Corinne's-a-Ranting

Good Kitty Samaritan

2010-04-27T00:57:00.000-07:00

After spending the majority of the ANZAC long weekend in recovery, I was on my way to work on a cold Tuesday morning. Rushing to get inside due to the minimal amount of layers I decided to wear.

Along the walk way I passed a small orange kitten. She (so I believe) was just lying beside the side walk, curled up with no protection.

The image not processing in my mind, I kept walking. A few steps away I thought, “How many people have passed that kitten this morning?” and “How long has the poor thing been there?” So I walked back, bent down and tried to assess the situation without touching her.

Her face was covered in sores and was looking quite miserable. I put my hand out to see how she’d react, and she ran behind a fence. As she ran I noticed that her back legs were not working properly and the underside was covered in dark muck.

Now, if I wasn’t silly enough to lose my mobile phone over the weekend, I would have stayed with her and called a rescue place, but unfortunately, I did, so I rushed on to work to use the phones there. On the way I passed a man who asked me what was wrong with the cat. I replied that I didn’t know but she was injured. He kept on walking, probably just like many others this morning.

Further down the road I passed another kitten, this one deceased. I didn't walk passed that section of the road for the rest of the day.

Once at work I tried calling directory assistance, but without a business name, they couldn’t help me. Gave me another number which wouldn’t work on the office phones. One of the ladies at work said they had previous experience with animals and they sent them to the vet. But all places require you to bring them in.

So I grabbed a box and went chancing after a poor frightened kitten.

The end result was a bit of running, a lot of hissing and one single nasty bit on my right index finger.

I returned to work with a lift lined up to the local vet.

Just to make sure they were open, we gave them a call. “We don’t take cats, try the Cat Protection Society”. Called the Cat Protection Society. “We don’t take in cats, just adopt them, try the council.” Called Parramatta City Council. “We only pick up dogs, but as you have already caught it, I’ll just check...we have a women who does favours by picking up stray cats but we can’t get in touch with her. Here is her mobile, or try the RSPCA.” Called the RSPCA. “We don’t pick up cats, you have to drop it off at Blacktown pound.” Which close at 3:30pm and I don’t drive. “Oh, it’s injured, how injured?” HOW FUCKEN INJURED...INJURED (this was in my head of course). “I guess we’ll come pick it up, where are you?”

So, now that was organised, it was time to organise my tetanus shot. Now I washed the blood off and wrapped the thing in tissue paper while we were working all this out. We unwrapped the makeshift bandage with antiseptic and bandaids at the ready and discovered this tiny little cat had bitten straight through my finger nail...

It hurt more after that,

So was dropped off at the staff clinic, was given my shot and set on my way. Did ask for a quick look over of the actual wound (whole ‘bitten though a fingernail’ thing freaking me a bit) but that was too much I guess and was told, if I had worries, to visit a doctor...thought that’s what i was doing.

Now with a sore left arm, and unusable right finger (can I say writing is fun being right handed) a few jokes, a few pats on the back and one ‘incident report’ form required to be completed, knowing it is most likely they will put the poor girl down on the spot than give medical attention and re-home, but at least she won't be suffering, was it worth it?

I’m not sure. But who else would of done something?

Counting Down Existance

2010-04-12T21:02:00.000-07:00

Tired of the counting
Of numbers running through
Want a pace to set
With irregular occurrences
But I see the math around me
And fear to step out of line
For the dream does not equal
The equation in my mind
Wish to slow the sequence
Happy to embrace the imbalance
To breathe without the ticking
For once to have time
But without a single digit
There can be no addition
No 'safety in numbers'
Living without a dime

God is a Bullet by Boston Teran

2010-03-07T19:02:00.000-08:00

“During Christmas week in 1995, a fourteen-year-old girl is kidnapped by a bloodthirsty satanic cult that calls itself the Left-Handed Path. Bob Hightower, the girl’s father and a small-town copy, embarks on a desperate mission to find his daughter but his only hope lies with Case Hardin, an ex-cult member and ex-junkie living in a halfway house in Hollywood.
“Their quest – his for his child, hers to exorcise demons from the past – becomes a primal hunt-and-chase through a savage subculture of drugs and ritualistic violence. But it is Bob who holds the final card to throw into the macabre ‘game’…the twentieth enigma of the Tarot…the angel who signals Judgement…”

LOVE, LOVE, LOVE is book in a major way…my favourite passage:

“See,” she continues, “I believe everybody knows what life really is about. Only they are just not ready for what they would call ‘bad news’. They fight against it with God and the devil and all that holographic New Age bullshit. Yeah, I believe everybody knows there is nothing. Everybody knows down in their guts. It’s x number of years, then the ground and done, and it frightens them.
“I believe the human beast is desperate and saw fit to retro a god in its own image to conform to what it wants when it wants it. To what it needs when it needs it. To what it must have when it sees suit to have it. And worse yet, it was Michelangelo’s vision. You know…”
She stretches out her arm in a mock imitation of the God of the Sistine Chapel ceiling reaching out for Adam. “The big man,” she says. “Great White, as I like to call him. The shark of sharks.”
She shakes her head. “Yeah. White. And a man. You want my opinion, that was the original bullshit sin. ‘Cause it set a precedent. It said the godhead – perfection – was a male. Which the white culture turned into their own native son. So everyone and everything else was a step down. Women. Blacks. Indians. Animals. Gays.
“Shit, it’s Genesis. Which is just so much muckraking bullshit. So much moral and philosophical gerrymandering. It’s Hitler’s Mein Kamph, but a better mindfuck people can get into.
“Those who buy the faith ostracize those who don’t. And countries are built on the back of that faith. Civilizations on the back of those countries. The fuckin’ dollar bill, man – “In God We Trust” – what a fuckin’ wink.”
She flicks her ashes hard, and they rim the ashtray before dropping in. she takes one of the empty shot glasses and separates it from the others, letting it stand alone at the edge of the table.
“Then an outsider comes along,” she says. “And has a thought. Other outsiders buy into the idea. You know what it is. Cyrus. They create a devil in their own image and likeness. Their patron saint. And the war starts. And why not? Why should the outsiders lie down and die at the feet of the bullshit holy? You and Cyrus…” She slaps her arm where the needle would go. “You need each other. Like junk. ‘Cause neither side can see it all for what it is without their fix.
“Everyone needs a club. Club God and Club Scream. On the same block. With different bands. But the riffs are begged, borrowed, and bullshit. And the cover charge is too much, no matter what. You want the real truth, Coyote, go knocking on coffins.”
She points her cigarette at him. “And you want the real reason why you’re breaking apart? To believe in your God is to believe in him. Cyrus. To believe in him is to believe in the power of it all. And I don’t just mean what he did. I mean the implications around what you feel like. Being the rat’s ass in the Great White’s eyes. To believe in that is to believe in the reason for things to be what they are, and since that reason is beyond your grasp, you pray for your baby’s death. The end of suffering. The end of some failure in the Great White’s eyes.”
She holds up the cigarette, lets it burn some. “But whose suffering, Coyote, hers…or yours?”
….yadda, yadda, yadda…
“Of course, there is one loose cannon running around that could pass itself off as the real thing.” She looks around, reaches under the table and into her shirt. Bob watches her arm fiddle a bit, then come up with a closed hand. She opens it clandestinely. In the palm is a Frontier cartridge – a good old gliding metal jacket with brass bullet for better, deeper penetration.
“Take a look. This is the ultimate life form, the highest art form. The great equalizer. It crosses all political, social, and religious lines. It has no ties. It plays no favorites. It cuts both ways. It is as simple and profound as any fuckin’ parable the Bible could slop up through all that magisterial garbage. It carries history on its back. All life falls before it. All faith resides within that virgin brass casing. The virgin birth, baby.
“Yeah. It births new religions and bears down on old ones. There’s god, Coyote. Grin and bear it.” She slips it into his hand.

"Lonely Werewolf Girl" by Martin Millar

2010-01-18T18:54:00.000-08:00

"Millar's expansive tale of werewolves in the modern world - friendly werewolves, fashionista werewolves, troubled teenage werewolves, cross-dressing werewolves, were wolves of every sort - blends satire, black comedy, fantasy and is hard-edged, hilarious, believable and utterly unputdownable.

"As teenage werewolf Kalix MacRinnalch is pursued through the streets of London b murderous hunters, her sister, the Werewolf Enchantress, is busy designing cloths for the Fire Queen. Meanwhile, in the Scottish Highlands, the MacRinnalch Clan is plotting and feuding after the head of the clan suddenly dies intestate.

"As court intrigue threatens to explode in all-out civil war, the competing fractions determine that Kalix is the swing vote necessary to assume leadership of the clan. Unfortunately, Kalix isn't really into court politics - laudanum's more her thing. But what's even more unfortunate is that Kalix is the reason the head of the clan ended up dead, which is why she's now on the run in London...

"'Martin Millar writes like Kurt Vonnegut might have written, if he'd been born fifty years in a different country and hung around with entirely the wrong sort of people' - Neil Gaiman*"

Currently reading "Lonely Werewolf Girl" (I know, very emo), and I will simply say that if anyone out there enjoys a "well written" novel with "in-depth, thought-out characters" please DO NOT pick up this book.

For example (and I’ll try and write this as badly as the author):
Two humans, Moonglow and David are currently huddled in a corner of the office of Thrix (a werewolf fashion designer). With them, Malveria ("Fire Queens of the Hiyasta, Mistress of the Volcanoes, Protector of the Flame, Lady of the Inferno, Ruler of the Burning Element, Persecutor of Mankind, Conqueror of the Ice Dwarves, Destroyer of the Iron Giants…") hidden behind a sorcery spell.Now Thrix’s werewolf brothers enter the room. Tell their sister they can sense someone hiding in said corner. Than continue to talk about killing their other sister (family business).Previously stated Malveria decides to help werewolf fashion designer and leaves the protection of the sorcery spell. And, hey presto, the werewolf brothers refuse to discuss family business among non-family members. Who the fuck did they think was hiding in the corner?
I hope I’m not the only one with a headache…and if you think that is bad do not think that is the only inconsistency.

Now I’ve read crap…lots of crap, mostly found at the bottom of the bargain bin, but I don’t think I’ve read anything that feels like an idea for a novel in point form flushed out with a sentence here and there. Oh, we have a gap? Fill it in with useless information that you used just the page before. Can’t remember which character’s perspective your writing from, don’t bother checking, just pick one. Is your main character a teenager? Oh yes, wonderful, just make sure she has an eating disorder, drug problem, violence issues and a strong need to die, all while being described as amazingly beautiful in her excessively skinny state (so hot right now) and you have a book deal.

Who approves this shit? How the hell do I get a job like that (ooh, free books AND I get to be a bitch)? And he has won an award for a previous book!?! I wonder if standards are slipping or he is?

Well, I’ve started so I now have to finish, but I can't see the level of annoyance I'm feeling right now subsiding until I'm done.

I think this is the first time I have had a rant like this over a book…with the amount of crap I have read over the years, THAT’S how bad it is.

*Sounds like someone couldn't think of a nice thing to say.

Plus-Sized Models

2009-09-07T16:15:00.000-07:00

I am over the debate about plus-sized models (http://www.news.com.au/story/0,27574,26042579-5007146,00.html). They look amazing. Healthy, sexy and so happy. Yet people (mainly women) are ripping them apart. "Yes it's good that were getting away from the sticks, but idolising the 'obese' is wrong."

OBESE...give me a break...if you have to lift your belly apron to find your bits, your obese. If you can't breath after a trip from your bed to the loo, your obese.

Anyone remember this little goddess?

This women was idolised before junk food, inactive lifestyle and TV turned curvy into obese. And I'm sure she did a shit more than thirty minutes of exercise a day and ate more than the recommended serves of fruit and vegetables and less red meat.

And I know more than enough people in the "health range" that are extremely unhealthy...body image is not about health...a healthy body (what ever size and shape) is.

The Nightwalker by Diane Guest

2009-09-06T18:58:00.000-07:00

“If Virginia Andrews makes you shiver, Diane Guest will make you scream…”

“In the cold, clear moonlight surrounding the gardens of Clairemont, someone, something, is out for a midnight prowl…

“When Gillian Norlund learns of her half-brother Robin’s request to reunite her with her father, she returns to Clairemont with some reluctance, for it is a house of unhappy memories: the place where Gillian’s mother Claire met a horrifying and untimely death, and where Gillian herself experienced a shattering rejection by her family.

“Now Gillian is grown up, with a loving husband and Daisy and Will, her adorable eleven-year-old twins. By her reckoning, there’s nothing to lose by returning to Clairmont – so why is she so scared?

“When the family arrive at the house, they find a mansion infused with a sense of trauma and fear; the age-old disturbances are buried, but not forgotten. Gillian’s younger sister, Amanda, is psychotic and obsessive; her half-brother Robin alternately aloof or friendly; and the twins are clearly terrified of something – yet they won’t confess their troubles to Gillian. Only Robin’s wife Lenore seems ever cheery and optimistic, and that is peculiar in itself.

“Something, somewhere is casting terror over Clairmont – a terror which only Gillian can dispel, yet which threatens her, more than any other, with a vengeful, violent death…”

Oh, scary…well, not so much...at all. Predictable but written well enough. Was expecting a lot from a subheading stating, “If Virginia Andrews makes you shiver, Diane Guest will make you scream…” The closest this came to Virginia Andrews, was having her name on the cover.

All in all, it was a simple ghost story…predictable or not, I didn’t get who “done-it” until the end, but if I’d read the whole the blurb on the back, it jumps out at you.

And if I was that husband, the marriage wouldn’t have lasted long, I would bloody hell want to know…but I noisy.

Bring on a book with Amanda as the main character…she was fun...I do like the crazies.

Not likely to read again…anyone want?

Sister, Sister by Andrew Neiderman

2009-08-31T21:43:00.000-07:00

“Two minds. One body. A novel of terror…

“Terror Times Two
“Like laboratory animals, they have been studied and probed since the day they were born. The scientists refer to them as ‘Duplicitas Anterior’. The general public calls them ‘Siamese twins’. The tabloids label them freaks.
“But to Neil Richards, their new teacher, Alpha and Beta are very special children. Alpha is the dreamer; Beta is the doer. Alpha masters the thoughts; Beta controls movement. When Alpha dictates what’s to be done, Beta is her puppet.
“They are the closest sisters on Earth. No one can come between them. And when they put their minds together no one is safe…”

In 1992 were Siamese twins really this outrageous? The first half of the book relies on you to be completely in awe of these ‘freakish’ girls without giving you much information (and wasn’t it always common knowledge that natural light is a requirement for better health? Seems scientist who are studding the human condition, or pretending to do so, would require “subjects” to have some outdoor activity…even when hiding them from the world, for christ-sakes, prisons do it).

Doubt there is any actually scientific information contained. I feel the exact same story could have been written regarding normal twins, not just Siamese twins. I’m sure there are actually, it’s all quite familiar with Carrie (http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0074285/) and Firestarter (http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0087262/).

But after plodding my way through (over half the 292 paged paperback), I’ve finally gotten to some substance…but a “novel of terror”? Kids are scary, kids with “mind control” possibilities, quite a bit scarier…but not used to it’s full potential. And the “mad scientists” lair could have had some many “freakish” possibilities; even a connection with the “subjects” would of made the scenario more disturbing.

The ending is quite predictable, but I did enjoy the short conversation with the schizophrenic child.

Not likely to read again…anyone want?

Finally Getting off my Lazy Blogging Ass

2009-08-30T22:50:00.000-07:00

I doubt anyone checks for updates anymore but...

I have decided to write about something I think about and do everyday...BOOKS...I read them, love them, hate them and will now review them (and oh how this hurts...hate most reviewers).

Well that's the plan, hopefully I'll follow through...

Currently I’m ready a little number I picked up from a “closing down sale” for $2.50…

Sister Sister by Andrew Neiderman…“Two minds. One Body. A novel of terror…”

So far, a slow start…

Past, Present and Future

2008-08-12T20:10:00.000-07:00

Well, it’s certainly been a while since I last posted anything…”life”, it actually happens…who would of thought.

The three main things I’ve been contemplating recently are:

1. My past
2. Happiness
3. Career

When it comes to my past, I have analysed and, in almost all instances (stupid to believe it’s all), accepted. But now and then something would bring the “past” to the “present”. Today is such a day and after a few moment of contemplation I think I’ve gotten the gist of why a certain period of time in my past still affects me…

Pride

1. A high or inordinate opinion of one's own dignity, importance, merit, or superiority, whether as cherished in the mind or as displayed in bearing, conduct, etc.

I can’t seem to except that my presence in someone’s life meant absolutely nothing.

In the scheme of things, it was a very short period of time for everyone concerned. Now other similar scenarios in my past do not affect me as such, so why this one? I didn’t give myself to these people. I can honestly say not one of them truly knew me, and in many instances I did not know them. Any pain caused to me I have accepted as a result of my own submissiveness. But even with all this in my mind, I can’t contemplate that they don’t think of me, even just a smidge. I honestly don’t care if these people are in my life or not but I still spend a day every now and then wishing one of them would just call cause their fucken curious to know what the hell happened to me. Maybe I just want to stick it to them? “Look at me. ME! Finally found (was there the whole time, who would of thought)”.

Maybe over time it fades…but hasn’t there been enough time? I don’t care about them (just my usual curiosity that I would have over anyone who has played a part, even a bit part, in my life), so why should they care about me?

Cause I’m fucken wonderful, that’s why…lol…problem with gaining self worth I guess. Seems everything has a bit of a down side…Ying and Yang man!

Happiness

1. The quality or state of being happy.
2. Good fortune; pleasure; contentment; joy.

Once I start using the dictionary it takes a bit of control to stop…but I’ll try.

As mentioned above, life has decided to keep me on my toes. Just as I had settled into a lifestyle, the powers that be set me a curve ball. Now this is not a bad thing, accepting is just hard.

The majority of the time, I’m happy, and this is very strange for me. The times I’m not happy are usually when I’m alone picking at my happiness (for how can “I” be happy?). It’s all strange and I’m a bit scared and not quite sure what to do.

I’m trying not to over analyse the whole situation but my mind refuses to turn off when I’m alone and I refuse to give up alone time cause what my “self-discovery” has made me realise is that I am quite content and capable being on my own (plus no one likes everything that you do).So it’s just one more thing I have to come to terms with…”you’re happy, fucken deal with it (why are all the things I have to “come to terms with” are actually good for me? You’d think the shit bits of life would be hard to accept)!”.

I guess I just don’t know if I can take another hit. I mean there’s only one way to truly know if I can and, if I’m lucky, I might never know…but could I sit back and never test it?

Change is hard…not changing is just fucken boring.

Now the worst part is that previously my life was on an even scale. I felt the same about everything...I was coasting and quite content. Now that a part of my life is lighter, the rest falls into the depths. In other words...I REALLY FUCKEN HATE MY JOB! I feel as if it's sucking out my soul through a straw of jagged glass...now I know how good I can feel, I realise how bad this is (maybe that’s why accepting my happiness is so difficult, have some resentment over experiencing something greater than I have in the past).

So, once again, I’m contemplating a change of career (to actually having one). I really hate it when I do this, as it drive’s me up the fucken wall. Ever since I was sixteen people have been asking, “What do you want to do with your life?”. And every time I have no fucken clue. I know the difference between a hobby and a profession. I know that to make money (well, enough money) you can not love your job completely. I accept this, but still have no idea how to make money and be happy at the same time. All I want is some direction, cause standing in the middle of a major intersection, with multiple turn off’s, and asked to pick a direction without the aid of street signs is how I feel about the whole bloody mess.

I know I don’t want an office job…I’d love to physically do something. So I might actually think I’ve contributed to something…anything. But what? Everything I think of has a down side…maybe I’m just scared of changing…I’ve been doing the same crap since I was seventeen…

Does my fucken head in every time!

Change is hard…not changing would probably kill all that is me.

A Product of Genetics or Upbringing?

2008-06-24T23:03:00.001-07:00

Most of the time I believe my current state of being is based largely on my upbringing. Many situations in my past could have quite easily taken a different path. But every now and than, something would come up which would make me think that the paths I have chosen where not chosen at all.

Music being the most prime example.

It was once said to me that I prefer poets to musicians. I love a good song, but if it doesn’t say something with some thought or meaning it doesn’t last long in my consciousness. My favourite all time artists are Leonard Cohen and Nick Cave who both can tell an amazing story with the accompaniment of music.

Now is this because of my years in high school hiding in the library, getting my hands anything that resembled the darkness I felt was within, or was I born with attachment to the emotional (some overtly)?

Favourite songs from the time I used to call my happiest (I’m quite liking my current state of being):

Shakespeares Sister – Stay
Soul Asylum – Runaway Train
R.E.M – Everybody Hurts
R.E.M – Losing my Religion
Don McLean – American Pie
Queen – Bohemian Rhapsody

I mean, I was eight years old and loving the part in “Stay” where she was dressed resembling the devil (well, what I thought) and sang:

You'd better hope and pray
That you make it safe
Back to your own world
You'd better hope and pray
That you'll wake one day
In your own world
Because when you sleep at night
They don't hear your cries
In your own world
Only time will tell
If you can break the spell
Back in your own world

Maybe it all happened the way it did cause it was the only way for me…

Bogan* Watching

2008-06-22T19:44:00.000-07:00

Well, missed Winter Magic on the weekend but I did partake in something that I haven’t done in a while…sit at a pub and chat to Bogan’s. Now this wasn’t the plan, but you stick me in a situation where alcohol is consumed and, who knows why, I end up having quite lengthy conversations with the strangest people. This has happened by entire drinking life and it’s good that I’m an avid people watcher, otherwise I might not see the funny side to all this.

Most of my friends have commented over time and all have their reasons why I seem to be the target for this Bogan phenomenon but I can just not see a night out on the piss without this occurring at least once.

So Friday night I met a country boy who came to chat so his mate would feel comfortable coming over for a chat…spent quite a bit of time dribbling bull about tax returns…TAX…I ignore THAT subject as much as humanly possible (even during tax time, which reminds me…better not do that again this year)…than after escaping, went to another pub where got into a conversation about who knows what with Bogan’s of the older persuasion, which can be much more entertaining but don’t always laugh when you talk back to them.

But the Bogan highlight of the night was a chick, which I have never met in my life, came up to me, give me a big hug, told me I was her best friend and than left…as I said…highly entertaining…(that and the man taking the piss out of drag queens by singing ABBA in a bad frock and an even worse wig…though he did do the Proclaimer’s in a kilt).
But something did happen that has never happened before and will be talked about for some time, I’d be thinking. Got a lift home in a street sweeper. Who can f*cken say that…lol…really strange sitting in a truck with a steering wheel in front of you turning all by it’s self. Hope the poor block didn’t get in too much trouble for the smashed windscreen.

*If your offended by the term "Bogan" or the way I'm using it, I mean no offence. I have meet some really interesting and wonderful people in my life who, not only would I refer to as Bogan's, but would also refer to themselves as Bogan's. Bogan culture rocks…I’m such a f*cken “Westie”…lol...

Quick Catch Up

2008-06-19T21:56:00.001-07:00

I’m getting told off for not having written something in a while…so sorry…lol…

The reason being is that I have been on holidays in Cannes. Scuba diving the Great Barrier Reef. I WAS going to post photos and stuff but, me not having a camera (it drowned…not in the sea but in Rum), means I have to wait for other people’s happy snaps. Though I did have a flick through my Dad’s photos and I seem to always be fascinated by my dive computer. Almost every photo of me is snapped while staring at my wrist…never had one before, I was intrigued.

I’ll hopefully make a post on my holiday some time soon.

On my return my boots were waiting for me…I whipped those babies on as fast as…well, as fast as I could, I mean their thigh highs with laces and buckles…does take some time. And though I could get them on and had a little personal parade they were too small…so they were sent back and I’m waiting, once again…though wearing them to work might be questionable. I mean, in the photos they pass the knees but don’t go much further, once I put them on I realised that, for the photos, they use tall women…something I’m not…and a mate mentioned that a bigger size might mean travelling further up the leg…this could be very interesting. So outfit selection could be semi stressful. I was given one good idea that I want to try out, though, no point until the boots arrive...again.

Other than dealing with my fantasy footwear, I’ve re-done my hair (a week in salt water lead to interesting results)…insert photo taking, time wasting moment…

Ta-Dar!

The hairdresser convinced me that all over pink was not the way to go...something about re-growth which I did have issues with...I wish there was more pink though...arr well. Once I get sick of the pink I think I'll go red...don't hold me on it...I like changing my mind.

So it’s finally fu*ken Friday…WINTER MAGIC FESTIVAL tomorrow (Katoomba – max temp 11○C)…I’m hoping to “borrow” my Dad’s camera so I can take some photo’s…I really have to get myself another camera…one that can withstand backstroke through hard liquor (“Liquor? Don’t even know her”…lol).

Dress Code? What Dress Code?

2008-05-25T19:21:00.000-07:00

Was reading this article off the Sydney Morning Herald website where a man, dressed as a woman, was denied entry into Star City Casino.

Now the man in question said that they "were going into the main gaming room and a guard placed his hand on my shoulder and said: 'you are known here as a man, you are not appropriately dressed, I have to ask you to leave,"

Known as a man? Love that line…I’m “known” as a women but I wouldn’t be calling me a lady.

Than it was said that the two were dressed inappropriately ("wearing an extremely short skirt that barely covered his groin region, white underwear and garters … were visible").

So either they don’t like men in dresses (revealing or otherwise). I’m sure you could walk around Star City and see a number of women dressed in what security, above, has deemed inappropriate.

What if the man above didn’t “see himself as a woman” and was just a man who bought a nice frock and wanted to wear it out? It’s weird to see a man in a dress but that is only because we have been brought up in a society that teaches us that women can wear whatever they want but men have to wear “male” orientated clothing.

“Girls can wear jeans
And cut their hair short
Wear shirts and boots
cause its ok to be a boy
But for a boy to look like a girl is degrading
cause you think that being a girl is degrading”
(Madonna – What it Feels like for a Girl)

There are quite a few countries that have male customs were they wear robes or kilts…these are not seen as dresses? I know most kids would point to a Scot in a kilt and ask, “Mummy, why is that man wearing a skirt?” and mummy would reply, “That’s not a skirt, that’s a knit.” Helping to enforce societies teachings that “real” men don’t were women’s clothing (a kilt is “mans” clothing…“we’re men, manly men. We’re men in tights, tight tights”). What about all those Romans…parading around, showing off their legs?

So the matter is going to be taken to a tribunal, but wait…"The Anti-Discrimination Act does not protect transvestites, it protects transsexuals, but you said you live as a woman. Before the tribunal can hear the case what you have to be able to prove to the court is that sexually you are a transsexual."

What the fu*k does that have to do with anything?

If a woman was refused entry for dressing inappropriately and complained how would she be dealt with? Does a man have to be deemed a transsexual before being allowed to wear a dress in public?

I wear what I want…why can’t everyone else? It’s not like these places actually enforce their dress codes in the first place. No singlets…unless you’re a woman with your tits out. No thongs or sandals…have you seen women’s footwear?

P.S Got a bit depressed last post, which I now know is because that afternoon I came down with a virus that left me in bed for a few days and I’m still trying to get over it.

I have a more positive out look these days…I swear…lol

A mess…this blog has “ranting” in the title for a reason.

2008-05-18T19:54:00.000-07:00

I was emailing a friend today, asked him how his weekend piss-up was, and he stated “unsuccessful...I drank but didn't get drunk”.

Is getting drunk a requirement for a good night out? With my dry month of May in full swing the question that came to mind was “drinking, what do I want as the end result?” To get drunk?

My friend’s reasoning, “Just felt like it. Don’t do it very often and I had the time off. No particular reason.”

In my teenage years, getting drunk was the goal because, and I’m not ashamed to say, it was cool. I mean, getting tanked was the thing to do. *HALE PEER-PRESSURE* Once the novelty of being legal age wore off it turned into the fact that I needed to get drunk to have fun. It made the music better, the people better and doomed relationships tolerable. I didn’t have to deal with the hole I was digging for myself and all the misery I was feeling was just a hangover.

Now that my self-respect has grown back, why do I drink? I don’t like getting drunk; not remembering getting home freaks me out every time it occurs. So why don’t I learn?

Mostly I think it’s this firm belief that I can drink…a lot…and be fine…well, quite tipsy, but fine. Now this might have been the case when I was young and my gut made of iron (how else can you explain large quantities of sugar, grease and all things bad?) but as the years get on (and on…and on…) the iron has rotted away to leave soft, vulnerable tissue. Yet with this change I still believe after downing shots and just as many chasers that I’ll be A.O.K. Not the case Missy, time to grow up. Is it a matter of growing up? Or just accepting my limits? And not just when it comes to drinking.

Some time ago I had a conversation on what an alcoholic was. I always believed an alcoholic was someone who pretty much had a drink in their hands at all times. As soon as they wake up, they would be downing something. I knew people like this, and this belief was backed up by everything I saw or read…than I had this conversation were the title alcoholic also describes someone who can’t stop at one. They could go for weeks, months, years, without drinking and have no problems, but when they do, they drink and drink and drink. Now this freaked me out some and I made the decision to see if I can stop after only a few. Some times it worked, some times it didn’t. The times it worked I was quite comfortable with my surroundings. The times it didn’t, well, I wasn’t. And then you have the times when I have no idea why I drank that much.

So here I am, dry for the month of May. No problems with relaxing with a glass of water but what happens when my dry month is over and I decide to have a few? Will I be fine, just normal paranoia (can paranoia be normal)? Or do I fall in this newly discovered (for me anyway) area of alcoholism?

What’s the point of drinking in the first place?

After high school I can only see the pub/club as the place to socialise. Though getting shit-faced with a bunch of strangers, who are also off chops, isn’t the best situation for “getting to know you” conversation.

Oh fu*k I have a headache now…I’ve reread everything over and over…I’ve made changes but it’s still a mess and I have no idea what I’m going on, and on, and on about.

Bottle - DAAS
A stinking sun burned me awake
Through the shattered windowpane
I recalled through the eyes of claret
had taken me again
And the hair of the dog revives me
But I find it hard to swallow
It's a marriage made in heaven between me and the bottle

A thousand words fell through my hands
And the room just spins
This sodden mattress holds my heart
And it cradles my regrets
I'll read it once again
For he knows that I'll not follow
It's a marriage of convenience between me and the bottle

So king alcohol comes back
With the traffics mournful cry
And he staggers, drunk and skillful
Through my throat all parched and dry
And if I should die before I wake
I pray the Lord my soul to take
Then I could rest
And never wake again in sorrow
It's a marriage on the rocks between me and the bottle

Why do I drink? Still haven’t answered that question.

Take one:
I’m at a pub/club sitting by myself surround by people. Conversation is strained as small talk was never my forte (yes it’s cold…) and I’m sitting/standing there, staring into space, which probably looks quite weird and I can’t fu*ken stand pity. So the bottle in my head gets lifted to my mouth time and time again to break the stiffness. Gulp by gulp it gets easier and I can talk just as much crap as anyone.

Take two:
Growing up it seemed to be you were either perfect or fu*ked up. Average was not an option, you’d just fall between the cracks. I was never going to be perfect (I never gave myself the chance) so fu*ked up it was. But I didn’t drink, take drugs, or have sex…guess I fixed that in a few short years. Fu*ked up also meant your life was shorter. “Indirect suicide” was the name of the game but try as hard as I might, others were better at it than me. Now after years of trying to die, I’m trying to live…but how can you live when all you do is question everything and everyone else just wants to talk about the weather?

Either way it’s fu*ken pitiful.

My Footwear Fetish

2008-05-08T21:34:00.000-07:00

A few years ago now I tagged along with my Dad when he and some old footy playing mates had a three-week holiday in America.

The final week was spent in Hollywood, which is dirtier than Kings Cross, in my opinion, but I did LOVE the shopping. Everything I love in clothing and footwear was easily found and CHEEP (compared to Australian retailers charging three hundred or more times that of the Americans).

This is how I came to own my boots (to add to my collection which includes lace up knee-highs and docs)…knee high platform boots (toes to ground was four inches…than add the heal) which laced up the front and had buckles (also I side zipper, otherwise they would have been hell to get off when drunk). I loved my boots and wore them to the pub, to clubs and even to work (never fallen over in them in case your wondering…I loved those boots, and those boots loved me).

Once returning home I decided to look for thigh-high boots similar to my new knee-highs. And low and behold they existed and I was in love (well, lust, must be honest) so I click my way to the shipping page…no international postage available…ok, no big, I’ll just find another website… no international postage available…there boots, I’m sure they’ll be fine… no international postage available…I have money… no international postage available…fu*k you all, you fu*ken fu*ks…must breath…so after many let downs I had to except that, right at this moment, I will not be walking around in thigh-high boots and starting thinking about how much I was willing to spend to get an Australian store to get them in for me ($100 in the US equalled $800.00 or more here…HOW THE FU*K IS THAT FAIR?)…

From time to time I would look online randomly, hope never truly dying…but always the same…which was more painful after one specific night where me and my boots were out having a blast when we gave the mosh pit a go (was always nervous of them after I had to be pulled out of one…plus I’m much shorter than everyone else…the boots fixed that)…loved every minute and I’m sure my boots did too before they died…

I held the tears in until the shoe repair place told me they couldn’t be saved…I’m tearing up right now as I think of it…my babies…*big sigh*…

Than yesterday…

I was looking online for gothic cloths, as one does when hard at work, and with me saving money I decided to splurge on an outfit (not sure which one yet but this is the most extreme…).
http://www.galleryserpentine.com.au/

Now with a Victorian outfit you need Victorian shoes/boots…and when looking for shoes/boots I always end up look for my wet-dream thigh-highs…suddenly I come across an Australian website (an easy way to bypass international postage…though I find it ironic that us Aussies will post to the US)…

!!!I FOUND MY BOOTS!!!

How could this be? Am I dreaming, is it real? Oh calm down Corinne, they would have raised the price ridiculously…NO!!! I’m in love!!!

So now, for the entire world to see, I give you my darling ones that will soon be mine…MY PRECIOUS!

First up is the Ranger…lol…love the names they give footwear…now these have a completely other story behind them.

I had this Ute that got smashed up and we sold it on EBay. Now there was no way I would get what I paid for it, but I was hoping to get something…which I did…the day the auction was finishing I was looking at New Roc boots (I know this looks like an addiction, but it’s not, I can stop any time…I just don’t want to) and came across a pair that I loved and thought they were worth the $800.00 price tag. As the Ute went for more than $800.00 I decided to get the boots…I like spoiling me…

Now the Ute buyer transferred the money into my Dad’s account and we were discussing getting it into mine when the final bill for our holiday to the Great Barrier Reef came in which, my share, as you might guess, was over what I got for the Ute. So Dad kept the money and wrote a check…so no New Rocs.

So when I came across this website that had THE BOOTS, I went looking around to see what else they had and found the Rangers. Now they don’t have the solid metal heal, buckles (I do love buckles) and other New Roc attachments but they were what I wanted in the first place. Just simple boots to ware anywhere with anything (docs are flates and knee-highs are a pain sometimes and don’t look as good with baggy army shorts).

Than the Monroe’s caught my eye in the footer of the page
While looking for them I cam across the shoes to go with my soon to own Victorian outfit (thank you Carolyn for helping me to decide between the calf-high and ankle boots…asking Carolyn’s opinion led to this blog). And last but by no means, least…the long desired…fantasised…THE BOOTS…named Electra (I will be getting them in black)!

Boots for Babes...I LOVE YOU!!!

YOU HAVE BEEN TAGGED! Bloody Carolyn

2008-05-06T20:22:00.000-07:00

Link the person who tagged you
Mention the rules on your blog: Tell about 6 unspectacular quirks of yours
Tag fellow bloggers by linking them
Leave a comment on each of the tagged bloggers blogs letting them know they have been tagged.

1. When it comes to all time favourite music, I'm more into poets than musicians.
2. Have a fear of free falling which will stop me from bungee jumping but not sky diving.
3. Wish to travel to places that a single female westerner should not travel to.
4. Have dreams that I rarely remember, but when I do I wish I didn't.
5. Since year seven in high school I have struggled to decide what to be when I grow up so I have made the decision to never grow up.
6. Have a religious fixation but have a tendency to question EVERYTHING so have no ounce of faith.

Ok Carolyn, new one for ya: Tell of six of your worst habits

Reading Porn

2008-05-06T19:42:00.000-07:00

Before I explain the whole concept of readable porn I best explain how I came to be in the situation of reading porn in the first place.

Once upon a time, in a far away mind frame was a little depressed girl collecting little depressed fiction. Anything dark, miserable, disheartened was collected, read, cherished and placed in a ex-library bookcase to be re-read whenever and forever (see, little depressed girl has a terrible memory and can re-read the same book over and over again…also hates borrowing, needs to “own” the story in all sense of the word). Over the years the collection grew and grew. From an obsession with vampire mythology, came an obsession with vampire fiction (as no non-fiction works went into detail about vampire mythology unless it was bloody Dracula), than lycanthropes, witches and suddenly little depressed girl was a little depressed fantasy freak.

Now from time to time, usually when there was no worthy fantasy under the big SALE sign in the various bookstores, little depressed girl started delving into other forms of reading material. Suddenly science fiction (too technical for one of the memory challenged), biographies, regular fiction, history, mythology and so on, was added to the ex-library bookcase.

On a day like any other, now little semi self-aware girl (little depressed girl got some professional help) stood in front of her beloved ex-library bookcase, looking for some fluff to entice her imagination for a day or so (and to distract from intensive self analysis). Suddenly the realisation hit that the majority of the collection was nothing to laugh over and a trip was immediately undertaken to the claustrophobic second-hand bookstore hidden in an arcade in Penrith.

Now little semi self-aware girl had “romance” and “chick lit” in her collection (which took some time to except and in the beginning had tendencies of keeping covers hidden while reading on the train) and had a few laughs instead of tears.

Some might see how readable porn would come into this, but just in case I’ll continue.

After some time I came to the conclusion that I was missing some sex…in my reading material people…the missing sex in other parts of my life are for another blog, and probably only after a few, so nothing as such this month (still going strong, go little sober almost fully-aware girl). See, anyone who reads fantasy would know that it usually contains a fair bit of sex (and not usually the “natural” kind…a friend and I used to joke the Anita Blake series was turning into porn but Laurell K. Hamilton seems to have satisfied whatever needed satisfying and is back on track…we await the next instalment with bated breath). Now all this romance and chick lit fluff does not seem to commonly delve into the sex lives of their love crazed characters and, as such, resembles a PG movie where there’s a big kiss, some metaphors and two happy, satisfied people lying in bed together (not necessarily naked). So on the next trip to the bookstore (this one Basement Books by Railway Square in Sydney, where, for $50.00, you can break your back carrying books home) I decided to try and get some “hot and steamy” chick lit…I still have small twinges of sham at all this, must remember “chick lit is not a lower form of reading material, chick lit is not a lower form of reading material, chick lit is not…” Well, I got exactly what I was looking for, and more some.

Porn, as best as I can describe it, has a thin, predictable strip of a story line containing multiple characters that have multiple sex in multiple positions, which result in multiple orgasms. These books, it’s like I’m reading a bloody screenplay (if porn had screenplays) with added scene descriptions! I found it quite amusing that the whole “yeah, give it to me baby” and such said during sex turns my stomach, both when watching porn and when reading it (and having it, but, once again, for another blog). I don’t get that at all but I do love how imaginative they get with describing genitalia. Plus I love how these books (which seem to be part of a collection, I realised later) all have “Remember, in real life, always practise safe” before the story (I use the term loosely) begins.

How did it come to this? Isn’t there fluff out there with a story line with strong and detailed characters that get it on in a way that enhances said story without becoming it (such like a relationship based on sex…fun but without meaning)? And not a story line that has something to do with war, death, disease and a good old “end of the world as we know it”. Aren’t there happier conflicts and situations that characters can overcome?

Well, even with the tears of frustration (with the writing people) in my eyes, I’m still laughing, so it can’t all be bad.

***After inflicting you with a summary of my reading history, the whole “readable porn” section of this blog was quite anti-climatic…HA!!! Hey, if you can make one person laugh…***

First Test for "Dry" May

2008-05-04T22:40:00.000-07:00

Today’s rant will mark the first trip to the pub during my “dry” May. Yes, for the first time since I starting partaking in the adventure that is the murky oblivion of drinking myself unconscious, I have decided to give the grog a miss for a month (just before travelling with my Dad and the scuba diving club to the Great Barrier Reef who love a good drop…or a down pour)…

I found it quite amusing that when “pub for lunch” was mentioned by work mates that I did not think of said decision made only a week earlier. Nor did it come to mind when I was ordering my lunch…but I did have a good giggle at myself when I automatically stated “I’m just going to grab a beer”. No beer for me…when I explained this to a friend she was quite puzzled for more than a moment…no alcohol…you’re in a pub? Her perplexed face was priceless…but I still had to suffer with a coke…(other than water, what else is really on offer? I’ve never needed to know before).

I still had a laugh and good food…and no spontaneous giggling when returning to the office…unfortunately, after a trip to the pub, I’m used to the rest of the day flying…sad to say it’s going along at it’s normal pace but I’m sure none of my work will be required to be rechecked tomorrow.

And, for the entire world to read, I have some time and concentration to write a rant.

Since going out to a club some years ago with “friends” and making the one time (and only time) offer of being designated driver I have a fear that sober me would find out my drunk “friends” are fu*k wits (in a bad way…there is a good way to be a fu*k wit but you have to have talent to pull it off)…after this epiphany I drunk enough to kill those brain cells that held tight to THAT memory…I guess that I had taught myself over the years that drinking makes, not necessarily everything better, but at least I got to enjoy myself in sub-conscious self pity.

Now, quite a few years since that sober observation of my social surroundings, I have made the conscious decision to take a different path of dealing. This seems to be no social surroundings...but hey, nothing's perfect and instead of enjoying myself in sub-conscious self pity (and spending quite a bit of money doing it), I'm actually enjoying myself in conscious self pity (DEBT FREE!).

Facebook post: The last thought of a dying brain cell...

2008-04-27T23:11:00.000-07:00

After a weekend of remembering the Anzac’s by drinking away my memory (an intriguing oxymoron) and pleasing a friend who just wanted to help me get laid (which failed, not like I would of remembered anyway)…I have come to the decision that the month of May will be a dry one for me.

Dad will sigh with relief but won’t probably know what to do with all the extra beer and red wine around the house.

And what does one do if not a drooling vegetable sitting in front of the TV all Sunday trying to remember the previous night, and when you get a flash, wish you didn’t?

Oh, now I’m making it sound all bad. Had a good weekend, but I’m intrigued to have a good weekend without the physical and emotional pain for the week following…cause work is bad enough without having to deal with self-inflicted pain. And no one is very comforting when it’s self inflicted…insert bleary eyed pouting.

Facebook post: Well, it's about time!

2008-04-22T23:04:00.000-07:00

It took seven years of working in the same job but it’s finally happened…the wall between delusion and reality, that has been labelled as “sanity”, has finally come crushing down…either that or technology has began taking it’s revenge and leaving no witnesses.

Yesterday it was the phone, today it’s the computer…fingers crossed the TV is still my friend…oh, now I’m being silly, TV was never my friend…but I so wish it was.

Though isn’t it said that if you question your sanity, you’re sane? When you truly believe without question that you’re sane that, you’re in fact, insane? Yes, I think it’s safer to go with that theory…though I was looking forward to re-modelling my environment with off white padded walls, with a dash of questionable stains, which would just be a perfect setting for the white long-sleeved jacket (with buckles…love buckles) that the men closing in are offering…

“What do you mean ‘stay clam’? I AM CALM!”