Fuck it! I hate this blog. what kind of dumbass calls their blog paper, scissors, rock? I miss my old ID, I have an unnatural attachment to it, call it some sort of dependency issue if you like. So....
I've gone HOME.
Sort of. Old addy, but only the posts from this blog, blah, blah, meh.
Now I'm just hoping that my blog favourites (you should know who you are) don't decide I'm completely insufferable and abandon me completely.
Monday, 12 March 2007
Fuck it! I hate this blog. what kind of dumbass calls their blog paper, scissors, rock? I miss my old ID, I have an unnatural attachment to it, call it some sort of dependency issue if you like. So....
Wednesday, 7 March 2007
While surfing google images for pictures of Kirsten Dunst as Marie Antoinette I came across the most charming little website. It's called Headless Historicals and is dedicated to making dolls of historical figures in death.
Now, I wouldn't want to risk sounding like some morbid cemetery worshipping goth wannabe, but these dolls are adorable. They encompass my sometime love of history, especially violent history, and stay true to my Barbie and Bratz may suck but some other dolls can be kinda cool mentality.
My favourites are the Anne Boleyn and Marie Antoinette dolls.
One day I swear I'll subject this blog to a long entry on why I love Anne Boleyn, but for now I'll just grin away at this headless rendition of one of my favourite characters of the English Tudor era.
And of course one cannot leave out Marie Antoinette. I'm not sure why yet, but I'm putting it down to my current fascination with the costumes of the era, which prompted the googling in the first place.
I'm also considering trying out an homemade version of this idea at some point, because I'm too much of a tight-arse pauper to buy them off the site. More's the pity, because I know that a headless Anne Boleyn residing in my lounge would be beyond awesome.
Tuesday, 6 March 2007
I have a new addiction, Civilization IV. I finally have the computer running well enough to play it, so only ages after its release I bought it. In a mad dash to get my much coveted game, I bused, I ran, I bused home, and immediately installed. I was quite enthusiastic. Now I'm building kick arse civilizations that totally rock. Ok, I think my civilizations may not rock compared to seasoned game addicts, but it's better than all the other civilizations in the game so I'm happy.
It's an odd addiction, since I'm of the gaming sucks crusty balls mentality. I do not understand Playstation, or XBox, or computer games in general. However I do understand, and possess deep and abiding love for the Civilization games. I get all giddy playing them, and find myself able to focus for hours at a time. That in itself is an extreme personal anomaly, as I usually have trouble focusing for more than five minutes unless I'm doped up to the eyeballs on Benzos. Civilization IV is better than clonazepam!
Well, right up until I start considering the nature of my civilization. You know the whole world dominance, and I'm the superpower determined to hang onto my power by any means necessary, thing. Then I feel all guilty, and kind of American-slash-gnerally Western. Creating Hegemony where possible, and kicking arse when I want some more resources. And god help them if they piss me off! I like my tools of modern warfare, and I will wait until I'm more advanced than every other puny civilization and then bomb them into almost oblivion.
Yes people, I am capable of feeling all guilty and morally corrupt while playing a game. Like back when I used to play CivIII and I would demolish a civilization, but always leave that civilization one city because I couldn't quite bring myself to totally destroy the poor buggers.
I definitely have issues.
I blame it on my pinko inclinations. If I was a nice shade of classical liberal I probably wouldn't go all guilt trippy over kicking the arses of simulated civilizations. In fact I may even want to trample and maim a few real ones, you know, because they suck and won't do as I say.
Wednesday, 28 February 2007
Apparently there has been some talk about banning gang patches.
I have no coherent political opinion on this, because I cannot be bothered formulating one. I'm currently worrying about a chipped tooth and that's taking up all of my spare IQ points for today. M'kay? It's not my fault, dentists are expensive, and I might just need one if I don't want to end up looking like a gap-toothed gang 'ho.
However, despite my refusal to err on the side of vaguely intelligent I oppose any proposed ban.
Quite frankly, I like being able to see who is who in the filthy underclass world. When I'm sitting in public and I see a wave of Mongrel Mob patches wander past I know who to stare at. When I roll on up to the Highbury Shops and see Black Power patches sitting at a table outside I know that it may not be the best time to use that ATM.
When I see a dude with swastikas as personal adornment I know he's going to have a bitch of a time the next time he lands himself in Kaitoke Prison.
Quite frankly, in our capitalist society product branding is what we do.
Gang patches are branding. Kinda of like the Nestle logo, only less evil. Or the Act Party colours, also less evil.
And I'd personally much rather be able to openly identify gang affiliations. They wear their silly patches, then we know who they are, easier identification. And they choose that. So let them. If they want to run around advertising that they're criminals then shouldn't that make things a little easier for law enforcement? See gang patch, rock on up and check their car, check identity for outstanding warrants, etc. It's win win. They get their little 'woohoo, look at me the big tough gang member' kick, the rest of us get to see who we're dealing with.
Another thing that worries me about the mere idea of banning gang patches is tattoos.
Have you seen some of those ugly fuckers?
Now, what if they decided that they might just listen to the ban. Bahahahaha. Because they pay a whole lot of mind to our societies other laws right?
But let's just go out on a limb here and assume they don't just tell ya'll to get fucked and wear their traditional patches anyway. And then lets consider gang tattoos. Because the patch is worn as a sign of pride, the 'I'm a fucking staunch cunt' kind of pride. And I suspect they might want to hold onto that, after all it's their shtick. So what's another option? Gang patches tattooed on backs, and bunches of filthy yucky men wandering around topless. Now that folks, is scary!!
On the other hand, I possess vague memories of pubs like The Albert having little signs informing customers that no patches were to be worn in their pub, along with other questionable items of clothing. It seemed to work. I never once did see an obvious patched gang member there.
But that doesn't mean they weren't there. And it doesn't mean that they couldn't cause trouble. It would have just been harder to identify the grubby bastards.
So why not let them have their freedom of expression, and violate them in other manners, like constant police harassment?
As for the public, we've really got to collectively stop being intimidated by gangs. We outnumber them. That's something I really wish more people would consider. If the people of Wangas really don't like them hanging around how about a community project of marginalizing the gangs via collective action. I always wonder why this never seems to occur to community groups.
The only thing I really wish for is better patches. You know, design wise. I don't think whoever came up with them was very talented, and think it's about time the gangs upgraded their branding. Kind of like companies do when their old logos get a bit dated and tragic.
Monday, 26 February 2007
Last night I dreamt I was a Serial Killer. I wasn't actually doing anything, just wandering around being a Serial Killer. No violence, just this awareness that I was a bit of a homicidal maniac.
Not that my mind is opposed to violence in dreams. When I was flatting with a dear friend, many years ago, she was driving me quite batty. I had a very vivid dream of whacking her over the head with a frying pan, repeatedly, while Queen Elizabeth II watched. My subconscious was quite violent towards her until I got the message and moved out of the flat.
My dream brain doesn't reject hideously gruesome dreams either. After all, more than once I have dreamt of having sex with icky gross men. And if my dream state can withstand that then I'm pretty sure a little active serial killing wouldn't have traumatized me too much.
What has obviously been playing on my mind is the book I'm currently devouring: My Life Among the Serial Killers by Helen Morrison.
Of course, being the type of individual I am (Not A Serial Killer!!) I have already taken issue with some of her assertions. Because of course, as a know nothing lay-person, I'm totally qualified to question expert opinion.
You see, she once got John Wayne Gacy to do a language test, asking him to characterize what was happening in a particular passage.
"Arthur threw the ball into the woods. Barbara was very angry."
Gacy's response went like this:
"It seemed to me that Arthur and Barbara were playing ball and that arthur threw the ball into the woods. She may have thought he did it on purpose. The [sic] again it may be that she was his mother and thought he was being disobedient. She may have told him not to throw it in the woods and he was showing that he was going to do what he wanted. There is a lot of things a person can take from two sentences. Maybe is Arthur was too young to understand, that it was an accident. I can't see why she became very angry, unless she was drinking or not feeling well. Everyone is not perfact and can make mistakes.
Barbara was very angry, maybe she missed the ball herself, and that's why she was mad. The question doesn't tell if Barbara was angry at Arthur, it just an assumption. Maybe they are both older and the ball came into there backyard and instead of throwing it back he through it into the woods out of spite, and his wife got angry at his action, because he took such action."
The author then goes on to claim that his response was somehow abnormal.
"Although Gacy had an above-average intellect, he lapsed into a very primitive mode of thought. His sentence structure disintegrated into thoughts propelled by such sheer impulse that they were disjointed. there was not focus, just a series of unconnected thoughts. A normal person would come up with a structure beginning, a middle, and an end to the story...."
And I just thought; 'well Fuck Me!'
Other than his appalling structure, which is worse than even mine, I don't see what's so wrong with his response. I thought it was an analytical response, trying to explain the possible scenarios the passage could suggest, etc. Which is something I may do. In fact something I definitely do, at various times. And this author is implying that it is not only Abnormal but something important in regards to a serial killers character.
I was, and am, suitably pissed off.
And now I have two primary thoughts running through my head.
1) 'Normal people are boring.' Beginning, middle, end? Meh!
2) I'm going to have to talk to my therapist about this because that damned book likened one of my modes of behaviour to that of a bloody Serial Killer. And there goes another session, another $85 of my therapist trying to convince me that I'm not really that fucked in the head.
Stupid books. I probably shouldn't read at all. After all, when I read The Bell Jar I spent the entire time terrified that I was going to end up trying to hide under my mattress and end up getting electroshock therapy.
Thursday, 22 February 2007
Ever since I got myself a digicam for Christmas 2004 I've been on an half-hearted photography kick. That is, I ocassionally get it into my head that I must take photos. I totally blame it on the rubber duckies. One day I had my much loved rubber duckies sitting in the bathroom sink while I cleaned the windowsill they usually called home, and all of a sudden the camera came out. At the time I was quite happy with my duckie pictures and yet another, when I can be bothered, hobby was born.
Digital cameras are like gold for people like me.
To be honest I started liking the idea of photography about seven years ago when it was a compulsory module for an art course I was doing. Only then it was film cameras, money, and darkroom access that was the thing. Not cheap. No good for a pauper. So it just didn't really happen.
But along came my now tragically inadequate Kodak CX7330. And I've been haphazardly taking photos ever since. Not often, with no clue about technique, just for fun. And I have the flickr account to prove it.
I'm not good. I'm not dedicated. But why not?
And thanks to a comment from Span I've decided to be totally shameless and post some of my latest attempts at being all conceptually amateur here.
This is the one that generated a fair bit of attention, and currently resides on my blog to add a little colour to my rather dull template.
This is my favourite even though other people don't seem to like it much.
And the next three, just well ARE. They're all taken in the past few days (including the two above), cross processed in photoshop, and now clogging up the internet with more wannabe photography.
They all also feature me. I put that bloody Kodak CX7330 on a stool, used the delayed shot thingamabob, and that's that.
I had no idea what I was doing, and I fear it may show to others more knowledgeable, but I kinda like them, so there.
Now all I have to do is get myself a good camera, because I'm operating under the wildly misguided presumption that I will take better pictures if I have a camera that rocks.
So, if Kiwi parents suddenly find themselves facing legal ramifications for smacking their children what should they do?
1) Most importantly; Do Not threaten to bash, or kill, Sue Bradford.
This would make you look not only violent but also stupid for opening your big gob and raving away like a crazy person.
Sue Bradford also might just kick your arse if she goes loco and momentarily forgets about non-violence.
2) Throw all of your child's belongings out their bedroom window.
My mother did this to me once. I was throwing one of my tantrums, and damn was I good at tantrums. So I was sent to my room, as parents oftentimes do, just so they don't have to listen to their child's incessant screaming.
In my case I was quite irate that my parents had the audacity to do this, so I threw a couple of my toys out the window in a rage. My mother walked in, saw what I'd been up to, and proceeded to throw every toy and book and blanket right out the window to join my other toys. She even threw my favourite toys out that window. She then informed me that if I wanted to do that sort of thing that's where they could stay, permanently.
I remember looking outside and being absolutely gutted. Everything that was mine was lying on the back lawn and if I wanted to be with them I'd have to move outside.
It was quite effective, I never pulled that shit again.
3) If you child breaks something deliberately during a tantrum, respond in kind.
I know a child who breaks his least favourite toys when he's chucking a hissy. Which is stupid, and would be punishment in itself if the child later cared that about what they broke. However if they break your stuff or other children's stuff, then you do the right thing and break their toys. Just you wait, when your child finds his/her favourite teddy bear gutted and leaking stuffing all over their bedroom floor they might just learn a lesson. If not, repeat method until they get it. My guess is that it won't take long.
4) If you have more than one child, let them smack each other about.
Children do this anyway, and adults generally stop it. Adults don't like it when kids hit each other, usually because it leads to whining to the parent about each other. I suggest still stopping this sort of behaviour when it's not useful to you, and they're trying to kill each other for their own reasons.
However, if you cannot give your child a much deserved smack on the bottom other children could prove a useful source in getting your point across.
Child 1: Chucks tantrum and will not respond to reason and 'positive parenting'.
Child 2: Gets nod from parent and smacks Child 1.
Child 1: Whines to parents 'Child 2 hit me'
Parent: Serves you bloody right for being a little terror.
Repeat as necessary.
(This one is questionable, as it may teach children to beat people up. But better than than a parental smack on the bum, right?)
5) Feed naughty child their least favourite 'I will not eat that, and will throw a tantrum if you try to make me' food, while everyone else in the family dines on their favourite foods.
Yummy food is a privilege not a right!
Tell the child this, and explain that their misbehaviour results in this scenario.
Ignore resulting tantrum, and give everyone else naughty child's favourite dessert.
Of course, the above methods listed may also be considered abusive, depending on who you talk to. But we're focusing on physical 'abuse' here. Because a smack on the bum will scar them for life, if you believe the anti-smacking brigade. But potential emotional abuse? Well they haven't legislated against throwing toys out windows or feeding your children food they don't like, so you will have room to move.
Lastly, you could try other methods. like time-out and rewards for good behaviour. But that would be no fun right? After all, parents smack children because it's fun and they enjoy it.
Yeah, that's why most parents do it.
Tuesday, 20 February 2007
I feel like I should write something. Anything.
After all I did insist on this new blog. It should have more than two posts. I should adhere to my new mantra: prolific and pointless.
But unfortunately I got sidetracked by obsessing about photos. My photos.
I take photos. I post them on artsy fartsy websites. One is doing quite well, attention wise. And it turns out that I'm a shameless attention whore, so have taken to spending 90% of my computer time refreshing photo pages to see if I've gotten any more attention in the past half hour. Ok, in the past five minutes.
I also cleaned the shower today, in my nightie, at midday. I cannot tell you how distasteful I find domesticity. There's something quite tragic about scrubbing shower walls in a dusky pink vintage nightie and unbrushed hair. This is why I need to become rich, or at least suitably well off, so I can pay someone else to do that for me. Because I really need to spend a more time focusing on the important things in life. Like how much attention my crappy photos are generating on free, I don't get paid to do it, websites.
Which reminds me, it's about time to do another refresh on those pages.
Sunday, 18 February 2007
I think I may have uncovered a previously ignored phenomenon, which I have termed 'Male Pattern Stupidity'.
After consulting with a handful of other women I have come to the conclusion that the longer your acquaintance with a man the less intelligent he appears. I'm not sure if this means that over time these men are actually suffering from an IQ drain or if it's a matter of perception. What I am sure of is that the other women consulted and myself have noticed this disturbing trend.
First, you meet a man, any man.
You decide that he's of suitably intelligent stock and find yourself impressed by his level of cognitive functioning.
You like this because intelligence is an important trait in your not so humble opinion. So whatever the nature of your relationship you tick off intelligence on your list of desirable traits. You like this about the man. You expect that he will continue to impress with his mere ability to think and express his intelligence.
But somewhere along the line of acquaintance you notice a problem. Said intelligent man no longer seems to be quite as impressive as when you met him. You notice glaring examples of stupidity. You notice those gaps in his intelligence. And a level of disappointment sets in. What happened?
Thinking back this has applied to every man I've ever had a relationship with, be it casual or otherwise. Excluding the ones that could be immediately assessed as lacking intelligence, and believe me, there's been a few of those. But these intelligent men, the ones that initially seemed so intellectually challenging, eventually somehow managed to incur my disappointment as I realize that they're not the genius I originally thought they might be.
I asked my Mother about this the other day. My Mother who has been happily married to the same man for 30+ years. She just giggled and informed me that there's definitely anecdotal truth in that. She herself noticed the same pattern with my Father. And if I'm completely honest I first noticed this with my Father also. When I was younger he seemed so knowledgeable, intelligent. Then he just didn't. I learnt to kick his arse at chess and debate, and a mild sense of sadness kicked in. But back then I put it down to the child growing up to out-do the parent, which isn't altogether uncommon.
But then it started to emerge as a pattern with other men. All the intelligent men I have known well enough to observe and analyse. And it led me to question this phenomenon of 'Male Pattern Stupidity'.
Ultimately I suspect that this is a mere pattern of perception. The longer your acquaintance with a man the more you learn. The more a woman learns the more clear the man becomes. And we all suffer from intelligence gaps that may not be immediately apparent to others. So over time these gaps begin to show and we find ourselves wondering if said men are suffering from an intelligence leak. When in fact they're probably just becoming more real, exhibiting their flaws for us to knock them off their pedestal with.
Now I wonder if men also find themselves confronted with this disturbing trend? Do they too meet intelligent women only to notice later that there seems to be an inadvertent dumbing down?
Should I refrain from calling this 'Male pattern Stupidity' and err on the side of gender equality and rename it 'Human Pattern Stupidity'?
Saturday, 17 February 2007
As I sit here with my trusty can of flyspray I'm beginning to wonder if there was a declaration of war that I was not properly informed of. Kind of like Pearl Harbour, only in this case it's a matter of Me versus The Insects. Mosquitoes, Bees, Wasps, Fleas that just wont die. They all seem to be on a mission to attack and irritate me beyond all reason.
I think the mosquitoes started it, causing multiple facial deformities in the form of blood-sucking bites. No warning at all! And I was red and lumpy for days, which is never a good look.
Then there must have been a coalition formed with the fleas that just won't die. Because no matter how many times I use flea shampoo, sprays, and collars the fuckers just won't just piss off. I'm beginning to think that cheap supermarket pest control is a bad idea, they're resilient this lot. Though they had better not go celebrating their victory too soon, because they haven't yet experienced the joys of Advantage Flea Control products. Expensive stuff, but that will nuke the bouncy little bastards into oblivion. But unfortunately my war funds are low, so for the moment we're having a stand-off, me with my supermarketbug killing product, them with their defiant refusal to just bloody die already.
I've been having better luck with the Bees and Wasps, who seemed to team-up and join the insect Axis of Insect Evil a few days ago. These tiny flying terrorists have taken to finding their way into the house to terrorize me on average of three times a day. Sometimes it's a brief excursion, flying in just long enough to scare me witless, managing to evade the flyspray. At first I was unaware of their nefarious plans, so many got away unscathed before I could even find the flyspray. I never do remember where I put things. But I'm quickly becoming adept in the art of war, and now sit with the flyspray next to me, waiting patiently for the next raid. On Tuesday I killed six, so 3/4 of a can of flyspray later I'm running low on supplies but counting my victories.
But what I think I really need is some Weapons of Mass Destruction, so I can engage in a little genocide.
After all, a little genocide is no big deal if they started it. Right?