Like sands through the hourglass, these are the days of our lives
Weird day yesterday. Played soccer, we sucked. Went out to dinner, had a semi-philosophical discussion, wondered how I related to the world, became slightly depressed. Got home, was told my grandma had had a heart attack.
Now, as my grandma basically falls into the 'extremely frail little old lady' category of grandmas, to hear that she had had a heart attack was not good, indeed my Mum looked pretty haggard when she told me, and I was thinking bad things. But as it turned out, it was one of these minor heart attacks. Apparently she took the wrong medication which was out of date or something, and it didn't work. So she pressed her alarm button thingy (and here I must be grateful that she has one from St. Johns, not Armourguard, because some incompetent neanderthal pleb in the Auckland monitoring centre would probably have taken 10 minutes to notice), the ambulance came, and they sorted her out. So she was in hospital overnight, but is already back home this afternoon. Which is nice.
An odd concept, the minor heart attack. 'Heart attack' sounds like such a bad thing, to think that you can have one and laugh it off and be back to normal the next day seems well and truly wrong. Obviously it is still bad, and no doubt extremely scary. But it must be weird to be at an age, or in a medical condition, where your chest starts hurting, and you think 'Well, here we go again. Is this it this time? Or is it just another irritating minor heart attack?'
There are so few certainties in life, and I would say no absolutes - I think there's room for doubt in anything, no matter how infinitesimally small the margin of error. Given this, you have to find a few things you are reasonably sure of and hold on to them, and make them certainties, unless you are preapred to embrace the entirely random nature of the universe, which I have quite a bit of trouble doing. I need a few things to take for granted. One of the things I like to take for granted is that tomorrow, bar something occurring that is far outside the normal realms of possibility, like a jet engine falling on my house, I will not wake up dead. How strange it seems that probably billions of people, not just old people, but sick people, and people in war zones, or famine stricken areas, or maybe people doing extremely dangerous jobs, don't even get that slight peace of mind, and wake up and think 'Well, there's a reasonable chance I might die today.' How far removed is that from my universe? Here is why we have terrorism, so that millions of Americans or Australian tourists in Bali or commuters in London that feel that they should be able to take it for certain that they will be alive tomorrow if they just go about their business, have that tiny bit of extra doubt (no matter how blown out of proportion it is, and it undoubtedly is) added to their lives. How unfair that their reality should be forced an insignificantly tiny bit closer to that of people in Israel or Palestine, or the vast majority of Africa, or what people faced for years (and continue to do so) in East Timor or Bosnia or Sri Lanka.
One of my Dad's favourite quotes by a bloke called L.P Hartley is: "The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there." Well, being old is a foreign country too, and I have little idea of the language they speak or the currency they use. I have no real idea what life must be like there. And I won't learn just because I know some old people. It's like attempting to gain a thorough understanding of Japanese culture by having a 10 minute conversation with a camera toting bus dwelling tourist. People say things like "Well, so-and-so is getting old" like that explains everything, which sometimes it does. But that doesn't mean that they understand what it's like over there. And they're not going to know until they emigrate.
Recently, with everybody sort of turning 25 and changing demographics and whatever, or maybe going to a concert or a party where there are a lot of 18 -20 year old bright young things flitting about, we're all tending to say 'Arrgghh, we're so old, how depressing' etc. Well, newsflash: we're not old. And we don't know what it is to be old. And we won't for a while yet, we're not even halfway for God's sake. And everything I see indicates that this is in general a really good thing. So enjoy it while it lasts, because you'll have plenty of time to feel and act old when you really are. Another quote, from George 'I came to New Zealand on a Sunday and found it closed' Bernard Shaw: 'Youth is a wonderful thing. What a crime to waste it on children.'
Unlike some other people, I will not sit in judgement of Michelle lest I incur her wrath (not that I have anything but nice things to say about such a lovely young woman, mind.) All I will say here is that she is absolutely right, Star Wars is good. Nice one Michelle. However, I must argue that not all men are scum - generally the scum are the ones that women are interested in. An unfortunate conundrum. Ah, but I get to vent about this later should this man's plan come to fruition.
I'm glad James has jumped in with some language policing of his own. Sometimes I feel my thin red under line (Microsoft Word joke) is stretched to the breaking point and I just can't cope any more. Tim's giant entry was full of so, Many typos i didnt no wear two start. Nice to have someone else on the team; I was just about to try and find the time and energy to have a go at 'ridiculous' as well. (Keep up the good work with 'weird' though everyone.)
Once again I have failed to write some thesis. This is a continuing theme. Perhaps I should regard it as another certainty I can add to my collection. Maybe if I do so the universe will end up doing what it does to most of my others, and turn it on it's head. Aha, taste my reverse psychology, universe.
Anyway, end spoon.
November 25, 2002
November 18, 2002
November 13, 2002
November 12, 2002
And furthermore...
I forgot to mention last night that primo procrastination site The Spark (Internet Like Burning, many an Armourguard shift it saved from total boredom) now has the the Dateable test, the Insanity test, and the Best Friend test, the latter 2 in particular being highly amusing. So if you've got nothing better to be doing that reading this, for example, you should go and be amused and find out what percentage insane you are.
Right, carry on...
I forgot to mention last night that primo procrastination site The Spark (Internet Like Burning, many an Armourguard shift it saved from total boredom) now has the the Dateable test, the Insanity test, and the Best Friend test, the latter 2 in particular being highly amusing. So if you've got nothing better to be doing that reading this, for example, you should go and be amused and find out what percentage insane you are.
Right, carry on...
Dangnabbit, I've been hornswoggled
Bart: That ain't been popular since aught six, dagnab it.
Homer: Bart, what did I tell you?
Bart: No talking like a grizzled 1890s prospector...consarn it.
Thanks to here for that. Google is all good, I knew I could remember that line and all it took was typing 'bart simpson grizzled prospector' into it to find the exact quote, on the number one link. But more bizzarely, this oddly named site was listed as 4th most likely possibility, due in part to O J Simpson. The internet. Again with being strange.
Anyway the point is that Tim has duped me into coming into the Loft, that den of iniquity (side note, that curio shop in town called the Den of Antiquity: ha!), in order to 'do work'. It's not clear what this 'doing work' involves exactly, although it seems to be a lot of messing about on the internet and adding to the GWA (about time somebody did, I was going to do it myself when next I was in danger of actually getting some thesis done). All-in-all this has not proved the entertaiment-fest that I had hoped for, and that he had promised. Still, there's always time for a bit of hot blog action, so to speak.
The last week or so has actually been filled with interesting-type activities. Oh no, here come 'Tales of the Weekend' again, I know, but then I'm feeling a tale banal, so sue me. Perhaps I'll throw in some biting and incisive social commentary. Don't hold your breath though.
Donnie Darko which was an extremely cool if more than a little weird movie, although not as weird as some (and I'm afraid James Tremewan is the only one that can ever understand - visions of Richard Burton running around imploring "My need! My NEEEEEED!!!" can never be truly erased from one's consciousness). No, Donnie Darko was weird in that good and highly intelligent manner, or as we decided later 'our brains hurt, but in a good way'. I may also add that not since Sexy Beast ('Yes! No. Yes! No. Yes! No. Yes! No. Yes. No.' Ah, just rent it if you have no idea as to what I'm talking about, it's also good) has a cinema screen been graced by such a goddamned scary rabbit. Rabbits! Who would have thought they had a potential to be menacing as a species? Apart from, as James pointed out (and this was only comically menacing) Monty Python? I submit no-one. But no, here's this rabbit in this film that, in context, had to be one of the most unnerving things in a movie I think I've ever seen, up there in fact with Bill Pullman walking through a deserted, completely silent, very dark hallway in his house, in Lost Highway. In fact, if someone in the scary rabbit suit had walked down the aisle of the theatre at the appropriate time in the movie, I think I would have had a complete panic attack (AAARRRGGHH, Oh God oh God oh GOD, it's the SCARY RABBIT!!! Chriiiiist! Get out of my way! RUN!!!!). It's cool though, because the scary rabbit plays an intricate part in the time travel. Yes, I know what you're thinking, but it all makes sense (kind of, it helped to have the additional information stuck up on the walls by the Rialto), and the guy who both wrote and directed it needs to be very seriously congratulated. I urge everyone to go and see it that has not done so, and inform me when you do (if you are in the same country as me) because I would be more than happy to give it a repeat viewing.
In non-scary-rabbit-related-matters, I want to know why I always type 'because' as 'becasue' almost without fail, and I want to know now, damn it.
Answers on the back of a stamped, self addressed cabbage to:
Ben's Mysterious Constant Typo Competition
22B Baker Street
Stoke-Woding by the Mill
But Only On Tuesdays.
James T's post from Clapham illustrates that England, and I think probably Europe in general, has much cooler place names than we do here. 'Clapham' definitely sounds like a place with a bit of history and character, not like boring old Riccarton or Linwood or Cashmere, although it's probably all in the connotations. But mostly we got the boring names from our colonists I think ( "We shall name this beautiful part of this exotic new land...Russell! He's a friend of mine back home who owns 17 percent of the United Kingdom"), and had rely on the Maori language to come up with a few interesting (and original) placenames, like Taumatawhakatangihangakoauauotamateapokaiwhenuakitanatahu, and I'm not making that up. There are local exceptions of course (will the mystery of who 'Murray Ainsley' was and why he had a Christchurch suburb named after him ever be solved?), but I mean really, who would you rather play soccer for, Murray Ainsley or West Ham? See also Arsenal, Queens Park, Tottenham Hotspur, Aston Villa, Ipswich, Crystal Palace (how cool is that?) and the brilliantly denominated Sheffield Wednesday. Then in greater Europe there's Juventus, Inter Milan, Real Madrid (as opposed to Imaginary Madrid), Bayern Munich, Ajax Amsterdam, and my personal favourite, Dynamo Kiev. Meanwhile, what is New Zealand's big professional soccer team named?
The Auckland Kingz.
Not only is the name 'Auckland' not particularly interesting, but it's Kingz with a 'z'. Arrrrggghh. I find thee guilty of an affront to the English language, the Kingz, and I sentence you to be hung by the neck until you are dead, which, seeing the way you have been going in the last few games, will be of no detriment to your defensive play.
Anyway, where was I before I went off on this extremely random tangent? Oh yes, events of the week. Friday evening saw a barbecue at Chez Nic's Mum (Le Maison de la Mason's Mere). Once again I appointed myself head barbecue chef guy, chief in charge of burning meat. I do get somewhat upset however when people want to go cooking their Sizzlers within er, tasteshot of my delicate gourmet barbecue sensibilities. I will make no further comment on my own personal view of this particular product, save to post for the record that pizza flavoured sizzlers are now available. Mmmm, the great taste of pizza, now available as a sausage. Oh, dear God, the horror. Following cooking their was eating, and listening to the Muppets album, and then strangely enough the 'Deliverance' soundtrack, on the good ol' LP player, which only served to illustrate -
1) Never go rafting in hillbilly country, and;
2) The Muppets should be back on TV right now damnit, so we can appreciate them on a whole new level.
- although not necessarily in that order.
Saturday's cricket was an unfortunate waste of time due to a combination of circumstances, prime factor among them being the opposition were a bunch of infuriating dullards. There was one side effect of possible biological interest though, which occurred during the 27th over of the Lancaster Park-Woolston (see - Woolston? No wonder they were infuriating dullards, coming from a place named Woolston) innings when I went to throw the ball into the keeper and my arm unexpectedly flew off, striking the leg bail and technically running the batsman out. No, but seriously folks, what happened was that during the day I put on sunscreen as you do, and was duly not burnt, except for the little scarred / healing new skin bit on my face acquired on my previous get robbed / fall down adventure. Sunscreen aided it not. So the small slightly pink patch on my chin went noticeably more pink. Curious. I guess it was sort of naive skin that didn't know anything about the big bad world, and laughed off the friendly offer of help from concerned sunscreen, ignorant of the brutally harsh treatment it would soon receive from the UV hands of the nasty sun. Well, I suppose pride comes before a fall, or possibly a rolling stone gathers no moss.
Hmmm, looking back on it now, I'm not sure that that (English: silly) last story was worth telling. Well, I did warn you I was feeling banal. I will accept the judgement of my peers on that one (but not you Tim. Get back to your oars, scum).
Saturday night saw nerdly activity in the form of internet gaming. Now, me and my friends have been accused of being geeky on occasion by those who know us (and indeed we often accuse ourselves), and the fact for example that I know exactly what a Blastech DL-44 is demonstrates that there is perhaps some weight to these allegations. However, anyone in doubt of just how much further towards the 'Steve Urkel' side of the geek scale one can be should take the time to stick the head in the door of the seriously hardcore domain of geekery that is the LAN in Cathedral Square. This is a place without natural light, a humid, moist, slightly smelly place bathed only in the eerie crepuscular glow of 19 inch monitors, and where the constant sounds of gun and laser fire and furious mouse clicking are punctuated by long bursts of angry-sounding rhetoric in various Asian languages. This is exactly the kind of place where that guy in Hong Kong or wherever it was sat down, didn't get up for 86 hours, even to sleep or eat, and then died from exhaustion. And it's always a bit of an ego-boost to see this kind of thing, because I know that my attitude is while hard-core computer gaming may be a fun place to visit occasionally, I really wouldn't want to live there. And by the looks of it, there are people that virtually do live there. Scary (he said, ironically having been typing in front of this screen for a good 2 hours at this point). Fresh air, people! It's not corrosive (or not much yet, anyway). Which reminds me that this summer, thesis permitting of course (and that's no small obstacle), I plan to go tramping somewhere. Interested parties should notify me of said interest, and we'll duly go get lost in them thar hills.
Yesterday evening saw me at my younger brother Dan's flatwarming at the flat christened 'Hoo-House 2' (It's an Al Pacino in Scent of a Woman thing, apparently), which was good. Congratulations were also in order for him for his feat of sleeping through his only exam (in the remaining course he had left, having not handed the course work in sufficiently quickly in his other two not to fail) and then actually somehow managing to talk the lecturer in charge of the course (Dr Orange, oh he of such quotes as "Hitler had a lot of admirable qualities. He was a vegetarian. He believed in kindness to animals and public works. And he thought people who like skiing were stupid" and "Those great, hairy murdering Viking bastards slaughtered my ancestors mercilessly, damn their eyes") to actually create an exam for Daniel personally and get him a supervisor for it especially, so he could sit an exam of one. Daniel just showed up with his work from his 2 previous attempts at the course (3rd time lucky I guess)and begged, spectacularly successfully it would seem. Good work him.
Drama-folk are weird, and refer to 'Romeo and Juliet' as 'R & J'. Wankers. The party was good though, and featured some excellent back-yard cricket and half a bottle of black acrylic paint being poured on someone's head. Typical really. Dan's new flat also features rooms with walls of 4 different colours, and ordinary dinner plates enigmatically hung up as decorations, with crossed knives and forks as if they were antique swords. Strange. But cool.
So that's my last few days, really. I could add something extremely witty and urbane here, I'm sure, but Tim wants to take off now and we all know that I am of course slave to his whims. Oh yes, as a nod to Torshin's appropriate post regarding Armistice Day, here I am nearly 3 hours late with my favourite anti-war poem by a writing colleague of Wilfred Owens, Sigfried Sassoon. Certainly not as deep as Dulce Et Decorum Est, but it still somes up the whole stupidity of war thing, WWI in particular, pretty succinctly I think, plus what can I say, I'm a definite sucker for poems that I can memorise (just call me Philistine).
The General
"Good-morning; good-morning!" the General said
When we met him last week on our way to the line.
Now the soldiers he smiled at are most of ’em dead,
And we’re cursing his staff for incompetent swine.
"He’s a cheery old card," grunted Harry to Jack
As they slogged up to Arras with rifle and pack.
But he did for them both by his plan of attack.
Right then, that's about it for this epic. Let's see if this thing posts.
Bart: That ain't been popular since aught six, dagnab it.
Homer: Bart, what did I tell you?
Bart: No talking like a grizzled 1890s prospector...consarn it.
Thanks to here for that. Google is all good, I knew I could remember that line and all it took was typing 'bart simpson grizzled prospector' into it to find the exact quote, on the number one link. But more bizzarely, this oddly named site was listed as 4th most likely possibility, due in part to O J Simpson. The internet. Again with being strange.
Anyway the point is that Tim has duped me into coming into the Loft, that den of iniquity (side note, that curio shop in town called the Den of Antiquity: ha!), in order to 'do work'. It's not clear what this 'doing work' involves exactly, although it seems to be a lot of messing about on the internet and adding to the GWA (about time somebody did, I was going to do it myself when next I was in danger of actually getting some thesis done). All-in-all this has not proved the entertaiment-fest that I had hoped for, and that he had promised. Still, there's always time for a bit of hot blog action, so to speak.
The last week or so has actually been filled with interesting-type activities. Oh no, here come 'Tales of the Weekend' again, I know, but then I'm feeling a tale banal, so sue me. Perhaps I'll throw in some biting and incisive social commentary. Don't hold your breath though.
Donnie Darko which was an extremely cool if more than a little weird movie, although not as weird as some (and I'm afraid James Tremewan is the only one that can ever understand - visions of Richard Burton running around imploring "My need! My NEEEEEED!!!" can never be truly erased from one's consciousness). No, Donnie Darko was weird in that good and highly intelligent manner, or as we decided later 'our brains hurt, but in a good way'. I may also add that not since Sexy Beast ('Yes! No. Yes! No. Yes! No. Yes! No. Yes. No.' Ah, just rent it if you have no idea as to what I'm talking about, it's also good) has a cinema screen been graced by such a goddamned scary rabbit. Rabbits! Who would have thought they had a potential to be menacing as a species? Apart from, as James pointed out (and this was only comically menacing) Monty Python? I submit no-one. But no, here's this rabbit in this film that, in context, had to be one of the most unnerving things in a movie I think I've ever seen, up there in fact with Bill Pullman walking through a deserted, completely silent, very dark hallway in his house, in Lost Highway. In fact, if someone in the scary rabbit suit had walked down the aisle of the theatre at the appropriate time in the movie, I think I would have had a complete panic attack (AAARRRGGHH, Oh God oh God oh GOD, it's the SCARY RABBIT!!! Chriiiiist! Get out of my way! RUN!!!!). It's cool though, because the scary rabbit plays an intricate part in the time travel. Yes, I know what you're thinking, but it all makes sense (kind of, it helped to have the additional information stuck up on the walls by the Rialto), and the guy who both wrote and directed it needs to be very seriously congratulated. I urge everyone to go and see it that has not done so, and inform me when you do (if you are in the same country as me) because I would be more than happy to give it a repeat viewing.
In non-scary-rabbit-related-matters, I want to know why I always type 'because' as 'becasue' almost without fail, and I want to know now, damn it.
Answers on the back of a stamped, self addressed cabbage to:
Ben's Mysterious Constant Typo Competition
22B Baker Street
Stoke-Woding by the Mill
But Only On Tuesdays.
James T's post from Clapham illustrates that England, and I think probably Europe in general, has much cooler place names than we do here. 'Clapham' definitely sounds like a place with a bit of history and character, not like boring old Riccarton or Linwood or Cashmere, although it's probably all in the connotations. But mostly we got the boring names from our colonists I think ( "We shall name this beautiful part of this exotic new land...Russell! He's a friend of mine back home who owns 17 percent of the United Kingdom"), and had rely on the Maori language to come up with a few interesting (and original) placenames, like Taumatawhakatangihangakoauauotamateapokaiwhenuakitanatahu, and I'm not making that up. There are local exceptions of course (will the mystery of who 'Murray Ainsley' was and why he had a Christchurch suburb named after him ever be solved?), but I mean really, who would you rather play soccer for, Murray Ainsley or West Ham? See also Arsenal, Queens Park, Tottenham Hotspur, Aston Villa, Ipswich, Crystal Palace (how cool is that?) and the brilliantly denominated Sheffield Wednesday. Then in greater Europe there's Juventus, Inter Milan, Real Madrid (as opposed to Imaginary Madrid), Bayern Munich, Ajax Amsterdam, and my personal favourite, Dynamo Kiev. Meanwhile, what is New Zealand's big professional soccer team named?
The Auckland Kingz.
Not only is the name 'Auckland' not particularly interesting, but it's Kingz with a 'z'. Arrrrggghh. I find thee guilty of an affront to the English language, the Kingz, and I sentence you to be hung by the neck until you are dead, which, seeing the way you have been going in the last few games, will be of no detriment to your defensive play.
Anyway, where was I before I went off on this extremely random tangent? Oh yes, events of the week. Friday evening saw a barbecue at Chez Nic's Mum (Le Maison de la Mason's Mere). Once again I appointed myself head barbecue chef guy, chief in charge of burning meat. I do get somewhat upset however when people want to go cooking their Sizzlers within er, tasteshot of my delicate gourmet barbecue sensibilities. I will make no further comment on my own personal view of this particular product, save to post for the record that pizza flavoured sizzlers are now available. Mmmm, the great taste of pizza, now available as a sausage. Oh, dear God, the horror. Following cooking their was eating, and listening to the Muppets album, and then strangely enough the 'Deliverance' soundtrack, on the good ol' LP player, which only served to illustrate -
1) Never go rafting in hillbilly country, and;
2) The Muppets should be back on TV right now damnit, so we can appreciate them on a whole new level.
- although not necessarily in that order.
Saturday's cricket was an unfortunate waste of time due to a combination of circumstances, prime factor among them being the opposition were a bunch of infuriating dullards. There was one side effect of possible biological interest though, which occurred during the 27th over of the Lancaster Park-Woolston (see - Woolston? No wonder they were infuriating dullards, coming from a place named Woolston) innings when I went to throw the ball into the keeper and my arm unexpectedly flew off, striking the leg bail and technically running the batsman out. No, but seriously folks, what happened was that during the day I put on sunscreen as you do, and was duly not burnt, except for the little scarred / healing new skin bit on my face acquired on my previous get robbed / fall down adventure. Sunscreen aided it not. So the small slightly pink patch on my chin went noticeably more pink. Curious. I guess it was sort of naive skin that didn't know anything about the big bad world, and laughed off the friendly offer of help from concerned sunscreen, ignorant of the brutally harsh treatment it would soon receive from the UV hands of the nasty sun. Well, I suppose pride comes before a fall, or possibly a rolling stone gathers no moss.
Hmmm, looking back on it now, I'm not sure that that (English: silly) last story was worth telling. Well, I did warn you I was feeling banal. I will accept the judgement of my peers on that one (but not you Tim. Get back to your oars, scum).
Saturday night saw nerdly activity in the form of internet gaming. Now, me and my friends have been accused of being geeky on occasion by those who know us (and indeed we often accuse ourselves), and the fact for example that I know exactly what a Blastech DL-44 is demonstrates that there is perhaps some weight to these allegations. However, anyone in doubt of just how much further towards the 'Steve Urkel' side of the geek scale one can be should take the time to stick the head in the door of the seriously hardcore domain of geekery that is the LAN in Cathedral Square. This is a place without natural light, a humid, moist, slightly smelly place bathed only in the eerie crepuscular glow of 19 inch monitors, and where the constant sounds of gun and laser fire and furious mouse clicking are punctuated by long bursts of angry-sounding rhetoric in various Asian languages. This is exactly the kind of place where that guy in Hong Kong or wherever it was sat down, didn't get up for 86 hours, even to sleep or eat, and then died from exhaustion. And it's always a bit of an ego-boost to see this kind of thing, because I know that my attitude is while hard-core computer gaming may be a fun place to visit occasionally, I really wouldn't want to live there. And by the looks of it, there are people that virtually do live there. Scary (he said, ironically having been typing in front of this screen for a good 2 hours at this point). Fresh air, people! It's not corrosive (or not much yet, anyway). Which reminds me that this summer, thesis permitting of course (and that's no small obstacle), I plan to go tramping somewhere. Interested parties should notify me of said interest, and we'll duly go get lost in them thar hills.
Yesterday evening saw me at my younger brother Dan's flatwarming at the flat christened 'Hoo-House 2' (It's an Al Pacino in Scent of a Woman thing, apparently), which was good. Congratulations were also in order for him for his feat of sleeping through his only exam (in the remaining course he had left, having not handed the course work in sufficiently quickly in his other two not to fail) and then actually somehow managing to talk the lecturer in charge of the course (Dr Orange, oh he of such quotes as "Hitler had a lot of admirable qualities. He was a vegetarian. He believed in kindness to animals and public works. And he thought people who like skiing were stupid" and "Those great, hairy murdering Viking bastards slaughtered my ancestors mercilessly, damn their eyes") to actually create an exam for Daniel personally and get him a supervisor for it especially, so he could sit an exam of one. Daniel just showed up with his work from his 2 previous attempts at the course (3rd time lucky I guess)and begged, spectacularly successfully it would seem. Good work him.
Drama-folk are weird, and refer to 'Romeo and Juliet' as 'R & J'. Wankers. The party was good though, and featured some excellent back-yard cricket and half a bottle of black acrylic paint being poured on someone's head. Typical really. Dan's new flat also features rooms with walls of 4 different colours, and ordinary dinner plates enigmatically hung up as decorations, with crossed knives and forks as if they were antique swords. Strange. But cool.
So that's my last few days, really. I could add something extremely witty and urbane here, I'm sure, but Tim wants to take off now and we all know that I am of course slave to his whims. Oh yes, as a nod to Torshin's appropriate post regarding Armistice Day, here I am nearly 3 hours late with my favourite anti-war poem by a writing colleague of Wilfred Owens, Sigfried Sassoon. Certainly not as deep as Dulce Et Decorum Est, but it still somes up the whole stupidity of war thing, WWI in particular, pretty succinctly I think, plus what can I say, I'm a definite sucker for poems that I can memorise (just call me Philistine).
The General
"Good-morning; good-morning!" the General said
When we met him last week on our way to the line.
Now the soldiers he smiled at are most of ’em dead,
And we’re cursing his staff for incompetent swine.
"He’s a cheery old card," grunted Harry to Jack
As they slogged up to Arras with rifle and pack.
But he did for them both by his plan of attack.
Right then, that's about it for this epic. Let's see if this thing posts.
November 07, 2002
Similar to having 10,000 spoons when all you need is a knife, for example
I find it ironic that the more I read about internet publishing and blogging in researching for my thesis, the more enthusiastic about it I get, and yet it doesn't make me run off and write thesis, it makes me run off and write blogs - perhaps my the number one time consuming procrastination activity. Actually, this is a blatant lie, if we take Playstation and sport and board games and sitting around doing nothing much at all into account. However, blogging feels like it should really be thesis writing, perhaps because it's sitting down in front off a computer typing stuff. But is it? Unfortunately, no. And this blog isn't even that related to what I am doing. In fact I think I can safely label myself as being of no academic interest to journalism at all whatsoever. Thank God for that.
I find it ironic that the more I read about internet publishing and blogging in researching for my thesis, the more enthusiastic about it I get, and yet it doesn't make me run off and write thesis, it makes me run off and write blogs - perhaps my the number one time consuming procrastination activity. Actually, this is a blatant lie, if we take Playstation and sport and board games and sitting around doing nothing much at all into account. However, blogging feels like it should really be thesis writing, perhaps because it's sitting down in front off a computer typing stuff. But is it? Unfortunately, no. And this blog isn't even that related to what I am doing. In fact I think I can safely label myself as being of no academic interest to journalism at all whatsoever. Thank God for that.
November 06, 2002
For No Real Reason
I have moved this journal. I could justify it, but I won't. It is simply better to be at /cardinal than /journal. I could I suppose claim that this has fixed the archives, but that would be fallacious as the two events are totally unrelated. that the archives are fixed is just a bonus.
That is all.
I have moved this journal. I could justify it, but I won't. It is simply better to be at /cardinal than /journal. I could I suppose claim that this has fixed the archives, but that would be fallacious as the two events are totally unrelated. that the archives are fixed is just a bonus.
That is all.
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