Daybreakers is a semi-Australian film featuring vampires. It’s semi-Australian in the way that The Matrix was. You recognise streets and suburbs and there are Aussies littering the set, but not too up front in the lead roles. It seems they still don’t trust us not to screw it up. To be fair, if you’ve put good money into a film, you want to help it along with some star pulling power and the name Vince Colosimo is probably not going to do it. Also, in a largely Hollywood film, he stands out like dogs balls and not in a good way. Don’t believe me? Watch Body of Lies and tell me I’m wrong. He’s awful.
So, the name they went to was Ethan Hawke, or as I call him in my head, the weirdo who left Uma Thurman. Ethan appears to be the go-to-guy for the role of disappointed man bucking the system in a dystopian future. But don‘t let my initially negative tone put you off, it’s not a bad film. I’m one of the rare people who is not charmed by Claudia Karvan, but I was able sort of look around that and still enjoy the movie. It looks good and it’s a solid idea.
But, what I’m really here to tell you about, is the side offering. If you’re like me, you don’t often bother with the special features on a DVD. They are too often inane advertisements for thing you‘ve just watched, or actors talking about how special, thoughtful and brave they are. There are a few exceptions. Ross Noble does a commentary on one of his stand up acts, that is like another stand up act… and then backs this up with another commentary on the commentary. The commentary from Tony Martin on Bad Eggs will teach you more about film making than a year at NIDA, and it's funny. The short film that comes with Ratatouille is better than the main feature and that brings me nicely to short film that comes with Daybreakers. It’s called The Big Picture and you must not miss it. The end.
27 June 2010
24 June 2010
A Short Poem On The Nature Of Ceilings
NSW Governor - Woman
NSW Premier - Woman
Governor General - Woman
Prime Minister - Woman
Anakin Skywalker (AKA Darth Vader) - Big Girl
NSW Premier - Woman
Governor General - Woman
Prime Minister - Woman
Anakin Skywalker (AKA Darth Vader) - Big Girl
Pay A Penny For My Thoughts And Get Change
I was thinking about currency, overnight. I had just watched QI, where Rich Hall had talked about the currency used on the island of Gap. He was saying that it was eight foot diameter stones with a hole cut in the middle. You had to park the ‘coin’ on your lawn and therefore everybody knew exactly how much money you had. It takes 20 islanders to move one coin. The coke machines are 80 foot high.
Sure, that sound like fun, but consider this: In WWII, both sides used to do air drops of counterfeit currency into enemy territory, to destabilise the economy. Imagine how dangerous that would be on Gap Island.
And then thinking about these counterfeits, I was half remembering a story of how the Nazis used skilled Jewish counterfeiters in the concentration camps to get the best possible quality fake notes for their air-drops. The prisoners would quietly rebel by building in subtle flaws that were easily picked by the British, but would pass the inspection of the Nazi captors.
They couldn’t have been that smart, though, those Nazis. I mean, even I know that Queen Victoria didn’t have a Zapata moustache.
Sure, that sound like fun, but consider this: In WWII, both sides used to do air drops of counterfeit currency into enemy territory, to destabilise the economy. Imagine how dangerous that would be on Gap Island.
And then thinking about these counterfeits, I was half remembering a story of how the Nazis used skilled Jewish counterfeiters in the concentration camps to get the best possible quality fake notes for their air-drops. The prisoners would quietly rebel by building in subtle flaws that were easily picked by the British, but would pass the inspection of the Nazi captors.
They couldn’t have been that smart, though, those Nazis. I mean, even I know that Queen Victoria didn’t have a Zapata moustache.
21 June 2010
Quitting Time: The Mother Of Invention
I took this photo when I was in Texas a couple of years back and I came across it recently while I was cleaning out a drive. (Water restrictions don’t let you hose down your drive anymore.)
This piece of genius was in the computer room of a middling quality hotel I was staying in. In fact, what alerted me to it was the lamp attached on the other side of the wall. It was sitting in a hallway on an unadorned side-table, with an electric power cord that just dived into the wall like David Campbell at a Turkish bathhouse.
I had to know where the lead went, so ambled around the corner into the computer room to investigate.
The guy who was using the computer room was a little non-plussed. What he saw was a large, giggling bloke come lurching into the room, kick a chair out of the way and start taking photos of what looked like the empty corner of a room. I pointed at the power cord by way of explanation, but he didn’t seem to find it as amusing.
Anyway, the thing that really keeps me chuckling about this, is the implicit workmanship. The ‘handyman’ has drilled a nice small hole but he’s obviously then had to do one of two things to get the power cord through it. Either remove the power cord from the base of the lamp, or the plug from the end of the power cord. So, he’s had to do some re-wiring. If you’re going to the bother of rewiring, why don’t you just do the wiring job properly the first place? Put a power point in the hall.
17 June 2010
Hearing The Jungle Drums In the Suburbs
The other night I was woken by the sounds of the next-door-neighbour-lady being murdered.
When I’d reinserted myself correctly into this reality, I came to the conclusion that New Zealand must have done something good in the World Cup. She’s a New Zealander and she was screaming at an odd time of night.
I don’t watch soccer/football when the World Cup isn’t on, so I’m not getting on that bandwagon and starting to watch it now. But, I am very well informed about who’s doing how well – and in real time.
I live in a part of town that is not adequately summed up by the term “multi-cultural”. As a third generation, English speaking, white guy, I stand out like Snow White at an ANC conference… for dwarves.
If Italy does well, my neighbours (two over) go mental. If any South American team, but particularly Brazil, are on the make, the reaction from my neighbours across the landing can be measured on the Richter scale. Downstairs - I haven’t worked them out, but the don’t seem to like middle Euro teams. Spain, one over on the other side will party till their bums fall off. But my favourite reaction comes from the Portuguese.
I don’t have any Portuguese neighbours within eye-shot, but within ear-shot, there’s a big community. During the last World Cup, the Portuguese were doing alright (for a bit) and every time they played, the entire suburb would drop its bundle. They’d block the streets, play music, and, in my favourite move, burn their own houses down with the number of fireworks they were letting off. It only makes it better though, burning your house down to celebrate a soccer victory. It makes it all the sweeter for some reason.
When I’d reinserted myself correctly into this reality, I came to the conclusion that New Zealand must have done something good in the World Cup. She’s a New Zealander and she was screaming at an odd time of night.
I don’t watch soccer/football when the World Cup isn’t on, so I’m not getting on that bandwagon and starting to watch it now. But, I am very well informed about who’s doing how well – and in real time.
I live in a part of town that is not adequately summed up by the term “multi-cultural”. As a third generation, English speaking, white guy, I stand out like Snow White at an ANC conference… for dwarves.
If Italy does well, my neighbours (two over) go mental. If any South American team, but particularly Brazil, are on the make, the reaction from my neighbours across the landing can be measured on the Richter scale. Downstairs - I haven’t worked them out, but the don’t seem to like middle Euro teams. Spain, one over on the other side will party till their bums fall off. But my favourite reaction comes from the Portuguese.
I don’t have any Portuguese neighbours within eye-shot, but within ear-shot, there’s a big community. During the last World Cup, the Portuguese were doing alright (for a bit) and every time they played, the entire suburb would drop its bundle. They’d block the streets, play music, and, in my favourite move, burn their own houses down with the number of fireworks they were letting off. It only makes it better though, burning your house down to celebrate a soccer victory. It makes it all the sweeter for some reason.
15 June 2010
Puttin' The Pieces Together: Part 2
It's just science, people.
10 June 2010
Puttin' The Pieces Together
And that's Wayne Newton from when he looked like a human. (Seriously, in looking for this photo, I saw some scary stuff.)
Also, please consider how high Wayne sings and how deep KD sings. Huh? Huh? Am I right? Danke ever so schoen.
09 June 2010
The Human Stain
I feel the need to share an interesting discovery that arises from the whole sorry mattress episode, documented in the previous blog.
If you watch enough telly, you will have been horrified by close-ups and descriptions of what lives in your pillow and your mattress. You will have been told that, by the time a mattress is thrown away, it is 50% heavier than when it was new because of all the sweat and human skin that it has soaked up during its time underneath you. You will have seen magnifications of horrific dust mites, marauding around your bed linen like herds of miniature, albino Godzillas on the rampage.
I find most of those worries a bit abstract. It doesn’t seem that real so I’m not going to get in a tizz about it. And, I think that’s a perfectly normal response to the number of things I could get in a flap about if I let the current affairs programs lead me around by the nose and stuff poisons up it.
But, I’ve had the contents of a mattress shown to me in the most unpleasant way. As you will know, I recently performed an unintended experiment by forcing vast amounts of water through a mattress for a week, and had it sitting on a metal lock-up box. Sort of like a nice laboratory table.
What was left on the box was a bit of an eye opener. And then a bit of an eye waterer. It was a layer of, and I’m going to use the scientific term here, human sludge goo. It was sort of a grey, goopy, semi tacky slurry, made from… well, what the hell is it made from?
We are told that we are mostly water and that we slough off a huge number of dead skin cells a day. That’s apparently what most of the dust in your house is. But this stuff? It can’t be just water or skin.
So kids, when the teachers at school start telling you what you’re composed of and they start carrying on about oxygen, carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, calcium, phosphorous and so on, stop them in their tracks, look them dead in the eye and say,
“I’m sorry, but you’re wrong. I have it on good authority that the human body is largely made up of grey porridge.”
(And before a certain regular visitor starts; no, I won’t mop it off. For the record, I don’t really like my new mops. I think they’re a bit crap. What a surprise. Anyone wanna buy a ute? I’ll throw in a free mop.)
If you watch enough telly, you will have been horrified by close-ups and descriptions of what lives in your pillow and your mattress. You will have been told that, by the time a mattress is thrown away, it is 50% heavier than when it was new because of all the sweat and human skin that it has soaked up during its time underneath you. You will have seen magnifications of horrific dust mites, marauding around your bed linen like herds of miniature, albino Godzillas on the rampage.
I find most of those worries a bit abstract. It doesn’t seem that real so I’m not going to get in a tizz about it. And, I think that’s a perfectly normal response to the number of things I could get in a flap about if I let the current affairs programs lead me around by the nose and stuff poisons up it.
But, I’ve had the contents of a mattress shown to me in the most unpleasant way. As you will know, I recently performed an unintended experiment by forcing vast amounts of water through a mattress for a week, and had it sitting on a metal lock-up box. Sort of like a nice laboratory table.
What was left on the box was a bit of an eye opener. And then a bit of an eye waterer. It was a layer of, and I’m going to use the scientific term here, human sludge goo. It was sort of a grey, goopy, semi tacky slurry, made from… well, what the hell is it made from?
We are told that we are mostly water and that we slough off a huge number of dead skin cells a day. That’s apparently what most of the dust in your house is. But this stuff? It can’t be just water or skin.
So kids, when the teachers at school start telling you what you’re composed of and they start carrying on about oxygen, carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, calcium, phosphorous and so on, stop them in their tracks, look them dead in the eye and say,
“I’m sorry, but you’re wrong. I have it on good authority that the human body is largely made up of grey porridge.”
(And before a certain regular visitor starts; no, I won’t mop it off. For the record, I don’t really like my new mops. I think they’re a bit crap. What a surprise. Anyone wanna buy a ute? I’ll throw in a free mop.)
08 June 2010
Once Upon A Mattress
I suffer from a condition that I have named Isolated Non-Linear Incremental Magical Thinking (INLIMT).
It has elements of Outcome Comprehension Deficit, close neurological ties with what we call “instinct” and also depends heavily on huge dollops of stupid.
People remember difficult or complex ideas more easily if they can link them to a narrative, so let me illustrate INLIMT in action.
If you are not a local to Sydney, you may not be aware that it has been raining here without significant pause, since 1993.
During this unrelenting deluge, I needed to throw out a mattress. We were having a house guest and we needed to get the old mattress out and a new mattress in. The old mattress came to us along with a divan base that we actually wanted. Emergency Contact and I took the mattress as a reciprocal favour to the person who was giving us the bed base. No-one involved ever really considered the mattress a properly usable piece of equipment. It just had to be dealt with at some time and the time had finally come. (The mattress had been sitting there in the spare room, quietly wafting its special odours in a limited area, for months.)
In a short break in the weather, I dragged the mattress out to the ute and chucked it in the back. Now, this is where we start to see some INLIMT.
I then walked away. You see, the non-linear, incremental, magical bit had kicked in. I had achieved the most important thing - getting the mattress out of the house. I was aware that the next step had not been considered but that was overridden by the short term success. This is how gambling starts.
What another part of my brain was telling me was that someone would nick it. There was precedence. Once, when I was moving house, I came out the front with another load for the back of my moving truck, to see two guys loading my bed onto their truck. Our short exchange went something like,
“Oh, sorry mate. Thought it was hard-rubbish night.”
“Something’s a load of crap here mate, and it’s not my bed.”
That bed was really pretty new and in good condition. This single mattress was, as I have mentioned, starting to frighten children. But, I’ve got it out of the house and onto the back of the ute where it is going to be stolen overnight and the fresh, crisp sheets on the new mattress inside are a welcoming sight for the houseguest and everything is peachy. INLIMT.
Overnight it went back to chucking it down. For non-Aus readers, that’s cats and dogs. (I heard recently that ‘raining cats and dogs' came about as a saying because it used to actually happen. When houses had thatched rooves, the semi domesticated animals could make their homes in the thatching and if it rained hard enough, it would drive them out. I don’t know how true that is.) Anyway, it bucketed down.
I went out the next morning to see four and half metric tonne of mattress, sagging over the lockup box in the ute. Great. No-one’s going to steal that now… hey, maybe a good wash was what it needed. Maybe if I just drive it around and sort of give it a blow dry, it will come up fresh as a daisy and then someone will steal it. Yeah, INLIMT.
So I drove around for a week with this sodden monstrosity weighing down the back of the truck. Did it stop raining for one second during that week? Nup. Was I the object of much jocularity at work as I drove into the car park, day after day, with a completely uncovered fabric mattress in the back of a utility that was starting to resemble a mobile swamp? Yep.
When I’d moan about it, Emergency Contact would say, “Chuck it in some park somewhere at night. Live a little.”
My colleague Stick, said, “C’mon, chuck it under a bridge somewhere. It’ll be hobo’s Christmas. It’s irresponsible not to.”
But I’m not like that. Last Saturday, having finally lost patience with the thieves in my area, I drove to the tip. It was a perfect, sunny day and I could see the mattress drying nicely in my rear-vision mirror, but I was committed. When I got there, the lady at the weigh-station saw that I had a mattress, and with eagle eyes also spotted the little foam one underneath that I had ‘forgotten’ about, and took my charge card.
On my way back out, she stung me for $50 for the joy of getting rid of some wet fabric with some rusty springs suspended in it. Fifty freakin’ bucks!
See, now it’s not just me suffering from INLIMT here. How on earth do they expect to discourage illegal dumping when they’re pricing waste management like that?
It has elements of Outcome Comprehension Deficit, close neurological ties with what we call “instinct” and also depends heavily on huge dollops of stupid.
People remember difficult or complex ideas more easily if they can link them to a narrative, so let me illustrate INLIMT in action.
If you are not a local to Sydney, you may not be aware that it has been raining here without significant pause, since 1993.
During this unrelenting deluge, I needed to throw out a mattress. We were having a house guest and we needed to get the old mattress out and a new mattress in. The old mattress came to us along with a divan base that we actually wanted. Emergency Contact and I took the mattress as a reciprocal favour to the person who was giving us the bed base. No-one involved ever really considered the mattress a properly usable piece of equipment. It just had to be dealt with at some time and the time had finally come. (The mattress had been sitting there in the spare room, quietly wafting its special odours in a limited area, for months.)
In a short break in the weather, I dragged the mattress out to the ute and chucked it in the back. Now, this is where we start to see some INLIMT.
I then walked away. You see, the non-linear, incremental, magical bit had kicked in. I had achieved the most important thing - getting the mattress out of the house. I was aware that the next step had not been considered but that was overridden by the short term success. This is how gambling starts.
What another part of my brain was telling me was that someone would nick it. There was precedence. Once, when I was moving house, I came out the front with another load for the back of my moving truck, to see two guys loading my bed onto their truck. Our short exchange went something like,
“Oh, sorry mate. Thought it was hard-rubbish night.”
“Something’s a load of crap here mate, and it’s not my bed.”
That bed was really pretty new and in good condition. This single mattress was, as I have mentioned, starting to frighten children. But, I’ve got it out of the house and onto the back of the ute where it is going to be stolen overnight and the fresh, crisp sheets on the new mattress inside are a welcoming sight for the houseguest and everything is peachy. INLIMT.
Overnight it went back to chucking it down. For non-Aus readers, that’s cats and dogs. (I heard recently that ‘raining cats and dogs' came about as a saying because it used to actually happen. When houses had thatched rooves, the semi domesticated animals could make their homes in the thatching and if it rained hard enough, it would drive them out. I don’t know how true that is.) Anyway, it bucketed down.
I went out the next morning to see four and half metric tonne of mattress, sagging over the lockup box in the ute. Great. No-one’s going to steal that now… hey, maybe a good wash was what it needed. Maybe if I just drive it around and sort of give it a blow dry, it will come up fresh as a daisy and then someone will steal it. Yeah, INLIMT.
So I drove around for a week with this sodden monstrosity weighing down the back of the truck. Did it stop raining for one second during that week? Nup. Was I the object of much jocularity at work as I drove into the car park, day after day, with a completely uncovered fabric mattress in the back of a utility that was starting to resemble a mobile swamp? Yep.
When I’d moan about it, Emergency Contact would say, “Chuck it in some park somewhere at night. Live a little.”
My colleague Stick, said, “C’mon, chuck it under a bridge somewhere. It’ll be hobo’s Christmas. It’s irresponsible not to.”
But I’m not like that. Last Saturday, having finally lost patience with the thieves in my area, I drove to the tip. It was a perfect, sunny day and I could see the mattress drying nicely in my rear-vision mirror, but I was committed. When I got there, the lady at the weigh-station saw that I had a mattress, and with eagle eyes also spotted the little foam one underneath that I had ‘forgotten’ about, and took my charge card.
On my way back out, she stung me for $50 for the joy of getting rid of some wet fabric with some rusty springs suspended in it. Fifty freakin’ bucks!
See, now it’s not just me suffering from INLIMT here. How on earth do they expect to discourage illegal dumping when they’re pricing waste management like that?
06 June 2010
Flogging A Dead Horse: A Users Guide
I had the following conversation with a bloke recently that illustrated to me that SMS abbreviations and acronyms can cause confusion. We had only just met, so were doing the greeting behaviour thing.
I started, “So, how’s it going?”
“Not bad. Started a new job a couple of weeks ago.”
“Don’t envy you there. I prefer to stay quietly incompetent in the one place, rather than spreading it around. Are you enjoying it?”
“I think so, although I didn’t get off to an auspicious start. I had been at a convention, really working the room and making lots of new contacts. I was handing out my business card to anyone who’d take it, and got a really poor response. Like, no-one got back to me. It was only a couple of days ago, when I had my specs on and happened to look at one of my own cards, that I saw my email address was John.Citizen@Business.com.au. They hadn't sent me a proof to look at before I went to the conference. I trusted them and wasn't wearing my glasses during the whole thing.”
Me, drying me eyes, “ Here’s an opportunity to go the deed poll and get that name change you've always wanted.”
Wry grin from fellow, “Yeah, I guess so.”
Me, really warming to subject, despite what others may feel about it (as is my wont). “Hey, you should just take ownership of that email address in the company and use it until the cards run out. It would make a cool murder-mystery-cop-show as well. They wheel your body into the morgue with the John Doe toe-tag on, only to identify you as John Citizen, only to be put right much later when someone comes forward and actually identifies you with your real name and we all live happily ever after, except for you.”
“Yeah, that would be good,” he says, looking about for other company.
Me, still digging around for that rich seam I know is around somewhere, “Did you hear that one about the guy you couldn’t afford a personalised number-plate? He changed his name to JQM 154?”
He stops and just looks at me, thinking it over. No laugh. This was the type of environment where a polite snigger was required at the very least. But this guy - nothing.
It was then that I realised he was trying to work out what JQM 154 stood for. He was looking for another gag. This is what happens when everything has meaning. I had deliberately gone for letters that to me, meant very little, but he still searched around for the acronym or the leet speak. And, to tell that gag without pre-remembering a random series, is harder than you’d think. (You just remember the formula. Guy, personalised plate, can’t afford, random plateish sounding combination. Huge laughs. Thank you and goodnight.)
So, for those of you who are happy with my assertion that everything has meaning, you can leave with my blessing.
For those who don’t believe me, I will give a short demonstration. I can’t cover every eventuality of course, so it’s just a sampler, but this is the type of thing you run into when you try and rip out the above little joke, and are searching around in your head for a suitably meaningless combination.
You need to make it a fairly standard numberplate format for your audience. Where I was, that is three letters followed by three numbers. The state of NSW now has almost limitless combinations, but you go for the classic, historic format.
You can’t start the letter triplet with “A”. The indefinite article sets the listener up to look for “one of something”. It also has that other bunch of meanings around first, primacy, top class, best mark, Alpha etc etc.
You can’t start the triplet with “B”. It sounds like “be” and also any vowel that follows is going to have the audience searching around for the word that they think they’ve just heard.
“C” - See. And the vowel thing again
“D” - this, if they’re anything like me, gets them looking for the acronym that starts with “Department of….” and of course, the vowel thing. Let’s just assume the vowel thing, every time I mention a consonant.
“E” has been hijacked by eMail, E-commerce, electro, and there are any number of TLAs that start with “E” because of the environmental movement.
“F” - is this a rude joke now? Because you’ve just said “eff”, as in “effing shut up”. Don’t forget, the fact that you are obviously telling a joke, means the listener is now slightly prejudiced into looking for the naughty bit.
“G” - Gee.
“H” - This one isn’t particularly difficult, but, if you’re an Aussie, it has the “Her Majesty’s” baggage and it is quite hard to say in a crowded, noisy room, without someone thinking they’ve heard something else.
“I” - no good for obvious reasons. I break for unicorns? I, Claudius? Better than a poke in the eye?
“J”- Usable. Not a commonly used letter in the English language.
“K” - now so commonly used as the abbreviation of the already truncated Ok, that you’re setting the listener up for a fall when they start looking for the mental state of the plate owner. As in, “‘K with the divorce“. Also, The Prime Minister probably has KRUDD tied up.
“L” - If you’re a geek, “L” is going to always stand for Light. It’s not bad, but you do run into the vowel thing again.
“M” - Not a bad one, either. But think about it. If you’re a normal person, you’ve probably started this mental search at “A”. You’re now about halfway through the alphabet. How long are going to make the suckers wait for the punch line?
“N” - National and Neuro. No chance.
“O” - OMG. Oxford. Here’s another one where I fall for a trap. If I start with “O” I’m going to either say OMD and then end up humming Enola Gaye for the rest of the evening, or reflexively go for OED, which leads the audience down the garden path.
“P” - Private. Pee. No vowel is useable. Still, could be worse.
“Q” - As long as you don’t use a vowel or a “T” (so they’re not looking cutie or “on the QT”)
“R” - Pirate number plate.
“S” - The number 2 backwards. Is this a trick number plate?
“T” - Not bad, but don’t forget that the frequency of use of the letter will lead lots of people to search around for personal meaning. Tea? Tee?
“U” - You guessed it.
“V” - Again, not such a bad one, but all dealings with the road and traffic authority will involve an acronym with a “V” in it - it stands for Vehicle.
“W” - particularly to be avoided in conjunction with the previous letter. Also, and this might just be a local phenomenon, the type of tosser who really, actually has a personalised number plate, quite often has them strapped to a BMW. I have seen all sorts of murderisations of those three letters in an attempt to get a plate that advertises something about the car. 8MVV as an example.
“X” - Huge problems waiting here. Extra? Kiss? Marking the spot? Rated.
“Y” - Why indeed.
“Z” - Is this the number 2 masquerading as something else? Is it a backwards 5? What am I looking for here having searched through the Alpha and the Omega? Also, and it pains me to say this, we say zed in this country… but only if we are over a certain age. It can lead to confusion if the audience has been super saturated in American ‘culture’.
So, you’ve made your choice for the first letter. Time to choose a second letter. Nah, I’m not going to do it to you. You get my point.
A few quick words about the numbers.
Three numbers in a row. You can’t start with 1, because that doesn’t sound random and for the joke to work, it really has to be random.
2 is no good because of its use as “To” in common messaging.
3. Not bad. But is that an “E”.
4. For.
5. Is that an “S”?
6. Is there a New Zealand sex joke in here?
7. It’s ok, but for the L337 speakers, it might put them off.
8. Ate. Or, used in the following abbreviated sense. Back of a handyman’s van - M8S R8S.
9. Small gee?
The numbers are a little easier, but don’t forget you could be advertising something unwittingly as well. A lot Sydney FM radio stations ID themselves by their three numbers that represent frequency.
So, you’ve worked your way through the combinations and arrived at your punch line. You are now standing in a deserted room with the sound of one cricket chirping in the background.
(For the record, if someone held a gun to my head and said, give me a number plate that we will attach to your car, it would be 3MT1H2U. I will buy a beer for the first person who works out what that’s all about if I haven't already told you.)
I started, “So, how’s it going?”
“Not bad. Started a new job a couple of weeks ago.”
“Don’t envy you there. I prefer to stay quietly incompetent in the one place, rather than spreading it around. Are you enjoying it?”
“I think so, although I didn’t get off to an auspicious start. I had been at a convention, really working the room and making lots of new contacts. I was handing out my business card to anyone who’d take it, and got a really poor response. Like, no-one got back to me. It was only a couple of days ago, when I had my specs on and happened to look at one of my own cards, that I saw my email address was John.Citizen@Business.com.au. They hadn't sent me a proof to look at before I went to the conference. I trusted them and wasn't wearing my glasses during the whole thing.”
Me, drying me eyes, “ Here’s an opportunity to go the deed poll and get that name change you've always wanted.”
Wry grin from fellow, “Yeah, I guess so.”
Me, really warming to subject, despite what others may feel about it (as is my wont). “Hey, you should just take ownership of that email address in the company and use it until the cards run out. It would make a cool murder-mystery-cop-show as well. They wheel your body into the morgue with the John Doe toe-tag on, only to identify you as John Citizen, only to be put right much later when someone comes forward and actually identifies you with your real name and we all live happily ever after, except for you.”
“Yeah, that would be good,” he says, looking about for other company.
Me, still digging around for that rich seam I know is around somewhere, “Did you hear that one about the guy you couldn’t afford a personalised number-plate? He changed his name to JQM 154?”
He stops and just looks at me, thinking it over. No laugh. This was the type of environment where a polite snigger was required at the very least. But this guy - nothing.
It was then that I realised he was trying to work out what JQM 154 stood for. He was looking for another gag. This is what happens when everything has meaning. I had deliberately gone for letters that to me, meant very little, but he still searched around for the acronym or the leet speak. And, to tell that gag without pre-remembering a random series, is harder than you’d think. (You just remember the formula. Guy, personalised plate, can’t afford, random plateish sounding combination. Huge laughs. Thank you and goodnight.)
So, for those of you who are happy with my assertion that everything has meaning, you can leave with my blessing.
For those who don’t believe me, I will give a short demonstration. I can’t cover every eventuality of course, so it’s just a sampler, but this is the type of thing you run into when you try and rip out the above little joke, and are searching around in your head for a suitably meaningless combination.
You need to make it a fairly standard numberplate format for your audience. Where I was, that is three letters followed by three numbers. The state of NSW now has almost limitless combinations, but you go for the classic, historic format.
You can’t start the letter triplet with “A”. The indefinite article sets the listener up to look for “one of something”. It also has that other bunch of meanings around first, primacy, top class, best mark, Alpha etc etc.
You can’t start the triplet with “B”. It sounds like “be” and also any vowel that follows is going to have the audience searching around for the word that they think they’ve just heard.
“C” - See. And the vowel thing again
“D” - this, if they’re anything like me, gets them looking for the acronym that starts with “Department of….” and of course, the vowel thing. Let’s just assume the vowel thing, every time I mention a consonant.
“E” has been hijacked by eMail, E-commerce, electro, and there are any number of TLAs that start with “E” because of the environmental movement.
“F” - is this a rude joke now? Because you’ve just said “eff”, as in “effing shut up”. Don’t forget, the fact that you are obviously telling a joke, means the listener is now slightly prejudiced into looking for the naughty bit.
“G” - Gee.
“H” - This one isn’t particularly difficult, but, if you’re an Aussie, it has the “Her Majesty’s” baggage and it is quite hard to say in a crowded, noisy room, without someone thinking they’ve heard something else.
“I” - no good for obvious reasons. I break for unicorns? I, Claudius? Better than a poke in the eye?
“J”- Usable. Not a commonly used letter in the English language.
“K” - now so commonly used as the abbreviation of the already truncated Ok, that you’re setting the listener up for a fall when they start looking for the mental state of the plate owner. As in, “‘K with the divorce“. Also, The Prime Minister probably has KRUDD tied up.
“L” - If you’re a geek, “L” is going to always stand for Light. It’s not bad, but you do run into the vowel thing again.
“M” - Not a bad one, either. But think about it. If you’re a normal person, you’ve probably started this mental search at “A”. You’re now about halfway through the alphabet. How long are going to make the suckers wait for the punch line?
“N” - National and Neuro. No chance.
“O” - OMG. Oxford. Here’s another one where I fall for a trap. If I start with “O” I’m going to either say OMD and then end up humming Enola Gaye for the rest of the evening, or reflexively go for OED, which leads the audience down the garden path.
“P” - Private. Pee. No vowel is useable. Still, could be worse.
“Q” - As long as you don’t use a vowel or a “T” (so they’re not looking cutie or “on the QT”)
“R” - Pirate number plate.
“S” - The number 2 backwards. Is this a trick number plate?
“T” - Not bad, but don’t forget that the frequency of use of the letter will lead lots of people to search around for personal meaning. Tea? Tee?
“U” - You guessed it.
“V” - Again, not such a bad one, but all dealings with the road and traffic authority will involve an acronym with a “V” in it - it stands for Vehicle.
“W” - particularly to be avoided in conjunction with the previous letter. Also, and this might just be a local phenomenon, the type of tosser who really, actually has a personalised number plate, quite often has them strapped to a BMW. I have seen all sorts of murderisations of those three letters in an attempt to get a plate that advertises something about the car. 8MVV as an example.
“X” - Huge problems waiting here. Extra? Kiss? Marking the spot? Rated.
“Y” - Why indeed.
“Z” - Is this the number 2 masquerading as something else? Is it a backwards 5? What am I looking for here having searched through the Alpha and the Omega? Also, and it pains me to say this, we say zed in this country… but only if we are over a certain age. It can lead to confusion if the audience has been super saturated in American ‘culture’.
So, you’ve made your choice for the first letter. Time to choose a second letter. Nah, I’m not going to do it to you. You get my point.
A few quick words about the numbers.
Three numbers in a row. You can’t start with 1, because that doesn’t sound random and for the joke to work, it really has to be random.
2 is no good because of its use as “To” in common messaging.
3. Not bad. But is that an “E”.
4. For.
5. Is that an “S”?
6. Is there a New Zealand sex joke in here?
7. It’s ok, but for the L337 speakers, it might put them off.
8. Ate. Or, used in the following abbreviated sense. Back of a handyman’s van - M8S R8S.
9. Small gee?
The numbers are a little easier, but don’t forget you could be advertising something unwittingly as well. A lot Sydney FM radio stations ID themselves by their three numbers that represent frequency.
So, you’ve worked your way through the combinations and arrived at your punch line. You are now standing in a deserted room with the sound of one cricket chirping in the background.
(For the record, if someone held a gun to my head and said, give me a number plate that we will attach to your car, it would be 3MT1H2U. I will buy a beer for the first person who works out what that’s all about if I haven't already told you.)
01 June 2010
Interesting Times: Down At The Inconvenience Store
A colleague mentioned that big supermarkets are now hiring people with autism to look after an aisle each - Coles and Woolies thought might as well take advantage of their attention to detail, and give them an employment break at the same time.
I think this is a nice idea and I want them to take it all the way.
If the guy with autism feels that the aisle would be better arranged alphabetically, let him have his head. If he feels that it would be more pleasing to be ranged from darkest shade packaging to lightest, give him a spectrophotometer. Perhaps by incremental weight comparison. Get him the scales. By percentage price increase over the financial year, stand back and watch the magic. By distance the product has had to travel, divided by processing time, multiplied by relative time spent on the shelves – now I’m getting goosebumps.
And what’s this around in aisle four? This aisle is maintained by Alice and her guide-dog, Sharkey. Whaddya mean there are no labels? She can’t read them and for that matter, neither can Sharkey. Why should you get special treatment? We unofficially call it “lucky dip lane”. Dig in.
Aisle five; nothing above knee height. We have two part-timers looking after this aisle. Gidget the Midget and Tony “Wheels” McGinty. I'm looking at the tax angles on "kid friendly".
Aisle six? Well, that’s looked after by Davey. Yeah, it’s a bit of a mess. There’s nothing particularly special about him, he’s just a teenager.
This aisle is looked after by Arthur, he’s come back to work after having his self-funded retirement knocked around by the GFC. We liked his whimsical approach to pricing. Pounds and Pence lend the place a certain class.
Aisle eight? Ahuh. That's currently being restocked with all the cleaning products. Actually, to be honest, we’re looking for a new person to take on this aisle. We accidentally put someone with OCD in charge and it seems they managed to dissolve themselves in a cleaning frenzy. Bit of a blunder. Still, cleanliness is next to… uhm… aisle nine. Look, the pet aisle... and there's Cat Lady!
It would be no less confusing than what has happened to me in real life and I’d shop there for the puzzle-solving attraction alone. Several of my nearest supermarkets - two different brands - have refurbished and remodelled and I am stuffed. I had these places down pat and now I don’t know where anything is. (Except the fresh veg. Always at the entrance).
Where am I gonna park if the staff take all the disabled spots?
I think this is a nice idea and I want them to take it all the way.
If the guy with autism feels that the aisle would be better arranged alphabetically, let him have his head. If he feels that it would be more pleasing to be ranged from darkest shade packaging to lightest, give him a spectrophotometer. Perhaps by incremental weight comparison. Get him the scales. By percentage price increase over the financial year, stand back and watch the magic. By distance the product has had to travel, divided by processing time, multiplied by relative time spent on the shelves – now I’m getting goosebumps.
And what’s this around in aisle four? This aisle is maintained by Alice and her guide-dog, Sharkey. Whaddya mean there are no labels? She can’t read them and for that matter, neither can Sharkey. Why should you get special treatment? We unofficially call it “lucky dip lane”. Dig in.
Aisle five; nothing above knee height. We have two part-timers looking after this aisle. Gidget the Midget and Tony “Wheels” McGinty. I'm looking at the tax angles on "kid friendly".
Aisle six? Well, that’s looked after by Davey. Yeah, it’s a bit of a mess. There’s nothing particularly special about him, he’s just a teenager.
This aisle is looked after by Arthur, he’s come back to work after having his self-funded retirement knocked around by the GFC. We liked his whimsical approach to pricing. Pounds and Pence lend the place a certain class.
Aisle eight? Ahuh. That's currently being restocked with all the cleaning products. Actually, to be honest, we’re looking for a new person to take on this aisle. We accidentally put someone with OCD in charge and it seems they managed to dissolve themselves in a cleaning frenzy. Bit of a blunder. Still, cleanliness is next to… uhm… aisle nine. Look, the pet aisle... and there's Cat Lady!
It would be no less confusing than what has happened to me in real life and I’d shop there for the puzzle-solving attraction alone. Several of my nearest supermarkets - two different brands - have refurbished and remodelled and I am stuffed. I had these places down pat and now I don’t know where anything is. (Except the fresh veg. Always at the entrance).
Where am I gonna park if the staff take all the disabled spots?
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