl.

Relics of Bidadari’s past litter the grounds. From the conical tops of Muslim grave markers to what appear to be directional signs scrawled in Arabic, mementoes of this land’s history are everywhere.

Disc golf in Singapore pre-dates me. The evidence sits along the Nicoll Highway, across from Suntec City behind the Raffles Education Corp College, in the form of a proper, metal disc golf basket.

I have been unable to ascertain why or how it exists. Hopefully the spirit that brought it here and keeps me playing will carry on long after I’m gone.

Sunday Times
August 8, 2010
Page 33

For the last time -- it's soccer

It was a sad end last weekend to the US's glory run into the knockout stages of the World Cup. The US team generated amazing amounts of excitement Stateside; the game against Ghana was the most-watched soccer game in US history. But alas, it was not to be.

That's OK, though, because I can point to another victory for Americans that took place off the field and appears to have been won last year, upon the publication of the book Soccernomics: Why England Loses, Why Germany and Brazil Win, and Why the US, Japan, Australia, Turkey — and Even Iraq — are Destined to Become the Kings of the World's Most Popular Sport.

I wrote more about the book (and made the following point) here, if you're interested (in short, the book is worth reading).

It was penned by Financial Times sports columnist Simon Kuper and sports economist Stefan Szymanski, both of whom are bona fide Englishmen (or at least British citizens). On the subject of whether or not the game should be referred to as "soccer", these Englishmen write (emphasis my own):

"At this point, let's agree to call the global game 'soccer' and the American game 'football.' Many people, both in America and in Europe, imagine that soccer is an American term invented in the late twentieth century to distinguish the game from gridiron. Indeed, anti-American Europeans often frown on the use of the word. They consider it a mark of American imperialism. This is a silly position. 'Soccer' was the most common name for the game in Britain from the 1890s until the 1970s. As far as one can tell, when the North American Soccer League brought soccer to the Americans in the 1970s, and Americans quite reasonably adopted the English word, the British stopped using it and reverted to the word football."

I think we can safely say the case is closed on that debate.

Kicking balls, American style

I'm immersed in one of my most patriotic streaks of recent memory, watching the plucky USA soccer team maneuver its way through the World Cup. Only a few hours till kickoff in the round of 16, and though Ghana will hardly be a pushover (especially with the whole of Africa behind them), there's no reason the US shouldn't be able to avenge the loss from 2006.

(By the way, do the Americans really not have a cool team name like the Ghana Black Stars or the Algeria Desert Foxes... even the Australia Socceroos? I know the US rugby team is called the Eagles, which is OK, I guess. But nothing for this up-and-coming soccer team, really?)

The USA is an extremely fun team to cheer for, in the same way the "Cardiac Kings" were in the early-auts. They're unfavored, but full of heart. They play hard and could potentially win any game. They just need to cut down on the catastrophic lapses that lead to easy goals, and shake their bizarre preference to play the best when they're down a goal (or two!).

The New York Times says we are witnessing the emergence of a new "American style" of soccer, one that is brasher, bolder, and dismissive of convention. When Landon Donovan blasted that shot right over Slovenia's keeper's shoulder in Game 2, writes Times soccer blogger Jesse Pennington:

"A kind of American impatience with custom and formality brought forth a different sensibility, a bit more roguish one. Think Indiana Jones blatantly disregarding politesse by scoffing at (and then shooting) the scimitar-wielding thug in “Raiders of the Lost Ark.” Think Han Solo blasting down Greedo in the “Star Wars” cantina before the green dude knows what hit him."

(I'll skip the complaints about getting soul-fucked by the ref in that game, because it ultimately had no bearing on anything. But that game did encapsulate everything that's so fun about cheering for this team.)

The Algeria game was amazing. And all the American naysayers, if there are in fact still any, needed only to witness the thrilling end to understand how riveting this sport can be. Crowds all across America certainly understood.

Sipping a brew called American Pale Ale at a microbrewery in Singapore -- Brewerkz on Clarke Quay, which has posters of Sierra Nevada Celebration and Anchor Steam adorning the walls -- we went nuts. Classic explosion of excitement, jumping up to high-five the strangers to either side of you. It was pandemonium for the 100 or so of us crammed in there. A spontaneous chant of "U-S-A! U-S-A!" erupted and I unabashedly and earnestly joined in, probably for the first time in my life

And now I'm off to watch the next game, kicking off at some absurd hour (2:30am). It kills the sleep patterns, but there's something exciting about staying up till dawn watching global sporting events. Go USA!

Flipping in the Far East -- inside the world's best disc golf event

There is no better disc golf event on earth than the Japan Open, which was held this month. I had heard it was great, and my expectations were high going in. But my expectations were obliterated -- truly, nothing else compares.

But I don't want to just gush here. The Japan Open is one of disc golf's four major events of the year (every other year, really -- the fourth major is held in Europe in odd-numbered years), so the competition is world class. In addition to the Americans and Japanese at the Nasu Highlands (Tochigi, Japan), players this year came from Canada, Finland, Australia, Taiwan, South Korea and elsewhere to compete.

The cultural exchange this event offers is certainly one of its selling points. Interactions with people from all over the world are impossible to avoid, whether it's during a golf round, recovering in the hot-spring spa or hanging out late-night with the free flow of booze at Joe's Bar.

One of the most interesting things of the tournament was seeing how the personalities of different nationalities are expressed in players' golf games. The Asians are very compact, quiet and efficient in their driving, getting an incredible amounts of power out of surprisingly limited movement, and their putting games are precise and confident. The Europeans are powerful but modest, throwing a mile but never getting too worked up when a round goes awry. The Americans are also powerful, but noisy, both in the physical approach to the game (lots of movement, heavy steps, flailing limbs, involved putting routines) and the constant chatter and need to complain about errant shots (I include myself firmly within this characterization). Very educational from a cultural and anthropological standpoint.

The host country leaves its distinct mark on all aspects of the event, from the delicious cuisine to peculiar disc-weight requirements (nothing heavier than 159.9 grams). Each individual golf round kicked off with the rhythmic booms of a group of Taiko drummers (left), pounding the skins as if we were setting off to battle.

Indeed, the courses themselves were veritable battlefields. There were two of them -- the Raijin (god of thunder) course and the Fujin (god of wind) -- laid out on the grounds of a ball golf course (which, by the way, must be one of the world's most scenic... top-tier at the very least). The holes were long, open and often prone to extreme elevation changes -- basically a disc golfer's dream. But every bunker and cart path were out of bounds, turning dreams to nightmares. Rarely will you see a course that forces a mix of such distance and precision. Veterans of the sport like Gregg "The Miniac" Hosfeld who have played upwards of 1,000 courses rank the Nasu courses among their favorites.

Taiwanese player Chia-Shih Lo teeing off on Hole 12 on the Raijin course. The basket is 518ft away and straight downhill -- a helluva heave. Lo is a solid player and he and I went head to head for much of the tourney. I think I edged him by two strokes in the end, but they were hard-fought.

The tournament's payout this year totaled 4,000,000 yen, and the men's winner brought home 500,000 yen -- about $5,000. Hardly your average weekly doubles purse. And the final battle in the men's field was epic.

Defending champ Dave Feldberg, arguably the world's best golfer at the moment, was leading youthful upstart Nikko Locastro by two strokes going into the "Final 9", a decisive showdown between the top four players in both men's and women's divisions.

The personality differences between these two players was as much a part of the storyline as anything: Feldberg is known for his cool, almost robotic composure, not the flashiest player, but excellent at everything and extremely tough to shake. He's been playing at a top level for years and years, and knows how to maintain a lead. Nikko is in many way Feldberg's polar opposite -- he's flashy, hot-headed and prone to tantrums and breakdowns. He's only 21 and his personal growing pains have been on full display over the course of the professional disc golf tour. The buzz around camp was that Feldberg would cruise to a repeat title and Nikko would have at least one breakdown round, frustrated by the rampant 'OB' and unable to cope.

The "Final 9" players, from left to right (and finish): Nate Doss (3rd), Ken Climo (4th), Nikko Locastro (1st), Dave Feldberg (2nd), Valerie Jenkins (1st), Mayu Nonaka (2nd), Des Reading (3rd), Carrie Berlogar (4th).

Here are the overall results.

But here they were, facing off in the Final 9 (Ken "The Champ" Climo and Nate Doss were in a battle for third). The first several holes went about as well as possible for Feldberg, as he steadily built his lead to five strokes with four holes to play. But Nikko kept his head in it and slowly started chipping away, a stroke at a time. Up three strokes with two to play, Feldberg smartly avoided the 'OB' on a hole and laid up for par while Nikko, with no other choice, blazed home a drive, parked for birdie. They approached the final tee with Feldberg clinging to the two-stroke lead he had going in to the round. It was a fairly simple and short hole: a very straight-forward par. Everyone in the 200-strong crowd knew what had to happen for Dave to win -- just an easy layup, steer clear of 'OB', take the par and first place. It was a play anyone watching could have made.

Nikko parked the shot for birdie, as he needed to (he didn't get the ace, which we all figured he needed to have a chance). Feldberg calmly took the box, clutched his trusty Eagle... and completely shanked the shot. It went high and way too short, and the crowd gasped as we watched it plunk into the center of the bunker. OB. Feldberg swears otherwise, but it looked suspiciously like he decided to go for the green instead of lay up, clearly the wrong choice. It's hard to know what exactly was going through his mind at that moment, but one thing is obvious: he choked on the biggest shot of the tournament. Everyone was utterly stunned.

Feldberg had a chance to atone with a 30ft putt, but he clanked it off the basket -- even a robot like Feldberg would be devastatingly rattled after such a colossal mistake moments earlier. So they went to a playoff. Nikko calmly parked his third straight drive, and Feldberg, again, plunked his drive into OB. An easy 12-footer for Nikko (above left), and the tournament was over. The kid was understandably ecstatic, pumping his fist (right) in the air and bear hugging the chains of the basket ("I love everybody!" he said in the post-round interview). Feldberg disappeared. The crowd was in complete shock. For the next hour all anyone could say was "Can you believe that?" or "Have you ever seen anything like that?" No. Can't. Never. (Watch it all unravel here. It's worth it.)

But it was a fitting end to a truly epic week, and both the winners fully deserved the podium.

Japan Open 2010 Champions: Valerie Jenkins and Nikko Locastro

A front-row seat to democracy in the Philippines

I spent Sunday afternoon down at the Philippines Embassy in Singapore, interviewing expat Filipinos after they cast their votes for president, vice president and legislators -- I was a one-man exit poll. Then I wrote this story.

Filipinos are a generally joyous bunch and it was clear the thousand or so that voted on Sunday were excited to be exercising what many characterized as their civic duty. Many people stood outside the walls of the embassy in the scorching sunshine taking pictures of their ink-stained index-finger nails, documentation that they had actually voted. (Voters' nails are splashed with indelible ink that remains for a week so officials can be sure no one is voting more than once.)

Many of the people there were first-time voters, or second-timers at most. The Philippines instituted overseas voting in 2004, so for many of the Filipino women who have worked as maids and nannies in Singapore for decades this was a rare chance to have a say in the goings-on back home. Indeed, most of the people I met there said they were domestic "helpers". Many of them were shy, but they clearly enjoyed the opportunity to vote.

I asked everyone I talked to who they voted for, but that was not information everyone offered up easily. Most people younger than 35 had no problem discussing their choice with me. It was the older crowd that was a bit cagey. Some told me they didn't think it would be appropriate to reveal their candidate of choice. Others were decidedly more paranoid. One woman told me she had a son in Manila, and wouldn't want him to get any unwelcome visits. Given the history of election-related violence in the Philippines, I can't say I blame them for being cautious.

The big buzz surrounding this year's election was the introduction of automated voting machines. As far as I know, they were not made by Diebold. Still, pre-election reports that the machines were glitchy led some to wonder if they might cause more problems than they solve.

Most people at the embassy on Sunday were pleased with the new machines. Sure the new system was no guarantee against "cheating", may of them said, but it's a big improvement over the old method of writing in your candidate's name and having the ballots counted by hand. "If we're not going to start it now, then when? We don't want to be stuck with manual elections forever," one woman told me.

All indications (including my one-man exit poll) are that Benigno "Noynoy" Aquino would win the presidency in a landslide. I honestly can't say what this will mean for the Philippines, but Aquino, if nothing else, has impressive roots. Here's hoping he does his nation proud.

I (look like) Gumby, dammit!

The Shanghai Expo opens this weekend, and China's second city has pulled out all the stops -- the city has spent more than twice as much on its coming-out party than Beijing did on the Olympics.

But as with so many things China does, this event is not without controversy. It turns out the Expo's cartoon mascot, Haibao, looks an awful lot like Gumby, and organizers of the event have been accused of plagiarism.

Haibao creator Wu Yongjian pleads innocence and says he's never seen The Gumby Show before. Haibao, which means “treasure of the seas”, is based on the Expo emblem shape (世), the character for “world,” and was picked from 26,655 submissions, according to Chinese celebrity news site May Daily.

I happen to believe Mr Wu when he says he had no intention of riping off Gumby. But the similarity is amusing all the same.

It's not like China doesn't have a reputation for intellectual property theft. As the New York Times recently reported, Shanghai's bootleg DVD shops, a Chinese staple, have gone temporarily underground (or at least behind false walls) while the world's eye is trained on the city. This is exactly what happened in Beijing in 2008, as I wrote here. And just like in Beijing, once the Expo hoopla dies down, the shops will sprout right back up and the vast market of knock-off goods will kick back into gear.

The lifeblood of commerce, visualized

As a bit of a follow-up to the video I posted last week, here's what Europe's airspace looked like after flights resumed:



That, in essence, is what the circulatory system of $3.3 billion dollars looks like.

Could health care bill kill incentive to marry?

I came upon a potentially ominous analysis of the new health care bill that argues the bill's implementation in 2013 could spell the end of marriage. At least it would make marriage seem much less attractive for middle-income earners.

Diana Furchtgott-Roth, who clearly was not impressed with the Democrats' epic push to reform the American health care system, writes about the bill:

"Two singles would each be able to earn $43,000 and still receive help to purchase health insurance, but if they got married and combined their earnings to $86,000, they would be far above the limit. As a married couple, the most they could earn and still get government help would be $58,000, a difference of almost $30,000, or 32%. This looks like a substantial disincentive to getting married, or to working while married."

I agree that this particular reality of the bill is less than desirable, and it's something I'll be forced to deal with if I ever make it back Stateside. It doesn't seem fair for the would-be brides and grooms of the lower middle class to get tangled up in the intersection of tax brackets. But the cutoff for government tax credits has to be somewhere, doesn't it?

I'd also be willing to bet that workers earning a salary of 40-50 grand would have jobs that provide health benefits anyway, and, as so many health-care-reform opponents frequently pointed out, most Americans are happy with the health plans they currently have.

Ms Furchtgott-Roth has a point that workers at this unfortunate crossroad who are thinking of marriage will have a tricky decision to make. What I am unclear about is how employer-provided health insurance is affected by these tax credits and whether or not employers are somehow let off the hook if their employees are receiving credits. At what point are employers required to start paying a fine if they're not providing insurance, and is the insurance employers provide necessarily better or worse than what can be bought with credits? No one ever said this wasn't complex... any ideas out there?

A new look

So I've been doing a little bit of tinkering with the layout of this blog thing. I thought this one looked nice -- clean and simple with comfortable space to breathe. (I got the idea to tinker after I saw this post from Mashable, which directed me to Deluxe Templates, the creator of this layout.)

Whether or not this inspires more consistent output on my end remains to be seen. The truth is, I post more to my Twitter account these days (see here, or over there --> ). My thoughts of late are more of the micro variety, I guess.

And while we're housekeeping, as they say, the Leaner's old address at UBC has been wiped from existence. That is what was causing some of the trouble you may have experienced trying to access this address a while ago (long story). I will hopefully be moving some of the more interesting content from that address over here, but who knows when I'll get to it all. But if you happen to have any links to that old address, do please update and direct the link this way. Thanks.

With one modest belch, our arrogance is swept aside

It is easy to forget amid the saturated media coverage that the plume billowing from Iceland is more than just a monumental inconvenience to millions of passengers and a thorn in the side of businesses around the world. It is also a profound reminder of our insignificance and utter submissiveness to geological rumblings.

An editorial from the Observer posted on the Guardian's website takes a meditative step back, and it's a thought worth repeating:

By colonising the space above our heads and above much of our continent, the eruption provides a reminder of our status in relation to our planet and over which we have arrogantly seized stewardship. We imagine ourselves its master and yet with one modest belch it hems us into our little island, sweeping instantly from the skies the aeroplane, which we consider to be an example of the irrepressible genius of our species... It would be crippling to retain that kind of perspective on a daily basis – anyone who set their watch by geological time would never get out of bed – but a glance at ourselves in proportion to the universe is salutary on occasion... We cannot blame the volcano, only observe how liberating it is sometimes to be powerless before nature.

On a side note, the timing of the massive halting of much of the world's air traffic is interesting (to me) because it comes just a few days after I saw this video (below), which is pretty cool-looking regardless. I wonder how different it would look these days.

I do not exist

I was excited to fill out the census this year. For the first time, I'd be counted as a real person, not just some hanger-on.

But as it turns out, the Census Bureau does not deem me worthy of inclusion in its decennial tally. As an American expat living abroad, I, for all statistical intents and purposes, do not really exist. Even though I am an American passport-holder (now with a new biometric chip, since my old passport went through the washing machine) and fully plan to vote in the November elections, by taking up residence overseas I am essentially a castaway for the next decade. When it comes to the census, my status is less than that of an illegal immigrant.

Apparently it's too complicated and expensive to count people like me in the census. According to a Wall Street Journal article last year, the Census Bureau examined the possibility of distributing census forms to Americans overseas, but decided it wasn't worth the cost or the headache.

I suppose losing some constitutional rights are just a fact of life for those of us who choose to reside outside US borders. I've managed to get myself counted by having my parents fill me in as a third resident at their house in Northern California. That is my permanent address after all, and is the district in which I'll be voting. But a hanger-on I remain.

Still, I'm surprised the bureau doesn't at least count absentee ballots in this whole process. But then I'm no demographer.

I also want to fill out the census just to spite those idiots that are convinced the census is some sort of leftist conspiracy. It's embarrassingly absurd. Even Karl Rove says it's OK to fill out the forms.

Tender Ankles: A snap shot of health care in Singapore

An article in the Washington Post a couple weeks ago looked at Singapore's health care system in comparison it to the US model. Among other things, it said:

Singapore spends less than 4 percent of its GDP on health care. We spend 17 percent (and Singapore's somewhat younger population doesn't begin to explain the difference). Matching Singapore's performance in our $15 trillion economy would free up $2 trillion a year for other public and private purposes.

Impressive. As the article says, adopting all of Singapore's practices would not really work for American patients -- the country's notoriously intrusive tendencies in personal matters is nothing to admire.

But here's a little anecdote, just for matters of comparison. Earlier this month, I tweaked my ankle playing basketball. I knew it was nothing serious, but a few days later it was still a bit tender . So I decided to see the doctor, just to put my mind at ease.

This is something I would never even consider doing in the US -- peace of mind is not worth the however-many-hundred dollars a 10-minute doctor visit would cost. Such exorbitant cost is not something I have to worry about here, though.

I showed up to the clinic without an appointment and had the doctor look at the ankle. As I suspected, nothing a few more days of rest wouldn't fix. He gave me some cream to rub on the muscle to make it feel better. Since I was there anyway, I asked him about a wart on my toe I've had for a while. He gave me something for that too. The grand total when I left, including all medication, was three Singapore dollars -- less than two US dollars.

In the US, I would have spent half an hour or more filling out gratuitous paperwork, waited another 20 minutes for the doctor to see me, probably gotten an X-ray "just to be safe" because the doc doesn't want to get sued, and who knows what else. One thing's for sure -- I would have felt a lot worse after I saw the bill than I did when I went in.

I doubt Singapore has the best health-care system in the world, maybe not even one of the best. But it sure beats what's on offer Stateside.

And one more thing to respect about the way things are done on this side, from the Post piece:

In Singapore, if a child is obese, they don't get Rose Garden exhortations from the first lady. They get no lunch and mandatory exercise periods during school.

How Vancouver won the green medal

The Vancouver Winter Games have come to a close, and the Canadians did indeed "own the podium", just as they set out to do. Good for them.

The 2010 Games have been billed as a great success, probably the most-watched winter event in history (though die-hard Olympic skeptic Dave Zirin obligingly challenges the merits of this particular edition).

VANOC has also declared this to have been the "greenest Olympics ever", and they're probably right, even though I can't imagine the 1896 Games belched nearly as much carbon into the air as any modern iteration. Regardless, the notion of green Games doesn't really mean much these days.

Still, there were valiant efforts to reduce the Olympic footprint. The odd-looking, wavy medals are probably the best example -- they're comprised of gold from recycled e-waste, an innovative use of one of our most daunting environmental scourges. Have a look (via Motherboard.TV):



Whatever the level of green-ness at the Vancouver Games, you can be sure it will trump the next Winter Games in Sochi, Russia, where environmental degradation is already running rampant -- only one of many problems facing Sochi.

And speaking of e-waste and Vancouver, here's something from the J-school students at my alma mater, UBC, that is quite old but always worth knowing about. It's a Frontline investigation into what happens to the e-waste from North America after it leaves the continent (it goes to impoverished areas of Africa and Asia) as well as the potential national security questions the practice of exporting e-waste raises (not to mention environmental and human security). Watch the video here.

The only thing controversial about the Super Bowl was the music

One thing is obvious after watching the Super Bowl: Sean Payton has balls. The interception return might have been the play of the game, but the onside kick was the decision of the game, hands down, and was key in setting a second-half tone that allow the Saints to win. Awesome.

I watched the game at Chili's in Singapore (no baby back ribs or Dunder Mifflin staff that I could see). Shockingly, this and another place were the only venues that seemed to be showing the game on the entire island. The other place was booked solid days in advance, and there was standing room only at Chili's.

One guy I sat near was peeved that The Who were playing halftime. Not because they're washed-up has-beens -- he adamantly believed an "American band" should play the Super Bowl. He must have said it four or five times. It's a comment that's hardly even worth refuting. Never mind the fact that the game strives to attract a global audience, or that half the commercials are from non-American companies. "At least it's not U2," he said. Sigh...

Far more worrisome is the alleged plagiarism of a White Stripes song on an Air Force recruitment ad. The Air Force denies any intent to, as the White Stripes allege, "re-record and (use) without permission" the band's song Fell in Love With a Girl, saying an outside company was responsible for creating the soundtrack to the commercial (which has since vanished from the web, from what I can tell). It will be interesting to see what comes of this. Will the US Air Force be the new Men at Work?

As for the pre-game controversy over the Super Bowl ads, here are my thoughts.

CBS's obvious double standard for a Super Bowl of irresistible storylines

Perhaps counter-intuitively, I watched more NFL games this year living in Singapore than I have any year I lived in North America. That's the power of a DVR and a night shift -- wake up and tear through three games in about three hours, all before work.

But even the casual fan can be excited about what's on tap for the Super Bowl this weekend. The storylines are innumerable and captivating.

The commercials, of course, are always part of the Super Bowl story, but this year the pre-Bowl hype has reached new heights. It all started with Tim Tebow's Focus on the Family spot. Lefties and women's groups were in an uproar that CBS would allow such a controversial message on the airwaves during the big game. Let us watch the game free of politics, they implored.

I don't really have a problem with athletes expressing their political beliefs(douchebags like Paul Shirley aside). For the most part, I think people in prominent positions should use their status to make the world a better place (even if I happen to disagree with their methods).

What I do take issue with is the obvious double standard CBS employed when deciding who and who doesn't get a piece of their precious air space. I wrote about it here, at the Straits Times blog.

(I will also say that I'm bummed I won't be able to watch any of these ads during the game. The stupid simulcast keeps the rest of the world locked out. Even Canada doesn't get to see the commercials. And there might be some good ones this year -- I've heard the Simpsons have a spot (Coke, I think) and I hear LeBron's McDonald's ad reprises the classic Jordan/Bird "nothing but net" spots. Sure, I could watch them online after the fact, but that just seems like a waste of time.)

Satan's response to Pat Robertson, the dark lord's faithful servant

You've probably heard by now Pat Robertson's "pact-with-the-devil" comments regarding the devastation in Haiti, and gagged with disdain (but, sadly, not disbelief).

The callousness is unthinkable, but fortunately the Devil himself -- somehow channeled through a woman in Minnesota and onto the pages of the Star Tribune -- has responded to Robertson. (Since letters to the editor tend to have short life in cyberspace, here's the text of the letter reprinted in full):

Dear Pat Robertson, I know that you know that all press is good press, so I appreciate the shout-out. And you make God look like a big mean bully who kicks people when they are down, so I'm all over that action. But when you say that Haiti has made a pact with me, it is totally humiliating. I may be evil incarnate, but I'm no welcher. The way you put it, making a deal with me leaves folks desperate and impoverished. Sure, in the afterlife, but when I strike bargains with people, they first get something here on earth -- glamour, beauty, talent, wealth, fame, glory, a golden fiddle. Those Haitians have nothing, and I mean nothing. And that was before the earthquake. Haven't you seen "Crossroads"? Or "Damn Yankees"? If I had a thing going with Haiti, there'd be lots of banks, skyscrapers, SUVs, exclusive night clubs, Botox -- that kind of thing. An 80 percent poverty rate is so not my style. Nothing against it -- I'm just saying: Not how I roll. You're doing great work, Pat, and I don't want to clip your wings -- just, come on, you're making me look bad. And not the good kind of bad. Keep blaming God. That's working. But leave me out of it, please. Or we may need to renegotiate your own contract. Best, Satan

LILY COYLE, MINNEAPOLIS

And in another welcome rebuke to Robertson, the consummate Christian extremist, here's former Sacramento Kings center and prominent Haitian activist Olden Polynice talking to The Nation's Dave Zirin:

DZ: I have to ask you your thoughts about Pat Robertson saying the earthquake happened because Haiti made a pact with the devil for independence.

OP: Pat Robertson can suck a big one--you can quote me on that. He is not a man of God and shouldn't claim to be. And you can quote me on that. Please.

You can't mosh to this -- spending time onstage with Fugazi

I am a man of many regrets. I cringe when I hear these optimistic types proclaim they have no regrets in life. If that's really the case then they are either too simply satisfied or they are deluding themselves.

My list of regrets could fill volumes, but I'm focussed on one in particular at the moment: the fact that I never got to see Fugazi play live. The extent of the regret is somewhat tempered by the fact that I can't remember any specific time they were nearby and I made a conscious decision not to go. But it's a life failure all the same. (Maybe a lifetime of abstaining from substance will allow them to bust out on the road again sometime, but you can only expect so much from a group that must be pushing 50.)

But I did just get a bit of a flavor of what one of their shows might have been like, even beyond the essential "Instrument". It's a compilation of stage banter, sans music, just 40 minutes of the guys castigating moshers and just being general badasses. It doesn't sound like much, but how can you not get a kick out of hearing Ian MacKaye say things like "I'm wearing an inordinate amount of Ben Gay" and muse on the importance of democracy (in this case, an audience petition to get the band to turn the venue lights off). It's really quite entertaining.

Check it out if you have a chance or have 40 minutes of menial work to do (cleaning the bathroom, in my case). I'm sure it pales in comparison to actually being at a show, but at least it will remind you what a legendary outfit they are/were and, if you're like me, what an unfillable void you have in your life.

I heard about it from the Pitchfork blog, which will direct you here.

Another smashing benefit and bash in the little town of Washington

You haven't been to a party till you've been to a Buck Rainey party.

I've been to a few, mostly back when they were held at the Peppermill in Reno (the winter versions, anyway). But 2009 was my first experience at the Washington Party, spawn of Peppermill.

Postmaster Buck -- chief mail sifter for the little town of Washington -- is the consummate host, and he goes all out.

After trekking to Reno got too cumbersome, with the oft-impassable Donner Pass limiting attendance, Buck decided to bring his year-end bash back to Nevada County -- and he brought the casino along with him. Buck built by hand a regulation-size craps table, a blackjack table and a roulette table. Once a year, he lugs all of them into the dining room at the Washington Hotel and sets up the sweetest casino the sleepy little town has seen in centuries. (See the pics of Buck building the tables and more information about Buck's party-planning at The Wild Buck website (login: "guest" pass: "friend").)

Friends come from far and wide to gamble freely and imbibe deeply. Nevada City's harpist sensation Joanna Newsom and her beau, SNL's Andy Samberg, are regular attendees. Washington's population comes close to doubling on that night, and it's quite likely that the hotel (and bar) makes more money on that single night than it does during any single month the rest of the year.

Sure, it's an excuse for everyone to party like only Nevada City crits know how -- uproariously. But in the end, it's a big benefit for the host town. The hotel rakes in fistfuls of cash, sure, but all the gambling benefits go to the town council. Some $800 was donated this year. It will help pay for the town's electric bill and go towards building a new stone sign at the city limits.

This year's bash is still in the earliest of planning stages, but if you are anywhere near Nevada County around Christmastime 2010, it is an event not to be missed.

Seeking a creative spark in 2010

I have just returned to Singapore after three weeks in lovely Northern California. I've said it before, and now, once again: I'll take a pine tree over a palm tree any day (though I fall in love all over again with the "live oaks" every time I'm in NorCal).

It's a new year, and for the first time I can remember I've jumped on the old resolution bandwagon. In addition to studying Chinese at least five times a week (I'm currently on once in 12 days), I really want to get my writing gears back in working order, as they seem to have rusted to a halt.

Quite simply, my mind has gone fallow, and it frightens me. My level of inspiration is stuck at zero. I feel like my vocabulary is shrinking, not growing, and that anything resembling a creative peak that I may have had has long past.

I've been feeling this way for months. But it was a conversation a few days after Christmas that really got me self-evaluating. I was talking to someone I've known for years at a party in the little town of Washington (more about the party here). I was trying to talk to her about my life and current interests when she looked at me in mild disbelief and told me plainly: "You've lost your spark."

It was a rather jarring reality unexpectedly thrust in my face, but I could not disagree. She had me nailed.

So please forgive this public reckoning with myself. I'm hoping I can, in 2010, rekindle whatever "spark" I once had and kick this dearth of inspiration. Perhaps it'll require a change in my physical environment, or maybe just an adjustment of attitude. I'm trying to read more fiction and plan to buy a guitar, see if those things help me tap into some dormant creative juices. But this will be a real undertaking, akin to self-reinvention. If anyone has any advice on how to proceed, I'm eager to hear.

Among the Scrabble all-stars in Southeast Asia

A couple weeks ago, my girlfriend and I took our first dip in the waters of competitive Scrabble. We go head-to-head semi-nightly and the battles are always intense (sometimes, possibly too intense). We figured it was time to put our skills on public display.

The Singapore Scrabble Association was hosting the 2009 Yew Tee Scrabble Open Championship, which, as it turned out, was a warm-up for the biennial World Scrabble Championships (WSC) that was being held the next week in Johor Bahru, Malyasia, just across the strait from Singapore.

We were just there for a little fun, of course, full embodiments of our "Recreational" division (she finished 7th, I finished 9th out of 16 players). But others were there for some real-life Word Wars.

We didn't mingle much with the players in the Masters division. They had a pretty intense palate of games -- eight that day (compared to our six total) and eight the day before. But we chatted briefly with a guy decked out in short shorts and a Metallica "Ride the Lightning" T-shirt. (Didn't catch his name but the T-shirt was sick.) He had flown in from Hungary where he's among the elite, a top-rated player in both English and Hungarian versions of Scrabble. How someone can master all the arcane words required to be a world-class Scrabble player in just English is incredible. To be able to do it in multiple languages just makes my mind hurt. He was in Southeast Asia for the next weekend's WSC and was in Singapore to practice.

Also competing at the Yew Tee Open was New Zealander Nigel Richards, who cooly strolled up to the community center auditorium sporting jeans, a Scrabble T-shirt, a pair of thick glasses and a bulging fanny pack. I noticed him because of the fanny pack, of course, but little did I know that he is, or at least has been, the top-rated Scrabble player in the world, as well as the the reigning WSC champion. He crushed the competition in Singapore, winning 13 of his 16 games by a combined margin of 1575 points. He would go on to finish as the runner-up to Thailand's No 1 player, Pakorn Nemitrmansuk, at the WSC.

The WSC pitted more than 100 players from 40 different countries against each other over three days and 24 games worth of high-powered letter crunching. Turns out Thailand is a Scrabble powerhouse of sorts; Pakorn, who was the runner-up in 2003 and 2005, was one of three Thais to finish in the top 5. He won US$15,000 for his efforts. He secured his victory and a score of 670 by playing the word "botanica", whatever that means.

And here is an interesting little blog posting from the Wall St Journal several months ago about Scrabble.