Nick and I have been reading our horoscopes from The Onion, hands down the most plausible and convincing horoscopes on the Internet.

(I’m particularly pleased with mine: “A freak explosion aboard a Florida fishing boat leaves you with the proportional strength and speed of a red-bellied trout.” Now I just have to get to Florida sometime in this coming week.)

Then we read Nick’s.

ME: Oh, honey!
NICK: What?!
ME: “You will accidentally jump to your death this week, thanks to a rather low ceiling fan.”
NICK: Oh, no!
ME: I know!
NICK: That’s so likely to actually happen!
ME: That’s what I thought!

I mentioned in the last post on The West Wing and in the related comment thread that I have an antagonistic relationship with this programme.

That relationship came to a head last night, when we were watching the fifth episode of season two, “Initiation.”

This one, if it’s been a while since you’ve seen it, deals with two concurrent storylines: the first full day of work for Ainsley Hayes, the Republican hired to the White House Counsel’s Office, and the President’s clumsy self-sabotage of the first opportunity he’s had to have sex with his wife since he was shot.

Now, both storylines are nominally dealing with questions of female empowerment. In the case of the former, White House staffers are assuming that Ainsley—whom characters rapidly come to call “the Republican sex kitten,” just to make my argument nice and easy—was hired because she’s pretty. And in the case of the latter, the President ignores the First Lady’s cogent arguments about the fact that pioneering women are memorialised in far fewer numbers than pioneering men, which is, naturally enough, not a form of foreplay that suits Abby.

It’s just that they’re both dealt with in such daft ways.

Ainsley, for example, can’t actually fight her own battles. Sam Seaborn has to come along and beat up the two staffers who subject her to entirely unjustified harassment—well, metaphorically beat them up, by firing them. And, yes, he fires them because he’s their boss not because he’s a man, but then how is Ainsley ever going to work effectively when someone more powerful than her (in a power structure where boss equals man: less blonde, less pretty, and therefore less threatening when exercising power) always has to step in to, essentially, do what she has been asked to do?

Then, in the same storyline, there’s this constant reiteration that Ainsley, because she is attractive, must be stupid and ambitious. No, they really use the word “ambitious”—frequently—as though it’s a bad thing. Certainly, strong ambition without commensurate talent can lead to manipulative behaviour, I suppose—but to simply use the word “ambition” as though its connotations are immediately and inevitably negative is poor writing, and if it’s only used in a negative sense in association with women, it’s something else.

Then there’s the Jed and Abby subplot, which is rather adorable in parts: I am fond of Martin Sheen in this role, when he’s not being too folksy (folksy in the President of the United States often comes across as patronising, in this show).

But this subplot annoyed me, too. Yes, women are memorialised less frequently than men. No argument there, and no surprise either. But using the Statue of Liberty as a riposte, as the President does, is absurd: not only is the Statue of Liberty a French gift to the U.S., and therefore not representative of statues to pioneering American women, but it’s also not a statue of a real historical figure: it’s a representation of an abstract concept that happens to have been feminised in this one instance. And representing abstract concepts such as liberty or justice as women does not go far towards undercutting any real inequality between men and women.

But that’s fine. That’s not what really annoyed me, thought you wouldn’t know it from this post.

No, what really annoyed me was this exchange between Sam Seaborn and the White House Counsel Lionel Tribby, on the subject of Gilbert and Sullivan lyrics, which was a running gag through the entire episode:

SAM: I hate to stick my head in the lion’s mouth, but I gotta ask you, were you the recording secretary for the Princeton Gilbert and Sullivan Society for two years?
LIONEL: No, but then again, I’m not a woman.

Do you see why you annoy me, now, West Wing? What’s the point of ostensibly devoting an entire episode to subplots about the historical and contemporary mistreatment of professional women entirely on the basis of their gender when you can slip such absurd sexisms into dialogue and play them as jokes? Especially since it was Tribby who brought the Gilbert and Sullivan line up in the first place, so why is it now a feminised interest?

Quality of writing and subplotting is one thing, but this casual sexism says something else entirely, and it gets right up my nose.

Nick’s attempts to pour a glass of wine from a fresh cask. (Yes, I do drink wine from a cardboard box, sometimes.)

NICK: Ah. The seal was intact, causing untold angst.
ME: Meaning you tried to pour a glass, found the seal was still on, removed it, and then poured the glass?
NICK: . . . Yes.
ME: So where does the angst come in?
NICK: Untold!
ME: Yes, but why?
NICK: Untold!

This evening brought many more parrots than usual flocking to the palm tree:

I know: still nothing to do with books. But, while the book I’ve been re-reading my way through today—Andrew King’s The London Journal, 1845-83: Periodicals, Production and Gender—is a fascinating and extremely important book, especially for anyone with any interest in serial publication in the Victorian period, in penny weeklies (it is the only full-length academic account of these journals yet published), in reader-response theory, or in theories of textual consumption, especially among those groups of readers (such as the working class) whose experiences used to be considered unrecoverable, it’s not the sort of book I normally blog about, especially on a day that hasn’t been as productive as it should have been.

So, instead, let’s all marvel at how cute birds are when they’re eating upside down, and wonder how they’re able to eat upside down, when I tend to choke just trying to drink on a slight incline.

Seriously—I don’t intend the blog to become an image blog, but neither do I want to get into the habit of skipping too many days: a picture of birds eating is a nice step on my current path towards finding a compromise between my blogging and my (unpaid, because I’m currently unemployed, but vital, if I ever want to be employed) academic writing.

I’ll make it up to people who want something a little more word-intensive by starting my real-time blogging of season one of Doctor Who this weekend.

NICK: Right! Nick Caldwell leaps into action, for he is . . . a superhero!
(No response)
NICK: Well. That was a bit of a whatd’youcallit.
(No response)
NICK: An anti-climax.
(No response)
NICK: What’s that noise?
(No response as I continue my activity in another room)
NICK: Yes, that noise.
(No response)
NICK: And that noise. And that one.
(No response)
NICK: Hello?

Sometimes it’s fun just to see where things go.

But with a day divided between excavating the skeleton of my argument from a journal article that has been provisionally accepted (but needs to have its theoretical and methodological framework refined before the 31st of January) and being really, really annoyed that Australia won the Sydney test (even though it was a dead game with the series already won) when Graham Smith had gone through the effort of batting when he has both a severely damaged elbow and a broken hand—well, I’m a little tired.

So I’m wimping out on the update and loading some more photographs of my parents’ beautiful garden, which is largely the handiwork of my brother the horticulturalist.

See? Nice and soothing. Now I can go back to what I’m calling theoretical archaeology (why, yes: I am rather pretentious) to the calm, illusionary sound of a water garden that’s actually one thousand kilometres away.

The new Doctor has been announced.

And it’s not, as we thought it might be, Paterson Joseph. I’m a little disappointed about that, actually.

Instead, it’s . . . well, you can read for yourself right here at Outpost Gallifrey.

It’s not that it’s a spoiler, not now it’s been officially announced; I just think people might like to learn the news for themselves.

For much the same reason, I’m putting my response to this in the comments thread, rather than right here.

UPDATE: Courtesy of the BBC, here is an extended interview with Matt Smith, which the Beeb kindly posted on YouTube.

Seriously, he looks about twelve.

I’m sure it’s no surprise to anyone who has ever read this blog before that I find advertising always confusing and frequently grotesquely offensive.

But I’m seeing more and more ads at the moment, due to thoroughly enjoying watching Australia lose the cricket to South Africa: I normally mute or ignore ads where I can, but it’s never seemed worth it for a one-advertisement break between overs.

So I’ve been watching the smug prat in the Mitsubishi 4WD splattering inoffensive people going about their everyday business with water, mud, and dust, and then grinning about it.

And I’ve been watching the Johnny Walker ads, which always astonish me, because it seems as though their tagline is “It’s amazing what you’ll find yourself doing when you’re ratted.” (My favourite was the one they did a few years ago with Christopher Walken—I think it was Walken, anyway—where the subtext was, essentially, “I always need to get totally off my nut before I can bring myself to step on stage.”)

But the ones that are really driving me nuts at the moment are the Solo ads.

I know that Solo ads are dependent on a particular form of machismo: a selling position that relies on recognisable codes of homosociality and male physical strength, also seen in flavoured-milk and beer ads.

Fine: well and good. I have no problem with that, though it won’t make me buy low-fizz, lemon-flavoured soft drink.

But this new two-part one with the man making the $1000 bet with his mates? I can’t figure this one out. I simply can’t comprehend how it seems ideal to construct an ad around Andrew Symonds—who, let’s face it, is not the most advertising-friendly figure in Australian cricket at the moment—viciously body-checking a complete stranger and then smirking at him.

Add the fact that the complete stranger is cross-dressing, and you add a new, highly unpleasant subtext to the ad.

It seems to me at best thoroughly mean spirited and at worst open to accusations of something far more invidious and dangerous. It strikes me as doubly odd, since Solo ads used to be banal, rather than out-and-out awful.

Perhaps it’s the consequence of adding a cricketer to the mix? We can call it the Max Walker blood-diamond syndrome.

I took these photographs in Minnamurra Rainforest, at the base of the Illawarra escarpment. It is—according to my brother, who knows these things—the most southernly sub-tropical rainforest in Australia: after this, it’s temperate rainforest.

What I like about Minnamurra is the opportunity to take shots that play with light and shade, as well as all the water.

Come the return to Brisbane, however, I will actually be writing on this blog again, rather than simply uploading photographs.

No, not me.

Well, he’s all right.

But I meant my brother’s dog, General Montgomery:

I particularly like the way that his tail goes nuts when Elvis is playing the guitar.

Of course, the blog itself isn’t a year old until February, but thank you all for your reading and assiduous commenting in 2008.

I don’t have any exciting plans for 2009 yet, but I will be live-blogging the most recent Doctor Who Christmas special when the ABC airs it in a month, and I’m thinking of live-blogging the previous three seasons of Doctor Who after that. Or at least starting on it before teaching starts.

What say you all? Fancy talking about the first three seasons of Doctor Who?