ninafat

The Android Odyssey

2011-03-21T12:09:00.000+11:00

Tell me, o muse, of that ingenious hero who researched far and wide after she had bought an HTC Desire HD. Many sites did she visit and many were the geek oracles who proffered fragments of wisdom, none possessing the full knowledge of the way to free the phone from the constant internet connections and back-up attempts of system apps known to adventurers as bloatware. The foul creature known only as Plurk, the invisible Facebook whose cold breath sucks the details of your life and broadcasts them to hordes of marketers trawling the seas, the voracious Newsfeed which exists only to feast on your precious mobile data rations - she vowed to conquer them all or void her warranty in the attempt.

Now when the child of morning, rosy-fingered Dawn, appeared, Ninafat rose and dressed herself. She bound her sandals on to her comely feet, girded her charger about her shoulder and left her room looking like an immortal god. She walked out of her house towards the HTC cavern to claim control of her lands and slay the beasts within.

She was accompanied by her three hounds, faithful and fearless - Superuser, VISIONary+ and Titanium Backup PRO. Each with a special skill, when banded together the three hounds had the power to drive the most insidious and wretched system apps from her lands.

The first hound was VISIONary+, who had the ability to give its master full access to the dark recesses of their device, known to the initiatied as the root. Our hero, aware of the risks of progressing into warranty-voiding territory without an escape, laid a temproot rope along her path before she was confident enough to plunge into the darkness of the permroot. She was afraid of the unknowable darkness which could descend at any moment and brick her phone.

She then called upon her second hound, Superuser, which had the power to give her other hounds access to power of the root. Once called upon, superuser sat quietly, ready to leap into action.

The last step in the preparation was the summoning of Titanium Backup PRO. Her last hound was no doubt her most powerful weapon against the beasts which lurked ahead. It had the power to slay any app in her path and ensure that it could never rise from the dead to haunt her with updates. She made sure that Superuser understood that Titanium Backup PRO's calls for root access must always be honoured, on pain of death.

With her hounds primed for battle, she advanced into the first cavern. She ordered Titanium Backup PRO to massacre Facebook and its evil widget. Her hound asked for root permission and Superuser launched it across the cave. Titanium Backup PRO hid, strapped to the belly of a backup/restore menu, and approached the Facebook unregarded. Looking through the eyes of her hound, she located the rolling eye of the Facebook and held her finger down. A menu appeared. She scrolled. She ordered Titanium Backup Pro to force remove the app. The red hot beam beam plunged deeply into the Facebook's eye, til the boiling blood bubbled all over it so that the steam from the burning eyeball scalded his eyelids and eyebrows and the roots of the eye spluttered.

Blackness dropped around her and she held her breath for the torch she carried to relight. It finally illuminated and she saw that the beast was slain. She repeated the process for the widget and advanced deeper into the cavern. With newfound confidence she slaughtered the Plurk, the Newsfeed, the celebrity gossip app whose name she can no longer remember. After each cave was cleared of Vietnamese and Thai keyboard information, she walked to the light, followed by her three faithful hounds.

At the mouth of the cavern she turned and surveyed the land she had retaken, remapped, now knew and understood. She wondered why she should have to research, battle, sweat and swear to control a domain which should have been, from the beginning, hers to do with as she pleased. But the will of the everlasting gods is not turned suddenly and HTC sat in his ergonomic desk-chair on Mount Olympus, fuming over the impertinence of our hero and plotting his revenge.

Earthquakes and the Violence of News

2011-02-26T21:05:00.000+11:00

There's a video on youtube of a woman being lifted from a collapsed building. She is screaming at the person filming her, demanding to know how they dare to stand there and film her pain, take her experiences and convert them into news. It's very confronting because she's also screaming at you, the happy consumer of her life. She screams, "How dare you?" I have found myself asking the same question over the past few days.

I was born in Christchurch, my mother was born there as well. I lived the first 24 years of my life there. My family lives there, but most of my friends have left and only come back for Christmas. I left because I thought it was boring and safe.

I wasn't there for any of the three big earthquakes. Each time I've been sitting on a perch far away, peering down at the smoke and rubble.

So how dare we? I don't remember when it became our right to peer into the lives of others at their darkest moments. I also don't remember when adopting that perspective became synonymous with being an informed member of society.

The term awareness gets used a lot. Awareness is a very good thing, apparently. The 24 hour news cycle is bringing us all closer to the goal of total awareness of all things at all times. But I find that I vacillate between depression and indifference when faced with the suffering of people I have no connection with.

Let's imagine that a poster with the following text got put up in a number of public places last week:

Earthquake in Christchurch today

It's bad

Lots of people killed and more trapped in buildings

Send money and call the people you love

You read it, or someone told you about it. That would be enough to make you aware of the situation.

You are never going to feel the way those people feel about what happened. And even if you could, how would that help them? And even if you did, for every disaster in every country, you would be paralysed by grief, unable to function.

I don't hate the media or the journalistic profession. But the job of journalists, as I see it, is to go out and find out new things, reveal hidden truths, bring injustices to light. To keep the bastards honest. When a woman is being lifted from a collapsed building and you're standing there shooting her, is that journalism? Is she one of the bastards you're keeping honest? How about when you throw that footage into a montage of teenagers crying and people bleeding from the head and running from crumbling buildings?

If you screen it, people will watch it. I did. When we drive past a car crash, most people look. It's a very human reflex. Whether this reflex should be nurtured, providing audiences with the ability to rubber-neck every car crash on every street is a question I don't think is being asked enough. It's a question of where the line is, where you move from the facts about a situation to shamelessly mining tragedy for minutes of television and inches of newspaper copy.

Let's see a building or two from the air. I'm fine with watching the press conferences held by public officials. But the process of converting human tragedy into news is a violent act. I don't know when it became so unthinkable that someone somewhere might be suffering without a camera in their face.

Sink or swim

2010-01-25T20:41:00.000+11:00

My new work has a meeting room called Ron Barassi. I am so out of my depth.

Dear Australia,

2010-01-13T15:39:00.000+11:00

I don't give a fuck about your children. Leave the internet alone. It's full of bomb recipes, midget porn and subversive organisations and that's just the way I like it.

Of course, you don't get any of this content unless you're looking for it. So is it the fact that the internet is so bad that upsets you poor, put-upon parents, or is it the fact that you have reared stubby deviants who seek out filth and depravity wherever it may be?

You did the same, only in the reference section of the library, where the dirtiest things you could find were the colour illustrations in The Human Body. You laughed, you drew delicate drops of cum shooting out of bits and pieces, then you got on with your life.

What about predators? Your kid is still more likely to be raped by someone you know and trust. Some psychologists studied and published some interesting findings. For those who are too lazy to click, they basically say you're idiots and should stop watching ACA.

Here's a solution which could save everyone a lot of money, time and frustration - put the computer in the living room. But your 9 year old has a laptop? Your 9 year old is a spoilt little shithead and nothing they see on the internet could ruin them as comprehensively as you already have. So rest easy!

We fucked each other up

2010-01-13T11:35:00.000+11:00

When I had my first psychologist appointment, I spent most of it talking about my sister. A few months later I told her this on the phone, and she laughed and said, "So did I." Touche.

ninafat - the creation myth

2010-01-10T14:42:00.000+11:00

The title of this blog is slightly deceiving, in that my name is Nina but I'm not actually fat. Not on the outside, at least. A sports physiology tester at the University of Swinburne described me as 'skinny fat', where a person looks normal but actually has a low lean muscle mass and high body fat percentage. Her calipers said I was practically obese. I told the calipers their mother was a monkey wrench and that they were just glorified nutcrackers. The calipers got so upset they had to take the rest of the day off. I recommend fitness testing at the University of Swinburne to those who want to be pinched, insulted and poorer.

However, the term skinny-fat actually describes me quite well. As a child I was chubby, and as a teenager I was fat. This fatness coincided with the time of your life where you establish your adult personality and sense of self. So no matter how thin I am on the outside, I am a fat person inside.

The fat person inside me still remembers what it was like to be fat. I felt sexless, unattractive and invisible and I was treated accordingly. There are fat people who wear it with panache but I was not one of them. I tended to overcompensate by being loud, mean or trying to be funny. That's still my default setting when I'm feeling a bit miserable.

When I lost a lot of weight in a short period of time I was suddenly visible. People came up to talk to me at parties. People looked at me more during group conversations. I didn't need to be funny or loud to get people to notice me. Anyone who doubts that people who look better get treated differently is on another planet. They say, "Oh, but you felt better about yourself, that's why people reacted to you differently." That's bullshit. As soon as I stepped away from the mirror I would forget that I had lost weight. I spent years as a thin person sitting with my arms crossed to prevent an imaginary stomach avalanche.

I compare peoples' behaviour towards me with my baseline of standard behaviour formed when I was fat. The difference is most marked with new acquaintances, and really doesn't register with people who have known me for years. I take note of all disparities with the fat standard and judge the offenders quite severely.

In this sense I am, and will always be, ninafat. A nickname which was coined by my highschool friend's particularly unimaginative little brother, but which somehow describes me perfectly.

She's in cowhell

2010-01-07T14:54:00.000+11:00

In which I offer an explanation for being the world's biggest marriage cynic

2009-12-31T10:59:00.000+11:00

It seems the mid to late 20s is the time for proposals. I find it hard to express how much distaste I have for the concept in the midst of all these fiances/ees. Who am I to rain on their expensive, unnecessary throwback-to-the-age-where-religion-had-a-stranglehold-on-us-all-and-women-were-treated-like-cattle-to-be-given-away-to-the-highest-bidder parade? Incidentally, I am not a fan of parades.

I respect the individual's right to choose to blindly follow tradition without interrogating the meaning behind much of the ceremony - marriage originally being a binding contract between you, the person you picked, and an entirely imaginary person in the sky. I just wish the individual would respect my lack of interest in endless discussion of their impending nuptials. You plan to insert your FF-blessed friend into an unforgiving strapless satin gown some colour that has a name like sage or marigold in the hopes that she will look quite a bit shitter than you do? And you're going to make her pay for it? You don't say. By the way, sage is a delicious herb and that dress is green.

I'm aware that I sound bitter and single. Actually I have a nice boyfriend and two happily married parents who have given me no reason to distrust the process. Yes, they're married to each other. In my generation this makes me something of an oddity. But why are so many people whose parents couldn't keep a marriage together running off in droves to do it themselves? Sometimes I feel like I'm part of one of the most backward generations ever, as if maybe behind all the ipods and bittorrents we're actually an incredibly conservative lot who just want the stability so many of our parents denied us.

The evidence of the carnage left by the boomers is in the wedding parties of generation Y. They are minefields littered with extra parents, brothers and sisters you barely know and uncles and their third wives (who look eerily like a genetic experiment involving the first and second wives). The baby boomers were so focused on their own happiness that they forgot to give us families which actually make sense. An obvious reaction to spending every second weekend with your real dad in his shitty bachelor pad is to try and nail down a stable homelife for yourself.

But this is the problem. It doesn't matter how many people you say it in front of, how big the party is or how good you looked in your tux. You can't put love in a contract. What, do you think that when you promise to love one person for the rest of your life, you will mean it while your parents didn't? They did mean it. And then one day they woke up and they didn't mean it anymore. Maybe they could've tried harder, dropping out when they should've been tuning in, but the reality is that the security we're all looking for doesn't exist. Life is chaos. And no matter how many of your friends you degrade in sage, you'll never make it otherwise.

Fuck you and your wicker dog too

2009-12-30T14:33:00.001+11:00

Summer brings with it the promise of hours spent perched atop the world's worst designed products - outdoor furniture. The human race has clearly not put our best minds on this, preferring instead to distract them with rubbish like cancer and moonwalking (both kinds). All I can say is that neither cancer nor space ever left splinters in my legs or covered my thighs in red wicker welts. How anyone who actually has a bottom can recommend a liberal application of cast-iron lacework to the area for relaxing times is beyond me.

Hammocks are a luxuriously comfortable exception, except for the fact they are a lethal weapon in any position other than recline. What other furniture offers the constant threat of becoming a headband or g-string at the slightest provacation, yet continues to be mass manufactured without question? To be cheerily gifted to brittle retirees and the famously sedate under-fives?

Chairs shouldn't require technique. Sitting down should be a no-brainer. I reject outdoor furniture the same way I reject fingernails you learn to type with, dresses you learn to breathe in and the little red shoes which would've taken you home all along, if only that fucking witch had bothered to tell you.

Operation Red Tide

2009-12-21T16:37:00.002+11:00

It's pretty weird how when women spend a lot of time together, their periods synchronise. Like our uteruses are having secret meetings in the dead of night when we're asleep. Sitting around a big round table like generals in a Cold War movie. They would be arguing about the dates, pointing angrily to calendars with bike trips and horse riding lessons marked on them. Potential sexual partners would be represented by toy soldiers on a 3D map of the dating terrain - we can't start Operation Red Tide while Easy Company is poised to cross third-date ridge! Someone would point out that Easy Company is always poised to cross third-date ridge and fisticuffs (vagicuffs?) would ensue.

Then my uterus, sitting quietly smoking a cigar, would suddenly slam an ovary down on the table, stunning the others into silence. Cigar still in place, it would growl, "We move on the 17th. Anyone have a problem with that?" Silence. My uterus would lean back in its chair and chew on its cigar. "Good. Now get the hell out of my war room, I'm about to have the painters in."

Fruits of the Forest

2009-12-17T15:43:00.000+11:00

Today at the supermarket the guy in front of me tried to return a half-eaten nectarine. He claimed that it was labelled 'juicy' but it wasn't even ripe. As a public service I have prepared the following possible retorts for checkout operators faced with cum-munching nectarine returners:

1) I am deeply sorry, Sir. I'm sure you understand the great shame involved in not meeting expectations in regards to firmness and lack of juice (look pointedly at crotch).

2) If you want to return it we need the whole thing, so if you could just surrender it into this bag I'd be happy to process a refund.

3) It is quite firm isn't it? (takes off shoe and hits nectarine repeatedly). Was there anything else I can help you with today?

4) Ooh, maths puzzle! If nectarines are 5.99 a kilo and a man returns 57 grams of nectarine, and the woman who is serving him is being paid 12.89 an hour and he takes up 7 minutes 11 seconds of her time, who should fuck off and get a life?

Have a nice day.

The Ghost of Pantsmas Past

2009-12-14T11:38:00.000+11:00

Discovering that the guy you like has a really small penis is like the worst Christmas day ever. You're rushing home all excited, because you've waited the amount of time you judge will put you safely out of the slut category, and now you get to open your pants present! Hooray!

Despite what the old wives say, there is absolutely no external indicator which reliably predicts the size, shape or functional soundness of uninvestigated members. Feet, noses or hand span bear no relation. If you're really paying attention there might be a whiff of overcompensation about him but even that could just be in response to having had shitty parents. It's the zip of faith, and until humans evolve further and start wearing transparent plastic jumpsuits in the japanesey bedrooms of the future, thus it will remain.

I am not an excellent actress. So my reaction to disappointment never really developed from, "No, this is great, just what I wanted, an astroturf bedspread/several crocheted magazine caddies/the potential for hours of sexual frustration! How did you know!? It will go really well with my wimbledon-themed bedroom suite/twill lazy boy armchair collection/vagina." All said through a slightly manic fixed smile.

Only in my mind will I be saying - yes, the vagina I had when I was 9. Sigh. Let's jump in my time machine and we can go back and give my 9 year old self the night of her life!

Telstra makes up customers, boyfriends, holidays in Spain

2009-12-10T12:07:00.000+11:00

Why is Telstra so bad at PR? They have money, they ostensibly have influence and connections, but they can't resist the opportunity to get people on staff to pretend they're ordinary customers reacting positively to whatever initiative has just been launched (and sunk).

They're super unpopular, that's true. But remember that lumpy girl with eczema at school who pretended she had a boyfriend? When you found out he was just her cousin doing her a favour, did her popularity suddenly soar through the roof? Or did it just confirm everyone's initial decision that she was a bit of a loser after all? Someone told someone high up in Telstra to 'fake it til you make it' and they really took it to heart.

I have some really bad news for Telstra. You know that whole social media thing that is so big and the future and stuff? Unpopular companies shouldn't bother with it. Just ask Chevy. You need to have some positive currency to work with. It's very similar to the way cool kids at high school could dress weirdly or do pranks which only boosted their popularity, but if outcasts tried the same thing they were harassed mercilessly.

Goodwill is essential. Telstra, yours is rock bottom. And every cousin that you invite to the school formal is just retracing the big L in the middle of your forehead.

Lost in translation

2009-12-07T22:16:00.000+11:00

I get really embarrassed if any of my friends hears me on a work call because I'm usually saying something like,

Yeah, yeah, well let's touch base on that moving forward to make sure you have something to talk to during the WIP...

Roughly, and please keep in mind that a lot of the poetry is lost in translation, this means

Call me tomorrow

The year of the bronze ox

2009-12-06T10:11:00.000+11:00

Having a car has changed my life. I buy canned goods with impunity. I sing along to Tom Waits, one of the three cds currently in the glovebox. I wonder why it's still called a glovebox, since gloves aren't the necessary driving items they once were. My car doesn't have a goggle caddy or scarf hook. Or slave quarters. Suddenly the bronze ox seems lacking. This is why I can't have nice things.

On Failure

2009-12-03T10:43:00.000+11:00

I have trouble associating myself with failure simply because it doesn't happen to me very often. Not getting in to a selective post grad writing course the first time - this is what happens to other people, not to me. Sympathy doesn't naturally come flooding for someone like me and that's ok. Success breeds success because when you walk into that room you walk in like someone who already has the job, is already in the course. And I'm lucky also that I've developed a pretty good sense of who I need to be to get the things I want.

So here's me, at the kitchen table, looking at the little pile of grey jelly that is my small failure. I don't know what to do with it or where it goes. It didn't move me as much as I feared I would, and I find I'm investing less of myself in these things as I get older. Years ago I was a wreck over failures that were invisible to the naked eye - an A- in Art Theory, for example. I'm sure there's all kinds of learning and growing to be had from this but I have no idea how to extract anything from it. I wonder if there has been some kind of mistake?

Don't look at me

2009-12-03T10:10:00.000+11:00

Did anyone else notice that the most obvious choice for the leadership of the Liberal Party, the Deputy Julie Bishop, wasn't even mentioned as a possible candidate? I thought that's what the Deputy was supposed to be there for.

She's going to stay Deputy with Abbott as Leader. It must be lovely to be the Liberal Party's spare tire - a little rough around the edges but would get you to the servo in a pinch. Not all the way to the election, though.

My Busy Day

2009-11-24T18:00:00.001+11:00

I went to the police station today to get some copies certified. No one was at the front desk. There was a sign which said,

Your presence has been noted by staff and you will be attended to you as soon as possible.

I think that would make a decent stencil with some editing. Your presence has been noted.

When I walked home I saw a giant cicada fight off a blackbird. The blackbird was trying to eat the cicada but the green beast was having none of it. Three times it had it in its beak and the cicada prised its jaws open and shook its ass in the bird's face. Finally the bird shrugged and left the bug to its sunny afternoon of triumph. Probably a sign of the apocalypse.

100 best moments of The Wire

2009-11-19T18:44:00.000+11:00

Some of the best writing for tv in history of the box.

Japan - the post

2009-11-19T15:58:00.000+11:00

Everyone goes to Japan, comes back and blogs about it. Sigh. They have ruined this for me. Photos of toilets, dogs in clothes, boob cake, alleys of vending machines are all over these here intarwebs.

I acquiesce.

1. The best song to listen to on a long train ride from Nagasaki to Tokyo at dusk - Coney Island Baby, Lou Reed. Who knew?

2. The country Japan idolises - France. You can't move for the dodgy croissants and berets.

3. Most important word to learn before you go - Kawaii. Means cute. You will hear this a lot.

4. It's not as expensive as you'd think - unless you like steak.

5. Always, always go down the alley.

6. If you're a professional mascot designer bring your kawaii folio and be prepared to retire on a pile of money with many beautiful ladies.

7. If you haven't eaten an unknown pickled vegetable today, you're not really doing Japan justice. I estimate that you could follow this rule for roughly four years.

8. Look around. If you see more than 3 or 4 foreigners, you are not anywhere cool and therefore wasting valuable time.

9. To avoid disappointment, have all tattoos lasered off before you try to go to an onsen (communal bath). Apparently the rule has something to do with gangsters.

10. All other places will feel barbaric and filthy in comparison. Be prepared.

Warrior pose indeed

2009-09-27T17:26:00.000+10:00

After a long break, I've decided to go back to yoga. Got myself a book, inserted my flabby self into a stretchy outfit and made the first step along the path to enlightenment this morning. How do I feel, you ask? I'm furious.

Most people associate yoga with a calm, cow eyed view of the world and everyone in it. Yoga is supposed to be relaxing, rejuvenating for the mind and body. The reality is that within a yoga session, there are triumphs, near misses, disasters and freak outs. It's an entire life condensed into an hour and a half. The way you react, how you approach each pose is analogous to the way you approach life.

Right now, I'm one wonky downward dog away from opening fire on the nearest orphanage. You should've heard the names I called my cat. I vacillated between abject self-pity to absolute loathing of the woman in the picture who was happily carrying out One-Legged Pigeon. She can probably do her taxes in this position, but all it inspires in me is a strong desire to murder death kill innocent bystanders.

This is entirely normal apparently, and the only important thing is that you stubbornly persist until you reach the end of your practice for the day. My instinct to eschew the communal yoga class was wise, however. I am the yogic destroyer of worlds, smasher of chakras, and right now I would like nothing more than to pick up a seasoned practitioner by their fisherman's pants and toss their smug bendy body like a cabre. Herbal tea, anyone?

You can't handle the FICTION!

2008-10-05T16:10:00.008+11:00

Recently, a library in Virginia celebrated the freedom to read in a pretty cool way:

It's so easy to think of the US as being full of close-minded book-banning types, until you take a look at the history of banned literature in Australia. This country banned Gore Vidal's The City and The Pillar until 1967, a book US citizens had had access to since 1948.

Both Ulysses and Lady Chatterley's Lover were banned in Australia, the Prime Minister Robert Menzies claiming that if he didn't want his wife reading the latter, then no one should be reading it. Personally, I think it was a bit of an insult to his wife's imagination to assume she could never get the idea of taking a lover on her own.

No Bob, it must be all those dirty books she's been reading.

Generally, banning books seems like a complete waste of time. Why would anyone ban Ulysses? The raciness of this novel is completely lost on the 95% of readers who never make it past page 17.

But it's important to pay attention to censorship, particularly if you could easily imagine it isn't still going on. I'd like to know just what the government doesn't want me to be reading. I'm not necessarily going to immediately read it online out of principle, but it seems important to recognise that this process is ongoing.

It would be cool to have a special black cabinet with a lock and key in which you kept history's most banned books. Alice in Wonderland, The Satanic Verses, The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, Peter Rabbit, The Bible and The Koran would snuggle in there together like little fiction ideabombs, ready to detonate in your brain. Excitement!

The banning of things seems a far more theoretical exercise since the advent of the internet anyway. You can get your hands on what you please nowadays, no more passing around a frayed copy of The Tropic of Cancer in the locker room. The Peaceful Pill Handbook, a euthanasia guide still banned in Australia is available as a digital download from their website. If you want to build a bomb, you'd head to the internet, not to the library.

Other than books which supposedly incite terrorists to action, there's no list online of the most challenged books in Australia. The excellent American Library Association publishes its own list. The number one most offensive book in America today is apparently a picture book about two male penguins who hatch an egg together.

And it's a true story! But I guess some would-be censors can't handle the truth.

Thanks to Boing Boing, the library in question, The Book Show and two little gay penguins who had a dream.

Lost and found

2008-09-26T21:47:00.002+10:00

The following post is something I wrote about a year ago and just discovered on my computer. Thought it was all right.

Those of you who know me may have heard about the manbargo. The manbargo was put in place shortly after the unscheduled events of July, and has been treating me well. It is a series of harsh sanctions against people of the penile persuasion, designed to give me a bit of a break.

I think that the time of the manbargo is coming to a close, however, because I seem to have inadvertently started stalking some handsome guy at the hospital where I work. I’m not doing it on purpose, he just keeps popping up all handsomely. Today I saw him and I had to hide behind a cake I was carrying. I have met him before, but I was wearing full scrubs and face mask at the time, so I don’t think he would recognise me.

I love scrubs. They exponentially increase handsomeness, I think it’s the cut or something. Anyway, I saw him and he was striding along in said scrubs, and I was taken off guard by said handsomeness so I hid behind my cake (black forest). This is what I was thinking:

1. I’m glad I baked such a big cake.
2. I turned 26 today. Do 26 year olds hide behind baked goods?
3. This is ridiculous. I have every right to be in this hallway. Why am I hiding? I shall peek over the cake.
4. Arrgh! Too handsome! Retreat!

Things I done seen

2008-09-21T21:33:00.003+10:00

I get so nervous when introduced to my superiors.

Luckily I am able to work at home to avoid distractions.

My store, my... errr

Non-agalmatophiliacs can consider this your unicorn chaser.

Get a haircut and a mindfuck at the same time.

2008-02-24T17:35:00.001+11:00

Ok, put on your headphones and listen to this.

Thank jebus for BoingBoing.

Sorry.

2008-02-12T20:07:00.000+11:00

So often Australians think of New Zealand as a younger sibling - the little island on the side that is always trying to compete, trying to catch up.

But when I first came to Australia, I often felt like I had slipped into a time warp, back to before the Waitangi Comission, before Te Reo in schools, before I was born. Australian race relations were stuck in the 60s, in a knot of denial and bitterness. It was almost as if the government thought it could wait aboriginality out.

It's funny how one little election changes so much. Tomorrow, a beautifully written 300 words or so will be presented by the Australian Government (and even the Opposition, after the obligatory posturing) to all the people of Australia. It says that you're sorry for the things you've done to each other.

Being sorry isn't a sign of weakness. Carrying the burden of the terrible things done in this country's history (as in my own) weighs everyone down. Until regret is expressed, how can forgiveness be given? And to remain unforgiven is a terrible thing.

These are 300 words not just for the stolen generation but for everyone with a history in this place. And you can feel pride that you've brought Australia to this point together, to the beginning of what will be a long process of reconciliation and healing.

It will take years. But as the wrongs are slowly uncovered and you try to make things right, you'll feel this love for your country that has nothing to do with sporting achievements or wearing your flag as a cape. It's a fierce and slow-burning pride in the way things are headed, the way you do things now, which is a million miles away from blind patriotism.

Dust Jacket Quotes for the Inevitable Novelisation of the Hawaii Chair

2008-02-09T18:13:00.000+11:00

One minute and five seconds of proof that Rome is burning.

Glenn Peters, social commentator.

I think it would go well with booze.

Darren Willis, professional sedent.

Did he just say, "This feels great on my ass!"?

Me.

Tom Cruise - Fingering Aliens with Ethics Since, Like, Forevers!

2008-01-29T20:56:00.000+11:00

You know how you'll set a goal, and then fail at it?

http://video.236.com/services/link/bcpid1272014315/bclid1125909605/bctid1393777832

I DON'T DO THAT

Vanilla Ice's Nona Rocks Focaccia Like Vandal

2008-01-27T08:38:00.000+11:00

Corey Delaney - Dead Set Legend

2008-01-17T09:31:00.000+11:00

There is nothing inherently interesting about Corey Delaney. But, by virtue of his being a very model of a modern Australian teenager, he has landed himself in a battle over the morals of youf.

If you look at ACA's incredibly mishandled attempt to shame him into repentance:

"You need to take a long, hard look at yourself."

"I did. Everyone did. And they love it."

you'll realise that this is way bigger than the generation gap. This is new media vs old media - TV, radio, they just don't know what to do with him. Time was, scoundrels could be rooted out by shows like ACA, and they would run to their cars, hands over their faces. Shamed.

But shame doesn't work on the unshameable. And for a generation of kids who have grown up with Big Brother, notoriety doesn't just resemble fame - it is the same thing exactly. Desirable in every sense.

He's unflinching, unrepentant, neither cowed nor dazzled by the lustre of old media. He walked out of a radio interview after one of the hosts tried to get his famous glasses off. You'll see the same fight in the aisles of supermarkets all over the world, between stubborn toddlers and their exasperated parents. It's the frustration of someone who feels that they're not getting the deference that they deserve, that surely this should be easy - this is just a kid, after all.

But that's exactly why it works. No one but a 15 year old could manage to be this unimpressed by everything. Being unimpressed is the raison d'etre of 15. The people he's supposed to be awed by are irrelevant to him and his mates. I'd love to see him on Dr Phil, he'd probably reduce the old bastard to tears.

There are Facebook groups for and against, and threats have been issued. This isn't what things used to be like, for sure. TV used to have some kind of authority, you know? But they destroyed that when they handed most of their programming content to The People.

It's all fucking entertaining though, like watching the Hindenberg go down, safe in the knowledge that every single person on it is a complete wanker.

She doesn't give a fig for Newton

2008-01-12T09:41:00.000+11:00

Among the more memorable sights and sounds at Ding Dong last night:

A certain Nightwatchman wailing the shit out of a harmonica. Then some tiny woman crossed the floor to tell him just how much she liked it. Instrument of love indeed.

One specific hipster with elastic-ankled high water jeans, no socks and sandshoes.

Two particular tits flagrantly disobeying several Laws of Physics. Although the owner displayed an uncanny facility for the one about levers.

And the best overheard conversation snippet?

I haven't seen Brokeback Mountain, but...

ASKJLmnDSJKFSADfasjklafjk;afdj;djhga;gadh

2007-12-31T09:42:00.000+11:00

There's nothing like a little snarky workplace poetry to make a girl wonder why she came in at all. I'll never understand the thought process which results in the following literary abortion:

To those folk who leave dirty dishes behind
I find it very timely to remind
No one is paid to clean up after you
It is something that the user must do

So to help make this kitchen a nice clean place
To ensure that for all there is plenty of space
Wash and wipe your dishes and put them away
The Karma you receive will lighten your day

To those who like to leave a mess behind
Sooner or later I am sure that you will find
Not a clean plate, knife, fork or cup to use
And only yourself who you can accuse

Surely the effort of finding/composing, printing, and LAMINATING such a godawful specimen is greatly in excess of what you'd spend rinsing a smudgy glass. But a person who can't find a consistent meter in a poem of 12 lines is no friend to logic.

It's the smorgasbord approach - tetrameter, pentameter, hexameter? Yes please! I don't know what you call a line with 5 1/2 feet, other than the definition of dancing to your own drum. Which you made from the skin of the innocent. That or you foolishly allowed an amputee to join your conga line.

Here's a poem for you, oh bard of the dishrack, which I think captures the office kitchen zeitgeist somewhat more efficiently.

I hate you
and myself.

The Secret Fears of Us

2007-12-19T14:08:00.000+11:00

I wonder how wise it is to be posting my number one fear, in case the unscrupulous use it against me in the future. I hope I don't know anyone that terrible.

Behold the terror:

Well, not so much this, as this:

or this:

and I don't even want to contemplate this:

When I was little, my sister would have balloons at her birthday parties. Straight after the party I would creep around and bite a tiny hole in the knot of each balloon so it would quickly deflate. This meant I had to put my face right up into each balloon, but I took the risk because I wouldn't be able to relax until they were all deactivated. I will never understand what makes balloons associated with good times. If I could, I would ban them forever.

People find this fear hilarious. Well, guess what! You probably have a stupid fear which I find hilarious. Spiders? Snakes? Blood and guts? Bah. I watched a lung transplant, and if the theatre tech had offered me a toasted cheese sandwich I wouldn't have said no.

Stupid fears are such revealing and human things. A friend of mine faints if she takes her own pulse. Another is scared of escalators. My flatmate is terrified of jewellery. And my sister screams if she sees that jelly which congeals on the bottom of a roast chicken.

These people drink, smoke, overeat, drive cars, and cross the street - all activities which are far more likely to kill you than chicken jelly. But it's not death we're afraid of, when it comes down to it, is it? Everyone has something that they secretly feel is worse. Post yours (unless it's posting on blogs, in which case, just relax, breathe deeply, and think about unicorns).

Eh?

2007-12-07T20:42:00.000+11:00

I've had a nasty bout of the flu and am currently deaf in one ear.

Being half deaf isn't that bad. It's a license to squint at people and call them 'sonny'. But the best example of the deaf-advantage was discovered by a friend of mine back in Christchurch.

She (we'll call her Wendy, because that is in fact her name) was walking home from work one evening along the tram tracks on a quiet street in Christchurch city. Christchurch has trams, but they are a tourist attraction rather than a genuine means of transport - as they are slow, expensive, and run on a pathetically small loop around the cbd. When she got to the end of the street she casually glanced behind her.

Bearing down on her was an angry looking tram driver and a lot of impatient tourists. They had been stuck behind her as she ambled along the street. Her first instinct was to blurt out

I'm deaf!

and gesture at her ears. She even did that deaf voice. You know the one.

Feigning a disability as a reflex action certainly has its merits. Tourette's could have its uses, as could selective dyslexia.

Because what kind of motherfucking asswipe shit cunts fine someone for parking in a 'Postponing' zone?

Smile!

2007-12-06T20:52:00.000+11:00

Ninafat's Man On The Street excitedly reported spotting a van this evening. Exciting news in itself (everyone loves a good van), but this wasn't just any van. This was a Google Maps van!

It appears that we are soon to be on the map. In astonishing detail. As-you-undress-tonight-I'd-stay-away-from-the-windows level of detail. People have recognised their cats from these maps.

The cats were doing what they always do, which is the beauty of cats. People get caught doing things they wouldn't like to admit they do because they are inferior animals unable to live as they please. Cats never get caught doing anything surprising because they do what they like right in your face. In fact, they subtly prefer it.

Oh the unsuspecting denziens of Melbourne, how many illicit trysts, how many joints behind the bike sheds, how many underwear adjustments have been captured for the world's amusement today?

Since my life is currently devoid of anything other than as the crow flies orthodox behaviour, I have nothing to fear. Which is a bit embarrassing in itself. I believe that every day you should do at least one thing you hope no one saw you do.

Otherwise, when you're abducted by aliens and put on display in an extra-terrestrial wildlife reserve, you won't miss anything at all. And that would be a shame.

The Young and the Listless

2007-11-21T19:05:00.000+11:00

Yes, I'm still alive, and I haven't forgotten about you! It has just been a little while since I had anything to say worth saying. You may have noticed that my recent posts have been on the maudlin side, and for that I apologise. I survived the downward swing of Fortuna's wheel, and I think I can feel it coming back up again.

When you've been through a bit of a rough spot, it's funny how just managing the little things is enough. Here is an exhaustive list of my current activities, in an order which is deeply meaningful only you'll never work it out:

Cooking
Eating
Apologising
Sleeping
Running
Feeding my cat
Working
Sitting on trains
Reading
Talking
Writing
Turning up to things

And quite frankly, this is all I can really handle right now. It's a small kind of life, but what I'm doing, I'm doing properly.

Did you notice that writing hilarious blog posts was not on the list? If you bear with me, I'm sure it'll be on there eventually.

I was a Friend of Dorothy

2007-11-12T20:15:00.000+11:00

My ex boyfriend. Sigh. I guess I was having boy problems even before I realised I was having boy problems.

Oh, and this is my 100th post, apparently. Woo.

Greetings from Outer Space

2007-11-04T18:50:00.000+11:00

This is what I've been doing, basically every day since I got back to Christchurch. Sometimes I run, sometimes I walk, but I've always got the dog.

I miss having a dog, and a deserted beach half an hour away from my house, and a sister hanging around just dying to be dragged into the great outdoors.

When I get back to Melbourne I'm going to save up for a car, and then move somewhere a bit further out of the city where I'll have a stretch of coastline to come home to every night. It's easy to take space for granted where I'm from, this highly underpopulated place, but I think I've been starved of it for too long.

I Scream...

2007-11-04T17:34:00.000+11:00

...you scream, we all scream for we're trapped in an icecream label for all eternity and no one can save us from this delicious hell.

The Day The Music Spontaneously Combusted

2007-10-28T19:42:00.000+11:00

I had a pretty good weekend.

Pianos burn good.

That's a Mighty Fine Dog You've Got There

2007-10-25T17:02:00.000+10:00

Thank you Boing Boing, thank you this person, thank you world.

Is It You Or Is It Me?

2007-10-23T18:13:00.000+10:00

I had forgotten all about Shortland Street, the hospital melodrama which captivates millions of New Zealanders (maybe even all 4!) every night at 7 o'clock. For those expats jonesing for a fix, here's an update.

The hospital has been terrorised by a serial killer for an unreasonably long period of time. What do they think this is, Coronation Street? The investigator currently holed up in the hospital interrogating suspects is employing interesting new techniques with the CEO, Chris Warner. Apparently vaginal interrogation is more effective than one might suppose.

Some girl who wasn't on the show last Christmas had her birthday party. She has a friend with Tourette's who gave her a present and called her a skank. I love how they're not afraid to tackle the big issues.

Another 17 year old boy is in love with his friend's mother. I fail to recall a significant 17 year old character on Shortland Street who hasn't done this. It's a rite of passage, like your first hammed up drunk scene, and the first friend to commit suicide after coming out to their intolerant parents.

Otherwise it's more of the same. Hideously stiff overacting, embarrassingly misplaced slang, and when one character talks EVERYONE is paying attention. It's a lot like watching a school play, only no one is dressed as a tree. No wonder though, as this hidden camera footage reveals who's really making the big calls in these magical isles.

On Deadlines

2007-10-22T18:22:00.000+10:00

Whether you're a writer or not, we all face deadlines. Some are set in stone, some are the fuzzy kind up for negotiation, some are set for us, and some we set for ourselves. Some deadlines you don't even know about until you've missed them.

When you're waiting to see what kind of person someone is, deadlines present themselves. The time between calls that shows that they're busy, forgetful, flippant, self-absorbed, possibly ignoring you, definitely ignoring you, possibly an asshole, definitely an asshole. They're not set times, but you both feel it as you pass through them, they are undeniable.

And then there's the deadline when you realise there won't be any more to come, that a person has disappointed you as much as they possibly could have, and you've given them more time than they ever deserved.

I don't much like posting personal stuff, but tonight I'm bending the rules because I feel like this one needs to be marked somehow. Even if only by a couple of paragraphs floating out in the ether.

I think people hate deadlines because they force us to look at what is rather than imagine what might be. But they also let you recognise when you've done all you can do, and free you up to move onto the next thing, whatever that turns out to be.

So here's to deadlines, and to the people who demonstrate their worth by meeting them.

Books Keep Secrets

2007-10-17T22:05:00.000+10:00

The story starts in a cafe. I was drinking tea with a friend, when we noticed an ultra-hipster sitting nearby. He was ticking all the boxes, although the newish looking volleys were judged by one onlooker to be 'taking the piss'. His standout feature? An ipod cunningly encased in a second-hand book.

Spy stuff is cool. So today I trotted off to find a suitable tome to house my pod.

Cute, huh.

Don't worry, the poetry was complete ass, I checked first. But about halfway through slicing and dicing, something fell out from between the pages.

And this is where things get interesting. Meet my mystery man.

But who could he be? He wasn't the original owner of the book...

If you look very closely at the negative, he's posing in a natty suit in a suburban backyard, standing next to what appears to be a tailor's tape-measure. Curiouser and curiouser.

The back of a particularly soppy book of poetry is a strange place to keep a single photo negative. That is, unless you're not meaning for anyone to know you've got it. Mrs Richardson, you saucy vixen!

I'm going to get a print made up, and have a good look at whoever this is. I figure I owe Mrs Richardson, the loving Beryl Peitehand, and the rest of the gang of '35 that much. Sometimes the world feels like it's lost its sparkle, and then something tiny and strange happens. And when it does, when you feel like you're being let in on someone else's story 72 years later, it's just magic.

YouTube - The Poor Woman's Therapy

2007-10-16T11:32:00.000+10:00

Sometimes you feel like a bit of an idiot. This is common, human, and entirely endurable. But if you, like me, feel the need to see how things could be worse, then look no further than Miss Douglas. Here she is, boldly giving new meaning to the word talent. If you think of it like that, she's sort of like Shakespeare, but with more ducking.

I'm concerned that she is actually a cellist who, in a cruel and bitchy backstage prank by the girl who will stop at nothing to win, had her chosen instrument swapped at the last minute. In which case, she's certainly a trooper.

Originally from Defamer.

Liveblogging In Rainbows

2007-10-10T18:50:00.000+10:00

Other people liveblog big tv awards shows like the Oscars and the Emmys. Personally, those things make me want to poke out my eyes with a cake fork. Ellen DeGeneres? No thanks, I'm driving.

But today is the day of days, the release of the new Radiohead album, In Rainbows! If you haven't bought your copy already you can do so here.

6:54 - downloading the album. My lips are moist with anticipation. For the record, you're all a bunch of dirty-minded cuntwads.

6:56 - 7 seconds to go! Am I really ready for this?

6:58 - Someone's hitting a pot with a spoon. I fucking love these guys.

6:59 - I immediately like this. Therefore, it cannot be an incredible work of genius. Genius makes your ears bleed. The first song, 15 step, has a lot of stuff going on. Echoes, even. The distorted drum machine sounds like Idioteque. Although this is melodic and easier to listen to.

7:01 - Forget that, key change just made me wince. Radiohead likes to make you work a little.

7:01 - Bodysnatchers is on. Jaunty! When I first listened to Ok Computer, I fucking hated it. The second time, I was in love. Sometimes sounds are so different to what you're used to they're hard to accept. It's your ears that suck, not the music, and you have to be re-educated.

7:05 - Nude. I could never get sick of Thom's voice. No one can ever sound as simultaneously strong and flaky as this guy, he's always in the death throes.

7:09 - Weird Fishes/Arpeggi. So far everything is a lot more laid back than I was expecting. This is practically a seaside driving song. I think someone must be in love.

7:13 - The seaside drive has turned into a gauntlet, due to stormy seas and the driver's flashbacks to a previous crash on the same road. And we're back.

7:15 - All I Need. Uh oh. Someone is back in love again. Of course, when Thom's in love 'he's just an insect', so it's not all puppies and rainbows. But there are triangles, which is as close as Radiohead is ever going to get.

7:19 - Faust Arp. Cool. It has urgency, which is something I've always loved about their music. This track is the most densely written so far, which is probably what does it.

7:21 - Reckoner. Everything swells up and drops away, the track starts with so much sharp percussion and then casts it off. I can hear the sound that change makes in your pocket when you run.

7:26 - House of Cards. Honestly, I think some of the writing has lost its edge. Said the amateur blogger. The sound is full and round, but the meaning just doesn't seem to be there.

7:31 - Jigsaw Falling Into Place. This is a bit harder, with a confusing chorus. Stuff is jumping around all over the place, guitars sound like they're slipping out of key rather than changing chords. Music to kill girls by.

7:35 - Videotape. The world's coolest death march. I only hope I die young enough, rich enough, and cool enough to have them play my funeral.

7:40 - It's all over? God, that was quick! But that's ok, because this was just the first of many, and it'll get better and better, because it's love.

Ashley Madison Is Not Your Wife's Personal Trainer

2007-10-10T13:08:00.000+10:00

This might be old news for some, but it was news to me. A link in an article on my new favourite blog Jezebel whisked me away to the heady world of extramarital affair agencies. That's right, for the low low cost of $360 US, you get 6 months access to a database of people just itching (hopefully not literally itching) to get in touch with some taken bacon.

They say here that 'even swans are not monogamous.' Well, if it's good enough for swans... I've also recently taken up biting small children and eating water plants. (Thanks to the joys of the internet, while looking up what swans actually eat I discovered that there are gay swans. It seems they're a far more progressive species than anyone gives them credit for. It should be 'fucks like a swan'.)

The Ashley Madison Agency sounds like it was named after someone's precocious 3 year old. Check out the photo on the front page. That's what you get when you search for saucy+listener-hearing aid on Getty.

Their charming tagline, 'When Monogamy Becomes Monotony' warms the cockles of my heart. I suspect the whole site was set up by a group of divorce lawyers looking to drum up some business. Well, I would suspect it, apart from the fact that there are no divorce lawyers in the developed world who actually need to do that.

Your credit card bill will show 'Ashley Madison' which is really unhelpful. Ashley Madison is a person whose presence on your bill has to be explained. They should've just called it 'Wildlife Trust' or something. Ha! Because of the swans!

I wonder if they do gift certificates. I thought of a new tagline - For the Philanderer Who Has Everything! It'll be the most memorable wedding present they receive.

Melbourne Sure Showed Me

2007-10-03T16:40:00.000+10:00

At the Melbourne Show, you get to commune with the wonders of the natural world.

Didn't see that exhibit? Perhaps you'll recognise the specimen in its adoptive habitat.

Even after two years, I still have so much to learn about this place.

The Battle of Semantics

2007-10-02T21:59:00.000+10:00

I was cleaning my bedroom today and found a month-old editorial piece I had cut out of The Age, meaning to blog about it. It's a short piece about the decision by the Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade to officially extinguish the term 'war on terror'.

The phrase, meaningfully meaningless, has always struck me as a brand rather than a historical event. Iraq - Just Do It. More Than a Feeling. Just for the Taste of It. Think Different. Snap, Crackle, Pop? Sort of evocative without pinning you down to any specific promises.

Lucky it wasn't called Project Definitive Victory, or there would be a lot of red faces right now. Wait, I can see a few anyway.

The problem with brands is that they are almost infinitely extendable. The 'war on terror' started in one country and switched to another in a way that the Vietnam War never could. Way to make one of the 20th Century's most hated wars seem not quite so bad after all. At least you knew where it was.

But we are left with the tricky situation of not having a name for whatever it is that is being done. When I stop to think about the scale of this evil, which is the worst kind, that perpetrated by people who are not entirely bad but hopelessly misguided, I am staggered by it.

More intelligent and informed people than me have written and will write about this historical non-war, will be personally touched by it, have a hand in ending it. I can't see a way of just pulling out now, that would be sentencing a country to rip itself to pieces. But as an entirely ordinary spectator who was just standing on the corner minding her own business, I'd like to register one vote of despair at what has been done.

Them's Fightin Pantsuits

2007-09-30T23:35:00.000+10:00

If we were really serious about making contact with aliens, we would broadcast this scene from Dynasty into space in a perpetual loop.

After watching it, don't humans seem more interesting and worthy of study? I know I'd take a million light-year detour to see this crazy freak-show in person. Or in alien. Whatever. You can all thank me after the probe-fest.

Til Death Do Us Part

2007-09-24T19:15:00.000+10:00

This post is wholly for the edification of un-Australians.

Coming from the South Island of New Zealand, I thought I knew a little something about team sport obsession en masse. It's grand final week here. The ripple effect is irrefutable. I'm going out on a first date on a MONDAY because this weekend is hallowed ground.

There is one charming thing about all this silliness. All over the world, the commitment phobia of men is decried, but I can't see how anyone in Melbourne, in grand final week, could doubt the Australian Man's ability to commit.

In Australia, you pick your team when you're around 5 or 6, based on many factors. Many will follow family lines, but occasionally there's a rogue who chooses another team, seemingly out of the blue. How do you explain away such an anomaly?

"Well, my great-aunt barracked for them."

As if it's a recessive gene which conjured a ginger child in a family of brunettes.

Once you've picked your team, the colours are indelible. Due to the weird system of giving the best young talent to the teams who performed worst in the season, no one team dominates forever, so it's not a case of simply picking the best team and going with them. It's for better or worse. I know someone considering a tattoo commemorating their club's last premiership. It occurred before they were born.

This is all very quaint. But it's this conversation which charms my pants off:

"Oh, we don't deserve to win this year. The team's not ready. I reckon though, in about 5 years we'll have a real shot."

I've heard this from different people, about different teams. It says a lot about the life-long commitment people make to these clubs, even though they're not physically involved in the game.

Of course, they think they are. Physically involved. To the point of not wanting anything good to happen, in case the week's luck gets used up, and the only way the universe can balance itself is to make their team lose.

Unfortunately, it was a good week for all concerned, the team in question lost by a very small margin, and tears were shed. Not by me, though. How delightful to be an un-Australian.

In an Unguarded Moment

2007-09-23T11:01:00.000+10:00

Spring is here, and everyone knows what that means.

Small dogs rooting their snoopy toys under cafe tables. He knew it was a bit dodgy because whenever someone walked past, he would act all innocent, like 'what? I'm chewing here, GOD!'

If this strikes you as hilariously misguided, remember that you probably employed the same defense when you were 13 and got caught with, well, whatever you got caught with.

Shocking Health Scandal Shocks Many

2007-09-20T07:22:00.000+10:00

I'm sick of the double standards in this country.

One hospital for the druids, and one for the rest of us. And you just know their waiting room will have the latest issue of Poof!

Elegantly Dressed Wednesday

2007-09-19T18:18:00.000+10:00

I remember watching Gone With The Wind one lazy Sunday afternoon as a kid, sprawled on the couch with no shoes on, peeling my legs periodically off the sticky fake leather. I was eating a popsicle and it was getting all over the place in that fantastic way that popsicles always do.

Gone With The Wind is about a world, and in a sense, an idea of femininity which I had previously been sheltered from. As I lay there in shorts and a t-shirt, I watched as Scarlett ordered her housemaid to cinch her waist to ridiculous dimensions (I think it was 19 inches but I could be wrong on that one). Scarlett was the ultimate 'Rules' woman, swooning and cinching her way into the heart of her beau.

She was elegant, gorgeous, and a complete dick. Even Rhett tells her to fuck off in the end. Every now and then, women kid themselves into thinking that true femininity is untouchable, brittle beauty cultivated at great pain and expense. Glamour is back, Vogue declares. Which heralds the return of glamourous bunions, break-outs, and chafing.

The whole thing is bullshit. I know this has been said before. But let's take a moment this Elegantly Dressed Wednesday to remember that elegance comes from within. Practice exuding it standing naked in front of the mirror. Be elegantly undressed in front of someone you think is a bit spesh, even if that person is yourself.

PS Probably best to check that the other person's ok with your no-doubt elegant nudity before proceeding. I wouldn't want to break any hearts.

Elegantly Dressed Wednesday

2007-09-12T21:29:00.001+10:00

The monobrow is beauty's deadzone. No one comes out with their allure intact. My fine, ferociously Scottish eyebrows consider the space between them as the final frontier, so I speak from experience.

Of course, there's nothing quite like an unattractive look to demonstrate your panache to the world. Like how a very pretty girl shaving her head says, "Hey, I'm so damn gorgeous, who even NEEDS hair? Uglies, that's who." And yes, yes we do.

People who aren't Frida Kahlo need tweezers. Never let it be said that I support the monobrow. It has been done once, very well, and should be retired, much like a great sportsperson's shirt number.

I am inordinantly fond of Ms Kahlo. She would give all the best advice, I am sure. If your husband cheated on you, she would advise that you fuck one of your boyfriends with a papier mache dildo in the shape of your miscarried foetus up against one of your husband's freshly painted frescoes. Take that, philandering scum! That's Kahlo brand justice smeared across your noble revolutionary workers!

Then she would advise that you write about it in your insane diary, leave it lying around so he finds it, have a massive fight where the slapping gives way to crazy monkey sex, become a cripple in a tragic accident, and paint a few hundred pictures with whatever gusto you have left over.

Again, this may be something only Frida could pull off. But Elegantly Dressed Wednesday is all about inspiration, shooting for the stars, and whathaveyou. So go crazy!

This One's a Keeper

2007-09-09T22:04:00.000+10:00

I knew that tasty bit of fish bobbing around in the bathtub was too good to be true...

...but sometimes you just have to put on your best Olsen twin trout pout and go with it.

I'm still in the adjustment period (see above), but so far I fucking love the ring. Love it. No one else loves it, but for once it's enough that I do. The ring's quite big to allow for swelling, but in a month or so I will go and get a smaller, thinner one which will hug the shape of my lip better.

The piercing is something I've wanted to do for ages now, but I always had a reason not to. The reasons were generally based on what other people would think of it (partner, employer etc). But on Saturday I finally stepped up to the reassuringly hygienic plate (Off Ya Tree on Swanston St) and decided to do it.

Because when it comes down to it, it's my damn lip and I'll do what I want with it.

It hurt a bit, but not heaps, and not for long. About as much as donating blood. It was mostly the thought of what was about to happen to my poor, innocent lip that was scary. But it was also exciting, and what's weird is that I still feel excited about it.

It's like taking back the night, only the night is my face. I keep catching glimpses of my reflection and thinking, "Yeah! Awesome!" I can't remember ever having done that before. You could say, I'm hooked. Har har.

Paris Simpson

2007-09-04T20:14:00.000+10:00

Sweet dreams, kids.

Masochists click links

All Aboard The S.Estrogen

2007-09-03T20:34:00.000+10:00

A Nelson man had to swim to shore after his date made him walk the plank and stole his boat following an argument on the vessel.

Kiwi girls, eh? Brings a tear to my eye.

But who hasn't been so exasperated with the whole messy dating game that they wanted to make a grand gesture? Gestures surely come no grander than pushing the dick off his fancy yacht and promptly sailing it into a sandbar.

He was probably going on about how Entourage is the best show ever. In which case, no lady-pirate court in the world would convict her.

Link

Inelegantly Dressed Wednesday

2007-08-29T20:41:00.000+10:00

Elegance is a rare quality these days. So rare that I haven't run into anyone who fits the bill this week. However, inelegance has its place, if only to teach by example.

This young man about town selflessly sacrificed several swank points in order to teach us that the last look in the mirror before you leave the house cannot be dispensed with. Also, only hairdressers and rock stars can get away with white belts with suit pants. Sorry to be the one to break it to you, Squire Bumtongue.

Our second lesson comes from another brave commuter who has martyred his ensemble for the cause of educating us all about style.

If you think his impression of an erect penis taking the train to work is good, you should see his Nixon.

PS If your head requires a reservoir tip, call an ambulance.

It Takes Clive James to Tango

2007-08-25T23:12:00.000+10:00

I just got back from my first brush with Melbourne's literary intelligentsia (at least, the ones who don't follow the footy). Oh yes, I have danced with the elitist devil of the Melbourne Writer's Festival.

My new dark brown hair and I blended in splendidly. If I had worn my scarf and dark-rimmed glases, I probably could've been confused with all manner of people more connected and well-versed than myself. You know you're in the right festival when you overhear someone saying excitedly, "Quick, Clive James is tangoing in the marquee!"

I listened to Free and Easy, and it was pretty good, although 1 hour is not nearly long enough for Cory Doctorow to talk about anything. He knows about things, this much is clear, and pulverised the argument of 'that guy from the Chaser'. Cory was arguing that making books available on the internet for free actually sells more books, and makes more money than trying to prevent people distributing them illegally.

It's the marketing ploy which many a school-yard drug dealer has employed to great effect - give them a little something for free and they'll come back begging to pay for the whole product. The whole product in this case being the book for reals. Cory reckons that the existence of digital copies doesn't kill forms which have inherent value, or delivery methods which add value to content (which are really the only ones you should pay for anyway). And that fighting against the inevitability of information becoming easier to copy is pointless, so you might as well make it work for you.

This argument has never swayed me before, perhaps it's because I'm an eldest child and therefore less likely to rage against the machine of established publishing practice. Giving something away for free lowers its intrinsic value. The old system makes it hard to get published, so getting published is a sign that your book has value. I do like a bit of validation.

But tonight I realised that this value system doesn't align with the way that I feel or behave in practice. For example, Boing Boing is the site which Cory co-edits, and although I don't pay to read it, I value it highly because it's interesting, funny, and well-written. I write this blog for free, hoping that as many people who are interested will read it, pass it along to their friends, comment on it, quote from it. And the more people who do this, the more successful it will be, in blog terms anyway.

So I think I was wrong. Someone asked me once why I would write a blog and just give my writing away for free, but I think that's a weird way to look at creativity and writing in general. As if you've got a finite amount of good stuff inside you, and you have to carefully meter it out. It seems to me that writing begets writing, and the more you do it, the better it gets.

Writing for no audience is like dancing with a mop in your kitchen. Madness if you've got an eager and willing partner stowed in the linen closet. What I'm trying to say is - you're the sweaty Clive James to my marquee tango, and I couldn't do it without you.

Ointment Shares Skyrocket

2007-08-22T19:59:00.000+10:00

1 in 3 has an STD. Look to the left, look to the right. If it ain't them, well, it must be me.

Robert Breaud, World's Greatest Christian Statistician.

It's so unfair that people preaching abstinence always have such an advantage over the rest of us

Darren, Comely Atheist.

I Fold

2007-08-20T20:14:00.000+10:00

For a guy who lived in the 18th century, Piranesi sure seems like he spent a lot of time on the phone.

On hold. These are some seriously worked-over pieces. They're not small, either. Although I suspect that most of them started with his initials, and he just worked out from there.

Piranesi has inspired the admiration of many artists, architects, and art patrons. The exhibition I went to at the NGV included the work of Vik Muniz, an artist who liked Piranesi's Imaginary Prisons so much he decided to recreate them.

Let's be clear here. Etching is a painstaking, labourious process. It is in no way an artistic short-cut. But, in the true spirit of oneupmanship, here's a hell of a way to make Piranesi look like the slackest cunt on Grey St.

I see your art, and raise you your art recreated with string wrapped around pins.

Vik Muniz's other interests include; playing the piano with his eyelashes, running ultra marathons backwards, and generally making everyone look bad. If I ever meet him, I'm going to give him a good kick in the shins, and say, "Piranesi says hi!"

It Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time

2007-08-16T20:25:00.000+10:00

Sometimes you just have to abandon that ill advised winter popsicle and move on with your life.

Elegantly Dressed Wednesday

2007-08-14T22:09:00.000+10:00

Sophie is a friend of my sister, a lovely lady galavanting around Europe with her husband in tow. Here she is taking in the sweaty London club scene.

What I like best about Sophie is that although she always looks like a lady, her favourite topics of conversation are as follows:

Interesting Bowel Movements of the Past Week
Sexual Misadventures III
Women She Would Totally Do

So charming! If you want to ogle more elegance, pop over here.

I Can't Believe It's Not Rob

2007-08-13T22:31:00.000+10:00

Many men harbour a secret belief that they are a dead ringer for Rod Stewart. Unfortunately, a lot of hairspray and some highlights can only take you so far. Here's Rod himself to remind us all of the impossibility of that dream.

This is a man who is only born once. When I die I will ask God about it and she will shrug and say, "everyone experiments a little at uni." I don't like his music but you have to admire his... I don't even know what that is. How is it that he looks more dirty than most people look while naked and fucking twins?

But men will still try to scale an impassable peak. Some even make a living from it. I assume they play a lot of 50th birthday parties.

I wouldn't mind having a fake Rod on staff, for those times when the fake Chelsea Clinton just isn't going to cut it. So let's have a Rod-Off, and decide once and for all who truly deserves the crown as the world's most passable imitation. Stay in school, kids.

This Rod wore his lips off kissing supermodels. Correction - Rod doesn't kiss. Rod pashes.

Rod's auntie gets in on the act at someone's wedding reception.

This guy looks like Rod if you shake your computer screen up and down and squint.

Here we have a perfect example of a person who doesn't look much like Rod, but seems to be channeling his spirit. Extra points for looking very Scottish (the stone wall helps). He performs mostly in coal-mines and zip factories.

No. My Grandmother's bunion does a better Rod.

I'm leaning towards Rod-in-spirit over Lipless-Rod, but in these matters a second opinion is invaluable, so feel free to chime in.

Ready Or Not

2007-08-09T21:10:00.001+10:00

In today's terror-filled world, it's good to know that Americans aren't scared. Scared is so totally French and whatever. Americans are ready.

But what does being ready entail? A true American wouldn't ask that, because they're born ready. You have the dirty, questioning mind of an Un-American or American with amnesia. Luckily for you the best government in the world is dispensing helpful pointers on the internet.

Terrorists should be shaking in their sandals at the incredible level of readiness the American public is currently maintaining.

If you are sprayed with an unknown substance, stand and think about it.

When the looting begins remember to consider the weight/value ratio. Here we have a few examples of high value, low effort.

Use your flashlight to lift the walls right off of you!

People, animal corpses and the biohazard symbol are all at risk of being sucked into the time-tunnel vortex.

After all life is gone, modern appliances will continue to run forever. Think about it.

And so on.

Conduct Yourself Appropriately

2007-08-09T20:45:00.000+10:00

I've always wanted to conduct a horse choir, but could never get through all the red tape.

They put electricity through it, to keep bands of roving gypsy conductors from turning up on the day of the big fete and outshining the efforts of the school music teacher. Damn their free spirits and natural talent! And all in front of the Mayor!

This is the work of a rogue Swedish animator, but I don't know their name. Thanks, Sweden!

Making a List, Checking It Twice

2007-08-09T14:26:00.000+10:00

Poor Channel Nine. Turns out that compiling a list of a network's programming is not a breach of copyright. Who knew?

Well, the people from IceTv, who make software for digital TV recording devices. And newspapers which include TV sections. Also anyone who has ever made a list of stuff they don't own. I can't wait for Tonka to sue the resourceful 5 year old who copied their entire catalogue into a letter to Father Christmas.

Everyone knew. The judge made them pay the defendant's legal costs, which is always a sign that someone hasn't done their homework. Even Channel Nine probably had an inkling. But, as Asher Moses of The Age points out, the court case in question was really about control. Control of when, where, and how people watch TV.

Mostly how they watch TV and avoid ads. I remember recording stuff from TV on our first VCR with a remote. It required vigilance, the hand-eye coordination of a jungle cat (with hands), and zen focus to compile an ad-free season of The Fresh Prince. "It's on, IT'S ON!", we would shriek, as precious seconds of DJ Jazzy Jeff's saucy banter disappeared into the ether. The Remote Holder would invariably collapse under the immense pressure of their position, be loudly decried by all, then banned from the position for life. Dad, I'm sorry, but you just weren't up to the task.

The point is, we went to a lot of trouble. We estranged family members, strained index fingers, and burned through thousands of AA batteries stolen from other, lesser appliances. It should come as no surprise then, that if people can easily skip ads when they record TV, they are going to do it. Seems strange that people within an ostensibly creative industry couldn't have foreseen this development.

It also seems strange to complain about technology changing the world, because the history of life on this planet is one long lesson in adapting to suit your environment. TV channels were once the upstart new technology ruining things for the stars of the wireless, who in their day stole the show from the bearded ladies. Like sands through the hourglass, so are the dominant media channels of our lives.

Facebook - Even The Herald Sun's Heard About It

2007-08-08T18:29:00.000+10:00

I'm not sure how this happened. A month ago I was minding my own business, texting people, writing proper emails, and otherwise being a productive member of my generation (I'm in the middle, therefore - XY. Generation male pattern baldness! We drive convertibles).

Today I considered installing an aquarium on my profile so that people can give me animated fish. I played in three games of scrabble, and actively participated in a group called 'I Dont care How Comfortable Crocs Are, You Look Like A Dumbass.'

This is dangerous territory, I can just feel it. I don't like to be part of crazes. It took me a really long time to get a blog, I had to wait until it wasn't cool.

I don't like crazes because they attract lemmings. Lemmings unsettle me. So trusting, just following each other, unaware that the builder shrugged, gave up on the bridge, and plummeted to its doom.

I spent much of my childhood watching lemmings come to a sticky end, and I can't help but wonder, 'who's building the bridge?'

Facebook creator Mark Zuckerberg is being sued by ConnectU, an unfortunately-named social networking site whose owners claim he stole the idea from. Did I mention that it's a stupid name? Sounds like a telco trying to reach 'the kids'. U knw, u ve gt 2 spk thr lnguage, k?

But what will happen if it turns out he did steal the idea, and Facebook gets sued into oblivion? I am not signing up to anything called ConnectU, no sir. And Facebook seems so essential now. How will I keep up with what everyone is doing? Will I have to go back to bodyslamming people in person? And using forms of communication which require instant replies?

Because, between you and me, that is a lot more commitment than I can handle.

Shadee Acres Reprasent!

2007-08-04T17:56:00.000+10:00

Disco jockey pimp of the 70s checking in fo' bidness.

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1870s, foo'. Where all my hos be at, dawg?

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Dead? You trippin?!

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Oh, cold... But the disco jockey pimp beat goes on, aiight! Lemme hear you say HARRCK HAARRKG!

On the Pull

2007-08-02T21:20:00.000+10:00

I should stop having male friends.

The problem with male friends is that you get a peek behind the scenes. There's a bunch of monkeys pulling those ropes. I've witnessed the best minds of my generation anxious, stammering, talking incessantly about the weather, all over the Ladies.

Which is what informs my admiration for a certain kiwi cop/criminal who might just be the smoothest mover of all time.

The story goes that was some corruption in the Rotovegas police force back in the 80s, which is terrible in an unsurprising sort of way. And it turns out that a couple of the policemen involved were more than just friends, if you know what I mean. Not that there's anything wrong with that. They allegedly interfered with the trial of another police officer, perverting the course of justice (there is a bit wrong with that). But, seriously:

Today a woman told the court how she had a sexual relationship in the late 1980s with Shipton and on one occasion, at Shipton's invitation, Dewar also joined in a group sex session with them.

The woman told the court she had met Shipton when he was the constable in charge of the investigation into the death of her husband in an accident.

Shipton had been "very professional" at first but a sexual relationship soon developed.

He managed to maintain his professionalism while initiating a sexual relationship with a woman whose husband's death he was investigating.

This guy could fuck while ice-skating, on a surfboard, atop a poplar. This is a man who gets his surgeon's phone number while under a general anaesthetic. This guy should be teaching night classes. This guy cannot be stopped.

Except, perhaps, by an army of unemployed monkeys with overdeveloped triceps and vengeance on their minds. Cancel the night classes.

For those who like their news proper, like.

Cut. It. Out.

2007-07-31T19:59:00.000+10:00

When he was 12, Howard Dully didn't like going to bed, turned on the lights in the house during the day, and was prone to daydreaming. His stepmother took him to a few doctors, who said there was nothing wrong with him. So she took him to another doctor, who took 10 minutes out of his busy schedule to do this:

A pre-frontal lobotomy. Basically, the doctor stuck an icepick in his eye socket and wiggled it around until it caused some brain damage. He spent most of his adult life wondering if something was missing from his soul.

Quite a bad story.

Oh, and the stepmother was so disappointed that Howard hadn't become a vegetable, she up and left. Kind of makes Snow White seem like a whiney little bitch, doesn't it?

Wellington Airport - The Silent Killer

2007-07-29T18:15:00.000+10:00

Tampons are carefree, junk food is happy, and Wellington airport is wild at heart. We are one step closer to the apocalypse. I think those are stylised blood splatters. "An airport so good you'll sustain heavy internal injuries."

View From the Top Quite Similar to View From the Bottom

2007-07-29T18:01:00.000+10:00

How tempting would it have been to just put him on a treadmill in a meat-locker for a few days?

All Black Paternity Suits Made Easy

2007-07-27T10:06:00.001+10:00

Those of you who know and can't avoid me in Melbourne have probably heard me complain about how crazy everyone is for AFL.

I thought rugby was bad, but it was nothing!

Mindless nostalgia. It IS bad. This bad.

This question has haunted all my living days. When my Gran says I look nice, I always ask her, "nice like Dan Carter or nice like Joe Rokocoko?" But with only a toilet phone at my disposal, I was forced to wait until I got home.

Actually I am a bit like Dan Carter thank you very much! A bit more like a guy I've never heard of, who is no doubt a capable and excellent young man. Also a bit like a scary pirate. But enough of these whippersnappers! It's time for a face-off with a rugby player I actually remember.

I chose Zinzan Brooke as my guy because I always enjoyed his zippy name as a child. He was the Cindy Crawford of 1980s rugby, what with his beauty spot and elegant, windswept coif.

44.33%! I think that's doing quite well considering the differences in age, gender, and athletic ability. It's also disturbingly accurate, with the .33 and all. The matching process only took about 2 seconds, so I think they just whack some decimals on there to garner a little scientific credibility (show me one study in PNAS that doesn't have decimal places). Because if you look closely, it's obvious that I resemble him 44.37%, and my mother has some splaining to do.

I Dropped My Phone in the Toilet Last Night

2007-07-26T13:02:00.000+10:00

No, I don't want to talk about it.

Yes, I have travel insurance.

No, I was not drunk.

Yes, I stuck my hand in there to get it so now I have a 'toilet hand'.

No, I'm not going to tell you which hand.

P.S Could everyone please email me their mobile numbers?

Here Be Giants

2007-07-25T10:36:00.000+10:00

In Kiwiland we like our things big.

Coffee comes in a bowl. And then they ask you if you want another one. I draw the line at more than a litre of steamed milk in one sitting.

We write big books about large men.

This man used to be shorter. He has since corrected this grievous error of judgement, and can now finish an entire Big Mac Combo without assistance.

Martinis so large they require a staffed reception area. "Your three o'clock olives are early, I gave them a plastic cup of tepid water and a Woman's Weekly from 1988."

Signage for our many blind giants. It's important that they know where they're going, or they might knock our enormous coffees all over the massive books we're reading about colossal men.

Harry Potter and the Pile of Secrets on the Kitchen Bench Next to the Pen Jar

2007-07-23T08:23:00.000+10:00

People have been pre-ordering them, standing in lines until midnight, often while wearing silly hats. Let it be known that I fully support the lazy dress-up option of just writing who you're supposed to be on your forehead.

Those silly old bears. All they really needed to do was book a flight to Wellington that left early yesterday morning, sleepily walk past a huge pile of the books, and pick one up because, 'oh, that's right, that book's out now isn't it?' Easy.

I'm going to post spoilers later today because that's just the kind of girl I am. I will put a big warning label above them so that the whiners (and there are so many of THEM) don't get upset. Spoilers like Mad-Eye Moody dies in the beginning.

It just slipped out.

Zen and the Art of Air-Traffic Control

2007-07-22T21:36:00.000+10:00

Dessert Success is 99% Perspiration and 1% Perspiration

2007-07-17T11:54:00.000+10:00

In other news...

2007-07-16T21:22:00.000+10:00

New hair, new computer, HELLO WORLD!

Apparently I now resemble Tony Mokbel. Discuss (see attached reference material).

Must We?

2007-07-16T21:05:00.001+10:00

Warning: the following slide show contains images and audio of some very embarrassed cats.

http://www.stuff.co.nz/thepress/0a23216.html

This kind of carry-on demeans us all.

The Penis Photo that Broke the Camel's Back

2007-07-11T16:33:00.000+10:00

What's the point where you just can't be friends with someone anymore?

Sometimes it's a fuzzy grey area, like when you slowly realise that their hilarious red-neck racist impression is so believable because they are actually a red-neck racist. Or maybe they suggested that you join RSVP. There's just no coming back from that one.

A friend of mine was recently forced to locate the eject button under her armrest by the following text message conversation. Well, less a conversation than a Shakespearean monologue delivered in several parts. Our tragic hero has a fatal flaw, let's see if you can spot it.

A: hey, what are you doing?

B: nothing. looking for a job. you?

A: studying.

A: can I ask you a question? it's a bit dodge tho

B: ok, I might not answer though

A: do you think it's ok to masturbate if you have a partner?

B: sure, as long as it's not creepy

A: creepy how

B: too much porn. no interest in girlfriend

A: I been doing it a bit lately

B: ok

A: i hate uni toilets

A: (Penis pxt)

B: Do I want to check that?

A: Up to you

A: Did you look at that photo I sent?

A: You're not missing much. Just a blurry photo of a 5 inch penis

A: I'm bored

A: Man I'm bored

A: Uni toilets are uncomfortable

A: Hey do you know anywhere at uni where I could go?

A: well, lectures finish next week so if you want to catch up, let me know

I think that conversation would deploy anyone's emergency devices.

Chastity is for Virgins

2007-07-02T17:25:00.000+10:00

If you believe the people who run Silver Ring Thing, virginity is the new black. Well, wearing rings that trumpet your desire to trump your desire and hold out until you're married.

I think this is fantastic. Teenagers need more pressure to align themselves to extreme gangs, and model their behaviour accordingly. We can call them the Rings and the Sluts. We'll have jackets with emblems, dance-fighting, and everything will be just like West-Side Story. Here's the US director of Silver Ring Thing and his undoubtedly unbiased report of the sexual habits of American teenagers:

In America we have kids who have oral sex with six people in one night. It's called the train – the girl goes down the train – it's just casual, recreational sex.

You're either a virgin married to God, or you're driving the sin train. Next stop - someone's cock. Because in the world of adolescent sexuality, there is no middle ground. If there were, it would be covered in kids having fun with people they fancy. Who might even grow up to be healthy, guilt-free adults. And we can't have that.

The 20 Habits of Successful 200 Year Olds

2007-06-29T14:40:00.000+10:00

It's 1820, and you're a despondent Lady, unable to muster enthusiasm for watercolouring, embroidery, or lying back and thinking of England. But who needs Prozac when you've got your Dear Friend Sydney Smith, and all his wisdom? Not you, my scrumptious little tea-cake! My favourite is number 11.

1st. Live as well as you dare.

2nd. Go into the shower-bath with a small quantity of water at a temperature low enough to give you a slight sensation of cold, 75 or 80 degrees.

3rd. Amusing books.

4th. Short views of human life—not further than dinner or tea. (I'm not sure what this means)

5th. Be as busy as you can.

6th. See as much as you can of those friends who respect and like you.

7th. And of those acquaintances who amuse you.

8th. Make no secret of low spirits to you friends, but talk of them freely—they are always worse for dignified concealment.

9th. Attend to the effects tea and coffee produce upon you.

10th. Compare your lot with that of other people.

11th. Don’t expect too much from human life—a sorry business at the best.

12th. Avoid poetry, dramatic representations (except comedy), music, serious novels, melancholy, sentimental people, and everything likely to excite feeling or emotion, not ending in active benevolence.

13th. Do good, and endeavour to please everybody of every degree.

14th Be as much as you can in the open air without fatigue.

15th. Make the room where you commonly sit gay and pleasant.

16th. Struggle by little and little against idleness.

17th. Don’t be too severe upon yourself, or underrate yourself, but do yourself justice.

18th. Keep good blazing fires.

19th. Be firm and constant in the exercise of rational religion.

20th. Believe me, dear Lady Georgiana.

It's all just so sensible. Especially the bits about gaying your house up and starting big fires. Although I think old Sid sent the last one in by carrier pigeon (phones not being invented yet), but isn't that always the way with top 20 lists?

Bogues of a Feather

2007-06-26T13:29:00.000+10:00

SO there was a shooting, and all kinds of tragedy last week in Melbourne. I'm sure everyone knows about it, so I won't rehash the scenario here. I am loathe to speak ill of the dead, that's for sure. But of the fairly badly injured professional bikini-wearer and her family who just signed a 'celebrity' agent to deal with the press on their behalf? Open season.

First there's this:

Ms Douglas's father, Jim Douglas, said while the former model had no plans to sell her story, all proceeds would go to the family of Brendan Keilar, the solicitor shot dead while rushing to her aid.

Hmm. If you have no plans, then you generally don't know where the money would go, correct? I could say something tasteless about which headshot they're going to use for the cover, but, well, I guess I just did.

Ok, so they hired someone. That's fine. But I think they could've held out for someone a bit less, well, here it is:

"The family contacted us on Friday and they have now authorised us to act in essence for Kara and for them," Ms Miller told News Limited newspapers.

Act in essence? Someone has given the Group Chief of Harry M Miller the wonky thesarus. So now she's committed to boiling the family down in a big cauldron and gargling with the syrupy remains before each and every press conference/book launch/giant cheque handover.

Poorly chosen words KILL. As do poorly chosen celebrity agents.

An Exercise in Definitive Stance

2007-06-24T16:19:00.000+10:00

I think it's time I set down some ground rules. I know we're a quarter of the way through play at this point (given we go the full 100 years) but there has been some pretty unsporting behaviour spotted by the lineswoman which cannot be ignored.

Behaviour which will no longer be tolerated:

Personal fouls committed by players already in long-term contracts with other clubs (this includes out-of-bounds touching and phone calls after the final whistle).

Players cancelling on games or training without giving the requisite 48 hours notice.

Home-ground maintenance duties being shirked in favour of console gaming.

Small bystanders being substituted for ball/bat/protective clothing during play.

Players attempting to participate in two different games at once, and then blaming failure and subsequent mental collapse on fellow team-mates. Pick one fucking code and do it properly.

I think that about covers it. Failure to uphold the club standards will result in a yellow card, followed by a red card and immediate sin-binning until further notice. So let's get out there and keep it clean!

Possible Prarie Dog, Definite Dramatic Genius

2007-06-22T15:10:00.000+10:00

I came to work early today by mistake.

Ok, that was a complete waste of dramatic chipmunk. I should have saved it until I had shocking news to impart. Let's try again.

I am... AN ALIEN!

I have... YOUR CAR KEYS!

Hey, everyone likes to make a little impact now and then.

Stuff and nonsense

2007-06-12T13:39:00.000+10:00

Just re-emerged from my 4 straight days at the hospital. I think I've contracted my first official super-bug cold, which is exciting. Antibiotics? Don't make me laugh, derisively.

I'm not sure what I'm allowed to write about my hospital experiences, confidentiality and such things considered. All I can say is that I have seen some Stuff.

Stuff that smells. Stuff that squirts. That oozes from stitches. Stuff that peeks out from behind a hospital gown (don't think that the revealing design is in any way accidental, medical people are giant pervs).

But I'm not a medical person, I'm an ordinary person, and I have to act like I've seen all this a million times before, so as to not look like a idiot. I spent most of the first few days trying to convince myself not to run out the door and never come back. Yesterday was better, and I'm starting to feel like I'm getting a handle on things.

What has surprised me, more than the Stuff (although Stuff can be very surprising) is how much I like it in the hospital. Trust me, if you're in any kind of accident, you want to come to The Alfred. There are some pretty amazing people working there, who care about you and aren't grossed out by your Stuff.

This makes them freaks, because your Stuff is definitely gross. But you know how they say, "Oh, I've seen so much worse!" to make you feel better? They are almost certainly telling the truth.

I hope no one tries to steal my lunch

2007-06-08T08:50:00.000+10:00

First day at my new job! I'm working at the Alfred Hospital, as a communications liaison person dealing with a Channel Seven film crew who are shooting a reality tv show there. The filming is only going to go for another couple of months, but it'll be a good filler while I look for something permanent.

I go wherever they go, because it's the LAW (I have a badge but it isn't quite as shiny or star-shaped as I deserve). That means into surgery, onto the helipad, and generally all over the place. I get to wear scrubs!

There's no one to take my picture, but rest assured, I am wearing a coat that's bound to get me pushed off the swings.

Who wants to be an octogenarian?

2007-05-31T20:43:00.001+10:00

Game shows have always had a perverse, sadistic side to them. People watch 'Who Wants to be a Millionaire' to see other people get the chance to win a million dollars, and then not actually win the million. They win SOME money. But not the million.

So why is anyone surprised that Holland, the vanguard of television and early adopter of the Big Brother franchise, has taken not winning to a whole new level with their organ donation game show? According to reuters,

A Dutch broadcaster will air a show this week in which a terminally ill woman selects a recipient for her kidneys from three contestants...

That means one person lives, and two people get to... not come back next week. Maybe they get an urn with the show's name embossed on it.

This is a long way from going bankrupt on Wheel of Fortune. Of course, it doesn't seem that long ago that locking a bunch of strangers in a house, subjecting them to weird deprivations, and filming the whole thing seemed pretty fucked up. Eventually we'll all realign our values to assimilate the Dutch vision of entertainment, because the inventors of wooden shoes couldn't possibly be wrong about anything.

Until the Dutch Mind Rays penetrate my tin-foil hat, I have a few questions. Are they going to have carry-over champions, who go from week to week collecting vital organs?

"Will Frances come back next week, risking his new kidney for the chance to win an entire central nervous system? Whaddaya say, Frances?"

"Well, I could really use a new one... oh what the hell, I'll be back next week!"

How will the donor choose the hopeful recipient? Maybe it'll be like those dating shows where they sit on either side of a big partition (ooh, it could be a giant plywood kidney covered in red glitter) and have to answer the questions she wrote herself. "I like poniesarrrrghckckckchack, what's your favourite animal and whykrrrrrekeuuuuugh?"

Or a beauty pageant, they can twirl catheters for the talent portion! Not forgetting the traditional hospital-gown competition done in high heels (and if the back of the gown is a little untied, well then no harm done). We'll call it 'Miss Ward'. I'm a visionary.

Because collecting butterflies is just creepy

2007-05-31T17:20:00.000+10:00

A friend recently reminded me of an old hobby of mine, which started when I was working as a cashier in the amendments section of the NSW Department of Births, Deaths and Marriages. In NSW, when you have a sex-change you can change the sex on your birth certificate, so we would get a lot of post-op ladies and gentlemen coming in to set things straight.

Most of these people were perfectly ordinary, normal Australians who happened to have been born in a gender which never suited them. Like if I had been born in a lime-green boob tube. A very few, however, were complete fruitcakes. Like the two who came in and changed their names to Sex Intense and Miss Kitty Litter, respectively. Sex Intense's signature was particularly inventive, the word sex in an upended triangle. Sex in tents. Oh my. It gets my vote for Signature Most Likely to Have Been Originally Inscribed on a Serviette within a Licensed Premises.

So I started collecting crazy names, and never really stopped. I wrote them down in my little book. Some were just hilarious, like Gail Blowes, Po Po, or my mother's friend's maiden name, Gay Honey. Others were more about the context, like the porn star who changed his name to Rock Hard, ostensibly to cash cheques. I guess no one told him about the 'trading as' feature on bank accounts.

I've gone off the boil a bit lately, and my collection is looking a little anaemic. This is where you come in. I'm going to buy a new notebook, a nice one, and reserve it for names only. I don't want made-up joke names, only the real thing. So if you know of any great names which deserve their own page in a completely anonymous woman's little notebook, then please feel free to contribute. To further sweeten the deal, here are some kittens:

Voodoo - Are You at Risk?

2007-05-29T20:10:00.000+10:00

She sure looks concerned, doesn't she? Well you should be too! With your busy cosmopolitan lifestyle, how can you be sure you haven't inadvertently become a Voodoo Priest/ess? Take the test and see how damned your soul really is.

Each affirmative answer is worth a number of points. Add the points to get your score.

1) Discovery of unexplained chicken blood and feathers
- in house 1 pt
- in bedroom 2 pts
- in mouth 3 pts

2) Extra eye recently grown on forehead - 2 pts

3) Goats avoid you - 1 pt

4) A friend has recently been dumped by their partner. You:
- tell them they will eventually heal and move on with their lives - -1 pt
- ask for a sample of their hair, blood, and clothing for "research purposes" - 1 pt
- turn their ex's body inside out with your mind and wear them as a cape - 3 pts plus
one bonus point for being a great friend AND a great Voodoo Priest/ess

5) When you're at home, thinking, there's always someone playing bongos - 1 pt
- and you like it - 2 pts

6) Eyeliner goes
- back on the shelf because I don't wear it - 0 pts
- in a thin line around the eyelashes - 1 pt
- in a big thick line under the eyes - 2 pts
- all over my teeth because I'm just not like those other girls - 3 pts

7) Souls are
- a cultural construction designed to make people feel better about their pathetic,
meaningless lives, and the inevitable finality of death - 0 pts
- the part of a person which can never die - 0 pts
- a tasty snack - 2 pts

0 - 3 pts Innocent
Rest easy. You're not in on anything big (that you know of). If you are, you're probably just the virgin being thrown into the volcano, and look how well that turned out for Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan.

4 pts - 8 pts Voo-curious
Oh, you're a dabbler, but strictly an amateur. Normal people fear you, and you might manage to make someone's pinky toe fall off, but only on a good day. Fucking tourist.

9pts + Woah
You are a fully self-actualised Voodoo practitioner, with all the Dark Arts on your side, and you're not afraid to work it a little. Hell, you've probably possessed me several times while I was writing this post. You showy bastard.

Heads you love me, tails you don't

2007-05-29T19:32:00.000+10:00

Whoops, look what happened! It's almost Wednesday and still no updates! This poor blog is going the way of my nintendogs; initially well trained and fed, now woefully undernourished and abandoned. But I'm not starving, not me. Not when I have a luxurious tabby panther working overtime to bring me delicious presents.

On Monday night he tested the waters with a plump mouse, whole, deposited in the hallway. It didn't get the reaction he had anticipated, so to show me how truly great this present really was, he brought it into my bedroom and threw it around a bit. See? It's the gift that keeps on squeaking and trying to get away! You can thank me later when you've stopped throwing up from all the joy! So much joy.

He rethought his approach, and now I just get the heads, sweetly presented on the front doorstep. Heads I can handle, because they're not up to much in the way of scurrying. There will be pictures eventually, for your viewing pleasure. Look on them and see the ways in which your inferior cats have failed you.

Perhaps I will mount the little heads on toothpicks and put them near the letterbox, to warn the others. This may be crossing the line. But these days I barely recognise my own life, so I might have turned into a voodoo priestess and not noticed yet. Now that would be a good blog post.

Race for the Ridge

2007-05-24T10:10:00.000+10:00

You know, this guy just shouldn't be allowed to talk to people at all.

Mr Ellis told Parliament's Maori affairs select committee that Police Ten Seven - in which the public is asked for information to help solve crime - and Locked Down - an inside look at life in Wellington's Rimutaka Prison - helped fulfil TVNZ's charter obligation to provide a "significant Maori voice".

That's the high-flying, highly paid, educated voice of an industry leader right there.

He gave the committee a list of 24 programmes which he said met the obligation by showing Maori in mainstream programming, including Coroners Inquest (dead ones totally count!), Game of Two Halves, Dream Home, Shortland Street, Ten Years Younger, Intrepid Journeys, Location Location, Animal House, Charm School and Lost Children.

Game of Two Halves, as you may have guessed, is a show about rugby. A gameshow, to be precise. Technically it includes all sports, but the panel is made up of three rugby and league jocks who find sports where the main aim is not to jump on people unneccessarily complex. Of course, they're right. Any method of beating your opponent that isn't basically putting your body in their way is intellectually elitist and designed to keep the working-man down.

The show is about all sports in the sense that a rugby game is about interpretive dance (there are chicks in tight clothes gyrating at half time. Arts grant, anyone?). And it's definitely speaking with a Maori voice. Matthew Ridge, in particular, is reassuringly brown, but my further inquiries into his ancestry only turned up this. Once again, my quest for knowledge is foiled by the ridge racing phenomenon.

The burden of speaking for an entire people is a pretty big responsibility, considering that he might not even be one of them. My Dad knew his tennis coach. Naturally talented at all sports, he showed great promise, but was, as my Dad put it, "a bit angry and undisciplined." He participated in all kinds of racket and umpire abuse, which as we all know leads to hard drugs and street crime. Even if the umpire was totally into it at the time.

Which would probably be ok with Mr Ellis, by the way. He's on the phone right now, convincing Matthew to embrace his criminal tendencies and consolidate his position as a voice of Maori, using one of the nation's fine, tax-funded police reality tv shows as his platform. Oh that Ellis, he certainly is down with the bros.

The Object of My Affection

2007-05-21T19:31:00.000+10:00

You know that song, "I Love My Leather Jacket"? Imagine that the singer really meant LOVE, that he married it and changed his last name to jacket, that they shared sensuous baths together, that he could cheat on it with another article of clothing. Or perhaps a broken radiator. Welcome to the hot and confusing world of objectophilia, or neo-sexuality, depending on which German you're speaking to.

The Germans seem to have gotten in on the ground floor on this one. Curious.

In some ways this just seems like an extension of those guys with apartments full of Real Dolls. Only they don't want or need the objects of their affection to look anything like humans, in fact that's why they like them.

The 41-year-old recognized and accepted his inclination when he was just 12 years old. It was then that he fell head over heels "into an emotionally and physically very complex and deep relationship, which lasted for years." His partner back then was a Hammond organ -- he has now been in a steady relationship with a steam locomotive for several years. Since he is particularly aroused by the inner workings of technical objects, repair jobs have often led to infidelity in the past. "A love affair could very well begin with a broken radiator," the now monogamous lover says, remembering how his earlier affairs began.

Ok, so it's all fun and games until someone gets their dick stuck in a cog. This is all strangely reminiscent of ducklings imprinting on gumboots, an evolutionary quirk which by its nature excludes you from contributing to the gene pool. Have people become so shitty and damaged that the twin towers are an attractive substitute? I'm in the unlikely situation of having to plead the case for relationships with human beings.

Given my current situation, I'm coming up short. There's a lot of good stuff about falling in love with a person, but I doubt that Thomas the Tank Engine is ever going to make you feel like you're walking around with a hole in your chest. It reminds me of the time I tried to talk my friend out of committing suicide (well, technically I interrupted her, stopped her, and then tried to talk her out of it). Every cell in your body knows it wants to stay alive, but that's the problem. There's no good explanation why you'd put yourself out there, again and again, ready to be hurt, other than the fact that you seem to want to quite a bit. That goes for living as much as loving.

It's almost impossible to argue or explain why being alive is such a great idea. Or why an electric frying-pan isn't an ideal life partner. I've just blown my own mind. If anyone needs me, I'll be cruising Dick Smith.

Here's the rest of the article, if you're interested.

Found it on Boing Boing.

Public Service Announcement

2007-05-18T11:02:00.000+10:00

Due to an unscheduled technical failure*, ninafat is unable to continue with its scheduled programming. The hilarious post about Beef Special will be screened at a later date.

*heartbreak

Gizoogle my, um, bloogle?

2007-05-16T17:08:00.000+10:00

I knew there was something lacking in my writing style, but I couldn't put my finger on it. Luckily, the internet has the technology to let me speak the language of the people without having to actually speak their language.

In tha increasingly competitive electronic sex meta sector, there is no room fo` error hittin that booty. One false step n that dollar slipp'n fizzle tha finga of a potential love god wizzle seductively penetrate tha machine of a competizzles. It's your homie snoop dogg from the dpg. So, you may be rhymin' how does one rise above tha rest, n become tha electronic sex pusha of choice? Ninafat investizzles.

Which people? Well, I don't know anyone who actually talks like this, I think they're like unicorns. You hear a lot about them but you never get to meet one personally. Anyway, it's still fun for about three minutes, so enjoy!

put the shizzle in Ninafat investizzles, no frontin'

And on the seventh day He said, "let's be dansing!"

2007-05-15T20:45:00.000+10:00

I'm tired of this world.

It's a world where this gets you second place.

SECOND PLACE. This is a travesty. The shiniest person in the world should by rights blind you to the performances of all other competitors. I have no time for the performer who says, "should we have a disco ball?" The spirit of Eurovision asks only, "How many disco balls can we fit on the stage?" Perhaps many of the voters were from arctic climes, and their hardened corneas from years of snow-blindness were immune to the distractingly shiny charms of the best act in the Ukraine. Nay, the world.

In heaven the army commanders are big-titted disco trannies, commanding you to dansing one two three. In heaven there's always a gold lone ranger just bursting to accompany you on his piano accordion. In heaven, this incredible spectacle could never be beaten by a tubby Serbian civil servant with an artlessly undone bowtie and a posse of weirdly clingy Farrah Fawcett clones. If you've ever wondered what Serbia has been up to for the last few years, now you know. They've been pouring all their energies into bringing 1970s American department store mannequins to life.

A noble quest, certainly, but in a perfect world an army of mannequins come to life couldn't win you Eurovision glory. Eurovision is about herding together the gayest, sparkliest superfreaks your country can muster, and winning a prize. Or shooting fireworks out of weapons, and winning a prize. Oh, lordi. Amen.

Dr Love vs Sex Reactor: Battle of the Titans

2007-05-09T18:09:00.000+10:00

In the increasingly competitive electronic sex meter sector, there is no room for error. One false step and that dollar slipping from the fingers of a potential love god will seductively penetrate the machine of a competitor. So, you may be asking, how does one rise above the rest, and become the electronic sex meter of choice? Ninafat investigates.

Dr Love

Pros: With a sexy doctor and comely nurse, there's something for everyone.

Cons: Keeping a doctor and nurse trapped in a metal box has logistical issues. Not to mention the unions.

Pros: I think it's coming on to me.

Cons: I am now confident in my ability to attract a sex meter machine, and therefore do not need to test my sex appeal.

Pros: Two finger sensors provide high tech triangulation of sex data, for accuracy.

Cons: Increased accuracy makes it harder to disregard embarrassingly low score.

Sex Reactor

Pros: Silhouetted lovers attract the tasteful traditionalist.

Cons: Investigators noted a lack of tasteful traditionalists in Chinatown foodcourt.

Pros: Gives a number instead of a comparative rating, so you can tell people you scored 4 and they will assume it was out of 5.

Cons: Easy misrepresentation of scores decreases the value of a truly stellar level of sexual magnetism. You may want to take a less sexy friend to parties so your score can be appreciated in relative terms.

Pros: Single finger testing attractive to victims of industrial accidents.

Cons: They really phoned in the picture of a hand, didn't they? Looks like someone just drew around their hand with a red pen.

And the winner is...

Dr Love, by an engorged appendage. In the end, a classy picture of a hand and some hot new technology set our loins afire. Thanks be to the investigative team for their help on this ninafat exclusive.

The new hair most closely resembles...
	Tony Mokbel's Delightful Hairpiece
	Original Paul
	Anonymous Llama
	Something Rather More Favourable