All forgiven

Jellyfish and I disagree about some things, like Captain Gaylord Von Trapp.

And I have a very slow dial-up connection, and little patience.

So it's only today I see the wonder that is her Australia Day post. Read it and weep.

My nextest favourite was from Sheriff.

Blog Awards

I got one! Yay! Suprised the hell outta me, I thought TJ was going to coast it in. As it turned out, I just fell over the line.

Thanks to everyone who voted for me. Check out the winners and all the cool blogs nominated.

Thanks to Keks for organising.

PS A few new people are wandering by. Here are some of my favourite posts (if you're very keen!)

Summernats is completely the bomb and I utterly heart it
... and in the beginning was the word
Byron without romance
Getting personal. And political.
We like our Mike!

Don't worry, I'll be over it tomorrow.

A sad duty

Much as I hate to break the heart of a lovely young woman, in this case the delightful Jellyfish, the truth must prevail.

Captain Gaylord von Trapp it is.


This is my thinking face. I'm thinking I'm not the straighty 180 that some might assume.

For further advice on interpreting the sexual orientation of fictional figures, go check out Weezil.


Update: Jellyfish has disputed my impeccable research in the nicest blogspat you will ever see. Try not to have any hot drinks nearby as you may splutter into your computer giggling.

Counting my blessings

Things I have been deprived of by virtue of my parents' longstanding commitment to public education:

1. Nuns with guitars

This is a good thing. My sister and I have a standing arrangement that should any nuns with guitars appear at any occasion/ceremony/arcane religious practice that we are attending, we are to both remove ourselves immediately. Our mother is aware of this, and does not approve, because we giggle about it on the very rare occasions we find ourselves in church, and mutter loudly when the nuns in question do sneaky things like wear civvies and play keyboards.

At least I wasn't brought up a Sydney Anglican. My former boss David Brent was, and his wife played drums in church. When I asked if it was a bit gruesome when she practiced, he told me that wasn't a problem as she only played on Sunday. Ouch.




2. Screwy ideas about Art

My mum won a scholarship to one of those scary "Brides of Christ" type boarding schools. I'm not sure if they had to put talcum powder in the bath, but there were little vests and pants drawn on all the nudes in the art books. I wonder how the Sister responsible earnt the kind of trust necessary to be let loose on filth with a texta?

3. Liturgical dance

I was just the right age for this, too - my mate Fiasco copped years of it in her suburban parish school. Some of the more graceful students were fitted out in kaftans and improvised interpretive dance in front of the congregtation.

4. An understanding of the true role of incense

Obvious mistake.

5. A welcoming attitude to religious persons making unscheduled home visits

I got religion briefly at the end of primary school, and went about getting confirmed. Mum was pissed off when the priest just dropped 'round because he ate all the Kingston biscuits. Later she helped me pick my confirmation dress, which was red. I think she enjoyed that part.

Bugger Beazley, vote for me

Keks is running the Australian Blog Awards. You can vote for me! Go on, I did!*

I promise that if I win anything I will reprise my acceptance speech for my 6th class all round terrific student prize** in a manner that has since been popularised by the famous:



* Well, I gave my first preference to the people I had nominated, as I am a love beast of principle. But then it was me, me, me all the way.

** While the citizenship and academic bits were not a real challenge, the sports bit was something of a stretch. Fortunately my primary school was next door to what was then called a "special school", and most classes had a special kid spend a day a week in the class. In enormous relief at not coming last in the running race at the sports carnival, I cheered on Kelly, from my class, who finished after me. This was considered a sterling display of good sportingness and got me over the line.

Hello, you!

Everyone and their dog wants to run as the Labor candidate in Werriwa - there's a bit of discussion about it here at Troppo Armadillo.

I think what we need is someone feisty, with ideas. Someone with a bit of class. Someone who's been around for a long time, someone who the people of Werriwa identify with.



Someone like Gough.

What the hell, the American congress has been filled with pedantic geriatrics for years, and they're ruling the world. Alright, so we won't let him near the till and he bangs on a ridiculous amount, but who apart from me and Rowen listens to Parliament anyway?

Remember how exciting it was with Latham for a little while there? Thanks for the ride. And where's fricken' Back Pages when you need it? Bloody nowhere.

Friends helping friends

The lovely Nick Crustacean and his Wifely are about to experience their second child, and are having a bit of trouble finding a boy's name, should that be what emerges. So to speak.

Just in time, the Canberra Times has thoughtfully published their annual babe-fest Babies of 2004: A 36 page lift-out of some of Canberra and the surrounding region's beautiful and beloved babies - life being what it is, the ugly and resented children have not had large expensive pictures of themself put in the paper.

After years of ignoring rubbish like this, Mallrat has shown me the love in the local throwaway, and I highly recommend this particular example.

Now they have a girl's name (leftover from the Dude, but she need never know that). This is a real shame, as there is now no point suggesting:

Makayla - two of them, if you will. They are the equivalent of a Tracey, I think, for my generation.
Teah Mercedez Dione - efficency plus. Who needs a porn name? Or a dictionary?
Elodie - I'm guessing like Melody, but unmusical.
Bryannah - my friend Beck has the best test for baby names. You stand on the back step and yell it as loud as you can for half an hour. Then see if you like it. Knocked "Tara" off her list. These parents obviously did not perform the test.
Ashalea - that Big Brother chick, right? The dense one with the teenybopper accessories? Why?

Best of all, someone very silly or lacking contact with popular culture has lumbered a sweet looking little thing with ... Ebonnie Rene. Let's hope vintage Australian TV comedy is a thing of the past when poor Ebonnie Rene grows up.

It is probably a good thing Nic and family are not having a girl - I mean apart from never being able to top Ebonnie Rene - because it seems to involve a lot of ludicrous head gear. Fortunately, there is a wealth of boysie choices:

Denver - what, as in John? that poor child. Bizarrely , O thought this was a cool name. Hope we have a daughter next time.
Taylor Vee - like TV, hunh? Weird.
Tynnen James - This sounds more like a syndrome than a kid's name.
Brock Jayden - according to my friend Kyles, who knows this stuff, almost every Scott and Jason in the country end up in jail.* I predict that Brocks and Jaydens are the Scotts and Jasons of the future.
Cohen - because every kid needs something to be picked on. Jewboy. **
Bradan John - Brad an John? Or just Brad?

I don't know what column Jayden Estrella should go in, but rest assured s/he is being "cradled in the depths of our souls" as I write.

There are other predictably naff messages, with much talk of angels, princesses and little men. I'm guessing many of these babies are first children, or there would have been more messages like this one:

"Poos! Poos! Poos! Aaren does Poos! Love your big brother Thomas (7 years)"

Poor Thomas. I bet they've stashed away pictures of him holding his dick ready for his twenty first in 2017.

Suggestions for next year's hoax entries will be entertained in the comments box.



* Except of course for my cousins Scott and Jason. Well, maybe Jason. Sorry, Scotty.

** Oh, I totally heart jews, don't wig out on me.

Gillard's Island

If I was flute-tastic, or vice-regal, I would've photoshopped this but (a) I don't have photoshop, (b) I don't know how to use it and (c) this way encourages your imagination. So go a bit squinty for me:




L-R: K. Rudd (seated), J. Macklin, J. Fitzgibbon, J. Gillard, W. Swan, S. Smith (seated), K. Beazley

Song for Mark Latham

Courtesy of that genius Morrissey:

I know it's over
And it never really began
But in my heart it was so real
And you even spoke to me, and said :
"If you're so funny
Then why are you on your own tonight ?
And if you're so clever
Then why are you on your own tonight ?
If you're so very entertaining
Then why are you on your own tonight ?
If you're so very good-looking
Why do you sleep alone tonight ?
I know ...
'Cause tonight is just like any other night
That's why you're on your own tonight
With your triumphs and your charms
While they're in each other's arms..."
It's so easy to laugh
It's so easy to hate
It takes strength to be gentle and kind



Grace under pressure (see, gentle and kind)

Let's see how gentle and kind the "leftist media conspiracy" is. I hope he gets well and lives happily on his substantial pension.

And that poor Ms Fits isn't stuck with too many pairs of Latham boxers. I don't think they come in Beazley's size. Might squeeze J-Gi into a pair of boy legs, though.

World's Best Cleaning Practice

From the Australian Breastfeeding Association's magazine:

"A microwave cleaning tip: fill a paper cup with water and a few tablespoons of baking soda. Heat it for about 30 seconds or until you see the contents explode. Then just take a paper towel and wipe it all off. The explosion spreads the cleanser over the entire area, and you can even use the moistened rag or paper towel to wipe outside the microwave and its surrounding area."

I love doing things the easy way.

I have a new look

I'm tired of being an infant in an "It's Time" t-shirt, so I've put up a proper photo of myself.

It's from my 1948 advertising campaign for Modess sanitary products. The American campaign.

My later French ones look more like this:




which I wouldn't post on the web.

For some reason I do not have the computer skills to fathom, on IE my sidebar appears at the end of all the posts, so you'll have to scroll down, or get firefox.

PS I don't not speak French and find the "plus mince" bit a little disturbing.



(From the rather marvellous "Museum of Menstruation and Womens' Health" site.)

Flop Eared Treasure

Amanda is the nicest girl, in addition to having exquisite musical taste. I posted a Bob Dylan epiphany and she sent me two CDs of different recordings of "Blood on the Tracks", the record I fell in love with. They are much slower in parts than the version we had, so I've also had the pleasure of the house being filled with the sound of O learning "Tangled up in Blue" on the guitar.

Tim at Road to Surfdom has been toying with Amanda's beautiful meme. Scroll down to "thing 3" and ponder:

When I am an eccentric billionaire with a mountain I will carve out a musical Mt Rushmore: Bob Dylan, Johnny Cash, Bruce Springsteen, Randy Newman."

It's harder than it sounds. For me it's Elvis, Dylan, Hendrix and John Frusicante. Bob Marley and Tricky will be represented by the pilgrims smoking spliffs while they admire the view. The Rev Gary Davis will be represented by the tears of joy that spring to the pilgrims' eyes.

O is stilling mulling over his selection. I told him mine and he got a bit concerned - "You're talking about a whole mountain here. You have to think of the aesthetics".



You know about my near-namesake being carved in the hills of South Dakota, right? The largest statue in the world, crafted with dynamite and love. The Black Hills have been -are - a really interesting part of American history. There is an excellent book called "Bury my heart at wounded knee" by Dee Brown which I suggest you all go out and obtain now.

God is everywhere, but mostly in America

My friend Fiasco da Gama recently lent my the first "Brio Girls" novel I've ever read, "Good-bye to all that". Here is a description from Amazon: "Tired of dating jerks, Solana vows not to date until the right guy comes along but when he does, she faces the decision of whether she's ready to go all the way, amid objections from her Christian friends."*

You will not be surprised that she does, knowing teenagers and all, but as the only "non-Christian" in her group of friends, they were VERY SAD. Of course, she was left feeling odd and strangely empty. If I was naughty, I might say the problem was she should have been left feeling odd and strangely full, but let's leave that there.

Anyway, it got me thinking about the pervasiveness of evangelical Christianity, and the desire to move only within a community of one's own believers. Which, of course, brought me to the Christian tattooing community. Yes, Ink for Jesus!

As you might expect, there is a corresponding "tattoos are evil and ungodly"movement. I recommend that you do what the guy on that last link says, and follow the segments of the article sequentially. They DO build on each other, and it IS worth it. You'll see things like this:



and this:



which you wouldn't want to miss, would you?


* If you are indeed a Christian of this genre, you may prefer to shun this book. Here is a rather marvellous reader review from Amazon which explains why:

Christian Parents BEWARE! -- Soft porn for teenie boppers, March 24, 2004
Reviewer: A reader
I read this book this evening because my teenage daughter was concerned about the content after hearing some of her friends in Youth Group talking about it. From my perspective -- as a Christian mom of two teens -- this book was really not much more than soft porn wrappped in "Christian" garb. A few morals thrown in doesn't undo the loss of innocence a young girl could experience from reading this book. Fortunately, the book leaves out the graphic details of the main character's multiple sexual encounters with her boyfriend (who she's only been dating for a month or so when they start sleeping together). But what it leaves out in details, it leaves up to your imagination ... and I honestly don't want my teenage girls "imagining" what's going on in this girl's boyfriend's bedroom when his mom's not home. Once innocence is lost -- whether it's physically or just in your heart and mind -- it can't be restored. Shame on Focus on the Family for promoting this book. I'm going to read some of the other books in the series to see if they're of the same ilk. I suspect the other books aren't nearly as risque' because the main characters in the other books are Christians who believe in waiting until marriage for sexual intimacy (unlike the main character in this book). But as for this particular title in the BRIO Girls series, steer far away if you value your teenage daughter's moral innocence.

So who's the Everett Looney here, then?

Continued mutterings about Latham's illness, activities and future are providing journalists with something to speculate about in the sleepy languour of January. There has even been Latham spotting (he went to the pictures! he mowed the lawn!). But, I ask you, how could anyone seriously call this "an intriguing mystery"

Despite my enjoyment of Bob McMullan's deliciously naughty comment that:

"if Mr Latham was taking strong painkillers for his pancreatitis, which could make it difficult to sound rational and sensible, it would be sensible to avoid public appearances",

I can understand a doctor saying take it easy, avoid your ridiculously high pressure job and enjoy some time with the missus and kids.

But I still have some sympathy to the view of "many Labor MPs, including his supporters", as reported by Mark Metherell in the SMH, that

"if he was well enough to mind his children as they played in a pool at Terrigal, he was well enough to sign a declaration of sympathy for the tsunami victims".

It's not like he would have to write it. The days of the Prime Minister travelling by ship to England (Menzies did that, right?) are over. Mobile phones have killed it. I'm not a big fan of mobiles, and in particular the expectations of availability they have created, but this situation was not handled well. It needed to be.


For the historically minded, this is what Lyndon B. Johnson did when the popular Governor of Texas entered the race for a vacant Senate seat in 1941:

When doctors told Johnson he would have to be hospitalised, a violent scene erupted at his Happy Hollow Lane house. He insisted to Connally and Gordon Fulcher, an American-Statesman reporter working in his campaign, that his illness be kept secret - an insistence that the two aides considered irrational since he wouldn't be able to make scores of public appearances that head already been scheduled; in Connally's words, "He just threw a fit, went into a tirade, ordered us out of the house, said he never wanted to talk to us again." His hospitalisation - not in Austin, but, for reasons of secrecy, at the private Scott and White Clinic in Temple, 57 miles away - was in fact kept quiet for almost a week; fiery stump speaker Everett Looney substituted for Johnson at speaking engagements, saying that the candidate was "busy with organisational work" - an excuse echoed by Marsh's cooperative American-Statesman. When, in the second week, the candidate's whereabouts became public knowledge, the American-Statesman explained that "the young congressman is getting a much-needed rest from congressional and campaign worries.") The situation became so serious that Wirtz abruptly resigned his Interior Department post and rushed back to Texas to run the campaign on the spot. There may even have been some doubt that Johnson would resume the campaign; there was quiet talk that if he didn't get out of hospital sooon, he might withdraw, using his illness as an excuse. "But," Lady Bird [Johnson] says, "he did get out."

- an extract from Robert Caro's "The Years of Lyndon Johnson: The Path to Power", a brilliant book I have now finished. All 768 pages - starting Volume 2 today.

The Mysteries

The idea that God signed his name in a wave off Sri Lanka just after the tsunami hit is beyond my understanding.

How would God have let us know before satellite photography? And why didn't He SMS?

Wouldn't the devastation and death be enough?

Summernats is completely the bomb and I utterly heart it

The Sunday Canberra Times and I agree. The leering yobbos of the past seem to have stopped coming to Summernats or smartened up their acts. Without people pissing on your shrubs and rooting in your driveway, Summernats is a totally choice way to dump $20 million into the local economy over a long weekend.





I mean, how can you be sad about a bit of revving and fireworks when this pulls up next to you at the lights?





Or this. You may just be able to make out the numberplate - it's TOEYV8. Noice. The special Summernats supplement in the paper today featured some of the more "creative" plates around - like TITS LOW, VL2DY4, ITSSIK , V8MUSL and - my favourite - LOW O1Q. Indeed.

The newspaper snappers didn't get all the good numberplates. To do they would have had to leave Exhibition Park and cruise the titty bars of nearby Mitchell. Which is what I did to find Q2PERV. Lovely, isn't it?





Thoughtfully, such venues provide transport for inebriated rev-heads.





The security guy with the waving on wand outside Exhibition Park was very apologetic about us being stuck behind the mini bus, but I was too busy wondering if anyone really thought they would find "Brigett" at a Canberra pole dancing joint. (Although you never know, it is the sector's busiest time of the year. We even have to import tarts from Sydney.)


It looks like so much fun I think we should all go next year and compete. I have given a little run down of some of the more popular events below to help you chose your category.


BURNOUTS





"They put water on the track to start with ... what the judges look for is instant smoke, and you need a dry surface to do that. [Debbie Gray, overall winner in 2001] said budding burnout masters should control the car as it was driven down to the burnout pad, keeping the wheel-speed high but the speed of the car low."

The aim is to blow out both tyres - "That's what you want," [husband and 2003 champ Peter Gray] said, "blow one, and the crowd will love you. Blow two, and you're a god."


GO TO WHOA





Is where you start fast as buggery and stop on a white line 100 metres away. Summernats announcer Milton Adey says: "Go to whoa's a nice, safe club event. It shows the driving skill, gets you out in front of the crowd ... but you don't have to hurt your car, burnouts are a bit severe."


MISS SUMMERNATS





Won this year by 23 Tania Lazarou, a trainee neurosurgeon Qantas trolley dolly from Northern Sydney who placed third last year. "I do like to think it was my personality and confidence" Tania said. Which makes sense to me. On the other hand, it is possible that it was her fantastic legs and big tits which got her over the line.

* Quotes are from Saturday's Canberra Times and bugger me if I can be bothered digging up the individual links after arsing around with stupid Picassa (Hello? Hello?) for fourteen hours.

Throbbing search engines

I love what happens to your google hits when you talk about Summernats.

Yes, I'm talkin' to you.

And you.

You as well, and especially you.

I think what you're looking for is here.


While we're at it, who the fuck are you?


Update: this post has been edited because the searchers got funnier. Some people get fussy about this, don't they, about popping back and revising? (Or even deleting!) I don't know why. It doesn't take anything away from anyone.

I can hear the V8s revving as I sit here. I'll put up some photos soon of some of the fantastic cars you can see on your way to the shop.

Blogkeeping

Rowen has moved Sailing close to the wind.

Georg, formerly of Psephite, is now challenging our spelling at Terminological Inexactitude.

Nick Crustacean has a new blogdaddy (Mick arggh goddammit! Mark from do not use lifts) and is doing his fab thing here.

And someone called Anonymous Lefty is here. Please note that no phone sex is available at that site.

Community Service Announcement

Any residents of the inner north, and in particular, Watson, Downer and Dickson, who wish to consume the following food and beverage products over the next three days should report immediately to Woolworths in Dickson to avoid disappointment:

- chips
- coke and other soft drinks
- bourbon, bottled
- bourbon, pre mixed
- bourbon, generic
- lollies, chocolates and sweeties of all kinds
- cigarettes and rollie papers

I forgot when I posted the other day some of the delights of Summernats. Very entertaining conversations involving much raising of eyebrows are to be had with the checkout champs at Woolies. Every year they clean it out of a small but cohesive range of goods.

One sleep to go.

A hint for the selfish and/or those enjoying care in the community

If you are at the only non-express supermarket checkout open earlyish one morning, with a woman bearing a toddler and many groceries behind you, and another heavily laden woman behind her, and you purchase $192.90 worth of goods, it is BAD FORM to hand over a $100 note and $92.90 in gold coins.

Especially if the checkout girl gets flustered and keeps losing count while the toddler gets increasingly whiney.

But more especially if we've seen the $50 note you put back in your purse.

This is just in case you happen to be reading and wondering who the woman saying "Just give her the $50!" was.

Festival of the boon*

Back home for a few days now, but I've been reading books instead of blogging. I've just finished Fleshmarket Close, the new Ian Rankin (only OK, better at the end, but DI Rebus has just about run out of puff) and I am up to page 598 of Robert Caro's first volume of his Lyndon Johnson biography, The Path to Power. Go and read that one if you're interested in politics, America, the first half of last century and a cracker read. And if you have quite a lot of time on your hands, obviously.

Our little holiday was great. Beach, family, seafood, wine, friends, presents and playmates for my son. (And a bit more mucking up than New Year's Eve has seen for a while.) Today was O's first day at work and my first day back as an unemployed mother. A little bit gruelling, in parts, but at least I didn't have to go and have a sleep in my car at lunchtime like O did.

Perhaps we should have had a little more foresight when were planning to go away, because we live far too close to where Summernats is held. I don't know if you can still get those special souvenir videos called "Blowers, burnouts and boobs" but if you live here you don't need them. Two sleeps to go, but they're roaring up the long straight roads of Canberra already.

I'm not some anti car freak, by any means. I was very strongly attached to my first car, a 1965 HD Holden station wagon, and I love a good hot rod. But I can live without the constant throb of cars whose engines protrude from the bonnet, cries of "showusyertits", impossibly young looking girls who do, and trying to entertain an overheated toddler at a pool full of leering meatheads.




This was my first car, but mine was pale metallic green. Most of the time the engine was on the driveway, not on top of the bonnet.




This is Summernats. Don't forget to stop and smell the roses.


* A peculiarly Canberra term, but one I'm sure you've got the drift of by now.