I gots the stuff.

There is a casual Client Relations/Marketing position going at my work, available till mid-december.

Monash University, working on the portal team, as a jack-of-all-customer-services, doing PR material, sleuthing out student and staff problems, making things in photoshop, knowing things about stuff and translating Nerd into English and back. You'd probably be working with me, which you might consider either a plus or a minus.

Get your details and resume and cover letter and referees and stuff to me ASAP (closes 7th Sept).

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There are different scales of nerd.

Type 1 nerd: Likes nerdy things.

For whatever reason, this kind of nerd likes cultural items traditionally associated with nerds. Fantasy novels with brightly-coloured covers, dice with too many sides, Spike Spiegel costumes, Joss Whedon and Earl Grey tea, hot. These are the kids who dreamed about space travel and flying horses and haven't quite had that crushed out of them yet.

Type 2 nerd: Hasn't got a clue.

This kind of nerd never quite got the whole 'human interaction' concept. Often found toting around their own personal soapboxes, a Type 2 nerd would argue that these Types should actually be Levels, and would demand to know what the best kind is.

Type 3 nerd: Genuine, pure, A-grade nerd.

This kind of nerd may exist anywhere in the world, and is marked by a near-autistic devotion to things that the majority of humans would find deathly boring. Medieval songs, for example, or pure mathematics. Often to be found carefully correcting the tracks of type 2 trolls on Wikipedia, or completing PhDs in somethingorotherenstein at Cambridge.

I am calling out to the third kind among you.

My Internet-purchased Zendo set has just arrived. A game of logic, buddhism and enthrallingly stackable plastic pyramids.

If you're the kind of person who plays Bartok and makes rules like "no red card can be played on any card with a perfect square value" (as opposed to the more traditional "Anyone who wins a hand of Bartok has to do a tequila slammer off someone's breasts"), drop me a line.


In the last week I have, in no particular order:

* Dyed my hair (dark brown)

* Read The Thin Man

* Turned 25 (scored chocolate, Mr Kipling's, Coraline (signed!) and a chewy apricot muesli bar so far)

* Got sick

* Got better

* Had my bike stolen (bastards!)

* Been hassled for change about seven times

* Seen 22 1/2 movies (half because Dead Meat stopped short after the fourth reel of six.)

* Skipped 16 movies (sleep and illness)

* Lost 2 kilos (where? how? do movies burn energy now?)

* Purchased one (1) long white puffer jacket and one (1) pair brown suede boots. Take that, all-black wardrobe.

* Eaten okra for the first time

* Made chicken soup, and managed to burn it (how do you *burn soup*? Takes some kind of skill. Tastes ok though.)

* Seen one penny-farthing bicycle d-locked to a bike hoop.

Pretty colourful for a week. At work, I can barely get one document written in a week. On reflection, this faint persistent headache seems more... earned... having written all this down.

83 movies booked. Yes, I know, square fuckin' eyes.

Yet again the Film Festival has steamrolled my birthday like a muffin on a freeway. Every year I'm going to have to put up with this. They're never going to move the festival, and I shur'z hell ain't movin' my birthday. Perhaps we can come up with some kind of timeshare arrangements. For now, I'm offering those of you who aren't going to see Zombie Honeymoon the chance to join me for a movie on July 27th.

In other news, vat-grown meat: It won't happen overnight, but it will happen. The cow will probably then become extinct.

Look at him. Extinct. This is your fault.

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Backstory: My cat, Sukoshi, has been missing now for over three weeks. He bolted from the new house and despite doorknocking, posters and frantic calls to the RSPCA and local council, no trace of him has been discovered. Needless to say I have not been happy. Have. Not. All I can do is hope that my cat is a smart cat.

The next-door-neighbour-but-one's cat (who by some cruel coincidence looks almost exactly like my cat, only smaller and louder) has been spending a lot of time round at my place, sitting on my lap. It's like he knows. Or something. He stands outside the front door and yells until we let him in, then he saunters in like he owns the place and rubs his cheeks on things. His name, I recently found out, is Little Man. Both my neighbours and their cat are cool.

Recent Developments: Anna and I were tucked up in bed, tired out from an evening of scrabble and dishes and wasabi-tuna-salad sandwiches. I was being maudlin. There was a space between us in bed, and I was all "That's the perfect space for my cat. I wish my cat was curled up in that space."

As if on cue, Little Man starts yelling outside the front door. We debate getting out of bed to let him in. He isn't really our cat, after all. But we hear Peter relenting; he opens the front door, but Little Man has vanished. Then he starts yelling again - this time he comes in, runs into my room and jumps up on the bed, straight into the space between Anna and I. I'm all like, "Hey, Little Man."

And after a split second, Anna says "That's not Little Man."

Hugs and champagne and kitten kisses all round.

My cat is a smart cat.

the tongue-cut sparrow and other tales

So I was thinking of going to see Moby.

"Why?" they said. "Why do you want to go see that trumped-up Nuttelex-chomping hairless pixie-man? He is yam-fisted! Fists of yam! Also his tickets cost $72 of our australian dollars! And he has a blog! Why would you pay money to see someone who has a blog?"

The answer is not because Eminem thinks he's a fag.

The answer is not because he has a chihuahua jammed down his shirt, although that's a bonus.

The answer is not because he goes on simplistic and ill-informed left-wing rants, although that's also a bonus.

The answer is, well, darn it, I just like his music.

So I'm asking you, Internet, if you'd like to go with me. It's the week before my birthday (on July 21st) at the Palace, and the first (non-opening) night of the film festival. My finger is hovering over the Ticketek "Buy Now!" button as we speak.

oh yes, we will fight.

So I seem to have survived my brush with the scalpel (albeit a lot poorer and still a woozy little monkey from all those drugs) and methinks a celebration is in order.

Being a lazy little monkey as well as a woozy one, I'm going to take the opportunity to swipe Tom, Cameron and Matt's party and invite everyone along.

So, for those few on this earth that haven't already been yelled at enough about this:

Friday the 13th of May, at the Factory, 100 Gore St, we have pleasure in announcing

Rotten Chop and The Five Venoms

A warehouse-party-gig, and a fine opportunity to come round and poke me in my bruised and scarred midriff. Also, y'know, metalll.

Donuts for everyone.

And the rest.

For dj -
The coolest man on earth.

Beckachu -
It's a little blurry, sorry, but it's such a great photo...

Belinda M -
Hand-tinted purple Wedgewood, no less. And yes, that is a real twinings earl grey tea bag :)

Briiian -
It was either fix up this label, or the "Foot High" brand Melons label :)

Simon -
copyright 2004 Sam Brown of

Thorfy -
Says it all, really :)

Scott -
The first ever isotopes - scientific history in the making.

Georgie -
Every girl needs a good David Bowie icon :)