We all like to swear, actually this is blatantly untrue. A good amount like to swear, some don’t but do it any who and some don’t and slap themselves on the wrist like a child if a dreaded four letter word should pass their lips.
If you should want to work more cusses into your vocabulary, and what individual worth their salt doesn’t? I have a detailed guide, applied aptly to my own filthy mouth but open to adaptation for anyone’s needs, abilities and levels.
As we well know, substitution is the key to a healthy unhealthy vocabulary;
1. Words pertaining to random objects, or clusters of objects, shall be referred to as ’Shit’. This includes stuff, things, knick-knacks, possessions, belongings and personal property. In addition to putting a lot of syllables back in the word bank, you also come across as kinda badass.
2. A lie shall no longer be any of the following- poppycock, hogwash, piffle, fibs, bulldust or any hybrid of the two (poppy wash anyone?). The only proper response to someone’s bending or breaking of the facts shall be ‘bullshit’ or, when over used, any other variety of ‘shit’. Get creative, but not too creative, ‘penguin shit’ is liable to confuse even the wittiest of fibbers.
3. Fuck shall be considered with as much potential as possible. It should not be considered naturally detrimental or insulting as it shouldn’t be considered positive or humorous. The fuck muscle (more innuendo, you devil) shall be flexed at each opportunity available should it be in anger, sadness, surprise or shock, good fun or happiness. Again one should take into account context and tone before making assumptions on meaning and so it should be given a little more consideration in use on mediums where such things might not register (computers and text messages primarily).
4. Cunt shall be accepted in this country and possibly New Zealand the only other addition. On the stipulation that no women or children are present. And if women are present, on the stipulation that they use it first or it is during some kind of kinky, vulgar birthday sex. Again this can be an insult or an apt substitute for the word “person”.
5. Words shall not be taken as literally as they once were and, again, might be considered apt substitutes for person or individual. From henceforth a cocksucker isn’t someone who sucks cock necessarily, and a motherfucker isn’t someone who sticks it up their mother. The literal versions are dead and these words may be used as friendly, tongue-in-cheek greetings or as vicious insults at the speakers discression.
Another note: No-one who swears should be considered of less style, class, intelligence or sophistication. My hero Stephen Fry explains this more eloquently than I could:
Swearing is fun people, and so long as you don’t infect anyone who mightn’t want it, this could be a bug we all enjoy.
NP.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
On Saying I Love You….Or Not.
This is a recurring issue in my life, what to do when someone drops the L Bomb.
Of course, anyone who says this is casting an open net to reel it back in turn, but I just can’t do it. The reasons are numerous and not, as they might otherwise be, elements of my stunted personality. Others, and yes predominately the penis bearing kind, take issue with it and for, by and large, precisely the same reasons.
For one thing, we already know and would hope the other half already know. In truth, once a day is over-adequate number of utterings for me, but it should be at worst the upper limit. Granted I forget phone numbers, names, home addresses and what I had for lunch, but I wont forget that.
Since I am so stringent on not reciprocating as much as might be expected or demanded, yet wary of the outcomes to such an attitude, it becomes tense each time it is said which, with those who chose to say it, is every few minutes.
The other thing is, it seems a shade forced. As though at first you are trying to convince me, then yourself. That it is thrown around far too easily and so loses its punch. I.e If you say it forty times a day, it wont mean much on the wedding day or when crowding around the scone of a newborn. Its akin to saving your stomach for lobster instead of cereal.
A very good friend of mine had another point of view on the matter, as well as the aforementioned views. I shant credit him in name, as I have the feeling he wouldn’t want his name thrown around and another feeling that he wouldn’t mind the lack of credit.
He said to me that the ‘love yous’ come largely in the honeymoon period, the puppy love stages when things are fresh and new. That you might want to express with each breath how darn pleased you are with the arrangement, though after that period the love you’s die off as the love does and, to quote; ‘its all downhill from there’.
I have the feeling that insecurity may come into it. That those who love you, want more to be loved and understand the universal obligation to hit them back. In theory I should abide they are only words and it is physically an easy enough thing to say , though my convictions to words prevent me- I try to keep some power in them and misuse and abuse burns power and meaning faster than most things.
Of course all the ‘sayers’ tell me that its so if something happens to me, it would be the last thing they told me. I would rather they tell me to look for buses or get some mental help.
Though in seriousness I think this has something to do with them covering their bases perhaps, so that they wont have to regret not saying it enough. But for each who tells me those dreaded words, I should hope they know that I know and that I wouldn’t doubt it on my deathbed.
The problem is so bad that whenever I am told it in phone conversation or otherwise, the best I can muster is ‘you too’ or ‘same here’.
A word of advice though to those who choose to mention it all the time, after a while we start not believing you.
Just a thought.
NP.
Of course, anyone who says this is casting an open net to reel it back in turn, but I just can’t do it. The reasons are numerous and not, as they might otherwise be, elements of my stunted personality. Others, and yes predominately the penis bearing kind, take issue with it and for, by and large, precisely the same reasons.
For one thing, we already know and would hope the other half already know. In truth, once a day is over-adequate number of utterings for me, but it should be at worst the upper limit. Granted I forget phone numbers, names, home addresses and what I had for lunch, but I wont forget that.
Since I am so stringent on not reciprocating as much as might be expected or demanded, yet wary of the outcomes to such an attitude, it becomes tense each time it is said which, with those who chose to say it, is every few minutes.
The other thing is, it seems a shade forced. As though at first you are trying to convince me, then yourself. That it is thrown around far too easily and so loses its punch. I.e If you say it forty times a day, it wont mean much on the wedding day or when crowding around the scone of a newborn. Its akin to saving your stomach for lobster instead of cereal.
A very good friend of mine had another point of view on the matter, as well as the aforementioned views. I shant credit him in name, as I have the feeling he wouldn’t want his name thrown around and another feeling that he wouldn’t mind the lack of credit.
He said to me that the ‘love yous’ come largely in the honeymoon period, the puppy love stages when things are fresh and new. That you might want to express with each breath how darn pleased you are with the arrangement, though after that period the love you’s die off as the love does and, to quote; ‘its all downhill from there’.
I have the feeling that insecurity may come into it. That those who love you, want more to be loved and understand the universal obligation to hit them back. In theory I should abide they are only words and it is physically an easy enough thing to say , though my convictions to words prevent me- I try to keep some power in them and misuse and abuse burns power and meaning faster than most things.
Of course all the ‘sayers’ tell me that its so if something happens to me, it would be the last thing they told me. I would rather they tell me to look for buses or get some mental help.
Though in seriousness I think this has something to do with them covering their bases perhaps, so that they wont have to regret not saying it enough. But for each who tells me those dreaded words, I should hope they know that I know and that I wouldn’t doubt it on my deathbed.
The problem is so bad that whenever I am told it in phone conversation or otherwise, the best I can muster is ‘you too’ or ‘same here’.
A word of advice though to those who choose to mention it all the time, after a while we start not believing you.
Just a thought.
NP.
On Why I Cant Make Films, But May Be Able to Make Dirty Films.
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Tuesday, December 14, 2010
On Playing The Cards Your Dealt.
I once, strangely, thought mental illness was largely a myth. I am speaking of mood disorders mainly, I was aware that things like Schizophrenia and Parkinson’s were as real as the shining sun, but the bipolars and Post Traumatic Stress Disorders of the world seemed nothing more than an over hyped fairy-tale.
When I asked a relatively realist-pessimist friend of mine if he believed in depression (as he has his doubts on dieting, toxin theories and male anorexia) he replied that of course he does, that is science. While you can’t realistically believe in god all the way or all the time, you can believe in science.
Naturally it is now the cosmic joke that I find myself in the vicious clutches of GAD (Generalized Anxiety Disorder) and an increasing bout of diagnosed depression.
Normally I would cock my head and laugh from my gullet at those in similar circumstances, but I have felt it.
This isn’t any sort of bitching piece, merely a half-hearted attempt at an optimism speech. So I would say it is high-time I got to the point.
While this sort of thing can be stigmatized, for one reason or another, it is a disease. It has little or nothing to do with social status, culture, race or gender. A wealthy businessman without a worry in the world can find himself as depressed as a homeless man with nothing left to live for.
Too often in the clutches of depression or anxiety, I have been told one of the two; cheer up or calm down. If only things were so simple. They aren’t , not by a long shot. Your brain fast-tracks you there and you get stuck.
To all the nay-sayers who assume it is a matter of will power and nothing more, ask yourself this: would you want to be miserable or scared, day in day out, without motivation or ability to enjoy anything at all? My bet is you wouldn’t. The fact is, its beyond your control and as all the ads tell us, there is a difference between feeling blue and depression, or getting occasionally worried and an anxiety disorders.
Though, for myself, I have come to some sort of bitter conclusion. While my own brain dysfunction is upsetting, worse is the regimen of hopeless cures I attempt to throw on it. Sooner or later you realise you may be beyond help. You have to hope the mess will sop itself up, a very limp wristed approach, I know….but sometimes the fight is gone.
I liken the appropriate attitude in such circumstances to that of folks born with birth defects….they have little choice but to deal with what has fallen upon them, and they do so with upmost courage and style, so should we, the people, deal with our whacky brains.
There should be no stigma about it, though there is. It is the ultimate test of a friend, if they tell you to snap out of it (post diagnosis) tell them to go fuck themselves, but if they tell you they will be there for you, hang on and don’t let go.
When I asked a relatively realist-pessimist friend of mine if he believed in depression (as he has his doubts on dieting, toxin theories and male anorexia) he replied that of course he does, that is science. While you can’t realistically believe in god all the way or all the time, you can believe in science.
Naturally it is now the cosmic joke that I find myself in the vicious clutches of GAD (Generalized Anxiety Disorder) and an increasing bout of diagnosed depression.
Normally I would cock my head and laugh from my gullet at those in similar circumstances, but I have felt it.
This isn’t any sort of bitching piece, merely a half-hearted attempt at an optimism speech. So I would say it is high-time I got to the point.
While this sort of thing can be stigmatized, for one reason or another, it is a disease. It has little or nothing to do with social status, culture, race or gender. A wealthy businessman without a worry in the world can find himself as depressed as a homeless man with nothing left to live for.
Too often in the clutches of depression or anxiety, I have been told one of the two; cheer up or calm down. If only things were so simple. They aren’t , not by a long shot. Your brain fast-tracks you there and you get stuck.
To all the nay-sayers who assume it is a matter of will power and nothing more, ask yourself this: would you want to be miserable or scared, day in day out, without motivation or ability to enjoy anything at all? My bet is you wouldn’t. The fact is, its beyond your control and as all the ads tell us, there is a difference between feeling blue and depression, or getting occasionally worried and an anxiety disorders.
Though, for myself, I have come to some sort of bitter conclusion. While my own brain dysfunction is upsetting, worse is the regimen of hopeless cures I attempt to throw on it. Sooner or later you realise you may be beyond help. You have to hope the mess will sop itself up, a very limp wristed approach, I know….but sometimes the fight is gone.
I liken the appropriate attitude in such circumstances to that of folks born with birth defects….they have little choice but to deal with what has fallen upon them, and they do so with upmost courage and style, so should we, the people, deal with our whacky brains.
There should be no stigma about it, though there is. It is the ultimate test of a friend, if they tell you to snap out of it (post diagnosis) tell them to go fuck themselves, but if they tell you they will be there for you, hang on and don’t let go.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
So THIS is Christmas?
Despite a conscious decision to try and give this blog a light heart, this will have to be a relatively heavy one. And might I say, the last of these….
I hate Christmas. I am never as low as the holiday season and its routinely the hardest, most depressing and boring time of year. Although I haven’t a clue of the exact reason, the theories are credible and numerous.
For one thing, its entirely too hot. As someone who feels the heat in an instant and who shuts down completely when continuously exposed to hot-hot heat I hate this time of year. I was born in the middle of winter in a freezing cold down, and with the earth getting hotter, my weight growing by the day and increasingly poor circulation, Summer is a bigger pain in the arse every year.
For another, I despise crowds…or certain types of crowd. The Christmas shoppers are a prime example, it’s the same reason I don’t understand why women shop how they shop. I think long and hard about what I might like to purchase before I even step foot in any kind of store.
Apparently 95 percent of the world don’t share my method. The streets are full of people sizing things up, inspecting, shopping around for price and looking at each individual item or garment. This, in itself shouldn’t be a problem, and there oughta be a ‘freedom of shopping’ act legislated to keep people like me bitching about things like this on blogs like this. Thing is, it makes it ten times as difficult to get the newspaper or a bottle of beer- should you desire it.
I have also gained a healthy disdain for the ever triumphant family Christmas. In essence, mine runs like this; turn up, sit around awkwardly while the males get drunk and angry, talk awkwardly with relatives I haven’t spoken with since last Christmas, eat and go home. It, to me, feels fake…yet I see its importance and an obligation means it isn’t likely to end any time soon.
In an ideal world I would pull a Hugh Grant (sounds dirty and undesirable) and stay inside, drink beer and watch television alone at Christmas, but as we know, this world is not ideal.
An unhealthy hatred of people could be behind all of these reasons, and I should suck it up…..but of course, after Christmas comes NYE, when you have to do something, and the expectation is palpable…
Just Sayin’
NP.
I hate Christmas. I am never as low as the holiday season and its routinely the hardest, most depressing and boring time of year. Although I haven’t a clue of the exact reason, the theories are credible and numerous.
For one thing, its entirely too hot. As someone who feels the heat in an instant and who shuts down completely when continuously exposed to hot-hot heat I hate this time of year. I was born in the middle of winter in a freezing cold down, and with the earth getting hotter, my weight growing by the day and increasingly poor circulation, Summer is a bigger pain in the arse every year.
For another, I despise crowds…or certain types of crowd. The Christmas shoppers are a prime example, it’s the same reason I don’t understand why women shop how they shop. I think long and hard about what I might like to purchase before I even step foot in any kind of store.
Apparently 95 percent of the world don’t share my method. The streets are full of people sizing things up, inspecting, shopping around for price and looking at each individual item or garment. This, in itself shouldn’t be a problem, and there oughta be a ‘freedom of shopping’ act legislated to keep people like me bitching about things like this on blogs like this. Thing is, it makes it ten times as difficult to get the newspaper or a bottle of beer- should you desire it.
I have also gained a healthy disdain for the ever triumphant family Christmas. In essence, mine runs like this; turn up, sit around awkwardly while the males get drunk and angry, talk awkwardly with relatives I haven’t spoken with since last Christmas, eat and go home. It, to me, feels fake…yet I see its importance and an obligation means it isn’t likely to end any time soon.
In an ideal world I would pull a Hugh Grant (sounds dirty and undesirable) and stay inside, drink beer and watch television alone at Christmas, but as we know, this world is not ideal.
An unhealthy hatred of people could be behind all of these reasons, and I should suck it up…..but of course, after Christmas comes NYE, when you have to do something, and the expectation is palpable…
Just Sayin’
NP.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Drunk Species, Explained.
Alcohol is a highly enjoyable substance, for the majority of folks , and also has a tendency to highlight different underlying things in different people. I refer to these IAEs (Inebriated Alter Egos) as Drunk Species. The relationships between them, much like in the wild, can be cordial or volatile, as you will see. Most who drink with any regular prowess will fit into one, two or a hybrid combination of these categories...
1. The Hugger/Overly Emotional Drunk.
This has, at least once, in most consumers drinking careers been them and if not they at least know the type. One wrapped so tightly in emotion that they feel the need to express love or regret with each turn. They are rarely angry, but usually upset or overwhelmed with a manner they could never express sober. While most will be embarrassed by this individual, some will join their ranks and hug, cry and talk with passion right back.
2. The ‘mentions-he/she-is-drunk-every-few-seconds’ Drunk.
The one who, usually speaking, has very few drinks and is endlessly proclaiming how entirely wasted they are. It seems these folks jumped the ‘alcohol is fun’ boat and consider it a point in their notoriety column. Of course, as any hardened bottle tipper knows, notoriety only comes with a good amount of booze, on a regular basis, without forming a habit and with silence on the matter.
3. The quite Drunk.
Says vary little, obviously. May be at the party purely as a means to avoid drinking alone again and will be on his/her fifteenth when you are on your fifth. Rarely moves from his chosen seat, watches intently and may be expected to be asleep in his chair, with ten or so on you, by the end of the night.
4. The Aggressive Drunk.
Keen on making trouble where there is none, often feels a fight is the only necessary option or, again, a means to acquire some notoriety. Will consistently assume someone said something about him and or his lady friend and is prepared to throw wobbly fisticuffs over it. Again missing the fun booze cruise and drinking a bottle to de-bottle his anger at other things.
5. The Philosophical Drunk.
One who uses their euphoria as a means to think outside their own specific box. Usually speaks on bigger issues and has little concern for which girls/guys he/she finds attractive or what radio stations they might enjoy. Can be obnoxious, unrelenting and unwilling to have any shallow, harmless fun.
6. The Dead/Dying/Desperate Drunk.
The one who will, night after night, wipe themselves out in the early stages of the party. It is often men, and often as a means to prove themselves, as the supposed hardest drinkers around. Of course, what they don’t see is their lifeless bodies being carried, cleaned, undressed or ignored by comrades. In the event that they don’t turn their beat-box up to rumba right away, they can be expcted to be intangibly drunk for the majority of an evening and be among the last of the bottom-feeders, stumbling around sucking the remnants from the bottoms of bottles and slamming down ale and tobacco ash cocktails without so much as a flinch.
7. The nonsensical drunk.
Super duper annoying. Will tell endless stories that don’t go anywhere or aren’t at all interesting. Will demand the spotlight despite the greater majority being annoyed at or bored of them. Can be relied on to forget the punch lines of all of their already awful jokes yet talk loudly over genuinely interesting partygoers to tell more of the same.
8. The Romantic Drunk(s).
Will often show wildly uncomfortable romantic/sexual gestures in sure view of everybody. Often as a tactic of letting the party know how completely in love they are, or how damn attractive they find each other. I suppose the idea is that they should be the center of attention and we should admire how damn smitten they are. Though, to be fair, they are relatively harmless.
9. The Fun Drunk.
By far the best. Will dance, sing, tell jokes and nail the punch line every time. Super friendly and not at all threatening. Will treat you the same as an, assumed, likeminded individual looking for the same good time they are. Can light up a room and make or break a party. ‘Is Joe gonna be there?’…’THEN I WILL TOO!!!’.
NP.
1. The Hugger/Overly Emotional Drunk.
This has, at least once, in most consumers drinking careers been them and if not they at least know the type. One wrapped so tightly in emotion that they feel the need to express love or regret with each turn. They are rarely angry, but usually upset or overwhelmed with a manner they could never express sober. While most will be embarrassed by this individual, some will join their ranks and hug, cry and talk with passion right back.
2. The ‘mentions-he/she-is-drunk-every-few-seconds’ Drunk.
The one who, usually speaking, has very few drinks and is endlessly proclaiming how entirely wasted they are. It seems these folks jumped the ‘alcohol is fun’ boat and consider it a point in their notoriety column. Of course, as any hardened bottle tipper knows, notoriety only comes with a good amount of booze, on a regular basis, without forming a habit and with silence on the matter.
3. The quite Drunk.
Says vary little, obviously. May be at the party purely as a means to avoid drinking alone again and will be on his/her fifteenth when you are on your fifth. Rarely moves from his chosen seat, watches intently and may be expected to be asleep in his chair, with ten or so on you, by the end of the night.
4. The Aggressive Drunk.
Keen on making trouble where there is none, often feels a fight is the only necessary option or, again, a means to acquire some notoriety. Will consistently assume someone said something about him and or his lady friend and is prepared to throw wobbly fisticuffs over it. Again missing the fun booze cruise and drinking a bottle to de-bottle his anger at other things.
5. The Philosophical Drunk.
One who uses their euphoria as a means to think outside their own specific box. Usually speaks on bigger issues and has little concern for which girls/guys he/she finds attractive or what radio stations they might enjoy. Can be obnoxious, unrelenting and unwilling to have any shallow, harmless fun.
6. The Dead/Dying/Desperate Drunk.
The one who will, night after night, wipe themselves out in the early stages of the party. It is often men, and often as a means to prove themselves, as the supposed hardest drinkers around. Of course, what they don’t see is their lifeless bodies being carried, cleaned, undressed or ignored by comrades. In the event that they don’t turn their beat-box up to rumba right away, they can be expcted to be intangibly drunk for the majority of an evening and be among the last of the bottom-feeders, stumbling around sucking the remnants from the bottoms of bottles and slamming down ale and tobacco ash cocktails without so much as a flinch.
7. The nonsensical drunk.
Super duper annoying. Will tell endless stories that don’t go anywhere or aren’t at all interesting. Will demand the spotlight despite the greater majority being annoyed at or bored of them. Can be relied on to forget the punch lines of all of their already awful jokes yet talk loudly over genuinely interesting partygoers to tell more of the same.
8. The Romantic Drunk(s).
Will often show wildly uncomfortable romantic/sexual gestures in sure view of everybody. Often as a tactic of letting the party know how completely in love they are, or how damn attractive they find each other. I suppose the idea is that they should be the center of attention and we should admire how damn smitten they are. Though, to be fair, they are relatively harmless.
9. The Fun Drunk.
By far the best. Will dance, sing, tell jokes and nail the punch line every time. Super friendly and not at all threatening. Will treat you the same as an, assumed, likeminded individual looking for the same good time they are. Can light up a room and make or break a party. ‘Is Joe gonna be there?’…’THEN I WILL TOO!!!’.
NP.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
The REAL Australian Constitution, Part 1.
The constitution, as it stands, does a fine job of ruling this country in a legal sense but drops the ball on Australian etiquette, social standards and nuances that can become larger obstacles than they need to be. As such, I have made it my duty to informally correct and revise or entirely replace, or add, sections to the fine Australian constitution.
1. Beer shall be drank from the bottle or can, when purchased as such, and only from a glass in venues which serve it in such a manner.
2. The only proper way to apply sauce, and only tomato sauce, to a meat pie is via ‘sauce injection’ in, or as close as possible, to the center.
3. From henceforth, Waltzing Matilda, shall be considered the official anthem. To be sung as intoxicated as possible and so, after sporting events. In the absence of an adequate recording of such, Cold Chisels ‘Khe Sahn’ or Men at Works ‘Land Down Under’ should be considered apt substitutes.
4. Vegemite shall be served on toast, as thickly as possible and to the outer perimeters of said toast, to all foreign dignitaries, presidents and at all official meetings of parliament as the main course. Where necessary, a vegemite and cheese sandwich may also be applicable.
5. The lavatory shall be referred to as ‘The Dunny’, with no exceptions. Defecating shall, also, be referred to as ‘Giving Birth to A Politician’.
6. Footy shorts and thongs, as well as driza-bone jackets and akubras, with or without blundstones, are perfectly acceptable attire to a wedding, black tie event or parliamentary meeting. To the extent that they are encouraged and could be considered, at the organisers discretion, to be mandatory.
7. It shall be considered a punishable offence to attend a piss-up without anything to contribute. The rules on sentence shall be the following ; arriving with nothing shall be considered ‘bad form’. Arriving with beer shall be considered ‘good form’. Arriving with a local beer shall be considered ‘great form’. Arriving with anything but beer shall be considered ‘shit form’. However, this rule should be vetoed in the event that the attendee is, in fact, ‘broke as a joke’.
8. The act and atmosphere of relaxation and easy-goings shall be enforced by legislation. If a potentially troublesome situation is met with any reply, other than ‘She'll be right mate’ the offence should be reported and is punishable by fines, considerable jail time or, in extreme cases, execution minus any means of trial.
9. A shout should be returned, promptly and with no protest. If one will not provide a shout, one should not accept a shout. This should be mentioned upfront so each is aware of the specific policy to be implemented in that drinking session. If the establishment is crowded, a shouters seat should always be reserved and one shant be expected to shout anything but full-strength beer.
10. A taxi shall only be called when one is not yet inebriated enough to drive in a proper manner. Inside the transport, the usual questions should be posed; “where are you from, mate?”, “how long til you knock off?”, “had many fares tonight?” and the like. The currency can be anything that remain in your pockets from the resulting drinks you’ve had, but should always be handed over in a sporadic and dishevelled fashion, along with a prompt ‘thanks mate’ and exit of the vehicle.
As all is not right with our humble Lucky Country, there shall be more, forthcoming of these necessary updates to our current guidelines document.
NP.
1. Beer shall be drank from the bottle or can, when purchased as such, and only from a glass in venues which serve it in such a manner.
2. The only proper way to apply sauce, and only tomato sauce, to a meat pie is via ‘sauce injection’ in, or as close as possible, to the center.
3. From henceforth, Waltzing Matilda, shall be considered the official anthem. To be sung as intoxicated as possible and so, after sporting events. In the absence of an adequate recording of such, Cold Chisels ‘Khe Sahn’ or Men at Works ‘Land Down Under’ should be considered apt substitutes.
4. Vegemite shall be served on toast, as thickly as possible and to the outer perimeters of said toast, to all foreign dignitaries, presidents and at all official meetings of parliament as the main course. Where necessary, a vegemite and cheese sandwich may also be applicable.
5. The lavatory shall be referred to as ‘The Dunny’, with no exceptions. Defecating shall, also, be referred to as ‘Giving Birth to A Politician’.
6. Footy shorts and thongs, as well as driza-bone jackets and akubras, with or without blundstones, are perfectly acceptable attire to a wedding, black tie event or parliamentary meeting. To the extent that they are encouraged and could be considered, at the organisers discretion, to be mandatory.
7. It shall be considered a punishable offence to attend a piss-up without anything to contribute. The rules on sentence shall be the following ; arriving with nothing shall be considered ‘bad form’. Arriving with beer shall be considered ‘good form’. Arriving with a local beer shall be considered ‘great form’. Arriving with anything but beer shall be considered ‘shit form’. However, this rule should be vetoed in the event that the attendee is, in fact, ‘broke as a joke’.
8. The act and atmosphere of relaxation and easy-goings shall be enforced by legislation. If a potentially troublesome situation is met with any reply, other than ‘She'll be right mate’ the offence should be reported and is punishable by fines, considerable jail time or, in extreme cases, execution minus any means of trial.
9. A shout should be returned, promptly and with no protest. If one will not provide a shout, one should not accept a shout. This should be mentioned upfront so each is aware of the specific policy to be implemented in that drinking session. If the establishment is crowded, a shouters seat should always be reserved and one shant be expected to shout anything but full-strength beer.
10. A taxi shall only be called when one is not yet inebriated enough to drive in a proper manner. Inside the transport, the usual questions should be posed; “where are you from, mate?”, “how long til you knock off?”, “had many fares tonight?” and the like. The currency can be anything that remain in your pockets from the resulting drinks you’ve had, but should always be handed over in a sporadic and dishevelled fashion, along with a prompt ‘thanks mate’ and exit of the vehicle.
As all is not right with our humble Lucky Country, there shall be more, forthcoming of these necessary updates to our current guidelines document.
NP.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
On telling the truth, the horrible truth.
When I think of honesty, I think of my mother; perhaps not the usual, for a 21 year old with his share of bad habits and regrettable behaviour, but a practise that has its rewards.
In the case of my mother and myself, being honest has rewarded the both of us with sound advice, peace of mind, and a faith in trust.
But would I advise honesty as a blanket and uniform rule for humankind? Though I would like to, I cannot say ‘yes’.
As someone has said, ‘the truth hurts’ and as Jack said ‘you can’t handle the truth’. The sad reality, I’m afraid- a good amount, if not the vast majority, can’t handle the truth- the whole truth. Why do you think court-room dramas are able to run rampant as they do?
The fact is, we lie for a reason and, often, with due cause. The comfort of truth can’t possibly overwhelm the feeling(s) of having ones feathers ruffled. We prize gratitude, approval and ‘that warm, fuzzy feeling’ over just about everything else even if it is falsified. As such, a compliment is taken as gospel and one rarely has the awareness to suspect it might’ve been a fib on the sole grounds that having someone like you feels so darn good.
Naturally, you will be largely ostracized and disregarded if you aren’t a subscriber to this unwritten doctrine of ‘harmless truths’ and you can’t realistically expect to make a lot of friends. However, the few friends you do have will have a greater admiration for you, for the sheer courage it took to confess the horrible truth.
Indeed a fair share of the lies told are those infamous ‘white lies’ and they have their purpose also. When nothing is to be gained by being honest, but something might be by being a shade insincere a white lie is not only recommended but the only real detour of real trouble…
As a beautiful girl once told me, ‘there is a difference between being honest and being mean’. Indeed.
But I, a firm advocate of the ‘playing it straight’ method must say, in the end an upfront truth is of greater benefit than a prolonged lie. Or, to put it another way and in the immortal words of John Candy;
“I’m the genuine article, what you see is what you get”.
Indeed you were John, indeed you were.
NP.
In the case of my mother and myself, being honest has rewarded the both of us with sound advice, peace of mind, and a faith in trust.
But would I advise honesty as a blanket and uniform rule for humankind? Though I would like to, I cannot say ‘yes’.
As someone has said, ‘the truth hurts’ and as Jack said ‘you can’t handle the truth’. The sad reality, I’m afraid- a good amount, if not the vast majority, can’t handle the truth- the whole truth. Why do you think court-room dramas are able to run rampant as they do?
The fact is, we lie for a reason and, often, with due cause. The comfort of truth can’t possibly overwhelm the feeling(s) of having ones feathers ruffled. We prize gratitude, approval and ‘that warm, fuzzy feeling’ over just about everything else even if it is falsified. As such, a compliment is taken as gospel and one rarely has the awareness to suspect it might’ve been a fib on the sole grounds that having someone like you feels so darn good.
Naturally, you will be largely ostracized and disregarded if you aren’t a subscriber to this unwritten doctrine of ‘harmless truths’ and you can’t realistically expect to make a lot of friends. However, the few friends you do have will have a greater admiration for you, for the sheer courage it took to confess the horrible truth.
Indeed a fair share of the lies told are those infamous ‘white lies’ and they have their purpose also. When nothing is to be gained by being honest, but something might be by being a shade insincere a white lie is not only recommended but the only real detour of real trouble…
As a beautiful girl once told me, ‘there is a difference between being honest and being mean’. Indeed.
But I, a firm advocate of the ‘playing it straight’ method must say, in the end an upfront truth is of greater benefit than a prolonged lie. Or, to put it another way and in the immortal words of John Candy;
“I’m the genuine article, what you see is what you get”.
Indeed you were John, indeed you were.
NP.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
On Leaving Speeches and Well Beings…
Some of you surely know it well….the end of school speech. Besides all the stereotypical bullshit they will tell you one thing; they would love to see you back.
You are graduating, this is your big day, the day you’ve sweated on, the hardship is over and your about to hear everyone ruffle your hems and sing your praises, after all it was far from common ground in their day to graduate high-school…..
And what do you get? Typical, rehashed speeches and plastic goodbyes. This is most certainly not meant to offend anyone, just the graduating experience from a, somewhat, impartial observer.
They will, naturally, break out the classics like; ‘don’t go where the path may lead you, go instead where there is no path’ and ‘we wish you all the best in your future endeavours’ and ‘ we hope to see you back as active members of this community’. This translates to: don’t come back unless you have a doctorate…
Believe me, with younger brothers and most recently a girlfriend just finished school I know. They want nothing to do with you….
Of 30 or thereabouts, teachers I knew well, there is 3 I adore and will make any effort of reasonable conversation with. At post-school age you might be within your rights to call them friends, and I do so…folks I consider to have some sort of positive influence on me beyond schooling. The rest are swine that are surely glad to be rid of me and could care less if I was shooting a grand of heroin into my arm each and every day.
One truth; much as they will profess your presence is welcome on their doorstep; nothing could be further from the truth.
Unsurprisingly the principal is the key in these shenanigans, recognizing that all you have to do is show up and by such an act the magical experience of high-school, six years to which you have committed your growing from youth into man or woman as the case may be, will be relived and revived. But don’t be fooled, they want nothing more than to be rid of you and if you happen to appear on their radar again, by other means, you might be expected to be treted like a rapist or molester.
I shant be so decisive to state that if you show up with a degree that might better humankind you wont be greeted with anything but open arms, BUT, from my own experience, if you show up with anything less you will be treated as common scum….
Sad But True…
NP.
You are graduating, this is your big day, the day you’ve sweated on, the hardship is over and your about to hear everyone ruffle your hems and sing your praises, after all it was far from common ground in their day to graduate high-school…..
And what do you get? Typical, rehashed speeches and plastic goodbyes. This is most certainly not meant to offend anyone, just the graduating experience from a, somewhat, impartial observer.
They will, naturally, break out the classics like; ‘don’t go where the path may lead you, go instead where there is no path’ and ‘we wish you all the best in your future endeavours’ and ‘ we hope to see you back as active members of this community’. This translates to: don’t come back unless you have a doctorate…
Believe me, with younger brothers and most recently a girlfriend just finished school I know. They want nothing to do with you….
Of 30 or thereabouts, teachers I knew well, there is 3 I adore and will make any effort of reasonable conversation with. At post-school age you might be within your rights to call them friends, and I do so…folks I consider to have some sort of positive influence on me beyond schooling. The rest are swine that are surely glad to be rid of me and could care less if I was shooting a grand of heroin into my arm each and every day.
One truth; much as they will profess your presence is welcome on their doorstep; nothing could be further from the truth.
Unsurprisingly the principal is the key in these shenanigans, recognizing that all you have to do is show up and by such an act the magical experience of high-school, six years to which you have committed your growing from youth into man or woman as the case may be, will be relived and revived. But don’t be fooled, they want nothing more than to be rid of you and if you happen to appear on their radar again, by other means, you might be expected to be treted like a rapist or molester.
I shant be so decisive to state that if you show up with a degree that might better humankind you wont be greeted with anything but open arms, BUT, from my own experience, if you show up with anything less you will be treated as common scum….
Sad But True…
NP.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Nature and Nurture, the Death of Independant Thought.
From day one you are cultivated as one to grow by another’s sun. It is not their fault, and certainly not yours, but a bitter tradition in human nature that is too far gone to be redeemed.
I am sure there isn’t any real doubt of it, and while some might profess nothing but love and admiration for their parents, grandparents, teachers, professors and even friends, there is an element of poison to these relationships.
In severe cases you are left with people either too stupid or too afraid to think properly for themselves and form their own opinions on matters, and in mild cases simply regular Joes with a few poignant issues they will not abandon their beliefs on.
The classic example, of course, is the Catholic church. You are baptised at birth, usually speaking, and so they give you little choice to object. The freedom of religion honest citizens get so giddy about is a sham, in so much as you are free to choose your religion, so long as it is that your parents have chosen for you.
Politics is much the same, though to a lesser extent. While it is probably fair to say that religious convictions run strong through the pristine bloodlines of this land down under, political passion or persuasion is more a case of ‘who cares’ or ‘they’re all evil’. True enough, perhaps.
What occurs is a fairly uniform avalanche effect. You, as a perhaps naïve youngster, see all the positive aspects in the lives and characters of those who guide you and so assume they must have the goods on the bigger questions also. I mean, who could disagree with those who created you, fed you, clothed you, hugged you when you might’ve needed it?
This is allowed to be commonplace in part due to homogeneous religious and political beliefs and practises in places where a similar calibre of person dwell. For instance, it would be hard to find a wealthy right-winger in my working-class hometown of Lithgow and likewise hard to find a Labour blue-collar amongst the doctors and lawyers and such of Sydney’s North Shore, where even the plumbers have private insurance and publicists.
This is detrimental, yet not likely to change. Parents are the natural pack leaders and as by our nature we have become accustomed to following the leaders, trails and rules. It takes too much effort and courage or perhaps intelligence to forge new beliefs and opinions.
Of course, indifference has well and truly set in by the time you realize this and so absurd issues like gay marriage and abortion are allowed to stand a challenge to communal sanity by the convictions of, in some cases, people who lived when gay folks were condemned to jail.
Obviously this is not everyone, but it is enough to make a real difference. It is this kind of bitter tradition that make politics and religion taboo subjects for most dinner time conversation, but don’t let them fool you, you can disagree with your parents, anyone or everyone and still maintain friends and family, provided your friends and family aren’t one track minded, stubborn, ignorant or poor losers.
The wonderful British poet, Phillip Larkin wrote a poem on, more or less, this exact subject, it is below…
Phillip Larkin, This Be The Verse.
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.
But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.
Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.
Though don’t be too hard on them, their parents left them with similar qualms…
NP.
I am sure there isn’t any real doubt of it, and while some might profess nothing but love and admiration for their parents, grandparents, teachers, professors and even friends, there is an element of poison to these relationships.
In severe cases you are left with people either too stupid or too afraid to think properly for themselves and form their own opinions on matters, and in mild cases simply regular Joes with a few poignant issues they will not abandon their beliefs on.
The classic example, of course, is the Catholic church. You are baptised at birth, usually speaking, and so they give you little choice to object. The freedom of religion honest citizens get so giddy about is a sham, in so much as you are free to choose your religion, so long as it is that your parents have chosen for you.
Politics is much the same, though to a lesser extent. While it is probably fair to say that religious convictions run strong through the pristine bloodlines of this land down under, political passion or persuasion is more a case of ‘who cares’ or ‘they’re all evil’. True enough, perhaps.
What occurs is a fairly uniform avalanche effect. You, as a perhaps naïve youngster, see all the positive aspects in the lives and characters of those who guide you and so assume they must have the goods on the bigger questions also. I mean, who could disagree with those who created you, fed you, clothed you, hugged you when you might’ve needed it?
This is allowed to be commonplace in part due to homogeneous religious and political beliefs and practises in places where a similar calibre of person dwell. For instance, it would be hard to find a wealthy right-winger in my working-class hometown of Lithgow and likewise hard to find a Labour blue-collar amongst the doctors and lawyers and such of Sydney’s North Shore, where even the plumbers have private insurance and publicists.
This is detrimental, yet not likely to change. Parents are the natural pack leaders and as by our nature we have become accustomed to following the leaders, trails and rules. It takes too much effort and courage or perhaps intelligence to forge new beliefs and opinions.
Of course, indifference has well and truly set in by the time you realize this and so absurd issues like gay marriage and abortion are allowed to stand a challenge to communal sanity by the convictions of, in some cases, people who lived when gay folks were condemned to jail.
Obviously this is not everyone, but it is enough to make a real difference. It is this kind of bitter tradition that make politics and religion taboo subjects for most dinner time conversation, but don’t let them fool you, you can disagree with your parents, anyone or everyone and still maintain friends and family, provided your friends and family aren’t one track minded, stubborn, ignorant or poor losers.
The wonderful British poet, Phillip Larkin wrote a poem on, more or less, this exact subject, it is below…
Phillip Larkin, This Be The Verse.
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.
But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.
Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.
Though don’t be too hard on them, their parents left them with similar qualms…
NP.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
On Accents and Perceptions.
Anyone who knows me will know I speak with something of an American/Canadian tone. While distinguishable to those hailing from those countries, to your dinky Aussie I am either American or someone adopting the speech pattern for social gain.
I have had many an argument in pubs across NSW on this issue, with most thinking I am in fact consciously talking as I do to be considered hip, cool, happening or exotic.
Of course, as anyone with half a brain would realise, with the exception of music, television, fast food and in times of war, Americanisms aren’t in vogue and never really have been in the great sun burnt country.
It is lost on them that an Australian wouldn’t adopt a US accent in order to be considered cool, because it isn’t cool.
Though if it were I could hardly be considered a trendsetter, you need only a glance at my day wear to know that (though I think business shirts and board shorts will take off pretty soon), so if I were to adopt the accent for the reasons I am accused of, wouldn’t it make sense to overhaul the rest of myself to match; especially in the key areas where true coolness is first and foremost registered and judged.
The truth is the speech is a result of too many movies, television and reciting clever dialogue from pornos in my underwear alone. Glamorous hey! Only someone who was trying to be as cool as can be would practice such activities.
Now though, I have given up on convincing people I am from this land. If anyone asks from here on, this is my story:
I was born in Utah to a polygamist father and have 31 brothers, sisters and halves. Two of our mothers were killed by a mob of Latter Day Saints angry that they were not practising the now proper Mormon way and in an effort to ensure his children’s safety sent the mothers and their respective children to different countries all over the globe. Some went to NZ, some up to Canada, some were trucked into South America and my particular arm came here.
Sadly for the reputation of your average barfly’s intelligence, a story such as this would usually go by without so much as a whisper.
NP.
I have had many an argument in pubs across NSW on this issue, with most thinking I am in fact consciously talking as I do to be considered hip, cool, happening or exotic.
Of course, as anyone with half a brain would realise, with the exception of music, television, fast food and in times of war, Americanisms aren’t in vogue and never really have been in the great sun burnt country.
It is lost on them that an Australian wouldn’t adopt a US accent in order to be considered cool, because it isn’t cool.
Though if it were I could hardly be considered a trendsetter, you need only a glance at my day wear to know that (though I think business shirts and board shorts will take off pretty soon), so if I were to adopt the accent for the reasons I am accused of, wouldn’t it make sense to overhaul the rest of myself to match; especially in the key areas where true coolness is first and foremost registered and judged.
The truth is the speech is a result of too many movies, television and reciting clever dialogue from pornos in my underwear alone. Glamorous hey! Only someone who was trying to be as cool as can be would practice such activities.
Now though, I have given up on convincing people I am from this land. If anyone asks from here on, this is my story:
I was born in Utah to a polygamist father and have 31 brothers, sisters and halves. Two of our mothers were killed by a mob of Latter Day Saints angry that they were not practising the now proper Mormon way and in an effort to ensure his children’s safety sent the mothers and their respective children to different countries all over the globe. Some went to NZ, some up to Canada, some were trucked into South America and my particular arm came here.
Sadly for the reputation of your average barfly’s intelligence, a story such as this would usually go by without so much as a whisper.
NP.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
NSW, Nannied State...PT 1.
It seems impossible, nowadays, to wipe your arse without someone from the fine NSW police force wanting to stick their big snout in and ensure you’re doing it ‘by the book’.
Gone are the days when a copper might let you off with a warning, far the opposite, they are actively looking to find a crime, even in the absence of one and seem completely frustrated when they find you to be a responsible, law abiding citizen.
I remember a story an uncle told me about the early 80s. So it goes that he made the drive from Sydney to Melbourne, in a mini and blind drunk. But, he assured me, “you could do that in those days”.
Right he was, you could. Don’t let it be said I am an advocate for drunk driving, simply using the story to illustrate a point; that if you could get away with an 8 hour high-speed drive then you could certainly avoid the mundane, unwarranted and unnecessary harassment of the boys in blue if you, as I am any time it happens, within the bounds of the law.
I remember one instance I was low on fuel and had a big drive the next day. The petrol station in my town was closed so, with the little bowser flashing, we made the tedious and risky drive to Orange, some 27 kms away.
In a small town along the way there were around 12 police cars lining either side of the narrow road. As the bank was full I didn’t get ushered in and thought id made it through by some miracle for one baring the dreaded red P plate.
Of course a sleek red highway patrol car was flashing its lights to me by the time id reached the towns limit. I pulled over and the bull headed officer approached.
Now, keep in mind I was 17 at this time. He asked me to get out of the car and show my license and pink slip. I did so and it seemed he wanted to have me out of the way, to inspect the car for the bounty of heroin I might be chartering.
With the breath test out of the way, the fine officer seemed disgruntled that there was no dirt on me. He dug further. Asking me about my drug past, as a consequence of the apparent drug raid they were doing on the district.
Had I smoked pot?
Not in around 6 years.
Pills?
Nope.
Speed?
Nope.
Then he took a shot in the dark.
Heroin?
No, I laughed.
Of course, by then I was only being half honest, but what did he expect.
Do you do heroin or meth?
Why yes officer, I have been up 72 hours and you might want to check my boot as I have around 14 kg, give or take, of fine uncut China White in there.
Gimme a fucking break.
It wasn’t the first time it has happened and it certainly won’t be the last, but finally out of options he let me go.
I think the problem is inadequate training and a fair whack of stupidity, but what can be done, after all, they run the show…
This won’t be the last of it, I shall blog to this effect a few more times in the coming weeks.
Gone are the days when a copper might let you off with a warning, far the opposite, they are actively looking to find a crime, even in the absence of one and seem completely frustrated when they find you to be a responsible, law abiding citizen.
I remember a story an uncle told me about the early 80s. So it goes that he made the drive from Sydney to Melbourne, in a mini and blind drunk. But, he assured me, “you could do that in those days”.
Right he was, you could. Don’t let it be said I am an advocate for drunk driving, simply using the story to illustrate a point; that if you could get away with an 8 hour high-speed drive then you could certainly avoid the mundane, unwarranted and unnecessary harassment of the boys in blue if you, as I am any time it happens, within the bounds of the law.
I remember one instance I was low on fuel and had a big drive the next day. The petrol station in my town was closed so, with the little bowser flashing, we made the tedious and risky drive to Orange, some 27 kms away.
In a small town along the way there were around 12 police cars lining either side of the narrow road. As the bank was full I didn’t get ushered in and thought id made it through by some miracle for one baring the dreaded red P plate.
Of course a sleek red highway patrol car was flashing its lights to me by the time id reached the towns limit. I pulled over and the bull headed officer approached.
Now, keep in mind I was 17 at this time. He asked me to get out of the car and show my license and pink slip. I did so and it seemed he wanted to have me out of the way, to inspect the car for the bounty of heroin I might be chartering.
With the breath test out of the way, the fine officer seemed disgruntled that there was no dirt on me. He dug further. Asking me about my drug past, as a consequence of the apparent drug raid they were doing on the district.
Had I smoked pot?
Not in around 6 years.
Pills?
Nope.
Speed?
Nope.
Then he took a shot in the dark.
Heroin?
No, I laughed.
Of course, by then I was only being half honest, but what did he expect.
Do you do heroin or meth?
Why yes officer, I have been up 72 hours and you might want to check my boot as I have around 14 kg, give or take, of fine uncut China White in there.
Gimme a fucking break.
It wasn’t the first time it has happened and it certainly won’t be the last, but finally out of options he let me go.
I think the problem is inadequate training and a fair whack of stupidity, but what can be done, after all, they run the show…
This won’t be the last of it, I shall blog to this effect a few more times in the coming weeks.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
On Ads, Abs, Flab and Fads.
A note on the popular media.
I know its not just me. You switch on the television for a relaxing afternoon of mindless programming, and are struck, each few minutes with one of a few ads. They are, roughly, life insurance, dieting supplements or systems, exercise equipment or anti-wrinkle treatments.
So, as a textbook application of audience considered marketing, you wind up thinking about what a fat, ugly piece of shit you are and how death is just around the corner.
It is perhaps a natural choice for advertisers to peddle this kind of thing to those who watch television and not, say, in gyms or health food stores. But come the fuck on!
I can understand one life-insurance ad, but having the constant thought of death circling you does not inspire someone, especially someone in their twenties, to go out and consider their responsibility so much as it inspires deep depression and reflection on a common truth that would be more comfortable in a neglected corner of one’s brain. Try that, as a side dish, with your morning regimen of the Flintstones.
The other thing is the ridiculousness of these ads; the ab-tronic, ab-swing, ab-circle, ab-longue absolutely ridiculous. When did we get concerned that our abs are the problem, and not say, our Dominoes or KFC (Which has the added ridiculous notion in a recent campaign, that it has the sterling seal of approval from Olympic athletes, if you eat KFC you’re more likely to compete for a bed in hospital than at the Olympic Games).
It’s a cause and effect situation, have your pizza and eat it too, have your ab wonder machine, and hopefully use it too. Basically, dear citizens, if you get nice and fat on wonderful, cheap and convenient fast food, you might also expect to have washboard chests and tight arses. There is something out there for everyone.
The anti-wrinkle ads also border on the absurd. One is for a fine product called ”Skin venom”, now, it could be me, but why on earth would I regularly apply something with venom in its title.
Of course there is a smattering of baldness ads too, after all who doesn’t want to look in their twenties all the time? The fact that none of this shit has been credited as working by anyone who means anything, and it is insanely expensive shouldn’t matter. Who can put a price on eternal youth?
The fact is, these ads are unfounded, they are constant and all seem to be pushing the idea that you are not good as you are. The generation that holds any stock in them is the generation who set themselves up for years of trying to swim upstream against aging and better themselves consistently. Why can’t anyone be happy as themselves? Why do we all need these crazy products to perfect everything about ourselves? To make the standards ever higher.
Of course, while annoying, there is nothing I can do about it. Maybe people don’t care as much as I did, but to them I ask:
Where did all the funny beer ads go?
I know its not just me. You switch on the television for a relaxing afternoon of mindless programming, and are struck, each few minutes with one of a few ads. They are, roughly, life insurance, dieting supplements or systems, exercise equipment or anti-wrinkle treatments.
So, as a textbook application of audience considered marketing, you wind up thinking about what a fat, ugly piece of shit you are and how death is just around the corner.
It is perhaps a natural choice for advertisers to peddle this kind of thing to those who watch television and not, say, in gyms or health food stores. But come the fuck on!
I can understand one life-insurance ad, but having the constant thought of death circling you does not inspire someone, especially someone in their twenties, to go out and consider their responsibility so much as it inspires deep depression and reflection on a common truth that would be more comfortable in a neglected corner of one’s brain. Try that, as a side dish, with your morning regimen of the Flintstones.
The other thing is the ridiculousness of these ads; the ab-tronic, ab-swing, ab-circle, ab-longue absolutely ridiculous. When did we get concerned that our abs are the problem, and not say, our Dominoes or KFC (Which has the added ridiculous notion in a recent campaign, that it has the sterling seal of approval from Olympic athletes, if you eat KFC you’re more likely to compete for a bed in hospital than at the Olympic Games).
It’s a cause and effect situation, have your pizza and eat it too, have your ab wonder machine, and hopefully use it too. Basically, dear citizens, if you get nice and fat on wonderful, cheap and convenient fast food, you might also expect to have washboard chests and tight arses. There is something out there for everyone.
The anti-wrinkle ads also border on the absurd. One is for a fine product called ”Skin venom”, now, it could be me, but why on earth would I regularly apply something with venom in its title.
Of course there is a smattering of baldness ads too, after all who doesn’t want to look in their twenties all the time? The fact that none of this shit has been credited as working by anyone who means anything, and it is insanely expensive shouldn’t matter. Who can put a price on eternal youth?
The fact is, these ads are unfounded, they are constant and all seem to be pushing the idea that you are not good as you are. The generation that holds any stock in them is the generation who set themselves up for years of trying to swim upstream against aging and better themselves consistently. Why can’t anyone be happy as themselves? Why do we all need these crazy products to perfect everything about ourselves? To make the standards ever higher.
Of course, while annoying, there is nothing I can do about it. Maybe people don’t care as much as I did, but to them I ask:
Where did all the funny beer ads go?
Monday, October 11, 2010
Rating Cartoon Women.
It seems at least somewhat likely that most young men around my age, the “Cartoon Age”, have at some point wished the lustful chicks in cartoons were real.
It seems lust for these animated women stems from a few things:
1.They’re always there- Lois never goes to work (or if she does we go with her) , Marge never hits the town or a holiday spot without us. They are on the television most days for our viewing pleasure, and over an average childhood we rack up countless hours of quality time with them.
2. They’re all the same- cartoon wives and mothers never have bad hair days, never get fat, always seem to be made up. They’re perfectly the same down to the outfits.
If you’re as sexually repressed as I then these fictitious women have no doubt become some kind of weird fantasy to you. So, if they made the jump to the world of flesh and bone, who would be the best to court? I have run through a quick list of pros and cons for each of them as a potential mate, partner and kindred soul.
Lois Griffin:
Pros: Lois is probably the most physically attractive of the bunch, also the kinkiest and overtly sexual, is kind of a cheerleader who certainly knows how to party. Despite this she does hold a certain caring and sensible nature.
Cons: That voice is the worst, really nagging and can be kind of a bitch.
Peggy Hill:
Pros: There aren’t many. However, she is smart, financially sensible and independent.
Cons: Fairly unattractive, preachy, nagging, egotistical and overly difficult to get along with.
Leela and Amy:
Pros: Leela is basically super-hot, even for a one eyed chick. Amy is likewise fairly hot and has a schoolgirl way about her. Plus they’re from the future, which is just awesome.
Cons: Leela is a tad muscular, could probably beat the shit out of you, has a bad attitude. Amy is annoyingly stupid.
Marge Simpson:
Pros: By far the cartoon queen. A great mother, hot with some kind of sex appeal, unique hairdo, a good wife, insanely tolerant who will always play the Danny Glover to your Mel Gibson (Assuming they were gay and MG didn’t hate black guys).
Cons: Really badgering, kind of boring and has a succession of crazy childhood dreams.
I suppose the only logical conclusion is that Marge would win on the wife and companion fronts, Lois, Leila and Amy would be sexually fulfilling and Peggy is just plain bad. But make up your own mind….
NP.
It seems lust for these animated women stems from a few things:
1.They’re always there- Lois never goes to work (or if she does we go with her) , Marge never hits the town or a holiday spot without us. They are on the television most days for our viewing pleasure, and over an average childhood we rack up countless hours of quality time with them.
2. They’re all the same- cartoon wives and mothers never have bad hair days, never get fat, always seem to be made up. They’re perfectly the same down to the outfits.
If you’re as sexually repressed as I then these fictitious women have no doubt become some kind of weird fantasy to you. So, if they made the jump to the world of flesh and bone, who would be the best to court? I have run through a quick list of pros and cons for each of them as a potential mate, partner and kindred soul.
Lois Griffin:
Pros: Lois is probably the most physically attractive of the bunch, also the kinkiest and overtly sexual, is kind of a cheerleader who certainly knows how to party. Despite this she does hold a certain caring and sensible nature.
Cons: That voice is the worst, really nagging and can be kind of a bitch.
Peggy Hill:
Pros: There aren’t many. However, she is smart, financially sensible and independent.
Cons: Fairly unattractive, preachy, nagging, egotistical and overly difficult to get along with.
Leela and Amy:
Pros: Leela is basically super-hot, even for a one eyed chick. Amy is likewise fairly hot and has a schoolgirl way about her. Plus they’re from the future, which is just awesome.
Cons: Leela is a tad muscular, could probably beat the shit out of you, has a bad attitude. Amy is annoyingly stupid.
Marge Simpson:
Pros: By far the cartoon queen. A great mother, hot with some kind of sex appeal, unique hairdo, a good wife, insanely tolerant who will always play the Danny Glover to your Mel Gibson (Assuming they were gay and MG didn’t hate black guys).
Cons: Really badgering, kind of boring and has a succession of crazy childhood dreams.
I suppose the only logical conclusion is that Marge would win on the wife and companion fronts, Lois, Leila and Amy would be sexually fulfilling and Peggy is just plain bad. But make up your own mind….
NP.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Tits and Children.
This week Katy Perry has become another victim of mothers who take issue with a relatively common thing; tits.
Your humble blogger obviously has no problem with them and thinks this kind of censorship is fucked up.
Apparently, while on Sesame St. as yet another cameo, she wore a dress that was a little low-slung for some peoples taste.
I would have to assume that these are the same mothers, by and large, that support rampant gun use and appose needed abortion, the same mothers that shelter their children from anything real in the world to the point of suppression. The same mothers, it appears, have some major problem with a pair of natures most marvelous entities. Bo!
"You can practically see her t---," one complaint read. "That's some wonderful children's programming."
Let me ask you, who has spent more time in close proximity to boobs than kids? We spend a few years sucking our sustenance out of the bastards, and if you’re a little left of center a few years more, half the viewer ship will have tits within the decade (maybe more if the obesity keeps up), what’s the big fucking deal?
All I could suggest is that mothers out there are jealous of Katy Perry’s perky rack when their own glory days are long behind them.
I read somewhere that on daytime television you can show a tit so long as you don’t show the dreaded nipple, apparently the nipple is where all the evil is. You can bet all the sex offenders out there would be doctors and lawyers and such had they not seen the nipple that led them down that heinous path, yeah right.
I think its primarily a case of bored parents thinking up things they might complain about, they have taken our free-speech but they will never take our over-hyped popstars breasts.
NP.
Your humble blogger obviously has no problem with them and thinks this kind of censorship is fucked up.
Apparently, while on Sesame St. as yet another cameo, she wore a dress that was a little low-slung for some peoples taste.
I would have to assume that these are the same mothers, by and large, that support rampant gun use and appose needed abortion, the same mothers that shelter their children from anything real in the world to the point of suppression. The same mothers, it appears, have some major problem with a pair of natures most marvelous entities. Bo!
"You can practically see her t---," one complaint read. "That's some wonderful children's programming."
Let me ask you, who has spent more time in close proximity to boobs than kids? We spend a few years sucking our sustenance out of the bastards, and if you’re a little left of center a few years more, half the viewer ship will have tits within the decade (maybe more if the obesity keeps up), what’s the big fucking deal?
All I could suggest is that mothers out there are jealous of Katy Perry’s perky rack when their own glory days are long behind them.
I read somewhere that on daytime television you can show a tit so long as you don’t show the dreaded nipple, apparently the nipple is where all the evil is. You can bet all the sex offenders out there would be doctors and lawyers and such had they not seen the nipple that led them down that heinous path, yeah right.
I think its primarily a case of bored parents thinking up things they might complain about, they have taken our free-speech but they will never take our over-hyped popstars breasts.
NP.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
What to do when nothing is left or worth fighting for.
We live in a terribly boring era, a long way from the 1960s and 1970s, when people still gave a shit.
Where are the picket lines? Protest songs? Rallies? Or movements today? They are nowhere, because nothing is changing and no-one has the balls to try. People are all too content to say “fuck it, we have no power”, it may be true but it is certainly not good enough.
No-one should make the mistake of thinking the fights aren’t raging because everything is good, it is quite simply because no-one cares enough- the world has gone soft.
Even the supposed “rebellious” music of today, is GaGa and other throwbacks to Grace Jones and the glorious disco era, no true originals.
Where is our punk? Where is our underground hip-hop, where are our 60s protestors, peace activists, outlaw poets?
They are nowhere, we are soft.
It is not as if Iraq doesn’t deserve as much of our time as Vietnamn did, in many ways they’re utterly similar, its more no-one cares enough or has the courage to hold a sign and play their part.
And those that do are people like Neil Young, who did his part in the 60s.
Fuck, even the 90s had Rage and grunge, what do we have? Nothing, a big fat zero.
I wish I could fight, even in vain, for a better world, but the fight is over, and because we laid down our gloves and took the hits, we lost.
BO!
NP.
Where are the picket lines? Protest songs? Rallies? Or movements today? They are nowhere, because nothing is changing and no-one has the balls to try. People are all too content to say “fuck it, we have no power”, it may be true but it is certainly not good enough.
No-one should make the mistake of thinking the fights aren’t raging because everything is good, it is quite simply because no-one cares enough- the world has gone soft.
Even the supposed “rebellious” music of today, is GaGa and other throwbacks to Grace Jones and the glorious disco era, no true originals.
Where is our punk? Where is our underground hip-hop, where are our 60s protestors, peace activists, outlaw poets?
They are nowhere, we are soft.
It is not as if Iraq doesn’t deserve as much of our time as Vietnamn did, in many ways they’re utterly similar, its more no-one cares enough or has the courage to hold a sign and play their part.
And those that do are people like Neil Young, who did his part in the 60s.
Fuck, even the 90s had Rage and grunge, what do we have? Nothing, a big fat zero.
I wish I could fight, even in vain, for a better world, but the fight is over, and because we laid down our gloves and took the hits, we lost.
BO!
NP.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Nicofiend: Why smokers are the lepers of the world.
I couldn’t be described as anything but a regular and heavy smoker. It is not something I am particularly proud of, nor is it something I feel too much shame over- it is simply, for the moment, how it is.
And of course, lectures come in both ears about how it is killing you and how its costing you money and how you should quit right now, if at all possible.
This harassment comes, more often that not, from non-smokers; those who can’t possibly comprehend the joy of a cigarette, from time to time.
I hole no illusions that it is a cool or glamorous habit, that all died with Bogart, but it is something that helps me level out, and in my mind at very least, eases some sort of tension.
Well, besides life being to stressful to ever quit, and the fact that of course all smokers know of the dangers it is not simply a matter of chucking away the cigs.
As any smoker knows cigarettes are to be enjoyed with an array of other activities and substances, and it is for this reason, I can’t quit. These activities and substances are:
1. Coffee-
As much of a nicofiend as I am, caffeine is right there with it. If I go the day without a cup I can be expected to be asleep by the mid afternoon. And there is nothing better than a cig with a hot cup of coffee, so, if I were to give up cigs, id also have to give up coffee.
2. Booze-
The drunker you get, the more smokes you crave. I am at my chain-smoking best when I am 10 beers for the better. How often do smokers wish to be outdoors at the various drinking venues they frequent, for no other reason than to puff, puff, puff. So, id also have to give up drinking. Shucks!
3. Sex-
Having just enjoyed the most carnal of delights, feeling drained and happy is the perfect time to light up. As your nerves tingle and twitch and you come back to earth…in and out. Ho Hum.
4. Food-
As a passionate smoker, you find your interest in food goes. But when you are hungry, the best way to cap off a meal is with a cigarette.
5. Anxiety Attacks-
Of course I would love to be rid of these pesky devils, but as it is, it is out of my hands. And so, when one strikes, I must be sure to have my Bensons for medicine.
To give up those things would be a virtual impossibility for someone as stuck in life as I am. I have no doubt though, one day, the world will be more balanced and I will be able to throw my dirty little habit down the shitter where, most would argue, it belongs.
Of course there are natural drawbacks to;
Stairs are now my enemy, I break a sweat when I check the mail, I am the leper of high society and smell like an ashtray 24 hours a day, my fingers and teeth are a healthy yellow and the shower is as much a means to stay hygienic as a daily coughing fit.
Still, oral fixations and turbulent times as they are, this isn’t enough to break the habit. Yet.
NP.
And of course, lectures come in both ears about how it is killing you and how its costing you money and how you should quit right now, if at all possible.
This harassment comes, more often that not, from non-smokers; those who can’t possibly comprehend the joy of a cigarette, from time to time.
I hole no illusions that it is a cool or glamorous habit, that all died with Bogart, but it is something that helps me level out, and in my mind at very least, eases some sort of tension.
Well, besides life being to stressful to ever quit, and the fact that of course all smokers know of the dangers it is not simply a matter of chucking away the cigs.
As any smoker knows cigarettes are to be enjoyed with an array of other activities and substances, and it is for this reason, I can’t quit. These activities and substances are:
1. Coffee-
As much of a nicofiend as I am, caffeine is right there with it. If I go the day without a cup I can be expected to be asleep by the mid afternoon. And there is nothing better than a cig with a hot cup of coffee, so, if I were to give up cigs, id also have to give up coffee.
2. Booze-
The drunker you get, the more smokes you crave. I am at my chain-smoking best when I am 10 beers for the better. How often do smokers wish to be outdoors at the various drinking venues they frequent, for no other reason than to puff, puff, puff. So, id also have to give up drinking. Shucks!
3. Sex-
Having just enjoyed the most carnal of delights, feeling drained and happy is the perfect time to light up. As your nerves tingle and twitch and you come back to earth…in and out. Ho Hum.
4. Food-
As a passionate smoker, you find your interest in food goes. But when you are hungry, the best way to cap off a meal is with a cigarette.
5. Anxiety Attacks-
Of course I would love to be rid of these pesky devils, but as it is, it is out of my hands. And so, when one strikes, I must be sure to have my Bensons for medicine.
To give up those things would be a virtual impossibility for someone as stuck in life as I am. I have no doubt though, one day, the world will be more balanced and I will be able to throw my dirty little habit down the shitter where, most would argue, it belongs.
Of course there are natural drawbacks to;
Stairs are now my enemy, I break a sweat when I check the mail, I am the leper of high society and smell like an ashtray 24 hours a day, my fingers and teeth are a healthy yellow and the shower is as much a means to stay hygienic as a daily coughing fit.
Still, oral fixations and turbulent times as they are, this isn’t enough to break the habit. Yet.
NP.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Action movies: Sheer enjoyment or Sheer Hysterics
For one reason or another, most people like those cheesy 80s action movies, the kind where the hero is actually a badass with his heart in the right place, super-duper mobile phones the size of egg cartons and the guy with the glasses is usually the weak computer guy who fucks shit up with data.
I have, in my extensive…research, come across two schools of thought regarding these cinematic works of genius and why we watch them.
1. The genuine enjoyment.
This is the school that watches the movies for no other reason than they enjoy them. It is not as if any of them take what is happening as ultra-realism, or even think they are particularly well made. It is simply that disbelief is suspended (or perhaps retarded) to such a degree that they genuinely enjoy the stories. Whats not to enjoy about Steven Seagal killing the odds and the foes?
This is the method that most people watch movies. They watch them as they were intended to be watched, as an 80s audience might have watched them before technology made their look redundant and rules on safety curbed the absurdity of the stunts.
This group, is in my opinion, the minority; the real purists who can overlook the plot-holes and technical flaws and enjoy the movie for the movie.
2. The action as a comedy.
This is the majority of us who watch “Commando” to see Arnold row a boat to Mexico faster than a sea-plane (in leather undies no less) and laugh our balls off at it.
In contrast to the above group we thrive on the absurdity, the poorly thought out stories, budget limitations, technical errors and shitty acting. It isn’t an action so much as a black comedy, where hundreds of people die but their lives don’t seem to matter when compared to the hilarity of the slapstick lead.
What could be funnier than a hyped up action oozing with melodrama? I don’t know…
NP
I have, in my extensive…research, come across two schools of thought regarding these cinematic works of genius and why we watch them.
1. The genuine enjoyment.
This is the school that watches the movies for no other reason than they enjoy them. It is not as if any of them take what is happening as ultra-realism, or even think they are particularly well made. It is simply that disbelief is suspended (or perhaps retarded) to such a degree that they genuinely enjoy the stories. Whats not to enjoy about Steven Seagal killing the odds and the foes?
This is the method that most people watch movies. They watch them as they were intended to be watched, as an 80s audience might have watched them before technology made their look redundant and rules on safety curbed the absurdity of the stunts.
This group, is in my opinion, the minority; the real purists who can overlook the plot-holes and technical flaws and enjoy the movie for the movie.
2. The action as a comedy.
This is the majority of us who watch “Commando” to see Arnold row a boat to Mexico faster than a sea-plane (in leather undies no less) and laugh our balls off at it.
In contrast to the above group we thrive on the absurdity, the poorly thought out stories, budget limitations, technical errors and shitty acting. It isn’t an action so much as a black comedy, where hundreds of people die but their lives don’t seem to matter when compared to the hilarity of the slapstick lead.
What could be funnier than a hyped up action oozing with melodrama? I don’t know…
NP
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Spendaholic.
For some, perhaps questionable reason, the only time I seem able to save a dollar is when I don’t have one. In times of financial strain I will, every once in a while, think to myself; ‘wow, I could be saving a lot now’. Then, true to my nature, I get two dollars to rub together and they are out of the palm as soon as they came.
For a 21 year old male with only a smoking and mild drinking habit (and none of the get-broke-quick ghastly vices that send people to the poorhouse in the blink of an eye) I burn through money with a frightening pace.
I couldn’t pinpoint the exact cause of my excessive spending, but I do have a number of theories.
One of which is a deep seated mental issue, perhaps a dire need to distract myself from the horrors of living with expensive shiny things. As one with a nervous disposition and a personality resume clogged with worried hang-ups, it is only natural that I should want to fill the void. Thus far, the presence of ‘stuff’ has soothed many of this worry-warts mind burns, at least in the short-term.
It also seems to be associated with a need to be completely fulfilled at all times; free from yearning for even a single thing within the realms of possibility, so that most times of day I have each and every thing I am after. If I want something I don’t have, I am hardly realistic about it. I preoccupy my thoughts and bargain with myself, and indeed my bankroll, to figure out a possible way I could attain said item.
Another factor is my childishness. I am unable, on most days, to see things reasonably. I throw an emotional tantrum within myself until I get that which I desire. Much like a toddler bartering with his mother for a frozen treat, though I am both parent and child. The parent is the small grown up fragment of myself, the responsible one, the one that always loses the battle with the persistent and needy child.
The final major contributor to my economic recklessness is my prolonged exposure to life as a bachelor. It was, for a long while, my standpoint that if something couldn’t be bought at a smoke-shop, service station or convenience store it wasn’t worth having.
Couple with this my, until recently, student status and you have the makings of one who won’t go within one hundred meters of a supermarket or green grocer.
God forbid I give up on my literary ambitions and become gainfully employed, as there is nothing a spendaholic enjoys more than a regular stream of income. In some twisted way it’s better to squander a stockpile than a series of instalments; as I suppose the idea is that instalments coincide with the regular things that need paying.
After many a spending binge I have often wondered where the money went. I have appropriate guilt about it, but not so much guilt it will stop me doing it again. It is certainly a vicious cycle, by which I get money, spend it immediately and wait for more. It is not conducive to assets or responsibilities, and that is regrettable.
Still it is enjoyable enough, it is not until the money is gone that I really fret about it, and even then it is a momentary thing. It could be worse, I could be gambling. At least this way I have a bedroom floor of empty booze bottles and cig packets to show for it. Though I suppose a floor cluttered with dead horse track tickets is no more pathetic.
And, as a good friend once enlightened to me of his own voracious attitude toward money, ‘that is what it’s for’.
For a 21 year old male with only a smoking and mild drinking habit (and none of the get-broke-quick ghastly vices that send people to the poorhouse in the blink of an eye) I burn through money with a frightening pace.
I couldn’t pinpoint the exact cause of my excessive spending, but I do have a number of theories.
One of which is a deep seated mental issue, perhaps a dire need to distract myself from the horrors of living with expensive shiny things. As one with a nervous disposition and a personality resume clogged with worried hang-ups, it is only natural that I should want to fill the void. Thus far, the presence of ‘stuff’ has soothed many of this worry-warts mind burns, at least in the short-term.
It also seems to be associated with a need to be completely fulfilled at all times; free from yearning for even a single thing within the realms of possibility, so that most times of day I have each and every thing I am after. If I want something I don’t have, I am hardly realistic about it. I preoccupy my thoughts and bargain with myself, and indeed my bankroll, to figure out a possible way I could attain said item.
Another factor is my childishness. I am unable, on most days, to see things reasonably. I throw an emotional tantrum within myself until I get that which I desire. Much like a toddler bartering with his mother for a frozen treat, though I am both parent and child. The parent is the small grown up fragment of myself, the responsible one, the one that always loses the battle with the persistent and needy child.
The final major contributor to my economic recklessness is my prolonged exposure to life as a bachelor. It was, for a long while, my standpoint that if something couldn’t be bought at a smoke-shop, service station or convenience store it wasn’t worth having.
Couple with this my, until recently, student status and you have the makings of one who won’t go within one hundred meters of a supermarket or green grocer.
God forbid I give up on my literary ambitions and become gainfully employed, as there is nothing a spendaholic enjoys more than a regular stream of income. In some twisted way it’s better to squander a stockpile than a series of instalments; as I suppose the idea is that instalments coincide with the regular things that need paying.
After many a spending binge I have often wondered where the money went. I have appropriate guilt about it, but not so much guilt it will stop me doing it again. It is certainly a vicious cycle, by which I get money, spend it immediately and wait for more. It is not conducive to assets or responsibilities, and that is regrettable.
Still it is enjoyable enough, it is not until the money is gone that I really fret about it, and even then it is a momentary thing. It could be worse, I could be gambling. At least this way I have a bedroom floor of empty booze bottles and cig packets to show for it. Though I suppose a floor cluttered with dead horse track tickets is no more pathetic.
And, as a good friend once enlightened to me of his own voracious attitude toward money, ‘that is what it’s for’.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
On the commonwealth games; sham or scam?
Is it me? Or are the Commonwealth Games a big croc of bullshit? It is that time of year again, sports fans, or more appropriately that time of four years. The games that people make too big a deal of, each and every time.
Now, admittedly, I am not the most sports savvy. As a general rule, if its not womens tennis, I don’t want to know about it. But these games must be seen as they are; a nonsense sporting event with too big a support network.
I can see it now, some 70 years ago, a group of sporting fat-cats sitting around dreaming up events that can fill the void between Olympics.
Oh, and America is the only nation of any promise and potential that is denied entry.
Finally, I hear scores of Canadian, British and yes, even my fellow Australians crying, it is our time to shine.
Perhaps my ill-feeling toward these prestigious and celebrated games comes from my ill-feeling toward the queen, monarchy and commonwealth itself. I don’t, and never will, understand why her majesty merits a place on our currency, why her flag deserves a place on ours and why we need to celebrate her faux birthday each and every year (in which an Independence Day would serve the same purpose).
My lack of love for Lizzy comes, undoubtedly, from my hatred of people being undeservedly praised. I dislike her as I dislike Paris Hilton, besides being rich she has no entitlement to any sort of fame or power (and it is just as well the old bat is just a figurehead, as she certainly doesn’t understand those who break their backs for a living).
The games have taken the sting and glory out of the Olympics, an event that definitely warrants more fan-fare and is at very least an equal playing field.
The hype around the games is entirely too much, people give way too much of a shit. Add to this there is the Commonwealth Youth games and winter games, it seems just a way for people to clog the sporting arteries with lackluster events that are entirely over hyped. So the money can keep rolling in and the athletes can win more gold.
Its all mutton dressed up as lamb, and I am sure the market men think long and hard about how they can con people into believing that this is some sort of big deal.
NP.
Now, admittedly, I am not the most sports savvy. As a general rule, if its not womens tennis, I don’t want to know about it. But these games must be seen as they are; a nonsense sporting event with too big a support network.
I can see it now, some 70 years ago, a group of sporting fat-cats sitting around dreaming up events that can fill the void between Olympics.
Oh, and America is the only nation of any promise and potential that is denied entry.
Finally, I hear scores of Canadian, British and yes, even my fellow Australians crying, it is our time to shine.
Perhaps my ill-feeling toward these prestigious and celebrated games comes from my ill-feeling toward the queen, monarchy and commonwealth itself. I don’t, and never will, understand why her majesty merits a place on our currency, why her flag deserves a place on ours and why we need to celebrate her faux birthday each and every year (in which an Independence Day would serve the same purpose).
My lack of love for Lizzy comes, undoubtedly, from my hatred of people being undeservedly praised. I dislike her as I dislike Paris Hilton, besides being rich she has no entitlement to any sort of fame or power (and it is just as well the old bat is just a figurehead, as she certainly doesn’t understand those who break their backs for a living).
The games have taken the sting and glory out of the Olympics, an event that definitely warrants more fan-fare and is at very least an equal playing field.
The hype around the games is entirely too much, people give way too much of a shit. Add to this there is the Commonwealth Youth games and winter games, it seems just a way for people to clog the sporting arteries with lackluster events that are entirely over hyped. So the money can keep rolling in and the athletes can win more gold.
Its all mutton dressed up as lamb, and I am sure the market men think long and hard about how they can con people into believing that this is some sort of big deal.
NP.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
On Internet Acronyms and Altered Words: Making People More Retarded.
If you are even the slightest bit internet savvy, or indeed have been on the internet even once and haven’t been in a cave for the last decade you would’ve experienced these acronyms; hell you may have even used some yourself.
In my more youthful days I was, like most members of this tech generation, well versed in all of these ridiculous misappropriations of the fine English language. I used them recklessly and in most even somewhat available occasions.
In recent years I have regained control and began to speak like a civilized human, but it was certainly touch and go for a while there.
Of course, the time saving aspect and main justification for their existence is valid. But as with most things designed to make human life more bearable, they have gone too far.
While using them in internet conversation is still slightly tolerable, its when people begin to treat them as real words and litter their speech and manner with them that the problems really arise.
In case you are unaware, or in massive denial, about these bothersome little wannabe words, I will run a few of the more common ones down for you:
-LOL (Laugh Out Loud)
By far the most common and I must confess I still use this in internet conversation, much to my frustration. Old habits die hard I suppose.
Naturally, meant to be used when something is funny or you are indeed laughing out loud, all too often it is used when there is nothing else to be said. In this way it has replaced the vacant ‘yeah’ when you’re not hearing someone, or don’t care enough about the subject manner to listen, in face-to-face conversation. It is a nothing ‘word’ and I estimate that a good 80% of people aren’t Laughing Out Loud as they profess to be.
For the record, it is L-O-L (Not Loh-l), each letter has a meaning and it is not a word.
There is nothing more frustrating than in face-to-face conversation when someone says ‘loh-l’ after a humorous anecdote or a joke. They are saying ‘I found that amusing’, well fuck-face, just laugh…the way regular humans do.
-BRB (Be Right Back)
This is the second most common of these, and possibly the most useful. Used when, in those rare instances, you have to leave the computer to take a piss or get coffee. Trouble is most people just leave, so the most useful is useless as it is not used, funny old world.
The other comforting thing about this is that it can’t be easily used in regular conversation, due to a splendid lack of vowels. Retarded people are too retarded to attempt its pronunciation, and there is comfort in that.
- GTG (Got To Go)
What ever happened to ‘Goodbye’, I would like to know. When one doesn’t have the time to say a simple goodbye, things are very wrong. This one exemplifies how making things easier makes it seem as if they were hard to begin with, thus highlighting humanities stupidity. Luckily though this one can’t be turned into a word either, or I imagine there would be more murders committed by English scholars.
-ROFL (Rolling On the Floor Laughing)
This one is really stupid. It seems to have faded a little in recent years. I suppose the concept is that when something is more than a LOL it’s a ROFL, though in my 21 years I have never Rolled On the Floor Laughing, and if I were ROFLing, I would be too incapacitated to mention it on the internet chat, again when people say ‘RohFuL’ I just want to stab them.
Then there are the words that are altered, for no real reason other than to save a letter here or there, though those letters come at the cost of ones perceived intelligence and are, in my opinion, not at all worth it.
It is often teenage girls who implement this, though not solely. Here are a few, and only a few, as there are far too many to mention in full:
-Love becomes Luv
There must have been something wrong with the spelling of ‘love’ for those hundreds of years it was spelt that way, or, people are just dumber in this century. What is it worth saving that extra letter when you look dumb? Oh wait, you are dumb.
-Hate or Great becomes H8 or GR8
I can understand this in a text message, when the letters are restricted and it takes multiple punches on a key to get them, but on the internet when you have access to a full deck and unlimited characters, it is just stupid.
-You becomes U.
U is not a word, enough said.
The consequences of there various acronyms and abbreviations are more than you might imagine. When I was heavily into my acronym and ‘net language’ phase I found myself misspelling things on school essays and exams, resume and in letters. If, like most net jockeys, you are on the internet using this kind of language more often than not, its like a lie that you tell for so long it becomes truth.
While we have much more access to information than our parents did, if we keep spelling and speaking in this ridiculous manner we will reap none of the benefits.
So Sht Tha Fuk ^ n Stop tlkin like Kidz.
NP.
In my more youthful days I was, like most members of this tech generation, well versed in all of these ridiculous misappropriations of the fine English language. I used them recklessly and in most even somewhat available occasions.
In recent years I have regained control and began to speak like a civilized human, but it was certainly touch and go for a while there.
Of course, the time saving aspect and main justification for their existence is valid. But as with most things designed to make human life more bearable, they have gone too far.
While using them in internet conversation is still slightly tolerable, its when people begin to treat them as real words and litter their speech and manner with them that the problems really arise.
In case you are unaware, or in massive denial, about these bothersome little wannabe words, I will run a few of the more common ones down for you:
-LOL (Laugh Out Loud)
By far the most common and I must confess I still use this in internet conversation, much to my frustration. Old habits die hard I suppose.
Naturally, meant to be used when something is funny or you are indeed laughing out loud, all too often it is used when there is nothing else to be said. In this way it has replaced the vacant ‘yeah’ when you’re not hearing someone, or don’t care enough about the subject manner to listen, in face-to-face conversation. It is a nothing ‘word’ and I estimate that a good 80% of people aren’t Laughing Out Loud as they profess to be.
For the record, it is L-O-L (Not Loh-l), each letter has a meaning and it is not a word.
There is nothing more frustrating than in face-to-face conversation when someone says ‘loh-l’ after a humorous anecdote or a joke. They are saying ‘I found that amusing’, well fuck-face, just laugh…the way regular humans do.
-BRB (Be Right Back)
This is the second most common of these, and possibly the most useful. Used when, in those rare instances, you have to leave the computer to take a piss or get coffee. Trouble is most people just leave, so the most useful is useless as it is not used, funny old world.
The other comforting thing about this is that it can’t be easily used in regular conversation, due to a splendid lack of vowels. Retarded people are too retarded to attempt its pronunciation, and there is comfort in that.
- GTG (Got To Go)
What ever happened to ‘Goodbye’, I would like to know. When one doesn’t have the time to say a simple goodbye, things are very wrong. This one exemplifies how making things easier makes it seem as if they were hard to begin with, thus highlighting humanities stupidity. Luckily though this one can’t be turned into a word either, or I imagine there would be more murders committed by English scholars.
-ROFL (Rolling On the Floor Laughing)
This one is really stupid. It seems to have faded a little in recent years. I suppose the concept is that when something is more than a LOL it’s a ROFL, though in my 21 years I have never Rolled On the Floor Laughing, and if I were ROFLing, I would be too incapacitated to mention it on the internet chat, again when people say ‘RohFuL’ I just want to stab them.
Then there are the words that are altered, for no real reason other than to save a letter here or there, though those letters come at the cost of ones perceived intelligence and are, in my opinion, not at all worth it.
It is often teenage girls who implement this, though not solely. Here are a few, and only a few, as there are far too many to mention in full:
-Love becomes Luv
There must have been something wrong with the spelling of ‘love’ for those hundreds of years it was spelt that way, or, people are just dumber in this century. What is it worth saving that extra letter when you look dumb? Oh wait, you are dumb.
-Hate or Great becomes H8 or GR8
I can understand this in a text message, when the letters are restricted and it takes multiple punches on a key to get them, but on the internet when you have access to a full deck and unlimited characters, it is just stupid.
-You becomes U.
U is not a word, enough said.
The consequences of there various acronyms and abbreviations are more than you might imagine. When I was heavily into my acronym and ‘net language’ phase I found myself misspelling things on school essays and exams, resume and in letters. If, like most net jockeys, you are on the internet using this kind of language more often than not, its like a lie that you tell for so long it becomes truth.
While we have much more access to information than our parents did, if we keep spelling and speaking in this ridiculous manner we will reap none of the benefits.
So Sht Tha Fuk ^ n Stop tlkin like Kidz.
NP.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
On 21st Presents: Practicality vs. Fun.
I have just gone through that other now redundant milestone; the 21st.
Of course legally speaking this birthday means exactly nothing in this country, perhaps the only slightly positive legal aspect is that I can get a drink in most countries I would want to get a drink at, and that apparently I can marry in India, Hong Kong and Nepal without parental consent which is quite the thrill.
When it comes to the question of presents for a 21st, each and every person has the battle of whether to play on the novelty of the outdated tradition or to treat it as any other birthday. Luckily, most obey the former.
It perhaps could’ve helped too that my party consisted of eighty percent middle aged aunts and uncles. In this respect the tradition is not dead yet.
The first ‘gifts’ I got were varying amounts of cash, useful to one who is, by a large majority of definitions, unemployable and out of work. It seemed each time I squandered one lot of birthday funds another was shortly to arrive. The timing was splendid and it has kept me going over the last few weeks.
I suppose when people give you such amounts of money they expect you would buy yourself a present with it. And I suppose they class a present as something you wouldn’t have bought yourself anyway, such as a nice pair of socks or a 80s compilation CD.
However, as none of these suppliers specify, I made the judgment call to spend the money on things that make me happy or, at worst, less miserable. Namely; drink and cigarettes, I am a class act.
The other early present I received was a book voucher. Vouchers are more specific, if someone really knows you and your spending habits well they will give you a voucher. It is something that says ‘I know you will waste money if I give you money, so I am giving you this’.
Certainly not a bad move, and its nice to have funds designated to the good side of your brain. Another thing is that in Use vs. Fun a book voucher is utterly useful to someone like me; an avid reader with his books locked in a box 4 hours away.
At the party the presents truly flowed. I will break them down based on their practical employment versus their novelty.
-A nice, sturdy canvas bag:
I don’t know how it goes with you fine folks, but a bag is only ever a practical item in my world. I am a hoarder of all kinds of junk, and more often than not I am taking that junk somewhere. So, throughout these travels I have gained an appreciation and a fondness of a good bag. It isn’t the funnest thing, but it certainly has its use.
- A 21st Beer Glass:
Perhaps a typical 21st present in most respects. Then again, its not really a 21st if you don’t get some sort of drinking apparatus. It is the rarity in that it fits equally into both Fun and Use. First of all, drinking is fun, and there is something manly about drinking from a purpose built glass. On use, as a drinker of Hahn Super Dry I was overjoyed to find the glass in question held a standard SD bottle perfectly, not a drop over or a drop under.
-A Kaleidoscope.
This one could be seen as inappropriate for a 21 year old, and in any other case would be. However, I immersed many hours in the world of the crystal lense as a youngster and associate memories of the twisting colors and shapes with happier more carefree times. Perhaps of note also is that the only kaleidoscope I ever properly used belonged to my Uncle, who gave me mine. Naturally this one is purely fun.
-A silver Celtic pocket watch”
I have always wanted a pocket watch. They are classy, manly and suave. So when I opened the lid on this fellow, I was delighted. It is a very practical gift for one who has no proper concept of time, due to an addled memory. However, it also has an element of fun and uniqueness to it. Plus, it’s the kind of thing I can own forever and will always remember my small moment in the sun when I look at its shiny engraving.
- Slick Black Dress Pants:
I am usually staunchly against clothing as presents. It has no fun to it, nothing you can really do but wear it (although, there once was a time that I would only have socks and undies when my grandmother got them for my June commemorations). Though, with the winds changing and my sense and interest in fashion and dressing well growing, and my need of new pants this is an apt gift. Black is certainly my color and, after tearing the crotch out of countless stretch jeans, it is always nice to have a slim but loose fit.
- A giant double ended dildo and g-string with cock sock.
If I were a bolder man, a more out loud and proud type, then these would be useful. But I garauntee that the friend who bought them didn’t have use intended, infact I think he would be disgusted if use resulted. The novelty is not lost on me, put it this way; if you own a giant double ended dildo and black g-string with a cock-sock, you have done some partying.
- A Giant 4.5 Liter bottle of Chivas Regal Scotch Whisky.
This thing is great. It is 142 standard drinks or, in my terms, 1 great weekend. It has its own stand to tip from and is almost novelty in size. I am really unsure of who these things are marketed at, but I am glad I have one.
The thing is, Scotch whisky isn’t my favourite. So perhaps my desire in owning one is for the gimmick of it. Though I have gained an appreciation for the fine drink and it is going steadily. I often have half the mind to buy a refill, as I don’t want it to run out.
I shant mention price, but these things aren’t cheap and it was truly sweet of my brother and sister to shell out for it.
As for now, I may not get another present until I am 50, which I fine by me. Much as I have enjoyed my various gifts, I am not very materialistic, not anymore. The best thing about this list of gifts as a collaborative effort is they all come from different aspects of life. Fashion, drink, novelty, travel, childhood fun and life need are all covered. I couldn’t be happier and more thankful to all those fine people who bought me gifts.
Until I am 50….
NP.
Of course legally speaking this birthday means exactly nothing in this country, perhaps the only slightly positive legal aspect is that I can get a drink in most countries I would want to get a drink at, and that apparently I can marry in India, Hong Kong and Nepal without parental consent which is quite the thrill.
When it comes to the question of presents for a 21st, each and every person has the battle of whether to play on the novelty of the outdated tradition or to treat it as any other birthday. Luckily, most obey the former.
It perhaps could’ve helped too that my party consisted of eighty percent middle aged aunts and uncles. In this respect the tradition is not dead yet.
The first ‘gifts’ I got were varying amounts of cash, useful to one who is, by a large majority of definitions, unemployable and out of work. It seemed each time I squandered one lot of birthday funds another was shortly to arrive. The timing was splendid and it has kept me going over the last few weeks.
I suppose when people give you such amounts of money they expect you would buy yourself a present with it. And I suppose they class a present as something you wouldn’t have bought yourself anyway, such as a nice pair of socks or a 80s compilation CD.
However, as none of these suppliers specify, I made the judgment call to spend the money on things that make me happy or, at worst, less miserable. Namely; drink and cigarettes, I am a class act.
The other early present I received was a book voucher. Vouchers are more specific, if someone really knows you and your spending habits well they will give you a voucher. It is something that says ‘I know you will waste money if I give you money, so I am giving you this’.
Certainly not a bad move, and its nice to have funds designated to the good side of your brain. Another thing is that in Use vs. Fun a book voucher is utterly useful to someone like me; an avid reader with his books locked in a box 4 hours away.
At the party the presents truly flowed. I will break them down based on their practical employment versus their novelty.
-A nice, sturdy canvas bag:
I don’t know how it goes with you fine folks, but a bag is only ever a practical item in my world. I am a hoarder of all kinds of junk, and more often than not I am taking that junk somewhere. So, throughout these travels I have gained an appreciation and a fondness of a good bag. It isn’t the funnest thing, but it certainly has its use.
- A 21st Beer Glass:
Perhaps a typical 21st present in most respects. Then again, its not really a 21st if you don’t get some sort of drinking apparatus. It is the rarity in that it fits equally into both Fun and Use. First of all, drinking is fun, and there is something manly about drinking from a purpose built glass. On use, as a drinker of Hahn Super Dry I was overjoyed to find the glass in question held a standard SD bottle perfectly, not a drop over or a drop under.
-A Kaleidoscope.
This one could be seen as inappropriate for a 21 year old, and in any other case would be. However, I immersed many hours in the world of the crystal lense as a youngster and associate memories of the twisting colors and shapes with happier more carefree times. Perhaps of note also is that the only kaleidoscope I ever properly used belonged to my Uncle, who gave me mine. Naturally this one is purely fun.
-A silver Celtic pocket watch”
I have always wanted a pocket watch. They are classy, manly and suave. So when I opened the lid on this fellow, I was delighted. It is a very practical gift for one who has no proper concept of time, due to an addled memory. However, it also has an element of fun and uniqueness to it. Plus, it’s the kind of thing I can own forever and will always remember my small moment in the sun when I look at its shiny engraving.
- Slick Black Dress Pants:
I am usually staunchly against clothing as presents. It has no fun to it, nothing you can really do but wear it (although, there once was a time that I would only have socks and undies when my grandmother got them for my June commemorations). Though, with the winds changing and my sense and interest in fashion and dressing well growing, and my need of new pants this is an apt gift. Black is certainly my color and, after tearing the crotch out of countless stretch jeans, it is always nice to have a slim but loose fit.
- A giant double ended dildo and g-string with cock sock.
If I were a bolder man, a more out loud and proud type, then these would be useful. But I garauntee that the friend who bought them didn’t have use intended, infact I think he would be disgusted if use resulted. The novelty is not lost on me, put it this way; if you own a giant double ended dildo and black g-string with a cock-sock, you have done some partying.
- A Giant 4.5 Liter bottle of Chivas Regal Scotch Whisky.
This thing is great. It is 142 standard drinks or, in my terms, 1 great weekend. It has its own stand to tip from and is almost novelty in size. I am really unsure of who these things are marketed at, but I am glad I have one.
The thing is, Scotch whisky isn’t my favourite. So perhaps my desire in owning one is for the gimmick of it. Though I have gained an appreciation for the fine drink and it is going steadily. I often have half the mind to buy a refill, as I don’t want it to run out.
I shant mention price, but these things aren’t cheap and it was truly sweet of my brother and sister to shell out for it.
As for now, I may not get another present until I am 50, which I fine by me. Much as I have enjoyed my various gifts, I am not very materialistic, not anymore. The best thing about this list of gifts as a collaborative effort is they all come from different aspects of life. Fashion, drink, novelty, travel, childhood fun and life need are all covered. I couldn’t be happier and more thankful to all those fine people who bought me gifts.
Until I am 50….
NP.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
On Childhood Delusions and Things Unsaid.
It has become apparent, with each passing year that the dreams of mine are running faster than I am. All too often I am left at the starting gate while they take the ribbon.
Sooner or later you have to be realistic about it, I mean when your young your folks tell you that you can do whatever you want. That no dream is too big and they just want you to be happy.
I suppose they do this so you’re not disappointed from the very beginning. I think this has a lot to do with how carefree childhood is also, and likewise why so many children (yours truly included) are impatient and can’t wait to grow up and achieve all these good things.
Of course what they fail to mention is that the dreams you have are, the majority of the time, only accomplished by those with either talent or good looks and that you have neither of those.
It would be much simpler if as soon as you could comprehend, they told you something along the lines of the following;
‘I was once like you, and my parents never told me this, but you can’t do anything you want. There is probably four or five things you’re capable of that wont make you want to kill yourself, and most of them are simple and boring. So, darling child, aim low’.
It’s a bitter situation, to say the least. But I have learnt this lesson more thoroughly than most. At 21 I am back at home, with an utter lack of faith and delusions of grandeur.
NP.
Sooner or later you have to be realistic about it, I mean when your young your folks tell you that you can do whatever you want. That no dream is too big and they just want you to be happy.
I suppose they do this so you’re not disappointed from the very beginning. I think this has a lot to do with how carefree childhood is also, and likewise why so many children (yours truly included) are impatient and can’t wait to grow up and achieve all these good things.
Of course what they fail to mention is that the dreams you have are, the majority of the time, only accomplished by those with either talent or good looks and that you have neither of those.
It would be much simpler if as soon as you could comprehend, they told you something along the lines of the following;
‘I was once like you, and my parents never told me this, but you can’t do anything you want. There is probably four or five things you’re capable of that wont make you want to kill yourself, and most of them are simple and boring. So, darling child, aim low’.
It’s a bitter situation, to say the least. But I have learnt this lesson more thoroughly than most. At 21 I am back at home, with an utter lack of faith and delusions of grandeur.
NP.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Hits and Misses of the 80s Part 2: Movies.
It’s hard for anyone of that or neighboring generations not to appreciate the plethora of wonderful 80s cinema.
What makes it so great? For one the emphasis on story, it’s all to common a phenomenon that the cinematic method of story telling is doomed to crazy films who at their heart is some kind of bizarre message about the torment of life and the importance of embracing death. Film is, after all, escapism. The reason people show up in drones at the cinema box-office is to forget these unfortunate realities and see what kind of sticky situation Indiana Jones might get into.
Art films were out and fantastical stories of whimsy and adventure were in. There was a clear sense of experimentation and risk, children could swear and talk about girls and the CCM’s (Crazy Christian Mothers) of the world hadn’t sunken their teeth into pure entertainment.
The kind of things todays society would be in uproar over were done with utter relaxedness in those days. Barely a passing thought was given to the so called ‘vulgarities’ and people had a willingness to go for it.
Still, as with just about any form of expression, people can’t wait to stamp unjust censorship all over it and before you know it the party is over, with only a brief capsule in time to remember it by.
Now, onto the films:
1.The Goonies.
What could be better, to any child of the 80s, than a gang of friends chasing down lucrative treasure? As these four fearless explorers face danger and demise at every turn, they think nothing of it. I guarantee you that kids only wish they could be so brave.
The Goonies got us out of the same old boring routine and into real exploration and adventure, if only for an hour or two.
2.Heathers.
Where has the black comedy gone? You can imagine the stir a film like this would cause today.
A pair of high school students killing several of their fellow students, before the age of the school shooting this was an acceptable subject to tackle, but now people would lose it over how it inspires violence and each and every crazy person who goes too far with a gun is not to blame, it’s the film, its always the film.
We are lucky, as students of pop culture, that the brave souls who made this were able to do it before too many stupid, anguished high school students went on killing sprees.
3.The Lost Boys.
This one doesn’t quite fit into the same risky niche as the previous two, but it deserves a spot on the list simply because it couldn’t exist anywhere but the 80s. A family relocates to a town infested by teen vampires, wherein the oldest brother himself becomes a vampire and the younger brother teams with two crazed comic shop owners and novice vampire hunters to kill the head vampire and free the clans souls.
Of course there are twists and turns and a whole host of booming high fashion moments; such as Timmy Capello gyrating in skin tight pants with a greased up, muscular torso and a saxophone (an image, a friend and I decided was amongst the out and out coolest of the 20th century).
The other crowning achievement of this film is its success in the comedy-horror genre, a style that could only truly shine bright in the 80s.
A far cry from the wank-fest that would be Twilight in later years.
This man is much cooler than you.
4 Back to the Future.
A friend once told me the time-travel theme hadn’t been done enough, and if it had it hadn’t been done well enough.
This is true, but this future truly grasped the realities of it all. It is logical and you don’t find yourself struggling with the choices they make.
Above all though, it is fun. Marty and Doc against it all, seemingly opposite they’re the only ones who can properly understand it all.
With generations of enemies to the McFly clan, Marty has a chance to meet most of them and is understandably horrified when one of them is married to his mother.
This fun franchise also gave us real hope for the future, who amongst you isn’t wanting their hover-board or self-fitting, self-drying jacket right now?
5. The Karate Kid.
What wannabe red blooded male child didn’t want to be Daniel-Son? To be trained by the wise and reliable Mr. Myagi in the ways of kicking ass, but with a strict sense of morals and proper judgment.
It’s almost like a buddy cop film. To seemingly polar opposite individuals (in race, economic status and age) can gain a mutual respect and understanding when pitted against a common enemy.
The lessons to be gained from this film are both timeless and priceless. It filled Karate classes over the western world, each student with a sense that to become a good man, one must have the skills while also having the restraint and wisdom to know the apt situations in which to use them.
Of course there are many more, it would be too long a blog to list all of them. These are the starting points, in a wide variety of genres.
The themes are diverse and always have some big meaning to them, but they are enjoyed best as fun stories. Where anything can happen and usually does.
So consider that next time you go to rent a film about deep-seeded civil unrest or a story of love and loss and walking around isolated lands thinking about the meaning of life. Have some fun with it, after all that’s where the real joy is.
What makes it so great? For one the emphasis on story, it’s all to common a phenomenon that the cinematic method of story telling is doomed to crazy films who at their heart is some kind of bizarre message about the torment of life and the importance of embracing death. Film is, after all, escapism. The reason people show up in drones at the cinema box-office is to forget these unfortunate realities and see what kind of sticky situation Indiana Jones might get into.
Art films were out and fantastical stories of whimsy and adventure were in. There was a clear sense of experimentation and risk, children could swear and talk about girls and the CCM’s (Crazy Christian Mothers) of the world hadn’t sunken their teeth into pure entertainment.
The kind of things todays society would be in uproar over were done with utter relaxedness in those days. Barely a passing thought was given to the so called ‘vulgarities’ and people had a willingness to go for it.
Still, as with just about any form of expression, people can’t wait to stamp unjust censorship all over it and before you know it the party is over, with only a brief capsule in time to remember it by.
Now, onto the films:
1.The Goonies.
What could be better, to any child of the 80s, than a gang of friends chasing down lucrative treasure? As these four fearless explorers face danger and demise at every turn, they think nothing of it. I guarantee you that kids only wish they could be so brave.
The Goonies got us out of the same old boring routine and into real exploration and adventure, if only for an hour or two.
2.Heathers.
Where has the black comedy gone? You can imagine the stir a film like this would cause today.
A pair of high school students killing several of their fellow students, before the age of the school shooting this was an acceptable subject to tackle, but now people would lose it over how it inspires violence and each and every crazy person who goes too far with a gun is not to blame, it’s the film, its always the film.
We are lucky, as students of pop culture, that the brave souls who made this were able to do it before too many stupid, anguished high school students went on killing sprees.
3.The Lost Boys.
This one doesn’t quite fit into the same risky niche as the previous two, but it deserves a spot on the list simply because it couldn’t exist anywhere but the 80s. A family relocates to a town infested by teen vampires, wherein the oldest brother himself becomes a vampire and the younger brother teams with two crazed comic shop owners and novice vampire hunters to kill the head vampire and free the clans souls.
Of course there are twists and turns and a whole host of booming high fashion moments; such as Timmy Capello gyrating in skin tight pants with a greased up, muscular torso and a saxophone (an image, a friend and I decided was amongst the out and out coolest of the 20th century).
The other crowning achievement of this film is its success in the comedy-horror genre, a style that could only truly shine bright in the 80s.
A far cry from the wank-fest that would be Twilight in later years.
This man is much cooler than you.
4 Back to the Future.
A friend once told me the time-travel theme hadn’t been done enough, and if it had it hadn’t been done well enough.
This is true, but this future truly grasped the realities of it all. It is logical and you don’t find yourself struggling with the choices they make.
Above all though, it is fun. Marty and Doc against it all, seemingly opposite they’re the only ones who can properly understand it all.
With generations of enemies to the McFly clan, Marty has a chance to meet most of them and is understandably horrified when one of them is married to his mother.
This fun franchise also gave us real hope for the future, who amongst you isn’t wanting their hover-board or self-fitting, self-drying jacket right now?
5. The Karate Kid.
What wannabe red blooded male child didn’t want to be Daniel-Son? To be trained by the wise and reliable Mr. Myagi in the ways of kicking ass, but with a strict sense of morals and proper judgment.
It’s almost like a buddy cop film. To seemingly polar opposite individuals (in race, economic status and age) can gain a mutual respect and understanding when pitted against a common enemy.
The lessons to be gained from this film are both timeless and priceless. It filled Karate classes over the western world, each student with a sense that to become a good man, one must have the skills while also having the restraint and wisdom to know the apt situations in which to use them.
Of course there are many more, it would be too long a blog to list all of them. These are the starting points, in a wide variety of genres.
The themes are diverse and always have some big meaning to them, but they are enjoyed best as fun stories. Where anything can happen and usually does.
So consider that next time you go to rent a film about deep-seeded civil unrest or a story of love and loss and walking around isolated lands thinking about the meaning of life. Have some fun with it, after all that’s where the real joy is.
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Misguided.
I am, whether I am proud to proclaim it or not, a university student. When you tell someone this, the inevitable question always comes up;"What are you studying?", and always I say the same thing,English. Of course, 'studying' is a fairlyloose word in my case. It may be that, while on paper I am studying, I am more sporadically showing up in between bouts at the bar and drunken rampages through Newtown's finest book shops.
When I decided I wanted to be studying it seemed simple enough: I didn't
have a career in mind yet didn't want to be doing nothing. I thought,"This will be easy enough", WRONG.
Uni life is tough, and over the course of 4 or so months I have more than once seriously thought I was losing my mind. It is at this point natural instincts have a way of taking the reigns; when its easier to do it later I shall do it later. Though from moment to moment later is later and later and before you know it your on the edge of a cliff you've been pushing toward and don't have the safety net of reliable studious habits.
I suppose in one very real way I am a lazy being. But more so it seems to be I only like doing what I like doing, despite the obvious future benefits a bit of old fashioned hard work would allow me. How else could you explain my reckless spending habits?
Disoriented.
NP.
When I decided I wanted to be studying it seemed simple enough: I didn't
have a career in mind yet didn't want to be doing nothing. I thought,"This will be easy enough", WRONG.
Uni life is tough, and over the course of 4 or so months I have more than once seriously thought I was losing my mind. It is at this point natural instincts have a way of taking the reigns; when its easier to do it later I shall do it later. Though from moment to moment later is later and later and before you know it your on the edge of a cliff you've been pushing toward and don't have the safety net of reliable studious habits.
I suppose in one very real way I am a lazy being. But more so it seems to be I only like doing what I like doing, despite the obvious future benefits a bit of old fashioned hard work would allow me. How else could you explain my reckless spending habits?
Disoriented.
NP.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Things that make me cry...
I cry too often. Not at the drop of a hat exactly, but more than any red-blooded male is supposed to. I couldn't explain why in any definite way; maybe I am just an overly sad or weepy person. Though sometimes it comes as a completely random occurrence, there are certainly things that trigger it. Whenever I feel I need to expel tears, I go to one of the following things:
1. Remember the Titans.
For some reason, I am completely obsessed with movies about American Football. More than I care for the actual sport, funnily enough. I guess its the themes of universal peace and friendship they seem to convey a lot of the time.
This movie, about an interracial football team at a time of racial tension, is a classic example. Despite my distaste for most things Denzel Washington, this one is brilliant.
I have probably seen the movie a dozen or so times, and each time I cry at the end scene where you know they didn't care for what society said about them, the whites and blacks learned to treat each other as people. The funeral scene at the end is so wonderful, their differences dealt with and each of them with an appreciation of the others.
2. Old Couples.
There is something so beautiful about an old married couple. In this day of the quickie divorce you've got to give it up to those couples that can get together and stay together, til death do them part. Even if it means nursing the other through sickness or trying times and having to do everything for them. When someone takes up the reigns out of nothing but pure love it always brings a tear to my eye.
3. The Songs of John Lennon.
I am not talking about the Beatles tunes here so much, though 'A Day in the Life' is a weeper. When I hear the emotion and passion in Johns voice, and think of the way he died, and what potential he had for this world I can't help but cry. The man was a beautiful soul.
Other Lennon songs have a more specific meaning. For instance, when I hear 'Mother' I think of my mother and all she has done for me. Obviously everyone knows what 'Imagine' means and can't help but feel sad at it. 'Woman' makes me think of the women I have loved and who either didn't love me back or things just didn't work out. It also makes me appreciate women and their great role in the world. 'Give Peace a Chance' is arguably the best protest song ever written. Why should we be killing each other? It makes no more sense now than it did then.
I don't particularly enjoy crying, I am ashamed to the bone that I do it so often, but its about the most expressive and real moments I have anymore and for that I am grateful.
NP.
1. Remember the Titans.
For some reason, I am completely obsessed with movies about American Football. More than I care for the actual sport, funnily enough. I guess its the themes of universal peace and friendship they seem to convey a lot of the time.
This movie, about an interracial football team at a time of racial tension, is a classic example. Despite my distaste for most things Denzel Washington, this one is brilliant.
I have probably seen the movie a dozen or so times, and each time I cry at the end scene where you know they didn't care for what society said about them, the whites and blacks learned to treat each other as people. The funeral scene at the end is so wonderful, their differences dealt with and each of them with an appreciation of the others.
2. Old Couples.
There is something so beautiful about an old married couple. In this day of the quickie divorce you've got to give it up to those couples that can get together and stay together, til death do them part. Even if it means nursing the other through sickness or trying times and having to do everything for them. When someone takes up the reigns out of nothing but pure love it always brings a tear to my eye.
3. The Songs of John Lennon.
I am not talking about the Beatles tunes here so much, though 'A Day in the Life' is a weeper. When I hear the emotion and passion in Johns voice, and think of the way he died, and what potential he had for this world I can't help but cry. The man was a beautiful soul.
Other Lennon songs have a more specific meaning. For instance, when I hear 'Mother' I think of my mother and all she has done for me. Obviously everyone knows what 'Imagine' means and can't help but feel sad at it. 'Woman' makes me think of the women I have loved and who either didn't love me back or things just didn't work out. It also makes me appreciate women and their great role in the world. 'Give Peace a Chance' is arguably the best protest song ever written. Why should we be killing each other? It makes no more sense now than it did then.
I don't particularly enjoy crying, I am ashamed to the bone that I do it so often, but its about the most expressive and real moments I have anymore and for that I am grateful.
NP.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Central Station, 6 A:M.
Central Station at 6 in the morning is a strange place. A real cross-section of the world, a bleak mini-habitat. Organisms come and go with the closest thing to human interaction a coffee order or a pathetic plea for money. Each creature starring blankly, each of them just as pissed off about being up so early in the morning.
A rare kind of thing where homeless youths can rattle on escalators with upper-class snobs, the angry kids can mix with the bitter jet-setters, clearly embarrassed and ashamed to be riding the same train as the peasants.
You can get a true sense of strong character in this setting; whether positive or negative. If someone approaches you or offers you the slightest kind gesture, you can be reasonably sure they are a somewhat decent human being in the better of times.
An attractive older woman with knee-high boots, skin-tight jeans and large, loopy bangles hanging from each wrist made a move toward me as I was smoking a cigarette. Since she was already smoking herself, I figured she must be chasing money. I shot my usual reluctant looks;l.
As she got near, however, she held out a partly emptied packet of cigarettes.
"There's a few smokes left in there" she said " I am quitting after this one".
Her look said it all:
"If you think I am kind at 6, you should see me at 9".
There is something grimly peaceful about standing on the upper level outside area just off Eddy Ave. and looking out over this city, my city. As sleeping trains begin to stir and rail staff smoke frantically before the days rush. The dull early morning greys begin to fade as the blue and yellow takes over. You can see the bright beams of sunshine penetrating the untouched gaps in the horizon.
But the thing all Centrals animals have in common, not surprisingly; they are all traveling. Everyone is on the move.
A rare kind of thing where homeless youths can rattle on escalators with upper-class snobs, the angry kids can mix with the bitter jet-setters, clearly embarrassed and ashamed to be riding the same train as the peasants.
You can get a true sense of strong character in this setting; whether positive or negative. If someone approaches you or offers you the slightest kind gesture, you can be reasonably sure they are a somewhat decent human being in the better of times.
An attractive older woman with knee-high boots, skin-tight jeans and large, loopy bangles hanging from each wrist made a move toward me as I was smoking a cigarette. Since she was already smoking herself, I figured she must be chasing money. I shot my usual reluctant looks;l.
As she got near, however, she held out a partly emptied packet of cigarettes.
"There's a few smokes left in there" she said " I am quitting after this one".
Her look said it all:
"If you think I am kind at 6, you should see me at 9".
There is something grimly peaceful about standing on the upper level outside area just off Eddy Ave. and looking out over this city, my city. As sleeping trains begin to stir and rail staff smoke frantically before the days rush. The dull early morning greys begin to fade as the blue and yellow takes over. You can see the bright beams of sunshine penetrating the untouched gaps in the horizon.
But the thing all Centrals animals have in common, not surprisingly; they are all traveling. Everyone is on the move.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
John.
I often wonder what John Lennon meant when he wrote ‘Oh Yoko’, I mean, its obvious isn’t it?
He did some bad things, the way he treated Cynthia and Julian was certainly nothing to aspire to, but it was all in pursuit of true love and that must count for something. The fact is, this eccentric woman grabbed him by the heart and wouldn’t let go, he loved her more deeply than most could hope to love anyone, it didn’t follow traditional means or seem very logical to throngs of Beatles fans; but it was pure.
The songs stand testament to this relationship. She was a mother, a friend, a lover, a heart connected to his. It seemed that she couldn’t have been closer to his mind, that she was always there. That it didn’t seem much to matter what happened, how awful things got or how weird they got, so long as John and Yoko were together. Theres something comforting in all that.
I guess they stand for love beyond all. I realise I am retelling the stories, adding my own retrospective cliché-laden spin on them, but to me it doesn’t matter so much. As much as I myself have loathed Yoko over the years, she was the nutrient he needed to grow.
Here is my second favorite picture of the man.
I am not in the business of caring so much about entertainers’ wellbeing, but John seemed the most human. He was so utterly personal that it mattered what was going on offstage, I cared, well, I cared when I was born; 9 years post Johns sad death.
I still hold firm to the thought that Lennon could’ve saved the world, he had the power, the people and the right thoughts in his head. The songs were one thing, but the messages could right a few wrongs now, 30 years later.
And as much of a crazy bitch Yoko has been over the years before and since John died, you’ve got to respect the side she could bring out in John.
Spare a thought for him...
He did some bad things, the way he treated Cynthia and Julian was certainly nothing to aspire to, but it was all in pursuit of true love and that must count for something. The fact is, this eccentric woman grabbed him by the heart and wouldn’t let go, he loved her more deeply than most could hope to love anyone, it didn’t follow traditional means or seem very logical to throngs of Beatles fans; but it was pure.
The songs stand testament to this relationship. She was a mother, a friend, a lover, a heart connected to his. It seemed that she couldn’t have been closer to his mind, that she was always there. That it didn’t seem much to matter what happened, how awful things got or how weird they got, so long as John and Yoko were together. Theres something comforting in all that.
I guess they stand for love beyond all. I realise I am retelling the stories, adding my own retrospective cliché-laden spin on them, but to me it doesn’t matter so much. As much as I myself have loathed Yoko over the years, she was the nutrient he needed to grow.
Here is my second favorite picture of the man.
I am not in the business of caring so much about entertainers’ wellbeing, but John seemed the most human. He was so utterly personal that it mattered what was going on offstage, I cared, well, I cared when I was born; 9 years post Johns sad death.
I still hold firm to the thought that Lennon could’ve saved the world, he had the power, the people and the right thoughts in his head. The songs were one thing, but the messages could right a few wrongs now, 30 years later.
And as much of a crazy bitch Yoko has been over the years before and since John died, you’ve got to respect the side she could bring out in John.
Spare a thought for him...
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
A Den of Desperation.
The Following is not strictly true, I wouldn't dare talk about myself in such vile terms. None the less, enjoy.
I had been busting for a shit.
The cause of this shit, regrettably, was around fifteen cold Heinekens I had stacked on top of my small intestine the night before.
As usual it was Sunday morning, the sky was grey and the tourists where the only fresh-faced assholes out and about. I hated them, there was nothing to see in this place anyway, why not go to the South of France where something might be worth looking at?
I could see the state of myself in the eyes of these people. They looked at me with a mix of distaste and disgust. Then they looked away, they had seen enough. What did they expect? I drank fifteen beers and slept only two hours, I was still drunk.
There was no use in trying to find a semi-reasonable toilet, so I went for the nearest one. St. James station it was to be, in the corner of a sleepy Hyde park. It was the only place a shit as vile as the one I was about to part with deserved to be laid.
I shuffled, urgently enough, into the stall and shut the door. I laid as much of the thin, cheap toilet paper on the seat as I could, sat down and let it work itself out. Then the shit faded from my mind, I was at ease and there was only one place for it. I was too far off home to dwell on that so I began reading the graffiti that was scrawled on the walls, no doubt by winos and crack-heads.
‘For a good fuck call...’.
‘I fucked your mum’.
‘Hope you enjoyed your shit’.
I did. These fine inner-city gentlemen clearly understood the value of a word, and had a keen sense of audience.
The shit was gone and a pair of scuffed leather shoes hobbled into the neighboring stall. With them, a set of pant-cuffs and a sleek brown briefcase.
I wondered about my new neighbor, what brought him into this den of desperation? Would he enjoy his shit? The pant-cuffs weren’t joined by a belt, or a zipper, a pair of underwear or hip pockets. He wasn’t shitting.
The brief case was hoisted up and I heard the crisp snaps of it opening...
I had been busting for a shit.
The cause of this shit, regrettably, was around fifteen cold Heinekens I had stacked on top of my small intestine the night before.
As usual it was Sunday morning, the sky was grey and the tourists where the only fresh-faced assholes out and about. I hated them, there was nothing to see in this place anyway, why not go to the South of France where something might be worth looking at?
I could see the state of myself in the eyes of these people. They looked at me with a mix of distaste and disgust. Then they looked away, they had seen enough. What did they expect? I drank fifteen beers and slept only two hours, I was still drunk.
There was no use in trying to find a semi-reasonable toilet, so I went for the nearest one. St. James station it was to be, in the corner of a sleepy Hyde park. It was the only place a shit as vile as the one I was about to part with deserved to be laid.
I shuffled, urgently enough, into the stall and shut the door. I laid as much of the thin, cheap toilet paper on the seat as I could, sat down and let it work itself out. Then the shit faded from my mind, I was at ease and there was only one place for it. I was too far off home to dwell on that so I began reading the graffiti that was scrawled on the walls, no doubt by winos and crack-heads.
‘For a good fuck call...’.
‘I fucked your mum’.
‘Hope you enjoyed your shit’.
I did. These fine inner-city gentlemen clearly understood the value of a word, and had a keen sense of audience.
The shit was gone and a pair of scuffed leather shoes hobbled into the neighboring stall. With them, a set of pant-cuffs and a sleek brown briefcase.
I wondered about my new neighbor, what brought him into this den of desperation? Would he enjoy his shit? The pant-cuffs weren’t joined by a belt, or a zipper, a pair of underwear or hip pockets. He wasn’t shitting.
The brief case was hoisted up and I heard the crisp snaps of it opening...
Monday, May 10, 2010
Hits and Misses in the 80s. Pt 1. Music
The 80s was a strange decade. Talking about it with some friends recently we came to the uniform conclusion that while not all great, it was certainly the most different, the one that stood out from the lump of decades that blended pretty seamlessly into one another.
For one thing there was the music, in my mind a miss. While it had its moments, and a good few musical milestones, what was popular is really the most thorough way to judge it.
It seemed to be an era of musical meaninglessness. Disco was in, and music as a personal expression was out. It was a time for fun, and that has its merits, and every cheesy bubblegum disco tune has its moment in time and memory to the people who were there, but to me what came out feels soulless.
This woman has no soul.
Hair metal was the quintessential superficial music. Each song meant exactly nothing, well not nothing all the time but a good majority of the time. Songs about shooting coke and crashing cars were the standards, and the image was for sale- having said that, I am a self-confessed hair metal maniac.
also, these guys...
Granted there was some exceptions, notably ‘London Calling’ and a lot of the Cures stuff, but for the most part, the things people recall when they recall the 80s is the bullshit.
Not to say it can’t be fun, but it just seemed plastic.
Genius.
Next up: 80s Movies.
For one thing there was the music, in my mind a miss. While it had its moments, and a good few musical milestones, what was popular is really the most thorough way to judge it.
It seemed to be an era of musical meaninglessness. Disco was in, and music as a personal expression was out. It was a time for fun, and that has its merits, and every cheesy bubblegum disco tune has its moment in time and memory to the people who were there, but to me what came out feels soulless.
This woman has no soul.
Hair metal was the quintessential superficial music. Each song meant exactly nothing, well not nothing all the time but a good majority of the time. Songs about shooting coke and crashing cars were the standards, and the image was for sale- having said that, I am a self-confessed hair metal maniac.
also, these guys...
Granted there was some exceptions, notably ‘London Calling’ and a lot of the Cures stuff, but for the most part, the things people recall when they recall the 80s is the bullshit.
Not to say it can’t be fun, but it just seemed plastic.
Genius.
Next up: 80s Movies.
Friday, May 7, 2010
Naming The Life.
In recent and semi-recent conversations, I have adopted the habit of isolating moments of ridiculous conversation and heralding them the title of the sayers autobiography.
Odds are, if you spend enough time conversing with anyone eventually they will say something funny and non-descript enough to be plastered on the front of a book on their life.
Take for instance a female friend of mine, who came up with this:
‘It would be weird to have sex around so many shoes’
Taken out of the proper context it seems to be saying nothing, yet could be saying everything, about her life. The exact kind of thing you might expect to see on a best-sellers list or in the ‘celebrity bios’ section of a popular book store.
It makes you wonder about things; about when someone might have said such a thing, why and what kind of person would say that. And, as most people could guess, titles that ask questions are pure gold.
Another friend recited this piece of genius:
‘You can’t take acid with a spray tan’.
This combines too insane situations, to most normal folk, yet seems to make some kind of weird sense. Acid in itself is a terrifyingly beautiful experience, but a spray tan could skew the space time continuum and take things another direction.
It’s interesting to think what this might say about a persons life. What an insane journey it might be that, at some point, a person would combine the polar-opposite adventurous worlds of acid and artificial tanage, or the likewise opposite worlds of sex and footwear.
Then of course, there are the perfectly apt titles; the titles that don’t play on the absurdity of a celebrity or socialites lives and cut to the heart of it, for better or worse.
An example of this is another friend, who is not that well off, infact he has very little. Who, in the course of perfectly regular conversation, said this:
‘Making just enough, to have nothing’.
Indeed.
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