I've been a travellin' man for the past month, so I haven't caught much of the London Olympics. I know a lot people whinge that the Games are stupid and contrived and full of cheats that shouldn't rely on Government handouts to do their job, but I generally find that the people who make these claims are just projecting their own life's setbacks through an elite sporting event.
Okay, we get that you weren't picked for your high school basketball team, but get over it already.
I've just arrived back in the country, in time for the final days of competition, so I'm making the most of it, even if I have to make the most of it through the fill-in-the-final-days sports, like BMX biking, sailing and powerwalking through the gardens of Buckinghuge Palace.
Speaking of Her Majesty's digs, I was watching the walking race earlier, where competitors pretend they are elite athletes by engaging in an activity that is often favoured by really old people on zimmer frames to enhance their strength and mobility.
The race feels like it's going to go for about 28 hours, so I'll check in again tomorrow to see if it's raining yet. I'm going to take a stab in the dark and guess yes. I noted the subtle landmark tourism campaign that the organisers have employed on the race course.
It weaves right around the Palace and then up and down The Mall. The only thing they could have done to shove the City of Westminster any further down my throat was have the walkers pace furiously up and down the corridors of the Palace with corgis nipping at their nikes.
I have also noted that British uberbrand, Duchess Kate, is leading the London tourism campaign through her attendence at every single event on the Olympic calendar.
The poor girl even had to attend the boxing finals, where I imagine she was forced to sit amongst a bunch of drunk, tattooed deadbeat commoners and watch fierce chicks beat the daylights out of each other in the name of the Olympic Spirit. Although they were probably trying not to focus on the bit that says to build a peaceful and better world. Duchess Kate was charmed, I'm sure.
Saturday, 11 August 2012
Tuesday, 7 August 2012
Delta
My flight to New York last week was provided by the wonderful world of Delta, which is less wonderful and more woeful. Delta is unfortunately named after the symbol in the Greek alphabet meaning slow and inept customer service, or after Australian singing barbie doll, Delta Goodrem. Either way, not good.
Delta is one of the busiest airlines in the United States. I don't know why this is the case because they are fairly shite compared to any airline in Australia. Or maybe it just feels like they're busy when they are really just hopelessly incompetent.
IN other news, I seriously do not know what all the fuss is about New York. It is dirty and smelly and crowded and noisy and full of brash New Yorkers and other self-absorbed Americans. What's to like about any of that?
Delta is one of the busiest airlines in the United States. I don't know why this is the case because they are fairly shite compared to any airline in Australia. Or maybe it just feels like they're busy when they are really just hopelessly incompetent.
IN other news, I seriously do not know what all the fuss is about New York. It is dirty and smelly and crowded and noisy and full of brash New Yorkers and other self-absorbed Americans. What's to like about any of that?
Friday, 3 August 2012
The Great Disney Propaganda Machine
We crept out of the Disney hotel in Florida the other day at the crack of too early in an attempt to escape Brand Disney without detection. We were headed for the concrete jungle of New York City, where dreams are made of and, according to all reports, bad coffee is brewed. If I can possibly make it there - and get out of Disney in one piece and without any residual brain washing or damage - then I can make it anywhere.
The Disney brand even tried to indoctrinate us through videoconferencing facilities on the Magical Express Shuttle Bus on the way to the airport, part of a carefully calculated post-Disney experience no doubt. Even at the airport you will find Disney and theme park-esque retail outlets trying to steal the last dime out of your pocket. They will get you eventually it seems; even if you are just passing through Mickeyville.
We sat at Orlando airport for ages and ages, due to a big arse weather system floating in the general vicinity of where we were and were we wanted to be. I am happy to sit out a monster storm cell, but not so much if the delay is due to a passenger who can't organise themselves to get to the airport on time.
On the last night in Disney we got to see their electrical parade, which is basically an event where all of the most interesting characters and floats are elaborately decorated in humongous chains of Christmas lights and wind up and around Main Street USA, the primary thoroughfare through the park.
I have been trying to scour a good location to view this parade for a week. Apart from its monotonous brain-spasming catchy tune, it is a pretty decent demonstration of the all-American cheese factory that is Disney. My favourite float is Peter or someone and his magic dragon or whatever it is, who blows misty fake snot all over the kiddies. Brilliant. Perhaps he had Dragon Flu.
With all the muggles and minions floating about, I am surprised I haven't contracted some lethal type of cold or flu or meningococcal from breathing in gross, deadly pathogens at DisneyWorld. Or at least Type 2 diabetes from all the sugar I have consumed.
Did I mention the toilets here? They need to be discussed. At length and right here. The Big D thankfully favour toilets that have the decency to flush themselves. If only people in Australia knew how to do that at shopping centres. I suppose it is quite a difficult feat to accomplish. Disney also provide paper toilet seat covers in your stall, presumably so you don't contract some hideous bum disease.
After doing your business, you simply flush the paper bum cheek protector down the gurgler. The toilet in the hotel room, however, is ridiculously lazy, as it can't really be bothered flushing itself. Perhaps it only lifts its fingers for tips, like everyone else in the service industry in this country.
The result of this is you have to hold down the lever until it is all gone; like I have nothing more interesting to do. Fortunately these defunct toilets across America may have saved millions of people from a lifelong pattern of leaving grotty loos for the next person to deal with.
The Disney brand even tried to indoctrinate us through videoconferencing facilities on the Magical Express Shuttle Bus on the way to the airport, part of a carefully calculated post-Disney experience no doubt. Even at the airport you will find Disney and theme park-esque retail outlets trying to steal the last dime out of your pocket. They will get you eventually it seems; even if you are just passing through Mickeyville.
We sat at Orlando airport for ages and ages, due to a big arse weather system floating in the general vicinity of where we were and were we wanted to be. I am happy to sit out a monster storm cell, but not so much if the delay is due to a passenger who can't organise themselves to get to the airport on time.
On the last night in Disney we got to see their electrical parade, which is basically an event where all of the most interesting characters and floats are elaborately decorated in humongous chains of Christmas lights and wind up and around Main Street USA, the primary thoroughfare through the park.
I have been trying to scour a good location to view this parade for a week. Apart from its monotonous brain-spasming catchy tune, it is a pretty decent demonstration of the all-American cheese factory that is Disney. My favourite float is Peter or someone and his magic dragon or whatever it is, who blows misty fake snot all over the kiddies. Brilliant. Perhaps he had Dragon Flu.
With all the muggles and minions floating about, I am surprised I haven't contracted some lethal type of cold or flu or meningococcal from breathing in gross, deadly pathogens at DisneyWorld. Or at least Type 2 diabetes from all the sugar I have consumed.
Did I mention the toilets here? They need to be discussed. At length and right here. The Big D thankfully favour toilets that have the decency to flush themselves. If only people in Australia knew how to do that at shopping centres. I suppose it is quite a difficult feat to accomplish. Disney also provide paper toilet seat covers in your stall, presumably so you don't contract some hideous bum disease.
After doing your business, you simply flush the paper bum cheek protector down the gurgler. The toilet in the hotel room, however, is ridiculously lazy, as it can't really be bothered flushing itself. Perhaps it only lifts its fingers for tips, like everyone else in the service industry in this country.
The result of this is you have to hold down the lever until it is all gone; like I have nothing more interesting to do. Fortunately these defunct toilets across America may have saved millions of people from a lifelong pattern of leaving grotty loos for the next person to deal with.
Wednesday, 1 August 2012
Days of Paleontology
That's a big word, isn't it? Paleontology? I'm sorry, I will endeavour to keep my loquacious confabulations to a minimum. Most people think paleontology is just about the study of Sarah Palin, but this just isn't true. It's also about the study of really, really old stuff. I know, I'm a rocket scientist now. I have a keyring from NASA's Kennedy Space Centre to corroborate this claim.
I write on the very topical matter of dinosaurs because my Disney hotel in Florida was replete with baby-sized prehistoric, histrionic tyrannosaurus rex'. They were everywhere. They run in front of you as you walk the pavements of the hotel and the evidence that they don't always make it to the other side is smeared on the pretty cobblestones of the Port Orleans, French Quarter themed resort.
Ants - who are, on average, very short - probably don't even know that dinosaurs are extinct. Not that I've seen any ants in Florida. Or flies. America doesn't deserve to not have any flies. Oh wait, I did see a fly; he/she tried to steal one of my fries. But that was just one fly, and I think the exception proves the rule, no?
Speaking of things that are or should be extinct, one can buy a leg of a T-Rex to eat for your dinner at Disney. Or they could be turkey limbs; you really don't know these days. Especially in Florida; land of the nutjobs. Many people walk around with these repulsive bits of meat hanging out of their mouth like Captain Caveman, and the meat is all pink and raw-looking and still quivering in its dinosaur booties. Seriously gross.
In other dinosaur-related hearsay - who knew there would be so much - today I ventured out into big, tall, stinking New York City for a day of stuffed creatures at the American Natural History Museum. It was chockers full of real, fake and real/fake combo dinosaurs, mammals, tigers and other things I've never heard of. And it was brilliant. I will discuss this at another time because it is now sleep time for me.
I write on the very topical matter of dinosaurs because my Disney hotel in Florida was replete with baby-sized prehistoric, histrionic tyrannosaurus rex'. They were everywhere. They run in front of you as you walk the pavements of the hotel and the evidence that they don't always make it to the other side is smeared on the pretty cobblestones of the Port Orleans, French Quarter themed resort.
Ants - who are, on average, very short - probably don't even know that dinosaurs are extinct. Not that I've seen any ants in Florida. Or flies. America doesn't deserve to not have any flies. Oh wait, I did see a fly; he/she tried to steal one of my fries. But that was just one fly, and I think the exception proves the rule, no?
Speaking of things that are or should be extinct, one can buy a leg of a T-Rex to eat for your dinner at Disney. Or they could be turkey limbs; you really don't know these days. Especially in Florida; land of the nutjobs. Many people walk around with these repulsive bits of meat hanging out of their mouth like Captain Caveman, and the meat is all pink and raw-looking and still quivering in its dinosaur booties. Seriously gross.
In other dinosaur-related hearsay - who knew there would be so much - today I ventured out into big, tall, stinking New York City for a day of stuffed creatures at the American Natural History Museum. It was chockers full of real, fake and real/fake combo dinosaurs, mammals, tigers and other things I've never heard of. And it was brilliant. I will discuss this at another time because it is now sleep time for me.
Saturday, 28 July 2012
Keep Calm and Carry a Poncho
Woah, baby. Why didn't someone tell me that it's best to attend Disney Boot Camp before spending any time at DisneyWorld in Orlando, Florida? Screaming kids, their demented parents, the heat, the humidity and mice called Mickey everywhere. It's hard work and needs to be trained for, or else you will likely catastrophically injure yourself and/or potentially lose your mind.
It turns out that I have the patience of people who work with the stupid public for a living. The place is packed full of Muggles, and I've only wanted to slam people into a wall on a few occasions.
The targets of my mental anguish are mostly American. I don't, however, think patience is a virtue. I think hurrying the fuck up and getting out of my way is definitely something to aim for when walking in my vicinity.
Lucky for my fellow Disney goers that the walls at Disney aren't really walls at all; they are generally just a figment of your rapidly deteriorating brain as it grapples with dehydration, one of the early symptoms of the Disney psychosis.
We've been here a few days now and have a routine. My travelling buddy - who shall not be named because she's scared someone will break into her home in Australia and overwater her plants or dust her shelves or something - love riding Soarin', a five minute simulated hang glider tour of California.
We love it so much that we get up very early, most days, so we can ride it before the big queues and then we get a fastpass for another go. A fastpass sort of saves your place in line while you enjoy other attractions in the park, and there are only a limited number given out throughout the day so you have to be quick and organised and efficient and all the things you don't really care to be during your vacay.
Soarin' is the feature attraction at Epcot in DisneyWorld, and we have also been enjoying the caramel treats in Germany in the World Showcase. If I didn't have travel brain it would have occurred to me this morning that I probably wouldn't usually want to eat a metre squared of caramel topped with milk chocolate. Yeah, that plan shouldn't backfire at all. Engage brain before eating Disneycrap.
Another thing I am struggling with in Disneytown is sensory overstimulation, so I can't imagine how kids cope with it. During the evening, especially, there is so much going on and flashing and noise everywhere and bright lights and water splashing and the screaming from rides and screaming from babies and even more screaming from their parents. It's fucking crazy. I think the adults are the big ones, but I'm not really sure.
I'm heading to New York City in a few days, which means I'll have to think about more than what I want for breakfast and which rides to entertain myself with. You don't really have to think at Disney; they shuttle you everywhere if you are staying in the inner circle.
Everything is measured in minutes at Disney. How long you have to wait for a ride, how far to get here, how far away is the exit, how long do we have to wait until the next fucking shuttle bus. And Disney minutes are like laundromat minutes, in that they lie, and they take forever to click over. It's that special magic of Disney.
You are constantly in a holding pattern when you are waiting in queues for rides and they make you weave around and around and fool you into thinking you are actively engaging in pointless interactive games on the walls in the hope that you will momentarily forget that they are stealing an hour of your life for a two minute theme park ride.
And then there's the merchandise. Last week at Universal Studios I bought a hat emblazoned with the theme park logo, because fucking Qantas lost my luggage and I wasn't going to hang out in the hurricane / sunshine state of Florida without sun protection.
And now, since docking at Disney, two security guards, a ferry captain and a Disney character have commented on my hat and its lack of Disney identification. But I ain't getting one, because too much choice is a prison. It doesn't help that my rain poncho - built to survive a violent hurricane - is also Universal merchandise. It's anyone's guess how we haven't been evicted from Disney.
The toilets are called restrooms, but there is no time for rest in there. The good part is you get to cover your seat with a paper toilet seat cover which you flush down the toilet, providing it doesn't stick to the back of your legs in a half flush reverse pike move. And even though it only has one job to do, the hotel loo doesn't flush by itself, so you have to hold the lever until the bitter end. I thought you needed to know that.
 |
| Soarin'! |
The targets of my mental anguish are mostly American. I don't, however, think patience is a virtue. I think hurrying the fuck up and getting out of my way is definitely something to aim for when walking in my vicinity.
Lucky for my fellow Disney goers that the walls at Disney aren't really walls at all; they are generally just a figment of your rapidly deteriorating brain as it grapples with dehydration, one of the early symptoms of the Disney psychosis.
We've been here a few days now and have a routine. My travelling buddy - who shall not be named because she's scared someone will break into her home in Australia and overwater her plants or dust her shelves or something - love riding Soarin', a five minute simulated hang glider tour of California.
We love it so much that we get up very early, most days, so we can ride it before the big queues and then we get a fastpass for another go. A fastpass sort of saves your place in line while you enjoy other attractions in the park, and there are only a limited number given out throughout the day so you have to be quick and organised and efficient and all the things you don't really care to be during your vacay.
Soarin' is the feature attraction at Epcot in DisneyWorld, and we have also been enjoying the caramel treats in Germany in the World Showcase. If I didn't have travel brain it would have occurred to me this morning that I probably wouldn't usually want to eat a metre squared of caramel topped with milk chocolate. Yeah, that plan shouldn't backfire at all. Engage brain before eating Disneycrap.
Another thing I am struggling with in Disneytown is sensory overstimulation, so I can't imagine how kids cope with it. During the evening, especially, there is so much going on and flashing and noise everywhere and bright lights and water splashing and the screaming from rides and screaming from babies and even more screaming from their parents. It's fucking crazy. I think the adults are the big ones, but I'm not really sure.
I'm heading to New York City in a few days, which means I'll have to think about more than what I want for breakfast and which rides to entertain myself with. You don't really have to think at Disney; they shuttle you everywhere if you are staying in the inner circle.
Everything is measured in minutes at Disney. How long you have to wait for a ride, how far to get here, how far away is the exit, how long do we have to wait until the next fucking shuttle bus. And Disney minutes are like laundromat minutes, in that they lie, and they take forever to click over. It's that special magic of Disney.
You are constantly in a holding pattern when you are waiting in queues for rides and they make you weave around and around and fool you into thinking you are actively engaging in pointless interactive games on the walls in the hope that you will momentarily forget that they are stealing an hour of your life for a two minute theme park ride.
And then there's the merchandise. Last week at Universal Studios I bought a hat emblazoned with the theme park logo, because fucking Qantas lost my luggage and I wasn't going to hang out in the hurricane / sunshine state of Florida without sun protection.
And now, since docking at Disney, two security guards, a ferry captain and a Disney character have commented on my hat and its lack of Disney identification. But I ain't getting one, because too much choice is a prison. It doesn't help that my rain poncho - built to survive a violent hurricane - is also Universal merchandise. It's anyone's guess how we haven't been evicted from Disney.
The toilets are called restrooms, but there is no time for rest in there. The good part is you get to cover your seat with a paper toilet seat cover which you flush down the toilet, providing it doesn't stick to the back of your legs in a half flush reverse pike move. And even though it only has one job to do, the hotel loo doesn't flush by itself, so you have to hold the lever until the bitter end. I thought you needed to know that.
Wednesday, 25 July 2012
Disneyness
Just completed day five in the world of Disney and I feel like the little mouse has burrowed into my brain and left his ears logo etched onto my amygdala. I am possibly suffering from a psychological disneyorder, if you will.
The amygdala plays a primary role in the formation and storage of memories associated with emotional events which is probably why I can't stop thinking about this: how the hell do Disney take all the taste out of food? How do they do that? They magically make an appetising-looking cheeseburger taste like nothing. We'll never know. It's the magic of Disney.
We are having a night in from the big D tonight, because it's bloody hard yakka and we forgot to go to theme park boot camp before we came over here. But it's just a temporary disneychantment; we'll be back out there tomorrow. You need a lot of stamina to get through the day here. So, instead, we did some laundry this evening. I'm sorry if that's not interesting enough for you.
When I was walking back after picking up my clean clothes - so they can get drenched again in Florida's daily torrential downpour/hurricane tomorrow - I could of sworn I saw Mickey's ears in the sky, a la the Batman sign. See, it's carved into my amygdala. I don't have any scientific evidence to prove that this is a thing, but I imagine that if anyone can do it Disney will nail the shit out of it.
The one thing that they can't do is keep all the kiddies out of the parks. Who in their right mind would take children to Disney?! I can't imagine anything more horrible. Children are highly annoying, and they completely ruin your day. And why, for the love of god, do people allow their five-year-old to steer a pram? For fucks sake.
Every day we are shuttled to any Disney park we want from our hotel. Driving around the whole Disney complex - highways included - you get the idea that the whole of Orlando is purpose built by the uber multinational, as a snug little home-away-from-home for it's star, Mickey Mouse. His east coast abode.
Disney don't do dirt. Or cigarette butts on the ground. Or trash on the side of its highways. They go above and beyond to keep the place picture perfect. And it is very much appreciated. Every tree, every road, every overpass is artificially created, and it seems that nothing is actually real, but everything is in fact very real, just very manufactured. I actually love this place.
Kids may love Disney, but parents not so much. I think I witnessed the early warning signs of divorce on at least five occasions today. Mummy and daddy travelling to crowded theme parks in summer with four kids and the mother-in-law will do that to you. The Disney staff, however, are so friendly that I suspect they are Disneybots.
I have been fond of Disney since I visited Disneyland in Anaheim two years ago. It's a brilliant business model; market your company as the happiest place on earth and then people will desperately want to return, even though their pockets are being drained and they become devoid of anything resembling sanity. Theme park madness, it is.
The amygdala plays a primary role in the formation and storage of memories associated with emotional events which is probably why I can't stop thinking about this: how the hell do Disney take all the taste out of food? How do they do that? They magically make an appetising-looking cheeseburger taste like nothing. We'll never know. It's the magic of Disney.
We are having a night in from the big D tonight, because it's bloody hard yakka and we forgot to go to theme park boot camp before we came over here. But it's just a temporary disneychantment; we'll be back out there tomorrow. You need a lot of stamina to get through the day here. So, instead, we did some laundry this evening. I'm sorry if that's not interesting enough for you.
When I was walking back after picking up my clean clothes - so they can get drenched again in Florida's daily torrential downpour/hurricane tomorrow - I could of sworn I saw Mickey's ears in the sky, a la the Batman sign. See, it's carved into my amygdala. I don't have any scientific evidence to prove that this is a thing, but I imagine that if anyone can do it Disney will nail the shit out of it.
Every day we are shuttled to any Disney park we want from our hotel. Driving around the whole Disney complex - highways included - you get the idea that the whole of Orlando is purpose built by the uber multinational, as a snug little home-away-from-home for it's star, Mickey Mouse. His east coast abode.
Disney don't do dirt. Or cigarette butts on the ground. Or trash on the side of its highways. They go above and beyond to keep the place picture perfect. And it is very much appreciated. Every tree, every road, every overpass is artificially created, and it seems that nothing is actually real, but everything is in fact very real, just very manufactured. I actually love this place.
Kids may love Disney, but parents not so much. I think I witnessed the early warning signs of divorce on at least five occasions today. Mummy and daddy travelling to crowded theme parks in summer with four kids and the mother-in-law will do that to you. The Disney staff, however, are so friendly that I suspect they are Disneybots.
I have been fond of Disney since I visited Disneyland in Anaheim two years ago. It's a brilliant business model; market your company as the happiest place on earth and then people will desperately want to return, even though their pockets are being drained and they become devoid of anything resembling sanity. Theme park madness, it is.
Monday, 23 July 2012
I've been NASA'd
Last week I went to the Kennedy Space Center in Florida, which makes me more of an astronaut than you'll ever be. I had been summoned by NASA to undertake some astronaut training and also to channel my extraordinary engineering abilities. I have a keyring that says rocket scientist to prove it. They don't just sell those things at the merchandise shop, you know.
As I walked through the door at Kennedy I was bombarded by a real-life fake astronaut at the entry to the facility. He so desperately wanted to have his photo taken with me, so I obliged. He was a great big ball of fun but his space backpack looked like a 24 pack of toilet rolls covered in white paint. Hmm.
The first thing budding astronauts do on arrival at Kennedy is jump on the tour bus. But of course. We headed on over to the LC-39 Observation Gantry, which is just a fancy name for a rather high tower made of steel, ladders, elevators and ice cream stands that one climbs to take a gander at the launch pad in the distance. The launch pad area is fairly awesome, even though it is a good few clicks away.
Just near the gantry is the Crawler Transporter, which is just a fancy name for the sandy, gritty road that is used to roll space shuttles along on the initial stage of their journey to the moon. Or on their journey to test piloting if their flight commander only got 99% in their astronaut entrance exam. The concrete underneath this road is apparently 16 inches thick, which is helpful as the contraptions that carry the space-going machines weigh, like, a shitload.
We also saw the Vehicle Assembly Building where they put all the nuts and bolts together in a hideously complicated fashion. This building is massive, but fairly non-descript, if you discount the Starship Enterprise-looking thing hanging around inside it.
Just kidding, you don't get to see Space Shuttle Atlantis at all. They just tell you it's in there and you are supposed to act all excited as if you can see it. The final mission of Atlantis was July 2011, the last flight of the now defunct NASA space program. Good one, Obama; you tool.
To be honest, the whole Space Centre is filled with the same boring, beige concrete structures that house Bureaus of Statistics' in government cities, and the only thing that makes them vaguely interesting is the NASA logo. Although many of them have cool names, like Integrated Booster Retrieval Area. I made that one up, and I don't even know if that's a thing, but it sounds legit and spacey.
I then popped on over to the Apollo/Saturn V Center, where you can stand underneath the rather humongous Saturn V rocket that hangs off the ceiling. It was the backup for the famous moon mission. I guess NASA did a how-to-hang-a-rocket-ship-on-your-ceiling Saturday morning workshop.
I can't get bluetac to hold my Christmas tinsel on the walls in my workplace so kudos to them. Maybe I shouldn't have dropped out of Advanced Aerodynamics at university. At this point of the day I was fairly confident that my trip to the moon was just around the corner.
I also touched some black lunar rock, which raised my suspicions, what with the moon being white and all. Maybe NASA were pushing the affirmative action thing. This is America after all. Or is the moon black? Or grey? I don't know. Who cares. I'm sure I'll know it when I see it when they send me up. The Americans have been there many times, so I'm sure they've put up welcome to the moon signage and a Starbucks.
I was super busy for the rest of the day, such is the life of a rocket scientist slash astronaut. I bought freeze-dried icecream balls, which were completely disgusting. IMAX is there too and provided two amazing presentations, with actual footage of the Hubble telescope and the international space station in 3D. Incredible.
As well as being an active space facility, Kennedy is also a theme park so there is the obligatory theme park ride. Of course. The Shuttle Launch Experience tips you upside down and tries to create zero gravity and that's a bit of fun. I didn't get to go to the moon after all. Maybe next time. By then perhaps the next U.S. President may have reactivated the NASA space program.
The first thing budding astronauts do on arrival at Kennedy is jump on the tour bus. But of course. We headed on over to the LC-39 Observation Gantry, which is just a fancy name for a rather high tower made of steel, ladders, elevators and ice cream stands that one climbs to take a gander at the launch pad in the distance. The launch pad area is fairly awesome, even though it is a good few clicks away.
Just near the gantry is the Crawler Transporter, which is just a fancy name for the sandy, gritty road that is used to roll space shuttles along on the initial stage of their journey to the moon. Or on their journey to test piloting if their flight commander only got 99% in their astronaut entrance exam. The concrete underneath this road is apparently 16 inches thick, which is helpful as the contraptions that carry the space-going machines weigh, like, a shitload.
We also saw the Vehicle Assembly Building where they put all the nuts and bolts together in a hideously complicated fashion. This building is massive, but fairly non-descript, if you discount the Starship Enterprise-looking thing hanging around inside it.
Just kidding, you don't get to see Space Shuttle Atlantis at all. They just tell you it's in there and you are supposed to act all excited as if you can see it. The final mission of Atlantis was July 2011, the last flight of the now defunct NASA space program. Good one, Obama; you tool.
To be honest, the whole Space Centre is filled with the same boring, beige concrete structures that house Bureaus of Statistics' in government cities, and the only thing that makes them vaguely interesting is the NASA logo. Although many of them have cool names, like Integrated Booster Retrieval Area. I made that one up, and I don't even know if that's a thing, but it sounds legit and spacey.
I then popped on over to the Apollo/Saturn V Center, where you can stand underneath the rather humongous Saturn V rocket that hangs off the ceiling. It was the backup for the famous moon mission. I guess NASA did a how-to-hang-a-rocket-ship-on-your-ceiling Saturday morning workshop.
I can't get bluetac to hold my Christmas tinsel on the walls in my workplace so kudos to them. Maybe I shouldn't have dropped out of Advanced Aerodynamics at university. At this point of the day I was fairly confident that my trip to the moon was just around the corner.
 |
| Me walking in Neil Armstrong's moonboots. |
I was super busy for the rest of the day, such is the life of a rocket scientist slash astronaut. I bought freeze-dried icecream balls, which were completely disgusting. IMAX is there too and provided two amazing presentations, with actual footage of the Hubble telescope and the international space station in 3D. Incredible.
As well as being an active space facility, Kennedy is also a theme park so there is the obligatory theme park ride. Of course. The Shuttle Launch Experience tips you upside down and tries to create zero gravity and that's a bit of fun. I didn't get to go to the moon after all. Maybe next time. By then perhaps the next U.S. President may have reactivated the NASA space program.
Wednesday, 18 July 2012
Universal Orlando
Have just spent three days at Universal Studios in Orlando, Florida. Lucky it was only a brief visit, because I don't have the stamina for theme parks.
That place is packed full of big mobs of people - mainly Americans and loud, shrill South Americans teenage tour groups with matching pink, yellow, red, blue or green backpacks - oh no, it's the backpacks! These girls don't do quiet. What's so fucking hard about being quiet for five seconds?
Due to Florida's unfortunate geography, it's also jalepino hot and more humid than a sauna. And just when you think the weather has reached its peak in grossness it starts raining and ligthning all over the place, so you have to put on your plastic poncho in the 30 degree sauna. But it's awesome, providing rollercoasters, hotdogs, old Hollywood and Harry Potter are your thing.
Too tired to blog about the awesomeness of Universal tonight - it's past midnight and I've spent the last hour trying to get Qantas to send me my luggage, which they lost somewhere between Canberra - Sydney - Los Angeles four days ago.
The idiots have now found it, and sent it to LAX, but apparently it's all too difficult to put it on a plane to me. FFS. How is this company such a popular airline? Their customer service is appalling after they lose your stuff - or "delayed" and "late" luggage as Qantas prefer to call it.
That place is packed full of big mobs of people - mainly Americans and loud, shrill South Americans teenage tour groups with matching pink, yellow, red, blue or green backpacks - oh no, it's the backpacks! These girls don't do quiet. What's so fucking hard about being quiet for five seconds?
Due to Florida's unfortunate geography, it's also jalepino hot and more humid than a sauna. And just when you think the weather has reached its peak in grossness it starts raining and ligthning all over the place, so you have to put on your plastic poncho in the 30 degree sauna. But it's awesome, providing rollercoasters, hotdogs, old Hollywood and Harry Potter are your thing.
Too tired to blog about the awesomeness of Universal tonight - it's past midnight and I've spent the last hour trying to get Qantas to send me my luggage, which they lost somewhere between Canberra - Sydney - Los Angeles four days ago.
The idiots have now found it, and sent it to LAX, but apparently it's all too difficult to put it on a plane to me. FFS. How is this company such a popular airline? Their customer service is appalling after they lose your stuff - or "delayed" and "late" luggage as Qantas prefer to call it.
Thursday, 12 July 2012
City of Dirty, Bronze Stars
Los Angeles. Meh. In a couple of days I will spend about four hours in Los Angeles Airport, in transit to Disney World in Orlando, Florida. I spent a couple of days in L.A.two year ago - well, Beverly Hills and Anaheim - and I really have no interest in venturing into the city again.
L.A. certainly doesn't live up to its hype. But why should it? The wannabes transition through it, much like I will be I suppose. They just stay a bit longer. And bleach their hair and teeth a bit brighter. And get paid a lot of money to act like someone else. Or get paid a lot of money to act like someone else and take their top off. We all make our choices.
The whole city reminds me of a large suburban industrial estate, like anywhere you'll find in Australia, except the people are prettier and the cars are flashier than in Fyshwick. L.A. doesn't have a homely feel to it; I guess because no-one really lives there.
Its inhabitants are there to get famous, infamous or to make money off people who are already famous and/or infamous. I imagine one can lead a fairly lonely, empty existence if that is your goal. It's all about posturing, knowing who knows who in the zoo, and becoming the next Home Improvement girl or Kardashian layabout. Like, you know, totally.
When I arrived there two years ago I had high expectations for my travels around glamourous Hollywood. I wanted to see a glittering studio city town, paved in red carpet, movie stars, child actors who should be in school and Lindsay Lohan shooting up on Sunset Boulevard.
Apart from the Lohan bit - she was due in Beverly Hills court house when I was there - the reality is somewhat different. I remember getting off the hop on-hop off tour bus in a rundown street and being told it was Hollywood, and I was standing on its iconic Walk of Fame.
I looked down at the dirty cracked pavement and saw a faded bronze star of some celebrity I had never heard of. Tom Cruise or something? A metaphor for the industry that holds 'em close then spits 'em back out and turns them into fanatical cult members. Welcome to Hollywood.
Evidently the area has been largely refurbished over the past ten years, so one can only imagine the horridness of it all in the 90s.
L.A. certainly doesn't live up to its hype. But why should it? The wannabes transition through it, much like I will be I suppose. They just stay a bit longer. And bleach their hair and teeth a bit brighter. And get paid a lot of money to act like someone else. Or get paid a lot of money to act like someone else and take their top off. We all make our choices.
The whole city reminds me of a large suburban industrial estate, like anywhere you'll find in Australia, except the people are prettier and the cars are flashier than in Fyshwick. L.A. doesn't have a homely feel to it; I guess because no-one really lives there.
Its inhabitants are there to get famous, infamous or to make money off people who are already famous and/or infamous. I imagine one can lead a fairly lonely, empty existence if that is your goal. It's all about posturing, knowing who knows who in the zoo, and becoming the next Home Improvement girl or Kardashian layabout. Like, you know, totally.
When I arrived there two years ago I had high expectations for my travels around glamourous Hollywood. I wanted to see a glittering studio city town, paved in red carpet, movie stars, child actors who should be in school and Lindsay Lohan shooting up on Sunset Boulevard.
Apart from the Lohan bit - she was due in Beverly Hills court house when I was there - the reality is somewhat different. I remember getting off the hop on-hop off tour bus in a rundown street and being told it was Hollywood, and I was standing on its iconic Walk of Fame.
I looked down at the dirty cracked pavement and saw a faded bronze star of some celebrity I had never heard of. Tom Cruise or something? A metaphor for the industry that holds 'em close then spits 'em back out and turns them into fanatical cult members. Welcome to Hollywood.
Evidently the area has been largely refurbished over the past ten years, so one can only imagine the horridness of it all in the 90s.
Wednesday, 11 July 2012
The Vegemite Black Market
I am travelling to the United States of Crazy on the weekend and I plan to take in a jar/tube/bucket of vegemite, because I can't survive without the glorious brown yeast extract for a whole month. Contrary to my previously held belief, vegemite is evidently not banned from entering the United States. *cue happy little vegemites cheering all over the place*
Turns out the whole spectacle was contrived by Brand Rudd. Who would have thought? And it also turns out he was just trying to ingratiate himself with the media. Again; who would have thought?
What the U.S. really should ban is that vulgar peanut butter. Dreadful substance. As if peanut butter wasn't enough yuck, the United States of Crazy deemed it necessary to come up with something else disgusting to accompany PB on rye, because it's just not gross enough on its own in a sandwich. Jam that has evolved into a jelly substance; what a good idea. Gross.
Word on the street was that Australia's beloved dark brown goo was not allowed to show its face at U.S. Border Security under section blah blah of the Bioterrorism Act, or something, or because it's not white enough, or something. And people say Australia is racist. Turns out the ban is just a bit of an urban legend, spread by someone who doesn't like to spread vegemite.
The legend lived on last year, when Australia's Foreign Minister, the splendidly coiffed Kevin Rudd, took the highly unusual step of making himself the news, again, by having a bit of a larrakin knockabout with U.S. Customs officials in Washington - as you do - as he was trying to bring in a jar of the stuff to the States.
The legend lived on last year, when Australia's Foreign Minister, the splendidly coiffed Kevin Rudd, took the highly unusual step of making himself the news, again, by having a bit of a larrakin knockabout with U.S. Customs officials in Washington - as you do - as he was trying to bring in a jar of the stuff to the States.
Turns out the whole spectacle was contrived by Brand Rudd. Who would have thought? And it also turns out he was just trying to ingratiate himself with the media. Again; who would have thought?
What the U.S. really should ban is that vulgar peanut butter. Dreadful substance. As if peanut butter wasn't enough yuck, the United States of Crazy deemed it necessary to come up with something else disgusting to accompany PB on rye, because it's just not gross enough on its own in a sandwich. Jam that has evolved into a jelly substance; what a good idea. Gross.
Saturday, 30 June 2012
Eat My Beach Shorts
Deciding what to pack for an overseas trip can be a right nightmare. Contrary to popular belief, being in a land far, far away doesn’t give you licence to wear nothing. I imagine such impertinence is fine in places like the Netherlands, but the United States has standards, people. I know, it surprised me too.
The people who don’t have any trouble packing stuff are those annoying, anal souls who bore you to death with an itemised itinerary of their every toilet break on their vacay and a list of all the things wrong with their hotel room, like anyone cares. But me, I say packing up your clothes in your old kit bag is trouble, trouble, trouble, and definitely doesn't make me smile, smile, smile.
I like to think that when I travel I will miraculously evolve into a person who suddenly dresses all stylish and hipster, thus I pack so-on-trend clothes that I have previously bought for some inexplicable reason but have never worn, usually because they have proved to be completely useless when it comes to walking about, highly uncomfortable, or just not moi.
This time I'm laying down the law - throwing down the gauntlet - when I pack my bags. Challenge accepted; but possibly already failed. The clothes I never throw on are staying at home in the trailer park, while the garments I wear and worship are travelling with me/on me to America, land of the supersized brave and free.
On the whole, I am all for stereotyping and labeling stuff. Stereotyping may hurt people's ideal world views at times, but gosh darn it, they generally always have an element of truth to them and make identification easier and more convenient for everyone else. Viva la pigeonholing. Having said that, I really don't care for the labeling going on in the fashion industry.
I bought some shorts today that are entirely suitable for hanging around Waikiki beach. Yes they are. But the fashion industry has labelled them mix and match sleep wear separates, like I’m supposed to sleep in them or something.
So now the self-determination of my little shorts is tarnished, through the attachment of one little label. Which I cut off. No-one, but no-one, will take away my shorts liberty and freedom. I have no intention of sleeping in them, but every intention of wearing them on the beach. Take that, fashion industry biatches.
The people who don’t have any trouble packing stuff are those annoying, anal souls who bore you to death with an itemised itinerary of their every toilet break on their vacay and a list of all the things wrong with their hotel room, like anyone cares. But me, I say packing up your clothes in your old kit bag is trouble, trouble, trouble, and definitely doesn't make me smile, smile, smile.
I like to think that when I travel I will miraculously evolve into a person who suddenly dresses all stylish and hipster, thus I pack so-on-trend clothes that I have previously bought for some inexplicable reason but have never worn, usually because they have proved to be completely useless when it comes to walking about, highly uncomfortable, or just not moi.
This time I'm laying down the law - throwing down the gauntlet - when I pack my bags. Challenge accepted; but possibly already failed. The clothes I never throw on are staying at home in the trailer park, while the garments I wear and worship are travelling with me/on me to America, land of the supersized brave and free.
On the whole, I am all for stereotyping and labeling stuff. Stereotyping may hurt people's ideal world views at times, but gosh darn it, they generally always have an element of truth to them and make identification easier and more convenient for everyone else. Viva la pigeonholing. Having said that, I really don't care for the labeling going on in the fashion industry.
I bought some shorts today that are entirely suitable for hanging around Waikiki beach. Yes they are. But the fashion industry has labelled them mix and match sleep wear separates, like I’m supposed to sleep in them or something.
So now the self-determination of my little shorts is tarnished, through the attachment of one little label. Which I cut off. No-one, but no-one, will take away my shorts liberty and freedom. I have no intention of sleeping in them, but every intention of wearing them on the beach. Take that, fashion industry biatches.
Thursday, 28 June 2012
Debby does Orlando
I do believe that this post is just another in a long line of hurricane-related blitherings on my part, or a conga line of suck holes, as Australian politician Mark Latham so eloquently put it. I’m pretty sure Latham was referring to the temperament of major storm cells during hurricane season. I suppose I have been a little preoccupied with the almighty weather surges of late.
I guess it might have something to do with the fact that my travel agent told me months ago that "Orlando doesn't get hurricanes", and I recklessly believed her, and now Hurricane Debby is having her way with Florida, and heading towards Orlando, just weeks before I fly over there. As long as the tempestuous little minx doesn't start doing Disney.
I was told that this time of the year is called "Hurricane Season". It turns out that "Hurricane Season" means a season of big arse hurricanes. I really wish they would be clearer about these things and not provide me with wishy-washy jargon like "Hurricane Season". I'm sure this climatic mumbo jumbo will catch a lot of other people out too. I guess they are up to D, so only another 822 hurricanes to go.
I am always excited about travelling abroad - 16 SLEEPS! - but equally as thrilled about skipping a month of the hostile, glacial season in Canberra. I despise the cold, more and more every year. "The weather's not that bad. It'll get better", someone said to me today. Okay, great. Well right now it sucks. So unless you can make it better now, keep your irritating optimism to yourself.
I'm heading into a violent hurricane season just so I can avoid the arse-end of Canberra's big freeze, where I might get sucked into a spirally whirly thing made of precipitation and cows and suffer some catastrophic injury to my lumbar area when I’m tossed carelessly into a rural farmhouse and then develop some rare, untreatable type of staph infection, so don't tell me it's not that bad.
I guess it might have something to do with the fact that my travel agent told me months ago that "Orlando doesn't get hurricanes", and I recklessly believed her, and now Hurricane Debby is having her way with Florida, and heading towards Orlando, just weeks before I fly over there. As long as the tempestuous little minx doesn't start doing Disney.
I was told that this time of the year is called "Hurricane Season". It turns out that "Hurricane Season" means a season of big arse hurricanes. I really wish they would be clearer about these things and not provide me with wishy-washy jargon like "Hurricane Season". I'm sure this climatic mumbo jumbo will catch a lot of other people out too. I guess they are up to D, so only another 822 hurricanes to go.
I am always excited about travelling abroad - 16 SLEEPS! - but equally as thrilled about skipping a month of the hostile, glacial season in Canberra. I despise the cold, more and more every year. "The weather's not that bad. It'll get better", someone said to me today. Okay, great. Well right now it sucks. So unless you can make it better now, keep your irritating optimism to yourself.
I'm heading into a violent hurricane season just so I can avoid the arse-end of Canberra's big freeze, where I might get sucked into a spirally whirly thing made of precipitation and cows and suffer some catastrophic injury to my lumbar area when I’m tossed carelessly into a rural farmhouse and then develop some rare, untreatable type of staph infection, so don't tell me it's not that bad.
Monday, 25 June 2012
Zombies, hurricanes, aeroplanes
It's perfectly natural to feel some degree of anxiety before one goes a'travellin on a jet plane. Perfectly normal. I don't get angst from the thought of flying on a plane, although I am prone to a touch of claustrophobia, and I am not especially stressed over having to spend 24 hours hanging out in airports - or Dante's fifth ring of hell as they are commonly referred.
But I am a little uneasy about visiting a place that has a hurricane season. Not the odd tempest; a hurricane season. Florida started its hurricane season three weeks ago and is already racking up the major storm cells - number four, Tropical Cyclone Debby, is doing Flo Rida at the moment.
Florida is one of the prime targets during the Atlantic hurricane season, and is also the holy mothership of big, scary roller coasters.
On the rare occasions when the current nanny state Australian Government isn't telling me what not to view on the interwebs, what I shouldn't eat for breakfast or otherwise intruding into my personal space and business, they are bleating and harping on about not mixing these two things together. If I had a dollar for every time they told me not to ride a roller coaster in a hurricane blah blah blah. W’ever.
But what the hey, I'm gonna do it, because I'm on holidays. I'm sure the locals know what they're doing. Even though most Floridians are probably of the opinion that space aliens are sending coded messages through their fillings, I'm just going to trust that their roller coasters have been grounded.
Apart from the hurricanes, everyone has been warning me to be careful of the lightning. Um, okay. I'll make sure I do that, as opposed to my usual habit of leaning on tall, pointy, metal structures during a violent storm. And then there are all the face-eating zombie attacks that have been occurring in Florida lately. Zombies, hurricanes, lightning - I don't know how to pack for any of these occasions, and Smart Traveller is fairly useless for information on anything other than things that explode or pick-your-pocket.
I'll be spending a couple of weeks near Orlando, in Downtown Disney, which is pretty darn ginormous. There are around 20 major hotels in the "complex", each with a few thousand Mickey Mouse themed boudoirs, so Disney need to shuffle around a minimum of 20,000 people all day, every day, via their magical little carpet ride shuttle buses. It’s like rearranging a couple of suburbs worth of tourists, each of who don’t have a car or a clue.
People often ask me how I am going to cope with the crowds and the noise and the mouse ears everywhere at Disney World. Well Disney are in fact quite exceptional at crowd control. They have to be. They can't have any off days. If you are a mad crowd control enthusiast or revel in all manner of organisation, regulation, neatness and order then go to a Disney theme park.
And they also excel in a quite excellent way at time management. I imagine a key requisite to getting a gig with Disney is the ability to tell the time in a timely fashion, as well as the obligatory infectious good nature. Even at 11pm. Even in the presence of ghastly tourists. Rules me out then.
Florida is one of the prime targets during the Atlantic hurricane season, and is also the holy mothership of big, scary roller coasters.
On the rare occasions when the current nanny state Australian Government isn't telling me what not to view on the interwebs, what I shouldn't eat for breakfast or otherwise intruding into my personal space and business, they are bleating and harping on about not mixing these two things together. If I had a dollar for every time they told me not to ride a roller coaster in a hurricane blah blah blah. W’ever.
But what the hey, I'm gonna do it, because I'm on holidays. I'm sure the locals know what they're doing. Even though most Floridians are probably of the opinion that space aliens are sending coded messages through their fillings, I'm just going to trust that their roller coasters have been grounded.
Apart from the hurricanes, everyone has been warning me to be careful of the lightning. Um, okay. I'll make sure I do that, as opposed to my usual habit of leaning on tall, pointy, metal structures during a violent storm. And then there are all the face-eating zombie attacks that have been occurring in Florida lately. Zombies, hurricanes, lightning - I don't know how to pack for any of these occasions, and Smart Traveller is fairly useless for information on anything other than things that explode or pick-your-pocket.
I'll be spending a couple of weeks near Orlando, in Downtown Disney, which is pretty darn ginormous. There are around 20 major hotels in the "complex", each with a few thousand Mickey Mouse themed boudoirs, so Disney need to shuffle around a minimum of 20,000 people all day, every day, via their magical little carpet ride shuttle buses. It’s like rearranging a couple of suburbs worth of tourists, each of who don’t have a car or a clue.
People often ask me how I am going to cope with the crowds and the noise and the mouse ears everywhere at Disney World. Well Disney are in fact quite exceptional at crowd control. They have to be. They can't have any off days. If you are a mad crowd control enthusiast or revel in all manner of organisation, regulation, neatness and order then go to a Disney theme park.
And they also excel in a quite excellent way at time management. I imagine a key requisite to getting a gig with Disney is the ability to tell the time in a timely fashion, as well as the obligatory infectious good nature. Even at 11pm. Even in the presence of ghastly tourists. Rules me out then.
Thursday, 21 June 2012
Flo Rida, Why Kiki and Concrete Jungles
I suspect this post is going to be another pointless meandering journey through the disturbing reaches of my psyche. Sucks to be you. Freud would pee his pants with excitement if he were alive in the era of the blogosphere.
It’s totally bollocks being the last person to know information. It doesn't happy very often, due to my incessant need to stick my nose into everything, mainly specialising in matters that are absolutely none of my beeswax. Nevertheless, I learnt something today that I did not know, and now I feel cheated, indignant, hoodwinked, a fool, and comparatively old in a youthful-looking type of way.
So, here it is. Pay attention. Apparently the rapper Flo Rida named himself after Florida, the place, where he’s from, down in the hood. Am I the only person in the whole entire human race of the planet of earth who did not know this? Now it's just going to be awkward when I go there because I can’t help but call it Flo Rida.
Great. There’s probably a popstar out there in popworld called Ha Why as well. And a songstress temptress called Why KiKi. I wish I could understand Flo Rida’s lyrics, but I guess I’m not conversant enough in Renaissance rap literature. Plus I didn’t grow up in Flo Rida.
I’ve been doing lots of sit-ups and so forth in preparation for my American adventures on the sandy, white beaches of Waikiki and Manhattan. I’ve never been to New York, so if you have something to disclose about that can you please keep it to yourself because concrete jungles are where dreams are made, apparently, and if they don’t have a beach amongst all that concrete then I’m going to be totes CAPSLOCK SAD FACE.
And I imagine the streets won’t make me feel brand new because they are made of fucking cement and it’s going to be a tad hot and humid so you do the math. Those streets will cause hydrogen fusion before they make me feel brand new.
And contrary to all the terrifically constructive / destructive advice in fashion and beauty magazines, doing a couple of sit-ups doesn’t equal a flat stomach. At least not when you’re my age (um, let’s call it 25 and leave it alone).
Back in the day I could do about 100 sit-ups every night for a week and come out all washboardy, flat as an ironing board, flat as a tack, flat as a floorboard, flat like numerous other flat type surfaces. Now it’s just hard work, for months and months and months and nothing changes. I hate getting old. It totally sucks.
It’s totally bollocks being the last person to know information. It doesn't happy very often, due to my incessant need to stick my nose into everything, mainly specialising in matters that are absolutely none of my beeswax. Nevertheless, I learnt something today that I did not know, and now I feel cheated, indignant, hoodwinked, a fool, and comparatively old in a youthful-looking type of way.
So, here it is. Pay attention. Apparently the rapper Flo Rida named himself after Florida, the place, where he’s from, down in the hood. Am I the only person in the whole entire human race of the planet of earth who did not know this? Now it's just going to be awkward when I go there because I can’t help but call it Flo Rida.
Great. There’s probably a popstar out there in popworld called Ha Why as well. And a songstress temptress called Why KiKi. I wish I could understand Flo Rida’s lyrics, but I guess I’m not conversant enough in Renaissance rap literature. Plus I didn’t grow up in Flo Rida.
I’ve been doing lots of sit-ups and so forth in preparation for my American adventures on the sandy, white beaches of Waikiki and Manhattan. I’ve never been to New York, so if you have something to disclose about that can you please keep it to yourself because concrete jungles are where dreams are made, apparently, and if they don’t have a beach amongst all that concrete then I’m going to be totes CAPSLOCK SAD FACE.
And I imagine the streets won’t make me feel brand new because they are made of fucking cement and it’s going to be a tad hot and humid so you do the math. Those streets will cause hydrogen fusion before they make me feel brand new.
And contrary to all the terrifically constructive / destructive advice in fashion and beauty magazines, doing a couple of sit-ups doesn’t equal a flat stomach. At least not when you’re my age (um, let’s call it 25 and leave it alone).
Back in the day I could do about 100 sit-ups every night for a week and come out all washboardy, flat as an ironing board, flat as a tack, flat as a floorboard, flat like numerous other flat type surfaces. Now it’s just hard work, for months and months and months and nothing changes. I hate getting old. It totally sucks.
Saturday, 16 June 2012
Unhappily Ever Colder and Colder
In a mere few weeks I will blow this popsicle stand and go somewhere considerably warmer, and far more humider. Canberra is a bit popsiclised at the moment, thanks to that dreary meh season that it likes to melodramatically thrust upon its inhabitants. A+, Canberra, for your winter skills this season. You've been practicing over summer, haven't you?
I'm soon to travel to Florida's Disney World, where the men are mice, and the mice are human sized men. Or something. It's a wonderful world of make believe, where ridonkulous, impractical fairy tale fantasies are shoved into the minds and down the throats of innocent children, who are oblivious to the fact that they will never, ever be a fairy princess when they grow up. Princess Fiona maybe.
Unless of course their mother stalks a prince throughout their offspring's teen years and then surreptitiously enrols them in the same university class so the young lass can work her magical social climbing powers of persuasion on the young royal. And then she will be given a fancy schmancy title and live happily ever after with her prince at Kensington Palace and wear Princess Diana's ring until the day she dies. The end.
So, back to me. I'm considering applying for climate asylum, putting in a claim to be sent to warmer climes because, you know, I'm fucking cold and miserable here. People from 'stan countries definitely don't know what it's like to freeze their grandes balles off.
Don't get all politically correct and rant about my rudeness and insensitivity in comparing my situation to that of a political refugee. Because only the nations that offer cradle to grave welfare are acceptable to them.
There are a bunch of other countries that they could stop at on the way here. But, yes, Australia is better than them all. Not different; better. Just ask the refugees, because they all want to live in Australia.
I too have a lengthy list of nation states where I don't want to go, which also starts and finishes with every muslim country in the entire universe, due to the political heat and also the actual heat. No-one in their right mind wants to live in Middle Earth, which is why they all flee to the west. Middle Earth, Middle East, same thing.
So it seems to me that instead of intervening in Middle Earth affairs, like the west has be doing for ever, we should just raze the darn place, build a new Middle Earth, call it something a bit cooler, like the United States of America No. 2, democratise the shit out of it, build a couple of McDonalds, and then the crisis would be resolved.
The side effects of this plan are a land of spoilt Kardashianesque morons, but at least no-one would blow your hair extensions off when you walked down the street. On a side note, why and how does Kim Kardashian have 15 million twits following her on social media? I cannot even comprehend how this has happened. I guess she is quite excellent at giving off the allure of being relevant. Kudos.
I'm soon to travel to Florida's Disney World, where the men are mice, and the mice are human sized men. Or something. It's a wonderful world of make believe, where ridonkulous, impractical fairy tale fantasies are shoved into the minds and down the throats of innocent children, who are oblivious to the fact that they will never, ever be a fairy princess when they grow up. Princess Fiona maybe.
Unless of course their mother stalks a prince throughout their offspring's teen years and then surreptitiously enrols them in the same university class so the young lass can work her magical social climbing powers of persuasion on the young royal. And then she will be given a fancy schmancy title and live happily ever after with her prince at Kensington Palace and wear Princess Diana's ring until the day she dies. The end.
Don't get all politically correct and rant about my rudeness and insensitivity in comparing my situation to that of a political refugee. Because only the nations that offer cradle to grave welfare are acceptable to them.
There are a bunch of other countries that they could stop at on the way here. But, yes, Australia is better than them all. Not different; better. Just ask the refugees, because they all want to live in Australia.
I too have a lengthy list of nation states where I don't want to go, which also starts and finishes with every muslim country in the entire universe, due to the political heat and also the actual heat. No-one in their right mind wants to live in Middle Earth, which is why they all flee to the west. Middle Earth, Middle East, same thing.
So it seems to me that instead of intervening in Middle Earth affairs, like the west has be doing for ever, we should just raze the darn place, build a new Middle Earth, call it something a bit cooler, like the United States of America No. 2, democratise the shit out of it, build a couple of McDonalds, and then the crisis would be resolved.
The side effects of this plan are a land of spoilt Kardashianesque morons, but at least no-one would blow your hair extensions off when you walked down the street. On a side note, why and how does Kim Kardashian have 15 million twits following her on social media? I cannot even comprehend how this has happened. I guess she is quite excellent at giving off the allure of being relevant. Kudos.
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