The floor of eternal stench

So we might as well call AV stench central and have done with it. Not only did someone let rip in front of the film dvds, but mr stinky himself is in position at the listening post. Has been there for some time by the looks of things.

I don't want to shelve there, smells ba-aaad

With the best intentions of socialising

I decided to see a film with friends. The film - Transformers - was as bad as I had anticipated. It was created for preteen boys I think, and made me think very much of terrible 80's action films of yore. It was especially poignant when I saw the preview for Die Hard 4; everything came flooding back.

Most confronting - the transformers pimping out the main character. What was in it for them, hmmm?

Anyway, I'm glad I didn't pay full price, but I wish I could have those hours back.

Sheffield

The flooding in Sheffield sounds horrific for everyone. But I can't help espouse my flatemate's wish - I hope they rescued Def Leppard and the Human League first.

Don't you just hate the way Jesus hijacks everything?

[Image with thanks (and apologies) to DocLeder & www.somethingawful.com]


On my usual drab walk through central Dunedin today, I noticed posters had been plastered on bollards all through the octagon.

A hot new Christian act has evidently reached town, and they will no doubt liberate your soul. Their name: Transformer.

You may well imagine I had an involuntary outburst on the street - something blending laughter and suicidal despair. I think you all know why, but I will reiterate. As if it weren't bad enough that Transformers is being sullied by a remedial film, Christians just had to get involved as well. Christians will pervert anything to make it a god reference. Nothing, not even children's television, is sacred.

Anyway, I don't think I will see the band; I bet one of the band members plays the tambourine & thats only cool when you are in Scorpions.

Thunder, thunder

Thundercats!

The image resonates in bad ways

Sometimes it is better to just leave childhood television memories alone - consider this unwholesome publicity photo for the shortlived time travel series Voyagers!

Found

I have been carrying around a scrap of fabric for some days now, with the good intention of typing up the print on it. It came from a broken jacket donated to the op shop. The slogan was just too bizarre to ignore.

It said:

Shibuya TEE
made in tokyo toilet

Thanks Engrish! Thats almost as funny as a good ESOL lyric.

Me tlak purty wun daye

Just when I was congratulating myself on my leet typing skills, I come across a typo. Must be lack of motor function I think, but then I wonder - could it be...Freudian? Is it the message from Herne I had been waiting for? Is the lord moving in mysterious ways or perhaps it was the sweet song that calls the young sailors?

Anyway, not content with my usual teh, abotu and liek, I managed Turley. Or something along those lines. (Soemthing is another one by the way). I wonder if this has anything to do with a vague memory of the name Terry Turle? I am certain he had something to do with a classics documentary; maybe he was an even more unattractive Michael Wood? He was doomed in the spice stakes in the face of Wood's repeated boudoir shots and tight tan trousers. Possibly he was a wizened English man, I envisage him spraying spittle as he gets more and more excited about the ruins at Mycenae.

Dammit, I am too young to be losing my memory.

Snow

If I weren't so self absorbed, I would consider looking at other people's blogs so I could see their repulsive photos of snow. Snow on top of cars, the light-hearted snowball fight, dogs first experience of powder, ad nauseum. Snow? Bah Humbug!
Snow has made my day unpleasantly moist and I am outraged by it.
The only thing I can say in its favour is that it fell during my working week, so I got to harvest the council warmth.
The cat was unimpressed by the situation also; I tried throwing her out into it, and she scuttled back inside - keeping to the compressed snow of footprints all the way. Wuss.

Legitimate enterprise

[L7 - Wargasm]

Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality, but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotions know what it means to want to escape from these things.

The progress of an artist is a continual self-sacrifice, a continual extinction of personality.

Both T.S. Eliot

I was pondering writing & blog writing, and my relation to the two. Now, I by no means categorise myself with Eliot, but I do so love having canon opinion to legitimise my own. A lot of people use their writing as a means to express their emotions and innermost thoughts; I find it easier to self abnegate.

This no doubt sounds odd given the self-referential quality of all my posts. There is a method to it all though; writing about the mundane and ridiculous means that I don't actually have to think about life. Simultaneously I amuse myself and provide the expected outcome for the handful of people who may read this.

I am certain that thinking is a dismal activity, leading inexorably to knowledge of injustice, regret that there isn't a god to curse, and a bout of self pity. Things perk up when I contemplate my viking style wake though; horned helmets a must, and furry lace up boots if possible. I'd like a re-enactment society to be involved, and a hearty pitched battle - wargasm is always tasteful.

I'd quite like someone on a cliff-top to shake their fist and cry "noooo" as well, or perhaps "AUE!" The ancient Greeks were onto a good thing with their hired mourners; if I had my way there wouldn't be a full head of hair left in the venue.

Reality underwhelms me, and truth is overrated, so I eschew hearts, hands, overt or otherwise, sentiment & sensitivity and cut to the stench.

Human, all too human

Seems like AV is becoming the nexus of evil stench, a hell mouth if you like. Those nasty odours keep assaulting me when I am working there. Its only a matter of time before I am contaminated by the taint.
Today's secret smell was revolting, armpit secretions of the highest order. I expect great yellowing stains lurked under the coat of this member of the great unwashed. Yes, I was subjected to body odour of truely epic proportions.
Excuse me if I am typing badly, it may have hindered my motor function.

Things that make you go hmmmm

AV.
Scene of an unsolved crime.
A miasma of flatulence.
Who did it?
It wasn't me, and yet everyone will be wondering, what the hell is the library assistant doing behind that protective desk?

I have my suspicions.

Move over Liz

Ever heard of the Society for Creative Anachronism? Yeah, well apparently these people are our rulers, here in the 17th kindom of Lochac. I can't wait until they come to Dunedin - the SCA seems to have a strong presence here.

I am nearly certain the Naked Celt is one of them.

What is Herne trying to tell me?

Suggestions please

Rug burn

Continuing my avoidance of assignments - has anyone else noticed how all carpet commercials depict women as having an affinity with floor coverings? They are always shown lounging around on the carpet in improbable, and uncomfortable positions. I suppose if they showed a man doing that he'd look derelict or drunk.

The cat looks like it is about to have a fit of apoplexy, staring outraged at the screen. She is angry about the great cat food shortage of 2007.

Can't type any more, watching old episodes of Robin Hood and Herne the Hunter is on, I must ponder his mystical message (and hope for more uncut ad breaks)

So alone

I feel so desperately isolated right now, one of my e-mail servers is down so I can't check for the love. Damn you! Damn you all!

I should be doing school work so this is really interrupting my procrastinatory schedule.

My pussy senses evil is afoot

I've remarked earlier about the resident cat's lack of grey matter. I would even go further, universalize. I think cats, in general, are stupid. Stupider than dogs, inscrutability is just our rose tinted interpretation of a dormant look.
Anyway, what the hell is going on with books that have cats as sleuths. Ladies and gentlemen, its popular! Consider the Mrs Murphy books, written by Rita Mae Brown and Sneaky-pie Brown. These mysteries were so popular Rita Mae Brown has written 16 of them. OK so maybe Mrs Murphy the cat does not actually cuff any perps, but still, a cat co-author?
Lilian Jackson Braun is another popular author in the genre, with her hero Jim Quilleran and his pet cats Yum Yum, and the psychic Koko.
Light hearted fun? probably. I wonder why I am willing to suspend my disbelief for other genres, but not this one. Probably Myfanwy.

Scary fiction subgenres

So we have had the late run on fiction featuring established literary characters - Jasper Fforde and all that. Then there are the bizarre detective novel subgenres; knitting murders, chemical table mysteries, days of the week, letters of the alphabet, cat sleuths, sassy bints and hard boiled blokes. And then there are the Jane Austen rip offs; the Jane Austen Book Club, Flirting with Jane Austen, ad nauseum.
Lets say we combine these all.
Mr Darcy, of Pride and Prejudice fame, has rushed to London to pursue Lydia Bennett and the villainous Mr Wickham. He will salvage her reputation. But he wont spend all the time doing that. Just imagine how many other crimes he could solve, while out there on the mean streets of London. Traversing the slums, dealing out justice and good old fashioned English fisticuffs. It'd be righteous.

All hail Queen Carlotta

Primary school nemesis

Its always a peculiar feeling, when you see someone from far back in your past. Today I saw a teacher I encountered at primary school. Primary school was probably scene of my greatest triumph - my 5 year old poetry debut I Hate Sport was printed on the school newsletter. But alas, it was not all smooth sailing, and this teacher was one of the blemishes on my ordinary childhood.

Imagine my loathing when I had to serve him at the library today. OK, I enjoyed the fact he was older, doughier, and had a few more moles. But that set me thinking how fleeting our time is. Perhaps in a few years I'll be as old, bejowelled and miserable as he looked. At least I have not been naturally gited with the same sullenness.

Anyway, I can't accept defeat just yet; with the wonders of technology in the future I will be able to buy a new skin suit harvested from a 3rd world inhabitant. Then I shall stand on an ovecrowded beach laughing maniacally after I scream to the universe "At last, a tan!".

Body Fascists Unite!

It's Kyle McLachlan night on television tonight. I don't really want to see him, but in the interests of avoiding other chores I have to do.

Anyway, as I see his on screen permutations I am astounded by how old womanly he is beginning to look, in spite of that chin.




Sorry Kyle, I'm just being a dirty body fascist.

Indecent, er, actually rather decent really

While not exactly rewarding, working on my assignment has had one or two fruitful moments. Today it was this discovery about the Indecent Publications Act.

From Censored - by Paul Christoffel

Despite the clumsy inclusion of the phrase "or sound recording" throughout the provisions of the Indecent Publications Act, few sound recordings have ever come before the Tribunal. The first was in 1972, when Step by Step Instruction in Sexual Technique, by Miss Tuppy Owens, was found indecent.

I'd love to hear it, if there are any copies out there.

Actually, I had been considering writing fiction about Tony Hutchins. I think Miss Tuppy needs to be incorporated.

Flatmate hunting, again

Yes, we are once again on the hunt for a new flatmate. I wonder if we will have similarly dazzling punters as our last stint. So far interest has been from individuals who seem nice, and phone calls from people who ask about the vegetarian policy have been at a minimum.

"So it's a vegetarian flat right?"
"Yes, that's right"
"You wouldn't mind it if I brought steaks in for fry up though?"

Oh dear lord.

The vegetarian label sometimes requires suprising definition. For instance, some people call themselves vegetarian even though they will eat fish and chicken. A few years back some people would call that semi-veg; but I don't think that is an adequate term. semi-vegetarian might be when you have a mainly vegetarian diet but occasionally eat meat. How about Soft-core meat eater? Or semi-meatarian?

This picture works on so many levels

Don't you just hate boring days at work? Well I do. So I found this rousing image to liven up my day. Its got everything - and now I can go about my business in a sustained state of euphoria.

Thanks BBC

For whenever I can't think of anything interesting to say, there will be an intriguing article. This one relates to something like a Cargo Cult, except Prince Philip is the subject of their adoration.

Anyway, while we are on the subect of that illustrious man, you should all consider delving into Duke of Hazard: the Wit and Wisdom of Prince Philip. Admittedly this is too much for any normal person to manage in one go, but there are a few gems within for the casual reader. Treat it like the I Ching.

We should not be laughing

The really awful thing was, he spilt his soda.

Can anyone explain?

I've just been looking at a list of decisions made by New Zealand censorship authorities since the 1960s. Most of them seem rather clear cut, but as I scrolled down I noticed this:

21-Feb-92 The Limericks of Aleister Crowley
Crown Publications
Indecent in the hands of persons other than Tony Hutchins.

Can anyone explain this to me?

Terribly superficial of me

According to IMDB Nik Kershaw is 5'4" tall - thats about my height!
I don't know if I can respect his musical output any more, realising now that it was all the ventings of an individual suffering short man syndrome.

See, we don't need to abuse red heads when we have short people.

Let the backlash begin

No longer will we suffer this oppression in silence. Red heads of the world unite!

If I were in a bad 80's action film (incidentally bad faux 80's Van Halen is playing on C4) I might even say "Lets paint the town red", or "you're all going down in flames", or as Terry Readhead could put it, "You are the weakest link".

Scarlet O'Hara would have said "fiddle dee dee" while buildings exploded and burned behind her, maybe a few confederate soldiers groaning in the background.

Yet none of these quite resonates in the 80's action way I wanted.

Obviously the best catch phrases come attached to a particular gruesome death sequence.

Toast-and-water

I have, in the past, fantasized about time travelling. I would be jetted back to Victorian England for instance, and stun the adoring crowds with my very slight scientific knowledge. Did you know that the earth was round? for some 500 years? oh.

Look, I made fire!

I could handle some of the clothes - to plagiarise Robert Louis Stevenson, mine is a case for stays - and provided I arrived at a comfortable socio-economic placement I would muddle through with the aid of an ample household staff. With laudanum on tap and arsenic papers to hand I would be ready for any eventuality.

The only sticking point is the medical treatments. The second rate anaesthetics, the teeth pulling, the dubious hygiene and a lower standard of vision correction... the list goes on. The suffering did not just arise from the ailment either; invalid food was a special and horrific art reaching its zenith in England at the time. By the time I had brewed up a good, recurring case of gout I would be praying for a return to my mundane 21st century life.

Mrs Beeton, Testify:

INGREDIENTS - A slice of bread, 1 quart of boiling water.

Mode.—Cut a slice from a stale loaf (a piece of hard crust is better than anything else for the purpose), toast it of a nice brown on every side, but do not allow it to burn or blacken. Put it into a jug, pour the boiling water over it, cover it closely, and let it remain until cold. When strained, it will be ready for use. Toast-and-water should always be made a short time before it is required, to enable it to get cold: if drunk in a tepid or lukewarm state, it is an exceedingly disagreeable beverage. If, as is sometimes the case, this drink is wanted in a hurry, put the toasted bread into a jug, and only just cover it with the boiling water; when this is cool, cold water may be added in the proportion required,—the toast-and-water strained; it will then be ready for use, and is more expeditiously prepared than by the above method.

The same chapter also provides instruction for toast sandwiches if anyone out there wants to carb load.

Logo - oh no

It seems as if the London Olympics logo is not just failing on grounds of taste - it is a health hazard as well. See this BBC article.

Don't cry Brian May, Jesus still loves you.

It's time

It's been about a year and a half since I had a haircut, and my hair is back to meeting in the middle, like I am some trashy american current affairs presenter.

It is high time I had it all lopped off.

Aqua Schnapps update

Well, I've no doubt you were all anxiously awaiting the update from my Archer's Aqua Schnapps experience. Did I end up hitting the town with my posse, dressed up like angels? Did I succumb to the call of sequins and spandex?

No.

I was completely underwhelmed by the synthetic tang, but the next day I woke up feeling really sick. Now I would love to blame the alco-pop, but I suspect that I am getting the 'flu. Should have got that free injection.

Anyway, I missed out on volunteer work as a result, so I was quite the lady of leisure today. Should have hit the town with my peeps last night after all.

Herculian efforts

What a fantastic effort has gone into the design of the London 2012 Olympic logo; and haven't they captured the spirit of the '80s marvellously. In fact, it's as if Brian May was the design consultant.

Though to be honest, I always wanted to sleep with Brian May to get closer to the 1970s - that hair is channelling something funky.

Can I ever feel safe again?

When people face persecution like this?

And to think I was toying with the idea of further tempting fate by getting some sweet Patricia Bartlett glasses. People would find sand just so they could kick it at me.

But enough of that seriousness; I am broaching the Aqua Schnapps. All thoughts of spectacles will henceforth depart, and I'll soon be getting peroxided, blow waved and bouffant. The power of Archers compels me.

Mmmm, apple with chemical aftertaste.

Just to prove I don't always moan about ads

I was just thinking how the local deity smiled upon me the other day; two unopened bottles of aqua schnapps just sitting outside the dairy in a bag. Usually its only the neighbourhood dogs who get a treat from there, but soon my flatmate and I shall be spiralling into an alcopop frenzy. In all liklihood we shall be dancing around a handbag in the middle of the room.

But while I wait for my 250ml sugar water debauch I am making use of the living room while no-one else is around. Indulging my no longer secret passion for Robin of Sherwood. I have some videos taped from TV in the 80s, and there are some commercials left in the mix. Watties Jelly fruit, the Wella Woman ad, Mark Todd & Bell Tea, Flemings Chewy Muesli bars (Chew me out of my mind...a MIGHTY snack).

If I did not love the soft focus hey nonny nonny so much I would just fast forward to the next break.

Which brings me to another great thing about living around here. I can always wander up to Robin Hood park on those foggy Dunedin days, and earnestly hope that Herne the Hunter will appear to tell me that I am the chosen one. Any day now...

Rugby, our national religion

So, whats this about John Kirwan getting a knighthood his efforts in the mental health industry? Because he was on an ad?

WTF is this channel one news bulletin about the Women's representative being a man? The people on television are so irritating - "Isn't that what university is about, being controversial?" How the hell did these people get to university?
And thanks for that extra special mention of his mans mansness, and his messy first year abode. Hard hitting. Oh well, I suppose he could organise a chocolate eating, Johnny Depp watching night as well as any woman.

I am scientician

Ahhh, that powerful fresh accord of citrus and lavender. The haunting base notes of oak moss and sandalwood. It could only be Blue Stratos, fragrance of powerful and dynamic men.

Blue Stratos is one of the famous masculine fragrances, a classic which features as a landmark FOUGERE fragrance in the industry 'bible' the H&R Genealogy of masculine fragrances.

The Fougere fragrance concept is based upon the interplay between lavender and oak moss. Originally this perfume accord was intended to serve as a contribution to feminine fragrance creations. However, over time it came to be used more and more as an ingredient in masculine creations and is acknowledged to have underwritten many key developments within masculine fragrance, including the Blue Stratos fragrance in 1976.

So maybe I don't feel sorry for giving my father those scent packs every Christmas; its really classy (unlike the altogether too bracing Old Spice). I still owe my mother big time for the Yardley English Lavender though.

The Laws files

I suppose the first sign of an unhealthy obsession may be seeing something everywhere. I fear that Michael Laws, therefore, may be my next morbid fixation. Consider: I spent the past several months diligently avoiding Dancing With The Stars. How convenient, I thought, that they grouped together all the crap people in one easy to avoid show.

Boy did I get my comeuppance last night; damn channel one and their stealth repeats. I was minding my own business while my flatmate channel surfed; and then he found the Dancing With The Stars grand final. Should that be Finale? To his eternal discredit he left it on that channel and so we were all subjected to desperate B grade celebrities tripping the light fantastic in a range of tit-bags, and otherwise unfortunate clothing. And then there was Michael Laws, wearing some ungodly polyester trousers that found his crevases and supped deep. All while that wizened gnome Jason Gunn leared his way through commentaries - he's turned into quite the lecherous uncle figure.

Actually, while on that subject, I heard a great story. I'm afraid it's one of those urban legend like friend of a friend tales, but I shall give the synopsis anyway.

Apparently the friend of a friend of mine came home from school one day and found Jason Gunn in bed with her mother. Oh the horror. While I was looking for that photo, with the unsavoury expression Rumpy Pumpy in mind, I was reminded of a few other gems, like McDonald's Young Entertainers, and our very own Ainslie Allen. She did a lovely spread in FHM didn't she?

Werther's Originals

Just another sweet in a long line to promote itself using the "traditional goodness" approach. The current advertisements show the typical nauseating anglo-saxon boy child, visiting has paedophile-like uncle who is brewing up another batch of creamy, rich goodness. The wholesomeness is palpable, and one can't help but think that Werther's are the sweet that Jesus would endorse.

Archer's aqua schnapps on the other hand, seems to be aiming for the trashy slapper market (She's never turned down an Archer's Aqua Schnapps before"). I feel like this is ushering in a new era of cosmopolitan womanhood, and anxiously await the coming of Lambrini to our as yet benighted shores.

Ladies, pay particular attention to the guides, and blokes - well, you have just been treated an exclusive insight into what women really think!

Feel the burn

If only they would sell Irn Bru at the Russell Street Dairy, no city rise resident would ever have to suffer through an agonising hangover again. How much more we would grow to love and cherish Jose, and what joy he could bring to our sad, pathetic little lives. And his own.
And then if he went into selling these....


Well, everyone's life would be complete!