Olympic-size pool comebacks

The 2012 London Olympics are fast approaching, with the host city finalising preparations before it welcomes the prestigious international sporting event in July next year. As of December 2010, the seats in the Olympic stadium were being fitted, the flood lights were being tested, and all the other venues were nearing completion, including the venue that will house the sport of....Matrix fighting?  Wait a minute, I think that's the London Olympic Taekwondo mascots!  Cute, one-eyed liquid mercury men, or something.  Bless.    

A couple of London 2012 mascots

So the London preparations seem to be going swimmingly.  They remind me of the preparations for the 2010 New Delhi Commonwealth Games, except that London's are well organised, safe and hygienic. (New Delhi Olympic Committee: Oh, that’s how you prepare stuff for an international sporting event?  We are totally gonna write that down for next time). No, New Delhi. You will not be hosting anything else ever, unless you clean up your garbage dump state of affairs.

Our future Olympians are currently training their little tushes off in a bid to qualify; determined to fulfill a life-long dream of representing their country in a sport that they love, are exceedingly good at, and for many, have been competing in since they were about two weeks old. Although, some late bloomers have been known to start at six months; which I don't see the point of, as they are clearly past their prime.  Okay, I mock, but I LOVE the Olympics.

Australians love an Olympic success story, more so when it involves one of our own. We remember with great fondness when Australian swimming sensation, Ian Thorpe, struck gold, time and again, and we remember his glorious journey to success. We remember because we travelled it with him, every step of the way. So there is no surprise, or doubt, that we want our best athletes to keep going. Because for those moments of glory, we are proud; proud of them, and proud of ourselves.

When Thorpe announced the end of his professional swimming career in 2006 at the age of 24, few could begrudge him his new direction in life. Australia’s most successful Olympian acknowledged he was "tired of swimming lap after lap staring at a black line”. I hear you Thorpie.  That's exactly the reason I gave up my professional swimming career.  So anyway, a few weeks ago, the 28-year-old Thorpedo announced to the world that he was making a comeback, just in time for the London games! 

And this week, another Australian Olympian, Michael Klim, 33, announced he was making a comeback, after retiring in 2007. And Olympians Geoff Huegill, 31, and Libby Trickett, 26, have woken up and smelt the chlorine, also coming out of retirement to put in a bid to contest the London games.

In 2007, another Olympian, U.S. swimmer, Dara Torres, a four-time Olympic gold medalist, was vying for a place on her national team for the Beijing games. In preparation, Torres broke her own American record for the 50m freestyle at the USA National Swimming Championships, seven years after retiring from competitive swimming. A remarkable achievement made more astonishing given Torres was 40, and first won gold 23 years before at the Los Angeles Olympics.

The news that the mother-of-one was challenging the new stable of Olympic hopefuls, some half her age, had sports physiologists and scientists scratching their heads at the unlikelihood of her making a successful comeback. A senior sports physiologist at the Australian Institute of Sport, David Pyne, says extending the careers of elite athletes is “good for the individuals and good for the sport”.

The concept of athletes taking a break before returning to the sport in a bid to extend their career has been gaining currency, as attested by Thorpe, Huegill, Klim and Trickett. While these swimmers are a good deal younger than Torres, they are exceptions to the rule, and pressure to remain in the sport should not be placed on our finest athletes.  Yes, you can’t beat the classics, but there are many other talented athletes coming up through the ranks.

We should acknowledge that even gifted athletes have a desire to experience life after their sporting achievements, and we should let them go when they are ready, so we can follow the new breed as they pursue their dreams. While some, like Thorpe, have unfinished business, our future Olympians are not buoyed by their own past triumphs or losses, although they may soon realise their one moment to shine may promise little more than exquisite glory or excruciating defeat.  And emboldened by our past successes, they will strive to make us just as proud.

Random Breathe Testing

There is a special niche group of people in Australia who are more than happy to go on national television after being sprung for drink / drug-induced / low intelligence driving. For argument’s sake, I shall refer to these folk as idiots.

‘RBT’, that is random breath testing, is a reality television show on Channel Nine. It’s about making fun of stupid people, right? I hope so, because I sure as heck am doing just that. It almost feels cruel. Alas, if you agree to be one of the stars of ‘RBT’, then you fully deserve any ridicule that comes your way. It’s one of life’s great tragedies that these morons think it’s fun to have their 30 minutes (minus commercials) of fame on this reality show.

In the episode I caught tonight on my new favourite bogan entertainment channel the police caught up with Rhiannon, who was driving 'one of the dodgiest cars police have ever seen'. Rhiannon was actually driving a car that was illegally borrowed from the wreckers.  As you do. Sheesh, if you have the skills Rhiannon, head for your local BMW dealership. The world is your cheeseburger, so think big girlfriend.

Rhiannon’s sweet ride contained cannabis and methamphetamines and “drug equipment”, but apparently Rhiannon knew nothing about of any of this. I couldn’t lie convincingly to a horse, let alone a mob of police officers and a Channel Nine camera crew. Perhaps I am underestimating these people.

Maybe these idiots are actually destined for the bright lights of Home and Away. Rhiannon finally admitted that she had taken some marijuana that morning. Good call Rhiannon; the best thing to do before driving across Australia is to spend the morning smoking weed.

Ed, who after 22 or so schooners, argued with a poker-faced policeman.  Note to Ed: it’s probably best to shut up if you are too pissed to tell if the cop is saying your 'life' or your 'licence' is in jeopardy. Brain-dead Ed pulled out the old “I lose my licence, I lose my job” nugget a couple of times.  Damn it, it's almost like actions have consequences or something.

I have zero tolerance for drink drivers, and they should get everything the law can throw at them.  I just wish the NSW Police Commissioner would give the forces some power to throw these idiots into prison.  But then they'd probably create a show following them through the justice system.

The naming of natural disasters

Apart from a pressing need for an amendment to its ‘beautiful one day, perfect the next’ self-styled motto, Queensland needs to go buy itself a state-wide lotto ticket, because it has, for the most part, narrowly avoided being completely scuttled by TC Yasi.  Yasi, or the Banana Crop Murderer as I like to call her, is one of the manliest sounding cyclone names we have come across in a long time. Which isn’t difficult when you are comparing it to Larry or Tracy.

I know the people who name natural disasters are just trying their best, and are probably more concerned with the meteorological side of weather things that blow up a fierce gale, but who the heck thought Larry, Katrina, Bianca and Anthony were appropriate names for these monsters created out of mother nature's fury?

I suppose the really important point to remember is that celebrities don’t get the opportunity to name them. Or else we would have ‘Hurricane Pomegranate’ by Gwyneth Paltrow, 'Tornado Bluebelle Sweet Nectarin' by Bob Geldof, and ‘Tropical Cyclone Princess Plush Pillow’ by Michael Jackson.

Apart from the obvious similarities in personality traits and disposition, natural disasters resemble children in other ways too; that is, someone has to name them and someone has to pay for the damage they inflict on society and the environment.  Hmm, who has to pay for natural disasters in Australia? Oh wait, that’s us taxpayers.  Which we are more than happy to do.  But just when you thought those bucks would be covered through your annual taxes...

Our fearless and rather stupid Prime Minister, Julia Gillard, has whipped up a whole tornado of bullshit by deciding that Australians need to fork out for a ‘flood levy’, to pay for the wet and wild ride that devastated Queensland a few weeks ago. 

Our Opposition leader, Tony Abbott, in opposing the PM, decided to fight the levy, and called for donations to set this in motion. Yes, the former is in charge of running the country and the latter is supposed to be holding the other to account, but that's no fun when there is a cyclone to exploit and much natural disaster politicking to oversee.  As usual, I had the lowest of expectations and I'm still disappointed.

Maybe there is another solution.  I have noticed that big whopper companies love to show their philanthropic streak when times are tough for Aussies. So what if we allow these companies to sponsor natural disasters (eg. Tropical Cyclone McDonald's Angus Burger), and the trade off is that they pick up the dry-cleaning bill?

Then we wouldn’t have to pay the stupid levy. It’s a two-pronged effect – they raise awareness of their company whilst looking like they care about the public and the environment. In my defence, I haven’t thought this idea through at all.  But that excuse seems good enough for our PM and Peter Garrett and the other hillbillies who are supposedly governing the country, so it's good enough for me.

Also in my defence, I haven’t been elected by the people to stop the country running into bankruptcy, and it’s also not my responsibility to prevent a situation where the electorate are needing to take on second jobs to pay for natural disasters, which we rather ignorantly assume are covered by our normal taxes.

Zoo versus the wild

Today’s blog is pondering the pros and cons of the welfare of animals in captivity, compared to those that are born into the wild wilds of African countries and the like. I’ve always adored animals. All of them; indiscriminately. Even the ones that hiss in my face, smell bad, or have a less than benevolent personality. If I was going to get all finicky, then a lot of people I’ve met in my lifetime would meet this criteria as well; and I would preferably give them the flick out of my life than an animal.

When it comes to our feathered and furry friends, my concern is for their welfare, and I think that their welfare is pretty darn good living in the local city zoo, at least in Western countries.  While some are confined within a space that they wouldn’t be subjected to out in the wild, and they have to deal with the high-pitched screams of excited kids, they don’t have to hunt for their food, fight for their survival or spend every waking minute protecting their young so the big bad wolf doesn’t eat their babies during the night. And their future is clear in captivity - they will live their lives and breed and lie around all day watching Fox News.

Life in captivity means the survival of a species can be prolonged, as they are often involved in breeding programs run by experts who are steadfast on ensuring their continued existence. But let’s be honest; endangered animals will become extinct no matter what we do. Apart from the fact that humans couldn’t survive for the most part without eating certain species, I don’t see that we have any right to kill any animal for fun, profit, pride, culture, status or tradition, or any other idiotic reason, as occurs in many regions around the world.

I don’t agree with, and am sickened by, the way individuals in many countries mistreat, abuse and disrespect animals. But are we empowered to do anything about it? There isn’t a not-for-profit in the world that has the balls to fight this fight; not on any level.  I, at least, like to fight on the individual level.  If I ever see someone abusing an animal in Australia, where we have (weak and pathetic) animal cruelty laws in place, I would likely implement my eye-for-an-eye policy and go to jail for a long time on a charge that I would view as a community service.  To avoid possible long-term detention, I have often thought about heading into politics just so I can strengthen Australia’s minimalist animal cruelty penalties, but I don’t think Australia would ever be ready for the justice measures I would like to introduce; what with our ridiculous anti-capital punishment law.

One of my favourite animals is the tiger. I simply adore them. I have visited them many times at the zoo, and I feel that I have always had a special bond with each and every one of them. Perhaps it may also be due to the fact that I stare at them for so long they are really longing to rip my head off, and serve me up as a tasty afternoon snack served with a side of grass and goat meat. Hmm, I prefer my more romantic Born Free-esque, tiger whisperer fantasy.

This is the last post in my A – Z Writing Challenge, which is a little sad. The end has come so soon and I have very much enjoyed this creative process each day and feel immeasurably satisfied that it is complete. Rediscovering my passion for creative writing has been more of a stimulating journey than a challenge, and I’ll never stop writing again.  For the past 25 days, I have written 25 blogs (today being the 26th), on 25 topics that start with the letters of the alphabet. Ultimately, my purpose was to get back into the habit of writing on a daily basis, which I lost when I began uni seven years ago amongst endless politics essays and psychology presentations. And I have found that I have began to really enjoy writing again, and my writer’s block has put itself on hold. At least for the time being.

Young gun no more, Mr Sheen

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 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

Of course, the other way to confirm for certain that you have a spider phobia is to ask yourself if you’re friggin’ petrified of spiders.

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.

Right Royal Wedding

It’s time to stock up on tacky mugs, plates, tea towels and thimbles; there’s a right Royal Wedding on the 2011 calendar! In November last year, the family announced that Prince William will be marrying Kate Middleton, a commoner, on 29 April this year. Which happens to be a Friday, but I’m sure the various Commonwealth leaders and other distinguished guests can get their understudy’s to fill in for a few hours while they take their leave. Alternatively, someone could ask the Middle East to stop blowing up our soldiers until the weekend.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.