Zombie Apocalypse Watch Day 1088

Not a fucking sausage. Again. How long do I have to keep doing this? Till all of the hoarded SPAM goes off? How long is that going to take?

Where Were You...?

It's become pretty popular these days to talk about where you were on 9/11. As i'm unable to resist a new fad I thought i'd give you my two-cents-worth.

When 9/11 occurred I was either racing around Bathurst or committing piracy on the Spanish Main. This is because I was asleep. Friends of mine were apparently ringing each other and having whatever the apocalyptic version of a kaffeeklatch is but they've never fully explained why they didn't ring me. I'd say because I was the only one who had a job at the time but I don't want to be accused of making value judgments.*

Anyway, the upshot of all this was that the next day, while everyone else was blearily ruminating into their tenth-or-so coffee, I was keen-eyed, clear-headed and Taking Care Of Business, which in my case involved selling cars. I'm pleased to say that if it had been the aim of Al Quaeda to disrupt the Australian economy by aggressively negotiating an ultra-sharp deal on a 2001 Mitsubishi Magna, then their plans were foiled.

*Despite the fact that I am.

Reviews Of Books I Have Not Read, Nor Ever Will

Quite a lot of people don't have the time to read books these days. Thankfully I am not one of them. A lot of these people ask me to review books on this emblogulation in order that they may pretend to have read them. While i'm flattered, I read books for entertainment and not to show off so instead, I will review books as asked, i'm just not going to read them first.

Gone With The Wind.
If you're a fan of things that happened in America quite a long time ago then this may be the book for you. Most of the covers have the title in that old-timey font I associate with Western movies, so that's probably what it is. I'll go out on a limb and say that it's about the American Civil war because I heard that somewhere. I can tell you that it was read by one of the characters in The Outsiders, a book I read for Year Nine English. That's a bit meta but I hope it helps.

Fahrenheit 451.
It's about burning books, but that's all i've got. Mind you, I also know that the combustion level of woodpulp-based paper is about 850 degrees fahrenheit so good job with that one Heinlein or Bradbury or Dick or whoever.

The Quick and the Dead.
Written by Norman Mailer who was supposed to be the 1960's literary answer to Teddy Roosevelt (the American Alfred Deakin). It's either about World War Two or its a Western. I like both those genres but i've never read this. Curious.

Ulysses.
An Irishman gets drunk, which was apparently torn from the front pages of the newspapers of the day. It's a pretty shit read so I read Gravity's Rainbow instead. That's saying something.

The Wheel of Time series.
It goes on forever and doesn't stop. It's either better than or worse than Lord of The Rings depending on whether you talk to a Tolkien fan or not. I really don't care.

Random Doobings

Captain Doobie, after some struggling (owing entirely to the chair which had been placed in front of the door) barged into the bathroom. Here he confronted a be-shavingcreamed and altogether quite embarrassed Goodtime Slim.
"Aha!" he declared, channeling James Earl Jones from the internets, "I thought so!"
Goodtime Slim his his face in shame. "Don't look at me!" he cried, "I'm hideous!"
"Oh shit yeah," agreed Captain Doobie.
Goodtime Slim was a bit miffed. "You don't have to agree quite so readily," he told his housemate.
"Bugger off. Anyway, I know what you're up to, bucko. You're growing a moustache!"
This was true. Goodtime Slim could hardly deny it, standing as he was in the bathroom, in his pyjamas with a face freshly-shaven save for the delicate curls of shaving cream on his upper lip. He knew there was no reasoning with Captain Doobie, so he decided to brazen it out.
"Indeed," he replied, "Because it's Movember."
"Movember?" shrieked Captain Doobie, mainly because he found so few opportunities to do so, "Poppycock. You know full well that it's Burt Reynolds' birthday coming up. I bloody know you, mate. You were gonna dress up in a red shirt and black jeans and try to scam a test drive in a Trans-am."
Goodtime Slim thought this was grossly unfair, completely true though it was. "Don't tell me you've never wanted to."
"True, but I already have a beard." This was a point for debate. Whatever the bum-fluff covering Captain Doobie's face and chin was, it could only very loosely be called 'a beard'.
Captain Doobie grew thoughtful. "I suppose I could go the 'fro instead," he mused.
Goodtime Slim considered this. "What, Frovember?"
"Yes."
"The mo's already have that one." Goodtime Slim smiled, "Why don't you try 'Froctober' instead?"

These 'Day' Days Are Getting Out Of Hand

This week at some point (Thursday? Fuck knows) was National Are You Okay Day. For the philistinic and unenlightened, this was a day when people were encouraged to talk to their friends and loved ones to make sure they weren't about to commit suicide.

This was all terribly important and I hate to be a fly in the ointment but if you have to take time out of your day to speak to someone to see that they're not fitting a noose around their own neck at that very moment, you should probably be sharing some blame for their predicament. Call me needlessly pie-in-the-sky on this one, but wasn't your ignoring them kind-of causing this problem in the first place? In part, at least.

I don't want to brag, but i'm happy to say that I didn't receive a call from anyone. Not a fucking sausage. I assume this means that everyone thinks i'm a level-headed chap for whom self-destruction is merely a remote possibility. There's also the other option that i'm just such a forceful guy that people thought that to intervene in my suicide may well result in my killing them too and then riding their soul to hell ala Slim Pickens in Dr Strangelove. I'm pretty cool with both of these, truth be told.

Personally, I didn't ask anyone if they were ok simply because I didn't want to get any answers in the negative. It would be awkward. I mean, what would i do?

"Hey man, I just rang to see if you were ok."
"Hold on, I can't hear you with this damn noose on. What?"
"It's National Are You Ok Day, so I thought i'd give you a call."
"Oh. I see. Well, since you're asking, I was just about to kill myself."
"Wow. That's harsh."
"Yeah. So, you're gonna change my mind now, I guess, right?"
"Um, about that. I'll level with you, i'm just doing this because of some internet meme. I have no fucking idea what i'm doing."
"Right. Well, id better go. Shit to do, man."
"I really do feel obligated to lodge some form of token resistance to your plan."
"Yeah, well, noted."
"Um, right. Hey, can I have your car?"

Random Doobings

"Hello," said Captain Doobie, holding the phone in what he believed to be a cavalier manner, "I'd like to speak to someone about my internet."
There was a pause.
"No I don't have my home phone through you."
There was a slightly longer pause.
"Or my mobile."
There was an even longer pause.
"Could I speak to someone who's not from the planet fuckhead?"

Some Heavy Shit Has Been Going Down And We Didn't Spot It, Man.

There's no easy way to lay this on you, so i'm just going to come right out and say it: how do we know that the characters in the Peanuts comics are kids?

I mean, really, think about it. Apart from Snoopy and Woodstock (who i'm fairly sure are not human), what do we have?

Schroeder: Displays a talent for the piano that children usually don't.
Lucy: Operates a successful psychiatric clinic.
Charlie Brown. Bald. He's fucking bald! Why did you think he was a kid?

We've never seen any 'adults' at all in the comics. Oh, they're talked about, mentioned, but NEVER SEEN. Its like they were all murdered or something, and their children have simply grown up in denial. I can only speculate as to the fate of Ms Othmar.

Suddenly the Peanuts strip seems a whole lot more bizarre, doesn't it?

Cue The Theme From The Magnificent Seven...

You can get it knitting,
You can get it sitting,
You can get it milking a cow,
Matter of fact i've got it now...

A great big thirst
Needs a nice cup of tea

And the nicest cup is Vic.
Victoria Breakfast.

A Conversation Very Much Imagined

This evening I found myself at West Lakes shopping centre and, through a curious set of circumstances too tedious to relate here, was wearing a suit and tie. Imagine my amusement then when I found that the centre contained a small charity mugging stand to extend African women loans or some shit.
I must have passed that stand about five times but the damn chuggers must have guessed that the game was afoot and kept their distance. This was a pity, because had they approached me the following dialogue would have ensued:

Chugger: Excuse me, would you like to...
Me: Now see here my good man. I'll have you know that I already own five factories in Nigeria alone, so if I haven't given Umbopo over there a job by now it's probably because I don't damn well want to. Good day.

People ruin all my fun.

Our Greatest Prime Ministers

For all of those out there in the blogosphere who are by now heartily sick of the porkbarrelling, gerrymandering and general stepping-in-dogshit feelings engendered by our current election between the nefarious forces of the Mad Monk and the Ginger Ninja, The Impertinence Of It All is pleased to bring you "Our Greatest Prime Ministers".

1. Alfred Deakin. As Prime Ministers go this guy was Teh Shit, as the kids say. Not content to be Prime Minister once, in 1903, he had a second go in 1905 and then changed parties (he was originally a Protectionist. Where did they go and why can't I vote for one today?) to the Commonwealth Liberals and did it again in 1909. I know that electioneering was in it's infancy in those days (Kerry O'Brian was just starting out) but Deakin must have had one hell of a slogan. I have no idea what his campaign posters looked like but a picture of him punching a Boer in the cock is what initially comes to mind.

2. Earle Page. Hit the ground running, did Earle. For 20 crazy days in April 1939 Earle Page dominated the Australian political scene. During this time he abolished slavery, made the CSIRO invent the helicopter (finally!) and shot 25 kangaroos a day from the window of his office in Parliament House (that's 500 kangaroos!) before standing down. War was coming, he knew it, and he wanted in. Rumours that he led a team of Long-Range Reconnaissance Commandos against Rommel are unfounded but persist to this day.

3. Frank Forde. Australians love a larrikin, and the Prime Minister is no exception. In 1945 Frank Forde, a snot farmer from Gudgeeplonk in Outback Melbourne, went to Canberra to tell Curtin what he thought of him. Curtin called Forde's bluff, installing him as Prime Minister while Curtin stepped out behind the Lodge for a sly fag. Unfortunately for Curtin security refused to let him back in as Forde now held the Royal Warrant. Curtin was forced to spend 9 uncomfortable days at him mum's sleeping on the couch before he could jemmy the laundry window with a safety-pin and let himself back in.

4. Harold Holt. Australia's only official cyborg Prime Minister, Holt was the result of a super-secret CSIRO research program to produce the ultimate Prime Minister: one who could lead the nation and also keep up with Dawn Fraser. Unfortunately Holt short-circuited during initial sea-trials and the project was abandoned.

5. Gough Whitlam. A true warrior in every sense of the word, Whitlam bestrode the world like a colossus, crushing his enemies, seeing them driven before him and hearing the lamentations of their women. From the steppes of Outer Mongolia he rode an army of the finest horsemen ever seen. Eventually he choked on a chicken bone and got played by John Wayne in the first movie and Steven Seagal in the second.

Another Open Letter to Clive Cussler

Dear Mr Cussler,

Recently I read your excellent novel, 'Night Probe!', which ends, you may recall, with the United States and Canada becoming one nation, with the exception of Quebec, which gets a bit of it's French on.

However, I just picked up your more recent novel, "Arctic Drift!' which involves Canada, and I couldn't help but noticing that Canada and the US are still separate entities. Given that everything else in the novels follows on what, Mr Cussler, the fuck?

Are you just making this stuff up or something?

Yours,

DC

My Life As A Musical

Today I bought a new toothbrush,
Hooray! Hooray!
Today I bought a new toothbrush,
Bought a new brush today!

I bought a new brush,
because I felt a bit flush,
and I didn't like the old one,
thank you very much!

Today I bought a new toothbrush,
Hooray! Hooray!
Today I bought a new toothbrush,
I hope it's here to stay!

Magnus: Robot Fighter

*sigh* I suppose, looking back a few years from now, i'll count this moment when the lying stopped and the self-realisation hit that I am a geek, because i've now blogged twice about new-release comics. This is getting dangerously regular.
Once more unto the breach...Dark Horse have released a new series written by 60's stalwart Jim Shooter. The first, Dr Solar, was reviewed on this emblogulation not long ago and was criticised for it's awful artwork, although the story was strong. This time, Magnus gets the opposite: good, clear (if a little lifeless and static) artwork and poor writing. You know you're on the wrong track when the old 60's version (reprinted at the back of the book) hold's a reader's attention more than the new one. Magnus is a man trained by a robot to kill bad robots. Why do the robots need to be killed? In the original, because humankind has been subjugated and needs redemption. In the reboot, because everything is hunky-dory with people but the robots are getting all uppity, forming organised-crime cartels and kidnapping people to sell as food to aliens.
That's your problem right there: in the original Magnus is a saviour, while in the reboot I was left wondering why no-one else bothered doing anything. It may be an omission, but it's glaring: in the original humans are shown pretty much like the humans in the ship in 'Wall-e', but in the reboot they're all perfectly able-bodied.
It doesn't work, much as I wanted it too. Put the artist from Magnus to work with Shooter on Dr Solar and I think you'd have a winner. Hopefully the third release in the Shooter series, Turok, will follow this path.

When Elevenses Attack...

Today (well, Sunday) whilst shopping for tea, I was confronted by the sight of a new brand on the supermarket shelf. Tantalisingly, alluringly, it was called 'Just Tea'.
Now, i'm all for Just tea, but it does conjure up some odd images of a peaceful, caring society in which the quality of mercy is not strained but rather droppeth like the gentle rain from heaven.

As I stood there, picturing the utopia from which Just Tea must spring I realised that by it's very exisence, Just Tea implied the existence of Unjust Tea. The thought chilled me. Who, I asked myself, could be drinking Unjust Tea?

Presumably they sell a lot in Pyongyang.

Wheels Within Wheels...

C.S. Lewis, author of the 'Narnia' series, died on exactly the same day as the Kennedy Assassination. OR DID HE?

There are many good reasons why English gent Lewis potentially wanted Kennedy dead. For example:

1. Kennedy was a Catholic, Lewis was a Protestant. Screwtape didn't like Catholics.
2. Lewis was about talking lions. Kennedy was slipping a length to Marylin Monroe. Join the dots.
3. Lewis' book 'Peleandra' contains detailed numeric references to the exact wind-shear factor which had to be taken into account by the shooter in Dallas.
4. The Zapruder footage shows a seemingly innocuous wardrobe behind the grassy knoll.

Its an oft-used phrase but there's nothing new under the sun, and nothing proves it quite like today's post on Sniff Petrol, the increasingly erratic car-related website we all loved then got quite bored with when it wasn't being updated for six months at a stretch. However, there's nothing like Ferrari tomfoolery to get ol' Sniff back in action, so thanks to the fact that he's been stuck in an 'I hate Ferrari' time-warp for the last few years, the minute the Maranello team a) lead a race and b) break the rules, Sniff's back in the saddle like the years since Schumacher's retirement never happened. Those old faves are back, D.I. Blundell and Crazy Dave, both of whom were conspicuous by their absence when there was nothing to whinge about, Englishmen were winning championships and Ferrari were in the middle of the pack.
How about a story on Red Bull? What about the Brawn team winning on debut last year? No, while the entire face of F1 was busy changing Sniff was busy piddling on, wearing his Ferrari hairshirt and being irrelevant. Now, for one brief shining moment he's managed to recycle the zeitgeist, like a hippy who wore flares for so long that one day he went for a walk and slightly fewer people laughed at him.

Congratulations, sniff. Now fuck off again.

How To Blow Up A Whale

Humans are by-and-large a coastal species. If you live by the sea for any stretch of time (in species time) sooner or later you're going to have to deal with a beached whale. Generally these can be rehabilitated back into the ocean by being kept wet and threatened with bagpipes (the bagpipe is the hereditary enemy of the celaphod), but every once in a while one will up and kark it.
If the whale has died, two things are important. First you must make sure that all of the people who tried to keep it alive know that they have failed. Guilt and the stress of holding a watering can over a whale for 72 hours without a break can often combine in hilarious ways. I recommend a camera phone and a quick upload to youtube. Hell, if you can't keep the damn whale alive, you might as well go viral.
Secondly, despite what the Greens may say, whales aren't constructed of hugs an unicorn farts. They're usually full of blubber and guts and other whale shit that starts to go off quite quickly. With all of the angry tree-huggers still milling about the opportunity to cut off a big hunk and have a barbecue is not going to be there (despite it being the only time that harvesting and eating whale would be acceptable) so there's only one thing left to do to stop disease spreading from the slowly-putrefying carcass: blow it up.
This is not as easy as it sounds. For a start, in western society explosives are not easy to get hold of in large quantities....or are they?

To blow up a whale, you will need:
1. Grease;
2. A flatbed tow-truck;
3. A Caltex Starcard;
4. Quite a lot of duct tape;
5. A biggish cork or bung
6. A marine flare.

The first step is to securely tape the carcasse's mouth shut. Go around the head using a single piece of tape in a spiral motion. Once this is achieved, you need to get the whale up onto the back of the tow-truck. You may think that it would be quite difficult to persuade a tow-truck driver to help, but in my experience if you explain the situation quite fully most tow-truck operators are only too keen to give it a go and in some cases even waive their fee.
Once the whale carcass is on the truck, drive to the petrol station. It's handy here to have nicked the fuel card from a work vehicle earlier. Whales can usually hold several hundred litres of petrol (assuming the mouth is securely taped up) which can get pricey. As in the case of the tow-truck driver, once you explain the situation most service station attendants will be only too happy to help out. Once at the service station the filling of the carcass is simplicity itself. Simply climb on top of the whale and shove the fuel nozzle straight in the blowhole. Depending on the pump speed filling shouldn't take more than five minutes. When the carcass is filled, pop the cork in the blowhole and bob's your uncle.
Drive to wherever you have decided to blow up the whale from. Ideally this should be out of the suburban area. Try to avoid shopping-centre carparks.
Once the site has been selected, place the whale on the ground and remove the cork from it's blowhole, replacing it with the marine flare. The petrochemical contents of the dead whale may have settled during transit, so it may be necessary to top it up a bit from a jerry-can.
Move everyone except yourself to a safe distance. Light the flare. Run like hell. Assuming you're not drunk* you should be able to reach cover before the flare burns low enough to ignite the petrol.
Film it and put it on youtube, next to the video you prepared earlier. For heaven's sake, footage of exploding whales is exactly what youtube is for.

*Don't be drunk. Alcohol and blowing up whales JUST DON'T MIX.

Dr Solar, Man of The Atom!

Those who know me well will know that one of the indulgences I allow myself is the reading of comic books. Usually, I read Dark Horse Comics, as they have the most interesting stuff: The Goon, Conan, Hellboy and a lot of good little short-run things usually involving the Whedons. I don't usually stray away from this except to buy graphic novels, but lately i've been getting into Marvel (World War Hulks, to be exact) and I have to say it's opened my eyes. Thus, when DH announced that they would be publishing a new run of Dr Solar, I was enthused. Dark Horse publishing superhero stories? Sounds great.
It wasn't. I got the first issue today and while the writing was quite good the artwork was terrible, and as comics are a predominately visual medium this impacted on my enjoyment a lot. Dark Horse, if you're going to continue with thr superhero stories, could you please:

1. Draw the comic in such a way that I can follow it between frames. In Dr Solar the framing was just a non-connected series of shots. Comics grew out of that in the Forties, for hubbard's sake.
2. Have your characters engage. Some non-stock poses would be nice, as would characters making eye contact instead of standing around like mannequins. Facial expressions are always good, too.
3. Pay attention to what's supposed to be happening. If you don't draw it, I can't see it. It's the first issue, I have no idea what powers Dr Solar has, so having him point vaguely in the direction of the bad guy, with a corresponding 'fwoom!' coming from said villain does nothing to tell me what just happened. Nothing.
4. Stop the 'photo-realistic' artwork. How realistic was it? Have you ever seen the animated Lord of the Rings? About like that.

Dr Solar looks promising and could be quite fun. Dark Horse, why don't you pick up a Marvel or a DC and take some notes on how a superhero story should be drawn. They're where they are today for a reason.

The Tweelight Saga

I will confess to feeling a little bit of shock and awe today upon reading the news that a New Zealand chap had died whilst watching the new Twilight movie.

Please, gentle reader, exercise caution when watching this movie as it is apparently now possible to be bored to death.

A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To The Office...

Today as I was walking back to the office whilst on the tail-end of my lunchbreak, I saw an advertisement on the back of a bus. It was a largish ad with a couple of wine glasses and beer bottles and the words, in cursive: "Don't take the cat."

As I am an Englishman by both descent and inclination, I was immediately affronted. While I have no idea where it was suggesting I shouldn't take my cat, It seemed to me that although I rarely take my cat anywhere, whenever I do I generally have a pretty good reason and, frankly, am not about to be arbitrarily gainsaid by a bit of vinyl tacked on the side of public transport.

It was about then I realised it actually said "Don't take the car" and was, presumably, about the dangers inherent in drink-driving. I felt a bit strange after that.

Congratulations!

The Impertinence Of It All would like to welcome to the helm of this great nation Julia Gillard, our first ever Prime Ministrix.

The Impertinence Of It All is also proud to announce that it is the first media outlet to use the term 'Prime Ministrix'.

Even if I can't spell 'weird' properly.

Things Were A Bit Wierd In The Good Old Days

Recently I found myself at a loose end so I went down to my local secondhand bookshop and bought six books for $1 from the minda basket at the front. Taken as a job lot these books have been exceptionally good, from the Roman splendour of 'Ben-Hur' by Lew Wallace to 'The Moon's A Balloon' by David Niven.
One of the other books was 'The Rats' by James Herbert. Again, quite good. It was one of the most bloodthirsty books i've read in a long time, an achievement which was only enhanced by the bookmark I found in it which was handmade by someone called 'Ally'. I can only assume Ally was about 12 given the love-hearts and flowers drawn on it. Granted the bookmark was not particularly far into the book, but I do hope Ally wasn't scarred for life too much.
One of the best aspects of this book (after it's being a taught, well-written horror story about terrier-sized rats invading London) was the ending, where the hero (a teacher) figures out where Rat HQ is and drives over there to kill the psychically-enhanced rat king with an axe (that'll learn 'em). I'm used to American horror from Stephen King where cars are used quite regularly, so it was a bit of a shock when, in the middle of the driving scene in which the rats are attacking the car and getting run over and stuff, I remembered that earlier in the book it was mentioned that the teacher's car was a Hillman Minx.

That's right, the one at the top of this post. As far as i'm concerned i'd be packing death* if I were battling killer rats in Battle Truck, let alone a post-war British sedan with a 1275cc engine and a whopping 28kW. In terms of automotive achievement that's like Odysseus swimming home while a shark nipped at his love-spuds. Awesome.

*This marks the first use of this term by the author since 1988.

This Is Wierd

I've been writing the new novel about vampires. This has led me to a startling discovery. A vampire is only active at night, eats only high-protein liquids, can only be totally destroyed by fire, only needs to feed spasmodically, regenerates hermaphroditically and generates no body heat.

We have other creatures like this on the planet, a whole kingdom of them: the Plant Kingdom. That's right, my research leads me to believe that vampires are plants, not animals. If a plant evolved to the point of intelligence, I think it would have all of the currently-accepted traits of a vampire.

Odd.

This Is Not Good

I went shopping today for shoes, and whilst browsing in the vendosphere, I saw something that simply should not be.

Tracky-dack cargos.

That's right. Cargo pants made from that awful grey-marle tracky-dack material. With the knee pockets and everything. Who is wearing this sort of thing? Is anyone that fucked up that they're thinking: 'you know what my life needs? For these gosh-darned cargo pants to be softer and warmer, like a big grey pair of military pyjamas. Perhaps they're designed to be worn with those knee-high lace-up ugg boots that have bafflingly become popular again.

However, I suppose I shouldn't complain, as today's expedition wasn't all bad. I found a Marvel Comic from 1983 in which Conan the Barbarian gets transported to the 20th century, dresses like a pimp and BEATS THE SHIT out of Captain America. Runs the dude through with a sword. Wow.

Random Doobings

It was a dejected and rather red-faced Captain Doobie that walked through the front door. He was followed shortly after by a resigned-looking Goodtime Slim.
"Shall I put the kettle on?" asked Captain Doobie with false brightness.
Goodtime Slim's glare was all the answer he received.
"I don't see what you're upset about," said Captain Doobie as he slommocked his way over to the couch, "It's not like you did anything."
"No," replied Goodtime Slim in what could only be described as a biting fashion, "I didn't need to. You did the lot, didn't you?"
"It's not my fault!" Captain Doobie wailed.
"Isn't it? Whose bloody fault is it then?"
There was a pause.
"Alright, it is my fault," conceded Captain Doobie, "but I do wish you wouldn't take on so."
Goodtime Slim settled back in his chair and folded his hands above his small paunch. "What have we learned today?" he asked, "and by 'we' I mean specifically 'you'."
"That it's important to dress for every occasion."
"Indeed. Any why, in this specific instance was that a requirement you should have followed?"
"Because I had paint splattered on my trousers."
"What colour paint?"
"Red."
Goodtime Slim nodded. "So, with red paint splashed all down your pants, where should you have not gone?"
Captain Doobie nudged the floor with his toe. "The blood bank."
"Exactly. If I were you, i'd send them a bunch of flowers or something."

Why Citroen Suck.

Pricing was announced today for the Citroen DS3. I had my eye on the DS3 Racing, a turboed, worked version with 150kW.

Today it was announced that the base model, 70kW dunger version would start at $32000.

WTF??? The dealer i've been talking to tried to tell me that this was 'in line' with the Mini Cooper S and the Alfa Mito. Cars that, I reminded him, I have already failed to buy because I consider them ridiculously overpriced.

I then reminded him of other small hatchbacks in the 70kW range, cars like the Hyundai Getz ($14000), Kia Rio ($13000) and Suzuki Alto ($13000). Granted, the DS3 Racing is likely to be better in handling and quality than these, but the base model probably isn't.

Where is the extra $20000 going? Do they expect me to pay Posh Tax on a bloody French car now? This is the same company that made the 2CV, for crying out loud, a car that shared many characteristics with the Volkswagen Beetle except popularity.

This is ridiculous. The Aussie-built 1.4 Turbo Cruze is looking pretty damn good right now. Hell, compared to the base model DS3 the Kia Cerato Koup has more power, looks better and is almost $10000 cheaper!!!

Why do car companies keep doing this? Why is Skoda a cheap and nasty version of Volkswagen in Europe but a 'premium' brand here? Do they think we don't notice? Thank goodness for the Japanese and the Koreans I say.

Recently i've been getting into Marvel comics. I've been reading Dark Horse comics (Star Wars, Conan, etc) for a few years but last week I picked up a copy of Marvel 1602 by Neil Gaiman and it blew my mind. One of the ways i'm getting started in the universe is by watching all of the recent movies: Iron Man, Hulk, Ghost Rider, Spiderman, the Fantastic 4, the X-Men etc, and i've noticed that recently (post Iron Man) they're all connected in the lead up to a new Avengers movie.
My question is this: if they're all connected, does that mean that films earlier in the 'modern' era can be incorporated later? For example, could the new 'Thor' movie alluded to in the post-credit scene of Iron Man 2 see a guest appearance by Hugh Jackman as Wolverine? Will Captain America meet Ghost Rider? And when Nick Fury meets Luke Cage, will the screen explode?
The problem, I guess, is that every movie has previously existed inside it's own continuity. When Dr Doom attacked the Fantastic 4, one could hardly expect Spiderman to have come swinging in, even though logic dictates that he should have. Unfortunately said logic also dictates that the original Ghost Rider is also General Ross from The Incredible Hulk, so I don't know how well that will work out for Sam Elliot's schedule.

Things Someone Should Have Mentioned At The Time, Part 1.

Welcome to a new series on this blog where I take the time out of my busy day to mention things that really, someone else should have mentioned earlier and saved us all a lot of trouble (and in my case, sleepless nights).

1. Star Trek. Now, let's get one thing straight: when I talk about Star Trek i'm talking about the REAL Star Trek. Shatner, Nimoy, Deforrest. You know a show is good when one of it's stars is named after a military tactic the yanks are using to kill the Viet Cong. You can keep all of your Next-gen, DS9 poofery, I once saw Captain Kirk build a primitive blunderbuss from dirt. Here endeth any competition and you haven't even had your turn yet. Awesome.
However, there was one part of the show that wasn't all that awesome. Correct me if i'm wrong, but the Enterprise was on a five-year mission of exploration and discovery, right? So how come every time the ship wasn't in orbit around a planet it was speeding past stars like nobody's business? Surely if you're supposed to be exploring you should stop at a few. Captain Cook didn't go tear-arsing past Australia, he got out and had a look around. Have you told Starfleet you're just phoning the trip in, Jim?

2. Tom Bombadil. I like Lord Of The Rings for a number of reasons, mainly because i'm pretty much convinced it's all true. You couldn't make that shit up, and one day Oxford scholars are going to find all of the ancient runic scrolls that JRR copied it from. Probably in CS Lewis' wardrobe. What does annoy me is that Tom Bombadil isn't in the movie. Yes yes, it's a non-linear part of the narrative. No-one likes it. He's weird and has singing sheep. But did you know that Tolkien's publishers put all of these reasons to him and told him to take Tom out of the book? His refusal delayed publication by about five years. FIVE YEARS. That's how much he wanted it in there, Peter Jackson. He was willing to put off earning cubic buttloads of cash and more elven groupies than his tongue could cope with (admittedly, 1950s British elven groupies) just to get a crazy dwarf and his choral bovines some page space. Given that, you'd think the matter would have come up while his estate (yeah, i'm lookin' at YOU, Christopher Tolkien) was negotiating the film rights. Twice, 'cause the shitty 70's movie left him out too.

3. Star Wars. In The Empire Strikes Back, Darth Vader had to take the Executor out of the asteroid field just to take a call on the hologram phone thingie. He had to sit on a huge metal plate just so's he could see a massive hologram of the Emperor. This technology was so limited, expensive and rare that in order to talk to his Admirals ON THE SAME SHIP (admittedly, a pretty big ship) Vader just used a TV screen. So can someone with the last name Lucas please explain how, 25 years earlier, this shit was handheld? And able to beam across the galaxy, from Tatooine to Coruscant? And while we're on the subject, it Tatooine is the place which is farthest from the bright spot in the galaxy, as Luke Skywalker puts it, absolutely everything that was ever important in the history of the galaxy happens there? Bloody hell.

Perhaps I Have Been A Bit Hasty

Recently certain comments on this emblogulation may have given people the impression that I dislike those members of our community of the Teutonic persuasion. Nothing could be further from the truth, as the following table shows:

Good German Things:
1. Mettwurst
2. Hefeweisen
3. Fanta
4. Hahndorf, SA.
5. The Schutzenfest

Bad German Things:
1. Sebastian Vettel
2. Operation Barbarossa
3. Auschwitz

I think that sums things up a little more distinctly.

A Poem Explaining Why I Now HATE GERMANS.

I hate Germans,
Because I am an Australian Formula 1 fan,
and Vettel just crashed into Webber,
Losing him first place and bumping him to third which,
although still enabled him to retain the lead in the championship over Button,
was still nothing less than you'd expect,
from a country who couldn't even hold onto Tobruk,
(shithole that it is)
we taught you once,
you sausage-sucking squareheads,
and if you think we'll be afraid to again,
you're bloody dreaming,
may all your chooks turn into emus,
and kick your dunny doors in.

sniffIMPERTINENCE

Austin Returns To F1

SILVERSTONE- In a bold move, Formula One will see its ranks swelled in the 2012 season by Austin. The motor manufacturer was thought defunct, having been bought by Lord Nuffield, then by Morris, then rolled into British Leyland before finally being encased in concrete and dumped in the North Sea.
However it has been learned that the former motoring giant who brought the world the 1800 Land Crab, the Kimberley and the Tasman will once again compete in every major race in a new chassis specially designed by a bloke called Sid in a shed in Northhamptonshire. Engines are more problematic, Sid explained in a press conference today, as the current requirement for 3-litre capacity has meant that all of the 2-litre Tasman straight sixes salvaged from the wreckers will have to be bored and stroked. On the plus side the formerly FWD powerplants will be able to retain their original 3-speed gearboxes, now mated to the rear wheels. The engine's transverse orientation is believed to be a first in the modern F1 era.
Drivers are yet to be announced although it is understood that Ralf Schumacher's bicycle was seen parked out the front of Sid's shed last Tuesday.
Pundits have yet to comment on the team's fortunes, other than to say that at last Lotus will have some serious competition.

From Little Things Big Things Grow

For those readers of this emblogulation who may be unaware, as an adjunct to by busy life as an author, jeweller, unemployed supply professional and actor, I occasionally may be found directing amateur theatre productions. Yes, I do occasionally stir from my underwater lair in the GReat Southern Ocean with my faithful retainer Scrotum in order to delve into the strange and eerie world of the theatre.
Most recently I have directed a production of Oliver Goldsmith's "She Stoops To Conquer". We bumped-in to the theatre last night, and the work of six months came to a head. I had decided to run the show in an authentic 18th century setting using modern technology. Hence the stage is shallow and bare, it's lit with footlights and all lighting is tinged with yellow. All costumes are authentic. All furniture is authentic. The manner of acting is as close as we can get to the semi-pantomime style of the era. This show is going to kick arse.
As I was sitting watching the dress rehearsal last night it occurred to me that the entire production grew from my purchase about four years ago of a penguin paperback containing the script. This was bought on a whim, secondhand, for $2.50 from the Rotary Book Exchange. My mind was duly blown. All of the effort, laughter, tears, heartbreak and accidental discharges of plasma rifles that has occurred in the last 6 months are all due to a secondhand book that cost $2.50.

There's a kind of nobility in that, I think.

Selected Quotes From Last Night's Bookclub Meeting

Mr A: CGI ruins a movie.
Me: Yes, a case in point being the recent remake of 'Last Of The Mohicans'.
Mr A: There hasn't been a recent remake of "Last Of The Mohicans".
Me: Yes there has: "Avatar"
Mr A: That was a remake of "Dances With Wolves"!
Me: Er, "Dances With Wolves was a remake of "Last Of The Mohicans".

But it got even better:

Mr A: I dislike people who won't read other genres. You mention sci-fi/fantasy to them and they won't even look at it, but then they start gushing about "The Time Traveller's Wife" or "The Road".
Me: Yes, but how many people here will read "The Road" but won't read any of Cormac McCarthy's other books?
Mr A: He's written other books?
Me: Yes, they're over in the Western section.
Mr A: Pfft! Westerns.

The Man With The Iron Heart: A Review

It's not often that I feel moved to review books on this emblogulation but in the case of Harry Turtledove's "The Man With The Iron Heart" I simply had to.
I've had a love/hate relationship with Turtledove's work for some years. I find his concepts good but his writing poor, and so while good sense should have prevented me from even picking up this book, I was intrigued by the idea of the Nazi resistance movement, the Werewolves, as a potent force.
I needn't have bothered. The book has almost nothing to do with WW2 and is simply an allegory for the current war in Iraq. In this respect it lends itself to an earlier short story by Turtledove exploring the ramifications of a hostile press to the US war effort in WW2. In that story, however, at least the details were correct. In TMWTIH a great many details, such as the anti-Nazi sentiment of the US population and the German population, are simply ignored.
Mr Turtledove presents us with a world in which the Germans hide in the Alpine Redoubt and strike at the occupiers with suicide bombers and other terrorist tactics. He should have done some reading. An Alpine Redoubt was extensively planned by the Nazis but work was begun too late in the war to complete it in time. This redoubt, however, was designed to house regiments, armament factories and Messerschmidt squadrons in order to continue conventional war.
My main problem with this book however is the author's treatment of the home front. He has congressmen and housewives begin an anti-occupation movement. His use of Congressmen and not Senators is very telling. In the real world, any opposition to State policy regarding the Nazis would have come to the attention of Senator McCarthy and his House Committee on Un-American Activities. While this body is more well known for the communist witch-hunts of the 50s and 60s, it was formed after the declaration of war in 1941 with the mandate of hunting down Nazi sympathisers within America, with the help of the FBI. The fact that Mr Turtledove used these elements in his earlier short story but chooses to omit them here makes TMWTIH a sham, a fake. One gets the impression that it's nothing but a pro-Iraq right-wing propaganda tool seeking to paint the US government and military in an angelic light whilst showing the short-sightedness and stupidity of all those who oppose it. Which is not necessarily a bad thing, but it's not what the book was marketed as and frankly, i'm not interested in it. I like my alternate history to be intelligent, plausible and not a political allegory. This book was less Turtledove and more Turkey.

And Now, a Limerick.

A Transylvanian Count named Dracula,
Composed limericks most spectacular,
but he said, "I tell you,
It's quite hard to do,
as it requires uncommon vernacular."

An Open Letter To The Asian Gentleman Who Chooses To Use My Comments Section To Advertise His Sexually-Oriented Products.

Dear Sir,

Firstly, fuck off.

Secondly, why on earth are you advertising IN CHINESE on a blog which, to my knowledge, has never displayed any Chinese text? If it weren't for translation software I wouldn't even know what it meant. While i'm not sure of the exact demographics of this blog's readership i'd hazard a guess that getting off their arses to translate a comment isn't among their strong suits.

In conclusion, Ho Chi Minh: a) fuck off; and b) WTF?

Yours,

D C White.

P.S. Fuck off.

The President frowned as the aide walked into his office. "Well?" he barked. He liked barking at aides. Barking at aides wasa what being the President was all about, frankly, as far as he was concerned.
"S...sir," replied the aide, a small man in an ill-fitting brown suit, "NORAD have managed to track the radar contact, sir, and they've managed to extrapolate it's transit vectors both previous and future-"
"The friggin' what?" bawled the President, "I ain't got time for all this crap ya goddam fruit!"
"S...S...sorry sir. What I mean was, we think we know where it came from, and we're sure that we know where it is now."
The President leaned back in his chair and puffed on his cigar. "Better," he drawled, "Talk."
"We're fairly sure that it's an extra-terrestr...an alien craft, sir. We have several shots of it. It came from somewhere around the orbit of Jupiter."
"Hooooollllllleeeeeshit!" cried the President, jumping to his feet, "Aliens! Well, we ain't gonna have any of that Roswell Area 51 shit this time. Roll out the welcome mat, boys, and show the scaly green suckers in."
The aide looked doubtful. "Um, sir, they're not here."
"Not here? Where in the sam hill are they then?"
"Norad tracked them to a small island in the South Pacific," the aide said, "Home to the Umbutu tribe."
"Umbutu? Who the hell are they?"
"A small tribe of headhunters." The aide gulped.
"Headhunters?"
"Yes sir, headhunters. And," the aide paused, "cannibals."
The President nearly fell out of his chair. "Why the heck are they goin to a buncha cannibals?" he roared.
"We've got some sattelite imagery sir," the aide said, "and that's the bad news. THey appear to be swapping recipies."

Exciting Opportunity

I am available to assume monarchial duties in your country.

Yes, that is correct. If your country is currently lacking a titular head then you need look no further. All applications will be considered*.

As well as a commanding presence on the world stage and a prodigious sense of self-worth, installing me as your monarch will ensure that all ceremonial duties will now be more than adequately fulfilled with a minimum of fuss but a maximum of pomp and circumstance. Thanks to my background in the Public Service you may be assured that all duties of higher government will be carried out. I am able to supply my own monocle.

Applications may be sent via this website.

*No riff-raff. Yes, i'm looking at you, Iceland.

Bloody Hell

Last weekend I was over in Perth, in Western Australia, making the enity currently known as D C White into a transnational. I am now, indeed, nationwide.
Perth was quite good. I launched Scary Kisses (I had to sign autographs!) and generally had a ball. I took a trip to Fremantle which now brings the number of oceans I have immersed myself in to 3*.
As good as Perth was, however, strange things happened to me there. In the first instance I had a yiros (as is my wont) and while delicious I found it far too small for my tastes. I'm used to the sturdy, robust yiroses of Adelaide: thich as Popeye's forearm and with as much stopping power. While the ingredients in a Perth yiros (note: doner kebab) are identical to Adelaide, there are far less of them. The whole thing is about the same diameter as a Chiko Roll! And the pita bread was barely toasted. I found the whole experience deeply unsatisfying. So far, the official scorecard stands as follows:

1. Adelaide (Yiros)
2. Melbourne (Souvlaki)
3. Auckland (Kebab with *ahem* 'garlic yoghurt')
4. Perth (Doner Kebab)
5. Brisbane (Kebab)

Once this obstacle had been overcome I picked up a book in a Perth discount book store entitled "The Leather Nun and Other Incredibly Strange Comics". It is in essence a listing (with pictures) of some of the retarded crap people in the comics world have managed to publish in the last 100 years. My personal favorite however, is "Mr A". Written and drawn by Steve Ditko (ex-Stan Lee inker at Marvel), Mr A was born after Steve read Ayn Rand's "Atlas Shrugged" and decided that the world needed an Objectivist superhero. I've since looked this up and it's quite true. Not only that, but Ditko later produced a second, less trigger-happy Objectivist: The Question. Alan Moore has stated that Mr A was the inspiration for his Watchmen character Rorschach. Ditko has described Rorschach as "Mr A, but insane". Alan Moore has made no such concession.

*Southern, Pacific and Indian. So there.

Some Pretty Shameless Self-Promotion

Hot on the heels of the announcement that a story by yours truly is to be published in the upcoming anthology "Scary Kisses" comes the announcement that my other anthology, "People Of Few Words Vol. 2" is not available. This was published by the Short Humour Website and all proceeds go to Uganda, or something. it's available from lulu.com and much as i'm loath to admit it, all of the other stories in there are pretty good too. Humph.

Scary Kisses is being launched at Swancon (in Perth!) on Good Friday. I shall be present to sign autographs and generally working my new z-list celebrity status. This will be my first ever visit to Perth, so i've decided to go over Easter when everything's shut.

The History Of Stuff No. 9765

Rock and Roll.

13 billion years B.C.: The Big Bang (shortly followed by the Big Bopper)
200,000B.C.: Homo Erectus er, erects himself.
4004B.C.: Cliff Richard thinks the world begins.
3000 B.C. (morning): The first primitive stringed instruments are invented.
3000B.C. (lunchtime): The opening riff of "Stairway To Heaven" is first played.
0 A.D.: Neil Young born in a manger in Bethlehem.
1604 A.D.: Birth of the modern guitar (Andalusia, Spain).
1604 A.D.: World's first groupie (Andalusia, Spain).
1605 A.D. Syphylis invented (Andalusia, Spain).
1891 A.D.: Scott Joplin's "Piano Rags" published in sheet music form.
1893 A.D.: A young man is beaten to death at a Scott Joplin recital in Alameda, California, by members of an outlaw cavalry group hired by Joplin as security.
1899 A.D.: Keith Richards born in Vladivostok, Imperial Russia.
1921 A.D.: Hyman "Screamin' Mudguts" T Spunkfelcher, an itinerant musician in Mississippi, invents the blues when he sings about his political ambitions.
1929 A.D.: The Great Depression (Leonard Cohen is born).
1932 A.D.: Screamin' Mudguts Spunkfelcher develops Parkinsons; birth of Rythym and Blues.
1948 A.D.: Carl Perkins is ignored.
1953 A.D.: Elvis Presley is invented by the Lockheed-Martin Corporation at the notorious 'Skunk Works'.
1953 A.D.: Carl Perkins now relevant.
1955 A.D.: Chuck Berry begins rocking. Everyone else gives up for a while.
1963 A.D.: The Beatles hand Chuck his arse on a plate.
1965 A.D.: Neil Young, Richie Furay, Bruce Palmer and Steven Stills form Buffalo Springfield.
1969 A.D.: Woodstock; everyone billion-year-old carbon.
1970 A.D.: Wings.
1971 A.D.: Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young.
1976 A.D.: Cliff Richard releases Devil Woman. Also records song of same name.
1976 A.D.: Neil Young releases "Harvest". World momentarily ends.
1977 A.D.: William Shatner releases "Transformed Man".
1980 A.D.: John Lennon shot by Holden Caulfield.
1980-1990 A.D.: Absolutely nothing of note happens musically.
1991 A.D.: Frente release "Accidentally Kelly Street".
1992 A.D.: Grunge is born. People just start wearing any old tat.
1993 A.D.: Neil Young releases "Harvest Moon". Kurt Cobain decides not to kill himself just yet.
1994 A.D.: Neil Young releases "Sleeps With Angels". Kurt Cobain swallows a bullet.
2000 A.D.: Birth of Pseudo-emo-alt-rock/country fused with Ska.
2003 A.D.: iPods blow everyone's minds.

Cthulhus That Look Like Hitler

More Lolcthulhu!

Funny, That.

Have you ever noticed how the Great Unwashed keep away from anything even vaguely country & western* like it carries bubonic plague or something, but whenever something C&W hits the mainstream, like Firefly or Crazy Heart, everyone runs around falling over themselves to say how good it is.

Well guess what, world? There's plenty more where that came from! Open your eyes, stop being genre snobs and you might find a lot more that you like outside the goddam sqeaky clean mainstream you cling to like a bland, vanilla security blanket.

*Yes, i've heard that one quote from Blues Brothers about a billion times. Aren't you clever.

H P Lovecraft Had A Really Big Head

The title of this enblogulation may seem incorrect to those of you who have seen the several pictures currently doing the rounds on the internet purporting to be of H P Lovecraft. While it is true that these pictures DO show the idiosyncratic facial qualities of the author in question, they are an early example of trick photography.
H P Lovecraft was shunned by boys in his early years due to his massively enlarged cranium and strange, pervasive odour. The strange smell came from the turnip and sarsparilla poultice his mother made him wear constantly. This isolation from other boys (and the necessity to sleep on a pillow shaped like a piece of cheese) made him insular and bookish. This well-read boy would one day write some of the most astonishing fiction the world has ever known, but at a cost. As his fiction became more and more popular the media clamoured for more information about him. While his publishers released a short, modest brief at his behest he pleaded with them not to release details of his strange cranial gigantism or his ant farming fetish (at the time the urge to ant-farm was not understood as readily as today and was considered a form of low-grade witchcraft). However, the public's thirst for knowledge about their newly-crowned dark king did not abate, so H P was forced to engage the services of Mr Hyman T Spunkfelcher: a well-known photographer and vaudeville illusionist. Using all of the knowledge that his twin professions gave him Spunkfelcher was able to make a photograph in which Lovecraft's freakish head appeared seated on his shoulders quite in normal proportion.
Interestingly, the knowledge of 'perspective photography' was lost when Spunkfelcher unfortunately went missing off the coast of Innsmouth in 1923 and was only rediscovered late last century, in time for Peter Jackson to make Lord Of The Rings.

Superheroes Of Nashville

Johnny Cash: After snorting cocaine from the buttock-cleft of an irradiated groupie, this mild-mannered country singer began to discover superpowers he had not previously possessed. Simply by singing a song and accompanying himself on his trusty Gibson 6-string, Trigger, anyone within hearing distance was instantly compelled to obey. Henceforth, Johnny made a vow to make villains everywhere walk the line.

Kris Kristofferson: While driving his 18-wheeler with the rubber duck on the hood through the Nevada desert at midnight, Kris gave a ride to a strange female hitchhiker whom he subsequently rooted and who looked a bit like Ali McGraw. In exchange she granted him the boon of being able to shoot heat rays from his eyes. But was it a boon, or a curse? Sadly, though he has pursued her ghostly figure all over the highways of the world, Kris has never been able to catch her again.

Waylon Jennings: After giving up his seat on the American Pie to Richie Valens, Waylon begins to be plagued by voices of his dead comrades inside his head. He soon learns that now he has three guardian angels he can summon at will: Valens, Buddy Holly and The Big Bopper. He becomes the voiceover man for the Dukes Of Hazzard anyway.

Willie Nelson: When his tour bus accidentally catapulted itself off the side of a cliff, Willie Nelson was struck by lightning. For Willie the world stopped and he met with the Guardians of the Time-Sphere, who told him that he could not die, as he had important work to do. He awoke atop the cliff unharmed, but now when he becomes angry his ponytail grows to massive size and carries an electrical current strong as lightning. Willie learned to crack his ponytail like a whip, and his mission is to fight the enemies of the Time-Stream.

These four heroes work alone, amid the entertainment world by day and in the seamy, crime-ridden ghettos by night. However, occasionally they unite to become an evil-fighting force the like of which the world has never known*: They are The Highwaymen.

*Since Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, but that's a whole OTHER story**.

**And Simon and Garfunkel and their time-travelling Kombi, for long-term readers.

Why I Eat SPAM

My love affair with the pork-based superfood, SPAM, began initially on the frozen tundra of the Siberian island of Novalya Zemla. I was location scouting there for a new movie I was planning, tentatively titled "Resink The Bismark!"when I discovered that enterprising snow foxes (bless 'em!) had crept into my camp late the night before and had decimated my store of food. Yes, they had only taken ten percent of the available total but the ninety percent of what was left consited solely of a job lot of a strange-looking tinned meat that I had been keeping until last due to the sinister overtones associated with the design on the cans.
As i looked at the cans I realised that there must have been something about them which had warded the snow foxes off. Gingerly I tore the top off of one can and slid the contents onto the cooking stove. By the time it was frying nicely and my mouth was beginning to water there came a cry from outside the tent. I froze. It was the unmistakeable cry of the polar bear! Hurriedly I looked around for a weapon but I had foolishly used my M40 carbine in plaace of one of the tent posts when setting up camp. I realised with mounting horror that the only weaponish object in the whole of Novalya Zemla right now was the frying pan upon which the SPAM sizzled.
I had not a moment to waste. Like a man possessed I crammed the spiced ham product into my gullet as outside the polar bear cries became more and more insistant.
As soon as the SPAM had been eaten, however, I underwent an epiphany. I have never been a heroic man, but now I strode forth through the tent-flap and calmly faced the beast. It's huge white, rippling bulk meant nothing to me as I belted it straight between the eyes. It crumpled to the icy ground, stunned, and I was able to break camp and leave it to be devoured alive by snow foxes in peace. As I left the icy Russian waste in my space-capable helicopter I wondered at the source of my instant courage. I glanced across at the co-pilot's seat and saw, through the open flap of my trusty old rucksack, the tins of SPAM therein, and I knew.
I achieved orbital insertion and waited while the good work of Sir Isaac Newton took me back to Australia, all the while thanking my lucky stars that i'd bought that itinerant Russian's food parcel and not his sister as he had intended. While I find it hard to condone cannibalism at the best of times I doubt that even she, wiry and strong-hipped as he had advertised, would have been of as much use to me as that small tin of luncheon meat.
And that's why I eat SPAM.

More Random Doobings

"God damn it!" declared Captain Doobie forcefully as he entered the loungeroom.
Goodtime Slim looked up from his Big Book For Important People**.
"I beg your pardon?" he said, mildly miffed at the sudden intrusion.
"I was at the shops just now and I heard the Beatles singing 'I Wanna Hold Your Hand' and now i've got it stuck in my head."
Goodtime Slim nodded. "Ah," he said, "that old chestnut. You have my sympathies."
He had just settled down to his book again when Captain Doobie, whom he had thought was finished, started talking again. Captain Doobie did this a lot.
"It's true what they say, you know," Captain Doobie said.
"It usually is," replied Goodtime Slim, "what in particular do they say in this instance?"
Captain Doobie's brow grew dark and he crossed himself. Leaning in close to Goodtime Slim he said in a voice that was little more than a whisper, "They say that John Lennon made a deal with the devil himself. They say that he stood at a crossroads at midnight on Hallowe'en and sold Old Scratch his soul in exchange for being able to play the blues."
Despite his housemate's best efforts to make the world a scarier place Goodtime Slim remained deadpan. "No," he told Captain Doobie, "he didn't."
"He did!"
"No he didn't. You're getting him confused with that other bloke. Robert Jordan."
This gave Captain Doobie pause for thought. "Robert Jordan? "
"Yes."
"Are you telling me that the author of the Wheel of Time series was the world's best blues guitarist?"
"Yes."
"I'm glad," said Captain Doobie, "because his books were shit."

*By which I mean more of the random doobings, not doobings that are any more random than normal.
** Atlas Shrugged, by Ayn Rand.

Random Doobings

The plane hadn't even taken off yet and already Captain Doobie was bored. He'd spent the first few minutes fiddling with the barf bags and the 'complimentary'* magazines, and in a rather worrying move was now investigating the underseat storage space. Goodtime Slim buried his nose in whatever airport book he'd been able to buy with a picture of an exploding airliner on it, did his best to ignore him.
It didn't work. Next to him Captain Doobie sat up again, triumphantly clutching a life-jacket.
"Put it away!" hissed Goodtime Slim in alarm, hurriedly looking around for the Stewardesses he felt sure would be approaching like a proverbial yet horizontal ton of bricks.
"Pig's arse," replied Captain Doobie, "I want to find out how to inflate it."
In desperation Goodtime Slim grabbed the life jacket and threw it over the seat in front of him, where it landed around the neck of a small child who subsequently thought it was Christmas.
"Let it go," Goodtime Slim told Captain Doobie in a stern voice, "You're not to touch anything for the rest of the trip, is that clear?"
"You know what your trouble is?" cried Captain Doobie, "You're anally retentive."
Goodtime Slim considered this. "What does that mean then?" he asked.
Captain Doobie had not expected this. "Um," he declared, "Well, it means that you, er, retain your...bum."
"Oh," said Goodtime Slim, "right. That's a bad thing, is it? Only I notice that you've still got yours and all."
"You don't understand," Captain Doobie yelled, "It's an insult!"
"No it isn't. It's not like people's bums just fall off all the time and the nasty people pick them up and put them in a green bag** while all the cool people just walk around with their large intestine hanging out."
"Look, it is an insult. Just live with it."
Goodtime Slim wasn't having with any of that. "I agree that normally anything mentioning bums is an insult. If you had told me, for instance, that I had a face like a smacked arse, then i'd be properly insulted, mainly because I don't but also because the first ever English usage of it occurred in an Enid Blyton book ***, and when you've been insulted by Enid Blyton you've been insulted fullstop. But this nonsense about being anally retentive doesn't seem to cut the mustard. Dick."
There was silence on the plane, or at least it was as quiet as you could reasonably expect on a plane full of bogans, business executives and stewardesses hurrying to extricate a child who had discovered how to inflate a life jacket.

*Anything that claims to be complimentary yet requires you to pay $100 to recieve it, isn't.
** People outside of SA shouldn't even ask about this one.
*** And it bloody well did, too. One of the Amelia Jane Adventures, if memory serves.

Signs That I Am Getting Old.

I did want to write just the one post today but then I thought of another so i'll do both.

1. I Hate Bridgestone.
I came home from work today to discover a leaflet in my letterbox advertising "Back To School Deals With Bridgestone". I don't have children, but i'm fairly sure that the current SA school curriculum does not require them to bring their own tyres. I am willing to stretch to the idea that if people weren't quite so litigious the school might want a tyre-swing for the playground, but even then i'm fairly sure that Bridgestone could work something out with the schools directly instead of sending me the leaflet.

2. It Doesn't Feel Like Ten Years.
I just realised that it's now more than ten years since "Star Wars: The Phantom Menace" was released. It's never been the strongest movie in the series but it's better than "Attack Of The Clones" and even dare I say, "Return Of The Jedi". Yes, i'll see your Jar-jar and raise you an Ewok or two. At least the bloody Gungans didn't sing.
I will admit that in recent years my attitude towards 'Episode 1' has softened. It's not as visceral as Eps 4, 5, and 6; it doesn't grab you quite as much, but I do now get off on seeing the ships and the droids and Qui-Gon Jinn CUTTING THROUGH A BLAST DOOR WITH A LIGHTSABER. Yes, the villains could have been more evil and had proper entrances like Darth Vader at the start of Ep 4, there should have been a Han Soloesque character (scoundrel) in there somewhere and I could have done without the stupid NASCAR-style podrace, but I still enjoy watching it every now and again. It's still visually stunning in a way that, say, Avatar will never be. It still draws me into the story. It's still fun. I refuse to apologise for liking it.

In Which I Get Mah Deutsch On.

It's halfway through January and it's 42 degrees in the shade, so it must be time for Schutzenfest, the largest German festival that's not actually in Germany.
Many people in Adelaide deride the Schutzenfest as being merely an excuse to buy really big steins of lagerbier and get astoundingly drunk, but there's many more facets to it than that. There's cakes, for a start, and air-rifle shooting, and lashings of Aussie Cider. It's the one weekend of the year that you can wear a truly awful hat in public and say the words 'pretzel wench' with feeling. And what's more, you'll probably end up with a pretzel.
It's also the only place in Adelaide where you can reliably buy German-language CDs. Apart from the sublime tones of Zillertaler Schurzenjager, last year I found Germany's answer to Status Quo: a band called 'Normaal'. This year I picked up a live CD of 'De Dijk', who have a damn fine brass section, if I may say.
So there you have it. Schutzenfest: an Adelaide institution of dubious morals and even more dubious musical tastes. Long may it run.

Australian Fiction

Last week while jonesing for more secondhand books that I don't need I stumbled across a three-book volume by an Australian author called Ion Idriess. Ion was an author in the 1930s, 40s and 50s and was one of the bestselling authors of his day. I have a non-fiction book of his about diamonds (Stone of Destiny) and so I decided to pick up the set, which contained the books 'Silver City', 'Lightning Ridge' and 'The Desert Column'.
'Silver City' recounts the author's childhood in north-western New South Wales in the 1890s, culminating in his family's settlement at Broken Hill after the big lode was discovered. 'Lightning Ridge' picks up the story when Ion is old enough to go roving and heads to the opal-fields to become a 'gouger', or opal-miner. 'The Desert Column' is set several years later and recounts the author's experiences at Gallipoli and in the Palestine Campaign of WW1.
While I have struggled to read colonial fiction before (the sadistic 'For The Term Of His Natural Life' and the excrable 'Robbery Under Arms' being cases in point) Ion's work proved very different. I devoured the three volumes in a matter of days. I liked it so much that I decided to read Xavier Herbert's 'Capricornia' as soon as I could find a copy.
What was it about Idriess that struck a chord? The reality. There was no "beauty of the bush" arty soliloquising, and no overdone "we're all white Irish slaves banished to a life of the lash" moaning. It was a simple story told in simple language and, thank Hubbard, the words 'crikey' and 'strewth' do not appear anywhere. My previous excursions into Australian 'literature' had convinced me that unless your main character spoke like Alf Stewart then you just ain't got it, kid.
I'm actively on the hunt for more of Idriess' work now, particularly his major work 'Flynn Of The Inland' but also 'Nullabor Crossing', in which he proves that the Nullabor can be crossed in a tiny post-war Peugeot.
All in all, thank you Mr Idriess for restoring my faith in Australia historical fiction. It was looking a bit bullshit there for a while.

Aparrently I'm Big In Asia

Then again, when you drink as much beer as I do, you're pretty much big everywhere.

An Open Letter To Clive Cussler

Dear Mr Cussler,

While I'll admit that I stayed away from your books for many years because I didn't want to be seen reading the same books that my dad reads, I got into them a while ago and enjoy them immensely. There is, however, only one problem.
Recently I read 'Valhalla Rising' in which I was introduced to Dirk's son and Daughter, Dirk Jr and Summer, who were apparently gestating inside their mother (Summer Moran) after Dirk shagged her then left her to die in a subterranean underwater cave-in way back in the events of 'Pacific Vortex!' While she was thought dead it turns out that she survived, was washed to shore and lived to give birth to the two non-identical twins mentioned above.
The problem is, Mr Cussler, that I've just read 'Pacific Vortex!', having tracked it down in my local secondhand book exchange, and Dirk and Summer NEVER SLEEP TOGETHER. Every meeting we see it all in real-time, so there's no point at which they could have nipped out for a quick knee-trembler without mentioning it in the narrative.
Please explain.

Yours,

D C White

P.S. Can we see a return to the use of exclamation marks in the titles? They were cool.