This Saturday night, Festival Hall!

"Tony Abbott is our new Prime Minister? Seriously!?

OK, political tragics, it's on.

Feel free to bang away with predictions, early calls of the board or teh hotness of Antony Green.

No deffo actions, please.

Also, got into a shouting match with the Wikileaks Party people.

God, they're a pack of aresholes!

Impressively weird conversations at work. Part One.

"Waddya mean I've had one gin-soaked mouse too many!"

Me: "I see scientists have finally found a way to stop mice with a drinking problem falling off the wagon."

Co-worker: "What!?"

Me: "This article here. It says scientists have found a way to stop mice with a drinking problem falling off the wagon."

Co-worker: "That's ridiculous. Why would scientists give mice alcohol in the first place?"

Me: "Are you saying mice shouldn't be given alcohol? Because that seems a bit harsh."

Co-worker: "Well, where else are mice going to get alcohol from? Answer me that!"

Me: "Home brewing."

Co-worker: "Home brewing?"

Me: "Home brewing. Think about it; if I was a small creature whose sole purpose in life was to be a tasty snack for larger animals, I'd be permanently pissed as well. What do you think?"

Co-worker: "I think we're both lucky the Boss is away this week."

Next.

A political post.

When I stop screaming and punching holes in things.

You may want to re-think your strategy there, George Pell.

"You are such a putz"

Dear George (may I call you George*),

When even the US media takes time out from their busy schedule to give you an almighty whack, you probably need to revalue your media strategy.

I mean, really, it's as though you're not even trying!

Hugs,

Ramon

PS. Even God is disappointed in you.

*No. I didn't think so.

Like Grumpy Cat, reports of my death are greatly exagerated.

"I hate you and everything you stand for"

Yes, well, bit of an hiatus there.

First of all, thanks to Melba and Catlick for their emails, asking if I was OK.

I'm fine, thanks.

Actually, I'm in my usual mode of "barely contained, teeth-gnashing" rage, largely due to my stupid habit of continuing to read political commentators in the media.

Why, I don't know.

It's not like any of the fuckers are ever going to say anything different, or well written or even vaguely interesting.

But the really depressing thing is that they constantly contradict themselves, without showing the slightest sense of shame.

Take, for example, the recent flap over the National Disability Insurance Scheme (NDIS). For days, they shrieked that the Gillard Government should rush the NDIS legislation through the Commonwealth Parliament before the next election.

Despite the fact that for some months before hand, they had been shrieking at the Gillard Government to not rush the the new communications legislation through Commonwealth Parliament before the next election.

Or the fact that the discussion over the recent deferral of the carbon levy compensation has been led almost entirely by political commentators discussing whether is was good politics or not, rather than the economics correspondents discussing whether it was good policy or not.

I give up.

As Tom Lehrer once famously said "When they gave the Nobel Peace Prize to Henry Kissinger, I realised political satire was obsolete,".
Next; adorably cute kittens and why they suck.

I appear to be sharing a house with Hunter S Thompson*

"And Mescalin. We need more Mescalin"

A recent shopping list;

Gin,

Milk,

Tobacco,

Toilet paper,

Tonic water

I was going to write something about the recent spate of gibberish from the Canberra Gallery about "speculation about a leadership challenge is hovering above the Gillard Government"** but every time I started to think about it, my hands curled up in a spasm of rage and I couldn't type.

Maybe later.

When I calm down.

*Yes, I know he's dead. Shut up.

** From memory, a hack actually wrote this. Sad but true.

PSF with a happy ending (sort of)

Setting a Migrant Goose Free

Snows heavy in Hsun-yang this tenth-year winter,
riverwater spawns ice, tree branches break and fall,

and hungry birds flock east and west by the hundred,
a migrant goose crying starvation loudest among them.

Pecking through snow for grass, sleeping nights on ice,
its cold wings lumber slower and slower up into flight,

and soon it’s tangled in a river-boy’s net, carried away
snug in his arms, and put for sale alive in the market.

Once a man of the north, I’m accused and exiled here.
Man and bird: though different, we’re both visitors,

and it hurts a visiting man to see a visiting bird’s pain,
so I pay the ransom and set you free. Goose, o soaring

goose rising into the clouds – where will you fly now?
Don’t fly northwest: that’s the last place you should go.

There in Huai-hsi, rebels still loose, there’s no peace,
just a million armoured soldiers long massed for battle:

imperial and rebel armies grown old facing each other.
Starved and exhausted – they’d love to get hold of you,

those tough soldiers. They’d shoot you and have a feast,
then pluck your wings clean to feather their arrows.

(Po Chu-i translated by David Hinton)

Normal service will be resumed as soon as possible.

Fluffy liked biting people professionally.

Well, in addition to the alcoholism and the depression, I've suddenly started having anxiety attacks.

Wonderful.

I'll post something more substantial when I stop being so deranged.

Also, is it a good idea to wash down your anti-depressants with red wine? I'm thinking yes.

The eleventy billioneth post about that speech.

I wasn't going to write about this, I really wasn't.

But a couple of things changed my mind.

Firstly, the reaction of just about everybody in the Canberra Press Gallery to the rest of the world driving around to their place to point at them and laugh has been instructive. Instead of conceding that, you know, several thousand people might have a point, the Gallery has been all "But you don't understand, it's all about The Cooooontext, it's all about the Government defending that horrid Peter Slipper."

Which sort of works.

Until you think about it for 30 seconds.

Or read the actual speech.

The PM had made it perfectly clear that Slipper's texts were unacceptable and offensive. She also made it quite clear that it was important to follow the correct process while the matters were before the courts.

And even if - and I do mean if - it was all a cynical stunt by the Government to shore up their numbers, then why did two of the independents and Adam Bandt vote against the Opposition's motion? It's no skin off their noses if Slipper moves to the cross-benches.

Or perhaps they could see that Ms Gillard had a point about due process.

The always perceptive Mr Denmore has a good take on the Gallery's reaction here, but my quick summary would be this.

If the reaction from experienced journalists to any criticism from their readers is to either try to bully them into submission or claim they can't possible understand what is happening before their eyes, then why read them?

If  any schlub with too much time on their hands and an Internet connection can pull together an interpretation of what is happening in Canberra that is just as valid as the Gallery, then why listen to the Gallery?

In short, why care what the Gallery says about anything?

I believe in getting them young.

Conversation around the family dinner table recently.

The Boy: "The oldest women in the world is 150. Just think of all the things she's seen and done."

Me: "You know Boy, a lot of people think living a good life isn't just about the number of years you've lived but the good things you've done and how you've helped your friends and community.

........................

........................

"And never voting Liberal."

The Misses (wearily): "Ramon, give a break for five minutes."

UPDATE

Just the other day.

The Boy: "Dad, how do you defeat The Boss?"

Me: "Well, joining a union is always a good start."

The Boy: "Daaaaad, I was talking about my video game!!"

Me: "Oh.

"Sorry."

I think I need psychiatric* help.

* I mean more psychiatric help.

Obvs.

PSF from the year 755 with some fun weekend activities

looking at a waterfall

napping under water reeds

tea sipping under willows

I FINALLY GET A POST

Oh good, I don’t have to be
police commissioner at Hexi!

it would have been backbreaking
supervising all those beatings

I’m an old man, I can’t
rush around, bustle, and strut

but the job they’ve given me now
at Palace Guard headquarters

won’t take too much time
it will pay for my wine

and allow me to go on
writing these crazy poems

so no more thoughts about retirement
back in the hills of home

I turn my back on that
and set my face to the wind.

(Du Fu translated by David Young)