You can't trust anyone these days

You lie, Scrabble. You tell damnable lies.

A poem for St Valentine's Day

O chocolate
I love you
And I will eat you.

For in this way love has always been expressed
For does not the female spider eat the male spider after copulation as a sign of love
For does not the female praying mantis eat the male after copulation as a sign of love in certain laboratory conditions
For does not the German internet psychopath too wish to eat you or me due to their depraved condition, which could in a liberal postmodern world perhaps be interpreted as a sign of love
For this is the way of love
For A goes with B
For chocolate goes with man
For as the old saying goes, This goes with that at Sussan

It's finger-lickin' good.

O chocolate
I love you
And I will eat you.

Rock poetry in your underpants

You may not have heard it, but on Sunday the incredibly important news was broken that incredibly rich person Gina Rinehart was writing poetry. Look, that's fine. We all make mistakes, nobody is perfect, and don't worry about it, because Rinehart certainly isn't. She's had her poem set in stone and placed outside the Coventry Square Markets in Morley. (I'm sure it's just the place for it.)

This wouldn't be the first time filthy rich bastards have set pen to paper to express their feelings - a recent issue of the AFR magazine broke the news that Wotif founder, multi-millionaire donor to the Greens and The Global Mail, and all-round nice guy Graeme Wood was one of several poetry-writing CEOs. (Inexplicably this story does not seem to have been circulated around the internet quite as zealously as that about Hancock, but all this by the by.)

Anyway, this all lead to Geoff Lemon's amusing rebuke in Crikey, who says, in part:

Our Future (the full ode below) attempts a noble challenge: the rendering of economic theory and politico-economic ideology into stirring verse. Some call it impossible to include phrases such as “special economic zones” in a fluid and aesthetically pleasing poem. Those people are right. But Rinehart doesn’t let that stop her. If it doesn’t fit, she’ll shoehorn the bastard in there anyway.

That's a good point, but on the other hand, what's wrong with the phrase 'special economic zones' anyway? It could fit neatly in any iambic verse with four feet or more, and it ends with an easy-to-rhyme-with word. What's more, by taking these seven syllables, initiating some relatively simple textual and semiotic analysis, applying the correct quadratical equations on a five dimensional space-time graph, putting the resultant linguisto-heuristical-mathematical algorithm into a Large Hadron Collider nearby*, and then separating the whites from the yolks, we come up with the following interesting historical material, which proves beyond a shadow of a doubt that a number of famous poets have at one stage considered using that very phrase in their works. Or, at least, would have if given any encouragement:

I met a traveller from an ancient land
Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Within the special economic zones - Shelley, Ozymandias

I think we are in a rat's alley
Or special economic zones - T S Eliot, The Wasteland

It is an ancient mariner
From special economic zones - S T Coleridge, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner

My heart aches and a drowsy numbness pains
My special economic zones. - John Keats, Ode to a Nightingale

Whan that Aprille, with hise shoures soote
The droghte of March hath perced to the roote
Somethinge somethinge somethinge somethinge crones
Within hirre special economic zones. - Geoffrey Chaucer, The Canterbury Tales

See what I mean? Couldn't find a better phrase for poetry. Indeed, it is rather like that useful term 'in your underpants' which can simply be tacked on to the end of every sentence in a more or less meaningful fashion. Not to mention that another item to which the term 'special economic zones' might be applied euphemistically could be found in your underpants, or mine too, come to think of it. ButifyoustayoutofmineI'lldefinitelystayoutofyoursthankyouverymuch.

*Everyone should have one. They're great for the vacuuming.

We are all lying in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the cars

Men get creative with grammar when they want to impress fertile women

Men who find themselves in the company of fertile women are more likely to make creative attempts at sentence structure to signify their mating fitness, a study has found.

The Conversation

Simon was sitting on the train as it pulled into Thomastown Station when in walked a tall, lissom, shimmering, beauteous woman of dreams and mystery who happened to be known as Izabel Goulart, and sat down opposite him. And did I mention the train was otherwise empty? The train was otherwise empty.

"Morning good!" gulped Simon. "Having be I you hope trip nice a, day certainly it nice is, yes/no is questionish? Certainty the day beweathered is of glory!"

The passenger smiled and nodded agreeably and made polite conversation with Simon as the train continued on its way.

Soon, the train pulled into Reservoir, and onto the otherwise empty carriage (otherwise empty other than Simon and Izabel Goulart, that is), hopped Simon's father. Simon's father was 98 years old, had a face like a camel's bottom, burped habitually, was incontinent by choice, and smelled like rancid cheese. He sat down next to Simon and the three people smiled agreeably at one another.

"Going it how's dad hi?" asked Simon. "Shopping going you were, Reser-vore at you seeing surprise a certainly it's?"

Simon's father scowled. "Idiot boy you!" he cried. "Reser-voir pronounced is it, not Reser-vore!"

Moments of great, er... moment

I don't understand how you can all keep talking at a time like this as if nothing special was happening when Gina Rinehart is writing poetry.

Shut up! Don't you realise how important this moment in time is? Shut up! Especially you up the back!

Black is back

Black is the new black!

Out with the old black, in with the new black, or in this case the old black, which is the new new black, and it's back!

Yes, the new new black is the old black, and it's not brown.

Oh no!

Brown's going down!

Brown was the new black when the new old black was the new black, and the old new black wasn't even!

Can you imagine?

It's time to paint the town black, because red was the old black when the old black was even older!

Yes, black is back in the black, it's back in the books, in the black books that are black because black is back!

Black! It's back!

(Thoughts and comments welcome.)

Highly arugula spelling

All of a sudden around the cafes I've started seeing these boxes and chalkboards and menus with the word 'roquette' on them instead of 'rocket'.

'Roquette'? Macquarie has the spelling 'rocket'. So does Etymology Online.

I mean, you wouldn't put astronauts in a roquette, would you? You don't play tennis with a raquette, and you don't put choquelette in your poquette, you don't go shopping with a doquette, put plugs into a soquette, make a fence with piquettes, grow old get riquettes, and or go up to a door and knoque it. And sure, you can play croquet but most prefer cricket.

Roquette? Really? Fuque itte!

Stick!

This blog is always tackling the big issues, and by big I mean huge and by huge I mean titanic and by titanic I mean this post will be about dogs fetching sticks. Dogs fetch sticks, did you know that? It's pretty cool. Here are my extensive observations about the stick-fetching styles of four dogs of my acquaintance. (The two middle B dogs, sadly, have passed on).

Char - Barks at you when you pick up a stick and get ready to throw it. Runs around and around in excited circles. Lollops off after the stick, starts running back with it and then after running for a metre or two sits down with the stick and starts gnawing on it before suddenly getting bored with it, dropping it, and looking up at you expectantly, waiting for you to run after it and fetch it yourself so you can throw it and start the cycle anew.

Bella - Rockets around the garden after a stick once thrown. Never once bothers bringing it back, but instead prefers to run around the garden while you chase after her like a lunatic, waving your arms. If you manage to get the stick, she won't let go. Rather, she will make a noise like a chainsaw while you wrestle with her for the precious object. Easily fooled by that old trick of pretending to throw the stick in one direction and then throwing it in the opposite one.

Boots - Enjoys stick game so much that he will pick up any old twig, or stick, or tree branch, or medium-sized tree in his jaws and prance around the garden with it and lay it before your feet. Is also of the sort that is inclined to keep the stick once thrown rather than give it back, but will get bored with this after a while and nudge you with the stick, and sometimes drop it at your feet while waiting for you to pick it up. (Sometimes, too, he will grab it up again before you pick it up thus continuing the game.) Once he has the stick, it's very hard to wrestle it off him.

Wilbur - you throw a stick, he ignores it, and instead goes for the bar of chocolate sitting in your pants pockets. He is a beagle after all.

Bloggers, on the other hand, don't go in much for the stick game at all. They much prefer schtick.

NOTE: Readers are invited to submit their own dogs' version of the stick game in comments.

Sitting under chairs is the new black

If I was a cat, I'd sit under the chair too.

Train tunnels, notepads, and apple cores

I was writing on some paper the other day as I sat on the train leaving the city to head back to Lalor. As the train went through the tunnel, I thought:

"Hmm, the signal's going to cut out soon, better stop the writing before then."

Huh? Paper is like a mobile phone? Then I remembered that I had an apple core in one of the pockets of my bag too. Would the signal to the apple core cut out, too? And what would happen then? I was about to find out...

The next chapter but one

You frequently come across examples of people attributing the right quotation to the wrong person, or the wrong quotation to the right person, but have you ever heard of the wrong quotation being attributed to the wrong person in the wrong language? Now, thanks to my poor memory of an anecdote I read years ago about some French writer or other, you will be able to say that you have. The story goes that someone asked this writer - I've no idea who, so we'll just call him Rimbaud for the purposes of being wrong - why he never wrote a novel. Rimbaud's reply: "Because, at some point, I would have to write a sentence like, 'He walked across the room and opened the door'". What a great insight! Pity I don't know French, couldn't remember the quotation, and had no idea who the author was.

Anyway, at the moment I'm reading a book which, it seems, is almost entirely like that sentence (or whoever the hell Rimbaud happened to be when he was not being, er, Rimbaud). It's Laurence Sterne's The life and opinions of Tristram Shandy, gentleman. This novel is veritably epic in the way it treats the matter of a door being opened - certainly it's as long as an epic. It's divided up into volumes, each about 60 pages or so, and so far (I'm in the middle of the third volume) it seems to have been exclusively devoted to a bunch of chaps standing around in a room together. Particularly idiotic chaps, too, who you wouldn't want to be in a room together with. Tristram Shandy hasn't even been born yet (I'm told you get to know him a bit better in the fourth volume).

It's amazing how Sterne gets away with this though; he has a genius at not getting to the point. In volume three, he throws in the preface (seemingly for no reason at all); a few chapters before or after (it's all a kind of blur) he devotes all his time to cursing another character, which is done in the most effective manner possible (through a five page Latin curse written by a pious Roman Catholic sort). The copious footnotes in this Penguin edition, rather unhelpfully, attempt to explain Sterne's point (which is of course exactly contrary to the point Sterne didn't make, because he never got to it).

Of course, there's only so much not getting to the point you can read in one go, so at various junctures I've been avoiding reading Sterne, quite strenuously. I'm getting quite used to avoiding reading books, as you may be aware, having practiced this previously with Dickens and Smollett. In the case of Sterne, I rather think it adds to the dramatic tension (such as it is) and natural structure by putting off the point that has already been put off even further, before picking up the book at the point that you put the point off in order to allow Sterne to continue putting it off. See my point?

Anyway, having begun this post with the wrong quotation, in the wrong language, by the wrong person, I'm happy to conclude it now with the right quotation, in the right language, from the right person - it's the finest example, so far, I have found of Sterne at his majestically irreverent best:

Dr. Slop drew up his mouth, and was just beginning to return my uncle Toby the compliment of his Whu-u-u-- or interjectional whistle, -- when the door hastily opening in the next chapter but one - put an end to the affair.

It opens 'hastily' in the 'next chapter but one'! Take that, Rimbaud, and your hypothetical door-opening dude. That's the way to open a door in a book!

Zen soccer hooliganism

Next time you're at a soccer match, why not start up a one-person Mexican wave?

Three years of Badger's Dozen

I first started Badger's Dozen in December 2010 and, as usual with me, I had no idea what I was doing or where it would all end up.

It's now in its third year of existence, and I have no more idea now what I'm doing or where it's going than I did then. Still having fun, though.

PS Now on ZineWiki, too, thanks to the power of vanity entries!

Variations on a theme

There are two types of people in this world - you, and me.

There is one type of person in this world, and you're neither.

There are two types of men and women in this world, and... oh bugger.

Sartorialisms

Why is it that can never find my underpants when I want them? That's a sentence you might equally expect to come from a person with dementia, a nudist who is due to attend an important interview with a non-nude person, a person who has is secretly being stalked by the neighbourhood snowdropper, and me. Is it because my underpants are hiding from me or something? Or do I actually have dementia but forgot about it? (No, no, no need to tell me, I'm happy as I am.)

In other sartorial matters, I discovered on the train this evening that I had buttoned up my shirt the wrong way. Although I did put the bottom button in the bottom button hole, and proceeded up the shirt in the usual manner, I discovered too late that the bottom button hole and the bottom button didn't actually match up. So my shirt's ganging up on me now?

Also, any attempts to take a pink frilly brolly with spots in to work furtively, in order to make sure it is not noticed, are sadly misguided*. Who knew?

*And after all that it didn't rain anyway. I ask you! Whinge whinge grumble grumble harrumph grump.

A philosophical moment with Timothy Train

Speaking of trains of thought, here is a thought by a Train:

Um.... er.... er... hmmm.... ah..... er.... mmm.... right.... um....

Well, this is all frightfully embarassing, isn't it?

What disturbs our blood

Time! What is it, where does it come from, where does it go to, and what does time do when it gets some... time off? These, and other mysteries of science, have been contemplated by, um, scientists, throughout, er, time. Also, according to traditional Einsteinian theory, space is bent, time is queer, and the speed of light gets to go out to all the cool nightclubs after midnight when it's everyone else's bedtime. Though I have no idea what this has to do with anything anyway. (And now I should close this opening paragraph because, ladies and gentlemen, it's time.)

Traditional scientific models suggests that time is divided into 'centuries' and 'years' and 'months' and 'weeks' and 'days' and 'hours' and 'minutes' and 'seconds'. But traditional scientific models have been proven to be wrong, for, as we all know, time largely consists of 'those bits where we're doing stuff and it passes really quickly', 'those bits where we're not doing anything and time doesn't seem to pass at all', and 'the bits that fall in between'.

For this essay, we are concerned with that particular part of the space-time nexus known as 'holiday time'. Holiday time, as you know, has several peculiarities: when you are off it, you want to be on it, and when you are on it, you spend all the time wondering how long you have left before you will be off it again.

But anyway, what is the best type of holiday time? Some people are particularly fond of 'long weekend holiday time', others of 'two or three weeks overseas holiday time'. Some people have a lot to say for 'day off holiday time', which doesn't have many people left over for that piece of holiday time known as 'the weekend'.

Well, I say the weekend is definitely the best. Like the rest of Australia, I've taken off the Friday following Australia Day, and spent half of that time mooching around the house wondering what to do with myself. During the Christmas holidays I was even worse, getting under everybody's feet, and by the time it was half over I had no idea what day it was, and whether I should be back at work by tomorrow or whether I still had two weeks to go, which is pretty nerve-wracking, for you are not sure whether you should worry about not going back to a job that you should have already gone back to, or worrying about when you are going to have to start worrying about that. A two or three weeks overseas holiday is nearly the worst of all, because you spend most of that time wondering how much of it you've got left, and a good deal of it anxious that you don't miss your next flight. And if you have any time left over from that, you spend it fretting about the flight you just missed and now how the hell you're going to spend your time.

Not that I mean to suggest that work time is any better. My goodness, no. If you spend a lot of a normal holiday wondering what to do with yourself, you spend a lot of work knowing exactly what to do with yourself, and wanting intensely to do something different anyway.

No, I put it to you that nothing could be more special than a weekend, that time when you have nothing special to do. What could be better than 'nothing special'? And what could be more suitable for nothing special than the weekend, when you have time to potter around, doing all the usual things you ordinarily do, in an exceedingly everyday manner? The weekend is the best time, I say. There ought to be more of them. (Now, if scientists could only figure out how to do that, life would be sweet.)

Then again, we could adopt an alternative philosophy, as expressed by poet W B Yeats:

THROUGH winter-time we call on spring,
And through the spring on summer call,
And when abounding hedges ring
Declare that winter's best of all;
And after that there s nothing good
Because the spring-time has not come -
Nor know that what disturbs our blood
Is but its longing for the tomb.

Hope you're having a cheerful time, cheerful people!

Awkwardness

awkwardness (n) - a red car with green Christmas tinsel... on Australia Day.

Misunderstatement

"It was hot, so I was standing around the house in my underwear when the neighbour walked in with a jar of pickled onions."

How many people have used that excuse, do you think?

Add one to the list.

UPDATE! - It's fun playing around with sentences! Instead of...

"It was hot, so I was standing around the house in my underwear when the neighbour walked in with a jar of pickled onions."

... imagine that I'd rearranged the words, thusly:

"So, I was standing around the house in my underwear when the neighbour walked in with a jar of pickled onions. It was hot."

Or even -

"So, I was standing around the house when the neighbour walked in with a jar of pickled onions in my underwear. It was hot."

I'm not thinking what you're not thinking either, and I'm sure you'll be relieved to know that none of that happened. At all.

Send a social worker for the social networker

3000 facebook friends
And some are really real.
An evening watching YouTubes
With crackers for a meal.

*

Nine comments on my blogpost!
A fluffy kitten. SQUEE!
If people like my status,
Does that mean they like me?

*

Attending three events -
That's just about my day.
OMFG I got
A tweet on Q&A!

The bloodcurdling battle between man and paper bag

The paper bag that held the mushrooms had somehow developed an extra hole in it, so when I took it out of the fridge, all the mushrooms fell out.

I immediately uttered a barbaric yawp*, and, crying, "Stupid bloody mushroom bag," hurled the paper bag across the room.

The paper bag, now unemcumbered by mushrooms, or, apparently, gravity, floated languidly in the air, twisting and twining elegantly in the wind currents that I had no idea existed in the kitchen, and performed several graceful pirouettes before coming to a peaceful rest on the floor, five centimetres from my feet.

You win this round, paper bag. You win this round.

*'Barbaric yawp' - is any other form of yawp possible? What say you, scholars of yawp?

The rise and fall and rise and fall and rise and rise and rise and rise and fall of the Steve Reich

I wanted to listen to some meditative, repetitive music, somewhat in the style of those American minimalists you all will never have heard of. You know, Phillip Glass, Terry Riley...

But then I listened to Steve Reich and realised that I didn't want to listen to what I wanted to listen to.

Communications devolution

Seeing an e-reader on the train the other day, I was inspired with an overwhelming desire not to get one. No surprises there as I am an old grouch in a younger person's body, and I have that inspiration almost every day, but seriously, why buy them? Because you can't get a paper book with buttons on it? If I had a book like that, I'd spend all my time changing channels and never bother actually reading a book, which would somewhat defeat the purpose, old bean.

It's getting harder to keep up with the latest thing in the world of stuff. we don't just have to deal with the communications revolution, but the communications insurrection that happened after the first communications revolution, and then the communications putsch that happened after the communications insurrection, and then the communications coup, and the ongoing communications civil war, and so on, and so on. If I had kept up with all the things I was meant to keep up with in the thirty odd years that I have been on this earth, I would now be in possession of not only a laptop, and a blog, and an email, and a mobile phone, and a television, but I would also have an iPod, an iPad, an iBook, a video player, a cassette deck, a tape answering machine, a Super 8 player, a twitter account, a tumblr account, a fax machine, a Nintendo, an Atari, a Commodore 64, a Kodak camera, a ham radio set, a UHF, several phrase books of Japanese-English, French-English, Auslan-English, and possibly a set of message flags, a pigeon farm, and a telegraph machine. What would I do with all those things? I don't even want a bloody NBN, which Stephen Conroy keeps threatening me with.*

I mean, it's all a bit much for me. When I was a kid, communications was simple: the phone would ring, you would race your brothers to get it, and wrestle it out of their hands before shouting

HELLOTWOOHONEFOURONESIX!

And waiting for the lovely connection ladies on the other end to ask you nicely if your parents were around.** Now that is what communications should be about, ladies and gentlemen. Why did things ever change?

*Should be another ten years or so before it arrives anyway, there is that at least.

**Yes, we had a telephone exchange in Balranald. I guess we must have been one of the last places in Australia to get a wired up properly.

Piffolous poffolous

You just know when you're reading a political article about Tony Abbott, and you're scratching your head, and the words 'homophilous thought leader' and 'monomorphic thought leader' and 'heterophily' and 'polymorphic heterophil' all appear, and you have no idea what it all means, that you're reading an article by a teacher of political communication. Who else could write such a thing?

Anyway, Tony Abbott is apparently monomorphic and homophilous. Aren't we all, really, from time to time? But the thing that's really getting my knickers in a knot is this: when I get up in the morning, what with all the 'homo' this and 'mono' that and 'philous' every other thing, how am I going to be able to tell my heterophilous from my homophilous from my Sophie Panopolous from my acidophilous, hey? Tell me that.

Homophilous.


Achidophilous.

It's all very confusing.

Train things

People have curious habits on the train. I like to sit in one of those sets of four seats facing one another, with the wall on my right, facing in the direction the train goes, ideally with room to stretch, although I'd just settle for the first. Others seem to shun these seats that face one another, and prefer the boxed-in variety. They make me feel claustrophobic just looking at them.

This morning, sitting on one of the only available seats in a crowded train, I noticed a woman get on, and give the seat next to me a swift brushing off with her fingers, several times, before sitting down. I'm pretty sure the seat didn't have any dirt on it. Was she just brushing off the imaginary dirt?

The night before, I had seen, a few seats over - again on one of the sets of four facing seats - a woman, in pink, facing away from the direction the train was travelling in. Opposite her were two MX papers and a chip wrapper. When someone on the seat in front of her got up and left, she stood up and walked over to that seat and sat down, now facing in the direction the train was going. This - rather than picking up the chip packet and MX papers! I found that rather strange.

Then again, I have changed seats several times on the one train journey, in order to get a slightly more optimum seat. Sometimes, I have changed seats just to get a nicer view (and wouldn't you?)

A girl fainted on the train this morning. This has happened before; a hot crowded train can do that to you, especially if you're tired and dehydrated. Well, what with everyone the train moving back to give her room, and several people moving forward to help, and the train driver coming to meet her and assure her staff would be there to meet her at Flinders Street, and almost everyone staring at her for the rest of the trip, I was feeling quite sorry for her. I'm sure she got her water at Flinders - but is there a cure for chronic embarrassment?

Last night, on the train from work to Spencer Street station (where I changed over), I was also rather impressed by Spiffing Spanish Guy. He stood at the door I was planning to get off, resplendent in yellow lycra and sunglasses, balancing a bike in one hand, and holding a mobile in the other while he spoke in rapid Spanish to someone on the other end. As the train rattled and clunked and he rolled his rrrrs and intoned his intonations, something seemed to happen, and quite suddenly, he began saying, over and over again: "Hallo? Hallo? Sophia. Hallo? Sophia. Sophia. Hallo?" However, as the train pulled into Spencer Street, the reception seemed to clear up, and somehow - not sure how he did this - he managed to open the door, balance the bike, and keep the phone to his ear at the one time, and, still talking continuously to his Sophia, carried the bike up the escalator in front of me. He even got on the same train as me, and sat up the back with his bike and his phone, talking for the next half hour until we pulled into Lalor station. Spiffing work, Spiffing Spanish guy.

How many of you...

... read the phrase 'FAQ' and instantly think of a certain swear word?

FAQing hell, it can't be just me!

Problems are no problems with me!

Problem: your kitchen looks dirty. There are plates and cutlery everywhere.

Solution: squirt a lot of detergent into the sink, and begin running the hot water. The bubbles will start mounting up. Pretty soon you will be able to plop all of the plates and cutlery into the sink, and out of sight, as they will be covered up neatly by the bubbles.

Now, your kitchen doesn't look dirty at all. Rather, it gives the pleasing impression of industry and efficiency, and you can leave it that way for the next few hours. PROBLEM SOLVED.

This song goes out to a certain chicken mumma out there

Some say she's lazy,
Some say she's crazy,
Some say she's a member of the Asterecea or Compositae family coming in colours ranging from yellow pink or blue,
But Daisy,
Oh-oh-oh Daisy,
There's a little chick that loves you-ooooooo
And Daisy,
Oh Daisy,
Even though certain members of my species might frown upon the possibility of chicken-human amorous interconnections,
I do,
Just a little bit,
Too.

I'll leave you with this thought

The truth is not always black and white. Sometimes, it wears socks.

Getting away from the people who get away from it all

Years ago, the country used to go to the city in search of entertainment. Nowadays, the situation is reversed, and every week, great hordes of people from the city descend upon the country in search of - well, not always entertainment exactly. But enlightenment, maybe? Or possibly just at great expense? One or other of these things is certain to be found in the country, which is full of historic towns, and historic markers, at which historic incidents occurred at historic times in history, opposite this historic tree growing out of that historic grass underneath a historic sky full of historic clouds. (You can tell all these things from the signs telling you about them, which signs were made... historically.) How could you not find entertainment, enlightenment, or expense in these places?

And so it was that Tim joined the manic urban hordes rushing out into the countryside in search of enlightenment, and travelled out west to Kyneton and Castlemaine, where I found - a little entertainment, no enlightenment to speak of, and some more expense. But mostly, I found the city I had just left, poking its face into the doors of the country, crowding into the small country fairs, taking up all the seats at the bars and cafes, and then some of the standing places in the queues, getting in the way of the dogs and cats, tripping up the locals, and generally making a nuisance of itself (presumably in search of entertainment).

I did finally find a place to eat - it looked quiet enough, and seemed to be situated on a relatively tranquil stretch of road, and one or two more or less leafy gum trees seemed to be growing in close proximity. It was only after I had seated myself, and made orders, and got my hat balanced, and made it rather difficult (both physically and ethically) for me to leave that I learned that I had seated myself in a cafe that had just that morning received a good review in The Age. Blimmin' hell! I was surrounded by a flock of Fairfax readers, a mob of manic Melbournites in search of a dear little cafe, in a delightful nook, with wonderful prices. It made me wish I'd bought my copy of the Oz in order to ruffle it ostentatiously in the other customers' faces.

Anyway, after my trip to the country I can report that the leaves were suitably leafy, the grass was more or less golden, the scenery pretty much lived up to its reputation for being scenic, and the tranquility was pretty nea... well, it was impossible to tell from that cafe, but once I left it was pretty good, anyway. And I got several great deals from a huge bookstore at Campbell's Creek.

But by Jove, it's great to be back in a quiet suburb on the outskirts of Melbourne, a place where nobody who wants to go anywhere goes, and to have finally got away from all the people who are getting away from it all.

Iron chicken

When the former Mayor of London, Ken Whatsisname was first elected to the position, he apparently had a chance run in with Margaret Thatcher, and he took advantage of the occasion to ask her for a spot of advice. Her reply, the story goes, was simply this: "Resolution! Resolution!"

Did I say 'resolution'? I think I did, and the word 'resolution' naturally leads me to the subject of our chickens, and Daisy in particular, who has been displaying admirable resolution of late in her sitting abilities. Up until about a week prior to Christmas, I had not really appreciated the sitting abilities of chickens very much. They sat, yes; but they also walked around and pecked at things; and occasionally they clucked.

As it turns out, 'sitting' turns out to be something chickens do very well indeed. They may, indeed, be described as efficient sitting devices with multi-functional pecking-and-clucking abilities programmed in as well. Daisy started sitting - and she jolly well hasn't stopped sitting yet. She is a superlative sitter, sitting at night, sitting during the day, getting up in the middle of the day to take a turn around the yard and some water before returning straight away to her sitting. She sat, she sat, she sat, and just when it seemed she wasn't getting anywhere with her sitting - and I suppose strictly speaking that not getting anywhere is one thing that sitting does very well - she sat some more. She was, in a word, clucky.

We weren't quite sure what to do with Daisy and her sitting at first. We adopted a wait-and-see approach, and we waited, and we saw that that wouldn't get anywhere. (Just like Daisy, who remained sitting in the coop while we waited.) Every morning, Griselda would jump up into the coop and lay her egg, which Daisy would deftly roll under herself. And every morning, we would go out to collect that egg, and Daisy would fluff herself up and chirrup indignantly, in a way which was obviously meant to be utterly terrifying (but which we found highly amusing).

Poor Daisy! We took pity on her, and gave her a golf ball. She rolled that under her feathery nethers, and sat on it. And stayed sitting on it, hour after hour, day after day. Eventually we saw that that plan (whatever our plan was - I'm not sure and I'm not sure if the Baron's sure either) wasn't working either. And besides, we started worrying that if Daisy kept on sitting on the golf ball in the determined way that she had sat so far, she might actually - well - hatch something out of it. And no-one wanted that.

So, we gave her a real egg this time, a fertile bantam egg, from the flock presided over by the Baron Mother. And, what do you know, Daisy rolled that under herself and sat on that. She sat on that for a week in Bright, from Christmas Eve, Christmas, Boxing Day, through to New Year's Day, and kept on sitting on it, and, with laborious regularity, sat on it right through the first week of the new year, up until yesterday.

And, of course, by now you will be able to see where this tale is really going, dear reader, and the conclusion will be in sight by now: eventually, as these things tend to happen in the normal chain of circumstances, the egg Daisy was sitting on hatched. And out popped a fine baby chick, which we called Henry.

And which Daisy, in an excess of maternal love, promptly sat on.

Daisy and (possibly) Henry.

Sitting. It's apparently all the rage in chicken parenting, don't you know. Hey guys, have you had any babies lately? Maybe you should try sitting on them.

An ambivalent poem about sweat

Life's better
Without sweat. Er...

UPDATE! - A grumpy poem about bureaucracy.

All of this
bumf -
I'm sick of it -
Humph!

Itch glitch

There was a man. He had an itch. He scratched it. It felt good.

And you know how it is when you have an itch and you scratch it and it feels good so you keep on scratching it and it keeps on feeling good so you keep on scratching it and it keeps on feeling good and you keep on scratching and you realise that you have scratched for quite a while now and you keep on scratching but you realise that it might be impolite and possibly unhygienic to keep on scratching but that makes it even better and you keep on scratching and you realise it is two hours later and you are on a bus and everyone is watching you and you should have got off five stops ago.

Which just goes to prove the truth of the old adage, give a man an itch and he'll take quite a while.

Oh, boy! Larson again!

Somewhere I have a cartoon of two dogs exclaiming joyously over their bowls, 'Oh boy! Dog food again!' It's a Gary Larson, of course.

Well, I just tried it on the cats as well, and it worked a treat. I don't mean I fed them dog food. (Or Gary Larson.) No, I went around and waved cat food around in their faces and they came racing into the house joyously, swirling around their bowls waiting for those great steaming lumps of pulpy gunk to plop unceremoniously down before their faces so they could dive down into it.

Cats getting enthusiastic about cat food. Who would have thought it? I mean, here, on the one paw, you have these delicate, graceful, fastidious creatures, who, when they're not sleeping, are washing themselves or silently stalking something with wings. And there, on the other paw, you have this mass-produced slop that stinks to high heaven. It somehow doesn't seem right. Maybe I will try them out on Gary Larson after all.

The meaning of blife

The meaning of life! The meaning of dreams! The meaning of this! The meaning of that! Why is everyone going on about the meaning of everything that there is a meaning for? All you have to do if you want to know the meaning of something is open the dictionary to that word, and look to the right.

Adventures in interactive blogs

It's the world's first olfactory blog post! Just follow the instructions on the tab below to enhance your interactive blog experience!

UPDATE! - Bonus activity: print out this blog post, and scratch and sniff the tab. Now it smells like paper!

Not-so-happy anymore

It was just a week ago we were all going around saying 'happy new year' this and 'happy new year' that. Well there'll be no more of that, thank heavens. This year isn't old, but it's getting there. It's nine days into its increasingly fretful relationship with January, and isn't liking it, let me tell you that. This is a year that's starting to dislike some of January's habits, and is getting ready to move on. But if it thought January was bad, just wait until it starts on with February.

Happy new year? Not if this year's got anything to do with it. What's everyone want it to be happy for anyway? And it was never new for very long anyway. No, it'll be Increasingly-Grumpy-Fretful-Anxious-Inclined-To-Rant-At-The-Smallest-Things-Suffers-From-Aches-In-The-Morning-Swears-At-The-Slightest-Instigation-Ageing-Rapidly-As-We-Speak Year to you, thank you very much.

Pink punk think thunk

This is a confusing world we live in, what with all those sub-atomic particles whizzing all over the place, the polymorphic diversity of human sexualities polysexing one another here, there, and everywhere, and the ageless mysteries relating to socks. And then there are 'pinks' and 'punks'. One is a flower, the other is a rock musician of the 1970s. One is of the genus Dianthus and is native mainly to Europe and Asia, the other occurs all over the world, although it started in Europe and the US. One is a delicate bloom, sensitive to many changes in the environment, and the other is a plant. Is there any wonder people have been getting the two confused for generations? Well here at this blog, I reckon it's time all this confusion ended and we sorted out this difficult matter for once and for all, so I've drawn up this helpful little chart.

PINKS - Grow in the fields, meadows, and in pots by the windowsill - Often owned by friendly grandmothers - Come in a variety of attractive colours. -Can be worn in your ears. Wouldn't recommend wearing in your nose though. - The Queen likes them. - Have a pleasant aroma. - Make the place brighter, more cheerful, and happier.

PUNKS - Don't grow in the fields and meadows, and probably don't fit very well in pots by the windowsill either. - They have grandmothers though they probably don't see them much. - Come in a variety of attractive colours. - Often have a staple through their nose or ears. - Pretty sure the Queen doesn't like them, and they don't like her back. - I wouldn't recommend sniffing them to begin with, you might get an electric guitar over your head. - Er... hmmm.

In conclusion, here are some pictures of some pinks and some punks. Have a nice day.



Pinks



Punks

I'd rather an uncomfortable silence than an uncomfortable couch

I was telling a joke to the Baron and it was not going well. "Knock knock", I said. "Would you like some sauce?" said the Baron. "No!" I said. "Knock Knock!"

Not an uncommon experience, I suppose, telling jokes that don't seem to get anywhere. But does anyone have quite as much skill at telling jokes that don't get anywhere near as pointlessly as I do? Earlier at the Dan, I had tried out this one: "Doctor, doctor, I have a minute to live! NO, WAIT, THAT'S WRONG... Doctor, doctor, I have 59 seconds to live! Wait a minute."

"Who's there?" said the Baron. "Who!" I said. "Who who!" said the Baron. "Oh, wait, whoops, I stuffed that bit up, let's go back," I said. "Knock knock...."

Worst of all are the jokes in which you ask a person a question, and require them to answer that question in a certain way, but you are not allowed to tell them to answer the question in a certain way or it spoils them. I have never been able to tell the one that goes, "What are you eating under there? Under where? UNDERWEAR? You're eating UNDERWEAR? My goodness, that's disgusting!" properly. No-one ever seems to answer in the way that you'd expect them too:

Q: What are you eating under there?
A: I'm not eating anything.
A: I'm eating it on the top of the table, thanks.
A: Under this, you mean?
A: Chips.
A: Oh, I know that one, that's a good one!
A: What, sorry?

The Baron tried it out on me once, and I neatly sidestepped her line of questioning by answering: 'Underpants.' (I have actually eaten underwear, you know. Everyone should try it at least once*.)

"Who's there?" said the Baron. "To!" I said. "To who?" said the Baron. "To whom, surely." I cried victoriously. And we both fell into an uncomfortable silence that was eventually broken when Agatha the Chook wandered around from the back garden and started pecking determinedly at the window.

But anyway, it makes you wonder what mistakes I'll get up to next. How many ways can you get a joke wrong? "Why did the road cross the chicken?" "Why was the chicken cross?" Why did the road cross the road?" "Why was the cross chicken?" "Why was the chicken from Rhodes crossing the Australian, Englishman and Irishman for, and what did the magic slide have to do with it?" Blimey, it just gets worse and worse.

What's wrong with uncomfortable silences, anyway? Maybe I like uncomfortable silences.

*That really is true. My brother got some once as a joke present and we all had a taste. He didn't wear them. I don't think he wore them, anyway.

Thinkly thunkly

It's fun to look forward to the future, and to look back at people looking forward, and laugh at how wrong they were. But does anyone ever look forward to looking back to looking forward so they can laugh at themselves? I'm off to try it now.

Put down the handkerchief and step slowly away from the car

It's fedoras at forty paces with the December issue of the ABC's Organic Gardener magazine:

TOXIC TEXTILES
Are your clothes a health hazard?

Also in this issue, we find a recipe section entitled 'Slow Food Joy', with what by all appearances seem to be quite normal recipes, only with the word 'slow' tacked on; an article on how gardeners can 'reconnect' with their own plot ('we've just been so distant lately! The strawberries aren't talking to me anymore!'); and a lady who makes her dresses out of leaves.

Oh, and if you want to mount a military campaign against caterpillars apparently flowers are the thing. Flower Power, comrade!

Ah, the bucolic charms of our domestic life

Owing to requirements of a necessitous nature, making compulsory a number of mandatory commitments, the Baron and I have recently found ourselves confronted with an interregnum of the spatial, geographical, and sociological sort from the internet, the chooks, and the cats. While we had provided for the situation adequately by arranging for a pair of fellow primates to scrutinise the affairs of the felines and the gallus gallus domesticuses, yesterday while sitting upon a public transportation unit carrying us, in a somewhat expected fashion, from point A to point B, we found ourselves pondering upon the domestic situation. It was then that the Baron posited this statement: "It is soothing to think of the cats."

Indeed, it is soothing to think of the cats: for then, what do you have but Thought Cats? Leaping from lobe to lobe with the greatest of feline ease, crouching behind your neurones and stalking Thought Birds, and occasionally rubbing their faces against your cortex (whatever that is). It is exceedingly tranquil to have some Thought Cats in your head, almost as tranquil as having Thought Kittens, who are well-known to be very tranquil and soothing indeed. But vanquish that train of thought, for you have fully-grown Thought Cats in your head, not Thought Kittens; they have long since ceased to be Thought Kittens, and are now fully mature; - and as the train of thought vanishes into the nether recesses of your mind, what should the Thought Cats do but leap upon it as a cat does with a piece of string, and bat it about, and chew on it? Nothing could be more restful. And then, perhaps, one Thought Cat pauses for a moment to sharpen its Thought Cat claws upon your memory centre, when what should happen but the other Thought Cat leaps upon it and the pair of Thought Cats have an exceedingly calming tussle, right upon the top of your mind, before one bounds off over your cerebellum, while the other burrows in to the dark of your subconscious mind and spends quite a jolly time there leaping upon complexes of an Oedipal or Electran nature, presumably to present to you later in your Thought House. There can certainly be nothing more soothing, tranquil, restful, calming, and indeed full of the bliss of a spiritual state of Nirvanic existence than these Thought Cats.

The Baron and I contented ourselves by meditating upon these Thought Cats for the rest of the day. Upon arriving home, of course, we found that not only had we been thinking of the cats, but the cats had been thinking of us: Beatrice celebrated our arrival by taking a huge dump upon the laundry floor. How thoughtful! Ah, the bucolic charms of our domestic life in the outer suburbs never cease to delight me!

Harriet, busy casting herself into your thoughts and notions, ponderances, postulations, and mind.(Photo courtesy of Mann and Frau X of wordpressvilletononsea.)

Almost as good

Our television, which sits in a back room of our house, and is painted gold, with a Richmond Tigers gnome sitting to one side, and the statute of a dancing lady to the other side, is a wonder to behold. We watch it all the time. Some day we may even turn it on. (I think I've commented on this before).

But there are other things to enjoy watching other than the television, people. For instance, you could try Real Life! It's almost as good. Although you can't change channels. Or turn the sound up. Whatever, here are some shows on real life that I've been getting into lately.

Chooks Going To Bed TV: This television show, screening in our backyard from about 8.30 to 9.00, is particularly exciting, and features chooks going to bed. Some very exciting parts of the show include: 1) one chook going to bed 2) the other chook going to bed. And then there's also the bit where Daisy (our clucky third chook who is sitting on an egg) not going to bed because she's already up there. (This show not recommended for children under 10 years of age because I said so.)

Cat jumping over a fence TV: This rather exciting television show starts when a cat jumps over the fence, and then continues as the human looks at the fence and wonders when the cat is going to come back. Sometimes it goes on for the whole day!

Look at it this way people: reality is pretty much like reality television, when it comes down to it. Except, not.

Right message, wrong audience

Beatrice the Cat, come inside this instant. It's too hot to be out.

That time of year again

Well, it's that time of year again, just as it was last night around about now (or maybe then). And people may call me sentimental, but let me just say it anyway: happy new 10.53, everyone! I hope it's a good minute for you! And make you sure you do something good with it! It'll only come round another 4000 times or so before you die!

Taking a stand for the words that stand for something else

A: "There's a hole in your soul if you give in to LOL
And ROFL is just piffle-poffle,
As well as WTF and TTFN
Not to mention BATBYGOBSTOPL."

B: "But what about OMG? GSOH?
Is IMHO a no-no as well?
Does your heart sound no oompah for lovely GBRMPA?
Does your love for EBITDA not swell?"

A: "We must defeat DFAT for once and for all,
From VB as from VD we must flee -
I am peeved by the TV we must leave it forever
And shut down the ABC."

B: "But EG! IE! And please note NB!
And FYI, DIY, see?
What's MYOB is yours, and MYEFO is too -
M and M's, CC's - etc.
BRB, BTW, BBC, ASAP -
My argument's done - QED."

(This is just a little I tossed together over the holidays playing with the way we pronounce acronyms. Not up to much...)

Embarrassmental disorder

The other day, I was at an amusing dinner party with my friends A, B and C.

A said: "I caught an elephant in my pyjamas the other day. How it got in there I don't know."

B said: "I often shoot lions with my glasses. My glasses have lasers in them, you see."

C said: "I went mountaneering with my book yesterday. It is a very big book."

I said: "I eat underpants frequently."

I had mistaken their witty exchange of dangling modifiers for a series of true confessions, and had attempted to join in! What an embarrassing mistake!

The following day, we were all walking in the park and another sparkling conversation followed.

A said: "My new French clock loses time frequently, thanks to chocolate."

B said: "I hear that Mars is coming closer to the Earth in its orbit, but then again, I blow my nose frequently."

C said: "My mother is quite fond of cake, so I have taken up juggling."

I said: "I shot JFK. No, really."

I had done it again - not realising that they were merely exchanging delightful non-sequiturs!

How embarrassing!

TimT's book, 101 Awkward Social Gaffes and what you should do to avoid them will be out just in time to miss the Christmas and New Year rush in all bad book stores.

Communitarian communing, communitarianistically

Here in Bright, the Baron and I have been communing with Nature. Nature is a lovely lady who lives round here with mud on her feet and branches in her hair and birds building nests under her arms and rivers running this way and that across her chest and men with pedometers on their wrists and lycra around their glutes hurtling through her at a breakneck pace. Nature, being Nature, seems to accept it all with her customary aplomb. "Hello, Nature," I say. "Hello Tim! Hello Baron!" cries Nature, and rain clouds burst over her, and rainbows shoot hither and thither from her eyes, and everybody ducks for cover. Oh, and plus she drinks camomile tea and eats burdock root ice cream every evening.

The other thing that people seem to be doing with Nature is sticking things on her. They put a sign up here, describing an interesting thing about the local environment, and pointing your way to another sign over there, which describes another interesting thing about the local environment, and probably points your way to a third sign somewhere else, and so on. Not to mention busying themselves putting fences up all over Nature, and handrails, so you can clamber all your way around her, cutting stone stairs all over her, popping a little cafe here, a visitors bureau there, and an attractive green seat just about everywhere else. No matter how far you walk with Nature, you always seem to be discovering little men and women doing little things on her, and oh-so-willing to sell you things or shove glossy little pamphlets in your hands telling you about attractive things to find in attractive places conveniently located nearby, or the importance of sustainability in rural and regional areas, or where the best place is to go for a swim, or other helpful (in other words, bloody irritating) advice. I can't imagine how much worse it would be if all those irritating little men and women were sticking signs or fences or helping other people to clamber up or over me or, for heaven's sake, hurling their sweaty bodies through me with all their might. Nature, though, doesn't seem to mind. She just waves her 10 billion year old hand carelessly and goes on her merry way.

That's the thing with Nature, though. She's everywhere, or at least it seems she's everywhere. Going back down the main street of Bright, I found her there, too, where I saw that people had taken carbon compounds out of the tip of one of her fingernails and had turned them into tables, on which they served little slabs of Nature from her other hand, and had turned some very interesting creatures that had been roaming up and down her back, along with some rather fertile plants that had been growing exactly where you think they'd been growing, to customers. To complete the scene, I suppose, it would have been handy to have one of the plants in the kitchen suddenly evolve (in that way Nature has, of suddenly evolving into other things) into a boogeyman and lumber over to the customers to gulp them into its ravening maw. But no, Nature didn't oblige.

... And, when I got home, Nature was there, too, when I sat down on the couch. "Afternoon, Tim!" she announced brightly. And I looked around, and there she was - Nature - being all protonic and neutronic and atomic and stuff, with a couple off billion neutrinos and sub-atomic particles and electromagnetic radiation and Higgs Bosons being thrown into the mix.

You want to try communing with Nature? You can't get away from her!

Two people, one day: a Christmas couplet

1. Today is mince pies, presents, puddings too.

2. Today is walkies, wee-wees, rolls in poo.

Merry Christmas, everyone.

A Christmas dirge

Oh gosh, who would have thought, what do you know, this one (pausing dramatically, while someone rolls the drum, and someone else draws the curtains and someone else pops outside to get a quick cigarette and everyone else taps their fingers impatiently) - this one is from Badger's Dozen too!

A Christmas Dirge

My CD will not play!

My CD will not play!

I’ve tried and tried all day

And I suppose that I could try another one but then again the CD rack is much too far away -

Jingle all the way.

My pencil will not go!

My pencil will not go!

And when it does it’s slow!

And also plus I’m pretty sure I will not get another as a present but of course you never know.

Ho ho ho ho ho.

I have lost my chocolate bar!

I have lost my chocolate bar!

I weep and wail and wah

Perhaps but I could buy another at the store that’s half a block away but then again that half a block is half a block too far -

Fa la la la la la la la la.

My brother drank my beer!

My brother drank my beer!

I left it sitting here

I just left it for one minute when I came back it was gone and his whole face had a leer -

And a happy new year.

Nopinion column

Christmas ‘tis the season merry gentlemen good will to all star of wonder fa la la et cetera.

Right, now we’ve got that out of the way let’s get down to business, because the newspapers and the magazines and the periodicals and the circulars and the shows and everyone else certainly have. Did you know that Christmas is actually a pagan festival and Santa Claus actually doesn’t exist and St Nicholas probably didn’t either and he’s actually based on the Germanic God of War and what’s so Christian about the whole thing anyway and by the way how does Santa get around the world so quickly with all these presents anyway what’s with that? These undoubted facts, and other opinions like them, will be filling up all the publications at the moment. And also, did Jesus Christ ever really exist and if so he definitely almost certainly probably wasn’t the son of God and he certainly definitely almost probably wasn’t born on Christmas Day and he might not even have been born on 0 AD either so take that Christians?

It certainly is a merry and happy time of the year for newspaper columnists all over the world, isn’t it? What with the ostentatious disproving of this, and the self-satisfied deconstruction of that, it seems more or less the tradition amongst this lot to dispense with other traditions, the longer-held the better. You might think, of course, that people have always adapted traditions for their own ends, and there’s nothing wrong with that, but another tradition held by opinion columnists the world over says that that other tradition that you hold makes you an idiot.

But anyway, let’s not worry about that because did you know Christmas was actually meant to be a winter event and it was actually based on the Roman event of Saturnalia and actually it was a seasonable celebration of the winter solstice but what would Jesus say and by the way have you seen what comes out on TV at Christmas isn’t it boring oh heavens the pain why are they doing this to us? And you shouldn’t forget that isn’t Christmas shopping awful why are we spending so much money anyway isn’t this all about Mammon really it just proves how horrible capitalism really is and the Christmas office party is horrible and you won’t go and here is a list of 11 and a half tips of things to avoid at the party that you won’t go to probably involving the guy from IT and the photocopier that’s one thousand words thank you good day now please to pay.

News is the thing that distinguishes a newspaper from a toilet paper. And most of the time it’s fair to say they actually do have news to run with. The trouble is that, over Christmas, the news, or the people that are involved in the news, or the people that the news happens to, tend to pack up and go home, and all the newspapers are left with is a lot of space, and a need to fill that space.

But it’s not all bad, because did you know that in America they’ve started using the festive greeting happy holidays and isn’t that taking all the meaning out of Christmas but why should we celebrate Christmas in the first place and did you hear about the store that banned the nativity I am horrified and actually I think there’s nothing wrong with it I am so disgusted I think I might go and pass a pair of fully grown reindeers antlers and by the way did you know that Santa Claus is actually a Buddhist Ninja wearing a pair of magical underpants which he got from Atlantis and Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer was actually a communist spy that’s the significance behind the red nose bet you didn’t know that either did you no you didn’t?

I could go on and I suppose the newspapers will but in the meantime, good readers, Merry New Year, Happy Christmas, live long and prosper, and may the force be with youse all.

"Something something something something something something bah humbug!" - illustration from Dickens

Most-purpose thought

"It is important to maintain a regular flow."

This thought, it seems to me, could apply to just about everything in life, be it philosophy, writing, music, the weather, or matters relating to a persons urinary tract. Especially matters relating to a person's urinary tract, but all that other stuff, too.

I suppose it's not an all-purpose thought. But it's definitely a most-purpose thought.

Asking important questions

Why are so many people driving puce cars? And why does every puce car in Melbourne seem to be of the same model as every other puce car in Melbourne?

Or are they all the same puce cars?

Am I being shadowed by a spy in a puce car?

And doesn't this really raise troubling concerns about the taste in colours and preference in cars of the spy concerned? If they think it is appropriate to drive in a car that is coloured puce, what other crimes might they be capable of?

These are all important questions that I am asking myself this Monday evening.

Boldly Badgering on

It's been a bit quiet here on the blog front in the last month. I suppose you could blame lots of things (me, for instance.) My parents and brother visiting (or maybe it was just me). The need to buy presents (actually, no, I pretty much let the Baron handle that one, so you might be able to blame me for two things on that front).

Personally, though, I prefer to blame this blackguard.

Him. Badger. That's the one. He has been hogging the computer*, enveloping the whole house in clouds of smoke from his pipe, while touch typing articles with his paw for our latest issue of Badger's Dozen. It may not be the world's best zine, but it certainly is the world's most-spiffing-smashing-and-really-quite-very-capital-one. (Badger agrees).

And - you know what? - I reckon you just might want a copy. Yes, you there with the face (or snout, or pseudopodae, or whatever it is your species specialises in). It has, amongst other things, the exciting conclusion to Nottlesby's tale of terror on the high seas, and an amazing 13th century Latin map of the Ergonomic Office!

Go on, chaps! At three dollars it's the cheapest most-spiffing-smashing-and-really-quite-very-capital publication around! Hit us up at timhtrain - at - yahoo.com.au. That's my email, and also my paypal address. Badger will mail it out pronto!

*Bet you never thought a Badger could be a hog, did you?

Present mild, past tense

Last night, after presenting my brother with his, well, present, (a box set of early Dr Whos), he announced that he had already got this particular boxed set, and presented his present back to us.

This morning, after toddling down to the JB Hi Fi, he presently found a, well, what do you know, another present, a boxed set, which he presented to us. I presented this present to the people behind the counter, and presently was able to present this present back to my brother. Which he is presumably presently about to enjoy (after he gets back off the flight to Newcastle with my parents, I mean).

I've heard Christmas is supposed to be about the giving, not the taking, but, you know, having a fancy, shiny new DVD box set sitting on my table, I can't see anything wrong with it - at the present.

You Jason? You Jason? You want some Christmas cheer, very cheap?

The Parental Unit is in town, and today it was off to the city centre with them to avoid the Myer Christmas Window Event in Bourke Street. It seemed a pretty easy task at first; all along Flinders Street and up Swanston Street we managed to avoid it, and for about an hour after that, while we performed various tasks in the vicinity of Russell Street (dodging the chap who unsuccessfully tried to sell us 'very cheap' Christmas cheer on the corner of Russell and Bourke). We successfully avoided viewing the Christmas Window Event during lunch at the Shanghai Dumpling House, and continued this avoidance for another three hours at Melbourne Central shopping centre. It all came to a horrendous end, however, with everyone converging on Bourke Street, mid-afternoon, right in front of a certain window wherein could be found hideous plastic figurines, leering manically at the children outside, both figurines and children gurning at one another in a manner quite terrifying to behold, while a hollow voice boomed repeatedly from somewhere, 'You'd better watch out... you'd better not cry... HE KNOWS WHEN YOU'VE BEEN SLEEPING... HE KNOWS WHEN YOU'RE AWAKE... HE KNOWS IF YOU'VE BEEN BAD OR GOODSOBEGOODFORGOODNESSSAKE!'

We fled as soon as we could.

Such were the Christmas decorations in the city: in Lalor the Christmas decorations were of an entirely different order, consisting of:
- One (1) Garage lined with flashing lights in our street;
- Three (3) giant inflatable Santas in a backyard, tastefully several blocks away from ours;
And that's about it really. It is an entirely different place out here.

Things in point form

Chicken point - Daisy got clucky. She laid an egg and sat on it and sat on it and sat on it some more. We stole the egg from under her and gave her a golf ball. She rolled the golf ball under herself and sat on it. Griselda laid an egg. Daisy rolled it under herself and sat on it. We took Griselda's egg and gave Daisy a wooden egg. She rolled that under her, too, and kept on sitting on it. What's the fun in a clucky chicken? Now instead of walking everywhere and pooing everywhere, all she does is sit still and make cranky noises at us.

Bridesmaid point - Today we saw Bridesmaids lining up to get icecream. It was impressive. I was impressed. There is something fundamentally right about bridesmaids eating icecream. It is written into the order of the universe, it is just, it is the way, it is ordained. I observed as much to the Baron as we walked on and she pointed out that the Bridesmaids may just have been waiting while the grooms got icecream. I sincerely hope this is not the case; what is the point of a universe in which bridesmaids do not eat icecream sometimes? (Though personally, I think bridesmaids should eat icecream all the time.)

End point - .

Delightful dunny deities

Voltaire, in a passage of his Philosophical Dictionary devoted to changing conceptions of deity, alludes to a number of real or alleged Roman deities of a less exalted status:

La déesse des tétons, dea Rumilia ; la déesse de l’action du mariage, dea Pertunda ; le dieu de la chaise percée, deus Stercutius ; le dieu Pet, deus Crepitus, ne sont pas assurément bien vénérables. . . Il est sûr que deus Crepitus, le dieu Pet, ne donnait pas la même idée que deus divum et hominum sator, la source des dieux et des hommes.
"The goddess of breasts, dea Rumilia; the goddess of the marital act, dea Pertunda; the god of the toilet, deus Stercutius; the god Fart, deus Crepitus, were surely not quite objects of reverence. . . It is certain that deus Crepitus, the god Fart, did not give the same sort of idea as deus divum et hominum sator, the creator of gods and men."
— "Polytheism", entry in the Philosophical Dictionary of Voltaire.

Send thy thunder,
Great Pertunda,
In rolling waves about the land:
It shall defy
Great Zeus on high
Who doth with thunderbolts enforce his dread command.

At thy grumble
All are humble,
To thee both Prince and Pauper squat;
The strong are weak,
The brave are meek,
All duly sacrifice unto thy hallowed pot.

Mighty closet
Of deposit,
We pray thou holdst our piss fart shite
Snot spit and chunder,
Great Pertunda –
Accept these offerings we tend to thee tonight.

Dedicated to - who else? - that chap Diogenes.

Having disposed of my paper towels and my thoughts in the toilet where I found them

The sign in the toilets read, "please dispose of your paper thoughtfully."

Thoughtfully, I thought. But what am I supposed to be thinking of? What if in the very act of being thoughtful, and maybe even of thinking about being thoughtful, I would distract myself from the other important task of disposing paper towels that I had just used to wipe my hands? Are there other toilets around Melbourne that ask you to dispose of your paper brusquely, judiciously, hastily, grumpily, ponderously, sleepily, thankfully, jauntily, merrily, gloomily, or expeditiously? As I stooped over the bin and placed the paper towel in, I thought of myself wiping my hands and furrowing my brow in concentration, and formulating great philosophical theorems while doing so. (Though in fact I was merely thinking about being thoughtful). Or did they just want me to have some idle passing notion, a cheap used ponderance that anybody could have? Just exactly how thoughtful did they want me to be?

And so, having disposed of my paper towels and my thoughts in the toilet where I found them, I wandered off into the world to let the rest of the day have its way with me.

Talking literally, laterally

This is an intelligent poem: it regularly tops all the exams, and often appears on chat shows with other sonnets and ballads, talking about highly complex subjects that you do not understand.

This is a lively sentence: it ran from St Kilda to the city this morning, and plans on going to the gym this afternoon.

This is a full stop: it doesn't want to go on.

This is gluten, free: it escaped from the gluten prison last night and is hiding out with its other gluten buddies planning another bank heist.

This meal is vegan friendly: it says 'hi' to vegans when they walk by, and gets into chats with them about movies.

This is a full stop: it just wants to end it all.

This is a one-track mind: council plans on putting in the second track next February.

This is an erotic chapter: but maybe it should start by asking you out.

This is a full stop: it ate too much muffin before lunch.

This is a late train: it's late. Almost midnight.

This is an early train: it's late too.

This is conscious chocolate: it is alert and aware of its existence in this world, and is fully cognisant of the fact that you are about to put it in your mouth, thus ending its brief life.

This is a full stop: this is a full stop.

The old sock theory of television presenting

David Attenborough is a figure of such beaming benevolence that I believe he could talk at a funeral and leave everyone feeling happy and serene. Indeed, that is what he has been doing for most of his working life - providing a sunny and cheerful voiceover to documentaries wherein owls swoop down on mice, wolves hunt down bunnies, and lions commit various reprehensible acts on various smaller species of wildlife. Just imagine that familiar Attenborough voice, commenting, "A lion disembowelling a leopard." I can hear it as cheerful, matter of fact, perky, or instructional - but I just can't imagine Attenborough actually sounding horrified.

Maybe it's because I've grown up with Attenborough, somewhere, in the background, that he seems so nice and cosy, like a pair of old socks. (Okay, maybe less wooly, and with better elocution skills, and slightly more malarial than your usual pair of old socks.) But you have to wonder whether Attenborough's not also partially responsible for the dolphin-whalesong-flowers-and-loveliness generation.

Aside from funerals and charnel scenes of nature being red in tooth and claw, Attenborough can also narrate the most frightful bollocks and still seem all lovely and cosy. I heard him commit the following line on air just the other day:

Until such time, the question of whether it is too late to save the ocean will hang in the balance.

My first thought on this - well, my first thought was "aw, it's David Attenborough, he's like a lovely pair of old socks!" - but my second thought was, "huh? How can a question hang in the balance?" The line was from a scripted documentary - but I'm still not really sure what it means.

It's disturbing to think this lovely old fellow could have been going about all his life reciting lines like this, and making people feel all warm and lovely about the most absurd nonsense.

On the other hand, who else could narrate nature documentaries like him? Terry Wogan? I suppose Kenneth Branagh, who's played a number of Shakespearean tragic heros, and Frankenstein's monster, could really add that touch of gore and terror to nature documentaries. But really, the very thought is unthinkable. Nature documentaries without David Attenbourough? That's like imagining the Bishop of Canterbury without his beard. Or a cosy pair of old socks without, er, the old socks.

Hey look, there he is again! Awwwwwwwwwwwww.

Roof pants

If you just happened to catch the Epping line into Melbourne's north, and you just happened to get off at Lalor, and you just happened to come to our house, and you just happened to look up, you might just happen to see a pair of pants on the roof.

And if you just happened to see that pair of pants on the roof, and just happened to ask, 'why is there a pair of pants on the roof', well, then, I would not be in the least bit surprised.

Why are there a pair of pants on the roof? Well maybe we thought the roof was naked and it needed a pair of pants. Maybe its legs were getting cold. Of course you might go on to wonder whose pair of pants those are originally, but they're mine actually. And you might continue to speculate, if the roof is wearing my pair of pants, then what am I doing? But we're not talking about me, and besides, I think this chimney suits me very well indeed. Hey, maybe I thought Santa could do with an extra pair of pants, and since he's going to land his reindeer on the roof that's where he's going to get the extra pair of pants from. Pants, on the roof. Could there be anything in the world that requires less explanation? I wouldn't worry about it if I were you. And also, why don't you stop asking these questions and go and put a pair of pants on your roof, hmm? Hmm? Don't you do anything like this, like keep a haystack on your teapot, or a telephone in you pelmet or a Gutenberg bible in your orange peels?

AndactuallytherewasaholeinthetilesontheroofandourcatHarrietgotintotheroofandstayedtherealldayandwedecidedtoblockitupbecausewedidnt wanthergoingintherebecauseitmightbedangeroussoIputmypantsintheholeinthetilesontherooftTheEnd.

Chocolate! Everyone loves chocolate!

By clicking on a link found in a search on a wikipedia page that I'd opened for some reason or other for some person or other, I landed upon this rather interesting entry:

Wazoo (candy)
Wazoo (often known as the Wazoo bar) is a candy bar manufactured by Topps incorporated.... The name "Wazoo" was under debate because of the Australian slang word of anus. But the title was considered appropriate since it would only be sold in the U.S.

Well, since Frank Zappa released an album called 'The Grand Wazoo' I had rather assumed that the slang term was American in origin, but whatever.

It made me think of that other chocolate bar. What was it called... pofflewoffle... pollywofter... that's right...

Polly Waffle
Polly Waffle was a 50 gram Australian chocolate bar that was manufactured in Australia by Nestlé. It was a waffle wafer tube filled with marshmallow and coated in compound chocolate.

Now a quick search of Urban Dictionary will tell you that this is not the only use for this elegant, multi-faceted term.

Chocolate! Isn't it amazing what comparisons it brings to mind? I can think of a few other brands with similarly evocative terms that, with a little tweaking, could refer to something quite different...

Violet Grumble

Snickers spatters thighs!

You're welcome.

Department of redefinitions

Retail therapy - a form of veterinary surgery in which the tails of animals are sewn back on, after them having fallen off, with disastrous effects on the animals' health.

Polyunsaturated poetry

Great afternoon at the Dan yesterday listening to a poetry group calling themselves 'Poly Poetry' - which is to say, 'poetry of many possibilities'.

As for myself, I practice 'Polly Poetry'. Named after Polly the proverbial parrot: it's a weak imitation of the type of poetry that has been written at other times, by other poets, who are better, smarter, and older than me.

News on the booze and the screws

I was watching ABC News 24 the other day. (Well, I don't watch the television, as I told you, but let's just say it happened to be on and I happened to be near it when it happened to be on.) They were talking to federal Labor pollie Richard Marles, who's from around Geelong. Marles was banging on about the usual stuff the pollies do in the usual manner they do - not typically an incitement for listening - outside of the ALP National conference, one of those love-fests were all the Labor pollies get together and bang their collective heads together as an exercise in policy development, or something.

Anyway, Marles started talking about the importance of getting people into work. And all of a sudden, there were people in high-visibility work vests on the telly, doing things which looked very much like work. Then Marles went on to talk about the importance of an economic surplus, and how it was really important to have a strong economy. Lo and behold, images on the television appeared of a board in the stockmarkets, and people in the stockmarkets going back and forth doing important things which looked like they had something to do with money. (Then again they might have just been talking about their lunch, or just hanging out at a stockmarket party, or something, who knows.) Soon enough the subject turned to gay marriage, and - surprise - all this footage of men kissing men, and women joining hands with other women appeared on the television, almost as if they were getting married just as Marles spoke about them. After that the conversation turned to that favourite subject, 'global economic turmoil' (whatever that is - sounds to me like a kind of washing machine). What do you know, quick as a flash the ABC pointy heads displayed images of a big building with a gigantic Euro sign out the front of it, and then cut to another image of a big building with European-looking people walking outside of it (you could tell they were European-looking people because they looked just like other people).

I don't know, maybe it's just me, but it struck me as being all a bit strange. Doesn't the ABC like the idea of a politician standing in a room and talking about stuff? Do they feel the need to embellish every topic with standard stock images that they could have been running in news stories for decades? How much more literal could they have been? If Marles started talking about politicians 'sifting through the issues', would the ABC have run the image of flour running through a colander? If they could have found an image to illustrate the concept of 'conscience' they would certainly have gone with it, because the 'conscience vote' issue came up again and again.

Admittedly I'm biased. But really I think the ABC could have settled with this image of the whole conference:

Someone's got a screw loose? Or are we all going to be screwed? Either way it sums up affairs nicely.

Pounces and ounds

My head has been swimming lately with ounces and pounds and grams and baking powder and soda and hops and pounces and ounds. I have been confounded by questions about how many volumetric US kilograms are in a measured imperial thimbleful of beaten eggs, confuddled with abstruse questions such as how many dessert spoons are equal to a half of a third of four times of seven eighth of a pinch of a volumetric tonne of active years, and positively befounded with the problem of what to do with a bunch of egg whites once you have used the yolks if no-one wants meringues and you are sick of pavlova.

I have, in short, been cooking and brewing, planning further brewing and cooking, and preparing for the further excesses of Christmas. Or at any rate I have been doing a great deal of thinking about it and planning for it, which is almost as much trouble, and possibly even more angst-ridden. (What if it doesn't work? What if it explodes? What if nobody wants it? What if I'm leaving it too late?) It's that last one that's really starting to get me...

The other day, in preparation for the gourmet excesses that were to come, I went forth into the city on the grand and important task of collecting vegetarian suet. Vegetarian suet doesn't exist, of course - suet is a fat they collect from around the hearts of animals - so as you can imagine my investigation was made somewhat difficult. Eventually I found a store in the centre of town which stocked something called 'suet', and vegan to boot, which is to say it was probably made out of plastic. coincidentally, almost everything else in that store seemed to be made out of plastic as well, including the plastic wrapping on the buns, the plastic chocolates, and the life-save plastic monarch, Queen Elizabeth II, sitting in a homely manner in the chair on the opposite side of the store, kindly surveying my purchase of said plastic suet.

Will it work? Will the pudding explode? Who knows, but I'm certainly looking forward to giving it a red hot go tomorrow, with extra lashings of anxiety and brandy to boot.

Gnomenclature

Hobbitat - that place wot a hobbit lives in. (Not, as was previously speculated by certain now-discredited theorists, a mere hole in the ground.)