Joyeux Noel!

I have finally stumbled upon some time where:



a) I have internet access

b) I have time and inclination to update my blog



I could show you all that I have been up to, along the lines of:



14/12/09



Spent today in Florence. Did some shopping at the market, cooked our own dinner in our apartment kitchen facilities. It was delicious. We ate squid and pasta. I am becoming better at navigating Florence. I am getting impatient, however, at keeping my diary. My pen is running out.



But perhaps, maybe, just possibly, this could be a tad boring for you. So instead, I have packaged aspects of my trip into a Christmas poem:



A European Christmas



'Twas a week before Christmas, and a boy was in Europe,

Exploring the continent, but not in a tour group.

Nay, he ventured with his family of four,

As French people, staring from cafes well saw.

They travelled to Italy, to Florence and Venice,

Photographing architecture and art at its zenith.



Eating of gelati and polenta abounded,

As delicious as church bells in the crisp cold air sounded.

They shopped in big stores, for thick warming coats,

Where they were assailed by harsh, grating notes,

From a techno rendition of Silent Night,

'Silent' no more, it sounded like shite.

'Stop that shit music, in the name of the Lord!

Stop it right now, it is causing discord!'

The young boy named Theodore let out a gasp,

For there stood Saint Nicholas, with a tinsel whip in his grasp.

'Down with materialism, etc.' he continued in English.

'Non parlo l'inglese,' explained one staff member, sheepish.

Nevertheless, old Nick blew up the store,

And then yelled out loud, with a bloodthirsty roar,

'Hahahahahhahahahahahaha!'

Theodore shrugged - it made no sense to him either.



They saw the Loire Valley 'neath a blanket of snow,

Visited a chateau, namely great Chenonceau.

'Wow!' exclaimed Theodore's sister named Gen,

'A snow capped great castle is not seen often (she separated the syllables so it rhymes, ok?)

The fresh snow was powdery just like cornflour,

Thought Theodore, as the light snowfall increased in power,

Before long, a blizzard raged all about them,

Ok turns out I have less time than I thought - it was just going to be all 'now we have to stay in the castle and there is only an attic available with a mysterious secret because Gelati Gecko loves the gothic genre'. The upshot of it all was Merry Christmas, bla bla bla, thank you for your patronage with my blog.

Also, I would like to announce the opening of the Gelati Gecko Golden Club. Members will be eligible based on their comments. The first two members are Bennett and Luna Mooney. Members benefits include free use of the blog's virtual gymnasium and relaxation facilities, and a whole range of yearly benefits and offers. Congratulations to Bennett and Luna Mooney. I assure you both that this is the gift that will keep giving.

Let us hope that the new year will yield better writings from me, and more loyalty from all of you.

Student Throws Away ENTER Score

Timothy Walkins today celebrated his VCE results. A perfect score in three of his subjects secured his ENTER of 99.95, the highest ENTER achievable by Victorian secondary school students. Following his outstanding results, he has re-organised his VTAC preferences.

"I just want to do something I enjoy...you shouldn't choose something just because of your score," he explained, as he revealed that he has cancelled his VTAC applications, and has instead applied to the local garbage collector rounds. "I think that this will ultimately be a more spiritually fulfilling occupation," he said. "It's something I've always been able to see myself doing, and I don't think I should let a high score distract me from the noble profession of garbage collection. The cold morning starts, the wholesome knowledge that I am an essential cog in the social machinery of life: disease and pestilence would reign supreme in my absence."

His local municipal garbage collection jobs do not currently have an ENTER requirement, a fact which has distressed his mother, Beverley. "I'm just concerned that he will regret this later down the track. He should use his score to do something useful...or Arts at Melbourne, at the very least."

I'm In Venice

Wow. I can scarcely belive I'm in Venice. But hey, I am. So...I have a few days' worth of journal stuff, but I'll try and make it interesting for you all.

Firstly, we went to Paris Bercy, which was a quiet and less expensive area of Paris (12th arrondissement). This was our first stop before we took a night train down to Venice.

In Paris Bercy, we went shopping at a supermarket, and I was introduced to the Carrefour. Imagine a supermarket, like, say, Coles, or Safeway. Ok? Now imagine a SUPERMARKET, as in Coles ^ 1000. I went into one to get a bottle of water.


One

bottle

of water.

It took me thirty minutes.

Firstly, the store is massive. I wandered round for a bit, trying to find it myself. Eventually I chanced upon a deli section, and I asked (in French, as I found my French really was quite useful, and each time I successfully used it, I felt very grown up) if they had some water. She directed me to the very back corner of the store. Having acquired my water bottle, I walked back to the counters. There were about forty checkouts, only around ten of which were open. And then, after waiting in one of the queues for a short while, I discovered that some were reserved for credit cards. So the only other one I could find was self serve, where you do the checkout yourself. So I waited there, until one that accepted cash was available. Then, apart from one glitch where I didn't realise you had to put down your purchases on a table with a sensor in order to finish the transaction (my purchases included one water bottle), it was all smooth sailing.

You don't believe me? Think that the store isn't that massive?

The staff moved around on roller skates.

Above: This image displays approximately one sixtieth of the store.

The next day, we went to Saint-Germain-en-Laye, which seemed to be kind of like a Camberwell of Paris. The reason for this trip? This city is the birthplace of Claude Debussy, the greatest composer to ever exist. Ever. If you disagree, then that's fine, you are of course entitled to your opinion. Even though it may be wrong.

Oh, I should remind everyone, it is Winter over here in Europe. It is cold. So far I have seen no snow, but I remain hopeful.

We took a night train, where we slept on a train overnight (I know, the name doesn't really make it clear, does it), arriving in Venice in the morning.

How to describe Venice? It is cold, clear, crisp. The air is fresh and bracing. The sky is clear, or sometimes a cool grey, but it hasn't rained at all thus far. December is actually meant to be one of the driest months in Venice.

There is no such thing as a car in Venice (this is the proper island I am talking about, not Venice Mestre). There are no roads, only canals, or paths. There really are gondolas everywhere, and the people running gondolas whistle tunes or sing songs, though oddly it only seems to start when they spot someone with 'TOURIST' stamped all over their map holding hands, or their camera hanging from their neck. Their public transport system is quite cool. A boat goes down the main canals, usually alternating between banks of the canal for each stop. The stops or stations themselves consist of a floating platform, which the boat bumps up against.

In the city, there are bridges everywhere, over all the canals, and they often reek if you stand too close for too long. There are winding streets going around, and they are all made from grey stones. There are shops alongside the paths. These are almost all tourist shops. It seems that an extremely large proportion of Venice's economy is tied to their tourism industry. There are a few shops which keep popping up:

• The mask and puppet shops. These shops have colourful, ornate Venetian masks, and elaborate puppets hanging in their window. Sometimes they will have a sign asking you not to take photos.


• Shoe shops, or shops selling leather goods


• Shops selling Venetian glassware from Murano. Prices differ wildly from place to place. Luckily I don't seem to have paid too much yet, for the three things I have bought.


• General clothes shops, selling ties, scarfs, and similar clothing items.


• Bakeries, with merinques, biscotti, and other Italian pastries in their windows.

There are also flower sellers at major tourist hotspots, who go up to people, trying to hand them roses, then get them to pay for it. The demeanor adopted varies, but the other night a man came into the restaurant we were eating at, and tried the "forlorn and defeated" approach, where he walked over looking at you through dull eyes, the flowers gripped limply in his hand, as if apathy and fatigue had disabled his flower holding abilities.

European Stereotypes: True or False?

• The French are snobs - not yet decided. Being able to speak French, I have found them mostly an engaging and lively people. They make valuable contributions to shop discussions, and diligently perform every task required of them. It has been a pleasure to converse and interact with the French people, and they should be commended on their fine work.


• The French smoke - hell yes. Quite a few young people just stand on the street, or frame themselves in a doorway, pull out a cigarette, and smoke. Vraiment cool.


• The French eat pastries 24/7 - true. There are SO MANY boulangeries it seems incredible that they all stay in business. On almost any street I have been on in Paris (and no, it's not that many), there will be a boulangerie every 20 metres. There are some staples which are present in all boulangeries, such as the eclair, croissant, pain au chocolat, and escargot (swirl shaped pastry like a snail, hence the name). There are also a significant number of fromageries (shops specialising in cheese).


• French trains are awesome - I guess. They're certainly better than Melbourne's train system. They have a nifty system with a map with lit up stations, to show where the train is headed (shown below)

• Italians wave and shout and use hands a lot - sort of true. When we were taking a boat to Murano, for example, I went to the desk, and asked "Murano". The man replied (as it sounded to me), "Pour uno, ou bourano?", holding up one finger then two fingers. I assumed he thought I was asking for a ticket, and proceeded to explain that we already had tickets. As I started to talk, he cut me off, repeating more loudly "Pour uno, ou bourano?" So then naturally I tried again, and again he cut me off. I was getting a little frustrated, so I started raising my voice too. So we stood there, shouting the same things at each other, and not understanding what the other was saying. Which was fun, but didn't actually achieve anything. Finally I realised he was asking "Murano ou Burano?" as there is another island named "Burano", and he had not heard me properly the first time I asked. If in France I felt grown up to be able to use my French; in Italy I feel like an incompetent idiot, as I know very little Italian. I compensate for this by saying "Grazie" (thankyou) a lot. They always reply "Prego" (my pleasure/it's fine).
• Italian shop owners are pushy - not all, but the ones who are, are. Where in France they sort of left me to do my thing, here it's all "you like? You will no find better price anywhere else. Is good price I offer you, very good."
• You can add "io" or "o" to the end of English words and they become Italian - absolutely. Deliziosio, magnifico, fantastico...makes it a whole lot easier.

Racist generalisations aside, my trip has been fantastic thus far - of course, I am only a few days in. Anyway, good luck with results everyone, and if you have questions or anything, you know well that my longing for comments is never fully sated.

My Travels Begin...

So, here I am. Where is 'here'? I am in the Qantas lounge in Hong Kong, typing on a Mac. Before long I will take a flight to London, and then from London to Paris.

I'm afraid there's not been too many colourful anecdotes to share with you thus far. I did some scribbling in the plane:

The Journey

"500 years ago, a ship sailed towards the southern coast of France, made up of a crew charged with a secret mission from the most secret of secret and powerful of powerful powers of their age.

Now, in 2010, a young boy is traveling to Europe with his family. But his journey will yield more than he could have ever expected, as shocking truths buried deep within his ancestry begin to come to light..."

Logbook, Monday 7th December 1509

Food is scarce. The Captain says that if we don't see land within the next two suns, we shall have no option but to kill the lovable ship's monkey, Lucifer. Lucifer expressed discomfort with the proposal through screeching, and biting the wooden oars of the ship's dingy. The air is thick with mutiny...

Young Thomas Wemberlybroke settled himself into his comfortable plane chair, and opened a small blue book, and began to write. 'But what to write about?' he wondered.

As he stared down at the blank page, a hostess approached him, her lips stretched into a smile.

"Can I get you anything?" She broke out into a dazzling laugh, her eyes sparkling with saline.

"Do you have some saline in your eyes" asked the boy politely.

"No," she lied. "Can I get you anything?" she repeated.

"You do have saline in your eyes," insisted the boy, still politely.

"No I don't," she responded shortly. But she did.

Why was she lying about having saline in her eyes? The boy pondered this question as she continued down the aisle. Then, with horrific clarity, it dawned on him. She didn't have saline in her eyes because she needed to hydrate them, but because she was an alien. Having solved this puzzle, the boy went to sleep. The alien hostess then promptly devoured everyone on the plane, and then the plane itself.

I have no intention of finishing that story.

I could go through all the details, such as:

• I watched District 9 on the plane. I watched some of Marie Antoinette and Bruno, but didn't find either very interesting.
• I have been feasting on the free food provided in the airline lounges and so forth, as food will cease to be free once we get to France. I shall be well stocked by the time we reach Paris.

but those details would not interest you. I will come back when I have something interesting to say. Either then, or at the next lounge while I'm waiting for the next plane.

Why?

I'm going to level with you all, because you are each and every one my special and beloved readers, and you deserve the truth.

Lately I've been finding the upkeep of this blog problematic. And I have to ask myself, why? I've got more time each day than I've had all year. I should be churning out stuff that makes me feel happy, and keeps this little fire burning (where each blog is a log...yes?).

But I'm not. I want to contribute. I want to improve the quality of my writing, and I want to do this because I enjoy it. But here's what I'm starting to see the problem as.

I blogged to procrastinate. I blogged when I should have been working, or doing essays, or building an umbrella out of train tickets. And it is really when I'm stressed, when I'm under pressure, when I'm stressed and tired - it's then that I produce my best writing.

Either that, or when I feel passionately that I have something to write about. But when nothing is grabbing me, or compelling me to throw my pointless opinion onto the mountain of crap out here on the internet...I don't write well.

I just wanted to explain why this blog has been coughing and spluttering its way through these last few months. So that you don't give up on it. Because I swear, like a deciduous tree, there will come a spring, when this blog will unfurl its leafy green foliage, and all shall be well and prosperous once more. So just be patient. Please.

In other news, Gelati Gecko is going travelling. To Europe. And I'm hoping that I'll be able to update this blog as I go - and I'm sure I'll have lots of interesting stuff to say.

Anyway...I suppose I could chuck up some of the more obscene stories I wrote during English classes this year...'Bennett' might enjoy them, anyway.

VCE Study Tips

With VCE exams less than a day away, I thought it would be prudent to share some wise advice with you all:

• A strong mindset is essential. Don't tell yourself that you want to 'do the best I can do', but instead set specific study score goals. If you fail to reach these goals, tell yourself you are a failure.
• Don't start revising months in advance - leave all of your revision till the very last minute. This will ensure that all the information is fresh in your mind when you go into the exam.
• The night before, make sure you revise absolutely everything in detail - and if there's one part you don't quite understand: THEN PANIC! PANIC, AND TRY AND RE-LEARN THE WHOLE COURSE! Don't worry about sleeping - what good is sleep if you're not prepared?
• Don't eat breakfast on the day of the exam. A full stomach will only increase your nausea. Avoid low GI foods like cereal - if you must have something, have a Wizz Fizz.
• Don't take a drink bottle with you into the exam - being hydrated is not important, as irreplacable seconds tick past every time you stop to drink.
• Make sure you get to your exam at the last minute - this will heighten the excitement of the morning/afternoon, and create another layer of fear and nervousness.
• When you do arrive, be sure to mingle with other people and ask them lots of questions about the exam, as it is likely they will know something you don't. If they bring up an obscure part of the subject that you hadn't considered, start to stress about it, and try to learn it all in the five minutes before the exam. It is advisable to enter the examination confused, disorientated, and afraid.

Apart from that, there are no 'hard and fast' rules to VCE success. Just remember that plenty of students just like you have done the VCE before you, and plenty of them have done appallingly.

Revolutionary New Australian Television Show

Three Sydney socialites today revealed their plans to create a Gossip Girl type television series, all based around their wild, high-class social life.

Called Snobs, the show would be an exciting new foray into as yet untested genres. "We asked ourselves, what is something unique about Australia? And what original, challenging content could we provide in a drama set in Australia? And then we threw all those ideas out and went with a cheap and tacky remake of American shows such as O.C or Sex and the City," explained creative director Susan Watermeadow.

"We're not sure if the 'three girls spending big and going wild in a city setting' format is really going to work - I think we're really pushing the boundaries of what's ever been tested in comedy series before," cast member Gracie Otto enthused. "We're just hoping that Australian audiences will be ready to embrace something as diverse as the mild mishaps and shenanigans of three rich white girls," she continued.

"The title is certainly not intended as elitist, or anything like that," one scriptwriter hurried to affirm. "It's something everyone can enjoy - we're even planning on celebrating the diversity of the Australian people - perhaps a token Muslim friend can make a guest appearance."

A "Whose Reality?" Take on Beauty and the Geek

So I sat down and watched some reality TV yesterday. Called Beauty and the Geek. Go on, judge me (I’ve certainly already judged myself). And so to make up for my lapse in taste I watched Q and A on ABC – “the unpredictable show where you get to ask the questions”, as Tony Jones informs the audience every twenty minutes.

But to make my earlier transgression excusable, I turned a critical eye to the show. I don’t mean the sort of TV critic eye, where I’ll make some cheap shots, a wanky joke, throw in a quote, and end with a little pun. I mean I took a serious look at it, from a Whose Reality? perspective. So without further ado, I present my musings.

Of course, reality TV presents a distorted view of reality for our entertainment. And so to begin, I feel it is necessary to analyse the layers of reality within the television show Beauty and the Geek:

Firstly, we have the title itself, which juxtaposes two disparate identities which would supposedly share very different ‘realities’:

• ‘Beauty’ – a term which is used to label all the female contestants. This labels the women as ladies from a world of cosmetics, fashion, partying, and so on. Of course, the complexities of the connotations associated with the term ‘beauty’ can offer other readings to this specific vocabulary choice. It could be construed as ironic, as many of the women are presented (we will get to this) as vapid and superficial. But most likely it was chosen to give a ‘Beauty and the Beast’ type ring to the title.

• ‘Geek’ – when compared to its counterpart ‘nerd’, the nuances of the word ‘geek’ become clearer. This clearly suggests that the ‘geeks’ are socially inept, and withdrawn. It also credits them with a large intellect. These contestants, as with the ‘Beauties’ are initially presented as breathing, living stereotypes.

Having established through their title that the focus will be a clashing of realities, the show needs to create an atmosphere within the ‘house’. Naturally, this is one of fear and competition. The very language of the host, such as announcing to the team which ‘survived’ the elimination round, “you live to fight another day”, is suffused with conflict and competition. Contestants are forced to vote each other out, even though apparently everyone, including the host, agrees that it’s not easy or pleasant. This creates conflict within self, as some individuals struggle to choose a team to nominate. In these cases these choices are inevitably going to be made by impressions, or their reality of the others, as shaped by their interactions with and observations of them.
The atmosphere during elimination rounds is one of fear, which is added in an attempt to push contestants to the extremes of their personalities and aggression. In a way, the emotional space inhabited by the Beauties and Geeks is manipulated, altering and distorting their ‘reality’, if you will (and I will), in order to entertain.

Lastly, of course, is the representation of these realities by the editors and producers, which deserves equal discussion. How are these people represented, how can we know what is and isn’t taken out of context? It can be easy to throw back your head and let loose a full-bellied laugh at the contestants from your couch, thinking “at least I’m not as stupid/socially awkward/maladroit as that person”. Indeed, I think that a large part of these types of shows appeal is just that. And in presenting stereotypes to us, the show can sometimes lead us to forget they are complex human beings. Reality is distorted and simplified for our viewing pleasure.

So I think we can agree that there are three layers of reality within the show; the people’s realities (‘Beauty’ or ‘Geek’), their emotional/psychological reality as shaped by the fear and competition the whole show is saturated in, and the representation of these realities.

Frequently, perception of others and self perception are what really drive the conflict. The challenge for the Geeks this week was speed dating – the Geek with the highest totalled score from the women the winner. Upon hearing of the task, one Geek noted, “The calibre of a woman who would go on speed dating rather concerns me; they’re either really desperate, or really busy.” This quote is interesting for a few reasons. He has never actually been speed dating, but has already made his mind up about what sorts of people would go, and has decided, more or less, that it’s stupid. The origin of this constructed perception of speed dating, it could be postulated, may be the fact that he has never been speed dating – or any other dating, for that matter. So now he must admit to himself either that he is missing out and is ‘desperate’, or that the speed daters are the ‘desperate’ ones and he himself is above the whole thing. A reality must be constructed in order to validate his own perception of self.

One Geek later noted, “I always try not to get frustrated with my students because I appreciate that some people have differences in the way they think.” This quote was given as he attempted to teach space science to the Beauty he was paired with. His carefully tactful wording of his frustration shows both his ability to empathise with the Beauty, and his careful representation of his own reality.

The Beauties, too, offered some insights into individual realities. One Beauty mused upon the relativity of time, as she exclaimed “An hour – that’s not even long!” when told that she had an hour to prepare for her challenge. And another Beauties observation, as she watched her Geek partner dancing – “He looked like he needed to go to the toilet or something,” is clearly anchored by past experiences, when perhaps she has seen people acting in a similar manner before needing to “go to the toilet”. Thus her memories have a significant impact on the way in which she interprets, processes, and analyses the stimuli around her.

The clash of realities may not end in tragedy as in A Streetcar Named Desire or Enduring Love, but it certainly creates an interesting psychological study. The reality we are left with at the end of Beauty and the Geek is one which cannot be taken at face value, but which must rather be analysed carefully, so that we might be able to form our own individual interpretations, based on our own experiences and memories.

Well, there’s just one way to waste time. I hope it was mildly diverting.

No Longer a Student

So I haven't written much in a while, but I don't care much either. Today I finished school. It's an odd feeling. I think the main thing is that I realise that there are so many people that I see every day, talk to often, or occassionally, and only now that I am faced with the possibility of not seeing them for long whiles, I realise that they were awesome and I'll miss them being a part of my daily life.

And it's not even a case of "I'll miss them all, but especially" because there are so many 'especiallies', all for their own reasons - the funny people, the clever people (ok that's quite a few people). People I wish I had gotten to know better, people I hope I'll still see, and so on. I think it affirms two things for me:

a) I'm glad I went to the school I went to (does not need to be named here)

b) I should always make sure that I make the most of my time with people, talking to them, and getting to know people.

I haven't cried, and don't think I will. I just have some sort of odd mixture of nostalgia and sadness and memories and faces, and I don't know if there's a word in the English language that articulates it all for me yet.

So if you're one of those people, then thanks.

Whew, ok, done *wipes oddly shiny eyes*.

Lost in Translation

I think one of the major issues we're having with Kevin Rudd lately is just that we're not completely understanding what he's getting at. Perhaps a translation phrasebook would be useful:

Rudd-English Phrasebook

Rudd:
"People have to understand that because there's going to be the usual political shit storm, sorry, political storm."

English:
"Hey look everyone, I'm using the 's' word. Aren't I terribly hip - we're on the same wavelength here, aren't we? I'm just a typical Aussie bloke, and I'm every bit as prone to use a little bit of saucy language every now and then. Saucy..."

Rudd:
"Fair shake of the sauce bottle."

English:
"Oh dear me, excuse that, it's just my colloquial language, no doubt the sort of which you'd hear on your evenings down at the local pub, or just in common usage. Strewth."

Rudd:
"I don't care what you fuckers think!...You can get fucked!...Don't you fucking understand?"

English:
"Now is not a convenient time to discuss your printing allowances. I have a very strong stance on this, and don't wish to negotiate with you. Perhaps you could come back another time, as I am a little bit stressed at the moment. Do you not understand what I have just said?"

Rudd:
"In the unlikely event of the Bulldogs winning, I’ll wear their tie. The Lions scarf will compliment Julia’s hair! KRudd"

English:
"Look everyone, I'm Twittering!"

Rudd:
"First news I got having arrived in the states was that the Broncos had won. Terrific. Important work this week with UN & G20. KRudd"

English:
"Yay Broncos!!!!!...and im meant to be doing sumthing with g20 lol but really im just a normal bloke XD"

Take a Deep Breath...

Finally, some holidays, even if it will just be the calm before a massive studying storm. So why don't I mark this day by regaling you all with a freshly experienced incident from yesterday:

In a train carriage, headed out from the city, not overly busy, around 5.45pm. A group of friends were reading the mX, and briefly pondered how the horoscope section was written. Two friends leave, and only one is left, a rather plain looking boy, the sort that would keep a blog. A man is standing nearby, who has a wandering left eye or something. He laughs as the doors close.

Man (in an odd sort of voice - picture that as you will): Haha, horoscopes.

Boy (somewhat surprised, smiles politely and nods): ...

Man: Once I knew this person...and she always read the horoscopes. Ouahh....SO ANNOYING!!!

Boy: Ah..right.

Man: It was just like, shut up!

Boy: Yes, I can imagine...

Man: So you're all from (insert name of school)?

Boy (mildly surprised at the ID of school): Yes...

Conversation lapses into awkward silence.

Boy (against better judgement, volunteering more information): We're Year 12...so just preparing for exams and all...yeah...

Man: So where d'you wanna go?

Boy: Oh, well, there's this course at Melbourne Uni, Media and Communications, that I'm looking at at the moment...

Man: Ah, right. I never went to uni and stuff, I only finished school. I'm coming back from work now...

Boy (conversationally): Oh, right. So whereabouts do you work?

Man: ABC Childcare.

Boy: Oh, cool. Nice.

Man: Yeah...little kids...oh, they just came up and grabbed me today, grabbed me around the legs (waving his arms at his legs). It's amazing how kids just want to come up and...(gesturing at his legs again).

Boy: Mhm.

Man: Yeah, some kids...they just don't want to talk to you. But these ones today were like, all over you.

Pause.

Man: I've had to get a police check and everything...started in childcare last year...

Boy (inwardly alarmed, but retaining a calm demeanor with all the skill of the best spies): Sure, yeah.

Train begins pulling into station at which the boy is getting off.

Man: Yeah, I was based in Altona before, and all the kids were grubby and yukky...but not so much here, they're mostly clean...which is nice.

Boy: Yeah, probably wouldn't be too much fun having to clean up kids.

The train pulls into the station and stops. The boy gets off. The man does not.

This episode depressed me, because the thought which was running through my head when he was speaking with such enthusiasm about affectionate young children grabbing his legs was "oh shit, this guy is a pedophile". I suppose it's due in part to the recent attention over vigilante action over a particular offender living in the community, but it also just seems to be the trend. There's so much news that's bad news, that we instantly assume the worst when we're confronted with situations like this.

It's of course equally possible that this guy was harmful, or that he was just a lovely yet awkward man who had a deep non-sexual love for caring for innocent children. I'm not trying to make a point, or get all "WHATEVER HAPPENED TO THE DAYS WHEN WE KNEW THE MILKMAN AND ALL LIVED IN HARMONY" or anything. It was just a bit sad, to realise how quickly the thought that the person I was talking to was a pedophile jumped into my mind, and tainted what could have just been a nicely awkward conversation.

A Bristow Tragedy

Firstly, apologies. I realise that there has been nothing new here of late. This is due to two things:

1) I am busy with schoolwork

but mostly, the second reason, being...

2) My laptop internet is no longer functional, and my parents are not keen on getting it repaired. As I type I am covertly logged onto my sister's laptop. If I am discovered...well, let's just hope I am not discovered. Ironically, the fact that I cannot easily update my blog leads to me wasting more times trying to find ways around the internet sanctions in my house. Ah well.

For those of you who read The Age comics, perhaps the following will make a bit more sense:

The coffee trolley squeaked as it trundled down the corridor, the trays of coffee and tea rattling and jangling away. It pulled up at one of the doors along the corridor, which had a small golden plaque attached which read “Mr G. Bristow”. Mrs Purdy gave a world-weary sigh, and tucked away a loose strand of her grey hair which she kept neatly tied back. Tied back, the same way it had been for so many years...as many as Mrs Purdy could remember. She took a deep breath, then knocked firmly on the door. Twice, as always.

“Mm?” came the lazy response from within.

“Coffee, sir,” Mrs Purdy replied, opening the door and moving in. She saw his feet before she saw anything else. Propped up on the desk, his large and misshaped leather shoes covered a large stack of paper – work that Bristow would have little intention of completing, she knew. Everything about him reminded her of the chauvinistic environment she had suffered all her working life. His paunchy well fed belly, bulging through a badly fitted suit – his piggy little eyes which Mrs Purdy could already feel surveying her body like penetrating rays. Mrs Purdy lowered her eyes, and moved forward with the tray.

“Your coffee, Mr Bristow,” she repeated, placing it on the desk. Mr Bristow watched her, an amused smile on his face.

“Coffee? But I don’t feel like coffee, Mrs Purdy,” he replied. Mrs Purdy’s head snapped up in surprise.

“Not...” Mrs Purdy paused, in shock. Bristow had always taken coffee. Always.

“That’s right,” continued Bristow, smiling smugly at her. “I don’t want your coffee. I feel like tea.”

“Please sir,” began Mrs Purdy, a note of anxiety in her voice. “You have always taken-”

“Coffee in the past? Yes, I have. But today, I don’t want your coffee,” interrupted Bristow callously, and with a brusque gesture, knocked the coffee cup over, sending scalding coffee over Mrs Purdy’s legs. Mrs Purdy cried out in pain, clutching at the edge of the desk for support.

“Ah! Please, Mr Bristow!” she yelped, attempting to sponge the hot beverage off her stockings with a tissue.

“Ah, Mr Bristow!” imitated Bristow cruelly, before throwing back his ugly watermelon shaped head and giving a loud, harsh laugh. “You’re just the tea lady, Mrs Purdy! It’s your job to shut up and get me my tea!” There was a pause, as Mrs Purdy’s eyes glared at the ground. Salty tears blurred her vision, blending and mixing the outdated carpet pattern, which had been there for as long as Mrs Purdy could remember. Her arms began to tremble, not with fear, but with suppressed rage.

“No.” The word was barely spoken at all, but was completely audible in the small office. Bristow narrowed his piggish eyes.

“No?”

“No, Bristow.” Mrs Purdy now raised her head to meet Bristow’s eyes. “Not this day. I’ve had enough – no longer will I be subjected to psychological bullying by you, all for the entertainment of those people out there” – Mrs Purdy waved her hand vaguely around her – “who, if you hadn’t noticed, haven’t been laughing for a good long time. Your sexist and degrading treatment of women ends here.” Mrs Purdy stared defiantly at Bristow, her eyes blazing with anger and passion.

Bristow’s eyes narrowed even further, if it were possible, before he once again returned to his signature smug smile, almost as if he was incapable of any other facial expression. “Oh Mrs Purdy,” he began. But that was as far as he got.

“Just DIE, YOU HEAR ME, DIE!” shrieked Mrs Purdy, and with a strength incongruous with her seemingly fragile frame, she seized a large marble paperweight off Bristow’s cluttered desk and swung it into Bristow’s jaw, where it made a resounding crack, as a handful of teeth flew out of his mouth. Blood spurted out, and spattered across a sunset photograph emblazoned with the words ‘Leadership’, which was hanging on the wall. Mrs Purdy raised the dripping paperweight once more, and brought it down, this time with a satisfying crunch onto Bristow’s skull, and again, and again, until it was difficult to tell which parts of Bristow were which...

Mrs Purdy closed the door gently behind her, and continued down the corridor, the trolley squeaking, and trays of coffee and tea rattling and jangling away joyously.

Oh Look, They're Crying - Cute

Perhaps it's just me, but I don't understand why, when a tragedy affects a small group of people, and those people grieve and share a funeral, the media enjoys broadcasting the anguished words of the youngest and most innocent person present to the whole of Australia.

It first happened with Michael Jackson's death, when the words of his sobbing daughter were repeated on Channel 7 within half an hour (on this particular occassion, I was waiting in a dentist's surgery waiting room, and unable to adjust station, volume or power). And each time the clip appeared, the same girl said how she missed her father, exactly the same way. It was usually broadcast in their news updates during ad breaks of whatever it is they show on Channel 7 in the afternoon. And in the waiting room, a woman watching would nudge her partner next to her with her elbow and go "look, aww, that's really sad, hey, look," before flipping through to the back of New Idea to find out exactly how Magda Szubanski became a new woman. And more recently, a speech given by a 15 year old girl on her family has been making headlines.

Why is it that we find other peoples' grief, especially that of children, so newsworthy? Why does the media love beaming footage of grieving kids to everyone? I suppose the answer is really basic and I should just be quiet and stop making a fuss - it makes people watch. What isn't gripping about a young person coming to teary terms with the loss of a loved one? A hook like that should get everyone tuning in, perhaps enough to watch the rest of what the station has to offer.

But every time I see it, I don't think "aww" or "goodness, isn't that tragic". I just feel uncomfortable, because it seems to me like I'm trespassing on the private grief of an individual which someone is trying to sell to me as news. The automatic responses that other people offer also seem to be just that: automatic. It's easy for us to look, point, go 'sad' then turn away. And since it fails to add anything to our lives, surely we can do without this emotional voyeurism? Would peoples' lives really be impaired if they were deprived of the chance to be the fly on the coffin watching emotional heartbreaks of strangers?

I don't think so.

Portugasm Anticlimactic

A dissatisfied customer today lodged an official complaint with the family restaurant chain Nandos, claiming that the advertised Portugasm was "really quite disappointing. Throughout the whole meal, it had been built up, then when it happened...I barely felt anything at all." Mr Steven Rifgid retold of how the experience had been raised to ridiculous proportions, and his expectations set high. "The advertising was a large part of it," he revealed. "That ad with the stripper, the massive billboards...I was really expecting some PeriPeri magic when I ordered my Screaming Portugasm Wrap."

A spokeswoman from Nandos today gave a press conference on the situation. "Obviously we're disappointed as well, that a customer wasn't satisfied with the quality and duration of their Portugasm," she stated, wearing a tight fitting T-shirt which read 'We Rub Our Thighs with Extra Hot PeriPeri Salt'. She admitted that there was an ongoing training program within Nandos, in order to teach staff how to more successfully administer a satisfactory Portugasm with greater consistency. "It's certainly not something we're taking lightly - much like our succulent and meaty breasts - chicken breasts, of course," she added hastily with a quick laugh.

Parental groups have taken the opportunity to query the appropriateness of some of Nandos' advertising strategies. "We're just a tad concerned that the sexualisation of the family restaurant alienates some parents, and invades their right as a parent to discuss exactly what a Portugasm is once their children are older."

A senior executive denied the suggestion vehemently. "We would never use sex to sell food. We acknowledge and agree unreservedly that such a strategy would be innapproriate, and condemn any groups found to be using such a strategy," he said from a massive float of a chicken which read "Our Tasty Fresh Breasts Will Leave You Sucking Your Fingers".

MasterChef Fever

MasterChef Fever, noun, singular.

Symptoms/Definitions of different case victims:

1. A person who has suddenly realised how much they know about cooking thanks to MasterChef. In some extreme cases their perceived knowledge exceeds that of both the contestants and the judges of the show. Ex: "Wtf sif Julie gets through, at least Chris plated his meals - i culd cook what she cooked easy :@"

2. A person who has suddenly become intensely interested in cooking following watching MasterChef, and now asks detailed questions about every meal. Ex: "Hmm...what have they put in this canteen pasta? I think I detect some basil, a hint of parsely, and unless I'm very much mistaken, some thyme? I wonder if they browned the meat first? Did they fry the garlic and herbs in oil first to release the flavours?"

3. A person who has realised how much they know about the contestants of the show, solely through watching the show. Will often draw on quotes from the show to qualify their opinions. Ex: "I don't think Poh will have the stamina to get through the show. I mean, when the 'Pohllercoaster' is on a high , she's great, but wow, when she has a 'Poh meltdown', she's no 'aPohcalypse'. She's artistic, but lacks the guts it takes to take out the championship - and her knowledge of Asian food is really basic - if the judges were Asian, they'd be like 'wtf squid ink cube noodles this is easy shit'.'

Ok, so I've jumped on the bandwagon and started watching MasterChef. And it's great, cool, non negative, friendly, educational television. With interesting and genuinely likeable contestants, rather than Bazza from Reservoir who's on Big Brother to "get sum tits & inflate condms ovr my hed and get famus :)". The judges are fair rather than harsh, and we all go away learning something.

And people are getting really worked up about it. I've never been on board a reality show, and it's nuts with MasterChef. Facebook and internet forums are abuzz with favourite and hated contestants ("Chris, cos he's really arrogant and up himself." Of course. You'd know, wouldn't you, you've known him for years. No? Oh, then you're a psychoanalyst. No? Oh, so then you're just arbitrarily deciding to 'hate' someone you've never met just for kicks? Ok.)

And we're all entitled to free speech, but I'll still continue being amused by these people because it comes down to two things:

1. You can't actually taste their food, so you're in no position to judge as to whether an elimination was fair or not.

2. Even if you could, there's a reason you weren't contacted by Ten to be a judge.

Gelati Gecko On Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince

WARNING: THIS POST MAY CONTAIN SPOILERS. I DON'T PARTICULARLY MEAN THAT I GIVE AWAY CRUCIAL PLOT DETAILS, BUT JUST THAT READING THIS MAY RUIN YOUR VIEWING OF THE FILM.

Like many other wild fanatic Harry Potter fans out there, I’ve just been to see the latest instalment in the film series, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. And so, drawing on my complete ignorance of filmmaking, acting, and my unwavering loyalty to the novels, I think I am perfectly placed to give a balanced mildly worded review. Or perhaps not.

Firstly, why the hell do they keep removing great parts from the novels only to replace them with either stilted and clichéd scenes, or special effects/action that serves no conceivable purpose? The whole subplot with Scrimgeour and the Ministry? Gone. He wasn’t even in it. But don’t worry, instead of the scene at The Burrow where Harry puts the Ministry in its place, we had Bellatrix (who was indeed fantastically acted by the incomparable Helena Bonham Carter) and Fenrir Greyback (no idea who acted him, but he was pretty good, given the fact that he had no scenes where he actually fought anyone – yes that’s right, the scene at the end where Bill is bitten is gone – oh, and so is Bill. And Fleur) showing up at The Burrow, setting a ring of fire, after which Harry and Ginny tear off so we can enjoy some nail-bitingly tense moments of alien movie-esque pushing through cornfields, before both Death Eaters decide to leave, though not before seeming to blow up the Weasley’s whole house in flames?! I mean honestly, how did that scriptwriting decision go:

Scriptwriter #1: I think we should try to stay faithful to the novel – the analogous reaction of the Magical Ministry to that of governments and terrorism is definitely something worth investigating.

Scriptwriter #2: Hmm...yes, it’s...umm...why don’t we have Death Eaters randomly show up and blow up The Burrow?

Scriptwriter #3: Hey, yeah! It’ll be like....*mimes with hands* then WHOOOOOSH WHOOOOARHHHHHHH-

Scriptwriter #1: I actually think that...

Scriptwriter #2: YEAH YEAH, WHOOOOOOOSH!!!!!

The other issue was that, for all their “this is a dark film, yes, most dark and dangerous as Harry encounters the demons of Voldemort’s past” or whatever other tagline they’ve been running, the parts that should have been disturbing and scary were largely flat.

Harry and Malfoy’s fight in Myrtle’s bathroom was, for me, when I read the book, disturbing – J.K. Rowling didn’t hold back from describing the gory spell which a horrified Harry uses on Malfoy. Why don’t we compare the two:

Film:

Malfoy is crying in front of a bathroom mirror, thinking he’s by himself. Harry is watching, takes a step and Malfoy sees him in the mirror. He hurls a spell at him, Harry dodges, some taps get burst, until Harry jumps out and mildly states “Sectumsempra”, whereupon the spell gently nudges Malfoy, and he collapses to the ground. Blood starts mysteriously appearing, only on his chest, as he lies in a pool of water, until Snape fixes him up

Book:

There is a similar fight to that at the start of the film. Let’s pick it up from here...

There was a loud bang and the bin behind Harry exploded; Harry attempted a Leg-Locker Curse that backfired off the wall behind Malfoy’s ear and smashed the cistern beneath Moaning Myrtle, who screamed loudly; water poured everywhere and Harry slipped over as Malfoy, his face contorted, cried ‘Cruci-’

‘SECTUMSEMPRA!’ bellowed Harry from the floor, waving his wand wildly.

Blood spurted from Malfoy’s face and chest as though he had been slashed with an invisible sword. He staggered backwards and collapsed on to the waterlogged floor with a great splash

Now honestly, just tell me. Why, when the scene was clearly written, and it was cool, and dramatic, and the effects and everything could have been great, would they have changed it? The only possible explanation can be that they were chasing an M15+ type rating, and were scared that it may have been nudged over to the MA15+ bracket if it was too gory (probably also why we didn’t see anyone get Splinched).

The next part that could have been really great was Dumbledore’s death scene. To be honest, it was pretty decent – Michael Gambon was improved than from previous films, though still missing the warm sense of humour and wit with which Rowling imbues Dumbledore on the pages (more on Dumbledore disservices later). Yet some of his new lines sounded stilted and awkward, surprising given that in the book they already had a fantastic script. The Death Eaters were able to just stroll around the castle at their leisure – Hagrid’s hut was set on fire, but Hagrid and Fang were for some inexplicable reason nowhere to be seen. And then suddenly the whole frigging school appears around Dumbledore’s body – yeah, just five minutes too late people.

I’ll get my whinging about Dumbledore out of the way now – as you can see, this blog post lacks any kind of cohesiveness, cogence, context, or other ‘c’ words generally pertaining to good writing. Michael Gambon was decent this time, but he just lacked – as he has for the last few films – his sense of humour, which I feel to be quite an integral part of Dumbledore’s overall character. Given that they were seemingly anxious to add in a few jokes, many of which worked well, it was confusing that they got rid of the first scene where Dumbledore meets the Dursleys, which, given the decent actors in the roles of Petunia and Vernon, would have worked quite well. Also, there were two instances where they showed a poor understanding of Dumbledore’s character:

1. Dumbledore asks Harry if he and Hermione are ‘an item’. Perhaps you’re thinking “surely it’s woven into the scene so it doesn’t stand out and isn’t as terribly cringeworthy and awkward as it sounds”. You’d be wrong. Of course Dumbledore wouldn’t try and have some sort of “dish the dirt, tell us the goss” conversation with Harry. He’s spending half his time educating Harry on his task to defeat the most evil wizard of all time and protecting the school from attack, and the rest hunting down fragments of the aforementioned evil wizard’s soul.

2. After viewing Professor Slughorn’s complete memory of Riddle questioning him on Horcruxes, Dumbledore says “this is worse than I could have possibly imagined”. No, it isn’t. You’ve been acting on this assumption for the past year, that’s why you collected his ring and destroyed it. This is a multi-million dollar film, the most successful film franchise every apparently. How do lines like that get through?

Lastly, all Gaunt memories were left out, and while the memories shown looked cool, it would have been nice to have had some more time exploring Voldemort’s character, as I found these parts some of the most interesting of the book. And even the small details, that were changed for no good reason – such as Felix Felicis, which was given this description in the book:

The potion was within [the small black cauldron] was splashing about merrily; it was the colour of molten gold, and large drops were leaping like goldfish above the surface, though not a particle had spilled.

Why replace a mildly interesting image with a less mildly interesting nondescript vial?

You may be getting the impression that I loathed this film. I didn’t. It’s fine entertainment, capably acted, etc. I just wish it was as good as it could have been, or at least how I saw it in my blinkered and inflexible imagination. There is more but I can’t be bothered, and I’m sure you don’t want to read it.

P.S. I don’t think this has been a success, either as a piece of entertainment or as anything. I’ll keep from film reviews in the future.

Salvador Dali Exhibition

The other day I visited the Salvador Dali exhibition at the National Gallery of Victoria. And I was surprised by the number of children there, given the highly sexual nature of much of his later work. And some of the children there put the five year old me to shame with their maturity, with exchanges in a kindergarten group such as this:

Teacher (leading group of about eight children around seven years old to a nude sketch): See this one? Isn’t it amazing! Look children, look at the buttocks, and the shape he’s managed to draw.

Me (thinking what the hell is she doing, these children are seven years old, this is completely bizarre): ...

Young boy (peering closely): Wow, how did he get that shading on the thigh?

Teacher (approvingly): Yes, Thomas, it’s just very light pencil strokes, see? (encouraging them to look closer, while the children all nod very seriously.)


And of course there were just the nice family groups out to enjoy some high art, like this mother and similarly young son:

Mother: Ooh, I like this one, don’t you? See how there’s the piano, and that object stuck into the side of it? What do you see the object as? Above: The guilty picture.

Boy: Isn’t it a skull?

Mother: Is it? It could be.

Boy: It looks like it.

Mother: Hmm. (Glances over at the caption, which is concisely labelled Atmospheric Skull Sodomizing a Grand Piano) Yes...I think it is a skull. Let’s go and look at this one!

Also screening at this child friendly exhibition was Dali’s first 17 minute short film, Un chien andalou. This surrealist film, which I’m rather surprised to find has not yet been adapted into a nice children’s series, opens subtly with a woman’s eyeball being sliced open by a razor. Throughout the film, a woman is groped by a man tied to two pianos, two dead and bloodied donkeys and two priests, all to the music of an Argentinean tango, dead hands are poked in the street, a woman run over, ants burst out of hands, and much more. A few parents rushed out midway, covering their children’s eyes while making scandalised tutting noises.

Three hundred pairs of breasts and many Freudian interpretations of works containing the words “phallic” later, the exhibition was over. So there you go, a cultured and sophisticated glance into one of the great geniuses in history. Seriously though, it was very interesting.

Citizen Kane.....is Michael Jackson?

We're studying the film Citizen Kane this year in English. And so today I sat down and watched the film. And upon viewing the film, I was struck by an amazing realisation: Citizen Kane and Michael Jackson are one and the same.

Need some convincing?

1. Citizen Kane is ridiculously wealthy and famous. So is Michael Jackson.

2. Citizen Kane built a huge mega mansion/castle modelled on "Xanadu", from Coleridge's poem Kubla Khan. Michael Jackson built a huge mega mansion/castle modelled on "Neverland" from J.M Barrie's Peter Pan.

3. Citizen Kane has his own private zoo in Xanadu, including...wait for it....CHIMPANZEES! Yes, that's right. In the first shot, in fact, Orson Welles cleverly alludes to Michael Jackson through the image of two chimpanzees chained to the gate. Just like Bubbles.

4. Citizen Kane lived in his mansion, largely secluded from the outside world. And surprise surprise, so did Michael Jackson.

5. Citizen Kane's death was met with massive newsreels, bulletins screaming it all over the world in all different languages (as per the opening sequence). And it was only this week we were saturated with the news of Michael Jackson's death.

6. After Kane's death, his hoarded material possessions are sold off, auctioned or burnt. And what's happening with all that Michael Jackson memorabilia again?

7. Take a close look at Citizen Kane throughout the film. In the later parts of his life, his face looks decidedly dodgy, as makeup is used to make him appear older. Surely we can't deny that Orson Welles was very unambiguously poking fun at Michael Jackson's own candle wax distorted face.

8. If you spell 'Charles Foster Kane' using only the letters found in 'Michael Jackson', it will be an anagram of Michael Jackson.

9. Charles Foster Kane is American. And, in chilling resemblance, so is Michael Jackson.

The evidence speaks for itself. Orson Welles truly was ahead of his time, with a film which deconstructed the life of a man who was not yet born. Of course, this opens up the film to many new interpretations. Are we to take it that the failed singing career of Kane's mistress Susan Alexander is symbolic of Jackson's break from the original Jackson Five? Or perhaps to infer that Michael Jackson's constant spending sprees were only in pursuit of a deeper spiritual fulfilment?

One thing's for sure. I would definitely be giving that film a closer look.

A Memoir

So in English we're studying Shark Net, and so we are exploring the text type of a memoir, and so we were set work to write a memoir. In my experience, memoirs are often unnecessarily wordy, long and boring. And we were asked to write around 1000 words. My life is boring. This was a first draft of my somewhat autobiographical memoir:

And so it is, at the tender age of seventeen, I sit down to pen what shall no doubt become a memoir of astounding poignancy and insight, based on my rich and varied life experiences thus far. Indeed, some might argue that writing a memoir at such a young age is a sign of a pretentious and thoroughly disagreeable personality. I would say that those people are probably right.

Indeed, perhaps my powerful and mighty intellect can be traced back to my precocious beginnings, where, as a child of no more than four years of age, I sat and read the great classics on my dearest Mama’s lap. Whether I was quietly savouring the poetic prose and striking imagery of classics such as The Great Gatsby or the vibrant poetry of poets such as Keats, there can be little doubt that I was a child destined for greatness. Indeed, my predisposition to use ‘indeed’ to begin many of my sentences was, and still is to this day, another indicator of the brilliance I was endowed with at birth.

I suppose in order to really give an accurate portrait of my early family life, I must mention my parents. My mother, a member of British aristocracy from birth, brought with her to the marriage an untold wealth, and a five acre mansion. Papa, himself a well-to-do gentleman, only augmented the worldly riches upon which I was raised as an only child.

Nothing was denied to me. By age five, I had mastered the basics of Latin, Greek, archery, horse riding, fencing, and I was already fostering something of a penchant for clay pigeon shooting, a fond pastime which would later come to wreak most terrible consequences on my family life. But I digress. In the main, my childhood was a blessed one. Indeed, Mama and Papa were most anxious to make it so. I can still recall a test of their love which brings a smile to my face. It was my eighth birthday, and I was desirous of a particular island somewhere in the Pacific. Upon putting my birthday wishes in a formal request which I submitted to Papa, I was flummoxed to discover that he had no intention whatsoever of purchasing the aforementioned sandy retreats. Needless to say, this would not do. And so, applying what was even by then, I daresay, quite an ingenious and resourceful mind, I took one of the sabres which Papa had been handed down from his father, and took it to Mama’s throat. And I recall now, quite clearly, as if it were only yesterday, how I said to Papa:

“Papa, I really do so wish for that island. And I’m afraid I have exhausted all other avenues of request. You have driven me to this, and I’m afraid that if you do not comply, I shall have to run Mama through with the sabre, right here and now.” The look on his face still brings a chuckle even to this day. Something of a mixture between sheer terror and shock.
And he said “Come now, Timothy-Spalkins-Christopher, I shan’t have you threatening your mother with death like this. This isn’t how this house works.” But I was determined, even at the age of eight, to get my own way. And so I chopped off one of Mama’s fingers to show I ‘meant business’. Ah yes, I knew how to get my own way. That was still a summer I remember, relaxing on the shores of a far distant beach, crystal waters lapping at my feet...

Yet tragedy was to strike only the next year. While out shooting pigeons atop my warhorse Napoleon IV, an event occurred, which would have the potential to radically alter my life. Papa, unbeknownst to me, was out gathering sage leaves from our herbarium, which was in fact very close to the shooting grounds. As I galloped past gaily, giggling with unrestrained joy as I shot pigeon after pigeon, took life after life, he looked up and waved. Perhaps the movement only caught my peripheral vision, and instinct took over. Perhaps it was a moment of Freudian clarity. With a well practiced swerve of the horse and re-aiming of the rifle, I let out a shot, and Papa’s head exploded like a potato put in the oven without pricking holes first, or like a balloon full of porridge. Indeed, I would come to use many images to describe that moment in the poems that followed documenting it. Ah, if only he had been collecting rosemary for a stew of lamb shank with turnip and celery, rather than sage leaves to garnish his gorgonzola, pumpkin and prosciutto gnocchi! Yes, many a time I have thought that.

But as they say, once someone’s head as been blown up like a potato placed in the oven without pricking holes first, it can’t be undone (actually, that’s a saying I am trying to cultivate, based on my impressions of his death). And so it was just me and Mama. And the hundred or so servants hired around our mansion.

My life was to remain this way for many years, until I discovered the joys of schooling. Finally, there was a context, a workbench, if you will, for me to fine tune my already, dare I say it, finely honed skills of manipulation, deceit and dominance. I quickly established myself as a leading school bully in the schoolyard, a force indeed to be reckoned with. After an unfortunate incident involving a toilet seat and decapitation, however, I began to see that a new school was perhaps the best environment for me – Mama insisted, saying something about “they’ll only take the money if you promise to leave”. Either way, another school, another chance for conquest. Naturally, I was able to find my feet in the new environment, and have since enjoyed a productive educational life.

There, 1000 words.

Snuggies' Necromancers Rejoice at Worldwide Success

The Snuggies phenomenon has been sweeping the world, as the craze of the blanket-like garment takes hold. But it is little known that this fad has its origins in America, and specifically the Crypt Worms Church of the Pentagon, a dark magic cult devoted to raising the dead to serve its bidding. High Acolyte Stephen Mortis smiled gently when asked to comment on the worldwide success of their product. “We knew it was only a matter of time until the Snuggie caught on. And slowly but surely, it is converting millions across the globe, to join us in our goal of raising the Dark Lord Satan into life-giving flesh and blood,” he said quietly, before disappearing, wreathed in smoke and flame.


Above: High Acolyte Stephen Mortis finds some downtime - of course, still garbed in his Snuggie.

The Snuggie comes in three colours – a blood red, said to “symbolise the blood of sacrifices which must be made in order to bring the Covenant of the Dead into being”, icy blue, “to represent the cold and unrelenting grip of death which we must embrace”, and a sage green only awarded to the highest echelons of the Church. High Priestess Janet Buttersworth celebrated the benefits of the Snuggie which have made it so popular around the world. “It’s warm, like a blanket, so I don’t have to waste money on portable heating – because believe me, it can get pretty cold in the graveyard at midnight! And the beauty is that it leaves my hands free to move with its adjustable sleeves, so if I want to sip some tea, or wield my sacrificial dagger, it’s all able to be done without letting a chilly draught in. After all, the only chilly draught I’m hoping for is the one of the undead,” she added with a chuckle. “And with our wonderful new reading light available if customers pay with their credit cards, the scriptures of our Moste Fell Manifesto can be read at all hours of the night.”



Above: A young initiate consults the Tome of the Undead - it'll be a while yet until she attempts a sleepover seance.

Customers too, are recognising the value for money found in the Snuggie. “Not only have I found a great snug garment to keep me toasty all winter, but I’ve also since mastered the basics of necromancy, earning myself Certificate II qualifications,” testified one enthused client. “I never thought I’d be able to get back at my husband when he left me. Thanks to the Snuggie, I’ve been able to kill and resurrect him twelve times!”

Above: A crowd gathers at a druid convention.

Other churches are considering ‘cashing in’ on the success of the Snuggie in recruiting a following. Pastor Fredrick McCubbin said “I think that people will be clever enough to realise that the necromancer robes are clearly a plagiarism of the traditional priest’s robes. With a hood. And the added warmth of a fleecy and fluffy material.”

Whatever the reason for the sensation, the Crypt Worms Church of the Pentagon remains optimistic that, with more than 140, 000 members joining the Facebook group, their aim of “raising the Antichrist by 2022” will be “comfortably met – well, comfortably for those who won’t be the subject of his sure and deadly path of wrath and destruction.”

Cronulla Rugby Team Praised as "Beacons of Equality and Integrity"

The Cronulla Sharks NRL rugby team were today lauded as a "pillar of truth and honesty, which can be safely set on a pedestal far above us all, and to which we may only aspire". The comments came from the mouths of the board meeting to whittle down a shortlist of groups who have contributed meaningfully to the Australian community in the past year. "The Red Cross, Salvation Army...they're all very good and all," said one spokeswoman, "but we're looking for something different this year. A group that just keeps on giving, setting standard after standard of morally appropriate behaviour."

The accolades falling on the NRL club have been warmly welcomed by local groups. "My ten year old Tyler's a great follower of the rugby, and he loves the Sharks," said Sandra Solomon. "And as a mum, I just can't think of anything nicer than if he grew up to be just like the boys down there - sporting, successful, and having absolutely no qualms about participating in healthy team bonding exercises. The misogynistic environment is just an added bonus," she adds with a laugh.

But there are other parents who are concerned about the example the club has been setting for young children. "As a parent, I'm extremely conscious about the role models I expose my son to. And quite frankly, I think it's a damaging thing for a child, to realise they can never amount to their idols," said one parent. "I don't want to set my son up to fail - by setting such unrealistically high standards of ethical conduct."

The Cronulla Sharks spokesperson said they were "positively delighted, absolutely chuffed", to be receiving such commendations.

Next Stop, Success!

With myki still a while away into the future, many of you have probably been wondering what we’ve been doing to improve your train travel experience. And in between running pointless ads telling you we’re doing things, we’ve actually discovered some important facts.

We hear everything. So just remember when you’re bad mouthing Connex on the train…anyone might be listening.

Our statistics show that three in ten train passengers will fare evade (that’s travelling without a ticket) during your voyages on our network. That’s a pretty alarming statistic! That’s why, from 19th September 2009, all of our Connex officers will be issued with firearms, and granted the right to fire at will on an individual suspected of fare evasion. Because we realise that even if they’re not fare evading on that occasion, statistics indicate that they will at some time. We like to think of it as an innovative way of pre-empting this theft plaguing our networks. Of course, at the same time, this will lower the number of overall passengers travelling on the network, therefore easing congestion.

Because that’s what Connex is all about. Lateral solutions to complex problems. So don’t be alarmed if you see one of our friendly and approachable officers pulling Uzis and cleaning up the rail system. Just stay out of their way. Of course, all of this shouldn’t affect you unless you’re fare evading yourself, or if you’re likely to in the future. Have some questions? Suggestions as to how we can improve this model? As our previous campaign assured you, “we’re all ears”. So drop by on our website at http://www.connex.com.au/ to find out more.

A Current Affair Praises Chaser's Tastelessness

Channel Nine's current affairs program, A Current Affair, came forward today praising the appalling error of judgement which resulted in a controversial Chaser sketch, claiming that "we're so relieved to be finally able to have something to moralise about." A spokeswoman today revealed that "we had been struggling for some time to find something to cast value judgements on - to be honest, we were all relieved when the Chaser went past the pale, providing us with a perfect evening's 'moralising fodder' ".

Tastefully juxtaposed against a story about how easy it is to earn a few extra bucks by eating chocolate, the sensitive and insightful exploration into the issue hit its mark, she claimed. "Some people have said that we're a bit like sad lonely children at school - running puff pieces on a Chaser stunt involving the Governor General when people think it's funny, then doing a "I didn't want to play anyway" attitude when there's a poorly executed skit like this. But I think to say that we're just pandering to the public opinion, and jumping on the moral bandwagon passing by would be completely untrue," she continued. "Whoever said that should be named and shamed."

Being outraged has long been a hobby of the people behind ACA. Tracy Grimshaw hinted at the sorts of antics that go on behind the camera. "Often we'll have a challenge, seeing what the smallest thing we can get outraged about is," she admitted with a smile. "It's a bit of a game. For example, I'll say 'dole bludgers', then someone else will say 'businesspeople', another adds 'people who need plastic surgery but don't get it', or 'violent ethnic groups', and it all just snowballs from there. It's great fun," she assures with a laugh.

Vocabulary Builder

I know it’s been a while, but things are still complicated at this end, so we’ll all just have to be patient and kind and thoughtful. This post is a variation of a game I once played, where a series of obscure words were chosen from a dictionary, and then each person had to write a story using all the words – the aim being to build vocabulary. I did something similar here. It’s not very good – neither the words, nor the story. Inflict it on yourself at your own peril.

Verbose Verity stepped out into the morning light, and breathed in deeply. “Ah, to have the delicate scent of petrichor filling my being this aestival morn!” she exclaimed brightly, swishing her shoes through grass which was indeed wet from rain the night before. The lissotrichous woman skipped down the hillside, her face possessing a certain nacreous gleam of health and vitality. And it was in this frame of mind that she decided to go for a gallop. Fetching her noble palfrey named Ester, she rode over hill and dale.

After a time of joyous riding through the crisp clear morning, she came to a fork in the road. A stall was set up at the crossway, where a somewhat gadoid young man was selling what appeared to be bottled drinks.

“Pilsiner, malaga, lemonade too,” he called as she approached. “Can I interest you in a refreshing beverage?” he offered enthusiastically. She stopped and considered, as a pardalote sang out from a nearby tree, and she savoured the euphony of its call.

“Yes,” she decided decisively, and hopped down from Ester.

“That’s one magnificent palfrey you have there,” said the boy, nodding at Ester.

“Yes,” agreed Verity. “She is a nice palfrey.” She stroked her palfrey affectionately.

“My name’s Pieter, by the way,” said the boy, whose name was Pieter.

“Mine’s Verity,” volunteered Verity. “I’m the precentor of the local district. But I don’t think I’ve seen you before...hopefully not off committing hedonistic malfeasances abroad. Or I’d have to kill you, haha!” joked Verity – but only partly joking, as she suffered from acute theomania. “Like Alice – we had to kill her...as indeed all demireps must be eliminated, or those who think it clever to launch iconoclastic attacks on our church...preferably through violent and bloody means,” she added atavistically with a sly wink.

“Oh yes,” nodded the young man, “certainly ma’am.”

“Dear me, it’s nice to find someone who appreciates my esoteric, and dare I say it, often lapidary facetiae,” she continued, perusing the bottles of drink at the stall. “I think I’ll just have some lemonade, dear.”

But when she looked up, Pieter was running away.

“Excuse me?” she called after him loudly. Pieter didn’t respond, except to quicken his pace. Unfortunately, Pieter had been a life long sufferer of hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia. He had tried many things to rid himself of the phobia, even isolating himself from the world through long pelagic voyages, but it always came back to haunt him.

Unfortunately for him, Verity did not take kindly at all to being snubbed in this manner. She swiftly mounted Ester, and raced off after him, pulling out an umbrella which had a hidden exsertile blade in the end. A gasp of malevolent laughter flew through the wind after her as she gained on him.

“Expugnable, weak child!” she spat as she levelled with him. He flinched at the maladroit usage of expugnable. “You cannot defeat me, for I AM GOD, that which is sempiternal, and now I summon the sepulchral voices from beyond!” She raised her voice dramatically here, as though hoping her invocation would bring about some kind of dramatic change. Pieter started backing away from her slowly, then ran for his life, pissed off that his internet still wasn’t working and it was so difficult to update his blog, which meant he never felt like writing anything.

Dangerously Annoyed

Yes, I haven't written anything on this blog for three weeks. And believe me when I write, that none of you could possibly regret this more than I do myself. There are several reasons, the English SAC not being one of them:

1. Busy, lots of other SACs and stuff (though this has always been the case)

2. My laptop is not working, and so I have no internet. As I write this I am using another laptop in the house, hovering in fear in a hidden staircase or somesuch.

3. There is no third reason.

I am really annoyed at the moment because it has taken a while to get to this stage. I had initially planned to break up the 'satirical' (if that's not too favourably intellectual a term) articles I had been hiding behind, and write something nice and appropriate and innoffesive. Being annoyed and feeling like throwing a mouse through the computer (either type of mouse would suffice), I don't think I could do that at the moment. Instead I might just post some inexcusably offensive smut I churned out in some of my more productive study sessions on Charles Dickens' Hard Times. Really, I'm almost ashamed I wrote it (though there are some images which I hope are suitably evocative).

Either leave so as to avoid offence, or brace yourself, because this story isn't pretty...

...and it's not copying here either. Probably for the best, it's not seeming to want to paste here. Perhaps I accidentally left a taste filter on somewhere...oh well. I'm tired and annoyed as earlier stated, so to be quite candid, I don't feel like putting it up. Sorry about that. Really, I am.

Maybe if my laptop gets fixed eventually I'll be able to put something up...hope so. And taking another look at that Hard Times stuff...just as well I didn't put it up. I don't think I'm coherent right now, so it's not the best time to be making taste judgements on the content of my blog. And probably not the best time to be adding to it.

Alternatively, why don't you schedule a "repeats" or "best of" Gelati Gecko reading session? Perhaps you'd like to trace Gnometta's fairtale story, or relive the magic of the Gingerbread story? Or maybe you have a hankering to go and find that scathing attack on the thoroughly deserving Herald Sun. Or perhaps you'd like to go back and point and laugh at my awkward earlier posts, to see where I've come from, and maybe you'd even like to make a documentary about it, and commentate on your relationship with this blog and how it has left an indelible mark on all aspects of your life.

I encourage you all to reflect on this, and if that all fails, go and write something yourself for fun. Or play poison ball with someone you don't like very much (a spiked medicine ball can sometimes be an appropriate substitution here).

Hoping I'll soon be posting more regularly (and thanks for the influx of hating votes on my poll, it warms me to my bones to see it),

Yours sometimes insincerely, often puerile and innapropriately, but always well-intentionedly (if occassionally grammatically incorrect),

Gelati Gecko

Bloggers Slammed as "Manipulative, Needy Vortexes of Death"

In a recent turn of events, a new report has seen public sympathies towards bloggers all but disappear. Dr Einmark, Professor in Social Psychology, last week published a controversial report which labelled bloggers "filthy pieces of putrid fruit stuck to the sole of our society" and "much like the anglerfish in Finding Nemo, which lures the innocent Nemo and unsuspecting Dory with its flashing light, before attempting to eviscerate the loveable duo into a bloody pulp, floating around the ocean like...bloody pulp".

Much like a blogger hunting down comments, Nemo and Dory find themselves confronted by a slavering, blood-thirsty monster of the deep.

He expressed concern over the strategies, employed, such as "writing satirical articles claiming that bloggers need comments or they will fade away, or some such nonsense - made even more reprehensible when they acknowledge its existence in other equally satirical articles arguing the opposing point. Other times, bloggers write that close family members have passed away, just to get an influx of sympathetic comments. I've even seen bloggers lying about guinea pigs with gingivitis." His report inauguarated an emerging branch of psycho-pathology to be defined, "Bloggers should be Flogged", to "deal with this new sinking to unprecedented depths of moral depravity...Finding Nemo pun intended."


Other groups have supported his sentiments, including Mary Wallison from Media Watch. "More and more we are seeing cases where bloggers are guilt-tripping their readers into commenting on their posts, which are usually absolute rubbish anyway. It is wrong, immoral, and unethical. We cannot allow ourselves to be emotionally bullied by these machinating pillars of shitness." She added that "my own daughter revealed yesterday she was a blogger, and I saw she was up to the same abhorrent tricks. I slapped her across the face, just as I implore you to do to any blogger next time you see them, and I have since struck her from the will, severing all ties with her." She added, of her twelve year old single child, "and now that she's been forced to walk the streets for a living, a just punishment has finally been delivered."


Blogging groups have, in the main agreed. "It's true - can't really argue with that," laughed Poornima Saquar. "We're a bunch of scummy, ammoral disfigurements of nature who seek nothing but comments - and we don't care how we get them."


There are a few, however, who sought to defend the reputation of fellow bloggers. "It is unfair to vilify the blogging community, based on the actions of a few," protested Mr Namopolous, avid blogger and author of Self-Indulgent Whingings from my Life, Which I Term a Cesspool of Despair, Despite the Fact that it's Pretty Normal. "I am always sure to uphold values of honesty and integrity...even in the face of adversity, such as the painful divorce I'm going through right now...and with my mother in a mental asylum and my children in jail for triple homicide...surely a sympathetic comment wouldn't go astray..?"

Kangaroo's Film "The Adventures of Little Boris" Tipped for AFI

Controversial internet film The Adventures of Little Boris, posted by an anonymous member of the North Melbourne AFL football club, has now been tipped for an AFI film award shortlisting. The risque film, which portrays a rubber chicken "always wearing a condom on its head and manoeuvred by an unidentifiable hand, seeming to sexually penetrate a real chicken carcass", caused a media stir when it was removed from the internet yesterday, the managers of the football team labelling it "infantile and inappropriate''.

http://www.news.com.au/story/0,27574,25307026-421,00.html

But leading film critics in Melbourne have come forward, praising a "bold and innovative new film, unafraid of confronting serious issues." Freelance film critic Sally Nguyen commended the anonymous footballer behind the film for "courageously expressing a true creative flair." She continued to write that "the symbolism of a chicken carcass for a woman caught in spousal abuse was particularly poignant, as indeed she is just the 'raw meat' of the skillfully characterised misogynistic rubber chicken. The running over the carcass with a van is also a strikingly profound metaphor for the continual and unrelenting pressure placed on women in today's society. And all through the highly personalised and humanised medium of puppetry, interwoven with the rap soundtrack Move Bitch...I think we have found a true talent in Australian film here."

Other critics, however, have not been so effusive in their praise. "Though there are certainly some genuinely magical moments, such as the van running over the chicken, tearing its breast apart - a stirring parallel to the tragic death of Myrtle Wilson at the hands of materialistic corruption in F. Scott Fitzgerald's timeless classic novel The Great Gatsby - for me, it falls flat in other areas," critiqued Margaret Pomeranz from ABC's At the Movies. "The characterisation of the chicken carcass wasn't quite as vulnerable as I think it could have, which was a shame, to be honest, as I felt it had so much potential. I also had some real issues with the clumsy camerawork, which at times let down the acting, with avant garde staging and lighting that didn't quite work, undermining the gritty exchanges between characters."

.

Above: An emotionally charged scene from the 'deeply affecting' film.

The film may be released at the Pineapple Film Festival in Cairns later this week.

Bus Story

At the traffic lights, waiting for them to change, so I can cross to the bus stop at the other side of the road. An old lady, with a pink jacket and big sunglasses, and those long pearl necklaces old people seem to like so much stands near me, as part of a larger crowd at the lights, clutching a rather capacious old black handbag.

Old Lady (upon observing me press the pedestrian button): Did it work? Sometimes it doesn't work...(squinting at the bus stop over the road) the other day...

The bus pulls in at the bus stop, and people start getting on. We cannot, as the lights have not changed.

Old Lady: This happened the other day...now it'll leave...

The lights change and we begin crossing. Halfway across, the bus pulls away and drives off.

Old Lady: Oh SHIT!

And so I turned back around and went to the library and read a book for a bit, before going and catching the next bus. And lo and behold, when we got to the next stop along, who should be waiting but the expletive-loving old lady from before. She has purchased some food and a bunch of flowers at the shops, all of which she carries on with her.

Old Lady (to driver): I'm like a human packhorse, aren't I?

Bus Driver:....

Old Lady (whilst putting in her ticket the wrong way): I said, I'm like a human packhorse, hmmm?

Bus Driver:....

Old Lady (glaring at bus driver, clearly annoyed at his lack of recognition for her efforts): Ha ha ha?....(angrily) oh neverMIND!

The Old Lady then took all her stuff and sat down, fuming to herself for the rest of the trip.

Not for Profit

I was visibly distressed to see, upon my last checking of the shoutbox, the response to a series of people a-spruiking in the shoutbox - a not insignificant fallout with at least one of my readers:

Bennett
the hell!? Advertising cash advances!? YOU SOLD OUT MAN! YOU USED TO BE ALL ABOUT THE WRITING NOT THE MONEY!

I must assure you, readers, that I am not being financially compensated for the ads. They have simply been left by people passing through (including the ever elusive SexyChick). I would never dream of making money off this blog. It would be wrong for a few reasons:

I'm not doing anything here that I should be paid for. What I write is, by and large (with the possible exception of some posts such as my bagging of the Herald Sun, which I was somewhat pleased with) utter crap. The idea that I should be PAID to do this is crass and inappropriate, and I would feel guilty from profiting, as naturally this is a non profit blog which maintains high standards of writing and integrity...mostly.

But at the same time, I feel I should address the issues raised by the spruikers in the shoutbox. Firstly:

SexyChick - I don't think I've been completely honest with you, SexyChick, and you don't deserve to be treated like that. Confession time: I didn't invent this layout. You did compliment me, murmuring in those irresistibly sweet and dulcet tones of yours that my blog had "Nice Layout!" Once my blushing had subsided, I felt it was my duty to come clean with you. This is a very standard design set out by blogspot, and I haven't really changed it at all. I hope you'll understand, and perhaps we can still be friends. I just value our connection, and don't want it to be built on lies and deception. xxx ooo

Bernard - Oh Bernard...we've had some good times, haven't we? Which is why, again, I have to be frank with you. I don't intend to change my website address to "co.coocococ" or whatever it may be. I'm really sorry, but that's just the way I am, and I can't change that, because that just wouldn't be "me".

Leonard - I was humbly pleased to see that you'd "read a few of [my] other posts", perhaps scrolling through them, hopefully chuckling appreciatively at appropriate moments. Equally, I did investigate your blog, which contained some interesting insights into schools, college and scholarship applications.

Gibson - I did wonder whether you had read much of what I wrote, seeing as you, perhaps rather generously, labeled the contents of this blog "info". Though it is nice to be hailed as a pillar of truth. Your fortifying comments shall not be easily forgotten, Gibson. But no, I don't want to make money online, though I'm sure you have many excellent suggestions. Best of luck to you.

Tamara - Well, Tamara, you left me in almost more of a dizzy than SexyChick as you suggestively commented "Look forward to reading more from you in the future". What am I to infer from this? Are you toying with my affections, or truly committed to what you say? I must make clear, it would wound me more than I could say if it were the former. I must also confess, after having visited your site, (which appears to be highly informative, the site of a truly powerful, intelligent, experienced and worldly woman) you had me at "Payday Cash Advance Loans Faxless No Teletrack California: Reliable Cash Source ". I certainly hope this shall not be the last time you lighten my blog with your exuberant and vivacious presence. I wait with baited breath.

I hope this clears up any aspersions being previously cast upon the good characters of these people by Bennett, and I will finally assure you that I will never (1) use this blog as a source of any income.

(1) May be subject to change