Zen And The Art Of Suck

Owning a house of floorboards, I always assumed I could get by on the old fashioned methods of mop and broom. For the most part, this theory was sound, but once a year my two feline friends decided to debunk this methodology in the most effective way they could think of. Being a pair of deceptively long-haired cats, as soon as the temperature takes that first ten degree leap at the start of Summer, they drop their coats everywhere possible. What this means is that most years I will go to sleep on a balmy night, only to awake and find an allergy-inciting white Christmas downstairs. I would grumble and then deal with it via sweeping and various sticky and brush-based hair removing devices, but after this year’s spectacular effort I decided it was time to move into the 20th century, and deal with it via suction.

My idea of high-cleaning-technology

I was extremely lucky to have someone aid me in this new crusade, by giving me the Christmas gift of a vacuum cleaner. Even from here I can hear the raised eyebrows and bemused expressions, but I tell you what – I have never been happier to receive a domestic device, especially this one which borders on something that looks like it could defend our planet. Allow me to elaborate.

The Dyson Stowaway - Sounds like it belongs on a pirate ship, looks like it should be on the Enterprise!




The device in question is a Dyson Stowaway, and whether or not this was inspired by the similarly future-themed character from Terminator 2 is open to speculation.


















However, the appliance itself is fact – it is a durable plastic body with various clips and buttons that allow it to be broken down into individual, yet high-tech elements. Boasting cyclone technology, I can only assume that this means the fine folk at Dyson have indeed trapped the meteorological phenomena inside the shiny casing. I do appreciate having high-technology in my home – I appreciate mystical imprisoning of air elements even more so!

Assembly was too easy. An instruction manual was supplied, labelling the component attachment order numerically, and indicating “Click!” where the pieces would snap together with said sound resulting. The finished product has a range of attachments, big colour-coded buttons and an overall look that makes me want to strap it on my back and bust ghosts.

The telescoping wand, or as I prefer to call it, “Vacuum Lance”, has a hefty grip, locking segments and an overall look that makes me want to pierce the target of my cleaning. Attached via the traditional flexible hose, the wheeled base, or “Aerial Vortex Generator” looks not dissimilar to a weapon employed by the Autobot Ironhide in Michael Bay’s recent Transformer films.












This is the part that somehow continues to create unlimited suction via the trapped air daemon. There is no bag in this design, but rather a clear chamber, or “Visual Domestic Victory Indicator” that indicates how much of the planet I have managed to trap. This constant reminder had me stop and consider whereabouts this muck all comes from (except the cat hair – I have pretty sound theories about that), and I’ve decided I have no idea.










Sooo...


If I vacuum and remove all that is on the floor of my house on a regular basis, then I dump it in the bin and it is sent to a tip/incinerator/shot into space, then we must be gradually moving a large amount of matter into a few specific locations/the sun, thus reducing the matter available to be re-tread into my dwelling. Part of me argues that soil erosion will provide more muck, but another part argues that there is little dust and dirt in my muck reservoir, err Visual Domestic Victory Indicator. Then there's dead skin, airborne particles of various natures, ghost residue, etc etc...

It matters not. I will now be on a regular crusade to hunt down the hair, delve out the dust and rustle out the refuse. Then I’ll suck’em all up.

(There was an ill-fitting Ghostbusters joke to fit in the end there, but I cut it for decency. Leave a comment and return address if you are dying to know what it was.)

Q: True or False - Bob Geldof's daughter Peaches, is neither here nor there? A: The answer was "False - she's everywhere".
Song for the day: "Frank and Jesse James" by Warren Zevon

You know what time it is?

No really - if you do, please share this information. I wouldn't ask a question I know the answer to.

AND THAT IS A PERFECT INTRO TO:

The philosophy of The Nick.

My life has taken a turn for the enlightened. I am now more tolerant of fellow drivers, knowing that when they are reincarnated, they will come back as Volvo's. Not Volvo drivers. Volvo's.

And so they damn well should.

I have also been privy to a wonder of nature. One that defies the explanations of the Science, and the Who Weekly alike. I am talking of the phenomena surrounding beverage containers that are feeling emotions. But see, the phenomena has extended beyond feeling - for what good is feeling, if you do not express it? If you do not revel in it? You do not use it to fuel your next acts of public property destruction???

Imagine you awoke one day, and found yourself thinking.

No, this isn't a snide remark on you being a bunch of happy drones (you are, by the way), but rather you found yourself thinking for the first time. These initial thoughts would likely be preoccupied with their own existence, but then you'd start to think about your place in the world - what do you do, who are you, and in many cases this would be a wondrous experience and your personality would start to be expressed.

But what if you found your only role was to hold liquid for someone else's consumption? I make an assumption now. I assume, that you would be annoyed.

This annoyance would become frustration at your post in life.

The frustration would taint you every liquid holding act.

This taint would colour your world red as the futility dawns on you.

This dawning would make you ANGRY.

Llamas and Geniuses, I present for your (deep and insightful) consideration:

The Angry Cup


Q: If a plane crashes on the border of NSW and VIC, where do you bury the survivors? A Trick question, but whilst in QLD we found a cemetery that straddled the NSW/QLD border.

Song for the day: "Road Trip", by Kind Of Pluto

In Brightest Day, In Blackest Night...

...Watch out for racial slurs in your signature oaths.

I've decided that one way to spruce this place up is to start writing on more mundane (ie: real) topics. So the first is a bit of a review/rant on a recent comic. Yes. Dork Central, thy Mayor is The Nick. If you're not interested in comics, bow out - this gets knee-deep in obscure references.

Mini-series are a very hit-n-miss affair in the world of comics, mostly because it's hard to sustain a world-changing story when you have 50 or more books all telling stories inside that universe. To have everyone on the same page (pun intended), seems to be awfully complex. The current series, "Blackest Night" is walking that fine line. Ostensibly about the Green Lantern characters, it's affecting the entire DC Universe, and bound to c-c-change things.

The 25 words or less summary of the event is thus: There are seven different corps of power ring wearers - an evil black corps has appeared composed of resurrected dead heroes and villains. Cue fight scene.

The Black Lanterns differ from the other Corps greatly - the others all harness a particular emotion to power their rings: will, compassion, avarice, hope, rage, love, fear...the Black rings seem to do the opposite, and thrive on the emotional highs that they can instill in others - right before tearing said emotional hearts out. Nasty. No Black Lantern had fallen (spoiler!), and they're doing a good job of culling the living (who then, as classics say they should, rise as more Black Lanterns)

So I've just read issue 3 of 8...wow!

I reckon that's the best issue so far - not only have we experienced the unstoppable terror of even more Black Lanterns, (who, unlike classical zombies, don't seem to have a weak spot) but we've been given some insight as to how this thing is going to eventually resolve. Turns out our Disco Lantern concept wasn't so far off, thank you Indigo-1. Some lovely beats, as well. (no pun...well okay, intended)

So the first battle scene is probably the most opaque in regards to the Black Lanterns trying to push people to an extreme before they take their hearts - this has happened before, but now they are taunting and goading in differing directions, which is interesting. Doesn't seem like the Black needs an even balance of emotional hearts, and they'll settle for any they can get, ie: Flash is pushed to rage, even though last we saw he was full of fear.

The Atom's investigation of the black rings was cool - the idea of it being bone-like struck me as equal measures cool and creepy, and sort of reinforces the idea of the Corps being one combined. Bones make up a creature, right? HMMM.

The scenes in the JLA hall were some of the best though - the monitor sequence displaying the other parts of the world nicely displayed how big this is. The terror isn't restricted to Gotham, Metropolis and the other main hangouts of cape-wearers, it's global (well, intergalactic, but Batman can't fly). It's also cool because it showed a number of lesser known characters returning as Black Lanterns (Osiris, Black Adam's adopted punk kid for one). And the Tomb of the Unknowns - isn't that the Tomb in Arlington Cemetery for the unknown soldier? Who the hell could come out of that? (Don't say Jason Todd)

Next is the arrival of Ignignokt and Err. Um, the Indigo Tribe. Nice entrance, especially because I really thought The Atom was about to buy the ant-farm. And yes, confirmation that those rings really do need to do a Voltron and combine before the Night is over. I'm curious as to whether "Nok" means "Will" or "Green" - I guess writer Geoff Johns is the only one to know, and he probably won't share it. Then we get exposition that pretty much leads up to where we are now. Nice to know that the DCU is running short on compassion, and that the Indigo Tribe take compassion to an extreme - they don't just feel for others, they give up their identity of self. HMM! (My money is on a super-dooper Disco Lantern coming from the Indigo Tribe. Or Hal, but that's lame.)

Then we have Green Lantern and Flash lay all their cards on the table and get all Jerry Maguire on us. I like the fact that it deals with the changes in character since they both returned (from the grave...), and that both realise the other is speaking from a position of understanding exactly where that was. Then, just as we're about to get the Justice League of Man-Hugs going...POW! Black Lanterns. Spoil sports.

Firestorm - the dead, the alive and full of flash cards, and the one to be sprinkled on your next serving of chips. Really should have seen at least one of those coming (given the first page being a D&M on the relationship, that WAS the most obvious...but salt? Harsh!) And then we see that because of the Firestorm connection, Gen is actually worth whatever can be illicited from Jason - interesting, and true to the character's concept of fusion. Then we have Black Lantern Recruitment Drive #152

Lanterns, League, a suggestion - stop storing dead people in, under and around your home base. It's turning out to be a really dumb move.

The story is still going strong. I feel the Indigo-1 exposition was a little too heavy handed, but that might also be because I enjoyed the more subtle, piece-it-together-yourself clues from the first issues. My initial thoughts of a final combat featuring all the heroes slipping on respective power rings is pretty much squashed, but I am sure the Disco Lantern concept still holds water.
It's also nice to see that between the power ring-laden battles going on, we still have some genuine character development being done, but when you consider who the author is, that's one of his trademarks, so whilst expected it is still a highlight.

I give it 4 out of 5 power batteries (-1 for no Batman or Bat family)

I walk a lonely road, the only one that I have ever known...

...so I should probably get some friends, preferably with a Melways or GPS.

Last week found me anxious. The reason for this was that I was being visited by a very old, very unnatural friend. He’s a draug, which is best described by saying he is a water-logged spirit, with a personality to match. Given the dismal weather, he was out for a stroll (for him that’s more like mopping the floor with your feet), and came calling. Historically it’s very bad luck to not humour a draug. Mostly because he’s a spirit. So there we were, Pete was warming himself on a plastic sheet in front of the heater and I was feeling awkward. I started mucking about in the kitchen, re-organising things that probably hadn’t been touched (or organised) since last time Pete had been here. He grumbled when I got to the spices rack. He’s not a fan of salt.

When I get anxious, I do house work. It’s true. As the current state of my socks will attest, my anxiety rarely gets to this level, but when it does a domestic rampage of small room proportions breaks out. I become a whirling dervish, with the feverish skills of Mr Sheen combined with the dexterity and focus of a frenzied orang-utan. This particular Sheen-Monkey fit had me dissecting boxes to allow them to fit in my recycling bin. (It’s one of those small, you-can-risk-not-putting-it-out-one-week-but-at-your-own-overflowing-peril sizes.) With scissors deftly slicing the sheets into smaller sheets, I was quickly turning the coffin-sized boxes into child-sized coffin-sized sheets, and then small child-sized…you get the idea. As this continued, I threw down the scissors in disgust and relied on the strength of my own bare hands. This quickly paid itself off when I tore a chunk out of my hand. The blood ran free, and the monkey froze.

(I’m the monkey)

Blood is an intriguing substance, and one that has played quite a role in the last few days. Apart from my massive injury detailed above (the gash ran across my hand, and must have hit at least half a dozen major arteries), a number of thoughts and events have also starred the burgundy broth, which makes me think – is there a message? Did the horrific mutilation that resulted in my entire arm becoming little more than meat have a deeper meaning? Was amputation really my only option? Pete seemed to think so, although he was pretty ambivalent about wounds and the spilling of fluid – after all, he did that all day every day.

(learning to deal with being right-handed will be a constant struggle)

As I am often want to do, I research a topic starting at the ancient and racing through to the modern. This way I find I can avoid the constant “duh, we know that” feeling you get when reviewing something ancient, like the theorising of gravity – of course things fall down. Duh!

Firstly, they say that blood is thicker than water. This has been traced back to a German idiom, which like many useful german inventions, has spread worldwide. (As blood is international, this does make a level of sense) Ostensibly, the phrase means that the bonds between family are stronger than those between unrelated people. But as we know the ancestry of this particular piece of prose is Germanic, it has to be considered that the Germans are nothing if not practical. In that respect, it has to be considered that maybe the phrase was initially a passing statement on the constituency of blood rather than a cryptic comment on the family structure. Yes, I mean SCIENCE.

(warmed draug smells like a wet dog slowing cooking, liberally garnished with stagnant water foam)

Basic biology would support this twist (but oh-so-very Germanic an interpretation), as blood is comprised of plasma and cells. Plasma accounts for about 55% of any volume of blood, with 90% of that being water. Numbers aside, what this results in is a magenta mess that is irrefutably thicker than water. The Germans weren’t being witty, they were being practical and knowledgeable, if not out of context. I find this is a problem with many traditional sayings, we say them out of reflex without any understanding of what they actually represent, and even less of what we may be committing to via this utterance.

“Too many chiefs, not enough indians” – this is invariably used in situations where there are statistically speaking an extremely small percentage of Indians present. Strangely enough, “too many chiefs, not enough indigenous people of the Americas” never quite caught on. It’s also racist, but I’m not going there.
“Fools rush in where Angels fear to tred” – the rusher is not necessarily a fool. As with our blood-above, the key thing here is to think about the reality of it - Ever seen any pictures of Angels and their get up? They don’t wear anything on their feet, thus everything from crushed glass, boiling water and hot sand would be an area that they wouldn’t even consider tredding in. But the common man, our pre-judged “fool”, if anything like the majority of the population who do rush around, is wearing SHOES.

(pete is burbling away to himself. I think me might be boiling. He’s a fully grown draug, he knows when enough is enough)

This kind of inaccuracy in our language makes me sceptical of anything that is now said to me. Then again, my grandmother used to accuse me of not having the brains I was born with. This is biologically and literally true – my brain has indeed grown, matured and is not the same organ it was. Sounds to me like this same explanation can be applied to our language and it’s intended use.

My grandmother doesn’t think much of the English language, either.

Q: How do you like your cars? Like I like my coffee - hot, fast and with all leather interiors.
Song for the day: "Fancy Pants Manifesto", by Lemon Demon

And so you're back, from outer space...

...because I was turned away at the Martian border for being an enemy of the state. Typical.

This is a quick post. A message to the masses, as it were. If I were the Pope, I would be telling you this from my balcony, but without the ambiguous gestures, as they make for a distorting of my intent. But I am not the Pope, and so I will write this in the text of my four fathers and say this:

A change is a-comin'.


That's it. Atomic batteries to power. Turbines to speed. Godspeed!


Q: What on earth are you talking about? The future...
Song For The Day: "First We Take Manhattan" by Leonard Cohen