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Everything comes in 3s ...

This is gonna be a brief entry

1) At six minutes past 8 on the 27 of November 2006, a meteorite fell to to Earth and landed in a little province of South Australia, not far from the Riverland. The force of the impact was strong enough to send a ripple of vibrations as far as Waikerie ((and perhaps further)). I myself was in the United Church at choir practice that night and the walls of the church rumbled. Just up the road, at my house, the walls rattled.

2) Fires are running rampent in South Australia. Taylorville has been evacuated. Monash is rumoured to have been evacuated, but there are also rumours that only the road has been blocked off. Ash is raining down on Berri and Barmera as we speak. The smoke was so strong it made for a hazy sunset on the 29th of November 2006, and was still thick towards noon the next day. Currently the smoke has let off a bit, but it is still noticeable with bare patches of blue sky.

3) Greg, known as the Yellow Wiggle, has officially handed his skivvi to his understudy after many years' of performing children's entertainment. Greg suffers from a chronic but not life-threatening heart condition which has caused him to reconsider his lifestyle. In a pre-recorded interview - in which the footage shows Greg passing over his skivvi to his understudy ((who's name I've forgotten quite at this moment)) - he explained that the condition has left him unable to sing and dance to the songs he loves to perform. He has had several black outs and - in the times when he has been unable to perform - his understudy filled him for him over a hundred times. There was consideration amongst the group that the Wiggles would end with Greg's departure, but the understudy has filled the posiition well. The new-look Wiggles revealed themselves in the form of a tour, with the new Yellow Wiggle behind the wheel of the Big Red Car. And though Greg is unable to perform anymore, this will not prevent him from receiving his share of the Wiggles royalties.


Told you


The Ink Thief.

Passion for Contempt

People who know me well know how much I loathe those creepy Bratz Dolls. From the first moment I set eyes on them I knew they were going to be trouble; in fact, I actually started to feel sorry for Barbie; she looks like such a virgin compared to these Bratz chics, despite her former marriage with Ken and despite the fact that the Bratz are probably just teenagers. Oversized heads, eyes like a goldfish and lips injected with so much collagin that they would never have to fear drowning. And with a passion for fashion? Now honestly, there is nothing wrong with shopping, and there is nothing wrong with having a passion for fassion if you can control your bank balance (and head); but I have seen some of the ads for these dolls and it all just seems a little extreme to me.

Exhibit A: The Genie Bratz. This may sound a little exaggerated, but to me they look like a bunch of harlots that ad. I do not know why; I have got nothing against the exotic Arabian look (for a fact, I once dressed like Jasmine from Aladdin for a dance concert some years' ago and loved the costumes), but for some reason on those dispreportioned dolls they look like ... well, harlots. Not convinced? Well,

Exhibit B: The Baby Bratz. Now honestly, this is really pushing the limits. Babies with a passion for fashion?!  What are they trying to impose on the kids of today? That if they ever have babies they should dress them up to look like punky tarts? Excuse me, but the last time I checked, babies do not have a passion for fasion; nor pets drapped in "bling-bling".

(Whilst I'm on the topic, those MyScene bitches are almost as bad as Bratz; Bling-Bling? Should they be teaching this to pre-teens? Can't they lay off the Bling-Bling business until the kids are at least 14? That's a bit much and the whole Bling-Bling thing sounds rediculous, but I guess I'm just paranoid, eh?)

Now the other day I was leafing through the TV Guide from the Sunday Mail *I hate the new format; it was fine before! Why do they have to change it every few months?* and discovered - to my horror - that these tarts have their own TV show! The shock subsided quickly, because almost everything has their own show nowadays, but the thought of those evil-looking dolls in animation sent a wave of blind rage over me (yes, I really hate these dolls!). And then, last night, I received the most hideous piece of information I have possibly ever encountered:

I am a sworn Areaologist; those who do not know what that is need to visit the CoA site (it's very healthy; in a the healthy perverted sense ...). And as an Areaologist, I am extremely Bowievorous (term "Bowievorous" created by marie_cris_meow) in every sense of the word. I will defend him with my life (him and his alias', of course). To hear that these demonic dolls have taken one of my favourite songs and made it "theirs" made me see red. The fact that is is one of David Bowie's songs encourages the long-buried thoughts of genocide (I know, I know ...).


Okay, I will cease the caps now.

I know Bowie is getting a percentage of the royalties from it (yes, my Business Management class has finally started), but it still is a crime to change a song like that. There is a link on that site that lets you download that particular track and, though the music arrangement is not that bad, the lyrics are a load of -

*restrains self*

I am willing to fight against this. If there was some sort of group banded to fight against it, I would gladly take the lead.


The Ink Thief.

Australians All Let Us Sell Out ...

When I was ("a lad" *snort* sorry, couldn't resist) a little girl, I would often sneak into the kitchen when no one was looking, climb up on the counter top and raid the cupboards. It was only ever one thing that I would take from; that being the large jar of vegemite (suddenly I'm feeling famished). I would eat it like it was chocolate (salty chocolate; hazah). Being just a kid, of course I had no idea that someday this Australian icon would be snatched away from me.

Ladies and gentlemen, I am Australian. I may not be of completely caucasian nationalities, but I was born and bred here, and no matter where life takes me I will always consider myself Australian. But to those who are not, let me ask you: Has your country ever sold one of it is most famous icons to another country's full ownership? Have the Egyptians sold the sphinx? No no, sorry; that was a little harsh. Let me try another example ... Ah! The very thing:

HP sauce.

To those who have never had or heard HP Sauce, it is very much like Worcester sauce (dreadfully sorry if spelt incorrectly), only thicker. The other day my father applied some to his stone-cold pie (my father is a strange man), and he so happened to comment: "Pity this won't be made anymore." Queried as to why, he explained that an American corporation had bought the company and ceased production (or are in the process of it, I forget which one). This immediately reminded me of all the other Australian icons that have been bought out by overseas markets; Arnotts, vegemite (what the hell is "marmite"?), Waltzing Matilda ... the list goes on (and yes it is "Matilda", not "Matilder"! And show me a billabong in America!!)).

When will it end? How much more of our national industry must fall to global giants before the Australian government will cry: "ENOUGH!" ? What next? Renaming the country "Mini America"?

I am glad there are some companies rebelling against the global giants. The most well known Australian company to do this, quite obviously, is Dick Smiths. With the fall of Arnotts he brought out his own brand of biscuits and so forth. And then there is the McDougall family:

These battlers have earned a free beer; although I fear even our beer has been sold out to international globalization.

One thing is for sure, I will keep on singing Waltzing Matilda no matter what a bloody piece of paper says; and I'll do it whilst toasting a vegemite sanger over the campfire, with my feet tucked away in my good ol' Australian Ugg Boots.


The Ink Thief.

Wild Soul: Adieu, Steve Irwin

Five days on and my soul is still restless.

Talk has been plentiful; I know I am merely adding to it, but I just need to have my say, as most people do. I know he is gone. My mind tells me so. But the heart and soul proclaims that this is a man who cannot - will not die. It is inconceivable. A man with "that much zest for life" (everyone's said it; unfortunately I cannot think of another way of phrasing it, and I think they got it right) cannot be removed from the hearts and minds of all he touched; even if you did not know him, or never met him. This is the kind of man people look up to; the happy-go-lucky hero, giving his all for everyone - and everything - else.

The first time Steve "touched" me was when I was watching a special documentary he did on whales. Not the one in Arctic regions that landed him in hot water - I am talking about a show he did years' before that. I had been watching his series for a while and admiring him, but I never felt heart-wrenchingly moved (if that's not a word, it is now) until I saw that documentary. The whales were beached; dozens and dozens of them lined the shore, black tablets on the grain, utterly helpless. Steve and his crew did what he could to try and save a few; if they did I cannot remember (forgive me, I have a poor memory for ... everything), but for the rest they had to sit back and watch them die. The pain and turmoil in his eyes as he spoke was enough to set me off. Even now, if you could see me write this, the tears have welled up in my eyes, and I find myself scrambling for the tissue box again. That passion, that raw emotion, surged through him and went airborne, and despite the fact that I have seen many a tragic tale of beached creatures of Oceania, it was his story that helped me to let go and give in to the woe.

Speaking of which, Germaine Greer comes to mind. I had not even heard of this woman until Wednesday night, when my parents were arguing (well ... they were in agreement but angered agreement over the topic) about her comments on his passing; apparently she was an advocate for women's rights, and the English language changed because of her (no longer could one say "tradesman"; it had to be "tradesperson" [apparently "tradeswoman" wouldn't be acceptable either; rather contradictory, isn't it?]). Last night Channel 9 posted a 'phone poll on whether she should apologise for her "attack on Steve Irwin" (their quote, hence the quote marks). The poll closed at noon today. As I was unable to watch the show to see the results, I can only assume the rest of the nation is as outraged as I am at her blatant lack of morals and disregard of family tragedy, and that the majority of the vote would have fallen on YES.

I am curious to know how little Bindi will handle this situation. Poor Bob barely gets a mention, and he will grow up not knowing a father save from distant memories and what information he can gather via friends, family and technology (Internet, T.V., et cetera). And I am sorry to have to leave him out, but Bindi will really have a load on her. I am not talking about "the pressure of running the zoo" or anything like that. I am curious about how this has affected her psychologically. What if, at some point in her life - whether it be now or in the future - she entertains the idea that maybe she had partial blame to her father's death? I am not saying she has! Do not jump to conclusions before I have finished. I am just wondering whether or not she will ever think something like: "If it wasn't for my show, he might still be alive." Pray she does not; it is not her fault. The whole thing was a horrid accident. But if she does, imagine the trauma that will befall her? How will she cope with the notion? Will the mere thought become her inner Hyde, eventually consuming her? Or will she take satisfaction in the fact that he died doing what he loved, and that he would - perhaps - rather have died on the job than, for example, in a hospital bed as a cripple, or in a run-down flat (for, say, had he been denied doing what he loved)?

There is nothing more I can add to the conversation; I do not know the Irwin family (my sympathy and love to Terry, Bindi, Bob, and everyone else), or their friends, and I certainly cannot say that I got the chance to meet him and have my life changed moreso than others. But I do know that he did change me, as most people of idolisation change people without ever meeting them, and that the comment about him not being invincible is incorrect. Steve Irwin will always be invincible, because he will always be wrestling crocodiles in our hearts.


The Ink Thief.

If Music Be the Food of Love, SHUT UP?!

Contradiction! Don't you just love it? Everywhere you look there is a contradiction of some sort; I myself am a walking contradiction (and proud of it! - sad, isn't it?). But on the 30th of August, 2006, from about noon A.C.T. (Australian Central Time; just so you know for future reference [eh?]) and continuing on for possibly the rest of the day, a select member of women and girls that I work with presented me with a rather interesting contradiction.

See, whenever I do not have to heat up or add hot water to my lunch (like for leftovers or cuppa noodles) I generally tend to sit in my car with the windows down and my music up loud as I eat (vibrations - coupled with the eargasm of a sensual voice - is a perfect pick-me-up after shifts of my line of work). Before this has never presented itself as a problem, until today; towards the end of lunch one girl approached my car (a New Zealander, whose mum also works there) and gave me one of those bull "On behalf of the group" (my fellow workwomen) "could you please keep your music down as no one wants to hear music as they eat" speech. Excuse me? This coming from a girl who - not 15 minutes ago - had been sitting in her car trying to drown out my music with pathetic sounds not even worthy of the Music title? - and she was telling me off?

After lunch one of the few workwomen that I like ("Little Linda") was telling me how the people who were part of that "group" had been bitching about me and yelling out to me to turn it down (of course I couldn't hear them), and finally she snapped and gave them a lecture about my right to express my individuality "which immediately shut them up". (so yay! a friend!) They do and say whatever the hell they want and no one questions them, and yet when someone like me tries to do it they (well ... me) get(s) shunned. It is rediculous! She was telling me how they were most likely making an issue of it now due to the fact that they cannot seem to get me to talk to them at work (if I had things worth saying I'd say them; why add senseless drawl to conversations?), and my anti-social mannerisms encourage their vexed ignorance. It was not like I was hurting anyone, was it? It should not be a fact of tastes in music, because she does not like my music but it does not bother her because she knows that is just me. It was not like I was hooning around the streets at 2 in the morning with 10+ bass; it was just twenty minutes of amped music. Is that so wrong?

And no surprise, one of the women of that "group" was Bad Moon (this is a name I have secretly dubbed her, obviously). Now as I have not written up anything about Bad Moon yet (but I make a profile of her [and various other people I know] in my personal journal), all you need to know for this is that she is the taller one of the two Lindas that I work with (hence why I had Little Linda before), she is a bitch, snitch, and ... dispreportioned physically (like looking at a pear in fat camp). Of course she would be part of the problem, the mole. (Oh my Goddess, I'm showing emotion in an article! NOOOOO!) She complains about other people's fat asses, yet she's got the biggest ass at work.

But if they want I can turn off the music completely. Of course this will mean that their request for me to do this shall put them at risk with working with a phsychological depressant once again, who will think of suicide and homocide and any other "cide" that ends my life and / or theirs, instead of the bouncing, happy, giggling "crazy girl" whose only stress outlet IS the loud music. And I am sure I have pointed out this fact in my first account's journal, so I will just stop it now.

Hmm ... if they don't like hearing me blare Anthony Warlow, I wonder how they'll react if I brought in my Rent CD?


The Ink Thief.

Where There's Smoke, There's a Pretty Box

Smoking. I personally do not do it, but I know and work with people who do; in fact I would be surprised if there was someone who did not know at least one person who smoked at some point in their lifetime. I am not here to argue about the actual habit of smoking, rather than the behavioural side effects that has rippled throughout the world. I mean, we have all seen those Quit-line advertisements with the amputations, cancer warnings and so forth; that is one bahavioural effect. Doctors (possibly), non-smokers and quitters make these commercials for the benefit of other people and themselves (let's face it; when people don't like something they try to remove the problem, and the problem in this case - for them - is the smell), and though some may commend them for trying to make the world a better place (maybe not in those words, but still ...), there are those - and this I know for a fact - who retaliate at (against? Please forgive my grammer [grammar? Please forgive my spelling]) these ads, calling them fake and so forth.

Most of you are probably wondering: Is there a point to this? Well yes, as always, and I am getting to it; I just tend to ramble (as always). The point, my impetuous readers, is the very forms of rebellion to the anti-smoking campaign that I have witnessed.

There is, in a one-horse town about an hour' or so from the city, a gas station (with cheaper petrol than my town; no surprises there, as my town as the most expensive petrol in the state) that sells packets of something that caught my intrigue. Well ... by packets I mean that each one was wrapped in plastic and sold for a couple of bucks. As I visit this gas station on a weekly basis (and I will talk more about this gas station in a future article), I managed to pick one of them up one afternoon.

Now you are probably wondering: WTF are they? Well you know how cigarette packets now have those grusome pictures to try and get smokers to quit? Some clever bugger invented these little boxes (yes they're boxes and I'm sorry; I have pics on my 'phone of the box I have in its assembled form, but as my phone program refuses to load, until someone directs me on how to make a txt entry to LJ [I've looked but I can't find the info!]); which so happen to be smoke-packet holders. So instead of being "disturbed" by pictures of mouth cancer and clogged arteries (let's face it; even six-year'-olds have been desensitised thanks to graphic films), all a smoker has to do is slip their packet into one of these and presto! - no more health warning.

Although I must point out that these little boxes cannot please all smokers. My father, for example, who has been smoking for longer than my existance, suggested to the teller at the gas station that someone should make one for tobacco smokers. "A fair mint could be made from that idea," the teller replied with a smile, and she may be right.

But isn't it interesting how someone takes on a rebellion? Oh, and just to help me prove my point, here's something for you to ... well ... you decide.


The Ink Thief.

Close Encounters (of the Other Kind)

What is so enticing about fame, and the people who have it? If you saw someone famous walking down the streets of your town or city, what would you do? Would your actions come about based on your personal opinion about them? Or would you ignore who they are and react towards them as merely a Figure-head of Fame?

Let me give you a personal example (and trust me, you will get a lot of these in my articles): On the 22nd of August, 2006, somewhere between 12:30 - 2:00 pm Australian Central Time, I was drifting through Rundle Mall when who should I see but The Footy Show's Sam Newman, tagged by a cameraman, a sound-check guy with a boom mic and some other bloke.

(Before I go any further, I want to make it crystal clear that I have never liked Sam Newman. That is not to say that I loathe him, I just never formulated an opinion on him as such)

Anyway, I watched him interviewing the city-folk shoppers for his Street Talk section of the show, and as I did so a strange (but not so unfamiliar) sensation came over me; I started going ga-ga! For a moment I thought I had slipped into a time warp and was reliving my first infatuation (mild as it was; my current ones are stronger. But a school girl's first crush is an exciting and invigorating experience, is it not?). I must have followed him from one end of the mall to the other trying to get a good picture of him, I swear (please don't say the obvious). I stepped into his pathway twice just to see if he would interview me (he didn't). At times I just stood or sat to the side trying to work out what I would say if he did; what I would say if I approached him; what would happen ...

Perhaps it was my "secret" *cough* desire to be noticed by someone who has their foot in the door of Fame; a brief moment in front of the camera, on TV, and to get noticed by someone who could help me kick-start my career. Yes, I'm sure it was. The prospect of opportunity sparked the flame of desire within me; I wasn't lusting for Sam as a physical body, but as that so-called Figure-head of Fame; a being who is high and lofty, who has the opportune ability to make or break a person. To get noticed, to get whisked away into a life on the stage, in the limelight, performing to my heart's content ...

When at last he left the mall (I'm guessing in the silver limo that I saw pass by some time later), I got to reflecting what I had done (as I do), and I got to wondering how other people react around famous people. I personally started feeling repulsed at the fact that any form of lust - even if it was just my lust for the limelight - had been triggered by Sam Newman; the man I knew to be simply crass and a bit on the small side (you all know what I mean); and funny, too, I must admit, but he's no Rodney Rude (don't you just love contradiction?) So, I want to know other people's reactions to famous people, if you've met anyone famous; even if they're only like a Z-Class celeb who's only famous in your town or something. Or if not, how do you think you'd react to a close encounter?

Oh, and I do have a couple of pictures from that day. When I figure out how to install my phone's program onto the computer, I will post them.


The Ink Thief.