A New Urban Myth

So the other night I had dinner with cPet (you remember her, right?) and she told me this great story her little brother had told her, which is sure to become an urban myth and I want to bring it to you first.
Little brother's friend at Uni was house sitting for some people and they had an old dog.
Said dog: died. Of course.
Now this dog was fairly large. So she rang the family and they said not to worry, dog was old, she was in no part to blame for the demise of family pet, but could she please take the dog to the vet, to dispose of the body.
Now said friend of little brother's, being a first year uni student, does not own an automobile. So she had to tram it, dead dog and all, to the vets.
So, flash of genius, she got a large suitcase on wheels, put dog in it, and went off to the tram.
Of course, being a fairly large dog, the thing weighed a ton, so it was to her great relief when some kindly gent offered his hand in getting the suitcase up the steps of the tram.
Being so heavy, he asked what was in the case.
'Computer parts,' she answered, thinking herself quick witted in response.
So, on the tram, they were on their way.
The tram pulled up to the next stop. Suddenly, helpful gent grabbed the suitcase and RAN OFF THE TRAM WITH IT.
Thinking he was making off with perhaps, I don't know, a bounty of titanium processors and Lacie back up drives?
But I would have loved to have seen his face when he opened the suitcase expecting a plethora of unusually heavy, yet expensive, shiny metal computer parts, to find a dead Labrador staring mournfully up at him, as if to say 'Your turn now, sucker.'

Seth, oh Seth

If I ever get asked to speak at a university or school (don't laugh, I opened an exhibition last week. And, it was by invitation.), this will be my inspiration.

Seth MacFarlane Speaking At Harvard

This'll cheer me up

'Artist Lee Stoetzel has crafted this tribute to the classic Volkswagon motor bus.'

I reckon Dell'd like it too

Via Lost at E Minor

This is so depressing...

There is no future for Aboriginal art.

http://www.theaustralian.news.com.au/story/0,,25459112-16947,00.html

Lookout: Girl on Decks

I was invited to DJ last night at my friends' (there's two of them, they're a couple) going away thingy (they're moving to Perth, yet another glorious friend (times two) leaving me for the West. Dammit!). A boy asked me and I DJed with the boys and they even let me play until I ran out of records. And no one threw me on the ground.
Yee ha for cool boys!
Bonus, it was really, really fun. Even (especially) when one of my friends whose leaving took a break from necking her champagne (wholly my influence, I am aware) to snarl in my ear 'play some more reggae, bitch' while her other half was saying in the other ear 'keep playing that French hip hop!'. Moments of indecision!
Also, it had this strange effect on the many women there. Afterwards, all these girls came up to me and were asking me where do I play which confused me a lot, I was thinking 'in my living room', mostly, and if I had studied music, which I had, but more slicing and dicing tape than mixing vinyl. They all said 'I wish I could do that'. It's not even hard, really. So, if only I could stop spending money on food, shoes, clothes, books and art, I could buy more records. And do my bit for, you know, the chicks, maybe.
$ please.

Search Terms People Have Used to Get To This Blog

Apart from the usual inordinate amount of people doing desperate searches on what to do with their 'boring girlfriend', people really type these things into Google and expect an answer:

can't be bothered to do anything

midget mum xxx

what do Australians call homos?

saddlebags fucking

lavinia nixon naked

dj girlfriends advice

i hate you elaine dawn owen

Of all of these brief expressions that somehow, to me, symbolise the utter travesty that is our era, the one that really moves me (although that someone was desperate enough to be asking a DJ's girlfriend for advice is undeniably tragic, as is the thought of someone who would willingly search for images of Lavinia Nixon sans outerwear, although perhaps they are just picky about their fashion, I do hate that dreadful DFO place too), is Poor Elaine Dawn Owen. I really feel for her. What had she done that was so horrible it lead to some nutcase googling their nasty sentiments into a search engine?

Instant Un-Charitable Karma

On Sunday I went to my local store (it really is that in the country, I'm not attempting to sound American, it's a store that has been the same, pretty much, since its inception in 1927, although now they sell faux-French pottery and tea towels wrapped in rustic twine), to get a coffee and muffin (they make the most delicious light muffins; normally I order a muffin, take two bites and can't eat any more, I find the whole experience insufferably excruciating. With these muffins I finish the whole thing, and even want another. They must have some sort of muffin making genius lurking in the kitchen).
I went outside to wait, and noticed that someone had taken my second notice for our Easter show down. I think it might be a village rivalry thing, as there's a lot of that down here, as the notices for the other Easter art shows remained. Or it could be an art rivalry thing, perhaps we are moving in on the watercolour brigade – a distinct possibility. As one who is currently ducking out of her inherited duty of judging the local art show, a rather insufferable obligation my mother and her father before her had to endure, I am extremely familiar with the competitive ways of the Sunday colourist.
So I was sitting waiting for my breakfast, and I felt some eyes upon me. I turned and looked, as indirectly as I could, and there was an elderly lady with an Anzac tin and a blanket on her knees. I was just looking for some change when the young man with muffin and coffee appeared (he brought it outside to me, they do that kind of thing down here, along with noting, one by one, the origin of your envelopes when you go to pick up your mail. No mailed porn for me!).
I didn't have any change really, my purse was empty, used up on breakfast, except for the required supermarket trolley coin, so I set off on my way.
Later, in the supermarket, the guilt kicked in. I hadn't felt too bad not to give to the Anzacs, as I have a quota of one charity per week. I must do this, as I am a penniless writer and pretty much a charity case myself, however, I still felt guilty. Also, I have felt mixed emotions about the Anzacs since primary school when I would protest about our forced requirement to purchase Anzac badges. Despite being directly affected by war having lost a close family member to it, I also despised the glorification of it that Anzac Day seems to dwell on. As a child, I would only buy the pretty, 1920s looking mint green badge because I liked it. Then I would deliver a wholly precocious little speech to my teacher and classmates about the horrors of war and why it must not be celebrated. How they endured me I have no idea.
I tried to ease the guilt by telling myself I had done my week's charitable act, I had stopped in Flinders Lane earlier that week to talk with a nice young woman from Amnesty International about women's rights in Africa. When all else walked on by, I had stopped, listened to her story, signed a petition, and given my phone number for her to ring me later so I could provide more support.
But still the lady with the blanket haunted me. A war widow, perhaps, scrounging for change, unable to pay her gas bill.
I felt immediately that some dreadful karmic consequence would beset me, I would come out of the supermarket to find my car with flat tyres, or would have left my lights on, as I often do (this is not fun in the country, last time this happened a mob of children laughed at me and tried to roll start my car for me. Then one of them rang her neighbour, the RACV man, on her mobile phone. To say it was humiliating to be rescued by a group of 11 years olds is putting it mildly. I didn't even know that you could roll start a car with a flat battery).
I wonder, does this happen to normal people? I wondered if it was too late to go back to the store, and deposit a twenty dollar note in the lady's tin.
But when I came out of the supermarket, my car was working so I just drove straight home.
I am always surprised by my humanity, how I can be just as bad as the rest of the humans. It is a despicable trait.