It has been some time since I discussed the shining jewel of language after which I have named this here collection of ramblings.
The Mixed Metaphor is a moment in time when a mistake is made. A malapropism. A tumbling together of at least two juicy, fatted cliches, into a phrase (or indeed paragraph, or more even!) that is so chunky you could carve it.
Today's example made me laugh perhaps with a touch too much gusto...
"in the situation where there is a brown snake, it's every man for his dog"
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Both Kinds of Music: The Bushwackers
When we were kids, Australia Day was brilliant. Before I knew about the genocide of the First Fleet and the invasion of Terra Nullius. Before Triple J's Hottest 100 became the world's biggest music poll, and the rudder that steers the whole hot January day. My parents and brother (because there was only one then) would join forces with a couple of other families from the Northern Beaches. I imagine the parents got boozy, but there was always lots of great food. And dancing. And music. A real life lagerphone. Other home-made booze related instruments, such as the goonbox filled with rice. And a steady soundtrack of Australian bush music. Redgum featured heavily. And The Bushwackers. These memories are young and golden and untainted with self-conciousness. One of the first memories of music I have, like my musical spiritual home.
The Bushwackers are a staple of the West Bubblefuck Both Kinds of Music Festival. This year they celebrated their 40th Anniversary, and have kicked off the year in style. Their Chardonnay Show is a yearly feature of the Festival Program, and it is almost always sold out. Sunday afternoon in the Beer Garden of the Longyard, armed with squirty bottles and stubbie coolers to last the whole day through. It is the Full Stop of the 10 day festival, except a full stop is not nearly flamboyant enough a piece of punctuation to really give this show justice.
They pride themselves on a complete lack of American influence, and are instead more heavily rooted in traditional Irish music. A double bass, a piano accordian, fiddle, bodhran (Irish drum), tin whistle and all manner of other percussiony and guitary kinds of instruments create a wall of upbeat and rollicking sound. They tend to sing about folk heroes, like Ned Kelly, and the best things about being Australian. They do focus on the bushmate cliches, and are very heavy on songs about sheep - and both seem entirely fitting in the lofty wooden hall and beer garden at the Longyard.
They are also brilliant showmen. Or show people, really. Dobe Newton, lead singer and random percussionist, is a pretty out there dude. His penchant for the flamboyant suits is always riveting, and this Sunday was no exception. The first outfit was a silver lame shirt with a black and white fresian coat, and his second was a white tuxedo jacket, splattered with enormous and luminous sequened flowers. He had a whinge toward the end of the show that there wasn't another break in the set, because he had another outfit to show off. And his tween-songs banter included a shout out to all the Spotlight members, offering a free solo CD to anyone who presented their membership card at the merch stand - There was a steady stream of middle aged ladies for the next fifteen minutes, collecting the booty to play while they sewed curtains or bedazzled their I Survived West Bubblefuck 2011 tshirts. Dobe is a sweaty man, with a bald pate, but a curtain of hair around his face. He swings his lagerphone with so much gusto, you feel sure it will break with each blasting beat, and the stage and shrapnel of washers and bottletops will rain over all the band and crowd.
The other band members compete for laughs, for limelight, but all hold up in talent. Roger Corbett is the primary songwriter of the band (though arguably their most famous song, "We Are Australian" was penned by Newton), and can swing his guitar too. His son Ben was on the electric guitar, and tucked in the corner on the double bass was Michael Vidale. The long-haired Mark Oats (also playing with The Pigs as I have mentioned before) is a brilliant fiddle player, but his banter leaves a fair bit to be desired.
But the one I love best is the token chick. Clare O'Meara plays the squeeze box, the most complex of all the instruments on the stage. There are keys and buttons and pulling the thing in and out. I really do love a good piano accordian player. When I first saw them a few years ago, she was all corkscrew curls under an enormous top hat, and she didn't stop bouncing along with the music for the whole show - which is about 3 and a half hours long! These days she is a little more sedate - and considering she has been playing for over twenty years, I am thinking that it is forgivable. She took the mic for just one song, the iconic Men at Work tune, "I Come From A Land Downunder" and she was mesmorising. Plus, as Newton said, she is easily the most photogenic in the band. Yes, I have a girl crush!
They actually did play an American cover - in honour of the plastic faced Kenny Rodgers, who was playing in the big shearing shed across the road. And Dobe promised us, his loyal crowd, that it would be the first and last time they would play an American song. And they do "The Gambler a great deal of justice too! There was a steady stream of superstars of the Both Kinds of Music World, including Kasey "Cat in a Bandsaw" Chambers, the very charming Sara Storer and the very boozed Beccy Cole. They did their own stuff, or covers of Bushwackers, or other Australian classics, like John Williams' "Old Man Emu", and brought a different energy to the stage, and to the crowd.
This year to raise money for the QLD Flood appeal, they auctioned OFF THEIR LAGERPHONE!!!! At only $2.50 a ticket, there were a lot of hungry audience members, including most of the members of my tribe. I was delighted, but they were a little disappointed, when my mum's cousin was announced as the winner. Just a warning, Margey, they are plotting to get an invite to your house and pilfer the prize for their own ends. The raffle raised about $2000, incidentally.
The Chardonnay Show is a brilliant part of the Festival. It is reportedly named after the very first Sunday performance the band did in 1994. Don Spencer (of Play School and "Don the Kelpie" fame) brought his family to the show on the way back to Sydney, thinking they would stay for one show, and one class of Chardy. But one song was not enough, and one glass was not enough. And nor was one bottle. They shared the wine, and drank the pub dry. It seems a fitting name for the show; a little bit fancy, and a little bit bogan. And a whole lot of fun.
The Bushwackers are a staple of the West Bubblefuck Both Kinds of Music Festival. This year they celebrated their 40th Anniversary, and have kicked off the year in style. Their Chardonnay Show is a yearly feature of the Festival Program, and it is almost always sold out. Sunday afternoon in the Beer Garden of the Longyard, armed with squirty bottles and stubbie coolers to last the whole day through. It is the Full Stop of the 10 day festival, except a full stop is not nearly flamboyant enough a piece of punctuation to really give this show justice.
They pride themselves on a complete lack of American influence, and are instead more heavily rooted in traditional Irish music. A double bass, a piano accordian, fiddle, bodhran (Irish drum), tin whistle and all manner of other percussiony and guitary kinds of instruments create a wall of upbeat and rollicking sound. They tend to sing about folk heroes, like Ned Kelly, and the best things about being Australian. They do focus on the bushmate cliches, and are very heavy on songs about sheep - and both seem entirely fitting in the lofty wooden hall and beer garden at the Longyard.
 |
| The Bushwackers in flight |
They are also brilliant showmen. Or show people, really. Dobe Newton, lead singer and random percussionist, is a pretty out there dude. His penchant for the flamboyant suits is always riveting, and this Sunday was no exception. The first outfit was a silver lame shirt with a black and white fresian coat, and his second was a white tuxedo jacket, splattered with enormous and luminous sequened flowers. He had a whinge toward the end of the show that there wasn't another break in the set, because he had another outfit to show off. And his tween-songs banter included a shout out to all the Spotlight members, offering a free solo CD to anyone who presented their membership card at the merch stand - There was a steady stream of middle aged ladies for the next fifteen minutes, collecting the booty to play while they sewed curtains or bedazzled their I Survived West Bubblefuck 2011 tshirts. Dobe is a sweaty man, with a bald pate, but a curtain of hair around his face. He swings his lagerphone with so much gusto, you feel sure it will break with each blasting beat, and the stage and shrapnel of washers and bottletops will rain over all the band and crowd.
The other band members compete for laughs, for limelight, but all hold up in talent. Roger Corbett is the primary songwriter of the band (though arguably their most famous song, "We Are Australian" was penned by Newton), and can swing his guitar too. His son Ben was on the electric guitar, and tucked in the corner on the double bass was Michael Vidale. The long-haired Mark Oats (also playing with The Pigs as I have mentioned before) is a brilliant fiddle player, but his banter leaves a fair bit to be desired.
But the one I love best is the token chick. Clare O'Meara plays the squeeze box, the most complex of all the instruments on the stage. There are keys and buttons and pulling the thing in and out. I really do love a good piano accordian player. When I first saw them a few years ago, she was all corkscrew curls under an enormous top hat, and she didn't stop bouncing along with the music for the whole show - which is about 3 and a half hours long! These days she is a little more sedate - and considering she has been playing for over twenty years, I am thinking that it is forgivable. She took the mic for just one song, the iconic Men at Work tune, "I Come From A Land Downunder" and she was mesmorising. Plus, as Newton said, she is easily the most photogenic in the band. Yes, I have a girl crush!
They actually did play an American cover - in honour of the plastic faced Kenny Rodgers, who was playing in the big shearing shed across the road. And Dobe promised us, his loyal crowd, that it would be the first and last time they would play an American song. And they do "The Gambler a great deal of justice too! There was a steady stream of superstars of the Both Kinds of Music World, including Kasey "Cat in a Bandsaw" Chambers, the very charming Sara Storer and the very boozed Beccy Cole. They did their own stuff, or covers of Bushwackers, or other Australian classics, like John Williams' "Old Man Emu", and brought a different energy to the stage, and to the crowd.
This year to raise money for the QLD Flood appeal, they auctioned OFF THEIR LAGERPHONE!!!! At only $2.50 a ticket, there were a lot of hungry audience members, including most of the members of my tribe. I was delighted, but they were a little disappointed, when my mum's cousin was announced as the winner. Just a warning, Margey, they are plotting to get an invite to your house and pilfer the prize for their own ends. The raffle raised about $2000, incidentally.
 |
| Margey, Dobe Newton and her brand new prize! |
The Chardonnay Show is a brilliant part of the Festival. It is reportedly named after the very first Sunday performance the band did in 1994. Don Spencer (of Play School and "Don the Kelpie" fame) brought his family to the show on the way back to Sydney, thinking they would stay for one show, and one class of Chardy. But one song was not enough, and one glass was not enough. And nor was one bottle. They shared the wine, and drank the pub dry. It seems a fitting name for the show; a little bit fancy, and a little bit bogan. And a whole lot of fun.
Monday, January 24, 2011
Both Kinds of Music: The Wilson Pickers
Just before Bob's show, at the West Bubblefuck Hotel, there was another band. Bands are pretty easy to come by during the West Bubblefuck Both Kinds of Music Festival. Outside each shopfront is a busker, in the corner of each room in each pub and club and cafe. But bands with talent, without the American Whine & Twang in their voice, with a little more imagination than trucks and heartbreak in their lyrics... they are a little more tricky to come by.
But we found one. The Wilson Pickers' show sounded great, with harmonised voices, manolin, fiddle, tamborine and that all important swoon-worthy harmonica sound. It was an unticketed event, which means FREE! And they weren't too bad on they eye either. So really, an all round winner.
These guys were great low key listening. Perfect for the first beer of the evening, for a sunset show on a lazy, warm day. They were a little bit like The Eagles, with their 70s throwback fashion and their beardy slash mo looks. Plus, the first song on their album is the beautifully titled "Return to the Land of the Powerful Owl"! How cool is that!?!
These guys were great low key listening. Perfect for the first beer of the evening, for a sunset show on a lazy, warm day. They were a little bit like The Eagles, with their 70s throwback fashion and their beardy slash mo looks. Plus, the first song on their album is the beautifully titled "Return to the Land of the Powerful Owl"! How cool is that!?!
Both Kinds of Music: Bob Evans
Bob Evans, the original Jerk of Attention, came to the West Bubblefuck Festival last year. His real name is Kevin Mitchell, and he was really the lead singer of Jebidiah, the band who wrote the song "Leaving Home" only weeks before me and my classmates actually did just that.
Bob is his Folky moniker, his less whiney voiced, more accoustic strumming, harmonica humming kind of persona. Last year he plomped into town, to the West Bubblefuck Hotel beer garden, sans band. Not much publicity - I don't even remember seeing his name in the program. Just a man with an accoustic guitar on his shoulders and a harmonica perched on a wire around his neck, sipping red wine from a glass, in the baking West Bubblefuck January heat. His easy rhythms and lilting lyrics were an easy Thursday afternoon show. A bit of tapping fingers on the knee, a little bit of singing along with the words to the singles.
This year, Bob was back. With my modest posse of 14 (because my tribe in West Bubblefuck has been growing and expanding, and we're basically taking over the world. Plus Little Red came to visit too!!) we spread out around the table smack bang in the middle of the garden, in front of the stage. Thanks to the B Team!
Bob looked much the same. The Ramona Flowers hair cut. The checked cowboy shirt, the accoustic and harmonica. But this year he was swigging the red wine from the bottle. He brought a band with him, The Evens, that he reportedly only hooked up with a week ago. They seemed to be still feeling their way a little, but the idiocyncracies made it even sweeter. The Evens joined Evans for about half of the songs in the set. He called up a few special guests, and did some covers as well as a huge chunk of his own stuff. His Like A Version cover of Lily Allen's "Not Fair" was as always priceless, as was his lead in threat to tongue-kiss any homophobes, as this is obviously the worse possible punishment they could imagine.
His relaxed Australian voice is sometimes tainted with a bit of the dreaded American twang, but there is an honesty to his songwriting that manages to cut through that twangy slick. Most of his work seems to be centred on Suburbia. Being stuck in it, leaving it, looking back on it. Suburbia isn't usually the substance of Country Music, but then that is kind of a loose genre nowadays. My fave of his is "Hand Me Downs", a beautiful examination of what it means to be serious, to be responsible, to be making the big decisions, or to be just kicking around in what you always have done, despite the fact that it probably isn't working.
At the end of his set, the wine bottle was drained. It was truly astounding with 750ml of merlot in him, Bob could still manage to sing and play not one but TWO instruments with brilliance. And then he managed to polish off another half a bottle in the encore. Towards the end of the night, the banter became a little sloppy, the set list and back catalogue somewhat exhasteded. At this moment of weakness, the crowd pounced, and demanded a Jebidiah song. And he relented. "Harpoon" is a brilliant moment in Australian songwriting, and I got some goosebumps seeing it played live.
Bob Evans - pronounced best,very quickly, as one word, Bobevans - is really fantastic beer garden summer music. Friends old and new fit well around a table with his music.
Bob is his Folky moniker, his less whiney voiced, more accoustic strumming, harmonica humming kind of persona. Last year he plomped into town, to the West Bubblefuck Hotel beer garden, sans band. Not much publicity - I don't even remember seeing his name in the program. Just a man with an accoustic guitar on his shoulders and a harmonica perched on a wire around his neck, sipping red wine from a glass, in the baking West Bubblefuck January heat. His easy rhythms and lilting lyrics were an easy Thursday afternoon show. A bit of tapping fingers on the knee, a little bit of singing along with the words to the singles.
This year, Bob was back. With my modest posse of 14 (because my tribe in West Bubblefuck has been growing and expanding, and we're basically taking over the world. Plus Little Red came to visit too!!) we spread out around the table smack bang in the middle of the garden, in front of the stage. Thanks to the B Team!
 |
| Apologies for shithouse photo quality. IPhones & booze & twilight & stage lighting aren't friends |
Bob looked much the same. The Ramona Flowers hair cut. The checked cowboy shirt, the accoustic and harmonica. But this year he was swigging the red wine from the bottle. He brought a band with him, The Evens, that he reportedly only hooked up with a week ago. They seemed to be still feeling their way a little, but the idiocyncracies made it even sweeter. The Evens joined Evans for about half of the songs in the set. He called up a few special guests, and did some covers as well as a huge chunk of his own stuff. His Like A Version cover of Lily Allen's "Not Fair" was as always priceless, as was his lead in threat to tongue-kiss any homophobes, as this is obviously the worse possible punishment they could imagine.
His relaxed Australian voice is sometimes tainted with a bit of the dreaded American twang, but there is an honesty to his songwriting that manages to cut through that twangy slick. Most of his work seems to be centred on Suburbia. Being stuck in it, leaving it, looking back on it. Suburbia isn't usually the substance of Country Music, but then that is kind of a loose genre nowadays. My fave of his is "Hand Me Downs", a beautiful examination of what it means to be serious, to be responsible, to be making the big decisions, or to be just kicking around in what you always have done, despite the fact that it probably isn't working.
At the end of his set, the wine bottle was drained. It was truly astounding with 750ml of merlot in him, Bob could still manage to sing and play not one but TWO instruments with brilliance. And then he managed to polish off another half a bottle in the encore. Towards the end of the night, the banter became a little sloppy, the set list and back catalogue somewhat exhasteded. At this moment of weakness, the crowd pounced, and demanded a Jebidiah song. And he relented. "Harpoon" is a brilliant moment in Australian songwriting, and I got some goosebumps seeing it played live.
Bob Evans - pronounced best,very quickly, as one word, Bobevans - is really fantastic beer garden summer music. Friends old and new fit well around a table with his music.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Both Kinds of Music: The Pigs
Tis that time of year again, The West Bubblefuck Both Kinds Of Music Festival. When every square of green (though it is usually brown) in town is taken up with a tent, and every awning of the main street has a wailing busker turned up almost-illegally loud. Tales of wives leaving, trucks breaking down, and how happy sheeee iiiiiis tooooo fiiiiiiiind hiiiiiiim, sung to twanging guitar.
But it is not all the sounds of a cat being put through a band saw. Festival time for some (including Sparky and his pals) is The Best Time Of Year. On the first Friday of each January, the AGM is held, and the Official Agenda (wow, lots of Capitalisation in this post??!?) is drawn up. This year, it has been Officially Printed on the Official Stubbie Coolers. And it is filled with some true gems (including the Red One, coming in on Friday). A variety of styles is sought. Some new artists, vying for the esteemed title of the Festival Find. And there are some Compulsory Shows to attend - Festival Faves.
Wednesday night was my first experience of the very special show - The Pigs. These boys have the THICKEST dodgy southern US accents you've ever heard. They have a repetoir of original tunes such as "Don't dump your lover on the phone" with its brilliant opening lyrics of "I am standing in the shadow of a 40 foot merino, while you were over there sipping on your cappucino", as well as some fantastic countryfied covers - turns out there are a number of genres that work in a country fashion, especially disco ("ABC" for example, and "Staying Alive") and R&B (specifically "Ignition" - it is the references to "sipping on coke & rum" that really ease it perfectly into the West Bubblefuck scene).
These guys are bags of fun, with a brilliantly energetic show. It is near impossible not to dance - Sparky cut the rug in a spectacular fashion! With guest bandmembers, OOPS! I mean cousins - Montz Matzumoto (a banjo player of the highest order) and Mark Oats (of the legendary folk band, The Bushwackers). The Committee (as I like to call those friends that take The Festival seriously) tried to hide the real identities of the cousins from me - Stretch, T-Bone & Billy-Bob aren't really thier names! They thought it really disappointing that Billy-Bob is really named Glen, and really comes from Dubbo. But I think they underestimate my ability to suspend my disbelief for the moment of performative magic.
The recordings I have heard have not nearly done these boys justice. The live show is just what country music should be - a little bit wrong, a lot of dancing, and not many people taking themselves too seriously.
But it is not all the sounds of a cat being put through a band saw. Festival time for some (including Sparky and his pals) is The Best Time Of Year. On the first Friday of each January, the AGM is held, and the Official Agenda (wow, lots of Capitalisation in this post??!?) is drawn up. This year, it has been Officially Printed on the Official Stubbie Coolers. And it is filled with some true gems (including the Red One, coming in on Friday). A variety of styles is sought. Some new artists, vying for the esteemed title of the Festival Find. And there are some Compulsory Shows to attend - Festival Faves.
Wednesday night was my first experience of the very special show - The Pigs. These boys have the THICKEST dodgy southern US accents you've ever heard. They have a repetoir of original tunes such as "Don't dump your lover on the phone" with its brilliant opening lyrics of "I am standing in the shadow of a 40 foot merino, while you were over there sipping on your cappucino", as well as some fantastic countryfied covers - turns out there are a number of genres that work in a country fashion, especially disco ("ABC" for example, and "Staying Alive") and R&B (specifically "Ignition" - it is the references to "sipping on coke & rum" that really ease it perfectly into the West Bubblefuck scene).
These guys are bags of fun, with a brilliantly energetic show. It is near impossible not to dance - Sparky cut the rug in a spectacular fashion! With guest bandmembers, OOPS! I mean cousins - Montz Matzumoto (a banjo player of the highest order) and Mark Oats (of the legendary folk band, The Bushwackers). The Committee (as I like to call those friends that take The Festival seriously) tried to hide the real identities of the cousins from me - Stretch, T-Bone & Billy-Bob aren't really thier names! They thought it really disappointing that Billy-Bob is really named Glen, and really comes from Dubbo. But I think they underestimate my ability to suspend my disbelief for the moment of performative magic.
The recordings I have heard have not nearly done these boys justice. The live show is just what country music should be - a little bit wrong, a lot of dancing, and not many people taking themselves too seriously.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
The Real Resolutions
As opposed to my Reading Resolutions, discussed here.
Each new year, I try to nail down 5 promises to myself to make my life better. Five, because if I accomplish 3 then I am going pretty well. The 5 resolutions need to be realistic, achievable, quantifyable and positive. I also try to have them nailed down by the 5th of Jan, but I am running a little behind schedule.
So here goes:
1. Do not buy any more shoes in 2011. The year '11 may be the year of the legs, according to bingo, but my collection of footwear is vast and varied. Especially when it comes to red mary-janes. So I promise myself, and my wallet, and the corner of my bedroom where the shoes get chucked (and all the other corners where they invariably end up) that I will not NOT purchase a new pair - unless one of the Essentials On High Rotation gets broken and needs replacing. This means no browsing in shoe shops, no gravitational pull to the shoe section of department stores. No shoes in 2011.
2. Write 52 blog entries for 2011. An average of 1 a week. Last year, being the first year of Mum to 110 meant that This Here Record Of Ramblings was somewhat ignored, especially towards the end of the year. And writing feels good. Not just teaching people about writing, but clarifying my own opinions into the crystal clarity of words on a screen. Edging out my own little dialogue with the e-ther. Plus, as KidsTheseDays put it, it is good for a teacher to be a practitioner - to practise what I am preaching. Of course, this year I am already off to a good start, and holiday times should help my averages!
3. Sweat an average of 3 times a week. Not really for weight loss, more because my brain, my body and my emotions are always much more rational when getting a regular sweat on. Gym, swim, bball with The Flames. I reckon I can get 3 times a week of getting my heart rate up to sweating.
4. Get my spots checked. This should only take a moment, or half an hour at max, but checking that my skin is cancer free, for someone as dotty as me, is actually really important. I just have to face my boy-like fear of the medical potential for Nasty Truth and get someone to examine my skin.
5. $100 a week in savings. Living at The Boy Factory should allow me to save more cash than I do. So it is time to make a concerted effort. I set up a savings account last year, and it is really time for me to use it.
I will have to try to do an assessment of progress throughout the year, but now it has been written, it cannot be escaped! The pressure of the internet compels me to try!
Each new year, I try to nail down 5 promises to myself to make my life better. Five, because if I accomplish 3 then I am going pretty well. The 5 resolutions need to be realistic, achievable, quantifyable and positive. I also try to have them nailed down by the 5th of Jan, but I am running a little behind schedule.
So here goes:
1. Do not buy any more shoes in 2011. The year '11 may be the year of the legs, according to bingo, but my collection of footwear is vast and varied. Especially when it comes to red mary-janes. So I promise myself, and my wallet, and the corner of my bedroom where the shoes get chucked (and all the other corners where they invariably end up) that I will not NOT purchase a new pair - unless one of the Essentials On High Rotation gets broken and needs replacing. This means no browsing in shoe shops, no gravitational pull to the shoe section of department stores. No shoes in 2011.
2. Write 52 blog entries for 2011. An average of 1 a week. Last year, being the first year of Mum to 110 meant that This Here Record Of Ramblings was somewhat ignored, especially towards the end of the year. And writing feels good. Not just teaching people about writing, but clarifying my own opinions into the crystal clarity of words on a screen. Edging out my own little dialogue with the e-ther. Plus, as KidsTheseDays put it, it is good for a teacher to be a practitioner - to practise what I am preaching. Of course, this year I am already off to a good start, and holiday times should help my averages!
3. Sweat an average of 3 times a week. Not really for weight loss, more because my brain, my body and my emotions are always much more rational when getting a regular sweat on. Gym, swim, bball with The Flames. I reckon I can get 3 times a week of getting my heart rate up to sweating.
4. Get my spots checked. This should only take a moment, or half an hour at max, but checking that my skin is cancer free, for someone as dotty as me, is actually really important. I just have to face my boy-like fear of the medical potential for Nasty Truth and get someone to examine my skin.
5. $100 a week in savings. Living at The Boy Factory should allow me to save more cash than I do. So it is time to make a concerted effort. I set up a savings account last year, and it is really time for me to use it.
I will have to try to do an assessment of progress throughout the year, but now it has been written, it cannot be escaped! The pressure of the internet compels me to try!
Monday, January 17, 2011
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Lung capacity
What does one do on a summer holiday when faced with lots of rain and/or contaminated ocean water?
Read.
Knock over a few Reading Resolutions.
Breath by Tim Winton seems an incredibly fitting book as a supplement for a craving for a dip in the sea. Sitting on the grass atop the small dune behind the beach, with almost every fibre of my being screeching at me to ditch the sarong and dive under the waves. All except my delicate ear drum that was squeaking at me to remember 2 summers ago, with the perforated ear drum, the searing pain and the complete lack of swim time that followed. A quick google search showed that flood waters and even heavy rains bring down untreated sewage, chemical run off and the juices from animal carcasses. Reading this worked as a way to convince all the other fibres that my ear, as usual, was right.
So I settled for reading about the joys and the beauty of sliding down the face of a wave instead.
Winton seems to have the ability to discuss that which usually cannot be communicated - the inner workings of the mind of a man who is incapable of emotional articulation. I am not saying that all blokes are emotional retards, or that every single guy is mute when it comes to discussing, nay even identifying an emotion when they feel one. But lots of the boys I know are. And I know a fairly large number of males, working at The Boy Factory. In his Lockie Leonard stories, the protagonist is a teenager, discovering self-awareness and what it means to be human, male, a son, a brother, a boyfriend, a friend.
In Breath, the central character is going through the same thing. But a la The Wonder Years, we see it through his adult eyes. Told largely through flashback, mostly (but not entirely) linear in structure, we see why this middle aged paramedic is so cynical, so emotionally cut off, and yet so knowing. And a la Freud, the reasons lie in his childhood, and the formative years of his adolescent friendships.
Pikelet is falling in love for the very first time, and it is with the ocean. His mentor, the slightly dinted Sando, and his best friend, the more than slightly unhinged Loonie surf enormous waves, seek the next thrill, and approach surfing as though it is an addiction, a science, an art and a way of life. And then humanity gets in the way of it all.
My mother (who ALWAYS loves Winton) didn't like this book all that much. A bit too heavy on the adrenaline for a worry-junkie like her. Seeking out the next thrill, the next way to push ones' self to the edge, to find something within ones's self that is Extraordinary, rather than just being satisfied with the mundane things that life brings... this is the motivations behind all of the characters in the book. And I don't know that she is all that comfortable with that notion. But I get it.
As usual, Winton's poetics are rich and varied, and his ability to craft the tension is sublime. He can craft a moment on the top of a wave, mere hairs of a second, into half a page of breathless delight. The characters of this novel dive and swim and auto-asphixiate, and the reader does it with them. If a book can make you change something as innate and essential as your pattern of breathing, then it must be some pretty powerful writing.
Read.
Knock over a few Reading Resolutions.
Breath by Tim Winton seems an incredibly fitting book as a supplement for a craving for a dip in the sea. Sitting on the grass atop the small dune behind the beach, with almost every fibre of my being screeching at me to ditch the sarong and dive under the waves. All except my delicate ear drum that was squeaking at me to remember 2 summers ago, with the perforated ear drum, the searing pain and the complete lack of swim time that followed. A quick google search showed that flood waters and even heavy rains bring down untreated sewage, chemical run off and the juices from animal carcasses. Reading this worked as a way to convince all the other fibres that my ear, as usual, was right.
So I settled for reading about the joys and the beauty of sliding down the face of a wave instead.
In Breath, the central character is going through the same thing. But a la The Wonder Years, we see it through his adult eyes. Told largely through flashback, mostly (but not entirely) linear in structure, we see why this middle aged paramedic is so cynical, so emotionally cut off, and yet so knowing. And a la Freud, the reasons lie in his childhood, and the formative years of his adolescent friendships.
Pikelet is falling in love for the very first time, and it is with the ocean. His mentor, the slightly dinted Sando, and his best friend, the more than slightly unhinged Loonie surf enormous waves, seek the next thrill, and approach surfing as though it is an addiction, a science, an art and a way of life. And then humanity gets in the way of it all.
My mother (who ALWAYS loves Winton) didn't like this book all that much. A bit too heavy on the adrenaline for a worry-junkie like her. Seeking out the next thrill, the next way to push ones' self to the edge, to find something within ones's self that is Extraordinary, rather than just being satisfied with the mundane things that life brings... this is the motivations behind all of the characters in the book. And I don't know that she is all that comfortable with that notion. But I get it.
As usual, Winton's poetics are rich and varied, and his ability to craft the tension is sublime. He can craft a moment on the top of a wave, mere hairs of a second, into half a page of breathless delight. The characters of this novel dive and swim and auto-asphixiate, and the reader does it with them. If a book can make you change something as innate and essential as your pattern of breathing, then it must be some pretty powerful writing.
Wanted: One ark. Reasonable condition.
A road trip to the coast, summer with my brother. Beach, booze, a bit of art and music, but mostly catching up with friends flung northward. Sounds like fun, eh?
In reality, the road trip was a little more eventful than relaxing. Less beach time, and more avoiding the rising flood waters. Which the media is saying is "the biggest natural disaster to ever hit Australia", and I am sure if you count the devastation in Victoria (where flood meters have been swallowed by the torrent), New South Wales, Tasmania and South Australia, it is probably true. But they do tend to stretch that thing called truth, now and again, don't they?
Escaping Brisbane before it was totally inundated was a wise move. Waiting for the insanity of lunatics evacuating early was also fairly well thought out - we drove in fairly dry conditions, with near empty roads, to the safety of the Gold Coast. But after we got out of Dodge, the flood waters across the nation's rivers continued to follow us. We took a 4 hour detour to travel 65ks around Grafton to Woopi.
The rivers we crossed were swollen and ragey, pregnant with the promise of angry, anarchic watery children of chaos.
The beaches we planned to swim at were stained unpleasantly with untreated sewage and chemicals that wanted nothing more than to inflict me with another summer ear infection.
But listen to me whinging while the multitudes of flood refugees from Brisbane, Grafton, the Lockyer Valley and northern Victoria have lost all their worldly possessions. I know my plans had to be tweaked a little, but my diatribe is knowing - I have sweet FA to complain about.
Most of the minutes of the last week on television have been saturated by tear stained faces, and all-too-eager reporters trying to evoke extreme emotions, prodding them sharply with microphones until they bleed the required tears. Lives have been lost, and more are still missing, a week later, and it is devastating what the floods have done to homes and businesses. But the overwhelming response from most of the victims of the journos is hope, and relief that things aren't as bad as they thought they would be, and so much joy at the generosity of helpful strangers with the cleaning and the sweeping.
It has got me to thinking, and these thoughts were somewhat clarified by the oh-so-articulate John Birmingham in the SMH. He wrote a beautifully bitter piece about the fact that this country we live in continues to remind us that we're not welcome. that it isn't Ours to control, not really fit for human habitation. This continent continues to push back, against our riverside properties, and our constructions that don't seem to hold up to the winds or the flames, the deluges of water or the long stretches of time without it. The sheer arrogance of "It Won't Happen To Me", the reason behind so many teenage driving deaths, the reason behind people catching STIs, is the same reasoning behind riverside properties being overtaken by Mother Nature. Yes, it happened to that property in 1974. Why wouldn't it happen again?
The day the flood warnings came to Brisbane, Tuesday, the day after the horrors of Toowomba and the Lockyer Valley, I tried to go to a cafe in Newstead. And I was told, with very little sugar coating in the tone of her voice, that the cafe was shut, in preparation for the rising flood waters. I scoffed.
Then the waters rose. And the city evacuated (not officially, mind you. Just all of the office managers said "if you want to get home, you'd better leave now). And the sandbags began to appear, as if from nowhere. At times it was adventurous. We stocked up on booze and frozen pizza, rolls of toilet paper and candles. Then the reality of no power and no plumbing hit home. So my bro and me - we hit the road.
I too am of that same brand of arrogance that expects it Not To Happen To Me. I thought it all a media beat up. Scare mongering in the vein of post-tsunami a few years ago. And I have had to eat my words most humbly.
I haven't donated to the flood appeal yet (aside from a few gold coins rattled into buckets and tip jars here and there). Mostly because I am waiting for pay-day on Wednesday, because it needs to be a significant donation.
Give lots. Give to Queenslanders with their new-found kick arse premier Anna Bligh. Give to New South Welshpeeps, with their divided and isolated towns. Give to Victorians, who really deserve a break. Give to Government appeals QLD: http://www.qld.gov.au/floods/donate.html. Donate to charities http://www.vinnies.org.au/qldfloodappeal, to animal shelters, to anyone who will do good with the cash.
Side note:
In times of floods, good road trip listening material can be found in Eddie Izzard's Glorious. Noah has a Sean Connery voice.
In reality, the road trip was a little more eventful than relaxing. Less beach time, and more avoiding the rising flood waters. Which the media is saying is "the biggest natural disaster to ever hit Australia", and I am sure if you count the devastation in Victoria (where flood meters have been swallowed by the torrent), New South Wales, Tasmania and South Australia, it is probably true. But they do tend to stretch that thing called truth, now and again, don't they?
Escaping Brisbane before it was totally inundated was a wise move. Waiting for the insanity of lunatics evacuating early was also fairly well thought out - we drove in fairly dry conditions, with near empty roads, to the safety of the Gold Coast. But after we got out of Dodge, the flood waters across the nation's rivers continued to follow us. We took a 4 hour detour to travel 65ks around Grafton to Woopi.
 |
| Grafton, the Clarence River |
 |
| Woolgoolga and her flood stained beach |
But listen to me whinging while the multitudes of flood refugees from Brisbane, Grafton, the Lockyer Valley and northern Victoria have lost all their worldly possessions. I know my plans had to be tweaked a little, but my diatribe is knowing - I have sweet FA to complain about.
Most of the minutes of the last week on television have been saturated by tear stained faces, and all-too-eager reporters trying to evoke extreme emotions, prodding them sharply with microphones until they bleed the required tears. Lives have been lost, and more are still missing, a week later, and it is devastating what the floods have done to homes and businesses. But the overwhelming response from most of the victims of the journos is hope, and relief that things aren't as bad as they thought they would be, and so much joy at the generosity of helpful strangers with the cleaning and the sweeping.
It has got me to thinking, and these thoughts were somewhat clarified by the oh-so-articulate John Birmingham in the SMH. He wrote a beautifully bitter piece about the fact that this country we live in continues to remind us that we're not welcome. that it isn't Ours to control, not really fit for human habitation. This continent continues to push back, against our riverside properties, and our constructions that don't seem to hold up to the winds or the flames, the deluges of water or the long stretches of time without it. The sheer arrogance of "It Won't Happen To Me", the reason behind so many teenage driving deaths, the reason behind people catching STIs, is the same reasoning behind riverside properties being overtaken by Mother Nature. Yes, it happened to that property in 1974. Why wouldn't it happen again?
The day the flood warnings came to Brisbane, Tuesday, the day after the horrors of Toowomba and the Lockyer Valley, I tried to go to a cafe in Newstead. And I was told, with very little sugar coating in the tone of her voice, that the cafe was shut, in preparation for the rising flood waters. I scoffed.
 |
| Rising flood waters in Brisbane. At about 4.6m |
 |
| Sandbagging in action |
Then the waters rose. And the city evacuated (not officially, mind you. Just all of the office managers said "if you want to get home, you'd better leave now). And the sandbags began to appear, as if from nowhere. At times it was adventurous. We stocked up on booze and frozen pizza, rolls of toilet paper and candles. Then the reality of no power and no plumbing hit home. So my bro and me - we hit the road.
I too am of that same brand of arrogance that expects it Not To Happen To Me. I thought it all a media beat up. Scare mongering in the vein of post-tsunami a few years ago. And I have had to eat my words most humbly.
I haven't donated to the flood appeal yet (aside from a few gold coins rattled into buckets and tip jars here and there). Mostly because I am waiting for pay-day on Wednesday, because it needs to be a significant donation.
Give lots. Give to Queenslanders with their new-found kick arse premier Anna Bligh. Give to New South Welshpeeps, with their divided and isolated towns. Give to Victorians, who really deserve a break. Give to Government appeals QLD: http://www.qld.gov.au/floods/donate.html. Donate to charities http://www.vinnies.org.au/qldfloodappeal, to animal shelters, to anyone who will do good with the cash.
Side note:
In times of floods, good road trip listening material can be found in Eddie Izzard's Glorious. Noah has a Sean Connery voice.
The Girl With The International Bestseller
Author's note:
Hey-zeus! This has been sitting in the unpublished post pile for FAR too long. Time to get this puppy outta here!
Have you read The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo?
Did you love it and rave about it to everyone you knew?
Or did you think (like me) that it was just a little bit poo?
I don't know many people who didn't love this book. I heard it called "Thrilling" and "Exciting" and "Really different". The buzz/spin surrounding this book was epic. The two pages of call-outs from reviews from around the world are falling over themsleves with repetitive praise about how spectacular this novel is.
In my post reading websearch, I of course stumbled across the review from the so so fabulous First Tuesday Book Club . And on there was 2 blindingly bedazzled reviews. Jennifer Byrne said she thought it was "terrific". Jason Steger said he thought it was a "great read" and "completely absorbing". And their opinions seemed to reflect the wider reading community.
Fortunately there were three wise souls on the panel that week. Marieke Hardy (bless her red-lipped soul! total girl crush!!) was pretty ambivalent about the book, though I totally disagree with her assessment of it being "efficient" and with her experience of being "involved the whole way" through reading.
Wendy Harmer, whom I very rarely agree with, called the book a blunt instrument, and I completely concur that the cliche riddled and clunky phrasing of the book was very off-putting. She cited "she ran away as fast as her legs could carry her" as one such example of groan-worthy narration. She and Peter Corris (a crime writer of more consise tales) both mentioned the vast tracts of exposition, which I found frustrating and useless.
Hey-zeus! This has been sitting in the unpublished post pile for FAR too long. Time to get this puppy outta here!
Have you read The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo?
Did you love it and rave about it to everyone you knew?
Or did you think (like me) that it was just a little bit poo?
I don't know many people who didn't love this book. I heard it called "Thrilling" and "Exciting" and "Really different". The buzz/spin surrounding this book was epic. The two pages of call-outs from reviews from around the world are falling over themsleves with repetitive praise about how spectacular this novel is.
In my post reading websearch, I of course stumbled across the review from the so so fabulous First Tuesday Book Club . And on there was 2 blindingly bedazzled reviews. Jennifer Byrne said she thought it was "terrific". Jason Steger said he thought it was a "great read" and "completely absorbing". And their opinions seemed to reflect the wider reading community.
Fortunately there were three wise souls on the panel that week. Marieke Hardy (bless her red-lipped soul! total girl crush!!) was pretty ambivalent about the book, though I totally disagree with her assessment of it being "efficient" and with her experience of being "involved the whole way" through reading.
Wendy Harmer, whom I very rarely agree with, called the book a blunt instrument, and I completely concur that the cliche riddled and clunky phrasing of the book was very off-putting. She cited "she ran away as fast as her legs could carry her" as one such example of groan-worthy narration. She and Peter Corris (a crime writer of more consise tales) both mentioned the vast tracts of exposition, which I found frustrating and useless.
The basic outline of the story is still pretty convaluted. A shamed journo takes a job from a rich dude to simultaneously write his family bio and solve a cold case. He is assisted by a tattood waif hacker with aspergers and a tiny temper. There is a whole lot of corporate crime stuff that I couldn't give a rats about. there is an intriguing rich family of inbred Nazis that I didn't find at all endearing. And the journo, Blomkvist, can't seem to keep it in his trousers and seems to shag anything. Who sets off on multiple missions to uncover the truth about just about everything.
One friend of mine (not Harmer's) said that she liked the fact that it wasn't totally action packed. That it was undulating in tension, and not at constant break neck speed. A refreshing kind of thrillier. I think that is bollocks. If it is NOT thrilling, then it can hardly be called a thriller right? I mean, huge tracts of description of inconequential details are a sure fire way to slow down break neck tension. And I'm sure if I was after a novel of shopping lists of how many pairs of warm socks one dude bought, I would look in the Tedious as Hell section of the bookshop to find it.
The character of Lisbeth Salander - who does have an awsome name, by the way - is intriguing. But by no means three dimonsional. Something of a male fantasy goth style character. Pierced. Monosyllabic. High sexual appetite. And a tendency for violence. But hardly empowered, as some readers suggest. And sure she is likable, and sure she is intruiging. She does make you want to know what happens to her, but then so does the ultra-insipid Bella Swan (I nearly dry retched just typing her name). I have already got a long list of arse kicking female characters in my BFFs of Pop Culture. Buffy, Lyra Belaqua, CJ, Katniss, Viola, Liz Lemon, Eliza Bennet... Lisbeth Salander doesn't really measure up to this high standard. The Times UK agrees with me here, stating she "isn’t so much a character as a revenge fantasy come to life, powering her way through the novel like the heroine of a computer game"
I realise this book is English as a Second Language - which might explain why the figurative language is so cliched and clunky. But that is no excuse for tedious narration and roughly hewn stereotyped charcters. Some ESL books are brilliant in translation. Bernhard Schlick's The Reader for example. Patrick Suskind's Perfume, classics like Love in the Time of Cholera by Gabriel Garcia Marquez (also a brilliant name - and this one comes directly to mind as I am reading it at the moment.) This ESL novel is not one of those.
And yes, in case you were wondering, I have read the second volume The Girl who played with fire. In it, the oh-so-empowered female protagonist gets breast implants. And when I finished that, I read the third one. Finishing these books was more of a relief than anything else. I can tick that off and give these enormous tomes away to someone who might want them more than me. On Amazon.com, the populist vote is 7:1 positive to negative, so I am outvoted there. But Alex Berenson of the NY Times agrees that the "beginning is dull, the end is unbelievable and dull, the characters are so roughly drawn they are more shadows of stock characters than fully fleshed out humans, and the sexual polotics is all about men who hate women. incidentally, the original swqedish title of the book". The popularity of this series may entirely be about the fact that Laarson is now dead - the Van Gogh approach to the popularity of art.
And no, in case you were wondering, I haven't seen the film.
This book is good for a long plane journey, a lazy summer escape from the maddening Christmas crowds or a long commute to work. As a piece of fiction, in the tomes of the classics, it will not arrive. Or at least it shouldn't.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Road Trippin' to The Wet Country
So far road tripping with my bro is going gangbusters. Despite the almost total lack of sunshine. There has been more puns and accents than you could possibly hope for. There has been stunning views of greenery. There has been caffeine in abundance.
And there has been a stowaway. We named him Cody. It seemed to be appropriate. A little frog from West Bubblefuck that just wanted to get away from it all. In the boot of my car
Monday, January 3, 2011
2010 - The year that was
This has been a pretty roller-coaster kind of year. In the style of ACA, lets have a look, shall we?
January - 2 weddings in the sun, and a few weeks in Bondi. My relationship with Sparky was just new, and exciting and full of promise. The Festival, otherwise known as the West Bubblefuck Country Music Festival was full of dancefloor fun, and far too many bottles of Pure Blonde to be healthy. The Basics, Bob Evans and The Bushwhackers were highlights. The lack of school for the month was also a sparkling gem. Won the Guess the Hottest 100 comp at Sparky's Hottest 100 party. Competitive? Moi?
February - Possibly worked the hardest in this month. New Year 7s asking fifteen bajillion questions, and constant supervision, distraction and conversation for Boys away from Home, finding their feet at The Factory. Got incredibly sick in Week 4, followed by year 7 camp in Week 5. Tried to compete in Oscarsfest, but failed rather dismally (still blaming West Bubblefuck cinema for being so crap). Joined a basketball team, The Flames, in C grade of the West Bubblefuck Basketball comp, kind of made me feel like a local?
March - Slightly less manic than the first half of the term. Got my PERMANENT JOB!! Feeling very validated and grown up, and a little bit like all my hard work had paid off. Bought my couch, my first piece of proper real grown up furniture. Took an hour and a half for the delivery guys to get it into my lounge room. Neglected to tell them that I had negotiated for free delivery... The start of my beloved Couch Time. Cruised on in to Easter. The start of football try outs, the debating team kick off - or the Boy Factory First IV. Won most of the games with The Flames.
April - Turned 30. Felt exceptionally good about it. All grown up (new permanent job), all loved up, and all liquored up. Fantastic party at The Coast House, with a dozen or so of my closest friends converging for a BBQ and prawns, and a few frosty beverages. The night before party of curry, carrot cake and 30 year old port was also a blast. Sprained my ankle with The Flames - changed direction without telling my feet I was going to do so. Trip 1 to Melbourne for The Comedy Festival, slightly more hobbly than wandery due to ankle injury.
May - Slightly swamped at The Factory again. So much so that I have little memory of May at all. A weekend in Sydney. More basketball, more Sparky time, more Couchtime. The Mighty U14s kicked into gear and started playing like a team of teammates, which is just what a Supercoach wants. Games of local rugby in the freezing cold
June - The World Cup, and the ensuing sleep deprivation that goes along with it. A lot of bandwagon jumpers to the round ball game, and overnight experts in team configeration. Henry broke down in the drive thru of Oporto. The Flames won the C grade basketball grand final, but I damaged my rotator cuff in the semis.
July - More delicious school holidays. A trip to Sydney to celebrate the success/birthday/bon voyage of good friends. Read the Chaos Walking trilogy, and excellent book decision. Became addicted to MasterChef, despite my own desire not to. The Flames were promoted to B Grade, but I wasn't playing due to my body falling apart. More football Supercoaching, more rugby games.
August - Got to see my favourite Shakespeare play performed by my favourite Shakespeare company playing at the West Bubblefuck theatre - and love it. Got flooded in at The Boy Factory as the drought of the past 10 years decided to break with great vengance. More football. Started a list of 100 things that make me smile. Finished reading the Hunger Games trilogy, and wished it was more than 3 books, a la Douglas Adams.
September - Supervised 2 dances in one week. No-one busted drinking on my watch. Saw my cousin get married, and nearly cried making a speech. Finished writing the list of 100 things that make me smile (100 is a big number! It took some time!). Got to hang out with The B team. Made a return to the court with The Flames, but tentatively - fitness an issue, and plagued by injuries. Mighty U14s narrowly lost GF, 1-0. A sad but proud Supercoach, here. Powderfinger, superb Aussie band, started their farewell tour, including a brilliant night in West Bubblefuck, despite what the cynical locals say. Brought to tears by Bernard and the boys. Drowned a little in report writing. End of Term 3 insanity with Year 12, including the Annual Staff v Students Soccer Match and the Formal. Big month.
October - Marking marking marking of Year 10 trial exams. Sheesh. Almost total holiday wastage. Brilliant few days for Trip 2 to Melbourne with Little Red, with the excuse of seeing Tim Burton's exhibition at the ACMI. 80s dress up party for by boss' 40th. I looked AWESOME as Dana from Ghostbusters. Year 11 Leadership Camp. More report writing.
November - Not one single blogpost. Drowning in report writing. HP7 came out. Road trip with The O Team to see the Ultimate Powderfinger concert in Brisbane. Informed that I would FINALLY be teaching a DRAMA CLASS in '11, tres excitement. Quick trip to Sydney under the guise of learning to be an English teacher. Also a brilliant excuse for tax deductable flights to a Mad Men party - the birthdays of several excellent friends. Took Year 7 camping - like PROPER camping, in tents and stuff - by the side of the river.
December - River we were camping beside flooded, camp moved at midnight on day 2 and evacuated on day 3. High stress situation. Grandfather died. Took year 7 on tour to Dubbo, which was flooded. Sparky's mum died. Got close enough to a giraffe to touch it (but didn't because it was against the rules) but patted a wombat. Came home from Dubbo early due to flooding/weather. Fardy's funeral. Family friend died. Sparky's mum's funeral. Wagged presentation day. Family friend's funeral. One year anniversary understandibly ignored/forgotten. Well earned holidays. Caught up with friends who flitted home from OS, including engagement party. Enormous Christmas with Paternal Tribe. New Year's Eve long weekend with burgeoning Chosen West Bubblefuck Tribe.
And now I am here.
January - 2 weddings in the sun, and a few weeks in Bondi. My relationship with Sparky was just new, and exciting and full of promise. The Festival, otherwise known as the West Bubblefuck Country Music Festival was full of dancefloor fun, and far too many bottles of Pure Blonde to be healthy. The Basics, Bob Evans and The Bushwhackers were highlights. The lack of school for the month was also a sparkling gem. Won the Guess the Hottest 100 comp at Sparky's Hottest 100 party. Competitive? Moi?
February - Possibly worked the hardest in this month. New Year 7s asking fifteen bajillion questions, and constant supervision, distraction and conversation for Boys away from Home, finding their feet at The Factory. Got incredibly sick in Week 4, followed by year 7 camp in Week 5. Tried to compete in Oscarsfest, but failed rather dismally (still blaming West Bubblefuck cinema for being so crap). Joined a basketball team, The Flames, in C grade of the West Bubblefuck Basketball comp, kind of made me feel like a local?
March - Slightly less manic than the first half of the term. Got my PERMANENT JOB!! Feeling very validated and grown up, and a little bit like all my hard work had paid off. Bought my couch, my first piece of proper real grown up furniture. Took an hour and a half for the delivery guys to get it into my lounge room. Neglected to tell them that I had negotiated for free delivery... The start of my beloved Couch Time. Cruised on in to Easter. The start of football try outs, the debating team kick off - or the Boy Factory First IV. Won most of the games with The Flames.
April - Turned 30. Felt exceptionally good about it. All grown up (new permanent job), all loved up, and all liquored up. Fantastic party at The Coast House, with a dozen or so of my closest friends converging for a BBQ and prawns, and a few frosty beverages. The night before party of curry, carrot cake and 30 year old port was also a blast. Sprained my ankle with The Flames - changed direction without telling my feet I was going to do so. Trip 1 to Melbourne for The Comedy Festival, slightly more hobbly than wandery due to ankle injury.
May - Slightly swamped at The Factory again. So much so that I have little memory of May at all. A weekend in Sydney. More basketball, more Sparky time, more Couchtime. The Mighty U14s kicked into gear and started playing like a team of teammates, which is just what a Supercoach wants. Games of local rugby in the freezing cold
June - The World Cup, and the ensuing sleep deprivation that goes along with it. A lot of bandwagon jumpers to the round ball game, and overnight experts in team configeration. Henry broke down in the drive thru of Oporto. The Flames won the C grade basketball grand final, but I damaged my rotator cuff in the semis.
July - More delicious school holidays. A trip to Sydney to celebrate the success/birthday/bon voyage of good friends. Read the Chaos Walking trilogy, and excellent book decision. Became addicted to MasterChef, despite my own desire not to. The Flames were promoted to B Grade, but I wasn't playing due to my body falling apart. More football Supercoaching, more rugby games.
August - Got to see my favourite Shakespeare play performed by my favourite Shakespeare company playing at the West Bubblefuck theatre - and love it. Got flooded in at The Boy Factory as the drought of the past 10 years decided to break with great vengance. More football. Started a list of 100 things that make me smile. Finished reading the Hunger Games trilogy, and wished it was more than 3 books, a la Douglas Adams.
September - Supervised 2 dances in one week. No-one busted drinking on my watch. Saw my cousin get married, and nearly cried making a speech. Finished writing the list of 100 things that make me smile (100 is a big number! It took some time!). Got to hang out with The B team. Made a return to the court with The Flames, but tentatively - fitness an issue, and plagued by injuries. Mighty U14s narrowly lost GF, 1-0. A sad but proud Supercoach, here. Powderfinger, superb Aussie band, started their farewell tour, including a brilliant night in West Bubblefuck, despite what the cynical locals say. Brought to tears by Bernard and the boys. Drowned a little in report writing. End of Term 3 insanity with Year 12, including the Annual Staff v Students Soccer Match and the Formal. Big month.
October - Marking marking marking of Year 10 trial exams. Sheesh. Almost total holiday wastage. Brilliant few days for Trip 2 to Melbourne with Little Red, with the excuse of seeing Tim Burton's exhibition at the ACMI. 80s dress up party for by boss' 40th. I looked AWESOME as Dana from Ghostbusters. Year 11 Leadership Camp. More report writing.
November - Not one single blogpost. Drowning in report writing. HP7 came out. Road trip with The O Team to see the Ultimate Powderfinger concert in Brisbane. Informed that I would FINALLY be teaching a DRAMA CLASS in '11, tres excitement. Quick trip to Sydney under the guise of learning to be an English teacher. Also a brilliant excuse for tax deductable flights to a Mad Men party - the birthdays of several excellent friends. Took Year 7 camping - like PROPER camping, in tents and stuff - by the side of the river.
December - River we were camping beside flooded, camp moved at midnight on day 2 and evacuated on day 3. High stress situation. Grandfather died. Took year 7 on tour to Dubbo, which was flooded. Sparky's mum died. Got close enough to a giraffe to touch it (but didn't because it was against the rules) but patted a wombat. Came home from Dubbo early due to flooding/weather. Fardy's funeral. Family friend died. Sparky's mum's funeral. Wagged presentation day. Family friend's funeral. One year anniversary understandibly ignored/forgotten. Well earned holidays. Caught up with friends who flitted home from OS, including engagement party. Enormous Christmas with Paternal Tribe. New Year's Eve long weekend with burgeoning Chosen West Bubblefuck Tribe.
And now I am here.
Reading Resolutions
PottyMouthMama doesn't do resolutions. She does habits.
I do Resolutions. I usually set mysefl 5 every year, so that if I complete 3, then I am going well. They need to be attainable and quantifiable. And they need to measurably improve my life.
But this post is not about those 5 Resolutions (mostly because I haven't nailed them all down yet.)
The Top Ten Tuesday from The Broke & The Bookish is about the books you are wanting to read in 2011. And I have re-decided that I don't go in for Top Tens... So cliched. But I do like a Top Six. And not out of laziness, because I can't be arsed completing the Ten. Mostly because I am too indecisive to complete a Top Five. So here is the Top Six Books I Want To Read In 2011. In no particular order.
1. The Road - Cormack McCarthy
I have tried to read this a few times. It is a truly evocative book, and I haven't really got more than a quarter into it, because I find it so grim, that it is difficult to go on. I think I need to infuse myself with the grit and determination of the characters in order to forge ahead.
2. The Hound of the Baskervilles - Arthur Conan Doyle
As I have hinted at, my new-found love affair with the antisocial detective and his amiable assistant is blossoming nicely, thank you very much. Long may it continue.
3. Breath - Tim Winton
This blue book has nestled untouched on my shelf since Easter last year. I just know I am going to get lost in his rich imagery, and I've no idea why it has been postponed so long.
4. The Wasp Factory - Iain Banks
My very favourite Glaswegian told me that this is a staple text for studying in Scottish schools. He told me I would really enjoy it, and he has rarely set me on the wrong path before! Again, sitting on my shelf, sneering at my lack of time and commitment to reading, shameful for an English teacher.
5. Antigone - Sophocles
I actually have to teach this to my first ever Year 11 Advanced English class in Term 1, so I really need to get a wriggle on. I have seen a production of it, but through the hazy memories of university, I wouldn't be confident in teaching it to teenage boys.
6. A Monster Calls - Patrick Ness
I know it isn't going to be The Chaos Walking series. But I want to sink my teeth into some more Nessness! I haven't seen the book yet (it is slated for release later this year) and I haven't read any press, but I want I want I want!
I do Resolutions. I usually set mysefl 5 every year, so that if I complete 3, then I am going well. They need to be attainable and quantifiable. And they need to measurably improve my life.
But this post is not about those 5 Resolutions (mostly because I haven't nailed them all down yet.)
The Top Ten Tuesday from The Broke & The Bookish is about the books you are wanting to read in 2011. And I have re-decided that I don't go in for Top Tens... So cliched. But I do like a Top Six. And not out of laziness, because I can't be arsed completing the Ten. Mostly because I am too indecisive to complete a Top Five. So here is the Top Six Books I Want To Read In 2011. In no particular order.
I have tried to read this a few times. It is a truly evocative book, and I haven't really got more than a quarter into it, because I find it so grim, that it is difficult to go on. I think I need to infuse myself with the grit and determination of the characters in order to forge ahead.
2. The Hound of the Baskervilles - Arthur Conan Doyle
As I have hinted at, my new-found love affair with the antisocial detective and his amiable assistant is blossoming nicely, thank you very much. Long may it continue.
3. Breath - Tim Winton
This blue book has nestled untouched on my shelf since Easter last year. I just know I am going to get lost in his rich imagery, and I've no idea why it has been postponed so long.
4. The Wasp Factory - Iain Banks
My very favourite Glaswegian told me that this is a staple text for studying in Scottish schools. He told me I would really enjoy it, and he has rarely set me on the wrong path before! Again, sitting on my shelf, sneering at my lack of time and commitment to reading, shameful for an English teacher.
5. Antigone - Sophocles
I actually have to teach this to my first ever Year 11 Advanced English class in Term 1, so I really need to get a wriggle on. I have seen a production of it, but through the hazy memories of university, I wouldn't be confident in teaching it to teenage boys.
6. A Monster Calls - Patrick Ness
I know it isn't going to be The Chaos Walking series. But I want to sink my teeth into some more Nessness! I haven't seen the book yet (it is slated for release later this year) and I haven't read any press, but I want I want I want!
Echo Point?
Sometimes I link to this blog on my stalkbook page. Sometimes I link to it from my twitter. Occasionally I will include the longwinded address as my own personal URL. Mostly to increase traffic to this site.
But I don't really know why I am writing it. Writing this blog (as can be seen in the list of how many entries have been made in the last 6 months) often gets relegated if I am too busy or too brain-fried to find the words. There are umpteen posts written in my brain about books I have read, and films I have seen, and records I have heard. But getting the fingers to do the tapping before my witty and insightful commentary has evaporated from my brainbox is a dilemma I have been trying to deal with.
And I don't really know who I have got reading it, and whether or not I am writing it to be read, or writing it to see my own words in pixels on the screen, some kind of narcissistic public navel gazing. But I do like to think that there is someone out there reading my whimsy.
So if you do read here occasionally, feel free to share your opinion of my own unsolicited opinion. Feel free to tell me that I am way off the mark in my appraisal of all things Sherlock, or overthinking Harry Potter way too much. Or that my fixation with Mr Darcy and his recurrence in all modern pop culture is purely in my imagination. Or maybe you DO agree that all television, cinema, literature and trash needs to be pulled apart, and my assertions are right on the money? I guess I am looking for an answer to all of this opinion that I am hurling into the gorge of cyber-space, rather than just getting a hollow echo of my own words bouncing back at me.
Here endeth the self-flogging.
But I don't really know why I am writing it. Writing this blog (as can be seen in the list of how many entries have been made in the last 6 months) often gets relegated if I am too busy or too brain-fried to find the words. There are umpteen posts written in my brain about books I have read, and films I have seen, and records I have heard. But getting the fingers to do the tapping before my witty and insightful commentary has evaporated from my brainbox is a dilemma I have been trying to deal with.
And I don't really know who I have got reading it, and whether or not I am writing it to be read, or writing it to see my own words in pixels on the screen, some kind of narcissistic public navel gazing. But I do like to think that there is someone out there reading my whimsy.
So if you do read here occasionally, feel free to share your opinion of my own unsolicited opinion. Feel free to tell me that I am way off the mark in my appraisal of all things Sherlock, or overthinking Harry Potter way too much. Or that my fixation with Mr Darcy and his recurrence in all modern pop culture is purely in my imagination. Or maybe you DO agree that all television, cinema, literature and trash needs to be pulled apart, and my assertions are right on the money? I guess I am looking for an answer to all of this opinion that I am hurling into the gorge of cyber-space, rather than just getting a hollow echo of my own words bouncing back at me.
Here endeth the self-flogging.
The Penultimate Potter
I've been to see the latest HP flick twice now. Once in a super-overcrowded theatre space with uncomfortable seats and highly annoying audience members, like the small child who keeps asking her father questions, and the father that keeps answering his small child's questions, and the completely daft woman who keeps exclaiming the obvious like "Oh, so he has it!" in a less than hushed voice. And once with the B-Team, in gold-class seats at the West Bubblefuck cinema (who in a long string of cinema-based stuff ups, tried really hard to stuff up our tickets, but we didn't let them).
And I thouroughly enjoyed both viewings.
To these criticisms, I say "Pah!"
The last book, The Deathly Hallows is fast paced and rich story, but it is incredibly long. And a great deal of that action is actually bound up in frustrating inaction, in planning, decoding mysteries and trying to figure out ways to bring down the great magical tyrant of Lord Voldemort. And our heroes, Harry, Hermione and Ron are on a quest, and the baddies aren't the only demons they have to battle - they also have to deal with their own self-doubts, mistrust of each other and keeping up the motivation to continue. And I think this is why some deranged fools think the film is drawn out - we're not just dealing with the wham-bam-thankyou mam action flick. These critics are suffereing the same frustrations that Ron feels with Harry's lack of understanding of his difficult mission. So I am going to say that this misunderstanding by some douches is actually indicative of the successes of the film.
The whole concept of The Guerillas vs The Tyrant is a well trodden path, in film, books and real-life history. And it is this idea that makes Deathly Hallows so good. The concept of prejudice and power is woven through the tale of Voldemort's rise to power, reflecting the idea that "Might is Right" (also appearing smeared across the windscreen of a redneck ute in enormous slime green letters, seen on the main street of Port Mac - a nauseating sight). This kind of mentality has lead to the success of dozens of tyranical autocracies. Fear, violence and the threat of death is a powerful tool. Ask Poland. Ask Kim Jong Il. Ask Joseph Stalin. The parallels between Hitler's Third Reich and the reign of Voldemort and the Death Eater's are clearly drawn in this film. Down to the beautiful-if-morbidly-disturbing art deco design of the anti-muggle propaganda. The message in this is clear - the power of the mighty is not righteous, and should not be idly watched by the fearful and the meek.
But speaking of the beautiful, this is a stunningly crafted film. Yates has found all of the most gorgeous locations in Great Britain, and our heroes apparate between and across them. Frosted forests, and chalky cliffs, sweeping moors and deep lochs. Breathtaking scenery plays another character in this, the 7th film, as Harry and his buddies break free of the confines of Hogwarts to really explore the world, testing its limitations and their own. (Plus the sneaky shots of Picadilly and Shaftsbury Ave gave me that London Nostalgia that I have discussed before.)
Stunning too is the animated sequence in the middle of the film, telling a Potter-verse fairy tale. It is done in the style of shadow puppetry (and I am ALWAYS going to love some good puppetry), with a Middle Eastern flavour. Directed by Ben Hibon, this section is easily a highlight of the film, and is a highly effective method of exposition/intertextuality. Hermione narrates the story, voice over style, as the shadows meld and twist and flesh out the tale. It is sharp-intake-of-breath kind of cinema. Apparently, Hibon is a named starter for a new Peter Pan feature, and I am intrigued as to what he will do with it.
Also beautiful are the effects, and some of the performances. But we are playing with some of the greatest actors Britain has ever produced. Bill Nighy appears for far too brief a time - though his accent is confused, a little. Alan Rickman is as always spectacular, but again, doesn't get much screen time. Rhys Ifans is new to the franchise, and he embodies Xenophilia Lovegood (gotta love nominative determinism!) with empathy, if perhaps a little too much shouting. As ever, Ralph Feinnes is noselessly brilliant, acting his way around a complete olfactory deficiency.
Of the three main youngsters, there is still some clunkiness. I think a drinking game incorporating the jaw-clenches of Daniel Radcliff, the eye-brow-wiggles of Emma Watson and the exaggerated-gulps of Rupert Grint would be a rollicking good time, but we would all be plastered by the end of the first act. I think Grint has developed into the most mature of the performers. Radcliff and Watson are still a bit reliant on shouting and stomping to convey their emotion. And I think by the time they are 17, the hormonal angst is generally all inverted (based on real life experience) especially for thinky types like these. And sure, I might be slightly biased towards Grint because he is an adorable, funny ranga (it is no secret that I have a tinge of a twinge for a ginge) who has filled out nicely. Hmmm. Oops, got distracted a little...
There are still some great gaping plot holes, old ones from previous films and new ones created. Some have been filled with less than convincing plot-gravel - the introduction of Bill Weasley for the first time? Clunky much?? And there are others that I am interested to see how they are dealt with. Regarding Lupin and Tonks, and their glossed over announcement from the first scenes. And Lilly Potter has been overlooked again.
If you haven't seen the earlier films, never read the books, and generally couldn't give a snot-flavoured bean about Harry Potter, then don't bother with Deathly Hallows. You will be confused and befuddled, and may need to be oblivated if you are to go on with your life. But true believers should love it. And we can't wait for the next one - only til July this year!
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