But is it art?

I went to an exhibition today, called Reality Cheque, which comprises artists' responses to the GFC. A friend of a friend has a work in the show, but I don't want to talk about his fluffy chickens here.

Many of the artworks were thought-provoking, some were funny, and some were simply weird. The one that stood out for me, however, was a photograph of a refrigerator with the door open. The photograph itself was not the artwork but was representative of the "art", which was that the artist, Mark Dahl, left his fridge door open for the duration of Earth Hour.

My first reaction was that such an act of social sabotage was not only pointless but disgustingly selfish. I was incensed. How dare he negate the environmental goodwill cerated by Earth Hour in this way? How can this be art?

But the more I thought about it, the more I realised that this moment of rebellion serves to draw attention to the hidden meaning of Earth Hour and of people's participation in it. It provokes thought and assessment in the viewer; it points out that Earth Hour is no more than a token gesture; that those who participate and feel they have fulfilled their debt to the future for the year are hypocrites; and that deliberately leaving a fridge door open for an hour is probably no greater crime than running an air-conditioner on a hot day.

So, despite my initial reaction to the work, I came to the realisation that this piece of art is actually my favourite of the whole exhibition: it best achieves the aim of all art, which is to reflect the world back to the viewer and change the way they think about reality.

What do you think?

Investing in gambling

Further to my recent rant about gambling, today's newspaper features the following letter (emphasis mine):

Share it around
Now that Oz Lotto has reached the absurd surplus of $90 million, isn't it about time it considered taking divisional prizes that have not been won and spreading them down through lower divisions in the same draw?
That way, those who have invested in a particular draw can enjoy a proper share of the prizemoney.
David Dolphin Summer Hill

Despite the fact that His Honour often refers to buying a lottery ticket as "Financial Plan B", it is not, in fact, an investment of any sort. It is, purely and simply, gambling. If David Dolphin doesn't like the odds, he should "invest" in something more likely to give him a return, such as hiding his money under his mattress.

Hyperbolic crochet

I've been busy crocheting hyperbolic coral for the exhibition at the Powerhouse Museum in August this year. Here are some of my contributions, just using up scraps of yarn that I had accumulated.
The hyperbolic crochet project was all started by a mathematics professor in 1997, who worked out that it was a simple way to demonstrate complex concepts. It was taken to new heights (or should that be depths) by Australian sisters Margaret and Christine Wertheim of the Institute for Figuring. There is a great tutorial on the IFF website about hyperbolic space if you want to know more.

Overheard on a bus

As I took my seat on the 310 to Circular Quay last week, I couldn't help but overhear one end of the mobile phone conversation of the woman who twisted and squirmed in the seat opposite. She was dressed in faded black jeans and a brown hoodie jacket, with a bubble-gum-pink knitted beanie pulled down over her lank, mouse-brown hair. I'd estimate her age at around 30, although her skin showed the sallow, wrinkling effects of a nicotine addiction.
Having described at some length the state of her pet cat's digestive problems and toilet habits, I heard her say to her interlocutor:
"Yes, you'll see me at the pokies tonight."
"Someone is going to sit with me and show me what to do..."
"...yeah, I really need it. I only had $10 to live on last week."
At this point, she leapt up and got off the bus, dashing across the road to catch the tail end of the traffic lights. All her movements were jittery and rapid, as though she were a bundle of nerves.
It made me really sad to think that the best financial advice her friends could give her for making $10 last a week was to feed it into a poker machine. I wonder how long it will take her to learn the hard way that she'd be better off using the money to line her cat's litter tray, because at least then she wouldn't have to buy the newspaper as well.
I know that there are lots of people who can afford to put $10 through the poker machines and walk away thinking, "you win some, you lose some". His Honour regularly splurges on Lotto or Powerball tickets, saying "it's a cheap way to buy a dream for a few days". But if your dream is just to have money for enough food, and the lights of the poker machines are winking at you and promising fun and riches, what happens when all you get is eyestrain and an empty belly?

Living for the moment

Like, I don't love Graham Rawle enough already.

Pet hates

Yesterday it was the Pet Shop Boys, today it's just the pet shop. Ms ND and the Dude came running this morning to see what had me groaning in frustration. How many times do I have to say it? Pets are not people.

If it is true the highest test of a civilisation is the way it cares for its most vulnerable, then Australia's animal welfare record has nothing to do with it. Australia's human welfare record does: we could do a lot better when it comes to the way we treat the disabled, the mentally ill, the elderly -- who ARE our civilisation's most vulnerable members. Pets are not members of civilisation, they are commodities and luxuries.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying it's okay to mistreat animals. And I'm not saying people shouldn't keep pets. In fact, I agree with the majority of the article: owning a pet is a choice and a responsibility, not a right, and people need to think carefully about doing so. However, humanely killing unwanted dogs and cats that are incapable of existing by themselves in an environmentally friendly way is not a violation of civilised standards. It's a shame, but it won't be the downfall of our society.

Argue with me if you like: I'm sure Dr Peter Singer would.

Drawing a long bow

This morning's newspaper included an article about the Pet Shop Boys, one of His Highness' favourite bands. I was astonished by a claim in the second paragraph that they were on a surge of "Obama-inspired positivity"; I mean, the boys are Londoners through and through, somewhere between indie and UK Pop -- so NOT the sort of thing you'd associate with hopping on a US bandwagon.

I had to read right through to the end of the article to find the throwaway line that led Bernadette McNulty to this extraordinary leap of logic:

"We did feel quite positive making this, because you could sense the times changing," Tennant says. "It was the same as at the end of '88 when we recorded our version of It's Alright. The Berlin Wall was coming down, Nelson Mandela was coming out of prison, acid house was starting. It was an astonishing period of change. And last year, it was the same. When Obama was fighting Hillary it was like the future versus the past, and George W. Bush was finally going."

And now I'm thinking the PSBs have lost the plot. Obama is not Nelson Mandela, by any stretch of the imagination. The Berlin Wall coming down was an iconic moment that is not in any way to be compared with George W Bush's retirement. And they're only 50! Gah! That means senility is just around the corner for me as well...

How to talk about books you haven't read

I found How to Talk About Books You Haven't Read (by Pierre Bayard, Granta, 2008) on the sale table at the bookstore on the weekend, and couldn't resist taking a peek inside. By the end of the first page, I was hooked. Written by a professor of literature, it begins with the premise that there are millions more books you have never read and will never read than you have actually read or will read in your lifetime. Of necessity, you will therefore spend the majority of your life talking about the plethora of books you have not read.
He further categorises books into four categories: books you have skimmed (encompassing most of the books you've read), books you have heard of, books you have read but entirely or partially forgotten, and unknown books. Bayard is French and unsurprisingly leans towards a Derridean theory of reading, espousing the postmodernist precept of multiple readings of any given text. That's a concept I particularly like, since it would be a boring world indeed if we all got exactly the same meaning out of every single shared book (although it would certainly save time in our household, in which one or the other of us is generally to be found loyally but disappointedly ploughing through books recommended by another member of the family -- the phrase "you MUST read this, you'll love it" is almost never, in our experience, true.)
Bayard says that you can say a lot about books you haven't read, just by being able to place them in your personal library. If you know what books they'd be filed next to on your mental shelving, for example, you can learn a lot without ever opening the cover. For instance, I just bought Ransom by David Malouf (which is presently a book I have heard of, but I hope to make it a book I have skimmed soon). I have read other David Malouf books (although it was some time ago), so I'll mentally shelve it with The Great World (a book I have mostly forgotten). I know it's a retelling of the Iliad, so on its other side I'll shelve the original Iliad (in translation, a skimmed and partially forgotten book), as well as other Greek literature, mythology and history (skimmed, heard of and wholly or partially forgotten). Thus, without having read past the cover blurb, I already know a great deal about what the book is like and can attend the Writers' Week seminar with impunity.
Isn't that fantastic! Think how much time and stress you'll save now that you know you don't have to read your next book-club book before you get to the meeting! I feel so free...

A thousand words

A tour of Chernobyl and its surrounds. 'Nuff said.

Philosophy of journalistic ethics

The Philosopher's Zone podcast this week featured an interview with David Neill from the University of Wollongong in which he said much the same thing as I said in my previous post, only better and more philosophically.

How advertising ruined my life

A couple of days ago I promised a rant about the insidious effects of advertorials on good journalism, so here it is.
There are really two forms of advertorial. In most cases, an "editorial" mention is promised to accompany an advertising booking. This can be done reasonably, if the journalist writing the article is free to include non-advertisers' products and services as well (although it is still not ideal). For example, I recently wrote an article recommending certain restaurants in Sydney, in which three of the four I was required to mention had full page ads in the same publication. This kind of advertorial is usually fairly obvious to the reader, who can easily see the ad near the editorial and infer a link between the two. I don't believe it is harmful, because it is simply a recommendation; I wasn't writing an exposé on health inspections, for example, or pretending that the list was comprehensive.
A more insidious form of "advertorial" is when journalists cannot write anything in editorial that may have a negative reflection on an advertiser. Here's an example: when I was employed on a parenting magazine, I wrote an article on the pros and cons of the use of disinfectants in the home. As part of this story, I related a true personal anecdote about a television advertisement for an unnamed cleaning product. When the camera "zoomed in" on scary-looking green germs on a pristine white surface, the friend with whom I was watching burst out laughing. She was a microbiologist, and immediately recognised that the supposedly scary "germs" were just yeast, a substance which we all have in our gut nearly all of the time.
When the article including this anecdote was printed, a major advertiser threatened to withdraw advertising from all of the company's publications. I was forced to apologise in person to the client, who claimed that, although I hadn't mentioned their product specifically, it was obvious that it was their ad to which I referred, since I had correctly identified that the "germs" were yeast! As well as grovelling to the advertiser, I was made to write a short news item in the next issue of the magazine specifically promoting their product. (As there was nothing inherently wrong with the product itself, but only the advertising for it, I felt able to do this without compromising my principles, thus keeping my job.)
Related to the use of advertorial pressure to compromise journalistic standards, as well as to compromise the finances and ethics of the publication in general, is the use of contra. For those not in the industry, "contra" is the name given to payment for advertising in kind, rather than in dollars. Used properly, contra can be great: for example, every time you get a free gift with your magazine you are probably getting contra -- free gifts boost copy sales, so a magazine will accept 100,000 tubes of lip gloss in exchange for a double-page spread of advertising. This works out well for publisher, advertiser and reader.
The problem I have with contra is when it doesn't feed back into the finances of the publication. At some publishing companies I have worked for, there were credible rumours among the staff that the CEO or senior executives were using contra ad bookings and editorial coverage to supplement their personal lifestyles -- for home renovations and holidays, for example. The problem with this is that there is no feedback into the economics of producing the magazine (I'd bet my bottom dollar that the execs didn't take a pay cut to make up for the freebies they were receiving). Less real advertising revenue means budget cuts for editorial expenses and no pay rises for journalists, while the execs and senior staff enjoy virtual, tax-free, pay rises. The reader receives no benefit at all.
As in my last post, having raised this issue I really have very few ideas about changing the industry practices. These days, as a freelance journalist, I can to some extent choose who I work for and what I write, but I actually have very little bargaining power if I want to continue to get regular work. (And that's another rant.) Enforcing ethics is hard, particularly in this economic climate.

Death of the journalist

Dr Steven Novella, at Skepticblog, asked the question: Is journalism dead? and naturally I can't help putting in my two cents' worth.
I agree with Dr Novella, that the internet is changing the way we learn about news, and the sources we choose to obtain it from. This is the future, and we need to strap in for the long haul and ride out the transition. However, I'm sure there were similar complaints when both radio news and television news first came on the scene, so reports of my death are exaggerated.
Publishers have a bottom-line-driven attitude to their output. Advertising has always been the main revenue source, and editorial is valued only as the stuff that fills the space between the ads. These days, it is often bastardised by tacit "advertorial" content (that's a whole different kettle of fish that I'll save for another rant), or produced on a shoestring by overworked journalists trying to find a balance between the good reporting that their personal standards demand, and the lack of time and resources to do it properly.
Nevertheless, publishers will all agree that good editorial draws in more readers, thereby attracting more advertising dollars. This is where I want to put the spotlight back on readers: do you really care about good journalism?
Let me ask the question this way: how much are you prepared to pay for a newspaper or even a website that delivers really good quality journalism? One hundred years ago, a newspaper cost between about threepence and sixpence. (For the sake of argument and decimal currency, we'll say five cents.) A quick conversion to today's relative value reveals that the modern equivalent, based on the average unskilled wage, would be more than $5.00. How much do you pay for your newspaper? My home-delivery subscription costs less than a dollar per day, and the internet edition is free.
The main effect of the cheapness (or free-ness) of news sources is insidious. It's a well-known marketing adage that you don't value something you can get for free (or cheaply). YOU don't expect your internet news source to be accurate, you just want it to be timely. YOU don't care if Pauline Hansen's racist policies have changed, as long as we find out if those nudie photos are really her (see the front page of today's Sydney Morning Herald). If you had to pay a fairer rate for it, would you be more picky about what you read?
Dr Novella asked the question, and so do I: what business model can we develop that will allow journalists to make a decent living out of doing a good job? I'm no economist, but I think that at least part of the answer is in the readers. If YOU demand the truth, and are prepared to pay for it, we'll all be able to eat tomorrow.

(Come back in a few days for my rant on advertorials: another economic rationalist reason why good journalism is in decline.)

Eureka!

Yesterday I returned to the old alma mater for a public lecture by Dr Karl in the Eastern Avenue Auditorium (formerly known as Carslaw, with new bits and a water feature). I've been to the uni regularly in recent days, mostly by car, but this was the first time I'd strolled down the pedestrian mall that now runs between Fisher Library and the Wentworth Building.
I was totally gobsmacked and impressed by the new law school building next to Fisher library. It's so sleek and, surrounded as it is by open space, I felt as though I had somehow slipped into a Brobdignagian architect's model. Who knew those old fogeys on the Sydney Uni Senate had it in them to approve such a breathtaking postmodern structure? It certainly makes Carslaw (what's left of it) look like the muddle of mid-century utilitarian garbage that it is. And the Chemistry building should hang its head in shame.

On a side note, it always amuses me that the Transient Building is still there, now more than 20 years after I graduated.

Postcard from home

Graham Rawle, author of one of the best books I read last year, is running a workshop at the V&A on Friday, and he posted the instructions on his blog so that those of us on the wrong side of the globe can participate. The idea is to make a collage from magazines to represent what "home" means to you. Here's my effort:

Something to read, something to look at, something to sew, a window on the world, a comfy chair and a cuppa -- bliss!

Fun with fungi

Not mushroom for art in your school curriculum? I love this project and am off to make my own brown-bag basidiocarps. [Pics to come.]

Australian of the Year

Congratulations, Mick Dodson. This appointment, following on the heels of Barack Obama's inauguration, ushers in the unofficial Year of the Black Leader.

Next on the agenda: restoring human rights in Aboriginal communities. Yes, we can!

Art or nature?

Yesterday a soccer player, whose name I have thankfully already forgotten, was interviewed for one of those 20 questions-style profiles in the Good Weekend magazine. I was impressed by many of his answers, thinking that he showed a surprising amount of intellect and originality for a footballer.

Unfortunately, he undid all his good work with his answer to the question: "What is your favourite work of art?" He replied, "a woman's body".

NO! Wrong answer! Do not objectify women! Admire all you like, but remember that a person's body is the result of genetic inheritance, not of anyone's creation.

Sigh. Football Australia, back to the drawing board.

Aelita's aesthetics

I've been stewing on this story for a couple of weeks now, trying to determine what I think about it. Further thoughts on the subject were sparked by a brief discussion with my philosophy teacher as I drove her home last week, after a class of which aesthetics and the philosophy of art was the subject. In class, we had discussed the definition of art, and words like "creativity", "intention", "evocative" and "emotion" were tossed around. For the purposes of philosophising, we decided that anything that is considered an artwork is fair game. But can the work of a two-year-old be considered art?

My initial reaction was ambivalent: a two-year-old could have little intention of "making art" as opposed to "playing with paint and canvas", which works against the idea of it being art. On the other hand, even at two there can be an aesthetic sensibility; Aelita's paintings appear to show a rudimentary use of balance, proportion, colour and other appealing characteristics of abstract art. I would hang one on my wall, which makes it art by a broad definition.

In some ways the child's parents (also artists) are thumbing their nose at critics; deliberately poking out their tongue at the hackneyed phrase, "a child could paint that". By presenting Aelita's work as art, they are drawing attention to both the roots of abstraction (form over content) and the fact that, although a child could paint it, not every child can or will do so--artists are still an elite (or aelita). In this way, they are echoing Duchamp's Readymades (some of which we saw on the weekend in the National Gallery).

On the other hand, one must wonder whether a two-year-old's work is different from a painting by a chimp or an elephant, both of which have recently been exhibited and bought by galleries and collectors. What is the elephant's intention, or the two-year-old's? I am all for creative expression and art education in early childhood, but is it art?

Part of the problem, as well, is the element of deception involved. The paintings were presented as the work of an artist, and critics were initially not informed that the artist in question was slurping on a rubber teat as she worked. Postmodern theory would claim it doesn't matter (although in this case the artist is not so much dead as yet unborn). In this sense, it falls into the category of deception like the faux autobiography made famous by the case of Norma Khouri. The reason I felt ripped off by Forbidden Love was that it was boring and badly written; I felt I'd been tricked into reading it, when I would normally have put it down after the first chapter or two. I think this is how many people feel about Aelita Andre's art: they might have liked it well enough, but they don't like feeling tricked.

The last issue this case raises is of exploitation. Is Aelita really creating art for her own aesthetic reasons, or is her creativity being used by her parents to make a point of their own? Will Aelita one day look back on these paintings and regret her part in the controversy? These are echoes of the arguments used in the recent Bill Henson case, in which parents were accused of making bad decisions on behalf of their children. I wonder what Hetty Johnston thinks of this exhibition?

Speaking of Hetty Johnston, I didn't see her picketing the Degas exhibition at the National Gallery, where sculptures, drawings and paintings of nude adolescents proliferate. Degas' study of a 14-year-old dancer is no less naked--and evocative--than Bill Henson's portraits. Of course, the original sculpture, clothed and with real hair, caused a controversy in its time too. In a lovely but almost accidental juxtaposition, a set of Henson's Paris opera images hangs only two rooms away from the Degas collection.

Aorta...

I think I may have to change the title of this blog to "Curmudgeon's Corner", since my two cents' worth these days is more often a whinge or a complaint about modern society. Here's another:

A couple of days ago I went to one of my favourite clothing outlet stores, where you can buy off-season stock and seconds and samples of certain designer labels under a different name (they stock Hammock and Vine, for example, which is Trent Nathan Resort in disguise). I purchased two tops and two pairs of pants. The thing that's bugging me is the size difference between the two pairs of pants. The black linen capri pants are a snug fit even though they are nominally a size larger than the black denim shorts that sit loosely on my hips, so much so that I might have bought a size smaller if they had them. This means that there is roughly two actual sizes between the two pairs of pants I bought on the same day in the same store, as the pair that is labelled with the smaller size is bigger than the pair labelled with the larger size.

Why does this annoy me? Because I have enough trouble buying clothes that fit (since I am short and apple-shaped rather than tall and pear-shaped), that look nicer on me than they do on the hanger, and that don't make me look like a) mutton dressed up as lamb or b) mutton dressed up as even-older-mutton, without having to GUESS at the size I should try on!

There should be a national standard of sizing. How much easier would it be to go shopping? How many fewer trips to the change room, thus saving time and money for shop assistants who have to rehang and replace the discarded clothes? Clothing manufacturers should employ quality controllers to make sure the sizes are correct and Standards Australia should fine those whose garments don't fit people with the measurements indicated by the size on the label.

As the great Afferbeck Lauder said, "Aorta do something about it! Aorta puttem in jile an shootem."

Another year of curmudgeonry

Quote of the year (2009), from a woman making her way through the post-fireworks streets in the centre of Sydney:

"I can't stand crowds."

Um, probably should have stayed home on NYE then....

FSM bless Us, Every One!

At this time of year I always indulge in a viewing of A Muppet Christmas Carol, at least once, and often any other version of the delightful workings of Mr Dickens' original story. This year saw my discovery of a recent British version, featuring the thuggish Ross Kemp as a loan shark on a London housing estate. I watched it three times, forcing different family members to sit with me each time.

This may seem a bit strange to those of you who have to deal with my usual "Bah! Humbug" attitude to Christmas with all of its modern trappings, but I will defend myself (of course). It is not the notion of a Christian Christmas that Dickens and I want to espouse, but the spirit of the season--the idea that every human being has intrinsic value; that every person has something to give, from the little drummer boy to the most exalted saint. This is the basic philosophy of humanism:

Whereas recognition of the inherent dignity and of the equal and inalienable rights of all members of the human family is the foundation of freedom, justice and peace in the world,

which is the opening sentence of the 1948 Universal Declaration of Human Rights (my emphasis).

Here in Australia, the government's response to the current global economic crisis included a one-time cash payment of $1000 per child to every family earning less than a certain income threshold.* The government encouraged families to spend this money on goods and services in the lead-up to Christmas, with the idea of boosting the economy.

I have found the Scrooge-like reactions appalling. One relative, who will remain nameless, complained that her family did not qualify for the payment because their household income was too high: "It sends the wrong message," she said, "to single mothers with five children by six different fathers, who think they can just go out and have more children and the government will give them more money." (That's a loose approximation, not a direct quote, but you get the gist.) "While hardworking people like us get nothing to help with our two mortgages and cable television subscriptions and air-conditioning repairs," she continued in the same vein. In my mind, I could hear Scrooge: "My taxes pay for the poorhouses and prisons, let them go there!"

There have been numerous news stories about families hit by the economic crisis. Last night, a family of four on the television news were shown sitting in front of their widescreen television and wondering how they were going to afford holidays next year when their mortgage payments go up. The other day a couple in the newspaper complained because it was becoming too expensive for her to drive their 4WD from the inner city to the outer suburbs four times a week to visit an elderly parent, while he claimed he had tried taking public transport to the movies instead of driving, "but it is so annoying because sometimes I have to wait for a train". I just want to grab these people by the shoulders and shake them, while shouting, "You are not poor! These are not sacrifices!"

I think it's partly the media's fault for encouraging the whingeing. It doesn't sell newspapers if you have headlines saying, "Poor people still unaffected by mortgage rate rises" or "Tax breaks no help for chronically unemployed" or "Pensioner spends government handout on food and clothing".

As the old year passes and a new one begins, I will be making a resolution to "honor Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year." I will be thankful for what I have, seek opportunities to share it with those less fortunate, and look for the unique gifts that every person in society can offer. I hope you will too.

* Disclaimer: we didn't qualify for the payment because we earn too much, a fact which makes me both proud and humble.

Missing child

You know how you always get those emails about missing kids but it turns out that they're not missing at all or the information is several decades old...

Well, I know this one is real. In fact, the father of the missing four-year-old is one of His Honour's colleagues. Our local news media has recently run the story and I have a copy of the court order allowing the publication of the information.

Please look at this website and, wherever you are in the world, look for the mother and child. It is thought they may be in Europe, as they were last seen in Germany.

Note that you are asked not to approach them if you see them, but to contact the Australian Federal Police.

Imperial America

So, I'm reading Death from the Skies, and I come to this footnote (page 142):

* Just to be clear, mass and weight are different. Mass is a property of matter; you can think of it as how much matter there is, and we measure it in grams or kilograms. Weight is the force of gravity on that mass, and we measure it in pounds. A cannonball has the same mass whether it's on the Earth or the Moon, but on the Moon it weighs one-sixth as much because gravity is one-sixth as strong; on the Earth 1 kilogram equals 2.2 pounds, but on the Moon it weighs about 0.36 pound.

I wish to argue this point with my American friends (and that means you, Farmer Pete). The distinction between mass and weight is valid, but you noodles must remember that you guys are just about the only ones in the world who measure weight in weird, old-fashioned units, such as pounds and slugs.

The way Phil has put it is confusing to those of us in the real (read: rest of the) world, where mass is measured in kilograms and weight is commonly measured in kilograms. For instance, in Australia, 1 kilogram of mass equals 1 kilogram of weight. Except perhaps at the top of Mount Kosciuszko, where it might weigh just a little more, or at Lake Eyre, where it would weigh a smidgeon less, but probably not enough to tip even the finest calibration of kitchen scales.

Furthermore, to be really technical, weight is a measure of the force of gravity on the mass of an object (weight = mass x acceleration, for those of you who can't recall high school physics) and it is actually measured in newtons, the SI unit of force. 1 newton is, appropriately, approximately the weight of a small apple at the Earth's surface -- 102g -- and therefore the weight of 1 kilogram at the surface of the Earth is 9.8 newtons, and on the moon, 1.63 newtons.

I raise this point--not as a criticism of Dr Plait's book or his reasoning, which is otherwise entertaining and excellent--but only because that small footnote cost me a couple of hours of brain strain and kept His Honour, AFSM, awake for at least half an hour while I bent his ear about it in bed. The text above is a distilled version of my research and reasoning that I hope will save you the same brain strain when you read the book. Which you should, because it's a great read.

I also wouldn't mind if it alerted some of our US friends that they are about two centuries behind the rest of the world when it comes to a sensible system of weights and measures, and they shouldn't just assume that "we measure it in pounds" when they are writing for an international audience.

On another astronomical note, the Hair Dude and I went to see "Time Warp", a show about space, time and magic with Dr Fred Watson from the Anglo-Australian Observatory and Matt Hollywood, magician. It was entertaining and informative, and the Hair Dude got his copy of Why is Uranus Upside Down? autographed by the star himself. I'll bet Dr Watson doesn't fool around with pounds and slugs in that book, but I'll let you know when we've read it.

Atmosphere

Last night this gorgeous sunset greeted me when I trudged up the hill with my camera. I was so annoyed! Why?


Because it was blocking my view of a celestial phenomenon that won't happen again for 18 years! I hung around for a while in the hope that the wind might blow the clouds away, but unfortunately it only seemed to be blowing them in. The following (digitally enhanced) shot is the best I was able to get through a thin patch of cloud. At least the three players (the moon, Venus at the top of the frame and Jupiter, faintly on the right) are visible, if not clear.


The one good thing about the night was that I discovered an amazing viewing spot for future use, with 180-degree views to the western horizon. And no, I'm not telling you where it is.

Maison Martin Margiella

I want to shop at this store. When am I going to Paris?

Grumpy old lady rant

Last night I went to the Sydney Opera House to see Sting and Edin Karamazov perform the beautiful Elizabethan lute music from the album Songs from the Labyrinth. I bought the album when it came out last year and loved the arrangements of John Dowland's music, so I was pleased that I managed to snaffle one of the last seats in the Concert Hall for this one-night concert. When I rang the box office to book, they made a point of asking if I was aware that this was not Sting doing his own music, I suppose to avoid disappointed fans.
Nevertheless, the audience on the night was fairly obviously not made up of regular Opera House patrons, judging by the number who had difficulty figuring out where their seats were and exhibiting the following annoying behaviours:
1. Flash photography in the Concert Hall. As if it's not bad enough that they ignore the signs on the foyer walls and the instructions on the back of the tickets, there was an announcement before the start of the concert asking patrons to turn off their mobile phones and refrain from photography -- and the key words are "for the enjoyment of other patrons". Despite all this, in a very dark concert hall with only low spotlights on Sting and Edin, bright camera flashes went off intermittently all night, even during the songs! Apart from the strain it was putting on my retinae, what kind of photos did they think they were going to get anyway? Dim, blurry pictures of two blokes on a dark stage -- the flash doesn't even reach that far. And what is it about Generation Y that they have to have photographs of themselves at every possible occasion? Are they afraid they'll forget where they've been?
2. Mobile phones. Not only did someone's alarm go off during the concert, but in the dark auditorium it was easy to see the subtle blue glow every time someone checked their phone for messages. Again, what is it about Generation Y that they can't even go for an hour and a half without being in touch with their absent friends -- during a concert, for god's sake?
3. People who, despite the box office warning, only came to hear Sting sing his own music. When they had worked through the Songs from the Labyrinth/John Dowland material, the performers left the stage. I expected an encore, because they had not played the lute version of "Fields of Gold" from the album, for example. But some people chose to leave at this point, as is their right. When Sting and Edin returned to the stage, they played some beautiful Elgar, some folky Vaughan Williams, then "Fields of Gold" and a haunting version of "SOS". The latter two songs gained more applause than any other songs in the whole concert. One guy in front of me commented to his friend, "Those people who left before he played his own stuff will be pissed off if they find out." I wanted to smack him in the back of the head and say, "Maybe they actually came to hear the Elizabethan lute music that was the main reason for the show, dumbarse." And here's another Generation Y complaint: did they really pay $140 each to come to an Elizabethan lute concert on the off chance that Sting might play a couple of modern tunes? They do have more money than sense!
Phew, now that I have that off my chest, I'm off to listen to Songs from the Labyrinth again, now with memories of an exquisite live performance to enrich the experience. Sting was absolutely charming, Edin was a lute genius, Stile Antico were brilliant (when they came on stage, Sting said, "These aren't my children, although they're the same age" -- so perhaps there is some hope for Gen Y after all). Slava Grigoryan, David Berlin and Allan Zavod were the support act, playing evocative impressionist-style compositions arranged for guitar, cello and piano. All-in-all, it was a memorable and marvellous concert.

Dietes grown from seed

I am so proud!

What I saw on my walk

I hope you can read the sign on this shopfront, it says, "Guidance from Above New Age Gift Shop Also Shoe Repairs". Good for your sole...

And below, homemade street signs:

Last month

I've been missing for almost a month, thanks to the wedding of the Number 2 Stepdaughter (henceforward to be known as the two cheeses: Cam and Bri) and a trip to New Zealand to recover. As well as spending time with the Dude, Ms ND and His Honour in Auckland, I also went to Wellington to catch up with World Citizen 3000, pictured reconnecting "BODY" to "SOUL" in the Botanic Gardens.WC3000 and I had such a good time in the windy city, because our ways of being in a city meld really well. We would start the day with a vague agenda, but if one or the other of us suggested a detour or alternative, we would just go along. We managed to tick off everything on our lists, and more, without feeling like we were rushing or missing out on anything.
It probably says a lot if I mention that most of our detours involved food or bookstores. I discovered where to get the best coffee (Pravda) and the worst (Mojo) in Wellington*. We visited the Te Papa museum, an exhibition of political cartoons, Katherine Mansfield's birthplace, the best Mediterranean supermarket in New Zealand, the Griffin Theatre (where we saw a great production of Cold Comfort Farm). WC3000 had just walked the Milford Track, a feat of which I am supremely jealous, and he was buzzing with joy all weekend. Fun!

* Esquires in Auckland was also a great find, especially the Dark Roast. I didn't get to try the coffee in Rotorua, as all the cafés except Starbucks closed at 4pm (on a weekday)!

End of the world

Just received my copy of the Bad Astronomer's new book, Death from the Skies. I haven't read beyond the first few pages yet, but I recommend it unreservedly, knowing Phil's output from his first book, Bad Astronomy, and his blog.
In the light of my recent T.S. Eliot blogging, I appreciate the reference on the cover, to "The Hollow Men":

This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.

Judging from the contents list, most of the means by which the world could end are bangs--asteroids, comets, supernovae, gamma-ray bursts; however, as Phil asserts, despite all of the ways the universe is trying to kill us "you always have to keep in mind that we're still here." At least long enough for me to read this book, I hope.

Duh!

I recently tried to sign up for internet access to my internet account details (so I can read and pay bills online) with a major Australian ISP. When I was asked for an email address, they would not accept either of the email addresses (one for work, one for private email) that they provide me with. I queried this and received the following reply (copied and pasted so don't blame me for the bad spelling and grammar):

When accessing MyAccount we need a secondary email address other then email address ending in @xxxxxxxnet.com.au this is due to if xxxxxxx.com.au is not working we can still send you notification and important information to another email address. There are many free email services in the market you can signed up for (example www.hotmail.com and www.gmail.com) or you can even use a family members email address if you authorized them to be able to see some emails we may send you.

I replied politely, but what I wanted to say was:

If xxxxxxxnet.com.au is not working, I won't be able to access ANY email accounts, because I won't have internet access, you idiots! Why do you need to send me an email to tell me that my internet service is not working? Don't you think I will have noticed when I CAN'T ACCESS THE INTERNET? Duh!

If it's that urgent, call me. Oh, that's right, you're my telephone service provider as well.

So much for rewarding customer loyalty...

Pygmalion

Last night Ms Nominative Determinism and I went to see My Fair Lady, starring Richard E Grant as Henry Higgins. He was, as I expected, absolutely perfect for the role, and his lack of singing experience didn't really show.
The whole production was colourful and vibrant and the casting was, over all, very good. My main complaint was the insipid Freddie who, though he had a lovely voice, had the strangest collection of facial expressions. Instead of looking like a lovelorn swain, he looked more like he was practicing his orgasm face in a mirror. I commented on this to Ms ND during the interval, so when he returned for his reprise we dissolved in giggles at the first excruciating grimace.
Did you know that someone is planning to make a new movie version of My Fair Lady, with Keira Knightley as Eliza? I do applaud the choice, as I think she would make a suitably pouty and sulky guttersnipe; however, I was distressed by Ms ND's assertion that Brad Pitt and George Clooney were both coveting the role of Professor Higgins. Urk! The producers should just get Richard E Grant to do it (he really is the perfect Henry, despite his claims to be insulted by such an assertion).
Ms ND and I then spent the bus trip home wracking our brains to come up with a suitable alternative candidate, with little success. It wasn't until the wee small hours that an idea came to me: Ciaran Hinds!
So here's my suggested cast list for the new My Fair Lady:
Eliza Kiera Knightley
Henry Higgins Ciaran Hinds
Colonel Pickering Alun Armstrong
Freddie Rupert Penry-Jones (nice and insipid)
Mrs Higgins Gillian Anderson
Alf Doolittle Paul Hogan (although I don't know if he can sing, he's a very convincing garbologist).
Please feel free to supply your own cast options in the comments.

Well, it's exciting to me...

Fellow gardeners will understand my excitement today. These wild irises (Dietes iridoides) have been growing under the peppermint gum in my backyard for around seven or eight years. They flowered the first summer after I transplanted them (I guess they were a couple of years old when I bought them from the nursery). I planted half a dozen plants which have grown and spread naturally and provide a profusion of pretty flowers every spring.
About five years ago I found a few tiny seedlings growing in a drain, so I rescued them and planted them in a pot near the front door. For the past five summers I've been waiting for them to flower, but they just kept growing bushier and multiplying.
Now, at last, my patience will be rewarded: this morning I found three flower spikes in the pot (the tip of the third is just in the lower left foreground of the last photo). In a week or so, I'll have flowers! I am so proud!

What on EARTH!

One of my major editing projects this year was featured in today's SMH. I'm pretty proud of my small part in this huge book, so check it out. Of course, at $5,000.00 a copy for the limited edition, I don't expect you all to buy one. (There is a smaller edition available in bookstores.)
See the pretty pictures!

Nerds in love

Oh, man, Colin Firth as John Stuart Mill. I'd like to see that!

Schmapped

Check out my photograph of the Anchor Bar:

Leaving LeWitt

Self-portrait with LeWitt at MOMA, New York, 2008.

A LeWitt mural is being painted out at MOMA, San Francisco, and many are up in arms at the loss of a seven-million-dollar artwork. It's difficult to comprehend that the artwork, in this case, is not the painting itself--which was not even done by Sol--but the instructions for creating it, which are written on a certificate.
It reminds me of another work I love in MOMA, NY, which is a framed drawing accompanied by a certificate from the artist stating that the object represented in the drawing is not a work of art, and nor is the drawing of the object. Yet the object itself, the drawing of it and the certificate are all hanging in an art gallery!
During the recent Biennale of Sydney, one of the artworks involved painting the walls of the Art Gallery black, then painting them white again. I heard lots of people complaining about this not being art, some even misunderstanding and suggesting that the art gallery should have done its renovations when there was not a major exhibition on.
I love the way these kinds of artworks (and I believe they are artworks) make me think, and reassess my view of life. They are transient, oxymoronic, futile, incomprehensible, and thought-provoking. I'm sad to think that San Franciscans are losing their LeWitt, but surely that sadness at its impermanence is part of the artist's intention in the first place? (Oh no, Mr Foucault, I didn't mean to talk about the artist's intention, sir, please don't haunt me!) If just one person stops to think about that, Sol LeWitt can rest easy in his grave.

Two more birthdays today!

Happy 120th birthday, T.S. Eliot, and 110th, George Gershwin.

One of these mornings
You're going to rise up singing,
Then you'll spread your wings
And you'll take to the sky.
Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song,
Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long.

Livin' at large

I'm planning to emigrate... to 9491 Thooft. This little world is named for the particle physicist and Nobel prize-winner Gerard 't Hooft, who has taken the trouble to write a Constitution for future inhabitants of his asteroid. Much better than the United Nations' Declaration of Human Rights, especially Article 13, which bans all weapons.

Of course, I should adapt this constitution for my own star and its worlds, but I'm much more likely to be able to reach 9491 Thooft in my lifetime (it orbits between Mars and Jupiter) than something that's 300 light years away.

Coffee lover

A coffee-lover's blog. I'm glad I discovered this before heading over to NZ later this year: it should keep me busy checking out the java joints in Auckland.

I have only one question. Addicted to Starbucks: WTF? There isn't enough caffeine in one of their cups to addict a gnat. When I was in the US and Starbucks was the best available (much better than DD, urk!) I had to order double-shots just to taste that it was made with coffee and not dishwater.

At least East Aurora (NY) has Taste.

Nerd jewellery

When the Master (AFSM) was in Melbourne last week he popped into Scally and Trombone, my favourite quirky little store in Brunswick Street, Fitzroy, to buy me a pressie. (It's about halfway along the street, just past the Provincial Hotel--if it's dinner time--or Marios--if it's breakfast time.)
When Ms N.D. saw the bracelet made of typewriter keys, like the one at right, she rolled her eyes and exclaimed, "Oh great, nerd jewellery!"
What can I say?
I want one of these, and these, and these...

Tip o' the hat

Happy birthday, Tezz.

Dr Johnson's birthday party

"The return of my birthday, if I remember it, fills me with thoughts which it seems to be the general care of humanity to escape."

Samuel Johnson (1709-1784), The Columbia World of Quotations. New York: Columbia University Press, 1996. www.bartleby.com/66/. 18/09/2008.

Denial. Gotta love it. Let's just forget about birthdays and aging and get on with living the good life. We should all just go to the pub:

"There is no private house in which people can enjoy themselves so well as at a capital tavern.... No, Sir; there is nothing which has yet been contrived by man by which so much happiness is produced as by a good tavern or inn."

Who's with me? I'll buy the first round.

Amigurumi

Meet the Gabu*.
He is an example of amigurumi (Japanese for "knitted toys"). He's about 5cm (2in) in diameter, and he has a lot of friends...














* Free pattern from Roxycraft.

Are we still here?

Well, the Large Hadron Collider turned on just now, despite efforts to the contrary. In fact, the Bad Astronomer assures us that, because the protons are all travelling in the same direction at the moment, there won't be any collisions until they switch them on in the other direction next year, and even then, we can be assured that they won't create black holes that will suck the entire earth into an alternate universe.

But just in case you are still worried, you can watch for the results right from your own desktop: http://hasthelargehadroncolliderdestroyedtheworldyet.com/. Just check that website every day to see if we're all still here.

Here's to Ears!

Yesterday we went out to celebrate a) Father's Day; b) the Swans' win; and c) the first sunny day of spring. We gorged ourselves with yum cha then wandered around Chinatown and Darling Harbour, where they were holding a Chalk Art Festival.
For those who have been following my graffiti obsession, you will be almost as excited as I was to discover the artist behind the Sad Dudes!



























Not only did I get to watch him work, but his creations were available to purchase by donation. So, for the princely sum of $5.00, I now have my own original artwork, which I call "Sad Ranga Dude". I even asked him to tag it, on the back.













I'm not sure how pleased the Master is with this new addition to our walls...

UFOs, WIPs and WISPs

This UFO (left) will one day be a cushion.

Sharon B, of In a Minute Ago, asked for ideas on how to get over the stitching hump that seems to hit about three-quarters of the way through a craft project. It's always nice to hear that other stitchers suffer from the same procrastinatory problems as I do, and I thought I'd take up Sharon's challenge and try to come up with some strategies to turn my UFOs into FOs.

It is with awareness of hubris that I take on this challenge. I am a very poor follower of my own tenets in the matter of UFOs, although I do have strict principles: first and foremost, that I can't bear to make an item without a specific purpose in mind, so having this purpose should, in theory, make it easier to stay the course and finish the piece even when the three-quarters-finished state of ennui hits.

I also find that being disciplined about finishing one piece before starting another gives me great incentive, because there is always a more exciting project waiting to be started. Unfortunately, this occasionally means that I don't start the new project at all, but the upside of that is that it is one less UFO in the pile! I could give you a list of projects I have planned (and occasionally bought materials for) and never started: but it would only make me cry to think of all that wasted creativity.

I should also confess that, being an acolyte in several fields of craft, I don't apply these rules across boundaries. Therefore, if I have a cross-stitch project, knitting, a crazy patchwork piece and all sorts of other things in progress all at once, I consider them all WISPs rather than UFOs, even if it has been some months (or years!) since I touched one or the other of them.

At the moment, I am stalled on the quilting of queen-size quilt, which is about three-quarters finished. I need to summon the energy to finish this soon, simply because it takes up so much space! Once it's finished and on the bed, there will be a whole lot more space in my tiny terrace house. Then there's just the box of yarn I inherited from my late aunt, waiting to be knitted into beanies and charity blankets; the cross-stitch I promised to my friend World Citizen 3000 when he moved into his new house several years ago (he has just sold the house, so it will have to be for his next home); the felt pods I already have the fibre set aside for; and the white-on-white crazy patchwork panel I haven't touched since Can-Bra in 2004.

Telephone to glory

Yesterday's reading from the Harvard Classics Project was a chapter of Origin of Species, and the Delicious Pundit's take on it tickled my funnybone:

It isn't literally contradictory -- you can still believe that we are just like the other animals on this tiny wet dot floating through a vast universe and that you can get God on the phone -- but you start to see that God might be a little distracted when he takes your call.

Of course, if you do give the big guy a call, you might just get his voice mail.

From Crackle: Mr. Deity and the Messages - Episode 4

Sputnik

This is my new Sputnik charm: it's a strange little jewellery item that takes its name from its likeness to the Soviet spacecraft -- first launched in 1957, crashed in 1958 -- without the antennae. Fifty years later, I couldn't pass up the opportunity to wear my own piece of mid-century modern space junk, even though its aesthetic appeal is a little dubious.

The drum on kettles

I decided that I wanted to clear some kitchen bench space by getting rid of my rather ancient and grubby electric jug, so I set out to buy a kettle for my gas stovetop*. This turned out to be a much more difficult search than anticipated.
Firstly, most of our local homewares stores only sell electric jugs. Then, I found a gorgeous kettle on ebay, but when I checked the manufacturer's website, the starting price on ebay was already above the recommended retail price. So, I wrote down the nearest stockists listed on the website but the first three I went to were a) boarded up, b) a hole in the ground, and c) claiming never to have heard of the brand.
Lastly, when we did find a store with a kettle, the offerings were either ugly but practical or beautiful but impractical. I think the most frustrating moment in my search was when I found a lovely, stainless steel, satin-finish kettle with a curvaceous shape and a stylish stainless steel handle. However, the sales assistant couldn't guarantee that the handle would not heat up when the kettle was boiled. She suggested I buy it and try it out. "If the handle does get hot," I asked, "can I bring the kettle back for a refund?" "You can't bring it back if you have used it," she replied. I did not buy it.
By this stage I was feeling very much like poor Alice at the Mad Hatter's tea party:

“Take some more tea,” the March Hare said to Alice, very earnestly.
“I’ve had nothing yet,” Alice replied in an offended tone: “so I ca’n’t take more.”
“You mean you ca’n’t take less,” said the Hatter: “it’s very easy to take more than nothing.”

I did eventually find a kettle, with a sweet little whistle that sounds just like Gran's used to. It ain't Alessi, but it was a tenth of the price. And it works. I put it on the stove and made a cup of tea, and now I feel much better.

* I thought it might also be more energy efficient, although it appears that the savings in greenhouse emissions from using gas are largely erased by the fact that it takes twice as long as an electric jug to heat the water. (A gas stovetop kettle is twice as efficient as an electric stovetop kettle, however.)

IF THE CITY IS Y

I snapped these images with my mobile phone camera today and yesterday. The erosion of advertising materials in both cases--in the glossy flyers wilting in the rain where they protrude from the letterboxes, and the torn edges of the multiple layers of the street posters--appealed to me in an aesthetic way as well as philosophically. I only wish I'd had a real camera with me.

Success isn't everything

This piece is my last felting foray (for now) and probably my least successful, but it shows that there is beauty even in failure.
I used the nuno technique that produced the purple scarf (below), but this time I felted the entire piece of fabric, in order to produce the lovely ruching that you can see in the foreground of the picture. Unfortunately, I chose polyester fabric (it's actually an op shop find, a sheer scarf with brown roses printed on it). It was hard work to get the wool fibres to "grab" the polyester threads, and therefore the ruching is a little uneven, with large bubbles of scarf fabric popping up all over the surface, as you can see in the background of the picture. It's not unsalvageable, but I still need to decide what to do with it. Ideas are welcome.

Herbal remedy

My first piece of felt was a simple square, which we made as a sample to show how much the wool fibres shrink as you felt them. (A lot.) I made the piece reversible, with a soft green on one side and a cream on the other side. Although my felting instructor assured me that my work was passable, she did warn that the felting police might not wholly approve of the fabric, which was not properly fulled. This means that the fibres are not completely felted together and the fabric may not keep its integrity with wear and tear.
I wanted to come up with a use for it, anyway, so I made a little four-petal template and cut flowers and a few leaves from the square. I fulled them a little more after I had cut the shapes, just to soften the edges up a bit. Then I stitched them onto a headband using a variegated silk thread that became a feature as the flower centres. (Or I should say, since they are supposed to be hydrangea flowers, that the template had four sepals and the silk thread represents the flowers. Just being pedantic.)
The result is not bad for a beginner, I think.

Pebble discrete

The felting adventure continues, this time with some felted pebbles. The coarse, variegated grey Corriedale wool was the perfect texture for these little treasures. You'll never guess what's underneath the felt, either: pebbles!

Silk and wool (what I felt II)

In my second felting class I was pleasantly surprised to learn a felting technique called "Nuno". This technique of felting onto open-weave fabrics is an Australian invention, an answer to the problem of our lovely climate, which doesn't provide many cold days on which you can comfortably wear fully felted garments. Nuno felting is lightweight and easy, and it creates some lovely crinkled effects on the fabric as well. As the wool fibres felt up and shrink down, they pull the fabric and any other fibres (such as the mauve mohair fibre I used as an accent) into lovely, squiggly organic shapes. This scarf elicits comments each time I wear it. I wore it last night when we went to see David Sedaris at the Opera House.

What I felt...

Yesterday I completed my third felting workshop. I have been slack about uploading pictures of my creations, some of which are more successful than others. But I'm quite pleased with these felt pods, which I modelled on some sea cucumbers in the Sydney Aquarium. I need to find something to place in the openings to represent the feathery feelery bits (which, I believe, are actually the sea cucumber's internal organs that they push out through their mouths to 'digest' food as it swims by).
As it turns out, I'm not the only one making reef creatures out of felt or other fabrics. See the Hyperbolic Crochet Coral Reef designed by Aussie sisters Christine and Margaret Wertheim (I've read Margaret's great book on women in science called Pythagoras' Trousers, which I can recommend). And there's also Stitchin' Fish, a blog I'll be adding to my favourites list.
The lattice the pods are resting on is one of my first attempts at felting, as well, although I consider it a failure, so I won't be showing it separately. In the next couple of days I'll try to post additional images of the more successful examples of my felting, though, and I hope you like them.

Beanie feast

A few months ago, I blogged about an article on homeless kids in Sydney and at the end of it I wondered what I could do to help them out. I referred to a non-denominational charity that I had heard good things about, Just Enough Faith.
Checking their website, I found that they needed donations of beanies, scarves and blankets for the winter, so I started knitting. Just as I was finishing the first beanie, the local newspapers ran a series of articles in which they showed photographs and evidence that the CEO of Just Enough Faith had been caught putting the charity's money through the poker machines at a local club. Oops!
As it turned out, that first beanie I made was stolen when our house was broken into (along with lots of other irreplaceable stuff, but that beanie really hurt--I mean, I would've given it to them if they'd asked me!) Despite these setbacks, I kept knitting beanies, and putting them aside until I figured out which charity to give them to.
I also knitted a few for other people, including Ms N.D., my nephew the Moose and my little second-cousin (or first-cousin-once-removed, or whatever the heck the relationship is), whom you can see here sporting my fluffy creation.
Now, with a bunch of beanies in hand and the end of winter approaching fast, I have finally found a charity to give them to. Knit One, Give One was started by a Victorian woman for much the same reason as I started my beanie-knitting, so I'm happy to hand my hard work over to her for distribution. And it's not too late: I've seen people in Melbourne wearing beanies in summer!

P.S. I got my beanie pattern from crumpart, although KOGO have one on their website as well.

P.P.S. If you find a newspaper article about the founder of KOGO being caught gambling, don't show it to me! I couldn't bear it...

Identity crisis

According to Mike on Ads and his little googlebot, I have a 51% likelihood of being male and a 49% likelihood of being female, based on my browsing history. (I'm glad they clarified the sums: I wonder if the Dude would get a 20% likelihood of being chimpanzee, if he clicked on the button?)
Why do the internets think I'm more likely to be male? It could explain why I keep getting those emails from blonde Russian women who want to marry me...

Reading at length and in depth

I happened to read two blog posts today that talked about different approaches to reading over the space of a year. Keri Smith talks about the idea of reading just one book for an entire year. She cites the example of a guy who carried a copy of Finnegan's Wake around with him for a year, reading and rereading it until he understood it. Which makes me think the story is apocryphal: I mean, who can understand Finnegan's Wake at all? However, I do understand Keri's desire to get back to basics in this way, although I'm not ready to take up the challenge myself (too much to read, too little time).
The other blog that I discovered today is the Harvard Classics Project, in which Chris Marcil writes a daily post about the books on his grandfather's Harvard Classics reading list. His take on how the classics are relevant (or not) to the modern world is funny and inspires a desire to investigate a broader range of literature in bite-sized chunks.
So which will it be? In-depth study or wide-ranging browsing? Or a bit of both?

Art and craft

This is a little bib I made for my new second cousin, Quinlan. I made my own pattern, copying the basic design from Saidos da Concha, a source of inspiration for me at the moment. I like the idea of the "Handmade Pledge" that Etsy is promoting: to make or buy handmade gifts rather than simply adding to corporate profits. Of course, it remains to be seen how much I can stick to the plan, as people's birthdays seem to sneak up on me, resulting in last-minute dashes to the shops for pressies.
On another note, the beach art that the Dude and I did on our recent holiday is now on the V&A World Beach Project website.

So NOT square

This morning I listened to the latest Skepticality [sic] podcast, Rationalist Rap. Swoopy interviewed Greydon Square, who is a hiphop artist, former gang member, former US soldier in Iraq and currently a physics student. I'm not a big hiphop fan, but I liked the mellow sound of his music and the poetry of his lyrics (in much the same way as I like the Hilltop Hoods, homegrown hiphop from the Adelaide Hills). Sometimes wisdom appears in unexpected shapes and forms.

Hear Greydon Square's music on his myspace page. I like 2008 A.D. and The CPT Theorem. Just a warning: as in most hiphop, some language may offend.