Soup, the Final Frontier

Two Orbiting Spheres. As seen depicted (slightly hairier) on bus seats everywhere.

Like many of you I’m sure, I work in a company that likes to put the odd environmental challenge before its workers.

Depending on where you sit in my office, we go from arctic tundra blasts to tropical zephyrs within 20 feet. One person has the heater on in summer, whilst I quite regularly fall asleep on chilly days because the mercury is topping out at 25C inside. (That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.)

So when I arrived in the canteen shivering yesterday, Sticky Monster saw my plight and offered me her giant mug of chicken cuppa-soup to warm my hands.

In an ill-conceived moment of hijinkery, I dropped the mug down to crutch level and pretended to warm my hands over it a-la hobo style. Stick recoiled screaming, protesting that she used to like that mug, and the soup was totally ruined now.

I need to say at this point that there was no contact with any part of the crockery, with any part of my clothing, let alone cockery. And her explanation was particularly hurtful but enlightening.
“NO, you see it’s the fact that around there, parts of bodily moisture become airborne and can get into anything… right there around the genitalia region.”

I was shocked into an old standby comeback, “You know that genitalia is Italian for genitals, don’t you? And there’s no way what you are saying makes any sense.”

From the other side of the table, Smurf hits us with, “I just don’t think she wants it orbiting inside the nutmosphere.”

He takes a sip from the offending plutonium mug and next to him, Man 2 comes in with, “What? Too Salty?”

I’m back, still wiping my eyes from the nutmosphere crack. “Binary System, who knows what you’ll run into…”

Smurf replaces mug on table, Stick reaches and then, as if taking the rejected dish back to the chef, “Did sir find the chicken soup too nutty?”

Me: “We’ve all got bags to carry on this trip ma’am.”

The Definition of Sanity is to Continually Repeat an Action and Expect a Different Outcome

I saw a giant rabbit praying the other night, and it quite put me off balance. Then I realised that it was the South Sydney Rugby League mascot waiting for a video referee decision on a try.

I was watching the football match with Smurf and it was a replay for him, but the first viewing for me. (I don’t normally watch football of any description, but it was filling one entire wall of the place we were sitting in. You couldn’t get away.) He mentioned that something was about to happen - and when it did, it didn’t happen quite as he expected.

Now I’ve always been pretty sure that every time you watch a replay of a sporting match, it’s slightly different. Each time the match is observed, particularly with the observer wishing for a different outcome, another parallel universe winks into existence and sets off down its own path. In turn, in each of these side by side universes, the outcome is just a bit different each time it is observed, and so on. With enough viewings, it is possible to reverse the outcome of, say, a football match.

This is proven in the wisdom of the home game advantage. More people are watching and willing the near infinite number of universal probabilities to come down in the favour of the local team. This can be reversed if the away team supporters continually watch replays of the game they lost – but they never do because it’s too disappointing for them.

So the take home message here is: Don’t give up, each time you watch, it gets you closer to the result you want. I promise. Or at least take comfort in the fact that in some parallel universe, the Rabbitohs are winning a Grand Final and Russell Crowe has stopped being such a weirdo about it.

Now we have to harness this power, and really upset some bookmakers.

Pope Sends Traffic Problems Early

Religious militants show Grey Area

"where the trouble is" with his new car.

The gods; they conspire against me.

Annoyingly it’s in a semi-humorous way. I’m an avowed and evangelical atheist, who adores his comedy… but…

I bought a new car this week, despite my best efforts to fool myself with fresh tyres on the old one (click here for context Car Story) . But there was a biblical element to the entire fiasco.

On the sixth day: Having received no manna, I petitioned the lenders to make clear the nature of their displeasure with my supplications. The tumult was quieted when the vendor was proven to have supplied false witness to the market. (The fuckin’ idiot dealer couldn’t put a Vehicle Identification Number correctly on a fax - three times in a row. The bank couldn’t find two of the three faxes and sat on it for a week.)

I could go on and on with rude comparisons between the usurious banks and the venal marketeers in a fashion that would bring Leviticus to the mind of anyone who had the misfortune to suffer through Sunday school.

But I’m not going to.

After my victory over the forces of stupidity in a day long battle that included two phones to my head at the same time to prove the fax was sent; two and a half hours on-hold, and other assorted modern insults, I drove the new car home.

I drove the new car home, loving the feeling, and smell, and the ride, and comfort.

And then the hail storm hit...

Ma's Lander

Nasa's Phoenix takes a photo of "Mars".
The shadow my Mother casts as she
takes the photo, can be clearly seen in the
top left corner.








I had one of those conversations the other night.

In reaction to a TV news break, I start up with, “How about the way it just fell apart at the end of the runway! Just totally into three bits. They shouldn’t do that!”

Little old lady comes back with, “Yes but it’s alright, there wasn’t anyone on board.”

“Well I know there weren’t any passengers, but there’s still a crew.”

“No I don’t think so, I think they’re unmanned.”

“Uhm, I know the autopilot can do a lot, but they still put guys up the pointy end.”

“Are you sure? I really thought this was an unmanned mission…”

“Hang on, hang on. I’m talking about that 747 cargo plane that fell into thirds at the end of a Brussels runway yesterday.”

“Oh sorry, I thought you were talking about the Mars lander robot thingy.”

Talking of which, I was chatting to my Grey Nomad Mother who is on her way home from her latest trek across Australia. She was in the middle of an arid, dusty, stony and barren place.

The first pictures that the Phoenix Polar Mars Robot Lander (or as I call him, Terry) sent back, reportedly came via Australia. Really?!

As I listened to my mum's description of where she’s camping in, I look at the photos coming back from Mars, and I can’t help but feel that the timing is more than coincidental. If you squint I reckon you can see guy ropes and tent pegs in the corner of the shot.

I Hear They're Not Even Good Eatin'

Pandas. They are the symbol of the WWF. That’s the World Wildlife Fund, not the World Wrestling Federation – but now that I say it, imagine an entertaining blend of the two… but back to the panda. I think it got the job simply because the WWF is a poor charity on a budget. An easily identified symbol for your pamphlets, printed cheaply in black and white, is ideal.

Of course, pandas are also in the upper-stratospheric levels of cute. However, in line with the previous piece in this blog about dwarves, it doesn’t matter how cute they are, I’m not fooled and I’m over them.

Pandas are useless. They are the most ill adapted animal for their environment I can think of off the top of my head, and let’s face it, most of my thoughts are no more considered than that, but read me out.

They are a carnivore in a herbivorous environment. This means their short meat eating guts have to be fed all day, to wring enough nutrients out of their all-bamboo diet to survive. When I say all day, I’m not exaggerating, they sit and eat all day.

They’re not too bright - if you want to laugh yourself silly at some animal footage, go to YouTube and search for “Panda Frightened by Baby”. (I’ll find the link when I’m on a computer that will allow me to, but seriously, those words will bring it up straight away.)

I’ve also seen footage of an English doco maker, clambering through some mountainous bamboo forests, whilst narrating something close to the following:

“… and it was in this region, exactly a year ago, that we first released Xia Xia back into the wild. In the first 4 months the radio transponder fell silent, so we are expecting an arduous search over the next few weeks to locate the…. Oh and here he is…”

Followed by a rushing noise as a panda looks up from his circle of cleared bamboo, recognises his ex-keepers, and comes running over doing his best impersonation of a child lost at an airport. If pandas could talk he would have said,

“Oh thank god you came back, you have no idea how much a bamboo forest sucks. It’s wet, it’s cold, and I’ve only been able to eat in this little circle here… where you dropped me… ages ago… heeeeeey wait a minute…, you’ve changed your clothes. You mean it wasn’t an accident? Hey, hey, where are you going? Can I come too? Hey!”

The useless black and white bastard hadn’t moved an inch in a year. Just sat and ate.

It’s no surprise that they are forced to eat bamboo too. It’s the only living thing a panda can sneak up on. Of what possible evolutionary advantage was being coloured black and white in an all green environment? You’d suspect that it gave some advantage in being able to pick each other out of the forest - for mating reasons. But they have proven themselves hopeless at mating.

The Chinese keepers involved in the breeding programme, have had to produce panda-porn to try and get the bludging, black and white boofheads, up and on the job. Doesn’t work a lot of the time apparently.

One other thing about being black and white. If you are, please try and keep your white bits a bit cleaner. The high contrast of the black on white, means it's really obvious when you're not keeping your fur in tip top nick. Polar Bears can get a bit grubby and get away with it, it takes a while to really notice because there's nothing to compare it to (it's just like my car). However pandas are their own test pattern.

Finally, and I learnt this from a mate who has just been in the south of China photographing them(one of his above), they don’t have proper thumbs. The original digit like other bears have, fell off a while ago (probably from sucking it too much). They then changed their tiny minds and it reappeared as an extension of a bone further up the wrist and arm. So they don’t even have opposable thumbs. That means if you ring up a panda to tell him how useless he is, he can’t even answer the phone.

It's inevitable that they'd become endangered.

Cutting it Short

I’m going to come out and say it right here and now. The fashionableness of dwarves is over. They have had their time in the sun. (Even though the rays take a little longer to get to them.)

For quite a while now they have been the giggling stock of those who want to appear a little quirky and naughty. I love a show called Robot Chicken, but when the creator said that it was “More fun than slapping a dwarf.” I knew that it had entered far enough into mainstream culture for it not to be hip anymore.

I remember a regular article in a weekend paper called ‘The Two of Us’, where couples (of all sorts) talk about their relationship. One time they had a midget who had married a dwarf, or maybe it was the other way around, I can’t remember. Anyway, she was interviewed first and spoke eloquently about the day to day issues of being a little person. Then the fellow was interviewed and he said that his wife was a lot more active in the little people rights movement than he was, and that there were just some jobs she wouldn’t do, and he respected that. For instance, one time their agent rang with a job where they would circulate at a party with ash-trays strapped to their heads. She wouldn’t be in it, but he said it was good money.

Now as brain-bendingly good as that is (you’d take up smoking for the night wouldn’t you?) that’s tired now. We need a new collectable. A new group of uncomplaining people who are a bit different to ‘us’ and are willing to be the sideshow for a while.

I loved you little dwarfies, with your crazy little shoes and roads made of yellow brick – but I’m over you. (over you… tee hee hee)

See, now I think Gwen Stefani is leading the pack with her collection of Harajuku girls. You can dress them up, and they dance so purty…

Well... That's a Real Fly in the... Water

Smurfy and I were talking the other day, and he wanted to kill half the world.

It was a reasonable thing to want to do too. You see he'd just read a statistic that pointed out that the population of Germany is added to the world each year. That's really true. The population of Germany... and that's allowing for deadies.

So after doing some pretty complicated mathamatics, he concluded that statistic means we are all doomed if we don't reduce the population. (I guess he's thinking that even half of us being doomed is better than 100%).

He was trying to work out the test or questionnaire that you would give you the thumbs up or down. He had "pick one of these four foods", and if the person picked without trying the foods, they got the heave ho. I suggested that if you were unable to explain your own remote controls to a child, you got the chop. We argued for a while about cultural bias, philosohical positions on "what is person" like Peter Singer would... all the normal stuff when you're supposed to be doing work.

We're yet to agree, but I do have the walk-up start, for who goes first. This guy is the absolute dinner winner.

A Change is as Good as a Holiday

Dumping him and buying a cat is like 3 months in Europe.

Cutting your hair short for the first time in 10 years is like 2 weeks on a tropical island.

Changing the look of your blog.... like arriving slightly late for work.

No Point in Russian Your Work

Left: Owners of the Russian motorcycle the 'Ural', line up at factory to complain.






We were giggling at the Russian car the Lada the other day at work. Specifically the Lada Niva.

Like you do.

Actually we were giggling at Russian engineering in general... just for the hell of it. I'd recently read a terrifying book about Mir Space Station (say "Mir" like Eric Cartman would it's more fun) which was illuminating.

The thing that kicked it off was the subject of engineering tolerance. I work with people who are concerned with that sort of thing. To try and fit in I related a story about Ladas that tickled me because it showed Russian engineering and ingenuity; in sharp contrast.

Ladas were released (or expelled from the collective, who knows) in a couple of different engine sizes. They were approximately 1600s or 1700s. The story goes that the manufacturing accuracy was so poor that they made them all the same way and measured the engine capacity after the fact. Whichever of the two approximations the car's engine got closest to, was the badge it got on the back.

This led a colleague to reminisce about the Russian motorcycle called the Ural. I think that is brilliant to name a motorcycle after a mountain range - they are both cold and uncomfortable to be on top of, dangerous to fall off, and will not go around corners.

Roothless

Some clear thinkers got upset that there was a Roo cull going on in the ACT yesterday. They were quoted as saying that Kangaroos are spiritual beings and it was akin to killing people… this is the same culture that eats the kangaroo and came up with the kangaroo scrotum dilly bag.

Leni Riefenstahl Takes Over NCIS

I quite like a silly little show called NCIS, or used to. The writing has gone a bit off lately and you can tell that there is a desperate bid to retain viewers with more zany antics than engaging plot. But I found something the other night truly disturbing.

First, the premise of the show. NCIS stands for Navy Criminal Investigation Service. In America, the Navy has 335,000 people in its employ, so that’s like being a policeman in a good sized town. There’s the hard bitten but lovable ex-marine widower. The deadly and gorgeous Mossad spy on loan. There’s the competent but slightly goofy womaniser, who we all secretly like, even though he is a bit mean to the new boy. The new boy is a highly intelligent uber-nerd, with a crush on the super scientist downstairs, despite (or maybe because) of her hell-goth tats and boots. Oh and there’s Ducky. So called because his name is Doctor Mallard (oh my sides), and he’s a serial corpse conversationalist.

Last week, a suspect was not immediately forthcoming with all that the agents needed to know, and was threatened with ‘Guitmo’.

This absolutely sucks. It is so bad that no-one in the US administration is capable of even using proper language about the place. The euphemisms that surround Guantanamo Bay Detention Camp start with its name - Guitmo sounds cuter doesn’t it?

And rather than being illegally detained, kidnapped, tortured, and disappeared into a facility that has put itself outside the US borders, outside the law, and inside the M.O. of Auschwitz, - you are instead being subjected to “Special Rendition.”

The suspect was also a white US citizen, so Rome is not above threatening the Romans. I have watched this show from the start, and have grown to like the characters. I was attracted to it because I always thought that Mark Harmon was a pretty good. It was also the only thing on when I came home form my late shift. However they are normalising the US’s reprehensible behaviour through the show, and I hate it when a favourite gets used for propaganda.

Torture is fun kids, and it’s even more fun when it’s done in the name of your misguided administration.

It's As Sleazy as 1, 2, 3

I am not surprised, but I am a little disappointed. (That's actually a lifestyle choice.) Let me explain.

The Porn Report was released in Australia recently and it is making waves around my house. Why? Emergency Contact is a journo and this sort of thing is of interest to her work. The delivery of the stuff is mostly by the interweb, and that equals trouble for the old fashioned methods of media delivery.

Among the myriad of things being explored in this study, is the reletive ease of “homemade” porn production today. It is suggested that it loosens the stranglehold of masculine desire and patriarchal business concerns and allows the feminine in porn to shine (poke) through.

More precisely, EC is writing an article about the fact that DIY is the fastest growing category of porn, both in production and consumption. I think I detect some triumphalism out there about this. I suggest that there is the hope in pornland, that somehow this normalises it. That somehow there is now a more wholesome element in porn that’s able to express itself with the ‘new media’. With that goes the implicit understanding that there has always been an underground of perfectly normal couples who have wanted to film themselves on the job, they just found it was too hard to disseminate - and now their liberation is at hand.

I don’t think it’s perfectly normal, and that’s not a moral statement.

First let me state my position on personal sexual proclivity. I am truly open-minded because I just don’t care. I don’t care who you go to bed with. I don’t care what you choose to do, as long as the other beings involved are into it. I mean I don’t care at a really bone-deep level. I’ve got more interesting things to think about than your sex life. Mine for example. So you are not going to find me dictating to people about how they should live their lives or what’s morally right. That seems to be what religion is for.

But I am going to take a swipe at people who talk about porn in a way that suggests it will be normalised in the next ten minutes and we can all be free to ‘get our freak on’ any time and way we like.

In writing her article, EC wanted to talk to hetero couples who make their own porn. She is an experienced journalist who has all the resources that entails, plus access to the writers of the Porn Report and their contacts.

Guess how many couples (that you would have in your house for dinner) she was able to interview? None.

Guess how many couples you’d cross the street to avoid she was able to interview? None.

Guess how many single unloved men got wind of the project and rang her? (despite the explicit instruction that it was for hetero couples to do an interview). Not sure. But she has to kill that mobile number now.

She also mentioned that the viewing of DIY porn is on the gorge-raising side of things,

“I don’t need to see ugly people with their clothes on, let alone having sex.”

I could have told her that. People who are exhibitionists are rarely the people you want to see exhibit. I’m a bloke - I know these things.

So I should also add:

Nudists who pretend that it isn’t about sex are talking rubbish. Cars are about sex. How can walking around with your bits out not be.

Swingers are not having a wholesome well balanced time, where everybody is feeling natural and free and equal. That’s why there are rules about men needing to be accompanied by women to even get in the door.

The porn manufacturing industry’s relationship with their starlets is not as healthy as a lot of people would pretend either. In most cases it is an uneven power relationship. They are getting paid, but put yourself in the high heeled shoes of a woman who is doing that for a job. Is it something you would do in anything other than desperate circumstances, if you were “normal”? Let's face it, it’s prostitution with a camera. Show me all those empowered prostitutes who love their job and are normal. Again, I don’t place any particular moral importance around normal. In fact quite often I place a yawn; but to continue.

People who are attractive, normal and sexy have partners, or can meet them. If they want a thrill, they sleep with other people, they don’t broadcast their activities free of charge.

“Where are all the good men?”, women in Sydney often ask (quite often looking around the room to get away from me). They’re taken – obviously.

I think the Porn Report itself is problematic. It found that 33% of males use porn of some sort in Australia. From my experience that is hopelessly below the real mark. I'm yet to meet a man who doesn't. It also finds that less than 1% of Muslim men admit to using it. What’s more likely here - Muslim men are anatomically, or culturally different?

The subject matter, by its nature, is going to warp the outcome out of usable shape. If you’re normal, you don’t answer honestly about your porn habits. The writers of the report admit that; almost. I think it has warped it out of shape so badly that it stands no chance of achieving what they want to do with it, which was having a meaningful discussion about it.

You (Me) don’t talk about it, we pretend it’s not there and we definitely hide it when mum visits. We know that usually, it’s a substitute until the real thing saunters by. The evolutionarily challenged among us, stick it in a central place in their life, and that’s why it’s marginalised. They, by definition, are not breeding. If it was normal you wouldn’t bother, and it would be half as fun.

Crappy Day

I drove cabs and used to be a talk-back radio host, so I can claim to have had some odd conversations in my time. One I had a couple of nights ago ‘up the club’ really made the grade though.

A nodding acquaintance came up to my table where I was doing the crossword, and the following exchange happened.

Guy:- Hey how are you?

Me:- ‘K, how’s yourself?

Guy:- Oh you know, I’ve had a crap day.

Me internally groaning:- Oh… what happened?

Guy:- I spent an hour and a half on public transport carrying a stool sample to the doctors and when I got there they told me I’d been called in to give blood sample, not a stool sample.

I really started to laugh at this point, because I genuinely thought that this was a lead in to a joke. I should reveal that I didn’t know this guy is a little mentally ill. He goes to the club with his attractive wife and they seem to get along with everyone, so I hadn’t twigged to any underlying problems. Back to the exchange.

Guy:- Nah nah, it’s not funny, having to do that….

Me intrigued with where this is going and looking for the punch line:- No of course not, there’s the problem with what to carry it in, how to load it and of course finding the shoes to match.

Guy, perplexed now at what the hell I’m talking about:- Well I just use a thing like a Chinese take-away container, what do you mean about the shoes?

Me, realising now that this aint a gag, he just wants to involve me:- Nah nothing nothing, I was just being silly.

He looks puzzled and a little upset because he thinks I’m making fun of him. He stands there with that look of puzzlement turning to anger. I reach into my bag of old gags and pull one out that I hope will defuse the situation.

Me:- I actually thought that you were telling me a variation of the “Man with a shoe box on a bus” joke.

Guy:- No, what’s that?

Me:- So this weird little guy gets on a bus holding a shoe box and sits down next a women, who becomes intrigued by him nursing this thing so carefully. She wants to know what he’s up to and asks, “So where’re you going?”

“To the optometrist.” He answers.

This does not satisfy her curiosity.

“To the optometrist hey, with such a large shoe box. I don’t get it.” She prods.

The little weird man silently lifts the lid to reveal the biggest turd the women has ever had the misfortune to see.

“Oh my God, why would you go to the optometrist with that?” She blurts out.

He answers, “Every time I do one of these, my eyes water.”

The guy likes the joke (he’s not well), seems satisfied with the explanation and goes back to his table without feeling the need to pick a fight. I put my dusty old bag of jokes back up on the mental shelf, and go back to my crossword. Life is returned to normal by the power of the bad gag.

Pseudo Coup

I don’t get Sudoku.

I mean I understand how to do it, and I’ve done one to see what the fuss was about… but I just don’t get the attraction.

To be fair about this though, I have a history with this sort of bafflement.

I was subjected on a number of occasions to jigsaw puzzles. Holiday houses always seemed to have them. My Mum seemed to think they were a good idea. They got fashionable, with artists like Loup making large, humorous, “Where’s Wally” type scenes with a lot going on in them during my childhood.

I like a picture as much as the next person. In among my colleagues, I would be considered an art buff - Partner and I even buy original art. But by the same token, I hate it when something is lost, and I have to look for it. That is not fun to me, and Sudoku falls into that realm I reckon.

It’s not actually maths. You’re not doing sums to work the problem out. You’re just making sure that number isn’t somewhere else – that’s just a jigsaw puzzle masquerading in a number puzzle suit.

I have, however, crossed a really serious divide. I have started doing crosswords, and I want to learn how to do cryptic. I’m not nearly as good at them as I would have hoped. Whilst I know some words, and have heard of lots of them before, I cannot spell to save my own hide. I consider this a particularly cruel twist of fate. I read all the time. I always have a book on the go. I always make time to read. I live in a reading household. I go to the library because Partner and I read too fast for our groaning bookshelves.

I cannot spell. This makes my crossword efforts a bit odd at times.

How do you spell Supplementary?

Uhmm, S… u….pp…batman symbol… q… skull & crossbones.

Crop Encyclical

I was particularly pleased recently, to read that the Vatican has come out and said that it is entirely possible that aliens exist. Click here for Popes in Space (and while you do it, you have to do the voice from the Muppets.)

First of all, this was announced by a bloke who rejoices in the job title of Director of the Vatican Observatory. I like to imagine him reporting into the Pontiff each morning and just confirming that Galileo is still a lying bastard and we were indeed still at the centre of everything.

He reported his ‘thinking’ on the subject in a piece entitled Aliens are My Brother . I think that’s nice coming from a world wide cult that only just learnt how to cope with Jews.

He also postulates that they could be free from original sin. See, now God can be forgetful at times - Not every planet got trees or snakes.

I thought it was cute that Muslim astronauts had actually managed to get advice from their leaders on which way to face whilst praying in space. It showed admirable flexibility.

Same back breaking athleticism being shown by the Catholic Church here too.

Seriously, does anybody not just sit back at these meetings, look each other in the eye, giggle and say. “Yeah I know, we’re just seeing what they’ll swallow.”

Call to Alms

Baby Boomers, this is your last warning.

I have been patient, but you have had it too good, for too long. Your selfishness has left us with a horrible mess. You are bullies.

I try to forgive you for your tasteless reminiscing about the good old days of free-love during your free education. But your children grew up with the fear of AIDS, and the reality of expensive education.

I can't take your advice to 'just work harder'. You got a job during assumed 100% employment, after you left your free education.

With your earnings, you went and inflated the property market so outrageously, that when bank interest really started to bite, it was generational. It didn’t hurt you too badly though; it was a mortgage on your second or third investment property. You paid for it by keeping our rent high.

If I had somewhere decent to work, or even squat in a decentralised town community, I wouldn't feel so pissed off. But you killed the environment and made the modern conurbation so unfriendly (but mandatory if you want any sort of services), that it is considered normal to commute for two hours each day, each way.

I might even find it (in my ADHD heart) forgivable that so many of you didn’t produce the labour to support youselves. (Too many kids can interrupted the lifestyle).

But then you insisted on retiring at a normal age, despite the fact you’ll probably live another 40-50 years.

How will we support you?

I might have hoped to get by on a government pension, but then Baby Bastards changed the law, so that we were forced to invest in Baby Bastard schemes dreamt up by Baby Bastard mates. It reduced our stypend, rather than letting us spend it to invest at the time.

As you started to leave power, (When. Please. When?) you made it inevitable that we will also have to fully fund our own retirement... as well as yours.

We will have to sell our homes to pay for your extended old age. You got divorced at record rates - you couldn’t stand each other. This bisects the pitance you leave us. We expect no inheritance.

I thank you for my reason. You gave me a rationalist education, debt, a dying planet and no God (leaving me alone to face the universe). You went and spent money on 'self actualisation', herbal remedies "wimins" and "men's" movements... and “human potential”.

You've never fought a war. You have squandered your parents sacrifices. You leave all the bills to your kids. Your children are the first generation in Australian history not to improve on the standard of living of their parents. You can’t call us lazy, because no generation has worked longer or harder.

But here comes the budget; and my last straw.

If you change healthcare funding so that the goal posts are moved again, I'm changing behaviour. If I miss out on reasonable public coverage, whilst being forced to join private funds and pay for the people who don't, with bad tax, ... I am putting you in a retirement home that I saw on 60 Minutes.

'Baby Boomers' defined the 'Me Generation'. Be proud of that, you hapless, shallow, grasping, venal, intemperate slobs. You are beyond reprehensible and you made sure I've got little to lose.

Fuck You Very Much.

Grey Scale

I have been really enjoying the latest offering from Sir David Attenborough, where he’s been bugging the hell out of reptiles by turning their little burrows into miniature Big Brother Houses.

He’s lost the plot though; haranguing a crocodile with nothing more than a pointy stick. If I go crocodile baiting, I like to do it with a huge gun, in an armoured vehicle, by remote control. Dave steps in with all the bravado of Steve Urwin, and when the croc decides she’s had enough, he steps out with all the alacrity of Rudolph Nureyev.

But the thing that really caught my eye was the show next week about tigers. One of the methods they have employed for getting a camera in to areas you wouldn’t necessarily want to go yourself, is that they dress it up as a log, and get an elephant to carry it.

Now, I’m really pleased to see him getting some work. That elephant has been doing it tough since he was the head of cinematography for the Dinosaur 3D Imax film. I was chatting to him the other day, and he was disappointed that the whole Imax thing hadn’t been a bigger success. The cameras that are capable of shooting the humungous Imax film, are enormous themselves, but he was happy to keep using it, and wasn't about to change over to a digital camera for the family holiday snaps. He was quite happy to keep carrying it around in the back of the mini.

It's Just Suspicious is All

Sorry About That Chief

The CIA is in more trouble than we previously suspected.

They have ballsed up the whole Osama in Afghanistan thing and copped a bit of a hiding, but they’re in for more crud. I know this because I watched The Bourne Provocation the other day and they’ve guaranteed themselves some pretty big communication problems by giving their “assets” Motorola V3 phones. An asset is what they euphemistically call their assassin super spies. The way they instruct them on their next mission is send them a picture of the target and a ‘go’ command.

I have a V3 and it is not a very good phone. It takes a call alright but it is not easy to use, the light doesn’t stay on long enough, it takes 47 button presses to send one text message and those buttons are a flat, undifferentiated plate. That means you can’t use them by feel, you have to look. It is also terribly fragile. I can think of several super spy situations where my old Nokia would be the preferred weapon. I wouldn’t be surprised at all to hear that the Iraq WMD cock-up was all a result of some field agent just losing patience with his V3 in the dark and sending a message saying something random and frightening like, “Bombs onto herd” instead of “bombs not here” which is what the predictive messaging can deliver if you’re not careful.

How Much Would You Expect to Pay... Wait Don't Answer

Went car shopping with a mate and his beloved today. Now I actually like cars, so pootling about looking at them is no trauma. However the people selling them are. I like to think that in many cases we have moved on from the stereotypes of our parents, but in the case of the Used Car Salesmen… well I think there must be a lab somewhere churning out caricatures of the stereotype. If you could reasonable expect any success, when you stepped across the chain-link fence you’d say,

“Now just hold it there ok? You are in Australia, has a hard sell ever worked in any situation where you’ve been dealing with an Australian? I know you must watch those movies, particularly where Robin Williams plays a car salesmen and think to yourself ‘Hmmmm, that looks fun and I bet it sells a lot of cars.’ But I assure you, that’s comedy set in America and it just won’t fly here. Oh, and the attitude can swing the other way too mate. Don’t think for a minute you are doing me any favours by standing there and intimating that in some way I am wasting your time.”

Still we did come away with a car and there’s a lesson here. The female in the group was so tired and over the whole caper (and it was her buying) that she ended up just buying the least offensive car from the least offensive person. We were driven into the arms of the sale by the sheer crappiness of the other sales people. Used Car Salesmen should all get together, and coordinate that effect. Move the inevitable sale up and down auto alley, by swapping the dates on which they are going to act like a human.

We also had a profoundly disappointing KFC experience (if you’re going to cruise the miracle mile heading west, why not go the whole hog and eat like a poor Westy as well.). There was no salt on our chips, and we only realised when we drove away, that we didn’t get moistened towelettes. Now this might not be true of any other country, but the only point to KFC in Australia, is the chicken salt and tonnes of it - followed by the stinky head-spinning goodness of the moistened hand wiper.

Zemiro Sum Game

I drove home slowly tonight to watch 'Top Gear' and then with my one girlfriend I watched 'Big Love'.

I felt that the "community service announcement" where my penis is teased for driving quickly was a little unfair. I also felt that the unending joy that is being a bygomist was somewhat overblown. It's all made ok by Julia Zemiro though. She follows up after and makes it ok to feel like a dirty old music perv.

Imperfect List #14

Things I’d never thought I’d say or write.

If you live in an open plan flat where the kitchen is not really separated from the living area, don’t get a fan forced oven. Everything smells like sausages.

It’s too loud.

It’s too soft.

Can I go to bed yet?

The vodcast of “Hope is Emo” is absolutely brilliant.

I quite liked the last Chihuahua I met. (Well, it was in a bumble-bee suit, but that’s a slippery slope. Talking of which, check out ‘Spider Pug’ )

The last book by Iain M Banks was no good, and the one before that wasn’t much better.

I hope Australian Top Gear is going to be really good, but I have a horrible feeling it’s going to be like anything else when we copy a big budget idea.

I’ve had enough beer.

I was confused by the last NCIS.

Good drying weather. (Actually that wasn’t me, that was a mate of mine, who was a lead singer in a rock band.)

I’m thinking of getting an LCD TV to mount on the wall. (It’s not that I never thought I’d say that, I just never thought that I would have to say it without being able to also say “And I’ll be taking my flying car to shops to get it.”)

Some Re - Animation

I'm not a cat person, I'm not an anti-cat person. They're fuzzy and funny and I find most animals pretty interesting. If you are a cat person, see these

Simon's Cat. Let Me In

Simon's Cat. Cat Man Do

Mr G Has Left the Building

I've been grumpy and someone at work said that Grey Area is just +35 propaganda, (not mentioning any names Reeeeshy), and they're right. I have been in a bit of a slump. I usually like to be sweetness and light. You know me. It's just that a good mate of mine died last Sunday and it has put a bit of crimp in my otherwise comfortable existence.

It wasn't a surprise, he had been crook for a bit. But I don't have anything comforting to say, like "at least he's at peace now" or "in some ways it's a relief it's over" or anything like that. It's not. He liked his life and wanted more. It isn't fair and there's no eternal justice to it. He wasn't begging for release, he wasn't bored, he wasn't fed up or exhausted, the tumor just stole his life away. He didn't even get to rage against the dying of the light, because it was a brain tumor so he just sort of faded out.

Graham was a terrific bloke and I'm proud to call him a friend. Funny, kind, unfailingly generous, he was a true weirdo (one of those people that makes you glad there's still room for idiosyncrasy) and bore an uncanny, I mean frightening, resemblance to Ned Flanders. One of life's gems.

Goodbye Graham, I am going to miss you.

Not a Piercing Observation

"Under new laws to be introduced into State Parliament, it will be illegal for anyone under 16 to have their genitals or nipples pierced, and they will need their parent's permission for all other body piercings." ABC Today

Not far enough.

If you are involved with animals, food preperation or the public in any capacity, all facial piercings, except ears, are to become illegal. If you have lip piercings that make you hard to understand, or liable to dribble into my ham sandwich, they are to be outlawed. If you have eyebrow rings that get caught in your sunglasses/hat/jumper/headset, they are illegal from tomorrow. If you have a tongue piercing that you continually need to fiddle with, particularly by rolling your tongue and catching it between your two (badly cleaned) front teeth, it will be removed with pliers.

Oh and a tip for you here kids. I know that the teenage years are rough, and your skin can be a nightmare. You will come out the other side and you'll be slightly less gut-churningly repelent than you are now though. But in the mean time - You know that piercing that you put just above your top lip on one side? That one just like the ugly girl from Atomic Kitten? The one you fought so long and hard with your Mum about? The one that is showing how individual you are and really sticking it to 'the system'? Yeah... that just looks like another blind pimple on your rotten little head.

Last Wednesday

“I'm feeling off balance” he said out loud
As he hops his way to the loo
"But I'm getting things done, I'm making my way,
I'm really doing the do".

But clenching his head and buttocks so tight
The throbbing starting to rise
There’s no way today he’s taking the cake
He’s not winning the prize

Last night was a good idea at the time
It seemed the right thing to do
She was cute, he seems to remember, and thinks
Was it one bottle or was it two?

There was giggling and pinching and winking and such
A flirt, a burp, a gasp
Sandals were slipped, more wine was drunk
A little pinch on the arse

Home time rolls round and the world intrudes,
The rain comes down anew
Cabs are scarce, his shirt is wet
What the hell is he supposed to do

“I’ll just wait it out in this little pub.”
What harm can come from that?
It’s warm and dry and smells alright
Actually, better than his flat

The barman appears at his own sweet pace
Pushing his eye patch in place
A brassy old blond follows him out
Wiping something off her face

“What’ll ya have mate, what’s your main treat?”
He grumbles through his beard
“I can give you a pint of plasma that’s chilled”
You’d think he’d find that weird

But the denizens at the pub of the damned
Don’t turn or care for his fate
It’s usual, it’s normal, for the business type
To drink before they donate

Having hopped his way to the bathroom again
A memory is slowly forming
That he’s arrived home with less in his pants,
He’s got less limbs this morning

Looking down at his flannys and slowly realising
It’s hard to balance whilst pissing
The leg of his PJs is swinging free
It appears one of his legs is missing

“Those bastards, those swine, those feckless thugs
They’ve taken what’s not rightly theirs
I’d go round there right now and beat them all up
If I could only get down the stairs"

Sitting on the couch and mulling over his fate
Decides to get the drop on the day
His PC fires up, and goes to his faves
The first thing he sees is ebay

And there it is, in the second hand listing
Too disgusting to be faced
“Used Left Leg, One Male Owner,
Good Condition, Never been raced”

“I can’t believe it what rotten luck,
Oh god, don’t make me beg
That the only limb for sale that day
Was an unwanted and hairy left leg”

“I’ve got one of those you thieving scum
If you had a right leg I’d be made
I should ring the owner at least and see
If they’re willing to make a trade.”

There's No Business Like Shoe Business

I might have - in the past - bitched about the young kid’s shoes, and how they weren't flattering.

Just say no to small shoes. I have reasons, but I'll take an elliptical route.

I remember reading an interview with the artist who illustrated Judge Dredd in the 80s, where he was asked why the character’s feet were drawn as large as they were. His answer was that characters with slightly exaggerated extremities, always looked more powerful. You always took them more seriously. With Dredd’s large feet, he was grounded, solid and athletic. He represented the ultimate, infallible power, and as an artist you went about illustrating that with these visual cues.

There are reasons why Michelangelo’s David is distended in various ways, and it’s not just because it is designed to be viewed from below. His hands and feet are huge compared to the rest of his frame. Those things, are the doing things.

(Not a perfect example. David does present a paradox to anyone who subscribes to the ‘Big hands = big dick’ piece of wisdom that girls used to delight teasing boys with on the school bus. That’s for another time. This tiny keyboard tortures my enormous hands and long fingers.)

Put another way. If you want something to look thick in the middle, make sure the things at either end are thin. Want to make a fat person look fatter? Give them a neat haircut and small shoes. Even worse, cinch the hems on their pants.

At the risk of ignoring post-modernist ideals about the importance of context, there are ways to look good - no matter what fashion dictates. One of them is to make sure you look less like stomach, and more like limbs (‘doing’ things) and breeding bits (being ‘done’ things).

The obvious post-punk rejoinder to this is, “We don’t wanna look powerful and attractive.”

Slurry Hills in Oz Fashion Week

Helped Partner with her market stall today. I’ve learnt a lot.

Arse crack is the new must-have accessory. I know this is an oft visited topic in the popular press when oldies and conservative commentators are complaining about yoof, but seriously kids, put your bums away. I wasn’t even enjoying 20 something women’s bums, and that’s saying a mouthful.

We were swamped in greasy, stupid, badly tattooed, smoking, arse flashing twits who find it mandatory to talk loudly about… about… Oh… my… god… like…nothing. The sheer vacuity on display along with crack was gob smacking.

So now it’s my turn to say something obvious, and probably said a lot before, (I dunno, haven’t seen it, probably everywhere.).

Fashion is no good if it doesn’t flatter.

Current trends have hit a stupid new low. You might as well reintroduce foot-binding into the mix, what with the ease you can get around town when your belt is somewhere below your scrotum. The overwhelming fashionable look for both sexes in Surrey Hills, Saturday the 3^rd, 2008 is:

Shoes: Flat, insubstantial, coloured lace ups that make your feet look small and slightly flat footed. More on this Later.

• Pants: Stove pipe jeans that have the back pockets at mid-back-of-the-thigh height. This achieves several things. It makes your legs look short. It makes your little pot belly stick out because you are so rock and roll, you’ve never exercised in your spoilt little life. The previously mentioned small shoes manage to heighten the size of your squished and widened arse, and every time you move, more crack.
• Underwear: The undies, important now because they are not technically under anything. They are now ovies and they are grey and ugly.
• Shirt: The black T-Shirt will have RVCA on it. Never forget, you are an individual like everybody else.
• Not certain how your greasy hair is? Try a bad hat. The first sign of having a screw loose is picking out some useless bit of headwear and bunging it on. I used to live near a loony bin and the one constant in all the madness was that when you lose the plot, find yourself a hat.
• Body art: Flesh tunnels are cool. I think your kids are going to just love the idea that when they can’t find a swing, they can sit in your earlobe. Hey girls, get more tattoos on your necks, not only does it flatter the feminine line, it makes finding employment a snap.
• Hair: Brush it forward and don’t wash whatever you do. If not, you’ve gone the other way. The mullet is reviled for a reason.

The human race is doomed. There is no way these people are breeding. They are too ugly to root.

Ibis You Were Wondering What Happened Next

After the previous blog, I was reminded by my beloved sister that the ties to ibis are long and deep.

Her daughter T. was out with Granny (my mum) on the lake. Mum likes to take the niece camping, canoeing, bird spotting, and all sorts of cool gear.

Granny, pointing at a duck.

"What’s that T?”

“That’s a duck Granny.” (You idiot.)

Granny points at an ibis.

“And what’s that?”

“Uhhhmmmmmmmm,” T considers.

“That’s an ibis,” postulates Granny.

“No Granny. That’s the duck’s dad,” explains T.

Ibis: Did You Know They Are Sacred in Egypt?

I’ve been thinking of buying a new car for a while now (my current one has 700,000 km on the clock), but I have a mortgage in Sydney so other thoughts occur.

Recently I stuck new tyres on the car. This is a treat. Normally I put retreads on that cost about $40 each and they are worth everything you pay for them. (Actually slightly more if you include entertainment value). I mean I am not sure if they are even made of rubber. I’m pretty sure they are made of some sort of wood. The handling isn’t much, but they last really well and once you get used to constant four wheel drift on every corner, even at 20km/h, you’re ok. In fact the handling in the rain was so bad that if you pulled out of a parking spot in reverse, you were obliged to honk your horn 5 times, to let others know that you were leaving harbour under power and that your breaking distance had just gone out to 2 km.

So rather than buying a new car, I applied some knowledge of myself to the problem. Every time I put air in the cheap tyres, it feels like I’m driving a new car. I think to myself “This is unreal! How good is this car?! I should do this more often.” So if more air in crap tyres excites me that much, imagine how I could fool myself with good tyres. So last time tyre change came up, I put $140 jobbies on.

And I admit that the change in the vehicle is dramatic. It goes round corners without people staring. It is much quieter and it stops.

Two days after putting the new expensive tyres on the car, I ran over an ibis.

Before the people who get upset by dead bats and lost balloon priests start up…(See Na na na na Bats Man and Flying None in this blog for background) I didn’t go out of my way to do it.

I live in an area that has had an ibis plague. So many that I wonder what the real plural for ibis is. Ibi? They got forced into new areas of NSW by the drought, as well as having their numbers bumped up by a rogue troop that left Taronga Zoo apparently. Suffice it to say, they are on all our bins and they are large, ugly, bald, unkempt bastards and I don’t like them one bit. Larger than a chicken and taller than a 3 year old, they are supposed to be white, but they don’t wash themselves properly and their feet are too big to stand on electrical wires without jinking backwards and forwards like drunk… ibi. Even their droppings are dangerous. It is poison to bats and large enough to dint your car if it lands from a height.

So two days after I put my new tyres on, one falls off a wire in front of my car, starts to fly, doesn’t quite get height, breaks to the left and I think it’s out of my path, breaks back right and goes under my wheels. All of this was done in the crowded main drag of an inner-west suburb. As the front wheel went over it, the car lifted like I was driving over a median strip, and I could see all the people at the crowded bus stop opposite with their hands over their mouths and ears, trying to shut out the crunching sounds.

All I could think was, “I am so upset. I bet I get ibis bones through the wall of my new tyre.” Then when I got to work, I had to clean ibis off the front of my car, that made me sad, then angry, but when I found that the tyre hadn’t gone down, I was happy again.

Locked Mess Monster

So I have this continual problem with my work computer. Every other day, I mean every second day, I have to get my account reset because the server decides it doesn’t like the cut of my jib.

This is not something that is quickly resolved. I work for a large company that has kept its head above the water, year after year, in the most predictable fashion - By making sure they haven’t spent up big on the silly things… like people. Particularly people with skills. They are seen as a bit of a rash spending habit. Now if you want people with exotic accents, well we’ve got them by the handful. Skills… not so much. Anyway, when you ring the IT guys to have your account reset, you are in for sometimes over half an hour wait. You then get someone who got their degree in “Smartology” from a non existent “College of Knowledge” in Calcutta.

I’ve been going through this cack of a routine for months now, and it’s starting to grow old. Once you know the promotional material on the on-hold soundtrack word for word, you’ve had enough. After getting it fixed I said to Harbajarn,

“Any chance of them actually arriving at an overall fix for this? I mean I lose about one working day per fortnight to this one glitch, let alone all the other crazy security delays we’ve got going on.”

He answers,

“You think that’s bad, we’ve got a lady who gets locked out every 15 minutes.”

People used to think that when I referenced the “Help Desk” in conversation, I was making a mistake when I just called them “Desk”. It’s actually developed a momentum of its own now.