June 2008 Archives

I've been looking for them since the end of March.

The title of this post used to be George Carlin's 7 words that couldn't be said on TV. After countless google hits that imply the searcher is seeking porn involving rape and/or degrading humiliation of women, it's changing because I find it triggering to see such serch terms appearing on my Statcounter information.

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So, George Carlin died. I've never known much of his work, but he was in a couple of Kevin Smith's movies, sending up organized religion. I thought he was funny. As I've previously mentioned, I like my political humour. I feel compelled to do some catch-up work now...

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This will mean nothing to non-UK readers, but I saw this story on the newsstands this morning. The shock, oh it stings. And, as you can imagine, I'm stunned, nay, shocked, to see Mr. Leslie pleading his innosence and victimhood in the Daily Male. Cry me a fucking river. Perhaps if you didn't put yourself in the position to be facing accusations of rape and sexual assault, you wouldn't be facing another accusation? Is it really such a difficult concept for certain men to get their minds around? There was reports recently about 4 English rugby players in New Zealand; Auckland police were wanting to question them about an alleged incident at a party. No formal complaint had been made to the police, so the players weren't compelled to speak to them and they all declined to do so. Again, imagine my surprise to discover the Male's prurient interest in the nature of the allegations. Even if the commenters seem to be mostly seeing a degree of common sense (this time, I really am shocked!)

If men don't want to be accused of rape, don't put yourself in a position where you could be accused of rape.

It's not difficult.



P.S. Dear Daily Record (regarding print edition of the article) and other bastions of tabloid mediaocrity,

Rape does not equal sex. John Leslie is not facing allegations of sex.

Kisses,
Depresso

Your results:
You are Supergirl

Supergirl 84% Superman 80% Spider-Man 75% Wonder Woman 69% Green Lantern 65% Batman 55% Robin 52% Hulk 45% The Flash 40% Iron Man 30% Catwoman 25%

Lean, muscular and feminine. Honest and a defender of the innocent.

Click here to take the Superhero Personality Quiz

Hah, notice the standard video dynamic? Each John verse; footage of John. Paul chorus, footage of him. The sudden cresendo of strings at the end? Jump cut to George. Cuz, yunno, he was in the band too. Where's Ringo? Seriously? I see Mick Jagger, Marianne Faitfull, George Martin...one of the Monkees, but where's Ringo?


*Tomorrow Never Knows gets an honourable mention.

Have the Love version, just because I've not heard it yet... It's a mix with Within You Without You, as if you didn't know.

Right, so. I've been a bit lax in the blogging my every move and thought recently, you may have noticed. Mostly because nearly every single thought is on the theme of how lovely Ken is, and while it's endlessly fascinating to me, I also realise that me talking about how he's so wonderful, the love of my life, my hopes and dreams and fears for the future together, and stuff of that ilk might not be the most riveting read for pretty much anyone else. So to make up for my reticence, here's some photos I've taken in the last few weeks...

7 days after Ken left the first time, the doorbell went. Dad answered, and I came downstairs to see this large cardboard box sitting on the floor. It was evidently from a florist (what with it saying Clare Florist on the side) and I just assumed that it was something for one of the neigbours who must've been out. Except, no, it had my name on the delivery label. These were inside. From Ken, as I imagine you've figured out for yourself. The enclosed card is stuck to my monitor where I read it about 16 times every day. I smile a minimum of 16 times a day.

Ken visited again, arriving a week past Friday. It was even harder to say 'bye to him last Sunday, I cried quite a lot at the airport. Mum picked me up afterwards, which is just as well as I don't think a 2 hour trip home would've been bearable. Watching the plane taxi out to the runway was like being stabbed repeatedly in the heart. I think I disturbed someone having a massage with my snuffling. Anyway. While he was here, it was wonderful. Aside from being all woozy from the cold, mind. He helped me with something I've been thinking about doing for a while...I'm not sure how clear it is, but anyway. All other photos I've taken since then have been... well... I'm not putting them on the interweb tubes for all to see, put it that way. The redness to my nose and the bleary eyes are down to the cold, not inhaling peroxide.

Life has been quite quiet, I suppose. It's the calm before the storm. Of course, I'm looking forward to this particular storm. Getting quietly impatient, as it happens...

3 As a 1930s wife, I am Very Poor (Failure) Take the test!

Mum came back from a weekend in London with a slight respiritory infection. I picked it up, so am now tottering about in a faintly snotty stupor. And getting pressure from work to get back to work. I especially appreciated the overtones of 'you're faking it' and 'you don't care about your clients'. Because what could be better for a 76 year old, just home from hospital, than a dose of whatever it is I have? After working 8 days straight, is it any wonder that my immune system isn't quite up to fighting off a virus?

Final nail in the coffin was some simple mathematics (simple is all I'm capable of just now) that showed that if I worked 9-6, 5 days from 7, for the national minimum wage, I'd be a bit better off than I am just now.

Oooh, thunderstorm...