Getting a "Bit"

Very recently, Agent M and myself have had cause to prop ourselves atop my brown leatherish couch to absorb screenings of a favourite comedy duo hailing from the British Isles. Entitled, "A Bit of Fry and Laurie" and even indicated as such with a quadruplette of dancing middle and index figures by the former, it has unleashed upon us a dowry of mirth, mayhem, and very silly foolish fun.

Unless one has committed their lives to drudgery and blandness, the elegantly mischievous wit of Stephen Fry would be well known. He is rarely far from our television screens, an oasis of pure entertainment in a media sea of rotting detritus. If one has committed their lives to drudgery and blandness, Hugh Laurie would certainly have been observed playing the lead role in an American medical drama that will remain unnamed here for fear of cracking my head open with a croquet mallet to induce blessed release from a world where one more medical TV drama pushes me o'er the brink. For shame, as Laurie is the equal of Fry in every way but height.

From the opening scene, a play on awfully overpriced and over-marketed bottled smells for dedicated non-thinkers (entitled "Protention - by Fry and Laurie) to the conclusive concocting of a cocktail for guests that include such ingredients as a litre of air, and a measure of fried water all mixed by a rollicking brass medley produced by Laurie without a brass razoo and hysterical gyrations by the tall frame of Fry, the viewer is treated to something that is laughably ridiculous. One thinks that these gentlemen enjoy casting off the shackles of intellectualism and behaving in a manner unbecoming of sensible souls. Being a fool can really be so much fun, and I hope to improve my proficiency in this area along with grumpiness as I age.

Such things are worth seeking.

Ban the Beret

If I had a choice of languages other than English to speak, French would be top of the list. I have a kind of affinity with France even though I have never set foot in the place. Perhaps it's the food or the wine, or our shared indifference for ignorant Americans, but it was with an overwhelming sense of disappointment to see the French government display an exhibition of such stupidity that it made the most boneheaded American tourist look like a goddammed genius.


In a triumph of arrogant conservatism over being human, the French government introduced some sort of law to ban the wearing of the burqa. It is mind boggling to think that a country capable of such good pastries can bring such foolish concepts into law. At a time when people of the Muslim faith are feeling ever more ostracized by the western world, leave it to the French to fuck it up even further.


To whit, I condemn this vile behaviour by introducing the "Ban the Beret" campaign. Until this ridiculous action is reversed no beret shall adorn my bonce. Who's with me?

B Times in B n B

An escape from ones home base is a healthy thing. And indeed can further the appreciation for ones base of operations. In case it's not known (and why should it be unless you were there) I was fortunate enough to dash off on a little journey south of SinCity under the guidance of Agent M, for the purposes of battery recharging via the consumption of good food and wine and enthusiastic conversing with exceptional souls.


Let me say that the heavens did open on occasion and did the ol' cats and dogs routine. Luckily, our temporary home was bereft of discomfort and many hours of reading newspapers, foodling, winering, and generally being in a pleasing environment were the result. Games were played, and needless to say my lack of competitive spirit had me at a disadvantage. The marjong was confusing, the charades was panic stricken (but I like being panicked it's true), and the scrabblation was beyond my feeble capacities and hence my seat was resigned to those with expert grasps on wordnessness. I preferred being roped into activities closer to my dreams.


The local beach was but a stroll away and we had a enough of a break in the weather to peruse. Agent M managed to convince a small rock crab to attack me with fury but I was talented enough to squeal in an ungainly fashion and leap to safety. That rock crab had little chance against my superior cowardice and scuttled away disgusted.


More excursionary activities are definitely planned.

Aerophilia

Aghast, once again struck by the ability of people to build things wonderous. Raw noise, many thousands of horsepower with not a horse in sight as this was no place for mortal creatures to exhibit. Avalon, not the beautiful song but the venue for many mechanical beasties that snub their metallic noses at gravitational concepts. I and senior familia were there for what is no less than a pilgrimage adopted every second year.


Oh yes, I indeed paid a degree of heed to such issues of carbon footprints and the perversion of drooling over machines of war, but I am satisfied in my weakness and not so naive to think that one turned head will change such matters. Along with thousand hundred others the indulgement was a festival of aerial speed, size and verbosity. We stood firmly upon the ground as the stars of the show did not. An orgy involving the conversion of avgas to action amid aerial exploits.


Will I return in another years two? Ofcourse.

Satisfaction with Factions

‘Tseems I have struggled as of late keeping this here blog stocked with thought-flow. Pity, but bah phooey and who said that a blog needed constant entries anyhoo. My mind muddied with muddled thoughts perhaps a healthy evacuation of such onto this papier digitale may be of benificial brainage beautification.... hence:

I find myself in a peculiar place in life. Oh please, say they of lives more peculiar than mine, but indeed I find it peculiar all the same. First, since May my methode of employ and funding has progressed in two directions, namely slightly improved in dollars and cents wise, considerably improved, nay increased, in responsibilities and activity wise, and fucking o’er flowing in frustration.... wise. My gracious employer has never sparkled in the area of modern technology for the workplace, the bare minimum of rudimentary but reasonably workable IT tools have been furnished in the past and minor grumblings aside I always seemed to be able to press the buttons required to make things happen as required. Unfortunately, an ambitious and somewhat fuckwitted introduction of new systems has rendered my daily activities ridiculously difficult, complex, and bordering on impossible. Complaints are unwelcome to those who champion the new order and solutions will not be forthcoming while my derriere is pointing in a certain direction. Luckily, I have the incredible ability known as “Nary Giving a Fuck” and I bravely work on allowing the things that cannot be done to remain undone. Added to all this, the silly season that is the fault of celebrations related to the story of the miracle of a virgin birth is upon us and the work will soon become all that much harder.

Still in the workplace, I grow weary of the daily battle in a war not worth fighting with some of my occasional comrades. Arguing incoherently with me is like eating a lump of lard, pointless and leaves a bad taste in ones mouth. Some of our people do find themselves in a tough place at the moment, but they confuse me with somebody who has a responsibility to help them. My job is to make decisions that are rather ruthless in nature, and I am sooooo fucking good at it that it gives me energy. I dismiss dilly-dallying, sob stories, and people who think they know my job better than I do, but I wonder if secretly I actually enjoy pissing them off and observing the fits of fury. Is there some degree of masochism involved here, perhaps I subconsciously enjoy having abuse and mental degradation heaped upon me and just when they think I’m out for the count I rise up, kick them in the balls and deliver my own tirade. The workplace is indeed a terrible terrible place, but I’m thinking that I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Home life is very subdued, mostly a lack of energy from the encounters above. But alas, a slowly percolating excitement is developing as my years of single living are in their final weeks. It’s a brave new world I embark towards with a wicked grin and understandable trepidation. Having known of her existence for a little over a year now, I have gradually identified her as one of the treasures of the trove and someone I have a desire to desire utterly. Certainly it is not without hurdles to be leaped, but bound together in a three legged race even I feel we shall soar.

Fatigue now descends upon me, so I shall rest.

There's Nothing Wrong with being Anon

Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth. - Oscar Wilde.

As an anonymous blogger (a lazy, inconsistent and infrequent one lately) this quote is just so true. I wonder why we feel so much more at ease with the truth when it cannot be directly connected to us by others?

A debate I heard a while ago about the blogging community was that anonymity presents the danger of the author not having to stand by what they are writing. This opens the door to all sorts of false and scandalous information that could lead the ignorant astray and damage reputations. Bah! Anyone who reads a blog (especially mine) and considers it a source of valuable information that they should base their own thoughts on has serious problems. People should understand that the written word is as corruptible as any other form of communication. Its dangers require at least two people, one to write it and one to read and believe it. Does not the reader need to accept some responsibility?

Oscar would have loved blogging. I wonder what he would have called his blog page? The Importance of being Scandalous? A Blog of no Importance?

Smile for the Camera.... Darlin'!

Oh dear, it seems I have been neglecting this blog something awful. Clearly my “one pic a day” plans have come a cropper, and hence will be now be referred to as “one pic whenever I get around to it” instead.

Today I read a small article that can be found on Adelaide’s “The Advertiser” website about the most recent victim of Channel 9’s practice of “boning” its female presenters. In case anyone is unsure, Channel 9 is a television station that broadcasts copious quantities of advertising for products no sane person could ever want (at least while they are legally entitled to button their own trousers) with the odd program of dubious entertainment or informative value thrown into the mix just to keep us from trading in our television sets for things we..... well, might actually find of use instead.

Anyways, I’m not here to pour scorn on channel 9, they gush it onto themselves readily enough, I instead wish to unleash my cynical bwahahahaha’s upon the recently boned Kellie Connolly who may just qualify for the “Hypocrite? Who? Me?” award for this year. Yes indeed it appears that Mrs. Connolly has been rocked to the core after being the latest casualty and is not too pleased about it. The pearly whites and the pleasant face it appears were not enough to save her from the chopping block, probably because some other unmarried, non-pregnant, white toothed glamour has joined the ranks and taken her place on the gravy train.... oh yeah and some shit about journalistic ability too, yada yada yada.

Is there a naivety inherent in the concept that if you score a gig on “A Current Affair” or one of the plague of morning breakfast television shows that ooze, puss-like, from the screen you got the gig due to journalistic credentials? ...... wow... ACA, morning breakfast television, and journalistic credentials all in one sentence. I feel sooooo dirty.

Kellie, you didn’t complain when they put you up in the apartment overlooking SinCity Harbour, you didn’t complain when they poured fucking stupid amounts of cash into your bank account. You had a damn good run in a game more crooked than a poker table on a Mississippi steamboat. You don’t now have a right to sully the strides made by the real feminists who are battling the real issues by jumping aboard a bandwagon and saying how appalled you are that it was all about teeth and tits. If your that good a journalist, pursue a career in the free press where there is some integrity, but little chance to attend the Logies underpantless I’m afraid.

The article can be found here.