"When you dress nicely and look good, I feel proud," A said. "But when you're gothed up, I feel a little bit apologetic."

"Why?"
"Well, it does offend some people, you know."

"No one I care about offending."
"That's what Z said when he wore that skirt to Commencement."

He has a point, and it's one that matters to him. However, I can't deny the thrill that goes with my exhibitionism. Descending the stairs in a grand sweep of black last night, we encountered one of the usual, dull, unimaginative males. His response, eloquent as you please, was: "Holy Fuck."

I didn't even try to hold back the triumphant little smirk that played across my face. It's easy to attach convenient motives to my behaviour. I want to be better than people. I want to draw attention to myself. I want to be pretentious.

I don't. I want to shock these little unimaginative people out of their shells. I want them to realise 'racking' and 'footy' isn't everything there is to life. Maybe a futile gesture to attempt to draw these people into the world where I see such dark beauty, but an attempt I feel I have to make.

Besides, it's fun.

A wether is a male sheep without that inherent masculinity implied by the term 'male'. Just thought you might like to know...

Guess what? (No, I'm not pregnant.) Electricbiscuit has a new design and I can't see a fucking thing. bgcolor="#000000" and text="#000000". I don't autoload images because I pay by the megabyte and I'm already at $40 this quarter, thank you. I hate it when people do this. RAH! (Whaddya know, speak of the Devil and the Devil he comes: Here's another twerp doing it.)

Swoon on cue. I was going to volunteer, but he beat me to it, and you're in much better hands there, Mallory.

So Z, the now married Z, has just popped in. How startling, and how curious. One immediately feels the need to check on the significant other - "So, how's Ruth?" - and what one really means is, "How's Ruth and how the hell is married life anyway, are you regretting it, do you feel chained up, is it stifling or are you both blooming?" Z has not changed. Did I think he would change? I honestly don't know. He has changed, deeply but not superficially, since I first met him. You have to know Z to understand how that is possible. But it is.

Today's desperate pleas for assistance - email to dee@viscerate.com please:

1: Anyone who possibly has a copy of Nina Hagen's (or any other version, for that matter) song Yes Sir. The MP3 I got today is only 1:13 and it's just wet my appetite...

2: Anyone who recognises the font in this graphic and can tell me the name and/or where to get hold of it:

3: Anyone willing to donate four or five hours to my sleep effort...

For every action, there is an equal and opposite government policy.

"I've just had an apostrophe."

"I think you mean an epiphany, Smee."
"Bolts of lightning have just struck my brain."

"That must have hurt."
(1 point)

The only good thing to do with a Cleo magazine is burn it as a ritual sacrifice to whatever gods you think might pay attention. This also has the added bonus of making you feel better about yourself as a person, plus alleviating those latent pyromaniacal tendencies. The only problem is that it is neither a virgin nor a goat.

I am thoroughly impressed and almost inspired even by the Corkboard project of Jena. The concept of filling a corkboard with the random detritus of such a wide span of lives. The huge spray of memories pinned to your wall. And being part of such a collation. Drat it. Why do I have to live in Australia again?

Who did the washing up at the Last Supper? Who on earth actually believes Wicca is hereditary? Can I raise J^e as my disciple? Does my subconscious want to help me out? Is R^u as innocent as she appears? Does anyone laugh any more, David Bowie?

To the twit who sent me three different messages through the review submission form by sending in three different forms: You're a twit. Which was established from the beginning, so there was no point to this. Except to point out this prime example of twitfulness, for those who treasure such things.

Go Nicci on the SURVIVORblog! *waves virtual pom-poms*

Speaking of that Survivor blog thing, how's being mentioned on the Blogger main page for instant blogging links? Do a Blogger search for it, and whoa! It is an incredibly cool concept, though. And I wouldn't have mentioned it at all if it wasn't for Nicci.

Go Nicci! (Rah, rah!)

It's time I came clean about my blog-reading habits. Hence, the addition of Shauna to my "Frequented" list. Because I do. And Melissa because I should and will from now on.

PS: I also changed to one of those gbook.nu clone megabooks, because they work, dammit.

Tom's got a point. Anyone being of that opinion has obviously never seen me playing Carmageddon, or lighting fires in the back yard. The only thing that is saving the world is that fact that I haven't even got my learners, nor has anyone yet taught me the joys of explosives. It's only a matter of time, though, so they'd better hurry up those space colonisation plans.

Do you bore me? Yes. Probably not if you're reading this. I am the Comte de Saint-Germain and I feel like I've seen it all. I was around when Jesus Christ had his moment of thingummy and whatsit. Vim & Vigour, girls. Stomachs in, bottoms under, chins up. If you've got it, flaunt it. If you don't, fake it.

Somewhere in between the third years and the first years (1979/80 and 1981/82) is a generation gap. It's odd to be able to see so obviously where it stands, the demarcation so sharp and obvious.

It's where the intense meaning and definition of "Smells Like Teen Spirit" ends.

It's where AD&D becomes Quake.

It's where first-generation knowledge of "The Wombles" and "Cities of Gold" stops.

Every day I see it replayed in the small details that make the big things. It's there. It's real. It's an amazing phenomenon.

Update from this morning's newspaper about that blood thing: A few meagre sentences mentioning a syndicate, or smuggling ring, or something, moving HIV positive blood from South Africa, to Britain, and thence to China and India. It didn't mention whether it was intentionally contaminated, or whether that was just an unfortunate accident.

Random comment spawning continuing references bordering on disturbing obsession and prompting the posing of the conjugated question to the world: Is the average virgin smarter than the average goat? And, related (or maybe not), which is the better sacrificial item? Answers on the back of a postcard.

Number one reason why I will always have trouble leaving Australia: Tim Tams!!!

Oh my DOUG.... YUM!

And incidentally, who would honestly even think of calling their child Tim Tam?

So now there's another option apart from gbook.nu. It's Megabook: The Ultimate Guestbook Script. Check it out. It looks exactly like gbook.nu. I'm talking EXACTLY. Deja vu, cue Twilight Zone theme... (mmmph!)

I'm not sure why this is so hard to understand (for those unwilling to follow the link: someone has apparently sold AIDS contageous blood to Asia). I was going to spout something about Pauline Hanson teaching Aussies all about intolerance, but then I realised that everyone, everywhere in the world has experienced intolerance. Someone believes that Asians are a blight on the landscape. That they have to be removed. And where there's a will, there's a way, unfortunately.

Welcome to the Human Race, and the inglorious and disgusting habits it has.

(At least, that's what this news makes me think. I have only heard what I read at that link. I know nothing more. Maybe I'm far too quick to see the absolute worst in people. Maybe this is just a "I want money and Oooops!" situation.)

The quick catch-up course for those not actively participating (that is, most of you...):

Dear Diary,

Thursday, 24th: Saw Magnolia. Was impressed. Have no urge to see it again, but am glad to have experienced it. Was delighted at Tom Cruise's performance, but still refuse to "Respect the cock".

Friday, 25th: Had soul-bearing D&M with A. No, you don't get any more details, I'm afraid, but several things that needed to be cleared up have been. We don't have fights, we just have points where the tensions get greater and need to be resolved. We'd make a great narrative.

Saturday, 26th: Intended to catch up on the sleep missed for the last week during the day. Failed. At night we had Dawborn. Was rendered so teeth-grindingly furious by the display of blatant disregard and stupidity by my fellow residents that I got gothed and angry (Kittie was employed) and came down to strut my stuff at the bar night afterwards.

Sunday, 27th: Was hit by intense lack of sleep. Existed as a zombie for most of the day. Missed breakfast due to daylight saving. Have an hour-long nap that runs one hour over time. Watched Fifth Element and Matrix big-screen (aka: sheet of butcher's paper on the wall, a damn interesting way to do it). Compared Bruce Willis to Keanu Reeves. Reevesy needs to take himself a little less seriously. Or at least, appear to.

I wish I could live up to my own expectations with this blog at the moment, but I'm tired, so tired it feels like I'm wearing my sunglasses behind my eyes. I don't know how I'm going to face up to a week like this. At some point, I will regain my sleep equilibrium, and then hopefully the miscellania will flow.

Until then, I leave you with the following thoughts: (1) What is with the blood in Fifth Element? You know, when it trickles down Gary Oldman's face? It looks like chocolate sauce. (2) Why do we never get to see what is inside Aglie's pill box in Pendulum?

Mallory's reading it! Woohoo! You won't regret it. (And maybe then she'll even help me with the new project I'm cooking up...)

Hooray! All done! Welcome to version 3 of The world according to carp - "That was now, this is then." If anything looks odd, please let me know.

Illuminati, a forum for intelligent interaction, is now open. Please go, register, say hello, start a discussion, go off like a frog in a sock.

Unfortunately I have another one of those pesky college functions tonight, so I can't fill this page with my usual non-essential bumph. See you all tomorrow morning. Not too early, though.

As you may notice, I'm redesigning. Please keep your hands and arms inside the blog.

Walking is just a steady process of controlled falling over. So is life.

Every so often, there comes a webpage that just leaves me entirely speechless. This is one such.

Regarding those permalinks, thank you to those who use them properly. And my apologies to those who still don't know what I'm talking about, because how is anyone supposed to get it right when one of the apparent icons can't even manage it. [/scathe]

PS: I retract the above (not the thanks, just the accusations). I could have sworn the permalinks weren't working last night, but this morning they appear to be fine.

Reason #43 why communism will never work:
R: They're probably Italian.
Me: Because Italians are always Fascist.
R: They are.
Me: Except when they're being Communist.
R: Well naturally. Damn whores.
Me: I assume the whores are Fascist. Prostitution is far too capitalist for the commies.
R: How so? It would work perfectly well.
Me: Selling your body? How can you get more capitalist?
R: No, you're just sharing your commodity with the community. Shut up for a minute. Everyone in the community gets tokens.
Me: Every good comrade is entitled to three visits per month to a lady of negotiable affection?
R: Precisely. And then you collect the tokens and take them to the officials, who say, "Well done" and give you your monthly whatever.
Me: But you'd still have to sell yourself. Give your tokens to me, not to her, I'm better, I'll even do you twice for the price of one. Capitalism. Prostitution is inherently capitalist.
R: Unless you were the delegated prostitute for that region.
Me: Whore of the State? Now you're just getting silly.

A special puppy-dog-pathetic-whine at people who don't close their tables. Even I have to surf in Netscape sometimes, you know.

Harry Potter casting! Coolness!

That interaction I was talking about will be forthcoming, since I got a response that heartens me, and makes me think that maybe I'm not the only one 'gagging for it', as it were. Ahem.

There is a new design for "The world according to carp" in the pipeline, and it shouldn't be too long in appearing. The new message boards will arrive then as well. Enough business, on with the fish.

It was just your typical evening out with A and a couple of his friends. We missed them, and got to the restaurant too early, so hung around outside talking about StarCraft. We had rambling conversations over dinner including email wars and pessimism/optimism. They went on to a play, I went off to catch a bus home because I have work to do.

That's when the fun began. (This could be long, go to the toilet now if you think you're going to need to.)

It rained today (hailed too, but I'll talk about that a little later) so sitting on the open seats was out of the question. The undercover seats are wooden benches (comfortable, though) divided into three sections by metal railings, each section large enough to fit two, allowing for personal space, or three disallowing. I sat in the middle section. As if awaiting my cue, two other people suddenly appeared, sitting in the sections to my right and left. To my right was a well-dressed young man, probably a high school student, since his well-dressed-ness had the appearance more of a uniform that corporate attire. To my left was a woman a bit older than me with two bags of shopping, and a paperback book.

We sat, each thinking our own thoughts. She rolled a cigarette and smoked it very considerately, blowing smoke away from us. We sat, and thought.

Then he showed up. He was wearing a double-breated but tatty overcoat. He shuffled his feet. I know, because I was looking at them, because you don't make eye-contact with strangers. He said, very quietly, "Hello."

I should have ignored him. I really should have. Not that I think it would have helped much. But I didn't. I looked up, and replied in kind. "Hello."
"I'm Michael. What's your name?"
"Diana."
"Do you know Jesus loves you?"
Shit. One of them. Heartfelt and mental sigh.
"Yes. Yes, I do." Well, I do. Everyone keeps telling me that. My mother most of all.
"Do you go to church?"
"No." Not if I can help it.
"Oh. Do you go to university."
"Yes."
"What do you study?"
"Politics."
"What do you learn in politics?"
"Lots of things."
"Are you going to be a politician?"
"Probably not."
"Then why do you learn it?"
"Because it's interesting."
"Do you pray and read the Bible?" Talk about a non sequitur.
"No, I don't."
"Do you read the Book of John?"
"I have read it." Consider and discard idea of telling him the theories about it being written about Mary Magdalene.
At this point he mumbled something about praying to God to forgive my sins. Time to come completely clean. Stuff not being confrontationist.
"Look, I'm afraid I'm not a Christian."
"That's why I'm telling you this, so you can become one."
"But I don't want to become one."
"That's like saying you don't want God to love you."
"I have my own relationship with God that is not like those that Christians have."
"But Jesus is the only path to God."
"That's what you believe, it's not what I believe."
"It's what God believes."
"How do you know that?" Honestly, the arrogance of those who assume to know the will of the Divine.
"Because he said so."
"Where?"
"In the Bible."
"Which he wrote himself."
"Yes, he did. The authors were inspired with the Holy Spirit."
At this point, thankfully, my neighbour to the right butted in. He tugged on Mr Jesus' arm and said: "Excuse me, have you read the book of Mormon?"
"The Book of Mormon is false."
"But have you ever read it."
"I don't want to talk about the Book of Mormon."
"Well, fine, I wouldn't want to push my beliefs on you, assuming they are my beliefs."
I'm stifling my laughter at this point, and thankfully the bus arrives. I stand up, and Mr Jesus makes his closing arguments: "Just remember that God loves you."
"I know God loves me, and I love God, but I don't believe in Jesus."
"But Jesus is God."
Conversation going nowhere. I board the bus. I settle myself in my seat and notice that Mr Jesus has returned to accost Mr Maybe-Mormon. At this point, however, Ms Cigarette butts in, with raised voice and many hand gestures. The argument is still raging fast and furious when the bus pulls away, and as it does, Mr Maybe-Mormon looks up and grins at me. I return his grin, and the bus moves on.

Oh baby, I love this place. And this is my poem:

About 5:50 at the busstop
righteous concrete they feed
with infra garden sometime
resurrect ing within thy abundant nectar
psuedo ghost s of crystal despair .

AKA: what you get when you hit things semi-randomly.
Oh yeah, I swiped the link from Nicci. Shhh!

You know you study too many languages when you go to look up a word and think: "It starts with A, so that means it'll be at about the midway point..."

Amorphous Novel Entity Update: 1700 more words (aka another chapter) written. I'm on a roll, baby!

Just one more note, post-StarCraft and pre-retiring: It must be my night for discovering interesting and potentially daily reads. This also makes me prick up my ears.

PS: I joined the Greater British Empire. *points to pretty graphic linkie on left*

I am absolutely tickled pink about the people who are moving in/have moved in to viscerate.com. Namely, two of my favourite webbers and writers in the whole wide world (yes, that is the www), She of the Lush and Rapturous Prose at an Extension of the Body, who will be founding one of her new projects here, and She of the Vision and Style of Glossolalia, who has unhappily had to flee her old residence. Links to the left. Film at 11.

All I can say is: "I am so unspeakably happy that I don't live in the US."

Right, I'm throwing this open to the masses. I am going slightly (more) mad as I wander the internet, finding cliques and coteries of gibbering, giggling teenage germs. There's only so many times I can type IASBM before the keys start wearing out and even my regulars start abandoning me. I want to reassure myself that there are normal people out there. I want to build around myself a buffer zone of intelligent and occasionally silly interaction.

The obvious option? Give viscerate.com a message board system. Talk to my friends and regular readers. Meet interesting and intelligent people. Yay.

This, however, requires interest from aforementioned friends and regular readers. If you are one of the above (or just a random wandering through - Hello!) please let me know if you'd be interested in being a part of viscerate.com conversation boards.

This is worthy. Meritorious, even. I didn't realise how much I wanted to find a light amid the morass until I found this site. It was like taking your first deep breath in years. A relaxation.

Yeah, right, move along...

Small note and plea for assistance: Have I mentioned how eternally grateful I would be if people did their searching through my little Google box on the left there? Well I would be extremely eternally grateful. Especially since Google is cutting their affiliate payment from 3c to 1c come September. End snivelling plea.

Netscape continues to be the straw in my enchilada (don't ask, please don't ask; the phrase just bubbled to the surface of the gumbo that is my mind, and hence had to be written down. I don't even know what an enchilada is, precisely, but I'm pretty sure I don't like them and hence wouldn't really care if there was straw in mine). This time it's a small matter of slashes or backslashes. I honestly don't know why on earth I put the slashes in the wrong way. It doesn't make any sense, especially since I usually code with my mind in neutral. But anyway.

Out one side of the building the sky is the faintest Easter Egg shades of pink through to blue, so delicate it could be pierced with the nail of your little finger. On the other side, however, it is an ooze of gunmetal grey, heavy, ominous. It bodes. (1 point)

There is that sort of stomach-based gasp when you see something similar, but then the split-second passes, and you realise that no one would copy, or even if they did, wouldn't it be flattering? And then you smile, and open up your blog, and make some waftingly pointless remark about it, and carry on with your life.

So I finally did one of those name analysis things. It was actually quite interestingly accurate. Well, the first part anyway. And specifically: "However, procrastination is your worst enemy, and you find yourself lacking the ambition to make your dreams a reality." DOUG, yes!!

PS: My goodness, N's is exactly the same as mine! Now I knew we were similar people (everyone says so), but honestly...

A: "well, in one way of describing it, i took an eggplant, stuck it up a capsicum's arse, then pulled the trigger until it went click."

For me, college will always be defined by nights like this one. A bad dinner prompts a trip out. Not liking pizza, R and I get Maccas and frolic all the way there and back. Someone suggests going up Mount Ainslie to eat. We go thirty metres down the hill (being unable to see anything, including the steps going down in front of us) because apparently there's a much better view down there. We frighten away a couple who aren't there for the view. R and I talk about America Psycho and feminists. J² almost goes headfirst down the hill. In the space of five minutes we script a fantastic opening for a slasher flick. We freak out G^J in the process, who insists on returning back up the hill with company. The return journey is occupied with serious consideration of whether the earth spins clockwise or anti.

Scene: R enters room and sits on bed (as is his wont, and that of just about everyone else as well) and watches me playing Puzzle Bobble.

R: Damn you're fast.
Me: Yup.
R: Is that because women have reactions 10 times faster than men or is it just because you're cool shit?
Me: It's because I've had way too much practice at this.
R: Ah.
Me: Is that true, about the reactions?
R: Something like that. They're definitely faster.
Me: So why aren't women fighter pilots?
R: They don't have big enough dicks.

One book finished, the next one started. I am now reading Medalon - a new Aussie fantasy by Jennifer Fallon with gloriously beautiful artwork by one of my favourite artists ever: Stephanie Pui-Mun Law. Thus far (chapter 4) it is proving your average fantasy fare - amusing, eminently readable, peopled by delightful characters and with a moderately standard (and hence slightly predictable) plot. Where it goes from here determines whether it gets rave reviews as a soon-to-be classic, or whether I am merely highly impressed by finding a new fantasy author who is actually good.

HOORAY!! I finally got some writing done. Only 800 words or so, but at least that's something. How horribly awful it is to get writer's block on the first page of what will hopefully be a long trilogy. Honestly. What do I think I'm doing?

But I have started now. It was a thoroughly successful day, all in all. I went to classes and took notes, I did some essay research, I wrote, I read and I even played Puzzle Bobble. I'm so hideously proud of myself I'm worried I'll wake up soon.

Hells, bells and buggy wheels! It's a CONSPIRACY! Gbook is ALWAYS down when I want to sign one. And since I want to sign one about once a muck-raking these days, it's obviously a plot by Them. Now all I have to do is work in the National Milk Corporation. (2 points for obscurity.)

I have finally finished Foucault's Pendulum. And what a live-changing, mind-blowing experience it has been. Here is what I wrote about it at Amazon:

"I won't pretend this book wasn't a hard slog. It was. It's long, dense and uses words I didn't know existed (and frequently, words that aren't English). But all this is necessary to create the thick, rich tapestry Eco weaves for us. With consummate style, we are taken on a journey of knowledge, culture, religion and philosophy that I, for one, experienced right alongside the book's characters. This book might not change your life, but it certainly changed the way I look at it. It's all what you make of it."

Go forth and read it. Soon.

Oh, and a PS while I go and make myself dinner because the offerings downstairs are considerably below-par: teleute is back up and running. *heave sigh of relief* Now I can get my fix again.

Just in on the "How Cool Is This?" newsdesk: We managed to get the video of the original Dead and Alive "You Spin Me Right Round" and the new Dope American Psycho CD version perfectly in sync. First time, too. For the first verse and chorus at least. It was perfect.

I had fun here. You may or may not, but I did. Now I'm off to watch the 80s marathon Rage from last night. Bye bye.

Another one just for Shauna. This one's an original!

One day while perusing the net
I searched for monks from Tibet
I said: "Lookie here!
"Don't you think this is queer?
"Look at these Tomb Raider links I get."

My favourite thing to find upon waking up is love letters under the door. Well, let's not exaggerate. There's only ever been one at a time. I mean, I'm not being courted by fifteen of the college's most eloquent and legible bachelors. In fact, I'm not being courted by any bachelors, he's not in college anymore and he's certainly not legible. His writing is atrocious. But I can read it, and what I read having stumbled out of bed and noticed the piece of paper sitting on the floor just inside the door gives me a warm fuzzy. There is nothing better to start the day with than sweet words. Thank you A.

I was wondering why everyone likes blaming their parents so much. (As in: I wasn't hugged/was hugged too much/wasn't changed enough/was burped too often/was forced to watch the Teletubbies hence I am now gay/repressed/anti-social/a Lee-Ann Rimes fan/serving fifteen years in a maximum security institution.) Then the answer occured to me (hit me out of the blue, must be a part of the Plan). If we blame our parents for poor parenting, then they must have stuffed up because of their own problems. Which must, in turn, be blamed on their parents. Onwards it goes, and ever upwards, until you end up blaming God (or creationist entity of your choice, yea verily even unto evolutionism). And that's what everyone wanted to do all along, isn't it?

Dee's Heartfelt Plea to the Blogging World:

Please, please, please if you're going to use permalinks, put in the A NAME code, since without it, your permalinks are just so much HTML flotsam on the rising tide of my wrath DON'T WORK!!

And while you're at it, please keep your blog page to a reasonable length. Depending on how much and how long you blog, of course, this may vary, but keep it reasonable.

Just, please, trust me on the permalinks.

Sitting around all afternoon attempting to finish Foucault's Pendulum (DAMN, it's getting good!) and listening to the pathetically crap band playing at the after-Ball recovery at the college next door, I have formulated the following edict:

Come the Revolution^TM:

1. Bands will need a Certificate of Competance before being permitted to even attempt to play Beastie Boys.
   
2. Males attempting to sing the female parts in dance songs (ala Bust a Move) or any song by the Bangles will have their testicles removed in an effort to improve their performance. (Yes, this goes for you too, Human Nature.)
   
3. The Constitution will state firmly that the lead guitar must always be turned up louder than the bass.
   
4. Fuckwits in utes will be shot on sight. (For Americans and other non-Australians, a ute is a 'utility vehicle' corresponding roughly to an American truck, I think. Basically, it is what Aussie farmers (usually of sheep) use to get around their properties. It has a cabin, usually seating two, occasionall (and pretentiously) seating four or five and a tray on the back, in which you usually put hay and your compliant children. People driving them anywhere with a population of more than 20 are redneck hicks and have an annoying tendency to perform donuts on any available grassed area, especially in the middle of the night.)

I'd like everyone to take a moment to ponder the sheer lucridity of using a remote control in a room that is barely two metres by three.

PS: And yet I use it. Admittedly only when I'm in bed and want to turn the stereo off, but still... Do you think I can possibly stretch this point from a glaring indication of my own laziness to a vituperous denunciation of today's society?

Nah, probably not.

Just for Shauna:
There was a young sailor named Bates
Who danced the fandango on skates.
But a fall on his cutlass
Has rendered him nutless
And practically useless on dates.

Feminists make my teeth ache. The whinging, the refusal to take responsibility for themselves and their actions. Fuck Andrea Dworkin, because I have rarely heard of anyone with a more narrow-minded and, frankly, insane point of view. I could rant for ages about this, but I'll confine myself to one small piece alone. Starting with a question:

Situation A: You enjoy having sex and you need money, so you prostitute yourself. Situation B: You hate practicing law, but you need the money, so you work as a lawyer. Which is worse, A or B?

The argument is that prostitution is abuse and/or oppression of women because it's forcing them into a submissive role, and forcing them to do so against their will. But honestly, women (and men too) work every day in millions of jobs that they hate simply because they need the money. Are rabid feminists planning on eliminating all of this? No one has to work if they don't want to! Uh-huh, and as R would say: "Due to improvements in the pressurisation of airline baggage compartments, pigs can and do fly."

Women are oppressed everyday. So are men. Everything is not an example of the patriachy. Feminists are merely conspiracy theorists who have garnered far too much popular legitimacy. And as with all conspiracies, if you think you will see signs of Them, then you will, anywhere and everywhere you go.

Conclusion: IASBM

More fun with dictionaries: While searching for the correct spelling of "conscion" (which I couldn't find anywhere, and in fact everyone bar J^e denied having ever heard before - it was eventually found as part of the much more commonly used "unconscionable") I came across the delightfully saucy "concupiscence", which apparently means ardent or illicit sexual desire. Ooooh-errr!

Search: concupiscence

Results: What the Catholic Encyclopedia has to say on the matter: "But the lower appetite is of itself unrestrained, so as to pursue sensuous gratifications independently of the understanding and without regard to the good of the higher faculties." Sounds like fun to me!

I awoke this morning and stumbled forth to greet the world with a tired mumble. Great was my confusion, yea, and loud also, as I entered an almost pitch-black corridor and shouted: "What the fuck is going on??" For lo, the lights had been covered with cellophane of vermillion and azure hue. I was now residing in my floor's "Red Light District"! As I wended my merry way to the conveniences, I nearly concussed myself on a cardboard star dangling gaily from the ceiling. Long and inventive was my swearing.

Upon completing my business, however, I was in greater cheer, for I had remembered that tonight was the 3B SIGN, that most hallowed and venerable of floor parties (not like the sodding upstart contraptions of the other floors), and 'twas for this reason that the corridors were thusly bespangled.

So that's where I'm going to be tonight. Cheers!

And here was me going to write a long entry to make up for my overwhelming silence, but I have just been reminded that I have drinkies to attend now, so you will all have to possess your souls in patience, won't you? Mwah, ciao.

Excuse me while I am ebulliant. WE WON NETBALL! (for the first time ever... and it's the last game of the season... but anyway...)

But not tonight, boys and girls. Not tonight...

I spent some time today reading my archives. I need more extraneous and insane bumpf. I've become so staid. *gasp*

Every day friends send me those amusing little jokes that are perpetually floating about the internet. They all go into a folder called "Wossnames" (1 point). Occasionally one of them genuinely amuses me (usually when I can't see the punchline coming from a mile away). Here is one such:

Two nuns, Sister Marilyn and Sister Helen, are travelling through Europe in their car. They get to Transylvania and are stopped at a traffic light. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a diminutive Dracula jumps onto the hood of the car and hisses at them, through the windscreen.

"Quick, quick!" shouts Sister Marilyn. "What shall we do?"

"Turn the windscreen wipers on. That will get rid of the abomination," says Sister Helen.

Sister Marilyn switches them on, knocking Dracula about, but he clings on and continues hissing at the nuns. "What shall I do now?" she shouts.

"Switch on the windscreen washer. I filled it up with Holy Water in the Vatican," says Sister Helen.

Sister Marilyn turns on the windscreen washer. Dracula screams as the water burns his skin, but he clings on and continues
hissing at the nuns.

"Now what?" shouts Sister Marilyn, as Dracula hangs on.

"Show him your cross," says Sister Helen.

"Now you're talking," says Sister Marilyn as she opens the window and shouts: "Get the fuck off the car!!"

Oh yes, you may have noticed that little link over there on the left. The one that says "goodbye". It is the project of a friend of mine who I admire, and who expressed a desire to have an anonymous journal project. Having gone for six months on the internet by the pseud of "x", I can perfectly understand the need for travelling incognito. This has been an announcement from the Ministry of Public Information.

All dictionaries suck. Just thought I'd mention that. Usually I like mine - Merriam-Webster, funnily enough - but it doesn't have the word I want to know how to spell and that's just not on. Stupid book.

Screamingly funny term of the day just overheard outside my door: "Der-brain"

Thought for the day: Never underestimate the power of very stupid people in large groups.

(Received in one of those random collections of amusing little business lines like: "If you can stay calm, while all around you is chaos...then you probably haven't completely understood the seriousness of the situation." But this one is indeed so true.)

Aren't we very theosophical all of a sudden? It's the Eco that does it, of course. Once you start questioning the time-space continuum, it's only a matter of time before you start building a computer out of kettle and vacuum parts.

3B thought of the day: Nothing is sacred to nihilists?

"Maybe you were a Catholic in a past life." ~ Dee

So it appears What's-her-face at alkalineshock is making another bid for Power Bloggers #1-dom. Only problem being her site isn't showing up. Not at all. For me, anyway. This is where I should be responsible and email her about it, right? Except, I can't see anything, even her email, and I don't feel like being responsible tonight. So there.

Oh wait, it's working now. ANOTHER redesign? That's two in the last two days, isn't it? Ye gods and little fishes...

PS: And there isn't enough room in her sidebar for her links. Damn I'm a bitch. :-)

Happy birthday, Drew!

Speaking of maternal instinct: About a year ago, in my search for the Conan the Barbarian game (of which I still haven't made it past the second quest - someone help me!) we came across something called Princess Maker. The point: raise the girl the gods have bestowed upon you from the age of 10 until 18. Send her to school, make her work, send her out adventuring, schmooze up to politicians... you can do it all. And then you see what sort of adult she becomes. It being an anime game and all, you can even make her work in a sleazy bar or strip joint, and she can become a concubine, or crime boss... or even an S&M queen!

My girls always turn into artsy types - writers, artists, dancers - usually get married but never have children. They have no maternal instinct, you see. Hah!

People talk to babies the same way they talk to pets. And no, I didn't mean that the other way around.

I suppose it's just the similarity between beings that are intelligent, but probably aren't thinking on your wavelength, and definitely can't respond in an entirely intelligible fashion. At least cats can mostly look after themselves.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I am the proud owner of 0% Maternal Instinct^TM. Frankly, children just puzzle me. And people's responses to them puzzle me even more.

So I caved to hoi polloi and did that career test thing. I was quite intrigued that my actual career of choice - author - only came up at number two. Yes, the recommended career for me is: Astronaut. Yes, because I want to study physics. That's why I stopped doing it in grade ten.

Other outcomes of note: "Movie Star" showed up at number 11. "Rock Star" at number 16. And rounding out the list at number 25 was "FBI Agent". Ooh yeah, baby!

PS: It says I should vote for Ralph Nader. Who's he?

J² is by far the luckiest boy alive turning 21 on the 18th. I know this because I just bought his communal birthday present. At five bucks a pop, you too can sign on one of his two birthday cards and contribute towards his Brian Froud book, silk tie and three videos (Fifth Element, Blade Runner (Director's Cut, of course) and Princess Bride).

Wish I drew that much of a fundage base on my birthday. But I suppose he is innately more friendly than I am. Probably cuddlier too.

You know, I only just realised how staggeringly inane that mob at alkalineshock.com I was whinging about before are. Actually, it's not all of them, it's really just that Tiffanie person.

I was going to have a large whine here about how a lot of blogs are inane, but I realised that none of them were quite as mind-numbingly dull as this one, and hence it deserved a complaint all to itself. I do hope its mother is proud.

AIM is our friend...
Me: Dude, you in?
R^y: So very in!
Me: Are you going to have lunch?
R^y: So very in the mood for comestibles!
Me: Coolness. Wanna go shortly, then?
R^y: When do you want to go?
Me: I'll just finish my other conversation, then come and jump all over you. Then we can go for lunch, yes?
R^y: Okay. I'll get undressed and ready.
Me: You do that.
...
R^y: I'm getting cold.
Me: That's what blankets are for.

Russell Crowe says: "Three months being cool in Australia is a lifetime in another country. That's as good as it gets."

The boy is wise.

PS: He also said: "The only time I ever get a job in America is when all the other actors are distracted." Personally, I think even Americans occasionally recognise true talent. But I did read something a month ago now talking about how Hollywood is loving Aussie testosterone. The reason given was because American has been bled clean of such wholesome masculinity. Or some nonsense like that.

Movies movies movies. What would I do without them? Lead a very much less interesting life, I fear.

Last night: Gladiator. Second time. Still epic. Still excellent. Much has been said about Russell Crowe (and why not, the man's fantastic - and an Aussie) but I think Joaquin Phoenix deserves more praise from that movie. Even more so this time his acting and character captivated me far more than the blood-spattered hero of the piece. But overall, I adored the themes explored in this movie. The idea of Rome as the mob (so true). The insane authority figure (alas, also so true). (PS: I also continually admire Crowe's integrity in not having a sex scene.)

Tonight: An Ideal Husband. Also second time. Soooo delightful. Rupert Everett is exceptionally swoon-worthy. Not so much in his devastating dark looks (pause for author to faint) but in his urbane wit and smooth delivery. He is perfectly charming. But enough about him. Every performance weaves together seamlessly to create a smooth trifle of perfection. But honestly, what else should we expect from Wilde? I can't see this movie without thinking of Drew: "To love oneself is the beginning of a lifelong romance." Right, my dear? ;-)

"Hi there,
My name is Cindy Love and you've just found my dirty little secret... "

Oh, I can't wait.

Even if you didn't already know where I lived, you could immediately guess when I tell you that I just saw a man walking down the corridor in full tux plus sombrero.

Sometimes I just love the randomness of college.

Gbook.nu is back up. I like it better than the UGB, so I'm going back to it. The announcement endeth here.

Nothing makes me funky like listening to Harry Connick Jr.

Ooh yeah...

Thepiratequeen.net has got me humming G&S now. You know, this has been known to lead to breakdowns in lesser mortals. But I am (not quite) The Greatest Man Who Ever Lived! (5 points for obscurity value - for full marks you have to name the actual Greatest Man.)

"Here's a first-rate opportunity,
To get married with impunity,
and indulge in the felicity
of unbounded domesticity.
You shall quickly be parsonified,
conjugally matrimonified,
by a doctor of divinity
who is located in the vicinity."

How can you not think WS Gilbert is worthy of worship?

Oh my DOUG! I've got an FBI file! (and I'm not even an American citizen... isn't that a little out of their jurisdiction?)

PS: Yes, I know, I know, what sort of idiot do you think I am?

Actually, "I am surrounded by morons" is getting to be something of a catch-cry. In true internet-junkie fashion, I believe I shall acronym-ise it for future use. Take note: IASBM (aka: Inter-aural sexy ballistic motorscooter).

On this note, maybe I should also mention that: YYP is a Dee-acronym. It stands for "Yes, your point?" and is used whenever someone is stating the bleeding obvious. Like: "You're being sarcastic." and "That's mean". Use it three times in a chat room today!

Now this, I absolutely don't sodding believe. Someone thinks Zannah jumped on their bandwagon? The idea is so laughable I'm actually concerned they might be serious. I am surrounded by morons.

R^y: You know, the Israelis have a special dispensation to have armed guards outside the gates.
R^b: What, like roaming the streets?
R^y: But they're only female guards, you know.
R^b: Oh well, they'd probably miss or something.
U: They only miss if they're wearing white plastic.

Back towards the beginning of the year Y, a friend of mine, broke up with his girlfriend of two years. Or rather, she broke up with him. He was inconsolable, ranting, raving... but since then he's met a new girl. And he's turned into a bouncing ball of giggles over her. It's so incredibly cute. Y is thirty, you see, (and I quote): "I thought I knew everything there was to know about women, and then she comes along and all of a sudden I don't have a clue; I'm jittery, I'm nervous... it's fantastic!" He is so happy... it's simply so endearing. I can't help envying the girl.

This sort of response is why people suck (the two above it as well). Comments so unbelievably stupid, personally hurtful and shallow just make my jaw drop. I thought people were more intelligent than that. But of course, every time I think things like that, someone comes along and disappoints me. (Because, of course, a review from Claudia Schiffer would be so much better.)

On her personal site (the one that was reviewed), the girl doing the whinging has another few whinges. She pulled out the old line: "I'm doing this for me." This, of course, triggers one of my pet hates. Why, if you're doing it for you and you alone, have you put it on the internet and subjected the rest of the world to it? Keep it on your own computer and stop clogging up bandwidth if you don't care so much. And why, if it's for you alone, have you submitted it for review? Seems like a touch of hypocrisy to me. (PS: If you care so much about your design, go to one of those review centres that give 50 points consideration to design, and 10 points consideration to content. We don't.)

I need my tolerance back. Big time. But until then, I have to go with J² on this one: "I hate people."

All of a sudden my tolerance for people's stupidity seems to have disappeared. And when I need it most as well.

The ducks are going around in pairs, in isolated duets. Cars are playing dodge games because they're getting territorial (the ducks, not the cars) and hence can't feed within five metres of each other without sparking gang warfare. This time of year always reminds me of something A told me about in my first year. About how he'd been riding home and he'd passed a dead duck lying in the gutter, obviously having had a fatal encounter with a car. On the kerb above sat another duck, honking plaintively, morosely.

Random Rammstein quoting...

"Wollt ihr das Bett in Flammen sehen
wollt ihr in Haut und Haaren untergehen
ihr wollt doch auch den Dolch ins Laken stecken
ihr wollt doch auch das Blut vom Degen lecken."

Morons. I am surrounded by morons.

I am talking specifically about those so vapid they can only talk about design. When questioned, they will undoubtedly assert than content is far more important than design, but they don't back this up with anything else they say. They further add to the hypocrisy they practice by then bitching excessively about those who are so vapid because they only care about design. They are indistinguishable from the former by anything except a larger vocabulary, their superiority complexes, and the fact they should know better.

I am, of course, making gross generalisations, but that's my prerogative. So nyer.

I am injuring myself left, right and centre. I fell over the opposing Centre last night, giving my knee a right ding which has now turned into a beautiful bruise (not a beautiful swan, as one might expect). And this afternoon I meandered into the walls (brick) and scraped my knuckles. I look like I've been in a fight. You should see the other guy.

In a more gastro-intestinal sense of looking after myself - as that which I promised A I would do - I'm going OK. I had lunch. Aren't I good?

I told A I'd look after myself. It really is a warm fuzzy that he cares enough to bestow a half-hour lecture on the topic upon me. However, it's all much easier said than done. Eat more, he said, but the dinner at this establishment is not the sort of thing that lends itself to being eaten in excessive quantities. Eat lunch, he said, but that costs money and I'm loath to spend on something I don't feel I need anyway. Sleep in, he said, but I have classes every day at ten. Rush your preparation, he said, but I infinitely prefer leisure, especially at that time of the morning.

I've been tired for the past five years, as far as I can remember. There was one day in grade eleven when I stayed home and slept all day because I was minorly diseased. After that and a decent night's sleep, I felt well-rested. It was the first time in at least two years I can remember not feeling tired. The next day, of course, I was back to normal.

My mother immediately declares this sort of extended fatigue is anaemia, but I've been giving blood for two years now and haven't been registered as anaemic at all. Nevertheless, I'm on the iron supplements at the moment. I just hope they work, because otherwise there are other unpleasant possibilities. Like chronic fatigue, but worse, like Coeliac disease, which my mother has. I'm not sure which is the worst part about that possibility - the colonoscopy that is required to make a definite diagnosis or the fact you can't eat pasta (or anything else containing glutin) if you do have it.

I think I'd prefer to just have another nap.

Eeep... I wasn't doing anything other than typing and my computer suddenly rebooted all on its own. That's even more possessed than usual. My most sincere, humble and public apologies to Abraham Lincoln for anything I might have done to incur your wrath.

Most overused word in the teen domain scene: misanthropic ~ one who hates mankind; hating mankind.

(One of the) Most underused words in the teen domain scene: naif ~ 1: a horny sheath protecting the end of each finger and toe in man and related primates 2: a slender pointed fastener with a head designed to be pounded in

Damn I love my dictionary. In a totally non-sexual way, of course.

All hail Mandy, we love Mandy.

Our dearly departed Pennsylvanian exchange student (well, the female one anyway) sent us a parcel today. We were highly impressed, especially since the postage alone came to $82. Inside, we found all sorts of goodies. Hersheys stuff galore (Kisses and Hugs and Peanutbutter things). Plus chocolate sauce, Graham crackers, marshmallows, something called "Aussie Mega" shampoo and conditioner (made in Connecticut) and water pistols!!!

Well, they're called "water squirters" now, because, you know, guns are bad. PC or non, there were four of the things, which were immediately seized by J¹, J², K^rl and myself. Which explains why I'm now typing in soggy pyjamas. You should see the other guys, though. I got J¹ right between the eyes from across the room. Am I good or am I good?

So gbook.nu seems to have gone bang. Let's try a replacement instead, yes? I liked my gbook.nu one, though, so let's hope it returns.

Oh, PS: If you have any problems with it, naturally please let me know. I installed it a bit quickly and I think I've ironed it all out, but I could be wrong. It has been known to happen. From time to time. (1 point).

PPS: It appears gbook.nu is coming back up... slowly. At least they have an error page up now. I won't be waiting with bated breath, I'll tell you that much...

For those with an irreverant streak as wide as mine: The Blasphemy Homepage. Although the hatemail section is highly unimpressive. The Wedding at Cana was mildly amusing, considering my recent foray into this sort of area.

With that foray in mind, I think a new project shall be spawned at viscerate.com. Not, as is so frequently the case, a ring, or clique, or even a zine. Well, maybe a sort-of zine. But at the very least a repository (no, J², not a suppository) of Diabolical (in the Eco sense of the word) wisdom. Cabalistic, mystical, Templar nonsense. Because damn, this stuff is FUN!

"If you believe you should be able to view this directory or page, please try to contact the Web site by using any e-mail address or phone number that may be listed on the 'whatever.com' home page."

So Bill Gates wants me to stalk the owner of whatever domain I'm looking for?

Use any email address or phone number now! Don't be shy!

You know, I'd almost forgotten about Diana jokes. No one's made one in ages...

Life imitates art, and I am being sucked into the mysterious and cabalistic world of Foucault's Pendulum, just as the narrator is. I am entranced by suggestions such that Jesus may, in fact, have been married to Mary Magdalene, and the Holy Grail is nothing other than her womb, carrying the son of the Messiah. In fact, there is a school of thought that believes the wedding at Cana (where Jesus turned the water into wine) was actually that of Jesus himself. There are various reasons for this, but I think I might turn this into a mini-essay and put it up on the site somewhere. The world of mysteries is immense and all-encompassing.

And remember: The Templars have something to do with everything.

Anyone telling me that Netscape is better than Internet Explorer will be hit upside the head with a big fish.

I have just spent two hours wrestling with the infernal thing. The university computer labs use Netscape, and hence all pages designed for the university must work in this browser. For some reason the DHTML menu system I am using is going kinky. It loads perfectly if the page is linked to. However, if you hit refresh or load the page straight, it's stuffed.

%^@$!!!

(Of course, it works perfectly in IE. Bah!)

A: Come over and visit.
Me: As long as I can bring my German.
A: I don't think the critters will mind.
J^e: Your German? Oh, you mean the language.
Me: No, I have Hitler in my pocket.
K^y: How did you shrink him?
Me: He was always that small, they just used clever camera angles to make him appear normal size.
J^e: And platform boots.

Amazing... stuff at meat-girl.com.

Things to do to appear more insane than you already are:

#1: When taking the skin off your chicken, do it slowly and sing strip music. End by throwing the chicken skin flamboyantly onto the plate of the person sitting opposite you.

The rules of picking up (with invaluable contributions from J²):

For men:

1. Dress well.
   
2. Smell good.
   
3. Don't be too drunk.
   
4. Introduce yourself confidently.
   
5. Make intelligent, but not too erudite, conversation.
   
6. Listen attentively.
   
7. Smile and laugh.
   
8. Pray.

For women:

1. Show up.
   
2. On the incredibly rare occasion that step 1 does not work immediately, smile.

I wish my life had a soundtrack. All the boring things in life - like lectures, or walking to places, or simply sitting and typing - would be made so much more interesting if I could perform them to interesting music and from an assortment of camera angles.

Life being a movie isn't just about the happy ending. In fact, it's not about the happy ending, because I happen to prefer movies that have a tragic ending. It's about missing the boring bits, and everything being significant, and knowing that a resolution of some sort will be taking place.

For lo, and verily, I go forth to witness that which has been lauded as: "Dogma".

Don't wait up.

I don't like steak and I don't like lasagne. Just what is a girl to do at a college like this one?

Answer: Make Continental Chicken Curry pasta.

I come from Gladstone and return there at the end of each uni year. Don't let this glossy brochure fool you - it's a horrible place to live. Well, not so much to live, as to grow up. It is beautiful for tourists, I'll give it that much. But that "solid industrial base" makes the town hideously working class. I know I'm sounding like I'll be first against the wall when the revolution comes, but hear me out. I know no other way to describe the feel that permeates the town, or at least the teen part of it. The average girl is married by 20, and was probably pregnant two years earlier. The non-average girls flee the town, further skewing the statistics. The guys work in industry, or in the rest of the town that supports that industry. They become average in one form or another - suburban bliss or sub-standard domestic nightmare. From which springs the next generation and the vicious cycle continues.

I fled. I fully intend to return, if I return, only briefly and aloofly. And should the visit be extended, it is to be ended as soon as any children that might, perchance, be under my care reach the age of nine.

N's boyfriend turned 25 yesterday, an age he seems to believe is truly prodigious. He had forbade any extensive celebratory measure, but N is not one to do as told, especially regarding spoiling those she loves. Unfortunately, speaking of spoilt, so were the oysters, which meant the party ended in a less than satisfactory manner for the celebrant.

J² performed a similar stunt at his birthday feast last year. We had successfully staged a huge surprise party, no easy feat when you live in college, at his favourite restaurant, the Australian Pizza Kitchen. Someone should have told him that salmon on a pizza is just a bad idea. We went out gothing afterwards and he was requisitely pale.

Poor birthday boys.

Finally, finally, and at long last eXx has received an update. I have not forgotten it, and promise to be a better 'pretentious writing' generator in future.

Pretend I blogged this yesterday, because it is in relation to my Diplomacy tute:

Apparently Channel 7, which has the coverage of the Sydney Olympics, is also covering all the possibilities. It is retaining analysts of international politics for "the unfortunate occurence of terrorist attacks on the Sydney Games".

So apparently I'm a 'disgruntled feminist lesbian' now. Ooops, I must have missed the memo about that one. Have I become a 'vicious skank' all of a sudden? No, the standard of sites asking for review has just got really, really bad recently. One of those paradigm shifts, I guess.

In the meantime, however, this is so hilariously spot on. Wit with such pinpoint accuracy it can nail the idiotic to a wall at fifty paces. There should be more such.

Additionally, where was I yesterday? Receiving carte blanche on my redesigning of my university's careers centre webpage (oh, the power!), enjoying the delightfully Austentatious Mansfield Park and languishing in the arms of my dearly beloved. Oh, and very much overusing the italicise tag.

The evening in review: Wickedness, denunciation of cow, chaos, netball, drag-racing, chatting, peppermint schnapps, exodus, Puzzle Bobble, anatomy of dragons, final curtain, sleep.

And that's just an ordinary night in Dee's life...