One for kiwis of a certain age.

OMFG.

Best ...

... badge

............... ever.



Sincere thanks to Fishy who, in addition to posting me more beautiful bootleg DVDs than a girl can shake a bootleg stick at, found this little pearler and paid actual money for it.

Old skool all the way!

BTW - is now a good time to admit I had a poster of Rene Naufahu [aka Sam Aleni] on my wall when I was young enough to get away with it? Should I also add that it was ripped out of a copy of RTR Countdown?

No...probably best not to.

Aussies: restoring your faith in the future of mankind

Australians rock in so many ways.

This is a series of verbatim excerpts from this article in today's Age newspaper. I shit you not:

"A man has been jailed for nine years for setting fire to an associate who woke him up to sell him a stolen kitchen.

"Damian Catania, 30, was not interested in the kitchen, which was offered for $2000.

"But Justice Kevin Bell said in the Supreme Court that Catania visited would-be salesman John Ioannou an hour later, as Mr Ioannou was trying to put the kitchen back into the new house from which he had stolen it."

...

"Mr Ioannou, a carpenter, had partly disassembled a kitchen that had been installed in the new house, not far from Catania's home. Catania did not want to buy the kitchen, but agreed to pay $80 for Mr Ioannou to fix his leaking shower.

"Justice Bell said Mr Ioannou had burns to 60 per cent of his body after the fire, and was placed in an induced coma for five weeks at the Alfred Hospital."

...

"Catania told police: "I'm sorry for the person that got injured. I never meant it to go that far..."

Hmmmm....wonder if I can use that tactic (and defence) the next time a student disturbs me with a dumb assignment-related question?

Blogger's block? Post a roo!

In the absence of anything noteworthy, witty, quotable or even remotely interesting to say this week (the joys of being submerged under mountains of assignment marking), I thought i'd post up a picture of a kangaroo I took a few weeks back and see if it fooled anyone into thinking that my life is more interesting than it really is.


Did it work?

Sign language Oztraylia-style

The country in which I have resided for the last two and a half years is one of many contrasts. The city I live in is one of the coolest in the world (in my expert opinion) but the rest of the country is essentially redneck bogan-ville (bearing in mind that I am in no way prone to sweeping generalisations). Great scenery but you'd better keep your banjo close to your person if y'know what I mean.

But...

...what I will grant the Aussies is that they do a very nice line in entertaining signage.

Whether its to-the-point warnings about killer wombats (Ballarat) and cliffs (Great Ocean Road):





Inspirationally-labelled natural attractions (Tasmania):



A little 'local' humour and safety advice (Great Ocean Road):


Or just plain old-fashioned confusing and bizarrely prioritised tourist signs (Great Ocean Road):


Seeeeeeee - it's not ALL bad. Let it not be said that I don't give credit where credit's due.

Rug up for winter.

Yay for grassroots [scuse pun] HIV-prevention organising.

Rug Up for Winter

Eleme Junction

Everytime I leave somewhere people say that they will miss me and how sad they are that I am leaving. It's good for the ego. And I still email and visit with these people whenever I can - as demonstrated by this next few weeks - friends in 6 countries all across the world planning to take me out and look after me and genuinely want to spend the short time I have with them with me. That is why I am lucky. I know good people. I learn something from the good people that I meet - interesting, intelligent, experienced and inspirational people everywhere I go. People that teach me something, make me think something that influences the way I view the world. I don't know yet what the gross inequities and extremes of environment that I see teach me. So I'm open to suggestions as to what Eleme Junction teaches a person. Eleme Junction, the bane of traffic in Port Harcourt, is a microcosm of activity and life anchored firmly to a roundabout that shuffles vehicles in a disorderly fashion either up Aba Road towards the camp, down Aba Road towards the city, out towards Transamadi Flats or out towards the airport. In the centre of the roundabout is a concrete turret, crumbling stairs circling up to a viewing platform, gospel posters peeling in faded shreds from it's walls. Here gather the traffic controllers, in violently coloured blue and yellow uniforms, who alternate between animated hand gestures, halting and directing the belching eddy of traffic, or leaning disheartenedly watching the inexorable grinding and thrusting as trucks, cars, overloaded transit vans, motorbikes, wheelbarrows and street hawkers assert their self-determined right to enter the circle of chaos, causing a deadlock from which no vehicle can extricate itself. Eleme Junction plays host to a swathe of businesses - some housed in recognisable buildings, with large signposts attesting their services - "Scaffolding for hire", "Machinery and Spares", "MTN (phone company) unlock service" and some relying on the 3 metre high stack of plastic chairs or prominent display of gates, hubcaps, timber or mechanical parts to attract customers. These buildings are set far enough back from the road to allow an area of ground, pockmarked by potholes and piles of industrial, domestic or vehicular refuse, where the proprietors of the semi-permanent shacks of bowed wood, rusted iron sheets, tarpaulins, tattered umbrellas, plastic tables and stacked crates operate their business - bread, clothing and shoes, hair weave-ons and manicure, fast-food, taxation advice, kerosene and other consumables. Moving between these fragile structures are the wheelbarrows of bulbous yam and carrots, glass display cases of oversized pasties and other brown fried finger-food and vendors of hats, walking sticks, sunglasses or phone accessories. Dotted between them and extending down the side-streets squat women in vibrant national dress, laughing and smiling with each other as they oversee their pile of pyramidally stacked tomatoes, onions, dried fish, landsnails or bananas. Housewives, cooks and house-staff wend through, selecting purchases, adding them to baskets carried with a sensual ease balanced on their heads. Through this constant melee dart the street-sellers - desparate young men and women, risking life and limb to congregate at junctions, sidling alongside vehicles, extending bottles of cold drink, fried plantain, MTN recharge cards, handkerchieves, newspapers and a myriad of other items I would never consider needing while stuck in traffic. They press their bodies against the cars, pleading each sale, accepting the battered small Naira notes, sprinting alongside cars as the congestion jerks forward to collect their money or give change and then spinning in the convulsion of traffic to attempt another sale or to narrowly avoid physical injury as the vehicles plough onwards. So far I have justified the experience of patience (2 hours to go through a single roundabout), indifference (blatantly avoiding eye contact with the beggars and MTN card boys while stationery for 20 minutes), revulsion (it's just unnecessary for people to have to live in burnt out shells of cars filled with rubbish) and perverse curiosity.