Pretty.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Friday, August 17, 2007
NOT trying too hard
Several months ago, I wrote a post about a luxury car advertisement that tried to appear hip and inner-city trendy but, by getting the nickname of the suburb wrong, only appeared to be stupid.
Who's really hip and local? I ordered a fantastic new book -- a compilation of zine writings by a young Sydney woman -- that's really worth a read. The publisher, Local Consumption Publications, is based in Erskineville and here's the return address they put on the package when they sent me the book:
Who's really hip and local? I ordered a fantastic new book -- a compilation of zine writings by a young Sydney woman -- that's really worth a read. The publisher, Local Consumption Publications, is based in Erskineville and here's the return address they put on the package when they sent me the book:
I knew I had a book in me
I told His Dagginess that I would get a tattoo to cover the scar on my arm. I think I've found the perfect one.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
It's been a while...
I don't suppose there is anyone still checking this blog regularly since I have not written anything for over two months, but I will tell you why (just in case).
Four days after my last post in May, I went into hospital for day surgery to remove a mole on my right forearm that was growing and changing. I had a mole in this location all my life. It was large and I had had it removed once and tested (results were clear) and, when it grew back, I had it checked out on two separate occasions by skin cancer specialists and dermatologists (they said it was a "navy blue keratosis"). It kept growing -- the last specialist I had seen knew it was still growing -- and was getting so large that people I hardly knew would comment on it. I decided to have it removed, mostly for cosmetic reasons, and the surgeon sent it off to the pathology lab.
The results were scary: sometime since the last time I had it checked out it had turned into a melanoma, and (because I had been told so often there was nothing wrong with it and therefore not done anything with it) it had already grown to intermediate stage -- that is, it had grown down into the subdermal layer where tiny capillaries could have picked up the cancer cells and spread them around my body.
I had to immediately schedule more surgery to remove more skin from around the area, plus scans on my lymph glands to ensure that the cancer cells had not already spread. They removed as much skin as they could without having to do a skin graft, so I've got an impressive scar! The prognosis is reasonable: at the time of diagnosis, I had an 80 per cent chance of still being alive in five years' time. Since then, I've had the extra surgery -- including the removal of lymph glands from my elbow and armpit for testing -- and the pathology on the extra skin and the lymph glands was clear of signs of cancer, so my chances of still being alive in five years are now even better than 80 per cent.
I was invited to join a randomised medical trial that the Sydney Melanoma Unit are running with the John Wayne Cancer Institute, and I am still waiting for the results of an extra test on my lymph glands that is part of that trial.
It's been six weeks since the surgery and I am only just regaining full use of my right arm -- you can imagine it has been pretty trying for a right-handed person to be so restricted! But thanks to the Dude, His Dagginess and Ms Nominative Determinism we managed to keep the household running and I even got some work done, typing one-handed and mousing with my left hand. So that's where I've been. Did you miss me?
BEFORE:
AFTER:
Four days after my last post in May, I went into hospital for day surgery to remove a mole on my right forearm that was growing and changing. I had a mole in this location all my life. It was large and I had had it removed once and tested (results were clear) and, when it grew back, I had it checked out on two separate occasions by skin cancer specialists and dermatologists (they said it was a "navy blue keratosis"). It kept growing -- the last specialist I had seen knew it was still growing -- and was getting so large that people I hardly knew would comment on it. I decided to have it removed, mostly for cosmetic reasons, and the surgeon sent it off to the pathology lab.
The results were scary: sometime since the last time I had it checked out it had turned into a melanoma, and (because I had been told so often there was nothing wrong with it and therefore not done anything with it) it had already grown to intermediate stage -- that is, it had grown down into the subdermal layer where tiny capillaries could have picked up the cancer cells and spread them around my body.
I had to immediately schedule more surgery to remove more skin from around the area, plus scans on my lymph glands to ensure that the cancer cells had not already spread. They removed as much skin as they could without having to do a skin graft, so I've got an impressive scar! The prognosis is reasonable: at the time of diagnosis, I had an 80 per cent chance of still being alive in five years' time. Since then, I've had the extra surgery -- including the removal of lymph glands from my elbow and armpit for testing -- and the pathology on the extra skin and the lymph glands was clear of signs of cancer, so my chances of still being alive in five years are now even better than 80 per cent.
I was invited to join a randomised medical trial that the Sydney Melanoma Unit are running with the John Wayne Cancer Institute, and I am still waiting for the results of an extra test on my lymph glands that is part of that trial.
It's been six weeks since the surgery and I am only just regaining full use of my right arm -- you can imagine it has been pretty trying for a right-handed person to be so restricted! But thanks to the Dude, His Dagginess and Ms Nominative Determinism we managed to keep the household running and I even got some work done, typing one-handed and mousing with my left hand. So that's where I've been. Did you miss me?
BEFORE:
AFTER:
Thursday, May 24, 2007
Fall Out Boy
Today the Dude (now known as Fall Out Boy, for reasons that will become obvious later on in the song) had a bone scan on his feet to determine the exact location of the problem that is causing him pain. This meant heading in to the nuclear medicine department where he was injected with radioactive isotopes. Images were taken of his feet immediately as the radioactivity coursed through his veins, then we had to go away for two hours to allow the radioactivity time to get into his bones.
It was Art Festival day at his school, and the theme was "black & white" so I took Fall Out Boy to school for the interim, and we painted his face to look like Paul Stanley from KISS, as part of the theme. When we got back to the hospital, the nuclear med technician who had supervised his injection took one look at his face and said, "Whoa, that's the worst reaction to an injection I've ever seen!"
The bone scan itself was fascinating. Fall Out Boy slid into a huge doughnut with detectors above and below his feet, and they took several images from several angles over a period of an hour. In between, we played around with the machine. Speckly images of FOB's feet showed on a monitor, and moved when he moved. When he put his hand under the detectors, we could see a speckly hand on the monitor. But when I put my (non-radioactive) hand under the detector, nothing appeared on the screen at all -- it was as though I was invisible.
Next week, we go back to the orthopedic clinic to discuss the results of the scan with the specialist and make a date for the cortisone injection and casting. FOB is keen to wait until the end of the football season, just in case his team makes the grand final this year, but the surgeon might not be so keen. We'll just have to wait and see.
It was Art Festival day at his school, and the theme was "black & white" so I took Fall Out Boy to school for the interim, and we painted his face to look like Paul Stanley from KISS, as part of the theme. When we got back to the hospital, the nuclear med technician who had supervised his injection took one look at his face and said, "Whoa, that's the worst reaction to an injection I've ever seen!"
The bone scan itself was fascinating. Fall Out Boy slid into a huge doughnut with detectors above and below his feet, and they took several images from several angles over a period of an hour. In between, we played around with the machine. Speckly images of FOB's feet showed on a monitor, and moved when he moved. When he put his hand under the detectors, we could see a speckly hand on the monitor. But when I put my (non-radioactive) hand under the detector, nothing appeared on the screen at all -- it was as though I was invisible.
Next week, we go back to the orthopedic clinic to discuss the results of the scan with the specialist and make a date for the cortisone injection and casting. FOB is keen to wait until the end of the football season, just in case his team makes the grand final this year, but the surgeon might not be so keen. We'll just have to wait and see.
Sunday, May 06, 2007
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
Acts of dagginess
The Sydney Swans opened their 25th anniversary walk, and Lucky Mark celebrated his act of dagginess by having his photograph taken with the offending cement block.
Monday, April 23, 2007
Sad child 3
This morning as we drove down Wattle Street, Ultimo, Ms Nominative Determinism spotted another member of the family of sad graffiti children that I have blogged about before (here and here).At last we know why they're so sad. Obviously, they're Bill Posters' kids, and they're worried about their dad being prosecuted!
Thursday, April 19, 2007
Selling the Dude for medical experiments
Yesterday the Dude underwent a minor bombardment of radiation: x-rays and computed tomography on both feet. Today the orthopedic specialist looked at the results and declared that there is no sign of the "coalition" of the subtalar joint (hooray!) but that there are signs of arthritis in the talo-navicular joint (boo!) and that surgery will still be advisable (boo!) but an orthotic heel support might do the job for a couple of years (hooray! Wait, did you say $500 for a plastic shoe insert he'll grow out of in less than 12 months? Boo!).
However, before we make a final decision either to proceed with surgery now or to go for the orthotics first and surgery later, Dr Ortho offered us the opportunity to get a second, third, fourth and seventeenth opinion all in one go by asking whether we would allow the Dude to be sold for medical experiments -- or at least put on display at a meeting of the orthopedic staff of the hospital so they can all have a look at him and give their opinions. I'm guessing this is a kind of Grand Rounds for outpatients. The idea of several specialists brainstorming the best treatment for the Dude appeals to me, and Dr Ortho said that quite often someone will ask an innocent question that leads to a whole new perspective on the case. The least that can happen is that they will simply confirm Dr Ortho's own preference.
Surprisingly, when I discussed the idea of selling the Dude off for medical experiments with the Dude himself, he was quite keen on the idea... until he figured out that he wouldn't actually get any cash.
Auction day is May 18th. Updates to follow.
However, before we make a final decision either to proceed with surgery now or to go for the orthotics first and surgery later, Dr Ortho offered us the opportunity to get a second, third, fourth and seventeenth opinion all in one go by asking whether we would allow the Dude to be sold for medical experiments -- or at least put on display at a meeting of the orthopedic staff of the hospital so they can all have a look at him and give their opinions. I'm guessing this is a kind of Grand Rounds for outpatients. The idea of several specialists brainstorming the best treatment for the Dude appeals to me, and Dr Ortho said that quite often someone will ask an innocent question that leads to a whole new perspective on the case. The least that can happen is that they will simply confirm Dr Ortho's own preference.
Surprisingly, when I discussed the idea of selling the Dude off for medical experiments with the Dude himself, he was quite keen on the idea... until he figured out that he wouldn't actually get any cash.
Auction day is May 18th. Updates to follow.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Dude news
Last week we went to the orthopedic clinic at Sydney Children's Hospital for the Dude's two-year check-up. (For those who don't know, he was born with severe talipes equinovarus or club feet, just like such sex symbols as Lord Byron and Dudley Moore. He's already had two lots of reconstructive surgery.)
Scrawny Dude, five days old: with flippers
He has recently been complaining that his right ankle hurts when he walks, even after just a little bit of walking.
The orthopedic specialist thinks that there may be a "coalition in the subtaler joint" or, in plain English, a bridge of bone or cartilage forming between the bones of the heel joint just below the ankle. Alternatively, it might simply be wear and tear on the joint as a result of his earlier surgeries. The prognosis is that he will probably need surgery to fuse the joint, removing the small amount of movement that he has, but also removing the pain.
Tomorrow we return to Sydney Kids for x-rays and a CT scan, then back to the clinic to see what the scan shows and get the diagnosis from the doctor. He may prescribe orthotics in the short term, saving the surgery for when the Dude is a bit older, but we are steeling ourselves for the worst-case scenario.
On the plus side, it's probably only the right foot that will need the surgery, so if he does have it he can use crutches while he convalesces, rather than a wheelchair. I couldn't imagine lifting him in and out of a wheelchair at this age!
It was interesting going to the orthopedic clinic last week because it is school holidays. Usually when we go there are just a few kids, mostly like the Dude coming for routine check-ups on existing conditions, and the odd broken limb. Last Thursday there were five children with broken arms and one with a broken leg, fresh from the emergency ward, all lined up in one examination room -- and that was at 8.30am! I'll never doubt those ambulance officers and pediatric ER nurses who dread the school holidays again.
Scrawny Dude, five days old: with flippersThe orthopedic specialist thinks that there may be a "coalition in the subtaler joint" or, in plain English, a bridge of bone or cartilage forming between the bones of the heel joint just below the ankle. Alternatively, it might simply be wear and tear on the joint as a result of his earlier surgeries. The prognosis is that he will probably need surgery to fuse the joint, removing the small amount of movement that he has, but also removing the pain.
Tomorrow we return to Sydney Kids for x-rays and a CT scan, then back to the clinic to see what the scan shows and get the diagnosis from the doctor. He may prescribe orthotics in the short term, saving the surgery for when the Dude is a bit older, but we are steeling ourselves for the worst-case scenario.
On the plus side, it's probably only the right foot that will need the surgery, so if he does have it he can use crutches while he convalesces, rather than a wheelchair. I couldn't imagine lifting him in and out of a wheelchair at this age!
It was interesting going to the orthopedic clinic last week because it is school holidays. Usually when we go there are just a few kids, mostly like the Dude coming for routine check-ups on existing conditions, and the odd broken limb. Last Thursday there were five children with broken arms and one with a broken leg, fresh from the emergency ward, all lined up in one examination room -- and that was at 8.30am! I'll never doubt those ambulance officers and pediatric ER nurses who dread the school holidays again.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Hair today
This picture of the Dude represents nearly 18 months of growth from when we shaved off his Christmas 2005 mohawk. The gorgeous mane of red, wavy hair had, unfortunately, earned some unwanted attention. Lucky Mark took him to the local chicken shop, where the server insulted them both in the space of one sentence by asking, "Is this your granddaughter?"
Sigh. I loved those curls. I hated sweeping them up after the haircut, which took place in the kitchen at home.
Temporarily short. This was one of the first cutting and styling efforts by Ms Nominative Determinism.Next, the clippers (pics to come).
Monday, March 26, 2007
Neologisms
First, let me note that His Dagginess finally has a new pseudonym and will henceforth be known as Lucky Mark. I can't begin to explain how this came about; suffice it to say that the label was first applied during dinner with several friends on Saturday night, while imbibing sufficient quantities of alcohol to console ourselves that the democratic process is still worth pursuing. Never was the saying so true: "It doesn't matter who you vote for, you always end up with a politician."
Anyway, on the subject of neology, Lucky Mark has a new word he uses when he wants to describe a vast quantity of something, and that word is "shedloads". It's along the same lines as calling someone an "armpit" or an "icehole" when they cut you off in traffic, if ya know what I mean.
But imagine my shock when the absolutely proper Ramona Koval, on a recent episode of Radio National's Book Show, used the term to describe the incomes of certain British authors.
For more neologisms see my earlier entry.
Anyway, on the subject of neology, Lucky Mark has a new word he uses when he wants to describe a vast quantity of something, and that word is "shedloads". It's along the same lines as calling someone an "armpit" or an "icehole" when they cut you off in traffic, if ya know what I mean.
But imagine my shock when the absolutely proper Ramona Koval, on a recent episode of Radio National's Book Show, used the term to describe the incomes of certain British authors.
For more neologisms see my earlier entry.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Philosophia
A couple of weeks ago I had a discussion with His Dagginess about whether he is an agnostic or an atheist. Strangely enough, I had always assumed he was an atheist but he sees himself as agnostic: that is, he believes that it is not possible to know whether there is a metaphysical being/force because our knowledge is limited to the physical universe.
Then, a couple of days ago I was listening to an ABC radio podcast of the Philosopher's Zone in which Pascal's Wager was briefly discussed. In brief (and perhaps not completely accurate) summary, the wager says that, logically, if you believe there is a small chance that there is a god -- no matter how infinitesimally small that chance is -- you really have no choice but to believe in God, because you have nothing to lose and everything to gain. I rushed home to tell Ms Nominative Determinism about it, so she could add it to her arsenal of weapons to try to convert her father. Naturally, she immediately tried to use it on me, but I told her there was no point, because I have decided that the probability of god existing is zero.
We both turned the new weapon on His Dagginess that evening, each hoping to convert him to our own side: Ms ND to her beliefs and me to my unbeliefs. Unfortunately, the Dagster also had a good argument. "I concede your point," he said, "but I think there is an equal probability of all forms of god existing, so now you have to convince me which one I should choose."
Sigh. Back to the drawing board. And I thought I had him there....
Then, a couple of days ago I was listening to an ABC radio podcast of the Philosopher's Zone in which Pascal's Wager was briefly discussed. In brief (and perhaps not completely accurate) summary, the wager says that, logically, if you believe there is a small chance that there is a god -- no matter how infinitesimally small that chance is -- you really have no choice but to believe in God, because you have nothing to lose and everything to gain. I rushed home to tell Ms Nominative Determinism about it, so she could add it to her arsenal of weapons to try to convert her father. Naturally, she immediately tried to use it on me, but I told her there was no point, because I have decided that the probability of god existing is zero.
We both turned the new weapon on His Dagginess that evening, each hoping to convert him to our own side: Ms ND to her beliefs and me to my unbeliefs. Unfortunately, the Dagster also had a good argument. "I concede your point," he said, "but I think there is an equal probability of all forms of god existing, so now you have to convince me which one I should choose."
Sigh. Back to the drawing board. And I thought I had him there....
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
The Lives of Others
The image above is a new piece of graffiti in Regent Street, Redfern. I like to think of it as the brother of the sad girl I featured a couple of weeks ago, who has since been painted over. I am not sure why I think the first one is a girl and this one is a boy, just as I am not sure why these sad graffiti children appeal to me so much (although this one looks more pensive than sad, I think). I'll be on the lookout for other members of the family.
On to the subject of today's blog. Ms Nominative Determinism and I went to see The Lives of Others last night. A German movie set in the early 80s, before glasnost and the fall of the Berlin Wall, it was very bleak and confronting in parts, but a beautiful and hopeful story nonetheless about the struggle of artists to express the truth in ths face of the repressive regime and under the watchful eye of the Stasi.
It reminded me of the story that some friends of ours tell of their escape from East Germany around that time: two elite ballet dancers, with a small son, they had applied to emigrate to Australia. After months of waiting for visas, they were finally given permission to leave, on the proviso that they left within 48 hours, with only a certain amount of cash (I think it was around $1000) and one suitcase each. Manuela tells how they packed one suitcase with clothes for herself, Till and baby Felix and one full of pointe shoes because they knew that teaching ballet was the only way they could make a living in Australia. Then they opened their home to all their friends and family, telling everyone to take anything they wanted as it would all be gone if they left it behind. They never expected to see many of their friends and family again. More than 20 years later -- post glasnost -- Manuela returned to visit her mother and was pleased to recover some family photographs she had thought never to see again.
I'm not sure whether the movie meant more to me because I could relate it to someone I know who lived through that era, but I think it is a well-told story with very evocative cinematography and great acting. See it if you get a chance -- it's opening at the Dendy soon.
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
Happy Mardi Gras!
His Dagginess and the Aforementioned Engineer in the NSW Fire Brigade contingent at Mardi Gras. Yes, that is a fluffy halo he is wearing. More evidence of dagginess...He went to ten different female parade officials and tried to swap a fire brigade hat for a halo, with no success. Then the lightbulb came on, and he approached a male parade official: bingo! When will he learn that girls at Mardi Gras just aren't interested in him?
Another funny halo story...
Ms Nominative Determinism to new acquaintance watching the parade: My dad is in the fire brigade float.
New Acquaintance: Really? When did he come out?
Ms ND: Oh no, he's not gay, he's just marching to show support for the community.
NA: Which one is your dad?
Ms ND (sheepishly): The one wearing the fluffy halo and body glitter...
More mardi gras photos at my flickr site.
Friday, March 02, 2007
What not to wear
Today's newspaper includes a Call to stay alert after iPod assault. Police investigating an attempted sexual assault in the city have warned women of yet another thing they must not do if they don't want to be raped.
So now we have to add "listening to an iPod while walking to work" to the list of things we can't do, along with wearing short skirts, not hiding the fact that we have breasts, sending out mixed signals (because no men do that, ever), drinking socially, going out alone after dark, going to a house with a friend that may or may not have a person in it you don't know, etcetera.
The thing that annoys me about this story is that, once again, it is implied that it is the responsibility of the victim to avoid the situation. The attacker is hardly mentioned at all, and neither are the hundreds or thousands of people who witnessed the guy following her from Town Hall station to Castlereagh Street. I mean, if I was walking along a Sydney street in peak hour, iPodless, I would be unlikely to notice a man following me. It's hardly fair to blame the victim for listening to an iPod -- unless you blame everyone else on the street at the time who were too busy listening to their own iPods or minding their own business to spot the fact that she was being followed and alert her to the danger.
Can't we get the message? It's never the victim's fault, no matter what she was doing, saying or wearing at the time. Rape is a crime, committed by a criminal and it is ALWAYS the assailant's choice to commit the crime and NEVER the victim's choice to be assaulted.
In defiance, I will listen to my iPod whenever I like.
So now we have to add "listening to an iPod while walking to work" to the list of things we can't do, along with wearing short skirts, not hiding the fact that we have breasts, sending out mixed signals (because no men do that, ever), drinking socially, going out alone after dark, going to a house with a friend that may or may not have a person in it you don't know, etcetera.
The thing that annoys me about this story is that, once again, it is implied that it is the responsibility of the victim to avoid the situation. The attacker is hardly mentioned at all, and neither are the hundreds or thousands of people who witnessed the guy following her from Town Hall station to Castlereagh Street. I mean, if I was walking along a Sydney street in peak hour, iPodless, I would be unlikely to notice a man following me. It's hardly fair to blame the victim for listening to an iPod -- unless you blame everyone else on the street at the time who were too busy listening to their own iPods or minding their own business to spot the fact that she was being followed and alert her to the danger.
Can't we get the message? It's never the victim's fault, no matter what she was doing, saying or wearing at the time. Rape is a crime, committed by a criminal and it is ALWAYS the assailant's choice to commit the crime and NEVER the victim's choice to be assaulted.
In defiance, I will listen to my iPod whenever I like.
Friday, February 23, 2007
Oh no, not a woman!
Front page story of today's Sydney Morning Herald: a Liberal party candidate is sacked for sending his friends dirty jokes by SMS.
I draw your attention to the second paragraph of the story, which is repeated at the end.
I'm sure I don't have to spell out what incenses me about this statement, so I'll just let you fill in the gaps for yourselves.
Rant, rant, rant.
And as for sacking someone who sends dirty SMS messages to his mates, let him who is without sin, etc...
I draw your attention to the second paragraph of the story, which is repeated at the end.
Brenton Pavier, a Liberal councillor and the candidate for Wyong, was disendorsed by the party last night amid revelations he had forwarded an "inappropriate" SMS around Christmas to several people, including a woman.
I'm sure I don't have to spell out what incenses me about this statement, so I'll just let you fill in the gaps for yourselves.
Rant, rant, rant.
And as for sacking someone who sends dirty SMS messages to his mates, let him who is without sin, etc...
Trying too hard
Yesterday's daily newspaper contained the monthly glossy mag known as the (sydney) magazine, which in turn contained the following advertisement for a well-known German car company:
It's just one of those things: if you're trying to sound like a local, make sure you get it right, or you just sound like a prat. For non-inner-city-ites, if you drive your beemer through Erskineville you can stop at the Erko Bowling Club for a drink and a meal; you can watch the Newtown Jets play rugby league at Erko Oval; you can see the kids in the playground at Erko Public School or stop at one of the trendy cafes near Erko town hall. But if you do happen to go to any of these places and ask people if they've heard of a suburb called "Ersko" they will give you one of those looks, and quickly turn away...
Also, if the advertisers are trying to imply that people who live in Erskineville might drive their luxury cars, they ought to think again. The vehicle of choice in Erko these days is often a gigantic 4WD: there are always at least three of the beasts double-parked on the street outside my favourite cafe (even though there are plenty of parking spots just tens of metres down the road). As His Dagginess points out, these urban assault vehicles are eminently suitedto the road conditions in the suburb. After all, Erskineville was the suburb where a firefighter was almost charged with neg. driving for wiping out some wing mirrors with a fire engine on its way to a house fire -- when he realised the truck wasn't going to fit down the narrow street, his Station Officer gave the order to proceed anyway, fortunately for the people trapped in the burning house. It was only when someone pointed out to the police and insurance assessors that, if they were trapped in a burning house, they would probably be glad that a few wing mirrors were sacrificed in the interests of their safety -- rather than having the fire engine park at the end of the street and the firefighters running back and forth with buckets -- that the charges were dropped.
It's just one of those things: if you're trying to sound like a local, make sure you get it right, or you just sound like a prat. For non-inner-city-ites, if you drive your beemer through Erskineville you can stop at the Erko Bowling Club for a drink and a meal; you can watch the Newtown Jets play rugby league at Erko Oval; you can see the kids in the playground at Erko Public School or stop at one of the trendy cafes near Erko town hall. But if you do happen to go to any of these places and ask people if they've heard of a suburb called "Ersko" they will give you one of those looks, and quickly turn away...
Also, if the advertisers are trying to imply that people who live in Erskineville might drive their luxury cars, they ought to think again. The vehicle of choice in Erko these days is often a gigantic 4WD: there are always at least three of the beasts double-parked on the street outside my favourite cafe (even though there are plenty of parking spots just tens of metres down the road). As His Dagginess points out, these urban assault vehicles are eminently suitedto the road conditions in the suburb. After all, Erskineville was the suburb where a firefighter was almost charged with neg. driving for wiping out some wing mirrors with a fire engine on its way to a house fire -- when he realised the truck wasn't going to fit down the narrow street, his Station Officer gave the order to proceed anyway, fortunately for the people trapped in the burning house. It was only when someone pointed out to the police and insurance assessors that, if they were trapped in a burning house, they would probably be glad that a few wing mirrors were sacrificed in the interests of their safety -- rather than having the fire engine park at the end of the street and the firefighters running back and forth with buckets -- that the charges were dropped.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Poetry in motion
I'll just jump on the anti-Valentine's day bandwagon that Ms Nominative Determinism complains has struck almost the whole of Gen-Y this year. I tried to skip right past the page in this morning's newspaper but the bright pink and red type jumped out at me and I couldn't help but read some of the poetry that people have written for their loved ones, who apparently have unfortunate monikers like Schmoopy or Wubbsy.
I was pleased to see that Hemlock has the same problem in the Big Lychee, but at least there the peddlers of such inane tripe have the excuse that English is probably not their first language.
No-one ever said it better than e.e. cummings:
Hmmm.... maybe I should go back and read some of the Valentine's day poems after all: the next e.e. cummings might be lurking among them.
I was pleased to see that Hemlock has the same problem in the Big Lychee, but at least there the peddlers of such inane tripe have the excuse that English is probably not their first language.
No-one ever said it better than e.e. cummings:
i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite new a thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh ... And eyes big love-crumbs,
and possibly i like the thrill
of under me you so quite new
Hmmm.... maybe I should go back and read some of the Valentine's day poems after all: the next e.e. cummings might be lurking among them.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
