You Said What Now?

Tell McCarthy if I see him I'll shoot his fuckin' balls off

In recent years, two close friends - one of them Perseus - have, separately and independently, urged me to to read Cormac McCarthy's Blood Meridian. I read it. It went something like this:

They rode out under a still night across the plain and towards the mountain the fires of the enemy no longer visible in the grotesque barrenness of a country belonging to neither man nor god and they rode through the intense heat of a day without speech to interrupt the noise of the silence of the land and then at night stopped and made a fire and slept again and then the next day rode across another plain and fought the enemy and brains spilled all over the dust and babys heads were smashed on rocks and the kid the main character who I had forgotten to mention for several hundred pages sat on his steed and looked blankfaced across the plain hamfisted and tightlipped and the heat drove them into the shade where they built a fire and slept and then they rode into a town where all the doors were locked and they entered a cantina and got in a fight and shots were fired and blood spilled in the dust and the kid stood and looked without fear nor envy and the enemy rode nearer and blood was spilled in the dust and i might throw in some words here that will have readers reaching for the dictionary such as kakidrosis and edea and transhume and perhaps ill try to write the longest sentence ever without punctuation or proper grammar and might even make up some words and theyll call it unique instead of poor prose and the kid stared into the night across the plain as they made another fire.

It was ok. But I think I'll go back to Hemingway.

Why do you hate me, number 86 tram?

Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.

The other day I took the Number 86 tram into the city as my usual train had been cancelled.

For those who remember TSSH, the 86 tram was a source of considerable hilarity, mainly for it being freak city central with a wide and varied collection of junkies, speed freaks, chromers, nutters, hippies and associated dick-biscuits all crammed into one small, trundling space.

However I was confident that I should be safe enough at the start of peak hour until I looked down and observed a quite large spider crawling up my overcoat*.

Being calm in a crisis, I took the sensible precaution of shouting “yerrrrrrrrgh” and leaping about in a manor vaguely similar to a Morris dancer on crack; in the process knocking the spider into a handbag of young woman who turned out to have a pathological fear of spiders.

This in turn led to a cluster of passengers standing in the isle speaking at some volume, which in turn led to the driver stopping the tram and inquiring what the hell was happening back there.

“It’s a spider” we all screamed.

“It’s just a huntsman,” said some hippie – fresh from voting Green at the election.

I was going to suggest he could cram the spider up his environmentally friendly clacker when a less-environmentally friendly type resolved the situation by squishing said spider.

Several times.

I think killing a spider is supposed to bring bad luck, but I didn’t kill it so I should be safe.

*It was crawling over your Julia badge, Squib, which I thought was just rude.

Me v. McDonalds!

While I was growing up my parents were convinced that McDonalds was a tool of American imperialism and refused to take us there.

When an adult I wasn’t all that into to their style of fast food anyway* with the net result that when, on the rare occasion The Boy forces me to that particular establishment, I am somewhat flummoxed when confronted with the McDonalds menu.

This, in turn, leads to the sort of laughable misunderstandings, much loved by a certain type of indie film.

Witness this exchange from the other night.

Me: “Ermmmmm. Ummmmmmmm. I believe I’ll have the ‘super happy fun meal’, thanks.”

Bored McDonald’s chick: “whaftawhaftawhafta fries with that?”

Me: "Sorry?"

Bored McDonald’s chick (slightly louder): “whaftawhaftawhafta fries with that?”


Me: “Yes, I believe I will have a medium portion of chips with that, thanks.”

Bored McDonald’s chick: “whaftawhaftawhafta medium fries?”

Me: “Yes, medium chips sounds lovely, thanks.”

Bored McDonald’s chick (clearly deciding that I’m a dickhead and she wants me out of her queue): “whaftawhaftawhafta drinks as well?”

Me: “OK, can I see the wine list, thanks?”

Horrified McDonald’s chick: …………….
……………..
……………..
“We’re not allowed to sell alcohol, sir!”

Me: “OK, I’ll just have a Coopers Ale then.”

Honestly, I might as well be wearing a pince nez and frockcoat.

*Much more of a kebab man**, me.

**Especially after a couple of Coopers.

Saturday night.

By gum, that's better!

About 10:30 on Saturday night, I thought “fuck it, I can’t take this anymore” and drove home filled with, not rage but sorrow and regret and anger at the Labor Party smarties who managed to completely fuck-up not just one but two outstanding Labor leaders* and also with that weird flatulence you get from eating too many election day sausages.

When I got home, the house was dark and everybody was sleeping.

I went into The Boy’s bedroom and watched him in his pirate pyjamas; his little chest rising and falling rhythmically.

Then I went to bed and had a long lie in before getting up to a big breakfast of bacon, toast and eggs the next morning.

Everything looks better after a big breakfast of bacon, toast and eggs.

*Here’s 30 cents boys – see if you can find another social democratic government elsewhere to ruin.

It's Politics Slam Friday!

Works for Liberals too.

Well ,the Federal election campaign is in its final leg/quarter/lap/whatever bullshit sporting metaphor the meeja are using these days and despite all the hand wringing about “how boring the campaign was”*, I’ve actually quite enjoyed it.

This is more than I can say above the coverage, both print and electronic, which has been beyond appalling.

The Smage has been obsessed with long, unfunny “colour” pieces and somebody should really tell the bods over at the new 24-hour news channel ABC 24 that journalists interviewing journalists about what another set of journalists said is less than riveting.

Most of the really useful stuff I’ve come across has been from the Internet, with Crikey and Peter Brent’s site Mumble being the standouts.

That said, I still have no freakin’ idea about who’s going to win, but if pressed I’d say a Labor win is more probable than a Liberal win and a hung parliament not probable at all.

If the ALP can minimise its losses in NSW and Queensland, using the advantage of incumbency, and pick up some seats in South Australia and Victoria, then we can look forward to another three years of Ranga Rule.

It may very well be that the Tories will pick up more votes but still have fewer seats.

So there.

Nyerr.

And on a final note, if people want to join me for the local Labor Party election night piss-up, then shoot me a line and you can be entertained by the site of me drinking beer, swearing at the TV and generally carrying on like a lunatic.

Can’t say fairer than that!

* A line the meeja has used about every single freakin’ election since 1980.

A very special Julia-rich PSF

Whoops, wrong one!

How rich and pleasing thou, my Julia, art,
In each thy dainty and peculiar part!
First, for thy Queen-ship on thy head is set
Of flowers a sweet commingled coronet;
About thy neck a carkanet is bound,
Made of the Ruby, Pearl, and Diamond;
A golden ring, that shines upon thy thumb;
About thy wrist the rich Dardanium;
Between thy breasts, than down of swans more white,
There plays the Sapphire with the Chrysolite.
No part besides must of thyself be known,
But by the Topaz, Opal, Calcedon.

Moving past Gotcha.

"Yeah, thanks for taking my question, Tony"

Shaun Carney, the best writer on the Age in my opinion, has an interesting take on the election thus far and I urge you to take a look.

For me, the most telling comment was this one about Jules’ performance on Q&A;

The great strength of Monday night's show lay in the fact that the questions came from voters and did not follow the gaffe-chasing methodologies that embody so much of the media's current approach to politicians. The questions seemed to be put with the goal of eliciting a genuine response, not catching out the interviewee. Gillard managed to be disarming without altogether surrendering her prime ministerial air.

This dumb obsession with the “gotcha” moment by the meeja is making me tear out what’s left of my hair.

Introspection ahoy!

For some reason, this site seems very popular with podiatrists*, who like to pop in now and then to brighten our day with their very special brand of nonsense.

Yesterday “Flecy” asked

Interesting blog. It would be great if you can provide more details about it. Thanks you.

Well, “Flecy”, I’m glad you asked.

The Site Formally Known As** – and for convenience, we usually call it TSFKA – was created just over two years ago in the aftermath of two other sites crashing and burning in an orgy of screaming and painful death.

Here at TSFKA we’re passionate about;
* Eating,
* Drinking,
* Shoes,
* Politics,
* Chocolate,
* Cats,
* More eating,
* More drinking,
* Handbags,
* Poetry and
* The evil of owls.

Contributors tend in drift in and out, but major ones tend to be;
Perseus – Texan Goth and musician. Living in a small coastal town in Victoria, his hilarious antics in trying to find love has delighted many and lead to the creation of the term ‘love gumby”,

Squib – Poet, badge-maker and party-thrower extraordinaire,

Puss in Boots – Short chick and heat freak, living in Brisbane. Her handbag and shoe collection has delighted some and horrified many.

Lewd Bob – Often hilarious and possibly deranged. Currently absent, and

Me – Turn Ons include drinking, eating, staring moodily out of the window and the Labor Party. Turn Offs include Liberals and owls.

I think that just about covers it.

Oh and if you could work the expression “dick-biscuit” into your everyday conversation, that would be ace.

* Possibly because they’re looking forward to all the work Puss will bring in, once she gets a bit older.

** We’re well aware of the grammatical error in the title, so there’s no need to point it out.


Again.

Chick drummers are kinda hot!

Woot

I recall a schoolboy coming home
Through fields of cane
To a house of tin and timber
And in the sky
A rain of falling cinders
From time to time
The waste memory-wastes
I recall a boy in bigger pants
Like everyone
Just waiting for a chance
His father’s watch
He left it in the showers
From time to time
The waste memory-wastes
I recall a bigger brighter world
A world of books
And silent times in thought
And then the railroad
The railroad takes him home
Through fields of cattle
Through fields of cane
From time to time
The waste memory-wastes
The waste memory-wastes
Further, longer, higher, older

Oh, for God's sake people!

"Yeah, sorry, can't talk now, I'm being devoured."

Well, that was…disturbing.

Sitting in the cubicle in the toilets at work the other day, whence came the faint but unmistakable sound from the next booth of the tap, tap, tap of somebody texting.

Texting!

On the toilet!!

It was probably some dick-biscuit tweeting*.

As I’ve mentioned before, I don’t mind the odd, leisurely read while sitting on the crapper but I draw the line at texting.

Are we so committed as a society to our gadgets that we now use them while having a bowel movement? What’s next; tweeting while eating? Having a haircut?

Having sex?

Give it a rest, chaps. Just give it a rest.

* “Justin is…currently having a shit”