I've got something I have to do and by God I am going to procrastinate until the very last second. I've put this off twice already (by weeks) and done nothing towards it. Nothing. Rather than complete this task, that I originally offered to do as a favour, I've done home improvements this weekend.
Yes, I, the least capable, least interested, least skilled person in all of south-east Queensland picked up a hammer! Then nails! Then discovered I needed screws instead and called a handyman. That was a call he'll wish he never answered.
There was a full ute-load to the tip! Carpet got ripped up! The man-hole (giggle) was investigated to ascertain the viability of taking out some walls (walls, it turns out, can be finicky things to remove. Apparently some of them are keeping the roof up! This is clearly an activity that will have to wait until I have another project due that requires an even higher, more demanding level of procrastination). I pruned, I carted rubbish to the bin, I culled papers, cooked. I even cleaned. The house is looking great.
Still this thing needed to be done. So I watched my tv show and laughed the jolly laugh of someone who is frivolously throwing away time knowing that the DEADLINE OF DEATH is inexorably drawing near. The show finished after only an hour - nothing for it, I must turn on the computer and begin this slow, tedious and uninteresting task and perhaps earn some measure of redemption as a person by finally completing this thing.
But oh, Google opens and I remember that I wanted to find out what car Vin Diesel was driving in XXX as he chases the 'submarine' that thankfully has decided to run on top of the water this time or it would have been a fully shit chase scene
"Can you see it?"
"NO YOU IDOT - it's under the fucking water"
"OK, stay calm, we'll just bomb the shit out of the river"
"Well that's cool, but now what's our reason for drinving this insane care around really really fast?!"
"What?! We need a reason?!"
"Yes," I think "that's a valid tangent so follow at this point" so enter: Classic Muscle Cars and after only 2 pages discover that the Pontiac GTO is nicknamed "The Judge". Cool. I also learnt what 'break horsepower' refers to (and it is not about stopping!), and then as I find myself comparing the relative merits and lines of the 64 Plymouth Barracuda and the 67 Chevy Camaro three things really struck home:
1. I know nothing about cars. Nothing. But somehow I now find them funny instead of reprehensible. I've changed. I also want to meet a mechanic who shares my dream of making the first moon landing in a muscle car. I'll be navigation, they can drive.
2. I am an olympic level procrastinator. The only thing more hilarious than trying to figure out my car's "performance" metrics (Audrey the 81 Mazda 323 is so banged about that we can't be sure which of the two models that were released that year she is. Using Occams Razor - I'd say the cheaper one, not the slightly sporty one. But they had the same engine capacity so no big diff right? Anyway I've kept a log of how many kloms she does every time I fill up the tank so that I can figure out her average kloms per litre, but it's in the glovebox and I forget to bring it in) to add into the heavy-weight champs battle of Barracuda Vs Camaro would be to blog about it and invite the world to laugh along with (not at) me. Please feel welcome to laugh .... now.
and
3. That's another Hour and A Half gone and there is now no way I am going to get this thing done now. Maybe I should just go to bed, and blame the Global Financial Crisis...
Another gold for procrastination!
(Oh, and Happy (Chinese) New Year! Go the mighty Ox!)
Monday, January 26, 2009
Pondering this rancid weather
Sometimes rain is not so much a distinct meteorological event, as simply sweat congealing from the sky.
Disgusting.
Disgusting.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Australians all let us rejoice, for we are protected by our paternalistic government from seeing complicated things on the interwebs
This week it was easy to shake one's head sadly at those poor Chinese people who have suffered the indignity of the whole world knowing that their internet feeds censored Barack Obama's inauguration speech. In a double-whammy they got fucked by their own government and they missed a few good lines. Poor bastards. But then that's what you get for living in a politically shit country, like Australia China.
Of course Australia is a pretty cool and democratic place where if someone proposed that kind of thing it would be laughed at byme the rude people and heavily debated and considered and then rejected by all the polite &/ thinking people. Not just implemented. Not our style.
Aussies like to think of ourselves as easy going and fairdinkum enough to not really need the pain-in-the-arse paperwork. We as a nation are happy to sign up for things that sound like good ideas (with all the best intentions,) but we don't necessarily turn them into anything specific here at home. Our constitution reads like a random chunk of tax law. I guess that's what happens when you're set up by bureaucrats rather than Enlightenment idealists, but I digress.
Australia isn't the kind of place to freak out over, say, art or worry too much about people taking responsibility for their own lives, no way mate! So when our government says that blocking nasty things is for our own good, they probably really know what they're doing. We should just stay relaxed and comfortable, and let them take care of it.
After all, it'll be completely painless. You won't even know there's anything missing!
404 NOT FOUND
Of course Australia is a pretty cool and democratic place where if someone proposed that kind of thing it would be laughed at by
Aussies like to think of ourselves as easy going and fairdinkum enough to not really need the pain-in-the-arse paperwork. We as a nation are happy to sign up for things that sound like good ideas (with all the best intentions,) but we don't necessarily turn them into anything specific here at home. Our constitution reads like a random chunk of tax law. I guess that's what happens when you're set up by bureaucrats rather than Enlightenment idealists, but I digress.
Australia isn't the kind of place to freak out over, say, art or worry too much about people taking responsibility for their own lives, no way mate! So when our government says that blocking nasty things is for our own good, they probably really know what they're doing. We should just stay relaxed and comfortable, and let them take care of it.
After all, it'll be completely painless. You won't even know there's anything missing!
404 NOT FOUND
Friday, January 23, 2009
An aside about the weather
You know it is really hot when you overhear this from a gecko,
"I don't mind the heat, but this humidity is just impossible..."
"I don't mind the heat, but this humidity is just impossible..."
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Minds immeasurably superior to our own*
My computer at home has been a bit tired (and fundamentally unable to handle anything with sound) lately and a friend had recently upgraded and had a "perfectly good" machine lying around unused. In the way of these things, my need and his surplus thought there might be a mutually beneficial arrangement in this situation.
One thing led to another with very little haggling (ie. none at all) and shortly after that brief discussion (meaning roughly 3 weeks) one hot afternoon on a crest of South street in downtown Ippy you could have seen us do the quick box-shuffle from one car t'other and the deed was done.
Or was it?
Quite quickly after that (about a week and a half) I (my defacto brother-in-law) tried to set it up, but it wouldn't go. All the frackin cables had to be replugged into the old tower and the corpse re-animated with a Dr Frankenstein-esque jolt of near lethal voltage (to the machine - not me). Cue manic cackling laughter from Rumi who dressed as Igor for this particular exercise. That cat is scary enough without hamming up the crazed laboratory side-kick feel, but I digress.
I tell my friend that it won't start, but I act clever and say "it won't boot up". See how already I have made an effort to speak the language?
Also, having been the idiot in the village for long enough to have all the badges, I have written down the error code and there it is "Insert boot disk."
"Ah," Says my friend sagely.
I wait, confident that this pause represents the process where the technical brain runs through a complex diagnostic decision tree.
"It's possible that the power cable to the hard drive is loose." Says my friend.
"Ah." I say and pause, allowing us both a moment to consider the wide-ranging implications of this possibility.
"How would you feel about opening up the machine and just checking the cable is in place?"
That sounds reasonable, I think to myself.
"It's pretty straightforward" he goes on, "Here's a diagram of what you'd have to do."
"Well ok then, I think I can manage that." I agree. It's been a long time since I last went under the hood of a machine, and frankly I was pretty heavily coached back then. I'm momentarily excited about the prospect of being a tiny bit handy. I know not to mention this to my defacto brother-in-law or he'll be all over this like stink on a blanket and I won't get a look-in.
"By the way," says my friend as an afterthought, "don't, whatever you do, don't plug the cable in the wrong way around. You'll totally break the whole thing. Really. Don't."
WTF?! There's important cables that can be placed the wrong way around with catastrophic consequences?! What is with that?! I'm used to the outside of these boxes - where, not content with making everything as simple as a toddler's kindergarten shape toy, pretty little colours are used as well to match pointy bits with holey bits. In this way the pre-verbal/reptilian parts of the brain can handle plugging machines into monitors and pointers and keyboards. This has to be the most damming indictment of lowest-common-denominator product development ever, except that it works. People too dumb to put 3 cables into the right slots get to run a powerful machine and use it to advance their Command & Conquer scores, or in the case of my dad, meet avatars from around the world and whipped by them at poker. But I digress.
The pretty matching colours and the one-way-only-into-this-hole design disappears on the insides. Apparently, once you take that phillip's head screwdriver to the casing, you're saying "I'm up from some hardware adventure, I'm grounded (geddit?!) and cool headed. I'm gunna pimp my drive" (oh, I'm killing myself!!) or you better have a handy schematic to take in. Just in case you read ahead and didn't look at it before, take a look at this now. Clear and simple. Beautiful almost. Elegant in the lines and the brevity of direction. I was ready to not fuck it up, and off comes the lid.
Shame then that the insides of the machine actually look somewhat more complicated. That is to say that they look exactly like the insides of a fantastically scary bomb and there's wires everywhere. Take a look for yourself. I'm not even that willing to put my hand in there let alone wiggle anything around. There could be a croc lurking just under the surface of that tangled mess of cables to grab at me and pull me under by my glasses cord, twisting, turning and tumbling until I drown in the confusion of RIDICULOUSLY USELESS FRACKING DRAWINGS.
And there we have it. A classic case of communication gone somehow very wrong. I'm sure in his mind it is completely that simple. All that other stuff in there is not central to the problem and so can be ignored.
Maybe each of us have this ability for something, and we are equally obtuse to others when we think we're being as simple as it is possible to be. It's just that for most of us, we don't find what our genius clarity is about, or if we do, it might be something like the capacity to visualise the internal pressures and counter thrusts of a dam wall. Not called upon so often in general interactions. Computers, in their still nascent form admittedly, are in our homes, our jobs, our recreational spaces. People who can visualise clearly how to make them go by prodding hardware or writing code are still our magicians and everybody wants to know one.
Just don't ask your wizard to give you a spell you can do yourself, it's not as easy as they make it look.
* I totally love that opening to War of the Worlds. Also, this post is based on real events, however some aspects may have been modified or heightened for raconteurial purposes. Michael Strelan's name has not in any way been changed or modified to protect his identity or dignity. There is no right of reply. No correspondence will be entered into, although I probably will read comments, and counter-blogs, but let's not go there. You said I could use this. C'mon man, it's freakin gold!
One thing led to another with very little haggling (ie. none at all) and shortly after that brief discussion (meaning roughly 3 weeks) one hot afternoon on a crest of South street in downtown Ippy you could have seen us do the quick box-shuffle from one car t'other and the deed was done.
Or was it?
Quite quickly after that (about a week and a half) I (my defacto brother-in-law) tried to set it up, but it wouldn't go. All the frackin cables had to be replugged into the old tower and the corpse re-animated with a Dr Frankenstein-esque jolt of near lethal voltage (to the machine - not me). Cue manic cackling laughter from Rumi who dressed as Igor for this particular exercise. That cat is scary enough without hamming up the crazed laboratory side-kick feel, but I digress.
I tell my friend that it won't start, but I act clever and say "it won't boot up". See how already I have made an effort to speak the language?
Also, having been the idiot in the village for long enough to have all the badges, I have written down the error code and there it is "Insert boot disk."
"Ah," Says my friend sagely.
I wait, confident that this pause represents the process where the technical brain runs through a complex diagnostic decision tree.
"It's possible that the power cable to the hard drive is loose." Says my friend.
"Ah." I say and pause, allowing us both a moment to consider the wide-ranging implications of this possibility.
"How would you feel about opening up the machine and just checking the cable is in place?"
That sounds reasonable, I think to myself.
"It's pretty straightforward" he goes on, "Here's a diagram of what you'd have to do."
"Well ok then, I think I can manage that." I agree. It's been a long time since I last went under the hood of a machine, and frankly I was pretty heavily coached back then. I'm momentarily excited about the prospect of being a tiny bit handy. I know not to mention this to my defacto brother-in-law or he'll be all over this like stink on a blanket and I won't get a look-in.
"By the way," says my friend as an afterthought, "don't, whatever you do, don't plug the cable in the wrong way around. You'll totally break the whole thing. Really. Don't."
WTF?! There's important cables that can be placed the wrong way around with catastrophic consequences?! What is with that?! I'm used to the outside of these boxes - where, not content with making everything as simple as a toddler's kindergarten shape toy, pretty little colours are used as well to match pointy bits with holey bits. In this way the pre-verbal/reptilian parts of the brain can handle plugging machines into monitors and pointers and keyboards. This has to be the most damming indictment of lowest-common-denominator product development ever, except that it works. People too dumb to put 3 cables into the right slots get to run a powerful machine and use it to advance their Command & Conquer scores, or in the case of my dad, meet avatars from around the world and whipped by them at poker. But I digress.
The pretty matching colours and the one-way-only-into-this-hole design disappears on the insides. Apparently, once you take that phillip's head screwdriver to the casing, you're saying "I'm up from some hardware adventure, I'm grounded (geddit?!) and cool headed. I'm gunna pimp my drive" (oh, I'm killing myself!!) or you better have a handy schematic to take in. Just in case you read ahead and didn't look at it before, take a look at this now. Clear and simple. Beautiful almost. Elegant in the lines and the brevity of direction. I was ready to not fuck it up, and off comes the lid.
Shame then that the insides of the machine actually look somewhat more complicated. That is to say that they look exactly like the insides of a fantastically scary bomb and there's wires everywhere. Take a look for yourself. I'm not even that willing to put my hand in there let alone wiggle anything around. There could be a croc lurking just under the surface of that tangled mess of cables to grab at me and pull me under by my glasses cord, twisting, turning and tumbling until I drown in the confusion of RIDICULOUSLY USELESS FRACKING DRAWINGS.
And there we have it. A classic case of communication gone somehow very wrong. I'm sure in his mind it is completely that simple. All that other stuff in there is not central to the problem and so can be ignored.
Maybe each of us have this ability for something, and we are equally obtuse to others when we think we're being as simple as it is possible to be. It's just that for most of us, we don't find what our genius clarity is about, or if we do, it might be something like the capacity to visualise the internal pressures and counter thrusts of a dam wall. Not called upon so often in general interactions. Computers, in their still nascent form admittedly, are in our homes, our jobs, our recreational spaces. People who can visualise clearly how to make them go by prodding hardware or writing code are still our magicians and everybody wants to know one.
Just don't ask your wizard to give you a spell you can do yourself, it's not as easy as they make it look.
* I totally love that opening to War of the Worlds. Also, this post is based on real events, however some aspects may have been modified or heightened for raconteurial purposes. Michael Strelan's name has not in any way been changed or modified to protect his identity or dignity. There is no right of reply. No correspondence will be entered into, although I probably will read comments, and counter-blogs, but let's not go there. You said I could use this. C'mon man, it's freakin gold!
Oh Happy Day
Along with millions of other people this morning, I'm in love all over again. Barack Obama has been inaugurated as the 44th President of the United States of America. He and his family and his team and supporters have created a king tide of hope that sloughed off the mud and spite thrown during the electoral process to wash into office. The swelling pride in the unfolding of this historic event (a first African-American President) took pauses to see if the corruptions we were hurt so badly by in the past would try again (the Florida polling fiasco, dodgy sexual shenanigans, or worst of all, a successful assassination attempt), but they did not. And day by day we came closer to this, Inauguration Day.
I feel like I have been holding my breath since last November. Something akin to living in a movie where the best president in the world has taken office and wrongs begin to be set right, and any moment now the credits will roll and I'll have to walk out into harsh reality. The first US President I remember was Ronald Reagan and his UK counterpart, the Woman who Wore the Pants (or Pearls whichever you prefer), Margaret Thatcher. I've grown up and lived my life in the cold shadow of cynicism that was cast by these people. Their rule was for the benefit of business, of the material, of fear and aggression. I have had my heart broken by the promises of politicians over and over again. For so long it was an abusive relationship of co-dependence and I had to withdraw from it, and turn my heart to the same stone of the people I had despised just so it would stop hurting.
Today that hard stone has melted. There's wisdom and strength in his leadership, and it is shared through a warm confident voice that pitches us sombre speeches of responsibility that ask us all to find a more courageous path towards a better world. History happened today, and not just the facts of firsts and the dates of transitions. Millions of people listened to the same words and together reflected on our relationship to this manifesto. For he spoke to each of us. Here is a tiny excerpt from his speech.
"And so, to all other peoples and governments who are watching today, from the grandest capitals to the small village where my father was born: know that America is a friend of each nation and every man, woman and child who seeks a future of peace and dignity, and we are ready to lead once more.
Recall that earlier generations faced down fascism and communism not just with missiles and tanks, but with the sturdy alliances and enduring convictions.
They understood that our power alone cannot protect us, nor does it entitle us to do as we please. Instead, they knew that our power grows through its prudent use. Our security emanates from the justness of our cause; the force of our example; the tempering qualities of humility and restraint."
This is a magnificent day.
I want to believe that this is real, that it is really happening. Even more, I want to not feel like a fool in a year's time for daring to hope that we can heed this call. I'm inspired by the crafting of this speech (as are many others) and I hold a cherished anticipation of what it heralds for America, and because we're all in this together, for all of us.
A happy day indeed.
I feel like I have been holding my breath since last November. Something akin to living in a movie where the best president in the world has taken office and wrongs begin to be set right, and any moment now the credits will roll and I'll have to walk out into harsh reality. The first US President I remember was Ronald Reagan and his UK counterpart, the Woman who Wore the Pants (or Pearls whichever you prefer), Margaret Thatcher. I've grown up and lived my life in the cold shadow of cynicism that was cast by these people. Their rule was for the benefit of business, of the material, of fear and aggression. I have had my heart broken by the promises of politicians over and over again. For so long it was an abusive relationship of co-dependence and I had to withdraw from it, and turn my heart to the same stone of the people I had despised just so it would stop hurting.
Today that hard stone has melted. There's wisdom and strength in his leadership, and it is shared through a warm confident voice that pitches us sombre speeches of responsibility that ask us all to find a more courageous path towards a better world. History happened today, and not just the facts of firsts and the dates of transitions. Millions of people listened to the same words and together reflected on our relationship to this manifesto. For he spoke to each of us. Here is a tiny excerpt from his speech.
"And so, to all other peoples and governments who are watching today, from the grandest capitals to the small village where my father was born: know that America is a friend of each nation and every man, woman and child who seeks a future of peace and dignity, and we are ready to lead once more.
Recall that earlier generations faced down fascism and communism not just with missiles and tanks, but with the sturdy alliances and enduring convictions.
They understood that our power alone cannot protect us, nor does it entitle us to do as we please. Instead, they knew that our power grows through its prudent use. Our security emanates from the justness of our cause; the force of our example; the tempering qualities of humility and restraint."
This is a magnificent day.
I want to believe that this is real, that it is really happening. Even more, I want to not feel like a fool in a year's time for daring to hope that we can heed this call. I'm inspired by the crafting of this speech (as are many others) and I hold a cherished anticipation of what it heralds for America, and because we're all in this together, for all of us.
A happy day indeed.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Enlightenment from Band T-Shirts
I was just thinking that I would tell you about my time ITRW1 over the last few days, given that I've had a 4 day long weekend. Some of that time was spent implementing project "Cheerful" by going to the QLD GOMA to see the exhibition "Optimism" and to a concert (concert doesn't seem the right word for 6 bands over 8 hours, but neither does "festival" fit anything where Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds are headlining) and then a large amount of time doing very normal things (took out the rubbish, started trying to make a picture of a giant octopus -as you do when you have a bit of time, went to dinner in Ipswich, and yes, we were the only people in the place on a saturday night at 8pm!, set up my new second-hand computer which won't boot up *sigh*, tidied, messed, washed, dried. Dull as dishwater. Literally).
I'm still processing some of the art/music experience. It was a very big day. I was going to root through it all and find some nugget of insight about public entertainment, give a little review of the event, share something pithy about the ecology of band t-shirts that were on display, maybe mention that I deliberately rationed myself to a max of 2 text messages to any person I felt compelled to say something to while there .... but either I'm not going to make enough sense of it and how I felt about it or in some important way I wasn't really there.
Isn't that weird?! If I'm not the one living my life - than who is?! Is the real me off in a different probabilistic 'verse having a much better ITRW experience and I'm just keeping this seat warm? Of course, scientifically that's hard to substantiate2 so Occam's Razor4 would suggest something else is the true cause. Buddha tells me that this is the experience I'm having and I better come to grips with it. Strangely enough, it was a T-shirt on a tall lanky man who walked past me many times to fetch beers that has, in hindsight, untangled this knotted skein of transcendental angst. His shirt said, "Don't just listen to the music, feel it". Feel it. Hmmmm. Feelings .....
Feelings happen in the body, and I spent that time here. In my mind.
I was watching everything, noting, cataloguing and analysing it, thinking about ways to capture it ... not experiencing it. OHH!! (sound of light coming on) Gee whiz. Of course. What a drongo. Feelings might be important to project "Cheerful". I get it. Figured that one out all by myself. Ok, well there's a good heads-up for next time. Good thing I didn't get too committed to that idea of actually being busy in another probabilistically linked universe hey!!
1." In The Real World "
2. i.e. I borrowed that concept from a SF book and it has no Scientific basis AT ALL3, but it's a great story, you should maybe have a look at it - Anathem by Neal Stephenson. If you're going to steal - steal from the best.
3. Maybe a little in some little backwater of time/physics that I haven't got to or understood (that's not narrowing it down) so I can't say definitively that there's none at all, but, you know, it was fiction, and he normally footnotes really cool real things. So if it is real, don't hold it against me, but it's like, massively unlikely. That's all I'm saying.
4. I meant this is the newer and slightly less accurate sense, but in reading this reference, realised that both are applicable in this instance. How fortuitious! Also, here's a good example of where a mass usage, although incorrect, has already modified the primary meaning of the phrase. Inexorable! Another good reason to keep hold of those precious, printed copies of the OED with word histories in them!
I'm still processing some of the art/music experience. It was a very big day. I was going to root through it all and find some nugget of insight about public entertainment, give a little review of the event, share something pithy about the ecology of band t-shirts that were on display, maybe mention that I deliberately rationed myself to a max of 2 text messages to any person I felt compelled to say something to while there .... but either I'm not going to make enough sense of it and how I felt about it or in some important way I wasn't really there.
Isn't that weird?! If I'm not the one living my life - than who is?! Is the real me off in a different probabilistic 'verse having a much better ITRW experience and I'm just keeping this seat warm? Of course, scientifically that's hard to substantiate2 so Occam's Razor4 would suggest something else is the true cause. Buddha tells me that this is the experience I'm having and I better come to grips with it. Strangely enough, it was a T-shirt on a tall lanky man who walked past me many times to fetch beers that has, in hindsight, untangled this knotted skein of transcendental angst. His shirt said, "Don't just listen to the music, feel it". Feel it. Hmmmm. Feelings .....
Feelings happen in the body, and I spent that time here. In my mind.
I was watching everything, noting, cataloguing and analysing it, thinking about ways to capture it ... not experiencing it. OHH!! (sound of light coming on) Gee whiz. Of course. What a drongo. Feelings might be important to project "Cheerful". I get it. Figured that one out all by myself. Ok, well there's a good heads-up for next time. Good thing I didn't get too committed to that idea of actually being busy in another probabilistically linked universe hey!!
1." In The Real World "
2. i.e. I borrowed that concept from a SF book and it has no Scientific basis AT ALL3, but it's a great story, you should maybe have a look at it - Anathem by Neal Stephenson. If you're going to steal - steal from the best.
3. Maybe a little in some little backwater of time/physics that I haven't got to or understood (that's not narrowing it down) so I can't say definitively that there's none at all, but, you know, it was fiction, and he normally footnotes really cool real things. So if it is real, don't hold it against me, but it's like, massively unlikely. That's all I'm saying.
4. I meant this is the newer and slightly less accurate sense, but in reading this reference, realised that both are applicable in this instance. How fortuitious! Also, here's a good example of where a mass usage, although incorrect, has already modified the primary meaning of the phrase. Inexorable! Another good reason to keep hold of those precious, printed copies of the OED with word histories in them!
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Deciding not to know
It's about a quarter to ten on a mid-week night (you know it's wednesday - the damn post is time stamped!) and my week of house-sitting for Sis2 is halfway over. The highway out the front is pumping with the flow of semi-trailers both in towards Brisbane and out towards the range and the inland highways. They're properly called a B-double Combination but of course are contracted to "B-Double" and I would like to think but cannot assert with any veracity (but shall put it out there anyway), to "B-Dub", my sister-of-the-wife-of -a-real-trucker access only gets me so far and no farther (even if I were to show my tatt it wouldn't help - wrong kind of ink for this crowd). Anyway, this is the only time day to day that you can be in the house and really notice that you're only a few hundred meters from a major transport artery. There's plenty of traffic during the day, but the general noises of the house cover most of it, and something about the traffic flow keeps it all a bit muted (I don't want to point any fingers here, but I think it's because during the day the speed limits are only flaunted by 10 or 20 kloms per hr). Tonight, as each night, it sounds like I'm under a runway for cargo planes that never leave the ground.
Australia leads the way in the use of B-Doubles. They can clear a port up to 17% more quickly (fascinating isn't it? Read the rest of that article here or delve deeply here go on, live a little). We're a big trucking country. Excuse me if I'm repeating myself about the importance of the B-Dub in the road transport world. They are the lion of the asphalt plains! The haemoglobin on our economic bloodstream! And after three days of sharing the road to and from work with the general public (a whole nother kettle of stinking rotten dead fish) and these giant trucks I was curious as to what they might weigh. I know how fast they're moving, and for some macabre reason I thought I might try and figure out what their momentum is (ie to see how dead I would be if they ran over my little car, even a bit). Sometimes as they change lanes there's a particularly terrifying wobble that moves through the load and I seem very close to a lot of very large wheels. Upon further reflection, I think I should not figure this out, even roughly. These are not the kinds of informational tidbits that will make the long drives easier, nor are likely to endear me to any random persons I may be in conversation with anytime in the next, say, 3 to 5 years.
Because that's the risk - there's some things you can't un-hear, un-see or un-know. Dropping even a single one of them into conversation can expose you as the fraudulent, freaky, or flat-out weird person that no-one wants to sit next to at a work function, live near, or invite to parties or go out for coffee with (unless, oh happy days, they too harbour curiosity that leads them into knowledge, strange philosophies and odd tastes in reading matter ... but there are other, safer secret handshakes with which to gather this kind of intel. "What do you think of that Dexter show?", "How cool is that Mars ice?!" but again I digress).
Knowing that the Panama Canal was first crossed on a Tuesday is an exactly fine tidbit to have floating around the noggin. It doesn't even have to be right! (I got this from a film and haven't even bothered to verify it, but have shamelessly used it on a number of occasions.) It can pop up when small talk is required but is too taxing in relation to the expected return and creates a small burst of conversational frisson to get over the hump into actual dialogue or out of the elevator. Telling people ways they can die in everyday situations - never popular. I'm unpopular enough without further handicap.
Australia leads the way in the use of B-Doubles. They can clear a port up to 17% more quickly (fascinating isn't it? Read the rest of that article here or delve deeply here go on, live a little). We're a big trucking country. Excuse me if I'm repeating myself about the importance of the B-Dub in the road transport world. They are the lion of the asphalt plains! The haemoglobin on our economic bloodstream! And after three days of sharing the road to and from work with the general public (a whole nother kettle of stinking rotten dead fish) and these giant trucks I was curious as to what they might weigh. I know how fast they're moving, and for some macabre reason I thought I might try and figure out what their momentum is (ie to see how dead I would be if they ran over my little car, even a bit). Sometimes as they change lanes there's a particularly terrifying wobble that moves through the load and I seem very close to a lot of very large wheels. Upon further reflection, I think I should not figure this out, even roughly. These are not the kinds of informational tidbits that will make the long drives easier, nor are likely to endear me to any random persons I may be in conversation with anytime in the next, say, 3 to 5 years.
Because that's the risk - there's some things you can't un-hear, un-see or un-know. Dropping even a single one of them into conversation can expose you as the fraudulent, freaky, or flat-out weird person that no-one wants to sit next to at a work function, live near, or invite to parties or go out for coffee with (unless, oh happy days, they too harbour curiosity that leads them into knowledge, strange philosophies and odd tastes in reading matter ... but there are other, safer secret handshakes with which to gather this kind of intel. "What do you think of that Dexter show?", "How cool is that Mars ice?!" but again I digress).
Knowing that the Panama Canal was first crossed on a Tuesday is an exactly fine tidbit to have floating around the noggin. It doesn't even have to be right! (I got this from a film and haven't even bothered to verify it, but have shamelessly used it on a number of occasions.) It can pop up when small talk is required but is too taxing in relation to the expected return and creates a small burst of conversational frisson to get over the hump into actual dialogue or out of the elevator. Telling people ways they can die in everyday situations - never popular. I'm unpopular enough without further handicap.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Craft Rage
Knitting while watching "Blades of Glory" last night I dropped a stitch. I should have seen it coming (if you can excuse the pun, please do), I had the lights off, I wasn't paying attention to either activity and I'd consumed a 'slightly' over-large dinner so was sprawled skewed on my side, whale style. Uncomfortable and irritable is not the right attitude for almost anything other than perhaps voting and deciding on one's funeral arrangements. But I digress.
So I don't immediately notice I've dropped this stitch because ball #2 of the originally cute and fun wool ("Snowball" from Lincraft. I would link you through it it, but even their web site sucks) has turned out to be a ball of scraps and so far I've had to re-join it 3 times in the first 4 rows. Cue gritted teeth and irritation spiking into unfocused anger. So I was trying to check that my knot hadn't come undone and inadvertently gave the dropped stitch a nudge and BANG down she goes about 5 rows. Shit. I fumbled it and another 2 rows gone. Oh man. Lots of fiddly stuffing around will have to happen in strong daylight if this project is going to be salvaged and it is already late. Weeks late. It was going to be a gift, then a belated gift, now, now I'm just a shit friend who couldn't get it together to finish a simple project.
Having learnt from dealing with my Father and Microsoft products that there is simply no use in cursing and railing at an inanimate object, I put it down. Mid row, mid stitch, mid cluster fuck. Walked away.
Craft is pitched as something that is easy and fun. Magazine TV shows, soft cover coffee table books, catchy little projects at the back near the recipes and crossword puzzles or the odd feature article about some gorgeous design savant who only wears moccasins and silk and here's something you can try at home.
Well the reality is that most projects are an exercise in salvaging the beautiful vision from the miscalculations, errors, accidents and monumental fuck-ups that we the unskilled, we the incapable, we the deluded perform upon the project. These usually start in the infancy as we chose the materials but always always appear and manifest in the execution. Most of us have crappy taste or no visual eye for matching patterns and colours and create truly grotesque items even we can't bear to look at. From the garish colours to the badly constructed angles and fully creepy eyes or lopsided mouths. We spawn horrors. I spawn horrors.
I suck at this. I am ashamed that I persevere and, sin of all sins, give my pitiful pathetic mewling aberrations as gifts to my suffering friends. I'm sorry. Actually, it's just me... I'm certain that it is just me. After all, my friends make things, and they're beautiful (the things and the friends in this particular example). Some of them are complicated and technical (things) and all of them (both friends and things again now) are excellent. So it must just be me, and a secret workshop somewhere designated to create Crap Craft for resale in op-shops. Maybe I should go and work in that secret workshop. Maybe that's my true calling. My chance for redemption, for a meaningful life.
Or I could just sleep on it. After all, not every day can be a Monday.
So I don't immediately notice I've dropped this stitch because ball #2 of the originally cute and fun wool ("Snowball" from Lincraft. I would link you through it it, but even their web site sucks) has turned out to be a ball of scraps and so far I've had to re-join it 3 times in the first 4 rows. Cue gritted teeth and irritation spiking into unfocused anger. So I was trying to check that my knot hadn't come undone and inadvertently gave the dropped stitch a nudge and BANG down she goes about 5 rows. Shit. I fumbled it and another 2 rows gone. Oh man. Lots of fiddly stuffing around will have to happen in strong daylight if this project is going to be salvaged and it is already late. Weeks late. It was going to be a gift, then a belated gift, now, now I'm just a shit friend who couldn't get it together to finish a simple project.
Having learnt from dealing with my Father and Microsoft products that there is simply no use in cursing and railing at an inanimate object, I put it down. Mid row, mid stitch, mid cluster fuck. Walked away.
Craft is pitched as something that is easy and fun. Magazine TV shows, soft cover coffee table books, catchy little projects at the back near the recipes and crossword puzzles or the odd feature article about some gorgeous design savant who only wears moccasins and silk and here's something you can try at home.
Well the reality is that most projects are an exercise in salvaging the beautiful vision from the miscalculations, errors, accidents and monumental fuck-ups that we the unskilled, we the incapable, we the deluded perform upon the project. These usually start in the infancy as we chose the materials but always always appear and manifest in the execution. Most of us have crappy taste or no visual eye for matching patterns and colours and create truly grotesque items even we can't bear to look at. From the garish colours to the badly constructed angles and fully creepy eyes or lopsided mouths. We spawn horrors. I spawn horrors.
I suck at this. I am ashamed that I persevere and, sin of all sins, give my pitiful pathetic mewling aberrations as gifts to my suffering friends. I'm sorry. Actually, it's just me... I'm certain that it is just me. After all, my friends make things, and they're beautiful (the things and the friends in this particular example). Some of them are complicated and technical (things) and all of them (both friends and things again now) are excellent. So it must just be me, and a secret workshop somewhere designated to create Crap Craft for resale in op-shops. Maybe I should go and work in that secret workshop. Maybe that's my true calling. My chance for redemption, for a meaningful life.
Or I could just sleep on it. After all, not every day can be a Monday.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
A Rumi Moment
Oh Rumi. Rumi, Rumi. What are we going to do with you?
Cats are funny (read "you wonder if you'll wake up whole") creatures to live with. Anyone who has lived with a cat will be nodding at that. They twist the truth, they re-write the code, they shed fucking hair everywhere. Seriously. Everywhere. A genetically modified for extra hair -shedding woolly mammoth could not shed as much hair as a domestic cat. Seriously. They've done tests. You want to know why so many shuttle missions failed? Cat hair in the intake valves. Really.
Despite all of this, you worry when the giant trolling food hoover doesn't show up for one of the meals that as the designated human I am obligated to provide. When he missed breakfast as well, I initiated DEFCON3. This is as high as you can go without seeing blood. Actually DEFCON3 really just involved checking under the house again and calling my mother so I had someone to talk aloud to as I reasoned through the last time I saw him and could that large dog roaming the street last night have gotten past the hair defences and 50 million razor sharp claws and actually have possibly hurt my missing puddy wuddykins?
A million million (is that a pentillion? No, it's a billion. What was a pentillion then? A billion billion? Huh. Have to ask the maths ref again.... anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, OK maybe 3) scenarios played through my sluggish and understaffed mind. I made a coffee and sat pondering life's imponderables on the couch (ie no thoughts at all, just waited for the coffee to kick the motor over). Riley watched. I could see he was weighing up the variables and figuring out if he was going to get a walk or not. He decided the odds weren't good and went back to bed, leaving me with a creeping sense of guilt that I had been judged a bad human and Rumi had simply decamped to better feeding and shedding grounds. I wrestled somewhat with my conscience. Tried again to figure out when I'd last seen him. Couldn't. Was it breakfast yesterday? Had he come in at all in the afternoon? What matter did this make? If a cat doesn't want to be found, you won't find it. I let the matter drop. There were things to be getting on with, after all, I was up at the crack of 10am and a day doesn't just get underway by itself.
Laundry is one of those household chores I like in that a machine actually does the hard work once you put the stuff in and press Go. There was enough for a whole load just from all the towels. Made toast, squinted, hung out wet things, stumbled to bathroom to open cupboard for actual clothes for washing and scared myself shitless when I reached in and it was warm. So help me for a split second I thought the Alien mother had laid eggs in there and I was about to have something horrendous force itself down my gullet and gestate in my abdomen until killing me for food. But no, I had woken Rumi. Not quite so different normally from Rumi really.
Which was how I knew things were pretty serious and he had been in that completely dark cupboard for a loooooong time. He stretched, gave a yawn, and strolled off with eyes almost completely devoid of irises. He ignored me. He made no snide comments. He made no showy exit. He walked around the house, he walked outside around the yard and came back, and asked for some breakfast. I felt very contrite, I served the special Chicken/Tuna combo he doesn't get very often. He ate a little to show there were no hard feelings, drank some water and sat on the back step. Not cleaning himself, not anything.
Eerie.
A tumbleweed rolled through the tableau.
Riley, quite pointedly, was no where to be seen.
Rumi came back inside and ate a little more of breakfast. He sat and turned to me.
"Here it comes" I thought "the reaming to end it all."
He looked me in the eye for a moment and said, "Don't let that happen again." and left to lay under the house until dinner.
"I won't. I promise." I said to his retreating tail and went to unblock the washing machine of cat hair.
Cats are funny (read "you wonder if you'll wake up whole") creatures to live with. Anyone who has lived with a cat will be nodding at that. They twist the truth, they re-write the code, they shed fucking hair everywhere. Seriously. Everywhere. A genetically modified for extra hair -shedding woolly mammoth could not shed as much hair as a domestic cat. Seriously. They've done tests. You want to know why so many shuttle missions failed? Cat hair in the intake valves. Really.
Despite all of this, you worry when the giant trolling food hoover doesn't show up for one of the meals that as the designated human I am obligated to provide. When he missed breakfast as well, I initiated DEFCON3. This is as high as you can go without seeing blood. Actually DEFCON3 really just involved checking under the house again and calling my mother so I had someone to talk aloud to as I reasoned through the last time I saw him and could that large dog roaming the street last night have gotten past the hair defences and 50 million razor sharp claws and actually have possibly hurt my missing puddy wuddykins?
A million million (is that a pentillion? No, it's a billion. What was a pentillion then? A billion billion? Huh. Have to ask the maths ref again.... anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, OK maybe 3) scenarios played through my sluggish and understaffed mind. I made a coffee and sat pondering life's imponderables on the couch (ie no thoughts at all, just waited for the coffee to kick the motor over). Riley watched. I could see he was weighing up the variables and figuring out if he was going to get a walk or not. He decided the odds weren't good and went back to bed, leaving me with a creeping sense of guilt that I had been judged a bad human and Rumi had simply decamped to better feeding and shedding grounds. I wrestled somewhat with my conscience. Tried again to figure out when I'd last seen him. Couldn't. Was it breakfast yesterday? Had he come in at all in the afternoon? What matter did this make? If a cat doesn't want to be found, you won't find it. I let the matter drop. There were things to be getting on with, after all, I was up at the crack of 10am and a day doesn't just get underway by itself.
Laundry is one of those household chores I like in that a machine actually does the hard work once you put the stuff in and press Go. There was enough for a whole load just from all the towels. Made toast, squinted, hung out wet things, stumbled to bathroom to open cupboard for actual clothes for washing and scared myself shitless when I reached in and it was warm. So help me for a split second I thought the Alien mother had laid eggs in there and I was about to have something horrendous force itself down my gullet and gestate in my abdomen until killing me for food. But no, I had woken Rumi. Not quite so different normally from Rumi really.
Which was how I knew things were pretty serious and he had been in that completely dark cupboard for a loooooong time. He stretched, gave a yawn, and strolled off with eyes almost completely devoid of irises. He ignored me. He made no snide comments. He made no showy exit. He walked around the house, he walked outside around the yard and came back, and asked for some breakfast. I felt very contrite, I served the special Chicken/Tuna combo he doesn't get very often. He ate a little to show there were no hard feelings, drank some water and sat on the back step. Not cleaning himself, not anything.
Eerie.
A tumbleweed rolled through the tableau.
Riley, quite pointedly, was no where to be seen.
Rumi came back inside and ate a little more of breakfast. He sat and turned to me.
"Here it comes" I thought "the reaming to end it all."
He looked me in the eye for a moment and said, "Don't let that happen again." and left to lay under the house until dinner.
"I won't. I promise." I said to his retreating tail and went to unblock the washing machine of cat hair.
Thursday, January 08, 2009
The Intentions of 2009
I will write every day.
I will use my work email Inbox as an inbox only and not as an undifferentiated filing cabinet (currently 4058 items dating back to May 2007).
I will be more cheerful (or at least less actively depressed) by doing fun things more often. Given the poor performance in this area in 08, this year's efforts have been buoyed by pre-purchasing comedy tickets for March and April - Ah HA!! I've recruited Tim Minchin and Bernard Black to fight on my behalf. Take that evil depression empire!!
I will keep a daily gratitude journal to remind me of all the wonderful glorious bountiful things in my life (rather than dwelling on things like, say, being attacked by two stray dogs this morning and screaming my throat out for help and not so much as a curtain twitching. Fuck you too Leichhardt). Big Breath ... calm thoughts ... happy thoughts....
I will read 50% non-fiction this year. Last year was the year of "I'll just read for fun", and so there were a lot of comics, a lot of vampire/werewolf romance, indiscriminate magazines and random weird trash. Fun in a way, but like any diet filled with junk food, I began to feel a bit bloated and unwell. Too much is too much. Plus, in relation to the cheerful/fun thing, turns out that pop science makes me feel happy. Something to do with stimulating the knowitall gland and excretions of smartarse enzymes.
I will do yoga twice a week all year. When I do it, I am calmer, have better posture, worry less and feel stronger facing daily crud. What's not to like?!
I will do some housework. Not a lot. Not all the time. Just some, ok?! Enough that the cat stops reporting me to the RSPCA (ungrateful little traitor).
There should be some more shouldn't there? There should be stuff about eating healthy foods, meeting all my work deadlines, shedding x kilos and being kind to old people who smell like mothballs. After all there's not even 10 things on my list...
Who am I trying to kid? That's plenty to be going on with. I can barely keep 5 things in my mind at once, seven is a stretch and 10 is just asking to lose at least 3 right away, feel bad and stumble on the other 5 until I collapse by mid feb and give it all up as a bad job and spend the rest of the year moaning about how "let's hope 2010 is a better year". No Thanks. Jeeze, it's already taken me a week to decide on them, and in this week, I've already mangled 5 of them. I'll do better next week - I promise.
I will use my work email Inbox as an inbox only and not as an undifferentiated filing cabinet (currently 4058 items dating back to May 2007).
I will be more cheerful (or at least less actively depressed) by doing fun things more often. Given the poor performance in this area in 08, this year's efforts have been buoyed by pre-purchasing comedy tickets for March and April - Ah HA!! I've recruited Tim Minchin and Bernard Black to fight on my behalf. Take that evil depression empire!!
I will keep a daily gratitude journal to remind me of all the wonderful glorious bountiful things in my life (rather than dwelling on things like, say, being attacked by two stray dogs this morning and screaming my throat out for help and not so much as a curtain twitching. Fuck you too Leichhardt). Big Breath ... calm thoughts ... happy thoughts....
I will read 50% non-fiction this year. Last year was the year of "I'll just read for fun", and so there were a lot of comics, a lot of vampire/werewolf romance, indiscriminate magazines and random weird trash. Fun in a way, but like any diet filled with junk food, I began to feel a bit bloated and unwell. Too much is too much. Plus, in relation to the cheerful/fun thing, turns out that pop science makes me feel happy. Something to do with stimulating the knowitall gland and excretions of smartarse enzymes.
I will do yoga twice a week all year. When I do it, I am calmer, have better posture, worry less and feel stronger facing daily crud. What's not to like?!
I will do some housework. Not a lot. Not all the time. Just some, ok?! Enough that the cat stops reporting me to the RSPCA (ungrateful little traitor).
There should be some more shouldn't there? There should be stuff about eating healthy foods, meeting all my work deadlines, shedding x kilos and being kind to old people who smell like mothballs. After all there's not even 10 things on my list...
Who am I trying to kid? That's plenty to be going on with. I can barely keep 5 things in my mind at once, seven is a stretch and 10 is just asking to lose at least 3 right away, feel bad and stumble on the other 5 until I collapse by mid feb and give it all up as a bad job and spend the rest of the year moaning about how "let's hope 2010 is a better year". No Thanks. Jeeze, it's already taken me a week to decide on them, and in this week, I've already mangled 5 of them. I'll do better next week - I promise.
Tuesday, January 06, 2009
Cheerful or Bust
One of my intentions for 2009 is to be more cheerful.
My consulting medical professional suggested that I should "have fun" more often. Apparently he refers to something more active than simply snidely snickering at pointed political essays in The Monthly.
This project was meant to commence last year but was largely unsuccessful. I did discover a couple of odd things. Firstly, that on TV I find Top Gear very funny, but only in the UK version - the Australian version failed to excite. Also, somewhat shamefully, Two and a Half Men can make me laugh aloud causing the dog to startle and check for intruders. This has been waning in the newer seasons, but the mantle has been taken up by the new show by the same writing team (Chuck Lorre & the other guy whose name I've forgotten - sorry mate) Big Bang Theory, which is also stereotypical fare (Geeks don't do social well) but despite my misgivings - makes me laugh.
Next week I'll be going to a music concert. It has been along time since I did this, and I'm already finding myself mentally planning to take a book for the slow bits. Obviously this plan for "having fun" will have to rollout in very small increments. Perhaps I should have chosen someone a little more upbeat than Nick Cave - but you have to go with what you know.
Swimming is still a good option, but there's little scope for snorkling in my sister's pool, so it remains in the 'float around and daydream' mode. Listening to 'cheerful' music is another idea... I've tuned the car radio to a dance channel and that is pretty hilarious, but still seems to fall into the snickering snidely box more often than not. There's a very David Foster Wallace type moment that happens when one is 'faking it till one makes it' where you're watching yourself going through the motions of whatever it is (such as, trying to sing along to inane dance lyrics while cruising downtown Ipswich in the beatup Mazda 323) and this witness character is saying to the other internal selves "Do you really think this is working?! In *any* way?! You are delusional and humiliating the rest of us. Cut it the fuck out now."
Sure it's funny, but is it fun?
On the other hand, laughing at myself is still laughing, and a small step forward, is still a small step forward. Yes. Cop how freaking zen that is!!
My consulting medical professional suggested that I should "have fun" more often. Apparently he refers to something more active than simply snidely snickering at pointed political essays in The Monthly.
This project was meant to commence last year but was largely unsuccessful. I did discover a couple of odd things. Firstly, that on TV I find Top Gear very funny, but only in the UK version - the Australian version failed to excite. Also, somewhat shamefully, Two and a Half Men can make me laugh aloud causing the dog to startle and check for intruders. This has been waning in the newer seasons, but the mantle has been taken up by the new show by the same writing team (Chuck Lorre & the other guy whose name I've forgotten - sorry mate) Big Bang Theory, which is also stereotypical fare (Geeks don't do social well) but despite my misgivings - makes me laugh.
Next week I'll be going to a music concert. It has been along time since I did this, and I'm already finding myself mentally planning to take a book for the slow bits. Obviously this plan for "having fun" will have to rollout in very small increments. Perhaps I should have chosen someone a little more upbeat than Nick Cave - but you have to go with what you know.
Swimming is still a good option, but there's little scope for snorkling in my sister's pool, so it remains in the 'float around and daydream' mode. Listening to 'cheerful' music is another idea... I've tuned the car radio to a dance channel and that is pretty hilarious, but still seems to fall into the snickering snidely box more often than not. There's a very David Foster Wallace type moment that happens when one is 'faking it till one makes it' where you're watching yourself going through the motions of whatever it is (such as, trying to sing along to inane dance lyrics while cruising downtown Ipswich in the beatup Mazda 323) and this witness character is saying to the other internal selves "Do you really think this is working?! In *any* way?! You are delusional and humiliating the rest of us. Cut it the fuck out now."
Sure it's funny, but is it fun?
On the other hand, laughing at myself is still laughing, and a small step forward, is still a small step forward. Yes. Cop how freaking zen that is!!
Monday, January 05, 2009
Uber Monday Antidote
It's the first Monday of 2009 - can't you feel it?!
No amount of coffee is going to ease the pain of the first day back at work - no matter how good the aircon is. Rather than dwell on the less pleasant aspects of this, today is a perfect day to do a quick whip around of cool things that happened in 08.
There were plenty of great tech breakthroughs for a greener future. That's nice. Science is always clever, but where's the political will to implement what the scientists learn? Turns out America had a bit of a breakthrough in that regard in 08 with a new President elected and taking office in a couple of weeks who seems very keen to makes some changes. Of course, no offense to B.O., but KR made some promises before he took office that haven't quite panned out ... although kudos to him for starting out on the right foot with a long overdue apology.
Thankfully also a bit of good news for books - that some publishers (mostly of trashy escapism - but hey - whatever floats your boat) are thriving. That's good, I worry for books. All this kindle reader, and iphone crap gets plenty of "the future is paper-free" but books need to survive a while longer yet.
Until we head into space (My solar system or yours?) basically, when they will be way too heavy to earn a place in the hold and those poor colonists will be stuck with reading from monitors or possibly, if they're lucky some groovy type of thin and flexible "electronic paper" which the kids of the future will totally laugh their guts up at how we had to give it such a daggy and derivative name.
Some good things got done by activists in Australia. And there was a little bit of vindication for people like me who don't feel the need to breed. Sci-fi nerds who got another half season of Battlestar Galactica. Oh and a fully kick-arse Batman film.
There was loads more of good stuff in 08, please feel encouraged to add your favourite via the comments.
No amount of coffee is going to ease the pain of the first day back at work - no matter how good the aircon is. Rather than dwell on the less pleasant aspects of this, today is a perfect day to do a quick whip around of cool things that happened in 08.
There were plenty of great tech breakthroughs for a greener future. That's nice. Science is always clever, but where's the political will to implement what the scientists learn? Turns out America had a bit of a breakthrough in that regard in 08 with a new President elected and taking office in a couple of weeks who seems very keen to makes some changes. Of course, no offense to B.O., but KR made some promises before he took office that haven't quite panned out ... although kudos to him for starting out on the right foot with a long overdue apology.
Thankfully also a bit of good news for books - that some publishers (mostly of trashy escapism - but hey - whatever floats your boat) are thriving. That's good, I worry for books. All this kindle reader, and iphone crap gets plenty of "the future is paper-free" but books need to survive a while longer yet.
Until we head into space (My solar system or yours?) basically, when they will be way too heavy to earn a place in the hold and those poor colonists will be stuck with reading from monitors or possibly, if they're lucky some groovy type of thin and flexible "electronic paper" which the kids of the future will totally laugh their guts up at how we had to give it such a daggy and derivative name.
Some good things got done by activists in Australia. And there was a little bit of vindication for people like me who don't feel the need to breed. Sci-fi nerds who got another half season of Battlestar Galactica. Oh and a fully kick-arse Batman film.
There was loads more of good stuff in 08, please feel encouraged to add your favourite via the comments.
Sunday, January 04, 2009
A Mediocre Daughter
The alarm went off at 7.30am this morning.
Why so early on a Sunday? You may well ask.
It was a misguided ploy to emotionally prepare myself for the 6.30am start tomorrow. It worked in that Rumi got fed and Riley and I went to the loo (not in the same place, obviously) but it didn't work insomuch as all of this was achieved in a mumbling stumble with eyes mostly closed and earplugs firmly in place so that we could all fall back onto the Heaven Mattress and slumber peacefully on for another 2 hours or so. I mean there's being conscientious about work, and then there's down-right silliness.
Last Day Blues
In atonement for this (pretty much expected) lapse and over the morning cuppa, I wrote out two lists - all the things for today and all the things for tomorrow when I'm back at work. As my little Sister's taken to saying "You need to bring your 'A' game." Ok, Game On.
Hence the two lists. They each were three quarters of an A4 page. Daunting. Even broken up into little steps and next actions - it still seemed too long. Then I noticed that the more little steps I used, the longer the freakin thing got - it's a zero-sum game. You can either have a really short snappy list with massively dense action lines, or nice sweet action lines of 15 or 20 minute tasks that you need one of those toilet-roll length scrolls to track. Nope, not today thanks. I'm still way mellow from spending time up at the farm.
Parents: You Get No Choice
I'd put off going to visit the folks. Sometimes it is easier to love people in the abstract than in actual smelly, moody, messy real life. But as Riley had gone home with them for a farm stay on NYE and I was missing him badly, it had to be done. Friday night I packed the car and headed up, and there was the most amazing sunset for the last 30mins of the drive. Really. I know they're on the taboo list for writing about so I'll just say it was operatic in scope and style and I had a near miss with an oncoming holden because I'd drifted towards the middle a little bit trying to soak it all up. That put me into a pretty chilled-out vibe (the sunset, not the holden). Mum had made a veggie pizza for me and Dad was already in his cups and $5G down in his imaginary friends poker game. It was cooler there and a cold breeze. Actually "breeze" is a bit of an understatement - the wind had pushed a branch through the laundry the day before I got there but after a few days at 40degrees, a bit of wind is no problem if it brings the temps under 30.
So anyway Dad cleaned up about three quarters of a bottle of whisky and mum and I cleaned him up playing "Frustration" (a card game where you have to complete sequential hands. This is the easy version - KA and I have a hard-ass version we play which we've dubbed "Cranky Pants"). Anyway the scores total came out at: Mum 2, J9 3, Dad 0. Unheard of. Much laughter and bagging-out of crap play was made.
Sadly Dad did not remember his crushing defeat the next morning, and refused to allow that it had come out that way. Mum and I had kept the score sheets for just such an eventuality, but he brushed these aside as fabrications. The power of the mind is a wonderful thing. Rather than dwell in the past, I gave him a haircut.
Made in China
I don't know if other people do this, but many members of my family have an aversion to hairdressers, so we have a bit of a DIY ethic for haircuts. Maybe its a White Trash thing. I don't know. Anyway, Dad had recently got himself some clippers (top shelf gear too - $12 he paid - new!) and didn't quite insist that I use them but whinged that I always cut his hair too short when I do it by hand. In a gesture of reconciliation for being a crap daughter generally and a moody bitch often, I consented. Well, you know the pleasure that can be had from holding a beautifully designed and constructed piece of technical or mechanical equipment? Something that seems a perfect amalgam of form and function? Right. Well these clippers are the exact opposite of that. I read the chinglish instructions - twice - and attempted to decipher the accompanying diagrams and then we were on. I fired them up and off we went. Enter the Clippers.
The Field of Engagement
My Dad has an almost spherical head and is pretty much bald. He has a Friar Tuck do - bald and shiny on top and a fringe of faded fine hair ringing his skull in line with his face. Dad likes to offset this feeble growth with what can only be described as a mammoth set of Fuck-Off Mutton Chops. These grow in the super-wiry white steel that now passes for his face hair and they stick out from his head much like Blinky Bill's ears. Needless to say, the clippers quailed at the job, but being of stout constitution I persevered at my Herculean task until it was completed. I then offered to run the Dragon Clippers of Death (albeit slowly and possibly painfully) over the acre of old-growth forest Dad keeps on his chest but this thoughtful gesture was rebuffed (somewhat rudely). Despite my concerns over the tools he looked pretty darn good at the end of this, but the really beautiful thing is that this entire procedure is always completed on the front porch so we can all enjoy the view and the "breeze". Oh yeah, farm folks do it casual.
In his own magnanimous act of reconciliation as I was leaving, Dad pressed upon me his two new prize DVDs - Dire Straights Live and Jethro Tull Live at Montreaux 2003 to watch and enjoy as best I may. Dad's not very good at initiating sharing, and he only got these last week - so it was a big gesture, and I couldn't refuse.
So today, instead of those do-gooder to-do lists, I've been pottering around doing craft and soaking up the vibes of Dad's tunes and you know, Jethro Tull can really rock a flute solo.
Why so early on a Sunday? You may well ask.
It was a misguided ploy to emotionally prepare myself for the 6.30am start tomorrow. It worked in that Rumi got fed and Riley and I went to the loo (not in the same place, obviously) but it didn't work insomuch as all of this was achieved in a mumbling stumble with eyes mostly closed and earplugs firmly in place so that we could all fall back onto the Heaven Mattress and slumber peacefully on for another 2 hours or so. I mean there's being conscientious about work, and then there's down-right silliness.
Last Day Blues
In atonement for this (pretty much expected) lapse and over the morning cuppa, I wrote out two lists - all the things for today and all the things for tomorrow when I'm back at work. As my little Sister's taken to saying "You need to bring your 'A' game." Ok, Game On.
Hence the two lists. They each were three quarters of an A4 page. Daunting. Even broken up into little steps and next actions - it still seemed too long. Then I noticed that the more little steps I used, the longer the freakin thing got - it's a zero-sum game. You can either have a really short snappy list with massively dense action lines, or nice sweet action lines of 15 or 20 minute tasks that you need one of those toilet-roll length scrolls to track. Nope, not today thanks. I'm still way mellow from spending time up at the farm.
Parents: You Get No Choice
I'd put off going to visit the folks. Sometimes it is easier to love people in the abstract than in actual smelly, moody, messy real life. But as Riley had gone home with them for a farm stay on NYE and I was missing him badly, it had to be done. Friday night I packed the car and headed up, and there was the most amazing sunset for the last 30mins of the drive. Really. I know they're on the taboo list for writing about so I'll just say it was operatic in scope and style and I had a near miss with an oncoming holden because I'd drifted towards the middle a little bit trying to soak it all up. That put me into a pretty chilled-out vibe (the sunset, not the holden). Mum had made a veggie pizza for me and Dad was already in his cups and $5G down in his imaginary friends poker game. It was cooler there and a cold breeze. Actually "breeze" is a bit of an understatement - the wind had pushed a branch through the laundry the day before I got there but after a few days at 40degrees, a bit of wind is no problem if it brings the temps under 30.
So anyway Dad cleaned up about three quarters of a bottle of whisky and mum and I cleaned him up playing "Frustration" (a card game where you have to complete sequential hands. This is the easy version - KA and I have a hard-ass version we play which we've dubbed "Cranky Pants"). Anyway the scores total came out at: Mum 2, J9 3, Dad 0. Unheard of. Much laughter and bagging-out of crap play was made.
Sadly Dad did not remember his crushing defeat the next morning, and refused to allow that it had come out that way. Mum and I had kept the score sheets for just such an eventuality, but he brushed these aside as fabrications. The power of the mind is a wonderful thing. Rather than dwell in the past, I gave him a haircut.
Made in China
I don't know if other people do this, but many members of my family have an aversion to hairdressers, so we have a bit of a DIY ethic for haircuts. Maybe its a White Trash thing. I don't know. Anyway, Dad had recently got himself some clippers (top shelf gear too - $12 he paid - new!) and didn't quite insist that I use them but whinged that I always cut his hair too short when I do it by hand. In a gesture of reconciliation for being a crap daughter generally and a moody bitch often, I consented. Well, you know the pleasure that can be had from holding a beautifully designed and constructed piece of technical or mechanical equipment? Something that seems a perfect amalgam of form and function? Right. Well these clippers are the exact opposite of that. I read the chinglish instructions - twice - and attempted to decipher the accompanying diagrams and then we were on. I fired them up and off we went. Enter the Clippers.
The Field of Engagement
My Dad has an almost spherical head and is pretty much bald. He has a Friar Tuck do - bald and shiny on top and a fringe of faded fine hair ringing his skull in line with his face. Dad likes to offset this feeble growth with what can only be described as a mammoth set of Fuck-Off Mutton Chops. These grow in the super-wiry white steel that now passes for his face hair and they stick out from his head much like Blinky Bill's ears. Needless to say, the clippers quailed at the job, but being of stout constitution I persevered at my Herculean task until it was completed. I then offered to run the Dragon Clippers of Death (albeit slowly and possibly painfully) over the acre of old-growth forest Dad keeps on his chest but this thoughtful gesture was rebuffed (somewhat rudely). Despite my concerns over the tools he looked pretty darn good at the end of this, but the really beautiful thing is that this entire procedure is always completed on the front porch so we can all enjoy the view and the "breeze". Oh yeah, farm folks do it casual.
In his own magnanimous act of reconciliation as I was leaving, Dad pressed upon me his two new prize DVDs - Dire Straights Live and Jethro Tull Live at Montreaux 2003 to watch and enjoy as best I may. Dad's not very good at initiating sharing, and he only got these last week - so it was a big gesture, and I couldn't refuse.
So today, instead of those do-gooder to-do lists, I've been pottering around doing craft and soaking up the vibes of Dad's tunes and you know, Jethro Tull can really rock a flute solo.
Friday, January 02, 2009
The Magic Block
There's a threshold of knowledge needed to enjoy a city as a resident, and it is different person -by - person. The sooner each of us finds the things that make us happy, well the happier we'll be (all the best axioms are self-evident)!
For my taste, I like to find these things in close proximity. The less transit time there is the less I am exposed to undesirable elements (such as off-key buskers, old people who smell like mothballs and any women who like to team white and gold in their clothing or accessories). For example, there's a haberdashery in Ipswich, surrounded by mechanical repair garages. No good to me - too isolated. There's a teeny teeny comic store in Ipswich surrounded by hairdressers and jewellery stores getting to it is like crossing a freaking minefield. There is NO sushi train in Ipswich (one v. dodgy kiosk in a foodcourt over the river ... just terrible in every way). You see my point.
Today there was a breakthrough. I have found a Magic Block in Brisbogan. Relief. In one square block of the city is a good art store, a small and wanky but independent bookstore, a major (bland but okish) chain bookstore, hidden away next to each other under a concrete out-ramp for a carpark is a dense and nerdy comic store and a sushi train (with little carriages even! and people cooking!), a haberdashery and craft store, and a cafe with excellent coffee (and comfy chairs and steroid air-con). Finally.
It is common sense to think they're there somewhere - but until I found them it was impossible to emotionally orient and every venture felt unfulfilled. I had found an arthouse cinema, but it's closed down. No matter. This is the minimum of destinations I needed to keep afloat.
My tummy is full with tasty sushi, I have some new craft materials I can't wait to get into and I scored a hardcover of an old Batman I've been looking for (still in the plastic wrapper and half price on a bottom shelf). Who's a happy little nerd then?
For my taste, I like to find these things in close proximity. The less transit time there is the less I am exposed to undesirable elements (such as off-key buskers, old people who smell like mothballs and any women who like to team white and gold in their clothing or accessories). For example, there's a haberdashery in Ipswich, surrounded by mechanical repair garages. No good to me - too isolated. There's a teeny teeny comic store in Ipswich surrounded by hairdressers and jewellery stores getting to it is like crossing a freaking minefield. There is NO sushi train in Ipswich (one v. dodgy kiosk in a foodcourt over the river ...
Today there was a breakthrough. I have found a Magic Block in Brisbogan. Relief. In one square block of the city is a good art store, a small and wanky but independent bookstore, a major (bland but okish) chain bookstore, hidden away next to each other under a concrete out-ramp for a carpark is a dense and nerdy comic store and a sushi train (with little carriages even! and people cooking!), a haberdashery and craft store, and a cafe with excellent coffee (and comfy chairs and steroid air-con). Finally.
It is common sense to think they're there somewhere - but until I found them it was impossible to emotionally orient and every venture felt unfulfilled. I had found an arthouse cinema, but it's closed down. No matter. This is the minimum of destinations I needed to keep afloat.
My tummy is full with tasty sushi, I have some new craft materials I can't wait to get into and I scored a hardcover of an old Batman I've been looking for (still in the plastic wrapper and half price on a bottom shelf). Who's a happy little nerd then?
Thursday, January 01, 2009
2009 Ex Libris J9
Ah, A New Year. Isn't it great when you get it home and it is still in the plastic wrapping and you think "Oh I'm going to keep it in the bag as long as possible so it stays real nice. I'll even leave that little bit of cling-film on the front so it doesn't get scratched where I look at it all the time." Yeah and it feels pretty special and there's a little bit of hope that this one won't go saggy and a bit sour in the late-middle like the last one did.
You might even clean away a shelf and put it just so in the middle (or maybe a bit to one side) and look at it as you potter around making tea or looking for the movie listings section of the paper and glance up at it occasionally and think "That is one good looking year - oh yeah - it's gunna be a doozy". I like to open it up and write my name inside the front cover and then hum a little while I daydream about all the cool excellent things that might happen in the coming months if only Henry Rollins would realise I'm not a stalker but that ours is the one true love, or if that internet ebooks biz would really deliver the cash day to day that the sales website promised. Or best of all that I magically imagine and finish a story that is utterly awesome sexy cool and turns into the must-read graphic novel of someone's age and then Marvel make a kick-ass film about it starring Robert Downey Jnr and Angelina Jolie (who decide I must be on-set to give my valuable guidance about the vision making the journey to celluloid or whatever phrase gets used to justify a junket) but also that as an outcome of the utterly massive truckloads of cash the thing makes, Angelina is able to buy out all of Africa and in partnership with Oprah eliminates malaria, hunger, and unsightly upper-lip or eyebrow hairs for everyone. Melissa Gates chips in with some top ideas about appropriate technology and suddenly Africa has an open-source space program and has culturally uplifted Chimps and Gorillas who are the first non-humans to have a seat in the U.N.
Then I realise that my cup of tea's gone cold, that my creepy neighbour is staring in the window again and that my New Year now has a crumpled corner.
So it begins.
You might even clean away a shelf and put it just so in the middle (or maybe a bit to one side) and look at it as you potter around making tea or looking for the movie listings section of the paper and glance up at it occasionally and think "That is one good looking year - oh yeah - it's gunna be a doozy". I like to open it up and write my name inside the front cover and then hum a little while I daydream about all the cool excellent things that might happen in the coming months if only Henry Rollins would realise I'm not a stalker but that ours is the one true love, or if that internet ebooks biz would really deliver the cash day to day that the sales website promised. Or best of all that I magically imagine and finish a story that is utterly awesome sexy cool and turns into the must-read graphic novel of someone's age and then Marvel make a kick-ass film about it starring Robert Downey Jnr and Angelina Jolie (who decide I must be on-set to give my valuable guidance about the vision making the journey to celluloid or whatever phrase gets used to justify a junket) but also that as an outcome of the utterly massive truckloads of cash the thing makes, Angelina is able to buy out all of Africa and in partnership with Oprah eliminates malaria, hunger, and unsightly upper-lip or eyebrow hairs for everyone. Melissa Gates chips in with some top ideas about appropriate technology and suddenly Africa has an open-source space program and has culturally uplifted Chimps and Gorillas who are the first non-humans to have a seat in the U.N.
Then I realise that my cup of tea's gone cold, that my creepy neighbour is staring in the window again and that my New Year now has a crumpled corner.
So it begins.
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