ninafat

Warrior pose indeed

2009-09-27T17:26:00.000+10:00

After a long break, I've decided to go back to yoga. Got myself a book, inserted my flabby self into a stretchy outfit and made the first step along the path to enlightenment this morning. How do I feel, you ask? I'm furious.

Most people associate yoga with a calm, cow eyed view of the world and everyone in it. Yoga is supposed to be relaxing, rejuvenating for the mind and body. The reality is that within a yoga session, there are triumphs, near misses, disasters and freak outs. It's an entire life condensed into an hour and a half. The way you react, how you approach each pose is analogous to the way you approach life.

Right now, I'm one wonky downward dog away from opening fire on the nearest orphanage. You should've heard the names I called my cat. I vacillated between abject self-pity to absolute loathing of the woman in the picture who was happily carrying out One-Legged Pigeon. She can probably do her taxes in this position, but all it inspires in me is a strong desire to murder death kill innocent bystanders.

This is entirely normal apparently, and the only important thing is that you stubbornly persist until you reach the end of your practice for the day. My instinct to eschew the communal yoga class was wise, however. I am the yogic destroyer of worlds, smasher of chakras, and right now I would like nothing more than to pick up a seasoned practitioner by their fisherman's pants and toss their smug bendy body like a cabre. Herbal tea, anyone?

You can't handle the FICTION!

2008-10-05T16:10:00.008+11:00

Recently, a library in Virginia celebrated the freedom to read in a pretty cool way:

It's so easy to think of the US as being full of close-minded book-banning types, until you take a look at the history of banned literature in Australia. This country banned Gore Vidal's The City and The Pillar until 1967, a book US citizens had had access to since 1948.

Both Ulysses and Lady Chatterley's Lover were banned in Australia, the Prime Minister Robert Menzies claiming that if he didn't want his wife reading the latter, then no one should be reading it. Personally, I think it was a bit of an insult to his wife's imagination to assume she could never get the idea of taking a lover on her own.

No Bob, it must be all those dirty books she's been reading.

Generally, banning books seems like a complete waste of time. Why would anyone ban Ulysses? The raciness of this novel is completely lost on the 95% of readers who never make it past page 17.

But it's important to pay attention to censorship, particularly if you could easily imagine it isn't still going on. I'd like to know just what the government doesn't want me to be reading. I'm not necessarily going to immediately read it online out of principle, but it seems important to recognise that this process is ongoing.

It would be cool to have a special black cabinet with a lock and key in which you kept history's most banned books. Alice in Wonderland, The Satanic Verses, The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, Peter Rabbit, The Bible and The Koran would snuggle in there together like little fiction ideabombs, ready to detonate in your brain. Excitement!

The banning of things seems a far more theoretical exercise since the advent of the internet anyway. You can get your hands on what you please nowadays, no more passing around a frayed copy of The Tropic of Cancer in the locker room. The Peaceful Pill Handbook, a euthanasia guide still banned in Australia is available as a digital download from their website. If you want to build a bomb, you'd head to the internet, not to the library.

Other than books which supposedly incite terrorists to action, there's no list online of the most challenged books in Australia. The excellent American Library Association publishes its own list. The number one most offensive book in America today is apparently a picture book about two male penguins who hatch an egg together.

And it's a true story! But I guess some would-be censors can't handle the truth.

Thanks to Boing Boing, the library in question, The Book Show and two little gay penguins who had a dream.

Lost and found

2008-09-26T21:47:00.002+10:00

The following post is something I wrote about a year ago and just discovered on my computer. Thought it was all right.

Those of you who know me may have heard about the manbargo. The manbargo was put in place shortly after the unscheduled events of July, and has been treating me well. It is a series of harsh sanctions against people of the penile persuasion, designed to give me a bit of a break.

I think that the time of the manbargo is coming to a close, however, because I seem to have inadvertently started stalking some handsome guy at the hospital where I work. I’m not doing it on purpose, he just keeps popping up all handsomely. Today I saw him and I had to hide behind a cake I was carrying. I have met him before, but I was wearing full scrubs and face mask at the time, so I don’t think he would recognise me.

I love scrubs. They exponentially increase handsomeness, I think it’s the cut or something. Anyway, I saw him and he was striding along in said scrubs, and I was taken off guard by said handsomeness so I hid behind my cake (black forest). This is what I was thinking:

1. I’m glad I baked such a big cake.
2. I turned 26 today. Do 26 year olds hide behind baked goods?
3. This is ridiculous. I have every right to be in this hallway. Why am I hiding? I shall peek over the cake.
4. Arrgh! Too handsome! Retreat!

Things I done seen

2008-09-21T21:33:00.003+10:00

I get so nervous when introduced to my superiors.

Luckily I am able to work at home to avoid distractions.

My store, my... errr

Non-agalmatophiliacs can consider this your unicorn chaser.

Get a haircut and a mindfuck at the same time.

2008-02-24T17:35:00.001+11:00

Ok, put on your headphones and listen to this.

Thank jebus for BoingBoing.

Sorry.

2008-02-12T20:07:00.000+11:00

So often Australians think of New Zealand as a younger sibling - the little island on the side that is always trying to compete, trying to catch up.

But when I first came to Australia, I often felt like I had slipped into a time warp, back to before the Waitangi Comission, before Te Reo in schools, before I was born. Australian race relations were stuck in the 60s, in a knot of denial and bitterness. It was almost as if the government thought it could wait aboriginality out.

It's funny how one little election changes so much. Tomorrow, a beautifully written 300 words or so will be presented by the Australian Government (and even the Opposition, after the obligatory posturing) to all the people of Australia. It says that you're sorry for the things you've done to each other.

Being sorry isn't a sign of weakness. Carrying the burden of the terrible things done in this country's history (as in my own) weighs everyone down. Until regret is expressed, how can forgiveness be given? And to remain unforgiven is a terrible thing.

These are 300 words not just for the stolen generation but for everyone with a history in this place. And you can feel pride that you've brought Australia to this point together, to the beginning of what will be a long process of reconciliation and healing.

It will take years. But as the wrongs are slowly uncovered and you try to make things right, you'll feel this love for your country that has nothing to do with sporting achievements or wearing your flag as a cape. It's a fierce and slow-burning pride in the way things are headed, the way you do things now, which is a million miles away from blind patriotism.

Dust Jacket Quotes for the Inevitable Novelisation of the Hawaii Chair

2008-02-09T18:13:00.000+11:00

One minute and five seconds of proof that Rome is burning.

Glenn Peters, social commentator.

I think it would go well with booze.

Darren Willis, professional sedent.

Did he just say, "This feels great on my ass!"?

Me.

Tom Cruise - Fingering Aliens with Ethics Since, Like, Forevers!

2008-01-29T20:56:00.000+11:00

You know how you'll set a goal, and then fail at it?

http://video.236.com/services/link/bcpid1272014315/bclid1125909605/bctid1393777832

I DON'T DO THAT

Vanilla Ice's Nona Rocks Focaccia Like Vandal

2008-01-27T08:38:00.000+11:00

Corey Delaney - Dead Set Legend

2008-01-17T09:31:00.000+11:00

There is nothing inherently interesting about Corey Delaney. But, by virtue of his being a very model of a modern Australian teenager, he has landed himself in a battle over the morals of youf.

If you look at ACA's incredibly mishandled attempt to shame him into repentance:

"You need to take a long, hard look at yourself."

"I did. Everyone did. And they love it."

you'll realise that this is way bigger than the generation gap. This is new media vs old media - TV, radio, they just don't know what to do with him. Time was, scoundrels could be rooted out by shows like ACA, and they would run to their cars, hands over their faces. Shamed.

But shame doesn't work on the unshameable. And for a generation of kids who have grown up with Big Brother, notoriety doesn't just resemble fame - it is the same thing exactly. Desirable in every sense.

He's unflinching, unrepentant, neither cowed nor dazzled by the lustre of old media. He walked out of a radio interview after one of the hosts tried to get his famous glasses off. You'll see the same fight in the aisles of supermarkets all over the world, between stubborn toddlers and their exasperated parents. It's the frustration of someone who feels that they're not getting the deference that they deserve, that surely this should be easy - this is just a kid, after all.

But that's exactly why it works. No one but a 15 year old could manage to be this unimpressed by everything. Being unimpressed is the raison d'etre of 15. The people he's supposed to be awed by are irrelevant to him and his mates. I'd love to see him on Dr Phil, he'd probably reduce the old bastard to tears.

There are Facebook groups for and against, and threats have been issued. This isn't what things used to be like, for sure. TV used to have some kind of authority, you know? But they destroyed that when they handed most of their programming content to The People.

It's all fucking entertaining though, like watching the Hindenberg go down, safe in the knowledge that every single person on it is a complete wanker.

She doesn't give a fig for Newton

2008-01-12T09:41:00.000+11:00

Among the more memorable sights and sounds at Ding Dong last night:

A certain Nightwatchman wailing the shit out of a harmonica. Then some tiny woman crossed the floor to tell him just how much she liked it. Instrument of love indeed.

One specific hipster with elastic-ankled high water jeans, no socks and sandshoes.

Two particular tits flagrantly disobeying several Laws of Physics. Although the owner displayed an uncanny facility for the one about levers.

And the best overheard conversation snippet?

I haven't seen Brokeback Mountain, but...

ASKJLmnDSJKFSADfasjklafjk;afdj;djhga;gadh

2007-12-31T09:42:00.000+11:00

There's nothing like a little snarky workplace poetry to make a girl wonder why she came in at all. I'll never understand the thought process which results in the following literary abortion:

To those folk who leave dirty dishes behind
I find it very timely to remind
No one is paid to clean up after you
It is something that the user must do

So to help make this kitchen a nice clean place
To ensure that for all there is plenty of space
Wash and wipe your dishes and put them away
The Karma you receive will lighten your day

To those who like to leave a mess behind
Sooner or later I am sure that you will find
Not a clean plate, knife, fork or cup to use
And only yourself who you can accuse

Surely the effort of finding/composing, printing, and LAMINATING such a godawful specimen is greatly in excess of what you'd spend rinsing a smudgy glass. But a person who can't find a consistent meter in a poem of 12 lines is no friend to logic.

It's the smorgasbord approach - tetrameter, pentameter, hexameter? Yes please! I don't know what you call a line with 5 1/2 feet, other than the definition of dancing to your own drum. Which you made from the skin of the innocent. That or you foolishly allowed an amputee to join your conga line.

Here's a poem for you, oh bard of the dishrack, which I think captures the office kitchen zeitgeist somewhat more efficiently.

I hate you
and myself.

The Secret Fears of Us

2007-12-19T14:08:00.000+11:00

I wonder how wise it is to be posting my number one fear, in case the unscrupulous use it against me in the future. I hope I don't know anyone that terrible.

Behold the terror:

Well, not so much this, as this:

or this:

and I don't even want to contemplate this:

When I was little, my sister would have balloons at her birthday parties. Straight after the party I would creep around and bite a tiny hole in the knot of each balloon so it would quickly deflate. This meant I had to put my face right up into each balloon, but I took the risk because I wouldn't be able to relax until they were all deactivated. I will never understand what makes balloons associated with good times. If I could, I would ban them forever.

People find this fear hilarious. Well, guess what! You probably have a stupid fear which I find hilarious. Spiders? Snakes? Blood and guts? Bah. I watched a lung transplant, and if the theatre tech had offered me a toasted cheese sandwich I wouldn't have said no.

Stupid fears are such revealing and human things. A friend of mine faints if she takes her own pulse. Another is scared of escalators. My flatmate is terrified of jewellery. And my sister screams if she sees that jelly which congeals on the bottom of a roast chicken.

These people drink, smoke, overeat, drive cars, and cross the street - all activities which are far more likely to kill you than chicken jelly. But it's not death we're afraid of, when it comes down to it, is it? Everyone has something that they secretly feel is worse. Post yours (unless it's posting on blogs, in which case, just relax, breathe deeply, and think about unicorns).

Eh?

2007-12-07T20:42:00.000+11:00

I've had a nasty bout of the flu and am currently deaf in one ear.

Being half deaf isn't that bad. It's a license to squint at people and call them 'sonny'. But the best example of the deaf-advantage was discovered by a friend of mine back in Christchurch.

She (we'll call her Wendy, because that is in fact her name) was walking home from work one evening along the tram tracks on a quiet street in Christchurch city. Christchurch has trams, but they are a tourist attraction rather than a genuine means of transport - as they are slow, expensive, and run on a pathetically small loop around the cbd. When she got to the end of the street she casually glanced behind her.

Bearing down on her was an angry looking tram driver and a lot of impatient tourists. They had been stuck behind her as she ambled along the street. Her first instinct was to blurt out

I'm deaf!

and gesture at her ears. She even did that deaf voice. You know the one.

Feigning a disability as a reflex action certainly has its merits. Tourette's could have its uses, as could selective dyslexia.

Because what kind of motherfucking asswipe shit cunts fine someone for parking in a 'Postponing' zone?

Smile!

2007-12-06T20:52:00.000+11:00

Ninafat's Man On The Street excitedly reported spotting a van this evening. Exciting news in itself (everyone loves a good van), but this wasn't just any van. This was a Google Maps van!

It appears that we are soon to be on the map. In astonishing detail. As-you-undress-tonight-I'd-stay-away-from-the-windows level of detail. People have recognised their cats from these maps.

The cats were doing what they always do, which is the beauty of cats. People get caught doing things they wouldn't like to admit they do because they are inferior animals unable to live as they please. Cats never get caught doing anything surprising because they do what they like right in your face. In fact, they subtly prefer it.

Oh the unsuspecting denziens of Melbourne, how many illicit trysts, how many joints behind the bike sheds, how many underwear adjustments have been captured for the world's amusement today?

Since my life is currently devoid of anything other than as the crow flies orthodox behaviour, I have nothing to fear. Which is a bit embarrassing in itself. I believe that every day you should do at least one thing you hope no one saw you do.

Otherwise, when you're abducted by aliens and put on display in an extra-terrestrial wildlife reserve, you won't miss anything at all. And that would be a shame.

The Young and the Listless

2007-11-21T19:05:00.000+11:00

Yes, I'm still alive, and I haven't forgotten about you! It has just been a little while since I had anything to say worth saying. You may have noticed that my recent posts have been on the maudlin side, and for that I apologise. I survived the downward swing of Fortuna's wheel, and I think I can feel it coming back up again.

When you've been through a bit of a rough spot, it's funny how just managing the little things is enough. Here is an exhaustive list of my current activities, in an order which is deeply meaningful only you'll never work it out:

Cooking
Eating
Apologising
Sleeping
Running
Feeding my cat
Working
Sitting on trains
Reading
Talking
Writing
Turning up to things

And quite frankly, this is all I can really handle right now. It's a small kind of life, but what I'm doing, I'm doing properly.

Did you notice that writing hilarious blog posts was not on the list? If you bear with me, I'm sure it'll be on there eventually.

I was a Friend of Dorothy

2007-11-12T20:15:00.000+11:00

My ex boyfriend. Sigh. I guess I was having boy problems even before I realised I was having boy problems.

Oh, and this is my 100th post, apparently. Woo.

Greetings from Outer Space

2007-11-04T18:50:00.000+11:00

This is what I've been doing, basically every day since I got back to Christchurch. Sometimes I run, sometimes I walk, but I've always got the dog.

I miss having a dog, and a deserted beach half an hour away from my house, and a sister hanging around just dying to be dragged into the great outdoors.

When I get back to Melbourne I'm going to save up for a car, and then move somewhere a bit further out of the city where I'll have a stretch of coastline to come home to every night. It's easy to take space for granted where I'm from, this highly underpopulated place, but I think I've been starved of it for too long.

I Scream...

2007-11-04T17:34:00.000+11:00

...you scream, we all scream for we're trapped in an icecream label for all eternity and no one can save us from this delicious hell.

The Day The Music Spontaneously Combusted

2007-10-28T19:42:00.000+11:00

I had a pretty good weekend.

Pianos burn good.

That's a Mighty Fine Dog You've Got There

2007-10-25T17:02:00.000+10:00

Thank you Boing Boing, thank you this person, thank you world.

Is It You Or Is It Me?

2007-10-23T18:13:00.000+10:00

I had forgotten all about Shortland Street, the hospital melodrama which captivates millions of New Zealanders (maybe even all 4!) every night at 7 o'clock. For those expats jonesing for a fix, here's an update.

The hospital has been terrorised by a serial killer for an unreasonably long period of time. What do they think this is, Coronation Street? The investigator currently holed up in the hospital interrogating suspects is employing interesting new techniques with the CEO, Chris Warner. Apparently vaginal interrogation is more effective than one might suppose.

Some girl who wasn't on the show last Christmas had her birthday party. She has a friend with Tourette's who gave her a present and called her a skank. I love how they're not afraid to tackle the big issues.

Another 17 year old boy is in love with his friend's mother. I fail to recall a significant 17 year old character on Shortland Street who hasn't done this. It's a rite of passage, like your first hammed up drunk scene, and the first friend to commit suicide after coming out to their intolerant parents.

Otherwise it's more of the same. Hideously stiff overacting, embarrassingly misplaced slang, and when one character talks EVERYONE is paying attention. It's a lot like watching a school play, only no one is dressed as a tree. No wonder though, as this hidden camera footage reveals who's really making the big calls in these magical isles.

On Deadlines

2007-10-22T18:22:00.000+10:00

Whether you're a writer or not, we all face deadlines. Some are set in stone, some are the fuzzy kind up for negotiation, some are set for us, and some we set for ourselves. Some deadlines you don't even know about until you've missed them.

When you're waiting to see what kind of person someone is, deadlines present themselves. The time between calls that shows that they're busy, forgetful, flippant, self-absorbed, possibly ignoring you, definitely ignoring you, possibly an asshole, definitely an asshole. They're not set times, but you both feel it as you pass through them, they are undeniable.

And then there's the deadline when you realise there won't be any more to come, that a person has disappointed you as much as they possibly could have, and you've given them more time than they ever deserved.

I don't much like posting personal stuff, but tonight I'm bending the rules because I feel like this one needs to be marked somehow. Even if only by a couple of paragraphs floating out in the ether.

I think people hate deadlines because they force us to look at what is rather than imagine what might be. But they also let you recognise when you've done all you can do, and free you up to move onto the next thing, whatever that turns out to be.

So here's to deadlines, and to the people who demonstrate their worth by meeting them.

Books Keep Secrets

2007-10-17T22:05:00.000+10:00

The story starts in a cafe. I was drinking tea with a friend, when we noticed an ultra-hipster sitting nearby. He was ticking all the boxes, although the newish looking volleys were judged by one onlooker to be 'taking the piss'. His standout feature? An ipod cunningly encased in a second-hand book.

Spy stuff is cool. So today I trotted off to find a suitable tome to house my pod.

Cute, huh.

Don't worry, the poetry was complete ass, I checked first. But about halfway through slicing and dicing, something fell out from between the pages.

And this is where things get interesting. Meet my mystery man.

But who could he be? He wasn't the original owner of the book...

If you look very closely at the negative, he's posing in a natty suit in a suburban backyard, standing next to what appears to be a tailor's tape-measure. Curiouser and curiouser.

The back of a particularly soppy book of poetry is a strange place to keep a single photo negative. That is, unless you're not meaning for anyone to know you've got it. Mrs Richardson, you saucy vixen!

I'm going to get a print made up, and have a good look at whoever this is. I figure I owe Mrs Richardson, the loving Beryl Peitehand, and the rest of the gang of '35 that much. Sometimes the world feels like it's lost its sparkle, and then something tiny and strange happens. And when it does, when you feel like you're being let in on someone else's story 72 years later, it's just magic.

YouTube - The Poor Woman's Therapy

2007-10-16T11:32:00.000+10:00

Sometimes you feel like a bit of an idiot. This is common, human, and entirely endurable. But if you, like me, feel the need to see how things could be worse, then look no further than Miss Douglas. Here she is, boldly giving new meaning to the word talent. If you think of it like that, she's sort of like Shakespeare, but with more ducking.

I'm concerned that she is actually a cellist who, in a cruel and bitchy backstage prank by the girl who will stop at nothing to win, had her chosen instrument swapped at the last minute. In which case, she's certainly a trooper.

Originally from Defamer.