crazybrave

I read a review of Ian Thorpe’s biography on the weekend. I know, I know, I’m right up to date, but it’s holidays goddamit.

Apart from thinking it would have been reasonable for him to brush his hair for the cover photo, the bit of the SMH review I most enjoyed was this:

Rumours about Thorpe’s sexuality are dealt with directly but briefly. Hunter says Thorpe is not gay. He quotes Thorpe about a trip to Italy: “The girls have got the biggest heels, and they scoot around on their Vespas honking their horns and yelling abuse at people. When they get really upset they take their helmets off before they start screaming, and they look absolutely perfect. Then they just walk off, very dignified. I like their style.” This is a lad who likes girls and fashion.

Righty-ho then. Because no gaylord has ever had a moment of admiration for a luscious Italian style queen in a rage. I am so way totally convinced!

But just to make completely sure, show me another straighty 180 in a white suit and t-shirt on their way to court. Just one. From anywhere in the world. Even Milan.

I dare you.

I grew up near the beach, and here we are at Mum and Dad’s for Christmas (and any robbers who are thinking about ripping off my house, there’s nothing for you there and our VERY feisty Russian neighbour is looking after things, even going so far as to interrogate frequent visitor Steev who made the mistake of just popping ’round. So fuck off).

I’ve always looked at those beautiful brown skinny girls at the beach and wondered what they thought when they looked in the mirror. When they were buying togs, for instance. I saw a pretty (no comma) large woman in a black tankini there today and was wondering what she’d thought, just in a wondering kind of way. Then she turned around and turned out to be wearing a g-string. Part of me wanted to punch the air for cellulite pride, but the rest of me was hiding in enormous speedos and board shorts and thinking she should have taken a mate with a profound committment to honesty and a tough hide about their friendship shopping with her.

Today we went to Caves Beach, one of the magic-est beaches I know, particularly for little kids. Long, gentle slope into the water. Heaps of hard-packed wet sand for castles, walking, kicking an ENORMOUS beach ball. Caves, of course. And the best. surf. announcer. ever.

… (tannoy crackles) To the hard board rider in between the flags. You’re in the wrong place, mate, move immediately out of the flagged area. To all the dudes riding soft boards at the Southern end of the flags, you’ve probably all got the ability to be riding there, but there is a dangerous rip near you and you need to be thinking about the judgements about their own safety that people might be making on the basis of your behaviour. Thank you.”

Why did I ever leave this place? Even if there are no bloody buggery jobs?

It’s a long time since I’ve been to an old folks’ home. 1986, to be precise, when my year 10 history class went to interview the local oldies about their experiences of the depression. The woman I talked to was lovely. A bit lonely, but with happy stories to tell because she’d lived on a self sufficient farm and they’d had it alright.

On the other hand, my history teacher, a Mrs Smith, was an utter bitch. She came up to me as we were preparing to leave and said “Butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth, would it, Zoe?” Unfortunately for the mean spirited Mrs Smith, this provided me with the opportunity to say “No it wouldn’t, Mrs Smith, and you’ve got lipstick on your teeth.” Just for your own future reference, there are not many sights more satisfying than a nasty teacher licking her teeth in fury while thirty fifteen year olds laugh at her.

No such shenanigans on my recent visit, which was to take Sage to visit his paternal great grandfather, Syd. Sage is two and Syd is 87 so they don’t have that much in common (for example, Sage has never told me he is unlikely to last a fortnight, which Syd tells me everytime I see him). But Syd was just delighted to see that beautiful little face that is connected to his.

Sage’s Nan had taken a few books so that Sage could show off by saying his colours and the like. Syd’s hearing is not so tops, but Nan enunciated clearly and loudly, and Syd got every one of his colours right.

I was expecting it to be a little depressing, but it wasn’t. It was beautiful. Syd asked us to walk him up to the meal room, and we made about ten old people’s day on the way – well, Sage did, marching up and saying “Hullo!” I looked around the room and saw – a room full of people. Hope I don’t die before I get old.

I have been copping a bit of flak at Troppo for commenting that SBS Movie Show presenter Fenella Kernebone looks like (the young) Roger Waters.

Couldn’t find a proper picture of Fenella (or an improper one, settle down) so you’ll have to imagine.

“Unspeakably harsh” or uncanny? Make up your own mind.

PS The award for comment of the year that most cracked Zoe up goes to FX Holden for calling DREADNOUGHT “the only gay in the village”, also at Troppo.

Update: Thanks to the sleuthing skills of Mick from
to blog or not to blog, we now have a picture for comparison purposes:

See what I mean?

And Haloscan is apparently on the fritz, so feel free to send an email agreeing with me.

Is the author of this 13 years old or an idiot? Or a comedic genius? Or (d) all of the above? Some gems:

From the “Alexander Downer is LOYAL!” section: “When there was all that unpleasantness about refugee children swimming in water, who tried to set the record straight? Alexander Downer did!” and “He kept John Howard from leading the Liberals for a few extra months!”

From the Q&A: “Q. Did Mr Downer ever wear high-heel shoes and stockings?
A. This question is asked to me a lot. The short answer is “yes”. The long answer is that Alexander Downer was helping to promote local industry. I wish all MPs worked that hard.”

From “The Future”: “What does the future hold for Australia and Alexander Downer??????? Well, it goes without saying that he would be the best Liberal PM ever, but he will probably never get the job because he isn’t cruel enough. He’s like a labrador surrounded by pit-bulls … I know which one I would want to help me across the road. Perhaps if (sic)”

There is a great deal more and I strongly advise those feeling a bit glum to visit.

“Thanks for visiting my Alexander Downer web-site!!! I hope you now feel better about Alexander Downer and will pay more attention to him in the future. You won’t be disappointed!!!”

No worries. No, but I will anyway. I am certain I will be.

via Steev at woodenspoon

We are moderately immoderate here in terms of our television watching. We have binges, or particular fads. The rest of the time we don’t turn the telly on and do other stuff. Like blogging, or eating and drinking, or playing our new game Carcasonne (which is completely tops and you should buy it for someone close for Christmas so you get to play too).

Sage has been going to bed late (eg 8:07 pm), and waking up early (eg 4:23 am) which is a bit hard if you’ve stayed up ’til half past eleven drinking wine and playing Carcasonne with Steev and Pammy.

So vegging in front of the telly tonight I was delighted to find the American version of “Wife Swap“. (Dinner was .anthony soup. O had a salt urge and thought miso would have been better; I thought I should have used all stock (frozen yummy homemade) instead of half stock and half water. Can’t be at all mean with a soup like that.)

In my late teens and early twenties, I had a bit of a thing for Americana, even going so far as to marry a boy from Oklahoma. Given that the US is for the immediate future run by a cabal of neocon tragic-history-surmounting disciples of the saviour of the non-terrorist world, I think it’s important to remember some of the very fine things about that country. Wife Swap, of course, does not fit into that category, but I must make a point of doing that in future.

In the English version of Wife Swap, class was a major factor in the adaptation of the families (who, for those who forsake reality TV, exchange mothers/wives for 10 days; existing house rules the first five days, new mom’s rules the next.)

Judging from the first episode of the American series, it’s neurosis + energy vs eccentricity + sloth. The biggest difference between the two series (only so far, obviously) is the happy ending. The uptight uncommunicative family loosened up a little and actually spent some time together having fun. The chaotic 3 kids and 25 pets* family sat down and ate together occasionally, and the kids realised what a good lurk they were on. It was uplifting, even if in an Oprah kind of way. The English families just seemed relieved to have normality return.

I was happy to see that my favourite sub-type wife from the English series had an American counterpart. These are the houseproud women with very particular standards and structured routines about domestic organisation and relationships. At some point, these women ask their exchange husbands if they think they are being ripped off by having a slattern for a wife. (They often agree.) I like to think of them as the Angela Shanahans.

* Including, bizarrely, a kangaroo. Is there a law against that?

Now that I have managed to remain unsullied by paediatric vomit for 48 hours, I have read all those ghastly “google alerts” about Alexander Downer that smirked primly from my inbox.

Obviously, the big (stale) news is that the American government is even more stupid that we thought. How anyone would headhunt Alexander Downer to run the UN’s International Atomic Energy Agency is beyond me.

But the manners! The US government decides you’re enough of a patsy to cop trying to topple an international diplomat considered pretty fair by – oh, everyone but the Bush administration and friends – and you turn them down and don’t even issue a comment saying you’re flattered but unshakeably committed and thanking them for the thought. (Rats, make a liar of me – but check the enthusiasm: “I’ve not taken up the opportunity to demonstrate a great deal of interest in this job”.

More can be found at Rowen’s and Suki’s, Surfdom,and don’t miss Red Interior and Saint.

As an interesting aside, Crikey noted just before this came out that “former Tasmanian governor Richard Butler gave his first interview since his controversial sacking and payout”. Crikey identifies doing the interview – with Jana Wendt on ABC Classic FM, and with no mention of his $650 000 – as an essential air clearing exercise if he wanted to keep sticking his beak in it on a world wide basis.

The VERY NEXT DAY, Butler was out there giving us his two cents on Downer and the IAEA:

“I imagine he may be a little uncomfortable that he’s been fingered like that (as someone who will toe the US line),” he said. (Beautiful, isn’t it, that elegant language of international diplomacy. Perhaps Ms Fits had a – ahem – hand in it?)

And to all those who thought that getting rid of Alexander Downer would be enough, think again. Someone has to be the Foreign Minister. Perhaps as soon as a cabinet reshuffle following the new Senate mid 2006. Someone. It doesn’t bear thinking about.

Can you imagine this woman at a State dinner? See what I mean?

I have long conquered the old wives’ tale that swimming too soon after eating would cause untold harm.

But does anyone actually know if talking on the phone during a thunderstorm poses any danger to people? Or laptops on dial-up? Even if they’re running off battery power because I don’t have a surge protector and am a bit paranoid post the red wine into laptop $972 incident?