Movie of the freakin' year, baby! Sure, some losers walked out halfway through the movie, but that just meant a footrest for me. Seriously, the one-liners kept comin', just like Anchorman or Dodgeball, two other comedy untouchables in my book. It's been added to the links bar on the right - and it's there to stay.
I'm Patrick Horgan. If you don't see Talladega Nights, then fuck you.
For those not in the know about today, September 19, and Talk Like A Pirate Day, I have news for you.
Congratulations, you've got a life!
The origins of the day are as unexplained as the recent renaissance of pirate influences into youth and popular culture. Sure, Pirates of the Caribbean was a whimsical tale, but it's something more. More than referring to women as wenches. More than puffy shirts (although Seinfeld can take just as much credit for that one). More than the equally inexplicable debate of pirates versus ninjas in various Internet circles (and squares too).
I'm simply here to say that I don't get it. I can't work out if it's nerdy or cool. Any explanations are welcomed.
Translated...
Ahoy, for those not in the know about today, September 19, and Talk Like A Pirate Day, I have news for you.
Congratulations, you've a life!
The origins o' the day be as unexplained as the recent renaissance o' pirate influences int' youth and popular culture. Sure, Pirates o' the Caribbean was a whimsical tale, but tis' somethin' more. More than referrin' t' women as wenches. More than puffy shirts (although Seinfeld can take just as much credit for that one). More than the equally inexplicable debate o' pirates 'ersus ninjas in 'arious Internet circles (and squares too).
I'm simply har t' say that Me don't get it. I can't work out if tis' nerdy or cool. Any explanations be welcomed.
There's an epic debate raging in the last post about gig crowd etiquette. It could even develop into a debate of mass proportions, you know. 19 comments deep and the discussion's moved to karma and one of the greatest shows on TV right now, My Name Is Earl. For those out of the know, it's about a guy named Earl who tries to correct all the bad things he's done in the belief that through karma, good things will happen to him in return. It's a widely held belief, but it's rarely executed in the same way as Earl manages to. That's mainly because Earl's not a tree-hugging, spiritualistic hippie; he's a down-to-earth redneck who has a wacky caper every week!
After the recent botched break-in, then actual break-in, theft and subsequent recovery of the Patmobile, I was definitely left pondering the set of events and circumstances that had transpired. Unfortunately, I can't attribute the ultimate happy outcome to anything in particular - be it karma, God or whatever. However, I can discuss my experiences on Friday night when Dean, Will and I saw the mighty Melbourne Demons win their elimination final.
Have you ever had a perfect night? When you sit back and think of how everything went right, was timed perfectly or just turned out more favourable for you than everyone else? Friday was one of those nights. It started out as a mad rush to get tickets and get there on time, but turned out smoother than a top shelf Scotch. I won't recount everything, but a quick list is in order.
We knew we'd had good fortune and mentioned it several times throughout the course of the match. I remained convinced that Melbourne couldn't win because everything else had gone so right. Only after I'd had a beer did I actually think the Dees were a chance. I do concede that the two events were about as related as, say, a Tasmanian couple.
I remember talking up karma as we were exiting the car park, as I let someone in front of me as a sort of sacrificial offering to balance such an enjoyable evening. I can't recall much else about that - the conversation changed to how we all like getting the thankyou wave when driving. Was it really karma or were we just able to sit back and appreciate good fortune without analysing the bad fortune, such as the woeful umpiring of Darren Goldspink and Justin Schmitt? It's difficult to know, being such a conceptual issue and all.
However, I will comment that humans often expect, or even demand, quite a bit from other people - simply from that visceral feeling that it was owed to them or even worse - it's their "divine right", a quote I mockingly used on Friday, actually. It also seems more instinctive to analyse bad things that have occurred to us rather than good things, which could stem from an ingrained ability to assess failures to improve things - or just because we're a pack of bloody whingers.
So why do people like the concept of karma? Aside from personal experiences, I think karma, at least by Earl Hickey's definition, quite brilliantly summarises the gist of most major religions, but does so in a neat, neutral package. Balance is something that people manage in many other aspects of their life, such as diet or work/play, so it's not a foreign concept for people to try and apply to their life.
As for me, I have a new theory. I call it the Laidback Pessimist. Expect nothing and constantly be surprised and thankful of the bonuses that are delivered to you. Yeah, that's it. Not quite fully thought out yet, but it explains my Friday night better than anything else so far.
Karma or not, I appreciate comments, particularly to help solidify such an airy-fairy sort of topic to post on. So, in summary, uh...My Name Is Earl rules.
This just in: Brad and Brodie, the two most vocal talismen of the Norwood-centric blogosphere, or "Wood-o-Sphere" if you will, have blogged as a couple with matching topics and opinions again. Can I call them "the Bradie Bunch" yet? Well, with Wood-o-Spheres being what they are, I might as well broadcast a response here rather than a little CTRL-C/CTRL-V action on both their blogs. It's tough being a helpdesk for rhetorical questions, but someone's gotta do it.
The topic in question is crowd etiquette at gigs. It's a contentious point for gig-goers the world over. Brodie's post and Brad's post about the Karnivool/Seven/Antistatic gig both express pleasure at the performances but not of the crowd behaviour.
I went to a gig last night - not the same one, thankfully, for your sake - to get a good dose of piano rock courtesy of The Fray at the Prince of Wales. Excluding that obscure pole that's always a bit in the way (if you've been to the Prince, you'll know), it was a splendid gig. Will pointed out that the setlist was a little out of whack, but I can deal with that. You see, recently I've become a big fan of the halfway-into-the-front-section-and-slightly-to-the-right brigade. All I really need is two (plus) beers and I'll have a good singalong - very little can bother me. So that's the first thing I'd prescribe to the two aforementioned gents. Relax, guy! Take a load off, don't think about it.
With the sort of indie rock / inoffensive rock gigs I go to, crowd etiquette isn't usually a problem, unless it gets to you! I have been to my share of heavier gigs though, so I feel qualified enough to tend to your questions. There'll always be a pocket or two of "stupids" or a tall dude with an afro somewhere, but a gentle shift away from the nutjobs is natural in any environment. I don't get too riled up unless it's a very uninformed crowd (i.e. too mainstream) which means there's a high dickhead-to-music-fan ratio - or you're right up the front. Pushing is inevitable there.
Allow me to hypothesize: are the dickheads all up the front then? Are Brodie and Brad the kind of people who attract crazies? Remember, if neither of your two best friends is crazy, it's you. Something like that. I forget. Might be harsh. Unfortunately, securing prime real estate comes at a cost. It doesn't matter if you're at the front of a gig, or at the front of a crowd watching motor racing or football, people will always want your spot because it's better than yours. Humans are selfish idiots and if you thought it used to be different, you're wrong. Either the gigs were less crowded, less popular or you're both prone to "fond-ening" up your memories. Consider yourself hockey forwards trying to park yourself in the slot - not gonna happen with a decent defense around. There's two ways to go: get territorial or just have a good time.
If you love being up the front, you'll think it's worth whatever punishment comes your way. Stand up for yourself and defend your position with your entire arse...nal. Arsenal, yes. Any avid fan of indoor soccer matches knows you can use your ass as a battering ram to gain territory, as exhibited by "Steven Seagal" of "Steven Seagal and the Ponytails". And by all means, feel free to check some dickhead hockey-style to gain some space. Sometimes you have to become a dickhead to survive with dickheads all around you. That's probably why Frankston's such a shithole.
Conversely, let nothing bother you. If they french fry when they should pizza, you're gonna have a bad time. So Brad and Brodie, if they're killing your buzz, get outta the pit (as difficult as it may be) and get yourself a stiff drink. No doubt all that man attention will have got you halfway there. Oh! Just kidding. I don't know what you guys go to gigs for, but it's all about the music for me. If I can still hear it and get a general sense of what's going on up on the stage, I'm more than content. I mean, there's not that many hot chicks in Aussie metal is there? Sure, I like to see what notes are being played and stuff, but sometimes you've gotta accept the cards you're dealt. Save it for the little Aussie band gigs and have a blast up the front then!
Also, in regards to chicks at gigs, they are to be fully respected until they smack you a wicked one and don't apologise. Then, they're fair game to be bashed around the pit as much as everyone else (they might even enjoy a scuffle if they're givin' as good as they're gettin'). That's chivalry and equality. One thing's for sure, in indie gigs, the first three rows should be short chicks - they deserve a shot too. If you're a bloke in that fourth row, it's up to you to make sure no one clatters into them. Then pull a phone number. Failing that, there's always something else you could pull. Oh!
I say you two guys have gotta try viewing from further back where it's less intense - or quit your damn online stereo whining! I'm beginning to think you're not all about the music! You don't have to exchange winks with the guitarist to have a good time. That's what groupies do. Are you groupies or not? Maybe you should take a test. Anyway, I don't think I'll ever idolise the members of my favourite bands like some people do, so maybe I'm just talkin' shit. But laidback does work for moi. Your move, Sherlock. Or make that Sherlocks.
As a man with a big head who knows big weeks in football, even Eddie McGuire would concede it's been a big week ... for me and my XF Falcon. It all started back in October 1984 and 1986 respectively, but that's a little off track, so we might as well skip to last Monday night, 7 short eves ago.
The power went off twice during the night, and I'd woken up and fixed my alarm clock to go off at the right time and everything. Futily, as it turned out. My mum woke me up at 7am to let me know the Falcon had been broken into and I had about 45 minutes until Mum would drive me to my work before heading to hers.
It's no secret that the mid-to-late 80s generation of Falcons are one of the easiest to break into - and most broken into as well. There was another part of the break-in process I wasn't so privvy to. Police sources say a common method of getting the engine started is using the car's oil dipstick in the ignition, like a key. Well, Monday night's thieves managed to balls it up somehow. The theory is that they couldn't get it going, tried push starting it, got thrown off by our neighbours' auto-sensing light (that is always going off in the middle of the night anyway - it shines in the direction of my room) and just got the hell out of there.
We found out about this at 5:30 am, when our neighbour Stuart knocked on our door to get us to move it from where it was left - blocking his driveway. The dipstick was pretty hacked up so we got our mechanic to get a new one ready for us to pick up that afternoon. I'd escaped the whole ordeal - not that it was that bad - pretty much as well as it possibly could have transpired. A scheduled service on Thursday didn't pick up any damage, so we were in the clear. So by the end of the day, I was only down one MagLite torch and less than $5 worth of 5, 10 and 20 cent pieces in the console. I'd had a cheap week before that and had raided the console for Metcard change, luckily. In fact, that was pretty much the final word. Lucky. "Botched car theft special feature --- luckyyyy!"
So you can imagine how gutted I was when I emerged from my room on the cusp of Saturday morning and afternoon and my mum pipes up with "Oh you are home! We thought you'd stayed over last night." It took about two seconds for the cerebral cogs to turn and the penny to drop. Since the car wasn't there, it was - as anyone on The Bill would say - nicked, mate.
News from the insurance company wasn't good. Considering the cops had estimated the car's value on their report as $800, the news that we'd have to pay a $450 excess didn't please me mathematically, or in any other way. The excess was pretty much to cover a 21-day car hire, but it wasn't to be sniffed at. I didn't exactly need the car until work on Tuesday, so we waited out the weekend and would take it from there.
When we were talking about it out to dinner last night, I was amazed how hard my dad took it. He'd taken over the old Commodore when my mum bought "one Toyota Corolla prease", brand new, a few months back, so I didn't think it'd bug him much. I guess he either seriously hated thieves or loved that car as much as I did. I'd been through heaps in my pizza delivery days in that Falcon. It was bloody reliable and in great nick for cars of that age too. I'll probably drive it until it dies!
After a decidedly average sort of weekend, it was a good start to the new week to hear the cops had found it in a quasi-quarry at the end of a half-built court in Ringwood East, roughly out the back of Maroondah Hospital. There wasn't enough petrol in it to get much further, methinks. I caught a nice old Indian man's cab straight out there and picked it up from the waiting officers. Major props to them, it was well worth the speeding fine I "ponied up" for last year. I'm still amazed that the Patmobile was undamaged. A quick bend-and-replace of the dipstick and it was right to go. When I got home, I found out my uni project's team meeting was rescheduled by the RMIT supervisor, so I didn't even have to go to uni in the end either. I even managed to use the time to catch up with project work too!
You'll also be stunned to learn that my glovebox full of mixtapes wasn't touched. This marks the death of the once mighty "cassingle" - if it wasn't already. I should release a double-CD of my iTunes playlists from the weekend and today - one disc called Theft and the other called Recovery. It wasn't all bad though, because I got to take Ben's manual for a spin!
The only thing left now is to figure out my new theft prevention policy. The old one closely resembled "have a shitty car worth bugger all without any pimpin' stereo and no-one should steal it", but I guess I'll have to turn it up a bit. Perhaps a new Club lock, parking in the driveway rather than out the front of the house and a "Driver does not fill petrol tank over 1/4" warning scrawled in black house paint along the side should do it.
This post is in memory of Steve Irwin - a true Aussie champ.