Once in a blue moon

"A Blue Moon is the second full moon in a month of two full moons."

Tonight is a blue moon, everyone, and once more we are reminded that I am standing alone, without a dream in my heart.

Just in case there are any hunky twihards reading, this is totes me on a full moon.

In other news, Improv Mob was cancelled this evening, which makes me sad, because it feels good to step out of Yarra of an evening. Worse, I'd actually travelled all the way to Brunswick to get there when I found out, and then it took me like two hours to get back, because I met a fellow Yarran on the train back and she convinced me to go to the supermarket with her, but they were out of everything I needed, and then she abandoned me to ride back on her back, leaving me to bus back alone. *Sigh*. The moon still hasn't turned to gold, and no sweetheart has suddenly appeared before me, so I guess this is just one of those non-magical blue moons governed by the laws of the calender and not the whims of my heart.

It looks like I can have bad days in Oz, but they only happen once in a blue moon.

In case you don't get what I'm referencing:

Time flies by in the city of light

I just realised that I have now been here eight weeks. That is 2/13ths; this doesn't seem like much until I think about how quickly the time has gone, and suddenly I realise that I'm not gonna be here much longer. I have similar realisations on my birthday. Makes a guy think, you know?

In other news, I took some random pictures yesterday. There was of a massive pile of sawdust that was just sitting outside Yarra, not really sure why:

They were preparing for the biblical flood of vomit. Duh.

Pretty sure it's in the disabled parking spot.

And then there was a dalek eye stalk in the wall outside the rowden white:

PRO-CRAS-TIN-ATE!

Sadly, Declan was not on hand to see all the head I kept when I spotted that Dalek or the incredible skill I displayed in talking at it then running, so my future as the next companion is still not secured.
P.S. Who else is stoked for doctor who on saturday? I may well stay up until four o'clock just so I can watch it live online. I mean, no. I don't do that.

Adrian has expressed his willingness to come to the great barrier reef with me, which would be sweet. Jason has gone to the Great Ocean Road this weekend, and I really wish I could've gone too, but I have an assignment due and he didn't really invite me. At all.

Which is fine, cos he looks like this.

I'm also starting to entertain ideas about what I'm gonna do for my 21st, and suggestions now include: a brothel, the zoo, drunken laser tag, drunken science museum or a brothel.
I say why pick and choose?

Everybody Loves Corbin

I just wanted to put it out there, and remind you just how great a guy he is.

I wonder what that guy is up to.

The Unsocial Network

I'll confess: I logged onto facebook to track down photos for the new Cast page. Apparently, deactivating your account does virtually nothing, as I logged on and it was as though I'd never been away- I had notifications, and people had even been able to write on my wall.

I'm not gonna complain about this, because it's my own fault for not checking what would happen when I joined the damn site. Whatever.
The thing I am gonna say is that I was right about leaving the site. While it was nice to see my friends seem happy (or, they want to seem happy to their facebook friends- there's a difference), it just made me sad that I wasn't. But then I stopped.
I am happy. I know this. I'm not just telling myself it; it's tangible. I want to smile most of the time; music sounds better; I'm actually excited about my subject again (save syntax)!

So, what was going on? Well, I'm not a psychologist, but I think it has to do with jealousy- even though, to be honest, and no offense Edinburgh people, I don't think I have anything to be jealous about. I'm having a blast, I'm meeting new people, I'm winning money for my poetry, I wake up to parrots in the morning. It's just a gut reaction I have: seeing other people posting about their gaiety automatically makes my green eyed monster gland swell up. Which is stupid, I admit. But I'm not alone- I know someone else who stays away from Facebook for the same reason. And I think it's just Facebook; I can be happy for people in real life, or even by email- it's because most of my friends wouldn't think to post about if they're feeling down, but they might admit it to me in confidence, or by email (everyone knows I turn each email sent to me into a stopmotion short film). So it balances out. On Facebook, it's like candyfloss, just saccharine and pink food dye.

None for me. It hurts my teeth.

The shit, the fan, the whole damn thing

My last post concerning syntax was accidentally deleted by my own hand; at first, I thought this to be an act of providence, as it would save potential frictions twixt me and Caroline, who, as previously mentioned, was instrumental in getting me here.
However, today we had our first tutorial on x-bar theory 'proper', and all my resentment bubbled to the brim once more. Now, let me not be the proverbial stubborn mule- I kindly asked the tutor if she could explain the reasoning behind adding in an extra X' after every P (if you don't know X bar theory this will make no sense to you- and so you'll be in the same position as those who do); she launched into a long-winded and frankly disorienting diatribe which, if my understanding is correct, which is by no means certain, came down to 'because other phrases can be inserted into this phrase'. I fail to see how this is not accounted for in regular syntax trees, and, Lord knows, I never thought I'd be defending the common garden syntax tree.
And, guess what, later in the tutorial, the tutor herself expressed her distaste for the theory, exclaiming, and I quote

"But why?! When I'm talking to my friends I don't say 'this is the specifier and this is the NP, so there's an N' and....ARGH!"- My tutor, today ALSO Anyone studying x-bar, ever

See? This woman, who has a PHD, IN SYNTAX, cannot fathom the reasoning behind this stupid theory. Wanna know why? Cos there isn't one. It's not based on reason. It's not only illogical, but anti-logical. It goes against commonsense and scientific theory at the same time: it complicates something relatively simple and it changes the data to fit the theory, not the other way around. Because, guess what, THERE ARE NO X BARS IN SPEECH. YOU MADE THEM UP. THEY DO NOT EXIST.
Syntactitians added them to the subject some time ago to try and make drawing syntax trees look like an academic pursuit when it is nothing more than a particularly pointless and ugly form of calligraphy. It's ludicrous, but they've managed to get away with it because the only people in a position to realise this, i.e. linguistics students, the only people who ever use syntax trees and even then only because they're made to, are powerless to stop them because they can just fail us.
I'm telling you, one day Panorama's gonna stop ignoring my letters, investigate this shit and blow this whole industry of terror and frustration wide open.

Yet again, Professor Heycock, I apologise for any offense caused.

Two drifters, off to see the world

Another piece of evidence that the Rowden White natives are starting to accept me as one of their own: I was given a free mars bar with my headphones and PC this morning. Spiffing.

I actually managed to beat someone at a sport this weekend- and not just anyone, either. It was Adrian, who owns multiple sports shirts (which somehow make him look kinda like the knave of hearts).

Go Dropbears!

Admittedly, the game was air hockey, which, granted, hasn't made it into the olympics quite yet, but I'm pretty sure it involves hand-eye co-ordination or something. So, go me.

This weekend also saw the largest party I have ever managed to gather for my evening constitutional; an entire six people! This was mainly due to the alcohol the other five had imbibed, which made the stroll feel a bit more like taking the family's pack of inebriated, hyperactive dogs for a walk, but it was still a pleasant evening.

The pliant one is now in the great white North, which feels odd. I was already half-a-world away from him, but now he's not even in the place I left him, not unlike my house keys; if I was to go back now, he wouldn't be there. I feel like Andy in Toy Story. I don't know why, cos that doesn't happen in those films. I just identify with him on a base level, I guess.

Above: Esmond and me, I guess.

Anyway, I'm now listening to 'When Somebody Loved Me' from Toy Story 2, and it's bumming me out so I'm gonna go. I have more adventures scheduled with the doctor this evening; let's hope it's more The Unicorn and the Wasp than Love and Monsters. 

For Daniel For Reals

Did you really not see this coming?

Sorry about the other post.

Jason and the Big Black Blob

"I had an epiphany about a year and a half ago; see I had always wondered why they were called 'tea spoons' and 'table spoons'..."

I didn't hear the end of this no-doubt epic tale, because I was rendered immobile by laughter. I think we have Australia's 'this isn't even a narrative'- and it was delivered by this man:

The face of modern philosophy?

You understand why I was floored.
But, yes, the first time I was broken by laughter in Australia. Let's hope the first of many.

For Daniel

Two professionally drawn syntax trees:

I just hope he doesn't notice that he asked for bigger trees; also, that these aren't legible.

The most pithy

There have been several hints today that I'm becoming, how to put this delicately?, acclimatised to the Rowden White. For example, all the computers now suggest my username in the drop box on Google (thankfully they do not suggest my password). Then, not only did the librarians immediately recognise me and remember my preference for PCs over Macs, but they even made a joke about my propensity to forget to pick up my card at the end- silly British guy. And, finally, to top it all off, when I typed 't' into the address bar, it immediately suggested 'TV Tropes' and then a list of all the tropes I've researched in my continuing battle to discover why life is less interesting than webcomics.
*Sniff* I feel so wanted!

In other news, I'm now part of a weekly writers' group that meets on Mondays, led by the eleventh doctor.

A deleted scene from 'The Doctor, the Widow and the Wardrobe', and indeed, the only bit where anything actually happened.

I think I'm at the forefront to become the next companion, being by far the most British, but there is a pretty Indian girl, and, affirmative action being what it is, it might be time to bust some kneecaps. And maybe dig out the bowtie Rosie made for me.


What else? I've become a minor celebrity in the ole Yarra due to my laureate-worthy musings; the upside, lots of people have told me I have a real talent and should write a book (so tempted to direct them to Darkwater library). The downside? Someone, who I don't know, came up to me in the kitchen yesterday and told- not asked, told- me to recite the same poem. I mean, I know I'm amazing and all, but try and control yourself, people.

P.S. Dan, your tree is coming- keep a weather-ear to the ground.

A limerick is cleverly versed

Upon reaching the great land of Oz,

I was terribly affronted because

Of the terrible prices

 (And not just on the vices!)

You wouldn’t believe how costly it all was

Due to the costs being great,

And my incredibly low income rate,

I needed to seize

All opportunities

To increase my monetary estate

So when open mike was declared,

For sure, my nervousness flared,

But I had to be brave-

Thirty dollars I could save!

And the one who wins is oft the one who dared

But a problem arose in my eyes-

I’d already served up my chicken surprise

And no other ditty

Was nearly was witty

And I really fucking wanted the prize

So I wrote a new poem on the bus,

The subject of which I will not discuss,

But if you care,

It was a personal affair,

Which made me look a bit like a wuss

The contest in earnest began;

Songs by Adrian, Victoria and Dan,

Aspen played flute,

And no one would refute,

That that girl could blow like a fan

Then, it my turn on to recite,

And, much like the trivia night,

My heart was aflutter,

My fingers like butter,

But I made myself step into the light

And now, to cut a long story short,

I won- but ‘twas a battle hard fought,

But in case you’re keeping score,

I’ve won sixty dollars and more,

Purely through this poetry sport

Word up.

+2 to improvisation, -6 to navigation

I’ve just returned from a theatre games workshop- yet again, the first time I’ve done one since last year. It was being run by a bunch of ex-students of the University of Melbourne and there was even someone who was in Neighbours there! (A squee, I do confess, a squee.) It was billed to me as an improvisation workshop, but apart from ole reliable Spacejump (“it’s like a Russian doll”, “a one person activity that isn’t that”- theatre introductions are identical the world over, it would seem), there were actually very few games involving theatrical improvisation.

They were more the kind of games that are employed by enthusiastic teens whilst they take care of disinterested youths- but fun, nonetheless. I will be returning next week, assuming I am told the time- the world really is geared towards those with Facebook. It was nice to hang with folks my own age who aren’t the rec room 2 crew and I got a free sociolinguistics textbook out of it- I even met some ex-exchangers, and got a glimpse of what life may be like post-uni for those of us who have flown so close to the sun that is living abroad.

Today also marks the first time I felt I got the full value of my day ticket- I went from Fairfield, to Melbourne central, to Brunswick, back to Melbourne Central and eventually to Clifton Hill. It was in use for nigh on six hours!

I would also like to relate a small incident I had in trying to reach this workshop- as with everything worth doing, there were several minor inconveniences. First off it was, raining, Edinburgh-style. Mini-rivers, with tides and ox-bows, the whole shebang, sprang up like cupcake shops in an affluent cycle. But the real inconvenience was finding the place.

The workshop took place at ‘Broken Mirror Productions’- which I really expected to leave Google blank- but no, it was one of their first suggestions. I noted down the directions from Google maps dutifully, and they got me absolutely nowhere. Unless ‘left’ and ‘right’ have changed meaning in the past few days and I wasn’t informed- it was probably put on Facebook- I was lead to the middle of an alley, between two carpet shops, and the directions were proudly telling me that this was an avant garde arts space.

I then tried using Google navigator on my phone, and was there in minutes. Why they can’t share information between the two, I have no idea, but they’re obviously run by different people, and I gotta say maps, navigator are kicking your ass. You have two weeks to turn it around. 

P.S. I guess I have no sense of direction in Australia, either. Alack. 

The Four H's

Before coming here, I had to attend a lecture wherein I was told that I would go through the four stages of exchangeitude, called the four H's, these were:

• Honeymoon period- where everything is great, all the songs on the radio are about you and you're getting near constant lovin' (mom, dad please stop reading)
• Homesickness- you start to miss your friends, family, more reasonable prices, less noisy birds, more comprehensible accents, shorter games of cards, properly labelled Rice Krispies...
• Hostility- this university is silly, why can't they do more like Edinburgh does? I mean, that's the better system, clearly, so just stop being so contrary, Australia and just do what we tell you!
• Happiness- ok, it has its flaws, but at least there are no squirrels to worry about. I'm content.

I don't know which H I'm in- obviously, I'd like to say happiness, but I don't remember going through hostility ('cepting X-bar, but that's hardly Melbourne-specific), and I'm definitely not homesick (see below), meaning I must be in the Honeymoon period. This is worrying because it means all that other stuff's still to come. I can't imagine what I'll get homesick over (the last time was my bathtub), because I've pretty much replaced all my friends- I just need a Rik and a proper Daniel (Darryl has an accent, but that's pretty much where the similarities end). And hostility seems outlandish- I love it here! The lectures are more engaging (yet again, barring syntax), the campus eateries are more varied...writing this out has made me realise I am definitely in the honeymoon period. Well, damn. However, this does have an upside- I should have a bit of honeymoon left when the Pliant one begins his, meaning I won't feel miserable by comparison. Huzzah.

Quick side note: I skyped the 'rents yesterday, and it was exactly the same conversation we have when I talk to them back home: my mom worries I'm not getting out enough, my dad worries I'm spending too much and they both agree I don't contact them enough. If I'd recorded the conversation and bleeped out proper nouns (oh god, I'm flashing back to X-bar) it would have been indistinguishable from the dozens of other times I've skyped them. But, more to the point, we hadn't spoken for 34 days, and the conversation lasted 47 minutes. My mother said she felt it lasted long, but that it was only because we hadn't spoken for so long. By this mathematics, my mom wants us to talk for 98 seconds every day. Half that, and you've got yourself a deal, mother.
Of course, I shouldn't be so harsh, they are, after all, paying for me to be here (mum's defense, not mine). This, however, will not stop me being so harsh. Huzzah.

A thousand words

Just a quick note to say some of you (like, two out of four) might have noticed that my profile pic has changed twice in the last day. The first change was to the infamous Rowden White sign, seen here:

Ladies.

Whilst I do adore this sign and all it represents, I cannot claim to have had any part in its production; I took the photo (cue swoons), yes, but the central joke is not mine. And so I felt bad flaunting it (this is also why I changed from my original pic, which I also adore, but which was made by the lovely Rosie Curtis). The new pic was not drawn by me, but is a picture of me, sketched by Darryl (who you may remember from my initial rec room 2 post- I don't think he's shown up since). You can see a larger version here:

A commemorative, non-olympiad stamp.

I feel it's ok to display this because while I didn't create it, I was the muse and thus contributed to its creation.

This note ended up not being that quick.

A bridge too far

The 'rents have landed, and I did not need to contact them, meaning I win.
The war.
Against...prodigality.
Or summat.

Anyway, this'll be a quick'un just to tell y'all about one of the less pleasant memories I have accrued in my month (shit, one twefth of the way through my time here- WHERE HAS IT GONE?!!) standing on the underside of the world.
I call it...

'Les Misère-ables'

It started with the rather innocent suggestion that Logan, Aspen, Jason (who is now on his fourth nickname in 'David') and I play 500, a card game I've picked up whilst here. The point of 500 is to win 500 points through playing what is essentially 'hearts' but where the trump card changes every time; at various points in the game, Logan and Jason had scored 490, 430 and 470 points. Aspen and I had, equally variously, 150, -230 and -440 points (if you get to -500 points, you lose). However, neither team ever managed to get to that golden quincentennial marker; at one of the points that L and J had gotten oh so unbelievably close, I managed to persuade the ineffable Mr. J to take a fool's gamble and thus lose them an inordinate amount of points. Now, for some reason, Logan decided this was my fault, even though it was David who had taken the risk. He expressed his distaste by twisting my ear to try and stem my laughter at the situation, which I felt was unnecessary- now, Logan is one of the few who actually reads my blog, so I'll leave this discussion there.
Anyway, long, long, long story short, they won and we went to Macdonalds, but it's notable for being one of the few times my serpent-tempter act has actually worked, and also for the sheer chunk of my life that it took to complete this game. Seriously, I now see my life as pre and post- 500.

Bats with wings, do your thing

Glad to see you’ve awoken from the hypoglycaemic coma into which you slipped upon viewing photography from the hands of your idol, me.

Well, dial 999, cos here comes some more images captured by my most singular hand.

The subject this time is nothing so evasive as the common garden pancake, but the much more placid fruit bat. Yes, those black cocoons hanging from the trees are not incredibly rotten apples nor some form of shiny metapod, as I first decried, but hundreds and hundreds of flying foxes! My friend John, of penguin fame, drove me down to visit the colony in Yarra Bend Park and even played tour guide, pointing out the various fragrant plants and filling in the rather large gaps in my knowledge about fruit bats (did you know they can swim?) I also got to learn some more unusual facts about the bats from reading the signs- for example, that smell that pervades the bat cave in Chester zoo is not their faeces, but their pheromones, so if you don’t mind it, you may well be a zoophile. Also, it conserves more energy to sleep hanging upside down than to defy gravity and stand up- who knew, right? Anyway, long story short, there were hundreds and hundreds of bats, swarming the trees like gremlins on a plane wing, not moving and perfectly visible in broad daylight, and these were the best I could get for you:

I tried shouting 'use harden' to no avail.

Note the harbinger of death or 'poison apple' look.

A bat in the hand is worth two in the bush. 

Something witty.

And please gawk in disbelief at a video I shot of bat in flight.

Allow me to reiterate: I fuckin' love Australia.

"Sir, I will fight you"

Dear reader, today you are in for a treat even more scrumptious than the one I consumed last night. Yes, those of you who also follow my admittedly sporadic tweets (and thus get the full Wiz-kid experience, as it were) will be aware that last night, in the company of messers Logan and Aspen, I frequented a pancake parlour. Oh, what rapture! Oh, what ecstasy! But that is nothing compared to what you are about to experience, dear reader; gaze, agog and aghast, at a photograph...taken by yours truly. 

Not pictured: a balanced breakfast.

 And, what is this? Another?!

Huh. I'd always pictured them as identical twins.

Yes, even though I purchased a phone some eleven days ago, up until now, no picture taken had the panache nor classiness necessary to be placed upon this blog of blogs. But now, weep mere mortals! Weep at the beauty assembled before you!
In other news, the pancakes were delicious but gave me a stomach ache this morning. Swings and roundabouts.

I went to a readthrough this morning- I hadn't been to one since January* and that was Spirit of the Butterfly, so I'm just gonna go ahead and say I actually haven't been to one since that workshop in October which lead to the infamous 'Rory as Titania' line**. It was immensely enjoyable; at first, naturally, we were all kind of awkward and no one really knew what to say. But then, someone tittered at one of my recitations- I was cast in the role of a clown (playing to my strengths)- spurring me on to greater pantomime, encouraging others, and before long we were having a gay old time with much mirth and we started interacting outside of the script. I'm so glad I got up for it, because to be honest, between the weather (see The Shit Hits the Fan), my stomach ache (see above) and the start time (see NINE O'CLOCK IN THE BLOODY MORNING!!!), I was sorely tempted to skip. But I didn't, and was rewarded. Sure there's a moral in there somewhere, but if I look for it I'll have to live by it.

The readthrough also introduced a new player into the mix by the name of George- after the reading, he and I stood talking and not only did he compliment me on my voice and say he might be able to help me get a job but he smokes a pipe, so he's definitely in my good books. Hopefully, we'll meet again next week at another readthrough, so I'm gonna go ahead and create a tag for him (am I moving too fast?). Anyways, readers, I feel that's enough excitement for you, else you won't be able to get to sleep, so off to bed.

P.S. The title's a quote from the readthrough.

*For the purposes of this blog, I'm counting a readthrough as a reading of a play as a gathering where people assemble to read a script when they have no intention to be in a production of said script, thus discounting The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, Hawk Noir and the ten minuters' scripts.

**You know the one I mean.

Penguins and possums and fruit bats, oh my!

PENGUINS.

Sorry, I like to think I'm normally slightly more eloquent than that, but it has to be said: I SAW PENGUINS IN THE WILD! Real, live, tiny, cute, shy, beautiful PENGUINS!
John, a fellow Yarra-n, took Jason and me out to St. Kilda's beach last night; a short walk along the pier, a hop, skip and a jump along a frankly somewhat perillous walkway spanning the riled ocean, and there they were.

PENGUINS.

Real, live, fuzzy, breathing, squawking PENGUINS! I was a foot away from one at one point- I could have reached out and touched him, had I so desired. I didn't, because that would have been cruel and I'm not a cruel person, but by God, it was tempting. The species I saw were called 'Little Penguins', changed from the not so PC 'Fairy Penguins'. And they look like this:


Ladies.

 They are the most adorable thing one could imagine, and one looked right at me with his beady little eyes and I genuinely wanted to just squeal (ask Jason and I probably did.) Sadly, I was only allowed to coo over them for about half-an-hour as we had to return before our parking ticket ran out. But I will return. I vow this. I will see more

PENGUINS.

Real, live, terrified, kidnapped, mine now PENGUINS.

Epilogue:
To make sense of the title, Jason and I went for a stroll before I trip to see the- well, you know. And we saw a fruit bat, very large, very fast, very close.
And then another.
And another.
Then four.
Then five.
You see where I'm going with this? There were hundreds, filling the sky, clogging the horizon with their slightly creepy silhouettes. It was slightly like the scene in the wizard of oz, where the witch sends her little minions out to get them! and I had to stop myself from calling out 'Monkeys' in a Rik Hart baritone. I elected not to so as not to annoy Jason by talking even more about TWWOO.
Then, on the way back, we saw a possum- smaller than the one which crossed my path a couple of weeks ago- he scarpered when he saw us: not up a tree, as expected, but down a train. Proving that a leopard may change its spots and a possum its exits.

There once was a man from Nantucket

My Australian friends took their first look at this little ol' blog of mine a couple of days ago and seemed to take it with good grace; I take this as a sign to continue updating in the relatively candid manner in which I have been doing.
So, to what has your beloved wizard been getting up, I hear you ask. Well, as those of you who follow my twitter will have heard, but probably not comprehended, I 'won free internet using my poetry'. Allow me to elaborate:

'Twas the night of the quiz night

And all through the house

The tension was palpable-

A fire that one couldn't douse

We split into teams, and

Oh me oh my

Two teams wanted a piece

Of the old wizard pie

I had to decide

Between my fellow exchangers

and the rec room 2 crew,

to whom I wasn't a stranger

I chose rec room 2

Since I wanted to seem

Like a genuine Australian

Like one of the team

The prize was quite good;

An internet bundle,

worth thirty five dollars-

It merited a trundle

The competition was fierce,

And I answered a few,

But the exchangers were on fire

And there was little we could do

The foreigners won, 

and my team came third-

For this we got nothing,

Which I felt was absurd

The prizes rewarded;

But there were bundles to spare,

They could still be won

In a classic talent fair

Four of us stood,

Determined to please,

The contest began

When a girl walked on her knees

Both Shane and Logan

Elected to quote

Their beloved Game of Thrones,

Which they've both learnt by rote

But Shane sadly faltered,

His tongue got most tied,

Logan breezed on,

Took it all in his stride

I was next to the bat,

I looked at them all,

Then launched into 'chickens',

And left them in a thrall

It was time for the judging-

"Cheer for your fave!"

They read out my name

And the sound roared like a wave

I couldn't believe it!

My fortunes reversed!

Where once I was a loser

Now I was first

I was elated

As ever I was

Certainly a victory

For the wizard in Oz

And that's how it happened. They like me, they really like me!

What else? Well, I've just come back from a trip to the 'mana bar' (a videogames bar) and a club with the rec room 2 crew. I also went to a hipster bar with Manthy and Milly on thursday; I quite liked it, since the music was halfway decent, even if the drinks were overpriced- however, I don't think it was quite what the two Ms were wanting. I'm also really enjoying my classes at present- all my lecturers are engaging, and the courses they're teaching are really quite interesting. We were talking in Language, Society and Culture about how 'no homo' has allowed young men to express their feelings without being seen as gay (finally!), and Second Language Teaching has been telling me about behaviourist theories and Language Acquisition, which I've always enjoyed. Even Syntax hasn't gotten onto X-bar theory yet, though I'm not hopeful for when the shit hits the fan.
So far, Australia's pretty fly.