What does the average 45-year-old male do on a Thursday night? Watch a bit of telly? Play a bit of sport? Pop down to the gym? Hell no. Real men go on a 36-hour drug and alcohol bender with a plethora of skanky porn star strippers and end up in a hospital emergency department. Just another day in the life of an average joe, aka Charlie Sheen. Mr Sheen has headed off to rebab again, to try and clean, wax and polish up his act.
Charlie Sheen is the star of CBS’ hit comedy Two and a Half Men, which premiered in 2003, and has been in the Top 10 of U.S. television programs ever since. Despite the fact that it is a cheesy American sitcom, I very much like Men, with its misogynistic comedy and double entendres. Charlie plays Charlie Harper, a self-gratifying jingle writer, who lives in a Malibu beach house with his freeloading brother Alan, and Alan’s son, Jake. Charlie’s character is exactly like Charlie in real life, except Charlie in real life is just a bit pathetic.
I bet you didn’t know that Mr Sheen, the actor, has quite a bit in common with Mr Sheen the cleaning product. It’s true. They both sweep clean surfaces containing white puffy stuff, and they both spend time trying to clean up their act, only having to go redo the whole process when they mess up their house/life again. Clean and polish surfaces as you snort with Mr. Sheen, indeed. But the cleaning brand, Mr. Sheen, wants to distance itself from its namesake, as it notes on its Wikipedia entry:
“Mr Sheen is a brand of cleaning materials (chiefly floor and furniture polish) to be used after visits from Charlie Sheen.”
While cleaning brands are well-known for their disinfectious humour, I don’t know if that entry was entirely necessary. But I can certainly understand if they want to differentiate their product from the cheaper, trashier brand; in the event we got the two confused.
Charlie Sheen has been a little loopy for years. I’m not an actual psychologist, but then neither is Dr Phil. But I do possess the psychologist’s bible, the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Psychological Disorders, and I know how to use it, so let’s do a little diagnosing. I’ve never met Mr Sheen, and I haven’t done a differential diagnosis, but I’m gonna go with drug-induced psychosis, based loosely on the fact that he has a nasty little habit of snorting alot of cocaine on a pretty regular basis. You don’t need to be a psychologist to know this idiotic behaviour does not bode well for your psychological health (See: Britney Spears and the hair-shaving brouhaha).
To be diagnosed with a ‘Substance-Induced Psychotic Disorder’ you must meet certain criteria, one of which is prominent hallucinations and delusions. Hmm, that sounds an awful lot like our Charlie. Let’s look at the evidence. How about this gem from Charlie Sheen commenting on the September 11 attacks:
"There was a feeling, it just didn't look any commercial jetliner I've flown on any time in my life.….but did it sorta look like those buildings came down in a controlled demolition'?"
Yes Charlie. It probably looked a little unorthodox to you because commercial jetliners flown by pilots who are not terrorists do not tend to fly intentionally into scyscrapers. I have no doubt that Charlie is well-regarded at AA meetings for his Homeland Security credentials and construction industry expertise, but this sort of analysis doesn't really wash on Planet Sane. And this from the same interview:
"It seems to me like 19 amateurs with box cutters taking over four commercial airliners and hitting 75 percent of their targets: that feels like a conspiracy theory."
Even Osama bin Laden would think Sheen's conspiracy theory was whacked. Disregarding the fact that al-Qaeda couldn’t wait to tell us that they were responsible for the attacks, a flushing toilet is going to look like a conspiracy theory to someone who has been snorting cocaine for most of their life.
Monday 31 January 2011
Sunday 30 January 2011
X-ray machines at airports
If I hadn’t recently passed through Homeland Security on my way to the United States, I would probably have struggled to come up with something ‘X-y’ to write about in my A – Z Writing Challenge. Sometimes the alphabet hands you lemons, so you just have to make alphabet soup.
If I were stretched for an ‘X’ topic, I could discuss the rather tawdry suburb of Fyshwick in Canberra. If you don’t know about Fyshwick, let’s just say they put the X into X-rated and sell more than just xylophones in their whorehouses, I mean warehouses.
Rather than the infinitely captivating and topical issue of xylophones, today I will rant on about x-ray machines at airports. The Department of Homeland Security (DHS) are masters of the x-ray machine universe, and their foot soldiers have all the qualities I want airport security to possess; they are thorough, consistent, stern-faced, have no time for idiots, and serenade you with xylophones as you embark on your journey. I’m sorry if that didn’t happen to you, maybe you just got the regular ones who x-ray your shoes.
On my recent trip to Hawaii, I was asked by the DHS to take off my thongs for some inexplicable reason. Perhaps rubber thongs have made their way onto a contraband list of prohibited goods that can house home-made bombs. I hope someone has told Rip Curl.
Who am I to question the ways of Homeland Security. I just took my thongs off as instructed, in a fairly expeditious fashion. If you want to see freedom or your thongs again, don’t mess around with these people.
If you ever decide to start up your own airport, you should definitely consider hiring the services of the DHS for all your security requirements. Perhaps they should consider venturing into the bouncer industry. The drunken hooligans who pour out of our city’s nightclubs to fight each other with broken schooners would be wiped out in a night. And then they could deport them on the spot to a place far, far away; like Iran.
And then they would be Ahmadinejad’s problem. Hmm, I wonder what he would do with them? Ah, if only it could come true. I shall write to Kristina Keneally with my plan; it’s no more ridiculous to what they already have on the table. Good grief, I have digressed today...
As critical as they are, Homeland Security haven’t always done their job properly. After 9/11, the Bill Clinton-appointed Democrat in charge of the U.S. transportation department created a whole bunch of stupid regulations that inconvenienced thousands of airline passengers, but made the planes no safer.
He didn’t want to look like he was racially profiling anyone who might actually be a terrorist, so he banned airport security staff from calling attention to any faces that looked like the several dozen men who had just killed thousands of Americans.
Instead, the new legislation resulted in little old ladies being strip-searched, just in case they were hiding a set of boxcutters. Elderly men were forced to strip to their underwear because of steel bits in their legs, women were asked to remove their bras, and some kid’s GI Joe toy gun was confiscated.
Thank god that didn’t get onto the plane – who knows what that kid could have got up to with a miniscule toy rifle. But at least we weren’t offending those poor terrorists.
If I were stretched for an ‘X’ topic, I could discuss the rather tawdry suburb of Fyshwick in Canberra. If you don’t know about Fyshwick, let’s just say they put the X into X-rated and sell more than just xylophones in their whorehouses, I mean warehouses.
Rather than the infinitely captivating and topical issue of xylophones, today I will rant on about x-ray machines at airports. The Department of Homeland Security (DHS) are masters of the x-ray machine universe, and their foot soldiers have all the qualities I want airport security to possess; they are thorough, consistent, stern-faced, have no time for idiots, and serenade you with xylophones as you embark on your journey. I’m sorry if that didn’t happen to you, maybe you just got the regular ones who x-ray your shoes.
On my recent trip to Hawaii, I was asked by the DHS to take off my thongs for some inexplicable reason. Perhaps rubber thongs have made their way onto a contraband list of prohibited goods that can house home-made bombs. I hope someone has told Rip Curl.
Who am I to question the ways of Homeland Security. I just took my thongs off as instructed, in a fairly expeditious fashion. If you want to see freedom or your thongs again, don’t mess around with these people.
If you ever decide to start up your own airport, you should definitely consider hiring the services of the DHS for all your security requirements. Perhaps they should consider venturing into the bouncer industry. The drunken hooligans who pour out of our city’s nightclubs to fight each other with broken schooners would be wiped out in a night. And then they could deport them on the spot to a place far, far away; like Iran.
And then they would be Ahmadinejad’s problem. Hmm, I wonder what he would do with them? Ah, if only it could come true. I shall write to Kristina Keneally with my plan; it’s no more ridiculous to what they already have on the table. Good grief, I have digressed today...
As critical as they are, Homeland Security haven’t always done their job properly. After 9/11, the Bill Clinton-appointed Democrat in charge of the U.S. transportation department created a whole bunch of stupid regulations that inconvenienced thousands of airline passengers, but made the planes no safer.
He didn’t want to look like he was racially profiling anyone who might actually be a terrorist, so he banned airport security staff from calling attention to any faces that looked like the several dozen men who had just killed thousands of Americans.
Instead, the new legislation resulted in little old ladies being strip-searched, just in case they were hiding a set of boxcutters. Elderly men were forced to strip to their underwear because of steel bits in their legs, women were asked to remove their bras, and some kid’s GI Joe toy gun was confiscated.
Thank god that didn’t get onto the plane – who knows what that kid could have got up to with a miniscule toy rifle. But at least we weren’t offending those poor terrorists.
Saturday 29 January 2011
Winter and her colleagues
I have known Winter and Summer for a very long time, but we have never really been close; more like acquaintances that pass with the seasons. As a child, I never actually noticed either of them; their overbearing dispositions were of no relevance to my day. But these days, their annual visits leave me wanting the other to arrive, for no other reason than to get rid of the current one. I don’t dislike Winter and Summer per se, I just prefer life when they are not around, as they make me uncomfortable, often cause me to lose sleep, and they hang around for so long that they sap my energy.
My first memory of Summer’s power was a steaming hot day in July of ’79, when I sat in an Indian doctor’s office in Delhi with my mother, while the sikh tried to convince her that he needed to burn a rather unpleasant wart disease off my hand. The last thing I remember was keeling over in the 50 degree heat as we ran from the crazy man’s office after he pulled out a blow torch.
Most days I admire Summer’s brilliance from afar, as I generally can’t bear to be around her for long when she is in her prime. She is very bright and dazzling, but also very schemey, and will not hesitate to burn you when you least expect it. Deep down she’s not a bad season; she just needs to be handled with great care and caution.
Winter at her most intense ain’t no cup of tea either. A lot of people know how to handle her adverse outbursts, but I have always found her to be most untrustworthy and downright frosty for the most part. Every time she rolls into town I find myself despondent and depressed for months on end. I do everything I can to limit my exposure to her, and if that means travelling to the other side of the world for a while, then so be it.
I think my key issue with Winter is that I always underestimate her influence, and then when I least expect it she kicks me when I’m down and without layers. Although, when properly equipped, I can neutralise her strategy with a warm fireplace and a cup of hot chocolate. As with Summer, I often admire Winter’s beauty from afar, but we will never, ever be friends.
Winter and Summer don’t tend to spend much time together; probably because they have conflicting views on important matters like climate and weather, and hibernation and migration. While one of the few similarities between the two is a fondness for the sun, they still disagree over how much power it should wield. The overbearing nature of both Winter and Summer means they both need to be dominant, and will never be able to share the limelight.
In contrast, I adore their playful comrade, Spring. She is warm, dynamic, colourful and cheery; sometimes I think she is so loved by all because she always comes just after Winter departs, so it’s not hard to greet her wholeheartedly. But she blitzes into town, unannounced for the most part, and never stays long enough for me to fully appreciate her.
My first memory of Summer’s power was a steaming hot day in July of ’79, when I sat in an Indian doctor’s office in Delhi with my mother, while the sikh tried to convince her that he needed to burn a rather unpleasant wart disease off my hand. The last thing I remember was keeling over in the 50 degree heat as we ran from the crazy man’s office after he pulled out a blow torch.
Most days I admire Summer’s brilliance from afar, as I generally can’t bear to be around her for long when she is in her prime. She is very bright and dazzling, but also very schemey, and will not hesitate to burn you when you least expect it. Deep down she’s not a bad season; she just needs to be handled with great care and caution.
Winter at her most intense ain’t no cup of tea either. A lot of people know how to handle her adverse outbursts, but I have always found her to be most untrustworthy and downright frosty for the most part. Every time she rolls into town I find myself despondent and depressed for months on end. I do everything I can to limit my exposure to her, and if that means travelling to the other side of the world for a while, then so be it.
I think my key issue with Winter is that I always underestimate her influence, and then when I least expect it she kicks me when I’m down and without layers. Although, when properly equipped, I can neutralise her strategy with a warm fireplace and a cup of hot chocolate. As with Summer, I often admire Winter’s beauty from afar, but we will never, ever be friends.
Winter and Summer don’t tend to spend much time together; probably because they have conflicting views on important matters like climate and weather, and hibernation and migration. While one of the few similarities between the two is a fondness for the sun, they still disagree over how much power it should wield. The overbearing nature of both Winter and Summer means they both need to be dominant, and will never be able to share the limelight.
In contrast, I adore their playful comrade, Spring. She is warm, dynamic, colourful and cheery; sometimes I think she is so loved by all because she always comes just after Winter departs, so it’s not hard to greet her wholeheartedly. But she blitzes into town, unannounced for the most part, and never stays long enough for me to fully appreciate her.
Friday 28 January 2011
Violent school bullies
I am of a generation that didn’t know or see or understand violence until I was in my early teens. I didn’t watch much television, mum and dad got along, we didn’t have computer games, and we played and fought with our friends face to face rather than bully each other through a machine. I played inside, then I got kicked out of the house to play in the backyard. I was fortunate to have a carefree childhood, being a child; growing up at just the right pace.
When I was in high school, I remember watching an after school fight, for the simple reason that it was on my way to the bus stop. What I saw sickened me, and I was relieved when my PE teacher turned up and dragged the two protesting morons off to the principal’s office to, presumably, give them a kick up the backside. And I can ensure you that not one kid left standing in that dirt car park was anything but completely terrified of our furious teacher. And no-one considered suing the school or putting the episode on You Tube. How quickly things change.
The stories I hear through personal accounts and through the media of school bullying these days breaks my heart and makes me angry. It’s easy to place the blame solely with the parents for the behaviour of these borderline sociopaths, but helicopter parents are only part of the problem.
I big part of the issue with school kids these days is that education unions don’t let teachers use discipline in the classroom. I’m not talking about corporal punishment; I’m talking about telling them to be quiet. Teachers can get a rap over their knuckles in some schools for asking their students to be quiet and listen! The geniuses in charge think teaching young people how to behave in a socially acceptable way is politically incorrect; they should just be allowed to be themselves. Unfortunately, the consequences of this idiocy means the good kids have to suffer, the teachers have to suffer, and the rest of society has to suffer when these thugs leave school.
I don’t know anyone from my generation who is worse off from having being disciplined when they were young. Smacking is distinct from child abuse, and any parent who doesn't know that can take quite a bit of the credit for their kid's anti-social behaviour. Every teenager in history has rebelled against their parents; the kids in the fifties did it through the quaint use of rock and roll. For the most part, kids need to be moulded into decent human beings, and that requires some discipline from those who have been through it before and have come out the other end.
The progressive movement has ruined education and childhood. Their idea that non-punitive discipline leads to healthy, balanced children is plain wrong. Lack of any discipline is too permissive and leads to unruly children. The evidence can be found running around terrorising other kids and teachers in every public school playground in Australia.
And helicopter parents, who don't let their kids learn from their own mistakes, are part of the problem; because these kids never have a chance to learn that their actions have consequences until they are arrested on a charge of assault and battery that may ruin their lives. While many of these kids should to be placed in remand centres (a place to store young criminals before they graduate to adult prisons), a lack of any common sense in the criminal justice system means the judge will likely let the kid off, and then he's our problem.
When I was in high school, I remember watching an after school fight, for the simple reason that it was on my way to the bus stop. What I saw sickened me, and I was relieved when my PE teacher turned up and dragged the two protesting morons off to the principal’s office to, presumably, give them a kick up the backside. And I can ensure you that not one kid left standing in that dirt car park was anything but completely terrified of our furious teacher. And no-one considered suing the school or putting the episode on You Tube. How quickly things change.
The stories I hear through personal accounts and through the media of school bullying these days breaks my heart and makes me angry. It’s easy to place the blame solely with the parents for the behaviour of these borderline sociopaths, but helicopter parents are only part of the problem.
I big part of the issue with school kids these days is that education unions don’t let teachers use discipline in the classroom. I’m not talking about corporal punishment; I’m talking about telling them to be quiet. Teachers can get a rap over their knuckles in some schools for asking their students to be quiet and listen! The geniuses in charge think teaching young people how to behave in a socially acceptable way is politically incorrect; they should just be allowed to be themselves. Unfortunately, the consequences of this idiocy means the good kids have to suffer, the teachers have to suffer, and the rest of society has to suffer when these thugs leave school.
I don’t know anyone from my generation who is worse off from having being disciplined when they were young. Smacking is distinct from child abuse, and any parent who doesn't know that can take quite a bit of the credit for their kid's anti-social behaviour. Every teenager in history has rebelled against their parents; the kids in the fifties did it through the quaint use of rock and roll. For the most part, kids need to be moulded into decent human beings, and that requires some discipline from those who have been through it before and have come out the other end.
The progressive movement has ruined education and childhood. Their idea that non-punitive discipline leads to healthy, balanced children is plain wrong. Lack of any discipline is too permissive and leads to unruly children. The evidence can be found running around terrorising other kids and teachers in every public school playground in Australia.
And helicopter parents, who don't let their kids learn from their own mistakes, are part of the problem; because these kids never have a chance to learn that their actions have consequences until they are arrested on a charge of assault and battery that may ruin their lives. While many of these kids should to be placed in remand centres (a place to store young criminals before they graduate to adult prisons), a lack of any common sense in the criminal justice system means the judge will likely let the kid off, and then he's our problem.
Thursday 27 January 2011
Universal Studios Hollywood
Last July I spent a day of awesomeness at Universal Studios in Hollywood. It was so awesome that I could barely stand it. We arrived just after they opened for business, and powered past the giant monument of Jaws to get to the backlot tour gates before the marauding crowds. It turns out the marauding crowds don’t get up until about 11am, so it was all good. Until 11am.
I really enjoyed the tour of the studios, which included driving down Desperate Housewives’ Wisteria Lane, through Jaws’ Amity Island, past the War of the Worlds ‘plane crash’, and experiencing a fake earthquake in a train station, as seen in Bones, and a real fake real flash flood, as seen in, umm, I dunno. I was too busy freaking out over the friggin' flash flood coming down the hill to listen to the tour operator. We saw many other incredible sets, and others that were incredibly fake and tacky-looking that somehow manage to develop great authenticity on screen.
Now, back to Wisteria Lane, because DH is my favourite TV show and this is my blog. The set looks as fake in real life as it does on TV, but I didn’t care much, because I quite like plastic wisteria. Our tour guide told us they would be shooting later that day, so I got a little excited. But they probably say that to every one of the 5,000 tour groups they have every week.
I have heard stories of stars walking around in curlers, slippers and dressing gowns, but, alas, no sightings of Dr Phil. We didn't see Susan, Gaby, Carlos or Mike either. We did see a few miserable props guys that seemed to be ignorant to the fact that they work on Wisteria Lane. They looked even more bummed when some of the tour group waved to them, as if they gave a shit. If they worked where I work they would have a cause to be depressed, but they work on WISTERIA LANE! I suppose the conditions and super plan for hired help in Hollywood ain’t that grand, so they were probably depressed about having to work until they are 120 to keep paying the bills.
Another highlight for me was Psycho’s Norman Bates at his little house. The actor playing Norm was straight out of Clark Kent Central Casting, but played his creepy role so perfectly that it made my blood run cold. As the tour rumbled up to his little shack, we looked over to see Norm carry a body wrapped in a rug to the boot of his car. At this point, he spotted us, and started running towards us, before getting out a large kitchen knife and just missing the hapless souls in the back row. It was scripted to within an inch of its life, but was very well done.
Universal Studios have infused massive amounts of money into their fun park to encourage the tourists to show up all year round. It was 35 degrees the day we rocked up, but they have these outdoor air conditioning units throughout the park that randomly spray you with a fine mist. It actually felt like you were indoors if you walked in the right places. It was very refreshing, but would be rather annoying if I had been trying to maintain humid-free hair. As it was, I was saturated not long after arriving at the park, so hair maintenance wasn’t an issue.
The cause of my saturation was the Jurassic Park ride, which I found equal parts terrifying and exhilarating. In a nutshell, you spend a pleasant few minutes cruising through ‘Jurassic Park’ in a boat looking at cute, squawking dinosaurs, and then you go up into a pitch dark building, where a T-Rex, with a mouth the size of an average car, tries to bite your head off, and then you drop about 20 metres to the ground into a splash pond. The photo taken right at the point when you know you are going down showed me practically in tears.
Before the Jurassic Park ride from hell, I was somewhat of a theme park amateur, but I learnt quickly that if the building that houses a ride is high, there is probably a big scary dinosaur inside, and/or a big drop into a body of water, and it is probably not my cup of tea. The Mummy ride straight after Jurassic had me distressed for hours. And then we saw Delta Goodrem and Brian ‘Goodrem’ McFadden, like I hadn't been traumatised enough already.
After that, I reluctantly went on the Simpsons ride, because everyone told me how excellent it was, and it was a simulator, so how scary could it be. I was terrified the first time, but by the eighth time you couldn’t drag me off the thing. I'm so not a fan of the show, but the day just got better and better after the Simpsons, which is not something you'd generally hear me say.
We wrapped up the afternoon hanging out with the Terminator. The incredible Terminator 2: 3-D experience is presented in two parts. First, a hostess from Cyberdyne Systems Corporation, where they make the robots, tells you about the company’s latest creations. Then you get caught in the cross-fire when live actors, who look like the real actors through your glasses, play out a 3-D film. Universal Studios use the latest movie technology, digital graphics, and 3-D cinematography, and this was showcased in the Terminator experience, and probably explains why you can’t distinguish where reality ends and fantasy begins on most of the rides.
Tuesday 25 January 2011
Scary Creature Phobias
Spider Phobia
I must confess that I have deliberately increased my arachnophobia in the past to test if I actually have a phobia, or if I’m just a little bit cwazy. And the answer is yes, on both accounts. Spider phobia is a specific phobia, and the psychologist’s bible, that be my beloved Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Psychological Disorders, says that I have a problem, because this is my life:
I also have a shark phobia, because I don’t like to do things by half. I think sharks are hauntingly beautiful but belong nowhere near me. On the Universal Studios tour of Amity Island, I was the only person who ducked when a feeble mechanical fish the size of a large carp attempted to scare us. Somebody screamed, but I think she was around three-years-old.
I don’t know the origin of my fear of the shark, but I do know that Jaws probably didn't help matters. Every time I walk along a deserted beach, those two notes pop into my head, and then speed up as I get closer and closer to the shoreline. What can I say, my life is just one long disaster movie. But clearly it is not exciting enough to ignite the box office, a la Titanic.
It's been a long time since I ventured voluntary into a body of water for the purpose of swimming. A few years ago I went waist deep into the ocean at Broulee on the South Coast, but only because I didn't want my fly-away Hawaii cap returning to its homeland. I know, I'm a sook, but guess who will be laughing last when a great white snaps you in half? (Note to Ed.: Why are you so mean-spirited?)
Obviously I wouldn't laugh literally, but it would look kinda funny. I would try to help, but I would likely pass out before I got anywhere near you. I'm sure you'll be fine though. It would just be an alternative take on cloning. If you are a surfer, try to look less like a seal, and more like anything a shark is scared of. Perhaps wearing your great white shark suit might help; I doubt Jaws would eat his family members. Just trying to help. I'm a helper.
Despite the fact the modern backyard swimming pool has no connection whatsoever to the ocean, I refuse to believe that sharks don't swim in them. Because I know that sharks are very intelligent and can track down pools using special sonar navman. Not many people know that, because it doesn't make the evening news. Maybe the media sharks are in on it; it takes one to know one.
This is one weird blog post.
Sayonara, writer's block
Having completed uni at the end of last year, I started this year with a goal of writing every day and writing consistently. I wanted to form a habit, but my writers block was working against me. Although I always remember how effortless and enjoyable it used to be. So two weeks ago I began a writing challenge that would see me tackle 26 topics over 26 days from the 26 letters of the alphabet. The idea was to choose a topic and write a 500 - 700 word post every day.
And so far, so good. I expected to tire of it around the ‘F’ mark, to stop making an effort around the ‘K’ mark, and to quit at the ‘L’ mark. But this challenge has been fun and satisfying, and not once have I found it tedious or considered not continuing, which has been a surprise to me. And most importantly for me, my writer’s block has vanished (touch wood), leaving a creative flow in its wake. I hope it continues because it’s a big part of who I am.
I must confess that I have deliberately increased my arachnophobia in the past to test if I actually have a phobia, or if I’m just a little bit cwazy. And the answer is yes, on both accounts. Spider phobia is a specific phobia, and the psychologist’s bible, that be my beloved Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Psychological Disorders, says that I have a problem, because this is my life:
- I experience a ridiculous amount of fear and anxiety when a spider is in my presence
- Exposure to said spider causes me to hyperventilate and respond anxiously in other fun ways
- I can recognise that the fear is ridiculous because I am human and it is spider
- I generally avoid arachnid type hangouts, and anxiety builds if I have to go into sheds or random cobweb-filled dark alleys
- My fear and anxiety often ruins my day and forces me to keep furniture away from walls and retrieve stuff from the mailbox with barbecue tongs
- I very much dislike those fake spiders that dangle around certain theme park attractions. They are real to me. Universal Studios: I'll send you my psychiatric bills
Shark Phobia
I also have a shark phobia, because I don’t like to do things by half. I think sharks are hauntingly beautiful but belong nowhere near me. On the Universal Studios tour of Amity Island, I was the only person who ducked when a feeble mechanical fish the size of a large carp attempted to scare us. Somebody screamed, but I think she was around three-years-old.
I don’t know the origin of my fear of the shark, but I do know that Jaws probably didn't help matters. Every time I walk along a deserted beach, those two notes pop into my head, and then speed up as I get closer and closer to the shoreline. What can I say, my life is just one long disaster movie. But clearly it is not exciting enough to ignite the box office, a la Titanic.
It's been a long time since I ventured voluntary into a body of water for the purpose of swimming. A few years ago I went waist deep into the ocean at Broulee on the South Coast, but only because I didn't want my fly-away Hawaii cap returning to its homeland. I know, I'm a sook, but guess who will be laughing last when a great white snaps you in half? (Note to Ed.: Why are you so mean-spirited?)
Obviously I wouldn't laugh literally, but it would look kinda funny. I would try to help, but I would likely pass out before I got anywhere near you. I'm sure you'll be fine though. It would just be an alternative take on cloning. If you are a surfer, try to look less like a seal, and more like anything a shark is scared of. Perhaps wearing your great white shark suit might help; I doubt Jaws would eat his family members. Just trying to help. I'm a helper.
Despite the fact the modern backyard swimming pool has no connection whatsoever to the ocean, I refuse to believe that sharks don't swim in them. Because I know that sharks are very intelligent and can track down pools using special sonar navman. Not many people know that, because it doesn't make the evening news. Maybe the media sharks are in on it; it takes one to know one.
This is one weird blog post.
Sayonara, writer's block
I have always loved to write, but my passion and creativity disappeared when I started uni seven years ago. The writing style I conformed to when studying the humanities worked in opposition to my natural style. It was like working within a box; with rules, conventions and referencing, and it felt like the creativity was slowly draining out of me. To this end, I stopped writing for fun, due to lack of time, motivation and an extra strong dose of writers block.
Having completed uni at the end of last year, I started this year with a goal of writing every day and writing consistently. I wanted to form a habit, but my writers block was working against me. Although I always remember how effortless and enjoyable it used to be. So two weeks ago I began a writing challenge that would see me tackle 26 topics over 26 days from the 26 letters of the alphabet. The idea was to choose a topic and write a 500 - 700 word post every day.
And so far, so good. I expected to tire of it around the ‘F’ mark, to stop making an effort around the ‘K’ mark, and to quit at the ‘L’ mark. But this challenge has been fun and satisfying, and not once have I found it tedious or considered not continuing, which has been a surprise to me. And most importantly for me, my writer’s block has vanished (touch wood), leaving a creative flow in its wake. I hope it continues because it’s a big part of who I am.
Monday 24 January 2011
Right Royal Wedding
The wedding brouhaha is all a bit top secret at this stage. The last thing the Royals need is the Fleet Street hacks picking apart every wedding detail and creating pie graphs and flow charts to show how much money is being wasted on security and cream puffs, and which hapless Govvie estate should benefit instead. I suppose it’s a bit presumptuous to say journalists can understand statistics. It’s kind of a moot point anyway, because accuracy is not generally a priority for the tabloids.
Prince Charles has banned kitsch merchandise this time around, which is understandable considering the evidence from his own nuptials can still be found in most households throughout the Commonwealth. It doesn’t matter what the event is; mug commemoration is tacky. Charles knows this and wants more for his boy. Although, William is rather more aesthetically pleasing than his father was on his wedding day, and Kate is fortunate that she is not getting married in the eighties, a point she will appreciate in years to come when she is asked to autograph her face on millions of platters around the nation.
It’s anyone’s guess what Kate is going to wear. Hopefully it’ll be classic, elegant and bear no resemblance whatsoever to any of Vivienne Westwood’s creations. And I hope she doesn’t fancy any Aussie designers or we’ll never hear the end of it. The pressure on Team Kate’s hairdresser and make-up upperer will be immense, so I'm sure there will be professional counsellors on standby for any emergencies, armed with words of wisdom, extra-strength hair spray and handfuls of kohl pencils.
The quaintly named Bucklebury in Berkshire, Kate’s home town, has already been invaded by curious tourists and international media. Apparently the Americans have a particular fascination with Wills and Kate. The local folk in towns that breed celebrities never to cease to amaze me with their nonchalance and downright annoyance that people dare come to their village to snoop, never mind the fact their pesky visitors will likely invest back into the community. Bleed the tourists dry, you fools! They are Americans; they don’t understand currency that isn’t American.
The Buckleburites should be excited that anyone has taken an interest in their pokey little village, which is actually quite beautiful, but won’t be for long. Although some locals aren't fussed about all the fuss.
Local pig farmer, Julian Taylor, says “it won’t bother me; the tourists aren’t going to come to see the pig farm”.
Mr Taylor makes a valid point, but I disagree. As soon as the American tourists find where the hell Bucklebury is on the English A-Z, they’ll be all over the pig farm like a fat kid on a cupcake.
Sunday 23 January 2011
Queens of the ocean and Qantas
Cunard's queens of the ocean - fingers crossed they won't sink
On 22 February this year, two of the Cunard line’s modern ocean liners will be in Sydney for a brief rendezvous on their separate voyages around the globe. The Queen Mary 2 (QM2), the flagship of the Cunard line, had her maiden voyage in 2004, and the Queen Elizabeth (QE), who is the baby of the fleet, having been launched in October 2010.
I have previously written of my inexplicable obsession with sunken ocean liners, particularly the Titanic and others from her era. The early twentieth century was a period of incredible, majestic ocean liners, all with a fascinating tale to tell; whether it be a tragic sinking, heroic efforts during the war, or a long life cruising the Transatlantic route as a passenger ship.
My interest began in 2004, when I chose to research sunken ocean liners for a university project. Visiting the Titanic in a yellow submarine is on my bucket list, but I can’t see it happening unless I befriend James Cameron. Apart from his unfortunate habit of being a left wing windbag, he is passionate about the wreck and has travelled down to view and film the Titanic and other sunken liners on many occasions. Perhaps I’ll just make my own billion dollar movie and buy my own fleet of submarines.
The history of Cunard and the White Star Line, another maker of ocean liners, is an interesting tale as well. In 1912, they were busily competing to produce the biggest, fastest, most luxurious ocean liners ever built. Reputations were at stake, and no other company in the world was coming close for the unofficial title of being the best across the prestigious Transatlantic route between Europe and the Americas. The story ended tragically for the White Star Line, when the Titanic, the jewel in their crown, sunk to the bottom of the Atlantic on her maiden voyage after being fatally damaged by an iceberg. The quest to be fastest tore the company apart, and brought an end to a great era.
Cunard’s fleet did not fair well either. Their (posthomously) famous Lusitania was scuttled by a submarine in World War 1, as were many of their other liners. Carpathia, the ship that came for the survivors of Titanic, was sunk by a German u-boat four years after the rescue.
While the QM2 and QE do not rival the impressiveness of their predecessors, at least they have lifeboats and the Germans don’t sink things anymore.
Qantas - fingers crossed they won't fall out of the sky
Speaking of ocean-faring transport, I think I’d rather spend six months on a leaking plastic raft or a Siev-X than take my chances with Qantas at the moment, Australia’s only decent international airline. Clearly it’s all too hard for Rolls Royce to install a working engine onto a jet, so why not save time and money and send it to the mechanics at ‘Plane Engines R Us’? They’d probably throw in a lube check and wheel alignment. Do the engineers need to paid more? What the heck is going on? And why is everyone so blasé about it? Ah, another engine failure, I’m sure it won’t happen again. It’s happened again? Oh well...
What happened to the good old days, when Qantas’ worst skeleton was news of a randy British actor on a long haul flight who decided to take first class hospitality quite literally? I'm sure Qantas are desperate for controversy that doesn't involve in-flight engine failure and parts falling off their planes. At least you can sack humans when they stop working mid-flight and start doing things that aren't exactly written into their contract. Where’s Ralph Fiennes when you need him.
On 22 February this year, two of the Cunard line’s modern ocean liners will be in Sydney for a brief rendezvous on their separate voyages around the globe. The Queen Mary 2 (QM2), the flagship of the Cunard line, had her maiden voyage in 2004, and the Queen Elizabeth (QE), who is the baby of the fleet, having been launched in October 2010.
I have previously written of my inexplicable obsession with sunken ocean liners, particularly the Titanic and others from her era. The early twentieth century was a period of incredible, majestic ocean liners, all with a fascinating tale to tell; whether it be a tragic sinking, heroic efforts during the war, or a long life cruising the Transatlantic route as a passenger ship.
My interest began in 2004, when I chose to research sunken ocean liners for a university project. Visiting the Titanic in a yellow submarine is on my bucket list, but I can’t see it happening unless I befriend James Cameron. Apart from his unfortunate habit of being a left wing windbag, he is passionate about the wreck and has travelled down to view and film the Titanic and other sunken liners on many occasions. Perhaps I’ll just make my own billion dollar movie and buy my own fleet of submarines.
The history of Cunard and the White Star Line, another maker of ocean liners, is an interesting tale as well. In 1912, they were busily competing to produce the biggest, fastest, most luxurious ocean liners ever built. Reputations were at stake, and no other company in the world was coming close for the unofficial title of being the best across the prestigious Transatlantic route between Europe and the Americas. The story ended tragically for the White Star Line, when the Titanic, the jewel in their crown, sunk to the bottom of the Atlantic on her maiden voyage after being fatally damaged by an iceberg. The quest to be fastest tore the company apart, and brought an end to a great era.
Cunard’s fleet did not fair well either. Their (posthomously) famous Lusitania was scuttled by a submarine in World War 1, as were many of their other liners. Carpathia, the ship that came for the survivors of Titanic, was sunk by a German u-boat four years after the rescue.
While the QM2 and QE do not rival the impressiveness of their predecessors, at least they have lifeboats and the Germans don’t sink things anymore.
Qantas - fingers crossed they won't fall out of the sky
Speaking of ocean-faring transport, I think I’d rather spend six months on a leaking plastic raft or a Siev-X than take my chances with Qantas at the moment, Australia’s only decent international airline. Clearly it’s all too hard for Rolls Royce to install a working engine onto a jet, so why not save time and money and send it to the mechanics at ‘Plane Engines R Us’? They’d probably throw in a lube check and wheel alignment. Do the engineers need to paid more? What the heck is going on? And why is everyone so blasé about it? Ah, another engine failure, I’m sure it won’t happen again. It’s happened again? Oh well...
What happened to the good old days, when Qantas’ worst skeleton was news of a randy British actor on a long haul flight who decided to take first class hospitality quite literally? I'm sure Qantas are desperate for controversy that doesn't involve in-flight engine failure and parts falling off their planes. At least you can sack humans when they stop working mid-flight and start doing things that aren't exactly written into their contract. Where’s Ralph Fiennes when you need him.
Saturday 22 January 2011
Princess and the Prius
Princesses
I’ve been thinking about changing my work situation, mostly because I’d rather stick a hot poker in my eye than continue to turn up at my current place of employment. So, I have been pondering professions that I might prefer, and ‘Princess’ keeps popping up. But I’ve noticed that you never see any jobs advertisements for Princesses on Seek or in the Saturday Classifieds. And the jobs page on the official website of the British Monarchy tell me they need a ‘Liveried Helper’ and ‘Drawings Conservator’, but no ‘Princess’; which needs to be addressed.
I’ve been there and done that with the ‘liveried help’ slave stuff, but I don’t know if Princess is a viable career option for me either. I mean, how far can you go in that line of work? Where are the college career counsellors when you need them? Maybe I should assess myself against the royal criteria before I start flicking off my resume to Buckingham Palace. Here are some things that may work against me.
I’m not very people-orientated. Then again, neither are most of the Royals. But there is an expectation that you should not snub commoners. I can’t imagine how highly annoying it would be if I was required to greet every homeless bum and weirdo and French President I saw on the street with a gracious smile, a bit of a hello and a handshake. That’s just gross, even through my velvet and faux fur gloves, and would be terribly tedious.
And I do tend to prefer eating food with my hands rather than through the more dignified and modern means of cutlery. This curious habit could pose a problem over lunch at Windsor Castle. I don’t know why I prefer to eat in this style; perhaps I am more closely related to apes than the average bear. Don’t judge me, I don’t see your diamond-encrusted tiara.
However, there are some things that may give me an advantage over others in this job market. For example, I tend to walk into things and trip at random intervals throughout the day, and this skill, if developed correctly, will work in my favour when learning the art of the curtsy. Plus I do look good in crowns of gold, silver or foil, and I can work a pure powdered pastel without looking like a human version of My Little Pony.
Prius
Prius' are not logically or causally linked to princesses. What, you thought there was going to be a connection? The Toyota Prius is a fully hybrid electric car, which means it is the ultimate politically correct status symbol for any self-respecting left wing environmentalist. And Prius owners simply must tell you how ‘friendly’ their hybrid is whenever you are talking about vehicular transport, earthy type things, or any topic completely unrelated to their stupid car.
While driving a Prius means never having to explain yourself in their world, that doesn't stop them trying to bore you senseless in their smug, pretentious, ignorant kind of way, completely oblivious to the pointlessness of it all. Like real evidence that their car is somehow superior. Any evidence gathered from the IPCC is not considered real evidence, as they have largely been discredited and there is also the issue of relevance.
Sheesh, where to start with Prius drivers? How about here: The man Bill Clinton put in charge of the CIA, former chief James Woolsey Jr., drives a Prius because they don’t use much fuel, and fuel is from the Middle East, and oil profits go to terrorist groups apparently, and you are indirectly funding terrorism, and you are just as bad as those terrorists because you don’t drive a Prius. The next time you’re behind a Prius at the traffic lights, spare a thought for the driver. He thinks you’re a terrorist. So use your time wisely and stare him down in his rear vision mirror.
There are so many morons in the world, it’s hard to keep track of them all, but rest assured a great majority of them probably own one of these cars. I have a very loose understanding of what goes on in the heads of these people, but to continue Woolsey’s ingenious thought process, if you buy products that are made in China you are funding child labour. And if you eat a Big Mac you are enabling child obesity. Reader, you disgust me. Those poor kids.
I'm pretty sure child labour in China is caused by communism, child obesity is caused by eating too much, and terrorism is caused by people who don’t give a rats if the West drive around in their Prius’.
Random terrorist: “Oh, the West are all driving Prius’? Well, I don’t despise them anymore and I’m going to stop trying to annihilate them. I might just take my camels for a walk instead”.
I don’t think so.
I’ve been thinking about changing my work situation, mostly because I’d rather stick a hot poker in my eye than continue to turn up at my current place of employment. So, I have been pondering professions that I might prefer, and ‘Princess’ keeps popping up. But I’ve noticed that you never see any jobs advertisements for Princesses on Seek or in the Saturday Classifieds. And the jobs page on the official website of the British Monarchy tell me they need a ‘Liveried Helper’ and ‘Drawings Conservator’, but no ‘Princess’; which needs to be addressed.
I’ve been there and done that with the ‘liveried help’ slave stuff, but I don’t know if Princess is a viable career option for me either. I mean, how far can you go in that line of work? Where are the college career counsellors when you need them? Maybe I should assess myself against the royal criteria before I start flicking off my resume to Buckingham Palace. Here are some things that may work against me.
I’m not very people-orientated. Then again, neither are most of the Royals. But there is an expectation that you should not snub commoners. I can’t imagine how highly annoying it would be if I was required to greet every homeless bum and weirdo and French President I saw on the street with a gracious smile, a bit of a hello and a handshake. That’s just gross, even through my velvet and faux fur gloves, and would be terribly tedious.
And I do tend to prefer eating food with my hands rather than through the more dignified and modern means of cutlery. This curious habit could pose a problem over lunch at Windsor Castle. I don’t know why I prefer to eat in this style; perhaps I am more closely related to apes than the average bear. Don’t judge me, I don’t see your diamond-encrusted tiara.
However, there are some things that may give me an advantage over others in this job market. For example, I tend to walk into things and trip at random intervals throughout the day, and this skill, if developed correctly, will work in my favour when learning the art of the curtsy. Plus I do look good in crowns of gold, silver or foil, and I can work a pure powdered pastel without looking like a human version of My Little Pony.
Prius
Prius' are not logically or causally linked to princesses. What, you thought there was going to be a connection? The Toyota Prius is a fully hybrid electric car, which means it is the ultimate politically correct status symbol for any self-respecting left wing environmentalist. And Prius owners simply must tell you how ‘friendly’ their hybrid is whenever you are talking about vehicular transport, earthy type things, or any topic completely unrelated to their stupid car.
While driving a Prius means never having to explain yourself in their world, that doesn't stop them trying to bore you senseless in their smug, pretentious, ignorant kind of way, completely oblivious to the pointlessness of it all. Like real evidence that their car is somehow superior. Any evidence gathered from the IPCC is not considered real evidence, as they have largely been discredited and there is also the issue of relevance.
Sheesh, where to start with Prius drivers? How about here: The man Bill Clinton put in charge of the CIA, former chief James Woolsey Jr., drives a Prius because they don’t use much fuel, and fuel is from the Middle East, and oil profits go to terrorist groups apparently, and you are indirectly funding terrorism, and you are just as bad as those terrorists because you don’t drive a Prius. The next time you’re behind a Prius at the traffic lights, spare a thought for the driver. He thinks you’re a terrorist. So use your time wisely and stare him down in his rear vision mirror.
There are so many morons in the world, it’s hard to keep track of them all, but rest assured a great majority of them probably own one of these cars. I have a very loose understanding of what goes on in the heads of these people, but to continue Woolsey’s ingenious thought process, if you buy products that are made in China you are funding child labour. And if you eat a Big Mac you are enabling child obesity. Reader, you disgust me. Those poor kids.
I'm pretty sure child labour in China is caused by communism, child obesity is caused by eating too much, and terrorism is caused by people who don’t give a rats if the West drive around in their Prius’.
Random terrorist: “Oh, the West are all driving Prius’? Well, I don’t despise them anymore and I’m going to stop trying to annihilate them. I might just take my camels for a walk instead”.
I don’t think so.
Friday 21 January 2011
Oprah's Aussie Adventure
Who can forget Oprah’s whirlwind Tour of Duty of Australia in early December 2010, to film episodes for her final season on air (until she comes back on air). The media went stir-crazy, and celebs went to great lengths to be seen with the talkshow queen, like abseiling like a lunatic into her show and smashing their head on sound equipment. The Australian Tourism Board members followed her around, wagging their tails, wetting their lips and drooling and slobbering like bloodhounds.
Oprah visited Queensland, when it was dry and sunny, and the Red Centre, when it was hot and yuck; and her ‘Ultimate Viewers’, flown in from all around the U.S., flew to various capital cities, one of which was Tasmania. Are we trying to get tourists to come here or avoid coming here? Her shows were filmed near Sydney Opera House to the adoration of thousands, who clamoured over each other to get tickets in a bid to nab some pearl bling from one of Oprah’s eight million sponsors.
I can’t say I know much about Oprah. I know that she possesses the same amount of ignorance about international political affairs as most left wing celebrities (are there any other kind), which means supporting the status quo, thinking organisations like the United Nations are relevant, adoring Barack Obama, and hating George Bush.
And I know that she deplores racism, but often it seems that she is the only one talking about it, blaming white people for this and that, and being generally divisive, such is the wont of many black celebrities; like Tyra Banks (“white girls don’t understand anything!”), and Rev. Al Sharp (“white people are stupid!”). Racist much?
When they criticise white people it’s okay, but white people are never, ever allowed to criticise them. They’re like feminists. Feminists verbally attack men whenever they feel like it, but men are never, ever allowed to question women, or they’ll be ripped apart by idiots like Naomi Wolf.
Um, moving right along. I think I would very much like to cruise in O's shoes for a while. I watched her first Australian episode the other night and she convinced me that I need to see Australia. In her first hour on Hamilton Island, she patted a koala. And the next few hours were filled with flying in a chopper over the Great Barrier Reef, landing on the delectable sands of Whitehaven Beach for an evening BBQ cooked by Curtis Stone and seafood presented on platters by male models in their underpants, and being serenaded by the ten tenors.
In contrast, my first hour in Oprah's country was spent waiting in an immigration queue, the second hour was spent waiting for the hotel mini-van, and I got into my hotel room a good six hours after landing on U.S. soil, and then collapsed from sleep-deprivation, hunger and sheer exhaustion.
Oprah visited Queensland, when it was dry and sunny, and the Red Centre, when it was hot and yuck; and her ‘Ultimate Viewers’, flown in from all around the U.S., flew to various capital cities, one of which was Tasmania. Are we trying to get tourists to come here or avoid coming here? Her shows were filmed near Sydney Opera House to the adoration of thousands, who clamoured over each other to get tickets in a bid to nab some pearl bling from one of Oprah’s eight million sponsors.
I can’t say I know much about Oprah. I know that she possesses the same amount of ignorance about international political affairs as most left wing celebrities (are there any other kind), which means supporting the status quo, thinking organisations like the United Nations are relevant, adoring Barack Obama, and hating George Bush.
And I know that she deplores racism, but often it seems that she is the only one talking about it, blaming white people for this and that, and being generally divisive, such is the wont of many black celebrities; like Tyra Banks (“white girls don’t understand anything!”), and Rev. Al Sharp (“white people are stupid!”). Racist much?
When they criticise white people it’s okay, but white people are never, ever allowed to criticise them. They’re like feminists. Feminists verbally attack men whenever they feel like it, but men are never, ever allowed to question women, or they’ll be ripped apart by idiots like Naomi Wolf.
Um, moving right along. I think I would very much like to cruise in O's shoes for a while. I watched her first Australian episode the other night and she convinced me that I need to see Australia. In her first hour on Hamilton Island, she patted a koala. And the next few hours were filled with flying in a chopper over the Great Barrier Reef, landing on the delectable sands of Whitehaven Beach for an evening BBQ cooked by Curtis Stone and seafood presented on platters by male models in their underpants, and being serenaded by the ten tenors.
In contrast, my first hour in Oprah's country was spent waiting in an immigration queue, the second hour was spent waiting for the hotel mini-van, and I got into my hotel room a good six hours after landing on U.S. soil, and then collapsed from sleep-deprivation, hunger and sheer exhaustion.
Thursday 20 January 2011
NASA and nutrition
NASA, the world leader in space exploration, aerospace and aeronautics research and technology, and kids nutrition. Huh? Yes, the National Aeronautics and Space Administration has a program to encourage fats kids to stop eating so much and start exercising a lot more. Man, why hasn't anyone thought of that before? Thank god we have those NASA researchers to come up with this ground-breaking stuff.
Yesterday NASA launched a health and nutrition competition called "Mission X: Train Like an Astronaut." Nearly 4,000 kids in 25 cities worldwide will participate in the six week pilot. At first glance this seems a little out of NASA's gamut, what with their focus on outer space and all. And then I thought about it again and I said to myself, who the fuck came up with this idea? Well, I don’t know, but it has Michelle Obama’s spacefood bar-free fingerprints all over it.
Only Michelle could produce a kids health awareness campaign out of a department that has absolutely nothing to do with health or nutrition. If anyone could link two things so distinctly different, it’s the First Lady. I’d be pretty pissed if I got a job at NASA and had to spend my time working on obesity programs.
During the program, the kiddies will no doubt learn that the astronauts that have sucked up enough to actually venture into the great unknown must choose their meals about five months before lift-off. NASA convenes a “special taste panel” so these space cowboys can taste the food and spit it out in a safe, controlled environment. The idea is to pick the meals that they find the least repulsive, as they will need to stomach it for days or months at a time. I know, I wish that I had paid more attention in aerospace class as well, and then I too would be living the dream.
Personally I think astronauts are excellent role models for kids. How often do you see them groping cosmonautic women in dark corridors at the international space station, sniffing a line of cocaine through the air on a night out orbiting, or doing anything controversial or inappropriate that requires discipline or fines at the hands of NASA? Discounting the fact that their hygiene practices may not be the most sanitary in the universe, they are ideal role models. Perhaps a little time spent in the outer space sin-bin would be useful for the entire stable of NRL players, where there is no-one around to care about their lack of law-abiding behaviour.
Yesterday NASA launched a health and nutrition competition called "Mission X: Train Like an Astronaut." Nearly 4,000 kids in 25 cities worldwide will participate in the six week pilot. At first glance this seems a little out of NASA's gamut, what with their focus on outer space and all. And then I thought about it again and I said to myself, who the fuck came up with this idea? Well, I don’t know, but it has Michelle Obama’s spacefood bar-free fingerprints all over it.
Only Michelle could produce a kids health awareness campaign out of a department that has absolutely nothing to do with health or nutrition. If anyone could link two things so distinctly different, it’s the First Lady. I’d be pretty pissed if I got a job at NASA and had to spend my time working on obesity programs.
During the program, the kiddies will no doubt learn that the astronauts that have sucked up enough to actually venture into the great unknown must choose their meals about five months before lift-off. NASA convenes a “special taste panel” so these space cowboys can taste the food and spit it out in a safe, controlled environment. The idea is to pick the meals that they find the least repulsive, as they will need to stomach it for days or months at a time. I know, I wish that I had paid more attention in aerospace class as well, and then I too would be living the dream.
Personally I think astronauts are excellent role models for kids. How often do you see them groping cosmonautic women in dark corridors at the international space station, sniffing a line of cocaine through the air on a night out orbiting, or doing anything controversial or inappropriate that requires discipline or fines at the hands of NASA? Discounting the fact that their hygiene practices may not be the most sanitary in the universe, they are ideal role models. Perhaps a little time spent in the outer space sin-bin would be useful for the entire stable of NRL players, where there is no-one around to care about their lack of law-abiding behaviour.
Tuesday 18 January 2011
London
The only people who spend the (really) cold months in the English capital are hard-core tourists, international backpackers who want to experience a London winter, Queen Elizabeth, locals who don't know any better, and homeless people who can’t afford to move the hell out of there.
The tube is the only way to get from one side of London to the other in one hit and it is very easy to understand. Even people from Tasmania could understand it. For comparative purposes, it’s much better than the Paris underground system, because it makes sense, it runs like clockwork, it’s not full of French people and the station names are not in French. Other than those obstacles, the transport system in the French capital is tops as well.
I used to live in Kingsbury, near Wembley Stadium, which is an area that you would mistake for Macquarie Fields whenever Manchester City is in town to play, well, any team in the Premier League. Kingsbury is located in Greater London, which is on the outskirts of cool, inner city London.
In the spirit of the British, who love to segregate everything into class, Greater London is to cheap Indian restaurants, fear, hooligans, random knife attacks and tube station creeps as Inner London is to Chelsea.
Westminster Abbey is a homely little church in the middle of town that you may simply walk past if it wasn’t for the fact that it is about the size of a Westfield Shopping Centre. It is GORGEOUS. The Abbey was founded in 960, which is mighty impressive, yes?
The Abbey is totally self-supporting, so I imagine its Investment Committee are extremely busy right now organising scone drives to cover the costs of Willy and Kate's shindig in April this year.
And then we have the Houses of Parliament, where a conga line of successive Labor Prime Ministers has spent alot of their time ruining the lives of ordinary British folk. This is my favourite landmark in London, with its beautiful limestone exterior that took 14 hits during the Blitz and still came off better than the other guy. Don’t even try to mess with it.
Monday 17 January 2011
Kia & tennis balls
So I wanted to talk about the tennis today. Just because. But I’m at ‘K’ in my Alphabet Writing Challenge and what tennis terminology starts with ‘K’ other than the Australian Open’s main sponsor?
I love the Australian Open. I’ve wanted to head down to Melbourne for years, and I would have if it wasn’t so hot in January, if it wasn’t so much better to watch on Channel Seven, and if I didn't mind crowds of drunken hooligans throwing stadium seating and molotov cocktails at my head. It would be like going to a Canterbury Bulldogs NRL game but escaping with all your limbs in tact. Ah, multiculturalism at its finest. Don't call me racist, I'm not the one hurling furniture around stadiums.
There are many cool reasons to watch the Australian Open. I like Jim Courier’s entertaining courtside interviews with the players after their match. I like how John Alexander gets all tetchy with Courier in the commentary box when Courier gets the answer to Alexander’s nightly ‘tennis brain teaser’ in about two seconds.
I wonder if Alexander will continue to commentate now that he is the Federal Member for Bennelong (which he won from Maxine McKew in the 2010 Federal Election after she stole it from John Howard)? I like how the female commentators do the bitchy thing some females do when they argue about inane little details, like whether the hems of men’s shorts are stitched or over-locked.
I like Andy Roddick. His appearance and sense of humour; his attitude problem not so much. I like how Roger Fedderer cries. I hate how Roger Fedderer cries. I like to ponder why Lleyton Hewitt is vilified and Pat Rafter is a demigod. I like how they make it look so damn easy. I like to think that I could play like this with a spot of training, a good pair of Nike sandshoes and some of that ubiquitous bling dripping off my body.
Um, so it turns out that Kia is a very generous sponsor. For the 2011 Australian Open, they will introduce the new Kia Grand Slam zoom zoom, for those players who are just too buggered to continue running around the court. They come equipped with fashionable lucozade holders, stylish sweatband seatbelts and an extra big glovebox for all your tennis ball requirements.
I love the Australian Open. I’ve wanted to head down to Melbourne for years, and I would have if it wasn’t so hot in January, if it wasn’t so much better to watch on Channel Seven, and if I didn't mind crowds of drunken hooligans throwing stadium seating and molotov cocktails at my head. It would be like going to a Canterbury Bulldogs NRL game but escaping with all your limbs in tact. Ah, multiculturalism at its finest. Don't call me racist, I'm not the one hurling furniture around stadiums.
There are many cool reasons to watch the Australian Open. I like Jim Courier’s entertaining courtside interviews with the players after their match. I like how John Alexander gets all tetchy with Courier in the commentary box when Courier gets the answer to Alexander’s nightly ‘tennis brain teaser’ in about two seconds.
I wonder if Alexander will continue to commentate now that he is the Federal Member for Bennelong (which he won from Maxine McKew in the 2010 Federal Election after she stole it from John Howard)? I like how the female commentators do the bitchy thing some females do when they argue about inane little details, like whether the hems of men’s shorts are stitched or over-locked.
I like Andy Roddick. His appearance and sense of humour; his attitude problem not so much. I like how Roger Fedderer cries. I hate how Roger Fedderer cries. I like to ponder why Lleyton Hewitt is vilified and Pat Rafter is a demigod. I like how they make it look so damn easy. I like to think that I could play like this with a spot of training, a good pair of Nike sandshoes and some of that ubiquitous bling dripping off my body.
Um, so it turns out that Kia is a very generous sponsor. For the 2011 Australian Open, they will introduce the new Kia Grand Slam zoom zoom, for those players who are just too buggered to continue running around the court. They come equipped with fashionable lucozade holders, stylish sweatband seatbelts and an extra big glovebox for all your tennis ball requirements.
Sunday 16 January 2011
Jack Bauer - fighting tyranny since 2001
I'd just like to say that, despite the fact that he is fictional, Jack Bauer, played by Kiefer Sutherland, is awesome. Jack spent his television career fighting off all sorts of devilish criminals, from Islamic fundamentalists to Mexican drug lords to loose cannon, poker-playing Chechen militants with bad accents.
But by far, Jack's biggest opponents were often the left wing governments he worked for. Jack's show, '24', was produced by the Fox Network, traditionally a conservative news outlet, meaning they produce news that is fair and balanced, unlike CNN, who don't care terribly for facts and truth. And '24' was a pretty accurate summary of the international political environment - where the only way to deal with international terrorists is generally through a process of force and torture. Anyone who says this violates the human rights of terrorists needs to know this: you are an idiot.
Jack knew that terrorists aren't big on sitting around a table with a U.N. panel to discuss a fair and appropriate solution to their disagreements. Because a fair solution usually means the terrorists have to cede some of the power that they misuse, and start treating people with respect and dignity and stop using them for target practice, as human shields and for suicide missions. Terrorists much prefer blowing up the negotiating table, as Jack discovered in seasons 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 and 7.
But instead of fighting the bad guys, Jack had to spend alot of his time trying to convince one stupid democratic president after another that his way was best. And of course, the Democrats always agreed that Jack's way was best AFTER the deaths of hundreds of people.
I really have no idea why the American people vote for Democrats to run the country in the first place. George Bush spent the first few years of his first term cleaning up the mess that Bill Clinton could have prevented while he was in office. In the 90s, Clinton was offered Osama Bin Laden's head on a platter by Sudan. He could have locked up the mass murderer and tossed away the key, but he didn't want to look like he was racially profiling, plus he was far too busy having sex in the oval office to worry about international terrorism.
'24' was axed in 2010, midway through it's 8th season. Fox believed the new producers were veering too far away from Jack's character, and because their stupid storylines involved Jack heading out to have tea and cookies with Islamic imans to apologise for offending them while he was defending the United States from destruction at the hands of their followers.
But by far, Jack's biggest opponents were often the left wing governments he worked for. Jack's show, '24', was produced by the Fox Network, traditionally a conservative news outlet, meaning they produce news that is fair and balanced, unlike CNN, who don't care terribly for facts and truth. And '24' was a pretty accurate summary of the international political environment - where the only way to deal with international terrorists is generally through a process of force and torture. Anyone who says this violates the human rights of terrorists needs to know this: you are an idiot.
Jack knew that terrorists aren't big on sitting around a table with a U.N. panel to discuss a fair and appropriate solution to their disagreements. Because a fair solution usually means the terrorists have to cede some of the power that they misuse, and start treating people with respect and dignity and stop using them for target practice, as human shields and for suicide missions. Terrorists much prefer blowing up the negotiating table, as Jack discovered in seasons 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 and 7.
But instead of fighting the bad guys, Jack had to spend alot of his time trying to convince one stupid democratic president after another that his way was best. And of course, the Democrats always agreed that Jack's way was best AFTER the deaths of hundreds of people.
I really have no idea why the American people vote for Democrats to run the country in the first place. George Bush spent the first few years of his first term cleaning up the mess that Bill Clinton could have prevented while he was in office. In the 90s, Clinton was offered Osama Bin Laden's head on a platter by Sudan. He could have locked up the mass murderer and tossed away the key, but he didn't want to look like he was racially profiling, plus he was far too busy having sex in the oval office to worry about international terrorism.
'24' was axed in 2010, midway through it's 8th season. Fox believed the new producers were veering too far away from Jack's character, and because their stupid storylines involved Jack heading out to have tea and cookies with Islamic imans to apologise for offending them while he was defending the United States from destruction at the hands of their followers.
Wednesday 12 January 2011
Formula One memory lane
I'm on to Day 6 of my A - Z Writing Challenge - blogging the letters of the alphabet until the alphabet runs out. Math has never been my strong suit, but by my calculations, that will be around 26 days. 'F' is Formula One - that's the coolest sport in the world, not the hotel chain.
F1 first came to my attention in April 1994, when images of the death of three-time world champion, Ayrton Senna, were all over the news. Senna was killed after a 300 km/h smash into a wall on the straight at the San Marino F1 Grand Prix. I was shocked by the sickening impact, but I watching the next race because I was fascinated by these road rockets shooting around the track. It wasn't long until I was hooked on the thrilling, dangerous, exciting sport of F1, learning about the drivers, the teams and the complicated intricacies of downforce from the commentator Murray Walker. Walker was an entertaining commentator, full of fantastic 'murrayisms', and his love of F1 had me convinced in no time that the sport was as safe as houses.
I travelled to England in 1995 on a working holiday visa, and it was only a matter of time before I attended an F1 race. My favourite team was McLaren, with it's then red and white livery, and I saw one up close when I attended the Monaco Grand Prix that year. The colour, the fans, the screaming engines, the wonderful people on my tour and the beautiful mediterranean weather made this an experience I will never forget. It was the first of many races I would attend over the next few years.
I relocated to Oxford from London, keen to mix with the locals and live in the gorgeous English countryside. By chance, I met the Tour Manager for the TWR Volvo British Touring Car Team in a pub in town. He got me a job in TWR's PR area - a job I probably wouldn't have landed if I wasn't young, blonde and Aussie. I ended up travelling with the team for a year and a half around the countryside, and worked on occasions for their sister team, the TWR F1 team. I thought it was the best job in the world, but I had to leave as my visa was to expire - rather dramatically, but that's a story for another time.
F1 first came to my attention in April 1994, when images of the death of three-time world champion, Ayrton Senna, were all over the news. Senna was killed after a 300 km/h smash into a wall on the straight at the San Marino F1 Grand Prix. I was shocked by the sickening impact, but I watching the next race because I was fascinated by these road rockets shooting around the track. It wasn't long until I was hooked on the thrilling, dangerous, exciting sport of F1, learning about the drivers, the teams and the complicated intricacies of downforce from the commentator Murray Walker. Walker was an entertaining commentator, full of fantastic 'murrayisms', and his love of F1 had me convinced in no time that the sport was as safe as houses.
I travelled to England in 1995 on a working holiday visa, and it was only a matter of time before I attended an F1 race. My favourite team was McLaren, with it's then red and white livery, and I saw one up close when I attended the Monaco Grand Prix that year. The colour, the fans, the screaming engines, the wonderful people on my tour and the beautiful mediterranean weather made this an experience I will never forget. It was the first of many races I would attend over the next few years.
I relocated to Oxford from London, keen to mix with the locals and live in the gorgeous English countryside. By chance, I met the Tour Manager for the TWR Volvo British Touring Car Team in a pub in town. He got me a job in TWR's PR area - a job I probably wouldn't have landed if I wasn't young, blonde and Aussie. I ended up travelling with the team for a year and a half around the countryside, and worked on occasions for their sister team, the TWR F1 team. I thought it was the best job in the world, but I had to leave as my visa was to expire - rather dramatically, but that's a story for another time.
Monday 10 January 2011
Education
People often ask me why I get so wound up about left-wing academics. Well it's most likely because I have had to put up with them for the past six and a half years at university. I spent those years pretending to understand and vaguely put up with their never-ending, idiotic obsessions with Marxism, feminism and socialist ideals; ideals that fail to work in the state that I like to call reality.
Humans just don't possess innate socialist tendencies. When was the last time you heard about someone winning the lotto and separating the money EQUALLY throughout their community? Yes, never, it doesn't happen, because humans don't behave like that. It's just not the way we are.
Well, guess what? I’m free of uni and I’m not indoctrinated – quite the opposite in fact. I really had no idea how truly deluded from reality politics academics were until I began uni, and now I am feeling a new freedom in my life, and I'll never have to put up with them again, nor should anyone else have to.
The left-wing ("let us control the schools and in a generation nobody will be able to read") propaganda machine is alive and well in early education institutions as well. If I were a primary school kid these days, I would be pretty annoyed every day going into my state-sponsored torture chamber, more commonly known as a public school classroom, because I wouldn't be spending my days learning how to read and write, and by the time I got to Year 12, I probably wouldn't have a clue what Australia Day commemorates because the Education Unions insist that I'm taught things like how racist and anti-feminist the Constitution is.
And I wouldn't feel right about getting ahead in the world (see: getting a job promotion, for example), because the politically correct progressives who run my school would have taught me that no-one deserves to be smarter than anyone else.
Public education at any level in Australia is not about education, it’s about indoctrination. Teaching only a section of history and ignoring the rest that doesn’t fit in with their left-wing ideology (see: Marxism, feminism etc) has nothing to do with learning or letting the students decide on the facts for themselves. It’s simply about brainwashing, and it starts during the earliest years of schooling. Unfortunately, those cunning academics at the tertiary level have geniously created a system that protects them from having to do their jobs properly – it’s called “tenure”.
Humans just don't possess innate socialist tendencies. When was the last time you heard about someone winning the lotto and separating the money EQUALLY throughout their community? Yes, never, it doesn't happen, because humans don't behave like that. It's just not the way we are.
Well, guess what? I’m free of uni and I’m not indoctrinated – quite the opposite in fact. I really had no idea how truly deluded from reality politics academics were until I began uni, and now I am feeling a new freedom in my life, and I'll never have to put up with them again, nor should anyone else have to.
The left-wing ("let us control the schools and in a generation nobody will be able to read") propaganda machine is alive and well in early education institutions as well. If I were a primary school kid these days, I would be pretty annoyed every day going into my state-sponsored torture chamber, more commonly known as a public school classroom, because I wouldn't be spending my days learning how to read and write, and by the time I got to Year 12, I probably wouldn't have a clue what Australia Day commemorates because the Education Unions insist that I'm taught things like how racist and anti-feminist the Constitution is.
And I wouldn't feel right about getting ahead in the world (see: getting a job promotion, for example), because the politically correct progressives who run my school would have taught me that no-one deserves to be smarter than anyone else.
Public education at any level in Australia is not about education, it’s about indoctrination. Teaching only a section of history and ignoring the rest that doesn’t fit in with their left-wing ideology (see: Marxism, feminism etc) has nothing to do with learning or letting the students decide on the facts for themselves. It’s simply about brainwashing, and it starts during the earliest years of schooling. Unfortunately, those cunning academics at the tertiary level have geniously created a system that protects them from having to do their jobs properly – it’s called “tenure”.
Sunday 9 January 2011
Defence recruits Summernats bogans
All the Queen’s Army and all the Queen’s men, are hiring Summernats bogans again. Ugh.
The Australian Army have been heading out to the annual Summernats car festival in Canberra for years in an attempt to woo some of Australia’s most trashy, yet car-savvy, young hooligans. Evidently, male bogan-filled environments are perfect breeding grounds for future Army recruits. Well it makes sense I suppose.
This year, the ADF wheeled in their aptly named, Armygeddon, to whip the boys into a testosterone-fuelled frenzy. I can’t decide if it’s a good thing or a bad thing to have these guys in charge of Army vehicles. I guess it’s a good way to turn them into real men – a bit of discipline, a bit of hard yakka and absolutely no access to weapons of any kind. Just so we’re clear - nobody’s giving them guns, right?
I do hope the Army keep an eye on their new bonehead recruits. War’s hard enough as it is; the last thing the Aussie troops need is a shipment of purple suped-up, turbo-charged V8 street machine tanks with stickers of women in bikinis on the side panels. What on earth would the upstanding citizens of the Taliban think? They would be forced to go and kill a bunch of innocent civilians because the West has, yet again, made them crankypants.
The Taliban and Summernats bogans have a lot in common when you think about it. They objectify women, love to burn oil and rubber, breed fear and anxiety on city streets, and a great number of people would be happy if we could just find a way to get rid of them for good.
The Australian Army have been heading out to the annual Summernats car festival in Canberra for years in an attempt to woo some of Australia’s most trashy, yet car-savvy, young hooligans. Evidently, male bogan-filled environments are perfect breeding grounds for future Army recruits. Well it makes sense I suppose.
This year, the ADF wheeled in their aptly named, Armygeddon, to whip the boys into a testosterone-fuelled frenzy. I can’t decide if it’s a good thing or a bad thing to have these guys in charge of Army vehicles. I guess it’s a good way to turn them into real men – a bit of discipline, a bit of hard yakka and absolutely no access to weapons of any kind. Just so we’re clear - nobody’s giving them guns, right?
I do hope the Army keep an eye on their new bonehead recruits. War’s hard enough as it is; the last thing the Aussie troops need is a shipment of purple suped-up, turbo-charged V8 street machine tanks with stickers of women in bikinis on the side panels. What on earth would the upstanding citizens of the Taliban think? They would be forced to go and kill a bunch of innocent civilians because the West has, yet again, made them crankypants.
The Taliban and Summernats bogans have a lot in common when you think about it. They objectify women, love to burn oil and rubber, breed fear and anxiety on city streets, and a great number of people would be happy if we could just find a way to get rid of them for good.
Saturday 8 January 2011
Cats
Ah yes, the big ten hour round-trip to Moggy (Mogo) Zoo down the South Coast, where you pay 23 dollars to watch lions, tigers, and servals sleep all day. Cats invented lazy. When cats aren’t sleeping they are just obscenely lazy. Maybe we should take a leaf out of their book. ‘The Lazy cat’s guide to happiness’ by Deepak Chopra.
Speaking of spiritual journeys, years ago I was blessed by a Sumatran tiger at Moggy Zoo. It truly was an awakening for everyone involved. I didn’t wash my hair for hours to allow the holy gift to infuse. You can only imagine the looks of worship and adoration I received from all those around me. I discovered that people can’t stand to be around such wonderment and started to scatter like flies. The flies also scattered, obviously overwhelmed by the greatness in their midst. Not everyone can handle the responsibility of being the chosen one, but at least I got to see most of the animals without marauding crowds.
I love Mogo Zoo. It’s one of the few places you can take your binoculars and zoom lens and focus on one thing for hours and hours without getting arrested. I must confess that I have a big crush on big cats. I took a couple of pics. It may have been around the 200+ mark, but who's counting.
Nail care is important to any self-respecting tiger. What's a little striped baby fluff to do while waiting for his siblings to wake up? File his nailguns of course by ripping apart a tree stump. Bless.
This little fella is 4-months-old, has a brother and a sister (I think) and it's really hard to take a photo of him not being cute. Bare your fangs you wild animal!! The three Sumatran tiger cubs are an integral part of a breeding program that hopes to prolong the survival of the critically endangered species. Tiger cubs seem to have a pretty fixed routine throughout the day. Sleep, play, destroy stuff, be cute, play, eat, play, destroy stuff, pester mum, play, sleep, sleep, be cute, sleep, destroy, pester mum, and so on…
A stupid, stupid man woke up this lion. Does the lion look particularly happy to you? He’s not, he’s highly displeased. He seems to be saying ‘fuck off’ with his eyes. He stared at his human alarm clock until he could no longer see him and then fixed his feline gaze on me. When they stare they STARE...But look how beautiful he is
Meerkat lying around being awesome.
Speaking of spiritual journeys, years ago I was blessed by a Sumatran tiger at Moggy Zoo. It truly was an awakening for everyone involved. I didn’t wash my hair for hours to allow the holy gift to infuse. You can only imagine the looks of worship and adoration I received from all those around me. I discovered that people can’t stand to be around such wonderment and started to scatter like flies. The flies also scattered, obviously overwhelmed by the greatness in their midst. Not everyone can handle the responsibility of being the chosen one, but at least I got to see most of the animals without marauding crowds.
I love Mogo Zoo. It’s one of the few places you can take your binoculars and zoom lens and focus on one thing for hours and hours without getting arrested. I must confess that I have a big crush on big cats. I took a couple of pics. It may have been around the 200+ mark, but who's counting.
Nail care is important to any self-respecting tiger. What's a little striped baby fluff to do while waiting for his siblings to wake up? File his nailguns of course by ripping apart a tree stump. Bless.
This little fella is 4-months-old, has a brother and a sister (I think) and it's really hard to take a photo of him not being cute. Bare your fangs you wild animal!! The three Sumatran tiger cubs are an integral part of a breeding program that hopes to prolong the survival of the critically endangered species. Tiger cubs seem to have a pretty fixed routine throughout the day. Sleep, play, destroy stuff, be cute, play, eat, play, destroy stuff, pester mum, play, sleep, sleep, be cute, sleep, destroy, pester mum, and so on…
A stupid, stupid man woke up this lion. Does the lion look particularly happy to you? He’s not, he’s highly displeased. He seems to be saying ‘fuck off’ with his eyes. He stared at his human alarm clock until he could no longer see him and then fixed his feline gaze on me. When they stare they STARE...But look how beautiful he is
Meerkat lying around being awesome.
Britain and Blogs
Britain
Anyone would think the Old Blighty had put the globe into a state of world peace, cured chronic world hunger, and put a laptop into the arms of every Ethiopian child. Well no, they’ve won a couple of cricket games. You played well England, and we played appallingly. The better team won. If I cared about the Ashes I’m sure I would be devastated. But at the end of the day, Australians are the winners. We are the ones mother nature chooses to bless with sunshine, sunny winters and beautiful beaches. But well done England.
Blog
What to call my blog, I ponder. Play the ball and not the man is a philosophy I always try to maintain when arguing politics, but one that is not always embraced by my opponents. They would rather attack the man than the policy. This is usually due to the fact that their argument has no substance and is just an appeal to emotion.
How do you know if they are left-wing?
The left won’t argue with you. You need to be aware of this. Their idea of a battle of wits is to say “Bush lied!” in front of an adoring audience and be wildly applauded for their courage.
And when they do argue, they jump from one idiotic point to the next so you can never quite catch them out in a lie. It’s like arguing with a 5-year-old. And you will find their retorts will bear no relation to what you said; unless you were, for example, talking about your intelligence, your age, your looks, your morality, your personal obsessions, or whether or not you are a fascist.
So the name of my blog reflects my preference for playing the ball (and not the man) when discussing stuff.
Anyone would think the Old Blighty had put the globe into a state of world peace, cured chronic world hunger, and put a laptop into the arms of every Ethiopian child. Well no, they’ve won a couple of cricket games. You played well England, and we played appallingly. The better team won. If I cared about the Ashes I’m sure I would be devastated. But at the end of the day, Australians are the winners. We are the ones mother nature chooses to bless with sunshine, sunny winters and beautiful beaches. But well done England.
Blog
What to call my blog, I ponder. Play the ball and not the man is a philosophy I always try to maintain when arguing politics, but one that is not always embraced by my opponents. They would rather attack the man than the policy. This is usually due to the fact that their argument has no substance and is just an appeal to emotion.
How do you know if they are left-wing?
The left won’t argue with you. You need to be aware of this. Their idea of a battle of wits is to say “Bush lied!” in front of an adoring audience and be wildly applauded for their courage.
And when they do argue, they jump from one idiotic point to the next so you can never quite catch them out in a lie. It’s like arguing with a 5-year-old. And you will find their retorts will bear no relation to what you said; unless you were, for example, talking about your intelligence, your age, your looks, your morality, your personal obsessions, or whether or not you are a fascist.
So the name of my blog reflects my preference for playing the ball (and not the man) when discussing stuff.
Friday 7 January 2011
Apple - the technology and the fruit
How much is that apple in the window? We all know that there is muchos overpricing of technology and fruit in the retail sector. Australian fruitgrowers are battling floodwaters, but what’s Gerry Harvey from Harvey Norman's excuse?
Harvey, head of the Harvey Norman retail chain, has been blithering over the past few days (years) about the indecency of Australian shoppers who are choosing to desert his overpriced retail outlets in droves to shop online for products that are often a third of his asking price.
The Canberra Times reports that Gerry Harvey has made a sanctimonious emotional plea in an attempt to hoodwink the public – as usual – into thinking that he’s just a retailer trying to make a living. Harvey is upset that 17-year-old’s are calling him most unflattering names. Yes, the teenage mutant's are angry, but many of them don’t have the emotional maturity to get their message across in a way that doesn’t sound crude.
My question is this: why the hell is the head of a billion dollar mega-empire spending his time reading comments about himself on Facebook and Twitter? Well, he’s probably not, and he doesn’t really give two hoots.
Nobody is coming into Harvey’s chain anymore because the consumer has realised that it’s just plain uneconomical to do so. He seems to be constantly baffled by the news that the majority of Australians think he’s being ripping them off for years. That this is news to Harvey demonstrates how out of touch he is with the retail sector and consumer demands.
The game is up Gerry. Whether you like it or not, consumers have oodles of choice now, and we choose to abandon your outlets, for the most part, and browse the global online supermarket; a bandwagon that you should have jumped on years ago. Wonder if he still thinks online selling is a waste of time.
Rather than come out and apologise for his embarrassing outbursts, Harvey chose to make the situation about himself, to garner public sympathy, and to distract us from the fact that he’s going to continue to trade as per usual, which is years behind the retail trend.
Harvey, head of the Harvey Norman retail chain, has been blithering over the past few days (years) about the indecency of Australian shoppers who are choosing to desert his overpriced retail outlets in droves to shop online for products that are often a third of his asking price.
The Canberra Times reports that Gerry Harvey has made a sanctimonious emotional plea in an attempt to hoodwink the public – as usual – into thinking that he’s just a retailer trying to make a living. Harvey is upset that 17-year-old’s are calling him most unflattering names. Yes, the teenage mutant's are angry, but many of them don’t have the emotional maturity to get their message across in a way that doesn’t sound crude.
My question is this: why the hell is the head of a billion dollar mega-empire spending his time reading comments about himself on Facebook and Twitter? Well, he’s probably not, and he doesn’t really give two hoots.
Nobody is coming into Harvey’s chain anymore because the consumer has realised that it’s just plain uneconomical to do so. He seems to be constantly baffled by the news that the majority of Australians think he’s being ripping them off for years. That this is news to Harvey demonstrates how out of touch he is with the retail sector and consumer demands.
The game is up Gerry. Whether you like it or not, consumers have oodles of choice now, and we choose to abandon your outlets, for the most part, and browse the global online supermarket; a bandwagon that you should have jumped on years ago. Wonder if he still thinks online selling is a waste of time.
Rather than come out and apologise for his embarrassing outbursts, Harvey chose to make the situation about himself, to garner public sympathy, and to distract us from the fact that he’s going to continue to trade as per usual, which is years behind the retail trend.
A - Z of blogging topics
My new year's reso is to write more and write daily. In an attempt to force myself to write on a daily basis, I will blog about a topic, every day, until the alphabet runs out. Yes, I will. Apart from the dark force of zero motivation, how hard can it be? I always seem to have an opinion on all manner of issues, and it's my blog so I can write whatever the hell I want to write about.
So today I will start with the letter A.
So today I will start with the letter A.
Wednesday 5 January 2011
The Titanic and my reluctant acceptance of James Cameron
Six and a half years ago I was required to provide a presentation on a topic of my choosing for my first ever university presentation. One evening I was in my local Public Library in Canberra, browsing the shelves, the old fashioned way, when I came across a book about sunken ocean liners, written by Robert Ballard, the man credited with discovering the underwater graves of many of the twentieth centuries great ocean liners.
I sat on the floor and read, glued to the pages, book after book; I couldn’t get enough information about the Titanic, Lusitania, Mauritania, Britannic, etc. And so began my inexplicable obsession with sunken ocean liners.
I created a visually powerful powerpoint presentation full of simplified diagrams of bulkheads, icebergs, keels and lifeboats. I spoke of tales of survival and of tragedy, and of the notorious mis-quotes prior to the maiden voyage, that are in retrospect easy targets for derision with the benefit of hindsight of the cause of the tragedy.
My new obsession turned the chore of completing the assessment into a remarkably simple task. After my presentation, I reluctantly returned my books to the library, and decided that I would continue this research when I had time. These ocean floor monoliths weren't going anywhere.
That was in 2004, and I have thought alot about these ocean liners since then. I have no idea why, or what forms the basis for my interest. It just intrigues the hell out of me. The fate of the Titanic is a terribly tragic story. The desperation of one man to achieve greatness and supremacy in the eyes of his peers, and the world, enabled him to envisage the most spectacular ocean liner ever seen, but it also contrived to push him to challenge the forces of mother nature and ignore all calls to logic and reason.
His vain attempt to make history by pushing his super liner through a field of insurmountable icebergs is one of history’s great dramatic ironies, and one of its most well-documented tragedies.
The Britannic was equal in size to her sister Titanic. And like Titanic, she did not take one paying passenger to their destination. Her life as a luxury ocean liner was never to be. Her exquisite livery and interior was stripped before her maiden voyage, when she was requisitioned as a hospital ship to serve her country in World War One. She now lies on the floor of the Atlantic, mortally wounded from a missile attack during the war.
I’ve recently watched the movie Titanic on DVD, for about the hundredth time. I unfortunately didn’t get to see it on the big screen when it was released for some reason. And, for the first time, I watched the commentary components, which were fascinating. The director, James Cameron, has a real passion for the wreck and paid great respect to the tragedy through film.
I’ve never much liked Cameron. Despite my admiration for the talents of various people in Hollywood, I tend to view their liberal political beliefs as largely hokum. When it comes to politics, I try to separate the man from the ball, but Hollywood people don’t make it easy.
Their views are largely devoid of any reason or logic, and if they could coherently explain their views to the public without resorting to completely incomprehensible gibberish that misquotes and ignores facts, most people would call for their heads.
Their political views are just an appeal to emotion; an unrelenting devotion and worship to the environment and any other cause that is popular with the Hollywood elite on any given day. (As opposed to an actual religion, as they are EVIL, as you must be an atheist to fit in with Hollywood types.)
Cameron is your typical left wing Hollywood windbag, who insists on dictating to others how they should live, the taxes they should pay, the cars they should drive, the correct toilet paper to use, the carbon footprint they should leave. I don’t care that Cameron is richer than God, that’s not my beef.
Just because you are wealthy doesn't mean that you can tell us how we should live; all the while flying around in your private jet, lighting up your own house like a damn Christmas tree, and rallying politicians to hit the peasants with ridiculous energy saving taxes that do little more than make the Hollywood smug-set feel good about themselves. It’s hypocritical and plain dishonest.
Anyway, so I read that Cameron has been to the Titanic wreck many, many times to film and has quite the connection to the sunken ocean liner. So now I am forced to like him, which is a great annoyance to me.
I sat on the floor and read, glued to the pages, book after book; I couldn’t get enough information about the Titanic, Lusitania, Mauritania, Britannic, etc. And so began my inexplicable obsession with sunken ocean liners.
I created a visually powerful powerpoint presentation full of simplified diagrams of bulkheads, icebergs, keels and lifeboats. I spoke of tales of survival and of tragedy, and of the notorious mis-quotes prior to the maiden voyage, that are in retrospect easy targets for derision with the benefit of hindsight of the cause of the tragedy.
My new obsession turned the chore of completing the assessment into a remarkably simple task. After my presentation, I reluctantly returned my books to the library, and decided that I would continue this research when I had time. These ocean floor monoliths weren't going anywhere.
That was in 2004, and I have thought alot about these ocean liners since then. I have no idea why, or what forms the basis for my interest. It just intrigues the hell out of me. The fate of the Titanic is a terribly tragic story. The desperation of one man to achieve greatness and supremacy in the eyes of his peers, and the world, enabled him to envisage the most spectacular ocean liner ever seen, but it also contrived to push him to challenge the forces of mother nature and ignore all calls to logic and reason.
His vain attempt to make history by pushing his super liner through a field of insurmountable icebergs is one of history’s great dramatic ironies, and one of its most well-documented tragedies.
The Britannic was equal in size to her sister Titanic. And like Titanic, she did not take one paying passenger to their destination. Her life as a luxury ocean liner was never to be. Her exquisite livery and interior was stripped before her maiden voyage, when she was requisitioned as a hospital ship to serve her country in World War One. She now lies on the floor of the Atlantic, mortally wounded from a missile attack during the war.
I’ve recently watched the movie Titanic on DVD, for about the hundredth time. I unfortunately didn’t get to see it on the big screen when it was released for some reason. And, for the first time, I watched the commentary components, which were fascinating. The director, James Cameron, has a real passion for the wreck and paid great respect to the tragedy through film.
I’ve never much liked Cameron. Despite my admiration for the talents of various people in Hollywood, I tend to view their liberal political beliefs as largely hokum. When it comes to politics, I try to separate the man from the ball, but Hollywood people don’t make it easy.
Their views are largely devoid of any reason or logic, and if they could coherently explain their views to the public without resorting to completely incomprehensible gibberish that misquotes and ignores facts, most people would call for their heads.
Their political views are just an appeal to emotion; an unrelenting devotion and worship to the environment and any other cause that is popular with the Hollywood elite on any given day. (As opposed to an actual religion, as they are EVIL, as you must be an atheist to fit in with Hollywood types.)
Cameron is your typical left wing Hollywood windbag, who insists on dictating to others how they should live, the taxes they should pay, the cars they should drive, the correct toilet paper to use, the carbon footprint they should leave. I don’t care that Cameron is richer than God, that’s not my beef.
Just because you are wealthy doesn't mean that you can tell us how we should live; all the while flying around in your private jet, lighting up your own house like a damn Christmas tree, and rallying politicians to hit the peasants with ridiculous energy saving taxes that do little more than make the Hollywood smug-set feel good about themselves. It’s hypocritical and plain dishonest.
Anyway, so I read that Cameron has been to the Titanic wreck many, many times to film and has quite the connection to the sunken ocean liner. So now I am forced to like him, which is a great annoyance to me.
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