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?"
Saturday, August 23, 2008
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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