Filed under: generic text, political musings | Tags: epic win, mugabe, zimbabwe
So, just an apology to all the friends that I’ve constantly tortured over recent weeks with my over-powering use of the words ‘epic’, ‘win’, ‘fail’ and ‘totes’. But I have decided this has now come to an end, with the ultimate in epic fail, Mr Robert Mugabe, finally, finally, finally losing his last option for a democratic re-election in Zimbabwe. In other words, unless he leads another coup – which wouldn’t suprise me – he’s gone. Yay!
So, in saying farewell to Mugabe, I will say farewell to what has become my personally variant of the English language, the Totes Epic Win-Fail dialect. You should count yourselves lucky 
Filed under: generic text, i feel like bitching, muse o muse, political musings | Tags: ANZAC, day, M.I.A., war
I tried all day on friday to write a blog. I tried all day to do study. I tried all day to do something fulfilling or somehow useful. And I believe I managed to fail quite miserably. The one thing I managed was a catchy title (see above), but since the poignant moment of listening to M.I.A.’s Kala on ANZAC day has passed, that is also irrelevant. Therefore, the day seems entirely pointless, if rated by the usual ’substance of product completed’, ”concrete evidence of… something evident’ and ‘personal satisfaction with day’. You could almost say it was an empty day.
And, frankly, I would agree with you if you said that. I was about to attempt to iterate some statement of how I did things, how the day was truly fulfilling through that lack of ‘achievement’, etc, but frankly it was quite an average day. The highlight of the day was probably the point in time, just prior to 12.21am, when I and a friend jumped the fences from another friends’ house to mine (two fences in total). This was quite satisfying.
However, the amount of satisfaction that I gained from ‘jumping the fences back home’ was, to be blunt, fuck all, when I compare it to the amount of satisfaction that I feel when, in years past, I have stood on the side of the road, watched the old diggers drive past and honoured their contributions to this country. Now, don’t get me wrong. I am far from being a patriot… anyone who knows me at all, and possibly even anyone who has read this blog would know that. I disagree with war and violence in all its contexts. I quite blatantly disagree with the concept of the armed forces, although I acknowledge the need for their existence. Etc. Etc.
You see, I could keep bitching about the things I dislike about this country for hours and hours, just as I did back in high school, and in the last paragraph. However. The importance of acknowledging the service and sacrifice of the men and women who have died for the country that I am (often unwillingly) part of is something that, for me, far surpasses any of these notions. I don’t exactly know why. But I don’t care. For once, I don’t actually care why I feel the need to remember these people. I just think it matters.
So, next year, on ANZAC day, I’ll try to get to the parade. Instead of waking up with a hangover, wasting a day and then wasting the next one, I’m going to pay my respects. Not to war, not to violence, and not to the patriarchal society that I am a part of, but to the old buggers who we’re slowly forgetting about.
Filed under: generic text, muse o muse, musik | Tags: change, elliott smith, facebook chat, music
There’s always more to take out. More rubbish to ‘dispose of’, more pieces of old friends, more leftovers from relationships, more junk collector’s junk. I thought that was what moving house was for, but now, after moving 8 times in just over 2 years, I think I’m desensitized to anything that moving house can do to me. Or maybe I’m just saturated.
Anyway, I’m attempting to study. It’s really hard! Indescribably hard, actually, now that Facebook Chat has arrived. I jump on, intending to be on there for, oh, 10 minutes or so… and end up wasting an hour. An hour! Memories of epic MSN conversations in those deathly high school years come to mind… of course, 9 hours of chatting is a little different than 45 minutes or so of chat-specific Facebook distractions, but it’s still a waste of time. Or something like that.
Elliott Smith sang, as I was writing that, just then, this second, this moment:
“It’s a waste of time
I put it behind once and for all
And let the hype decline
If the problem wasn’t mine…” [from Go By]
Talk about a distraction. My whole train of thought has derailed itself… thanks, Elliott. I should be used to the Elliott Smith distraction, my housemate is, well, a little obsessed with the lovely chap. This is a rather healthy obsession (is there any other type?) and seems to be in a sort of stasis, not growing, not shrinking… in use every day, but not every moment.
So, anyway. As you can probably tell from the title of this entry, we emptied out the house last night – that is, we moved the TV downstairs, along with one of the couches – in a flurry of cleansing. However, as you may also be able to tell, we haven’t emptied out ourselves… Duncan is still the same Elliott Smith lover, I’m still the same uber-procrastinater, and Peter is, well, just Peter. Therefore, it seems that we have discovered the answer to that old ‘Nature vs. Nurture’ debate… our physical surroundings have changed, yet we have not.
How deep.
I wish I knew. Actually, I wish I knew where they hid all the time… I can imagine having a place, a secret place, just for the butterflies, where you could go and just watch them. Perhaps they flitter-flutter around in their sleep. Perhaps they snore. Or, as is probably the case, perhaps they close up their wings and sit in their favourite of all spots and dream. But what do they dream about? I don’t know. I just know that it’s currently raining, and that I’ve never never ever ever seen a butterfly in the rain.
It’s sort of irrelevant, anyway. But an interesting thought, I guess. I’m no philosopher. And I’m certainly not going to become one of those philosophical bloggers, who attempts to write things that are deep, that have meaning, that have never been written down before. That path is one of disappointment. When I truly think about it, if I could be totally, entirely, flawleesy original… I might be. But maybe I wouldn’t. I don’t really see the point.
Truthfully, there isn’t really a specific point to this blog. It is not some specific moral deposition that is supposed to change your reality. It is not related to any certain culturally-specific idiom. In fact, the only justification for it’s existence is that… well, I guess I enjoy writing it. I enjoy blabbering about things, like butterflies, and rain, and drinking, and life. All those words that you just sometime want to tell people, but you just can’t, can’t, can’t get out when you want to. In summary, I suppose it’s an outlet.
Anyway. The rain has stopped. Well, actually, it stopped a while ago. I just got a bit caught up in the words. Hope you do, too.
Ok, so let me just set the mood. Start this amazingly sexy song playing before you read. Please. It’s by the Voodoo Trombone Quartet… Epic win by my standards.
I was actually going to attempt to write something, but… well, I’ve had a lot of caffeine-infested tea, and I really can’t manage it right now. Instead, I’m just going to put up a bunch of links to music that I’ve been listening to recently and really sort of loving. They’re not particularly new, or indie, or whatever, but they’re all damn, damn fantastic.
Dave Matthews Band – Crash Into Me
There also this amazing cover of The Mighty Boosh – Mod Wolves song… it’s not really a song you can listen to over, and over, and over, and over… but ’tis amazing.
Anyway, all this music, plus the tea… makes for happiness. You should try it.
Siting here in my beanie, thick grey socks and hoodie, watching the rain dribble down the windows. Not in the mood for anything university-related, but knowing that something has to be, must be, done, and writing instead. Taking off my beanie for a bit due to its slightly-too-fantastic heat-saving properties. Listening to Bright Eyes ramble, ramble, ramble. Feeling empty, hungry, yet not appetised. Gluggy, messy, vague, yet content.
Interesting how a normal reply would be, ‘Oh, I’m ok’, yet when I allow myself a moment to think about how I truly feel, how everything feels, an entire paragraph just falls out of my fingers. There are cars going past, too, but that never stops, and I don’t hear them any more, unless I try. And Ardour, the beautiful fish, is floating, fluttering, gliding around in his ex-Cranberry juice bottle, looking the happiest I think I’ve seen him in months – I would have included him, but, I think he can speak for himself.
I’ll try and concentrate for a moment. Bright Eyes is still depressedly warbling in his beautiful way, and it’s a little distracting, but, I’ll manage.
What I wanted to specifically say was that I’m worried about my drinking habits. I’m not a fish. I don’t constantly need to drown myself in 2 litres of liquid to survive. I’m perfectly capable of breathing air unaided, of speaking through unlubricated lungs, and of functioning as a complete human without the aid of stimulants and/or depressents.
Yet, I still drink. Why? Because it’s fun. Because my friends are doing it. Because there are people that I seem to only hang out with when I’m drinking. Because, I suppose, everyone does it. And that makes it ok. No, it doesn’t make it ok. It makes it an expectation. Just like in class on thursday, when my history tutor told an inquisitive, de-alcoholised vegan from my class that, in so many words, they would need to break their personal moral standings in order to be accepted should they ever wish to visit Russia. That sort of made me feel a bit shit.
Just going to tangent for a moment. Does this mean that when people come to Australia, they are told they have to drink beer, eat seafood, and like sports, or else they won’t fit in? As a vegetarian, an occasionally de-alcoholised person, and as anti-sports as they come, I would be in the absolute minority. But I exist! And I’m sure that people like me exist in Russia, too. I have no doubt.
Anyway, back to the monologue. When I had 3.5 weeks without alcohol after NYE this year it was amazing, and cleansing, and I felt fantastic afterwards. My feet touched the earth again. As a result, I can now drink without having memory loss – I suppose that means my liver is getting better – I have much a much less-protruding stomach, and I generally sleep better.
Yet, I still drink. Why? Because… I drink. Because we all drink.
So… I’m going to be drinking less from now on. I’ve been drinking much less during the past few months, but, I feel like I’m still drinking too much. I’ve been a serious binge drinker for too long, the one that always got pissed at the party, didn’t throw up (not usually anyway) and generally just made a massive fool out of themselves.
And when I do drink, I’m only going to drink good alcohol (yeah, I know, it’s all bad for me). Specifically in the form of red wine… not cheap, $6 bottles like I was enjoying on friday night, but decent wine, the sort that gets you silly, but not forgetful or messy.
All this, and perhaps more, is going to start now. It’s going to start with the dreary facade that I feel to be the onset of winter, yet hopefully it will outlast it. Hopefully it was last longer than a Bright Eyes album, specifically the one that just finished, There Is No Beginning to the Story. But hopefully it will be as enjoyable.
Filed under: generic text, i feel like bitching, playwright or wrong? | Tags: bad play, prisoner, prisoner of second avenue, QTC, sexist
Disgusted is a mild form of the putrid revulsion that I feel towards the play that I was unlucky enough to witness last night, QTC’s production of “The Prisoner of Second Avenue”.The times have changed, dear friends, and an attempted social commentary of 1976 is no longer the social commentary of 2008. The production was immensely flawed, from the overtly sexist tones and the intolerable plasticity of the characters, to the repetitive script, compiled from what seemed to be 2 hours of filler jokes. In fact, the only point of relevance (and therefore justification) that a struggling QTC spokesman could find for the production of this play was the freshly announced US recession and its entirely coincidental similarity to the ’stunningly brilliant’ plot.
Nice one.
From the opening seconds of “The Prisoner of Second Avenue” the production was textbook, freshly retrieved from the hugely popular ‘profit-guaranteed-script-recycling-bin’. At best, it was an empty performance, full of stereotypes and offence. Husband dominant, wife subservient. Husband unreachable and distant, wife intuitive and communicative. This would be excusable if it was an obvious play on the roles, a caricature of what society had/has become. Instead, the characters themselves became purely caricatures, capable only of transmitting the overtly invariable image of a ‘classic’ sitcom couple.
My, what an insight into reality. My two cents? Do not see this play.
Filed under: image conscious, milkcrate constructions | Tags: build, chairs, crate, dyi, fun, milkcrate, table
Formula: 10 Milkcrates (ass. colours)
2 Bread Trays
About 20 Zipties.
About 2 hours free time (includes milk crate ‘borrowing’ times)
Photos:
