Signs of Ageing

As my head of hair continues to recede in the same direction as the Greek economy, I’ve begun to notice more and more frequent signs of my recent exodus of the ‘Tween’ years. The college honeymoon certainly seems to be over. While there is some consolation that my demeanor and speech has finally caught up with my involuntary hairstyle, the number of times I’ve caught myself uttering ‘ageisms’ in 2010 is a little concerning. Here’s a selection of favourites:

Top 10 Signs In 2010 That I’m Getting Old

1. Taking an unrivalled interest in interest rate rises;
2. Criticising the Australian cricket team with comments beginning, “I remember back in the Border days…”;
3. Drinking herbal tea in the afternoons;
4. Maturing radio preferences from pop to Triple J, with the occasional flirtation on AM stations;
5. Rejecting free VB beer on Saturday night drinks;
6. Feeling the Saturday night drinks on Monday morning;
7. Complaining about having to play in chess tournaments against ‘underrated juniors’;
8. Ironing my shirts;
9. Lecturing family members on their personal financial management;
10. Flossing.

What are chess players good at?

Besides chess, obviously.

Recently, the Sydney Morning Herald published an article on ‘The Sulky Mozart of chess’, our very own world number one, Magnus Carlsen. The article delighted in quoting quirky facts illustrating the freaky intellect of this prestigious prodigy, including Magnus’ ability to quote the area, population, flag and capital of every country in the world by the age of five.

Well yeh, okay, that’s pretty good.

But that’s not to say that all chess masters are genii (of the non-Stargate type). Probably one of the most common stereotypes I hear from my friends about chess grandmasters is that we all must be ridiculously intelligent, John-Nash-style number freaks who occasionally slip into Russian accents and debate the answer to infinity divided by infinity over a glass of moderately-aged tawny.

Unfortunately, much like the rumour that grandmasters prefer a chess puzzle to a date, it’s simply impossible to typecast the lot of us. Certainly, particular elements of intelligence (such as memory, pattern recognition and backward-induction) are fairly common across the spectrum, but are chess players really more intelligent?

To some extent, I think it comes down to how you define ‘intelligence’. I have a feeling we (as in, chess grandmasters – I wonder what the collective would be?) would do alright from a pure IQ-benchmark. Most IQ tests focus on complex reasoning and pattern recognition, nothing particularly out of the ordinary for us. However, a lot of grandmasters, and Carlsen is no exception, would do very poorly on a simple high-school maths exam. And if you start including ‘EI’ (‘Emotional Intelligence’) and ‘Social Intelligence’ measures, well, I’ve no doubt you’d get a different result entirely. A task such as ‘Walk into a cocktail party and, by observation alone, guess which participants are couples’ would probably be beyond the capabilities of top chess players who would be more likely to guess Prada and Armani as new variations of the Sicilian Defence.

Which begs the question: if chess players are selectively intelligent, what else are we good at?

Or not good at, for that matter. Certainly if the World Cup was anything to go by, Fashion Designer would not be high on the list.

One ‘career’ that chess players have been incredibly successful at is, of course, poker. The skills of a professional poker player aren’t actually that distinct from those of a professional chess player, and many of my former opponents have proven that to quite the profit. Another area of translation is trivia, derived from the memory aspect. If you ever have the opportunity to quiz Grandmaster Ian Rogers on his knowledge of music trivia from practically any genre or era, make sure you do – I promise you’ll be astounded. In fact, probably the only person who would have been able to best Ian at it was former world champion Bobby Fisher, who, I believe, was at one stage the world’s foremost expert on hip-hop trivia.

Investment banking is another area where chess skills apparently translate to some extent. I have a feeling that, in the merger and acquisition prime of the 1980’s, a couple of British investment banks went on a bit of a splurge of hiring chess grandmasters (whether financially trained or not…) to work at their firms. I’m not sure how it turned out, but hopefully someone can shed some light on this. In any case, grandmaster and former US Champion Ken Rogoff is currently a professor at Harvard University, so there might be something there.

And… that’s about it. Well, unfortunately, that’s about all I can think of for now. Any thoughts? Are chess players good at anything else?!

Zen and the art of cyclists

Readers may be aware of my unsuccessful attempt to become a full-blown, road-worthy cyclist. There has recently been a fair bit of public angst, particularly in Sydney, directed at the cyclist/motorist dichotomy, and it’s easy to understand why. Cyclists feel they have ‘every right’ to be treated as equal on the roads to their ozone-eroding inhabitants, and the law backs them up. Motorists feel cheated that the roads paid for with their rego fees are getting clogged up by inconsiderate hippies travelling at 30 kilometres an hour.

On a soon-to-be related topic, some readers may also be aware that I’ve decided to try and be more ‘Zen’ this year, and nothing threatens a Zenned-out motorist quite like a cyclist.

Today, I was tested, but I’m proud to say I was up to the challenge, and my Zen-flag is still waving proudly (no pun intended, although I’m not even sure what the pun could be – it just seems like there should be one).

To help me overcome this and all other cyclist-related anxieties, I have undertaken a particular philosophy that I think many motorists can learn from: I feel sorry for them. It’s a little odd, and not entirely fair to the greener mobiles, but it seems to work. And with this false air of superiority, I’m able to go about my business of Zen, ambivalent to any frustrations about cyclists who block my lane, sneak through red lights, or use my car for support as they wobble up to the intersection, brushing their lycra-clad backside against my windows as they pass.

Or, in today’s example, merging across four lanes of traffic at a blistering 30km/h in an 80 zone to grab a last-minute right-hand turn. But as this Tony Abbott-wannabe shrugged his shoulders and grinned sheepishly at me as I and the cars around me slammed our breaks, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of pity for the man, giving me a glowing inner Nirvana that can only come about from sheer human smugness. It wasn’t really his fault, I told myself: the poor fellow has to battle the heat and the honks in wedgie-inducing bike pants, and was probably distracted from the urge to merge because he was thinking up a way to save the depletion of the Southern Blue-Finned Tuna. So I gave a friendly, sympathetic, understanding wave back to my helmet-toting friend, before speeding off with my music up loud and my air-con on full.

Ah, what Zen! Now I see the true meaning of this whole ‘enlightenment’ thing. It’s not about finding peace or raising yourself up at all – all you really have to do is look down on cyclists.

No wonder those Monks are so happy.

Putting the fun back in Valentine’s

Readers will no doubt by now be aware of my innate cynicism for today’s commercialised pollution of historical traditions. The astute blog regular will already be predicting what follows to be nothing more than another spiteful attack on the bastardisation of the harmless modern Valentine’s Day.

And you’d be right.

Admittedly, it hardly seems fair for me to cast aspersions on what is one of the less intrusive holidays in the contemporary calendar year. Sure, we manage to buy and send over a billion Valentine’s cards each year (not a bad feat considering most of the world doesn’t recognise the holiday), but so what? Indeed, besides the obligations on men and women to spend money on non-value-adding commercialism for their partners (in, might I add, a gender-equality-defying 2:1 ratio), and a subconscious esteem-battering for the ’single-and-looking’ subsection, February 14 hardly makes a blip on society’s radar. And yet, admittedly at a professed “anti-Valentine’s” party last night, I was a little shocked to discover that not one party-goer could answer my pop quiz question on the true origins of Valentine’s Day correctly.

(Yes, I am a real hit at parties.)

To be fair, there probably isn’t too much harm fostering from this acceptance of the corruption of the holiday’s traditional origins. Who am I to judge a moderately intoxicated cross-section of Canberra who believes Valentine’s Day came about because “Some Saint got stoned for getting married”; “A whole bunch of people got massacred in Greece”; or “Wasn’t it something to do with Jesus and a wedding?”. Franky, most people today don’t really care, so long as buying the Hallmark card gets them out of a night on the couch, and I don’t blame them. But, for a society living in the ‘enlightened era’ of scientific discovery and the search for truth, surely this sort of ignorance  should be dissuaded.

So here’s my two cents’ worth on the topic, though I wouldn’t quote what follows in any argument that attempts to get you out of your commercial Valentine’s obligations. Trust me on that.

Valentine’s Day doesn’t have anything to do with a Saint at all (though there were several Saint Valentine’s), or even anything remotely Christian. Nor could it traditionally be called a festival of romance (at least not how we interpret the word). In fact, we have to head back in time to ancient Rome, and specifically the three-day, hedonistic fertility festival of Lupercalia to see the first origins of today’s soppy excuse for buying chocolates.

Rather than bunches of flowers and the soft crooning of Michael Buble, the ancient Romans knew how to start a Valentine’s party. First, sacrifice a few goats, maybe a dog or two, and smear the blood over all the young men in the village (romantic, huh?). Then, eat a big meal with lots, and I mean lots, of wine.  Next, once you’re all well and truly trolleyed, rip up the skin of the bloody carcasses and mold them into thong-like whips – and then take off all your clothes (doesn’t sound like any Valentine’s Day I’ve ever had…).  Remember, so far it’s still just the men – the women are off getting sloshed and nude elsewhere. Finally, time to really get this party going: grab your bloody, animal-skinned thongs and run screaming, drunk and naked through the village streets, whipping any woman you come across with your thongs. Don’t worry, the women are actually trying to get hit: each strike of the whip is meant to enhance the woman’s chance of becoming pregnant. Plus, everyone up to and including the town Mayor is doing it, so you’re hardly going to get called up on your chauvinistic debauchery. In any case, now that the ‘official’ ceremony is out of the way, the villagers can all relax and settle down to enjoy the rest of the evening’s ‘unofficial’ frivolities.

So next year, when you feel pressured by society’s standards of romance to oblige in the mid-February festivities, feel free to explain to your gift-expectant partner that today’s holiday is a crude misrepresentation of an ancient and sacred celebration of fertility and love, and that if he/she really wanted to share an intimate remembrance of the true Valentine’s Day tradition with you, you’re going to have to get a goat.

Or, of course, you could just buy a card.

Where’s the Twenty20 chess?

I’ve just finished watching an absolute ripper of a Twenty20 cricket match between Australia and Pakistan. After the lead changed a dozen times throughout the three hour game, the Aussies clinched victory on the final ball to secure a breathtaking victory.  Sixty thousand spectators at the ground and millions more around the world were treated to an extravaganza that was more than just a sporting contest, but extended to spectacular prime-time entertainment for cricket fans and non-fans alike.

The Twenty20 cricket phenomenon has taken the world by storm, and couldn’t have come at a more timely moment in the game’s history. Five years ago, cricket’s popularity had started to wane: the five-day test version hardly had the television appeal nor convenience when compared to the shorter, sharper, rival sports, and most of the world doesn’t understand the sport anyway (supergrandmaster Peter Swidler being one notable exception). Even the one-day version of the game (possibly the equivalent of the FIDE 90/30 time control) wasn’t enough to keep the public interested.

And then along game Twenty20.

This fast-paced, commercialised, condensed version of cricket comes packed to the rafters with massive slogging, regular wicket-taking, over-the-top commentators and a rollercoaster of drama played out in no longer than an extended dinner. And the pundits love it.

So of course, that got me thinking: Why isn’t there a Twenty20 version of chess? Surely we could make it work. For starters, a third of the world’s population understands chess, which is a magnitude more than for cricket. Plus, the internet gives literally billions of people the ability to watch multiple games live. So why hasn’t it happened?!

That’s a question I’ll leave unanswered. What I will do, however, is outline how I think it could work, basing my model on the Twenty20’s winning formula.

There are three key ingredients that make the Twenty20 what it is: (a) It is completely over-the-top and has just one goal: to entertain the fans; (b) It has all the top players we love to watch competing; and (c) To effectively meet the first two points, it has bucketloads of money.

To that, I’ll add one more. Cricket purists accept Twenty20 cricket because they don’t see it as detracting from the ‘classical’ test-match version. They see it as helping cricket’s popularity and fan base, and serving to help draw attention to the longer, higher quality form of the game, rather than as a substitute.

So how should this translate for chess? This last point is easy: we need Twenty20 chess (I’m going to have to think of a better name…) to be seen as a complement to classical tournaments and world championships, so we simply give them a different rating scale. We might even have a Twenty20 world championship, but everyone will know that it won’t compare in quality or importance to the classical championship – and, hopefully, we’ll have more people watching both forms as a result.

Ok, so this is how we’re going to make this work:

(a) We get in over-the-top commentators, and stream the commentary online. This is very important, and the choice of commentators is naturally critical, but I think it could work. Look at the cricket guys: when these ex-players started out in the commentary box, they were hopeless. But a bit of training, a couple of goes to get the nerves out, and suddenly we have a comedic team to fill the prime-time spots. And, using Shane Warne as an example, it’s not like the chess world has a shortage of top players with an ego problem and a trigger mouth… Let’s also chuck in a real personality of a commentator with no chess experience at all, to ensure that the conversation always takes in the non-chess-following crowd. And let’s give them all the benefit of computer analysis running simultaneously, and let’s give the online viewers a running graph of the position’s evaluation, with a few juicy stats displayed as well. This means that anyone of any skill watching (and not jsut chess players with Chessbase running in the background) can get a sense of what’s happening, and don’t feel left out. 

Without question (and we’ve started to see a bit of this already), we stream live video footage of the players over the board. But what’s exciting about watching two guys in silence? Ah, but wait: We then also mike up the players. That’s right: headset microphones for the players, and as they wander around when their opponent is to move (which happens a lot, let’s face it) the commentators can ask these guys questions live on air. Will it work? Maybe, maybe not. But, as a player, I’d do it. I get bored with the silence, anyway.

Finally, and this will be controversial: we give the players two moves each per game (compare with tennis challenges) in which they can request to see the computer’s best move suggestion for that turn. No evaluation, no analysis: just the best move at that particular moment. But use them wisely: you don’t want to be caught short trying to find the one drawing move in Rook vrs Rook-and-Bishop on move 48!

(b) is straightforward: we need the big guys to sign up. There’s no question they can do the job: all the top guys are used to being interviewed after their games, and the majority of them are at least one of witty/arrogant/eccentric. But to get them involved…

(c)…we need money. So here’s what we do: Because we’re providing the complete package of video/audio/entertaining commentary/players’ live views/computer evaluations, we either (i) chuck a whole bunch of advertising on the site, ala the billboards and grass advertising of the cricket; OR (ii) charge a minimal fee ($2? $5?) for every viewer. I prefer the latter; if we’re giving the public a really swell experience, why not let them pay less than a movie ticket to be entertained for a couple of hours?

Then, hopefully, the mass market that is chess players, combined with the widespread appeal of the internet, sees a couple of million spectators from across the world tuning in to chess at its best, suped-up, Vegas-style, commercialised, the whole SHEBANG. And there you have it.

Chess has been around for thousands of years. But today’s society demands satisfaction, and demands it now. It’s time to step up and bring chess back to the people, and in the process, give it the prestige it deserves.

Besides, I do a great Bill Lawry voice.

Down the rabbit hole

My boss has kindly given me two days off to study for my exam, and so far I have naturally used it to procrastinate. Not on purpose, mind you, but it’s hard not to fall back into the student trap of never having anything to do, but never having any free time, either. It’s an amazing, wormhole-like paradox, but I have far more ’spare’ time now that I’m stuck in the 9-5 office job. As a mathematician, I am fuddled.

Still, time elasticity paradoxes aside, it was on a procrastination trip to the shopping centre (to buy one non-essential item, might I add) that I realised just how much of a sucker I am. Heading out into the buzz of a city in the middle of a work day is both a fascinating and depressingly surreal experience. There were people everywhere: sitting in cafes, arguing politics on park benches, lounging around under trees playing guitars – and they weren’t even students. Where do all these people come from? Don’t they have jobs? And why do they look so damn happy?!

The answer to the last question, of course, is obvious: because they’re not at work. Rather, they’re out here in this parallel world of daywalkers, where everyone is happy and noone has to photocopy everything. Being absorbed into this culture, even for a moment, I was able to wander freely, inconspicuously, and take a closer look at how it all worked. I was shocked to realise, that – no! – some of these people were actually working. Scrbbling things in notebooks next to their lattes, typing on the netbook under the tree, discussing political arguments with a view to dissecting them on paper later. They had it all!

And then it struck me: I didn’t have to be a sucker. Why don’t they tell us this in school? I can make a living without a necktie or an alarm clock? Is it really so?

The obvious path to enter this world is, of course, to become a writer. Unfortunately, the economist in me knows that supply far outweighs demand in this hideous excuse for an industry. Fortunately, the American sitcom junkie in me is totally addicted to Californication, in which the lead character, Hank Moody, lives a chequered life of freedom and frivolity on the beach. (Of course, Hank, played by David Duchovny, is probably not the best role model to base a midlife-crisis-induced career change on – but I’ll let you Google his personality failings for yourself.)

Unfortunately, a career in professional chess (as perfect as it would be) is just a little beyond those of us floundering around the top 500. Not that it’s any different for those all the way to the top 50, mind you. Damn Carlsen!

The alternative, of course, is to pack in the game of kings and instead become a poker player. The drawbacks to this are numerous, however, and suffice to say that some of my colleagues who have chosen the path of darkness have lead far more morally dubious lives than Hank Moody can even dream of. So, it’s back to the books (and then office) for me.

Nevertheless, as I came home with nought but a queazy feeling of post-modernism and a solitary mango, I couldn’t help but think that it hardly seems fair that others can earn a living from the comfy couch of the local alternative cafe. I mean, sure, we are contributing to the public good by fighting through the dichotomy of politics and policy during the day, and furthering the wealth of human existence through academia at night… but tell that to the guy on the grass.

Sigh. Right, so: “Question 2: If x is fixed and y is a function of labour, calculate the….”

A little on the nose

I get sinusitis. For anyone who suffers from it, or anyone who’s had a sinus infection, you’ll know just how much of a pain in the butt (or, more correctly, sinuses) it can be. On one trip to the doctor’s, I was told that I have unusually narrow sinuses, which precipitates and exacerbates sinus infections and the common cold. Sure, you can get surgery to widen them, but it’s hardly worth it unless you’re a pilot, or it’s really bothering you, he said.

Well, it’s really, really bothering me.

I suffer from insomnia at the best of times, but recently it’s been a killer. Lying in bed last week, wide awake for several hours due to the constant stream of phlegm running from nose to throat, I’d had enough. Using the power of Google, I had decided, once and for all, to find a cure to my ailment.

It turns out that what I actually have (well, according to WikiDoctor, mind you) is post-nasal drip. Basically, the clogged phlegm from the narrow sinuses drips down from the nose, particularly in times of flu, allergies or weather changes, “…often leaving sufferers unable to sleep” (yes, yes!). Having self-diagnosed with the most reputable of sources, it was now time to find a cure, and the hallowed internet told me I might consider “surgery, nasal sprays, a variety of homeopathic remedies, or even a Neti pot.”

A what? The weird thing was, a search of “neti pot” brought up a dozen bizarre forums, including the “My Little Pony” forum and the “Post-Natal Mothers” forum. It turns out that these cunning little pots were featured on Oprah (and recommended by ‘Dr Oz’ – sounds even less viable than WikiDoctor) – hence all the complementary forum references. Used for centuries in the sub-continent for yoga breathing, Neti (sanskrit for ‘nasal cleansing’ – charming!) pots are basically ceramic tea pots, which you fill with non-iodised salt water. Then (and this is where it gets fun) you tilt you head on the side and pour it through the top nostril. After a while, gravity takes effect, and just like those videos of people sticking spaghetti up one nostril and out the other, the liquid suddenly starts pouring out the lower nostril. Then you repeat on the other side until all the salty water has passed through your sinuses.

Yeh, I know.

But really, I couldn’t sleep a wink. So I bought one. And I tried it. I checked out a few YouTube videos of Neti pots beforehand to get my technique right – watch them yourself if you want a laugh. Then I tried it for myself.

It felt a lot like doing somersaults in the ocean, and I’ve quickly learned that you don’t make the water too hot, but I have to say there has been some improvement. So far, at least, it has been a vastly more successful experiment than buying the bike. What’s more, it was far cheaper.

Let’s just hope my housemates don’t mistake it for a teapot.

A cyclist’s lament

I’m not going to get into a debate on climate change on here – I have some pretty strong and largely unfounded opinions, and it only takes a beer or two before I’m an expert worthy of chairing the Copenhagen Summit. Regardless of your own views, we can all agree that pollution is bad, and ‘clean fuel’ is good. Now, I’m no hippy (though I do have a slight obsession for Moby), but given the geographical concentration of Canberra, combined with (most importantly) its relative flatness, I decided, in my own personal statement for the environment, to buy a bike.

Okay, there’s a little more to it than that. I duck off from work to uni classes three times a week, and the parking there costs $8 (which, given Canberra’s relatively depreciated exchange rate to Sydney, is about fifty Sydney dollars and thus downright ridiculous). My mathematical and economical psyches finally aligned themselves and advised me that I need only ride a cheap, second-hand, $150 bike less than twenty times to make a profit (not including the saved petrol and slight utility benefits from ‘doing the right thing’). So, I bought a bike.

Of course, there were hidden costs. I then had to buy a helmet, a lock, a pump, and front and back lights. Then the back tyre went flat, and while fixing it, I decided to chuck on some road tyres instead of the mountain ones. Then the front tyre went flat, and it transpired that the tube was busted – so, too, was the spare I’d been given. On taking the bike in to get a new tube, I found out that the gears stuck badly and the breaks were terribly wired – in the end, I gave in and got a full service.

But having handled all the fixed costs, it should be smooth sailing from now, right? Sure I have to ride it just a little more to make that economic profit, but that’s no biggie, yeh?

So I rode it into work for the first time. Of course, I can’t ride in my suit, so into the backpack it went. Although it’s only a fifteen minute ride, the Canberra heat saw me arriving with my shirt plastered with sweat to my back. Fortunately the office does have showers, so after lugging my bike into our ‘bike room’ (which looks like a cross between a storage cupboard for metal parts and a medieval torture chamber), I headed to the showers and lockers, chewing up more time to my morning.

Naturally, my shirt was crinkled from the ride, but it hardly matters as two hours’ later, I’m getting changed again and riding to uni. I bravely combat both the heat and the angry lunchtime motorists, who don’t seem to realise that by cutting them off when the bike-lane intersects with their arterial exit, I’m somehow saving a tree. Then back to work in the afternoon, now even sweatier, and still in a crinkled suit.

Now, before you judge me, let me readily admit that I’m sure there’s an easier way to do things. I’m sure I can plan better, maybe take in a week’s worth of work clothes by car each Sunday, or just get fitter. But before you turn up your nose at my constant whingeing, here’s the kicker: my chunky d-lock I bought has decided to break, thus rendering itself useless, inoperable and unopenable, while still attached to my bike.

I’d say that was a sign, if ever there was one. Global warming, do your worst.

A new year, a new Australian Champion

The Australian championships are over for another year, with top-seeded grandmaster Zong-Yuan Zhao winning by a full point with a record-equalling 10/11. But what a championship it was! Unfortunately, work commitments in Canberra relegating me to the role of online spectator, but the live games and even livelier online discussions on ChessChat kept us pundits glued to our screens for the fortnight.

Of course, the big story was George ‘Wendi’ Xie’s second grandmaster norm, reaching 9/10 in barnstorming fashion before going down to the Solo in the finale. George’s style is somewhat reformed coffeehouse: pit him against anyone under 2500 and his tactical trickery will simply blow them away. However, he’s yet to demonstrate his ability to hold and match it with the really good players that Australia generally lacks. Still, after this Olympiad-cementing performance, George will most likely have another chance to prove his skills against world-class opposition in Siberia later this year.

The other ‘story’ from the championships was the international master norm earned by Vladmir Smirnov, father of the incredibly talented seven year old, Anton Smirnov. Whether Vlad’s been focussing more on chess in his role as coach of his son, or whether he’s simply a Topalov-esque ‘late bloomer’, Vlad has demonstrated his worthiness of master strength through his engaging and somewhat eclectic style. His rock-solid grovelling draw against Zhao was at least as good as his spectacular tactical victory over Lane to seal the norm.

As a pseudo-Canberran, it was great to see the rise and rise of Junta Ikeda take a solid leap forward in the champs. Half a point from an IM norm at one stage, his play was very mature and incredibly gutsy at times, and he was very unlucky to lose to George in the later rounds. One weakness that hasn’t changed over the years, and which I remember well when coaching him in the world youth, is Junta’s preoccupation with getting into time trouble. It’s tempered somewhat by his proficiency at blitz, but regardless, he could easy gain another hundred points or so just by eliminating that trait.

One final mention has to go to the winner of the minor division, Mark Stokes. The cheery Queenslander swept aside the opposition in swashbuckling fashion – just desserts for a man who always has a nice word to say about anyone (especially if they follow the Maroons or the Broncos). I remember well the first time I beat Mark, when I was 10. As he very willingly analysed with me after the game, one of his mates cheekily kibitzed, “How does it feel getting beat by a 10 year old, Mark?” Quick as a flash, Mark replied, “Sure he’s good now, but just wait a few years when he meets girls and booze!”

Anyway, hearty congratulations to George, Vlad, and of course my main man Zong, who edges ever so close to the golden 2600 rating. After this year’s excitement, I think I’ll take a less spectative approach to 2011’s championships.

I hate Christmas

I do.  I really, really do.

Turu comments that they appreciate reading ‘a grandmaster’s thoughts’.  Well, this seems as good an invitation as any to have a rant about the festive season.

As I prepare to leave tomorrow for a very merry Christmas in Perth, I’m hoping this rather unmerry post will help rid my psyche of its Christmas grinchiness, at least long enough to impress the future in-laws.  Unsurprisingly, I’m sure my upbringing has something to do with my Ho-Ho-Phobia: my family never celebrated Christmas , and I was always taught to be somewhat cynical of a commercialised pagan festival.  (Once, my sister, during a grade one Christmas decoration making lesson, proudly announced to her fellow five year olds that Santa wasn’t real.) These days, however, I have no moral objections to the celebration of the festival itself, so I can only assume my December 25 teeth-grinding is some sort of negative Pavlovian response.

Psychology aside, I ventured out yesterday for my first-ever attempt at Christmas shopping.  Man, how do you guys handle this every year?! I even overlooked Canberra Civic for the quieter Woden (for those unfamiliar, Woden is the Siberia to Canberra Civic’s Moscow).  Two hours of torture ensued, in which I watched kindly old ladies snatch wrapping paper from my very grasp, and attempt to bargain for the last gift of its kind on the shelf.  And the carols! Don’t get me started on the carols.  It’s possibly because we could never listen to them as a kid, or possibly just because they’re so amazingly bad, but they urk me to my very core.  (I’ve been warned by Fi that I have 6am carols at full volume to look forward to at her parents’ place, so apparently either earplugs or a very strong sedative will be necessary to survive the trip.)  And what are all these respectible artists doing putting out this Christmas garbage, I ask you?  The only saving grace this year is A Christmas Dual, a darkly comedic ballad featuring Cindy Lauper – worth a listen, but bear in mind the strong (yet hilarious) language.

To top it all off, I have a little gripe  to raise with Westfield shopping centres.  Well, I have more than one, but now I have a specific Christmassy one.  I noticed to my discomfort that Santa was holding photo shoots on the ground floor of David Jones, and all the little, happy, blissfully naive kids were lining up to get their picture snapped with the scragly, obese, Coca-Cola-created symbol of the season. To my astonishment, not more than fifteen metres from the scene, Westfield had its own Santa shoot just outside the ground floor entrance.  The two Santas could almost see eye to eye!  Now, if I was an astute six year old (one that was allowed to visit Santa in the first place, I should add), I’d have some serious questions to ask.  For one, where was the disclaimer that I was getting a photo with an imposter?  By way of comparison, if I scored a 15 minute interview with Obama or K-Rudd, just to find out that I was actually interviewing his body double, I’d be seriously peeved.  Not only that, but the hypothetical me as a kid would also want confirmation that at least one of the Santas was real, and not both imposters.  This would lead to me asking a series of probing questions to both Santas, possibly followed by some investigative research on Google – at which point I would discover that Santa was created by Coca-Cola, and subsequently turn my addictive habits to Pepsi, or possibly crack cocaine.  That’s right: Westfield’s rookie Christmas error could be sending Australia’s children to drugs.  I know there are a few logical flaws in my argument, but I would argue that Christmas also has its fair share.

I could probably continue to rant about Christmas for some time, but I’ll spare those of you who actually enjoy the season.  I suppose it’s not all bad – public servants do get holidays from Christmas until the New Year.  The irony of supposedly non-partisan Governmental officers taking time off to celebrate the incorrect date of birth of the Christian Messiah is not lost on me, but I appreciate the time off all the same.

In other, less angsty news, I can now do 70 push-ups on the trot.  Making triple figures in a week is still a long shot, particular because I’m apparently expected to eat and drink a lot on Friday, but it’d be nice to knock off a 2010 resolution before the starting gun.

To you all, I wish a very happy (and thus necessarily blissfully ignorant) holidays.  What a season!