I am awaiting the arrival of my Kindle (Australian version) from Amazon. I spent some time arguing against the introduction of such technology. After all, books are a beautiful thing, not just a practical thing. The reading experience is not just about absorbing information.
But then I realised:
a) I am drowning in books. When we moved out of our old house, where we had bookshelves overflowing with books, we cleared out a lot of them and donated them to Lifeline (who hold a giant book sale every year for fundraising). However, many moved with us and live in plastic crates in the garage. The single bookshelf in the (not so) new apartment is overflowing with books and the stack on my bedside table is about to topple.
b) If only they made them out of edible paper, how much more practical would that be? You could have a double-y enjoyable experience and you wouldn't have mountains of books to trip over.
c) I was sounding like one of those people who argue that albums sound so much better than CDs (and iPods). They talk about the crackle and the "warmth" of the sound. Bollocks. Whatever "warmth" I may be giving up for the convience of having my entire music collection on a gadget as big as half a cigarette packet I am more than happy to sacrifice.
d) In my world convience generally wins over warm and fuzzy philosphical ideals.
Thus the Kindle is about to enter my life and I am so excited. The idea that I can have many books on hand, in my handbag, with me at all times, is mindblowing. Planes, doctor's waiting rooms, the bench at my children's swimming classes, will no longer be places of lost time and boredom. I will be whipping out my Kindle and catching up on all the reading I rarely get to do. Oh, bliss.
Stay tuned for a review: or what happens when reality crashes into my dream landscape.
Friday, March 19, 2010
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Turkeys and Penises and Mud Crabs, oh my!
Sunday night I returned from a weekend in Noosa with my mum and sister. It was my non-denominational Festive Season gift to them and a much anticipated break.
I have never been to Noosa before and was filled with anticipation, especially for the legendary shopping.
My introduction to the shopping was swift and painful. The very first shop we entered on Friday afternoon presented me with the most glorious handbag, a beacon of handbagy wonder. Eagerly I asked the saleslady to get if from the shelf for me. Eagerly I examined its beautiful, intricate detail; already projecting how much happier and more fulfilled my life would be with it on my arm. Eagerly I fumbled for the price tag, mentally reaching for my credit card and finalising the transaction. Eagerly I threw the bag at the hovering saleslady: $1585, that's how the price read. At first glance my brain simply registered $158.50 and instantly I thought "wow, what a reasonable price for such a beautiful bag, wrap it up". At closer inspection I realised there was no full stop or dash seperating any of the digits and the horror dawned on me. ONE THOUSAND, FIVE HUNDRED AND EIGHTY FIVE DOLLARS (not Lira or Yen or even NZ dollars to bring down to a figure my mind can comprehend).
It was almost totally down hill from there. The first half dozen shops we entered featured $800 dresses, $400 jeans and the most wonderful boots, the price of which I was too terrified to enquire about.
But this is not a totally sad tale. At one of the shops I discovered Desigual, a Spanish brand of clothes made just for me. Crazy colours, fabrics, prints and textures; just the sort of stuff I love. Mum and J bought me a skirt for my birthday and I can't wait for the weather to cool down a little so I can wear it.
Apart from the wonderful/horrible shopping there a number of other memorable things about Noosa.
The turkeys. They are everywhere. The streets, the cafes, hiding in the scrub around the beach. Where do they come from and why are they are there?
The penis trees. Otherwise known as Padanus Palms, these trees literally look they are growing penises instead of roots. Yes, I am as deep as your average puddle but these just cracked me up every time I saw them... and I saw a lot of them. [See pictorial evidence below.] Mum and J got well and truly sick and tired of me nudging and pointing each time we passed one (about 100 times a day).
The mud crab. We had the most delicious, indulgent Queensland Mud Crab cooked in garlic butter, with lots of herbs and big slabs of crusty bread to mop up the gorgeous buttery sauce on Saturday for lunch. Mud crab is one of life's true treats for me. It's something I rarely have but often crave. Mmmmm....
And memorable for all the wrong reasons was Noosa Marina Sunday Markets. If there was an Olympics for piss weak markets this would certainly be in gold medal contention. "Markets" is really too strong a word for this collection of crappy stalls: stick on fingernail decals, handmade pottery mermaids, new age crystal rubbish... and these were the best of them. The advertised "fresh produce" consisted of one stall, out the back in the car park, with a sad display of half a dozen of a few fruits and vegetables. The only positive of the day was the lovely Ferry ride from Noosa to Noosaville and onto Tewentin. Oh well, live and learn.
So onto a few pictorial moments from the weekend...
I have never been to Noosa before and was filled with anticipation, especially for the legendary shopping.
My introduction to the shopping was swift and painful. The very first shop we entered on Friday afternoon presented me with the most glorious handbag, a beacon of handbagy wonder. Eagerly I asked the saleslady to get if from the shelf for me. Eagerly I examined its beautiful, intricate detail; already projecting how much happier and more fulfilled my life would be with it on my arm. Eagerly I fumbled for the price tag, mentally reaching for my credit card and finalising the transaction. Eagerly I threw the bag at the hovering saleslady: $1585, that's how the price read. At first glance my brain simply registered $158.50 and instantly I thought "wow, what a reasonable price for such a beautiful bag, wrap it up". At closer inspection I realised there was no full stop or dash seperating any of the digits and the horror dawned on me. ONE THOUSAND, FIVE HUNDRED AND EIGHTY FIVE DOLLARS (not Lira or Yen or even NZ dollars to bring down to a figure my mind can comprehend).
It was almost totally down hill from there. The first half dozen shops we entered featured $800 dresses, $400 jeans and the most wonderful boots, the price of which I was too terrified to enquire about.
But this is not a totally sad tale. At one of the shops I discovered Desigual, a Spanish brand of clothes made just for me. Crazy colours, fabrics, prints and textures; just the sort of stuff I love. Mum and J bought me a skirt for my birthday and I can't wait for the weather to cool down a little so I can wear it.
Apart from the wonderful/horrible shopping there a number of other memorable things about Noosa.
The turkeys. They are everywhere. The streets, the cafes, hiding in the scrub around the beach. Where do they come from and why are they are there?
The penis trees. Otherwise known as Padanus Palms, these trees literally look they are growing penises instead of roots. Yes, I am as deep as your average puddle but these just cracked me up every time I saw them... and I saw a lot of them. [See pictorial evidence below.] Mum and J got well and truly sick and tired of me nudging and pointing each time we passed one (about 100 times a day).
The mud crab. We had the most delicious, indulgent Queensland Mud Crab cooked in garlic butter, with lots of herbs and big slabs of crusty bread to mop up the gorgeous buttery sauce on Saturday for lunch. Mud crab is one of life's true treats for me. It's something I rarely have but often crave. Mmmmm....
And memorable for all the wrong reasons was Noosa Marina Sunday Markets. If there was an Olympics for piss weak markets this would certainly be in gold medal contention. "Markets" is really too strong a word for this collection of crappy stalls: stick on fingernail decals, handmade pottery mermaids, new age crystal rubbish... and these were the best of them. The advertised "fresh produce" consisted of one stall, out the back in the car park, with a sad display of half a dozen of a few fruits and vegetables. The only positive of the day was the lovely Ferry ride from Noosa to Noosaville and onto Tewentin. Oh well, live and learn.
So onto a few pictorial moments from the weekend...
Mum and I enjoying some Krispy Kreme action before boaridng our plane.
Ladies who lunch. Waiting for our
Mud Crab while enjoying some
very yummy cocktails.
Yes, I have no shame.
(But it does look like a penis doesn't it?
It's not just my dirty mind.)
(But it does look like a penis doesn't it?
It's not just my dirty mind.)
Sunday, March 07, 2010
Vajesus!!
So just when you think you've heard of everything your sister throws a "Vajazzling" at you over the yum cha table. "Va.... what?" I stammer.
"You know, Vajazzling... bedazzling for your vajayjay." She says it in a manner which implies that this is a fact everyone knows. Humans require oxygen to live, pigs can not fly, vajazzling is bedazzling for your vajayjay. Of course! Der! Tell me something I don't know!
Apparently this newly created attempt to befuddle money out of over-preened young women involves waxing your lady parts followed by an application of Swarovski crystals to the general area. If you don't believe me (and surely I wouldn't believe myself) take a look at THIS.
In my youth, when mammoths roamed the earth and Adam Ant was the height of masculine good looks and sophistication, we would preen ourselves by plaiting our freshly washed hair into 100 teeny weeny tiny plaits (thanks to my friend's teeny weeny tiny braces elastics) on a Friday night, resulting in a head of diabolical frizz on a Saturday morning. Imagine, going to a lot of trouble to achieve frizz!
This Medusa-like frizz would be complemented with an outfit of a short black tutu, shiny tights where one leg was black and one bright red, a t-shirt of red and white stripes and very pointy, black patent leather shoes.
So I know how to go about attracting a mate of the opposite gender and I also know that women have been doing this successfully for millions of years (unless you don't believe in evolution, in which case they've been doing so for just over 2000 years, a theological point I probably don't have completely correct). Any old how, what I'm getting at is that we seem to have been perpetuating the human race in a reasonably successful manner for a very long time without the help of Vajazzling. Obviously men have been totally repulsed by our non-Vajazzled vajayjays (I just love saying "vajayjay", try it, you'll like it) for all these years.
I know that Big Jay, upon returning from his golfing sojourn to Coffs Harbour on Wednesday night, will be pleasantly surprised when he ventures underneath the stretched out Target pyjama pants of questionable vintage and the giant, washed-to-within-an-inch-of-it's-life Antony and The Johnsons t-shirt which is my lingerie of choice in the boudoir. Know what I'm saying?
"You know, Vajazzling... bedazzling for your vajayjay." She says it in a manner which implies that this is a fact everyone knows. Humans require oxygen to live, pigs can not fly, vajazzling is bedazzling for your vajayjay. Of course! Der! Tell me something I don't know!
Apparently this newly created attempt to befuddle money out of over-preened young women involves waxing your lady parts followed by an application of Swarovski crystals to the general area. If you don't believe me (and surely I wouldn't believe myself) take a look at THIS.
In my youth, when mammoths roamed the earth and Adam Ant was the height of masculine good looks and sophistication, we would preen ourselves by plaiting our freshly washed hair into 100 teeny weeny tiny plaits (thanks to my friend's teeny weeny tiny braces elastics) on a Friday night, resulting in a head of diabolical frizz on a Saturday morning. Imagine, going to a lot of trouble to achieve frizz!
This Medusa-like frizz would be complemented with an outfit of a short black tutu, shiny tights where one leg was black and one bright red, a t-shirt of red and white stripes and very pointy, black patent leather shoes.
So I know how to go about attracting a mate of the opposite gender and I also know that women have been doing this successfully for millions of years (unless you don't believe in evolution, in which case they've been doing so for just over 2000 years, a theological point I probably don't have completely correct). Any old how, what I'm getting at is that we seem to have been perpetuating the human race in a reasonably successful manner for a very long time without the help of Vajazzling. Obviously men have been totally repulsed by our non-Vajazzled vajayjays (I just love saying "vajayjay", try it, you'll like it) for all these years.
I know that Big Jay, upon returning from his golfing sojourn to Coffs Harbour on Wednesday night, will be pleasantly surprised when he ventures underneath the stretched out Target pyjama pants of questionable vintage and the giant, washed-to-within-an-inch-of-it's-life Antony and The Johnsons t-shirt which is my lingerie of choice in the boudoir. Know what I'm saying?
Friday, March 05, 2010
You got to have faith?
It's pretty well documented that I'm a cynical bitch. I don't suffer from an over abundance of faith.
Faith in politics and/or politicians.
Faith in the media.
Faith in my fellow humans (mostly).
Faith in any sort of god and/or organised religion.
So it hurt my brain to hear on the radio yesterday, during a discussion about religious education in schools, that (are you sitting down?) only 19% of Americans believe in evolution (NINETEEN FUCKING PERCENT!!!!) and a marginally less obscene 42% of Australians.
I accept that such surveys are often skewed in various ways and I accept that there would be a certain percentage out of the 81% (and 58%) who would argue that humans were dropped on planet earth by aliens but that still leaves a shocking number of people who believe that us humans were created by a guy in a robe and a long beard who lives up in the sky.
That sort of information causes an overload in my brain. I don't know how to process such data.
But I have come to accept (though not understand) that there are fans of Celine Dion and Andre Rieu in the world so I suppose I will eventually find a way of living with such mind boggling information.
Faith in politics and/or politicians.
Faith in the media.
Faith in my fellow humans (mostly).
Faith in any sort of god and/or organised religion.
So it hurt my brain to hear on the radio yesterday, during a discussion about religious education in schools, that (are you sitting down?) only 19% of Americans believe in evolution (NINETEEN FUCKING PERCENT!!!!) and a marginally less obscene 42% of Australians.
I accept that such surveys are often skewed in various ways and I accept that there would be a certain percentage out of the 81% (and 58%) who would argue that humans were dropped on planet earth by aliens but that still leaves a shocking number of people who believe that us humans were created by a guy in a robe and a long beard who lives up in the sky.
That sort of information causes an overload in my brain. I don't know how to process such data.
But I have come to accept (though not understand) that there are fans of Celine Dion and Andre Rieu in the world so I suppose I will eventually find a way of living with such mind boggling information.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
A lot of love in the room
George Michael still has "it". He's gracious, dignified, talented, wonderful.
If Monday night was hell, climatically speaking, last night was heaven. A mild, warm late summer night. A light breeze. Aaaahhhhhh!
40,000+ people full of love and respect. It was a beautiful thing to behold and experience.
I loved every moment and the finale of Freedom (90) was perfect.
[Warning! This is the rant part. I hate to finish this post on a low note but I am bitter that he didn't include Wake Me Up Before You Go Go - unless it was the song I missed at the very start. I am also bitter about the moronic female behind us who spoke loudly to her friend throughout all the quiet songs. Shut the fuck up! The end.]
If Monday night was hell, climatically speaking, last night was heaven. A mild, warm late summer night. A light breeze. Aaaahhhhhh!
40,000+ people full of love and respect. It was a beautiful thing to behold and experience.
I loved every moment and the finale of Freedom (90) was perfect.
[Warning! This is the rant part. I hate to finish this post on a low note but I am bitter that he didn't include Wake Me Up Before You Go Go - unless it was the song I missed at the very start. I am also bitter about the moronic female behind us who spoke loudly to her friend throughout all the quiet songs. Shut the fuck up! The end.]
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
For those about to rock...
... we can smell you!
Holy mother of god. What a night. Imagine being at a gym with 60,000 hot, sweaty people. The air thick with humidity and BO.
That was Monday night at ANZ Stadium at the AC/DC concert.
I'm not sure what I was expecting but I think the sheer physical discomfort of the heat and the awful suffocating smell probably made me more critical than I may otherwise have been.
Strangely I couldn't really get into the breast flashing which is (apparently) the tradition during She's Got The Jack. I didn't enjoy Angus Young's recipracol striptese; he is, after all, the Mr Bean of rock'n'roll. Call me fussy but I don't get my jollys from watching an almost 60 year old skinny unattractive bloke taking it off. Do us all a favour and put it back on and throw in a paper bag over the head while you're at it, buddy.
Furthermore I hate solos: guitar solos, drum solos, any sort of solos. So Angus' 20+ minute guitar wank didn't ring my bell. I found it quite sickening actually. Shut up already.
The highlight for me was She Shook Me All Night Long, which I think is sexy piece of raunch rock, that's for sure. The lack of It's A Long Way To Shop If You Want A Sausage Roll was a huge disappointment.
Anyway, I'm glad I went. I can tick ACCADACCA of my list of bands to see and go to my grave having no desire to ever see them again.
In a week of musical extremes we have George Michael on Friday night. Don't forget to wake me up before you go go...
Holy mother of god. What a night. Imagine being at a gym with 60,000 hot, sweaty people. The air thick with humidity and BO.
That was Monday night at ANZ Stadium at the AC/DC concert.
I'm not sure what I was expecting but I think the sheer physical discomfort of the heat and the awful suffocating smell probably made me more critical than I may otherwise have been.
Strangely I couldn't really get into the breast flashing which is (apparently) the tradition during She's Got The Jack. I didn't enjoy Angus Young's recipracol striptese; he is, after all, the Mr Bean of rock'n'roll. Call me fussy but I don't get my jollys from watching an almost 60 year old skinny unattractive bloke taking it off. Do us all a favour and put it back on and throw in a paper bag over the head while you're at it, buddy.
Furthermore I hate solos: guitar solos, drum solos, any sort of solos. So Angus' 20+ minute guitar wank didn't ring my bell. I found it quite sickening actually. Shut up already.
The highlight for me was She Shook Me All Night Long, which I think is sexy piece of raunch rock, that's for sure. The lack of It's A Long Way To Shop If You Want A Sausage Roll was a huge disappointment.
Anyway, I'm glad I went. I can tick ACCADACCA of my list of bands to see and go to my grave having no desire to ever see them again.
In a week of musical extremes we have George Michael on Friday night. Don't forget to wake me up before you go go...
Friday, February 19, 2010
Listen up Alanis Morissette
This is fucking IRONIC*. Precious.
What a movie. What a story. What can I say about it?
Hard work. Actually hearing and understanding Precious, hard. Emotionally, hard.
I'm just not able to do social realism like I used to. Perhaps it's parenthood. The horrors inflincted on children are too hard to watch as "entertainment".
Performances are mind blowing. Even Mariah Carey is outstanding in her small role (who could have guessed). Gabourney Sidibe as Precious is understated and raw.
* To state the obvious, it's ironic because to name a child Precious and then treat her like garbage, like much less then human, is the ultimate irony. Don't you think.
What a movie. What a story. What can I say about it?
Hard work. Actually hearing and understanding Precious, hard. Emotionally, hard.
I'm just not able to do social realism like I used to. Perhaps it's parenthood. The horrors inflincted on children are too hard to watch as "entertainment".
Performances are mind blowing. Even Mariah Carey is outstanding in her small role (who could have guessed). Gabourney Sidibe as Precious is understated and raw.
* To state the obvious, it's ironic because to name a child Precious and then treat her like garbage, like much less then human, is the ultimate irony. Don't you think.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Not Satisfied, Jan
Big Jay and I have been fans of the Showcase series Satisfaction since the beginning. Some people may choose to call it soft port and I can't really argue with that. I'll happily admit to loving that sort of titillation: yes there is plenty of sexy nudity but there are also some good plots, decent scriptwriting, solid acting and very fine production values.
Until Season 3 when I fear the wheels have somewhat fallen of the wagon. It just hasn't captured my attention as much as the previous two series. I was thoroughly annoyed by the "Mel's early menopause" storyline which was plain stupid.
However, the [anti] icing on the cake was the final episode, which we watched last night. Mel returned from a stint running a brothel in the Middle East with a baby girl which she apparently almost accidentally adopted from The Philippines. Don't you hate it when that happens. The scriptwriting around this storyline was complete nonsense. No bloody wonder total bullshit is constantly perpetuated in the media about intercountry adoption and the general public believe it because no-one bothers to present anything approximating the truth.
So disappointing to find a show which started on such a high note ending as a bucketful of incomprehensible drivel. It's possible there will be a Season 4 but I'm not looking forward to it.
Until Season 3 when I fear the wheels have somewhat fallen of the wagon. It just hasn't captured my attention as much as the previous two series. I was thoroughly annoyed by the "Mel's early menopause" storyline which was plain stupid.
However, the [anti] icing on the cake was the final episode, which we watched last night. Mel returned from a stint running a brothel in the Middle East with a baby girl which she apparently almost accidentally adopted from The Philippines. Don't you hate it when that happens. The scriptwriting around this storyline was complete nonsense. No bloody wonder total bullshit is constantly perpetuated in the media about intercountry adoption and the general public believe it because no-one bothers to present anything approximating the truth.
So disappointing to find a show which started on such a high note ending as a bucketful of incomprehensible drivel. It's possible there will be a Season 4 but I'm not looking forward to it.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Speaking of broken hearts
The source of all things tawdry Tyler Durden writes this about Leif Garrett.
I'm not sure what to think about it really. I couldn't care less to be honest.
What bothers me most is that there was a time in my life, I would say around the time I was 10 or 11 or 12, when I would have tried very hard to come up with that $5,000. That's all I'm saying.
I'm not sure what to think about it really. I couldn't care less to be honest.
What bothers me most is that there was a time in my life, I would say around the time I was 10 or 11 or 12, when I would have tried very hard to come up with that $5,000. That's all I'm saying.
Happy Anniversary, Lloyd and Diane
It's the twentieth anniversary of my all-time favourite film Say Anything.
My sister sent me this link and it brought a tear or two to my eye and a pang to the black, twisted chunk of coal I call my heart.
Thank you Cameron Crowe for this cinematic gift. Lloyd Dobler is my favourite human, ever.
When I take a moment to think about it, it breaks my heart to dwell on the fact that he is not real.
Life is not fair.
My sister sent me this link and it brought a tear or two to my eye and a pang to the black, twisted chunk of coal I call my heart.
Thank you Cameron Crowe for this cinematic gift. Lloyd Dobler is my favourite human, ever.
When I take a moment to think about it, it breaks my heart to dwell on the fact that he is not real.
Life is not fair.
It just keeps getting better
Long time readers know of my hate/hate relationship with the ponytailed wonder aka Neil Perry. He has always rubbed me up the wrong way for intangible reasons. However, in recent years more tangible reasons have surfaced and I take great joy in presenting his failings at each possible opportunity.
Imagine my glee when I read this in the back of The Sunday Telegraph this afternoon:
Twitter of the Week
Matchbox Twenty frontman Rob Thomas, who's in town to perform some solo shows, was venting some frustrations on Friday night, tweeting: "My wife and a friend just left a place in Sydney called The Rockpool Bar and Grill [Perry's overpriced, overrated establishment]. WORST SERVICE EVER!!!!! Pouring rain, they were rude and refused to call her a cab. If you live in Sydney, think twice before going."
Nothing we didn't already know Mr Thomas. Yet another piece of evidence in the Neil Perry is a twat file.
[Possibly Rob Thomas' wife doesn't know how to complain properly either Mr Perry. There seems to be a growing group of people who don't seem to get what it is you're trying to do.]
Imagine my glee when I read this in the back of The Sunday Telegraph this afternoon:
Twitter of the Week
Matchbox Twenty frontman Rob Thomas, who's in town to perform some solo shows, was venting some frustrations on Friday night, tweeting: "My wife and a friend just left a place in Sydney called The Rockpool Bar and Grill [Perry's overpriced, overrated establishment]. WORST SERVICE EVER!!!!! Pouring rain, they were rude and refused to call her a cab. If you live in Sydney, think twice before going."
Nothing we didn't already know Mr Thomas. Yet another piece of evidence in the Neil Perry is a twat file.
[Possibly Rob Thomas' wife doesn't know how to complain properly either Mr Perry. There seems to be a growing group of people who don't seem to get what it is you're trying to do.]
Not for those with a weak stomach
Last Thursday my sister offered to babysit so we took the opportunity to sneak out for a movie.
My choice, so we went to see Daybreakers, the semi-Oz production starring Ethan Hawke and Willem Defoe as well as a few Aussies including Sam Neill. I love a vampire story so I couldn't resist. It had received some OK reviews so I had pretty high hopes.
I enjoyed it, pretty much. It had some good ideas, vampire-wise; but basically it was The Matrix with vampires. There was quite a bit of gruesomeness, with vampires going batshit on each other (blood supply is running out and when vampires are starved of blood they get really nutso, who would have thought!). I love that sort of stuff so I was happy.
While there was plenty of blood and guts and exploding blood suckers there was little by way of acting. Claudia Karvan was truly awful, striding around her scenes looking like a plank of wood with a face painted on it.
Overall I'd say see it if you're a vampire lover like yours truly. Otherwise, stay well clear.
My choice, so we went to see Daybreakers, the semi-Oz production starring Ethan Hawke and Willem Defoe as well as a few Aussies including Sam Neill. I love a vampire story so I couldn't resist. It had received some OK reviews so I had pretty high hopes.
I enjoyed it, pretty much. It had some good ideas, vampire-wise; but basically it was The Matrix with vampires. There was quite a bit of gruesomeness, with vampires going batshit on each other (blood supply is running out and when vampires are starved of blood they get really nutso, who would have thought!). I love that sort of stuff so I was happy.
While there was plenty of blood and guts and exploding blood suckers there was little by way of acting. Claudia Karvan was truly awful, striding around her scenes looking like a plank of wood with a face painted on it.
Overall I'd say see it if you're a vampire lover like yours truly. Otherwise, stay well clear.
Monday, February 08, 2010
Highlight Reel
We watched Couples Retreat last night. Wish we hadn't.
Nothing much to say about it because it was so horribly dull. The occasional smirk was the best we could manage, and even that felt odd because the whole thing was so unfunny, un-anything really.
For me that's disappointing because I'm a big fan of Jon Favreau/Vince Vaughn, especially as a team. Swingers and Made are two of my all time favourite movies. And if you haven't seen Vince in Clay Pigeons you must do so, right now.
Anyway, Couples Retreat was a very non-memorable movie but it did leave me with a new term which I love: highlight reel. Have you heard it before? Do you know what it refers to?
It's the fantasy movie you play in your head while you're either doing the deed or indulging in a little self love (Ed's Note: put: "euphemisms masturbation" into Google and enter a whole new world of funny). Highlight reel really tickles my fancy, so to speak, because I certainly have some favourites (I'm nothing if not a creature of habit) on regular rotation.
Just thought you'd like to know.
Nothing much to say about it because it was so horribly dull. The occasional smirk was the best we could manage, and even that felt odd because the whole thing was so unfunny, un-anything really.
For me that's disappointing because I'm a big fan of Jon Favreau/Vince Vaughn, especially as a team. Swingers and Made are two of my all time favourite movies. And if you haven't seen Vince in Clay Pigeons you must do so, right now.
Anyway, Couples Retreat was a very non-memorable movie but it did leave me with a new term which I love: highlight reel. Have you heard it before? Do you know what it refers to?
It's the fantasy movie you play in your head while you're either doing the deed or indulging in a little self love (Ed's Note: put: "euphemisms masturbation" into Google and enter a whole new world of funny). Highlight reel really tickles my fancy, so to speak, because I certainly have some favourites (I'm nothing if not a creature of habit) on regular rotation.
Just thought you'd like to know.
Sunday, February 07, 2010
A Family Moment
This afternoon we returned from two nights at Pearl Beach on the NSW Central Coast. It was a rare time indeed, a pure family weekend. Generally speaking we like to do things in packs, possibly with the idea that there is safety in numbers when it comes to entertaining children. We almost always weekend and holiday with friends and/or family.
But this weekend was just the four of us. The way I was feeling last week I was a little anxious about how the weekend would pan out, especially with the forecast bad weather. My fears were unfounded as it was a tiny bubble of family heaven (and that's not a term I tend to use often).
The house itself, Wildwood, was quite isolated; at the end of the last street, surrounded on all sides by trees and bush and wildlife. Let's not start about my personal feelings on these. Suffice to say I was able to tune out these things and simply enjoy the quiet and the far-away-ed-ness of the place. Of course I couldn't have possibly lasted more than the two nights but enough about my mental health problems.
We arrived late-ish Friday night and pretty much went straight to bed. It was raining, we were tired after a wearying week, it was perfect snuggle and sleep conditions. We did just that.
Saturday morning we enjoyed a leisurely family breakfast at the local cafe, followed by a short walk to discover Pearl Beach (which took all of a few minutes). We then took a drive to neighbouring Patonga Beach to see what attractions (not many/any) it had to offer.
Returning to our hideaway we decided a trip to the beach itself would be nice as the weather seemed to be holding off. We ended up having an absolute ball, a blissful two hours of playing in the surf and the sand. There was hardly anyone else there and it was just pure joy, the four of us body surfing together.
Almost as soon as we returned to the house with our lunch of fish and chips the rain started, and stayed. We were housebound for the rest of the day, watching movies, reading and sleeping. The only downer was the take away Chinese dinner. Big Jay drove to Umina for it and it certainly wasn't worth the drive. Horrendous! Luckily we didn't get food poisoning but I wouldn't have been surprised. If you're down Umina way stay away from the Silver Dragon. You have been warned.
This morning our Central Coast based friends met us at the cafe for a big Sunday morning breakfast. We had already packed our stuff and since the rain was still coming down we headed home. It was a brief but lovely respite from real life. I needed it.
But this weekend was just the four of us. The way I was feeling last week I was a little anxious about how the weekend would pan out, especially with the forecast bad weather. My fears were unfounded as it was a tiny bubble of family heaven (and that's not a term I tend to use often).
The house itself, Wildwood, was quite isolated; at the end of the last street, surrounded on all sides by trees and bush and wildlife. Let's not start about my personal feelings on these. Suffice to say I was able to tune out these things and simply enjoy the quiet and the far-away-ed-ness of the place. Of course I couldn't have possibly lasted more than the two nights but enough about my mental health problems.
We arrived late-ish Friday night and pretty much went straight to bed. It was raining, we were tired after a wearying week, it was perfect snuggle and sleep conditions. We did just that.
Saturday morning we enjoyed a leisurely family breakfast at the local cafe, followed by a short walk to discover Pearl Beach (which took all of a few minutes). We then took a drive to neighbouring Patonga Beach to see what attractions (not many/any) it had to offer.
Returning to our hideaway we decided a trip to the beach itself would be nice as the weather seemed to be holding off. We ended up having an absolute ball, a blissful two hours of playing in the surf and the sand. There was hardly anyone else there and it was just pure joy, the four of us body surfing together.
Almost as soon as we returned to the house with our lunch of fish and chips the rain started, and stayed. We were housebound for the rest of the day, watching movies, reading and sleeping. The only downer was the take away Chinese dinner. Big Jay drove to Umina for it and it certainly wasn't worth the drive. Horrendous! Luckily we didn't get food poisoning but I wouldn't have been surprised. If you're down Umina way stay away from the Silver Dragon. You have been warned.
This morning our Central Coast based friends met us at the cafe for a big Sunday morning breakfast. We had already packed our stuff and since the rain was still coming down we headed home. It was a brief but lovely respite from real life. I needed it.
Wednesday, February 03, 2010
Tuesday, February 02, 2010
School days
The school year 2010 has begun and I now have two children at school. The baby days are over.
Will started last Thursday and he is now in Year 5. High school is breathing down our collective necks and is a subject which can not be ignored for much longer. Shit.
Nothing much to report on the Will front. He is happy with his teacher, Miss C, who he had in Year 3. He knows her, she knows him, she understands him (I think). So all is well.
Miss Marianna Grumblebum started Kindergarten on Monday. So two days down and 13 years minus two days to go. She is fine at school but, as anticipated, there are meltdowns happening before and after.
This morning we had a doozy, involving her iPod, her breakfast and a door with a broken knob. Which was shortly followed by a tripping and knee grazing incident on the walk to school. Overall not the best morning of my life and probably not her's either.
It must be hard to be four and have so much expectation on you. To have to adapt to new routines, new people. To try and deal maturely with all these new experiences. No wonder she cracks when she in the safety of her own home, her own family, her own mental and physical environment. Knowing all the shit doesn't make it any easier on me. I'm still the one who has to keep the balls in the air, keep the machine which is our family unit well oiled and running. As always it's all about me, isn't it. HA!
Suffice to say I'm buggered right now. But things could always be worse; I could have to earn a living skulking around on stage dressed in insect screen mesh to a background of creepy music. So, you know, look on the bright side, etc.
Will started last Thursday and he is now in Year 5. High school is breathing down our collective necks and is a subject which can not be ignored for much longer. Shit.
Nothing much to report on the Will front. He is happy with his teacher, Miss C, who he had in Year 3. He knows her, she knows him, she understands him (I think). So all is well.
Miss Marianna Grumblebum started Kindergarten on Monday. So two days down and 13 years minus two days to go. She is fine at school but, as anticipated, there are meltdowns happening before and after.
This morning we had a doozy, involving her iPod, her breakfast and a door with a broken knob. Which was shortly followed by a tripping and knee grazing incident on the walk to school. Overall not the best morning of my life and probably not her's either.
It must be hard to be four and have so much expectation on you. To have to adapt to new routines, new people. To try and deal maturely with all these new experiences. No wonder she cracks when she in the safety of her own home, her own family, her own mental and physical environment. Knowing all the shit doesn't make it any easier on me. I'm still the one who has to keep the balls in the air, keep the machine which is our family unit well oiled and running. As always it's all about me, isn't it. HA!
Suffice to say I'm buggered right now. But things could always be worse; I could have to earn a living skulking around on stage dressed in insect screen mesh to a background of creepy music. So, you know, look on the bright side, etc.
That's entertainment
Sunday night I went to the Opera House to see Antony and The Johnsons. I went with my sister J and my long suffering hubby Big Jay. I have to say Big Jay was there by accident; he was feeling guilty for having let me go to so many concerts on my own and when I suggested this one he said "yes" because he thought there were no other takers. When he found out my sister was coming he was a little annoyed. He's more of an AC/DC sort of guy and if you put Antony and ACCADACCA on a spectrum they'd be about as far apart as Earth and Pluto (which will always be a planet as far as I am concerned).
It is worth casting our mind back to the last time we saw Antony at the State Theatre when the support "act" (and I use the term loosely was Coco Rosie). You can re-live this special experience here. Well this time around Antony out did himself. These people made Coco Rosie look like entertainers of the millenium.
How do I describe it? A geeky guy comes on stage and starts fiddling with his Mac laptop. Eerie, horror movie soundtrack-type music fills the concert hall. The lights dim and we all anticipate Antony's arrival. In vain. A shape becomes obvious to one side of the stage. A strange shape. As the light brightens somewhat the shape is exposed as a woman dressed in an old sheer lace curtain with an ugly metal pointy mask on her head. She stalks across the stage, slowly, very slowly. She is wearing odd, high heeled shoe things. She stalks as the music plays. There is anticipation that something interesting may happen. It doesn't. She arrives at the other side of the stage (so far the trip has taken about 15 minutes). She strips off the curtain to reveal a metallic bondagy type outfit. She takes off the mask. She stalks to the centre of the stage where she proceeds to move her arms and legs in a random manner. Another 15 minutes pass. She stalks off stage and relief floods the audience. In vain. Shortly she is back. She is now dressed in what appears to be an old insect screen. She stalks up and down the stage some more. She takes off insect screen. She postures in the middle of the stage. She leaves.
Fuck me! I giggled hysterically throughout. WHAT. THE. FUCK. WAS. THAT???!!! Seriously!
I know courses for horses, entertainment wise, but really. Do the Arts Councils give any old fuckwit a grant to develop their "art"? It was ridiculous, stupid, horrible and downright pathetic.
Attempting to wipe this comedy/horror show from my mind I settled in for the wonderful Antony. He was performing with a 41 piece orchestra and I was excited to see how this would work.
Well, I have to say it didn't work so well. Yes, Antony still has the magical, not of this world voice which blows my mind. But overall the show was strange and disjointed. For a start there was no sign of The Johnsons. While the orchestra played beautifully somehow it was too "pretty" and not edgy enough for me. It was missing "something" I couldn't put my finger on, if I compared it to his last solo show in 2006 or his appearance on back up vocals for Lou Reed in 2007; both of which were perfection.
He did the amazing I fell in love with a dead boy which is a song I simply love to death (pardon the pun). But he didn't do You are my sister or Fistful of love which are my two favourite songs. The songs off the new album all blend in together for me and don't really hit the spot. Not like I am a bird now which is an album I adore.
Anyway, to top off a weird and slightly annoying evening dear space cadet Antony went off on a meandering discussion about hating my husband's employer [evil evil evil ] Rupert Murdoch (or Rupey as I like to call him) and followed that up with some blather about climate change and how his hotel Quay Grand would soon be under water. [Well better sleep with a fucking life jacket on, just in case, you moron. - Believe me it pains me greatly to call Antony a moron, but I call it as I see it.]
It is worth casting our mind back to the last time we saw Antony at the State Theatre when the support "act" (and I use the term loosely was Coco Rosie). You can re-live this special experience here. Well this time around Antony out did himself. These people made Coco Rosie look like entertainers of the millenium.
How do I describe it? A geeky guy comes on stage and starts fiddling with his Mac laptop. Eerie, horror movie soundtrack-type music fills the concert hall. The lights dim and we all anticipate Antony's arrival. In vain. A shape becomes obvious to one side of the stage. A strange shape. As the light brightens somewhat the shape is exposed as a woman dressed in an old sheer lace curtain with an ugly metal pointy mask on her head. She stalks across the stage, slowly, very slowly. She is wearing odd, high heeled shoe things. She stalks as the music plays. There is anticipation that something interesting may happen. It doesn't. She arrives at the other side of the stage (so far the trip has taken about 15 minutes). She strips off the curtain to reveal a metallic bondagy type outfit. She takes off the mask. She stalks to the centre of the stage where she proceeds to move her arms and legs in a random manner. Another 15 minutes pass. She stalks off stage and relief floods the audience. In vain. Shortly she is back. She is now dressed in what appears to be an old insect screen. She stalks up and down the stage some more. She takes off insect screen. She postures in the middle of the stage. She leaves.
Fuck me! I giggled hysterically throughout. WHAT. THE. FUCK. WAS. THAT???!!! Seriously!
I know courses for horses, entertainment wise, but really. Do the Arts Councils give any old fuckwit a grant to develop their "art"? It was ridiculous, stupid, horrible and downright pathetic.
Attempting to wipe this comedy/horror show from my mind I settled in for the wonderful Antony. He was performing with a 41 piece orchestra and I was excited to see how this would work.
Well, I have to say it didn't work so well. Yes, Antony still has the magical, not of this world voice which blows my mind. But overall the show was strange and disjointed. For a start there was no sign of The Johnsons. While the orchestra played beautifully somehow it was too "pretty" and not edgy enough for me. It was missing "something" I couldn't put my finger on, if I compared it to his last solo show in 2006 or his appearance on back up vocals for Lou Reed in 2007; both of which were perfection.
He did the amazing I fell in love with a dead boy which is a song I simply love to death (pardon the pun). But he didn't do You are my sister or Fistful of love which are my two favourite songs. The songs off the new album all blend in together for me and don't really hit the spot. Not like I am a bird now which is an album I adore.
Anyway, to top off a weird and slightly annoying evening dear space cadet Antony went off on a meandering discussion about hating my husband's employer [evil evil evil ] Rupert Murdoch (or Rupey as I like to call him) and followed that up with some blather about climate change and how his hotel Quay Grand would soon be under water. [Well better sleep with a fucking life jacket on, just in case, you moron. - Believe me it pains me greatly to call Antony a moron, but I call it as I see it.]
Saturday, January 30, 2010
The Slap
I've just finished The Slap by Christos Tsiolkas. I know it's a bit 2009 to be talking about this book now. It really was the book of last year. I've been wanting to read it for some time but reading time is always a bit of a rarity for me.
Christos Tsiolkas wrote Loaded, which became the wonderful, in your face Australian film Head On. I loved the book and I loved the film even more. It started with a very memorable opening sequence featuring Alex Dimitriades' cock. Thank you very much! The book and film, featuring a great deal of homosexual sex, were certainly not everyone's cup of tea. Personally I don't mind a bit of homosexual sex.
Speaking of which I am about 2/3 of the way through Edmund White's autobiography My Lives. He is one of my three favourite Gay American Writers. The Not Funny One. I am not sure what exactly attracts me to his work. Looking back I think I accidentally ordered his first three books when I belonged to a book club about a gazillion years ago and he sort of got under my skin. I went to see him speak at the Sydney Writers' Festival a few years ago. Any old how, Edmund, like Christos (like many gay authors I suppose) has a liking for blow jobs. Nothing wrong with that, I'm quite partial to them myself. However, some people don't seem to like reading descriptions of sex acts, BJs, or any other type.
This is one of the criticisms of The Slap which I heard a few times when it was discussed on radio. For me it wasn't the descriptions of sex which were problematic, it was the amount of sex the characters were having. Possibly Christos inhabits a parallel universe where people such as this exist. If people in my universe are having that much sex then they sure as hell aren't telling me about it. [Speak up people, I want to know.]
Apart from the sex The Slap touches on many issues which are the cornerstones of middle class Australian society: the complex relationships within marriage, parenthood, non-parenthood, immigrant families, getting older, being old, moving from childhood into young adulthood, sexuality and identity. The epicentre of the drama is the moment in time when a man hits a child who is not his own at a bbq. This one action leads the narrative which touches the lives of some of the people present.
I enjoyed the style of the writing, I enjoyed the characters, I enjoyed the story and it's presentation. It certainly made me think. Even the parts which didn't sit well with me were valuable because I had to question why they irked me. It may not be a book to change the world but I think it's a very worthwhile book.
Possible spoilers... read on at your own risk...
The question of THE SLAP itself had me swinging. A man smacks a very naughty, undisciplined child who is possibly going to hurt his child at a bbq in front of a group of his family and friends. The family of the smacked child call in the police and press charges of assault, there is a court case. Who is in the right/wrong?
I am 90% on the side of the slap-er, as oppossed to the slap-ee. I don't think anyone should be smacking anyone else's child, generally speaking. But this child is presented in a way which makes me loathe him and his useless mum and dad. He is four and a half, almost at school, and he is still being breastfed. That's a red rag to a bull for me. That speaks of a mother with deep psychological problems, not a child who is in need of nutrition. The child is badly behaved and uncontrollable because the mother won't discipine him, treats him like a deity. He is a little shit.
Would I smack a child like that? Probably not. But I would want to. Really badly. And I would applaud anyone who did in the circumstance which is described in The Slap. Overall it seems like such a trivial issue but these days it is not. I am sure twenty years ago such things were commonplace. No-one would bat an eyelid should some other parent discipline their child. These days it is an issue requiring police action and court intervention.
I know every generation thinks the same thing, but it's a funny old time we live in.
Christos Tsiolkas wrote Loaded, which became the wonderful, in your face Australian film Head On. I loved the book and I loved the film even more. It started with a very memorable opening sequence featuring Alex Dimitriades' cock. Thank you very much! The book and film, featuring a great deal of homosexual sex, were certainly not everyone's cup of tea. Personally I don't mind a bit of homosexual sex.
Speaking of which I am about 2/3 of the way through Edmund White's autobiography My Lives. He is one of my three favourite Gay American Writers. The Not Funny One. I am not sure what exactly attracts me to his work. Looking back I think I accidentally ordered his first three books when I belonged to a book club about a gazillion years ago and he sort of got under my skin. I went to see him speak at the Sydney Writers' Festival a few years ago. Any old how, Edmund, like Christos (like many gay authors I suppose) has a liking for blow jobs. Nothing wrong with that, I'm quite partial to them myself. However, some people don't seem to like reading descriptions of sex acts, BJs, or any other type.
This is one of the criticisms of The Slap which I heard a few times when it was discussed on radio. For me it wasn't the descriptions of sex which were problematic, it was the amount of sex the characters were having. Possibly Christos inhabits a parallel universe where people such as this exist. If people in my universe are having that much sex then they sure as hell aren't telling me about it. [Speak up people, I want to know.]
Apart from the sex The Slap touches on many issues which are the cornerstones of middle class Australian society: the complex relationships within marriage, parenthood, non-parenthood, immigrant families, getting older, being old, moving from childhood into young adulthood, sexuality and identity. The epicentre of the drama is the moment in time when a man hits a child who is not his own at a bbq. This one action leads the narrative which touches the lives of some of the people present.
I enjoyed the style of the writing, I enjoyed the characters, I enjoyed the story and it's presentation. It certainly made me think. Even the parts which didn't sit well with me were valuable because I had to question why they irked me. It may not be a book to change the world but I think it's a very worthwhile book.
Possible spoilers... read on at your own risk...
The question of THE SLAP itself had me swinging. A man smacks a very naughty, undisciplined child who is possibly going to hurt his child at a bbq in front of a group of his family and friends. The family of the smacked child call in the police and press charges of assault, there is a court case. Who is in the right/wrong?
I am 90% on the side of the slap-er, as oppossed to the slap-ee. I don't think anyone should be smacking anyone else's child, generally speaking. But this child is presented in a way which makes me loathe him and his useless mum and dad. He is four and a half, almost at school, and he is still being breastfed. That's a red rag to a bull for me. That speaks of a mother with deep psychological problems, not a child who is in need of nutrition. The child is badly behaved and uncontrollable because the mother won't discipine him, treats him like a deity. He is a little shit.
Would I smack a child like that? Probably not. But I would want to. Really badly. And I would applaud anyone who did in the circumstance which is described in The Slap. Overall it seems like such a trivial issue but these days it is not. I am sure twenty years ago such things were commonplace. No-one would bat an eyelid should some other parent discipline their child. These days it is an issue requiring police action and court intervention.
I know every generation thinks the same thing, but it's a funny old time we live in.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
An Inconvenient Pile of Total and Utter Bollocks
Last night I went to hear Lord Christopher Monckton talk about the farce which is the man made climate change scenario being forced down our throats. You know the one. The one where our children are frightened of a horrible future by being made to watch The Horror Movie Which I Cannot Mention in schools. Where we are sold all sorts of overpriced, unnecessary crappola (e.g. solar panels) in the name of saving the planet. Where consultants are making a killing by providing advice on how to overcome the effects of climate change in your business, your home, your school (I'm fairly sure these were the same consultants who "saved" us from the terror which was the Y2K - and we all remember how badly that ended! Ha ha ha and fucking ha! Does the term "fleeced" mean anything to you?). Where we are all going to pay pay pay until we can't possibly pay any more for an Emissions Trading Scheme which will be about as useful and beneficial to the planet as a copy of The Female Eunuch to your average Saudi Arabian sheik.
It was sheer joy to hear someone in the public arena talk about what a hoax man made climate change is. When you are a climate change sceptic like me it's a little difficult not to feel like a bit of a social leper. It's not a subject you can easily bring up without being regarded as an idiot or some sort of right wing nut bag, at least that's the feeling I have. For the most part I don't think my close circle of friends really give a shit, they are all busy living their lives without give this stuff much deep thought.
I would be happy to just have a laugh about it and get on with my life but I just can't. It sticks in craw and I can't let it go. Because Al Gore's poisonous bucket of bile gets shown at my children's school on constant rotation during a school fete. Because the media squawks about it constantly. Because it is apparently giving our government (and many others) carte blanche to pass legislation which is utter madness without any sort of proper public debate on the subject.
I apologise for repeating myself ad nauseam but I can't rest knowing that we are being told a blatant pack of lies day in, day out. The bottom line is climate is changing, it always has and it always will. Greenland used to be GREEN. Ancient Greeks and Romans wore togas because it was HOT. The Australian land mass used to be joined to the Indonesian land mass, water rose, now they are not joined any more. I'm fairly sure this all happened before we started producing the carbon which is allegedly to blame for our all non-existant problems. We are actually at the end of an ice age and therefore temperatures are rising. We are putting the wrong facts together and coming up with illogical equations. 2 + 2 = 427. I'm no scientist (surprise!) but I know bullshit when I see it and we are all being buried under a giant pile of stinking cow manure.
Remember how the hole in the ozone layer was going to kill us all? We were all going to die of horrible skin cancers because the sun would be so strong it would burn us all to a crisp. Strangely enough that hole is never mentioned any more.
The other speaker last night was Professor Ian Plimer, author of Heaven and Earth. He is an Australian geologist who writes about the geological history of Earth and how we need to look at the past to understand what is happening now and what may happen in the future. He is saying that the computer models which produce the armagedon scenarios are wrong. Of course they are fucking wrong. The computer models can't even tell us what the weather is going to be tomorrow, how can they predict the next 20 or 100 or 1000 years. They can't. Full stop.
Then there are the people who say, well even if it isn't totally right we should err on the side of caution. No. What's happening now is not erring on the side of caution. It's like saying we may have a small chance of getting a cold next winter so we'll just take 5 kgs of antibiotics every day for the rest of our lives just in case. You can't be too careful you know. Never mind the damage those antibiotics will do to our bodies in the meantime. Never mind that the antibiotics are expensive and we can barely afford them. Never mind....
Oh, never mind. I'm over it. Enough ranting for tonight.
If you are vaguely interested in a different truth, not the inconvenient kind but the REAL kind, you may want to take a look at this website http://www.scienceandpublicpolicy.org/ and it's blog http://www.sppiblog.org/ .
Well, I'm off to drag my poor old aching head to bed.
It was sheer joy to hear someone in the public arena talk about what a hoax man made climate change is. When you are a climate change sceptic like me it's a little difficult not to feel like a bit of a social leper. It's not a subject you can easily bring up without being regarded as an idiot or some sort of right wing nut bag, at least that's the feeling I have. For the most part I don't think my close circle of friends really give a shit, they are all busy living their lives without give this stuff much deep thought.
I would be happy to just have a laugh about it and get on with my life but I just can't. It sticks in craw and I can't let it go. Because Al Gore's poisonous bucket of bile gets shown at my children's school on constant rotation during a school fete. Because the media squawks about it constantly. Because it is apparently giving our government (and many others) carte blanche to pass legislation which is utter madness without any sort of proper public debate on the subject.
I apologise for repeating myself ad nauseam but I can't rest knowing that we are being told a blatant pack of lies day in, day out. The bottom line is climate is changing, it always has and it always will. Greenland used to be GREEN. Ancient Greeks and Romans wore togas because it was HOT. The Australian land mass used to be joined to the Indonesian land mass, water rose, now they are not joined any more. I'm fairly sure this all happened before we started producing the carbon which is allegedly to blame for our all non-existant problems. We are actually at the end of an ice age and therefore temperatures are rising. We are putting the wrong facts together and coming up with illogical equations. 2 + 2 = 427. I'm no scientist (surprise!) but I know bullshit when I see it and we are all being buried under a giant pile of stinking cow manure.
Remember how the hole in the ozone layer was going to kill us all? We were all going to die of horrible skin cancers because the sun would be so strong it would burn us all to a crisp. Strangely enough that hole is never mentioned any more.
The other speaker last night was Professor Ian Plimer, author of Heaven and Earth. He is an Australian geologist who writes about the geological history of Earth and how we need to look at the past to understand what is happening now and what may happen in the future. He is saying that the computer models which produce the armagedon scenarios are wrong. Of course they are fucking wrong. The computer models can't even tell us what the weather is going to be tomorrow, how can they predict the next 20 or 100 or 1000 years. They can't. Full stop.
Then there are the people who say, well even if it isn't totally right we should err on the side of caution. No. What's happening now is not erring on the side of caution. It's like saying we may have a small chance of getting a cold next winter so we'll just take 5 kgs of antibiotics every day for the rest of our lives just in case. You can't be too careful you know. Never mind the damage those antibiotics will do to our bodies in the meantime. Never mind that the antibiotics are expensive and we can barely afford them. Never mind....
Oh, never mind. I'm over it. Enough ranting for tonight.
If you are vaguely interested in a different truth, not the inconvenient kind but the REAL kind, you may want to take a look at this website http://www.scienceandpublicpolicy.org/ and it's blog http://www.sppiblog.org/ .
Well, I'm off to drag my poor old aching head to bed.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
I want to suck your blood
I am loving loving loving Season 2 of True Blood. I iQ'd the series a while ago and I have two episodes left to watch. Last night I watched Episode 10 and it took all my self control to switch off and go to bed because every atom of being wanted to stay up late and watch the last two.
I sort of enjoyed Season 1 but found it too slow, with too much focus on the romance between Sookie and Bill. But I loved all the little fun details of what a world where humans and vampires living side by side would be like. [The newspaper with the headline "Angelina adopts vampire baby". Too funny!]
But Season 2 is just a fantastic roller coaster ride. I can't take my eyes away for a second, there is so much happening. Maryanne and her evil influence; the orgies and violence and her need to sacrifice poor shape-shifting Sam. How will it all end?
Then there was whole Light of Day Institute scenario with those damned vampire hating Christian nutters. Which introduced us to poor, doomed Godric, the cherubic, ancient vampire, on whom I developed an instant crush. So fucking wrong! Or so very right! Then I even start liking Eric, the bad bad vampire. What does it all mean?
What it means is that I wish I was a vampire. Is that bad? They are just so cool. It's not the idea of drinking blood that would be appealing to me. I would be happy to drink True Blood, like any good modern day vamp. But they are powerful and sexy (all the things I'm not, if you want to indulge in a little psychoanalysis, peeps) and I crave to be one. Now where do I sign up for the American Vampire League (or should I start the Australian chapter?)?
I sort of enjoyed Season 1 but found it too slow, with too much focus on the romance between Sookie and Bill. But I loved all the little fun details of what a world where humans and vampires living side by side would be like. [The newspaper with the headline "Angelina adopts vampire baby". Too funny!]
But Season 2 is just a fantastic roller coaster ride. I can't take my eyes away for a second, there is so much happening. Maryanne and her evil influence; the orgies and violence and her need to sacrifice poor shape-shifting Sam. How will it all end?
Then there was whole Light of Day Institute scenario with those damned vampire hating Christian nutters. Which introduced us to poor, doomed Godric, the cherubic, ancient vampire, on whom I developed an instant crush. So fucking wrong! Or so very right! Then I even start liking Eric, the bad bad vampire. What does it all mean?
What it means is that I wish I was a vampire. Is that bad? They are just so cool. It's not the idea of drinking blood that would be appealing to me. I would be happy to drink True Blood, like any good modern day vamp. But they are powerful and sexy (all the things I'm not, if you want to indulge in a little psychoanalysis, peeps) and I crave to be one. Now where do I sign up for the American Vampire League (or should I start the Australian chapter?)?
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