Not like rain on your wedding day.

Wikipedia continues to surprise. I mean, I love the phrase "Eschew obfuscation", but who the hell takes the time to write up an entry for it?

And Wikipedia continues to amuse. I laughed when I saw this T-shirt earlier today, and then laughed again when I visited the article above just now...

Happy Star Wars (tm) Day 2008.

Happy Star Wars (tm) Day everyone. May the Fourth be with you, and may your day be filled with many pleasant thoughts of classic trilogies, of expanded universes, and of future screenplays featuring minimal input from Uncle George.

I'm completely out of touch with the latest news on the upcoming TV shows, other than reading somewhere that Rick Fantastic knows they'll be fantastic, and they'll totally blow my mind because George is such a fantastic storyteller blah, blah, blah, but that's it. As with the new Indy, I'm so fearful they'll suck so hard that I'd prefer just not to know. At least then I can still pretend that Boba will be redeemed from the soulless, derivative joke he's become.

But let's not dwell on the dark, let's turn towards the light and enjoy the serendipity of discovering a new range of Star Wars key chain thingos at the local servo as I was paying for my petrol this morning. They even had a Boba...


...and most pleasing of all, no Jango. :)

UPDATE: Nicely timed: John Gruber visits Star Wars: Where Science Meets Imagination and flickrs his photos for us.

Zackers v Messerschmitts.

Since 2007 I have honoured the ANZAC spirit as defined by the AFL — skill, courage, self-sacrifice, teamwork and fair play — by composing a List of all 16 teams, ordered from Most Virtuous to Most Odious.

And now the tradition continues as the List is tested once again on the Field of Battle. Will it emerge unscathed and unchanged, or beaten into some new and unrecognisable form?

Charge!

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

Post-battle wrap-up: Well, the biggest change was Port thumping to the bottom of the list, mostly because they still have teal as a team colour. I hate teal. I'm surprised they ranked so high last year. And also because of Warren Tredrea, although I can't quite put my finger on why? The other big change was the North of Somewhere Kangaroos deciding they were still only North of Melbourne, and so in appreciation they got bumped up above Sydney. Oh, and Adelaide got elevated to above Hawthorn because the city of Adelaide's really not so bad, and I really like crows and seriously Hawthorn, yellow and brown, hello, who thought that was a good idea?

Harlow Be Thy Name.

My sister emailed me a little while back to ask if I knew that Nicole Richie had named her newly arrived daughter Harlow Winter Kate? Happily the answer was 'no', as I do try to keep myself unencumbered by any awareness of the goings on in the life of Ms Richie. I'm just relieved that my Winter blossomed into being first, as I couldn't stand the possibility of people thinking I plucked the name from the empty head of Nicole.

And, on that note, my sister also wanted to know if as I already have a Kate and a Winter in my family whether I was considering Harlow as the name for Harper? Again, no, but glory, her jest was too near the mark to be funny. Thankfully Nicole took the "-low" road and a crisis was averted.

And then, as if that wasn't bad enough, my sister-in-law tells me that a co-worker of hers asserted confidently on hearing Harper's name that we got it from a new character on Lost! Now, not that Harper was named after Harper Lee (or indeed any Harper), but I despair of a world in which the author of a classic of twentieth century literature is overlooked in favour of some recently arrived, incidental character on a throw-away TV serial.

UPDATE: Also falling in to the category of "Ignorance is Bliss", the Age SuperQuiz today featured the question, "In which year did Ray Martin win his third gold Logie?" Two points there I was quite happy to concede.

UPDATE 2: For those playing at home, it was 1994.

The More Things Stay the Same.

First day at my new job today. I'm back in the city, and so I caught the morning train in for the first time since late November last year. Train was delayed, of course, and while I received no notification from Connex, they did let me know that the train after mine would be running direct to Flinders St and not through the Loop as normal.

Aah, it's good to be back. Feels as though I haven't missed a day.

UPDATE: Text message #1 from Connex at 5:58am: "Signalling problems at Clifton Hill,ant delays of 40minutes on all services." Text message #2 from Connex at 6:15am: "Signalling problems at Clifton Hill now rectified,ant delays of 40minutes on Epping and Hurstbridge line services.. Connex, Keeping you updated."

Connex's Delay campaign has so stuck in my head that for a second there I thought an "ant delay" was a delay caused by ants. Giant Radioactive Killer Ants most likely! Sadly no.

Happily though, as my morning train pulled into Clifton Hill later that morning I discovered not only the absence of any giant ants, but also of any delays. Well, thanks Connex for "Keeping me updated". Is a resumption of normal services not something worth updating your customers on?

Honestly, that little postscript has irritated me from the day it first appeared about a year into the life of the (extended) delay notification system, and not just because that comma after 'Connex' should be a colon. Mostly it annoys me because it smacks of desperate wallpapering by the marketing department in the hope we won't notice the cracks underneath. Like a salesman who calls himself honest, a service that does keep you informed, shouldn't need to tell you it's keeping you informed. All this slogan does is highlight how the reality falls short of the promise.

UPDATE 2: And on that note, I just read the following quote:

The louder he talks of honour, the faster we count our spoons. -Ralph Waldo Emerson

I think the Connex version would read:

The louder they talk of updates, the faster I run for the early train.

Blood.

Rambo was a brutal tale of vicious cruelty and unspeakable horror, and yet I left the cinema smiling. Is there something wrong with me, the film, or both?

And in other movie news, [Warning: There Will Be Spoilers] I went to a lunch time session of There Will Be Blood today with Kate and a gaggle of senior citizens. And I've got to say, what it is with old people these days? They gripe and moan about the poor manners of today's youth, but whose mobile phone was that jangling away at the very key climactic moment of the film?! And who was that ANSWERING THE PHONE as a man was BLUDGEONED TO DEATH with a bowling pin? And who was that loudly REPEATING "Hello, hello?" down the line as he struggled to overcome the poor reception within the cinema? It wasn't me, I can tell you. And after several furious glares and a terse, "Seriously?!" finally got the old man to close his phone, I turned back to the screen to get one line of dialogue and the credits were rolling!

There Was Almost Blood.

Well, not really. I'm quite a non-confrontational person, but way to sabotage the emotional climax of the film. I'm always surprised when people answer their phones in cinemas. Especially when it's a member of the older generation who are supposed to be paragons of politeness. I guess for them it's just techno-fear most of the time though – the device controlling them instead of the other way around – and they actually would turn it off... if they could only work out how. Sigh.

Actually, speaking of irritations you'll see Only At The Movies, I've never understood the need for the torch-lit patrols an employee is seemingly required to walk at regular intervals throughout a session. Because it's not at all distracting, is it – someone walking around a darkened room waving a torch all over the place – and sometimes all it takes is one distracted glance away from the screen before you're scratching your head asking, "What was that about Rosebud?"

Are they checking for termites? Fires? Escaped convicts? Terrorists who've snuck to unleash hell on the 9:35 session of Love Actually? Or is it just to let us know that it may be dark, children, but don't even think about putting your feet on the seats or taking out any non-Candy Bar contraband you've smuggled in, because we will catch you and we will be crackin' skulls.

I'm sure it's some form of legal bottom-covering madness, but I can't for the life of me think what?

Actually, another bit of blood-related movieness just occurred to me: if you haven't already heard, Sweeny Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street is a MUSICAL! I had absolutely no idea as I hate musicals and try to be as ill-informed regarding them as possible. All I heard was Tim Burton, Johnny Depp, Alan Rickman, Helena Bonham Carter and that was all I needed to hear. If only I'd probed a little deeper I might have learned that the film was based on a musical, and that right from Scene One the characters would be swanning around singing most of their lines. Argh! Even Alan Rickman the magnificent! No Alan, please, NO! Don't do IT! ARGH! Thankfully Alan maintained his dignity by keeping his musical numbers to a minimum, but still.

It may not have been the horror film Tim Burton expected it to be, but oh yes, a HORROR IT WAS!

Resuming Your Regularish Transmission.

Jesus might have survived 40 days alone in the wilderness, and Noah 40 days adrift on the ocean, but I'd like to see either of them do 40 days with no Internet. I bet if Satan had turned up offering the kingdoms of the world and their splendor, plus a chance to check his email, Jesus would have folded in a second.

Yep, Internet's back on at home, and not a moment too soon. Blogging old school style with pen and paper was getting tiresome. Especially writing out the hyperlinks. Now, at last, things can get back to normal, and I can start receiving Zombie vs Ninjas/Which Vegetable Are You/Friday Drinks/Your Entourage/My Aquarium/Poke Pro/You're a Hottie/Hot Eligible Singles/Hotness Scale requests on Facebook again...

Hmm, maybe there's been a silver lining after all...

I'll transcribe and post 'em for your continuing edification as I get the chance. The dates won't be right, but then who but JJ checks the dates anyway?

Labour Day labour day.

We're just popping off to the hospital to pick up a baby. Back soon.

UPDATE: Hup. We're back. Got one.


Please allow me to introduce you: this is Harper.

And unlike Winter who, appropriately enough, turned an extended hot spell cold on the day of her birth, Harper's brought the heat. Nothing but high 30s and even into the 40s since she arrived last Monday. We don't hold it against her, of course, we're just glad that she's here.

The Dark Night of the Soul.

A quick post from my iPod via the free wi-fi at A Minor Place in Brunswick. (Incidentally, my coffee machine is in the shop for repairs, so internet access and a coffee as black as death makes today almost absolutely like Christmas!)

This ADSL2+ so-called "churn" period is a killer. Five straight days of no Internet access and we're starting to go a little nuts. I've begun unconsciously assuming that things around the house like lamps won't work just because the Internet isn't working, and Kate's taken to reading the Yellow Pages because "It's sort of like the Internet."

Even Winter's showing signs of distress as her favourite game of popping balloons is a web-based game and she just can't understand why Mum and Dad won't let her play her favourite game!

Oh, when will the madness end?!

UPDATE: So this is what no Internet does to you: I've found myself dropping into friends' houses because I was "just in the area" and "Hi, how are you, oh, that's great, do you mind if I just check my email?" Which wouldn't be so bad, except they give me their wireless passwords so I can use my MacBook... and suddenly I find myself taking every opportunity to pass by for another quick check from outside across the street and then fleeing before they look out the window and wonder why I'm not coming in...

UPDATE 2: And the heavens did open and it began to pour! Actually, 'pour' is probably getting a little carried away. 'Drizzle' would be more like it. It is only dial-up, after all.

But yes, that's right, after seven days and seven nights lost in the wilderness, we are back on the Net! Sure, it's not ADSL2 just yet, but when those old familiar screechy tones filled the air and Winter looked up saying, "Music?" we turned and replied, "That's right, Winter; music to our ears. Aah."

Man, I never thought I'd be excited about dial-up ever again and, do you know, after only half an hour of it, I wasn't. Drop-outs, misdials, redials, unknown errors, so-called "unexpected" errors and an almighty struggle to download even email... how did we ever survive like this? I'm starting to think I actually preferred it before when we had nothing. At least then there was no expectation, but now with dial-up there's the hope that things can be as they were before. But then you log on and you sit there for five minutes watching the freaking Google search page trying to load. And then one eighth of the Google logo appears and you cheer and high-five all round, and then someone calls through and your connection drops out and you have to start all over again. Argh!

How far we've come. Which, actually, was another hurdle to overcome. Macs don't ship with dial-up modems anymore, and finding someone who still owns an external one that I could borrow was no easy feat. Davet, of course, was eventually able to find one, but it was so old there are no OS X drivers available for it. In the end I had to dust off a friend's retired PowerBook G4 that has a built-in modem, and I'm sharing its shaky internet connection with my iMac via a firewire cable.

Sigh. Only 10-14 days to go, apparently...

The Annual Christmas Slurpee Toss 2007.

"In this world nothing can be said to be certain,
except death and taxes."

When Benjamin Franklin compiled his little list of life's certainties, there was one glaring omission:

Bart.

Born as Bart was some 186 years after the fact, this is to a large extent understandable, and his inclusion would not only have robbed the proverb of its universality, but likely caused considerable confusion amongst Franklin's contemporaries. "Who is this Bart?" they might have been heard to ask one another over a pint of McTavish down the local tavern, "And what exactly is it about him that's so certain?" Well, let's cut to the chase and confirm what they might not have known but what we certainly did: Bart won again and remains the undefeated Toss King and Holder of the Soggy Biscuit.


Was there ever any doubt? Well, if you can believe a recently uncovered piece of pre-Toss correspondence to fellow tosser Post, Bart would like you to think there was:

"You've definitely been closing the gap in the slurpee toss - and I believe your technique is improving. I certainly have history on my side but you are a growing force in these events...plus you have dad strength. I'd have us as even priced favourites."

But of course you only need scratch the surface of this uncharacteristic magnanimity to discover the ruse that lies beneath. Bart, as adept at games of the mind as games of the muscle, knows that his unexpected flattery will inspire overconfidence and come Toss Time his deluded and ill-prepared opponents will be easily swept aside with a flick of his judgmental arm.

You wonder why he bothers. The only time he failed to win the title was 2004 when he was in another country. And while the prancing champion would no doubt have struggled to overcome a handicap that saw him 15,395kms behind the tossing line, you write Bart off at your peril.

And it's exactly this lack of tension that has in recent years seen the real interest shift to what the Anderson St Press has dubbed The Toss for First Loser, which they describe as "a fiercely fought battle of peers with an outcome as uncertain as the other is sure." And in recognition of this secondary struggle, now, in 2007, a new title has been established and enthroned in the Royal Pantheon of Slurpee Tossing:

The Jack!

Yes, the Jack may not be the King, but it's still Toss Royalty, and for the crumb-grabbers under the King's table, it's the only hope they've got. So let's get Tossing!

An unprecedented nine tossers turned up to hurl frozen sugary ice across one or possibly two netball courts, and the chill in the air was palpable.

First to the line was Ahab who stepped up with a mad gleam in his eyes and tossed a thumper onto the far side of the court, landing just shy of the gutter and setting a high mark for those to follow.


After a promising debut in last year's Toss, Bomber turned up ready to deliver a performance that at the end of the day would be a credit to the boys. And with a sweep of his arm he sailed his plastic cup into the air, but it failed to cross the court and crashed down several metres short of Ahab's.


Decked out in his Auction Day Best, Agent Cobbies brought a touch of class to this year's Toss, but must have left his brute force in his jeans at home because his toss — though smooth and graceful — arced down onto the court a metre or so behind that of Bomber.


Following Cobbies came this year's debutante tosser, JJ Glamma, who turned up to the Pitch with not one but two Slurpee Cups. When questioned by the assembled media he explained that he liked to have his Slurpee and drink it too, and as such he brought a spare for some post-Toss thirst-quenching. Such foresight marks Glamma as a rookie to watch, although, sadly, not this year, as his cup thumped down too far back to have any real impact on the final tally.


Davet turned up to the Toss ready to win, and like a Ruby-crowned Kinglet raising its crown, his red t-shirt was a WARNING sign to his competitors. Eyes ablaze, he thundered down the Pitch and with an arm-wrenching toss he belted his cup up, up and up, over the court and down onto the dirt on the far side, putting him in strong contention for The Jack!


Next to the line was Bambi. Seeking to channel the power of nature, she removed her shoes and connected with the earth spirit that surged beneath her feet. Whirling into action she tossed off a shot that slammed down in the far corner of the goal circle which, although not enough to win, easily surpassed her effort in 2006 and marked a new personal best.


In her second appearance at the Toss, Alethea dared to go where only Ahab had gone before. With a wildly uncontrolled toss, her cup jagged off sideways and landed in the Dead Zone on the wrong side of the top court's fence. Sometimes a pure love for the game just isn't enough to overcome those showtime jitters.


As both 'Master of Demolitions' and 'Keeper of the FNOath', the 2007 Slurpee Toss saw Postman Steve with a chance to hold all three Templetitles at once; a feat as yet unachieved by any man. And for someone like Post who considers being awake as a form of exercise, it would be an achievement all the more extraordinary. Disappointingly though, his plastic cup slammed down just short of the top court's gutter and, like his hopes and dreams, shattered into pieces. Tape measures were rushed to his and Ahab's cups and the officials ruled in favour of Post by the narrowest of margins.


Any pre-Toss questions of newfound humility were answered in the half-man, half-peacock form of Bart, strutting onto the pitch once more to punch his cup up through the stratosphere and down onto the lower court.


The only surprise was his technique. Bart, like most tossers, has traditionally employed the over-arm, grenade-tossing style, but this year he unexpectedly switched to a lateral sweep that delivered his cup to its destination with such efficiency that it had observers drawing favourable comparisons with Jonty Rhodes at his prime. Expect to see this technique adopted more widely next year.

And speaking of next year, see you next year!

The Final Results (official): 1. Bart (Toss King); 2. Davet (The Jack); 3. Post; 4. Ahab; 5. Bomber; 6. Cobbies; 7. Bambi; 8. JJ Glamma; 9. Alethea.


Too much Slurpee blogging barely enough?
Keep on Stolping: The First Pour–2003, 2004, 2005, 2006, 2007
Keep on Tossing: Dawn of Time–2003, 2004, 2005, 2006
Keep on Demolishing: The Alpha and the Omega

The Annual Christmas Stolp 2007.

If the Annual Christmas Stolp seems to be getting earlier every year, that's because it is. The event's increasing popularity meant that a time and date that worked for everyone was as hard to find as a Slurpee machine with all four barrels in working order. And so, to ensure that no one was denied their basic stolping rights, 2007 saw the greatest seismic shift since Christmas stolping began:

Night Stolp!


Well, Dusk Stolp, but let's not get technical. When a suitable Sunday slot couldn't be found, a week-based Night Stolp was suggested and (after much soul-searching and entreatment to the gods) approved. And so, on Tuesday 11th December at 7:30pm, thirteen stolpers, including two dogs, Rosie and Kess, rolled up to the Templestowe Fish Balloon to kick the stolp off with a batter-based fry-up feast, before picking up Slurpees and heading to the Primary for a touch of tossing.

See you in 2008!

Too much Slurpee blogging barely enough?
Keep on Stolping: The First Pour–2003, 2004, 2005, 2006.
Keep on Tossing: Dawn of Time–2003, 2004, 2005, 2006.
Keep on Demolishing: The Alpha and the Omega.

A Very Concise History of the Milk Run.

Bart boasted to us that he could drink 2L of full-cream milk and run a lap around the Templestowe Primary School oval.

Bart was wrong.

Bart drank close to 2L of full-cream milk and ralphed it all back out in a streaming torrent of white.

Bart never boasted of his milk-drinking abilities again.

The End.

UPDATE: Correspondence entered into:
Apostropher: "Actually, didn't you have some girlfriend there who told us all to stop laughing at you? Ha, ha, ha."
Bart: "yeah sonia - we broke up later that day - it was valentine's day 1995. I drank 2L of milk, spewed and broke up with her - I was a lot cooler back then."

FURTHER READING:
A Concise History of All Things FNO
A Concise History of The Annual Christmas Stolp
A Concise History of The Annual Christmas Slurpee Toss
A Concise History of the Super Slurpee Demolition Competition

A Concise History of the Super Slurpee Demolition Competition.

Mankind is a restless beast. We hold within us an ever agitating desire to strive, to push further and aim higher, moving ever upwards and beyond. Not content to sit within the boundaries established by those who've gone before, we challenge ourselves to be better... stronger... faster.

And for a small band of boys from Templestowe — an outer north-eastern suburb of Melbourne, famed for its superabundance of hairdressers, tennis courts and dishwashers — this was never more true than when it came to Slurpees.


For them, a Slurpee wasn't merely a many-flavoured ice confection, but rather a gateway to understanding their limitations and uncovering their potential. For while we know that anyone can finish a Slurpee, do we know the fastest time in which it can be done? And if we do, do we know if it's possible to do it even faster...

And lo, the Super Slurpee Demolition Competition was born.

On the first summer scorcher the boys would gather and tread the well-worn path to the Templestowe 7-Eleven. Supersized cups were filled and given time to settle as the group made its way back to the Primary. Once there, straws were drawn across the top of each cup to ensure all were evenly filled, and when all was ready and the competitors stood waiting — steely gaze meeting steely gaze — the word was given, and the Demolition began!


The only rule in a Demolition Competition is to get that bucket of ice down your gullet and into your guts in the shortest time possible. And as such it doesn't take long to hit the first hurdle: sphenopalatine ganglioneuralgia, or, in layman's terms, that icy kick to the head known as a Brain Freeze. But as you stand there trembling, eyes squeezed shut, palm of your hand jammed against your forehead, all you can do is grit your brain and push on. For not only is there no other way to the prize, but if you can't withstand a Brain Freeze, you've got no hope of surviving its big brother: the Ice Chest.

Yes, a Brain Freeze is but a mere chilly tickle when compared to the Ice Chest. As sheet upon sheet of ice avalanches through your alimentary canal, you slowly grow aware of frosty fingers running across your ribs, and then the sudden grip of an icy hand constricting your chest, squeezing ever tighter, as your heart goes into spasms desperately trying to keep the blood moving... your body cries out to stop, but like Aussie superhero Kieren Perkins at the 1400m mark, you know you've just got. to. keep. going... onwards and upwards to be all that you can be... [overdub roar of cheering crowd rising to fever pitch / gradual fade to silence / throw in a reverb, maybe?]

The first Super Slurpee Demolition Competition was held in 1993, and saw Bart crowned Master of Demolitions after a narrow win in 6 minutes 35 seconds. The following year Bart won for a second time, shaving 30 seconds of his previous time to win in 6 minutes 5 seconds. A benchmark appeared to have been established, but then in 1995 the world of Slurpee Demolitions was suddenly poured flat when Steve, shovelling ice like a snowplow, demolished his Super Slurpee in a stunning 4 minutes 37 seconds!


It was an extraordinary achievement, but his victory was not without cost. You don't just close the door on an Ice Chest and walk away, and for a full five days afterwards Steve continued to feel the painful effects of his ordeal. I'm no doctor, but that can't be good. And in response, searching questions were asked by all involved: is there knowledge that lies beyond 4:37, and if there is, is it knowledge worth obtaining? Is the possible cost simply too high?

The answer, inevitably, was that it was. And so, like the 'Flying Wedge formation' of American Football — banned from play in 1905 when President Roosevelt intervened after a string of tragic deaths — the Super Slurpee Demolition Competition was abandoned; put up on the shelf and left to stand as a tribute to a more reckless age. Amen.

FURTHER READING:
A Concise History of All Things FNO
A Concise History of The Annual Christmas Stolp
A Concise History of The Annual Christmas Slurpee Toss
A Very Concise History of the Milk Run

Something every day.

Winter has been able to point out and say 'bird' for a while now, so I thought it was time to move onto advanced bird spotting, and have started using family names, eg, magpie, crow, seagull, etc, instead of just the generic 'bird'. With some degree of success, as well.

But as we were wandering around Fitzroy Gardens the other week I began to notice a very common bird that I couldn't name. "There's a... bird," I pointed out to Winter. "A... brown bird... with bits of white and black. Look at that brown bird with bits of white and black."

My Dad always taught me that every question had an answer, so I contacted Adrian the avian aficionado, a decidedly non-twitching friend of mine who's knowledgeable about such things, and asked him what that bird was.

"Indian myna, most likely" was his reply. "Introduced, and generally considered a noxious pest for their tendency to tip native birds out of their hollows (i.e tipping the babies out and then taking over – imagine if some introduced species came and did that to you!)"

Well, indeed! And so when Winter and I returned to the Gardens this morning we made sure to flick our arms toward any mynas we saw, saying, "Boo mynas! Go away mynas!" and, though we were mostly ignored, I think we got the message home to a few of them, at least. We were careful, of course, not to say "Go away Indians," as we didn't want to be racist. Particularly at the moment given this whole "monkey" tension between Australia and India. The last thing I wanted during a morning stroll in the park was a race riot.

So, there you go: Indian mynas.

Wonderful Spam.

A friend just received an email with the following subject line:

'Your new schlong will win more prizes!'

More?! I didn't realise his old schlong had won any! I guess there's always more you can learn about your friends.

Enjoy your winnings, SixpointFive.

UPDATE: And the exciting offers just keep rolling in. How could you fail to follow up on "Having a huge lovestick in your pants is easy with this miracles solution?" or "The trophy can now be in your pants..."

Standing on the shoulders of Rumblebuffin.

I wonder if Philip Pullman, who wrote the His Dark Materials series of books as the direct rebuttal of C.S. Lewis' Chronicles of Narnia, is enjoying seeing the recent film adaptation advertised everywhere as "IN THE TRADITION OF NARNIA"... :)

iPhone Lynched.

David Lynch's best work in years.



So true. (And please note the supporting performance from the Aeron chair. Yes!)

Easter Bingo '08.

January 13th! You'll Love Coles Hot Cross Buns spotted in-store this morning, slashing 19 days off last year's bingo! A 6 pack of yeasty goodness will set you back $4.29, which is a 1c increase on last year. I blame Wayne Swan, and I demand tax relief.

On a related note, Coles appear to be conflicted on the ever contentious Hot Cross/Easter Bun issue. Their website only returns hits for "Easter Buns," but the associated product photo shows packaging labelled "Hot Cross Buns." A bet each way, I guess?


And incidentally, this "You'll love" Coles brand has irritated me right from the start. Besides the utter presumption, it's also applied to a whole range of things that, to be honest, I only feel a mild indifference for at best. Like light globes. Hello? I know I shouldn't take light globes for granted, but I can't say they arouse the passions of my heart, either.

Special Stream of Consciousness Catch-Up Edition.

Oh, poor, poor neglected blog. Do not despair, you've not been forgotten. Brand me not a fickle whore; you remain my one, true online love. Facebook has come, but Facebook and its myriad apps and incessant poking will go; rest assured. Huh. Facebook. I guess we now know that adding ninjas to something doesn't always make it better!

So I think I need one mega stream of consciousness blurt to get myself up to speed and back to the present. Although I don't know if it's really worth the bother as with Number 2 popping out some time in the next few months, there'll likely be even less time for blogging than there is now? Oh, which reminds me: I've been meaning to post the 20 week ultrasound image and continue my tradition of drawing unfavourable comparisons. Tell me, for instance, if you can see anything in this image other than a Simpsons' character? I mean, look at that overbite.


Oh wait, that's not the original... um, oh, here it is:


...but still... not much difference between the two to my eye.

So, I just returned from a holiday with a group of friends in Marysville, and arrived home to discover the front door wide open! No signs of burglary, so I can only assume that when I deadlocked the door as I departed I didn't give it the special up-and-to-the-left shove it requires to really click home. Whoops. The screen door was snibbed, but still, if you'd looked up as you were passing you could have seen right down the hall into the bathroom! (Actually, it's a bathroom that needs an eye kept on it.) Funny thing was the local paper sitting on the doormat featured a cover story on Darebin's "burglar curse" where it quoted RACV figures showing "all Darebin suburbs other than Reservoir are well above the state average of one burglary for every 48 homes." A fact to which my fly-wire door will (if prompted) attest! Perhaps the burglars were away on Christmas hols as well?

Oh, which reminds me: Christmas! Happy belated approximate birthday Jesus! You don't look a day over 2007. Hope your day was especially Awesome!!!!

Oh, which reminds me: I've been meaning to post this cartoon that I enjoyed recently:


Always nice to discover others who share your particular irritation.

Which reminds me: while you've got to hand it to the Breast Cancer Foundation people for such an amazing job generating awareness and support for their cause, I wonder if their success is to the detriment of other worthy causes? With their string of high-profile, pink-themed public events and an array of pink-coloured Special Edition consumables so vast you could live your life purchasing nothing else, it's easy to overlook the smaller voices crying out for attention as well. As I say, I don't begrudge what they've achieved, I just hope we don't fall into thinking our philanthropic obligation to society ends at the cash register with two packs of strawberry Tim Tams. And in particular (actually the catalyst for this little rant), I hope we don't see any more instances of emotional manipulation as blatant and clumsy as this:


What a shocker. Wouldn't "Buy Dove Pink to help find a cure for breast cancer" have worked just as well? Hey, no one wants to be the jerk who says they don't want a cure for breast cancer, so maybe it seemed like a good idea in the brainstorming session, but you've got to wonder what they were thinking?

Which reminds me: when Radiohead made In Rainbows available for download they inexplicably neglected to include cover art. A quick email asking where it could be found received a laconic "Cover art is not available" in reply. I did in the end find an image which, to my horror, was riddled with Helvetica. So much for being progressive and experimental! But thankfully the cover must have been fan-generated or somesuch, because it's significantly different to the cover art now available from iTunes and Amazon.


The splotchy thing's been flipped and rotated, a wavy blue Punch-Drunk Love-ish and Sea Change-ish slippy thing's been introduced, the type's been tightened up and, best of all, no Helvetica. They've gone instead with the UK's road signage face Transport Medium, and I think the result is considerably more pleasing. Although I would like to baseline shift those slashes.

Um, what else? Oh, that's enough for now.

UPDATE: While googlin' around for Jeremy Blake links (he of the Punch-Drunk Love/Beck work), I discovered he's dead! Swam out to sea and drowned himself last year a week after his girlfriend killed herself. Tragic. Wikipedia says they "believed that they were being followed and harassed by Scientologists up to the point of their deaths." Bizarre.

Well... in the meantime, please do enjoy his stunning clip for Beck's Round the Bend.

Winter time.

After dropping Kate at work on Friday morning, Winter and I spent an hour or so wandering around the beautiful Fitzroy Gardens.

We held hands and pottered through the trees and along the many pathways. We felt the warmth of the sun, and the cool of the shade. We chased birds and kicked pine cones. We stroked long, leathery leaves and shook tall bamboo canes. We stepped slowly, carefully, down brick steps to a foun... oop, no, we're climbing back up the steps. And down again. Oh and up again. Aaand down again. What about this fountain, Winter? Up again. Down again.

Several lifetimes later we left the steps and dragged our feet through the gravel paths of the flower-filled Conservatory, laughing at the crunchy noise. We watched a bus load of American tourists taking turns taking each other's photo on a small footbridge amid a backdrop of luscious colour. We ran from two gleaming vintage cars as they spluttered past, sounding like they were about to explode. We watched a plane fly overhead through the perfectly blue sky, and waved goodbye when it disappeared over the treeline.

And finally, when Winter's legs began to wobble, I carried her back to the car, waving goodbye to Mum up in her window across the road, and heading for home where Winter fell into an instant slumber, and I padded off to fill the kettle.

As mornings go, it was one of my finest.

A disruption to regular programming.

Well, thanks to Channel 7's new FASTTRACK scheme, the other night I... ah, a, ah, a... friend of mine, yes, that'll do... a friend of mine watched a TV show on TV without downloading it first! New Earl was on, he hadn't seen it, so he plonked himself down in front of the box and watched. Ads and all! Sure, the ads were on mute, (an experience my friend tells me even made him feel a little nostalgic), but there they were, beaming into his lounge room, bouncing off his retinas, and making him wait until they were good and ready to let the show go on.

And during one such ad break (as if there hadn't been enough disruption for one night), he saw an ad for an upcoming episode of Heroes he'd not yet seen! Scrabbling frantically for the remote, he flicked the silent box to another channel to avoid any spoilers and again sat and pondered, trying to think of the last time that had happened...

He's not sure if he'll make a habit of this dancing to the networks' tune, but if it's on (within, you know, twenty minutes of the advertised starting time), and there's nothing else he needs to do, why not?

iPod touch myself.

Well, I abstained for as long as I was able, but in the end my hand was forced and I succumbed to the inevitable: I've just got myself a shiny new 16GB iPod touch.


And I have to say, it's even better than I imagined. The hyperbole just wasn't hyperbolly enough. The interface is incredible, the screen is incredible, browsing the actual web over WI-FI is incredible, the little details are incredible... it's just incredible full stop.

So, yeah, I was planning to hold out for a 30GB model, but last week I had a little butterfingers incident where my beloved third-gen iPod took a tumble onto the footpath and came up not so shiny. It was still playing, mind you, but the enclosure had come apart and needed to be clicked shut, and when I turned it on the next day I discovered its entire contents had somehow been erased. No albums, no playlists, nothing. And when I plugged it into my Mac, Finder kept crashing. Not a healthy sign.

So, vale third-generation touch-wheel iPod. You were a faithful and steady companion, and your monochrome screen was second to no other monochrome screen. And if I ever complained about 20GB being too restrictive, please overlook the fact that you've been replaced by a younger, slimmer model that holds only 16. The key, you see, as I've recently learned, is smart playlist management and avoiding so called "dark matter": those quirks of your collection that found their way in but have remained unplayed ever since. Sure, a day may come where it would've been handy to have some obscure track at hand, but is that chance worth denying yourself the wonders of a touch interface in the meantime?

I didn't think so, and it was off to JB for me. And yes, I've already done like everyone else on YouTube and let Winter scroll through the photos and tap her way around the apps. She's a little heavy-handed, but she took to it right away.

Speaking of YouTube, I just came across the very first iPod promotional video from 2001. It's seven minutes long, but it's a great watch; if only to see how much things have changed in six years.

Although, it's funny how relative things are. The audio could be used all but unchanged for the iPod touch, but to hear the heads marvel at how "thin" the first-gen iPod was is quite amusing. Well, to me, anyway. And only 1000 songs in your pocket? How did we ever survive back then?

UPDATE: The iPod touch: so simple even a dog can use one.

UPDATE 2: Kate informs me the iPod promotional video is not a great watch. :)

UPDATE 3: Just noticed that if the iPod touch is playing and you pull out the headphones, it automatically pauses playback. Nice. It's the little things...

UPDATE 4: Today, October 23, is the iPod's sixth birthday. And if you've not yet had your fill of old school iPod video goodness, here's another for you with His Steveness launching the iPod back in 2001. Boom.

Kate may disagree, but I reckon it's another cracker watch.

And watching it I've just noticed that Jobs doesn't call it "the iPod", just "iPod". Like it's a person. Huh. Weird.

In Rainbows.

Alright! £1.45 and a quick legal download later, and Radiohead's new album, In Rainbows, is playing away happily in my iTunes. Though perhaps "happily" isn't the best word? Certainly not one you'll hear in connection with a Radiohead album very often, anyway. Hmm. Perhaps, "playing despondently?" Whatever the case, there it is, playing away. Minus cover art for the moment, which is a little annoying, but which I'll forgive out of respect for the sheer ballsiness of this little experiment in putting the power back into the hands of the artist.

If you haven't heard, Radiohead are out of contract, and are distributing their new album solely (for the time being, at least) through their website. You can either order the deluxe kitchen sink discbox edition featuring Everything And More for £40, or you can just download the album for... whatever price you feel is fair!

No, really. You just plug in whatever you want and your download begins. Despite being of the opinion that every Radiohead album is worth its weight in platinum, it took me a while to decide on a figure. I'm still very much a CD man, and will buy the album when it's eventually released that way, and I didn't really want to buy the album twice. But I also didn't want to send the message that I thought the album was worth nothing, so in the end I settled on £3 (a nice halfway point, I feel) and proceeded to the checkout, only to discover, strangely, that it was only going to charge me £1 (plus the 45p transaction fee). I was impatient to get underway, decided not to argue, clicked Submit and my download began.

So, how good is that? Interaction direct with the artist with, I imagine, a good share of the profit (however small it may be) going directly to them, with the big studios and their shareholders sitting on the sidelines watching. I wonder how this will change things? I guess it's not for everyone as Radiohead can afford (in every sense of the word) to take a risk like this, but it'll be interesting to see what this'll do to the digital landscape, and how the studios will react.

Anyway, what are you waiting for? Get downloading! :)

UPDATE: Davidic found me some cover art.


Not hi-res, but it'll do for now. Hang on. Helvetica? Boo! 'Hail to the Thief' is still my favourite Radiohead cover.

UPDATE 2: According to a survey of 5000 readers by online music magazine Record of the Day, the average price paid by those who downloaded In Rainbows was £3.88.

UPDATE 3: Comments left as a part of the survey certainly cover the spectrum. From fervid cheerleading:

"I paid the maximum allowed amount, £99.99, just for the digital download because Radiohead deserves massive accolades for their industry leadership. Aside from being a great band, they have shown the courage to do what the vested interests in the music industry have not -- embrace new models of distribution that will benefit the industry as a whole, fans, artists and labels alike, not just record execs. In Rainbows might have cost me 200 bucks, but I believe Radiohead’s contribution to fans, music and society as a whole, is priceless. The band has never ripped off its fans, in recorded quality or live performance. It’s time to return that favour."

to the downright crotchety:

"I paid 0.00 and I’ll burn it to CD for my friends too. I’m reminding the commentators that a large part of the market just doesn’t expect to pay for music anymore. It’s easy for bands whose status has been achieved by the investment of record labels, (whose demise now seems to be so gleefully welcomed by the punters), but are Radiohead going to invest in bands of the future? They’re not revolutionising anything they’re just capitalising on market transition, and like all the non traditional newcomers, sucking out the profit for themselves."

Although, downloading the album via the approved method seems like an odd form of protest. :)

Number 2.

As far as excuses for neglecting your blog go, surely up there with the most excusable has got to be one like this:


Yep; because one child just hasn't been keeping us busy enough. And this one's not even out and already it's forcing my face into the grindstone, as Kate has been struck down with another debilitating bout of so-called morning sickness. It bustled in and made itself at home for the full nine months last time, and though people keep trying to reassure us that "Every pregnancy is different", so far this one's only been different by being worse. Although, that said, over the last week or so we have seen some small improvement, so we're hopeful the conventional wisdom will prove itself yet.

While we're waiting for that to happen, the pressing Issue of the Day is what to call this little swirl in the ultrasonic fog? Where Winter was given the prenatal designation, 'Alpha', this little blip has come to be known as, ahem, Number 2. It wasn't planned that way, and all around sniggered the first time 'Number 2' just slipped out (snigger), but as the days went on by, Number 2 just seemed to stick (snigger, snigger). And I must say, even though the name might skirt dangerous territory, it does allow me to repeatedly ask Number 2 who he (or she) works for... and overall I think that counts as a gain. Wouldn't you?

The Birdbath World Cup 2007.

A World Cup is a sign. A sign that a game has come of age, and is ready to join the elder statesmen of international sport. And for FNOccer, that mortal struggle of mind and muscle over the mastery of a molded vessel, that time... is now.


The Birdbath World Cup. With record crowds flocking to the games of the FN National FNOccer League, the establishment of a World Cup was merely a matter of time. A generation had grown up living and breathing and eating and drinking and stacking the dishwasher of FNOccer, and now they were passing the passion on. Children around the world were coming home from school, or in from the park, or wherever, and discovering an unexpected gift sitting on their bed. With squeals of delight, and in a frenzy of tearing paper, they'd unwrap it to discover their very first empty plastic bottle. Their eyes would light up, their minds would fill with wonder, and the game played on.

The Birdbath World Cup. At last, the debate that has been raging in pubs, over dinner tables and around water coolers everywhere, will end. The debate over who (or possibly 'whom'?) in the realm of FNOccer is King. For it's true that any man who pulls on a pair of boots and kicks around a plastic bottle is, by definition, a King, but of those Kings, who is Kingest of all? Who has what it takes to rend all rivals asunder and claim that most coveted of crowns, The Birdbath Cup... if, indeed, a cup can be a crown? Well, it can certainly be a cup and, for now, that'll do.


The Birdbath World Cup. It's the game that stops a Nation! Well, part of a nation. Ok, a suburb. And I guess that Templestowe didn't so much stop, as... well, you know, continue on as it was before... but there certainly were some children who stopped to look on as they were passing. For a minute or so. And there were some dogs, too.

Anyway, enough preamble, let the Bottle drop! GAME ON!

ROUND 1
Game 1: Ahab v Bart
A tough draw for Captain Ahab saw him facing off against tournament favourite Bart in the first round. In typical fashion, Bart strutted onto the bricks like a rooster, talking loudly about "another day at the office," and claiming victory was assured even if he was to let only his reputation out onto the Bricks.


Ahab, to his credit, struggled valiantly against his opponent, even firing off a number of rockets that brought the crowd to their feet, but was nevertheless quickly slotted away, 7 goals to 2.

Game 2: Cobbies v Davet
Agent Cobbies arrived at the Cup ready to win. A rigourous pre-season regimen, including 10 sessions of Bikram Hot Yoga, had him "as fit as a Mallee bull." But even a Mallee bull can be thrown onto the backfoot, and Cobbies promptly was, as Davet worked a mighty mill of cracked pepper at his defence.


Cobbies managed to hold the line, but, when looking good at 5 goals to 3, he suddenly fell foul of a rule he claimed to have never heard; but a World Cup is not the place for pillows, daisies, or second chances and the game went on.


But The Agent was rattled, and Davet, sensing the opportunity, dug deep and finally broke through with a pair of two pointers, sealing the game, 7 goals to 5, and sending Cobbies back to the steps to ponder what could have been.

Game 3: JJ Glamma v Steve
Seismographs around the world detected the shockwaves of Game 3.


A trio of quick, unanswered goals to FNOccer Superstar Steve confirmed for many that this was the start of his dream run to glory. But the dream turned slowly into a nightmare, as a passage of uncharacteristically untidy play yielded three penalty shots to JJ.


Playing it slow and steady, JJ chose to take each shot from the safer 1 point penalty line, leaving the more risky 2 point line for those who like to play for higher stakes. As each shot sailed through, JJ not only got himself back in the game, but positioned himself for victory with a couple of follow-up goals on the Bricks, killing a giant 8 goals to 6.


Commentators praised JJ's gutsy and most unexpected victory, wondering if maybe this upset signalled the end for Steve?

ROUND 2
Game 1: Ahab v Cobbies (5th vs 6th)
Round 2 kicked off with a Battle of Brotherly Love that saw the siblings sizzling in a fight to avoid the wooden spoon. Ahab was battling for pride, and Cobbies just to show all that yoga hadn't been for nought. Locked at three goals each, a sudden scorcher from Ahab sent the metal-capped bottle hurtling into Cobbies' right kneecap. The raking right-footer went down, but was up again quickly, stoically declaring, "Who needs a right leg when you've still got a left?"


And moving to a place where he and the bottle were one, Cobbies slammed home a string of winners to take the game 7 goals to 4. Though even last place in the Birdbath World Cup is a stunning achievement, the brothers left with ambitions unfulfilled, each knowing they could have achieved so much more.

Game 2: Davet v JJ (1st Semi-Final)
As Round 2 moved on to Game 2, JJ Glamma's Cinderella Story continued. Many who'd seen him in the lead up to his first match — sitting on the sidelines reading the latest Harry Potter book — questioned how seriously he was taking the tournament. But however unorthodox a warm-up technique it may have been, the boy wizard was clearly having some kind of an effect, because JJ was out there on the Bricks working some magic of his own. Continuing to employ the defensive style that had brought him victory in Round 1, JJ punished any of his opponent's mistakes, as he travelled time and again to the 1 point penalty line and slowly, brick by brick, built Rome in a day.


Troubled at JJ's growing self-belief, Davet dug deep, doing all he could to stave off defeat, but in the end it was JJ who booked himself a ticket to the Birdbath World Cup Grand Final, inching Davet out, 8 goals to 6. It was another stunning victory to JJ, and the success of his 1 point strategy led the commentary team to dub him "JJ the Great One Pointer." Praise came also from his peers, with Cobbies declaring Glamma to be the "revelation of the tournament."

Game 3: Bart v Steve (2nd Semi-Final)
It was the Semi-Final many had expected to be the Grand Final. As the highest scoring loser of the first Round, Steve had scraped into Round 2 as the Lucky Loser, running headlong into the winner of Game 1: Bart. And with JJ Glamma having secured a berth in the actual Grand Final, you might have thought he'd be watching this clash of favourites very intently; analysing, sizing up, getting the measure of his likely hurdle to the Cup. But no; inscrutable as ever, he was back again with his nose buried in Harry Potter. If it ain't broke, I guess?

Well, the Bottle dropped and the arm wrestle began: first a thumping goal to Bart, then a needle-threader to Steve, and it looked like an epic struggle was in store.


But then, in one brief moment — the workings of which can perhaps be explained only by theologians — a golden shaft of sunlight glanced across the Bricks, pausing only to rest, ever so lightly, on the forehead of Steve, anointing his brow with its golden gleam before disappearing in the blink of an angel's eye. And whatever its significance may have been, its effect on Steve was like that of flame to fuel.


Exploding into action, Steve was suddenly working the bottle like a man with six legs, belting a trio of 2 pointers past Bart like he wasn't even there, and taking the game — possibly the quickest ever — 7 goals to 1. Any questions concerning Steve's form were crushed under a hail of plastic bottles and, falling over themselves in a scramble for superlatives, the commentary team dubbed him The Postman; for neither rain nor sleet nor driving rain nor Bart the Toberua Prancer shall halt the delivery of his goals.


Stunned and shaken, Bart shook his opponent's hand and scuttled back to the steps, where Rosie the dog tenderly licked his wounds.

ROUND 3
Grand Final: JJ Glamma v Steve
It was the re-match Steve had been desperate to play; desperate to show that his loss in the first Round had been only a blip and to restore balance to the Force.


But before the Question of the Day could be answered, the tournament combatants put aside their respective claims, coming together for an amiable amble to 7-Eleven and The Fish Balloon for a Feast of Champions. And if you're the sort who'd like to know what FNOccer Grand Finalists eat for lunch (perhaps so as to inform your own sporting diet), the answer can be found EXCLUSIVELY here. JJ tucked in to a minimum order of Fish Balloon chips (plenty of carbs), and a new blend of Slurpee that contained electrolytes! Where will they turn up next? Steve, on the other hand, wolfed down a Fish Balloon Hamburger with the Lot and a small (glass) bottle of Pepsi Max. Would Steve's 'One with the Lot' sit like a lead weight in his guts and slow him down on the Bricks? And would JJ's electrolyte-laden Slurpee do for him... whatever the hell it is electrolytes are supposed to do for you? Well, let's end this increasingly prolix post by jumping in and finding out. Game on!


Steve won 7/3.

Below Left: Postman Steve, Keeper of the FNOath.
Below Right: The Birdbath Cup.


See you next year!