Where's my tart? I want chips and tart!

United 93 vs Snakes on a Plane

2006-08-24T05:44:00.000-07:00

In the space of less than a week (and totally by coincidence, I might add), I've seen two movies at the cinema dealing with life-threatening situations on planes, and I just thought it would be interesting to look at the different ways in which the filmmakers dealt with the same basic premise. Now I'll do this in a point-by-point fashion, just comparing little aspects of both films until we have reached a verdict as to exactly which one extracted the most ambrosia of quality out of the thing-from-which-ambrosia-comes of story. And indeed, it is sentences like that last one that lead people to dependence on drugs like alcohol and toad poison.

So here we go.

POINT NUMBER ONE

United 93 dealt with a shocking, devastating true event that changed the way we see the world, in a captivating way.

Snakes on a Plane dealt with a farcical, ridiculous concept with no grounding in reality whatsoever and did so in a very silly way.

POINT NUMBER TWO

The makers of United 93 had clearly done a great deal of research into the people that were actually involved on that day and obviously had a great deal of sympathy for all of the characters, including the terrorists.

The makers of Snakes on a Plane quite clearly didn't give a shit about the characters except the ones who had large tits or could yell in a very loud, very black voice.

POINT NUMBER THREE

United 93 had a carefully constructed real-time plot with eerily everyday dialogue and human reactions.

Snakes on a Plane used endless, unbelievably inane dialogue as it limped from one Deus ex Machina situation to the next.

POINT NUMBER FOUR

The makers of United 93 had recruited a cast of unknown, amateur actors which lent the film an air of foreboding realism.

The makers of Snakes on a Plane had recruited a cast of unknown, amateur actors which lent the film an air of really bad acting.

POINT NUMBER FIVE

United 93 had a number of powerfully moving moments as the doomed passengers passed loving farewell messages on to their families.

Snakes on a Plane was full of shallow, schmaltzy faux-sentimentality in the spirit of the Hollywood credo that life-or-death situations always make everybody incredibly horny.

POINT NUMBER SIX

United 93, although viewed from the perspective of the plane who supposedly 'fought back against the foreign black murdering bastards', there is a minimum of obnoxious, Americo-centric heroics.

Snakes on a Plane stars Samuel L Jackson, and is therefore a non-stop montage of obnoxious, Americo-centric heroics with the occasional piece of plot development thrown in.

BUT THE FINAL POINT-

United 93 had no snakes on a plane.

Snakes on a Plane did.

THE WINNER? Snakes on a Plane, obviously. Hands-down.

P.K.Simpson & Co.

2006-07-22T04:14:00.000-07:00

Last night, I was watching late-night TV (as you do), and as I was getting increasingly and more violently irritated by the barrage of ads for phone, internet, SMS dating and Jenna Jameson's eyes being blue, I was suddenly STRUCK with the collosal, magnificent power of The. Single. Greatest. Ad. In the history of everything ever. Now brace yourselves, you're entering a new dimension from which it will be impossible to extract oneself because of the sheer overwhelming force of the ecstatic bliss that accompanies the knowledge of what I am about to divulge.

It consisted of a plain blue screen - I mean, genius right there, yeah? Whoever could conjure such magic? And not just any plain blue screen, but a plain blue screen, WITH WRITING ON IT. I mean, have you ever dreamed up such a concept? The masters are always the ones who break the rules, who take such a simple concept and twist and meld it to form their own little pattern until the rest of us can only look on, enviously, like Antonio Salieri, and wonder, how does he do it? How does he make it seem so effortless?

Yet there was further divine sorcery afoot. As I watched this ad for the Traffic Injury & Compensation soliciting firm P.K.Simpson & Co, jaw gaping moronically, the voiceover spoke the immortal words by which I shall henceforth guide my life. A slogan from the heavens above, words that Jesus Christ himself couldn't conjugate, that make the combined works of Shakespeare, Chaucer and Dickens look like the Sun Herald TV Guide's interview with Paris Hilton.

"Homer doesn't work here, but P.K. does"

O ye speaker of divine truth, I bow down before my immortal creator and suckle at the ground ye made, I am but a groundling, a wretch, in the face of such eternal wisdom.

Heavenly visions aside though, I would dearly love to jump on the promotional bandwagon, because genius like this is something I want to heavily encourage and foster to blossom, and bloom, and grow, into something beautiful and precious for the whole world to enjoy.

So if you've received an injury at work and want to make a claim, don't be embarrassed, come and meet with one of the solicitors at P.K. Simpson & Co. The first consultation is FREE and can be arranged after work hours.
Call Sydney (02) 9299-1424 now, or visit us at Level 6, 49 Market St, Sydney.

If you have a query, simply email enquiry@pksimpson.com.au, and we will call you back.

Homer doesn't work here, but P.K. does.

Disturbing Self-Revelations

2006-07-04T18:25:00.000-07:00

On my recent weekend trip to Orange, aside from receiving a constant chiding from my father and brother (hickory sticks and everything) to post on my blog more often, I also came across something else which inspired me to post.

One of Jez and my tasks while we were up there was to go through a plethora of kitschy crap that has piled up in boxes and cupboards and bags all through what used to be my bedroom, and decide what of it was worth keeping (such as the giant papier mâché cat sculpture with huge teeth my aunt gave me for my fifteenth birthday) and what was utter and complete crap (my birth certificate, photo albums, sporting and academic awards, etc.) Anyway, while we were going through a box of papers on which I had written or drawn (badly. I seriously can't stress how bad I was, and am, at drawing) at some time or another, I came across a piece of writing, clearly in my own hand, that really rather disturbed me. Given the explanatory sidenote that my own grandparents are called Eula and Lloyd, here it is, in its entirety:

THIS IS WEIRD BECAUSE LLOYD IS NORMALLY REALLY TWINKLETOES FAIRY MAN

Winter
Terry spends all his time in his room
Grandpa Lloyd gets worried
He decides to take Terry & Grandma Eula up Mt Fosho (a long task without cars)
They catch a train and begin climbing up (with huge rucksacks)
Terry is always complaining about the cold
Grandma Eula cracks and rants and raves non-stop
As they go up, Grandma Eula is getting more & more annoying
She is driving them crazy
Grandpa Lloyd threatens to throw Grandma Eula off the edge
Grandma Eula continues to rant
Grandpa Lloyd cracks and loosens Grandma Eula's grip on a rock
Grandma Eula grabs his hand and they both fall down
They take the food with them (By the way, they are dead)
Terry runs down and finds them dead.
He has to survive on the food.
When it runs out, he has to eat his grandparents.
When other people come up, he gets rescued
Police find the remains of Eula & Lloyd
They arrest Terry for murder.
Terry gets sentenced to life.
He likes getting locked up in solitary confinement.
AND THEY ALL LIVE HAPPILY EVER AFTER

Now what really disturbed me about this, apart from the fact that it's just plain weird, is that despite the fact that I clearly wrote it, I have absolutely no discernible memory of doing so. I don't know when I wrote this, I certainly have no idea why I wrote it, and I am absolutely stupefied as to what particular substances I was smoking at the time.

This disturbance was compounded further when Jez came across a couple of other pages featuring the exact same characters, one of which was a map of the house in which the three lived, and the other was a table listing their particular character traits and habits. So this wasn't just some isolated baby-panadol-induced hallucination, this was some sort of weird serial with unnecessary character depth. While it helped to explain a couple of the more ambiguous passages in the above opus, it ruined my ability to laugh it off as a freak occurrence in my otherwise sane and mentally-undiseased childhood. Just for illustrative purposes, here is the table in the best reproduction I can manage, without being bothered to screw around with fancy HTML commands:

Reads:
GRANDMA EULA
Horror
Crime
GRANDPA LLOYD (From other side of family)
Flower Fairy Books
Barbie Magazine
TERRY
Comedy
Mystery

Plays:
GRANDMA EULA
Shooting Games
Electric Guitar
GRANDPA LLOYD
Hungry Hungry Hippos
Triangle
TERRY
The computer
Saxophone

Likes:
GRANDMA EULA
Listening to AC/DC
Taking Heroin
Lifting Weights
GRANDPA LLOYD
Listening to Janice Ian
Cooking vegetarian meals
TERRY
The TV
KFC
Macca's

Dislikes:
GRANDMA EULA
Grandpa Lloyd
Terry
GRANDPA LLOYD
Grandma Eula
Heavy metal music (That includes opera in his opinion)
TERRY
Grandparents
Spending time in the house outside of his room

So realistically, this latter portion should have clarified it a lot. I mean, there's a fair bit of material in there that helps with the dating and it's clearly just me being silly and over-the-top, but at the same time, it's still creepy (I mean, the heroin reference really isn't cool), and the fact that there is more than one of these suggests I should really remember it. Especially considering my memory of the weird, Freudian mess I call my childhood is usually pretty acute (For example, the story Jez told at my 21st about me and my 'body exploration' in kindergarten class was nothing he was present for, I gave him that story word-for-word specifically so he could use it at my 21st). So basically my discovery of these strange works was sort of like watching a video of oneself age three playing a game of bathtub 'find the cucumber' with Uncle George that one had successfully repressed.

But then again, it's been fairly well established that I'm a strange individual, so why should this make a difference?

11 Pages of Utter No Sense

2006-02-02T03:09:00.000-08:00

For want of a real post, and because I'm bored, I thought I'd share with the world a conversation had by me, Bec and Cat via Microsoft Word in BAC a few months ago (I just know it was in the middle of the exam period, can't provide an exact date), largely because I know the three of us often refer to this conversation in a somewhat amusing context and it might make more sense if everyone could read it. So although this is going on my blog, it was of course a group effort.

(I have tried to establish who was typing at the start but it gets really hard later on)

Bec:You see the guy with black hair, your 2 oclock, with the black shirt

Sam:Yes

He’s julian, I’ve bumped into him three times now in the space of one week. It must be fate

That’s not such a bad fate… he’s pretty dreamy

I’m wondering should I go over and ask him about the test?

No, I think you should go and ask him to a movie…

Hey cat, julian the choice guy choice bro?

I don’t get it but anyway, oh…..

Hey cat, I bumped into him outside target at Macquarie centre, the one thatsam used to work at, turns out that he LIVES in epping, and has beenworking at target for a few months the same target that’s three shops awayfrom MY WORK!!!!

Woah, freaky… hehehe

Hang on, he just turned around properly, he’s not really dreamy at all, Iretract my statement. PS This is confusing with three people typing, andI’m Bec

NOOOOOOO, my identity has been stolen, I’m THE REAL BEC

Damn you all, you know I’m bec!!

Yeah well I must be Bec because *Bec laugh* see? Nobody else can imitate mylaugh!

No, I’m bec because I don’t use capitalisation….damn Microsoft word autopunctuation thing

Hehehe, you don’t fool anyone!

Yeah, see I don’t use capitalisation either, so I’m bec

Hang on, surely we can learn to share and care, i mean, surely there’s lotsmore bec to go around

Well yes I mean I’m sure there’s a little bit of Bec in everybody…*sings* ‘and a little bit of this and a little bit of that and shake yourbum…’ *claps*

*raps* I’m Bec, yes I’m the real Bec, all you other Becs are just imitatingso would the real Bec please stand up, please stand up, please stand up*stops rapping*

I’ve stood up, *stands up* so I’m the real bec I must be anyway this issillyJulian, let’s get back to him, this is fate I tell you all

Shut up Sam, stop pretending to be me (Bec)

No, sam’s just obsessed with julian, bec, that’s all

It’s so dangerous opening word, it just ends up being a silly conversationhehe it’s funnyJulian is funny

Last time didn’t it turn into a silly one-line-at-a-time hard-boileddetective story instead?

That was classic literature… we need more of that

Money reaping classic literature…or mmmmoooooorrrrreeee studying? Hmmmm

Money reaping! *sings* ‘I want money dododo that’s what I want’

*sings* sugar dodododododo oh honey honey…

Will you be my nasty girrrrrl. Feisty little one

Feisty… or nasty?

Either suits me

But not sweet?

Hello, I’m James and I’m an alcoholic.\\sdlkgjas

Hello james! Are you drunk?

Ioruweoirwiutyoqejdfsnmj wevn, weofj,dcx

Youre a very good player Scripto20.And no, you’re not expected to get that.

Go away you random thing, here we don’t tolerate that sort of randomness!!!

*sings* oh ypu random thing, oh you random thing

Randomly sexy? Hello?? Hello??

No, I think my sexiness happened for a reason.

Am suddenly very curious, for what divinely inspired god given reason?(by the way I can’t believe that sam is managing well reading his lecturenotes AND participating in this)

Why not? It’s like a real lecture

Yeah, you’d be surprised how many similarities there are between discussingepistemological theories of intelligence and this conversation.

You in other words you have been reading theories and also applying thosetheories at the same time?

Oh hell yes. Me very epistemological.

What does it mean? The computer won’t tell me… *sulks* I keep thinking thatother word that means where wordes come from and stuff

I think I know a word that cat doesn’t whoa…..

Well, you see wordes are born when a mummy worde and a daddy worde loveeach other very much…

And then what happens uncle sam??? *bec tugs at uncle sam’s shirt wantingmore information*

I’ll wait till you’re older and can download it for yourself…

So uncle sam, if you have a whole bunch of wordes, what is the proper wordfor a collective noun describing a group of wordes?

I’d say a whole bunch of wordes is sufficient terminology…

Bloody wordes, ther’re too many of them these days, why don’t they all goback where they came from?

/A giant super duper mummy worde and giant super duper daddy worde?

Yes, Bec *pats on head in tentative, oh my God this bitch is fucking insanekind of way*

*bec slaps uncle sam*

*uncle sam starts getting disturbingly aroused*

Ewwww, that’s so wrong, she’s your niece….

*bec slaps cat*

*uncle sam deliberately misreads “niece” as “nice” and says* She’s not justnice, she’s also NASTY.

*bec slaps uncle sam feistily*

*cat brings out the pillows*

*as julian is exiting from the building*

Wouldn’t it have been funny if he’d come over and read this?

*bec slaps uncle sam*

*as uncle sam, a grown man, cries and takes his hanky out*

You must have slapped him pretty hard…

and uncle sam is lost* for words?

Nah nah, ‘WORDES”

Yes, all those bloody wordes went back to from whence they came

Where did the bullet come from uncle sam????

The bullet came out fromnowhere……

No it didn’t, I just shot you cos I’m sick of getting slapped…

Climatic moment in the thing, *bec gets shot, and falls*

Noooo!! Why? She was so young? Bec, bec, can you hear me???

*bec mutters ‘my dying wish….world peace…world pea….’ And dies*

MEDIC! MEEEEEEDIIIIIIC!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! *starts sobbinguncontrollably while looking at blood gushing from Bec’s wound*

Does anybody know CPR? Where can I find a world pea?

In a world peapod, silly.

Ok, where can I find a world PEAPOD?

Good question. But I still say it’s lucky she wanted a world pea, insteadof world peace, for example. Because I have NO idea where we’d find aworld peace.

Hahahahahah ha ha ha…. Yeah… what a stupid idea THAT would be

Perhaps she meant world piece, like, a piece of the world.

Bec you’re dead. Stop typing. And I’m not Bec.

Whereas I’m a recantation of bec, so there!

I was hoping the ambulance would get here in time, and so on, but now itseems we’re stuck with this recantation… recant?...

Yes and instead of the ambulance, we just got a whole lot of ambivalence…

Hello? Can I type here?

Maybe you didn’t die, you just went on a diet, and it was all a typo

Type? Typing typo? It was all a type

Of goose

Ahhh, so this is what they mean by the slipperiness of language

No, they actually mean the slipperiness of LUGGAGE.

Especially if it’s leather, and gets rained on

A leather luggage that reigns?

I’d vote for that

I’d veto that

I’d Danny De Vito that

Danny de Vito’s hat?

Danny de Vito shat?

Presumably at some point

The point of shagging? Shatting? Difference?? (does anybody out there getme?????) (well at least I thought it was funny,…sort of…)

Well at elastic I thought it was.

Well at elastic, I. thought it: “Was”

Was elastic

Well at elastic, I thought it: “Wash”

Elastic washes well

The elastic well washes

The electric eel washers

*shocked* BOOM BOOM

The eclectic seal wishes

(the mitsubushi electric bulldogs)

The elective well wishers

Bee collective shell fishers

She collects sea shells

She sells sea shells by the sea shore?

By the see-saw

You see? That saw?

That store? Youse see that saw?

Youse see dat mofo?

HABIB!!!!!!

El Bashu

El Bash-U

I’ll Bash you?

You’re bashful?

I’m brash-ful

Ful of brash?

Full of trash

Brashy trash, and a little tiny rash?

Brassy trace, and a tinny bass

Barren race and a shiny face

Oooh, deep. Poetic, beauty, SUMBLIME

Darren Hayes and a shiny face

Poetically beautiful sump-line?

Poetically beautiful sump oil

Poetically beautiful strumpet?

Trumpeter with a big brassy thingThing, ‘thing’. Whatchamacallit? Or trupet? Or trumpet?

Mister trump holding the trump card.

Boom boom? Definitely deserved one. Yeah.

Sam and zoned out

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Sitting in a tree

Z z z z z z z

Hello, I’m Sam, and I’m a sittinginatree

Hi Sam! You can beat this problem with our handy ten step program

Wait wait, you ARE shattinginatree, you’ve been such a BIG fan of yours

That is, without a doubt, the weirdest thing I’ve ever heard.

Okay, okay, so you’re not, no need to get all aggressive about it

Just cos YOU haven’t had ‘enlightenment’

How to reach enlightenment, now in a handy ten step program

Silly, you start with step one….But if you ring in the next fifteen minutes, we’ll throw in these bonussteak knives!

St ives?

I don’t know if I want enlightenment, but steak knoves… and I’ve alwayswanted to go to St Ives, lots of cats I hear

What’s a steak knoves?

That’s what I want to know. Hence the appeal of winning

Winning enlightenment? What, you say?

Steak knives and st ives? PLUS CATS???? Talk about jackpot(and bigamy)

As I was going to st ives, I met a man with 7 wives, and I asked if hewanted free steak knives

Well as I was going to st ives, I met a man with 7 knives, and I asked ifhe wanted free steak wives.

Well I was going to st ives, I met a Woman

Well I was going to st knives

I met a cat with 7 lives

At st wives?

I met a wife with 7 cats

YOU met a WOMAN?? Tell me about her…

A woman, who was a wife, who had 7 cats, who each had 7 steak knives

You do the maths

Did each steak knife have 7 lives?

7 cats + 7 steak knives = one badass mofo killing machine

HABIB!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

KEBAB!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

FELAFEL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

BANKSTOW!!!!????????

PADSTOW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

PADDINGTON!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

BEAR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

WHERE????????????????

THERE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

ON THE STAIR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I DON’T CARE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

IF I DON”T SHARE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

STOP STARING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

STOP STARTING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

STOP FARTING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

POP TARTING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

POLE VAULTING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

PAUL VAUTIN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

FATTY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

SHATTY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

SHANTY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

SHANNON NOLL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

GRASSY KNOLL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

GRASSY NOEL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

*sings* I’m dreaming of a white Christmas…

CLASSY KNOB!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

GLASSY KNOCKERS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

GASSY ROCKERS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

giGANTIC KNICKERS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

FANTASTIC FLICKERS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Nine pages of nonsense

No sense???

No cents???

Nine pints??? Or is that just going too far?

Too far???? Ooo fart (bec loves LOVES toilet humour)

Was just noticing that… *tut tut*

Bec loves aqueous humour

Watery femur???

Wafer-thin lemur?

Waffle linen

mmm… thses sheets are so soft and sugary

Gough Whitlam

Axed prime minister- axe murderer?

Fax machine

Fart machine

Dart board

Fart board haha got in before Bec

Fart hoard

Fart stored

Fart ward

Mark Waugh

Steve Waugh

Phil Waugh

Evelyn Waugh

Feel war? Even A war?

Evener wart??

We started off sane…And now INsane

But I wanted to get OUTsane

And OFFsane?

Or ABOUTsane

Or BEHINDsane

It’s just NOTTHEsame

It’s just not cricket

I know someone who eats crickets, barbecued

CHILLI FLAVOUR

LIGHT N TANGY

But not chicken

Cricket and not chicken

It’s not CHICKEN!!!

Nor butter chicken

Sorry just wanted to look at the in-joke I used earlier…Because couldn’t remember what it was

And it was the “Youre a very good player Scripto20” line

And we were all confused

What are we doing here anyway?

Living and dying

But what’s it all about, really, when you get right down to it?

If there’s been a better note on which to end this conversation, I haven’tseen it

THE END

Adolf Hitler uses "Jew-gon" brand Hydrogen Cyanide!

2006-01-19T01:35:00.000-08:00

I don't know if anyone's noticed this, but in DVD stores these days... or at the very least, in the Virgin section of Myer - I haven't checked out any other DVD stores for a while - but the occasional DVD has a little sticker on the cover with a picture of Alan Jones and the caption "Alan Jones recommends" (or a very similar sticker, but with the name and visage of Jackie O instead).

Now, I have manifold, passionate and minutely detailed opinions about this newfound phenomenon, but to begin with I shall be succinct, brief and immediately to the point-

WHO

GIVES

A

FUCK

??????????

I mean honestly, who goes into a DVD shop, or a DVD section of a department store, and says "Gah, so many to choose from, if only I could have some guidance from an unenlightened dickhead celebrity with a brain the size of a male quark's left testicle?". I mean, what irritates me most is that it implies people who shop for DVDs are unable to make up their own minds. But what irritates me more-than-most is the further implication that a movie's merits alone aren't enough to warrant its buying... I mean one of the films emblazoned with one of these icons-of-evil is "E.T. The Extra Terrestrial" and are you seriously telling me that someone is likely to think "Hmm, ET... Sounds like a bit of a dodgy movie, but hey, Jackie O likes it, it MUST be good"

And this isn't something new, obviously; We all know it's been around for years and years, ever since the likes of James Dean et al. strode the planks of stardom and the 'celebrity' age was born, we have been brainwashed with this belief that what's good enough for some famous person is intrinsically, and without any need of evidence, self-testing or independent thought on behalf of a human being, the product to buy. Now admittedly, the average demographic of readers-of-my-blog are slightly more educated than people who would go and buy a tube of "E-Z Melt" glue after hearing Icarus testify that "I never use anything else" *Colgate smile*, so therefore I will bypass the two really obvious getters-of-Sam's-goat, namely the fact that A) It is with only the slightest amoeba of possibility, at best, that any celebrity actually has the foggiest idea which company it was who paid them ten trillion dollars to say "I heartily endorse this e-vent or product", and B) that Alan Jones and Jackie O, as ambassadors, are about as clever as the marketing manager of the Rolf Harris school of wobbleboard and about as effective as a “Quiet Please” sign at a Slipknot concert.

Instead, I will go on to mention the most galling and mind-boggling factor of all – that there are people out there who would actually be swayed by these stickers. I mean, I don’t know this for certain, I haven’t yet heard of people telling our Virgin employees, “Well you know, I’ve never heard of Gone with the Wind, but Alan Jones said it was worth a look if you enjoyed You Got Served. So I thought I’d give it a go” but it stands to reason, doesn’t it? Not because it’s logical, or a good marketing ploy, or because Alan Jones or Jackie O have the tiniest iota of taste in movies, but because it is the tragic and devastating truth that Australian people are stupid. Now, leaving aside the obvious fact that I am Australian and therefore this rule cannot apply to EVERYBODY, I will nevertheless provide you with a few short bits of evidence to show how quite overwhelmingly moronic and suggestible the Australian public can be:

1) Schnappi das Kleine Krokodil exists. And was successful enough to bring out a second single.

2) The Cronulla riots.

3) John Howard is in power.

4) Crazy Frog exists. And was successful enough to bring out a second AND A THIRD single AND AN ALBUM.

5) Australians continue to believe they can escape the drug sensors undetected at Indonesian airports.

6) Big Brother and Australian Idol are able to plan yet another series for 2006 and know that they will still be Channel Ten’s highest rating shows of the year.

7) Some people respect the opinion of Alan Jones and Jackie O.

And I know that all in all it does no good to complain apart from making me feel better having gotten needlessly angry and ranty about something trivial and completely unimportant. There will always be the mindless zombies out there, I mean if they didn’t exist, mass media itself wouldn’t exist. And that would be a terrible world in which to live, wouldn’t it? All I can say is that I think the message of The Lorax by Dr. Seuss rings ever more true, presented with these sad truths about human nature:

I said to the Lorax, “You poor stupid guy,
You never can tell what some people will buy”

What transpires, however, in this timeless and almost Orwellianly prescient work, is that it is not the Lorax himself who is poor and stupid but the whole damn lot of humanity. And so-

Let the coming apocalypse befall the cursèd heads of Alan Jones and Jackie O when we find ourselves astride a desolate and Godless rock, extinct and void of the beautiful Truffula Tree.

YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED

Sam Reviews Public Toilets V: Macquarie Shopping Centre

2006-01-06T04:20:00.000-08:00

I thought it high time, considering I haven't written about the places (and toilets) I frequent most outside of uni hours that I review:

Part V: Macquarie Shopping Centre (Food Court)
(Herring Road, North Ryde NSW)

Capacity

Very good. There are about eight cubicles and even during the busiest hours of the food court (which are even busier than the same hours at Carlingford), I've always been able to find a spare one. This is also the first toilet I've reviewed with individual urinals rather than a trough, and while I have no preference, it seems, for some God-unknown reason, that people actually prefer using these to troughs, and so it's not as common for people to use a cubicle for no reason other than male insecurity and shyness as in other places. 9/10

Cleanliness

Fairly poor. Although I never see people using the cubicles often, they really like to fuck around with the toilet paper and leave it lying everywhere. The floor is often quite wet as well - although this isn't quite as bad as in Manly, since I am usually wearing shoes when I'm in there. But considering the frequent rounds made by Macquarie cleaning staff, I think it could be better maintained, especially during quiet hours. 4/10

Washing Area

Good and bad. There are lots of taps (so many so that they stretch around a corner) and they're fairly easy to operate. But, as I have frequently become incensed at, all taps (and that means, for the whole centre, not just this particular toilet) spray out only hot water, which means it's really difficult to get a free drink. I personally think that's really poor form and is bordering on sociopathic by centre management. Okay and hurrah for encouraging enterprise by forcing people to buy cool drinks but I mean even the Horse & Jockey pub is legally required to provide cool drinking water if you ask. Plus they only have automatic dryers - and they're pretty hard to keep going. I remember the highlight of my week a couple of months ago was that I managed to keep one of these air dryers going until my hands were satisfactorily dry. 5/10

Tszujiness

Average. It's white and clean-looking but it's so early-nineties in its decor. It could seriously do with a Thom Felicia-style makeover (Although I'm not sure if he really does bathrooms). I mean, it's fine but there's just nothing attractive about it. It's just a toilet. And considering what all the Westfields are doing to their toilets, I'd say it's time for Macquarie to stick a crowbar into their wallet and renovate up. 3/10

Overall Satisfaction

Considering my main purpose in here these days is to shoot up, it's very good because capacity is what I care about. Otherwise it's pretty satisfying overall, I mean it's the sort of toilet you can use in a hurry when having lunch or something and be safe in the knowledge that you'll get a cubicle or urinal and you probably won't catch cholera. 6.5/10

Ranking in the Public Toilet System

1) Ryde RTA Motor Registry
-> 2) Macquarie Centre Food Court
3) Carlingford Court Ground Level
4) Manly Beach Surf Life Saving Building
5) Top Ryde Shopping Centre Food Court

Sam Reviews Public Toilets IV: Ryde RTA Motor Registry

2006-01-06T04:12:00.000-08:00

Part IV: In the Ryde RTA Motor Registry
(Corner Blaxland & North Rds, Ryde NSW)

Capacity

Small, but I would say modest. While it's a busy place, it certainly isn't the first place you'd think of for a toilet to be and so therefore I would say it serves a minimal number of people and the one-person-wide trough and one cubicle is probably plenty for the number of users. 7/10

Cleanliness

Pretty good. I should make allowances for the fact that, as I said, not many people would use these, but nevertheless it's pretty well maintained. The smell is one thing I noticed, very well balanced and deodorized. 7/10

Washing Area

Only one tap, which could be a letdown but in my case it wasn't. Again, due to its lack of regular business I'd say, clean and free of any massive splashback. Hand towels for drying and a bin for safe disposal. I approve heartily. 7/10

Tszujiness

Well, meh. What can you expect? But I mean, even your average house can do better than this, but then they may entertain more often. This place isn't exactly a bag of laughs. 4/10

Overall Satisfaction

Considering I was in such a shitty mood at my treatment by the RTA staff and the way they like to make life all the more difficult for people with a medical condition, I was pretty well satisfied with these modest but nicely hygienic and welcoming toilets. 7/10

Ranking in the Public Toilet System

-> 1) Ryde RTA Motor Registry
2) Carlingford Court Ground Level
3) Manly Beach Surf Life Saving Building
4) Top Ryde Shopping Centre Food Court

Macarthur Park is the greatest song ever

2005-12-25T01:39:00.000-08:00

Before I start with my rationale why Macarthur Park is the greatest song ever, I would like to issue a challenge to all those who read this title and thought "Heheh, Sam's being ironic - like that stupid pile of semi-musical horse shit is even worthy of the title of WORST song ever" to prove, logically, empirically and definitively with reference to at least TWO respected scientific journals, why it is not the greatest song ever. It cannot be done. Therefore, logically, it simply MUST be the greatest song ever. But for those sceptics who would like to throw my own arguments back at me, asking me to prove my own points, well I provide you with the WHY.

REASON NUMBER ONE: It was sung by Richard Harris. How many songs can claim that they have achieved this incredible feat? Well, eight, it seems. But of all the songs in the world that are generally regarded as 'the greatest ever', virtually none. (Although "How to Handle a Woman" did once make it to number 834 on the 'most popular songs ever' list produced by the national recording company of Malawi). Anyway, the fact that Macarthur Park was sung by Richard Harris in itself makes it the greatest song ever, as found by Vingerhoetz et al. in the distinguished and really down-to-earth empirical scientific journal, volume 34 issue 2, September 1968, which stated that "Any song made by anyone who isn't Richard Harris is NOT the greatest song ever"

REASON NUMBER TWO: It is about a cake. This is singly the greatest idea in the history of music since some guy said "Hmm, I think I'll invent music", and what's more is that writing a song about a cake is incredibly difficult in itself. But what makes this song even greater and therefore intrinsically worthy of the title 'greatest song ever' is that in this case, the cake is simply used as a metaphor for what was seemingly a nicely fulfilling springtime romance with a young person of the ladyship persuasion that was tragically fated, and will never happen again. The brilliance of using the cake as nothing more than a metaphor is a mark of absolute genius that alluded such other similarly themed opuses as "Pat a Cake, Pat a Cake" (Although there is a rumour that this latter song is very subtly and sinisterly a revelation of who really assassinated JFK). Furthermore, this metaphor is joined by the greatest simile ever put onto parchment, "Like a stripey pair of pants".

REASON NUMBER THREE: It's really, really long. Often this would be considered a downside but in this case, since it is a song about a cake, it is a feat worthy of smacking the ground with one's violently-dropping jaw in absolute awe. It is barely even imaginable the idea of being able to insert one line about a cake into any song, let alone drag out a song about a cake for seven minutes plus. Just imagine John Lennon trying to produce an extended version of "Imagine" to include the bridge:

Imagine there's no cake
And no chocolate icing or whipped cream either
You may say I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one...

Would that work? Of course not. But in the case of Macarthur Park, not only does the cake theme MAKE the song, but it transcends the whole song. This is more than a song, ladies and gentlemen. It is art itself.

REASON NUMBER FOUR: Unlike all other songs, it is actually ENHANCED by being played on the tabla. This is not because the song by itself is poor, but in the same way that it being about a cake makes it so much better than it would be if it weren't about a cake, an otherwise unbeatable, perfect song is only made better by being played on an obscure, non-musical instrument from the Asian subcontinent. It is the genius of Richard Harris' original version that makes the original absolute perfection and yet made better in subsequent, tabla-involving recordings. No other song can claim that it anticipated further recordings to the point where it was perpetually destined to be improved in this way.

I hope I have put you sceptics in your place. No other song, in the history of everything, can claim to be by Richard Harris and use a cake metaphor as its primary theme. This stands in the face of any contrary evidence and proves beyond a shadow of a doubt that Macarthur Park is the greatest song ever. It is a sad fact that Richard Harris is now no longer with us, and knowing that, like him, we (the human race I mean) will, indeed, never have that recipe again.

Sam Reviews Public Toilets III: Manly Beach

2005-12-25T00:01:00.000-08:00

Part III: Manly Beach (In the yellow surf lifesaving building)
(North Steyne, Manly NSW)

Capacity

Somewhat less than adequate. There are two cubicles and that's it. I imagine that during any busy periods, there could be lines out the door. And as I'll get to in 'cleanliness', this could be fairly unhygienic. The trough is average size, three people can stand there without feeling uncomfortable. 3/10

Cleanliness

Oh dear. There's something about beach toilets - I mean I don't know what is involved in the maintenance of such toilets but starting with Brighton-le-Sands (I think it was actually Monterey, thinking about it, but we started in Brighton and just walked down the beach) my experience with beachside public toilets has been pretty abysmal. So I think maybe 'nothing' is what maintenance of such toilets involve because seriously, it's quite bad. And it's made worse by the thought that people might be walking on that stale urine-soaked floor with bare feet. Mercifully I was wearing thongs at the time but if I had not been, well let's just say I'd happily hold it, or at the very least I'd be grateful for my proximity to the water, so I could wash and scrub them clean. 1/10

Washing Area

This was a shade better. The taps were pretty crap but at least they were normal faucet-style ones, rather than push-button that just vomit out one sudden gush of water and then stop. Unfortunately, only air dryers. And crappy old ones, at that. 5/10

Tszujiness

It's a purely practical facility. I daresay they assume there's no need to make the toilets nice since it's a beachside suburb and nobody really cares about what's in the inside. Plus everyone presumably urinates in the water anyway. We all know what surf people are REALLY like. Having said that though, if it weren't so filthy, it might look okay. They were going for some sort of tile-floored, concrete-wall motif I'd say, with a stunning diamonte fleur-de-lis that sadly didn't make it to the final blueprint. 5/10

Overall Satisfaction

It's difficult to say considering I really did need to go to the toilet when I went in, so upon leaving I was really quite relieved. Whether I was satisfied though, that's a different story. And a different answer. Which would probably be 'no'. I mean, they could have been alright but realistically they're bloody filthy. 4/10

Ranking in the Public Toilet System

1) Carlingford Court Ground Level
-> 2) Manly Beach Surf Life Saving Building
3) Top Ryde Shopping Centre Food Court

Engrish, it's a funny old game

2005-12-09T22:07:00.000-08:00

Yesterday when I was waiting for a bus at Epping Station, I was looking at a 'housemate wanted' flyer stuck to a post that had obviously been written by an international Macquarie Uni student (Is there any other type of Macquarie Uni student, by the way?) which had a delightfully incorrect piece of punctuation. Essentially it just had a comma where it should have had a full stop, and vice-versa. But the unfortunate result was that the final sentence read thus: "Non-smoking student wanted, including electricity and gas."

Although I can understand that getting a student who didn't come with gas would be quite irritating, it's obviously not what the author of said flyer was aiming for. Anyway, if there is a clearer example of what a silly and unforgivingly confusing language English is, I can't find it. Just two little symbols round the wrong way, and you get a sentence so hilarious some idiot who'd just had a long, hard, hot day at work would memorise it and use it as the basis for a blog post. What pathos.

I have realised lately though how much it would really suck to have to learn English because there are a million and one rules governing it, and a million and one exceptions to every single one of those rules. I mean it becomes quite apparent when walking through Lakemba on a Friday night which I do very often that half the people who were born here can't even speak a bloody word of the language. The other day I even said, totally accidentally (for once), said "more better" and I have no idea why - although the flagellation I gave myself as a punishment will remind me never to do it again.

But this has also been striking me a lot lately because I've resolved to learn to speak a basic level of the Chinese language - not just because Bec is Chinese but also because I deal with innumerable customers at Myer who are Chinese and some of them have a really very tentative grasp of English (Today I spent twenty minutes explaining the benefits of a Sunbeam Cafe Ristretto Espresso Machine to a nine-year-old kid because his Dad didn't speak a word of English - and like a nine-year-old would appreciate the benefit of a 15-bar pump system) so I thought it would be really quite handy if I could communicate to a basic level with them without having to resort to weird, pancultural body language (One lady's frantic and exagerrated hand symbols about a week ago were hilarious, although not quite as useful as the phrase "Excuse me young man, could you please direct me to the locale in which you keep your hand-held body massaging kits?).

To this end, I have learned a full one phrase in Mandarin, albeit the most helpful one in the world of customer service, "Can I help you?" Naturally, the most useful one in the real world is "I sorry, I doonut speeky dee Mandarin" but we're saving that for Advanced Mandarin lesson 1. The amusing part of the story however, is that when Bec got me to 'try out' this line on her mother (who, by the by, actually pronounces the word as "Engrish" which I think is really cute), I sort of mispronounced one word the slightest bit which changed the meaning from "Can I help you?" to "Can I hug you?" which is far more amusing - for me, at least - in hindsight than it was at the time. At the very least though, apart from being ample payback for all the times Bec and I have laughed secretly and maliciously at her Mum's pronunciation of difficult words, it made me realise yeah, language is weird. I mean, I can't even imagine now how hard it's going to be to learn a language in which tone is phonemic (That is, a different tone changes the meaning of a word) when the slightest pronunciation error so radically changes the meaning. Much like my friend 'David' who wrote the flyer mentioned at the start of my post might discover if anyone were ever pedantic enough to bring it to his attention.

However, with all of Engrish's little ambiguities, subtleties and downright silliness, I still can't figure out what the people in that Korean restaurant in Capitol Square were trying to say when they called their dishes "Sexy Chicken" and "Passion of the Eel". Can anyone help me with that one?

Sam Reviews Public Toilets II: Carlingford Court

2005-12-09T21:51:00.000-08:00

Part II: Carlingford Court Shopping Centre (Ground Level)
(Corner Carlingford & Pennant Hills Road, Carlingford NSW)

Capacity

One would assume these toilets have adequate capacity, since there is a trough as well as three cubicles. However, during lunch rush (which is the only time I need a cubicle for, as we discussed, medical reasons), there is a constant rush and everyone, EVERYONE heads straight for the cubicles. So all in all, for such a popular area of the shopping centre, the capacity is actually very poor. Because the trough is actually very small, as well. Only 3 people can fit at any one time. 2/10

Cleanliness

In spite of being very heavily populated, these toilets are actually pretty well maintained. This is because the cleaning staff, as I have seen, are frequently checking up on it; they don't just clean it once a day and so overall I have to say this is pretty good. 8/10

Washing Area

Average. Those annoying push button taps that explode on you and then suddenly shut off. However, at least they provide cold water which puts them miles up on the Stalinist regime known as Macquarie Centre (which we will review later, of course). Only air dryers available, although they are pretty good quality for auto-sensor ones. 5/10

Tszujiness

Meh. They have all the stuff that was once considered trendy and new like the push-button taps and the auto-sensor air dryers but they're still the oldest type available and so they're really just annoying, in the way that a 1980-model computer is. As in, it may have been miles ahead of technology once but now it's just shit and user-unfriendly. However, cleanliness is a bonus. It's really just a very standard, bathroom-y type feel which all in all is all you can really expect. 5/10

Overall Satisfaction

I'm often inconvenienced by these toilets but that's more a problem with patronage than the facilities themselves. It would be nice if Carlingford could provide a staff only male toilet, to go with the female one. I mean I understand the need for more female toilets than male, but still, it's the patrons rather than the staff who insist on clogging up the cubicle system. Overall, 6/10

Ranking in the Public Toilet System: "Amazingly" (Sarcasm detector explodes), this beats Top Ryde. Currently 1st.

Sam Reviews Public Toilets I: Top Ryde Shopping Centre

2005-12-07T23:17:00.000-08:00

Well, following on from my rant about the behaviour of public toilet patrons, as well as my super-normal frequenting of such places, both coupled with my desire to satirise my brother's blog and its "Rate the Oporto" section, furthermore added to by my belief that public toilets really should be scrutinised with the same critical eye as, if not to a greater extent than, we apply to opera and interpretive dance, intensified by the knowledge that my blog is distressingly sparse in and wanting of more posts, indeed Sam has forgotten how this sentence began and so shall end it abruptly.

So we present part I in a series of posts (or rather, a series of excuses for posts when nothing else comes to mind) exposing the highs and lows of the Sydney (and beyond) public toilet system. Each venue shall be marked (out of 10) on:

Capacity (How many patrons can fit per urinal trough, how many cubicles there are and how frequently they are NEEDLESSLY OCCUPIED *Sam wipes foam from the corners of his mouth and continues*, etc.)

Cleanliness (Surely this speaks for itself)

Washing Area (This includes how well the taps work including for other purposes such as filling a water bottle, the overall neatness of this area including water splashes, as well as the drying system provided)

Tszujiness (How stylish, modern or unique the toilets are)

Overall (How satisfied I felt upon leaving)

(And I mean, SATISFIED)

Part I: Top Ryde Shopping Centre (Near the food court)
(Corner Devlin Street and Blaxland Road, Ryde NSW)

Capacity

While I was the only patron at the time, it's nevertheless fairly obvious that if there were a dysentery epidemic in Top Ryde, we would be in trouble. The urinal trough is sub-average size, maybe four people could fit if they were particularly close or if one was a child. But worse than this, there is only one cubicle. Fortunately though, it's one of those cubicles with the door to the side of the toilet so if the door is unlocked and you push it open it doesn't smack into the backside of whoever's in there. 2/10

Cleanliness

Dear Christ, somebody please alert Ryde Municipal Council of the imminence of a cholera outbreak. There is a reason I was the only patron on this day, since there's only space for one person in between all the flies that inhabit this - and I use the term in its deepest and most literal sense - shithole. The toilet-related employees (to call them 'cleaners' or 'maintenance personnel' would both be hideous misnomers) seem to think the solution to this is to put more and more urinal cakes in. I mean there are six in this not-so-massive trough, at least two of which are quite obviously empty of any disinfectant-cum-slightly-banana-scented-air-freshener. And the final crowning glory of this putrid pit of pestilence is that the lock on the cubicle door is broken. I know that's technically not cleanliness but it does add to the overall neglected, I don't give a shit who catches what instantly lethal and rapidly contagious infection from these toilets, feel of them. 0/10

Washing Area

I'd say partly because nobody ever dares venture inside, splash wise this was okay. However, the cold tap on the left sink was broken, and yes, there were only two taps. I mean I know Top Ryde food court isn't the major place to hang out in Sydney but still, gah, poor poor poor. Crappy old air dryers as well. 2/10

Tszujiness

If this toilet were in the middle of a slum in plague-ridden London, I'd still think it was a bloody mess. I mean, quite frankly it wouldn't be too far to wish that this place were walled off as a hazardous waste zone. Useful only as a torture venue. 0/10

Overall Satisfaction

An absolute bloody disaster. You'd be better off shitting on the pavement. 1/10

Ranking in the Public Toilet System: Currently 1st

Public Toilet Etiquette

2005-12-03T20:43:00.000-08:00

Before I begin today's rant, I should like to make it publicly known that this post is not in any way inspired or influenced by the recent spate of bombings, kidnappings and harming of innocent kittens that has followed my inability to post of late, but as I always stated, simply comes from my actually having something rant-worthy about which to rant for the first time in a long while. So, just in plain words to all those impatient hustlers out there, your insane schemes to intimidate me did not work, your lord and master Samuel has simply finally deigned to write to satisfy your plebeian thirst for drivel. Also, I'm really really really sorry I took so long to write and please don't hurt me *Sam cries and wets his pants in fear*

Anyway, down to business. Something that's always somewhat irked me but only recently has begun to actually piss me off to the point of mouth-foaming and complete stranger's head smashing with a ballpoint hammer is, as the title to this post would suggest, public toilet etiquette, or the lack thereof displayed by practically every male in existence.

Firstly, something which I've noticed for a very long time but seems to have only really become prevalent lately, is why does every single male, upon entering a public toilet, insist on clearing his throat in the most
disgustingly phlegmy way (in a room, let's not forget, with quite excellent acoustics) and hocking it into the toilet bowl? So okay, farbeit from me to complain about a place specifically designed to expel our bodies of substances in this way, but seriously, does everyone need to make such a public display of VOLUME as they do it? It's quite amazing but there are no exceptions to this rule - young and old, rich and poor, Caucasoid or Australoid, it's like the one thing that unites men across the world - no it's not Dr Martens boots - is making revolting throat noises in the bathroom.

I realise that in some respects this 'lack of bathroom etiquette' is in actual fact a triumph for otherwise public etiquette, in that it's no longer acceptable to spit in the street, but still, why the noise? I very rarely hear guys proudly displaying the noise produced by certain other activities that go on in there (in spite of what may have been mentioned in that pre-honours English tute recently) and honestly, I mean I know it's the most hygienic place to do it, it just astounds me that every time I enter a toilet, that's all I hear, over and over again - HWOOOOOOIK!

However, what really, really gives me the shits is nothing to do with hygiene but rather simple manners. This matter rather revolves around the use of cubicles in male toilets. This recently made me unutterably mad at Bondi Westfield when I was clearly waiting for one of the three cubicles, all of which were occupied, when this dude walked in and was about to head to the urinals when someone exited one of the cubicles, at which point this dude completely ignored me and wandered in...

Now when did it become the norm for males to want a cubicle to urinate? Honestly, the reason there exists such a thing as a urinal is that it is NOT genetically preordained for a member of the masculine gender to require sitting down when expelling urine. In fact, one of the greatest spots for male bonding is when two guys take adjacent spots at a urinal, each one takes a covert glance across, which is followed by either – a nod of respect from one to the other, or mutually between the two, or a sympathetic eyebrow raise – and from that moment on, an understanding is formed and a relationship exists. However, if you cloister yourself away in a cubicle, it’s either because you’re ashamed, or because you’d rather read graffiti that form alliances with other members of the male species. Either way it’s just plain antisocial, in more ways than one.

Because seriously, the reason it annoys me so much is because I don’t just use the public toilet, and cubicles in particular, for conventional purposes. I also use them as the setting where I give myself insulin shots. Call me crazy, but recently diagnosed as I am, I’m not entirely comfortable standing with people buzzing about me while I stab a needle into my flesh – and I’m not sure I’ll ever be comfortable with that. Besides, who seriously wants to see someone else doing it? It’d be like, ooh I don’t know, making everybody listen while you clear your throat of mucus… As in, it might seem perfectly normal to you but other people have their own views.

So all in all I’d actually say I have a medical reason for wanting a cubicle, not simply because I’m a little wuss boy who’s afraid of a male bonding ritual that goes back further than punching-each-other-in-the-head competitions. That means, and I’m singling you out, people who use the ground floor toilets at Carlingford Court near the chemist, you’re interfering with the treatment of a serious medical condition and if my feet fall off at the age of thirty because you’re too afraid to urinate next to someone else, I will personally come around and hack all your extraneous limbs off as compensation.
Stay tuned for my next series of toilet-related posts. Seriously.

Happy Birthday, Where's my tart? I want chips and tart!

2005-09-07T11:53:00.000-07:00

Yes my lovely readers, today marks a year since I first created this wonderful interface between reality and Sam's disturbed mind, and O, O what a year it has been. It's been a year that's seen war, death, famine, pestilence ride the ebony tram ride from one side of oblivion to the other, we've had fun, we've had laughs, we've had tea and biscuits and jam, what next, I ask? What next?

Well I guess we can't really see that far ahead right now. As the great philosopher Doris Day once said, "With a whisk-whisk here and a whisk-whisk there and a dustpan for the cinders, with a rub-rub here and a rub-rub there she could polish up the winders". The relevance of this quote to the future and the fact that whatever will be will be varies depending on how much vodka I've had of course, but the quote stands and will stand forever more.

So as a brief celebration of this momentous occasion, I thought I'd share with you a few highlights of my darling blog's life. Just a reminder of the very first entry ever to adorn its lovely, lovely pages:

Blah
I dunno, it seems I may have to create a post in order for there to appear anything on this page. And God knows I'd hate for anyone to miss out on the excitement of seeing a URL with "Sean's Beard" essentially included...

Astonishing eh? Such an indictment of the incredibly eloquent and flowery speeches to come. Or at least, remarkable to marvel at simply how far I've come, from the early days when I used my blog purely for the purposes to whinge to these days, when I use my blog in such a completely different way and for totally different purposes... Yes indeed.

So who could forget these classic moments?

- Me trying to investigate the origins of the term "axe wound"

- My critique of the Responsible Service of Alcohol educational system

- Melbourne Philosopher's brief adventure onto my blog at the mention of the word "pretension" which formed a great sympatico between me and him

- My description of behind the McDonald's grill

- Anonymous's Noel Coward-esque repartee "I think it's pretty clear that you are a nerd. Well done douche-bag"

- My insanely long, insanely pointless discussion of Norse mythology and etymology

- My philosophical musings on beauty and despair

- My rantings from an empty psychology experiment

- My foray into the world of our Vice-Chancellor and the substances he inhales

- My admission that I really am a nerd and a douche bag

- My in-depth analysis of war and cupcakes

- My educational discourse on the reality of Diabetes

- My pompous, self-congratulatory list of highlights from a year of my blog.

Ah, *wipes tear away from eye* the memories. Oh, such memories. You simply can't buy memories like this. Oh to think what happiness this ranting forum has given so many thousands around the world, ah 'tis to weep... And to think how much potential there still is waiting in her wings, ah when I think of all the wonders this world has to offer, all I can do is borrow from that other great philosopher Louis Armstrong, and say "Now she wants a butter an egg man, a great big butter and egg man from way down South"

Deep.

Hi I'm Sam, and I'm a diabetic...

2005-08-30T18:05:00.000-07:00

Yes, it’s official. At about 9:15 this morning, I was diagnosed with type I diabetes. I also did other fun things today, like throw streamers around the room and dance to Proclaimers songs.

But what does having type I diabetes mean? Well, medically, I have very little idea except that it makes me thirsty a lot as well as having another dreaded symptom known as “polyuria” which, while sounding like the name of a sun-laden tropical island, is something altogether and entirely different and not quite as much fun.

Being diabetic though, also means other consequences for me. Firstly, the three basic food groups for me are no longer sugar, Manning chips and beer, and I have to learn new, frightening words like “wholegrain”, “complex carbohydrates” and “alpha glucosidase inhibitors”. Essentially I will be put on a diet that consists of two alfalfa sprouts every two hours, and if I feel like a snack I can have a drink of distilled water through an eyedropper. Secondly, since I am insulin-dependent (another one of those frightening biological terms that you always hear but don’t ever want to know what they actually are first-hand, like “enflamed sphincteral cancer”), I will soon be required – yes, required – to shoot up once or twice a day. While they are going to start me on an insulin program first, after a while I’m sure my cravings will get stronger and I’ll start desiring the more psychotropic opiates. It’s only natural, really. And of course, finally, I will be forced to give up my life as a sardonic English student and instead wander the countryside in rags with bells hanging off me, moaning “Unclean, unclean”

Of course, you all think I’m being a bit flippant about this, don’t you? It’s true, I am, I’ll be the first to admit it. It’s funny but I finally learned through this what it means to be in the ‘denial’ phase. I mean for months now I’ve been exhibiting these really strong symptoms, without knowing what they would mean. And then as soon as I’m told I’m diabetic I suddenly feel a bit pissed off and a bit down and wanting to laugh it off. I mean, obviously my reaction would be a lot worse if I were told I have terminal dysentery or something, but it’s just funny that I need to wait for a diagnosis before I actually get annoyed at being unwell. It’s like, I’d rather just have this bizarre constant dehydration for no medical reason at all than to have a reason and hence be ‘labelled’.

Which is another thing that troubles me. Now I know this, am I no longer ‘normal’? Does this mean I will no longer be able to point and laugh at lepers and plague victims? Instead will I need to be shipped off to Molokai and get electric needles stuck in me on a daily basis? Are people actually going to step back and pull a handkerchief over their mouth when I introduce myself? Yeah. I totally, absolutely, believe all these things are going to happen. (Nah - I’ll always be able to laugh at lepers and plague victims)

What’s horrible though, is that I’ve found out I basically have this illness (syndrome? disorder? What to call it?) because my great-grandfather, George, also had it. This is the same great-grandfather from whom my middle name comes. The middle name I never liked, to the point where I was really willing to change my name legally to Samuel J Fletcher. I’m just thinking, horrible middle name and diabetes. What a wonderful legacy this man has left…

“Son, now that you’re twenty-one I think you’re old enough for me to pass on this disease that makes you crave sugar and be constantly thirsty and tired. When I was your age my father gave it to me, and he got it from his father, and one day you’ll give it to your son…”

I mean still, the poor guy had to live with insulin dependence AND a horrible name so I should definitely give him a break. It’s certainly not his fault that I’m in a pathetic whiny mood, but it certainly is more fun to blame someone. So, to be fair to my great grandpappy George, I’ll instead blame Gandhi. He hasn’t been blamed for anything for a while…

Two Clockwork Oranges

2005-08-09T21:00:00.000-07:00

Yes droogies, 'tis I, your humble narrator, back from a long hiatus of internet-inaccessibility. So much, O my brothers has happened since we last viddied one another but sadly since I can't like remember it all, it shan't be recounted.

However, as I oh-so-subtly alluded to in the previous paragraph by way of blatant plagiarism, one of the more recent things to have happened to me which I consider blog-worthy is my reading of Anthony Burgess' novel "A Clockwork Orange" about which I should like to share a few thoughts.

Firstly however, some comparatively boring background information. Not about the novel, but about me. As Clive James once said, unfortunately every line in my reviews is about me, and not the book. Now as most of my nearest and dearest know by now, for the past two weeks I have been employed by a textbook store chain called Texts in the City which has far greater success making puns on popular cultural references than I do when I try to write blog entries called "My Dinner with Gavin" which A has nothing to do with the film and B refers to a film which is not popular in any way. (Although in spite of this success they do have some shortcomings, in that everyone belives the shop is actually IN THE CITY, as the name may imply, whereas our particular branch of the corporate tree is nowhere near the city, well about as near as I myself am, which isn't nowhere near but is also not entirely in a state of being situated right-smack-fucking-BANG in the middle of)

Anyway, my exhausting and completely necessary work for this store involves standing behind a counter, being paid to read and eat chupa-chups all day. That is of course unless my employers ever read this blog, in which case the store is very very busy and I bend over backwards to completely facilitate the textbook-purchasing inquiries of every single one of my customers of which I have lots and lots and lots. However, in between this mad rush which seriously is driving me bananas, somehow, possibly with the aid of a tardis of which I conveniently erase any memory each time I visit it, I have managed to find time to read A Clockwork Orange.

For those with an advanced degree in Lumièrean history and no-one else at all, it will be a commonly held fact that said book was adapted into a film by the late great Stanley Kubrick in 1971, starring the not-quite-late but certainly great Malcolm McDowell. Certain individuals with an advanced degree in studies in Samuel Fletcher will know the further fact that said film is one of my all-time favourites, being not only wonderful as it is but also very sentimentally adored largely due to whoops I mean completely in spite of its heavy reliance on sex and violence.

Which I think sets the record for the most amount of pointless crap that has nothing to do with the topic however much I pretend it does I have ever inserted into my blog.

So, to the point already. I knew well in advance of reading this that Burgess wasn't himself a huge fan of Kubrick's vision of the film. He also wasn't too thrilled with the idea of his sole contribution to the world as having fathered Kubrick's vision, which would go on to become far more remembered and revered than the original work. And of course, slavering over Kubrick's corpse as I do, I approached this novel with a certain level of trepidation. After all, anyone who disagrees with Kubrickean philosophy must be an absolutely talentless buffoon, must they not?

Well, firstly, I disagree with myself in that last paragraph. What a silly statement to make, me in that last paragraph. The novel is of course written with anything but lack of talent. And the film of course would lose so much of its appeal if it hadn't actually been based on the book, because it wouldn't have two of its key elements, most of the dialogue, and the plot, which are fairly useful tools for any film to use.

Secondly, as most of the film-obsessed nerds I converse with on the IMDb frequently tell me, with any film adaptation of a book, reading the book before or after viewing the film will always add insight to said film. And this is obviously the case with ACO. Having said that though, the biggest omission from the film is any sort of explanation of what the buggery-bollocks "A Clockwork Orange" means, and I had already been told that this insight is actually entered into in the book. What it is, both apart and furthermore from being the book being written by Mr. Alexander when Alex and his droogs break into his house and rape his wife, is an allusion to the idea of government oppression of the masses. As the prison chaplain frequently repeats and gets paraphrased by Sam, "when a man loses the ability to choose, he ceases to become a man", becoming instead... *Sam holds the microphone out to the audience for them to yell what is so obviously supposed to go into this space*... which presumably gets wound up by the government and then just randomly does and goes where they want it to go until they're finished with it.

There was also speculation, which I read before I read the book, on exactly why an orange? One theory, and coincidentally, the only theory I remember, was that 'orange' is a corruption of the archaic 'ourang' from whence we get the term orang-u-tan for example, and which basically means 'man'. I have no idea how much truth there is to that, or how much accuracy there was in my retelling, but that's just the theory I remember. Also, I don't know if it's something I read in the same discussion or my own theory, but I wondered as I was reading it if it was at all an allusion to Death of a Salesman and the line "You can't just eat the orange and throw the peel away - a man's not a piece of fruit" which, having not read that play, I can't substantiate at all, but anyway I thought it was interesting.

But yes, all this was just a roundabout, long-winded way of saying this is one thing I liked about the book. It was mentioned only several times throughout the book so it worked well as a recurring theme. Naturally though, I don't know how they would have included this in the film and of course no reference to it makes it open to interpretation.

The main quibble I have with the book is the last chapter, and something tells me this may be a very commonly-held view from people who watched the film first. The film, as we all know, ends with Alex shaking the minister of the inferior's hand in front of lotza photographers, then cuts to a dream shot of Alex holding a knife and having rampant sex with a 'devotchka' with the voice-over "I was cured, alright" which looks very bizarre and non-sensical when you don't have the explanation of his mind being 'fixed' so he enjoys sex and violence again (which is in the book). Anyway, this is the conclusion of the second-last chapter of the book. Now, I won't renarrate the plot of the final part for you, since you've either read it, in which case you don't need me to, or you haven't read it, in which case I would ruin it for you like all those blasted Potter fans have already ruined the latest book for me by telling me that it's Harry who dies, but suffice to say, well it's tantamount to rubbish. The last chapter, I mean.

Now I decided long ago, but it was really hammered home when I saw Peter Jackson's interpretation of Return of the King that I'm not a big fan of resolution in stories. There is a very fine line, I believe, between a goodly amount of resolution, and ramming a huge load of triumphant, post-battle euphoria up my ass and sticking a cork in. And as Mr. Jackson did in the afore-given example, so too did Mr. Burgess in the predominant subject of this post. Well not quite, since he didn't ham it up to anywhere near the extent, but it was, I think, a very supercilious (is that tortological? Hmmm... I'll think about that next time I'm entering my PIN number into an ATM machine) end to what is at its heart a very deep, interesting and thought-provoking novel. There's a lot that makes your mind tick and makes you wonder, a lot of questions raised about human nature all throughout the novel, and then right at the end it's like *LARGE SPOILER IN THE NEXT FEW WORDS* Oh, I did it all just because I'm young, and now I've grown up, no more violence for me *END SPOILER. SORRY, HAD TO SPEW IT OUT*. Anyway it wasn't that badly done in the book, in fact I quite enjoyed it as I was reading it... But looking back on it now, it just strikes me as one of the interpretations you could give to the plot as it stands, and the fact that it is explained and spelled out in full just ruins the enigmatic effect that a book which is renowned for being enigmatic can have.

But let's stop. I'm not angry with Anthony Burgess, nor did I dislike the novel at all. But overall, it certainly hasn't quelled or diminished my love of the film, and given that one little quibble, chances are I might side with Kubrick in the nude jelly-wrestle to decide whose version of the story was better. But naturally, Burgess did a great job. It's not often you can know everything that's going to happen, and still enjoy the book. I guess that's what's slowing me down in reading Harry Potter. I mean, what's the point when I know Harry's going to die? Stupid Potterphiles... If anyone wants me I'll be in the Angry Dome.

Just a brief war-related rant

2005-06-16T15:02:00.000-07:00

As an organised procrastination activity today, I was reading up briefly on the Geneva convention, my interest in which was piqued yesterday during watching "Kelly's Heroes", which was coincidentally another organised procrastination activity.

The scene which incited me to briefly research said convention involves Clint Eastwood, in cold-as-ice, hard-as-stone, emotionless-as-both-of-these-and-for-that-matter-any-other-non-human-entities mode (unlike all his other acting roles PS I love you Clint) interrogating a German colonel who has been taken hostage, the latter of which frequently asserts "Under the Geneva convention-" before he is cut off by Clint saying some really cool, really tough one-liner only without wearing a poncho and talking to Mexican bandits, which is usually the context of such dialogue.

Anyway, reading up on it, it really makes me think about how stupid war really is. I mean they set down these guidelines so that people don't 'mistreat' prisoners of war, or in some circumstances don't even take prisoners of war at all, and all such drivel. But the fact is, when these guidelines are broken, what difference does it make? One side won't go to the other and say "Hey, that was really shitty how you applied thumbscrews to all our boys until they kissed each other. I think I'm going to give you a right jolly spanking for that"

I mean that's what warcrimes are about right? But what's a warcrime anyway? I mean as far as I understand it, the rules of war are:

1) You need at least two parties
2) Said two parties must disagree on at least one issue (He stole my cupcake, he assassinated the Arch-Duke of Austral-Hungary eg.)
3) Said two parties must then proceed to try and kill as many of the opposing party as possible.

Now given that the point of this game is to kill and debilitate the opposition as much as possible, realistically who gives a shit about added subrules like those imposed by the Convention? I mean, if I were a Nazi colonel and I had an American intelligence officer in captivity, I wouldn't think "Hmm, I'd really love to know when the next invasion is planned, but oh damn I can't torture him or get him drunk, that wouldn't be playing fair. And then America might not invite me to their next birthday party, and call me a smellypants in the playground". No, I'd strap them down and beat the crap out of them until I knew absolutely everything, including what colour underwear the head of the joint chiefs of staff was wearing... But then maybe that's just me.

I mean realistically all I'm saying is it's just a stupid concept, war in general. In essence all it is is just a bunch of people trying to kill each other. But it's synthesised into this structured, glorified, and almost civilised concept - we can't just have people running around killing each other whenever a conflict arises? No, that would be childish and illegal. Instead, let's set up these guidelines and structures and tactics so we can kill as many people as we want and claim it as justified.

Mah, I clearly don't know what I'm talking about. Maybe I should just sit on a beanbag and play the bongos, everything else seems freaky and how now, brown bureaucratic to me...

Marge, there are two types of college guys - Jocks, and Nerds

2005-06-09T18:12:00.000-07:00

In high school, I was categorised under a number of different, yet ultimately synonymous, labels. “Dweeb”, “Geek”, “Dork”, “Brain”, and of course the classic, “Nerd” were but a few of these. At uni, however, I have never found myself branded with such tags. The main reason is that in the higher education system, especially in the prestigious surroundings of Sydney University’s Camperdown campus, the line between “Nerds” and “Anti-nerds” is far less distinct. Basically, everyone who wants to continue learning, and moreover, wants to do it at the place that that Doctor guy with the Polish surname gives talks, is a nerd to some extent.

But of course this definition then leads to a whole number of sub-definitions, or sub-categorisations. And I typically divide these sub-categorisations in terms of a single glass wall – that which divides the room in the south-east corner of Manning Level 1 (more familiarly known, of course, as the SUTEKH room, and to which I typically refer as ‘the Glass Menagerie’ and am waiting for the moment when a busload of Japanese tourists presses their noses against the wall and goes “Ooh, Nerd san”), from the rest of Manning Level 1.

That particularly categorisation, however, only works (or at least, only worked for me) up to the point where you actually sit down and chat with some of the more esoteric inhabitants of said menagerie. Because this is the point where I noticed that essentially they bear a striking, if not uniform, resemblance, to me and my dearest. The largest difference I noted is that they simply know more than me. And this, my dear friends, is the greatest irony in mankind’s evolution, in that the first and foremost reason that I was dubbed titles such as ‘geek’ or ‘fuckingfuckface’ seemed to be that I simply knew more than other people, or was, to coin a phrase ‘more intelligent’.

And so I ask the question: What is the point in being a social outcast if you don’t know more than everyone?

It occurs to me, however that perhaps the major reason I don’t know as much as these people who for no apparent reason put ‘K’s in their society names even though it’s completely orthographically nonsensical, is simply because I’m still that insecure 11-year-old who resented name-calling and who would happily burn a copy of Les Fleurs du Mal if only someone would invite him to their birthday party to eat cupcakes. In other words, have I ever truly embraced my nerdship? Perhaps not.

Therefore, ladies and gentlemen, here, on the greatest dork sanctuary known to mankind – the internet – I stand up with bosom thrust out and proudly declare that I AM A NERD. I admit I read Plato just for the sake of reading Plato. I admit I got a huge power trip when I was the only person in my English tute who recognised that Chaucer’s quote ‘Let me sing of arms and the man’ (House of Fame, Book I) was a corruption of Line I of Virgil’s Aeneid. I admit I feel like kicking the wall when I have all but one clue in the Herald Cryptic Crossword. But most of all, I admit that I like knowing more about something than any given person. And this is not simply because it makes me feel superior to do so, but also because in sharing my own knowledge of a subject, it brings another person one step closer to the veiled round table of nerdhood. (Is there room here for a ‘MENSA’ pun? Probably not, let’s move on)

Interestingly, the further thought often occurs to me that the main reason I no longer come across as remarkably knowledgeable on certain topics is that I tend not to refine, or alternatively, confine, my interests to any particular domain. This is of course both a good thing and a bad thing. It’s a good thing because, essentially, everything interests me. Conversely, it’s a bad thing because in conversation, once we pass the bridge of surface knowledge and begin hiking into the forest of intricate detail and over the mountain of historiographical contexualisation, I generally tend to get a hole in my canteen of ability to continue in conversations or really badly ruined and strangulated metaphors and have to go back to the fountain of giant robotic killer ants to fill it up with the water of sentences that are far too long and make no sense whatsoever.

I do sometimes remind myself of Lisa Simpson in that episode where the Eric Idle-voiced documentary filmmaker criticises her for not choosing a path and following it. Because the trouble is, as soon as I venture down any unexplored avenue, someone invariably comes the other way down it, and hands me a map of the whole street that they prepared earlier. Or at the very least, I see a sign on the corner that says “No Through Road, 6AM-10AM Mon-Fri, Buses Excepted”, and I tend to lose interest, as well as the ability to make metaphors coherent.

This isn’t entirely true of course, since I am just ranting and the truth often gets in the way of a good trough of pig shit, but nevertheless, the three things that have ever truly piqued my interest – movies, writing and Medieval Icelandic Literature – have about as bright a future as when Kennedy said “It’s such a beautiful afternoon, how about a drive on the motorcade?”

Which brings me back to my original point. Is it just that I’m too smart to be normal, and yet not smart enough to be a freak? Or is it just that my particular area of freakishness is incompatible with others’?

Or, radically, is it just how they always taught me in pre-school (in between me vomiting apricot muesli bars and pulling down my pants to impress the girls) that everyone is just different and no amount of social categorisation leads to any amelioration of one’s comprehension about civilisation’s idiosyncrasies? And just as a pointless side note, why can you never use the word ‘idiosyncrasies’ outside the context of sounding verbose for the sake of verbose?

It seems, overall, that I am destined to be rather stuck in the middle. Which I think is the truest possible way of defining me. One minute I could be corrected by someone for accidentally mistaking Milton’s time period to Dante’s (which, for those of you who may not know, is a really fucking stupid mistake for someone who spent more time on his holiday to Queensland reading Paradise Lost than he did cruising the beach inspecting bikinis, to make), and the next explaining the semiotic paradigm of Icelandic family sagas. While I will never fully comprehend the surrealism of The Real Inspector Hound, I will always scoff at someone who says “Stoppard? Didn’t he write that movie that woulda bin shit if it didn’t have Paltrow’s tits in it?”.

But realistically it makes far more sense to stop defining myself relative to others. It makes far more sense to enjoy what you have and revel in yourself. And to that effect I will say, in the words of that great raconteur and wit ‘anonymous’ “I think it’s pretty clear that I am a nerd. Well done douche bag”. However, in a world where intelligence is more intricately defined than simply being the ability to spell the word antidisestablishmentarianism in 4.7 seconds, it’s fair to say that unfortunately, I’m not the smartest person who ever lived.

Fucking Pythagoras.

New Age Peer Pressure

2005-05-30T15:32:00.000-07:00

Well there seems to be something going around tagging people and getting them to answer questions about literature on their blogs... Well at the sounds of the words 'literature' and 'blogs' I would normally have leapt at the chance. Unfortunately I had my ankles tied together with chicken wire so I fell flat on my face when I tried to leap. But nonetheless, I am susceptible to peer pressure and so who was I, really, to refuse this feast for the bored little mind?

Total number of books I've owned: What a quite amazingly stupid question. That's like asking 'how many minutes in your life have you spent asleep?' But in reality, two. You believe me? Then stop asking ridiculous questions.

The last book I bought: "For the Good of the Cause" by Alexander Solzhenitsyn. Cheap bargain, really.

The last book I read: "Lady Chatterley's Lover" - D H Lawrence. Didn't really care for it. It was like a strangulated modernist book, it was straining too hard to break through social taboos and as such lacked depth in plot or character and there was absolutely no chemistry between Connie and Mellors.

Five books that mean a lot to me:

1) "The Satanic Verses" by Salman Rushdie - My first taste of the greatest living novelist and still the best. It changed the way I saw literature, the world and my own writing... Especially when I noticed how similar my and Rushdie's styles are, no joke.

2) "The Liar" by Stephen Fry - This used to be my read and re-read book for a long time in high school. It also first inspired my curiosity with Victorian pornography, which I have harboured for a combined total of three seconds or so. It also in no small part inspired my pretentious way of talking and ranting.

3) "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory" by Roald Dahl - Need I say more? It's a classic!

4) "1001 Movies You Must See Before You Die" edited by Steven Jay Schneider - This book singlehandedly gave me a purpose and goals in life. I know now what I must do before I can die a happy man. Sure, so 80% of them aren't available in this country at all, and a further 20% of that 80% aren't available anywhere, in the known universe, except possessed by the great-grandson of John D Rockefeller who was able to lay his hands on the original reel which would disintegrate if anyone ever actually tried to play it. But I'm on my way anyway... If I bothered to count, I've probably seen about...100? Maybe? So that's halfway there...

5) "Dirt Music" by Tim Winton. Because it finally added support to my hypothesis that Australian literature is shit.

Tag five people and have them fill this out on their blogs: Yeah, cos that's going to happen. When are you internet people going to learn that chains die with me, MWAHAHAHAHA!!!

My Dinner with Gavin

2005-05-12T19:13:00.000-07:00

Yes that's right, the other day, I had my dinner with Gavin.

Well, it wasn't really a dinner. And it wasn't really mine, and I didn't have it, but if I were to accomodate all these factors into the title of this post, I wouldn't be able to include an obscure literary and/or film reference into the title, and that would be a far worse crime against humanity than taking a little poetic license. The fact is that this post is going to be, as usual, unutterably boring and pointless, so I must make the title as unfathomably amusing as possible in order to keep you reading. I hope I have managed that.

Anyway, the point to this post, which is sort of paradoxical since it really is very pointless and yet has a point *brief pause while Sam's rectum prolapses in utter confusion at this overwhelmingly self-contradictory statement*, is that the other day, Bec and I were walking along the campus of our delightful university for some reason that unfortunately now eludes me but as I was writing the word 'elude' suddenly no longer eluded me, we were on our way to our English tutorial from Fisher Library... Anyway, we decided to take the 'scenic architectural' route through the quad, which involves cutting across that delightfully colourfully blooming courtyard which my parents always seem to have stories about to which I never listen...

I hate to admit I've been sidetracked twice in the last paragraph already and have begun the next ramble with 'anyway' and I was so very close to doing it again with this paragraph... But yes, as we were walking through that courtyard, on one of the side benches was seated our delightful ocularly-misaligned vice chancellor Gavin Brown, who I don't think I've ever actually seen in person, or at least not since I've known who he is, and definitely not up that close (So lifelike, ooooh). Anyway, what was he doing but sitting, chatting to another old and important-looking individual in a similarly old and important-looking suit, and smoking a cigar. Pardon me for scoffing at the tragic destruction of another man's lungs, but what the fuck? We're talking 3 in the afternoon, and he's smoking a cigar? Where does he think he is, in 19th-century Suffolk? Cuba during the revolution? George S. Patton's general staff?

I don't think I'm the one who's totally out of touch, but honestly, who smokes cigars anywhere outside a poker night any more? And in public? It just seems funny to me, that while we're bombarded with casual socialists with Che on their t-shirts, emphatic feminists with 'I am part of the liberation movement' on theirs, or SUTECH members with green velvet jackets (You all know whom I mean), and yet at the top of the administrative pile there really exist these living, breathing anachronisms.

I'm not sure if my question is, what is our quaint, old-fashioned university coming to? Or, what the fuck is Gavin doing smoking a cigar instead of rolling up weed and singing "Give Peace a Chance"? (I think I may be slipping back a few years myself there, but I've already broken the artistic license barrier once in this post, so I think I'm entitled to a second slice from the artistic-license-barrier-breaking icecream cake)

But either way, it was quite a shock to my beliefs as a VSU-hating, tapas-eating, fouton-sleeping, mushroom-smoking arts student. I wonder what the vice-chancellor will be like fifty years from now... If he'll be sitting in the courtyard smoking pot and students walking past will say things like "Oh my God that's so gauche, why isn't he licking hallucinogenic toad poison?" Well you never know, que sera, sera etc.

The other type of "Experiment-gone-wrong"

2005-05-04T12:33:00.000-07:00

Hello there (Presumably whilst holding cup of coffee and stroking dog in front of fireplace and ommitting articles from sentences)

I'm currently sitting in Griffith Taylor room 543, posing as a psychological experimenter and waiting for subjects to arrive. Subjects that were supposed to arrive at 12:00. The present time being 12:23, something tells me they just aren't coming. There are several reasons for this: Firstly, this clashes with a lecture for PSYC 3202 which it seems, nearly everybody who does third-year psych does. Largely because it's compulsory for honours entry. (Why I'm NOT doing it is another story). Secondly, the people who were supposed to be subjects I believe were only informed they were to be subjects, and when and how they could do so, yesterday, or late the day before. Thirdly, well I don't know but I wanted to have more than just two reasons why I'm so pathetically sitting alone in this room, occasionally opening the door to check outside for friends. Or rather, *if reading aloud, please change to high-pitched Eastern European accent during the next sentence* new victims for my ever-growing army of undead, MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!

Anyway, the scheduling for this particular experiment is so bad that even my fellow experimenter couldn't make it, and hence I really am rather sad and lonely right now. Of course, the rational and more inventive side of me is saying that since obviously nobody is showing up, I could easily toddle across the road and sit in Manning for half an hour or so... But the lazy, stubborn side of me says two things, firstly that since I'm giving a presentation in here at 1, why not just stay and ''prepare"... and secondly, that maybe, just maybe, someone will turn up... If not a subject than at least an Alicia Silverstone look-a-like who got lost on her way to a dress-up-as-a-Playboy-bunny party... I think I should probably stop there.

It's amazing how philosophical you can get while sitting in a psychology tute room with nothing to do and nobody to talk to. It's basically not-at-all. It's actually quite mind-numbingly tedious.

Fortunately however, there is the blog. And this particular entry has killed about ten minutes of the time I have left. Just in case you wanted an update, no, still nobody here. Maybe I'll do the experiment myself and pretend to be a subject. I could really screw up our results that way, BWAHAHAHAHA (See that's so evil even a MWAHAHAHAHA wouldn't have sufficed) the power of being an experimenter!

How cool would it be to like, do all experiments on animals that are viewed as unfeasibly unethical these days, like sit there, strap them in and shock them endlessly, just to see the effects of unusual and cruel punishment on rodents. Or even cooler, I could do it on humans. I know they're always saying you'll never get published that way, but just imagine, doing experiments like that, finding so much about the effects of cruel and unusual punishment, and then centuries from now some alien archaeologist unearths the remains of my studies and says wow, this "Sam" creature sure made huge advances, even WE haven't discovered such things about cruel and unusual punishment, and being an alien species living in the distant future we're obviously far more advanced and intelligent than the rest of his species was supposed to be, he must have been much smarter than his brother Jeremy, hey let's bring him back to life by using technology, he shall be our new God...

I think I accidentally slipped into Simpsons regurgitation there... Well apart from the brother Jeremy bit, that was all my original creation, all hail my genius. Or in the words of Oscar Wilde, all hail my Guinness.

God I'm bored.

I'm back in BAC

2005-04-19T18:59:00.000-07:00

Yes, I'm back in BAC.

Ah, the immortal words of Brian Johnson, adapted by me to fit this utterly pointless blog entry in pointing out where I am. Yes, BAC does indeed, as I'm sure none of you postulated, refer to the Brennan Access Centre. Because yet another Tuesday evening is upon us, which means that following our mutual English tute finishing at 5:30, and in a silly yet fruitful attempt to 'beat the traffic', Bec and I make an excuse to hit the computers and do some work. Or rather, she makes an excuse to do some work, I make an excuse to be bored and write shit in my blog in order to scab a free lift later. What a delightful relationships of mutual wants and needs we have.

So what's in the pipeline for young Sam on this fine but dark (curse you, fact that Daylight Savings is finite) Tuesday evening?

Well, firstly, there is the fact that young Sam has only four and a bit days of being able to refer to himself as 'young Sam' before he must alter this to something resembling "buggery old fart Sam" as he waves goodbye to that dank, cloudy swamp known as adolescence and leaves on the long, winding but ultimately rewarding path to that far-off and elusive land known as twentidom. (In non-literary wankerist terms, I mean me fackin' (Nyngan-style) 20th is on Sundee) What do I think about this? Well, firstly I'm worried about the obvious change in people's attitudes towards me because obviously everyone really gives a toss... I mean, so many expectations and heuristics regarding people in their twenties. Or rather, as I continually whinge about to people around me, I will no longer be able to blame my immaturity on the fact that I'm 'not even 20 yet', but instead will have to blame it on the simple fact that I am just very, very immature. Secondly, and on the alternative metacarpus, I am actually quite pleased to finally be admitted into that exclusive fraternity of twenty-year-olds, of which nearly all of my friends are already members. It's like a gentleman's club that you can only join when you're in your fourties, balding, and with a gut and fortune roughly comparable to each other in size and stature. What will the common room be like? Will I undergo any hazing procedures? What perks, rewards and bonuses lie in wait for me? Ooh, the excitement is as palpable as a pauper carrying paper to the papalcy.

Seriously though and in all honesty, it's simply an excuse to get together with a bunch of my acquaintances to "hoppe and synge and maken swich disport" (I really enjoy my medieval London course, on an extremely unrelated topic), all the while thinking and smiling about what an absolutely wonderful person I am and how grateful and fortunate we all are that someone as delightful as I could have enriched our lives so thoroughly and completely that... I think I'll stop there, I'm making myself sick.

So that's the big event on my calendar. Fortunately I have no further assessments due this week, nor next week, which seems to imply that I am free for such merriment on Sunday night, and God bless those Australian and NZ troops for deciding to land at Gallipoli the day after my birthday, where would I be without a statutory recovery day, regardless of the day of the week on which it falls?

But yes, to write about any more personal details would involve expending mental effort yet again so I shall leave you with this unconnected rambling about my birthday, and if the need arises to vent my spleen about any other qualms, queries or quagmires, I shall do so in time, in time, my darlings. At least now I have fulfilled my moral obligation to the leader of my posse (How's about that Ang? Another impersonal reference to you) and can sleep now. And Just to perpetuate my tradition of concluding with a reference to the Shaking of the Speare, I shall add: To sleep, perchance to be woken up at 6 AM by those FUCKING lorekeets again. Fucking bastards. Fuck all birds. I fucking hate them all.

(That's from The Merry Wives of Windsor, by the way. It's no wonder it's one of his lesser-known works. The language of the man. Tut tut)

There is a hole in the floor

2005-04-12T19:27:00.000-07:00

It's about time I had a title that wasn't a congratulatory reference to some obscure and archaic piece of literature. Yes, there is a hole in the floor here. My computer chair keeps getting a wheel stuck in it.

Is this a metaphor for life in general? Are all of our computer chairs constantly getting stuck in holes in the floor? Are we perpetually struggling to get our computer chairs out of the holes in the floor? Are we just ignoring the holes in the floor, hoping they'll go away? Should we fix them? Or should we create a new, innovative floor that never gets holes in it? Or better yet, create a computer chair with in-built floor-hole-resisting technology? Should we add walnut-burr panelling to such a chair? How much should we charge for these chairs? Should the marketing be done in an esoteric, attention-grabbing way, or in the traditional way by using buzz words like 'ergonomic' and 'Don't take my word for it, here's mister Buzz Aldrin' (pun definitely, and incredulously, intended)?

I think it's a question that is definitely worth looking into.

Second question worth looking into: Is it just me, or is Gavin Brown an incredibly unattractive man? I'm not having a stab at the fact that his eyes look in different directions, but he really does have that untrustworthy, sleazy politician look about him... I mean, he's no Arafat in terms of ugliness, but then who could be?

Third question, this one isn't worth looking into: In 10000 words or less (whichever suits you), critically analyse Baudelaire's integration of sensory perception in poetry and compare this with other writers of the Symbolist movement.

At the rate I'm going, I could probably do that right now.

"Than schal Sam torne into confusioun"

2005-04-12T18:52:00.000-07:00

Well, inspired as I am by reading all my newly discovered friend's blogs (That is to say, the blogs themselves are newly discovered, not the friends) I thought I'd write my own entry. One could no doubt apply a psychoanalytical reading to my motivation and suggest that I'm writing purely because I can't have any friends of mine be more consistent and prolific at anything in the entire known universe than me, all hail Sam in all his glory! Prostrate yourself at my feet, drunken subjects, and enjoy the suffering, sanity drained in disrespect...

Anyway, it's time for a publication (That IS the technical term for the act of making something public, is it not? It stands to reason, in spite of its other popularised connotations) of some of my personal woes and confusion. Deafening alarm bells are currently sounding as it seems almost inevitable that this entry may descend into a stereotypical let's-use-my-blog-to-whinge-as-though-anyone-gives-a-shit piece of writing, but I nevertheless trust in my extensive experience in whinging and my utter pomposity (or shall we say, literary wankerism) to make these complaints somewhat eloquent and perhaps even entertaining. Although I have a feeling that trust will prove to be about as misplaced as George W Bush in a Mensa meeting.

In short, my first woe is that I am about to be kicked out of my course. Now, before all my loyal subjects run screaming with burning effigies of Susan Colmar to the Education Faculty, let me clarify, or rather, completely and insultingly contradict my earlier statement, by saying that I'm not about to be kicked out of my course. What has rather happened is that I have dug myself into an enormous bear pit regarding my enrollment and my stubborn refusal to do what subjects I was supposed to simply because I didn't want to, and rather than doing what Susan et al. will in time recommend - which will presumably require extra effort on my part - I am resigning myself to the fact that there is no point in accumulating further HECS, and committing further effort and potentially a further year of study to get a degree that I only want because it would give me license to have lots of letters after my name, and so all in all I'm not being kicked out so much as I am finally relenting to subconscious wishes I've had since about half a minute into first year, and quitting this degree. And we'll see what happens from there.

Secondly, I hate the police. This isn't a recent epiphany of mine, nor is it in any way pertinent to that about which I've been talking for the rest of this entry, but rather a completely unrelated and spontaneous call to mass-insurgence. Actually it's not even that but I think it would be interesting to write that and then see in a couple of weeks if my name and headshot have found their way onto the national security database (which I will check, next time I hack into the database and change all the terrorism suspects' photos to nude fakes of Britney Spears). Anyway, I don't think I'll go into too many details as to the wherefore, but suffice to say I was once (only once, so yes, I'm quick to bear grudges towards authority figures) treated very badly by a couple of over-zealous men with enormous genital-compensatory truncheons while sitting with a friend who, together with me, and remarkably similar to me with the possible exception of the pronouns I'm about to use, was minding her own goddamn business and doing absolutely nothing except sitting and occasionally talking. It just so happened that the way I was spoken to and the way in which I got a blinding flashlight shone in my face made me wonder why I bother being a law-abiding, system-fearing citizen when in remarkably innocent moments like that I'm accosted for doing the worst and most heinous crime known to man, sitting on an oval at night time and chatting... *WOOP WOOP NATIONAL SECURITY ALARM SYSTEM BEING SET OFF, WE'VE GOT TWO MORE ISLAMIC SUICIDE BOMBER BASTARDS DISGUISED AS UNI STUDENTS PRETENDING TO SIT ON AN OVAL AND TALK WHILE ACTUALLY CONSPIRING TO BOMB THE PRIME MINISTER'S HOUSE AND SHIT ON HIS DOG...* Anyway, obviously I'm not about to cut off my nose to spite my face and actually go out and meet with extremist sociopaths (as a sidenote, apologies for my very xenophobic implication that all terrorists are of the Muslim faith), but it has changed my opinion of those boys in blue to whom I so jovially and coherently wished "Happy neewwwww year, police" at about 1 AM on the 1st of January. And so I protest in my own way by, for example, posting garble like this on the internet (I love the word garble, don't you? I keep using it these days), and also as I discovered the other day, I have the Eastwood police station telephone line in my phone under the name "Fuckwtis", which suggests to me in so many ways and for so many reasons that I was once manifesting my anger at said authority while under the influence of certain fermented vegetable products.

Thirdly, just an hour or so ago, we had to leave our Politics & Poetry in Medieval London tute to evacuate the Woolley building when the fire alarm went off. that wasn't annoying so much in itself, but the fact was we didn't move at all and in fact tried to continue learning, or rather, arguing, about the middle english poem Athelston. The reason for this is that the Wooley fire bell is very faint when heard from the other end of the building and we interpreted it as coming from another building or place entirely. It reminded me an enormous amount of when I watched the very uplifting, subtle and understatedly produced show Seconds from Disaster, simply in the abscence of being able to watch my VCR or DVD player, and it ran the story of a fire on a Scandinavian cruise ship in the 80's/early 90's, the name of which alludes me, that killed around 250 people. essentially it was stated that one of the reasons why so many people died in said fire was because the fire alarms which were sounded on account of said fire (if anyone's getting annoyed at my continual use of the phrase 'said fire' please let me know at my postal address of 142 I don't give a shit street, Crow's Nest, NSW, Australia) were just too far away and too faint that anyone who was in their cabin, asleep, blissfully unaware that said fire existed, were not, as tortological as it may seem, aware that said fire existed, and so did not try to escape said fire by screaming and wetting their pants. Anyway, I hate to finally have to admit that there was absolutely no point to me saying this at all, but there really isn't. It just reminded me, that's all... But yes, if a fire was actually in existence in that building this afternoon and we as a class did not interpret said fire as an emergency of some kind due to the relative inaudibility of the afore-mentioned fire bell, and hence were consumed by said fire and died in said fire, and said fire was then referred to as the Woolley fire (which could no doubt spark some amusing puns, but would also spare us from having to refer to it any further as 'said fire'), and everyone cried and said 'if only that fire bell had been more audible this never would have happened, oh the humanity', then I may, in fact, become rather ticked off if not for the fact that I would in fact, be dead.

Anyway, it is apparent to me now that I am writing this entry purely to kill time in the Brennan computer access centre. So please note that there was no deeply seeded authorial intent present in this entry at all, but rather a bored and idle mind trying desperately to fill the hours between his air-whittling class and his appointment at the staring window. Ay me!

Melbourne: It's not as bad as you think

2005-03-25T13:19:00.000-08:00

*HEADNOTE: This blog entry is essentially a month late, due to university commitments and Sam’s general all-round laziness*

As most you who know me will know, I typically despise Melbourne. There are numerous reasons for this, into most of which I shan’t go (Oh dear me, I’ve started with the shitegeist already, it seems) but instead will focus on one: My first experience of the city. As a brief recap for those of you unfortunate enough not to have experienced the utter delight of my anti-Melbourne-rant, my brother and I travelled down on the XPT one night in 2002 to see Leeds United play Chilean club champions Colo Colo at the Telstra Dome. Essentially, the one full day we were down there was spent drinking quite ridiculous and nausea-inducing amounts of coffee (mostly with caramel flavouring as well, which any dietician with an intense desire to lose his license is sure to tell you is very good for you and makes you feel great afterwards), hanging around a very dull hotel room and of course, as the crowning festering piece of dog shit in the septic tank, watching the infamous Scooby-Doo, otherwise known as “The reason Raja Gosnell is the number one candidate in the known universe to have his testicles bitten off by a rabid gorilla”.

Anyway, that was before. The bottom line, and the major point of this post, is that my opinion of Melbourne has changed very dramatically in the past week from my second trip to the Victorian capital. I would rather enjoy writing a long spiel on all of my experiences, my thoughts, observations, and musings, but firstly, while that idea could potentially amount to the greatest collection of philosophical manifestations since Les Chemins de la Liberté, it is far more likely to be about as interesting as categorising and filing the plumbing details of a group of accounting students, and secondly and excessively more importantly, I just can’t be fucked.

So instead I give you the abridged, annotated version of “Things I learned in Melbourne”:

1) Melbourne, in its entirety, does NOT consist of the 250-metre area around Spencer Street Station. Yes, that particular area is rather cruddy, but naturally it is a rather foolhardy thing to do to judge an entire city by one particular aesthetically unappealing area of it. Naturally I would be rather put out if a Victorian visited Belmore and viewed it as the centre and epitome of the Sydney style of living. I have spanked myself a suitable number of times with a wooden paddle for being so small-minded.

2) Sharing an ensuite bathroom with two girls is not nearly as horrible as I thought it might be. (‘might’ being the operative word, I mean it ‘might’ also have been the hottest time in my life) This, however could be attributed to the fact that we all shared different, and very compatible morning schedules, and also the fact that I had packed more bathroom products than either of my female companions put together. Hence subsequent to this new piece of knowledge is also the fact that I am even more frighteningly effeminate than I ever dared to believe. Shocking.

3) There are a number of excellent night spots in Melbourne. The first of these is E-55, which somehow manages to straddle the border between a trendy upmarket bar (They seemed to stock a minimum of Adjunct Lagers and there was plenty of Little Creatures Pale Ale to go around) and a Hippy lounge in Newtown. While we were there I also learned the fact that, apparently “We are so cool. Everyone in this bar wishes they were as cool as us”. So let’s all remember that fact, eh? Secondly, there’s the Night Cat in Fitzroy, which was everything that was promised – drinks, dancing and the fact that it was in Fitzroy. (Well we had to go there at least once, surely) Unfortunately though, it must be stated that a bottle of VB there goes for five dollars – and no, it’s no special type of VB that doesn’t make one want to beat one’s wife with a wooden spoon, it’s ordinary, run-of-the-mill, godawful VB. Yes, I don’t understand it either. The third, and of course most important (despite what the Melbourne yuppies who led me here were spouting on about) night spot is the Portland Hotel/James Squire Brewhouse, simply because it brews a range of beers that are to be found… well, nowhere else? I’d have to check that. But anyway, along with that side of my personality that desperately wants to own films like Det Sjunde Inseglet and Ladri di Biciclette because they’re unavailable in this country comes another side that wants to try beers such as Portland Pale and James Squire Speculator simply because I’d have a very difficult time laying my hands on them back in Sydney. All in all the pub is a bit dowdy, I must say, and reminds me of the Coolangatta Hotel (which we seemed to dub during our Queensland trip as the ‘hangout for drunken angry old women’) only without the light. And the drunken angry old women. But the beers were all worth drinking. Portland Pale is quite an excellent drinking ale, smooth and fruity and subtly complex (I’m sounding as pretentious as possible just to please my greatest critic of course). Speculator was a very complex but also very unlikeable sort of beer. No front palatte and suddenly hitting you with an unwelcome fruit hit, and an aftertaste that makes you want to eat gravel to take the taste away. No, it certainly wasn’t that bad and I’m glad I tried it simply because it was interesting. As for “The Craic”, well, all I can say is what I’ve said countless times when people ask about it. It’s black coffee. With a head. And there’s nothing more than can be said. Well, essentially the other ‘spot’ we visited at night was the Crown Casino, but since this particular annotation has gone on quite ridiculously long enough, I shall start afresh in number 4 on my Crown rant.

4) Crown Casino can very accurately and justifiably be compared to a special kind of black hole that leaves one’s body and clothing completely unharmed but manages to engulf anything on your person made of shiny metal or plastic with a famous Australian person’s face on it. From the “Five free dollars credit” for the pokies that can only be accessed once you have amounted thirty ‘pokie points’ (which approximates to about one hundred dollars’ loss) to the bar upstairs at which bottles of Heineken require $7, and games of pool require not only $4, but the ability to use one of those slot devices where you need to create enough forward momentum to propel, in one short, sharp motion, a freight train full of gold bullion from Mecca to Beirut, with enough speed that nobody in its intervening journey is able to see what the train contains and hence raise their spirits in a cruelly vain way, or else only a few of the balls will come out, without a second chance being given. The abridged version of the preceding sentence says, we had to pay four dollars for a game of pool with five of each coloured ball, and a second cueball instead of the black. Now of course I hear you all saying “But hang on, it’s a casino, it’s supposed to sap your money’. Now that is true. But stop interrupting me and get out of my goddamn house or I’ll call the police. (Oh yeah, cos they’ll do a lot, fucking fascists. Remind me later to do a blog entry on why I hate the police by the way) But in direct comparison to Conrad Jupiter’s, the casino is ridiculous. Did we get a free meal for joining the Casino? No. Did we get two free beverages, each night we visited, per members card we had? No. Were there $3 Daiquiris that were actually really nice? No (There were $5 Daiquiris that were okay) All that Crown contained was a large number of devices to sap your money. And that’s all.

Now, owing to the fact that this blog entry has taken about a month of my free time (of which I’ve hardly had none, incidentally), I’ve forgotten how I was going to end it now. But as my brother has smartly suggested, I could simply post this half and perhaps finish it off later when I have remembered all else that I learned about Melbourne. Especially since it’s been about three months since I posted anything here. I can’t disappoint my beloved faithful now, can I?