Monday, January 31, 2011

Like a great pink streak across the sun dried grass

I had a during-the-day catch up with the Bevester. He took me to his local shops - which has a nice eclectic cafe (1). We sat outside, the Beve's dog panting lightly at our feet - though with access to water as the cafe provides a dog bowl to outside punters when needed.

Having not seen the Beve for a while I mentioned some of the critical health fails I've had of late - one of them being food getting stuck in my gizzard on occasion.

Then, because the universe occasionally blesses us with serendipitous synchronicity, some food got stuck.

I drank a small amount of water ... and my mouth flooded with saliva with that time-honoured indicator of 'you have thirty seconds to find somewhere safe before you throw up'.

I tried to stagger around the corner but barely made it past a concrete shelter before it came out - a great livid bright pink spray across the browned grass, courtesy of having eaten beetroot minutes before.

I staggered back, mumbled an apology, then we left.

But the freaky thing is ... I got one of those post-vomit highs. Yes, when you chuck up enough you can get an endorphin rush from it. It's almost like the body is rewarding you for getting rid of poison. Or in my case it may have also been relief from the cramping pain I was suffering before throwing up then feeling instantly better afterward.

I do feel bad I didn't try and cover my pink-hued shame however.

(1) You know the ones ... their furniture looks like it was sampled from the best that hard rubbish roadside collection has to offer.

Sunday, January 30, 2011

It's Spag Night

We're having spag. The In-laws are here. They're in the lounge room. I've been sneaking into the kitchen to eat tea spoons of bolognese that's simmering on cool in the kitchen.

It's delicious.

TheBoy got a present. He played with it for like 10 seconds before he wandered off. Sigh. We're going to have to teach him to suck up better.

UPDATE: TheWife transferred the bolognese to a glass bowl. Only it wasn't big enough. There was a bulge in the middle. 'It's a meaty meniscus!' I shouted. I wish I'd said 'It's the meaty meniscus miracle we've been praying for' but it's too late.

UPDATE PART 2 - I don't know what they're watching in the lounge room but the woman's expressionless voice sounds like background sound in a first person shooter - where the voice is coming over a loud speaker in some hellish landscape devoid of life, wind stirring a torn battle flag under a swollen lightning flecked sky. It's like the German voice calling on the Soviets to surrender in Call of Duty. It's freaking me out.

Extreme Anal Action

Popcorn from 0.16 In Up Under

I'd been feeling the bloats and, now aware of the seven stool signs, I was tracking my shits.

I was doing ones (1).

So, having experimented with daily laxative intake I elected to go a half square.

Yeah half square ... whole lot of ouchies.

It turned the poo spigot from a one to a seven with but a single stoppered stops no more stop on three.

Severe cramping pain is now dulled by heavy medication. Can't risk a fart in case it's a shart. Have to sit for every visit.

My poor gurgling wounded bear-tummy (gives soothing pats, coos like a concerned pigeon).

The in laws are coming now. Sigh. I will have to use my sexy Aqua Mist bottle more often, which is no biggie because its trigger action is SWEEEEEEEET (2).

Finally, an apology to all you poor googlers who are accidentally going to come here because of the post title. It was deliberate. I wanted more people to visit. Who knows perhaps someone coming here seeking a gaping wounded anus post intercourse will stay and read awhile. Maybe we'll become blog friends and e-hang out. Though I will have to upfront with them that the subject matter of a fun-filled conversation piece they may like to open convos with should change tack if it's going to be RE: a gaping wounded anus post intercourse.

(1) Hmm, that's confusing because ones are assigned to wizzers outside of that poo scale. Ideally it should have been an alphabetic scale to reduce confusion. Someone should tell Mr Bristol.
(2) I love it so much I filled in a customer feedback form with the peeps that make it. Alas they never got back to me. I think it was because I alluded to Milfs in it.

Bin Laden hates this car

I love The Washington Post. It's an excellent quality paper with great US federal politics coverage and world politics analysis. If it has a fault - and it's not really a fault because it's important to have balanced opinion pages - it's that I occasionally have to read Krauthammer, Gerson, Thiessen or George F Will's columns (1). They're like Gerard Henderson or Magic Water in the SMH but on crack.

While waiting for theWife to rise and tag out wrangling of theBoy (2) I was perusing the Post and came across the article where the columnist got to take home the Chevy Volt for a few days.

The Volt appears to be evidence at last that the fourth wave of innovation is here. Even though it uses mains power that is still largely fueled by coal, its daily charge averages in cost at a $1.50. That's a range of about 40 miles use (3) - and 40 miles or less represents 75% of car journey distances.

All I can say is ... I wantee.

Imagine a future where the supply of oil no longer is one of the major elements of world politics. That's what the Volt represents.

Wow. The future rocks!

(1) All thus named being actual or effectively Republican functionaries in various former Republican administrations. Theissen, a former George W Bush speech writer, actually wrote a book defending the Bush administration's use of torture. What an oily creep.
(2) On weekends I get to sleep in on Saturday and theWife gets to sleep in on Sunday. When I tag out on the Sunday I usually go back to bed for a little bit since theBoy has woken me at 7 am to jump on me, lower half naked, and bounce up and down on my oncewasslumbering
form to gravely inform me that he has done a wee.
(3) Its petrol engine then kicks in and gives a range of 300 miles. It gets about 37 miles to the gallon which I think is about 15 kays to the litre. Which is pretty good. My shitty old white car gets 10 kays to the litre. The Hummer, no longer made, got I think 1 kay to the litre. I imagine the ultimate Bogan vessel of the stretch Hummer would get even less.

We have it so good

Having grown up in a stable fully developed wealthy country then it's hard for me to imagine what it would be like not to have grown up in such a place. Such a concept is an abstract.

I have to admit under the Howard years I idly thought what would Australia be like if it lurched towards the police state model. I even had the plan to carefully cultivate a couple of right-wing friends I could blurt the names of if I ended up blood-caked in some sort of extra-judicial interrogation as means of protection - assuming those friends ended up in the official puffy-directing-pants machine of fascism that had taken hold of the country. I confess too I actually had a code phrase to let people know I'd been picked up under the two week held without charge in secret detention legislation that at one point was pending (and I think actually exists) for when I got to use my one phone call to say 'I'm safe but I can't say more than that.'

But such flights of fancy were exactly that. I knew Oz would never go that way because the public were too powerful to let it happen. Too many people within public life would never let that happen - despite the vaunted attempts of some of the jackboot inclined in the opposition ranks to retard civil liberties in the name of some sort of amorphous slightly Islamic-tinged threat to the broader people because it gave them a short term political benefit or because it was something they actually believed. Such as Fred Nile who dislikes it when ladies wear too few clothes or too many, the latter because you see they could be nesting a bomb under their garments.

The people of the middle-east by and large do not have the benefits I do. They live in resource poor countries with the limited or non-existent ability to change their rulers. They are in a word oppressed, their rights to organise, to discuss, to talk, to vent, to protest retarded and with the ever-present reality of actually having the security apparatus pick them up, taken them to a hidden place, and torture the crap out of them for weeks on end.

However those people now have a benefit on their side - technology. In the past governments could easily restrict idea-flow through censorship and control of means of mass-information - the press, printing presses, radio, and tv-stations. There's a reason why coup plotters always head for the radio and TV stations when attempting Operation 'My turn to loot!' (1).

But no longer because with the internet anyone has the ability to be a dissident publisher and organiser. Evidence of government abuses can be uploaded in real time in seconds. Movement of people can be organically hive-mindedly organised via Twitter in seconds. Government papers - which Guy Rundle pointed out in pre-internet days took a fair amount of effort and restricted access to copy in order to leak - can be copied then put online in seconds. This is why the Egyptian government tried to turn off the internet in Egypt. This is why the Chinese government has invested so many resources to maintain their Great Firewall of China.

Globilisation works for ideas and information as much as it does for trade. Just as conditions in developing countries rise with the flow of employment and money to them, because companies seek cheaper labour, then ideas and information and the ability to use the tools of modern communication also flow.

This can only be a good thing.

So this is a big shout out to all those in developed countries yearning to have what I take for granted - a government that works for the greater good and not a kleptocracy of key families who leech wealth and value from their people and keep their heads pressed into the sand.

Rock on my Tunisian and Egyptian brothers. I'm rooting for all of you.

The fact I can say this from my loungeroom without fear of nameless government functionaries coming around to then disappear me again reinforces just how lucky I am. I hope one day you have that too and, for those of you in transition to that, that it goes as smoothly as it can.

(1) Though of course if they tried that in Oz they'd have to also send lads out to capture the Black Thunder mobile prize give-away cars that troll the suburbs with their evil icy cold cans of coke and Who weekly mags...

Thursday, January 27, 2011

Fill in the rest of your beard?

Oz Day 2011 - arr, there be pirates...

We didn't go out this year. Instead we stayed home and pottered around the house.

This way we avoided all the over-jingoistic crap that goes hand-in-hand with Australia day, such as the Australian flag being turned into temporary skin-art and/or car based accouterments, and bogans shouting demands for proof of OzLove to passing traffic which could only be assuaged by the illegal use of a car's horn (1).

However, that being said, I treasure the success Australia has in embracing migrants. I give a big shout-out to all those people who yesterday attended a citizenship ceremony, either for themselves or friends or family.

By and large, minor blips aside, Australia is a placid place where people are left to practice their faiths and/or follow whatever cultural path they deem fit for their family.

The best example I've seen of this is The Belconnen Pirate ship.

Westfield malls in Canberra - there's two (Belconnen and Woden) - each have free play areas that are piracy themed. Soft-fall cover with activity nodes and in Belconnen's case a clamber-thru netting-mesh framework with various cushioned obstacles to squeeze over, past, or under.

On a weekend there's usually between four and two dozen kids using the pirate ship.

The other day we were there on a weekend. The parents or carers were seated on the padded benches opposite the open-side of the playground.

I couldn't help but notice the wide variety of people there. There were Asian Australians, Middle-Eastern Australians, Anglo Australians, and Mediterranean Australians. Some wore cultural dress, some wore typical flopping out of the house clobber. I had one of my ripped t-shirts on.

As the parents and carers watched on, their kids all played together. If one kid got a bit ansey about sharing something like an activity station then a parent/carer stepped in to referee it. The kids were well behaved. They didn't push each other. They didn't fight. They didn't call each other names. They were from all colours that mankind offers - white, red, black, brown, and yellow.

Laughing, happy, fun-seeking kids from varied backgrounds all just playing nice together.

To me that's Australia. We're pretty good at getting along with each other, no matter where we're from, or religion we have, or what cultural attire we're dressed in.

So with that happy Australia Day (2).

(1) My all-time favourite driving test fail was this story I heard from my home town. Dude is going for his test. As he's driving out out of the exit to the RTA with his tester he sees his mates across the road. He laughs and honks and yells about how he's going for the test. They jeer and flip him off and so forth. The tester fails him on the spot and makes him drive back in to the entrance on the other side of the building.
(2) I still wish we could move it to January 2 as a homage to Federation (2a) instead of the loaded date that is January 26, but I don't see that happening in my lifetime.
(2a) Yes, yes, Federation happened on Jan 1 but that's already a public holiday for New Years. If you stack Jan 2 on then it because an uber-celebration! One for the New year and another for the celebration of when we became a continental sized country. Great stuff.

Tuesday, January 25, 2011

Area man adds a new awesome voice to his nerdy repertoire

When I play table-top role-playing games I like to do voices. Whether as a GM or as a player I embrace attempting to do accents.

Sometimes they work - I can do a reasonable South African, even if it does sound like an amalgam of all the villains from Lethal Weapon 2 ("Drove her car right off the fucking road"). Sometimes, not so much - my elderly Native American Shaman was a bit of a fail.

Recently I started a game of Rogue Trader. No, nothing to do with Nick Leeson or the delightful boppy band of the same-name-just-add-s. It's an offshoot of the Warhammer 40k RPG whose gaming mechanics I confess I find rather elegant. I good blend of stat-linked skills where skill adds a modifier to a roll against one of seven characteristics (e.g. Strength, Ballistic Skill, Intelligence).

I was the head honcho of the group.

Now you'd be surprised - or perhaps not - about the actual interpersonal mechanics of playing a role-playing game. There's several players, typically three to five, and the referee (aka Game Master, Dungeon Master etc.). The referee describes the environment ("You go into a ten by ten room. There's a skeleton in the corner. A centipede, perhaps taking flight at your intrusion, scurries out of an eye socket and heads for a crack in the wall") and handles the opposition (monsters, villains, mooks, innocent bystanders, your character's mother - "Eat, you're so skinny! Your friends too!").

But the dynamics of group play is that you don't have a leader on the player's side and you debate courses of action in-game (i.e. in character "Thargo, check the chest!") or out of game ("Your character has a search mod of more than +8 right? Can he check it?"). There's sometimes argument, though that's generally down to a rules interpretation in the players Vs the GM side of things, but by and large you don't have a player telling the other players what to do (1).

However in-game, sometimes there is a hierarchy within the characters by dint of the needs of the plot. For example, one of the characters is a Prince and the others are his retainers. Even with that in-game power as the player running that character you make sure that your ordering around is in character or in-game and out of character you debate and discuss as normal.

Because at the table no one likes an arsehole that demands their own way. Strong personalities can and do wreck gaming groups or force people to seek a game elsewhere. Quoth the Simpsons, "like people, some of them are just jerks".

So my character was in charge in-game. During the in-game interactions with the GM being the respondent to your character's dialogue, and if you're playing a head honcho, it sometimes makes it hard for the others to leap in and offer suggestions as to what to say - since tradition is when talking out of character about options it is presumed that in-game your characters are likewise talking about options and unless you have telepathy the GM is fair to say 'Er ... the watchman can see you're whispering. You think he might have heard the words "Cosh him", "Go the goolies" and "You stomp on his head").

So as head honcho, when without back up, then I can and do get lost sometimes. Or suggest courses of action that are not wise - like getting my bodyguard to pull out his massive homo-erotic super weapon to show the Captain of the ship who we're visiting with, and thus gravely insulting him.

He was offended. But then I had to ask his permission to go to the toilet which I thought was fucked, especially since he was applying expected code of behaviour to a civilian. Arse-hat.

Anyway, as head honcho with my trading character I needed a "voice". Having just read Harry Harrison and Gordon R Dickson's Lifeboat, about an escape pod filled with humans and aliens from a doomed exploded space-liner, I decided that, like those characters, mine had a deep tan from UV artificial light. That image of a short, balding (2) older man put me instantly in mind of Pete Postlethwaite's (3) character in The Usual Suspects, where he played a Pakistani lawyer that works for the mysterious uber villain. His accent was a kind of scholarly muted Indian accent (4).

So I went with that. You know what? I think it worked. I'm keeping going with the goodness of a dodgy recreation of a movie Pakistani accent.

(1) I always did laugh at the examples of play in older Dungeons and Dragons rule books where the example session group of players had a "spokesman" for the group. Yeah, right, in what fucking universe of actual game play has there ever been an official player spokesman for the players? Well, never-ever in my experience.
(2) Hey ...
(3) RIP Pete Postlethwaite, who died on 2 January this year. He was a superb (3a) actor and I celebrate his entire catalogue. Check out the miniseries The Sins where he plays an ex-con going straight as an undertaker in the family firm. He was also awesome as the dad in In The Name of the Father.

(3a) Damn you Orangejuiced...(corrected thanks to comments).
(4) I'm assuming Pakistani and Indian accents in English sound quite similar (happy to stand corrected; I have no idea if a native Urdu speaker speaking English sounds like a native Hindi speaker speaking English).

The reeking smell of death

When we got back in the car after picking up theBoy from daycare there was a terrible stench when we opened the door.

We thought it came from outside ... but it lingered as we left. Even with the AC on and windows open it was still there - though muted in impact.

When I went off with the car later the smell was back. I assumed I'd gotten road carcass mank splatter on the underside of the car and I was going to go through a 24 hour car wash at some point to get rid of it. But first, I had to hang out with some people.

The car sat outside for a few hours ... then I went to get back in. I had a guest with me. I warned him about the potential smell.

Then I opened the door. The smell hit us in the face like a dueling glove ... if that glove was made of rotted flesh and wetly sprayed fouled meat juices.

We actually had all the windows down ... with our heads leaning outside on the drive back.

When I made it home I started the investigation. With my hand-cranked torched I carefully sniffed and looked and moved assorted crap out to the side of the drive. I approached theNoo's seat, sniffing feverishly.

The smell was worse.

Then ... then I opened the boot.

The culprit ... 12 chicken drumsticks (1) left in a green-bag since Sunday.

Dear God the smell. I turfed the bag into the wheelie bin but I hope it doesn't overly funk it out. I may have to retrieve it and double plastic bag.

Luckily for us no liquid rot had made it out of the plastic wrapping on the meat trays so there's no danger of ever-present rotten meat funk lingering in the boot.

Still ... epic forgotten shopping left in the boot during summer fail for the Mikey family.

(1) There's a dick trick called a chicken drummie. I think it's where you grasp the shaft and pull upwards with one hand and with the other hand you pull down the neck of the scrotum so as to show where the base of the shaft connects to the ball sack. You then yell out "Chicken Drummie". The preferred performance location to do this trick is when going through the drive-thru at a fast-food chicken franchise (1a).
(1a) The Belconnen Red Rooster lost its S to vandals again. In my 14 years in Canberra I can only recall one short period where it was actually lit up and working. Give it up Red Rooster. It's never, ever going to survive. This is Australia. If there's a way we can turn major signage into a crude synonym for intercourse then we shall embrace it every time.

That's how I roll

Today I wrote a text. At the end of it I inserted an * symbol.

Then I put in spaces.

Then Inserted another * symbol and added some additional afterthought text.

Yes, that's right ... I footnoted a text message.

I rock*

*You know it.

Say what ...?

So I was cruising to the interweb to check out my blog. The computer was not a normally used one so I typed the address in manually.

I got this.

It took me ages to realise that it was a typo that caused me to go there. For a second I thought I'd been blog-jacked.

So as far as I can tell some dude is doing that domain stalking of a misspelled website URL thing and selected my site as one of those to be targeted.

But why me? I have maybe three hits a day.

If he paid $80 for that domain name then he got himself a costly spanking. Suck that right into your customised bible Mr e-Paper Moon.

UPDATE: I didn't understand basic domain functionality. As Patrick (comments) pointed out they didn't buy my domain name - they bought the blogpsot domain. My Harrangueman component bit doesn't count. Still ... I do find it a little ironic that a super Christian come hither and buy our religious tat website is using a spoil tactic to gain traffic. Unless of course that's just the ad of the day against there or something.

Monday, January 24, 2011

Calling Elvis...

Elvis died as a bloated wreck of a man, found unresponsive near the toilet.

Last year one of his doctors came out and said what he felt actually killed Elvis was severe constipation. Here's a link to the article charmingly titled 'A little less constipation' (1). Apparently in addition to a king-sized talent he had a king sized colon, greater in width and length than a normal person. Therefore he had slow motility - the process by which the body passes food through the bowel system. The result ... towards the end ... Elvis was, as far as his bowel system was concerned, literally full of shit.

Now I don't have a large colon for I'm sure my lower half of the two snakes test I had would have noted that in the results. But I do have slow motility. Some days my system works 'okay'. Other days, not so much.

Early this morning I received the joy of not-so-much at extreme 'energy drink advertisment featuring para-gliding snowboarders slaloming down helicopter-only accessible glaciers' intensity. I awoke in such searing pain that lasted so long I was about five minutes from calling an ambulance. I was able to pass a little bit of gas and crap to take the edge off, but only after a fair amount of time crying on the toilet. Finally I reached a point where meds had kicked in combined with my sleep deficit and having been able to go a little bit I risked leaving the confines of the stall and headed back to bed.

When I woke up again ... the pain was back. But this time I was able to actually pass a lot more so the pain got dialed back much more quickly.

At the peak of the pain, and conscious that 3 am is the traditional time for people to die on the toilet, I admit I got a little fearful. But my heart was okay, I didn't have any chest pain, so I was able to talk myself down from the mortality fear.

However the pain from the cramping and bloating was exquisite - and it turns out I am more manly than I thought because I didn't pass out. I don't want to be manly. I want to be a girlie man and pass out from extreme pain. I don't like extreme pain. Extreme pain and I do not get on.

The pain has dropped to about a seven now.

Now I think I will whimper.

(1)"Hilarious" header ... except it doesn't work in that truncated state. Ideally it should have been prefaced with 'Elvis could have done with ...'.

Sunday, January 23, 2011

Story-time with Mikey

One of my child-wrangling duties is story-time. Unless theBoy decides it's a case of MUMMYDOIT!

Tonight I suggested one of the Winnie the Pooh books - Blackberry Surprise!

'I think it's about the first time Pooh does anal!' I said brightly.

TheNoo rejected it.

Friday, January 21, 2011

Did I trip Google's Gaydar?

I noticed when I posted that last post that an ad popped up to the right of the just-posted screen.

Here's the screen snapshot of the ad.

Now I get the online comedy ad appearing, chosen I presume because of my attempts at comedy and a key-word search analysis of my blog. Not so much for the KIA though, maybe it was a broadcast effort on Google's part.

But the double gay play for my attention - and even tailoring to a presumed love of Ebony men - that seems a tad left field.

Don't get me wrong. Rock on my gay brothers (raises fist in salute). But it does seem odd for Google to assume I play for the lads only team because I occasionally talk about my appreciation of attractive men - but that's from an aesthetic viewpoint, not innie-outie.

Oh wait ... maybe it's because I happened to mention the actor "Rain" was super-hot ... then there's my laminated man-hug card posts (1) ...

Or maybe Google overheard me when I offered to get S a coke and said 'You are clearly a man in need of 375 ccs of ebony fluid...'

At any rate it's an epic google targeting fail because even if I was a potential hair-bear I am just too gosh-darned ugly to play for that team.

(1) I was going to add John Krasinski to my card but now I feel all shy...

Common courtesy

I went for a lunchtime walk.

I am hefty and I sweat. I suppose hefty people sweat more because there’s more surface area to sweat from. Also, since they’re expending more energy than normal people just to move on account of the extra weight, chances are they produce more sweat anyway.

So that’s the physiology done and dusted.

After my walk I went to the luxury stall to go the toot. The luxury stall is at the end. Its door opens outward and while it doesn’t have a hook for your hat it does have a pair of Jesus-bars to assist the mobility disinclined to lower themselves onto Percy Porcelain.

I think the stall may be slightly wider as well.

So I use that one when it’s free, as long as of course, there’s a one stall buffer. If there’s not I will just go down a floor. Though that can and does backfire since once I ended up being stall denied so much I ended up in the café’s toilet on the ground floor.

I lower myself. And I slip around on the seat. Yes, just like how it happens when you take a mid-shower break for an urgent sit down with your bowel system and don’t towel off. It's on account of my walk-induced sweaty arse. I even had to use the Jesus bars to maintain position. I felt like that other La Paglia from that Sci-Fi TV Show where he had to pilot a time travelling sphere to the past in order to avert a tragedy.

So I unfinished my unpleasant number twos and decided that to be fair to the rest of the super-stall using population I needed to wipe the seat down.

It’s just basic consideration. Even if it dried off before the next user no one should have to sit on the congealed sweat from a fat man’s arse.

Thursday, January 20, 2011

So ... just watched Ninja Assassin

In the '80s there was a brief blip of ninja-lust in the public consciousness. Ninja showbags at the Royal Easter Show, Ninja shows on tellie, a bunch of hunky ex-gymnasts playing martial arts dudes that may or may not have been ninjas at the flicks.

Yep, I said flicks.

But like their namesake, and like yo-yo crazes, they Kaiser-Soze'd from the public's mind.

Now ... they're back. Well, sort of. In the form of Ninja Asssassin.

First up I love the tautology. I suspect it was done so because the title was potentially confusing for 12 year old boys who are the main target of such assassiny fare and they might not realise a Ninja is in fact an assassin (1).

Now some notes.

CGI fire is very much hit and miss in movies. Sometimes it can look awesome. Other times cheap and nasty - like it's a free add on accessory for your smartphone's camera where you can festoon an image with comedy hats and monocles and other shit. Ninja Assassin's CGI fire ... not good.

CGI blood likewise is hit and miss. The colour - I don't know if it was stylistic or something, perhaps a homage to martial arts computer games - was almost scarlet.

Also swords don't generally sound like a wobble-board when waved around. I would argue for ninjas having a weapon that sounded like an improvised instrument Rolf Harris has wellmilked for forty years is somewhat of a drawback.

Finally while I do appreciate the mind-numbing hotness of the South Korean actor who played the protagonist, the obligatory 'couldn't be a 100% Ninja because it meant killing innocents' renegade (2), I did find it somewhat weird how they ghosted over his hot body this seated portly middle-aged balding fellow during scenes where super-hot ninja (3) was splendidly lit and in the centre of the frame. It fully detracted from my aesthetic enjoyment of his hotness. It was an unusual CGI move and I have to ask why they did it and ... oh ... I see ...

... that was just my reflection on the tv's screen ...

(1) Though not aimed at 12 year old boys but a higher AB monied up mature demographic, the producers of the The Madness of King George the Third also faced a dilemma in they were worried punters would think the movie as named was a second sequel as opposed to it being King George III. So they renamed it, dropping 'The Third' (1a).
(1a) In the despicable teen romp Hot Chili, which I and the Beve have see at least twice in our glorious sun-dappled youth, the owner of the Mexican resort where the vagina-seeking quartet of teen male protagonists had taken a Summer job, kept announcing his name which ended with 'the third'. Only his hilarious accent mangled it to 'the turd'. I also love that the reaction of the glasses nerd when he saw the fat one of the group frozen in embrace with a buxom staff member in the walk-in freezer wasn't 'OH MY FUCKING GOD, THEY'RE FUCKING FROZEN, DIAL THE MEXICAN EQUIVALENT FOR 911!' but a jealousy laden 'Aw ... I'm never going to get laid.'
(2) When the Drizzt Do'Urden novels became popular you couldn't move in the Underdark for the numbers of rogue now good but monstrously spiritually wounded by their cancerous culture dual-weapon wielding Drow wandering around (2a). Many, many, many players attempted to play slightly tweaked versions of this most beloved Dungeons and Dragons derived literacy character in the history of sword and sorcery novels. Player 'He's a Chaotic good Drow fighter with a halberd in each hand' ... GM '-12 to hit with each weapon and a dex check at -5 to get through a doorway.'
(2a) I can imagine some sort of 'So you've become good' helpful literature made available for newly renegade drow or even conventions for such where topics are covered like 'surviving that alignment detect spell' and stalls selling the fantasy equivalent of the air-freshener pine-cone for the rear view mirror to throw pursuing wolf-spider and their drider masters off the scent.
(3) For a Ninja master he spent a lot of the movie without his mask and without a shirt.

Wednesday, January 19, 2011

I love 2011

It's 7.25 pm and The Daily Show just had a joke about ejaculate.

What an awesome age we live in.

A man yes I am and very proud of it!

Today the look-at-me-lads were out at play.

The LAMLs are a bunch of semi-fit to fit guys who play random ball sports on the half oval that is at the office-park where I work.

Next to the oval is a bunch of snazzy looking bench seating. It has no shade. It does however have an ample supply of slender attractive twenty something junior-mid ranking office females who pretend not to be watching the boys just like the boys pretend that their evolutionary ultimate aim of innie-outie is not a consideration in their chosen pastime (1).

Today's special was soccer. The ball left the field just as I was passing. I trotted and grabbed it. The dude on the line had his arms up in the classic 'wave them all around like you just don't care Will I Am version of Move It' position.

What the fuck.

I checked the traffic was clear and drop kicked it. The kick was true. It hit the top of its arc and sailed gently into his dropped hands. A faint ragged chorus of 'thanks' rippled across the road as I strutted off, madeconfident by my sudden display of basic ball proficiency and therefore in today's fightflightfree slash nokillorbekilled world now considered a warrior by the ladies watching with moist calculation from the sidelined benches.

When I was in high-school the trend of basket-ball being THE sport had arisen. At lunchtimes the largest chunk of the lads would drift down to the back multi-function courts to do baskets. One day I went along for the hell of it. I decided to join a game. Lanky Peter M, one of the top tier kids didn't like me (2). And it was his ball. 'Yeah,' he said. 'He can play...' He paused to sneer in the best traditions of a blonde upper-class muscled bully in an '80s rite-of-passage movie '... but only if he gets a basket.'

He tossed me the ball.

Fuck it. I sent it up ... and it dropped neatly through the basket.

With my ten-year old's upper buddy strength - even though I was nearly seventeen - and with an already fierce determination to be a sedentary worker lazing down what musculature I had, that was a one in a hundred shot. I got to play but all I remember is being on the outside of the pack Dr Zoidberg-ing (3) back and forth knowing I was never going to get the ball.

Still it was a kewl much cherished high-school memory. A tiny pinprick of light in a prick-of-to-experience phase of coming of age.

Yes I am a man - a warrior man - and very proud of it.

Now I think I will go for a scuttle ... whoop, whoop, whoop, whoop.

(1) One of the themes I loved in Feist's Magician was the fact the two main protagonists of Pug and Tomas were grappling with issues of puberty and of girls going from yick to yummie! The pick-up game of choice for teen boys in the book is barrel ball, from which I can tell seems to be soccer with contact allowed and the goal is a barrel. During the game the girls of the keep are in the same courtyard. The boys are all perving on the girls and the girls are pretending not to notice or to not perve back. I haven't read one of his new books after the last book of the Riftwar follow on series - when I think Krondor got blown up. I shall have to give it another crack. Feist is a real inspiration. He was a gamer and a white-collar govie worker who drifited I think into game supplement writing. Then, one day, he sat down and set out to write a book. And what a book! What a series. Feist, truly/madly/deeply/hate you . The series he did with Janny Wurts, The Empire Trilogy, is one of my all time other favourite series.
(2) His life ambition was to become a dentist. Mission accomplished. He's still in my home-town with a likely very successful practice. Whoopie.
(3) Wow, Billy West does his voice too. Next to Dan C of The Simpsons and, well, the rest of the cast of The Simpsons, he's my favourite voice-artist ... behind the man who used to do the sci-fi movie narration for movie previews ("Deep in the hellzone...").
(3a) I was in year ten when we got a VCR. The local video shop had free tapes of movie previews. Just one hundred and thirty or so minutes of preview after preview. I'd get them out and imagine ... actually being able to hire a video like a normal person unlike in my family with its puritan 'no TV after dinner' rule that was brought in... but neatly avoided by younger brother who simply liberated the small black and white TV from the guest room and brazenly put it on his dresser. I hated him for that. Blackly. For years. For both the actual damage - I used to go and hang out in the guest-room and watch it - and sad damage - my parents said it was okay because he was the youngest and hadn't seen as much TV as us. WTF?

Web Find!

I read somewhere that blog is a portmanteau of web log. The dude who invented the term apparently made no money. His idea of blogs was basically a list of kewl shit he found on the web. And remember kittens this was last millennium ... so there wasn't as much that was cool.

Here's a find.

A Tubedubber - ombine the sound from one clip with the video from another. I found out about it from here.

I had no idea they existed.

It's just after midnight. I am watching American Splendor. When Pekar died I mumbled something about how he was a pre-internet blogger, a proto-blogger. Watching this film again makes me suspect my mumbling was on to something. His comic was a collection of random real life stuff with wondering at the broad scheme of things. He also wanted to leave a mark - and don't we all in some way? Whether through children or achievement or living a good life. Except of course if you're a childless lazy person who loves evil.

In reading the wiki on blog it mentioned there's 112 million blogs being followed by a blog tracker. I wonder how many of them will survive Facebook? Is blogging the mimeograph to facebook's photocopier? If the quality of ads on blogspot is any indication then yeah ... big time. They keep flab-teasing me with a 'weird secret' that will allow me to lose 3/8th of a teaspoon of me fatty gulliver (grabs tummy flab, does the wobble face) when I go to the just posted screen.

I don't care about facebook (1). I was born in this blog and I will die in this blog, consarnit!

If Blogspot's life support is pulled I hope they give us plenty of warning so we can archive this stuff. That way future generations doing their e-genealogy can put it in their deeply never clicked on e-archive. Perhaps one day I will then be re-discovered ...

ZORTAN MIKEY'S-LASTNAME: Duude, I have found something in the Mikey's-Lastname e-archive.

SLUUP MIKEY'S-LASTNAME: What is it snood-radbad?


SLUUP MIKEY'S-LASTNAME: Blog? Dub Tee Eff my frazzle... Dub Tee Eff.'

ZORTAN MIKEY'S-LASTNAME: It's how they used to sad-bitch in the beforetimeago. Before the great book of faces - PRAISE ZUCKERBERG!

SLUUP MIKEY'S-LASTNAME: PRAISE THE ZEE! Beforetimeago. Sheit. Do I have read it? Or can I just like dream-cast it.

ZORTAN MIKEY'S-LASTNAME: Sorry snazzle, this purty parcel is t-bone alone, all words, no dream-spray.

SLUUP MIKEY'S-LASTNAME: If you pay me two fraznars I'll eyeball it. Anything good?

ZORTAN MIKEY'S-LASTNAME: WordFreq says his no-fives are fat, sad, ARGGHH, fuckwit, and antiquing.

SLUUP MIKEY'S-LASTNAME: That be snezzy. Let's fish-finger.

(The holo tank then shows six fingered hands twizzling fingers from above and below).

Ah good times...

(1) I can't be arsed enough to link to it but I have read a few articles where media future types are telling the kids to be careful about what they reveal on social networking sites since it can and does come back to bite them. Seriously, if you openly brag about taking a sickie and your privacy settings are all 'come hither all the little children of the earth picture of Jesus with differently shaded younglings looking up from all around him' then you can hardly complain when a supervisor finds out. I read another article - again can't think where - where companies were alleged to have asked job interviewees to long on to their facebook accounts there and then so they could look at them. When I was trying my one of twelve job attempts a then guerrilla interview ambush question was alleged to be 'tell us something you've never told anyone.' I was always terrified I'd do the line from Crazy People where a stressed ad-man at product round-table is asked the exact same thing by his boss says 'I ... like ... small ... boys.'

Tuesday, January 18, 2011

Wikfin - goose step

Interior: Day, Barracks.

Two German soldiers are cleaning their kit.

HANZ: Ja, I do so like to do it. It’s like straight skipping


HANZ: Vhen is ze next time we get to step out?

FRUNTER reaches for a peace of paper. Atop the paper is a stylized pair of legs doing a goose step.

HANZ: Vell?

FRUNTER: You are not going to believe it. Guess.

HANZ: St. Freedenburg’s day?


HANZ: Vhat? But ze little children like to dance und prance alongside us!

FRUNTER: Apparently last year ve kicked too many down by accident. There was trampling.

HANZ: Surely Prussian Eyes Downcast Day vhere we keep our eyes on ze ground in deference to our betters.

FRUNTER: Nein. Zat was also cancelled from an appearance on Prussian Eyes Downcast Day. Zere were issues with looking where we were going. Ve ended up in a nunnery. Zere was ze nun…

HANZ: Ja, ze nun. Right in the middle of her wimple.

FRUNTER: Ja. Ze wimple.

HANZ: So vhat are zey saying. Vhen vill we goose step again?

FRUNTER smacks the paper.

FRUNTER: It says here … Hitler’s birthday, Hitler’s girlfriend’s day, Hitler’s dog’s day—

HANZ (interrupts): Vhat? For his dog? Dat spoiled schwinehund.

FRUNTER: Ja … in fact it is not to be used on any day not associated with ze Fuehrer ... and zere is none for ages!

HANZ: You know … if you take Hitler away from it … there is a total paucity of appropriate occasions for a goose step.


HANZ and FRUNTER look sad and peer into the distance.

Mournful German martial music - in - up - under.

Worst. Analogy. Ever.

As usual Tony Abbott is wanking on about crap and is now using the recent flooding to what he perceives is a political benefit.

His idea? Cancel the broadband infrastructure to pay for flood damage.

Here's how he distilled it for the benefit of the government disinclined.

The National Broadband Network is a luxury that Australia cannot now afford. The one thing you don't do is redo your bathroom when your roof has just been blown off

The broadband plan isn't some sort of willy-nilly idea that may have some benefit. It is essentially helping to future-proof the Australian economy so it, like China, South Korea, Singapore, and localities in the United States can engage with the digital economy with the best of them. It will also allow greater interactivity and connectivity with and by the broader populace and result in yet to be determined innovations the like of which we have never seen. It is the future which futurists have pointed at and said 'in the future we will all be connected and do amazing things together online'. It's fucking universal silver v-neck jumpsuit future territory.

Actual future technology happening actually right now (1).

And this nimrod wants to cancel it to pay for flood damage.

News flash Tonester. Oz does this from time to time. We are a nation whose ecology and environment is linked in to major cyclical climactic events such as drought and flood. It happened before, it will happen again.

We will recover from this. We will rebuild. Indeed despite the short-term hit on the economy from flood damage eventually there will be some benefits such as recharged aquifers and groundwater and new and improved infrastructure, not to mention jobs in construction for all the stuff that has to be replaced.

We don't have to cancel broadband to make room for it. If we need extra money then it will be via a levy. We did it with the gun buy-back. We'll do it for this - if it's needed.

I was listening to an interview with an IT lad who, with hundreds of volunteers, in five days created a social network site to link people with rooms to provide a roof to people without one following the flood. Five days - thousands of man-hours - and it started out in a garage.

Imagine what super-fast broadband will allow us to do in both times of crisis and to ameliorate it or even prevent it?

Tony Abbott. Yet again proving he is unfit for government office ... along will all the crap he did as a government minister of course.


(1) This morning theWife sacrificed her iPhone in order to have a shower. She let theBoy play with it while he sat in the bed naked from the waist down. I went in to check up on him. He was idly using his foreskin on the touchscreen... Oh, I forgot to tell theWife about that. I guess she'll find out about it now!

Monday, January 17, 2011

Rand Jan

I think the romance of space exploration would be somewhat undercut if, instead of a rocket making a BBBRRRRRWWWWORRRRRKKKKRRROOOOOSSSSSSH when it took off, it went frrriiiiiiiiiiiipppppppppppp.

I don't have a name for my penis. Yet I named my son's penis 'Man Fury'. Is that dickipitical of me?

Who put the bomp in the bomp bah bomp bah bomp? Barry Mannilow. I did not know that.

Do you think people who are called Vern have ever had someone attempt a 'Why Vern...?' joke? If not, then why not?

If rain falls in the company town, but the miners are fly-in, fly-out, then do people give a shit if it washes clean the streets of the blue-sky town?

Has someone made a black-light (1) app for the iPhone yet that can cause the display to mimic said illumination type so you can light up all the semen stains in the motel you're in? I think if you did that ... it'd be like the scene in Pitch Black when all the monsters in the dark are momentarily lit up before they eat people. Though I hardly think the semen stains would come to life and swarm over the iPhone black-light operator unless the stains were a host to some sort of alien parasite that had bonded with the semen stain in a holy alliance of monsters and man-mustard and they needed to destroy the faux black-light operator lest word get out about their evil plan to ... well ... um. Yes, motivation. Our simple Maslow Hierarchy of Needs do not really apply to the requirements of melded spunk and space specimen. Maybe then they weren't trying to engulf the iPhone black-light holder? Maybe it was an attempt at first contact and we fucked it up by running then by nuking the motel from orbit? After-all, nuking something from orbit is the only way to be sure.

How come when nerds get blown up in movies the pocket-protector never actually saves the pocket?

Have you ever accepted a call while you were sitting on the toilet? Yes. And I was expecting it.

Would a vampire surfer say 'Ah-ha-ha-ha, vipe out' and then would thunder boom even though it was a nice day down at the beach?

Do vampires from Twilight secrete the glitter or is it in their skin? If they get sick does their shimmer constantly change colour like my kewl fibre-optic Christmas tree?

How would a dolphin interpret 'catch you on the flipside'? Maybe it's a terrible insult and they nose-pummel you to death like in all that stock footage of 'WHEN DOLPHINS ATTACK ... SHARKS!' I saw interspersed between the non-watery scenes in Flipper.

(1) Yeah, yeah, I know, black-lights (1a) have special globes etc. and thus no, no one could write a black-light emulation app that would actually show up hideous bio-gunk. But they could write an app that made it look like a black-light. That's just as good, right? Like home-made chips instead of from the corner store...
(1a) There are some smells or words or other prompts that will forever imprint upon you. That when you encounter the prompt then the memory arises unbidden, yet strong - terrible and great. For me then the term black-light makes me think of this.

Maybe God does exist after-all

I recently noted that a dot point against God was that all the random stuff the universe throws up indicates there is no rhyme or reason to anything and therefore the universe is "unscripted".

Then you read something like this.

That's almost too perfect a thing to happen in reality.

I especially loved the last line of the article.

Pure. West.

Sunday, January 16, 2011

The strawberry plant started it

We'd gotten a strawberry plant from Bunnings and we were driving to a shopping centre near-by when theWife sped up to go over the speed-bump cross walk just ahead of an old lady's arrival upon it.

'I didn't want to stop,' said theWife. 'Because I didn't want the strawberry plant to fall over.'

'Well she was old,' says I. 'And therefore not as valuable as your plant.'

We turned into the car-park. There was a younger woman - probably forty something - heading to cross the road.

'You have to take care. She looks like she could still breed and therefore still be of value.'

'Yes,' agreed theWife. 'She doesn't look like she's had her Menzies.'

From the back, his voice laden with incredulity, came theNoo.

'She no got her Menzies!'

We laughed and laughed. TheBoy, tickled pink he'd said something funny, quickly distilled his repetition of the moment and shouted over and over 'Menzies! Menzies! Menzies!' etc.

It was a kak ... but he's got to learn about the high note...

Pink Bickee?

We don't usually have sweet biscuits in the house. Too tempting to be guzzled - since biscuits are one of the few things I seem to be able to get into my stomach without being stuck.

But now and then if we do ... it's usually a box of Coles's Hundreds and Thousands biscuits.

Let's face it ... generic knock-offs of brand bickees are usually nowhere near as good - sorry Mr Smith, nor generally are the generic brands of the major supermarkets.

These are the exception. They are ridiculously delicious. They put a happy yum in my tummy tum.

The boy is more than aware they exist. If you have one and you're not careful to screen your intake then he will point like a hysterical puritan tween in Salem and cry 'Pink Bickee!' then demand one with groin smashing menaces (1).

I had two in my hand as I headed to the couch as he watched Antz.

'You do have one for him, right?' cried theWife from the back of the house.

Damn it.

'Here you go,' I said semi-grizzled at having to give up fifty percent of my already-assigned-satisfaction-of-two-biscuits-to-be-eaten. I handed him one.

He gobbled it fiercely, little blobs of hundred or thousand clinging to his lips.

' NOTHER BICKEE?!' he shout-demanded.

'No noonoo, one's enough,' I said.

But it wasn't. Later, when he was distracted, I Ninja'ed into the kitchen, Mission Impossible'd down the bickee glass jar then carefully removed biscuit shards.

All those things I semi-promised to do as a parent - not swear in front of, be a good role-model, try not to be a rank hypocrite, I have failed (2).

I chose the shards because even though getting a whole biscuit would have been easier and reduced the danger of being sprung mid-thieving from the biscuit jar by a bickee denied three year old, I needed to do penance for having one where I said he couldn't.

The shards however were delicious. Made more so because guilt was assuaged by penance.

See? Self-assigned punishment for bad does have its place. Maybe Opus Dei is on to something!

(1) His head, larger I suspect than most boys his age, ends at where my testicles start on me. So when he's excited and charges in to cuddle you, unless you turn at the last second so he latches onto your thigh you will take one to the nuts.
(2) The best family sitcom I have ever seen is Outnumbered. It comes close to reality. Especially with Karen and Ben. It also covers the shit that happens in your thirties - break down of long-term relationships, marital discord, financial crap, ailing parents, sibling friction and a host of other stuff. It's more a dramedy in that regard I suppose. It's also partially improvised and shot without an audience reaction.

Best. Breaking. Ever.

From 2.31 onward (though the other stuff is good also).

Area man demands almost certain to fail request to receive links to scenes of great breaking - also known as Corpsing.

J'Accuse - Danger Mouse of having a c_m joke in it

I was just watching the clips from the Danger Mouse episode of Custard - about a small alien that eats a lot of custard as memory serves.

In this clip The Baron (1) is testing a weapon in the desert. It's a can of instant custard that, when opened, disgorges vast amount of viscous fluid into the air.

My evidence? Use of the word Sploodge which precedes the suggestive-laden scene of the custard blowing its load ... and pretty much all the custard-discharge scenes after that.

It certainly is subtle, I'll grant them that. It's nowhere nears as overt as Pugwash... (2)

Oh, by the way (or BTW you you crazy kids ... and your music), check out the wiki for J'Accuse. It's neato! (3)

(1) Because of me my older brother got the nickname "Baron" since I'd arrived at the private school a year before him and they needed to give him something complementary to mine. When I moved to the state system my hated nickname(1a) was owned, positively, by someone else. Phew... but I got my new nickname within the first week, because my surname matched that of an eccentrically presented star-cricketer better known by his abbreviated given name ... which was then duly matched to me. It was so pervasive I was sometimes marked absent in a class because my actual name didn't match the one in the book. (1b).
(1a) Epic parental-fail. On about my tenth birthday my parents tried to shock me out of my loathing of my nick-name and tried to get me to embrace it - like I was also supposed to do about being short ("Good things come in small packages!"(1a1)) and ape-looking ("Cuddly!). They gave me a nick-named themed card ... and wrapped everything in nick-named themed paper. I think some of the presents were also likewise so themed. Did this intervention work as per the phobia-lessening theory of gradual controlled and safe exposing the fearful to the fearful thing? No. No it did not.
(1a1) If that was the case why did they investigate enrolling me in the experimental program where they injected ground up bits of cadaver sourced pituitary gland into the very short ... side note: in some cases apparently recipients were potentially exposed to CJD.
(1b) Black Adder's predecessor as the Lord High Executioner lost his life when he absentmindedly signed his own death-warrant and they came for him in the night. In uni I chose the first scene from this episode (Season 2, "Head") as the shot-by-shot against script analysis for my film unit ("I think he looks like a bird that swallowed a plate my lord"). It's still one of my all-time favourite Blackadder scenes. I did the hours of rewinding and writing in the not yet theWife's group house ... a hideous old place that had rats in the walls and was spookier than an abandoned orphanage in the channel islands.

(2) Which ... alas ... is an urban legend (2a). It's up there with Disney's head and forgetful goldfish as urban myths that deserve to be true ... and a dot point against God since if everything is scripted then that would have been made so.
(2a) Confession ... I didn't know that until I checked the wiki. I thought it was real.

(3) Where did I find out about J'Accuse? This was pre-internet mind you. Mad About You ... when the frosty British next-door apartment neighbour sprung Paul doing something wacky. Oh Paul ... you were so wacky. You and your neurotic wife ... additional confession ... I own the first season on DVD when the best-friend Selby was in it ... then vanished without a word for the rest of the series when the next season came ...

Saturday, January 15, 2011

We can't be beaten

I was on a long walk today. I got dropped off on the way back home from scoping out the changes to Belconnen Westfield (1). It was hot - but it was mostly downhill. I put up my collar to ward off the sun, looking a bit like Abramoff if he wore a baseball cap instead of a fedora, and stuck to the shade.

I didn't have my dodgy clone MP3 player - whose scratched up LCD is so pissweak it is virtually impossible to read outside - with me so I was forced to idly mind-sing over and over "you ... are ... the only exception" because the Glee volume .4 cover of that song was the last thing I heard.

Eventually I got thinking. I got thinking about how much my son is like me ... bursting with constant excitement about stuff and trying to be funny and grappling with the world not being how it should be ... and all that jazz.

I was, without saying, a weird kid. I was a fringe-dweller in high school big time. And not the good kind who later creates a multi-billion dollar company. The sad, weird kind that got told by the hot girls to go sit somewhere else because they were lowering the tone of the school-yard real estate (2).

However ... even at the end of school I still had that glorious 'ahahahaha' looking for the funny thing in everything going on around me. Even as I slipped, floppy limbed and unconscious - like a mysteriously un-drowned castaway on an island beach following the disaster that tossed him into the sea - into the state system from five mostly fucked-up years in an all-boys private school, I still had that ... and kept it when I met the new enemy of girls who didn't like me much.

It didn't have to be that way. I had been in the state system and had been happy - lots of friends, liked my school and so forth. However In year four the state system apparently told my parents I was a handful in class. Being British and from a private system in the UK (3) my parents decided mid-term to shift me off to the local Anglican all-boys private effort who, at least, let you were almost-modern uniform (4), and who were big on God, discipline, clean-living, play-war, fitness, God, tradition, stiff-upper lips, and manliness. The sort of manliness that could lead a bunch of men over the top, etc.

Some highlights.

Being yelled at by P.E. Teachers because I was a fatty; being called hateful names by students ... and staff ... in front of the other students; being told to man-up constantly because I complained (even whined, I'm not above whining) about being picked on; being called in front of an assembly and being shown as an example of how not to tie a tie; being removed from class by my ear - my ear tearing in the process; being threatened with formal corporal punishment on several occasions; oh, standing outside on a cold night in thin pyjamas while on a field trip because the fuckwit teacher thought we were mucking up after lights out and he had us outside in a line so he could scream, saliva-flecking onto his full beard as his rage spittle volleyed with puffs of angry air into out faces from an inch away and me standing there with angry tears streaming.

You get the picture.

The Mikey that's me; let's face it, quirky is a nice way to put it, was not meant for such a place. Perhaps I might have if I had my formative years in 1950s rural Australia and when people didn't know any fucking better (5). But it was not meant for me.

So yeah ... I washed up into the state system ... but all that me that the private school system tried to beat out of me was still there. Then there's me in the full-fire of puberty in a co-ed environment with having been five years without normal people and having to learn and adapt to the new cultural-social rules of high-school (6) But I came out of that pretty beat-up, but not broken. I still have that desire to look for funny and wonder and all of that and share it where I can. And I can see that in my son.

All I have to do is show him where I went wrong and learn to temper it, not reject it.

So, fuck you world. I won.

Take it away Angry.

(1) Quoth Borat, "iz niCE"!
(2) That ... happened.
(3) Weirdly ... a public school in the UK is a private school. My mother went to a selective school - which as I understand it back then was where the smart kids in the public system went (it changed to purely geographic for intake as I understand it). My dad went to a named private school in the UK - you know the sort, St Barnby Fudge (3a) or of that ilk where they forced the children to wear some sort of outlandish period costume while other kids were dodging bally bombs in the east-end during the Blitz, what, what (3b)
(3a) By Charles Rikkens.
(3b) Did you know the reason why the UK chose to suggest to the public they had individual family shelters was because of privacy concerns even though they were less protective than deep-sunken public shelters. You see ... one doesn't want ones public to get a 'shelter mentality' and want to burrow into mother earth like some sort of Teutonic mole, what, what! (3b1)
(3b1) Peter Ustinov in Dear Me scribed an anecdote about using the public street shelters during the war - which he spent serving as the batman to David Niven. Ustinov was off to his dad's place to borrow some money and, with a raid in progress, was forced to dive into a nearby shelter. There he met his dad ... who had been on his way to his son's place ... to borrow money.

(4) They did however have complex rules about Summer inc. Spring and Winter inc. Autumn uniforms, the position of socks (4a), oh, and blazers. You had to wear blazers. Even if you were a day-boy ... and downtown after school. Fucking jumped up fascist junta.
(4a) Socks must be pulled up to the knee and held in place with garters - not the sexy kind, elastic bands that left a custard-mite canyon fly-thru trench sawn into your leg flesh - over which is turned the sock, the inside showing,to about an inch below the turn.
(5) DDT, stolen generations, above ground testing of nuclear weapons, disenfranchising minorities etc..
Because let's face it, that sort of not obsessed with what I wore, what I said, who I talked to etc. crap is what gets you sent to the fringe for not playing properly.

You snooze, you lose


Friday, January 14, 2011


I've been reading a lot of press about the alleged shooter in Tuscon. I know it sounds morbid but I do find tales of the unbalanced to be interesting ...great material too.

I was reading Slate, a most excellent site, who've had a rash of articles about Loughner, when I clicked on to an article about Glocks - as he was alleged to have used a Glock pistol with an extended magazine in the shooting.

They discussed the owner of the company - Gaston Glock.

Corporate intrigue and violence are part of the picture, too. Gaston Glock's former business associate, a man occasionally known as "Panama Charly," is currently incarcerated in Luxembourg, convicted of taking out a hit on his boss in 1999. (The hitman was a former professional wrestler and, bizarrely, the attempt came not with a handgun but with a large rubber mallet to the head. Glock survived.)

I love it. Delicious corporate intrigue slash gun company slash assassination attempt ... comedy weapon.

That fully appeals to my other love of the absurd. The universe is just such an amazingly random place in that it can cough up an ex-French mercenary slash wrestler attempting to murder an elderly gun magnate in the magnate's Luxembourg-sited garage with the assassin's weapon of choice being a rubber mallet.

Thank-you internet.

Thursday, January 13, 2011

The Ignominy of Channel Surf

You know what, I have to say, I may be heavily medicated right now ... but that is an awesome title. It could be on a bodice-ripper, a political cold-war thriller with the infamous reversed-hammer and sickle (1), or an enigmatic present tense first person stream of consciousness way-back machine effort.

On with the tale.

I was on story-patrol with the noodles. He gets four stories at night - about 15-20 minutes- before bed. He gets to choose, within reason.

He started with Baby Brains and Robomum (2). Except ... four pages in, though admittedly I was doing my Henry Kissinger as seen on the Simpsons ("No one must know I dropped my glasses in the toilet ... I who drafted the Paris Peace-Accord") voice, he slid off the chair and plodded over to get a different book.

'This one!' he cried, thrusting it forward.

It was the story about Wendel the mouse-inventor (3). It too is a good book, though there's a somewhat glaring typo in it ('shoot' instead of 'chute'). I got to the end of that book, only after lengthening it from my irritating habit of changing the character's name to a Dr Seuss effort to see if he will notice and correct me ("No, is not Horton ... is Wendel!").

He went for the Usborne Understanding Dogs book again. I said 'I'll read a page of it as the story' (because it's quite dense text) then opened it up ... to the pages on birth and pic panel two actually showed a dog, pointing its vagina forward and to the left, popping out a birth capsule of a puppy-in-a-placenta that looked like a fat brown sausage (4). But ... instead of reading that with me he shouted 'Mummy' and 'Mummy do it!' and 'Mummy's turn' ending with 'Mummy do stories.'

He then slid off the chair again and ran down the corridor shouting 'Mummy! Stories! Now!' (5).

So ... not only did he channel surf stories ... he tried to channel surf story-tellers...

No dice. He was flipped back to me but mollified by one of my Russell from Up has a random adventure stories (6).

(1) Ben Elton joke I think
(2) The Baby Brains books are good. Love the illustrations and they're both entertaining and not too long. Totally worth it for story time.
(3) Did I get that right? By adding the hyphen I am indicating he is a mouse who is an inventor as opposed to without it then it would be an inventor of mice?
(4) I am more than half tempted to scan it in and show the world what passes for pics of a dog's birth circa late 1970s.
(5) In other words like Father Jack...
(6) Later, when in bed, he shouted out that he hadn't given me a kiss. I heard through the door so swaggered in. He got up and gave me a wet lip-smacker. As he curled up he said contentedly 'I kissed Daddy ... we got it right!'. We laughed at that and theBoy, hearing that, then rapidly kept repeating 'We got it right.' I kept yelling 'go out on a high note!' but to no avail.