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Monday, June 7, 2010

Cheers

Goodbye guys. I haven't been posting and see little need to continue. THe blog will stay up and if there is something here that entertains you I am glad, But will probably not return.

Have a good life, keep fit and healthy, eat lots, jump and run and play, play a good boardgame every now and then, and be nice to your family, friends, pets, and everyone you meet.

And respect foxgirls. They give and give and give.

Wednesday, May 12, 2010

FDPL Weekly Feature


Today two people close to em are sharing a birthday. Well, let's not kid ourselves: they are also two of my three readers. So, this is a shout out to 66.6% of my readership: keep on truckin', and don't you ever stop. Peace out.

Friday, April 30, 2010

Mangoes

Here are ten reasons why you should eat mangoes:
1) They are soft fruit and super easy to digest.
2) They are full of sugar, which is good for you, damnit (yeah, pretty much everything you heard about sugar murdering your face is wrong. Except for diabetes, which is not cool)
3) They're tropical, and that's somehow more awesome than temperature fruit. Fuckin' apples. Think they're so cool.
4) Some mangoes are red and green, some (like in Zimbabwe) are purple and green.
5) They're sticky and juicy
6) Years and years of planned breeding has gone into them to make them not nearly as stringy as they used to be. Seriously, they used to have to be cut in a special way otherwise the fruit would get all mangled. But it's not like that now. Be a hero and appreciate it, damnit.
7) You can chew the residual flesh out of the peel and it tastes amazing.
8) Mango is a fun word to say. Imagine how fun it must be to eat?
9) They're not available that often, so eat them now!
10) They taste like sugarflower fairies having sex in your mouth!

FDPL Weekly Feature


For great Justice, please send me your original artworks! I'm running out of pictures here, and the FDPL needs all the help it can get! Without you, there is nothing but darkness and despair for all foxgirls worldwide!

Tuesday, April 27, 2010

My Second Cousin Once Removed

Well, first off her name is Epiphany. So, you should probably go and kill yourselves because nothing you do will ever compare to her name, let alone her accomplishments. I'm sorry, but we've all been made redundant. I know, it's hard.

Secondly, omigosh she is the cutest creature EVER. I've spent the morning with her walking on the mountain and doing handstands and everything and it has put me in the best mood. And somewhat broody, but I'll get past that soon... hopefully.

I hope to see her again soon.

Tuesday, April 20, 2010

God Emperor of Dune

I won. Barely, but I won.

I got all the way through that terribly thought-provoking book, all the way to the end, though admittedly the appendices defeated me.

But still.

I won! Except near the end I realised that all my preconceptions had been shattered by the beauty of the inverted ending. I felt that special feeling; being the only person in the world who interpreted a book correctly. I need to go and find all the other people like me and we can sit and be self-righteous together.

With a picnic basket, discussing World Systems Theory.

Yesssssss.

Monday, April 19, 2010

My Own Prejudice

I am going to tell you a sad story, about me.

A few days ago, on Saturday the 17th, I went to the first of a number of seminars designed to teach me how to become a cultural diversity facilitator. It was a long day and though I was prepared to deal with some ego issues and so forth, and have been extensively prepped on the subject matter from doing Anthropology, one incident sticks out on my memory.

(First, a little about the course. There were 18 facilitators-in-training, a few trainers, and the programme organiser. The group was politically-correctly homogenous, crossing the age, sex, colour, and class boundaries in a way so clearly aritificial it was almost nauseating.)

We had just finished defining prejudice (for the purpose of the course) and then had to introduce the person sitting next to us to the room. Everyone took their turn and di their thing, and it was interesting and enlightening. Then, one woman began introducing the woman next to her. They were both fairly young mothers, I'm guessing in their early thirties, and had obviously been talking about their children. So, this woman said that her partner's 'greatest achievement' was raising her 14-year-old son to be a good man (verbatim).

Here we come to the sad part. Upon hearing those words, I immediately thought: "Oh dear, I know what that means: she's raising him on a solid diet of feminist rhetoric. That poor guy is going to grow up to be omigosh Thomas WHAT THE HELL.You are the most terrible person."

Okay, well, that is rather sad. Unfortunately, it gets worse. Because throughout the entire course she... wow I really wish I wasn't saying this but she confirmed my every suspicion. I can't describe the scene except it was like watching someone about to stab themself in the face, and there's nothing you can do about it. And then I felt terrible for developing that judgement based on an earlier judgement and then I felt angry at the world for not jumping in and proving to me that I was wrong to make snap decisions. Remember, this was just after a section on why prejudice is bad. I was choking on the irony.

Now I understand I could simply have found 'objectionable' things in what she was saying to justify my earlier judgement and thus enable myself to feel self-righteous about the entire mess. And even using the word objectionable is a cause for sadness, because it speaks of my own intolerance towards certain movements, or at least ways of expressing certain ideologies. But the saddest part is, referring to my possible self-justification: I don't think that was the case.

I think I managed to walk away from a transformative session on the dangers of prejudice with reinforced set of prejudices. No wonder I was so bloody miserable on Saturday.

Post: Frank Herbert’s Dune

What I really need is to avoid reading things, pretty much any things, when I want to write again. At the moment/for the past week I have been reading Dune and all its sequels, which is terrible. Or terrifying, probably both. I love Dune like a jogger likes running. It’s not actually pleasant but when it’s over you feel like a good person. For me, Dune is much the same, because it makes my brain ache. Currently I am working through (and it is work) God-Emperor of Dune. Aside from the common theme of politics and religion which deserves not a blog post but an entire bloody university’s output for three years, the topic de jure is about male vs female armies. And it’s getting really, really convoluted. All sorts of repressed sexual connotations and worship and the whole thing is tied into religion and shhiiiiitttt I’m not smart enough for this...

Dune makes me think. It doesn’t make me accept everything in the books as fact because that would be close to the ultimate insult to a critique on deterministic religion, but it does make me think. The problem is I have both lost my taste for intellectualisation and even the ability to do it properly. I feel on the precipice of a massive well of indescribability and I’m terrified of it, and terrified of my own terror.

I need to finish this book, quickly. I need to block it out because I am constantly in pain these days. Even the unpleasant exertion of pointless gym exercise is becoming a relief from my mental hurting. I hate Dune, for making me think.

Thursday, April 15, 2010

FDPL Weekly Feature

Hello hello... the weekly feature. I have to say this picture confuses me... she looks about 12, is wearing tartan and a hoodie, and is carrying a gun. Plus she's in Mexico? Layers within layers.

Tuesday, April 13, 2010

4 hour tutorials

This happened yesterday. I didn't have time to post it then, but here it is now, for your enjoyment or hatred.

* * * * *

4- Hour Tutorials and Omigosh I’m Tired
Well, I’m writing this in sections, in the ten minute breaks I’ve scheduled after each hour. After talking my ass off for an hour I’m already tired and I still have three hours to go – there is no way I can keep this up! They say men only speak 2000 words a day; I think I have already fulfilled my quota.

I have to say I have missed university-level tutoring. Though English is not my area of expertise (literature certainly), it is fun to have an open forum of ideas and not just the usual one sullen school student and their fatuous mathematics problems.

FATUOUS I SAY!

Anyway, yeah. Tutoring! Its great. Somehow I have been managing to provide a good quality service (or so it would seem) to my kiddies (even though at least one of them is older than me, tutlings is probably a better word). I find it strange how eloquent and clever they can be with a little encouragement, but they obviously need a boost in the right direction. The biggest problem seems to be poetry. Oh boy, do I know that feeling...

I still have difficulty getting the hand of things like trochaic meter, enjambment and caesure. Sometimes I think poets are being deliberately obtuse about the whole cadenza just to keep themselves viable :P. But as a dabbler in terrible, terrible poetry myself, it would be harsh of me to unjustly criticise the profession. or vocation. Or whatever it is.

Gotta go, they are back from their last break. You have to have breaks in a thing like this: no-one can concentrate for 4 hours straight, NO-ONE I SAY. let's analysis some madda-squagging poetry, beeyotch.

Friday, April 9, 2010

Fox About Box: Dirty Talking

Sometimes I wish I was on Wordpress... they seem to have much nicer tabs... if you're listening google, make your blogspots more customisable please! The list thing just isn't enough... anyway today's topic, and finally the opening of the promised sexy times my banner promises, we have the first entry for Fox About Box, the new sex section. Today's topic: dirty talking.

Dirty talking always confused me. Confuses me I should say. I guess because there seems to be multiple definitions which centre around two basic poles: A) dirty talking is talking about how good that tongue/penis/vagina (gasp, naughty words!) feels, or how hot one is getting, and so forth, while the latter (likely inspired by pornography) consists of straight out foul-mouthed swearing, possible accompanied by gesticulations and power point presentations. To be frank, the second seems just unpleasant. I have to say, I've often been of the opinion that if you're mouth isn't too busy to chat, you're doing it wrong, but that's just prescriptivism.

Anyway, getting the the main point, which is only tangentially related... wow my sentence structure is terrible. Um, dirty talking. Dirty acadmic talking. For those not in the know, and lets be honest all 4 of my readers are in the know, I trained as a social scientist. And so politics, economics and sociology is sexy to me. And therefore when I read upon some website a fictional conversation between two politics-trained soldiers, and especially the quote:

"Say it, I'm about to cum!"
"Socio..."
"Yes..."
"Political..."
"Oh yes!"
"Ramifications!"
{cries of ecstasy}

I laughed until I died...

I'd totally get turned on by that.

So, dirty talking! Awesome, apparently.

Wednesday, April 7, 2010

Holy Shit Holy Shit Holy Shit

A sequel to Arcanum, with the artwork done by Sam Didier, with music by Joseph Fuckin' Bolton, featuring the programming of Thomas Biskup. The narrative is set in a steampunk world ala Arcanum with a slightly greater focus on nature and paganism. I'm seeing pagan gods walking disguised amongst humans, the clash of technology and magic, politics, assassins, trade cabals, unique quests, changing political landscapes based on player decisions, random story encounters...

Sorry, I think I just had a nerdgasm...

Tuesday, April 6, 2010

FDPL Weekly Feature



Another musical foxgirl. It must be a trend :P.

Thursday, March 25, 2010

FDPL Feature

Today's picture. She has a guitar! Because she does, and its awesome. Also... no, its just awesome.

How to be Happy and a Good Person at the Same Time

1) How to be happy: don't think much.
2) How to be a good person: never do anything without thinking.

What, did you think it was going to be easy?

Monday, March 22, 2010

Behold, the man!

Behold the man! He is a caricature of himself
The limbs mishappen, knobbled with joints
Tumescent growths of muscle everwhere
His face and chest hairless
His stomach as ridged as the roof of his bleached mouth
Wearing a diseased smirk
Weak and clumsy

Behold the woman! She is a mockery
Her hips thin and wasted
Bulbuous breasted, rib-sunken
Plastic'ed and poisoned
Pruritan minded, artificial angst
Filthy mouthed, dull-eyed
Self righteousness

Behold the child! Innocent (ignorant)
Ignored, pitied, denigrated
Curious, uninhibited
But oh, so precocious...

Such a fast learner

Transcension

I was going to write a long and fairly impassioned (for someone with the general demeanour of a dead fish) monologue about transcending the physical and mundane and finding a new level of discourse, existence, whatever, before I realised that I would be farting against thunder. And maybe I will come back to the topic when I am feeling better and less angry, but for now, I'm going to exert some self-consciousness and talk about fitness instead.

For today, we will discuss something I read in, of all places, Men's Health: the perfect human body. Quite surprisingly for a popular magazine, the edition I held made the bold and counter-cultural claim that the young child completely at ease with his/her body has the perfect physicality. I will get to their explanation in a little bit, via a somewhat circuitous route, so bear with me, please?

Our bodies serve a variety of functions. For the moment at least I take the position of the detached observer, but we'll get into that later (or hopefully, not at all). Sometimes, and I think this is hilarious, we forget that our bodies are physical and not mental constructs. Our bodies are designed to do, and not to be. And this is from someone who goes to a gym for the sole purpose of crafting a body that is better looking, not better functioning. Thank you, I am aware of the irony.

Nevertheless, our bodies exist for us to do. Because of our strange position as largely civilised creatures, doing has become almost optional. Aside from walking, many of us use our bodies in extremely minimal ways. We tend not to carry things heavier than books, plates or clothes; instead, our arms and hands are most likely to be engaged in typing, writing, or other pursuits that are to physicality what golf is to sport. We don't even walk long distances, most of us. Public transport, or private vehicles, take away the responsibility of carrying our bodies from place to place. Engines and wheels help us in ferrying products around, letting even the terminally unfit 'carry' huge burdens of groceries, furniture, or whatever. We approach a curious position where our well-fed, pampered bodies cannot perform the basic tasks that were once necessary for our survival.

Anyway, the point is that the body is supposed to be used. And going to the gym does not count, at all. That is manufacturing, not exercise. Which brings me back to the child, running, playing, swimming, dancing. For the child, her body performs the tasks it needs to. Thought or impulse becomes action, smoothly and organically. Watch children at play, and you'll see how proficient they are with their bodies. They can bend and twist, dance, run effortlessly, swim, stretch, jump, climb. Their bodies express their desires and feelings.

So, I suppose, the lesson is this: use your body. Dance like no-one's watching, swim for the pleasure as well as the exercise, juggle and toss balls and jump and climb and crawl. Make your movement natural, balanced, and without thought.

Blah blah preach preach lecture lecture-

Sunday, March 21, 2010

Poetry

I lost I lost my hand today
Where its gone I cannot say
I lost I lost my hand today

I stood on the great cliff
Casting grain onto the water
Sharks frolicked beneath

Seals feasted on kelp
Fish ate their own eyes
Cried freshwater tears

They took my ears and my voice
But I had two hands
And two feet
And one lone eye
I was a human

I lost I lost my hands today
Where they have gone I cannot say
I lost I lost my hands today
Please oh please let them stay away

I lost my humanity
I lost my hu-manity
I lost my humanity

FDPL Weekly Feature No. 2

The second picture for the week: a dakr-haired, vaguely Grecian-looking foxgirl with a spear. Awesome? Awesome.

Please send in your pictures or original artwork, I am already running out! It would be much appreciated. Just drop me a comment and I'll send you an email address to send them to, and they will appear the next week (hopefully). Have a great week folks.

Megan Fox is a Terrifying Orange Martian Lady

I don't keep up with what Hollywood thinks is hot, but the last time I checked Megan Fox was supposed to be the new hit star(let?) on the silver screen. And then I saw Transformers. And then Transformers: Screw It, Optimus Needs to be More Badass. And I need to tell you all something: Megan Fox is a terrifying alien here to suck our faces off.

No, seriously. She has a mouth like a lamprey, a smile like a clown, teeth like vulture, eyes like... well, they're fairly normal, I guess, and skin the exact colour of a roast chicken delicately glazed with apricot puree. SHE IS A HORRIFYING ORANGE PSEUDO-HUMAN. Please, please look at her objectively and you will see what I mean.

Man, I can't believe I'm writing about an effing celebrity but it needs to be said: stay away from this Playboy clone. She was maufactured on a distant planet, sent here to observe our ways, and landed in some Jersey Shore fraternity on Fake-Tan Night. She is inhuman, grotesque and must be stopped.



Saints above. She will chew your face off without a second thought.

Thursday, March 18, 2010

New Twice-Weekly Feature: Dignified Foxgirl Pictures

Greetings, bacteria and viruses. I am pleased to annouce the FDPL's newest venture: acquiring pictures of dignified foxgirls and posting them here, for the public's perusal. Please, send in your personal pictures and/or those you have scavenged from the internet, along with the artist's name or homepage.

To start us off, here is a stunning monochrome from Jessica 'Neon Dragon' Pelfer. Thanks Jessica!

Tuesday, March 16, 2010

Health and Fitness: Practical Strength Building

There are a plethora of strength-building sites on this web, many of them from professionals, scientists, and steroid junkies, and to them I happily relegate all topics regarding pumping iron, reps, sets, and other weird terms. But, there are a number of areas these guys don't seem to address, some of them surprising oversights. One of them, an important one, is very simple: what does one do with all these muscles? And what does one do to build strength outside a gym?

For today, the topic with by simple digging. You think you're a tough cookie? Spend a day shovelling. I guess, in areas that snow, cleaning driveways and lawns would do the trick, to an extent, but for all people there is a much simpler one: making your own compost heap. Burying ones kitchen waste, mixing it up, watering it and letting it settle is not only prudent on an ecological scale, but also provides your garden with a supply of fertilizer which will help your rhubabr, plum trees or ornamental cosmos (it's a flower, seriously).

Okay, fine, but where does the strength come in? I'll tell you: dig a meter-cube hole, chuck waste and sand in equal layers, adding water, and repeat, and then tell me that garden work is not hard work. Take off your shirt and get a tan while doing it, even. Digging is an exercise that used muscles from thighs to shoulders, and if you stand in one place and use your hips to twist and toss the dirt, you'll activate side abdominals as well. Take it easy for the first few times though, as the constant bending will tax your lower back quite heavily. Make sure to stretch frequently. Carry a heavier shovel and take heavier loads for extra strength building.

What I'm saying, basically, is this: gyms frequently fail in giving fullrange of motion while exercising, especially in the weight training section. You can mix it up with some good ol' fashioned yard work, which not only will get you out in the open, but also give you the satisfaction at actually having accomplished something.

Foxgirl Dignity Preservation League

The Foxgirl Dignity Preservation League (FDPL) calls for good people, kind people, to stand up and be counted. No longer shall foxgirls, the smarter, more elegant cousins to the common catgirl, be without representation on the foul swamp that is the internet!

The League calls for the creation and dissemination of respectful images, stories and original artwork that present these beautiful creatures in positions of dignity, respect, and non-nudity. The League calls for the abandonment of the stereotype that foxgirls have some innate allergy to cotton and an irresistible libido that compels them to commit the entire smorgasbord of sexual, sometimes dubiously-legal acts.

Join the League, and commit yourself to the preservation of foxgirl dignity! For now, you can find some artists who have taken steps in the right direction: Isuna Hasekura, who wrote the light novel Spice and Wolf; JÅ« Ayakura, who illustrated it; and Keito Koume, who adapted it in manga (comic) form.

There are other amazing artists who have done their best to portray foxgirls with dignity and grace, but they are few and far between. If you find one, or better yet are one and wish to post their/your work here, please comment and leave your details and I will get in contact with you.

Viva foxgirl dignity!

Review: Foreshadowing

Now, I don't claim to be an English major, or even particularly smart, but I can and do write and can and do watch movies and there is something in both that is often overlooked yet can be incredibly satisfying for the reader/viewer: foreshadowing.

Foreshadowing is a technique that involves putting clues or hints in the early part of the text that refer to events that will occur later. A prime example of this in cinematography is the work of SImon Pegg (Shaun of the Dead, Hot Fuzz), and if you don't know who I'm talking about, you should be ashamed, ashamed and terribly aware of your own failure as a human being. Or, you could just go and watch them now, and be awesome.

Anyway, both movies contain cues as to what will happen later in the movie. I chose them because they are both particularly obvious ones: where words and phrases from early relaxed events are literally repeated verbatim in later, more dramatic moments, transformed in meaning by the new dangerous situations.

Why is this important? It's very satisfying. People like to think they're smart, and also like patterns and structures. When they pick up on words or events that happened before the in the movie, they both feel as if their attention has paid off (passing a test, almost) and that there is a pattern, a logic behind the movie. For similar reasons did Shakespeare write in iambic pentameter. It formed a constant rhythm and pattern throughout his works, making them satisfying on a structural level.

Foreshadowing, ladles and germs. It serves many purposes; apart from the above, it also adds a sense of dramatic tension that helps build suspensethroughout the book. The trick with foreshadowing in wirting, though, is not to make it too obvious. Movies can get away with blatant foreshadowing ala Simon Pegg because the audience's attention is only kept for approximately 100 minutes. In books, however, foreshadowing only works if it is subtler, more meaningful, and there is a longer gap between the initial suggestion and the final culmination.

Review: Show, don't Tell

In my brief time studying Journalism I did learn a few important lessons, and one of them was this: show, don't tell. When writing, and desirous of putting for a particular sentiment or emotion, it is vital to use the scenario and the background to create a particular emotional effect, rather than making it explicit in the form of emotive statements. For example, from Kevin J. Anderson and Brian Herbert's Dune prequel:

(Paraphrased) 'Rhombur strode down the corridor, suddenly determined. For too lomg had his people suffered under the lash of the oppressor. No longer could he sit back and wait for others to fight his battles for him. Finally he would live up to his ducal responsibilities blah blah blah..."

The above is slamming home the point, not allowing the reader to draw any personal conclusions. There is no subtlety because the reader has no space to feel anything - it is all laid out in front of them. When expressing emotions, avoid using explicit modifiers; rather let the reader infer the emotion from the event.

Emotion is obviously one of the most powerful aspects of good writing, so be careful. Like with hugsm start off gentle. Let the event speak for itself.

Friday, March 12, 2010

And it goes on...

All the couples hearts are bleeding
Crying screaming begging pleading
Always shouting never heeding
'i love you'

Different clothes for different seasons
Different colours, different meanings
Every day a different treason
'i love you'

All the men (they're always feeding)
On women children dignity reason
All the men they're never feeling
'I love you."

All the women, never bleeding
Taking grasping begging pleading
Emotional with all the weeping
"I, love you."

All the people's hearts are seething
Never given chance for freedom
Hammering 'gainst the walls of Eden
"I. Love. You."

All the words said after reading
"No-one has ever felt the way I do
I love you more than I can bear
You're the only thing that matters to me
We have a deep, spiritual connection
I, um, love you?"

A hater's one who's always stealing
Thoughts, comfort, respect, feeling
Their wounds are barely healing
"But I love you."

"You are a cosmic mistake
A million-to-one chance
And yet you are not special
Not even in a bad way.

but

"I still love you."

Gosh, poetry? For Realsies?

With Apologies to Allen Ginsberg

Actinic flare
Tropic seizure, emerald glancing bitch friends slutty boyfriends
Everywhere dancing
Pleasing, to the eye interested in girls kissing boys kissing boys hugging
Sisters from behind looking like lovers, opening mouths and talking
Eye contact
Never making it past the first awkward hell-
I take off my clothes and people draw pictures of me
For money
We want you, both of you, kiss on the stage
In Denmark its totally legal, young people watch all the time, tutored in
The finest of colonial expressions, the caramel and white flesh mixing
Hands on the porch, too-and-fro, leaving behind circular handprints on a father’s lap
Here I come, here I come, here I come no more
Sugar please, too much excitement after that extravaganza
Bonanza
Colours rioting, stampeding, fifty dead
While huge-hatted white coats and beautiful dresses talk about pinkness
And the immaturity of those who won’t embrace it
Slip inside it
Make it slippery and moist with
And I’m there, and here, and everywhere
Hugging people, I’d like them to be more than friends
Less that lovers who make me smile
Feel warm and good
Human contact is a wonderful thing except it always ends in tears and recriminations
It doesn’t have to
Emerald eyes, green with love
Brown with energy
Blue with wisdom
Grey with comprehension
Kissing other eyes other people and we’re dancing, all of us, in a warm naked place where no-one has to be anyone but everyone is
Smiling

Monday, March 8, 2010

Tutoring

Tutoring is how I make my paltry income, folks. For those not in the know, tutoring involves giving private lessons to students of a variety of ages, in a variety of locations, for money. I’ve been tutoring on-and-off since I was 15, and have a fairly good handle on what it’s all about.

Step one is identifying your own academic proficiencies. Though I suppose it is not out of the realms of possibility for someone to tutor practical skills like carpentry or plumbing, I don’t have much experience in this area. So, if you’re good at keeping tally of figures, think about tutoring accounting. If you’re superb at science, have a university degree in Physics or Chemistry, etc etc, think about tutoring science as a subject. And it goes on.

Step two is identifying your target range. If you get along well with children, then consider tutoring primary school kids. From what I’ve seen, the market is smaller (less parents asking for tutors for their kids) but also less saturated on the supply side, as most tutors seem to prefer dealing with high-school children and above. If, however, you feel you can best associate with university graduates, then consider them as a market. Some caveats: the younger the child, the more patience and general niceness you need to have: the older the graduate (in the case of university tutees), the higher the level of qualification you need. If you’re aiming for tutoring Masters students, you’ll need a PhD, and in that case you should probably looking for other avenues of employment.

Step three is getting pupils. This is obviously the most difficult stage. There are several avenues that one can explore: advertising at educational institutions (using flyers, or better yet those notices with tear-able strips); signing up with a tutoring agency that does the legwork for you; or using contacts and word-of-mouth to find students. Annoyingly, and against all concepts of a neutral meritocratic society, word-of-mouth pulls through again and again. Make friends with school or departmental secretaries, get in tight with the counselling department of your target institution, smuggle grade-A heroin for their disaffected, chain-smoking cousins... whatever works for you. But it’s these people, at the hub of the educational communication network, who are your best bets.

Step four is of course the actual tutoring. Firstly, get your hands on subject textbooks, research materials, and study guides, if you have the time and money. For university and high-school going children, try and get exam papers on the subject in question. Many times these papers can be found on governmental websites, which is convenient, and are usually free to download. Familiarise yourself with the material, and don’t assume that just because you have a degree in Physics that you will be able to immediately recall all your schoolwork and be able to teach it perfectly. Secondly, organise a time and a place to do your tutoring. Conventional wisdom in this field insists on a regular time slot and constant weekly or daily meetings. For school kids especially, and I speak from experience, regular meetings help to cement the information they learn from you, and the regular meetings get them into a pattern of devoting an hour or two a week to a specific subject, usually with good results. So, when you acquire a new pupil, try and make sure that you can arrange a regular schedule of meetings with them, and that you both commit to that schedule.

Finally, some parents and maybe even their children will want extra help during the exam period, often increasing the number of weekly visits. Be careful, if you have several pupils, not to double-book sessions, which will just alienate your paying customers. Another important consideration is not to push too many lessons onto them, especially for younger kids. Remember when you were a child – you had a limited concentration span and a fairly low tolerance for strangers forcing you to do homework. This will come into effect in a big way if you try to make the lessons too long – rather keep to one hour or 45 minute sessions where possible. Anything over that and concentration levels begin to wane, tempers start to flare, and you’re not going to get anywhere.

Also remember that being a tutor does not turn you and your student into relentless automata. Make a personal connection – ask about their hobbies, sports they play, or things happening in their lives. If you can find a common interest this will help immeasurably in creating a more relaxed atmosphere. Remember, being a tutor and being a teacher are not the same thing – you have been employed because you can offer a more personal, one-on-one education.

Now for the practical considerations: location and payment. It is best, where possible, to tutor in an environment that your pupil finds comfortable, or at least academic. Ideally, one should tutor at their house or school, or possibly a third-party academic location such as a university. It is best not to tutor at your own residence for the simple reason that transport might be difficult for your tutees, and they will likely be less comfortable, and thus less susceptible to learning, especially for the first few sessions. Ideally you will have your own transport and can be at a location specified by the person paying you, frequently their home or at school. As for payment, work out a contract before hand, preferably written (but don’t come into your first session pushing paperwork into their faces). Establish a single pattern of payment that suits you both. Some are willing to pay in cash, but some prefer not to hold onto large amounts of cash at home, or are unwilling to shoulder the responsibility or having to draw cash on a weekly basis to pay you. Cheques and internet transfer are other means they may be more comfortable and/or familiar with. Try and make the process as easy as possible for your employer, and they are more likely to pay on time and with a minimum of fuss.
Final final final point – treat this as a job, folks. Be professional, prompt, and polite. Do your research before hand, and really try and make a difference. Not only is this basic human kindness but it will also help immeasurably by spreading word-of-mouth info about your tutoring talent. Go forth and make some money.

Old-School Games: Warcraft 2

Oh, the sweet embrace of an emulator, an old-school, punishingly-hard strategy game and a free afternoon. Of course, getting there was the stuff of legends itself.
On a nostalgia trip bought and paid for by an errant curiosity and WoWiki (if you don’t know what that is, please get off the internet, gran), I made the bold spot decision to get my hands on Warcraft 2, which, if my failing memory serves, was the first game I actually paid for (back when R300 was more than the price of my ten-year-old body on the slave market). Downloading it from two separate sources, for luck and then knowledge that one of them would fail, I plucked the jewel from the Black Morass that is the web, and held it, aloft, in my carpal-tunneled hands. Then, I made the mistake of trying to play it.

Dear reader, let me take you back to a day, some 7 years ago, when I last tried to install Warcraft 2. I got a new computer, and figuring I was now wiser (taller) and more patient (just no) I decided to give Warcraft 2 a crack again. I tried to install it on ‘98, a platform a few of us are old enough to remember.

Oh, the pain, the pain when my soundcard, itself hewn straight from a mine of Fail, from a particularly pure seam, when it refused to cooperate and the game would not install. I shed pubescent tears over that terrible, terrible loading screen, until gnashing my teeth and rending my hair, I cast it aside and ran, screaming, into the darkness. Now, seven years from that fateful day, I discovered that screen resolutions too can fail one. Shouting vile blasphemies at my screen, I trolled the internet in more ways than one, searching for one of the 3 literate people on it, and after wading through a pile of genitals, curses and anonymous threats of physical violence and/or breast enlargement...

To cut a long story short, I bargained with two imps, a cacodemon, and a confused A&T telemarketer and acquired DosBox, that wonderful portal back to the misty games of yore, with their punishing difficulty curves and their ‘fuck players’ mentality. My enthusiasm managed to sustain me all the way till finishing the original game, and onto the expansion, before surrendering to the pleasures of the comically-easy modern games.

So, hats-off, I guess, to DosBox, vintage Blizzard games before the company sold out to World of Warcraft, and the internet for providing dose after dose of good old fashioned intoxication. Tonight, the yells of ogres and the warcries of enraged grunts will sing me into insomnia.

A Trip to Yon Gymnasium

I’m going to the muscle farm, muscle farm, muscle farm, going to the muscle farm, all the clink-clonk day...

“Welcome to the metal hell. Can we have your Token of the Damned, please? Okay, the demon will just... heh, that’s strange, it doesn’t seem to be working. Unions, huh, amiright? Ah there we go. Enjoy your brief sojourn of hell-before-death!

“First we have the array of sweat-squeezers, designed to not even give you the false sensation of movement while you race along, fixed to one spot, not unlike the hamster adaptation of Sisyphus: One Man Against A Pissed-Off Lightning God. Then, when you climb down from the sodden metallic horse-carcass, you have your choice of horrific machines or activities...” I tone out the marketing drone and gaze around the damp poorly air-conditioned chamber. Next to the hamster wheels are the treadmills. Let’s drink that in for a moment: tread mills. To tread, in a mill. I believe they passed laws against that stuff back in the heyday of the Industrial Revolution... and now we have the opportunity to do it for free. Without even the tiny pleasure of knowing your exertion will fuel some 19th century British capitalists hedonistic pursuit of top-hat and waistcost (pronounced 'wiskt') wearing. And finally, oh, so very finally, the rowing machines. Experience Roman Empire-era lives, from the very bottom rung. At least, you say with a twinkle in your eye, you don't have the ill health, close, sweaty conditions and ominous music in the background... oh, dear...

For the muscle-bound, there is a range of machines with enough pulleys, weights and flanges to make the Spanish Inquisition feel inadequate. Until, of course, the realisation comes that all the biggest, sweatiest guys ‘n gals are playing around with lumps of free-swinging metal, grunting and gasping and straining like sex-crazed elephants on musth. The 21st century, ladies and gentleman. The premier of physical fitness training is the lifting of barely tarted-up big rocks.

Of course, if you’re going for toning – still one of the most gnomic expressions in the English language, let alone the gym – we have another series of machines. In contradistinction to the simple elegance of the shoulder-pec-arm triad of infernal weight training engines, the toning circuit has such delightful devices ranging from the gynaecological (the ‘lift and spread’, the ‘yes I wore red undies today’), the proctological (the ‘ass in the air for all to see my lumpy butt’) and some which are just confusing. Of course, this ring of humiliation would not be complete without the obligatory metal bench in the middle of the track, knee-high to a Smurf. Some brave souls are willing to pretend to exercise by running up and down the three shallow steps, and then back down, repeating this bizarre ritual until shame and the judging eyes of the thigh-spreading, ass-thrusting crowd forces them away.

I got to experience a new slice of horror today. My left shoulder started acting up again... that bitch, hate it SO MUCH! RAGE! HATE! BILE!

Anyway, went to one of the orange-shirted, smiling, dead-eyed attendants and asked to be repaired. He gave me a condescending chuckle, refusing to make eye contact, and referred me to a handful of rubber strips. At this point I was looking for the hidden cameras and possibly leather-clad doms to appear, but apparently they were some sort of exercise.

I have to say, after pumping iron or fondling steel or fingering copper or whatever fraught expression one uses for exercise, these rubber bands nearly defeated me. Thankfully, there was no-one around in the wooden dance-floor except some woman trying to do situps while an overly-friendly creep refused to leave her alone, constantly badgering her about how she was from the area and he had seen her before. I idly debated calling the police, but eventually he left. As did I.

The sweet embrace of the cool air was heaven after the thirty minutes of perspiring judgement. Gyms – like being on trial in a sauna, and the only verdict is guilty. What a rush.

Insomnia

Woke up this morning
Got myself a gun
Momma always said you’d be the...


Zombie-like I rise from the twisted heap of clothes and covers that qualifies as bed only because it is above the ground. Sometime in the night, the endless, endless night, I got naked. I don’t remember when. According to my alarm clock, which I had to hide under a pile of books lest its winking orange eyes accuse me, the time is 67 minutes past 88. Glad we got that cleared up.

I know the moment I turn on the light I will feel muzzy, grainy-eyed, and deep-in-the-bone weary. But with the lights out its much less dangerous, except, of course, for the brain meltdown actively turning me into the living dead. The walk to the door, a mere thousand metres away takes a minute, which ain’t bad really. I feel a bit like the movie Gothika – like a pile of shit. And that movie had the blinking undead girl thing! That too.

The tap water tastes a little like dusty cobwebs and manages to make me thirstier. I sit on the toilet in the buff and stare morosely into the bathtub, where a small man cloaked in shadows gives me a pale smile and strokes a moonwhite pumpkin. Not wanting to piss him off, I slowly get up and totter for the door.

The corridor yawns away like my parents’ regret at letting me take a Bachelor of Arts. I fall over a parade of sleeping dogs and into the mirror that hangs just next to my door. In the darkness, it catches and reflects blackness in every direction, and the glass-half-full-moon looks like a will-o-wisp chilling by the ceiling, painting moon-graffiti everywhere. The moon, Fuck that guy.

Just... fuckin’ fuck that guy. Man.

Now I’m sitting on my ‘bed’ again with the bedsheets coiled like a serpentine turban on my head. I’ve fashioned a crude skirt from my shirt and apparently am trying to get my arms to go through the legs of my sleeping shorts.
Welcome to the defining night of your life – the one you’ll have every night.