Bat-immobile

Clearly Batmobiles do not function in daylight on
Nepean Highway, Moorabbin.

My photo, c.1990, using Nikon SLR and I could just spit for missing the front end like that. 
While I am in some other world, the car is now at Movieworld QLD.
Anton Furst got the Oscar award for his production design on the 1989 Tim Burton batmovie and this particular vehicle.

Things are quiet Chez O'Dyne, out in the paddocks looking after 3 cats (and one can open doors), and a very furry dog which is shedding it's coat. Apparently German Shepherd people refer to this as "blowing their coat". It's everywhere and the ducted vacuuming just blew up.
Mainly it's quiet because I am recovering from being 'flamed' by a grouchy relative who doesn't approve of my posts.
If you are reading this you must be on the list of bloggers allowed by the last time AOD went under the radar.
Life is too brief to be bothered with people who bring nothing but aggravation.
Batman thinks so as well. He has left his busted Batmobile to the pit crew above and flown away. Haunted creatures of the night and aren't we all.

text of kin

This is the Paris grave of the magnificent Tartar dancer Rudolf Nureyev, designed as one of the Tartar a.k.a Azerbaijani carpets he collected.  It is in the Russian cemetery, surrounded by the tsarist nobility who got out of  St. Petersburg and MOCKBA c.1917 as the philistine hordes were trashing their treasures. I am buried deep into revolutionary Russia lately, tracing the family of my dear and cultured friend Ariadna*Vladimirovna - and patronymics now have meaning for me. Her second name tells us her father was Vladimir. Actually pre-1917 he was Woldemar Hesse, but Russia loves change. When a Russian maiden married, her surname became her husband's but with 'a' added. Vladimir Davydov's wife would be Natalya Davydova, meaning she is one of them, Davydova also meaning the entire family.
Added to the shifting sea of people's names, post-noble Russia changed all the place names as well, ie: St. Petersburg became Leningrad., and the Bolshie hordes trashed all the noble graves as well. As one website wailed 'the miracle of Russian genealogy, is that it can be done at all'.
My obsession with genealogy (anybody's) may be the result of never really being a part of my own family. I was a satellite of their orbit right from the start.
Just looking for a link to explain the dissociative disorder I definitely have, I found the founder, and do please just shriek at what he considered to be 'a trauma':
"By the late 19th century there was a general acceptance that emotionally traumatic experiences could cause long-term disorders which might display a variety of symptoms. These conversion disorders were found to occur in even the most resilient individuals, but with profound effect in someone with emotional instability like Louis Vivé (b.1863) who suffered a traumatic experience as a 13-year-old when he encountered a viper." 
A viper? Amateur hour Louis, pull yourself together. My viper was a rattlesnake in long grass doing the full rattle. Brushed that off without a sweat. My traumas have all been as 'pure Sandoz' was to any old LSD.

The person to whom I am the next of kin, just loved the open road - well Eastlink and the tollways anyhow.  Aged 90 years and with four speed fines and a collision in the past 2 years, that I know about, his licence to drive has been taken from him, and with it, his will to continue.
Today while wading through the admin of it all (and that will be another post, get your notebooks ready) I discovered this appropriate vehicle for travel to farthest horizons:

My fellow mourners of the smelly, randy legend that was Nureyev would understand.

My next of kin is blissfully and intensively medicated, receiving those who care for him, and I pray he lasts until tomorrow at least, because today is the 7th anniversary of the brutal murder of my sweet Puppy, a six kilo Shih Tzu ripped apart in our own driveway by a bikie's 120 kg English Mastiff, escaped from guarding the meth lab across the road. I know what grief is, and so does everybody who lived in that street that day.
Until I decided to include Puppy, my first thought for this post title was Good grief Charlie Brown.
Here is the Pupster guarding Kitty when she was only months old

let him without thin, cast the first stone

Teh interwebz was made for kitteez, and that is one adorable fat cat; the Member for Lyons, not so much.
Until I was about 37, I was skin skin skinny and did not give a moments thought to healthy diet. 27 years on, I am part of the scare statistic released today by the COAG Report saying in Australia ‘seven in every 10 men and more than half of all women are above their healthy body weight. It has warned government that more needs to be done to tackle obesity and recommends that federal, state and territory leaders note 'the lack of progress" toward reaching a 5 per cent boost to the number of Australians at a healthy body weight by 2018’.  That COAG link page is worth a visit. It is a committee which tells the government what they should be doing.

That is four carnivorous Queensland MP’s above. Check the beer guts. 

My 27.99 BMI is technically ‘pre-obese’ and they are all much fatter than me. 

What is discussed with their health-care provider, we can only guess. Mine tells me I have to reduce my weight ( I do loathe that term ‘lose weight’ – how can one lose it when it is so firmly attached? I can hear the robustly-corseted Lady Bracknell intoning now “To lose one kilo is unfortunate, but to lose two is just carelessness”.

Just check the images here – all eleven of these people are Federal MP’s (plus one PM whose backside is much bigger than my 27.99 pre-obese BMI) and they are all clearly over the 30 rating that is medically 'obese'.
To be fair, they all work long hours indoors, when they are not having a beer or sausage-sizzle for a photo op in their electorate, but on the other hand, The House Of Parliament complex

has two tennis courts and a full gymnasium, open all hours and free to these people … 
oops – and so is the cafeteria.

For those of us who do not have free gym and courts, I wonder what hope there is?

and this government is going to tell us to step away from the plate?

black spot Friday

The internet is for nothing if it's not for cats, and this is dear crabby Kitty sleeping as she does so well and often. Her black-spot paw seems cute to me. When I got her, aged about 6 weeks, from the hot grubby but well-intentioned hands of some children in my street who had failed to convince their mother that she needed this new pet found in a paddock*, I took her to work everyday in a box so I could dropper-feed her. Lucky to have such a nice work environment, I now find other workplaces do cat stuff too. Click this link for the Kitten Races Office. * Yes I did find and catch the wild mother cat and when I got them together they spat at each other. wishing you all a safe, holy and chocolatey Easter.

cat a tonic

This is Kitty and her tubbyguts spread on the table next to the keyboard. 
The most interesting thing to happen all day really because ...
see the dongle flashing blue-to-go as if everything is alright?
see the screen box saying "what dongle?   what blue light?"
all day.  I zo zick of Telztra.