None of my fears are as dear to me...

Don't really have anything going on, just wanted to make a post so I would have something to show for my day.
Have done fuck-all.
Have also apparently lost the ability to use first person pronouns.

Shit.

So, whats going on, peoples?
I watched three hours of telly last night.
****Alias spoiler alert****
I can't believe they killed Vaughn. Hes so pretty. Maybe its a cover for his other identity or something. I also watched CSI and ER. My life is as fascinating as herpes is romantic.

I've recently found out that when I go home for the summer (plan ahead much?) I can work on the project I was working on before I left, because the government just keeps coming with the dollars. Yay for them.
Speaking of dollars, my wee niece Rosie has got it sorted. She's not yet three, but everytime she goes to Dad's house the first thing she says is "Have you got any dollars Grandad?" and makes him give her money. Straight for the wallet, she'll go far.
I may also be able to get "experience credit" for this work as well, so I don't have to do summer classes. Too hot here for me in the summer. I'm a heat-wimp. I would much rather go home and have two winters a year.

I ordered a cellphone today. Its supposedly arriving on Wednesday. Wizzo.

I might be going on a roadtrip in a couple of weeks. It might be a pisstrip. I need to find out if its a go. Buffalo and Toronto and back again, could be fun. So Mike, is it a go?

Anybody who lives in Canada, can you buy eyelash dye there? You can't buy it in America, cos apparently its "dangerous". No more bloody dangerous than the federal government if you ask me, but no one did so I'll shut up. The thing about being a bit of a ginge is that unless I get my eyelashes and eyebrows dyed every eight weeks it looks like I don't have any. And thats not a good look. And I really can't be bolloxed with mascara, I just want to be pretty without any effort. Really, is that too much to ask???
Having said that however, I just waxed my eyebrows. Waxing stuff is fun, so it doesn't really count as effort.

Today we had a big famous social theorist come to my theory class. There was lots of food, some of which managed to find its way into my bag and is now waiting for me downstairs in the fridge.

OK this is just silly. I'm off to find inspiration.

Or get drunk, I haven't decided yet.

When I grow up,

...I want to be a trophy wife.

Up and Down like a Bride's Nightie.

I walked to university this morning through the park, and I had a huge smile on my face because my life is fucking awesome. After I got home I had a half hour snooze this afternoon (up until one finishing readings, well past my bed time) then I went downstairs to cook my dinner and make a cup of tea. Sanjukta came home and was playing the radio loudly in her room, and I was singing along in all my glorious so-far-out-of-tune-its-frightening way, and this corny old Elton John song came on, "Daniel". So I'm chopping up cauliflower with a big lump in my throat, thinking about my parents who are miles away in NZ, and how we used to listen to Elton John when we were kids going on car journeys. Then I take the rubbish out, cos its Tuesday, and I run upstairs to get my slippers, cos its cold outside. And then I'm really fucking happy because my slippers are awesome, and well they just make me happy. They are Moo Boots, of course they would. And then I'm washing the dishes and Sting is coming from Sanjukta's room and I get sad because my sister loves Sting and I miss her. Then I remember its Tuesday and House is on tonight and I'm happy again. Then I remember I have one more reading to go before I can relax, and I'm sad. Then I come upstairs and put Shihad* on and I'm happy again. Then Portishead comes on and I'm sad. Then Jeff Buckley comes on and I have to skip that track or else I'll cry. Now I'm listening to Hole's "Doll Parts" and thinking I should probably get back to my reading before all this music does my loaf.
Hormones, anyone?
Right. Back to it then.

*When they were still good, before all this Pacifier crap

When I first arrived here....

...I was at the supermarket with my Dad, buying some things to get myself all set up in my house. Given that my room had been unoccupied for about three months, it was a little dusty and needed cleaning. I spent a goodly amount of time in the supermarket looking for cleaning cloths, and getting a bit pissed off because they don't appear to have chux cloths in this country.

I emailed Dad last week and asked him to send over a book that I need for a paper I'm writing, because he is looking after my precious books while I'm here.
Today I receive said book in the mail along with, guess what.....

Two packets of chux cloths.

Bare feet like a tomboy, and a crooked smile....

Its very late and I'm very tired.
I watched Hotel Rwanda on Friday, then had genocide dreams.
I didn't watch anything on Saturday but I had some strange dreams in which me and Hugh Laurie were riding around on a bike and he was so nice and then J Lo was in a class I was teaching and I finally got to tell her what a filthy skank she is and how she shouldn't wear fur and she should keep her fucking clothes on, and then we (me and Hugh) went to a service station cos he had to drop off his washing and Oprah was there doing the washing and there was a big comfy sofa and I sat down and had a rest while Hugh checked the air in the bike tyres and he kept hugging me, not creepy but all nice and friendly.
Woke up thoroughly confused.
Have managed to turn 9 chapters in three different books into 32 handwritten pages of notes, of which I turned about 18 into nine and a half pages in the computer. Only two chapters to go and the remaining pages to go into the computer before Wednesday, and a thousand word response paper by Tuesday and another three articles turned into summaries in the manner of the above chapters by Friday and then an outline of my final paper by next Tuesday and a literature review and abstract of an article I'm writing by the week after.
This is the reason I've left the house precisely once since I got home on Friday afternoon.

Sleeeeeeeeeppppppppppppppp.

EDIT: Check this.
Pick self up off floor, repeat.

Try to catch the deluge in a paper cup...

Sleep, oh how I miss thee!!
World music night at World last night (say it out loud, it sounds good).
Several glasses of wine and many tunes later, I discover its 2.30am, and then remember I have a class at 9am. When there's 8 people in class, one's absence is noticed. Oops.
I manage to stay awake throughout the class (well at least give the impression of being awake), assisted by giggling away to myself because I had Bruce's Philosopher Song running through my head. Political theory can be a little dull, and it pays to find new and interesting ways to liven it up. So the rest of the class is having an intimidatingly intelligent discussion of Hegelian perspectives on the role of recognition in identity formulation, while I'm singing "David Hume could outconsume Schopenhauer and Hegel, and Wittgenstein was a beery swine who was just as sloshed as Schlegel" in a wee small voice otherwise the rest of the class would hear me and call those nice men in the white coats with the pretty pills to come and take me away again.
After the class we (the geeks) had organised a special geek out session to study for our research design class (in which the other three talk about statistics and algebra and I sit there looking and feeling as dumb as a bag of hammers). Unfortunately, due to a virulent outbreak of Cantbefuckeditis, the meeting was cancelled, and I find myself sitting at my desk, having lost about an hour to the internets.
Am thoroughly exhausted from being so slack, so I think I will have a nap.
In other news, there seems to be a rash of pregnancy around these parts.
Note to self: keep knickers on.

The ordeal of the basement, or; Things that I am scared of

I don't know about you, but I saw a fair few American horror movies in my impressionable years, and as a result, am now terrified of my basement. Now this isn't some sort of metaphor about fear of ones inner self, or a Freudian phobia of the repression of subterreanean spaces as reminiscent of the womb, I am just plain scared of the basement. I refuse to go down there after dark, and my washing just has to deal with the fact it will be sitting damp in the machine all night.
Cos I'm completely bolloxed if anyone thinks I'm going down there.
I am not basement-phobic, its just really scary.
So I have prepared a series of photos to demonstrate how completely fucking pants-wettingly scary my basement is. (cos its not like I have a graduate degree to study for or anything...) First, you see the stairs from my room, above.

Then there is the beginning of the descent into the darkness. Out the back door of the apartment.....

Down the first level.....

Down the second level....
(Who remembers that movie Angelheart, when Mickey Rourke gets into that lift and it just keeps going down and down and down? Thats what the basement descent reminds me of, because it just keeps going!)

Finally, down to the basement level, where all the monsters live.
Theres a monstrosity of a central heating thing in the middle, that looks like some sort of futuristic cyborg octopus, and I'm sure its going to suck me up in one of its metal pipe tentacles.

Yes, that large white appliance on the right is my washing machine, and the reason I have to confront my basement fear every few days.

Lots of scary dark corners for monsters and serial killers to hide in.
Don't even get me started on the attic.

Have you even seen The Exorcist?!?!

Heres a kitten to make everything better. .

Any advice on how to make the basement any less scary? I was going to pick flowers and put them down there, but then I remembered I don't have a garden.
Perhaps I should get a priest in....

The Emmy Blog: Live updates from the sofa

I have a weakness for awards shows. Its like a car crash, I know its wrong, but I can't look away. I've got myself all set up here with some reading in case it gets boring (like I'm going to do any work) and a glass of wine and its all go.

Blythe Danner just won for Huff. Shes a class act, and told the crowd to get the troops out of Iraq. Did you know that Kiefer Sutherland used to babysit her daughter?

Zach Braff and Hugh Laurie presented an award, and Hugh started talking then Zach turns to him with a funny look and says "Oh I'm sorry, I didn't realise we were doing British accents".
Comedy gold.

......time passes because Asomgyee just came by to give me some fliers about a dance party on Thursday......

S.Epatha something just won something and did lots of crying and lost her speech down the front of her dress.
I think I missed about 45 minutes there, talking to Asomgyee. Oops.

Jon Stewart is funny.

Lots of "Outstanding director" things, come on, who really cares.
And I would have thought that we were all so happy that "Everybody thinks Raymond is a twat" has finished, please stop giving it awards. It sucked. Badly.

I will be a bit pissed off if Hugh doesn't win for "House". I love "House". Perhaps that had already been hinted at.
Am going to stop now, before I lose what little readership I have.

EDIT: Sela Ward is one classy woman. Beautiful, elegant, and not 18 and blonde. Go her.

....Here it is, Hugh is up.....Cross fingers......The award goes to....
FUCK OFF!!!!!
James Spader?!?!
Like he does a better job in yet another fucking legal drama than Hugh Laurie does!!
Hugh is awesome!! He rocks, and James Spader is well, ok, but fairly generic.
Bloody awards shows suck arse.
Still, I got to see this guy for a little bit.

Time to give this shit up.

A real post coming at a later date. Maybe.

THIS JUST IN: Best comedy series nominees.
Scrubs? Dead funny.
Arrested Development? Original, irreverent, great.
Everybody Thinks Raymond is a Knobrash? Boring, derivative, perpetrator of negative stereotypes, completely unfunny, makes one want to eat glass as an alternative to watching this cack.
Who wins?
You guessed. The same people who turned down the opportunity to give Hugh Laurie an award for being FUCKING AWESOME and chose William Shatner as best supporting actor instead of the marvellous Naveen Andrews.
I'm rolling my eyes, as we speak.

Yay, but also Boo

Just quickly.
The good news is that yay for New Zealand not (initial results say...) voting Dr Brash PM, and sticking with good old Auntie Helen. Yay.
National did pretty well in both party and list votes however, but neither of these was at the expense of Labour, instead the smaller parties suffered. Which is great, because those bastards ACT lost seats (party mantra: The Market Knows Best), but sucked for the Greens, because the world's first interesting MP no longer has a seat in parliament.
Yes, dear old Nandor is out of a job. Poor Nandor. Job offers to www.greens.org.nz

All of this is completely academic for yours truly however, because I live in a country governed by a chimp and his handlers, who, incidentally, would fit in just nicely at an ACT convention.

Anyway, take that Don Brash, and your "New Zealand should totally revoke our nuclear free policy so the US will love us again".
How about no, Don. How about a Big Fuck Off Resounding Cape Reinga to the Bluff NO!!

Ok, so the results weren't quite that definitive, but hey. Living in America does strange things to a girl's brain.

Also to her waistline. I'm getting fat(ter). Shit.
Time to go. Party imminent.

Why did Snoop carry an umbrella? For Drizzle!!!!!

Man it is FUCKING RAINING MOTHERFUCKER!!!!
Its raining so hard I'm practically underwater.
Wait, was that a little inappropriate?....

Also, I think someone in my house is eating the toilet paper.

You know there's something wrong with the world...

When this woman is making sense, and when these people are playing Scrabble together.
The apocalypse is coming.

Its a small town, and it misses you, my love...

Why, you may ask, have I included a picture of my bag?







And not one, but three pictures of my arm?
Well, so you can all see what a good little pixie I was today and gave some blood. Hell, its not like I was using it all. My blood is awesome.
My blood pressure is excellent, and it all came out of my arm really well, and filled up the wee bag quickly, and I didn't feel remotely faint afterwards. I have excellent iron levels, and my blood is a fantastic shade of red. Plus, all those poor sods in the south now have the chance for a bit of South Pacific blood in them. That's got to improve anyone's day.
Although, I am exceedingly paranoid now. I filled all the forms in etc, and it was all fine, and then when I get home, my flatmate tells me that the Red Cross called, and would call back tomorrow. They probably tested my blood and found I have three versions of aids and the ebola virus. Great.
I'm not a hypochondriac, I'm an alarmist. Major distinction.

The coolest thing happened today.
You know how sometimes you listen to a song you've heard loads of times before, and it somehow manages to sound different? This morning on my way into university I was listening to the sublime Salmonella Dub at maximum volume, and as seems to be the case when cranking Inside the Dub Plates, "The Bromley East Roller" came on, but somehow it managed to take on a different aspect.
I love drum 'n bass, but this song is different. Perhaps its because the Dub are a bit reggae/dub (there's a clue there...) but while I was rocking along the song seemed to take on another level. It cranks along nicely, and gets ones head nodding and usually a smile on one's dial, but theres that bit where the song seems to recede a bit. You're not quite sure where it is going, perhaps its winding down? Theres a second there where you think perhaps thats your lot, thats all you're going to get, and the song is retreating. And in a way it is retreating, cos it goes all quiet for a bit, and you're left alone with the warped electronic bit, and then it hints slightly that it will be coming back, and you realise that it was not retreating, merely regrouping for another thumping great rogering of your ears and it comes back and gradually gets fatter and fatter until "fat" is not a big enough word, and theres this big fuck-off wall of drum 'n bass that smacks you across the back of the head while managing to lift you clean off your feet and you're walking six inches above the ground and you can barely contain it and just want to shout "Fuck me this is a good tune" and then Tiki comes back and his voice is all electronically distorted but you know its him because you've been hearing his voice for years now so you feel like you know him and he says Watch it, we've only just begun to flow...
As they say in my country, it was choice.

As you may have noticed by now, I have recently discovered that my exceedingly flash camera does sepia tone as well.
Here's me being Not Hung Over.
Its a rare occasion.

Oh when will it end.....
....or, blame Chad (liberties added)

7 things I plan to do before I die:
----------------------------------------------
Shag Viggo Mortensen
Go back to the Greek Islands
Make someone laugh so hard they puke
Go home
Save the world
Teach a dog to walk on its hindlegs
Have a kick-arse home theatre system.

7 things I cannot do:
------------------------------
Sing in tune
Read music
Sit still
Shut up
Maintain a solitary train of thought
Count


7 things I can do
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Recite Shakespeare at any given opportunity
Tie a knot in a cherry stalk with my tongue
Put my big toe in my mouth
Cook
Write papers about stuff that bores everyone elses knickers off
Change the oil filter in my car
*******removed for viewer discretion********


7 things that I say most often:
------------------------------------------
Shit
Fuck
Arse
Cunt
Bollocks
Crap
"Oh cry me a fucking river"

I read something...

....here.... (Juan Cole entry)

That reminded me of another thing that someone pointed out to me recently.
****warning*****political commentary approaching****warning****

The IRA have been bombing London for decades.
Not once have I heard of an incident where a church has been attacked in retaliation, or where Catholics have been confronted in the street and held to answer for their entire religion.

Hmmm.
Double standards much?

Because its been a while since I posted a picture of myself....

Keen observers will in fact notice that this is in fact, a relatively old picture. The clues of course being, that it is of me and Charlie (I'm the one with the red hair), and given that I am in the grand old state of New York and Charlie is freezing his wee arse off in Dunedin, approximately 16,100 kilometres away, we are no longer in sufficient proximity for any hugging type loving as demonstrated here : (
The only recent pictures I have are not of me, except the one of me being terribly hungover the other day, and really, nobody needs to see too much more of that, do they?!?

In other news: today I have recieved two, count them TWO emails from BBM, and not a peep from TCWMIA.

Oh well. As they say, excrement does indeed occur.

I used to have a whole page of them...
Taoists: Shit happens
Catholics: Shit happens and you deserve it
Hare Krishnas: shithappens, shithappens, shithappens
Scientologists: Excrement occurs
Jews: Shits been happening to us for thousands of years
Muslims: It is Allah's will that shit happens

....continue until the Almighty comes and smites you for being a cheeky bugger....

I am so going to hell.
See you all there.

Edit: I couldn't resist the immense power of the google. Hilarity ensues.

Taoism: Shit happens.

Confucianism: Confucius say, "Shit happens."

Buddhism: If shit happens, it isn't really shit.

Zen Buddhism: Shit is, and is not.

Zen Buddhism #2: What is the sound of shit happening?

Hinduism: This shit has happened before.

Islam: If shit happens, it is the will of Allah.

Islam #2: If shit happens, kill the person responsible.

Islam #3: If shit happens, blame Israel.

Catholicism: If shit happens, you deserve it.

Protestantism: Let shit happen to someone else.

Presbyterian: This shit was bound to happen.

Episcopalian: It's not so bad if shit happens, as long as you serve the right wine with it.

Methodist: It's not so bad if shit happens, as long as you serve grape juice with it.

Congregationalist: Shit that happens to one person is just as good as shit that happens to another.

Unitarian: Shit that happens to one person is just as bad as shit that happens to another.

Lutheran: If shit happens, don't talk about it.

Fundamentalism: If shit happens, you will go to hell, unless you are born again. (Amen!)

Fundamentalism #2: If shit happens to a televangelist, it's okay.

Fundamentalism #3: Shit must be born again.

Judaism: Why does this shit always happen to us?

Calvinism: Shit happens because you don't work.

Seventh Day Adventism: No shit shall happen on Saturday.

Creationism: God made all shit.

Secular Humanism: Shit evolves.

Christian Science: When shit happens, don't call a doctor - pray!

Christian Science #2: Shit happening is all in your mind.

Unitarianism: Come let us reason together about this shit.

Quakers: Let us not fight over this shit.

Utopianism: This shit does not stink.

Darwinism: This shit was once food.

Capitalism: That's MY shit.

Communism: It's everybody's shit.

Feminism: Men are shit.

Chauvinism: We may be shit, but you can't live without us...

Commercialism: Let's package this shit.

Impressionism: From a distance, shit looks like a garden.

Idolism: Let's bronze this shit.

Existentialism: Shit doesn't happen; shit IS.

Existentialism #2: What is shit, anyway?

Stoicism: This shit is good for me.

Hedonism: There is nothing like a good shit happening!

Mormonism: God sent us this shit.

Mormonism #2: This shit is going to happen again.

Wiccan: An it harm none, let shit happen.

Scientology: If shit happens, see "Dianetics", p.157.

Jehovah's Witnesses: >Knock< >Knock<>

Jehovah's Witnesses #2: May we have a moment of your time to show you some of our shit?

Jehovah's Witnesses #3: Shit has been prophesied and is imminent; only the righteous shall survive its happening.

Moonies: Only really happy shit happens.

Hare Krishna: Shit happens, rama rama.

Rastafarianism: Let's smoke this shit!

Zoroastrianism: Shit happens half on the time.

Church of SubGenius: BoB shits.

Practical: Deal with shit one day at a time.

Agnostic: Shit might have happened; then again, maybe not.

Agnostic #2: Did someone shit?

Agnostic #3: What is this shit?

Satanism: SNEPPAH TIHS.

Atheism: What shit?

Atheism #2: I can't believe this shit!

Nihilism: No shit.

"May you live in interesting times..."

Once upon a time there was a beautiful princess called Bella. She was a lovely lass, very spoiled as child and therefore accustomed to getting whatever she wanted, a tendancy to wear her heart on her sleeve, and had no time whatsoever for silly games. Straight to the point, that was our heroine. Anyway, this girl went to central New York and met two boys. The first boy, we will call BBM. This boy possessed a kind of animal magnetism, the kind of man that women would stare at in the street, partly because he was TTT* but also because he was incredibly hot. However, BBM was a bit of a player. Mr Mixed Messages, first being all aloof, and then calling up our heroine because "I haven't talked to you for a few days" and "I wanted to say hi and see how you are doing". So Bella was, understandably, not sure if she was meant to be seeing this boy or not, and not entirely sure if she even wanted to be. While he was most hot, there remains a certain element of self-preservation within our heroine, despite previous evidence to the contrary.
At the same time that Bella met BBM, she also met TCWMIA. Now this guy was something else. He was sweet, funny, great company, open and that kind of attractive that increases with every meeting. Without going into details, and while our heroine's virtue remains intact, there was recently An Incident at a party, during which TCWMIA made it reasonably clear that at least some of the feelings and attraction Bella had for him were reciprocated. Upon their next meeting, without the benefits of alcohol to liberate one's tongue, it appeared to our heroine that it was Not Just The Booze Talking, but she has been known to overanalyse things to the nth degree. It's why she is a pretty good scholar, but also explains why shes a bit of a head-case.
Now, because our heroine has a tendancy to overthink things, and to get her knickers into a knot over the smallest thing, or lack thereof; instead of spending today doing the obscene amount of reading she needs to be doing for school, she sits at her computer, listening to tunes and blogging about shit. She is about to start week three of a five year PhD programme, which is taking about 60-70 hours a week of her time, and really doesn't have time to be seeing boys, no matter how good looking they may be.
Oh what a dilemma.
Currently our heroine has two phrases running through her mind. The first being the title of this post, "may you live in interesting times", because if nothing else, things are certainly interesting. Never a dull moment.
And the second phrase?
"It never rains, but it pours".

* Taller Than Tim

Its Saturday, so I must be hungover....
...theres a surprise.

This is supposed to be a fairly advanced country, I have heard. I mean they might drive on the wrong side of the road, but still. They managed to send a man to the moon.
SO HOW FUCKING HARD IS IT TO GET A FUCKING PIE YOU CUNTING BASTARDS I'M HUNGOVER AND WOULD QUITE HAPPILY SELL MY FRONT TEETH FOR A STEAK AND CHEESE PIE FROM THE BP BUT NO, YOU THINK YOU'RE TOO FUCKING GOOD FOR PIES DON'T YOU WELL I'VE GOT NEWS FOR YOU SUNSHINE YOU'RE FUCKING NOT THIS IS A PIELESS COUNTRY AND THAT FACT ALONE HELPS TO EXPLAIN A WHOLE FUCKING LOT IF YOU ONLY HAD PIES THEN EVERYTHING WOULD BE OK THE HOLE IN THE OZONE LAYER WOULD BE FIXED AND ALL THE ANIMALS THAT WE HAVE DRIVEN TO EXTINCTION WOULD COME BACK TO LIFE AND THE OCEANS WOULD BE CLEAN AND THERE WOULD BE NO MORE POVERTY IN AFRICA AND ALL THE ORPHANS IN CAMBODIA WOULD FIND HAPPY LOVING FAMILIES AND ICECREAM WOULD MAKE YOU SKINNY BUT NO AND ALL FOR THE SAKE OF A FEW FUCKING PIES YOU'VE MESSED THE PLANET UP YOU FUCKING CUNTING BASTARDS I WANT A PIE.

*sobs*

Thursday, 5.24pm

Aaaahhhhhh. Happiness.

Also, the funniest site I've seen all week.

Edit: blah, blah 2, blah 3, blooblah and bb?
Very original. Fess up, you bastards.

Cos its all about me...

I made a quiz.
Cos right then it was an infinitely preferable alternative to reading a piece called "The Procedural Republic and the Unencumbered Self".
I have to queue tomorrow for my social security number.
Raji sends his loveji.
I'm thinking I should listen to a Matthew Good record as I've never heard one and people seem to wet themselves over his music.
I'm not from round these parts.
The distance from New Zealand to New York is approximately 9,000 nautical miles, which is 10,357 statute miles, which is over 16,000 kilometres.
From Cape Reinga to Bluff is over 2,000 kilometres, so I guess it depends on what part of NZ you start measuring from.
Anyway, I made a quiz.

You know, I wasn't going to do this...

...but I can't keep my mouth shut about this any longer.
This whole Hurricane Katrina thing is the biggest fubar you've ever seen.
Yes, the hurricane was a disaster, a terrible thing. But the real tragedy has been playing out now for a week. Literally thousands of people are trying desperately to cling to what life they have remaining, still in the hope that this dream that their country is founded on is going to be visible in the actions of their "government".
The government that is fucking them over, worse than any hurricane Mother Nature can throw at them.
Rumsfeld was in New Orleans the other day, shaking the hands of soldiers and police who are attempting to secure the city, itself a noble task, yet he completely ignores refugees a matter of metres away, as if their concern is none of his.
And then the "president" goes on telly claiming that those in New Orleans are not refugees, they are, in fact, Americans. As if the two are mutually exclusive terms. Is an internally displaced person not a refugee, by definition?
There is a reason I tend not to watch the news, it fills me with this white hot anger that I find myself unable to get rid of.
To add insult to injury, there are stories of refugee children being raped, and people being murdered in what remains of the city, because order has broken down so badly, and there are those out there who claim that of course terrible things would happen, what do you expect from a city of drug addicts, who celebrate homosexuality and sexual liberation. It honestly makes me want to hit someone.
I don't really have a particularly lucid point here, I'm just angry.
I emailed my former thesis supervisor, who hails from Louisiana and is now based in Alabama, to check that him and his family were ok, and he replied almost straight away, poor bloke, saying that they were all intact, but the sight of "our great old city" being destroyed was heart-breaking. They are swamped with refugees in Alabama, I can only imagine how many, because way up here this city has taken (I believe) 200 families, and the university 500 students.
The flag at the State Fair was at half mast, but I wonder if that was for the lives destroyed by the hurricane or those lost through government ineptitude and indifference.
Grr. Anger ball.
Speaking of the state fair...

Happy Things.
The Marcan Tiger Reserve was there with six of their Bengal tigers, and they were so badly, by far, head and shoulders, the coolest things there. Here is Rajistan.

...and friend.
The really cool thing about these tigers is that is was blindingly obvious to anyone watching that these guys loved their tigers, and took really good care of them. Sure, its sad that the tigers have to live in a reserve and not in their native India, but when they lived in India they mysteriously managed to get themselves on the verge of extinction.
So these cats are born in captivity, but treated in such a way as to encourage instinctive behaviours. The trainers watch them at play, and encourage those activities the tigers are involved in when its just the tigers, not the people. The result is awesome to watch, and occasionally pretty funny. Like when Nina the tiger decided she didn't want to play, and wanted to lie down in the shade. When a cat that big decides she doesn't want to play, you can't make her without causing a bit of a fuss. So she lay there while the others did their things.
I think the ultimate aim is to release descendants of these cats back into the wild, but at the moment there are (I think...) about 25 or 30 Bengal tigers left in the world. So we have to look after the ones we have. These guys live in Florida when they're not out and about campaigning for tiger-dom.

Ok, so next time your kitten jumps on your knee to give you a cuddle, think of this guy getting cuddles from cats this size.
But they do cute things that little cats do as well, like play with balls and chase string. Its just that the balls these cats play with are about the size of exercise balls, and the string is eight feet of rope.
My flatmate Sanjukta is from the Bengal region of India, so we made a vain attempt to convince the tiger-looking-after-guys that she had some sort of ancestral claim to the tigers, and we should be allowed to take one home. Not surprisingly, we remain a tiger-less household.
Unless of course, you count these guys....

Notice toy tigers in the foreground, and real tigers in the background.
They were selling these wee fellas after the show, and the proceeds were going to help look after the tigers. So, we relented, and now, in lieu of a real cat, I have Raji.

The advantage being that he won't get hungry in the middle of the night and eat my arm.
I hope not...

Fat Freddy's Drop are the shiznit.

Its a miracle. I understand something to do with statistics. After studying it for the better part of four and a half hours, I think I may well understand the true nature of the correlation coefficient. It may well have something to do with my secret weapon.
A group of four from my research design class have got together to geek out, primarily because I said that I was going to find this all very difficult (damn those quantitative methods in the social sciences!) and was keen to buddy up, study wise, with some like minded people. The problem is though, I think the other three know way more about this shit than me. They are happily talking about linear regression, while I'm searching the vaults of my brain to remember the difference between variance and standard deviation. You will be pleased to know that I've figured that one out, but not much else. I'm not very clever. Sometimes I wonder how I managed to get into this university at all.
So we've got a study meeting tomorrow at 9am, by which time I hope to be able to understand multiple regression analysis. The way I'm going it may take all night, but now I'm all determined.
Once I've done that, and wowed my classmates with my amazing understanding of everything statistical, I'm off to pop my state fair cherry. It may suck completely, but I'll give it a bash. Apparently there will be a musician there who wrote "The Devil Went Down to Georgia" (which rings a tiny wee bell) and will be playing his fiddle. I feel a hoedown coming on!! And of course tomorrow is Labour day, which the Americans call "Labor" day (a throwback to the Great Vowel Shortage of '58), so every bloody knob in the state will be there.
In other news, my bed is pissing me off.
Yesterday in my hungover state I was able to ascertain that it was in fact Saturday, which means clean-sheet day (best day of the week), and being the perfect little housewife that I am, I flipped my mattress over, which is a thing you're supposed to do now and then. Ever since though, the bloody thing has been squeaking like a mofo. I've been sitting on it all day studying and when I make the slightest movement it yells at me like I ran over its pet kitten. Stupid bed. In my vast knowledge of all things structurally engineeringy I tried jumping on it, thinking that may fix the problem, but alas, it just yelled some more.
Shit.

This is what happens....

....when you get horribly drunk on a Friday night.
It is currrently 1.01am and I am sufficiently recovered from my hangover to go to bed.
You see, I had been invited to some random party, but I was hungry, so I called Rebecca and Rebecca and we met at Alto Cinco where I had a lovely caesar salad with lots of coriander in it which they call cilantro here and Rebecca's fella was with us as well and we ordered a bottle of wine and then that one got drunked so we ordered another one, and the same thing happened so we ordered another and sat outside cos it was a lovely night and they needed our table for other people so we were all a bit pissed then went back to mine and got ourselves all prettied up and went to this party and there was a keg and lots of boys and those red plastic cups and loud tunes and I drank lots of beer and a nice boy said I was pretty.
Woke up this morning and thought I was going to die. There was a half-arsed plan to go to the state fair today which thankfully fell through cos I don't think I would have survived. So I went back to bed and slept on and off until about 5pm.
Have watched one episode of Angel, one episode of Buffy, and two of House, drank one bottle of lemonade and one of Snapple, and eaten a plate of Spag Bol.
Am thoroughly knackered from my busy day so I'll say goodnight to your lovely selves and leave you with another picture, this one of my new favourite t-shirt. Why is it that the boyswear department has the coolest stuff?

Ka Kite.

Photographic fun

Brooklyn bridge. One of the seven industrial wonders of the world. Also, sparkly.

Ahhh, New York. How it would suck to actually be driving a car on your mad streets.

Some more blurry. I like the blurry. Pretty lights.

Pretty building, on my pretty campus.
I really need to buy a tripod for night shots, don't I?

Central New York's share of Hurricane Katrina. While she is a vicious bitch, I am immensely fond of rain. Hence, spending about 45 minutes on the porch taking photos of it.
Mmmmmm. Rainy goodness.

Its a chapel. Its called Hendricks. Its pretty. And it has my mates posing in front of it.

Right, I'll be off then.

On Petrol (or "gas" as its called here)

People here are getting their knickers in a knot because petrol prices are over $3 a gallon, and are expected to rise to as much as $4 a gallon in the next few weeks. Heres what I say.

Suck it up.
Petrol in NZ is already well over $US4 a gallon, and has been for some time.

Put down the car keys and step away from the SUV.
It might even be good for you.

Brought to you by the "My Two Cents" department.