Your Mileage May Vary: My First Response To "True Blood"

Quite some time ago, I picked up a Charlaine Harris book to read on a flight. I did it because everybody was talking about her "Sookie Stackhouse" books, and the tv series True Blood which grew therefrom.

I admit it. I was hoping to enjoy what I read.

I didn't, though. I found Harris' writing pedestrian and predictable, and the main character -- Sookie Stackhouse -- felt like a prizewinning "mary sue". The book was eminently forgettable, and I promptly did my best to forget it. (As an aside: Tansy Rayner-Roberts "Nancy Napoleon" stories are much, much more interesting and entertaining, if you like Para/Rom. You can get 'em from Twelfth Planet Press.)

Of course, that definitely didn't preclude the possibility that True Blood was good TV. And I've got a lot of friends who swear by it. Well, hell -- I mean, the Hamish Macbeth TV series with Robert Carlyle was delightful, while the series of books that inspired it was... actually, pretty awful.

So today, there I was grinding away on the rowing machine. You want boring? Rowing machines are boring. Boring as a... really, really boring thing. A wimble. Yeah. Rowing machines are as boring as a wimble. And once you look up "wimble", you'll see that's rather boring indeed.

To combat the boredom, I usually run a DVD on a little player while I row. Turn it up, set the subtitles, and I'm good to go. Hell, it's the only way I'm going to catch up on the TV everybody else watches anyhow, right? Well, yesterday I finished Inglorious Basterds, and so I thought: fine. Here's the time I start in on True Blood.

First Season. Episode One: in the machine, and away we go.

Well, crap. Maybe it's just 'cos I was rowing, you know? But I don't think so. I think Ep One of TB stinks.

It kicks off with a lot of lowest-common-denominator sex/death imagery. And while I like the possibilities inherent in 'vampire rights' and Deep South redneckery with vampires tossed in... I didn't get much of interest.

Poor bloody Anna Paquin. If they'd pulled her Sookie Stackhouse pony tail any fucking tighter, her face would likely have split right down the centre. And the character's still a goddam Mary Sue. Don't believe me? Try this site here: Avoiding Mary Sue.

There's lots of sites like this, by the way. This was just the first one I happened to grab through Google. But you'll note the first six warning signs are all right there: the unusually attractive woman masquerading as the 'plain jane'. (It's Anna Paquin. Dress her as a waitress, fine. Scrape her hair back until her face explodes. Fine. She's still Anna Paquin, and no amount of heavy-handed hints dropped about her lack of sex life can change that.)

Then there's the Mysterious Powers: she's a telepath, for some reason. Read's everybody's mind. Oh, but not the mind of the Dark and Mysterious Bill the Vampire. Okay, points for naming him 'Bill', but for fuck's sake: yet another broodingly handsome, dark but pale vampire staring intensely at the heroine (and believe me, if the staring got any more intense in this, poor Bill would likely wind up permanently cross-eyed)

Oh, and of course there's the 'everybody loves her' thing. We find out that her boss is wildly (secretly) in love with her, but can't bring himself to announce it. And of course, Mister Intensity the Vampire finds her fascinating. Of course, to be fair she does initially rescue him from some rednecks who want to drain his blood (apparently it works like a drug on humans?) but that really just leads us to the next Mary Sue point -- the bit where she's heroically rescuing the shit out of people all over the place.

No prophecy (yet) of course. And we don't know yet if her past is tragic and angsty. But the bit where she's every so nice and perfect and two-dimensional... that's all over the screen, baby.

So, there it is. End of episode one, and I was pretty damned happy when the redneck blood-draining types caught Mary-Sookie off guard and started kicking the shit out of her. I'm hoping that's a sign of things to come -- but I suspect quite strongly it simply points to a rescue courtesy of Mister Intense Stares early in episode two.

I own all of Season One. Given the "must see" status so many of my friends have pinned to this series, I will watch all that I have. (Why not? I watched the 1992 Captain America the other day while exercising. It was moderately hilarious, though entirely unintentional in its comedic goofiness.)

But: unless the writing improves significantly, I will absolutely not not bother with Season Two. I don't actually care whose tits they throw at the screen. If I want screen-boobs, there's way more than anyone could ever use on the Internet. I want interesting characters who aren't dull stereotypes (redneck drugpuppies; sassy black gay guys... yeah, you know who I'm talking about).

Oh, and for fuck's sake -- somebody should tell poor Anna to stop gurning. Maybe it's the scant material they've given her in this episode (she has to be Instantly Fascinated by Mister Intense Stare -- and that's her motivation for... ummm... most of it. Which, let's face it, is pathetic) but she seems to have adopted the Nicholas Cage approach to acting in finding her inner Sookie.

Oh, and in other news: the Australian electorate was predictably stupid today, and Rupert Murdoch must be a moderately happy old fart.

Spring: On The Dot

No waiting around this year. Spring rolled up and announced itself, loud and proud, on September 1st. We'd had a little warm weather prior, but nothing unusual for this time of year. Nevertheless, yesterday the sun was out, the air turned warm, the skies cleared, and it was beach weather.

Well, for Tasmania, anyhow.

I had a pretty good Father's Day, for all that it was a confused affair starting on Saturday with kids too impatient and eager to wait. The best bit was the evening. We had Scream, Blacula, Scream! and the original 1958 The Blob all cued up, ready to go. I made a huge pot of nasi goreng, and the Baggins girls showed up, as well as one of the Branch lads, and we hung out watching exceptionally dire cinema, and playing games of Bell-Bottomed Bad-Asses on the Mean Streets of Funk.

Apparently, I haven't actually matured a great deal since share-housing days at university. Oh, sure, I've acquired a certain patina of responsibility and all that good shit, but left to myself, what do I do for fun? Neck a couple of beers, watch trashy movies and play ludicrous games with friends.

And it was a great night, thank you very much. Bell-bottomed etc is a card game; part of a series of card games from Z-Man Games in which you try to build a particularly crappy, generic movie while simultaneously preventing everybody else from putting their film together. Bell-bottom etc reflects the '70s exploitation flicks, making it particularly appropriate for an evening involving one of the Blacula movies. However, I suspect my favourite from the series is Kung Fu Samurai on Giant Robot Island, and we also one Scurvy Musketeers of the Spanish Main.

I managed to win the first round. The title we had to work with was "Sweet Lead Death: The Return of Lethal Sex". (You generate movie titles at the start of the game, using the cards. It's not complicated. But it is silly.) My winning film turned out to be about a Fence (the criminal type) who made a big score and fled to a moon-base, where he waited pensively and alone, hallucinating that there were people chasing him. (I think it must have been one of those fucking awful French experimental flicks from the early 70s).

The films didn't work all that well. We made it through The Blob, although the DVD player started acting up, but Scream, Blacula, Scream simply wouldn't play all the way through, no matter what magic I tried. It's possible I may never know exactly what happens between the new Voodoo priestess and Prince Mamuwalde, the accursed Blacula. Nor will I be likely to discover why Blacula was supposed to be screaming so much. To be fair, I'm okay with not knowing. It was more fun watching the film and trying to identify characters and situations that are portrayed in Bell-bottom, etc.

I managed to dodge the almost-inevitable Father's Day Breakfast In Bed. I hauled myself out of the bed at 0830, a full hour and a half after my usual time of arising, but the late night had slowed the boys up considerably. I came down the stairs to discover Genghis in the process of making me some toast. He scolded me for getting up before my B.I.B, but went on to present me with a kind of conceptual Father's Day Breakfast: a single piece of toast with the words "Happy Father's Day" written on it in squeezeable vanilla icing from a tube. I wasn't expected to eat it: just appreciate it.

I love that kid's sense of humour, so I duly appreciated my conceptual breakfast. Then I had a banana and some avocado on toast.

Which looks a little scant, doesn't it? But that's as it should be. I have negotiated a promise with Nat: if I get down to 100kg, I can find myself a really groovy Long Coat.

I do want myself a decent coat. Ergo: banana and some avocado for breakfast. And this post is by way of reminder to myself...

...right. That's about it.  I have work to do.

The Drums Of War Are Beating... Again.

This time it's Syria, apparently.

Doubtless it's just a coincidence that some kind of crisis has come along in Syria just when Obama and his government of swine have had their reputation shitstained the world over as a result of the sentencing of Chelsea Manning, and the revelations from Edward Snowden. But coincidence or not, it's plain that Obama isn't above trying to change an uncomfortable political dialogue, and he's doing it in the ugliest possible fashion.

I hope to hell that whichever prawn we've got in The Lodge takes a very long, very hard look at the situation if and when Obama starts in with the bombs and the guns and the 'bringing Democracy' thing. We've still got good Australian soldiers dying in Afghanistan from the last-but-one time we marched in lockstep with a dangerous maniac in the White House. We spent way too much time and money helping Dubya's COW fuck over Iraq, turning the place into a cash cow for Halliburton and a hell-hole for Iraqi citizenry.

Let's think about the Syria thing, shall we? Syria's been on the USAnian shit-list for years. Dubya made it a primo player in his imaginary "Axis of EEEvul", alongside North Korea, and... uhh... shit. Who was the third? Was it Cuba? Couldn't be, could it? Damn. Let me look it up.

Ah. Originally, it was Iraq, Iran, and North Korea. But in May 2002, not long after the original imbecilic speech, the Axis of Eeevul got expanded to include Libya, Syria, and Cuba. (Cuba? Fuck me.)

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/1971852.stm

So apparently, the USAnian government has had a hard-on for Syria for more than ten years. Now Syria's having a civil war. Tearing itself apart. Naturally, the USA has jumped up to support the 'rebels', but unfortunately, it turns out they're just as big a bunch of bastards and killers as the Syrian government itself. And now, all of a sudden -- just as the US becomes a world-wide synonym for 'police state', 'tyranny', and 'illegal surveillance' -- the US is insisting that the Syrian government has gassed a civilian target, and Something Must Be Done.

I note in passing that the information on this heinous crime seems to have reached us by way of the French. The French? Last I heard, the USA had declared 'Freedom Fries' into existence, and rejected the French as 'cheese-eating surrender monkeys'. So, suddenly now French intelligence is reliable, trustworthy, and a good reason to start limbering up the cruise missiles?

My. That's an interesting change of position, isn't it?

And speaking of interesting changes of position, which country was it that supplied Saddam Hussein with detailed satellite information when he was preparing to attack the Irani forces with Sarin gas? Come on. You know perfectly well: say it with me -- it was America.

Now, we all know how the relationship between Saddam and the US wound up. One day, the Americans are supplying him with highly detailed intelligence on the Irani forces so he can use illegal WMD on them. The next, they're supplying him with clusterbombs and mines... oh, but the day after that, they're fucking INVADING Iraq in pursuit of WMD -- or was it oil? I can never keep that straight -- and tearing the heart of the Iraqi society in the process.

And now, Obama and his people expect the world to dance to his tune because the French have told him the Syrians have gassed their own people?

Enough is enough. Whatever America's internal problems are, that's none of our business. But when America starts yet again making noises about war -- that's everybody's goddam problem.

We followed the US in Korea. We followed 'em in Vietnam. We followed them in Iraq I. We followed them in Afghanistan. We followed them in Iraq II.

Please, for fuck's sake -- whichever dickhead happens to have the Prime Minister's office if and when Obama pushes the 'fuck you' button on Syria -- please, please: let the Yanks do this one by themselves.

They're quite good at "bringing democracy" by now. They've had a fuckload of practice at it, and they really, really don't need our help at all.

Let's keep the Australian military clean this time, shall we?

It's Called "Test" Cricket For A Reason

And England just failed.

They were three-nil up. They've won the Ashes. One game left to play.

Australia got in a good first innings. Good, but not unbeatable.

The English have chosen to play 'dead-rubber' cricket. Block, block, block, play for time, stall, stall. They're not playing to win. They're playing -- quite desperately -- not to lose.

That's quite telling, because after all, what do they have to lose? One game in a dead series?

It seems that the Brits are so afraid of losing a single match to a much-weakened Australian side that they will willingly play for nothing but a draw. And to me, that's very interesting.

I remember the Australian sides under Border, Taylor, Waugh, and Ponting... and I can't remember them playing a dead-rubber game for a draw. In fact, they occasionally made very risky declarations in the hopes of chasing a victory. Over and over: they showed they'd rather lose a dead-rubber game in pursuit of a really big win than play safe, sad cricket that made the game a byword for boredom in the 60s and 70s.

The simple fact is that the Australians weren't afraid that a single loss might make them seem vulnerable. They were prepared to face any side in the world under just about any conditions, and they didn't give a damn if they lost a match once they'd won the series.

Now, when Australia went to England this time I expected the English to thrash hell out of our team. And it's true: the scoreboard is 3-0. But the first English win was a squeaker. And one Australian-tilted game got washed out. And here we are in the final game, and the English don't have the stones to play like a winning side.

It's interesting. The British fans are all crowing about the scoreboard. And here's me: I'm seeing an English team that's so afraid of looking vulnerable that they won't play for a win even when they've got nothing to lose.

The Ashes will be contested again later this year, starting in Brisbane. And there won't be any sad little doctored English pitches, either.

I didn't think it was possible... but the English quite clearly are afraid of losing even a single match to the Australians. And that means the Ashes series down here is likely to be a whole lot of fun to watch.

But not if you're English.

Intimidation, Abuse, And Other Methods Of A Peaceful, Democratic Government

So, Glenn Greenwald's partner has been detained for nine hours at Heathrow for questioning about 'Terrorism'. Nine hours is the maximum permitted time under British 'anti-terror' laws that a suspect can be held (at a border point, such as an airport) without actually being arrested and charged. See this article for more details: http://www.theguardian.com/world/2013/aug/18/glenn-greenwald-guardian-partner-detained-heathrow

Now, on every level this is wrong, disturbing, and vile. Greenwald is a journalist, and in breaking the Edward Snowden stories, Greenwald is doing exactly what a journalist should. There is no possible justification for grabbing his family, friends or other personal contacts, and subjecting them to a nine-hour interrogation. This is Stalinist bullshit, and I am beyond appalled. Words fail me. I'm enraged.

I'm a writer. I have political opinions. If I publish them, can I expect my family to be targeted? No, I'm nowhere near any 'whistleblowers' -- but what makes you think they're going to stop with Greenwald? If they can get away with this kind of intimidation and abuse, how long before it becomes a standard weapon in the arsenal, for use against any dissenting voices?

There's worse, though.

Notice that they took away David Miranda's electronics. All of them. Phone. Computer. USB sticks. Game devices.

Notice also that David and Glenn are in a gay relationship.

Notice that David comes from Brazil.

Now, finally, let me point out that a very easy Wikipedia check shows that the age of consent in Brazil is 14.

How long will it be, do you think, before the British authorities crack any encipherment and "find" some gay porn on David's electronica? And how much would you like to bet that some of it depicts boys of 14-16 years of age?

What do you think it will do to Greenwald's reputation once they make public what they've "found" in his partner's possession?

______________________________________________________________________________

You think I'm excessively cynical? Well. I think we'll have an answer to that within two or three weeks. If Glenn Greenwald shuts up and backs away from Ed Snowden, then we'll know that the pressure was applied successfully. But if we keep hearing news from Greenwald that makes the Yanks and the Brits look bad, I'm betting that the "found" contents of David Miranda's electronica will mysteriously be leaked.

Ubuntu Linux

So, I finally got around to stripping all the useful files off Natalie's old Toshiba Satellite laptop. No point waiting for her to finish the job. I believe the machine has been sitting around for a year and a half waiting for that to happen.

It's a clunky old farquhar of a machine: heavy and thick. But it does come with a cd/dvd burning drive, and a decent display. It began life as a 'Vista' machine, and I quickly reloaded it with XP - but when Natalie found out she'd have to actually pay for a copy of XP, she made me revert it to Vista. I figured she got what she deserved therefrom, and I expect nobody will be surprised when I say that she replaced it with a Mac. And a MacBook Air. And an iPad. Oh, and she has an iPhone and an iPod too. Doesn't do things by halves. Nope.

(Except when it comes to cleaning the files up on her old computer.)

So, what to do with an old, clunky Toshiba? Hmm.

Well, the Mau-mau wanted a computer. And what the hell; both boys have one, more or less. So -- why not? I decided I'd bite the bullet, and set up the old Tosh Sat with Ubuntu Linux 12.whatever the fuck the latest long-term stable release is.

I expected fuss. I expected fuckage. I expected, in short, Linux.

What did I get?

Well, I downloaded the disc image without any issues. Burned it straight to a cd. Plonked it into the Tosh Sat drive, and kicked it off. There was a brief moment of irritation when I had to reset the boot-device order to make the thing boot off the cd... and that was exactly the last trouble I had.

Ladeez and gents, Ubuntu Linux is so fucking smooth it makes silk look like the dangerous end of a pineapple. The system installed itself neatly and cleanly in one go, without any grief whatsoever. All I had to do was supply a username, a name for the machine, and a password. The rest just... happened.

When it had finished, there was a quiet little note telling me to run the system updates... but that was it.

This version of Ubuntu puts all your programme icons on a 'launcher' down the left-hand side of the screen. You can unlock them and put 'em where you like, or you can just leave 'em on the launcher, and scroll through. Very easy, very intuitive.

It comes with a handy little set of applications. Libre Office handles the usual range of desktop publishing. There's Firefox for the Web. There's a music organiser/player (that talks to an Ubuntu music store) and a few other bits and pieces. There's also a 'software centre' prominently visible on that launch bar. Click it, and you are immediately tossed into the familiar equivalent of an 'app store'. There are lots and lots of bits of free software available right away.

Did I mention how easy it was to go online? Ubuntu happily found all the relevant wifi stuff. A couple of clicks, a password, and hey: I'm in. Frankly, it was a lot harder with Windows.

I picked a typewriting game for the Mau-mau, a downhill racing game, and a platforming game. Loading and installing? Shit. Couldn't be easier. Click the icon of each application you want in the software centre. Authorise the installation. Walk away. Ubuntu handles the rest.

I opened up Firefox, because I wanted to show Jake the now-famous Weidman/Silva knockout. Immediately, I got a little notification telling me that Adobe Flash wasn't installed. I clicked it, and a window opened on Adobe's download centre. I picked a version that said it was right for Linux, and clicked it. That opened the Software Centre again: I had to authorise it to accept software from the Adobe repository. And once I'd done that?

Yep. You guessed it. Ubuntu quietly downloaded and installed Adobe Flash, and when it was done, I went back to the website and watched the clip of Weidman punching out Silva.

Damn.

Okay, Linux isn't big on running your favourite games. Okay, a lot of brand-name software you're used to may not be configured for Linux. On the other hand, I have never seen such a smooth, easy, intuitive interface. I've had more trouble figuring out Natalie's Mac than I did with installing this version of Ubuntu Linux. And I haven't bothered to try it yet, but I hear that WINE (a more-or-less emulator for Windows) runs just fine under Ubuntu Linux if you really must do Windowy things.

So, the verdict? Well, when I replace my computer, I'll be making Ubuntu my primary working desktop. I'll keep a partition for Windows so I can occasionally play interesting games, possibly -- and to run some of the oddball Windows ware I've gotten used to over the years. But for music, web browsing, writing and editing, Ubuntu rules.

And in the meantime, the Mau-mau just got herself a reliable, robust, easily configured and relatively secure computer for --- well, nothing much, really. Ubuntu Linux is free, and Nat's old machine had long since been written off and depreciated through tax.

So how's this relevant to you? Well -- got kids? Got elderly relatives you'd like to connect with who aren't computer-savvy and don't want to spend a lot of money? D'you know anybody who might benefit from the gift of a still-very-functional computer for learning or working or playing?

Ubuntu Linux is, near as I can tell, a fantastic way of recycling and repurposing old machines. I won't say the Tosh Sat is now a swift, agile beasty -- but it starts up from scratch in about thirty or forty seconds, shuts down even faster, and seems to run fairly complex software with ease.

Hats off to these people. You can still find all the operating system files. You can still open a terminal for command-line access. You've still got all that geeky, Linuxy goodness if you want to go after it. But if you're new, and you just want to be able to work with an inexpensive computer -- Ubuntu Linux is fucking brilliant.

Mandolines Suck

I bought one.

A mandoline, that is. With an 'e', you'll notice. Last thing I need is another bloody musical instrument around the house. Besides, I think we've got a mandolin. Maybe two. I know we loaned one out sort of permanently, but I suspect the other one is still lurking.

But I was in a kitchen shop, y'see. Helping Genghis pick out a present for the Mau-mau, whose eighth birthday approaches with freight-train rapidity. (Are freight trains fast? All of 'em I've ever seen are slow, clunkitty bastards, fit only for blockading level crossings at great length when you're trying to get past.) And while I was there, I thought: I keep hearing from people just how convenient these mandoline things are. And here's one on sale. I'll get it.

Stupid bloody idea. It's fiddly, and dangerous. I cut myself in three places tonight making shoestring fries for the kids. I will admit that it was marginally faster than Mister Cleaver, and it did produce more evenly sized fries... but really, the savings in time wasn't much, and the evenness of the fries isn't exactly a factor of interest. (Still. They were skinny. So they cooked fast. That was good.)

But as for anything else... well, sod it. I can't really see the point. Stupid, clunky, clumsy device with unnecessary bladey bits and all kinds of ergonomic handling issues. Pfeh. It will go up on top of the storage area, to be used only on the rare occasions when I feel like making shoestring fries... maybe twice a year.

And in other news, it looks as though we may be heading towards Renovation Hell once more. Natalie has finally noticed that there's not really enough space in our dining room for the piano and all the various computers and the electronic soldering table and the Lego and the puzzles and the bass and the cello and the violin and the trumpet and the dining table and chairs...

... so we may, assuming the costings are reasonable and Council doesn't freak out, wind up adding an actual dining room. That would be truly marvellous, despite the inevitable horrors associated with renovation.

Other than that? Early cherry trees are blossoming in Launceston. Daffodils and jonquils are shooting up all over the place. The hills are showing the first hints of wattle gold. Soon I shall be sneezing like a motherfucker. In other words: don't panic, people who are tired of the cold -- Spring isn't far away.

Time to buy some anti-snotergenic drugs.