Space archaeologist Dr Space Junk aka Dr Alice Gorman joins me for the second episode in the Spring Series 2020.Continue reading “The 9pm Moon Magic Communism on Venus with Dr Space Junk”
I reckon Benno Rice was right when he tweeted that this card is definitely for me. Consider this little sequence from Twitter early this morning.
Leslie Nassar had just tweeted that he’d had a dream where Channel Seven’s Sunrise program was “throwing One Direction celebretweens at super-fat versions of TV chefs carrying butterfly nets”.
I responded thusly (here with some minor improvements to the flow):
In the last dream I recall, the hipster wouldn’t shut up so I slowly sawed off both his hands at the wrist with a knife.
At first he thought I was joking, but as the blade worked through the tendons he realised in terror that I was serious. Blood everywhere.
I threw his hands onto the floor in front of where he was sitting against the wall and left him there, whimpering. His friend went quiet.
And then I woke up. Pulse racing. Sweating. Breath gasping. I couldn’t go to sleep after that, so I made coffee and read the news.
Why am I telling you this? Well, a week from today I’ll be flying to Perth to… to… [gulp] to speak at #DigitalMe. Yes. Speak. That’s it.
I would like to have a dream with butterfly nets. I think butterfly nets would be quite lovely fun.
I think I will make a coffee now. And read the news.
The title of this post comes from a subsequent tweet by the Snarky Platypus. “Are you going Wolf Creek on hipsters again?” He makes it sound like a bad thing…
Incidentally, if you do a Google Images search for the text “I don’t get nearly enough credit for managing to not be a violent psychopath” you will discover moist, sticky muffins and a dwarf-eating hippo. You’re welcome.
… but last night I did. I had to present a TV news program and it was going very, very badly. Interpretations, please!
It was my first day as presenter of an established program called News Tower. The presenters’ desk was stupid. Me and my overly-blonde female co-host had to peer out between mock embattlements as if our News Tower was a medieval castle.
When I got my copy of the script just minutes before show time it was hand-written on scraps of paper, and I could barely read the appalling writing. The pages were all out of order, and the text was over-written with corrections and arrows showing how the sequence had been changed. When I asked whether the Autocue copy was typed OK, I got a blank look as if “Autocue” and “typing” were unknown words. And indeed, the camera lens watching me was naked: no cueing system could be seen.
Weird. Last night I dreamed that I met Daniel Johns of Silverchair and The Dissociatives fame. It was immediately after he’d performed on stage, and he was energised but very sweaty — and was, um, “extremely friendly”.
This is an unlikely dream. I rarely remember my dreams. I haven’t ever thought Mr Johns was particularly “my type” — though I don’t think he’s ugly or anything. I’ve just not thought about him in that way. And besides, he’s married. And it’s not like he was in Supernaut… or even alive at the time.
What does it mean?