I've been back for a week. Busy catching up on work...creep busting, liquor store busting and just getting my head around things again.
In relation to creeps, what is it that makes fat, ugly middle-aged men think its okay to get with young girls? Isn't there enough in the media about pedo's? Why do they think it's okay? Are they stupid? Desperate? Clueless? Why are there so many men with so few values and ethics?
Now...I realise that this doesn't apply to all men. I realise that it's unfair of me to imply that this is an everyday kind of thing for the average guy - and its not - but I do see more than my fair share of it due to the type of work I do, and hell, far more of it goes on than most of us ever imagined. Some of it is so blatant - they don't even bother to hide what they're up to any more.
Due to my own ethics and values, I'm participating in following due process here - helping and allowing the law to do its thing with this SOB, but honestly, sometimes I think the law goes too easy on people who take advantage of other people who are more vulnerable - especially adults who prey upon children.
If it were my courtroom and legislation, I'd lock them up for a suitable period - WITH therapy AND if required, general education that includes societal values and ethics studies. Then, if suitable for release I'd ban them from the internet, from being in possession of any form of pornography, from being with a child except with a court-appointed chaperone, and I'd demand ongoing education and therapy. I would expect that person to carry a marked drivers licence and passport that identifies them as a sex offender - for the rest of their life. Every employer, every volunteer organisation - every thing that requires ID in this lifetime should have access to this information.
It's not revenge that I'm after - just public safety. Taking away someone's right to 'enjoy' pornography or the internet (as a source of it) doesn't even compare to taking away someone's (in this case a young persons) right not to be preyed upon or taken sexual advantage of. Including a 'sex offender' label on someone's licence is no doubt a far lesser burden and label than the victims will carry forever. It might just impinge on their 'right' to privacy, or their 'right' to not have to face the contempt/scorn of others, or their right to have moved on in life - but perhaps once they're perpetrated abuse and been convicted of it, there's no getting away from the fact that they did it!
Nobody should have to suffer creeps, least of all children and other vulnerable people.
As for the grog store...well, they're repeat offenders at selling spirits and pre-mix to children. I previously reported them to the Police and also to their company head office. This time I've had enough, and reported them to the liquor licensing board. Kids will always find a way to get 'illegal' stuff if they really want it...but to you McKellar supermarket, you're outrageous and I hope you lose your license entirely.
Wednesday, 8 October 2008
Saturday, 13 September 2008
Going on a roadtrip
Well everyone, I'm outta here for about two weeks. Heading for the outback. Flinders Ranges, Lake Eyre, Broken Hill...that kind of thing.
See ya when I return!
Gabe
See ya when I return!
Gabe
Thursday, 4 September 2008
Turdman & Tandoori Man
So after a brief brush with enthusiasm, I've temporarily put it down in a can of turps and left it there to soak. It all started with Turdman. Let me tell you about Turdman.
About a week or so ago I was at the gym feeling energetic and happy to be the blob that every bimbo is grateful that they're not. I overhear part of a conversation as I approach: "OMFG I so like have half a kilo to lose so I can like look hawt in my new $5 designer spaghetti singlet from the Brand Depot, it was like totally a fully-designer bargain"...{pause}...then..."farrrrrrk".
Being a bit sensitive I think the "farrrrrrk" is something to do with me, and look back at them. They're not looking at me. They're looking at Turdman. He's on the other side of the gym.
Now, my gym is McMassive, with no less than 50 treadmills - if that puts it into some kind of perspective, with masses of spin bikes, pin-loaded weights, three large class studios, boxing...the whole thing. Bimbo and beefcake central. Additionally, there's a very pink, very freaky womens gym downstairs, but frankly, that's for the modern breed of femme separatists - and I'm hardly one of those.
I take my place on the uber-awesome treadmill with built in LCD tv and crank the whole thing up to a massive 5.5km/hr. I have short legs. For me this is almost a run. Next to me is an athletic being, running in all her lean splendour at 8km/hr with a gradient of level 7. Mine is level 3. I figure that on a size:effort ratio, what I'm doing is way harder. It makes me feel better to have decided that, anyway. Then I notice the offensive odour.
I can't place it. It's mouldy old kitchen sponge. It's wet dog. It's burning rags. It's not something I can identify, but it's truly foul. I look to the athletic being, but she looks in pristine shape. She's checking me out too. I begin to wonder if it's something about me...but I know it aint me. She's obviously feeling a bit paranoid too. But then I look across to my right. Six treadmills over, walking at a snails pace, is Turdman.
So I check him out. He's an unfortunate being. Brylcreem'd hair, 40 something, skin the pallor of a RPG addict, evidently becomes allergenic and bubbles up in blisters when exposed to bright lights and fresh pumped-in air. Turdman is maybe 160+kg, is wearing chocolate brown fleece track pants, a chocolate brown Bonds raglan t-shirt that only emphasises his overall...roundness. He has an iPod plugged in, and I guess that he's listening to Abba. He appears to be pretty pleased with himself.
He scratches and jiggles his genitals. A lot. I feel ill. Then I notice his feet. Black dimensional objects with no particular shape, but with the soles flapping along on the treadmill in a hazardous manner. My god, they used to be skate shoes. My god, now I know from whence the stench comes. My god...he's big, he's brown, he smells bad...he's Turdman.
He notices me looking and smiles at me. Oh sweet jebus, what to do??? I give him a very half-hearted nod, and look away. I know Turdman's type. They live on sausages and chips and sweat it out trying to get into the top 100 on MMORPG's everyday while they wait for the next edition of Military Monthly just to see if their article on the amazing Taliban-busting super-duper multi missile blastertron has been published and might get them a personal invitation to present it at the Pentagon. Blecccccch. Vile.
So I make a run for it. Not on the treadmill. To the other side of the gym. I get rowing instead.
I don't see Turdman on my next few visits. In fact, he's so entirely forgettable that I forget he exists. That was, until Monday this week.
Bravely baring my white legs, I pull on shorts, a tshirt; gym gear. Jump on the treadmill. Instantly notice that 1) the treadmill has issues, and 2) I'm next to Tandoori man. Tandoori man evidently enjoys a good curry, and while I've not actually seen this, I gotta say that having been next to him once or twice before, he generally finds it appropriate to share the experience inappropriately. Hell. Why are people lacking in social graces these days?? Time to move.
I walk up to treadmill #45, climb aboard and get moving. Ten minutes into what's feeling pretty good, I'm stopped dead in my tracks. Shock. Stink. Vomit. Turdman stakes his claim on the tready next to me. I don't look at him.
Not wanting to be impolite or tactless, I endure another 5 minutes, sucking breath in from the other corner of my mouth. I feel my lungs shrivelling. I feel the cancer of his stench engulf my entire being. 15 minutes in, I again make a run for it. SO out of there. SO gone to the far corner of the downstairs 'free weights' gym area. There might be men down there, and men can be smelly, but these guys have some sense of pride and dignity. They strut, they pout and they pose. They flex their muscles to impress each other. But they don't stink, and that's my point.
And somehow, deep among the eye-jerky, I decide that maybe those separatists tucked away among the pink bits really are onto something. Women tend not to stink. Women buy new gym shoes the moment the old ones get a hint of mank about them. Women simply are pretty bloody amazing when it comes to personal hygiene. I suddenly appreciate this. Very much.
No more will I pour scorn upon the seperatist sellout femmes in Club Pink.
No more will I venture heartily and healthfully to the gym on a Monday night, lest Turdman appears like a malevolent apparition intent on olfactory offence of the kind that chills me to the bone.
Hell, no.
About a week or so ago I was at the gym feeling energetic and happy to be the blob that every bimbo is grateful that they're not. I overhear part of a conversation as I approach: "OMFG I so like have half a kilo to lose so I can like look hawt in my new $5 designer spaghetti singlet from the Brand Depot, it was like totally a fully-designer bargain"...{pause}...then..."farrrrrrk".
Being a bit sensitive I think the "farrrrrrk" is something to do with me, and look back at them. They're not looking at me. They're looking at Turdman. He's on the other side of the gym.
Now, my gym is McMassive, with no less than 50 treadmills - if that puts it into some kind of perspective, with masses of spin bikes, pin-loaded weights, three large class studios, boxing...the whole thing. Bimbo and beefcake central. Additionally, there's a very pink, very freaky womens gym downstairs, but frankly, that's for the modern breed of femme separatists - and I'm hardly one of those.
I take my place on the uber-awesome treadmill with built in LCD tv and crank the whole thing up to a massive 5.5km/hr. I have short legs. For me this is almost a run. Next to me is an athletic being, running in all her lean splendour at 8km/hr with a gradient of level 7. Mine is level 3. I figure that on a size:effort ratio, what I'm doing is way harder. It makes me feel better to have decided that, anyway. Then I notice the offensive odour.
I can't place it. It's mouldy old kitchen sponge. It's wet dog. It's burning rags. It's not something I can identify, but it's truly foul. I look to the athletic being, but she looks in pristine shape. She's checking me out too. I begin to wonder if it's something about me...but I know it aint me. She's obviously feeling a bit paranoid too. But then I look across to my right. Six treadmills over, walking at a snails pace, is Turdman.
So I check him out. He's an unfortunate being. Brylcreem'd hair, 40 something, skin the pallor of a RPG addict, evidently becomes allergenic and bubbles up in blisters when exposed to bright lights and fresh pumped-in air. Turdman is maybe 160+kg, is wearing chocolate brown fleece track pants, a chocolate brown Bonds raglan t-shirt that only emphasises his overall...roundness. He has an iPod plugged in, and I guess that he's listening to Abba. He appears to be pretty pleased with himself.
He scratches and jiggles his genitals. A lot. I feel ill. Then I notice his feet. Black dimensional objects with no particular shape, but with the soles flapping along on the treadmill in a hazardous manner. My god, they used to be skate shoes. My god, now I know from whence the stench comes. My god...he's big, he's brown, he smells bad...he's Turdman.
He notices me looking and smiles at me. Oh sweet jebus, what to do??? I give him a very half-hearted nod, and look away. I know Turdman's type. They live on sausages and chips and sweat it out trying to get into the top 100 on MMORPG's everyday while they wait for the next edition of Military Monthly just to see if their article on the amazing Taliban-busting super-duper multi missile blastertron has been published and might get them a personal invitation to present it at the Pentagon. Blecccccch. Vile.
So I make a run for it. Not on the treadmill. To the other side of the gym. I get rowing instead.
I don't see Turdman on my next few visits. In fact, he's so entirely forgettable that I forget he exists. That was, until Monday this week.
Bravely baring my white legs, I pull on shorts, a tshirt; gym gear. Jump on the treadmill. Instantly notice that 1) the treadmill has issues, and 2) I'm next to Tandoori man. Tandoori man evidently enjoys a good curry, and while I've not actually seen this, I gotta say that having been next to him once or twice before, he generally finds it appropriate to share the experience inappropriately. Hell. Why are people lacking in social graces these days?? Time to move.
I walk up to treadmill #45, climb aboard and get moving. Ten minutes into what's feeling pretty good, I'm stopped dead in my tracks. Shock. Stink. Vomit. Turdman stakes his claim on the tready next to me. I don't look at him.
Not wanting to be impolite or tactless, I endure another 5 minutes, sucking breath in from the other corner of my mouth. I feel my lungs shrivelling. I feel the cancer of his stench engulf my entire being. 15 minutes in, I again make a run for it. SO out of there. SO gone to the far corner of the downstairs 'free weights' gym area. There might be men down there, and men can be smelly, but these guys have some sense of pride and dignity. They strut, they pout and they pose. They flex their muscles to impress each other. But they don't stink, and that's my point.
And somehow, deep among the eye-jerky, I decide that maybe those separatists tucked away among the pink bits really are onto something. Women tend not to stink. Women buy new gym shoes the moment the old ones get a hint of mank about them. Women simply are pretty bloody amazing when it comes to personal hygiene. I suddenly appreciate this. Very much.
No more will I pour scorn upon the seperatist sellout femmes in Club Pink.
No more will I venture heartily and healthfully to the gym on a Monday night, lest Turdman appears like a malevolent apparition intent on olfactory offence of the kind that chills me to the bone.
Hell, no.
Sunday, 24 August 2008
Fitness, nutrition and other wannabee four letter words
Okay so I've been consulting the interwebs for sage advice on things as mindnumbing as nutrition...and based upon what I usually eat - having just tracked it for a week and a bit, I:
a) don't eat enough
b) don't eat often enough
c) can't believe it
d) have serious-looking deficiencies in potassium and magnesium and calcium
e) don't eat enough protein
f) am just about in the right zone in the 'fats' stakes
Boring. So...with all the zeal of a jihadist, I've embarked upon a 3 meals/day + 1 snack regieme.
Still can't get all the minerals and vitamins I supposedly need.
So if this is the really truly truth, how come I'm not dead? Going to add 1 daily Berocca and see what happens.
And then there's exercise...I've scheduled in 3 gym cardio sessions per week (yes, one starts at ***6am*** surely a typographical error) PLUS three 'strength' building sessions.
Call me crazy...but yeah, I must be.
a) don't eat enough
b) don't eat often enough
c) can't believe it
d) have serious-looking deficiencies in potassium and magnesium and calcium
e) don't eat enough protein
f) am just about in the right zone in the 'fats' stakes
Boring. So...with all the zeal of a jihadist, I've embarked upon a 3 meals/day + 1 snack regieme.
Still can't get all the minerals and vitamins I supposedly need.
So if this is the really truly truth, how come I'm not dead? Going to add 1 daily Berocca and see what happens.
And then there's exercise...I've scheduled in 3 gym cardio sessions per week (yes, one starts at ***6am*** surely a typographical error) PLUS three 'strength' building sessions.
Call me crazy...but yeah, I must be.
Monday, 18 August 2008
38.5
Well, tomorrow's the big day. Day one of my big health and fitness kick. Tomorrow I'll be exactly 38.5 years old - and therefore its time to begin.
I have big plans...always do, really, but this time they're for myself. I'm not completely over the flu and its lingering effects, so I'll take it easy for another couple of days yet, but time is ticking...the gym beckons.
I have an appointment with my GP on Wendesday for a full check-up, and then...watch out everyone!
I've been in a bit of a funk for the last four years. Now its time to get down to the business of being alive again.
I have big plans...always do, really, but this time they're for myself. I'm not completely over the flu and its lingering effects, so I'll take it easy for another couple of days yet, but time is ticking...the gym beckons.
I have an appointment with my GP on Wendesday for a full check-up, and then...watch out everyone!
I've been in a bit of a funk for the last four years. Now its time to get down to the business of being alive again.
Friday, 15 August 2008
First things first
You're wondering why I've subbed this blog 'a chiliadic odyssey'. It's simple really, but it's also complicated in the way that I have a habit of really getting abstruse when I get a bit enthusiastic. That's creativity hard at work. Sorry about that.
Chiliad (pronounced Kill-e-ad) roughly means 1000 of something. It's an ancient Greek word. Thinking upon that, it occurred to me that 'Chiliad' was somewhat reminiscent of Iliad, which made me think of Homer (not Simpson) and both the Iliad and the Odyssey. If you don't know what I mean, think ancient poetry. If you don't care to know what that has to do with any of this, then you're not alone.
Now, regarding the 1000 of something, there are roughly 1000km in my proposed journey - hence the 'Chiliad'. The journey itself hopefully will in no way resemble Homer's Odyssey - for during that there were battles, cannibals, witches, lovers, suitors, super-sneaky cover-ups and disguises, and along the way, a whole bunch of people were drugged and turned into pigs. No, this is not what it's about!!
It's quite simply about a 1000km journey on foot from Perth, to Albany in Western Australia walking the Bibbulmun Track.
Why would I want to do such a thing? Well, as you may have noticed in the subtitle, it's about life and death! Bear with me for a little longer while I explain.
I believe that in life you have to do things that put life into your life. That's why I'm working on riding my unicycle for more than just a couple of feet before I fall off, why I'm learning Latin percussion, and why I'm wanting to do this walk. Not all that many people want to go end-to-end in one journey, and while I'm blessed with good health, then I reckon I'd better be making the most of it.
The death bit: It may be a thing that's a little peculiar to me, and I have no intention of starting my own cult (at this stage I'm not ready to become a deity anyway) but I believe that for as long as you are held in the living memory of somebody, you're not really dead. Ever looked at your family tree and thought "I wonder who that person was?". Well, that person, if nobody knows about them any more...is well and truly dead. To hell with that!! I wanna give 'em something interesting and positive to remember me for when I'm physically dead - ie "she's the one that walked 1000km".
So...maybe you're getting the picture that I'm not talking about avoiding physical death - lets face it, it's going to happen one day...but I'll be damned if I'll just be another name on the family tree, famous for being just like everyone else - totally forgettable.
I just have a dream of doing something different.
The Bibbulmun Track itself is rugged, basic and takes 6-8 weeks to walk. At this stage I intend to walk it alone, taking only what I can carry with me, and stopping whenever the track passes through a town, to pick up supplies.
And just to put me completely behind the eight-ball before I get started on the program (on 19 August 08) I've been sick for most of the last month and the only 'fitness' thing I can contemplate at the moment is "will I still fit into my jeans" because I've been blobbing around in bed feeling as though... 'exercise, that's that religious thing they do to get demons out, right??'
Oh well, I've got 4 days to go before the whole thing kicks off!
Chiliad (pronounced Kill-e-ad) roughly means 1000 of something. It's an ancient Greek word. Thinking upon that, it occurred to me that 'Chiliad' was somewhat reminiscent of Iliad, which made me think of Homer (not Simpson) and both the Iliad and the Odyssey. If you don't know what I mean, think ancient poetry. If you don't care to know what that has to do with any of this, then you're not alone.
Now, regarding the 1000 of something, there are roughly 1000km in my proposed journey - hence the 'Chiliad'. The journey itself hopefully will in no way resemble Homer's Odyssey - for during that there were battles, cannibals, witches, lovers, suitors, super-sneaky cover-ups and disguises, and along the way, a whole bunch of people were drugged and turned into pigs. No, this is not what it's about!!
It's quite simply about a 1000km journey on foot from Perth, to Albany in Western Australia walking the Bibbulmun Track.
Why would I want to do such a thing? Well, as you may have noticed in the subtitle, it's about life and death! Bear with me for a little longer while I explain.
I believe that in life you have to do things that put life into your life. That's why I'm working on riding my unicycle for more than just a couple of feet before I fall off, why I'm learning Latin percussion, and why I'm wanting to do this walk. Not all that many people want to go end-to-end in one journey, and while I'm blessed with good health, then I reckon I'd better be making the most of it.
The death bit: It may be a thing that's a little peculiar to me, and I have no intention of starting my own cult (at this stage I'm not ready to become a deity anyway) but I believe that for as long as you are held in the living memory of somebody, you're not really dead. Ever looked at your family tree and thought "I wonder who that person was?". Well, that person, if nobody knows about them any more...is well and truly dead. To hell with that!! I wanna give 'em something interesting and positive to remember me for when I'm physically dead - ie "she's the one that walked 1000km".
So...maybe you're getting the picture that I'm not talking about avoiding physical death - lets face it, it's going to happen one day...but I'll be damned if I'll just be another name on the family tree, famous for being just like everyone else - totally forgettable.
I just have a dream of doing something different.
The Bibbulmun Track itself is rugged, basic and takes 6-8 weeks to walk. At this stage I intend to walk it alone, taking only what I can carry with me, and stopping whenever the track passes through a town, to pick up supplies.
- Longest ever hike through the bush carrying everything - 4 days in the Blue Mountains, NSW - 20 years ago - 80km total
- Number of bush hikes of more than 20km carrying everything - for two or more nights: about six - in the Royal National Park; along about 60km of the convict built Great North Road between Sydney and Newcastle; and through Kuringai National Park.
- Can read a topographic map and can use a compass...but I suppose that GPS makes those skills a bit redundant
- Surprisingly resourceful and outdoorsy - you bet...but there are a lot of things about me that most people will never know...and might never guess!
- Scared of spiders and snakey kinds of things? No, never have been. Grew up in the middle of Garigal National Park, and quite liked finding wild Diamond Pythons curled up in the trees while I was out exploring the bush. And...for those of you who don't know, there are Koala's living in Garigal!
And just to put me completely behind the eight-ball before I get started on the program (on 19 August 08) I've been sick for most of the last month and the only 'fitness' thing I can contemplate at the moment is "will I still fit into my jeans" because I've been blobbing around in bed feeling as though... 'exercise, that's that religious thing they do to get demons out, right??'
Oh well, I've got 4 days to go before the whole thing kicks off!
Pendulum Swinger - Indigo Girls
"Pendulum Swinger"
I meet you for coffee
We get together periodically
I got a bad case I can't shake off of me
The fevered walking round wondering how it ought to be
You work in the system
You see possibilities and your glistening
Eyes show the hell you're gonna give 'em
When they back off the mic for once and give it to a woman
I dream like a mad one
Brutal fantasies I catch as catch can
I'm a psychic and a laywoman
I see love and I like to make it happen
What we get from your war walk
Ticker of the nation breaking down like a bad clock
I want the pendulum to swing again
So that all your mighty mandate was just spitting in the wind
It doesn't come by the bullwhip
It's not persuaded with your hands on your hips
Not the company of gunslingers
The epicenter love is the pendulum swinger
She is she is she is
It's fine about the old scroll Sanskrit
Gnostic gospels the da vinci code a smash hit
Aren't we dying just to read it and relate
Too hard just to go by a blind faith
But they left out the sisters
Praying to a father god so long I really missed her
The goddess of benevolence
You should listen to your mama if you have a lick of sense left
Pushed under by the main press, buried under a code of dress
Relegated by the Vatican
But you can't keep a spirit down that wants to get up again
If we're a drop in the bucket
With just enough science to keep from saying fuck it
Until the last drop of sun burns its sweet light
Plenty revolutions left until we get this thing right
"Pendulum Swinger"
I meet you for coffee
We get together periodically
I got a bad case I can't shake off of me
The fevered walking round wondering how it ought to be
You work in the system
You see possibilities and your glistening
Eyes show the hell you're gonna give 'em
When they back off the mic for once and give it to a woman
I dream like a mad one
Brutal fantasies I catch as catch can
I'm a psychic and a laywoman
I see love and I like to make it happen
What we get from your war walk
Ticker of the nation breaking down like a bad clock
I want the pendulum to swing again
So that all your mighty mandate was just spitting in the wind
It doesn't come by the bullwhip
It's not persuaded with your hands on your hips
Not the company of gunslingers
The epicenter love is the pendulum swinger
She is she is she is
It's fine about the old scroll Sanskrit
Gnostic gospels the da vinci code a smash hit
Aren't we dying just to read it and relate
Too hard just to go by a blind faith
But they left out the sisters
Praying to a father god so long I really missed her
The goddess of benevolence
You should listen to your mama if you have a lick of sense left
Pushed under by the main press, buried under a code of dress
Relegated by the Vatican
But you can't keep a spirit down that wants to get up again
If we're a drop in the bucket
With just enough science to keep from saying fuck it
Until the last drop of sun burns its sweet light
Plenty revolutions left until we get this thing right
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