tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-144054732024-03-07T18:43:41.215+11:00Born Dancin'"The baby's name was Born Dancin'...The baby and I sit happily on the floor, side by side, tearing pages out of books, and sometimes, just for fun, we go out on the street and smash a windshield together." Donald Barthelme.Born Dancin'http://www.blogger.com/profile/14526760383290674186noreply@blogger.comBlogger285125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14405473.post-73308237569374760782010-02-07T14:16:00.000+11:002010-02-07T14:16:24.052+11:00Elsewhere<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><a href="http://apentimento.blogspot.com/2010/02/interview-with-will-eno.html">HERE is my interview</a> of sorts with the playwright Will Eno. He makes many very worth-pondering comments therein and proves himself the sort of vertical fellow you'd want by your side during a midnight knife fight in an alley down by the docks. In the most metaphorical sense.</div>Born Dancin'http://www.blogger.com/profile/14526760383290674186noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14405473.post-26218784318727437432010-01-29T18:03:00.000+11:002010-01-29T18:03:55.612+11:00RAM ITI'm stunned that it took so long for me to happen upon this most arcadian of musical sub-genres - the American Football Theme Song. By 'happen upon' I mean my sister sent me a clip, which eventually led to the merriest of merry few moments as I discovered how widereaching and unashamedly perfect this style of music clip is. Consider this my gift to you on this fine Friday afternoon.<br />
<br />
<object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Ix081prSiNc&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Ix081prSiNc&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br />
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The LA Rams in "Ram It!" Every second of this one is a second well spent.<br />
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Miami Dolphins out-awesome Hammer with "Can't Touch Us".<br />
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The Chicago Bears get old school with "The Superbowl Shuffle". I haven't done the research but this sexy number may have been the one to start them all.<br />
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The Oakland Raiders' quite awful "Silver and Black Attack".<br />
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And the sublime comedy-chase-scene car crash that is the Seahawks' "Locker Room Rock".<br />
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Really, if any sports team or individual in Australia released a song in this fashion I would become a devoted lifelong fan in an instant. This is a promiseBorn Dancin'http://www.blogger.com/profile/14526760383290674186noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14405473.post-91948906237000405782009-11-12T15:24:00.003+11:002009-11-12T15:26:26.251+11:00THAT'S INCREDIBLE!<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">A couple of weeks ago I had a sudden and unsummoned memory of a show I watched when I was a kid and today I remembered to hunt it down. That’s the kind of busy lifestyle I lead, suckas.</span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">It really was a special show, so take my hand (not so hard!) and come revisit THAT’S INCREDIBLE!</span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">THAT’S INCREDIBLE! was a 1980s program wholly devoted to showcasing INCREDIBLE things, which as often as not turned out to be mildly interesting things or just filler. </span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Here’s a clip of an episode intro. Highlights include:</span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">1- The opening moment which combines awful audience screaming with the finest font ever developed for network television.</span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">2- A studio set entirely composed of shades of brown, camel, beige, mushroom and mustard.</span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">3- Co-host John Davidson’s </span><span style="font-size: small;">Power Stance ™ at 0.9 and his</span><span style="font-size: small;"> Bold & Beautiful hair and face.</span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">4- The jawdropping promise of showing us “the world’s most incredible talkers”.</span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">5- Co-host Cathy Lee Crosby’s uncomfortable torso swivelling and restless arms during her intro (0.19), which shout “awkward eight-year-old in the back row of the end-of-year choir concert”.</span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">6- The fashion sense of Jim Bullet Bailey’s glove-putter-onners.</span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">7- Jim Bullet Bailey.</span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">8- Fran Tarkenton, a man who has a) a woman’s name, b) Travis Bickle’s smile, c) Alan Partridge’s hair and suit.</span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">9- Davidson’s walk at 0.50, where his legs akimbo Power Stance ™ is supplanted by the floppy-handed, stoop-shouldered stumble of a man who downed a few white wine spritzers before tonight’s broadcast.</span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">10- Tarkenton’s walk at 0.52, where he ignores the fact that the studio stairs are a bit too short and therefore require small steps rather than manly strides. The result is that his hair ends up beating like wings.</span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">11- Crosby’s hurried walk a second later, where she looks like she’s running for the elevator.</span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">12- Tarkenton’s excited fake banter to his co-hosts at 1.00, where he is clearly telling an INCREDIBLE! anecdote, possibly of a slightly bawdy nature. In case you can’t tell, Tarkenton was the ‘funny’ one of the group.</span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">13- THE THING THAT HAPPENS AT 1.09</span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">14- The parachutists and the flames that follow, but they’re par for the course. At this point, I’m still thinking about THE THING THAT HAPPENED AT 1.09</span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">15- The totally different audience and studio they cut to just before the clip ends.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Let’s have a look.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> <br />
</span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/zFXtb9jBaBM&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/zFXtb9jBaBM&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object></span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"></span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">What I really loved about the show was the pure sense of wonder to which it appealed. There are plenty of similar things today but they always seem either cynical, embarrassedly ironic or just plain cruel. THAT’S INCREDIBLE! was the televisual equivalent of your friend who is always sending you links to the MOST AMAZING/HILARIOUS THING ON THE INTERNET OMFG!!!! It was so excitable it made you excited too, even if you were just watching cats playing in the kitchen. In fact, I think that THAT’S INCREDIBLE! is probably partly responsible for much of the shape of our culture today, but it is of an Eden-like innocence to which we can never truly return. Goodbye, my old Fran.</span><br />
</div>Born Dancin'http://www.blogger.com/profile/14526760383290674186noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14405473.post-73715112932995131112009-09-23T15:56:00.003+10:002009-09-23T16:09:32.966+10:00FOREVER<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAPpSNUl90n5Fc3sTqRmEE5srAA26wmk8uCGWOoY7VdBUIjHJyuCZSDz3Wj-amWlwncY7cJIWwo8FIplmNBFH8uLkBPwHEGeUxCU8Po2pVhWZNY6FsboAym4EHUMYf8fyHgPnxGA/s1600-h/hocra.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAPpSNUl90n5Fc3sTqRmEE5srAA26wmk8uCGWOoY7VdBUIjHJyuCZSDz3Wj-amWlwncY7cJIWwo8FIplmNBFH8uLkBPwHEGeUxCU8Po2pVhWZNY6FsboAym4EHUMYf8fyHgPnxGA/s320/hocra.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384538214097770050" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;font-size:85%;" >I completely screwed up the html code for this site the other day. Be glad if you missed it. It wasn't pretty. I don't even really know what html code is, which might give you a hint.<br /><br />Anyway, it's mostly back now.<br /><br />BUT IN MORE IMPORTANT NEWS<br /><br />I've set up <a href="http://apentimento.blogspot.com/">another blog</a>.<br /><br />Born Dancin' clearly hasn't been focused on the arts for a while now. Unless "ants" was "html code" for "ARTS". Which it wasn't.<br /><br />So this place will remain a spot for "Born Dancin'" to post, while over at <a href="http://apentimento.blogspot.com/">the other blog</a> you'll be able to read arts-related guff by "John Bailey", who was never truly welcome here and sometimes had to be shooed out the door with a broom. You can of course also continue to read writing by John Bailey (no quotation marks) elsewhere too.<br /><br />Thank you.</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> I will see you at <a href="http://apentimento.blogspot.com/">the other blog</a>? We can get icypoles and go boating.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdPqy_pT27vc8WTCsRJJS6B1jQMzF1Rs0pZaJPrTUCE2ilPtTNhMBLUilVqhoGmckRsno21UWAEjjIF1YyAoM9zliP_CdQ3XZNDzOuCHWV60_dBfwpybH3ogZ1-7Zv0U58fzFdHg/s1600-h/teddybears.jpg.jpeg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 264px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdPqy_pT27vc8WTCsRJJS6B1jQMzF1Rs0pZaJPrTUCE2ilPtTNhMBLUilVqhoGmckRsno21UWAEjjIF1YyAoM9zliP_CdQ3XZNDzOuCHWV60_dBfwpybH3ogZ1-7Zv0U58fzFdHg/s320/teddybears.jpg.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384540184529194738" border="0" /></a>Born Dancin'http://www.blogger.com/profile/14526760383290674186noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14405473.post-55998584904411527442009-08-27T14:54:00.003+10:002009-08-27T15:46:59.069+10:00Died Dancin'<span style="font-size:85%;">This is the best.<br /><br />When this week's threethousand newsletter, which is probably properly termed something more technical, or at least technical-sounding, such as ' e-letter', although 'e' is a letter, therefore making me confused if I get lost thinking about it, arrived, I saw the words "Dancing Plague" and thought: "YES".<br /></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX0hAU7DU7LdbWcdb0RfDiWYSNO_YtBBXR7MUUksxKsa7BXJYMBIOGoQu7518nB_nGY_b4I8wKm-esgzXnaCpyslNjIGb6oS3vuJnDHZUuBhLtg1m1vrR52arVtN1OA2qFvvTEkw/s1600-h/yessss.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 286px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX0hAU7DU7LdbWcdb0RfDiWYSNO_YtBBXR7MUUksxKsa7BXJYMBIOGoQu7518nB_nGY_b4I8wKm-esgzXnaCpyslNjIGb6oS3vuJnDHZUuBhLtg1m1vrR52arVtN1OA2qFvvTEkw/s320/yessss.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5374514681246641746" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">The skinny: in 1518 in Strasbourg (a city I only know about due to its very admirable astrological clock and automata) a woman began dancing madly in the street. She danced for four to six days. People soon joined her and within a month there were around 400 dancers. Most of them keeled over due to the stress your body probably feels if you've been dancing for a week straight. These days I can hardly struggle through a single song, even if I dance like an old Italian man swaying to "Volare" at a distant family member's wedding. Which is in most other respects how I usually view myself.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiys98PHj_v2NBGs8snVXhCkYWyRQW4jVbZ8XowgRlD2jHz4436MDfqVUr1rqIzJDMauhBRXZyfz9dhMAzhCu3GMAbwy5jySjBcyuOjnVWLcmQ3j75h06ZXo1EIIERQGOOROsyjrA/s1600-h/oldme.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiys98PHj_v2NBGs8snVXhCkYWyRQW4jVbZ8XowgRlD2jHz4436MDfqVUr1rqIzJDMauhBRXZyfz9dhMAzhCu3GMAbwy5jySjBcyuOjnVWLcmQ3j75h06ZXo1EIIERQGOOROsyjrA/s320/oldme.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5374514672866217986" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />So these people were dancing until they died and as expected this became a bit of a concern. What did the authorities prescribe?</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />MORE DANCING.<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzcBcXlylmkWP8T8i3MHbeCa-bAMVHyGrmpkBtVXx8w1NJ8DZ-mKQeyqUENu32HBRCgHPzkElZCy1zadGumdo0R2AjXLFn7hI5bmoqTsrhFCA8mq3EZQrENcrNKu3pF5UUiWABRg/s1600-h/Staying+Alive+-+small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 225px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzcBcXlylmkWP8T8i3MHbeCa-bAMVHyGrmpkBtVXx8w1NJ8DZ-mKQeyqUENu32HBRCgHPzkElZCy1zadGumdo0R2AjXLFn7hI5bmoqTsrhFCA8mq3EZQrENcrNKu3pF5UUiWABRg/s320/Staying+Alive+-+small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5374515733866670018" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Actually, since I'm just paraphrasing (or downright plagiarising) the wikipedia page here, I might as well just copy and paste the whole paragraph on this point:<br /></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">"As the dancing plague worsened, concerned nobles sought the advice of local physicians, who ruled out astrological and supernatural causes, instead announcing that the plague was a "natural disease" caused by "hot blood". However, instead of prescribing bleeding authorities encouraged more dancing, in part by opening two guildhalls and a grain market, and even constructing a wooden stage. The authorities did this because they believed that the dancers would only recover if they danced continually night and day. To increase the effectiveness of the cure, authorities even paid for musicians to keep the afflicted moving."<br /><br />There's so much goodness in that para.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Firstly, I like the physicians "ruling out" supernatural causes.<br />Secondly, I like that "hot blood" was once a more reasonable sounding diagnosis than "devils" or "restless goat spirits" or whatever.<br />Thirdly, I like that Diana Ross' Upside Down came on as I was reading the section.<br />Fourthly, they're dancing themselves to death so we need MORE DANCING.<br />Fifthly, they built a stage and hired a band? And converted three public buildings into discos?<br /><br />What an awesome story, by which I mean tragic loss of life, by which I really mean awesome story (if anyone reading lost a distant ancestor in this event, you have my sincere condolences and also: you are clearly of awesome genetic stock).<br /></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Anyway, it wasn't just Strasbourg.<br /><br />Between the 14th and 18th centuries, all over Europe, there was swingin', there was swayin', there were municipally-appointed musicians playin', and there was dancin' in the streets. "Dancing mania" affected populations in what's now Germany, France and the Netherlands.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />What kind of dancing were they doing? In all instances chronicles asserted that it was dancing, not epileptic spasms or just jumping around. If my eighth-grade understanding of history (which mostly consisted of teachers putting on Hollywood movies depicting whatever period we were supposed to be studying) is reliable, most of the 'dancing' of this period involved people playing slow-motion patty-cake while walking in circles.<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWAW-3EYHRS3bn4TSkcc-zR6b6L2s-AX0wZk3xWF2fTMktfRkWyWtZX3jjB30ysGbDqiqi0Z8raV5vY93wANbhrZag3hqf6j_Fkec_ytZi5TS8mPJqWRm6-qHcm1SQQJJFX6GD7A/s1600-h/thehustle.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 229px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWAW-3EYHRS3bn4TSkcc-zR6b6L2s-AX0wZk3xWF2fTMktfRkWyWtZX3jjB30ysGbDqiqi0Z8raV5vY93wANbhrZag3hqf6j_Fkec_ytZi5TS8mPJqWRm6-qHcm1SQQJJFX6GD7A/s320/thehustle.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5374514686891452722" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">An aside: The 'tarantella' supposedly developed in a similar way. People who had been bitten by a tarantula were ordered to dance hard and fast in order to sweat the poison out.<br /><br />WOW.<br /><br />What can we learn from all of this? I think the lessons here are obscure and convoluted, much like the gnarly sentence at the top of this post with its nested clauses and grammatically correct but horrible-to-parse employment of parataxis.<br /><br />That is all.</span>Born Dancin'http://www.blogger.com/profile/14526760383290674186noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14405473.post-51631169940415505002009-08-18T14:28:00.004+10:002009-08-18T14:39:25.458+10:00Dérive<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKcTsAY0wvA87wu_lQvDH2sXhIhkl85FiNPRtlrU9b4VQ0Au4ygku3XmGasQy0biCsTG6uuX58VFYYfC31o_BDUbdIrxfnrYWCfVZgkk_xeEWj-YPPWqikb1XVd3M1d4YlCLgPEg/s1600-h/Minarets.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 220px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKcTsAY0wvA87wu_lQvDH2sXhIhkl85FiNPRtlrU9b4VQ0Au4ygku3XmGasQy0biCsTG6uuX58VFYYfC31o_BDUbdIrxfnrYWCfVZgkk_xeEWj-YPPWqikb1XVd3M1d4YlCLgPEg/s320/Minarets.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5371157086923174226" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />I was in a taxi a while back and BBC World was on the radio. A report came on discussing <a href="http://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/europe/swiss-move-to-ban-minarets-as-symbols-of-islamic-power-1771879.html">the ban on minarets</a> in Switzerland. I was incredulous. So was the taxi driver. Neither of us could believe a country could put a ban on minarets. Minarets?!<br /><br />The taxi driver and I spoke at the same time – I said “you can’t ban an architectural style!” He said “They’re just puppets for god’s sake!”<br /><br />-</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />B. Fleischmann is a lovely Austrian electronic music maker, and I was listening to his song 24.12. when I was writing the above lines. It's a beautiful song - the vocals especially. I was surprised when I brought up the clip for the track and found the following words scrawled across the top:<br /><br />"When the marionettes started to pull the strings, they noticed that stoking fear helps to keep the strings hold tight. But I think: Angst is not a Weltanschauung!"<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/NJKa-JxIuHg&hl=en&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/NJKa-JxIuHg&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br />-<br /><br />Angst is not a Weltanschauung.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">-<br /><br />Fleischmann puts the elan back into melancholy. Or <a href="http://www.werenotthecoolkids.com/audiographical/8.mp3">melancholie</a>.<br /><br />-<br /><br />On Sunday I caught Slava’s Snowshow. I wasn’t sure about going, as I had a sneaking suspicion that I’d actually seen it before. I get that with some of the Big International Shows – P. Genty’s stuff always brings on debilitating déjà vu, for instance. Turns out I hadn’t seen Snowshow.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />Sitting behind me and one seat to my right was a kid of about 10. He really, really loved the show. I got the feeling he’d never been to The Theatre before. He was shrieking with pleasure (so were other kids around the auditorium) and would imitate the clownish nonsense-talking that occurred on stage. You could basically tell he’d be spending the next few weeks recalling his favourite bits and reenacting them at school for all his friends.<br /><br />Maybe he doesn’t have any friends. I shouldn’t assume that.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">His excitement was only matched by his parents’ (or guardians’) insistence that he sit down and shut up. They were volubly annoyed that he wasn’t acting like a proper audience member but was getting too involved, physically. They scolded him, repeatedly, almost incessantly.<br /><br />At the end of the show, when the famous giant balloons flew out across the audience, he was exactly one row away from being able to touch them. They bounced off the balcony above him and he kept trying in vain to stretch out and bat one away. I left and gave him my seat, and he went nuts.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">-<br /><br />It is a theatre which escapes definition and the unequivocal understanding of its actions, as from attempts to usurp its freedom.<br /><br />From “What Is My Kind of Theatre?” By Slava Polunin<br /><br />-<br /><br />The child in any audience is a minaret. The audience is not a weltanschauung!</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />-<br /><br />I could continue this directionless ambling but I am one of those marionettes too and my strings only reach so far.<br /><br />I guess I’ll<br /><br />have to switch to Plan B which was to go shopping<br /></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">and text a bunch of friends for no reason.<br /><br />-<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9kp9eSEGypmpWYfN7nNWacCGf_bbd1EfUY0zHNPEs07_Bk6QarLiWsNUaSHQvFRcFzgHSNzcP7StPV9dMjEHuq1rtJP2mxBDS1Pq1XAn0KpH_MbxRgXARmGaEjaoVAjnr5tW73g/s1600-h/snowstorm.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9kp9eSEGypmpWYfN7nNWacCGf_bbd1EfUY0zHNPEs07_Bk6QarLiWsNUaSHQvFRcFzgHSNzcP7StPV9dMjEHuq1rtJP2mxBDS1Pq1XAn0KpH_MbxRgXARmGaEjaoVAjnr5tW73g/s320/snowstorm.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5371157754111174466" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">The Snow Man<br /><br />One must have a mind of winter<br />To regard the frost and the boughs<br />Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;<br /><br />And have been cold a long time<br />To behold the junipers shagged with ice,<br />The spruces rough in the distant glitter<br /><br />Of the January sun; and not to think<br />Of any misery in the sound of the wind,<br />In the sound of a few leaves,<br /><br />Which is the sound of the land<br />Full of the same wind<br />That is blowing in the same bare place<br /><br />For the listener, who listens in the snow,<br />And, nothing himself, beholds<br />Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.<br /><br />-<br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/_3o8EB807y0&hl=en&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/_3o8EB807y0&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object></span>Born Dancin'http://www.blogger.com/profile/14526760383290674186noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14405473.post-53774473941236556422009-08-14T16:58:00.002+10:002009-08-14T17:01:19.172+10:005pm Friday<object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Hn-enjcgV1o&hl=en&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Hn-enjcgV1o&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">0.01 We open with a young and nigh on unrecognisable Magda Szubanski on the skins – really hammering away to somehow produce what sounds like someone tapping a few plastic pens on their desk. Throughout the rest of the clip, Magda will continue this earnest style of playing, which can charitably be described as ‘workmanlike’.<br /><br />0.04 A panning shot gives us a tantalising glimpse of a handsome orange pirate shirted bass-player, and the next cut almost provides us with his identity – but alas, a fine curtain of oily locks prevents us from instantly recognising his chiselled features.<br /><br />0.08 Aaaah: tracking down a bank of keyboards, we can already tell that they are arranged in descending order of smoothness, and for this track we’re going to reach way down to the smoooooth smooth bottom.<br /><br />0.14 The keyboard player himself, Mr Wayne Cook of Steppenwolf, certainly merits that satisfied grin he’s wearing. Sure, he’s knocking some super smooth keys here and know he has a hit, but here’s a spoiler: he also knows that he’s about to pull out one of Rock’s Finest Moments of Ultimate Power in about two minutes time.<br /><br />0.16 And here he is, the Moses of Rock, our gently-mulleted guide through the wastelands, lead singer Peter Beckett whose real name is probably Derek, I think we can all agree.<br /><br />You can tell that Derek is British from the outset as his expression seems permanently set to “resentful”. In fact the whole clip can be read as a struggle between his innate annoyance at his basic lot in life and the commercial need to appear sexy and cool with his rock god status.<br /><br />0.24 I don’t know who this guy is. He looks like he’s uncomfortable being in shot. Sort of like he once committed a crime and was positively identified but managed to flee across state lines and start up a new life. But the thought that someone who knew him back west may one day turn on the tube and see him, and pick up the phone and start in effect a chain-reaction that could only end with him doing twenty to life with a cellmate name Bearclaw, well, no wonder he’s trembling slightly.<br /><br />0.25-0.36 The guys look like they’re essentially taking a break here, which is a pretty bold move twenty-five seconds into the song. Magda probably isn’t too happy up the back since her solid protestant work ethic at least demands that every put in a bit of effort until this thing is properly moving, but she’s silent on the issue. And we haven’t even had a good look at our orange pirate yet.<br /><br />0.37 There we go, Derek’s soon-to-be trademark look of petty injustice. “What do you mean there’s no more orange juice in the green room? SOD THIS.”<br /><br />0.43 Cook’s jaunty keyboard work definitely suggests he has something wicked up his sleeve. “Oh, the guys are gonna LOVE this,” he smiles to himself.<br /><br />0.48 “I was parked there for maybe a minute,” thinks Derek, “and it wasn’t even marked as a towaway zone. And what’s that bloody Steppenwolf session guy up to back there? He better not try any cheap rock theatrics. This is MY clip.”<br /><br />0.52 More sneery Derek- WAIT A MINUTE! The orange pirate is none other than Ridge Forrester from the Bold and the Beautiful! What the dickens?<br /><br />0.59 Magda’s not one to lose focus in the presence of daytime soap royalty, and continues her steadfast work with all of the polish of an afterschool lollipop lady.<br /><br />1.22 Our first really good look at Ridge, and my word that pirate shirt is even more impressive than we’d at first realised.<br /><br />1.26 Magda can see the song’s half-way mark coming up soon and is looking forward to finishing up so she can get home to a nice pie and some steamed vegies, and perhaps something nice will be on the box. It’s nice to unwind after a long day like that, isn’t it?<br /><br />1.32 “All day long,” sings Derek, “wearing a mask of false bravado… trying to keep up a smile and hide the tears…” Well, you’re not REALLY, are you Derek? I mean, I’d say you’re less trying to keep up a smile and more wearing a mask that speaks volumes about the venue’s poor plumbing.<br /><br />2.04 I can’t properly see here but it looks as if they are either playing on a white floor (not good commercial sense as it would surely get scuffed) or else they have the smog machine cranked up to create a foot mist, as if these man-gods were actually on some heavenly plane itself, and not the cheap studio that charges $40 an hour if you bring your own PA. Or it could just be a refraction from all the hairspray floating around.<br /><br />2.11 It’s obvious why Ridge has been so forcibly absented from this clip. His apollonian cheekbones, like the mountainous ranges from which he draws his name, along with his darkly glittering eyes, flexible morals and outstanding ability to rock a four-string make him the group’s only real contender for proper Rock Star Status.<br />2.18 The hairspray thesis has been confirmed.<br /><br />Not much going on for the next 15 seconds, so just take a minute to ready yourself for what’s coming up at 2.34.<br /><br />2.34 Which would be Rock’s Finest Moment of Ultimate Power. Accompanied with a little shoulder roll flourish at the end.<br /><br />2.41 Derek sneaks in an urgent gesture to the Mysterious Guy, which says “did you SEE that arsehole? Did you SEE it? He’s a freakin’ session musician!” Mysterious Guy tries not to draw attention to himself.<br /><br />2.45 Derek continues his rage – his movements scream “I’M the star here. ME.”<br /><br />2.47 Ridge half-pulls off another awesome rock moment, possibly just to enrage Derek further. Oh you coy fox, Ridge.<br /><br />2.50 Derek is now all “Look, I don’t care anymore, I really don’t. I’m over it. OVER. IT.”<br /><br />2.59 Ridge just keeps amping up the jolly rock antics, and the group’s cohesion continues to suffer. It looks like they might not even be able to keep it together until the end of the song. This will be a shame.<br /><br />3.14 This super smooth vocal breakdown and fade proves it – this whole thing was a shambles and the guys aren’t going to finish it. They were wrong. Better to just trail off now and get their deposit back.<br /><br />3.17 OH NO YOU DON’T! NOT ON MAGDA’S WATCH! Her expression is 100% “GET BACK TO WORK, BOYS”.<br /><br />3.15 And work they do! You can see the steely determination with which they round out the song; the only thing holding them back now is Derek’s surly, outraged schoolboy prefect look, which stubbornly refuses to go away.<br /><br />3.28 Ridge is perhaps getting a little too enthusiastic with is bass here. He may be trying to arouse Derek, however, by discussing past conquests in graphic detail.<br /><br />3.36 Derek returns a look to Ridge that says “Fuck OFF, I know how to be sexy!”<br /><br />3.39 Always the morale-booster, Magda bangs the drums while howling “Do it, Derek, do it!”<br /><br />3.45 And our lead singer FINALLY brings sexy back, or at least has an ice cube dropped down his back in order to do a passable imitation.<br /><br />THAT’S A WRAP.<br /><br />In the comments on YouTube, a number of people recall it as the ‘mop song’ – it was used in a commercial for mops in the US, apparently. I can only imagine how it feels when your manager sits you down to break the big news that your No. 1 hit track is up for some filthy lucre: an advertising deal! Let’s buy a 747! Hold on lads, it’s… it’s for mops.<br /><br />The silence that followed that announcement must have been profound. These bright young men offered to sell their souls to the devil and the highest bid came from a mop company. And they said yes.<br />This may explain Derek’s expression, actually.</span>Born Dancin'http://www.blogger.com/profile/14526760383290674186noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14405473.post-91752039406618993282009-08-12T17:19:00.003+10:002009-08-12T17:31:16.815+10:00Shut Up and Dance<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0DPTiQh7BBQK7wM9amcTt5AnK83YTix8NAoQIzuIp1TYhHmzPzB3onFKX_fGj6zswYTrW9jlRjqIO_0mlGvWUA7BJIwBYxTV3WPxIoNyeOyYnJfTBZhtmcwBRKbj48QpsnohWTQ/s1600-h/Onceandforall.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 192px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0DPTiQh7BBQK7wM9amcTt5AnK83YTix8NAoQIzuIp1TYhHmzPzB3onFKX_fGj6zswYTrW9jlRjqIO_0mlGvWUA7BJIwBYxTV3WPxIoNyeOyYnJfTBZhtmcwBRKbj48QpsnohWTQ/s320/Onceandforall.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368975722623549506" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">T’ other night I was in the audience for NYID’s </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >Strangeland</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> and was sitting right behind the dozen-odd teens from Belgian company Ontroerend Goed’s </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >Once and for all we’re gonna tell you who we are so shut up and listen</span><span style="font-size:85%;">. Boy, were they acting up. They were chattering away and clambering over each other and one boy started scrolling through photos on his iPhone for the second half of the performance and I’m pretty sure one girl actually climbed down under her seat and dropped down behind the seating bank so she could run off.<br /><br />Not proper Melbourne theatre behaviour at all, and when the lights came up afterwards someone to my left remarked that they’d “wanted to punch them in the head”. Corporeal punishment clearly isn’t dead.<br /><br />I enjoyed </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >Once and For All</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> a lot more than </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >Strangeland</span><span style="font-size:85%;">. The performers were pretty much acting the way they had in the audience, except on a stage. They were sometimes irritating in the way the youth of today and every day are and that was what made it enjoyable. We in the audience were the oldies and that was the soul of the piece. It was stupid and pointless and yet totally relevant theatre that didn’t seem to be trying to mythologise adolescence or make these people’s lives anything other than what they were.<br /><br />More importantly, though, it featured a short sequence in which the kids began dancing and, being Belgian, they danced jumpstyle! Long-time readers here will obviously know what I thought of that.<br /><br />It’s been a while since I posted something on Geographically Specific Youth Dance Trends, but here’s <a href="http://www.laweekly.com/2009-08-06/music/we-8217-re-jerkin-8217/1">an interesting article on Jerkin’</a>. Jerkin’ is an LA thing that’s been around for a year or more; it’s like a lot of other dance styles except that its proponents blend hip-hop with skinny jeans and tatts and mohawks and other things more closely associated with dorky white indie rock and Euro street dance. It’s like tektonik if tektonik was actually cool or krumping if krumpers were lanky fashionistas who weren’t that great at dancing.<br /><br /><object width="560" height="340"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/nYIli2wJNUs&hl=en&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/nYIli2wJNUs&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="560" height="340"></embed></object><br /><br />But even though it’s kind of lame and probably became popular because it’s easy and has its roots in a whole pile of earlier dance styles that jerkers wouldn’t even know about, the article above makes a good point about how dancing in public, for a lot of teens, is something to be regretted <span style="font-style: italic;">afterwards</span>, when you’re <span style="font-style: italic;">old</span> and realise what a fool you looked.<br /><br />“With Pavlovian response, the students form a makeshift dance floor and do the Pin Drop, the Reject, the Sponge Bob, the Dip ... jerkin’. This might be sponsored by the BSA, but the spontaneous locomotion has kids of varying ethnicities and dance abilities covalently bonded by their love of dancing, incandescent color and constrictive denim. Only teen culture could birth something imbued with such unselfconscious, unironic joy. Who in their right mind wouldn’t jerk? This is </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >fun</span><span style="font-size:85%;">.”<br /><br />Me? I’m old, like Beckett. And like Beckett, all I want to do is sit on my arse and fart and think of Dante.</span>Born Dancin'http://www.blogger.com/profile/14526760383290674186noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14405473.post-40734572311255342152009-08-05T13:58:00.003+10:002009-08-05T14:19:56.360+10:00Inherent Voice<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYf6uGC3vaKHz6qsQe7njlIhTiZjL06kl73tjQDaJeWcMGLjzIMO9dxFn0Pe0SDUXnoechmjpXwLEq5FhzwSoFfCoDlenrFOTRAZkZI4hh-KZqcIR5hOoz4lbwUMwApYZHM954_w/s1600-h/ft_pynchon.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 210px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYf6uGC3vaKHz6qsQe7njlIhTiZjL06kl73tjQDaJeWcMGLjzIMO9dxFn0Pe0SDUXnoechmjpXwLEq5FhzwSoFfCoDlenrFOTRAZkZI4hh-KZqcIR5hOoz4lbwUMwApYZHM954_w/s320/ft_pynchon.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366329516828095906" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">My favourite author Thomas Pynchon's new book <span style="font-style: italic;">Inherent Vice</span> is due out in Oz mid-September (Shhh, I have a couple of proof copies) but it's released in the US today.<br /><br />Penguin has put together a promotional video.<br /><br />This wouldn't be much news if it weren't for the fact that it's probably Pynchon's voice narrating the clip. And Pynchon doesn't do publicity. No confirmed photos of him for 40-50 years; no interviews; nothing really, apart from the two bizarre appearances he made on the Simpsons (with a paper bag over his head).<br /><br /><a href="http://booksellers.penguin.com/nf/Book/BookDisplay/0,,9781594202247,00.html">Watch the clip here</a>.<br /><br />The book is an easy read but it's also curiously autobiographical. The setting is a thinly fictionalised Manhattan Beach in LA in 1970 - where Pynchon lived while writing Gravity's Rainbow - and if you're a Pynchonomane you'll also notice that the house he lived in at that point <span style="font-style: italic;">is in the clip</span> above.<br /><br />Anyway, if nothing else the book has switched me on to some amazing surf rock of the 60s/70s. Check out <a href="http://www.rocktownhall.com/Thrifty%20Music/Mongoose.mp3">"Mongoose" by Elephant's Memory</a> and after a few listens the chorus will be firmly lodged in your skull.<br /><br />In other news:</span><br /><br /><br /><table style="font-family: arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-size: 11px; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); background-color: rgb(245, 245, 245);" width="360" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" height="353"><tbody><tr style="background-color: rgb(229, 229, 229);" valign="middle"><td style="padding: 2px 1px 0px 5px;"><a target="_blank" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); text-decoration: none; font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.colbertnation.com/">The Colbert Report</a></td><td style="padding: 2px 5px 0px; text-align: right; font-weight: bold;">Mon - Thurs 11:30pm / 10:30c</td></tr><tr style="height: 14px;" valign="middle"><td style="padding: 2px 1px 0px 5px;" colspan="2"><a target="_blank" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); text-decoration: none; font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/240628/august-03-2009/dominic-philip-s-book-habit">Dominic Philip's Book Habit</a><a></a></td></tr><tr style="height: 14px; background-color: rgb(53, 53, 53);" valign="middle"><td colspan="2" style="padding: 2px 5px 0px; overflow: hidden; width: 360px; text-align: right;"><a target="_blank" style="color: rgb(150, 222, 255); text-decoration: none; font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.colbertnation.com/">www.colbertnation.com</a></td></tr><tr valign="middle"><td style="padding: 0px;" colspan="2"><embed style="display: block;" src="http://media.mtvnservices.com/mgid:cms:item:comedycentral.com:240628" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="window" allowfullscreen="true" flashvars="autoPlay=false" allowscriptaccess="always" allownetworking="all" bgcolor="#000000" width="360" height="301"></embed></td></tr><tr style="height: 18px;" valign="middle"><td style="padding: 0px;" colspan="2"><table style="margin: 0px; text-align: center;" width="100%" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" height="100%"><tbody><tr valign="middle"><td style="padding: 3px; width: 33%;"><a target="_blank" style="font-family: arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-size: 10px; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); text-decoration: none;" href="http://www.comedycentral.com/colbertreport/full-episodes">Colbert Report Full Episodes</a></td><td style="padding: 3px; width: 33%;"><a target="_blank" style="font-family: arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-size: 10px; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); text-decoration: none;" href="http://www.indecisionforever.com/">Political Humor</a></td><td style="padding: 3px; width: 33%;"><a target="_blank" style="font-family: arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-size: 10px; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); text-decoration: none;" href="http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/239942/july-27-2009/current-events---tasers">Tasers</a></td></tr></tbody></table></td></tr></tbody></table>Born Dancin'http://www.blogger.com/profile/14526760383290674186noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14405473.post-60509118289292266982009-08-04T17:16:00.012+10:002009-08-04T17:43:27.341+10:00A Painted Ship Upon a Painted Ocean<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">A ROUND-TABLE DISCUSSION ON THE STATE OF THEATRE CRITICISM LED BY SUNDRY MARITIME CHARACTERS</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8vb3YVXeIWWGi9qkX3cfjAD_S6x7-8jLUDIL84fQ6bGUpS-xo__GQldrNo2A_2X4J3_MDZu2_9Tku7e4RVSxbNWA2nNITa_MToOqG7d9lyXRSiVNmR6UCbpXcPWXLLB1oiIQ_Pg/s1600-h/surferdude.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8vb3YVXeIWWGi9qkX3cfjAD_S6x7-8jLUDIL84fQ6bGUpS-xo__GQldrNo2A_2X4J3_MDZu2_9Tku7e4RVSxbNWA2nNITa_MToOqG7d9lyXRSiVNmR6UCbpXcPWXLLB1oiIQ_Pg/s200/surferdude.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366005733448399218" border="0" /></a><br />Hey dudes, much obliged you could front up at such short notice, dig. Let’s get quorum, hey?<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8WMQvIvFprkCfG4QEjLUAWCEEU_Giagf_BM7cdhnjhnhPalocBgrga-4j20yfpt0E39R_Ss7VQeZAtUurpE7uIZPMVhCteNydTTSe1Tbr3tl1LOytVRtUhcN2u76Y8sReC_uwrA/s1600-h/pirate-squirrel.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 129px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8WMQvIvFprkCfG4QEjLUAWCEEU_Giagf_BM7cdhnjhnhPalocBgrga-4j20yfpt0E39R_Ss7VQeZAtUurpE7uIZPMVhCteNydTTSe1Tbr3tl1LOytVRtUhcN2u76Y8sReC_uwrA/s200/pirate-squirrel.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366007079309234498" border="0" /></a><br />Allow me to laugh scornfully before jumping off this barrel. Ha HA!<br />Also: ‘present’.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpFDOSC97-arInXITby2MgN5NwerPfb9vnatmv5Rx7V_SE1SlbNIFUwO5YiVvktHsdo8YwPdiDD5ESxGZjc2S-Q5dC3QnP4d23eHR0lJ5nIbZdQ-A2FCNm2IvY8EjgMuqftMvooQ/s1600-h/jaws.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpFDOSC97-arInXITby2MgN5NwerPfb9vnatmv5Rx7V_SE1SlbNIFUwO5YiVvktHsdo8YwPdiDD5ESxGZjc2S-Q5dC3QnP4d23eHR0lJ5nIbZdQ-A2FCNm2IvY8EjgMuqftMvooQ/s200/jaws.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366006109477327650" border="0" /></a><br />Present!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxemVQAh5_-5yqOJdBF8uHsKJi9X64yqNs8fa4b4_ZAeiT5PEkp4uAF4rMsWUaNy6OorikhFPEEwkY39FdBel4tsltwkSpYjpyAYfV1gJBLRx_8f63iA_GfT30hPAnke0bh8PyhQ/s1600-h/privateer.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 148px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxemVQAh5_-5yqOJdBF8uHsKJi9X64yqNs8fa4b4_ZAeiT5PEkp4uAF4rMsWUaNy6OorikhFPEEwkY39FdBel4tsltwkSpYjpyAYfV1gJBLRx_8f63iA_GfT30hPAnke0bh8PyhQ/s200/privateer.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366006379787721394" border="0" /></a>PRIVATEER SAYS HULLOOO!<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdt5vaHQrk2R4h8CZO8JMq8lcvEoR2H32rxE_mVg3-yi7mKtN0KdPZIKCeKCcwWHUBmLHqy1LzjyjgDQLW6zMB2Sqj0G2Qqbhe7C01Cq22eqpB4qG02lOZDzXiWUOLHcD0kb8zaQ/s1600-h/bounty_ship.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 148px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdt5vaHQrk2R4h8CZO8JMq8lcvEoR2H32rxE_mVg3-yi7mKtN0KdPZIKCeKCcwWHUBmLHqy1LzjyjgDQLW6zMB2Sqj0G2Qqbhe7C01Cq22eqpB4qG02lOZDzXiWUOLHcD0kb8zaQ/s200/bounty_ship.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366007789514424882" border="0" /></a>...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8vb3YVXeIWWGi9qkX3cfjAD_S6x7-8jLUDIL84fQ6bGUpS-xo__GQldrNo2A_2X4J3_MDZu2_9Tku7e4RVSxbNWA2nNITa_MToOqG7d9lyXRSiVNmR6UCbpXcPWXLLB1oiIQ_Pg/s1600-h/surferdude.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8vb3YVXeIWWGi9qkX3cfjAD_S6x7-8jLUDIL84fQ6bGUpS-xo__GQldrNo2A_2X4J3_MDZu2_9Tku7e4RVSxbNWA2nNITa_MToOqG7d9lyXRSiVNmR6UCbpXcPWXLLB1oiIQ_Pg/s200/surferdude.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366005733448399218" border="0" /></a>Stowaway?<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdt5vaHQrk2R4h8CZO8JMq8lcvEoR2H32rxE_mVg3-yi7mKtN0KdPZIKCeKCcwWHUBmLHqy1LzjyjgDQLW6zMB2Sqj0G2Qqbhe7C01Cq22eqpB4qG02lOZDzXiWUOLHcD0kb8zaQ/s1600-h/bounty_ship.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 148px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdt5vaHQrk2R4h8CZO8JMq8lcvEoR2H32rxE_mVg3-yi7mKtN0KdPZIKCeKCcwWHUBmLHqy1LzjyjgDQLW6zMB2Sqj0G2Qqbhe7C01Cq22eqpB4qG02lOZDzXiWUOLHcD0kb8zaQ/s200/bounty_ship.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366007789514424882" border="0" /></a>[present]<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL04Gfl95BrPuNMyhTi_jE0hevm_kEljjZH-Q1JENfLUoG0JmosYadmm2DwEHJ9dh-85faOnQuC77ZR88z1dryR018Lv3cZOe-GFAzzsmm3lB9SbWGve9ExqWqsaoqGg0ClctOAw/s1600-h/ahab.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 160px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL04Gfl95BrPuNMyhTi_jE0hevm_kEljjZH-Q1JENfLUoG0JmosYadmm2DwEHJ9dh-85faOnQuC77ZR88z1dryR018Lv3cZOe-GFAzzsmm3lB9SbWGve9ExqWqsaoqGg0ClctOAw/s200/ahab.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366007352274958578" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">From hell's heart I stab at thee; for hate's sake I spit my last breath at thee!</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8vb3YVXeIWWGi9qkX3cfjAD_S6x7-8jLUDIL84fQ6bGUpS-xo__GQldrNo2A_2X4J3_MDZu2_9Tku7e4RVSxbNWA2nNITa_MToOqG7d9lyXRSiVNmR6UCbpXcPWXLLB1oiIQ_Pg/s1600-h/surferdude.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8vb3YVXeIWWGi9qkX3cfjAD_S6x7-8jLUDIL84fQ6bGUpS-xo__GQldrNo2A_2X4J3_MDZu2_9Tku7e4RVSxbNWA2nNITa_MToOqG7d9lyXRSiVNmR6UCbpXcPWXLLB1oiIQ_Pg/s200/surferdude.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366005733448399218" border="0" /></a><br />Y- I’ll count that as ‘present’. So I wanna discuss your, uh, critical methods here, today?<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxemVQAh5_-5yqOJdBF8uHsKJi9X64yqNs8fa4b4_ZAeiT5PEkp4uAF4rMsWUaNy6OorikhFPEEwkY39FdBel4tsltwkSpYjpyAYfV1gJBLRx_8f63iA_GfT30hPAnke0bh8PyhQ/s1600-h/privateer.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 148px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxemVQAh5_-5yqOJdBF8uHsKJi9X64yqNs8fa4b4_ZAeiT5PEkp4uAF4rMsWUaNy6OorikhFPEEwkY39FdBel4tsltwkSpYjpyAYfV1gJBLRx_8f63iA_GfT30hPAnke0bh8PyhQ/s200/privateer.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366006379787721394" border="0" /></a>Our what?<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8vb3YVXeIWWGi9qkX3cfjAD_S6x7-8jLUDIL84fQ6bGUpS-xo__GQldrNo2A_2X4J3_MDZu2_9Tku7e4RVSxbNWA2nNITa_MToOqG7d9lyXRSiVNmR6UCbpXcPWXLLB1oiIQ_Pg/s1600-h/surferdude.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8vb3YVXeIWWGi9qkX3cfjAD_S6x7-8jLUDIL84fQ6bGUpS-xo__GQldrNo2A_2X4J3_MDZu2_9Tku7e4RVSxbNWA2nNITa_MToOqG7d9lyXRSiVNmR6UCbpXcPWXLLB1oiIQ_Pg/s200/surferdude.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366005733448399218" border="0" /></a><br />Is what I mean is, is how you deal with the whole ocean-faring and stuff? Oceans and ships being, maybe, a metaphor? For like…?<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL04Gfl95BrPuNMyhTi_jE0hevm_kEljjZH-Q1JENfLUoG0JmosYadmm2DwEHJ9dh-85faOnQuC77ZR88z1dryR018Lv3cZOe-GFAzzsmm3lB9SbWGve9ExqWqsaoqGg0ClctOAw/s1600-h/ahab.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 160px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL04Gfl95BrPuNMyhTi_jE0hevm_kEljjZH-Q1JENfLUoG0JmosYadmm2DwEHJ9dh-85faOnQuC77ZR88z1dryR018Lv3cZOe-GFAzzsmm3lB9SbWGve9ExqWqsaoqGg0ClctOAw/s200/ahab.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366007352274958578" border="0" /></a><br />All visible objects, man, are but as pasteboard masks! If a man will strike, strike through the mask! How can the prisoner reach outside except by thrusting through the wall? To me, the white whale is that wall, shoved near to me. He tasks me; he heaps me, I see in him outrageous strength, with an inscrutable malice sinewing it. That inscrutable thing is chiefly what I hate; and be the white whale agent, or be the white whale principle, I will wreak that hate upon him.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8vb3YVXeIWWGi9qkX3cfjAD_S6x7-8jLUDIL84fQ6bGUpS-xo__GQldrNo2A_2X4J3_MDZu2_9Tku7e4RVSxbNWA2nNITa_MToOqG7d9lyXRSiVNmR6UCbpXcPWXLLB1oiIQ_Pg/s1600-h/surferdude.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8vb3YVXeIWWGi9qkX3cfjAD_S6x7-8jLUDIL84fQ6bGUpS-xo__GQldrNo2A_2X4J3_MDZu2_9Tku7e4RVSxbNWA2nNITa_MToOqG7d9lyXRSiVNmR6UCbpXcPWXLLB1oiIQ_Pg/s200/surferdude.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366005733448399218" border="0" /></a><br />Wait… dude… so you’re saying the, uh, whale is, like, art? And you’re like, hunting the art to – uh, I’m losing my wave here… cos I thought the ocean was… uh… and our vessels were like the art…<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8WMQvIvFprkCfG4QEjLUAWCEEU_Giagf_BM7cdhnjhnhPalocBgrga-4j20yfpt0E39R_Ss7VQeZAtUurpE7uIZPMVhCteNydTTSe1Tbr3tl1LOytVRtUhcN2u76Y8sReC_uwrA/s1600-h/pirate-squirrel.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 129px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8WMQvIvFprkCfG4QEjLUAWCEEU_Giagf_BM7cdhnjhnhPalocBgrga-4j20yfpt0E39R_Ss7VQeZAtUurpE7uIZPMVhCteNydTTSe1Tbr3tl1LOytVRtUhcN2u76Y8sReC_uwrA/s200/pirate-squirrel.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366007079309234498" border="0" /></a><br />Ah! Avast, as someone once said. So if your vessel is the art, then I board your vessel and commandeer all that I find to my liking, leaving the rest ravaged and afire. My aerobic displays may be fearsome but I accomplish them as if engaging in some kind of fun obstacle course. I take all of worth and leave you with nothing save the invaluable lessons that trail in my wake. My comments all the way are sharp and unmerciful, though none can fault my dextrousness and firm thighs. My truth is unsparing, for I am beholden to no one. This is my critical method.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxemVQAh5_-5yqOJdBF8uHsKJi9X64yqNs8fa4b4_ZAeiT5PEkp4uAF4rMsWUaNy6OorikhFPEEwkY39FdBel4tsltwkSpYjpyAYfV1gJBLRx_8f63iA_GfT30hPAnke0bh8PyhQ/s1600-h/privateer.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 148px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxemVQAh5_-5yqOJdBF8uHsKJi9X64yqNs8fa4b4_ZAeiT5PEkp4uAF4rMsWUaNy6OorikhFPEEwkY39FdBel4tsltwkSpYjpyAYfV1gJBLRx_8f63iA_GfT30hPAnke0bh8PyhQ/s200/privateer.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366006379787721394" border="0" /></a>I AM TOTALLY OFFICIALLY AUTHORISED TO DO THE SAME THING! EXCEPT THEY PAY ME TO DO THIS!<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpFDOSC97-arInXITby2MgN5NwerPfb9vnatmv5Rx7V_SE1SlbNIFUwO5YiVvktHsdo8YwPdiDD5ESxGZjc2S-Q5dC3QnP4d23eHR0lJ5nIbZdQ-A2FCNm2IvY8EjgMuqftMvooQ/s1600-h/jaws.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpFDOSC97-arInXITby2MgN5NwerPfb9vnatmv5Rx7V_SE1SlbNIFUwO5YiVvktHsdo8YwPdiDD5ESxGZjc2S-Q5dC3QnP4d23eHR0lJ5nIbZdQ-A2FCNm2IvY8EjgMuqftMvooQ/s200/jaws.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366006109477327650" border="0" /></a><br />Rilly? OMG.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxemVQAh5_-5yqOJdBF8uHsKJi9X64yqNs8fa4b4_ZAeiT5PEkp4uAF4rMsWUaNy6OorikhFPEEwkY39FdBel4tsltwkSpYjpyAYfV1gJBLRx_8f63iA_GfT30hPAnke0bh8PyhQ/s1600-h/privateer.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 148px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxemVQAh5_-5yqOJdBF8uHsKJi9X64yqNs8fa4b4_ZAeiT5PEkp4uAF4rMsWUaNy6OorikhFPEEwkY39FdBel4tsltwkSpYjpyAYfV1gJBLRx_8f63iA_GfT30hPAnke0bh8PyhQ/s200/privateer.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366006379787721394" border="0" /></a>"I SHIT YE NOT"<br /><br />I’ve got my boatswain and my chain-gang keeping all the daily crap running smoothly while I kick back and enjoy the ride. There’s totally a thing to put my feet on and all. I’m the one you all wanna be, am I right? My sails got rims, I got an aft spoiler and I when I pull a rope and kick in the hydraulics I can make this thing jump like a mofo.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpFDOSC97-arInXITby2MgN5NwerPfb9vnatmv5Rx7V_SE1SlbNIFUwO5YiVvktHsdo8YwPdiDD5ESxGZjc2S-Q5dC3QnP4d23eHR0lJ5nIbZdQ-A2FCNm2IvY8EjgMuqftMvooQ/s1600-h/jaws.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpFDOSC97-arInXITby2MgN5NwerPfb9vnatmv5Rx7V_SE1SlbNIFUwO5YiVvktHsdo8YwPdiDD5ESxGZjc2S-Q5dC3QnP4d23eHR0lJ5nIbZdQ-A2FCNm2IvY8EjgMuqftMvooQ/s200/jaws.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366006109477327650" border="0" /></a><br />I just do it to eat. I should look into that.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxemVQAh5_-5yqOJdBF8uHsKJi9X64yqNs8fa4b4_ZAeiT5PEkp4uAF4rMsWUaNy6OorikhFPEEwkY39FdBel4tsltwkSpYjpyAYfV1gJBLRx_8f63iA_GfT30hPAnke0bh8PyhQ/s1600-h/privateer.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 148px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxemVQAh5_-5yqOJdBF8uHsKJi9X64yqNs8fa4b4_ZAeiT5PEkp4uAF4rMsWUaNy6OorikhFPEEwkY39FdBel4tsltwkSpYjpyAYfV1gJBLRx_8f63iA_GfT30hPAnke0bh8PyhQ/s200/privateer.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366006379787721394" border="0" /></a>A contract, flake-man, that’s what you need.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdt5vaHQrk2R4h8CZO8JMq8lcvEoR2H32rxE_mVg3-yi7mKtN0KdPZIKCeKCcwWHUBmLHqy1LzjyjgDQLW6zMB2Sqj0G2Qqbhe7C01Cq22eqpB4qG02lOZDzXiWUOLHcD0kb8zaQ/s1600-h/bounty_ship.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 148px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdt5vaHQrk2R4h8CZO8JMq8lcvEoR2H32rxE_mVg3-yi7mKtN0KdPZIKCeKCcwWHUBmLHqy1LzjyjgDQLW6zMB2Sqj0G2Qqbhe7C01Cq22eqpB4qG02lOZDzXiWUOLHcD0kb8zaQ/s200/bounty_ship.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366007789514424882" border="0" /></a><br />I have no vessel to call my own, but can always find a place stowed in someone else’s pile of unused rigging, scrounging my meals from whatever crumbs are dropped by passing passengers. Nobody knows me and my voice is all but unheard. Thus, I take up the only arms available to me: silence, cunning and exile. From beneath a cot in a dark stern quarter I simply watch them come and go, talking of, oh, what have you, noting down the players and their conversations while avoiding detection. Only rarely do I dare venture to the foc’sle-<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxemVQAh5_-5yqOJdBF8uHsKJi9X64yqNs8fa4b4_ZAeiT5PEkp4uAF4rMsWUaNy6OorikhFPEEwkY39FdBel4tsltwkSpYjpyAYfV1gJBLRx_8f63iA_GfT30hPAnke0bh8PyhQ/s1600-h/privateer.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 148px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxemVQAh5_-5yqOJdBF8uHsKJi9X64yqNs8fa4b4_ZAeiT5PEkp4uAF4rMsWUaNy6OorikhFPEEwkY39FdBel4tsltwkSpYjpyAYfV1gJBLRx_8f63iA_GfT30hPAnke0bh8PyhQ/s200/privateer.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366006379787721394" border="0" /></a><br />LANGUAGE!<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdt5vaHQrk2R4h8CZO8JMq8lcvEoR2H32rxE_mVg3-yi7mKtN0KdPZIKCeKCcwWHUBmLHqy1LzjyjgDQLW6zMB2Sqj0G2Qqbhe7C01Cq22eqpB4qG02lOZDzXiWUOLHcD0kb8zaQ/s1600-h/bounty_ship.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 148px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdt5vaHQrk2R4h8CZO8JMq8lcvEoR2H32rxE_mVg3-yi7mKtN0KdPZIKCeKCcwWHUBmLHqy1LzjyjgDQLW6zMB2Sqj0G2Qqbhe7C01Cq22eqpB4qG02lOZDzXiWUOLHcD0kb8zaQ/s200/bounty_ship.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366007789514424882" border="0" /></a><br />In striving not to intrude, I maintain an invisible purity. Like god or mouse, you will never see me; merely the traces I leave behind. Sorry about that time I forgot to flush, by the way.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL04Gfl95BrPuNMyhTi_jE0hevm_kEljjZH-Q1JENfLUoG0JmosYadmm2DwEHJ9dh-85faOnQuC77ZR88z1dryR018Lv3cZOe-GFAzzsmm3lB9SbWGve9ExqWqsaoqGg0ClctOAw/s1600-h/ahab.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 160px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL04Gfl95BrPuNMyhTi_jE0hevm_kEljjZH-Q1JENfLUoG0JmosYadmm2DwEHJ9dh-85faOnQuC77ZR88z1dryR018Lv3cZOe-GFAzzsmm3lB9SbWGve9ExqWqsaoqGg0ClctOAw/s200/ahab.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366007352274958578" border="0" /></a><br />TRIFLES! You must split your lungs with blood and thunder when you see the white whale! Break your backs and crack your oars, men, if you wish to prevail! This ivory leg is what propels me –<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxemVQAh5_-5yqOJdBF8uHsKJi9X64yqNs8fa4b4_ZAeiT5PEkp4uAF4rMsWUaNy6OorikhFPEEwkY39FdBel4tsltwkSpYjpyAYfV1gJBLRx_8f63iA_GfT30hPAnke0bh8PyhQ/s1600-h/privateer.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 148px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxemVQAh5_-5yqOJdBF8uHsKJi9X64yqNs8fa4b4_ZAeiT5PEkp4uAF4rMsWUaNy6OorikhFPEEwkY39FdBel4tsltwkSpYjpyAYfV1gJBLRx_8f63iA_GfT30hPAnke0bh8PyhQ/s200/privateer.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366006379787721394" border="0" /></a>I was going to ask about the whole peg-leg deal –<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpFDOSC97-arInXITby2MgN5NwerPfb9vnatmv5Rx7V_SE1SlbNIFUwO5YiVvktHsdo8YwPdiDD5ESxGZjc2S-Q5dC3QnP4d23eHR0lJ5nIbZdQ-A2FCNm2IvY8EjgMuqftMvooQ/s1600-h/jaws.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpFDOSC97-arInXITby2MgN5NwerPfb9vnatmv5Rx7V_SE1SlbNIFUwO5YiVvktHsdo8YwPdiDD5ESxGZjc2S-Q5dC3QnP4d23eHR0lJ5nIbZdQ-A2FCNm2IvY8EjgMuqftMvooQ/s200/jaws.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366006109477327650" border="0" /></a><br />I don’t think past injuries should play a part in this line of work and this obsession with elusive white whales representing a deeper reality doesn’t sound at all healthy. In my own practice I value consistency and transparency. My motivations are clear from the outset, being a shark, and my methods are informed by a long genetic tradition of shark-like behaviour.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8WMQvIvFprkCfG4QEjLUAWCEEU_Giagf_BM7cdhnjhnhPalocBgrga-4j20yfpt0E39R_Ss7VQeZAtUurpE7uIZPMVhCteNydTTSe1Tbr3tl1LOytVRtUhcN2u76Y8sReC_uwrA/s1600-h/pirate-squirrel.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 129px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8WMQvIvFprkCfG4QEjLUAWCEEU_Giagf_BM7cdhnjhnhPalocBgrga-4j20yfpt0E39R_Ss7VQeZAtUurpE7uIZPMVhCteNydTTSe1Tbr3tl1LOytVRtUhcN2u76Y8sReC_uwrA/s200/pirate-squirrel.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366007079309234498" border="0" /></a><br />I have a variety of fascinating scars and will discuss their origins at length in some iniquitous gin-house if you would care to stand me a drink. This one here, well, see, I was swinging from a grappling hook with a cutlass clenched between my teeth and you know what? It’s harder than it looks. Those things are hell sharp and the pirate gig doesn’t actually promote healthy dental hygiene –<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpFDOSC97-arInXITby2MgN5NwerPfb9vnatmv5Rx7V_SE1SlbNIFUwO5YiVvktHsdo8YwPdiDD5ESxGZjc2S-Q5dC3QnP4d23eHR0lJ5nIbZdQ-A2FCNm2IvY8EjgMuqftMvooQ/s1600-h/jaws.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpFDOSC97-arInXITby2MgN5NwerPfb9vnatmv5Rx7V_SE1SlbNIFUwO5YiVvktHsdo8YwPdiDD5ESxGZjc2S-Q5dC3QnP4d23eHR0lJ5nIbZdQ-A2FCNm2IvY8EjgMuqftMvooQ/s200/jaws.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366006109477327650" border="0" /></a><br />Tell me about it. But I do believe it’s my white-whale-given right as a shark to take a bite out of pretty much anything I see, and if we’re being brutally honest here I’ll admit that it’s not always for sustenance. The faces of your surfie types when I do my “Here’s Johnny!” routine are priceless.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL04Gfl95BrPuNMyhTi_jE0hevm_kEljjZH-Q1JENfLUoG0JmosYadmm2DwEHJ9dh-85faOnQuC77ZR88z1dryR018Lv3cZOe-GFAzzsmm3lB9SbWGve9ExqWqsaoqGg0ClctOAw/s1600-h/ahab.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 160px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL04Gfl95BrPuNMyhTi_jE0hevm_kEljjZH-Q1JENfLUoG0JmosYadmm2DwEHJ9dh-85faOnQuC77ZR88z1dryR018Lv3cZOe-GFAzzsmm3lB9SbWGve9ExqWqsaoqGg0ClctOAw/s200/ahab.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366007352274958578" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Harpoons thrust in the sky!</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Aim directly for his crooked brow,</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">And look him straight – in – the – eye!!!</span><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8vb3YVXeIWWGi9qkX3cfjAD_S6x7-8jLUDIL84fQ6bGUpS-xo__GQldrNo2A_2X4J3_MDZu2_9Tku7e4RVSxbNWA2nNITa_MToOqG7d9lyXRSiVNmR6UCbpXcPWXLLB1oiIQ_Pg/s1600-h/surferdude.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8vb3YVXeIWWGi9qkX3cfjAD_S6x7-8jLUDIL84fQ6bGUpS-xo__GQldrNo2A_2X4J3_MDZu2_9Tku7e4RVSxbNWA2nNITa_MToOqG7d9lyXRSiVNmR6UCbpXcPWXLLB1oiIQ_Pg/s200/surferdude.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366005733448399218" border="0" /></a><br />You want a take a hit from one of these bad boys, mah man? Looks like you could use a little R&R in the cabana.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpFDOSC97-arInXITby2MgN5NwerPfb9vnatmv5Rx7V_SE1SlbNIFUwO5YiVvktHsdo8YwPdiDD5ESxGZjc2S-Q5dC3QnP4d23eHR0lJ5nIbZdQ-A2FCNm2IvY8EjgMuqftMvooQ/s1600-h/jaws.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpFDOSC97-arInXITby2MgN5NwerPfb9vnatmv5Rx7V_SE1SlbNIFUwO5YiVvktHsdo8YwPdiDD5ESxGZjc2S-Q5dC3QnP4d23eHR0lJ5nIbZdQ-A2FCNm2IvY8EjgMuqftMvooQ/s200/jaws.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366006109477327650" border="0" /></a><br />The ocean itself is the medium in which I move. Without it I do not – could not – exist. It is the answer to an unaskable question. Otherwise, I’m pretty much a ‘go-with-the-flow’ kinda shark, y’know.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL04Gfl95BrPuNMyhTi_jE0hevm_kEljjZH-Q1JENfLUoG0JmosYadmm2DwEHJ9dh-85faOnQuC77ZR88z1dryR018Lv3cZOe-GFAzzsmm3lB9SbWGve9ExqWqsaoqGg0ClctOAw/s1600-h/ahab.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 160px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL04Gfl95BrPuNMyhTi_jE0hevm_kEljjZH-Q1JENfLUoG0JmosYadmm2DwEHJ9dh-85faOnQuC77ZR88z1dryR018Lv3cZOe-GFAzzsmm3lB9SbWGve9ExqWqsaoqGg0ClctOAw/s200/ahab.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366007352274958578" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">WHITE</span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">WHALE</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">HOLY</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">GRAIL!!</span></span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdt5vaHQrk2R4h8CZO8JMq8lcvEoR2H32rxE_mVg3-yi7mKtN0KdPZIKCeKCcwWHUBmLHqy1LzjyjgDQLW6zMB2Sqj0G2Qqbhe7C01Cq22eqpB4qG02lOZDzXiWUOLHcD0kb8zaQ/s1600-h/bounty_ship.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 148px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdt5vaHQrk2R4h8CZO8JMq8lcvEoR2H32rxE_mVg3-yi7mKtN0KdPZIKCeKCcwWHUBmLHqy1LzjyjgDQLW6zMB2Sqj0G2Qqbhe7C01Cq22eqpB4qG02lOZDzXiWUOLHcD0kb8zaQ/s200/bounty_ship.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366007789514424882" border="0" /></a><br />Shoosh!<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8vb3YVXeIWWGi9qkX3cfjAD_S6x7-8jLUDIL84fQ6bGUpS-xo__GQldrNo2A_2X4J3_MDZu2_9Tku7e4RVSxbNWA2nNITa_MToOqG7d9lyXRSiVNmR6UCbpXcPWXLLB1oiIQ_Pg/s1600-h/surferdude.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8vb3YVXeIWWGi9qkX3cfjAD_S6x7-8jLUDIL84fQ6bGUpS-xo__GQldrNo2A_2X4J3_MDZu2_9Tku7e4RVSxbNWA2nNITa_MToOqG7d9lyXRSiVNmR6UCbpXcPWXLLB1oiIQ_Pg/s200/surferdude.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366005733448399218" border="0" /></a><br />Righteous, man. I gotta ‘fess that my only experience with art is along the lines of the criminally underrated The Ghost In The Invisible Bikini (1966) and half of the 1937 thriller Sh! The Octopus. I dunno how I should be striking through those masks or how inscrutable they were…<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxemVQAh5_-5yqOJdBF8uHsKJi9X64yqNs8fa4b4_ZAeiT5PEkp4uAF4rMsWUaNy6OorikhFPEEwkY39FdBel4tsltwkSpYjpyAYfV1gJBLRx_8f63iA_GfT30hPAnke0bh8PyhQ/s1600-h/privateer.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 148px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxemVQAh5_-5yqOJdBF8uHsKJi9X64yqNs8fa4b4_ZAeiT5PEkp4uAF4rMsWUaNy6OorikhFPEEwkY39FdBel4tsltwkSpYjpyAYfV1gJBLRx_8f63iA_GfT30hPAnke0bh8PyhQ/s200/privateer.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366006379787721394" border="0" /></a>What was their profit margin?<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8vb3YVXeIWWGi9qkX3cfjAD_S6x7-8jLUDIL84fQ6bGUpS-xo__GQldrNo2A_2X4J3_MDZu2_9Tku7e4RVSxbNWA2nNITa_MToOqG7d9lyXRSiVNmR6UCbpXcPWXLLB1oiIQ_Pg/s1600-h/surferdude.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8vb3YVXeIWWGi9qkX3cfjAD_S6x7-8jLUDIL84fQ6bGUpS-xo__GQldrNo2A_2X4J3_MDZu2_9Tku7e4RVSxbNWA2nNITa_MToOqG7d9lyXRSiVNmR6UCbpXcPWXLLB1oiIQ_Pg/s200/surferdude.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366005733448399218" border="0" /></a><br />Who knows? And man, what is surfing but a connection to something beyond our understanding? Can’t catch the same swell twice, ‘k. It’s always on the move. But when you’ve got a 20-foot meat-grinder bearing down on your ass, you ken?, that rush, that moment’s what reminds you that you’re alive, right?<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdt5vaHQrk2R4h8CZO8JMq8lcvEoR2H32rxE_mVg3-yi7mKtN0KdPZIKCeKCcwWHUBmLHqy1LzjyjgDQLW6zMB2Sqj0G2Qqbhe7C01Cq22eqpB4qG02lOZDzXiWUOLHcD0kb8zaQ/s1600-h/bounty_ship.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 148px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdt5vaHQrk2R4h8CZO8JMq8lcvEoR2H32rxE_mVg3-yi7mKtN0KdPZIKCeKCcwWHUBmLHqy1LzjyjgDQLW6zMB2Sqj0G2Qqbhe7C01Cq22eqpB4qG02lOZDzXiWUOLHcD0kb8zaQ/s200/bounty_ship.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366007789514424882" border="0" /></a><br />To be alive is anathema to my practice. If I attract attention to myself it’ll be the end of me. Aren’t we all just stowaways in this business? Peering between the cracks and scurrying in the shadows? If we’re caught the whole venture will be compromised. Best to become as small and silent as possible and let the ship take its rightful course.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxemVQAh5_-5yqOJdBF8uHsKJi9X64yqNs8fa4b4_ZAeiT5PEkp4uAF4rMsWUaNy6OorikhFPEEwkY39FdBel4tsltwkSpYjpyAYfV1gJBLRx_8f63iA_GfT30hPAnke0bh8PyhQ/s1600-h/privateer.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 148px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxemVQAh5_-5yqOJdBF8uHsKJi9X64yqNs8fa4b4_ZAeiT5PEkp4uAF4rMsWUaNy6OorikhFPEEwkY39FdBel4tsltwkSpYjpyAYfV1gJBLRx_8f63iA_GfT30hPAnke0bh8PyhQ/s200/privateer.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366006379787721394" border="0" /></a>Word! Plus I get PAID!<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpFDOSC97-arInXITby2MgN5NwerPfb9vnatmv5Rx7V_SE1SlbNIFUwO5YiVvktHsdo8YwPdiDD5ESxGZjc2S-Q5dC3QnP4d23eHR0lJ5nIbZdQ-A2FCNm2IvY8EjgMuqftMvooQ/s1600-h/jaws.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpFDOSC97-arInXITby2MgN5NwerPfb9vnatmv5Rx7V_SE1SlbNIFUwO5YiVvktHsdo8YwPdiDD5ESxGZjc2S-Q5dC3QnP4d23eHR0lJ5nIbZdQ-A2FCNm2IvY8EjgMuqftMvooQ/s200/jaws.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366006109477327650" border="0" /></a><br />That’s chicken-shit talk, Stowaway. If I may quote Bertrand Russell’s law of the excluded middle: “Everything must either be or not be”. Our task is simply to determine whether something is or is not – and, ergo, is it good? Or is it not?<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8WMQvIvFprkCfG4QEjLUAWCEEU_Giagf_BM7cdhnjhnhPalocBgrga-4j20yfpt0E39R_Ss7VQeZAtUurpE7uIZPMVhCteNydTTSe1Tbr3tl1LOytVRtUhcN2u76Y8sReC_uwrA/s1600-h/pirate-squirrel.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 129px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8WMQvIvFprkCfG4QEjLUAWCEEU_Giagf_BM7cdhnjhnhPalocBgrga-4j20yfpt0E39R_Ss7VQeZAtUurpE7uIZPMVhCteNydTTSe1Tbr3tl1LOytVRtUhcN2u76Y8sReC_uwrA/s200/pirate-squirrel.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366007079309234498" border="0" /></a><br />You can’t be a very good critic, shark.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpFDOSC97-arInXITby2MgN5NwerPfb9vnatmv5Rx7V_SE1SlbNIFUwO5YiVvktHsdo8YwPdiDD5ESxGZjc2S-Q5dC3QnP4d23eHR0lJ5nIbZdQ-A2FCNm2IvY8EjgMuqftMvooQ/s1600-h/jaws.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpFDOSC97-arInXITby2MgN5NwerPfb9vnatmv5Rx7V_SE1SlbNIFUwO5YiVvktHsdo8YwPdiDD5ESxGZjc2S-Q5dC3QnP4d23eHR0lJ5nIbZdQ-A2FCNm2IvY8EjgMuqftMvooQ/s200/jaws.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366006109477327650" border="0" /></a><br />Tell that to the gent on the mast.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8vb3YVXeIWWGi9qkX3cfjAD_S6x7-8jLUDIL84fQ6bGUpS-xo__GQldrNo2A_2X4J3_MDZu2_9Tku7e4RVSxbNWA2nNITa_MToOqG7d9lyXRSiVNmR6UCbpXcPWXLLB1oiIQ_Pg/s1600-h/surferdude.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8vb3YVXeIWWGi9qkX3cfjAD_S6x7-8jLUDIL84fQ6bGUpS-xo__GQldrNo2A_2X4J3_MDZu2_9Tku7e4RVSxbNWA2nNITa_MToOqG7d9lyXRSiVNmR6UCbpXcPWXLLB1oiIQ_Pg/s200/surferdude.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366005733448399218" border="0" /></a><br />Turn home, the sun goes down; swimmer, turn home.<br />Last leaf of gold vanishes from the sea-curve.<br />Take the big roller’s shoulder, speed and serve;<br />come to the long beach home like a gull diving.<br /><br />For on the sand the grey-wolf sea lies, snarling,<br />cold twilight wind splits the waves’ hair and shows<br />the bones they worry in their wolf-teeth. O, wind blows<br />and sea crouches on sand, fawning and mouthing;<br />drops there and snatches again, drops and again snatches<br />its broken toys, its whitened pebbles and shells.<br /><br /><br /></span></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJaIuspAzLrA83_P2BNgQ7F1MU3LLck3bhtk9iqHJAl8aYc9NBNp-ToKBfaJyqSJFPw9TEcj_iDPQfoK7cgv0je75uv-2zmpu9vD8AzwsMOqFWjd3DjyCDw_5eQz9H8alSPhr-tg/s1600-h/perfectstorm.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJaIuspAzLrA83_P2BNgQ7F1MU3LLck3bhtk9iqHJAl8aYc9NBNp-ToKBfaJyqSJFPw9TEcj_iDPQfoK7cgv0je75uv-2zmpu9vD8AzwsMOqFWjd3DjyCDw_5eQz9H8alSPhr-tg/s200/perfectstorm.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366009383148945410" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size:85%;">SORRY WE'RE LATE TRAFFIC WAS HELL WHAT'D WE MISS?</span></div>Born Dancin'http://www.blogger.com/profile/14526760383290674186noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14405473.post-64787761890942581952009-08-04T16:04:00.003+10:002009-08-04T16:15:08.810+10:00Give My Apologies to Susan Boyle<span style="font-size:85%;">A "talent contest"?!<br /><br />If this is what you get during a "talent contest" in Ukraine - ie an expertly executed, beautifully framed experience of live sand animation exploring cultural memory, collective trauma and ongoing grief - well, Ukraine's got talent to spare. I can't imagine this ever happening in Australia.<br /><br />Here's a rough translation of the textual elements:<br /><br />@0:00 -- Peace, Love<br />@1:30 -- Original announcement of the German Army invading the country<br />and bombing the cities<br />@4:10 -- Perished<br />@5:00 -- Most people don't know where their loved ones were buried,<br />hence the obelisk which signifies the remembrance of everyone who gave<br />their lives during the World War II.<br />@8:20 -- "You are always close. 1945"</span><br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/518XP8prwZo&hl=en&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/518XP8prwZo&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Born Dancin'http://www.blogger.com/profile/14526760383290674186noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14405473.post-15372354085267464432009-07-28T15:07:00.003+10:002009-07-28T15:35:34.622+10:00Some Public Service Announcements<span style="font-size:85%;">I keep forgetting to mention this anywhere: Zoe Barry is an acquaintance and former mixed-netball teammate of mine (true fact) who is also a wildly talented musician. She's worked with Rawcus and also does her own thing too. Here is one of those things:<br /><br /></span><span style="border-collapse: collapse;font-size:85%;" >"You're an inspiration Jeff Buckley!": Words Yelled At Bands - A Project<br />Zoe is looking for tales of times when you've felt compelled to yell something at a band on stage, or things that have been yelled at you while on stage.<br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />"Apart from the fact I love hearing people talk about music experiences, underlying the concept is my interest in moments where art overtakes and overwhelms the audience, those moments where you experience an "unmotivated upsurge of the world". And the music gig being one of the rare places where people often articulate those moments, impulsively, loudly and in strange utterances."<br /><br />Given my own obsession with audience behaviours in theatres, I heartily commend this project, which doesn't have a fixed outcome yet as far as I know. If you have a story, email it to <a href="mailto:wordsyelledatbands@gmail.com" target="_blank">wordsyelledatbands@gmail.com</a><br /><br />In a weird coincidence, another acquaintance just dropped into my shop and mentioned that she's joined the ensemble of Rawcus. How strange.<br /><br />IN OTHER NON-NEWS: I've been going through the hundreds of bookmarks on my computer and have only just realised that some of them completely baffle me. Why have I bookmarked this poor quality version of a song I don't know by a band I've never really paid attention to?<br /><br /><object width="560" height="340"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/YtFlbz136m8&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/YtFlbz136m8&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="560" height="340"></embed></object><br /><br />WHAT'S WITH THE <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sweater_curse">CURSE OF THE LOVE SWEATER</a>? There's a superstition among knitters, apparently, that making someone a sweater will lead to them breaking up with you shortly thereafter. I like that this wikipedia entry actually goes into the possible mechanics of these situations, rather than dissing them as fantasy. In fact, the proposed explanations make a bit of sense.<br /><br />A WHILE AGO I found myself up at 5am researching Baba Yaga for no reason at all except that I couldn't sleep and was thinking "Baba Yaga, what was with her?" I came upon the art of Ivan Bilibin and I love love love it.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtNQdrsEWYnaiCCepHt0EgZ8kHOVHy-4g4QsACJZ2v83rS260M5-lOyHvCiE9jTc0JNWQc1WwVlGPBWRlx4sazTm7CEMPXzyaMyA2qe26O8Ik2czXYDGe5ZAwyo3NROK4om86bdQ/s1600-h/475px-Vasilisa.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 254px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtNQdrsEWYnaiCCepHt0EgZ8kHOVHy-4g4QsACJZ2v83rS260M5-lOyHvCiE9jTc0JNWQc1WwVlGPBWRlx4sazTm7CEMPXzyaMyA2qe26O8Ik2czXYDGe5ZAwyo3NROK4om86bdQ/s320/475px-Vasilisa.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363378197308165650" border="0" /></a>Bilibin was a vastly important illustrator who also worked as a stage designer, including with the Ballet Russes. I wonder if the Australian Ballet research project into the BR has anything on him.<br /><br />IF YOU ARE INTERESTED IN CATS AND/OR THEATRE then you will find <a href="http://www.moggies.co.uk/html/theatre_cats.html">this piece</a> very enjoyable. It details the history of theatre cats - in Britain, at least, there was a time when no self-respecting playhouse would be without a moggie prowling the wings and occasionally wandering onto the stage.<br /><br />IF YOU DO NOT LIKE BOOKS then you will find <a href="http://www.offbeatearth.com/dont-like-reading-other-uses-for-books/">this piece</a> equally enjoyable. You'll probably find it enjoyable if you do, too. Books can be put to other uses besides reading.</span>Born Dancin'http://www.blogger.com/profile/14526760383290674186noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14405473.post-45851634779557652682009-07-27T15:43:00.003+10:002009-07-27T15:48:11.006+10:00ANT FACT MONDAY<span style="font-size:85%;">Today we hand over the reins of Ant Fact Monday to someone who doesn't necessarily want them. Dom Romeo coincidentally posted his own <a href="http://standanddeliver.blogs.com/dombo/2009/07/a-mate-of-mine-who-is-a-comedian-updated-his-facebook-status-with-these-wordsanyone-know-ant-jokes-i-gotta-fill-20-minutes.html">ant-related material today</a> and there's enough in there to keep you hungry ant fanciers sated. (I know Dom and I don't think he'd mind the link). Off you go then.<br /><br />While you're away I'll ponder his suggestion that "ants must be the animals least conducive to comedy." Possibly true, that.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">But I have some work to do.<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9kPQvRRgLWpxJsZivbrUpAI4OvkQ_A6Rqx8lOWKiw9ZpGvBO5eV2wVyCXdIaMdzrNbJVqgWqksJ3pz2OTRwcDfs-5kvmgRqglhpKXvLp3BKI1hfeBL2rQY1KybGP_is3o3apWsA/s1600-h/vic20.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 306px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9kPQvRRgLWpxJsZivbrUpAI4OvkQ_A6Rqx8lOWKiw9ZpGvBO5eV2wVyCXdIaMdzrNbJVqgWqksJ3pz2OTRwcDfs-5kvmgRqglhpKXvLp3BKI1hfeBL2rQY1KybGP_is3o3apWsA/s320/vic20.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363012437179070354" border="0" /></a>Born Dancin'http://www.blogger.com/profile/14526760383290674186noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14405473.post-82350108349187949302009-07-23T14:44:00.002+10:002009-07-23T15:40:33.323+10:00One Brain<span style="font-size:85%;">A few months back I was thinking about posting something on Famous Bald Artistic Geniuses until I realised it was a boring topic and in fact I was boring myself just thinking about it. Today I was sent something that reminded me of one of the people who would have made that ill-fated list had I ever bothered to cobble it together (I think I got as far as Steven Berkoff then went to make some toast).<br /><br />I've long thought Brian Eno is a bit of a genius, but reading this thing I was set me straight. Not that he hasn't produced some amazing art, but he calls for a rethinking of the term 'genius' and it's replacement with the notion of 'scenius':<br /><br />"Scenius stands for the intelligence and the intuition of a whole cultural scene. It is the communal form of the concept of the genius."<br /><br />When he was programming the Luminous Festival in Sydney recently (which I had mixed thoughts about - a bit unadventurous, but then I didn't actually go...), he elaborated the concept a bit further. You can read a snippet<a href="http://www.synthtopia.com/content/2009/07/09/brian-eno-on-genius-and-scenius/"> here</a> that sums things up nicely. "Let’s forget the idea of 'genius' for a little while," he says, "... let’s think about the whole ecology of ideas that give rise to good new thoughts and good new work."<br /><br />Anyway, I got to this by reading a great post at <a href="http://www.kk.org/thetechnium/archives/2008/06/scenius_or_comm.php">The Technium</a>, which I'd never heard of and which features some really provocative ideas. In fact, I got caught up reading a lot more of the site than I'd intended to. It's definitely worth visiting though - for instance, in discussing 'scenius' The Technium actually lists the specific conditions in which such creative cultures can arise, and notes that they can't be deliberately manufactured as such. This is worth pursuing, since of course the general scenius concept isn't really new, and anyone who knows anything about art history will know that the Great Man theory of history only came about relatively recently.<br /><br />Go Eno.</span><br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/VDzTKojybU4&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/VDzTKojybU4&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Born Dancin'http://www.blogger.com/profile/14526760383290674186noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14405473.post-63950229639892176192009-07-21T14:09:00.003+10:002009-07-21T14:29:50.288+10:00Space Whales<span style="font-size:85%;">Some forms of animal anthropomorphism make a bit of associative sense - owls wear glasses, roosters are vain, turtles are patient. Frogs playing banjos, as we have discussed, are harder to work out.<br /><br />But I was just thinking about whales and realised there's an inexplicable subgenre of bad art involving whales in space. It goes along with the banjo-playing frog in terms of weirdness. Perhaps I will start a regular Marine or Amphibian Tropes That Confuse Me series. Probably not.</span><br /><br /><a href="http://photobucket.com/images/space%20whales" target="_blank"><img src="http://i162.photobucket.com/albums/t254/SomeonesKiller/Fantasy/Whales.jpg" alt="Whales Pictures, Images and Photos" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">I guess Space Whales can be explained according to the law of cool, as <a href="http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/SpaceWhale">this site</a> suggests. Space is cool, whales are cool, Space Whales are exponentially more cool than either. It's the same logic behind dinosaurs with lasers or robots who breakdance.<br /><br />That's all. Back to work.</span>Born Dancin'http://www.blogger.com/profile/14526760383290674186noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14405473.post-10571288768426721642009-07-15T23:24:00.005+10:002009-07-16T14:15:49.799+10:00EXCLUSIVE!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKZowMzKkKf7wTf5MHrWrVMZUKw5CSqoyB_Ex0Y8LfaENsGl9miSDITWO-jR5ZSSzr41jwyYW9-m6csyBCOYQuF2lZrez-A2qUKmFWFWKrzd0diPreNs-3_NBwTk_YqBZIVoQsZA/s1600-h/green.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 221px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKZowMzKkKf7wTf5MHrWrVMZUKw5CSqoyB_Ex0Y8LfaENsGl9miSDITWO-jR5ZSSzr41jwyYW9-m6csyBCOYQuF2lZrez-A2qUKmFWFWKrzd0diPreNs-3_NBwTk_YqBZIVoQsZA/s320/green.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358889889654536530" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">It takes a lot to rouse me from my sedentary lifestyle, which is largely spent pottering around the rooftop conservatory tending to my elusive black orchids; strumming my banjo absent-mindedly in the once-grand ballroom long overtaken by moths and regret; or browsing the library filled entirely with novels about crime-solving cats.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />But it seems that down in the streets there’s some kind of enormous love-fest going on with MIAF as the object of adoration. Yesterday I pointed out what I saw as a shortcoming in the 2009 program, but it so far seems to be the sole voice of dissent, excepting a few comments over at <a href="http://theatrenotes.blogspot.com/">Theatre Note</a>s. I’m certain this will change in the next few days but I may as well continue riffing in the same vein, if only to offer some kind of contrast.<br /><br />My first criticism was the lack of cultural diversity in this year’s program. Here are another two issues I have, and they’re at the core of incoming director Brett Sheehy’s stated vision for the fest:<br /></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Sheehy’s twinned goals are to showcase *every* art form, and to make the festival as exclusive as possible – that is, to ensure that events at MIAF won’t be repeated in Sydney or Brisbane or Adelaide or wherever. I’ll get back to that second point, but firstly…</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />If the 2009 program isn’t very regionally diverse, it’s not too artistically broad either. It’s silly to promise “every” art form in the festival, since you’re never going to get stand-up comedy or musical theatre or other commercially successful but low-brow forms. But I wouldn’t have minded a bit of circus (beyond Strange Fruit’s opening thing) and I can’t see any puppetry in the program.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />Theatrically, funding two MTC shows isn’t casting your net very far, either. I know one’s a Lally Katz piece and no disrespect to her – she’s a friend of mine – but wouldn’t the MTC have put this show (and the Bovell one) on anyway? Is that where MIAF should be throwing its dollars?</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />Anyway, I take bigger exception to Sheehy’s idea of exclusivity. He had to collaborate with other states in order to get the London Philharmonic out, but he otherwise wants it to be as Melbourne-only as he can. I just love it when that happens – when all of the amazing international bands playing the Big Day Out are barred from doing sideshows, or when artists play in Sydney only and I can’t get there because I don’t have the time or money to take a few days off and fly interstate. It makes me feel valued.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />What benefit does Sheehy’s exclusivity offer? For anyone besides MIAF’s coffers, low-cost airlines and Melbourne tourism industry, that is? Does restricting access help artists or audiences in any way at all? I suppose it makes you feel special to have caught something that others will miss out on, the way I feel special whenever I have something someone else doesn’t (money, food, shelter). It’s a worry when art is deliberately restricted for no other reason than to increase its cultural capital – and that’s exactly what’s at stake here. This is culture as commodity.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">I’m not disputing the worth of the programmed works: but you know what? I’d like it if people in Adelaide get to see Sasha Waltz or Hofesh Schechter or whatever. That’d be good. Maybe they’d be enriched by it and we would meet up sometime and be able to share the experience.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">And maybe if MIAF was more about collaboration rather than competition, the program would be even better – different states could join forces in order to help get those big names out here. At the opening of Balletlab’s Miracle last night (INCREDIBLE GO SEE IT NOW), Australian Ballet boss David McAllister announced a new development between the AB and Balletlab. Balletlab’s Phillip Adams explicitly stated that without this kind of collaboration, he couldn’t do what he does. And what he does is, I think, create the most important and exciting dance in the country.<br /><br />Australia’s artistic community is founded on collaboration and cross-pollination, mentoring, workshops, development, discussion, accessibility, exchange.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">To my knowledge, Mr Sheehy barely even allows interviews.<br /><br /><br />I scratch my noggin.<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQcL8_AcrPagaIisgL7r48JGbFovx9IpLzAEAT9pNH3RAnCra9q9uRxJ2QmEHHSZXnsSDP8bigiZ4nSgyaNQ0TvJTC7bUFHtPBGUJiMHiVGrsKjfRZofgN-NIcvTPQdMXvrjtSyQ/s1600-h/greatape.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQcL8_AcrPagaIisgL7r48JGbFovx9IpLzAEAT9pNH3RAnCra9q9uRxJ2QmEHHSZXnsSDP8bigiZ4nSgyaNQ0TvJTC7bUFHtPBGUJiMHiVGrsKjfRZofgN-NIcvTPQdMXvrjtSyQ/s320/greatape.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358889856483864194" border="0" /></a>Born Dancin'http://www.blogger.com/profile/14526760383290674186noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14405473.post-56416294637901457342009-07-15T17:11:00.001+10:002009-07-15T17:11:52.093+10:00If it's all white with you, it's all white with MIAF<span style="font-size:85%;">So this year’s <a href="http://www.melbournefestival.com.au/">Melbourne International Arts Fest</a> program has been launched, and if it’s aaaaaaall white!<br /><br />Seriously, what the fest? 2009’s program is almost entirely sourced from Anglo Europe, North America and Australia.<br /><br />The only exceptions I can find are Festival regulars The Black Arm Band (now with Added Jimmy Barnes!); a Japanese multimedia artist collaborating on the three poetry nights at the Planetarium; a Brazilian art movement retrospective; an art installation from six African-born artists; and some music acts aimed at the young folk in the Becks Bar “Rumpus Room”.<br /><br />This in a festival with <span style="font-style: italic;">hundreds</span> of performances, exhibitions and events over 17 days.<br /><br />Otherwise:<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Theatre:</span> Australia, Belgium, Belgium, England/Germany, Ireland, Australia, Australia.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Dance:</span> Australia/Iceland, Germany, Belgium, Israel/England<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Opera:</span> Germany<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Film:</span> US, UK (there’s a doco on an ex-Iraqi heavy metal band)<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Visual Art:</span> France, Australia/South Africa, Australia, UK, France, UK/USA, US, Australia, UK, Australia, Australia, Australia, Australia, ad nauseum.<br /><br />Why are non-whiteys pretty much confined to the music section? And apart from the Black Arm Band, they’re all in the Rumpus Room (which sounds just like the MIFF club, and is in the same location, but has an infantilising name). The serious music - there's a heckuva lotta classical - is all Bach and the MSO and some American organist guy whose repertoire will include a piece from Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix.<br /><br />I scratch my noggin, I really do.</span>Born Dancin'http://www.blogger.com/profile/14526760383290674186noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14405473.post-63848648496669022492009-07-14T11:27:00.003+10:002009-07-14T11:32:47.261+10:00TRADITION<span style="font-size:85%;">Goodness me - I was always a bit suspicious of the high-falutin' claims that Michael Jackson was a one-of-a-kind pioneer whose contributions to dance bore the stamp of unique genius. This clip (via <a href="http://monkeysforhelping.blogspot.com/">Monkeys for Helping</a>) only adds to these doubts. Michael Jackson certainly didn't invent the moonwalk. It's rad:<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/fxZcLWAmdco&hl=en&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/fxZcLWAmdco&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br />How did MJ keep his balance? That I can tell you in one word!</span><br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/ZKHTabTYl_M&hl=en&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/ZKHTabTYl_M&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Born Dancin'http://www.blogger.com/profile/14526760383290674186noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14405473.post-22246764668819989832009-07-13T16:50:00.002+10:002009-07-13T17:02:46.364+10:00ANT FACT MONDAY<span style="font-size:85%;">This is intruiging but sad. It took me a while to work out what was going on but the eventual reveal turned a kind of beautiful thing into a minor horror. Can atrocities be ant-sized? Does catastrophe escalate through magnitude, or can a small, tiny, 100% replaceable thing's destruction still mean something? You know what they say about how killing a man makes you a murderer but killing a million makes you a conqueror. Or perhaps a scientist</span>.<br /><br /><object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" width="425" height="331"><param name="movie" value="http://patrz.pl/patrz.pl.swf?id=350735&r=5&o=280058"><param name="wmode" value="transparent"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><embed src="http://patrz.pl/patrz.pl.swf?id=350735&r=5&o=280058" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="331"></embed></object><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">I am proud that I managed to embed a video from a website entirely in Polish, however.<br /><br />The next ANT FACT MONDAY will be more upbeat, I promise. Perhaps it will focus on the Yellow Crazy Ant. Do the words "multi-queened super-colony" set your heart a-skipping? If so, remain tuned.<br /><br />Speaking of which, I still can't believe there are people out there who don't use RSS feeds (such as bloglines.com) which make reading things like this easier. I don't like the idea of people bothering to come here and being disappointed by the lack of ant fact updates. Get a bloglines thing happening and your time on the internet will be so much less wasteful and pointless. Which will still make it fairly wasteful and pointless, but hey, talk to the hand because I just drew an ear on my hand and want to know if I am secretly magically powered.</span>Born Dancin'http://www.blogger.com/profile/14526760383290674186noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14405473.post-11655314599248052862009-07-08T13:15:00.006+10:002009-07-08T13:47:12.635+10:00Good, clean, clear tones<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8lPxfMpFgk_nPRSBNmN_fSOtPUYctqKZ6oFYpGAC0BpD1aXKufFRr8W5SCpfbaTJHsIC5eDq7-A6Dc4OSIqkMc0Id9YtXlGaNabC2VqLcnOZ9s1mqXaaiceULKr_yqJ8ExySl5A/s1600-h/banjofrog.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 248px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8lPxfMpFgk_nPRSBNmN_fSOtPUYctqKZ6oFYpGAC0BpD1aXKufFRr8W5SCpfbaTJHsIC5eDq7-A6Dc4OSIqkMc0Id9YtXlGaNabC2VqLcnOZ9s1mqXaaiceULKr_yqJ8ExySl5A/s320/banjofrog.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355929885971211762" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">A while ago I saw the excellent filmic adaptation of J. M. Coetzee's <span style="font-style: italic;">Disgrace</span>, and one scene in particular held me. The protagonist, David, is trying to write an opera about Lord Byron, and is sitting in the ugly, grey-walled courtyard of a pet shelter. The little homeless dog who has adopted him is sitting nearby, watching. The disgraced David is plucking at a banjo, composing, thinking. Some kids stick their faces over the wall and laugh. They might be laughing at him, or with him, or there might be something else going on.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLP2DSEyQDFfez1llfU7J00r_Ze3yB_m7EfJfo6aWSgNg4rKyISnXwqB0wkZPptf36txU267RteemsDlqeEJU9mnOm2gMAa3wCroEGi_KYvu_wCR5E8e2j8l5o-JvDGJUgPcrlLw/s1600-h/Disgrace_250.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 250px; height: 171px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLP2DSEyQDFfez1llfU7J00r_Ze3yB_m7EfJfo6aWSgNg4rKyISnXwqB0wkZPptf36txU267RteemsDlqeEJU9mnOm2gMAa3wCroEGi_KYvu_wCR5E8e2j8l5o-JvDGJUgPcrlLw/s320/Disgrace_250.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355929777932847762" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">I left the cinema and bought the book. It's a great book.<br /><br />The banjo scene is different in the novel.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">"Seated at his own desk looking out over an overgrown garden, he marvels at what the little banjo is teaching him... It is not the erotic that is calling to him after all, nor the elegaic, but the comic. He is in the opera neither as Teresa nor as Byron nor even as some blending of the two: he is held in the music itself, in the flat, tinny slap of the banjo strings, the voice that strains to soar away from the ludicrous instrument but is continually reined back in, like a fish on a line.<br /><br />So this is art, he thinks, and this is how it does its work! How fascinating!"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">In a letter to the Editor of "The Cadenza" magazine in August, 1901, some guy called Vess L. Ossman wrote:<br /><br />"The banjo will live and become more popular every year, even if the whole world takes to golf and other games. Banjo music is to the ear what the sun breaking through the clouds on a dark day is to the eye; and to my mind there is nothing to replace the good, clean, clear tones of the banjo. This in defense of the banjo from one who loves the instrument".<br /></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">I love the banjo too, now.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht7R3sTiT0nlvWeKZWb0oowO0ENi6KrIpXLEN_PvztOQqIqt4dIytuZVeqEmbu-5nE7OXDSb4-s7culKffPQ8ShmBW0l6lRxVB9vACdo9mbgNd72rXbIdNWKrDOyTH7KgVdJSCVA/s1600-h/banjo_kermit.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht7R3sTiT0nlvWeKZWb0oowO0ENi6KrIpXLEN_PvztOQqIqt4dIytuZVeqEmbu-5nE7OXDSb4-s7culKffPQ8ShmBW0l6lRxVB9vACdo9mbgNd72rXbIdNWKrDOyTH7KgVdJSCVA/s320/banjo_kermit.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355929954486081074" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />BUT: why the association of banjos and frogs? I've never thought about that. It predates Kermit by more than a century, at least. And I know there's a kind of frog known as the banjo frog (because of the banjo-like sound of its croak) but it seems to be native to Australia.<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTOx3-Qxbh_fb0HjZ6ZEro97sxBkmx77SmtPIAyt-yQEfnQGtQX1vrfZSPUBv-djt3D2YccTZeD-IfdodZfX3SFHbgwVDKqA3GvrhT5TyoErf5XO3HmTlPZh-4-6xh4-xAP9asXQ/s1600-h/froggy.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 317px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTOx3-Qxbh_fb0HjZ6ZEro97sxBkmx77SmtPIAyt-yQEfnQGtQX1vrfZSPUBv-djt3D2YccTZeD-IfdodZfX3SFHbgwVDKqA3GvrhT5TyoErf5XO3HmTlPZh-4-6xh4-xAP9asXQ/s320/froggy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355930113583353426" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />Perhaps I'll never know.<br /><br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBUrfD02XBvsFhkIwTlLbc90kmXcbuprCNYmFkdFTn77GjnUIpsBsUib1UgRnUr0GS3PVUXvwNepCiu4I4BI6uBc9fzm3lGQVxg0T0Ec4fOJlzzkqNTDs5xGOZeIXyP7YoDf9d6A/s1600-h/nightfrog.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 216px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBUrfD02XBvsFhkIwTlLbc90kmXcbuprCNYmFkdFTn77GjnUIpsBsUib1UgRnUr0GS3PVUXvwNepCiu4I4BI6uBc9fzm3lGQVxg0T0Ec4fOJlzzkqNTDs5xGOZeIXyP7YoDf9d6A/s320/nightfrog.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355930115042405874" border="0" /></a>Born Dancin'http://www.blogger.com/profile/14526760383290674186noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14405473.post-89978056945756898432009-07-02T13:15:00.005+10:002009-07-02T17:00:47.358+10:00I cannot look away<span style="font-size:85%;">Thanks, <a href="http://www.blogger.com/www.threethousand.com.au">threethousand</a>, for utterly ruining my life by introducing me to the website of <a href="http://arthurkade.com/">Arthur Kade</a> who, in the entertainment biz, is perhaps "the definition of a new age, a new era for this industry". I know he is this thing because he tells us so.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFikSn6GzZC8RAm8NZpRbC5PHI_iC_sUIwtD73wzn0gc-OqsxaHGFmPD_xW8ehtKUn-j3XUgXZ6uhQ7V8GK-goHP9JSMbST1_gS_lLSoLesDCSf-GnZ-tuJb9KMm7QeKSWwyh8Kw/s1600-h/kade.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 256px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFikSn6GzZC8RAm8NZpRbC5PHI_iC_sUIwtD73wzn0gc-OqsxaHGFmPD_xW8ehtKUn-j3XUgXZ6uhQ7V8GK-goHP9JSMbST1_gS_lLSoLesDCSf-GnZ-tuJb9KMm7QeKSWwyh8Kw/s320/kade.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353701242247021154" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">EVEN LADDERS WANT TO BE NEAR HIM</span><br /></span></div><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />He also mangles English like nobody's business:<br /><br />"One of the things that I have always been at anything that I have put my mind to is the best."<br /><br />That is an <span style="font-weight: bold;">incredible</span> sentence, you have to admit.<br /><br />But what makes Kade so fascinating is his ego, which is so big that it probably has many smaller, satellite egos in orbit around it.<br /><br />"Today, Arthur Kade took another amazing step towards the end goal of becoming one of the most famous, recognizable and well known actors in the world."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">"I understand the mind of the girl better than any man, because I have dated the best of the best, and know when a girl wants me."<br /><br />"When I got there I was greeted by Jessica Yost (Color Stylist, who I think almost fell over when she saw what I looked like), and she walked me to the studio where my fans awaited."</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />"I had a tank top on, so you could see the size of my shoulders and arms, and one of the female voice over actresses actually stopped while walking out of the studio, and talked about how great my body was, and I joked to her “It’s Adonis Like, isn’t it?”."<br /></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Kade has "travelled the world, played college basketball, modeled for major agencies in New York, and been with some of the most beautiful women in the world". He recently sold his financial planning practice to pursue his dream of becoming a world-famous actor. He moved to Los Angeles, which he has humbly renamed Kade Angeles. And everybody in Kade Angeles, it turns out, knows and admires and understandably wants to have a piece of the Kade. Unfortunately, there's only so much Kade to go around.<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbpqh9fNhArcq61E6_Ll1HTZaD5KyZ795J1_pHA2rSoPNXEIOfxVJln60LBFEyO0lVXqMB-RVXa9nJjnKmEDr0zF6JBfK_WUAAppl5NgAENtRMPBmr0wGyvwlDKIWbXrkwD0lbtg/s1600-h/kade2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbpqh9fNhArcq61E6_Ll1HTZaD5KyZ795J1_pHA2rSoPNXEIOfxVJln60LBFEyO0lVXqMB-RVXa9nJjnKmEDr0zF6JBfK_WUAAppl5NgAENtRMPBmr0wGyvwlDKIWbXrkwD0lbtg/s320/kade2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353701938637445938" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:85%;" >HE COULD PROBABLY PLAY SOMEONE WITH ONE LEG = RANGE</span><br /></div><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />Some have surmised that Kade's Zoolanderesque hyper-self-absorption can only be a clever satire, especially because he allows the hundreds of hateful comments that appear after each post. But if that's so I'd prefer to be ignorant and just bask in the godlike radiance of this unique being.</span>Born Dancin'http://www.blogger.com/profile/14526760383290674186noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14405473.post-79825308815031211742009-06-30T14:12:00.004+10:002009-06-30T14:29:54.564+10:00AUGH<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7VOTtnVRGrfxd8cvHrgzMRTVZMD9qvY0RyIZfz1SjEzWV7CaOy3y9NMagO1V0ZF4Duv-xwdShZn9prb3m_qJqeVmJlC6GGdcSaAdbvj-z6uNfDm96NMBGdMToGWVk6muwnSu2fw/s1600-h/00000272.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 308px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7VOTtnVRGrfxd8cvHrgzMRTVZMD9qvY0RyIZfz1SjEzWV7CaOy3y9NMagO1V0ZF4Duv-xwdShZn9prb3m_qJqeVmJlC6GGdcSaAdbvj-z6uNfDm96NMBGdMToGWVk6muwnSu2fw/s400/00000272.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352968999259149794" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">The above comic, which I find very funny, is from <a href="http://picturesforsadchildren.com/index.php">Pictures for Sad Children</a>. I recommend it.<br /><br />When I was a kid I read several racist children's books by Helen Bannerman, whose most famous was probably <a href="http://www.sterlingtimes.co.uk/sambo.htm">Little Black Sambo</a>. I'm pretty sure I've seen them re-released in a bookshop not too long ago, which I think is not a good thing. They really were deeply, deeply offensive and I think I even knew that as at a very young age. Of course they're also silly and kitsch and a re-release is probably a supposedly ironic move, but nostalgia for a period when open racism was ok isn't something I can encourage.<br /><br />Bannerman, who was writing around 1900, also created <a href="http://www.sterlingtimes.org/kettlehead2.htm">The Story of Little Kettle-Head</a> which is only slightly racist but also very compelling and eerie. Check it out.</span><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaEbZQ4opxVMxZGJnA-MzhjPXvLx3WsOBSZw6_xtQTdDT428mEGLpG94GavZ5xgdFmjUEGBo0yqF-2g7GzLwrt4Ty21wYf8JPiN4xXKp_nq2pVhpME6gI2Y3-VrfORLvL1WqbAHA/s1600-h/kettle196.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 298px; height: 353px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaEbZQ4opxVMxZGJnA-MzhjPXvLx3WsOBSZw6_xtQTdDT428mEGLpG94GavZ5xgdFmjUEGBo0yqF-2g7GzLwrt4Ty21wYf8JPiN4xXKp_nq2pVhpME6gI2Y3-VrfORLvL1WqbAHA/s400/kettle196.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352969321761522402" border="0" /></a><a href="http://www.sterlingtimes.org/kettlehead2.htm"><br /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Both of these links come from the blog <a href="http://myfirstdictionary.blogspot.com/">My First Dictionary</a>, which is quite rather funny.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQaNpzyFbtbC5J1pdlr9XMGke3uVA18r5GWK3X558A6PTbWyTc3BmRqMkWmE4868gYrOYzelyNYJsKADenqHJQpCBjCypWA6q_R3EMxzZnZ99-YBGpv5uyDF5Q07A5JVrVqT0QZQ/s1600-h/abandon.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 386px; height: 395px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQaNpzyFbtbC5J1pdlr9XMGke3uVA18r5GWK3X558A6PTbWyTc3BmRqMkWmE4868gYrOYzelyNYJsKADenqHJQpCBjCypWA6q_R3EMxzZnZ99-YBGpv5uyDF5Q07A5JVrVqT0QZQ/s400/abandon.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352970379263350514" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">That's all.</span>Born Dancin'http://www.blogger.com/profile/14526760383290674186noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14405473.post-77140483254016279752009-06-24T13:46:00.004+10:002009-06-24T14:28:24.968+10:00Happy Centenary Born Dancin'<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkDO-b6h2Q4Sx0Yux_6iLaNsP6fXy2QQjAezZVUjlbkWSkFnd8faFA2T2YFuCKpwi6jtcNJCmGXCB-4hbLMcTJME0tpMB4sR9UdAeBIeL8aoRyqtEJGbrlKoIW4_YLOMxDWEk6Ww/s1600-h/ohboy.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 271px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkDO-b6h2Q4Sx0Yux_6iLaNsP6fXy2QQjAezZVUjlbkWSkFnd8faFA2T2YFuCKpwi6jtcNJCmGXCB-4hbLMcTJME0tpMB4sR9UdAeBIeL8aoRyqtEJGbrlKoIW4_YLOMxDWEk6Ww/s320/ohboy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350738988374300306" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2009/06/24/theater/24play.html?ref=arts">This is an interesting article</a>. In brief, a study in the US has sought to quantify whether and why female playwrights have a harder time getting their work produced. I'm not totally sure about the results but I'd like to know if the same situation occurs here in Australia.<br /><br />Anyway, last night I saw my 100th production for 2009 and wished I hadn't. It was the MTC's Man from Mukinupin and I'd actually seen half of it before - I left at interval on opening night because I was deeply and dramatically bored and fell asleep a few times (which would rule out a review anyway). Yesterday I coughed up $70 to watch it again and my earlier suspicions were confirmed. Mukinupin isn't like watching a car crash but is more like looking down in a public bathroom to notice that your shoelace is untied and trailing in an unidentified liquid. Not a disaster, but occasioning a very heavy sigh.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">IN OTHER NEWS: This week's Super Dance Style is Jukin (or Jookin or just Foot Work). It originated in Memphis but is getting pretty popular across the US. It pretty much focuses on super fast, complex footwork. Watch them feet.</span><br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/D6vdD5HOSgw&hl=en&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/D6vdD5HOSgw&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/SIBvs7Flx4Y&hl=en&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/SIBvs7Flx4Y&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Born Dancin'http://www.blogger.com/profile/14526760383290674186noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14405473.post-15424215665728260872009-06-22T15:21:00.003+10:002009-06-22T16:00:07.971+10:00ANT FACT MONDAY<span style="font-size:85%;">Alright you fools, here's your required dose of anty trivia. Although - it must be said - sometimes I wonder why I bother. Not that you don't appreciate it, but I do on sleepless nights wonder if it's not like dishing out gruel to Dickensian urchins only to find that, over time, they have come to love the stuff, to crave it even, and eventually to lose sight of the fact that there may be more to life than this. Am I the prison warden, my ant facts the kind treatment that makes this insufferable jail-time somehow manageable? Such is the internet.<br /><br />In any case, I am not open to replies. I must simply ladle out my facts and keep my concerns to myself. If anyone should care to produce an Ant Fact Monday theme song, possibly called "<a href="http://homeofthegeek.net/music/files/David%20Bowie/Changesbowie/02-Track%202.mp3">Born, I'm Antly Dancin'</a>" then perhaps ('mayhaps'?) I may reconsider this stance ('stants').<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtR9OKcniP8Ml_08p9YNxoJ4bgDcQz762LexSqSCELq_Pe_4fOnyaHnWzSzUZEkA_PYv6f_CGLrUO_8QiiQjtDWFtf4GOUuyP_PW2r2hbYljBxelJSzGyamGIT92P4w8KRLByBTQ/s1600-h/picklehat.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 317px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtR9OKcniP8Ml_08p9YNxoJ4bgDcQz762LexSqSCELq_Pe_4fOnyaHnWzSzUZEkA_PYv6f_CGLrUO_8QiiQjtDWFtf4GOUuyP_PW2r2hbYljBxelJSzGyamGIT92P4w8KRLByBTQ/s320/picklehat.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350026497509085042" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">SOME FACTS</span><br /><br />There's a fungus which turns ants into zombies.<br /><br />When infected, the ant is compelled to wander away from its colony and attach itself to a plant.<br /><br />The ant eventually dies and the fungus emerges as a growth from the ant's head which drops spores to the ground.<br /><br />More ants come across the spores and themselves become infected as zombies.<br /><br />The cycle of unlife continues.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">MORE FACTS</span><br /><br />The inventively-named Large Blue Butterfly of northern Europe was until recently near extinction.<br /><br />Scientists have discovered that the butterfly's disappearance was linked to cruel farming practices.<br /><br />Farmers in the 1950s killed a lot of rabbits with myxomatosis. As a result, grass grew a little taller, since the rabbits weren't munching on it.<br /><br />The grass - now longer by less than an inch - cooled the soil below by a degree or two. The local red ant population wasn't keen on the chill and moved away.<br /><br />But while nobody likes ants, everybody seems to like butterflies.<br /><br />The Large Blue Butterfly is a bit of a leech on the red ant population, since Blue Butterfly caterpillars have learnt to imitate the sounds of little red ants. The ants look after the caterpillars and nurture them, even while the caterpillars are feasting on the ants. Eventually the grub becomes a beautiful butterfly and takes to the skies.<br /><br />Someone worked this out and brought cows in to graze on these grasses, and now the ants and the butterflies are back.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">CONCLUSION</span>: Ants are stupid but sort of kind. Butterflies, on the other hand, are merciless bastards.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">THIS THEME MAY BE CONTINUED IN A FUTURE SERIES ENTITLED "WTF GARDENING or WHAT MY VEGIE PATCH HAS TAUGHT ME ABOUT THE WORLD".</span><br /></span>Born Dancin'http://www.blogger.com/profile/14526760383290674186noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14405473.post-51958206654789837022009-06-17T14:44:00.002+10:002009-06-17T14:56:30.768+10:00The Pig War<span style="font-size:85%;">His garden is not orderly but it is, to his mind, in order. Lyman Cutlar sees the black pig digging its nose into one of the potato beds. It is the size of a port barrel on squat, hairy legs. It is oblivious to his presence. A man stands by the fence laughing.<br /><br />Cutlar fetches his gun from its resting place above the back door’s lintel and returns to the garden. The pig’s snout has uprooted several dirty potatoes and is scattering them as it eats. The laughing man runs off at the sight of the weapon and Cutlar, red-faced, shoots the swine. Or, he raises his gun and fires at the pig and the man scampers off into the trees.<br /><br />The pig does not die easily.<br /><br />Cutlar has killed animals before.<br /><br />The pig was not his to kill. He is dimly aware that it belongs to the Irishman. He finds the Irishman on the sheep ranch and words are exchanged.<br /><br />I will give you $10 for your pig.<br /><br />The pig was not yours to kill. You will give me $100 for the pig.<br /><br />Your pig was on my land. You must keep your pig out of my potatoes.<br /><br />It is up to you to keep your potatoes out of the pig.<br /><br />The Irishman reports Cutlar’s offence. Cutlar, meanwhile, has been unsettled by the nasty affair. He talks to fellow American settlers, one of whom asks to see the gun. Cutlar does not want to produce the weapon.<br /><br />Cutlar and the Irishman live on an island, but the island is large enough that one can never see it encircled by water. It does not feel isolated, not entirely.<br /><br />The British across the strait are sending men to arrest Cutlar. The American settlers grow defensive. They call for a blockade. Sixty six American troops arrive on the island to prevent the British arrival.<br /><br />The British send three warships to the island.<br /><br />The Americans send cannons and more than five hundred men.<br /><br />The British send more ships, more guns, more men. Two thousand men. Cutlar has never counted to two thousand. His mind still turns to the gun, to the pig, to the disorderly garden. The British will come tramping through his garden, boots sinking into the soil where the pig and potatoes yesterday lay rotting. The Americans will come to fight them, overturning the earth which has only now begun to settle, be covered with cold dry leaves.<br /><br />What did he do with the pig and where did those half-chewed potatoes go? What of the laughing man? He no longer remembers, on this island slowly filling with other men from elsewhere.<br /><br />The men leave the island and the Pig War of 1859 becomes the only war in which the single fallen corpse belonged to a pig.<br /><br />And Cutlar, staring at his gun on the lintel and the potato patch beyond, realises that he was the only man to fire a shot in this war. Where does that leave him? Will it leave him? Where is the laughing man? Why does he no longer remember, now, in 2009, so many islands away? As he types this the only thing he remembers are his rash words to the Irishman. They are both a long way from understanding pigs and potatoes.</span>Born Dancin'http://www.blogger.com/profile/14526760383290674186noreply@blogger.com1