I received an email the other day from celebrity cabbie, multimedia personality and all-around nice guy Adrian Neylan. Adrian was one of the first people to ever read this blog and has been a consistent peruser for over a year now. He's also been something of a mentor to me and has always been ready to help - he was the one who told me how to 'copy and paste' fer chrissake! He has some advice for me in his latest missive, I hope he doesn't mind, but I'm going to quote you a piece of it:
Hi Dirk, Good to see you're getting the image thingo happening. Just though you may be able to use these tips on manipulating wrap-around text and images.
In the HTML code you can nominate a border size around images - with numerals representing pixel distance on four sides. Also Blogger may allow you to locate images left and right side of posts - .
Also you should be able to manipulate whatever size thumbnail you want, by applying a percentage of the uploaded image size, pixel height by width. This is done by inserting the calculated percentage in the thumbnail code.
Below is an example of my HTML for a recent post...
Now, while Adrian's advice is always useful, my philosophy towards this blog is much the same as it is towards most hobby/lifestyle things, doing it yourself is half the point. There are a lot of shows on pay TV that all based on one of two similar premises; somebody rebuilds a car for somebody else or somebody builds a chopper for somebody else. If I'm channel surfing and I wash up on one of these shows, then I'll stay for the rest of the episode; I love watching craftsmen of any kind at work and I love finding out a little about how these things are done. But the 'prestige' part of the deal rests entirely with the builders - you can't buy it. To say that your $200,000 Troy Trepanier Mustang imparts more prestige on you than Lou Lineworkers $20,000 special from Honest Guido's Used Mustangs gives him is ridiculous; it's like saying Alan Bond is an artist because he bought a Van Gogh. In fact, Lou's ride automatically imparts more respect, if not prestige, if Lou does some work on it himself. Even if his paint job has runs in it and his welds look like metal plated birdshit. Anybody with $80,000 can buy a bike by Billy Lane, it doesn't make you Billy Lane, nor does it make you a 'biker'. It makes you an accountant on a bike. This bloke has more class than the lot of you put together. Why? Glad you asked; because he built it himself (with a bit of help from 'is mates, loike.) Same as this little page you're reading now. It's clunky, not particularly well designed - either in layout or appearance - but, dammit, it's MINE!! All my own work. Warts and all. So, while Adrians advice (and implied criticism that my use of images needs to improve) is welcome and I'm grateful, I have no intention of abandoning my wilfully ignorant ways. Update: I just had a quick proof read and some of the HTML that Adrian was explaining has been taken as code by W.Bloggar. Oh well. You get the point.
We got cows. Well actually, we don't got cows, we got steers. About 2500 of them altogether, with most breeds represented from time to time. All the breeds can be cranky buggers at some stage or other, but not all the breeds are the same. Insert segue here The Young Bloke got crowned today. He was helping The Boss put a pen of cattle through the scales before they were trucked out so that they could take out the ones that didn't make the contracted weight. He was walking a few steers into the forcing yard when one of the steers decided that forcing could work both ways and gently nudged the gate into the Young Bloke, giving him a mild concussion and a free trip to hospital for a few stitches to the noggin. Which meant that I had to get out my nice cozy (climate-controlled) tractor and help them weigh the cattle. As usual, I was down 'the dumb end'. Which means that I was the bunny who was actually in the yards with the cattle, pushing them up. Now before I started here, I'd done very little cattle work. In fact, you could have written everything I knew about handling cattle on the back of a postcard with a blunt crayon. Whereas these days you'd have to sharpen the crayon. So now I'm going to share some of my wisdom with you. (I survived the ordeal unscathed, BTW. Thanks for asking.) Firstly, don't do what the Young Bloke did and stand behind a gate as you are closing it. I did the same thing about eight years ago, with much the same effect; except that I am a Rough, Tough Outback Bloke TM, therefore used masking tape instead of stitches. I suppose if I was trading on my looks like Brad Pitt* I would have got a couple of stitches, but, meh. Whilst on the subject of gates, I have a bad habit which could end in tears - or broken bones. When I am pushing a gate shut against the resistance offered by cattle, I 'lock' my elbows. I have heard of several sprained and broken wrists and elbows when a beast lunges at the gate and the person on the gate is too slow to give way. Second, never stand directly behind a beast when you are in the yards with them, particularly in a cramped situation. Those buggers have got a pretty good kick thing going on... You wouldn't believe how much of your thigh the bruise from one kick can cover, or how much it hurts. The gates in the yards are eight feet wide, five steel rails high. I had a beast kick one off its hinges on top of me (somebody forgot to pin the top of the hinges) . Apart from that, there isn't much to know. Don't bother trying to watch all of them, you'd go nuts. Providing you are not encroaching on their space, they are pretty placid animals. There is generally a ringleader or two in every herd, these will generally be infused with Bos Indicus blood; I'll tell you why in a minute. Watch these and look out for any skittish animals, there's always a few that will kick or charge for no apparent reason, but if you are alert they present no real difficulty unless they get ahead of the rest, reach a closed gate and come back at you. If you see a beast skip ahead in the yards, try and push the rest of the mob to keep up with it. You do this for two reasons, first if you can get them all through the gate before the greyhound has a chance to turn; problem averted. Second, if the leader does turn, you can use the mob to block, or at least slow him. Some of those buggers will run straight over you if given the chance, even when you give them plenty of room to pass you by. Shane Webcke can't throw a shoulder charge like these blokes. I had one yak beast a few months ago who didn't like the forcing yard. He'd run up ahead, see the forcing yard and run straight back through the mob. My usual procedure when this happens is to let them run back and pick them up in the next mob. Trouble is, this bugger did it three times in a row. So I thought that I would put him in there by himself. He got to the forcing yard, turned, ran three steps and stopped, for I was on the opposite side of the pound. Armed with my trusty whacking stick (a three foot length of orange plastic electrical conduit) I faced my foe. He put his head down and pawed the ground, preparatory to doing the Harry again, so I whacked him across the nose - again and again and again... It took a couple of minutes (or so it seemed) but I walked him backwards into the forcing yard. Trouble was, I couldn't shut the gate, because he would have bolted while I was doing it, so I had to get the young bloke to shut me in the yard with him, then vault the fence. Bastard butted me in the leg while I was escaping. Can't blame him I s'pose. Still, all that trouble could have been avoided if he had of turned around. Another thing to remember, all cattle breeds are not created equal; generally speaking, Bos Indicus(or African) breeds like Brahmans and Afrikanders, or those that are infused with Bos Indicus blood, like Santa Gertrudis or Droughtmasters, are more intelligent than breeds with pure Bos Taurus (or European) breeds like Herefords and Angus. Cattle seem to recognise this, so in a mob of mixed breeds, the yaks generally set the pattern. They also get cranky quicker when they are cooped up than the Europeans do. One thing which I have found that works when they are getting set to do their 'nana in the race is to give their back a rub and talk to them like they are puppy dogs. It makes everybody else laugh when I do it, but it works - on yaks, anyway. Angus cattle are shifty, sly little buggers, more likely to kick than all the other breeds combined, you've gotta watch'em. Charolais are stupid. Dumb as dogshit, in fact. I'm not talking some overachieving Golden Lab seeing-eye dog doo-doo, either; I mean the canine equivalent of the supermodel, good to look at but nothing else, too stupid to scratch themselves Afghan Hound** poop. P.S. The Young Bloke is shaping up nicely as a Rough, Tough Outback Bloke TM, he was back at work this afternoon.
* i was going to put an Australian name here, but I couldn't think of an Australian who has the same universal ability to make women frothy at the fork - if you'll pardon my euphemism **Actually, Afghan Hounds are better looking than most supermodels. What's so attractive about a woman who doesn't look like she's had a decent meal since primary school? Apart from being thin, tall and vacant, these women are nothing unusual to look at. In fact most of them are dingo ugly.
Warning: This post is in even worse taste than usual. You know, when you're spending most of the day driving up and down rows in a tractor, your mind tends to wander - particularly when, like me, you're a bit of a gun and have set the tractor and rig up so well that you don't have to watch it all that closely. When my mind starts to wander, I just let it go. I don't try to control it or harness it in any way; I figure it'll come home when it's hungry. So I guess I shouldn't be so surprised that today my mind wandered over to the subject of Troughman. I suppose an explanation of who Troughman is may be in order for foreign visitors and the very few Australians who haven't heard of him. The short explanation is - I don't know. Which is to say that I was able to find out that Troughman's real name is Barry Charles and he has a tattoo of a pig laying in a pool of piss, apart from that - and the fact that he is famous for laying in urinals at gay festivals, I know nothing about him. Which is what interests me. I don't know why he likes having several hundred - or even thousand - men pissing on him, nor do I care; whatever floats your boat, I say. I want to know how the transformation from Barry Charles to Troughman took place. How did he go from being a meek and mild Mardi Gras attendee to the star attraction at a urinal near you? Was he standing there having a squirt and quietly lamenting to himself the loss of all that precious fluid when he thought to himself "You know, that trough does look mighty comfy"? Was he nervous? Did he ask permission? "Excuse me, but I wonder if you'd mind if I positioned myself between your penis and the stainless steel whilst you relieve yourself?" Does he get his kit off or does he leave it on? If he gets it off, who guards his wallet? If he leaves it on, is it vinyl, PVC or suchlike; or does he have some superabsorbent all over sanitary napkin device so that he can take it home and savour it later? Does he put on a suit, spend a few hours in the office catching up on paperwork, then the bus in from the suburbs, walk briskly to the urinal du jour, off with his gear and into the trough? Does he sign autographs? Does he have a tub before he goes home? Does Troughman, like Superman and Spiderman, wear his undies on the outside? These are important questions that need answering. I'd love to meet this bloke and find out - eccentrics fascinate me.
I'm not one of those people who rush out to buy the latest toy. Hell, I only bought my first 'pooter about eighteen months ago. This being the case, you will not be surprised that I never got around to buying a DVD player. On the spur of the moment last Saturday, I thought I'd buy one. You can get them for about $130 dollars these days, but they were pretty dodgy sounding brands and so I employed the same principle I use when buying tools; pay more once rather than buying a 'bargain' every year. The half-decent ones started at about $250. A PS2 was $280. You can play games as well as DVDs on a PS2, so guess what I bought? Plus an extra $20 for the DVD remote. Forgot to get a memory card, though - d'oh! I bought two games; the only two that I'd ever heard of in the shop - Gran Turismo 4 and Grand Theft Auto - San Andreas. Yes folks, in the bush you can still buy items weeks after they've been banned, Let me tell you, games have changed a bit since 1997, which was the last time that I paid any attention to them. Because I was sans memory card*, I didn't get very far through either game, but here's a quick impression of each of them. First GTA; how funny is that? Don't be gettin' all up in my face about it incitin' vi'lence, Biatch, or I'll pop a cap in yo' punk ass. Yo. They swear and everything. How tough is that? And participating in drive-by shootings and armed hold ups can only be a positive experience. Two Mac10's up. Back in the day (which is a silly phrase, but it fits) I used to like driving games. I was good at them. Really good. I'm not good at GT4. Really not... good. It's a whole big fat bunch of fun, though. How else am I going to get to race a Karmann Ghia around the Grand Canyon, or a Honda NSX racing car around the full length Nurburgring. Piece of advice, turn off the driver aids - it's a bit harder to keep on the track when your going over bumps and hills, but it gets rid of most of the understeer when you're late into a corner. It's still bloody difficult to get the back out, though. Next week in Breaking Technology, we tell you how to use a tripod Ipod. Whatever.
This is the first in an irregular series of posts about my favourite motorcycles. There will be two separate themes to this series; motorcycles I've ridden and motorcycles I wish I'd ridden. I'm not going to go into any sort of technological analysis of the bikes; there are people better equipped than I am who are doing that already. Since a lot of these things work in chronological order and because I thought that I'd better start off with something I'd actually ridden - Ladies and Gentlemen, The Model H Triumph. Images enlarge
My association with a Model H was brief. When I was still living at home, doing my apprenticeship with Dad, a veteran and vintage bike run came through our town. One of the bikes - which was trailered into town - was a Model H. The run was on a Sunday, so we were closed, but the bloke who owned the bike knocked on our back door asking if we could have a go at getting his bike going again. I was the only one home and I was keen for a play with a piece of history so I opened the workshop and we had a look at the bike, which had stopped due to the carburettor flooding.We fiddled around with it a bit, then decided to take the carby off and dismantle it. It turned out that the float had been vibrating against the body of the carby and had worn a little hole through it. Radiators were tricky enough to braze up for me at that stage, but the float was paper thin - and probably extremely difficult to source a replacement for - so I was fairly nervous as I attacked it. No wuckers, though, got it right first time. We put it all back together and away she went. Old mate who owned the bike asked me how much he owed me and I thought about it for a while - an hour and a half at the going rate or... "Giz a ride!" Much to my surprise, he agreed, and after showing me the controls... ...(The top lever - from memory - is for advancing and retarding the magneto, the bottom lever is the throttle and the reversed lever is the 'teens equivalent of Barkbusters - maybe....
...On the other side we have the clutch and choke controls (maybe)...
...You also have to manually operate the oil pump...
...I was reminded that the brakes were not all that effective and then I was off. Up the road out of town to the footy ground, a lap of the footy ground and back again; about four miles all up, which took about twenty minutes. I probably hit about twenty five miles an hour, kept it running reasonably smoothly all the while and had just about as much fun as a teenage boy can have by himself without endangering his eyesight. I told Dad about opening up the workshop on a Sunday free of charge and he got pretty cranky with me - for not contacting him so that he could have a turn, too. "But Dad," I said "Mobile phones haven't been invented yet!"*
Which is a very inappropriate title because neither of the two anniversaries which fall on today are particularly happy events. Firstly, it's seventy years today since the cane toad was released in Australia, although this site gives June, 1935 as the date of introduction. Whatever, it's a fairly good warning to pointy heads to make sure of what they are doing before they try to change the biology or ecology of a system. Secondly, in the current flood of WW2 commemorations, it may be timely to remember a battle in an unpopular war - particularly in light of the differing opinions floating around about our commitment in Iraq. It is 29 years today since the battle of Long Tan. I have immensely conflicting feelings regarding Vietnam. Firstly, after the French were defeated, that should have been that. The American involvement was unnecessary and ill-advised and so, by extension, was ours. Millions of people died for no good cause. What's worse, the Americans must have known for at least three or four years before they were defeated that they could not win, but still they stayed, so people kept dieing. On the other hand, I have nothing but contempt for the trust-fund rebels who, to this day, maintain their 'moral superiority', which they demonstrated by such edifying activities as throwing blood at soldiers and labelling them 'babykillers'. No wonder the poor buggers had such a hard time fitting back into society when they got home. My very first memory of anything regarding world affairs is of a newspaper photograph - in colour - of a young naked Vietnamese girl running screaming through a burning village. The village was burning because it had been napalmed. So had the girl. Her skin and flesh was melting and running down her body. That photo gave me nightmares for years, They never really went away. Ever since then I've needed a hell of a lot of evidence before I've supported any war. Even today I sometimes tear up when I see footage of wars, not battle footage, but parade grounds and suchlike. It's the sheer normality and averageness (is that a word?) of the soldiers that I find distressing. These are/were the kids next door and they're being sent to slaughter. I still get angry when I think of murderous cunts like Haig and Ludendorff. Check the stats, then convert the numbers to people. It's pretty easy for a bunch of armchair generals to urge us to invade (insert target of the day here), unless said armchair generals are in the military or have medical or chronological reasons for not being in there, they are hypocrites and/or cowards. Which is a pretty long winded, roundabout and nearly incoherent way of saying that we should all be profoundly grateful that there are men and women who are prepared to take on the immense responsibility and risk that comes with armed service. They are better men (even the women) than I will ever be.
Apart from anything else, I've just proved to myself yet again that I am the smartest person in this room. I've worked out how to make these images enlarge without putting in an ugly extra link. Took me nearly five seconds of concentration to work it out, too, breaking my previous endurance thinking record by nearly two seconds. Which does nothing to explain why I took this photo or, indeed, posted it. You may notice an ugly white blob in the centre of the photo; that's my piece of fucking shit work ute. I parked it next to that little wooden stick because that little wooden stick is a telephone pole and I wanted to give you a visual aide to enable you to get an idea of the height of these telephone poles, which are a hangover from the old wind-up party line 'phone days - which aren't so long ago out here. For those of you who don't know, a party line has anywhere from two to about ten different households on the same phone line. Different households had differing ring patterns to tell them when to answer and when to let it go. In those days the PMG, or Postmaster General; whose aegis telecommunications fell under, didn't have a whole big bunch of techies running around in Ford Courier 4WD utes ready to leap into action every time a crow pissed on the wire. More often than not, if the line was dead, you'd saddle a horse and start riding the wire back towards Dirranbandi, until you came to the break and then you rejoined it yourself. Of course, if the break was fairly close to town, you'd have to go to the pub just to make sure that they knew that the line had been repaired. It takes a while to tell them that so chances are by the time you returned home, the line would be down again and you'd have to repeat the process. Again and again... Up until the last twenty or thirty years or so, most of the countryside looked like this. Half of it still does. Now you've seen the height of the poles; imagine about a fifty metre span of wire inexpertly strung, sneaking through those coolibahs, wilgas and whitewoods, and you're running scrubbers on a horse... I've met more than one bloke who's camped at the hospital for a few days and I've heard of one paraplegic.
The soil around here is of a type called grey cracking clay vertisols, it's also called self-mulching black soil. This is because it forms a crust when it gets wet, retaining the moisture underneath. Because of this, it was only yesterday that we could get the tractor back in the paddock after the rain ten days earlier. It was probably still a little damp, but I'm pretty good so I made it work anyway. I did have a bit of a problem on one run, however. About two hundred metres from the tail drain, heading up the paddock, a hare* appeared in the furrow my right hand wheels were running in (we have rabbits and hares running around here. It's pretty hard to tell the difference sometimes, but there are ways; their ears are different sizes [don't remember which is bigger], hares have larger hindquarters and the way I tell. Hares run with their tale down and rabbits run with their tale up, so that for every hop they take there is a flash of white fur on their bum.). It was a young one, about the size of your hand. It was pretty amusing for a while, the little bugger was running his widdle legs off trying to stay in front of the tractor, when all he had to do was turn right and hop four metres to safety. No wonder I never see any hares at my MENSA meetings. It threatened to get ugly when the little fella started tiring, though. I felt sorry for him; he was trying so hard, so I knocked it back a gear, then another one. Finally - Cry Freedom! The head-ditch and sanctuary. Up and over one side he went, then up and over the other, where he sat on the bank and caught his breath. His sides were heaving like he'd just finished out of a medal at the Olympics. Poor little bugger. He'll probably sire 27,000 kids who'll eat me out of house and home in gratitude. *Note for foreign visitors: Hares and rabbits are feral animals in Australia. Rabbits in particular almost ruined the grazing industry down here in the period from the twenties to the fifties. Wool was our biggest export earner at this time. Myxomatosis was introduced in the fifties(?), which cut the population back dramatically. Numbers were getting out of control again in the nineties when the calicivirus was released - prematurely, apparently.
I just want to see if that email update thing works. As I post only sporadically, it will probably do nothing to increase traffic, which most people seem to be concerned about, but instead will ensure that anybody who is actually interested doesn't miss out on anything. If you have missed out on anything on this page in the past and it bothered you, you are probably a sad and lonely individual with very little going for you: end it now. Update: this is the first post I've ever written that the spell-checker didn't pick on.
It's been frosty in the morning here for the last few days. We've put about 500 acres of barley in on the cotton country as well as the 6-7000 acres of wheat and barley that is out on the dryland country. As the barley on the cotton country was planted at a heavier rat and has had a fair bit of nitrogen, it is further advanced than the dryland crops, this means that it is more susceptible to frosting, particularly since it has been such a mild winter. In an attempt to save it, we decided to irrigate it, adding water-run urea. Here's hoping. Meanwhile, my old school got the day off today for the only reason we got a day off when I was going there, the busses couldn't get through the snow.
I think that I'm becoming my father. Until recently, the only two shows that I can remember Dad paying any attention to were Callan and Hamish MacBeth, both of which were ball-tearer shows in their own way - although I'll probably lose some street-cred for liking Hamish, he wasn't 'gritty', or even 'hard-hitting' although he did do a nice line in 'quirky'. These days we've gone our separate ways as far as the box is concerned. The only shows Dad watches (besides bike racing and some footy) are Global Village, the SBS news and sport and Inspector Rex. Global Village is ok occasionally, but too much offbeat isn't good for you and Inspector Rex's novelty wore off about halfway into the first episode. As for myself, the only shows that I watch with any degree of regularity are, umm, non-existent. The news, I guess. Apart from that, nothing holds my attention. I watch a lot of docos and sport. Everything else ends up pissing me off. I get a few minutes in and start talking to the characters, asking them why they are so stupid. When they start talking back to me it'll be time to check myself in I suppose. I like watching movies on the big screen, but I don't remember the last time that I sat through one on telly. The only thing worse than the telly is bitTorrent. Actually, bit Torrent is ok, but those knobs who hijack comments threads that are even remotely connected to television to loudly proclaim that "I never watch broadcast TV, because I HAVE BITTORRENT!!!" are seriously unwell. Here's a tip for you, you pointy headed persons of limited social contact - making the statement that "bitTorrent is your friend." is a fairly solid indicator that no flesh and blood human wants anything to do with you. Stop it. Name droppers are bad enough at the best of times (Did I tell you that I had a beer at the local with Ray Meagher who plays Alf "Stone the crows, yer flamin' mongrels!" Stewart on Home and Away? I think he was brushing up on his dialogue skills.) but somebody who can only come up with a computer program's name to drop is just sad.
I've been thinking to myself lately that my liver has had it too good for too long. So I went with a couple of blokes to Louth on the weekend. For those of you who don't know, Louth is about an hour south-west of Bourke and has a population of about fifty. We went there because the races were on. Apparently. We left here on Friday evening. We had to go the long way as there was a bit of rain during the week and the Goodooga road was still a bit soft. Beer at the local, then a few roadies, then beer at Walgett and a few roadies (I wasn't driving). We stopped at Brewarrina for some more takeaways and the other blokes wouldn't even get out of the utes. One of them kept his ute going. Bree pub has a reputation for being a bit rough. Wilcannia pub is the only one I've ever felt nervous in. The front bar of the Continental in Broome used to get a bit rowdy at times, too. I survived Bree and we made it to a lovely ladies house in Bourke by about nine o'clock. The boys got put on the bag as we pulled up, but they were safe. We headed for one of the closer pubs for some intense liver abuse. The pub was full of people from Clyde Agricultural, which is a fair-sized farming company. I hate corporate farming enterprises. I've worked for two of them and they're full of wankers, suckholes and amateur politicians, but mostly suckholes. Clyde Ag is no different. Still, it was good to be able to show the young blokes how to tell what a person's position was in the company by their dress and body language. After a few hours the boys were getting good at it. I'll fix that tag thing one day. Possibly. So the next day it was off to Louth. Both of the young blokes are mad keen pig chasers and had brought their dogs with them. Nine of the ugliest animals on the planet. So we had to take them out to a block in North Bourke to leave them for the night. The block is owned by a couple who are building their first house after about ten or fifteen years together. Ninety-six squares in the main part of the house, which includes little touches like two entertainment areas - the pool room and the room that has the pool in it. The walk-in robes in the kid's rooms are bigger than my bedroom. It's fairly big. Nice location, too; right on the Darling River, with it's own jetty. Then we were off to Louth for the races. We saw one. Out of the three or four thousand people attending, I'd say that's about average. This is it. It was the last race and the camera skills were suffering by this stage. As we were fairly late arriving, all the good camping spots were gone and so was all the firewood. No problem, we just wandered around and crashed everybody else's fire. Met a lot of equally drunk people. Actually, I don't think that I've ever met so many drunk women. I don't remember getting back to my swag, but I do remember having about an inch of frost all over me when I woke up., Nothing more beer can't fix. We waited until about lunchtime before we left so that the designated drivers would stand a better chance on the breatho. Not a problem for me, I was getting as nice head of steam up by then. Many beers later, it was dark by the time we got home. I was a bit ordinary at work this morning, but because it was cold and I had a few fairly physical jobs to do, it didn't last very long.
It would appear that I have had my collar felt by the Sherriff (he says, using a metaphor from a different group of policemen). It's one of those meme thingys. Now, the Sherriff had no way way of knowing this, but: I hate memes. If I want to know what books you read: I'll ask. If I want to know how many music files you have on your computer: I'll ask. If I want to know what's currently playing on your self-ostracising noise machine (AKA Ipod): I'll ask - but I probably won't believe you. If I wanted you to know any of this stuff about me, I would have posted about it already. I really don't understand the attraction of these electronic chain letters. If I want to know what goes on in your head, I'll do it the old fashioned way - by reading things you've already written, by leaving comments on posts and checking your responses and by talking to you. Everybody who has ever posted one of these things has done so with the answers at least partially doctored to suit the image of themselves they are trying to project. The only way to really get inside somebodies head is to sneak in at an unguarded moment. With that in mind (and hopefully without offending the Sherriff, no doubt she enjoys these things and thought that I would, too); here it is: In no particular order - Ten turn-ons and Ten turn-offs (and I'm not even a Penthouse Pet) #1. On: Muscle definition (not too cut, though) Off: Fat upper arms #2: On: Long Hair Off: Dirty Hair #3: On: Glasses Off: Squinty eyes #4: On: About half of the Oz women's hockey team Off: The other half #5: On: Skin Off: Makeup #6: On: A healthy appetite Off: Smoking #7: On: Intelligence Off: Arrogance #8: On: Self-confidence Off: Conceit #9: On: Tea Leoni's voice Off: Fran Drescher's voice #10: On: Boobies (on women) Off: Boobies (on men)
That's it. Sherriff did me the courtesy of tagging me, so I did it. Any other tags will be referred to the first part of this post.
