A regulated area = safety in numbers: “Prostitutes in Ipswich are being given money by police and drug workers to stop them risking their lives by touting for business on the streets, it emerged yesterday.” — Ipswich prostitutes are paid to stay off streets
I agree completely: “On the Internet, you’re anonymous. Since you don’t have to face the person you’re dumping on, you don’t see any reason to display courtesy.” — Whatever Happened to Online Etiquette?
I haven’t updated the Advent Calendar today because I was at the office Christmas party last night and was too tired when I got home. This morning I wasn’t feeling chipper enough to to my lightning-fast log on, upload, and log off magic trick. So, to the two people who actually look at it, sorry.
How magnificent is fresh salsa? I love the flavour of lime and cilantro (and I never used to like cilantro) and the bite the jalapeño peppers give. Er, and the tomatoes.
“Salsa Fresca” or “Pico de Gallo” is easy to make, especially because it requires no cooking. Just be careful when handling the chilies.
Maybe if I ever feel the urge to prepare an appetiser (baby steps, let’s start with ‘no cook’ before I get to ‘cook’), I’ll do fresh salsa and corn chips. Right now I’ll settle for Doritos ‘hot’ salsa.
I remember my mother looking through the obituaries in the newspaper. I remember my father doing things like that as well, although I suspect he was always hoping to find someone he knew there so he could go to the wake and act like a good friend. The sadness of someone passing was always quite personal. My classmate’s dad died of cancer when we were both quite young. I had a schoolmate die of encephalitis when we were 16.
I was sad, people I knew had lost someone important to them. I went to the wakes, I went to the funerals. It was something quite… connected (I’m not sure what the right phrase would be here).
The Internet’s made things so different. We are struck by the deaths of people we’ve never met. I feel sad and sorry for more people I don’t know who have lost someone they loved. I feel it is such a shame that young lives end so prematurely. This week I read that Star Foster and Leslie Harpold passed away. I have never met either of them. I don’t think about them at any point during the day.
But it’s so depressing to read that young people with so much promise are gone. The Internet opens a lot of doors for everyone, but it also brings a lot of sadness. I didn’t need to read the blog of a young executive who died in New York on that day five years ago. I didn’t need to find out about Idle Days’ rare and fatal blood disease.
It’s as though the promise and potential the Internet brings comes at a price — you have to open your heart and feel all this sadness that you would ordinarily be spared.
Getting my hair cut has been a battle all my life. As a child, there was a constant struggle between my mother and I when she took me to the hairdresser (she used to cut our hair but then I guess she later decided she was too busy). I would always ask the hairdresser (for some reason, I recall it being a bloke in a shop near the home) to go as short as he could, and my mother would always say no. “Shorter.” “No.” “Shorter.” “No.”
I dabbled with long hair when I was 14, cut it off when I was 15, tried again at 17, cut it off when I was 18 (left a tail! Agh!), got a flat-top when I was 19 and almost gave my mother a heart attack, tried for the last time when I was 25 (got too lazy to go for a haircut, essentially) and cut it all off when I was 26.
My normal standard of measurement with hairdressers is how much they charge. The favourite in Perth was only $12. In China, I preferred to get my hair massacred for 15RMB rather than a trim for 300RMB (wouldn’t you?). The only exception I’ve made is in Singapore, where Laurence has made several hundred off me over the last six or seven years. But he understands my needs, so I put up with the rates and inflation-adjusted increases. Sigh.
Girls with long straight hair will hate me. My hair is usually very well-behaved. Too well-behaved, in fact. I’ve been into the bed head, messed up look for years. Unfortunately, without the aid of ultra hold, so-crisp-it-could-snap-off gels, my hair just tends to sit there fairly uncontroversially. No flyaways, no unruly curls, adequate body. I just wash and go. Wash and go. No ‘comb’ in between. There’s no point in putting product in my hair — believe me, I’ve tried. After ten minutes (sometimes only eight) of looking trendily mussed, my Singaporean DNA calls upon my hair to do its duty and obey gravity. I just end up with greasy hair.
Except for the last couple of days. My hair’s grown out a little bit, so it’s kind of a long-ish crop right now. And I’ve got these two locks over my left ear that won’t lie straight. WTF? They sit there like freaking immovable statues when they’re short, now they’re longer and heavier it’s time to act like a freakin’ hippie?
And yeah, that whole post was written so I could complain about those two locks of hair.