I do not like Green Eggs and Ham, I do not like them Sam-I-am

Cover your ears Matilda...

Why Computers Sometimes Crash
by Dr. Seuss
(Read this to yourself aloud.)

If a packet hits a pocket on a socket on a port, and the bus is interrupted at a very last resort, and the access of the memory makes your floppy disk abort, then the socket packet pocket has an error to report.

If your cursor finds a menu item followed by a dash, and the double-clicking icon puts your window in the trash, and your data is corrupted cause the index doesn't hash, then your situation's hopeless and your system's gonna crash!

If the label on the cable on the table at your house, says the network is connected to the button on your mouse, but your packets want to tunnel to another protocol, that's repeatedly rejected by the printer down the hall.

And your screen is all distorted by the side effects of gauss, so your icons in the window are as wavy as a souse; then you may as well reboot and go out with a bang, 'cuz sure as I'm a poet, the sucker's gonna hang.

When the copy on your floppy's getting sloppy in the disk, and the macro code instructions is causing unnecessary risk, then you'll have to flash the memory and you'll want to RAM your ROM, and then quickly turn off the computer and be sure to tell your Mum!

Hey That's No Way To Say Goodbye

I loved you in the morning, our kisses deep and warm,
your hair upon the pillow like a sleepy, golden storm,
yes many loved before us, I know we are not new,
in city and in forest they smiled like me and you,
but now it's come to distances and both of us must try,
your eyes are soft with sorrow,
Hey, that's no way to say goodbye.

Leonard Cohen "Hey That's No Way to Say Goodbye"

But this is - EFFING YEAH, MY LAST FREAKING BLOG FROM HAMLET-LAND! Se ya round viking suckers!

BA

*Ahem* My name is Brown Pie Piece & I'm a blog-oholic. I've been offline now for... ahh bugger it, I haven't been offline much at all since I started this thing in October!

I'm not sure when this new hobby became a solid habit, but I do know that with my impending departure date looming - & thus the wrenching of dear Matilda (my laptop) from my life - I have begun to maniacally stockpile blog entries. Let me explain my logic.

I'm somewhat obsessive compulsive - I like balanced frames & neat piles & colour coded coathangers - hey, I never claimed to be normal. It's not like my room/work space is some bastion of eternal cleanliness & order (in fact as I look around now, I'd have to confess it's anything but), but there are little 'tells' which give me away in the oddest places. A friend of mine came to stay a few months ago & was in my room not one minute before he spied my spectrum-specific clothes rack. I was quite impressed - not many people pick up on it & certainly not so quickly. Turns out he's similarly disabled.

Anyway a neat blog kinda goes hand in hand with that. I sometimes re-read old entries & if I spot a spelling mistake or typo, or even a turn of phrase I no longer particularly like - I'll be on the edit button like a shot. It's a curse.

Now that I'll be temporarily entering the grotty, time constrained world of internet cafes (& as I full intend to have a life this year!) - the time & resources I can devote to pursuing the trivial will be severely restricted... well at least until I obtain another job with company internet access. But weeks without a single entry = a messy blog in my twisted mind, so I'm sketching out a bunch of posts to insert at random during the dry spell. Thankfully when I 1st started this thing I made a deal with myself to only post once a day - you could only imagine the tide of utter babble that would hit the fan if I released all these 'reserves' now.

And so there you have my sad little tale of woe. Like they say - the 1st step is admitting you have a problem.

Good clean fun

How To Shower Like a Woman:

• Take off clothing & place it in sectioned laundry hamper according to lights & darks.
• Walk to bathroom wearing long dressing gown. If you see boyfriend/husband along the way, cover up any exposed areas.
• Look at your womanly physique in the mirror - make mental note to do more sit-ups/leg-lifts, etc...
• Get in the shower & use face cloth, arm cloth, leg cloth, long loofah, wide loofah & pumice stone.
• Wash your hair once with cucumber & sage shampoo complete with 33 added vitamins.
• Wash your hair again to make sure it's clean.
• Condition your hair with grapefruit mint conditioner enhanced with real passion fruit.
• Wash your face with crushed apricot facial scrub for 5 minutes until red. Wash entire rest of body with ginger nut & jaffa cake body wash.
• Rinse conditioner off hair.
  Shave armpits and legs.
• Turn off shower & squeegee all wet surfaces in shower. Spray mold spots with shower bleach.
• Get out of shower & stand on bathmat.
• Dry with towel the size of a small country.
• Wrap hair in super absorbent towel.
• Return to bedroom wearing long dressing gown & towel on head.
• If you see boyfriend/husband along the way, cover up any exposed areas.

How To Shower Like a Man:

• Take off clothes while sitting on the edge of the bed & leave them in a pile on floor.
  Walk naked to the bathroom. If you see girlfriend/wife along the way, shake penis at her making the 'woo-woo' sound.
• Look at your manly physique in the mirror. Admire the size of your penis & scratch your butt.
• Get in the shower. Wash your face. Wash your armpits. Blow your nose in your hands & let the water rinse them off. Fart & laugh at how loud it sounds in the shower.
• Spend majority of time washing privates & surrounding area.
• Wash your hair. Make a Shampoo Mohawk.
• Pee.
• Rinse off and get out of shower.
• Avoid bathmat. Dry off forearms & butt only. Fail to notice water on floor because curtain was hanging out of tub the whole time.
• Suck in stomach, puff up chest & admire penis size in mirror again.
• Leave shower curtain open, wet mat on floor, light and fan on.
• Return to bedroom with towel around waist. If you pass girlfriend/wife, pull off towel, shake penis at her & make the 'woo-woo' sound again.
• Throw wet towel on bed.

This forward is a little insipid but got a guernsey in here because it provided me some comforting illumination; i.e. it's not just guys I date who like to spin their wedding tackle around like a novelty bow-tie. Apparently it's an affliction shared by men across the globe... & they say there's just an extra chromosome between us...

Fudge

Australia Day never fails to rock - I'm shattered. After many years in this game I've developed a theory: for effective recovery, one's hours at sleep must at least equal one's hours at bar. A more preferable equation is: imbibing period + 1/3 = snooze length... but who has the time these days?

Unfortunately however, all play & no sleep makes BPP a rather scary girl. After a brief 4 hr nap I still reek of smoke, my mascara had migrated so far south I think it's now classified as blush, eyes are currently the shade of Dorothy's magic slippers (where the hell are those bastards when you need them?!), & I'm fairly certain a small animal crawled into my mouth sometime during the night & died. Having a very hard time remaining vertical so I officially declare this a lazy blog day - cut & paste is my friend. Now, off to find a cupboard to curl up in...

The Word Fuck

Perhaps one of the most interesting and colorful words in the English language today is the word 'fuck'. It is the one magical word which, just by its sound, can describe pain, pleasure, love, and hate. In language, 'fuck' falls into many grammatical categories.

It can be used as a verb, both transitive (John fucked Mary) and intransitive (Mary was fucked by John).

It can be an action verb (John really gives a fuck), a passive verb (Mary really doesn't give a fuck), an adverb (Mary is fucking interested in John), or as a noun (Mary is a terrific fuck).

It can also be used as an adjective (Mary is fucking beautiful) or an interjection (Fuck! I'm late for my date with Mary). It can even be used as a conjunction (Mary is easy, fuck she's also stupid).

As you can see, there are very few words with the overall versatility of the word 'fuck'. Aside from its sexual connotations, this incredible word can be used to describe many situations...

Greetings "How the fuck are ya?"

Suspicion "Who the fuck are you?"

Fraud "I got fucked by the car dealer."

Resignation "Oh, fuck it!"Trouble "I guess I'm fucked now."

Aggression "FUCK YOU!"

Disgust "Fuck me."

Confusion "What the fuck.......?"

Difficulty "I don't understand this fucking business!"

Despair "Fucked again..."

Pleasure "I couldn't be fucking happier."

Displeasure "What the fuck is going on here?"

Lost "Where the fuck are we."

Disbelief "UNFUCKING BELIEVABLE!"

Retaliation "Up your fucking ass!"

Denial "I didn't fucking do it."

Perplexity "I know fuck all about it."

Apathy "Who really gives a fuck, anyhow?"

Panic "Let's get the fuck out of here."

Directions "Fuck off."

Disbelief "How the fuck did you do that?"

It can be used in an anatomical description- "He's a fucking asshole."

It can be used to tell time- "It's five fucking thirty."

It can be used in business- "How did I wind up with this fucking job?"

It can be maternal- "Mother fucker."

It can be political- "Fuck Tony Blair!"

It has also been used by many notable people throughout history...

"What the fuck was that?"- Mayor of Hiroshima
"Where the fuck is all this water coming from?"- Captain of the Titanic
"That's not a real fucking gun." - John Lennon
"Who's gonna fucking find out?"- Richard Nixon
"Heads are going to fucking roll."- Anne Boleyn
"Let the fucking woman drive." - Commander of Space Shuttle Challenger
"What fucking map?" - Mark Thatcher
"Any fucking idiot could understand that."- Albert Einstein
"It does so fucking look like her!"- Picasso
"How the fuck did you work that out?"- Pythagoras
"You want what on the fucking ceiling?" - Michaelangelo
"Fuck a duck."- Walt Disney
"Why?- Because its fucking there!" - Edmund Hilary
"I don't suppose its gonna fucking rain?" - Joan of Arc
"Scattered fucking showers my ass." - Noah

Our Land Is Girt By Sea

Happy Australia Day!

If you ask me (& I know you want to), more national anthems need to include the word 'girt'. Girt's a great word, a solid word, a word you can be proud of. A word that's not such a winner is 'un-Australian'. I know it's probably a little strange to be talking about things that are un-Australian on Australia day, but I reckon that's the bloody essence of Australia - that deep set cultural tension inherent in our efforts to define what we aren't, and therefore, what we are.

We're an introspective lot (or is that self-obsessed lot) down under. You can't have one intelligent conversation or debate in Australia, about Australia, without invoking our supposed identity crisis. In a smashing victory for the 'Nurture' school of thought - I've developed into a true child of my nation. There's nothing I like better than getting stuck into the complexities & contradictions of OZ, & sorting things into neat catergories & lists like a 19th century anthropologist possessed by the spirit of universal design. And don't even get me started about Paul Hogan.

But I fear I often speak with a degree of sentimentality bordering on condescension. I'm an Australian who has chosen, like so many of my compatriots, to reside overseas. This month actually marks three years... and counting. I'm in no way unique in this respect; wanderlust has been at the heart of our national psyche for generations - or eons really if you'll allow me to draw a crude parallel to the nomadic habits of Australian Aborigines. I don't think I've visited a place (& I've been some places) where I haven't run into a fellow Aussie. The old 'hope ya'll remembered to turn the light off' gag is getting... well, old. For all our peripatetic habits though, I've not come across another group of travelers who've had an equal sense of 'home'. Yes we go - often for decades - but there's rarely any confusion about where we hang our hats. That'd be 'straalia mate.

Anyway I'm having a competition with myself for the longest blog ever posted, so I've tacked on this semi-lengthy article which explains the un-Australian thing better than I ever could. If this topic's 'not your bag baby' (as I don't really anticipate it will be for most of you!) then at least scroll down to the bottom & check out my favourite ad of 2005 - award winning stuff.

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Australia's un-doing
March 15, 2005
Sydney Morning Herald, Judith Ireland

It's not easy being Australian. Men who like cats, bosses who block internet access to footy tipping websites and anyone who refuses to eat lamb or support Lleyton Hewitt are un-Australian, say recent media reports. Striking workers, utes that can't do burn-outs, broadcasting the Ashes on pay TV, paying for beach access or for someone to clean your house are among 27 things deemed un-Australian in newspaper reports this year. And it's only March.

Use of the word "un-Australian" has been on the rise since the mid-1990s, says Bruce Moore, director of the Australian National Dictionary Centre. Despite Don Watson's 2000 plea for a moratorium on the "weasel word", a Media Monitors survey of metropolitan Australian newspapers found mentions of un-Australian have increased from 68 in 1995, to 406 in 2000 and 571 last year. Use of the word has become so widespread that The Macquarie Dictionary - which first added un-Australian to its 2001 Federation edition - has decided to upgrade the definition in its fourth edition, due out in October.

Used as far back as the 1850s, the term has undergone a revival in the past decade. While its use in the 1990s was largely on the political stage - notably in reference to asylum seekers, Asian immigrants, protesters and monarchists - today the term has wider application. Comedians may have been the word's conduit into the public vernacular. It's a favourite expression of Roy Slaven - one half of the ABC's Roy and H.G. - who has noted "something un-Australian about being paid to do nothing". The Chaser's Craig Reucassel says it is "un-Australian" to deny someone a "charity shag". Wil Anderson and Dave Hughes proudly outed themselves as "un-Australian" vegetarians. Light-hearted weasel word or not though, un-Australian still packs a punch. With obscenities having lost much shock value - witness Cate Blanchett dropping "you asshole" into her Oscar thank-yous - calling someone un-Australian could be the last of the big insults.

Joseph Pugliese, an associate professor at Macquarie University who teaches a unit on un-Australian cultural studies, says the term is often intended to exclude people from the nation. "What's at stake is that sense of belonging," he says. "I see it as a term used to discriminate between individuals and groups that refuse to conform to the dominant culture. I see it as a divisive term, one that's predicated on an 'us and them' mentality."

One only has to look at a recent lamb advertisement to experience the emotional power of the term. On January 16, Meat and Livestock Australia launched an ad campaign featuring ex-Aussie Rules footballer Sam Kekovich sitting in front of an Australian flag, declaring it "un-Australian" not to eat lamb on Australia Day. Disgruntled vegetarians and vegans hit talkback radio to demand an apology from Kekovich and threaten a lawsuit against media outlets that ran the ads. A complaint was also made to the Advertising Standards Board in a bid to have the ads banned. (The board ruled the advertisement was "clearly satirical", having received just as many compliments as complaints regarding the ad.)

The Macquarie Dictionary first included a definition in response to a "burst" of use among politicians such as John Howard and Pauline Hanson in the 1990s, says the dictionary's publisher, Sue Butler. The definition is two-fold. In reference to art and literature, un-Australian describes a work "not Australian in character". Un-Australian conduct is "not conforming to ideas of traditional Australian morality and customs, such as fairness, honesty, hard work, etc". Butler has approved a third variant reflecting a more common use. The dictionary's fourth edition will further define un-Australian as "violating a pattern of conduct, behaviour, etc., which, it is implied by the user of the term, is one embraced by Australians". Says Butler: "That allows you to basically call anything you like un-Australian and hope the rest of the country will agree. We realised that far from being 'Australian' with an 'un' in front of it, it was actually a very complex term."

The concept is so complex because any discussion of what's not Australian ultimately leads to definitions of what is. Australia has struggled to fashion a single national identity from a population of 20 million people with diverse backgrounds. But our multicultural background may be at the core of the word's popularity. To Pugliese, the term's negative take on identity signifies Australia's failure to come to terms with its complex history. "For me it marks a profound anxiety about Australia's identity." With destabilisation comes uncertainty and this may prompt some community members to yearn for an older, more homogenous Australia. Phillips says the term came to the fore during widespread public debates around multiculturalism, Mabo and the republic during the 1990s. "As these debates worked to destabilise older, more one-dimensional conceptions of national identity, so too they opened up new imaginings of the nation in people's minds."

With the exception of the United States, Australia is alone in its invocation of an "un-national". Neither Moore nor Butler have come across equivalent terms in other countries. There is no such thing as "un-Welsh" or "un-New Zealand". But despite striking parallels with Joe McCarthy's "unAmericanism", un-Australian appears in very early Australian English, says Bruce Moore. The earliest known use of the word was in 1855 by W. Howitt in the colonial journal Land, Labor and Gold. Howitt referred to a landscape with "an appearance perfectly un-Australian". At this time, it was used in a positive sense to describe things that were like the motherland, Moore says.

While John Howard may be partly responsible for the word's contemporary revival, its incarnation in the political arena was due to an earlier prime minister. In 1925 Stanley Bruce called striking seamen "un-Australian" agitators. After World War II, the term disappeared for several decades before creeping back into the vernacular in the 1980s. As premier of NSW in 1986, Neville Wran labelled an attack on a policewoman at a cricket match "un-Australian". In the 1990s, Howard became an inveterate user of un-Australian - despite having been called un-Australian himself on numerous occasions. While initially a word favoured by the conservatives, the term is now used across the political spectrum. The former Democrats leader, Andrew Bartlett, called Pauline Hanson's immigration policies un-Australian. Bob Hawke said the GST was un-Australian.

Pugliese says there has already been an "ironic reclaiming" of the term. Those critical of contemporary Australian political culture use it as a "badge of honour", he says. "Sooner or later someone is going to call you un-Australian," says the website argusonline.com.au, which sells T-shirts emblazoned with the word. "It [un-Australian] has always annoyed the hell out of me," says Anthony Mason, editor of Argus magazine. "It plays up to all the nationalistic and jingoistic emotions. I figured that slapping the label on a T-shirt would stir people up, make them think about how the word is used to make it weaker and more nonsensical." A mix of academics, public servants, activists and "ordinary Australians" has bought the shirts, says Mason. "Some have been abused, some have been stopped in the street, some have been engaged in lively conversations in the pub. I get some really strange looks when I wear mine to the local mall."

Perhaps people don't realise it's un-Australian to stare.

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Being the very Australian tease I am, I think I'll let Sam Kekovich have the last word:

"To be as Australian as I am, don your apron (mine says 'Chop Gun'), whack some nice, juicy lamb chops on the barby, invite everyone over - if you can't pronounce their name, just call them 'mate' - and celebrate living in the best bloody country on earth."

'Nuf said.

SEE THE FULL AD HERE!

Word of the Day

Am toying with the idea of starting up a Word of the Day Wednesday blog-ritual, ala my Show & Tell Tuesday efforts. Why here? Why now? For the love of this word alone:

FLOCCINAUCINIHILIPILIFICATION (29 letters!) - The action or habit of estimating as worthless.

Interestingly enough, still NOT the longest word in the English language. That honour is a little hard to pin down, as technically one can apply almost infinite prefixes & suffixes to some words. Plus you've got all those hideous technical/medical terms & chemical compounds which defy spelling bee logic & bloody well just don't roll off the tongue at all. If you're going to sensibly classify a word as a unit of language that native speakers can identify & use commonly in oral or written communication, then these don't really count in my book. For the sake of those trivia freaks (like me), the longest word currently listed in Oxford dictionaries is the supposed lung-disease pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis (45 letters).

Comedian Red Skelton, on the other hand, defined the longest word in the English language as that which follows "And now a word from our sponsor."

And now the last word: zyzzyva. (hehehe - it's scary how much I amuse myself)

I vant to sook yoor blood

How's this for a random piece of random trivia people?! (felt the title weighing heavily on me this morning for some reason)

The Uncanny Valley

Rest not!

Rest not! Life is sweeping by; go and dare before you die.
Something mighty and sublime, leave behind to conquer time.

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

There is naught in this world I detest more than a CV. Evil, fabricated collection of half promises. Lord I'm so sick of it all... argh, must suck it up & remember I'm doing this for a reason...

Snow-thing better!

Yeps - it's another snow blog! Bloody hell this stuff is fun - excruciatingly cold, painfully inconvenient, damn near impossible to navigate yourself through with anything approaching decorum, BUT SO MUCH FUN!

Never before quite comprehended how many different varieties there are either - the powdery stuff, the slushy stuff, the powdery stuff that melted a little into the slushy stuff then froze again to form a crispy ice layer over the old powdery stuff - it's a whole new world! We've a profusion of the 3rd variety at the moment & I'm having a whale of a time crunching through the pristine expanses, falling on my ass & orchestrating the most delicious cracking choruses.

Contributing to my general merriment, is the hilarious snow ball fight I just had with my Swede (ok, so technically not my Swede... yet). Ouch! Sore & tingling all over - not to mention saturated! Judging from the surly looks we received when we came back inside though, our exuberant revelry was not appreciated by the wider Danish student community. Ahhh, whatcha gunna do? Some poor people are born without limbs - these poor kids were born without a personality.

The night's are very noisy now too. Ice, which was yesterday stretched out like fingers of lightening along bare tree branches & dripping in daggers from road signs, is falling constantly & abruptly to the ground in uneven applause. Every surface movement echoes cleanly through the morgue crisp night.

I rushed out to buy film in the morning but found the tress empty. Shiny sugar cubes of shattered crystal ice lay pillowed on the snow below. The quick & the dead when it comes to ice sculpture I guess.

For a country which apparently sees a bit of this stuff, the frosty conditions seem to have thrown up an oddly insurmountable slalom-like challenge for motorists. I had my 1st proper 'snow day' on Friday because the guys I get a lift into work with decided they really didn't want to play roulette with the Gods that morning. Of course I totally supported the idea in my semi-conscious stupor... that is until I hung up & realised I'd left Matilda at the office (1 night out of a freaking 100 - what are the odds?!). I'm ashamed to say - I wept a little.

Being the good little trooper I am though, I eventually pulled myself together & dragged my ass all the way to Horsens; a 5hr bloody round trip on busses & trains - all of which were hideously behind schedule due to aforementioned ice-capades. And here's the tragic irony of it all - for the next 2 days I then proceeded to ignore the huge pile of work which supposedly had to be completed so desperately it warranted me schlepping half way across the country to collect my laptop - on my 1st SNOW DAY! Ever seen that Simpson's episode where Bart has to stay inside & study for an American history exam, while everyone else gets to cavort around in the snow outside? That about sums it up. This is just for fun.

& on the 8th day He said: "Let There Be Lego"

A slight antidote to my rant in the last post - pure gold!

The Brick Testament

I guess this means I'm currently residing in 'the promised land'. Hmmm, seeing plenty of snow... not so much of the milk & honey...

God loves you

Once I saw this guy on a bridge about to jump.

I said, "Don't do it!" He said, "Nobody loves me."
I said, "God loves you. Do you believe in God?" He said, "Yes."
I said, "Are you a Christian or a Jew?" He said, "A Christian."
I said, "Me too! Protestant or Catholic?" He said, "Protestant."
I said, "Me too! What franchise?" He said, "Baptist."
I said, "Me too! Northern Baptist or Southern Baptist?" He said, "Northern Baptist."
I said, "Me too! Northern Conservative Baptist or Northern Liberal Baptist?" He said, "Northern Conservative Baptist."
I said, "Me too! Northern Conservative Baptist Great Lakes Region, or Northern Conservative Baptist Eastern Region?" He said, "Northern Conservative Baptist Great Lakes Region."
I said, "Me too!" Northern Conservative Baptist Great Lakes Region Council of 1879, or Northern Conservative Baptist Great Lakes Region Council of 1912?" He said, "Northern Conservative Baptist Great Lakes Region Council of 1912."

I said, "Die, heretic!" And I pushed him over.

George Carlin

I guess I've been pretty lucky or sheltered or whatever, but I've never really been persecuted because of my religion. Not that I'm particuarly religious (just ask my mother), but maybe just enough to attract scorn or derision should someone choose to take exception to my particular 'brand' of beliefs. That's why this year has been a little strange. It's not that I'm being attacked, but I find the church to which I subscribe being regularly ridiculed or winding up the butt of a varitable canon of malicious jokes. It's an eye opening experience.

Don't really care enough about the people making these comments to argue with them, nor is my faith of that variety which feels the need to vocally defend itself against any & all opposition - more of a 'live & let live' kinda sista - but I do find myself judging them pretty harshly. It's not because they disagree with me on theological matters (heaven knows I think there are so many different & individual notions of spirituality, you'd be hard pressed to find someone who had exactly the same convictions as you), but more for their closed, insensitive & dismissive treatment of other people's spiritual choices. If you ask me, that's just sinfully ignorant.

On the road again

Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I'll come to thee by moonlight,
though hell should bar the way!

-Alfred Noyes "The Highwayman"

Actually, look for me by the midday sun, etc., etc. - though hell should bar the way! (just booked my flight outta here - 12.20 Tuesday week, yippee kai-yay!)

Resolutely Irresolute

Call me an incurable optimist but I like new year's resolutions. I can't bring to mind one single pledge that I've actually followed through on, but I like the process nonetheless... or rather, for it's own sake.

It helps me meditate upon and conceptualise those areas of my life that I find wanting. The primary objective is self awareness - not self denial (as most of my resolutions inevitably call for). I can only assume that people who profess to find the exercise pointless (the majority, as far as I can tell) or even discouraging, must take their failures to heart. I guess I get that, but it's not really how I operate - I'm quite happy to be a work in (often erratic) progress.

I'm not going to go through my list of resolutions for 2006 (that's none of your business sticky beak!) but I will divulge that I was quite alphabetical about it this year. After a few shots of the green stuff Kathleen & I each devised a list of 5 key tasks for 2006 and wrote them down on the back of beer coasters which we then signed, counter signed and had notarised by the barman (he would have agreed to anything at that point; we were the only clients in his very overpriced hole-in-the-wall bar, albeit lodged prettily in the shadow of Prague castle, & we were fast polishing off his best bottle of absinthe). Some were lofty - some were not so lofty - all shall be conquered! The last thing I need is a random Czech bartender lodging legal action against me for not finally finishing Don Quixote.

Here comes another one

Yet another pointless, vaguely amusing & intellect dulling nefarious waste of time - otherwise known as your stock standard online quiz.

I refuse to tell you how dodgy I am... too busy scanning the sky for signs of that righteous bolt of lighting which is sure to strike me down where I sit.

Figure out if you'll joining me on the Morning Star's roll call HERE.
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I say old boy, I know it's a Tuesday and all about the show & tell, but I have capital news to share - break out the bangers & mash, pass the PG Tips & email Elizabeth - I've got my UK Visa baby! Pip, pip & jolly good show & all of that.

Black Flag fella

Monday again?! So soon?! Alrighty then, this week's morphemes come from Henry Rollins - rocker extrodinnaire & friend of thick-necked gym junkies everywhere.

"I ignored memories that had become defining lessons in shame to come from the cool shadows of the tree line to the clearing because you put your hand out to me. I stopped thinking that need was danger disguised as desperation because you said my name. I stopped thinking that desire was violence disguised as mutual disgust because you kissed me. I stopped thinking that life was fear disguised as mere existence because I could feel you breathing when I held you in my arms. And when I was finally standing at my full height, emboldened by the sheer power of wanting and being wanted, of calling out and being heard, this is when you chose to show me that I am invisible unless viewed under the spotlight of rejection, that I am voiceless in the howling storm of your indifference. Time passes in a vacuum and then suddenly you summon me like a siren to the fatal shore of your heart. But there's no shore, no heart. Just vast desert expanse where the weary and bewildered wander lost, wishing for the cool shadows and the darkness behind the tree line."

- Broken Summers

Waxing & Waning

My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But, ah, my foes, and, oh, my friends
-it gives a lovely light.

Edna St. Vincent Millay "First Fig"

I know this is about the intense first flush of love & all that stuff 'n nonsense, but today I choose to interpret it as living hard & fast until you crash your private jet, or OD on Sunset Boulevard. Kathryn came to visit, God bless her, & that's exactly what we've been doing the last 3 days. Sheesh, as much as I love having visitors - I also kinda love it when they go home again. I'm exhausted.

There's nothing quite like an old friend though is there? It always amazes me how my bestest galpals & I can just pick up where we left off... absolutely, totally, not-so-soberly. I haven't seen Kath, or been in regular email contact with her, for about 3 years now but 5 seconds off the train & words were tripping over hugs, & sentences had already given way to juvenile shorthand. Of course the very 1st thing we did was knock the tops off a couple of beers... & a bottle of red... & the Christmas champagne & talk until my neighbours started pummelling the walls (to be fair, my Danish neighbours never keep me up at night with their animated conversations; yes sir-ee, no animated conversations there...) - we cried, we laughed, we squealed at pitches only canines could hear.

The magnificent woman even put up with a 5 hour round trip on sluggish DSB trains to 'ostensibly' visit Scandinavia's oldest town - but really just so I could bat my eyelashes at my gorgeous Frenchman one last time *sigh*. Anyway it was heaven & truly goes to prove I am a most excellent selector of friends - well except for Melinda Elliott in grade 9 - that was a bad call.

& now for the news...

AUSTRALIA GETS DRUNK, WAKES UP IN NORTH ATLANTIC
Tired of Being Isolated & Ignored, Continent Isn't Bloody Moving

He's quite funny... for an American.

Teenage girls so, like, rule English

John Harlow and Dan Box
The Australian - January 09, 2006

According to new research, the typical 16-year-old girl - armed with a mobile phone and a wide circle of friends - has ensured the success of new phrases such as "muffin top" (a bulge of flesh over low-cut jeans) and "whale tail" (the appearance of a g-string above the waistband of a skirt or trousers).

Sali Tagliamonte, associate professor of linguistics at the University of Toronto, believes the strongest recent shift has been the spread of Californian "Valley Girl" style, promoted around the globe by television shows such as Buffy the Vampire Slayer and The OC.

This style of speech is characterised by inserting drawled words such as "like" and "so" to add emphasis to a sentence, which rises in pitch at the end.

"Valley Girl has gone beyond a fad and is now rooted in different forms of English around the world," Ms Tagliamonte said. "Girls are the single most powerful force in the English language today." The research was among work discussed at the annual meeting of the American Dialect Society in New Mexico over the weekend.

Wayne Glowka, chairman of the ADS New Words Committee, said girls used new or fashionable words as status symbols, forcing the constant evolution of the language as fashions changed.

"Females are very quick to pick up on any aspect of fashion, whether it is clothing or speech, that shows off status. Men are less quick to do so," he said.

Ellen Grote, a researcher at Edith Cowan University in Perth, has studied how Aboriginal teenage girls borrowed words from other cultures in their email gossip to construct a communal identity.

"They would recruit words that appear in American hip hop music. That was one way they would build their own identity," she said.

Barry Spurr, senior lecturer in English at the University of Sydney, said social pressures meant Australian men in particular were more reluctant to display their language abilities.

"They are afraid to be seen expressing thought because they are sexually insecure," Dr Spurr said. "They want to be seen to be real men and the standard for real men wouldn't be seen to express a thought.

"The big problem in Australia is getting young men to talk at all. Girls are much more orally adventurous."

Linguists believe young women and men use language differently: women ask questions out of politeness, while men want data. Women allow each other to finish a sentence before starting their own, while men interrupt more.

In addition, women seeking prestige pick up fashionable new words faster than men. Experts believe this has been going on for centuries. A Finnish study of 15th-century English court correspondence shows that aristocratic wives moved from archaic "ye" to "you" significantly earlier than their husbands.

So, like TOTALLY, scared right now.

Fuzzy Logic

That's the shit. Is there nothing more perfect than a good cold & flu tablet? Yep, it had to happen eventually - I'm coming down with my 1st cold of the season. Can't complain too much as I've had a pretty good run despite my absurd disregard for the prevailing weather conditions. Walked around Prague for 2 days with soggy feet, tramped London in nothing but a light coat, late nights, early mornings, too much alcohol & not enough vegetables - by all rights I should be hooked up to something intravenous in a palliative care hospice.

But none of that matters now - I can feel those sweet, sweet pseudoephedrines (I've been reading my tabloids) coursing through my veins, swimming around my head and settling in my heavy limbs. Ahhh the fuzziness.

I tend to feel the effects of these garden variety drugs a little more acutely than your average patient as I generally avoid using pain relief medication at all. Damned legacy of a ridiculously stoic family. Case in point: my father met my mother (a nurse) while he was being treated for an infected burn wound in hospital. By all accounts the thing was almost gangrene, but he just kept on working... unless your bodily organs are hanging from a large gaping hole that's been ripped through your sternum, one doesn't seek namby-pamby medical treatment apparently. Mum's no better even with her nursing background. Think I've seen her bed ridden once in my entire life & even then she was up again by dinner time to make a nuisance of herself in the kitchen.

And don't even get me started on Grandma. She was in hospital on one of those self-administering morphine drips, her entire body racked with cancer, & still bloody well refused to ever push the little button which released the opioid. Instead she used every (& I mean every) last breath pestering the doctors to release her.

My aversion to the snake oil salesmen & women (a.k.a. the white coat posse) is a little less extreme... although I suppose I'm still young - you seem to grow into this dysfunction in my family. The only notable hint of hereditary symptoms I can recall is when I contracted a UTI at uni. I left the damn thing untreated for 3 VERY uncomfortable months before succumbing to pressure from my boyfriend & getting the laughably simple antibiotics prescription from my GP. He didn't think it was so laughable. Dr. Grumpy Pants gave me a very severe dressing down for my misplaced sense of stoicism & I've been a little less hard core ever since - hence my cold & flu tablets today.

I just hope I don't harbour some secret addictive personality trait - these things are goooooood.

I say chaps, it's just not cricket

You step out of the country for 3 short years & people think that they can just go ahead & mess with your favourite game. Not happy Jan. How are you meant to work on your tan (I speak theoretically here - her royal pastiness has never been what you'd call a 'bronzed Aussie'), strike up a meaningful philosophical debate with the 150kg Maori men next to you (Is Vittori destined to be New Zealand's answer to Mark Waugh?), critique the streakers tackle, get through your pre-packed sangers & the obligatory meat pie, brave the beer lines to purchase your overpriced schooner of XXXX - all whilst surreptitiously consuming the 18 large popper packs of frozen juice you & your mates were up until 2am the night before injecting with vodka - in 3 measly hours?! 'Tis just not possible! Must we sacrifice our national identity, nay, our very souls to the corrupt corporate machine, in return for a few mindless, flashy baubles & cheap thrills? Is nothing sacred?

It is cricket, but not as we know it
Andrew Ramsey
The Australian January 10, 2006

I have seen the future of international cricket, & its name is ... umm, Catfish. Or was it Pup?Apologies to Rolling Stone magazine's Jon Landau but, as countless reams of newsprint & precious minutes of television and radio airtime have proclaimed, last night's Twenty20 international in Brisbane represented a landmark in our sporting development.

Rather like the crowd who joined Landau at that famous 1974 Bruce Springsteen concert, the good folk of Australia will be able to readily recount where they were on the night Australia & South Africa slogged it out at the Gabba in January, 2006. Certainly, the staid old game of cricket has never known such a dramatic innovation. Except, perhaps, for the introduction of the one-day game 35 years ago. And day-night matches in 1977. Not forgetting coloured clothing that same year. Plus the white ball. But as far as recent revolutions go, this is the big one.

Twenty20 is the limited-overs game without the tedious patch between the 16th and 45th over. It's cricket in the fast lane, which blends rhythmically with the non-stop rock'n'roll accompaniment and sideshow alley atmosphere.

A sell-out crowd of about 37,000 last night suggested three-hour cricket has already found a niche, though time will tell how many of those were lured by the novelty element. And perhaps for once, avaricious administrators might accept that the game's appeal among families and females provides an ideal marketing opportunity for the sadly neglected interstate and grade levels of the game in Australia. The one thing international cricket does not need is further programming pressures, so leaving Twenty20 fixtures as a cash cow for the tiers below would ensure the golden goose ain't headed for the Colonel's deep-fryer.

Like all culturally pivotal moments, scholars and social anthropologists of generations to come will doubtless dissect the Twenty20 phenomenon in a bid to explain precisely why a further shortened version of an already abbreviated game carried such mystique. After all, the science of 20-over cricket is far from baffling - bowlers bowl, batsmen slog, fielders retrieve, Mexican wave begins (reprise). What will require some explanation for posterity is the etymology of the nicknames used to identify each member of the ground-breaking Australian team.

So, courtesy of the sort of cursory research 20-over cricket demands and to provide a suitably authoritative historical account of last night's events, player nicknames will hereafter be accompanied by a brief explanation of their origins.

Last night's toss was won by Punter (refers to obscure forebears believed to be either River Cam punt operators of specialist kickers in America's NFL) who opted to bat.

Clad in grey uniforms designed not to disenfranchise fans with black and white TV sets, the Australians opened with Marto (short for tomato - he loves the salad fruit) and Catfish (family name originally Hopez, freshwater anglers from the Peruvian Amazon).

Despite their lack of expertise at Twenty20 level, Australia boasted an imposing batting line-up including Pup (always seen out wearing suede Hush Puppies), Kat (quirky spin on his original nickname, Dog Scratch) and Mr Cricket (lampooning his middle name, Jiminy).

And on a bouncy pitch, their new-ball attack of Bracks (after his hero and inspiration, Victoria's Premier) and Sarfraz (acronym of his former employer, Sutherland Association to Raise Funds to Recompense Aspiring Zoologists) loomed as a handful.

As the relentless ground announcements pointed out, Twenty20 is indeed a game with everything, except the forward defensive shot. And it's noisier than a Springsteen concert.

Saw the most amazing formation of birds this morning - there were hundreds swarming, darting & breaking in waves of a rhythmic gymnast's black ribbon. It's exceptionally gusty (even for Denmark) so they appeared to be simply having fun letting the wind buffet them up as they pirouetted & pliéd down. One of those moments I wished I had a video camera on hand... although that perhaps smacks just a little too much of that American Beauty kid filming the Willy-Willy (ohh I love that word - makes me feel 10 again).

Horizons 2020

Afraid I'm going to reveal a bit of a geeky side in show & tell today... alright so a bit more of my geeky side. I work in marketing/business development and a good mate of mine who's employed by Siemens doing similar (though much more impressive) work, sent me this a couple of months ago & I found it kinda fascinating.

You too can download & be duly amazed HERE.

"My interest is in the future because I am going to spend the rest of my life there."
Charles Kettering, inventor.

Down the rabbit hole

"Well! I've often seen a cat without a grin," thought Alice; "but a grin without a cat! It's the most curious thing I ever saw in all my life!"

Alice's Adventures In Wonderland, Lewis Carroll

Holiday Slides

Thought I might share a couple of holiday snaps!


Skidding down the tire run in Rehefeld, Germany... good for giggles but not nearly as much fun as the sled track - of which there are no photos because I was totally traveling FASTER THAN THE SPEED OF SOUND BABY! Ahhh, can't believe it took me 25 years to discover the pure joy of sledding - there are many wonderful benefits & privileges attached to being brought up in Australia, unfortunately decent sled runs and the requisite snow, are not two of them!

BPP in front of the Charles Bridge, Praha - New Years Eve - double parking my Czech beers by the look of things...

Looking up into the coppola of the New/Old Dresden Cathedral - a church the city rebuilt excatly, stone by stone, after it was completely destroyed by allied bombing in 1945. Gotta love that very German, anal-retentive, attention to detail.

London, high tea, Christmas & Stratford upon Avon will just have to wait unil I nab copies from Maz (was feeling much too festive for photography during that week).

Escapades in Etymology

Here's something I've spent way too much time thinking about this afternoon (look, it's negative bloody 5 out - I'm making my fun inside today) - I found these 4 word etymologies on a blog (sorry don't remember which one, & frankly I'm sure the owner won't object to going uncredited) & something about the explainations didn't sit well so I decided to do a little cross-check of my own. Found a cool online etymology dictionary which right away refuted number 2 & 3, then a quick Google & AskOxford.com smartly killed number 1 & 4 as well. So there's your lesson for the day kids - don't believe everything you read in blogs... including this one.

1. In Shakespeare's time, mattresses were secured to the bed frame by ropes. When you pulled on the ropes the mattress tightened, making the bed firmer to sleep on. Hence the phrase "goodnight, sleep tight". UTTER SHYTE

2. It was the accepted practice in Babylon 4,000 years ago that for a month after the wedding, the bride's father would supply his son-in-law with all the mead he could drink. Mead is a honey beer and because their calendar was lunar based, this period was called the honey month or what we know today as the honeymoon. BULLOCKS

3. In ancient England, a person could not have sex unless they had consent from the King (excluding the Royal Family). When one wanted to have a baby, they 1st had to seek consent from the King, & should he agree, his majesty then gave them a placard to hang upon their door while they were doing the deed. That magical placard was inscribed F.U.C.K. (Fornication Under Consent of the King). W.H.A.T.E.V.E.R.

4. In Scotland, a new game was invented. It was entitled Gentlemen Only, Ladies Forbidden... and thus the word GOLF entered into the English language. GARBAGE OF LAUGHABLE FALSITY

Damn hormones

I used to be privy to secret men’s business – looks, words, instruments, costumes. It’s a language all but lost to me now though. I don’t know when or where I lost it… on that carved tree by the creek I think… or that steep hill in Auchenflower. But it’s gone.

I used to watch him shave for hours (he was a Bunyip), he used to whisper mysteries to me through sprays of water, I heard him sing, I saw him become mass & matter, then fade back into thought & distant gaze. I felt it all & carry it with me still. A muffled shot echoing dully through empty rooms.

I used to idealise, now I know: what’s past is dead & memories can still hurt more than realities.

… & I should stop drinking red wine alone.

Got a ticket on a runaway train

I was on a couple of trains last Tuesday (6 to be exact, over a period of 14 bloody hours!) & mid way through the trip I rather inopportunely polished off my one and only book (who knew those Yr 9 speed reading classes would come back to bite me on the ass?!), so I started randomly jotting down thoughts on brochures I found around the cabin. Soon tired of this activity as well so there wasn't great reams of text, but I thought I might transfer a bit in here so when I inevitably lose the scrap paper, I'll still have a copy of my delirious ramblings in cyber space somewhere. They're in no particular order - chronological, metaphysical, theological or otherwise.

Germany is bleak & vast & I am not sorry to be easing myself from its steely grasp. It is perhaps strange then, that my 2 favourite of its cities lie to the bitter North - yielding those extremes of climate I protest to find so unbearable today.

Sliding in elevated menace through Berlin, I am once again convinced I could live here simply for the graffiti alone. A restless, dirty, pierced teenager rebelling beautifully against its privileged upbringing. Ecstasy.

A stately, crumbling family manor, all dark curtained corners & fading passages - & there sits the heir, aloft in one of its crowning towers - tattooing her skin with a 50cent pen.

The snow streaked fields point towards Hamburg - a chilly city suits a troubled soul. I am no doubt a little late coming around to Paul Kelly, but I got there in the end. Again that genteel edge, machine forged steel, pricks & teases & jabs as only a German city can. I'm told the region is much derided nationally as harbour to the dimmest of the country's progeny. I can't say, but I suppose I can understand why those to the South might be suspicious of their motives. It's very proximity to Denmark makes me uneasy. But the brooding swell of the Northerly winds & the distant bellow of ships in the port remind one so much of some ancient Gregorian chant, I'm inclined to be seduced by it's shades of mortar again & again.

In case you're interested, the book I devoured on the train was John Steinbeck's 'To A God Unknown' - not usually a big Steinbeck fan, but a friend convinced me to give it a try and I'm glad he did.

...and so I'm back, from outer space

Phff, I'm exhausted! Talk about living several lifetimes in a fortnight! Feels like I've been gone an age, so much has happened in the interim... which I suppose is a good thing - who doesn't hate those holidays that fly by so fast it feels like you never left.

I have a PILE of work to catch up on today but let me just quickly share one universal insight which was irrevocably confirmed for me during my recent travels - yes people, I'm sad to announce that straight men & women cannot be friends... EVER. Acquaintances sure, colleagues certainly, tennis partners maybe - but close pals NEVER. 2005 shall henceforth be known as the Year of Baloney Buddies - they all start out posing as nice boys who 'just want to be friends', BUT REALLY THEY'RE ALL FULL OF BALONEY!

I'm not exaggerating here - we're talking 5 counts of chucking in the last 10 months! The Brown & Gold's are officially declaring.

(and don't think I don't know there are EQUALLY guilty girls out there!)

The grass ain't that greener

Step back off that ledge brother - things could be worse...

http://www.postsecret.blogspot.com/

The woods are lovely, dark & deep

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Robert Frost, "Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening"

You said it Robbo... you said it.