Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Well, you know what? I've always hated the Liberal party, have never voted for them and would generally throw a turd into any small gathering of its supporters, but could not give even the smallest fuck that Brumby's government has gone (with all due sympathy for those who have lost their jobs).
The state coalition didn't really provide much of an alternative - it was more a case of Brumby losing it than Baillieu winning it - but Ted has always been labelled a moderate, doesn't appear to have any Kennett-like tendencies (this was the main instigator of my turd-throwing antics during the 90s) and is my second cousin once removed. I might even start calling him Cousin Ted. So, you know, whatever.
The first test was an odd one. Hat-tricks, double centuries, bad backs, poor catching. The Gabba wicket resembled a runway, the bowlers on both sides lacked penetration and Tony Grieg continued to make factual errors every third sentence. Adelaide offers little more to the bowlers - possible less - so perhaps we'll see 5 straight draws this summer. But for fuck's sake, drop Mitchell Johnson and Marcus North. What the fuck else do they have to do to lose their spots?
While it continues to bucket down outside, flood the Yarra and render my path to work totally inaccessible except to carp, my hot water system decided to pack it in on my 11th wedding anniversary recently. And what a pathetic race of people we've become when we are so reliant on hot water and can barely function without it. Boiling water in kettles and saucepans in order to fill the bath may seem like fun to the uninitiated but, I'm here to tell you, it ain't. Fortunately the plumber took all of 7 minutes to replace a part so small it couldn't be seen with the naked eye. He did, however, manage to charge $400 for it.
Woods is a lo-fi band from New York who, as far as I'm concerned, produced album of the year in 2009 with Songs of Shame. They followed it up with this year's At Echo Lake. This is Death Rattles:
Monday, November 29, 2010
Lorenzo Medici. Happily his views on the National Broadband Network or the Victorian election are unknown.
I’m currently reading a history of the Medici family and its role in the often turbulent history of Florence but quite frankly, reading the history of the McGuirk family and its role in the often turbulent history of Upper Bumcrack would be preferable if the alternative was to read every single pundit/opinion leader/analyst/dickhead-with-a-keyboard piece that currently seems to infect every single media outlet these days.
At some point during my enforced convalescence (and it may have been around about the time when the really, really strong painkillers kicked in*) they all began to blur into one; a multi-headed hydra with an opinion of the National Broadband Network, Julia Gillard fashion’s sense, the Green preference deal and cats**.
What rage! What passion! They storm the heavens and defy the Gods***! They vent and plead in The Drum and The Punch and The National Times and Crikey, these great and good who have the inside story and know what exactly needs to be done.
The net effect of reading too many of them seems to produce nothing but nausea and confusion****.
What do they add? Do any of their pieces add to the sum total of knowledge in the world or at least in Canberra? Or are they all a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
I’m going for the latter.
* You know that point? Where you start to smile at strangers? That point.
** Cats and dogs! What’s the deal there?!
*** Although obviously not the ones with the Kraken. Because if you defy the Gods and they have a Kraken, you’re kind of fucked.
**** Or maybe it was just the really, really strong painkillers.
Friday, November 26, 2010
O, that I were a glove upon that hand,
Instead, here's a solid, rolled gold classic.
Rather like Peter Siddle's hat-trick yesterday!
But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks?
It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,
Who is already sick and pale with grief,
That thou, her maid, art far more fair than she.
Be not her maid, since she is envious;
Her vestal livery is but sick and green
And none but fools do wear it; cast it off.
It is my lady, O, it is my love!
O, that she knew she were!
She speaks yet she says nothing; what of that?
Her eye discourses; I will answer it.
I am too bold, 'tis not to me she speaks.
Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,
Having some business, do entreat her eyes
To twinkle in their spheres till they return.
What if her eyes were there, they in her head?
The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars,
As daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven
Would through the airy region stream so bright
That birds would sing and think it were not night.
See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand!
O, that I were a glove upon that hand,
That I might touch that cheek!
* I'm a bit frightened of Squib.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Monday, November 22, 2010
"Honestly, I could eat a bowl of alphabet soup and shit a better media release than that!"
I’m back, but my back still isn’t 100 per cent so I’m stalking the halls with my trusty walking stick*, snarling at people who get in my way**.
In fact, based on my recent experiences, I’m writing a screen play about a brilliant, grumpy cunt with a walking stick and alcohol and drug issues.
I’m thinking of calling it Brilliant, grumpy cunt with a walking stick.
* And this isn’t one of those wimpy aluminium walking sticks you see about town these days. This is a good, solid lump of wood that says “get off my front lawn, you kids”.
** Which I tend to do anyway. But now I’m got a reason.
Monday, November 15, 2010
"What the fuck's that?" asked Lee, shuffling into the lounge room. "And what's it doing on my fucking sofa?"
"No idea," said Jackson, squinting at the painting and rotating his head 90 degrees anti-clockwise. "Could be a forest I suppose."
"Doesn't look like a fucking forest to me," said Lee, taking a seat opposite the painting. "Looks like a series of poorly constructed telegraph poles while a fire burns out of control."
"Well that's something," said Jackson as he stood up and turned the picture upside down. "Now whatddya reckon? Better or worse?"
"No fucking different. Same that way, same the other way. What the fuck were you doing last night?"
"I'd had a few drinks."
"And I just started flicking paint at a canvas."
"Well it looked a lot better when I was drunk."
"Give us a fucken drink and I'll be the judge of that."
It seems the embedding has been disabled for this video but it's worth watching on youtube (once you click on the video a link will appear). Ripper song, boring video that looks like a Windows Media Player auto background.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
God Almighty, again with preference deals.
For those of you outside Victoria, and for those of you inside Victoria who are comfortably huddled under a rock, there's a state election campaign raging, well, stuttering along, in this state at the moment.
Inevitably there's talk of preference deals with the resurgent Greens. The news this morning is that the Greens are apparently directing preferences to the Liberals. The Greens have refused to officially verify this.
But here's the rub:
NOBODY HAS TO DIRECT THEIR PREFERENCES IN ANY DIRECTION SUGGESTED BY ANYBODY ELSE, EVER!
Just because it suggests something on the how to vote card, doesn't mean you have to do it, even if it's the how to vote card of your preferred party. The media, even the ABC, just keeps rolling out the same line about 'preference deals' and 'directing preferences' which confuses many voters about where their votes are going. YOU control your preferences, not any of the parties.
Now, carry on.
Monday, November 8, 2010
The first alcoholic drink I ever had was at 15 or so. A friend and I raided his parents' liquor cabinet, and filled up 2 empty stubbies with a bit of this and a touch of that - much like in the opening sequence of the Milton the Monster Show - and, holding our noses and resisting the urge to gag, drank that rocket fuel like it was going out of fashion which, let's face it, it never will (or always has been, depending on your perspective).
We evolved to drinking vodka down near the railway line near our local station, purchased usually by me cos I looked the oldest, before heading out to a dodgy local disco. Then it was Fosters Lager because, for some strange reason, we thought it was cool. It ain't cool. Island and/or West Coast Coolers were a part of the culture in those days too. Some friends even drank fruity lexia from the cask.
Now on top of this, I also recall wearing acid wash jeans, thin striped shirts and thin leather ties. Usually at the same time. Quite a picture isn't it?
These were the shameful days of stupid drunken antics, occasional fights (often with each other) and pashing equally drunk girls.
There, the segue is complete:
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Tom Waites. Not John Donne.
Or in this case, for health reasons, Poetry Slam Friday on Thursday.
Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou are not so;
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou'art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy'or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.
Backs are cunts!
I have strained a muscle in my lower back* which has somewhat soured my normally sunny disposition.
The worst thing – apart from the constant, agonising pain – is that every single passing moron on the street or on public transport, after seeing me hobble past, feels compelled to pass on their own, ludicrous, pet theories.
Passing moron: “Hurt your back, eh?”
Passing moron: “You should see my naturopath/reki healer/spiritualist/yoga guru. My boyfriend/girlfriend/aunt/uncle/flatmate/person from the internet saw a naturopath/reki healer/spiritualist/yoga guru for their back/chest/head/dick pain and they were fixed right up.”
Me: “Thanks. I’ll chase that one right up once I can move without screaming.”
It’s just as well that I don’t have a cane – yet – as I would be sorely tempted to beat the living shite out of them with it.
*From reaching into the fridge to get a beer, if you must know**.
**There you go kids. The lesson we learn from this is alcohol is indeed bad for your health***.
***Either that or put the beer up higher.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Driving through driving rain out of Mansfield towards Jamieson on Saturday afternoon, I was forced to veer out of the way of some sort of slow moving animal life form nonchalantly crossing the road. Realising it was a member of the usually fairly innocuous turtle family, I swung the car around and pulled over next to it, in order to help it avoid an untimely and messy demise at the hands and tyres of a speeding fool in a pick-up.
I hurried over to the turtle - an Eastern Snake-Necked Turtle as it turns out - as it quietly removed its head, legs and tail from view by, as you might've guessed, withdrawing into its shell. I picked it up, peered inside (noticing it had closed its eyes in a clever attempt to overcome the perceived danger), and placed it in long grass as far from the road as I could without scaling the fence of the adjacent farm. As I began walking back to where I'd parked, somewhat satisfied with the outcome, I became increasingly aware of a terrible smell, which seemed to gain intensity as I approached the car.
"What the fuck is that smell?" asked the Missus as I seated myself in the car.
"I don't know," I confessed, wondering where it was coming from.
"Oh Jesus Christ, that's disgusting!"
"What is that smell?" asked the kid, screwing up his nose in the back seat. "That's disgusting!"
"I know! I don't know what it is!" I protested, bringing my hands to my nose in order to sniff them, on the increasing suspicion that the smell was somehow related to the turtle.
"Oh Jesus Christ!" I screamed, aghast. "It's all over my hands! It was the fucking turtle!"
"Oh, that little fucker! He must've crawled through sewerage or something."
"Well you can't stay in the car like that!"
I jumped out of the car and wiped my hands on the long wet grass by the side of the road. Predictably, it achieved nothing. So I was politely asked to ride in the car with my hands protruding from the front window which made it pretty difficult to drive. Once we reached our destination it took several hours of scrubbing with various soaps, detergents and antiseptics to rid myself of that diabolical odour.
Once I was satisfied I no longer smelled like a bucket of shit, piss and vomit that had been left in the sun for 6 months and had been infested with filthy blowfly maggots and trillions of maladorous bacteria, I did some quick research into the turtle. Here's an extract from Wikipedia:
When it feels threatened, this turtle (the Eastern or Common Snake-Necked Turtle) will emit an offensive smelling fluid from its musk glands. This trait gives the turtle one of its other common names, "stinker."
Here's Charlotte Gainsbourg and Beck with Heaven Can Wait: