*SPOILERS, SUCKERS*
Today I watched the latest instalment in the Bond franchise juggernaut. It's called Skyfall and it's the 230th movie in the James Bond series. Or maybe it's the 23rd, who can keep up with it all. Bloody good flick though; back to the traditional Bond style. And in traditional action genre style, the storyline goes a little something like this - protagonist and antagonist spend 128 minutes trying to kill each other.
While Bond creator Ian Fleming passed on in the 1960's, and other writers have continued his legacy, I think it's safe to say that during his years working for the British Government, while his fellow civil servants pretended to be engaged in superspy subterfuge while they were really just filing boring, unclassified pieces of paper and writing dull emails in that old-fashioned pen, paper and envelope retro style, Fleming's imagination was going apeshit.
I for one am glad that he was so bored and uninspired working in an office job in the public sector, Gov'ner. Never mind the bollocks, eh wot! Y'allreet? Wass goin' on? Sorry, got distracted by British slang that no Brit says ever unless they work for Eastenders. Circling back to topic right now, innit.
A few things I noted in Skyfall:
Everyone knows that the best special super-effect for dark movies is real-life, non-CGI dark gloomy weather, ideally so dark that the audience need to don night vision goggles to know what the heck is going on.
The inherent risk of missing one Oscar encouragement award-worthy raised eyebrow or a half-smile is that you may lose track of the entire storyline. Although with a Bond movie it's safe to assume that if there is gunfire or mortars, someone just died, and if there is no gunfire or mortars, someone is about to die.
So, weather-wise, I was a little surprised that much of the movie was filmed in a country renowned for its fun, sunny, balmy climate. England. It must have been boring for the film crew to have to wait around on set until it rained in London. Shit weather is such a rare event in England that the director must have been tearing his hair out with the stress of it all.
In actual fact, the chance of it raining in London on any given day of the whole year is literally so excellent that one would put many quids, pounds, shillings or euros on it. Probably not euros; nobody understands euros. That's just how London rolls, innit.
While London's weather may be complete bollocks at the best of times, the film crew were again just really lucky with the overcast gloominess and general malaise that greeted them when the film set relocated to the cheery Scottish moors. Casting Scotland as 007's weather antagonist is certainly not going to win any friends at the Scottish Tourism Board, what with that country's fine track record of endless, sun-drenched summer days.
For me, the movie's best kept secret was the addition of Ralph Fiennes right at the end as the new M! As much as I loved Dame Judi in that role, I approve of his casting because I heart Lord Voldermort. I suppose now the Harry Potter cashcow has dried up Fiennes had to find a new franchise teat to milk. It makes sense for actors to sign up to multi-million dollar movie franchises.
It's just like the good ol' golden days of Hollywood, when actors were signed to movie studios and were therefore unable to say no when the studio said you were going to be in a movie where you were required to wear an outfit made of panels of tin sheets for months and months and your co-stars, a dog actor called Terry (stage name Toto) and a pair of red sparkly shoes became far more famous than you'll ever be.
But Fiennes is no fool. He has worn a prosthetic non-nose in Harry Potter, a bandaged face in The English Patient, a Tom Cruise mask to play Maverick in Top Gun, and who can forget his body of work aboard a Qantas flight in 2007. Through those roles, Fiennes avoided becoming typecast as anything more than the guy who likes wearing rubber.
Saturday, 24 November 2012
Thursday, 22 November 2012
Bond goes Gaza
There's heaps of angry bird stuff going on in the world at the moment. For example, the Middle Earth terrorists are blowing up shit again, but it's going to be a-okay because Daniel Craig has got his Bond on and has negotiated a ceasefire, which will last for approximately two days.
The mainstream media is reporting that the psychotically-challenged serial killers, Hamas, the charming Muslim Brotherhood outfit who control the Gaza Crispy Strip©, have agreed to stop bombing the crap out of poor old Israel because of a deal struck by Hillary(ous) Clinton, but we all know that 007 had something to do with it. Have you not seen his movies, CNN? You don't mess with Bond.
I haven't seen the new flick yet but I'm gonna guess that Bond, James Bond gets accosted by an angry pod of terrorists, the boss of which has been facially deformed by having his head shoved into a Magic Bullet blender, the Personal, Versatile Countertop Magician. Or maybe he accidently watched the Magic Bullet infomercial on late night television and voluntarily stuck his face into the speeding chopping blades.
The terrorists, just for a new innovative script twist, want to annihilate Bond and his multi-million gazillion dollar, dirty, capitalist movie franchise and arrogantly possess the lofty goal of wanting to destroy the whole entire world, one Aston Martin at a time. Then bang, bang, boom, boom, ouch, ahhh, blood, gross, baddies die or flee to an Adam Sandler movie.
I haven't seen the new flick yet but I'm gonna guess that Bond, James Bond gets accosted by an angry pod of terrorists, the boss of which has been facially deformed by having his head shoved into a Magic Bullet blender, the Personal, Versatile Countertop Magician. Or maybe he accidently watched the Magic Bullet infomercial on late night television and voluntarily stuck his face into the speeding chopping blades.
The terrorists, just for a new innovative script twist, want to annihilate Bond and his multi-million gazillion dollar, dirty, capitalist movie franchise and arrogantly possess the lofty goal of wanting to destroy the whole entire world, one Aston Martin at a time. Then bang, bang, boom, boom, ouch, ahhh, blood, gross, baddies die or flee to an Adam Sandler movie.
Then Bond gets all Petraeus-esque sidetracked by a non-English speaking, psychotic, nuclear scientist supermodel, nearly dies, and then sails into the distance on a yacht with a different bikini-clad femme fatale whorebag, because, after 25 or so films, the scriptwriters have never been able to come up with a new closing scene befitting a superspy.
Saturday, 17 November 2012
The Twinkie is Sinky
The company that makes Twinkies, the sugary snack that Americans love for reasons I cannot fathom, is going bust. And, surprise, surprise, it is the fault of a workers' union, after striking workers failed to hit a deadline to go back to work at the advice of their union, and now 18,000 people don't have a job. A union that costs workers their jobs isn't much of a union. Which part of the word "union" do unions not understand?
The post-Twinkie world is, unsurprisingly, causing great distress to many folk in the United States because they just don't have that many options of sickly, sugary crap to stuff their faces with. People in Australia don't really care about Twinkies or their demise. But I do know what Twinkies are, having been exposed to their mass marketing techniques when I was but a child, and I was just as grossed out by them then as I am now.
My familiarity with Twinkies comes from observing Jughead Jones and Aunt Hilda as they gorged themselves stupid on creamy, sponge cake goo on the advertisement pages of my Archie Comics in the 1980s. I never felt a need to go anywhere near a Twinkie after that. And the comic also tried to flog sea monkeys through some ponzi scheme, where you could weirdly purchase a middle-class family of midget crustaceans. Totally freaked me out. They still try and sell those things.
While we are on topic, let me tell you what really gets my goat. American bread. They put sugar in normal, average, garden variety bread in the United States! Bread is not supposed to taste like a Twinkie. It's so distasteful that on my recent sojourn to Florida I was forced to spit that shit out (such a way with words today). No wonder the United States has a collective weight problem.
I admit that America is an ongoing, moving target of my cynicism and negativity, but, what can I say, it's an easy target. If questioned I will use the 'Twinkie Defense (sic)", a compelling argument made by a U.S. man who blamed the sugar in Twinkies for giving him depression which caused him to murder someone. Like I said; easy target.
The post-Twinkie world is, unsurprisingly, causing great distress to many folk in the United States because they just don't have that many options of sickly, sugary crap to stuff their faces with. People in Australia don't really care about Twinkies or their demise. But I do know what Twinkies are, having been exposed to their mass marketing techniques when I was but a child, and I was just as grossed out by them then as I am now.
My familiarity with Twinkies comes from observing Jughead Jones and Aunt Hilda as they gorged themselves stupid on creamy, sponge cake goo on the advertisement pages of my Archie Comics in the 1980s. I never felt a need to go anywhere near a Twinkie after that. And the comic also tried to flog sea monkeys through some ponzi scheme, where you could weirdly purchase a middle-class family of midget crustaceans. Totally freaked me out. They still try and sell those things.
While we are on topic, let me tell you what really gets my goat. American bread. They put sugar in normal, average, garden variety bread in the United States! Bread is not supposed to taste like a Twinkie. It's so distasteful that on my recent sojourn to Florida I was forced to spit that shit out (such a way with words today). No wonder the United States has a collective weight problem.
I admit that America is an ongoing, moving target of my cynicism and negativity, but, what can I say, it's an easy target. If questioned I will use the 'Twinkie Defense (sic)", a compelling argument made by a U.S. man who blamed the sugar in Twinkies for giving him depression which caused him to murder someone. Like I said; easy target.
Friday, 16 November 2012
Lawn Bowls
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| The best part about meeting British HRHness is telling constitutional republicans about it and watching their heads spin around and then explode in a fit of rage. Heh. |
Thursday, 15 November 2012
Stupid Clock Face
I was at the gym the other day and something happened that left me completely dejected, as opposed to the usual depression slash melancholy of having to watch 20-year-old girls getting more lithe and more fitter than anyone needs to be.
Note to self: you are probably at the age when it is probably best to not compare your body shape with 20-year-olds. But, hey, I'm a chick and that's what we do, to our detriment of course.
Anyway, blah, blah, blah, that wasn't the main source of my deflation. I was finishing up stretching and I leant on the wall and came face to face with a ticking timebomb. Well it was a ticking clock, but it was one of those ticking clocks with moving hands that provide an annoying continuous sweep for the minute hand rather than the much slower and less stressful tick, tick, tick.
There's nothing like a minute hand flying at a breakneck pace to let you know that time is running out. Just, you know, in general. Now these clocks have me completely psyched out, as if I'll look over and they'll have unexpectedly bent the space time continuum and I'll be trapped in a timewarp circa June 2028. I hope they don't wear 80's fashion in 2028. It sucked the first time around.
That out of control minute hand caused me some fleeting widespread panic and alarm, and then I went home.
I know; blog post fail. It really is quite mind-boggling the things I find worthy of words in blog posts.
Note to self: you are probably at the age when it is probably best to not compare your body shape with 20-year-olds. But, hey, I'm a chick and that's what we do, to our detriment of course.
Anyway, blah, blah, blah, that wasn't the main source of my deflation. I was finishing up stretching and I leant on the wall and came face to face with a ticking timebomb. Well it was a ticking clock, but it was one of those ticking clocks with moving hands that provide an annoying continuous sweep for the minute hand rather than the much slower and less stressful tick, tick, tick.
There's nothing like a minute hand flying at a breakneck pace to let you know that time is running out. Just, you know, in general. Now these clocks have me completely psyched out, as if I'll look over and they'll have unexpectedly bent the space time continuum and I'll be trapped in a timewarp circa June 2028. I hope they don't wear 80's fashion in 2028. It sucked the first time around.
That out of control minute hand caused me some fleeting widespread panic and alarm, and then I went home.
I know; blog post fail. It really is quite mind-boggling the things I find worthy of words in blog posts.
Wednesday, 7 November 2012
The Luckiest Fly in the World
Cocobean may just be the luckiest little fly in the world. What? Oh, you want some context? Well maybe just maybe I don't want to give you any. The End. Oh, fine then.
It might be due to my inability to kill shit. It's really hard for me, because I know that all the bugs that freak me out - like spiders, cockroaches and the like - have families that want to see them at Christmas time, or for Thanksgiving if they are visiting from America.
Cocobean is free now. Fly, Cocobean, fly. Fly away and piss off the neighbours who are trying to cook sausages on their barbecue.
Excellent. Another pointless blog post to add to my collection.
Do you remember that titillating scene of Karate Kid where Mr Miagi pretended to be able to catch a fly with a set of dull chopcticks while meditating? Well I did that yesterday, except I wasn't meditating and I didn't have any chopsticks, but I did catch Cocobean with a Spider Catcher Unit Thingy.
Cocobean was my pet fly, for about 10 minutes, before I managed to catch him and set him free. What I realised is that trying to catch a fly for ten minutes will drive you completely mad. I don't know why I was trying to achieve by catching a fly. I guess we'll never know.
It might be due to my inability to kill shit. It's really hard for me, because I know that all the bugs that freak me out - like spiders, cockroaches and the like - have families that want to see them at Christmas time, or for Thanksgiving if they are visiting from America.
Anyway, it's hard work. Fly-catching. Your head starts to spin on its axis with all that bloody buzzing and your eyes start squirting blood and you start yelling and cursing at nothing but thin air as it whooshes past your ears. Had it been filmed I would definitely have been looking at some serious padded cell time. Why are flies so damn chaotic in their flight patterns? There is just no thought given to navigation, moving obstacles in the sky or walls.
Excellent. Another pointless blog post to add to my collection.
Wednesday, 24 October 2012
Horses and Bayonets
I find it mind-boggling how many people get their political analysis from CNN without ever actually viewing the footage or reading any of the transcripts on whatever this media outlet’s incomparably inept journalists comment on. I don't take anyone's opinion on politics at face value, especially views that are held by CNN correspondents.
The reporters at CNN might pretend to meticulously scrutinise the presidential debate, and make shrewd, snippy notes of their observations, but then they sit on their glittery soundstage and deliberate for hours and hours and hours about the most inane drivel and discuss, at great length, just how stupendously amazing and sparkly the democratic candidate was, regardless of how that candidate performed.
This is called left wing bias and most of the media are guilty as charged. Spin it until it fits their narrative, which is to keep democrats in power in the White House. No-one knows why the majority of the mainstream media are left wing. It's all just a big mystery.
They want Barack Obama to stay in the top job, and they want Mitt Romney to go far, far away, and take his pesky logic, common sense and economic credentials with him. How the hell is a bungling incumbent president supposed to maintain the top gig if there is someone who is actually qualified for the job challenging him?
CNN are always, always, always on the Democrat's side, and they spend the rest of their time demonising Republicans. This doesn’t change. Ever. They don't do balance. There is no neutrality and there never will be. If you are neutral at CNN you will be fired by the network by the end of the day.
But who cares, you say. Well it matters, because there are a lot of people out there who only tune into this stupid media outlet during election time and don't appreciate how the media influence the public agenda. And let's be clear; CNN tell you what to think. So don't let them hoodwink you; read the transcript and watch the debate for yourself. Think for yourself. CNN have an agenda and they want you to buy into it and vote appropriately.
And despite endless harping on about wanting the truth from their presidential candidates, many of the electorate really don't care that much about fact checking, and just take Obama’s side for reasons I cannot fathom.
Exhibit A. During the last Presidential Debate, incumbent Barack Obama mocked his opponent, Mitt Romney:
"You mentioned the Navy, for example, and that we have fewer ships than we did in 1916. Well, Governor, we also have fewer horses and bayonets, because the nature of our military’s changed."
This 'horses and bayonets' exchange generated 105,000 tweets per minute on the debate hashtag. Why do people take Obama's word at face value, but think Mitt Romney lies through his teeth? This drives me crazy, because it's a fallacy. We know that Obama either was either fairly liberal with the truth in regards to this exchange, or, as Commander-in-Chief, he is hopelessly out of touch with the Defence Forces. How do we know this?
It turns out the marines use bayonets quite a bit, and horses are used to get around Afghanistan, as they are one of the easiest forms of transportation. I guess Obama's not as in touch with his military as he likes to proclaim. Although focusing on such a trivial point shows that Obama was a little desperate as he tried to deflect attention from the deaths in Benghazi in the foreign policy debate and any kind of questions whatsoever to do with the economy.
The reporters at CNN might pretend to meticulously scrutinise the presidential debate, and make shrewd, snippy notes of their observations, but then they sit on their glittery soundstage and deliberate for hours and hours and hours about the most inane drivel and discuss, at great length, just how stupendously amazing and sparkly the democratic candidate was, regardless of how that candidate performed.
This is called left wing bias and most of the media are guilty as charged. Spin it until it fits their narrative, which is to keep democrats in power in the White House. No-one knows why the majority of the mainstream media are left wing. It's all just a big mystery.
They want Barack Obama to stay in the top job, and they want Mitt Romney to go far, far away, and take his pesky logic, common sense and economic credentials with him. How the hell is a bungling incumbent president supposed to maintain the top gig if there is someone who is actually qualified for the job challenging him?
CNN are always, always, always on the Democrat's side, and they spend the rest of their time demonising Republicans. This doesn’t change. Ever. They don't do balance. There is no neutrality and there never will be. If you are neutral at CNN you will be fired by the network by the end of the day.
But who cares, you say. Well it matters, because there are a lot of people out there who only tune into this stupid media outlet during election time and don't appreciate how the media influence the public agenda. And let's be clear; CNN tell you what to think. So don't let them hoodwink you; read the transcript and watch the debate for yourself. Think for yourself. CNN have an agenda and they want you to buy into it and vote appropriately.
And despite endless harping on about wanting the truth from their presidential candidates, many of the electorate really don't care that much about fact checking, and just take Obama’s side for reasons I cannot fathom.
Exhibit A. During the last Presidential Debate, incumbent Barack Obama mocked his opponent, Mitt Romney:
"You mentioned the Navy, for example, and that we have fewer ships than we did in 1916. Well, Governor, we also have fewer horses and bayonets, because the nature of our military’s changed."
This 'horses and bayonets' exchange generated 105,000 tweets per minute on the debate hashtag. Why do people take Obama's word at face value, but think Mitt Romney lies through his teeth? This drives me crazy, because it's a fallacy. We know that Obama either was either fairly liberal with the truth in regards to this exchange, or, as Commander-in-Chief, he is hopelessly out of touch with the Defence Forces. How do we know this?
It turns out the marines use bayonets quite a bit, and horses are used to get around Afghanistan, as they are one of the easiest forms of transportation. I guess Obama's not as in touch with his military as he likes to proclaim. Although focusing on such a trivial point shows that Obama was a little desperate as he tried to deflect attention from the deaths in Benghazi in the foreign policy debate and any kind of questions whatsoever to do with the economy.
Monday, 22 October 2012
POTUS & the Veep
I’m not sure how to put this, American cyberbot friends, so I’ll just say it as undiplomatically as is necessary – please, please do not screw up your vote in your forthcoming presidential election and vouch for that democrat Barack Obama again.
Why do I care, when I live in Australia? Well I care a lot, actually, because the result of your election affects the economies of the rest of the world, so there's that. See the power and influence you wield? So please spare a thought for the koala bears when you're ticking those boxes on the ballot paper.
I suspect it's a heady combination of both. As far as I'm concerned, to change things you need to connect yourself by participating and becoming engaged. And vote correctly. For Mitt Romney. Heh.
I know voting is generally a choice between the guy who was able to spend 100 millions on campaign advertising and the other guy who could only afford 99 million, but please try to show up on election day, Americans. I'm sure there is a polling booth somewhere on the way to your nearest McDonalds.
The last four years have been one long cupcake moment (I don't know what this is - just made it up - I do that) for incumbent POTUS Barack Obama, but he is not presidential material, and has done nothing more than screw up your declining healthcare system and devastate your economy for the past four years. The status quo ain't working and the spending ain't sustainable.
Republican presidential candidate Mitt Romney's Veep-in-waiting, Paul Ryan, is the Chair of the vastly uninteresting-sounding House of Reps Budget Committee, and knows his stuff backwards, so give these guys a chance, y'all.
Why do I care, when I live in Australia? Well I care a lot, actually, because the result of your election affects the economies of the rest of the world, so there's that. See the power and influence you wield? So please spare a thought for the koala bears when you're ticking those boxes on the ballot paper.
Not that many of you give a rats about your electoral process. Only 61.6% of Americans turned out to vote in the last presidential election in 2008, which means 98,000 registered voters just couldn't be arsed. I really don't understand this reticence, but then I do live in a democracy that has a compulsory voting system, which means you will be fined and/or jailed if you don’t put in an appearance on election day, so there's that.
Although, I've recently had my local government election, and out of a town with 300,000 registered voters we had over 7,000 donkey votes, which mean we either have a lot of seriously stupid people who don't understand the extremely simplistic voting form, or there are a lot of fake-voters who think they are making some type of compelling protest by completely disengaging from the process.
I suspect it's a heady combination of both. As far as I'm concerned, to change things you need to connect yourself by participating and becoming engaged. And vote correctly. For Mitt Romney. Heh.
I know voting is generally a choice between the guy who was able to spend 100 millions on campaign advertising and the other guy who could only afford 99 million, but please try to show up on election day, Americans. I'm sure there is a polling booth somewhere on the way to your nearest McDonalds.
The last four years have been one long cupcake moment (I don't know what this is - just made it up - I do that) for incumbent POTUS Barack Obama, but he is not presidential material, and has done nothing more than screw up your declining healthcare system and devastate your economy for the past four years. The status quo ain't working and the spending ain't sustainable.
Republican presidential candidate Mitt Romney's Veep-in-waiting, Paul Ryan, is the Chair of the vastly uninteresting-sounding House of Reps Budget Committee, and knows his stuff backwards, so give these guys a chance, y'all.
Friday, 19 October 2012
This post probably doesn't deserve a title.
I don't know about you, cyberbot person, but I turn pretty much everything I do into a competition. I can't help it. If someone is walking a few metres ahead of me into work then I must overtake them at some point before we get to the security gates.
Because blazing through first while they piss around trying to find their security pass in their handbag/manbag is sort of cheating, even though in the real world it means I win. But it's not a competition, apparently, so let's move on.
I write of high stakes rivalry because I am currently engaged in such a venture with myself, which is fairly advantageous for me because winner takes all and I win either way.
The competition is to beat my 2011 blog post count in 2012. I’ve got nine to go to smash it. Cool, I guess only eight now.
Disclaimer: I'm really tired and I think my brain went to bed hours ago.
Because blazing through first while they piss around trying to find their security pass in their handbag/manbag is sort of cheating, even though in the real world it means I win. But it's not a competition, apparently, so let's move on.
I write of high stakes rivalry because I am currently engaged in such a venture with myself, which is fairly advantageous for me because winner takes all and I win either way.
The competition is to beat my 2011 blog post count in 2012. I’ve got nine to go to smash it. Cool, I guess only eight now.
Disclaimer: I'm really tired and I think my brain went to bed hours ago.
Tuesday, 16 October 2012
Intergalactic Toys
Ho hum. I'm starting to think my brain may shortly explode out of frustration that it is forced to operate inside a humanoid whose existence is so mind-numbingly dull. Trapped in a life of averageness, it is. Poor brain. It has so many dreams and aspirations, and I make it go to the public service every day. FFS I am so bored with it all.
I have been feeling this way inclined for some time now, but I blame my latest bout of angst firmly on Felix Baumgartner, that Austrian daredevil, spacetravelling nutjob, who jumped from the egde of outer space to earth. As one does sometimes. Flippin' mad, he is.
The first thing I did on seeing the white-suited man who can jump footage was scold him mercilessly through the televisual set for being so damn irresponsible. Everyone knows it's just lunacy to have Red Bull before you have your Corn Flakes. Honestly, I don't know where his head was. The second thing I noticed was how that crazy gravity thing is still working just ticketyboo. And they said it wouldn't take off.
And after that I was just utterly pissed off that my life doesn't consist of intergalactic hot air balloon rides or random hurtlement through the atmosphere at 1,000-ish kilometres over the speed limit or the fact that there is never any doubt or vague concern whatsoever about whether my parachute will hold up until I get to the printer in my workplace. Felix may be flippin' nuts, but at least he's living it and loving it. Or maybe he was just a bored public servant in a past life.
The only reason 58 billion people watched the "show" anyway was because there was a chance of Felix's brain exploding during The YouTube's live(ish) feed. Maybe I have more in common with him than I think.
Speaking of outer space and things not being where they ought, one of NASA's retired space shuttles rolled through the dodgy streets of one of the newly treeless, gang-ridden, ghetto regions of Los Angeles on its way to a museum to begin its new life as an oversized dust catcher.
I'm surprised the shuttle made it through the 'burbs without being tagged by young hooligans. The ultimate graffiti challenge. I can't look at these shuttles without wondering how all that gaffer tape stays stuck on its nosecone. There are many reasons I don't work at NASA, and that little thought bubble is presumably one of them.
I have been feeling this way inclined for some time now, but I blame my latest bout of angst firmly on Felix Baumgartner, that Austrian daredevil, spacetravelling nutjob, who jumped from the egde of outer space to earth. As one does sometimes. Flippin' mad, he is.
The first thing I did on seeing the white-suited man who can jump footage was scold him mercilessly through the televisual set for being so damn irresponsible. Everyone knows it's just lunacy to have Red Bull before you have your Corn Flakes. Honestly, I don't know where his head was. The second thing I noticed was how that crazy gravity thing is still working just ticketyboo. And they said it wouldn't take off.
And after that I was just utterly pissed off that my life doesn't consist of intergalactic hot air balloon rides or random hurtlement through the atmosphere at 1,000-ish kilometres over the speed limit or the fact that there is never any doubt or vague concern whatsoever about whether my parachute will hold up until I get to the printer in my workplace. Felix may be flippin' nuts, but at least he's living it and loving it. Or maybe he was just a bored public servant in a past life.
The only reason 58 billion people watched the "show" anyway was because there was a chance of Felix's brain exploding during The YouTube's live(ish) feed. Maybe I have more in common with him than I think.
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| I heart this photo. |
Speaking of outer space and things not being where they ought, one of NASA's retired space shuttles rolled through the dodgy streets of one of the newly treeless, gang-ridden, ghetto regions of Los Angeles on its way to a museum to begin its new life as an oversized dust catcher.
I'm surprised the shuttle made it through the 'burbs without being tagged by young hooligans. The ultimate graffiti challenge. I can't look at these shuttles without wondering how all that gaffer tape stays stuck on its nosecone. There are many reasons I don't work at NASA, and that little thought bubble is presumably one of them.
Sunday, 14 October 2012
Excuses and Political Signs
I guess I'll jump right in then and discuss a couple of boring things that happened today. I realise that's probably not an ideal method to approach a blog post, but this was my ridiculous idea from earlier in the week to encourage myself to write more, and it seemed like a really good idea at the time.
Hm, where to begin? I believe I'll start with exercise and excuses. Unlike many of my acquaintances, I like to own my excuses and I call them where I see them. For example, I don't go running because I hate cardio and I find it mind-numbingly boring. And I also don't run because I can be quite lazy at times.
But I hear a bunch of excuses - all day, every day - from many people on why they simply cannot exercise in this lifetime. For example, I can't exercise in the cold. I can't exercise because I have children and I don't have time. I twisted my ankle thirty years ago; it might not be healed yet. I can't exercise because my life is so busy and important and I just couldn't possibly fit anything else into my action-packed, yet sedentary, lifestyle.
Apart from the sometimes valid children escape clause, none of these are valid excuses. I know this because I've used them all. Apart from the kids one. I think you need to own children before you can use it.
We women are the worst at whinging about having to exercise. I'm surprised I don't hear more women saying, "well, I was due to go work for NASA as a rocket scientist, but then I fell pregnant". These women have an excuse for everything. Everyone has time to exercise, you just have to want to make the time. And stop using your children as a basis for the web of excuses.
So today I went for a run - walk - run - walk; I think it's called interval training, but I call it interdevil training, because it basically sucks on a massive scale. But I don't want to be an Excuse Person, so I will continue as best I can.
Speaking of painfully, boring things, next Saturday is the A.C.T. local election, which is of little interest to anyone in the A.C.T, let alone the rest of the world. I think they have changed the rules around the use of political advertising around this neck of the woods, because there are a lot more signs stuck into the dirt on the side of the road than there used to be.
Today I noted that these signs are predominatly pro-Labor, which means the Labor factions have ripped out the Liberal ones. I wouldn't vote Labor if my life depended on it, but I think this unsporting behaviour is typical of how that side behaves as a general rule. They are either ripping out Liberal placards in the middle of the night or claiming sexism as an implausible excuse for political failures. That's all they do. Such great role models for the kiddies.
What else happened? Nothing. It turns out this latest writing thing is an abject failure. I think I will have to think up a new tactical plan to get me in the writing mood.
Hm, where to begin? I believe I'll start with exercise and excuses. Unlike many of my acquaintances, I like to own my excuses and I call them where I see them. For example, I don't go running because I hate cardio and I find it mind-numbingly boring. And I also don't run because I can be quite lazy at times.
But I hear a bunch of excuses - all day, every day - from many people on why they simply cannot exercise in this lifetime. For example, I can't exercise in the cold. I can't exercise because I have children and I don't have time. I twisted my ankle thirty years ago; it might not be healed yet. I can't exercise because my life is so busy and important and I just couldn't possibly fit anything else into my action-packed, yet sedentary, lifestyle.
Apart from the sometimes valid children escape clause, none of these are valid excuses. I know this because I've used them all. Apart from the kids one. I think you need to own children before you can use it.
We women are the worst at whinging about having to exercise. I'm surprised I don't hear more women saying, "well, I was due to go work for NASA as a rocket scientist, but then I fell pregnant". These women have an excuse for everything. Everyone has time to exercise, you just have to want to make the time. And stop using your children as a basis for the web of excuses.
So today I went for a run - walk - run - walk; I think it's called interval training, but I call it interdevil training, because it basically sucks on a massive scale. But I don't want to be an Excuse Person, so I will continue as best I can.
Speaking of painfully, boring things, next Saturday is the A.C.T. local election, which is of little interest to anyone in the A.C.T, let alone the rest of the world. I think they have changed the rules around the use of political advertising around this neck of the woods, because there are a lot more signs stuck into the dirt on the side of the road than there used to be.
Today I noted that these signs are predominatly pro-Labor, which means the Labor factions have ripped out the Liberal ones. I wouldn't vote Labor if my life depended on it, but I think this unsporting behaviour is typical of how that side behaves as a general rule. They are either ripping out Liberal placards in the middle of the night or claiming sexism as an implausible excuse for political failures. That's all they do. Such great role models for the kiddies.
What else happened? Nothing. It turns out this latest writing thing is an abject failure. I think I will have to think up a new tactical plan to get me in the writing mood.
Friday, 12 October 2012
Political Fight and African Flight
There are far too many ism's in the world - sexism, criticism - I get them all so very mixed up. Evidently the Prime Minister of Australia, Julia Ei-leen Gillard, gets these two ism’s confused all the time too, screeching 'sexism!' when valid criticism is thrown at her over her government's poor performance.
Gillard is currently swimming, although I imagine will soon be sinking, into the mire of her self-created gender war. As far as one can tell, this war on men is motivated by a bitter hatred and resentment of her male competition, and is fed by the preposterous, delusional assumption that women will support her in her desperate attempt to cling to power at the forthcoming federal election.
I personally don’t have a scintilla of interest in anything she says. And I'm not going to call her my Prime Minister because that woman is a horrible embarrassment to me. If you are in any doubt about whether I aided her party’s accession to power, I can advise that I did not. So glad to clear that up.
Speaking of swimming in the mire, I am fairly devoid of any motivation to exercise at present. Why can’t I just be naturally fit? If I lived in the wilds of some arid African desert I wouldn't need to go to the gym because I’d naturally be in tiptop shape. It would be super; I'd spend my days chasing things, and then hastily turning around and having things pursue me.
Wouldn’t we all prefer that? Rather than spending the best part of our day sitting at a desk staring at an electronic box? Hm, I suppose not. Although unfortunately we live in a manufactured environment that gives rise to low health and fitness level by default.
Gillard is currently swimming, although I imagine will soon be sinking, into the mire of her self-created gender war. As far as one can tell, this war on men is motivated by a bitter hatred and resentment of her male competition, and is fed by the preposterous, delusional assumption that women will support her in her desperate attempt to cling to power at the forthcoming federal election.
I personally don’t have a scintilla of interest in anything she says. And I'm not going to call her my Prime Minister because that woman is a horrible embarrassment to me. If you are in any doubt about whether I aided her party’s accession to power, I can advise that I did not. So glad to clear that up.
Speaking of swimming in the mire, I am fairly devoid of any motivation to exercise at present. Why can’t I just be naturally fit? If I lived in the wilds of some arid African desert I wouldn't need to go to the gym because I’d naturally be in tiptop shape. It would be super; I'd spend my days chasing things, and then hastily turning around and having things pursue me.
Wouldn’t we all prefer that? Rather than spending the best part of our day sitting at a desk staring at an electronic box? Hm, I suppose not. Although unfortunately we live in a manufactured environment that gives rise to low health and fitness level by default.
Wednesday, 10 October 2012
Toasters, Spooks and Neeson
One has a new idea of how to inspire one's jaded fingers to write every day. I really don't know which part of 'you will write something every day' my digits don’t understand. So each day for the rest of October (loosely defined as 'when I can be bothered to make an effort') I'm going to pick out three significant things that happened during the day that grabbed my attention and wax lyrical about them for sentences and sentences until I get uber bored.
Sure, it will make for some mind-numbingly dull blog posts, but then I'm most likely definitely not going to read them. Let's pretend that I started doing this annoying, stupid little activity yesterday. Yesterday was all about toasters, spooks and Liam Neeson.
Sure, it will make for some mind-numbingly dull blog posts, but then I'm most likely definitely not going to read them. Let's pretend that I started doing this annoying, stupid little activity yesterday. Yesterday was all about toasters, spooks and Liam Neeson.
I haven't got much to say about the toaster situation, suffice to say that people who operate these semi-heavy machinery things oughta monitor their wholemeal bread more closely and attend court-appointed Toaster Awareness Seminars if they fail to do so. But, alas, there are brave people out there who fearlessly put out flames of yeast and smoking slabs of over-cooked bread. Now let's all pause to think about firemen for a moment...
I don't know how to segue effortlessly onto the issue of unearthly bodies, so I won't bother. It seems spooks are everywhere. That's ghosts, not spies; but I suppose they amount to the same thing. Several people I know are currently experiencing seismic paranormal activity in their respective houses, and news of these happenings scares the living daylights out of me. I don't even want to believe in the paranormal, but there is too much weird, unexplained activity going on.
There's enough scary and dodgy in the natural world to freak me out, let alone things that don't really belong here anymore. No offence ghosts, but I'm looking at you. And I would greatly appreciate if you would never come visit me at my home, expecially if I'd never met you when you were alive.
I'm fairly positive I saw a ghost years ago, and I have had a former pet come to me - who had died years before - so I know they are here, but I'm definitely in de river denial over it. But still, they are here (italics used to denote spookiness).
Speaking of spooky stuff, last night I went to the movies to watch an action flick, and the cinema rudely ran a trailer of the new Paranormal Activity blockbluster - I think they are up to number 28 or something - and I accidently opened my eyes during a particularly terrifying bit. Admittedly, I am a scaredy cat and find the mere sight of the movie logo terrifying, but anyway.
I'm fairly positive I saw a ghost years ago, and I have had a former pet come to me - who had died years before - so I know they are here, but I'm definitely in de river denial over it. But still, they are here (italics used to denote spookiness).
Speaking of spooky stuff, last night I went to the movies to watch an action flick, and the cinema rudely ran a trailer of the new Paranormal Activity blockbluster - I think they are up to number 28 or something - and I accidently opened my eyes during a particularly terrifying bit. Admittedly, I am a scaredy cat and find the mere sight of the movie logo terrifying, but anyway.
Now, onto Liam Neeson, who would no doubt recognise a toaster if one apparated before his eyes in the middle of the night. And then he'd shoot it. I'm not trying to name drop or anything, but Liam and I did spend some quality time yesterday. Sure, he was in a movie, and I was watching the movie in a cinema, but I really don't appreciate society insisting that I make that distinction.
Sunday, 7 October 2012
Crankypants Ocean
I currently reside on the South Coast of Australia. When I say reside, I mean I’m here for five days. I came down for the sun, that burning yellow thing in the sky that I like to follow around, because it makes me happy.
If it wasn’t for the fact that I haven’t seen the sun for two days I would have been greedily lapping it up. And today, finally, the sun came out. THE SUN IS OUT!! I am so darn happy to see it I can’t even tell you. If I wanted to live in a dark, damp cave without the sun I would go and live in England or something.
Today is perfect beach weather – particularly if you were from Lapland and didn’t mind a bit of a cool breeze - so I decided to go for an early morning walk (um, 9:00am is my early) along the beach, but it seems the ocean had other ideas.
The first red flag should have been that there were no other people along the whole coastline, as far as the eye could see. The second red flag should have been that there were no red flags to tell people where they could and couldn’t swim. The third was no surfers.
The absence of these key features are not ideal near the sea – which can often be a cantankerous pain in the arse - and intelligent people probably would have noted that. I, of course, naively ignored the forewarnings, or lack thereof, and went along my merry way. And what I discovered is if you are not smart enough to realise that the ocean doesn’t want you around then it will soon tell you.
Maybe I had come at a bad time, perhaps the ocean was redecorating, and decluttering; it was certainly throwing out everything it didn’t want. Seaweed, coke bottles, bits of fallen trees, me. It was high tide as well, so I didn’t have much legroom, and at one point she had me pinned in at the seawall and doused me with icy water up to my thighs until I rolled on top of the sandbar. Yes, I rolled, like Bear Grylls might do. It was all very exciting. And cold. More cold than exciting, really.
I cursed a fair bit, laughed it off, and then came the wind; and when a strong gale and beach combine they produce a perfect machine gun effect that fires stinging sand bullets at your arms and legs. So I went running, sobbing, from the beach, or something like that. There’s nothing like being rejected by the ocean; a living, breathing body of water that doesn’t want you around. I might try again later; when she’s in a better mood…
If it wasn’t for the fact that I haven’t seen the sun for two days I would have been greedily lapping it up. And today, finally, the sun came out. THE SUN IS OUT!! I am so darn happy to see it I can’t even tell you. If I wanted to live in a dark, damp cave without the sun I would go and live in England or something.
Today is perfect beach weather – particularly if you were from Lapland and didn’t mind a bit of a cool breeze - so I decided to go for an early morning walk (um, 9:00am is my early) along the beach, but it seems the ocean had other ideas.
The first red flag should have been that there were no other people along the whole coastline, as far as the eye could see. The second red flag should have been that there were no red flags to tell people where they could and couldn’t swim. The third was no surfers.
The absence of these key features are not ideal near the sea – which can often be a cantankerous pain in the arse - and intelligent people probably would have noted that. I, of course, naively ignored the forewarnings, or lack thereof, and went along my merry way. And what I discovered is if you are not smart enough to realise that the ocean doesn’t want you around then it will soon tell you.
Maybe I had come at a bad time, perhaps the ocean was redecorating, and decluttering; it was certainly throwing out everything it didn’t want. Seaweed, coke bottles, bits of fallen trees, me. It was high tide as well, so I didn’t have much legroom, and at one point she had me pinned in at the seawall and doused me with icy water up to my thighs until I rolled on top of the sandbar. Yes, I rolled, like Bear Grylls might do. It was all very exciting. And cold. More cold than exciting, really.
I cursed a fair bit, laughed it off, and then came the wind; and when a strong gale and beach combine they produce a perfect machine gun effect that fires stinging sand bullets at your arms and legs. So I went running, sobbing, from the beach, or something like that. There’s nothing like being rejected by the ocean; a living, breathing body of water that doesn’t want you around. I might try again later; when she’s in a better mood…
Sunday, 30 September 2012
Coastal Retreat Treat
I'm kinda fed up with the whole Canberra thing. I'm utterly bored and miserable here. I'm not doing what I want to be doing for a career - how the hell did that happen? - and every day I get more and more fed up with it. It's like groundhog day without Bill Murray. I would do just about anything to be self-employed. But how does one change careers when you are in a secure job? How the hell do people just jump and change careers anyway? Scary times, indeed.
My birthday is this week. If you are interested - and who wouldn't be - I will be turning 18 again, with 10 plus years experience. I'm taking the day off work, because there is nothing more annoying than people at work celebrating your birthday and making so-called humourous references to how freaking old you are and everyone staring at you while you try and cut the cake like they've never seen someone cut a fucking cake before.
And you're supposed to smile and take it. I know it's cake, and I will usually do just about anything for a slice of cake (there is vast empirical evidence), but the whole activity just to get the cake is annoying. Happy birthday, indeed.
So I've got a five-day weekend coming up and I'm going to a detox farm. Yes, a detox farm. You know the place; full of angry humans who haven't eaten chocolate for a week, wheatgrass shots and starry-eyed hippies, those people that God later turns into corporate executives just to make sure we never lose our sense of irony. Well my detox farm is going to be sort of like that, but mostly nothing like that. Because it's going to be fun, for a start.
I'm going to a house down the south coast of Australia to pretend that I don't live in Canberra at all and that I am actually a coastal local. Although the weather is predicted to be downright summerish, so there will be a lot of my fellow Canberrans lurking around, so I will be forced to brandish a faux moustache and novelty glasses when I head around town so no-one I know will recongise me. Small price to pay.
I will go to the zoo, I will write, I will read, I will walk, I will attend the markets, I will buy useless and possibly hideous trinkets at the markets, and I will snigger endlessly at the tourists who must go back to work on Tuesday. Oh wait.
My birthday is this week. If you are interested - and who wouldn't be - I will be turning 18 again, with 10 plus years experience. I'm taking the day off work, because there is nothing more annoying than people at work celebrating your birthday and making so-called humourous references to how freaking old you are and everyone staring at you while you try and cut the cake like they've never seen someone cut a fucking cake before.
And you're supposed to smile and take it. I know it's cake, and I will usually do just about anything for a slice of cake (there is vast empirical evidence), but the whole activity just to get the cake is annoying. Happy birthday, indeed.
So I've got a five-day weekend coming up and I'm going to a detox farm. Yes, a detox farm. You know the place; full of angry humans who haven't eaten chocolate for a week, wheatgrass shots and starry-eyed hippies, those people that God later turns into corporate executives just to make sure we never lose our sense of irony. Well my detox farm is going to be sort of like that, but mostly nothing like that. Because it's going to be fun, for a start.
I'm going to a house down the south coast of Australia to pretend that I don't live in Canberra at all and that I am actually a coastal local. Although the weather is predicted to be downright summerish, so there will be a lot of my fellow Canberrans lurking around, so I will be forced to brandish a faux moustache and novelty glasses when I head around town so no-one I know will recongise me. Small price to pay.
I will go to the zoo, I will write, I will read, I will walk, I will attend the markets, I will buy useless and possibly hideous trinkets at the markets, and I will snigger endlessly at the tourists who must go back to work on Tuesday. Oh wait.
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