In which Jindabyne tourist info earns a place on my hit list.

Jindabyne is a lovely little town. Really, it is. I quite like it. I would even go so far as to say I like almost everything about the place. I cannot, however, dock the 'almost' from that last sentence. Is it because there is a malfunction of some sort in either blogger or my computer I hear you ask? I thank you for your concern, but no. It is because I must contractually¹ reserve a brooding hatred of at least one part of Jindabyne.

The information centre.

Superficially, it's not such a bad centre. It looks nice enough. The staff certainly seem friendly and helpful enough. "Seem" is, however, the operative word in that last sentence. I don't know what your definition of 'helpful advice' is, dear reader, but for my money it should preclude advice such that, in following it, you materially increase the probability that you will die in the near future. But, hey, maybe that's just me. I wish to relate a conversation which occurred on the morning of Saturday 27th November. This is pretty much how I remember it, at any rate, and I will not be moved on its veracity.

Adriana: We were hoping to do a walk from Charlotte's pass to Kosciusko today.

She-Devil Information centre employee: Lovely! There are basically two routes you can take ..... (we choose one ... anticipating about a 7 hr walk)

We chose this route..... longer than it looks.

Adriana: So what are the conditions like?

Information centre employee: Well it's a little misty. And there is a little snow over some parts of the path .... but that shouldn't be a problem.

Adriana: Anything we should take?

Information centre employee: Well, you might want to take a spare pair of socks to cross the Snowy river..... or you could just take your shoes off. You want to cross that in the morning, too, because it rises during the day.

Adriana: And how cold is it? Last time we went we took way more warmth than we needed²....

Information centre employee: Well at the moment it's 11°, but the wind-chill is taking that down to 10° .... the key is to take layers.

Adriana: Should we take a map?

Information centre employee: Well, we can give you this one (same degree of detail as the above picture ..... they had other, actually good, maps for sale also). You shouldn't really need one, though. The path is clearly marked.

 So how did the walk itself go?

Well, to start with, there was a bit of this sort of thing:

....... but things ended up a little more like this:

O.K. so the picture I was going to put here, but didn't on account of Ads not wanting it put up(understandably I guess), was a selfie Ads took in which she believed she was likely to die³.

MATTERS TURN AWRY

What happened to us was pretty much as follows. A few kilometers short of Kosciusko the path kind of disappeared. This, in and of itself, wasn't necessarily a big deal. For a start, mist had gotten very thick in places and it was raining from time to time, so it wasn't that rare for us not to be able to see more than a five meters in front of us anyway. Actually, this leads me to my first favourite line of the day:

Ads: This *referring to very light precipitation* isn't rain .... it's just that some of this mist is condensing and falling.

Me: Ads, ah, you do know what rain is, right?

Ads: *pauses*... Shut up.

So .... when I say 'mist', I should perhaps really be saying 'cloud'. Also, there'd been some snow across the path before now ... and by that I mean great big stretches of it. But up until now it had always been pretty clear where the path actually was and, excepting a little nervousness about walking across slightly sludgy/slippery snow while being lightly rained on, it was easy enough to cross. What occurred here was a little different. What we saw now was a bank of snow resting on a sharp incline which, in its recently rained-on state seemed far to steep for us to feasibly climb up. In addition there were rocks immediately to it's left which could conceivably have been the edge of the path.... the possibility of which we decided to investigate.

It became reasonably clear, by virtue of the fact that the only way forward on these rocks rapidly became to climb downwards, that we were moving off the path. The question was whether we could traverse around this great big pile of snow and find the path on the other side. Ads, who was walking in front reached a dead end of sorts ... which is to say an end of rocks and a start of steep snow bank. This leads to another favourite line:

Me: If you slide down that, do you think you can get back up it?

Ads: No.

..... and, at that point, Ads slides down.

Perhaps because I thought she must have seen something path-related I came down to follow suit instead of, as I probably should have done, left Ads there and gone back to fetch help. Help, in this case, being represented by a group of well-equipped people on a 20 day hike who couldn't have been much more than 1km behind us. As I said, however, what I did instead was follow her, almost sliding down the entire slope in the process. And it turned out she hadn't seen anything at all.... she'd just slipped.

From where we now were, we certainly couldn't have gone back the way we came and, while we could actually see the afore-mentioned hikers moving along a peak behind us (we think, based upon a previous conversation, that they must have been looking for a place to camp), actually getting to them directly from where we were would have been even harder. With the levels of mist drifting around it didn't exactly very likely they'd seen us.... and what's more, we were now under a great big bank of snow we had reason to believe had already moved in previous rain. The only real option seemed to be to move forward and hope to find a way back onto the path.... which is what we now did.

In the distance, I could actually make out a structure and what was probably a path. Between us and them, however, was a valley, a small river and quite a steep ridge. It was highly doubtful we could get to them easily (if at all ... while there was no snow blocking our path, all slopes were very slippery due to rain and probably pretty treacherous at the best of times) via a direct route. I was only going to be able to make these out for a few more minutes, too, before mist and rain intervened, but their existence became increasingly important to us as it became impossible to move forward without also moving downwards into the valley.

While there was a constant threat of slipping... we were at least grateful that it wasn't raining. This gratitude lasted a few minutes. The sky then pretty much opened up on us with a truly heavy downpour, and while we were prepared for light rain walking upright, we simply hadn't gear that could keep us from getting completely wet through crawling around the side of a mountain and, when one factors in a now significant wind-chill, border-line hypothermia cold ... which is where we eventually got. Ads was in a far worse situation than I was too, since she depended upon glasses to see and subsequently had visibility of maybe a metre.... She was probably nowhere near as fit, also⁴. My phone, unsurprisingly, had no reception. Yay team!

It turns out that adrenaline is a pretty wonderful thing. So long as we kept moving, I found the only real indication that I was really fucking cold came when I grabbed a rock and felt pins and needles all the way up my wrist. On the downside this probably happened at least once every 10 seconds or so.

The story between here and when we found the path probably isn't all that interesting to tell. The important details are that we decided on a course of action, which is to say which way we would approach the distant path .... and I should probably point out that Ads' way turned out to be right⁵, and that we eventually made it on the other side of what was a pretty scary experience in light of the knowledge that we probably wouldn't have lasted the night if it came to that.

THE POLICE GET INVOLVED.

Oh, wait. The other thing I should mention is that is that after getting significantly higher, still being uncertain whether or not there existed any way to get onto the path we knew existed or whether there was a path at all on our side of the ridge that we were on .... and at a point when Ads' legs were kind of giving out on her ..... I realised my phone had reception. I now made the following awkward phone call.

000 person: Police, fire or ambulance?

Me: Umm.... rescue? *I explain, somewhat awkwardly, our situation*

000 person: What's the nearest suburb?

Me: Jindabyne, I think.

000 person: I'll put you through to Jindabyne police.

There was now a little phone hockey and awkwardly long waiting for people to call me back and such-like, which would have been a whole lot more amusing if we didn't feel like we were freezing to death on the side of a mountain (I particularly liked when they asked 'can you shield yourself from the wind there, we can't quite make you out?' .... No, actually we can't.... that's kind of the problem here). All of this took place while we were, unbeknownst to us, a few hundred metres from the path which had now emerged from under probably around 1 km of thick snow cover. Turned out that big bank of snow above us kind of was the path. Hey ho. Having made contact, been reassured ..... eventually..... by police that what we were doing would definitely see us reach the path at Rawson's pass and being assured that someone, somewhere knew enough of our predicament we made one final push up the steepest most foreboding piece terrain above us and.......

WE FOUND THE FECKING PATH!

.... and this is what it looked like from the other side.

Found it.

There are probably now only a few things worth mentioning. Firstly that we made our way to a toilet block and shelter. It was at this point that we made use of one of the few pieces of advice we got from the information centre lady and changed our socks to nice, dry ones. Thanks so much for that tip! They even stayed dry for, you know, a minute or two! That was awesome!

Rain, wind and light hail had now gotten to the point where reception was completely shot again so I couldn't let the police know we'd made it, and when we finally did it turned out that they were on their way to pick us up. The path from Kosciusko to Charlotte's pass now in front of us, it turns out, is wide and stable enough to qualify as a road if you happen to be a 4wd.

We met with a few people who'd made a fire in Seaman's hut, and got to chatting with them. One of them had come the same way we had, except over the snow on the path⁶, and who now delivered another of my favourite lines of the day:


Hiker-girl: Yeah, if you lost the path you're gone.


Me: *pause* .....


Anyways, after a smallish break near a fire, we moved to make the final dash back to Charlotte's Pass, eventually seeing a pair of headlights in the distance which we rightly assumed represented the police who had come to pick us up. It was still raining at this point. We were freezing and hobbling/limping along the path now when Ads delivered what was, hands down, my favourite line pf the day:

Ads: I wish they hadn't come to pick us up.... now we can't say we did the whole walk.

Me: *long drawn out pause, then I point at my face* Ads, this is my unimpressed face.

Our trip back was spent being mildly lectured to, which wounded Ads' pride a little, but didn't bother me in the least:

Policeman: Did you have a first aid kit⁷? GPS? A map? A compass? Did you know that you we have the highest density of brown snakes in the country around here, and that they're prolific at the moment⁸?

Me: *singing* It's good to beeee alive, to beeee alive.....⁹

Anyways ... I guess the moral of the story is that if you're going to do a walk like this you should come prepared for the worst, and as the police advised us, be prepared to spend the night.

Also, if you happen to be in the Jindabyne tourist info centre...... say 'hi' from me.

¹You think I enjoy getting angry about stuff and ranting all the time? You think this makes me happy? Honestly, you have no idea how much of a drain this puts on me psychologically.

²Around the beginning of Autumn.

³If you're friends with Ads on Facebook, though, it's actually been put up there.

⁴Readers who have actually met me may be surprised to learn that, owing to a regular fairly serious ride to work, I'm actually reasonably fit now. Honestly. No ..... really.

⁵My way had the upside of being such that, based on what we knew at the time, being certain to get us there, but the downside of being a lot more arduous. Ads didn't think she could have made it.

⁶We'd met various people coming the other way who mentioned what seemed to be, based on their tone, a smallish snow drift around Kosciusko also which simply didn't seem to gel with our experience of it. Either a large amount of snow was shifted and deposited there in the rain, or the rain ate away at the edges making it harder to climb on to.

⁷While we didn't have a first aid kit, we had betadine, bandaids, hand sanitiser and such-like... which, let's face it is about all that the average person could actually use in said kit anyway.

⁸Christ I'm glad we didn't know that.....

⁹I actually was singing this in the car....

Mark Sharma talks in third person. Mark Sharma sulk now. Mark Sharma say everyone at Unleashed racist. Unleashed turned into bigger farce.

This post is probably beneath me.

Actually, who am I kidding here, of course it isn't. 

A friend of mine, who shall remain anonymous unless they choose not to be, quipped recently that I'd hit the big time by getting an Unleashed author to post a comment on my blog. One way of putting perspective on that is to point out that, well, I got the Unleashed author most likely to open a post with "So whats up fa-gots? How are things in ur lil Gay Land?". Another is to point out that that post is, as I type this, the second result to come up for a Google search of the man in question, after his own web site. So not exactly big time prominent writer, here....


However. This dude is apparently going to contest a state seat in the next NSW election. And it'd be pretty funny if I could maintain anything like that level of Google prominence when that happens, so.... let's just all take a quiet moment of appreciation for the following extract from his spirited and rational defense (a summary of which is written over the above picture in red):

But clearly this is not going well with Left Labor- Greens Communist alliance and their supporters. A quick look at the said article shows how every comment on the page is against me.

Oh dear..... 

If one then moseys on over to the original post one sees firstly that, well, commenters  have not been altogether kind to the unfortunate Mr Sharma. Happily, one also sees a few supporters bravely standing against that evil communist tide. Rather like King Cnut.... only with Margaret Thatcher underwear, an "I ♥ Mark Sharma" t-shirt and .... well, probably lobotomy scars. Take completely disinterested random bystander Jamie:

Well that certainly sounded natural and un-forced, didn't it? I found the "These questions have been raised by Independent Mark Sharma and people like me" bit especially convincing. Almost like..... Look, 'Jamie', I'll level with you.  It's not that I'm saying you are Mark Sharma, necessarily ..... it's just that I'd be very surprised if he didn't more or less tell you what to say in some way. If there were actually a way of actually settling the matter, yes I'd be quite happy to put up money there.

In any case, if one can believe his rants about the Indian/immigrant community of Strathfield needing better representation than they currently have I really hope, for their sake, they can find a better candidate to represent their interests somewhere and soon. Also, what the hell is with the publication standards at Unleashed?

 Mark Sharma for a regular friday slot!!!! 

Update (6/12/10): I have, sadly and rapidly, lost my place of Google prominence apparently after posting my latest. Suspect my prominence there (or anything like it) was only ever going to last as long as a Mark Sharma post was my latest. Woe :( ... I guess it's nice to learn a little about Google's search algorithm, at least. 

News just in: Sydney suburb of Strathfield uncovers dire existential threat to Australia.

Mark Sharma.

Mark Sharma. Maaark Sharma. Mark. Sharma. Repeat these words, dear reader. Savour them. Let the sweet, sensual, seductive sound of Shaaaarrrmmmaaaaa.... make love with your tongue, vocal cords, nasal cavity and lips to mark this fine day.

The day the prophet spoke to us.

Who is Mark Sharma, I hear you ask? Why, Mark Sharma is Strathfield, dear reader. And Strathfield is he¹. He speaks its thoughts. He lives out its wants and desires. And today, dear reader, which some day will be recorded as the first day of year 0 in a newer, more enlightened calendar, Strathfield spoke to us.

It was not a message of comfort, dear reader. Rather, it was a terrible vision of the future. But fear not, my friend, for in this vision lies hope. If we can but heed this call, if we sinners can but repent, become conservatives and joint this great movement Australia may once again become a land of prosperity, heterosexuality and economic liberalism.

Why do Gillard, Swan and Brown hate freedom so? The prophet would not tell us. Perhaps it is because they are not conservatives, and as we all know, freedom is a conservative value. Perhaps it is because they are brainwashed vessels of leftist hate. Who can say? But hate it, they do. And as much as we might like to tear these hate-mongers limb from limb in the name of Australian freedom, dear reader, let us instead let the soothing words of the prophet stay our righteous hands:

.....it will be a waste of time if we spent our entire energy targeting them. Instead of that it would be more productive to focus on their hidden agenda.

Indeed.

Their hidden agenda? Why it becomes only too obvious if you are but willing to look with clear eyes. Consider, first, what they have already done.

If the shock of another tax was not enough for the Gillard Government, now there is a foolish debate going on in Canberra on same same-sex marriage. The ceremony of marriage might be different in different cultures but the institution of marriage is the same no matter where you live. Marriage can only happen between a man and a woman. There are no "ifs and buts" or grey areas to it. It doesn't matter whether you are Christian, Muslim, Hindu, Jewish or belong to any other faith. The concept is the same everywhere. Just because we live in the 21st century, it doesn't mean we should destroy our way of life for delusional people. There is no possibility of any debate on this issue and it should be kept out of our sacred parliament.

Why should we ruin our way of life for delusional people, indeed? For people so wrapped up in their delusional mindset as to disbelieve such manifest truths as the existence of bronze age gods, transubstantiation and his elephantine majesty Ganesha?

OUR SACRED PARLIAMENT MUST BE DEFENDED FROM SUCH FILTH!!!

But why must they do this, dear reader. Why? My god, man, but isn't it obvious?

But despite all this, the Greens are relentlessly bringing up gay marriage and attacking Australian families. Why is Senator Brown doing all this? The only assumption one can make is that the Greens want to weaken our economy with a carbon tax and destroy our social fabric with gay marriage. A weakened nation would serve as a perfect launch pad for communism.

Don't you see? Don't you see you fools!? First they introduce flouridation of our very water suppy to dilute our precious bodily fluids. Then, using their cunning sham of 'global warming', they tax carbon to cripple our great nation's economy. Finally, to weaken our defenses by tearing the social fabric in two and turning our defense forces camp, they let gay people marry each other. Why else would you do these things? Isn't the next logical step that we find ourselves a satellite state of the Soviet Union communist UN world government?

WAKE UP AUSTRALIA!

¹It's just a bit of a shame he isn't the rest of Watson, really.

In which I lose sleep over being called an idiot on Andrew Bolt's blog.

How can it have come to this? I only wanted to join in.... to take a small place amongst the intellectual giants who come to sit in awe of the greatest living Australian...

Instead I have been cruelly shot down. PWNED, if you will¹.

I feel so small. How did I C You know I wasn't one of the idiots form some block of 200,000 he'd counted already? How was he even able to work that out? That's just the thing about people over at Bolt's blog I guess..... they really are just that friggin smart.


¹Although, just quietly, and on a serious note to Mick. I would much rather that some random group of people dumb enough to take Andrew Bolt seriously on any issue at all think I am a 'soft touch' than to know with dread certainty in my more honest and quiet moments, that I am both a racist and a coward. I should also probably just say that it's been pointed out to me that 111 is the number of boats, not people. Just so you know I realise that now and that I still don't care (it's true, I'm afraid I don't usually bother to read Andrew Bolt's posts very carefully and this was no exception).

Kites, the Remix: Or in which I wish to beat my brother to death with a rubber pigeon.

Henry, Henry, Henry. You are a bastard. I've realised for a while that ANU film group reviews have to be read through the lens that they've gone out of their way to track down someone in their ranks who either actually likes the film in question, or is at least willing to pretend they did. I've always expected a little more from you, though. You once wrote this review of Synecdoche, New York. Thanks for that. I mean, who knows? I might have otherwise seen it unprepared or something.

The point being, I've come to think of you as a reviewer I can trust. When you wrote this review of this piece of shite, though Henry, you broke that trust. You broke it hard. You gave me the impression that the movie could conceivably be enjoyed on some level. You made me think it was possible to get to the end of it without wanting to beat to death every last person who was involved in the making of the movie. You lied, man. You robbed me of 90 minutes of my life. You even have the balls to open as follows:

I'm not sure it was necessary to edit down the Bollywood original (which, at 130 minutes, was already remarkably short by Bollywood standards) by 40 minutes.

You aren't? You weren't possibly swayed by the remaining 90 minutes still actually feeling like about, oh, 3 long hours being taken to tell some puerile story you could have done justice to in 5 minutes, after which the story-teller would probably be forced to apologise for injecting that kind of stupid into your head? Only you wouldn't accept that apology. I mean, you would say you had for form's sake, but over the years it would knaw at you and, one morning when you wake up dreaming once again of this stupid tale and convincing yourself that it was the only way to drive it out of your head, you'd track the storyteller down and torture them to death. You'd then offer the story in your own defense at trial (which would see you released on humanitarian grounds), only to end up infecting others with its banal odiousness, thus starting the same vicious cycle again and possibly bringing about the end of civilization as we know it!  

Am I exaggerating? Well, yes. But I hope I have, at least, prevented anyone reading this from actually thinking for even a second that seeing Kites, the Remix is an idea they should actually entertain. This is to say, Henry, that I just did what should have been your job for you.

I swear what they must have actually done with this movie is take their initial stupid idea for a movie then defaulted to a six year old to actually flesh the story out. We'll call this six year old 'Chuckie'.

Producer: O.K. so, how are our two lovers re-united?

Chuckie: Um, so Jay is, like scuba diving in this awesome coral reef, when he sees her swim right past him without recognizing him .... and, and, she looks kind of like a mermaid and stuff. Then, when they drive back to the house of the family they're both marrying into they, like meet up again.

Producer: Hmm... O.K. I guess that might work..... yeah, they both make independent trips to the same coral reef on day-trips from LAS VEGAS, NEVADA!?!?!?!

Chuckie: Yeah. And then after they go out on a date the night before her wedding to the brother of his fiance, she gets found out.... and, and, there's a fight and stuff. And we finish the scene with her fiance, who is like the brother of his fiance, like firing a gun right at Jay! Jay's the name of our hero, by the way. Awesome, right?


Producer: Ummm... O.K.

Chuckie: And then we get some flash-backs and shit, and we replay the scene, only this time it's like 'hey, I changed my mind, there are no gunshots at all, Natasha hits her fiance over the head with a bottle instead!'


Producer: Right..... I mean, it seems like they're going on the run rather early here, Chucky. How do we pad-out the remaining 75 minutes?

Chuckie: With, like awesome chase scenes and stuff! Like, they'll be running away from all these police cars, and it'll be like 'Oh no, they're caught!' ... but, but then they'll see these .... HOT AIR BALOONS! And, like, they'll jump onto a rope from their car and climb up it and get away!


Producer: O.K.... so I guess that'll work. I mean, a brightly coloured, slow-moving hot air balloon would be a really difficult thing for the police to follow......

Chuckie: Yeah. And they'll get into these other cool chases and then get to Mexico and get married. And it'll be really funny, cause earlier when he asks how to say 'I love you' in Spanish, she'll teach him to say 'I'm shitting my pants' instead ... which will be a really funny thing for him to say instead most of the time, cause it has the word 'shit' in it, lol, but it'll be extra special funny when he says it at the wedding.


Producer: And then her evil ex-fiance will catch up with them?

Chuckie: Yeah, and there'll be this big awesome chase scene and he'll get shot..... and, and she'll put him in a train and we won't see what happens to her. And, and we won't find out until he goes back to Las Vegas after getting all better 'cause this poor Mexican family performs surgery on him.


Producer: I see. What does happen to her?

Chuckie: Oh, it's really sad! They chase her to a remote cliff , and she drives off of it.

Producer: Wow.


Chuckie: Yeah, and then he like finds out after running away from a gunfight after being saved by Jamal, who is like the family's servant who becomes their friend because they're awesome, only Jamal's been shot and he whispers it to Jay before he dies. Sad, hey?

Producer: Yeah....

Chuckie: And then Jay will be all, like, hard-arse and he'll have an uzi and, and, when all the bad men catch up to him he'll be, like, shooting them ALL in slow motion and it'll look really cool 'cause it'll be raining really heavily.... it rains a LOT in this movie, by the way. Rain's dramatic. It says so right here.

Producer: in Las Vegas?

Chuckie: Yeah. And things get even sadder, too, 'cause, then Jay's ex-fiance appears behind him, cause she was following him all along or something and, like shoots him in the back, crying. We feel a little sorry for her, too, 'cause she's been used like a doormat. So Jay doesn't shoot her back, and she doesn't shoot him again, she just, like, cries as he staggers off.

Producer: Wow, so what happens, then?

Chuckie: Um, so he drives to the cliff where Natasha died and he jumps off it.

Producer: O.K.... so he drives back to Mexico with a bullet in his back and...wait, how did he even know where the cliff was? Did Jamal whisper the GPS co-ordinates to him when he was dying or something?

Chuckie: Maybe... Umm, it's like a really sad ending, though, hey?


Producer:  I guess.... assuming the audience doesn't feel like they would have gladly pushed Jay off the cliff themselves 5 minutes into the movie... Look, Chuckie, I'll tell you what I'm going to do. Here's a suitcase full of money. You make that movie.


Chuckie: Awesome.

News Just In: Andrew Bolt is trying to kill Bob Brown.

ZOMG! See for yourselves! How many times have we heard this tired old story? Two-bit hack outs murderous plot by evil communist harpy, hack gets rare brain-wave and turns the device against gay eco-fascist?


When will society learn!?!?!?!?!??!?!

Australian Ride to Work Day: you are hereby cordially invited to go fuck yourself.

Currently being in my 3rd week of riding to work daily, I'm sure you can imagine my sense of joy at learning that, on the 13th of October, there was to be a free breakfast at work for anyone who rode in on the day in question. On the off-chance you can't, well, take a look at this and work from there. I have never gotten over my student-days joy at free .... anything¹. A free breakfast for riding to work? A ha ha HA!!  I was going to do it anyway you fools!!!!!!!

My joy, however, was short-lived. Well, actually, it wasn't in the sense that I'd learned of this like 3 weeks ago. In the sense that this makes for a good, solid opening to a paragraph about how everything went sour ... and also in the sense that I could possibly have been even more delirious with joy, like, the night before or something .... we can all agree it was. You see, it was raining pretty heavily this morning. Finding myself suddenly thrust into the ranks of those whose decision to ride may actually be determined by the provision of a free breakfast, but being the complete out-and-out hard-arse you all know me to be, I bravely donned my Gore-Tex^TM and made my way to work through near² to impossible odds after only umming and ahing for around 20 minutes. Like people who went to 'Nam and stuff... I'm afraid I'm rather reluctant to talk about the horrors I then experienced on the way to work. I am prepared, however, to talk about the horrors that greeted me when I got there. You see...

There was no fucking breakfast left!

Well, O.K., so there was in the sense that there was some fruit and a little cereal lying around amidst people packing up and stuff. After stepping out of a much-needed (to wash all the mud and blood and shit off) shower, and arriving at 9:20 to an 8:30-9:30 breakfast, I expect a little more than a few hairy pieces of fruit and the dregs of the cereal, though, you bastards. I expect danishes. I expect coffee. I expect sausages, hash browns and young, nubile serving-folk looking to anoint my tired feet.

Congratulations 'National Ride to Work Day', you just earned a place on my hit-list.


¹Hmmm. Perhaps a disclaimer is in order here. Anyone now thinking to send my joy circuits into overload by offering me a free kick in the testicles is advised to stop being such a pedantic smart-arse.


²Assuming a rather broad definition of 'nearness'.....

News just in: Dumb Opinion Piece Published on The Drum.

Acknowledging that the above probably reads like a headline from The Onion, allow me to say that I am nonetheless shocked. Why, oh why can't Clementine Ford and Virginia Haussegger unite and fight against the common enemy, The People's Front of Judea, I hear you ask?

Well, in a sense, they can. Virginia Haussegger's article (abridged from a speech given in a debate) is a thoughtful enough kick in the pants to western feminism regarding it's (I think) cowardly cultural relativism and the resulting moral crisis she claims it finds itself in. Enter Clementine Ford, who says 'Waaaa! All this nasty stuff not our fault! We do plenty! P.S. I'd like to subtly hint that people who agreed with Hausegger are all Islamophobes, if I may', thereby neatly demonstrating Haussegger's point presenting a devastating rebuttal.

Ford's was, I think, the most mind-bogglingly silly piece of writing I have seen on the Drum. This is a highly competitive category.

A few rants at points of consideration for Ford, in the highly unlikely event she reads this blog:

1. Considering how often in subsequent comments you show frustration at people misconstruing comments about males perpetrating violence against women as meaning all men are violent towards women, you might like to take a moment to reflect on how ridiculous it is for you to take any criticism of Islam or Middle Eastern culture as an indication that the speaker thinks all Muslims are inherently evil. There is nothing at all inherently wrong with cultural criticism or even vilification, and I would submit that Islam, as it is currently practiced today, is quite profoundly misogynistic. I think that is bad. I would also like to submit that any culture that accepts honour-killing as a part of it is a culture that contains some profoundly shit elements. You might also remember certain evil acts of vilification regarding such cultural practices as disallowing women the vote and maintaining that a woman's place is in the home. I know, hey? They shock me too.
2. If you title an article Stop blaming feminists for the world's problems, you might like to consider indicating or referencing a single, solitary instance of someone actually blaming feminists for at least one problem in the world. Haussegger sure as shit didn't. She did seem to imply that systematic gross human rights abuses against women should be of special interest to those who would consider themselves feminists. I, too, was shocked by this scandalous assertion.
3. You write "Her argument is so fundamentally flawed that it's difficult to know where to begin." Might I suggest you begin with something she actually fucking said.

In any case, Clementine, on the off-chance that I'm currently coming off as too reasonable or sane or something I thought I might just sign off as follows:

Clementine, we live in a world that has walls, and those walls have to be guarded by men with guns. Whose gonna do it? You? You, Clementine? I have a greater responsibility than you could possibly fathom. You weep for Santiago, and you curse the marines. You have that luxury. You have the luxury of not knowing what I know. That Santiago's death, while tragic, probably saved lives. And my existence, while grotesque and incomprehensible to you, saves lives. You don't want the truth because deep down in places you don't talk about at parties, you want me on that wall, you need me on that wall. We use words like honor, code, loyalty. We use these words as the backbone of a life spent defending something. You use them as a punchline. I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain myself to a woman who rises and sleeps under the blanket of the very freedom that I provide, and then questions the manner in which I provide it. I would rather you just said thank you, and went on your way, Otherwise, I suggest you pick up a weapon, and stand a post. Either way, I don't give a damn what you think you are entitled to.

Where have you gone, Wilson Tuckey? A nation turns its lonely eyes to you.....

Oh wait..... there you are, buddy!

I have to say that I was disappointed with his first two posts. Sure, with his second there were tantalising hints that he thinks Marius Kloppers should bugger off back where he came from with his liberal ideas ..... but where was the fire, Wilson? What was with all the reasonably coherent posting?

Imagine my joy, then, at his third post. This beastie reads a little more like a comment on Andrew Bolt's blog. This is more like the Wilson Tuckey we all know and...... know! This is the Wilson bravely showing the Coalition the way through the wilderness, in stark contempt for the opinion of others, coherency, actual parliamentary influence and growing senility. But why are you all wasting time listening to me? Take it away, Wilson....

Greg Combet interview with Kerry O`brien on Gillards broken election promise to not  introduce a Carbon Tax reminded me of Paul Keatings LAW broken election promise. Tony Abbott should now introduce some LAW to the Parliament banning such a tax making it clear he will attend any Divisions involved.

This initiative will test Gillard and the Independants both in the debate and the vote. In particular to match their rhetoric with actual evidence as to the ECONOMIC¹  and ENVIROMENTAL BENEFITS of such a measure.

Lastly, however, reader ..... I must ask you to imagine my visceral sense of horror when I realised what many of you are no doubt realising after reading the above. Wilson Tuckey is ..... me. Given a few years of disillusionment and the onset of early senility .... is it really such a stretch to go from here, here or here to .......here?:

Whilst a Gillard promise has a 24hr USE BY DATE she might just be prepared to provide a guarunteed (sic) figure as to the reduction in CO2 emissions per 1% of tax imposed excluding of course those emissions that are exported to other countries.

Having seen what lies ahead, dear reader..... I'm really not sure I can go on.....

Update: title corrected.

¹Possibly Abbott could stand in parliament with a sign reading 'Where is da money, Ms Gillard?'

In which I propose a competition.

Who among us remembers our search for the saddest man on the internet? Why do I bring this up? Well, firstly because I find myself idly wondering whatever happened to dancing Mario man ..... ah, good times ..... and partly because I wish to propose another race through the dregs of humanity.

Where else should we begin such a race than on the blog of the great man himself? I propose two categories for this endeavor:

1. The funniest act of crazy-baiting/affirmation. The leader in this category is currently 'he who shall not be named', and for an example I would advise moseying on over to that blog that doesn't exist.
2. The more challenging category. The prize here shall go to whoever manages to get published the  craziest piece of opinion in broad agreement with the blog's author. The winner here should ideally write something more glaringly insane than 'serious' posters..... but we must be probably prepared to waive such a condition on account of its setting the bar way too high .... You must, however, get at least one 'serious' or 'real' poster to agree with you.

Any takers?

For Wes Anderson, if he's interested. Part 3.

We find ourselves in a Canberra pub, where a trio of be-suited men sit in consternation. All three are wearing hats indoors. One is sporting a cream akubra, and the other two wearing red caps with "I ♥ ALP" written on the front of them.

Katter: So here it is, gentlemen. Exactly what we've been holding out for. A pledge from Mr Abbott to firebomb Filipino banana crops into oblivion. 

Oakeshott: *cough* ..... Yeah, ah .... sexy. Naughty.

Katter: And it doesn't stop there, either, gentlemen. Abbott's prepared to meet our demands on fishing and to give us all the ethanol we can drink. 

Windsor (scratching his head): Yeah, about that Bob....

Katter (holding his hand up in a manner conotating 'just wait'):  Lastly, though, me-lads.....the Piece de Resist-once...... who do you think will be setting the value of the Aussie dollar this time next year? I''l tell you who, lads: "Bob Katter!".

There follows a long pause as Bob allows the gravity of those last two words to settle in. Oakeshott and Windsor answer Katter's manic stare with a pair of vapid ones. Finally they are unable to meet his eyes at all, and each develop an intense interest in their drinks. Bob appears oblivious to this.

We now notice, as Katter pats him consolingly on the shoulder, a fourth figure at the table. How we failed to notice Kevin Rudd's¹ existence up until this point appears mystifying to us, but fail we did.

Katter: I'm sorry, Kev.

Rudd (exhaling): That's O.K., I guess.

Katter: If it were you, buddy, I'd-a gone the other way. No question.

Rudd nods in the kind of endearingly pathetic way only Owen Wilson really can.

Katter: Now, gentlemen, we've got an adoring nation to talk to.

Windsor: Yeah.... we're right behind you, Bob.... we'll just finish these beers and meet you outside.


¹Owen Wilson.

In which Chris causes me to make a fool of myself.

To be found here.

According to the source that never lies, it's "backwards from Bourke", Chris. I feel like such a dufus.....

For Wes Anderson, if he's interested. Part 2.

DREAM SEQUENCE

It is election night, if a little hazier around the edges of our vision. Bob is by a TV set in a small beach house in between a banana plantation and the ocean. He is wearing only a pair of Bananas in Pyjamas boxer shorts, gum boots and his trade-mark hat. He is holding a remote in one hand, a beer in the other. Kerry O'Brien¹ is presently announcing ".... thrusting Bob Katter into a position of kingmaker". 

Bob switches the TV off, nodding. "Bob Katter!" he says, with conviction, before reclining back in his chair and throwing his head back to take a hefty swig of his beer.

A knife darts in front of  his now-exposed throat. Panning out, we see a small Filipino man in a wet-suit, his face concealed. "We burn banans now, Kat Kat, you big gayfaglol!" he says.


Bob's face contorts into a snarl as he responds. "You picked the wrong beach this time, Kimosabe..."


As if in answer, there is a low, deep, blood-curdling howl in the distance.


Outside, we see a small surfaced submarine flying the Filipino flag and rocking around in newly disturbed sea. We make out a panicked voice slightly distorted by radio static. "Large object come in fast, general Makabulos!". The wave immediately behind the sub appears to form a giant pair of fruit bat wings.....


Focus back on Bob Katter, who is laughing maniacally. Enraged, our wet-suited Makabulos forces the knife into Katter's throat....

Bob snaps awake. He is sitting on the toilet holding the latest copy of Mt Isa Bush Pig. There is a knocking at the door as a feminine (but very Ocker) voice enquires "Mr Katter?". "Strewth, hang on a tick, Gillard, Bob's on the job...." he replies. The voice becomes more insistent "Mr Katter!". "I told you, Bobs on the....."

Bob snaps awake again. He is in Canberra, in the office of Prime Minister Julia Gillard².

We focus on Gillard's face. "Could we focus on the ..... job, here, Bob?"

Katter: Musta dozed off, there.... you were saying something about bananas?

Gillard: Well, I wasn't....... but while we're on the topic why don't we shoot down to point 16. Bob, I just don't think that you've thought that one through.

Katter: Which part?

Gillard: Well.... for starters, even if they couldn't count on some degree of international support and us.... none.... the Philippines has quite a substantial standing army. And ..... well, they're just bananas, Bob.

Katter: Just bananas? Look. You've killed off manufacturing in this country, you've killed off agriculture. You're trying to kill mining and porn... all we've got left are bananas!

Gillard: .... we're going to have to say no to the 'Bob Katter bridge to nowhere³' and orchestrating a joint Australia-US naval bombardment on ...... "Fruit-bat-zilla", too, Bob. We might be able to move on farm subsidies, though.

We can just make out a sharp, muffled "communist" emanating from a cabinet directly behind Gillard. Gillard motions Wayne Swan to the cabinet with an economical motion of her head. Upon opening the cabinet a large-eared figure leaps out in a vision of startled kung-fu fury. Swan leaps back in fright. Waking up to himself, Tony Abbott⁴ straightens first his posture, then his tie.


Abbott (coughing): Ah, hello Bob.

Gillard: Tony, this isn't exactly what I'd call professional.

To be continued.............

¹George Clooney?

²Tilda Swinton

³I got her in, Chris! I got her in!!!!

⁴Ben Stiller.

For Wes Anderson, if he's interested. Part 1.

Opening shot: we follow the top of a large, cream coloured akubra hat as it slowly and deliberately makes its way towards a set of ornate double doors. Upon reaching the doors the hat pauses. It's¹ slow, rocking movement seems strangely evocative of its encasing a head chewing tobacco. Or hay.... or, I don't know, whatever country folks like to chew on these days.... possibly their own tongues or something.

Without warning a pair of grizzled, wiry old arms fly into the doors like two North Queensland crocodiles taking prey and, with a deft synchronous flick of each wrist impel the doors to fly open.

While we can almost feel the oppressively humid North Queensland heat now pouring in from outside, more oppressive still is the ominous ranks of reporters, cameras and microphones that greet our hat on the now-exposed² doorstep. There is a brief moments pause as though, caught in their own private conversations, these ranks of slick, southern filth have been caught by surprise at the unexpected emergence of their prey. It doesn't last.

A veritable chattering cacophony, (surely enough to kill a lesser hat) now assaults our senses as surely as it assaults the hat. "Mr Katter, blah, blah, blah Latte-sipping-elitist loaded question!?"

As the camera swivels around and pans out we make out first the purposeful, grizzled face beneath the hat, which begins nodding up and down, laughing. Our figure's right arm is motioning the crowd be quiet, which obeys as surely as has many a wayward steer before it.

Katter: One at a toime.... please!

Faceless reporter: Mr Katter, why did you not meet with Garnaut and Stern today?

Katter's face³ stares impassively back but his chewing slows, offering us the only clue that this question may have caught him off-guard. His eyes dart briefly towards his watch, then back at the offending reporter. His face contorts first into a wince, then a scowl as his arm makes to swat the question away as surely as it has swatted many a North Queensland fly before it.

Katter: Ah, they're lightweights. Stupid. Wrong. I mean, you know, they don't even seem to realise the unassailable scientific fact about a major problem coming out of our oceans.

Reporter: ........ acidity?

Katter: Fruit-bat-ZILLA! I mean, you all come here from down South.... You people have been slitting our throats for years, when all the time we've been living under the shadow of that monster. And he'll come for you, too, after he's done with us, but none of you even listen or care! And then you go and rape and kill our livestock, destroy all our industry and force homosexuality on us.

Reporters: .................?

Katter: Look, I've answered your questions, I'm gonna go have a beer now.

________________________________________________________________________________

SCENE 2.

Bob is reclining at his desk drinking a beer, his muddy, booted feet sharing his desk-top with a WWII vintage Enfield rifle. He reaches slowly down to his desk draw and opens it to reveal a single object. It is a banana with a note tied to it with thick, coarse string and the unmistakable stamp of the Phillipines on it.  Zoom in on the note, which says:

How you lik them banans? Ha Ha Ha Gayfaglol!

Focus now on Katter's face, whose eyes cagily dart around the room then lock upon the ashtray at on a far-off bench. The cigar in it is still fresh.

He snatches up his rifle and darts around the room opening cupboards and upturning objects, face contorted with rage and pointing the rifle accusingly into each empty space he finds. His eyes now dart towards the bathroom door. Forcing his way in, we now see two tell-tale signs: the toilet seat is down, and the window is open. Outside we see a diminutive figure in a grey pyjama suit just disappearing into the distant banana trees as Katter takes more pot shots at it than we would have thought the rifle capable of without reloading.

Gayfaglol!!!!! we hear it cry defiantly in the distance.

Focus on Katter's enraged face, end scene.

¹Apostrophe crime!

²Do you like that hyphen, Dave.... do you like it, buddy?

³ A heavily made-up Bill Murray? Jacko? Owen Wilson, even (Royal-Tenenbaums type role, sort of)?

I am an idiot, too.

O.K., so I didn't check that the listed primary voting percentages added to 100 (and are already a percentage of valid counted votes, not ballots returned). Probably around half of Arkan's primary preferenced Labor, after all.

It is my melancholy duty to inform you that Andrew Bolt was right. The Sikhs in Cowper really are the thin end of a Labor-boat people wedge insidiously started by the Labor movement in the 1830s and only now bearing fruit. It's really no surprise they're such pansies on the issue of burning asylum seekers alive for fun these days, really, is it?

By way of apology to Bolt, allow me to present the world with irrefutable proof, courtesy of your the Maoist's ABC that muslims are stupid:

... and that "our" ABC is, in fact, run by rabid atheistic communists out to make decent, hard-working Christian folk out to be bigots or something...

Andrew Bolt is an Idiot.

Look, Jethro, those two numbers is equal, hic..

The results in Cowper hardly provides strong evidence that the Sikh community votes in a bloc (relative to the Coalition or Labor at least). Hell, the very reference he quotes seems to inicate that the majority of Arkan's primary vote can't have been Sikh anyway. Worse, if you assume that all Greens preferences and no CDP preferences went to Labor in Cowper, approximately 3/4 of Arkan's supporters must have favoured the coalition rather than Labor.

One wonders how some of the nasty little racists commenting would feel if they realised that, if anything, the 'Sikh voting bloc' in Cowper probably favours the Nationals.......

A post which promises, at some point, to be about the NBN.

Imagine a ball. In as much as I would like, in this story, for someone to be picking it up and this to be considered a legal move, imagine it is a rugby ball. Let's make it gray. With a red duck on it¹. Now let us imagine a game of rugby proceeding on a field around the ball. This game has become rather scrappy. So scrappy, in fact, that everyone has pretty much forgotten about the ball's existence in their determination to beat the crap out of anyone wearing different colours from them. Hell, some are even attacking even members of their own team with eye-gouging fury. I suppose I really could have just said it had descended into a brawl. I didn't, though, because I'm trying to be all evocative and shit. You O.K. with that, Mr 'Get the fuck on with the story'? Hey, man, fuck you.

Anyways, into this farcical scene steps a diminutive, bespectacled man in a suit. He makes his way over to the ball, dodging the odd fist, elbow and knee attached to various combatants who appear to be paying little attention to him. He stands over the ball, glances furtively in a number of directions then, tentatively, he picks the ball and holds it wonderingly for a while. He now has the power. He can decide the outcome of the game. With a new-found air of superiority and contempt he looks around him at a field of stupid, narrow-minded neanderthals in rugby uniforms who still haven't noticed that the kind of bespectacled nerd they used to beat up in high school has just taken control of their game. He smiles, shuts his eyes, and runs. So taken with the sheer joy of his situation he fails to notice the single nondescript tree standing just outside the playing field he has inadvertently plotted a course directly at. Again without anyone paying any attention to him, he runs directly into it with a soft, anti-climactic thud and falls unconscious on the ground. The ball rolls quietly away where it lies waiting......

An ode to non-boredom

Dave raises, I think, a fair question when he asks if a boring election campaign is necessarily a bad thing. To put matters another way, there is a reason that 'May you live in interesting times' is considered a curse. Given, however, that we do live in interesting times - I would submit that if a country finds itself failing to have an interesting election campaign, then the chances that this is due to a bi-partisan consensus having been struck on a discovered set of policy decisions that is actually most conducive to the long-term happiness of the country are very, very, slim. As far as Australia is concerned I would be interested in seeing anyone maintain, with a straight face, that this is the reason we are currently facing an election of coma-inducing dullness.

Politics is a game. It does not exist to safeguard our happiness. It does not exist to discover the best solution to the problems the people effected by it face. It just exists. Some countries play this game by rules which are more conducive to the well-being of its participants¹ than others, democracy being a pretty good innovation along those lines, but all dull contests really mean is that dull tactics are sufficient for the goals of those most actively playing it. Stability is a very, very different thing from optimality.

In the Australian context, we see two major parties in a state of near alliance, and I would submit that this is because they have reached a point of equilibrium where they feel, with good justification, that any major divergence on either of their parts will be penalised, not because they've struck policy gold.


¹And in all countries, the list of participants in the game extends to the entire population, whether they like to admit it or not. In Australia, for instance, we don't. We pretend that the manner in which politicians consistently behave (and the manner in which politics is reported) in the long term has absolutely nothing to do with us.

Srsly, Dave?

French propaganda poster c. 1870

You were lied to as a child.

My palms were sweaty¹. I was nervous. I had, however, once more avoided an awkward encounter in a lift.

"I made it" I announced to Ads,who had once again, just moments before, initiated an inane phone conversation having exhausted all constructive work and communist tea party related activities at work. "Well" she quipped, her voice quavering in that 'I am about to say something really clever' kind of tone. "What goes up must come down".

What goes up........ no, I'm sorry dear reader, but this is Bullshit. Why do they do this kind of thing to you when you're young³? Leaving aside the fact that 'up' is such a completely relative term anyway... what about clay pigeons? Hmm? What about if we, say, made a really big cannon and fired Sol Trujillo into the sun?

I realise that this is the day after Mother's day and all..... but I see through your lies, mum.

So kids, what goes up does not have to come down⁴.

¹Mom's spaghetti².

²O.K. Sue me. That was American spelling.

³Watched kettles do fucking boil.

⁴This is a metaphor for life⁵.

⁵Ads made me write this.