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| I'm not fussy - it doesn't HAVE to be red. But I'll be disappointed if you go to the trouble and it's not. |
Wednesday 30 November 2011
Please, Santa?
Why did it take Google a whole 0.33 seconds to find 7.4 million ferrari logos? I can understand the extended delay if I were searching for knitting patterns, but not for one of the fastest sports road cars in the world. Try harder Google.
Sunday 27 November 2011
Picasso, Shakespeare and the cultural elites
I recently spent a whole day with cultural elites, who think Picasso and Shakespeare are marvellous, inspired geniuses and their work is remarkable and breathtaking, and I learnt that cubism doesn't necessarily refer to the cryptic puzzle amazingness of Mr Rubik. Picasso and Shakespeare are actually two artists largely responsible for the first widespread use of the term "WTF?"
My first cultural appointment of the day was hanging at the Picasso exhibition in the NSW Art Gallery with the Pablo connoisseurs. I don't really care for art, and I especially don't care for the kind of art that the pretentious cultural elites are referring to when they pompously spit out comments like, "you have to have an eye for Picasso". Well fucking excuse me then.
My mistake; I thought I was looking at the artwork of a psychologically damaged man who thinks strategically placed shapes on a canvas will entertain the elitists. Oh, wait, it does. I must admit that I appreciate his early work, when he was into the classics; before he got bored and depressed and started experimenting with cubes and odd shapes and chopped up guitars and human body parts.
He seemed to have quite the eye for limbs separated from the human torso - a skill trauma surgeons and serial killers must have appreciated over the years. I also observed a life-long obsession with goats - goats on the beach, a sculpture of a goat with a large appendage (perfect for the patio if you have the cash) and a naked man carrying a goat, to name but a few. Yes it is weird, but it is art, so pipe down.
Apparently the deconstructed guitar is supposed to represent a journey through time, but I think it looks horribly ugly. And I think a great deal of his later work is mediocre and also horribly ugly. But listening to the loud know-it-alls on my tour through the his life's work, I heard a story of a man on an incredible journey, with many ups and downs, and I became far more intrigued with why his style changed at particular points in his life than the actual work itself.
And it occurred to me that this is surely why his work confuses the hell out of me; it is a representation of what must have been going on in his head. Which makes the art critics who deconstruct the meaning of his work all the more absurd.
So, yeah, you do have to have an eye for Picasso; most telling, his canvases reveal that his many lovers apparently had three or more breasts, and noses where their eyes should be. I'm glad my head isn't so screwed up that I can understand this excursion into his subconsciouness.
My next cultural appointment of the day was attending the Bell Shakespeare's contemporary interpretation of Julius Caesar at the Sydney Opera House's Playhouse. It's kind of funny that Shakespeare is considered to be the finest dramatist of all time, because anyone who has been forced to read or listen to any of his work will tell you that they can't understand a thing anybody is saying.
Bell Shakespeare produced an interpretation with much yelling and pontificating and chalk dust throwing (interpretative blood) and overblown theatrics and a girl in high heels played Cassius, like Shakespeare isn't confusing enough already. But I very much liked it. Art thou was not bored or confused that much at all.
My first cultural appointment of the day was hanging at the Picasso exhibition in the NSW Art Gallery with the Pablo connoisseurs. I don't really care for art, and I especially don't care for the kind of art that the pretentious cultural elites are referring to when they pompously spit out comments like, "you have to have an eye for Picasso". Well fucking excuse me then.
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| A notable example from Picasso's 'WTF' Collection |
He seemed to have quite the eye for limbs separated from the human torso - a skill trauma surgeons and serial killers must have appreciated over the years. I also observed a life-long obsession with goats - goats on the beach, a sculpture of a goat with a large appendage (perfect for the patio if you have the cash) and a naked man carrying a goat, to name but a few. Yes it is weird, but it is art, so pipe down.
Apparently the deconstructed guitar is supposed to represent a journey through time, but I think it looks horribly ugly. And I think a great deal of his later work is mediocre and also horribly ugly. But listening to the loud know-it-alls on my tour through the his life's work, I heard a story of a man on an incredible journey, with many ups and downs, and I became far more intrigued with why his style changed at particular points in his life than the actual work itself.
And it occurred to me that this is surely why his work confuses the hell out of me; it is a representation of what must have been going on in his head. Which makes the art critics who deconstruct the meaning of his work all the more absurd.
So, yeah, you do have to have an eye for Picasso; most telling, his canvases reveal that his many lovers apparently had three or more breasts, and noses where their eyes should be. I'm glad my head isn't so screwed up that I can understand this excursion into his subconsciouness.
My next cultural appointment of the day was attending the Bell Shakespeare's contemporary interpretation of Julius Caesar at the Sydney Opera House's Playhouse. It's kind of funny that Shakespeare is considered to be the finest dramatist of all time, because anyone who has been forced to read or listen to any of his work will tell you that they can't understand a thing anybody is saying.
Bell Shakespeare produced an interpretation with much yelling and pontificating and chalk dust throwing (interpretative blood) and overblown theatrics and a girl in high heels played Cassius, like Shakespeare isn't confusing enough already. But I very much liked it. Art thou was not bored or confused that much at all.
Sunday 20 November 2011
Occupy A Desk Job
It all ended quite badly, yet fairly predictably, for the Occupy Wall Street (OWS) movement in Zucotti Park in Manhattan, New York City this week. Since September this year, the site has been the sordid base camp for the movement, who used it as a staging ground for never-ending whingy, whiney riots through Wall Street in the Manhattan financial district.
The owners of the park were powerless to prevent the repugnant lack of sanitation that occurs when thousands of people set up camp and refuse to shower for weeks. Although, after constant pleas by the park owners, the itinerants thoughtfully asked each other to stop devastating the flower beds.
This camp was all very interesting, given they were all about horizontalism, which apparently means no organised hierarchy (so get your mind out of the gutter). And eveyone was supposed to work together in a harmonious fashion and self-organise and self-regulate et cetera. Yet, given that they relieved themselves in the flower beds, I thought it would have been a no brianer to nominate someone to fetch the toilet paper.
After many botched attempts to move the diehards, the NYPD were finally given their balls back by city officials, and proceeded to eject the lot of them out of the vicinity. Nice one, Mayor Bloomberg.
So what are these passionate-about-anything-but-working-for-a-living people grumbling about anyway? Well the messages they are trying to articulate are so muddled that they could be protesting about the high fat content in their granola for all I know.
When you don't have a clear, concise message you tend to come off looking like you are a shallow twenty-something whose father has just cut off your pocket money because you are too lazy to get a real job like the rest of us. A real job being something you don't really want to do but, hey, it pays the bills. And buys entire seasons of television programs in boxed sets.
The problem with these protesting leftists is that they think we have to get rid of extremes of wealth, power and status, or people will become morally bankrupt wankers with no social responsibility, and then there will be so much resentment and conflict that the economy will simply collapse. In fact the opposite is true; the economy thrives when people don’t interfere with it.
They just want to overthrow the status quo for something far worse; like socialism, where we'll all be poor and miserable together and they'll be no more kiddies lemonade stands (because they are EVIL capitalist breeding grounds) or anything else that involves making dirty, sexy money. And that's pretty much everything.
But being a leftist means never having to explain yourself, which is fortunate for the young American occupier who quit his teaching job because it wasn't fulfilling enough for him and went to 'study' puppetry - his passion - for three years at university. If you are stupid enough to think that the puppetry industry will sustain you and make you as wealthy as a hedge fund manager then…
There are important messages they could be progressing, but they are being lost in the nonsensical blithering of pretentious teenagers who want a free ride in life. I could understand if they were quibbling about the shortage of jobs in America, but the majority are preaching about their individual gripes with the world or just about their hatred of capitalism.
Of course, the beauty of capitalism is that it is a open system, and if you are prepared to work hard you can achieve anything you want. Thus, I can’t understand why anyone would disregard it; it's a ticket to ride! Not a free ride, but it can get you to where you want to be or out of where you are now, if that is your wish.
As far as these protesters are concerned, capitalism only favours the wealthy; thus, their target is those who have found extreme financial success through the system. Of course some entrepreneurs are going to make an extraordinary amount of money through business enterprises, but you have to be prepared to get involved, work hard, and be prepared to fail.
The trouble with these protesting douche bags is they don't want to get a job which invloves working for the man, or the Government, but they want the bank balance of stock traders and hedge fund managers, while being their own boss in their highly lucrative, self-sustaining puppetry ventures.
Despite my protestations, I do actually have something in common with all these artists, students, leftist academics (are there any other type) occupiers.
I too have a desk job that I would prefer not to have to do. It's not rewarding, it's not meaningful, it's bureaucratic, it's mediocre, I have very senior people above me who are unqualified morons who were hired by other unqualified morons, and I would rather stick a hot poker in my eye that turn up every day for the next twenty years. But being an adult (also known as kill-me-now syndrome) means having to do things you don’t want to do to pay the bills.
I too would like to engage in my own puppetry passion - which is writing, in my case - on a fulltime basis rather than working in a job that I don’t like, doesn’t inspire me, oozes mediocrity, and is trying really hard to grind my dreams into the dirt. But I think it’s best to find your feet and make your hobby financially sustainable before you quit the only thing keeping you from a life in the gutter.
Who the hell quits their job to study puppetry? The unemployment rate in NYC is 9%, so I'm guessing the old puppetry positions aren't that easy to come by. I studied at uni for seven years but I did not quit my job, BECAUSE THAT WOULD BE FUCKING* STUPID.
I've always thought that protesting a cause is how stupid people make themselves heard. The only way to elicit change is through policy, and the only way to do that is by direct action, and the best way to do that is to run for your local council as the local member of Parliament.
* Swear jar. Why did I self-impose no swearing on my blog? That was a stupid fucking idea.
The owners of the park were powerless to prevent the repugnant lack of sanitation that occurs when thousands of people set up camp and refuse to shower for weeks. Although, after constant pleas by the park owners, the itinerants thoughtfully asked each other to stop devastating the flower beds.
After many botched attempts to move the diehards, the NYPD were finally given their balls back by city officials, and proceeded to eject the lot of them out of the vicinity. Nice one, Mayor Bloomberg.
So what are these passionate-about-anything-but-working-for-a-living people grumbling about anyway? Well the messages they are trying to articulate are so muddled that they could be protesting about the high fat content in their granola for all I know.
When you don't have a clear, concise message you tend to come off looking like you are a shallow twenty-something whose father has just cut off your pocket money because you are too lazy to get a real job like the rest of us. A real job being something you don't really want to do but, hey, it pays the bills. And buys entire seasons of television programs in boxed sets.
The problem with these protesting leftists is that they think we have to get rid of extremes of wealth, power and status, or people will become morally bankrupt wankers with no social responsibility, and then there will be so much resentment and conflict that the economy will simply collapse. In fact the opposite is true; the economy thrives when people don’t interfere with it.
They just want to overthrow the status quo for something far worse; like socialism, where we'll all be poor and miserable together and they'll be no more kiddies lemonade stands (because they are EVIL capitalist breeding grounds) or anything else that involves making dirty, sexy money. And that's pretty much everything.
But being a leftist means never having to explain yourself, which is fortunate for the young American occupier who quit his teaching job because it wasn't fulfilling enough for him and went to 'study' puppetry - his passion - for three years at university. If you are stupid enough to think that the puppetry industry will sustain you and make you as wealthy as a hedge fund manager then…
There are important messages they could be progressing, but they are being lost in the nonsensical blithering of pretentious teenagers who want a free ride in life. I could understand if they were quibbling about the shortage of jobs in America, but the majority are preaching about their individual gripes with the world or just about their hatred of capitalism.
Of course, the beauty of capitalism is that it is a open system, and if you are prepared to work hard you can achieve anything you want. Thus, I can’t understand why anyone would disregard it; it's a ticket to ride! Not a free ride, but it can get you to where you want to be or out of where you are now, if that is your wish.
As far as these protesters are concerned, capitalism only favours the wealthy; thus, their target is those who have found extreme financial success through the system. Of course some entrepreneurs are going to make an extraordinary amount of money through business enterprises, but you have to be prepared to get involved, work hard, and be prepared to fail.
The trouble with these protesting douche bags is they don't want to get a job which invloves working for the man, or the Government, but they want the bank balance of stock traders and hedge fund managers, while being their own boss in their highly lucrative, self-sustaining puppetry ventures.
Despite my protestations, I do actually have something in common with all these artists, students, leftist academics (are there any other type) occupiers.
I too have a desk job that I would prefer not to have to do. It's not rewarding, it's not meaningful, it's bureaucratic, it's mediocre, I have very senior people above me who are unqualified morons who were hired by other unqualified morons, and I would rather stick a hot poker in my eye that turn up every day for the next twenty years. But being an adult (also known as kill-me-now syndrome) means having to do things you don’t want to do to pay the bills.
I too would like to engage in my own puppetry passion - which is writing, in my case - on a fulltime basis rather than working in a job that I don’t like, doesn’t inspire me, oozes mediocrity, and is trying really hard to grind my dreams into the dirt. But I think it’s best to find your feet and make your hobby financially sustainable before you quit the only thing keeping you from a life in the gutter.
Who the hell quits their job to study puppetry? The unemployment rate in NYC is 9%, so I'm guessing the old puppetry positions aren't that easy to come by. I studied at uni for seven years but I did not quit my job, BECAUSE THAT WOULD BE FUCKING* STUPID.
I've always thought that protesting a cause is how stupid people make themselves heard. The only way to elicit change is through policy, and the only way to do that is by direct action, and the best way to do that is to run for your local council as the local member of Parliament.
* Swear jar. Why did I self-impose no swearing on my blog? That was a stupid fucking idea.
Saturday 19 November 2011
300-year-old toilets
Last night, in a wild and crazy rampage through the television remote, I stumbled across a reality show on Seven 2 called Escape to the Country, which appeared to be about a pompous real estate agent in rural England who was trying to market overpriced country manor houses to prospective buyers who were apparently oblivious to the British real estate flea market.
The host/real estate bloke - let’s call him DICK - irritated me within seconds, but I decided to stay with it because I do love the British countryside and thought he couldn't possibly be in every scene of the program.
With the way real estate gurus bang on about it, you'd think buying and existing in a house or mansion dating back to the eighteenth century was the most obvious, practical and inexpensive decision you'll every make. I am thinking this is not the case at all.
I'm sure having a 300-year-old peasant sweat-stained wooden beam in your living room makes for enthralling tête-à-têtes with your chattering class connections, but isn’t it a bit creepy? I get creeped out by things like that. You’d probably get ghosts of centuries old cockroaches haunting your garbage bins. It’s very interesting that residences that once housed peasant and minimum wage-type workers are now sought after by the well-to-do.
I've always loved the look of thatched cottages in England; perhaps swayed by their old-world charm and prettiness. While they tempt you from the front private grounds, how does one think they look from the inside? Shit, that’s how. The are fairly squat and the ceilings are low, perhaps no higher than six foot; you could certainly never invite basketballers or giraffes around for a spot of Devonshire Tea. And how does the plumbing and toilet flushing go on a 300-year-old house? Dubiously, I’d say.
But still, people love their old houses. People love houses, actually. For years, at least since 2006, people have decided that they want to live in houses. This enlightenment may have occurred a few years earlier, I don't know; I'm not a real estate expert. But I do live in a house, and I have done so since at least 2006. I imagine people like to buy old houses for all the charm of having a backed-up toilet, burst water pipes and termites.
And for some unfathomable reason, people like to ask over-ambitious, manic men and women with fake smiles and nauseating one liners to show them around properties that may or may not be even in the ballpark of their price range.
Last night's episode featured a stoic couple from Berlin, who remained perpetually concerned that the interiors of each of the five bedroom McMansions they were shown did not have enough room "for all their furnitures" and their "wardrobes". They are German, okay. Germans need many wardrobes.
DICK had been briefed by the Germans on what they were looking for; which was a dwelling in the countryside away from the rat race but not too far away as they had to drive their Audi to London every day. So what did the DICK do? He found houses that were about 100 miles away from London. Yep, that's what the Germans want; a 200 mile roundtrip every day. I got the feeling that DICK had some houses he couldn't sell through his real estate dealings in the real world so he tried to flog them off to the Germans. What a dick is DICK.
The host/real estate bloke - let’s call him DICK - irritated me within seconds, but I decided to stay with it because I do love the British countryside and thought he couldn't possibly be in every scene of the program.
With the way real estate gurus bang on about it, you'd think buying and existing in a house or mansion dating back to the eighteenth century was the most obvious, practical and inexpensive decision you'll every make. I am thinking this is not the case at all.
I'm sure having a 300-year-old peasant sweat-stained wooden beam in your living room makes for enthralling tête-à-têtes with your chattering class connections, but isn’t it a bit creepy? I get creeped out by things like that. You’d probably get ghosts of centuries old cockroaches haunting your garbage bins. It’s very interesting that residences that once housed peasant and minimum wage-type workers are now sought after by the well-to-do.
I've always loved the look of thatched cottages in England; perhaps swayed by their old-world charm and prettiness. While they tempt you from the front private grounds, how does one think they look from the inside? Shit, that’s how. The are fairly squat and the ceilings are low, perhaps no higher than six foot; you could certainly never invite basketballers or giraffes around for a spot of Devonshire Tea. And how does the plumbing and toilet flushing go on a 300-year-old house? Dubiously, I’d say.
But still, people love their old houses. People love houses, actually. For years, at least since 2006, people have decided that they want to live in houses. This enlightenment may have occurred a few years earlier, I don't know; I'm not a real estate expert. But I do live in a house, and I have done so since at least 2006. I imagine people like to buy old houses for all the charm of having a backed-up toilet, burst water pipes and termites.
And for some unfathomable reason, people like to ask over-ambitious, manic men and women with fake smiles and nauseating one liners to show them around properties that may or may not be even in the ballpark of their price range.
Last night's episode featured a stoic couple from Berlin, who remained perpetually concerned that the interiors of each of the five bedroom McMansions they were shown did not have enough room "for all their furnitures" and their "wardrobes". They are German, okay. Germans need many wardrobes.
DICK had been briefed by the Germans on what they were looking for; which was a dwelling in the countryside away from the rat race but not too far away as they had to drive their Audi to London every day. So what did the DICK do? He found houses that were about 100 miles away from London. Yep, that's what the Germans want; a 200 mile roundtrip every day. I got the feeling that DICK had some houses he couldn't sell through his real estate dealings in the real world so he tried to flog them off to the Germans. What a dick is DICK.
Monday 14 November 2011
First world problem
A moving tale of a guest blogger's first world problem.
The other day I picked up my e-tag package from Australia Post on the way home from work. When I got home I dumped all my stuff on the table and I was hungry so I started eating cheese things and got orange all over my hands. Then I remembered I had an e-tag!!!!!! I had to open the package up right away and play with my new toy!!! However, I had orange all over my hands so I went to my automatic soap dispenser to get some cucumber and aloe soap, but the battery was flat. I went into the bathroom and I was all out of honey and vanilla scented moisturising hand wash so I had to get some out of the linen cupboard. Before I went through the linen cupboard I had to go outside and wash my hands under the hose like I lived in India or something. Then I went back to the linen cupboard and some Egyptian cotton sheets fell on my head while I was rummaging around. They were 1200 thread count and really heavy. Finally I got the hand wash out. I had bought a six pack from Costco for about $10 and it was really heavy and hard to get the plastic and cardboard wrap off and the weight of it hurt my wrist and I got a paper cut from the stupid packaging. Then the soap went all over the basin when I tried to put it in the dispenser. By then I was really tired, so I watched some TV and ate more cheese things. I still haven't put my e-tag on my car. The package is still sitting on the coffee table, taking up room, which means the remotes are all bundled up in one corner, so I had to move my drink coaster, and now I have to reach further to get my tea when I'm watching television.
The other day I picked up my e-tag package from Australia Post on the way home from work. When I got home I dumped all my stuff on the table and I was hungry so I started eating cheese things and got orange all over my hands. Then I remembered I had an e-tag!!!!!! I had to open the package up right away and play with my new toy!!! However, I had orange all over my hands so I went to my automatic soap dispenser to get some cucumber and aloe soap, but the battery was flat. I went into the bathroom and I was all out of honey and vanilla scented moisturising hand wash so I had to get some out of the linen cupboard. Before I went through the linen cupboard I had to go outside and wash my hands under the hose like I lived in India or something. Then I went back to the linen cupboard and some Egyptian cotton sheets fell on my head while I was rummaging around. They were 1200 thread count and really heavy. Finally I got the hand wash out. I had bought a six pack from Costco for about $10 and it was really heavy and hard to get the plastic and cardboard wrap off and the weight of it hurt my wrist and I got a paper cut from the stupid packaging. Then the soap went all over the basin when I tried to put it in the dispenser. By then I was really tired, so I watched some TV and ate more cheese things. I still haven't put my e-tag on my car. The package is still sitting on the coffee table, taking up room, which means the remotes are all bundled up in one corner, so I had to move my drink coaster, and now I have to reach further to get my tea when I'm watching television.
Friday 11 November 2011
Aliens, FBI and Richard Branson
In the 100 or so posts I have blogged this year, I seemed to have neglected the extremely pressing and topical issue of aliens, UFO sightings, abductions and various other close encounters of the kind that always seem to happen to completely fucking insane people. I must rectify this terrible oversight and write about them forthwith.
It's lucky that some poor stooge in the United States Federal Government doesn't have to investigate every alien sighting of every moron who thinks they've seen something mysterious in the night sky that they can't explain. Oh wait, someone does have to do that? I suppose someone has to give a shit.
You may think the Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI) spends every second of every day tracking serial killers, pedophiles, cyber bullies, and other people that, you know, aren't terribly society-friendly, but they are also required to look into alien sightings. They have squillions of interviews with crazy farmers and various gap toothed, trailer park folk on their website - "I done seen it over there!" U.S taxpayer dollars well spent.
The FBI were first drawn into this craziness in 1947, when there were a "rash" of UFO sightings. Coincidentally, 1947 was also the year that the movie, Miracle on 34th Street, was first shown in theaters. The movie is actually of no relevanace to UFOs and aliens, but my qustion to you is this: why did they first show a Christmas movie in March? Totally weird year, 1947.
I'm sure aliens - or extraterrestrial life, if I want to be politically correct, which I rarely do - do exist, but not in a form that is visible or comprehensible to the human race. I imagine they are simple bacteria-like organisms, which don't translate very well on the Hollywood bigscreen.
But you can't convince the Americans of this - they are totally obsessed with aliens in their scary, Hollywood form. Think E.T phoning home. Think, Mork. Think any moronic character that Steven Spielberg or James Cameron conjures up.
It's anyone's guess why aliens would assume a human type form. And why would they go to America? Surely if you are looking for other intelligent life you would go anywhere but America. And why would aliens choose to get around in flying saucers; given they're a Hollywood invention? If I, as a human, am puzzled by these questions, I can only imagine how confused the poor little aliens are when sitting around their alien boardroom wondering where to send their alien astronauts.
I must say, I empathise with other life out there in the final frontier. Little do they know that Richard Branson is devising a plan to go intergallactic in the next few years with his Virgin brand, which means all life in outer space will have to put up with a bunch of spoilt, rich earthlings on Branson's outer space party shuttles. I'm not sure how Branson will make the flight attendants look slutty in their over-sized space suits but I'm sure he'll find a way.
It's lucky that some poor stooge in the United States Federal Government doesn't have to investigate every alien sighting of every moron who thinks they've seen something mysterious in the night sky that they can't explain. Oh wait, someone does have to do that? I suppose someone has to give a shit.
You may think the Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI) spends every second of every day tracking serial killers, pedophiles, cyber bullies, and other people that, you know, aren't terribly society-friendly, but they are also required to look into alien sightings. They have squillions of interviews with crazy farmers and various gap toothed, trailer park folk on their website - "I done seen it over there!" U.S taxpayer dollars well spent.
The FBI were first drawn into this craziness in 1947, when there were a "rash" of UFO sightings. Coincidentally, 1947 was also the year that the movie, Miracle on 34th Street, was first shown in theaters. The movie is actually of no relevanace to UFOs and aliens, but my qustion to you is this: why did they first show a Christmas movie in March? Totally weird year, 1947.
I'm sure aliens - or extraterrestrial life, if I want to be politically correct, which I rarely do - do exist, but not in a form that is visible or comprehensible to the human race. I imagine they are simple bacteria-like organisms, which don't translate very well on the Hollywood bigscreen.
But you can't convince the Americans of this - they are totally obsessed with aliens in their scary, Hollywood form. Think E.T phoning home. Think, Mork. Think any moronic character that Steven Spielberg or James Cameron conjures up.
It's anyone's guess why aliens would assume a human type form. And why would they go to America? Surely if you are looking for other intelligent life you would go anywhere but America. And why would aliens choose to get around in flying saucers; given they're a Hollywood invention? If I, as a human, am puzzled by these questions, I can only imagine how confused the poor little aliens are when sitting around their alien boardroom wondering where to send their alien astronauts.
I must say, I empathise with other life out there in the final frontier. Little do they know that Richard Branson is devising a plan to go intergallactic in the next few years with his Virgin brand, which means all life in outer space will have to put up with a bunch of spoilt, rich earthlings on Branson's outer space party shuttles. I'm not sure how Branson will make the flight attendants look slutty in their over-sized space suits but I'm sure he'll find a way.
Wednesday 9 November 2011
Bad 'Air Days
I don't blog about the weather very much; primarily because it is not interesting enough in Canberra. Perhaps if we had a hurricane I could fill up a blog post. To be honest, the weather is just a natural phenomenum created by God to give boring people something to talk about. But something weatherish needs to be addressed. It's all about my hair, really.
Bob Brown couldn't care less about my hair. I know he doesn't care because he's not ranting and raving in the Senate about the radical increases in wavy, unruly hair caused by dangerously high levels of humidity that threaten the very fabric of our society. Threaten our democratic values; our whole way of life. The whole structure of our hairstyles.
If left unchecked, this humidity has the power to make us look like dweebs for days on end. Someone needs to do something! Where the hell are the idealistic youth when you need them? Oh, they're all on Facebook? Maybe we'll need to get them to stop poking each other and start up a ban humidity page; that should do it.
We need to stop pouring money into this so-called man-made global warming (sorry, climate change), and start trying to eradicate the scourge of humidity or we are all doomed - DOOMED! My stupid anti-humidity spray doesn't work when it has to deal with real humidity, of the type that Canberra is currently being exposed to. I used to have useful anti-humidity hair goo, but the product was DISCONTINUED.
I hate when you get to know a product, and you rely on it, and trust that it’ll always be there for you, and then the stupid company discontinues the product. And you are left bereft, with no hope to maintain humdity-free hair without resorting to a strange product whose effectiveness is a mystery to you.
I really can't tolerate any more bad hair days. What we really need to do is find is patient zero in this unfolding crisis, so we can put them into a nuclear bunker type environment, or bus interchange locker if we're pushed for choice, so they stop spreading the scourge of humidity.
And now - the wind! Usually the wind stays in the naughty corner, that being South-East Australia; or Melbourne, more precisely. But it's here. The fucking wind. I wish the weather would pull itself into line. Sheesh.
Bob Brown couldn't care less about my hair. I know he doesn't care because he's not ranting and raving in the Senate about the radical increases in wavy, unruly hair caused by dangerously high levels of humidity that threaten the very fabric of our society. Threaten our democratic values; our whole way of life. The whole structure of our hairstyles.
If left unchecked, this humidity has the power to make us look like dweebs for days on end. Someone needs to do something! Where the hell are the idealistic youth when you need them? Oh, they're all on Facebook? Maybe we'll need to get them to stop poking each other and start up a ban humidity page; that should do it.
We need to stop pouring money into this so-called man-made global warming (sorry, climate change), and start trying to eradicate the scourge of humidity or we are all doomed - DOOMED! My stupid anti-humidity spray doesn't work when it has to deal with real humidity, of the type that Canberra is currently being exposed to. I used to have useful anti-humidity hair goo, but the product was DISCONTINUED.
I hate when you get to know a product, and you rely on it, and trust that it’ll always be there for you, and then the stupid company discontinues the product. And you are left bereft, with no hope to maintain humdity-free hair without resorting to a strange product whose effectiveness is a mystery to you.
I really can't tolerate any more bad hair days. What we really need to do is find is patient zero in this unfolding crisis, so we can put them into a nuclear bunker type environment, or bus interchange locker if we're pushed for choice, so they stop spreading the scourge of humidity.
And now - the wind! Usually the wind stays in the naughty corner, that being South-East Australia; or Melbourne, more precisely. But it's here. The fucking wind. I wish the weather would pull itself into line. Sheesh.
Sunday 6 November 2011
The Duchess and The Red Jacket
I am defying all my blogging rules writing on this hot topic. I don't write about dresses, cosmetics, fashion accessories or shoes for several reasons. The main reason is that I'm rather indifferent to writing about the world of dresses, cosmetics, fashion accessories and shoes.
Sure, I've been known to wear clothes from time to time, but I really wouldn't know how to fill up a blog post with all the nitty, gritty details, and would likely plummet into unconsciousness within minutes of writing about haute couture.
Plus I don’t speak fashion lingo, and don’t care to venture into that cultural cocoon anytime soon. I've always thought that fashion was one of those things that a total of six people actually have time to follow.
Sure, I've been known to wear clothes from time to time, but I really wouldn't know how to fill up a blog post with all the nitty, gritty details, and would likely plummet into unconsciousness within minutes of writing about haute couture.
Plus I don’t speak fashion lingo, and don’t care to venture into that cultural cocoon anytime soon. I've always thought that fashion was one of those things that a total of six people actually have time to follow.
The way fashion types carry on, it’s as if the fashion predilections of celebrities call into question their reasoning powers and integrity. As if one erroneous fashion decision means they are clearly unable to make any serious judgment in the real world. Which may well be the case.
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| Here it is again! |
But it’s more than likely the Duchess just felt like wearing a red jacket. Or if you are into conspiracy theories, perhaps this clothing decision was guided by the cool Danish climate at this time of year. Ah, there’s that excitement, intrigue and mystery for which celebrity fashion is renowned; why did she really wear the red jacket?
I don't have a problem with those who write of fashion; in fact, I marvel at the way they can write hundreds of words on popular skirt lengths and espadrilles. The thing that irks me about fashion bloggers is that they are clueless about royal roles and duties and don't particularly care either. Which is fair enough.
They accuse the royals of rampant freeloading, yet get distracted by red jackets and become completely disinterested in anything to do with whatever charitable cause the royal is associated with. Because that's not interesting enough for them. But a red piece of clothing is. Superficial much?
On this occasion, Kate and Wills were in Copenhagen putting the global spotlight back onto the humanitarian crisis in East Africa. Or putting the spotlight on red jackets. One of those.
Anyway, I write today about the Duchess' red jacket because I do not like it at all. While Kate has the good fortune of being one of those people who actually looks good in a long red coat, it is possibly the most uncomfortable looking jacket I have ever seen.
It's long, which is annoying. It's buttonless, which is annoying. It's red, which is annoying. It has a belt, which is annoying. It has a chin-grazing collar, which is annoying. Kate, stop annoying me through your fashion choices.
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