Problem woman-child

If you ever had a nightmare influenced by CS Lewis' "The Chronicles Of Narnia", I'll wager it wasn't half so disturbing or despondent as the Neil Gaiman short story "The Problem Of Susan". Which is not to say I don't recommend NG's 2004 yarn - you just won't read "The Last Battle" or contemplate the fate of the elder Ms Pevensie in the same way again.

Dem bones

The "Mythic Creatures: Dragons, Unicorns & Mermaids" temporary exhibition at the National Maritime Museum covers many more imaginary beasts besides, but the recurring message is that their origins (as ideas) lie in our ancestors misinterpreting the bones of unfamiliar or prehistoric species. For example, stories of the one-eyed giants known as cyclopes are believed to have been inspired by the fossilised skulls of mammoths that once roamed parts of Greece/Italy - the trunk cavities being incorrectly identified as huge eye sockets. And so on. The narwhal tusk's connected to the unicorn horn, the Gigantopithecus is connected to the yeti fable...

Why 2010 is gonna rock

'Cos I already have tickets to The Decemberists (w/ Bridezilla) at the Hyde Park Barracks, Paradise Lost (w/ Sirenia) at the Metro, The Pains Of Being Pure At Heart at the Oxford Art Factory, AC/DC (w/ a band I can't stand) at ANZ Stadium, and Dinosaur Jr at the Metro. All ears, brace for impact!

Not pictured: Addster

No-showed my work Christmas beano for the third time in 11 years. On the first occasion, it was a matter of hardly knowing anyone and the folks I did know inviting me to a rebel gathering (at Harry's Singapore Chilli Crab Restaurant in Surry Hills). When next I piked out it was due to me being too hung-over from the prev eve to so much as glance at a beer. (There may have been exotic dancing involved.) This latest absence was a result of the 24-hour bus strike and the subsequent cab shortage. There's no train line to my area and it's an hour-long walk at a brisk pace from the city - a journey I didn't fancy making in the cold, wet night with a skinful.

Bartitsu

When you behold the new "Sherlock Holmes" fillum - which you will love, as SC and I did, in spite of its incongruities and excesses - don't assume the fighting art employed by the tricky private dick and his hetero lifemate Dr Watson to be anachronistic. It is, in fact, a legitimate period style of fascinatingly eccentric origin. Take it away, Wikipedia...

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bartitsu

"Judo" Gene investigates the murder of "Superman" George

Legendary grappler Gene LeBell on the suspicious shooting of his good mate and student, "Adventures Of Superman" actor George Reeves, who expired from a head wound later ruled to be self-inflicted:

"It was after 1am on June 16, 1959 when a buddy of mine called me and told me that he had heard on the radio that George had killed himself. George Reeves was the last man in the world that I thought would ever commit suicide. It just didn't add up so I drove over to his house as fast as I could. I knew that something was up when I saw that there were several police cars in his driveway. I ran through the big doors of his house and found a lot of policemen there. I made my way up past some of them and into the bedroom. I noticed a rug on the ground in a place that I had never seen it before and I said, 'That rug doesn't belong there.' I kicked it aside and there were five bullet holes in the floor, but the investigators didn't seem to care. I tried to talk to the police and they told me to get out of there or else they were going to throw me in jail.

"To this day, I don't know why the police didn't really want to investigate the death of my friend George Reeves and why they were so quick to list it as a suicide. They never found powder burns on his hands, which should have been there if he had actually held the gun and shot himself with it. Whether or not the death of 'Superman' George Reeves was due to suicide or foul play remains one of Hollywood's most enduring mysteries, but I have always had no doubt that he was murdered. Although I wasn't there at the time of his death, I have always had my suspicions as to who did it."

...

"Lenore Lemmon was at George's house on the night that he died. She was the only person that the police had ever really questioned but they never followed up with her on anything and just seemed to take her word about what happened at face value. A day or two after George's death, Lenore left California for Europe never to return again."

Quoted without permission but with respect from p145-146 of "The Toughest Man Alive" (2003), LeBell's ghost-written autobiography. Along with astonishing anecdotes such as this one, it presents a convincing argument for pro wrestling as a martial art and even as the forerunner to MMA. Gene's transition from judo champ to wrestler to ace stuntman is riveting stuff and he comes across as a man of principle. Buy the book or borrow it from a library and meet a true action hero.

For a speculative account of Reeves' rise and demise, see the 2006 flick "Hollywoodland".

Regression

Not since 1992 have I had hair of sufficient length to tie in a ponytail - although I don't plan on doing so regularly until it outgrows the "Seagal" stage. (I lopped it off back then because I moved to tropical Darwin.)

Speaking of flashbacks, I'm also re-reading Michael Scott Rohan's "Winter Of The World" fantasy series from the late '80s. When my then-bestest bud BP and I first took the journey, it was a trilogy. Now it's a sextet.

Progression :-)

Daniel Kitson @ Sydney Opera House, 02/12/09

A demonstration that art can be surprising and clever, well articulated, humorous, heart-felt, soul-felt, something you can relate to, something you will remember, as whimsical as an arrangement of battered suitcases with lights and scale models hidden inside, pleasingly intimate, substantial and affordable...and still a bit of a downer.

No-one special

"There's a girl in my suburb who looks like a younger version of you," I told her one day.
"Poor thing," she joked.
We got on well...then I shut her out.
We lost touch. Time passed.
I didn't encounter the double again until this morning. She looked even more like the woman I'd known.
Sounded just like her, too.
She chatted merrily with a gal pal, unaware that every word was a droplet in the well of my regret.
"Poor thing," my friend might have joked.