It is, as they say, coming on Christmas. You can tell, because all the catalogues are gleefully appealing to the altruism of every buyer and sneakily suggesting that nothing would be so thoughtful or appreciated as a nose-hair trimmer, or a loaf of wholegrain bread, or a bracelet with “Mum” engraved on it, by the simple expedient of using bows in all the catalogue photos. This season brings with it a particularly interesting phenomenon: the heyday of the sort of item which no-one could ever conceivably want themselves, but which, we are told, would be a font of endless joy to our nearest and dearest.
You can generally spot these things by the descriptor appended to the shiny image: “hours of fun” is a red flag, for instance, as is a declaration that “[these people] and [these other people] alike will enjoy this [thingy]”. The people who fall victim to these most severely seem to be the people who study, or unwisely display an interest in, any slightly obscure area. I don’t know who else this applies to, but I assure you, gentle reader, that Latinists have it hard.
You can tell these particular gems from the fact that the blurbs are reviews are always packed full of as many Latin words, parenthetically translated, as literarily possible. Every year, it seems, someone comes out with a book of ‘totally cool Latin phrases! Amaze your friends, and insult them without their knowledge! Cool, huh?’ etc. Maybe, maybe these books are a source of endless fun to, I don’t know, unusually precocious 8 year olds with an age-appropriate sense of humour, but I really don’t see, otherwise, to whom they could appeal. Why would I want to insult my friends? Especially without-their-knowledge,-but-to-their-faces? My friends are a smart bunch. They’re essentially going to be on to me if I shout “stultus es!” at them, in a context of their hypothetical stupidity. Even if they miss the exact import, they’re going to notice that I’m talking in another language, one which I know that they don’t know, and which I’m using to deliberately exclude them from understanding. Not to put too fine a point on it, that’s about as rude as telling someone they’re stupid anyway. As I recall, it’s called structural vocal ostracism, or something, and it’s awfully bad for people.
In short, the ability to insult people in other languages is not something I ever need. And even if I did, I have to background knowledge to do it myself. And it would be more fun to use obscure English anyway. These sorts of things seem utterly pointless, but I always seem to end up with them.
Essentially, my point here is that whilst I appreciate the thought, when you see books amusingly titled Ad Nauseam or similar, maybe keep looking. (Although if you’ve given me one in the past, I did appreciate it, honest, it’s just that the one you gave me entirely fills that niche, and I don’t need any more.) If you really feel an overwhelming urge to spend that money on me in a bookshop, a voucher would be fine. Or a book which is actually good.
Similar, though less infuriating, are books which are just collections of cool words from the dictionary. I think this sort of book would be more interesting and cool to have about, but it does sort of negate that thrill-of-the-chase you get from flicking through the dictionary yourself. Also, any word so obscure as to be only listed in the fully extended OED tends to make people want the kick you in the head for using such self-indulgent vocabulary, in my experience. Books on grammar are likewise not something most people are going to need more than one of.
But! This reminds me! A great triumph has occurred, bringing joy to the hearts of pedants all over Sydney. That hairdresser with window-writing a foot tall on George St, next to the bus stop has removed the offensive apostrophes from their “STREAK’S TINT’S” sign! Verily, there is hope for humanity!
{Lastly, and irrelevantly, there is a patient in our waiting room, again, taking notes of the things she presumably wants done from the Cosmetic Surgery magazine which some cynical Plastics Dude has put in our waiting room. Don’t do it, lady! You look lovely as it is.}
Monday, November 17, 2008
Monday, November 03, 2008
In Which a Thesis has been Handed In, and a feeling of Pleasantly Aimlessness Prevails
So, at last those of us in my Ancient History class have slain our various thesis-beasts, which is nice, not least because it means I’m finally not sick any more. I didn’t actually feel very stressed many days (maybe 4 or 5 all up), and it never reduced me to tears or tantrums (remarkable mainly because of how distressingly easily I’m reduced to either), but apparently I was more stressed than I felt, since I got a nasty cold in late July and didn’t get better until mid-October. I got worse, at times, and improved occasionally to a mere cold-like state, rather than the fluey depths I had occasionally sunk to, but it’s really nice to be not sick at all, now, which hasn’t happened in some months.
What else is new? Well, obviously there are some things, but the miracle the internet being what it is, just about anyone liable to be reading my blog already knows that I have obtained for myself a Young Man for high quality with which to en-boyfriend myself. (So to speak) The problem, of course, is that saying “boyfriend”, which is obviously right, sounds so Dolly-magazine, somehow, but how else ought one describe such a person. I’m quite partial to “Young Man”, myself, which is sort of retro. It comes of reading too many Agatha Christie books in my youth. People’s maids are always spending their afternoons-off stepping out with their Young Man. Also, I think it’s one of those joking terms my mother always used, and now I keep saying it absent mindedly. Anyway, long story short, that whole thing is Pretty Neat. He’s pretty awesome, you guys.
Also, tomorrow is Melbourne Cup day! And in a moment or rare goodwill, my manager (who was a bit of a jerk last week, but let us pass serenely over that) has given me the day off, so I can go to Penrith and attend my parents’ Melbourne Cup party, which was always a fixture of some excitement in my youth. This is particularly handy since one of the nurses who’ll be there lives next door to Simon’s (the Young Man in question above) parents, randomly, so since I’m 100% confident that his mother will have wandered over to chat and check my credentials, given her reaction on learning that their neighbour was our family friend, I’d rather like to scope out how that’s likely to have gone.
Other exciting news includes the Rapid Approach of Christmas. This is made all the more exciting by the fact that the Swing Dancing people are having a Christmas dance, and some of us are learning a routine. It will be So Awesome, you guys. Anyone at all interested should definitely think about coming to the beginner class this week, since this Thursday is the first week of term, so you could get pretty passably good at it in the 6 weeks between now and the dance. C’mon, you guys! It will be great, and you should definitely check it out! It’s at 7pm, costs $12, and is at Swingtime, at the corner of Parramatta and Missenden Roads. Dooooooooo iiiiiiiiitttt….
What else is new? Well, obviously there are some things, but the miracle the internet being what it is, just about anyone liable to be reading my blog already knows that I have obtained for myself a Young Man for high quality with which to en-boyfriend myself. (So to speak) The problem, of course, is that saying “boyfriend”, which is obviously right, sounds so Dolly-magazine, somehow, but how else ought one describe such a person. I’m quite partial to “Young Man”, myself, which is sort of retro. It comes of reading too many Agatha Christie books in my youth. People’s maids are always spending their afternoons-off stepping out with their Young Man. Also, I think it’s one of those joking terms my mother always used, and now I keep saying it absent mindedly. Anyway, long story short, that whole thing is Pretty Neat. He’s pretty awesome, you guys.
Also, tomorrow is Melbourne Cup day! And in a moment or rare goodwill, my manager (who was a bit of a jerk last week, but let us pass serenely over that) has given me the day off, so I can go to Penrith and attend my parents’ Melbourne Cup party, which was always a fixture of some excitement in my youth. This is particularly handy since one of the nurses who’ll be there lives next door to Simon’s (the Young Man in question above) parents, randomly, so since I’m 100% confident that his mother will have wandered over to chat and check my credentials, given her reaction on learning that their neighbour was our family friend, I’d rather like to scope out how that’s likely to have gone.
Other exciting news includes the Rapid Approach of Christmas. This is made all the more exciting by the fact that the Swing Dancing people are having a Christmas dance, and some of us are learning a routine. It will be So Awesome, you guys. Anyone at all interested should definitely think about coming to the beginner class this week, since this Thursday is the first week of term, so you could get pretty passably good at it in the 6 weeks between now and the dance. C’mon, you guys! It will be great, and you should definitely check it out! It’s at 7pm, costs $12, and is at Swingtime, at the corner of Parramatta and Missenden Roads. Dooooooooo iiiiiiiiitttt….
Thursday, October 09, 2008
Wordle!
Monday, September 29, 2008
In which Jobs, Careers, Ambitions, Vocations and Things Done because they Seem Vaguely Like A Good Idea At The Time are largely indistinguishable.
Tomorrow is the day of my big interview for Post-Grad Medicine. Holy Cow! To begin, though, a caveat: A great many people are given interviews, and only a few of them get in. The people who do get in tend to be highly motivated as well as pretty smart, and generally are people who actually, oh, I dunno, studied for their GAMSAT for more than one afternoon. In short, a day tripper like me very probably won’t get in. So while I appreciate the sentiment, let’s take all the “oh, you’re smart enough! You’re sure to get in!” stuff as read, shall we? Because everyone’s friends must say that to them, and let’s face it, most of them are wrong.
Hey, that reads pretty arrogantly, huh? Sorry guys, it’s just that everyone says the same lovely thing, and it’s a bit pressure-y. The flipside of “you’re clever, of course you’ll get in!” is, in essence “you didn’t get in? You mustn’t be so clever after all, oh well.” Or it is if you’re morosely overanalyzing the fact that you didn’t get in and now have to become a plumber or a geologist. Although obviously I really appreciate the sentiment, so thanks.
But here’s the thing, right: What if they ask “why do you want to be a doctor?”? Other questions I figure I can handle as they arise, but this one they might reasonably expect me to know the answer to. But here’s the problem: I don’t. I have no idea.
I know I do really want to do it, but I guess the reasons are all too pragmatic and blunt or too romantic and silly. So, actually, yes, I would like to “help people”, but that’s an answer I bet they’ve heard 8 million times that day. Also, I’d be lying if I said that the fact that doctorin’ tends to be passably lucrative hadn’t crossed my mind. Plus, it seems really interesting. Lastly, there seems to be a sort of inevitable inertia towards a medical career in my life. Both my parents are doctors, and I’ve worked in doctors’ surgeries basically forever. It’s all I know, other than those jobs picture books listed when I was three. (So my other options are “fire fighter”, “police officer”, “school teacher” and “builder”, I guess?) (Man, I guess policing would be pretty cool. I do look good in blue, and everyone digs chicks in uniform. Plus, I could rise through the ranks and end up a general, or whatever the police equivalent is, surely?)
Which isn’t, on the whole, an unreasonable complex of reasons (the medicine stuff, the the police blather). It’s not awfully snappy, though, is it? It doesn’t scream “This girl has it all together, and has thought this through”, so much as “vague, mercenary, clichéd, apathetic” (and easily distracted).
Essentially, then, this is my plan: hope no-one asks that. Which seems fair enough, really, since surely everyone will have a well-articulated version of “I just want to help people, y’know?” written on the back of their hand. Which is frankly silly. If helping people was your only motivation, you’d do nursing. Or one of those other unappreciated jobs which makes people’s live genuinely better. You wouldn’t be doing the comparatively glamourous degree and ending up doing cosmetic surgery in Mosman. In fact, most jobs could be described as “helping people”. If no-one thought that what you were doing was helpful, no-one would pay you to do it.
Also, people keep telling me that it’s a “vocation” or a “calling”. Especially people like florists or newsagents or miscellaneous people who presumably have no better idea than I have. What is that? What does it even mean? Like some people are born with birthmarks in the shape of stethoscopes, and that’s how you can tell, or something.
Aaargh, too complicated. In less stressful and excitably overthought news, I totally bought the Fountains of Wayne album with Stacy’s Mom on it for $10 today. Yessss… (She’s got it goin’ on!) Plus, I had a really fantastic morning, and surely, surely I’ll get better soon, and not be sick any more, which is nice to look forward to.
Hey, that reads pretty arrogantly, huh? Sorry guys, it’s just that everyone says the same lovely thing, and it’s a bit pressure-y. The flipside of “you’re clever, of course you’ll get in!” is, in essence “you didn’t get in? You mustn’t be so clever after all, oh well.” Or it is if you’re morosely overanalyzing the fact that you didn’t get in and now have to become a plumber or a geologist. Although obviously I really appreciate the sentiment, so thanks.
But here’s the thing, right: What if they ask “why do you want to be a doctor?”? Other questions I figure I can handle as they arise, but this one they might reasonably expect me to know the answer to. But here’s the problem: I don’t. I have no idea.
I know I do really want to do it, but I guess the reasons are all too pragmatic and blunt or too romantic and silly. So, actually, yes, I would like to “help people”, but that’s an answer I bet they’ve heard 8 million times that day. Also, I’d be lying if I said that the fact that doctorin’ tends to be passably lucrative hadn’t crossed my mind. Plus, it seems really interesting. Lastly, there seems to be a sort of inevitable inertia towards a medical career in my life. Both my parents are doctors, and I’ve worked in doctors’ surgeries basically forever. It’s all I know, other than those jobs picture books listed when I was three. (So my other options are “fire fighter”, “police officer”, “school teacher” and “builder”, I guess?) (Man, I guess policing would be pretty cool. I do look good in blue, and everyone digs chicks in uniform. Plus, I could rise through the ranks and end up a general, or whatever the police equivalent is, surely?)
Which isn’t, on the whole, an unreasonable complex of reasons (the medicine stuff, the the police blather). It’s not awfully snappy, though, is it? It doesn’t scream “This girl has it all together, and has thought this through”, so much as “vague, mercenary, clichéd, apathetic” (and easily distracted).
Essentially, then, this is my plan: hope no-one asks that. Which seems fair enough, really, since surely everyone will have a well-articulated version of “I just want to help people, y’know?” written on the back of their hand. Which is frankly silly. If helping people was your only motivation, you’d do nursing. Or one of those other unappreciated jobs which makes people’s live genuinely better. You wouldn’t be doing the comparatively glamourous degree and ending up doing cosmetic surgery in Mosman. In fact, most jobs could be described as “helping people”. If no-one thought that what you were doing was helpful, no-one would pay you to do it.
Also, people keep telling me that it’s a “vocation” or a “calling”. Especially people like florists or newsagents or miscellaneous people who presumably have no better idea than I have. What is that? What does it even mean? Like some people are born with birthmarks in the shape of stethoscopes, and that’s how you can tell, or something.
Aaargh, too complicated. In less stressful and excitably overthought news, I totally bought the Fountains of Wayne album with Stacy’s Mom on it for $10 today. Yessss… (She’s got it goin’ on!) Plus, I had a really fantastic morning, and surely, surely I’ll get better soon, and not be sick any more, which is nice to look forward to.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
In which Memory is short and an Attention Span is shorter
Last year I had a silver bracelet on which I had engraved a Latin word. It was a word I picked because I felt that in some way it “summed it all up”, and it would generally all be ok if I just bore it in mind. It was an abstract noun, a word which in English would have ended “-ty” (you know, like “authority” or “clarity” or something) which means in ended in “-tas” in Latin. I remember looking it up, researching it to make sure all the implications of it were good, everything. It seemed Significant at the time, and I was sad when the bracelet broke and got lost one day.
The thing is; what the hell was that word? I really have no idea. I think it was something to do with wit or friendliness or something like that, but I really don’t know. How is it that I write so many useless things down, in notebooks, in blogs, everywhere, but there’s no way for me to check this? How transient and passing are these fancies of mine that something so important (well, "important") is so utterly gone from my memory? This seems in some way indicative of Problems.
Also, aaargh, what am I doing typing this? I need to get on with this horrifying chapter draft!
The thing is; what the hell was that word? I really have no idea. I think it was something to do with wit or friendliness or something like that, but I really don’t know. How is it that I write so many useless things down, in notebooks, in blogs, everywhere, but there’s no way for me to check this? How transient and passing are these fancies of mine that something so important (well, "important") is so utterly gone from my memory? This seems in some way indicative of Problems.
Also, aaargh, what am I doing typing this? I need to get on with this horrifying chapter draft!
Monday, September 22, 2008
In which Three Questions are asked, and none adequately addressed
Question the First: Is music (especially lyric-heavy pop) good for us? I wonder whether it warps my thinking sometimes. I always do that; listen to pop music and then overthink it to a ridiculous degree. Sometimes I catch myself twisting my perceptions of my life to make it fit with the lyrics. This is definitely bad, I’d imagine. You know, you listen to a great catchy song about how annoying it is to be given a lot of advice (or whatever) and even though you don’t actually mind, you find yourself going “yeah!” and resenting something you actually appreciate normally.
Probably this stems from my vain (as in “you’re so vain”, not as in “it was all in vain” attempt to extract compliments and comfort from songs in high school. So when Green Day tells you that “she’s an extraordinary girl” (or, indeed, a “rebel”), I (and at least 5 other girls that I know of) go “aw, thanks, man! It’s true, I am pretty great. Awesome.” And so on.
This is a well-attested phenomenon, I know that R.E.M. wrote “Everybody Hurts” to make teenagers feel better (which is why it’s so simple in structure, to be more accessible to angsty 16 year olds).
Eh, this is uninteresting perhaps, but still, it intrigues me that sentiments that I would normally dismiss out of hand have such an impact when sung.
This leads us to…
Question the Second: Why is it that figuring out what we oughtn’t do doesn’t stop us?
I’ve noticed recently that a lot of people do irritating things, things which I know I do (or have done) but not previously realized are annoying to innocent bystanders. Surely this sort of this should make me better? I’d realize that when I show off absentmindedly, (or whatever), my dear friends suffer through the urge to stab me in the throat. So why do I still do it?
Lastly, and much less introspectively (thank goodness) is Question the Third: Why, in this recent series of Doctor Who, is it so often presented as being Not Okay to kill people but Heroic & Perfectly Fine to kill people and sacrifice yourself at the same time? Seriously, it happens a bunch of times! Every third episode had people heroically leaping to their deaths with villains in their arms, practically. Why is that sort of thing fine, but heaven help you if you kick a Dalek? Honestly, it seems a little suss to me.
Probably this stems from my vain (as in “you’re so vain”, not as in “it was all in vain” attempt to extract compliments and comfort from songs in high school. So when Green Day tells you that “she’s an extraordinary girl” (or, indeed, a “rebel”), I (and at least 5 other girls that I know of) go “aw, thanks, man! It’s true, I am pretty great. Awesome.” And so on.
This is a well-attested phenomenon, I know that R.E.M. wrote “Everybody Hurts” to make teenagers feel better (which is why it’s so simple in structure, to be more accessible to angsty 16 year olds).
Eh, this is uninteresting perhaps, but still, it intrigues me that sentiments that I would normally dismiss out of hand have such an impact when sung.
This leads us to…
Question the Second: Why is it that figuring out what we oughtn’t do doesn’t stop us?
I’ve noticed recently that a lot of people do irritating things, things which I know I do (or have done) but not previously realized are annoying to innocent bystanders. Surely this sort of this should make me better? I’d realize that when I show off absentmindedly, (or whatever), my dear friends suffer through the urge to stab me in the throat. So why do I still do it?
Lastly, and much less introspectively (thank goodness) is Question the Third: Why, in this recent series of Doctor Who, is it so often presented as being Not Okay to kill people but Heroic & Perfectly Fine to kill people and sacrifice yourself at the same time? Seriously, it happens a bunch of times! Every third episode had people heroically leaping to their deaths with villains in their arms, practically. Why is that sort of thing fine, but heaven help you if you kick a Dalek? Honestly, it seems a little suss to me.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
In Which Religion and Sexuality are discussed in a Doubtless Unbecomingly Superficial Fashion
First up, it turns out that having a blog is weird: all sorts of people read them, and you never know, ‘less’n they post comments. This is obviously unimportant, but a couple of people apparently read this (or have dabbled in reading it) who it wouldn’t’ve occurred to me would number amongst my readership, which surprises, intrigues and sort of flatters me, so I thought I’d take a moment to go “Cor.”
I don’t know why this should seem like it’s of any moment, since this blog is very clearly just me blathering, which happens to any of my friends, acquaintances or innocent bypassers who stand still for long enough, but there you go, there’s no point second guessing it, since my childish irrational enjoyment presumably harms no-one. (If this is wrong, and somehow this is all, in fact, causing you any sort of pain, physical or otherwise, it might be an idea to let me know, and I’ll stop.)
Also, um, hi!
Anyway, back to it. All this Thinking-about-the-audience thing might be good for making your content appropriate, but since I don’t actually know who y’all are, it’s essentially only a way to make myself selfconscious when discussing sensitive issues, such as this evening’s. Wiser people might take this as a sign that the topic ought to be avoided, but since by definition, I can’t be “wiser” where the original benchmark for wisdom is myself, let’s pretend that I have some kind of reason for not acting with that hypothetical wisdom, and get right down to it, shall we?
I was talking the other day with a bunch of friends when someone made a (to me) fairly startling assertion. It was suggested (pretty forcefully) that Christian people (who were assumed to be a rather more monolithic group than I would like to think them), since they “all think that being gay is a sin” (which hopefully they, um, don’t all do, right? Reassure me, Christian friends), had no right to go around the place enjoying the music of gay people, and in general, blatantly accepting them in their lives and society. This seems, to me, to be pretty problematic, so I figured I’d discuss it here to sort it out, rather than getting it out of my system in a series of weirdly awkward conversations.
To start with, though, I wish to make it clear that I judge no-one for the views so far expressed to me. These people are my friends (no matter which direction their prejudices are aimed), and I pretty much dig all of you guys, foibles and all. It has long been my contention that we, all of us, have our own little “patches of crazy”, of which we are, ourselves, usually unaware. You’ll be having a conversation with a perfectly lovely, reasonable and rational friend and suddenly they’ll say “Well, obviously, Elvis is still alive” or “I mean, gay marriage would make REAL marriage meaningless, and would be an abomination, of course I’m against it” or “Aliens shot JFK, obviously, and the government doesn’t want us to know, so they faked the moon landings” or “The death penalty is totally a good idea! Sometimes you can just tell when someone’s guilty, I read it in the Telegraph!” or “I don’t know what possible drawbacks there could be in privatising the police force” or “I think lots of people would be interested to read my overlong, overblown thoughts on sexuality and religion and everything on a blog!”. Or something. The point is, you pretty much have to just nod, smile, try not to think about it too hard, and try to steer the conversation towards a neutral topic, like penguins, or something.
So, is it in any way conceivable that she could have been right? That it could actually be better in any sense (assuming for the moment that All Christians think that being gay is as serious a sin as the Old Testament would have us think it) to have them deny themselves the music of gay artists, to bar gay friends, and generally to unhypocrtically reject everything gay? Surely not, since this would pretty obviously cause a fair amount of suffering for the rejected gay people, even leaving aside the silliness of having to throw out CDs when it turns out that the singer quite likes other lads, or whatever. Also, that sort of thing would, in turn, be UnChristian, right? But this was maybe her point, that their position was untenable in the first place. But whose beliefs hold up to this sort of scrutiny? Not mine, I bet. It’s basically impossible to live an entirely unhypocritical life, I should think. Her atheistic how-dare-they-judge-people thing seemed pretty judge-y, to take the obvious example.
Moreover, isn’t it kind of problematic in this modern age to suggest that “being gay” is all there is to a person? That their sexuality taints and colours everything that person does? Call me crazy, but that seems kind of, um, wrong. Isn’t this why people are often afraid to come out to their friends and families? That people will think that their sexuality somehow Changes Everything?
Seems to me that being gay has about as much impact on someone’s identity as being Christian would, although obviously that old question of genetics vs. choice would weigh in there. Not that I’ve ever really approved of that discussion. Whether it’s Nature or Nurture, sexuality is pretty clearly a powerful imperative and it’s clearly silly to suggest it’s a choice or laziness or whatever, since it would, in that case, be easier not to deal with all the hassle of being “queer”. And even if it IS a choice, so what? What possible relevance could it have for anyone else?
Actually, this is what’s always bugged me about the conception of homosexuality as a sin; if it is, isn’t it essentially a victimless crime? If two gay people are happily in love, and both feel that their lives are the better for it, what harm does it do to anyone? Seriously, unless the girl you’re madly in love with is a lesbian, I don’t see how it should matter to you. And if that is the case, then there’s the strong possibility that she wouldn’t love you back even if she was straight.
Statistically speaking, Hypothetically Rejected Dude, what percentage of straight ladies are in love with you? Yeah, so your odds weren’t so great that the only obstacle was her being gay anyway. And if it were, then her being straight would kind of make her a different person (although not all that much, obviously, back to our there’s-more-to-a-person-than-their-sexual-orientation point), so maybe you wouldn’t be in love with her then. Maybe you just like people who are unavailable, have you thought about that?
... and so on. My point is, why all the fuss?
A far a precedent goes, the Old Testament was pretty clear about homosexuality. In the story of Sodom and Gomorrah, as I recall it, two male angels visited the house of Lot, who lived in Sodom (or Gomorrah, who can say? Who, in fact, cares?) to warn him of the impeding destruction of the town, and the men of the town came to his house and said “We hear you have some hot guests. We want to have sex with them,” and Lot, horrified said “No, but look, I’ll tell you what, here are my hot virgin daughters, have sex with them instead”, and the townsfolk went “nah, thanks all the same”, and Lot and his family fled, with his wife being pyroclastic-flowed into a pillar of salt en route, on account of how she glanced back at the town as fire was being rained on it.
Now, there are a bunch of problems with that story, but really, to me, the stand out question is “What the fuck kind of father are you, Lot? No wonder your town and wife got burned up!”.
The New Testament, happily, is rather lower on unconvincing stories of homosexuality and essentially random lashings of heavenly wrath, and considerably higher on “love thy neighbour”, including Christians, Jews, gentiles, tax collectors, prostitutes, betraying disciples, and, presumably, gay singer/songwriters. Better still, it is generally considered to trump the Old Testament. I’m given to understand that it still feels a little uncomfortable with Oxford St, but not, one suspects, any worse than with pre-marital sex, which is pretty ubiquitous.
I have more, even less well-organised, thoughts on this, but I would appear to have written almost 1,500 words, so maybe it’s time to stop. I guess my point essentially is, as my little sister’s ex boyfriend used to say “why you gotta be a hater?”
I don’t know why this should seem like it’s of any moment, since this blog is very clearly just me blathering, which happens to any of my friends, acquaintances or innocent bypassers who stand still for long enough, but there you go, there’s no point second guessing it, since my childish irrational enjoyment presumably harms no-one. (If this is wrong, and somehow this is all, in fact, causing you any sort of pain, physical or otherwise, it might be an idea to let me know, and I’ll stop.)
Also, um, hi!
Anyway, back to it. All this Thinking-about-the-audience thing might be good for making your content appropriate, but since I don’t actually know who y’all are, it’s essentially only a way to make myself selfconscious when discussing sensitive issues, such as this evening’s. Wiser people might take this as a sign that the topic ought to be avoided, but since by definition, I can’t be “wiser” where the original benchmark for wisdom is myself, let’s pretend that I have some kind of reason for not acting with that hypothetical wisdom, and get right down to it, shall we?
I was talking the other day with a bunch of friends when someone made a (to me) fairly startling assertion. It was suggested (pretty forcefully) that Christian people (who were assumed to be a rather more monolithic group than I would like to think them), since they “all think that being gay is a sin” (which hopefully they, um, don’t all do, right? Reassure me, Christian friends), had no right to go around the place enjoying the music of gay people, and in general, blatantly accepting them in their lives and society. This seems, to me, to be pretty problematic, so I figured I’d discuss it here to sort it out, rather than getting it out of my system in a series of weirdly awkward conversations.
To start with, though, I wish to make it clear that I judge no-one for the views so far expressed to me. These people are my friends (no matter which direction their prejudices are aimed), and I pretty much dig all of you guys, foibles and all. It has long been my contention that we, all of us, have our own little “patches of crazy”, of which we are, ourselves, usually unaware. You’ll be having a conversation with a perfectly lovely, reasonable and rational friend and suddenly they’ll say “Well, obviously, Elvis is still alive” or “I mean, gay marriage would make REAL marriage meaningless, and would be an abomination, of course I’m against it” or “Aliens shot JFK, obviously, and the government doesn’t want us to know, so they faked the moon landings” or “The death penalty is totally a good idea! Sometimes you can just tell when someone’s guilty, I read it in the Telegraph!” or “I don’t know what possible drawbacks there could be in privatising the police force” or “I think lots of people would be interested to read my overlong, overblown thoughts on sexuality and religion and everything on a blog!”. Or something. The point is, you pretty much have to just nod, smile, try not to think about it too hard, and try to steer the conversation towards a neutral topic, like penguins, or something.
So, is it in any way conceivable that she could have been right? That it could actually be better in any sense (assuming for the moment that All Christians think that being gay is as serious a sin as the Old Testament would have us think it) to have them deny themselves the music of gay artists, to bar gay friends, and generally to unhypocrtically reject everything gay? Surely not, since this would pretty obviously cause a fair amount of suffering for the rejected gay people, even leaving aside the silliness of having to throw out CDs when it turns out that the singer quite likes other lads, or whatever. Also, that sort of thing would, in turn, be UnChristian, right? But this was maybe her point, that their position was untenable in the first place. But whose beliefs hold up to this sort of scrutiny? Not mine, I bet. It’s basically impossible to live an entirely unhypocritical life, I should think. Her atheistic how-dare-they-judge-people thing seemed pretty judge-y, to take the obvious example.
Moreover, isn’t it kind of problematic in this modern age to suggest that “being gay” is all there is to a person? That their sexuality taints and colours everything that person does? Call me crazy, but that seems kind of, um, wrong. Isn’t this why people are often afraid to come out to their friends and families? That people will think that their sexuality somehow Changes Everything?
Seems to me that being gay has about as much impact on someone’s identity as being Christian would, although obviously that old question of genetics vs. choice would weigh in there. Not that I’ve ever really approved of that discussion. Whether it’s Nature or Nurture, sexuality is pretty clearly a powerful imperative and it’s clearly silly to suggest it’s a choice or laziness or whatever, since it would, in that case, be easier not to deal with all the hassle of being “queer”. And even if it IS a choice, so what? What possible relevance could it have for anyone else?
Actually, this is what’s always bugged me about the conception of homosexuality as a sin; if it is, isn’t it essentially a victimless crime? If two gay people are happily in love, and both feel that their lives are the better for it, what harm does it do to anyone? Seriously, unless the girl you’re madly in love with is a lesbian, I don’t see how it should matter to you. And if that is the case, then there’s the strong possibility that she wouldn’t love you back even if she was straight.
Statistically speaking, Hypothetically Rejected Dude, what percentage of straight ladies are in love with you? Yeah, so your odds weren’t so great that the only obstacle was her being gay anyway. And if it were, then her being straight would kind of make her a different person (although not all that much, obviously, back to our there’s-more-to-a-person-than-their-sexual-orientation point), so maybe you wouldn’t be in love with her then. Maybe you just like people who are unavailable, have you thought about that?
... and so on. My point is, why all the fuss?
A far a precedent goes, the Old Testament was pretty clear about homosexuality. In the story of Sodom and Gomorrah, as I recall it, two male angels visited the house of Lot, who lived in Sodom (or Gomorrah, who can say? Who, in fact, cares?) to warn him of the impeding destruction of the town, and the men of the town came to his house and said “We hear you have some hot guests. We want to have sex with them,” and Lot, horrified said “No, but look, I’ll tell you what, here are my hot virgin daughters, have sex with them instead”, and the townsfolk went “nah, thanks all the same”, and Lot and his family fled, with his wife being pyroclastic-flowed into a pillar of salt en route, on account of how she glanced back at the town as fire was being rained on it.
Now, there are a bunch of problems with that story, but really, to me, the stand out question is “What the fuck kind of father are you, Lot? No wonder your town and wife got burned up!”.
The New Testament, happily, is rather lower on unconvincing stories of homosexuality and essentially random lashings of heavenly wrath, and considerably higher on “love thy neighbour”, including Christians, Jews, gentiles, tax collectors, prostitutes, betraying disciples, and, presumably, gay singer/songwriters. Better still, it is generally considered to trump the Old Testament. I’m given to understand that it still feels a little uncomfortable with Oxford St, but not, one suspects, any worse than with pre-marital sex, which is pretty ubiquitous.
I have more, even less well-organised, thoughts on this, but I would appear to have written almost 1,500 words, so maybe it’s time to stop. I guess my point essentially is, as my little sister’s ex boyfriend used to say “why you gotta be a hater?”
Wednesday, September 03, 2008
In which room-tidying prompts procrastinatory self-examination and rhetorical questions are over-indulged in.
So, I’ve been cleaning my room this evening, as every good citizen ought to do, occasionally (and some more than most, if they’re of a generally untidy mien). Turns out, it’s way tiring. How is it that I have so much stuff? And so much stuff which is just “stuff”?
Why did my mothe-... I mean Santa Claus... feel that I should be given a mint condition 2008 dollar coin – “Sure to appreciate in value!”- in my stocking this past Christmas? And what’s to be done with it now?
Why did I put up, for so long, with having SO MANY power cords underfoot at my desk? Why did this still include 2 external disk drives (obsolete), 2 chargers for my old mobile, and the charger for my camera, which I haven’t seen since over a year ago? Where the hell is my camera, anyway?
What does it say about me that I’m so tired after tidying only: shoes, beside my desk chair, the area in my cupboard with scarves in it, and my jewellery shelf? That I’m lazy or that I’ve hit my lifetime accessory quota and will soon have to seek help, never to be allowed to buy another earring? Why, if I have so obscenely many earrings, can I never find ones that are quite what I’m after (maybe because they’re buried under a pile of miscellaneous earrings, who can say)?
Who the hell thought it would be a good idea to put some kind of menu button on this keyboard where the Delete key used to be?
Why does this version of Word not allow me to Customize Keyboard Shortcuts? I spelled customised the way they liked and everything! What the hell happened to “File”, “Edit”, “View”, “Paragraph”, “Tools” and “Help”? If the software designers are so aware that this is infuriating that “no, you can’t have the old kind back, tough bikkies” is in the FAQ, why don’t they just make it an option?
Back to the room, why would you design a shoe rack with bars so widely spaced that the heels on ladies’ shoes fall through when you put them on it?
Where is the correct place to store a dressing gown which is often damp from being worn fresh out of the shower?
Can I bring myself to throw out those old mascaras that are a bit past it now, but not empty, and which were pretty expensive when I bought them? Why do I own so much Estee Lauder makeup when I’m a student who doesn’t bother to wear makeup on a daily basis?
How can people who do wear makeup on a daily basis bear it? Doesn’t it get awfully tiring and dull? And bad for the pores, or something?
Why on earth would anyone ever design a room with only one powerpoint, and that single, so that without powerboards and double adaptors I could either have a radio or a light or a computer (with no externally powered plug-in things) or a centrally powered alarm clock or an electric blanket or a phone charger, but never more than one? Would it make me a better person to have pursued such an option rather than having 2 powerboards running from the one plug?
Why do I own so many corsets, fascinators, outrageous hats, hair feather ornament things and petticoats? Is it possible that when I’m in shops I forget what life I actually lead and get myself confused with movie people? Do I, on some subconscious level, think that by buying the accoutrements for a life of adventure, I’ll somehow get one, and become a Secret Agent, or similar? (This is a distressingly convincing explanation).
Should the full stop go inside or outside the parentheses when the whole sentence is in the brackets?
When will I face the fact that the longer I sit here writing this crud, the longer it will be before I’ll be able to excavate my bed in order to sleep on it?
Why did my mothe-... I mean Santa Claus... feel that I should be given a mint condition 2008 dollar coin – “Sure to appreciate in value!”- in my stocking this past Christmas? And what’s to be done with it now?
Why did I put up, for so long, with having SO MANY power cords underfoot at my desk? Why did this still include 2 external disk drives (obsolete), 2 chargers for my old mobile, and the charger for my camera, which I haven’t seen since over a year ago? Where the hell is my camera, anyway?
What does it say about me that I’m so tired after tidying only: shoes, beside my desk chair, the area in my cupboard with scarves in it, and my jewellery shelf? That I’m lazy or that I’ve hit my lifetime accessory quota and will soon have to seek help, never to be allowed to buy another earring? Why, if I have so obscenely many earrings, can I never find ones that are quite what I’m after (maybe because they’re buried under a pile of miscellaneous earrings, who can say)?
Who the hell thought it would be a good idea to put some kind of menu button on this keyboard where the Delete key used to be?
Why does this version of Word not allow me to Customize Keyboard Shortcuts? I spelled customised the way they liked and everything! What the hell happened to “File”, “Edit”, “View”, “Paragraph”, “Tools” and “Help”? If the software designers are so aware that this is infuriating that “no, you can’t have the old kind back, tough bikkies” is in the FAQ, why don’t they just make it an option?
Back to the room, why would you design a shoe rack with bars so widely spaced that the heels on ladies’ shoes fall through when you put them on it?
Where is the correct place to store a dressing gown which is often damp from being worn fresh out of the shower?
Can I bring myself to throw out those old mascaras that are a bit past it now, but not empty, and which were pretty expensive when I bought them? Why do I own so much Estee Lauder makeup when I’m a student who doesn’t bother to wear makeup on a daily basis?
How can people who do wear makeup on a daily basis bear it? Doesn’t it get awfully tiring and dull? And bad for the pores, or something?
Why on earth would anyone ever design a room with only one powerpoint, and that single, so that without powerboards and double adaptors I could either have a radio or a light or a computer (with no externally powered plug-in things) or a centrally powered alarm clock or an electric blanket or a phone charger, but never more than one? Would it make me a better person to have pursued such an option rather than having 2 powerboards running from the one plug?
Why do I own so many corsets, fascinators, outrageous hats, hair feather ornament things and petticoats? Is it possible that when I’m in shops I forget what life I actually lead and get myself confused with movie people? Do I, on some subconscious level, think that by buying the accoutrements for a life of adventure, I’ll somehow get one, and become a Secret Agent, or similar? (This is a distressingly convincing explanation).
Should the full stop go inside or outside the parentheses when the whole sentence is in the brackets?
When will I face the fact that the longer I sit here writing this crud, the longer it will be before I’ll be able to excavate my bed in order to sleep on it?
Tuesday, September 02, 2008
Movie Questions
Tagged by Catie of www.phantomday.blogspot.com
1. One movie that made you laugh: The first one I can think of is Monsters Inc. Pixar are so great, you guys. Also, the Emperor's New Groove, if we're going for underappreciated animated movies from that time period.
2. One movie that made you cry: A Little Princess, when I was about 7. I was always scornful of movie-crying, so I remember mainly being embarrassed at my own crying. But also! Her father is killed and everyone is mean to her and locks her in an attic! What's not to be sad about? (Indeed, the answer was the point of the movie, as I recall)
3. One movie you loved when you were a child: Beauty and the Beast. So much, oh my.
4. One movie you’ve seen more than once: All the movies I've listed so far. And really, most movies that I see, I'll end up seeing again. But I guess The Lady Vanishes and Some Like It Hot are such favourites that I watch them most often.
5. One movie you loved, but were embarrassed to admit it: The Lizzie Macguire Movie? It has Hillary Duff in it, you guys. (*hides face*)
6. One movie you didn't like: Fanily Business. It had Matthew Broderick and Sean Connery and whatsisname from The Graduate and Tootsie, and was billed as a 'Comedy Crime Caper'. Actually it was a total downer, with neither comedy nor caper, and the boring-er, grittier kinds of crime only. Also, it made my Dad sad, which is pretty much not on.
7. One movie that scared you: Vertigo. When I first watched this, years ago, my sister and I were so nervous afterwards that we had to watch a sitcom before we could sleep.
8. One movie that bored you: Sin City. It was so Meh, plotwise.
9. One movie that made you happy: Pirates of the Caribbean. I don't know why, but I remember when my flatmates and I first saw it we were all giggle-happy for the rest of the evening.
10. One movie that made you miserable: The Object of My Affection. I watched it just after being broken up with when I was tired and emotional, and it turns out that it features thwarted love, which was way unhelpful at the time.
11. One movie you weren’t brave enough to see: Saw. Nup nup nup.
12. One movie character you’ve fallen in love with: The Scarlet Pimpernel; Michael Redgrave in the Lady Vanishes; Dmitri in Anastasia; Tristan Thorne in Stardust. All the pretty, witty, preferably swashbuckly and/or British ones.
13. The last movie you saw: The Bank Job
14. The next movie you hope to see: Tropic Thunder, which hopefully will be ok. Rottentomatoes makes me a little nervous, but the viral video sucked me in good and proper.
15. Now tag five people:I don't know that there ARE 5 people as yet untagged who read this blog. Hmmm. Well, Jordan, Spencer, Dan (on livejournal?), my Dad and Sylvia, perhaps. Those of you sans blogs could maybe do a facebook note? Or, y'know, ignore this...
1. One movie that made you laugh: The first one I can think of is Monsters Inc. Pixar are so great, you guys. Also, the Emperor's New Groove, if we're going for underappreciated animated movies from that time period.
2. One movie that made you cry: A Little Princess, when I was about 7. I was always scornful of movie-crying, so I remember mainly being embarrassed at my own crying. But also! Her father is killed and everyone is mean to her and locks her in an attic! What's not to be sad about? (Indeed, the answer was the point of the movie, as I recall)
3. One movie you loved when you were a child: Beauty and the Beast. So much, oh my.
4. One movie you’ve seen more than once: All the movies I've listed so far. And really, most movies that I see, I'll end up seeing again. But I guess The Lady Vanishes and Some Like It Hot are such favourites that I watch them most often.
5. One movie you loved, but were embarrassed to admit it: The Lizzie Macguire Movie? It has Hillary Duff in it, you guys. (*hides face*)
6. One movie you didn't like: Fanily Business. It had Matthew Broderick and Sean Connery and whatsisname from The Graduate and Tootsie, and was billed as a 'Comedy Crime Caper'. Actually it was a total downer, with neither comedy nor caper, and the boring-er, grittier kinds of crime only. Also, it made my Dad sad, which is pretty much not on.
7. One movie that scared you: Vertigo. When I first watched this, years ago, my sister and I were so nervous afterwards that we had to watch a sitcom before we could sleep.
8. One movie that bored you: Sin City. It was so Meh, plotwise.
9. One movie that made you happy: Pirates of the Caribbean. I don't know why, but I remember when my flatmates and I first saw it we were all giggle-happy for the rest of the evening.
10. One movie that made you miserable: The Object of My Affection. I watched it just after being broken up with when I was tired and emotional, and it turns out that it features thwarted love, which was way unhelpful at the time.
11. One movie you weren’t brave enough to see: Saw. Nup nup nup.
12. One movie character you’ve fallen in love with: The Scarlet Pimpernel; Michael Redgrave in the Lady Vanishes; Dmitri in Anastasia; Tristan Thorne in Stardust. All the pretty, witty, preferably swashbuckly and/or British ones.
13. The last movie you saw: The Bank Job
14. The next movie you hope to see: Tropic Thunder, which hopefully will be ok. Rottentomatoes makes me a little nervous, but the viral video sucked me in good and proper.
15. Now tag five people:I don't know that there ARE 5 people as yet untagged who read this blog. Hmmm. Well, Jordan, Spencer, Dan (on livejournal?), my Dad and Sylvia, perhaps. Those of you sans blogs could maybe do a facebook note? Or, y'know, ignore this...
Monday, September 01, 2008
In which Spring is Sprung, Grass is noted to have Risen, and the Location of Birds is Queried
Which is to say: Hey guys, it’s spring! I tend to think of myself as unbiased in my Seasonal Preferences, but this is clearly a Lie. In about mid-winter, when it had not yet been really Proper Cold, I expressed myself dissatisfied, and wished for some genuine nippiness, but this was clearly a Mistake. [I think maybe it’s time for the Emphatic Capitalisation to take a nap, though. This reads like the blurb on a 1950s ha’penny paperback: “Watch Amazed as our Charming and Beautiful Heroine Struggles to Escape the Evil Machinations of the Mustache-Twirling Villain!”] I’m pretty glad to see the back of winter. Soon: the triumphant return of Warmth!
In a spirit of celebration, I had lunch in the park this afternoon, on the surreptitiously damp grass. (Surreptitious because it doesn’t feel damp when you check it, or when you sit, but when you stand up, your trousers are all unfortunate-looking.) It’s so lovely, though. All sunshine and green grass and blue sky and all those stereotypically lovely things.
I think my favourite thing, though, (and it’s a tough call, I’m pretty thoroughly appreciative of all of the various things about Hyde Park, from it’s Londony name right through to the fact that some fantastic person once decided that there ought to be fairy lights in those great fig trees) is the office people basking in patches all over the place. I like the little groups or people chatting and looking excited to be outside, and the people sitting up and eating their lunch, looking for all the world like 35 year old first graders with lunchboxes, but most of all I love the individual people who sprawl entirely flat on the ground.
This can be done either prone or supine, but for maximum effect, no part of the body should be in any way raised off the grass, and the whole body should be spread out like a completely-asexual starfish. Obviously it’s important to exercise caution in the wearing of skirts, but the really important thing is to achieve that look of devil-may-care oblivion, as if one had been dropped from a great height and landed, ragdoll-like, across as much ground as possible.
I don’t know why I enjoy the sprawling of these office-dwellers and attorneys as much as I do, but I suppose it’s probably the fact that they look so relieved to have escaped into the sunshine. It becomes suddenly clear that these are not, in fact, office dwellers and attorneys, but kids who’ve been turned into grownups, and are forced to spend most of their playtime in offices or cunningly disguised as serious attorneys. This is a terrible fate for any erstwhile seven year old.
All this loveliness gives me my annual urge to go to Floriade on a solo tulip quest, which I seem to somehow miss out on every year. I was under the impression that, being as how it was on just before the thesis due-date, this year would be no exception, but I’ve come up with a cunning plan (or Cunning Plan, even). If (and only if) I’ve managed to get the first draft of my thesis entirely done on time (I’ll have to look up the dates), I shall go. I’ll have the middle of the week off (Tuesday-Wednesday-Thursday), which is delightfully off-peak for accommodation prices, and if I print my draft out, and also take my laptop, I can quest down to Canberra and proofread in the watery Canberra sunshine. This will (hopefully) be pretty awesome, you guys! I wonder how much it would cost? And if it will turn out to be in any way practicable? I do hope so.
In a spirit of celebration, I had lunch in the park this afternoon, on the surreptitiously damp grass. (Surreptitious because it doesn’t feel damp when you check it, or when you sit, but when you stand up, your trousers are all unfortunate-looking.) It’s so lovely, though. All sunshine and green grass and blue sky and all those stereotypically lovely things.
I think my favourite thing, though, (and it’s a tough call, I’m pretty thoroughly appreciative of all of the various things about Hyde Park, from it’s Londony name right through to the fact that some fantastic person once decided that there ought to be fairy lights in those great fig trees) is the office people basking in patches all over the place. I like the little groups or people chatting and looking excited to be outside, and the people sitting up and eating their lunch, looking for all the world like 35 year old first graders with lunchboxes, but most of all I love the individual people who sprawl entirely flat on the ground.
This can be done either prone or supine, but for maximum effect, no part of the body should be in any way raised off the grass, and the whole body should be spread out like a completely-asexual starfish. Obviously it’s important to exercise caution in the wearing of skirts, but the really important thing is to achieve that look of devil-may-care oblivion, as if one had been dropped from a great height and landed, ragdoll-like, across as much ground as possible.
I don’t know why I enjoy the sprawling of these office-dwellers and attorneys as much as I do, but I suppose it’s probably the fact that they look so relieved to have escaped into the sunshine. It becomes suddenly clear that these are not, in fact, office dwellers and attorneys, but kids who’ve been turned into grownups, and are forced to spend most of their playtime in offices or cunningly disguised as serious attorneys. This is a terrible fate for any erstwhile seven year old.
All this loveliness gives me my annual urge to go to Floriade on a solo tulip quest, which I seem to somehow miss out on every year. I was under the impression that, being as how it was on just before the thesis due-date, this year would be no exception, but I’ve come up with a cunning plan (or Cunning Plan, even). If (and only if) I’ve managed to get the first draft of my thesis entirely done on time (I’ll have to look up the dates), I shall go. I’ll have the middle of the week off (Tuesday-Wednesday-Thursday), which is delightfully off-peak for accommodation prices, and if I print my draft out, and also take my laptop, I can quest down to Canberra and proofread in the watery Canberra sunshine. This will (hopefully) be pretty awesome, you guys! I wonder how much it would cost? And if it will turn out to be in any way practicable? I do hope so.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
In which Cinema is mused on, and Popular Culture found Wanting
So, yesterday evening (Whoa, I really do begin everything "so", huh?) Charming Flatmate Sylvia and I went to the movies, because back in the Mists Of Time, Energy Australia sent us a double pass to, I don't know, thank us for using energy, I guess? Since these expire at the end of next week, and life seems to be getting exponentially more hectic as we approach the end of August, yesterday it was, even though we couldn't figure out what to see. At the end of some truly sagaic indecision, we figured we'd see The Bank Job.
"It has Jason Statham in it!" we said, "It'll be like Ocean's Eleven, but with added Britishness! What a jolly time we shall have!"
No.
To be fair, I was already slightly disconcerted when we arrived, since I'd figured I'd duck into Pizza & Games to say 'hi' in the spare half hour I had before we were to meet (since it turns out that the library was randomly closed at 8, wtf), and the Holme Building seemed to be deserted. I'm not sure where it was, or if it was in fact on yesterday, but never before have so many potential geeks vanished, with so much hypothetical pizza, so completely. There were imaginary tumbleweeds and everything.
Also, we got a smidgin carried away with the catering, on the grounds that Movie Picnic is way better than Movie and then Really Late Dinner, so we still have toffee apples left over, which is pretty neat, also some chocolate with poprocks in it (Weird? or Weirdly Delicious? Only time will tell!{EDIT: Time has told. Weirdly Delicious wins hands down. The poprocks make it veeerrrry strange, but also totally awesome. A++ : Would snack again}). Also we had Oporto and grapes and Pods and drinks and there was Much Rejoicing.
This movie was not, it turns out, a Rollicking Crime Caper; it was one of those movies where someone gets beaten up, tied to a chair and taken to with a sandblaster. This, in fact, is what I'm going to have to call Deeply Uncool. (It seems strangely marvelous to me that Deeply Uncool is my second most severe term of disapprobation, second only to Not Okay. All the more general terms like Really Bad or similar seem weak in comparison, maybe due to the 80s slang? Is it because things that are Bad may just be Bodacious in disguise?) I realise that there was more to this movie than that, but honestly not nearly so much more as to make us overlook this aspect of it.
It seems strange to me that for some people, such a scene is a reccommendation. I can see where the whole opening sequence with the topless ladies or the later scenes with strippers might appeal, and I am actually appealed-to by the thrilling heist bits and crazy 70s clothing, but I geniunely Don't Get the appeal of your basic Horrible Torture Scene. "Where's that get fun?" I cry, Jayne-stlye.
Am I uptight here, or is this just some kind of mental illness which seems to grip boys? Why? And is it unreasonable that it makes me think that maybe there's something wrong with people who look for that in their evening's entertainment? Clearly I'm the odd one out, here (well, Sylvia too), so it's unreasonable for me to judge everyone else, but it is too late for such sensibleness.
Anyway, in short, my point is this: "Srsly, gais, wtf?"
"It has Jason Statham in it!" we said, "It'll be like Ocean's Eleven, but with added Britishness! What a jolly time we shall have!"
No.
To be fair, I was already slightly disconcerted when we arrived, since I'd figured I'd duck into Pizza & Games to say 'hi' in the spare half hour I had before we were to meet (since it turns out that the library was randomly closed at 8, wtf), and the Holme Building seemed to be deserted. I'm not sure where it was, or if it was in fact on yesterday, but never before have so many potential geeks vanished, with so much hypothetical pizza, so completely. There were imaginary tumbleweeds and everything.
Also, we got a smidgin carried away with the catering, on the grounds that Movie Picnic is way better than Movie and then Really Late Dinner, so we still have toffee apples left over, which is pretty neat, also some chocolate with poprocks in it (Weird? or Weirdly Delicious? Only time will tell!{EDIT: Time has told. Weirdly Delicious wins hands down. The poprocks make it veeerrrry strange, but also totally awesome. A++ : Would snack again}). Also we had Oporto and grapes and Pods and drinks and there was Much Rejoicing.
This movie was not, it turns out, a Rollicking Crime Caper; it was one of those movies where someone gets beaten up, tied to a chair and taken to with a sandblaster. This, in fact, is what I'm going to have to call Deeply Uncool. (It seems strangely marvelous to me that Deeply Uncool is my second most severe term of disapprobation, second only to Not Okay. All the more general terms like Really Bad or similar seem weak in comparison, maybe due to the 80s slang? Is it because things that are Bad may just be Bodacious in disguise?) I realise that there was more to this movie than that, but honestly not nearly so much more as to make us overlook this aspect of it.
It seems strange to me that for some people, such a scene is a reccommendation. I can see where the whole opening sequence with the topless ladies or the later scenes with strippers might appeal, and I am actually appealed-to by the thrilling heist bits and crazy 70s clothing, but I geniunely Don't Get the appeal of your basic Horrible Torture Scene. "Where's that get fun?" I cry, Jayne-stlye.
Am I uptight here, or is this just some kind of mental illness which seems to grip boys? Why? And is it unreasonable that it makes me think that maybe there's something wrong with people who look for that in their evening's entertainment? Clearly I'm the odd one out, here (well, Sylvia too), so it's unreasonable for me to judge everyone else, but it is too late for such sensibleness.
Anyway, in short, my point is this: "Srsly, gais, wtf?"
Friday, August 22, 2008
In which an Optimistic Beginning is followed up on, and Communication is Essayed
So! Despite the obvious vanity (in both senses – or is it “vainness” in the second sense? Surely not) of writing blog posts when I ought to be getting things done and when doubtless the novelty of reading this sort of blather will pall rapidly on both (!) the people of whose readership I’m aware, here we are again.
My. That sentence was pretty long, huh? I don’t tend to even notice that I’m doing it until I look back and realise that I’ve spanned 8 lines and 2 continents, or something. Also I’m tolerably sure that my over-parenthesising is getting worse, with nested brackets and subclauses running amok in the middle of even the simplest sentence. And that’s just in written communication! I caught myself yesterday breaking off in the middle of something to comment on the posture of a by-passer before returning to the rest of the sentence, which was, in turn, also rubbish. Surely this presents a near-insurmountable obstacle to the understanding of your average Man On The Street. Or Woman On The Street, obviously.
Actually, I was once told by my Charming Flatmate Sylvia’s erstwhile boyfriend Iain (there’s a name with too high a vowel concentration if ever there was one)(Oh my goodness; see? I did it again!) that when he first met me, he had to concentrate as hard to understand me as he did when people in his language class spoke in French. I can but hope that this was hyperbolic, since otherwise, clearly, We Got Problems.
Naturally, the obvious thing would be to strive for a Solution. Short, punchy sentences. Slow, careful enunciation. Nary a subclause in sight, fewer archaic words, and a close attention paid to tricolon. Also, maybe I could try being less allusive, especially since sometimes the things I’m quoting (or alluding obscurely to) enjoy a ridiculously limited audience, such as being exclusively available to the occupants of my head. Still, taking on board all of these very sensible suggestions, I find myself disinclined to acquiesce.
It’s ‘cause I’m a Rebel, y’see.
Actually, I partly blame my work for exacerbating it. My manager’s English is so dodgy (his abuse of idiom –“It’s a catch 20-20!”- is enough to make strong men shudder) that I suspect I’m rebelling by making my language more complex at the same time as being sucked into the vortex of his other bad linguistic habits. I fear that by the time I leave this job I’ll be utterly unable to communicate with real people. Like Eliza Doolittle: “What have you left me fit for?” but without the Shaw wit or the Rex Harrison sexual tension, and with the language ebbing in the other direction.
All of a sudden the ridiculous number of facebook statuses don’t seem so bad, do they? “At least there,” you hypothetically say to your hypothetical self, “she has a character limit.” Damage control is key. Alas, something seems to be Rotten in the State of Facebook. Which is to say: my status updates aren’t going into my Mini-Feed, which annoys me more than it ought, mainly because since Facebook has taken over our minds and lives, I pretty much use status updates to keep track of where I’m up to, and without a record of them, I feel sort of adrift, and also because without them, it’s impossible to look at them and tell how much time I’ve wasted. Usually I can look at them and say “Look! You’ve updated your status thirteen times today! Get some sodding work done!” but at present I’m utterly unaccountable, which seems dangerous.
Ok, seriously, this is Just Silly. I’m going to get some work done. Especially since any hypothetical readers doubtless threw up their hands in despair and left paragraphs ago.
My. That sentence was pretty long, huh? I don’t tend to even notice that I’m doing it until I look back and realise that I’ve spanned 8 lines and 2 continents, or something. Also I’m tolerably sure that my over-parenthesising is getting worse, with nested brackets and subclauses running amok in the middle of even the simplest sentence. And that’s just in written communication! I caught myself yesterday breaking off in the middle of something to comment on the posture of a by-passer before returning to the rest of the sentence, which was, in turn, also rubbish. Surely this presents a near-insurmountable obstacle to the understanding of your average Man On The Street. Or Woman On The Street, obviously.
Actually, I was once told by my Charming Flatmate Sylvia’s erstwhile boyfriend Iain (there’s a name with too high a vowel concentration if ever there was one)(Oh my goodness; see? I did it again!) that when he first met me, he had to concentrate as hard to understand me as he did when people in his language class spoke in French. I can but hope that this was hyperbolic, since otherwise, clearly, We Got Problems.
Naturally, the obvious thing would be to strive for a Solution. Short, punchy sentences. Slow, careful enunciation. Nary a subclause in sight, fewer archaic words, and a close attention paid to tricolon. Also, maybe I could try being less allusive, especially since sometimes the things I’m quoting (or alluding obscurely to) enjoy a ridiculously limited audience, such as being exclusively available to the occupants of my head. Still, taking on board all of these very sensible suggestions, I find myself disinclined to acquiesce.
It’s ‘cause I’m a Rebel, y’see.
Actually, I partly blame my work for exacerbating it. My manager’s English is so dodgy (his abuse of idiom –“It’s a catch 20-20!”- is enough to make strong men shudder) that I suspect I’m rebelling by making my language more complex at the same time as being sucked into the vortex of his other bad linguistic habits. I fear that by the time I leave this job I’ll be utterly unable to communicate with real people. Like Eliza Doolittle: “What have you left me fit for?” but without the Shaw wit or the Rex Harrison sexual tension, and with the language ebbing in the other direction.
All of a sudden the ridiculous number of facebook statuses don’t seem so bad, do they? “At least there,” you hypothetically say to your hypothetical self, “she has a character limit.” Damage control is key. Alas, something seems to be Rotten in the State of Facebook. Which is to say: my status updates aren’t going into my Mini-Feed, which annoys me more than it ought, mainly because since Facebook has taken over our minds and lives, I pretty much use status updates to keep track of where I’m up to, and without a record of them, I feel sort of adrift, and also because without them, it’s impossible to look at them and tell how much time I’ve wasted. Usually I can look at them and say “Look! You’ve updated your status thirteen times today! Get some sodding work done!” but at present I’m utterly unaccountable, which seems dangerous.
Ok, seriously, this is Just Silly. I’m going to get some work done. Especially since any hypothetical readers doubtless threw up their hands in despair and left paragraphs ago.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
In which a Blog is visited with Forlorn Hope
So! It's now been over a year since I last successfully logged in to this account, mainly because of the changeover to google accounts, which my account never really worked for.
Note to self: when next unable to remember password, the clue is lolcat.
So much, as usual, has happened since my last foray into the blogosphere that it seems like perhaps the best thing to do is simply ignore all the water under the bridge, and do some kind of Clone Wars-style backstory thing with poor animation and continuity at some hypothetical later date. I don't really remember what blogs are for, to be honest, but I remember being disticntly under the impression that the very early posts I made (though distressingly fanfic-heavy) were the best-quality writing. Possibly because that was way back in the mists of early 2005, a time distant enough to warrant the golden haze of pleasantly inaccurate recollection. The upshot of all this is that until I find my feet again, this blog will be written in a lax, scattershot sort of way.
I've been writing my thesis-plan over the last two days, with perhaps indifferent success. Still, if I put all of the bits of plan and the copy-pasted paragraphs which seemed relevant in my various readings and generally all of that not-really-deserving-to-be-wordcounted bollocks into one Word document and wordcount it anyway, I get the very reassuring figure of 7, 750 words, which is something. I have every intention of having the first draft of the first chapter (not the First Chapter; Chapter 1, you understand, but the first to be written) done by Monday.
Give Us Successful Meeting Of An Arbitrary Deadline Or Give Us Death!
(Cake or Death? Cake, please!)
Also to be achieved in that time is a trip to Circe Du Soleil, a day's work, a trip to the cinematograph show with Sylvia, a double swing-dance class, and what my parents like to call Lunch At The Club. If you listen closely when they say it, you can actually hear the Emphatic Capitals dropping serenely into place as they footle about at The Club (actually the Royal Automobile Club) thinking of it like the Drones Club in a P.G. Wodehouse, or White's in a Regency novel, as their various fancies take them.
Then, next week it's my birthday on Tuesday, whereupon I shall turn 23. This means that I'm almost exactly a mere 5 years from "pushing thirty", but instead of thinking about that, I'm going to... well, try to ignore it, because it's Clearly Stupid.
Also clearly stupid, but considerably more fun, is the Ridiculous and Princely Sum I spent on socks in the last month. I went in on a group order at sockdreams.com, which is pretty cool, and now own more socks than a centipede with poor circulation. Today's ones have this fantastic lace on them, but it's Swing Dancing tonight, so I might wear my skull-and-crossbones shirt and skull-and-crossbones stockings, Just Because I Can.
In other news, and in a spirit of enterprisin'-ness, I totally discovered (and then was Lured into commenting on) the blogs of some people who I don't really know in a bloggy way, due to the Siren Call of facebook. I'm not sure if I hope they read and respond to the comments, or hope that they never notice at all.
Anyway, it's now 2 o'clock, which makes it definitely time to Get Back To Work, and really very probably time to never abuse emphatic capitalisation so again, so I shall bid you adieu, Fair Readers, and though I seriously doubt your existence, do not let this induce Existential Angst in you.
Note to self: when next unable to remember password, the clue is lolcat.
So much, as usual, has happened since my last foray into the blogosphere that it seems like perhaps the best thing to do is simply ignore all the water under the bridge, and do some kind of Clone Wars-style backstory thing with poor animation and continuity at some hypothetical later date. I don't really remember what blogs are for, to be honest, but I remember being disticntly under the impression that the very early posts I made (though distressingly fanfic-heavy) were the best-quality writing. Possibly because that was way back in the mists of early 2005, a time distant enough to warrant the golden haze of pleasantly inaccurate recollection. The upshot of all this is that until I find my feet again, this blog will be written in a lax, scattershot sort of way.
I've been writing my thesis-plan over the last two days, with perhaps indifferent success. Still, if I put all of the bits of plan and the copy-pasted paragraphs which seemed relevant in my various readings and generally all of that not-really-deserving-to-be-wordcounted bollocks into one Word document and wordcount it anyway, I get the very reassuring figure of 7, 750 words, which is something. I have every intention of having the first draft of the first chapter (not the First Chapter; Chapter 1, you understand, but the first to be written) done by Monday.
Give Us Successful Meeting Of An Arbitrary Deadline Or Give Us Death!
(Cake or Death? Cake, please!)
Also to be achieved in that time is a trip to Circe Du Soleil, a day's work, a trip to the cinematograph show with Sylvia, a double swing-dance class, and what my parents like to call Lunch At The Club. If you listen closely when they say it, you can actually hear the Emphatic Capitals dropping serenely into place as they footle about at The Club (actually the Royal Automobile Club) thinking of it like the Drones Club in a P.G. Wodehouse, or White's in a Regency novel, as their various fancies take them.
Then, next week it's my birthday on Tuesday, whereupon I shall turn 23. This means that I'm almost exactly a mere 5 years from "pushing thirty", but instead of thinking about that, I'm going to... well, try to ignore it, because it's Clearly Stupid.
Also clearly stupid, but considerably more fun, is the Ridiculous and Princely Sum I spent on socks in the last month. I went in on a group order at sockdreams.com, which is pretty cool, and now own more socks than a centipede with poor circulation. Today's ones have this fantastic lace on them, but it's Swing Dancing tonight, so I might wear my skull-and-crossbones shirt and skull-and-crossbones stockings, Just Because I Can.
In other news, and in a spirit of enterprisin'-ness, I totally discovered (and then was Lured into commenting on) the blogs of some people who I don't really know in a bloggy way, due to the Siren Call of facebook. I'm not sure if I hope they read and respond to the comments, or hope that they never notice at all.
Anyway, it's now 2 o'clock, which makes it definitely time to Get Back To Work, and really very probably time to never abuse emphatic capitalisation so again, so I shall bid you adieu, Fair Readers, and though I seriously doubt your existence, do not let this induce Existential Angst in you.
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