My Riverside Calendar Shot

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The Applecross foreshore last weekend.

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What's with George Eads' Hair?

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DailyCeleb.com & David Edwards Hey Zeitgeisters, Bet you thought this blog would never top “ What’s with Bradley Whitford’s Hair? ” For those of you who weren’t part of that historical blog entry, it was the glittering moment where I wondered what’s with West Wing star Bradley Whitford’s hair. Good times. However, tonight, while watching the current series (in Australia) of CSI :Original Recipe , I was forced to witness the unpleasantness of George Eads’ new(ish) 'do and I felt compelled to blog on’t. George plays the part of Nick Stokes and has spent some 5 or 6 seasons with a haircut “you could set your watch to,” as Grandpa Simpson might say. It was always short; it always had that US Marine Corps vibe; it was always as dependable as the ebbing and flowing of the tides. Now in something of an El Nino effect, I note that someone in Jerry Bruckheimer’s organization has decided to mess with the length of George’s crowning glory. Although I chiefly watch CSI wa...
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What’s with Bradley Whitford’s Hair?

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Okay, Zeitgeisters, that’s as shallow an attention-grabbing start as one could ever want, but I really want to know. And sure, I’m really talking about Josh Lyman’s hair. (I’m like one of those people who insist on calling an actor by their character’s name – only in reverse. e.g. “Go Knight Boat!”) Whitford plays Deputy Chief of Staff, Josh Lyman, in the Aaron Sorkin -created, NBC television series The West Wing . He plays this part to a tee and now he’s set to do great things in the new Sorkin drama, Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip . I know this last bit because the Angriest Ex-Video Store Clerk in the world told me. Oh, and Whitford ’s married to the awesome Jane Kaczmarek who plays mom, Lois, in the series Malcolm in the Middle. So Mr Whitford’s your regular pop-cultural icon and yardstick for excellence. We’re here in this, frankly, puzzling cultural landscape, because I’ve just finished watching season four of The West Wing on DVD. And Josh Lyman’s hair has bothered me througho...
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Tell Me Venn Will You Be Mine

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So Zeitgeisters, Miss Raspberry Beret and I were driving down Venn Street in North Perth. I said, “Venn diagrams” in that way you do to work your mouth and you have no connecting thought. Fatally, Miss RB asked, “What’s a Venn diagram ?” And I said, “Well you have these two circles see. And there’s things inside them. Points. You know the circles overlap. And where they overlap…hold on. There’s these different objects. Some are in one circle and some are in the other. And there’s an array. No there isn’t. Forget everything I just said, there’s no array and I know f**k all about Venn diagrams.” Everything I learned in high school twenty years ago has dried up into tiny particles which leak out of my ears while I sleep. Elevate the Insignificant, Mr Trivia
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Coiffure Fury

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Zeitgeisters, I don’t mind it when Miss Raspberry Beret asks me if what she’s wearing is hot, happening, kicking out the jams, etc. This is a dread area for many guys but I’ve watched enough Trinny and Susannah or QUEER EYE to give it a red hot go. However, I can’t answer any of her questions about hair. Freakin’ hair. A Woman’s Crowning Glory etc. When posited a follicular styling question, I revert to being Mr C from HAPPY DAYS, or Fred Mertz from I LOVE LUCY or Fred MacMurray from MY THREE SONS (more on MacMurray soon). That is to say, as hapless as any iconic 1950s television husband when faced with something feminine. So the other day we’re getting ready to go out and Miss RB says, “I don’t know what to do with my hair. What do you think?” I try severally to weasel out of it. I distract with light chat about climate change. I attempt to make it a feminist issue that simply doesn’t involve my input. “But I value your opinion,” Miss RB says. So I employ hyperbole. “This c...
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Self-Paced

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When I was in Primary School back in the 1970s in Western Australia, I went to a school that taught reading comprehension in all the usual ways but also used an American teaching aid that we referred colloquially as SRA cards, but an hour or research on the ol’ internet has persuaded me that I was, in fact, one of millions of Gen X (and 2nd Wave Baby Boomers) who encountered the SRA Reading Laboratory Kit.  SRA was Scientific Research Associates a Chicago based publisher of Educational materials (thank you Wikipedia). But their tautologically named teaching aid was kick-ass for a word nerd like myself. I recall it as a box stuffed with cards. Each card had a short segment of writing on it and then some comprehension questions. You’d answer the questions on a separate sheet they provided and if you were correct you got to move on to the next card. This was self-paced learning at its best as far as I was concerned. Boring, si? NO! Because the genius part was this – the whole sy...
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Vending Machine Win

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I had only planned on getting the above items.However, the vending machines in the place I work are programmed to take your money and give you nothing in return. I required a bag of Sour Squirms. They were in the bottom right hand corner compartment - E8. I put a fiver into the note-snatcher, heard $1.50 clatter into the coin return. The large black coil holding The Squirms, rotated one turn and released the bag, it shuffled forward two centimetres, then stood teetering on the ledge, just above the pit you grab your goodies from. I willed it to fall. It trembled on the brink like a plump diver waiting for the referee's whistle. After about five seconds it became clear that my paid-for bag of Squirms was content to stay where it was - like a portly Greg Louganis, frozen in time on a sprinboard to nowhere. There was no way I was going to allow this to happen, but because I too can be described as portly there was also no way I was going to be seen sh...
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Soup's Up!

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Zeitgeisters, Its winter in the Southern Hemisphere or SoHem as we like to call it down here. Which means its soup-making time. I like to get a ham shank and a leek and some magic beans and boil it up for a couple of hours and then freeze the result in a number of containers. Not quite the way granny would’ve done it, but its as close as I get. Last winter I was doing this very thing on a particularly cold night and managed to mist up my small flat. The windows, the computer and the front of the microwave all had a fine layer of moisture on it. I opened all the doors and windows thinking that equalising the temperature outside and would be in some way effective. You know that way you seize upon half-remembered scientific principles learnt years ago in school? I went about with a towel and dried light switches, the desk lamp and the telly etc. Then I sat on the sofa in a my thickest jacket while a chilly wind blew through the flat. I managed to catch a pretty good documentary on SBS a...
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This Week In Mr Trivia’s Bubble

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Monday. Sick at home and thus unable to educate today’s youth to not say LOL as a word. Not that I can manage this even when I’m there. I discover day-time television is as terrible as night-time television with a couple of subtle differences. Day-time TV is filled with infomercials about buying life insurance without a medical and infomercials for bagless, cyclonic Dyson ripoff vacuum cleaners that can pick up a bowling ball using just suction. Night-time telly is filled with infomercials about how the whole world is going crazy for Zumba and informercials with scantily clad ladies (some of whom can pick up a bowling ball using just suction) who want you to call them NOW for just $20.00 a minute.
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The Weekend Starts Here #4

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"I'm going to burgle the heck out of this place," Leon said. Zeitgeisters, I have been listening to a burglar alarm ringing for the last two hours. I’d say it was one building across, two max. It makes a swirling howl for five minutes, stops for one minute then starts again. Clearly its doing a bang-up job. Worth every cent the owner paid. And now, the guy in the flat, two floors up, has his stereo on loud, possibly to drown out the burglar alarm. Right, I can hear the bassline ‘doofing’ through the ceiling. Good. I’ll meditate through it. * * * * * Oh Good Grief. There is a fireworks show by the river. Doof Dooof. Screeeeeeeeeeee. Pop. Pop. Crump. Crump. Crakka-keracker-cracker. Crump. Doof. Doof. Doof. When they prise me out of this flat, white and shivering, I will utter a wordless doof, by way of farewell. * * * * * Couldn’t meditate through it. So I turned up my muted telly. The PRINCESS DIARIES directed by Gary Mar...
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Gorbys' Last Stand

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Gorby's back in the day, rockin' hard at the 2006 Million Paws March, St James Mitchell Park, South Perth. Or maybe not. Zeitgeisters, I’m afraid the rumours are true. My band, Dancing With Gorbachev (DWG) have split, owing to irreconcilable indifference on the part of Society. Was our rock too confronting? Was our truth too hard to bear? Were our harmonies just too sweet? The best review we ever got was this: “Youse guys are 100% uncompromising, four on the floor, straight down the line, meat and potatoes, balls to the wall, pedal to the metal, rock and f**king roll.” That was our drummer Vik Suprotik’s gran. Thanks for that! Let me leave you with the lyrics to a song that Pedrag, Zlatko and I wrote. It’s in the style of Cheap Trick’s “Dream Police”. It’s called “Depthy”. It’s time to put out the garbage. It’s time to put out the trash. Say goodbye to yesteryear. And flick off the cigarette’s ash. Goodbye you losers, We’re so dep-thy! Goodbye kind friends, W...
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