I don't know if anyone else has been following THIS but it's a story that's been getting me increasingly steamed up. For those just tuning in, "Joe the Plumber" - the douchebag Republican voter hailed by the McCain campaign as a symbol of middle class America during the Presidential campaign after he questioned Obama on tax policy - has been sent to the Middle East by a conservative website as their correspondent on the Gaze conflict.
No, really.
While his qualifications, other than being a loud-mouth cunt, remain unclear so far Joe's correspondence work seems to involve going on tours with the Israeli forces (though he's not allowed inside Gaza strip, heavens no) and offering profound insights such as that it's actually the Israeli's who are the real victims here and that's it's their homes - their HOMES damnit - that are being threatened by Hamas.
He's also got some great things to say on that damn left-wing bias in the damn liberal media, damnit.
Stunning insights Joe, just stunning.
And in case you were hoping there might at least be an odds-on chance this sham could be put to a quick end with a stray rocket? Sorry guys, Joe's covered by the Almighy:
"Being a Christian I'm pretty well protected by God I believe. That's not saying he's going to stop a mortar for me, but you gotta take the chance.”
Fingers crossed, Joe, fingers crossed.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Friday, January 9, 2009
What women want
Fucking women, eh? Contrary bints: I don’t know how boys stand us sometimes, with our bloody contradictions.
Take me: sitting here right now, vaguely insulted that a man in whom I (obviously) have absolutely no interest in dating has not called to ask me out.
Allow me to explain.
Last week. One of those really, really boiling days and I was at the WACA. Not, like a cricket loving freak, to watch some organised loafing but to attend a shareholder meeting. (For work, obviously. I’m too poor to own shares even these days when you can pick up a junior miner with the spare change down the back of the couch). Having obtained directions (which I swear involved an improbable four left turns) to the meeting room I was hopelessly lost when I stumbled across a man whose face bore the unmistakable impression of someone exactly as lost as I was. In a crisis, the brief stint as a Brownie sixer has taught me, it is important to stick together. That applies to situations that aren’t getting lost on a field trip at John Forrest National Park. And so I asked him if he was looking for the same meeting as me and when he said he was we thought we would look together.
I’d like to make it clear that it was his idea to cut across the WACA. Honest it was. Though I went along with it: the heels of my beautiful red heels sinking into the grass as I did so. And only when we got to the other side did we notice the perimeter fence on the other side.
“So shall we jump it?” the shareholder asked me.
When my hysterical laughter had subsided I told him what I thought of that idea, even had I not been wearing an uber tight black dress and said heels.
“I’ll give you a lift,” he insisted.
When the second wave of hysterical laughter had passed I think he realised I was serious.
It was about then that a man on a grass… mower?... cutter?.... um, flattener? … thing, came along and told us politely to get off the grass. Whether or not this was related to the trail of heel-induced holes I’d left behind me in the grass was, shall we say, unclear. The grass, um… cleaner?... man wasn’t all Fuck You though – he also pointed out that there was a place a little further along where the fence was lower and we could probably get out a bit easier.
Well yes and no. Because while he was correct in that the fence was lower, he had neglected to mention several key points: a)It was still fucking high, b)It was less of a low fence and more of a high fence with a hole in it, meaning you had to sort of launch yourself upwards as you crouched down to avoid smacking your head open on the top bit, c)the place where you came down on the other side was not solid floor but a platform thing ON FUCKING WHEELS.
I got over the fence eventually. Let’s not go into details about who did what and who saw what. Let’s just bury that thought, and those memories, waaaay waaay down where my future psychologist can find them. Importantly the shareholder saw nothing. At least that’s what he told me.
And so we went to the meeting and chatted and blah blah blah the meeting was dull. Afterwards I killed time chatting to the shareholder before he asked if he could see me again. Maybe it’s the effect of having been saddled with both glasses and braces for many of my formative high school years but I pretty much never assume anyone is asking me out. Unless they are actually saying “I fancy you” I also never really assume they fancy me either. This shareholder, who happened to be in financial services, probably just wanted to talk business, I figured. Just in case though I thought I’d give him my business card, as though to underscore how business-related this all was. Unfortuantely I didn’t have any cards left and was reduced to scrawling mymobile number on a scrap of paper he had with him. Not quite what I was going for.
And when he called me later that day to ask if I was free that night it seemed I may have to revealtuate my thoughts about his intentions. Being too much of a pussy to brush him off properly I went for the time-honoured tactic of delaying him, insisting I was just SWAMPED at the moment but er maybe next week… possibly. We parted on good terms but for the next few days my stomach churned as I wondered how I could nicely dispatch him without hurting his feelings.
But clearly I NEEDN’T HAVE BOTHERED. Because that little WACA incident was a week ago and has he called?? No he has not. Fucker. Suddenly I feel like I know what those glossy magazines are talking about when they bitch about boys who take your number and don’t call. And while I am overwhelmingly relieved I don’t have to deal with letting him down gently, I still find myself a little… peeved. Did he not think I was cute enough? Was my banter not witty enough? It was my hair wasn't it? I KNEW I should have brushed the hair. Superficial fucker.
Take me: sitting here right now, vaguely insulted that a man in whom I (obviously) have absolutely no interest in dating has not called to ask me out.
Allow me to explain.
Last week. One of those really, really boiling days and I was at the WACA. Not, like a cricket loving freak, to watch some organised loafing but to attend a shareholder meeting. (For work, obviously. I’m too poor to own shares even these days when you can pick up a junior miner with the spare change down the back of the couch). Having obtained directions (which I swear involved an improbable four left turns) to the meeting room I was hopelessly lost when I stumbled across a man whose face bore the unmistakable impression of someone exactly as lost as I was. In a crisis, the brief stint as a Brownie sixer has taught me, it is important to stick together. That applies to situations that aren’t getting lost on a field trip at John Forrest National Park. And so I asked him if he was looking for the same meeting as me and when he said he was we thought we would look together.
I’d like to make it clear that it was his idea to cut across the WACA. Honest it was. Though I went along with it: the heels of my beautiful red heels sinking into the grass as I did so. And only when we got to the other side did we notice the perimeter fence on the other side.
“So shall we jump it?” the shareholder asked me.
When my hysterical laughter had subsided I told him what I thought of that idea, even had I not been wearing an uber tight black dress and said heels.
“I’ll give you a lift,” he insisted.
When the second wave of hysterical laughter had passed I think he realised I was serious.
It was about then that a man on a grass… mower?... cutter?.... um, flattener? … thing, came along and told us politely to get off the grass. Whether or not this was related to the trail of heel-induced holes I’d left behind me in the grass was, shall we say, unclear. The grass, um… cleaner?... man wasn’t all Fuck You though – he also pointed out that there was a place a little further along where the fence was lower and we could probably get out a bit easier.
Well yes and no. Because while he was correct in that the fence was lower, he had neglected to mention several key points: a)It was still fucking high, b)It was less of a low fence and more of a high fence with a hole in it, meaning you had to sort of launch yourself upwards as you crouched down to avoid smacking your head open on the top bit, c)the place where you came down on the other side was not solid floor but a platform thing ON FUCKING WHEELS.
I got over the fence eventually. Let’s not go into details about who did what and who saw what. Let’s just bury that thought, and those memories, waaaay waaay down where my future psychologist can find them. Importantly the shareholder saw nothing. At least that’s what he told me.
And so we went to the meeting and chatted and blah blah blah the meeting was dull. Afterwards I killed time chatting to the shareholder before he asked if he could see me again. Maybe it’s the effect of having been saddled with both glasses and braces for many of my formative high school years but I pretty much never assume anyone is asking me out. Unless they are actually saying “I fancy you” I also never really assume they fancy me either. This shareholder, who happened to be in financial services, probably just wanted to talk business, I figured. Just in case though I thought I’d give him my business card, as though to underscore how business-related this all was. Unfortuantely I didn’t have any cards left and was reduced to scrawling mymobile number on a scrap of paper he had with him. Not quite what I was going for.
And when he called me later that day to ask if I was free that night it seemed I may have to revealtuate my thoughts about his intentions. Being too much of a pussy to brush him off properly I went for the time-honoured tactic of delaying him, insisting I was just SWAMPED at the moment but er maybe next week… possibly. We parted on good terms but for the next few days my stomach churned as I wondered how I could nicely dispatch him without hurting his feelings.
But clearly I NEEDN’T HAVE BOTHERED. Because that little WACA incident was a week ago and has he called?? No he has not. Fucker. Suddenly I feel like I know what those glossy magazines are talking about when they bitch about boys who take your number and don’t call. And while I am overwhelmingly relieved I don’t have to deal with letting him down gently, I still find myself a little… peeved. Did he not think I was cute enough? Was my banter not witty enough? It was my hair wasn't it? I KNEW I should have brushed the hair. Superficial fucker.
Monday, January 5, 2009
Friday, January 2, 2009
Well played, 2009
I don't really go in for New Year's Resolutions. The reason being, clearly, that I simply have no flaws: no rough edges that need sanding down, no character deficiencies and certainly, gosh, no bad habits. How, I ask you, can one improve on perfection?
The real reason is even more simple: I have never yet kept a New Year's resolution and it seems, therefore, slightly disingenuous to even play the role of a reformeer. To suggest that I might actually be able to, this year, drink a bit less, run a bit more and generally be a bit nicer to everyone is not only a blatant attempt to fool others but a shameless bid to fool myself.
Even so, despite a distinctly cool attitude towards the resolutions bit, I must concede there is something quite nice and hopeful about starting on a fresh calendar. Maybe it’s as simple as ‘2009: It Doesn’t Suck Yet’ but to me it feels like coming back from the hairdresser with a shiny new hairdo. And for about a day I decide I am going to Get On Top Of The Hair Situation. You know what I mean: I will have it trimmed every 6-8 weeks like the hairdresser tells me, I will make an faint effort towards establishing some sort of style instead of just leaving the car window open to ‘blow dry’ it en route to work. I will apply fancy leave-in conditioners I don’t yet own and – yes – as I’ve vowed before, I will learn to deliver an up-do that will make me look like the hot (SPOILER!) android in Bladerunner.
So it is disappointing to find that the new year only took a day to let me down. Like the split ends I should have had trimmed away two months ago 2009 is looking a little bit ragged. A little, dare I say it, like 2008.
At least that's what I thought at first.
New Years Day. Early evening. I was tired and cranky and in need of something from the shop. Having forsaken such trifles as, say, a shower, or the use of a hairbrush I decided, naturally, to walk down to the shops myself. It'll be fine, I told myself, slipping unshaven legs into thongs and studiously avoiding looking at my mane of not-even-messily-sexy-bedhead hair in the mirror. Don’t even both changing out of that weird floral housedress once mistaken for a nightie - nobody goes to the shitty local IGA at 6pm on New Year's Day, right?
Well yes and no. Because, as it happens, not that many people do go to the local IGA at 6pm on New Year's Day. It's just that I happen to know everyone who does.
I recognised Him from a distance: a guy I know through work who I seem to run into at every boozy industry bash and who has only even seen me in heels, nice clothes and with hair that doesn't look like I'd spent 40 to 48 hours becoming acquainted with a wind tunnel. Oh and he apparently lives about three houses away from me. Who knew?. Sadly the fucker also had good face recognition for, despite my yeti-like appearance, he not only recognised me but decided it would be a fun idea to stop and chat on the street corner while I tried to simultaneously pull down the hem of my dress - fluttering dangerously high in the unwelcomly hot wind – control my hair and shake hands with said guy’s smoking hot and perfectly coiffed girlfriend, who was standing beside him looking like she'd stepped out of one of those Ralph Lauren ads where everybody wears cashmere and fucks on yachts.
Having said my goodbyes and still red hot with embarassment I lurched into IGA, negotiating the aisles at great speed and making my way to the checkout to dump 12 months worth of change onto the counter, removing from my pockets as I did so a twisted bobby pin, the receipt for petrol I don't recall buying and various bits of what I guess was lint (?) but was too afraid to investigate.
And because 2009 is the new 2008, the first person to walk in through the shop doors while the poor dear behind the checkout is counting up my 5 cent pieces is an old friend of my brothers who I haven’t seen in ages who now presumably believes I look exactly that shitty every day of my life. I tried to get away with a quick "hey" and walk out the door but no, no, he'd been meaning to get in touch about a book he wanted to borrow but he didn’t have my number. Did I still have that book and could he borrow it? The real answer - that I had no idea where the book was and wasn’t incredibly sure I’d ever owned it at all - would have necessitated further conversation and so I sort-of-lied and suggested it was on my bookcase as we spoke. And of COURSE he could borrow it. Any time. I made it out of there before he mustered the courage to ask if those were couch pillow creases on my face.
Bloody 2009, I thought, as I fled into the street: clearly it's just going to be more of the same.
Or was it? Because then something surprising happened: I decided to take the long way home, necessitating an additional ten minutes of walking. Ten minutes! Ten minutes I could have spent on a variety of much more exciting tasks but chose, instead,to dedicate to pounding the streets of Shenton Park. Oh SURE cynics will say I only did it to try to avoid running into the ex-boyfriends I was by now convinced were loitering nearby, waiting to emerge with their own shiny new girlfriends just as my shoes broke and I face-planted into the footpath, but I still did it.
And, hoofing it through the back streets, my head rotating on my neck like a car burglar who has just heard the distant strains of a siren, it occurred to me that if 'get more exercise' didn't belong on any hypothetical new year's list then I don't know what did. January 1 and I was already turning over a bloody new leaf. Oh 2009, you cunning little beast: you're going to be brilliant after all. Phew. But, please, while I could go on I’ll have to ask you to excuse me: have just got to go blowdry my hair and don some formalwear for a quick trip to the servo.
The real reason is even more simple: I have never yet kept a New Year's resolution and it seems, therefore, slightly disingenuous to even play the role of a reformeer. To suggest that I might actually be able to, this year, drink a bit less, run a bit more and generally be a bit nicer to everyone is not only a blatant attempt to fool others but a shameless bid to fool myself.
Even so, despite a distinctly cool attitude towards the resolutions bit, I must concede there is something quite nice and hopeful about starting on a fresh calendar. Maybe it’s as simple as ‘2009: It Doesn’t Suck Yet’ but to me it feels like coming back from the hairdresser with a shiny new hairdo. And for about a day I decide I am going to Get On Top Of The Hair Situation. You know what I mean: I will have it trimmed every 6-8 weeks like the hairdresser tells me, I will make an faint effort towards establishing some sort of style instead of just leaving the car window open to ‘blow dry’ it en route to work. I will apply fancy leave-in conditioners I don’t yet own and – yes – as I’ve vowed before, I will learn to deliver an up-do that will make me look like the hot (SPOILER!) android in Bladerunner.
So it is disappointing to find that the new year only took a day to let me down. Like the split ends I should have had trimmed away two months ago 2009 is looking a little bit ragged. A little, dare I say it, like 2008.
At least that's what I thought at first.
New Years Day. Early evening. I was tired and cranky and in need of something from the shop. Having forsaken such trifles as, say, a shower, or the use of a hairbrush I decided, naturally, to walk down to the shops myself. It'll be fine, I told myself, slipping unshaven legs into thongs and studiously avoiding looking at my mane of not-even-messily-sexy-bedhead hair in the mirror. Don’t even both changing out of that weird floral housedress once mistaken for a nightie - nobody goes to the shitty local IGA at 6pm on New Year's Day, right?
Well yes and no. Because, as it happens, not that many people do go to the local IGA at 6pm on New Year's Day. It's just that I happen to know everyone who does.
I recognised Him from a distance: a guy I know through work who I seem to run into at every boozy industry bash and who has only even seen me in heels, nice clothes and with hair that doesn't look like I'd spent 40 to 48 hours becoming acquainted with a wind tunnel. Oh and he apparently lives about three houses away from me. Who knew?. Sadly the fucker also had good face recognition for, despite my yeti-like appearance, he not only recognised me but decided it would be a fun idea to stop and chat on the street corner while I tried to simultaneously pull down the hem of my dress - fluttering dangerously high in the unwelcomly hot wind – control my hair and shake hands with said guy’s smoking hot and perfectly coiffed girlfriend, who was standing beside him looking like she'd stepped out of one of those Ralph Lauren ads where everybody wears cashmere and fucks on yachts.
Having said my goodbyes and still red hot with embarassment I lurched into IGA, negotiating the aisles at great speed and making my way to the checkout to dump 12 months worth of change onto the counter, removing from my pockets as I did so a twisted bobby pin, the receipt for petrol I don't recall buying and various bits of what I guess was lint (?) but was too afraid to investigate.
And because 2009 is the new 2008, the first person to walk in through the shop doors while the poor dear behind the checkout is counting up my 5 cent pieces is an old friend of my brothers who I haven’t seen in ages who now presumably believes I look exactly that shitty every day of my life. I tried to get away with a quick "hey" and walk out the door but no, no, he'd been meaning to get in touch about a book he wanted to borrow but he didn’t have my number. Did I still have that book and could he borrow it? The real answer - that I had no idea where the book was and wasn’t incredibly sure I’d ever owned it at all - would have necessitated further conversation and so I sort-of-lied and suggested it was on my bookcase as we spoke. And of COURSE he could borrow it. Any time. I made it out of there before he mustered the courage to ask if those were couch pillow creases on my face.
Bloody 2009, I thought, as I fled into the street: clearly it's just going to be more of the same.
Or was it? Because then something surprising happened: I decided to take the long way home, necessitating an additional ten minutes of walking. Ten minutes! Ten minutes I could have spent on a variety of much more exciting tasks but chose, instead,to dedicate to pounding the streets of Shenton Park. Oh SURE cynics will say I only did it to try to avoid running into the ex-boyfriends I was by now convinced were loitering nearby, waiting to emerge with their own shiny new girlfriends just as my shoes broke and I face-planted into the footpath, but I still did it.
And, hoofing it through the back streets, my head rotating on my neck like a car burglar who has just heard the distant strains of a siren, it occurred to me that if 'get more exercise' didn't belong on any hypothetical new year's list then I don't know what did. January 1 and I was already turning over a bloody new leaf. Oh 2009, you cunning little beast: you're going to be brilliant after all. Phew. But, please, while I could go on I’ll have to ask you to excuse me: have just got to go blowdry my hair and don some formalwear for a quick trip to the servo.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Things I should not have done today
* Taken a shortcut across the WACA cricket oval (is 'oval' the right word? It don't sound right)
* Tried to scale that fence to get OFF the oval
* Suggested to the nice shareholder who climbed the fence with me and later asked me out that I maaaaaay be free next week.
* Tried to scale that fence to get OFF the oval
* Suggested to the nice shareholder who climbed the fence with me and later asked me out that I maaaaaay be free next week.
Friday, December 26, 2008
Jizz in my pants
I'm pretty sure the incomparable Dans put me onto this one and it's a classic. Dirty.
Conversations with my boss
HIM: Hey Kate, you've got new glasses?
ME: What? Oh no, these are old. I just don't wear them much.
HIM: You wear contacts most of the time?
ME: Oh no my eyes are kind of... not that bad. So I just wear them at the computer mostly.....Um but you must have seen these before because I distinctly remember wearing the glasses when you interviewed me for the job - I thought they would make me look smarter haha.
(A brief appalled silence where I realise my attempt at charming self deprecation has failed)
HIM: So... I guess it worked then?
ME: (Nervous laughter).
ME: What? Oh no, these are old. I just don't wear them much.
HIM: You wear contacts most of the time?
ME: Oh no my eyes are kind of... not that bad. So I just wear them at the computer mostly.....Um but you must have seen these before because I distinctly remember wearing the glasses when you interviewed me for the job - I thought they would make me look smarter haha.
(A brief appalled silence where I realise my attempt at charming self deprecation has failed)
HIM: So... I guess it worked then?
ME: (Nervous laughter).
Monday, December 22, 2008
Lessons learned
1. If you must start drinking at 2pm do try to eat lunch first.
2. If you must get drunk in the afternoon try not to let the lure of drunken shopping draw you in.
3. If you must go drunken shopping at least buy some totally awesome Marc Jacobs perfume you will otherwise find impossible to justify.
2. If you must get drunk in the afternoon try not to let the lure of drunken shopping draw you in.
3. If you must go drunken shopping at least buy some totally awesome Marc Jacobs perfume you will otherwise find impossible to justify.
A series of memos to people encountered at the shopping centre this weekend:
To: Guy with his hand down his pants
From: Me
Me: There are probably more discreet ways to scratch your balls, young man. Say, absolutely any other way you can think of.
To: The girl trying to see what her arse looks like in those black jeans by craning her neck around and squeezing both buttock cheeks.
From: Me
Message: Don't worry, sweetheart, your arse looks great.
To: Everyone else
From: Me
Me: Fuuuuuuuuuuck you.
From: Me
Me: There are probably more discreet ways to scratch your balls, young man. Say, absolutely any other way you can think of.
To: The girl trying to see what her arse looks like in those black jeans by craning her neck around and squeezing both buttock cheeks.
From: Me
Message: Don't worry, sweetheart, your arse looks great.
To: Everyone else
From: Me
Me: Fuuuuuuuuuuck you.
Friday, December 19, 2008
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Elementary
So normally I would be outraged. The very idea of having Sherlock Holmes dash about shirtless is, to my mind, an affrontery to the very IDEA of Holmes. Smacked out of his mind, yes. A kind of pain-in-the-arse know it all, sure. Possibly really sexist and totally racist? Hey, dem books are old. But shirtless? Come ON man.
This argument tends to break down, however, when you recall that the role of the great man in the latest movie adaptation is being played by an even greater man: Robert Downey Junior.
I had a request the other day from a regular reader to ask if I couldn’t try to indisperse my gooey boy-related posts with some ‘girls I’d turn for’ action. To be accompanied, of course, by some graphic photos. I said I’d give it some thought, and honestly I did. But, faced with a choice between staring into some minx’s faux cleavage or some shameless gushing about RDJ… well, my hands are tied.
The truth is that RDJ could, at this point, more or less take a giant crap – an ACTUAL crap – on any number of my favourite literary creations and I’d probably let it pass. Oh you’re going to play Maurice as a straight man are you? Oh well done, if anyone can pull it off you can. And um Gatsby is, er, black? Uh huh well, um… good luck with all that I guess. Should make a fascinating double feature with your take on The End of the Affair in which Henry is Weekend-at-Bernies-style dead. So, can I meet you in your trailer afterwards or what? Cheers, RDJ – you’re the best.
Friday, December 12, 2008
Token Smokin' Hottie: Robert Pattinson
As I sat watching Twilight last night, surrounded (I assume) by sexually frustrated teens, it occurred to me that the success of the entire movie, by which I mean whether you love it or hated it, hung more or less on one thing: do you want to fuck Robert Pattinson?
Luckily for the movie of course you do. Me too.
Two hours spent looking at his face brood its way through some cheesily awesome dialogue filled me with the desire to bring the word “scrumptious” back into popular usage. His cheekbones should be giving other people’s cheekbones lessons on how to be cheekbones. Even his hair, which, in the movie is actually eleven feet high, started to look tasty to me if only because, I reasoned, if he could make THAT stand up all day… well, let’s just draw a curtain over that little suggestion. But seriously: the bit where he opened his shirt? Yeah if someone could tell me what happened in the ten or so minutes after that bit that would be great – I think I blacked out.
Sure Rob’s role (you mind if I call you Rob?) as Cedric Diggory in the Harry Potter franchise does leave the unsettling impression he’s only about 15 and you reeeeaally shouldn’t go there but in reality the boy is a strapping 22-year-old. Not only legal but moderately socially acceptable.
Walking out of the cinema the always insightful Andy described the concept thusly: “it’s like a girl had a wet dream and then made a movie about it”. For once he was incredibly right. And this wet dream is six foot one AND speaks with a British accent.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Is that a copy of War and Peace in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?
I love the way surveys-as-news crop up at this time of year, when bugger all is happening and papers and website still have column inches to fill.
So a story in the Daily Telegraph today makes me laugh almost as hard as it makes me cringe.
The story (and apologies because my links bit isn't working for some reason) found that more than a third of Britons will lie about about books and magazines they have read to impress a prospective date. Sounds about right to me but the really disturbing bit is the break down of ‘top ten reads’ to impress a man or woman and, no, I’m not sure how they came up with them.
FOR A MAN it goes something like this:
1. Current affairs websites
2. Shakespeare
3. Song lyrics
4. Cookery books
5. Poetry
6. Nelson Mandela’s autobiography Long Walk to Freedom
7. Jane Austen
8. Facebook/Myspace
9. Religious texts
10. Financial Times.
Sadly FOR A WOMAN it’s no better:
1. Nelson Mandela’s autobiography Long Walk to Freedom AGAIN
2. Shakespeare
3. Cookery Books
4. Poetry
5. Song lyrics
6. Current affairs websites
7. Text messages
8. Emails
9. Financial Times
10. Facebook.
Now I do appreciate that clearly these poor respondents had to respond to multi-choice range of options and weren’t spontaneously deciding that reading the bible Really Does It For Them but… really? I mean REALLY?
I have nothing against Mr Mandela or what I imagine would be a fascinating story but vom-it. Ditto for anyone, no matter how cute they were, pulling a copy of fucking Hamlet out of their bag on a first date. Whatev, mate. Even if he was completely genuine I would still assume he was a liar. And, obviously, a massive wanker.
But some of the other stuff is even weirder… um, emails? Facebook? Who gets impressed by visual evidence the object of ones affection knows how to use a computer? Cavemen and women? Text messages are almost worse – I mean, sure, we all use them but if his idea of a good time means fiddling with his predictive text the chances are your break up speech (should such a day arrive) will read something like UR DUMPED SO SORRY ITS ME NOT U.
To summarise: people are weeeeird.
So a story in the Daily Telegraph today makes me laugh almost as hard as it makes me cringe.
The story (and apologies because my links bit isn't working for some reason) found that more than a third of Britons will lie about about books and magazines they have read to impress a prospective date. Sounds about right to me but the really disturbing bit is the break down of ‘top ten reads’ to impress a man or woman and, no, I’m not sure how they came up with them.
FOR A MAN it goes something like this:
1. Current affairs websites
2. Shakespeare
3. Song lyrics
4. Cookery books
5. Poetry
6. Nelson Mandela’s autobiography Long Walk to Freedom
7. Jane Austen
8. Facebook/Myspace
9. Religious texts
10. Financial Times.
Sadly FOR A WOMAN it’s no better:
1. Nelson Mandela’s autobiography Long Walk to Freedom AGAIN
2. Shakespeare
3. Cookery Books
4. Poetry
5. Song lyrics
6. Current affairs websites
7. Text messages
8. Emails
9. Financial Times
10. Facebook.
Now I do appreciate that clearly these poor respondents had to respond to multi-choice range of options and weren’t spontaneously deciding that reading the bible Really Does It For Them but… really? I mean REALLY?
I have nothing against Mr Mandela or what I imagine would be a fascinating story but vom-it. Ditto for anyone, no matter how cute they were, pulling a copy of fucking Hamlet out of their bag on a first date. Whatev, mate. Even if he was completely genuine I would still assume he was a liar. And, obviously, a massive wanker.
But some of the other stuff is even weirder… um, emails? Facebook? Who gets impressed by visual evidence the object of ones affection knows how to use a computer? Cavemen and women? Text messages are almost worse – I mean, sure, we all use them but if his idea of a good time means fiddling with his predictive text the chances are your break up speech (should such a day arrive) will read something like UR DUMPED SO SORRY ITS ME NOT U.
To summarise: people are weeeeird.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Either way it's a winner
Okay so it's not as bad as it sounds. Yes I have technically shelled out an additional and arguably somewhat indulgent sum of money I don't entirely possess on flights for my Perth to London and back again jaunt. Yes one of the compelling reasons behind doing so may or may not have been the fact that the move allows me to avoid the horrors of a dry flight but, wait, before you judge me, please, allow me to explain.
On various planes at various times in my life I have drunkenly had a bit of a cry, fallen asleep, probably drooling, on the shoulder of a complete stranger for Quite Some Time and been creepily chatted up by someone I was then forced to sit next to for the following 15ish hours. (You scoff but if you had to try to avoid physical contact with a fleshy neighbour for that long while sharing an armrest you too would consider, somewhere over the Pacific Ocean, gnawing off your arm below the elbow).
Of course then there was the time I wound up lost, alone and ticketless in Singapore airport en route to China, the day I turned up 24 hours late for my flight to New York and the time I arrived (on time) for my flight from London to Perth with two years worth of accrued baggage… without my ticket.
To summarise: I am a useless traveller. I fuck up dates and times and forget to collect crucial documents like tickets and visas. I get bored sitting in those cramped little seats and I can almost never sleep. I dread being seated next to people who Won't Shut Up but am then secretly disappointed when the chatty cutie I met in line ends up sitting ten rows away.
This pattern of stupidity on my part shows no sign of abating. To misquote Graham Greene I am too old and too tired to change now – as with the duff shoulder for which I refuse to do the simple exercises required to prevent the regular onset of crippling pain, my policy is medication, not prevention. And for my medicine I choose booze. Little, handy-sized bottles of booze delivered straight to my tray table, if you want to get into specifics.
Pour enough of it down my throat and I will still miss flights and get seated next to lecherous bores. And, yes, okay, it may even increase the chance that I will doze (albeit in what I fancy is a fairly friendly fashion) on my neighbour's shoulder. The only difference is that I don't care. The people around me do, of course, but who are they? Gormless fellow commuters I will never meet again who, if they had half my sense, would be getting very drunk very quickly too, thus enabling them to deal with all of the above in addition to my hysterical giggles at whatever deliciously trashy 'novel' I've bought for the trip.
Put all of this context and I think you'll find that even a siezable sum of money (and if I convert it into pounds it's only… um, you know, less) for the reassurance of something more than warm orange juice in my glass is a bargain. Plus – and perhaps I should have mentioned this earlier – the changes also mean I wind up with two extra days in London. Oh, yes, and my fucking travel agent somehow "forgot" to save my seat (???) on the cheap arse dry flight because she's actually just some bullshit student who just works there on Saturdays and (fair enough) couldn't give two shits about the job, so my penny-saving flight is not even an option anymore. Still, I think I've come out on top in the deal. One way or another. Or I'm just too drunk to care.
On various planes at various times in my life I have drunkenly had a bit of a cry, fallen asleep, probably drooling, on the shoulder of a complete stranger for Quite Some Time and been creepily chatted up by someone I was then forced to sit next to for the following 15ish hours. (You scoff but if you had to try to avoid physical contact with a fleshy neighbour for that long while sharing an armrest you too would consider, somewhere over the Pacific Ocean, gnawing off your arm below the elbow).
Of course then there was the time I wound up lost, alone and ticketless in Singapore airport en route to China, the day I turned up 24 hours late for my flight to New York and the time I arrived (on time) for my flight from London to Perth with two years worth of accrued baggage… without my ticket.
To summarise: I am a useless traveller. I fuck up dates and times and forget to collect crucial documents like tickets and visas. I get bored sitting in those cramped little seats and I can almost never sleep. I dread being seated next to people who Won't Shut Up but am then secretly disappointed when the chatty cutie I met in line ends up sitting ten rows away.
This pattern of stupidity on my part shows no sign of abating. To misquote Graham Greene I am too old and too tired to change now – as with the duff shoulder for which I refuse to do the simple exercises required to prevent the regular onset of crippling pain, my policy is medication, not prevention. And for my medicine I choose booze. Little, handy-sized bottles of booze delivered straight to my tray table, if you want to get into specifics.
Pour enough of it down my throat and I will still miss flights and get seated next to lecherous bores. And, yes, okay, it may even increase the chance that I will doze (albeit in what I fancy is a fairly friendly fashion) on my neighbour's shoulder. The only difference is that I don't care. The people around me do, of course, but who are they? Gormless fellow commuters I will never meet again who, if they had half my sense, would be getting very drunk very quickly too, thus enabling them to deal with all of the above in addition to my hysterical giggles at whatever deliciously trashy 'novel' I've bought for the trip.
Put all of this context and I think you'll find that even a siezable sum of money (and if I convert it into pounds it's only… um, you know, less) for the reassurance of something more than warm orange juice in my glass is a bargain. Plus – and perhaps I should have mentioned this earlier – the changes also mean I wind up with two extra days in London. Oh, yes, and my fucking travel agent somehow "forgot" to save my seat (???) on the cheap arse dry flight because she's actually just some bullshit student who just works there on Saturdays and (fair enough) couldn't give two shits about the job, so my penny-saving flight is not even an option anymore. Still, I think I've come out on top in the deal. One way or another. Or I'm just too drunk to care.
Monday, December 8, 2008
Foiled again
Back when I was a teenage I’m pretty sure teenage rebellion was something to aspire to. Before the youth of today got all emo on our arses and started taking guns to school and/or listening to fucking Sandi Thorn and reading whatever shiteful shit is in Peaches motherfucking Geldof’s new magazine we used to be cool. I’d swear to it.
At least the rebellion bit used to be cool, though I’m sure it will stun and amaze you to learn I wasn’t very good at it. I wallpapered my room with a mish-mash of cringingly pretentious “literary quotes” and song lyrics, which my mother cunningly praised as “lovely and creative” (well played, madam). I listened to music at high volume as I sulked on my bed, prompting at last some urging from dear Mum to open the door so she could hear it better. Arguably my fault for choosing Belle and Sebastian as the soundtrack of my revolution but STILL.
Fortune did start to favour me somewhere in my later high school years when the police turned up at some random party to shut it down. Easily the closest I had ever come to a brush with the law in my 16 years. I forget why they were there or what we’d done wrong exactly but they herded us outside the house, where we milled about awkwardly. My friend Alley Cat and I made ourselves comfortable on a nearby kerb - too nervous and mildly squiffy to call our parents, too poor to consider a taxi. While we sat there, our bags filled with at least, gosh, two (mid-strength?) beers apiece a loitering cop came up to speak to us.
“You girls need a lift home?” he asked.
This, though it may not sound like it, was one of those questions I would later replay to relive that little prickle of pleasure (as in much later years it would be “do you want to stay over” or a few other things I won’t mention here).
My grin, as I clambered into the back of the paddy wagon, my heart only slightly panicked by the unmistakable sound of the beer cans banging together in my bag, was not the thrill of a child getting to ride in a cop car – it was the delight of a moody teenage getting to rock up at home with sirens (I hoped) blazing.
It was then, of course, I remembered I was staying at Alley Cat’s house but still, I reasoned, surely her parents’ concern was as good as my own. So I resolved to enjoy it. The ride is, these days, a blur, but I distinclty remember the arrival: pulling into the quiet Dalkeith street, clambering awkwardly out of the paddy wagon and thanking the (admittedly pretty damn decent) cops and heading in to face a barrage of questions. Except not quite so much.
The flaw to the plan? Well the cops had broken up the party pretty early and so it happened that while WE were home before midnight Alley’s parents were not. The cheeky sods were still out. Alley and I sat up eating chocolate for a bit and then went to bed. We didn’t hear them when they came in.
At least the rebellion bit used to be cool, though I’m sure it will stun and amaze you to learn I wasn’t very good at it. I wallpapered my room with a mish-mash of cringingly pretentious “literary quotes” and song lyrics, which my mother cunningly praised as “lovely and creative” (well played, madam). I listened to music at high volume as I sulked on my bed, prompting at last some urging from dear Mum to open the door so she could hear it better. Arguably my fault for choosing Belle and Sebastian as the soundtrack of my revolution but STILL.
Fortune did start to favour me somewhere in my later high school years when the police turned up at some random party to shut it down. Easily the closest I had ever come to a brush with the law in my 16 years. I forget why they were there or what we’d done wrong exactly but they herded us outside the house, where we milled about awkwardly. My friend Alley Cat and I made ourselves comfortable on a nearby kerb - too nervous and mildly squiffy to call our parents, too poor to consider a taxi. While we sat there, our bags filled with at least, gosh, two (mid-strength?) beers apiece a loitering cop came up to speak to us.
“You girls need a lift home?” he asked.
This, though it may not sound like it, was one of those questions I would later replay to relive that little prickle of pleasure (as in much later years it would be “do you want to stay over” or a few other things I won’t mention here).
My grin, as I clambered into the back of the paddy wagon, my heart only slightly panicked by the unmistakable sound of the beer cans banging together in my bag, was not the thrill of a child getting to ride in a cop car – it was the delight of a moody teenage getting to rock up at home with sirens (I hoped) blazing.
It was then, of course, I remembered I was staying at Alley Cat’s house but still, I reasoned, surely her parents’ concern was as good as my own. So I resolved to enjoy it. The ride is, these days, a blur, but I distinclty remember the arrival: pulling into the quiet Dalkeith street, clambering awkwardly out of the paddy wagon and thanking the (admittedly pretty damn decent) cops and heading in to face a barrage of questions. Except not quite so much.
The flaw to the plan? Well the cops had broken up the party pretty early and so it happened that while WE were home before midnight Alley’s parents were not. The cheeky sods were still out. Alley and I sat up eating chocolate for a bit and then went to bed. We didn’t hear them when they came in.
Saturday, December 6, 2008
The top four things that, with hindsight, I probably shouldn't have done yesterday
1. Spent 10 hours in the soul destroying Port Hedland sun with one pathetic coat of sunscrren.
2. Compounded sunstroke and dehydration by getting a leeeetle bit drunk on the plane.
3. Spoken to my boss AT ALL at the party.
4. Repeated that crack about my boss' jacket... to my boss.
2. Compounded sunstroke and dehydration by getting a leeeetle bit drunk on the plane.
3. Spoken to my boss AT ALL at the party.
4. Repeated that crack about my boss' jacket... to my boss.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Blueblood TV
Quick: imagine what vampire porn looks like. Now try to imagine that porn set to a slightly cheesy string quartet and acted out entirely on a flat-bed truck being driven repeatedly around a cemetery. Oh and written and directed by the man who created this show. The result? True Blood - either the most guilty pleasure since that episode of Gossip Girl where Chuck tooootally nailed Blair to that Virgins song or just a really fucked up dream I had one night after eating that jar of Nutella.
In short: the entire reason TV exists.
In short: the entire reason TV exists.
Monday, December 1, 2008
Thoughts I had while watching The Howard Years #2
9.29pm: Yes, Mr Howard, your "hunch" that trees don't have a lot of votes DID prove to be accurate. Douchebag.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Saturday night dilemma
7.50pm: You have the house to yourself, an improbably comfortable couch, a guilty pleasure on DVD and the chocolate is primed. You cannot open your bottle of wine.
Friday, November 28, 2008
Overheard at a West Perth Cafe
Suit 1 to Suit 2: This is probably in the category of Things You Didn't Want to Know but (a woman's first and second name) gets really bad period pain
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
A Question
What the fuck have I been buying from Amazon.com that fucking One Tree Hill makes it onto my 'recommended' list? I mean yes it's a work of comic genius but I thought that was supposed to be my little secret...
Monday, November 24, 2008
My laptop: a love story
The first computer I ever touched was an Amiga 500 that my Dad brought home one day in a box. Turned on this grey square monstrosity offered users an ultra low-fi graphic of a cartoon hand clutching a three-and-a-half floppy against a screen so white it could burn retinas. When the floppy was inserted the machine chug chugged in thanks and then calmly took approximately the same time to load as it would have taken a user to earn a degree in computer science and build a faster computer.
Playing the game of the moment - Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles since you asked - required players to have not only possession of the three floppies on which the game was stored but the will to change discs literally EVERY TWO MINUTES. On screen the inch-high Leonardo or Donatello gave the impression of suffering from digital narcolepsy – unable to negotiate more than a single obstacle before exhaustion overcame him and the direction INSERT DISC TWO helpfully appeared above his bowed head.
I thought it was fucking amazing.
Every day after school I'd come home with but one thought in my head: how to get to Level Three. Those were indeed halcyon days and twenty plus years on I have nothing but fond memories of the bulky monitor and the CPU that sounded like a jet engine taking off. Twice. Even the keyboard, with its smattering of crumbs from biscuits ill-advised consumed mid game, or (just once Dad) sticky cordial dripped onto keys. I can still recall the joy of finishing Bubble Bobble with my brother, the mammoth Space Quest sessions that ultimately required the entire family's input, playing the shameless unapologetic Mario Brother rip-off The Great Giana Sisters the day I found out my cat had been run over in our neighbour's driveway. Good times.
And while my family and, more recently myself, have gone through a few different computers in the intervening years there has never been a machine to touch my heart with quite the same degree of joy as the Amiga 500. Until this weekend, obviously.
Do you remember that scene from Y Tu Mama Tambien? (And if you tell me that movie is soft porn I will cut you). Do you remember the first time you saw Gael Garcia Bernal's beautiful face and body in that movie? All pouty lips, tea coloured skin and a certain languid shrimpiness that made the too-big beauty of his face palatable? Of course you do - that's exactly when you and I fell madly in love.
That pang of frustrated longing is pretty much how I felt when I spied my new laptop this weekend. How embarassing. I don't tend to think I'm terribly acquisitive. Yes I have a mild book buying problem and, yes, in truth, I may own several more trashy DVD box sets than are STRICTLY necessary but when it comes to the big expensive shit I can't really be bothered. Sure I love my car but it is almost as old as I am and, in the words of a dear friend this week, "it's looking a bit shitty" these days. Similarly my phone was chosen by virtue of being the cheapest model in the shop, while my clothes are... well I mean I LIKE wearing and buying clothes but to suggest that any item of clothing in my wardrobe costs more than my prized 1930s Great Gatsby edition would be a lie.
But the laptop... I couldn't resist. Much like Gael Garcia Bernal the moment I saw it I wanted it. Desperately. It's not arguably necessary: I have a laptop at home, it's just that it no longer closes and can therefore not be said to be portable in any conventional sense of the word. Even so a new model still seemed an extravagance. And yet... fuck it. I love it. It is a thing of beauty and it fits in my satchel - my satchel! And HONESTLY if you had a pint sized Gael Garcia Bernal you could pop in your bag and pull out when desired wouldn't you be all over that? Damn straight.
Playing the game of the moment - Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles since you asked - required players to have not only possession of the three floppies on which the game was stored but the will to change discs literally EVERY TWO MINUTES. On screen the inch-high Leonardo or Donatello gave the impression of suffering from digital narcolepsy – unable to negotiate more than a single obstacle before exhaustion overcame him and the direction INSERT DISC TWO helpfully appeared above his bowed head.
I thought it was fucking amazing.
Every day after school I'd come home with but one thought in my head: how to get to Level Three. Those were indeed halcyon days and twenty plus years on I have nothing but fond memories of the bulky monitor and the CPU that sounded like a jet engine taking off. Twice. Even the keyboard, with its smattering of crumbs from biscuits ill-advised consumed mid game, or (just once Dad) sticky cordial dripped onto keys. I can still recall the joy of finishing Bubble Bobble with my brother, the mammoth Space Quest sessions that ultimately required the entire family's input, playing the shameless unapologetic Mario Brother rip-off The Great Giana Sisters the day I found out my cat had been run over in our neighbour's driveway. Good times.
And while my family and, more recently myself, have gone through a few different computers in the intervening years there has never been a machine to touch my heart with quite the same degree of joy as the Amiga 500. Until this weekend, obviously.
Do you remember that scene from Y Tu Mama Tambien? (And if you tell me that movie is soft porn I will cut you). Do you remember the first time you saw Gael Garcia Bernal's beautiful face and body in that movie? All pouty lips, tea coloured skin and a certain languid shrimpiness that made the too-big beauty of his face palatable? Of course you do - that's exactly when you and I fell madly in love.
That pang of frustrated longing is pretty much how I felt when I spied my new laptop this weekend. How embarassing. I don't tend to think I'm terribly acquisitive. Yes I have a mild book buying problem and, yes, in truth, I may own several more trashy DVD box sets than are STRICTLY necessary but when it comes to the big expensive shit I can't really be bothered. Sure I love my car but it is almost as old as I am and, in the words of a dear friend this week, "it's looking a bit shitty" these days. Similarly my phone was chosen by virtue of being the cheapest model in the shop, while my clothes are... well I mean I LIKE wearing and buying clothes but to suggest that any item of clothing in my wardrobe costs more than my prized 1930s Great Gatsby edition would be a lie.
But the laptop... I couldn't resist. Much like Gael Garcia Bernal the moment I saw it I wanted it. Desperately. It's not arguably necessary: I have a laptop at home, it's just that it no longer closes and can therefore not be said to be portable in any conventional sense of the word. Even so a new model still seemed an extravagance. And yet... fuck it. I love it. It is a thing of beauty and it fits in my satchel - my satchel! And HONESTLY if you had a pint sized Gael Garcia Bernal you could pop in your bag and pull out when desired wouldn't you be all over that? Damn straight.
Bad ways to start a day:
* With the realisation one of your eyes is nearly swollen shut for reasons I will not go into.
* With the sweet sounds of what sounds like a dump truck reversing through several piles of kindling drifting in through the window.
* With the too-late recollection you have left your delicious pre-prepared lunch at home in the fridge.
* With the sweet sounds of what sounds like a dump truck reversing through several piles of kindling drifting in through the window.
* With the too-late recollection you have left your delicious pre-prepared lunch at home in the fridge.
Friday, November 21, 2008
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
The 2 most disturbing things about having an IT dude remotely access my PC yesterday:
1. The bit where I realised I'd stored a bunch of photos on my desktop with incriminating names like "ho-yay", "crumpet" and "office romance".
2. Pretending not to hear the moaning (in-pain moaning, not the other kind) that went on for about 30-40 seconds wherever the hell he was.
2. Pretending not to hear the moaning (in-pain moaning, not the other kind) that went on for about 30-40 seconds wherever the hell he was.
Monday, November 17, 2008
New Favourite Things...
* Holidays. The past week and a half has been a dream.
* Seeing lovely friends I have missed in past week and a half.
* Shopping for portable netbook. This fucker is so, so cute.
* Frasier. You know when you run into an old boyfriend you were a bit so-so about and he looks much hotter than you remember? That's this.
* My big sis' unborn child. I swear this isn't cluckiness but I wish the little shit would hurry up and be born already.
* Antonia Quirke's heavily autobiographical novel Madame Depardieu and the Beautiful Strangers. Maybe it was the pseudoephidrene but I read this yesterday and it was a bloody delight.
*Being tended to while sick by my lovely boyfriend despite his own hideous cycling-induced injuries. I am a bad, bad patient.
Meanwhile I'm Hating...
* Going back to work after holidays. Blerg.
* Being sick but unable (for a variety of reasons) to miss work.
* The new Brideshead Revisited Movie. Crushing disappointment.
* The fact that CERTAIN people who shall remain nameless have become awfully slack bloggers - I miss them.
* Being sick. It deserves two spots because it sucks all kinds of balls.
* Holidays. The past week and a half has been a dream.
* Seeing lovely friends I have missed in past week and a half.
* Shopping for portable netbook. This fucker is so, so cute.
* Frasier. You know when you run into an old boyfriend you were a bit so-so about and he looks much hotter than you remember? That's this.
* My big sis' unborn child. I swear this isn't cluckiness but I wish the little shit would hurry up and be born already.
* Antonia Quirke's heavily autobiographical novel Madame Depardieu and the Beautiful Strangers. Maybe it was the pseudoephidrene but I read this yesterday and it was a bloody delight.
*Being tended to while sick by my lovely boyfriend despite his own hideous cycling-induced injuries. I am a bad, bad patient.
Meanwhile I'm Hating...
* Going back to work after holidays. Blerg.
* Being sick but unable (for a variety of reasons) to miss work.
* The new Brideshead Revisited Movie. Crushing disappointment.
* The fact that CERTAIN people who shall remain nameless have become awfully slack bloggers - I miss them.
* Being sick. It deserves two spots because it sucks all kinds of balls.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
A fair point
"And the terrible irony in Robert Downey Junior being made an emblem of self-destructiveness... is that he, the scapegoat, cannot be made to look like a cautionary tale. He looks like a walking advertisement for drugs. Everyone knows that in the last analysis most drugs are just poison. But there should be a special dispensation for anyone who's really good on them. You'd have to go to court, stoned, and prove that you were actually brilliant company. If you couldn't, you'd go to jail, like Richard Dreyfuss. But if you could you'd get a renewable five-year licence and we'd be allowed to hang out with you, like Hazlitt around Coleridge."
(Madame Depardieu and the Beautiful Strangers, Antonia Quirke)
Thursday, November 13, 2008
And more
This article from the New Yorker is a long fucker but it's fascinating if you're still on a US election high and want a bit of back room shenanigans...
You can read the rest here.
"Last June, Joel Benenson, who was Barack Obama’s top pollster during his presidential run, reported on the state of the campaign. His conclusions, summed up in a sixty-slide PowerPoint presentation, were revealed to a small group, including David Axelrod, Obama’s chief strategist, and several media consultants, and, as it turned out, some of this research helped guide the campaign through the general election. The primaries were over, Hillary Clinton had conceded, and Obama had begun planning for a race against Senator John McCain."
You can read the rest here.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
I've been trying to think of a witty title for ten minutes... I've got nuthin'
I've been biting my tongue a bit lately. Thought I'd see what that was like. Not all the time, obviously. I wasn't biting it when someone almost related to me suggested Kevin Rudd was responsible for ruining the economy (dear sir, a terrifying thought: I now know more about the economy than you) or to a very dear friend who told me the other day he's now "anti abortion" (dude, nobody's exactly pro-abortion but you're two steps away from voting for Sarah Palin in 2012). But on another matter I have remained quiet. Ish.
Obama. Or at least a very specific subject relating to Obama.
And now that he's, you know, IN and everything and we can all breathe a massive sigh of relief-slash-start-excavating-any-long-lost-almost-American ancestory I feel I can finally say it. Because he's um kinda hot. Isn't he? And yet it's not the sort of thing I've felt I can bring up in recent weeks when someone much smarter than I is banging on about Obama's policy on awfully serious matters. One feels compelled, even, to come up with SOME kind of contribution that isn't along the lines of "Yeah sure but have you ever had that dream where you just dive into the depths of his eyes?" Trust me: it doesn't play as well to your highbrow mates as you might suppose.
But now things have moved on. I've made it through the election by faking a handful of wanky remarks I barely understood, the dreamed-for has happened and he's in - I can come out and say it. Because he's a dreamboat. Possibly even the dreamiest dreambot to ever step into the role of US head of State. Maybe? I don't know - shall we reflect?
I mean starting with the lowball of Bush? You've have to scoop out your eyes first. And your brain.
Clinton? Yeah, yeah I hear he's a hit with the post-menopausal crowd but... meh.
The other Bush? I thought he was dead. BEFORE he was elected, I mean.
Freakin' Reagan??? Sure he'd be able to forget it in a flash but for you you? The memory of those wrinkly jowls wobbling towards your pink pits (ew, I'm sorry) would linger forever.
Back a bit further (and skipping a few so as to skim over my frankly sub par knowledge of American history - don't blame me, blame my delicious uni history teacher who seduced and distracted me with his gravelly tones) the obvious parallel is JFK. Also charismatic. Also with a stylish and semi banging wife. And I know he was supposed to be hot and all and maybe if it's good enough for Marilyn Monroe I shouldn't complain but... really? That guy? What with the giant hair and the jaw and everything he kinda looks like Family Guy's piss-take of an in-bred writer for the New Yorker. Times two.
Back a bit further still and, yes, while you might go there with FDR it'd only be a)pity shag because of, um, you know, the legs and all and b)because he was FUCKING AWESOME.
And so we circle back to Obama. Who is decidedly tasty. But... too tasty? Is it possible to be just a little too dreamy to have sensible chats in the white house, strut about like you're on West Wing and generally resist the temptation to take off your shirt?
I think not. Because while the uber hot should be, frankly, avoided when it comes to relationships (here's a tip: look for porn. If you find none he gets his kicks wanking into the mirror... flee and don't go back for your bag) when it comes to politicians a little tasty on the side can't be a bad thing. Because if Australian history has taught us anything it's that electing a douchebag toe-rag who wouldn't look out of place in a line-up of massively eyebrowed paedos is never a good idea. The mere knowledge that absolutely nobody was listening to John Howard rag on refugees/bloody gays/insert minority here and wondering what his lips looked like when he said the word "fuck", gave the fucker strength to continue his rule for five hundred million years. Or did it just seem that way?
Paul Keating on the other hand? Arguably the best Prime Minister we've ever had. At least in my lifetime. And come on, I mean, hé's got to be 60 if he's a day now and you'd STILL go there. Me too. Case closed.
Monday, November 10, 2008
Friday, November 7, 2008
O-ba-ma
I'm off in Melbourne at the moment but a friend sent me an email the other day, while the votes for the US election were filtering in and my heart was in my mouth. "You up for history?" my friend, who is half American, asked me via email. And that really sums it up - what a freaking moment in history we've just had.
I know I'm preaching to the converted but Jesus what a rush. My only regret is (weirdly) that I wasn't at work for the moment the vote was decided: I've been in desperate need of a holiday and I'm loving it but it would have been a rush. I haven't had this sort of joy since Rudd romped it home for Australia. Fricking amazing.
Meanwhile Melbourne is awesome: like London had sex with Australia and this was the result. If I could merely transplant my friends and family here I would never leave.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Until then...
So I'm off to Melbourne for the week. Being the dorkus malorkus I am, I may do some on-the-road blogging but then again I may not. If Obama doesn't win they can fish my body out of, um, I don't know a pint somewhere. I shall miss you.
In the meantime I can do no better than point you in the direction of my favourite distractables. If you haven't been to Go Fug Yourself you haven't lived. If you're not into making fun of silly chicks in dopey outfits (come on!) Stuff White People Like is just about funny enough to make you feel vaguely superior to everyone who doesn't read it, while I Watch Stuff is like film porn. Um without the, you know, titties. And if I haven't recommended Television Without Pity to you before now then are we even friends? Or if you want to get even vaguely cerebral head to the guardian and check out CHarlie Brooker. And know that by "cerebral" I mean "scatalogical".
In the meantime I can do no better than point you in the direction of my favourite distractables. If you haven't been to Go Fug Yourself you haven't lived. If you're not into making fun of silly chicks in dopey outfits (come on!) Stuff White People Like is just about funny enough to make you feel vaguely superior to everyone who doesn't read it, while I Watch Stuff is like film porn. Um without the, you know, titties. And if I haven't recommended Television Without Pity to you before now then are we even friends? Or if you want to get even vaguely cerebral head to the guardian and check out CHarlie Brooker. And know that by "cerebral" I mean "scatalogical".
Monday, November 3, 2008
Oh, Sa-rah...
I know it's mean to kick a racist, thick-as-shit redneck when she's down but for anyone who hasn't heard this, two Canadian comedians phoned Sarah Palin pretending to be French President Nicolas Sarkozy and... got away with it.
Oh. How. Embarassing.
Dear Melbournites, a self serving love letter:
Whenever I mention the fact that I've never been to Melbourne before people invariably have the same reaction. "Ohmigod but you'll LOVE IT" they say, unless they are over the age of about 35 in which case you can omit the "ohmigod".
To which I reply with a guilty smile "I know, I've always... meant to go." And I have - I've just never got around to it.
So imagine my excitement at the fact that I leave for my first ever Melbourne trip in about... um 36 hours. Ish. I think. Maybe a bit... more? Less? Okay, on Wednesday. I leave on Wednesday.
The pathetic bit is that I have no idea what I want to do over there. Oh okay I know I want to hang out with my preggers sister and get boozed in front of her just to make her jealous. I know I want to poke around cute wee shops and sup at delicious drinks in delightful bars and cafes. But... specific locations? I don't know. My mind goes blank. I just don't KNOW Melbourne. At all.
That's where you come in readers because, clearly, if you read this blog even semi regularly you're My Kind of People as well as being the kind of people who have a leetle bit too much spare time on their hands (hey, no offence: me too).
So to those who have dabbled in what Melbourne have to offer and lived to tell the tale and make me feel guilty for not having been before, please, tell me: what should I do?
To which I reply with a guilty smile "I know, I've always... meant to go." And I have - I've just never got around to it.
So imagine my excitement at the fact that I leave for my first ever Melbourne trip in about... um 36 hours. Ish. I think. Maybe a bit... more? Less? Okay, on Wednesday. I leave on Wednesday.
The pathetic bit is that I have no idea what I want to do over there. Oh okay I know I want to hang out with my preggers sister and get boozed in front of her just to make her jealous. I know I want to poke around cute wee shops and sup at delicious drinks in delightful bars and cafes. But... specific locations? I don't know. My mind goes blank. I just don't KNOW Melbourne. At all.
That's where you come in readers because, clearly, if you read this blog even semi regularly you're My Kind of People as well as being the kind of people who have a leetle bit too much spare time on their hands (hey, no offence: me too).
So to those who have dabbled in what Melbourne have to offer and lived to tell the tale and make me feel guilty for not having been before, please, tell me: what should I do?
Saturday, November 1, 2008
More semantics
What I said: Nothing.
What I meant: I am really pissed and upset and if you don't recognise in my silence that I am pissed and upset I will only get MORE pissed and upset.
What I meant: I am really pissed and upset and if you don't recognise in my silence that I am pissed and upset I will only get MORE pissed and upset.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Now, Jim, when trying to start a fire it's all about friction...
A small army of scouts lost in the bush armed only with a shitload of condoms and a lot of free time. I love it.
God bless them, every one...
You've got to love racists, sometimes. I mean sure they're horrible bigots with abhorent views who are barely fit to walk the earth but at least they're fucking stupid enough to think that keeping a low profile before taking part in an alleged killing spree means drawing swastikas on their car.... nice one.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Are you there bint face? It's me, your sister.
The day I decided that keeping a diary was for suckers was the day I found out my sister had been reading mine.
The worst part being I couldn't even get too angry, given I'd been reading hers too.
Luckily for both of us I was only about 15 at the time and a shy bookish type, meaning the raciest bit of gossip ol' sis managed to extract from those pages was a list of Boys I Would Like to Kiss. Yes that's right - kiss. Oh for simpler times.
Still the experience put me off committing anything for paper lest it be used against me. The irony being that it was only when I had things worth writing about that I declined to do so.
But in the past week or so three things have happened to make me decide I'm getting getting back on the diary train.
1. I found an old shoebox full of letters from school friends and ex boyfriends.
2. I listened to another friend play a ten-year-old recording of himself singing and playing bass down the phone line.
3. I attended the (awesome) wedding of two delightful friends.
It was the letters that started all of this. I've always suspected my memory has been irrevocably addled from booze and general idiocy but the proof was in realising exactly how much I'd forgotten. The box - a collection, of notes passed in class, awkward flirty banter in paper form and break-up letters - was so full of things I'd forgotten it was a bit like reading my sister's diary all over again. I didn't recognise myself. There were schemes I never remembered hatching, crushes I'd wisely erased from the hard drive and names I couldn't match to faces.
I had remembered, obviously, the high cringe-factor of my ex-ex-boyfriend's post break-up "why you're a bitch in 1000 words or more" letter but did I recall the cruelty of the prose, his WILD allegations about my many emotional problems or his killer PS? No, no I did not.
The phone call exacerbated my concerns. Do I have, for instance (as does my aforementioned musically-talented friend) a record of the short-lived radio show young Anna Sinclair and I performed in her bedroom between the approximate ages of 11 and 13? No and no again.
And so of course the wedding cemented the whole thing because it was lovely but I'm a little afraid that, given time, I may forget entirely exactly why it was lovely if I don't have some sort of written memory of the thing. And when an elderley gentleman leans in to tell you that you look like something out of The Great Gatsby (a shameless lie but given I was feeling slightly self conscious about my ridiculously awesome hat one which I appreciated) you don't want to let it slip the old noggin'.
So I'm back on the wagon with a fancy pen, a delightful new notebook and a weekend full of delights to transcribe. Just, um, don't check under my pillow. That means you, Sis.
.
.
.
.
UPDATE: Thanks for your charming comments, dear FRIENDS. But, no, contrary to popular opinion I have no plans to a)get married b)breed c)start finding children charming d)own a copy of The Notebook on DVD. The day that I do you shall be the first to know.
The worst part being I couldn't even get too angry, given I'd been reading hers too.
Luckily for both of us I was only about 15 at the time and a shy bookish type, meaning the raciest bit of gossip ol' sis managed to extract from those pages was a list of Boys I Would Like to Kiss. Yes that's right - kiss. Oh for simpler times.
Still the experience put me off committing anything for paper lest it be used against me. The irony being that it was only when I had things worth writing about that I declined to do so.
But in the past week or so three things have happened to make me decide I'm getting getting back on the diary train.
1. I found an old shoebox full of letters from school friends and ex boyfriends.
2. I listened to another friend play a ten-year-old recording of himself singing and playing bass down the phone line.
3. I attended the (awesome) wedding of two delightful friends.
It was the letters that started all of this. I've always suspected my memory has been irrevocably addled from booze and general idiocy but the proof was in realising exactly how much I'd forgotten. The box - a collection, of notes passed in class, awkward flirty banter in paper form and break-up letters - was so full of things I'd forgotten it was a bit like reading my sister's diary all over again. I didn't recognise myself. There were schemes I never remembered hatching, crushes I'd wisely erased from the hard drive and names I couldn't match to faces.
I had remembered, obviously, the high cringe-factor of my ex-ex-boyfriend's post break-up "why you're a bitch in 1000 words or more" letter but did I recall the cruelty of the prose, his WILD allegations about my many emotional problems or his killer PS? No, no I did not.
The phone call exacerbated my concerns. Do I have, for instance (as does my aforementioned musically-talented friend) a record of the short-lived radio show young Anna Sinclair and I performed in her bedroom between the approximate ages of 11 and 13? No and no again.
And so of course the wedding cemented the whole thing because it was lovely but I'm a little afraid that, given time, I may forget entirely exactly why it was lovely if I don't have some sort of written memory of the thing. And when an elderley gentleman leans in to tell you that you look like something out of The Great Gatsby (a shameless lie but given I was feeling slightly self conscious about my ridiculously awesome hat one which I appreciated) you don't want to let it slip the old noggin'.
So I'm back on the wagon with a fancy pen, a delightful new notebook and a weekend full of delights to transcribe. Just, um, don't check under my pillow. That means you, Sis.
.
.
.
.
UPDATE: Thanks for your charming comments, dear FRIENDS. But, no, contrary to popular opinion I have no plans to a)get married b)breed c)start finding children charming d)own a copy of The Notebook on DVD. The day that I do you shall be the first to know.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
How not to impress literary types #13
On Dostoevksy’s Crime and Punishment: “Yeah you know how there are those two guys whose names both start with R? And the way that their names are a teensy bit similar and sort of ridiculously difficult to pronounce, while both characters are completely key to the storyline? Yeah, I actually thought they were THE SAME PERSON until, like, page 150. True story.”
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Semantics
What I said:
I'm sorry I don't believe I have the number.
What I meant:
Not only do I HAVE the number and am choosing not to give it to you but I will never, ever, ever give you any number of any personal contact of mine because you are a bint and I do not care for you. Now get the fuck off my desk.
I'm sorry I don't believe I have the number.
What I meant:
Not only do I HAVE the number and am choosing not to give it to you but I will never, ever, ever give you any number of any personal contact of mine because you are a bint and I do not care for you. Now get the fuck off my desk.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Meanwhile
I love a good party, even (especially?) one that ends at *ahem* Hip-E club dancing around a pile of books. I had planned a decent write-up to illustrate just how old-as-fuck I'm getting but, screw it, if you can still a)catch a PARTY BUS 100 metres down the road b)dance at Hip-E with minimal shame c)realise you are literally dripping with sweat only as you step out of said club and into the cold street... then how old can you be, really?
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Token Smokin' Hottie: Hugh Dancy
You know how you I usually try to make some slightly cleverish commentary with these things to justify putting these photos up? Yeah, um... Yum.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Hair today, giant hairball tomorrow
This is old news but just in case anyone needed some help throwing up in his or her mouth, just a little, check this out.
Monday, October 13, 2008
You just know this photo is on their facebook profile OMFG
Meet Trixie and Tiffani (probably): these two fake tanned slappers enjoy doing that faux lesbian dancing thing in clubs to please the boys, haven't read a book since He's Just Not That Into You and don't believe in date rape. The black hole of charisma on the left practices that pout in the mirror and failed to receive the memorandum that those big glasses she's wearing went from Darjeeling-Limited-dorky-cute to annoying six months ago and from annoying to punch-you-in-your-face-rage-inducing the second after she put them on. They're everything you hate about everything.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Token Smokin' Hottie: Courtney Taylor Taylor
You know that insanely good looking guy who is kind of a dick? He's delicious,yes, but so smarmy, arrogant and self consciously munchable that you suspect he wanks to a photo of himself? The sort of guy who talks about his band a lot and smokes a lot, like a LOT, of pot?
And you know how you sort of hate yourself for it but you're a little but in love with him? Yeah that's THIS guy.
May contain nudity
Don't stare at it, I told myself. Just don't stare. You're 26 now. You are a mature and sensible person. There is no need to stare.
The man in the centre of the room pulled off his sarong and lay it over a chair.
We all stared at his cock. Okay, well at least I did.
Welcome to life drawing, which is actually completely awesome. Once you've not-so-surrepticiously stared at the rude bits for 5 minutes you can forget about the naked man standing five feet away and start to panic about the fact that you can't draw for shit.
Oh at least until said naked man changes his pose and suddenly you're locked in a staring battle with a strange naked man holding, um, a wooden pole. No, I mean an ACTUAL pole.
Highly recommended.
The man in the centre of the room pulled off his sarong and lay it over a chair.
We all stared at his cock. Okay, well at least I did.
Welcome to life drawing, which is actually completely awesome. Once you've not-so-surrepticiously stared at the rude bits for 5 minutes you can forget about the naked man standing five feet away and start to panic about the fact that you can't draw for shit.
Oh at least until said naked man changes his pose and suddenly you're locked in a staring battle with a strange naked man holding, um, a wooden pole. No, I mean an ACTUAL pole.
Highly recommended.
Friday, October 10, 2008
How not to start your day
Wander topless into your living room only to find two builders in your backyard staring straight at you. Flee to the bathroom, wondering if you're imagining the chuckles or not.
Monday, October 6, 2008
Tales from the world's most optimistic veggie garden #3: the final chapter
Un. Believable. My parents told me the neighbours were pulling down the fence to erect a shared wall. I heard the words but I didn't understand. Not only did I not understand that I would wake up half naked one morning to find several burly men in my backyard but I didn't understand what this fence destruction would mean: they've fucked my veggie garden. Where once there was a handful of tomato plants, some promising looking rocket and a few other bits that might be weeds and might be squash now there is a giant mound of SAND and fucking wooden struts. I mean, I always knew the veggie garden was doomed - I just always assumed it would die by my hand.
Saturday, October 4, 2008
Snip
I've bloody done it again. I've lost another hairdresser.
I do seem to go through them pretty quickly but this one I'm a bit sad about.
Okay, so, if I think about it she wasn't quite as good as the one who owned a shop right below my old apartment. He was great - I've still yet to have a blow-dry that equalled his. But could he shut the fuck up? He could not. Reading magazines over my shoulder to comment queenily on EVERTHING, long, long stories about events involving people I'd never met, random characters who wandered in and out of these ridiculous plots. Outrageous. Friends know or could guess how I feel about this kind of chit chat: for me half the pleasure of having my hair cut is the pleasure of indulgence, including silence. So he had to go.
This latest one didn't have head massages to touch the dudes at Toni and Guy. Holy shit - what are the feeding those little emo waifs to give them fingers of steel? I don't know, maybe it's something in the water. Anyway I had no complaints with the haircut either - efficient and pretty. And they gave me champagne. But once you've burst into tears two minutes into a haircut and poured out recent awful events there's only one way to go: out of there. So Toni and Guy were out, en masse.
Half the reason the loss of this latest one saddens me so is that she was none of the above: she knew how to cut hair in complete silence, bless her. No questions. No commentary. yes, there was a woman who knew how to ignore and be ignored. Aw shit I'm, getting all sniffly just thinking about it.
Only problem is that she either hates me or she's a really shitty hairdresser.
Those two options are the only solutions to the question of why my hair currently looks like I've spent six months inside in a wind tunnel. Seriously, I appear to have lost a three hour fight with a racoon. The whole thing measures two feet wide.
"I think I'll keep the natural wave in it," I said. "There's no need to straighten it."
"Right," she said. "I can play up the wave a bit if you like."
"Um, sure." That's me.
Fifteen minutes later I have tears in my eyes from having a)been burnt by some kind of curling iron device b)the sight of my reflection in the mirror c)having had my entire head of hair pulled out strand by strand, or so I assume based on my scalp sensations. Either I've misjudged this whole 'we're both happy with silence' thing and she thinks I'm a biatch or she's getting her styling tips from Pretty in Pink. Either way... sorry lady, it's not going to work out. But it's been one hell of a ride.
I do seem to go through them pretty quickly but this one I'm a bit sad about.
Okay, so, if I think about it she wasn't quite as good as the one who owned a shop right below my old apartment. He was great - I've still yet to have a blow-dry that equalled his. But could he shut the fuck up? He could not. Reading magazines over my shoulder to comment queenily on EVERTHING, long, long stories about events involving people I'd never met, random characters who wandered in and out of these ridiculous plots. Outrageous. Friends know or could guess how I feel about this kind of chit chat: for me half the pleasure of having my hair cut is the pleasure of indulgence, including silence. So he had to go.
This latest one didn't have head massages to touch the dudes at Toni and Guy. Holy shit - what are the feeding those little emo waifs to give them fingers of steel? I don't know, maybe it's something in the water. Anyway I had no complaints with the haircut either - efficient and pretty. And they gave me champagne. But once you've burst into tears two minutes into a haircut and poured out recent awful events there's only one way to go: out of there. So Toni and Guy were out, en masse.
Half the reason the loss of this latest one saddens me so is that she was none of the above: she knew how to cut hair in complete silence, bless her. No questions. No commentary. yes, there was a woman who knew how to ignore and be ignored. Aw shit I'm, getting all sniffly just thinking about it.
Only problem is that she either hates me or she's a really shitty hairdresser.
Those two options are the only solutions to the question of why my hair currently looks like I've spent six months inside in a wind tunnel. Seriously, I appear to have lost a three hour fight with a racoon. The whole thing measures two feet wide.
"I think I'll keep the natural wave in it," I said. "There's no need to straighten it."
"Right," she said. "I can play up the wave a bit if you like."
"Um, sure." That's me.
Fifteen minutes later I have tears in my eyes from having a)been burnt by some kind of curling iron device b)the sight of my reflection in the mirror c)having had my entire head of hair pulled out strand by strand, or so I assume based on my scalp sensations. Either I've misjudged this whole 'we're both happy with silence' thing and she thinks I'm a biatch or she's getting her styling tips from Pretty in Pink. Either way... sorry lady, it's not going to work out. But it's been one hell of a ride.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
?
Question: How do go from chipper-as-fuck to suicidal in five minutes?
Answer: Notice the GLARING mistake in your page 1 story and then have your boss hand you your arse on a platter as a result.
Simple, really.
Answer: Notice the GLARING mistake in your page 1 story and then have your boss hand you your arse on a platter as a result.
Simple, really.
Monday, September 29, 2008
A conversation
ME: ... been talking to (a broker's name) at (a high profile broking house).
HIM: Did you say (broker's last name)?
ME: Uh yeah.
HIM: With a name like that is she a bagel muncher?
ME: Um. A bagel what now?
HIM: A hook nosed bagel muncher....
ME: Um, I"m still...?
HIM: Jewish?
ME: ...
HIM: Did you say (broker's last name)?
ME: Uh yeah.
HIM: With a name like that is she a bagel muncher?
ME: Um. A bagel what now?
HIM: A hook nosed bagel muncher....
ME: Um, I"m still...?
HIM: Jewish?
ME: ...
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Step into my office, baby
Centuries ago it was a cinch to discover stuff. You could hardly make it out the front door in the morning without tripping over a new element to whack on the periodic table, accidently inventing the automobile or stumbling onto the previously undiscovered part of the brain responsible for convincing you stone wash jeans were ever a bright idea. Back then nobody knew even the most obvious things – evolution, the fact that the earth is round, smoking causes all lung cancer. All theories, one is inclined to feel now, you could pretty much knock up in your lunch break.
These days it’s not so easy. I mean, one hesitates to say that everything that can be invented has been invented for fear of looking as much of a tit in the future as the guy who said it back in 1898 does now but still it’s a little bit easy sometimes to feel there’s no new frontiers to explore and a complete lack of insights out there for the making.
Which is presumably why modern day researchers have now turned their razor sharp minds to motherfucking office romances. At least that’s the only explanation I can come up with – that or I’m pretty sure it’s one of the signs of the impending apocalypse.
Yes those brainboxes at Monash University are, apparently, “investigating” office romances to, among other things “(suggest) strategies and organisation guidelines” for coping with the issues thrown up by office romances and, particularly, those that turn bad.
Right. I mean really? Really??
Though I hesitate to blow my own trumpet I think I could save them a little bit of work. 1. Most relationships break up 2. Your office fling will probably break up 3. Try to dump them first so you don’t have to see them giving you pity eyes over morning conference and 4. Try not to have sex on the photocopier. Not because it makes things awkward later when, post-breakup you can still see your arse-grooves as you wait for a copy of that report but because it’s just a bit tacky, not to mention logistically tough.
I jest (poorly) but does anyone really need to have the pitfalls of office romances explained to them by someone in a white coat? Does anybody need to be told that there’s a reasonably high chance a work romance gone wrong will fuck up not only your love life but your working life too? Put your hand up if you don’t know it’s going to be awkward as fuck seeing them at work every day and to avoid such a pitfall you should probably attempt to keep your romantic life an work life separate. Now put your hand down only if you’re such a tosspot you think keeping said two things separate is in any way do-able. Righto? Good.
Over ten(ish) years of working I’ve had freaking dozens of work crushes and exactly one decent work romance. While I was working my way through uni at, um, Woolworths. Ahem. Ours was a love born of a deep shared appreciation for Morrissey, vague hostility towards customers and a lack of desire to work particularly hard at uni. It started off very promisingly, chugged along perfectly happily for about eight months and ended pretty badly, necessitating this conversation at a party:
HIM: You don’t want to talk about it?
ME: Honestly? Not really.
HIM: You don’t think we have to? I mean about what’s going on?
ME: Well, um…we’ve broken up.
HIM: Have we?
ME: Oh. Uh, yes.
(Two minutes later)
HIM: Can I get a lift home?
Were things tense at work afterwards? Of course. Did I employ a range of techniques and strategies inteneded to minimise the pain on both sides? Er no: although it was pretty distressing at the time the reality was I avoided him, he avoided me and we made do.
The thing is that nobody is ever going to stop having office affairs just because they might go wrong, just as nobody is ever really going to stop having affairs full stop just because it’s odds-on to end in heartbreak and misery on at least one side. In the same way, having “strategies” in place to deal with office romances, should they go wrong, is just as fucking useless as having them in place to deal with the collapse of any relationship – you can plan all you want but you’re still going to feel like shit, irritate your friends by having long boring conversation in which they tell you “you could do so much better” while their eyes plead silently for death and either gain or lose 10 pounds.
Planning for the end before it’s arrived is stupid – if that’s the road you want to take why not just get yourself a bad haircut and go on a bender now to cut out the middle man? Better yet skip straight to the rebound fling with that cutie in IT – you know he wants you and he can probably fix the photocopier afterwards.
Sniff
“I picture my epitaph: 'Here lies Paul Newman, who died a failure because his eyes turned brown'.”
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Token Smokin' Hottie; Giles
In the world of Buffy: The Vampire Slayer there are two kinds of people*: those who understand how and why Giles is a hot piece of arse and those who don't. It hardly needs to be said that I belong in the former camp.Fucking Giles, eh? I could eat him up with a spoon. I could pack him into a bong (if I ever smoked, Mum, which obviously I never ever have) and smoke the fucker. I could skin him, make him into a pair of pajamas and wear him every night.
Er, yes, quite.
A friend of mine recently suggested he was a bit of a Giles. Hmm yes, I said politely, there's certainly a resemblance. Which there (kind of) is. But the way Giles looks, in or out of a delicious tweed three piecer is almost irrelevant. Giles is awesome not because of his (relatively) sleek figure, his ridiculously posh-caramel accent, his unbearably tasty suits or even his giant brain but from a combination of all of the above. Cadging all the best lines, working the father-figure thing without actually being a creepy, um, father figure. Being completely awesome All. The. Time. This is the reality that is Giles.
Is there a better Buffy moment than in one of the final episodes of Season Three in which he nails the deliver on a cold one-liner to his douchebag repalcement ("For God sake, man, she's 18 and you have the emotional maturity of a blueberry scone")?? I think not. Unless it's the episode where he reverts to being a bad-arse teenager (the white t-shirt with the cigarettes in the sleeve... the accent... bloody hell). If I had teachers like this I would never have left school
*Actually there are three kinds of people including those who just don't like Buffy. But these people I fear I simply don't understand. Get on the train or stay off the tracks, friends.
Quotable Quotes: Clara Bow
“Love is just a system for getting someone to call you darling after sex” (Julian Barnes)
Oh the shame
Spotted: Me in a silver super-yuppie 4WD from the work car pool, singing along to very loud hip-hop at the traffic lights and looking like the whitest most middle class stooge you've ever seen.
Monday, September 22, 2008
DON'T
The only thing worse than seeing a nort bust out what little game he has is watching his even-less-game’d wing man sit there like he just got out of jail and is only now remembering how intimidating women are.
From the archives of Vice Dos and Don'ts.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
The week that wasn't
I have been a slacker blogger this week. And no excuses but here's what has been keeping me busy this (slack) week.
1. Work. Like the stoner friend sleeping indefinitley on your couch work started off the week as a pleasant distraction and quickly became the bane of my existence. Please just don't tell me it's Sunday already.
2. Buffy. I was a massive fan of the Buffster first time around and am currently involved in something of a rival. If you don't get a frisson of excitement at the sight of Anthony Stuart Head (AKA "Giles") in a cardigan then I just don't know about you. The perfect antidote to a rough day at the office.
3. Wine. Bit of a moment this week when I found myself absolutely freaking johnsing for a glass of wine one night when there was none to be found. One of those defining 'do I or so I not have a drinking problem?' moments. I think I passed the test.
4. Book buying. Here I may actually have a problem but honestly it's not MY fault: it's the fault of the second hand bookshop that is closing down and insists on having a perpetual fifty per cent off sale. It is easily the best second hand bookshop I've ever seen and I am now officially its bitch.
1. Work. Like the stoner friend sleeping indefinitley on your couch work started off the week as a pleasant distraction and quickly became the bane of my existence. Please just don't tell me it's Sunday already.
2. Buffy. I was a massive fan of the Buffster first time around and am currently involved in something of a rival. If you don't get a frisson of excitement at the sight of Anthony Stuart Head (AKA "Giles") in a cardigan then I just don't know about you. The perfect antidote to a rough day at the office.
3. Wine. Bit of a moment this week when I found myself absolutely freaking johnsing for a glass of wine one night when there was none to be found. One of those defining 'do I or so I not have a drinking problem?' moments. I think I passed the test.
4. Book buying. Here I may actually have a problem but honestly it's not MY fault: it's the fault of the second hand bookshop that is closing down and insists on having a perpetual fifty per cent off sale. It is easily the best second hand bookshop I've ever seen and I am now officially its bitch.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Friday questions
Question: What is the fucking point of spending your ENTIRE day working on a front page story, including running it past the editor in great detail, only to have it partially rewritten and your name entirely removed from the story despite still including 90 per cent of your work, including quotes from those you spent YOUR fucking day talking to?
Answer: ABSOLUTELY FUCKING NONE.
Answer: ABSOLUTELY FUCKING NONE.
Monday, September 15, 2008
In which I join the Hitler Youth party
I once saw a man in a wheelchair shout "fucking arsehole!" in the middle of the street.
I have no idea who he was talking to, nor did I crane my neck about to find out - I'm middle-class and able bodied so I just ducked my head and kept walking like nooothing was happening do-do-do-I'm-just-walkin'-down-this-road style.
The incident struck me as pretty weird though, for a number of reasons. Firstly, assuming wheelchair man (I'm sorry, I know the nickname is gross but anything I think of, "wheels" for instance, sounds somehow much worse) wasn't just mad and shouting obscenities for no reason what did said fucking arsehole do to anger him in the first place and why? I mean... who fucks around with the disabled really? Hitler maybe, in fact Hitler definitely, but anyone else? Surely even people who want Colin Barnett in charge of their State steer clear of THAT kind of shit.
Secondly, and I know this sounds even grosser than the whole wheelchair man bit but aren't the disabled supposed to be, um, nice? Has fiction lied to me when it trotted (ok, wheeled) out stereotype upon stereotype of kindly disabled people who, by virtue of their injury (natch) have developed a zen attitude towards life that the able-bodied miscreants who come into contact with them can't help but admire? Vietnam Vets aside I've always secretly thought that people in wheelchairs existed, at least partially, to make me feel better about myself in a "wow, if SHE can live a perfectly happy life as a limbless torso and still trot out a quick quip why can't I?" kind of a way. Um, but that's a secret because it makes me sound like a heartless bitch, a Conservative voter or both.
Now, having made myself sound like a member of the Hiter's Youth Party (or at least a One Nation voter) allow me to get to my point. Which is that on the weekend I had occassion to spend a day in York with a friend in a wheelchair and had my perceptions changed a bit. Oh no, don't worry, not in an afternoon special sort of way, I assure you.
You see the thing is that people are scared of people in wheelchairs. They seriously are and so, now that I come to think of it, am I. I am not scared they'll back over my foot, or call me a fucking arsehole, I'm scare of what they represent. And as a result I - and a lot of other people - bend over backwards to be nice to people in a wheelchair. It's ridiculous. Anyone else steals my parking spot or runs over my cat and I'd lose it. If the dude behind the wheel in both cases had a wheelchair riding shotgun beside him I'd offer to clean his car.
When you actually ARE a person in a wheelchair, or pushing a person in a wheelchair, it's easy to take advantage of this fact. It's not all that wrong: people want to be nice to you and you want to let them. People want to give up their seat and you, well, you can't say no. People want you to ram the wheelchair into their shins - twice - so they can pretend it doesn't hurt and you're only too happy to oblige.
It can do terrible things to a person though. Standing in line at the bakery while my own wheelchair man waits on a nearby bench I select an array of pastries and hot beverages suitable for frittering away a drizzly afternoon.
"Is that for both of you?" The bakery girl asks, nodding towards my wheelchaired friend.
"That's right," I say, trying to look like the brave buddy of someone crippled forever by a tragic hit-and-run instead of a glass-boned boob sidelined for two months after a broken leg incurred two weeks earlier in a soccer game.
"That'll be $11.50," the bakery chick says.
She wants me to pay? I think, just briefly. I'm standing here with my friend in a wheelchair, having lugged his arse all over town all day until my arms are ready to fall off and she wants me to pay?? For all she knows he's dying tomorrow and I've brought him here as a last supper before he has his fucking useless legs cut off and donated to science and she wants me TO PAY??
"Here you go," I say, handing over a twenty.
Fucking arsehole, I think.
I have no idea who he was talking to, nor did I crane my neck about to find out - I'm middle-class and able bodied so I just ducked my head and kept walking like nooothing was happening do-do-do-I'm-just-walkin'-down-this-road style.
The incident struck me as pretty weird though, for a number of reasons. Firstly, assuming wheelchair man (I'm sorry, I know the nickname is gross but anything I think of, "wheels" for instance, sounds somehow much worse) wasn't just mad and shouting obscenities for no reason what did said fucking arsehole do to anger him in the first place and why? I mean... who fucks around with the disabled really? Hitler maybe, in fact Hitler definitely, but anyone else? Surely even people who want Colin Barnett in charge of their State steer clear of THAT kind of shit.
Secondly, and I know this sounds even grosser than the whole wheelchair man bit but aren't the disabled supposed to be, um, nice? Has fiction lied to me when it trotted (ok, wheeled) out stereotype upon stereotype of kindly disabled people who, by virtue of their injury (natch) have developed a zen attitude towards life that the able-bodied miscreants who come into contact with them can't help but admire? Vietnam Vets aside I've always secretly thought that people in wheelchairs existed, at least partially, to make me feel better about myself in a "wow, if SHE can live a perfectly happy life as a limbless torso and still trot out a quick quip why can't I?" kind of a way. Um, but that's a secret because it makes me sound like a heartless bitch, a Conservative voter or both.
Now, having made myself sound like a member of the Hiter's Youth Party (or at least a One Nation voter) allow me to get to my point. Which is that on the weekend I had occassion to spend a day in York with a friend in a wheelchair and had my perceptions changed a bit. Oh no, don't worry, not in an afternoon special sort of way, I assure you.
You see the thing is that people are scared of people in wheelchairs. They seriously are and so, now that I come to think of it, am I. I am not scared they'll back over my foot, or call me a fucking arsehole, I'm scare of what they represent. And as a result I - and a lot of other people - bend over backwards to be nice to people in a wheelchair. It's ridiculous. Anyone else steals my parking spot or runs over my cat and I'd lose it. If the dude behind the wheel in both cases had a wheelchair riding shotgun beside him I'd offer to clean his car.
When you actually ARE a person in a wheelchair, or pushing a person in a wheelchair, it's easy to take advantage of this fact. It's not all that wrong: people want to be nice to you and you want to let them. People want to give up their seat and you, well, you can't say no. People want you to ram the wheelchair into their shins - twice - so they can pretend it doesn't hurt and you're only too happy to oblige.
It can do terrible things to a person though. Standing in line at the bakery while my own wheelchair man waits on a nearby bench I select an array of pastries and hot beverages suitable for frittering away a drizzly afternoon.
"Is that for both of you?" The bakery girl asks, nodding towards my wheelchaired friend.
"That's right," I say, trying to look like the brave buddy of someone crippled forever by a tragic hit-and-run instead of a glass-boned boob sidelined for two months after a broken leg incurred two weeks earlier in a soccer game.
"That'll be $11.50," the bakery chick says.
She wants me to pay? I think, just briefly. I'm standing here with my friend in a wheelchair, having lugged his arse all over town all day until my arms are ready to fall off and she wants me to pay?? For all she knows he's dying tomorrow and I've brought him here as a last supper before he has his fucking useless legs cut off and donated to science and she wants me TO PAY??
"Here you go," I say, handing over a twenty.
Fucking arsehole, I think.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Here's hoping
Epitaph on a Tyrant
Perfection, of a kind, was what he was after,
And the poetry he invented was easy to understand,
He knew human folly like the back of his hand,
And was greatly interested in armies and fleets;
When he laughed, respectable senators burst with laughter,
And when he cried the little children died in the streets.
(W.H. Auden)
Questions raised by the presence of a Norma Desmond-type I saw sitting at a bus stop in Shenton Park early this morning:
1. Can that giant red coat possibly be real fur?
2. Can those too-dark brown curls possibly be real?
3. How long would it take to break her if I kidnapped her and refused to let her out of the outside toilet until she promised to teach me the secrets of her awesomeness?
2. Can those too-dark brown curls possibly be real?
3. How long would it take to break her if I kidnapped her and refused to let her out of the outside toilet until she promised to teach me the secrets of her awesomeness?
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Oh and I spat in your burger too
The first time I broke up with someone I did it via email. What can I say? I've never been very good at confrontation.
It wasn't quite as heartless as it sounds, the email thing. It was, however, ridiculously fucking complicated. First there was the email breaking up with him (four pages if you can believe it). Then there was the phonecall, not breaking up with him but asking if I could come over for a bit. Oh and suggesting he might want to check his email before I got there.
The funny thing was that, as it turns out, I should have followed my nonconfrontational instincts and left it at the email: when I arrived at his house it was to find him sitting beside the email, parts of which were highlighted, presumably with the intention of engaging in some vigorous rebuttal. (He not being yet old enough to realise there is no rejoinder when someone tells you that, no, they don't love you and me not being cruel enough to point out the obvious).
I'd like to blame this enounter for the ensuing lifetime of avoiding confrontation, if only so I would have something else to pin on the boy in question besides his theft of my copy of Catch 22. But the truth was that I'd been a pussy long before he came on the scene.
1997, for instance, found me at Hungry Jacks working under the supervision of my boss, henceforth referred to as Mad Bitchface.
Mad Bitchface was, as the name suggests, Mad. She was also a bitch with a face like a perpetually smacked bottom whose idea of a good time was to yell at her employees while others stood and gawped, battling with the dual emotions of pity and schaudenfraude.
This is probably why she liked me so much, given that I provided apparently endless fodder for her tirades. You see, hard as it is to believe, I wasn't very good at my job. I was actually pretty shit. It would be nice to pretend this was because I was some kind of teenage slacker who was shit simply because I couldn't GIVE a shit. This, however, would be slightly disingenous. I was then, as I am now, an eager-to-please nerd. I wanted to be good at the job and I tried hard to be good at the job. I just, you know, wasn't ACTUALLY good at the job.
The uniform I could manage. Even at 15 I knew how to iron a good shirt and fasten my name badge on straight, which was actually more than you could say for the miscreants who operated the broiler and gave me free chicken nuggets. Also in my repportoire was turning up to work on time and being friendly to customers. It was only when it came to everything else that I lost it.
And that was all that mattered to Mad Bitchface. She didn't care if I had a good attitude or whether my cheeks hurt from grinning all day - she cared about the long queue of cars waiting by the drive thru whose orders were far from being completed, or the junkie passed out in the toilets to whose presence I had apparently failed to alert her.
If I'd had any sense or if I'd not been so terrified of confrontation I might have stood up to Mad Bitchface. But I didn't. Just as I know that I wouldn't if the same situation were to happen tomorrow. As it was I just tried harder: I came in a bit early, I stayed a bit late. No, no of course I didn't need lunch breaks.
Pathetic. It didn't work either, though again this may have been my fault. Somehow I sense that the day it all went really wrong between Mad Bitchface and I was when she caught me chucking a sickie. It was a horrible moment: the night of my brother's 21st and Mum had agreed to call in sick for me, given I'd been unable to get out of my shift. My first faux sickie, I believe, and probably my last for at least another five years. What with everything going on, though, Mum forgot the most important part of the plan where she ACTUALLY called in sick for me. So it was that half an hour after I was supposed to have started work the phone rang. I answered it to find Mad Bitchface demanding to know where I was. The cringiest bit? When I told her (in a spontaneously croaky voice, although I'm not sure my symptoms ultimately matched up to Mum's excuse) that I'd have to go and get my Mum. Oh. The. Humanity.
So things between Mad Bitchface and I were at rock bottom about then. She hated me more than ever and I gave her good reason to hate me more than ever by becoming even crapper and more or less losing any enthusiasm I'd ever had for the job. Instead of turning up early I dawdled through the door with wet hair. Any opportunity I had and I was out the back to flirt in an unbeilievably clumsy fashion with the hottie on fries (oh Brad, and we could have been so great together, too). Somewhere in there I dumped a whole bag of the milkshake mixture stuff all over the cooler-room floor.
Then a breakthrough: I got another job at a deli up the road. The pay was just as shit and my new boss was a lumbering chain-smoking haystack of a woman who would later prove quick to anger and slow to do any work but I was desperate.
Finally, I thought, this was my chance. Finally I could stick it to Mad Bitchface. This thought alone sustained me. As I worked the till, cheerfully asking people If They Would Like Fries With That I drafted a resignation letter so seethingly full of venom it would render Mad Bitchface silent for the first time in her life. Mentally I scripted dramatic showdowns in which i got all the best one-liners and she was reduced to gawping, stuck with ellipsis-riddled dialgue intended to convey her ineptitute in all matters.
But people don't change. Not really. We might change the way we look, learn to shave off some of our sharp edges and grow accustomed to concealing the worst parts of our characters but ultimately we are what we are and I was never going to become someone capable of delivering even one of my carefully-constructed denouncements of her moral character. The fiery dialogue of my confrontation was gone altogether when I hatched a plan to simply dump my resignation letter in Mad Bitchface's inbox and depart on a 2 week holiday, never to return. The vitriolic letter of resignation became an apologetic epistle that all but ended in a series of xoxoxoxos and a promise to catch up for coffee.
But just as I ultimately vented my rage with the dumped boy whose misfortunes kicked off this blog by breaking radio silence two weeks later with an incredibly bitchy demand for my copy of Catch 22, so too did I manage a parting shot at Mad Bitchface when I refused to return my (super fugly) uniform. Ignore the fact the entire cost was deducted from my pay and you can score one for Kate. That's right - who ever said I was a pussy?
It wasn't quite as heartless as it sounds, the email thing. It was, however, ridiculously fucking complicated. First there was the email breaking up with him (four pages if you can believe it). Then there was the phonecall, not breaking up with him but asking if I could come over for a bit. Oh and suggesting he might want to check his email before I got there.
The funny thing was that, as it turns out, I should have followed my nonconfrontational instincts and left it at the email: when I arrived at his house it was to find him sitting beside the email, parts of which were highlighted, presumably with the intention of engaging in some vigorous rebuttal. (He not being yet old enough to realise there is no rejoinder when someone tells you that, no, they don't love you and me not being cruel enough to point out the obvious).
I'd like to blame this enounter for the ensuing lifetime of avoiding confrontation, if only so I would have something else to pin on the boy in question besides his theft of my copy of Catch 22. But the truth was that I'd been a pussy long before he came on the scene.
1997, for instance, found me at Hungry Jacks working under the supervision of my boss, henceforth referred to as Mad Bitchface.
Mad Bitchface was, as the name suggests, Mad. She was also a bitch with a face like a perpetually smacked bottom whose idea of a good time was to yell at her employees while others stood and gawped, battling with the dual emotions of pity and schaudenfraude.
This is probably why she liked me so much, given that I provided apparently endless fodder for her tirades. You see, hard as it is to believe, I wasn't very good at my job. I was actually pretty shit. It would be nice to pretend this was because I was some kind of teenage slacker who was shit simply because I couldn't GIVE a shit. This, however, would be slightly disingenous. I was then, as I am now, an eager-to-please nerd. I wanted to be good at the job and I tried hard to be good at the job. I just, you know, wasn't ACTUALLY good at the job.
The uniform I could manage. Even at 15 I knew how to iron a good shirt and fasten my name badge on straight, which was actually more than you could say for the miscreants who operated the broiler and gave me free chicken nuggets. Also in my repportoire was turning up to work on time and being friendly to customers. It was only when it came to everything else that I lost it.
And that was all that mattered to Mad Bitchface. She didn't care if I had a good attitude or whether my cheeks hurt from grinning all day - she cared about the long queue of cars waiting by the drive thru whose orders were far from being completed, or the junkie passed out in the toilets to whose presence I had apparently failed to alert her.
If I'd had any sense or if I'd not been so terrified of confrontation I might have stood up to Mad Bitchface. But I didn't. Just as I know that I wouldn't if the same situation were to happen tomorrow. As it was I just tried harder: I came in a bit early, I stayed a bit late. No, no of course I didn't need lunch breaks.
Pathetic. It didn't work either, though again this may have been my fault. Somehow I sense that the day it all went really wrong between Mad Bitchface and I was when she caught me chucking a sickie. It was a horrible moment: the night of my brother's 21st and Mum had agreed to call in sick for me, given I'd been unable to get out of my shift. My first faux sickie, I believe, and probably my last for at least another five years. What with everything going on, though, Mum forgot the most important part of the plan where she ACTUALLY called in sick for me. So it was that half an hour after I was supposed to have started work the phone rang. I answered it to find Mad Bitchface demanding to know where I was. The cringiest bit? When I told her (in a spontaneously croaky voice, although I'm not sure my symptoms ultimately matched up to Mum's excuse) that I'd have to go and get my Mum. Oh. The. Humanity.
So things between Mad Bitchface and I were at rock bottom about then. She hated me more than ever and I gave her good reason to hate me more than ever by becoming even crapper and more or less losing any enthusiasm I'd ever had for the job. Instead of turning up early I dawdled through the door with wet hair. Any opportunity I had and I was out the back to flirt in an unbeilievably clumsy fashion with the hottie on fries (oh Brad, and we could have been so great together, too). Somewhere in there I dumped a whole bag of the milkshake mixture stuff all over the cooler-room floor.
Then a breakthrough: I got another job at a deli up the road. The pay was just as shit and my new boss was a lumbering chain-smoking haystack of a woman who would later prove quick to anger and slow to do any work but I was desperate.
Finally, I thought, this was my chance. Finally I could stick it to Mad Bitchface. This thought alone sustained me. As I worked the till, cheerfully asking people If They Would Like Fries With That I drafted a resignation letter so seethingly full of venom it would render Mad Bitchface silent for the first time in her life. Mentally I scripted dramatic showdowns in which i got all the best one-liners and she was reduced to gawping, stuck with ellipsis-riddled dialgue intended to convey her ineptitute in all matters.
But people don't change. Not really. We might change the way we look, learn to shave off some of our sharp edges and grow accustomed to concealing the worst parts of our characters but ultimately we are what we are and I was never going to become someone capable of delivering even one of my carefully-constructed denouncements of her moral character. The fiery dialogue of my confrontation was gone altogether when I hatched a plan to simply dump my resignation letter in Mad Bitchface's inbox and depart on a 2 week holiday, never to return. The vitriolic letter of resignation became an apologetic epistle that all but ended in a series of xoxoxoxos and a promise to catch up for coffee.
But just as I ultimately vented my rage with the dumped boy whose misfortunes kicked off this blog by breaking radio silence two weeks later with an incredibly bitchy demand for my copy of Catch 22, so too did I manage a parting shot at Mad Bitchface when I refused to return my (super fugly) uniform. Ignore the fact the entire cost was deducted from my pay and you can score one for Kate. That's right - who ever said I was a pussy?
Friday, September 12, 2008
Franco love
There should be a word to describe the pleasure of having two different people send me a link to the SAME James Franco interview (http://www.guardian.co.uk/film/2008/sep/08/jamesfranco.pineappleexpress) within about half an hour of each other.
In return all I can do is give you this kick arse clip. Franco!
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Tales from the world's most optimistic veggie garden #2
Well there are... um, how do I put this? Fewer seedlings that there used to be. I'm not quite sure what went wrong. Oh sure the ground is pretty rough, I chucked them in completely too close together and I sort of forgot to water them for five days but really is this my fault?
In any case, at least half of the 50ish seedlings I put in with my scatter-gun approach are still raging along, although there's a few of them that look a bit weed-like to me. I've also forgotten which ones are squash and which are broccoli, though in the unlikely event any of my babies make it to term I imagine the answer should be obvious.
More than anything, though, I'd forgotten how bloody boring growing things can be in the early stages. It's not like those Magic Tree and Magic Garden things we had as kids where you set it up and these fancy (hey, it was the '90s) crystal blossoms start to appear within hours. Those things were awesome. By comparison my veggie seedlings just sit there all, meh, what did you think, that chucking some seedlings into a patch of dirt was going to turn you into someone who wears overalls, makes pumpkin pie from scratch and has a perpetual healthy glow? I'm too shy to say that's EXACTLY what I'd thought...
In any case, at least half of the 50ish seedlings I put in with my scatter-gun approach are still raging along, although there's a few of them that look a bit weed-like to me. I've also forgotten which ones are squash and which are broccoli, though in the unlikely event any of my babies make it to term I imagine the answer should be obvious.
More than anything, though, I'd forgotten how bloody boring growing things can be in the early stages. It's not like those Magic Tree and Magic Garden things we had as kids where you set it up and these fancy (hey, it was the '90s) crystal blossoms start to appear within hours. Those things were awesome. By comparison my veggie seedlings just sit there all, meh, what did you think, that chucking some seedlings into a patch of dirt was going to turn you into someone who wears overalls, makes pumpkin pie from scratch and has a perpetual healthy glow? I'm too shy to say that's EXACTLY what I'd thought...
Monday, September 8, 2008
A live and decreasignly sober blog of the "reimagined" Beverley Hills 90210
8.33pm: Jesus this family is so boring I want to stab myself in the brain and... wait is the new Brandon black? Hmm. On the plus side it's scientifically impossible for him to be more annoying than Jason Priestley, right?
8.35pm: Awesome - Jessica Walter! It's 11am and she's drunk - this series rocks.
8.39pm: Kelly!
8.40pm: Man that teacher is H-O-T. I'm just sayin'
8.41pm: Peach Pit! Holy shit, I'm sure that's the same dude from the original story. Now who is the new Dylan McKay? Please tell me it's not that douchebag getting a blowjob in his 4WD.
9.13pm: Oh god oh god oh god. She's singing. Holy fuck. I'm embarassed for everyone involved.
9.19pm: Now someone please - is that or is that Dad not played by the same guy from Melrose Place? Guy... something. C'mon you remember: he lived with that hot brunette chuck um Jo? Oh right, like you're too good for Melrose Place??
9.30pm: Oh whatev show - weekly bonfire parties on the beach eh?? I call bull-shit on you - bull-fucking-shit I say. And please God let Ethan keep his wetsuit on, that's all I'm asking for.
9.31pm: Thankyou.
9.32pm: No I take that back because you have fucked me, show: you have FUCKED me and fucked all your viewers by this bullshit frolicking-in-the-ocean-while-dressed BULLSHIT. Who are your writers? Who are they that they think this is what people do? Are they on acid? That's all I want to know right now, show: Are. They. On. Acid?
9.33pm: (Broken weeping)
9.37pm: Ooh double episode. Awesome.
9.40pm: MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
9.41pm: Now, on the plus side we have an alternate love interest to douchebag blowjob Ethan. But on the negative end of the scale said alternative love interest is a wank job and he's singing - singing! See above.
9.51pm: Am i drunk or is there a bit of ho-yay on my screen?
9.52pm: Aw crap, I think I'm drunk.
10.08pm: Oh riiight. And what was he doing standing out there on the balcony by himself? Whatev, show, whatev. And ew, he's such a tool. I bet he has crabs. Crabs he will pass onto Brenda Lite when he fucks her in seven episodes time.
10.12pm: i was so bored by this bullshit scene I started googling tit bits about the original BH90210 and came up with this stellar fucking summary of Luke Perry's character Dylan McKay. If this snippet of a truly awesome synopsis doesn't underscore exactly why the old show kicked this ones arse I don't know what does:
"Perry's send-off features his character marrying...the daughter of the mob boss who ordered his father's death during the third season. Before the marriage, Dylan attempted to use Antonia to get to her father, but falls in love with her instead. Her father, uncomfortable with the marriage, orders Dylan's death. The hired hitman inadvertently kills Antonia instead due to the fact that she is driving Dylan's car at the time of the planned hit, and is wearing a hooded raincoat, so the hitman cannot see whom he is shooting. Dylan leaves town heartbroken... it is revealed later in the series that Dylan's father was not really murdered and that he had faked his death in order to enter the Witness Protection Program."
10.20pm: Man even I kinda wish Shannon Doherty would come in and cut this poor imitator.
10.23pm: "I'm breaking up with us"???? MWAHAHAHA!!! That's actually awesome.
10.24pm: Brenda!!!
10.28pm: Okay I may have bagged it and slagged it but this show is so awesome I want to lay it down gently by the fire and make sweet love to it. That's right - I said make love: that's awesome awesomely-terribly-awesome this baby is. Aaron Spelling, you've done it again you mad bastard.
8.35pm: Awesome - Jessica Walter! It's 11am and she's drunk - this series rocks.
8.39pm: Kelly!
8.40pm: Man that teacher is H-O-T. I'm just sayin'
8.41pm: Peach Pit! Holy shit, I'm sure that's the same dude from the original story. Now who is the new Dylan McKay? Please tell me it's not that douchebag getting a blowjob in his 4WD.
9.13pm: Oh god oh god oh god. She's singing. Holy fuck. I'm embarassed for everyone involved.
9.19pm: Now someone please - is that or is that Dad not played by the same guy from Melrose Place? Guy... something. C'mon you remember: he lived with that hot brunette chuck um Jo? Oh right, like you're too good for Melrose Place??
9.30pm: Oh whatev show - weekly bonfire parties on the beach eh?? I call bull-shit on you - bull-fucking-shit I say. And please God let Ethan keep his wetsuit on, that's all I'm asking for.
9.31pm: Thankyou.
9.32pm: No I take that back because you have fucked me, show: you have FUCKED me and fucked all your viewers by this bullshit frolicking-in-the-ocean-while-dressed BULLSHIT. Who are your writers? Who are they that they think this is what people do? Are they on acid? That's all I want to know right now, show: Are. They. On. Acid?
9.33pm: (Broken weeping)
9.37pm: Ooh double episode. Awesome.
9.40pm: MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
9.41pm: Now, on the plus side we have an alternate love interest to douchebag blowjob Ethan. But on the negative end of the scale said alternative love interest is a wank job and he's singing - singing! See above.
9.51pm: Am i drunk or is there a bit of ho-yay on my screen?
9.52pm: Aw crap, I think I'm drunk.
10.08pm: Oh riiight. And what was he doing standing out there on the balcony by himself? Whatev, show, whatev. And ew, he's such a tool. I bet he has crabs. Crabs he will pass onto Brenda Lite when he fucks her in seven episodes time.
10.12pm: i was so bored by this bullshit scene I started googling tit bits about the original BH90210 and came up with this stellar fucking summary of Luke Perry's character Dylan McKay. If this snippet of a truly awesome synopsis doesn't underscore exactly why the old show kicked this ones arse I don't know what does:
"Perry's send-off features his character marrying...the daughter of the mob boss who ordered his father's death during the third season. Before the marriage, Dylan attempted to use Antonia to get to her father, but falls in love with her instead. Her father, uncomfortable with the marriage, orders Dylan's death. The hired hitman inadvertently kills Antonia instead due to the fact that she is driving Dylan's car at the time of the planned hit, and is wearing a hooded raincoat, so the hitman cannot see whom he is shooting. Dylan leaves town heartbroken... it is revealed later in the series that Dylan's father was not really murdered and that he had faked his death in order to enter the Witness Protection Program."
10.20pm: Man even I kinda wish Shannon Doherty would come in and cut this poor imitator.
10.23pm: "I'm breaking up with us"???? MWAHAHAHA!!! That's actually awesome.
10.24pm: Brenda!!!
10.28pm: Okay I may have bagged it and slagged it but this show is so awesome I want to lay it down gently by the fire and make sweet love to it. That's right - I said make love: that's awesome awesomely-terribly-awesome this baby is. Aaron Spelling, you've done it again you mad bastard.
Sunday, September 7, 2008
Spotted
Saturday, 9.30am: One stupid middle-class Shenton Park-living bitch with both a 'How to Vote Liberal' and 'How to Vote Family First' slip clutched in each of her manicured little hands. That's right you silly shitbox - check the boxes and fuck off in your fucking 4WD why don't you?
PS: Nice fucking VEST.
PS: Nice fucking VEST.
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Come on, Carps!
UPDATE: I am devastated. And I know that everyone has a right to their opinion, and not everyone thinks the same way about everything blah blah blah but FUCK IT, the mood I'm in fucking liberal voting pieces of shit should just stay the fuck away from me right now unless you have a very large glass of wine in your hand. I'm good for no man or beast. Sigh.
UPDATE 2: Well now this is just an emotional fucking rollercoaster ride, isn't it?
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Quotable Quotes: For Arrested Development fans only
Narrator: Gob was recently hired by the Bluth Company's rival, Sitwell Enterprises. And although he started off well...
Gob: 52% of the country is single. That's a market that's been dominated by apartment rentals. Let's take some of that market. I call it "Single City."
Narrator: ...his ideas failed to evolve.
Gob: It's, like, "Hey, you want to go down to the whirlpool?" "Yeah, I don't have a husband." I call it "Swing City."
Stan Sitwell: Let's get into some new areas, if you don't mind.
Narrator: But Gob continued to fine-tune his first one.
Gob: How do we filter out the teases? We don't let them in. This goes for the guys, too. Because sometimes the guys are tapped out. But check your lease, man. Because you're living in *bleep* City.
Stan Sitwell: You're fired.
Gob: 52% of the country is single. That's a market that's been dominated by apartment rentals. Let's take some of that market. I call it "Single City."
Narrator: ...his ideas failed to evolve.
Gob: It's, like, "Hey, you want to go down to the whirlpool?" "Yeah, I don't have a husband." I call it "Swing City."
Stan Sitwell: Let's get into some new areas, if you don't mind.
Narrator: But Gob continued to fine-tune his first one.
Gob: How do we filter out the teases? We don't let them in. This goes for the guys, too. Because sometimes the guys are tapped out. But check your lease, man. Because you're living in *bleep* City.
Stan Sitwell: You're fired.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Scenes from an Australian workplace #43
The problem: Remembering late Saturday night in the middle of a Hens party that you've forgotten to write (let alone file) your column for Monday's paper, which needs to be in by about 7am the next morning before you drive down south.
The solution: Lay off the booze, get home as early as humanely possible and bash the thing out until you collapse from exhaustion at 2.30am. Email to boss and cross your fingers.
The solution: Lay off the booze, get home as early as humanely possible and bash the thing out until you collapse from exhaustion at 2.30am. Email to boss and cross your fingers.
Monday, September 1, 2008
Tales from the world's most optimistic veggie garden #1
Well the veggies are in, they're finally fucking in. I've wanted to grow them ever since moving into this house and spying the perfect place to put them. Nine months later I've finally taken the first, arguably most important, step: the planting. But Christ I could have had a baby in the interim.
I've always suspected I'd make quite a good gardener, in the sort of vague way that some people believe they'd be good at sports or something given half a chance - despite a lack of any evidence to back up the claim. So I went all out at the shop: tomato, rocket, broccoli and squash. Had a bit of a hiccup when it came to the giant bag of potting mix I'd lugged from the garden centre bit of Bunnings to the check out though. The woman on checkout was surely only trying to be helpful but she got on my tits.
HER: You know this potting mix isn't very good, do you?
ME: Sorry?
HER: It's not a very good potting mix. It doesn't have the stuff that your garden needs.
ME: Oh.
HER: You need to add stuff to it.
ME: Oh.
HER: I'd say it's one of the worst potting mixes you can get. I wouldn't recommend it to anyone.
I wanted to tell her I didn't give two shits, or ask her why the store sold it if it was so shit but I'm such a pussy I said I'd leave the potting mix but take the plants then. Being too lazy to go back for a more superior type of potting mix and too embarassed to admit I was fine with some shoddy inferior brand actually I went to work in the garden minus any kind of potting mix at all but with the resonably strong conviction that some (allegedly) shit potting mix was probably better than no potting mix at all.
The second problem came when I realised I'd overcatered. There was only a small patch of usable garden, really, and about 50 seedlings to jam in there. The labels had helpful suggestions like "plant 30cms apart" but I thought bugger that and just threw them all in. Looks pretty bloody cosy though. If I'm lucky and if I know my year 12 biology (and I think I do) they'll probably all cross pollinate and I'll end up with one hell of a good veggie that looks like a broccoli had sex with a tomato but tastes like sunshine.
I've always suspected I'd make quite a good gardener, in the sort of vague way that some people believe they'd be good at sports or something given half a chance - despite a lack of any evidence to back up the claim. So I went all out at the shop: tomato, rocket, broccoli and squash. Had a bit of a hiccup when it came to the giant bag of potting mix I'd lugged from the garden centre bit of Bunnings to the check out though. The woman on checkout was surely only trying to be helpful but she got on my tits.
HER: You know this potting mix isn't very good, do you?
ME: Sorry?
HER: It's not a very good potting mix. It doesn't have the stuff that your garden needs.
ME: Oh.
HER: You need to add stuff to it.
ME: Oh.
HER: I'd say it's one of the worst potting mixes you can get. I wouldn't recommend it to anyone.
I wanted to tell her I didn't give two shits, or ask her why the store sold it if it was so shit but I'm such a pussy I said I'd leave the potting mix but take the plants then. Being too lazy to go back for a more superior type of potting mix and too embarassed to admit I was fine with some shoddy inferior brand actually I went to work in the garden minus any kind of potting mix at all but with the resonably strong conviction that some (allegedly) shit potting mix was probably better than no potting mix at all.
The second problem came when I realised I'd overcatered. There was only a small patch of usable garden, really, and about 50 seedlings to jam in there. The labels had helpful suggestions like "plant 30cms apart" but I thought bugger that and just threw them all in. Looks pretty bloody cosy though. If I'm lucky and if I know my year 12 biology (and I think I do) they'll probably all cross pollinate and I'll end up with one hell of a good veggie that looks like a broccoli had sex with a tomato but tastes like sunshine.
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