Archive for July 2008
Let me say at the outset: No, it wasn’t better than The Dark Knight.
But, as a self-confessed X-Phile (I adimitted to The Boyfriend last night that when I was 15 I used to have a fansite — on Geocities… ah the memories!!) … I FRICKING LOVED IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Oh Chris Charter, what a champ. This movie, as I mentioned in my tweet on the way out of the cinema, was gratuitous, self-indulgent fluff. I am pretty sure if he wasn’t CHRIS CARTER and didn’t have his own production company, no dope in Hollywood would touch the script… but he made the movie for himself and like-minded fans, and for that I salute him 🙂
Teehee what jolly good fun!!
The Boyfriend says I owe him big-time for making him sit there (“That is two hours of my life I will never get back”, et cetera) but I submit that I totally said he didn’t have to see it with me since he had no idea what was going on.
Sqeeee! LOVED IT!
That is all 🙂
It’s about writing style. I read this interesting piece on the topic a couple of weeks ago and it got me a’pondering about writing, or, more specifically, about how I write (because, as you must know by now, everything is always about me).
One of the 7 tips from the article is “sound like yourself”.
Annie has often said that she likes my writing because it sounds just like I talk, which I take as one of the loveliest compliments ever,
Then one of the tumblrers I follow quoted a following paragraph from weblebrity Julia Allison’s most recent column that got me thinking about a terrible habit I know I’ve do when I write. The bit she’d “plucked … at random to say that punctuation like this boggles my mind” was this:
The good news (for you!): The creation of online systems of transmission (MySpace, YouTube, Facebook, Wikipedia), with their myriad channels for exposure—and resulting adoption and mutations—has exponentially sped up meme transmissions.
I know I’ve got a bit of a penchant for the odd aside, or 3, in the process of trying to make a point about something, but I hope I don’t do it as horribly as that.
So that’s all. I just wanted to write a bit about writing. Which is really what this blog is for, I guess.
What sort of bad writing habits do you have? And/or what bugs you?
Ok super quick rant but this just cannot go without mention.
We all know Teh West is the torchbearer for shit, sensationalist journalism, but TWAT “Chief Of Staff” Liam Phillips seems to have decided to step up to make a challenge to that title. Maybe it’s all the post-Tour de France, pre-Olympic competitive spirit coming out.
Young Phillips has posted a gem of a “opinion” piece highlighting the ignorance and just unbelievabe stupidness that makes this charming state well-known for being red-neck hicks who just love spouting their visceral knee-jerk affrontedness at the drop of a hat. (Lots of adjectives = Sunili is pissed off.)
On the coronial inquest into the suicide of Simon Rochford, the prisoner who topped himself after it was revealed he was the suspect in a 1994 murder (for which Andrew Mallard was wrongfully convicted and jailed), Phillips essentially wonders why we should cry for Rochford, when, frankly, he was just a roach:
… the most surprising aspect of the inquest’s coverage is the victimised way in which Rochford has often been presented.
Sure he committed suicide – a sad act. But let’s not forget, this man was no altar boy. He was a convicted killer serving a life jail term for the brutal murder of his girlfriend Brigitta Dickens in July 1994.
He became involved in the Pamela Lawrence case because he was suspected of bludgeoning her to death – a reasonable assumption, you would think, given his track record.
Uuuuuhhhh. Gee, well, um, I only did a law degree and now work at the Court and stuff, but I have a strange feeling that you’re not really supposed to make “reasonable assumptions” based on prior convictions, unless it’s in a very narrow set of circumstances. Or something. Heck, correct me if I’m wrong, eh?
For me, it’s all a bit of a moot point anyway. The ultimate aim of this exercise is to establish who killed Pamela Lawrence.
And committing suicide the day you have been named as a suspect is not the typical action of an innocent man.
Not only is that just totally effing offensive to anyone who knows the slightest thing about the principles of criminal justice (establishing who killed her kinda needs a trial and stuff, which we can’t have since the guy’s dead, but hey, I could be wrong again) … I have a feeling it takes the vitriole of “law and order” ranting in this state down to new lows.
Or maybe I’m just lucky to not have read anything worse in recent memory.
But what’s worse besides, that’s just the kinda moron attitude that gets the wrong person locked up for 12 years, isn’t it?
I bloody hope my idol Patti Chong has a go at this knob on Thursday.
PS: Today’s iGoogle quote of the day is amusingly appropriate:
People everywhere confuse what they read in newspapers with news.
– AJ Liebling
I cannot believe these douchebags get away with publishing and justifying it as “opinion”. How the hell do people get these gigs? Why are they not made to write “I will not tell lies” on the back of their hands with magical mean-quills? Fucktards. Sorry. This really irks me.
When I entered the title right up there I typo-ed “The 40Hour Work Week”. That’s a Freudian slip and a half if you ever saw one.
So I have decided to do away with all the whinging and whining I have included in this blog recently and have thereby resolved to get up off my butt and start doing something to fix it.
I have had this wishy-washy goal nestled in the back of my mind all year and the other day, when I took a mental health day, I plugged in my mobem and did a bit of research. I figured out exactly what it was that I wanted to do. I crystallised the goal and I am actually able to start making steps to get there. When it was just this vague idea I didn’t do anything about it because, frankly, I couldn’t. Now I have little steps that I can do like items on a to-do list. Nice.
And then today I got a call from a friend who said she knows these people looking for a particular sort of person and I totally fit the bill and she recommended me would it be ok for her to give them my number. And these people are people I have really, really been interested in working for.
I bother to flap my butterfly wings and look what happens.
I have a confession to make (and Skink’s probably gonna leave an abusive — yet witty and amusing — comment about it).
I have a thing for self-help books.
I have only ever ACTUALLY read one, a long time ago, but it was good and helpful and I learned lots and I’ve bought like a couple over the last year or so. I could say it was in the hope that one day I might read them and sort out my life, but more accurately, it was in the hope that they might impart wisdom on me via some sort of wireless-osmosis from my little Ikea bookshelf, because I thought I was better than them.
But yeah, I did think I needed them. (Actually I need and am using stuff that’s a lot stronger, but that’s another story for another post).
Anyway, I’d been hearing bits and bobs about that book around the blogosphere so I decided to give it a shot. Plus the Chicken Soup guy said this:
“It’s about time this book was written. It is a long-overdue manifesto for the mobile lifestyle, and Tim Ferriss is the ideal ambassador. This will be huge.”
–- Jack Canfield
I love the Chicken Soup books! And I am all for the whole mobile working thing.
At completely cursory glance: I really don’t think I need all the internet marketing shit that’s mentioned in the sneaky readers-only page, and I have serious moral-dilemma issues with the whole “outsourcing your life” thing, but I’ll read the book and watch these videos and get back to you on that.
Anyway, I better get back to what feels like an 80-hour work week — I can’t even be all TGIF cause I know I have to come in on the weekend.
But maybe not for long 😛
eating: leftover lunch for dinner (veg korma and chick pea curry from the Indian place in Paragon 160)
regretting eating: 3 Krispy Kremes (1.5 Original Glazed, 1 Chocolate Iced Creme Filled, 0.5 Cinnamon Apple) (The Boyfriend went to Melbs on work junket and brought them back for me– he is so lovely! But I am seriously questioning accuracy of previous blood test which told me I am not gluten intolerant. But maybe I am just too-much-sugar-and-trans-fat intolerant?)
nursing: a sore hip from when I slipped over (quasi-splits, at that; it was rather the spectacle, I am sure) in the middle of the Hay Street Mall at lunch time on Friday (yeah, I am so the epitome of Grace and Poise. Not only was it the usual-lunchtime-crowd-busiest-time-of-the-day — it was also school holidays).
waiting: for all my payment summaries so I can get my funken tax return (oh bless you $39,824 HELP repayment threshold!)
planning: all the glorious ways in which to spend aforementioned tax return (pay off credit card, pick up cute purple dress currently on lay-by at Cue, sponsor children in Cambodia/Vietnam, put rest into high interest savings account etc… NOT go to the new Tiffany’s in King Street when it opens on Thursday…)
wondering: if I should bother getting a copy of Grazia. Or I should just wait to check it out in a doctor’s waiting room next year?
reading: Breath by Tim Winton (reeeeeeeally, really good!)
A final note: The Dark Knight still rocks; three days later. If I wasn’t going to see Lenny Henry tonight I’d be at Piccadilly quicker than you can say Maggie Gyllenhaal (my hip hurts — I can’t walk very fast; plus I have to be careful not to fall over in Hay Street AGAIN). It’s so good I would pay full price to see it again, and I am slightly put off that I have to wait til tight-arsed Tuesday, but so be it. Better tomorrow than Wednesday (since Thursday is when The X-Files movie opens).
If you haven’t already seen this movie… what, The. FRICK are you doing reading this goshdarn blog? Get up off your booties and go see it now. NOW!!!
Tomorrow: is The Dark Knight the best movie of the year? No. It is the best movie of CENTURY (til X-Files comes out) (nah, kidding, even I have to admit that I Want to Believe will probably not top this).
Also tomorrow: is The Dark Knight really a metaphor about how Obama will be the next President of the USA? Oh no wait. That was Hancock, apparently.
Instead tomorrow: Did I mention that I am freaking OBSESSED WITH THAT Dark Knight MOVIE?? Holy shite. I now understand why people were going a little loco about the whole thing last week. Ficking awesome. AWESOME.
Today marks the 6 -month anniversary (demi-anniversary?) of my status as a worker-bee.
For the last six months, I have caught the bus or sat in traffic (listening to Nathan and Nat on Nova, of course) to sit in front of a computer screen in a large capsule of concrete, steel and glass (not that I ever see much glass from my cubicle) for several hours, eat rice crackers and cottage cheese at my desk, get massive headaches from the lack of Vitamin-D, then go back home to forrage for tinned soup or whatnot, then collapse into bed, just to wake up and do it all over again.
(That sentence was long and exhausting for a reason. Any of you wannabe sub-editors who are clenching their jaws should desist and sigh with relief at the knowledge that yes, I know the rules of grammar, so I have the right to break them, a’iight?)
But what about weekends, you ask? How can today be the demi-anniversary when today is Saturday?
Because I am working today, thankyouverymuch.
My co-worker-bee has skipped town to visit the Pope the week we have a massive deadline (but to be fair, this mofo project shoulda been done months ago, and when she booked her leave we all assumed it would be gonekthxbai) and The Boss has me doing work I shouldn’t even be doing. Let alone have the capacity to do. And I am freaking out about it.
I did get out to see The Dark Knight — which is freaking AWESOME and they showed The X-Files: I Want to Believe trailer which looks like it’s going to be EVEN MORE AWESOME — this morning but I didn’t get to sleep in because I knew I had to get to the first session or else the whole day would be wasted.
This nuerotic, bitching post probably shouldn’t be here; I suppose I could’ve put it in my anonymous nuerotic-bitching blog, but I swear, I have a point.
My point is this:
I NEED A MOTHER-FUNKING HOLIDAY GOSHDARNIT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Oh, my other point: people are way too overworked and we live in a society that is too fast-paced where we have too-high expectations on us and it is totally shit and we need to figure out a better way. Right now. Because this effing sucks, people. Yeah, I said “effing”. You know it’s bad.
I am just EXHAUSTED. My brain hurts. My body aches. I can’t be arsed going to the shops to get anything decent for dinner and Lean Cuisines are NOT about “Looking After Yourself” unless you are some strange bot who survives on expensive cardboard beans. My two weeks’ of regularly going to the gym is staring at me and in sad, lonely, mouth-gaping shock and I have even stopped caring about the fact my hair looks like I should be one of the principles in Wicked. The only upside is that The Boyfriend is on a graduates’ junket with his work this weekend so at LEAST it doesn’t matter that I haven’t waxed my legs.
I feel the odd mix of catatonia and rage that signals an imminent breakdown, and I am freaking out.
There was a post on fabulous new (shiny new! Like 4-days-old new! NEW new!!) Perth blog Beyond Beeton that totally made me feel like I was in Oprah’s audience (on one of the serious episodes not the ones with the free stuff, unfortunately — wouldn’t that just be freaking GREAT?) and I just wanted to nod all seriously and shout out “AMEN, SISTER” in a manner befitting a large, Southern, African-American lady. And I suppose I could have since there was no one in the office because EVERYONE IS ON HOLIDAYS.
But of course, I am a small South-Asian Australian girl, and even I would have thought it kind of out of place.
Anyway, I will replicate the fervor-inducing passages from the post “Feminism really needs to go away and leave me alone for a while” here:
There’s nothing more empowering than having your apron strings untied from the sink.
Unless you get untied from the sink so that you can trot off in a wool suit to your box on the terrace for every daylight hour and more besides, after which you will glamorously engage in up-to-the-minute witty banter with 40 of your nearest and dearest colleagues who you are dining with again. You then of course go home, ring your mother and actually listen to what she says, clean the toilet, put the bin out (you’re a liberated woman after all), read the paper and a few novels (see the witty banter point above), bake something nice to take to work tomorrow and save at least 15 children from starvation or tractor accidents or something, all while looking hopelessly alluring.
If you’re managing all that and vodka isn’t a part of your daily routine then I hate you and there is nothing for you here.
AMEN, SISTER. A-fricking-MEN.
I wonder if the other Buddhists will notice that I’m breaking a precept during our version of Lent if I crack open the sav-blanc in the fridge that I am looking after for a friend who left it at a work do and have totally forgotten to give back (because I do not function til I get off the bus and to Ristretto, and always forget to take it to work)?
Because I have a forbording sense of desperation and fear that everything is not going to be alright.
Ah well. At least I have blogging with which to vent.
PS — Beeton, if you are reading this: I can’t comment on your posts because it says I need to log in? But you’re not on wordpress.com? Can you please check that? I would be sad if I can’t comment, and I’m sure everyone here would *realise* how truly nutso I was if I resorted to posting here so that I could ping back to you.
3 of 5 stars
Oh my. Even though I knew/could easily guess the ending here, it left me feeling pretty horrid. Don’t read this if you wish to have romanticised visions of Henry VIII in your head; Gregory makes him out to be a complete and utter nutjob, and a gross fat, stinky nutjob at that. Which is probably about right.
I noticed another reviewer mentions the ‘myopic’ sense of narrative in this novel, and that’s pretty spot on. There is quite the sense of icky claustrophobia — quite possibly just as Anne of Cleves and Katherine Howard felt while in Henry’s company.
This was definitely a lot darker than The Other Boleyn Girl, and I would hardly call it a romance. But it was still alright. Pre-feminism angst sources abound.