popcorn cynic

Art and Martha

2011-12-20T19:26:00.002+11:00

Twin bulbs bob in a frothy sink, their seasonal hand-painted colours lurking at the plug. Gifts, placed out of the reach of self-sharpening claws, are wrapped in gaudy, light-weight paper, the To:s and From:s supplied by crass stickers. The only new adornments to the FPT are quintuplet acrylic canes in the usual triad of shades — for only 1.49. All but one greeting card went from packet to envelope with a mere pause for inky tidings. So much for the Martha Stewart holiday plans (hold the gaol term, please) to match last year's efforts. Such cut corners should, ideally, make room on the dial for more important pursuits: brain-to-keyboard projects, reading and simply resting. But somehow the time slips into the past regardless, so let's not waste more by worrying.

Stiffened from an eve of assembling a bakery of bricks, and dogged by the faint but persistent (mal)odour of mouldering fish and porcine mince, at last the befuddled creature attempts to generate what HATT calls New Content — worthy of a clink. A paragraph a day was our latest pact, inspired by the encouragement and advice of a to-be-published author. Three such, up for scrutiny today, deserve an equal measure in reply. Never mind the guff about them being less than perfect; imprecise eroticism and I peal yellow with laughter. (Do you think the rubbing-off of his influence is a good or bad thing? That's not code, Craig.)

The fat breakfast, erotic fruit, market goods and exmass fruit pies will soon be joined by the new sensation, Indian fries, which are spinning in the 'wave. What's the jolly season without feeling as stuffed as the customary bird? Anyway, this is nothing to the twenty-fifth, when food coma is a near certainty. Mr Three is pouring out the fizzy lifting drinks, so as I race to the finish I beg forgiveness, and ask you to imagine this 'graph is longer. I'm always chastised for the final installment being shorter than the others. It's an affliction; finishing what I started is a bear-sized bug, as the Wri Mo will attest. Which reminds me: finished yet?

Ex Libris, Ex Mare

2011-07-23T15:33:00.002+10:00

I miss my two daily doses of reading on the train. Working from home has its perks,* but my ritualistic paperback time has diminished to the minutes before sleep. On the train I don't have other chores or tasks tugging at my conscience, so it's a lovely, guilt-free time to gobble up a few pages.

Iris Murdoch's The Sea, The Sea is my current companion. That it won the Booker Prize in 1978 makes me question the grievances I have with the book. (How dare a lowly ex-scientist blogger such as me criticise a novel with such high praise?) It's enjoyable, and becoming more exciting as I read, but I'm not entirely convinced by the thought processes and personality Murdoch bestowed on her male protagonist, Charles Arrowby. This is not helped by exclusive use of the first-person diary style of writing. It is frustratingly slow to gain momentum; early on the narrator is bogged down in descriptive passages and irritating self-reflexive comments: "I spoke of a memoir. Is that what this chronicle will prove to be?" Special attention is paid to the simple but eccentric eating habits of the protagonist; this gives the novel a point of uniqueness but also conjures up images of Delia poshly telling us How to Cook.

More has happened to dear old Charles since I wrote the preceding paragraph, and a new character has arrived, with an entrance in the style of a certain arachnid superhero. Titus is a well-crafted character, and his dynamic with Charles is (so far) one of my favourite elements of the novel. Perhaps even more entertaining is the strange relationship between Charles and his friend Gilbert, who takes it upon himself to play at being Arrowby's butler. The Gilbert of my imagination is a gay Jeeves: not as witty as a Wodehouse man but just as funny. My doubts about Charles aside, his tortuous interactions with his childhood sweetheart are increasingly compelling, and the plot has shifted into the territory of John Fowles' novels.

One third to go, and I'm not entirely sure how Charles' seaside adventure will end. Probably disastrously, if his current predicament is anything to go by.

* It's all perks for the feline resident of the household. She adores the company, and appreciates my usage of the column heater in the study. As I type the fuzzball is lying belly up on a woollen blanket right next to the heater.

Close Encounters of the Literary Kind

2011-02-03T19:58:00.002+11:00

Nothing, or close to nothing, beats the vice-like grip of a great novel, when you’re in the hands of a skilled writer. Like a love-sick youth you can’t help but find gaps in the day for extra time with it. Then, as you pass the half-way mark, anticipation and enjoyment become ever-so-slightly tainted by the niggling regret that soon this thrilling, funny, gorgeous serif-font of a book will join the have-been-reads; never again will you hurtle towards the final page without knowing what the heck is in store. Though you can, thank goodness, resample its delicious prose and cracking dialogue, and maybe even savour any nuances missed on the first visit.

The inspiration for this fanboy response, if you’re wondering, is John Fowles’ hidden treasure, Mantissa.* Having devoured three of his novels — planning to tally four before long — I enthuse about his work to anyone who, cocking their head to see the cover, dares to ask “What are you reading?” Fellow Fowles fans have a combination of The Collector, The Magus, and The French Lieutenant’s Woman under their belts, but Mantissa, it seems, flies under the radar. I heartily recommend you dive in and read this novel without knowing too much about it. Don’t look it up on the web. Read the back-cover blurb at most, then turn to page one. Well, page five if you have a 2009 Vintage edition. It’s rather saucy in parts, so closed-minded prudes should leave the queue and buy themselves a Dan Brown.

I read the final pages of Mantissa this evening. Wistfully removing my bookmark from its pages, I turned to the online archive for The New York Times. Freely available, the NYT book reviews date back to 1981, and they’re better than the other guff served on the internet. John Leonard’s 1982 review is surprisingly scathing, though he concedes, “You may enjoy it more than I did.” Yes, thank-you, Leonard: this novel has won over my literary heart and written its way into my shortlist of favourite fiction.

* Fellow Renaissance members, if any of you are out there, may delight in the various passages — and sole footnote — that reflexively undermine modern fiction and the novel itself, à la the countless self-effacing items of prose posted by several of us during our heyday(s).

Riposte

2011-01-30T15:38:00.001+11:00

When it rains, it pours. The drought seemingly over, Mister Two-Posts-In-Four-Days is flying his flags of mediocrity (his word, not mine) in a blatant and, frankly, unfair act of arm-twisting. He celebrates via the emulated Jimmy Connors Pro Tennis Tour, “one of the best tennis simulations of all time,” while I squeeze another drop of blood from stone. “He's just toying with me,” he says, referring to a computer player on the other team. Thirty love. “Nice team work.”

I recently returned my copy of Austen’s Sense and Sensibility to the bookcase, having spent the last week or two with it on the daily trains, buses, and lunch breaks. Though I never seriously considered abandoning the two sisters part-way through their marital quests, the last few chapters were read somewhat reluctantly. It felt as if pages were being secretly added to the end of the novel as I read; the appendices, textual notes and explanatory notes always seemed —gesticulating — this far away. A literary prank akin to Mr Twit’s meddling with Mrs’ walking stick.

Overall my reaction to the novel is not favourable, and I feel guilty for disliking it; my Oxford World’s Classics edition was bought with a Christmas voucher from the S. Other’s mum, and she was the one who recommended it. Despite her predictions, I didn’t identify with the sisterly dynamic of Elinor and Marianne, the respective representatives of the titular characteristics; nor did I want to.

For years I cynically assumed Austen was all tea parties and poshly-worded gossip, and I approached Pride and Prejudice (the first of hers I ever read) with that mindset. But I quite liked the much-loved tale of Miss Bennet and Mr Darcy, and funny Mr Collins, so I was motivated to try others. Northanger Abbey was a drudgery to read, possibly because I lacked an appreciation of the gothic literature Austen was poking fun at. Now Sense and Sensibility has left me cold. There were a number of amusing passages, but the characters were, generally, unappealing and frustratingly vacuous. The ending, including mother Ferrars’ inexplicable changes of heart, is an unrewarding finish to a drawn-out soap opera of a novel.

For the record, the swivel-chair tennis enthusiast won his match 6-3, 6-3. Game, set, match.

311010

2011-01-29T20:49:00.000+11:00

The act of putting pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard, so easily leads me down the path of over-analysis. Perhaps that reflects the source of inspiration — fleeting thoughts that don’t warrant even a paragraph — or my inability to take an idea and flesh it out into more than drafted insecurity. Even worse: an ingrained character flaw. How easy it is to compose self-reassuring guff about life and the people who populate it, instead of coming clean with people, or simply reaching out to them. But I’ll cling to one excuse: the very technology that allows us to “connect and share” — blogs, social networks, live feeds — encourages a new kind of selfishness and disconnectedness. The sort of rubbish we post to the internet was once confined to locked diaries and private conversations held face-to-face.

Waiting for B. Brown

2010-10-04T23:12:00.003+11:00

The triad of requests was simple enough: neutral colours, easy on the make-up and “a little disheveled.” Rarely, if ever, do I use cosmetics; the few products in my possession are way beyond their best-before dates. But how far I am, normally, from looking disheveled is a point of contention. Put another way, how much dressing-down is required before I resemble what the producer/director describes as a “hobo”? That I may easily be made to look like a tramp is an uncomfortable thought. I’m reminded of a high school drama skit in which I played a character reminiscent of (but who pre-dated) Turner and Riley’s twin Ks — and the ready availability of suitable clothing, albeit from countless seasons prior, in my wardrobe. The nature of my role in T.F.-D.’s production was divulged only after I agreed to participate: tactical decision or absent-minded omission? Either way, I’m just thanking my lucky stars I wasn’t cast as a scantily-dressed patron in a seedy gaming club.

267

2010-10-03T16:36:00.002+11:00

Promises and plans formulate while fingers tap keys and manipulate papers, pamphlets and pre-printed labels. They feed a growing eagerness to dash home and occupy spare time accordingly. But, day after day, it never happens. Blame a lack of energy, time, inspiration, and a raft of other excuses. The first concerted effort, three nights ago, yielded a mere four words. Not "What a grand achievement," but something equally mundane.

Weeks later, I commence the second paragraph. Twin Macs with clashing desktops tower over the white carpet, which has the matted shag of an old and much-loved soft toy. Now, unlike before, there’s a satisfactory excuse: moving out, and in, together — hence the not-so-cuddly rented carpet. At this point the sentences should be tumbling out, what with the new feelings of adulthood and excitements such as having full control of the remote, but it’s past ten and I’m in fall-asleep-in-front-of-the-tv mode. Independent living has cured my sporadic insomnia, but what will it do for my writing?

Dust and drop cloths

2010-07-21T22:36:00.002+10:00

"I keep a diary so my girlfriend thinks interesting thoughts go through my head."

Imagine the smug self-satisfaction experienced by the author of this comment as he sent it off into the ether: Another witty remark to delight my followers. Unfortunately for him, it implies personal qualities that do not warrant self congratulation, and presents a number of problems. Thoughts “go through” his head, for one thing; in one ear and out the other, presumably. And, to sink the boot in further, interesting thoughts are not typically among the ones that do. Unless this gentleman intends to publish said diary as a literary document, or as a cybernetic explosion of personal detail, no one else is likely to read its contents — including the girlfriend. So whether or not the putative diary contains anything but the lowest drivel is merely a point of speculation. A diary kept is not necessarily a diary worth reading; it cannot prove one’s capacity for intelligent thought without outside scrutiny.

Guilt and self-consciousness ruined my (failed) attempts at keeping a diary. I have written in various notebooks over the past decade or so, but only in fits and starts, when feeling particularly sorry for myself. While a legitimate outlet for my concerns and frustrations, the barely-filled notebooks were so self-indulgent and terribly written that I destroyed each one in turn. Writing to an audience, however small, is much more rewarding; it discourages unhelpful wallowing and stream-of-consciousness rubbish. But I do wish I were a more prolific and accomplished journal keeper. Having something worth writing about would certainly help!

Two days ago I started writing in a lovely pocketbook, delightfully christened by the bestower of the gift. (Oh, to write such dynamic and beautiful prose!) Thus far I have kept my vow to scrawl in it on a daily basis, though I cannot vouch for the quality of the content nor the handwriting. The latter is not aided by the generic ink of the frosted blue conference freebie. Now I must turn my attention to finishing this three-paragraph affair, which will — I sincerely hope — incite the chief revolutionary to supply more in type, as promised. The aromatic blend drained from the receptacle, and chocolate wrappers now empty, I cannot squeeze any more blood from this stone. Not here, anyway.

Two sleeps to go.

2009-12-24T00:18:00.004+11:00

Work Christmas parties are overrated. This year, without really scheming to do so, I missed all but one* of them — and I'm sort of glad I did. Call me Scrooge if you like, but the larger work parties feel pretty hollow. Ultimately I pay $25 (or so) to have lunch with my lab colleagues, in a room also occupied by assorted members of our department, most of whom I've never talked to one-on-one. (Though it was funny to see and hear the academics perform Christmas carols last year.) I rarely feel like drinking alcohol in such a setting, so I often think my attendance is subsidizing the voluminous refreshment of more hardened livers. (Cynicism at Christmas time? I'm incorrigible.)

If memory serves, my last two Christmases were parent- and sibling-free. This year we're all home; I'm feeling particularly festive (and childishly excited) as a result. I'll be spending Christmas eve, then Christmas day with the people I love most. Sitting here, backs of knees sticky in this awful heat, I'm convinced that the commercial trappings of the season — gifts and cards for e-v-e-r-y person you know, festive paraphernalia on sale from October, the awful Windows in the city, overcrowded shopping centres &c. — can destroy the child-like wonder and fun of the whole thing. You knew that already, and I did too, but this year it's all the more obvious. It's a good thing.

* I always attend the end-of-year lunch for my own lab, which is populated only by colleagues who are — fortunately — lovely, funny people and good friends.

Having stalked the postman.

2009-12-07T23:20:00.000+11:00

Top secret stuff, so I can't write much. But I will use the words "congratulations" and "you deserve it", then prepare myself for the next round (I've lost count) of pin the achievement on the self-critic.

What Alanis Morissette said.

2009-10-22T01:03:00.000+11:00

I like reading. My shelves are filled with books: Little Golden ones and yellowing Paul Jennings novels through to books for grown-ups with small print. But I'll read anything to stave off boredom. Cereal packets, leaflets, free newspapers — even trashy magazines in the doctor's waiting room. At a computer terminal the choices are even more varied; blogs probably already outnumber the world human population. Throw in some online news, Twitter and Facebook, and you'll never be without reading material. Technically speaking.

Sometimes, especially at night, I surpass my daily allowance of online content. I'll happily "surf" through a web of sites, then quite suddenly lose tolerance for all of them. The topical witticisms, humour-injected rants and conversationalist prose stir up inexplicable frustrations. These feelings are amplified significantly by attention-seeking blog-whores who post anything in an attempt to build or maintain their readership. (Ah, yes. See title.) My blood-boiling frustration with the blogosphere makes even good online writing intolerable. Words, words, words. I could drown in them.

I've wondered whether my feelings are a product of eye strain, bad posture, sleep deprivation and — possibly — a hint of jealousy. But, I hasten to add, those side-effects can accompany reading an enthralling book at 1am. And I never grow tired of reading books. Maybe I should stick to them.

Under the gaze of the Marge Pez dispenser.

2009-10-21T23:15:00.003+11:00

Today I returned to a stack of ~~mail~~ bills and an inbox brimming with dull, administrative email. (It's already time to pay for the department Christmas party? Jesus.) The Pandora's box of reality already (re)opened, I also — finally — examined the PhD completion form I received weeks ago. Sure, I'll justify my application for an extension, but must I do it before the end of next month? It's punishment enough to know I'll be spending another year on the blasted thing. If you offered me one wish right now, ten seconds of thinking music would be ten wasted.

Wind back the clock a few* hours, however, and something good happened today. The something deserves more than a brief, lop-sided mention, but that's all I'm capable of right now.

* Make that quite a few. Several, even. Where did the evening go?

(A)typical Monday?

2009-10-12T13:56:00.001+11:00

My mind and body weary from a parade of disruptive nightmares, I good-morninged my feline companion and stumbled out of bed. Showered, preparing breakfast, an urgent-mother voice called from outside — was something wrong? No; the builder's Staffordshire bull terrier had muscled its way through the derelict fence, into our backyard. Between leg-cocks and exploration it received pats from us and interacted gently with our own canine. It looked like a wombat crossed with a muscly brown bear. Arnie, for that was his name, responded to hand-claps with a wagging run, and enjoyed more pats with snuffles of satisfaction.

The sardine-tin was late to arrive. Fortunate because I was not exactly on-time, and unfortunate because it meant I was sharing with more sardines than usual. At my stop I was bustled out of the carriage by a pair of middle-aged breasts, which jabbed repeatedly into my back. I was rewarded with a better-than-usual morning meeting with the boss, and later we celebrated a birthday with apple and raspberry cake. Monday was off to a shaky start, but has turned out all right.

Accompanied by manic giggles.

2009-09-25T23:10:00.000+10:00

Banished to the sofa, he mopes in a curled-up ball. His is dead, at least until the long-awaited revival — however unlikely that is. Mine wins by default, being the only survivor. Hurrah, etc. But really I'm here to prod the sobbing heap and coax something, anything, from the unknowably-large reservoir of very readable prose.

I'm not asking for much.

Am I?

I'm blaming Fry for this.

2009-09-21T00:20:00.007+10:00

In primary school I had vague notions of becoming a teacher, librarian or nurse. A fancy pen became the pen-like bar code-scanner used by the school's librarian; a plastic stethoscope, band-aids and fake nurse hat equipped me to fix the imagined wounds of my soft toys. Imitating the Play School hosts I idolised, I read picture books to my sister, or an invented class of single-digit children, from an arm chair so that each turned page scraped the fabric it was resting on. (Slightly embarrassing to admit, now that I've written it down. I was in single digits myself.) Like Noni and John and George et al. I pointed with deliberation at the relevant pictures, and questioned my audience, plummy-voiced: "How many dogs can you see in this picture?" or "Do you like swimming, too?" I liked to tuck my Bic biro under my first finger, but over my thumb and middle finger, while shuffling papers: behaviours I co-opted directly from my grade one teacher. I felt like a Grown-Up, and I loved it.

In high school I entertained futures involving veterinary science or zoology. I stopped collecting what I perceived to be adult mannerisms and buried myself in homework. I suppose it was only natural, as an animal-lover, to be drawn to such things. (I graduated from high school with a tertiary offer in science, and am now a research student.) But playing with one's hand-reared bantam hen and a zoo of other pets is a world apart from dissecting cuddly critters and prodding them with rectal thermometers. My later-developed cynicism and bitterness is creeping in here, for my adolescent ideas (and ideals) concerning Life and Career were subsequently shattered. It's nevertheless quite true; an animal-loving colleague from high school won a place in veterinary science, but later transferred to medicine because humans were less upsetting to work on than animals.

Textbook science, being a student of science, suited me perfectly well. As it turns out, practicing science at the lab bench does not. I won't bore you with the reasons why, but you can guess at least one. I studied myself into a niche I didn't like, and along the way my concept of adult happiness became too tangled up in lofty notions of having a meaningful career. With my dream job in science now obviously a myth, I felt rather stranded.

Thankfully someone has helped me to realise it's equally or more important to enjoy the hours not spent on the job. By filling my free time with pleasure, it shouldn't matter whether or not I make a name for myself, or contribute something worth a chapter in a future textbook. This realisation won't stop me from scouring newspapers in the hope that a near-dream job will present itself to me, but it should (fingers crossed) prevent me from building my identity around my income source. In some ways I feel closer now to the 7- or 8-year-old me, guided by fun and more inclined to enjoy the ride.

Little Buddha, sans Enlightenment.

2009-08-26T23:10:00.000+10:00

The brisk walk home is usually a fertile time for thinking and composing; words arrange themselves into sentences as I round the evergreen oval. Now: Tiddalik-like, warm flesh bulging, my mind has loosened its belt and numbed-down to match; today's stuff is lost to post-prandial blobbing.

Good fiction writing inspires me to put pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard, but the doubt is paralyzing. (Imagination? What imagination?) And if I followed the "write what you know" rule, the end product would be a science book or an ill-informed guide to life. Writers' minds are seemingly inhabited by real-time characters, who talk to their non-fictional hosts and coerce themselves on to the page. I feel I'm really missing out! The only characters lurking in my mind — for that is all they do — are those from my past. They're people I'm trying to forget. Pessimism and self-deprecation aside, maybe writing about them is the best method of purging the pesky buggers, to make room for more.

T'tter.

2009-08-25T22:22:00.004+10:00

Tonight I discovered a friend's Twitter page. Well, I was led there by the author. In the mood for mindless browsing, I bothered to scan through a few pages of material. My friend's Twitter page is cluttered with banalities, much like the home page on Facebook, which displays the multitude of updates posted by people in one's contact list. (I'm still waiting for someone to update from the toilet seat, about toilet-related business. Give it a few more months.) My friend posted a tweet about hiring Twilight on DVD, to "see what all the fuss was about", but frustratingly never followed up with a review. (I was hoping for a scathing comment about the Mills & Boon vampire nonsense, but I suppose I should've known better.)

The concept behind Twitter itself is ingenious, and — in the right hands — could be exploited to compelling effect. It would be great to have a stream of delectable tidbits to read. If only it could lure our favourite writing hands from their electronic hiatus. (Yes, I'm looking at you, and yours.) I probably shouldn't hold my breath, hey?

Et Dukkehjem

2009-07-15T20:30:00.006+10:00

The second-hand copy came into my possession as a Christmas gift; we all received pre-loved books that year. I felt cheated. The dreary paperback, bearing a detail from Edvard Munch's Agony on the cover, nevertheless found a spot on the bookshelf behind my pillow. That was years ago, when my bed head* doubled as a toy box and supported a bookcase.

Late at night — when sleep was being avoided, or avoiding me^ — I would pluck the book from the towering case, but I never ventured further than the author's biography on the first page. I suppose I judged the book by its proverbial, and wrongly assumed the translated plays were as dreary. The first page — returning to my earlier thread of thought — now bears my sister's mark of ownership: her name written in the top right corner. I foolishly relinquished the book to her at some point, although I prefer to think she, er, appropriated it. My sister always did have the annoying habit of crossing out my name in the books I owned, and adding hers in larger lettering. And yes, I'm still ever-so-slightly bitter about the fact.

The book of plays luckily re-entered my collection a couple of years ago, before my sister flew from the nest. Recently I had another look at it, and this time I ventured past Ibsen's yellowing biography; I finished the titular play within a couple of days. I regret feeling cheated by my uncle's gift. His lazy, cavalier, second-hand offering means more to me now than most (if not all) presents given to me by extended family members.

* As in furniture, not bad hair.
^ Feng shui adherents probably would've blamed any insomnia on the books residing over my (non)sleeping head.

As Promised (Not Quite)

2009-07-09T20:44:00.005+10:00

Having written a five-page letter to an old — and year-older — friend, my sinister hand crippled by the attempt at such prolific neatness, I was set to type a brilliant, entertaining blog entry. (As I distinctly did not promise.)

While my fatigued hand jolted across the final page, however, my PC's anti-virus software — shoosh, you — went mildly beserk. The real-time scanner identified a handful of critical system files as infected, and immediately quarantined them. Thus provoked, Windows warned me that said files were required for Windows to function, and prompted me to use the Service Pack 3 CD to repair them. Service Pack 3 was difficult enough to install the first time, so I googled my way to the user forum for the anti-virus software concerned. I manually excluded each file from the real-time and on-demand scanners, restored the files, and waited. Almost immediately after — for I was not the first to encounter this problem — the company released a new patch. Ta-da! The problem appears to be fixed, although I haven't yet braved a reboot. I feel sorry for the users who have been grappling with this problem since 7am, and especially those who inadvertently deleted the quarantined system files.

In summary, I blame my laughably ill-supported security software for hijacking this entry.

Eggbeater Kick

2009-06-25T23:27:00.004+10:00

Removed to greener pastures, the three items with — dare I say it? — content have left this place looking pathetically flimsy and out-of-date. Nine drafts are on death row, awaiting the day I finally delete them and write another hollow bit of twaddle. (But boy, doesn't this font make it all look pretty? I could write complete* gibberish and still gaze at this blog template with satisfaction. I hope your vantage point offers as pleasant a view.)

Instead of finishing a draft, writing something of value, or furthering this waffle, I hereby present a graph to summarise the creation dates of the unpublished guff. Let's hope your browser can display PNG graphics. If not, look away now.

To tease you, a selection of words that appear in the tallied drafts...

perambulating
kettle
ping-pong
private member
archetypal

Now I demand a response from you know who; preferably a long-winded one. Inimitable eloquence comes standard, so I need not ask for that.

* As opposed to partial.

A small blip is better than none.

2009-04-20T15:43:00.002+10:00

The songs have been sung, cake cut and ingested, and presents opened. Through the fog and mucous of a viral infection I would like to wish the now 23-year-old a happy birthday and "many happy returns", whatever that strange phrase means. Birthdays, in my experience, are never much fun once you've clocked up a couple of decades, but at least there's no pin-the-tail, musical chairs, piñata-bashing or Telephone whispers. "I love tits!"

Six prosaic stanzas on love, Larry and toffee apples.

2009-03-28T20:14:00.002+11:00

Dum! Dum! Dum! Da-da-da-da da da-da-da-da da-de-da-da!

I sigh with a blend of (unwarranted) fatigue and (warranted) delight as I assume my sinister seat. The tray returns from whence it came, and its manipulator plonks himself to my right. Then: the music.

(Gotcha.)

Dysinformation (sic)

2009-03-25T02:03:00.001+11:00

If I believed in an omniscient and omnipotent being — the kind who created the Earth in seven days, plonked in a couple of humans, some plants and animals, and left all kinds of convincing evidence to suggest otherwise — I'd probably think He or She, It or They had it in for me. On the whole I can't complain about my lot in life (I have much to be thankful for), but medically I sometimes feel like a walking case study without a textbook solution.

In this wonderful age of the internet, general practitioners have the luxury of referring their patients to official websites with reputable and reliable health information. Anyone with internet access can download detailed fact sheets concerning the medication they're prescribed, or read about a procedure before going under the proverbial knife. This kind of information allows the patient to play a more active and informed role in the clinical process; it's definitely a good thing.

But Googlers beware! An endless supply of health-related fora* is a mere click or two away. Patients consult other patients about their conditions and the best methods of treatment; gory symptoms and side-effects (often relayed second hand) are subsequently shared across the ether. It's fair to seek testamonials — for want of a better word — from other members of the public, but in many cases the forums are visited in lieu of seeing a doctor.** Such websites pimp hypochondriasis and foster alarmism, leaving readers (well, this reader) wondering how any drug passed its clinical trials. The list of potential side-effects associated with paracetamol is staggering, but how many of us take it and experience only pain relief? Forum posters use uppercase text, exaggerated language and bad grammar to convey how terrible x treatment was for them (or their sibling, or mother), but no one steps in to point out how common (i.e. rare) those side-effects are. And that's assuming the story is true in the first place.

Anyone who watches late-night television will have seen the advertisements for a particular acne treatment, featuring a grating, American female voice. Local and international celebrities are recruited to flog the product — which contains the same active ingredient as the basic over-the-counter stuff, but costs more — and promise how effective it was at eliminating the pimples from their fake faces. For the sake of amusement I looked up the product on the internet; Google returned countless websites and Yahoo! Answers entries, the absolute cream of the internet crop. Glowing reports were mingled with horror stories of people who were forced to persist indefinitely with the daily regimen or confront a face more pimply than before.

Me? I'll stick to a medication-free soap, keep up the GP visits and avoid supposed 'health' forums entirely. Misinformation would only keep me up at night, but I bet there's a forum out there for insomniacs...

* Or forums; take your pick.
** In some cases this may reflect on the health system (or lack thereof), but that's another story.

Smell ya later.

2009-03-22T21:47:00.003+11:00

An overweight American girl had an inane telephone conversation for the full duration of the train journey. As the train approached Flagstaff she prepared to alight; this involved applying Impulse (fragranced body spray) all over her clothing. The woman across the aisle from her, drowning in the sickly scent, coughed. The smell instantly reminded me of the locker rooms at high school, thick with the sweet stench of the cheap vanilla odour. The Impulse range promised self-confidence and a love life to die for, but really it was worse than the smell of slightly sweaty, but otherwise clean, teenage girls. Anyway, inoffensive deodorant seemed to work for me.

(Only one? Deal with it.)

At gun point.

2009-03-12T00:30:00.001+11:00

My brains were not splattered because of an unmade decision. It wasn't a matter of failing to nominate a fast-breaking meal, or two hours of passive entertainment, or something else unworthy of life-threatening coercion. Nor was I killed for my failure to Ask the Right Question. It wasn't a crime of passion, or lust, or mild fondness. I wasn't murdered for a twenty-dollar note, or a can of Solo. The character just wanted to exterminate someone, and guess who was in the right place at the right time? I would've liked to have my revenge — I tried — but I was a damn lousy poltergeist.

Bits of Bruce

2009-03-03T23:46:00.001+11:00

A rolled-up copy of the Herald Sun appeared in our front yard the other day. Tossed there by the couldn't-be-arsed paperboy, the pathetic gossip rag was rescued from the roses and brought inside. Freeing the newspaper from its plastic was like starting a new roll of cling wrap: frustrating and messy. The landlords, sitting across the table from me, were later reading an article from it. I peered at the upside-down print while dodging raspberries in my oats and milk. The two main headlines initially seemed related: "Hurt [Greg] Norman bares teeth" and "Dad to rescue in shark attack". Cruel joke or unintentional story placement?

The main goal of marketing is, of course, to make a product known and to flog it to as many people as possible. Commercial radio stations play newly-released songs to the point of saturation, and while this prevents me from ever tuning in, the surviving audience somehow tolerates this awful habit. Video, as they sing, killed the radio star; it's a wonder commercial radio hasn't killed the pop song. The stations probably figure the demand for Katy Perry's (or whoever else's) latest single is great enough to warrant playing it on an hourly basis, and that naysayers will learn to love it regardless of musical taste.

A closet Springsteen lover recently employed the latter theory in a vain attempt to convert my naysaying soul. Bruce's song Born in the U.S.A. will—I suspect—only become more irritating with each listen, but I'll admit to singing along to Dancer in the Dark. Funnily enough, Springsteen's albums are now bursting from every CD display at JB Hi-fi, and he was the subject of the mX's recent "Who Am I?" quiz. The violin-toting André Rieu better watch out; Springsteen is now just as omnipresent.

Lois tried.

2009-02-26T23:25:00.003+11:00

With a swirl of the cup, and a curl of the fringe, he demands two pieces of eight. This immediately strikes me as an unfair, somewhat piratic, demand, but then a secondary thought percolates through to consciousness: by acquiescing I could make demands of my own. Distracted by the itch of purple glitter, I struggle to envisage this seemingly unreachable goal, but I'm spurred on by the promise of My Turn.

Two pieces of eight, incidentally, admitted us to the world of Bertram Pincus. To the slobber and stink of a pointy-eared horse, and the consumption of lumpy white medicine with delicious movie popcorn. A dentist with wonky teeth seems as implausible as a child psychologist who locks his child in the backyard with the dog, until you witness the latter first hand. (Uh-huh.) I could probably write an entire blog post about the inability of professionals to apply their skills at home. Anyway, Stratton's 3.5 was perhaps generous by a half-star, but it was worth the eight bucks I paid. While we're on the subject of movies, I only just realised that Gran Torino wasn't even mentioned during the Academy Awards. The voters deserve to be struck on the head with a Logie.

We've already endured the Oscars for 2009, and today the Comedy Festival booklet arrived with The Age. It's already late February! The university campus is crawling with undergraduate students, particularly during the lunch hour; every open space is clogged by people chowing down on free barbequed food and ice-creams from a Mr. Whippy van. The air is filled with amateur (amplified) singing and the chatter of naïve enthusiasm. Elevators are once again called upon to ferry students up one bloody floor, and it's only a matter of time before the Leaflet People return.

Three down, five to go. You're right: I'll never make it. It's time to re-negotiate this deal, because even the infamous stimulus package won't change the fact that I'm four short. My scapegoats? The bear market, flaccid economy and rising gold prices. And Tom Piotrowski with his ski-goggle suntan. Well, not at this time of year. So: one piece of four? Yes? Great. Now I can retire to my room, and star-gaze with the cat. Goodnight.

Now shoosh; it's my turn again.

2009-02-20T19:05:00.001+11:00

"Have you done it yet?"

Confessing to an impending pestering was, in retrospect, a terrible idea. Fueled by the afterglow of a new publication, his first for the year, The Times' esteemed author immediately pounced on me as a (now) second-rung affiliate. I should really be third-rung, since the much-missed Tom has unlocked and uploaded. Tom: welcome back.

In light of Hugh's tradition-breaking show of naked solidarity, perhaps I should clothe myself and compose from inside the bubble. My only concern: I'm not capable of writing such elliptic prose; I'd — unlike master H. — sound like a tosser if I tried. I'd sound like James Mercer, tangled up in nonsensical, melodic, third-album obscurity. And, before you ask, I'll let you decide if the latter person is a tosser or not.

Expect nothing of a scientist in the thick of applying for funding; my supervisor has disowned me entirely for a week while she sorts out the grant mess of her own (inadvertent) making. Being unchained from the lab bench has its perks (days at home, sleeping in, home-prepared hot lunches, socialising during the day) but I miss the productivity, and the reward of a successful experiment. Quality experimental data is to my happiness as Vegemite is to roses in cheeks.

An accompanied Wednesday excursion brought joy to an otherwise frustrating week. I returned home with a calendar, a childish bath-time gimmick and a fifth-full bottle of carbonated orange and passionfruit yumminess. I'm swigging from the bottle between sentences; the liquid's now flat, despite a satisfying hiss upon unscrewing the cap. Assorted Australian frog species will mark out the months of the year, and for once July's pinup is the best of the lot. (Seriously, why do calendar designers normally reserve the least appealing photo for July?) I suppose it didn't do the economy any good that I waited until February to buy mine, but it was satisfying to part with only $5 for something that'll provide 11 months of birthday reminders and organisation for 2009.

Speaking of which, the start to this year has been traumatic for some, within and without my social sphere. Two friends from high school are grappling with severely-ill parents, and another has potentially lost her Buxton home in the Black Saturday bushfire. For me, thankfully, 2009 has marked a definite end to several years of personal misery. I've already fulfilled some new-year's resolutions and enjoyed two lovely holidays, at home and away. I've gained a second family, second home, and an open license to visit a pair of amusing four-legged entertainers.

But enough about puppy dogs and lolly-pops. I have homework to do, so I shall pass the blog baton back to the remaining crew. [Poke, poke.] Anyone there?

Live Service Update

2009-01-22T23:08:00.004+11:00

I just exhausted myself writing three paragraphs for my other blog. You know, the one multiple people read and write comments for. The active one. Anyway, this is a service announcement to say we've cancelled all peak and non-peak services until the heat dissipates. I'm off the rails until my feet cool down. Oh, and my fingers can't type. And my thermoregulation system needs work. I'm also in the middle of a union dispute with my right neocortex. Hopefully if I talk really sweetly and use lots of consumer-friendly jargon, you'll find forgiveness in your cruel heart and keep patronizing this disorganised thing.

Kathryn apologises for any inconvenience caused.

The Sky is Falling

2008-12-21T19:21:00.010+11:00

Society is on the brink of collapse, if this year's Christmas card collection is anything to go by. I may be forced to issue a retraction on Monday or Tuesday, or Wednesday, but my snail-mail efforts have (thus far) been rewarded with a 13% return*. 23% if you include electronic replies. I s'pose I should be celebrating the minimal waste of paper and the trees theoretically spared of a pulpy fate, but part of me is sad to see the not-so-gradual death of a Christmas tradition. On the other hand, I expect my Facebook account will soon be swamped by status messages offering generic season's greetings. Online social networks, particularly those devoid of content and driven primarily by mundane status updates (e.g. "Sarah is borrrreeed."), make us socially lazy and probably encourage people to take their friendships for granted. So to Facebook I say: bah, humbug! Long live the Australian postal service.

Despite my religious beliefs, or — more precisely — my definite lack thereof, I'm the family member most prone to infection by Christmas spirit. I decorate the tree, often with ornaments of my own construction, and have been caught wearing Santa hats and tacky Christmas earrings. I love giving gifts, and I value the (all too brief) break from study to spend time with friends, loved ones, parents and my sibling. And it's fun to stuff yourself full of good food and celebratory beverages. It's also a time for reflecting on the year, and for achieving the fun stuff on one's List. This year's the year for not wasting my holidays.

Unfortunately, Christmas also seems to bring family politics to the boil, in a circular fashion that goes something like this: you want to skip the extended family gathering because it'll be exactly like last year's; you'd prefer to have a quiet one with your immediate family and partner, but that puts various family noses out of joint and therefore you feel even less inclined to attend. At such gatherings you watch your irritating younger cousins rip open, with unrestrained greed, their presents and toss each one aside after a cursory glance. You explain to your aunts and uncles yet again what your research project is about, and struggle to make conversation with your cousins.

I'm looking forward to a fun-filled and family-free holiday this year. (We're weathering the familial flak and sticking to our own plans.) To my fellow Revolutionaries: Merry Christmas! I'll naïvely hope for a blogtacular 2009.

* My room is presently adorned with a measly four cards.

Not even four.

2008-12-16T22:32:00.002+11:00

Fatigued from scribbling seasonal messages with (sometimes) carefully-placed tittles, I find myself counting down the minutes until 9 o'clock. Well, 9 plus ambulatory extras. At the rate I'm going, this won't even hit the presses before then.

It's a rather cosy scene here: the fluffy extravagance is sleeping next to me on the sofa, his upper half resting on a cushion, and the tree's coloured lights are blinking away. Sadly, though, the faux greenery harbours no gifts. Listing what I want for Christmas is almost as difficult as a top five of albums, or songs. But let's face it: grit-voiced Dicky is all I could ever desire. (I already have my two front teeth.) Meanwhile, I've discovered that mince tarts, even the bakery kind, aren't nearly as delicious without the Island and its tour guide. And the sparsely-globed topiary. Those things will be enough. And Hogfather, of course.

Writing this, some days later, the baby greens are flicking to the digits for an hour more closely associated with the jolly man in the red suit, even though I'll — fingers crossed — be under the doona by then. Speaking of which, I'd better abandon the canine armrest and jump into bed.

Ladder placeholder

2008-11-20T00:06:00.002+11:00

(And amusing quote.)

"Being a graduate student is like becoming all of the Seven Dwarves. In the beginning you're Dopey and Bashful. In the middle, you are usually sick (Sneezy), tired (Sleepy), and irritable (Grumpy). But at the end, they call you Doc, and then you're Happy."

Ronald T. Azuma

Their cups runneth over

2008-11-12T20:53:00.004+11:00

Leaning back into the chair, slouching, I gaze with distaste at the PowerPoint icon lurking — first tab off the rank, so to speak — on the taskbar. The coarse red fabric itches the back of my thighs, while the frog's minute hand smugly (and repeatedly) points out the inevitability of the dual Fry 'n' Choose deadlines. The Flip-Flap's appealing, green shoots are happily bouncing in the window, but the sun's heat has had the opposite effect on me. Blimey it's hot in here! Maybe not hot enough to boil a monkey's bum*, but enough to make me feel crook. I may as well keep typing, 'cause those slides only make my eyes glaze over, and engage the scroll-wheel finger. Whee! Ghastly slides in motion!

Which brings me, conveniently, to my next pararant. I've discovered a world of people who, like me, find pee-pee's designs completely off-putting. They ooze primary-school project, business wank ("You can have any colour scheme, so long as it's blue.") or clueless hodge-podge — a cornucopia of clipart-quality images and puke-worthy colour combinations. Informing a mostly uninterested audience about my project is painful enough, without the 'Point-wrangling and having to worry about the look of the thing. Of course, there's always the option of creating my own design template, but there are more appealing procrastination methods. Like writing blog entries? Exactly.

While I'm on the p-word, the BOM says it topped 35.4 today. (The ubiquitous Liv just informed me it was the warmest day for eight months.) Hot weather makes me sluggish and queasy, but I'll bet the conditions were perfect for luring the Spring Racing fans from their (over)air-conditioned city offices. If nothing else, the Racing Carnival offers some great fodder for people-watching. The train-travelling masses, on their homeward journey, resemble overdressed international travellers who crash-landed and wandered aimlessly, dehydrated, for several days. They're scruffy, delirious, confused, unsteady on their feet, and in need of a good scrub.

The bodices of strapless dresses are indiscreetly hitched up to hide the peeking undergarments, while day-old bandaids dangle loosely from raw heels and impractical shoes. Exposed flesh — there's lots of it — burns bright red, while bare or stockinged (but shoeless) feet are blackened by dirt. (Blister-causing shoes dangle from hands or are slung over shoulders.) The blokes' wrap-arounds leave a striking skier's tan line on their beetroot heads, but they'll be lily under those suits. People drunkenly recognise each other as they cross paths on the platform, then jump into trains without considering their destination. "Er, what train is this?" In the carriage, broken fascinators are mourned and digital cameras are passed around to share the photographic memories of a sunburnt and beery day.

Now, my protruding tummy filled with a summery dinner (including garden salad with grated granny), it is time to contemplate the dreaded p-p-t. The sun's nearly dropped from the sky — cue dusk-chirping of neighbourhood blackbirds — so the mercury's falling accordingly. Work conditions are improving, but then there could be something to watch on television...

* I heard the Prime Minister use it.

On the Doormat

2008-11-08T22:24:00.003+11:00

Lyndon, sweating into a lurid green shirt, stepped up to the door. A mildly vomitous feeling churned deep in his belly. The posy of white flowers — a clump of onion weed from his back yard — had already wilted; the stems fell flaccidly over his clammy hand. Lyndon eyed the modest black button of the doorbell. His free hand jerked from his side, but was checked by nerves. Not yet. He rocked on his heels and listened to the rhythmic thud coming from within the house. Why was he even here? It would be easier to turn around and walk home. And yet, he couldn't. As much as it scared him, he wanted to press the doorbell.

Next time, four.

2008-11-02T00:55:00.000+11:00

Byte-sized morsels aren't enough. Forget the guff about good things in small packages, quality over quantity, and brevity as the soul of wit. The editor of The Times — a practiced wordsmith whose tales sometimes sound meaningful (H.B., circa 2006) — demands anything (good or otherwise) in unwieldy packages, desires quantity over quality and made verbosity the soul of this renaissance. Even the nauseating combination of room-temperature chocolate milk, sweet-and-slightly-flat mineral water, post-mint orange juice, canoli, Chicos and pistachios can't disguise the sickness in my belly. I'm queasy just thinking about how to fill the glowing white void. My idiom of choice? By the inch it's a cinch; by the yard it's mighty hard. And it is, when one's profession demands right-down-to-it prose.

I shouldn't blame these scant dribbles on my academic upbringing. My next excuse would be a lack of material, which erroneously implies there's nothing to write about. There's plenty, but it's a matter of audience. I could, I suppose, follow the lead of verbal-spew bloggers who relay the minutiae of daily life; I'd inform you of a recent win: two tickets to the preview screening of The Women. Rather than dash off to Supré and slather on the fake tan lotion, I tossed the glossy invitation into the waste paper basket. The movie itself looks ghastly, and I couldn't face the teenybopper set at the Chapel Street cinemas. Nevertheless, it was nice to receive some mail without a "payment due" date in bold print.

Blood sugar boosted by a chocolate from a shiny red wrapper, I venture clumsily into the third paragraph. (Oh, I should just end it now!) I've written myself into a corner, but at least we're closer to the heart of the matter. The mental muscle overworked by theory, numbers and statistics, imagination and creativity were left to languish. Prospects are sunnier now, thanks to encouragement and inclination. If only I could unleash my dreaming mind in the waking world...

Bathroom Blues (Musical Comedy)

2008-10-27T14:17:00.001+11:00

I hadn't showered for more than two months. It was really starting to become a problem. We miss you, Beryl. Not that I went without washing altogether, but the novelty of bathing (literally) wears off after a while. We miss you, Beryl. Running the bath takes a while, and there's the issue of temperature: the water stings if it's too hot, but you're soon sitting in tepid water if it's not hot enough. We miss you, Beryl — a lot! You only ever notice you've forgotten something — a new bar of soap, or the beloved jug for rinsing one's hair —after you've already climbed in. We miss you, Beryl. The non-submerged parts (i.e. most of one's body, given the scarcity of water these days) become cold easily. Overall the experience is far less romantic than Julia Roberts' Prince-accompanied bubble-bath in Pretty Woman.

Just fuck off, Beryl! (Harry, I don't blame you. I blame the perpetrator in the pink t-shirt.)

P.S. Showers are great.

Dropped off the face

2008-10-26T22:00:00.002+11:00

Neatly untangled; a clean cut. Why yes, my hair has changed, but that ain't the only. Flesh-and-blood scissors, followed by ink, then pixels. Acrimony thrived in the barren divide; it was about remembering the mistakes and forgetting the five-and-four. Now? A digital limbo. Two sets of 1s and 0s zipped off in the name of returning an overdue volume; free of the ulterior, even friendly. The surrounding content may pass to the keeper — we're only up to the fourth flip of the calendar, after all. But a question is a question, no matter how insignificant. Never mind, though, because I like the new 'do.

Nostalgia

2008-10-11T00:20:00.004+11:00

Gone are the days (and nights) of 62* comments, blatant cross-referencing and shameless emulation. Gone are the days of rip-snorting times (had, to be had, or those we weren't having), and chop-chopping to beat our own record — 168 at our most typative. Gone are the days of shovels and spades, and metal rulers. And those jokes we no longer mention or make. The Ladder's now automated and there's some talk of tumbling. The Revolution is dead, Dave. Dead Dave, the Revolution is. The Revolution is Dave, dead. Dave, the Revolution is dead. (What colour, incidentally?)

The worst part? Now I'll have to come up with something to write about. Actual content! I'd better throw away this black armband of mourning and get on with it, huh. Only not now. My to-do list is growing longer by the minute, but sleep is item #1.

* On this 'ere weblog. For the record, The Times attracted 64.

Colour of Death

2008-10-06T12:22:00.001+11:00

"Oh, kill me."
"What with?"
"An unsubtle trumpet. Or rather, a blunt instrument."
"Righty-o. What colour do you want to be when you're dead? I think the unsubtle trumpet'll leave you black 'n' blue. Or a purplish yellow, maybe."
"Fatally off-colour."
"That's not very specific."
"I could only be specific on-colour."
"Fine, then. I'll write 'Fatally off-colour' but I can't guarantee you'll get what you asked for."
"Oh, you're using this for something? I'll answer properly."
"You see, I have this form to fill out."
"It's hard to have an opinion on the colour I'd like to be when dead."
"I'll leave the form as-is then. I wrote that last comment in permanent ink, anyway, and we just ran out of White Out."
"What is this, exactly?"
"You did ask me to kill you, did you not?"
"Did I?"

To arr is pirate

2008-09-19T15:15:00.001+10:00

Avast! Yer ol' friend Hugh be back on deck. The scurvy dog's still full o' long words and grog — he's talking bilge! At least I got something to read while I wait fer t' album o' shanties. I'll be an old salt before I get me hands on that booty.

Haven't cast me deadlights on Ben, who be lost at sea. Methinks the giant squid finally got 'im. Smartly there, men, and find t' beanpole! Meanwhile, Tom's marooned himself and become a filthy land lubber. He refuses to climb aboard with his shipmates. The lad must be addled.

Return, me hearties — the ship needs ye!

I'm the King of the Castle

2008-09-12T01:39:00.001+10:00

and you're the dirty rascal!

The view is splectacular from up here. Yes, splectacular.

Every Spam is Sacred

2008-09-08T10:49:00.004+10:00

Dear Ariosta,

How are you? I am fine. Thank you for the lovely spam email, particularly the generous offer of a herbal formula to double my pole. However, my pole is quite all right as it is. Speaking of which, is your pole sufficiently multiplied?

Yours sincerely,
K.

I'll spell it out for you

2008-08-05T15:02:00.002+10:00

I'm glad a midday appointment lured me away from the office — it's such a lovely, sunny day. On the return tram journey I noticed a battered four-door ute, idling at a set of traffic lights. The occupant, a slightly mangy man, plucked a chunky piece of meat (gristle?) from his Four'n Twenty and popped it into his mouth. My gaze shifted to the rear driver's side door, which sported a large dint and scratches in the faded yellow paintwork. On the same door were some handwritten words, printed in thick black texta:

JUMP
Taxi arsol

I briefly wondered how a "jump taxi" differs from a regular one. It then occurred to me the message was probably directed at the arsol [sic] taxi driver, whose vehicle inflicted the damage to the door.

Warning: this toothpaste contains sugar

2008-07-22T15:58:00.000+10:00

The Suits occupy a world of their own: one of briefcases, Blackberry, laptops and leather shoes. Heels for women — watch out for tram tracks. They swarm like black and white bees; loop trains empty as they spill out into the street. Rivers of them criss-cross the city in the daily pre-9am pattern. Not the most interesting train passengers to watch; they typically speak only with the aid of a phone. Business: Have you got the documents ready for this afternoon's meeting? Great; email them through. Family: Darling, I thought I told you not to forget that. Call your father and ask him. Otherwise the Suits are plugged in to their iPods or PSPs, or reading the newspaper, a trashy magazine or so-and-so's latest mind-numbing novel. Do they ever take even one minute to question their existence? Does the desk job fulfil them, or is it a means to a material end?

Collins Street is the heart of their busy and unquestioned world, but awaiting a tram near Elizabeth Street I spotted an aberration: denim-clad adult male, with a plastic bag of things in one hand, and a can of Wild Turkey in the other. He took a toothbrush from the plastic bag, then drizzled the bristles with liquid poured clumsily from the can. Thus rinsed, the bristles were smeared with Aim and shoved into the man's mouth. A frothy foam of paste was released on to the road following a quick brush. His cheeks bulged with liquid sipped from the can, then the ersatz mouth wash joined the froth.

Paperback seduction

2008-07-18T22:50:00.000+10:00

We lost ourselves in what appeared to be the Health and Wellbeing section. I could feel the sickeningly-positive vibes bulging, like well-oiled muscle, from the pages of those glossy books. Buy us! We promise gleaming bodies, healthy minds, empty wallets.

Having failed to find the object of our initial quest, we were distracted by sex. Well, books about. The Kama Sutra (no pop-up edition), tantric stuff — the "science of ecstacy", and a supposed goldmine of information concerning what goes on in the minds of the opposite* sex. The relationship self-help industry thrives on the perpetuated myth that men and women are planets apart. Mars and Venus? Are we talking about relationships or astronomy? Anyway, even if there were secrets to be learned about the thoughts and needs of men, I doubt a female author would be the first to expose them.

* Assuming that's your thing, anyway.

Power and responsibility

2008-07-17T00:42:00.000+10:00

This Revolutionary today promised to lure Tom back from the realm of invite-only blogging (a multi-faceted campaign* was already brewing), but he has already reappeared. A bittersweet return, for the Horse tonight declared the Revolution dead; quite ironically via a publication titled Open for business.

The Revolution is not dead, at least not if the Cynic has any say in the matter. Tom, summon the resuscitating huskies!

* "The time for talking is over. Now call it extreme if you like, but I propose we hit it hard, and we hit it fast, with a major, and I mean major, leaflet campaign."

Me love you long time

2008-07-05T00:12:00.002+10:00

Shivering and wet, I stabbed the numeric code into the keypad; a high-pitched beep accompanied each digit. After a short delay, the lock disengaged with a thunk and the door clicked open. I scooped up my stuff, secured the door and dashed through the doorway opposite.

It was quieter inside. My feet slapped in the odd puddle as I navigated through the spartan rooms. I rounded the final corner and turned my attention to—

Why is she standing there, bare from the waist down?

My gaze bounced away from her exposed flesh, but dared to settle on her face for a moment. Her flirtatious eyes met mine. She was smiling. What the hell kind of smile is that? "Hello, you. Like what you see?" or maybe "Go on, have another look. You know you want to." I didn't hang around to find out.

Still wet, but no longer shivering, I lingered under the stream of hot water. It helped to wash away the memory of what had just happened. I'd almost forgotten about her by the time I was dry and back in my street clothes. I unlocked the cubicle door and the memory flooded back; she was still there. Now sitting cross-legged on a bench, slowly pulling up her black tights. Perhaps too slowly. She flashed her smile again as I walked past.

I stood in front of the mirror and attacked my wet hair with a comb. Having lost her audience, she completed the reverse strip-tease and sauntered past me on the way out.

I should've asked for her number, huh.

Souvenirs

2008-06-28T02:04:00.000+10:00

1 x butterfly; lovingly pressed between the pages of Small Gods.
1 x rather phallic squid; mildly squashed by Mary Poppins' carpet bag, contents of.
1 x crane. Sky blue. Now slightly wonky.
1 x non-descript bird. Black.
1 x metaphor. Pointy.
1 x mostly-full bag of sour worms. Can't give them away.
1 x blue bottle cap. Kneaded.

What more could a girl (bowerbird?) ask for?

Return of The Rat: A Prosaic Ode to Tom

2008-06-24T23:40:00.000+10:00

Elusive little sods. Scampering along the skirting board of one's mind, they survive on tidbits and leave such a mess. Trying to trap the buggers never works; you have to catch them unawares. Act quickly though, or they'll wriggle away. Get them in writing!

OK OK, so this post is really a clever ruse to hide the fact that I haven't caught any. Well, I have, but they're all rather scrawny. I'm hoping — maybe foolishly — that they'll breed in captivity. It's worth a shot, surely, once I figure out how to sex the blighters. Anyway, so I'm stalling for time while I fatten them up with Swiss cheese* and dim the lights. All this talk of fattening and f— propagating might, fingers crossed, make it look like I've written something when really I haven't written anything. But hey, there's the illusion of substance — a veneer of substance — and that's all that matters, right? "Oi," I hear you shout, "there's not even the illusion of substance. And what's all that about cheese and mood lighting?" I reply with a simple "OK." You got me. I give up.

Until next time.

* Cheese, they just looove cheese, really they do! Swiss is their favourite.

Kermit greets the aliens

2008-06-21T12:32:00.004+10:00

Anna

2008-06-19T15:55:00.002+10:00

Milo reminds me of Anna. I've opted for Milo with cold milk ever since her mum introduced me to it. We sipped and spooned it from plastic 'mugs', the stackable kind you take camping. Her mum was stingy with the stuff; my milk was never quite chocolaty enough, even after stirring vigorously to make a spinning milky tornado. Milk gave Anna a white moustache, more so than anyone else I knew (or know).

Anna always looked as if she hadn't slept the night before. Her face was very pale, framed by slightly wavy and unkempt hair. I haven't seen her since 1993*, but I vividly recall her light blue (maybe grey) eyes. A kind and relatively quiet girl, Anna was one of my earliest friends. She wore a pale blue dress to my 6th birthday party. (My memory isn't that great; I have a photo somewhere.)

Anna had all the exciting board-games. Operation was my favourite, although she wasn't always equally keen to play — for her the novelty had probably worn off. Anna's room was always a mess, but it boasted so many treasures that I didn't mind. I remember playing (badly) her hand-held electronic games, much like the Tom & Jerry one (pictured above) that I had at home.

Guinea-pigs and a rabbit (maybe even a cat) were the main attractions in the back yard. The cavies lived in a sizeable pen, but I remember the rabbit roamed free — at least while I was visiting. My fondness for the guinea-pigs dropped dramatically after one nipped me and peed in my lap.

* I may have seen her on the train once, a few years ago. Certainly wasn't convinced enough to approach and use the "Remember me?" line.

Paronomasia

2008-06-18T15:42:00.003+10:00

Choosing a favourite composer pun was too hard, so here's the shortlist:

"That's the straw that Baroque the camel's back." (Tom)
"No no no, that camel's back was Baroque-solid." (Hugh)

"Just when I had you in the Brahms of my hands..." (Tom)

"Let's just say your puns are the Mozartful." (Ben)
"Schubert they are." (Hugh)

"Also, I nominate Tom, who Baroque the camel's back, even if it did leave him between Baroque and a hard place." (Ben)

Seven year itch

2008-06-18T14:51:00.002+10:00

Sunday evenings are fairly predictable: loll about with Sundayitis, half-heartedly tinker with homework, groan when The Einstein Factor starts at 6:30. The groan is not directed at Einstein itself (on the contrary, it's the only TV quiz we watch), but at the show's music, which is — for me — an irritating reminder that Monday is merely hours away.

The 15th was different. Einstein was replaced by a train trip to the city. It felt odd to be out on a Sunday evening — perhaps due to the "school night" mentality drummed in by concerned parents. I idly looked into the carriage ahead of mine. Close by, a man snoozing. My gaze shifted further back. A young guy sat some distance away. He turned to look in my direction, so I hastily dropped my gaze. My eyes wandered to other passengers. I hazarded another look, but his pale face was still pointed at me. Self-consciousness was bound to make me blush if I didn't act fast; I busied myself with the composition of a text message.

I arrived at the Town Hall on foot, a few minutes before 7. I wandered restlessly, looking for two faces among the few people who were passing through or catching trams. The Collins Street theatres were lit up like the proverbial Tree, but otherwise it was fairly dark.

"Hello! I was worried I might not recognise you," L. said, stepping off the pedestrian crossing. We hugged, and spent the next few minutes calculating how long it had been since our last. L. always came across as a miniature adult: sleek and straight black hair in a bob or slightly longer, shimmery spectacles, womanly (maybe even posh) mannerisms and voice. I'd forgotten how fond I was of her, and how reassuring her presence could be. Her hair, spectacles, mannerisms and voice hadn't changed, but the school uniform was replaced by tall black heels, a dark outfit and a pristine camel-coloured coat. Standing there in my green cons, dark jeans, jumper and black waist-length hooded jacket, I could see how easy it would be to pick the speech pathologist from the grad student. Both still girlishly petite, despite the intervening years.

"Kathryn, you look just the same!" E. cried, and then leaned in to kiss my cheek. E. was in jeans too, but wore more feminine shoes, a dark top and a creamy white (but equally pristine) coat. Her voice and hand gestures hadn't changed, and neither had her fast girlish chatter. I remember her as a tall and lean girl with very long brown hair and freckles. Still taller, still freckled, but with womanly curves and nearly shoulder-length hair. E., taking her second undergraduate degree, baby-sits for families with too much money and not enough time. She apologised profusely for being a few minutes late; we heard about the bruises from the spoilt brat she was looking after.

The city was surprisingly quiet — many cafes and restaurants were already closed, including our intended destination in Block Place (near the Block Arcade). On our way to Hardware Lane the two girls chatted about their upcoming beach holiday together and the recent MSO Pops concert that E. had missed. Having been to the James Bond Pops concert (with uni friends) earlier in the year, I joined the conversation without difficulty. We talked so much, and so comfortably, that the waitress and waiter took turns to visit our table until we'd finally consulted the menus in front of us. Lively conversation persisted right through to dessert — we brought one another up to speed on our studies and employment, relationships (past, present, lack thereof) and future plans. We reminisced about mutual school experiences and friends, gossiped about student-staff scandals and swapped news about other ex-classmates we'd seen since year 12. Our laughter possibly disrupted the other diners, but we were having too much fun to care. Despite having planned to keep certain things under wraps, I also talked openly about fairly personal topics. I wondered why I ever allowed myself to lose contact with these valuable friends. We hugged again. E. spoke enthusiastically about meeting on a regular basis, so the enjoyment was hopefully mutual.

From the pavement

2008-06-14T01:22:00.000+10:00

I love walking through residential streets at night. The roads are empty, so you can hear sounds that are normally drowned out by cars: distant trains, the lonely bark of a dog, someone tinkling the keys of a piano. I enjoy looking at (and into) the houses as I pass by. I wonder what the inhabitants are doing (often, a flickering glow of colours emanates through the curtains from their TV), thinking about, looking forward to, or dreading. I wonder what their homes are like; whether they are happy living there. I enjoy glimpses of interior layout and decor — some houses look like sterile display homes: grey and white walls, perfect (fake?) indoor plants, high-tech entertainment and minimalist furnishings. Others are more cosy: overstuffed sofas, richly-coloured walls — tidy but 'lived-in'. I become conscious of how small our own private worlds are. We strive to better ourselves, our appearance, our living environment. We collect possessions to make ourselves feel good or improve our image. When I'm out there walking around it seems so small-minded, but then I look forward to coming home. I become one of those people inside their own house. Hidden away from the street, with my own thoughts, hopes, and my clutch of possessions.

[One or two readers may have seen a version of this piece before. I was reminded of it during a walk earlier this evening.]

Your time starts now

2008-06-13T23:20:00.000+10:00

"Excellent," I thought to myself, pushing the books and papers aside. "That's chemistry done." I savoured the feeling of satisfaction. Masochism — right on cue — stirred in my subconscious. No, I had covered only the most introductory topic; there remained a full semester of material to revise. Oh, and don't forget the other three subjects. For good measure, let's say the exams are in three days. (If masochism had a face, it would be grinning like the Cheshire cat.)

Sympathetic dreaming, perhaps? Friends and revolutionaries are at various stages of the examination process, but I haven't personally faced exams since late 2004. As nasty as they are, I do miss the post-exam euphoria, and freedom. Weeks and weeks of holidays, gloriously guilt free and lazily spent...

Normally my dreaming mind is tormented by more entertaining horrors: a homicidal Christopher Lloyd (funny story, that one), generic first-person-shooter baddies (terminated gleefully by yours truly) or giant killer goats. I quite enjoy being the victim of, witness to, or perpetrator of Cronenberg-scale violence. While frightening at the time, such dreams offer something to chuckle about the next morning. I'm also partial to dream-state action of a different kind, although few people are privy to the details.

Publish or perish

2008-06-10T16:20:00.007+10:00

So the Revolution (or whatever it is) seems to be in full swing, ignoring the ever-absent not-even-Halfway who ironically brought me into the fold*. Our leader — the prolific Raconteur — is industriously charting our contributions by word count and gut feeling. At last count, the gigantic poppy ("filled with a delicious creamy opium centre") and I collectively managed 7772 words (4662 and 3110 respectively), only 46 more than the 7726 chalked up by the tallier himself. Meanwhile, Tom (who sits on a respectable 2431) has successfully distracted the main offenders by provoking epic essays from them both. Nice job, Tom.

It seems the dust has finally settled on the raging invisibility vs. flight debate. Since then, Ben has braved a Serious post; the only negative impact of which was a noticeable decline in comments. I read (and generally understood**) Ben's candid entry with a degree of confidence that most (if not all) of it was true. The same cannot be said for Hugh's strangely addictive, frequently baffling, output. I'm now fairly sure that most (all?) narratives (even those involving multiple characters) occur in his head.

[Let's see if name-dropping truly "counts triple".]

* By spruiking his now-languishing blog. Always talk and no action.
** Despite the claim to "incoherent blather".

There's a theme developing

2008-06-09T22:26:00.002+10:00

"What's that book?" my sister asked, spying the large paperback lying on the table. The title was obviously visible to her from across the room, because she quizzically announced it to all present: "Bonk?!"
"It's about the scientific study of sex," I explained with enthusiasm.
"A weird book for Kathryn to have," my mother said, judgmentally, clearly loving the opportunity to voice her (thus far suppressed) view on the matter.
"Hey, it's a science book!"
More mutterings of disapproval from mum, while my sister came to my defence.
"How is it?" my sister asked, pushing the conversation forward.
"Really interesting so far, and funny."
"Ooh, I might read it after her, then," mum said, apparently betraying her earlier contribution to the discussion. My sister and I didn't hide our surprise at the sudden change of heart.
"Mum, your opinion has swung from one extreme to the other," I pointed out, mildly irritated.
"You're a weird one, mum," my sister added.

A review of the book will follow. In the mean time I'll cast about for a non-sexual, innuendo-free topic for my next blog entry. No promises, though.

sex, lies, and videotape

2008-06-08T00:42:00.004+10:00

The slumber party (or "girls' night in") is a social event familiar to girls and women all over the world. The true nature of the gathering varies according to the age and interests of the participants, but the rumours surrounding them are apparently universal. [Whether the rumours have any basis in fact is on a need-to-know basis.]

It is generally believed* that all participants of a slumber party wear only their underwear. Clad in such skimpy attire, the girls have epic pillow fights with one another. Such fights are accompanied by much laughter and playful shrieking. Of course, the deliciously plump pillows are filled with pure-white feathers, which escape into the air and float about. Ultimately, so I'm told, pillow fights culminate in "making out" sessions. I could think of worse ways to spend an evening, but the perks of heterosexuality appeal to me more.

Some mathematically-inclined males have established theories surrounding this phenomenon. Examples:

Equation 1. women + privacy + spare time = lesbianism

Equation 2. kinkiness is proportional to boredom

More pseudo-mathematic word play another time, perhaps.

So, Saturday night. Slumber party for two, while house- and cat-sitting for a mutual friend and her housemate. Dinner, DVDs, excessive popcorn and other assorted junk food, and laughter possibly loud enough to wake neighbours.

Nearly bed time: an actual (double!) bed to sleep in. Not a lumpy sofa, flaccid airbed or camp mat unrolled somewhere. Double bed of male housemate; never met him, complete stranger. Pop-psychology knuckles crack with anticipation. Let the analysis begin.

Definitely less girly than mutual friend's room (ugh: shoe obsession, trinkets, stuffed toys, feminine bedspread). Darker bedspread, lime green sheets and pillows. Plain chest of drawers. A few photos of family in plain frames. Timber venetian blinds. Hang on. Walls. Marilyn Monroe, multiple appearances. Marlon Brando, once. An autographed and framed Will & Grace publicity photo. Costume fairy wings. A bag of eye makeup under the bed, in plain sight. His girlfriend spends a lot of time here, or...

"Er, so this guy has a girlfriend, right?" (Not jumping to conclusions just yet.)
"No, he has a boyfriend. Didn't you see the Marilyn Monroe pictures?"
"Yeah. I was wondering about the makeup under the bed."
"He likes to dress up."
"Ah."
"It's bloody unfair; his legs look better than mine."

Head on stranger's pillow, laying in the middle of his bed, between his lime green sheets. Pillow smells good, probably shampoo or hair product. OK, weirded out. Quiz. Number of times in someone's bed before meeting them? Zero. Add one. Total: one. Still weird. Oh no, you're not even going to think about that. Need distraction.

I was awake for an extra hour or two.

P.S. Not Quite Yoda was not quite right about the title of the previous entry; it's a direct quote from a American film, not a derivation of a urination euphemism. (Dare I ask?)

* That is, fantasized by idle male minds and perpetuated by some films. I've only seen the Hollywood variety but the mind boggles.

"Sorry guys, I gotta see about a girl."

2008-06-07T12:04:00.002+10:00

Not like that.

Smoke me a kipper, &c.

(More) unscientific waffle

2008-06-06T01:30:00.000+10:00

Eyes bleary and brain numb, I ponder why I'm still up at this hour of the night (well, morning, technically). Solidarity, perhaps. The essays are due this afternoon and I've seen drafts from only four students, of seven. It's not part of my job description to worry about them, but I remember too vividly the stress of juggling exam study with multiple assignments. Mind you, I'm not looking forward to marking the bloody things. Drafting has been painful enough.

Bouts of wrestling with poor grammar and copious (un)scientific waffle have been interspersed with various diversions throughout the day. One such diversion: the Revolution (or, as Hugh so aptly put it, blah thingo). The latter term more closely reflects my understanding of the beast. Nevertheless, I've somehow managed to become a Revolutionary myself. I am the Viagra to a steadily-growing purple bar on the illustrious Graph of Overall Contribution, I currently hold the Bronze position on Hugh's ladder and have a nickname...or three. There's also the monochrome image to match the three faces plus crotch, although my status is not defined.

The feline wants to settle in for the night, I'd better join her.

The seven stages of electronic grief

2008-06-04T15:32:00.000+10:00

May 20, 1999. I opened my first Hotmail account. Hotmail was the email service to sign up to. Its name was a stroke of fucking genius: take out the vowels and you got HTML! (Nerds laughed asthmatically with delight.) I spent the best part of science class thinking up a catchy and quirky username, but it was worth it. Few people appreciated the nod to Monty Python, but that was part of its appeal.

There were few practical uses for the address initially, given that I saw my friends at school every weekday. We exchanged meaningless emails to disguise the fact that our inboxes were otherwise empty. Then one day I received my first unsolicited electronic missive. It was exciting to think that a mysterious stranger had something to tell me.

The email conveyed the happy news that I'd won a lottery jackpot without even buying a ticket! I was in shock. I'd never won anything in my life. I eagerly clicked the hyperlink contained in the email and lost myself in a sea of flashing red banner ads. It couldn't be a trick, surely? Why would anyone do that to me? I refused to believe that the broken web link was anything other than the result of an unfortunate typographical error. They'll email me back...right?

In the meantime I was consoled by a (now steady) stream of emails. My new friends were thrilled to offer me cheap computer software!!!, Rolex watches!!! and even prescription meds!!!. I was overwhelmed by all the bargains, and would have bought the lot except that mum wouldn't give me her credit card.

I humbly apologised to my commercially-minded friends, who thankfully weren't upset. They rewarded my politeness with offers of cheap encyclopaedias!!! and computer parts!!!. I felt so guilty that I couldn't repay their kindness.

I tried not to blame them for the poor sense of timing, but my guilt was compounded by upsetting pleas for help from yet more strangers. A woman needed money to cure her sick child of a deadly illness, and a Russian girl pleaded desperately for me to sponsor her escape from sex slavery. I reassured mum the loans would only be temporary, but I couldn't melt her icy heart. I offered to send them my pocket money but postal addresses were never forthcoming.

My inbox was bulging with countless emails from all over the world; whole days were spent reading, replying to, and deleting emails to make room for the new ones. At this point I realised my financial inaction was ruffling some feathers. My teen insecurities were fed a string of insults: "You look stupid" and "You have such a stupid face" were among the hurtful remarks.

I was forced into a deep depression. I was still poor, I didn't have a Rolex!!!, it was my fault that the child was dead and even strangers thought I looked stupid. I gave up reading the unsolicited emails and settled for deleting them en masse without a second thought.

Broken promises

2008-06-03T19:12:00.000+10:00

This entry was meant to showcase a piece of fiction from my archive, but the archive is rather more limited than I remember. Perhaps I was more zealous - or judicious - with the delete key back in those days. At any rate, consider yourself spared.

Normally I'd feel guilty writing something about nothing (much), but it seems the best way to fit in around here. The latest offerings? Two meaty paragraphs about one's absence/abstinence/re-fucking-lentlessness, and a (nevertheless delightful) account of one's trip to the Nova cinema with an Acupuncturist. That said, the latter publication was accompanied by a lesson in Lotus-bendiness and the beginnings of a story starring a giant squid. Psst, Peter Jackson! I think I've found your next film project...

The drafts of student essays (for that subject we're all so fond of) are trickling through via email, giving me some finite work to do. As opposed to the infinite work of being a graduate student...
The early afternoon was spent at the relatively-local swimming pool, where I achieved a personal best of 2.3 km (46 laps) in 28 minutes. The second solo attempt at gearstick-wrangling* was more enjoyable and less weird than the first. The freedom is splendid. Dare I say, marvellous?

* More fun than merely "driving".

Freitag und Freiheit

2008-05-31T02:26:00.004+10:00

She stood there alone, amongst the motley collection of train passengers. The carriage was crowded, except for a collection of seats surrounding a guy she didn't know was called Tom. He received fleeting glances from each new passenger as they skirted around him and sat elsewhere (much to their physical discomfort). I saw him sigh. He looked lonely.

It was past midnight; further past midnight than it should have been. The ever-faceless They couldn't even make the last train depart according to schedule. It didn't matter. The meat on Friday's bones had already been enjoyed with gusto, and a lazy post-prandial Saturday lay ahead.

She reflected on the spoils...

Sex was the first item on the agenda, though not in the hot-and-bothered, yes yes YES kind of way. One rarely needs an excuse to talk about sex, it's just a matter of whether your companions are equally willing. On this occasion, the reasons were entirely (but perhaps not purely) academic - there were third year undergraduates to educate. 'Sexual-social' behaviours, response to porn, arousal, orgasm, and eerie clinical contraptions to measure such things. No topic was off-limits; the students were signed up to learn how the brain influences sexual behaviour.

Academic titillation gave way to nerves as the day progressed. Four years of living with the letter L was - pending the opinion of a feared officer in a fluorescent yellow vest - soon to be succeeded by three years of ownership by the letter P. It was a white-on-red letter day; this humble blogger is now (statistically) at greater risk on the roads.

A delicious dinner at Trotters followed, in the company of ten or so other grad students. The students talked, laughed, ate, drank, and took dorky pictures of one another. One male suggested the grads should hook up with one another (i.e. that some of the women should sleep with him*). Hope springs eternal. He threatened to use the Blue Steel look on the grumpy waitress, but it probably wouldn't have worked.

With the mind pleasantly fuzzy, the remainder of the evening was spent watching a film with two close friends. There was considerable laughter, provoked by the film itself and by the snide remarks from my fellow popcorn cynics. The movie was entertaining, despite its faults. Review might follow.

* Men apparently think about sex once every minute, and it shows.

Hard hats and specula

2008-05-26T15:30:00.003+10:00

WELLINGTON (Reuters) - Road workers in a small New Zealand town got their wish granted when a woman stripped, saying she was fed up with their wolf-whistles.

Male road and construction workers are almost expected to misbehave when a gorgeous woman* struts past. Some, not all, live up to this expectation. Wolf-whistling, leering and inarticulate yelling are typical**.

According to the (poorly written) Reuters article, the woman's reaction in this instance was "Bugger them, I'll show them what I've got". The workers were no doubt excited (hard hats, boys!) when the woman rewarded their wolf-whistles with a brief strip show.

While most women would not choose to undress for wolf-whistling road workers, they do bare themselves to doctors when required. Doctors see women at their most vulnerable - in need of medical treatment and in various states of undress. Yet male doctors are never expected to follow the lead of their blue collar counterparts.

I know what you're thinking. Doctors are highly-educated professionals and pillars of society, bound by strict codes of conduct and Hippocratic oaths. It's true. Most male doctors exhibit exemplary behaviour, but let's face it: they're still human. Still male. Still horny a good part of the time. The nature of their work means that one slip-up leads to more than an article in the "oddly enough" section of Reuters.

Here's a juicy example. Former Cleo "Bachelor of the Year" nominee and general practitioner, Dr Young, is yet again in trouble for sexual misconduct. Since 2001 this doctor has engaged in sexual relationships with female patients, performed unnecessary examinations and received sexual services from a prostitute during her visits to his clinic. During one of the, err, less "professional" pelvic exams of a young woman, he exclaimed: "Holy mackerel, you're really small".

Let's just say he was not referring to her height, weight, or shoe size. Reprimands have included suspension of Dr Young's medical license and compulsory counselling, but this party boy just can't keep his hands out of the, um, cookie jar.

* In reality, a novice female impersonator with a bad hair day could probably draw their attention. This calls for an experiment. Volunteers?

** If you believe tv advertisements, films and Reuters news stories.

They hunt in packs

2008-05-24T16:16:00.003+10:00

Three teens push past me impatiently. They claim the three seats surrounding their dark-haired friend, who is already making herself comfortable. I continue to watch the girls over the top of my book. The dark-haired girl is tall, with a piercing in her lip, plastic tiara and a boyish figure. Her most boisterous friend is blonde and youthfully chubby. The remaining two are both sandy-haired, and seem to occupy the social shadow cast by their companions.

Immediately the girls appear to be scheming. Boisterous Blonde is leaning out of her chair to look further down the carriage. Three friendly young men, perhaps Indian, are sitting opposite. They watch her. Blonde (having noticed this) turns to the strangers and loudly says “hi,” with bizarre familiarity. I imagine countless other incidents where she has responded to strangers’ curiosity in the same way; she’s a seasoned pro at acting up in public. I can’t help but smile.

As if a ball had been thrown into a box of live mouse traps, the young men chatter with sudden enthusiasm. The conversation is not in English so I can only guess at its content. My attention turns back to the four girls, who are discussing a boy further down the carriage – no doubt the subject of their schemes. Brunette and Blonde, occupying aisle seats, crane their necks to locate the victim. Despite Blonde’s intense interest, I suspect he is a stranger to them. Brunette is the brains of the operation; after a few stops they’ll move further down the carriage towards him. They discuss tactics: pretend to look for another friend, pretend to check the station monitors when the train stops, or wander down while faking a mobile phone conversation with someone at the far end of the train. Blonde warns against the final option: “My friend tried that one day, but while she was talking the phone started ringing! It was okay; she pretended it was an alarm going off.”

One of the sandy-haired girls stands up, and leans out over Blonde to look down the carriage. Blonde girl loudly questions whether the gawking is necessary (never mind that she herself has been recklessly staring at the boy). My suspicions about the social hierarchy are correct.

The girls finally relocate closer to the mysterious male. My entertainment has moved beyond earshot.

Game On

2008-05-20T13:58:00.006+10:00

How could I possibly resist the invitation to play my way through the history of videogames?

"Game On" is a vibrant and interactive exhibition which showcases the development of videogames, from Pong to the latest high-tech releases for computers and gaming consoles.

The exhibition boasts more than 100 games already set up for visitors to play. I particularly enjoyed the chance to re-live the joy of Pitfall, the crocodile-jumping and rope-swinging classic for the Atari games console. Back before my age hit double digits, I remember watching with awe as my older cousin cruised through Pitfall. The bleepy music and graphics were deliciously old-fashioned, and just as I remember them.

A major highlight for me was a recent Tony Hawk game, in which your digital skateboarding prowess earns points according to the difficulty of your moves. However, players are rewarded regardless of whether they master or fumble the controller. The hapless skateboarder collapses, bounces and crunches in highly amusing ways; even serious head trauma leaves merely a bloodied splat on the ground. The Tony Hawk game, like stylised violence in some films, had me laughing to the point of bellyache.

The exhibition offers unlimited access to the games on the day of your visit, although you're asked to limit individual game play to 5 minutes if a queue forms behind you. I was able to move freely between vacant game consoles, although I was required to line up for the Nintendo Wii.

It was interesting and entertaining to watch the assorted facial expressions adopted by different players. Some had surprisingly passive expressions while brutally murdering digital enemies; others showed extreme concentration and/or physically swerved with the movements of their electronic alter-ego.

Visitors to "Game On" are also offered some insight into the game development process, including illustrations by Mario creator Shigeru Miyamoto and concept sketches for Grand Theft Auto. The exhibition also boasts a comprehensive collection of game paraphernalia: arcade machines, packaging, magazine covers, and vaguely-related collectables (e.g. a baseball bat branded with a game logo).

I have but one complaint about the exhibition: the lack of rigorous editing of the printed instructions and historical background provided at each game station. I noticed several typographical errors, and in one case the instructions for the game were for a different console to that provided.

In addition to my enjoyment on the day, I was able to snap up a free copy of the original Sim City game for PC. This will no doubt further my procrastination opportunities at home! "Game On" should appeal to nostalgic former players and current gamers alike.

Game On

At the Australian Centre for the Moving Image (ACMI)

Federation Square, Melbourne

Until Sunday 13 July 2008

Open daily 10am - 6pm, late night Thursdays until 9pm

Full $15 Concession $10 (flash your student card)