Re-hee-he-ally! And then, later:
Bootylicious?
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
One can dream
I saw this in the mail room at my hospital
Re-hee-he-ally! And then, later:
Bootylicious?
Re-hee-he-ally! And then, later:
Bootylicious?
Monday, February 06, 2006
Too left feat
"This is the part where you..."
I've been hitting up a few dance classes lately, on my weeks off. Apparently I'm one of those rare male cats that doesn't have a problem with self-awareness and dignity, and likes to flail my arms and legs around semi-synchronized to a beat. Last week I went to a Ceroc, or French Latin Jive, dance class, and it turned into a memorable night for more than a few reasons.
Ceroc is a partnered dance, part ballroom, part dirty dancing. It's fun for both the guy and the girl - lots of twirling, it's fairly open-ended and can be danced to anything in 4/4. The trouble with any partnered dance for the men, of course, is that they have to lead - so on top of remembering the steps, you have to improv on the spot what the hell you actually want to do. So after a while, a rookie like me starts hearing a lot of this -
"This is the part where you..."
I mean, it's hard enough for a guy to co-ordinate his mind and his mouth when in front of an attractive stranger, let alone spontaneously co-ordinate a series of elaborate physical movements in time and in reasonable style without repeating himself in close physical proximity to an attractive stranger who's paid $15 to learn how to dance.
"This is the part where you..."
But I've found Ceroc to be a lot of fun, so we persist. It's social - you meet different types. There are, naturally, a few semi-pro dancers who look like pure money on the floor. We try to avoid the dull glaze in their eyes when it's their turn to dance with us (everyone has to rotate partners around during the class). There are, thankfully, a few ladies of our age and dancing experience around too. We joke about tripping over own feet and the pros and cons of using your shoulders in a body roll. There is, almost inevitably, at least one older lady with latent exhibitionism, who tries to lead you, and we try to avoid her lunging and flailing limbs as she puts on her own one-woman cabaret show.
Then there's a couple of middle-aged ladies who've come for a good time, and they're living it up, giggling like schoolgirls about how "slutty" they can make their moves. They're having a ball, giving each other high fives, and it's fun to dance with them. I find myself dancing with one of the pair, we'll call her Mrs Robinson for now. She's got a slim build, and dressed tastefully in a green skirt that has just the right amount of swish for the twirl. The years show a little bit on her face but she's still pretty. She's enjoying the move we just learnt, a twirling, twisting move aptly named the pretzel, and we're about to move into a section where the lady freestyles a bit. I tell her this is the bit where she boogies (she knows this anyway, she's been whooping this section up with her friend all night anyway).
"This is the part where you sex me up," says Mrs Robinson.
Whoa, whoa, whoa. HOLD UP. What the hell did she just say?
I'm panicking. I'm not sure if she's just kidding around, or if she actually, you know, wants me to make coffee and get grindin'. I take a quick look at her hands. No rings. Crap. No help from that quarter. I almost wish I was dancing with the exhibitionist, I could probably stop dancing, go get a drink and she wouldn't notice. Crap crap crap crap what's a gentleman to do crap although it's been like forever since I've heard those words from a women never in fact and then I woke up and it was all a dream...
No. Actually, the song ended, and thank god for the finite-ness of the Sugababes meme-like "Push the button."
"This is the part where..."
On my way home, I wonder about Mrs Robinson - whether she was in fact Mrs Robinson, or just Ms Robinson, and why. In the end, I decided it's just nice that she had some fun on a Friday night. And it's nice that I almost suffered a small stroke.
"Mrs Robinson, are you trying to seduce me?"
I've been hitting up a few dance classes lately, on my weeks off. Apparently I'm one of those rare male cats that doesn't have a problem with self-awareness and dignity, and likes to flail my arms and legs around semi-synchronized to a beat. Last week I went to a Ceroc, or French Latin Jive, dance class, and it turned into a memorable night for more than a few reasons.
Ceroc is a partnered dance, part ballroom, part dirty dancing. It's fun for both the guy and the girl - lots of twirling, it's fairly open-ended and can be danced to anything in 4/4. The trouble with any partnered dance for the men, of course, is that they have to lead - so on top of remembering the steps, you have to improv on the spot what the hell you actually want to do. So after a while, a rookie like me starts hearing a lot of this -
"This is the part where you..."
I mean, it's hard enough for a guy to co-ordinate his mind and his mouth when in front of an attractive stranger, let alone spontaneously co-ordinate a series of elaborate physical movements in time and in reasonable style without repeating himself in close physical proximity to an attractive stranger who's paid $15 to learn how to dance.
"This is the part where you..."
But I've found Ceroc to be a lot of fun, so we persist. It's social - you meet different types. There are, naturally, a few semi-pro dancers who look like pure money on the floor. We try to avoid the dull glaze in their eyes when it's their turn to dance with us (everyone has to rotate partners around during the class). There are, thankfully, a few ladies of our age and dancing experience around too. We joke about tripping over own feet and the pros and cons of using your shoulders in a body roll. There is, almost inevitably, at least one older lady with latent exhibitionism, who tries to lead you, and we try to avoid her lunging and flailing limbs as she puts on her own one-woman cabaret show.
Then there's a couple of middle-aged ladies who've come for a good time, and they're living it up, giggling like schoolgirls about how "slutty" they can make their moves. They're having a ball, giving each other high fives, and it's fun to dance with them. I find myself dancing with one of the pair, we'll call her Mrs Robinson for now. She's got a slim build, and dressed tastefully in a green skirt that has just the right amount of swish for the twirl. The years show a little bit on her face but she's still pretty. She's enjoying the move we just learnt, a twirling, twisting move aptly named the pretzel, and we're about to move into a section where the lady freestyles a bit. I tell her this is the bit where she boogies (she knows this anyway, she's been whooping this section up with her friend all night anyway).
"This is the part where you sex me up," says Mrs Robinson.
Whoa, whoa, whoa. HOLD UP. What the hell did she just say?
I'm panicking. I'm not sure if she's just kidding around, or if she actually, you know, wants me to make coffee and get grindin'. I take a quick look at her hands. No rings. Crap. No help from that quarter. I almost wish I was dancing with the exhibitionist, I could probably stop dancing, go get a drink and she wouldn't notice. Crap crap crap crap what's a gentleman to do crap although it's been like forever since I've heard those words from a women never in fact and then I woke up and it was all a dream...
No. Actually, the song ended, and thank god for the finite-ness of the Sugababes meme-like "Push the button."
"This is the part where..."
On my way home, I wonder about Mrs Robinson - whether she was in fact Mrs Robinson, or just Ms Robinson, and why. In the end, I decided it's just nice that she had some fun on a Friday night. And it's nice that I almost suffered a small stroke.
"Mrs Robinson, are you trying to seduce me?"
Bangers and mashups v2
See the previous post on mashups.
Click here for two more remixes; "Try again" remix by Aaliyah feat Kanye West and Jay-Z, using the terrific instrumental from 112's It's over now; also find the "Jesus walks" remix by Kanye West feat Talib Kweli, using the instrumental from Talib's Get By.
Click here for two more remixes; "Try again" remix by Aaliyah feat Kanye West and Jay-Z, using the terrific instrumental from 112's It's over now; also find the "Jesus walks" remix by Kanye West feat Talib Kweli, using the instrumental from Talib's Get By.
Saturday, February 04, 2006
Saturday soap: General hospital
For those who wanted a little bit of a trashy blog entry: fresh from the Gossip mags!
Night shift is not a real glamorous time of day!
The cute nurses tend to come out at the 0730hr handover, by which time you're so sleep deprived you might as well be wearing beer glasses. So who knows, really? (I don't want to slight or otherwise incense the terrific and friendly nursing staff I have worked with though - that's just death-wish material)
There are a few cute interns, but they tend to have weird growths called boyfriends. I will probably have to say though, to my UNSW ladies, that on a hotness per capita basis, you guys(gals) still have the upper hand. For the ladies: there is a registrar with a lush Scottish accent who I thought was fairly chiselled until I started thinking he looked a bit like Ruben. And, continuing on accents, there's another gentleman here if you'd like a Jamaican/Dominican for coffee.
For the fellas, nobody yet matches your unique blend of xbox-beating/inspired lunacy/golf club waving machismo.
The hunt continues.
Night shift is not a real glamorous time of day!
The cute nurses tend to come out at the 0730hr handover, by which time you're so sleep deprived you might as well be wearing beer glasses. So who knows, really? (I don't want to slight or otherwise incense the terrific and friendly nursing staff I have worked with though - that's just death-wish material)
There are a few cute interns, but they tend to have weird growths called boyfriends. I will probably have to say though, to my UNSW ladies, that on a hotness per capita basis, you guys(gals) still have the upper hand. For the ladies: there is a registrar with a lush Scottish accent who I thought was fairly chiselled until I started thinking he looked a bit like Ruben. And, continuing on accents, there's another gentleman here if you'd like a Jamaican/Dominican for coffee.
For the fellas, nobody yet matches your unique blend of xbox-beating/inspired lunacy/golf club waving machismo.
The hunt continues.
Lit review: Maus + The Little Prince
Working night shift has afforded me the pleasure of stealing away into some literature when things settle down around 4am.
My friend Euni gave me The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint Exupery, one of her favourites. I'm not really sure how to describe it. The prose is simplistic, like a children's novel, the narrative is fantastic and full of wonder as in a fairytale or fable, but the meaning, while certainly not buried deep, really ought to mean more to adults than children.
The Little Prince tells the story of a boy from a planet so small he can walk across it in steps, and uses his broom to clean out his (dormant) volcanoes. He travels across the solar system and lands on earth, where he runs into a stranded pilot in the desert.
It's such a slim volume that to say anymore would be to reveal most of the narrative, but suffice it to say that it's principle charm is to present things from the wonderful, expansive and creative viewpoint of a child, unemcumbered by the compartmentalization of adult life.
It recalls a conversation I had with the young daughter of a woman I once worked with at a pharmacy. I forget, unfortunately, the little one's name.
She: Look at what I drew! Me: What did you draw? She: A cow. (proudly shows me a blank piece of paper) Me: Um, that's...um, where is the cow? She: It's eating grass, right there! Me: It's not there... She: It ate so much grass it exploded! (grinning)
***
Maus, by Art Spiegelman is the account of one man's survival through the Holocaust. Spiegelman won a Pulitzer Prize for it, and with merit - it is unique on many levels. It is a graphic novel, for one (that's a fat comic book, for any non-believers). Spiegelman cleverly renders the Jews as mice and the Germans as cats, which serves three-fold: it takes the edge off a somber tale without sacrificing sincerity, it ties neatly into a propaganda statement the Nazi regime issued against Walt Disney and Mickey Mouse (a symbol of America and democracy), and it also allows the writer to, in moments of heavier introspection, to break the fourth wall by presenting himself as a human wearing a mouse-mask. Spiegelman, naturally, has the Jewish speech patterns and neuroses embedded deep, and the voices ring out.
Above all though, it's the very personal and unfiltered story of the survivor (Vladek), and how this affected his relationships with his son (Art), his wife (Anja) and his second wife (Mala).
Highly recommended. Anyone else out there got some good reading going?
My friend Euni gave me The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint Exupery, one of her favourites. I'm not really sure how to describe it. The prose is simplistic, like a children's novel, the narrative is fantastic and full of wonder as in a fairytale or fable, but the meaning, while certainly not buried deep, really ought to mean more to adults than children.
The Little Prince tells the story of a boy from a planet so small he can walk across it in steps, and uses his broom to clean out his (dormant) volcanoes. He travels across the solar system and lands on earth, where he runs into a stranded pilot in the desert.
It's such a slim volume that to say anymore would be to reveal most of the narrative, but suffice it to say that it's principle charm is to present things from the wonderful, expansive and creative viewpoint of a child, unemcumbered by the compartmentalization of adult life.
It recalls a conversation I had with the young daughter of a woman I once worked with at a pharmacy. I forget, unfortunately, the little one's name.
She: Look at what I drew! Me: What did you draw? She: A cow. (proudly shows me a blank piece of paper) Me: Um, that's...um, where is the cow? She: It's eating grass, right there! Me: It's not there... She: It ate so much grass it exploded! (grinning)
***
Maus, by Art Spiegelman is the account of one man's survival through the Holocaust. Spiegelman won a Pulitzer Prize for it, and with merit - it is unique on many levels. It is a graphic novel, for one (that's a fat comic book, for any non-believers). Spiegelman cleverly renders the Jews as mice and the Germans as cats, which serves three-fold: it takes the edge off a somber tale without sacrificing sincerity, it ties neatly into a propaganda statement the Nazi regime issued against Walt Disney and Mickey Mouse (a symbol of America and democracy), and it also allows the writer to, in moments of heavier introspection, to break the fourth wall by presenting himself as a human wearing a mouse-mask. Spiegelman, naturally, has the Jewish speech patterns and neuroses embedded deep, and the voices ring out.
Above all though, it's the very personal and unfiltered story of the survivor (Vladek), and how this affected his relationships with his son (Art), his wife (Anja) and his second wife (Mala).
Highly recommended. Anyone else out there got some good reading going?
Friday, February 03, 2006
Loose ends
I mentioned a few things in some previous blogs that I probably won't have time to fully elaborate on now, but I'll put them out there just so someone knows.
Back to the future - 1984: New Australian Industrial Reform (IR) legislation was passed recently which introduced the Australian Workplace Agreement (AWA). AWAs, as my limited understanding allows, are contracts that employees negotiate individually with their employers - and these AWAs are not bound by any notion of "standard wage" i.e. each person is free to use lower wages as leverage to secure a position should they so desire. This clearly undercuts the aims of Worker's Unions, which exist to negotiate a minimum standard for workers as far as pay and conditions go.
Under the new legislation, the fact that any one person has negotiated an AWA with their employer is meant to be confidential, and should any other person openly expose this fact they are liable to prosecution and imprisonment.
I can see how this is meant to protect both the employee and employer, but at the time this struck me as frighteningly Orwellian. I understand now also the furore in the media that blew about when the sedition laws were also proposed - together they suggested ominous things for civil liberties.
Back to the future - 1984: New Australian Industrial Reform (IR) legislation was passed recently which introduced the Australian Workplace Agreement (AWA). AWAs, as my limited understanding allows, are contracts that employees negotiate individually with their employers - and these AWAs are not bound by any notion of "standard wage" i.e. each person is free to use lower wages as leverage to secure a position should they so desire. This clearly undercuts the aims of Worker's Unions, which exist to negotiate a minimum standard for workers as far as pay and conditions go.
Under the new legislation, the fact that any one person has negotiated an AWA with their employer is meant to be confidential, and should any other person openly expose this fact they are liable to prosecution and imprisonment.
I can see how this is meant to protect both the employee and employer, but at the time this struck me as frighteningly Orwellian. I understand now also the furore in the media that blew about when the sedition laws were also proposed - together they suggested ominous things for civil liberties.
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