Parenthood: Outside and infront of the Box.
Current mood: amused
Category: Life

Before Tigerlily made her rapid and "shining-esque" (YOU DON’T wanna know how much blood there was - particularly if you want to have kids one day, but more so if you’re actually about to..) entry onto the world’s stage, I was a snob about parenthood - sure I loved kids, but the whole prospect and (disgust) of a lathering with mucous, vomit, faeces and a whole variety of red, sticky sweets, seemed to hold at bay my desire to actually own one.

Now while I didn’t know one end of a newborn from the other (with the same degree of awe and respect as I do now), I was full of opinions about the right way and the wrong way to parent. And when it came to TV, DVDs and videos, I thought,if I was to have kids, they’d simply not require them.

As far as I was concerned, parents of young children who resort to the idiot box were just taking the easy, lazy option.

Almost 2 years later, there’s a teetering pile of Elmo and Dora DVDs atop EVERY TV in the house.  And despite being a very lapsed Catholic (I believe the religious term is "athiest"), having seen the miracles these DVDs achieve, I am convinced that Dora the explorer is INDEED the Blessed Virgin, and also that Elmo was born of her.. but I digress.

On a typical day, Tigerlily watches TV for about an hour. Some days more, some days none at all. There’s a part of me that says this is too much, that berates me for taking the soft option and part-time parenting,  that she should be reading Dr Seuss, drawing elephants, having tea parties with a company of vacant expressioned toys, swimming at the beach or sliding down slippery dips. She DOES do these things, but they are a peppering to the whole newer experience of childhood: peopled by the role-models of squeaky voiced red muppets, seemingly thronged with apparently homeless mexican children spewing incomprehensible gibberish, and irritating melodies, purple dinosaurs, and a cavalcade of apparently lobotomized or down-syndromed american adults.  Is THIS parenting?  Is my daughter learning anything apart from "Spanglish", the opinions of a puppet on sharing, and just why the cow failed in it’s first attempt at a moon landing.  Am I exposing my child to potentially damaging programming of mundane television entertainments, therefore preparing her admirably for her future tenure as a reality tv loving pre-teen?

ISN’T THIS WHAT MY PARENTS DID TO ME??  "Show the court on the remote control where Daddy touched you..".

Ok: a bit much perhaps.  But there’s a larger part of me that says an hour of TV is fine, because other, more active pastimes occupy the rest of her day - running both Mummy and Daddy ragged in the process - and for THAT reason, should TV be considered an essential part of modern parenting?

Of course, it doesn’t hurt for that when Tigerlily is watching TV, whoever’s looking after her gets a chance to tidy up (or in Daddy’s case is sprawled out on the couch exhausted, or bashing away at his laptop). Besides, if we choose what she views carefully, TV won’t just prepare her for life as a couch potato, but will assist her growth and development, right?   RIGHT??

Or are these merely convenient rationalisations to salve a guilty conscience?

Before Tigerlily was born, I was partly impressed by friends who said their four-year-old boy had never watched any TV (also partly horrified: life without TV - Oh! The travesty..).

I wanted to do much the same if ever I had kids. By contrast, I was taken aback by friends whose children regularly watched a video before bedtime. That won’t be me, I remember thinking.

Now I realized (in retrospective discovery), that those "TV Free"parents were full of shit, having seen their son on his 3rd birthday performing somewhat reminiscently the same partly spastic and violent kata of a Green Power Ranger, I can only assume that the desire for some "them time" had been brought into sharper focus by the advent of the "Terrible Two’s..". and adaptive morality established.

And my loftier than thou attitude to late night viewing for infants? That too - gone.

TV became an essential part of our day, and the truth is I don’t mind a bit. I love seeing her sitting entranced and eating fruit as she squeals in glee whilst Elmo her teaches about numbers.

And I’m enjoying teaching her to use the remote: she demonstrates an aptitude for all things electrical (even trying to insert her OWN DVDs now..).

Plus, there’s the "Hi-5" girls (whoa, mamma..).

Her own sense of humour is developing sophistication - she now very discerningly gravitates towards  the Shrek series, Over The Hedge, Monsters Inc and even is willing to prop up on the couch next to Daddy and watch "Family Guy"and "Robot Chicken"- using my own laughter as cue, she apes my amusement - and adds a dimension to it that makes the experience, for me as well, so much better.

But as we use TV to give US personal time, we sometimes forget to keep in mind that TV is giving HER personal time too, but I must admit, at times I wonder which Tigerlily loves more: her one rectangular screen -  or her two square parents.





(We GOTTA be close runners, surely..).

Currently listening : Dirty Ditties [EP] By Asylum Street Spankers Release date: 30 April, 2002

1:23 - 15 Comments - 10 Kudos - Add Comment

Junk Shop Zen: Esteem and Peace for $135.. Part 2
Current mood: accomplished
Category: Happy Religion and Philosophy

We had planned for quite some time to get a Juicer – seeing But first things first, I had to find a juicer: clearly there was divine forces at work here, considering the OJ currently bringing my daughter peace.

In with muddled steps amidst air conditioning that didn't work, and running the gamut of throngs of heavily made up 40 year old women menacing me with spray bottles of "Calvin Klein's Mace", we finally negotiated our way to the electrical department, as my wife waxed lyrically about the massive range of electrical "back" massagers:  I sigh and shrug uncomfortably: feeling somewhat the under achiever..

"Have you got any juicers?"

"Yes, of course," the assistant proudly states, then leads us on a six-state tour of the store, stopping at all the major points of interest. We pass the cutlery stand, the coloured-glass vases, the Italian design kettles and a marvellous array of garlic presses.

The sales assistant is an attractive young woman of Indian or Sri Lankan Ancestry - eyes glittering like pinball machine light, and a smile that seems a little over-done.  Unlike my acquaintances with men of her ethnicity, she neither smells like a turd in a wet football sock, nor does she seem to promote the belief that a failure to exercise proper bodily hygeine equates to honoring one's culture.

She moves back and forth between shelving with the grace of a drunken hummingbird.

"But where, oh, where," she laments, "are them pesky juicers? She finally stumbles across a neatly arranged display. She points at the nearest example.  An impressive sculpture in annodised steel and enamel that would not look out of place in the galley of the Starship Enterprise.  I look at Ellen - she looks impressed.  Tigerlily passively slumps in her arms.  Ellen complains about her back aching - I take Tigerlily from Elle, and immediately she begins crying and  wriggling from my grasp: I give up and return her to Ellen's aching grip.

"Is this a good one?" I ask of the girl, sensually manipulating one of several inexplicable looking buttons.

"Yes." The assistant does not feel compelled to furnish us with more information but we feel compelled to inquire.  My minds-eyes roll , and I sigh audibly.  My discomfort does not register on the sale assistant's radar.

"Can you tell us a little bit more about it?", I continue hopefully.

"Well . . ." She pauses. "The fruit goes in here . . ." She pauses again. Her eyes feverishly scan the white plastic juicer as she announces triumphantly, ". . . and the juice comes out here".

Well, I'm convinced; but Ellen decides against it's purchase: clearly on moral grounds.  We leave immediately dismissing the notion of ever owning a juicer.

OR a personal "Back" Massager.

After battling on the buses, pushing past hordes of shoppers, and soldiering through the kitchen utensils, we're confronted with the stark obvious. In retrospect, considering such a detailed description I felt grateful she wasn't the assistant in a pet shop.

The crowded mall is bristling with humanity. There must be a way of linking each and every one of us regardless of colour, religion and beliefs to attain a world where mutual respect is paramount.

Someone must find the world's greatest humanitarians, philosophers, thinkers lest the archetype be designed and marketed by some television exec. with a pin-striped pair of pants, and salmon pink bodyshirt and forever throw us off the scent of gleaning true wisdom and insight. 

But what if?

Dr Phil can head the team, he can solve any conflict, and they must begin work immediately on the Grand Unification Theory of Mankind. It'd be easier than solving the riddles of the universe, and twice as fun!!  Just a single idea to connect us all through dialogue to honesty, forgiveness and understanding. We could achieve an earthly perfection based on rational discussion, appreciation and love for our neighbours. To vote now, sms THEORY to 198891..

And should we seal this document of salvation with trust? Because the pen, as they say is mightier than the sword..

However considering that one can never find a pen when they need one, it is scarcely no suprise as to why the middle east seals their documents, with exploding psychopaths.  I hate when my mind works like this when I go out in public  - my wife doubly so: I speak all I think - it's exausting at best.  I seek out distraction in the newsstand.

Aussie Scientists have found NEW seabirds - in NEW ZEALAND'S Chatham Island!!

Admittedly they look almost exactly the same as the old seabirds we had before, and they seem to exhibit the same predilection for stealing  chips at the beach; That being said, should we be excited because in terms of the environment, our animal species are just a little step back from the brink of extinction, or really annoyed that the best Mother Nature could do was pull out the trump card of 4 new species of Sea Birds (who coincidentally ALL resemble Cormorants in body, thought and deed) to re-invigorate our interest in Wildlife Conservation?

 
Maybe I could get enthused if the Seabirds were like 6 metres long, or they'd developed a rudimentary system of communication involving the arrangement of sea-shells, appeared on "Austrtalian Idol", or were featured in their own Comic Crossover: " WOLVERINE/CORMORANT".   I laugh to myself - my wife thinks I'm coughing.

Maybe it's both.

 Maybe...  Just maybe. 

The problem with this sort of thing is that generally the enormity of it cannot be related to "the ordinary people" -  this is largely in part because UNLESS there is a threat of Cormorant extinction, the benefit of finding 4 more of the bastards is hardly anything to fly flags about.  Also, I think too this is not helped by the Cormorant's rather mundane and sedentary lifestyle, not to mention the fact that if you're answering a "What type of bird are you?" questionaire on someone's facebook page, you can be damn sure that there is fuck all mention of a Cormorant to be found anywhere.

The distraction has worked!  My mind is at peace - we return to the car and set off home.

Tigerlily has passed out in the back, and is snoring ever so lightly.  My wife is steering through 3 lines of traffic with surgical precision.  And what was I doing?

In the midst of ignoring the stereo and 40% of my wife's recount of her friend's adventures in grown-up land, I considered what the trip actually was.  Sure, it allowed me to save $345 by NOT purchasing a juicer, and tested my gag reflex against the spoils of my daughter, but how else can one then study a species mid-evolution better than an excusion like this? Also, I thought of the excursions as relief missions - where I go looking for survivors, or to see if maybe somewhere along the way, I got lost in the sea of product that is man, and needed to throw myself the rescue ring of arrogant intellectual superiority to assert my enlightened rejection of popular culture.

Being exposed to Popular culture is fine - being changed by it and becoming product isn't - yet it seems innescapable.

I wonder why so many of the current generation think it is necessary to drown themselves (apart from them being totally retarded..), their aped behaviours and ideas punching extra holes in the deck of the vessel to speed it's complete immersion into deep oceans of "Manufactured Reality" and "Fundamentalist Consumerism".

But for me, the whole shopping experience generally is not a waste: the Op shop is a metaphor for life - what is in there generally is generic and dull: or odious and ugly. And religion and popular culture are the catalogs for misdirected experience: they present unrealistic imagery to sell you their product - they negate the necessity to "go out and shop around".

But through the experience of "shopping around" (living), we equate "needs"and "wants", and reduce them to the less absolute "must haves".

I have a few: one of whom is currently playing with her toy Doctor's kit, a Tommy Chong action figure and is singing to herself.  And another who is generating a "Cat Page"on her Facebook. 

And in the process of shopping for nothing, and going nowhere, something wonderful is experienced in that travel.

This necessary journey is unique to everyone - and everytime.  And in that, such journeys are not a waste: they are the ultimate expression of Zen.

Currently watching : Cannibal Apocalypse Release date: 19 March, 2002

3:30 - 6 Comments - 6 Kudos - Add Comment

Junk Shop Zen: Esteem and Peace for $135..
Current mood: happy
Category: At peace.. Religion and Philosophy

Delve into the op shop of life, and what do you find? A bunch of people selling expensive crap you don't need. . .

Hundreds of times I walked by it – located in one of the less surveiled mini side streets of Kings Cross. It's dazzling display of Kitsch appealed to my desire to acquire the sort of eccentricities that would render me "windswept and interesting"  – ceramic negro heads ginning at me behind grimy glass,; Imacculately kept 77rpm Records still in equally immaculate dust jackets, and a stuffed mongoose locked in a frenzied battle with an albeit none too well preserved cobra: it's eyes glinting silently with malevolence. I paused considering why such vicious fighting should for sovereignty of a very ugly black timber lamp stand –Sure, I'd considered actually going in there maybe once or twice –  even considered going in and buying a few racially inappropriate objet dart, but considering the constraints of time I used to put on myself, it was easier to make the heretical affirmation "Hmmm, I must go in there some time", knowing full well that day would never come.

 Recently however, finding myself trapped in the area wanting of a taxi, I decided after two years consumer voyeurism, it was time to step into the hallowed halls of other people's crap.

Well,  it's the same ol' store, with brand spanking new owners. The only difference is there's more stuff now. Once it was just a few old couches (ugly, fabric'd, 1970s jobbies, a lot of anger in the weave, with battle-scarred cushions that took a pounding from a cavalcade of widening butts and countless hours of television scant worth broadcasting); apparently now it's all faux-chic", so you have to dig deep.

Amid the rotting pine furniture, rusted chrome stools and Young Talent Team 1983 Annuals, I spot a lamp. A standard lamp cobbled together from body parts of other lamps - a Frankenstein lamp. It's industrial looking: all metal, adjustable neck, a slightly dinged shade, three-wheeled base, sturdy (apart from the wing nut on the shade which allows the whole thing to slump forward with the resignation of a condemned man).

For reasons unbeknownst to me, I take interest in it – and begin a half heated flirtation with the idea of restoring it to it's retro finest.

I look for sales assistants.. Two middle-aged harridans fascinated with each other and more interested in pricing everything than selling anything. The third time I query the cost, one replies with annoyance, "$135".

"ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY FIVE DOLLARS FOR THIS???"

Without missing a beat, or even looking at the article, she supplies the validation. "It's an original."

Impotently, I turn the lamp by it's neck and look incredulous.

"An original what?" I respond.

"An original lamp." There's no trace of sarcasm in her voice. So what can be said? Conversation cul-de-sac. An original lamp, I replay it again and again in my head, baffled by her off-the-cuff brilliance..

I survey the Frankenstein Dalek: even the bulb screwed into it has long since fused and burnt out: what a piece of crap. Whatever I was thinking has since abandoned me to this circus tent of the tasteless and expensive.

Leaving the store I hear her voice trailing off - I'm sure they make copies of them in Ikea or something.

Saturday morning, we hit the mall with our small and unco-operative daughter in tow, and our plastic soul catchers bristling within our wallets, and we see the headlines displayed in front of the news vendors and wonder if this war could get any worse. Didn't it end six months ago? Admittedly, it's the first major combat to incorporate camera phones and digital cameras. The happy snaps of your inhuman activities don't even have to be taken to be processed and you can chat to loved ones back home between bouts of torture.

I look around to see if anyone is filming me as my daughter indiscretely announces her soiling her self – I sigh: a bad decision: I inhale the air of corruption and gag.

After we change Tigerlily, and make sure all her evils are locked away within her absorbent Pandora's box, we begin moving vacant eyed through crowds of zombified adults, moaning generically about a variety of dull subjects, and wielding plastic bags with a torporous accuracy, we pass a HMV.. or is it a Sanity?  Once again, I sigh as I see throngs of "Emo themed" adolescents, lip ringred, androgynous and espousing the most manufactured (and by turn, retarded) opinions amongst themselves – all whilst texting more of their obnoxious tribe on their Nokias for no other purpose than using/becoming product.

I recall Andy Warhol once said something about everyone having their 15 minutes of fame – is this why the fuck EVERY show now seems to require it's talent to give a back story, tell of their hardships, laugh, cry and make us love them for "being themselves".  Seriously, if they ARE being themselves perhaps they should try being someone else, instead of this whiny fat prick crying midst explaining his eating disorder, or even this pimple encrusted emo kid with hair reminiscent of Hitler in his artschool days and a pair of stove-pipe denim jeans so tight that the red braces worn by them are rendered a redundant affectation, who aspires to sit locked in a house with 10 other pricks and have us to watch them 24 hours a day in case they actually do anything interesting – for christ's sake!  15 minutes of fame?? Their little attention seeking parasites burrow in to the cerebrophage that is Popular culture.

The Emo kid sees me staring at him – he glares; I repress the desire to push his head into the World Music section on the far wall.  Popular culture seems not to be an accurate description anymore – the offerings from the TV stations seem less about culture and entertainment, and more a celebration of idiocy and marketing.

I don't think the Popular tag is appropriate either.

 S'funny.. popular culture hasn't responded as it did in the socially conscious '60s and '70s. Every song in today's charts centres on the perennially pertinent theme of scoring tail in a nightclub. Britney Spears's "Toxic" was a lost opportunity; it could've been a damning indictment of chemical weapons: indeed her bout with baldness could've possibly been explained away to the exposure to the said arsenal!

It wasn't of course..

Despite the ever growing instances of government-sanctioned assassinations, obliteration of species and environment thanks to progress, and an ever increasing draft of religiously deluded psychopaths, we collectively allow ourselves distraction with reality TV that has absolutely nothing to do with reality whatsoever. We see pictures of detainees, uncharged yet chained, being sexually ridiculed in the news, then spend the rest of night watching programs where people are prepared to humiliate themselves for the opportunity to indulge their ego, and milk their 15 minutes of fame for as much cash as they can get.

 It's pathetic – and considering the next generation is being suckled on this poisoned teat, I wonder morosely how long it will be till the human race (or whatever we're becoming) dies out.

My daughter suddenly squeals and whirls: "ELMO!!! ELMO!!!" – she's beautiful.  My obsession with the ugliness of "Emo", is immediately  undone by the beauty of "Elmo", all the while Tigerlily denudes an entire shelf of Sesame Street DVD's. We buy two of them: our daughter is driven into such a frenzy she tries to crawl into the bag with the DVD's – my wife manages miraculously to subdue her with a bottle of orange juice..

Currently watching : Dawn of the Dead (Unrated Director's Cut) [HD DVD] Release date: 28 August, 2007

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SCIENTOLOGY: The Terrorist movement supported by Hollywood
Current mood: angry
Category: Contempt filled... Blogging

SCIENTOLOGY  (right from the horse, or Jack Ass's Mouth..):

".. I would say there is no validity [to Scientology processing]. But within Scientology you find a great deal of very direct truths, but then it is sort of like a bre'r rabbit tar baby. Inside the tar is this little nugget of truth; but all this black tar is over the side of it so people reach for the truth and they get all hung up in the tar and the various organizations and the science itself becomes perverted".

-- L. Ron Hubbard Jr.

Hubbard once claimed that processing could help or cure such ailments as astigmatism, arthritis, allergies, asthma, bursitis, cataracts, some coronary difficulties, colds, dermatitis, possibly diabetes, glandular imbalance, leukemia (which Hubbard said may have been caused by an engram which recorded the expression "it turns my blood to water"), migraine headaches, polio, radiation burns, sinusitis, thyroid malfunctioning, tuberculosis, ulcers, etc.. IT CAN'T.

In addition, Dianetics, and possibly Scientology is supposed to "turn on and run out incipient cancer," and Hubbard believed that cancer, "especially malignant cancer," may be caused by engrams: IT ISN'T.

One man in Scientology who was dying of a malignant growth in his stomach spent two and a half to six hours a day for several months while his auditor asked him (among other things): "What stomach can you confront?" "What stomach would you rather not confront?" "Think of a stomach you can confront?" "Think of a stomach you'd rather not confront," etc. The man died: THERE'S A SURPRISE!!

Hubbard has also claimed that Dianetics or Scientology can alter the shape of the body and make people grow taller, make them ambidextrous, make the insane sane, cure chronic chills, impotency, manic states, laryngitis, make children more beautiful, change the personality, improve Parkinson's disease, and make large bruises disappear in forty-five minutes.More incredibly, he claimed that Scientology processing can apparently even bring the dead back to life, since Hubbard described a miracle one of his auditors performed that he said "the Pope himself would have been proud to own."

Hubbard claims they brought a dead child back to life by ordering the thetan back and telling him to take over the body again. 

Curiously enough though, actually authenticating this claim through legitimate journalistic and medical sources is impossible.  And as so many of Hubbard's claims have not been and cannot be substantiated. There isn't time to analyze all of these claims. One claim, however, is that Scientology can relieve radiation burns, and that the reaction to radiation in persons who have been given processing was "by actual tests" much lower than those who have not received it.


Scientology is supposed to improve marriages - perhaps arrange them and co-ordinate them:  Tom Cruise who is OBVIOUSLY 100% heterosexual, and John Travolta who is ALSO OBVIOUSLY 100% heterosexual just seem so perfectly matched with their spouses. And of course setting aside the fact Isaac Hayes has been divorced several times, and Julia Roberts.. definately a great representative for stable marriage.

And then there's Brad Pitt.. happily married (to Jennifer Anniston... OH, you mean they're divorced too?).. and of course, ol' "Bart Simpson", Nancy Cartwright.. DIVORCED! 

Annomalies surely?  Not surprisingly, the rate of divorce at the Orgs (centres where Scientologists can be regularly audited) would put Hollywood to shame.

Even Hubbard has been married three times - surpising really that he was married even once.

Two of the marriages were somewhat difficult affairs (he claims that this is solely due to his first two wives not being Scientologists). His final one was:  he not only met her in Dianetics and went on to act as his "personal"auditor (well wives are prone to nag..). But surely Scientology MUST bring something to relationships: their attitude to sexuality within relationships is somewhat "progressive".

Scientology is supposed to cure frigidity. One woman who went to Scientology for that purpose was taught things that caused her husband to get a separate bed. Eventually he divorced her. In another case, a man refused to have sex with his wife because he felt he was too high on Hubbard's "tone scale" and that his wife was too low to bother: one may be excused if they were to see similarities here with Tom and Nicole, or Tom and Penelope's relationships.

So, is Scientology a smart bet?

Founder L. Ron Hubbard claimed Scientology can increase a person's base I.Q. -  fact is though that a base I.Q. can't be increased substantially, as the Intelligence Quotient is a figure that is demonstrative in a subjects capacity to learn and process information. 

Nonetheless Hubbard wrote President Kennedy that Scientology could increase the I.Q. at the rate of one point for every hour of auditing, and he once told a reporter that he had raised an I.Q. from 83 to 212.

As with most of Hubbard's claims, however, raising the I.Q. makes for good advertising copy and helps to bring insecure people into the Orgs. Hubbard told his followers that if someone's I.Q. is low, tell him "Scientology training can raise that." If it's high, tell him "I.Q. means little unless a person knows something with it":  point of fact - R. Kelly is a Scientologist.

Furthermore, afterwards, these people feel that they've been helped by Scientology because they believe that their I.Q. has been raised. What has actually improved is only the score on their I.Q. test - and why shouldn't it? There is some evidence that the Scientologists give the same test twice.

Psychologists for years have been aware of the "practice effect" which means, in effect, that someone given the same test twice will do better the second time, not because they'll cheat and look up the answers they missed, or discuss it with someone else who took the test, which is always a possibility, but because they are familiar with the surroundings, they understand the test and the directions better, they are less nervous, etc.  Such is a commonly accepted fact - one may even say "proven".

Not true, claimed Hubbard: "Everybody in the ... Universe is on a `mustn't happen again' and we automatically figure that a test taken twice will get a worse grade the second time".

In Ability magazine Hubbard once described the case of a person with an I.Q. of 73 which is officially classified as a "moron", which he raised to 88 which, by the way, is still classified as a moron.  A compelling result obviously..

And while we're speaking about Morons, why is it that Scientologists take as gospel truth every word that Hubbard writes, even if they don't understand it, or it is revealed as nonsense and based without fact?

Obviously Cretin is okay, but Thetan isn't.

It's hard to believe that Scientology or Dianetics has actually ever helped anybody. Yet the Scientologists have testimonial books in their lobby filled with "success stories" of people who have been helped by Scientology, and they even have a Director of Success at the Orgs who elicits these testimonials.

The testimonials delivered do not tell of long range effects, however, and generally read like reader's letter to "Penthouse", or "Quick-Slim".

Not surprisingly, the "Church" refrains from any mention of the people it has actually bankrupted, institutionalized or even worse, killed through "trying to apply scientologist processes .

So HOW is this Terrorist movement allowed to flourish, and be given the protections of the Governments, the benefit of tax discounts and the ability to promote their dangerous and destructive ideaologies in a day and age where man is supposed to be enlightened?

Am I over-reacting in my assessment of Scientology and it's followers as "terrorists"? 

NO.

Links:

http://www.whyaretheydead.net/childabuse/pedophile/Gabriel_Williams.html

http://psychassualt.org/

http://scientology-lies.com/crimesindex.html


SUPPORT THE LEGION:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JCbKv9yiLiQ

Currently listening : Travelling Without Moving By Jamiroquai Release date: 14 January, 1997

19:53 - 15 Comments - 18 Kudos - Add Comment

MORE Random Zen.. Several of these things keep coming up...
Current mood: apathetic
Category: ..M’eh.. whatever. Blogging

After a fantastic weekend, I return once again to the hum-drum of my career sentence, even the mildly enjoyable vibrations from the trains bumpy transit have barely raised a semi erection, and there are way too many ugly people on the trains at 5.41 am: where are all the hot chicks, or at least another dude, into comics who doesn't smell like a kebab, dresses like a creep, and whose inflamed acne makes him look like a scarlet pinecone, that otherwise might've provided me with someone to talk at?

Fucking Railcorp..

Even more depressing was the notion that now I had purchased a fabulous Sony digital voice recorder to allow me to record spontaneous and fabulously observed wit-iques about the vagaries of modern life, I now had fuck all ideas because I had writer's block.

Just perfect - impotently I have stared at the myspace page hoping something would leap out at me to trigger off a new blog:  sweet fuck all..

UNTIL TODAY.

Early as it was in the a.m., I was given pause to consider many things which until have annoyed the tits off me but of which I've never vented my spleen because I'm a relatively tolerant guy (or at least I think so..), but I figured my Myspace page required it.  So without further adieu (which is curious, because adieu is a departure greeting, whereas this is the opening to my diatribe.. fucking french language...).

Ahhh.. Myspace. Friendster doesn't have a friend waiting there for me when I sign up.. Facebook doesn't either.  But when I signed up to Myspace, who was waiting there for me?  Arms outstretched... who?

Tom.






Why is it "TOM" from Myspace has NEVER changed the photo on his profile?  Is it a "Portrait of Dorian Gray" thing whereby if he does, Myspace will ACTUALLY crash and require LEGITIMATE maintenance?  More to the point, if this actually is "MYSPACE", what the hell was that douchebag doing there waiting for me in my profile uninvited?

How was it I wonder for the first ever member of MYSPACE?  Who would he have made friends with?  What did he do while he was waiting? 

Can anyone actually explain WHY is it there are so many people who want me as a friend on MYSPACE, yet when I add them, they only want me to patronize their webcam sex site:  I was going to do that ANYWAYS - I don't need you ruining the romance of what we have..

But just so you know, no kissing on the mouth.

But the real thing I can't understand is that while I have so many female MYSPACE buddies, so few of them who will send naked pictures of themselves to me?

And, whilst pathetically waiting for inspiration to drop upon me like a creatively charged nugget of Golden crap from the celestial monkey of Ideas, I get suckered in to checking out their photos..  THEN I invariably read the comments upon other people's photos that some douchbag has left: they're ALWAYS stupid. They seem to be either one of two varieties,  STATING THE OBVIOUS (i.e: "Hey.. you're drinking out of a cup..") or something so SEXUALLY PATHETIC  that spitting on them would render ME feeling dirty and cheap..

And WHY is there always a LOL at the end of a sentence DEVOID of any humour whatsoever?

Why is it that all the really good looking yet unfunny Stand-up Comedians on MYSPACE, who are in reality about as funny as finding blood in your pee, only to further discover a week later that there is a javelin trapped in the eye of your penis that you SOMEHOW overlooked.. have over 100 female subscribers espousing their genius  as a comic and trying to make it seem like it's not just because he gets their "my little kitty" panties damp?  OR the simple, distubing discovery that they've written 94 blogs about the Iranian president with photoshopped images, and they STILL get readers?  What the hell is wrong with you people??

 WHY?

Having started playing the guitar recently, and sucking liking a form of Prison Currency, I wonder how come so many bands want me to be their friends?  I don't like their Music, I say in my Profile I will hunt down and viciously glass any "up and coming band" who attempts to garner my attentions, yet they STILL will not leave me alone?  Surely these people know that 98% of us are going to tell them they suck.


ALSO, why is it that in a technologically advanced, and permissive society, there are NO Television Ads for Anti-Thrush Medication that includes a graphic demonstration with a coat hanger - okay.. I really don't wonder that, but how cool would it be?





Having visited Ikea on the weekend, I noticed that the names are getting longer and more difficult to pronounce.  Surely the swedish language is not THIS difficult to learn?  With a language constantly undergoing this sort of metamorphosis, it's a wonder any swedes can understand each other at all!  No wonder english is their second language.

FACT: IKEA are making up new Swedish words so they can laugh at you, while you're trying to make an order over the phone:





You:  "Ummm.. I'm wondering if you have any of the black-brown bookshelves left in stock.. it's on page 48 of the catalog...".

IKEA: "I'm not sure.. maybe if you gave me the name, I could check out the computer.."

You: "Umm.. It's the Black-Brown one, in the main photo.. it's got red boxes on it.."

IKEA: "Well, we REALLY need a name to check..".

You: "Ummm.. Is it the Halberfaatzenpurgensdottir?"

IKEA: (Hysterical laughing - you realize they've put you on speakerphone.. they attempt to curb their amusement..) "I'm sorry..(snigger)..Sir, I didn't get that (More audible laughter in the background)..Can..Can you say that name again?" (Hysterical Laughter in Back ground)

..you hang up, and swear never to buy anything from them again - unless you desperately need some brushed aluminium magazine racks.

And the names: "Rexbo", "Agne", "Lerber", "Grevbak".. all highly authentic swedish names for such FINE swedish products: even though these candle-sticks are made in Malaysia.

Of course, Nasi Goreng and hats shaped like upside down pencil-cases were VERY big with the Vikings: didn't you know?  The only thing that prevented the Norseman from populating the whole of South East Asia was the fact that their long boats had been completely assembled using allen keys, and tended to rock if you leaned against them..





So how do IKEA market a really dull product?  Give it a ridiculously difficult to pronounce name to make you THINK it's something more glamourous than what it actually is.  HOWEVER, occasionally you get the idea that SOME of the designers just aren't trying anymore..

Let me introduce you to "Chris"..




I was a little worried - during a random furniture inspection, I have found my table has latent schizophrenia: being an occasional table - the rest of the time, it labours under the misbelief it's a lamp.  THEN, imagine my horror, when we discovered our wardrobe was gay, and finally decided to come out of itself!  The bedroom has not been the same since..



Has it ever occured to parents, foreign or otherwise, that when you christen a child "Igor", you've pretty much mapped out his whole future for him: either hunch-backed grave robber, or victimized assistant to some bi-polar medical student with way too much time on his hands and keen to take on a new project..






And  FINALLY, Dr. WHO - if you were an attractive young woman, would you allow yourself to be crammed in a phone-box with some weirdo who CLAIMS he's a doctor, therefore it's perfectly okay for him to use his "sonic" screwdriver on you?






ALSO, it was nice to see that FINALLY the Dalek solution came to a head after 4 decades when the series writers noticed that mankind didn't actually need rescue from a timelord and his bubbly assistant,  could actually do to escape enslavement by the Dalek horde was simply to go upstairs - and remove easy access ramps.

So what was the creative team's solution?  FLYING DALEKS.  Brilliant.. just fucking brilliant.





Not only do these things look like a cross between a Drinking Thermos and a Vibrator, now they've made them even more ridiculous by getting them airborne..

And they always have a Master Plan!  Let me guess, it's the same Master Plan as the previous 40: try to enslave mankind, roll back and forth saying "Exterminate.. exterminate..".. avoid stairs - no wonder they fail all the time, stupid fucking bastards..

Still, it's better than Star Wars.

 

Random Zen: embracing nothingness..

How am I supposed to do that then?

Currently watching : The Wicker Man Release date: 22 August, 2006

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My Most BLASPHEMOUS Blog EVER!! I’m going to hell...
Current mood: chipper
Category: Incurring wrath... Blogging

Just because it's a Sunday..

The pink rubber wrist bands, supposed to promote awareness of something (apparently it doesn't extend to awareness of how ridiculous this looks with my Pin-stripe suit..) I found out the other day are in fact promoting  gynaecological awareness day.  This HOWEVER munificent it seems, is a slight against our Lord Jesus Christ..

..this I feel largely in part because:

1: Brazillian waxing is only a recent trend (and oh, SO beautiful...);

2: He was born of a Virgin - apparently this is something special, but doesn't qualify him to make the call on how absoulutely brilliant it feels to be in a vagina;

3: The average Vagina in the year of our Lord did not have access to the levels of hygeine, quality vinegar and vaginal anti-stench sprays and cosmetics we take for granted today.  Hence the biblical vagina looked like Chewbacca's down-syndromed cousin and smelled like a public toilet - possibly the reason Jesus never got to 3rd base with Mary Magdalene.

This ALSO would explain the whole "love your fellow man" thing, why Jesus hung out with a bunch of fishermen.

ALSO why he was still regularly contacting his Mother, wearing sandles and why his Father refused to be seen in public with him: Jesus was gay.

And NO ONE likes having their face stuck in that - or biblical vagina.

I LOVE VAGINA - I never needed a pink rubberband to remind me how much..

(sorry Jesus, I'm not responsible how these things turn out..)

Currently watching : Harvey Birdman, Attorney at Law, Vol. 1 Release date: 12 April, 2005

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I don’t get Lesbian sex.. Random Zen and Chinese Farts..
Current mood: indescribable
Category: Um.. or is it "Ohm"? Blogging

Stuck on the train home today, I had pause (in the midst of checking out which women I'd sleep with in the carriage if I had to, and also trying to figure out why Chinese men consider it perfectly acceptable to openly pass gas while sitting in front of you with complete let and abandon..), to review my week.  I wondered many pointless unrelated things: I call it random Zen.


What sort of difference would Milo make if you found a severed pinky finger in a tin..









The Fabulously Real Nine Network Program, "SEA PATROL" has  had a big effect on Navy Recruiting - a massive increase in discharges: reasons cited for discharge range from general shame, and an increase in incidents whereby Naval Medical Personnel have attempted Emergency Tracheotomies using the barrels of a Browning 9mm Pistol..







Classic Music?  What a gype!

Flight of the Bumblebee - y'know the song? This guy at the restaurant we went to on the weekend decided to try and impress us by playing it on the violin (ok, it WAS impressive, as was the fact that he looked like a sideshow carnie and smelled like an armpit..) BUT:

Have you ever considered there are Bumble Bees out there, who've heard this and gone:

"That's fucking bullshit, man - I so don't do that..".




Shot with Canon EOS D30



Or Handel's water Music? There's no water: I assume Handel baulked on this detail at the last minute because he didn't want some hemp smoking, tye-dyed cheese-cloth wearing sex-offender, stinking in equal parts of Patchouli and B.O., with no plans for a weekend BBQ that doesn't involve Tofu or stuffed Capsicums, turning his tune into background Muzak to have your spine violently manipulated to under the pretense it's "massage" - "massage", indeed. How can it be massage? Number one - it's a dude, and number two, there's nothing soothing about developing a major debilitating postural disorder and simultaneously getting felt up to a song composed by some pseudoreligious nutcase, and consisting of nothing but whale sounds and windchimes..









Lesbian Sex - I do not get it: sure it's fantastic to watch, but HOW is that enough?

I mean, foreplay and then... WHAT?  There are only so many ways you can perform cunnilingus before it gets all samey.  I mean, how many oysters can one gal eat before you crave a Chorizo? I mean, sure I get gay men (as gross as it is - sorry, it just is.. but more power to you dude..) I mean, there's Chorizo galore, foreplay and some fantastic shoe-shopping and trips to Ikea involved, but Lesbian sex is a rort.  it's essentially the Support band to the World tour that is Coitus.  No one ever wants to go see Kanye West at a U2 concert.  These girls are just settling for Kanye West!!  How can you not follow up with U2?  Or leave after catching Rose Tattoo, when there's Alice Cooper billed as the main event?







Think about it - but obviously this doesn't apply when there's a dude involved - it's not misogynism, or being a sexist, you're being a sensitive new aged dude, and just helpin' two girls out with a lovin' help fulla Chorizo sausage. 

To all you militant lesbians out there, JUST STOP, ok?  Sure, you fucking other chicks is fine, but really, is what you do in the bedroom anything other than hollow "posturing" and "lip service" - of course it isn't. 

Hey, can't we all just love one another - to my way of thinking (and that of several excellent films), the answer is YES.

Sorry - but I don't get Lesbian Sex, Classical Music, Milo or Sea Patrol.



Train rides - the facilitator of random Zen: not just erections brought on my carriage vibrations..

By the way, what ever happened to my last blog?

Currently watching : Aqua Teen Hunger Force - Volume Two Release date: 20 July, 2004

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My Unfunniest Blog ever: back onto superheroes, tv shows and boobs later..
Current mood: contemplative
Category: Pensive.. Blogging

Recently I've returned from a tumultous few events in my life: ALL medically related.  My Father's heart attack, Death, return from Death, Heart Attack again, Death AGAIN, Return from Death Again, Triple By-Pass, Heart Attack, Death one more time for good measure and predictable return from Death largely because it was the trend by this stage.  In addition, my two weeks spent working at the BNH Naval Hospital at HMAS Penguin - and shortly thereafter most disturbingly for me, my diagnosis as a cancer sufferer.

It's suspected to be Basal Cell Carcinoma - a form of skin cancer: low speed, and essentially the fat, wheezy kid of Cancer.  So in a week or so, we begin the regimen of what to do about it - cut, burn, something more indescribably nasty and uncomfortable, whatever that could be I don't know as yet.

It just sort of showed up: there were warning signs a few months back, when each morning I woke with a blood spot on my pillow case and dried blood in the corner of my nose.  There was no sign I'd scratched it, but somehow it was there.

HOWEVER, being a typical Aussie male, in my "Walk it off champ.." attitude towards life altering or physically detrimental warning signs I decided instead to conclude that I MUST have scratched myself in my sleep - this went on for the best part of 8 months - maybe 12.

Last few weeks (in the midst of the Grim Reaper making my Father his personal Yo-Yo), I noticed that my little blood spot had stopped healing, bursting and bleeding. Instead now opting for a cool, topless look to allow it pretty much to chose to bleed anytime it wanted to: it was then I finally got it checked.

And now here I am: waiting until next week to know what to feel about it all.  Sure, it's not too serious a Cancer, but I always just figured I'd miss out on the things that had taken their toll on my family medically - heart disease, cancer, the whole thing: I mean, I never was a smoker, sure I drink but only to improve my social skills and anywhere enough to condemn me to a career writing "list comedy" on Myspace while I wait for me "big break" (hang about.. do I do that?), I ate well enough, I owned a lot of hats and ridiculous retro-looking eyewear, so how come this Ultra-violet sympathizing bastard showed up and started rotting away in the corner of my nose? 

Now at this point, I get down on myself when I consider all the people that are actually suffering with the "Big C" and have a level of hardship I am fortunate to have been spared - but I guess you never expect it'll happen to you until it does - but then not knowing how it's going to turn out (i.e maybe they'll find something else too.. maybe I'll lose 50% of my nose and all my Sunglasses will look stupid - well, more stupid..), or how you're just going to deal with it all when the worst gets confirmed.

Most of you who do regularly read my stuff would've noticed the massive absence I've had away from my writing now for a while - I think it's a fear thing perhaps: I'm not sure...

Maybe my muse was choken on an aggressive over-innundation of melanin accquired from countless unprotected, shirt-free, pallid fleshy trips to the great Australian beach front where I'd try (but fail) and suck my stomach in for 41/2 hours, and delude myself that younger women still found me sexy despite the fact that because of my Anglo-Scottish ancestry, my skin rejects tanning, and in actuality, I was the colour of a smurf in bright sunshine.

I actually think it may be a little of both - probably more of the earlier than the latter.