Answering Bell
There's this song called Answering Bell that once upon a time was called Just Saying Hi in its demo version. So that's why I've called it that. Because that's what I'm doing. Just saying hi.
And because I'm being a bit of a wanker.
I haven't written for so long so I suppose it's too much to ask to have people still checking. Even my South African friends have stopped checking my story site.
I guess this is a comeback of sorts. I'll write more. But not right now because my finger hurts after it was dislocated yesterday playing basketball. It's all fat and blue now. Kinda like what I am right now.
Because I just finished watching Lost in Translation, which I bought in a pack along with Being John Malkovich and Secretary, and it's gotten me depressed.
It's not a bad movie. But it's a depressing movie with depressing characters. And it has a depressing ending. And the worst part of it is that these depressed people probably shouldn't be depressed so that just makes it even more depressing.
Otherwise, my life is pretty cool.
But now i feel depressed and I have this finger which just throbs with this numbing pain. So i think I'll just go to sleep.
Bye.
Monday, December 05, 2005
Monday, October 03, 2005
I need a mint that refreshes my breath and tastes great
I think I’m in love with the girl in the Tic Tac commercials. And I’ve had no luck finding out who she is. Can anyone help?
_____
Movie Recommendation
My actor of the moment is Cillian Murphy (28 Days Later, Batman Begins). Today I saw an Irish movie where he stars with Colin Farrell and Colm Meany. It’s fantastic. You should all see it! It's called InterMission
_____
Idol Power Rankings Week 5
Finally, the people got it right with Milly and Roxanne in the bottom two. Although I would have picked Milly to leave instead of Roxy.
Overall, I didn’t think any of them were that good. It’s been a disappointing week.
1 (1). Dan – Losing ground, I reckon. But still slimly on top. Another boring performance. I’m with Mark. I know he can do much much better. (4)
2 (2). Emily – Gaining ground fast. She’s consistent but too many vocal acrobatics and other slacker reasons why I don’t like her. (3)
3 (4). Lee – The girls seem to love him. He can only sing one type of song but he does do it well. This week I agree with Mark in terms of knowing and believing what you sing. But that’s more for later when/if he has an actual career. For now, it’s just a singing competition so it doesn’t really matter. Though he did come across quite foolish, I reckon. (2)
4 (3). Anne – Solid. She’ll make top 4 or 3 but I don’t see her winning at this point. Her performance last night was good but lacked bite. (5)
5 (7). Kate – Had a great week. For me, she was the standout of last night. Though that doesn’t say much so she moves no higher than this. (1)
6 (9). James – He needs to get his teeth fixed but otherwise I think he’s pretty good. No chance of winning though. (7)
7 (5). OK, maybe I was wrong. Maybe they don’t really like him. His boring rendition of a classic ballad did help his cause. (6)
8 (8). One more week, Milly… (8)
I think I’m in love with the girl in the Tic Tac commercials. And I’ve had no luck finding out who she is. Can anyone help?
_____
Movie Recommendation
My actor of the moment is Cillian Murphy (28 Days Later, Batman Begins). Today I saw an Irish movie where he stars with Colin Farrell and Colm Meany. It’s fantastic. You should all see it! It's called InterMission
_____
Idol Power Rankings Week 5
Finally, the people got it right with Milly and Roxanne in the bottom two. Although I would have picked Milly to leave instead of Roxy.
Overall, I didn’t think any of them were that good. It’s been a disappointing week.
1 (1). Dan – Losing ground, I reckon. But still slimly on top. Another boring performance. I’m with Mark. I know he can do much much better. (4)
2 (2). Emily – Gaining ground fast. She’s consistent but too many vocal acrobatics and other slacker reasons why I don’t like her. (3)
3 (4). Lee – The girls seem to love him. He can only sing one type of song but he does do it well. This week I agree with Mark in terms of knowing and believing what you sing. But that’s more for later when/if he has an actual career. For now, it’s just a singing competition so it doesn’t really matter. Though he did come across quite foolish, I reckon. (2)
4 (3). Anne – Solid. She’ll make top 4 or 3 but I don’t see her winning at this point. Her performance last night was good but lacked bite. (5)
5 (7). Kate – Had a great week. For me, she was the standout of last night. Though that doesn’t say much so she moves no higher than this. (1)
6 (9). James – He needs to get his teeth fixed but otherwise I think he’s pretty good. No chance of winning though. (7)
7 (5). OK, maybe I was wrong. Maybe they don’t really like him. His boring rendition of a classic ballad did help his cause. (6)
8 (8). One more week, Milly… (8)
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
Idol Power Rankings Week 4
It’s like self-administered torture, really.
I watch these shows and every week I complain about something or other. Tonight, I’ll probably get pissed off about Dawn Fraser staying on Dancing with the Stars. At least on that show, the judges are pretty fair and accurate.
Last night, Laura left Idol and I’m going to say similar things as what I said last year when Amali and Dan left the show.
Laura was the only attractive female left in the lineup and now she’s gone. Anne, I suppose, is alright-looking too and she will stay hopefully. Kate would be if she wasn’t fat and… well, I think that’s it.
The guys this year are far more compelling and yet they’re struggling too. How the hell did James and Daniel end up in the bottom 3?!
I know, Laura wasn’t the best singer. But she was no worse than Milly or Roxanne. Surely she has more entertainment value than those two!
Anyway, for the rest of the competition, I’m starting a weekly Idols Power Rankings, in the direction of how I think the public are moving (somewhat swayed by the judges’ opinions). Following that will be my own opinions and in brackets will be my own rankings for their week’s performance.
Week 4
1. Dan – seems to be untouchable at the moment. While I agree that he does have the best voice in the competition, his ‘We will rock you’ was pretty ho hum. (5)
2. Emily – jumped up a notch this week. Personally, I thought she sucked. She made Queen like Queen Latifa. Personally I think she’s just another stock standard R&B singer who cries every week for votes. Like Amelia last year, she’s constantly pulling the single mum card. I appreciate that being a single mum isn’t easy but there are plenty of single mums out there who don’t break into tears every week to get votes. (7)
3. Anne – another R&B voice. I like her though. (2)
4. Lee – likeable guy and adds spice and value to the show. (1)
5. Daniel – I’m gonna go out on a limb and say that his bottom three status was an aberration. I’d place him in the Top 3 if I was deciding. Probably looks too much like a cross between last year’s Dan and Shannon Noll for his own good. Marcia was spot on. He sounds just like Ian Moss. (3)
6. Roxanne – GET HER OUT! She sucks. She sounds like a chipmunk. How did she even make the Top 13! Oh, yeah, she got a lifeline from the judges. (9)
7. Kate – sings alright, looks sorta butch. She can’t last more than two more weeks, surely. (6)
8. Milly – sucks also. And looks like Celine Dion. Why the hell is she still in. Urgh. (8)
9. James – likeable, if a little camp, guy with relatively good looks, good voice and good moves. I don’t get why no one votes for him. (4)
It’s like self-administered torture, really.
I watch these shows and every week I complain about something or other. Tonight, I’ll probably get pissed off about Dawn Fraser staying on Dancing with the Stars. At least on that show, the judges are pretty fair and accurate.
Last night, Laura left Idol and I’m going to say similar things as what I said last year when Amali and Dan left the show.
Laura was the only attractive female left in the lineup and now she’s gone. Anne, I suppose, is alright-looking too and she will stay hopefully. Kate would be if she wasn’t fat and… well, I think that’s it.
The guys this year are far more compelling and yet they’re struggling too. How the hell did James and Daniel end up in the bottom 3?!
I know, Laura wasn’t the best singer. But she was no worse than Milly or Roxanne. Surely she has more entertainment value than those two!
Anyway, for the rest of the competition, I’m starting a weekly Idols Power Rankings, in the direction of how I think the public are moving (somewhat swayed by the judges’ opinions). Following that will be my own opinions and in brackets will be my own rankings for their week’s performance.
Week 4
1. Dan – seems to be untouchable at the moment. While I agree that he does have the best voice in the competition, his ‘We will rock you’ was pretty ho hum. (5)
2. Emily – jumped up a notch this week. Personally, I thought she sucked. She made Queen like Queen Latifa. Personally I think she’s just another stock standard R&B singer who cries every week for votes. Like Amelia last year, she’s constantly pulling the single mum card. I appreciate that being a single mum isn’t easy but there are plenty of single mums out there who don’t break into tears every week to get votes. (7)
3. Anne – another R&B voice. I like her though. (2)
4. Lee – likeable guy and adds spice and value to the show. (1)
5. Daniel – I’m gonna go out on a limb and say that his bottom three status was an aberration. I’d place him in the Top 3 if I was deciding. Probably looks too much like a cross between last year’s Dan and Shannon Noll for his own good. Marcia was spot on. He sounds just like Ian Moss. (3)
6. Roxanne – GET HER OUT! She sucks. She sounds like a chipmunk. How did she even make the Top 13! Oh, yeah, she got a lifeline from the judges. (9)
7. Kate – sings alright, looks sorta butch. She can’t last more than two more weeks, surely. (6)
8. Milly – sucks also. And looks like Celine Dion. Why the hell is she still in. Urgh. (8)
9. James – likeable, if a little camp, guy with relatively good looks, good voice and good moves. I don’t get why no one votes for him. (4)
Friday, September 23, 2005
New H&O UPDATES
The next part to my witch story (Or Magic for Beginners, as I've so stupidly named it) is now available. Just click HERE
Or Here
or even HERE!
And there many other wonderful updates, including the History of H&O!
The next part to my witch story (Or Magic for Beginners, as I've so stupidly named it) is now available. Just click HERE
Or Here
or even HERE!
And there many other wonderful updates, including the History of H&O!
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
I caught up with an old friend. Who's also a friend's ex. But by now, calling her that is unfair. It was a good catch up. She's mellower now. Still a bundle of energy but much more self aware now. She's a great girl. We had coffee at the same place where we caught up the last time. It's the same place I used to go with my own ex, as well as a few other people, who I suppose are someone's ex's. There was a time when I thought this place would close. It was a rumour I heard from another friend (who incidently is now back with her ex) that turned out to be bogus. It's still there. I still go there. And I'd hate the day when I say 'there's this place I used to go to...' I suppose I sound like I'm lamenting lost things. People. Places Whatever. I know. Things come and go and then you move along. etc. But I love old things. I love the look back. Ten ayears ago. Five years ago. Five minutes ago. Whenever. It's not that the rear view mirror is 20-20. It isn't. It's poetry. It's your head's concoction of reality. And for someone who loves to write, it's gold. So I'm not lamenting. I'm just telling myself stories. Reading myself poetry. And sure I used to go to that place with people that I no longer go anywhere with. But there's always more to be had. Good and bad. More poetry to listen to. So I'm still there. And it's still there. And thank God they still make good chai.
_____
I've been listening to a lot of very mellow music lately (mostly Ryan Adams, of course) but things are shifting and I'm beginning to listen to the Killers and the Darkness and even some Aerosmith so before I forget, I thought I'd list some of what I think are the all-time greatest mellow songs. You won't find any chill-out music or Coldplay on this list!
1. Come pick me up - Ryan Adams
2. Everybody here wants you - Jeff Buckley
3. A long December - Counting Crows
4. ... ahhh, I'll do this list later
_____
This sucks. Chris was good. Now he's gone. Let's hope Dan stays a long time. Now I'm talking Idol, people. Please keep up.
_____
I watched Dancing with the Stars tonight with my mum. It's one of my favourite activities of the week. I look forward to it. She feeds me. Tonight was pizza. Then we talk about ballroom dancing and B-grade stars. It's fun.
_____
New Updates from H&O
_____
I've been listening to a lot of very mellow music lately (mostly Ryan Adams, of course) but things are shifting and I'm beginning to listen to the Killers and the Darkness and even some Aerosmith so before I forget, I thought I'd list some of what I think are the all-time greatest mellow songs. You won't find any chill-out music or Coldplay on this list!
1. Come pick me up - Ryan Adams
2. Everybody here wants you - Jeff Buckley
3. A long December - Counting Crows
4. ... ahhh, I'll do this list later
_____
This sucks. Chris was good. Now he's gone. Let's hope Dan stays a long time. Now I'm talking Idol, people. Please keep up.
_____
I watched Dancing with the Stars tonight with my mum. It's one of my favourite activities of the week. I look forward to it. She feeds me. Tonight was pizza. Then we talk about ballroom dancing and B-grade stars. It's fun.
_____
New Updates from H&O
Thursday, September 08, 2005
Something for you
OK, here’s what’s been happening with me. At least since last Friday because my memory doesn’t really stretch beyond that at the moment.
So I was drinking. Oh yeah, I’d taken a couple of days off and then I went out on Friday and I was drinking. From about 6pm to 2:30am with about 2 hours eating break in between. And when I went home (around 4am), I started writing this simple 4-chord song on my guitar and it sounded ok. It was based on what we were talking about that night during drinks, which is the subject matter of most of my writing: Unhappy Guys.
So when I thought it sounded good enough (or as good as it would get at that stage of the morning), I went to bed afraid that I would forget it by the morrow.
In morning, first thing I did was play it again and I actually did remember it all. Except the thing is, something didn’t sound right. Then I realised that I had inadvertently plagiarised part of a Ryan Adams song in the important chorus bit.
The clarity of morning!
My chorus goes:
Now there’s just you
Only you
So I thank God
That I no longer have something for you
Ryan’s original goes:
Ask me that you’d like to know me well
But you already have
You already do
And nobody does
And I guess that says something for you
No, it’s not quite the same. And actually two very different subject matters. But well… let’s face it. It didn’t come from my head. And the original sounds better too.
Anyway, let’s skip the rest. Now I just wanna say sorry. Well maybe not sorry. I don’t know. No, yes. I am sorry. Sorry for my lack of sympathy. And understanding. Or just the simple pleasure of company. It’s not that I don’t care, but well… you know how it is. I don’t know if this is one of those ‘you know I’ll always be there if you ever need me’ talks. I hope not because that should be a given. It should be assumed. Although maybe not. Actually, looks, let’s just forget the explanations. I can’t It just is. And I’m blubbering crap.
I’m just… you know… sorry.
No songs or poetry tonight.
Just… yeah. That.
_____
Tagged
From Becky.
1) Total number of books you own?
Probably over a hundred. Not that I know where they all are. I’m a bad guesser. Could be less or more. If you include comic books, then it’s in the thousands. No exaggeration there.
2) What was the last book you bought?
Mysteries of Pittsburgh by Michael Chabon. He’s probably my favourite author. Wrote Wonderboys and the Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay. He also probably is the biggest influence for the concept of my new website (plug). Unfortunately this book was a bit of a disappointment. I guess it was his first and all…
3) What was the last book you read?
Confederate General from Big Sur by Richard Brautigan. It’s good. I recommend it. Doesn’t make much sense. But it’s good.
4) List five books that are particularly meaningful to you (in no particular order) – that I can think of at the moment. Or 8.
1. Wonderboys by Michael Chabon
2. 1984 by George Orwell
3. Fight Club by Chuck Palanhiuk (who I just found out is gay)
4. Slaughterhouse V, Cat’s Cradle, Breakfast of Champions by Kurt Vonnegut
5. American Psycho by Bret Easton Ellis
6. White Noise by Don DeLillo
7. The Outsider by Albert Camus
8. Model Behaviour by Jay McInerney
A similar list on a previous blog entry may have had different books in it. I can’t remember.
And Becky, again, Ros and Guil is NOT a book, dear.
5) Tag five people and have them fill out the list on their own blogs (if they can be bothered)
1. Yui
2. Mey
3. Addy
4. Emily
5. Chi
OK, here’s what’s been happening with me. At least since last Friday because my memory doesn’t really stretch beyond that at the moment.
So I was drinking. Oh yeah, I’d taken a couple of days off and then I went out on Friday and I was drinking. From about 6pm to 2:30am with about 2 hours eating break in between. And when I went home (around 4am), I started writing this simple 4-chord song on my guitar and it sounded ok. It was based on what we were talking about that night during drinks, which is the subject matter of most of my writing: Unhappy Guys.
So when I thought it sounded good enough (or as good as it would get at that stage of the morning), I went to bed afraid that I would forget it by the morrow.
In morning, first thing I did was play it again and I actually did remember it all. Except the thing is, something didn’t sound right. Then I realised that I had inadvertently plagiarised part of a Ryan Adams song in the important chorus bit.
The clarity of morning!
My chorus goes:
Now there’s just you
Only you
So I thank God
That I no longer have something for you
Ryan’s original goes:
Ask me that you’d like to know me well
But you already have
You already do
And nobody does
And I guess that says something for you
No, it’s not quite the same. And actually two very different subject matters. But well… let’s face it. It didn’t come from my head. And the original sounds better too.
Anyway, let’s skip the rest. Now I just wanna say sorry. Well maybe not sorry. I don’t know. No, yes. I am sorry. Sorry for my lack of sympathy. And understanding. Or just the simple pleasure of company. It’s not that I don’t care, but well… you know how it is. I don’t know if this is one of those ‘you know I’ll always be there if you ever need me’ talks. I hope not because that should be a given. It should be assumed. Although maybe not. Actually, looks, let’s just forget the explanations. I can’t It just is. And I’m blubbering crap.
I’m just… you know… sorry.
No songs or poetry tonight.
Just… yeah. That.
_____
Tagged
From Becky.
1) Total number of books you own?
Probably over a hundred. Not that I know where they all are. I’m a bad guesser. Could be less or more. If you include comic books, then it’s in the thousands. No exaggeration there.
2) What was the last book you bought?
Mysteries of Pittsburgh by Michael Chabon. He’s probably my favourite author. Wrote Wonderboys and the Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay. He also probably is the biggest influence for the concept of my new website (plug). Unfortunately this book was a bit of a disappointment. I guess it was his first and all…
3) What was the last book you read?
Confederate General from Big Sur by Richard Brautigan. It’s good. I recommend it. Doesn’t make much sense. But it’s good.
4) List five books that are particularly meaningful to you (in no particular order) – that I can think of at the moment. Or 8.
1. Wonderboys by Michael Chabon
2. 1984 by George Orwell
3. Fight Club by Chuck Palanhiuk (who I just found out is gay)
4. Slaughterhouse V, Cat’s Cradle, Breakfast of Champions by Kurt Vonnegut
5. American Psycho by Bret Easton Ellis
6. White Noise by Don DeLillo
7. The Outsider by Albert Camus
8. Model Behaviour by Jay McInerney
A similar list on a previous blog entry may have had different books in it. I can’t remember.
And Becky, again, Ros and Guil is NOT a book, dear.
5) Tag five people and have them fill out the list on their own blogs (if they can be bothered)
1. Yui
2. Mey
3. Addy
4. Emily
5. Chi
Friday, September 02, 2005
Part 4
Part 4 of the witch story is now available at H&O's Incredible 3Ring Writing Circus. Please spread the word if you enjoy reading it.
Asian Pride
I want to write a bit about Yao Ming. To those of you who haven't been following the career of the 7'6" Chinese NBA player, he's really been a wonderful role model for all Chinese people everywhere. He's conducted himself, every step of the way, with utmost class. He is obliging, engaging, humble and funny in interviews, making him a media darling all over the world. On the court, while he is yet to dominate the league, he's answered his many critics who expected a big yellow stiff when he was drafted first a few years ago. I must admit that when he first came onto the scene, looking like a skinny Chinese Ivan Drago or a really tall version of my friend Minh, I thought that his potential for failure and embarrassment was huge. Traditionally, really tall players haven't succeeded in basketball and neither have Chinese players. So Yao Ming is a pioneer in the truest sense of the word.
Recently he's signed a contract extension and here's a nice article about it, and about him. It's better than I can tell you.
Part 4 of the witch story is now available at H&O's Incredible 3Ring Writing Circus. Please spread the word if you enjoy reading it.
Asian Pride
I want to write a bit about Yao Ming. To those of you who haven't been following the career of the 7'6" Chinese NBA player, he's really been a wonderful role model for all Chinese people everywhere. He's conducted himself, every step of the way, with utmost class. He is obliging, engaging, humble and funny in interviews, making him a media darling all over the world. On the court, while he is yet to dominate the league, he's answered his many critics who expected a big yellow stiff when he was drafted first a few years ago. I must admit that when he first came onto the scene, looking like a skinny Chinese Ivan Drago or a really tall version of my friend Minh, I thought that his potential for failure and embarrassment was huge. Traditionally, really tall players haven't succeeded in basketball and neither have Chinese players. So Yao Ming is a pioneer in the truest sense of the word.
Recently he's signed a contract extension and here's a nice article about it, and about him. It's better than I can tell you.
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
OK, here it is. That new literary website (blog) project I was working on. Up and running. For now, we only have posted up the three parts of the witch story that have been posted here. More to come real soon...
Now the website is up, I can work on actually writing stuff for it.
Again, potential contributors, contact me about writing.
Potential readers, please spread the word! We'd like to have as wide an audience as we can get.
Here's the url.
Cheers
Christian
Now the website is up, I can work on actually writing stuff for it.
Again, potential contributors, contact me about writing.
Potential readers, please spread the word! We'd like to have as wide an audience as we can get.
Here's the url.
Cheers
Christian
Friday, August 19, 2005
I have two projects currently on hand.
The first is a new literary website (OK, it's another blog) that I'm starting with my friend, Ben. It will be a fiction-based site and the new home for my currently ongoing witch/magic story thing. At the moment, there's no restriction on genre so some will be serials and others just single contributions. We will be looking for contributors. So if this sounds like soemthing that would interest you, drop me a line. I'll keep you updated.
The second project is my attempt to follow Ryan Adams' footsteps (when he stripped back Wonderwall and turned it into something else) and strip back Mandy Moore's Candy into an acoustic ballad.
Fun times.
The first is a new literary website (OK, it's another blog) that I'm starting with my friend, Ben. It will be a fiction-based site and the new home for my currently ongoing witch/magic story thing. At the moment, there's no restriction on genre so some will be serials and others just single contributions. We will be looking for contributors. So if this sounds like soemthing that would interest you, drop me a line. I'll keep you updated.
The second project is my attempt to follow Ryan Adams' footsteps (when he stripped back Wonderwall and turned it into something else) and strip back Mandy Moore's Candy into an acoustic ballad.
Fun times.
Thursday, August 04, 2005
Part 3
I came late to work again today. Which I suppose wasn’t totally not my fault. But I blame the trains nonetheless. I cursed them as I left the carriage and cursed them some more as I was walking to my office. Not the type of curse that my wife does, mind you. Just your average silent potty-mouthed complaints over the current state of the New South Wales public transport service. No one will die because of these curses. No trains will explode. No fat conductor will be finding pustules on his arse today.
In fact, I once did ask Astrid if she would put an actual curse on City Rail and she flatly said no and I felt guilty about asking her. Although I still don’t understand how she can kill innocent (well… sort of innocent) men on a regular basis and yet she can’t put a curse on a large faceless organisation that continually takes us to work late. I don’t understand her morals sometimes. But I love her. And she’s hot.
I miss the meeting by about 45 minutes but no one seems to notice. They must have had cake during the meeting because what’s left of it is just sitting there by the bookshelves, and I go and eat some without asking anyone about the occasion. There’s usually an occasion. There’s always an occasion, really.
And it is during the eating of said cake that I actually notice that there is no one in my team who could have noticed me missing from the meeting, or been able to answer me about the occasion question. In fact, I can’t see anyone at all. Strange. My area is completely empty.
I look around the corner and can’t see anyone. Just blocks of empty desks. I then walk a bit further around the level and I finally find one guy. Arthur. What you need to know about him is he’s 35, short, glasses, checker pants and he has an unusually large face. He’s into pots. Not pot. Pots. Not pot plants. Just pots. The ceramic kind, mind you.
‘Hey Artie,’ he likes being called that, ‘where is everyone?’
‘Oh hey man. How are you?’
‘Good Artie. Listen, where is…’
‘You wanna see my new pot?’
‘Um… listen, I’m just wondering…’
Hey, that was good cake.
‘It’s really nice,’ he says with a smile that Winnie the Pooh would be proud of. I don’t really like to talk to him for extended periods of time. Actually I don’t really know anyone who does.
He hands me the pot.
It really is nice.
It’s about the size of his head, which is to say it’s about twice the size of my own head. Short, fat and rectangular on the bottom. Mostly blue. With yellow swirls. If you rotate it, it gives the illusion that it’s moving. Swirling. Like you’re looking into a bottled vortex. It’s nice.
‘I told you it was nice.’
Almonds. Fruits. A little on the heavy side, perhaps. It’s swirling in my stomach.
‘Yeah, it is, Artie. Listen, where is everyone?’
‘Oh yeah, they’re all sick.’
‘All of them called in sick?’
‘No,’ he shakes his head. ‘They came in. Then they went home.’
‘How did they all get sick?’
‘It was the cake. Something bad in it, I think.’
I feel something coming up, all of a sudden, as if on cue. Up from the stomach. And before I know it, I’m emptying my guts into Artie’s pot.
He’s not a bad guy, that Artie. He helps me out the next five minutes or so — or maybe twenty — over a toilet emptying the rest of my guts. It feels terrible. Like having a vacuum cleaner pipe shoved up my throat. I then take some Mylanta and I go home too.
‘Are you sure you’ll be fine?’
‘Yeah. Thanks Artie. Sorry about your pot.’
‘Oh that’s alright. It’s dishwasher-safe.’
I catch a train home and it actually comes on time. This comes to me, in some perverse way, as a disappointment. The ride is also disappointingly comfortable and so I find myself with a pain in my gut but nothing else to whinge about.
By the time I’m about 3/4 of the way home, I’m feeling fine so I get off at Sydenham and catch another train. I haven’t had the chance to leave work this early for a very long time and it’s too good to waste at home.
I’m thinking about my wife, which happens to happen quite often. Usually I would be picturing her as I saw her last — waving goodbye to me in the morning, in her nice suit, before work. But more often then not, it would spiral into a series of dirty fantasies.
This time, it leads me into thinking that I haven’t bought her a present in over a month and being out early, I could come home and surprise her with something nice and make her happy (or something not so nice as is often the case with things that make her happy). So I make a trek to Newtown to the shop with the 400 year-old vampire owner (whom I suspect isn’t a vampire at all, since I’ve seen him in broad daylight and he wasn’t burning up).
It’s a tiny shop in an alleyway behind a bar that sells cocktails for half price during happy hour. It’s called Francis’ Magic ‘n’ Gifts.
Like most legit magic shops (as opposed to those that sell things like fake barf, wigs and whoopee cushions), Francis’ Magic ‘n’ Gifts has an entrance-by-invite spell, which in simple terms means that if no one has told you about it, you won’t be able to see it. It’s not that it turns invisible or anything. It’s still always there. But you’ll miss it somehow. Right there in plain sight, with its monkey heads and peacock plumes on the door. You’ll just walk right past it.
I open the door and the bell rings. Inside, it’s musty like it was the last time. The shop is tiny. Only two shelves line the walls. Everything else you want you have to ask for, and Francis gets it for you from the back room.
‘Who the hell are you?’ Francis barks.
‘Huh?’
‘How did you find this place? You’re not a magic user.’
‘How would you know?’
‘I can’t smell you. So you’re either good enough to hide yourself, which I sincerely doubt by the look of you, or you’re a non-user. Now explain yourself before I set off the traps.’
‘Look, I’ve been here before. My wife, she’s a…’
‘Ahh. The eye of newt. Economy pack.’
‘Yeah. My wife. She’s a…’
‘Next time,’ he says turning his back to me, ‘tell her to come herself for her supplies. You normal people make me nervous.’
I look around the shop. I don’t dare touch any of this stuff. There’s a head of a dwarf on the second shelf smiling at me.
‘I’m looking for a present for her actually. Do you have anything you might recommend?’
‘Hmmm…’ he seems more accommodating all of a sudden. ‘What’s she into?’
‘Um… I’m not sure.’ I’m thinking. ‘She kills a lot.’ Not sure if I should’ve said that. ‘She’s into curses and stuff, I think.’
‘Friendly girl, I take it?’
‘Oh but they’re all bad people.’
‘Yes… well… how about an orb of Orobos?’
‘What’s that?’
‘For flatulence spells.’
‘More sinister.’
‘The Dagger of Orobos?’
‘More flatulence?’
‘Exploding anus.’
‘Oh.’
I look around again on the two shelves that are there. Mostly crap really. A shrunken head, mummified hand candles. That sort of thing. Then I look up on the top shelf and I see it. It’s the pot. The same one that Arthur had today. It shimmers. The swirls almost seeming to move. I’m surprised I didn’t notice it before. Now it’s like it’s the only thing that I can see on the shelf. I can barely take my eyes off it.
‘What’s that?’ I say, pointing to the pot.
‘Ahh, that.’ He walks around the counter and, on tiptoes, grabs the pot off the shelf.
‘What is it?’ I ask.
‘Well it’s a place to put all the gory bits after a kill. Hearts, livers, you know…’
‘Really?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t see why not.’
‘Is it magic?’
‘Er… of course it is.’
I like it.
‘How much?’
‘Hmmm… for you, $120.’
‘$120? For this? You kidding?’
‘It’s magic.’
I reel back.
‘I can’t afford that. Do you have something else like it? But cheaper. Not magic, perhaps.’
‘OK, let me look.’
Francis takes the blue pot into the back room and I am left alone for a couple of minutes to the entertainment of some sort of mystical muzak which, as well, I never noticed was on before. I am listening to the muzak when the doormat starts talking to me.
‘Does she use her tongue?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘I bet she does,’ says the doormat.
I’m about to answer but Francis walks back out with the same blue pot with the yellow swirls.
‘You have a talking doormat?’
‘Of course not,’ snaps Francis. ‘You must be nuts.’
He holds up the pot to me.
‘Here you go.’
‘It’s the same pot!’
‘Certainly not! I de-magicked it!’
‘Oh.’
‘Magic-free now. I’ll give it to you for 60.’
’20.’
’20?!’ He’s acting angry. ‘40’
’25.’
’40.’
’30.’
’40.’
’35.’
‘Look, I’m a 400-year-old vampire. You don’t want to mess with me.’
‘Speaking of which…’
’40.’
‘You’re not really, are you?’
‘Not a what?’
‘I saw you in direct sunlight, loading stuff from a van.’
‘You did not.’
‘I did.’
‘OK, so you caught me. I wasn’t a vampire then. I lied.’
‘OK. So, how about 35?’
‘But I am now. A vampire that is. I got bit last week.’ He lifts his collar to show two marks on his neck.
‘Oh give it up!’
‘Hey, you can’t prove I’m not!’
‘Go ahead and bite me then.’
He starts to move towards me. I step back and hold my hands out motioning him to stay where he is.
’40 it is then.’
‘Deal.’
_____
I walk home with the pot, unwrapped, and it’s getting dark already. Winter’s like that. I suspect she won’t be home yet. She doesn’t normally get home yet but then again, I told her this morning that I’d be working late and yet here I am.
The way from the station to my house is a lazy ten minutes long. I pass the library and the local pub. There’s also this empty carpark that is often empty despite being near a pub and a library. I imagine there must be something magical about it but I’ve never actually checked that theory out. Actually there’s probably nothing magical about it at all.
The reason I mention the carpark is that from here I can already see our house and from here I can see that the light in the bedroom upstairs is on, which is rather alarming, seeing as though my wife isn’t home. So I start running, still pot in hand. When I get to the front door, it’s locked, which means the intruder must have gotten in from the back or climbed up perhaps. My heart is racing. I’m sweating.
I unlock the door and race up the stairs. The door to the bedroom is open and the light streams out of the room like a scene from a horror movie. I can hear a fair amount of commotion in there.
When I finally get there, I see Astrid which comes as both a shock and a relief.
‘Oh.’ I say. And she’s naked and is sitting on the bed. Or kneeling. There’s some man, also naked as usual, under her.
‘You’re home? And how come you’re doing the ritual in hear and not in the basement like…’ I’m talking fast now because I am in some sort of shock or daze, whatever you want to call it.
She turns around and looks at me, startled like I’m some sort of stranger. And she covers her nakedness with the sheets and she gets up and I’m thinking ‘where’s the knife’ and that there’s an alarming lack of blood on the sheets or on her or on anywhere really. And then the guy gets up covering his bits and grabs his underwear from the foot of the bed and I notice that he’s not the least dead. Or even drunken for that matter, and suddenly I get this shiver up my spine and I break into a cold sweat and I struggle to look away. Captivated like I’m under a spell.
It takes me a long second to snap out of it and I’m feeling strangely calm. I place the pot, which I realise I’m still carrying and is now warm and wet with sweat, on the carpet and I turn around and slowly walk down the stairs. I sit on the couch and turn on the TV and watch a show with this guy in a safari suit explaining to me how the bent pyramid of Dashur was built. It’s very interesting. So much so that I don’t flinch when I hear someone skipping down the stairs and walking out the door, taking care not to make too much noise. Apparently the pyramid is bent because halfway up, they realised it was too steep to hold itself up so the engineers lessened the inclined to complete the construction.
My wife comes down the stairs now. And she sits down next to me and places a hand on my knee and calls my name softly. I take the remote and turn the TV off. I stand up and look at her and tell her that I think I might go down to the pub and have a drink. It seems like a good idea. Yes, I think I'll do that.
I came late to work again today. Which I suppose wasn’t totally not my fault. But I blame the trains nonetheless. I cursed them as I left the carriage and cursed them some more as I was walking to my office. Not the type of curse that my wife does, mind you. Just your average silent potty-mouthed complaints over the current state of the New South Wales public transport service. No one will die because of these curses. No trains will explode. No fat conductor will be finding pustules on his arse today.
In fact, I once did ask Astrid if she would put an actual curse on City Rail and she flatly said no and I felt guilty about asking her. Although I still don’t understand how she can kill innocent (well… sort of innocent) men on a regular basis and yet she can’t put a curse on a large faceless organisation that continually takes us to work late. I don’t understand her morals sometimes. But I love her. And she’s hot.
I miss the meeting by about 45 minutes but no one seems to notice. They must have had cake during the meeting because what’s left of it is just sitting there by the bookshelves, and I go and eat some without asking anyone about the occasion. There’s usually an occasion. There’s always an occasion, really.
And it is during the eating of said cake that I actually notice that there is no one in my team who could have noticed me missing from the meeting, or been able to answer me about the occasion question. In fact, I can’t see anyone at all. Strange. My area is completely empty.
I look around the corner and can’t see anyone. Just blocks of empty desks. I then walk a bit further around the level and I finally find one guy. Arthur. What you need to know about him is he’s 35, short, glasses, checker pants and he has an unusually large face. He’s into pots. Not pot. Pots. Not pot plants. Just pots. The ceramic kind, mind you.
‘Hey Artie,’ he likes being called that, ‘where is everyone?’
‘Oh hey man. How are you?’
‘Good Artie. Listen, where is…’
‘You wanna see my new pot?’
‘Um… listen, I’m just wondering…’
Hey, that was good cake.
‘It’s really nice,’ he says with a smile that Winnie the Pooh would be proud of. I don’t really like to talk to him for extended periods of time. Actually I don’t really know anyone who does.
He hands me the pot.
It really is nice.
It’s about the size of his head, which is to say it’s about twice the size of my own head. Short, fat and rectangular on the bottom. Mostly blue. With yellow swirls. If you rotate it, it gives the illusion that it’s moving. Swirling. Like you’re looking into a bottled vortex. It’s nice.
‘I told you it was nice.’
Almonds. Fruits. A little on the heavy side, perhaps. It’s swirling in my stomach.
‘Yeah, it is, Artie. Listen, where is everyone?’
‘Oh yeah, they’re all sick.’
‘All of them called in sick?’
‘No,’ he shakes his head. ‘They came in. Then they went home.’
‘How did they all get sick?’
‘It was the cake. Something bad in it, I think.’
I feel something coming up, all of a sudden, as if on cue. Up from the stomach. And before I know it, I’m emptying my guts into Artie’s pot.
He’s not a bad guy, that Artie. He helps me out the next five minutes or so — or maybe twenty — over a toilet emptying the rest of my guts. It feels terrible. Like having a vacuum cleaner pipe shoved up my throat. I then take some Mylanta and I go home too.
‘Are you sure you’ll be fine?’
‘Yeah. Thanks Artie. Sorry about your pot.’
‘Oh that’s alright. It’s dishwasher-safe.’
I catch a train home and it actually comes on time. This comes to me, in some perverse way, as a disappointment. The ride is also disappointingly comfortable and so I find myself with a pain in my gut but nothing else to whinge about.
By the time I’m about 3/4 of the way home, I’m feeling fine so I get off at Sydenham and catch another train. I haven’t had the chance to leave work this early for a very long time and it’s too good to waste at home.
I’m thinking about my wife, which happens to happen quite often. Usually I would be picturing her as I saw her last — waving goodbye to me in the morning, in her nice suit, before work. But more often then not, it would spiral into a series of dirty fantasies.
This time, it leads me into thinking that I haven’t bought her a present in over a month and being out early, I could come home and surprise her with something nice and make her happy (or something not so nice as is often the case with things that make her happy). So I make a trek to Newtown to the shop with the 400 year-old vampire owner (whom I suspect isn’t a vampire at all, since I’ve seen him in broad daylight and he wasn’t burning up).
It’s a tiny shop in an alleyway behind a bar that sells cocktails for half price during happy hour. It’s called Francis’ Magic ‘n’ Gifts.
Like most legit magic shops (as opposed to those that sell things like fake barf, wigs and whoopee cushions), Francis’ Magic ‘n’ Gifts has an entrance-by-invite spell, which in simple terms means that if no one has told you about it, you won’t be able to see it. It’s not that it turns invisible or anything. It’s still always there. But you’ll miss it somehow. Right there in plain sight, with its monkey heads and peacock plumes on the door. You’ll just walk right past it.
I open the door and the bell rings. Inside, it’s musty like it was the last time. The shop is tiny. Only two shelves line the walls. Everything else you want you have to ask for, and Francis gets it for you from the back room.
‘Who the hell are you?’ Francis barks.
‘Huh?’
‘How did you find this place? You’re not a magic user.’
‘How would you know?’
‘I can’t smell you. So you’re either good enough to hide yourself, which I sincerely doubt by the look of you, or you’re a non-user. Now explain yourself before I set off the traps.’
‘Look, I’ve been here before. My wife, she’s a…’
‘Ahh. The eye of newt. Economy pack.’
‘Yeah. My wife. She’s a…’
‘Next time,’ he says turning his back to me, ‘tell her to come herself for her supplies. You normal people make me nervous.’
I look around the shop. I don’t dare touch any of this stuff. There’s a head of a dwarf on the second shelf smiling at me.
‘I’m looking for a present for her actually. Do you have anything you might recommend?’
‘Hmmm…’ he seems more accommodating all of a sudden. ‘What’s she into?’
‘Um… I’m not sure.’ I’m thinking. ‘She kills a lot.’ Not sure if I should’ve said that. ‘She’s into curses and stuff, I think.’
‘Friendly girl, I take it?’
‘Oh but they’re all bad people.’
‘Yes… well… how about an orb of Orobos?’
‘What’s that?’
‘For flatulence spells.’
‘More sinister.’
‘The Dagger of Orobos?’
‘More flatulence?’
‘Exploding anus.’
‘Oh.’
I look around again on the two shelves that are there. Mostly crap really. A shrunken head, mummified hand candles. That sort of thing. Then I look up on the top shelf and I see it. It’s the pot. The same one that Arthur had today. It shimmers. The swirls almost seeming to move. I’m surprised I didn’t notice it before. Now it’s like it’s the only thing that I can see on the shelf. I can barely take my eyes off it.
‘What’s that?’ I say, pointing to the pot.
‘Ahh, that.’ He walks around the counter and, on tiptoes, grabs the pot off the shelf.
‘What is it?’ I ask.
‘Well it’s a place to put all the gory bits after a kill. Hearts, livers, you know…’
‘Really?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t see why not.’
‘Is it magic?’
‘Er… of course it is.’
I like it.
‘How much?’
‘Hmmm… for you, $120.’
‘$120? For this? You kidding?’
‘It’s magic.’
I reel back.
‘I can’t afford that. Do you have something else like it? But cheaper. Not magic, perhaps.’
‘OK, let me look.’
Francis takes the blue pot into the back room and I am left alone for a couple of minutes to the entertainment of some sort of mystical muzak which, as well, I never noticed was on before. I am listening to the muzak when the doormat starts talking to me.
‘Does she use her tongue?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘I bet she does,’ says the doormat.
I’m about to answer but Francis walks back out with the same blue pot with the yellow swirls.
‘You have a talking doormat?’
‘Of course not,’ snaps Francis. ‘You must be nuts.’
He holds up the pot to me.
‘Here you go.’
‘It’s the same pot!’
‘Certainly not! I de-magicked it!’
‘Oh.’
‘Magic-free now. I’ll give it to you for 60.’
’20.’
’20?!’ He’s acting angry. ‘40’
’25.’
’40.’
’30.’
’40.’
’35.’
‘Look, I’m a 400-year-old vampire. You don’t want to mess with me.’
‘Speaking of which…’
’40.’
‘You’re not really, are you?’
‘Not a what?’
‘I saw you in direct sunlight, loading stuff from a van.’
‘You did not.’
‘I did.’
‘OK, so you caught me. I wasn’t a vampire then. I lied.’
‘OK. So, how about 35?’
‘But I am now. A vampire that is. I got bit last week.’ He lifts his collar to show two marks on his neck.
‘Oh give it up!’
‘Hey, you can’t prove I’m not!’
‘Go ahead and bite me then.’
He starts to move towards me. I step back and hold my hands out motioning him to stay where he is.
’40 it is then.’
‘Deal.’
_____
I walk home with the pot, unwrapped, and it’s getting dark already. Winter’s like that. I suspect she won’t be home yet. She doesn’t normally get home yet but then again, I told her this morning that I’d be working late and yet here I am.
The way from the station to my house is a lazy ten minutes long. I pass the library and the local pub. There’s also this empty carpark that is often empty despite being near a pub and a library. I imagine there must be something magical about it but I’ve never actually checked that theory out. Actually there’s probably nothing magical about it at all.
The reason I mention the carpark is that from here I can already see our house and from here I can see that the light in the bedroom upstairs is on, which is rather alarming, seeing as though my wife isn’t home. So I start running, still pot in hand. When I get to the front door, it’s locked, which means the intruder must have gotten in from the back or climbed up perhaps. My heart is racing. I’m sweating.
I unlock the door and race up the stairs. The door to the bedroom is open and the light streams out of the room like a scene from a horror movie. I can hear a fair amount of commotion in there.
When I finally get there, I see Astrid which comes as both a shock and a relief.
‘Oh.’ I say. And she’s naked and is sitting on the bed. Or kneeling. There’s some man, also naked as usual, under her.
‘You’re home? And how come you’re doing the ritual in hear and not in the basement like…’ I’m talking fast now because I am in some sort of shock or daze, whatever you want to call it.
She turns around and looks at me, startled like I’m some sort of stranger. And she covers her nakedness with the sheets and she gets up and I’m thinking ‘where’s the knife’ and that there’s an alarming lack of blood on the sheets or on her or on anywhere really. And then the guy gets up covering his bits and grabs his underwear from the foot of the bed and I notice that he’s not the least dead. Or even drunken for that matter, and suddenly I get this shiver up my spine and I break into a cold sweat and I struggle to look away. Captivated like I’m under a spell.
It takes me a long second to snap out of it and I’m feeling strangely calm. I place the pot, which I realise I’m still carrying and is now warm and wet with sweat, on the carpet and I turn around and slowly walk down the stairs. I sit on the couch and turn on the TV and watch a show with this guy in a safari suit explaining to me how the bent pyramid of Dashur was built. It’s very interesting. So much so that I don’t flinch when I hear someone skipping down the stairs and walking out the door, taking care not to make too much noise. Apparently the pyramid is bent because halfway up, they realised it was too steep to hold itself up so the engineers lessened the inclined to complete the construction.
My wife comes down the stairs now. And she sits down next to me and places a hand on my knee and calls my name softly. I take the remote and turn the TV off. I stand up and look at her and tell her that I think I might go down to the pub and have a drink. It seems like a good idea. Yes, I think I'll do that.
While I wasn't looking, apparently, Jason Mraz transformed into Guy Sebastian and released a second album. I'm listening to it now. Thanks Riss. But it's kinda crap actually. (Not that it's your fault, Riss! haha) All the cleverness that made his his first album fun is gone. He's just a crooner now. What a shame.
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
The trouble with leaving problems where they are is that they pile up over time. Like a messy room, for example. Procrastination gives immediate relief at the cost of having to face them at a higher level of annoyance later down the track. Sometimes, this may be a good thing. For example, back during uni, I always seemed to function better with my back to the wall. With an essay due in 24 hours. Or a publishing deadline. Or whatever. But those are fairly high stakes. On lesser matters, the accumulation of stuff over time would normally merely end in a half-arsed clean up job.
All of this, of course, is hardly profound, original or insightful. I write about this not to proclaim or teach but rather, to distract myself from having to write about the things that have been piling up in my ‘things to blog about’ list while I haven’t been writing much at all. Then, by the time I get to write about the stuff I feel I should be blogging about, I’ll be too tired and I’ll end up doing a half arsed job at it before getting off the computer to watch TV til 3 or so and wake up tomorrow morning just in time to be half an hour late for work and coming up with an excuse like ‘my dog caught on fire’ or something equally believable.
Here’s a rundown of various things which I may have wanted to blog about.
1. I saw Ryan Adams. I saw and listened to my musical idol for 3 hours. And while the concert cannot possibly be described as anything but a hit-and-miss affair, it was still worth the wait and the admission price. And then some. He’s messed up. He’s rude. He’s nuts. But, man, there were moments there when he sang and the rest of the stage was deathly quiet, except for his soft subtle guitar, that I sat there mesmerised, shivers down my spine, wishing I had a hand to hold.
2. I saw Sin City and was bitterly disappointed. I expected a lot. And I really really wanted to like it. But I couldn’t. Visually, it was stunning, innovative, etc. Let’s get that out of the way first. A++ for that. Now, the rest of it? I found it clichéd. Beyond iconic. Like Stephen says, it felt like the computer game Max Payne, except Max Payne probably had more twists and turns, or at the very least it had the actual game to distract you from the cinematics when you got bored of it. Sin City is relentless. Each protagonist was the same hard-boiled-tough-but-with-a-heart-of-gold alpha male. All females were strippers, exotic dancers, barmaids or the now super cliché Japanese babe with the innocent face but deadly blades. Most of them were naked or close to. The villains include more clichés like a crooked cop and a corrupt clergyman. Come on! This is the best from the legendary comic book? A++ for visuals. C+ for the rest.
How’s that for half arsed? Two things and I’m off already. Disgraceful.
All of this, of course, is hardly profound, original or insightful. I write about this not to proclaim or teach but rather, to distract myself from having to write about the things that have been piling up in my ‘things to blog about’ list while I haven’t been writing much at all. Then, by the time I get to write about the stuff I feel I should be blogging about, I’ll be too tired and I’ll end up doing a half arsed job at it before getting off the computer to watch TV til 3 or so and wake up tomorrow morning just in time to be half an hour late for work and coming up with an excuse like ‘my dog caught on fire’ or something equally believable.
Here’s a rundown of various things which I may have wanted to blog about.
1. I saw Ryan Adams. I saw and listened to my musical idol for 3 hours. And while the concert cannot possibly be described as anything but a hit-and-miss affair, it was still worth the wait and the admission price. And then some. He’s messed up. He’s rude. He’s nuts. But, man, there were moments there when he sang and the rest of the stage was deathly quiet, except for his soft subtle guitar, that I sat there mesmerised, shivers down my spine, wishing I had a hand to hold.
2. I saw Sin City and was bitterly disappointed. I expected a lot. And I really really wanted to like it. But I couldn’t. Visually, it was stunning, innovative, etc. Let’s get that out of the way first. A++ for that. Now, the rest of it? I found it clichéd. Beyond iconic. Like Stephen says, it felt like the computer game Max Payne, except Max Payne probably had more twists and turns, or at the very least it had the actual game to distract you from the cinematics when you got bored of it. Sin City is relentless. Each protagonist was the same hard-boiled-tough-but-with-a-heart-of-gold alpha male. All females were strippers, exotic dancers, barmaids or the now super cliché Japanese babe with the innocent face but deadly blades. Most of them were naked or close to. The villains include more clichés like a crooked cop and a corrupt clergyman. Come on! This is the best from the legendary comic book? A++ for visuals. C+ for the rest.
How’s that for half arsed? Two things and I’m off already. Disgraceful.
Friday, July 22, 2005
Sunday, July 17, 2005
So much fuss has been made of the Tom Cruise/ Katie Holmes affair. Yeah whatever.
Here is my list of some older (than me) actresses that I would have trouble saying no to, if an opportunity to have an affair with them were presented to me. Unlikely as that may be. In no particular order they are…
1. Diane Lane, 40
2. Michelle Pfeiffer, 47
3. Meg Ryan, 44
4. Ashley Judd, 37
5. Jill Hennessy, 37
6. Lauren Graham, 38
7. Kylie, 37 (sort of an actress)
8. Teri Hatcher, 41
9. Maggie Cheung, 41
10. Naomi Watts, 37
11. Lauren Holly, 42
* Please note that I considered Heather Graham not old enough for this list at the age of 35. Otherwise, she would easily make the list.
Here is my list of some older (than me) actresses that I would have trouble saying no to, if an opportunity to have an affair with them were presented to me. Unlikely as that may be. In no particular order they are…
1. Diane Lane, 40
2. Michelle Pfeiffer, 47
3. Meg Ryan, 44
4. Ashley Judd, 37
5. Jill Hennessy, 37
6. Lauren Graham, 38
7. Kylie, 37 (sort of an actress)
8. Teri Hatcher, 41
9. Maggie Cheung, 41
10. Naomi Watts, 37
11. Lauren Holly, 42
* Please note that I considered Heather Graham not old enough for this list at the age of 35. Otherwise, she would easily make the list.
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
Some more stuff
I’ve seen Batman Begins and it’s good. Maybe not quite as ear-to-ear-smile-inducing fun as Spiderman 2 but still just as good in its own way. I imagine this is what Ang Lee was trying to do with the Hulk except Chris Nolan executed it infinitely better. When Katie Holmes and Liam Neeson’s goatee are the weak links of a movie, you know you have a good movie. Everything was crafted so well. A tight script brought to life by the best quality cast ever assembled for a super hero movie.
What impressed me the most was that almost every ‘problem’ with the story that I was thinking of seemed to be anticipated and addressed by the film. Why does Batman wear a cumbersome cape? How do you explain his reclusive nature? Where does he get all those guests for his party?
Anyway, about the 1989 Tim Burton Batman, I’ve always said that that wasn’t the comic Batman but it was still a great movie. Thinking about it, this new one is something else again. And again, it’s worked. Even better than Tim’s I’d say.
…
Last week I got my guitar modified. With lighter strings and lower action, apparently I now have the ultimate beginner’s guitar. It’s got a slightly tinnier sound but it’s a lot easier to play. Now I can’t blame my guitar anymore for my bad playing. I gotta admit. I’m just bad.
…
Good news: I have Ryan Adams tickets!
Bad news: He has an ear infection and might cancel his tour.
…
I’ve spoken often to people (especially lately for some reason) who say that they could never write a blog because it’s so personal and they couldn’t stand having other people read their stuff, whatever. Why is it always such a big deal? If you don’t like writing to a public audience, then don’t. But don’t say because it’s too personal. You don’t HAVE TO be personal on a blog. I don’t consider my blog very personal at all. I just write things. I first started so I could have a platform to practice my writing skills. Since then, it’s fallen to become something else. But it doesn’t matter. I just say things. Write them down. And others read them. Then inevitably the conversation will shift to be about writing for an audience vs. writing for yourself. This is rubbish. If you’re writing for yourself, you wouldn’t be writing on a site that’s public domain. You just wouldn’t. I personally never write for an audience but I know that’s just me. I don’t see the point, personally. If I wanna be thinking things, that’s what I’ll do. Think them. I don’t need to write them down for myself. To digress, part of why I don’t like to write for myself is because I believe that the written word will always be limited in what it can do. Words cannot possibly transpose a feeling onto a page. The best it can do is a representation of the feeling. This you can share with an audience. So to write something down is always to change it. To create something new. Even the spoken word changes things. As a reminder of memories, it’s limited. As an exercise, try describing a song. If you can make me experience something even remotely close to listening to the actual song, just by reading what you wrote, then I will bow down to your writing might.
As usual, I have strayed from my point…
Now I'll go back to writing more of my witch story. Oh and if anyone can come up with a name for it, please feel free to make suggestions. I tend to come up with really long working titles that sound ridiculous and that eventually fall in love with enough to keep as my real title. Or I plagiarise.
And so it goes.
I’ve seen Batman Begins and it’s good. Maybe not quite as ear-to-ear-smile-inducing fun as Spiderman 2 but still just as good in its own way. I imagine this is what Ang Lee was trying to do with the Hulk except Chris Nolan executed it infinitely better. When Katie Holmes and Liam Neeson’s goatee are the weak links of a movie, you know you have a good movie. Everything was crafted so well. A tight script brought to life by the best quality cast ever assembled for a super hero movie.
What impressed me the most was that almost every ‘problem’ with the story that I was thinking of seemed to be anticipated and addressed by the film. Why does Batman wear a cumbersome cape? How do you explain his reclusive nature? Where does he get all those guests for his party?
Anyway, about the 1989 Tim Burton Batman, I’ve always said that that wasn’t the comic Batman but it was still a great movie. Thinking about it, this new one is something else again. And again, it’s worked. Even better than Tim’s I’d say.
…
Last week I got my guitar modified. With lighter strings and lower action, apparently I now have the ultimate beginner’s guitar. It’s got a slightly tinnier sound but it’s a lot easier to play. Now I can’t blame my guitar anymore for my bad playing. I gotta admit. I’m just bad.
…
Good news: I have Ryan Adams tickets!
Bad news: He has an ear infection and might cancel his tour.
…
I’ve spoken often to people (especially lately for some reason) who say that they could never write a blog because it’s so personal and they couldn’t stand having other people read their stuff, whatever. Why is it always such a big deal? If you don’t like writing to a public audience, then don’t. But don’t say because it’s too personal. You don’t HAVE TO be personal on a blog. I don’t consider my blog very personal at all. I just write things. I first started so I could have a platform to practice my writing skills. Since then, it’s fallen to become something else. But it doesn’t matter. I just say things. Write them down. And others read them. Then inevitably the conversation will shift to be about writing for an audience vs. writing for yourself. This is rubbish. If you’re writing for yourself, you wouldn’t be writing on a site that’s public domain. You just wouldn’t. I personally never write for an audience but I know that’s just me. I don’t see the point, personally. If I wanna be thinking things, that’s what I’ll do. Think them. I don’t need to write them down for myself. To digress, part of why I don’t like to write for myself is because I believe that the written word will always be limited in what it can do. Words cannot possibly transpose a feeling onto a page. The best it can do is a representation of the feeling. This you can share with an audience. So to write something down is always to change it. To create something new. Even the spoken word changes things. As a reminder of memories, it’s limited. As an exercise, try describing a song. If you can make me experience something even remotely close to listening to the actual song, just by reading what you wrote, then I will bow down to your writing might.
As usual, I have strayed from my point…
Now I'll go back to writing more of my witch story. Oh and if anyone can come up with a name for it, please feel free to make suggestions. I tend to come up with really long working titles that sound ridiculous and that eventually fall in love with enough to keep as my real title. Or I plagiarise.
And so it goes.
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
A quick glance at stuff
I haven’t written blog-like entries for a while. I have written a bit of prose which I’ve posted and is, at the moment, infinitely more fun to write. Not much has gone on. Inside or out. I’m in slight hibernation mode perhaps. But here are some stuff I did want to mention before my memory fails me and I forget I was ever thinking these thoughts. If you came here looking for the second part of the story, it’s right underneath. If you’re looking for part 3, that’s coming next.
And as usual, ‘quick’ for me doesn’t necessarily mean ‘quick’ for everyone.
Movies
I don’t go the movies much anymore. Here are the last three I’ve seen and what I though of them.
Kingdom of heaven Good. I liked. Great cast, probably the best battle scenes I’ve ever seen in a movie, unfortunately let down by a rather dry and often-clichéd script. Despite some negatives, please don’t compare this to the other post-Gladiator sword epics. KOH is heaps better than any of them. Ridley Scott still does this kind of movie better than anyone else in the business.
Star Wars 3 Good but disappointing. Nothing much new to say here but I’ll say them anyway. Better than 1 and 2. Not as good as 4, 5 or 6. Thing is, for all the flash, these new Star Wars movies lack the charm of the old originals. Where the hell is the humour? The banter? I’ve said before and I’ll say it again – Lucas has some great ideas about movies but he has no idea about making movies great. Please remember that only Ep 4 was written and directed by him. 5 and 6 were directed and even written by others. Joss Whedon could’ve made a better Ep 3. And you’d think after Mark Hamil, he’d pick a better protagonist this time around, so who has he come up with? Bloody Hayden Christensen (can’t be bothered checking the spelling of that), the latest star graduate of the Keanu Reeves School of Dramatic Arts. And what’s worst is that Lucas’ inept script even makes usually stellar actors like Natalie and Ewen and Samuel L look like cardboard cutouts. Palpatine and the computer generated Yoda make up the only two interesting characters in the entire film. Maybe it’s just me but after seeing Matrix Reloaded, great special effects are no longer enough to impress me. SW3 has great only good special effects. Thing is, there’s just too much of it. As my friend Minh said, it’s like watching a cartoon. Especially that stupid lizard thing that Obi Wan rides. The animatronics from the original movies were more convincing. Again, it could be because I play computer games (esp. Star Wars games) and these effects look pretty much like game graphics. The people I’ve spoken to who were impressed by the effects in this movie are mainly non-games players. Don’t get me wrong. SW3 is not a bad movie at all. I enjoyed it. It’s just that it could’ve been so much better. It could’ve been one of the most important movies in history. Seriously, the ingredients are all there. Lucas just couldn’t put it all together. For a better Star Wars experience, play the Knights of the Old Republic games. The story and character development are so much better (although it’s not a fair comparison because compressed to a movie format, the two KOTOR games would make about two 6-7 hour epics).
Mr & Mrs Smith Fun. Not fine cinema by any standards but brings a big fat smile to my face. The story is inconsequential. But the chemistry between the leads is obvious and infectious. Brad Pitt is so underappreciated for his acting skills. He’s good. Don’t even compare him to a Tom Cruise. He’s in a different class, acting-wise. Tom Cruise is just better at picking the right roles. Speaking of Tom, there’s a Freekatie website somewhere out there. It’s funny.
Next movie Batman Begins. If I had a bladder problem, I’d be wetting myself in anticipation.
Save it for Sunday afternoon TV Sisterhood of the travelling pants (is that the right title?) I have no idea what this is about and don’t care. But it has Rory from Gilmore Girls and Joan from Joan of Arcadia. Guilty pleasures… but I can wait.
DVD I got Wonder Boys on DVD for $7. It’s the movie of my favourite book. With a great song by Bob Dylan. Kinda just pleases me in all different ways.
Observation I like good looking male actors who can act (Orlando Bloom, Johnny Depp & Co.). Or even good looking male anything who are good at what they do. If they’re nice guys, even better. This isn’t a gay thing where I wish I could sleep with them. It’s a vanity thing, where I wish I could be them. Used to be I was most envious of Andy Roddick because he’s a good-looking tennis player of considerable skill who was dating Mandy Moore. Now I think it’s Tony Parker, who is a good looking basketball player of considerable skill and is dating Eva Langoria. I want to be those people.
Next…
On Sunday I took my family out to Wildfire at the Overseas Passenger Terminal. I liked it. Food was great and it had the feel of casual fine dining… if that makes sense. The occasion… 20 years in Australia for the family. I’m thankful.
Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy Book 1 was good, 2 was great, 3 started to drag and 4 was a bloody romance novel. I haven’t read 5. If you haven’t read these, do. At least the first two. Really funny and clever. Just loses steam over the four books.
It’s late. I’ll write more later if I feel like it.
I haven’t written blog-like entries for a while. I have written a bit of prose which I’ve posted and is, at the moment, infinitely more fun to write. Not much has gone on. Inside or out. I’m in slight hibernation mode perhaps. But here are some stuff I did want to mention before my memory fails me and I forget I was ever thinking these thoughts. If you came here looking for the second part of the story, it’s right underneath. If you’re looking for part 3, that’s coming next.
And as usual, ‘quick’ for me doesn’t necessarily mean ‘quick’ for everyone.
Movies
I don’t go the movies much anymore. Here are the last three I’ve seen and what I though of them.
Kingdom of heaven Good. I liked. Great cast, probably the best battle scenes I’ve ever seen in a movie, unfortunately let down by a rather dry and often-clichéd script. Despite some negatives, please don’t compare this to the other post-Gladiator sword epics. KOH is heaps better than any of them. Ridley Scott still does this kind of movie better than anyone else in the business.
Star Wars 3 Good but disappointing. Nothing much new to say here but I’ll say them anyway. Better than 1 and 2. Not as good as 4, 5 or 6. Thing is, for all the flash, these new Star Wars movies lack the charm of the old originals. Where the hell is the humour? The banter? I’ve said before and I’ll say it again – Lucas has some great ideas about movies but he has no idea about making movies great. Please remember that only Ep 4 was written and directed by him. 5 and 6 were directed and even written by others. Joss Whedon could’ve made a better Ep 3. And you’d think after Mark Hamil, he’d pick a better protagonist this time around, so who has he come up with? Bloody Hayden Christensen (can’t be bothered checking the spelling of that), the latest star graduate of the Keanu Reeves School of Dramatic Arts. And what’s worst is that Lucas’ inept script even makes usually stellar actors like Natalie and Ewen and Samuel L look like cardboard cutouts. Palpatine and the computer generated Yoda make up the only two interesting characters in the entire film. Maybe it’s just me but after seeing Matrix Reloaded, great special effects are no longer enough to impress me. SW3 has great only good special effects. Thing is, there’s just too much of it. As my friend Minh said, it’s like watching a cartoon. Especially that stupid lizard thing that Obi Wan rides. The animatronics from the original movies were more convincing. Again, it could be because I play computer games (esp. Star Wars games) and these effects look pretty much like game graphics. The people I’ve spoken to who were impressed by the effects in this movie are mainly non-games players. Don’t get me wrong. SW3 is not a bad movie at all. I enjoyed it. It’s just that it could’ve been so much better. It could’ve been one of the most important movies in history. Seriously, the ingredients are all there. Lucas just couldn’t put it all together. For a better Star Wars experience, play the Knights of the Old Republic games. The story and character development are so much better (although it’s not a fair comparison because compressed to a movie format, the two KOTOR games would make about two 6-7 hour epics).
Mr & Mrs Smith Fun. Not fine cinema by any standards but brings a big fat smile to my face. The story is inconsequential. But the chemistry between the leads is obvious and infectious. Brad Pitt is so underappreciated for his acting skills. He’s good. Don’t even compare him to a Tom Cruise. He’s in a different class, acting-wise. Tom Cruise is just better at picking the right roles. Speaking of Tom, there’s a Freekatie website somewhere out there. It’s funny.
Next movie Batman Begins. If I had a bladder problem, I’d be wetting myself in anticipation.
Save it for Sunday afternoon TV Sisterhood of the travelling pants (is that the right title?) I have no idea what this is about and don’t care. But it has Rory from Gilmore Girls and Joan from Joan of Arcadia. Guilty pleasures… but I can wait.
DVD I got Wonder Boys on DVD for $7. It’s the movie of my favourite book. With a great song by Bob Dylan. Kinda just pleases me in all different ways.
Observation I like good looking male actors who can act (Orlando Bloom, Johnny Depp & Co.). Or even good looking male anything who are good at what they do. If they’re nice guys, even better. This isn’t a gay thing where I wish I could sleep with them. It’s a vanity thing, where I wish I could be them. Used to be I was most envious of Andy Roddick because he’s a good-looking tennis player of considerable skill who was dating Mandy Moore. Now I think it’s Tony Parker, who is a good looking basketball player of considerable skill and is dating Eva Langoria. I want to be those people.
Next…
On Sunday I took my family out to Wildfire at the Overseas Passenger Terminal. I liked it. Food was great and it had the feel of casual fine dining… if that makes sense. The occasion… 20 years in Australia for the family. I’m thankful.
Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy Book 1 was good, 2 was great, 3 started to drag and 4 was a bloody romance novel. I haven’t read 5. If you haven’t read these, do. At least the first two. Really funny and clever. Just loses steam over the four books.
It’s late. I’ll write more later if I feel like it.
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
She was twirling in the summer rain, out on the Library lawn. Her arms stretched out. Her head cocked back. Laughing. The sun’s rays broke the clouds and made the air smell like warm dew. As she spins around, she stumbles. Dizzy. From where I was, she looked cute. (This was, of course, quite a while before I ever saw her naked, at which point I reassessed her as more ‘hot’ than ‘cute.)
I remember I walked over to her and offered my umbrella but she just smiled. Wet. She picked up a flower from the grass and offered that to me.
‘I made this,’ she said.
‘The flower?’
‘No, silly. The rain!’
I laughed and she started laughing too, skipping away from me, still twirling. Her eyes, in moments, looked at me, smiled at me, beckoning me to join her.
I just stood there watching. Transfixed. Mesmerised. Bewitched.
I was, then, in my first year at uni. It was by pure chance that I walked past the Library lawn at that very moment. Normally, I would walk behind the library to go down to the lower campus but on that day, the rain had turned that path into a obstacle course of puddles. Chance has a way of smiling upon you when you’re not looking.
It was only much later that I would find out that she actually did make the rain come down that day. It would be even later still before I would find out that she had ritually killed a presumedly harmless and probably cute white rabbit earlier that day for the spell. And it would take her a while longer still to eventually learn that killing the rabbit had been wholly unnecessary.
This was how I met Astrid.
When eventually we got married, it was in my old church, which is actually not very old at all. Barely older than myself, really. I only say ‘old’ because it was the one I grew up with. Next to my school. Whatever I have become, for better or worse, can probably find its roots in this place. It was built in the 70s to be state of the art, which is to say it now looks unmistakeably of poor taste. Tacky is the word I’m looking for.
Both of us having no parents left on this earth, our wedding was small. Just a few friends and random well-wishers. The priest who married us (… married us… I’ve always found that to be an awkward phrasing) was father John Dougall. Father Doogie we used to lovingly call him.
This was the same priest who Baptised me. The same priest who gave me my first Holy Communion and conducted my Confirmation. And it is Father John Dougall who is at the moment looking at me like I just invited him to join me in eating a plate of gold coins.
I am, at this moment, sitting the living room of his house (is there a technical name for a priest’s house?) telling him of my recent frustration that my wife is killing too often for my liking.
‘You mean, she literally kills these men?’ he asks me with equal parts disgust and curiosity.
‘Yes Father. Lots of them.’
‘And you saw her kill each one?’
‘Well I missed one because I had a basketball game on one night, but other than that… yeah.’
He wipes some sweat off his brow and takes a sip of water.
I tell him ‘it does scare me sometimes. I mean, where is she going to draw the line? It’s something like once a month now.’
‘Have you told the police?’ he asks.
‘No. Why would I do that?’ I am surprised by his suggestion. ‘They’d just lock her up. And I can’t let her be locked up. I love my wife, Father.’
‘Well…’ my priest begins, ‘you do know the Church doesn’t condone murder, right?’
‘But it’s her thing. She doesn’t question my taking Communion. Is this any different?’
‘But you always told me she was Catholic.’
‘Me? No Father. You asked me before we were married if she went to church. And I said yes. And she did. And still does. Sure she thinks it’s all crap but she still goes to support me and well… I think I should do the same for her faith, except sometimes, well… it just gets hard.’
‘I… I don’t know what to say. I mean, Astrid always seemed like a very lovely girl, but… but frankly I’m appalled by what you’ve told me.’
‘So what do you think I should do, Father?’
‘If I weren’t a Catholic priest, I’d suggest you divorce her. But since I am… well… frankly I’d still rather you divorce her, even if you have to leave the Church.’
I laugh. That Father Doogie is such a kidder.
‘But I love her, Father. I mean, you should see her…’ I pause, cutting myself off from a potentially embarrassing and inappropriate subject matter to be talking to a priest about.
‘See her what?’
‘Never mind.’
‘Have you told her that killing will get her to Hell?’
‘But she wants to go Hell. Well maybe not really since it’s all hot and fiery and all. And apparently all that brimstone smells like fart gas but…’
‘What are you telling me?’
‘She says she wants to eventually earn some real estate in Hell. Maybe become a mistress of a small house. Serve not too far under one of the big hot shot demons.’
‘And you’re OK with this?’
‘Well you gotta admit, the girl’s got ambition.’
‘And what about when you have children?’
‘We thought we’d cross that bridge when we get to it.’
‘But… but… OK, so haven’t the police been looking for any of these men?’
‘Of course they have. The last guy was all over the papers.’
‘And you’re not afraid of getting caught?’
‘Well that’s the thing, you see, she does this cool cloaking spell to cover up each sacrifice so that no one ever sniffs our way. And any witnesses forget about what they see or hear the second they break contact with us. It’s brilliant! She will never get caught. I just think it’s all too easy and she’s beginning to lose touch with the value of human life.’
‘Of course she’s lost touch with the value of human life. She’s a homicidal maniac for God’s sakes!’
‘Did you just blaspheme, Father?’
‘I can’t handle this anymore. I can’t hear any more of this! What have you become, son? I’ve known you since you were a baby. You were always such a fine soldier of God. And now you’re married to a homicidal Satanist and helping her kill these innocent men…’
‘I don’t think Satan is one of the deities she worships but I’m not sure.’
‘… they probably have families. Wives. Kids…’
‘But I love her, Father. Please try to understand. And let’s face it, I’d say a good eighty percent of them probably came our house looking for adultery.’
‘I can’t. And I must do what’s best for you. I’m going to the police with this whether you like it or not.’
‘But you can’t, Father.’
‘Everything you’re telling me has been outside the church. Strictly speaking, this isn’t really a confession. And I feel it is my moral duty to…’
‘No. You don’t understand. That cloaking spell I told you about… well it affects you too. Anything to do with the rituals I’ve talked to you about today, you’ll forget everything the second I walk out your door.’
‘No it can’t be!’
‘Yes it can. And it is. For example, you think you’re only hearing this all for the first time. But I’ve been coming to you and talking about this every week for the past three months. And every week it’s like the first time to you.’
‘What?!’
‘I’ve been frustrated, Father. In moderation I can live with, but she’s just killing too many. Too often. Sometimes I question if she’s going to burn out too early. Too young… and sometimes I just want to go home and watch TV, you know. So I’ve been coming here every week to vent my frustrations to you. I mean, I love Astrid very much but well…’
He’s starting to cry. I hate this every time. It always ends like this.
‘Sorry Father, I won’t distress you with any more today. It’s alright. The second I leave, you’ll be fine again. I’m hoping one day I’ll tell you about all this and you’ll react… well… differently…’
I sigh. Father Doogie is still crying and he’s shaking. I get up off the armchair and find my own way out the door. He tries to chase me and stop me, crying ‘noooo!’ but he is old and slow and by the time he reaches the door, I’m out near the mailbox. I turn to face him. The pained look on his face slowly turns to confusion and then to a smile as he looks at me. He waves to me and shouts goodbye. I tell him that I’ll see him next week and he nods enthusiastically.
I walk a few metres down the road and I turn around to see his door has already closed. I then walk further down the road to Nick’s fish and chips to buy dinner. This is the shop where Father Doogie once caught me jigging school. But this was a long time ago and I’m sure he’s forgotten.
I remember I walked over to her and offered my umbrella but she just smiled. Wet. She picked up a flower from the grass and offered that to me.
‘I made this,’ she said.
‘The flower?’
‘No, silly. The rain!’
I laughed and she started laughing too, skipping away from me, still twirling. Her eyes, in moments, looked at me, smiled at me, beckoning me to join her.
I just stood there watching. Transfixed. Mesmerised. Bewitched.
I was, then, in my first year at uni. It was by pure chance that I walked past the Library lawn at that very moment. Normally, I would walk behind the library to go down to the lower campus but on that day, the rain had turned that path into a obstacle course of puddles. Chance has a way of smiling upon you when you’re not looking.
It was only much later that I would find out that she actually did make the rain come down that day. It would be even later still before I would find out that she had ritually killed a presumedly harmless and probably cute white rabbit earlier that day for the spell. And it would take her a while longer still to eventually learn that killing the rabbit had been wholly unnecessary.
This was how I met Astrid.
When eventually we got married, it was in my old church, which is actually not very old at all. Barely older than myself, really. I only say ‘old’ because it was the one I grew up with. Next to my school. Whatever I have become, for better or worse, can probably find its roots in this place. It was built in the 70s to be state of the art, which is to say it now looks unmistakeably of poor taste. Tacky is the word I’m looking for.
Both of us having no parents left on this earth, our wedding was small. Just a few friends and random well-wishers. The priest who married us (… married us… I’ve always found that to be an awkward phrasing) was father John Dougall. Father Doogie we used to lovingly call him.
This was the same priest who Baptised me. The same priest who gave me my first Holy Communion and conducted my Confirmation. And it is Father John Dougall who is at the moment looking at me like I just invited him to join me in eating a plate of gold coins.
I am, at this moment, sitting the living room of his house (is there a technical name for a priest’s house?) telling him of my recent frustration that my wife is killing too often for my liking.
‘You mean, she literally kills these men?’ he asks me with equal parts disgust and curiosity.
‘Yes Father. Lots of them.’
‘And you saw her kill each one?’
‘Well I missed one because I had a basketball game on one night, but other than that… yeah.’
He wipes some sweat off his brow and takes a sip of water.
I tell him ‘it does scare me sometimes. I mean, where is she going to draw the line? It’s something like once a month now.’
‘Have you told the police?’ he asks.
‘No. Why would I do that?’ I am surprised by his suggestion. ‘They’d just lock her up. And I can’t let her be locked up. I love my wife, Father.’
‘Well…’ my priest begins, ‘you do know the Church doesn’t condone murder, right?’
‘But it’s her thing. She doesn’t question my taking Communion. Is this any different?’
‘But you always told me she was Catholic.’
‘Me? No Father. You asked me before we were married if she went to church. And I said yes. And she did. And still does. Sure she thinks it’s all crap but she still goes to support me and well… I think I should do the same for her faith, except sometimes, well… it just gets hard.’
‘I… I don’t know what to say. I mean, Astrid always seemed like a very lovely girl, but… but frankly I’m appalled by what you’ve told me.’
‘So what do you think I should do, Father?’
‘If I weren’t a Catholic priest, I’d suggest you divorce her. But since I am… well… frankly I’d still rather you divorce her, even if you have to leave the Church.’
I laugh. That Father Doogie is such a kidder.
‘But I love her, Father. I mean, you should see her…’ I pause, cutting myself off from a potentially embarrassing and inappropriate subject matter to be talking to a priest about.
‘See her what?’
‘Never mind.’
‘Have you told her that killing will get her to Hell?’
‘But she wants to go Hell. Well maybe not really since it’s all hot and fiery and all. And apparently all that brimstone smells like fart gas but…’
‘What are you telling me?’
‘She says she wants to eventually earn some real estate in Hell. Maybe become a mistress of a small house. Serve not too far under one of the big hot shot demons.’
‘And you’re OK with this?’
‘Well you gotta admit, the girl’s got ambition.’
‘And what about when you have children?’
‘We thought we’d cross that bridge when we get to it.’
‘But… but… OK, so haven’t the police been looking for any of these men?’
‘Of course they have. The last guy was all over the papers.’
‘And you’re not afraid of getting caught?’
‘Well that’s the thing, you see, she does this cool cloaking spell to cover up each sacrifice so that no one ever sniffs our way. And any witnesses forget about what they see or hear the second they break contact with us. It’s brilliant! She will never get caught. I just think it’s all too easy and she’s beginning to lose touch with the value of human life.’
‘Of course she’s lost touch with the value of human life. She’s a homicidal maniac for God’s sakes!’
‘Did you just blaspheme, Father?’
‘I can’t handle this anymore. I can’t hear any more of this! What have you become, son? I’ve known you since you were a baby. You were always such a fine soldier of God. And now you’re married to a homicidal Satanist and helping her kill these innocent men…’
‘I don’t think Satan is one of the deities she worships but I’m not sure.’
‘… they probably have families. Wives. Kids…’
‘But I love her, Father. Please try to understand. And let’s face it, I’d say a good eighty percent of them probably came our house looking for adultery.’
‘I can’t. And I must do what’s best for you. I’m going to the police with this whether you like it or not.’
‘But you can’t, Father.’
‘Everything you’re telling me has been outside the church. Strictly speaking, this isn’t really a confession. And I feel it is my moral duty to…’
‘No. You don’t understand. That cloaking spell I told you about… well it affects you too. Anything to do with the rituals I’ve talked to you about today, you’ll forget everything the second I walk out your door.’
‘No it can’t be!’
‘Yes it can. And it is. For example, you think you’re only hearing this all for the first time. But I’ve been coming to you and talking about this every week for the past three months. And every week it’s like the first time to you.’
‘What?!’
‘I’ve been frustrated, Father. In moderation I can live with, but she’s just killing too many. Too often. Sometimes I question if she’s going to burn out too early. Too young… and sometimes I just want to go home and watch TV, you know. So I’ve been coming here every week to vent my frustrations to you. I mean, I love Astrid very much but well…’
He’s starting to cry. I hate this every time. It always ends like this.
‘Sorry Father, I won’t distress you with any more today. It’s alright. The second I leave, you’ll be fine again. I’m hoping one day I’ll tell you about all this and you’ll react… well… differently…’
I sigh. Father Doogie is still crying and he’s shaking. I get up off the armchair and find my own way out the door. He tries to chase me and stop me, crying ‘noooo!’ but he is old and slow and by the time he reaches the door, I’m out near the mailbox. I turn to face him. The pained look on his face slowly turns to confusion and then to a smile as he looks at me. He waves to me and shouts goodbye. I tell him that I’ll see him next week and he nods enthusiastically.
I walk a few metres down the road and I turn around to see his door has already closed. I then walk further down the road to Nick’s fish and chips to buy dinner. This is the shop where Father Doogie once caught me jigging school. But this was a long time ago and I’m sure he’s forgotten.
Thursday, June 02, 2005
The rate at which she has been bringing guys home has been alarming. It’s almost once a month now. It’s getting out of hand.
It used to be maybe once per quarter. Around the same time as when the council rates came around, my wife would bring a guy home. Random guys. They wanted anything from a cup of coffee to sex to a simple use of our telephone. But they would all invariably not get whatever it was they came for.
Tonight’s fool is young. Maybe 21 or 23. He’s small, somewhat weaselly. If you asked me for another way to describe him, I would say that he has the look of a guy in a horror movie who talks too much, smiles way too often and dies far too early.
He is shocked to see me come in. Most of them get this way. My wife is holding a glass of champagne in her hand and welcomes me home with open arms. I give her a kiss while leering at the guy. This weasel. This first-to-die-horror-movie guy.
‘Honey’, I tell her, ‘I was hoping we didn’t have to do one tonight. I was hoping to just sit on the couch and watch Desperate Housewives’.
She assures me it’ll be quick tonight.
The weasel asks her who I am. I introduce myself.
I’m the husband, dickwad.
Dickwad. It’s been my favourite phrase (would you call it a phrase?) ever since Arnie used it in Total Recall (was it Total Recall?). He just brings a whole new level of meaning to anything he says.
‘You’re married?!’
‘Oh like you didn’t know’, she says. ‘I didn’t even take off my ring, she says’.
‘But I thought…’ says the weasel.
‘He’ll just watch. Won’t you honey?’
I’m silent and peeling a banana. I don’t like this. Never have. Of course she never pretended to be anything other than what she is. I knew she was a witch when I married her. Knew she was one while we were still just dating. I love her. I really do. With all my heart. I don’t much care for the whole black arts thing. But it could have been worse. She could have been an accountant.
I just want to get on with it tonight. She asks him if he still wants to do this and he says yes. More often then not, they get weirded out and want to leave, so then I’d have to grab the baseball bat and club them over the head. This guy, though, is willing. And he seems groggy. She must have used the elixir of hallucinogenic stupor. That’s a good one.
Orange juice, a sprig of fennel and the bile of a pregnant turtle.
She leads him by the hand down the steps to our basement. He’s mumbling stuff I don’t understand and she keeps telling him yes. Yes. Yes. Sure. Soon. And so on.
I follow them down. She tells him to get on the altar but he’s too far gone to get himself up there. I help him up.
This is the stone altar that I got her for Christmas even though, of course, she doesn’t believe in Christmas. Her old one was wooden and it was starting to wobble a bit. So I got her this stone one. Doesn’t stain, the guy says. One wipe and all bodily fluids are gone. She loved it. Best damn present I ever gave her. Not like the time I got her a giant economy jar of eye of newt. I thought it would be a great present. Witches. Eye of newt. So I went all the way to this magic shop, whose owner was rumoured to be a 400-year-old vampyr (although I did see him in broad daylight unloading a box of six-fingered mummified hand candles off the back of a van, but that’s another story), and he got me a good deal on a three-litre jar. Anyway, when she got it, she gave me this very disappointed look and didn’t talk much to me for three days or so.
'What? Is it because it’s an economy jar?!'
That wasn’t it. Apparently, getting a witch eye of newt is like giving a serious classical pianist a Richard Clayderman CD.
He’s on his back on the altar and she’s taking off his clothes. I hate this part. Why does it have to involve nudity? My wife, a guy and nudity. He’s even more gone by now and is giggling. I’m just standing there watching. I yawn.
'Dear, can you go up and bring me the statue of Baphomet?'
Sure thing. And I get up the steps and go the display case. There are seven different statues for seven different deities in here. I’ve asked why she has to have seven deities in her display case. She says it’s because she has no room to fit eight.
I pick up Baphomet. It’s heavier than it looks. Stone, I think. It’s ugly. Kind of like a man-fish thing. As I’m walking, I’m carrying it some distance away in my outstretched arms as if it were a baby that needed a nappy change.
Downstairs, she’s already naked herself and I look at her. She’s hot. And it hits me every time. No matter how often I’ve seen her naked. I remember the first time I saw her naked I was thinking, ‘she’s hot.’ I’m having a brief moment with myself while I’m looking at her right now.
His hands start to grab at her. He’s still giggling. I really hate this part. Even worse than the last part. Every time. Why can’t she just tie their hands up? I’ve brought this up with her before but she would just gives me the ‘How the hell can you get jealous of a guy I’m about to sacrifice to a demon’ argument and I just end up shrugging my shoulders and turning on the TV. She’s right of course. How can I argue with that?
So now I’m holding up the statue above my head and she’s raised the beautiful gold-hilted and diamond-encrusted ceremonial dagger above her head and the weasel is still grabbing at her breasts. She lifts her head to look at the statue, then lowers the blade, sighs and drops both her shoulders.
‘What?’ I ask.
‘What have you got there?’
‘Baphomet?’
‘No. What does that look like?’
‘Baphomet?’
‘No. What does it look like?’
‘Er… a fish?’
‘Yes. A fish. Now do we remember which one looks like a fish?’
‘Baphomet?’
‘No. Try again?’
‘Um…’
‘It’s Dagon. You’re holding Dagon. I asked for Baphomet. I’m doing a head-pop spell. I need Baphomet.’
‘So which one is it?’
‘Try to remember.’
‘The fat guy with the big head?’
‘No. That’s Baal.’
‘The big guy with the fat head?’
‘No. Oh, for crying out loud!’
‘OK, OK, is it the goat guy with the breasts?’
‘Yes, it’s the goat guy with the breasts! Can you at least pretend to take some interest in what’s important to me?’
‘Give me a break! I try, OK?’
‘You try? You mean like the time you got me the newt eyes?’
‘Will you let that go, already? Come on! I said I was sorry!’
‘Just bring me the damn idol!’
‘Hey! Dickwad! Stop touching my wife’s breasts!’
‘He can’t hear you! Now hurry up with the idol. The elixir of hallucinogenic stupor is wearing off. I’ll have to start the blood-letting without the statue.’
‘OK, OK!’
I turn around and march back up. I don’t like it when she uses that tone with me. I go back and put fish-face back in the display case and get the androgynous goat with the titties. On the way back I am momentarily distracted by the television where Desperate Housewives is playing. Susan has tripped over something or other again like she does in every episode. And the plumber is laughing. I think he’s an FBI agent.
I then hear the screams from the basement. She’s made the first cut. Time to go back down, I guess. I’m not in the mood but I go anyway. All this for just a head-pop spell. I’ve seen this spell before. For her to be doing one must mean someone pissed her off at work today.
But anyone would know that a human sacrifice for a head-pop spell is overkill. So someone must have really really pissed her off at work today.
If you're unfamiliar with this spell, let me tell you about it. It is elegant in design. What it does is it plants a seed in the head of the target individual that, in time, will cause his or her head to spontaneously explode. The only problem is that the seed has an incubation period of 40 years. The last time she did it was to her boss. And he was 45 years old. So he would have to live to 85 for his head to explode as intended. She has been telling him to eat healthy and exercise often ever since. Suffice to say, the spell was originally intended to be inflicted upon annoying kids and babies who refused to stop crying. The only reason people use it is because it is one of the simplest of the culling spells to do. A more potent, but less stable, and infinitely more complicated hybrid of this spell is called the head-obliterate spell. Here, the seed only has a 22-day incubation period but is unstable in that, if done wrongly, could present a small (but present) chance that the spellcaster’s head would explode as well.
I’m downstairs again and she’s covered in splashes of blood now. All over her head and chest. I hate this bit too. At least as much as, if not more than, the other bits. The weasel is convulsing and blood is bubbling though his mouth and nose. It’s not a pretty sight. I hold Baphomet up and she starts the spell. It’s in Latin. She repeats the spell over and over until the sacrifice dies.
But he’s not dying yet. Ten minutes later and he still flops around
‘Dear, are you sure you got his heart?’
‘Yes I’m sure.’
‘Well, it’s not that I’m telling you how to do your thing, but… um… well… they don’t usually convulse as much and they die faster than this, don't they?’
‘You think?’
‘Maybe you can give him another poke. With the dagger, I mean. Just to be sure.’
So she does. And I was right. The weasel dies a few moments after the extra stab. She stops the chanting and puts the dagger down. I think the spell is finished.
‘Can I put it down now?’ I asked, referring to the idol statue.
‘Sure. Thanks hon. You can go back up now. I’ll just clean up here and I’ll let you know when I’m done.’
I go back up the steps and watch the ending of Desperate Housewives, except that I don’t really understand what’s going on. Mr Solis is arrested. Why is he being arrested?
‘I’m gonna take a shower now’, calls my wife from the echo of the bathroom.
The show is over and I’m still not too sure what happened. I turn the TV off and I go back down to the basement, grab my shovel and the black bag, and drag it out of the house to the backyard.
My neighbour, old Mr Spence, who, on account of our very low fences can see me from his back porch, waves hello. I stop walking, look to him, and smile.
‘Howdy neighbour.’
‘Howdy Mr Spence. Nice evening.’
‘Yes it is. Now is that a big bag of fertiliser you’re dragging there?’
‘Why yes it is, Mr Spence. It’s an economy pack. Just doing a spot of gardening on such a fine evening.’
‘Well happy gardening to you.’
‘And you have a good night Mr Spence.’
‘You too, young lad.’
I remain unmoved. Still smiling.
‘Well perhaps I best be getting in the house now. It’s getting chilly.’
‘Well goodnight Mr Spence.’
And Mr Spence walks into his house, leaving me to do my spot of gardening underneath a bright new moon and a fairly minor stellar alignment on the Pagan calendar.
It used to be maybe once per quarter. Around the same time as when the council rates came around, my wife would bring a guy home. Random guys. They wanted anything from a cup of coffee to sex to a simple use of our telephone. But they would all invariably not get whatever it was they came for.
Tonight’s fool is young. Maybe 21 or 23. He’s small, somewhat weaselly. If you asked me for another way to describe him, I would say that he has the look of a guy in a horror movie who talks too much, smiles way too often and dies far too early.
He is shocked to see me come in. Most of them get this way. My wife is holding a glass of champagne in her hand and welcomes me home with open arms. I give her a kiss while leering at the guy. This weasel. This first-to-die-horror-movie guy.
‘Honey’, I tell her, ‘I was hoping we didn’t have to do one tonight. I was hoping to just sit on the couch and watch Desperate Housewives’.
She assures me it’ll be quick tonight.
The weasel asks her who I am. I introduce myself.
I’m the husband, dickwad.
Dickwad. It’s been my favourite phrase (would you call it a phrase?) ever since Arnie used it in Total Recall (was it Total Recall?). He just brings a whole new level of meaning to anything he says.
‘You’re married?!’
‘Oh like you didn’t know’, she says. ‘I didn’t even take off my ring, she says’.
‘But I thought…’ says the weasel.
‘He’ll just watch. Won’t you honey?’
I’m silent and peeling a banana. I don’t like this. Never have. Of course she never pretended to be anything other than what she is. I knew she was a witch when I married her. Knew she was one while we were still just dating. I love her. I really do. With all my heart. I don’t much care for the whole black arts thing. But it could have been worse. She could have been an accountant.
I just want to get on with it tonight. She asks him if he still wants to do this and he says yes. More often then not, they get weirded out and want to leave, so then I’d have to grab the baseball bat and club them over the head. This guy, though, is willing. And he seems groggy. She must have used the elixir of hallucinogenic stupor. That’s a good one.
Orange juice, a sprig of fennel and the bile of a pregnant turtle.
She leads him by the hand down the steps to our basement. He’s mumbling stuff I don’t understand and she keeps telling him yes. Yes. Yes. Sure. Soon. And so on.
I follow them down. She tells him to get on the altar but he’s too far gone to get himself up there. I help him up.
This is the stone altar that I got her for Christmas even though, of course, she doesn’t believe in Christmas. Her old one was wooden and it was starting to wobble a bit. So I got her this stone one. Doesn’t stain, the guy says. One wipe and all bodily fluids are gone. She loved it. Best damn present I ever gave her. Not like the time I got her a giant economy jar of eye of newt. I thought it would be a great present. Witches. Eye of newt. So I went all the way to this magic shop, whose owner was rumoured to be a 400-year-old vampyr (although I did see him in broad daylight unloading a box of six-fingered mummified hand candles off the back of a van, but that’s another story), and he got me a good deal on a three-litre jar. Anyway, when she got it, she gave me this very disappointed look and didn’t talk much to me for three days or so.
'What? Is it because it’s an economy jar?!'
That wasn’t it. Apparently, getting a witch eye of newt is like giving a serious classical pianist a Richard Clayderman CD.
He’s on his back on the altar and she’s taking off his clothes. I hate this part. Why does it have to involve nudity? My wife, a guy and nudity. He’s even more gone by now and is giggling. I’m just standing there watching. I yawn.
'Dear, can you go up and bring me the statue of Baphomet?'
Sure thing. And I get up the steps and go the display case. There are seven different statues for seven different deities in here. I’ve asked why she has to have seven deities in her display case. She says it’s because she has no room to fit eight.
I pick up Baphomet. It’s heavier than it looks. Stone, I think. It’s ugly. Kind of like a man-fish thing. As I’m walking, I’m carrying it some distance away in my outstretched arms as if it were a baby that needed a nappy change.
Downstairs, she’s already naked herself and I look at her. She’s hot. And it hits me every time. No matter how often I’ve seen her naked. I remember the first time I saw her naked I was thinking, ‘she’s hot.’ I’m having a brief moment with myself while I’m looking at her right now.
His hands start to grab at her. He’s still giggling. I really hate this part. Even worse than the last part. Every time. Why can’t she just tie their hands up? I’ve brought this up with her before but she would just gives me the ‘How the hell can you get jealous of a guy I’m about to sacrifice to a demon’ argument and I just end up shrugging my shoulders and turning on the TV. She’s right of course. How can I argue with that?
So now I’m holding up the statue above my head and she’s raised the beautiful gold-hilted and diamond-encrusted ceremonial dagger above her head and the weasel is still grabbing at her breasts. She lifts her head to look at the statue, then lowers the blade, sighs and drops both her shoulders.
‘What?’ I ask.
‘What have you got there?’
‘Baphomet?’
‘No. What does that look like?’
‘Baphomet?’
‘No. What does it look like?’
‘Er… a fish?’
‘Yes. A fish. Now do we remember which one looks like a fish?’
‘Baphomet?’
‘No. Try again?’
‘Um…’
‘It’s Dagon. You’re holding Dagon. I asked for Baphomet. I’m doing a head-pop spell. I need Baphomet.’
‘So which one is it?’
‘Try to remember.’
‘The fat guy with the big head?’
‘No. That’s Baal.’
‘The big guy with the fat head?’
‘No. Oh, for crying out loud!’
‘OK, OK, is it the goat guy with the breasts?’
‘Yes, it’s the goat guy with the breasts! Can you at least pretend to take some interest in what’s important to me?’
‘Give me a break! I try, OK?’
‘You try? You mean like the time you got me the newt eyes?’
‘Will you let that go, already? Come on! I said I was sorry!’
‘Just bring me the damn idol!’
‘Hey! Dickwad! Stop touching my wife’s breasts!’
‘He can’t hear you! Now hurry up with the idol. The elixir of hallucinogenic stupor is wearing off. I’ll have to start the blood-letting without the statue.’
‘OK, OK!’
I turn around and march back up. I don’t like it when she uses that tone with me. I go back and put fish-face back in the display case and get the androgynous goat with the titties. On the way back I am momentarily distracted by the television where Desperate Housewives is playing. Susan has tripped over something or other again like she does in every episode. And the plumber is laughing. I think he’s an FBI agent.
I then hear the screams from the basement. She’s made the first cut. Time to go back down, I guess. I’m not in the mood but I go anyway. All this for just a head-pop spell. I’ve seen this spell before. For her to be doing one must mean someone pissed her off at work today.
But anyone would know that a human sacrifice for a head-pop spell is overkill. So someone must have really really pissed her off at work today.
If you're unfamiliar with this spell, let me tell you about it. It is elegant in design. What it does is it plants a seed in the head of the target individual that, in time, will cause his or her head to spontaneously explode. The only problem is that the seed has an incubation period of 40 years. The last time she did it was to her boss. And he was 45 years old. So he would have to live to 85 for his head to explode as intended. She has been telling him to eat healthy and exercise often ever since. Suffice to say, the spell was originally intended to be inflicted upon annoying kids and babies who refused to stop crying. The only reason people use it is because it is one of the simplest of the culling spells to do. A more potent, but less stable, and infinitely more complicated hybrid of this spell is called the head-obliterate spell. Here, the seed only has a 22-day incubation period but is unstable in that, if done wrongly, could present a small (but present) chance that the spellcaster’s head would explode as well.
I’m downstairs again and she’s covered in splashes of blood now. All over her head and chest. I hate this bit too. At least as much as, if not more than, the other bits. The weasel is convulsing and blood is bubbling though his mouth and nose. It’s not a pretty sight. I hold Baphomet up and she starts the spell. It’s in Latin. She repeats the spell over and over until the sacrifice dies.
But he’s not dying yet. Ten minutes later and he still flops around
‘Dear, are you sure you got his heart?’
‘Yes I’m sure.’
‘Well, it’s not that I’m telling you how to do your thing, but… um… well… they don’t usually convulse as much and they die faster than this, don't they?’
‘You think?’
‘Maybe you can give him another poke. With the dagger, I mean. Just to be sure.’
So she does. And I was right. The weasel dies a few moments after the extra stab. She stops the chanting and puts the dagger down. I think the spell is finished.
‘Can I put it down now?’ I asked, referring to the idol statue.
‘Sure. Thanks hon. You can go back up now. I’ll just clean up here and I’ll let you know when I’m done.’
I go back up the steps and watch the ending of Desperate Housewives, except that I don’t really understand what’s going on. Mr Solis is arrested. Why is he being arrested?
‘I’m gonna take a shower now’, calls my wife from the echo of the bathroom.
The show is over and I’m still not too sure what happened. I turn the TV off and I go back down to the basement, grab my shovel and the black bag, and drag it out of the house to the backyard.
My neighbour, old Mr Spence, who, on account of our very low fences can see me from his back porch, waves hello. I stop walking, look to him, and smile.
‘Howdy neighbour.’
‘Howdy Mr Spence. Nice evening.’
‘Yes it is. Now is that a big bag of fertiliser you’re dragging there?’
‘Why yes it is, Mr Spence. It’s an economy pack. Just doing a spot of gardening on such a fine evening.’
‘Well happy gardening to you.’
‘And you have a good night Mr Spence.’
‘You too, young lad.’
I remain unmoved. Still smiling.
‘Well perhaps I best be getting in the house now. It’s getting chilly.’
‘Well goodnight Mr Spence.’
And Mr Spence walks into his house, leaving me to do my spot of gardening underneath a bright new moon and a fairly minor stellar alignment on the Pagan calendar.
Friday, May 27, 2005
Gee. What to write…
I find myself not in a blogging mood and not having been in one for quite a while. I don’t write in mine. I don’t read others. Nothing personal. I’m just not interested at the moment.
I’m going out for drinks tonight. I don’t do that so often anymore. My doctor tells me I have a drinking problem. She says that you’re only meant to have two standard drinks a day. She tells me that there is positive evidence that alcohol is cancer-inducing. Lots of things are cancer-inducing. Last week, my workmate told me that Rice Bubbles is cancer-inducing.
Doc: Do you drink?
Me: Yes.
Doc: How often?
Me: About once a week or so.
Doc: How many drinks?
Me: Um… about four or five [conservative count].
Doc: Is that schooners, midis, spirits?
Me: Schooners, I guess [is pints an option?].
Doc: So that would equate to what… seven standard drinks?
Me: Um… I guess so.
Doc: Do you think you have a drinking problem?
Me: Um… no.
Doc: I think you do.
Didn’t I come in to have my Asthma checked out?
You’re an alcoholic.
__________
I bought Ryan Adams’ new one (Cold Roses) for the second time last week. Thank goodness that Ryan, for me, transcends any kind of sentimental associations that one normally attaches between songs and significant life events (e.g. trips, chance romantic encounters or your first taste of Habibs). To allow someone enough power to taint my appreciation Ryan’s music would be unforgivable. Fortunately, I enjoy hearing (to paraphrase Lisa Simpson) the sweet country soul in his voice as much now as I ever did.
I find myself not in a blogging mood and not having been in one for quite a while. I don’t write in mine. I don’t read others. Nothing personal. I’m just not interested at the moment.
I’m going out for drinks tonight. I don’t do that so often anymore. My doctor tells me I have a drinking problem. She says that you’re only meant to have two standard drinks a day. She tells me that there is positive evidence that alcohol is cancer-inducing. Lots of things are cancer-inducing. Last week, my workmate told me that Rice Bubbles is cancer-inducing.
Doc: Do you drink?
Me: Yes.
Doc: How often?
Me: About once a week or so.
Doc: How many drinks?
Me: Um… about four or five [conservative count].
Doc: Is that schooners, midis, spirits?
Me: Schooners, I guess [is pints an option?].
Doc: So that would equate to what… seven standard drinks?
Me: Um… I guess so.
Doc: Do you think you have a drinking problem?
Me: Um… no.
Doc: I think you do.
Didn’t I come in to have my Asthma checked out?
You’re an alcoholic.
__________
I bought Ryan Adams’ new one (Cold Roses) for the second time last week. Thank goodness that Ryan, for me, transcends any kind of sentimental associations that one normally attaches between songs and significant life events (e.g. trips, chance romantic encounters or your first taste of Habibs). To allow someone enough power to taint my appreciation Ryan’s music would be unforgivable. Fortunately, I enjoy hearing (to paraphrase Lisa Simpson) the sweet country soul in his voice as much now as I ever did.
Tuesday, May 17, 2005
Sunday, May 15, 2005
You get up early this morning and find out it’s not really that early after all. You don’t feel the least bit refreshed and your mouth has a funny taste. It’s the asthma meds you took the night before. After all these years, you should be used to it by now.
At this point, you should probably go to the bathroom to relieve yourself. Or you could go back to sleep for a little while longer. It’s tempting. But the arse wants what the arse wants. And you go with it. And then you clean up after it. That’s always the way it goes.
Walking down Forest Road on a cool late weekend morning, your most pressing choice is whether to go for a pork roll or something not so entirely predictable. You pass by the yum cha place and see two old women coughing. It makes you cough as well.
You know that dream where you’ve left the house and you’ve forgotten to change from the clothes you fell out of bed with? That’s you today.
Hooded top: $25
Can of tuna from which the stains on the hooded top came from: 99c
Shorts: $12
Thongs: $1.50
Getting out of bed and walking straight out the door: ….
Somewhere along the line, you stopped caring, didn’t you?
Nobody’s gonna die just because you go out not wearing shoes.
It’s hard to not talk to anyone. There was so much noise and yet none of it has anything to do with you. You slip in and out of the crowds. You feel alone. You’re a nobody. Most people don’t notice you. And if they do, they will forget within seconds.
It’s incognito without needing to be. Dishevelled without a cause.
It feels mildly depressing. You’re mildly angry.
Whatever.
Here’s the thing. Certain scenery, the right weather, the right company and you’ll think you’ve seen heaven. A combination of darkness and certain sounds can make you fear. Passing a certain restaurant can make you hungry. Mood lighting can make you fall in love.
The heart wants what the heart wants. Or so it goes.
But sometimes what you might think is your heart speaking may just be your arse. And the arse always wants what the arse wants. And you’ll go with it. And then clean up after it.
That’s just the way it always goes.
At this point, you should probably go to the bathroom to relieve yourself. Or you could go back to sleep for a little while longer. It’s tempting. But the arse wants what the arse wants. And you go with it. And then you clean up after it. That’s always the way it goes.
Walking down Forest Road on a cool late weekend morning, your most pressing choice is whether to go for a pork roll or something not so entirely predictable. You pass by the yum cha place and see two old women coughing. It makes you cough as well.
You know that dream where you’ve left the house and you’ve forgotten to change from the clothes you fell out of bed with? That’s you today.
Hooded top: $25
Can of tuna from which the stains on the hooded top came from: 99c
Shorts: $12
Thongs: $1.50
Getting out of bed and walking straight out the door: ….
Somewhere along the line, you stopped caring, didn’t you?
Nobody’s gonna die just because you go out not wearing shoes.
It’s hard to not talk to anyone. There was so much noise and yet none of it has anything to do with you. You slip in and out of the crowds. You feel alone. You’re a nobody. Most people don’t notice you. And if they do, they will forget within seconds.
It’s incognito without needing to be. Dishevelled without a cause.
It feels mildly depressing. You’re mildly angry.
Whatever.
Here’s the thing. Certain scenery, the right weather, the right company and you’ll think you’ve seen heaven. A combination of darkness and certain sounds can make you fear. Passing a certain restaurant can make you hungry. Mood lighting can make you fall in love.
The heart wants what the heart wants. Or so it goes.
But sometimes what you might think is your heart speaking may just be your arse. And the arse always wants what the arse wants. And you’ll go with it. And then clean up after it.
That’s just the way it always goes.
Monday, May 09, 2005
We had this thing that I could hardly call a cot because it was so big that my mum could fit in it and she often did, with me in it as well. My brother and sister also used this contraption as babies, but since I’m the youngest, I was still sleeping in it to a ridiculously advanced age. Maybe five or six, I’d say. When I think back on it, it probably resembled a dog kennel more than anything else. Like a bed inside a cage. And when you opened the top front grill, it would lower down to make the space under the bed like a cage. This space under the bed, with the grill brought down, is where I liked to sleep. On the floor. Because I was weird. Because I was a nut.
And she let me. She even came with me sometimes too.
And when I got older, and I heard so many of my friends complain about them going out too much, there was my mum telling me, ‘It’s important that you go out plenty while you’re young. I went out all the time when I was young and they were very happy times.
And there I was, thinking, ‘Cool.’
There was the ugly episode when she told me off about my HSC mark and how I didn’t study enough and how my cousin got a better mark than me. And I told her off back.
But then there was the next day when she came to me and apologised. And I knew then that I had a mother who was able to treat me like an adult and, more importantly, like an equal.
There was time when we asked her why she wears her wedding band on her right hand and she said, ‘Because I married the right man.’ And I knew then where my dorky sense of humour came from.
She has never really been a conventional Asian mum. She used to tell me how she was embarrassed that she was the only one among her friends who had no idea what subjects her son did in school. And when I came home, instead of having a prepared dinner on the stove, she would often tell me to pop some frozen nuggets in the oven for dinner while she would be playing the piano for countless hours.
But when you consider that she redid AMEB grades 3-8 and a couple of subsequent diplomas as a fifty-something year-old mother who had almost completely given up her favourite musical instrument for over twenty-five years, I have nothing to feel but pride and respect.
She infuriates me sometimes by how little belief she has in herself (being raised in an environment where women were never meant to be anything but a homemaker). But to me, there’s been nothing she hasn’t been able to achieve when she’s had to. And for all the humility she displays about her qualities, all I can see is how much loved she is by her siblings and her friends. She’s truly one of those people that everyone just can’t help but like. So much so that it’s annoying sometimes.
I know I rarely show affection to family members and I know that I was never the most helpful son. At least not as much as I could have been. But I’m always out. And you wanted me this way!
But tonight was a rare (for recent times anyway) chance at quality time. Just the two of us for dinner. Bloody expensive! But just what we needed.
Happy mother’s day, Mama.
Thank you for allowing me to be me.
I wouldn’t want you any other way either.
And she let me. She even came with me sometimes too.
And when I got older, and I heard so many of my friends complain about them going out too much, there was my mum telling me, ‘It’s important that you go out plenty while you’re young. I went out all the time when I was young and they were very happy times.
And there I was, thinking, ‘Cool.’
There was the ugly episode when she told me off about my HSC mark and how I didn’t study enough and how my cousin got a better mark than me. And I told her off back.
But then there was the next day when she came to me and apologised. And I knew then that I had a mother who was able to treat me like an adult and, more importantly, like an equal.
There was time when we asked her why she wears her wedding band on her right hand and she said, ‘Because I married the right man.’ And I knew then where my dorky sense of humour came from.
She has never really been a conventional Asian mum. She used to tell me how she was embarrassed that she was the only one among her friends who had no idea what subjects her son did in school. And when I came home, instead of having a prepared dinner on the stove, she would often tell me to pop some frozen nuggets in the oven for dinner while she would be playing the piano for countless hours.
But when you consider that she redid AMEB grades 3-8 and a couple of subsequent diplomas as a fifty-something year-old mother who had almost completely given up her favourite musical instrument for over twenty-five years, I have nothing to feel but pride and respect.
She infuriates me sometimes by how little belief she has in herself (being raised in an environment where women were never meant to be anything but a homemaker). But to me, there’s been nothing she hasn’t been able to achieve when she’s had to. And for all the humility she displays about her qualities, all I can see is how much loved she is by her siblings and her friends. She’s truly one of those people that everyone just can’t help but like. So much so that it’s annoying sometimes.
I know I rarely show affection to family members and I know that I was never the most helpful son. At least not as much as I could have been. But I’m always out. And you wanted me this way!
But tonight was a rare (for recent times anyway) chance at quality time. Just the two of us for dinner. Bloody expensive! But just what we needed.
Happy mother’s day, Mama.
Thank you for allowing me to be me.
I wouldn’t want you any other way either.
Thursday, May 05, 2005
Lunch diary
Monday
I went to the chemist in the morning to get an ulcer gel for the five ulcers that have appeared in my mouth. Three come from a basketball accident I had last thursday when my own teammate jumped on my back to get a rebound and somehow cut my lip. Two were from biting my own lip while trying to scoff down a pork roll on friday night. It now hurts. Sometimes even to talk. For lunch I went out to the Mandarin centre and got rice with beef and plum sauce, and vegetables. It tasted alright. Beforehand, I had put the gel on my ulcers and it hurt so much that I started crying out of one eye. This will be as good a lunch as I'll have all week.
Tuesday
I bought a loaf of bread (Helga's sunflower, honey and oat) for $2.50 and some cans of flavoured tuna, which were on sale for $1 each. For lunch I ate four slices of the bread with tuna that was flavoured with sundried tomato and basil. It tasted good. The tuna was good. The bread was really good. I didn't put on the gel this time because I don't want to cry anymore. Rolled up bread can be eaten from the side of the mouth so it doesn't hurt so much.
Wednesday
For lunch I had four slices of bread with tuna that was flavoured with tomato and capsicum. It didn't taste as good as yesterday. I'm not sure if it is because the bread is slightly more stale or the flavour of the tuna was inferior to the one yesterday. I also kept missing the side of my mouth and hit mu ulcers several times. One eye started to water but I did not cry.
Thursday
My mouth still hurts. For lunch I ate four slices of bread with tuna that was flavoured with sundried tomato and basil. It tasted good but I suspect that it is fatty because I have that bad fatty aftertaste in my mouth now. Also, I guess it is correct that this flavour of tuna is superior to tomato and capsicum (note to self). After my second slice of bread, one of my workmates came over and stole a slice out of the bag. I know only have three slices left for tomorrow.
Monday
I went to the chemist in the morning to get an ulcer gel for the five ulcers that have appeared in my mouth. Three come from a basketball accident I had last thursday when my own teammate jumped on my back to get a rebound and somehow cut my lip. Two were from biting my own lip while trying to scoff down a pork roll on friday night. It now hurts. Sometimes even to talk. For lunch I went out to the Mandarin centre and got rice with beef and plum sauce, and vegetables. It tasted alright. Beforehand, I had put the gel on my ulcers and it hurt so much that I started crying out of one eye. This will be as good a lunch as I'll have all week.
Tuesday
I bought a loaf of bread (Helga's sunflower, honey and oat) for $2.50 and some cans of flavoured tuna, which were on sale for $1 each. For lunch I ate four slices of the bread with tuna that was flavoured with sundried tomato and basil. It tasted good. The tuna was good. The bread was really good. I didn't put on the gel this time because I don't want to cry anymore. Rolled up bread can be eaten from the side of the mouth so it doesn't hurt so much.
Wednesday
For lunch I had four slices of bread with tuna that was flavoured with tomato and capsicum. It didn't taste as good as yesterday. I'm not sure if it is because the bread is slightly more stale or the flavour of the tuna was inferior to the one yesterday. I also kept missing the side of my mouth and hit mu ulcers several times. One eye started to water but I did not cry.
Thursday
My mouth still hurts. For lunch I ate four slices of bread with tuna that was flavoured with sundried tomato and basil. It tasted good but I suspect that it is fatty because I have that bad fatty aftertaste in my mouth now. Also, I guess it is correct that this flavour of tuna is superior to tomato and capsicum (note to self). After my second slice of bread, one of my workmates came over and stole a slice out of the bag. I know only have three slices left for tomorrow.
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
A loose approximation of what rap may have been like had computer nerds been the ones who started hip hop culture
Uh uh uh uh
Uh uh uh uh
Da king is back
Uh uh uh uh
Yeah!
Whoo Whoo!
I am back motherf*ckers
D to da Wee to da B, I’m da whack lyrical professor
My albums sell faster than a Pentium processor
You can’t f*ck wit D. You can’t take on me
I never do time for my many crimes
I stole all these library books but never paid the fines
I’m a speaker of da people yo. Speaker of da land
We was so poor we didn’t even have broadband
But now look at me. I have my own bling bin
And see this pure gold Star Trek commemorative pin
You so weak I sweep you off with a broom
And I got bitches and hoes burning my IRC chat room
You wanna f*ck with D You bring pistols to the fray
But you need grenades and plasma swords for a LAN partay
Yeah uh
The king is back
Uh uh uh
Whoo whoo!
Uh uh uh uh
Uh uh uh uh
Da king is back
Uh uh uh uh
Yeah!
Whoo Whoo!
I am back motherf*ckers
D to da Wee to da B, I’m da whack lyrical professor
My albums sell faster than a Pentium processor
You can’t f*ck wit D. You can’t take on me
I never do time for my many crimes
I stole all these library books but never paid the fines
I’m a speaker of da people yo. Speaker of da land
We was so poor we didn’t even have broadband
But now look at me. I have my own bling bin
And see this pure gold Star Trek commemorative pin
You so weak I sweep you off with a broom
And I got bitches and hoes burning my IRC chat room
You wanna f*ck with D You bring pistols to the fray
But you need grenades and plasma swords for a LAN partay
Yeah uh
The king is back
Uh uh uh
Whoo whoo!
Monday, April 11, 2005
On Saturday, I awoke from a late-afternoon nap and said to myself:
'I need to get out more.'
And now that I've saved the galaxy and gotten Knights of the Old Republic 2 out of my system, give me a couple of weeks and I'll be back out on the town! I felt inspired! I'm a social animal, dammit!
On Sunday, my body aching after an uninspiring game of basketball, I went to a local ATM and checked up on my bank balance...
I think you better give me a couple more weeks on top of that at least...
'I need to get out more.'
And now that I've saved the galaxy and gotten Knights of the Old Republic 2 out of my system, give me a couple of weeks and I'll be back out on the town! I felt inspired! I'm a social animal, dammit!
On Sunday, my body aching after an uninspiring game of basketball, I went to a local ATM and checked up on my bank balance...
I think you better give me a couple more weeks on top of that at least...
Tuesday, April 05, 2005
How Dancing with the Stars managed to become one of the most watched shows on national TV is beyond me... except that I haven't yet missed a single episode!
Sadly, Jason had to leave tonight. The look on Ian Roberts' eyes said what everyone was already thinking... that he should've been gone.
And Tom's a lock to win.
Sadly, Jason had to leave tonight. The look on Ian Roberts' eyes said what everyone was already thinking... that he should've been gone.
And Tom's a lock to win.
Monday, April 04, 2005
A moment, please
My yearly breaking of the fast should always be a happy and celebratory occasion because oftentimes, unfortunately, Easter Mass just isn’t that inspiring. I think my priest, God bless him, should lighten up and stop whinging. Stop being so negative.
It’s Easter. I need to be inspired.
It’s important that I remember, as I’m watching the late Pope John Paul II struggle with his last Easter message, that it is Easter, and not Christmas, that is the most important season of my faith. Christmas has the glitz. And Christmas is the one that’s placed smack bang in the holiday season. But it is Easter, however awkwardly it may be placed in the calendar year, that tells of the very crux of our faith. To use Shakespeare as an analogy, Christmas would be something nice and fluffy like A midsummer night’s dream while Easter would be the infinitely more complex, and ultimately more important, Hamlet.
The Pope knew this, I assume. And it’s a pity that the last image of him that I will remember is him struggling to speak, with a friggin’ tube in his neck, trying to deliver a message to the people whom he has sworn to lead, on the most important day of his faith’s calendar. It’s an image that’s made all the more indelible since it’s pretty close to every other image of him for the past few years.
Thing is, I’ve wanted him to step down all this time. Watching him in recent years has been painful. And selfishly I thought the church might be better served by a leader in better physical shape.
So while I feel sad that he’s passed on in life, I sigh with relief that it’s finally over. And I’m cautiously hopeful for the future of the church.
If the church was the Easter season, this would be Good Friday.
And Easter’s coming.
I had a whole big thing that I wanted to write for Easter but I got sick. Really sick. Bed-ridden for two days. Then a week of mild to moderate discomfort.
So this weekend, in trying to fully recover, I have been staying home and spending ridiculous amounts of time with the only new Star Wars sequel I care about – Knights of the Old Republic II. I am living on the plains of Dantooine, breathing the industrial air of Nar Shaddaa, and even dreaming the hum and whir within the hull of the Ebon Hawk.
If you don’t have a clue what I’m talking about, ignore me. I’m just being geeky. I’ve just been talking to way more computer generated persons than real persons in the last few days. Say I were to go on a date tomorrow, I might have situations like this.
Date: Are you feeling better? You don’t look pale like you did last week.
Me: I feel the glow of the Force sustaining my life energies.
Date: I’m glad we’ve been spending time together. I feel like we’re developing a bond.
Me: The Force binds all living creatures together.
Date: I’m sorry I came late tonight. Bloody trains never come on time!
Me: Watch your anger. Such strong emotions often lead down the path of the dark side.
In the game I am this bald Asiatic guy with a goatee (not too far from real life) and in my Jedi robes I resemble something like a try-hard rapper. But still, I have this blind psychic hottie, a platinum blonde Echani warrior who keeps stripping down to her underwear when I ask to spar with her, and a spunky young bounty hunter all after a piece of my fine pixelated ass!
I figure I’m doing better here than in real life.
Rock and roll.
And I know I’ve played down the death of the Pope. But it’s been the news of the day. It’ll be in the news for weeks to come. So what more can I say?
My yearly breaking of the fast should always be a happy and celebratory occasion because oftentimes, unfortunately, Easter Mass just isn’t that inspiring. I think my priest, God bless him, should lighten up and stop whinging. Stop being so negative.
It’s Easter. I need to be inspired.
It’s important that I remember, as I’m watching the late Pope John Paul II struggle with his last Easter message, that it is Easter, and not Christmas, that is the most important season of my faith. Christmas has the glitz. And Christmas is the one that’s placed smack bang in the holiday season. But it is Easter, however awkwardly it may be placed in the calendar year, that tells of the very crux of our faith. To use Shakespeare as an analogy, Christmas would be something nice and fluffy like A midsummer night’s dream while Easter would be the infinitely more complex, and ultimately more important, Hamlet.
The Pope knew this, I assume. And it’s a pity that the last image of him that I will remember is him struggling to speak, with a friggin’ tube in his neck, trying to deliver a message to the people whom he has sworn to lead, on the most important day of his faith’s calendar. It’s an image that’s made all the more indelible since it’s pretty close to every other image of him for the past few years.
Thing is, I’ve wanted him to step down all this time. Watching him in recent years has been painful. And selfishly I thought the church might be better served by a leader in better physical shape.
So while I feel sad that he’s passed on in life, I sigh with relief that it’s finally over. And I’m cautiously hopeful for the future of the church.
If the church was the Easter season, this would be Good Friday.
And Easter’s coming.
I had a whole big thing that I wanted to write for Easter but I got sick. Really sick. Bed-ridden for two days. Then a week of mild to moderate discomfort.
So this weekend, in trying to fully recover, I have been staying home and spending ridiculous amounts of time with the only new Star Wars sequel I care about – Knights of the Old Republic II. I am living on the plains of Dantooine, breathing the industrial air of Nar Shaddaa, and even dreaming the hum and whir within the hull of the Ebon Hawk.
If you don’t have a clue what I’m talking about, ignore me. I’m just being geeky. I’ve just been talking to way more computer generated persons than real persons in the last few days. Say I were to go on a date tomorrow, I might have situations like this.
Date: Are you feeling better? You don’t look pale like you did last week.
Me: I feel the glow of the Force sustaining my life energies.
Date: I’m glad we’ve been spending time together. I feel like we’re developing a bond.
Me: The Force binds all living creatures together.
Date: I’m sorry I came late tonight. Bloody trains never come on time!
Me: Watch your anger. Such strong emotions often lead down the path of the dark side.
In the game I am this bald Asiatic guy with a goatee (not too far from real life) and in my Jedi robes I resemble something like a try-hard rapper. But still, I have this blind psychic hottie, a platinum blonde Echani warrior who keeps stripping down to her underwear when I ask to spar with her, and a spunky young bounty hunter all after a piece of my fine pixelated ass!
I figure I’m doing better here than in real life.
Rock and roll.
And I know I’ve played down the death of the Pope. But it’s been the news of the day. It’ll be in the news for weeks to come. So what more can I say?
Thursday, March 24, 2005
I don’t know what to make of it, but I’m feeling strangely happy. Or at least content. At the very least. I can tell because my car is playing Aerosmith and Kid Rock. Out with the bad air. In with the loud guitars and the White trash shouting.
I feel a slight change in the air. I have a job that pays me little more than peanuts but at the best of times can make me giddy with grateful appreciation. I love the work. I love the people. I love how it makes me feel.
I feel like I haven’t been able to feel anything lately. I’m getting guitar lessons but I can’t concentrate or get into it. I say I’m writing a novel but I can’t get into that either.
I haven’t done anything that I deem productive for a long while. I don’t know why. I feel like I’ve been displaying symptoms of depressed. Except that I’m happy, which is weird. I’ve wasted so much time on the computer or playing Xbox. I’ve eaten so much bread over the past month, but that probably has nothing to do with anything.
Maybe it’s the insomnia.
But it’s slowly lifting I think. The fog that is. I don’t know. Whatever. Maybe. All I know is that Mr Tyler never comes out when I’m unhappy.
__________
Has anyone been watching X-Factor? Like Kate, I think Jakey B is the real deal. He’s young and still has a long way to go. But he’s got more personality and charisma than all the past Australian Idol finalists put together. And OK, he looks like a young Detective Goren trying to dress and like Ryan Adams. But It’ll be a real shame if he doesn’t win. I hope Australia gets it right this time.
I’ll be voting for you, Jakey B.
I feel a slight change in the air. I have a job that pays me little more than peanuts but at the best of times can make me giddy with grateful appreciation. I love the work. I love the people. I love how it makes me feel.
I feel like I haven’t been able to feel anything lately. I’m getting guitar lessons but I can’t concentrate or get into it. I say I’m writing a novel but I can’t get into that either.
I haven’t done anything that I deem productive for a long while. I don’t know why. I feel like I’ve been displaying symptoms of depressed. Except that I’m happy, which is weird. I’ve wasted so much time on the computer or playing Xbox. I’ve eaten so much bread over the past month, but that probably has nothing to do with anything.
Maybe it’s the insomnia.
But it’s slowly lifting I think. The fog that is. I don’t know. Whatever. Maybe. All I know is that Mr Tyler never comes out when I’m unhappy.
__________
Has anyone been watching X-Factor? Like Kate, I think Jakey B is the real deal. He’s young and still has a long way to go. But he’s got more personality and charisma than all the past Australian Idol finalists put together. And OK, he looks like a young Detective Goren trying to dress and like Ryan Adams. But It’ll be a real shame if he doesn’t win. I hope Australia gets it right this time.
I’ll be voting for you, Jakey B.
Monday, March 21, 2005
10 things I hate about you
1. I hate that you’re never on time.
2. I hate how much I told people how good you were for all those years.
3. I hate how it costs me $4 to go from the city to Bankstown. One way. Off peak.
4. I hate how you had seven of your ticket inspectors hanging around at Hurstville Station at 1am, wasting valuable State money that could be better used elsewhere.
5. I hated all your ‘Keep on training Sydney’ ads implying you were trying hard to provide a good transport service when you were actually getting crappier by the day.
6. I hate how you were actually really good during the Olympics, meaning that you can be good when you can be arsed.
7. I hate how you paint the doors and front carriage of some Tangaras yellow thinking that we can’t tell that they’re not actually Millennium trains.
8. I hate that your stations don’t have any bins.
9. I hate how your ‘Stand clear doors closing’ announcements never have any real correlation to when your doors actually close.
10. I hate how your display screens can say ‘Due in 8 mins’… then one minute later ‘Due in 4 mins’… then one minute later ‘Due in 9 mins’… then one minute later the train comes.
I hate CityRail.
1. I hate that you’re never on time.
2. I hate how much I told people how good you were for all those years.
3. I hate how it costs me $4 to go from the city to Bankstown. One way. Off peak.
4. I hate how you had seven of your ticket inspectors hanging around at Hurstville Station at 1am, wasting valuable State money that could be better used elsewhere.
5. I hated all your ‘Keep on training Sydney’ ads implying you were trying hard to provide a good transport service when you were actually getting crappier by the day.
6. I hate how you were actually really good during the Olympics, meaning that you can be good when you can be arsed.
7. I hate how you paint the doors and front carriage of some Tangaras yellow thinking that we can’t tell that they’re not actually Millennium trains.
8. I hate that your stations don’t have any bins.
9. I hate how your ‘Stand clear doors closing’ announcements never have any real correlation to when your doors actually close.
10. I hate how your display screens can say ‘Due in 8 mins’… then one minute later ‘Due in 4 mins’… then one minute later ‘Due in 9 mins’… then one minute later the train comes.
I hate CityRail.
Thursday, March 17, 2005
I am a sucker.
Here is the gist of what transpired today on my lunch break at the phone store.
Girl:
I see you've brought with you an ad for a phone deal that you ripped out of your mother's TV guide. As it belongs to our company, it's a pretty good deal. But here's what's going to happen. I'm going to tell you that we don't have that particular phone in stock. And then I'm going to offer you a totally different phone to the one that you've been planning to get since you saw that ad. But don't don't worry, I'll be telling you that it's a better phone anyway, which it probably is, although it is bigger and since you're a luddite who's been lugging around an ancient relic of a phone for the past 5 years, you probably won't be using the extra features anyway but it's still good to have. Oh and I almost forgot, the $33 plan that you were after is alright. But you should upgrade to a $44 plan which makes each call much cheaper even though it's more than you planned to spend when you walked into the store. Here, I'll do some fancy calculations for you and show you how much you'll save. I know you'll be rather skeptical about everything that I tell you and I know that I'm trying to get you to lock yourself in for 24 months to something quite different from what you planned to get when you first walked in. But because I'm a small non-threatening not-entirely-uncute Asian girl with an upbeat voice and I'm being really friendly, if not downright flirting with you, you're probably going to yes. So... how about it?
Me:
Um... er... well... yes.
Here is the gist of what transpired today on my lunch break at the phone store.
Girl:
I see you've brought with you an ad for a phone deal that you ripped out of your mother's TV guide. As it belongs to our company, it's a pretty good deal. But here's what's going to happen. I'm going to tell you that we don't have that particular phone in stock. And then I'm going to offer you a totally different phone to the one that you've been planning to get since you saw that ad. But don't don't worry, I'll be telling you that it's a better phone anyway, which it probably is, although it is bigger and since you're a luddite who's been lugging around an ancient relic of a phone for the past 5 years, you probably won't be using the extra features anyway but it's still good to have. Oh and I almost forgot, the $33 plan that you were after is alright. But you should upgrade to a $44 plan which makes each call much cheaper even though it's more than you planned to spend when you walked into the store. Here, I'll do some fancy calculations for you and show you how much you'll save. I know you'll be rather skeptical about everything that I tell you and I know that I'm trying to get you to lock yourself in for 24 months to something quite different from what you planned to get when you first walked in. But because I'm a small non-threatening not-entirely-uncute Asian girl with an upbeat voice and I'm being really friendly, if not downright flirting with you, you're probably going to yes. So... how about it?
Me:
Um... er... well... yes.
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
xtn’s guide to demystifying cooking
Disclaimer: these are not necessarily authentic or traditional methods to cooking. This is practical cooking. It’s what you make for lunch on a trip away with leftover ingredients from dinner. Uh huh.
To show you all that I have another side to xtn the homewrecker, I will now become xtn the homeMAKER.
I talk to so many people who say they can’t cook and lot of them aren’t lying! They really can’t! Well not that I’m a world class chef or anything, but I can hold my own in the kitchen. Kinda. Maybe. Well I’m not so bad.
Anyway, I think people just approach it the wrong way. I think cooking is much easier if you look at it the right way. So here I am offering you my many years of accumulated gastronomic gestations to make easy (relatively) tasty food that may not be the most authentic anything, but hey, they work and are practical!
I’m basing today’s lesson on my one principle when it comes to cooking:
Generalise, don’t specialise.
Or more specifically:
Learn techniques and strategies, rather than specific recipes.
Learn proportions rather than specific measurements.
I think this makes things a lot easier for me. So with that in mind, here are three steps (or stages) to DEMYSTIFYING COOKING!!!!! Oh and also for today’s lesson, I’m sticking to European cooking. Mostly it’s because I just know more about it.
Step 1 Basics
Learn a few basic techniques. Keep things simple. Since a lot of dishes are derivatives of other more basic dishes, go right up to the top of the family tree. Sauces are good. Here are two essential ones.
Tomato sauce – Dead simple. Fry some chopped onions and garlic in a saucepan, add tomato paste, then some peeled Roma tomatoes, water, then salt and pepper, as well as basil and oregano. In approximately that order. Boil until it looks like what you get out of the bottle.
White sauce – Slightly more complicated. Fry some butter in a saucepan with equal parts flour. When it forms a semi doughy thing (called a roux but who cares), add warm milk and stir until you get a thickened sauce. Season to taste.
Both these sauces are really flexible.
With the tomato sauce, add mince and you get your basic Bolognese. Add a mix of seafood and you get Marinara. Dead easy.
With the white sauce, add nutmeg, salt and a bit of sugar, and you get you Béchamel sauce. Goes with potatoes, vegies, whatever. Add cheese to that and you get a simple Mornay sauce. Add mushrooms and ham and you get a Boscaiola-type sauce (well not really, but close enough!) to go with pasta.
Moving along from sauces, here’s all you need to know to make risotto: 2 parts Arborio rice to 5 parts liquid. That’s it. What comes next happens in Step 2.
Step 2 Combine and create
With just those two sauces you can cook up a whole range of dishes. Lasagne is an obvious one. Use the tomato sauce with mince with the pasta sheets. Then pour Béchamel sauce on top. Voila!
But the point of this step is that with every dish you cook, learn the essentials and then you can combine and create with other dishes that you know. For example, you know it’s the roux that thickens the milk to make the sauce. So try it with roast dripping to make a type of gravy. You can thicken a whole range of liquids this way.
Coming back to the risotto. Now that you know what proportions you need to cook the rice, everything else is up to you. Add the tomato sauce, seafood and you get seafood risotto. As chicken stock, white wine, garlic, milk and mushrooms and you get a mushroom risotto. Add pumpkin soup, vegies and chives for… yep… you guessed it, pumpkin risotto. Add saffron, paprika and seafood (and seafood stock) and you get a kind of seafood paella. You get my drift.
OK, it’s getting late so on to Step 3.
Step 3 Flair
Modify existing dishes and techniques to create new dishes or solve problems you have with them. Think outside the square kind of stuff. For example, if a dish uses cream, try sour cream instead and see what happens. Remember, if something works well in one dish, it will often work with others.
With respect to the problem solving side of things, here’s an example: if you’re making mash pumpkin, depending on several factors, it can often become mush instead of mash. So what do you do? What do you know is similar but won’t turn to mush? How about potato? So add a proportion of potato to your pumpkin, add cream and seasoning and you’ll get perfect mash pumpkin everytime. (My auntie taught me that one!)
I’m going to leave you now with one last tasty idea.
Lots of people like fish. But usually, due to the fragility of its meat, whole pieces fish are either steamed, fried or grilled. As an alternative, why not poach your fish with milk. Get a frying pan (shallow) on low heat. Pour in milk. Add in seasoning of your choice (I’d recommend garlic, salt, pepper, lemon, chives but whatever’s available) and bring to simmer. Next, place the fish in, cover and cook for 10 minutes or so (depending on size of fish, heat temperature, etc. – check often if unsure). When fish is done, remove it from the pan. What you have left is a delicious fish-flavoured milk. Now, going back to previous steps, fry equal parts butter and flour to form a roux. Add the fish milk with some cheese a bit of honey and you get a wonderful fish-infused white sauce. Pour this over your fish. Now try telling me that doesn’t sound good! (Unless you’re one of those people who don’t like fish – and you don’t count because you’re freaks)
Anyway, there you go. That’s how I think about cooking. And it’s worked quite well for me so far. But I’ll stop writing now because I doubt anyone’s gotten this far into the entry. If you do, give me a wave. I’ve probably taken this a lot more seriously than I had intended. But it’s supposed to be fun OK? That’s important.
Happy cooking.
Disclaimer: these are not necessarily authentic or traditional methods to cooking. This is practical cooking. It’s what you make for lunch on a trip away with leftover ingredients from dinner. Uh huh.
To show you all that I have another side to xtn the homewrecker, I will now become xtn the homeMAKER.
I talk to so many people who say they can’t cook and lot of them aren’t lying! They really can’t! Well not that I’m a world class chef or anything, but I can hold my own in the kitchen. Kinda. Maybe. Well I’m not so bad.
Anyway, I think people just approach it the wrong way. I think cooking is much easier if you look at it the right way. So here I am offering you my many years of accumulated gastronomic gestations to make easy (relatively) tasty food that may not be the most authentic anything, but hey, they work and are practical!
I’m basing today’s lesson on my one principle when it comes to cooking:
Generalise, don’t specialise.
Or more specifically:
Learn techniques and strategies, rather than specific recipes.
Learn proportions rather than specific measurements.
I think this makes things a lot easier for me. So with that in mind, here are three steps (or stages) to DEMYSTIFYING COOKING!!!!! Oh and also for today’s lesson, I’m sticking to European cooking. Mostly it’s because I just know more about it.
Step 1 Basics
Learn a few basic techniques. Keep things simple. Since a lot of dishes are derivatives of other more basic dishes, go right up to the top of the family tree. Sauces are good. Here are two essential ones.
Tomato sauce – Dead simple. Fry some chopped onions and garlic in a saucepan, add tomato paste, then some peeled Roma tomatoes, water, then salt and pepper, as well as basil and oregano. In approximately that order. Boil until it looks like what you get out of the bottle.
White sauce – Slightly more complicated. Fry some butter in a saucepan with equal parts flour. When it forms a semi doughy thing (called a roux but who cares), add warm milk and stir until you get a thickened sauce. Season to taste.
Both these sauces are really flexible.
With the tomato sauce, add mince and you get your basic Bolognese. Add a mix of seafood and you get Marinara. Dead easy.
With the white sauce, add nutmeg, salt and a bit of sugar, and you get you Béchamel sauce. Goes with potatoes, vegies, whatever. Add cheese to that and you get a simple Mornay sauce. Add mushrooms and ham and you get a Boscaiola-type sauce (well not really, but close enough!) to go with pasta.
Moving along from sauces, here’s all you need to know to make risotto: 2 parts Arborio rice to 5 parts liquid. That’s it. What comes next happens in Step 2.
Step 2 Combine and create
With just those two sauces you can cook up a whole range of dishes. Lasagne is an obvious one. Use the tomato sauce with mince with the pasta sheets. Then pour Béchamel sauce on top. Voila!
But the point of this step is that with every dish you cook, learn the essentials and then you can combine and create with other dishes that you know. For example, you know it’s the roux that thickens the milk to make the sauce. So try it with roast dripping to make a type of gravy. You can thicken a whole range of liquids this way.
Coming back to the risotto. Now that you know what proportions you need to cook the rice, everything else is up to you. Add the tomato sauce, seafood and you get seafood risotto. As chicken stock, white wine, garlic, milk and mushrooms and you get a mushroom risotto. Add pumpkin soup, vegies and chives for… yep… you guessed it, pumpkin risotto. Add saffron, paprika and seafood (and seafood stock) and you get a kind of seafood paella. You get my drift.
OK, it’s getting late so on to Step 3.
Step 3 Flair
Modify existing dishes and techniques to create new dishes or solve problems you have with them. Think outside the square kind of stuff. For example, if a dish uses cream, try sour cream instead and see what happens. Remember, if something works well in one dish, it will often work with others.
With respect to the problem solving side of things, here’s an example: if you’re making mash pumpkin, depending on several factors, it can often become mush instead of mash. So what do you do? What do you know is similar but won’t turn to mush? How about potato? So add a proportion of potato to your pumpkin, add cream and seasoning and you’ll get perfect mash pumpkin everytime. (My auntie taught me that one!)
I’m going to leave you now with one last tasty idea.
Lots of people like fish. But usually, due to the fragility of its meat, whole pieces fish are either steamed, fried or grilled. As an alternative, why not poach your fish with milk. Get a frying pan (shallow) on low heat. Pour in milk. Add in seasoning of your choice (I’d recommend garlic, salt, pepper, lemon, chives but whatever’s available) and bring to simmer. Next, place the fish in, cover and cook for 10 minutes or so (depending on size of fish, heat temperature, etc. – check often if unsure). When fish is done, remove it from the pan. What you have left is a delicious fish-flavoured milk. Now, going back to previous steps, fry equal parts butter and flour to form a roux. Add the fish milk with some cheese a bit of honey and you get a wonderful fish-infused white sauce. Pour this over your fish. Now try telling me that doesn’t sound good! (Unless you’re one of those people who don’t like fish – and you don’t count because you’re freaks)
Anyway, there you go. That’s how I think about cooking. And it’s worked quite well for me so far. But I’ll stop writing now because I doubt anyone’s gotten this far into the entry. If you do, give me a wave. I’ve probably taken this a lot more seriously than I had intended. But it’s supposed to be fun OK? That’s important.
Happy cooking.
Sunday, March 13, 2005
On the way home tonight, there was a conversation with my friends about going after a girl who's already taken and when the boyfriend happens to be a nice guy.
On the one hand, we could end the conversation by saying: 'Well she's taken and he's a nice guy. Don't wanna mess with that. End of discussion'.
But on the other hand, if I apply a more formal logic to this hypothetical, it becomes this:
Aim: Girl
Obstacle: Boyfriend
Premises:
1. Boyfriend is nice (Minor premise)
2. I am not nice (contracted using this Syllogism - Going after a girl with a boyfriend is not nice, I am going after a girl with a boyfriend, therefore I am not nice) (Minor premise)
3. Nice guys finish last (Major premise)
Therefore:
I would be able to remove the obstacle and accomplish my aim, which is to get the girl.
Is there anything wrong with this logic?
On the one hand, we could end the conversation by saying: 'Well she's taken and he's a nice guy. Don't wanna mess with that. End of discussion'.
But on the other hand, if I apply a more formal logic to this hypothetical, it becomes this:
Aim: Girl
Obstacle: Boyfriend
Premises:
1. Boyfriend is nice (Minor premise)
2. I am not nice (contracted using this Syllogism - Going after a girl with a boyfriend is not nice, I am going after a girl with a boyfriend, therefore I am not nice) (Minor premise)
3. Nice guys finish last (Major premise)
Therefore:
I would be able to remove the obstacle and accomplish my aim, which is to get the girl.
Is there anything wrong with this logic?
Sunday, February 27, 2005
Awake is the new Sleep
Ben Lee
I remember the first time I heard the first few seconds of Cigarettes will kill you.
I was hooked right away. It seemed so refreshing. Undeniably pop. But also undeniably accentric. So I bought the album. And since then, I've bought his next album. And then I went to see him play with the other Bens. In this show he was, I must say, the least fun part. He seemed awkward. His jokes just weren't funny. And out of the three, he was the least flexible musically. He could only play the guitar for one thing. The others played guitar, piano, drums. He seemed the odd one out trying to fit in. There was just a hint of 'tryhard' in him somehow. But I've always had a soft spot for Ben Lee and his music.
I recently named Breathing Tornadoes as one of the ten most influential albums in my life. It's a special album - the closest thing he had to a mainstream breakthrough. Not to everyone's taste, I know, but I've met others who reminisce about the album with great fondness. His next effort, Hey you yes you, had some nice songs in it. It had the same Ben Lee signature to it. But ultimately it was less consistent and emotionally hollow.
Now this latest effort is a great comeback. After his breakup with Claire Danes and a somewhat stagnating career, he's said:
"You go to bed one night feeling that you’ve come to a dead end, that everything has been said and done, that there is no magic in the world...but the next morning you wake up - and everything’s changed.
Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. This is an album about waking up."
Here's my take on it. This is a major leap for him, musically. It's that good. It's like he's found a voice he's finally happy with. No longer concerned about trying to establish himself or trying to mimic someone else. The most impressive thing about this album is how effortless it sounds. Much more stripped down than his last two and much more consistent. Make no mistake though, this still sounds like Ben Lee so if you never had an interest in him before, this probably won't convert you. But I still urge you to try it.
It's more upbeat than his previous ones. It's happy. It's positive in an awkward and honest way. But at the same time, the pain is obvious. It's like the smile that appears on your face after you've had a good cry. When someone places a hand on you and tells you that everything's gonna be alright. Not the first time that you hear the words. But the first time that you believe them - when you finally get it.
Ben Lee
I remember the first time I heard the first few seconds of Cigarettes will kill you.
I was hooked right away. It seemed so refreshing. Undeniably pop. But also undeniably accentric. So I bought the album. And since then, I've bought his next album. And then I went to see him play with the other Bens. In this show he was, I must say, the least fun part. He seemed awkward. His jokes just weren't funny. And out of the three, he was the least flexible musically. He could only play the guitar for one thing. The others played guitar, piano, drums. He seemed the odd one out trying to fit in. There was just a hint of 'tryhard' in him somehow. But I've always had a soft spot for Ben Lee and his music.
I recently named Breathing Tornadoes as one of the ten most influential albums in my life. It's a special album - the closest thing he had to a mainstream breakthrough. Not to everyone's taste, I know, but I've met others who reminisce about the album with great fondness. His next effort, Hey you yes you, had some nice songs in it. It had the same Ben Lee signature to it. But ultimately it was less consistent and emotionally hollow.
Now this latest effort is a great comeback. After his breakup with Claire Danes and a somewhat stagnating career, he's said:
"You go to bed one night feeling that you’ve come to a dead end, that everything has been said and done, that there is no magic in the world...but the next morning you wake up - and everything’s changed.
Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. This is an album about waking up."
Here's my take on it. This is a major leap for him, musically. It's that good. It's like he's found a voice he's finally happy with. No longer concerned about trying to establish himself or trying to mimic someone else. The most impressive thing about this album is how effortless it sounds. Much more stripped down than his last two and much more consistent. Make no mistake though, this still sounds like Ben Lee so if you never had an interest in him before, this probably won't convert you. But I still urge you to try it.
It's more upbeat than his previous ones. It's happy. It's positive in an awkward and honest way. But at the same time, the pain is obvious. It's like the smile that appears on your face after you've had a good cry. When someone places a hand on you and tells you that everything's gonna be alright. Not the first time that you hear the words. But the first time that you believe them - when you finally get it.
Wednesday, February 23, 2005
Bits and pieces
At work, I always have to give the editors page proofs of our newsletters. And on each one, I write '1st proof' or '2nd proof'. One of our editors is gay. I'm so afraid that one day I'll accidentally write '3rd poof'.
I just went to see Lior perform at the Vanguard in Newtown. Personally, I think he's the real deal. From talking with the people I went with, I guess he's not going to be to everyone's taste. Imagine a Jason Mraz/Josh Kelley type with Middle Eastern influences. That's the best that I can think of. Eclectic, emotional, with a voice that just blew me away. At least give it a go...
My favourite songs at the moment are (in no particular order):
This old love - Lior
Gamble everything for love - Ben Lee
Somebody told me - The Killers
Wasting time - Thirsty Merc
An album I'd like to buy but as yet have no money to:
Forever young - Aberfeldy
I just saw a man on Dave Letterman try to eat 44 dozen oysters in an hour to break the world record. He fell short at 40 dozen. For that effort he got a $25 voucher at a seafood restaurant.
I swear the mirror in my bathroom makes me look better than I do in any other mirror. I also swear that I'm not as vain as I sound.
You know what... I'm doing good. No money. But all smiles...
At work, I always have to give the editors page proofs of our newsletters. And on each one, I write '1st proof' or '2nd proof'. One of our editors is gay. I'm so afraid that one day I'll accidentally write '3rd poof'.
I just went to see Lior perform at the Vanguard in Newtown. Personally, I think he's the real deal. From talking with the people I went with, I guess he's not going to be to everyone's taste. Imagine a Jason Mraz/Josh Kelley type with Middle Eastern influences. That's the best that I can think of. Eclectic, emotional, with a voice that just blew me away. At least give it a go...
My favourite songs at the moment are (in no particular order):
This old love - Lior
Gamble everything for love - Ben Lee
Somebody told me - The Killers
Wasting time - Thirsty Merc
An album I'd like to buy but as yet have no money to:
Forever young - Aberfeldy
I just saw a man on Dave Letterman try to eat 44 dozen oysters in an hour to break the world record. He fell short at 40 dozen. For that effort he got a $25 voucher at a seafood restaurant.
I swear the mirror in my bathroom makes me look better than I do in any other mirror. I also swear that I'm not as vain as I sound.
You know what... I'm doing good. No money. But all smiles...
Sunday, February 20, 2005
I’ve just spent almost my entire weekend without leaving my place once. Between 1am Saturday morning to 7pm Sunday night, I stayed exclusively at home. The highlights included watching Shrek, the ending of Four Weddings and a Funeral, a DVD movie called Wicker Park, a few hours of Rage and a British horror movie which, while admittedly was fairly lame, did feature a few glorious scenes in which a somewhat younger Kate Beckinsale was nekkid.
On top of all that, I also invented a new vegetarian spaghetti dish with Hoi sin sauce and mayonnaise and I won three regular season games with my fictional Dallas Mavericks team on the Xbox. It’s becoming too easy I think.
I didn’t spend a single cent all weekend.
The last thing I did, that I want to talk about, is entertain myself by way of running my very own slayerfest. Five episodes of Buffy, thus finishing off season 5. And here’s what I realised:
Buffy’s damn good.
Buffy the series should’ve ended with season 5. Buffy dies and that’s that. Actually, Joss Whedon did plan for it to end with 5. But what was he supposed to say to an offer for two more seasons worth of cash? Season 5 was just so poetically complete. There’s a real feel of finality to it. The next two seasons, in comparison, are like the Degrassi High reunion episode and the hobbit pillow fight in Return of the King. Yes, you did want to know what happened after, but after you watched it, you kinda didn’t think it was all necessary.
I didn’t need to see Buffy bonking Spike almost every episode in Season 6. Really wasn’t necessary.
Anyway, when people used to ask me why I liked Buffy, my standard reply was ‘She’s a cute blonde chick that kicks arse. What’s not to like?’ But now I realise that’s really not doing the show any justice. The greatest trick that Joss Whedon did was convince the producers of the original concept. Buffy just sounds like a lame concept. I didn’t buy into it. But what they did during seven years of the show was often pure brilliance. The mythos they built up, the characters they developed. This was a really well-written show with a more-or-less coherent universe.
Spike is a very interesting character. I hated when he went soft, but in the context, it was somewhat understandable. Glory is a fantastic villain – a stunted hell god gone insane from frustration and sharing one body with a human vessel. The whole plotline with Dawn being inserted into the show without prior notice was fantastic.
Ironically, the best episode of the season may have been one that didn’t involve the supernatural. ‘The Body’, which was about the early stages of grieving for Buffy et al after the death of her mother, is possibly the most realistic portrayal of post-loss grieving that I’ve ever seen on screen. It was equal parts uncomfortable and brilliant to watch. Everything was spot on.
Anyway, now I have seasons 2 and 3 to go. I know I said that the show should have ended with season 5. But I kinda wish the show never ended at all.
On top of all that, I also invented a new vegetarian spaghetti dish with Hoi sin sauce and mayonnaise and I won three regular season games with my fictional Dallas Mavericks team on the Xbox. It’s becoming too easy I think.
I didn’t spend a single cent all weekend.
The last thing I did, that I want to talk about, is entertain myself by way of running my very own slayerfest. Five episodes of Buffy, thus finishing off season 5. And here’s what I realised:
Buffy’s damn good.
Buffy the series should’ve ended with season 5. Buffy dies and that’s that. Actually, Joss Whedon did plan for it to end with 5. But what was he supposed to say to an offer for two more seasons worth of cash? Season 5 was just so poetically complete. There’s a real feel of finality to it. The next two seasons, in comparison, are like the Degrassi High reunion episode and the hobbit pillow fight in Return of the King. Yes, you did want to know what happened after, but after you watched it, you kinda didn’t think it was all necessary.
I didn’t need to see Buffy bonking Spike almost every episode in Season 6. Really wasn’t necessary.
Anyway, when people used to ask me why I liked Buffy, my standard reply was ‘She’s a cute blonde chick that kicks arse. What’s not to like?’ But now I realise that’s really not doing the show any justice. The greatest trick that Joss Whedon did was convince the producers of the original concept. Buffy just sounds like a lame concept. I didn’t buy into it. But what they did during seven years of the show was often pure brilliance. The mythos they built up, the characters they developed. This was a really well-written show with a more-or-less coherent universe.
Spike is a very interesting character. I hated when he went soft, but in the context, it was somewhat understandable. Glory is a fantastic villain – a stunted hell god gone insane from frustration and sharing one body with a human vessel. The whole plotline with Dawn being inserted into the show without prior notice was fantastic.
Ironically, the best episode of the season may have been one that didn’t involve the supernatural. ‘The Body’, which was about the early stages of grieving for Buffy et al after the death of her mother, is possibly the most realistic portrayal of post-loss grieving that I’ve ever seen on screen. It was equal parts uncomfortable and brilliant to watch. Everything was spot on.
Anyway, now I have seasons 2 and 3 to go. I know I said that the show should have ended with season 5. But I kinda wish the show never ended at all.
Monday, February 14, 2005
Here's the sad thing.
No matter what anyone ever says. What they swear to their nominated deity. What they have tatooed on their arse or whatever. When push comes to shove, no one ever picks mates ahead of dates. Guys. Girls. Whatever. Everyone's the same. At the end of the day, it's always so bloody predictable.
And with that, a happy Valentines day to you all.
No matter what anyone ever says. What they swear to their nominated deity. What they have tatooed on their arse or whatever. When push comes to shove, no one ever picks mates ahead of dates. Guys. Girls. Whatever. Everyone's the same. At the end of the day, it's always so bloody predictable.
And with that, a happy Valentines day to you all.
Thursday, February 10, 2005
'Hi'
'Hello'
'I'm from the University of New South Wales and today we're doing a survey on young drivers under the age of 25...'
'Oh I'm over that.'
'Really?'
'Yeah.'
'OK then. Thanks!'
The rest was quick. I filled in the form at work already. There's another guy renewing his license next to me.
'Read the bottom line please.'
'Q-O-E-T-V-P-U-G.'
I'm thinking, I don't wanna do the eyetest with my glasses. I'm thinking, I don't want an 'S' on my license. I'm thinking, hang on. That's the same chart I'd be looking at. That's the same bloody chart! I'm thinking, can I remember that? What he just said?
Q-O-E-P-U what?
My turn.
'Can I try without my glasses?'
'Sure.'
The little door opens.
'Can you read me the fourth line from the bottom?'
Fourth line? Fourth line? That line's big! The fool next to me gets the bottom line and I get the big arse fourth line from the bottom? That bottom line could be spelling my own name and I wouldn't be able to read it. But the fourth, it's friggin' huge!
OK, here goes.
'That's fine. Thanks.'
So now I'm thinking, do I really wanna be a donor? Am I gonna be gunned down by some Mafia hitman looking for a pancreas?
'All done. Now take a seat in front of the camera.'
What the hell does a pancreas even do?
'Chin up a bit.'
Maybe I can do without one.
'That's it. Thank you. It'll be ready in a couple of minutes.'
Hey cool. Lucky I wore a yellow T-shirt. With the gold band I look colour co-ordinated.
OK. Back to work.
pan·cre·as ( P ) Pronunciation Key (pngkr-s, pn-)
n.
A long, irregularly shaped gland in vertebrates, lying behind the stomach, that secretes pancreatic juice into the duodenum and insulin, glucagon, and somatostatin into the bloodstream
Hmmm... Maybe I can do without one.
Or maybe not.
'Hello'
'I'm from the University of New South Wales and today we're doing a survey on young drivers under the age of 25...'
'Oh I'm over that.'
'Really?'
'Yeah.'
'OK then. Thanks!'
The rest was quick. I filled in the form at work already. There's another guy renewing his license next to me.
'Read the bottom line please.'
'Q-O-E-T-V-P-U-G.'
I'm thinking, I don't wanna do the eyetest with my glasses. I'm thinking, I don't want an 'S' on my license. I'm thinking, hang on. That's the same chart I'd be looking at. That's the same bloody chart! I'm thinking, can I remember that? What he just said?
Q-O-E-P-U what?
My turn.
'Can I try without my glasses?'
'Sure.'
The little door opens.
'Can you read me the fourth line from the bottom?'
Fourth line? Fourth line? That line's big! The fool next to me gets the bottom line and I get the big arse fourth line from the bottom? That bottom line could be spelling my own name and I wouldn't be able to read it. But the fourth, it's friggin' huge!
OK, here goes.
'That's fine. Thanks.'
So now I'm thinking, do I really wanna be a donor? Am I gonna be gunned down by some Mafia hitman looking for a pancreas?
'All done. Now take a seat in front of the camera.'
What the hell does a pancreas even do?
'Chin up a bit.'
Maybe I can do without one.
'That's it. Thank you. It'll be ready in a couple of minutes.'
Hey cool. Lucky I wore a yellow T-shirt. With the gold band I look colour co-ordinated.
OK. Back to work.
pan·cre·as ( P ) Pronunciation Key (pngkr-s, pn-)
n.
A long, irregularly shaped gland in vertebrates, lying behind the stomach, that secretes pancreatic juice into the duodenum and insulin, glucagon, and somatostatin into the bloodstream
Hmmm... Maybe I can do without one.
Or maybe not.
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