Same blog, new home

Last night was a night of blackouts (at least six or seven) , including one at a most inoportune time. I was playing around with the template to add in the flags down the side when the power went out. This meant that only half the tempate uploaded, which meant that if I hit the republish button i'd be stuffed. So this morning I decided to sign up for a beta account and figured while I'm at it I may as well change the address, since I've been going batty the last three months telling people "my dash life dash in dash the dash slow dash lane dot blogspot dot com".

So here I am, at the new home, http://slowlanedan.blogspot.com. Short and sweet. If you link to me can you please change the link to the new address... and if you dont' link to me, perhaps it's time to consider it. :)

G'night.

For your listening pleasure...

On the way home in the train I was sitting in front of a guy with one of the sexiest voices I've ever had the pleasure to eavesdrop on. I admit I was eavesdropping, so if that's a problem, get over it. I was sitting there minding my own business, listening to some music and was vaguely aware of hear someone talking on the phone in the seat behind me. I thought nothing of it until during the silence between two songs I heard his voice properly. It sounded so hot. Since I've come out I've gotten really shallow like that.

I'm a little embarrassed to admit that I paused the music but kept the earphones in my ears so that I could listen to him talk but keep up the pretence of listening to music. I wasn't eavesdropping for the sake of what he was saying, I should point out, but simply for the fact that he was saying it. It's amazing how much you can tell about a person (and the person they're on the phone to) from hearing one side of a phone conversation. He was talking to a woman (I could hear her voice occasionally in the silences) who was either his girlfriend or wife. I know this because he called her darling, babe, sweetie and so on. She is in college or uni and has to write an 8000 word essay. She had no idea on how to proceed. She called him for help.

I listened as he threw some ideas around, and repeated them very patiently, and told her how she could pad them out to 8000 words. He swore occasionally but not every second word. I found this strangely attractive too. He had a few examples and patiently explained them to her, several times. She didn't sound like the brightest star in the heavens.

As I was sitting there, pretending to read and listen to music but secretly listening to He-of-the-sexy-voice, the man in front of me stood up, turned, and looked over my head at the guy behind and said "Do we have to listen to this all the way up the mountain?" Doesn't bother me, I thought. The guy said to the woman "Look baby, I have to go, I'm annoying the other passengers, write down some of the ideas we've talked about while they're fresh in your head...". Soon thereafter ended the conversation. I was pissed off with the man in front of me (whose voice was definitely not sexy) so I turned my music back on and continued reading. I'm reading Loaded by Cristos Tsiokis, the book behind the movie Head On, something I've always wanted to watch but never seem to get a chance to, starring Alex Dimitriades.

When I got up to get off the train I chanced a glance behind me and saw that the guy. He wasn't "hot", but he was not too bad looking after all. Still, he could talk to me any day.

Love/hate

The computers at work and I have a love/hate relationship. They love to piss me off, and I hate them because of it.

I work voluntarily for a charity organisation where I serve on the management committee, something I've really enjoyed doing for the last two-and-a-half years. I go into the office on average once a month for meetings and general bits-and-pieces. More often than not I hang around in the office after the meeting to do bits and pieces that need doing. I was determined that tonight wouldn't be one of those nights. I should have known that such determination was tempting fate.

The meeting finished uncharacteristically early at 5,20 pm. I accompanied a colleague down to her car, had a smoke, and then headed back up to the office to find some files on the computer so that I could email them to myself at home to be worked on. I turned everything off and locked up, headed down stairs, lit up another cigarette, and remembered that I had forgotten something. I had promised another colleague that I'd grab a copy of our brochure, take it home and scan it and then email it to her so that she could update it. I finished the cigarette and realised it would probably be easier if I found the original file on the computer and emailed that instead of taking the time to scan/type it from the hard copy. I headed back upstairs, unlocked everything, and sat down at the computer. It was 5,45 pm. It's at this point were my tale takes a turn for the worst.

When I turned the computer on I noticed that the antivirus needed updating. Being the IT Officer, Second Class (the aforementioned colleague is the IT Officer, First Class) I figured I may as well update it while I'm there or it wouldn't get done for a few weeks seeing as how we don't visit the office often. I searched for the brochure and found quite a few different files, so I noted where they were saved and decided to email them all off since they would likely all contribute to the you-beaut revamped super-brochure we had in mind. It's at this point where things go from really wrong.

I started emailing files off, only small ones to begin with and the poor dial-up connection chugged along studiously. I started a spybot scan while I was waiting for them to send, since it likely hasn't been done in a while and adware has always been a problem on the office computers. I soon realised that the files I really wanted, the ones that looked most useful, were in the order of 20MB a piece. I opened up winRAR and compressed them down a more manageable (but still too big for sending with a dial-up connection). I broke the files up a bit into 1MB pieces, but then realised I would still need to send twenty emails. I didn't have a flash drive with me and there are no blank CDs in the office. I went downstairs to see if the newsagent down the road was still open (it was) but halfway there realised I could just use some floppy disks.

So I went back upstairs again, grabbed the box of blank floppies and sat down to attempt to copy the 1MB files to the floppies. The first one was the wrong size. The second was corrupt. The third had an unknown error. The fourth worked. The fifth had an unknown error. It was getting a little ridiculous. I looked through the draw for a blank disk but only found a spindle of blank DVDs that are used for backup. Being desperate, I put in a blank DVD (4GB capacity for 40MB of files is totally ludicrous, but it was nearly 7 pm at this point and I was regretting starting the whole exercise). The burning had errors.

I gave up.

I went home.

Pictionary and other acts of boredom

On Sunday afternoon there was a big wind storm in our area. By all accounts its epicentre was right above my town. There were leaves and sticks on the ground everywhere, branches on the ground in most places, and even entire trees on the ground in a few lucky people's garden (or carports). A giant tree was uprooted and dropped over the top of the power lines just down the road, plunging the entire town into darkness. It took 28 hours for the power to come back on at our place. Since there is no school, hospital or shopping centre in our power grid we are given low priority.

So during the 28 hours of nothingness, we had to fend for ourselves armed with candles and torches and book to amuse us. Blackouts really show you how dependent we are on technology: the computers, televisions, video players, DVD players, stereos, fridge, washing machine, stereo, and clock radios all stood silently mocking us with their lack of activity. The laptops worked (for as long as their batteries lasted) but without power the modem was also eerily silent.

During the day, Sister and I spent our time playing board games. After the previous post, I thought I should mention that she isn't terrible all the time, and can on occasion actually be fun to hang out with. We played mahjong, trivial pursuit, and my own favourite pictionary. It was a little tricky playing with two people, but we made do. I've scanned some of the funnier pictures that we drew for you all to enjoy.

Sister drew this: Witness. You can see the little boy from the movie Witness, witnessing a murder, the Loch Ness monster (to get a sounds like), and the Judge with his gavel and a witness in the witness stand for when I still didn't get it with the other clues.
I drew this stereo to illustrate Blare.
This is my attempt to draw a Stray Cat. This is one of my poorer efforts I have to say. When I started drawing the cat it looked more like a pig, so I added the Cheshire cat grin. The I drew a haystack for a sounds-like clue. When she didn't recognise it as a haystack I added the needle and she got it, but still didn't come up with stray. I started drawing some buildings but the time was up.
This is my drawing of a cow going moo.
This is my drawing of Las Vegas, although Sister guessed (rather cleverly) that it was The Louvre because of the pyramid.
Last but by no means least, this is my attempt at Stunt man. I started by drawing the camera man, then the actor in front of him. Then I crossed out the actor and drew the man jumping off the building in an attempt to say "not the actor, but the guy who jumps off the building in films". All I got from Sister was "suicidal guy?" The only word I could think that rhymed with stunt was a part of the female anatomy, the word for which my sister hates. But I was running out of ideas so I drew the stickwoman with big tits and circled her privates. She looked at me and said in her best "you are such a child" voice "not the C-word?" Then she put it all together, in the nick of time, and got stunt man. Phew.

Random ramblings #7

Tonight I went to see The Devil Wears Prada at the movies with Mum & Sister (I figured rather than making up a fake name for her, I'd just call her Sister with a capital S). It was ok, not brilliant, but ok. The boyfriend (Adrian Grenier, left) was cute: he was what I was concentrating on lol. Simon Baker also made an appearance. Meryl Streep was excellent, as always; I love her work. Anne Hathaway was great too. But the whole story wasn't as brilliant as everyone else made it out to be ... I mean there were plenty of laughs, but overall the story lacked something. I don't even know what, but whatever it was it was missing.

On the way back in the car I was reminded that my sister has got to be the most contrary person I know. It sometimes seems we have absolutely nothing in common except our genes. Every time Mum or I make a comment about the film (or anything really) she has to rebut it; every time she makes a comment that we disagree with she jumps down our throats. If I don't like the music being played in the car then I am expected to put up with it silently; if she doesn't like it then she makes me change it or complains constantly. She treats me like a child in the way she talks to me - the tone of her voice is always full of superiority; if I point this out to her she tells me that I'm the one using a nasty tone of voice (admittedly by this point I usually am, but she doesn't realise she does it constantly). If I interrupt her she gets pissed off and tells me not to butt in; if she interrupts me I am expected to stop and let her finish. She is always asking me to get her a drink or some tablets - even when I'm lying in bed and she is in the loungeroom (next to the kitchen); when I ask her to turn a light off or close a door as she is walking past she gets shitty. I just don't know what to do about it anymore. I think I might snap soon.

I finished watching season 1 of Everwood. I'm now watching it again from the beginning with Mum & Sister. I did a google search the other night and it looks like the other three seasons won't be put on DVD, since the first season hasn't sold well enough. So I've taken the radical step to downloading them. I taped most of season two when it was on TV, but three and four will have to be downloaded. I even bought a new external hard drive to fit them on my laptop. I rationalise this move to downloading by the fact that I would buy the DVD if it was released; it's in the hands of Warner Bros now.

Agendas

I was using google image search, as I always do, to find some pictures for the previous post. Just for kicks I typed in the word homosexual to see what I'd get. I was disgusted with the results. I found a few images of books about the so-called "Homosexual Agenda". I'm not going to write about it much because frankly it makes my blood boil.

The whole premise of the homosexual agenda is that (and this is a quote from a website promoting this rubbish): "The book, The Homosexual Agenda ... documents chapter and verse how the Homosexual Agenda is to destroy Christianity. Christianity is about the only thing which stands in its way. So their Pagan goal is to destroy it." According to another, satan is not the enemy of the world, homosexuals are. Another talks about it like we're all in on a big secret, trying to bring down Christianity and the world as we know it. It's just nuts.

It makes me so sad. Genuinely sad that these people are so unhappy that they have to destroy everyone else. I almost feel sorry for them.

Is it any wonder that so many gay men and lesbians feel hostility towards Christianity and Christians in general if they are treated like this?

What did we ever do them?

And the cake goes to...

I've met my fair share of weirdos in gay chatrooms but tonight I met a guy who not only took the cake but ate it in front of me and then threw it back up again.

Weirdo (noun): 1. an odd, eccentric, or unconventional person.

The previous holder of the title of Weirdest Conversation I've Ever Had Online goes to this conversation:
Me: Hey man, how are you?
Him: Good and you?
Me: I'm not too bad thanks.
Him: What shoe size are you?
Me: Ummm UK 9 or 10 I think. I'm not really sure. Why?
Him: Hot... Do you want to stand on my hard cock with your bare feet?
Me: Not really...

It's not that I have a problem with foot fetishes. Whatever turns you, I say. I just don't get it. What got me is that this guy quite casually asked me if I wanted to stand on his dick with my bare feet right off the bat.

The runner up is:
(various smalltalk)
Him: You into roll-play?
Me: Not really...
Him: Go on, give it a go, it's fun.
Me: Why not... what's the story?
Him: Ok we're friends, and you just got stood up by your girlfriend for a date and so you came over to my place instead. Ok?
Me: Cool, except I don't have a girlfriend...
Him: Yeah but in the story you do
Me: Dude, I'm gay... if I wanted to fuck girls I'd be straight.
Him: Yes but when you come over to my place I can console you and then you can have sex with me and pretend I'm your girlfriend.
Me: Ok this is a little weird... why would I pretend you are a woman? That'd be a total turn off. (sorry girls)

Fetish (noun): 3. Something, such as a material object or a nonsexual part of the body, that arouses sexual desire and may become necessary for sexual gratification.

And the winner? I won't reproduce the chat here because it really didn't go very far. After the initial "Hi, how are you?" stage, he asked me if I'd ever broken my leg. I said no. That was it. He went silent, presumably hitting other people and asking them if they'd broken a leg. I was intrigued as to why he'd ask such a random question so I checked out his profile... The heading read "Looking for guys with their leg in a cast" and said further down that he found guys with plaster casts a huge turn on. I'm not trying to belittle his sexual fantasies, but it just struck me as such a random one.

So there you have it folks, the strangest gay chatroom experiences I've ever had. I guess that its all a question of relativity: what turns one person on is nothing special to another and repulsive to yet another person. One of my (male, straight) friends said once that he just didn't get why a man would be attracted to other men. But then I don't get why straight blokes go gah-gah over breasts either. So it all comes out in a wash.

Out of the (smoker's) closet

Funny how scary things seem completely insignificant once they're passed.

This morning I went out to check the mail and have a smoke and when I got back in Mum asked "Did you go out for a smoke?". Rather than be a man and admit it, I just said "No, I went to check the mail." I'm not even sure why I lied about it, I mean I'm 22 for heaven sakes. I guess I didn't want them to be disappointed in me for smoking again.

Tonight I was taking some rubbish out (something I do a lot lately - the perfect cover for smoking) and when I got back in Mum was waiting at the door, asking if I'd been out for a smoke. "No..." I said in a somewhat less than assuring way. She walked up close and gave me a hug and could obviously smell it on me and said "Aha! You were smoking." So the cat is out of the bag.

She asked me why I lied about it and I had no bloody idea. It seemed so important at the time.

Mr nice guy

I hate being the good guy, the nice guy.
I hate being the peacemaker.

I hate not fighting a battle, even when I know I'm right. I hate letting it drop. I hate not pointing out to the other person that they said this or that I meant that or that they're just totally wrong.

I hate that I constantly "let it go" with my sister, with some (but thankfully not many) of my friends, and most of the Family-At-Large (also more or less constantly).

And while I know I am being the "better man" (whatever the fuck that is) the other person doesn't know it. They genuinely think they've won and I'm wrong. So there's absolutely no satisfaction in it apart from knowing myself that I've taken the path of least resistance for the common good of the relationship, the peace, and/or the sanity of both parties.

Life is like a diplomatic peace process sometimes, and I hate it.

I heart Everwood

I love the internet! It's made the world so much smaller. Yesterday a parcel arrived from the US, full of DVDs I bought on Amazon.com that aren't available in Australia. Luckily in this day and age of the internet they're pretty much available to anywhere. I'm so stoked.

Nowadays I do most of my entertainment shopping online. It's so much easier to order things from the comfort of my own home and have them delivered to my door than to trek out to the plaza and buy it in person. It's also a hell of a lot cheaper! I've bought CDs from Argentina that were cheaper (even including international postage) than to buy the import from an Australian store. Don't get me wrong, I am a big stickler for the Buy Australian policy, but I figure that when the items are not available in Australia to begin with, or are already imported, then I may as well get a better deal.

So this time I ordered Popular - season 2, and (more importantly) Everwood - season 1. I love that show. To my knowledge it was never given much of a chance in Australia, which is a shame because it's a brilliant show. It's a coming of age, father and son, boy meets girl, small town drama set in Everwood, Colorado. I stumbled across it one day when I was sick in bed channel-surfing. (Channel-surfing, I might add, is something I detest with every fibre of my being: if you are watching a channel on the television, then watch it. Don't flick back and forth.) My argument is slightly mooted by the fact that I stumbled across this gem of a show while doing the very thing I hate. Oh well.

Ephram (the guy on the right) moves to the small town of Everwood, to start a new life, with his father and sister after his mother dies suddenly. He promptly falls in love with Amy - the local good girl - who in turn is in love with Colin (below) - highschool jock, hottie, and comatose after a terrible car accident. Amy's brother Bright (above) - also Colin's best mate - survived the car accident and feels guilty about the whole thing. So you can see why I got hooked. I've already watched seven episodes today.

I was nearly (and I emphasise "nearly") crying in the episode which told the story of what happened on the day of the accident. Picture it: a montage of Colin, comatose in hospital; Colin and Bright driving in a car around a paddock, laughing; Amy and Colin swimming in the lake, kissing; all against the backdrop of the haunting vocals and acoustic guitar of Caught in the River by The Doves (and you know that I go weak at the knees for a good male vocalist). Nearly brings a tear to my eye just writing about it.

I love the internet.

Random ramblings #6

Some disjointed thoughts...

I nearly didn't go to uni yesterday. I woke up at five AM to the sound of nothing in particular. It's one of life's cruel ironies that I seem to want to sleep in when we have to be up early, and conversely when I can sleep in a bit I seem to wake up early. I set my alarm for 11. So you can probably imagine how pissed off I was. I lay there in the quiet, talking to myself, trying to get back to sleep. When I say talking to myself, in actual fact I mean that I lay there thinking to myself, not actually talking aloud to myself, because that's just crazy.

So after (unsuccessfully) trying to get back to sleep I decided I would read something. I grabbed my novel, The Riders by Tim Winton, and started reading. (I finished Sushi Central by Alasdair Duncan, it's excellent, read it, five stars). After two chapters I was quite sleepy so I turned the light to get some sleep. No go. It's another of life's cruel ironies that when I am lying in bed reading I seem to get very sleepy, and when I am lying in bed actually trying to sleep - nothing happens.

Eventually I gave up and got up and got things happening. I called for a taxi and ended up leaving at 10:45. How strange is that? To leave before your alarm goes off, I mean.

In other news, my new drugs are working. Sort of. The pain isn't constant like it used to be. It's more intermittent now. I woke up this morning with no pain at all. That hasn't happened in such a long time I can't remember when the last one was. I have to see the doctor in two weeks to figure out if its working and all that. Also, I discovered it isn't on the PBS. Which is a big problem. Well, not a big problem, but a medium-sized problem. For the non-Aussies (and the for the Aussies who don't know what I'm talking about), the PBS is where the government subsidises your medicines. So not being on the PBS is bad. Thank God for private health insurance.

I love the stupid comedy shows. The Wedge had a segment of Cooking with Paris Hilton, where she says "Tonight we'll see a flakey tart". Well it was funny at the time.

I saw tonight on Rove that Andy Mac has been voted Cleo's Bachelor of the Year. My question is this: did Cleo interview every bachelor in Australia? What was he judged on? Is it purely a looks competition? or is it more about personality? To be honest, he doesn't do much for me in the looks department. I think Hamish Blake is better looking.

Does the Lynx Dry ad with the guy with the water coming out from under his arms freak anyone else out?

That's about it for now. Going to sleep. Night.

Family is a state of mind

When I turned my phone on this morning I received a text message. It was from Tí­a, my Aunt (not Aunt Agony, this is a different one, this is the good aunt). It just said "Te echo de menos". I miss you.

We have a strange relationship, Tí­a and I. Not strange in the weird sense, more like special. She is the ex-wife of my Uncle, the one who left her and their four children for another woman that I spoke about here. I still remember when it happened, it was in late September 2001. It was so surreal. I think that this event was what started me thinking that my family wasn't perfect after all. Despite being related by blood to my uncle, I have always felt closer to Tí­a.

I was 17 when that happened and we've since become much closer. It's weird how things work out, because in a way their lives have become better since he left. My uncle was a very dominating presence in that house. Now that he is gone and it is her house for the first time ever, I feel more comfortable there.

We talk about everything. We laugh at everything. We have our little private jokes and I swear her kids (who are all my age by the way) think we're nuts when we get together and laugh about stupid things. I always go to stay with her in the holidays, often for a week or two at a time and I feel totally at home in her house. She is very accepting (for want of a better description) of my illness and the limitations it brings. Much more than the rest of my family. I'm not afraid to tell her I feel like shit on a regular basis because I know she won't tell me to "think positive", or to tell her that I walk with a walking stick because I know she won't tell me I'm "being silly", or that I take antidepressants because I know she won't tell me to "snap out of it". Since I've started learning Spanish we've started texting and emailing in Spanish, and I've introduced her to some Latin American bands which we both listen to when I come over (the pics are from bands we like).

When I say that we talk about everything, that's not entirely true. Tía doesn't know that I'm gay. Well actually that's not entirely true either. I know she suspects it. She has asked her daughter, my cousin Lala, about it:

Tí­a: Do you think Daniel could be gay?
Lala: Umm, yes he could be. Why? (She didn't want to say no, since I'm really not the most straight-acting guy there is lol, and saying "no" would have been a dead giveaway).
Tí­a: Just wondering, that's all.
Lala: Would it matter if he was? Would you still love him?
Tí­a: Of course it wouldn't matter! I'll always love him!

Lala tells me she was quite indignant at being asked if it would matter and swore black and blue that it wouldn't. Still part of me isn't so sure.

When I told Lala she didn't bat an eyelid. We were sitting outside, having a smoke and I was all quiet. She picked up that something was wrong and asked me:

Lala: What's up?
Me: Nothing. Well something. Nothing. Don't worry about it.
Lala: Are you sure there's nothing bothering you?
Me: Well... I just don't know how to tell you, that's all.
Lala: Tell me what? You're starting to worry me.
Me: Ok... Don't say anything to your mum or sisters or brother...
Lala: Of course I won't... What is it?
Me: I'm gay.
Lala: Oh. Ok. Here, have a drink. You look like you could use one!

And that was that. She asked me the usual questions, how did you know? do you have a boyfriend? have you ever fucked a guy? I was just so happy she didn't disown me! But then I knew that was never a possibility. To be honest there's only been three "dead certain" people - Lala, her boyfriend Cal and my friend Liz. I answered all her questions and now we're even closer than we ever were. I've got her hooked on Queer as Folk, we are constantly checking out guys and she's really become my number one fag hag.

But back to Tí­a. Despite her indignation, I know she will have a problem with me being gay. She's a Christian, the type that believes that homosexuality is a sin (that is to say that being gay isn't a sin because it's not my fault, but that homosexual acts are sinful). But I truly believe that she won't disown me. She will tell me what she believes and ask me what I think about it, from a Christian perspective. So what I'm driving at is that she will probably have a problem with my gayness but not with me, in the same way that she has a problem with the fact that Lala has moved out with Cal, and yet loves them both unconditionally and doesn't preach at them constantly about it. And that, my friends, is a very comforting thought.

On family day, the year after my uncle left her, I said "Happy family day" to Tí­a:
Me: Hi! I'm just ringing to say Happy Family day to you.
Tí­a: Thankyou darling, but I'm not really family anymore.
Me: Fuck that. Family is a state of mind.

The only reason we met is because she was married to my uncle when I was born. Since then I've gotten to know her and counted her as family. They're two completely different things.

Te echo de menos a tí­ también mi querida tí­a y te quiero mucho.

Strung out

I went to see the doctor on Tuesday. Apart from family, he's the only person (who I see regularly that is) who has known me since I was born, since before I was born even, and has watched me grow up. When I think about it, it's a little embarrassing. But he's a good man. He knows his shit.

He started me on a new drug, on top of the ones I already take, for the pain. He said to take it at night so that the side-effects wouldn't interrupt things too much. Nice plan, but they seem to have spilled into the next day and I feel totally strung out today.

I've been reading this book called Sushi Central by Alasdair Duncan. It's an excellent book. I'm halfway through it and I have no idea why it's called that though. The main character is a 16 year old boy, Calvin, who falls for this other boy, Anthony, who has a secret, although I don't know what that is yet because I haven't gotten that far. It's written in a really unique way, like a sixteen year old would think or talk.

Because I feel so strung out today, I feel very... deep. Profound even. I guess that's the best way to explain it. I think I'm a little impressionable. In my mind I'm thinking like the kid in the book. It's kinda weird since it's nothing like I usually think or talk.

This is a bit of a nothing post. I'm in such a weird mood. I just started writing and here we are. I did a google image search for Calvin and Anthony and this is what I got.

Harry Potter and the goblet of crap

Last night I watched Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire on DVD. It seems that the choice to watch half the television or movies I watch is fueled by the hotness (or perceived hotness) of the guys in it. The other half is because I actually think the movie will be interesting, irrespective of the potential hotness factor involved. The Goblet of Fire fell (past tense) into the last category. (Although I do admit that I think Harry is kinda cute, in a way-too-young-for-me kinda way. I only admit this publicly because I asked Liz if it was wrong to think that, and since she reads this blog there's a chance she'd comment saying "yeh right you don't think any of the boys in that movie are hot" and that would be much more embarrassing than if I mention it myself).

Anyway. Moving on. What a disappointment that movie was. I've read all the Harry Potter books, more than once, I even own two of them in Spanish. I love the stories, the twists, the characters, the magical world that Rowling created with its pensieves, floo network and quidditch.

The film had no saving grace. They condensed an excellent story into two and a half hours of mediocre-at-best movie. They sacrificed important subplots so they could wank off with their special effects in the scenes with dragons, mermaids, magic ferrets and the like. From what I can remember (and you know how crappy my memory is), the following is missing from the film: the Dursleys; the entire quidditch match; the whole thing with the house-elves; the Leprechaun's gold; the sorting hat; the Creevy brothers; the explanation of Veelas; Sirius's appearance in the fireplace (except one pisspoor effort where they had his face appear in the ashes, likely to avoid paying the actor to actually do it); Mad-Eye Moody's classes (they only showed one) and how he taught Harry to resist the Imperius curse; any other classes of any kind including Divination and Transfiguration which are in the books heaps; and the transfiguration of Rita Skeeter and all the rubbish she prints in the daily prophet.

And then there was the acting (and I use the term very loosely). It seems that all the stars can't quite find that happy medium between under-acting and over-acting. Award winning stuff! Draco Malfoy brought the role of token evil-little-shit to life with his brilliant rendition of sarcastic lines said in a bitter mocking voice while Hermione emoted like a mad woman in just about every scene and Harry seemed not to emote at all. I took a few photos of some of the funnier facial expressions to show you. I think my favourite moment was in the last scene where Hermione "My eyebrows have a life of their own" Granger asks Harry "Don't worry I'll protect you" Potter if he thinks everything will change. He looks at her intently, arches his eyebrows and says in a deadpan voice "yes."

Home and a gay

As I write this I'm watching Home and Away. What can I say except that I get off on mindless soap-opera. I mean where else do you see a bunch of hot and hotish guys (at worst, with the exception of Alf, who for obvious reasons, isn't hot at all) with their tops off all year round? The acting isn't too bad either. The stories on the other hand are, shall we say, a tad predictable and way too complicated to be real. When I stayed with my Pop for a week we watched it every night while we ate. Well, I watched it and told him what was going on while filling him in on the background since he's 80% blind.

They do all the typical soapy stories in cycles. Sometimes the cycle for one story is shorter than that of another but they do exist. Right now we have a cancer storyline; a guy who has someone after him AND has a crush on his girlfriend's mother, who it appear seems to have a little crush of her own on him too; a new baby, complete with mother who has post-natal depression, who was conceived after the mother was raped when she was a member of a cult; and a mysterious boyfriend who has a secret he's keeping from his girlfriend which was semi-revealed today.

Drew, the boy with someone after him and the crush on his girlfriend's mother, Amanda, is posing "nude" for his girlfriend so that she could draw him for her life drawing class. I have to admit I was excited, even though I don't find the guy particularly attractive (there's something about his face that doesn't scream "hottie") but he does have an amazing body. He came down stairs, wearing only a towel and the girlfriend instructed him to take it off. I couldn't believe what I was hearing and expected him to half the towel half off but still not showing anything (obviously since it's prime time) before it cut to her. The towel kept opening, and opening, to reveal he was wearing a leafy skirty thing around his nether-regions. I cracked up as she put a small wreath around his head and handed him an apple to hold up in the air. He looked like Puck:

Meanwhile, the Matilda's ex-boyfriend, Lukas, oversaw the current boyfriend (who's name escapes me so we'll call him Steve) arguing with a mysterious guy, Gareth, who followed him to Summer Bay. As Lukas stood watching as Steve and Gareth spoke, heatedly, and then embraced... I was thinking that this could very well be the gay story line that was bound to come considering the last one was in 2002. They put their arms around each other and it looked like they were going for a kiss, then it cut to Lukas's shocked face. What a let down. What would have been the first gay kiss on H&A (at least that I'm aware of) has been denied. It turns out that Gareth has a monster crush on Steve but Steve isn't gay. Something he reiterated fairly strongly for the remainder of the episode.

I was a little disappointed to be honest. First we miss out on a good gay kiss, then it turns out the guy isn't even gay (or at best, he's in denial) and the only guy who actually is gay is a nutcase. Who writes this shit?

p.s. I wanted to make some witty title but for the life of me I couldn't... don't hold it against me.
p.p.s. I decided to pinch Lou's title... hehe

The best of intentions

I had the best of intentions, but it wasn't to be.

I got up, got dressed, called for a taxi to pick me up and then suddenly felt totally rotten. So I'm not going to uni today.

The inside of my thigh feels like it has had sandpaper rubbed against it. It is so inflamed that I can feel heat coming off it if I hover my hand above the skin. This is a sign that the meds are working, so on the one hand I'm happy about that, but I could do without the searing pain and inconvenience of having to wear parachute pants all the time. Now don't get me wrong, I love my parachute pants - by far the most comfortable I own, but wearing them outside the house to any other location than the local shopping centre spells BOGAN in big shiny letters.

Spanglish #3

I just read the Aunt Agony #2 post in Spanish, because I can't sleep, and pissed myself laughing (in a very quiet way, being 2.45 am) at the opening line:

ORIGINAL:
I sometimes wonder if Aunt Agony does shit simply to piss me off.

TRANSLATION: I wonder at times if Aunt Agony shits simply in order [piss] I out.

Almost makes it worth it.

Aunt Agony #2

I sometimes wonder if Aunt Agony does shit simply to piss me off.

If I was narcissistic, then perhaps I would just assume that she does it because of me. But I know her well enough to know she probably doesn't give a shit if I am pissed off by what she does, or not, as long as she is happy.

In our family there are 21 adults, including my generation of cousins who are all between 17 and 25, with the exception of two littlies - aged 4 and 1. Because it would bankrupt the lot of us to buy each adult a gift, we do a secret santa. Each year the organisation falls onto my shoulders and each year I happily oblige and draw the names out. There are rules for secret santa, not too complex (at least in my opinion) that have seen the whole system working smoothly for years.

1) Children (ie my generation) cannot get their own siblings, partner or parents (this is because we all decided that we'd be buying a gift for siblings and parents anyway, so no need to waste compulsory gifts on them)
2) Adults (ie my parent's generation) cannot get their own children or partner (again, it's assumed that parents will buy gifts for their own children and their husband/wife etc)

So, then you have to buy a present for your secret santa person, but you may choose to buy a gift for anyone else.

It's so simple a child could manage it. So in the past when I did the draws I made sure that no rules were broken and tried to make sure no one go the same person twice etc. I add in new boyfriends or girlfriends and take out old ones. It's not a foolproof system but it works. I did this year's draw last week, at Aunt Agony's insistence, and distributed the details.

I got an email the other day from her. It had an excel file attached with the secret santas for the next 5 years. She had sat down and worked it out for the next 5 years, until 2011. The problem was she'd taken this year's list and simply moved it all up one space each year. So that meant that my cousins all got their own father and one cousin got her boyfriend. I tried, as politely as possible, to point this out to her, but she just replied saying "if you want to buy gifts for other people, that is outside the Secret Santa." But what if someone dies? Or one of the my many unattached cousins meet someone? Or my uncle leaves his present partner, again? I tried, but it's like banging my head on a wall.

She's only doing this because she's a pedantic control freak who buys Christmas gifts in January because that's when the sales are. Which wouldn't be too bad except her gifts are always things that she likes. She doesn't appear to consider the actual recipient. In fairness, she might, but if she does then she doesn't do a good job. She has a bit of reputation. My sister helped me with the draw this year and when it came to mum's turn, Aunt Agony was drawn. She quickly put it back before anyone saw because she didn't want mum stuck with a dud pressie lol.

I do love her. Really I do. But she shits me up the wall.

Rant over.

The small white envelope and the strange yellow book

I've spend a good deal of the weekend toiling busily listing magazines on eBay. My Pop left 30 boxes (yes my friends, that's thirty) in my possession and asked me to sell them on eBay. I have to say I was quite impressed by his capacity to understand eBay, considering that he's 92 and it took several laborious conversations (laborious on both our parts I might add) to explain it. I don't think he realised how much interest there would be, but I've sold 25 boxes thus far for a little under $2000. He insists on paying me for my troubles, despite my protests that I would do it for free. It's gotten to the point where I don't want to insult him by refusing his gift, but at the same time I'm constantly trying to down the offer in negotiations.

Amongst the remaining boxes I found a box full of books. These books reflect his passions: there were some on building, DIY, engineering, sex. Yep, my old Pop has sex books. And I'm not talking pornos here - they were thrown out by my aunt, much to my Dad and Uncle's displeasure... it didn't bother me, it was all straight porn... from the seventies. I can't think of anything less sexy. The book I'm talking about is called "Secret Techniques of Erotic Delight, Illustrated: A guide to success in seduction and sexual intimacy" by Dr Vyvyan Howarth. It was published in 1966.

I admit I was intrigued when I read the title on the spine, so I picked it up and read the back. It said (and remember this was the 1960s) "In these days of cynicism and change, when almost any kind of aberration and perversion seems to be 'in', when male and female homosexuality are so rife, it is refreshing to be reminded that the best and most satisfying of erotic delights are still to be discovered and enjoyed in heterosexual contacts." I opened it up and read the one page it had on homosexuality (it is, after all, a book about "heterosexual contact" as he puts it) and I found this illuminating passage:

"It [homosexuality] occurs widely, too, among persons in the artistic profession - actors, sculptors, painters, and so forth - and is by no means unknown in the medical profession. ... Artistic people, by and large, tend to regard themselves as a cult apart from ordinary humanity ... They frequently adopt flamboyant eccentricities to mark their special calling ... It is not, therefore, to be wondered at that they should shun conventional relationships in sex."

I was on the point of indignation when I paused and remembered where this book had come from. I thought for a second that this is my grandparents' book. And then I thought "ewwwwwwww", quickly covered the book, saw a corner was showing, put a piece of paper over it and ran to wash out my mental mouth with soap and a scrubbing brush. Obviously I have since looked at it in order to write the above little excerpt, but tomorrow I am considering burning it. Fuck you Vyvyan Howarth. And fuck your poncy spelling too.

There was a wallet of documents in amongst the books. It held papers, empty envelopes (?), photos of people I didn't recognise who lived in a completely different time to me, notes and plans for tools my Pop has made and letters. Letters from Grandma to Pop when he was away in New Guinea during WWII when he was in the Air Force. They were written with in Grandma's cursive handwriting and said how much she missed him and how the kids asked about him and how they'd be together again soon. It was signed 'Bubbles.' I'm not sure where 'Bubbles' came from, but I know that she always signed her letters and cards to him that way, and he always addressed her as 'Bubbles' in his love letters and cards. I have to admit that I was a little misty eyed at this point, and the romanticism of the whole thing made up for the total meltdown I had some 15 minutes earlier when I discovered the sex book.

I was shuffling through the papers, secretly hoping for another letter from Grandma when I found a small white envelope. When I say 'white' I really mean 'beige.' And when I say 'beige' I really mean 'it used to be white in a former existence.' It had Grandma's cursive writing on it, saying "Asbestos Sample." I went to place it in the pile of "things to look at in more detail" and then did a double take. I checked again and it did indeed say "Asbestos Sample." I opened it up and there was some asbestos shards in it, dust and all, waiting to wreak their havoc on my respiratory system. I remembered that I smoke and therefore its unlikely to make much of a difference to me, and chucked it in the rubbish pile. I rescued it to take the above picture, simply because it struck me how strange it seems now to have a sample of asbestos in a small white/beige/used-to-be-white envelope, but when it was written and packaged, it probably wasn't that uncommon at all.

So they're the treasures I found in my Pop's books. You always think of your Grandparents as perpetually "old" (well I did anyway, until recently), but today I realised that the Pop I know, the old old man I see each week, was once a young man. Just like me.

Family

When we grow up, we naturally assume that all families in the world function as our own does, that all people act like the adults in our lives. We think that what we know is the right way to do things. When I was younger, the term "dysfunctional family" was a remote concept. It applied to The Simpsons and soap operas. It never applied to any family I knew, especially not my own.

I no longer labour under that mistaken impression. Now, as an adult, I can see the dysfunction.

I could write a book about the mentality of the Family-At-Large, but I just want to concentrate on one today: that attendance is compulsory for all family get togethers.

Sickness and work commitments are begrudgingly accepted as excuses for absence, but apart from that you are expected to be present and to enjoy yourself. As part of this "compulsory attendance" rule comes the rule whereby it is impossible for anyone to set a date for a get together without extensive consultation with everyone else to ensure that everyone can make it. I seem to be the only one who doesn't feel the need to ask all and sundry for permission to hold my birthday lunch on the day and time that I want. Last year I elected a date, time and place and let everyone know. I was then harangued on multiple fronts by people telling me "if you have it on a Saturday then this person can't make it." But if I held it on a Sunday then two or three others couldn't make it, and to be frank, I wanted the others to come more than the one who can't make a Saturday.

Because it is a family event, and (at least in the FAL's mind) family is the most important thing there is, you are expected to drop everything and go. The most vocal proponent of this is the Uncle who left his own wife and children for another woman.

In a (misguided) attempt to welcome the woman into the FAL, people are bending over backwards to schedule events so that she can come, and since she works on a Saturday, nearly every event has been on a Sunday for the last few years, often to the detriment of his own children.

This Sunday we will be celebrating 'Family Day' - to mark the anniversary of my grandfather's escape from a communist country and passage to Australia. It has been scheduled for a Sunday primarily so that she can make it. They seem to have disregarded the fact that Sundays are difficult for many people, my cousins, mother and myself included. But yet we are still expected to attend.

This year I won't be going, because I feel so wretched on account of the medicine mix-up. I told my sister that I didn't think I could make it and she said to me "you should at least try, for Grandpa's sake." This exemplifies the FAL mindset - that if I cannot make it to an event, I am not trying hard enough and therefore it becomes personal. The fact that I have been sick for two weeks and have uni the next day doesn't seem to enter into the FAL's psyche.

The irony is that if attendance wasn't compulsory (and your attendance wasn't recorded by the FAL), then I would gladly go to every event I could reasonably make it to. But because I feel I am constantly being coerced into going to these things out of some unreasonable sense of duty, I just don't want to go sometimes.

I might contradict myself, but at least I don't contradict myself

I've known for quite some time that life is just a long series of contradictions and dichotomies. Not the least of these is the fact that I'm a grown-up but I often feel or act like a kid. Let's not forget the fact that I am an adult and yet I refer to myself using such a childish description as "grown-up." Everything I do, say and think seems to reflect this contradictory adult/child or adult/teen dichotomy.

My dad has gone overseas to a conference, so I am now, for all intents and purposes, the man of the house. I am not a misogynist... I haven't taken on this mantel of Official Man Of The House myself, but rather it has been put upon me by a mother and sister who insist I take out the rubbish and kill all the spiders and bugs unfortunate enough to cross their paths. It doesn't get much more grown-up than being the designated Bug-Killer-And-Rubbish-Taker-Outerer, but it's undermined by the fact that I use the excuse of emptying bins to sneak a smoke when no one is looking, and then lie about it when questioned by sister.

Today Liz and I went to town and (to quote the MSN conversation where the plan was hatched) we "did lunch like grownups do." The adultity of this act was only slightly diminished by the fact that we were both chucking sickies at the time. Liz did a very adult and unselfish thing by driving 10km to pick me up and then backtrack 7km to town. The fact that she used her parents' car to avoid paying for the petrol slightly less so. We did the mature thing and chose to avoid the likes of Michel's Patisserie and its over-processed food in lieu of something a little more healthy. We ordered two very adult meals: Liz had the vegetarian foccacia with salad and I had the gourmet beef burger with chips (I had to dig through the chips to get to the burger there were so many). Then we ordered milkshakes for drinks.

Even in writing this post I've been struck by the dichotomy. I started out lying in bed, watching Home and Away (teenish), eating gobstoppers (childish). I was, however, eating the yellow gobstoppers (which is a pretty adultesque thing to do, considering I usually either eat them first to get them out of the way or throw them out) and listening to Sarah McLachlan in the adbreaks. After dinner (which I cooked - adult), I had terrible indigestion. I can't take mylanta or quickeze as they contain ingredients which counteract my meds, so I have to drink a cup of water with a teaspoon of bi-card soda in it. It tastes foul. I consider myself very grown-up indeed for drinking this disgusting concoction. Then I sit up in bed, burping, trying to make tunes out of it. Doesn't get more childish than that, folks.

I think the clincher is the fact that I'm willing to see a movie that looks like it has no plot, average acting and generally very little to offer except that Jesse Metcalfe is in it and is likely to have his top off a good deal of the time.

That, and my bedroom floor.

Aunt Agony

The way that human beings interact has always fascinated me. It just never ceases to amaze me how we are all so different as people and yet strangely all so similar. It's also interesting that we often can't see these similarities or differences when we ourselves are involved. One of my aunts consistently astounds me with her lack of tact and empathy. I'll call her Aunt Agony (to protect the innocent, and more importantly, me). The truly uncanny thing is that my sister takes after her so much that it is frightening. Only of course, my sister cannot see the similarities. But then I don't dare bring it up often because if I did I'd have my head ripped off. AA is the older sister of my mother. AA has to have her say on everything and always knows best. I love her but I can only endure her in small doses. Much like my sister.

I went to a father's day BBQ at my grandparent's place with most of the Family-At-Large. Last night I was actually planning on chucking a sicky today. I just wasn't in the mood to put up with the FAL's shit. I laid the 'groundwork' by complaining of not feeling well and going to bed early. When I woke up this morning, I was in a lot of pain but in a good mood, so I decided I would have to take my walking stick. The thought of this petrified me. But it was either face the FAL with the stick or don't go at all. Since absenteeism is generally frowned upon at these affairs, I decided to bite the bullet and go.

I was standing in the kitchen chopping onions with my sunglasses on in a vain attempt to stop the fumes reaching my eyes. I had taken some pain killers so my legs weren't as painful but I was still a bit shakey. I had the stick leaning on the cupboard by my side.
-----"Who's walking stick is that?" she asked.
-----"Mine" I said, looking up briefly and smiling, mentally bracing myself for the inevitable.
-----"What do you need that for?" she asked, confused and a little disdainful.
-----"For the fibromyalgia." I replied, eyes on the onions, chopping, chopping, chopping.
-----"The what?" she asked, now more noticeably disdainful, as if I was trying to be difficult.
-----"The fibromyalgia." I said again,