I'm often haunted by the question "What is your artistic outlet?" I have no idea what to answer to this. The best that I've come up with is to say, the expression of my ideas, that is, the articulation of my inner thoughts. This answer gives me about as much satisfaction as answering "I'm a hiker" (i.e. I walk) to my uncle's questions about which sports I play (something which is, apparently, very important). A certain anarchistic side of me toyed with the idea of answering, to the artistic outlet question, "my shit" (literally). There is a wonderful sub-story in "The Naked Lunch" about a man who teaches his arsehole to speak. Eventually the arsehole takes over saying, "It's you who will shut up in the end. Not me. Because we don't need you around here anymore. I can talk and eat AND shit". I imagine Freud would say I'm stuck in the anal phase of Psychosexual Development. I think it's interesting that people will refer to bad art as "shit". I imagine myself at the opening of my own exhibition listening to some fop (with too many artistic outlets to count) saying about my art "Well, I think it's shit!", to which I'd excitedly respond "Yes! You get it!". I think farts are funny as well. I've developed this habit of proudly mimicking my own fart noises, whenever I have a nice fat audible one. Jodi, forever the psychologist, says this is technically known as echolalia, i.e., meaningless repetition of another person's spoken words as a symptom of psychiatric disorder (again, stuck in the anal phase).
When I was 13, I was involved with an amateur theatre group (Ok, Ok, it was a Scout Gangshow). During the initial get-to-know-each-other phase we had a introductory exercise, you know the one where you go around the circle and introduce yourself by saying your name and something about yourself. I hate these games, as I imagine everybody does. It was the usual mundane stuff "Hello, my name is blah, I like Scouts", "Hello, my name is also blah, I really, really like horses" or "'Ello, my name is Inigo Montoya, you killed my father, prepare to die". Even though that Inigo guy was a hard act to follow, when it came to my turn I thought I might spice it up, and said "My name is Owen, my balls have dropped and I've had my first wet dream". My God, the fall out! Shock waves were felt across the city. The next day, in the totally unrelated arena of school, I had people come up and ask if it was true. Had I uttered these words which must surely amount to social suicide? Unfortunately for me this type of weirdness wasn't to be considered cool for another couple of years (when everybody would presume that I was continuously on drugs, which, apparently, is cool when you're 15 years old). As it was, I didn't make many friends at the time, and the ones I already had started to avoid me.
Nowadays, with all this virtual blogging, people can observe me without any direct interaction (just to be safe). Yes, I know that you're there. So, at the risk of making a fool out of myself when nobody does, I'll ask you to please leave a comment. If only to say hello and how you think my blog is shit (to which I'll respond "Yes! You get it!") and, if applicable, leave a link, so that I may tie you in to my page and start stalking you on your own virtual space.
Sunday, October 29, 2006
Monday, October 23, 2006
The Pixie Princess and the Boy Who Cried for No Reason. Part Two.
Previously, we heard the story of the Pixie Princess, and so I think it only fair that this part of the story be mostly devoted to the Boy Who Cried for No Reason (which is a rather inconveniently long title to write out every time, and therefore I will henceforth refer to him simply as the Boy Who Cried). In fact, the Pixie Princess spends the entirety of this part of the story gazing up at the stars, wondering about what infinity smells like, and other appropriately profound thoughts.
At the end of the last episode the Boy Who Cried had just been born. And he cried. He didn't cry for any reason, which was why he was called the Boy Who Cried for No Reason. His mother and father were fearsome pirates (who were quite nice, really), and it was expected that he would follow in their footsteps. The Boy Who Cried very much loved growing up on the sea and he became very good at talking like a pirate, saying things like "shiver my timbers!" and calling the various people he met "scurvy bilge rats" or "land lubbers" depending on the circumstances. When he was old enough, his parents wanted him to join the boarding parties when they invaded other ships (which was really just a bit of fun to give the others a bit of a scare). But the problem was that Boy Who Cried for No Reason also could have been known as the Boy Who Cried at Inopportune Moments, and all his sooking during the boardings had the effect of ruining the game. His mother started to worry that he might be gay, even though he claimed he was just a little bit poofy. And so it was that once he had turned 11, he left the pirate life to seek his fortunes in the kingdom of Batmania.
Batmania was a wonderful place where nobody ate animals or vegetables. The favourite meal of the Batmanians was ice-cream, which they had for breakfast, lunch and dinner. The King of Batmania, who was very fat, had recently lost one of his favourite golden socks, which had been taken by a formidable monster who lived in the woods. Everybody was scared of the monster and would run away when they knew it was coming. They could tell it was about to leave its lair because it would always ring a bell when it wanted to go outside. The King, who was upset about his golden sock, had put up reward posters all over the kingdom, seeking a hero who could retrieve his sock. The reward was an invitation to a feast at the King's castle, where the hero would eat as much ice-cream with chocolate topping as he could.
The Boy Who Cried had never had ice-cream. According to his parents, pirates didn't eat ice-cream. But he was curious and set upon the quest to retrieve the golden sock. The Boy Who Cried was searching in the woods when he came upon a cave which had a sign over the entrance which read:
And so the Boy Who Cried crept into the cave. Inside, the floor was strewn with the remnants of slain Kleenex tissues. In the middle of this tissue carnage was the sleeping form of the Gyppopotamus monster and in her jaws was the King's golden sock. The Boy Who Cried very carefully retrieved the golden sock without waking the Gyppopotamus and was about to get away when he started crying again. He tried his hardest to be quiet, but he wasn't able to stop himself from waking the Gyppopotamus. When the Gyppopotamus stirred and got up, the Boy Who Cried shut his eyes, waiting... But the Gyppopotamus was actually a friendly monster and she just wanted to play with the Boy Who Cried because she was lonely. The Boy Who Cried liked the Gyppopotamus and they decided to be friends. So the two of them went to return the golden sock to the King so they could attend the ice-cream feast together...
On the way there they camped out under the stars, and the Boy Who Cried told the Gyppopotamus all the things he knew about them from his seafaring days. Little did they know that they were looking at exactly the same stars as the Pixie Princess who had just got a good idea for an infinity stink bomb.
At the end of the last episode the Boy Who Cried had just been born. And he cried. He didn't cry for any reason, which was why he was called the Boy Who Cried for No Reason. His mother and father were fearsome pirates (who were quite nice, really), and it was expected that he would follow in their footsteps. The Boy Who Cried very much loved growing up on the sea and he became very good at talking like a pirate, saying things like "shiver my timbers!" and calling the various people he met "scurvy bilge rats" or "land lubbers" depending on the circumstances. When he was old enough, his parents wanted him to join the boarding parties when they invaded other ships (which was really just a bit of fun to give the others a bit of a scare). But the problem was that Boy Who Cried for No Reason also could have been known as the Boy Who Cried at Inopportune Moments, and all his sooking during the boardings had the effect of ruining the game. His mother started to worry that he might be gay, even though he claimed he was just a little bit poofy. And so it was that once he had turned 11, he left the pirate life to seek his fortunes in the kingdom of Batmania.
Batmania was a wonderful place where nobody ate animals or vegetables. The favourite meal of the Batmanians was ice-cream, which they had for breakfast, lunch and dinner. The King of Batmania, who was very fat, had recently lost one of his favourite golden socks, which had been taken by a formidable monster who lived in the woods. Everybody was scared of the monster and would run away when they knew it was coming. They could tell it was about to leave its lair because it would always ring a bell when it wanted to go outside. The King, who was upset about his golden sock, had put up reward posters all over the kingdom, seeking a hero who could retrieve his sock. The reward was an invitation to a feast at the King's castle, where the hero would eat as much ice-cream with chocolate topping as he could.
The Boy Who Cried had never had ice-cream. According to his parents, pirates didn't eat ice-cream. But he was curious and set upon the quest to retrieve the golden sock. The Boy Who Cried was searching in the woods when he came upon a cave which had a sign over the entrance which read:
And so the Boy Who Cried crept into the cave. Inside, the floor was strewn with the remnants of slain Kleenex tissues. In the middle of this tissue carnage was the sleeping form of the Gyppopotamus monster and in her jaws was the King's golden sock. The Boy Who Cried very carefully retrieved the golden sock without waking the Gyppopotamus and was about to get away when he started crying again. He tried his hardest to be quiet, but he wasn't able to stop himself from waking the Gyppopotamus. When the Gyppopotamus stirred and got up, the Boy Who Cried shut his eyes, waiting... But the Gyppopotamus was actually a friendly monster and she just wanted to play with the Boy Who Cried because she was lonely. The Boy Who Cried liked the Gyppopotamus and they decided to be friends. So the two of them went to return the golden sock to the King so they could attend the ice-cream feast together...
On the way there they camped out under the stars, and the Boy Who Cried told the Gyppopotamus all the things he knew about them from his seafaring days. Little did they know that they were looking at exactly the same stars as the Pixie Princess who had just got a good idea for an infinity stink bomb.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
MMMBop and Safety Head Gear
I feel that it's high time that I stopped hiding behind the photogenic good looks of Big Hanson (aka, Isaac or Ringo-Hanson) and revealed myself as his less-fortunate doppleganger. If only I could have been more like the girly one, all the more to further my drag queen successes. Apparently Big Hanson recently tied the knot, the last of the brothers to do so. I have been surprised at how few people remember the Hanson sensation. Surely if I were to play the repetitive, overplayed, and, let's face it, incredibly catchy "MMMBop" people would quickly recall the screaming teeny boppers. Still, I do believe that they had a whole lot more talent than a lot of popular chart music today (they just don't make them like they did in the old days). For prosperity's sake I'll keep the image of Isaac (with the partial heads of Zac and Taylor) here:
Dearest Cassie recently rummaged through her memorabilia of those good old days, mostly looking for pictures of yours truly in drag, and posted them on her blog. And so it was that one of these photos has come to adorn my blog profile. A little background: to the best of our knowledge, this photo was taken at Cass' 18th Birthday. The head apparel I'm sporting was designed and assembled by the incredibly talented James, as a gift for Cass. The T-shirt, with the caption "Call Me Burroughs", (below which was a picture of good old Willy Burroughs), was one of my favourites, which I wore continuously until it fell apart. I remember Nicole finding it for me at a flee market. Happy days.
The photo reminds me of my desire to get a Vespa and ride it resplendent in a bright orange helmet, with antennae, making Meep Meep noises at passing motorists (something like Beaker from the Muppets). I read recently about a study which found that people sans helmets were less likely to be involved in car accidents (very scientific, I imagine). (Apparently, the guy also dressed up in drag to discover that drivers gave him even more room). Probably, this is likely to do with driver psychology, that is, drivers will give more room to people not wearing helmets because they might perceive them as less experienced, less predictable and more likely to die if there is an accident. Helmet or no, I don't really like my chances in an accident. By this logic I should be very safe on the road in this fashionable contraption.
Dearest Cassie recently rummaged through her memorabilia of those good old days, mostly looking for pictures of yours truly in drag, and posted them on her blog. And so it was that one of these photos has come to adorn my blog profile. A little background: to the best of our knowledge, this photo was taken at Cass' 18th Birthday. The head apparel I'm sporting was designed and assembled by the incredibly talented James, as a gift for Cass. The T-shirt, with the caption "Call Me Burroughs", (below which was a picture of good old Willy Burroughs), was one of my favourites, which I wore continuously until it fell apart. I remember Nicole finding it for me at a flee market. Happy days.
The photo reminds me of my desire to get a Vespa and ride it resplendent in a bright orange helmet, with antennae, making Meep Meep noises at passing motorists (something like Beaker from the Muppets). I read recently about a study which found that people sans helmets were less likely to be involved in car accidents (very scientific, I imagine). (Apparently, the guy also dressed up in drag to discover that drivers gave him even more room). Probably, this is likely to do with driver psychology, that is, drivers will give more room to people not wearing helmets because they might perceive them as less experienced, less predictable and more likely to die if there is an accident. Helmet or no, I don't really like my chances in an accident. By this logic I should be very safe on the road in this fashionable contraption.
Sunday, October 15, 2006
And Now For Something Completely Different
Because my last blog was a bit heavy on the "Owen-the-analytical-party-pooper" thing, I thought I might follow up with this comic I found on my internet meanders. It seems so appropriate, I really identify (click on it if you can't read it).
Here's the comic's web page Pearls Before Swine
Here's the comic's web page Pearls Before Swine
Saturday, October 14, 2006
Who Am I? And Who Is This Big Hanson Guy Anyway?
Last Tuesday I started a blog entry about what I hoped to get out of this blog, a topic which spilt into introspective ramblings about my sense of identity. I got all excited about the ideas and ended up with the mess that often results from such indulgent philosophical thoughts. I put the piece aside, vowing that I'd return to it, to hack at the carcass, and salvage whatever possible worthwhile ideas it might contain. A great thing about this blog space is the opportunities to bounce ideas off fellow bloggers. In a previous posting I preached about the feasibility of evolution and the relationship between God and science, intruding on a posting on Cass & Ben's blog. I note that during this week both Meg and Cass have posted on the topic of self identity, and thus it is not without some sense of cosmic synchronicity that I am, yet again, inspired to follow their lead. And thus the gutting of my previous blog monster begins (before I do, a disclaimer: I do really try to be sound in my arguments, but these are just rambles, and I don't really know all that much about this stuff, so be warned, in an overly long parenthetical explanation):
There is nothing more important to me than the friends that have contributed to my life, even those that I've encountered for but a day. The impressions they have left on my psyche, and, I hope, the impressions I've left on their's are what defines me. I am continuously astounded by descriptive power of the symbol/concepts of evolution and the yin/yang of Taoism. The yin/yang is a constant reminder to me that wonderful things in life are balanced by not so wonderful things. In my case the weight of importance that I put on others is counterbalanced by a crippling self-analytical streak. In my understanding of Taoism, which is likely to be flawed, an important principle is the concept of wu wei, i.e. nonaction, or rather, just going with the flow. I feel that my analytical steak is part of my Tao, i.e., my way, and thus it is not worth resisting, even though it leads me, I believe naturally, to inquire about my Tao, which would be very non-Tao. This idea gives me some satisfaction in its nonsensicalness. It defies explanation, which fits nicely with the opening line of the Dao De Jing: "The way which can be uttered, is not the eternal Way." Will continue to muse on the idea though:
My academic investigations into the mysteries of life, coupled with a tendency to reclusion, make me cynical. That's what this blog is supposed to be about - I'm dying to reach out and express myself. I hope others will be inspired, as I am, by this new media, to express themselves thus, so that this virtual representation of our social network may be drawn tight through inter-linking. Just like the individual neurons sending electrical impulses in our brains make up the amazing thing that is our mind, I'd like to be able to stand back and marvel at our emergent identity from the expressions of all these people. In this light my self identity, choices and love (things which are the subject of ardent deconstruction in my studies) doesn't bear critical analysis, and remain, as they should, truly magical.
There is nothing more important to me than the friends that have contributed to my life, even those that I've encountered for but a day. The impressions they have left on my psyche, and, I hope, the impressions I've left on their's are what defines me. I am continuously astounded by descriptive power of the symbol/concepts of evolution and the yin/yang of Taoism. The yin/yang is a constant reminder to me that wonderful things in life are balanced by not so wonderful things. In my case the weight of importance that I put on others is counterbalanced by a crippling self-analytical streak. In my understanding of Taoism, which is likely to be flawed, an important principle is the concept of wu wei, i.e. nonaction, or rather, just going with the flow. I feel that my analytical steak is part of my Tao, i.e., my way, and thus it is not worth resisting, even though it leads me, I believe naturally, to inquire about my Tao, which would be very non-Tao. This idea gives me some satisfaction in its nonsensicalness. It defies explanation, which fits nicely with the opening line of the Dao De Jing: "The way which can be uttered, is not the eternal Way." Will continue to muse on the idea though:
My academic investigations into the mysteries of life, coupled with a tendency to reclusion, make me cynical. That's what this blog is supposed to be about - I'm dying to reach out and express myself. I hope others will be inspired, as I am, by this new media, to express themselves thus, so that this virtual representation of our social network may be drawn tight through inter-linking. Just like the individual neurons sending electrical impulses in our brains make up the amazing thing that is our mind, I'd like to be able to stand back and marvel at our emergent identity from the expressions of all these people. In this light my self identity, choices and love (things which are the subject of ardent deconstruction in my studies) doesn't bear critical analysis, and remain, as they should, truly magical.
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
The Gay Thing
I'd like to recount for you the many occasions when people have apparently felt they could enlighten me as to my unconscious homosexuality. This has happened so often that I have thought it worthy of serious consideration. Anyway, I've come to the conclusion that I'm not gay (I'm just a little bit "poofy"). I don't fit many of the stereotypical "gay" characteristics: e.g. I don't like Kylie Minogue, I have questionable personal hygiene and I'm a shithouse dancer. Oh yeah, and I've never kissed or had sex with a guy and I'm quite partial to pants-less females (of course, these considerations are secondary).
I've been surprised on a number of occasions, at how I've inadvertently been drawn into gay environments. Once, during a family get-together in Brisbane (actually the funeral of my grandmother), I, along with a group of cousins decided to find a bar to have a drink and shoot some pool. We settled on the bar called the Sportsman Hotel, completely unaware that it was, in fact, a gay bar. Not that I was completely oblivious to some same-sex "hand holding", I just didn't think anything of it (gay people are everywhere, apparently). I should have twigged after a couple of guys in the toilets invited me to a party where the theme was "blue hard-yakka shirts", like the one I just happened to be sporting. A compliment's a compliment, and gay boys sure know how to spin my dials, although I had to decline, returning to my table giddy as a school girl. I started to get suspicious, but it wasn't until, whilst attempting to find the source of someone singing "The Power of Love", I stumbled upon an adjoining room set up for "Pricilla, Queen of Desert" style karaoke. Another time I went to see a friend performing her poetry during a female poets reading at a gay bar called Salon Kitty. I swear there was some sort of conspiracy with the toilets, which were positioned just so that the seats wouldn't stay up, so that one hand was required to hold the seat up whilst peeing.
I don't mind that people think that I'm gay, in fact I've incorporated into my self identity, (although, some "hardcore" gays might feel that my "little bit poofy" doesn't qualify me for the positive entitlements of the label). I must admit that I get a bit of kick out of winding people up, especially my mother, who takes a diplomatic approach to my "may be gay" situation, i.e. "I'd be supportive of you, but it's a hard life..." What, harder than being sexually repressed and marrying a someone you have no sexual interest in?
Another story, (on how I lost my virginity) - I once spent a summer fruit picking with a friend, Dan. We lived together in a caravan, which my parents had kindly lent us, so that we could more easily commute to the orchard. It was during this summer (the tail end of that seemingly endless summer that follows the finish of year 12) that I decided to give up my virginity to my then girlfriend. And so it was that many a condom wrapper was lost to the countless nooks and crannies that are found in a pop-up caravan. My 18th birthday party signalled the end of our adventures. I'd struck a deal with my parents, who were to tow the caravan back, allowing me to commandeer the family home for my party, whilst they spent the night in the country. I shudder to imagine the sight as they packed up the caravan and discovered the evidence of my conquests.
Meanwhile, at the party, my friends and I had whiled away the night, and were well into the morning (occupied, as we were, by the Jehovah's Witness' we'd cornered on the front porch for a good "questioning") when my parents returned. Dan was the first to encounter them, and my mother sinisterly whispered to him "We found the French letters..." Dan managed to circumvent them to warn me of the impending doom, before making off. Resigned to the situation, I went to seek out my parents and face the music. My mother demanded an explanation so I told her of the recent progressions in my relationship with my then girlfriend. Her anger was immediately replaced with relief when she realised that her "obvious" conclusion, that I'd been bonking Dan, was proved false.
I've been surprised on a number of occasions, at how I've inadvertently been drawn into gay environments. Once, during a family get-together in Brisbane (actually the funeral of my grandmother), I, along with a group of cousins decided to find a bar to have a drink and shoot some pool. We settled on the bar called the Sportsman Hotel, completely unaware that it was, in fact, a gay bar. Not that I was completely oblivious to some same-sex "hand holding", I just didn't think anything of it (gay people are everywhere, apparently). I should have twigged after a couple of guys in the toilets invited me to a party where the theme was "blue hard-yakka shirts", like the one I just happened to be sporting. A compliment's a compliment, and gay boys sure know how to spin my dials, although I had to decline, returning to my table giddy as a school girl. I started to get suspicious, but it wasn't until, whilst attempting to find the source of someone singing "The Power of Love", I stumbled upon an adjoining room set up for "Pricilla, Queen of Desert" style karaoke. Another time I went to see a friend performing her poetry during a female poets reading at a gay bar called Salon Kitty. I swear there was some sort of conspiracy with the toilets, which were positioned just so that the seats wouldn't stay up, so that one hand was required to hold the seat up whilst peeing.
I don't mind that people think that I'm gay, in fact I've incorporated into my self identity, (although, some "hardcore" gays might feel that my "little bit poofy" doesn't qualify me for the positive entitlements of the label). I must admit that I get a bit of kick out of winding people up, especially my mother, who takes a diplomatic approach to my "may be gay" situation, i.e. "I'd be supportive of you, but it's a hard life..." What, harder than being sexually repressed and marrying a someone you have no sexual interest in?
Another story, (on how I lost my virginity) - I once spent a summer fruit picking with a friend, Dan. We lived together in a caravan, which my parents had kindly lent us, so that we could more easily commute to the orchard. It was during this summer (the tail end of that seemingly endless summer that follows the finish of year 12) that I decided to give up my virginity to my then girlfriend. And so it was that many a condom wrapper was lost to the countless nooks and crannies that are found in a pop-up caravan. My 18th birthday party signalled the end of our adventures. I'd struck a deal with my parents, who were to tow the caravan back, allowing me to commandeer the family home for my party, whilst they spent the night in the country. I shudder to imagine the sight as they packed up the caravan and discovered the evidence of my conquests.
Meanwhile, at the party, my friends and I had whiled away the night, and were well into the morning (occupied, as we were, by the Jehovah's Witness' we'd cornered on the front porch for a good "questioning") when my parents returned. Dan was the first to encounter them, and my mother sinisterly whispered to him "We found the French letters..." Dan managed to circumvent them to warn me of the impending doom, before making off. Resigned to the situation, I went to seek out my parents and face the music. My mother demanded an explanation so I told her of the recent progressions in my relationship with my then girlfriend. Her anger was immediately replaced with relief when she realised that her "obvious" conclusion, that I'd been bonking Dan, was proved false.
Saturday, October 07, 2006
The Pixie Princess and the Boy Who Cried for No Reason. Part One.
Jodi and Gypsy often pester me to make up stories for them. I should note here that Jodi is very much into children's literature, it being the topic of her honours thesis. Past stories I've made up for them have included "Gypsy Maude Investigates", "A Tree and a Rock: A Love Story" and "How Magic Stick got his Stickiness Back". She got all excited when I said that I'd write the next one on this blog. I hope that you also enjoy it. If not, too bad...
The Pixie Princess and the Boy Who Cried for No Reason.
The Pixie Princess and the Boy Who Cried for No Reason.
Part One.
In this first part of the story there is only the pixie princess. The boy who cried for no reason wasn't born yet. In fact, the boy who cries is only born at the very end of this first part of the saga, so don't hold your breath waiting for him. The set up is fairly typical for a pixie princess: you know - an evil pixie stepmother queen and a boorish pixie prince to whom the evil pixie queen was forcing the pixie princess to be married. But the problem was that the pixie princess was not too much into the pixie prince. The pixie princess felt that the pixie prince's kisses could be likened to having a bucket of warm saliva thrown in her face. (Although, in the years to come, the pixie princess realised that the pixie prince wasn't all that bad and regretted describing him thus).
The pixie princess' real passion was in the research and development of increasingly technologically advanced stink bombs (to be used in the war efforts against the mandarin trees, which the pixies hated with a passion). Here is the ingredients of one of the recipes she won the prestigious "stinky logie" (pronounced 'loo-gee') award for:
4 brussel sprouts
3 blow flies (deceased)
1 1/2 goblin testicles
1 jar of pickled leeches
1 pint of pixie wee
2 pieces of Gypsy pooh
5 slices of devon sausage
The pixie princess lived in a tree-house built in a beautiful oak tree called Roger. The tree, Roger, was decorated with hundreds of bells and every time a strong wind blew, the bells rang with a sound like that of a school orchestra where everybody wants to play the triangle.
One day, after a particularly unsuccessful (or rather, overly successful) stink bomb experiment, the pixie princess heard sounds coming from the ground below her tree-house. She peered out of the tree-house to see a band of '80s minstrels - boys wearing eyeliner, and girls in colourful ra-ra skirts. The sounds of electronic keyboards, synthesisers and saxophone solos mixed with the sound of Roger's bells.
After witnessing this magical display, the pixie princess became convinced that her calling was amongst the big people that inhabited the ground. But the evil pixie stepmother queen had expected that the whimsical princess might try to leave the pixie kingdom and had put a curse on her. And so it was, that when she reached the ground, the pixie princess realised that the evil pixie stepmother queen had cursed her with the hairy, hooved legs of a goat and that she could never return to the pixie kingdom...
It was at this time that the boy who cried for no reason was born, and he cried for no reason.
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
Table for One at the Philosophical Steak House
Well, what did you expect whist dining at a philosophical steak house? Lettuce? There are some things you just shouldn't ask me, or bring up whilst I'm anywhere in the vicinity. I'm sure Jodi would be happy to compile a list for you. Among them would be: "what's the chances of that happening?", "so, what are you studying again?" and "I just don't get evolution?". Something I'd like to share with you: for those of you who might worry about being rude to Mormons who tackle you at bus stops and the like: if you ever try to talk about your own existential dilemma's they are sure to bugger off quick smart (faster than if you told them to, outright). Rejected by Mormons and other religious nuts, it's a lonely life being someone who thinks too much.
I probably didn't make it clear in my previous blog, I'm not actually an atheist, even though I think evolution is a pretty powerful explaining tool. The truth is I'm all tangled up in the concept of "Truth". I was brought up a Christian, and although I have found it important to question such things, I still regard the pursuit of things spiritual as most important. I'm Agnostic, that is to say, I believe that nothing can be known of the existence of God. I believe that people who are blindly atheistic are, in many ways, as bad as religious fundamentalists. I'd like to share a satiric cartoon of the atheist by Jack Hamm. I'll let it speak for itself (Although, I will say that I think it makes my blog look smarter and also notice the absence of pants):
A story I'd like to relate: there was this one time I was reading a book about artificial intelligence on the train and these two girls asked me what I was reading. Happy to oblige, I recounted the entirety of the subject matter of PHIL101, "Mind and Machine", which I did during my first year, to them. Strutting my intellectual prowess, I talked of Searle's Chinese Room, The Turing Test and Descartes' Demon. After I'd finished bombarding them with this crap, I asked them if they thought it would ever be possible for a machine to think? One of the girls looked at me and said "Well, I think, there's so much space up there there is bound to be life somewhere out there..." Apparently, we'd started talking about extra-terrestrials. Now, I say that philosophising is like having a good tug. So, here I am, trying to strut my stuff, doing some weird philosopher mating ritual, and in actual fact all I'm doing is just jacking all over myself. I note that these rambling sessions are followed by a great feeling of elation, having got all this stuff off my chest, closely followed by a sharp pathetic feeling. A friend of mine recounted a joke by Daniel Kitson where he reflected on the elation of masturbation being followed by an awkward moment of clarity, where you realise that standing over the toilet bowl, pants around your ankles, is rather depressing.
I probably didn't make it clear in my previous blog, I'm not actually an atheist, even though I think evolution is a pretty powerful explaining tool. The truth is I'm all tangled up in the concept of "Truth". I was brought up a Christian, and although I have found it important to question such things, I still regard the pursuit of things spiritual as most important. I'm Agnostic, that is to say, I believe that nothing can be known of the existence of God. I believe that people who are blindly atheistic are, in many ways, as bad as religious fundamentalists. I'd like to share a satiric cartoon of the atheist by Jack Hamm. I'll let it speak for itself (Although, I will say that I think it makes my blog look smarter and also notice the absence of pants):
A story I'd like to relate: there was this one time I was reading a book about artificial intelligence on the train and these two girls asked me what I was reading. Happy to oblige, I recounted the entirety of the subject matter of PHIL101, "Mind and Machine", which I did during my first year, to them. Strutting my intellectual prowess, I talked of Searle's Chinese Room, The Turing Test and Descartes' Demon. After I'd finished bombarding them with this crap, I asked them if they thought it would ever be possible for a machine to think? One of the girls looked at me and said "Well, I think, there's so much space up there there is bound to be life somewhere out there..." Apparently, we'd started talking about extra-terrestrials. Now, I say that philosophising is like having a good tug. So, here I am, trying to strut my stuff, doing some weird philosopher mating ritual, and in actual fact all I'm doing is just jacking all over myself. I note that these rambling sessions are followed by a great feeling of elation, having got all this stuff off my chest, closely followed by a sharp pathetic feeling. A friend of mine recounted a joke by Daniel Kitson where he reflected on the elation of masturbation being followed by an awkward moment of clarity, where you realise that standing over the toilet bowl, pants around your ankles, is rather depressing.
Sunday, October 01, 2006
A bit of a Heavy One (Beware)
I just finished leaving a comment on another's blog and I got so excited about the topic that I felt the desire to continue it on my own blog. Basically it's about the difficulties in conceiving of the possibility of evolution. I haven't heard from the blog author, so I thought I'd wait before including a link to the page here (I don't want to step on anybody's toes). What I will do is copy and paste my own comments:
***
comment 1
First, I think it's good to question these things, so thumbs up for that. It's tricky, when I started my studies I had this idea that we were devolving (actually I can't believe my spell checker accepts the word), because the technologies we had were allowing more and more of us to survive, hence cheating nature and natural selection. The direction of evolution is not determined by some ultimate goal, but rather by the environmental niche the organism is filling. For example, imagine that all the parasites that lived in/on us evolved into people. All of a sudden there would be an energy source which no one is taking advantage of, so something else would evolve to fill the empty niche. So in fact, we'd expect the diversity and delicate equilibrium that we actually do see in the environment. That said, it's a common misconception. The idea of evolution toward some perfect goal is, in my opinion, a hangover of creationism. The idea that God created us in his own image, and therefore we must be as close to perfection as possible. I agree that the idea of evolution from primordial slime to humans is mind boggling, but then so are the time scales involved. It's like imagining the Grand Canyon being cut by single drops of water. But what is also mind boggling to me is egotism involved in inferring that God is like us. Without saying whether God exists or doesn't, God is at best a concept to us. There is no proof, because there can't be proof. God didn't make us in his image, we made him in ours.
***
comment 2
I was thinking further on this topic and I wanted to add something. When I say proof of the existence of God, I mean scientific proof. This is far from the only important thing. I think it's BS when people say they believe in science and therefore not God. God is outside of science. What's important is what you believe, not what can be proven. In my opinion, all that matters is that you keep an open mind and you risk hypocrisy if you outright deny another's beliefs.
***
I also desired to talk about the supposed science of "Intelligent Design", but felt that I had already rambled on to much, hence shifting to here, where Owen rambling is the norm.
By the lord, these creationists can cause a lot of trouble. There was a big stink some years ago over in the USA (the moral lighthouse of the western world), when some creationists came up with this new science called "Intelligent Design" which sought to discover arguments against evolution to demonstrate that some kind of intelligence was required, i.e. a creator. I saw a good documentary on TV about it. The stink was caused because these jerks had managed to have the teaching of evolution stripped from the syllabus of some schools and replaced by the science of Intelligent Design. Now, an important value we have in our society is that education should be non-secular (at least in public schools). As an aside, consider John Howard arguing about holy (i.e. Christian) matrimony when deciding whether Australia (i.e. non-secular Australia) should recognise homosexual marriage. This makes my blood boil. I'm going to have a ramble about the intelligent design arguments which are difficult to explain so maybe skip over to the next ***
I can't remember exactly, all this is off the top of my head, so I might make mistakes in my arguments (be warned). I believe there are two main arguments the Intelligent Design people had against evolution. One was an example of some biological design so complex that "they" were unable to explain it by evolution. The second was a calculation of the improbability of the world as we know it under the evolution hypothesis. First argument (i.e. complexity of design) rebuttal: if you can't work out how to explain something you don't just attribute it to something supernatural. It's just not science. To attribute the complexity of the world to God is just putting off the issue, as now you have to explain how God came to be and what his intentions are. You can say that God "just is", but if you do this you've moved outside of science, (i.e. you can't convince me with evidence). You can conclude whatever you what in your own beliefs, but it is irresponsible to teach your own (strongly disputed) ideas to children as the "Truth". (By the way, I also think it is silly to conclude that science is the "Truth", although many do, hopefully not science teachers). Second argument (improbability) rebuttal: How much would you bet that I couldn't show you someone toss heads 10 times in a row? What is the probability that someone could toss a coin and get heads 10 times in a row? Well, it's quite small (in fact, 1 in 2^10 = 1024). What is the chance that I could show you someone who has tossed heads 10 times in a row? Well, give me 1024 people and we'll hold a tournament, pairing off people and eliminating the tail flippers each round (1024 -> 512 with one -> 256 with two -> 128 with three -> 64 with four -> 32 with five -> 16 with six -> 8 with seven -> 4 with eight -> 2 with nine -> 1 with ten). There is nothing special about this person (or organisation of the world) apart from the fact that they happened to get lucky in the tournament (were selected for by natural selection). The Intelligent Designers have been duped 1:1024 (much bigger odds for the world). Or maybe the children who are taught this crap have been duped.
***
There was this big court case and a whole lot of the evolution bigwig scientists/philospher were there and, thankfully, the replacement of evolution with intelligent design in schools was declared unconstitutional. And there was much rejoicing. By the way, the people in the church, to their credit, who have realised that evolution and religion aren't necessarily at odds, didn't like what the intelligent design dicks were doing, (which is, moving spirituality into the realm of science). They, like us, just wanted them to shut the hell up.
Now comrades, what are we going to do about John Howard's homophobia and argument of Holy Matrimony?
PS. Now this blog did get a bit too heavy, sorry about that. But no masturbation talk, yay for me!
***
comment 1
First, I think it's good to question these things, so thumbs up for that. It's tricky, when I started my studies I had this idea that we were devolving (actually I can't believe my spell checker accepts the word), because the technologies we had were allowing more and more of us to survive, hence cheating nature and natural selection. The direction of evolution is not determined by some ultimate goal, but rather by the environmental niche the organism is filling. For example, imagine that all the parasites that lived in/on us evolved into people. All of a sudden there would be an energy source which no one is taking advantage of, so something else would evolve to fill the empty niche. So in fact, we'd expect the diversity and delicate equilibrium that we actually do see in the environment. That said, it's a common misconception. The idea of evolution toward some perfect goal is, in my opinion, a hangover of creationism. The idea that God created us in his own image, and therefore we must be as close to perfection as possible. I agree that the idea of evolution from primordial slime to humans is mind boggling, but then so are the time scales involved. It's like imagining the Grand Canyon being cut by single drops of water. But what is also mind boggling to me is egotism involved in inferring that God is like us. Without saying whether God exists or doesn't, God is at best a concept to us. There is no proof, because there can't be proof. God didn't make us in his image, we made him in ours.
***
comment 2
I was thinking further on this topic and I wanted to add something. When I say proof of the existence of God, I mean scientific proof. This is far from the only important thing. I think it's BS when people say they believe in science and therefore not God. God is outside of science. What's important is what you believe, not what can be proven. In my opinion, all that matters is that you keep an open mind and you risk hypocrisy if you outright deny another's beliefs.
***
I also desired to talk about the supposed science of "Intelligent Design", but felt that I had already rambled on to much, hence shifting to here, where Owen rambling is the norm.
By the lord, these creationists can cause a lot of trouble. There was a big stink some years ago over in the USA (the moral lighthouse of the western world), when some creationists came up with this new science called "Intelligent Design" which sought to discover arguments against evolution to demonstrate that some kind of intelligence was required, i.e. a creator. I saw a good documentary on TV about it. The stink was caused because these jerks had managed to have the teaching of evolution stripped from the syllabus of some schools and replaced by the science of Intelligent Design. Now, an important value we have in our society is that education should be non-secular (at least in public schools). As an aside, consider John Howard arguing about holy (i.e. Christian) matrimony when deciding whether Australia (i.e. non-secular Australia) should recognise homosexual marriage. This makes my blood boil. I'm going to have a ramble about the intelligent design arguments which are difficult to explain so maybe skip over to the next ***
I can't remember exactly, all this is off the top of my head, so I might make mistakes in my arguments (be warned). I believe there are two main arguments the Intelligent Design people had against evolution. One was an example of some biological design so complex that "they" were unable to explain it by evolution. The second was a calculation of the improbability of the world as we know it under the evolution hypothesis. First argument (i.e. complexity of design) rebuttal: if you can't work out how to explain something you don't just attribute it to something supernatural. It's just not science. To attribute the complexity of the world to God is just putting off the issue, as now you have to explain how God came to be and what his intentions are. You can say that God "just is", but if you do this you've moved outside of science, (i.e. you can't convince me with evidence). You can conclude whatever you what in your own beliefs, but it is irresponsible to teach your own (strongly disputed) ideas to children as the "Truth". (By the way, I also think it is silly to conclude that science is the "Truth", although many do, hopefully not science teachers). Second argument (improbability) rebuttal: How much would you bet that I couldn't show you someone toss heads 10 times in a row? What is the probability that someone could toss a coin and get heads 10 times in a row? Well, it's quite small (in fact, 1 in 2^10 = 1024). What is the chance that I could show you someone who has tossed heads 10 times in a row? Well, give me 1024 people and we'll hold a tournament, pairing off people and eliminating the tail flippers each round (1024 -> 512 with one -> 256 with two -> 128 with three -> 64 with four -> 32 with five -> 16 with six -> 8 with seven -> 4 with eight -> 2 with nine -> 1 with ten). There is nothing special about this person (or organisation of the world) apart from the fact that they happened to get lucky in the tournament (were selected for by natural selection). The Intelligent Designers have been duped 1:1024 (much bigger odds for the world). Or maybe the children who are taught this crap have been duped.
***
There was this big court case and a whole lot of the evolution bigwig scientists/philospher were there and, thankfully, the replacement of evolution with intelligent design in schools was declared unconstitutional. And there was much rejoicing. By the way, the people in the church, to their credit, who have realised that evolution and religion aren't necessarily at odds, didn't like what the intelligent design dicks were doing, (which is, moving spirituality into the realm of science). They, like us, just wanted them to shut the hell up.
Now comrades, what are we going to do about John Howard's homophobia and argument of Holy Matrimony?
PS. Now this blog did get a bit too heavy, sorry about that. But no masturbation talk, yay for me!
Thursday, September 28, 2006
The Miracle of ALife
I don't only think about masturbation, I am in fact a PhD student (although the two aren't mutually exclusive). My research is in the field of evolutionary ethics, a weird hybrid of philosophy, biology, sociology and computer science. I design, implement and experiment with computer simulations to study ethics, in particular, biological altruism. Or, as Jodi says, I make numbers have sex. This is useful as it's particularly hard (and most likely unethical) to do these studies on real people. My simulations are abstractions of the real world, where things are a little (that is, a lot) simpler (e.g. they don't have to wear pants). ALife (i.e. Artificial Life) is a subset of artificial intelligence (in the same way that real life is a subset of natural stupidity). I realise that this topic is potentially (in fact, inevitably) a little heavy for a blog, although I'd like to think I'm capable of making it (sorta) light.
Most definitions of art require a liberal definition. My studies are concerned with emergence. That is, with my simple simulation rules (A sees B, C eats D, and E bonks F), the simple, mindless, rules of evolution, I see the emergence of complex, albeit mindless, social behaviour. I was working recently on the visualisation of my results on speciation, taking the lead of Darwin and his famous "Tree of Life" diagram. That is, at the root of the tree you have the oldest, most primitive organisms (e.g. Australian politicians) and over massive stretches of time, and countless reproductions, we see the great diversity of organisms today (obviously, there is, otherwise, no real progression, as we still have the politicians). Anyway, Jodi thought my upside down "Tree of ALife" looked pretty (not a prerequisite of art (c.f. expressionism), but still a good indication of it), like a weeping willow, and suggested that I post it here:
I'm excited by these results because they demonstrate the idea of Punctuated Equilibrium, which I'm not going to get into here (actually, I lie, the idea of Punctuated Equilibrium is that all biological change occurs in rapid bursts, during speciation events, and the rest of the time sweet FA happens. If you're interested, I recommend you see a shrink and a book by Daniel Dennett called "Darwin's Dangerous Idea" chapter 10, section 3 "Punctuated Equilibrium: A Hopeful Monster"). Anyway, it got all this special attention because the creationists thought it was a denial of evolution and therefore scientific proof of the existence of a creator (aka god). I'll spare you the suspense (all ye worried about going to hell for spanking the monkey last night): by the time everybody was clear on what they were saying (Gould, one of the originators, being notoriously unclear), it was clear that the controversy was all a bit premature on the behalf of the creationists (who should worry about spanking the monkey). Of course the idea of conserving semen serves the purpose of both god and genes, which both, in a sense, propagate themselves via their offspring (i.e.memetics).
Another thing I'd like to share, a common bug in my simulations, is the evolution of necrophilia. A consequence of my mate-finding algorithm: when an agent is sexually mature it looks for a mate in its local neighbourhood (they are genderless, so everybody's fair game). If it is unable to find one, it puts up its hand, which is more like a flag that says yes or no, and waits for the next agent to come a knocking (on their abstract door). As an aside, this hand waving puts me in mind of "traffic light" parties, where red means "stop", green means "go", and amber presumably means "if you're good looking enough", perhaps this is where that all illusive "free will" demonstration can be found (calling all philosophers). When two agents eventually find each other, the loving begins, resulting in the production of an offspring. (There isn't much room for romance, perhaps a consequence of the lack of necessity of pants removal or record players to play some of Marvin Gaye's "lets get it on"). Anyway, occasionally an agent would put its hand up, requesting a mate, and then promptly kick the bucket, leaving an erect extremity to indicate an insatiable undead virility, (hellooo, mills & boon!) unbeknownst to any would-be lover, who proceeds regardless with the "getting dirty".
PS - After looking over my last two posts, which seem to suggest an inability to stop sexualising things, I started this blog entry with a clean break in mind. What could be less sexual than science research? Therefore it pains me to note that there is no less than two references to sexually deviant acts in this entry. Now, I like to be romantic about the whole sex thing, but I worry, given the common criticisms leveled at my gender of killing the romance of love.
Most definitions of art require a liberal definition. My studies are concerned with emergence. That is, with my simple simulation rules (A sees B, C eats D, and E bonks F), the simple, mindless, rules of evolution, I see the emergence of complex, albeit mindless, social behaviour. I was working recently on the visualisation of my results on speciation, taking the lead of Darwin and his famous "Tree of Life" diagram. That is, at the root of the tree you have the oldest, most primitive organisms (e.g. Australian politicians) and over massive stretches of time, and countless reproductions, we see the great diversity of organisms today (obviously, there is, otherwise, no real progression, as we still have the politicians). Anyway, Jodi thought my upside down "Tree of ALife" looked pretty (not a prerequisite of art (c.f. expressionism), but still a good indication of it), like a weeping willow, and suggested that I post it here:
I'm excited by these results because they demonstrate the idea of Punctuated Equilibrium, which I'm not going to get into here (actually, I lie, the idea of Punctuated Equilibrium is that all biological change occurs in rapid bursts, during speciation events, and the rest of the time sweet FA happens. If you're interested, I recommend you see a shrink and a book by Daniel Dennett called "Darwin's Dangerous Idea" chapter 10, section 3 "Punctuated Equilibrium: A Hopeful Monster"). Anyway, it got all this special attention because the creationists thought it was a denial of evolution and therefore scientific proof of the existence of a creator (aka god). I'll spare you the suspense (all ye worried about going to hell for spanking the monkey last night): by the time everybody was clear on what they were saying (Gould, one of the originators, being notoriously unclear), it was clear that the controversy was all a bit premature on the behalf of the creationists (who should worry about spanking the monkey). Of course the idea of conserving semen serves the purpose of both god and genes, which both, in a sense, propagate themselves via their offspring (i.e.memetics).
Another thing I'd like to share, a common bug in my simulations, is the evolution of necrophilia. A consequence of my mate-finding algorithm: when an agent is sexually mature it looks for a mate in its local neighbourhood (they are genderless, so everybody's fair game). If it is unable to find one, it puts up its hand, which is more like a flag that says yes or no, and waits for the next agent to come a knocking (on their abstract door). As an aside, this hand waving puts me in mind of "traffic light" parties, where red means "stop", green means "go", and amber presumably means "if you're good looking enough", perhaps this is where that all illusive "free will" demonstration can be found (calling all philosophers). When two agents eventually find each other, the loving begins, resulting in the production of an offspring. (There isn't much room for romance, perhaps a consequence of the lack of necessity of pants removal or record players to play some of Marvin Gaye's "lets get it on"). Anyway, occasionally an agent would put its hand up, requesting a mate, and then promptly kick the bucket, leaving an erect extremity to indicate an insatiable undead virility, (hellooo, mills & boon!) unbeknownst to any would-be lover, who proceeds regardless with the "getting dirty".
PS - After looking over my last two posts, which seem to suggest an inability to stop sexualising things, I started this blog entry with a clean break in mind. What could be less sexual than science research? Therefore it pains me to note that there is no less than two references to sexually deviant acts in this entry. Now, I like to be romantic about the whole sex thing, but I worry, given the common criticisms leveled at my gender of killing the romance of love.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Tweemo
As if the individual music genre terms of "twee" and "emo" weren't confusing enough, Adam and John had to coin the amalgamated concept of "tweemo". Twee, originally intending something excessively or affectedly quaint, and emo, short for emotional. Twee was originally derogatory and emo has become derogatory. Perhaps this photo, taken on a recent trip to the beach, of the two masterminds behind the word demonstrates its necessity:
A large part of the weekend involved the invention of twee porn titles (e.g. barely eightween). The story line, repeated across the genre, with minor variation by unimaginative twee porno directors, goes: a boy and girl, both wearing cardigans, meet (perhaps he's an effeminate poet and she's a librarian). They sit, mostly turned away from the camera, looking over a beautiful dandelion meadow (Belle & Sebastian is playing). The girl's cardigan slides, ever so slightly, down her shoulder. The boy reaches out to take the girls hand in his own. They turn to face each other, and stare into each others eyes as the sun sinks below the horizon between them and they slowly get old together. THE END.
I like twee music. Although, I have to admit the origin of the term is a bit off putting. It figures though, because I'm slightly effeminate and my girlfriend's a librarian. I made her a twee CD, here is the track list:
Music Is My Boyfriend - The Hidden Cameras
I Don't Know Why I Love You - The House Of Love
Bachelor Kisses - The Go-Betweens
The More You Ignore Me, The Closer I Get - Morrissey
Don't Call Me Whitney, Bobby - Islands
The Luckiest Guy On The Lower East Side - The Magnetic Fields
Lovefool - The Cardigans
Let's Get Out Of This Country - Camera Obscura
Sort Of Mine - Heavenly
Build - The Housemartins
Our Lady In Havana - Essex Green
Sleep Tonight - Stars
The Leanover - Life Without Buildings
Wishbone - Architecture in Helsinki
My British Tour Diary - Of Montreal
Just Like Fred Astaire - James
Camera-Shy - The Lucksmiths
There Is A Light That Never Goes Out - The Smiths
Beautiful - Belle & Sebastian
On The Bus Mall - The Decemberists
Listen To My Heart - Steinbecks
Of course, a close inspection of this list will lead some to exclaim "but that's not twee..." when questioned further their main reason will be because they like it. I think that this is, probably, a problem with the original definition, which being negative, implies that all twee must be negative, but if it was then no one would like it.
I don't know about emo. I researched to try and find out which bands constitute emo music. But, I haven't heard of any of them, apart from more recent, post emo (i.e. post decrease in popularity), bands like death cab, which I imagine wouldn't call themselves emo. People seem a little crazy on the whole emo hate thing. I suspect that many of them wouldn't actually be able to list many emo bands. And why does JB have an emo section? Well, what I know is that James Blunt isn't in the emo section so someone else is to blame for his music (which sounds like a cat being tortured). Lets regain our focus, rally the troops and work on the real evil here.
A large part of the weekend involved the invention of twee porn titles (e.g. barely eightween). The story line, repeated across the genre, with minor variation by unimaginative twee porno directors, goes: a boy and girl, both wearing cardigans, meet (perhaps he's an effeminate poet and she's a librarian). They sit, mostly turned away from the camera, looking over a beautiful dandelion meadow (Belle & Sebastian is playing). The girl's cardigan slides, ever so slightly, down her shoulder. The boy reaches out to take the girls hand in his own. They turn to face each other, and stare into each others eyes as the sun sinks below the horizon between them and they slowly get old together. THE END.
I like twee music. Although, I have to admit the origin of the term is a bit off putting. It figures though, because I'm slightly effeminate and my girlfriend's a librarian. I made her a twee CD, here is the track list:
Music Is My Boyfriend - The Hidden Cameras
I Don't Know Why I Love You - The House Of Love
Bachelor Kisses - The Go-Betweens
The More You Ignore Me, The Closer I Get - Morrissey
Don't Call Me Whitney, Bobby - Islands
The Luckiest Guy On The Lower East Side - The Magnetic Fields
Lovefool - The Cardigans
Let's Get Out Of This Country - Camera Obscura
Sort Of Mine - Heavenly
Build - The Housemartins
Our Lady In Havana - Essex Green
Sleep Tonight - Stars
The Leanover - Life Without Buildings
Wishbone - Architecture in Helsinki
My British Tour Diary - Of Montreal
Just Like Fred Astaire - James
Camera-Shy - The Lucksmiths
There Is A Light That Never Goes Out - The Smiths
Beautiful - Belle & Sebastian
On The Bus Mall - The Decemberists
Listen To My Heart - Steinbecks
Of course, a close inspection of this list will lead some to exclaim "but that's not twee..." when questioned further their main reason will be because they like it. I think that this is, probably, a problem with the original definition, which being negative, implies that all twee must be negative, but if it was then no one would like it.
I don't know about emo. I researched to try and find out which bands constitute emo music. But, I haven't heard of any of them, apart from more recent, post emo (i.e. post decrease in popularity), bands like death cab, which I imagine wouldn't call themselves emo. People seem a little crazy on the whole emo hate thing. I suspect that many of them wouldn't actually be able to list many emo bands. And why does JB have an emo section? Well, what I know is that James Blunt isn't in the emo section so someone else is to blame for his music (which sounds like a cat being tortured). Lets regain our focus, rally the troops and work on the real evil here.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Pants Optional
The title of this blog "Pants Optional" (conceived during procrastinatory moments / hours, during my honours year) was to be the name of my cafe / bookstore. Entirely devoted to science fiction and fantasy literature, the boy waiters would be dressed as Conan (the barbarian) and the girls as Barbarella (queen of the galaxy). A safe haven, where people could discuss Dungeons and Dragons, the Alien movie series and Kurt Vonnegut novels, free of jock oppression and pants. I contemplated the title "Owen's Philosophical Steak House" (concept courtesy of Alan Partridge), where people of all walks of life meet to talk philosophy and eat steak (my own patented vegetarian steak, "mis-steak", for non meat eating friends). Although, I abandoned the idea after realising that a good indulgent philosophical chat can give some people a stiffy (just thinking about it, in fact), which is not desirable in an eating / pants optional venue. All conversations would inevitably deteriorate to the topic of masturbation, which is enough of a problem already without it being exacerbated by, self gratifying, deep-and-meaningfuls.
Here is a picture of Gypsy and Me. Gypsy is a dog. Gypsy doesn't wear pants. (My partner Jodi wanted to dress her up a bit, but I drew the line at pants). I like to think that Gypsy is happier for it (she looks it, doesn't she?). I wear the pants in our relationship. This is not to say that I'm the dominant person. It is just that Jodi gave me a bit of a scare with her "bite the sausage" call to Gypsy as I was entering the shower one time.
I started this blog with grandiose ideas of posting pictures of people, liberated of pants, grinning at the camera, for your vicarious pleasure. Apparently this is also known as going Donald Duck. That is, sailor about the town, a promising bachelor with only his three troublesome nephews, a debilitating speech impediment and conspicuous lack of trousers to hold him back. Perhaps he lost them during some navy initiation ceremony. Of course, ducks don't wear trousers in the first place, so this is just silly. I imagine there would be an imbalance of males in my "pants off" photo series. Not that girls don't lose their pants occasionally (a quick search on the internet shows this to be the case, see www.police.vic.gov.au/hornygirlswithoutpants.html, www.feministpantsliberationfront.edu.uk and www.pantsonpets.com/noway/). It is just that I don't get invited to those types of parties.
Here is a picture of Gypsy and Me. Gypsy is a dog. Gypsy doesn't wear pants. (My partner Jodi wanted to dress her up a bit, but I drew the line at pants). I like to think that Gypsy is happier for it (she looks it, doesn't she?). I wear the pants in our relationship. This is not to say that I'm the dominant person. It is just that Jodi gave me a bit of a scare with her "bite the sausage" call to Gypsy as I was entering the shower one time.
I started this blog with grandiose ideas of posting pictures of people, liberated of pants, grinning at the camera, for your vicarious pleasure. Apparently this is also known as going Donald Duck. That is, sailor about the town, a promising bachelor with only his three troublesome nephews, a debilitating speech impediment and conspicuous lack of trousers to hold him back. Perhaps he lost them during some navy initiation ceremony. Of course, ducks don't wear trousers in the first place, so this is just silly. I imagine there would be an imbalance of males in my "pants off" photo series. Not that girls don't lose their pants occasionally (a quick search on the internet shows this to be the case, see www.police.vic.gov.au/hornygirlswithoutpants.html, www.feministpantsliberationfront.edu.uk and www.pantsonpets.com/noway/). It is just that I don't get invited to those types of parties.
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