The olden days

Now that I’m on term break, I am blissfully bored and restless and wondering what to do with myself. I’ve been waiting for this moment for the past 12 weeks. And I love it.

But I’m bored. And I have two weeks of this.

So, anyway, because I was telling a friend about it, I’ve been perusing this now-defunct irrevent (some might have said irrelevant) Melbourne blog called GrodsCorp. Some of you may remember it with fondness or with disgust. Maybe a bit of both. It’s startling to see how much time I spent on that thing. And the things I wrote, or wrote about. Thanks to the WayBackMachine, I have just spent a couple of hours cringing and/or chortling at the guff that was written.

I proffer the following example for reading and weeping:

Spies like us (17 April, 2008)

I had quite an exciting time on the train this morning, on my way to work. It was also God-sent, because I’d left my book at home.When I squeezed in next to the natty looking gent on the train, I accidentally sat on the corner of his suit jacket, and he got a little huffy about that. I mumbled something that I wished sounded like “You’re a fucking idiot, you know?”, but it sounded more like “sorry”.

As you can tell, I’m a wonderful person to be with in the mornings.

So, there I am, sitting on the train, wondering why my book wasn’t in my bag, when the dude next to me caught my attention again by looking like he was rehearsing for a speech. He had a notepad on his lap, his mouth was moving silently, and his hands making little movements as if he was talking to an audience. Aha! I thought. What’s he rehearsing for? Is he nervous? I hope he is, I thought meanly, because he didn’t move the corner of his jacket off the seat before I sat down.

I should point out that I am by nature a curious (some might say nosey) person about other people. Particularly if I don’t have anything to read on the train. I like to wonder about people around me – who are they, where are they going, how do they feel, do they make more money than me, did they get lucky last night? That sort of thing.

So, with my curiosity piqued, I had to take a quick surreptitious look at his notepad to see what he was obviously memorising and practising. First point went something like this:

1. If we have to do it, we have to do it.

Cor blimey, I thought, that’s deep. And easy enough to remember. But do what? I sneak another look.

2. Compliance/asic – asic have axe to grind. Give them an inch and they will take a mile.

Oooh, he’s clearly talking about ASIC – Australian Securities and Investments Commission, the body responsible for “ensuring that Australia’s financial markets are fair and transparent, supported by confident and informed investors and consumers.”

And with whom does ASIC have an axe to grind? Oh! This is better than the book that’s not in my bag! Am I sitting next to a white-collar crim?! I glance oh-so-casually out the window past his profile, pretending to figure out where we are, and EEEK! It’s Gordon Gekko! Corporate raider! Slicked back hair, smooth freshly shaven skin… well, actually, that’s as far as the similarities go. Oh, and natty suit, which, I remind you, I partially sat on.

3. Telephone bugging – sound “different” – monitoring.

By now, I’m mentally writing a TV script that will rival Underbelly. Spies skulking around the corridors of power, money and high-fliers. Bugs inserted into board room meetings full of white men in natty suits wearing expensive gold, monogrammed cufflinks. Richly decorated offices with expansive harbour views being fumigated by smells from Boss, Drakkar Noir and Old Spice. Golden-haired secretaries wearing crisp white shirts and sharp black skirts and long tanned legs, complete with peek-a-boo red lingerie underneath.

Settle, boys. Girls, too.

4. Not all markets are doing this. Golden opportunity…

What? What was that? Not doing what? Why is it underlined? I twist my head blatantly to read it but I didn’t get a chance — Mr Gekko had flipped his notepad shut and we were rolling into Martin Place Station, and he pushed past me, even though I was also getting off at the same station. I just hadn’t budged yet because I was so engrossed with trying to read his small but legible writing, and there were another 5 or 6 points to still read.

I nearly cried. I nearly followed him, but he moved way too fast, fast like a man on a mission to steal millions of dollars.

I turned up to work, feeling robbed, not of millions of dollars, but of having my spying skills cut short.

It’s your turn, dear GrodsReaders. What do you think his notes were about? What and who was he memorising his notes for? What were they going to do? Is it legal? Why is ASIC attempting to take a mile off them?

Also, may I remind you to be careful if you’re on public transport; you never know, I could be sitting next to you.

~ ~ ~ ~

So, there you have it. What about you? Anything you’ve written that you’ve looked back on and wish you hadn’t written or would write it differently today?

The naming of cats is a difficult matter

But I tell you a cat needs a name that’s particular
A name that’s peculiar, and more dignified
Else how can he keep up his tail perpendicular
Or spread out his whiskers, or cherish his pride?

And so it comes to pass that I write yet another cat post. I know of a couple of readers out of my millions and billions of readers and fans who are going to sigh and say, “Another cat post? How original.” To them I say, scratch me.

The other day, I was thinking about how I came to name all the cats I’ve had — and I’ve had quite a few (cats, that is), thanks to living on a busy, traffic heavy road for most of my upbringing.

First, there was Sox, when I was 4 years old, named so because he was black with white paws. Then he “disappeared” and another black cat with white paws came along, this time called… Sox II.

Later on, I started getting more creative. Or sillier — you decide. Just keep it to yourself.

Along came Marmaduke, because my 9 year old brain thought it would be funny that a name popularised by a cartoon dog should be given to a cat.

When Marmaduke met his grisly ending, a new kitten was immediately obtained — Napoleon.  This time, my 10 year old brain thought it would be funny to name a cat after a French Emperor who was allegedly ailurophobic. This was a time when my sense of irony was starting to finetune itself. It’s arguably still in progress.

He, too, didn’t last long. According to my parents, he just went “AWOL”, and a new cat was swiftly acquired.

My 11 year old brain was becoming more discerning with regards to cat personality. This cat was an utter princess — hence her name became Tiger Lily, named after the spoilt princess in the Peter Pan fable. It was just so apt.

She gave us five kittens then promptly disappeared. I’m still unsure whether she couldn’t handle motherhood or met Ceiling Cat somewhere on Pittwater Road.

For many years after Tiger Lily’s disappearance, we had no cat… Oh wait, we did have one for about 2 days, when I discovered a big grey cat sleeping in our yard when I was 17. Despite not knowing his origins or whether he was lost or just passing through, I nevertheless proceeded to name him Amadeus. Yes, as in Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (whose full Latin name is even better: Johannes Chrysostomus Wolfgangus Theophilus Mozart), purely on the basis I was at the time learning the piano; I was now getting my naming inspiration from events in my life. And maybe showing off how cultured I was.

Then along came Mr Bean. Inspired by some dopey rubbery-faced British character. You might have heard of him. Mr Bean also went by the names of Clancy of the Overflow, Chairman Meow, BLOODY CAT!!, and Where The Fuck Are You?.

Irony, humour, inspiration.

How do you come up with names for your pets?

Blue skies, smiling at me

The late afternoon sky bloomed in the window for a moment like the blue honey of the Mediterranean, wrote F. Scott Fitzgerald in The Great Gatsby.

And so it was the other day when I realised that Spring had finally arrived and I thought of Fitzgerald’s ethereal description. All around me, the flora was exploding in a myriad of colours and petals, the sky was perfectly azure, the sun was warming after a long, cold winter, and I felt very content.

Then my brain started going silly. Verses of Blue Skies gave way to Machine Gun Fellatio’s Rollercoaster: Cruise around town with the windows down, Shakin’ all ’round to the stereo sound, Cruise around town with the windows down, Shakin’ all up to the summertime sound — and I wanted to go for a long, long drive underneath the endless blue canopy, shakin’ all ’round and crusin’ around town with the windows down. That, for me, is freedom. Oh yeah. They see me rollin’, they hatin’.

So then I wondered about giving away my studies and becoming a taxi driver. And why not? I’ve mastered the immortal lines: “You talkin’ to me? You talkin’ to me? You talkin’ to me? Then who the hell else are you talking… you talking to me? Well I’m the only one here. Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to? Oh yeah? OK. “

And you know what else, I asked myself excitedly, I’d get to live out the scene on my favourite coffee mug:

Thus endeth the nice Spring moment.

You say tomato…

Sometimes I find myself doing strange things, like taking photographs of a bottle of sauce. See?

Mind, it’s not such an odd activity to partake as it first appears. I am not sauced (thanks, Karen) or anything. It’s simply that I’ve been inspired . . . though some might say I’m just avoiding essay writing for university assignments.

Whatevs.

This is because I’ve been seeing a question on Facebook that has been circulating for a few weeks:

. . . and I am horrified — horrified! — that people are putting their tomato sauce bottles in the cupboard!

IT DOES NOT GO IN THE CUPBOARD! IT GOES IN THE FRIDGE! DON’T FUCKEN ARGUE WITH ME!

Assuming the question means after the bottle has been opened, of course.

Anyway, because Homo sapiens are such argumentive little shmendriks, here’s the goddamn proof:

Let’s have a closer look at that, shall we?

You know what to do, Silly Cupboard People.

Meanwhile, I suppose I should finish that essay.

Pitch by my doorstep

I get daily visitors — and never tire of them.

Watching me pottering around in the kitchen. I thought I could feel beady eyes on me.

Advertising is a racket…

…like the movies and the brokerage business. You cannot be honest without admitting that its constructive contribution to humanity is exactly minus zero.

– F. Scott Fitzgerald

Waiting for a train is one of the most tedious experiences most of us will have. Akin to watching a pot of water boil, trains never arrive when you want one to. In the meantime, while you’re waiting, if you’re not tweeting on your phone, reading a book, or glancing at your watch every nanosecond, you have to contend with looking blankly at great big advertisements staring back at you from the walls of the station. I don’t know about you, but most advertising shits me to tears, whether because of hyperbole, childishness, or their condescending messages.

Then there are those billboards that make you think. Think deeply. Ponder. Muse. Like this vacuous one:

My brain went into overdrive, which is a rare thing when waiting for trains.

Let me get this straight: you buy a dishwasher and then you splurge on eating out? So why do you need a fucking dishwasher if you’re not at home dirtying up things that go in a dishwasher?!

If anyone reads it differently, please let me know. My brain is overwrought. And I have a train to catch.

 

Midweek headkick

This week has been slow and sluggish and tonight I thought I need something… something… to… something… feel alive, maybe. Not sure. It’s been a weird week. Anyway. This always gets me back in a good mood, ready to RAWK.

Fuck yeah.

Things That Make You Go Owww…

So, I start my full-time post-grad psychology studies very soon now. Until now, I’d been looking forward to it, envisioning myself swotting away burning the midnight oil, hunched over hundreds of books delving into the human mind, looking studious in the romantic sort of way. Inspired. Intense. Serious. Intelligent. Full of knowledge. Oh so fucking SMRAT.

I swore that I won’t be slacking off at all in the next 18-24 months; that even during the more mundane or hard-to-grasp-immediately topics, I would persevere and stay studious and, more importantly, keen.

Then a friend posted this on her Facebook status update:

[So and so] is reading a big freaky library journal article about “aboutness.”

And all the harsh realities of studying inane bullshit came rushing to the fore, combined with my pathological hatred of what I call “stupid speak” (encompassing moronic corporate speak and the like). Suddenly, returning to studying and looking  scholarly didn’t seem so appealing anymore.

THEN! my friend emailed me with an example of this “aboutness” after I stopped short of leaving a full-blown ranty comment on her status. I present it to you with no further comment because I don’t think it needs further comment. Except maybe a “WHAT THE FUCK?!”

Maron (1977) tackled aboutness by relating it to a probability of satisfaction.  Three types of aboutness were characterized: S-about, O-about, and R-about.  S-about (i.e., subjective about) is a relationship between a document and the resulting inner experience of the user.  O-about (i.e., objective about) is a relationship between a document and a set of index terms.  More specifically, a document D is about a term set T if user X employs T to search for D.  R-about purports to be a generalization of O-about to a specific user community (i.e., a class of users).  Let I be an index term and D be a document, then D is R-about I is the ratio between the number of users satisfied with D when using I and the number of users satisfied by D.

Lobuli auricularum — or fleshdrapes*

What the fuck can I write about, I muttered darkly under my breath, while tapping out the same question on Twitter. I need to write but what to write? This writer’s block I’ve had for months now seems to be permanent, as immoveable as Blanche d’Apulget’s forehead. As stiff as Bronwyn Bishop’s coiffure. As stubborn as Piers Akerman’s skidmarks.

Unexpectedly, a  little possum tweeted back, “Earlobes”. Meaning, I should write about earlobes.

It’s not as random as one would normally first think. It’s all part of the Twitter craze/obsession about Prime Minister Julia Gillard’s earlobes. It was first commented upon during Sunday evening’s Great Debate That Never Was and it caught on fast.

Two things can be said here:

1. The debate between Julia Gillard and Tony Abbott was so tedious that it made people notice things like Julia’s earlobes. For me, personally, I spent most of the time thinking about what toppings I was going to put on my pizza after it was over.

2. People are easily distracted by the inconsequential things, like earlobes. Or, in my case, pizza toppings.

Oddly enough, or perhaps because I am utterly bored, I looked up earlobes on Wikipedia. Who would have thought that earlobes are actually rather interesting? Either that or I’m more bored than I thought I was.

Did you know that creased earlobes are associated with genetic disorders and an increased risk of heart attack and coronary heart disease; “however, since earlobes become more creased with age, and older people are more likely to experience heart disease than younger people, age may account for the findings linking heart attack to earlobe creases.”

I just found myself checking my earlobes. Smooth. Phew.

Earlobes are also an erogenous zone for some people. A quick Google search reveals many helpful websites suggesting that nibbling on earlobes can turn someone on, especially for men. Apparently.

A few slightly less obvious erogenous zones on a male are his neck, face and earlobes. A man’s ear is often overlooked. When a female slightly sucks on an earlobe, one can quickly envision her placing those lips somewhere else.

Ahem.

For women:

Some women’s ears are highly sensitive to touch… She will freeze with the sound of your breathing and a seducing whisper will doubly arouse her. Lick around the edges of her ear with the tip of your tongue. Gently suck her earlobes and begin the running commentary on what you are doing next. It produces an arousing sensation throughout her body and curls her toes.

She might curl her toes, or she might scream from being ticklish and sock you one. If you want to nibble on my earlobe, you have been warned.

Don’t be fooled by inconspicuous-looking earlobes. They can be indicators of death — amort or la petite mort.

* Gibbot wants to be credited for the nasty-sounding ‘fleshdrapes’ to describe PM Gillard’s earlobes. God only knows why.

A very good question

Overnight a search term appeared on this blog:

Where do dumbshits come from?

I want you dear readers to proffer your theories in the comments, please. Go hard and be a dumbshit too, if you want.

Best response will get my entire Allen key set.