Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Monday, March 27, 2006
VW Golf for sale
Sunday, March 26, 2006
More photos of that old parrot
This old fellow is beautiful in another sense, it's a survivor, an old warrior.....its loss of feathers, gnarled claws and battle scars testament to a long lived, albeit a tough life in what nature has thrown up at it.
It could be an escaped pet or may have had an unfortunate accident at some stage, but looking at the photos, it just plain looks old.
A real rarity.
Boot camps for the elderly...... or the ugliest parrot in nature.
In a useful segueway, first thing this morning one of oldest, ugliest Sulphur Crested Cockatoos landed on my balcony, gleefully snapped at once!
Edited by Johnno on Monday after dicovering his faux pas in comments.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Banana Price Gouging Downunder
It's a rort! A rort I tell you.......
We had cyclone Larry (yes you read it correctly, the next cyclone will be named either Curly or Moe no doubt.... perhaps Harpo) pass through the north of the country a couple of days ago. This resulted a large swathe of banana plantations being wiped out, along with advocado farms.
The banana price gouging has begun...... and yes, the hacks, reresenting the "people's interest" are on to this. The ever vigilant Murdoch owned Herald Sun has done a quick round up, discovering hyperinflationary effects at various green grocers around the Emerald City.
Hmm, things sure are quiet.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
I am sick unto death of obscure English towns that exist seemingly for the sole accommodation of these so-called limerick writers -- and even sicker of their residents, all of whom suffer from physical deformities and spend their time dismembering relatives at fancy dress balls.
Editor, Limerick Times
Sunday, March 19, 2006
Done at http://www.flagrantdisregard.com/flickr/motivator.php
I was going to something a little on the lighter side but I read this:
Iraqis say US raid on home killed 11 family members
By Amer Amery
TIKRIT, Iraq (Reuters) - Eleven members of an Iraqi family were killed in a U.S. raid on Wednesday, police and witnesses said. The U.S. military said two women and a child died during the bid to seize an al Qaeda militant from a house.
Television pictures showed 11 bodies in the Tikrit morgue -- five children, two men and four women. A freelance photographer later saw the bodies being buried in Ishaqi, the town 100 km (60 miles) north of Baghdad where the raid took place.
The U.S. military said in a statement its troops had attacked a house in Ishaqi early on Wednesday to capture a "foreign fighter facilitator for the al Qaeda in Iraq network".
"Troops were engaged by enemy fire as they approached the building," U.S. spokesman Major Tim Keefe said. "Coalition Forces returned fire utilising both air and ground assets.
"There was one enemy killed. Two women and one child were also killed in the firefight. The building ... (was) destroyed."
Keefe said the al Qaeda suspect had been captured and was being questioned.
Major Ali Ahmed of the Ishaqi police said U.S. forces had landed on the roof of the house in the early hours and shot the 11 occupants, including the five children.
As per Winston's request in response to my writeup of Banjo Patterson's "The Man from Ironbark" and Australian poetry....more please!
CJ Denniswas born in Auburn South Australia a stone's throw from where my great-great grandfather owned a wheat and sheep farm in the dry and dusty mid-north of that state. His father was a publican and with my ancestors being tee-totalling Methodists, I'd say they may not have crossed paths that regularly! Again like me CJ Dennis moved from country South Australia to the big smoke in Sydney. Dennis like Paterson, wrote for "The Bulletin" which was a left leaning weekly of the day (at around the time of the newly emerging union movement) chock full of poetry, essays and cartoons.
CJ Dennis has been largely neglected compared to Lawson and Paterson IMHO because he was one to write more about inner city life, rather that the romance of the outback; which has been done to death by advetising agencies and other creators of the Australian cultural myth. Over 80% of the population live in the cities after all, the bush is a nice place to go on weekends in your airconditioned SUV.
This is a poem from "The Sentimnental Bloke" where our hero, a "larrikin" from the inner city of Sydney takes Doreen out on a date to see Romeo and Juliet. One sometimes forgets through rose coloured glasses, that the inner city was once just as bad as our "crime ridden" present!
My favourite line refers to a sword fight with epees, comparing a swordfight with some of the "stoushes" that took place in the inner city.
"Ixcep' they fights wiv skewers 'stid o' bricks.
Translated Except the fight with skewers instead of bricks
Not much has changed since Shakespeare's time compared to CJ Dennis' time which is much unlike today. Some young blokes get in fights, some die, some wake up to themselves......life goes on.
The dialect may be a little difficult to understand if your from overseas, so any queries, let me know. There's some archaic slang (Australian is a developing language doncha know?) but I can look it up around some educational sites.
Wot’s in a name?-- she sez . . . An' then she sighs,
An' clasps 'er little 'ands, an' rolls 'er eyes.
"A rose," she sez, "be any other name
Would smell the same.
Oh, w'erefore art you Romeo, young sir?
Chuck yer ole pot, an' change yer moniker!"
Doreen an' me, we bin to see a show--
The swell two-dollar touch. Bong tong, yeh know.
A chair apiece wiv velvit on the seat;
A slap-up treat.
The drarmer's writ be Shakespeare, years ago,
About a barmy goat called Romeo.
"Lady, be yonder moon I swear!" sez 'e.
An' then 'e climbs up on the balkiney;
An' there they smooge a treat, wiv pretty words
Like two love-birds.
I nudge Doreen. She whispers, "Ain't it grand!"
'Er eyes is shining an' I squeeze 'er 'and.
'Wot's in a name?" she sez. 'Struth, I dunno.
Billo is just as good as Romeo.
She may be Juli-er or Juli-et--
'E loves 'er yet.
If she's the tart 'e wants, then she's 'is queen,
Names never count . . . But ar, I like "Doreen!"
A sweeter, dearer sound I never 'eard;
Ther's music 'angs around that little word,
Doreen! . . . But wot was this I starts to say
About the play?
I'm off me beat. But when a bloke's in love
'Is thorts turns 'er way, like a 'omin' dove.
This Romeo 'e's lurkin' wiv a crew--
A dead tough crowd o' crooks--called Montague.
'Is cliner's push--wot's nicknamed Capulet--
They 'as 'em set.
Fair narks they are, jist like them back-street clicks,
Ixcep' they fights wiv skewers 'stid o' bricks.
Wot's in a name? Wot's in a string o' words?
They scraps in ole Verona wiv the'r swords,
An' never give a bloke a stray dog's chance,
An' that's Romance.
But when they deals it out wiv bricks an' boots
In Little Lon., they're low, degraded broots.
Wot's jist plain stoush wiv us, right 'ere to-day,
Is "valler" if yer fur enough away.
Some time, some writer bloke will do the trick
Wiv Ginger Mick, Of Spadger's Lane.
'E'll be a Romeo,
When 'e's bin dead five 'undred years or so.
Fair Juli-et, she gives 'er boy the tip.
Sez she: "Don't sling that crowd o' mine no lip;
An' if you run agin a Capulet,
Jist do a get."
'E swears 'e's done wiv lash; 'e'll chuck it clean.
(Same as I done when I first met Doreen.)
They smooge some more at that. Ar, strike me blue!
It gimme Joes to sit an' watch them two! '
E'd break away an' start to say good-bye,
An' then she'd sigh
"Ow, Ro-me-o!" an' git a strangle-holt,
An' 'ang around 'im like she feared 'e'd bolt.
Nex' day 'e words a gorspil cove about
A secret weddin'; an' they plan it out.
'E spouts a piece about 'ow 'e's bewitched:
Then they git 'itched . . .
Now, 'ere's the place where I fair git the pip!
She's 'is for keeps, an' yet 'e lets 'er slip!
Ar! but 'e makes me sick! A fair gazob!
E's jist the glarsey on the soulful sob,
'E'll sigh and spruik, a’ ‘owl a love-sick vow--
(The silly cow!)
But when 'e's got 'er, spliced an' on the straight
'E crools the pitch, an' tries to kid it's Fate.
Aw! Fate me foot! Instid of slopin' soon
As 'e was wed, off on 'is 'oneymoon,
'Im an' 'is cobber, called Mick Curio,
They 'ave to go
An' mix it wiv that push o' Capulets.
They look fer trouble; an' it's wot they gets.
A tug named Tyball (cousin to the skirt)
Sprags 'em an' makes a start to sling off dirt.
Nex' minnit there's a reel ole ding-dong go—
'Arf round or so.
Mick Curio, 'e gets it in the neck,
"Ar rats!" 'e sez, an' passes in 'is check.
Quite natchril, Romeo gits wet as 'ell.
"It's me or you!" 'e 'owls, an' wiv a yell,
Plunks Tyball through the gizzard wiv 'is sword,
'Ow I ongcored! "Put in the boot!" I sez. "Put in the boot!"
"'Ush!" sez Doreen . . . "Shame!" sez some silly coot.
Then Romeo, 'e dunno wot to do.
The cops gits busy, like they allwiz do,
An' nose around until 'e gits blue funk
An' does a bunk.
They wants 'is tart to wed some other guy.
"Ah, strike!" she sez. "I wish that I could die!"
Now, this 'ere gorspil bloke's a fair shrewd 'ead.
Sez 'e "I'll dope yeh, so they'll think yer dead."
(I tips 'e was a cunnin' sort, wot knoo
A thing or two.)
She takes 'is knock-out drops, up in 'er room:
They think she's snuffed, an' plant 'er in 'er tomb.
Then things gits mixed a treat an' starts to whirl.
'Ere's Romeo comes back an' finds 'is girl
Tucked in 'er little coffing, cold an' stiff,
An' in a jiff,
'E swallows Iysol, throws a fancy fit,
'Ead over turkey, an' 'is soul 'as flit.
Then Juli-et wakes up an' sees 'im there,
Tums on the water-works an' tears 'er 'air,
"Dear love," she sez, "I cannot live alone!"
An' wiv a moan, She grabs 'is pockit knife, an' ends 'er cares . . .
"Peanuts or lollies!" sez a boy upstairs.
"Johnny Flex?"......."Rediculously(sic) quick?"......."We'll get you out like a trout?!!!!!!".......This is a whole new world for me.
I had a look around and found http://www.bailyes.com/ which takes Paypal and Western Union as a form of payment, are open 24/7 and Espanol is spoken!
Sunday, March 12, 2006
Now, away from the legalese......
Depending on which side of the Pacific or Atlantic you live on, the Ameringlish term Asshole or the more British Arsehole (as we use downunder) is pretty well recognised as someone who well..... I suppose is an arsehole.
I wrote a comment over at UFO breakfast and the esteemed Turbulent Velvet directed me to his Asshole theory post from some two years ago.
a holiday offering
Shorter Plato's Republic:
Only assholes are motivated to seek public office. This is the eternal and perhaps insoluble conundrum of politics.
Soliticing no reputation for respectability, X people are freely obscene and profane, but tend to deploy vile language with considerable rhetorical effectiveness, differing from proles by using f@%$ing as a modifier only now and then and never dropping the g. They may be rather fonder than most people of designating someone--usually a public servant or idol of the middle class--an asshole.
Paul Fussell, Class
There was an asshole in Gurdjieff's meditative community--the surly, weasely, backstabbing guy that all the other members loathed being around. At one point he left the community and everyone breathed a sigh of relief. Gurdjieff paid him to come back and continue living there just so he'd keep rankling everybody.
No enlightenment without assholes.
A couple of additions.
When I see beings of unpleasant character
Opressed by strong negativity and suffering,
May I hold them dear-for they are rere to find-
As if I have discovered a jewel treasure!- The Dalai Lama
The good Dalai attributes this to those of socially marginalized, however I can read arseholes into this description.
A Nostradamus like prophecy from 1995!!!!!!!
Scum rises to the top
We Americans promote disrespect for our Constitution, rule of law and private property in our pursuit of "social justice." But the scum that rises to the top have an agenda of command and control that's leading toward totalitarianism. And, incidentally, it's no coincidence that most of those at the top are lawyers - people with a special, seemingly tutored, contempt for our Constitution and rule of law.
An essay from 1995 by Walter Williams
Or perhaps things have remained just as they always were???
The actions of [pathocracy] affect an entire society, starting with the leaders and infiltrating every town, business, and institution. The pathological social structure gradually covers the entire country creating a “new class” within that nation. This privileged class [of pathocrats] feels permanently threatened by the “others”, i.e. by the majority of normal people. Neither do the pathocrats entertain any illusions about their personal fate should there be a return to the system of normal man. [Andrew M. Lobaczewski, Ph.D. (psychology); Political Ponerology: A science on the nature of evil adjusted for political purposes]
The thing with arseholes, everyone has one.
Whether it be that guy at the top of the food chain you work for deciding that rationalization of your job would be in lin with increasing shareholder value. Or the politician you've been trying to get an answer from about the new freeway going through your backyard.
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
A.B. "Banjo" Paterson
In the interest of cross cultural and trans-Pacific relations I present AB "Banjo" Paterson's Poem The Man From Ironbark for Angelo at The Angry Sicilian as requested. This is one of my favourites from around 1930. I could do a list with some time but this is a good start. I quite like the old Australian poetry, CJ Dennis and Henry Lawson are also pretty good. All wrote for the Bulletin at sometime in it's heyday.
Couple of archaic and Aussie references in this poem, a "tote" is a machine that totals up all bets and skims off a percentage for the bookmaker (barbers and pub owners quite often had one running), a "peel" is a policeman. I rather like it as I can identify being the boy from the bush in the big smoke when I go to Sydney.
IT WAS the man from Ironbark who struck the Sydney town,
He wandered over street and park, he wandered up and down.
He loitered here, he loitered there, till he was like to drop,
Until at last in sheer despair he sought a barber’s shop.
“’Ere! shave my beard and whiskers off, I’ll be a man of mark,
I’ll go and do the Sydney toff up home in Ironbark.”
The barber man was small and flash, as barbers mostly are,
He wore a strike-your-fancy sash, he smoked a huge cigar:
He was a humorist of note and keen at repartee,
He laid the odds and kept a "tote”, whatever that may be,
And when he saw our friend arrive, he whispered “Here’s a lark!
Just watch me catch him all alive, this man from Ironbark.”
There were some gilded youths that sat along the barber’s wall,
Their eyes were dull, their heads were flat, they had no brains at all;
To them the barber passed the wink, his dexter eyelid shut,
“I’ll make this bloomin’ yokel think his bloomin’ throat is cut.”
And as he soaped and rubbed it in he made a rude remark:
“I s’pose the flats is pretty green up there in Ironbark.”
A grunt was all reply he got; he shaved the bushman’s chin,
Then made the water boiling hot and dipped the razor in.
He raised his hand, his brow grew black, he paused awhile to gloat,
Then slashed the red-hot razor-back across his victim’s throat;
Upon the newly shaven skin it made a livid mark—
No doubt it fairly took him in—the man from Ironbark.
He fetched a wild up-country yell might wake the dead to hear,
And though his throat, he knew full well, was cut from ear to ear,
He struggled gamely to his feet, and faced the murd’rous foe:
“You’ve done for me! you dog, I’m beat! one hit before I go!
I only wish I had a knife, you blessed murdering shark!
But you’ll remember all your life, the man from Ironbark.”
He lifted up his hairy paw, with one tremendous clout
He landed on the barber’s jaw, and knocked the barber out.
He set to work with tooth and nail, he made the place a wreck;
He grabbed the nearest gilded youth, and tried to break his neck.
And all the while his throat he held to save his vital spark,
And “Murder! Bloody Murder!” yelled the man from Ironbark.
A peeler man who heard the din came in to see the show;
He tried to run the bushman in, but he refused to go.
And when at last the barber spoke, and said, “’Twas all in fun—
’Twas just a little harmless joke, a trifle overdone.”
“A joke!” he cried, “By George, that’s fine; a lively sort of lark;
I’d like to catch that murdering swine some night in Ironbark.”
And now while round the shearing floor the list’ning shearers gape,
He tells the story o’er and o’er, and brags of his escape.
“Them barber chaps what keeps a tote, By George, I’ve had enough,
One tried to cut my bloomin’ throat, but thank the Lord it’s tough.”
And whether he’s believed or no, there’s one thing to remark,
That flowing beards are all the go way up in Ironbark.
Sunday, March 05, 2006
Lamest Post Ever
I was going to write something but I forgot what it was.
Do you like the gif I swiped?
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
I've rediscovered the wonderful world of poetry again AND a small cure for the dreaded writers block.
I went to the puzzle shop yesterday and got some of that Magnetic Poetry that you can afix to the fridge door and get highly creative when you make your coffee. It's fantastic, you pull out a few words, make some random associations, tidy it up and pretty soon you have a poem. The above was done using their online version.
I had bought the "Genius" edition (on special 50% off....I'm such a tightwad) with words such as Kafkalesque, boor and erudite which are interesting words but make lousy poems......that was why it was on special methinks.
So, being curioius, I had a look at the Magnetic Poetry website to see what other kits they had available and some info on the guy who came up with the idea. I'm going to shoot down to the puzzle shop again and get the big standard edition, makes for better reading.
Whilst on their website, I was delighted to find some online poetry kits which you can see the results of above. Have a try and get creative. The subject matter is limited due to the limited number of words BUT what it does is gets you expressing ideas in other ways which aren't so automatic. You find creative solutions to problems given only a limited amount of resources.
The inspiration for the creation of the magnetic poetry was as follows:
It all started with a song and a sneeze. Dave Kapell, founder of Magnetic Poetry, was suffering from writer's block while trying to compose song lyrics. To overcome this problem, he wrote down interesting words on pieces of paper and rearranged them, looking for inspiration. What he hadn't figured into this experiment was his allergies. One good sneeze and any progress was sent flying across the room. Dave decided to glue the words to pieces of magnets and stick them to a pizza tin. Then he got hungry and the now magnetized words made their way to the refrigerator door. Before too long, Dave wasn't the only one rearranging his would-be song lyrics. When friends came over, Dave noticed they started to move the magnets around, amusing themselves by writing the first magnetic poems.
After seeing his friends having fun, Dave thought he might be able to sell his word kits at a local craft fair. He made up 100 kits and set up shop at Calhoun Square, a mall in the Uptown area of Minneapolis. All 100 kits were gone after 3 hours. That night, he recruited as many friends as pizza and beer could draw and made up more kits--all of which sold as rapidly the next day.
From these beginnings, Magnetic Poetry® has now sold over three million word kits, over one billion word tiles--growing from the Original Kit to a kid's line of kits, to foreign language kits, to Voice/theme kits
What's more David blogs, well kinda blogs. He puts down his views and impressions from his writing desk overlooking a train yard, no comments.