Kurt Cobain was a fuckwit, just thought that I'd get that off of my chest.
Pete Wells died yesterday. I always thought that he was under-rated in the pantheon of Rock Gods*, possibly because he first rode to fame as guitarist (as opposed to bass player) in the self-caricaturising Rose Tattoo. You could hear the bass player in his guitar work, especially the slide stuff. Very simple and straitforward, every note was there for a purpose. I first saw him play in 1983 and have always tried to keep up with him, although it's kinda hard bein' in the boonies.
I'm gunna go play Blues Hangover now, but before I go, one brief memory. That time in 1983 that I saw Rose Tattoo was the first time that I'd ever seen anybody knock themself out by banging their head on the stage.
* Sepps and other iggerant furriners aren't supposed to know who Pete Wells was. Shame on you bonzer Aussies who had to Google. Less yer a kid.
Rat, ol' buddy, this is a Toyota: The Young Bloke needed some help with his ute yesterday, so I pulled some stuff off of it: We knocked off early yesterday. Dunno why, but I wasn't going to argue. With time on our hands I offered to see why The Young Bloke's Toyota was wearing out the inside of his front tyre. Bloody axle won't pull out for some reason. Note the OH&S approved trolley jack on uneven ground. Think I'll put stands under it this morning. Went to St. George for the parts (Wheel bearings, steering hub bearings, brake pads and uni joints - hey, it's not my money.) and got drunk on the way home. Life is so difficult.
Inspired by this post over at Ranger Tom's, I will tell you about a little trip I took in a truck back when I was wet behind the ears (a phrase that I don't understand).
An older friend of mine in the Latrobe Valley had a Scania semi-trailer and was doing a trip to Sydney. I went along for the ride. The trip up and back was uneventful, except for the guy who blew his horn at us as we were driving off from a set of traffic lights. We pulled up in the middle of the intersection and, taking an eighteen inch shifter, the driver began wandering to the back of the trailer, checking his tyres as he went. When he got to the rear of the trailer he put the shifter over his shoulder and went to the car behind us.
"It sounds like there's something wrong with your horn button, want me to fix it for you?"
Coming back into Traralgon we were running low on fuel. There is a railway line which runs parallel with the highway. We had to cross under a viaduct to get to a fuel depot. The intersection was on a slight curve on the highway and was always busy. Coming up to the intersection the intersection, the engine cut out. Twenty two tons of steel on the back, no power steering and only one application of the brakes (Trucks have air brakes. The air releases the brakes. With the engine stopped, the compressor wasn't compressing so the brakes wouldn't release once applied.)
The turning light was green, so we were OK to go through. We couldn't go straight ahead because there were vehicles turning from the opposite direction. Hitting the brakes was not an option because of the inherent risk of lockups and lost control. We shot under the viaduct, me working one side of the steering wheel, the driver working the other. We ran a bit wide on the exit and collected a roadsign on the centre divider. We managed to roll up to the fuel depot, hitting the brakes at just the right time to pull up right next to the pumps. Fuelled up, went to bleed the injectors - after dealing with an (understandably) irate motorist, nothing. Couldn't bleed the fuel system. Turns out that we hadn't run out of fuel at all, the injector pump drive had sheared.
How about those Commonwealth Games, eh? Did you see that event where the athlete overcame a setback to win? Neither did I. Much like the Winter Olympics, the Commonwealth Games hold absolutely no interest for me, although they have two advantages that Torino didn't have - three, if you count the distinct lack of knuckle-fucking alleged journalists prefacing every report with bon fucking giorno. Firstly, there are bound to be numerous occasions where it is deemed necessary to have the Minister For The Games on the telly. Big Jussy was my favourite unco-ordinated footballing buffooon (along with Percy Jones) and it's good to see the big fella has kicked on after the game. Secondly, there are bound to be a lot of events where the female competitors wear skimpy outfits. Chances are that some of these competitors will reward a lech like me. And that's a good thing. In a demonstration that I haven't learned to count yet, there is another possible advantage, the netball. It's about the only decent international competition the sport has and it is usually pretty exciting.
I've noticed a couple of things recently. A lot of bloggers and commenters* have ripped into ComGames, using the same line of attack, even the same wording. This tells me two things: that the ComGames are boring, and that mankind still hasn't evolved very far from the days when people had to roam in packs and clans in order to survive. Anthropologists have a word for this kind of mentality. I don't know what that word is, but they've got one for everything else, so it stands to reason that they'd have one for that as well. Anybody who is moderately well-known only has to utter "I don't like strawberry jam." and s/he will be snowed under by sycophantic commenters all remarking how they feel the same way and that jam is evil and should be banned.
The convoluted logic used by some of them to justify their backflips when the hero blogger posts a comment three pages into the thread saying "On the other hand, apricot jam is da bomb." is really astounding.
Wanna know what I did on Saturday morning? I'm gunna tell you anyway. I spent three hours groping sheep tits and checking out their teeth. I think that I may have mentioned this in the past, but if 'animals' were an Olympic event, sheep wouldn't get on the podium.
Now I'm off to play on the tractor.
*The word 'blogosphere' is for ingrates who think that repeating someone elses phraseology will result in them absorbing some of the creator's cool.
Some of you may already know what I think about memes. Some of you, quite clearly, do not. Be that as it may, because she asked so nicely and because I could never resist an intelligent woman who likes boxing and pours drinks for a living, I have decided to descend from my lofty perch and give JenJen's meme a whirl. 25 Questions: 1. Grab the book nearest to you, turn to page 18 and find line 4
OK, did it. Wanna know what it says?
2. Stretch your left arm out as far as you can, what do you find?
That it hurts when you put your left arm through a wall.
3. What is the last thing you watched on TV?
Dunno, the news I think. Also, shouldn't that question read ' What was the last thing you watched on TV?'? Mixing tenses, tut.
4. Without looking, guess what the time is.
OK.
5. Now look at the clock, what is the actual time?
5.36a.m.
6. Witht the exception of the computer, what can you hear?
The airconditioner, some crappy JJJ 'satire' called Space Ghost.
7. When did you last step outside? What were you doing?
Do I get to skip a question? Doubling up makes it 26. Anyway, it was about half an hour ago to check on a battery I've got on the charger for the GPS base station.
8. Before you started this survey, what did you look at?
Firstly, let me say that I am surprised that it didn't occur to me until question #9 to copy and paste these questions rather than type them in manually. Anyway, I'm wearing whatever you want me to baby, and I'm hot. Or work clothes. Pick one.
10. Did you dream last night?
Probably.
11. When did you last laugh?
I never laugh. I have no sense of joie de vivre, however you spell that.
12. What is on the walls of the room you are in?
Paint, dust, prints, photos.
13. Seen anything weird lately?
Yes.
14. What do you think of this quiz?
Read the opening sentence of this post. Click the link.
15. What is the last film you saw?
Quite Ugly One Morning.
16. If you turned into a multi-millionaire overnight, what would you buy?
Two hours of Halle Berry's time. No talking allowed.
17. Tell me something about you that I don’t know.
I was investigated over the Russell Street bombing.
18. If you could change one thing about the world, regardless of guilt and politics, what would you do?
Ban memes.
19. Do you like to dance?
I dance like an epileptic duck. It's fun sometimes.
20. George Bush
Kate Michael
21. Imagine your first child is a girl, what do you call her?
Home. Every night by 6p.m.
22. Imagine your first child is a boy, what would you call him?
Bob. Or Tom. Or Bill. Anything normal and spelt correctly.
23. Would you ever consider living abroad?
Absolutely.
24. What would you want God to say to you when you reach the pearly gates?
I told you I existed.
25. 4 people who must also do this theme in their journal.
Firstly, it's a meme, not a theme. The inclusion of the word 'journal' is a worry, too. I'm not inflicting it on anybody.
Inspired by theseposts of og's, I thought that I would regale you with a couple of stories about electric fences. They don't involve urination, although I have done it and it isn't pleasant.
I knew a bloke in New South Wales who, for reasons best known to himself, decided that he wanted a few pet camels. For reasons best known to the teutons, this was considered newsworthy and an item was broadcast on German telly about it. Must have been a slow news day. The paddock he kept the camels in had a couple of plum trees in it. As you would no doubt be aware, camels like plums. A lot. The amateur cameleer put a hot wire around the trees, fed from a twelve volt battery. Electic fences emit a small audible click from the energiser when the fence 'pulses'. Most people put a little solar powered trickle charger on the battery. I don't know why the cameleer didn't. Every now and then the cameleer would forget to charge the battery. After a while, the camels worked this out and would walk up to the fence with their heads cocked sideways, listening for the click. No click = no more plums.
I also knew a bloke north of Dalby who had a female dog. When she came on heat he put her in with the chooks to prevent teen pregnancies. Another bloke on the same property had a male dog. His yard wasn't fenced but he had on of those 'virtual fences'. This is a set of little radio beacons that are placed on the perimeter of the area in which you wish to confine the animal. The dog wears a collar with a battery powered receiver in it. As the dog approaches the perimeter it starts to get a tingle from the collar which increases in intensity as the dog gets closer to his limit. This worked well until the bitch came into season. The male dog, like males everywhere, would follow his dick off a cliff and began sniffing around the chook run, despite the collar. Much perplexment ensued from all concerned. The virtual fence and collar were checked - both were working just fine, thanks for asking. Then the owner of the dog saw him escape. He (the dog) backed right up under the eaves of the house and, ears down, eyes closed and tail between his legs like he was about to be beaten, bolted blindly through the yard, yelping in pain as he crossed the threshold. After that it was ears up, eyes bright, tail erect and a gentle stroll over to his woman.
As anybody who has wasted a few minutes reading this page in the past would know, I am without a doubt the world's most positive individual*. However, even someone as relentlessly affirmative such as myself feels the need to get in touch with reality now and again, so I'm going to vent on a few subjects. Bear with me if I've already covered these topics; take it as proof that not much distresses me.
Firstly, it has come to my attention that some people actually like Hip Hop, as opposed to just looking at the girls in the videos. Some of these fans are otherwise quite normal and some could even be considered to be intelligent. The more extreme devotees call Hip Hop "Music." I don't see the relationship myself. I've been told that there are some Hip Hop makers who don't write poetry which would get a 'please repeat' in Primary School and that there may, in fact, be others who are not misogynist wankers. Some of them have been known to go three full minutes without self-aggrandisement. They don't last long usually. The majority of the latter group are Australians and they are usually too busy telling me what a racist/ fascist/ non-uni student wanker I am to tell me how good they are - that's just assumed.
Speaking of talking about yourself, how sick am I of country singers telling me what a country boy/ girl they are? I don't care. Just do some more songs about your dog running off with your wife. And play the fiddle. There isn't enough fiddle these days. And Garth Brooks, if you're reading this, fuck off and die. Go and blow your tour bus up at a Big and Rich Concert or something. And take Lee Kernaghan (a.k.a. Garth Brooks-lite) with you.
Also, sheep. Sheep are a pain in the arse. Don't buy wool. Don't eat lamb/ hoggett/ mutton. Sheep are like having a stupid, retarded needy girlfriend who doesn't put out. Cattle can be left quite happily for months and won't complain. Sheep need shearing, crutching, lamb marking, dipping, drenching etc, etc. In wet areas, they even need pedicures. They won't look for water, you have to take them to it. Ditto feed. You have to read them a story and tuck them in or they won't sleep at night. Bastards. Eat more beef, you mob.
I feel better now.
* Unless of course you are talking about things like HIV or Herpes Simplex B, in which case I am not positive at all. Even a little bit. I hope.
