Welcome to the static archive of GrodsCorp, a blog that closed down on 1 August 2009 after five years in operation. More about the story behind GrodsCorp and the archive’s resurrection can be found at my personal blog. While looking around GrodsCorp please be mindful of the following:

• Some internal links will not work
• Some images may not load
• Some author Gravatars in earlier posts are incorrect
• Some formatting in earlier posts is a bit dicey

Two months ago I slapped down my credit card and made a purchase that I had been planning for some time.

India. One-way.

This plane ticket, and everything it represents, is more important to me right now than anything; everything in my life at the moment is viewed in the context of my plans to travel through India and the middle east next year. As a true Leftist I’ve even been learning Arabic since February.

For this reason I’ve decided to close GrodsCorp.

In late 2003 I started GrodsCorp for much the same reasons as any other blogger: I wanted a place to dump my thoughts and opinions in the vain hope that someone, anyone might read them. The very first iteration of GrodsCorp was built with hand-coded HTML — a skill I learned (badly) by trial-and-error during long, boring overnight shifts in television back in 1998. After transitioning through various content management systems and designs, GrodsCorp ended up as the Wordpress blog with the orange and blue theme (thanks, silpheed!) that you all know today.

The dude with the sunnies in the header has been GrodsCorp’s mascot for most of the site’s history, and there is no truth in the claim that GrodsCorp’s mascot is similar and/or identical to that of Austrian pretzel company Soletti. Here’s me on the ski fields of New Zealand daring Soletti’s lawyers to bring it on by strapping Joe to my backpack while snowboarding.

You go faster with a stuffed toy on your back.

And here’s me defending the Soletti vs. GrodsCorp case in the Supreme Court of Teh Blogosphere.

The restitution prosts, your Majestness.

In the five-and-a-half years since I first uploaded this site to the intertubes via my dialup connection, GrodsCorp grew into a community of hundreds of people who contributed, read and commented. Over 2,600 posts, 30-odd podcasts, 40 episodes of Lachlan Connor, Independent, and four episodes of Let’s Cook! With Craig later, it is the community that made GrodsCorp so much more than the sum of its parts. Of that content, some was shithouse, some was okay, some was pretty good, and some was fucking awesome, but no matter what was published we always had a good laugh and even managed to debate some important stuff along the way.

Through GrodsCorp I’ve made real-life friends, bloggosphere (sic) enemies, attracted a creepy stalker who likes to send emails to my boss, and discovered Iain Hall. The Internet: there’s nothing else quite like it.

The literally thousands of hours that I’ve spent building, maintaining, moderating and writing for GrodsCorp were worth it because of the community of people who hung out on the site or lurked in the background — youse are such a bunch of funny, pernicious bastards and I can’t thank you enough. Writing is fun, but writing for an audience is funner.

But most of all I’d like to thank the dozen or so people who wrote for GrodsCorp at some stage during its life, and especially the five contributors who rounded out the GrodsTeam until the end: John Surname, Bridgit Gread, Ant Rogenous, Bron and Jason. A finer bunch of Leftists I’ll never meet, and superb writers to boot. Except John Surname.

I’m going to keep writing at a new, personal blog: scottbridges.id.au. The new blog is not Grods2.0, rather a place for me to intermittently publish longer-form stuff, my writing at Crikey, newmatilda.com etc., and telegrams from my travels next year. I’d love it if you all dropped in to say hello sometime.

A few members of the GrodsTeam have asked to publish personal farewells.

John Surname:

Tell my loyal fans that I will be releasing a compilation of my best posts entitled Journey To The Centre of John Surname.

Bridgit Gread:

So, at last it’s come to this – such is blogging. This is like the last Chooklotto on the last episode of “Hey Hey It’s Saturday!” except that Scott is Daryl Somers, Ant is John Blackman, I’m Jacqui McDonald and John Surname is Plucka Duck.

It’s been a rollercoaster few years. I’ve laughed and gasped and cringed; I’ve ridiculed all manner of fools and freaks; and above all I’ve had fun. Together we’ve all done made a blog that people like reading – and even when you’ve spent most of your time writing for a living, that’s a feeling you still enjoy. My thanks to Scott for hosting Grods, for making it shine and for allowing me to be a part of it – and for enduring the river of shite that being a blog owner invites. You can teach my kids Marxist theory or “The Internationale” anytime, comprade. Thanks also to my fellow team members: the loveable Ant ‘George’ Rogenous; the irrepressible John Surname, the concupiscient Bron and the gorgeous Jason. And to the host of regular Grods commenters: Chuck, Wah, confessions, silpheed, JT, phyllis stein, Tobias Ziegler, dribble, michelle, even bloody Fang and Ray bloody Dixon from bloody Bright.

I feel like I’m losing a friend – quite a few friends actually – but like the ‘existential Buddhist’ I am, I know they won’t be gone forever. Good people and good humour never die, they just take a holiday and come back wearing cheap Hawaiian shirts and with a thousand digital pictures.

Now it’s time to down my last McMuffin, hotwire the Noddy car and hit the wide open road. To borrow some parting words, “I’m just going out and may be gone some time.”

Bridgit

Bron:

Well, this is sad and unexpected, but I take great comfort in knowing that Grods is going out on top. No matter the reason for its departure, it is still the best fucking blog in the blogosphere [sic]. Of course, I could just be biased.

The authors of Grods have made it what it was — but most of all, it was the community we created, beginning with Scott. The community is one of the biggest things I’m going to miss.

I have met a lot of wonderful people via Grods — and have had the opportunity to meet some of them in real life who I know will always be friends. And then there are those who I care about deeply, although they may not fully realise it right now. You know who you are.

I will be around reading and occasionally commenting on blogs that some of you have and I hope to see the rest of you around very soon. In fact, I have a new blog that I will start writing in again someday – A Fresh Start In August.

Don’t think of this as an ending — but rather as an opportunity for a fresh start.

Ting tong, tingtong,
Bron.

PS Hey, that rhymes! Oh, the shame! Damn you Michelle for saying that to me! I never wanted to be linked to that shithouse poem! Even though it’s the best fucking poem I’ve ever read!!!

PPS Cosmicjester, tha bastard son. I don’t know if anyone’s ever told you but it’s actually spelled T-H-E.

PPPS Oh, nothing. Just checkin’ to see if you’re still reading. Fuck off, now. No, really.

PPPPS First warning, Scott.

So I guess that’s it. My sincere best wishes to each of you.

Cheers,

Scott
sdebridges@gmail.com

I was browsing YouTube tonight when my eyes were assailed by this advertisment:

You would have to positively left-wing not to click that. So I did, and it took me to the website of Captain Chris Close Combat Training.

But what is it? Captain Chris explains all:

He is a fomer military interrogator (trained to extract information from enemy combatants) and has black belts in 5 different martial arts—including karate, judo and Brazilian jiu-jitsu.

[...]

However, despite all his martial arts training and awards, several years ago Captain Chris and his wife were attacked in a vicious road-rage incident that left him beaten within an inch of his life.

Broken, humiliated and mad as hell, he realized true self defense has nothing to do with “martial arts”… and martial arts was actually getting people hurt, crippled and even killed on the streets.

Scraping together what little money he had, and calling in every military favor he could find, Captain Chris travelled the world in search of the “perfect” fighting style that would work for anyone—regardless of size, speed or experience.

After several years abroad, and training under everyone from the violent Arabian assassins in Egypt to the last remaining Samurai in Japan, Captain Chris ran into an old, grizzled WW2 vet in Britain and discovered what he was searching for:

“Close Combat Training”

You mean all those hours watching Karate Kid actually let him down? It’s not even possible!

How is this possible?

To answer that question, I have no choice but to tell you a story the military and most every “martial arts” teacher on the planet do NOT want you to know.

Frankly, even the U.S. government will deny what I’m about to say.

Typical. I blame The Left. Luckily, so does The Capt’n:

Almost 80 years ago, on the eve of World War 2, there was a meeting within the House of Lords in London. In attendance were some of the world’s richest and most powerful men: Including billionaires (there were only a few at the time), diplomats, kings, world leaders, presidents, and other powerful “elites” who controlled vast sums of money and power.

These people were literally desperate to discover the answer to one question, and one question only:

“What REALLY Works In Combat?”

Why did they need to know the answer to this question?

Because these guys were scared shitless (and rightfully so) that they were about to lose their entire fortunes to the single greatest threat mankind had ever seen:

The Nazis.

Great, so it’s combat training as designed by John Ray. But who are we to protect ourselves from?

And I KNOW the kind of crazy shit that’s about to hit the fan in our country.

I’ve seen statistics, reports and projections that would quite frankly cause a nation-wide panic if everyone knew the truth.

Believe me…

Whatever you think you might know about crime and violence (from reading the newspaper and listening to talk radio) is just a “watered-down” version of the REAL story meant to keep the public calm and our politicians’ butts covered.

The fact is… with the explosion of criminal illegal alien gangs allowed to freely roam big cities like LA, Chicago and New York…

… international terrorists basically invited in by the Washington liberals…

…and the rising number of left wing nuts in Congress passing laws that empower criminals and castrate guys like you…

…knowing how to kick someone’s ass at the drop of a dime is no longer a luxury.

The Capt’n also caters for those stupid women who are all about helping people:

Women are natural “care takers” and want to help people all the time. And the sociopaths, rapists and serial killers use this fact to lure women into empty, isolated places where nobody can hear their screams.

But you won’t have to worry about that anymore.

Because once your wife or daughter watches this DVD, she will NEVER be “easy pickings” for these sick bastards. I get testimonials about this DVD ALL THE TIME from women who were once afraid of walking to their cars at night or who were being stalked by psychotic ex-boyfriends.

I can’t believe this man is giving people all the information they need to destroy the Left. Needless to say, when the New Soviets come he will not be spared.

Film rating: 4/5
Walkouts: 0/5
Pretentious clapping at credits: 0/5
BPM sighting: No

Irascible and lazy, Rupert ‘Ratz’ Kramer is a 35-year-old slacker who plays out his patricidal fantasies through the development of a violent computer game. A chance call from an old flame sends him to New York, where he hopes to sell his creation to a games company, but instead becomes embroiled in events that begin to pose increasingly uncomfortable moral questions.

Part thriller, part psychological family drama, part exploration of German–Austrian war guilt, this film from Michael Glawogger defies categorisation.

Adapted from the novel Das Vaterspiel by Josef Haslinger.

Interesting and believable characters, along with a mysterious script with lots of room for guessing, ensure that you can’t take your eyes of this film. But it turns out to be a slow-burner, with everything building up to a stunning under-egged scene featuring a Nazi war criminal talking about his guilt, fear and lack of remorse. Kill Daddy Goodnight certainly defies categorisation and leaves you thinking for hours afterwards.

Film rating: 5/5
Walkouts: 0/5
Pretentious clapping at credits: 2/5
BPM sighting: Yes

Actor–director Baltasar Kormákur calls his modernised version of Anton Chekhov’s play Ivanov a ‘dramedy’, inspired by the likes of Pedro Almodóvar and Woody Allen.

A middle-aged professor braces himself for his second marriage, to an ex-student half his age, but as his guests flock to the wedding’s remote island locale, he starts to get cold feet. After a long ‘white night’ of drinking and thinking, will he make it to the church on time?

Kormákur’s expertly juggled tone – slapstick tinged with darker and more perverse elements of Chekhov – has seen White Night Wedding become one of Iceland’s highest-grossing domestic hits.

“Dramedy” indeed. A heart-wrenching tale of relationships and life told with a just-right application of humour and understated slapstick. As the protagonist lurches towards his wedding day, with flashbacks to the disintegration of his first marriage, viewers are invited to ponder the fragility of human interaction and the way that middle age brings with it the realisation that life is a series of wasted opportunities. White Night Wedding keeps you guessing right up to the penultimate scene, which seems to provide a Hollywood ending, only to have that illusion shattered as the credits roll.

The best part, but? I was riding home from the cinema and came to a stop at a red light. A couple of seconds later another bike pulled up next to me so I looked over and it was … Bicycle Pump Man! However, I wimped out and didn’t get a photo.

Anyone who thinks that Hey! Hey! It’s Saturday returning is a good idea (and that includes any idiot who signed up for the Facebook group) should be forced to watch this:

Imagine! Two whole hours of that crap.

This is what happens with TV – people only remember the good bits and banish the thousands of hours of shit to the Land of Wind and Ghosts before returning ten years later to demand the return of a show they can’t really remember anyway.

NOW LOOK WHAT THEY’VE DONE

Film rating: 4/5 (Scott); 3.5/5 (John Surname)
Walkouts: 0/5
Pretentious clapping at credits: 4/5
BPM sighting: Yes

The directorial debut of Duncan Jones (son of David Bowie), this claustrophobic sci-fi feature stars Sam Rockwell and the voice of Kevin Spacey.

Heralding a fresh renaissance in indie sci-fi flicks, Moon eschews big budget CGI effects for slow-burn combustible tension, telling the story of a man on a solo mission on the moon who begins to suffer hallucinations, as he succumbs to the isolation and monotony of his assignment.

An intimate character portrayal in a starkly impersonal outer space setting, Moon is a claustrophobic drama that harkens back to classic sci-fi of 2001: A Space Odyssey.

Scott says: Moon is an atmospheric study of life, death, isolation and human desire. Set to a cracking soundtrack that perfectly creates a mood to match the action, and featuring an excellent performance by solo actor Sam Rockwell, Moon lets us imagine the nature of space exploration in the near-ish future and prompts us to question what the implications are for humans’ needs.

The director mostly lets viewers discover plot twists on their own, although a few are rammed home a little too obviously. Once the major twist is revealed the film plays out a touch too predictably at times, but enough mystery is retained to command your attention until the conclusion which is mercifully free of an overblown and trite Hollywood ending.

Moon is a film that will make you look inside and question your own emotions, needs and desires.

** SPOILER ALERT — READ NO FURTHER IF YOU DON’T WANT TO KNOW PLOT **

Read the rest of this entry »

Film rating: 2.5/5
Walkouts: 0/5
Pretentious clapping at credits: 2/5
BPM sighting: No

From within the straightjacket of a highly controlled film industry, Iranian visionary Asghar Farhadi (The Beautiful City, Fireworks Wednesday) miraculously emerges with an uncompromising chronicle of middle-class Iranian malaise.

A group of friends holidaying on the Caspian Sea play matchmaker between a divorcé and schoolteacher Elly. When she disappears, a sticky mess of seemingly innocuous deceits – some being the product of tarouf, a type of Persian cultural politeness – prove dire in their consequences.

One of the best Iranian films in years – and accordingly well-awarded at this year’s Tribeca film festival – it’s also the final one to feature Golshifteh Farahani, who inflamed controversy by appearing in Ridley Scott’s Body of Evidence, in turn causing About Elly to be banned in Iran.

A well-constructed character study that revolves around the social norms at play in middle-class Iran. At first the characters’ action were difficult to understand as a Westerner, but as the film progressed it became easier to accept why seemingly stupid decisions (from an audience perspective) were the only option available to the protagonists. However, the film lost a bit of momentum towards the end and offered no new insight or surprise; the ending was predictable once the invisible rules binding the characters were revealed. A solid, but not sensational film.

There’s Homer, there’s Sappho … there’s even ΠO if you prefer your great mono-monikered poets to be, you know, alive.

And now, thanks to the literary editors at Coles, there’s Amelia:

The best part was when she rhymed “nice” with “nice”.

Anyway, time for a GrodsChallenge. Whoever writes the best poem about the most unspectacular grocery item gets to lick the cake-mix off my beater.*

Have at it!

* Not a euphemism, you depraved Leftists.

It’s on! The Melbourne International Film Festival launched last night and my personal MIFF ‘09 experience begins tomorrow night. After spending an agonising couple of hours over a couple of pints of Guinness with the festival program, I’ve whittled my shortlist of 30 films down to the 13 allowed by my festival pass and I’m gearing up for two weeks of darkened cinemas, sleep deprivation and awesome international cinema. Just like in ‘05, ‘06, ‘07 and ‘08 I’ll be assaulting you with my film reviews whether or not you want them.

This year’s big questions:

• Will Craig faint in the middle of a packed cinema again?
• Will I finally snap that photograph of Bicycle Pump Man that I’ve been trying to get for four years?

It’s Ashes time. And in between sleepless nights and bleary days everyone’s talking about delay tactics, shitty umpiring, Australia’s performance at Lord’s, and how much of an arrogant chav bastard Freddie Flintoff is. However, after tuning into SBS’s coverage of the series and checking my television settings to make sure I hadn’t accidentally tuned into Amateur Hour on Channel 31, I’m surprised that the biggest Ashes talking point isn’t …

Stuart MacGill: can’t bat, can’t bowl, can’t host

Jeebus H. Cat, the man is atrocious! Whenever SBS crosses back to the studio during lunch I am overwhelmed with feelings of embarrassment for him; that’s if I can stop cringing at the telly long enough. It’s like watching a nervous schoolkid, spooked eyes staring straight down the barrel of the camera, wee their pants from fear live on air. Every night for ten nights.

I know that it’s wise to head your sports broadcasts with someone who knows the game and who can talk from experience, but surely they could’ve found someone better than MacGill. Even Damien Martyn, with his complete lack of charisma or presence would’ve made a better host — at least he’s watchable. But between MacGill and that goose Greg Matthews I’ve been tempted a number of times to throw the flat screen off the balcony.

Stuart MacGill, you’re on the list.

UPDATE: From MacGill’s Wikipedia page:

MacGill is noted as an intellectual type, having once read 17 books on a tour of Pakistan

I suppose reading one book on a cricket tour is enough to get yourself smeared as an intellectual.

UPDATE II: Further down the Wikipedia page the plot thickens:

He has a fondness for wine and books, once reading 24 novels during a tour of Pakistan.

Both “facts” are sourced from a Cricinfo bio, which states:

The son and grandson of Western Australian state players, he socialised with friends who weren’t cricketers in his playing days, and was often portrayed as a thinker, a misfit, the odd man out. It was something he played down, although he once read 24 novels on a tour of Pakistan.

Socialised with non-cricketers! The shame.

Ponder this comment found on Bolt’s:

And just how is it doing that if its been cooler in the last decade ? more fairtails from the best scammers of all ,THE GREENGATE LIARS.I THINK THEIR LITTLE BRAIN MIGHT BE SHRINKING .I bet those Dinosoars were wondering how they got so big when it was so much hotter than now .c02 is the lowest its been in 600 million yrs according to the latest research .

My soul hurts.

Right, so everyone’s flapping their gums about MasterChef Australia at the minute. I thought the show was pants, but that’s beside the point. What really worries me is that amid all the chatter about judges, culinary techniques, TV ratings, Hainanese chicken rice, comfort food, cookbook-publishing deals and dumbfuck newspapers that can’t even correctly report the winner of a TWO-HORSE RACE, people may be losing sight of what’s really important:

Oh, and bugger me with a fish-fork if the woman who won isn’t a dead ringer for a certain Pamela Allen children’s book character:

Remember how “homosexual activists” think that gay penguins prove that Teh Gey is natural, while fundamentalist Christians think that a gay penguin dropping his boyfriend to go out with a girl penguin proves that “nature prefers heterosexual relationships”? Well, this poster on the side of a Melbourne bus stop (complete with post-modern reflection of suburban decay and photographer’s shadow) shows that we humans can use examples found in nature to prove that anything is natural or preferred.

Nature also prefers bus timetables that bear even a passing resemblance to the actual running times of buses, but apparently the Melbourne bus companies think that nature can go fuck itself.

You know the famous story about gay penguins at San Francisco Zoo? Well, the six year “relationship” is over, with one of the dudes dropping the other dude for a chick.

Fundamentalist Christian news website OneNewsNow cites a “family” campaigner who accuses “homosexual activists” of using such examples of apparent animal homosexuality to “normalize their lifestyle”. Says the campaigner:

It’s pretty pathetic to turn to turn to animals to guide how humans should behave. It’s just ridiculous.

Pathetic indeed. Here’s the OneNewsNow reporter in the first par of the story.

A pro-family advocate says the latest developments at the San Francisco Zoo show that nature prefers heterosexual relationships.

Shit don’t prove shit, unless it’s the shit we want it to prove.