In the blogosphere no one can hear your audience groan

I might have said it before, but when the blogs go down in regularity, the work rate in real life goes up. A shame really, because I should have capitalised on the unforeseen popularity of the Guess The Header poser from last week. I'm actually surprised that people didn't guess more books, but I suppose that's only because I'm the one that sits there looking at them all the time.

I would like to extend some mad props to the hockey boys who zinged me with my own pet peeve before training on Tuesday night, thereby proving my theory right that I would regret bringing it up. Unfortunately I had been listening to Tool very very loudly and hence was in no state to understand what the hell they were talking about when they kept saying "That was so funny!" So, as promised on the night: Number 7: Contextless jokes.

A quick hi to Herr Rogers who also got me a ripper last weekend in similar circumstances:
'And what about that one: "I would never, ever drive stoned ... not unless I was really hungry."'
I thought that was a solid gold pearler. Pissed myself laughing, I did.
'Where did you get that?' I asked once my breath had been regained.
A short silence followed.
'That was you, actually.'
Oh.

The reason I'm so slow on the uptake is because I have been working and studying almost non-stop, apart from brief hockey and beer-related activities. The "good" news is that the PhD proposal presentation that I've been worrying about for nigh on a year has been rescheduled from mid-October to ... dum dum da dum ... a week-and-a-half's time! Wish me luck! Aargh!
When I received the email that broke this "wonderful" news, I was lucky enough to have my webcam running so you can see for yourself my reaction shortly afterwards:




And now, without further adodo

Guess The Header
Pretty anti-climactic really: Here are the pictures, as promised:



And the original source of all the trouble:

Points go to Nai for actually getting a title, Milly-Moo for turning her computer sideways and squinting and Neil for being a smartarse with the answer about counting the books and for being a spelling-nazi. I'm tempted subtract points from Trent for planning to come over and scour my bookshelves, but I'll leave them there because he admitted it and he's got a sore ankle.

****

In this week's GTH we return to a simple guessing-game: where was this photo taken? There is an important clue: somewhere in Adelaide. The winner will be the person who gets the closest.

That reminds me of the time ....

A while ago Audrey tagged me in a meme that asked you to think of ten things that you hate about people. Not being a particularly hateful person, I found it reasonably difficult and petered out after five.
Well, I've thought of a new one:

6. Bad storytellers.
I'm pretty tired, so I'll probably regret writing this, but there it is. My secret shame. And it's not getting better with age. I thought I could hold this one in and prevent causing awkwardness among pretty much everyone who knows me who might have a story to tell me in the future (don't worry - I've got some soothing words for you folks later), but I've just read a published young adult novel that I am to review that was literally the worst book I have ever read. Laughably, hysterically awful. And that got me angry about storytelling in general. There are a few things that steam my hams* about bad storytelling, and here they are:
The Number One bad story telling sin is when the punchline is "And it was so funny!" If you told the story, minus that last bit, and your audience isn't laughing, it wasn't funny and you're a liar. You know when you tell a joke, and then have to explain it? Same principle. I used to go out with this girl, most of whose stories ended with: "And it was just fantastic," followed by a reassuring nod. Rest assured that the just-related experience founded none of my dumbness.
Number Two is when stories are too fucking long. When the story turns into a biography, just finish the page you're on and pass the conversation stick to the next person.
Number Three is best illustrated by the surprisingly-lacklustre-of-late Toothpaste for Dinner.

I think this little cartoon shows a story-telling situation that is almost on par with possibly the worst story telling crime out there: recounting your dreams. At least with drug stories, there is the possibility that the person you're talking to will remember the happier times they've had on drugs and will be able to recall them while you explain in great detail how you thought the bean bag was hugging you with ants. Telling someone your dreams, however, is just as useful to everybody's further meaningful existence as stopping a complete stranger in the street and reciting a random string of letters at them.
Number Four on Franzy's Whining List of Storytelling Sins are the words "He/She/They then proceeded to..." followed by some vaguely foolish activity. This is a technique usually employed by people not used to public speaking, but who have been forced to recount an episode that was whimsical at the time and to people who were present or familiar with those present in front of a large gathering of people of varying dispositions and tolerances for the words 'penis', 'urinate' and 'raunchy'. It's actually not a bad thing, but it gets up my toff nose.

I am guilty of all of the above offences. I've encouraged people to react in appropriate ways when I've finished telling a story that didn't gain a reaction. Anyone who reads this blog knows that I carry on stories until the last person has fallen asleep. I've told meaningful, heart-felt, hilarious, life-changing drug stories and, being a dreamer of epic dreams, I've recounted entire hallucinatory journeys to whoever was around. I have then proceeded to stand up in front of a large crowd of people I only half know and attempt to win them over with pseudo-courtroom-speak.

Cue soothing words: And you should as well. Tell your stories. Don't be afraid. If it's interesting to you, it'll be interesting to someone, eventually. The point is to practise. Tell them over again, in different ways to different people. Emphasise the bits that people like and skip the bits where they start sending "Get me outta here" texts to their friends in front of you.
Maybe ease up on the dream reports, though.

*reference?

***
GTH - The points to the last entry go to Deadly Trently who correctly identified the place, the various timbers, the world's coolest shirt brand, its place of purchase and the settings of the watch. Well done, Hop-a-long.

New competition on this post's GTH: The winner is whoever guesses the most book titles in the picture.

/Know when to roll 'em!/

I had the greatest memory-trigger the other day. I've been temping at the Don Dunstan Foundation and a woman there had a little bowl marbles on her desk - for decorative purposes I assume. Suddenly I was nine years old, inspecting her impressive collection of Speckledies and sizing up values ...

I don't know about you, but marbles were big in Gilles Street Primary. The craze ran in cycles (like all school crazes) and when marbles were in, the grassed-area (irregular hexagon, left) became the first casino we ever experienced. There were the high rollers, the pigeons, the wheelers, the dealers and the stealers.
We didn't have a large circle from which we would try to knock each others marbles. Instead two players started side-by-side and took it in turns to hit the other's marble, keeping the marbles on the grass. You could throw yours to the other side of the grass if you wanted a long match (or if you were a chicken), or you could drop it close by for a genuine battle of skills and wills (or if you were stupid).
The match was only a part of the battle. First you had to negotiate terms and values. One marble was not worth another. If fact, I would venture that this is still the case. Along with the patrons of the marble field (as it was known), there were officials. Marble experts who could be relied upon to correctly judge the value of one marble for another or go through your collection to decide what was worth playing for and who was trying it on. Of course this system was entirely corrupt. The marble expert was often chosen purely because they were bigger and/or bossier than the opponent. Having a grade seven with a large Spiderman t-shirt and real acne tell you that your Big Bluies would have to be included as a prize along with the lowly Cats-Eye for it to be worth a Tri-Colour BirdShit was often authority enough for anybody who didn't want to be seen as a wuss.
The experts would also hold the winner's prize in escrow on particularly big matches, but, since The Sopranos hadn't been thought of yet, they never took a cut.

Every Marble Craze Phase was divided into roughly three eras that would last anything from a few days to a few weeks.

1. Innocent Fun
A few kids bring their marbles to school in their pockets and play a few rounds on the grass. At the beginning of this sweet and simple time kids would even take back the marbles they played with. No one lost their possessions; it was all for the love of the game. After a while a few more kids would remember that they too liked playing marbles, and had them at home. They would bring their own and the more competitive types would begin challenging one another. Bitty Bins would appear, making the beginning of ...

2. The Rush
The grassed area would be crowded. All shapes and sizes. Every second player would have a Bitty Bin tucked under their arm. Gazes were intense. Skills were building with daily play and those with classrooms nearer the grass would always snag the best first few rounds just after the bell before the masses began arriving. Long bombs would pay off and the distinctive, grinding click of hardened glass balls knocking together sounded like the faint rustle of poker chips in a late-night gambling den. The big marbles would appear. The Tombolla sizes and the Giants above them. Rich kids began high-stakes games from which the casualties would begin to mount. Bigger Bitty Bins would appear and the pros even had flunkies to carry them while they played. Then, it would happen. Someone would challenge someone who wasn't ready for it, but didn't want to back down. Their favourite marble would be played and lost and the first tear to fall on the well-trodden grass would signal ...

3. The Ban.
The ban wouldn't happen at first, but it was in the air. Once that first tear rolled off that first quivering cheek. Once that first pout followed the prized Reddy as it floated away from its family (often having been there for generations) and into the 4-litre Bitty Bin of a dead-eye pro. That's when a teacher on yard duty would have to spend most of their time hovering, trying to make sure that the kids in the cubby house weren't about to jump off the roof while simultaneously keeping an adult eye on nineteen separate marble matches to ensure that no one was violating the School Rule about personal possessions. Too much. At around this time the grassed area became known as The Marble Yard or The Arena and it was patrolled by either dead-set, sharp-shooting pros or the angry, confident, future-poker-machine addicts, certain that they could take their last few Galaxies, challenge for that Swamp Tombolla and really turn the tables. Stakes were ionospheric. For a time, the eye of the storm would descend and many gathered to watch the big dogs take one another on for marbles that most would never see up close, let alone touch, let alone own. Then came that sound, and that cry.
'Marble scatter!'
No sound is so electrifyingly, terrifyingly sweet. Sometimes you would hear it during The Rush. Some kid would actually just drop their Bitty Bin and we would all swarm like coked-up seagulls, digging in the dirt and shovelling handfuls of marbles into our pockets while the poor, clumsy owner attempted to both scoop as many marbles back into the container as possible through tears of desperation, and dispense a few elbows about the place to curtail the massive losses they were about to sustain. If a teacher were around, it was simple to claim an insatiable altruistic urge:
'I was just helping him pick them up!'
If no teacher was around, then old Slippery Fingers had better have some persuasive friends or they would be left with a runny nose and a rattly Bitty Bin at the end of the day to help explain to Mum and Dad why taking toys to school was a safe idea.
However, during the time of The Ban, marble scatters were less ... accidental. If you were to unlock the lid of your Bin, then you had better check around first, because all it takes is one burnt, vindictive eight-year-old to believe that you didn't win his Jelly fair and square to walk by, grab the edge of your Bin and yank downwards.
'Marble scatter!'
The marble scatter from a high-roller was doubly delicious. Especially if it happened on bricks, cement or, best of all, inside on a hardwood floor. The same aural rush can only be had by a embezzling slot-jockey when the royal flush turns up. Ch-Ching! Whoosh!! Endorphins and joy!
That's when it starts getting dirty. That's when it's the beginning of the end. It can only be a matter of hours before all marbles are banned from school property. One ban happened after someone pulled a marble scatter next to a major road. Lucky no valuable ones rolled out under the taxis on their speedy way towards the South Terrace Hotels or there would have been a flew still-confident pigeons who ended their rolling days the way they lived them: chasing the beautiful glass balls.

Then all would be quiet, until the next craze hit the school. Snap-bracelets, basketballs, Tazos, skateboards and eventually, like a really hot summer or Australia winning a big soccer match ... marbles would once again come around, and the gentle click of fun and nostalgia could be heard, waiting for the Bitty Bins to arrive.

***
GTH
River once again takes the honours. It is indeed an old chain covered in guano and all the symbolism about the links that the internet forges and the conditions under which it forges them that goes along with that kind of thing.
Better luck this week gang!