Wednesday, December 28, 2005
FROM: Tim Train
TO: Lachlan Train
Whats your opinion on einsteins theory of relativity?
FROM: Lachlan Train
TO: Tim Train
Its about as debatable as rock v scissors.
The poor fool. Little does he know that the 'rock vs scissors' argument has long been discredited in the fields of theoretical and quantum physics ...
You are now ready for action: spring towards the nearest cupboard, and make yourself a bowl of cereal!!! Don't worry if there is no milk. This is not the sort of day to be worrying about minor things like that. The cereal's probably gone off, anyway. Dump the cereal in the nearest bin or receptacle, and head for your room again to pack.
The theory about packing clothes is simple.
Make sure you pack: one pair of socks, one pair of pants and underpants, and one shirt. Keep on packing until it looks like you have enough, or alternatively, you run out of clean clothes - probably the latter.
Being simple, this theory is even more simple to forget. Be creative with your clothes - for instance, throw in odd numbers of socks instead of the usual pair. (And if your socks are anything like mine, they will be very odd, indeed.) Furthermore, be ready to challenge conventional terminology. Who decided to call them a 'pair' of trousers? Considering what's happened to the legs of your trousers, this seems rather unrealistic. Spare 'Singlets', on the other hand, can be separated into two or more separate items of clothing, thereby making them 'Doublets' or 'Triplets'.
And 'underpants' - every sane person knows that 'underpants', so called, can be put to many uses, including:
- Novelty head-wear!
- Excellent substitute handkerchiefs!
- A cunningly disguised t-shirt!
Especially after a few drinks.
After you have crammed all these clothes into your bag with desperate efficiency, discover that you have several hours left until your train leaves.
It is at this point that you descend into a dreamlike state and feel as if you are sitting down, objectively observing somebody as they move about the room, performing everyday tasks:
The Subject moved from the kitchen to the loungeroom. He sat down for several seconds. He then sprang up again. He repeated this motion several times over. He then began to walk from one end of the room to the other, swinging his hands in front of his body. He tilted his head forward and then nodded it several times before returning to the couch and sitting down. He sat down for several seconds ...
Don't worry, you're not going mad. All the adrenaline has simply gone to your head, and is causing you to have mild hallucinations.
By the time you return to yourself, you will realise that you are running late for what is possibly the last tram. Gather up your books and bags and items and rush from the house, not remembering to close all the windows and lock and double bolt the door and close the gate behind you. You will be surprised how quick you can run while carrying several large and heavy bags.
It is at this point that you realise that you have forgotten to pack something Very Small but Extremely Important, and it is imperative that you return to the house, open the gate, double unlock the double bolts on your door, and rush into your room to retrieve whatever item it is that you have left there before rushing from the house to discover that you have just missed the tram.
Sit around impatiently before catching the next tram. When you finally arrive at the train station, realise that the train has not even arrived yet, and that you are standing at the end of a rather long queue of very fat people, and that you will probably be the last to find your seat.
I could go on and dwell on the train journey: but I find that it is probably best to focus on the positive things in life, and not the negative. It is probably wise to repress all the memories of the squealing children and the fat old man who sits next to you and, every minute, makes compulsive noises out of the side of his mouth, that smell oddly like farting (is THAT why his wife never looks in his direction)?
What matters is that you are on your way, and that, at some point between twelve hours and eternity, you will finally arrive at your destination, if nothing goes wrong. Congratulations!
Saturday, December 24, 2005
Just saw the name of a shop:
No apostrophe. Arrrrrgh!
I think I'll spend the day boozing it up with my brother and his girlfriend. Also, might get my father an eel for Christmas. Just to be difficult.
Things to do in the next couple of days:
- Turn up unannounced on the door of my other brother in Sydney with a big cabbage for his Christmas present.
- Eat ridiculous amounts of Christmas food.
- Take a photograph of the downstairs part of my parents house, and send it to them as a postcard.
- Get the fuck out of here.
Merry Christmas eve. Merry Christmas, even! Later!
Thursday, December 22, 2005
On the first day of Christmas, my true love sent to me ...
A partridge in a pear tree.
On the second day of Christmas, my true love sent to me ...
Two turtle doves,
And a partridge in a pear tree.
On the third day of Christmas, my true love sent to me ...
Three french hens,
Two turtle doves,
And a partridge in a pear tree.
And you certainly don't want to know what happened on days four through twelve ...
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
Swearing: bringing misanthropes from all over the world together.
Lord knows there's a lot to complain about during Christmas, including:
Not getting presents
Not giving presents
Santa Claus taking the Jesus Christ out of Christmas
Jesus Christ taking the Santa Claus out of Christmas
Not seeing family
Cecil B. de Mille films
Jimmy Stewart films
Black and white films
"A Christmas Carol"
But then, come to think about it, there's also a lot to like, including:
All of the above
You don't like Christmas? The whole thing is basically a time when people get together, eat food, and get drunk. Sounds good to me. Also, mince pies are tasty. Don't like Christmas? Sucks to you. Merry Christmas, you bastards!
1) Organise a bike race!
2) Cheerfully discuss the objectification of the human form in western culture with any person that you come across!
3) Hold a barbecue and invite members of the Taliban along!
4) Look at all the naked women and picture them - IN CLOTHES! Phwoooar!!!
Sunday, December 18, 2005
Here's my report card (by me).
Name: Tim Train
Tim demonstrates exceptional ability in smartness, brightness, quick-wittedness, and possesses exceptionally high amounts of The Genius Factor (tm). He is an excellent student.
Tim is the nicest person you could possibly meet! He is brilliant in many fields of Niceness, including generosity, honesty, morality, and careingness.
Gosh, isn't he nice?
It is without hesitation that I give Tim top marks in the attractiveness ratings. Well done, Tim - give yourself a big pat on the back!
Tim is practically perfect in every way!
Rate yourself, in comments.
But there are always problems. Like, what are you going to buy them for Christmas? Here are some gift ideas...
Your significant-other-twisted-psychopathic-half spends a lot of time stalking his or her victims and obsessing over the modus operandi. What better gift could you get for than a diary? Plus, these days, diaries come in many attractive colours, with inspirational slogans to help them get through the day!
It's not that you mind finding unusual human body parts in your fridge, so much - it's just that there's so little room left over to put in Christmas pudding, and other treats.
So, for Christmas, you couldn't go wrong by buying the psychopath in your life an industrial-sized fridge!
As the old saying goes, 'The family that slays together, stays together.' So you could do far, far worse than buying a set of pre-sharpened meat cleavers, and joining your husband/wife in their naughty nightime antics. It could be just the thing for putting that zing back in your marriage!
There are times when even you grow worried by their obsessions. Maybe all the psychopath-in-the family needs, really, is another hobby. Why don't you get them a mushroom kit, and let them pour all their obsessive-compulsive habits into a complicated, yet rewarding, task, like growing mushrooms?
I mean, sure, they'll always be evil, but at least let them be evil in a productive way.
Friday, December 16, 2005
Rule 1: If the phone starts ringing, DO NOT PICK IT UP.
Why? Well, first of all, you're going to have to work out if the phone call is for you. If the phone call is not for you, then the phone ring will be loud. If the phone call is for you, then the phone call will be soft. Thus the office phone system defies one of the most basic rules of acoustics - things that are closer will be louder than things that are further away.
Rule 2: If the phone call is for you, DO NOT PICK IT UP.
Why? Well, you're going to have to work out what sort of a phone call it is, first. If it's a phone call from outside, the light will be flashing green (or red). If the phone call is internal, then the light will be flashing red (or green). In time, you will be able to remember these rules for yourself: but not now.
Rule 3: Learn to properly answer the phone when it rings.
The proper way to answer the phone when it rings is to shout at it. Eventually, the phone will get the message and stop ringing.*
Rule 4: Wait until the call is re-routed through to the secretaries desk and the message comes through: 'T, phone call on line 1437565. T, phone call on line 1437565'.
After all, it's only the REALLY important phone callers that will bother going this far. It's about now that you'd better think of picking up the phone.
Rule 5: Panic.
Fear is an excellent stimulus.
Rule 6: Pick up the phone.
Although at this stage, you might be tempted to throw the phone at the wall, workplace aggression never solved anything. Calmly, quietly pick up the receiver. Now all you have to do is get on line one.
This is done by pressing the 'Call PU' then '1437565'. Or by pressing 'Park Rtrv' then '1437565'. One of the two, I'm not sure which.
Rule 7: Respond to the caller in a calm, intelligent, and professional matter.
Suggested ways to begin your phone call:
- 'Good afternoon, welcome to '...', this is T. speaking. I'm afraid I can't take your call at the moment, as my brain is currently out to lunch. If you care to call back later after I have gone home, it would be greatly appreciated.'
- 'Sorry, she's not here at the moment. Who? I don't know. You were the person calling for her.'
- 'Je suis desolet, mi no spreche di Espanol.'
This will make all the difference.
Rule 8: Make yourself a cup of coffee.
You'll need it. The boss will want to see you in his office, first thing in the morning ...
*There are people who say that phones are unintelligent and cannot understand you. These people are fools.
Matters were not helped when it was explained to me that I could easily recognise The Local, since it's name had been changed to Molly Blooms.
Possibly everything will be made clearer after a few drinks. I'll get back to you.
UPDATE! I just learned that local pub Molly Blooms is not our local The Local, although it is a local. Apparently some other unnamed local pub is The Local. What's more, according to Rachel in comments, Molly Blooms was almost always Molly Blooms, and was probably never The Local. It's a pity I haven't been drinking. Then things would make sense.
UPDATE ON THE UPDATE! It's a good thing The Local is not an unnammed unlocal The Local, or then things would get really confusing.
I just hope in my current state of undrunkenness, I'll be able to find the place.
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
It's not an 'i', it's not a 'y', and it's not a 'g', though sometimes it tries to be all three. It is geometrically improbable. It is a long stick balancing on a curvy base - hardly realistic. And then you've got that ball at the top. What the hell? Who gave that ball permission to defy gravity and sit up there? It's like it's saying, 'hey there, suckers, look at me, I'm soooo better than the rest of you.'
I think those people who are in charge of splitting the infinitive and determining the true weight of the epigram should redesign the letter 'j', so that it looks like this:
Yeah. Yeah, that's how things should be.
Monday, December 12, 2005
It makes you wonder - do Mormons have different types of Special Underwear, for different people? Is there a silken range of wonderwear for naughty nighttime Mormon antics? Do they have Special Lingerie and Special Boxers? I guess that they do, otherwise it wouldn't be special Special Underwear, it would be just plain boring.
Then again, if this so-called Special Underwear was so wonderfully special, maybe self-respecting Mormons wouldn't bother wearing anything else. Then it wouldn't really be underwear, would it, because it wouldn't be under anything. It would be Special-Once-Was-Underwear. Or Special-Latent-Underwear.
And it wouldn't matter too much what variety of Special Underwear it was, either. You could see flabby old Mormon grandfathers going about in sexy (and Special) Black Bits of Lace. Or Mormon grandmothers wandering about in Special Boxers, and nothing else.
But we see NONE OF THESE THINGS on our streets, do we? I think this proves that Mormonism, like any other religion with Special Underwear related regulations, is a pack of lies.
Maybe I'll become a nudist.
Saturday, December 10, 2005
"Did he keep the tick?" I said to Mum on the phone.
"No," said Mum. "They put it into a jar and had to send it off to Sydney for testing. Apparently, they can kill dogs, so they put him on some medication for a week."
Well, that's more or less how Mum told the story. Dad tells it a little differently. Every week or so he writes two or three-page, boring letters with sentences like this:
Had a quick lone lunch. Helen showed up an hour or so later. Had to rush in to the Terrace again by bike. Forgot to buy the newspaper. Really vital getting the news paper on Monday. Only way to get a decent T.V. Times. Slow for the rest of the day. Saw some suspicious looking men over opposite this P.M. Obviously measuring up the land where all those nice trees are.
God, the old fart must have a boring life. When me or one of my brothers is down there visiting him, he'll even write about us and send off the letters to us later in the week. When he's not concerned with killer cattle ticks, that is. Speaking of which, here's how he tells the tick story:
I had been worried about a growing lump on the rear of my neck. Doc immediately identified it. A cattle tick. Everyone surprised it had not much effected me. A minor operation soon removed it. I am on medication for seven days. As a side effect to that I cannot go out in the sun. I will be super sensitive to sunlight.
This is where some people might have left it, but not Dad. A couple of paragraphs later he says:
Found some contradictions in the tick information. The entomological advise is that ticks climb up vegetation and wait to catch a host brushing past. Never more that half a meter. However, the medical information states that the vast majority of tick infections in people are on the head and shoulders. That is well above half a meter.
And that's not all:
Found a medicos paper about a case. They took forty one ticks of this guy. Also ticks have killed more people than the funnel web spider. Roughly twice as many.
Makes you feel reassured, doesn't it? I'll be seeing him this Christmas - that is, if the killer ticks or funnel web spiders don't get him first.
I was perusing the latest issue of your magazine when this particular arrangement of letters and punctuation met my eyes:
In his brilliant review of Edwin Williamson's biography of Jorge Luis Borges, David Foster Wallace noted: "It often seems that the person we encounter in the literary biography could not have possibly written the works we admire."
Straight away, the letters came together to form words and the words came together to form a sentence. The sentence leaped into my eyes, and before I was able to do anything about it, I understood what had just happened: the writer had made a tangential reference to one author's review of a second author's biography of a third author, in order to make a general point about two other, completely unrelated, authors. It was one of the most hideously pointless sentences it had ever been my misfortune to read, and now it sat in my brain!
If there is anything you could do to wipe the memory of this sentence from my neural pathways, I would be most grateful. I am willing to sustain a substantial amount of memory loss, or even amnesia or Alzheimers. I'm sure you understand.
Thanking you in advance,
Well, it amuses me. Several months on, I'm living in a place near Sydney Road, which is probably as close as I'm going to get. Anyway, it makes more grammatical sense to say, "I live near Sydney Road" than "I live in Sydney Road". Who the hell lives 'in' a 'road'? So I guess things have ended up pretty well.
Sydney Road runs through Brunswick and Coburg; odd suburbs both of them. Brunswick is an industrial suburb that has in the past twenty years or so been infested by mobsters, artists, and yuppies (if they'd just stopped with the mobsters, it would have been alright.) Coburg was once home to the pleasant Pentridge Prison - apparently dubbed the 'College of Knowledge', but since has become a little gentler. Now it only turns up a couple of potential terrorists. I guess it's all part of the diverse tapestry of multicultural Australia ...
Anyway, enough talk. Here's a couple of snaps of the area that should give you a better idea what I'm talking about ...
Wildlife driving down Sydney Road.
"Dear Mum and Dad,
Wow! I've finally found it! You never need to go hungry again! It's the ultimate nut factory!
So, what will it be? Ten boxes of cashews, or twenty?
PS - Hope I'm not driving you 'nutty' with all this!"
Third poster along: they sell some interesting snacks at this store ...
Now's the time to start buying real estate. Note the decorative use of barbed wire ... *
*Note: this last photo is from the net; mine didn't come out well. Incidentally, Pentridge Prison is just across the road from the Moreland Council Chambers. What does that say about the place of local politicians in the social ladder, eh ...?
Sunday, December 04, 2005
To be always playing not-quite pieces; to be lumped with bass parts in brass ensembles; to be forever playing the neglected but necessary notes to make up the harmonious whole of a composition. To be a tuba, one would imagine, would be a little like being the word 'the' in a famous and beautiful poem by a much-loved poet. Oh, people go on about the symbols, and the metaphors, and the rhymes, and the imagery - but they never stop to think about a humble preposition such as 'the': nooooo!
Lovers listen to the plaintive tones of violins; soldiers awake to the bracing call of the bugle; funerals are greeted with the solemn tones of the pipe-organ. But what about the tuba?
Won't somebody please think of the tuba?
The Ergonomic Keyboard
Although this fucker is meant to suit the natural curvature of your hand, it does nothing of the sort. It forces your fingers to stretch kilometres to reach letters that would otherwise have been easy to find. The ergonomic keyboard is actually a cunning scheme by the government to give us all carpal-tunnel syndrome. That way, we won't be able to do naughty things like watching television or writing blogs or wanking. BASTARDS!
Sure, it looks relatively simple from the front. But at the back, it's another story - it's a mess of cords and plugs that are tangled and (as if they possessed a life of their own) will become detached for no reason, causing your computer not to work. Then you have to turn your computer around, and untangle this mess of cords - a process that takes hours, and is a little like making love to a jellyfish - confusing, unpleasant, and quite possibly dangerous.
The Adjustable Chair
This chair is meant to make it more comfortable for you to sit down during the day, by allowing you to adjust the height and tilt of the back. As a matter of fact, the chair will imperceptibly sink during the day, so that by the end of the day, your face is barely showing above the surface of the desk. Alternatively, it will suddenly drop ten feet, causing you to be sitting in mid-air for a second before thumping your bum on the bottom.
The back appears to be comfortable but is actually held up by a rigid steel spine which ensures spinal injury. Moving it forward is certainly not comfortable (it causes you to lean forward like a hunchback), while tilting it back is even less so. Also, it can sometimes, without warning, slap forward again, thwacking you in the back and forcing you into the hunchback position.
If the boss really wanted you to be comfortable, he'd simply order in a couch, and you'd do all your work off a laptop - unfortunately, these encourage pleasantly unproductive sensations, such as sloth and tiredness. ie, the boss doesn't care about your comfort at all. ARSEHOLE!
They look all fancy and schmick and technical, don't they? Actually, these bastards are the means by which the corporate world weeds out the halt and the lame from the quick and the nimble amongst their office staff. If you aren't quick enough, you are not able to duck out the doors before they close up, and are therefore forced to continue around and around in the doors, like a gerbil in a wheel, until you are found late at night and disposed of in the dumpster. But I don't care, because I'm young and fleet-of-foot. It's survival of the fittest, losers!
It's the funniest thing in the world to watch a woman in stilettos try to struggle up a flight of stairs, but after a few floors, it just gets boring. Just put in a lift, you bums.
If there's one thing you soon learn about office stationery, it's that it ain't stationary. Pens which are on your desk one day will mysterious disappear the next. There are several theories about this - one is that the pens disappear into another dimension, along with such things as lost socks and items of underwear. The other is, that there is some mysterious lurker on the second floor of your building who possesses a strange fetish for pens and other such objects, and that all the missing pens lie on his desk somewhere (in 'penury')*. Since this leads to gross inefficiencies in big business, whoever solves the mystery of the pens will undoubtedly become a very rich and powerful person.
*Possibly the account assistant, who has already admitted to collecting coloured paperclips in your presence. As a side note, you should remember that if she ever sends you a document held together with a brown paperclip, then you are in BIIIIIIIG TROUBLE.
Saturday, December 03, 2005
Lobelia, the daughter of Ramsay Pintsquip (a man in charge of indexing school biology textbooks) and Geraldine Fautherington-Raffles (social butterfly) is a watercolour artist of some note. Her specialty is detailed artistic depictions of the ebola virus. She has painted every stage of this deadly disease, and done a number of award-winning portraits of the disease for international figures of note. Yes, if ever you want a picture of the ebola virus from a number-one artist, then Lobelia is your man - or woman, as the case may be (and don't you dare call her anything else, for Lobelia is also a Liberation feminist, who trained in kung-fu in the Himalayan mountains with Camille Paglia).
She has also worked as a ballet dancer, rose pruner, and King's Assassin.
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
2) Do not eat your relatives, unless you have a knife and fork handy.
3)Do not stare. If your eyelids have been stapled open, then it may be necessary for you to gouge your eyes out.
4) Use a gentle, moderate tone of voice when swearing. When saying "Please" and "thankyou", shout. It shows everyone how polite you are.
5) Remember to swear correctly: "For fucks' sake", not "For fuck's sake" or "For fucks sake".
6) Ladies first: especially during sex.
7) If you see a little old lady standing by the road, help her across: the chances are that she will be a wealthy heiress, and she will give you all her money.
If she does not give you all her money, take her right back.
8) It is wrong to have children. They shout, run around, and say impolite* things. If you happen to have any children lying around, rectify this situation by locking them in the basement closet.
9) Always carry a handkerchief, in case it should be necessary for you to dispose of human remains during the day.
10) Shake the hand of everybody that you are introduced to. If they do not have hands, then some other form of bodily contact, such as kissing or sex is considered appropriate.
UPDATE! - Actually, now that I come to think about it, I'm not sure whether "For fucks' sake" is the correct spelling. Is the 'fuck' being referred to singular? Or is it actually a plurality of 'fucks' that is being referred to (in which case, the rule stated above would be correct)? In short, does the term mean 'For the sake of a fuck', or 'For the sake of all fucks?'
Then again, maybe when the term 'fuck' is being used in its swearing context, then it is not acting as a verb at all. So perhaps we don't need the apostrophe?
What do you think, readers?
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
It means something like hot water swim bath. But that's nothing compared to this big-ass German compound noun:
Apparently it means something like, "the club for subordinate officials of the head office management of the Danube steamboat electrical services."
Not that I'm a genius in the German-language or anything - I don't accidentally write posts in German while drunk, for instance - but I reckon those Germans have got it right. It's about time English got some more compound nouns of its own ...
Glass = Drinkthing
Knife = Cutthing
Once we get the basics of compound nouns, we can start working putting concepts together:
Fork = Eatthingthatgoeswithcutthing
Spoon = Othereatthingthatgoeswithcutthing
Sound beautiful, don't they? There are no end of everyday items that these nouns can be applied to. Transport items, for instance:
Car = Itemthatgoesvroom
Road = Longflatstonyobjectthatitemthatgoesvroomgoesvroomon
Or things of nature:
Tree = Woodthingwithleafystuff
Bird = Thingthatlivesinwoodthingwithleafystuff
Hat = Roundclothingitemforupperbodypart
Market = Largeplaceforexchangingmoneywithgoodsand/orservices
And the body:
Head = Upperbodypart
Hand = Bodypartattheendofanotherbodypart
Once you get all this worked out, you can turn quite short, dull things like poems into impressively long and incomprehensible works of art. Thus:
I put my hat upon my head
And went into the Strand
And there I met another man
Whose hat was in his hand.
This becomes this:
I put my roundclothingitemforupperbodypart upon myupperbodypart
And went into the largeplaceforexchangingmoneywithgoodsand/orservices
And there I met another collectionofseveralbodyparts
Whose roundclothingitemforupperbodypart was in his bodypartattheendofanotherbodypart
Or this brief quatrain:
One day I saw a bird
Sitting in a tree
And that little tiny bird
Was looking back at me.
Becomes this epic of personal experience:
One day I saw a thingthatlivesinleafystuff
Up in a woodthingwithleafystuff
And that little tiny thingthatlivesinleafystuff
Was looking back at me.*
*(I'm still working on a compound noun for this one. It's a toughie.)
UPDATE - What's that - this post was boring? Oh, go and look up swear words in the dictionary then. Some people are never amused!
Sunday, November 27, 2005
- who has developed his brain so much that he is able to shift physical objects with his cerebral muscles. He makes his brain do sit-ups in the morning and push-ups at night. The third-cleverest man in the world, he holds regular hypothetical tea-parties with theoretical guests at his large lodge in the hills of Vienna (They are universally admired, even if no one actually turns up).
He likes listening to Webern, Arvo Part, and Megadeath.
- The fifth line of the twenty-third post on this blog - a meme from Nails.
PS - If any of you folks want to do this meme, go right ahead: find the twenty-third post on your blog, find the fifth line in that twenty-third post - and post it!
Saturday, November 26, 2005
Then I went and put The Ramones on the CD player and logged on to Hold The Button and clicked on my mouse. And, for some reason, that did not make me feel any better. At all.
Friday, November 25, 2005
In case you were wondering what I look like, here's a self-portrait by me!
Aren't I attractive?
You know, I've had a long and fascinating career as a media-commentator, caricaturist, satirist, and above all, as an ARTIST for many of our major Australian newspapers. In fact, all two of them. And I'd like to tell you about it now!
In the beginning, I experimented with a number of artistic methods, including cubism and other such non-Bill Leak styles.
Here's one of my earliest cartoons. It's slightly reminiscent of Pollock, slightly preminiscent of Emin, and I like to think it has a little Breughel in there, too:
Touching, isn't it?
I quickly developed my own unique and original style, and it was during the Whitlam years that I REALLY started making the big bucks. Here's a cartoon I did then:
Side-splitting, isn't it? But nowadays I don't like to be so realistic in style.
Right at the moment, for instance, I'm going through what can only be described as my 'squiggly phase'. I like to think it combines minimalist complexity with a maximalist simplicity.
Ah. I'm reall proud of my work, and I only hope you'll like it, too. Actually, I don't give a stuff if you like it, so long as you publish it and give me big steaming wads of cash. After all, I am a genius.
- BILL LEAK
Thursday, November 24, 2005
Then after your food is coated in sauce STOP squeezing before you turn the bottle upright. It is as easy as pie. (Apparently pie is easy.)
Pie is certainly not easy, but it is delicious, if it is done correctly. The best pie is, of course, meat pie. (If any vegans are reading this post, I feel your pain; I really do - now can you please bugger off and read some other post?). But something so simple as meat pie can be so difficult to do correctly.
Firstly, where should you get your meat pie from? Supermarket pie is to be avoided: even the best supermarket pies come with their delicious meaty gravy frozen, which takes something out of their freshness. Furthemore, getting the pies in proper edible condition is a lengthy, difficult, and sometimes costly process, and many catastrophes must be avoided.
7/11 pies are cheap, but often poorly made. The crust is moist and doughy (on the matter of the proper crust, read on); and the mince has the same consistency and taste of sludge. Furthermore, they are often either too hot, or too cold.
Gourmet pies have something to say for them, but it can be hard to find a good one. Some are exceedingly expensive (pies are a good meal for a working person, so if you need more than two gold coins to pay for them, they're probably not worth it.) Worse, many 'gourmet' pie cooks defer to the disgusting tastes of their upper-class clientelle. Pies should never have more than three vegetables in them, and any pie containing cheese should be avoided.
On the whole, the best pies are bakery pies. But even here, it's best to be careful: some bakeries reheat their pies in the microwave, leading to sogginess, and pies that are often too hot or cold (and often both at once). Others, although they heat their pies in the proper manner, neverthless purchase them from a pie manufacturer, instead of lovingly crafting the pies themselves.
Finding the 'right' sort of pie bakery is in fact an art in itself, and can take a lifetime of training.
The next matter is the crust. What sort of crust should a pie have? Some say a pie crust should be flaky; some say that it should be fleshy and moist. I incline to the flaky school myself, although a pie should not be 'overflaky'. The result is messy and often very itchy. Furthermore, some pie cooks, in their zeal to achieve a perfect 'flakiness', can burn the pie. This should be avoided.
Readers should, of course, experiment until they find the perfect amount of 'flakiness' for themselves; but they should remember that flakiness should enhance the flavour of the crust, not detract from it.
Temperature is another important matter. How hot is the perfect pie? Again, it is very much a matter of finding the right medium. A pie should not be cool, tepid, lukewarm, or warm; rather, the correct pie temperature lies somewhere in between fairly hot and piping hot. If the pie is merely 'fairly hot', then it tends to become lukewarm by the time it is eaten. However, if the pie is 'piping hot', then it cannot be held in the hand and eaten. This, of course, is the only way to eat a pie: those people who eat pies with knives and forks are cretins, and should be shot.
It should also be added that a 'piping hot' pie, once the eater has balanced it in his hand, has a tendency to gush hot gravy all over the eaters hand: painful, and unecessary.
(The matter of gush will, perhaps, be taken up in a later post.)
Now; what are the correct ingredients of the perfect pie? In fact, there may be no correct answer to this question. I hold to the rule that, so long as there is 75% to 100% meat in the pie, then the actual ingredients do not matter so much. If a pie has less than the requisite amount of meat, then I contend that what you have is not a pie, but a misshapen pastie.
Here is a brief list of possible pie ingredients:
- Chicken and mushroom
- Beef and mushroom
- Chicken and carrot
- Beef and Bourgundy
(Sweet 'Fruit pies' also have something to say for them. They may be eaten cold, and indeed make an excellent snack between two of the most important meals of the day, breakfast and brunch. But that is another subject entirely.)*
Pies with cheese should never be eaten. It is an insult to cheese, and an insult to meat.
What sauce should you put on the top of your pie? Certainly not barbeque sauce; as Tony quite rightly points out, it is a 'ghastly affair' and whoever invented it 'needs working on'.
Tomato sauce, of course, is the correct condiment; but what type of tomato sauce? Again, this is not a subject on which I am certain, and maybe I should open up the comments box for a poll:
WHAT IS THE BEST TYPE OF SAUCE TO PUT ON A PIE
a) Homemade Tomato sauce
b) Homebrand Tomato sauce
c) Rosella Tomato sauce
d) Some other variety of tomato sauce? (Industrial American-style ketchup, perhaps?)
Pies are a wonderful meal, and should be eaten often and frequently. If you are in any of the following areas, I can recommend these pie shops:
New Lambton Pies, New Lambton Road, New Lambton, NSW
Harry's Cafe de Wheels, Hunter Street, Newcastle, NSW
The Bakery, Bay Street, Port Melbourne, Victoria.
Various pie shops in Coburg and Brunswick, Victoria.
Anyone else got a favourite pie shops?
* As an interesting anthropological footnote, I should add that my friend David has apparently discovered an amazing store which sells canned pies. I can't, of course, endorse such a radical departure from the pie-norm, but one shouldn't deny it before one tries it.
GOD REVIEWS THE AUSTRALIAN IDOL FINALS
1) And it came to pass, in the days following Dicko's reign, that a man known as Sandilands did walk the earth, crying, "Yea, verily! Thou art fat!" and, "Wanna make somethin' of it, Holden, you bitch?"
2) And the people were sore oppressed.
3) And in that time did many people walk the earth, singing, "I am the true Idol!" And verily, many did not know what to think; and they did scratch their heads and say, 'Who to choose?'
4) "For Emily," said the Teenage Girls, "hath natural talent, and verily, she is black: and she hath been sore oppressed. Yea, she is the true Idol, or I be a monkey's uncle."*
5) And then the Gays of all the land did lift up their voices and cry, "No! We picketh Katie DeAraugo to be our True Idol! For she hath flair and a natty sense of rhythm for a white girl from Bendigo. Plus, she's cute!"
6) And so the people came together, and the Teenage Girls did txt, "OMG! EMLY 4VA!!!!!" And the Gays, seeing this, did txt in, "EMLY SUX!!!! KA-T RLZ!!!! TRST US, WE R GAY!!!"
Then darkness fell upon the land, and Andrew G. wept.
7) Then upon a Monday did that other guy, (not Andrew G.) come forth, and proclaim, "The 3rd Australian Idol is Katie DeRaugo!"
And verily, she did open her mouth then, and sing to them, "Listen to your heart," or "Angels bought me here", or some such tune. I knoweth not: for I kind of tuned out at that point. And people looked upon her, and saw that it was so.
8) And then she ascended and became part of the Holy Trinity, alongside Sebastian and Donovan. And the people did rejoice to know that the true Idol was among them, for a year at least (notwithstanding the vagaries of the Music Charts.)
9) Upon hearing of this news, the Teenage Girls did weep, and the Gays did point and laugh, crying, "Ha! Suck shit, bitch!" But the Teenage Girls waited until their parents were out of the room, and took out a picture of Guy Sebastian, and their Cleo Dildo: and they rejoiced.
10) And as for me, I looked upon the earth, and I was sore depressed. So then I went and tormented a family of Mormons with thunderbolts. And that made me feel a little better: but not much.
HERE ENDETH THE GOSPEL ACCORDING TO TIM
*This gospel endorseth not the theory of evolution.
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
10 Years Ago:
I was "studying"* "hard"** in my final year at school. I got quite a high score in my final exams. I attribute this result to all my "hard work."***
*"Studying" = Not really.
**"Hard" = Not much.
***"Hard work" = The examiners always marked my school up for some arcane statistical reason.
Five Years Ago:
I was "studying hard"* as a postgraduate at Sydney University. At the time, I was studying for a one-year postgraduate course, but due to my sheer brilliance, I managed to cut it down to a measly two years.
*"studying hard" = Yeah, right.
One Year Ago:
Stuck in a dead-end part-time job in Newcastle. My work consisted of me writing reports about other people who faked injury in order not to work. Earning enough money to spend and eating enough food to survive. "Volunteering"* for a young-persons group even though I wasn't quite-young-enough at that time (and probably never will be again).
Two months later, I was offered the opportunity to dig holes for a living. Hell, yeah!
*"Volunteering" = "Working Hard" with other "hard" "workers"
Five Yummy Things.
Omelette a-la Tim! (Like normal omelette, only cooked by me. It's tasty, if you're me.)
Five Songs I "Know"* By Heart
The Drinking Song. (Here's to so and so, he's true blue ...)
"I Hold Your Hand In Mine", Tom Lehrer (see comments).
"Peaches En Regalia", by Frank Zappa.**
"Cool", West Side Story.***
*"Know" = You can substitute 'Na na na na na' for some of the actual words, can't you?
** The fact that this song has no words or singers doesn't matter, does it?
*** I mean, given time, and the occasional bit of help by electric cattle prod, I'm sure I could learn all the words.
Five Things I Would Do With A LOT Of Money
By myself a supersupersized symphony orchestra.
Get the biggest library in the world.
By my family a condominium in the Himalayas.
Get a shrunken head.
Go on a trip to the moon.
Oh, yeah, and do something for world peace, and all that.
Five Things I Would Never Wear.
A Mycenean funeral mask. These days, Sumerian funeral masks are more the thing.
A viking helmet. Because you never know when you are going to run into a cranky Pictish warlord.
The Santa Claus suit. Because you never know, I might get mistaken for this guy.
A birthday cake. That's just stupid: cakes are for eating, not wearing.
A tutu. What, do you think I'm crazy? Tutus are soooo 2004.
Five Favourite TV shows
Dr Who (old, not new. I mean, levitating Daleks? That's balderdash, man!)
Five Things I Enjoy Doing
Drinking (usually beer-related substances; but also caffeine-related ones, as well).
Five People I Want To Inflict This On
In meantime, anyone want to have a drink? Rachel and me and a couple of other bloggers and assorted other human-like creatures will be meeting up at the Clyde, on Elgin St in Carlton, this Saturday afternoon, from about 7.00 pm onwards. Leave a comment if you'd like to come, or mail me ...
Friday, November 18, 2005
Maybe the writers always intended them to be there. Maybe they have a profound and deep and intimate significance; maybe it is impossible to understand the book without these blank pages.
Or then again, maybe the blank pages suggest that there is more of the book yet to be written. Maybe after the writer wrote THE END and sent the novel off to the publisher, they just decided to go on and keep on writing. It's a disturbing thought - is the writer really finished with what they're saying? Perhaps different editions of the same novel exist, where all or some of the blank pages are filled out; where the writer found what they wanted to say, and wrote it out, after all.
Or then again, it could be that the blank pages are simply there for you to fill out. Next time you pick up your copy of the classics, why not write your own version in the blank space at the bank?
The Little Old Curiosity Shop
Little Nells Uncle is a bad man. Little Nell dies. The End.
A young bloke can't decide what he wants to do for ten thousand lines, then kills everyone. The End.
The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe
There's this lion, see, only he's really Jesus, and there's these four children, and they have ever so much fun! The End.
Then again, it would be so much more sensible to write things like shopping lists or recipes in these blank pages. Hey, it's what the authors would have wanted.
I'm not even sure what that phrase means, but I think it probably applies to you. Every time I go down into the kitchen to get myself some coffee or tea, I look in the fridge for an ordinary sized carton of milk.
Instead, what do I find? Skinny milk, diet milk, soy milk, skim milk, light milk - everything but regular, lard-based milk.
I can understand that, from time to time, you want to cut back on your cholesterol intake. But always? From my observation of the contents of the work fridge, you are drinking much too much of this diet milk.
Here's a tip: if you want to cut back on your weight, then it's not a good idea to ingest anything in huge quantities. And certainly not the same thing, day after day.
This obsession has gone too far. I demand that my desire to guzzle ordinary, cow-produced lard once or twice a day be attended to! Rectify the lack of lactose in the fridge now!
PS Of course, if any of my fellow workmates are reading this, that doesn't go for you guys. I love you.
Thursday, November 17, 2005
There is nothing new here. Certainly no ideas.
Nope, none of that in here.
I have no idea who the hell Marie was, and I don't think Claire has anything to do with it.
No, it's a magazine.
Anyone got any of their own? I've never read it myself, so I don't know if Harper's is really Bazaar at all.
Monday, November 14, 2005
Sunday, November 13, 2005
1) Set your mobile phones alarm for one minute
2) When the alarm goes off, pick up the phone
3) Bark into the phone: "Yes? What? Excellent. Kill the fuckers! KILL THEM ALL, I SAY! Only in such a consecration of blood can my father have his revenge! BWAHAHAHAHAHA!"
- Use obscene bedroom speak, making everyone on the tram think you are speaking to an intimate lover;
- Talk in another language entirely. For instance, starting reciting Master Basho's haiku randomly into the phone.
This excellent method for amusing yourself will also work if you arrange for a friend to call you up.
Amused resignation to general cantankerousness
Much more productive than full-blown rage.
Bemused contemplation of future lust
That feeling of bored melancholy you get on Saturday afternoon, just after doing the shopping but before seeing your friends
One of the most common emotions. Not to be mixed up with ...
That feeling of paralysis you get when you see a snail charge at you with an axe
Slight amusement felt upon hearing the name of a person who you once wanted to lick
Nail polish blues
The feeling you get on a Sunday morning after a long Saturday night drinking red wine.
* Yeah, that's right. I'm blogging about feelings. Wanna make something of it, punk?
Saturday, November 12, 2005
Is the clown on the left:
a) A sober guy successfully imitating drunkenness?
b) A drunk guy unsuccessfully imitating sobriety?
c) A sober guy successfully imitating a drunk guy unsuccessfully imitating a sober guy?
d) A drunk guy unsuccessfully imitating drunkeness?
Or something else? I wish I knew the answer. Somebody TELL me!
(Photos courtesy of Rachel, who recently posted about an evening of poetry and drunkeness on Swanston and Collins Streets ...)
That's T. S. Eliot. If his poems are anything to go by, he knew a lot about boredom.
In the room, the women come and go
Speaking of Michelangelo
I think we live in a rats alley
Where dead men lost their bones.
He certainly has an optimistic outlook.
He's also a pasisonate poet. His poems are full of extreme emotions, ranging from deep depression to exuberant melancholy. I wouldn't be surprise if he gloomed his first wife, Vivienne Haigh-Wood into bipolar disorder. The history books are out on that one, but you never know.
In his most famous works, he manages to combine this all-pervading gloom with his characteristic boredom. Mix the lines up a bit so that their meaning gets confused, and the results are devastating:
What is that noise?"
The wind under the door.
"What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?"
Nothing again nothing.
"You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember
Those are pearls that were his eyes.
God, I wonder if he was like this in person. No wonder his wives left him. That's from his poem The Wasteland - virtually compulsory reading for any second year student at Uni studying English lit. Once I even considered writing a translation of The Wasteland into the English language, so we could see what he really meant:
April is the cruelest month.
Viv got angry at me again today.
I don't know what's got into that bitch lately, maybe she doesn't like me smoking?
I don't know. You fucking bastards will be laughing on the other side of your face, one of these days.
Yeah. I'm going to be a REALLY GREAT poet. You'll see. Fuck you.
I don't think this poem is going very well. Maybe I should convert to Christianity.
Those are the pearls that were his eyes. (Hmmm, like that line, must use it ...)
Nah, makes too much sense.
Then again, Eliot did once come up with this memorable piece of conversation:
Person at conference: Mr Eliot, what do you mean by the following?
Lady, three white leopards sat under a juniper tree
Eliot: I meant three white leopards sat under a juniper tree.
I think we can all agree with that.
Friday, November 11, 2005
It's quite simple:
Step 1: Draw a picture of a sad man.
Step 2: Then, for no reason at all, throw in a picture of a duck!
Step 3: Then throw in some other, completely random, picture. Anything will do!
Once upon a time, there was a sad man sitting by the river.
He was very sad.
Then along came a duck!
All of a sudden, a sofa fell out of the sky and squashed him to death.
He was so shocked, he forgot to be sad about it.
If you want to make a Leunig cartoon, it also helps to have the following:
- Pictures of scary looking women!
- Pictures of teapots!
- Pictures of angry looking men!
- Some sloppily written, sentimental poetry!
- A poorly edited inner-city newspaper for gentrified left-wing voters that will publish your stuff!
Thursday, November 10, 2005
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
Leafing through the magazine, I find mention of 'Yoga' this, 'Yoga' that, 'Yoga' schools, 'Yogis', 'Yogic teachers', 'Yoga warehouse', and Yogic Yoga Yoghi bears eating yoghurt while ... you get the idea.
There are pictures of people adopting various anatomically unlikely positions, of their own free will. There is also an advice column written by Kojak ... sorry, by Acharya Ram Sivan, 'a Westerner born of a Jewish mother and Christian father, converted to Hinduism in India at the age of 17.'
Dear Rami,Mmm hmm.
Can Buddhist concepts like shunya, or the void, ever fit into the Hindu world where there is a supreme Self or Paramatma? Or does shunya moreso parallel the concept of akasha, or cosmic space?
Shunya, contrary to popular belief, does not mean 'the void' or 'nothingness' or 'cosmic space'. It means 'zero', which is the basis for all manifestation or non-manifestation. Zero is the sum total of all mathematical possibilities in the universe.*Whips out calculator* Gasp! He's right!
Speaking of maths, I'm not quite sure that some of the positions adopted by models in this book are possible, according to the laws of geometry, as we know it. I wonder if they had to wire their mouths into place to keep that eery android-like smile in place.
The articles have titles like 'Navasana: boat pose' . Description: 'Navasana speaks to us as if saying "Rise up from complacency and reclaim your inner power." This is an in awakening pose that can shift stagnant patterns and open the door to living life fully.'
Whatever. There's also an article called 'Getting your man to Yoga'. Description: 'There is a quiet couples' revolution happening today in Australian yoga. Women are drawing their men to the yoga mat ...'
I am never getting married. Ever.
Australian Yoga Life is a magazine for people who don't have one - a Life, that is. It is not sold in all good newsagencies. If you're looking for an interesting read, I urge you strongly not to buy this magazine - before it's too late.
A Plea to the Goddess Obscenia
Goddess of all rank aromas,
Eldritch stinks told of in Homer's
Queen of all things slimy, smelly,
Of puss-infested bowls of jelly
Or just that guy upon the telly -
Patroness of toilet scum,
Or greasy swabs from grannies bums,
Or post-digestive effluvium
With name's like Hailey's Vomit
Since your dominion is old cheese,
And mouldy breads and rotting bries -
And humid dogs that swarm with fleas,
And all things we omit:
Grant then that you do not souse
One room within this little house
With maggot, mould, or turd of mouse:
Keep your distinctive pong.
We do not like your viral spores
Exuding from our walls and floors
Take it back - or keep it for
The bitch two doors along.
Send all future camel dungs
To grace the noses and the lungs
Of Fraser, Whitlam, Mao Tse Tung -
They're more deserving, surely:
Reserve a ranker perfume still
For those who tried to block The Pill -
I'm sure, O Queen that these fools will
Rank in your opinion poorly.
We beg you, take your mould and must,
Your things of slime and dirt and dust -
(It's not that we don't like you - just
Our noses are too weak
To stand this constant exercise)
Take them elsewhere - somewhere high
And far away, with lots of flies.
They'll love your reek.
(Edited and reposted this morning)
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
DON'T PLAY WITH KNIVES AND FORKS
Little girls and boys
Play with knives and forks -
O no. Not ever.
A little girl I knew
Called Jane McGee
Once fiddled with her fork -
Then RAN AWAY TO SEA!
Where she got a job
Juggling axes for
A pirate and his parrot
She travelled all the world
In a silver Holden car
And everyone would cry,
"There's Jane - A SUPERSTAR!"
Then, when she was old,
She took to bed
With a dreadful cold -
And next day, she was DEAD.
So listen up, kiddo:
Get this into your head -
DON'T PLAY WITH KNIVES AND FORKS:
Play with your spoons instead.
Monday, November 07, 2005
Boremaking: The process of arguing at tedious length in favour of a new law about to be introduced, to the extent that you bore your listeners to sleep. Then you pass whatever law you want and nobody worries.
Filibustering: Delaying normal parliamentary process by speaking for as long as you like on an unimportant topic.
Sillyflustering: Speaking for as long as you like on absolutely meaningless topics, for no reason at all.
Got any blahfinitions of your own?
In this Geek Off, three kids were asked five questions each. They each had to choose a particular category for their questions, and they were then shown where these questions were in a grid. They then had to remember where these questions were, then they were asked the questions in succession. Sounds complicated? Yeah, now I know why you didn't do so good at maths.
The first kid is this tall Indian lad called Mithra Somethingorotherathon. He chooses the topic Nelson Mandela.
Apparently, he's interested in Nelson because he's experienced racism, or stuff. Sure thing Mithra. I'll let you get back to your Gameboy now.
The second is some kid called Ashkaa Whatchamicallit. Her topic is The Brain.
I mean - Jeez, could you get any geekier if you tried?
The third is Pernina Su. She's small and tends to stumble over her questions. She chooses the topic Mao Tse Tung.
I'm shocked. I shout at the television, but - I think I'm beginning to like this kid. Instead of choosing a geeky subject, she's chosen to talk about one of the most bloodthirsty dictators of the twentieth century.
At one point, Mithra gets asked the question, "What was the nickname of Nelson Mandela's long-time wife, beginning with W?" Mithra pauses for what seems like FIVE FREAKING MINUTES before saying,
"Uh ... Winnie?"
This, of course, is cue for me to shout at the television, "Of course it is, you stupid kid! Don't you know anything? CHRIST!"
Aashka gets a toughie: "Of the brains four lobes, what is the first, in alphabetical order?" I don't know this one. You probably don't know this one. Aashka obviously didn't know this one, either. She starts to sweat and the thinking music plays and we all start to pull at our collars. Then Aashka says,
W-R-O-N-G! LOSER! You LOSE! The correct answer is "frontal". Did she spend the entire minute thinking over the spelling of parietal?
Pernina Su slays the opposition. She correctly names The Great Leap Forward and the Cultural Revolution. She stumbles over Mao's date of birth (1989? that poses some interesting problems for the historians of communism) and gets the date of the Chinese revolution mixed up. But by the end, she's the winner - and I'm on the edge of my seat, whooping it up. PERNINA SU - YOU ROCK!
I'll be tuning into the final for sure. But on a side note, what's with Sandra Sully hosting it? Anna Coren, last years host, was way better, and makes me want to .... hug her. Lots.
UPDATE! Now this is a competition I'd like to see:
Pernina Su, Australia's brainiest kid - today you face your greatest challenge of all. You are going to have to match your wits with a two-time winner of Sale of the Century!
Bring 'em on, Sully.
(Fat champ off Sale of the Century waddles in)
SALE OF THE CENTURY CHAMP:
You watch out, Australia's brainiest kid - I'm goin' to kick your arse!
You wish, flubberface.
First question: how can you get cooties?
SALE OF THE CENTURY CHAMP:
Bzzz! I know! I know!
SALE OF THE CENTURY CHAMP:
I ... um ... just give me a second while I ... can I phone a fri... ?
Bzzz! I know!
By stepping on the cracks in the pavement!
CORRECT! Second question: complete this song -
Jingle bells, Batman smells,
... flew away,
Lost his pants while over France,
And found them in Bombay.
SALE OF THE CENTURY CHAMP:
Hey! I knew that one!
HA! In your FACE, Fart Breath!
Okay, next question - and if you answer this one right, Australia's brainiest kid, you'll get into double figures and win the game!
I ain't scared, Sully.
SALE OF THE CENTURY CHAMP:
How do you do a nipple cripple?
Bzzz! Like this! (Leaps from buzzer, on top of fat Sale of the Century champ and executes the perfect nipple cripple)
SALE OF THE CENTURY CHAMP:
Aaaaaaargh! Have mercy! MERCY!
Australia's brainiest kid, YOU WIN!!!!
(Exit fat Sale of the Century champ in tears, helped off by Pernina Su)
Naturally, everyone got heartily sick and tired of this, which led to the famous 1932 PETITION TO THE FEDERATION OF NATIONS, where a number of Lichtalbanians got together, and signed a document which said that they shouldn't be forced to go to these dancing competitions, when all they wanted to do was sit at home with the latest thriller by Poet Agner Morxyffyn*. Unfortunately, at that time, the Federation of Nations was controlled by a particularly enthusiastic devotee of the gavotte, who declared (much to the annoyance of just about everybody) that from now on, dancing competitions would be compulsory right across the world and, in those nations where it was already compulsory, they would be Even More So**.
Yes, that's right: there's some new chapters up in my ongoing novel project. Want to read? No? LINK - CLICK - NOW!
Saturday, November 05, 2005
Fragments of Conversation I Overheard Yesterday While Transcribing Radio Interviews and On The Train
1. ... first began nursing, we had to start out by cleaning people's BEDPANS. And the young people of today ...
2. I may not be the brightest carbine light in the gas shaft, but you've got to get those kids thinkin'. Get the calculators out of the school-room, and get the MOYND workin', mate. Jumpin' kangaroos! What are they thinkin'?
Yeah, I'm with you, Don.
3. Hello. Hello? I'm at Jewell now. Yeah. JOOOOL! Alright. I'll see you at the shops in a few minutes. Alright? Yeah. I'll just walk down there an' see you in a few minutes. Alright? Alright?
4. No. No. No. I agree with you. No, it's good. And I support you in that, I fully support you. So I'm a happy girl! Alright.
5. No. If a guy grabs me on the bum at the nightclub, then oym foyne with that. Oy can deal with it. That's royt! Oym foyn. If I don't tell you about it, don't worry about it. But if oy say this goys bothering me, then you go ahead and beat him up!
Would you excuse me? I think I'll go outside for a while and bark at the next-door neighbours dog...
Friday, November 04, 2005
It was a thought-provoking exhibition in many respects. For instance, thoughts like the following were provoked again and again:
Many questions were raised. Questions like:
"How the FUCK did she just do that ...???"
"What the HECK is he going to do with that ...???"
"Is that what I THINK it is ...???"
"Is she really ...???"
Many of the images are striking, in that one is struck repeatedly by such profound observations as:
"I didn't even know they could fit that ma... "
"I hope SHE knows what she's doing ..."
It was, in short, a vigorous, stimulating exhibition, an exhibition which similarly makes you hot and bothered then takes your breath away and then which rouses the imagination and firms the mind until ...
(Sorry, I think I got carried away there.)
To tell you the truth, the pictures were unarousing. Not uninteresting, just unarousing. Some satisfied our sense of curiosity/voyeurism: one picture was called, "Mickey humping Minnie with Snow White and Prince Charming." And who hasn't had fantasies involving various cartoon characters? But the picture was flat; there wasn't any real action there. A bit like porn, except you're not allowed to masturbate. Oh well. Hopefully Mickey had a good time.
The exhibition raised interesting moral dilemmas. No, no, not those questions about 'the objectification of the female form' and 'the contrast of the public and the private in the modern life', or even 'when is it appropriate to bring out the handcuffs'? (Although you could ask these questions, too). I'm thinking in more practical terms: how in the hell do you tell people that you've been to this? Who could you trust to go to this with? What on earth would you say once you got there?
But then again, maybe I'm asking too many questions. God knows, in this day and age, it would probably be considered appropriate to go along there wearing nothing but a pair of purple underpants on your head while groping Pamela Anderson's silicon boobs which you'd bought off ebay that morning and while also being masturbated by a black dwarf. Hey, maybe it would even be encouraged. Isn't that the point of these exhibitions? To break down barriers, challenge prejudice and, er, encourage us all to have a good fuck?
I don't know, I'm just writing this. I didn't stay at the exhibition for too long, anyway. At the stairwell, I paused at the signature book, and looked briefly through the signatures.
"Great exhibition" one person said. "It's good to see sexuality portrayed in an artistic way."
Er yes, quite. That is the point of an erotic exhibition; it's kind of there in the title, innit? I walked down the stairs and out onto the streets. I think I was already thinking about what my dinner that night was going to be. Later, I was struck by another thought: who would bother going to a sex show if they could be at home having sex, anyway?
Maybe the same sort of person as the guy who goes along to a sex show and then sits down and writes a review of said sex show. Or reader of said article by said guy who goes to said sex show. Or ...
Stop reading, you perves, and go out and get ROOTED!
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
Actually, drinking and culture do go together. Noah sung and cultivated grapes. Ecclesiasticus wrote,Australian culture "defined":
"Almost 50 per cent of people believe getting drunk occasionally is part of being Australian, a survey suggests.
The study of more than 1500 Australians, by the National Drug and Alcohol Research Centre, found one in 10 reported having a problem with alcohol at some point in their lives. Three in five said they knew a friend or family member who had experienced an alcohol problem.
Germany, on the other hand - with its own myriad of problems, to be sure - recently hosted the annual Frankfurt book fair, the largest in the world:
"The other pleasant discovery was the real seriousness with which the German media treat the fair. Almost every radio network in the country (they are state-based there) had a huge outside-broadcast van parked near one of the five huge exhibition halls; television interviews with authors, critics and publishers seemed to run non-stop; the newspapers treat it thoroughly."
Hard to imagine in Australia. After all, why celebrate an "elite" artform, when you can grab a beer or ten?Australia's cultural immaturity lives on.
Go thy way, eat thy bread with joy, and drink thy wine with a merry heart; for God now accepteth thy works.
Christ turned water into wine for a wedding. The Greeks had a God devoted to the drinking of wine. So did the Romans, the Norse, and just about every other polytheistic people. Omar Khayyam wrote;
A jug of wine, a loaf of bread, and thou
Beside me singing in the wilderness,
And wilderness were paradise enow.
Keats loved 'the blushing Hippocrene'; Byron wrote,
... the future is a serious matter,
And so - for G-ds sake! - hock and soda water!
Lear 'drinks a great deal of Marsala/but never gets tipsy at all'; Australia's own A. D. Hope was overjoyed when he found that the formula for love was an alcohol:
At Munich on the Isar
Those molecules were found
Which everyone agrees are
What makes the world go round;
What draws the male creation
To love, my darling doll,
Turns out, on trituration,
To be an alcohol!
and Dorothy Porter had this to say on the subject:
I like to have a drink if I'm able,
Two at the very most;
Three and I'm under the table,
Four and I'm under my host.
So there you go, Antony. By the way, did you know that snobs are stupid, make boring company, and have less culture than a tub of yoghurt? 'Cos you're sounding like one at the moment.
UPDATE! Anyone got any favourite poems about drinking they'd like to share?
UPDATE! I'm working on a poem about Loewenstein's blog at the moment. Here's how it goes so far:
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
Loewenstein's blog is silly,
And Antony is a p
I just can't think what to write next. It's a toss up between,
a) Peacenik conspiracy theorist, and a very silly person too
b) Person who I have great disagreements with, in case you never knew
Hmmm, a) or b)? What do you think?
Tim, your links stink, you fink!
- John Bangsund's Threepenny Planet
- Broken Biro
- Poetry 24
- Superlative scribbles
- Kirstyn McD!
- Rorrim a tsomla almost a mirror
- More Sterne
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- Too hot to Raaaaaaandallllllll!
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- Slammy Infamy
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- The Bolta. Aiyeeeeee!!!!!
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- The cartoon church
- Sir Martinkus
- A Zemblanian abroad and at home
- A hodge podge of hotzeplotz
- THE SLAMMA!
- Jottlesby's nottings, or should that be Nottlesby's jottings?
- The Snarking of the Hunt
- Jazzy Hands
- David of Metal City
- David the Barista
- The Blogger on the Cast Iron Balcony
- Be an Opinion Dominion Minion!
- ... and Fel
- His brilliant career - from whale sushi to crumbed prawn
- Jo Blogs
- Yet another Tim
- Was two peas, now three peas
- ... Still Life - now with extra rotating cats!
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- Blink and you'll miss 'er
- Red in the land of the tigers!
- Wire of Vibe
- Chase him, ladies, he's in the cavalry!
- The Non-palindromical Editrix in Germanium
- Old Sterne
- The briefs...
- ... and the brieflets
- The Purple Blog
- Blairville, lair of all that is wicked and perfidious
- The enticingly acronymical CSH
- EXTREEEEEEEME WYNTER!
- Mark of California
- Silent Speaking
- Lexicon the Mexican
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