Right now the Finding A House part of the equation is as follows:
And the motivational aspects of the rest of life (think exegesis, work, writing, creativity, health and well-being) can be summarised pictorially thus:
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Re-Examining The Instructions
I always try to resist making this blog a simple diary of What I Did Today, or What Shit-Dripping Hoop I'm Jumping Through This Week. I don't think that's why I started it, and it could possibly be why I end it (I'm not ending it. Calm down). But arse-farting around with attempting to move states isn't exactly the mighty travel blog I had in mind.
Right now the Finding A House part of the equation is as follows:
And the motivational aspects of the rest of life (think exegesis, work, writing, creativity, health and well-being) can be summarised pictorially thus:
Right now the Finding A House part of the equation is as follows:
And the motivational aspects of the rest of life (think exegesis, work, writing, creativity, health and well-being) can be summarised pictorially thus:
Thursday, April 24, 2008
The Dos and Don'ts of Applying for a SAYAB Project and Development Grant
After reading a bunch of applications for Project and Development funding for SAYAB, I've had a good hard think about some tips I'd love to give to the burgeoning young artists of SA. Here are the top twelve that didn't involve the fun of naming and shaming.
1. If you're going to put something on the internet, DON'T then hint that this will lend your work "international exposure and a potential audience of millions!". We know how the internet works, we're not that bloody old. Think about how you're going to get people to experience your art if you're not primarily an internet-based artist.
2. DO read the instructions on the application form. Read them. Read. Them. All the way through. Then follow those instructions. I know great art is about breaking rules, but when you reach the part that says "SAYAB will not pay for 100% of your costs", don't break that one. You will become sad.
3. DO raise money elsewhere. Ask local businesses, have a sausage sizzle, beg your parents, beg your mates' parents, sell stuff on eBay, participate in medical experiments, ask everyone you're paying for your project for a discount - they can only say no! (Or, in the case of your parents, kick you out for playing your sitar non-stop all day instead of going out and getting on with life!!). That way, instead of saying "Expenditure on Sound Engineer - $500" you can say "Expenditure on Sound Engineer - $500, Income from Sound Engineer - $250 Yay! She's doing it half price!"
4. We have about $50,000 to share among 40 or 50 applicants. Like you, many of these applicants are also talented, hard-working and deserving young artists. DON'T ask for twenty Gs. Or even ten. We're about broadening South Australia's artistic talent base and we could fund two projects which are just as awesome as yours for five grand a piece. Or four for two-five each.
5. DO send in a sample of your work. DON'T send in all of it. An entire script won't get read. Just pick the bestest most totally rad part that made your girlfriend cry and send that bit in.
6. If you're screaming with delight about some awesome piece of kit you've sourced to make your movie/album/stage production/performance art explosion, DO explain it to us as you would your bored mother. Remember to justify why you need it for this particular project. Sending in a photocopy of the entire instruction manual doesn't count.
7. DO check your spelling. Or if you really are too lazy to do a spell check, at least read the things you've written in your application out aloud to check that it all makes sense. However, if you are submitting an application for a writing project, then unfortunately, your spelling will be held to a higher standard. Sorry about that, it just will.
8. The application isn't an exam paper. DO ask for help. There is someone at Carclew who is paid money to help you fill out your application. She is just sitting there, waiting for your call. Call her. Call her now. You can sit down together and she will hold your hand and tell you gently that your idea for a concept album/live sculpture tour of Eastern Europe is a trifle ambitious for someone whose major talent lays in stick figure art.
9. DO talk up your art. DON'T imply that SAYAB has no choice other than to fund your cutting edge exhibition of Clag and walnuts if it wants to remain current in the eyes of all who are hip and with it in the South Australian arts community. We're hip. We're with it. Dukka dukka dukka dukka dukka dukka.
10. DON'T overreach. Big ideas are wonderful, but a series of concerts starring your two-week-old band and its four songs, all of which are available on Myspace, isn't going to get funded. Ask for cash for a mentor instead.
11. DO balance your budget. If your Income doesn't match your Expenditure, you're either stupid or crooked, depending on whether you're losing money or making it.
12. DON'T ask for money just so that you can make it. We're not going to fund a production run of your art so you can flog it off and trouser the profits. And besides, if that really worked, don't you think we would have done it already?
***
If you look down the bottom of this blog, you will find my little Statcounter and you will also find that I have recently surpassed 50,000 hits! In honour of this ... um ... honour, I shall post some of the more 'interesting' keyword searches whereby people have landed on this page.
For instance:
* 'pulteney grammar, sex change' proves whatever rude point I may have been seeking to make about private schools and/or school reunions.
* 'dirtiest joke in the world in writing' may be talking up my credentials or my unwillingness to put The Sushi Joke to screen.
* 'legal tombolla methods' is a search that actually comes up more often than you would think.
* But, for true internet horror 'girls first time how to not make it hurt' is something that ... um ... I ... welllllll ... let's just move on and call it a night.
***
GTH - Murphy and 327 take away the honours for most accurate guess and most chuckleworthy comment.
1. If you're going to put something on the internet, DON'T then hint that this will lend your work "international exposure and a potential audience of millions!". We know how the internet works, we're not that bloody old. Think about how you're going to get people to experience your art if you're not primarily an internet-based artist.
2. DO read the instructions on the application form. Read them. Read. Them. All the way through. Then follow those instructions. I know great art is about breaking rules, but when you reach the part that says "SAYAB will not pay for 100% of your costs", don't break that one. You will become sad.
3. DO raise money elsewhere. Ask local businesses, have a sausage sizzle, beg your parents, beg your mates' parents, sell stuff on eBay, participate in medical experiments, ask everyone you're paying for your project for a discount - they can only say no! (Or, in the case of your parents, kick you out for playing your sitar non-stop all day instead of going out and getting on with life!!). That way, instead of saying "Expenditure on Sound Engineer - $500" you can say "Expenditure on Sound Engineer - $500, Income from Sound Engineer - $250 Yay! She's doing it half price!"
4. We have about $50,000 to share among 40 or 50 applicants. Like you, many of these applicants are also talented, hard-working and deserving young artists. DON'T ask for twenty Gs. Or even ten. We're about broadening South Australia's artistic talent base and we could fund two projects which are just as awesome as yours for five grand a piece. Or four for two-five each.
5. DO send in a sample of your work. DON'T send in all of it. An entire script won't get read. Just pick the bestest most totally rad part that made your girlfriend cry and send that bit in.
6. If you're screaming with delight about some awesome piece of kit you've sourced to make your movie/album/stage production/performance art explosion, DO explain it to us as you would your bored mother. Remember to justify why you need it for this particular project. Sending in a photocopy of the entire instruction manual doesn't count.
7. DO check your spelling. Or if you really are too lazy to do a spell check, at least read the things you've written in your application out aloud to check that it all makes sense. However, if you are submitting an application for a writing project, then unfortunately, your spelling will be held to a higher standard. Sorry about that, it just will.
8. The application isn't an exam paper. DO ask for help. There is someone at Carclew who is paid money to help you fill out your application. She is just sitting there, waiting for your call. Call her. Call her now. You can sit down together and she will hold your hand and tell you gently that your idea for a concept album/live sculpture tour of Eastern Europe is a trifle ambitious for someone whose major talent lays in stick figure art.
9. DO talk up your art. DON'T imply that SAYAB has no choice other than to fund your cutting edge exhibition of Clag and walnuts if it wants to remain current in the eyes of all who are hip and with it in the South Australian arts community. We're hip. We're with it. Dukka dukka dukka dukka dukka dukka.
10. DON'T overreach. Big ideas are wonderful, but a series of concerts starring your two-week-old band and its four songs, all of which are available on Myspace, isn't going to get funded. Ask for cash for a mentor instead.
11. DO balance your budget. If your Income doesn't match your Expenditure, you're either stupid or crooked, depending on whether you're losing money or making it.
12. DON'T ask for money just so that you can make it. We're not going to fund a production run of your art so you can flog it off and trouser the profits. And besides, if that really worked, don't you think we would have done it already?
***
If you look down the bottom of this blog, you will find my little Statcounter and you will also find that I have recently surpassed 50,000 hits! In honour of this ... um ... honour, I shall post some of the more 'interesting' keyword searches whereby people have landed on this page.
For instance:
* 'pulteney grammar, sex change' proves whatever rude point I may have been seeking to make about private schools and/or school reunions.
* 'dirtiest joke in the world in writing' may be talking up my credentials or my unwillingness to put The Sushi Joke to screen.
* 'legal tombolla methods' is a search that actually comes up more often than you would think.
* But, for true internet horror 'girls first time how to not make it hurt' is something that ... um ... I ... welllllll ... let's just move on and call it a night.
***
GTH - Murphy and 327 take away the honours for most accurate guess and most chuckleworthy comment.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Franzy's Continuing Advice for The Ill-Advised
In my previous attempts at advice for dudes about women I've covered sucking up and buttering up. Now we're going for the kill; via an old, tedious joke that tends to appear on quaint fridge magnets given to women by other, more jaded women as a hopefully-ironic gag. But we're going to twist it and turn it to your advantage.
It starts when you sink into his arms and ends with your arms in his sink.
Ho ho. I know. I know. I know. Huh! Honestly! Men. Can't live with them, can't shoot 'em! Ho ho ho! Oh, I know.
So - had enough matronising yet? Well let me demonstrate what you're going to do. Forget the phrase's Sybilic overtones and instead make this your lady-wooing maxim:
It starts with your arms in her sink and ends ... ahem, well, you get the picture. Seriously though - this is Franzy's Piece of Wisdom About Women #3: Do the washing up. Do it quickly and don't smash anything. Brush aside all offers of help. Just stack up the plates, chuck them in the sink with hot water and soap, swoosh swoosh with the water, stack them on the rack and you will be Captain Dynamite.
Reason? Chicks always do all the cleaning. We're talking averages here, mind you. By and large, it's always the girls doing the wiping, spraying, scrubbing and sucking (of dust) while the dudes get all the fun jobs like Chopping Up The Firewood, Replacing The Light Globes and Moving The Furniture. If you suddenly jump up start being all manly and efficient with the dishes, trust me, your lady-friend's estimations of you will rise like the hundreds of thank-you cakes she will bake you* in the future.
And if you're living with a girl, or at least letting one use your dunny, then clean it. Every day. Even if you can't actually see the shitstains, she can. And if you clean it, she shall whisper to her girlfriends: 'And he even cleans the toilet! Every day!'
'Gasp!' they will all gasp. 'He noticed your hair, cooked you that gourmet pasta, did the dishes and cleaned the toilet?!?'
'Yes!'
'Then we shall pillow fight for this Man of Men! Game on, Moll!'
And there, the fantasy ends.
* Metaphor.
***
Oh, here's something fun you can all try at home:
1. Go for a jog (about half an hour should do it).
2. Drink a glass of water afterwards. Just one though, or it'll spoil the fun!
3. Drink a beer.
4. Order a large pizza.
5. Eat lots and lots of it while lounging on the couch.
6. Drink two glasses of red wine with your pizza.
7. Don't get up!
8. Watch a show about a bunch of army dudes doing a survival course in the Northern Territory in which they spend the whole time talking and thinking about water and how the fuck they're going to get a hold of it using only a fire (which they have to make themselves), a jerry can, a tube, a plastic bag and a river full of salt-water crocodiles.
9. Go to bed in a cool room with a runny nose so that you have to mouth-breathe in your sleep.
Dehydration? You bet! Even though I got up and drank the water jug dry at about 3 a.m. You know how you get up in the morning and have a piss? And if you're dehydrated it's kind of ... pungent? Well I was pretty much pushing out pencil leads on the lemon tree this morning. I had so little moisture to give I was actually extruding graphite. Ouch.
***
GTH - I'm awarding the point to myninjacockle for the Tommy Buttfucker story. The header was a photo I took in Derry in 1999 during the Orange Marches where the teeny tiny little Protestant population march up and down the wall of the largely-Catholic fortified old town in celebration of how wonderful their religion is. The cops have to turn up and basically barricade the whole show to stop the two religions meeting up and smashing the shit out of each other. Thus does the connection with my dad's t-shirt occur.
It starts when you sink into his arms and ends with your arms in his sink.
Ho ho. I know. I know. I know. Huh! Honestly! Men. Can't live with them, can't shoot 'em! Ho ho ho! Oh, I know.
So - had enough matronising yet? Well let me demonstrate what you're going to do. Forget the phrase's Sybilic overtones and instead make this your lady-wooing maxim:
It starts with your arms in her sink and ends ... ahem, well, you get the picture. Seriously though - this is Franzy's Piece of Wisdom About Women #3: Do the washing up. Do it quickly and don't smash anything. Brush aside all offers of help. Just stack up the plates, chuck them in the sink with hot water and soap, swoosh swoosh with the water, stack them on the rack and you will be Captain Dynamite.
Reason? Chicks always do all the cleaning. We're talking averages here, mind you. By and large, it's always the girls doing the wiping, spraying, scrubbing and sucking (of dust) while the dudes get all the fun jobs like Chopping Up The Firewood, Replacing The Light Globes and Moving The Furniture. If you suddenly jump up start being all manly and efficient with the dishes, trust me, your lady-friend's estimations of you will rise like the hundreds of thank-you cakes she will bake you* in the future.
And if you're living with a girl, or at least letting one use your dunny, then clean it. Every day. Even if you can't actually see the shitstains, she can. And if you clean it, she shall whisper to her girlfriends: 'And he even cleans the toilet! Every day!'
'Gasp!' they will all gasp. 'He noticed your hair, cooked you that gourmet pasta, did the dishes and cleaned the toilet?!?'
'Yes!'
'Then we shall pillow fight for this Man of Men! Game on, Moll!'
And there, the fantasy ends.
* Metaphor.
***
Oh, here's something fun you can all try at home:
1. Go for a jog (about half an hour should do it).
2. Drink a glass of water afterwards. Just one though, or it'll spoil the fun!
3. Drink a beer.
4. Order a large pizza.
5. Eat lots and lots of it while lounging on the couch.
6. Drink two glasses of red wine with your pizza.
7. Don't get up!
8. Watch a show about a bunch of army dudes doing a survival course in the Northern Territory in which they spend the whole time talking and thinking about water and how the fuck they're going to get a hold of it using only a fire (which they have to make themselves), a jerry can, a tube, a plastic bag and a river full of salt-water crocodiles.
9. Go to bed in a cool room with a runny nose so that you have to mouth-breathe in your sleep.
Dehydration? You bet! Even though I got up and drank the water jug dry at about 3 a.m. You know how you get up in the morning and have a piss? And if you're dehydrated it's kind of ... pungent? Well I was pretty much pushing out pencil leads on the lemon tree this morning. I had so little moisture to give I was actually extruding graphite. Ouch.
***
GTH - I'm awarding the point to myninjacockle for the Tommy Buttfucker story. The header was a photo I took in Derry in 1999 during the Orange Marches where the teeny tiny little Protestant population march up and down the wall of the largely-Catholic fortified old town in celebration of how wonderful their religion is. The cops have to turn up and basically barricade the whole show to stop the two religions meeting up and smashing the shit out of each other. Thus does the connection with my dad's t-shirt occur.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Irony at its most beautiful is terrifying
On our ill-fated and extremely expensive trip to Queensland I bought a couple of t-shirts from the famous Eumundi Markets. They weren't bought for style (although they did come in a delightful shade of blue) so much as for their value to society. Mine declares, in large capital letters "MEAT IS MURDER", then below, in a smaller tasteful italic lower case, "Delicious, tasty murder". The double takes I get while wearing it are wonderfully heart-warming. Especially from vegetarians. And I always know exactly who they are - the expressions of comradely admiration they beam upon me after reading the first line always melt into impotent humourless scowling when they have finished reading the second. As you can imagine, a man who dines on pig-nipple sauce is apt to find this as satisfying as the sound of crunchy cracklin' fresh from the spit.
The other t-shirt I gave to my father, for it was infinitely more appropriate.
What does his have on it?
Well, I'm not just talking about them for nothing - I have an anecdote to recount of Dad's trip to the market this morning:
He sets off, dressed in a stylish suede jacket and underneath it, his t-shirt.
He's going to meet a friend for coffee and to do some shopping, but he turns up early and his friend isn't at Lucia's yet. No problem, thinks Dad, and he decides to go to the health food store first - get himself some bran. He makes his way to the health food store and circles its aisles a few times to find the bran bin because there are no staff around to point it out for him - they're probably out the back thinking up ways to combat that wicked "Delicious, tasty murder" t-shirt. At last he finds the bran bin, scoops himself a few scoops and straightens up to discover a young man standing right next to him. The young man is dressed in long denim shorts, pulled up socks, t-shirt and peaked cap.
"CnIvvrrlkwhtyrt-shirt?" mumbles the young man.
"What?" asks Dad.
"Can I see your t-shirt?" he asks again, pointing at Dad's t-shirt, which is partially obscured by his jacket.
"Oh," says Dad. "Sure."
The guy's jaw drops. He's speechless. He coughs.
"He gave his blood for you!" exclaims the guy.
"No he didn't,' replies Dad, glancing around the store.
"He did!" retorts the young man. "He gave his blood for you!"
"No. He didn't," says Dad, calmly wondering how Chuck Norris would best employ a bran scoop in this situation. "It'll be okay, just increase your medication."
With that, the antisartorial evangelist turns heel and flees the health food store, proving that
A) Religion in the wrong hands is a scary thing, and
B) Jesus does not respond to t-shirts.
***
GTH - The points go to River for her multitude of goodbyes. Not for actually saying goodbye because it's the internet and no one actually leaves, least of all me, but for relating it back to my earlier post about languages. I'm sure I said that flattery would score points somewhere.
The other t-shirt I gave to my father, for it was infinitely more appropriate.
What does his have on it?
Well, I'm not just talking about them for nothing - I have an anecdote to recount of Dad's trip to the market this morning:
He sets off, dressed in a stylish suede jacket and underneath it, his t-shirt.
He's going to meet a friend for coffee and to do some shopping, but he turns up early and his friend isn't at Lucia's yet. No problem, thinks Dad, and he decides to go to the health food store first - get himself some bran. He makes his way to the health food store and circles its aisles a few times to find the bran bin because there are no staff around to point it out for him - they're probably out the back thinking up ways to combat that wicked "Delicious, tasty murder" t-shirt. At last he finds the bran bin, scoops himself a few scoops and straightens up to discover a young man standing right next to him. The young man is dressed in long denim shorts, pulled up socks, t-shirt and peaked cap.
"CnIvvrrlkwhtyrt-shirt?" mumbles the young man.
"What?" asks Dad.
"Can I see your t-shirt?" he asks again, pointing at Dad's t-shirt, which is partially obscured by his jacket.
"Oh," says Dad. "Sure."
The guy's jaw drops. He's speechless. He coughs.
"He gave his blood for you!" exclaims the guy.
"No he didn't,' replies Dad, glancing around the store.
"He did!" retorts the young man. "He gave his blood for you!"
"No. He didn't," says Dad, calmly wondering how Chuck Norris would best employ a bran scoop in this situation. "It'll be okay, just increase your medication."
With that, the antisartorial evangelist turns heel and flees the health food store, proving that
A) Religion in the wrong hands is a scary thing, and
B) Jesus does not respond to t-shirts.
***
GTH - The points go to River for her multitude of goodbyes. Not for actually saying goodbye because it's the internet and no one actually leaves, least of all me, but for relating it back to my earlier post about languages. I'm sure I said that flattery would score points somewhere.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Sontag Blogettes
Things I love about being a meat eater: I arrived home after hockey this week to a house gushing with the taste-bud aching smells of Mele's family pasta sauce recipe. I can reveal for purposes of this story that she puts osso bucco and pork spare ribs in there. I can also reveal for the purposes of this story that Mele had a face like a kid with a mouthful of Brussels sprouts.
"Come with me!" she cried, the moment I stepped through the door. "I've got something I have to show you!"
She dragged me into the kitchen and pointed to the chopping board. On it was a small piece of white gristle. "What do you think that is?" she asked. The gristle was a piece of skin carved from the edge of one of the pork spare ribs. On the piece of skin was a small raised nodule.
"A wart?" I guessed.
"It's a nipple!" she moaned. "I want to die!"
I tried to talk her into the fact that nipples tend to have boobs under them, but she insisted that it was neither wart nor beauty spot. It probably was a nipple. I love eating meat. I've reached a stage in my life where I'll eat or at least try anything that's put in front of me and the thought of seared, dripping blue-cooked steak reclining on a plate in front of me fills me with the animal hungers.
At least it wasn't a tattoo.
***
A blog ye muste alle reade: I've only just discovered Myninjacockle's The Loaded Blog and it's the only non-comic site that I've felt compelled to go back and trawl through every single post because each one is an excellent little vignette. The author has either had a lot of practise blogging and discovering what works and what doesn't and what holds an audience, or is one of those talented arseholes who gets it right without even trying. Sceptical? I present for your delectation Exhibit A and, if that's too highbrow, Exhibit B.
***
Blurry photos: I've tried to defend my penchant for blurry photos in the past, but I'm beginning to accept that it's probably one of those things that will be appreciated only when I'm dust in the dirt. Or never. People love dat focus stuff yes suh.
However, being how this is my blog and they're my photos, I can do whatever the hell I like. Moify and Ms Moify-To-Be's engagement party was last night and I took a whole bunch of real blurry ones - YEAH!
I hope it is many years before they get around to drinking the wine we gave them because I wrote on the label "All best for your beautiful journey together". Hopefully they decide to drink all their engagement wine in one hit and get to ours last so they don't have wonder too much about why a man who claims to be a writer thought that omitting a "the" would be poetic.
***
A photo from the archives: For reasons that will become clear in a future blog, I was digging around some old travel photos from a ski-trip to New Zealand. The following photo was taken after probably the worst night's sleep that either Triton or I have ever had. We got a cabin in the woods somewhere and rugged up for cold night. We weren't too worried because we had a double-barrelled bar heater. At two am, the bar heater died. At 2:15am we both woke up with the feeling that we were both going to die. We considered writing a last will and testament but movement was mostly out of the question. Let the record also show that even with the spectre of death from hypothermia looming large we did not declare prison rules and share a sleeping bag.
The next morning we shouted at the manager and were given no refund for our Night of Icy Doom. There was nothing left to do but go to Glenorchy and sit in the sunlight while drinking pitchers of coffee and dining on a cubic foot of baked beans, nine-egg omelettes and half a pig each, nipples and all.
This is the photo I took of the frost shadows outside the Glenorchy Bar and Restaurant.
"Come with me!" she cried, the moment I stepped through the door. "I've got something I have to show you!"
She dragged me into the kitchen and pointed to the chopping board. On it was a small piece of white gristle. "What do you think that is?" she asked. The gristle was a piece of skin carved from the edge of one of the pork spare ribs. On the piece of skin was a small raised nodule.
"A wart?" I guessed.
"It's a nipple!" she moaned. "I want to die!"
I tried to talk her into the fact that nipples tend to have boobs under them, but she insisted that it was neither wart nor beauty spot. It probably was a nipple. I love eating meat. I've reached a stage in my life where I'll eat or at least try anything that's put in front of me and the thought of seared, dripping blue-cooked steak reclining on a plate in front of me fills me with the animal hungers.
At least it wasn't a tattoo.
***
A blog ye muste alle reade: I've only just discovered Myninjacockle's The Loaded Blog and it's the only non-comic site that I've felt compelled to go back and trawl through every single post because each one is an excellent little vignette. The author has either had a lot of practise blogging and discovering what works and what doesn't and what holds an audience, or is one of those talented arseholes who gets it right without even trying. Sceptical? I present for your delectation Exhibit A and, if that's too highbrow, Exhibit B.
***
Blurry photos: I've tried to defend my penchant for blurry photos in the past, but I'm beginning to accept that it's probably one of those things that will be appreciated only when I'm dust in the dirt. Or never. People love dat focus stuff yes suh.
However, being how this is my blog and they're my photos, I can do whatever the hell I like. Moify and Ms Moify-To-Be's engagement party was last night and I took a whole bunch of real blurry ones - YEAH!
I hope it is many years before they get around to drinking the wine we gave them because I wrote on the label "All best for your beautiful journey together". Hopefully they decide to drink all their engagement wine in one hit and get to ours last so they don't have wonder too much about why a man who claims to be a writer thought that omitting a "the" would be poetic.
***
A photo from the archives: For reasons that will become clear in a future blog, I was digging around some old travel photos from a ski-trip to New Zealand. The following photo was taken after probably the worst night's sleep that either Triton or I have ever had. We got a cabin in the woods somewhere and rugged up for cold night. We weren't too worried because we had a double-barrelled bar heater. At two am, the bar heater died. At 2:15am we both woke up with the feeling that we were both going to die. We considered writing a last will and testament but movement was mostly out of the question. Let the record also show that even with the spectre of death from hypothermia looming large we did not declare prison rules and share a sleeping bag.
The next morning we shouted at the manager and were given no refund for our Night of Icy Doom. There was nothing left to do but go to Glenorchy and sit in the sunlight while drinking pitchers of coffee and dining on a cubic foot of baked beans, nine-egg omelettes and half a pig each, nipples and all.
This is the photo I took of the frost shadows outside the Glenorchy Bar and Restaurant.
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
News and a half
We are moving to Queensland.
And let it never again be said that I beat around the bush for the sake of a story build-up.
Not all the time, at least.
Those of you who know us personally will understand completely the reasons for moving. For those of you who only know the humbly-represented superhero versions of us depicted on this blog, I will give a brief explanation: health reasons.
I did say brief, didn't I?
I'll expand a little. Mele suffers from eczema, which is exacerbated by a dry climate. We live in Adelaide. Adelaide happens to be one of the two worst places in the world for sufferers of dry skin-related conditions (the other is Tucson, Arizona) - this is according to Mele's brilliant (and rather dashing) dermatologist. The pain caused by her dry skin is so great that moving states is actually a reasonable and sensible solution as opposed to the alternative of remaining here.
Eczema and dry skin dermatitis are common ailments. Until I met Mele, I never realised how common. Everyone has it. However, no one has it like Mele does, except for a nineteen-year-old fellow from Port Pirie. You might think you, or your mate, or your Mum, or whoever, gets it really badly, but those people can still go outside and don't need expensive drugs that require monthly check-ups in order to simply keep it at bay. Strong drugs and buckets of petroleum jelly are the only things that work for her. Others may find relief in natural remedies, olive oil, steroid cream, altered diets and any one of the thousands of off-the-shelf moisturisers containing everything from vitamin E to stem cells and piss. Not Mele. Moving to Queensland is one of the last options for relief on a much-shortened list.
So, in the spirit of turning lemons into lemonade and cow-shit into hypo-allergenic roses, this blog will become something of a travel diary. We don't plan to remain in Queensland forever,* just over the Adelaide winter until the dry, cold winds have blown themselves out and the Unbelievably Stifling Heat returns. (Those thinking along the lines of increased evaporation in summer vs increased precipitation in winter being better for dry skin can think again - Adelaide never gets so much rain that it actually becomes humid and the cold winter winds make a girl's skin seize up, whereas warm weather aids in movement).
The first step in the journey has been Moving Out Of The Tiny, Dark, Loud and Frequently Odorous Flat. It was nowhere near as traumatic a move as last year's was, complicated as it was by the multiple factors of:
1) Me being away for my week-long buck's show at the Byron Bay Bluesfest during the time in which I should have been packing, finding a new place, etc.
2) The mansion at Second Avenue dividing into two separate households in one day of moving with a truck.
3) Smallacombe Real Estate being arseholes
4) There being other things going on in our lives.
Trent and Ben turned up, dealt with the discouraging fact that the espresso coffee I had promised had already been packed away, like the granite-jawed hombres they are and swiftly set about the manly business of tossing heavy articles of furniture into the back of a cheaply-hired three-tonne truck. We didn't even smash anything expensive.
The furniture is at Nonna's farm (along with the possessions of at least three of her other grandchildren who are all in the process of either moving or building houses), the valuable gear and heirlooms are at a secret mountain location and the rest of the miscellaneous crap that I thought I wanted, but now can't remember why I kept it in the first place has travelled with us to the house I grew up in to join the rest of the miscellaneous crap that my mother and I have insisted on storing and saving throughout the years because you never know when you might need fourteen cloth bags from various sociology conferences or an envelope full of receipts from an overseas trip which show that you paid 15,000 lire for lunch! I did manage to eBay a few items to lighten the load. My old Garfield comic books were hilarious when I was eight, but are now sliding into Fred Basset territory and are interestingly becoming the target for increasingly creative post-modern critiques. I flogged them off for forty bucks and now I've started sizing up everything around the house, weighing it, making mental notes to check the average eBay price, wondering if my folks would really miss this or that. I can't find a reliable buyer for the fourteen conference bags, however.
The best part is that we're in. Step one to Queensland is the most pleasant. Living in a place with an actual garden and in which you can't hear Cantonese soap operas between 11pm and 7am is truly the meaning of happiness. Throw in a loving parent, adequate bench space and the thrilling access to more sunlight than a winter in north Finland and you have a heady combination. Mele and I traipse around the house in blissful ecstasy, skipping down the hallway and spinning around in the middle of rooms, arms outstretched crying to one another 'Look! I'm not touching anything!'
Ahead of us we have much to look forward to:
* Finding a place to live on Bribie Island which isn't either a temporary carpark or the rented-out cavity under a Queenslander.
* Acquiring transport which will fit more than one person and a second pair of undies (hopefully a station wagon).
* Continuing PhD research remotely and from the various as-yet-unsuspecting university libraries of Brisbane.
* Fishing.
* Finding some kind of employment up there that doesn't involve faeces.
Wish us luck and please join us on our travels. I promise more rambling anecdotes, run-on sentences, pleading for charity, self-indulgent photos, videos of questionable taste and value and a slightly-embellished account of what happens when two writers embark upon a journey north to a place where almost everybody is retired, although, let's hope, not retiring.
*Not a guarantee.
***
GTH - The winner is the largely brilliant, yet puzzlingly scoreless, Brocky, not for guessing that the header was a picture of me as a child used to symbolise the assumed age of most of those who enjoy the comic arts, but for linking the brilliant xkcd in one of its many well-timed, perfectly-weighted, nerd-alert pieces. Before T.O.o. Sam did. Brocky, welcome to The Board.
And let it never again be said that I beat around the bush for the sake of a story build-up.
Not all the time, at least.
Those of you who know us personally will understand completely the reasons for moving. For those of you who only know the humbly-represented superhero versions of us depicted on this blog, I will give a brief explanation: health reasons.
I did say brief, didn't I?
I'll expand a little. Mele suffers from eczema, which is exacerbated by a dry climate. We live in Adelaide. Adelaide happens to be one of the two worst places in the world for sufferers of dry skin-related conditions (the other is Tucson, Arizona) - this is according to Mele's brilliant (and rather dashing) dermatologist. The pain caused by her dry skin is so great that moving states is actually a reasonable and sensible solution as opposed to the alternative of remaining here.
Eczema and dry skin dermatitis are common ailments. Until I met Mele, I never realised how common. Everyone has it. However, no one has it like Mele does, except for a nineteen-year-old fellow from Port Pirie. You might think you, or your mate, or your Mum, or whoever, gets it really badly, but those people can still go outside and don't need expensive drugs that require monthly check-ups in order to simply keep it at bay. Strong drugs and buckets of petroleum jelly are the only things that work for her. Others may find relief in natural remedies, olive oil, steroid cream, altered diets and any one of the thousands of off-the-shelf moisturisers containing everything from vitamin E to stem cells and piss. Not Mele. Moving to Queensland is one of the last options for relief on a much-shortened list.
So, in the spirit of turning lemons into lemonade and cow-shit into hypo-allergenic roses, this blog will become something of a travel diary. We don't plan to remain in Queensland forever,* just over the Adelaide winter until the dry, cold winds have blown themselves out and the Unbelievably Stifling Heat returns. (Those thinking along the lines of increased evaporation in summer vs increased precipitation in winter being better for dry skin can think again - Adelaide never gets so much rain that it actually becomes humid and the cold winter winds make a girl's skin seize up, whereas warm weather aids in movement).
The first step in the journey has been Moving Out Of The Tiny, Dark, Loud and Frequently Odorous Flat. It was nowhere near as traumatic a move as last year's was, complicated as it was by the multiple factors of:1) Me being away for my week-long buck's show at the Byron Bay Bluesfest during the time in which I should have been packing, finding a new place, etc.
2) The mansion at Second Avenue dividing into two separate households in one day of moving with a truck.
3) Smallacombe Real Estate being arseholes
4) There being other things going on in our lives.
Trent and Ben turned up, dealt with the discouraging fact that the espresso coffee I had promised had already been packed away, like the granite-jawed hombres they are and swiftly set about the manly business of tossing heavy articles of furniture into the back of a cheaply-hired three-tonne truck. We didn't even smash anything expensive.
The furniture is at Nonna's farm (along with the possessions of at least three of her other grandchildren who are all in the process of either moving or building houses), the valuable gear and heirlooms are at a secret mountain location and the rest of the miscellaneous crap that I thought I wanted, but now can't remember why I kept it in the first place has travelled with us to the house I grew up in to join the rest of the miscellaneous crap that my mother and I have insisted on storing and saving throughout the years because you never know when you might need fourteen cloth bags from various sociology conferences or an envelope full of receipts from an overseas trip which show that you paid 15,000 lire for lunch! I did manage to eBay a few items to lighten the load. My old Garfield comic books were hilarious when I was eight, but are now sliding into Fred Basset territory and are interestingly becoming the target for increasingly creative post-modern critiques. I flogged them off for forty bucks and now I've started sizing up everything around the house, weighing it, making mental notes to check the average eBay price, wondering if my folks would really miss this or that. I can't find a reliable buyer for the fourteen conference bags, however.The best part is that we're in. Step one to Queensland is the most pleasant. Living in a place with an actual garden and in which you can't hear Cantonese soap operas between 11pm and 7am is truly the meaning of happiness. Throw in a loving parent, adequate bench space and the thrilling access to more sunlight than a winter in north Finland and you have a heady combination. Mele and I traipse around the house in blissful ecstasy, skipping down the hallway and spinning around in the middle of rooms, arms outstretched crying to one another 'Look! I'm not touching anything!'
Ahead of us we have much to look forward to:
* Finding a place to live on Bribie Island which isn't either a temporary carpark or the rented-out cavity under a Queenslander.
* Acquiring transport which will fit more than one person and a second pair of undies (hopefully a station wagon).
* Continuing PhD research remotely and from the various as-yet-unsuspecting university libraries of Brisbane.
* Fishing.
* Finding some kind of employment up there that doesn't involve faeces.
Wish us luck and please join us on our travels. I promise more rambling anecdotes, run-on sentences, pleading for charity, self-indulgent photos, videos of questionable taste and value and a slightly-embellished account of what happens when two writers embark upon a journey north to a place where almost everybody is retired, although, let's hope, not retiring.
*Not a guarantee.
***
GTH - The winner is the largely brilliant, yet puzzlingly scoreless, Brocky, not for guessing that the header was a picture of me as a child used to symbolise the assumed age of most of those who enjoy the comic arts, but for linking the brilliant xkcd in one of its many well-timed, perfectly-weighted, nerd-alert pieces. Before T.O.o. Sam did. Brocky, welcome to The Board.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
You are all plebians
A while ago I began to notice a tendency for writing longer comments on other people's posts than the actual posts I was writing. So I vowed that next time I was inspired by someone else's blog, instead of plopping my long-windyness on their blog, I would pollute, ahem, fertlise my own.
On the thread for my last post, which received more comments than things I post which contain actual words, Adam Y chortled knowingly at my threat to begin writing about internet comics in order extinguish the last remnants of my readers (Adam himself is an internet comictission). I don't use this threat lightly. I know what poison comics are to readerships and also the frustration of trying to explain how good they really are.
I used to write a shitload of articles for my uni newspaper, and they were mostly really well received - the editors would tell me what a good job I was doing, people would stop me and tell me they liked my article, girls would offer me much sex in these elaborate fantasies I would concoct in between wanking and writing more articles for the paper ... except for the one week when I submitted an article giving a brief run-down on my favourite internet comics of the day.
Silence.
Utter silence.
"Did you get my article?"
"Yep."
"Oh."
"Anything else?"
"Um ... did you like it? What did you think?"
"It was good."
"Right..."
People are boringly short-sighted when it comes to comics. I'm bloody serious when I say that they're better than poetry, because they ARE poems, but they're illustrated, which makes them more difficult to do than simply being able to type and they're funny, which makes them much much more difficult than droning on about daffodils or broken hearts or the war. They're a fusion of two very difficult-to-master talents: art and comedy. Internet comics add another fortifying dimension to this duo that can be found in the mantra of every half-way successful internet comic: update regularly. In other words: keep working. Any artist experiencing any kind of success is doing so because they practise their art every single day. That's what makes them so good - just take a look at PhD or Penny Arcade. This is true art people!
But, I know I'm not preaching to the choir - I'm preaching to the frigging dust bins outside. I was so excited when my copy of the Complete Cartoons of The New Yorker turned up in the Amazon box the size of a microwave oven that I told everyone I saw. Blank stares. If I had bragged about receiving the Complete Collection of Type Faces I would have at least garnered a few interested questions, such as: "What's that?" and maybe "How did you get in here?"
Years ago, a whole bunch of close friends and I were out to see a movie. We were a group who had grown up together - close-knit, caring, loving, sharing. We are at the ticket counter, deciding which picture to see. One is a ye olde period piece about knights'n'jousting made by Hollywood, the other is an animated feature film. That pack of morons were actually about to lay down cash to go into A Knight's Tale, simply because the other movie was a cartoon. You know - kiddy stuff? I literally had to barricade the Knight's Tale box office with my body and force those brainless boobs I call my closest allies to go and see Shrek. Was I wrong? Sadly, this is a trick question, because I was not wrong and if you answered "Yes, you were wrong, you should have let those poor dears in to see Heath Ledger smashing up other dandy's lances to modern rock music", then you are also a foolish person and are wrong.
Shrek brought subversive pop culture to the mainstream in a way that The Simpsons have done for years and that Disney never could or will. It was highly referential - everything from WWF to Indiana Jones to Eddie Murphy's Delerious made it in there. They called a main character Fuckwad in a movie rated for children and got away with it. And yet, cartoons are still seen as simple childish mush.
Cartoons and comics haven't been childish mush since 1990 when Homer first throttled Bart, along any relevance Hanna-Barbara had to do with anything.
But back to my beloved comics. They shall be studied - mark my words - they shall be studied as microcosms of meaning and humour for many years to come.
***
GTH - No one is losing any points for stabs in the dark. However - no one is gaining any points for guessing flags either. Adam Y takes away the points for his hilarious story about punching himself in the face.
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An explanation of The Joy Division Litmus Test
Although it may now be lost in the mysts of thyme, the poll below is still relevant to this blog. In the winter of 2008, Mele and I went to live in Queensland. In order to survive, I bluffed my way into a job at a Coffee Club.
It was quite a reasonable place to work: the hours were regular, the staff were quite nice, it wasn't particularly taxing on my brain.
There were a few downsides: In the six weeks or so that I worked there, there was about a 90% staff turnover (contributed to by my leaving). This wasn't seen as a result of the low pay, the laughability of staff prices or the practice of not distributing tips to staff, rather it was blamed on the lack of work ethic among Bribie Island's youth.
However, one of the stranger aspects of the cultural isolation that touched our lives during our time "up there" was the fact that nobody at my work had heard of the band Joy Division.
The full explanation is available here.
But please, interact a little further and vote in my ongoing poll. The results are slowly mounting up, proving one thing: people read this blog are more well-informed about Joy Division than anyone who works at the Coffee Club on Bribie Island.
It was quite a reasonable place to work: the hours were regular, the staff were quite nice, it wasn't particularly taxing on my brain.
There were a few downsides: In the six weeks or so that I worked there, there was about a 90% staff turnover (contributed to by my leaving). This wasn't seen as a result of the low pay, the laughability of staff prices or the practice of not distributing tips to staff, rather it was blamed on the lack of work ethic among Bribie Island's youth.
However, one of the stranger aspects of the cultural isolation that touched our lives during our time "up there" was the fact that nobody at my work had heard of the band Joy Division.
The full explanation is available here.
But please, interact a little further and vote in my ongoing poll. The results are slowly mounting up, proving one thing: people read this blog are more well-informed about Joy Division than anyone who works at the Coffee Club on Bribie Island.