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30 August 2010
27 August 2010
The Cashew And Some Of Its Dangers
The cashew. Although commonly called a "nut" is in fact a type of jellyfish. Its closest land based cousin is the Triffid. Pictured, a cashew sheds the shell of its chrysalis form and begins the treck back into the sea to spawn.
But enough of this hardcore science...
Cashews have always presented a bit of a problem for me. I love them with a pure, intense passion. I’m not normal about them. I once asked for cashews as a birthday present. But they will be the death of me, and not the death of voracious overindulgence that you’re predicting.
A certain supermarket chain sells bags of cashews that have flavours on them. The one that I think is borderline genius, has written on the packaging: “Thai Lime and Chilli Cashews: Deliciously spicy, roasted cashews, flavoured with fragrant kaffir lime and Thai spices.”
I went a bit odd just typing that.
Anyway, they will be the death of me because of the packaging. It’s quite a tough plastic packet with a resealable top. It is slightly narrower than the width of my hand and slightly longer than the length of my fingers. I cannot get to the bottom of the packet. I can already hear you saying, “Pour them out into a bowl, you giant plonker.”
No – you’ve missed the point, they don’t make it home. They’re open before I’ve even ridden the shopping trolley down the disabled ramp, into the car park. I am driving a manual car as the struggle to the bottom of the packet takes place.
So, the other day, desperate to get at the trove of nutty goodness just out of reach at the bottom of the packet, I changed into third gear and took that opportunity to upend the bag towards my mouth. A clump of nuts came out and bonked me on the nose, but worse was the dust and assorted bottom-of-the-packet-uber-flavour that fell into my eyes.
Lets look at the ingredients again:
Nuts? Check.
Salt? Apparently so, yes.
Lime? Indubitably there. Ouch.
Chilli? Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck yes.
Safety tip kids, from your Uncle Grey Area. You need your eyes for driving in a competent manner and pouring the contents of a flavoured bag of nuts into them before, or during, a road trip is not going to guarantee happy motoring.
24 August 2010
In A Miner Key
Imagine being down a dark, airless hole with 32 of your workmates one August, and being told that you won’t get out until Christmas… if you’re lucky. I’ve been in work situations that felt like this in a spiritual sense, but I got to go home at night and I generally had Christmas off.
Looking at the story of the 33 trapped Chilean miners, there are certain scenarios and opportunities that leap out at me.
First to the facts as I’ve digested them.
They are in an emergency shelter. Now, if there’s an emergency shelter constructed in this mine, they must have allowed for the fact that trapped miners could potentially be in there for a long time. But also consider how amenities in public areas of your work kind of erode and decay with time. Think about how well stocked the first-aid kit is now, compared to how it was when it first went in. A couple of people here and there “borrow” a band-aid. The eye drops got used by the stoned guy when a management meeting was sprung on him. And, how old are those bandages anyway? Now, let’s assume that the mine management had the foresight to put in some games for bored, trapped miners... but a while ago.
Fifteen cards are in the pack. One of them is a snap card featuring a picture of a bear with straw hat riding a mini-bike. One them is an Uno card and one of them, insultingly, is the business card of their OH&S Officer.
The Monopoly set has no pieces, but arguments still break out on day 93 when Luis insists that he wants the boot shaped pebble because he's "... sick of playing the unlucky sort-of-dog-shaped-piece-of-dried-human-poo piece".
With Cluedo, after the first month, it is always, “Mr Smelly, in a cave, with a pick-axe.”
Anyway, what they should do is think of the future. They should knuckle down and write the stage musical of their own story to really capitalise on things when they get out. They should call it Diggin' It. (On the posters, the subtitle will read: "There's A Hole Lotta Love Down Here".) It's got tension and drama, a good size cast - which lends itself to chorus numbers - and the sets and costumes will be very cheap. At the end of the final, climactic number, all they have to do is turn on a big spotlight somewhere off-stage and have the cast stare into it while shading their eyes. This ending works whether they get them out safely or not. There won't be a dry seat in the house.
And before anyone says this is too soon: I disagree. This is before too soon, so I'm alright.
Looking at the story of the 33 trapped Chilean miners, there are certain scenarios and opportunities that leap out at me.
First to the facts as I’ve digested them.
They are in an emergency shelter. Now, if there’s an emergency shelter constructed in this mine, they must have allowed for the fact that trapped miners could potentially be in there for a long time. But also consider how amenities in public areas of your work kind of erode and decay with time. Think about how well stocked the first-aid kit is now, compared to how it was when it first went in. A couple of people here and there “borrow” a band-aid. The eye drops got used by the stoned guy when a management meeting was sprung on him. And, how old are those bandages anyway? Now, let’s assume that the mine management had the foresight to put in some games for bored, trapped miners... but a while ago.
Fifteen cards are in the pack. One of them is a snap card featuring a picture of a bear with straw hat riding a mini-bike. One them is an Uno card and one of them, insultingly, is the business card of their OH&S Officer.
The Monopoly set has no pieces, but arguments still break out on day 93 when Luis insists that he wants the boot shaped pebble because he's "... sick of playing the unlucky sort-of-dog-shaped-piece-of-dried-human-poo piece".
With Cluedo, after the first month, it is always, “Mr Smelly, in a cave, with a pick-axe.”
Anyway, what they should do is think of the future. They should knuckle down and write the stage musical of their own story to really capitalise on things when they get out. They should call it Diggin' It. (On the posters, the subtitle will read: "There's A Hole Lotta Love Down Here".) It's got tension and drama, a good size cast - which lends itself to chorus numbers - and the sets and costumes will be very cheap. At the end of the final, climactic number, all they have to do is turn on a big spotlight somewhere off-stage and have the cast stare into it while shading their eyes. This ending works whether they get them out safely or not. There won't be a dry seat in the house.
And before anyone says this is too soon: I disagree. This is before too soon, so I'm alright.
Australia Has Spoken
And they've given it a resounding, "Meh."
With my limited understanding of these things, I am amazed.
I am amazed that a voting population of that size can turn in a dead-heat.
To me, this does not speak of the stunning closeness of the competition. This does not put in mind a great battle between two equally impressive and opposing forces. To me, this is Australians desperately casting about for the lesser of two evils and being squarely divided down the middle on which is most offensive. That’s not agreement, that’s semi-mutual disgust.
Imagine what would have happened if someone with some bravery and vision had stood up. They would have swept to power on a wave of relief and gratitude. And by the way, this isn't me passing the buck. I wouldn't flatter myself with being able to do the job. I'm too fragile and full of doubt to be able to stand up in front of bunch of hecklers and insist I knew what was best.
Besides, power should be kept out of the hands of those who desire it and I would be a nightmare. The first thing I'd try and legislate for would be that every house gets a government sponsered pillow-room. Nothing but pillows. The only way you're allowed to enter the room is at a run and by throwing yourself as far as you can into the room. Yeah. Next I'd fix the environment. Cushions, I reckon. Cushions everywhere. Then the stupid environment can't hurt us. Yeah. Next? Dodgem cars will replace real cars in a staggered, and therefore entertaining, replacement scheme…
Anyway, we'll get to do the voting thing again soon, so let's really shock them. Everybody, let's just agree to vote for that weird little Communist Party dude down the bottom of the ticket. Just for the helluvit.
With my limited understanding of these things, I am amazed.
I am amazed that a voting population of that size can turn in a dead-heat.
To me, this does not speak of the stunning closeness of the competition. This does not put in mind a great battle between two equally impressive and opposing forces. To me, this is Australians desperately casting about for the lesser of two evils and being squarely divided down the middle on which is most offensive. That’s not agreement, that’s semi-mutual disgust.
Imagine what would have happened if someone with some bravery and vision had stood up. They would have swept to power on a wave of relief and gratitude. And by the way, this isn't me passing the buck. I wouldn't flatter myself with being able to do the job. I'm too fragile and full of doubt to be able to stand up in front of bunch of hecklers and insist I knew what was best.
Besides, power should be kept out of the hands of those who desire it and I would be a nightmare. The first thing I'd try and legislate for would be that every house gets a government sponsered pillow-room. Nothing but pillows. The only way you're allowed to enter the room is at a run and by throwing yourself as far as you can into the room. Yeah. Next I'd fix the environment. Cushions, I reckon. Cushions everywhere. Then the stupid environment can't hurt us. Yeah. Next? Dodgem cars will replace real cars in a staggered, and therefore entertaining, replacement scheme…
Anyway, we'll get to do the voting thing again soon, so let's really shock them. Everybody, let's just agree to vote for that weird little Communist Party dude down the bottom of the ticket. Just for the helluvit.
21 August 2010
Fangs A Lot, Bye
All of a sudden, I can’t watch vampires anymore. I might be late to this, but I sat down with friends last night to start the next series of True Blood and I fell asleep. I just don’t care. I’m all sucked out.
I haven’t bathed in it as much as I could’ve. I avoided all those Stephanie Meyer books and films and I haven‘t watched any of the Vampire Diaries/Travelogues/Cooking Shows aimed at the teeny market. But I did do a pretty solid stint with Anne Rice, from when she appeared, right up to Numbnuts The Devil or whatever the hell that piece of crap book was called. Then I did Buffy (well, you know what I mean). I did Angel. I did two seasons of True Blood and that, I’m afraid, is it. I need a transfusion.
I think I’m going to look back at this period with much the same feeling that I currently look back at a half-hour sitcom featuring an astronaut whose got a blond, desert-djinn in a bottle. Holy crap! Did we call that entertainment?
For the record. Emergency Contact will not talk to me, now that I'm over vampires. She's disgusted.
I haven’t bathed in it as much as I could’ve. I avoided all those Stephanie Meyer books and films and I haven‘t watched any of the Vampire Diaries/Travelogues/Cooking Shows aimed at the teeny market. But I did do a pretty solid stint with Anne Rice, from when she appeared, right up to Numbnuts The Devil or whatever the hell that piece of crap book was called. Then I did Buffy (well, you know what I mean). I did Angel. I did two seasons of True Blood and that, I’m afraid, is it. I need a transfusion.
I think I’m going to look back at this period with much the same feeling that I currently look back at a half-hour sitcom featuring an astronaut whose got a blond, desert-djinn in a bottle. Holy crap! Did we call that entertainment?
For the record. Emergency Contact will not talk to me, now that I'm over vampires. She's disgusted.
12 August 2010
I Care About Everything Except PM Fanta Pants and Mr Rabbit
It’s been a red letter day for the rational among us.
In the news, some fishermen spent a crap night out clinging to the hull of their boat after being submerged by a bad storm. On their safe return to land, thanks to highly skilled rescue teams, the leader (can’t go with captain) repeatedly said, “All I can say is, 'Thanks to God. Really. Thank God'.”
This is not only rude to the guys who risked their lives to save the fishermen in foul weather, it’s ignoring who’d nominally be responsible for bad weather to start with.
In other news - a woman claiming to have supernatural abilities went out looking for the body of missing six-year-old Kiesha and, after finding the decomposing torso of a grown woman, is now being feted as the next important psychic phenomenon.
That’s like being sent out for basil and coming home with a book about whippets.
In the news, some fishermen spent a crap night out clinging to the hull of their boat after being submerged by a bad storm. On their safe return to land, thanks to highly skilled rescue teams, the leader (can’t go with captain) repeatedly said, “All I can say is, 'Thanks to God. Really. Thank God'.”
This is not only rude to the guys who risked their lives to save the fishermen in foul weather, it’s ignoring who’d nominally be responsible for bad weather to start with.
In other news - a woman claiming to have supernatural abilities went out looking for the body of missing six-year-old Kiesha and, after finding the decomposing torso of a grown woman, is now being feted as the next important psychic phenomenon.
That’s like being sent out for basil and coming home with a book about whippets.
09 August 2010
Inthepthion
Warning: If you think you want to see Inception, you’re wrong. No. Wait. Sorry. If you want to see Inception, don’t read this ‘review’.
I’ve heard and read things about this film like, “Four and a half out of 5”. Or, “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god it’s so complicated I should see it again but my head might explode”. Or, “…near genius”. That’s always a warning, right there. Near genius. How near? Like, having a rear-end accident near?
It’s simple. It’s a heist film inside someone’s head. But without the payoff.
To quote the magnificent Peter Cook in The Princess Bride, there’s a dweam within a dweam. (And then another one inside that one.) It’s like a pass-the-parcel game at a kids’ party - with more guns but the same amount of snivelling.
Plot holes. You want plot holes? I’ll give you plot holes. I’m pandering to my own pedantry, but I will say again - if you are going to sink that amount of money into something, why don’t you shore up the leaky bits to make sure it doesn’t get inundated by the flood of its own stupidity. It’s a needlessly complicated plot anyway, so why not cut back on the layers and cut back on the dumb?
From the little ,“wouldn’t he recognise them when he wakes up?” to the “Where’s the technology that links them while they’re under, ’cause all I saw was anaesthetic?” - there are holes and inconsistencies everywhere.
There are larger questions, too. Like why do I care if this immoral industrial spy gets the golden fleece, anyway? In fact, I want him to fail. The reason for the heist is entirely unjustifiable.
Of particular disappointment, however, was the bog-ordinary dreariness of the dreamscapes. I was looking forward to lush, changing and imaginative environments, but you should see where our two main characters call home in mental town. It’s at the intersection of Ugly and Boring Streets.
Everyone’s internal landscapes are filled with gun toting baddies. The idea is that the projections of the subconscious try to defend the mind of the invadee with an endless stream of canon fodder. So we know why they're carrying guns, but it could’ve been so much more fun. It’s dull. Who chases bad ideas around with a car and shoots at them? When I have chase scenes in my sub conscious, it’s over giant cat paws onto glass plains that stretch off into infinity and marshmallows. I’m not even recognisably human half the time in my dreams and neither are most other people.. Why not have chocolate mousse fall on the bad guys… followed by sprinkles? I’m pretty sure that Freudians would look at it and wonder where all the sex went, too. For interesting mental landscapes, The Cell was far more engaging.
There are some cool bits. The little kid from Third Rock From the Sun (Joseph Gordon-Levitt) is a very pleasant surprise and there are some nice suspenseful bits - but with the limitless possibilities open to film makers now, they should’ve gone for the full nightmare.
I’ve heard and read things about this film like, “Four and a half out of 5”. Or, “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god it’s so complicated I should see it again but my head might explode”. Or, “…near genius”. That’s always a warning, right there. Near genius. How near? Like, having a rear-end accident near?
It’s simple. It’s a heist film inside someone’s head. But without the payoff.
To quote the magnificent Peter Cook in The Princess Bride, there’s a dweam within a dweam. (And then another one inside that one.) It’s like a pass-the-parcel game at a kids’ party - with more guns but the same amount of snivelling.
Plot holes. You want plot holes? I’ll give you plot holes. I’m pandering to my own pedantry, but I will say again - if you are going to sink that amount of money into something, why don’t you shore up the leaky bits to make sure it doesn’t get inundated by the flood of its own stupidity. It’s a needlessly complicated plot anyway, so why not cut back on the layers and cut back on the dumb?
From the little ,“wouldn’t he recognise them when he wakes up?” to the “Where’s the technology that links them while they’re under, ’cause all I saw was anaesthetic?” - there are holes and inconsistencies everywhere.
There are larger questions, too. Like why do I care if this immoral industrial spy gets the golden fleece, anyway? In fact, I want him to fail. The reason for the heist is entirely unjustifiable.
Of particular disappointment, however, was the bog-ordinary dreariness of the dreamscapes. I was looking forward to lush, changing and imaginative environments, but you should see where our two main characters call home in mental town. It’s at the intersection of Ugly and Boring Streets.
Everyone’s internal landscapes are filled with gun toting baddies. The idea is that the projections of the subconscious try to defend the mind of the invadee with an endless stream of canon fodder. So we know why they're carrying guns, but it could’ve been so much more fun. It’s dull. Who chases bad ideas around with a car and shoots at them? When I have chase scenes in my sub conscious, it’s over giant cat paws onto glass plains that stretch off into infinity and marshmallows. I’m not even recognisably human half the time in my dreams and neither are most other people.. Why not have chocolate mousse fall on the bad guys… followed by sprinkles? I’m pretty sure that Freudians would look at it and wonder where all the sex went, too. For interesting mental landscapes, The Cell was far more engaging.
There are some cool bits. The little kid from Third Rock From the Sun (Joseph Gordon-Levitt) is a very pleasant surprise and there are some nice suspenseful bits - but with the limitless possibilities open to film makers now, they should’ve gone for the full nightmare.
07 August 2010
Mmmmmm. Pi
This week a couple of guys finished a bit of maths and felt pleased with themselves because they had produced a result that was nearly twice the size of the previous effort. They calculated Pi to five trillion places. (What dream dinner dates...) To put that number in perspective, that’s 17 times the estimated number of stars in our galaxy. Or, nearly 50 times the number of people who have ever lived. It’s a big number. It’s 5, with 12 noughts after it.
Pi is a transcendental number, which to mathematicians means that it’s not a root of a non-constant polynomial equation with rational co-efficients. It also has other properties. I'll sum up the highlights for you.
Against all the odds, nowhere does the sequence 8675309 appear.
Your address appears in it 180 times. As predicted by Nostril Damus.
At the 4 trillionth number, it counts down from 999 and then lifts its head up from the tree and yells “coming ready or not”.
After the 4, 382, 904, 663, 821st number, there’s a small dog. He just sits there.
You can do all the calculations you need with 3.14.
The other 4, 999, 999, 999, 998 are a bit overkill.
Pi is a transcendental number, which to mathematicians means that it’s not a root of a non-constant polynomial equation with rational co-efficients. It also has other properties. I'll sum up the highlights for you.
Against all the odds, nowhere does the sequence 8675309 appear.
Your address appears in it 180 times. As predicted by Nostril Damus.
At the 4 trillionth number, it counts down from 999 and then lifts its head up from the tree and yells “coming ready or not”.
After the 4, 382, 904, 663, 821st number, there’s a small dog. He just sits there.
You can do all the calculations you need with 3.14.
The other 4, 999, 999, 999, 998 are a bit overkill.
05 August 2010
Like A Cat On A Cold Wooden Floor
My friends, Gooby and Goobarella, have a broken cat. I’m not saying that as a sort of value judgement, it really is a bit wrong. I think they got it at Animal Seconds World. (Today only, bent dogs and straight camels. Buy nine, get the tenth one free!) The little thing was supposed to be called Ziggy, but it never really stuck quite as much as Mong.
It has a delightful… no wait. It has a hilarious combination of fearlessness mixed with lack of coordination. It can fall off a flight of stairs while sitting perfectly still. Its rear-wheel-drive mechanism is a bit buggered and when it takes off, the tail-end comes out and around in a different alignment to the front-end. It’s like the diff’s gone. The tail is all crumpled up in a ball, like a nose-to-tail accident where the chassis wasn't straightened properly. It has no interest in food.
It’s actually a very sweet thing and Emergency Contact and I are cat-sitting for a few days. This is where one of its quirks is not going to be so charming. It can’t withdraw its claws. They’re not sharp and there isn’t much damage done, but, we have hardwood floors. If you are a cat owner, you will probably be dimly aware of the nocturnal activities of your felines. A bump here, a mew there. Well, little spazzimodo doesn’t leave anything to the imagination. Permanently extended claws on wood. It’s like trying to sleep while a liquored-up Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers practice a complicated routine.
It has a delightful… no wait. It has a hilarious combination of fearlessness mixed with lack of coordination. It can fall off a flight of stairs while sitting perfectly still. Its rear-wheel-drive mechanism is a bit buggered and when it takes off, the tail-end comes out and around in a different alignment to the front-end. It’s like the diff’s gone. The tail is all crumpled up in a ball, like a nose-to-tail accident where the chassis wasn't straightened properly. It has no interest in food.
It’s actually a very sweet thing and Emergency Contact and I are cat-sitting for a few days. This is where one of its quirks is not going to be so charming. It can’t withdraw its claws. They’re not sharp and there isn’t much damage done, but, we have hardwood floors. If you are a cat owner, you will probably be dimly aware of the nocturnal activities of your felines. A bump here, a mew there. Well, little spazzimodo doesn’t leave anything to the imagination. Permanently extended claws on wood. It’s like trying to sleep while a liquored-up Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers practice a complicated routine.
04 August 2010
Rate Yourself, Then Buy Tickets
A colleague posted me the below link.
I Write Like
What you do, is you put a chunk of your writing in there and it “analyses” it and tells you who you write like.
I think scientifically it’s as meaningful as generating your porn name, but it does have that self importance factor that all rampant egotists can’t avoid.
I gave it three goes before posting this blog.
About Shanghai Ball, it told me I write like J.K Rowling (show me the money)
On All Roads Lead to Pollution, it thought I sounded like Isaac Asimov (show me the money)
On Long Way to The Mop, it accused me of sounding like Jack London (show me the… morphine)
I gave it a passage of Oscar Wilde, and it decided he could've made a passable living as a ghost writer for James Joyce.
Good one.
I Write Like
What you do, is you put a chunk of your writing in there and it “analyses” it and tells you who you write like.
I think scientifically it’s as meaningful as generating your porn name, but it does have that self importance factor that all rampant egotists can’t avoid.
I gave it three goes before posting this blog.
About Shanghai Ball, it told me I write like J.K Rowling (show me the money)
On All Roads Lead to Pollution, it thought I sounded like Isaac Asimov (show me the money)
On Long Way to The Mop, it accused me of sounding like Jack London (show me the… morphine)
I gave it a passage of Oscar Wilde, and it decided he could've made a passable living as a ghost writer for James Joyce.
Good one.
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