As stated in an earlier post, I will from time to time publish on this blog reviews I've written and posted on my Facebook account. The reason being to make these reviews available to a wider audience than the select group of unfortunates who happen to be my Facebook "friends". Today's review concerns Walter M Miller's classic post-apocalyptic science fiction novel "A Canticle for Liebowitz".
A Canticle for Liebowitz by Walter M Miller
Walter M Miller Jr grew up in the between the wars American South, enlisting in the Army Air Corp in WWII and spending most of his time as a radio operator and gunner. One operation in which he participated was the infamous bombing of the ancient monastary of Monte Cassino in Italy; it was this experience, as well as his encounter with the horrors of war generally, that lead him to write "A Canticle for Leibowitz"
The novel covers a nearly 1800 year time span in which an order of monks adhering to the Rule of Benedict - called the Albertain Order of Leibowitz, named for the great medieval scholar Albertus Magnus, and a fictional scientist-martyr Leibowitz - struggle to preserve the relics of the "great civilisation" destroyed by nuclear war. Their task is rendered next to impossible by the fact that, after civilisation was destroyed, a further cataclysmic event called the Simplification resulted in the systematic annihilation of books, records, and technological implements of every kind. The Order was founded by a scientist named Leibowitz who was mob lynched during the Simplification; but not before he had managed to squirrel away a small collection of precious books and found the Order bearing his name.
The novel is constructed in three parts, the first ocurring approximately 600 years after the nuclear holocaust, the next about 500 years further on, and the final section another half milennium beyond that. In the first section, a rather absurd and hapless novice monk stumbles upon a fallout shelter which, among other things, contains a precious relic written by Leibowitz himself - a shopping list. In the second section, an abbot plagued by doubts and chronic ulcers debates whether to make available to the scientists of the newly emerging civilisations the technological secrets which the Order has preserved for so long. In the third section, a civilisation more advanced than the one destroyed by the nuclear holocaust advances inexoribably to its own horrible fate - but not without the Order managing to make sure a seed of hope survives.
This is a wonderfully told novel full of wit, sarcasm, humour, despair, compassion, and frustration. Having survived the horrors of WWII Miller was desperately concerned that human civilisation was advancing along a path of relentless self-annihilation, heedless of the warnings provided by the carnage of two global conflagrations. Haunting the novel is the unseen (and, from the point of view of the narrative, possibly fictional) personage of Leibowitz: the scientist-martyr who struggled to preserve what was best about civilisation - its accumulated knowledge - all the while knowing this was the very thing that had brought civilisation to ruin. Also haunting the novel is the figure of "the Jew", known as Benjamin bar Joshua, but quite conceivably Lazarus raised from the dead and unable to die. Is he an allegory for anti-Semitic persecution and the appropriation by Christians of Jewish sacred history and heritage? A symbol of human folly? Of sheer, bloody-minded determination? Of the human experience itself, its journey from savagery to civilisation, only to inflict upon itself more savagery?
Miller's placing of the struggle to preserve civilisation within the context of an enclosed monastic order reflects both the historical preservation of Western civilisation by Benedictine monastaries during the Dark Ages, as well as the perenniel tension between the truth of science and the truth of faith. This tension is emblematic of the tension between knowledge and wisdom; and Miller's seemingly gloomy conclusion is nonetheless punctured by the possibility of hope. Perhaps we are doomed to destroy ourselves; but even if we do, it just may be that something of ourselves - some of our greatness that transcends our shame - will survive beyond our annihilation, to be picked up and carried on by whoever comes after us.
A powerful, disturbing, thought-provoking novel, well worth reading and completely relevant in this day and age.
Talk to you soon,
BB
Wednesday, June 02, 2010
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Midsommer Morons
I know this post is going to annoy my Dearly Beloved, but the truth remains that we have very different tastes when it comes to television. I enjoy shows that are interesting and engaging, which entertain and/or inform.
My Dearly Beloved, on the other hand, enjoys crap.
Now, I appreciate that "crap" is not a definitive term; moreover, it's open to claims of subjectivity. So I intend to provide, for your information, a representative sample of my Dearly Beloved's preferred programing choices, just so you can see that I'm being neither imprecise nor biased.
Midsommer Murders
This is the show that defines the whole problem. Originally conceived as a formulaic detective show set in the depths of rural England, it has morphed into a seemingly endless procession of brain destroyingly dull episodes that are absolute clones of one another. The plot premise is essentially hacked out of the same cookie cutter: a series of grisly murders, usually having their origin in some long-suppressed secret/scandal/injustice or pointless rivalry going back centuries, and which can only be solved by the show's central character, Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby.
Fairly bog standard, you might think, and not much to complain about. Except for the following considerations:
Firstly, the action is entirely restricted to a small area centred on the fictional town of Causton, and taking in a series of villages with names like Midsommer Boghouse and Midsommer Flatulence. Now, given that each episode involves at least three murders, and the area of action is confined to about five square miles, this makes Causton and its environs the serial murder capital of the world. Forget Los Angeles; forget London; hell, forget Adelaide! The viewer is expected to believe that in this tiny patch of outback Blighty blood-thirsty psychopaths lurk behind every privet hedge and thatched cottage. And never mind Johannesburg, or Miami, or Rio - if you want to increase the odds of you ending up a toe-tagged corpse on the morgue slab, then the backwaters of the Old Country is where you need to be! Is it just me, or does anyone else find this premise just a tad difficult to believe?
Secondly, and as is de rigeur for formulaic detective shows, the sleuth - in this case, DCI Barnaby - always gets his man. In other words, this is a cop with a greater clearance rate than Sherlock Holmes! Now, making allowances for the genre's conventions, the fact that Barnaby manages to solve multiple murders every episode stretches convention to breaking point. Moreover, he does so in the time-honoured way of all mystery detectives: by using a chain of logic entirely - or mostly - unsupported by evidence; and certainly not the kind of evidence that would stand up in a court of law! But leaving aside that niggling technicality, what I want to know is: how come this guy isn't running Scotland Yard! I mean, really, if you had a country plod who was clearing every case of mass murder that comes his way, you'd make him Chief Commissioner of Something Really Important faster than you could say Fast-track Promotion Program! And don't give me any tosh about Barnbaby wanting to stay in the country, either; that might work for Hamish Macbeth, but that's only because nothing happens in Loch Dubh!
Thirdly, given that the residents are apparently living on the most dangerous patch of dirt on the planet, one has to wonder: why do they stay! I mean, if it was me (and, let's face it, you) who lived in a locale where people were showing up with axes buried in their backs, or as bait for the local fish, on an almost hourly basis, wouldn't you get the hell out? But, no, the stolid yofolks of the Midsommer region aren't going to be driven out of their homes by the fact that home also happens to be lethal! They've got more staying power than super glue. And since the population seems to never diminish despite the onoin slaughter, one can only surmise that it is being constantly replenished by the kind of people who think: oh, well, what's a few murders or the likelihood that our life expectancy will be cut in half really matter? We'll still buy this charming cottage - damn the corpses hanging from the rafters!
Now do you see why I call it Midsommer Morons?
The Bill
I admit that I used to like this program when it first aired on TV. But that was back in the day, when the characters and the storylines were as gritty as the production values, when individuals like Tosh (God rest his tired old soul) recalled the glory days of Bluey (aka Bargearse), and when in many ways the program itself was a commentary on the social decay and dislocation evident in Thatcher's Britain. In other words, it was a piece of telly that both entertained and informed.
And then it turned into a soap opera. Senior officers started shagging junior officers (or the civilian staff attached to the station), gormless vice cops got seduced by the dark side (and/or a sultry vamp) and turned bad, set-piece episodes turned into a never-ending, continuous storyline whose convolutions and contortions got more ridiculous and mind-boggling with every season. In other words, the emphasis switched from the genuinely dramatic to the purely melodramatic. I know cops shag one another (or civilians) and occasionally go bad; but what I am interested in is the humanity involved in and affected by these events, not the "shock-horror" value of the event itself. But that was the nature of the change: we went from examining impacts to being titillated by what the "guv'nor" did next.
Honestly, I was astonished the Minogue sisters didn't make a surprise appearance. And so something that had been good (in the way that only the British can make social drama good) turned into a banal parade of pointless inanity. It was as if the producers (I won't dignify them with the title creators) of Neighbours or Eastenders had taken over the franchise and decided to try and make a previously adult program appeal to people with the emotional depth of tweenies and/or who possessed an IQ of six. The result was the deadliest, dullest program on the box outside anything featuring Eddie McGuire or Sam Newman.
And, yes, I know: they've now gone back and tried to re-capture the spirit of the original by having discrete episodes and adding a bit of depth to the characters. But I'm afraid that it's a case of the mould having been broken and, like Humpty-Dumpty, being unable to be put back together again. Once you've tampered with what was once beautiful, no amount of plastic surgery is going to reconstruct the original. Better just to let the whole thing die a natural death and rest in peace (take note Darryl Somers!).
Rosemary and Thyme
Oooh, here's a tricky question for all those devotees of quality telly. What do you get if you take a pair of second rate actors well past their prime (and who were never much chop to begin with), add a plot premise about as likely as Richard Dawkins finding God, and mix in a series of admittedly picturesque locales designed to distract the viewer's attention from the fact that they're watching utter dross? You guessed it: a batch of Rosemary & Thyme.
And if you think I'm being unduly severe, let me explain the basic storyline to you. Two women (one of whom is supposed to be an ex-cop, but who is about as plausible as Julian Cleary impersonating Conan the Barbarian, and who seems to know sod all about police procedure into the bargain) are partners in a landscaping business that takes them all over the UK and even the Costa del Sol for a couple of episodes. And everywhere they go, every episode, they spend less time discussing geraniums and herbaceous borders (ha! I'll bet you didn't think I knew what they were, did you?) and more time catching the demented killer who has, just coincidentally, chosen to strike while they were in the neighbourhood.
I mean, PUH-LEEZE, how stupid do the clots whose dull minds dreamed up this crap think I am? Okay, I'm prepared to admit that, statistically speaking, it is within the bounds of possibility that a pair of itinerant gardeners could, by chance, happen to be in a certain location when a series of gristly murders takes place. And I'll even accept that those bounds of possibility might be stretched sufficiently to admit of the chance that said gardeners might have the wherewithal to detect and expose the nutbar responsible. But again and again and again - everywhere they go??? As our American cousins are wont to say: gimme a break!
Honestly, these two would have to be the most prolific indirect serial killers in criminal history. And you'd think that bodies appearing everywhere this green-thumbed duo turned up might be bad for business, wouldn't you? You'd expect that people would see them heaving into view over the horizon and, with one voice, would chorus: (expletive deleted) off! But not a bit of it! They're welcomed with open arms - almost as if folks had concluded that their snappy advertising slogan - we'll do your garden while you get done in - was the jolliest jape since Herr Hitler promised Neville Chamberlain that he had no more territorial ambitions in Europe. I've heard of blood and bone being good for the garden, but this is ridiculous!
And while I'm at it, could someone please, please, please explain why it is that all the supposedly diabolical killers this pair encounter never, ever try to kill the only two people who are trying to solve the crime!?! Hollywood aside, it is an established criminological fact that most criminals - even most serial offenders - are decidedly stupid. But this show puts homicidal idiocy in the Dumb and Dumber category! I think even the jerks who make the annual Darwin Award list for the most fatally stupid bonehead maneuver of the year would laugh at the imbecility of these clowns: Ah, duh, he shoulda killed the two chicks in the overalls before killing anyone else...
So there you have it, just a sampler of what I have to put up with for the sake of this marriage. Now, I know what you're going to say - because my Dearly Beloved has already said it. First, that taste is a subjective matter, and, anyway, my Dearly Beloved has to put up with the crap shows I like to watch. And second, that the programs in question involve the suspension of disbelief. I'll address each of these defences in turn.
Whilst I concede that taste is subjective (although having said that, it nonetheless remains true that my taste is impeccable while yours is suspect until proven otherwise), it is also true that I get to watch very few of the shows I like exclusively unless my Dearly Beloved is out of the house. On the other hand, when I stagger home at midnight from another punishing shift at the local convenience store where I hire myself out as the neighbourhood whipping-boy, I frequently have to endure the MM show in silence for ages before my Dearly Beloved goes to bed. And even the faintest suggestion by Yours Truly that perhaps we might watch something a little less aneurysm inducing is greeted by the kind of vigourous protest that, in public, would result in the riot squad being summoned. So it is not the case, in our marriage, that there are swings and roundabouts when it comes to enduring crappy TV imposed by ones life partner.
Second - and I wish I didn't have to keep explaining this - the suspension of disbelief only works when the underlying premise is sufficiently believable in order to facilitate the necessary suspicion of scepticism. In other words, if the audience is initially presented with a scenario so absurd as to be unbelievable, asking them to further suspend incredulity is just a waste of time - and an insult to their intelligence. And don't give me that it's just a story guff, either. As all great speculative fiction writers know, the world in which their characters move and the events occur have to be realistic in order for the speculative element to work. So if you're asking me to believe that a tiny patch of rural England produces more dead bodies per annum than your average Baghdad suburb, I'll be asking you to believe that I'm an alien called WaldkjfhcearubyfbUScfxlmkcn from the planet Aaliruhgfunvareygcfniashef.
The fact that so many people - alas, my Dearly Beloved among them - seem incapable of rasping this concept suggests to me that I might very well get away with my alien identity scam. In which case, have I got a ponzi scheme for you....
Talk to you soon,
BB.
Quote for the Day: Television - a device that permits people who haven't anything to do to watch people who can't do anything. (Fred Allen)
My Dearly Beloved, on the other hand, enjoys crap.
Now, I appreciate that "crap" is not a definitive term; moreover, it's open to claims of subjectivity. So I intend to provide, for your information, a representative sample of my Dearly Beloved's preferred programing choices, just so you can see that I'm being neither imprecise nor biased.
Midsommer Murders
This is the show that defines the whole problem. Originally conceived as a formulaic detective show set in the depths of rural England, it has morphed into a seemingly endless procession of brain destroyingly dull episodes that are absolute clones of one another. The plot premise is essentially hacked out of the same cookie cutter: a series of grisly murders, usually having their origin in some long-suppressed secret/scandal/injustice or pointless rivalry going back centuries, and which can only be solved by the show's central character, Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby.
Fairly bog standard, you might think, and not much to complain about. Except for the following considerations:
Firstly, the action is entirely restricted to a small area centred on the fictional town of Causton, and taking in a series of villages with names like Midsommer Boghouse and Midsommer Flatulence. Now, given that each episode involves at least three murders, and the area of action is confined to about five square miles, this makes Causton and its environs the serial murder capital of the world. Forget Los Angeles; forget London; hell, forget Adelaide! The viewer is expected to believe that in this tiny patch of outback Blighty blood-thirsty psychopaths lurk behind every privet hedge and thatched cottage. And never mind Johannesburg, or Miami, or Rio - if you want to increase the odds of you ending up a toe-tagged corpse on the morgue slab, then the backwaters of the Old Country is where you need to be! Is it just me, or does anyone else find this premise just a tad difficult to believe?
Secondly, and as is de rigeur for formulaic detective shows, the sleuth - in this case, DCI Barnaby - always gets his man. In other words, this is a cop with a greater clearance rate than Sherlock Holmes! Now, making allowances for the genre's conventions, the fact that Barnaby manages to solve multiple murders every episode stretches convention to breaking point. Moreover, he does so in the time-honoured way of all mystery detectives: by using a chain of logic entirely - or mostly - unsupported by evidence; and certainly not the kind of evidence that would stand up in a court of law! But leaving aside that niggling technicality, what I want to know is: how come this guy isn't running Scotland Yard! I mean, really, if you had a country plod who was clearing every case of mass murder that comes his way, you'd make him Chief Commissioner of Something Really Important faster than you could say Fast-track Promotion Program! And don't give me any tosh about Barnbaby wanting to stay in the country, either; that might work for Hamish Macbeth, but that's only because nothing happens in Loch Dubh!
Thirdly, given that the residents are apparently living on the most dangerous patch of dirt on the planet, one has to wonder: why do they stay! I mean, if it was me (and, let's face it, you) who lived in a locale where people were showing up with axes buried in their backs, or as bait for the local fish, on an almost hourly basis, wouldn't you get the hell out? But, no, the stolid yofolks of the Midsommer region aren't going to be driven out of their homes by the fact that home also happens to be lethal! They've got more staying power than super glue. And since the population seems to never diminish despite the onoin slaughter, one can only surmise that it is being constantly replenished by the kind of people who think: oh, well, what's a few murders or the likelihood that our life expectancy will be cut in half really matter? We'll still buy this charming cottage - damn the corpses hanging from the rafters!
Now do you see why I call it Midsommer Morons?
The Bill
I admit that I used to like this program when it first aired on TV. But that was back in the day, when the characters and the storylines were as gritty as the production values, when individuals like Tosh (God rest his tired old soul) recalled the glory days of Bluey (aka Bargearse), and when in many ways the program itself was a commentary on the social decay and dislocation evident in Thatcher's Britain. In other words, it was a piece of telly that both entertained and informed.
And then it turned into a soap opera. Senior officers started shagging junior officers (or the civilian staff attached to the station), gormless vice cops got seduced by the dark side (and/or a sultry vamp) and turned bad, set-piece episodes turned into a never-ending, continuous storyline whose convolutions and contortions got more ridiculous and mind-boggling with every season. In other words, the emphasis switched from the genuinely dramatic to the purely melodramatic. I know cops shag one another (or civilians) and occasionally go bad; but what I am interested in is the humanity involved in and affected by these events, not the "shock-horror" value of the event itself. But that was the nature of the change: we went from examining impacts to being titillated by what the "guv'nor" did next.
Honestly, I was astonished the Minogue sisters didn't make a surprise appearance. And so something that had been good (in the way that only the British can make social drama good) turned into a banal parade of pointless inanity. It was as if the producers (I won't dignify them with the title creators) of Neighbours or Eastenders had taken over the franchise and decided to try and make a previously adult program appeal to people with the emotional depth of tweenies and/or who possessed an IQ of six. The result was the deadliest, dullest program on the box outside anything featuring Eddie McGuire or Sam Newman.
And, yes, I know: they've now gone back and tried to re-capture the spirit of the original by having discrete episodes and adding a bit of depth to the characters. But I'm afraid that it's a case of the mould having been broken and, like Humpty-Dumpty, being unable to be put back together again. Once you've tampered with what was once beautiful, no amount of plastic surgery is going to reconstruct the original. Better just to let the whole thing die a natural death and rest in peace (take note Darryl Somers!).
Rosemary and Thyme
Oooh, here's a tricky question for all those devotees of quality telly. What do you get if you take a pair of second rate actors well past their prime (and who were never much chop to begin with), add a plot premise about as likely as Richard Dawkins finding God, and mix in a series of admittedly picturesque locales designed to distract the viewer's attention from the fact that they're watching utter dross? You guessed it: a batch of Rosemary & Thyme.
And if you think I'm being unduly severe, let me explain the basic storyline to you. Two women (one of whom is supposed to be an ex-cop, but who is about as plausible as Julian Cleary impersonating Conan the Barbarian, and who seems to know sod all about police procedure into the bargain) are partners in a landscaping business that takes them all over the UK and even the Costa del Sol for a couple of episodes. And everywhere they go, every episode, they spend less time discussing geraniums and herbaceous borders (ha! I'll bet you didn't think I knew what they were, did you?) and more time catching the demented killer who has, just coincidentally, chosen to strike while they were in the neighbourhood.
I mean, PUH-LEEZE, how stupid do the clots whose dull minds dreamed up this crap think I am? Okay, I'm prepared to admit that, statistically speaking, it is within the bounds of possibility that a pair of itinerant gardeners could, by chance, happen to be in a certain location when a series of gristly murders takes place. And I'll even accept that those bounds of possibility might be stretched sufficiently to admit of the chance that said gardeners might have the wherewithal to detect and expose the nutbar responsible. But again and again and again - everywhere they go??? As our American cousins are wont to say: gimme a break!
Honestly, these two would have to be the most prolific indirect serial killers in criminal history. And you'd think that bodies appearing everywhere this green-thumbed duo turned up might be bad for business, wouldn't you? You'd expect that people would see them heaving into view over the horizon and, with one voice, would chorus: (expletive deleted) off! But not a bit of it! They're welcomed with open arms - almost as if folks had concluded that their snappy advertising slogan - we'll do your garden while you get done in - was the jolliest jape since Herr Hitler promised Neville Chamberlain that he had no more territorial ambitions in Europe. I've heard of blood and bone being good for the garden, but this is ridiculous!
And while I'm at it, could someone please, please, please explain why it is that all the supposedly diabolical killers this pair encounter never, ever try to kill the only two people who are trying to solve the crime!?! Hollywood aside, it is an established criminological fact that most criminals - even most serial offenders - are decidedly stupid. But this show puts homicidal idiocy in the Dumb and Dumber category! I think even the jerks who make the annual Darwin Award list for the most fatally stupid bonehead maneuver of the year would laugh at the imbecility of these clowns: Ah, duh, he shoulda killed the two chicks in the overalls before killing anyone else...
***
So there you have it, just a sampler of what I have to put up with for the sake of this marriage. Now, I know what you're going to say - because my Dearly Beloved has already said it. First, that taste is a subjective matter, and, anyway, my Dearly Beloved has to put up with the crap shows I like to watch. And second, that the programs in question involve the suspension of disbelief. I'll address each of these defences in turn.
Whilst I concede that taste is subjective (although having said that, it nonetheless remains true that my taste is impeccable while yours is suspect until proven otherwise), it is also true that I get to watch very few of the shows I like exclusively unless my Dearly Beloved is out of the house. On the other hand, when I stagger home at midnight from another punishing shift at the local convenience store where I hire myself out as the neighbourhood whipping-boy, I frequently have to endure the MM show in silence for ages before my Dearly Beloved goes to bed. And even the faintest suggestion by Yours Truly that perhaps we might watch something a little less aneurysm inducing is greeted by the kind of vigourous protest that, in public, would result in the riot squad being summoned. So it is not the case, in our marriage, that there are swings and roundabouts when it comes to enduring crappy TV imposed by ones life partner.
Second - and I wish I didn't have to keep explaining this - the suspension of disbelief only works when the underlying premise is sufficiently believable in order to facilitate the necessary suspicion of scepticism. In other words, if the audience is initially presented with a scenario so absurd as to be unbelievable, asking them to further suspend incredulity is just a waste of time - and an insult to their intelligence. And don't give me that it's just a story guff, either. As all great speculative fiction writers know, the world in which their characters move and the events occur have to be realistic in order for the speculative element to work. So if you're asking me to believe that a tiny patch of rural England produces more dead bodies per annum than your average Baghdad suburb, I'll be asking you to believe that I'm an alien called WaldkjfhcearubyfbUScfxlmkcn from the planet Aaliruhgfunvareygcfniashef.
The fact that so many people - alas, my Dearly Beloved among them - seem incapable of rasping this concept suggests to me that I might very well get away with my alien identity scam. In which case, have I got a ponzi scheme for you....
Talk to you soon,
BB.
Quote for the Day: Television - a device that permits people who haven't anything to do to watch people who can't do anything. (Fred Allen)
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Far From The Madding Tools
I think even the most jaded observer of this irregular column will confess that I am nothing if not a sensitive and sympathetic chronicler of the infinite variety of human tools who walk through the door of the store where, a couple of nights a week, I engage in an elaborate charade of employment. I don't blame tools for being tools: I don't ascribe to them genetic defects, neither do I suggest their parents shared a degree of relationship closer than that which you'd typically find in, say, Arkansas or far north Queensland. No, I am conscientious and kind: tools are just tools, and I deal with them in a responsible and grown-up manner.
Until now, that is. I, dear reader, have had a gut full. And it's not just because I'm writing this at the end of a long and tiring day that has left me exhausted and cranky. On the contrary, I wake up exhausted and cranky, so that's no excuse. Neither have I lost my instincts toward the charitable and decided to become a born-again bastard; there are plenty of people out there who will suggest that I have been doing that my whole life long.
No, the plain old simple truth is that I'm fed up and I've had enough. The tools have worn me down; my patience is at an end, kaput, done, gone. I'm as mad as hell, and I've decided that attack is the best form of defence; so I'm going to name and shame. Well, I'm going to describe and shame, if you want to know the complete truth. I'm going to tell you all about the kinds of tools who walk into the store, and who blight my shifts with their ineffable toolishness.
So if you find yourself recognising yourself in the following descriptions, I have only one thing to say: shame on you! Well, okay, two things: shame on you; and sod off. I don't want to see your tool-benighted faces any more. I've only got nine or so months to go before I get out of having to do this job, and I'd like to pass it with an absolute minimum of frustration, annoyance, and general f*ing about caused by your toolish selves. And by absolute minimum, I mean none at all. So pay close attention to what follows; you may be in it. And if you are, you'd better stay far, far away from me!
No IDers
Naturally, being responsible corporate citizens, the multinational corporation by whom I am ultimately employed abides by Australian law and declines to sell cigarettes and smoking-related products to persons under the age of 18. Indeed, its sales staff are required to ask for ID when they have reason to believe the putative purchaser may be under the legal age. And so it comes as no surprise that Yours Truly has his fair share of annoyingly baby-faced adults from whom he must ask ID because they look under age; that, and the obvious under agers who are just trying it on because they think that wearing a shirt with a company logo embroidered in it automatically makes you a moron.
It is from both categories that the No IDers spring, and it's difficult to decide which of the two are more pathetic. From the legally-aged but disgustingly youthful brigade you often get protestations that they are over-age, and besides, they've always bought cigarettes here and they've never been asked for ID before. They might be right on both accounts; but the thing is, once ID has been asked for, it must be produced before the sale can proceed. Yes, sir, it might be bullshit, but it's the law. Yes, madam, I know you may be old enough to have children, but around here the age at which people start having kiddies is also somewhat below the legal age of consent. And anyhoo, you might have previously purchased your daily dose of throat cancer from this store, but you haven't purchased it from me. And I'm the one asking: so cough up or step off.
The under agers usually try to bluff their way out of the situation - yes, mate, I am for f*ing real - and then try and get one of their mates who happens to be above age to use their ID. Except that, once it is explained to aforesaid mate that since he/she is the one producing the ID, he/she is the one who'll have to pay for the cigarettes (and once again, yes mate, I am for f*ing real), they baulk at the near king's ransom it costs to indulge the nicotine habit these days and tell their under age mate to take a hike. Which usually results in a mouthful of deleted expletives heading my way from the frustrated law breaker; but hey, what the hell do I care?
But the thing that elevates (or should that be relegates?) No IDers from annoying inconveniences to outright tools is the little ritual they then perform in yet another attempt to get the cigarettes without having to show proof of age. Having been busted with no ID, they proceed to go out to their cars, where they make an unconvincing attempt to look as though they're going through their glove box, looking under the seats, and generally investigating every nook and cranny in search of the missing ID. How unconvincing is this display, you wonder? Put it this way: my attempts to look as though I give a toss about customer service are more convincing!
Anyhoo, having wasted another five minutes, the No IDer then returns to the store and explains that they must have left their ID at home. In other words, they expect me to say: Oh, that changes everything! Of course you can have some cigarettes! Except, of course, that I don't, much to their dismay and puzzlement. But here's the interesting point: having confessed that they don't have ID with which to buy cigarettes, the No IDer then confesses to being in possession of, and driving, a motor vehicle while not having their driver's licence on their person! And yes, folks, you're not mistaken: driving a car while without a driver's licence is illegal. These people are such tools they're willing to confess to one illegality in order to try and co-opt me into perpetrating another.
Excuse me, but I don't believe my name changed to Cletus, nor did I suddenly take to wearing blue overalls and a straw hat, or develop a liking for pork belly and Biblical literalism. Ergo, I'm not a moron, you moron! But, try as I may to dissuade the No IDer from their particular brand of Tom Toolery, they continue to try it on in the vain hope of feeding their nicotine addiction. The only question that remains is: did they take up smoking because they were born congenital tools to begin with; or did smoking, insidiously and by degrees, turn them into idiocy's equivalent of the Bride of Chuckie?
PIN Heads
The next category of tool to plague my life is the PIN Head. These are the people who step up to the counter, usually during a rush period, and, try as they might, can either not remember the PIN number to their cash/credit card, or who repeatedly get it wrong. The end result is a queue that started out long but grows to proportions so large passers-by join it because they think its the line to get into Sexpo, a surprise discount give-away, or both.
It used to be that I had some sympathy for PIN Heads. Afterall, who among us in this digital age of swipe cards, security access, and internet banking isn't plagued by an ever-expanding list of PIN numbers, personal ID codes, and passwords? Afterall, security experts tell us to never use the same PIN number or identification code twice, don't they? But what they don't tell us is how we're supposed to avoid the inevitable embolism that results from trying to keep track of all the numbers, letters, and combinations of same we're required to use in order to prevent ourselves from being ripped of or mistaken for someone we're not. Because we can't, not unless we write them all down - and we're not allowed to do that either, are we????
So, anyhoo, I used to sympathise. But not anymore! Because the thing I've noticed about the PIN Heads is that it's the same people every time! Whether it's the little old lady who isn't functioning properly because she hasn't had her recommended daily dose of G&T, or the party-too-hard twenty-something for whom life outside a rave, five cans of Red Bull, and a blister-pack of little yellow tabs resembles a permanent exercise in somnambulism, the PIN Head can be relied upon to turn up at the most inconvenient moment possible and turn what had been a typically mundane and mind-numbing shift into living hell.
Because, of course, the PIN will strike out twice and then come to the dilemma of trying to decide whether or not to risk a third attempt at getting their PIN number right (and potentially voiding their card) or else go to the ATM and get some cash with which to pay for their purchases. Except, of course, the ATM neds a PIN number in order to dispense the bucks, doesn't it? So that means the PIN Head will just dither in an ever-increasing welter of anxiety, not knowing what to do. Meanwhile, the other customers start getting impatient as the mood in the store deteriorates from bored indifference to hostile aggravation.
Oooooh, you can just feel the love. And you all know at whom it's directed, don't you? WRONG! Not at the PIN Head, but at Yours Truly. As if I had any say in the fact that our customers belong to various sub-species of tool! Believe me, I wish I could restrict our clientele to the members of MENSA. But I don't have that kind of power. I wonder who does...
Wrong Numbers
This particular tool used to be relatively rare, but has now grown to plague proportions. Indeed, so ubiquitous have they become that I'm thinking of calling in the exterminators to deal with the problem. Yes, I am aware that having this variety of tool eradicated will qualify - just - as mass murder; but I'm sure that, given the inestimable benefits to humanity to be derived from their elimination, any trial of Yours Truly would result in triumphant acquittal.
The variety of tool known as Wrong Numbers are characterised by a propensity to confuse the dollar amount on the bowser with the litres readout whenever they put fuel in their car. I know, I know: of course it's absolutely reasonable for anyone to confuse the spinning numbers next to the large "$" sign with the spinning numbers next to the large "litres" sign. I mean, what, afterall, is there to tell you that one indicates the amount of money you're spending, while the other details the amount of fuel you've pumped into the tank? It's not as if there's a large "$" sign for one and a large "lites" sign for the other! Oh, wait, yes, there is...
Grrrrrrrrrrrrr! It's bad enough when this happens once on a shift, because invariably the tool, having confused the cost indicator for the fuel indicator, has also completely ignored the fact that we're now in the 21st century and that a $20 purchase will not result in 33.24 litres of petrol. And so into the shop they blithely waltz, only to discover their error and the fact that they don't have enough money and that - surprise! surprise! - they've left their bloody credit card at home. Which means they then have to fill out a whole lot of paperwork giving their details, offering proof of identity (another occasion on which the No IDer makes an appearance), and committing to making repayment within 24 hours (in default of which they get a nasty phone call from the wallopers). Yours Truly then has to record the whole thing as a drive off, and fill in sundry other bits and pieces in order to assure my employer that I haven't actually recorded a false entry and bunked off with the cash myself.
So, as you can see, it's an administrative nightmare. But when it happens not once, or twice, but three times on the same shift (a shift, incidentally, made all the more wonderful by system failures and the usual procession of dweebs and delinquents who make my life the existential joyfest that it is) you'll appreciate the desperate need I experience to strangle the crap out of the next person who even speaks to me. And this need is made all the more urgent by the fact that the Wrong Numbers tool invariably argues with you, insisting instead that they were looking at the right indicator and that my computer screen must be wrong. Even when I walk them out to the bowser and show them that I'm not making a mistake (achieved by pointing out to them the "$" and "litres" signs and explaining the difference) some of them still insist that they were not mistaken and that the "computer" must have somehow "changed" the amounts!
And that, Your Honour, is when I went berserk and ripped their tonsils out through their nostrils...
Be Seeing You
In many respects, the Be Seeing You tool is the worst one of all, because you don't even get an inkling that you're in their presence until it's far too late. And that's because this variety of tool doesn't expose themself until after they've swiped their card in the reader and try to enter their PIN number. No, I know what you're thinking; but it's not No IDer syndrome again. These tools know their PIN numbers all too well - they just can't see the keypad in order to enter the wretched thing!
No kidding, this is the tool who drives to the store, fills up with petrol, and then can't enter their PIN number because they've left their glasses at home! Yes, let me say that again: these tools have driven their car without being able to see further than the distance between their face and the card reader which is right there in front of them on the counter! Which part of this proposition is the more frightening, I wonder: the fact that these tools get behind the wheel of a motor vehicle to begin with, already a dangerous thing in itself; or that they do so thinking that it's okay to drive said vehicle while possessing less visual capacity than Mr Magoo!
I jest not, ladies and gentlemen, watching these tools as they myopically fumble with the card reader and ask if they've pushed a 9 or entered their account type is more terrifying than the prospect of spending eternity locked in a room with Eddie Maguire, Kyle Sandilands, and Pauline Hanson while endless repeats of Buffy the Tool Slayer play in the background. Because you just know these visually challenged morons are going to repeat this behaviour over and over again. No, it's not just occasional forgetfulness or a "senior's moment" - they're judgementally deficient, permanently!
I'm just waiting for the day when a car comes sailing through the front door and, before I can think: shit! I'm being ram-raided and try and call the cops, some tool sticks his head out the drivers side window and asks if this is the car wash entrance. One certainly wonders what, in their befuddled state, they think traffic lights are: pretty, twinkly lights in the sky, maybe? I tell you, it gives me the shudders...
So there are, another run down of the weird and wonderful world of tools who walk into a convenience store on a regular basis. And it doesn't end there. But that's a rant for another day...
Talk to you soon,
BB
Thought for the Day: Hell is other people. (Jean-Paul Sartre)
Until now, that is. I, dear reader, have had a gut full. And it's not just because I'm writing this at the end of a long and tiring day that has left me exhausted and cranky. On the contrary, I wake up exhausted and cranky, so that's no excuse. Neither have I lost my instincts toward the charitable and decided to become a born-again bastard; there are plenty of people out there who will suggest that I have been doing that my whole life long.
No, the plain old simple truth is that I'm fed up and I've had enough. The tools have worn me down; my patience is at an end, kaput, done, gone. I'm as mad as hell, and I've decided that attack is the best form of defence; so I'm going to name and shame. Well, I'm going to describe and shame, if you want to know the complete truth. I'm going to tell you all about the kinds of tools who walk into the store, and who blight my shifts with their ineffable toolishness.
So if you find yourself recognising yourself in the following descriptions, I have only one thing to say: shame on you! Well, okay, two things: shame on you; and sod off. I don't want to see your tool-benighted faces any more. I've only got nine or so months to go before I get out of having to do this job, and I'd like to pass it with an absolute minimum of frustration, annoyance, and general f*ing about caused by your toolish selves. And by absolute minimum, I mean none at all. So pay close attention to what follows; you may be in it. And if you are, you'd better stay far, far away from me!
No IDers
Naturally, being responsible corporate citizens, the multinational corporation by whom I am ultimately employed abides by Australian law and declines to sell cigarettes and smoking-related products to persons under the age of 18. Indeed, its sales staff are required to ask for ID when they have reason to believe the putative purchaser may be under the legal age. And so it comes as no surprise that Yours Truly has his fair share of annoyingly baby-faced adults from whom he must ask ID because they look under age; that, and the obvious under agers who are just trying it on because they think that wearing a shirt with a company logo embroidered in it automatically makes you a moron.
It is from both categories that the No IDers spring, and it's difficult to decide which of the two are more pathetic. From the legally-aged but disgustingly youthful brigade you often get protestations that they are over-age, and besides, they've always bought cigarettes here and they've never been asked for ID before. They might be right on both accounts; but the thing is, once ID has been asked for, it must be produced before the sale can proceed. Yes, sir, it might be bullshit, but it's the law. Yes, madam, I know you may be old enough to have children, but around here the age at which people start having kiddies is also somewhat below the legal age of consent. And anyhoo, you might have previously purchased your daily dose of throat cancer from this store, but you haven't purchased it from me. And I'm the one asking: so cough up or step off.
The under agers usually try to bluff their way out of the situation - yes, mate, I am for f*ing real - and then try and get one of their mates who happens to be above age to use their ID. Except that, once it is explained to aforesaid mate that since he/she is the one producing the ID, he/she is the one who'll have to pay for the cigarettes (and once again, yes mate, I am for f*ing real), they baulk at the near king's ransom it costs to indulge the nicotine habit these days and tell their under age mate to take a hike. Which usually results in a mouthful of deleted expletives heading my way from the frustrated law breaker; but hey, what the hell do I care?
But the thing that elevates (or should that be relegates?) No IDers from annoying inconveniences to outright tools is the little ritual they then perform in yet another attempt to get the cigarettes without having to show proof of age. Having been busted with no ID, they proceed to go out to their cars, where they make an unconvincing attempt to look as though they're going through their glove box, looking under the seats, and generally investigating every nook and cranny in search of the missing ID. How unconvincing is this display, you wonder? Put it this way: my attempts to look as though I give a toss about customer service are more convincing!
Anyhoo, having wasted another five minutes, the No IDer then returns to the store and explains that they must have left their ID at home. In other words, they expect me to say: Oh, that changes everything! Of course you can have some cigarettes! Except, of course, that I don't, much to their dismay and puzzlement. But here's the interesting point: having confessed that they don't have ID with which to buy cigarettes, the No IDer then confesses to being in possession of, and driving, a motor vehicle while not having their driver's licence on their person! And yes, folks, you're not mistaken: driving a car while without a driver's licence is illegal. These people are such tools they're willing to confess to one illegality in order to try and co-opt me into perpetrating another.
Excuse me, but I don't believe my name changed to Cletus, nor did I suddenly take to wearing blue overalls and a straw hat, or develop a liking for pork belly and Biblical literalism. Ergo, I'm not a moron, you moron! But, try as I may to dissuade the No IDer from their particular brand of Tom Toolery, they continue to try it on in the vain hope of feeding their nicotine addiction. The only question that remains is: did they take up smoking because they were born congenital tools to begin with; or did smoking, insidiously and by degrees, turn them into idiocy's equivalent of the Bride of Chuckie?
PIN Heads
The next category of tool to plague my life is the PIN Head. These are the people who step up to the counter, usually during a rush period, and, try as they might, can either not remember the PIN number to their cash/credit card, or who repeatedly get it wrong. The end result is a queue that started out long but grows to proportions so large passers-by join it because they think its the line to get into Sexpo, a surprise discount give-away, or both.
It used to be that I had some sympathy for PIN Heads. Afterall, who among us in this digital age of swipe cards, security access, and internet banking isn't plagued by an ever-expanding list of PIN numbers, personal ID codes, and passwords? Afterall, security experts tell us to never use the same PIN number or identification code twice, don't they? But what they don't tell us is how we're supposed to avoid the inevitable embolism that results from trying to keep track of all the numbers, letters, and combinations of same we're required to use in order to prevent ourselves from being ripped of or mistaken for someone we're not. Because we can't, not unless we write them all down - and we're not allowed to do that either, are we????
So, anyhoo, I used to sympathise. But not anymore! Because the thing I've noticed about the PIN Heads is that it's the same people every time! Whether it's the little old lady who isn't functioning properly because she hasn't had her recommended daily dose of G&T, or the party-too-hard twenty-something for whom life outside a rave, five cans of Red Bull, and a blister-pack of little yellow tabs resembles a permanent exercise in somnambulism, the PIN Head can be relied upon to turn up at the most inconvenient moment possible and turn what had been a typically mundane and mind-numbing shift into living hell.
Because, of course, the PIN will strike out twice and then come to the dilemma of trying to decide whether or not to risk a third attempt at getting their PIN number right (and potentially voiding their card) or else go to the ATM and get some cash with which to pay for their purchases. Except, of course, the ATM neds a PIN number in order to dispense the bucks, doesn't it? So that means the PIN Head will just dither in an ever-increasing welter of anxiety, not knowing what to do. Meanwhile, the other customers start getting impatient as the mood in the store deteriorates from bored indifference to hostile aggravation.
Oooooh, you can just feel the love. And you all know at whom it's directed, don't you? WRONG! Not at the PIN Head, but at Yours Truly. As if I had any say in the fact that our customers belong to various sub-species of tool! Believe me, I wish I could restrict our clientele to the members of MENSA. But I don't have that kind of power. I wonder who does...
Wrong Numbers
This particular tool used to be relatively rare, but has now grown to plague proportions. Indeed, so ubiquitous have they become that I'm thinking of calling in the exterminators to deal with the problem. Yes, I am aware that having this variety of tool eradicated will qualify - just - as mass murder; but I'm sure that, given the inestimable benefits to humanity to be derived from their elimination, any trial of Yours Truly would result in triumphant acquittal.
The variety of tool known as Wrong Numbers are characterised by a propensity to confuse the dollar amount on the bowser with the litres readout whenever they put fuel in their car. I know, I know: of course it's absolutely reasonable for anyone to confuse the spinning numbers next to the large "$" sign with the spinning numbers next to the large "litres" sign. I mean, what, afterall, is there to tell you that one indicates the amount of money you're spending, while the other details the amount of fuel you've pumped into the tank? It's not as if there's a large "$" sign for one and a large "lites" sign for the other! Oh, wait, yes, there is...
Grrrrrrrrrrrrr! It's bad enough when this happens once on a shift, because invariably the tool, having confused the cost indicator for the fuel indicator, has also completely ignored the fact that we're now in the 21st century and that a $20 purchase will not result in 33.24 litres of petrol. And so into the shop they blithely waltz, only to discover their error and the fact that they don't have enough money and that - surprise! surprise! - they've left their bloody credit card at home. Which means they then have to fill out a whole lot of paperwork giving their details, offering proof of identity (another occasion on which the No IDer makes an appearance), and committing to making repayment within 24 hours (in default of which they get a nasty phone call from the wallopers). Yours Truly then has to record the whole thing as a drive off, and fill in sundry other bits and pieces in order to assure my employer that I haven't actually recorded a false entry and bunked off with the cash myself.
So, as you can see, it's an administrative nightmare. But when it happens not once, or twice, but three times on the same shift (a shift, incidentally, made all the more wonderful by system failures and the usual procession of dweebs and delinquents who make my life the existential joyfest that it is) you'll appreciate the desperate need I experience to strangle the crap out of the next person who even speaks to me. And this need is made all the more urgent by the fact that the Wrong Numbers tool invariably argues with you, insisting instead that they were looking at the right indicator and that my computer screen must be wrong. Even when I walk them out to the bowser and show them that I'm not making a mistake (achieved by pointing out to them the "$" and "litres" signs and explaining the difference) some of them still insist that they were not mistaken and that the "computer" must have somehow "changed" the amounts!
And that, Your Honour, is when I went berserk and ripped their tonsils out through their nostrils...
Be Seeing You
In many respects, the Be Seeing You tool is the worst one of all, because you don't even get an inkling that you're in their presence until it's far too late. And that's because this variety of tool doesn't expose themself until after they've swiped their card in the reader and try to enter their PIN number. No, I know what you're thinking; but it's not No IDer syndrome again. These tools know their PIN numbers all too well - they just can't see the keypad in order to enter the wretched thing!
No kidding, this is the tool who drives to the store, fills up with petrol, and then can't enter their PIN number because they've left their glasses at home! Yes, let me say that again: these tools have driven their car without being able to see further than the distance between their face and the card reader which is right there in front of them on the counter! Which part of this proposition is the more frightening, I wonder: the fact that these tools get behind the wheel of a motor vehicle to begin with, already a dangerous thing in itself; or that they do so thinking that it's okay to drive said vehicle while possessing less visual capacity than Mr Magoo!
I jest not, ladies and gentlemen, watching these tools as they myopically fumble with the card reader and ask if they've pushed a 9 or entered their account type is more terrifying than the prospect of spending eternity locked in a room with Eddie Maguire, Kyle Sandilands, and Pauline Hanson while endless repeats of Buffy the Tool Slayer play in the background. Because you just know these visually challenged morons are going to repeat this behaviour over and over again. No, it's not just occasional forgetfulness or a "senior's moment" - they're judgementally deficient, permanently!
I'm just waiting for the day when a car comes sailing through the front door and, before I can think: shit! I'm being ram-raided and try and call the cops, some tool sticks his head out the drivers side window and asks if this is the car wash entrance. One certainly wonders what, in their befuddled state, they think traffic lights are: pretty, twinkly lights in the sky, maybe? I tell you, it gives me the shudders...
So there are, another run down of the weird and wonderful world of tools who walk into a convenience store on a regular basis. And it doesn't end there. But that's a rant for another day...
Talk to you soon,
BB
Thought for the Day: Hell is other people. (Jean-Paul Sartre)
Monday, January 25, 2010
There's a Moose Loose in the Hoose
I have a confession to make: this week, I have been killing other living beings.
Now, before you reach for your mobile phones to start calling the police, let me clarify. The living beings I have been killing are mice.
This is the second infestation of mice we've had in the last six months. It's a matter of disagreement between my Dearly Beloved and I as to their origin: she insists that there's been a mice plague this year and the little buggers are sneaking into the house by the various devious ways known only to mice; whereas I am convinced that we've been transporting them to our house via the tons of stuff we've lugged from her mother's house now that her mum has moved into a retirement home. My conviction is sustained by the fact that mum-in-law lived on a semi-rural property with plenty of acreage and lots of long grass and sheds - in other words, all the things that mice love. And there has, in fact, been plenty of mouse-related activity at her house of late. Moreover, both appearances of mice in our humble abode have coincided with occasions when we have transported stuff from MIL's digs to ours. Until we started doing so, we had no trouble with mice at all; now we've had them twice in 12 months. QED.
But how, I hear you ask, have they ended up at casa nostra? Quite simply, the same way that mice stow away in ships' holds and planes' cargo bays and cars' luggage boots. On at least two occasions when we've carried things from MIL's place to ours, we've also carried mice, secreted away in whatever nooks and crannies mice can find in bags, containers, furnishings and fittings. And once at our place, they've fanned out to locate all the wall-spaces, skirting-board gaps, and hidden thoroughfares our little home has to offer.
So...we've had rodents in our nest, and it has fallen to Yours Truly to exterminate the unwelcome guests. Not that I volunteered for the job, you understand. It's just that my Dearly Beloved has been so catatonic with fear that I've simply had no choice.
Actually, catatonic is the wrong word. Hysterical would be a more accurate description. Except hysteria doesn't quite capture the paroxysms of screaming, jumping-on-the-furniture, climbing-up-the-walls frenzy that is evoked in my Dearly Beloved at even the hint of a suspicion that she's seen a mouse. Indeed, she doesn't need to actually see a mouse - just catching sight of a drift of dog hair wafting across the floor is enough to send her spiralling into a whirlpool of panic that makes an anxiety attack look like the acme of calm serenity.
No kidding, I always thought that old stereotype of women standing on the kitchen table and shrieking their lungs out at the first sign of a mouse was just a tired old sexist caricature from 50s TV shows. Little did I know that the spirit of Bewitched is alive and well in my life-partner!
Anyhoo, this little black duck has been stuck with the job of dealing with our unwelcome house guests. Not that I was anticipating much trouble. A few mouse traps, some bait, and WHAM! Dead mice, solved problem.
Not so fast, smart guy! No matter what I tried, I couldn't catch any mice. Which didn't mean the cunning little sods were staying away from the baits - they were stealing them without tripping the traps! Didn't matter what I tried - cheese, ham, peanut butter - the furry blighters were just waltzing up to the bait trays and swiping whatever was on offer. Smorgasbord for mice!
I was explaining all this to my brother and bemoaning the fate that had me encountering the world's first species of mice with an IQ, when he laughed and suggested I try Cheetos Cheese and Bacon Balls. I looked at him like he'd just turned into an alien who'd slipped through a crack in the space-time continuum and landed unexpectedly in my lounge-room; but he insisted that he'd had experience with the anti-rodent capacity of Cheetos and assured me of their efficacy.
Well, it's a
n understatement to say I was reluctant to try this proffered solution, especially since all my previous baits had been the result of "expert" advice from various people who assured me of the mouse-killing power of their favoured lure. But with the mice becoming so bold as to start making appearances while we were still awake, and with my Dearly Beloved's caterwauling becoming ever more ear-splitting as a consequence, I was desperate. So the next time I went within cooee of a store, I grabbed a bag of Cheetos and set my traps.
Well, shut my mouth and stuff me full of chitlins if they didn't work a treat! Within 48 hours, every last one was defunctus est. And this has happened twice now: both times the mice have appeared the Cheetos have cleaned them up faster than you could say bubonic plague. I'd be sitting in the lounge watching the TV and there would be this distant snap followed by a quiet and short-lived thrashing. I'd wander over to one of the traps to discover a mouse wedged by the trap arm in the cold embrace of rodent death. No mouse could resist the Cheetos; no mouse could escape the fate held in store for them.
Now, before you reach for your mobile phones to start calling the police, let me clarify. The living beings I have been killing are mice.
This is the second infestation of mice we've had in the last six months. It's a matter of disagreement between my Dearly Beloved and I as to their origin: she insists that there's been a mice plague this year and the little buggers are sneaking into the house by the various devious ways known only to mice; whereas I am convinced that we've been transporting them to our house via the tons of stuff we've lugged from her mother's house now that her mum has moved into a retirement home. My conviction is sustained by the fact that mum-in-law lived on a semi-rural property with plenty of acreage and lots of long grass and sheds - in other words, all the things that mice love. And there has, in fact, been plenty of mouse-related activity at her house of late. Moreover, both appearances of mice in our humble abode have coincided with occasions when we have transported stuff from MIL's digs to ours. Until we started doing so, we had no trouble with mice at all; now we've had them twice in 12 months. QED.
But how, I hear you ask, have they ended up at casa nostra? Quite simply, the same way that mice stow away in ships' holds and planes' cargo bays and cars' luggage boots. On at least two occasions when we've carried things from MIL's place to ours, we've also carried mice, secreted away in whatever nooks and crannies mice can find in bags, containers, furnishings and fittings. And once at our place, they've fanned out to locate all the wall-spaces, skirting-board gaps, and hidden thoroughfares our little home has to offer.
So...we've had rodents in our nest, and it has fallen to Yours Truly to exterminate the unwelcome guests. Not that I volunteered for the job, you understand. It's just that my Dearly Beloved has been so catatonic with fear that I've simply had no choice.
Actually, catatonic is the wrong word. Hysterical would be a more accurate description. Except hysteria doesn't quite capture the paroxysms of screaming, jumping-on-the-furniture, climbing-up-the-walls frenzy that is evoked in my Dearly Beloved at even the hint of a suspicion that she's seen a mouse. Indeed, she doesn't need to actually see a mouse - just catching sight of a drift of dog hair wafting across the floor is enough to send her spiralling into a whirlpool of panic that makes an anxiety attack look like the acme of calm serenity.
No kidding, I always thought that old stereotype of women standing on the kitchen table and shrieking their lungs out at the first sign of a mouse was just a tired old sexist caricature from 50s TV shows. Little did I know that the spirit of Bewitched is alive and well in my life-partner!
Anyhoo, this little black duck has been stuck with the job of dealing with our unwelcome house guests. Not that I was anticipating much trouble. A few mouse traps, some bait, and WHAM! Dead mice, solved problem.
Not so fast, smart guy! No matter what I tried, I couldn't catch any mice. Which didn't mean the cunning little sods were staying away from the baits - they were stealing them without tripping the traps! Didn't matter what I tried - cheese, ham, peanut butter - the furry blighters were just waltzing up to the bait trays and swiping whatever was on offer. Smorgasbord for mice!
I was explaining all this to my brother and bemoaning the fate that had me encountering the world's first species of mice with an IQ, when he laughed and suggested I try Cheetos Cheese and Bacon Balls. I looked at him like he'd just turned into an alien who'd slipped through a crack in the space-time continuum and landed unexpectedly in my lounge-room; but he insisted that he'd had experience with the anti-rodent capacity of Cheetos and assured me of their efficacy.
Well, it's a
n understatement to say I was reluctant to try this proffered solution, especially since all my previous baits had been the result of "expert" advice from various people who assured me of the mouse-killing power of their favoured lure. But with the mice becoming so bold as to start making appearances while we were still awake, and with my Dearly Beloved's caterwauling becoming ever more ear-splitting as a consequence, I was desperate. So the next time I went within cooee of a store, I grabbed a bag of Cheetos and set my traps.Well, shut my mouth and stuff me full of chitlins if they didn't work a treat! Within 48 hours, every last one was defunctus est. And this has happened twice now: both times the mice have appeared the Cheetos have cleaned them up faster than you could say bubonic plague. I'd be sitting in the lounge watching the TV and there would be this distant snap followed by a quiet and short-lived thrashing. I'd wander over to one of the traps to discover a mouse wedged by the trap arm in the cold embrace of rodent death. No mouse could resist the Cheetos; no mouse could escape the fate held in store for them.
I'll confess that I was delighted with the results, not least because it put my Dearly Beloved at ease. But I'll also admit that there was an aspect of me that was anything but elated to be killing mice. As mice go, these guys I was slaughtering were actually handsome little chaps, with soft light brown fur and small dark eyes. I could see why mice feature so often as positive characters in children's literature; there was nothing obviously nasty about these mice - as I say, they were handsome little chaps.
But perhaps the most poignant moment occurred on the occasion when I heard that sharp, significant snap! one day and went to investigate. On the kitchen floor lay a little mouse; instead of being pinned by the bar and having his spine broken, he'd tried to pull out of the way and been brained by the bar as its swung downward in its deathly arc. He lay on his side, a small halo of blood around his head - a sad, touching little sight. In that moment, the immediacy of death bore down on me; it occurred to me that we humans are just like mice, not knowing that we play within the jaws of a trap that could wipe us out in an instant. We have the power of death over mice; other things - sometimes even mice - have the power of death over us.
But now the second batch have been duly exterminated, the thing that puzzles me is the amount of mouse dirt these critters leave behind. I mean, they must be constantly shitting themselves to judge by the amount of crap they leave in their wake. Mind you, the sound of my Dearly Beloved's screaming would be enough to turn a commando's bowels to water; maybe the mice just copped an earful of her ear-splitting screeching and it had a permanent effect on their innards. In any event, clearing up the mess afterwards is a worse job than prising their bodies out of the traps and dumping the corpses in the garbage bin!
Anyhoo, we are mice-free for the time being - pending, that is, the transport of any more stuff from MIL's house to ours, no matter what my Dearly Beloved says! I just hope that's the last we see of them, too; I can think of much better uses to which to put Cheetos than feeding them to mice.
Talk to you soon,
BB
Quote of the Day: Hunting - the most effective way of getting rid of vermin, provided a sufficient number of them fall off their horses and break their necks. (Hugh Leonard)
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Under Review
Since it's Christmas, and since Christmas is - allegedly - the season of giving, I thought I wouldn't be a total grouch and would join in the spirit of the season by giving you my thoughts on a few books I've read recently. These reviews have originally appeared on my Facebook page, but since I don't let any old riff-raff be my Facebook friend (you have to be special riff-raff indeed to be my Facebook buddy!), I thought I'd make them slightly more accessible and inflict them on the public at large.
The reviews I've written in recent times have been reasonably lengthy, but as a taster I thought I'd give you a couple of my shorter reviews for your delectation. So here goes...
The Shearer's Tale by Tom Molomby
Sydney lawyer Tom Molomby brings his precise forensic skills to bear on a case from the first half of 20th century rural Australia. When a shop keeper named Henry Lavers went missing near the NSW town of Forbes, an intensive manhunt failed to locate either his body or those responsible for his presumed murder. Ten years later, shearer Fred McDermott was tried and convicted for Lavers' murder. Thus began a struggle for justice which ended in a Royal Commission and McDermott's release - and yet, he was denied the justice that was his due. Molomby expertly dissects the case, revealing the failures in the system - and the questionable investigation - that resulted in McDermott's imprisonment, an experience that blighted the rest of his life. An engaging and disturbing read..
On. Off: A Novel by Colleen McCullough
Once you get past the somewhat melodramatic narrative style and the frankly absurd names attached to some of the characters, this is actually quite an engaging thriller set in provincial Connecticut in the late 1960s. A series of grusome murders centred on an elite medical research facility are uncovered - and the job of hunting down the perpetrator is given to police detective Carmine Delmonico (a man, despite the name). Thus begins an investigation into a group of frankly bizarre research scientists, one of whom hides a dark obssession. The pace is excellent, the characters well-drawn and multi-dimensional, the story told with sympathy, insight, and black humour. The identity of the killer is given away quite early (although you have to be paying attention to spot it) and the end carries a twist that is jolting if unconvincing; the minor sub-plot on race-relations is just padding and lets you now well in advance the killer's ultimate fate. But overall, an engaging, if not entirely satisfying, read.
Killer In The Rain by Raymond Chandler
What a delight! This superb collection of Chandler's shorter fiction introduces the characters Carmaday and John Dalmas - the prototypes for his much more famous creation, Phillip Marlowe. Nobody wrote noir fiction better than Chandler, and his prose is full of light and shadow, etching a wonderful portrait of the sleazy side of life in between-the-wars Los Angeles. Dalmas and Carmaday are tough, vulnerable, cynical, sentimental, wise-cracking smart-guys and occassionally bumbling saps with a taste for blondes and red-heads and a penchant for getting belted over the back of the head. Crackling beneath the surface tension and the headlong action of the plots is a profound sympathy for the down-and-outs, for those who've caught the bad breaks or just been worn down by the daily grind; Chandler's compassion for humanity combines with his clear-eyed understanding of the darker motivations of the human psyche to produce a body of work that found its ultimate expression in such classics as The Big Sleep, Farewell, My Lovely, and The Long Goodbye. What is truly fascinating about this collection is the clearly visible genesis of many of these later works in the collection presented in this volume - fans of Chandler will experience a jolt of recognition as they read classic scenes from his novels that had their first outing in his early short fiction. Entertaining and fascinating from go to woe. My favourite quote: "She had the kind of eyes and figure that would make a bishop kick a hole in a stain-glass window".
Well, that's your lot for the moment...more reviews to come!
Talk to you soon,
BB
Quote for the Day: Critics are merely failed writers - but then, so are most writers! (T S Eliot)
The reviews I've written in recent times have been reasonably lengthy, but as a taster I thought I'd give you a couple of my shorter reviews for your delectation. So here goes...
The Shearer's Tale by Tom Molomby
Sydney lawyer Tom Molomby brings his precise forensic skills to bear on a case from the first half of 20th century rural Australia. When a shop keeper named Henry Lavers went missing near the NSW town of Forbes, an intensive manhunt failed to locate either his body or those responsible for his presumed murder. Ten years later, shearer Fred McDermott was tried and convicted for Lavers' murder. Thus began a struggle for justice which ended in a Royal Commission and McDermott's release - and yet, he was denied the justice that was his due. Molomby expertly dissects the case, revealing the failures in the system - and the questionable investigation - that resulted in McDermott's imprisonment, an experience that blighted the rest of his life. An engaging and disturbing read..
On. Off: A Novel by Colleen McCullough
Once you get past the somewhat melodramatic narrative style and the frankly absurd names attached to some of the characters, this is actually quite an engaging thriller set in provincial Connecticut in the late 1960s. A series of grusome murders centred on an elite medical research facility are uncovered - and the job of hunting down the perpetrator is given to police detective Carmine Delmonico (a man, despite the name). Thus begins an investigation into a group of frankly bizarre research scientists, one of whom hides a dark obssession. The pace is excellent, the characters well-drawn and multi-dimensional, the story told with sympathy, insight, and black humour. The identity of the killer is given away quite early (although you have to be paying attention to spot it) and the end carries a twist that is jolting if unconvincing; the minor sub-plot on race-relations is just padding and lets you now well in advance the killer's ultimate fate. But overall, an engaging, if not entirely satisfying, read.
Killer In The Rain by Raymond Chandler
What a delight! This superb collection of Chandler's shorter fiction introduces the characters Carmaday and John Dalmas - the prototypes for his much more famous creation, Phillip Marlowe. Nobody wrote noir fiction better than Chandler, and his prose is full of light and shadow, etching a wonderful portrait of the sleazy side of life in between-the-wars Los Angeles. Dalmas and Carmaday are tough, vulnerable, cynical, sentimental, wise-cracking smart-guys and occassionally bumbling saps with a taste for blondes and red-heads and a penchant for getting belted over the back of the head. Crackling beneath the surface tension and the headlong action of the plots is a profound sympathy for the down-and-outs, for those who've caught the bad breaks or just been worn down by the daily grind; Chandler's compassion for humanity combines with his clear-eyed understanding of the darker motivations of the human psyche to produce a body of work that found its ultimate expression in such classics as The Big Sleep, Farewell, My Lovely, and The Long Goodbye. What is truly fascinating about this collection is the clearly visible genesis of many of these later works in the collection presented in this volume - fans of Chandler will experience a jolt of recognition as they read classic scenes from his novels that had their first outing in his early short fiction. Entertaining and fascinating from go to woe. My favourite quote: "She had the kind of eyes and figure that would make a bishop kick a hole in a stain-glass window".
Well, that's your lot for the moment...more reviews to come!
Talk to you soon,
BB
Quote for the Day: Critics are merely failed writers - but then, so are most writers! (T S Eliot)
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Tool Time
At the convenience store where I pretend to work, it is a truism that we get all sorts walking through the door, especially on the night shift. But this truism is true only to the extent that it is incomplete: what we get walking through the door are all sorts of tools, twats, tossers, and morons of infinite variety.
Take, for example, the tool I encountered recently who just also happened to be a motorcyclist. Said tool and a number of other motorcyclists pulled up at the bowsers and attempted to fill up. However, I declined to authorise the pumps because said tool and his pals had not removed their crash helmets. It's a security policy at the store that motorcyclists attempting to use the pumps have to first take off their helmets - otherwise, what could be more useful for the purposes of a drive off than a face-enclosing helmet that completely masks the nascent felon's identity?
So, being the conscientious type, I promptly jumped on the PA and informed the gang of two-wheeled tools that they had to de-helmet first, after which time I would be happy to authorise the pumps. Well, they did as they were asked; but once they had finished filling up, it seems one of their number (the aforementioned tool) was deputed to not only pay their collective bill, but waste my time with a pre-eminent display of toolmanship.
To some extent, I blame myself: I really should have seen it coming. As the tool approached the store, he eye-balled me with that manic I've-got-a-bigger-dick-than-you-have glare that tells you you're in the presence of an A-grade eunuch with a chip on his shoulder. To tell you the truth, I felt a little shiver run down my spine and the hairs on the back of my neck stood up; Spiderman ain't the only one whose senses tingle when danger's immanent. But it was busy and I had lots to do, so I suppressed my premonition and got on with my award-winning impersonation of customer service.
Which was dumb. Which was a mistake. Which serves me own right. Because when the tool finally arrived at the counter, and before I could even tote up the bill for him and his moto-tool mates, he said: "I see you're discriminating against motorcyclists now."
To which I replied with my usual tact: "You bet".
His next line: "So what if a Muslim woman wearing a headscarf comes along? Are you going to tell her to take it off?"
I'll be honest: my immediate impulse was to burst into laughter and offer to wrap his head in toilet paper, this latter being his crown for having won the Moron of the Year Award. But then I saw from the expression on his face that he was absolutely serious. In fact, he was outraged by the thought that he should be required to take off his helmet while some Muslim woman might be allowed to stroll into the place willy nilly and remain covered.
Suppressing my laughter, I explained that it was a security requirement; I even went to the lengths of explaining that the same requirement to take off his helmet would apply if, for example, he just wanted to enter the store to buy a carton of milk. It wasn't about petrol - it was about security.
"So you wouldn't make someone take off their religious headdress, but I have to take off my helmet?"
I will confess that by this stage I was dumb-struck; not because I couldn't think of anything to say, but because everything I wanted to say to him involved suggesting rather forcefully that he perform the kind of physical contortions that are either illegal, impossible, or both. But as I said, the store was busy, and I had no desire to insult other innocent customers simply because this tool had decided to exhibit his idiocy on my patch.
So instead I gently suggested that the instant Muslim women on motorbikes wearing hijabs started pulling drive-offs, that would be the instant we'd start discriminating against them, too.
You'll agree that, given the extremity of the provocation, I was the very embodiment of reason and sensitivity. But the tool, being a tool, took grave offence and demanded the right to make a complaint. I told him - rather casually, I'll admit, because by this time I was getting bored - that he should call the company's customer care line; they'd be glad to hear (indeed, would be fascinated by) his moral indignation at such harsh treatment. And, of course, I proffered this assurance with just enough of a hint of a smile, and with just the right inflection of voice, to suggest that he would be a) listened to; b) taken seriously; c) offered an apology and/or compensation; and, d) that the company policy would be changed forthwith.
Satisfied that I'd been put in my place, and that his penis had grown another three or four inches as a consequence, the tool departed - no doubt to tell his tool-brothers what a hero he'd been in the fight against the ongoing persecution of motorcyclists by the wicked petro-industrial complex. If there's anything that will warm the cockles of this old, cold heart, it's the sight of a self-satisfied tool riding triumphantly off into the sunset of his own delusions.
And what is the point of all this tool-bashing (if you'll pardon the expression)? Well, for one thing, it just goes to show you that the life of a convenience store console operator is rarely dull. On the contrary, it's very interesting - "interesting", that is, in the sense of the old Chinese curse: may you live in interesting times. And for another thing, you're all meant to be hugely impressed by my restraint in suppressing the impulse to introduce this tool to the art of cleaning convenience store toilets - head first! But more important than any of these is a simple and profound lesson: just because some bloke sits astride a machine that could break the sound barrier doesn't mean he's either a scientist at the Large Hadron Collider, or Chuck Connors. It just means he's a dickhead, pure and simple.
Or, if you prefer it in politer terms, a tool. A complete, total, twatting, tossing, tool!
Talk to you soon,
BB
Quote for the Day: Moral indignation - that which, in most cases, is 2 per cent moral, 48 per cent indignation, and 50 per cent envy. (Vincent de Sica)
Take, for example, the tool I encountered recently who just also happened to be a motorcyclist. Said tool and a number of other motorcyclists pulled up at the bowsers and attempted to fill up. However, I declined to authorise the pumps because said tool and his pals had not removed their crash helmets. It's a security policy at the store that motorcyclists attempting to use the pumps have to first take off their helmets - otherwise, what could be more useful for the purposes of a drive off than a face-enclosing helmet that completely masks the nascent felon's identity?
So, being the conscientious type, I promptly jumped on the PA and informed the gang of two-wheeled tools that they had to de-helmet first, after which time I would be happy to authorise the pumps. Well, they did as they were asked; but once they had finished filling up, it seems one of their number (the aforementioned tool) was deputed to not only pay their collective bill, but waste my time with a pre-eminent display of toolmanship.
To some extent, I blame myself: I really should have seen it coming. As the tool approached the store, he eye-balled me with that manic I've-got-a-bigger-dick-than-you-have glare that tells you you're in the presence of an A-grade eunuch with a chip on his shoulder. To tell you the truth, I felt a little shiver run down my spine and the hairs on the back of my neck stood up; Spiderman ain't the only one whose senses tingle when danger's immanent. But it was busy and I had lots to do, so I suppressed my premonition and got on with my award-winning impersonation of customer service.
Which was dumb. Which was a mistake. Which serves me own right. Because when the tool finally arrived at the counter, and before I could even tote up the bill for him and his moto-tool mates, he said: "I see you're discriminating against motorcyclists now."
To which I replied with my usual tact: "You bet".
His next line: "So what if a Muslim woman wearing a headscarf comes along? Are you going to tell her to take it off?"
I'll be honest: my immediate impulse was to burst into laughter and offer to wrap his head in toilet paper, this latter being his crown for having won the Moron of the Year Award. But then I saw from the expression on his face that he was absolutely serious. In fact, he was outraged by the thought that he should be required to take off his helmet while some Muslim woman might be allowed to stroll into the place willy nilly and remain covered.
Suppressing my laughter, I explained that it was a security requirement; I even went to the lengths of explaining that the same requirement to take off his helmet would apply if, for example, he just wanted to enter the store to buy a carton of milk. It wasn't about petrol - it was about security.
"So you wouldn't make someone take off their religious headdress, but I have to take off my helmet?"
I will confess that by this stage I was dumb-struck; not because I couldn't think of anything to say, but because everything I wanted to say to him involved suggesting rather forcefully that he perform the kind of physical contortions that are either illegal, impossible, or both. But as I said, the store was busy, and I had no desire to insult other innocent customers simply because this tool had decided to exhibit his idiocy on my patch.
So instead I gently suggested that the instant Muslim women on motorbikes wearing hijabs started pulling drive-offs, that would be the instant we'd start discriminating against them, too.
You'll agree that, given the extremity of the provocation, I was the very embodiment of reason and sensitivity. But the tool, being a tool, took grave offence and demanded the right to make a complaint. I told him - rather casually, I'll admit, because by this time I was getting bored - that he should call the company's customer care line; they'd be glad to hear (indeed, would be fascinated by) his moral indignation at such harsh treatment. And, of course, I proffered this assurance with just enough of a hint of a smile, and with just the right inflection of voice, to suggest that he would be a) listened to; b) taken seriously; c) offered an apology and/or compensation; and, d) that the company policy would be changed forthwith.
Satisfied that I'd been put in my place, and that his penis had grown another three or four inches as a consequence, the tool departed - no doubt to tell his tool-brothers what a hero he'd been in the fight against the ongoing persecution of motorcyclists by the wicked petro-industrial complex. If there's anything that will warm the cockles of this old, cold heart, it's the sight of a self-satisfied tool riding triumphantly off into the sunset of his own delusions.
And what is the point of all this tool-bashing (if you'll pardon the expression)? Well, for one thing, it just goes to show you that the life of a convenience store console operator is rarely dull. On the contrary, it's very interesting - "interesting", that is, in the sense of the old Chinese curse: may you live in interesting times. And for another thing, you're all meant to be hugely impressed by my restraint in suppressing the impulse to introduce this tool to the art of cleaning convenience store toilets - head first! But more important than any of these is a simple and profound lesson: just because some bloke sits astride a machine that could break the sound barrier doesn't mean he's either a scientist at the Large Hadron Collider, or Chuck Connors. It just means he's a dickhead, pure and simple.
Or, if you prefer it in politer terms, a tool. A complete, total, twatting, tossing, tool!
Talk to you soon,
BB
Quote for the Day: Moral indignation - that which, in most cases, is 2 per cent moral, 48 per cent indignation, and 50 per cent envy. (Vincent de Sica)
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Mr (Coffee) Bean
I'm afraid that, when it comes to coffee, I'm a bit of a snob. Actually, I'm a lot of a snob. Oh, alright, I'm a total snob.
The reason for this snobbery is quite simple: I like coffee, and I take my coffee seriously. No, don't bother telling me to get a life or a hobby. As far as I am concerned, coffee is part of the vocation of being, like reading a good book or sampling the finest single malt. I drink coffee, therefore I am: and therefore, don't even think about offering me instant - I'll take a cup of tea instead.
Ergo, I buy coffee in bean form in order to freshly grind said beans in the instant before they get immersed in hot water. I let the coffee brew, in order to bring out the rich flavour (and to bask in the luxuriant waft of coffee aroma). And then I gently stir and plunge said coffee in order to produce the perfect cuppa: rich, strong, and invigorating (a bit like me, really - except for the rich, strong, and invigorating bit).
Of course, if I had my druthers, I'd prefer to make coffee by brewing it in one of those dandy little pots where you put the coffee in the bottom before placing it on the stove and letting the combination of heat and steam from boiling water do their work. Now, that's coffee to die for - in fact, it's so strong it probably would kill you eventually. But what a way to go! But in the meantime, I'll content myself with the trusty old plunger, which really does work a treat.
And what I really love doing is mixing together beans of different coffee varieties before I grind them in order to produce a great blend. New Guinea highlands with Ethiopian arabica; East Timorese organic with Vietnamese mountain-grown; Costa Rican dark roasted with Kenyan mocha...yum! Blending coffee beans is the best!
Now, I know what you're thinking: you're thinking that I'm a coffee fanatic with no sense of perspective. Well, you're wrong. As it turns out, there is a lighter side to coffee, a lighter side that emerges by asking oneself what the type of coffee a person drinks says about their personality. Yes, yes, I know; this isn't a scientifically valid methodology for ascertaining individual personality traits. But then, neither is Myers-Briggs or the Enneagram, and yet people seem to have no trouble swooning over them and crying: "Oh, look, I'm an SIPD (Sad, Inadequate, Pathetic, Drip)!" Come to think of it, I reckon my coffee-personality index might have as much if not more validity than asking someone if they prefer parties to quiet nights in and extrapolating from the answer that they're an introvert (oooh, how insightful!).
And anyhoo, this is meant to be fun. So here goes - what drinking a particular type of coffee says about your personality:
Flat White. Well, the name says it all, really. You're dull, tedious, traditional (in the unoriginal, crushingly monotonous sense of the word), and about as straight-laced as an 80 year old virginal teetotling non-smoker whose idea of high times is crocheting and a cup of Horlicks before bedtime. The key words here are flat and white. In other words, you've got about as much personality as roadkill...in fact, to be fair to roadkill, they can be pretty interesting sometimes. You, on the other hand, are not; your idea of life is living a long time without actually engaging in any of the interesting bits (sex, hangovers, broken hearts, self-discovery, God, etc). So, you go on drinking your insipid brew; when future archaeologists discover your fossilised yet still-breathing remains 10,000 years from now, they won't actually realise you're alive - and neither will you. In fact, you never have. Drinkers of Caffe Latte also fall into this category.
Long Black. You have a serious personality disorder. Either you have delusions of grandeur and think you're some kind of stud-muffin gigolo before whom the babes can't wait to get on their knees and venerate, or you are beset by feelings of such deep insecurity that you think everyone is whispering about you and giggling behind your back. Of course, there's a third possibility: that people actually are whispering about you and giggling behind your back because they recognise you have delusions of grandeur about your babe-pulling capacity - and that, in point of fact, the only thing you pull is that which is the cause of your insecurity. Hence your pathetic attempt to "advertise" your self-proclaimed virility, or compensate for your perceived shortcomings, by drinking pints of super-strong, iron-floating coffee. But we're wise to you, buster; because us real men, who know we can pull the babes and understand everyone admires and envies us, drink straight black coffee for the sheer enjoyment of unadulterated caffeine. We don't need to pretend; we know...
Macchiato. Short or long, the only reason you drink this is because you're a procrastinator. Like most things in your life, you can't decide what you want and are too afraid to make a decision in case you realise later that what you chose isn't, afterall, your heart's desire, and you really want that which you chose not to have. And so you order a macchiato, because you can't decide if you want a long black or a flat white; so you get what is, in effect, a black coffee with a smidge of milk; or, looking at it another way, a short white coffee with extra caffeine. Naturally, your life is plagued with similar mind-bending problems like: should you get the 1.5kg bag of flour at $2 or the 1.25kg bag at $1.50; should you go with the blue jacket and white blouse or the black jacket and red blouse; should you get the car wash with the hot wax or the car wash with the cold wax? And, naturally, since you can't make up your own mind, you'll inflict your uncertainties on everyone within a million square kilometre radius and ask them to do it for you; but then you won't be able to decide whose opinion is more authoritative, and whose advice you should go with. In short, drinking macchiato says this about you: you need to make a f#!*^!*!g decision and live with it! And you need to do it quickly - before that lynchmob of frustrated acquaintances coming into view over the horizon hoists you on the petard of your own indecisiveness!
Espresso. Like the coffee itself, the message of espresso drinking is short, simple, and to the point: you are a pretentious git. You're the kind of knob who thinks drinking espresso (especially if done while seated at a roadside table in South Yarra or Carlton) makes you "European" or sophisticated. But unless you are actually European, or, failing that, unless you actually understand that the joy of espresso is the invigoration which a shot of the good stuff provides the drinker, imbibing this brew says one thing, and one thing only: you are a wanker. In fact, you're a self-abuser of such monumental proportions that blindness is an inevitability, if, indeed, it hasn't occurred already. Certainly, you are blind to what a total clot you are, sipping your espresso in its tiny cup, all the while serenely surveying the world and imagining that it is your oyster. You not only need to get a life, you need a reality check as well; because that babe who sauntered past your table just now wasn't checking you out, she was thinking what a tragic waste it was that such a good table should be occupied by such a bad joke.
Cappuchino. You really are the Kath and Kim of the caffeine world. In fact, it's probably not too much to say that you spend far too much time in shopping malls, sitting at those little coffee bars that occupy the middle of the cavernous avenues between stores, thinking you're having such a fun time simply because you're here watching all the other anodyne drips wandering aimlessly about, instead of being back home cooing over daytime TV and the latest "must have" offerings of Dickheads Direct. Any person who thinks froth and chocolate sprinklings over milky coffee constitutes a vibrant drinking experience really doesn't have much going for them; and it's probably just as well for the species as a whole that natural selection will inevitably ensure that you and your kind leave fewer surviving descendants than the rest of the general population. In the meantime, enjoy your simple "pleasures" - it's all you've got left while waiting for extinction to arrive.
Mocha. You're here for a good time, not a long time. Over-indulgence isn't a sin for you; it's your middle name. Your idea of restraint is not adding sugar to your already saccharine loaded blend of coffee and chocolate syrup. Like a pig in a mud pen, life for you is one long, glorious rollick as you wallow in your self-generated mire of hedonistic pleasure. Well, make that one short and glorious rollick - 'cause you ain't gonna be around for long. Even as you imbibe your latest orgiastic brew, your arteries are hardening, your cardio-vascular system is going south for the winter, and blood clots are forming and rushing with determined gait towards the sugar-coated embolism-to-be that passes for your brain. But what they hey? If you're going to go out, you're going to go doing what you love, right? Yeah, right - except for that one nagging micro-second just before you die when you realise that life is sweeter than all that sugar you've been ingesting, and you wish - you just wish - you had maybe not given the good things in life such a nudge. Oh, well, carpe diem and all that; and quite literally, too, because you don't have that many diems to carpe left...
Well, there you have it. If you find yourself identifying with any of the categories contained herein, you only have yourself to blame. And as for Yours Truly...well, naturally, none of the above applies to me. I just drink coffee for the hell of it.
Talk to you soon,
BB
Quote for the Day: Coffee - that which, in England, tastes like a chemical experiment. (Agatha Christie)
The reason for this snobbery is quite simple: I like coffee, and I take my coffee seriously. No, don't bother telling me to get a life or a hobby. As far as I am concerned, coffee is part of the vocation of being, like reading a good book or sampling the finest single malt. I drink coffee, therefore I am: and therefore, don't even think about offering me instant - I'll take a cup of tea instead.
Ergo, I buy coffee in bean form in order to freshly grind said beans in the instant before they get immersed in hot water. I let the coffee brew, in order to bring out the rich flavour (and to bask in the luxuriant waft of coffee aroma). And then I gently stir and plunge said coffee in order to produce the perfect cuppa: rich, strong, and invigorating (a bit like me, really - except for the rich, strong, and invigorating bit).
Of course, if I had my druthers, I'd prefer to make coffee by brewing it in one of those dandy little pots where you put the coffee in the bottom before placing it on the stove and letting the combination of heat and steam from boiling water do their work. Now, that's coffee to die for - in fact, it's so strong it probably would kill you eventually. But what a way to go! But in the meantime, I'll content myself with the trusty old plunger, which really does work a treat.
And what I really love doing is mixing together beans of different coffee varieties before I grind them in order to produce a great blend. New Guinea highlands with Ethiopian arabica; East Timorese organic with Vietnamese mountain-grown; Costa Rican dark roasted with Kenyan mocha...yum! Blending coffee beans is the best!
Now, I know what you're thinking: you're thinking that I'm a coffee fanatic with no sense of perspective. Well, you're wrong. As it turns out, there is a lighter side to coffee, a lighter side that emerges by asking oneself what the type of coffee a person drinks says about their personality. Yes, yes, I know; this isn't a scientifically valid methodology for ascertaining individual personality traits. But then, neither is Myers-Briggs or the Enneagram, and yet people seem to have no trouble swooning over them and crying: "Oh, look, I'm an SIPD (Sad, Inadequate, Pathetic, Drip)!" Come to think of it, I reckon my coffee-personality index might have as much if not more validity than asking someone if they prefer parties to quiet nights in and extrapolating from the answer that they're an introvert (oooh, how insightful!).
And anyhoo, this is meant to be fun. So here goes - what drinking a particular type of coffee says about your personality:
Flat White. Well, the name says it all, really. You're dull, tedious, traditional (in the unoriginal, crushingly monotonous sense of the word), and about as straight-laced as an 80 year old virginal teetotling non-smoker whose idea of high times is crocheting and a cup of Horlicks before bedtime. The key words here are flat and white. In other words, you've got about as much personality as roadkill...in fact, to be fair to roadkill, they can be pretty interesting sometimes. You, on the other hand, are not; your idea of life is living a long time without actually engaging in any of the interesting bits (sex, hangovers, broken hearts, self-discovery, God, etc). So, you go on drinking your insipid brew; when future archaeologists discover your fossilised yet still-breathing remains 10,000 years from now, they won't actually realise you're alive - and neither will you. In fact, you never have. Drinkers of Caffe Latte also fall into this category.
Long Black. You have a serious personality disorder. Either you have delusions of grandeur and think you're some kind of stud-muffin gigolo before whom the babes can't wait to get on their knees and venerate, or you are beset by feelings of such deep insecurity that you think everyone is whispering about you and giggling behind your back. Of course, there's a third possibility: that people actually are whispering about you and giggling behind your back because they recognise you have delusions of grandeur about your babe-pulling capacity - and that, in point of fact, the only thing you pull is that which is the cause of your insecurity. Hence your pathetic attempt to "advertise" your self-proclaimed virility, or compensate for your perceived shortcomings, by drinking pints of super-strong, iron-floating coffee. But we're wise to you, buster; because us real men, who know we can pull the babes and understand everyone admires and envies us, drink straight black coffee for the sheer enjoyment of unadulterated caffeine. We don't need to pretend; we know...
Macchiato. Short or long, the only reason you drink this is because you're a procrastinator. Like most things in your life, you can't decide what you want and are too afraid to make a decision in case you realise later that what you chose isn't, afterall, your heart's desire, and you really want that which you chose not to have. And so you order a macchiato, because you can't decide if you want a long black or a flat white; so you get what is, in effect, a black coffee with a smidge of milk; or, looking at it another way, a short white coffee with extra caffeine. Naturally, your life is plagued with similar mind-bending problems like: should you get the 1.5kg bag of flour at $2 or the 1.25kg bag at $1.50; should you go with the blue jacket and white blouse or the black jacket and red blouse; should you get the car wash with the hot wax or the car wash with the cold wax? And, naturally, since you can't make up your own mind, you'll inflict your uncertainties on everyone within a million square kilometre radius and ask them to do it for you; but then you won't be able to decide whose opinion is more authoritative, and whose advice you should go with. In short, drinking macchiato says this about you: you need to make a f#!*^!*!g decision and live with it! And you need to do it quickly - before that lynchmob of frustrated acquaintances coming into view over the horizon hoists you on the petard of your own indecisiveness!
Espresso. Like the coffee itself, the message of espresso drinking is short, simple, and to the point: you are a pretentious git. You're the kind of knob who thinks drinking espresso (especially if done while seated at a roadside table in South Yarra or Carlton) makes you "European" or sophisticated. But unless you are actually European, or, failing that, unless you actually understand that the joy of espresso is the invigoration which a shot of the good stuff provides the drinker, imbibing this brew says one thing, and one thing only: you are a wanker. In fact, you're a self-abuser of such monumental proportions that blindness is an inevitability, if, indeed, it hasn't occurred already. Certainly, you are blind to what a total clot you are, sipping your espresso in its tiny cup, all the while serenely surveying the world and imagining that it is your oyster. You not only need to get a life, you need a reality check as well; because that babe who sauntered past your table just now wasn't checking you out, she was thinking what a tragic waste it was that such a good table should be occupied by such a bad joke.
Cappuchino. You really are the Kath and Kim of the caffeine world. In fact, it's probably not too much to say that you spend far too much time in shopping malls, sitting at those little coffee bars that occupy the middle of the cavernous avenues between stores, thinking you're having such a fun time simply because you're here watching all the other anodyne drips wandering aimlessly about, instead of being back home cooing over daytime TV and the latest "must have" offerings of Dickheads Direct. Any person who thinks froth and chocolate sprinklings over milky coffee constitutes a vibrant drinking experience really doesn't have much going for them; and it's probably just as well for the species as a whole that natural selection will inevitably ensure that you and your kind leave fewer surviving descendants than the rest of the general population. In the meantime, enjoy your simple "pleasures" - it's all you've got left while waiting for extinction to arrive.
Mocha. You're here for a good time, not a long time. Over-indulgence isn't a sin for you; it's your middle name. Your idea of restraint is not adding sugar to your already saccharine loaded blend of coffee and chocolate syrup. Like a pig in a mud pen, life for you is one long, glorious rollick as you wallow in your self-generated mire of hedonistic pleasure. Well, make that one short and glorious rollick - 'cause you ain't gonna be around for long. Even as you imbibe your latest orgiastic brew, your arteries are hardening, your cardio-vascular system is going south for the winter, and blood clots are forming and rushing with determined gait towards the sugar-coated embolism-to-be that passes for your brain. But what they hey? If you're going to go out, you're going to go doing what you love, right? Yeah, right - except for that one nagging micro-second just before you die when you realise that life is sweeter than all that sugar you've been ingesting, and you wish - you just wish - you had maybe not given the good things in life such a nudge. Oh, well, carpe diem and all that; and quite literally, too, because you don't have that many diems to carpe left...
Well, there you have it. If you find yourself identifying with any of the categories contained herein, you only have yourself to blame. And as for Yours Truly...well, naturally, none of the above applies to me. I just drink coffee for the hell of it.
Talk to you soon,
BB
Quote for the Day: Coffee - that which, in England, tastes like a chemical experiment. (Agatha Christie)
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Vertically Challenged
I've decided that, while it may not be proof-positive you're a moron, the fact that you do your shopping at a convenience store displays a tendency toward the moronic. Indeed, there seems to be a mathematical relationship: the more frequently you shop at a convenience store, the higher the likelihood that your personality is skewed toward the defective end of the scale.
Now, dear reader, I realise that this statement represents a rather sweeping generalisation, especially given most of the population have, at one time or another, shopped at a convenience store. Therefore, let me demonstrate the truth of my thesis by regaling you with examples from my own experience as a humble convenience store employee.
The first type of moron I call disabled parkers. Not, I hasten to add, because they happen to suffer the misfortune of being disabled; rather, because their brains seemingly cease to function as soon as they drive onto the forecourt in front of the store. And this brainlessness manifests itself in the way they park their cars; they are seemingly unable to park in anything like a logical and reasonable manner. Hence, disabled parkers. These are the people who park vertically in the horizontal parking bays; and who park horizontally across the vertical bays. These are the people who think its perfectly appropriate to park where there are no parking bays at all: in front on the security bollards near the front entrance, for example; or across the driveway providing access to the fuel pumps. These are the morons who take no account of the fact that parking bays are provided for a reason: to ensure that all stationary traffic not actually parked next to a fuel pump is safely out of the way! No kidding, I wish I had a buck for every time I've shaken my head in disbelief over their escapades: I'd be a rich man by now. Maybe even rich enough to compensate for the ulcers I'm developing as a consequence of contemplating their stupidity.
The next species of moron I call whingers. There are two types of whingers: those who complain about the prices; and those who moan because such-and-such a product isn't in stock. Both do so on a regular basis; indeed, so regularly that you could set your watch by them. The same day each week, the same time each day, in they trundle to complain about the same thing they've always complained about. You're much more expensive than the supermarket! Really? Well, then, f**k off to the supermarket! You don't have any widgets in stock! Really? Maybe that's because we've never had any f*****g widgets in stock! Lord forgive me, but I've almost succumbed more than once to the temptation to strangle the living crap outta these morons. Why can't they appreciate that a "convenience store" is "convenient" because it's local and open - not because it has the economies of scale to carry a wide stock range or the "cheaper" prices you'll find at the big chain stores?
A third variety of moron are the pullers. Now, I know what you're thinking; and while it may just be possible that these selfsame pullers also practice self-abuse in the store's public toilet, that's not why I've given them this particular epithet. No, these morons are so called because when they encounter the store's locked security door (it gets locked after a certain time at night in order to ensure the staff don't bunk off for a smoke behind the car wash) their midget-sized brains tell them: hey, that door's locked - better pull HARDER! No kidding, some of these prize fools have almost pulled the door off its hinges in their desperate attempts to get into the store (and complain about the prices and/or our pitiably small stock), all the while valiantly ignoring the clearly visible sign instructing them that, should the door be locked, they need only ring the bell in order to gain access. Of all the classifications of moron, the pullers exert a kind of compelling fascination: you can't help but wonder what passes through their pathetic excuse for a mind as they yank away - what, at any rate, compels them to persist in tugging at a door that clearly won't open. I don't think congenital stupidity - or even anything as mundane as plain, old drunkenness - resolves the conundrum; I think their idiocy approaches depths that are truly existential.
There are many, many more classifications of moron. For example, the jerks who think it's okay to jump-start their broken-down vehicle while it's still parked next to the fuel pump - clearly, heroically ignoring the fact that sparks and fuel vapour don't mix. Or the related delinquents who think it's okay to ignore the prohibitions against smoking or talking on their mobile phones while standing at the fuel pumps. Or the tools who, because the store is located on a relatively busy intersection controlled by traffic lights, are intent on saving a whole 2 seconds travelling time by tearing across the forecourt in order to avoid having to wait for the lights to change, somehow by the grace of God narrowly avoiding collisions with every other vehicle - and pedestrian - on the forecourt.
But I suspect you're starting to get the picture, right?
Anyhoo, while I'm prepared to concede that while not everyone who shops at a convenience store is in consequence a moron, there does seem to be something about the experience that insidiously, ruthlessly destroys the brain cells, rendering the victim a zombie disguised as a consumer. And for all I know, the malaise could be entirely localised: once they leave the store's bounds, maybe they revert to normal, intelligent, thinking human beings. Maybe - but maybe the effect is permanent. Forget swine flu - conveniencestore moroniosis could be the biggest thing to hit humanity since the Black Death.
And as for the effects on the people who work in convenience stores - well, I'll leave that to your over-active imaginations!
Talk to you soon,
BB
Quote for the Day: See the happy moron, he doesn't give a damn; I wish I was a moron - my God, perhaps I am! (Anonymous)
Now, dear reader, I realise that this statement represents a rather sweeping generalisation, especially given most of the population have, at one time or another, shopped at a convenience store. Therefore, let me demonstrate the truth of my thesis by regaling you with examples from my own experience as a humble convenience store employee.
The first type of moron I call disabled parkers. Not, I hasten to add, because they happen to suffer the misfortune of being disabled; rather, because their brains seemingly cease to function as soon as they drive onto the forecourt in front of the store. And this brainlessness manifests itself in the way they park their cars; they are seemingly unable to park in anything like a logical and reasonable manner. Hence, disabled parkers. These are the people who park vertically in the horizontal parking bays; and who park horizontally across the vertical bays. These are the people who think its perfectly appropriate to park where there are no parking bays at all: in front on the security bollards near the front entrance, for example; or across the driveway providing access to the fuel pumps. These are the morons who take no account of the fact that parking bays are provided for a reason: to ensure that all stationary traffic not actually parked next to a fuel pump is safely out of the way! No kidding, I wish I had a buck for every time I've shaken my head in disbelief over their escapades: I'd be a rich man by now. Maybe even rich enough to compensate for the ulcers I'm developing as a consequence of contemplating their stupidity.
The next species of moron I call whingers. There are two types of whingers: those who complain about the prices; and those who moan because such-and-such a product isn't in stock. Both do so on a regular basis; indeed, so regularly that you could set your watch by them. The same day each week, the same time each day, in they trundle to complain about the same thing they've always complained about. You're much more expensive than the supermarket! Really? Well, then, f**k off to the supermarket! You don't have any widgets in stock! Really? Maybe that's because we've never had any f*****g widgets in stock! Lord forgive me, but I've almost succumbed more than once to the temptation to strangle the living crap outta these morons. Why can't they appreciate that a "convenience store" is "convenient" because it's local and open - not because it has the economies of scale to carry a wide stock range or the "cheaper" prices you'll find at the big chain stores?
A third variety of moron are the pullers. Now, I know what you're thinking; and while it may just be possible that these selfsame pullers also practice self-abuse in the store's public toilet, that's not why I've given them this particular epithet. No, these morons are so called because when they encounter the store's locked security door (it gets locked after a certain time at night in order to ensure the staff don't bunk off for a smoke behind the car wash) their midget-sized brains tell them: hey, that door's locked - better pull HARDER! No kidding, some of these prize fools have almost pulled the door off its hinges in their desperate attempts to get into the store (and complain about the prices and/or our pitiably small stock), all the while valiantly ignoring the clearly visible sign instructing them that, should the door be locked, they need only ring the bell in order to gain access. Of all the classifications of moron, the pullers exert a kind of compelling fascination: you can't help but wonder what passes through their pathetic excuse for a mind as they yank away - what, at any rate, compels them to persist in tugging at a door that clearly won't open. I don't think congenital stupidity - or even anything as mundane as plain, old drunkenness - resolves the conundrum; I think their idiocy approaches depths that are truly existential.
There are many, many more classifications of moron. For example, the jerks who think it's okay to jump-start their broken-down vehicle while it's still parked next to the fuel pump - clearly, heroically ignoring the fact that sparks and fuel vapour don't mix. Or the related delinquents who think it's okay to ignore the prohibitions against smoking or talking on their mobile phones while standing at the fuel pumps. Or the tools who, because the store is located on a relatively busy intersection controlled by traffic lights, are intent on saving a whole 2 seconds travelling time by tearing across the forecourt in order to avoid having to wait for the lights to change, somehow by the grace of God narrowly avoiding collisions with every other vehicle - and pedestrian - on the forecourt.
But I suspect you're starting to get the picture, right?
Anyhoo, while I'm prepared to concede that while not everyone who shops at a convenience store is in consequence a moron, there does seem to be something about the experience that insidiously, ruthlessly destroys the brain cells, rendering the victim a zombie disguised as a consumer. And for all I know, the malaise could be entirely localised: once they leave the store's bounds, maybe they revert to normal, intelligent, thinking human beings. Maybe - but maybe the effect is permanent. Forget swine flu - conveniencestore moroniosis could be the biggest thing to hit humanity since the Black Death.
And as for the effects on the people who work in convenience stores - well, I'll leave that to your over-active imaginations!
Talk to you soon,
BB
Quote for the Day: See the happy moron, he doesn't give a damn; I wish I was a moron - my God, perhaps I am! (Anonymous)
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Bitter Sweet
This old fart was - for one, brief, bright-shining moment - a happy old fart indeed.
The attentive among you will remember that Yours Truly works a couple of nights a week at the local servo in order to make some sort of contribution to the household finances. And it was in this capacity that I recently made a discovery that temporarily warmed the cockles of this old, cold heart.
Maybe it was due to the fact that it was late at night, it was near the end of my shift, and I was dog tired. But having completed my shift duties, and with not a customer in sight, I was drifting listlessly up and down the aisles pretending to check that the stock was correctly arrayed on the shelves when suddenly I spotted them. There, in the midst of the confectionery were three relics from my childhood that I had never thought to see again.
A Chokito bar. A Polly Waffle. And a Peppermint Crisp.
Now, in case you're wondering how it is that my life could be so empty as to result in my going all gooey over three chocolate bars from my childhood, you have to understand a couple of things. The first is that, given the modest economic circumstances in which I grew up, in which 20 cents could by you a positively ginormous bag of mixed lollies (and how could it fail to do so, given most of them were priced at half a cent each), these chocolate bars were the creme-de-la-creme of confectionery, a legendary and only-to-be-longed-for indulgence which only the super-rich could afford. The second is that, as a child, a Chokito bar or a Polly Waffle was an adult treat (the fact that they were mostly consumed by teenagers was a moot point; to get your hands on one was to be grown up), and so had an added prestige beyond their actual worth.
Of course, once I actually did grow up (and, yes, I'm aware of the body of opinion out there that suggests this is an event yet to be accomplished), these things lost their allure; and gradually, the products themselves seemed to disappear from the shelves, fading into the golden afterglow of my childhood memories. So you can imagine my surprised delight when late on this particular night, I saw them sitting once again like golden eggs amid the monochrome glow of confectionery wrappers.
Naturally, I grabbed a fistful of each and, as soon as my shift was over, transported them home in a rapture of joy. And that, alas, is when the dream died and reality shot home with maliciously gleeful vengeance.
The first thing I noticed was the size. Or, should I say, the distinct lack thereof. Size may not matter for other things (at least, that's what I've heard; I wouldn't know, personally), but I can tell you, when it comes to a Polly Waffle or a Chokito bar, size is everything. While still in their wrappers, nothing seemed amiss. But once my trembling fingers had removed the product from their glittering foil sheaths, an involuntary gasp of disappointment escaped my quivering lips. The emaciated excuses for chocolate bars I now beheld were positively tiny. Okay, I could still see them with the naked eye - but that was the extent of their extent. What had once been massive logs of chocolate and nuts and waffle and nougat and caramel were reduced to pathetic imitations of their former selves. These weren't chocolate bars, they were chocolate fingers - and skinny ones, at that!
I was devastated.
But what really killed off any lingering hopes for the revival of a treasured childhood memory was the taste. Again, though, this was a concept encountered in the negative. By taste I mean the distinct absence thereof. Where was the smooth texture of chocolate? The sweet bite of the fluffy nougat? The unique, only-vaguely-describable-as-caramel swirl of the Chokito's filling? The crunch of the nuts? I don't think I've tasted anything more anodyne since the last time I walked into a certain well-known fast food chain that begins with "M" and ends in "cDonalds" - and that was years ago! Sheesh, it wasn't even like I was eating plastic - plastic would have tasted much better!
So next time you want to know why I'm so bitter and twisted, this is it. Not only have precious childhood memories disappeared from the world - they've been resuscitated into a hideous, zombie-like corpse. It's bad enough that the world was robbed of Polly Waffles and Chokito bars and Peppermint Crisps in the first place; that they've been adulterated into bland shadows of their former selves is a crime against humanity.
Well, my humanity, at any rate. And once I've finished bashing out this post, I'm going to email the International War Crimes Tribunal at The Hague - I want to know who's responsible for this travesty. And I want them to spend the rest of their lives in solitary confinement, up to their nose in the refuse of my ruined dreams. And then I want the punishment to get really harsh.
Bamboo stalks under the fingernails should do the trick. And then something seriously vicious: I'm going to force the perp to consume their own product.
Or would that be going to far?
Talk to you soon,
BB.
Quote for the Day: Childhood: a series of happy delusions. (Sydney Smith)
The attentive among you will remember that Yours Truly works a couple of nights a week at the local servo in order to make some sort of contribution to the household finances. And it was in this capacity that I recently made a discovery that temporarily warmed the cockles of this old, cold heart.
Maybe it was due to the fact that it was late at night, it was near the end of my shift, and I was dog tired. But having completed my shift duties, and with not a customer in sight, I was drifting listlessly up and down the aisles pretending to check that the stock was correctly arrayed on the shelves when suddenly I spotted them. There, in the midst of the confectionery were three relics from my childhood that I had never thought to see again.
A Chokito bar. A Polly Waffle. And a Peppermint Crisp.
Now, in case you're wondering how it is that my life could be so empty as to result in my going all gooey over three chocolate bars from my childhood, you have to understand a couple of things. The first is that, given the modest economic circumstances in which I grew up, in which 20 cents could by you a positively ginormous bag of mixed lollies (and how could it fail to do so, given most of them were priced at half a cent each), these chocolate bars were the creme-de-la-creme of confectionery, a legendary and only-to-be-longed-for indulgence which only the super-rich could afford. The second is that, as a child, a Chokito bar or a Polly Waffle was an adult treat (the fact that they were mostly consumed by teenagers was a moot point; to get your hands on one was to be grown up), and so had an added prestige beyond their actual worth.
Of course, once I actually did grow up (and, yes, I'm aware of the body of opinion out there that suggests this is an event yet to be accomplished), these things lost their allure; and gradually, the products themselves seemed to disappear from the shelves, fading into the golden afterglow of my childhood memories. So you can imagine my surprised delight when late on this particular night, I saw them sitting once again like golden eggs amid the monochrome glow of confectionery wrappers.
Naturally, I grabbed a fistful of each and, as soon as my shift was over, transported them home in a rapture of joy. And that, alas, is when the dream died and reality shot home with maliciously gleeful vengeance.
The first thing I noticed was the size. Or, should I say, the distinct lack thereof. Size may not matter for other things (at least, that's what I've heard; I wouldn't know, personally), but I can tell you, when it comes to a Polly Waffle or a Chokito bar, size is everything. While still in their wrappers, nothing seemed amiss. But once my trembling fingers had removed the product from their glittering foil sheaths, an involuntary gasp of disappointment escaped my quivering lips. The emaciated excuses for chocolate bars I now beheld were positively tiny. Okay, I could still see them with the naked eye - but that was the extent of their extent. What had once been massive logs of chocolate and nuts and waffle and nougat and caramel were reduced to pathetic imitations of their former selves. These weren't chocolate bars, they were chocolate fingers - and skinny ones, at that!
I was devastated.
But what really killed off any lingering hopes for the revival of a treasured childhood memory was the taste. Again, though, this was a concept encountered in the negative. By taste I mean the distinct absence thereof. Where was the smooth texture of chocolate? The sweet bite of the fluffy nougat? The unique, only-vaguely-describable-as-caramel swirl of the Chokito's filling? The crunch of the nuts? I don't think I've tasted anything more anodyne since the last time I walked into a certain well-known fast food chain that begins with "M" and ends in "cDonalds" - and that was years ago! Sheesh, it wasn't even like I was eating plastic - plastic would have tasted much better!
So next time you want to know why I'm so bitter and twisted, this is it. Not only have precious childhood memories disappeared from the world - they've been resuscitated into a hideous, zombie-like corpse. It's bad enough that the world was robbed of Polly Waffles and Chokito bars and Peppermint Crisps in the first place; that they've been adulterated into bland shadows of their former selves is a crime against humanity.
Well, my humanity, at any rate. And once I've finished bashing out this post, I'm going to email the International War Crimes Tribunal at The Hague - I want to know who's responsible for this travesty. And I want them to spend the rest of their lives in solitary confinement, up to their nose in the refuse of my ruined dreams. And then I want the punishment to get really harsh.
Bamboo stalks under the fingernails should do the trick. And then something seriously vicious: I'm going to force the perp to consume their own product.
Or would that be going to far?
Talk to you soon,
BB.
Quote for the Day: Childhood: a series of happy delusions. (Sydney Smith)
Friday, March 27, 2009
Two Poems For Lucy
Unable to sleep, I thought I'd share these two short poems about our dog, Lucy, that came to mind while I await the sandman's arrival.
I
The Puppy's warmth,
curled up in my lap,
puts me to sleep.
I'm not allowed to read a book
or simply sit; her long,
luxuriant warmth,
strecthed upon my chest,
or draped across my neck,
makes my eyes droop -
until I snore.
II
Why can't I sleep?
The Puppy's warmth,
snuggled next to me,
has no effect -
her delicious elixir of drowsiness
all spent up.
I toss and turn,
until,
divorced from rest,
I get up,
put my contact lenses in,
scratch my head
and begin to write.
Talk to you soon,
BB
Quote for the Day: Poetry is something more philosophical and more worthy of attention than history. (Aristotle)
I
The Puppy's warmth,
curled up in my lap,
puts me to sleep.
I'm not allowed to read a book
or simply sit; her long,
luxuriant warmth,
strecthed upon my chest,
or draped across my neck,
makes my eyes droop -
until I snore.
II
Why can't I sleep?
The Puppy's warmth,
snuggled next to me,
has no effect -
her delicious elixir of drowsiness
all spent up.
I toss and turn,
until,
divorced from rest,
I get up,
put my contact lenses in,
scratch my head
and begin to write.
Talk to you soon,
BB
Quote for the Day: Poetry is something more philosophical and more worthy of attention than history. (Aristotle)
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Well, Autumn Is My Favourite Time of Year...
| You Are Low Key and Relaxed |
 You are a dynamic, vibrant person. You aren't afraid to pursue your passions. When you are happiest, you are calm. You appreciate tradition and family. You enjoy feeling cozy. You prefer change to come slowly. You need a long transition period when your life changes. You find novelty to be the most comforting thing in the world. You love anything that's new or unusual. Your ideal day is chill and uneventful. You prefer to kick back and take it easy. You tend to live in the moment. You enjoy whatever is going on, and you don't obsess over the past or future. |
I Make People Feel Good About Themselves?
| You Are Modest and Nurturing |
 When You Are Comfortable or in a Social Setting: You are a shy, quiet person. Underneath your shell, you are compassionate and giving. People find you to be friendly and welcoming. Your home is a place of comfort to them. When You Are At Your Best: You are quite quirky, and you enjoy doing things your own way. You are optimistic, and you've always got a good idea brewing. People find you to be positive and uplifting. You make people feel good about themselves. |
Well, People Always Say I Spend Too Much Time In My Head...
| You Are Mind |
 If you dream it, then you can do it. You are very mentally sharp and strong. You enjoy challenging yourself both at work and with studies. You love mastering difficult tasks. You thrive in new environments, even stressful ones. You are able to study everything objectively. You have a upbeat attitude, and won't be deterred easily. You are open minded and optimistic about the future. |
More Flattery From Blog Things!
| You Are the Artist |
 You are unique and inspired. You aren't happy unless you are making art of some sort. Almost anything can be a catalyst for your creativity. You find the whole world stimulating. You have beautiful visions, and you're good at expressing them. You like people to see what you see. You also have an inventor's spirit. You're always thinking up new ideas and concepts. |
Wednesday, March 04, 2009
Okay, So Maybe Now They're Starting To Get A Bit Carried Away...
| You Are A Thoughtful Idealist |
 You have no problem diving into new experiences. You're so brave that you don't even notice how courageous you are. You like to think that people see you as intellectual and wise. You consider yourself to be very smart. You are a very romantic person. You can't help but see the world as it should be. Right now, stress occasionally makes you feel trapped in your life. You usually have a clear perspective on things though! Overall, your life is very peaceful - if not a little solitary. Much of what goes on goes on in your head. You are extremely optimistic about the future. You feel like things are always getting better. |
How Did They Know?
Nuff said!
You Are a Playwright |
 You are a highly literate wordsmith. You love both reading and writing. You are also a natural storyteller. You can turn a mediocre anecdote into a riveting tale. You find people and all aspects of life fascinating. No topic is off limits for you. In modern times, you would make a good filmmaker or novelist. |
And The Good News Just Keeps Rolling In...
| You Are Factual |
 You are amazingly analytical. You can make sense of chaos without involving your emotions. If anything, you tend to be overly logical. It's sometimes hard for you to come to a decision, because you're too busy weighing all the options. People turn to you in times of trouble. They know that they can trust you to give good, well thought out advice. |
I Knew It Was True
Faffing about on one of the Blog Quiz sites, I came across the quiz "Are You A Jerk?". Once I'd stopped laughing, I took the quiz and hey, presto! It told me what I already knew - I'm a great guy! And here's the proof:
You Are Not a Jerk |
 You treat everyone as fairly as possible. You think it's important to be good to people. You may feel like being rude at times, but you hold back. You are civilized. While you are considerate, you don't go overboard. You only show others the same respect you'd expect. Those who want to take advantage of you may accuse you of being a jerk, but in truth, they're the real jerks! |
Hey, it's not my fault. Read it and weep, jerk!
Talk to you soon,
BB
Cracking Up
Ever since God invented female comedians (and some say Eve was the first), women have been getting huge chuckles at men's expense over the phenomenon commonly known as "plumber's crack". This is the apparently natural law that states that any tradesman (especially plumbers and electricians) will inevitably expose the upper portions of their backside (and, in particular, the "crack" by which their "cheeks" are divided) whenever they bend over - such exposure usually occurring in the immediate vicinity of a woman, who is thereby justified in subsequently relating the experience of her exposure to masculine slobishness to all her girlfriends (accompanied, of course, by the requisite scornful sarcasm and sense of existential superiority).
This phenomenon, however, has developed a life of its own and extended its scope beyond tradesblokes to men in general - especially men of a particular girth who vainly or foolishly try to convince themselves they are still capable of wearing pants in their teenage size range, and who thus invariably expose more of themselves than the rest of the population cares to see. It's sad, I know, and painful to view: if some dude has to have a mid life crisis, why can't he get a comb-over or buy a Harley? Why does he have to parade in skin tight jeans, exposing all and sundry to the back of his front every time he bends down to tie his shoelaces?
And so it gives me no pleasure at all to tell you that women are well and truly in on the act. No doubt, many of you are already aware of this, but I can convey the news from a unique perspective: that of the petrol station console operator. Not only do we get to see more "plumbette's crack" than is good for us, we get to see it in its particular and varied species. Ever since Brittany Spears started poncing about in "hipster" jeans singing thinly disguised songs about sex while pretending she was still an annoyingly cute and innocent Mouseketeer (and really, did any of us believe that for a microsecond?), hordes of women and teenage girls have been brainlessly copying her bad taste and traumatising the general population as a result. And trust me, they come in all sorts, to wit:
The fashion tragic. These come in two sorts: the big (or even just average) sized girl who refuses to believe she looks bad wearing hipster jeans; and the masochists, the ones who are clearly in a good deal of physical pain from wearing tight-fitting pants, but who would be in even greater mental anguish if they thought for a minute they might wear something comfortable but unfashionable (or apparently "unsexy"). The former usually compound their error by wearing one of those body-hugging tops that only just manages to cover their midriff, leaving you wondering if the folks at Life. Be In It managed to clone a twin sister out of Norm's excess body fat. The latter usually have the fixed smile and glazed eyes of a person whom you just know is frantically telling herself I'm in pain but it's okay; I'm in pain but it's okay; I'm in pain but it's okay and who, in her more self-aware moments, is beginning to wonder why she's getting abdominal cramps even though it's not time for her period. The former are sad: you want to grab them and shake them until they understand that they can look good without the hipsters and the belly-overhang that is the preserve of pregnant women and truckies. The latter are potentially tragic and make you long for a government advertising campaign highlighting the damage to be done to spleen and kidney and other vital internal organs by inappropriately tight attire.
The wedgie. This appears to be a uniquely feminine variation on the "plumbette's crack": the woman who combines high-riding undies with low-riding jeans. The result is a strip of undie (sometimes quite a large strip of undie) peeking over the top of the pants waistband. No doubt, for knicker fetishists, this is a dream come true: no need to pinch undies off a woman's clothes line, she'll just parade them for you, risk free. And the other thing I've noticed is that the undies in question always seem to be pale blue. No kidding; just as it invariably appears that the butt framing the "plumber's crack" is pale, hairy, and heftily on the larger-than-life scale, so the wedgie variant of "plumbette's crack" invariably involves blue undies. Don't ask me why; I don't know. I figure it must be some sort of natural law, like gravity. And don't call me weird, either; you notice this sort of thing when you're a console operator. And besides, you should be asking these women why they feel it necessary to expose their undergarments in public!
The drunk. This individual is not only the bottom-feeder of the "plumbette's crack" universe, they're the saddest as well. This is usually the woman of a "certain age" who is also well past the first flowering of youthful beauty, and who turns up having spent most of the evening (and day) at a pokies bar, an "over 40s" nightclub, or other similarly salubrious establishment. Needless to say, they're well and truly lubricated, inclined to either quarrelsomeness or inappropriate familiarity, and attired in a fashion that in all charity can only be described as "Skanks R Us". Naturally, hipster jeans feature prominently in the assemblage, as do low-cut tops, bad plastic surgery, fake tans, too much make-up, and hair teased and coloured to within an inch of its life. The overall effect is pitiable, and perhaps the less said about them the better...
But what all these variations have in common is the phenomenon of "plumbette's crack". As soon as a woman representative of one of these categories leans over to take something off a shelf, or grab something from the fridge, you're exposed to a "crack" so prominent your instinctive reaction is to mistake it for a slot machine and start furiously inserting coins. And, yes, I blame "hipster" jeans for this blight of unwanted feminine butt cleavage. And, yes, I blame the fashion industry for putting self-indulgence and profit ahead of dignity and health. And, yes, I blame women for being so shallow and mediocre as to allow themselves to be enslaved to this kind of aesthetic and existential stupidity. And, yes, I blame men for encouraging women in the delusion that they look "sexy" in these jeans (when in truth the blokes probably just want to get them whipped off ASAP).
But, lest I'm accused of being entirely sexist (and the less charitable among you probably already think that I am), I must confess that I have started noticing a similar trend among young men. Except that in their case, it's not so much a case of hipster jeans causing "plumber's crack" as daggy pants causing "full crack exposure". By which I mean that young men seem to have taken to into their heads in the last couple of years that wearing ultra baggy pants represents an especially attractive look - not only this, but that wearing said baggy pants not around their hips but around their thighs is an indicator of their fashionability! More than once in recent times I've had to none-too-gently require some gangling youth to be so unfashionable as to wear his pants properly and spare the rest of the sight of his boxer shorts. I just dread the day when some fool decides it's even more fashionable to go au naturale under his wilting tweeds...
So, as you gather, I'm not a fan of current fashions, pants-wise. I just hope women start following Jessica Simpson's lead (and whoever thought I'd say that) and decide that wearing jeans around their waist can be equally sexy and fashionable - but, more importantly, more consonant with their dignity as human beings. And let's hope the blokes do, too!
Talk to you soon,
BB.
Quote for the Day: Sure, deck your lower limbs in pants; yours are the limbs, my sweeting. You look divine as you advance - have you seen yourself retreating? (Ogden Nash)
This phenomenon, however, has developed a life of its own and extended its scope beyond tradesblokes to men in general - especially men of a particular girth who vainly or foolishly try to convince themselves they are still capable of wearing pants in their teenage size range, and who thus invariably expose more of themselves than the rest of the population cares to see. It's sad, I know, and painful to view: if some dude has to have a mid life crisis, why can't he get a comb-over or buy a Harley? Why does he have to parade in skin tight jeans, exposing all and sundry to the back of his front every time he bends down to tie his shoelaces?
And so it gives me no pleasure at all to tell you that women are well and truly in on the act. No doubt, many of you are already aware of this, but I can convey the news from a unique perspective: that of the petrol station console operator. Not only do we get to see more "plumbette's crack" than is good for us, we get to see it in its particular and varied species. Ever since Brittany Spears started poncing about in "hipster" jeans singing thinly disguised songs about sex while pretending she was still an annoyingly cute and innocent Mouseketeer (and really, did any of us believe that for a microsecond?), hordes of women and teenage girls have been brainlessly copying her bad taste and traumatising the general population as a result. And trust me, they come in all sorts, to wit:
The fashion tragic. These come in two sorts: the big (or even just average) sized girl who refuses to believe she looks bad wearing hipster jeans; and the masochists, the ones who are clearly in a good deal of physical pain from wearing tight-fitting pants, but who would be in even greater mental anguish if they thought for a minute they might wear something comfortable but unfashionable (or apparently "unsexy"). The former usually compound their error by wearing one of those body-hugging tops that only just manages to cover their midriff, leaving you wondering if the folks at Life. Be In It managed to clone a twin sister out of Norm's excess body fat. The latter usually have the fixed smile and glazed eyes of a person whom you just know is frantically telling herself I'm in pain but it's okay; I'm in pain but it's okay; I'm in pain but it's okay and who, in her more self-aware moments, is beginning to wonder why she's getting abdominal cramps even though it's not time for her period. The former are sad: you want to grab them and shake them until they understand that they can look good without the hipsters and the belly-overhang that is the preserve of pregnant women and truckies. The latter are potentially tragic and make you long for a government advertising campaign highlighting the damage to be done to spleen and kidney and other vital internal organs by inappropriately tight attire.
The wedgie. This appears to be a uniquely feminine variation on the "plumbette's crack": the woman who combines high-riding undies with low-riding jeans. The result is a strip of undie (sometimes quite a large strip of undie) peeking over the top of the pants waistband. No doubt, for knicker fetishists, this is a dream come true: no need to pinch undies off a woman's clothes line, she'll just parade them for you, risk free. And the other thing I've noticed is that the undies in question always seem to be pale blue. No kidding; just as it invariably appears that the butt framing the "plumber's crack" is pale, hairy, and heftily on the larger-than-life scale, so the wedgie variant of "plumbette's crack" invariably involves blue undies. Don't ask me why; I don't know. I figure it must be some sort of natural law, like gravity. And don't call me weird, either; you notice this sort of thing when you're a console operator. And besides, you should be asking these women why they feel it necessary to expose their undergarments in public!
The drunk. This individual is not only the bottom-feeder of the "plumbette's crack" universe, they're the saddest as well. This is usually the woman of a "certain age" who is also well past the first flowering of youthful beauty, and who turns up having spent most of the evening (and day) at a pokies bar, an "over 40s" nightclub, or other similarly salubrious establishment. Needless to say, they're well and truly lubricated, inclined to either quarrelsomeness or inappropriate familiarity, and attired in a fashion that in all charity can only be described as "Skanks R Us". Naturally, hipster jeans feature prominently in the assemblage, as do low-cut tops, bad plastic surgery, fake tans, too much make-up, and hair teased and coloured to within an inch of its life. The overall effect is pitiable, and perhaps the less said about them the better...
But what all these variations have in common is the phenomenon of "plumbette's crack". As soon as a woman representative of one of these categories leans over to take something off a shelf, or grab something from the fridge, you're exposed to a "crack" so prominent your instinctive reaction is to mistake it for a slot machine and start furiously inserting coins. And, yes, I blame "hipster" jeans for this blight of unwanted feminine butt cleavage. And, yes, I blame the fashion industry for putting self-indulgence and profit ahead of dignity and health. And, yes, I blame women for being so shallow and mediocre as to allow themselves to be enslaved to this kind of aesthetic and existential stupidity. And, yes, I blame men for encouraging women in the delusion that they look "sexy" in these jeans (when in truth the blokes probably just want to get them whipped off ASAP).
But, lest I'm accused of being entirely sexist (and the less charitable among you probably already think that I am), I must confess that I have started noticing a similar trend among young men. Except that in their case, it's not so much a case of hipster jeans causing "plumber's crack" as daggy pants causing "full crack exposure". By which I mean that young men seem to have taken to into their heads in the last couple of years that wearing ultra baggy pants represents an especially attractive look - not only this, but that wearing said baggy pants not around their hips but around their thighs is an indicator of their fashionability! More than once in recent times I've had to none-too-gently require some gangling youth to be so unfashionable as to wear his pants properly and spare the rest of the sight of his boxer shorts. I just dread the day when some fool decides it's even more fashionable to go au naturale under his wilting tweeds...
So, as you gather, I'm not a fan of current fashions, pants-wise. I just hope women start following Jessica Simpson's lead (and whoever thought I'd say that) and decide that wearing jeans around their waist can be equally sexy and fashionable - but, more importantly, more consonant with their dignity as human beings. And let's hope the blokes do, too!
Talk to you soon,
BB.
Quote for the Day: Sure, deck your lower limbs in pants; yours are the limbs, my sweeting. You look divine as you advance - have you seen yourself retreating? (Ogden Nash)
Thursday, January 08, 2009
Just In Case You Were Wondering....
I know, I know, I've been neglecting this blog of late - well, alright, for about the last five months. But I've been busy! The thing is, it's not something I can sum up in a few words; nor is it anything that a few thousand words will explain (and who'd read that anyway?) So what I've done is reproduce a circular email I sent out recently to a few friends (who were as equally in the dark about my recent activities) to let them know that a) I was still alive, and b) what I've been doing.
So, with due apologies for ignoring you in recent months (and with a vague promise to not to so in future), my update for the last half year...
Dear Friends:
As it has been a while since I graced you with an account of my adventures, and since I know how much you all looooooove hearing from me, I thought I'd kick off the festive season with just the right spirit and bring you all up to date with what I've been getting up to (or away with, depending on your point of view!)
Ministry
This has been a very busy and challenging year, what with study, working a couple of nights a week at the local servo, and undertaking my first year of candidacy to the ordained ministry of the UCA. However, I am pleased to say that I have successfully completed Year One (as has my Dearly Beloved) and I am presently on placement over summer to the Black Rock/Beaumaris congregation.
Apart from being a very nice place to be over Summer, Black Rock / Beaumaris has two congregations (St Andrews Black Rock, and St Martin's Beaumaris) which mens two services every Sunday. The minister there is Rev Ian Ferguson, who is very gifted liturgically, and I am learning a lot from him in terms of making a service engage with people and drawing them into a space in which a service "speaks" to them. Ian goes on leave in January, so I'll be Johnny-on-the-spot for this congregation! Exciting but nerve wracking!
My Dearly Beloved and I have also done a fair bit of itinerant preaching and are both on the roster to be preaching regularly at the Hastings/Crib Point/Balnarring congregations - thank heavens for Eastlink! The formation process - that is what the official training program is called - has been very challenging and thought provoking. One of the interesting developments over the course of this year has been that when I first became a candidate, I assumed that I would be aiming for a congregational ministry once I was ordained; however, as a result of the formation process this year, I am now inclining myself more toward chaplaincy, and in particular, industrial chaplaincy. It seems to me (and this is an observation based on the many pastoral conversations I've had with many people over a number of years, including during my period of service in the union movement) that there is a great need for the church to be "present" in society in ways other than just congregations; and given that most of us spend most of our week at work, and given also how soulless and stressful many workplaces can be, a pastoral presence that meets people in their daily context is, it seems to me, a matter of some urgency. Still, the formation process is only one third over, and much thought and reflection and discernment still need to occur before the matter of where exactly I feel I am being called to is sorted out...hopefully, next year I will be able to access a placement in an industrial context that will enable me to reflect further on this notion.
Study
This year has been full on for study - I have effectively broken the back of my study load, meaning I'll be able to go back to two subjects a semester next year - but, boy, was it hard work! My academic results have been extremely pleasing - more than one High Distinction I'm delighted to say - but what has been truly rewarding have been the insights and sense of richness of faith and understanding that have flowed from my studies. In particular, the Old Testament studies I have undertaken this year have given me a completely new insight into the theological underpinnings of many of the prophetic and wisdom books of the OT, as well as the Book of Genesis. It seems to me that the ancients were not the primitives we often condescendingly imagine them to be - typified, for example, by the view that they heard thunder and imagined this to be God's anger - but that they were in fact sophisticated and subtle theological and philosophical thinkers whose portrait of God and faith is much richer and more complex than is revealed by our tendency to read sacred texts in literal terms. Indeed, the portrait of God and faith which the ancients who produced the OT paint is one that is subversive, dark, difficult, risky, ambiguous, and immensely powerful - but most of all, is one that undermines and overthrows the simplistic notions and presuppositions of both fundamentalist religiosity and fundamentalist atheism.
I have found this area of study so enriching that although I have completed the required subjects in this field for my BTheol degree - and next year I'm switching to Philosophy and Ethics - that I'll probably do a few more Biblical Studies subjects as electives.
Novel
I know you're probably all sick of hearing about this, but my novel Hunting the Shadows is now available on Amazon and Barnes & Noble - and for much cheaper than buying it direct from the publisher. So if you're looking for a gift for someone who's difficult to buy for (and loves crime fiction) or you are looking for a great read (even if I do say so myself!) you can purchase yourself a copy safely and securely online.
Benediction
I hope 2008 has been as rewarding and enriching for you as it has been for me - or, at least, that the prospects for 2009 will be as equally exciting or possibility-laden.
May your Christmas and New Year for you and yours be safe, happy, and refreshing and I look forward to maybe even catching up with one or two of you in 2009.
Talk to you soon,
BB
Quote for the Day: News is merely that which someone who doesn't care much for anything wishes to read. (Evelyn Waugh)
So, with due apologies for ignoring you in recent months (and with a vague promise to not to so in future), my update for the last half year...
Dear Friends:
As it has been a while since I graced you with an account of my adventures, and since I know how much you all looooooove hearing from me, I thought I'd kick off the festive season with just the right spirit and bring you all up to date with what I've been getting up to (or away with, depending on your point of view!)
Ministry
This has been a very busy and challenging year, what with study, working a couple of nights a week at the local servo, and undertaking my first year of candidacy to the ordained ministry of the UCA. However, I am pleased to say that I have successfully completed Year One (as has my Dearly Beloved) and I am presently on placement over summer to the Black Rock/Beaumaris congregation.
Apart from being a very nice place to be over Summer, Black Rock / Beaumaris has two congregations (St Andrews Black Rock, and St Martin's Beaumaris) which mens two services every Sunday. The minister there is Rev Ian Ferguson, who is very gifted liturgically, and I am learning a lot from him in terms of making a service engage with people and drawing them into a space in which a service "speaks" to them. Ian goes on leave in January, so I'll be Johnny-on-the-spot for this congregation! Exciting but nerve wracking!
My Dearly Beloved and I have also done a fair bit of itinerant preaching and are both on the roster to be preaching regularly at the Hastings/Crib Point/Balnarring congregations - thank heavens for Eastlink! The formation process - that is what the official training program is called - has been very challenging and thought provoking. One of the interesting developments over the course of this year has been that when I first became a candidate, I assumed that I would be aiming for a congregational ministry once I was ordained; however, as a result of the formation process this year, I am now inclining myself more toward chaplaincy, and in particular, industrial chaplaincy. It seems to me (and this is an observation based on the many pastoral conversations I've had with many people over a number of years, including during my period of service in the union movement) that there is a great need for the church to be "present" in society in ways other than just congregations; and given that most of us spend most of our week at work, and given also how soulless and stressful many workplaces can be, a pastoral presence that meets people in their daily context is, it seems to me, a matter of some urgency. Still, the formation process is only one third over, and much thought and reflection and discernment still need to occur before the matter of where exactly I feel I am being called to is sorted out...hopefully, next year I will be able to access a placement in an industrial context that will enable me to reflect further on this notion.
Study
This year has been full on for study - I have effectively broken the back of my study load, meaning I'll be able to go back to two subjects a semester next year - but, boy, was it hard work! My academic results have been extremely pleasing - more than one High Distinction I'm delighted to say - but what has been truly rewarding have been the insights and sense of richness of faith and understanding that have flowed from my studies. In particular, the Old Testament studies I have undertaken this year have given me a completely new insight into the theological underpinnings of many of the prophetic and wisdom books of the OT, as well as the Book of Genesis. It seems to me that the ancients were not the primitives we often condescendingly imagine them to be - typified, for example, by the view that they heard thunder and imagined this to be God's anger - but that they were in fact sophisticated and subtle theological and philosophical thinkers whose portrait of God and faith is much richer and more complex than is revealed by our tendency to read sacred texts in literal terms. Indeed, the portrait of God and faith which the ancients who produced the OT paint is one that is subversive, dark, difficult, risky, ambiguous, and immensely powerful - but most of all, is one that undermines and overthrows the simplistic notions and presuppositions of both fundamentalist religiosity and fundamentalist atheism.
I have found this area of study so enriching that although I have completed the required subjects in this field for my BTheol degree - and next year I'm switching to Philosophy and Ethics - that I'll probably do a few more Biblical Studies subjects as electives.
Novel
I know you're probably all sick of hearing about this, but my novel Hunting the Shadows is now available on Amazon and Barnes & Noble - and for much cheaper than buying it direct from the publisher. So if you're looking for a gift for someone who's difficult to buy for (and loves crime fiction) or you are looking for a great read (even if I do say so myself!) you can purchase yourself a copy safely and securely online.
Benediction
I hope 2008 has been as rewarding and enriching for you as it has been for me - or, at least, that the prospects for 2009 will be as equally exciting or possibility-laden.
May your Christmas and New Year for you and yours be safe, happy, and refreshing and I look forward to maybe even catching up with one or two of you in 2009.
Talk to you soon,
BB
Quote for the Day: News is merely that which someone who doesn't care much for anything wishes to read. (Evelyn Waugh)
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