As I may have mentioned, my international career as a Marcel Marceau impersonator (that’s quite different from actually being a mime artist) is on hold at the moment, due to slight case of Frozen Face - or as the witchdoctors down at the hospital call it, Bell’s Palsy.
When I went to see them the first time, they got quite insistent about me coming back and visiting their neurology department a little bit after the initial consult - just to make sure I wasn’t doing something else spectacular in the brain-box. So, in a turn up for the books, I did what I was told.
After the initial questioning and testing and poking and prodding and the lights and the lenses and the balancing and the pointing and the singing and the back-flipping while walking and reciting while balancing with eyes shut please, the initial doctor said,
“I just want to go and get the head specialist. When he comes in, don’t say anything, I want to see how quickly he picks it.”
The very cheery and quite charming head neuro specialist came in and said,
“Smile. Grimace. Show me your teeth. Look surprised. Look angry. Look like a bear. Look like a frog. Look like Joan Rivers walking into a stiff breeze. Look like Joan Rivers ordering a stiff drink…” and so on.
After a beat, he said, “Well, in this case, laughter really is the best medicine. Do you like Monty Python?”
I said, “Not when it’s being re-enacted by Neurologists,” and he laughed.
I didn’t. I was deadly serious. He went on.
“No, Really. What you have to do is go and get as many funny DVDs as you can and keep yourself laughing. Oh, and you can do acupuncture too, if you want.”
This intrigued me. I said, “Really? A real doctor is telling me to go and get acupuncture?”
He said, “Yep. There are no head-to-head trials to compare with other therapies, but we do think there are benefits.”
I said, “I guess a double-blind study with placebos is a bit hard to do with acupuncture,” and they laughed again.
I didn’t. I was deadly serious, but the thought does amuse me in hindsight.
So speaking of amusing, I have to go to the DVD store and stock up on therapy.
29 October 2010
28 October 2010
27 October 2010
Doctor What’s-On
My international modelling career is on hold at the moment due to a slight case of facial paralysis, so I’ve got a bit of free time on my hands. Telly, in the right amount, can be good for what ails you and this brings me to the modern Sherlock. It’s not the right amount.
I don’t know if they turned six episodes into three by banging doubles together and saying, “Here. Three movie-length episodes” but the shows were not the right length. A bit too long and with a double bump, if you know what I mean. They then left us at the end of the third one with a cliff-hanger and a promise to return, maybe, next year. I’ve got a pinhead. I’m not going to remember! This is just another case of free-to-air broadcasters treating us like dirt and I’m sick of it.
But, maybe I don’t need to go back. There’s something inherently wrong with the modern Sherlock and I can only work through it, detective stylee, by metaphorically talking out loud.
In a break with tradition, I’ll start with the good stuff. The nods to all the devices and character habits that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (or Sac-Dee as he would be known now) are really good.
For those not familiar, the Sherlock I’m writing about is set NOW. Not Holmes blasted forward in time to the 1970s in a Hounds of the Baskervilles Chase Life on Mars mash up - but defiantly now. There are text additions to the screen like augmented reality. It uses a baroque instrument, the harpsichord, a la Dexter. That’s how NOW it is. There wasn’t any explanation for this, or if there was I missed it but the point is that the fun, or at least the novelty of the show, is predicated on Sherlock being modernised.
Many of the character’s devices and habits have been modernised. Instead of Sherlock’s minute scouring of the papers each morning, he’s joined at the fingertips to his smart-phone. Instead of a ragingly unfashionable morphine addiction, we’ve seen him abuse nicotine patches. The living arrangements between Dr John and Sherlock have come under semi-comic questioning (as they stake out a place of interest from a restaurant, a candle is brought to their table by a kindly restaurateur - to improve the ambience.) Sherlock, instead of generously tipping urchins as a source of street gossip, makes sizable donations to homeless women - and so on. I found these really fun and enjoyed putting the pieces together from my memories of the stories.
However, it is not sustainable and Sherlock Holmes would be complete crap these days - the world is at the same time too big and too small and we‘ve put too much stuff in it for him to work.
One of the major faculties that the traditional Sherlock would bring to the art of detection was a vast knowledge of stuff. He knew who brewed what brand of port. He knew where the tobacco was grown, packaged and who shipped it. All ladies perfumes were identifiable. Jewellers’ individual stamps, watermarks, addresses and opening hours were all stored away in his head. London was known to the last backstreet. These things were believable for a deeply brilliant sociopath with an eidetic memory in 19th Century London.
Let’s put this in the modern context. Sherlock does his trick of divining from a client that he’s just been around the world twice by looking at the client’s watch. The watch’s date display is out by two days, but it’s a brand new Breitling. In fact, one of the tell-tales was that it was a newly (that week) released model.
This is not possible to say about a Breitling having glanced at it from a distance of eight feet. They release new models all the freakin’ time, at different times depending on the sales territory, some of them never to be seen in certain markets at all. This is true of all large commodity manufacturers. Imagine trying to get across all women’s fragrances on the market and staying abreast of the changes. I reckon you’d be challenged to just stay ahead of perfumes released on Rodeo Drive in a week by actresses or pop divas with flagging careers.
Imagine trying to work out what the hell Nokia is up to. Imagine trying to stay ahead of all developments in the major tool of modern crime - the computer. Even given an unfillable and infallible memory, there still isn’t the time to get across the stuff. You can’t know the market. It is global and changes daily and this leads to the next problem.
London isn’t the London it used to be. Sure, it was and is a transport hub, a money nexus and an all around gravitational well for business, culture and crime, but the interconnectedness, the inescapable globalisation that you experience in a proper metropolis means that just being an expert on London is almost pointless when you are talking about anything other than the most petty crime… which Sherlock isn’t interested in. He likes the big, juicy stuff - and that’s international - and again, one person could not have the time to get across all of it and still have time to smash away on a Yamaha violin and solve a couple of crimes.
So, I have some conceptual difficulties with the likelihood of Sherlock Holmes actually working in the modern context - so let’s put my belief in suspenders and get to some other elements of the show.
How about the moral angle. I never thought I’d write this, but I don’t like the morals of the character, Sherlock Holmes. In the traditional setting, his sociopathy and ruthlessness seemed less evil. His consideration for “the game” over the players in it seemed a much less odious character trait. I don’t know if a couple of world wars, a few genocides and a general awakening of the need for us to treat each other better and more ethically since the 19th Century is what’s underlying my concern, but I find the modern Sherlock’s disdain for the innocent humans caught up in the strategising, deeply unpleasant. I sort of find it impossible to really root for him. I feel more for the slightly angry copper who calls him ‘Freak’ and wants to bang him up. At least her heart is in the right place. But, that’s the kind of concern that gets me called a wanker in polite society, so let’s just pretend I didn’t write that bit.
What about the acting? As I was tucking my dickey-shirt into my cumberbatch, I was trying to put my finger on what was annoying me - not least of all the lead actor’s name. Common! What kind of name is Benedict Cumberbatch? I feel like flying to the UK to bully him, just on principle. He’s alright, but he’s not great. Every time I see him getting a bit to self serious, I think of how much I probably would’ve liked Richard E. Grant in the role. There are times when I just see a bit of Withnail poking through in the performance.
The guy who plays Moriarty is atrocious. Serious boo-boo there.
I tell you who’s the revelation, though, Martin Freeman as Dr John. He is just terrific. I read that he is supposed to be Bilbo in The Hobbit. He will be perfect. If they screw that up by taking it away from New Zealand or going into some pre-production meltdown (as of writing, it looks like it is) that will be a fucking crime worth investigating.
So, yeah it’s got ups and downs and I’d like to think that I’ll remember to come back to it, just to see the wind-up, next year… but I don’t know. There’s just so much stuff I’ve got to watch and remember.
I don’t know if they turned six episodes into three by banging doubles together and saying, “Here. Three movie-length episodes” but the shows were not the right length. A bit too long and with a double bump, if you know what I mean. They then left us at the end of the third one with a cliff-hanger and a promise to return, maybe, next year. I’ve got a pinhead. I’m not going to remember! This is just another case of free-to-air broadcasters treating us like dirt and I’m sick of it.
But, maybe I don’t need to go back. There’s something inherently wrong with the modern Sherlock and I can only work through it, detective stylee, by metaphorically talking out loud.
In a break with tradition, I’ll start with the good stuff. The nods to all the devices and character habits that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (or Sac-Dee as he would be known now) are really good.
For those not familiar, the Sherlock I’m writing about is set NOW. Not Holmes blasted forward in time to the 1970s in a Hounds of the Baskervilles Chase Life on Mars mash up - but defiantly now. There are text additions to the screen like augmented reality. It uses a baroque instrument, the harpsichord, a la Dexter. That’s how NOW it is. There wasn’t any explanation for this, or if there was I missed it but the point is that the fun, or at least the novelty of the show, is predicated on Sherlock being modernised.
Many of the character’s devices and habits have been modernised. Instead of Sherlock’s minute scouring of the papers each morning, he’s joined at the fingertips to his smart-phone. Instead of a ragingly unfashionable morphine addiction, we’ve seen him abuse nicotine patches. The living arrangements between Dr John and Sherlock have come under semi-comic questioning (as they stake out a place of interest from a restaurant, a candle is brought to their table by a kindly restaurateur - to improve the ambience.) Sherlock, instead of generously tipping urchins as a source of street gossip, makes sizable donations to homeless women - and so on. I found these really fun and enjoyed putting the pieces together from my memories of the stories.
However, it is not sustainable and Sherlock Holmes would be complete crap these days - the world is at the same time too big and too small and we‘ve put too much stuff in it for him to work.
One of the major faculties that the traditional Sherlock would bring to the art of detection was a vast knowledge of stuff. He knew who brewed what brand of port. He knew where the tobacco was grown, packaged and who shipped it. All ladies perfumes were identifiable. Jewellers’ individual stamps, watermarks, addresses and opening hours were all stored away in his head. London was known to the last backstreet. These things were believable for a deeply brilliant sociopath with an eidetic memory in 19th Century London.
Let’s put this in the modern context. Sherlock does his trick of divining from a client that he’s just been around the world twice by looking at the client’s watch. The watch’s date display is out by two days, but it’s a brand new Breitling. In fact, one of the tell-tales was that it was a newly (that week) released model.
This is not possible to say about a Breitling having glanced at it from a distance of eight feet. They release new models all the freakin’ time, at different times depending on the sales territory, some of them never to be seen in certain markets at all. This is true of all large commodity manufacturers. Imagine trying to get across all women’s fragrances on the market and staying abreast of the changes. I reckon you’d be challenged to just stay ahead of perfumes released on Rodeo Drive in a week by actresses or pop divas with flagging careers.
Imagine trying to work out what the hell Nokia is up to. Imagine trying to stay ahead of all developments in the major tool of modern crime - the computer. Even given an unfillable and infallible memory, there still isn’t the time to get across the stuff. You can’t know the market. It is global and changes daily and this leads to the next problem.
London isn’t the London it used to be. Sure, it was and is a transport hub, a money nexus and an all around gravitational well for business, culture and crime, but the interconnectedness, the inescapable globalisation that you experience in a proper metropolis means that just being an expert on London is almost pointless when you are talking about anything other than the most petty crime… which Sherlock isn’t interested in. He likes the big, juicy stuff - and that’s international - and again, one person could not have the time to get across all of it and still have time to smash away on a Yamaha violin and solve a couple of crimes.
So, I have some conceptual difficulties with the likelihood of Sherlock Holmes actually working in the modern context - so let’s put my belief in suspenders and get to some other elements of the show.
How about the moral angle. I never thought I’d write this, but I don’t like the morals of the character, Sherlock Holmes. In the traditional setting, his sociopathy and ruthlessness seemed less evil. His consideration for “the game” over the players in it seemed a much less odious character trait. I don’t know if a couple of world wars, a few genocides and a general awakening of the need for us to treat each other better and more ethically since the 19th Century is what’s underlying my concern, but I find the modern Sherlock’s disdain for the innocent humans caught up in the strategising, deeply unpleasant. I sort of find it impossible to really root for him. I feel more for the slightly angry copper who calls him ‘Freak’ and wants to bang him up. At least her heart is in the right place. But, that’s the kind of concern that gets me called a wanker in polite society, so let’s just pretend I didn’t write that bit.
What about the acting? As I was tucking my dickey-shirt into my cumberbatch, I was trying to put my finger on what was annoying me - not least of all the lead actor’s name. Common! What kind of name is Benedict Cumberbatch? I feel like flying to the UK to bully him, just on principle. He’s alright, but he’s not great. Every time I see him getting a bit to self serious, I think of how much I probably would’ve liked Richard E. Grant in the role. There are times when I just see a bit of Withnail poking through in the performance.
The guy who plays Moriarty is atrocious. Serious boo-boo there.
I tell you who’s the revelation, though, Martin Freeman as Dr John. He is just terrific. I read that he is supposed to be Bilbo in The Hobbit. He will be perfect. If they screw that up by taking it away from New Zealand or going into some pre-production meltdown (as of writing, it looks like it is) that will be a fucking crime worth investigating.
So, yeah it’s got ups and downs and I’d like to think that I’ll remember to come back to it, just to see the wind-up, next year… but I don’t know. There’s just so much stuff I’ve got to watch and remember.
21 October 2010
Sirius Cybernetics Corporation - Safe For Now
A surprising number of people say to me, “What’s your take on domestic robots?”
They do this because I outed myself as a robot-vacuum-cleaner owner a while ago and people want to know how it‘s going.
Owning a robot vacuum has almost nothing to do with an obsessive cleaning compulsion, but a lot more to do with me being disappointed that I don’t take holidays on the moon or go to work riding a jetpack. My science fiction future just never eventuated and I eke these little bits of future-joy from wherever possible. (Also, if you are proper OCD about cleaning, a little robot vacuum is going to suck at sucking.)
Rather than giving advice on which model to buy based on electronic room-mapping or randomised, bump-turns to room volumes, I like to illustrate the state of the art with the following:
One day, I came home and was startled to see the balcony door open. I quickly went through the house to check if all the important stuff was still there. Telly. Check. Phew. Computer. Check. Sigh. Emergency Contact. Not there. Let’s put that on the backburner for now. Stay focused and frosty. Laptop. Check. Phew.
I couldn’t see anything amiss and just put it down to one of us absentmindedly stepping out and leaving the balcony door ajar and the wind did the rest.
Several days later, I was emptying the robot vacuum and it had sticks and leaves in the hopper. Pieces fell into place and I realised that robot had pushed the door open and gone out onto the balcony to loyally go about his cleaning business, vacuuming a cement, outdoor surface.
I was impressed. It showed that the sensors supposed to stop him from throwing himself down a flight of stairs, really work. The bottom of the railing on the balcony is way too high to have stopped him from going over the edge, so it was only his little, downward-pointing, electronic eyes that gave him vertigo. I do like to imagine what the suicide note would say if did chuck himself off, though. “Don’t blame yourself. I just wasn’t cut out for the domestic life.”
Anyway, he dragged himself back inside, over the door-snake and took himself back to his little dock to charge up and doubtlessly get a little indigestion from the surprising meal he’d had - And this is really where we are at with domestic robots.
He left the door open. He spent time vacuuming something he shouldn’t. He can’t reach up and do the cobwebs between the bookcases. He drags a sock around for a while, gets it hooked on the telephone lead, pulls the telephone off the shelf and then pushes it under the telly. Then, with a triumphant whistle, scoots off and gets baffled by a rug with tassels.
And most importantly, robot vacuums don’t save any time whatsoever. If you’re like me, you have to follow and watch the little thing doing his stuff ‘cause it’s so damn cute.
They do this because I outed myself as a robot-vacuum-cleaner owner a while ago and people want to know how it‘s going.
Owning a robot vacuum has almost nothing to do with an obsessive cleaning compulsion, but a lot more to do with me being disappointed that I don’t take holidays on the moon or go to work riding a jetpack. My science fiction future just never eventuated and I eke these little bits of future-joy from wherever possible. (Also, if you are proper OCD about cleaning, a little robot vacuum is going to suck at sucking.)
Rather than giving advice on which model to buy based on electronic room-mapping or randomised, bump-turns to room volumes, I like to illustrate the state of the art with the following:
One day, I came home and was startled to see the balcony door open. I quickly went through the house to check if all the important stuff was still there. Telly. Check. Phew. Computer. Check. Sigh. Emergency Contact. Not there. Let’s put that on the backburner for now. Stay focused and frosty. Laptop. Check. Phew.
I couldn’t see anything amiss and just put it down to one of us absentmindedly stepping out and leaving the balcony door ajar and the wind did the rest.
Several days later, I was emptying the robot vacuum and it had sticks and leaves in the hopper. Pieces fell into place and I realised that robot had pushed the door open and gone out onto the balcony to loyally go about his cleaning business, vacuuming a cement, outdoor surface.
I was impressed. It showed that the sensors supposed to stop him from throwing himself down a flight of stairs, really work. The bottom of the railing on the balcony is way too high to have stopped him from going over the edge, so it was only his little, downward-pointing, electronic eyes that gave him vertigo. I do like to imagine what the suicide note would say if did chuck himself off, though. “Don’t blame yourself. I just wasn’t cut out for the domestic life.”
Anyway, he dragged himself back inside, over the door-snake and took himself back to his little dock to charge up and doubtlessly get a little indigestion from the surprising meal he’d had - And this is really where we are at with domestic robots.
He left the door open. He spent time vacuuming something he shouldn’t. He can’t reach up and do the cobwebs between the bookcases. He drags a sock around for a while, gets it hooked on the telephone lead, pulls the telephone off the shelf and then pushes it under the telly. Then, with a triumphant whistle, scoots off and gets baffled by a rug with tassels.
And most importantly, robot vacuums don’t save any time whatsoever. If you’re like me, you have to follow and watch the little thing doing his stuff ‘cause it’s so damn cute.
You Are Aware We Can Hear You, Yes?
The Churches have reacted angrily to the proposal that ethics classes should be offered to students as an alternative to scripture classes in NSW schools.
They (Church Leaders) argue that holding the classes at the same time as scripture classes would disadvantage scripture students, who would not be able to attend.
SMH. 20-10-10, P1.
In religion’s overweening struggle for relevancy and as a buttress to why they think they have any moral authority at all, the Church keeps saying that morals and ethics flow from scripture. But here, by their own admission, the student is at a disadvantage in the scripture class.
I couldn’t agree more (unless the lesson was for atheists and called “Know Thine Enemy”) but it’s nice to hear the Church come out and say it for me.
In the statement, the Church blithely throws out, “…students, who would not be able to attend”.
Why can’t the student attend? Weren’t they allowed to change to something they felt was more enlightened? Could this type of dictatorial meddling in the mind of a young adult be ethical at all? Never mind - it’s the church! It has the authority handed down to it from these here old books called scripture… that don’t really say very much conclusive or sensible about anything… so you’re just going to have to apply your own personal set of morals to them to try and sort out anything of value. Oh, you didn’t go to that lesson? Ahem.
So, as some kids go back to their scripture classes to be earbashed about the impossible requirements from a fictional sadist in the sky, and the other kids go back to classes on the nature of personhood and how to navigate a way to moral outcomes in an ethical way - that must really set up a tension. It gets even worse as they toddle off to their next lessons - evolutionary biology for one lot, and “Why the heliocentric view of the solar system is a godless lie” for the others.
They (Church Leaders) argue that holding the classes at the same time as scripture classes would disadvantage scripture students, who would not be able to attend.
SMH. 20-10-10, P1.
In religion’s overweening struggle for relevancy and as a buttress to why they think they have any moral authority at all, the Church keeps saying that morals and ethics flow from scripture. But here, by their own admission, the student is at a disadvantage in the scripture class.
I couldn’t agree more (unless the lesson was for atheists and called “Know Thine Enemy”) but it’s nice to hear the Church come out and say it for me.
In the statement, the Church blithely throws out, “…students, who would not be able to attend”.
Why can’t the student attend? Weren’t they allowed to change to something they felt was more enlightened? Could this type of dictatorial meddling in the mind of a young adult be ethical at all? Never mind - it’s the church! It has the authority handed down to it from these here old books called scripture… that don’t really say very much conclusive or sensible about anything… so you’re just going to have to apply your own personal set of morals to them to try and sort out anything of value. Oh, you didn’t go to that lesson? Ahem.
So, as some kids go back to their scripture classes to be earbashed about the impossible requirements from a fictional sadist in the sky, and the other kids go back to classes on the nature of personhood and how to navigate a way to moral outcomes in an ethical way - that must really set up a tension. It gets even worse as they toddle off to their next lessons - evolutionary biology for one lot, and “Why the heliocentric view of the solar system is a godless lie” for the others.
18 October 2010
They're Just Teasing
On the cover of the Sydney Morning Herald this weekend, I was dead excited to see that they had an article in the Spectrum lift-out on, “How to tell a child they’re fat.”
I have a technical interest in this and couldn’t wait to get to the juicy script guidelines I expected to find in the article. Do you make it a ‘tight five’? Do you harangue over a period of years? Surreal humour or simple insulting rhymes? So many choices. So much scope. You need articles like this to point the way and there was the joy of the Sydney Morning Herald seeing the light and fighting its way back to modern relevancy.
“Honey, clean your teeth and get gently into your giant, specially reinforced bed.”
“Goodnight. Sleep tight. The bedbugs won’t bite. They’re frightened.”
“… and no you can’t have your floaties, you don’t need them. In fact, I can’t get them on. And, swim between the flags. We don’t want the Japanese whaling fleet getting any ideas.”
“You’re not a morning kid, are you? You sort of wake up in sections.”
“Of course you’re special to me. I’ve always wanted a kid with her own postcode.”
“Not everyone’s bellybutton comes with it’s own echo, you know Billy?”
"While I'm paying for petrol, can you check Timmy's oil, please? And for God's sake don't put anymore air in his tyres."
And so on.
But no. Stupid SMH had a reasoned piece that said the same old sensible predictable things. Lead by example. Limit the portions. Get some freakin’ exercise. Total let down.
15 October 2010
For Whom The Bell Tolls
I’ve been in two minds as to whether I should post this blob. I don’t want AGA just to become a litany of personal mishaps. I want to talk to larger set of topics than what would normally be housed in the diary of a sixteen-year-old girl. But, I also know that misery loves company and we all quietly revel in the misfortunes and failures of good friends, so this one goes out to all those who want to hear about another one of my sterling efforts. (Oh, and as they do say, “Write what you know.”)
I have an informal and mutually satisfying competition going on with Pink Patent Mary Janes. She tells the story of watching a bug fly into her own eye, I sympathise and escalate – on a long bike ride in the summer heat, far from home, I poured my entire drink bottle into my own eye to try and wash the insect out. Bug still in eye and no water in drink bottle.
I mention the time I tried to rip off the top of my ear on the corner of a car door, she shows me scars on her ear where she’s done it, adding that it bled on an expensive dress.
We also like to break up our lightly amusing stories of misadventure with some real doozies that we don’t actually laugh at. Broken ribs (me) and busted anterior cruciate ligaments (her) are just not funny. In people you know, humour is directly related to recovery time. In people you don’t know – it’s geographical distance.
Today’s story sits nicely in between. Odd, scary, but with any luck, not of lasting consequence.
Over the last two days, my face fell off my skull. It was mixed in with a couple of other symptoms so I didn’t immediately twig to what was going on, but when I got up this morning, the left side of my face didn’t work. This is a frightening characteristic to manifest as you plod towards your middle age.
I could get my hands above my head. I could speak. I knew where I was. My left pupil was dilating and contracting when EC shone my Kindle light into it.
But I couldn’t smile, blink, frown, display my teeth, taste, purse my lips or wiggle my left ear. (Normally, I can wiggle my ears and I was trying to map how far the effect was being seen around the globe of my head.) I had lost the crease from my left nostril to the corner of my mouth and I had the appearance of someone who’d got cold feet about botox halfway through their treatment.
Off to the hospital.
Not a stroke.
Bell’s Palsy.
There are a number of annoying things about Bell’s Palsy, not least of which is the amount of tea you spit down your front from not being able to make a proper seal with your lips. But the most annoying thing is not being able to find a dashing eye-patch with a skull and crossbone on it.
The doctors recommend you patch the affected eye, because you lose your blink reflex. This means you don’t protect the eye and you can do all sorts of damage. Picking up the required gear from the chemist this morning, I was bitter to find they only had “flesh coloured” eye-patches.
Firstly, if your flesh is that colour you’ve got bigger problems than the need for an eye-patch. Secondly, I’ve always wanted the excuse to wear an eye-patch and the let-down of not finding a cool one is hard to convey.
It is also not the sort of thing that you should be admitting to – but I’ve got stroke-face for the next couple of weeks and I’m going to be looked at strangely for more than just a daggy desire for a cool eye-patch.
11 October 2010
Floriade - Tick Tock, Tick Tock... Bloom!
Many of the pieces here at A Grey Area are designed to help you avoid modern pitfalls. You are welcome to learn from my mistakes. I am out there, losing my mops, swamping my ute with wet mattresses, taking my own temperature with meat thermometers and many other hazardous activities, all in the name of investigative blogging so that you don’t have to.
Today I have two handy tourist tips for when you visit Canberra to see the Floriade exhibition.
Number one. Don’t instantly assume that everywhere charges for parking quite the way Sydney charges for parking. I pulled into a car park exactly outside where we wanted to go, walked over to the Pay-and-Display ticket machine, dropped my money in and got a ticket out that said it was good till 9.30, Monday morning. Seeing as it was Saturday afternoon, I thought that was pretty good value. I thought I was paying for an hour and here I was getting closer to 40 hours for a paltry dollar fifty.
Emergency Contact said, “I don’t think you need to pay on the weekend.”
“I don’t understand,” I said.
She said, “See, I think you paid for an hour like you thought you needed to, but that hour doesn’t start till 8.30 on Monday morning.”
I said, “Are you saying that this parking, here, in the middle of the so-called CBD, right where we need to go, is free?”
“Yes,” she said, laughing a little.
“I simply don’t understand.” I said, flustered. I realised that some locals were looking at me with a look that said, “Oh, bless. Look at that poor out-of-towner thinking he had to put his money in the machines on a weekend.”
What we had parked outside of, was Floriade, which leads me to tip number two.
If you want to see it next year, get there at the start. It is a spring celebration that goes for a month and largely consists of flowers. We arrived on the second-last day. The second last day of an exhibition that goes for a month and is made of flowers. See where I’m going with this?
I’m sure that in week one, maybe even week two of an exhibition of glorious, exotic, delicate flowers planted out in the Australian climate, it looked fabulous. End of week four? Not so much.
04 October 2010
I Scream, You Scream, We All Scream For... A New Tune
I can understand how it is that Mr Whippy might be reluctant to change his tune - but the time has come when he has to or he is a dead man.
The one in my neighbourhood can be heard for hours at a time. He is within earshot for so long because of the numbers of ovals and fields in my area. There’s also something about the topography that guarantees that for the entire time that he’s out there noisily and repetitively begging, I get to hear it.
In some things, tradition is important. I can’t actually think of any of those things right off the top of my head, but I am reliably informed that this is true and I will yield to wiser minds than mine. But if tradition is the argument for keeping the tune, let’s look at the sense of sticking with Greensleeves as the anthem of Mr Whippy.
Mr Whippy’s target demograph is not a hidebound bunch. I reckon a good proportion of kids who want an ice-cream (when they find out what all the noise is about) are hearing Greensleeves for the first time. Also, as I have illustrated before, kids are idiots. I don’t think it’s Greensleeves that elicits the Pavlovian badgering of mum and dad the next time they hear it. It’ll be a far simpler stimulus response, like, “Noisy, jangly truck equals choc-top.”
It’d be an improvement for the older group as well. A change is as good as a holiday and if I heard another tune out there, I’d be more inclined to go have a look, just to see what it was. If the truck came around playing “Ready to Rock” by Pianosaurus, I’d be hoping it sold beef jerky and cold beer. I’d then probably buy a sorbet anyway, simply to make pulling on my pants and running out into street worthwhile.
Imagine the cross promotional opportunity young, up-and-coming bands and Mr Whippy could get into. He plays their music and every time they’re on telly, they slip in some endorsement like, “Yeah, thanks for that Fuzzy, now we’re gonna rock out with our choc out.”
At the outset, Greensleeves is a strange choice. It’s a teeny bit depressing. I had to learn the song at school and here’s the first verse:
Alas my love you do me wrong
To cast me off discourteously
For I have loved you well and long (cor)
Delighting in your company
It’s a she done me wrong song - unrequited love and all the fun that that entails. To me, that doesn’t scream “gimme a frozen yoghurt with sprinkles!”
There is also some speculation that sleeves are made green by having a little rumpy pumpy in grassy fields. Apparently, a green dress was code for promiscuity. Now, when it comes to ancient ideas of prudery and prurience I am not a traditionalist. In fact, more power to you if you like to put out, but that’s not really an integral part of unloading dairy whip in a sugary cone and probably not an appropriate message for the kiddies. Why not “Ice Cream” by Muscles? This features the undeniably catchy hook “Ice cream, is gonna save the day… again.”
For the foreseeable future, I think that Mr Whippy is going to keep the infernal tune, and this does make him easier to identify and deal with. Future Mums and Dads, the first time your little cherub asks what the noise is, explain, "Why darling, it's Mr Whippy. He plays his music when he's run out of ice cream."
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