A Cure for Connex.

Real life has been making unconscionable demands on my time of late, and there hasn't been much opportunity for pausing on the path to ponder issues of import. But arriving at Parliament this morning — to much shouting and jangling of coin tins — I realised I couldn't let the day fly past (like a train with failing brakes) without comment.

For today, you see, is 'Connex for Cancer Day'.


With their long and continuing run of bad press, I find it bewildering that Connex would decide to come out in support of an insidious disease that kills millions every year! Surely they'd have a better chance of generating a little public good will by coming out against cancer, not for it? Am I taking crazy pills? And, to be honest, cancer seems to be doing quite alright by itself, even without Connex getting behind it.

Look, I mean, it's great that Connex want to be a responsible citizen and contribute to the public good, but maybe they need to rethink this one? And in the meantime, maybe they could focus their efforts on curing the ills of their rail network instead.

Stevie Awesome.

Personally, I'm of the view that a blog should be more than just links to videos on YouTube. But every once in a while a clip comes along that's such a feast, it simply has to be shared. And so, please, won't you pull your chair up to the table and get stuck into this incredible clip of Stevie Wonder pounding away on his... drumkit?

And after that, if you've still got room for Jello, shovel down this sumptuous clip of Stevie on Sesame Street playing, imho, his best song ever, Superstition.

And, though I know you're about to burst, please find the room for one final clip of Stevie, again on Sesame St, but this time playin' around with Grover. Go on, it's wafer thin.

Absolutely magnificent.

Surprising Grace.

It was recently revealed to me through an act of providential timing that grace — the gift by which we are delivered from the consequences of our sin — comes not only from God, but from the City of Melbourne as well, in the mystical form of its many parking meters.

For its meters, you see, understand that we are fallen creatures, given to sin. And so, on those occasions when we've stayed for longer than we've paid, before bringing the hammer of judgement down and releasing the hounds... sorry, Parking Consultants, it extends to us a period of grace, an unearned gift of bonus time to shield us from the consequences of our sinful actions.

Don't believe me? See for yourself:


How sweet is that? Unfortunately though, unlike God's grace, which lasts an eternity, that of the City of Melbourne lasts only three seconds. So don't be too casual making your way back to the car, as there's not much grace to rest in. Which, incidentally, made this a bugger of a shot to take. Salvation is assured for but the blink of an angel's eye.

Take me to the chorus:

Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound
that saved a wretch like me
from the Department of Infrastructure
and a $110 parking fine.

Amen.

Criticising in the Streets.

Well, the handwriting analysis results aren’t back from the lab, but judged purely along lines of content, it would seem the Anonymous Critic has returned! And to the very same stretch of wall on Swanston Street, no less.


The scourge of derivative musicians everywhere, the Anonymous Critic was last seen hacking into Aussie rockers, Jet. This time, however, the Critic's directing both barrels at every mum's favourite "grown-man band," Human Nature, who are currently touring their double-disc collection of Motown classics "direct from Hitsville!" Yeah!

But unlike the Critic's attack on Jet, there's no appeal to our better natures this time, no plea to lift ourselves from the mire of mediocrity and stop settling for second best. No, this time there's just a nail-punching declaration that Human Nature "SUCK" and a fiery demand for the band to "Write your own fucking songs!!!" Three exclamation marks there, so you know it's serious.


Confusingly though, for a person so passionate about not just retreading the path of those who've gone before, the Critic has let him- or herself down with the illustration that's been used to flesh out this fuming condemnation. Instead of finding some inventive way to deface the four harmonisin' figures, the Critic has resorted to that old favourite doodle... a doodle! Two, in fact. And in case there's any possible doubt as to the doodle's significance, the man on the mic elaborates frankly, confessing to the crowd that he doesn't just suck, he sucks doodle.


Clever. Such wit. One wonders why the Critic stopped there and didn't add glasses and Hitler moustaches as well?

There's no way of knowing when next the Anonymous Critic will bring the gavel down, but I wonder who it'll be in the dock? It's not too late to change your ways, Wolfmother!!! Put down your ARIA awards and look into your hearts while there's still time!!!

The Apple-a-Day Massacre.

Tragedy on the streets of Melbourne today as another iPod-using hipster was gunned down in a tram shelter on Elizabeth Street. By some freak of providential timing, I happened to be right across the street with my camera, and managed to capture the exact moment of death on film. Or on CCD, rather.


With work already underway adapting Robert Capa's famous photograph for a new iPod ad campaign, Apple contacted me hoping to honour this second young hipster's choice of digital audio player by incorporating his image into their poster as well. I felt a little uncomfortable about handing the image over, but they drove a truckload of iPods up to my house and I'm not made of stone.


I still don't get how this is meant to sell iPods, but the marketing dude I spoke to seemed pretty sure they were onto another "epoch-defining, gold-class winner." I guess we'll see.

Neither victim has so far been identified.

Star Wars on Trial.

I've recently finished reading a most enjoyable if somewhat disheartening book called Star Wars on Trial. The book takes the form of a courtroom trial, with prominent Science Fiction and Fantasy authors arguing a range of charges as members for the prosecution or defense.

There are eight charges in total, examples of which include: "The politics of Star Wars are anti-democratic and elitest," "Science Fiction filmmaking has been reduced by Star Wars to poorly written Special Effects Extravaganzas," "Women in Star Wars are portrayed as fundamentally weak," and "The plot holes and logical gaps in Star Wars make it ill-suited for an intelligent viewer."

This last charge is argued for the prosecution by Nick Mamatas in his statement to the court entitled, "Laziness Leads to Sloth, Sloth to Incompetence, Incompetence to Stupidity, and Stupidity to the Dark Side of the Force." Mamatas slams the state of contemporary SF/F filmmaking, arguing that the unparalleled success of Star Wars has ushered in an era of effects-driven blockbusters where the story is nothing more than a tool for a CGI-workout. This bias towards special effects over script development has meant that SF/F films have increasingly become "unbearably stupid." He continues:

"Indeed, going to see a science fiction or fantasy movie these days is not dissimilar to attending an extended performance art piece which involves several gorgeous people, all in wonderful if somewhat tasteless costume, wheeling a wheelbarrow full of raw, rancid bacon onto a stage. Handed pitchforks by the sequined-spangled assistants, the costumed beauties grab hold tightly of the handles, stick the spears of the forks into the wheelbarrows, and then fling the rancid bacon at the audience, all while screaming, "Eat it! Eat it, you stupid pigs! You morons love it!" The audience leaps to action, scrambling along the aisles and trying to grab up and shove as much of the foul bacon into their fat mouths as they can, stopping only to look up at the performers, point to their stuffed cheeks and mumble through tangles and blobs of rancid meat, "Yuth yuth ah fuff ith!" The stars sneer and howl, "That's right, you jowly bastards, gobble it up, and crap yourselves in glee!" When the meat runs out, the show is over."

I love it! Spot on. Hollywood churns out an endless run of cheeseburgers that somehow manage to smash box office record after record. It's mystifying. Look, I don't want to be the guy who asks why my fellow man seems so satisfied with cheeseburgers... but why is my fellow man so satisfied with cheeseburgers?! Because while the megabucks are pourin' in, it's not going to stop. They'll use a few ideas jotted down on a paper serviette for the script, and pour millions into the special effects because planet-shaking explosions, exotic aliens from a thousand different worlds, and mystical knights with laser swords back-flipping all over the screen are WAY COOL and will make for an AWESOME-looking preview that'll WOW consumers into the nearest box office queue in seconds! Hooray!

Mamatas' final word on the subject is:

"Take the bacon out of your mouths, boys and girls, and let's show Hollywood that we're not going to be fooled by well-cut trailers and nostalgia for our eight-year-old selves anymore. When you see a movie you think might be okay, but is probably going to suck as much as Star Wars, just stay home.
Repeat after me!
"Just stay home!"
"Just stay home!"
"Just stay home!"

Just stay home, and when the only records being set are those for low attendance, maybe we'll get a few more SF/F films where the effects help tell the story, and aren't the story.

On a related note, if you're in the mood for a good whinge about Star Wars, pop on over to Chef Elf's 'Reasons to Hate the Prequels.' Again, it's a depressing read, but an entertaining one, nonetheless. Don't bother going to the 'Star Wars on Trial' discussion board, as it seems to have been overrun by spamers (possibly from Kamino.)

Happy Star Wars (tm) Day 2007.

Happy Star Wars (tm) Day everyone. May the Fourth be with you, and may all your wishes for an intelligent, well-written, character-driven TV series come true. And also, may your dreams of seeing an in-prime Boba Fett kickin' booty in a swirling vortex of intense action (not just sitting around, standing around and falling into holes) be fulfilled. Amen.

UPDATE: And in other Star Wars news, this just in: a recent survey conducted by the UK's Sky Movies has revealed that Star Wars is the film most loved to be watched over and over again. Well, for men, at least. Women apparently prefer to re-watch Dirty Dancing.

Star Wars: A New Hope is certainly the film I’ve re-watched the most times. Although as over the years Empire grew to become my favourite, it’s by now surely close to catching up. I can’t think what others would even come close to those two? Heathers, certainly. And The Blues Brothers. Oh, and Ferris Bueller’s as well, of course. Year in, year out, every time’s just like the first.

If you’d been doing the survey, what would you have put down?

UPDATE 2: And in further Star Wars news, well 'olds' more than news, but then everything olds is news again, I guess, so there you go... um, oh yeah, so I just enjoyed revisiting the soundstages of my childhood via this series of slides on Swapatorium of a magnificently staged production of The Empire Strikes Back. So good. :)

Go Zackers!

To honour the Anzac spirit as defined by the Australian Football League: skill, courage, self-sacrifice, teamwork and fair play, I have composed a list of AFL teams, ordered from 'Aussie' to 'Ottoman' as determined by me, the author.

Richmond
Melbourne
St Kilda
Geelong
Western Bulldogs
Essendon
Hawthorn
North Kangaroos
Sydney
Fremantle
Collingwood
Carlton
Adelaide
Port Adelaide
Brisbane
West Coast

Lest we forget.

REVISED: Because this is important.

Richmond
Melbourne
St Kilda
Geelong
Western Bulldogs
Essendon
Sydney
North Kangaroos
Hawthorn
Adelaide
Fremantle
Carlton
Collingwood
Port Adelaide
Brisbane
West Coast

The years shall not condemn this list.

300 PERCENT HYPERBOLIC!

You expect gross hyperbole in the one line reviews on movie advertisements, but once in a lifetime an ad comes along that BLOWS THE OTHERS AWAY!


'300' was always bound to provoke strong reactions, but the stratospheric praise on this newspaper ad (appropriately bellowed in ALL CAPS) would surely leave even the film's director asking if it was actually his film the reviewers had seen.

"5 STARS. AWESOME... ONE OF THE BEST FILMS YOU'LL SEE THIS YEAR." Zoo Weekly

"THE MOST UNIQUE MOVIEGOING EXPERIENCE OF A GENERATION... BREATHTAKING, POWERFUL, INCREDIBLE." Ben Lyons, E!

"300 PERCENT ACTION, 300 PERCENT EXHILARATING. IT'S THE BEST MOVIE OF THE LAST DECADE." Robert Sanchez, IESB.net

“Best movie of the last decade”? “The most unique moviegoing experience of a generation”? Come on. Maybe I’ll be DINING ON HUMBLE PIE IN HELL come next year’s Oscars, but I don’t think so.

Actually, thinking about it, the tone of these mini-reviews works far better as a review for the film than the words themselves. It’s full bore, ramped way up to 11 (possibly 12), and completely, insanely, over the top. Unflinching, uncompromising, it stares you dead in the eye and DARES you to say otherwise!

I take it back; they’re perfect. :)

UPDATE: You’d think once the promotions department at Warner Brothers landed the accolade, “Best movie of the last decade,” they would have called it a day and gone home. But no, they continued to scour the land, searching for further words of praise with which to laud their mighty king.


Sadly for them, the best they could dig up was the oddly-expressed opinion of serial fawn, Molly Meldrum, who declared the movie:

“BLEW ME AWAY IN VISUALS...”

Look, even if Molly Meldrum’s opinion was something worth having in your advertisement, must he make reference to being blown away? Can he give it a rest just once? Glory be.

Apple a day.

When it comes to product placement, Apple are doing very well for themselves. Back in the old days they had to actually work to get their products into other people’s ads, films and TV shows, but these days they’ve pushed that little lever that lets you swing your ergonomic chair back and they’ve got their feet up on the desk. In fact, they’ve already gone home and are having a snooze by the fire in the Jason Recliner.

Because thanks largely (but not entirely) to the success of the iPod (which after all grew from a philosophy that informs all that Apple creates… except the one-button mouse, which is form giving function the finger, although thankfully Apple have seen the Might there. Oh, and the iPod’s symmetrically-shaped headphone cable sucks as well, but maybe that’s a good thing because it meant I switched back to using my old asymmetrical neck-chain Sony ones which, thanks to their being not-white, have probably saved me from being mugged every second day, and then copping a second thumping when the mugger discovers the fruit of their labour is merely a miserable third-generation iPod! How are they supposed to watch Pirates of the Caribbean on that?

But where was I? Oh yes, thanks largely to Apple being so hot right now, every man jack and his advertiser are desperate to get Apple products into their ads in the hope of picking up a little reflected glory.

Which is all well and good, but sometimes, as with this ad for New Zealand tourism, the quest for glory starts to look a little desperate and pathetic.


Note the iPod taking pride of place, but also note absolutely no reference to Apple or iPods anywhere else. Sure, they mention you can apparently organise trips to New Zealand ONLINE (Um, newsflash!), but the link from there to iPod is tenuous at best.

Less pathetic, but just as misleading, is this ad from Optus.


Optus, you’ll see, are quite happy to use Apple hardware to promote their product (once they’ve photoshopped off the Apple logo, of course), but if you’re a Mac user who signs up and calls their technical support, you’ll be told that Optus don’t support the Mac and to tell your story walkin’.

And no, it’s not an Apple Display plugged into a PC, because that’s an OS X scroll bar they’ve decided to paste in there for some unfathomable reason. And curiously, the scroll bar is showing there’s more to the page than we can see, which begs the question, “What will be revealed if you scroll back up?” Some sneaky small-print nastiness would be my guess. Possibly the bit where they let you know they don’t support Macs. :)

Just plain bizarre is this ad…


…for an Apple MacBoo… oh wait, I’m sorry, it’s not a MacBook Pro, it’s a… Twinhead or something laptop? I got confused because that’s Apple’s ‘Aqua Blue’ default desktop wallpaper you can see there on the laptop’s display. Trying to make your product look like something it isn’t is not a great way to project confidence. It’s like a Daewoo dealer sticking VW badges on his cars, hoping that no-one will notice. And I find it funny how they ask, “Why Settle For Less?” while making the brightest point of the ad a recognisable image from a competing operating system this machine can’t even run. (Unlike a MacBook which can do everything the Twinhead can do, and more.)

But where you could explain the Twinhead incongruence away as being some PC guy who liked the wallpaper and just downloaded it, I’d love to know the explanation for this double-take from The Sopranos:


Here’s an establishing shot of Janice Soprano tapping away evilly on her Apple PowerBook G3. But when we cut to her point of view, what do we see?


Windows?! What?! Even back in 2002 she could've easily used OS X and a multi-protocol IM client for her trickery, but she went instead for a Windows emulator? She really is insane!

Magic iPod.

I love my iPod. Even if it is merely a third-generation iPod whose small storage capacity and even smaller monochrome screen makes the kids of today wonder how I can even bear to be alive. “How do you handle having to watch movies in black and white? What? You can’t even watch movies on it? Wow; go to bed, old man. How old did you say that thing was?”

But after yesterday I love my iPod even more. For you see I have discovered that my iPod is not just an iPod, it is a Magic iPod!

The day began like any other: at my Mac, strong long black and a quick flick through my RSS Reader for the news of the day. I noticed Apple had just released a new ad for Apple TV, so I went and had a look. It uses a clip from Jack Black’s film, School of Rock, where he’s instructing his students on how to play the rock classic, ‘Smoke on the Water.’ Nice ad. Playtime over, I put on my headphones, set my iPod to shuffle all songs and pressed Play. Of the 4312 tracks it had to choose from, guess what it chose? Yep, Smoke on the Water. What are the odds? Like, seriously? Talk about push advertising. I nearly fell off my chair!

Then! If that wasn't enough, last night I headed to the cinema for an evening drenched in blood, glory and spittle as 300 Spartans shouted themselves hoarse while hacking an endless sea of Persians to pieces. Magnificent. Anyway, I popped into the Men's Room before the session and heard Veruca Salt's 'Volcano Girls' playing over the PA. It was quite a surprise to hear something I actually liked over a PA, something that was very much not the easy-listenin' musak you would normally expect. And they must have given Kylie the night off because then as I walked into the cinema, Radiohead's 'Sit Down, Stand Up' came on. "Wow," I commented, "two good songs in a row. It's like they've got my iPod plugged in." And then next up, also to be found on my iPod, was the stomping 'Seven Nation Army' by the White Stripes. I couldn't believe it. Three from three! The pre-show "entertainment" then started up, so my run came to an end, but only for two hours because as the movie ended and the lights came on, so too did Lamb's 'Gabriel,' which is not only one of my all-time favourite songs, but also the track Kate sauntered down the aisle to! It was Pirate Radio and my iPod (tucked away in my satchel) was at the board pushing the buttons. (Or whatever it is you do at a Pirate Radio).

I know Bill Gates' smart-house will create a personal playlist based on preferences stored in that chip in your skull and pipe your music after you as you walk from room to room, but Apple have trumped him once again by extending the feature out into public places! With an astounding, apparently unique, magic-feature like this, I think I can mollify the upgrade desire for a few more years at least...

UPDATE: The Magic Lives On, and not just in the hearts of children, but within the electronic heart of my Magical iPod as well, as it continues to broadcast its playlists out through ethereal pipes and into the world around. Huzzah!

I’ve just finished watching the third episode of the last ever absolutely the last final full stop never again nine episodes of The Sopranos. And of these three episodes, two have featured tracks taken directly from my Best. Jazz. Ever. playlist on my iPod. First up was the sublime perfection of Dave Brubeck’s, ‘Take Five,’ which was followed two episodes later by Benny Goodman’s stomping, ‘Sing, Sing, Sing (With A Swing).’ If either of the next two episodes feature Charles Mingus’ pinnacle of jazz expression, ‘II B.S.’ I’m declaring this magic-to-be-or-not-to-be speculation officially settled.

UPDATE 2: I know you’ll think I’m joking, but there’s some freakshow over here who reckons he prefers—get this—his old 2nd-gen iPod to his new 5th-gen video iPod! I know, I know! Crazy fool. Hopefully he’ll let us know when the shuttle lands.

UPDATE 3: SO CLOSE! When laying down a fleece to test the Magicalness of my iPod, I chose to use my all time favourite jazz track, 'II B.S' by Charles Mingus. Well, I didn't manage to land that stomper, but the final Soprano's episode, did feature another of my Top Five favourite jazz tracks, Duke Ellington's standard, Caravan; a track I love so much I've collected 42 different versions of it (and counting). It wasn't my favourite version, but it was still a track on my iPod! So, how amazing is that? Three of my Top Five in the final run of seven episodes. Magic!

She speaks.

Well, I think we can call it. We've moved past nothing but meaningless babble, and I think we can officially sign off on Winter's first real word.

For a while there we thought it was going to be 'da,' meaning 'dad,' because she'd quite clearly say it when pointing at me. But when we noticed she'd also say it when pointing to CK, we pretty quickly changed our minds.

And so, Winter's first word is [drumroll] (no, not 'drumroll', but how cool would that be? Not as good as dodecahedron, but still pretty good)... [um, another drumroll] it's... 'Ma.'

But before you ladies all start high-fiving each other like it's some kind of competition (alright, it is a competition), 'ma' does not mean 'mum,' but 'Thelma,' as in Thelma the cat.


Thelma is Winter's favourite friend, and few things will get her as excited as Thelma padding into the room. Winter only needs to hear her bell tinkling in the distance and she'll look around and say, "Ma?" And Thelma seems to like Winter too, because despite Winter's rather uncoordinated patting (which is more like a game of Whack-a-Mole), Thelma will always come up and lie down next to her, patiently enduring her attention.

And Winter's favourite stuffed toy, an orange cat called Comma, has also come to be called 'Ma,' although we've realised 'ma' is just Winter's word for 'cat.' Still, the '-ma' connection to her two favourite cats is a nice coincidence all the same.

Very fine motor skills.

There's a story here about a Rowville toddler who started his mum's car and pinned her against the garage wall.

Nothing in particular I wanted to say about it; I just wanted to use the pun up there in the title. Hehe. Although I'm disappointed the police have already confirmed "no charges are pending." Don't they realise the icy threat of hard time is the only way to control the rambunctious youth of today and of tomorrow?

Number one with a bullet.

Seems like getting mugged isn't the only risk facing iPod users out there on the streets today. There's also a chance you'll get shot!


That's assuming I'm reading this current iPod image correctly, of course? To my eye, the young hipster above would look right at home taking a bullet on the bloody battlefields of the Spanish Civil war.


Apple have been known to appropriate iconic images to advertise their wares, so maybe this is an intentional reference to Robert Capa’s renowned image? Can't for the life of me think why though. Maybe it's a start of a new campaign? Do you think Capa would have used an iPod?

Or maybe this is just what the kids call "dancing" these days, hey? :)

UPDATE: Bomber, I think you could be on to something (see Comments)! I just stumbled across the image below and your prediction was very close. It's a whole new round of iconic image appropriation to sell stuff! More iPods! Wooo!

Quotations marked.

Winston Churchill once said: “It is a good thing for an uneducated man to read books of quotations. The quotations, when engraved upon the memory, give you good thoughts. They also make you anxious to read the authors and look for more.”

I'd like to say that is why I am drawn to quotes, why I collect quotes, and often speak in quotes, but I don't think it would be true. I think my love comes mostly from that dweeby little gumboot-wearing Monty Python nerd that lurks down inside me. The 'Constitutional Peasant' from Monty Python and the Holy Grail is the first slab of text I remember intentionally committing to memory; listening over and over to my audio cassette version of 'The final rip-off.' I'm not sure if that's quite what Churchill had in mind, but close enough. The movies and TV shows of today may not be as venerable as the works of Wordsworth or Keats, but they can bring great pleasure nonetheless.

As near as I can tell, people who engage in verbatim regurgitation (if it’s not against their principles) do so for one of three reasons:

Out of insecurity. If you've got nothing worthwhile of your own to say, referencing the wit and wisdom of others can be a great shortcut to appearing both wise and witty yourself. Unless of course you're sprung reading from a list of quotes and trying to pass them off as your own.

Out of a desire to belong. Rattling off some obscure line from some obscure source and having someone follow up with the next line is like some sort of secret handshake, a sign that you're like-minded and in the know.

Out of a love for simple pleasures. Reciting your favourite quotes is like humming a favourite tune. It's a simple way of enjoying the form the words create, and recalling the pleasure they brought the first time you met.

I put myself squarely in the third category. During any activity where the mind can wander, I like to amble through my favourite scenes, seeing how far I can get before my memory fails. I also fall a fair bit into the second group, too, I must say. Especially when JJ is around, as it's a rare ball I can throw up that he can't knock down, which I do greatly enjoy. And, if I'm being completely honest, I'd have to say that I am not and nor have I ever been a member the first group. Definitely not. No.

Compulsive quoting, while generally harmless and safe for children, can lead to troubles. The line between your thoughts and the thoughts of others can begin to blur, and it's never a good thing to reveal to a loved one that that well-received expression of love and devotion you just delivered was actually a quote from The Simpsons. Too much quoting can also lead to a Crying Wolf type situation where people assume everything you say is just a quote, which is particularly frustrating on those (admittedly rare) occasions when I happen to craft a diamond of my own: “What’s that from?” they'll ask. "From me! Glory be! Credit where credit's due, please." And of course there's the problem of quoting in mixed company, when some people might know what you're getting at, but others don't, which can be quite excluding. I do try to be careful and select my audience, but sometimes I just can't help it. It's a reflex, like swatting at a fly. Someone on the teev says, "Come with me," and I'll say "If you want to live." Stimulus, response. I'll even put on the Schwarzenegger voice.

Anyway, the point of all this is if you think I'm annoying, I'm here to tell you things could be a whole lot worse. I've just learned of Danielle Freakley, The Quote Generator. As a part of her PhD thesis apparently, she will spend the next three years conversing in nothing but quotes. Three years. Did I mention three years? There are a few barley zones (at home, during work, etc), but otherwise her side of every conversation will be composed entirely of referenced quotes. I heard her interviewed by Triple J (the radio station, not the big guy who comments on this blog), with the conversation running along these lines:

Robbie Buck: Why are you doing this?
Danielle Freakly: You met me at a very strange time in my life. Fight Club, 1999.
RB: And do you get negative reactions when people discover what you're doing?
DF: Yes. Optus, 1999.
RB: And does that discourage you, make you want to stop?
DF: I don't think so, Tim. Home Improvement, 1991-1999.

Etc, etc. It was strange, but quite fun... and she's got three years to go. I wonder if the novelty will have worn off by then? She seemed to converse quite easily, with only the odd hesitation while she tried to dredge up an appropriate quote, and her range was quite impressive. Although if she does get stuck or finds herself at a loss, she could always take a leaf out of George Bernard Shaw's book, who said: "I often quote myself; it adds spice to my conversation." Nice.

It occurs to me however that even though it's a no-holds-barred quotefest for three years, three years will at least come to an end. Whereas I, presumably, will continue to make references to dead people getting better, objects being in the third drawer down, and any number of Orange Whips for many years to come. So maybe I am more annoying, after all?

Making a Mountain out of a Foothill.

The other day on the radio I heard a British Security Officer give a press conference, during which she stated that, "We are literally at the foothills of a major investigation." To their discredit, none of the assembled press asked her if she could please indicate those foothills on a map.

More literal excitement here, here, here and here.

UPDATE: Like a late birthday present, the A.Word.A.Day newsletter drew my attention to an opinion piece written for the Sydney Morning Herald by a fellow literal soldier. Not sure how long that link'll last, so I'll paste the text here for posterity.

It's hard to express irony with tongue literally in cheek
Sally Brownlow
February 28, 2007

I'M NOT a grammar prude. I admit to being amused by the ironic lack of irony in Alanis Morissette's song Ironic. Of course, the events listed in her song were not blessed with irony, they were just run-of-the-mill bummers. No matter how dramatically you sing it, rain on your wedding day is just rain on your wedding day. Thousands of us have had it and haven't gone off complaining to the Goddess of Irony.

If you were an internationally acclaimed meteorological forecaster and had chosen your wedding date based on years of data and weather modelling and then, in the midst of an unprecedented decade-long drought, it rained unexpectedly for the 20-minute duration of your outdoor wedding service, it could be getting closer to being considered ironic, but even then it would really still just be a bummer. Go complain to the Goddess of Bad Luck instead!

So no, I am not a prude. But, I have to draw the line somewhere. The misuse of "literally" has really got my goat. Metaphorically of course (not literally), as my goat is still in the paddock. I am bombarded (metaphorically) by it every day.

A quick Google of the news gave me a good sample. I was told that the Bush Administration has been on "a massive spending spree in Iraq, literally throwing tonnes of money at problems". A veteran of Australian Antarctic expeditions explained how the discovery of the ship Thala Dan had "literally blown us away". My 10-year-old often claims to literally laugh his head off. I hope he picks it up before I tread on it. I am surrounded by parents "literally bursting with pride" and their children "literally bubbling with excitement". Things could get unpleasantly messy.

Why do we feel the need to abuse this delicate and fragile word? When used correctly it is sublime. Consider the news item headlined "Doctor gives stripper a hand - literally" about a doctor who stole a severed hand and gave it to a stripper to display in her apartment. Perfect. We need to protect the sanctity of the word, to secure its integrity for future generations.

We all recognise the unwritten agreement that unless specified otherwise, we are speaking metaphorically. My earlier specifications in this article were obviously unnecessary; I was using them to make a point. You knew my goat was safe and that I was not being physically attacked by grammar errors on a daily basis. So let's just make a simple pact: literally never use the word "literally" unless the meaning is literal. Isn't it ironic that I'd need to suggest such a thing?

UPDATE 2: Jess has just drawn my attention to an entire blog devoted to misuses of the word 'literally'. Thanks Jess; I'm literally over the moon!

Blog on.

When Blogger launched their Shiny All New 'Blogger beta' last August, they were all but dribbling over themselves in excitement at their list of Shiny All New features. I was decidedly underwhelmed, however, as the list seemed like a list of things you'd get around to when/if you had the time. They hadn't implemented any improvements that I'd been hoping for (because really it's all about me), and though they said that more features were to come, they gave no hints as to what they were. I switched eventually, but more out of 'whatever' than a desire to be on the bleeding edge.

But then, over the last couple of weeks as I've been stumbling around my sites, I've realised that Blogger have quietly and discretely ticked off three large boxes on my Blogger Wish List. Like a thief in the night (but a thief who gives you things instead of taking them away), they've snuck in, dropped some things off, rearranged the furniture and flitted off without so much as a tip o' the hat. Presumably these changes were implemented with the Beta, but the Blogheads decided they were so inconsequential they wouldn't even bother to mention them. Apparently to anyone. (As far as my cursory googling can determine.)

So, first of all, they've added an 'Older Posts' link at the bottom of a blog's main page. I always felt this would be handy so that you could just keep reading without having to delve into the Archive, which I've always found to be counter-intuitive and thoroughly confusing. But, second of all, confusing no more, as they've totally revamped it, and it works in exactly the way that I'd hoped for. Though how to actually get it on my blog was confusing, and I only happened onto it when I was creating a new blog for someone else. New blogs have it active by default, you see, but pre-Beta blogs need to update their template to get it. Not that there's anything anywhere that tells you so. And lastly, possibly most useful of all, they've added the ability to subscribe to a post's comments! No longer do you need to laboriously check-in every 30 seconds to see if your particularly witty and urbane comment has been paid its due. Simply paste the feed link at the bottom of the thread into your RSS reader, and let Muhammad and the mountain come to you.

And if you don't have an RSS Reader, do yourself a favour, punch Molly Meldrum in the head, and check out Google Reader. It's full(ish) featured, it's web-based so you can access your feeds from anywhere, and it's free! Get yourself a Gmail address and get on board today. Automatons are standing by.

So thanks, Blogger. You might have a confusing set of priorities (and I've been reliably told that your CSS and HTML design is surprisingly bad), but you're alright with me.

Easter Bingo.

February 1st. No sign of the Easter Bunny Court, but I just spotted a 4-pack of Hot Cross Buns for $4.28 at Safeway. Can anyone raise me? I don't get to the supermarket all that often, so I have no idea when they first appeared. Maybe two days after Christmas? For a second I thought they were clearance items, and that Easter – normally such a special time – really hadn't made much of an impression on me this year.

Bomber, this one's for you.

Connex continues to redefine customer service: At 7:59am on January 15th I received a text message informing me the previously cancelled 7:36am train would now run. No indication as to when. The next day perhaps? A service so "up-to-the-moment" it's already into tomorrow.

Connex can't seem to do anything right these days. With brake failures sidelining a third of their new passenger trains, a monitoring system that's unable to pinpoint the location of trains on around 90 per cent of its network, and this month an average of 87 train cancellations each weekday, it's a wonder anyone gets anywhere at all. And then, just when Connex thought things couldn't get any worse, the state government fined them $5 million for poor performance. I would have liked to be the guy who wrote that ticket.

UPDATE: It's almost enough to make you feel sorry for the ex-Conn. Trains skidding on soapy tracks like characters out of a slapstick movie; trains pulled from service with timetable chaos ensuing; trains so overcrowded a driver (allegedly) invited 15 passengers into his compartment; and trains repeatedly appearing on the front page of the mX "news"paper, plonked down next to a big old lemon. But, most tragic of all, I just discovered that Connex inherited these dodgy Siemens trains from National Express, the previous network operator, who purchased them back in 2003 before Connex took over! Why have I not heard Connex play this card, like that politician whose every mistake is merely the result of the mess handed to him (or her) by the previous administration?

UPDATE 2: It's also been alleged that the Connex driver who allowed 15 passengers to cram into his compartment then proceeded to chat on his mobile phone while driving the train! There is, of course, nothing new or surprising about that.

What is surprising in all this however, is that although the mX "news"paper has repeatedly hacked into Connex and their faulty Siemens trains on the front page, they've so far failed to make any Semen-related puns! It surely can't be because they haven't thought of any, but what other explanation can there be? Good taste? Ha! Did you hear of the recent competition where whoever drank the most water would win Nintendo's new gaming console, the Wii? One competitor, a mother of three young children, drank so much she died from water intoxication. The mX's headline for the story? 'Dying for a Wii'. I don't think taste factors too heavily in their decision-making process.

UPDATE 3: Wait, I've got it: a new ad campaign that's right up mX's alley and that'll win the masses back for Connex! You remember that bewildering campaign a while back that featured Harry Connick Jr looking surprised, horrified and stoned all in the one facial expression? It played tenuously on the similarity between Connick's and Connex, and had Harry mumbling something nonsensical about them naming the company after him.

Well, this time, when Harry's next over here on tour, we'll slide him a J, tell him his mum's just died, whack him in the head with a cricket bat, snap off a new set of photos, blow him up to poster-size and whack on the copy line:

"I heard someone talking about Connick's semen, and I thought I'd better check it out."

Gold! The public will be so busy dying with laughter, they'll completely forget their travel woes! It doesn't make much sense, but then the original campaign didn't make much sense either. Maybe I should pitch it to Cummins & Partners? Anyone else want to contribute to the brainstorm?

UPDATE 4: Look, I’m not imagining I flew out of left field on this one – the train was at the platform just waiting to be boarded – but as my “Harry Connex” comments were posted February 2nd and The Age’s high-brow gossip column, The Age Diary, published theirs on February 8th (see below), I was well and truly on the early train. :)


UPDATE 5: The train before mine was cancelled this morning, which means there’ll be an extra trainload of commuters trying desperately to squeeze into an already well-filled train. Fun for all. A few stations down the track, the livestock shuffled in, the doors slammed shut, but the train didn’t depart. Then it didn’t depart some more. And then some even more.

Eventually the driver wandered past, heading towards the rear of the train. After a few minutes he wandered back to the front.

We waited. Still nothing.

“If I spend much longer on this train,” someone said loudly, “I’m going to faint.” As if on cue, the driver came over the intercom to tell us that two passengers had done just that, but they’d been removed and an ambulance had been called, so we could be on our way. Although with a train this full, he continued, our way would be sloooow.

I wonder if once they’d recovered, the fainting people could’ve asked the ambos for a lift in to work? That’d be a real Express service.

Fly Byes.

A deadweight has been cut loose from around my neck and I’ve been set free; set free to fly.


I have been accruing wretched, bloody Fly Buys points since… glory, how long has it been? Well, since soon after the scheme’s inception in 1994, so 10 years, at least. Right from the start, a friend of mine who worked in Marketing at BP called Fly Buys, “the worst customer loyalty scheme in history.” As Fly Buys was linked to Shell, not BP, however, I assumed his was just a case of sour grapefruits, and kept on collecting those points anyway. I mean, I had to buy petrol, I had to buy groceries; why not get a little something extra for doing the things I had to do anyway?

The problem, of course, is that it takes more than the odd purchase of petrol and assorted food stuffs to collect enough points for even the smallest of shiny trinkets. It takes strategic purchasing and lifestyle alteration to get anywhere close, and with no credit card, no home loan, and no dupes to farm additional cards out to, I was left paddlin’ around in the shallows.

But I plugged away with my groceries, my petrol, and occasional BONUS! points from a triple-pack of chewing gum or whatever, only to discover several years into the scheme that Fly Buys points have a shelf life! Don’t cash them in within three years and, like your dreams for that ‘Kambrook Pancake Factory + Omlette Maker’, they disappear in a puff of smoke. You don’t just need to work hard, you need to work fast! I was trapped on a treadmill of insanity, frantically grabbing for new points while old ones flew out behind like a ticker-tape parade down Main Street.

I should have jumped there and then, but it was like being on hold for 20 minutes: If I’d known it was going to take this long, I wouldn’t have bothered, but now that I have, I can’t give up, because then it REALLY will have been for nothing. And if I’ve been at it this long, surely the end will come any second now… any second… five, four, three, two, one… and a half, one… damn it! Too late I realised my friend had been right all along, and every time I used my card I felt him and his beloved BP Bookmuncher floating just over my shoulder, shaking their heads in disappointment.

And then, out of the blue, Fly Buys sent me a second card that someone else could use, but that would be linked to my account. With duplicitous words and promises of untold riches I convinced Kate to join me, hoping that together we could knock this one over the fence. And we did actually manage to make some small headway, and so set ourselves the goal of gathering the 12,000 points required for a dozen bottles of wine, before getting out the scissors and calling it a day.

Fast-forward several lifetimes, and at last that great day arrived. The day we held in our trembling hands a Fly Buys statement with enough points for the Wyndham Estate Mixed Dozen! We simply could not believe this journey was about to end. And, of course, it wasn’t. The statement had arrived on the last day of the month, and 300 precious points were primed to be blasted into oblivion when the new month began. A loss that would take us just under the required number of points. “Quickly! Find the phone,” I bellowed. “Let’s cash these first-born in while there’s still time!” Which, of course, there wasn’t. It was now outside business hours, and the head-smashingly perky Fly Buys robot told me to call back tomorrow when the team would be delighted to assist me with my enquiry. “To the Internet!” I screamed. “There are no business hours on the Internet!” Which, of course, there are. And after logging in I discovered that not only had they shut down for the day, they’d also already stripped me of my 300 points although the current month had several hours to live! It seemed as though the excruciating journey would go on.

But then Bomber – who had recently brought his own drawn out Fly Buys saga to a 12 bottle conclusion – swept down like an angel of mercy and bestowed his wisdom upon me. While my 11,992 points was not enough for the Wyndham dozen, it was more than enough for the Cleanskin Dozen. “Cash ‘em in, and be done with it,” he ordered me, and I did. Twelve labels are not worth the grief.

And so, a new dawn. Yesterday, I filled up the car at whatever service station I happened to be driving past, handed over some cash, and walked the hell away. It was great. On my way home I also popped into whatever supermarket was convenient, which just so happened to be Coles. At the register, the checkout executive asked me if I had Fly Buys? “Certainly don’t,” I replied with a smile. “I’ve just set myself free from Fly Buys and ditched my card into the bin. It’s wonderful.” With an expression as bored as a plank of wood, she held my gaze for a second, before wordlessly turning back to her register to complete my transaction.

Oh well, I never expected everyone to share my excitement.

iWant.

Macworld 2007. The biggest event on the Apple calendar, and the long-rumoured iPhone has finally arrived. And it's so much more than just a phone: it’s “a revolutionary mobile phone, a widescreen iPod with touch controls, and a breakthrough Internet communications device with desktop-class email, web browsing, searching, and maps in one small and lightweight handheld device.” So good!


Jack Bauer will have to be getting himself one of these. Although ‘24’ switched most of their Macs to Dells after a couple of seasons, I don’t think it’ll be long until they’re back in the Apple camp and Jack’ll be screaming, “DOWNLOAD IT TO MY iPHONE! NOW” Although if it was a terrorist threat to Starbucks in San Francisco, he could handle it himself. Can’t believe we in Asia/Pacific will have to wait until 2008 to do the same. Though I guess that’ll be plenty of time for the US and European guinea pigs to iron out the bugs for us. Nice. :)

UPDATE: Watched the full keynote speech last night. Steve Jobs demoed the iPhone, and I've got to say it looks incredible. (Although technology writer Dan Warne raises some interesting points of concern in his article for APC magazine.) Also incredible was that Kate agreed to watch with me! No longer a thing of shame to be watched on your computer behind a closed bedroom door, the 'Stevenote' is out on the TV in the best room of the house where it belongs! Almost as amazing as the iPhone itself.

Oh, and also, please note that I titled this post 'iWant', not 'iNeed', demonstrating (I hope) that although my sense of perspective may be somewhat skewed at times, it's still mostly the right way round. Thanks. :)

UPDATE 2: Very funny ad for the iPhone from Late Night with Conan O'Brien. The same ad including Conan's intro is here.

UPDATE 3: Oh well, NBC have yoiked the Conan iPhone ad off YouTube as it was posted without permisson. Hmm, Conan the barbarian with an iPhone; now there's an image! Oh wait: the ad's back on YouTube! I wonder how long this one'll last?

UPDATE 4: Well, after a month of lawyers stamping around, locking horns and bashing heads, the winner in Apple v Cisco is... both of 'em! MacNN is reporting that an agreement has been reached, under which "...both companies are free to use the "iPhone" trademark on their products throughout the world." The terms of the agreement have been published here.

So, isn't that nice?! Apparently we can all just share the ball. :)

A Concise History of All Things FNO.

In the drab brown days before the birth of the Internet, we kids, just trying to survive the mean streets of outer-suburban Templestowe, were forced to make our own fun. Basketball was a favourite pastime, and the sort of fun that didn’t require a television and some fancy $300 gaming console; just a ball, a hoop, and a fancy $300 pair of shoes. Preferably Nike Air; preferably Air Jordans, but alright Ahab, if you want to wear your Agassi Air Techs, just this once. Only, pass the bucket; those fluorescent colours are making me feel ill.


The best place for basketball was on the outdoor courts of Templestowe Primary. Many a day was wiled away poundin' the asphalt, sippin’ the pines, makin' jump shots or, when vandals bent the rings down far enough, runnin' our own NBA-style dunk comp. During daylight saving hours, we’d be back up after dinner to keep playing until the setting sun sent us home. But where we always knew the sun would be there the following day, the same could not be said of our basketball rings. One day they were there...


...and then, like a set of rings taken down as a part of the staged demolition of a primary school because the kiddies of the area don’t need books and pens and ABCs they need netball courts, they were gone.


And so, like a two-headed chicken without any heads, we had an outdoor court without any rings, and a court with no rings was of as much use to us as eight netball courts.

So a new game was needed. A new game for a new landscape. As fortune would have it, two objects that were never in short supply were empty Pepsi Max bottles and, thanks to Stickboy’s love of sticks, sticks. Who knows how these things first occur, but presumably one day Stickboy idly swiped at an empty bottle, sending it skittling across the ground and lo, the New Game was born. Everyone scurried off to find their own stick, goals were established, a loose set of rules was determined, and the game was on.



So we had our game. Now all we needed was a name.

Around that time there was a familiar figure down at the Sheahans Rd Basketball Stadium called Ray Smith. Ray was an excitable parent who could frequently be heard exclaiming, “My Oath!” from the sidelines. “Great pass that one! My Oath!” would be typical. Cobbies quickly adopted the expression as his own, and it wasn’t long before the rest of us joined in. “My Oath” quickly evolved into “My Oath Ray Smith” as a tribute to the man, and became a general exclamation of approval or emphasis, to be delivered regularly with enthusiasm and conviction.

And then, into this storm of oathing rolled a rumbling, fuel-guzzling, V8 Holden Caprice named ‘FNO’.


FNO’s name came from the letters on its number plate which, to us, sounded like shorthand for a common Australian phrase. (If you’re unsure of the phrase, it’s one where the O stands for ‘oath’ and the FN stands for… um, ‘frenchconnection-ing’.) See also: ‘kenoath’. Inspired by this patriotic car, “FNOath!” (pronounced Efen-oath) soon became the emphatic oath of choice. And when this new Aussie game’s namestorming session kicked off, the question was asked if really this wasn’t just hockey, to which the reply came, “Mate, this isn’t just hockey! This is FNOckey!”

And lo, the name came to be.

Unfortunately though, FNOckey was a game not long for this world. The council, concerned it might be possible to have fun without netball courts, sent in the marines and bulldozed the FNOckey strip to hell. As the eight netball courts crashed down around our ears, we scarpered off to a nearby area known as The Birdbath. A small and open bricked square in the shape of circle, with a mosaic in its centre and benches around its perimeter, The Birdbath, oddly enough, features no birdbath. Historians will tell you, however, that before the great Vandal invasion of Templestowe there was indeed a lovely birdbath there, and that after its senseless destruction the name lived on in memorial.

Who knows how these things first occur, but presumably one day someone idly kicked at an empty plastic bottle, sending it skittling under one of the opposing benches and lo, another New Game was born.



As this new game bore some resemblance to soccer and was mostly just a variation on a theme, it was called FNOccer. The rules of FNOccer have never been written down; only passed on by word of mouth from generation to… other members of this generation. I’ve just tried to write them down, and I’ve given up. I think it’s a job for someone else. Writing rules requires a fluency in Legalese that I do not possess. This post is getting too long anyway. Suffice to say, FNOccer is a highly exciting game of tension and drama that is poised to take the world by storm, and if you’ve ever up for a kick, I’ll explain the rules then.

The game has not been played with regularity for some time, but there are whispers of the establishment of an Annual Birdbath Cup, so stay tuned! Unfit, rapidly ageing men kicking around an empty plastic bottle will no doubt make for compelling reading!

UPDATE: It happened! It's The Birdbath World Cup 2007.

FURTHER READING
A Concise History of The Annual Christmas Stolp
A Concise History of The Annual Christmas Slurpee Toss
A Concise History of Super Slurpee Demolition Competition
A Very Concise History of the Milk Run

The Annual Christmas Slurpee Toss 2006.

Few sporting contests can get the cordial flowing in quite the same way as Slurpee Tossing, and with more Tossers than ever before, 2006 was set to be a landmark year. King Tosser Bart’s bluster began early, proclaiming himself the “Tiger Woods of Tossing”, and declaring the “electricity of his performance as more than enough to counter the tedium of yet another certain victory.”

First to the line was Ahab. Dubbed “Captain Spray-hab” by the Anderson St Press after his wild and uncontrolled toss in 2004, and then running last in 2005, Ahab was desperate to deliver. And, giving it his all, he launched his cup over the netball court and onto the dirt on the far side. A very respectable toss.


Next came Cobbies. There’d been much speculation in the media that Cobbies’ all-consuming commitment to his regular Real Estate work had begun to affect his tossing. There was certainly a noticeable increase in the real estate above his belt on Game Day, at any rate. Not that Cobbies appeared to care, proudly displaying his pot belly for all to see, and exhibiting a casual, almost languid, style of tossing that successfully delivered his cup onto the far side of the court, just ahead of Ahab’s.


Next up was Kerry. Though known to many as ‘Bambi’, she showed that beneath her sweet and playful exterior lurks the heart and soul of an animal, as she fired off a soaring shot that was unfortunately more impressive for its height than its length, and landed within the goal circle of the court. Ahab breathed a grateful sigh of relief.


Fourth in line was Bomber ‘Jihad’ Thomas with his maiden appearance at the Toss. More at home on the footy field than the Tossing Pitch of Endeavour, he and his big arms nevertheless brought big expectations to the competition. Despite numerous shoulder-reconstructions he was very relaxed pre-toss (observe the hand in pocket below), and he unleashed a Holy War on his Slurpee cup, landing his shot beyond that of Cobbies and sliding into 1st place.


Next to the line was another maiden Tosser, Alethea, known as The Rookie. Though untested on the Pitch of Endeavour, she exhibited no nerves and her gleeful, hyper-confident smile arguably unhinged a few of her fellow competitors, uncertain of where her supreme self-confidence came from. In a recent newspaper interview, Alethea’s mum revealed her daughter’s enthusiasm came from a simple love for the game she’d so recently been introduced to. Alethea’s toss was a good one, travelling a fair distance across the court and bursting onto the asphalt.


Following Aletha was Steve, who over his years in the game has become a real crowd favourite. Steve believes it’s because he brings a thoughtful, intellectual aspect to the competition, but most commentators believe it’s because he seems to either disqualify or injure himself each year and is always good for a laugh. The only one laughing this year though was Steve himself, who, employing a new Pinch Grip, managed to hurl his cup way over the court and onto the dirt, setting a new PB, and landing for the first time in 1st place! His joy however was to be short-lived.


As King Tosser and Holder of the Soggy Biscuit, Bart held the right to toss last of all. Recently dubbed ‘The Toberua Prancer’ by the Anderson St Press for his “excessive show-boating,” “pungent air of contemptible arrogance,” and “habit of prancing around like a haughty mule,” Bart did his best to prove them right. Putting on a showy display for those assembled, he made his way through an extended warm-up routine that included the removal of a single blade of grass from the line of his run-up. When he eventually got down to business, he unloaded a screamer that tore through the air, cleared the far fence, and thumped down onto the second court, securing the title for one more year.


Below Left: Bart, King Tosser 2006, and Right: self-described as “drinking from the cup of Glory.”


The Final Results (official): 1. Bart; 2. Steve; 3. Bomber Thomas; 4. Cobbies; 5. Ahab; 6. Alethea; 7. Kerry.


Too much Slurpee blogging barely enough?
Keep on Stolping: The First Pour–2003, 2004, 2005
Keep on Tossing: Dawn of Time–2003, 2004, 2005

The Annual Christmas Stolp 2006.

Christmas came early to the Annual Christmas Stolp this year. With the stolpers now spread far and wide across the suburbs of Melbourne, it was suggested that stolping the Sunday before Christmas would be more convenient, and make for a less rushed and more enjoyable stolp all round. A Sunday roast and a Sunday stolp are two things you should never rush, and a relaxed pace allows for time to stop and smell the Slurpees; before hurling them across a netball court in fierce competition, of course.


Eleven stolpers turned out to stretch their legs this year, including three debutantes: Bomber, Alethea and Winter. Though Winter had been along for the ride last year, in 2006 she was something new under the sun, and the histories will show she entered her first 7-Eleven at eight months, 15 days and four hours of age! Though treated to a Slurpee sampler via the umbilical cord in 2005, this year she got to try the real, unadulterated thing. And do children love pure sugar? Well, the results are back from the lab. Let's take a look, shall we?


Not yes or no, but for sure! A moment’s uncertainty was quickly overcome, and the mouth sprung open for more. Not too much more; we are somewhat responsible parents, after all.

See you in 2007!

Too much Slurpee blogging barely enough?
Keep on Stolping: The First Pour–2003, 2004, 2005
Keep on Tossing: Dawn of Time–2003, 2004, 2005

Happy approximate birthday Jesus, A.D. 2006.

Well, Merry Christmas to all of you who pause upon this path. With the mad rush to the end of the year there hasn’t been time for blogging, but fear not, for the ‘Annual Christmas Stolp’ and the ‘Annual Christmas Slurpee Toss’ have taken place and will be posted soon, as will ‘A Concise History of all things FNO’! Yes, it can possibly be so.

So have a very merry Christmas and a happy New Year. And if anyone around you sings, or even hums, that John Lennon song, punch them in the face. A guaranteed path to a cheerful new year if ever I’ve heard one. :)