My dear ol' daddy turned up last Friday to give me a lift to pick my bike up, so on Saturday morning we buggered off. Dad drove as far as Wee Waa and I drove the rest of the way. Dad's got a Hyundai something-or-other. His phone's a Hyundai,too. He's a real team player, my Dad. I gotta say that his car is a pretty nice thing to drive - quiet, comfortable, goes around corners OK. It could do with about a squillion more horsepower, though. Anyhoo, we stopped the night in Walcha. The people of Walcha are solar powered. After Dad snoozed off at about 9p.m., I went to the nearest pub. There were two people in it, counting the barman. Apparently the other pub was just as quiet, so I went back to the motel. Before Dad snoozed off, he wanted to watch Dr. Who, so we did. It's the first episode of the new series that I've managed to catch and it's certainly different from the old ones. Matrix-style special effects, references to conspiracy theories and ethnic cleansing, it even showed the Doctor as being capable of blind, unreasoning hatred. Much more grown-up. Still good, but. Really good, in fact. So Sunday morning we rock down Thunderbolt's way to Gloucester, then down Buckett's way through Krambach to Taree. First thing we spot in Taree is the bike shop where my bike is and lo and behold, there's a car in front. So I ring them up to see if I could pick the bike up on the Sunday. The female half of the proprietor couple answers the phone - yes she's there; no, I can't pick the bike up because the door is locked. I don't like to bitch about businesses by name, but Fineline Motorcycles can get fucked. Their idea of service is pathetic. Three months they had that bike, total number of times that they contacted me to let me know why it wasn't ready yet = 0. Total number of times they rang me to make sure that I received the bill they emailed me = 2, within two hours of each other. Not only that, but they didn't even send me a proper bill, it wasn't even itemised, just Parts = $x, labour = $x and miscellaneous = $x. No telling me what the parts were or what their individual cost was, let alone what 'miscellaneous' was. They didn't even tell me what their hourly rate was. When I sent them a very courteous email asking for an explanation I got one, OK, along with a very terse demand to fax confirmation as soon as I'd paid. When I was nine years old my parents bought a service station/ workshop in a little country town in Victoria and I've been in the mechanical repair trade off and on ever since. I have never heard of a reputable business that carries on like this. This behaviour is straight out of the Shonky Brothers manual. So after this phone call Dad and I looked around Taree for another bike shop. We didn't see one so we took the scenic route to Port Macquarie where, at 9 a.m. Monday morning I gave the gentleman at Rock motorcycles a fair sized chunk of my hard earned for a new helmet. He nearly sold me a new BMW also - if I had a spare $27,000 I would have taken it. It had all the stuff essential to a good motorcycle; horsepower (167 of the buggers running around it's paddock), it was pretty and it was shaft drive (chains are for race bikes and for towing tractors - they're just stupid on a road bike). It also had some less than compulsory things that would be fun to play with - ABS brakes and 'on-the-go' electronically adjustable suspension. And it does 300+ kilometres per hour. Handy. Anyhow, back to Taree and pay for the bike, round the back to pick it up and the mirrors don't match. Apparently the sexy little chrome ones are aftermarket jobbies and they don't make them any more so they put a genuine (ugly square black) one on. Nice of you to wait until after I'd paid for it before telling me. Cunts. Oh and you'd think that in the three months that you had it, you could have found the time to wash it. And you could have kept it dry somewhere so that it didn't form that powdery white growth on the crankcase behind the cylinders. I can guarantee you one thing, anybody I know who wants to spend money at Fineline motorcycles is going to have to do so over my dead body. But enough of those umm... people. After I picked the bike up I said goodbye to Dad and shot up to Gloucester for lunch. It started drizzling just after lunch and didn't stop raining until I was pulling up for the night at Gunnedah. Next morning it didn't start raining until Wee Waa, but then it came down all the way home. 830k's, 600k's of rain. Gee it felt good to be riding again, though.
Yesterday morning I wrote a brief post entitled "Manifest Destiny". I posted it, then realised I had doubled up a phrase in one sentence. I went to edit it using Blogger and couldn't find it in the editing facility (it was showing up on the blog.). So I tried to edit it using W.Bloggar, which is what I wrote it on. It didn't show up anywhere there, either (still showing on the blog). Nevermind, I'll fix it tomorrow, I thought. So this morning after checking that the post was still showing, I put up some easy crap, just to move the post lower down the order - no, I don't know why that would make any difference. Then I tried to edit it again and I still couldn't find it. Then I refreshed the page to check this morning's post and guess what? Yesterdays post doesn't show up any more. I'm out of tinfoil - anybody know what else I can use to make a helmet.
The Castle? There's a reason they didn't make it in the U.S.. This is the country that likes to think that individual rights take precedence.
Maybe the Iraqi coppers should each buy a cat. Of course, the girl was going to be released that day anyway. But is was still a victory for Team Ethiopia and proof positive that the policies of the government are correct.
In the interests of furthering scientific knowledge...
I like this headline. Apparently, having warm feet increases the level of pleasure experienced during sex*.
MEN and women experience sexual pleasure in strikingly different ways, the first brain scans taken during orgasm show.
While male brains focus heavily on the physical stimulation involved in sexual contact, this is just one part of a much more complex picture for women, scientists in The Netherlands have found.
The experiments also reveal a surprising fact: both sexes find it easier to have an orgasm when they keep their socks on.
Draughts in the scanning room left couples complaining of "literally cold feet", and providing a pair of socks allowed 80per cent, rather than 50 per cent, to reach a climax while being scanned.
Of course, you could try moving the activity somewhere else besides a laboratory full of Melvins with microscopes. Like the back seat of a 1971 Holden.
The scans show that during sexual activity the parts of the female brain responsible for processing fear, anxiety and emotion start to relax and reduce in activity.
Funny, I've noticed the exact opposite.
This reaches a peak at orgasm, when the female brain's emotion centres are effectively closed down to an almost trance-like state.
This reaches a peak at what...? Do they have them, too?
The scientists found the male brain harder to study because of the orgasm's shorter duration.
Also the blokes were off down the pub to tell their mates all about it (suitably embellished, of course).
"Men find it more important to be stimulated on the penis than women find it to be stimulated on the clitoris," the University of Groningen's Gert Holstege told the European Society of Human Reproduction and Embryology conference in Copenhagen.
No shit, sherlock. Hence those old homilies "I'd fuck a black snake with a festered arse (if someone held its head)." , "I'd fuck a hole in a paling fence (If you sanded down the splinters)." and "I'd fuck the arse off a low-flying fruit bat." No qualifiers on the last one - Queensland bogans apparently find fruit bats to be very erotic.
The scans also show that while women may be able to fool their partners with a fake orgasm, the difference is obvious in the brain.
Parts of the brain that handle conscious movement light up during fake orgasms, but not during real ones, while emotion centres close down during the real thing but never when a woman is pretending.
An ex- of mine in Perth had a T-shirt she used to wear around the house which had "Men may control the world but they can't fake an orgasm" printed on the front.
For the study, a team at Groningen scanned the brains of 24 men and women using a technique called positron emission tomography.
Hahaha, they studied sex with a device that has the word 'emission' in it. I'm so childish. * I say apparently because I can't remember.
Telstra are a mob of arseholes jolly nice people, actually.
I've had a wee bitty of trouble with Telstra lately. First Osama's boys knocked out my satellite connection, then I find that they've been over billing me by about thirty smackers per month. Both times I've had to resort to contacting them via the telling bone. And you know what? Both times they've been courteous, efficient and actually solved the problem in minutes - the initial contact, too; no getting punted from one department to another.
You know, people have a lot of misconceptions about life in the bush. It's not as rough as you think; we've even got the elleckticelecktric power on now. Of course you knew that, otherwise how would my talking typewriter work? But, as well as the talking typewriter, I also have my very own moving picture box. I must confess that I am not much of a fan of the Great Square Eye - for me it tends to be a bit of a talking fishbowl. Whatever is on is going to bore me eventually. I can't think of the last time I watched an entire program from one end to the other and even though I'm a big fan of the cinemahh, dahhling, I can't remember the last time I even attempted to watch a movie on the box - despite having eight movie channels (ten, if you count the time shift ones). I have probably seen five minutes of pretty much every show that's ever been on, though, so now I'm going to give you a bit of a review of some of the things that I have seen. Firstly, good news for fans of loud music and hair product - Motley Crue aren't dead after all. There was a doco on about their reunion tour (which was probably a ripoff of that doco about those other no talent noise merchants, Metallica. I haven't seen it, so I dunno.). Guess what? Tommy Lee probably doesn't send Vince Neill Christmas cards. 'Cause he doesn't like him all that much. Pretty controversial, huh? Also involving too much hair product was one of those shows which pose as doco's but which are really an excuse to show tits and bums (who needs an excuse?)(on the subject of tits and bums, why is American television allowed to show dead bodies but has to obscure tits and bums?)(Did you know that the Comedy Channel once censored Patrice O'Neill by bleeping the word 'Buick' out of the phrase "Nigger in a Buick" when he was doing a bit about the Washington sniper?)(Parentheses are your friends). The show was called 'Retrosexual: '80s Hotties'. I have several observations to make about this. First, the eighties - from the neck up - was the least attractive decade in the history of decades. It did, however, mark the time that fit bodies became necessary to be a major league hottie. By the standards of the eighties and, to a lesser extent today, most pre-eighties spunkrats were pretty flabby. But hey, so am I.The needle on the skank-o-meter didn't have to move all that far in the eighties, though. Having a good body was considered sufficient, they didn't have to wipe it all over the camera.I think the laydeez were probably better served in the eighties than they are these days; I didn't realise that the world held so many six-packs. They also showed a clip of Raquel Welch on stage in a mini skirt, she would have been in her fifties and still sexy as all get out. It looked like it was all her, too. As opposed to Mariah Carey, who I saw on an ad for a talk show. She's gone the way of Janet Jackson, which is to say that she has gone from being a very good looking, fresh faced (and large breasted - mustn't forget the breasts) young woman to having anime style cheek bones and that rabbit-in-the -headlights look that comes from shopping at Bucket 'O Botox. If she had of stuck 'em any further in the camera she would have needed spinal surgery.In other news, the surgery on my motorcycle is complete, now all I have to do is find the time to go and pick it up.
Never let it be said that I neglect to read conservative periodicals, or that I am unversed in the arts. Read this, it's brilliant. Seriously. (via 2 Blowhards)
Way back in the eighties I was living in Perth with the Catholic girl. We were going to go and see Do-Re-Mi (I think) but somehow ended up at some dive in Northbridge which may or may not be called The Pink Parrott. Appearing at said dive was a chappie called John Cooper Clarke. Mr. Cooper Clarke was, apparently still is, a performance poet. I found myself being entertained anyway. Of course the crowd was full of people who "knew him before he sold out." He couldn't have got very much, I never heard of him again until I googled him to get the lyrics of a poem called "The day my pub went mad". The poem doesn't exist. There is, however, a poem entitled "The day my pad went mad." The former was one of JCC's star pieces on the night in question and is about George Best. I have no idea what the latter is about, but here are the lyrics:
the day my pad went MAD I'm ankle deep in human waste the toilet has been clogged marrowbone jelly all over the place I don't even have a dog the man upstairs he grabs my arm saying don't I know your dad all I could hear were the fire alarms the day my pad went MAD
all I could hear were the fire alarms the day my pad went MAD
The kitchen has been ransacked ski trails in the hall a chicken has been ransacked and thrown against the wall in walks this dumb waiter with a fountain pen and pad saying how do you want this alligator the day my pad went MAD
saying how do you want this alligator the day my pad went MAD
The hamster had been slaughtered the parrot bound and gagged the guard dog had been sorted out and absolutely shagged the goldfish drowned, the cat was found kicked around and stabbed the radio did not make a sound the day my pad went MAD
the radio did not make a sound the day my pad went MAD
the pop-up toaster refused to pop the chandelier was smashed the starter motor would not stop the tyres had been slashed there was no way out of there I was stuck with what I had out of order, beyond repair the day my pad went MAD
out of order, beyond repair the day my pad went MAD
yesterday I had the place rewired and slung out all of my junk a tumble dryer and a two bar fire and a telephone now defunct I peeped through the venetian blinds and the rain fell down so sad on the broken home I left behind the day my pad went MAD
on the broken home I left behind the day my pad went MAD
Like I said, the other poem was about George Best, or more specifically, Best's nervous breakdown. For those of you who don't know, Mr Best was quite a handy soccer player back in the day, even though he did play for The Evil Empire (aka Manchester United).* In fact, he was said to be the first celebrity footballer. I don't know (lots of things) if the pressure of a celebrity contributed to his problems but he ended up being a bit of a grog monster. Sacked by Man U. for being a soak, he drifted through a few pom and seppolian clubs before pulling down his sign altogether in 1983. Had a liver transplant in 2000 and got done for DUI in 2004. Now he's done the ultimate pommy sporting bastard trick and got himself arrested for towelling up a woman' Actually, in a less light hearted note (sorry, ladies), while googling for that link, I find that young George has got himself arrested as a tamp. I have nothing amusing to say about this, except that, as in that other celebrity molestation case, I will pass no judgement other than that handed down by the courts. I have to say though, that I wish that Jackson was found guilty. Any grown man who sleeps with pubescent children (I mean sleep in the literal sense) is not far away from what he was accused of - it is only a matter of time (allegedly). Also, his alleged music is a crime against humanity. Seriously. It's really bad. *As a side note he scored 6 goals against Northampton Town, bringing to nine the number of English and Scottish clubs I know of that begin and end with the same letter; the others being Alloa, Celtic, Dundee United and Kilmarnock (all Scottish), and Aston Villa, Charlton Athletic, Derby United and Liverpool.
In the last few days I've read a few things which, on the surface are not related, but when you have a highly trained mind like mine... I didn't actually read the first one, it was transmitted to me via The Great Square Eye. It was a half hour doco about Stefano DiPieri, one of the very few telly cooks that I wouldn't like to see char-grilled. It appears that Stefano is a member of the slow food movement. Then, yesterday morning I saw this post on 2 Blowhards. Coupled with a post I saw on Blastradius, I got to thinking, which usually makes me sweat and cramp up. I got to thinking about why people want large quantities of money, but more than that, I got to thinking about why people always have to be doing. What's the point? I always thought that you made money to get off the treadmill. A lot of people seem to have conditioned themselves to the belief that, if they aren't doing then somehow they are letting the team down. Why bring down $100k+ per annum if it means that you can't take the time to have a decent meal or spend time with your family? Even when they take a break, these people have a checklist of success - last year we 'did' St. Tropez, this year we're 'doing' the Antilles. Flashman's stats about commuting got me to thinking about all those people who 'live' in Gippsland, Ballarat or the Central Coast; the ones who work in the city. They think that they've 'won'; they've beaten the rat race, but commute twenty to forty hours a week. The smarmy ones tell you they are winning because they can work on the train. Hello? What else are you going to do? How many of them know their neighbours names? Or what breed of cow they can see on the way to the train (if it's standing close enough to the road to be seen by the headlights). Been fishing lately? Had a beer at the pub with the (real) locals? I thought not.
In the last week or so, referendums have been held in France and the Netherlands to ratify a European constitution. This constitution would result in a stronger, more unified European Union which would be able to act with a much greater authority and wield a lot more authority, economically, politically and militarily. I think this is a good thing as it might cause the Sepps to pull their heads in a little bit. I've got nothing against the Sepps, but power breeds arrogance, arrogance breeds contempt - witness Condy's world jaunts where she spends three-quarters of her time telling other people how to run their countries like they were subsidiaries of the mother corporation. The Frogs and Clogs however, had a different idea and as a result the Bath-dodgers have suspended their referendum. It will be interesting to see how much attention the various european leaders pay to these democratic decisions. Unlike our own referendum on the republic, these referendums were not set up as a sham process designed to fail by opponents of the proposition, the actually wanted them to succeed. The voters didn't. I bet they find a way to circumvent the voters wishes in order to further democracy.
In other news, James Morrow, editor of Investigate must be a confused individual about now. Last month Investigate blasted the Labor party for pursuing a multilateral foreign economic policy. One of, if not the main icons of Investigate style hard right philosophy, George W. Bush has announced a proposal for a hemisphere wide trade agreement. Sounds pretty multilateral to me, James. Can't wait for the scathing review in next months issue (I bought the current issue yesterday, I read the first sentence of about four columns. It's getting harder to digest all the neo-con propaganda).
I see Rusty The Wooden Kiwi has been up to his old tricks. Wonder if he had a bouncer handy in case the other guy fought back?
But the main news of the week is that I finally found some yuppy scum food that is actually worth the extra money. After years of suffering through menus featuring obscure ingredients and processes, or fads like the bangers and mash craze of a few years ago when stockbrokers suddenly found anglo-celtic working class food exotic, I finally found something that was worth the extra money - King Island Lemon Myrtle Maple Yoghurt. Yum fuckin' yum.
At some stage in the past, probably in the eighties, somebody released a song called 'Unskinny Bop.' I don't know who wrote it. I don't know who performed it. I don't want to know. I just want it to go away. It popped into my head apropos of nothing last Sunday and it's been there ever since. It's annoying at the best of times when a song gets stuck in your head. It's worse when you don't like the song. It's unbearable when you don't like the song and you don't even know any of the lyrics. All I can remember of the entire song is the hook from the chorus, which is comprised of the title of the song, with an echo on the second word. That's it. It annoys me. A lot. If it doesn't leave soon, people are going to die. A lot of people.
Some of you may have noticed the appaearance, disappearance, reappearance and general moving around of an 'aussie blogs' logo. 'Aussie blogs' can kiss my arse. This bunch of knuckle fuckers have been giving me grief for about eight months - all because of that logo. The fuckwits tell you to put it on the front page of the site - done. It fucked up my sidebar, but - done. Not good enough for them, they sent me some different code to install; the original - copy and pasted - code was too long apparently. Then I get an email telling me that I didn't have the proper code and sent me a link to the original - fucked - code. I send them an email detailing the story so far. They deny all knowledge. I gave up and scrapped the whole deal. Months later I get a repeat of some of their previous emails.
"I'll give it one last try." I thought - foolishly. You may have noticed, front and centere at the top of the page, sticking out like the breeding end of as bull-terrier, the 'aussie blogs' logo.
In the last week or so I've been getting emails from these knob gobblers that I don't have the code on my page. So now I don't. They can get fucked.
In other news, Osama's boys have knocked out my satellite connection, so I'm back to dial-up.
