The Amazing Race outrated The Footy Show in Melbourne last week, The Hun's "Hot or Not" column tells me.
Suck dogs' balls Eddie.
Thursday, March 17, 2005
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
Media Watch
A handful of tidbits I picked up from Virginia Trioli and Stephen Mayne on 774 last night:
And then there were these:
- Melbourne has the highest percentage talkback radio listenership in the world at about 30% of radio listeners.
- The Hun has the highest penetration rate of any newspaper in the world at around 700,000 copies for 4,000,000 people, assuming a readership of about 3 people per paper (that's me assuming the readership level). Still, that makes it read by more than 50% of Victorians, on average, daily.
And then there were these:
- Metropolitan Sydney has the lowest figures for 6pm news-watching, at around 8% of potential audience.
- Perth has the highest rate at about 13%.
- And incidentally, Sydney also has the lowest rate of people watching Desperate Housewives.
Tuesday, March 15, 2005
Skander-san's Adventures Beyond the Ultraworld 8
or Urban Legend
Ok, the fun part of this week's Adventure was that it took a grimy, inner-city construction-site feel. Kinda like that arena in Tekken, the one that flat-top cocksmoker Paul Phoenix calls home—all cyclone fencing, graffiti and el-trains.
Again we had a celebrity instructor, and being a Sunday Session, we had the full complement of seniors too. For some reason there were a shitload of us beginners there–like a good 25, which is about the max I've ever noticed, and possibly more than that in seniors too. So much so that it was chockas on the floor of the dojo when we separated into our respective ranks and commenced our kiri-kaeshi. For those of you who have been waiting in anticipation of an explanation of kiri-kaeshi, it's about 200 words away. We beginners are told to line up opposite our partners–nine steps away, to be precise–and after a rei, start hacking away at each other–which is pretty much the best description I can offer, as our new instructor shook his head and whinced in disbelief. He calls us all in, muttering something about how ridiculous we all looked and who the fuck told us to do it this way. Robbie. Like every other Sunday morning, we can't hear jackshit over the clattering of experienced shinai, but for the very first time, a sane solution in offered: let's all walk out to the back carpark of the dojo, where everyone can hear properly. Ad this from a bloke with a fairly strong voice, as opposed to our usual instructor who is hard enough to hear without background interference. So yeah, I'm kinda like, um, good idea.
Outside we troop, to the concrete carpark with a single car and a skip parked in it, overlooked by an empty 5 storey construction site with scratchy red scaffolding, you know, labourer shit. So with a roll of the eyes and a shrug of the shoulders, we get the full story on kiri-kaeshi:
The aim of kiri-kaeshi is to practice all the skills we have learnt. All of them—our footwork and our shinai work, attacking and receiving. So lets start with the attacking side first–all post rei and sonkyo (the bowing bits). The attacker takes a step back, and then kiais to the motodachi, in this case he shouts some form of "kiri-kaeshi" to tell the defender he is about to commence kiri-kaeshi. This basically means "get the fuck ready, I'm about to lay a blow on your skull", therby encouraging the defender to defend himself by holding his shinai horizontally above his forehead to take any attack. And sure enough that attack comes, in the form of a lunging, straight men cut.
From there we snap, and I mean quick-smart, into a position fists-to-fists, knuckles-to-knucles. If we were wearing the kote, or gloves, we'd bash our fists into one another's, but as we're bare-fisted, it's a kinda symbolic thing. Whereupon the motodachi takes a step back with his left leg, holding his shinai erect, with his left fist at the base just out from his left hip. This is how we receive the first men cut of a series of four, taking a further step back, ayumi-ashi style, where our feet cross-over walking style, after each cut and moving the erect shinai from side to side in time with our back leg to receive the men cuts as they come from first the right, then left, right, left. As the receiver moves back ayumi-ashi, the attacker moved forward okuri-ashi, or the special kendo shuffle that was the first thing we learnt.
So we've made it through four cuts, another five to go. But this time the motodachi pushes the attacker back using the same footwork, the attacker stepping backwardwith each stroke, the defender advancing, defending five cuts this time, right, left, right, left, right. Once that's done, both participants return to kamae and the attacker begins his routine, perhaps not starting with the "kiri-kaeshi" kiai this time, coz we're only half way through the bloody thing.
And so he attacks again, beginning with the straight men, all the way through the nine cuts and ack tothe stat one more time. For the finale: another straight men cut, but this one followed through, past the motodachi until the attacker thinks they're safe enough not to be struck down from behind, and can return to face his opponent.
At this point the two return to where they began with the motodachi now in the position of the attacker, and the attacker where the motodachi was. And so we begin again, in the opposite role to before. "Kiri-kaeshi!"
Yeah, it's pretty full on. They tell us that the Japanese that study kendo at university (yes, they can take a bachelor-type degree in a martial art over there, like sumo, or kendo, or karate, judo, aikido) they spend a whole year on kiri-kaeshi. Getting it right, reforming their technique, doing it again. And I can see why, when we've only really been doing it for 3 weeks, and even then a bit off-and-on and skewiff and misdirected and stuff, and quite frankly we're shithouse. But we will improve.
Again we had a celebrity instructor, and being a Sunday Session, we had the full complement of seniors too. For some reason there were a shitload of us beginners there–like a good 25, which is about the max I've ever noticed, and possibly more than that in seniors too. So much so that it was chockas on the floor of the dojo when we separated into our respective ranks and commenced our kiri-kaeshi. For those of you who have been waiting in anticipation of an explanation of kiri-kaeshi, it's about 200 words away. We beginners are told to line up opposite our partners–nine steps away, to be precise–and after a rei, start hacking away at each other–which is pretty much the best description I can offer, as our new instructor shook his head and whinced in disbelief. He calls us all in, muttering something about how ridiculous we all looked and who the fuck told us to do it this way. Robbie. Like every other Sunday morning, we can't hear jackshit over the clattering of experienced shinai, but for the very first time, a sane solution in offered: let's all walk out to the back carpark of the dojo, where everyone can hear properly. Ad this from a bloke with a fairly strong voice, as opposed to our usual instructor who is hard enough to hear without background interference. So yeah, I'm kinda like, um, good idea.
Outside we troop, to the concrete carpark with a single car and a skip parked in it, overlooked by an empty 5 storey construction site with scratchy red scaffolding, you know, labourer shit. So with a roll of the eyes and a shrug of the shoulders, we get the full story on kiri-kaeshi:
The aim of kiri-kaeshi is to practice all the skills we have learnt. All of them—our footwork and our shinai work, attacking and receiving. So lets start with the attacking side first–all post rei and sonkyo (the bowing bits). The attacker takes a step back, and then kiais to the motodachi, in this case he shouts some form of "kiri-kaeshi" to tell the defender he is about to commence kiri-kaeshi. This basically means "get the fuck ready, I'm about to lay a blow on your skull", therby encouraging the defender to defend himself by holding his shinai horizontally above his forehead to take any attack. And sure enough that attack comes, in the form of a lunging, straight men cut.
From there we snap, and I mean quick-smart, into a position fists-to-fists, knuckles-to-knucles. If we were wearing the kote, or gloves, we'd bash our fists into one another's, but as we're bare-fisted, it's a kinda symbolic thing. Whereupon the motodachi takes a step back with his left leg, holding his shinai erect, with his left fist at the base just out from his left hip. This is how we receive the first men cut of a series of four, taking a further step back, ayumi-ashi style, where our feet cross-over walking style, after each cut and moving the erect shinai from side to side in time with our back leg to receive the men cuts as they come from first the right, then left, right, left. As the receiver moves back ayumi-ashi, the attacker moved forward okuri-ashi, or the special kendo shuffle that was the first thing we learnt.
So we've made it through four cuts, another five to go. But this time the motodachi pushes the attacker back using the same footwork, the attacker stepping backwardwith each stroke, the defender advancing, defending five cuts this time, right, left, right, left, right. Once that's done, both participants return to kamae and the attacker begins his routine, perhaps not starting with the "kiri-kaeshi" kiai this time, coz we're only half way through the bloody thing.
And so he attacks again, beginning with the straight men, all the way through the nine cuts and ack tothe stat one more time. For the finale: another straight men cut, but this one followed through, past the motodachi until the attacker thinks they're safe enough not to be struck down from behind, and can return to face his opponent.
At this point the two return to where they began with the motodachi now in the position of the attacker, and the attacker where the motodachi was. And so we begin again, in the opposite role to before. "Kiri-kaeshi!"
Yeah, it's pretty full on. They tell us that the Japanese that study kendo at university (yes, they can take a bachelor-type degree in a martial art over there, like sumo, or kendo, or karate, judo, aikido) they spend a whole year on kiri-kaeshi. Getting it right, reforming their technique, doing it again. And I can see why, when we've only really been doing it for 3 weeks, and even then a bit off-and-on and skewiff and misdirected and stuff, and quite frankly we're shithouse. But we will improve.
Monday, March 14, 2005
Neighbours Tragic
This weekend in Melby, the Saturday Hun featured a whole magazine dedicated to 20 years of Neighbours. Apart from putting a picture of Lisa Armytage (Beverley Robinson #1: the brunette) next to a piece about Antoinette Byron (whom I remember playing a psycho nanny to Daphne Zuniga's dull, depressive Jo on Melrose Place), there was an full-page piece by the owner of www.erinsborough.com, a bloke called Alan Shade, and a reference to three, yes, 3 great Neighbours websites. That makes even a soap-tragic like myself shudder. The first cab off the rank was Neighbours.com which is über-crap considering the show has been around for 20 years and has a following of something like 6 million poms a day and about a million of us. Another was perfectblend.net, which features a shitload of character bios n stuff, but will always play second fiddle to erinsborough.com. And so erinsborough.com gets this big-up from the Hun, with retrospectives and highlights and stuff are appearing all over the place, and ya know what: they're down.
I mean, it's like Alanis Morrisette's take on irony: you get all this publicity, and before it's even published, you've done something wrong, somehow, somewhere, and your site has disappeared on the very weekend you get this press. Irony. Maybe.
I mean, it's like Alanis Morrisette's take on irony: you get all this publicity, and before it's even published, you've done something wrong, somehow, somewhere, and your site has disappeared on the very weekend you get this press. Irony. Maybe.
Skander-san's Adventures Beyond the Ultraworld 7
or Will be Warriors
Episode 7 in the enthralling series detailing my experiences as a novice in the local kendo dojo. The action this episode takes place on the Wednesday following the St Jerome's Laneway Festival and the Trainspotting-inspired job interview.
This is the week I arrive 45 minutes late because 1) I'm flat-knacker at work, having to launch my site in 10 days time, and 2) I seriously can't be arsed. It's one of those things, when you've got a shitload to do, you can fit more stuff in, and when you're bone idle, the day flies by and you realise that you haven't so much as washed the dishes. Yes, that means we don't have a dishwasher chez skander. Well we do, and his name is skander. So over the last few weeks, I'm working like a bastard, doing mega-hour days and still fitting in enough time for the good things like alcohol and pot and food . So, at this point, I seriously can't rouse enough interest to get me to the dojo on time. Can't rouse enough interest to leave work, and so I do one of those deflection things were I blame someone esle for not being able to make kendo on time when I know full well that it is my fault and my fault entirely. And this is basically because they have that Japanese-inspired self-responsibility thing going there, where you're just plain expected to be together enough to get there on time, every time, else you're showing disrespect.
So, I thumb my nose at this crappy mantra that reminds me somehow of Anthony Robbins, and rock up 45 late. At least I fronted. But so late in fact that I've missed the warmup all together and the seniors make me go and do a mini version all by myself, most probably just for their own amusement. After I've gone through the motions, I get to join the group again, and notice that our usual instructor has gone AWOL, and we're being taken by a very obviously kiwi-bloke with a huge gap between his front teeth. And he's got us doing kiri-kaeshi. At this point I should say that it took me a long time to find the correct spelling of kiri-kaeshi today because it usully kiai-ed loudly and quickly before we enter into kiri-kaeshi, and usually something like "IKISH", which for a pedantic former Japanese scholar is truly frightening. So now Robbie, our kiwi instructor- for-a-day makes this word sound more horrific than I had previously thought. And he's got a helluva different training style, which is something we don't really learn until the coming Sunday when they try to unlearn us half of what he's had us do.
And so the big thing he tells us is that we need to swing our shinai around more, getting more angle into our 45° men cuts to the head, so that we're looking more and more like helicopters. The opther thing he does that is different is that at the end of the class, he selects 5 students he thinks have best picked up today's instructions, pull them out the front and gets them to demonstate to the rest of us. Ha! Particularly when they are the ones pulled up the next session for doing things the wrong way. Oh the schadenfreude!
And schadenfreude is a very good thing to take one's mind off one's own traumas, which this week, apart from terminal disspiritedness, include that pair of blisters the size of 20cent coins, one on the ball of my left foot and the sole of my right big toe. Yes, my feet, a pair of otherwise unremarkable size 10½s, have a habit of getting themselves into trouble. Like when I fell down the stairs last September and broke my big toe. Yes, the same toe that now lives half in agony and half in fear of agony as a result of its ingrown toenail, which itself is half dead. And so unbelievably attractive. But when you're sliding around on these particular parts of your feet with large flaps of dead skin hanging from the sole, proving the only cushioning for the ultra-senstive tissue below, it gets kinda dangerous. In an anticipation of pain kida way. And then you realise that is why everyone else is wearing these funny martial arts style sockette things. And that the guy who gave you the advice the first week about the blisters becoming calluses was right. And that the kiwi guy is urging you all to find a beach to wade in at 10pm on a Wednesday night—in Melbourne. He clearly doesn't know much about Melbourne to be urging us to put our feet in Post Phillip Bay at all, let alone in the DARK). Now that's a recipe for an infectious disease.
This is the week I arrive 45 minutes late because 1) I'm flat-knacker at work, having to launch my site in 10 days time, and 2) I seriously can't be arsed. It's one of those things, when you've got a shitload to do, you can fit more stuff in, and when you're bone idle, the day flies by and you realise that you haven't so much as washed the dishes. Yes, that means we don't have a dishwasher chez skander. Well we do, and his name is skander. So over the last few weeks, I'm working like a bastard, doing mega-hour days and still fitting in enough time for the good things like alcohol and pot and food . So, at this point, I seriously can't rouse enough interest to get me to the dojo on time. Can't rouse enough interest to leave work, and so I do one of those deflection things were I blame someone esle for not being able to make kendo on time when I know full well that it is my fault and my fault entirely. And this is basically because they have that Japanese-inspired self-responsibility thing going there, where you're just plain expected to be together enough to get there on time, every time, else you're showing disrespect.
So, I thumb my nose at this crappy mantra that reminds me somehow of Anthony Robbins, and rock up 45 late. At least I fronted. But so late in fact that I've missed the warmup all together and the seniors make me go and do a mini version all by myself, most probably just for their own amusement. After I've gone through the motions, I get to join the group again, and notice that our usual instructor has gone AWOL, and we're being taken by a very obviously kiwi-bloke with a huge gap between his front teeth. And he's got us doing kiri-kaeshi. At this point I should say that it took me a long time to find the correct spelling of kiri-kaeshi today because it usully kiai-ed loudly and quickly before we enter into kiri-kaeshi, and usually something like "IKISH", which for a pedantic former Japanese scholar is truly frightening. So now Robbie, our kiwi instructor- for-a-day makes this word sound more horrific than I had previously thought. And he's got a helluva different training style, which is something we don't really learn until the coming Sunday when they try to unlearn us half of what he's had us do.
And so the big thing he tells us is that we need to swing our shinai around more, getting more angle into our 45° men cuts to the head, so that we're looking more and more like helicopters. The opther thing he does that is different is that at the end of the class, he selects 5 students he thinks have best picked up today's instructions, pull them out the front and gets them to demonstate to the rest of us. Ha! Particularly when they are the ones pulled up the next session for doing things the wrong way. Oh the schadenfreude!
And schadenfreude is a very good thing to take one's mind off one's own traumas, which this week, apart from terminal disspiritedness, include that pair of blisters the size of 20cent coins, one on the ball of my left foot and the sole of my right big toe. Yes, my feet, a pair of otherwise unremarkable size 10½s, have a habit of getting themselves into trouble. Like when I fell down the stairs last September and broke my big toe. Yes, the same toe that now lives half in agony and half in fear of agony as a result of its ingrown toenail, which itself is half dead. And so unbelievably attractive. But when you're sliding around on these particular parts of your feet with large flaps of dead skin hanging from the sole, proving the only cushioning for the ultra-senstive tissue below, it gets kinda dangerous. In an anticipation of pain kida way. And then you realise that is why everyone else is wearing these funny martial arts style sockette things. And that the guy who gave you the advice the first week about the blisters becoming calluses was right. And that the kiwi guy is urging you all to find a beach to wade in at 10pm on a Wednesday night—in Melbourne. He clearly doesn't know much about Melbourne to be urging us to put our feet in Post Phillip Bay at all, let alone in the DARK). Now that's a recipe for an infectious disease.
Skander-san's Adventures Beyond the Ultraworld 6
or Memento
I'm going to be kinda brief this time around, seeing as it was a good 3 or so weeks ago, and my memory aint what it used to be. Well, it isn't that bad, they just blur into one another. . But I do know it was the first time we were taught kiri-kaeshi.
Now kiri-kaeshi is a bit of fun. It's the regular drill that kendo students (and masters, while I'm at it) use to practice their skills. And believe me they practice it over and over again. And then some more. What was that I said somewhere earlier about muscle memory? We're sure as hell getting there. But I don't think we got fully into the routine of kiri-kaeshi, so I won't bore you with that one till my next retrospective installment. Which will hopefully be later this arvo, as I'm in the skiving mood.
Having cast a cursory look over the previous installment of Skander-san's Adventures, I've recalled a few details. There was a repeat of the disgusting hyperhidrosis incident, this time precipitated by one of those heatwaves full of the super-dry 39° days that the Royal Ambulence Service revels in. Fuck it was hot. Still around 28° at kendo time, and with the dojo being former factory with an awesome sawtooth roof with few openable windows, I was not alone this time. Thank God for that.
And we finished up with a 15 minute condensed version of shinai maintenance 101. We all gathered around on the floor and pulled apart our weapons, which really aren't much more than four strips of bamboo, a whole bunch of strangely synthetic felty stuff, and a piece of yellow string. Well, the adventurous of us pulled apart our shinai, and the tepid woosy types sat there watching, thinking they were taking in all they need to know, but knowing full well that if they ever have to do anything like repair their sticks, they're going to be royally fucked. Mwahahaha!
Now kiri-kaeshi is a bit of fun. It's the regular drill that kendo students (and masters, while I'm at it) use to practice their skills. And believe me they practice it over and over again. And then some more. What was that I said somewhere earlier about muscle memory? We're sure as hell getting there. But I don't think we got fully into the routine of kiri-kaeshi, so I won't bore you with that one till my next retrospective installment. Which will hopefully be later this arvo, as I'm in the skiving mood.
Having cast a cursory look over the previous installment of Skander-san's Adventures, I've recalled a few details. There was a repeat of the disgusting hyperhidrosis incident, this time precipitated by one of those heatwaves full of the super-dry 39° days that the Royal Ambulence Service revels in. Fuck it was hot. Still around 28° at kendo time, and with the dojo being former factory with an awesome sawtooth roof with few openable windows, I was not alone this time. Thank God for that.
And we finished up with a 15 minute condensed version of shinai maintenance 101. We all gathered around on the floor and pulled apart our weapons, which really aren't much more than four strips of bamboo, a whole bunch of strangely synthetic felty stuff, and a piece of yellow string. Well, the adventurous of us pulled apart our shinai, and the tepid woosy types sat there watching, thinking they were taking in all they need to know, but knowing full well that if they ever have to do anything like repair their sticks, they're going to be royally fucked. Mwahahaha!
Friday, March 04, 2005
busy busy busy
lack of posts due to three eleven hour days at work, one 14 hourer and an a full day of photoshot today. I've got to launch a site by midnight monday, and I got better things to do right now than hang out with my computer. Like getting riotously pissed.
But first I've gotta hit a christening. Let's hope I don't spontaneously combust. Good weekend, y'all.
But first I've gotta hit a christening. Let's hope I don't spontaneously combust. Good weekend, y'all.
Monday, February 28, 2005
Magic Monday...
Rather sketchy for a Monday. What with St Jerome's Laneway festival, company all (ALL) taking Monday off, cheeky halves and lashings o' Melbourne Bitter, all dished up on a pleasantly post-yum cha stomach, I deserve all I get.
I don't know if I made any sense in the job inteview this morning.
I don't know if I made any sense in the job inteview this morning.
Friday, February 25, 2005
LadyCracker
As homage to the woman who made my day, I give you her meme:
Choose a musical artist/band and answer only in their song titles:
Garbage
Describe yourself: When I Grow Up
How do some people feel about you? Shut Your Mouth
How do you feel about yourself? I Think I'm Paranoid
Describe your ex-partner: #1 Crush
Describe your current partner: Supervixen
Describe what you want to be: The World is not Enough
Describe your current mood: Special
Describe your friends: Fix Me Now
Share a few words of wisdom: The Trick is to Keep Breathing
Choose a musical artist/band and answer only in their song titles:
Garbage
Describe yourself: When I Grow Up
How do some people feel about you? Shut Your Mouth
How do you feel about yourself? I Think I'm Paranoid
Describe your ex-partner: #1 Crush
Describe your current partner: Supervixen
Describe what you want to be: The World is not Enough
Describe your current mood: Special
Describe your friends: Fix Me Now
Share a few words of wisdom: The Trick is to Keep Breathing
Thursday, February 24, 2005
In the worlds before Monkey...
Primal chaos reigned. Heaven sought order, but the phoenix can fly only when its feathers are fully grown. The four worlds formed again and yet again as endless aeons wheeled and passed. Time and the pure essences of Heaven, the moistures of the Earth, and the powers of the Sun and the Moon all worked upon a certain rock—old as Creation, and it magically became fertile. That first egg was named Thought, Tathagata Buddha, the Father Buddha, said, 'With our thoughts we make the world.' Elemantal forces caused the egg to hatch, and from it then came a stone Monkey. The nature of Monkey was irrepressible!
Did you know there were 13 "lost" episodes of Monkey? 13 that were never dubbed into English, never shown on the ABC. Well, there were. And they found 'em a year or two back. But the really good bit is this: they were dubbed last year. By most of the original voice cast! Which is bloody lucky because less than a month after they finished dubbing these "lost episodes" the voice-actor who played Pigsy—easily the most recognisable of the bunch—kicked the proverbial.
= 
Vale Peter Windthorpe
Did you know there were 13 "lost" episodes of Monkey? 13 that were never dubbed into English, never shown on the ABC. Well, there were. And they found 'em a year or two back. But the really good bit is this: they were dubbed last year. By most of the original voice cast! Which is bloody lucky because less than a month after they finished dubbing these "lost episodes" the voice-actor who played Pigsy—easily the most recognisable of the bunch—kicked the proverbial.
= Vale Peter Windthorpe
Tuesday, February 22, 2005
Skander-san's Adventures Beyond the Ultraworld 5
or Apt Pupil
Having missed last Wednesday's kendo sesh due to the incomparable presence of one Mr David Mitchell, I decided to keep a somewhat low profile this time around. That is what I decided. But that's not what happened.
Sometime after the warmup, I got afflicted by a disease I have now identified as hyperhidrosis. And not just a little bit o' extra sweat round the pits or nothin'. It was streaming, streaming down the sides of my face for an good hour and a half. It was a fucking nightmare. My tops were soaked through, both of 'em, my fisherman's trousers were wet. I was a laughing stock. Stock was the bloody-well right word too. And yet it only seemed to come from my head. That's what I couldn't get. Why had this suddenly happened? It wasn't like I was training twice as hard as ever before, yet even the instructor commented "that's a lot of sweat there". Poor bloke put his hand on the small of my back at one point, and I'm sure it was not a pleasant experience.
Was it because I hadn't washed the shirt since the last kendo? Like, as if the hint of male in it from the week earlier had evinced from me some impossible reaction, drawing out all my reserves of seat? Not likely, really. Or because I had drunk a ship-load of water during the night before, which I needed to dispel? I mean, we'd had a fairly quiet Saturday night, a couple of DVDs and a pizza [Japanese Story, very good, Plots with a View, very bad]. Not even any wine for God's sake. Then again, I couldn't look any alcohol in the eye on Saturday—during the day that is, as I'd been spending most of the early hours of Saturday morning downing cheap champagne and stubbies of beer at a great rate of knots. In my white t-shirt, brogues, baggy jeans and a boxy jacket 80s costume. The costume went down well, as did the grog. As did the cheeky half. Which is what I have put this bizarre unstoppable- sweating episode down to. God aging is a cunt.
On the upside, we learnt passes. I spose that's what they're called, three steps and then a lunge into a men. Then two steps and a lunge into a men, and then one, and just the lunge—which can be quite difficult from your kamae. And then it was the turn of the good old kota, or wrist cut. By this stage, as well as looking like I'd just walked out of Port Phillip Bay (à la a clothed male Bo Derek, as opposed to that scene in Flash Gordon where Flash emerges from the slime with his blow wave intact), I had developed a slight pain from standing on the ball of my left foot for two hours—in other words, a blister on the sole of my foot. Diddums.
Then we're worded up: for last 10 minutes of class, we're going to face off against the seniors. I think every single beginner's stomach did an ickle backflip at that—we're gonna what? Are they gonna hit back? What if we fuck it up? Are we, like, duelling? Help!
But it was a piece of piss. And fun. Charging at the blue-clad seniors and whacking them on the helmet (men) with our men cuts. Yeah, fun. And then with some kota cuts to their blue-padded gauntlets (kota). Except of course for my unfortunate situation, and the fact that somewhere during my second or third pass, I felt that squelch on the ball of my foot and realised that, hey, my blister had burst. All yummy and pussy n bloody n stuff.
When it was all over, which wasn't long as we were only given 10 minutes, Mau, our instructor, gathered us all around to tell us that that usually doesn't take place till week 6 or 7. And we're on week 3. Hah! Does that mean we're shit-hot or what? I'll got for shit-hot, and try to ignore the excessive-sweating thing.
Sometime after the warmup, I got afflicted by a disease I have now identified as hyperhidrosis. And not just a little bit o' extra sweat round the pits or nothin'. It was streaming, streaming down the sides of my face for an good hour and a half. It was a fucking nightmare. My tops were soaked through, both of 'em, my fisherman's trousers were wet. I was a laughing stock. Stock was the bloody-well right word too. And yet it only seemed to come from my head. That's what I couldn't get. Why had this suddenly happened? It wasn't like I was training twice as hard as ever before, yet even the instructor commented "that's a lot of sweat there". Poor bloke put his hand on the small of my back at one point, and I'm sure it was not a pleasant experience.
Was it because I hadn't washed the shirt since the last kendo? Like, as if the hint of male in it from the week earlier had evinced from me some impossible reaction, drawing out all my reserves of seat? Not likely, really. Or because I had drunk a ship-load of water during the night before, which I needed to dispel? I mean, we'd had a fairly quiet Saturday night, a couple of DVDs and a pizza [Japanese Story, very good, Plots with a View, very bad]. Not even any wine for God's sake. Then again, I couldn't look any alcohol in the eye on Saturday—during the day that is, as I'd been spending most of the early hours of Saturday morning downing cheap champagne and stubbies of beer at a great rate of knots. In my white t-shirt, brogues, baggy jeans and a boxy jacket 80s costume. The costume went down well, as did the grog. As did the cheeky half. Which is what I have put this bizarre unstoppable- sweating episode down to. God aging is a cunt.
On the upside, we learnt passes. I spose that's what they're called, three steps and then a lunge into a men. Then two steps and a lunge into a men, and then one, and just the lunge—which can be quite difficult from your kamae. And then it was the turn of the good old kota, or wrist cut. By this stage, as well as looking like I'd just walked out of Port Phillip Bay (à la a clothed male Bo Derek, as opposed to that scene in Flash Gordon where Flash emerges from the slime with his blow wave intact), I had developed a slight pain from standing on the ball of my left foot for two hours—in other words, a blister on the sole of my foot. Diddums.
Then we're worded up: for last 10 minutes of class, we're going to face off against the seniors. I think every single beginner's stomach did an ickle backflip at that—we're gonna what? Are they gonna hit back? What if we fuck it up? Are we, like, duelling? Help!
But it was a piece of piss. And fun. Charging at the blue-clad seniors and whacking them on the helmet (men) with our men cuts. Yeah, fun. And then with some kota cuts to their blue-padded gauntlets (kota). Except of course for my unfortunate situation, and the fact that somewhere during my second or third pass, I felt that squelch on the ball of my foot and realised that, hey, my blister had burst. All yummy and pussy n bloody n stuff.
When it was all over, which wasn't long as we were only given 10 minutes, Mau, our instructor, gathered us all around to tell us that that usually doesn't take place till week 6 or 7. And we're on week 3. Hah! Does that mean we're shit-hot or what? I'll got for shit-hot, and try to ignore the excessive-sweating thing.
Monday, February 21, 2005
Sorry Folks (subtitle: Fuck off)
I just received an email that began "Sorry Folks".
Any time I receive anything with the endearingly quirky term "folks" in it, my automatic reaction is to destroy said piece of communcation immediately due to the imbecility of the sender. Nothing beyond that word can be deemed of any possible worth whatsoever.
Any time I receive anything with the endearingly quirky term "folks" in it, my automatic reaction is to destroy said piece of communcation immediately due to the imbecility of the sender. Nothing beyond that word can be deemed of any possible worth whatsoever.
Thursday, February 17, 2005
2 good things
The first is a story I heard on AM yesterday ["Good Morning, I'm Tony Eastley"]. It seems some of the fundo loons in the states, the same ones that re-elected the monkey king, have actually come to their senses and realised that the end of the world is not nigh, and that perhaps, it is not actually their God's will that we should use it like the town bike. Although they have to eschew terms like "environmentalism" because to the untrained ear, that sounds all too similar to "darwinist" or "evolution", they have come up with their own twee term for people who care about their planet [ooh, that might be just to close to evolutionism itself— how does the Bible justify the universe, you know, planets and stuff? Hang on, I've always wanted to know how it explains dinosaurs, too.] and that term is... creation carers. Doesn't that sound like fun? Well it does to me because apparently it wasn't meant to happen like this and it's got Karl Rove screaming down the phones to his moles in the ministries, pleading for them to stop the rot—they can't have the electoral base thinking for itself now can we? Suck dogs' balls Rove.
The second good thing is that tomorrow, Britain's first supersoap Eastenders, turns 20. That's be Feb 19, 1985 it hit the airwaves. And Neighbours is to follow, hitting the double-decade on March 18.
I first came across Easties in Fallowfield in Manchester, sleeping on the couch in some friends' lounge room while she and her flatmates all piled in on Sunday for the omnibus. Oh, what a joy an ominbus is: two-an-a-quarter hours of soap in a row, with no ads! And not just any soap, but the gritty, grimy, depressing lives of a bunch of poor east end sods.
The storyline that made me appreciate the show, lying there hungover in a grotty Mancunian student flat, was the Tiffany Mitchell exit plotline—no driving off a cliff on your wedding day here. What happens is that she finds out that her mum and her husband have been at it by no other medium than overhearing them talking about it on the baby monitor. Yes, the baby monitor. She rushes up the stairs, falls down them, and ends up in hospital, unconscious and badly injured. Did bovver-boy husband Grant push her? Did she fall? Did cuckolding mother Lousie push her? But lo, she doesn't die. She recovers, and is able to leave the hospital on Xmas day, what joy!—the soap opera Chrissie day episode is something of a tradition over there I hear—and so she does. Only to be mowed down by her father-in-law—one of the finest soap characers of all time, Frank Butcher—on his way back "down the mo'away from Manchestahh". Ah, wonderful stuff.
The 20th anniversary double length ep involves two separate murders—Andy Hunter and Dirty Den Watts to breathe their last. It's be the second time for Den, who had been shot multiple times and left for dead in a canal, only to resurface again 11 years later. He surely has to be one of the nastiest, most sinister, lecherous characters soap has seen. And we think Paul Robinson is bad. Pah!
The second good thing is that tomorrow, Britain's first supersoap Eastenders, turns 20. That's be Feb 19, 1985 it hit the airwaves. And Neighbours is to follow, hitting the double-decade on March 18.
I first came across Easties in Fallowfield in Manchester, sleeping on the couch in some friends' lounge room while she and her flatmates all piled in on Sunday for the omnibus. Oh, what a joy an ominbus is: two-an-a-quarter hours of soap in a row, with no ads! And not just any soap, but the gritty, grimy, depressing lives of a bunch of poor east end sods.
The storyline that made me appreciate the show, lying there hungover in a grotty Mancunian student flat, was the Tiffany Mitchell exit plotline—no driving off a cliff on your wedding day here. What happens is that she finds out that her mum and her husband have been at it by no other medium than overhearing them talking about it on the baby monitor. Yes, the baby monitor. She rushes up the stairs, falls down them, and ends up in hospital, unconscious and badly injured. Did bovver-boy husband Grant push her? Did she fall? Did cuckolding mother Lousie push her? But lo, she doesn't die. She recovers, and is able to leave the hospital on Xmas day, what joy!—the soap opera Chrissie day episode is something of a tradition over there I hear—and so she does. Only to be mowed down by her father-in-law—one of the finest soap characers of all time, Frank Butcher—on his way back "down the mo'away from Manchestahh". Ah, wonderful stuff.
The 20th anniversary double length ep involves two separate murders—Andy Hunter and Dirty Den Watts to breathe their last. It's be the second time for Den, who had been shot multiple times and left for dead in a canal, only to resurface again 11 years later. He surely has to be one of the nastiest, most sinister, lecherous characters soap has seen. And we think Paul Robinson is bad. Pah!
And he was
You know how, when you really like something or someone—like a web-buddy or a band or in this case an author—there is a certain amount of trepidation, that niggling worry that when you finally get them in person, they are not going to live up to your expectations and therefore forever ruin your enjoyment of whatever it is. It's like those expectations you build up when you get really excited about a new film. And then you see it and it's verging on shithouse. And you get really pissed off with yourself and your intended and your infatuation and well everything.
David Mitchell lived up to the infatuation. What a genuinely nice, smart, down-to-earth fellow, almost shy with his stutter and his vewy, vewy soft rs. He read two passages from Cloud Atlas—the first consisted of the first few pages of "The Ghastly Ordeal of Timothy Cavendish", encompassing the rooftop cocktail party, and the second began with the legend of the origins of fire from "Sloosha's Crossin'" and ended with the raid. I reckon he read rather than spoke simply because it's tough to get up in front of bunch of people and dissect your own processes, particularly with regard to creative endeavours. And those who do are wankers. But while reading, he told those following along not to mind any differences between what he was reading and the text: as an author one is continually editing and re-editing one's work, he said, it is impossible not to, even long after it's gone to the publisher. What other gems did he drop for us mere mortals? That Tim Cavendish and Luisa Rey both appeared in Ghostwritten, similar to the way Eiji and number9dream developed. That he's got a 2½ yeaor old kid. That Cloud Atlas was inspired by Italo Calvino's If on a Winter's Night a Traveller, or the frustration of it. That he doesn't want to be known as the "wacky structure" guy.
The only way I can see him fucking up this wonderful relationship we've developed over the last 3 years is by writing a genuinely crap book. And that, my friends, doesn't seem as though it'll happen. Ever. The next one's about a 13 year old boy, vignettes set to a deteriorating domestic environment. So, yeah, I think he'll be stuck with the "wacky structure guy" moniker for a while yet.
David Mitchell lived up to the infatuation. What a genuinely nice, smart, down-to-earth fellow, almost shy with his stutter and his vewy, vewy soft rs. He read two passages from Cloud Atlas—the first consisted of the first few pages of "The Ghastly Ordeal of Timothy Cavendish", encompassing the rooftop cocktail party, and the second began with the legend of the origins of fire from "Sloosha's Crossin'" and ended with the raid. I reckon he read rather than spoke simply because it's tough to get up in front of bunch of people and dissect your own processes, particularly with regard to creative endeavours. And those who do are wankers. But while reading, he told those following along not to mind any differences between what he was reading and the text: as an author one is continually editing and re-editing one's work, he said, it is impossible not to, even long after it's gone to the publisher. What other gems did he drop for us mere mortals? That Tim Cavendish and Luisa Rey both appeared in Ghostwritten, similar to the way Eiji and number9dream developed. That he's got a 2½ yeaor old kid. That Cloud Atlas was inspired by Italo Calvino's If on a Winter's Night a Traveller, or the frustration of it. That he doesn't want to be known as the "wacky structure" guy.
The only way I can see him fucking up this wonderful relationship we've developed over the last 3 years is by writing a genuinely crap book. And that, my friends, doesn't seem as though it'll happen. Ever. The next one's about a 13 year old boy, vignettes set to a deteriorating domestic environment. So, yeah, I think he'll be stuck with the "wacky structure guy" moniker for a while yet.
Wednesday, February 16, 2005
Cloud Atlas
I am boning up all day today. My favourite novellist, a young chap by the name of David Mitchell is in town. And he's at Readings in Carlton at 6:30 tonight, just a hop, step and jump from where I am. Yay! But it does mean I shall be missing kendo.
This guy rocks my world. I can't get enough of his writing, and it's not simply because he and I are both japanophiles. If I could write, I'd write like him. He's almost too smart by half, and that's my role. In another life, I would be him. Aaaargh.
Since his first novel, Ghostwritten, he's been shortlisted for the Booker Prize twice—first for number9dream, and then last year's tour de force, Cloud Altas. As pretentious as I can be, I don't think I've ever had an occasion to use "tour de force" before. But nothing can describe that book better—it blows the mind.
Best. Book. Ever.
This guy rocks my world. I can't get enough of his writing, and it's not simply because he and I are both japanophiles. If I could write, I'd write like him. He's almost too smart by half, and that's my role. In another life, I would be him. Aaaargh.
Since his first novel, Ghostwritten, he's been shortlisted for the Booker Prize twice—first for number9dream, and then last year's tour de force, Cloud Altas. As pretentious as I can be, I don't think I've ever had an occasion to use "tour de force" before. But nothing can describe that book better—it blows the mind.
Best. Book. Ever.
Skander-san's Adventures Beyond the Ultraworld 4
or Honour Amongst Sheathes
This week's Sunday Session started off with our "first full warm-up", according to the instructor de jour: "Beginners (such an endearing term), you have just experieincee your first full warm up" he said. It really wasn't that different from the ones we had done before—a bit longer with more hip rotations, perhaps—but perhaps I am just feeling a little jaded because we practised rather than learnt this day. Or because I do not feel particularly inpired at the mo'.
And practise we did. We even had to dump the shinai and simulate our swings without them. And I actually got picked up a few times for not extending my left arm to its full extent. Ever since the notorious Sardinian moped incident of 2002, I have a bunch o' trouble with the ol' left shoulder. Most probably because it is a good inch shorter than it used to be. fucker.
Swings were perfected. First sans shinai, then one-handed, which is tough on the old left arm after a couple of series of ten swings. To the point where we all seemed to be doing the right thing, apart from me still having a spot of bother with the full left arm extension. The other thing that is doing my head in is the parallel feet thing. My left heel quite likes keeping the position it always has kept, namely slightly tucked in towards the right. And that's not parallel. Which means I have to keep my mind on it, reminding it where it should be and forcing it there because it is not a natural position for my old size 10½. So, I've got to keep my mind on a whole bunch of things at once and yet on nothing at the same time. I spose that's zen for you...
What we did end up learning was the ritual of the rei, which is the process you go though when facing your opponent. And it's kinda fun—we enviously notice all the 'seniors and juniors' as they're called getting on with it, while we're swinging in the breeze, so there is a certain joy in moving on and actually facing someone. The rei, which is the bow, begins the ritual as follows: stading approximately 9 paces from your opponent, shinai at ease, you bow the 15° degree/eye-contact bow; come to attention, with your thumb on the tsuba; take three strides forward, drawing you shinai on the second step and coming into kamae on your third; now we descend into sonkyo, but with our shinai crossing at the tip; and then back up to kamae. At the end of our 'bout' we reverse the ritual, sheathing our shinai in the sonkyo pose, and taking five small steps backwards, rather than 3 larger ones. Then bow again, and we're done.
What resembled a proper training then followed: we line up along either side of our half of the dojo, rei to one another and complete our enjoining rituals, then practise 10 men cuts each way, and complete our rituals—which actually make it a helluva lot easier to hold that constant eye contact we're meant to be holding, and give us a brief excuse for a bit of emotion or familiarity at the end of each bout. Then we all move one place to the left. New partner, same practice. It's certainly much more fun than simply lining up and swinging in the air.
Finally we were shown what the do cut is: the cut to the waist. But we didn't get to practice that as we were out of time and my parents awaited me with some yum cha and a room full of my old crap to either keep, sell or toss out. Instead we were shown the do and how to block it. Pity I can't make tonight. I feel I'll be left behind.
And practise we did. We even had to dump the shinai and simulate our swings without them. And I actually got picked up a few times for not extending my left arm to its full extent. Ever since the notorious Sardinian moped incident of 2002, I have a bunch o' trouble with the ol' left shoulder. Most probably because it is a good inch shorter than it used to be. fucker.
Swings were perfected. First sans shinai, then one-handed, which is tough on the old left arm after a couple of series of ten swings. To the point where we all seemed to be doing the right thing, apart from me still having a spot of bother with the full left arm extension. The other thing that is doing my head in is the parallel feet thing. My left heel quite likes keeping the position it always has kept, namely slightly tucked in towards the right. And that's not parallel. Which means I have to keep my mind on it, reminding it where it should be and forcing it there because it is not a natural position for my old size 10½. So, I've got to keep my mind on a whole bunch of things at once and yet on nothing at the same time. I spose that's zen for you...
What we did end up learning was the ritual of the rei, which is the process you go though when facing your opponent. And it's kinda fun—we enviously notice all the 'seniors and juniors' as they're called getting on with it, while we're swinging in the breeze, so there is a certain joy in moving on and actually facing someone. The rei, which is the bow, begins the ritual as follows: stading approximately 9 paces from your opponent, shinai at ease, you bow the 15° degree/eye-contact bow; come to attention, with your thumb on the tsuba; take three strides forward, drawing you shinai on the second step and coming into kamae on your third; now we descend into sonkyo, but with our shinai crossing at the tip; and then back up to kamae. At the end of our 'bout' we reverse the ritual, sheathing our shinai in the sonkyo pose, and taking five small steps backwards, rather than 3 larger ones. Then bow again, and we're done.
What resembled a proper training then followed: we line up along either side of our half of the dojo, rei to one another and complete our enjoining rituals, then practise 10 men cuts each way, and complete our rituals—which actually make it a helluva lot easier to hold that constant eye contact we're meant to be holding, and give us a brief excuse for a bit of emotion or familiarity at the end of each bout. Then we all move one place to the left. New partner, same practice. It's certainly much more fun than simply lining up and swinging in the air.
Finally we were shown what the do cut is: the cut to the waist. But we didn't get to practice that as we were out of time and my parents awaited me with some yum cha and a room full of my old crap to either keep, sell or toss out. Instead we were shown the do and how to block it. Pity I can't make tonight. I feel I'll be left behind.
Tuesday, February 15, 2005
Load shipping
I've had this feeling for a little while—well, since last Thursday with the whole Lawman wrestling bizzo— and now I've come across a spoiler implying as much. It's just a pity I couldn't have posted it yesterday on the day it deserved...
They look as scared as we are. Bring on the Load!
Monday, February 14, 2005
Come fly with me
Fluffy came across this nifty little world map, visited countries generator thing. And like her, it's made me realise that there is a whole ship-load of countries out there that have not yet been graced by my presence. And they don't know what they're missing out on. Well, not yet, anyway.
So, after a Friday and a Sunday evening talking about it, we're going to try to marshall some funds and get hopping over to NYC for this wedding we've been invited too. We've heard there are some airfares going for about $1,000 around, which doesn't seem to bad. And it's what the missus wants—I can't let her down after only 3 months of marriage. We might even be able to do a day trip to Canada so I can fill that part of my map in.
My favourite painting in the world is in the MoMA in New York. And I'd be very happy whiling away half a dayin front of The City Rises by Umberto Boccioni
The best part about all this, and particularly once I have acquiesced and we have been, is that there are a couple more functions we've been invited to in various parts fo the globe. So while she wants the New York City wedding, I'm personally more keen on the Brazilian one in January. And while we're there, Chile, Argentina, Peru, Bolivia, and even Colombia, perhaps. Which is the one continent yet to have been tarred by my brush, if I can put it that way. Bring on the red pixels, I say.
Further down the track, we've both agreed that the Iran-Syria odyssey is on the cards for sometime in the year after that, hopefully before Georgie-boy gets there. Or Johnny starts making stupid fucking racist fearmongering belligerent calls about the place (too late!). You see, my grandfather gave me a travel diary long ago. It only had one entry in it: Isfahan. In the north of Iran. So I want to witness what he saw and wrote about. Before moving on to other parts of the Med I've been storing up, like Palymra and Craq des Chevaliers.
So, after a Friday and a Sunday evening talking about it, we're going to try to marshall some funds and get hopping over to NYC for this wedding we've been invited too. We've heard there are some airfares going for about $1,000 around, which doesn't seem to bad. And it's what the missus wants—I can't let her down after only 3 months of marriage. We might even be able to do a day trip to Canada so I can fill that part of my map in.
My favourite painting in the world is in the MoMA in New York. And I'd be very happy whiling away half a dayin front of The City Rises by Umberto Boccioni
The best part about all this, and particularly once I have acquiesced and we have been, is that there are a couple more functions we've been invited to in various parts fo the globe. So while she wants the New York City wedding, I'm personally more keen on the Brazilian one in January. And while we're there, Chile, Argentina, Peru, Bolivia, and even Colombia, perhaps. Which is the one continent yet to have been tarred by my brush, if I can put it that way. Bring on the red pixels, I say.
Further down the track, we've both agreed that the Iran-Syria odyssey is on the cards for sometime in the year after that, hopefully before Georgie-boy gets there. Or Johnny starts making stupid fucking racist fearmongering belligerent calls about the place (too late!). You see, my grandfather gave me a travel diary long ago. It only had one entry in it: Isfahan. In the north of Iran. So I want to witness what he saw and wrote about. Before moving on to other parts of the Med I've been storing up, like Palymra and Craq des Chevaliers.