It started as a sneaking suspicion. Then the floodgates opened and it turned into a fully fledged bird - I mean hypothesis. The hypothesis is based on a metal solid foundation of reasonable premises and valid deductions.
1. Many people tuck in their shirt (or analogous upper body garment).
2. The majority of these people strive to maintain the tuck for as long as the shirt is worn.
3. When faced with activities that lead to untucking there are two choices: a) do the activity and then re-tuck (e.g. reaching up to the top shelf to grab something), or b) avoid the activity altogether (e.g. vigorous exercise).
4. Sitting and standing upright - in other words good posture - can often lead to untucking.
5. Good posture is therefore to be avoided. This needn't be a conscious decision, perhaps just a subtle shifting of the body's movement preferences towards stable, reassuring tuck maintenance.
Note that a premise for many is that good posture is to be maintained for as long as - nay longer than - any shirt is worn. This conflict could be tearing our backs, and society apart.
Now, I'm not the kind of person to come to you with a problem and not a solution. I propose longer and hence more untuck-resistant shirts in the short term (although this doesn't address the related issue of shirt overhang at the waist area), and greater societal tolerance of no-tucks in the long term.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Lucky Miles meets Stranger Than Fiction and something else
Lucky Miles is a damn good movie. It tells the story of a bunch of asylum people / boat seekers who arrive somewhere between Broome and Perth in the early 70s. There's a Basrati (seems like the logical name for someone from Basra), a Phnom Penhian and an Indonesian joins them later.
It says a lot about refugees, the mindset of Australians and the unmildness of the Australian outback. It manages to do all this in a very laid back, unassuming way. It may not be a triumph of filmmaking or acting, but it's a great story with important ideas and I enjoyed it. So did my wife, who for some reason thought one of the reservist army types (who were looking for them) was hot. Out of 5, I give it 5. Out of 10, I give it 5.
Stranger Than Fiction is Will Ferrell being a guy who starts hearing the voice of an author writing a story about him. She basically narrates his life, which is irritating and then consternating when she says "Little did he know, he was about to die". It's all rather circular, with the author living in the same city. File this under - post-modern humour, Being John Malkovich wanna-be.
I enjoyed it, but I pretty much hated every character except Ferrell. Emma Thompson was irritating, her assistant was pointless and Maggie Gyllenhaal was excruciatingly unbelievable and lame. I confess, after I saw Secretary I had a bit of a thing for her, but she's really doing her best to push me away with this role. Dustin Hoffman was reliable as ever as a literature professor helping Ferrell out.
I'd give it about a 7 out of 10. Just shows how far you can take a movie with a good idea and a great lead (Will Ferrell, is there anything you can't do?).
Remind me to talk about Big Love and The Circuit. Two high quality dramas ( I hate that word as a TV show descriptive) screening back to back on SBS on Sunday nights.
It says a lot about refugees, the mindset of Australians and the unmildness of the Australian outback. It manages to do all this in a very laid back, unassuming way. It may not be a triumph of filmmaking or acting, but it's a great story with important ideas and I enjoyed it. So did my wife, who for some reason thought one of the reservist army types (who were looking for them) was hot. Out of 5, I give it 5. Out of 10, I give it 5.
Stranger Than Fiction is Will Ferrell being a guy who starts hearing the voice of an author writing a story about him. She basically narrates his life, which is irritating and then consternating when she says "Little did he know, he was about to die". It's all rather circular, with the author living in the same city. File this under - post-modern humour, Being John Malkovich wanna-be.
I enjoyed it, but I pretty much hated every character except Ferrell. Emma Thompson was irritating, her assistant was pointless and Maggie Gyllenhaal was excruciatingly unbelievable and lame. I confess, after I saw Secretary I had a bit of a thing for her, but she's really doing her best to push me away with this role. Dustin Hoffman was reliable as ever as a literature professor helping Ferrell out.
I'd give it about a 7 out of 10. Just shows how far you can take a movie with a good idea and a great lead (Will Ferrell, is there anything you can't do?).
Remind me to talk about Big Love and The Circuit. Two high quality dramas ( I hate that word as a TV show descriptive) screening back to back on SBS on Sunday nights.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
On Vinegar
Vinegar, I’ve loved you since
I was a carefree lad
I’m older and now understand
this was no boyhood fad
I know not how it started and
I’ll guess not how it ends
But on this fine libation
my joie de vivre depends
Oh vinegar, I’ll count the ways
You satisfy my palate
If only come election time
‘twere you upon the ballot
On potatoes
Baked or fried, steamed or broiled or crucified
Don’t forget potato chips
That sweetly sting the tongue and lips
(For burn & taste the best is Ruffles
In crisps world, they’re the truffles)
Be it from rock, a lab or the sea
Salt goes with vinegar like it goes with me
Mix it with chilli, apply it to Jiaozi
Or repeat step one and add it to Baozi
Use it to rug up naked salads
Or use it as fodder for catchy ballads
I hear the sour siren call,
but ‘fore I exit these four walls
It would be remiss of me
Not to add one think
Vinegar is unappreciated as a drink
Take this shining potable
And cram it down your gullet
Drink it, quaff it, swig it, sip it
Failing that just scull it
If you love vinegar
Then you’ll know this
like you know your name
Yet many haven’t done it yet
‘Tis such a weeping shame
I was a carefree lad
I’m older and now understand
this was no boyhood fad
I know not how it started and
I’ll guess not how it ends
But on this fine libation
my joie de vivre depends
Oh vinegar, I’ll count the ways
You satisfy my palate
If only come election time
‘twere you upon the ballot
On potatoes
Baked or fried, steamed or broiled or crucified
Don’t forget potato chips
That sweetly sting the tongue and lips
(For burn & taste the best is Ruffles
In crisps world, they’re the truffles)
Be it from rock, a lab or the sea
Salt goes with vinegar like it goes with me
Mix it with chilli, apply it to Jiaozi
Or repeat step one and add it to Baozi
Use it to rug up naked salads
Or use it as fodder for catchy ballads
I hear the sour siren call,
but ‘fore I exit these four walls
It would be remiss of me
Not to add one think
Vinegar is unappreciated as a drink
Take this shining potable
And cram it down your gullet
Drink it, quaff it, swig it, sip it
Failing that just scull it
If you love vinegar
Then you’ll know this
like you know your name
Yet many haven’t done it yet
‘Tis such a weeping shame
Sorry
I love the function and form found in nature. Life is just so damned incredible, and we are inescapably [Indian accent] part of it all.
I was walking down my life last night, when I got to a fork in the road. You know, I’ve had that memory – of a fork in the road – e’er since I can remember.
It’s like starting to like a food that you hated as a child.
The firm texture of the snails.
You know? I have to say that the pie…This was definitely a first for me.
It’s always a chore on these.
If it’s difficult, use your hands to put in place.
It’s not overly dependent on the saurce. That’s where your professional skills come out.
I heard you say that a minute ago… but I can’t go back and redo this.
I’m the opposite. For me is just great.
Eye-popping escargot and frog leg stew with butter rice.
Sore wa. Sozo I joi. Ho ki chin.
Toe to toe with escargot. Whose cuisine reigns supreme? Beating the one time most creative chef in France 1995.
There’s something about the iron chef that really kicks ass. And the U.S. one, based singly on the single episode I’ve seen, is a pale, wan comparison. I rate the japanese as very fine conversationalists. They really have a way with ideas.
Y’see, as far as I see it, it’s all about… Dammit, I forgot what it was all about.
The thing about the singers is that they’re not often hitting the right notes. I found that foul fully f*ck.
Here’s the other thing that’s hardly recognised. Nonsense saves lives, from being lives.
I once fertilised - I mean put fertiliser on mine own egg. The bearers of scent drew sweetly past my door, flipping fragrant wafts like freshly baked croissants over their shoulders and into the doorways of the city’s finest women and men.
I want to start a business that will be contribute overwhelmingly to the economy and to the strengthening of Australia’s strategic base, especially in my core capabilities.
I was walking down my life last night, when I got to a fork in the road. You know, I’ve had that memory – of a fork in the road – e’er since I can remember.
It’s like starting to like a food that you hated as a child.
The firm texture of the snails.
You know? I have to say that the pie…This was definitely a first for me.
It’s always a chore on these.
If it’s difficult, use your hands to put in place.
It’s not overly dependent on the saurce. That’s where your professional skills come out.
I heard you say that a minute ago… but I can’t go back and redo this.
I’m the opposite. For me is just great.
Eye-popping escargot and frog leg stew with butter rice.
Sore wa. Sozo I joi. Ho ki chin.
Toe to toe with escargot. Whose cuisine reigns supreme? Beating the one time most creative chef in France 1995.
There’s something about the iron chef that really kicks ass. And the U.S. one, based singly on the single episode I’ve seen, is a pale, wan comparison. I rate the japanese as very fine conversationalists. They really have a way with ideas.
Y’see, as far as I see it, it’s all about… Dammit, I forgot what it was all about.
The thing about the singers is that they’re not often hitting the right notes. I found that foul fully f*ck.
Here’s the other thing that’s hardly recognised. Nonsense saves lives, from being lives.
I once fertilised - I mean put fertiliser on mine own egg. The bearers of scent drew sweetly past my door, flipping fragrant wafts like freshly baked croissants over their shoulders and into the doorways of the city’s finest women and men.
I want to start a business that will be contribute overwhelmingly to the economy and to the strengthening of Australia’s strategic base, especially in my core capabilities.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Dick Lovitz
Look, I really don't want to detract from the colourful very short story below, but I couldn't stop myself from commenting about the Dick - Lovitz run-in, also known as the War of the Clowns. I'm not proud to admit it, but probably the funniest thing in the story is the 'Phil Hartman hex'.
In other news, if Australia beats Japan at the Asian Football Cup, expect some bloggentary. I'm hoping for some great post-goal celebrations.
In other news, if Australia beats Japan at the Asian Football Cup, expect some bloggentary. I'm hoping for some great post-goal celebrations.
Sunday, July 15, 2007
A cautionary tale
A bus. Somewhere in the suburbs.
An elderly man gets on.
He’s older than your average old man, but more sprightly too. The bus is half full. Normally this means that every seat is taken by one person, but there are a few free seats this time. Which makes it more surprising when he sits down next to a teenage boy. The teenager is unimpressed by the old man’s decision and displays his best nonchalant, aloof and cool face. It’s pretty good, too.
“Nice day, isn’t it?” No answer, but the old man goes on.
“I’ve seen my share of nice days – not more or less, mind you, just my fair share. I’m entitled to that aren’t I?”
The teenager could no longer pretend he was unaware of the old man’s existence.
“Who could deny that? Not you, that’s for sure.” The old man chuckled to himself, and he pulled a hamburger out of his jacket pocket. He took a bite into it, and used both hands to offer it to his fellow passenger. The teenager shook his head and politely smiled ‘no’. The old man leant into the burger, inhaled deeply and returned it to his pocket.
“Crikey, that’s a good burger! Better save it for later.”
The poor commuters on the bus involuntarily began salivating, such was the delightful burger scent that wafted through the bus. A middle aged woman sitting at the front of the bus, but facing the back and our protagonists (yes, plural), furrowed her eyebrows.
“Can’t you read the signs? No eating on the bus,” she called out.
The old man reached into his pocket, withdrew the burger, took a long, longing, loving bite and hurled the rest of the burger at the woman. It glanced off her shoulder and landed on the dash in front of the bus driver, amazingly still in one piece (this was probably due to sticky melted cheese). The driver, incensed, pounded his fist on the burger and flattened it.
Amazingly, the bus maintained its steady course along the road. The driver, obviously having second thoughts, picked up the burger, sniffed pensively at it and took a bite. He knew immediately that it was the right decision, and finished the burger in three bites.
Meanwhile, the woman was so outraged that she got off at the next stop, in between brushing her shoulder clean and muttering in the direction of the old man.
“Where you headed, sonny?” The old man was sitting down again. After almost deciding to get the hell out of there, the teenager somehow thought better of it and answered. For better or worse, his guard was now partly down.
“Just heading to work, actually.”
“Oh, gee, that’s a pity, lovely day like this.”
“I know. But you know what, I’m enjoying the ride, I’m enjoying the day so far, and I’ll try to enjoy work as well.”
“With an attitude like that, you’ll go far. Possibly all the way to the top.” The bus let on some more passengers, let off some others. “Where do you work, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“I work for a coffee shop.”
“Ah, legal drugs. Nothing like them.”
“That’s right. Our customers are hooked, I tell you what.”
“Has it ever occurred to you the reason why some drugs are welcomed by the powers that be, and others are banished as though they were some kind of bane?”
“I suppose you gotta outlaw the dangerous ones,” said the teenager, without really thinking about the question.
“Hogwash! How many people do alcohol and cigarettes kill? And what about all the others that stay alive and cop the effects? Let me tell you, you make your own decisions about these things, sonny. You like to get high?”
“Umm, not really.” The teenager’s guard was not that far down.
The old man pulled out a massive joint, this time from his boots, and a box of matches. “Here, open the window, would you?”
“It is open.” The man thrust his arm out the window to check, inadvertently slapping the head of a man standing at the bus stop at which the bus was stopped.
“I see. Well, bottoms up.” He lit the joint, and it burned brightly as the old man inhaled deeply. A good 10 seconds later, he began coughing and spluttering, considerately over the aisle rather than the teenager.
“You want a hit?” The teenager was clearly deliberating over whether to take the proverbial red pill when the driver swerved, just missing a pothole. The joint flew out of the old man’s hands and landed squarely between the teenager’s lips. He could resist no more, so inhaled, tentatively at first. It was some fine, fine ganja. Carolina Bluegrass, if he wasn’t mistaken. Well into the moment now, the teenager inhaled deeply, for so long in fact that the joint burnt all the way up to his lips, causing him to cry out in pain, and exhaling smoke all throughout the bus.
“I said a hit, not the whole thing! Geez, whippersnappers these days. Look, you seem like a nice kid. I gotta get off here, but let me give you my number. I’m planning on starting a revolution this afternoon and you can get involved, if you like.”
The teenager was well into his ascent/descent into stonedom, and acquiesced more out of reflex than consideration. They swapped mobile numbers. The teenager gave the old man a fake name. “My name’s Wenslow.” Little did he know that the old man did too. “The name’s McGuire – Pat McGuire. I’ll be seeing you later. The old man removed the emergency red hammer from the bus window and was about to smash a hole in the window, but then thought better of it. He pocketed it instead, wisely realising that it could come in handy for the long journey he had ahead of him this afternoon.
Wenslow (we’ll call him this for now) decided to get off early and walk the rest of the way. The sun felt so gorgeous on his back. He pulled out his walkman and tuned in to the soundtrack to his life that morning. Everything seemed so…nice.
An elderly man gets on.
He’s older than your average old man, but more sprightly too. The bus is half full. Normally this means that every seat is taken by one person, but there are a few free seats this time. Which makes it more surprising when he sits down next to a teenage boy. The teenager is unimpressed by the old man’s decision and displays his best nonchalant, aloof and cool face. It’s pretty good, too.
“Nice day, isn’t it?” No answer, but the old man goes on.
“I’ve seen my share of nice days – not more or less, mind you, just my fair share. I’m entitled to that aren’t I?”
The teenager could no longer pretend he was unaware of the old man’s existence.
“Who could deny that? Not you, that’s for sure.” The old man chuckled to himself, and he pulled a hamburger out of his jacket pocket. He took a bite into it, and used both hands to offer it to his fellow passenger. The teenager shook his head and politely smiled ‘no’. The old man leant into the burger, inhaled deeply and returned it to his pocket.
“Crikey, that’s a good burger! Better save it for later.”
The poor commuters on the bus involuntarily began salivating, such was the delightful burger scent that wafted through the bus. A middle aged woman sitting at the front of the bus, but facing the back and our protagonists (yes, plural), furrowed her eyebrows.
“Can’t you read the signs? No eating on the bus,” she called out.
The old man reached into his pocket, withdrew the burger, took a long, longing, loving bite and hurled the rest of the burger at the woman. It glanced off her shoulder and landed on the dash in front of the bus driver, amazingly still in one piece (this was probably due to sticky melted cheese). The driver, incensed, pounded his fist on the burger and flattened it.
Amazingly, the bus maintained its steady course along the road. The driver, obviously having second thoughts, picked up the burger, sniffed pensively at it and took a bite. He knew immediately that it was the right decision, and finished the burger in three bites.
Meanwhile, the woman was so outraged that she got off at the next stop, in between brushing her shoulder clean and muttering in the direction of the old man.
“Where you headed, sonny?” The old man was sitting down again. After almost deciding to get the hell out of there, the teenager somehow thought better of it and answered. For better or worse, his guard was now partly down.
“Just heading to work, actually.”
“Oh, gee, that’s a pity, lovely day like this.”
“I know. But you know what, I’m enjoying the ride, I’m enjoying the day so far, and I’ll try to enjoy work as well.”
“With an attitude like that, you’ll go far. Possibly all the way to the top.” The bus let on some more passengers, let off some others. “Where do you work, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“I work for a coffee shop.”
“Ah, legal drugs. Nothing like them.”
“That’s right. Our customers are hooked, I tell you what.”
“Has it ever occurred to you the reason why some drugs are welcomed by the powers that be, and others are banished as though they were some kind of bane?”
“I suppose you gotta outlaw the dangerous ones,” said the teenager, without really thinking about the question.
“Hogwash! How many people do alcohol and cigarettes kill? And what about all the others that stay alive and cop the effects? Let me tell you, you make your own decisions about these things, sonny. You like to get high?”
“Umm, not really.” The teenager’s guard was not that far down.
The old man pulled out a massive joint, this time from his boots, and a box of matches. “Here, open the window, would you?”
“It is open.” The man thrust his arm out the window to check, inadvertently slapping the head of a man standing at the bus stop at which the bus was stopped.
“I see. Well, bottoms up.” He lit the joint, and it burned brightly as the old man inhaled deeply. A good 10 seconds later, he began coughing and spluttering, considerately over the aisle rather than the teenager.
“You want a hit?” The teenager was clearly deliberating over whether to take the proverbial red pill when the driver swerved, just missing a pothole. The joint flew out of the old man’s hands and landed squarely between the teenager’s lips. He could resist no more, so inhaled, tentatively at first. It was some fine, fine ganja. Carolina Bluegrass, if he wasn’t mistaken. Well into the moment now, the teenager inhaled deeply, for so long in fact that the joint burnt all the way up to his lips, causing him to cry out in pain, and exhaling smoke all throughout the bus.
“I said a hit, not the whole thing! Geez, whippersnappers these days. Look, you seem like a nice kid. I gotta get off here, but let me give you my number. I’m planning on starting a revolution this afternoon and you can get involved, if you like.”
The teenager was well into his ascent/descent into stonedom, and acquiesced more out of reflex than consideration. They swapped mobile numbers. The teenager gave the old man a fake name. “My name’s Wenslow.” Little did he know that the old man did too. “The name’s McGuire – Pat McGuire. I’ll be seeing you later. The old man removed the emergency red hammer from the bus window and was about to smash a hole in the window, but then thought better of it. He pocketed it instead, wisely realising that it could come in handy for the long journey he had ahead of him this afternoon.
Wenslow (we’ll call him this for now) decided to get off early and walk the rest of the way. The sun felt so gorgeous on his back. He pulled out his walkman and tuned in to the soundtrack to his life that morning. Everything seemed so…nice.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Movement at the Artful Science station
There has been a bit of action over at Artful Science. It's now a one stop shop for all the stories that have appeared in the august pages of Cosmos magazine since the birth of Artful Science. You'll also find full length feature stories on anti-global warming technologies, viruses and warzone ecology.
There's a handy search function, and it is indeed disturbing that the most common tag is "Scientists do the darndest things to animals."
Recent topics
- the shape of the internet (Is it an oblate spheroid? A samoan circle? Trapezoid?)
- wireless power transfer
- nano-imaging
Coming soon: volcano research, and a feature on indigenous knowledge and intellectual property.
There's a handy search function, and it is indeed disturbing that the most common tag is "Scientists do the darndest things to animals."
Recent topics
- the shape of the internet (Is it an oblate spheroid? A samoan circle? Trapezoid?)
- wireless power transfer
- nano-imaging
Coming soon: volcano research, and a feature on indigenous knowledge and intellectual property.
Wednesday, July 04, 2007
Byron Bayou
I'm driving North until I reach Australia's most eastern point: Byron Bayou.
We're all set for the roadtrip:
- alternating iPods
- Salt & Vinegar Ruffles on sale for $1.60 for a 200g bag, a sensational saving
- numerous garments
- sense of adventure and relaxation
- tires inflated, oil checked, inflatable rubber bladder deflated
Can't wait!
We're all set for the roadtrip:
- alternating iPods
- Salt & Vinegar Ruffles on sale for $1.60 for a 200g bag, a sensational saving
- numerous garments
- sense of adventure and relaxation
- tires inflated, oil checked, inflatable rubber bladder deflated
Can't wait!
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