Why Channel Seven's Paddy Welsh is a dickhead

Yesterday Tamsin Lewis got her arse kicked. Badly. In the heats of the 800 metres she came last. Maybe she made a mistake racing two heats in a day. We'll never know. None of that really matters now. The race is over, we move on. Not so Paddy Welsh.

After the race she was interviewed - or should I say, grilled - by Channel Seven's Paddy Welsh. And for those few short minutes she was subjected to not just a grilling but a humiliation at the hands of a reporter who's only interest was his own voice. Lewis was sobbing, trying to talk through her tears, clearly distraught at her performance, in obvious distress about what had just occurred. But could Welsh give a shit? Not at all. He ploughed on through her distress asking questions that added to her pain. His was a mission of humiliation and indignity, not of someone seeking perspective or answers. His interview was nothing short of self-serving and gratuitous. A male carelessly watching while a woman cried in humiliation.

Paddy Welsh, for your efforts during this interview I award you the gold medal for the 800 word dickhead handicap.

I planted vegetables

I planted vegetables yesterday. Filled the soil with sheep shit and composted vegetables and fertiliser and soil conditioner. Worms wriggled amongst the rotting food scraps. Big and fat and well fed, their shit soon to become food for new plants.

I planted vegetables. Broccoli, beetroot, onions, and coriander. Mixed together to keep away those thick, fat, hairy caterpillars that know how to eat a seedling in an evening banquet. Evil, they are, evil. But later they turn into butterflies and look innocent.

I planted vegetables. But I'm yet to eat anything except a tiny leaf of baby spinach left behind by a hungry, hairy plant eating machine. So far I've fed snails and slugs and butterflies-in-waiting, but not myself. Water and sheep shit and time; then perhaps I'll feast.

I think the JW's are giving me nightmares

I'm feeling unusually wound up at the moment. It may have something to do with the Jehovah's Witnesses being in town over the weekend. I went to the coffee shop at the Burswood and was told I couldn't park in my usual parking space. They were concerned I was just there to pick up some cheap parking while I went to a convention about god. News just in Mr Parking Attendant, I'm not a god botherer. Please, don't tell me where to park.

The JW's were parked all over the end of our street. How lovely. All these cosy little families with kids dressed up in suits and their Sunday best. They were off to learn about the end of the world and how evil us crack whores are. Good for them. I hope the kids get over the experience one day. Perhaps, after a couple of hundred years, they'll realise that sex before marriage isn't the end of the world, that two guys going at it isn't going to send you to eternal damnation, and that saying "fuck" isn't going to do, well, fuck all really. Best I say a few quick words to the god of Nihl tonight on their behalf. Oh for a dose of good old, life has fuck all meaning.

So there, got that off my chest. I'm supposed to be writing thesis words right now. Instead I'm sitting on the third floor of the Curtin library with a view out over a bunch of red brick buildings and people walking along straight red brick paths. Life is full of straight lines going nowhere. There's a cold wind blowing so people are rugged up. The sun makes little difference.

I had a scary dream last night. I had a double barrel shotgun. Someone pissed me off so I shot them but I don't remember killing them. Then some other people grabbed their shotguns and started shooting at me. I couldn't load mine quick enough so I only managed to fill one chamber with a cartridge and then fire. It bought me enough time to start running away. I jumped a fence and started to run through some bush. There was an army style jeep with a woman trying to shoot me. I woke up really frightened. Who needs the movies when you've got dreams like that?!

I still don't know what I'm going to do for my next job. Why can't we get paid to be students and do fuck all?

Batleb: the legend

If you can't see this video below visit YouTube and search for Batleb. It's a classic that's worth watching a few times.

Synchronicity

I'm watching White Heat as I write this. James Cagney is a mean little bastard.

I had a good day writing. Wrote another good paragraph. The funny thing is that I'm moving in a rather unexpected direction. One of the features about dooce is that she grew up as a Mormon and left the church in her early 20's. This fact is now becoming quite central to my analysis of the blog; and I can't help noticing the similarities between her life and mine. Religion played a big part in her formative years as it did mine. She walked away from the church, so did I. She struggled with issues with her family and finding her place in this world, and so did I. It's a fascinating parallel. I can't help but see the synchronicity of me writing a thesis about subjectivity and power and identifying a blog on which a struggle against religious power is documented.

Beautiful.

What happened today

I've got a sore back. It's usually related to tight hamstrings. More stretching is on the agenda. I suspect it comes from riding.

Wrote a good paragraph today and read some interesting stuff about how the human subject is created. All in all a productive day. I spent some time working out of Farells restaurant. I seem to be a bit more productive away from home.

I haven't had a hot shower since about the 21st of May. I'll make it a challenge to go through winter without using hot water for my showers. Each shower gets less of a challenge than the previous.

I'm still not drinking alcohol at home unless we have guests. I'm feeling sharper as a result.

A bit of nothing

Good day writing. Around 450 words and plenty of new understanding about my little French buddy Foucault. Power is a subtle non-existent non-force that seduces and induces.

Bit tired right now. Listening to Queen's Fat Bottomed Girls.

On the ladder 6am tomorrow with Sammi. Let's hope she can walk tomorrow.