You got to know when to hold 'em... Or "On Happiness"

Caution: This post is bound to contain a shedload of mixed metaphors. I haven't even written them yet, but I just know they are floating under the surface. See? There is one already. How can a metaphoric shedload of metaphors, float metaphorically under the non-specified metaphoric surface.

Yes, get on with it!

Sometimes life is tops and awesome. There is love, there is time for playing, there is boozy nights and movies and finding joy in your work and getting full rested nights of sleep. Usually in those snapshot moments, it is difficult to pinpoint, difficult to state explicitly "Right now, right at this moment in time, I am Happy."

Those Perfect Moments (tm) are always easier to pinpoint retrospectively. And in 20-20 hindsight it is so easy to see how grounded you once were. How tethered you felt to your own existence, to your own destiny. How in those moments, the future, the present and the past seem so crystalised, so enlightened, so clear.

Usually the tail of those Perfect Moments (tm) is something totally out of your own control. Increased workload. Bad weather. The potential love of your life telling you that his hopes and dreams are diametrically opposed to your own.

I have always thought that ultimate happiness and fulfilment was a gamble. You need to risk something of yourself in order to gain fully. You need to put yourself out there to love and be loved in order to truly reap the rewards. At some point, you have to put all your chips into the middle of the table, put all your money on the cards you have in your hand. But unlike in gambling, where there is only one winner, I have always seen the potential for an everyone-wins kind of hand. Like both players have a royal flush in hearts.

And I know that goes against the rules of poker. I know that in the card game, there is only one winner. And the danger is that if you push all your chips out there, that your opposition will take all your brighly coloured chips, and your Rolex, and the deeds to your house, and your life savings, as well as your dignity, self-respect and potential to love again, and he will bound giddily away never to be seen from again.

Herein lies the gamble, the risk.

But imagine if your opponent didn't do that. Imagine he (and I use that gendered pronoun loosely, feel free to sub in the gender of your own choosing) also pushed in his chips, his life-savings, his emotional guard, his fears and prejudices and previous heartbreaks. And you both laid your cards on the table, to reveal matching, incedibly high scoring yet even hands.

And you all lived happily ever after.

That might happen one day, right? I guess I am kind of looking for a little reassurance that the crazy Viking cloud ship, with the puffin on the prow, is floating towards some kind of direction. Or at least has a tether somewhere to the ground so that it might not float on forever and ever without stopping. And I am hoping the universe might get back to me on that some time soon.

... An Indulgence anyway

I said, "Winter peddys. It's a bit of an indulgence, really"

The Hungry One thought I said "Paddy the Ninja is a bit of an indulgence."

I thought he said "Patting the ninja is a big of an indulgence.

All are now held to be universal truths.

Knife, Ask, Monster: A trilogy of awesome

You might think working in the Boy Factory might lead me to reading more adult or more trashy books when it comes to holidays. But truthfully, I don't think I ever quite left the Young Adult section of the bookshop. All of my favourites come from there, and not in a nostalgic kind of way. And not in a "It's an easy read" kind of way. I love the depth, the symbolism, the sophistication of the modern Young Adult novel. Or series of.



Patrick Ness' Chaos Walking trilogy is one such example. A post-apocalyptic coming of age tale, with Todd finding himself and discovering the New World on a developing settlement on a new planet. Sexual politics, racial prejudice, the overload of information in this post-Web 2.0 world, power, responsibility, terrorism... Ness deals with all of this in a delicious way, with stunningly drawn characters and a depth of emotion.

As other reviewers have noted, it is near impossible to discuss this book, or these books without giving away delicious details that are such a joy to discover in the rollercoaster of reading it. Just know this: JK Rowling has done a great deal for the increased publication of quality young adult fiction. Reading Harry has taken away lots of the negative stigma associated with reading kids books. But even more importantly, it is because of the popularity of her books that really excellent quality novels like this one have been published. Then again, I also blame her for the fact that Stephanie Meyer managed to get that vomit-in-the-shape-of-a-book-called-Twilight published. But that is a blogpost for another date...

The classification of Young Adult has generally lead to some heated diatribes, like this from Frank Cottrell Boyce in The Guardian (also loosely a review of the Chaos Walking trilogy). This article from The New Yorker also bellows about the brilliance of Young Adult dystopian novels. The general concensus of those whose opinion is more widely published than mine is that the YA section of the library and the bookshop is not the vacuous wasteland it has been in the past. The voices, the conflicts, the metaphors and the journeys of these books are rich and deep and brilliant in their construction and execution.

And I know this sounds like me trying to justify my penchant for kiddies' books. But seriously, they are just so awesome.

I am so utterly impressed with Patrick Ness and his trilogy. I don't understand why there isn't a copy of this book in everybody's hands, on buses and tubes and train platforms the world over. It is not without its critics. Punkadiddle thinks it is too violent (to which I say 'suck it up, tinkerbell, the violence raises the stakes, the violence is not meaningless, and not gratuitous). Jenny Brooks (a blogger who reads the end first) has issues with the structure and dialect (which is actually what hooked me in the first few pages) but ultimately she has much love for the story.

I wouldn't be overly surprised if this trilogy gets picked up for films. The narrative structure, particularly in the second two volumes, is really filmic... but I don't want to give away too much!

The first two volumes, The Knife of Never Letting Go and The Ask and The Answer, are in paperback - they have been out for a few years. The third, Monsters of Men was released in the last few weeks and at this stage is only in hard cover. This is a recommendation of the Highest Order.

Speaking of Y-A Dystopian... Only six weeks until the conclusion of The Hunger Games trilogy is released. Perhaps a re-read about Kitness is asked for...?

BAAA bup BAAA. BUPBUP BAAAAAAAA

(this title must be sung or played with horns)




The A Team.

Iconic show of decades gone by. Launching pad for the career of Mr T. Source of so many Spaced references. Inspiration behind the best little Aussie team to put on a show in Edinburgh.


And a pretty kickarse action flick.


Granted, I love love Bradley Cooper. And have since the days of Alias. One of my London flatmates was a Vaughn girl. One liked the icyness of Sark. But I always had eyes only for Will Tippin. Boyish green. Sparkling pale eyes. Sigh!


And another grant must be that I was totally hungover. And in the mood for some seriously trashy trash, incapable of consuming much more than the poppiest of popcorn movies.


But I loved this movie. So unlikely. So so funny. Fantastic action sequences, and iconic characters, soundtracks and one liners.

It took me AGES to figure out that Murdock was being played by Sharlto Copely (the dude from District 9) and he was so so good. Quentin 'Rampage' Jackson filling the boots of Mr T had a big task... as well as a rediculous slash hysterical slash scarily fitting name. And I'm under no delusions - Mr T not the greatest actor of anybody's generation. See the Snickers ad for evidence of that. So he did a pretty good job. Liam Neeson, he of the velvety voice, seems to make some strange choices in films. I still haven't seen Taken, but I hear it is a laugh. And he hops from period battle dramas to Star Wars and back again. But his Hannibal is honourable and likable. Even though I kept thinking 'wow, he must reek of cigar smoke... is he really allowed to smoke there?'

And Bradley was pretty droolworthy... Ah. Faceman... Jessica Beil may have rediculously pouty mouth. But I would have swapped for a little while just to have a turn.

I found it interesting that the enemy in this one is not the Arabs. Not the paranoid Bush-era anti-Muslim stuff that there seems to have been for a few years. Not even really hiding behind a non-descript accent. The Man, The Establishment, The Government... these are the things it is OK to question now. Does that mean this poppiest of popcorn is a part of the revolution...?

The quest for an 'S' on my chest

Amidst the Football Fever that has taken over the world (not just the town, or the state, or the country... as OTHER football fevers (note:lower case) have done before), the Mighty U14s took to the park today for the first time in a month. And while I have enjoyed my Saturday mornings to myself, I have missed them playing. Have missed barking instructions from a sideline, and have missed getting to the end of a fairly fruitless hour, full of adrenaline and frustration.

Unfortunately, there are only 4 teams in our division this year. Which means there is only 3 weeks in each round, and we revisit the same faces quite frequently. Again, contributing to the frustration.

And when one of my midfield rep-player stars has a heel injury that we are waiting to heal (that would be the 5th time I have made that lame joke... but the first time I have made that one), and when my stopper injured his back last night at rugby, and my sweeper's thumb is being "gay" (I am interpreting this as "not straight", for fear of launching in to another lecture), and one of my strikers got belted square in the eye by a now suspended Year 10 thug... We weren't fielding a team running at full strength. And ended up drawing 2-2, when on paper we really should have run away with it.

Interestingly, both teams seem to have been watching plenty of SBS. So much diving and tumbling, and even a little bit of too-far-up-the-field offside-traps reminiscent of Lucas Neill. An ex-Mighty U13 player even got a yellow card. Good to see the boys are as inspired as I am by the World Cup.

Last year, we started weak, and the Mighty U13s built and grew over the season to finish 3rd on the ladder. This year, we started really strong. Our first cut was the deepest. And since then, we have hardly scratched the surface.

I quite like to refer to my sidekick and myself as Supercoaches. But I fear this title is not deserved at this stage...

Friday Night Letdown

I named my car Henry when I got him 5 years ago. He is a 15 year old bottle green Mazda, with a grey tweed interior. With the tweed, and the overwhelming desire for him to be reliable, I thought Henry was a fitting name.

And most of the time, he does really well for me. He starts a bit dodgy - a new starter motor has been required since I got him. He hates the cold, especially in the mornings. He has steered me into life-saving swamps. He has zoomed me up and down the New England countless times. He has been a good egg.

Sparky hates him. "Scrap Metal." Though not all of us can swan about in a brand new Rav4.

I know he is a bomb. But to me, he is Tha Bomb.

Until he decided to unceremoniously shit himself in the drive thru at Oporto. A guilty pleasure on a Friday night, with extra, extra chilli... OK, maybe the staff know my order now...

Battery. Dead. Groaning and choking.

Phone call to NRMDad, swooping in to the rescue with the jumper leads in the Merc (27 year old Merc...) and I was on my way again.

The things that annoy me the most about this situation:
a) This is a shitty way to spend a Friday night.
b) Sparky is proven correct. Grrr.
c) Admitting to my parents that I am partaking in fast-food. Junk guilt still exists, even though I have smashed through the 30 age barrier.
d) Henry is NOT living up to his reliable name.

And now I have to ponder The Next Car question...?

Round Ball Fever

The Boy Factory is not usually a hospitible place for The World Game. The round ball has been booted for many more centuries than that weird egg shaped one. There are millions more players of soccer, billions more viewers and supporters. There is more money in the salaries and sponsorships than any other sport (though golf has the biggest prize money). And the World Cup Finals are the Biggest Sporting Event in the world.

And I love it.

Last World Cup, with Guus, and Viduka, and the new A League, Australia was on a football upswing. Things were good. Unreasonably good, really. We were punching well above our weight and made it through some very lucky games. I have hope, and I have belief in the Socceroos, but I would never profess to having a depth of confidence in them. I mean we got really lucky, but we are really not a footballing nation. Rugby? Yes. League? One of the few. AFL? The only (though Gaellic is similar...). Cricket? Carve it up. Speed skating...? Well, our Socceroos are a little like Steve Bradbury.

George Negus, self confessed football tragic, describes us as a bit like a third world country when it comes to development in football. As our focus is split between codes and sports, our athletic talents are divided and conquered. Hence the long times between trips to the World Cup Finals waterhole.

The Socceroos tragic opening this year was very tricky to watch. What with the sandpaper lining my eyelids at 4am, it wasn't just the emotional impact of watching the boys in blue (and NOT green and gold???!?!? What is WITH that??!?!?) impale themselves on their own mediocrity. Germany really are a superb team. With their crisp white uniforms (a little too white, perhaps?) and brilliant ball skills. And a vast depth of experience playing as a team.

I was bitterly disappointed in the way that Lucas Neill's boys played. There was no trust. There was no passing. There was great gaping corridors opening up in the back line. I was almost surprised the Aussies weren't laying down strip lighting so the Germans could see their way towards the goal a little better. There were so so many failed offside traps. There was so much backchat to the ref.

And then there was the ref dishing out cards to all and sundry for the minorest of taps and slides. Timmy Cahill was sent packing on a red for a nothing tackle based more on momentum than malice. The tiny ex-Samoan really holds the hopes of the nation on his fairly low-to-the-ground shoulders (hey! look at the judgement from the tall girl!!.... he is probably about my height...) and with the red, Cahill was promised a few extra days holiday.

And of course there is the coach blame. Verbeek actually didn't field a striker til about 3/4 the way through. Cahill was playing up front, but he is a midfielder...? There was no towering Josh Kennedy... and Kewell (also a midfielder) was decidedly noticable in his absence from the field.

The Mighty Under 14s have the benefit of my watchful yet inexperienced coaching eye each Saturday morning. They hear my ladylike bellow from the sideline; encouraging, cajoling, instructing. Dramatically falling over when breakaways miss the goal mouth. Biting my fist when the ball sneaks behind our backline. And each week we talk about trust. We talk about passing. We talk about filling the gaps, about letting each other run out, about picking up the slack behind each other. They still need me to talk about the importance of shooting - you can't score if you don't shoot (the same advice applies for chasing tail, too).

On Saturday morning, if my boys play like the Socceroos did, they will be seriously punished at training next week.