The Inane Asylum

The lawn needs mowing, and i have my crayons

2006-12-06T16:13:00.000+10:30

Hows that for a random title?

Would it be lazy of me to simply say how busy things are lately? Sorta why I haven’t been in touch with a friend or something?

Or is this the final acceptance that I simply cannot maintain this thing, and that I have lost the verve to keep it ticking over. This page reminds me of a lower class abode with car parts strewn haphazardly over the front lawn

It’s not that I’m tired of writing, either. I’ve been churning stuff out like a machine lately, taking notes and splaying words across the screen like a child with a clean wall and a huge box of crayons.

So… is this the “It’s not you, it’s me” line?

I dunno. Frankly, it doesn’t matter at the end of the day. The world continues to turn, everyone who isn’t me will remain a deluded tool, and the universe will snort as it wakes up and says, “Andy who?” before rolling over indifferently.

Aries: Will travel. Stay clear of rats

2006-11-21T13:23:00.000+10:30

It seems that whenever I find I’m getting my shit together, something new always crops up and changes all the rules.

I think I’m about to get a new job. How do I know this? My PC has been targeted for an upgrade.

I often stay with a job for an amount of time, labouring under the conditions that require me to whip the hell out of a PC that runs on either steam power or some rodent on a treadmill, only to find that the moment they provide me with steroids for the rat, I find another job.

It’s happened in the last, ooh, four jobs, I reckon.

So, my boss approaches me just the other day and says, “Your PC is pretty crap. Why don’t you have a flat screen?”

I reply with a “I make do with what you give me”

“Well, after our recent survey of computers we’ve found that yours is the oldest on the floor. So you’re tagged for a new machine”

Cue shock music. Dun-dun- daaaaaah!!

Curious, I turn my attention to the available vacancies going in the paper. There’s one role in there which looks absolutely perfect, has higher pay and fits my current penchant for travelling.

It appears that the stars have aligned again.

I must now prepare a future post which details how I bombed the application process, or how the whole procedure is crap, and how the stars should go fuck themselves.

Oh, and prepare a job application.

Et tu, U2?

2006-11-17T09:38:00.000+10:30

Adelaide was host to the U2 juggernaut last night. You hear that? The juggernaut, I tells ya! Juggernaut. Any town worthy of a juggernaut visit has to be world class right? Any excuse for me to use the word juggernaut. Juggernaut.

Needless to say, this sleepy little town squealed with the gusto of a gushing groupie.

Bono and co were humble enough to mingle with fans prior to the show, to which Bono was unfortunately assaulted by our local media.

I don’t remember specific lines, but the “interview” (as they labelled it) went something like:

Media: So how do you feel [to be back in Adelaide]?

Bono: I feel great

Media: [Obviously star struck but a little annoyed that Bono wasn’t gushing about how much he loves (and has always loved) Adelaide] It feels good to be around?

Bono: Yeah… I am… I’ve been a great fan… [trails off as he tries to remember where he is]… er… [thinks]… I’ve been looking forward to… [trails off again as he desperately doesn’t want to lie, but doesn’t want to say a contrived pander to our parochialism]… kissing beautiful Australian women [all right! swish!]

Media: South Australian women [laughs]

Bono: er… yeah…

When will Adelaideans get it through their thick fucking heads that we’re not a world class city, that we’re not that special in the grand scheme of things, that just because we remember that U2 visited here 8 years ago (edit: it has been 13 years, I've been informed - apologies for the oversight) it doesn’t mean that Bono does, and that the only reason bands visit here is for our great wines and lax marijuana laws?

As the Irish would say: Jaysus fecking Christ!

I am glad that we managed to cram 60,000 people into the stadium, as that’s probably the environment that U2 is better accustomed than being swamped by bogans and star struck, amateur media with delusions of grandeur.

So, I hope that U2 and their tens of thousands of roadies had a great time in our little corner of the world. I apologise for our media. They know not their proper place and have no proper sense of decorum.

This morning’s local breakfast radio was gushing about the concert, and they mentioned the thing about SMSing your name so that it displayed on the huge screen. Then they gushed about how they “received a text message from Bono” afterwards. There was the typical “Wow, that’s really good of him” thing.

Yeah, I can imagine the scene. Bono going over the entire 60,000 name list with his mobile phone in hand as he clicks away at the keypad.

Edge: You comin’ t’ th’ pub, mate?

Bono: Edge, what ar’ ye thinkin’? I’ve gotta git these text massages done, ya limey git. Th’ pub can wait!

Edge: Alrahty then. I nay thought the text massages t’was a good idea. I told ye.

Bono: But ah’ve gotta be good t’ me fans, Edge. I’ll see ye after I’m done.

Bono continues to feverishly tap away at the mobile phone, trying in vain to get all the text messages done.

Bono: Ah shit! I hate pradict’ve text!! Sorry, abaht that, Emily van der Schans of Westbourne Park… your SMS has a typo in it. I was meanin’ t’ type “good” insted of “home”

Yeah. Right.

U2 are a world-class group of people. Adelaide… alas… is not. Get over yourselves people. You don’t realise how tragic you look. Yes… that probably includes me as well.

Like, you know.... whatever.

2006-11-10T11:23:00.000+10:30

I have come to the conclusion that no one says anything anymore.

Listening to conversations in the Myer Centre Food Court (ugh) revealed to me that when others are recounting past encounters with people, they don’t actually tell the facts of how their conversation went.

Instead, they relate to others what the conversation was similar to, or alike to.

"She picked out this dress, and I was like, ‘Oh you’re not getting that’ and she was like, ‘it’ll so suit me’ and I was like, ‘Nuh, uh!’"

Truth be known, the “conversation” probably went along the lines of

Person A: “This dress looks nice”

Person B: “Yeah, it suits you”

Person A: “Aw, thank you!”

Person B then secretly has an inner monologue that represents their “in your face” attitude, and how they tell people exactly what they think. This eventually culminates into the full-blown belief that the conversation actually took place.

But that’s probably when the “like” part probably comes in. Sure, the conversation never happened… but it “similar” or “alike” to it. “Alike”, as in “Really Wanted To Have Happened, But I'll Say It To Make Me Sound Awesome.”

“So she went and bought it and was like, ‘this is so nice’, and I was like, ‘you’ve just wasted your money’ and she was like, ‘you’re just jealous because I’ve got a better body and no cankles’ and I was like, ‘Nuh, uh!”

Someone should tell these people that inner-monologue doesn’t count as an actual conversation.

Sure, we can embellish a little… but… wait, I can’t finish that thought.

Leave me alone. I would so, like, kick your butt.

Memorandum

2006-11-06T22:26:00.000+10:30

Memo to staff in the boss’ office

Dear staff

I hate to single out a couple people in the office, however in this case I do feel I need to highlight specific people in order to put my point across.

To the personal assistants to the boss, I think you should be aware of a couple little facts that might come as a surprise to you.

1. The PA to the boss is not tantamount to actually being the boss.

2. No one respects you for the sole reason that you are the PA to the boss.

Ergo, when you ask us to jump, please do not be surprised if the response is not to enquire how high, but rather to suggest sticking your request up your arse.

Also, equally do not be surprised if people get frustrated at your constant insistence to not be compromising in any way possible, and that your future requests are relegated to the bottom of the priority pile.

For instance, when I ask for you to be available during a certain time due to the fact that I have bent over backwards to accommodate your request, do not dismiss my efforts with a “well, actually I’ve just found out I may not be available during that time that I initially said I was available”

This is especially true if you’ve assured me in the past of your availability during a certain time, only to find that you’ve decided to fuck off home early.

It leaves me in the lurch, makes me look stupid, and frankly… pisses me off.

So to continue to expect me to bend to your whims, and expect that I’m going to drop everything for the personal assistants to the boss is rude to say the least.

I can assure you that if this kind of shit happens again, and your boss isn’t happy that his equipment isn’t fixed, I’m not the one copping the flak.

Because I’ll be telling him how his personal assistants were bickering over which one of them would be available for the lowly telco guy, and that’s the reason his shit isn’t sorted.

I thought the personal assistant role was to sort the boss’ shit out.

Yours sincerely, and fuck you

Andy

Validation

2006-11-02T11:06:00.000+10:30

It’s better to have competed and lost than to have not competed at all.

Yes, back in June/July I wrote a short story in an effort to put my money where my mouth is, and show that I could actually string a thousand words together in an order that constituted a coherent “story”

Thinking I’d done an orright job of it, I entered it into the National Short Story Telling Competition, held by the Uni of Canberra.

Needless to say, I didn’t win. But, considering the ~~millions~~ ~~thousands~~ ~~hundreds~~, tens of people who probably entered, the odds were against me from the start.

But, you know, you gotta give these things a crack. I mean, without validation from anonymous faces on the other side the continent, how else will you know if you’re any good?

Friends? Pshaw… dirty sycophants… every one of ‘em.

However, thanks go out to:

Paul of Real Life – good mate who proofread, edited, insulted and basically was honest with the story.

Jen of Livien - who brought the competition to my attention. She also gave the story a once-over with her eye for style. Keep going with your own novel, Jen.

CB of Chicken or the Egg – whose writing I admire and who generously took the time to give me some feedback.

I won’t be throwing the story up on here, even though it is a mere thousand words. If anyone is curious, I can forward you a copy. My email is in my profile.

Obviously...

2006-10-23T16:52:00.000+09:30

I have an honest face.

Honest face = schmuck.

So everyone, please perform the following acts:

Walk up to me in the street and ask for money. I obviously can afford it, and I’m obviously far too nice to turn you down.

Order me around. I’m obviously too self conscious to make my own decisions, and I don’t have the assertive personality to stand up for myself.

Disagree with me, and tell me why I’m “too sensitive” to your efforts to undermine my position and basically screw me over.

Take credit for my work. Or at least sabotage it. I’m obviously not deserving of any credit, as this is a dog-eat-dog world, and only the toughest survive.

Oh… I forgot to mention. I’m not an “obvious” kinda guy.

Fuck: off, you, you and that.

Respectively.

The human atrium

2006-10-19T12:18:00.000+09:30

I work in a building in the Adelaide CBD, about nine storeys up. I have a nice view to the west, which shows a vast panorama of the glass building next door.

There are days where I feel a little trapped. This feeling isn’t helped by the Venetian blinds which create a gaol-bar-like effect.

About half an hour ago, this feeling came to a head, almost to the point where I cracked and started flinging crap around, like a caged animal.

A couple little birds, spoggies as they’re known here, flew up and landed on my window’s shelf.

One of them just stood there and looked in the window… staring at me. The bird’s partner hopped up and down the shelf, periodically staring into my cubicle.

I felt their eyes on me, like they were just waiting to see what I would do next.

Then they both continued to hop around the shelf, taking in the sight of my cluttered workspace, my hunched figure over the keyboard and the dim glow of the machine’s eye.

Then they chirped to themselves. I could only just hear them through the glass.

It was like they were laughing at me. How pathetic it was that this monstrous animal was reduced to a cramped space, surrounded by stacks of paper, his bleary eyes testament to the futility of it all.

Then, somewhat teasingly, they flew off. Free.

I have suddenly developed an odd hatred of zoos.

Penguin Force, Go!

2006-10-11T16:45:00.000+09:30

Over the years I’ve learned that dealing with a confrontation with an equal and opposite amout of aggression doesn’t cancel the confrontation out.

Far from it. In fact, it makes the entire ordeal a fistful-of-fuck worse.

And I was chatting to a friend of mine about this precise subject the other night. I said that I find the best way to negate a situation like that is to make light of the subject, give a self deprecating comment and voila… situation avoided.

He nodded like he understood what I was saying.

The night progressed. We were at a black-tie dinner. Thankfully not too much booze was drank – I had soft drink the whole night.

On the way back to the car, I had to walk up Bank Street to pick up some cash. I asked my mate to come with me as it’s better to be safe than sorry.

Sure enough, as I was pulling my cash from the ATM, a drunkard staggered up the street. Spying us in our tuxedoes, he decided he would approach us.

“Havin’ a good night, fellas?” he slurred at us

Keeping my eyes on him, I hurriedly pushed the cash into my wallet.

“You guys are inshurance saleshmen…” he queried.

“Nah mate, just been out at a function” I replied cheerfully.

“You guys don’t have any shpare cash on ya, do ya? I need to get home”

Now, I am usually prepared for this kinda stuff. He would’ve seen me at the ATM, so he knew I had cash on me. But I usually keep a bus ticket with one trip left on it in my wallet, just in case I’m approached by people wanting money for a “bus ticket”.

I was ready to pull the ticket out and give it to him, therefore negating any problems before they came to a head, but my mate decided to interject.

“No we don’t have cash on us, but I’ve got a good idea for ya”

Pause. My mind racing with the words Oh and Fuck.

“Get a job”

I let out a resigned sigh, reaching into my pocket for my car keys, strategically placing them in my fist so many keys jutted out between my fingers.

What the fuck had I just told this guy???? I kept my hand in my pocket to hide the fist of metal I had hastily prepared.

He started shouting a bit of abuse. My mate only stirred the pot even more with a calm but condescending tone. The tuxedo probably didn’t help.

“Nevermind him, mate” I quickly told the drunkard, “he’s tanked and doesn’t know what he’s saying”

“He should keep his mouth shut!”

“Alright, I’ll take care of him” I said before backing away down the street with my mate.

“I’m not pissed (drunk), Andy” my mate said to me, “we coulda taken him. I don’t put up with people like that”

Further proof that you can lead a horse to water, but you can’t stop him from being an ass…

Bubye winter.

2006-10-04T15:44:00.000+09:30

You know it’s that time of year again.

The mercury climbs, and the lifestyle changes ever so slightly. I used to hate the warmer months, truth be told. But it changed last year.

I used to lament warm weather, as I was hardly comfortable in shorts. But now evenings are spent walking through parks, and running like an idiot through the sprinklers - with my shirt and tie from work still on.

I now sit on the landing at Café Lago and let the cool waters of the River Torrens gently balance the level of comfort with the warm air. White wine always tastes better whilst relaxing at this place.

Searching out that nice little restaurant in the hills I find is a pleasant cruise with the windows down. The warm air blowing in the opening chills momentarily as you pass a sheer rockface that hasn’t been touched by the merciless Australian sun.

You can walk down the beach these days without requiring the ten layers of clothing to shield you from the Antarctic gales that blow up from the south. The beach is where you can marvel at the beauty of this country, and the colours of the sky gently warm your soul.

Hoho… and let’s not forget the best thing about the new season. It is something that is truly a joy, and surpasses all these sensations I describe above. Mere words cannot fully express my delight.

Girls. Short skirts.

Phwoar.

Thank you, and goodnight.

Over for another year

2006-10-03T19:15:00.000+09:30

I have done it

I have successfully managed to go through a whole season of Australian Rules Football (AFL) without viewing a game at all. I hardly knew who was on top of the table, and I didn’t know what team was scrubbing up the arse end.

All I know is that the West Coast Eagles won. It’s kinda hard to not know the result of the Grand Final (Aussie version of the Superbowl) as it’s plastered over every single news stand.

I played AFL in my younger years, and I consider myself to be somewhat handy with the ball. Unfortunately injury took me out of the sport. There was a time where I became couch coach and would yell things at the screen – because I knew everything about the footsball.

Naturally, it was a perfectly good excuse for me to force my kids into the game in order to live vicariously through them.

But I stopped watching football. It’s an incredibly frustrating game to watch, due in part to the rule book being thicker than an entire collection of encyclopaedia Brittanica.

I can sum up playing the game as below:

There are two teams on the field. They wear differing colours to separate them and therefore allocates which goals they should be aiming the ball at.

There are guys out there who wear the same colour as you. You punch them.

There are guys out there who wear different colours to you. You try to punch them more than the guys wearing your colour.

Sometimes your hands hold a “ball”. You kick or punch this ball, sometimes glancing your limb off it strategically so that you end up kicking or punching someone else.

The referee is named an umpire, and you are not to come into contact with him at all… accidental or otherwise. Doing so will have you suspended indefinitely and you must sell your house to cover the fine.

Each team, however, has a player who is the umpire’s favourite and he is free to punch and kick everyone and anyone. Even the umpire will brush off a full frontal crash tackle with a, “nice one, champ” and a thumbs up.

The winner of the game is the team who somehow managed to not get caught punching someone else.

SO yes, it is an achievement. I have avoided the legalised combat that is the AFL for an entire season.

For anyone overseas who is curious about Aussie Rules Football, simply pick up an oblong shaped ball, get a few sticks to peg in the ground, and then proceed to punch everyone nearby. You’ll get the picture soon enough.

In a world of order, boredom rules.

2006-09-21T16:46:00.000+09:30

I think this is the limbo time of the year. It’s that point in time where everything exciting has tapered off, and you know that the Christmas lead-up is only a hiccup away from being blasted at us through the television.

Every single conversation I have seems to be about the weather, which – at this time of year – is some mutant condition somewhere between too fucking cold and “a bit warmish, eh?”

I think even the bogans are driving around with their windows only half down – like they’re not sure if it’s too cold or too warm to stick their head out the window to yell “compliments” at women pedestrians.

Naturally, this blog is testament to the all-round feeling of “meh”. I can write something up, but then simply shake my head and delete it all.

My little cube here at work is bland and uninspiring, and I secretly wish for the day that the department announces budget cuts and fucks me off into the real world.

My co-workers who normally use language that would make even the most crass of construction workers turn maroon with embarrassment are really quite sedate these days. I haven’t heard one humorous story about a users ineptitude with their PC all week.

I spent this week looking forward to lunch today, which was spent at the Belgian Beer Bar, eating mussels and drinking beer out of a glass big enough to fit my head. The beer was bland, despite its claims of containing coriander and a truckload of wheat.

Everything in my section seems to be working like clockwork, with nary a squeak from the little mouse in a treadmill that powers the entire infrastructure.

There are no looming events on my calendar… well, nothing until December. There is nothing much to look forward to that is worth getting exciting over. Conversely, there is nothing ahead which fills me with dread, either.

I think balance has returned to the force. And it’s boring the hell out of me.

You Jane. Me Amused

2006-09-15T12:00:00.000+09:30

Today, I am going to write one of my usual “I’ve noticed it in a couple places so therefore it’s a ‘phenomenon’” things.

I mentioned in my previous post the Tarzan:Jane ratio. That is, the smaller the “Jane”, then the larger the “Tarzans”

Tarzans are not just limited to the Jane’s boyfriend, though. They can also apply to the male company she keeps (read: the Tarzans who WANT to be her boyfriend, but have slipped into the “Friends Pit of Despair”).

Diminutive Janes always seem to attract larger, burlier guys to them. If they’re not burlier, then they’re simply far more protective of the Jane. Tarzans seem to enjoy this pretence of “being the bigger brother”.

In fact, I have been subjected a few times to a Tarzan warning me to not “screw [Jane] over”, and then outlining the ramifications to me in either exceptional detail, or in a mafia-esque “wipe the bugs off your windshield” suggested manner. I half expected him to correct his tie…

In the case of the taller Janes, the Tarzan still existed, however he was less up-front – perhaps stewing away, waiting for the right opportunity to squeegee the windscreen quietly and unnoticed. Or perhaps he would perform his cleaning duties through means not involving physical intimidation.

A former partner of mine was quite small in stature, and I remember being approached four of her friends (in separate instances), each reminding me to do right by her.

Of those who weren’t large in build, they had a larger voice.

“You respect women, right?” one asked, to which I replied in the affirmative, “good lad” he said before draping his arm across my shoulder in a manly gesture to denote “you’re alright, kid”.

“So you do as well, yeah?” I asked him.

“Of course I do” he said.

“So… in the case of [Jane], you think she can’t look after herself and make her own choices?”

I think it took a couple days after this exchange for this particular Jane to tell me that this Tarzan thought I wasn’t right for her.

I don’t have much else to add to this right now. Please note the tongue in cheek. Feel free to disagree in the comments.

Eavesdropping from on high

2006-09-12T12:24:00.000+09:30

I’m finally off the drugs, and have stopped flying around the office, giddily slurring out “good morning” to the hot receptionist.

Unfortunately that also means I cannot use the “I’m on pain killers” excuse whenever something gets balls-ed up.

Also, I have no excuse as to why I haven’t been writing much either. However, after looking back at the last two entries, I think they serve as a great reason to not do drugs of any kind to stimulate the creative process.

So it’s sober or it’s nothing from now on.

I did find that the pain killers did sorta heighten my smug sense of superiority though.

When I became more mobile with this knee (ie I could actually bend it) I walked around a shopping mall, watching everyone. I would listen into conversations that revolved around the latest purchase, or was the precursor to a big purchase.

In most instances, it involved an MP3 player.

I am sorry to say that I eavesdropped on a few conversations in my delirium. Yes, I am rude. Shoot me.

I now know that a few girls are going to be living on two-minute noodles for the next week, but at least they’ve got a couple thousand songs to listen to in order to kill time. How many tunes will be skipped though?

I know one girl whose boyfriend is a real sweetie, but he yells at her from time to time. Her friend says nothing.

$8 for a foccacia is too expensive for some couples.

Boost Juice is a great meal replacement for a certain couple who look like they work out often.

A short, petite girl has some very, very large male friends. When she leaves the group to pick up her lunch, the males start talking about how close a friend they are with her and share stories. Funny… I always thought the “friend only” pit was one to avoid. Also, there seems to be a direct correlation between the smaller the girl, the muscle-ier the male friends.

It’s probably a good thing I’m back at work and off the dosage. At work the conversations are just a warble of techno speak that descends into “Peanuts Teacher” dialogue.

Sober oblivion seems better than drugged awareness.

The drugs STILL do work

2006-09-07T16:57:00.000+09:30

I am still coming down from drugs, people… so bear with me.

Spending a week with a bunch of people I considered like-minded, there were a few occasions where tempers got a little frayed.

Naturally, arguments spilled out quickly and higher ground was constantly sought by the two aggressors. What was initially a slight misunderstanding blew out to be an ongoing arm-wrestle between who was right and wrong.

I find that when this happens, the two sides tend to boil it down to semantics and interpretation – as though they’re a defense lawyer in Law and Order.

Is it so hard to simply shake your head and say “Oops, perhaps I was wrong. Thank you for showing me another perspective.”

However, almost every time I saw what was a potentially insignificant item become a cause for division between two camps of complete morons.

Precedent was set as well. Each side would stick to the rules defined by previous arguments to the point where even the physical distance (to the metre) between groups became a reason for further confrontation. Another reason to flex the muscles.

A lot of the time I stood dumbfounded. At various points of exhaustion I wondered if I was too naïve, and that I should embrace the mental carnage in front of me instead of trying to set an example to the opposite.

At the end of the day, I figured that I am far too introverted to be noticed by the whole in order to set an example. By the same token I am too introverted to actively participate in the aforementioned carnage and still be taken seriously.

This reminds me of high school. I was told by a peer who was neither friend nor enemy, “Andy… you’re not one of the cool guys. You’re not one of those nerds that gets picked on. You’re just… Andy”

Oh well.

*shrugs*

This must be how Switzerland feels.

I hope these pain killers wear off soon.

The drugs DO work

2006-09-05T14:27:00.000+09:30

Not too sure how to start this all out. It’s been quite a fortnight.

Notwithstanding having a piece of bone the size of a mentos removed from my left knee. Yes, I would have to say that I have been fresh and full of life since its removal.

Its been amusing for people around me to witness a six foot male doped up on Oxychodone hobbling around the place, squeezing his left knee which had swollen to the size of a honeydew melon and stopping only to cite random quotes from The Book of Five Rings.

Being prone for a week is somewhat frustrating, especially after spending the previous week being very physical and pushing my body beyond what I believed were its limits.

However being sedate does lend itself towards thinking, which is a practice I indulge in but rarely actually yield much.

This fortnight I began to see other people in a different way. People who I thought were like-minded peers and understood the nature of my inquisitiveness. I believed these people could look beyond their personal ego and understand the difference between a discussion and a challenge.

It turns out I was wrong.

Those who espoused this idea that we are only competing with ourselves, actually were competing with others. They would speak a mantra that ego should not rule their actions, yet in practice… well… ego did rule.

Since my trip to Japan, I knew that I had ruffled a few feathers with these people. What I didn’t realise was just how deep the ruffling went.

Everyone has their own agenda. I expect this. Hell, I’ve even got my own. However, I don’t think everyone else is there to challenge me. I am challenging myself. Having an agenda is a good thing.

But these people don’t realise that I’m not a threat to them. Not because I am not as able as them… but because their agenda is different to mine.

From what I can see, their agenda involves riding on the coat-tails of someone else’s hard work and being seen in favour.

My agenda is simple.

I want it all.

I don’t care how much these people try to intimidate me, because I am not going to waver. They can strike me as hard as they like and I will get back up. I have been hit before and have bounced back. I will continue to do it again and again.

They can slander me behind my back. I no longer care. Their words will have no impact on my progress, so they are no danger to me.

My confidence is not shown in a boisterous and loud-mouthed fashion. My confidence is the knowledge that when the chips go down, you can be very sure that I have backed myself and not some other horse with a glittery mane.

And even the hardships I face now, I know I will stand back up and shake it all off.

Because whenever a part of you seems to have fallen asleep, you have to keep moving that limb until the feeling returns.

Goin' away

2006-08-18T14:01:00.000+09:30

I’m going away for a couple weeks. First week I will be up in the Adelaide Hills, sitting around campfires and discussing Asian philosophy and other stuff.

The second week I’m booked in for knee surgery. Yippie.

I cannot wait to wake up and feel like I’m going to hurl at any given moment.

But it’s fairly simple stuff. They make a couple small incisions in my knee, poke around a bit and remove the offending piece of me that causes trouble.

No… not my mouth. That’s not in my knee.

I’ll be walking again the same day, although I have been advised to be escorted home with a mature adult. And to not operate heavy machinery.

Well… I did have something to write about… such as local radio personality Lehmo complaining in the newspaper today about how crap Adelaide drivers are.

Thanks Lehmo. Like you’re going to fix the place with one single article. I think there have been many articles in the past about how crap on the roads us Adelaideans are. But no one is going to think your whinging is specifically targeted at them.

In fact, even if there was a driver who intentionally cut you off, sideswiped you car, flipped you off, and yelled “Get off the road, Lehmo, you smarmy git”, he still wouldn’t think you were talking about him in your tirade in today’s article.

I think I’ll stop there.

Take care. I’ll see you after my dosage.

Actual email I sent today

2006-08-10T15:44:00.000+09:30

Hello

Thanks for your email. Sometimes it is good to hear about people you never see much of anymore. Sometimes

I hope you are going well, too. Well, I hope you are going well insofar that I don’t wish a bad life on anyone. I’m not that embittered.

However, we weren’t really friends all those years ago. In fact, when you weren’t fake smiling at me in a way reminiscent of how someone might look if they were trying to suppress gag-reflex, you were off bad-mouthing me to the more popular people in a vain campaign for inclusion.

I sincerely cannot be fucked with the idea that we should “catch up”. I think that pretending otherwise would be dishonest, and would serve no other purpose than to waste a few awkward hours – hours probably better spent doing something productive. Like scratching my arse, for instance.

That sounds like a far more invigorating use of my time than listening to you spout out your achievements over the past decade, just to convince yourself how much of a loser you haven’t become. I’m sure my life is of very little interest to you too.

So, I think I’ll spare you the effort you would need to muster to bullshit your way through reminiscing our “good ol’ days”. Chances are it’d only last two minutes before we’d awkwardly stare at each other and start talking about the weather.

Yes, I agree that it has been a long time. I think both of us would agree that it’s probably getting better as the time gets longer.

Take care

Andy

No reply yet

2006-08-09T10:07:00.000+09:30

If you’re looking for the post on sexual politics that Steph was talking about… it’s the next door down. Next post down, sorry.

Anyway, onto things inane.

You can always tell when I’m in a conversation. It usually goes something like this:

Person A raises topic

Person B mentions they’ve heard of it.

Person C cites an article they’ve read recently on the topic

Person D claims topic is just another way for High Australia to further divide the haves and have-nots, is one of the real reasons the country is going up shit creek without a canoe, and that if people learned to take some responsibility for their own actions we wouldn’t be a bunch of coddled babies.

Pause

Person A changes subject with a quick addendum that Person D can be a “real cunt sometimes”.

Guess which one is me.

As was mentioned on The Reverend’s blog, I am somewhat cynical. It’s a personality trait I’ve relied upon greatly to filter out the fuckheads who might come into my life. Its success has been… well… questionable, but I think I’ll stick with it.

But now I’m “Adorably Cynical”. Not quite what I was shooting for, but interesting nonetheless. For me, it conjures up images like this:

Go fuck yourself…

Yep… “Adorably Cynical” is like “being told to ‘go fuck yourself’ by the Yellow M&M.”

Or maybe it’s like getting flipped off by Bambi. I dunno. If anyone has Photoshop skills, maybe they could email me a picture…

But I guess it’s a badge that I should wear with pride. If I am able to have people want to pat me on the head and offer me a carrot whenever I write about being fucked off with something, then that’s something to be proud of… I guess.

If not… then fuck you.

I'm a Snob

2006-08-04T16:04:00.000+09:30

I seem to have a reputation in my office as being a bit of a snob.

Well, among my female co-workers at least. The guys around here couldn’t give the slightest of shits.

We have a hot receptionist, it has to be said. Quite the looker. All the guys in the office here always seem to find something to do that requires them to go past reception.

And then they stay there, chatting about their pets, their house and their weekends. Before long, they’ve invited her out for a night with their mates (if she’s not busy).

Invariably, she is always busy. But I can’t begrudge the guys here for at least giving it a whirl.

And the guys here all flirt with the women, and the women giggle and laugh. And then they scorn the not-so-attractive guy who tries to flirt with them.

And then they scorn the guy who they perceive is a sleazy womanizer, who spends his whole conversation regaling their breasts of his weekend exploits.

But I’m a snob, apparently.

Because I don’t spend half an hour chatting with the receptionist. Because I don’t invite them out for drinks after work. And because I don’t feel compelled to flirt with them.

Hmph. I never thought I’d be labeled poorly as a result of me treating the women in this office as the professionals they are… or at least WANT to be…

Then again, maybe I am doing this all wrong. Maybe I should leer lecherously at their second-eyes. Perhaps I should invite em out for some fun. Perhaps I should go around slapping them on the arse, and saying, “Lookin’ good today, toots”, before “shooting” them with both my pointer fingers.

After all the times they’ll refuse or resist my “charms”, I’ll suddenly stop one day. I’ll be polite. I’ll be a good boy.

Maybe THEN I’ll get thanked for not staring at their boobs, for not trying to chat them up and for not whacking them on the arse.

Because NOT doing that gets me labeled as a snob.

I'm a People

2006-07-24T11:33:00.000+09:30

It’s really odd.

I feel like such a late bloomer these days. Whenever I stumble across some great revelation about what I want to do with life, I get the impression that everyone else has known this stuff for ages.

You know those interviews with really successful people, and the first thing they say is “Don’t hold back, just get out there and do it”?

I reckon I’m a complete dullard sometimes. I would look at those interviews, listen to those words and think, “Yeah… that’s good advice. But that doesn’t really apply to me.”

But it does.

I mean, there have been plenty of times when I’ve remarked to someone how I’d really like to do [thing] with my life, and they’ve asked me why I don’t.

And I’d answer with various excuses, citing bills, rent/mortgage, job etc.

But now I look back, and realise that these were all excuses. And, by equal measure, I think these people who ask me “Why don’t you?” were really trying to prompt me into actually doing something... but I was too daft to see it.

I was like a kid who wanted a cookie, and when the parent asked me why I don’t simply take one, I’d think of a reason not to.

How daft is that?

I watch these documentaries about famous film-makers and what they do when making movies. They talk about their stuff like it’s everyday hum-drum. I sit and watch it and think “wow, they’re exceptional people” and I’ll have this feeling that being like them is something way out of reach – like some fantasy world.

They have money. They have backing.

Yes, they’re exceptional people.

But they’re people. Like me.

I’m a people too.

I’m sure that Peter Jackson had to take his initial step into film-making to get where he is now. Hell, I’ve seen Bad Taste. If he can make epic movies after that [piece of] “movie”, then hope is not lost for my first piece, “Scribblings on a Napkin” – working title (which is more representative of the medium rather than the content).

I am 28 years old. I realise this NOW? It seems that everyone else has known this crap for years!

I should’ve just taken the fuckin’ cookie.

What Old Yeller taught me

2006-07-19T09:35:00.000+09:30

Apparently there is much controversy over this article. Frankly, I don’t see why. It’s a light hearted article, and it doesn’t subscribe to this idea that all males are knuckle-dragging imbeciles who should be kept in cages.

In fact, I can say that I tried to use this technique with my partner some time ago.

Recognising that she is a free spirited young woman, I knew that there were things that would come naturally to her, and others that would not. She is a social creature, so socialising comes easy to her, however giving specific attention does not.

She also has bouts of rage – a result of her passion.

During phases in where she yells endlessly about some small chore not being done because she sits on the couch, I stare at her blankly.

However, if she shows me attention, I respond in kind.

If she gets into trouble whilst being out and social, I do nothing. Neither reward nor chastise. I simply sit and stare blankly.

However, I applaud when she shows some thoughtfulness and considers me for a change.

When she sneaks out to be with her new boyfriend, yet still yells at me for intruding on her personal space, I do nothing.

When she abuses me when I come within five feet of her, as I am mopping that part of the floor, despite the fact that she is writing love notes to her boyfriend, I don’t reward that behaviour either.

When she blames me for all her shortcomings and her unfulfilled life, I say squat.

However, when gets the hell out of my life, I applaud her. God knows it was hard for her to “make” that decision.

I think even the most hardened animal trainer would acknowledge that some animals simply don’t want to be trained.

The animal kingdom is large and diverse.

Re: Cancelation of Subscription

2006-07-10T13:58:00.000+09:30

Dear Sir/Madam

I would like to cancel my subscription to your catalogue of insights relating to life. It’s not that I haven’t been entertained by your material, it’s just I feel that there is no substance to the philosophies.

I am not an educated man. I lack the piece of paper which qualifies me as an expert in an area, which is my own fault for not applying myself. I realize that this has hence condemned me to life as a Jack of all trades.

With so many different (and contradictory) philosophies on life, I cannot help but wonder whether anything is offered with genuineness, or whether it is said to sound cool.

Those who say “Live life in the moment, and enjoy it while you can” are those I find who are worried about finances, relationships and the future in general.

“Look at the bigger picture” are those I find are impulsive, erratic and unpredictable.

“I tell it like it is. People should be honest” is stated by those who are offended when I tell them like it is.

“Never raise a hand to a woman” has been mentioned by someone I know for a fact has struck his partner.

Everyone knows the best answer for everyone else. Everyone is trying to prove their worth and show that their method of living this life out is truly worthwhile. And with all these ideas, it seems to be confusing people - that to “not follow rules” requires rebellion and breaking of the law, and that being loud and extroverted is akin to “confidence and assertiveness”.

I am finding that the more I read into your material, the more I embrace it, even though the philosophies aren’t what I truly believe in myself. It’s making me become a slave to others’ expectations, and confines me to a strict method of thinking.

I don’t wish to know all there is to know. I don’t wish to tell people what is best for them, nor to profess that I know otherwise. Please disregard all that I have written and said in the past, as I clearly was not thinking correctly.

The more I read, the more rules are created. The more rules, the more limiting the path feels. It’s like wandering a forest and then finding out that everyone has to stick to the hiking trail, inside the barriers.

I want to explore. If people want to follow then that’s up to them.

No one event has led me to cancel my subscription. I just woke up this morning, had a think over morning coffee, and realized that I wanted out.

I want my actions to have no rationale other than “cos I want to”. No more “should”, no more “could” and no more “maybe”.

And “Cos I want to” should be enough explanation for anyone who questions me.

To reiterate, please cancel my subscription to your catalogue. I’ve had enough.

Yours sincerely

Andy

Gizzabeer, Mr Darcy.

2006-07-07T13:43:00.000+09:30

It’s official.

I am old. Or at least, am so far behind the times that the world has gone ahead and changed without me, middle finger aloft in a glorious salute to me and my old fashioned ways.

According to news.com.au, women are behaving in a masculine manner, and are swearing, getting drunk and driving aggressively. It is suggested that women like this get “more respect”.

Yeah. That is so respectable, I’d slap them across their face… such is the style of the time.

Now, I’m all for women being empowered. There is nothing I love in women more than assertion and confidence. It is incredibly sexy. Furthermore, I can share a few drinks with women and still find them attractive.

In fact… isn’t that what’s supposed to happen… drink until they look good? Anyway, I digress.

I am wondering how I go about saying this without coming across as some woman-chaining, cook-my-meals-I-wear-the-pants-by-the-way-can-you-stock-up-a-few-
more-tins-of-tuna-in-my-bomb-shelter-the-commies-are-a-comin raging sexist.

But… I don’t like “Ockerettes”. I find their yelling antics a pathetic attempt at trying to be “the popular one”. I find that their staggering around drunk, informing me that they’re a great person a useless assertion.

“I tell it like it is” they’ll slur into my face, right before saying something insulting, and then slipping their arm around my shoulder to prevent them from nose diving into the floor.

Frequent statements of just how drunk they are do nothing to endear me to them, nor does it inspire me to slap them, which I am still debating as to whether it is the best means to express my respect.

But this suggestion that women are acting more like men to make them “empowered” seems… silly.

Are they suggesting that women cannot be empowered by acting like women? Am I the only person who sees “acting like men” a step back for women’s movement?

I dunno. Maybe my mere male brain cannot understand this issue. Oh, and I'm old.

Monument City

2006-07-05T11:29:00.000+09:30

Apparently I have reached the age in where everyone around me has suddenly become a rampant capitalist, and each of them is looking to make the quick bucks.

Or, at least, the bucks that they believe are quick.

A few people have approached me concerning seminars in where you learn stuff that manipulates the system to better benefit yourself, “and it’s totally, like, legal!”

They prattle on about it as though it is some kind of secret knowledge that only the upper echelons of the Freemasons should know of its existence… but you don’t need to know any handshakes.

But, as far as I can tell, the stuff they tell you about you could figure out for yourself if you read the ATO site and investigated the tax system – therefore negating the need to pay some shyster $900 to attend his seminar.

Then you hear the words “recruit”. Oh yes, if you join up with this mob, you can then recruit other members who then earn money - of which you obtain a share.

Images of towering pyramids marked with Amway signs flash in my head.

Since I am starting up a new home-based business this year, I have been looking around various sources, trying to find out the many things people need to know when establishing a business. I went to a reputable careers website, and clicked on the “How to select a home based business” link, thinking that it might be helpful and provide some good tips.

What I found was some enthused writing about retiring early, and the benefits of setting yourself up so that assets go towards building wealth, rather than paying off debt etc. So far, nothing too bad. It’s the same advice I got after I paid a financial advisor when I sold my house last year.

However, it then proceeded to step into the realm of conjecture, citing books from “prominent businessmen” regarding the next “trillion dollar industry”. Consumers will be taking a proactive choice in their health, and they will be buying vitamins and supplements.

I researched the author of one book, and found links to Amway

I was then sent an email which stated that someone will be in touch with me to see whether I was “suitable” for their system. The word “Recruit” popped in my head.

Smelling a rat, I immediately replied, telling them to not contact me citing reasons of bubonic plague, ebola and being twice declared bankrupt. I have heard nothing since.

What’s more concerning is that I’m seeing more and more of these things crop up. I mean, I’m not an authority on these things (or anything really), and I eagerly watch those who have taken on this “method” of “employment” to see how they fare, but it just seems really, really shonky.

But I guess it was naïve of me to go to a careers website and expect to be given actual tips on starting up a business instead of being linked to pyramid schemes that are wily enough to find loopholes in the law.

I mean, what was I expecting? Information???? Tips????? Anecdotes from successful legitimate businesses??????

Christ. What was I thinking?

Sour Grapes Make a Crap Whine

2006-06-28T14:08:00.000+09:30

Australia lost, people. Get over it. No amount of crying foul will change it.

As the vomit of Australian supporters’ ire spills onto the streets - reminiscent of many hours spent binge-drinking whilst following another bandwagon – after the controversial Italia win a couple mornings ago, I feel compelled to throw my hat into the ring.

So long as no one throws up in it. But I’m not a hat person. So I guess the analogy is redundant.

Soccer (herein referred to as Football) is a fickle game, a harsh mistress, a cruel dominatrix… and sometimes a fluffy lapdog that brings beer.

I have been trying to search for an independent opinion on the game, but everyone seems to be focused on that tackle. Regardless of whether it was a penalty or not, Australia still lost.

But I give Australian football supporters applause for at least being consistent with their sport as with every other aspect of life.

In the face of a little hardship, we don’t look ahead and search for ways to make the most of a bad situation. No, we have a fucking whinge about it.

Look. Even I’m doing it. Having a whinge at the whiners.

The streets are alive with the harmonious chorus of dozens of Waaaambulances.

However, as we are of a multicultural society, I am personally going to make the most of this situation.

Like many of my fellow Australians, I have a heritage that extends beyond our shores. And, like many of my fellow Australians, I am going to support the country of my family’s origin… even if it was my great-great-grandparents who hopped on a crate lid and paddled for this land.

Go England!!! Yay, Poms! Oi haf a flag ‘anging out th’ winda of me motor, t’ shoo me s’port for me country orf orrig’n.

Oh god… I delusional.

Read the fallout here.

Protect me!!! Er... I mean us!!!

2006-06-26T13:51:00.000+09:30

There isn’t a warning label on my office’s toaster which says I shouldn’t stick my tongue in there whilst it’s on! But, I really, really want my toast!!!

There are no warning labels on the knife set in my office that tells me to not poke the sharp things in my eyes. But I NEED to know how sharp they are!

Come to think of it, there’s nothing to stop me from throwing my chair through my 9th storey window and then additionally throwing myself onto the pavement below. Reason I would do this? Just… curious…

What about the chances of me walking along the street and then getting struck on the head by a falling chair and man that had just been lobbed out of a 9th storey window? There are curious people out there. I suggest that everyone in the CBD needs to wear a helmet in the street.

They should erect “helmet zone” signs across town, so that you know you’re in an area that requires a helmet.

Don’t forget “no helmet zone” signs which tell you that you are able to remove your helmet in safety. But there should be a clause on that sign that says that the council is not responsible for any injury possibly sustained while not wearing a helmet in a helmet free zone.

But what if I feel like wearing my helmet on my feet? There’s nothing to tell me WHERE I should wear my helmet. So there should be a “Wear On Head” label for that.

What if I trip and injure another part of my body? Surely a bulky helmet will make my centre of gravity higher (therefore making me more trip-prone)? I suggest protective clothing, from wrists to armpits and ankles to perineum. Or forget that. Maybe a full body suit, complete with cotton wool. While we’re there, lets wrap up everything else in the same stuff. That way we would bounce off everything and not get hurt.

What about possible mental anguish at having to wear these body suits? Fear not, they would all be coloured a nice neutral grey, complete with warning label informing to not remove the body suit under any circumstance.

That way, due to our ultra safe, constant-across-the-board measures and standards, we will finally be safe from ourselves. There will be no need to worry about anything, as nothing will ever threaten us, or in any way require us to change.

Or… we could use our fucking brains.

Patches

2006-06-21T15:19:00.000+09:30

I am becoming a paranoid wannabe writer. With all the things going on right now, it is difficult to focus on one single thing.

As I walk down the street after work, the cold wind knifing my face, story ideas pop into my head… seemingly at random.

But nothing fits together. I’m like a kid with a ten thousand piece puzzle. As more and more pieces fall out, the more the picture looks like a Ken Done drawing.

Nothing seems consistent, either. Story arcs form in my head and yet bear little resemblance to the thousands of words I have already etched out on LCD. The whole thing seems to be coming together haphazardly, and I fear that one day it’ll come out looking like one of South Australia’s roads – a coarse, undulating strip that it terribly patched from years of improper maintenance.

I get ideas down pat, I can write about them for ages, but then I get another idea. I want to start the new one as soon as I can for fear that I’ll eventually lose it, but I don’t want to neglect the pages I’ve toiled over for ages.

I don’t want to miss out either. There are just as any people like myself, who are far more talented and driven than I am… surely it’ll be a matter of time before someone gets out a novel that takes my overall message and crafts it into a paperback tapestry well beyond my wordsmithing abilities.

I need focus, I think.

Or some booze.

I have the fever

2006-06-19T10:08:00.000+09:30

Is it just me, or does regular, vanilla-grade Aussie Rules Football seem pedestrian and ho hum these days?

However, our beloved game of legalized assault and glorified bogan sleazebags doesn’t seem so great when compared with the biggest festival in the world, the Football World Cup.

Now that Australia is on the world’s stage, it is a chance for us to wake up and realize that the game isn’t played by fancy-footed poofs. Admittedly, I never cared much for soccer (football) until recently, however by the same token my interest in Australian Rules Football has been waning since I gave it up in 1997, citing knee injury and the fact that I wasn’t going any further with it.

Soccer is a much more streamlined game than our convoluted sport. In Australian Rules, players are penalized for a matter based on subjectivity and the perspective of the umpire. Did he have his hand in his back? Or was it more in his side? Was the ball hit out of bounds deliberately, or was it unavoidable? Did he have a chance to get rid of the ball before he was tackled?

It’s a frustrating game to watch. And all these rules seem to frustrate supporters and lends an air of aggression to any game I witness… either at the stadium or at the pub.

Soccer, on the other hand, is very definite. It is quite obvious when a foul is committed. If the ball goes out of play, the other team gets the ball. If the ball is in the net, it (more often than not) is a goal, and the dry rooting can commence.

But at least now Australians can actually see what it is like to support a team PROPERLY!

The Poms have their Barmy Army, a ragtag group of boisterous yet high-spririted louts, whose off-the-cuff songs and drum beating are infectious and awe-inspiring. The Brazilians have supporters in their capoeira dancers, drum beaters, singers and theatre performers. The Argentineans have confetti. Lots and lots of confetti.

What do we have? Drunk people who want to fight and the insipid “Aussie, Aussie, Aussie… Oi, Oi, Oi…”

Firstly, I hated that chant back in high school, in where it was pronounced “zigga, zagga, zigga, zagga,… oi, oi, oi.”. Secondly… it means fucking nothing.

Not only do we have the identity crisis that requires us to shout our nationality verbally (instead of being able to tell who we are by looking at us like the Americans, the Brazilians and… well… every-fucking-one else), but we then need to draw attention to ourselves by shouting “Oi” not once or twice… but three times.

I think this chant was invented by an Australian at soccer game where he was trying to get some attention and be taken seriously.

“I’m an Aussie… aussie… Ausss-sssie… hey, pay attention to me… oi!... Oi! Hey you! Oi!”

However, I was heartened to initially hear bugger all of this chant at the Australia-Japan match, but I did hear it emanate part way through the second half.

My little heart sank. I have never experienced a high and then have it taken away so quick, excepting the time I saw a girl checking me out only to have her friend come up to her and say, “You know, your problem is that you choose the good-looking, but stupid ones…”. In one sentence she both brought my esteem up and then shot it down…

Again, I was hopeful with this morning’s Brazil-Australia game. News reported that Australians were well behaved and actually took the gentle ribbing from the Brazilian fans with good humour. I was hoping that Australians would stop taking themselves so seriously and realize the true meaning of good-sportmanship (we are an embittered lot).

And then Sam Newman gets spat on... by Australian fans.

Sure, it couldn’t have happened to a better ignoramus, but honestly… how pathetic is that?

But Football seems to be taking off here. People are genuinely getting into the game. We are realizing that these old excuses of “Oh they don’t score any goals” and “Oh it’s boring” are stupid and not actually relevant to the appeal of the game. I don’t think we actually “got it” until we actually had a team we cared about.

Soccer is about the drama. The tension. The build up… the edge-of-the-seat, nail-chomping knowledge that the game can change at any moment… and then the huge rush of euphoria when a goal is scored… or the incredible low in the face of defeat. We never knew this… Admittedly, I never knew this, until I actually, genuinely cared about the result.

Johnny Warren was right. He told us so.

(I do apologise for calling Football “Soccer”… I’m only trying to differentiate it from Australian Rules “football”, which actually and ironically involves a lot of fists… but let’s not get me started on calling Rugby “football”, as it’s a sport in where the feet are mostly used for stomping on other players’ heads – and you can only stomp on their heads, because none of those players have necks.)

The Other Beautiful Game

2006-06-16T13:47:00.000+09:30

Whilst this may sound like I’m full of my own ego, I must say that I’m an inspirational person. I change people. I make them take courses of action that would normally scare them. I make them take huge leaps.

For instance:

My ex-girlfriend who found out that I was building a house with my then-wife: She insisted that she buy her own house by herself to prove to me that she was a better person than I.

The members of the club I am in: they have looked upon my trip to Japan with disdain, as they believe that someone who hasn’t trained as long as them shouldn’t go to Japan before them. So now, they’re going to Japan.

Boyfriends of my former sister-in-laws: They insisted that my getting a higher paid job than them was a result of effective schmoozing. Last time I checked, they were inspired and had applied for higher paying jobs.

My fellow classmates who discovered that I had been selected to try out for a state squad in a particular sport: They were inspired to take up the said sport so that they could get a higher state ranking than I.

Yes. I am an inspiration.

But note that these people weren’t inspired by my actions, per se. They were inspired by the fact that, as a result of my achieving something, that they had to do something that would make them better than me.

So, I’m not exactly an inspiration because people want to be like me. I’m an inspiration because people simply must be better than me.

They cannot simply watch me get something on my own… they have to surpass my effort. Because they’re better than me. It’s not that they’re aspiring to be better people… it’s spite: to show me just how mediocre and middle-of-the-road I truly am.

These kinds of people have been in my life for a very long time. Yes, they are nice to my face, and they thoroughly enjoy regaling me with their knowledge of such-n-such. However, it is once I begin getting proactive and doing things on my own that these people change.

Their attitude towards me changes. I hear them bitching behind my back. I hear them speaking of untold “rules” which should have prevented me from doing what I have done…

“You have to work for three years before getting that position”

“You must have trained for four years before studying in Japan”

“You have to be seven foot tall to try out for the state squad”

“You need to study to have articles published”

It is these unspoken rules that serve to remind me that life isn’t about doing what you want, however you want. It’s a game, played against other competitors, with an indeterminate finish and a tragic halftime show (normally involving convertibles and blonde girlfriends).

Those who do not follow the rules should be benched, and made an example of, emasculated, surpassed and then removed altogether.

The beautiful irony is… those who I’m inspiring… they don’t even realise I’m doing it. They probably wouldn’t believe it, either.

Sojourn Part Deux

2006-06-14T09:42:00.000+09:30

I am not back in this country for three months and I am already planning the next trip away.

Nope, not heading back to Japan just yet. That’s a bit later.

Andy is goin’ on Safari.

Yep, I am off to Africa to gallivant around with lions and tigers and murderous creatures (oh my!).

Of course, it is pending on whether there is a spot free for me… but I’m ready to go.

So yeah, September 2007 is the date for when I go bush.

Stories I have heard so far:

Building a campfire at night time and watching the elephants gather around you to have a look.

A buffalo running through the campsite, tailed closely by a couple lions.

One man sleeping soundly in his (big) tent, only to be rudely awakened by the giant leopard that had been sleeping in the tree above him… by falling on his tent.

Naturally, I don’t know if people are having a lend of me when they’re telling me these stories… but it sounds exciting nonetheless.

There will be other activities involved, like tracking, which will come in handy when I return home to do my stalk… oh… wait… I’ve said too much.

There will be elephant dung tea!!!!! Um… Yay!

So, basically I will be spending an obscene amount of money to go to a country far away, to hang about with large animals with sharp protrusions that could kill me without batting an eyelid and sit around drinking elephant shit.

All this fun, and more… just to learn to be a better stalker.

Man, it is going to be so much fun.

5 songs

2006-06-09T15:02:00.000+09:30

Okay Steph. I’ll do your meme. :)

But, how do I go about this? Do I live up to my music snobbery and find some relatively obscure music references to simply outline how fucking al-ter-nah-teev I am? Also, do I apply some kind of hoity-toity sounding interpretation to make it fit me?

1. In Love – Ben Folds feat. William Shatner
2. Any Day Now – Elbow
3. Purple Haze – Kronos Quartet version
4. Sweet Charity – Mr Bungle
5. Fear of Pop – Ben Folds

Descriptions
1. Not a love song, but rather a dialogue of Shatner’s mind as he spins the tale of his latest conquest.... a cynical inner dialogue, mocking the previous conversations and events with his last woman.
2. A cold, haunting track with tones of longing. Looking to the future and hoping it would hurry the fuck up.
3. A disturbing interpretation. Like me. Disturbing.
4. A song constantly changing pace. Lacing interludes of calm with spats of aggressive vocal work.
5. I am afraid… of pop. So it’s apt. Really.

Or do I take well known song titles and apply them to me?

1. Everything About You – Ugly Kid Joe
2. One – U2 (or Metallica, depending on what floats your boat)
3. Betterman – Pearl Jam (Or John Butler Trio… depending again on floatability)
4. Midlife Crisis – Faith No More
5. Bring Me To Life – Evanescence

Descriptions:
1. Lyrics: I hate everything about you… writes itself, really
2. I am one. One person. One world. One me.
3. I strive to be one… a better man…
4. Well, there was a time when I did wonder about my mortality. Funnily enough, it was during a time when I was married. Pity I don’t have a convertible out of my crisis though.
5. A song about someone bringing someone to life... metaphorically… Well… I’m still waiting.

Or maybe I just go with songs that generally speak to me…

1. Nightswimming – REM
2. Throw Your Arms Around Me – Doug Anthony All Stars version
3. Her Small Mouth – Big Heavy Stuff
4. Stockholm Syndrome – Muse
5. Feeling Good – Nina Simone… or Muse again…

I’m not providing descriptions for these. If you’ve heard the songs, and if you know me in any way, you’ll understand.

Mysicians

2006-06-07T12:23:00.000+09:30

I am a self-confessed music snob. It has to be said.

I am also of the worst ilk; the one that is self-righteous, self-promoting and automatically hates the stuff that is popular.

The words spill out my mouth like water gushing through open floodgates, “Oh, it must be crap, because EVERYONE likes it.”

However, I am nothing compared to this other form of musical appreciator, hereby referred to as the mysic – pr. My-sick.

They are the kind of people who will take any song, and then apply it to themselves, somehow believing that the musician is “singing about them”.

And the truth be told, the song has nothing to do with them, or their situation. However, record shows that their interpretation might be about their future...

Some years ago, my (then) sister-in-law forced me to sit through the single by Linkin Park: Numb. She claimed the song was about an abusive relationship between a man and woman, in where the partner excessively and aggressively controls the other.

But… as far as I could gather, it was an insipid and shallow song about a child not wanting to be forced by their parents into a life they didn’t want.

However, she applied it to her life… drew her own conclusions… but, as testament to her idiocy, she has now vomited out the cursed-child of her abusive boyfriend, and is probably living in eternal servitude.

Another example of this is the wedding couple who insist on having their bridal waltz to Alex Lloyd’s Amazing. This won’t mean much to overseas readers, but the lyrics go along the lines of:

“You were amazing

“We did amazing things…”

and so forth.

However, it doesn’t take a literary genius to realize that this song is in fact about breaking up. Having the bridal waltz to such a song could either be beautifully ironic, or disturbingly ominous.

But, you see… anyone can do this. Like me, for instance.

But I will not limit myself to pop songs, one hit wonders and the other pieces of noise that grace my ears whenever I walk past Sanity music. My life revolves around that classic, unofficial national anthem of Australia, Waltzing Matilda.

And I quote the chorus:

Andy sang as he watched

Andy waited til his billy boiled

“Who’ll come a Waltzing Matilda with me?”

I don’t own a billy, and I don’t know Matilda, but I am assuming that when Banjo was writing about me, he was being VERY symbolic.

Well, this is my interpretation of these lyrics. Okay… the lyrics aren’t 100% correct, either. But hey, isn’t music always about how the song speaks to you anyway?

PS, I never claimed to not be a hypocrite.

The Grim Maw

2006-06-02T21:39:00.000+09:30

Oh dear.

Oh… fucking… dear.

I think I am about to vomit.

Channel 9… seemingly not so content to wring the last drop of dignity from Heckle and Jeckle (AKA Those Beaconsfield Miners) after plonking down two mill for a chat about Rocks… seem to think that the personal anguish of one of their own “journalists” is something worth hoisting on us.

Tracy Grimshaw… I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but no one fucking cares about your “anguish” at seeing a pair of starving miners wandering out of an elevator, probably looking for the straightest – and therefore shortest – beeline to the can.

Speaking to The Women’s Weekly, Tracy will regale us with how the Beaconsfield Affair was “shattering and life-changing”

What I want to know: is she talking about the heart-wrenching tale of two men surviving a cave in?

Or is she referring to that horrible botch-job of a face pull she had done by Bob’s Backyard Plastic Surgeons?

I mean, come on Tracy. No one cares how the Beaconsfield Brouhaha fucked you up in the head, so that topic is redundant. In fact, no one cared how you looked either, so you having plastic surgery was redundant too.

I am more concerned about those people watching Channel 9 who’re horrified by the way your cheeks don’t move when you talk, and you look like the stunt double for Mrs Doubtfire.

That’s causing me anguish.

The Blogonomy

2006-05-30T00:22:00.000+09:30

I have been a very bad blogsumer, I admit. People come to my little wacko corner of the Internet, tolerate my random musings, and yet… I still don’t comment on their blog.

So I feel I am not contributing to the overall blogonomy and the forces that drive it. You know… you comment here, and you get a comment back.

I don’t mean to be rude, and I surely don’t wish to appear as a bloglitist (a derivative of elitist), however sometimes I am overawed by other people’s blogs, their subjects of choice and how inane mine seems in comparison.

Yes, it is inane to compare yourselves to others, and people shouldn’t do it… but hey… read the freakin’ heading of this blog. This place is inane. You should be used to it by now.

So, without further ado, I am going to do a communal comment for everyone in the right column, as well as some new names that have cropped up recently. Bear with this… I can’t be stuffed doing the HTML links because I’m lazy, and it’s late-ish right now. Also, my comments may not pertain to your most recent post…

Chris from Where’s The Gravy: Hope you’re still having fun gallivanting around the UK, you lucky bastard. Pub Epiphanies has now changed hands, although I must admit to not having gone there much after you and Karen left. Remember to not offend the locals, and… as always… Go Fuck Yourself (in-joke).

Honeysmack from Smack Dab in the Middle (formerly Idle Thoughts and I haven’t been screwed updating the links): Don’t become jaded about writing. Sometimes we have time for it… sometimes we don’t. It’s a great outlet for times when we’re simply pissed off. Remind me to wave when I see you in the street.

Chica from Moi World: Shopping is what drives the economy, not to be confused with the blogonomy. Shopping involves cash, which is a valuable commodity… my comments, incidentally, are worth squat.

CB from The Chicken or the Egg: Oh yeah… I still comment on your blog every now and then. Either way, after all these months it’s good to see you’re still pervin’ on.

Petstarr from Blandcanyon: Your apparent dislike of Kim Cattrall ranks highly in my book. I like the new layout, however for someone who watches too much TV there is a notable lack of any kind of Big Brother hearting and/or hating. Unless I’ve missed it…

Andy from The Hanging Stranger: You don’t comment here… and you don’t link back here. You’re still a funny fucker.

X from October 4th: Ever since you guys won the ashes, I haven't been bothered going to some poms blog. Nah, just kidding. I don’t give a shit about cricket (why would I when we lost?), and I have to add that your style of writing is impressive.

Carly and her small room: Hope everything is okay. Although I confess to not being a huge fan of Augie March… and it’s somewhat funny that I keep seeing the bands name pop up… and Portishead for some other random reason… but a girl I was training with the other day had an Augie shirt. She must’ve gone to the gig.

123 I Love You: I look forward to reading about your killing spree one day soon.

Raridayrar: Another one who doesn’t comment here, but is still insanely funny… er… Unless your blog is about how the people around you are so absurd that you are actually sinking into a psychological oblivion, then I don’t find you funny and I sympathise greatly with your plight.

Lizzie from GSH: Don’t go hurting yourself too much more. That sounds terrible. Er… don’t injure yourself. Oh.. that sounds worse.

Kenneth from Definitely Maybe: Dire Straits is not great music to listen to when you’re in solitude. Oh wait… It’s not great… period. IM not so great O.

Cadiz: I am really slack for not commenting on your blog. When dealing with any kind of public department (ie Government) simply write a letter to your congress-person. It gets results every time… well, it does in our lovely little democratic hovel we call Australia.

4S: You’ve moved on. I hope life is well :)

The Soda Fountain: I’ve never commented your blog, and you’ve never commented on mine. Your link in the side is a source of bemusement for me, however I leave it there as a reminder of the follies of willy-nilly linking. Your blog is at home there and to not have it there would make it look empty.

Sherri: Another one I have been slack with. My apologies.

Krystle: I know you’ve changed your blog name… but I will leave the original name there cos I think it quirky and amusing. Yes, that’s right it really has nothing to do with my being slack. Really.

Jen: You’ve unlinked me. A sign of my failing to upkeep the blogonomy :)

DDC and Andy from Neutralising the pH level: On a scale between one and random, your blog is a fridge.

Mel: Another internode user, eh? I’d try having LAN with you guys, but I’d probably get pwned.

Steph: I too have someone to hug when I feel down. Mr Johnnie Walker has been a help lately, but just the other day I decided to go without for a while. Overall, I’d have to say that you’re a woman after my own dementia. :) And I mean that in the nicest possible way.

Auburn: I’ve been slack here as well. I hear my shares in the blogonomy are dropping due to poor comment projections.

The Rev: Stop stealing my clients. I know where you live… well… it’s Adelaide. I’m bound to know someone who does…

Jennifer: Your writing leaves me astounded sometimes. That is all. Oh, and say Hi to Anthony for me.

UTR (Andy) from 400 Days: You lucky bastard for having lived in Japan. I am forever envious… until I remember that you’ve had to eat their damn Japanese pizzas. Sorry for the reminder of how Australia is the “Best” place on Earth, but I guess reality bites hard. Sorry to be the harbinger of frustration.

Zzymurgy: Your having commented here surprises me, especially since your blog reeks of the awesomeness to which that Chuck Norris can only aspire.

Karen Little: Thanks for commenting here. I see from your blog that you’ve been subject to the awful phenomena that is the meme – the biggest comment killer of them all… Well… they are around these parts of teh intarweb.

Jackt: My firefox started playing up trying to access Sucky Blog… but from what I’ve read (from work), it is hilarious. I’m afraid the best contribution I can make right now is “Yes. Yes indeed. That does suck”

Geoff: I too am on the road to recovery after suffering many footy injuries and the like. It feels good to be able to sit down cross legged again…

SO there you have it. Sorry if I missed anyone. Feel free to remind me in the comments section below. Keep the blogonomy running.

We Can Be Heroes...

2006-05-22T15:46:00.000+09:30

I was channel bounding last night, not taking anything in, and basically wondering why I didn’t pop on my Collectors DVD of Daria episodes.

But I kept swinging past the current media darlings otherwise known as “The Two Blokes Who Were Trapped In A Fallen Mine”, and their exclusive interview on Channel Nine.

Or… as far as I could see, it was the story of “The Two Blokes Who Got Paid Two Million Bucks To Bang On (Exclusively) About Rocks For A Shitload Of Time”.

“I was buried up to my chest in Rock”

“When I pulled Rocks out, more Rocks would fall in”

“I wanted to go see a wrestling match with The Rock…”

“The Foo Fighters make good Rock music”

Okay, so I made the last two up. But whenever I bounded past the Nine station, the word “Rock” would be mentioned at least twice for the five seconds I loitered there.

Not to discount their ability to endure, and the tenacity required to survive such an ordeal, but I simply must object to the term “heroes” which the media just loves to foist upon anyone who has gotten through something.

So, what of the unsung heroes of today’s society? I think I’ll follow the current media’s trend of finding everyday heroes.*

For instance, I spoke with John Blackwell of Underdale, Adelaide. John was to travel to Sydney to pursue his dream of being a lead folk dancer in a major musical, but instead drove right into his worst nightmare.
“Oh the traffic was hell over there, I tell you…” he said, with a distant look in his eyes, “There were cars everywhere, no one used their turn signal, and the speed limit was basically redundant.”
John had to cross through Sydney in order to get to his audition, but was unwittingly swept into the chaos of a hellish peak hour. However, due to his dogged nature, and his undying desire to see his loved ones again, he pulled through it all and returned home to Adelaide. “Oh, I just didn’t want to die. I told God that I simply wasn’t ready yet.”
Sure, he didn’t get the part, but in the eyes of us at the Inane Asylum (and based upon the precedent that the media has set), John is a Hero. And that is enough.

Then there was the tale of Asuma Aikumasu. He was on a dream life journey to Australia to find himself, become aware of cultural poles, and to try beers of different continents. However, what was to be a trip of a lifetime soon descended into the abyss. Speaking through a translator, he weakly told me, “All I did was touch the Fosters drink”
Even though Australia is renown for beers of great taste, Asuma didn’t know that there are some evil brews circulating some backwater pubs.
“I thought all beers were equal, but upon being hit with illness as a result of drinking Fosters, I realize now that is not the case.”
Asuma bravely fought on against the poison, and even during the lowest point of the illness he thought only of his girlfriend back home in Okinawa, “I had to pull through for her. I want to marry her one day, and I think this experience has taught me that life is too short”
And for surviving such an ordeal, Asuma too is a Hero.

Or Edith Smithson of Richmond, Melbourne. She has just pulled through a harrowing ordeal at her local post office, in where a simple transaction turned into the Wait From Hell.
“I didn’t think I’d ever get out of there.” She said.
“The wait just kept going and going. People were all paying with plastic – where have the days of cash gone? My eye kept flicking past the DIY Last Will and Testament pack. I seriously thought about grabbing one and penciling down my dying wishes, post haste”
During her terminal boredom, she turned her thoughts skyward. “I’ve never been a religious person” she said, “but I think the fact that I survived such an awful ordeal is a sign that someone was looking out for me that day”
Things looked dire when she saw the “Transaction Denied” words on the EFTPOS machine. But she pulled through by actually typing in her PIN correctly. And although the worst had been put behind her, she still had to walk back past the other disgruntled people in the queue who witnessed her mistake on the EFTPOS.
“They were all so condescending. Sure, they didn’t say or do anything, but I felt it in their eyes. They hated me. But The Lord guided me out the front door.”
She now has a firm hold on life, and wants people to know that time is precious, “Grab life by the horns. My ordeal has taught me that too much time is spent waiting. Get out there, and fill your life with joy.”
And Edith is, for surviving, a Hero.

Personally, I survived waiting in the line up at the Bean Bar, listening to the inane conversations of the other patrons. I got through it without slitting my wrists with the popsticks normally used for stirring coffee. I too, am a Hero.

Heroes are everywhere, people! You all walk among greatness!

*The following people and their heroic displays may not exist and may not have happened... respectively.

Lay Back With Us.

2006-05-17T11:36:00.000+09:30

So, where the bloody hell are you?

Come to Australia and experience our laid back attitude.

There is never a rush to do anything at all, unless you’re stuck behind a little Suzuki Swift… then hell, you’ve gotta be where you want to go NOW!

We will happily stop our cars to let you cross the street, unless you are crossing when the little red man light is flashing. In that case we are more than entitled to hurl abuse at you, honk our horn and shout obscenities. Of course, if you’re the pedestrian, you can do likewise, but I’d hate to see what horn you’re honking.

We delight at laying in our backyard and taking it easy, unless the neighbour’s dog/tree/kids/general aura is impeding our enjoyment of laying back. We will then either torment the dog, chop down the tree, terrorise their children and sully their aura… and then go to a Current Affairs show to show the entire country how shithouse they are.

We never let fiscal worries ever stress us out, unless the “bloody reserve bank change interest rates by a quarter of a percent which is going to send my bleedin’ kids into bleedin’ poverty - you fat cats in your smarmy business suits have all the fuckin’ luck”… because our money is never our own responsibility.

We don’t get carried away with our spending. Because if for any reason that we get a $4,000 mobile phone bill, we can always kick up a stink and run to a Current Affairs show to bail us out… because “It’s not our fault the kid ran up a $4,000 bill of downloads… it’s the telecommunications company’s fault for not telling us what we’re doing”. We don’t get fancy mobile phones to keep up with the Jones’ here in Australia. No, we buy our kids spanking new 3G mobile phones to “keep in touch with them just in case of an emergency”… instead of a pre-paid phone.

We’re so laid back, that if something ever goes to pooptown, it’s the Government’s fault. High bank fees? Government did it. Dog got run over? Government too. Meteorite to collide with earth? You can bet the Government had a hand in that too.

However, $3000 grants from the Government for having a baby are a result of the hard workin’, yet totally laid back Aussie.

Oh yes, it surely is paradise in Australia. Where else can you be accosted by laid back louts in a pub because a waitress gave you the eye? Where else can you politely question a laid back person’s opinion on foreign policy, and have them threaten to punch you in the face?

In fact, we’re so fuckin’ laid back here that you could easily mistake us for a bunch of up-tight, namby-pamby, whining, crying, jingoistic, racist, easily-threatened, paranoid bigots. But then you’d remember that we’re Australian… so we’re actually “laid back”.

Australia. Where the bloody hell are you?

I think the more pertinent question to Australia is, where the bloody hell have you gone?

Sunnydaleville - I'll be back.

2006-05-13T10:04:00.000+09:30

I’m not particularly au fait with the Superman franchise, so I’m probably not the best person to be commenting on this topic.

But, after skimming over channel 10 these last few weeks has pondered this question.

What the fuck is up with Smallville?

At first I thought it an interesting premise. You know, Clark Kent growing up with his powers and how it impacts upon his relationships, friendships, family and so forth. You know.. it was quaint.

But something didn’t sit well with me. For instance, he was friends with his eventual nemesis Lex Luthor.

So, if they were friends, or have at least known each other for a fair while, why doesn’t Lex Luthor recognise Superman?

And now they’ve introduced into the series Clark’s love interest, Buffy. I mean, Lois Lane. It seems that as a kid, Lois wasn’t the screeching mistress who was as useful as a wet paper bag.

No, in fact she kicks arse, flips around and stabs vampires with wooden stakes. Oh wait. That’s Buffy again.

I’m sure if Smallville Lois got a glimpse of the woman she’ll be growing up into (movie Lois), I’m sure she would deepthroat a bottle of aspirin along with a bottle of absinthe.

Oh but wait, not only does Clark do battle with Lex and his evil aspirations, Clark also takes on the evil T1000 from Terminator 2. You know, the liquid metal thing. Ooh… cos Arnie just isn’t tough enough?

Right after vanquishing the insidious terminator (I presume, because the series is still running), he must UNLOCK THE FUCKING DA VINCI CODE!!! Or at least something that rips off the Da Vinci code… ooh… there’s a painting with a CODE in it!!! Get onto it Clark!!!!

Whatever next? Clark has to battle vampires in a small country town that might actually be the front portal into oblivion? He’d better take Buf… Lois with him then…

Five bucks says that the final episode of Smallville has a sudden Amnesia part written in…

(If I actually watched Smallville, I might actually understand some of this shit… but it looks like shit… so I won’t watch it… hey, if people who don’t watch Big Brother can piss and moan about it, I can therefore piss and moan about Smallville)

Tips on getting around in Japan

2006-05-09T11:02:00.000+09:30

Okay, I’ve had a few google hits regarding this, and I have had a couple questions over email.

So, I guess I will address this in a post so that I may link people.

Tips for Japan (from someone who has been only once, didn’t stay for long… but still does not want you to walk away from The Inane Asylum empty handed):

Use the word “Sumimasen”. Trust me. You’ll use it a lot. It means “Sorry” or “Excuse me”. It will come in handy for when you offend someone… or when you have to agonisingly squeeze past them on a train. Both of these things will happen. Be prepared.

If you are using the trains (and you will… constantly… about 95% of your time will be on a train. Get used to this), go to www.hyperdia.com as it offers you the various methods of getting from point A to point Zatoicihi. However, for the intrepid inner Tokyo adventurer, simply find the quickest way to the Yamanote line as that thing runs a circle around most of the city, and will take you to the major touristy type spots… except maybe Asakusa.

The correct pronunciation of Asakusa is not “Ass-ah-koo-za” like many idiotic Australian tourists think. It is pronounced “Ah-zuck-sa”.

If you think you’ve seen everything, go to Harajuku. The people there will freak you out. God knows what the place was like before Gwen Stefani made the place her bitch.

When paying for stuff, always use their little dish next to the till to hand over your yen. If you hand over a bill worth 10,000 yen, and the cashier says something you don’t understand, they are simply asking for more correct change. This statement is correct in 99% of cases. In the chance you experience the 1%, they are either thanking you for your business, or apologizing profusely… because they’re polite like that.

When going to see Mt Fuji, make sure you obtain a Hakone Free Pass at Odawara station. This will save you billions of yen, especially if you’re staying there for a couple days.

If you don’t smoke, be sure to get a non-smoking seat in the Shinkansen. Japanese smokers belch smoke like coal power plants. However, having said that, simply breathing the Tokyo “air” makes you wake up with the feeling like you’ve had a pack of smokes filtered through your organs.

Do not go to Japan in March. The scenery is an ashen colour, which only contributes to the feeling of cold. Wait until April for the cherry blossoms to come out. I hear the explosion of pink can kill small animals.

If you’re asked about “how many (something) you would like”, use your fingers to signal the amount. You cannot state the numbers you’ve no doubt memorized in your head, as they’ve changed the rules. For instance, when asked how many sugars you want in your coffee, you cannot say “ni” – the number of two. It is “futatsu”. However, the Tully’s coffee shop in the NS building in Shinjuku has a polite waitress who will patiently correct you, giggle momentarily and then no doubt slander you when you’ve left the place.

Speaking of Tully’s, if you walk past one in Ginza at the right time, you can score a free coffee. A girl with a tray full of coffees steps onto the sidewalk and offers you one. It is much needed sustenance for the weary traveler who belongs in Ginza as much as a puma belongs among a group of pigeons.

There you go… words of wisdom from someone who hasn’t really experienced much of Japan at all. If you have any queries at all, ask someone who has taught English over there. If you don’t know someone who has, then chances are you know someone who knows someone who has.

Coming back to Earth

2006-05-08T16:12:00.000+09:30

I think I’ve exhausted everything I could possibly regale you about a mere couple weeks in Japan.

Aside from the little experience of accidentally hopping onto a women’s only train carriage (they had a groping problem over there), speaking vocally with my friend about my affinity for Japanese women, safe in the knowledge that noone understood me… before realising that the smiling woman standing next to my friend actually DID understand what I was saying.

She politely pointed out the giant pink sign that indicated that we were on a women’s only carriage, and then scurried away.

Anyway, I have assimilated back into Australia, and I have gotten over there whole “Australia sucks because it’s not Japan” syndrome that probably afflicts first time overseas adventurers.

Well… I’ve been to New Zealand twice… but that’s not really overseas.

But I am back. On Sunday I sat down and watched with disgust at the media’s constant info-whoring over the miner’s trapped in Beaconsfield.

Then Mr Carleton from 60 minutes asked his question about why miners were still being sent to dangerous areas… was it because of the mine’s greed? Blahdy blah, blah.

I thought to myself, “Oh for fuck’s sake… this press conference isn’t the time or place or to be shit stirring, you sensationalist arsehole… this conference was to brief everyone on the process and progress, not a chance for you to fling faeces and do a grandstanding of Michael Moore proportions… and he’s a big guy”

Ah… normality. I had resumed my normal, media-hating tirade.

Then the guy dropped dead. Heart attack.

He had asked the question, turned around, walked a couple metres and dropped dead.

As much as I hate 60 minutes, I'd still love to eventually bow out like how Richard Carleton did…

He bought the big one… doing what he loved.

The lesson

2006-05-01T16:43:00.000+09:30

Did you ever stop to think that telling people that Japan is “so different” is actually quite stupid? “Hey, I went to another country! What was it like? Oh, TV had shown me that Japan had different looking people, different climates, different flora, different fauna, different food, different architecture, different customs, different language, different culture… and you know what? …it was really, really… different!”

I should really stop describing Japan like that.

Some have asked me if it has inspired me somewhat, and I have to say that it has.

But not solely in the whole “kick me up the arse and write my book” thing - although there has been plenty of that.

But I’ve taken a look at my life and realized the whole humdrum of it all and how I factor into this little slot of time I call life.

And again I feel so stupid for not realising this before, but there is more to life than gas-brake-honk-pay-bill-answer-phone-scrimp-savings-correct-spellchecker-for-putting-z-in-realizing-argh-there-it-goes-again-yell-at-idiots-on-phone-punch-wall-lay-on-desk-sobbing-give-up-on-humanity-pick-up-phone-again-wonder-why-I-did-that-because-I-had-just-given-up-on-humanity-and-why-oh-why-didn’t-I-learn-smack-forehead-catch-bus-go-home-sleep-have-nightmares-of-idiots-wake-up-screaming… gas-brake-honk.

I guess if I was to take anything away from the trip, it’s that there are opportunities everywhere to break out into. This idea of holing myself up in a building in order to maintain a lifestyle is self defeating.

Why can’t I have my lifestyle maintain my lifestyle?

I am on the verge of giving up my day job… after I get my long service leave, natch.

I am venturing out into the world of the unknown, cliché and all. This nine-to-five desk job is a one-way route to Noone-ville, Humdrumton, and MeLikeV8carsAh’yuck City.

I’m tired of this.

I should be working with what’s out there… not working to see what’s out there.

How to not impress Japanese schoolgirls.

2006-04-21T11:28:00.000+09:30

I have spoken briefly about the gaffes that Japanese make when trying to decipher the plethora of clicks and whistles we call the English language, but now it is time to change tack.

Yes, that’s right. I made quite a couple social faux pas… faux pi… er… many fuck ups whilst “trabberring” (traveling) around Japan.

And it extended beyond the “Not handing stuff over with two hands” or “giving money directly to the cashier instead of in their little tray next to the till” thing. Although, there was plenty of that.

I was walking down the main street of Noda, and I was stopped briefly by a group of school girls, all chorusing “Hello! How are you?!”

Naturally, I stopped, smiled and politely replied in English… as they were obviously keen to try out theirs.

Any questions they didn’t understand the reply to, I would do my best to tell them in Japanese.

I heard one remark something along the lines of a surprised “Oh… he speaks Japanese!”

I turned to her, smiled and used the hand gesture of my pointer finger being close to my thumb to indicate that I knew “a little” Japanese.

She looked at me confusedly. She even leant a little backwards, and she mimicked my hand gesture as though it meant something. She stammered a couple lines about needing to leave, and we all exchanged goodbyes and walked off.

I thought the last exchange rather curious, but didn’t think about it too much.

It wasn’t until I returned to my apartment that I remembered reading that using the hand signal of finger to thumb in a similar way to an “a-okay” sign is actually a Japanese method of asking “How much?”

So… I think I had just asked a fifteen year old (approx) school girl “HOW FUCKING MUCH!!?!?!!?!!!?!!!!!”

How. Fucking. Much…?

I think I would’ve caused less offense if I had asked her if all prostitutes wear school uniforms.

Recalling that story always makes me die a little inside.

A diversion

2006-04-18T10:57:00.000+09:30

Some things I will probably ask for many seconds to come:

Like… why did she push so hard to save for and buy a house, only to then discover that paying off a mortgage isn’t the life she wanted?

Why was she so keen for marriage, only to assert that she was always a free spirit and didn’t want to be trapped… only to then bunker down with a new man…?

Why is it that she changed… but only in a way that made her more abusive, even when I telling her what she was doing?

Why someone is able to place blame totally on me for the failure, despite the fact that it was her who was doing the destroying.

Why is it that someone can do what she did, and still land $40,000 (half each of what was left after the house was sold) despite not doing anything that contributed to the house’s value?

Why is it that someone can commit such atrocities to my psyche… yet somehow escape reprimand, as I know that to do so would be empty, soulless and ultimately hopeless?

Why is it that someone can tear you apart for your own personal failings, yet to return the scorn would only be met with indifference?

Why is it that my fleeting memories of Japan readily recall the murderous black swirl of crows that cawed deafeningly at my back?

Why is it that I must face justice and undergo change, when she continues on blissfully – content to blame everyone else but herself?

Today, I am officially a man free of marriage. Free of that woman.

Pity I can’t tell her to get fucked.

Excuse me!!!!!

2006-04-13T15:05:00.000+09:30

What trip to Japan would be complete without takin’ the piss out of their kooky Engrish translations:

I haven’t had a cigarette since August last year, however… this “smorking” thing sounds incredibly fun. Maybe I should take that up instead. I couldn’t do it on this floor though. I had to go outside to smork.

It goes without saying that if you don’t bring pets around, it’s fairly likely that there’ll be no poop. However, this sign seemingly suggests that it would be perfectly okay for me to “poop” here (as it is affectionately referred to here). Also… is it really a sign to say that you shouldn’t bring pets to this area… or is it simply a sign that politely informs you of a nice fact…?

Chalk it up to one of the things you learned today: “Hey… if there are no pets around… there’s no poop! Pass it on!”

(Note: I realise that this isn't really a bad translation or anything... I just found that sign amusing... it's my new wallpaper... really)

This one is a little confusing, and it relates to connecting my laptop to the hotel's internet. The blue part reads "There is a case that it can't be connected, either,by the hard environment which is usually being used. It isn't easily responsible even if a wrong point occurs in the computer virus and so on" (grammar painstakingly reproduced for that authentic feel). So... people use this hard environment? In a country of tens of millions of people, I'd say that most things in general are "usually being used". This was in my hotel room, and it made my head hurt.

Anyway… further impressions…

The people function almost robotically. Once they step onto the trains, they bury their face into either:

A mobile phone

A Nintendo DS

A Sony PSP

A paper that would require a PhD and two decades of servitude to understand.

However, the trains play this cute little tune before they depart some stations. It struck me as ironic that the trains displayed more playful personality than the people being digested in its cast iron stomach.

Even the garbage trucks play a cute little announcement and tune as they cruise through the streets.

I watched a fire truck slowly meander though the streets of Noda, playing a cute little ditty. I remarked to my room mates that “In Australia, the trucks wail in a manner that’s like ‘Get Outta My Fuckin’ WAAAYY, AAARRRSEHOOOLE!’, whereas the fire trucks in Japan are like a quiet ‘Sumimasen!* Sumimasen!’”

Geez. Even their fire trucks are more polite than the people back here in Australia.

*Excuse me/sorry

PS When you do a post that pokes fun at other peoples' grammar... you need to be really, really, really, really, really careful about your own... as my ten edits of this post enforces...

Quick photos

2006-04-06T13:17:00.000+09:30

I gotta do this quickly. I'm at work.

Let's get the cliche out the way. Here's Fuji-san. What you don't see is a group of teenagers behind me, who eventually plucked up the courage to ask if they could have a photo with me... I obliged.

This was Chateau a la Andy for the first week. It's the building thats a bit taller than everything else. It was quaint.

This is a view of Noda, from the train lines. From looks, you'd think that Japan was made up of impoverished people. I guess that's for the people to define...

This was my house of study. It was a good way to spend the first week.

And the inside...

Some of the gardens were immaculate...

Me at Ayase station, waiting for a train after a hard night's... training...

Akasaka at night. This is the city I stayed in for the second week.

Palace Gardens in Tokyo

A sign that instructs to not smoke in the building. Next to it: A cigarette vending machine...

Harajuku girls... apparently they're "in character", so they're not doing the V symbol. I think they didn't liked being stopped in the street by a weird westerner with a crazy accent.

Well, there's tonnes more... but maybe when I get time...

An Oddity... (with no photos yet).

2006-03-29T11:28:00.000+10:30

The photos are coming, honest! I’ve been showing them to all and sundry, though, and I still haven’t had the chance to show my folks yet.

Although I do have some Engrish ones on my PC here…

My flight to Japan was taken via Kuala Lumpur, so it involved a fair layover in the airport… a layover that was long enough to be arduous and tedious, yet not long enough to allow me a visitor pass to even garner a gander at a view of KL.

Needless to say, even before I boarded the flight to Tokyo, I was over the idea of traveling. I was grumpy, tired and fed up. I vowed that anyone who asserted to me that getting to the destination is “half the fun” would receive from me:

1 x Suitcase full of heroin

1 x Boarding pass for a flight to Malaysia

1000 x Doggie treats for sniffer dogs.

I landed at Narita airport at 7.05am. By the time the plane taxied to the terminal, it was 7.30am.

Having come from a small town like Adelaide, the idea that a plane spent so much time just rolling along the tarmac gave me the idea that the pilot was goofing off, and had decided to cruise along the main street of town, trying to pick up chicks.

But no. He was taking a dead straight line to the terminal. Fucking huge airport.

It was 35 degrees celcius when I left Adelaide. It was 1 whopping degree in Tokyo. I nearly passed out when I stepped outside.

The first week over there, I was studying in a little berg of Tokyo called Noda. I would liken the place to the outskirts of any major metropolitan centre in the world; urban, but not THAT urban.

It was busy. Not THAT busy though. People had good income, but not THAT good.

It was kinda like the Sydney suburb of Blacktown, but without the inbreeding. And much more condensed.

Let me put it this way: I’ve seen bike lanes in Adelaide that are wider than some of the two-way streets in Noda. On one particular street, the only thing I saw that prevented cars from toppling down an embankment and into someone’s house was a big wad of crisp Tokyo “air”.

But enough about that crap.

The idea that a group of Japanese schoolgirls haul you up in the street (yes, it’s a cliché, I know) with a chorus of “Hello, how are you?” is amusing and cute after the first twenty times. However, when their English is as good as my Japanese, the conversation that goes, “Hello-how-are-you?america?iie?oh-osutoraria! Kangaroo-Koala!Awwww-bye-preased-to-meet-you!” gets old quick.

Well, not that quick. It’s still kinda cute.

But being a unique oddity in a place like Noda does have perks. People are extra patient with you, and the fact that you can say “how do you do?”, can explain to them who you are, where you’re from, how old you are, along with the whole “being 6 foot tall” thing does seem to get you some brownie points.

Good thing I’m not blonde. I reckon that would’ve ruptured some vessel in their right frontal lobe.

But the people are curious about you. Not in a “Do I feed the animals in this zoo?” kinda way, either. It’s more like they’ve stumbled across an odd looking forest creature, and they tilt their head this way and that as they grasp with the idea that something a little left of centre has wandered into their lives for a short time.

However… to the guy who asked me which way to Dior and LV when I was in Harajuku, I have this to ask of you:

“Do I look like a fucking local?”

Perhaps a lone westerner in Japan isn’t perceived as a tourist...

A new dawn, a new day...

2006-03-24T12:31:00.000+10:30

Let me just sum up my feelings of Japan in the most concise way I know.

"Wow

"Fucking. Wow."

My affinity for the land of the Rising Sun has simply grown to proportions that not even I could've anticipated. However, I have also kept in mind that my affliction with Japan-itis could be borne of the idea that it is simply not the same as Australia, and that the unfamiliarity accentuates my fascination.

However, since returning to Australia I have:

Been abused by drivers for driving 25kph in a 25 kph zone.

Been abused by council workers for driving 30kph in a 25kph zone

Been told to not walk on a side walk because it was under repairs (for a hairline crack)

Been told of how good Australia is because we are "laid back"

That last one really amuses me. We are "laid back" according to all and sundry.

I have news for you Australia: You. Fucking. Aren't.

In Japan I freely rode a bicycle without helmet, bright colours or nigh on a hundred airbags... and I did just fine.

I walked on sidewalks that were in ill shape and were no wider than a dvd player, with cars passing mere feet away from my person, and I never even came close to being hurt.

I saw buses practically park in the street, and watched as all the cars queued up behind it patiently, with no honks or toots from their "warning devices".

Yet, back home I see constant signs everywhere of how powers that be are trying so fervently to protect ourselves from ourselves, and seemingly failing because of the same reason.

People shout abuse at each other for slight inconveniences, and news shows constantly show how not enough is being done to prevent something from something... or something else.

Yet, in another country where they give people the right to use their own judgement, they use it properly. In a country that on the outside appears that it simply shouldn't work, and its people should've become extinct for the lack of any safety precautions that prevent people from throwing themselves in front of trains ("There wasn't a sign to say I shouldn't do it, so I did it, your honour..."), Tokyo... seems to work... despite its best effort to not work...

I walked freely through Harajuku wearing the daggiest clothes I could find, and I didn't receive any looks of disdain, or subdued giggles of ridicule from fashionistas. Whereas in Australia, outrageous clothes are often worn for shock value... in Japan, it was worn in a "This is fun!" kinda way.

Ginza... well... imagine the snobbiest shopping district you can fathom. Ginza has that plus ten times the bug up its arse...

The people in Ginza were the real deal. And if they weren't the real deal, they were damn good at faking it... and if they're that good at faking it, I'm glad I'm not sleeping with any of them...

Look, I simply cannot sum up Japan (and tokyo) in a single post without it being long winded and contrived.

I will probably do this over a few posts, including the many photos I took.

But at the end of the day... I know that through and through... no matter which way you look at me... I'm still Australian.

Much like how no matter which way you cut a steak... it is still a hunk of dead animal.

Fry me to the moon... and let me pray among the stars...

2006-03-01T13:34:00.000+10:30

On Saturday I fly out of Adelaide and onto Tokyo… with a few hours in Kuala Lumpur for good measure.

And let me tell you, keeping up motivation at work is a bit of a stretch.

Part of me is excited with this trip. I am embarking on a “life experience” as I’ve been told by others, and that my perception of life is basically going to go through some kind of change by the time I get back.

Another part of me is a little intimidated. I mean, I’ve been to New Zealand twice, but they all spoke Inglush (English) over there, and New Zealand is basically part of Australia - considering how we always steal their thunder and claim their successes as our own.

So, anyway… when it all boils down to it, I should stop feeling some trepidation with this trip… because I’ve paid so much money already… it’s not like I’ll have a choice.

Besides, I’ll bet that when I get back, I’ll wonder what the hell I was so worried about.

The Inane Asylum is shutting up shop for the next two or three weeks (as opposed to having basically died in the arse over the past two months). My email is in my profile if you feel the need to drop a line.

Thanks all. I’ll have photos.

Gambatte.

Kampai!

Despondency

2006-02-22T13:15:00.000+10:30

In less than two weeks time I leave for Japan for my holiday. It’s kinda hard to believe it snuck up so quickly.

It is becoming increasingly difficult to focus upon my job at hand, due to the excitement surrounding the trip. Also, upon my return I won’t be sitting in this building anymore – moving to another location to resume my duties.

Thankfully I will be away from my high-school ex girlfriend who resides upon the same floor of my building. Awkward? Oh yeah… especially if you consider the nasty things I said to her way back when… that she’s obviously still not fully accepting. Oh well. I did say some despicable things about her.

This post is a bit everywhere, so a common theme will be missing.

Dear clients, please refrain from attempting to use jargon relative to telecommunications. You only confuse yourself, and when I do what you ask (assuming you know what you’re talking about) I end up doing something that is totally fucking opposite to what you wanted. DO NOT USE JARGON THAT YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT THE FUCK MEANS!!!

Dear blonde girl that keeps walking past my desk, eyeing me off. Make sure your boyfriend doesn’t catch you looking at people like that. He looks like the jealous type. Sure, there’s no harm in appreciating views but YOUR BOYFRIEND WILL PROBABLY FUCKING SNAP IF HE EVEN THINKS SOMEONE IS CONTEMPLATING IDEAS ABOUT LOOKING IN YOUR GENERAL DIRECTION!!!

I made the mistake of walking past Adelaide Uni’s Orientation week festivities today. Personally, I just wanted to head off down the river Torrens for a quiet walk.

Everyone looks so freaking young, it disturbs me.

I’m only 27 years old, but this feeling of being “past it” seems to permeate through my thoughts.

As I walked along the river, I spied many people laying down underneath trees, reading books, chatting with friends or quietly scribbling down ideas, answers and other miscellaneous pieces of text.

I look up and see the Riverside building looming in the distance, almost foreboding, like a monument to my current despondency with my work. It’s not like I don’t feel appreciated… I do. It’s not like I am no good at my work… I am. It’s not like I hate the people I work with… hate is a strong word.

I just don’t fucking care about the job.

I see these people laying in the shade, and I feel nothing but envy. The group of emos that gather in a circle and chat comfortably is something I admire, despite my belief that their continued existence is incongruous to their “sometimes better dead” philosophies.

Solution?

Get off MY FUCKING ARSE AND FINISH THIS NOVEL!!!!!

THAT day.

2006-02-14T13:21:00.000+10:30

I’m sure everyone is banging on about Valentine’s Day today.

Yes, it is the one day of the year that you simply cannot eat out…

At a restaurant, people!! Grow up. You simply cannot eat out at a restaurant because instead of an intimate night out with the person you love, you’re sharing dozens of tables with pairs of people staring longingly at each other’s eyes.

She’s thinking, this is so romantic.

He’s thinking, I’d better be eating out later…

Discussion has been made on news.com.au regarding who should be paying on a first date, and whether this whole notion of men paying is so far outdated that Corey Haim is the spokesperson for the cause.

Naturally, the battle of the sexes steps in and shows its ugly mug.

And then there’s the mob paraphrasing, or at least subscribing to, Lisa Simpson’s philosophy that romance, and indeed the idea of Valentine’s Day was “… acquired in a hostile takeover by Hallmark and Disney, homogenized, and sold off piece by piece.”

Oh and let’s not forget the high-horse sitters who claim that there are far more important things than material possessions and presents and the sort. Yep, I love those seeking higher moral ground… I trust they have very happy birthdays when no one gives them anything.

Now, I previously was of the impression that people shouldn’t need a single day of the year to be reminded that they should treat their other halves, as I would surprise my former partners a few times during a year… just ‘cos

However, doing something on Valentine’s Day seemed to pack a fair bit more wallop than usual. I’ll be fucked if I knew why… pun intended. There must be something in the air on the day… Hallmark probably sprays the air with pheromones or something.

Now I just think that this whole she-bang of treating your partner on Valentines Day is a bit of fun that we can all indulge in. It’s harmless. It takes very little effort. It makes an impact.

Her friends ask “Oh what did you do on Valentines Day?”

She responds, “We had a sumptuous dinner at a silver service restaurant. The wine was impeccable and went well with the medium scotch fillet in raspberry jus. Afterwards we went for a stroll along the river, and it was beautiful the way the fountain lights up at night time and the Convention Centre casts its reflection across the water…”

The friends swoon – the single one secretly plotting to seduce and usurp the boyfriend.

His friends ask, “What’d ya do for the missus?”

He responds “We went to a restaurant. I ate out.”

His friends applaud and buy another round of beers before putting some dollars on the trots.

Valentines Day. Sure, it may mean nothing except dollar signs at card companies and florists. Sure, the idea that denoting a single day in a year to show your love for someone is moronic.

But it’s just a bit of fun, with wine, romance and eating out. Where is the harm in that?

The Asylum’s World of Hypocrisy

2006-02-13T11:37:00.000+10:30

Welcome to the lovely phase of my life in where I stop and consider exactly why you cannot take some things to heart: because the world ain’t fucking fair.

If someone is cracking onto my partner by using flirty language and asking her if she’s been “into [him]”, I cannot request that he not speak with her like that because that makes me a jealous bastard.
If I am speaking to someone’s girlfriend about anything, I must stop… because I am obviously cracking onto them.

If someone else acts stupid, it is because they are behaving the “way they are”
If I act stupid, I must learn to grow up and control myself.

Speaking about sex is witty and humourous.
If I speak about sex, I am being vulgar and offensive.

No-one person is perfect, so I must keep that in mind and accept their quirks.
I am not perfect, therefore I must have my faults highlighted at every moment, and I must change myself.

I must tolerate being snubbed by those who don’t deem me worthy. That is the way they are.
I cannot snub people who hurt me, as being able to forgive makes me the “better person”.

If someone assumes that I am doing something untoward, I must apologise for giving them that impression.
If I assume someone is doing something untoward, I am being needlessly presumptuous, and must apologise for not giving people benefit of the doubt.

Everyone else is adventurous.
I am needlessly impulsive.

Everyone else is eloquent and intelligent.
I am verbose and condescending.

Everyone else is fine the way they are.
I need to improve myself.

Everyone else is frustrated at all the pressure they’re under.
I am an angry man.

People who have a less than favourable impression of me are entitled to their opinion, and I must ignore the way they spread fallacious rumours about me.
I am far too judgmental

I must learn to see other peoples’ points of view and listen to their expectations.
I cannot demand too much of others

I must respect my fellow humans
I must earn respect

I sometimes wonder if this is all worth it. Is the socializing and requirement for acceptance really worth all the heartache, judgment, sorrow, confrontation, jealousies, group regulations, and interpretations of these rules?

Because for all the happiness and good times I’ve shared with people, it seems that they’re fleeting moments. Like a butterfly that flutters by, it entrances you for a moment with its beauty, only to disappear from view with the reminder that the creature will die in a matter of days.

I simply feel exhausted at the idea of having to stand up for my convictions when no one seems to give a shit.

Perhaps everyone feels the way I do right now, but simply do not feel the need to vent it out there. Maybe I should learn to understand my lot in this life.

Right now, though? Well, I happy being pissed off. I think I’m entitled to it every now and then.

The "other" insight

2006-02-07T16:56:00.000+10:30

Question. How can you tell if you’re the only straight guy at a fancy dress party?

Answer: You’re the only one not wearing a uniform of an authority figure, eg Policeman, Naval Officer, Pilot etc.

However, the answer, “Because you’re the only guy the women aren’t talking to” would also be acceptable.

Oh, the joys that are the fancy dress parties. This time the theme was something along the lines of “an occupation”, in which case I was tempted to be unimaginative and wear my work suit and make up something esoteric.

Like “hitman”, “sleazy car salesman” or even “bored out of his brains public servant”.

However, I would’ve needed a shotgun for that last one to make the image complete.

Although one person did query me as to the best method of getting attention at the party, to which I suggested “running through the front door, diving over the couch, rolling, standing back up, darting the eyes around in a state of panic before sighing loudly and announcing to all ‘Don’t worry, I think I’ve lost ‘em’”

That got many laughs, however considering the condition of these people at that point in time, I think they would’ve laughed at something completely unfunny. Like Comedy Inc (local sketch comedy show).

However, the highlight of the night came from being interrogated by a man in uniform as to the kind of person I was.

And no, he wasn’t trying to get me to “hop the fence”.

He stated unequivocally that he could look into the eyes of a person and tell exactly what they were like. He then continued on about how I’m in a good place right now, and various other musings I put down to “I’m trying to awe you with my incredible insight”

My immediate reaction would’ve been to stare into his eyes and then do a nervous twitch akin to a maniac on the brink of a homicidal outburst, only requiring a small trigger to set me off on my “Path of Purification”, but instead I just stood there… nodding.

I think sometimes you just gotta stop being antagonistic and basically let people give you their “insight” just so they can feel good about themselves.

Immaterial consumerist

2006-02-03T14:16:00.000+10:30

It’s kinda difficult to explain.

I seem to have gotten into a habit in where it feels alien, weird even, to spoil myself with a material possession.

I simply cannot see the wisdom in going out and buying that 40GB iPod, fancy jacket, SLR digital camera, the entire first season of Mythbusters on DVD or that jewel encrusted fishbowl containing a fish with a memory span of 31 seconds, instead of the standard 30.

(yes, I know that fish memory myth was busted on Mythbusters… but I’m using it anyway)

But this isn’t some anti-materialism stance I’m on. Hell, it’s not like I’m a money grubbing hoarder with myriads of shoe boxes of cash under his bed, protected by a pair of rabid Siamese fighting fish.

I have no qualms about going to an expensive restaurant and wining and dining away til the small hours and acting like a pompous, materialistic prat.

“Fetch me some wine, Garson. Tendey voo over here sivvoo play!”

I hadn’t bought a CD for nine months until a couple weeks ago, and even then it felt weird… like my money would be better spent on something else. Like a fish with 32 seconds memory.

Over the years that I spent saving for a house, buying a house, doing up a house, decorating a house with a water feature and goldfish, and selling a house, I simply forgot what it was like to shower myself with gifts.

Instead, I spent my money on things that couldn’t be traced back by my partner and then held against me as “wasting money”.

But now that I have a disposable income… fucked if I know how to use it. Forget buying CDs, DVDs, and clothes… there’s always the radio, cinema and old (perfectly good) clothes [which are out of date, but I’m too old to be fashionable anyway].

So, I simply must provide a warning to those people who are saving like Scrooge McDuck swimming in his money vault with an inflatable lifesaver ring whilst eating Lifesavers confectionary, just so they can buy a roof over their heads in Australia’s overpriced, overvalued, and overbaked property market…

… You’re getting into bad habits. Don’t forget how to spoil yourself. Don’t forget. You’re not a fish, after all.

underdogged

2006-02-01T13:14:00.000+10:30

I’d write more, but I have been far too busy trying to cover myself with both my fever-drenched arms in a desperate and futile attempt to stave off the shivers.

Yes, I am ill. Again.

But last Sunday, I was privy to laying back and watching the Australian Open final coverage, which seemed to revolve around one Marcos Baghdatis and his fairy tale scurry into the Grand Slam final.

And he did very, very well to do so. Good for him. All it takes is one Grand Slam final appearance to basically set you up for a while, and the extra boon for being a huge underdog makes you the darling of Australia for two whole seconds before we start raving about how fuckin’ awesome Thorpie is and how our cricket team are like gods.

But Australians’ love an underdog*, I’m told.

You see, the idea that someone unheard of can stand up, stare in the face of the glorious powers that be and giggle their arse off is one we love to hear about.

The way that everyone raved about the Giant Slayer Baghdatis and how they love underdog stories, you’d think that Roger Federer has never been an underdog before, that he just waltz onto a court one day, hit a few balls and before he could say “What the…?” he was world number one.

And that’s the issue I have with Australia’s mania for a fairytale underdog story. What if, say, Baghdatis won the Australian Open. And after that he won another few more titles? He returns to Melbourne to defend his crown, only to have a young kid with a mosquito net and rope sandals staring at him in the Slam final… the audience has turned on him, when he was their hero only a year before.

He slaved away at his game, trying to improve it, but… no one is supporting him anymore. Everyone is cheering on this dusty little twerp who managed to claw his way through the finals with nothing but the shirt on his back and a bug catcher.

This whole Love for the Underdog bullshit has turned us Australians into a bunch of bandwagon jumpers, hopping from one fad to the next.

Heaven forbid that we applauded anything for being the best for a certain period of time. Hell, our nature of cutting down the tallest poppy doesn’t really inspire me to be the best at something.

Because, you know, if something is good or popular, it has to be shit.

* unless the underdog is from England, New Zealand or the United States. Or if they’re from New Zealand, we’ll claim them as our own.

Insight

2006-01-19T16:45:00.000+10:30

I’ve been asked to comment on a topic being aired by SBS’s Insight program. The topic is regarding sexual politics and the opinions voiced in Maureen Dowd’s book, Are Men Necessary? When sexes collide.

The last time I was asked to comment on this show’s topic, I was interviewed, prepared for the show… and then ignored. I don’t think I’ll comment this time around, because I know the topic isn’t worth arguing over.

The genders currently are unequal, apparently. As to which way the scales lean is dependent on your experiences, and possibly on if something dangles between your pegs eleven.

From what I’ve read, there are assertions made that women are being made to look like Jessica Simpson to land a man, and that intelligent women intimidate men… and therefore end up lonely.

The excerpts continue so far as to claim that the Y chromosome has been shedding itself of DNA, like how a Hollywood celebrity sheds themselves of reality, eventually stating that with the current rate of technological development that men won’t be required for reproduction.

Men will become instinct.

But lets not go too nuts (haw haw), shall we? Although a planet populated entirely of lesbians is something that many a male probably dreams about, lets point out a couple things.

If men aren’t that important… then why raise the point about how women try to be like Jessica Simpson to land one? Men are doomed to extinction, so why bother raising the point?

The question is posed about who is to blame for the apparent failure of the feminine movement, and yet I cannot help but think that answering that with a gender is erroneous. Well… to my DNA deficient, low life expectant, cannot ask for directions psyche it is.

Because it is usually the most beautiful women that are applauded by BOTH genders. I find it hard to believe that people would model themselves on someone who is intelligent if they have the face that looks like a run over rubbish bin.

You know… like Margaret Thatcher. In fact, I believed she did a stint with a run over rubbish bin on her head to make her more appealing to the public.

So, if I had my say (which I won’t), I would state that society, both genders, the media and our stupid fucking brains that like beautiful people is to blame.

And… if there were no men left, jars couldn’t be opened, rubbish wouldn’t be moved, lawns would rage out of control, and spiders would rule the planet.

If you would like a copy of the email I received from SBS, feel free to email me. They are seeking participants in the discussion.

But if I see anyone rip off my opinion…

(this post is mostly tongue-in-cheek - I love women. I do)

I'm against captivity

2006-01-16T13:19:00.000+10:30

I love animals. It’s true. I heart animals so much that I simply cannot squash a pesky fly, step on a spider, kick a cat or harpoon a whale, instead preferring to let them back outside where they can be free to do their daily things like flying around, creeping people out, demanding room service or getting stabbed by “researching” scientists… respectively.

On the weekend I did take an opportunity to wander around the feeding grounds at Gumeracha’s Big Rocking Horse.

It is there that you can feed the myriad of swans, ducks, peacocks, and cockatoos all in the safe knowledge that these animals don’t bite.

Well, not that hard, anyway.

I’m not a big one on keeping animals in captivity, and the feeding grounds are a case in point.

I mean, it’s not because the birds and ducks don’t seem happy. They do. They waddle about, groom themselves and stick their bums in the air as they search for morsels on the bottom of the pond.

It’s not because it seems cruel. They get food given to them for eight hours a day. Whats not to like?

However, it seems that animals share much with humans. And to highlight this I will regale part of the story.

A swan spied me from a distance, and began its less-than-graceful waddle towards me, probably seeking some food. I’ve known some swans to be right old grumpy pricks sometimes, so I thought I would distract it by throwing some food on the ground.

Nope. That didn’t stop the swan’s charge. So I threw some more. Again, it went unnoticed, the swan’s death-charge increasing in intensity.

I grew concerned. Did it really want food? Or was it planning on starting an uprising, starting with the townie holding the food-bag?

Eventually it got to me, stopped, and waited. I reached into the feedbag and held out my hand. It nuzzled my palm and fed vigorously on the feast before it. After the swan finished eating that course, it waited with an expectant look on its face (it that’s possible). So I again pulled some food out for it to shovel into its beak.

After doing this a couple times, the swan eventually lost interest in me and walked off without so much as a crap on my shoes. I mean, anything that could’ve been interpreted as thanks would’ve been nice.

A honk. A nod. An evil hiss. A flapping of its wings. Anything!

In conclusion, providing a cheap home and granting constant handouts all the time turns them into ungrateful arseholes.

So, I’m against captivity because it makes them think they’re people…

In a Fit of Cowardice

2006-01-13T10:35:00.000+10:30

On the bus this morning, a man had (what appeared to be – but I’m no doctor) an epileptic fit.

Fortunately he was okay; he didn’t bang his head when he collapsed, and he fell onto his side so he didn’t block his air passage. Yet, what I find most perplexing was my attitude to it. “Perplexing” in the “disgusted” kind of way.

I moved to help, but stopped myself for some reason.

First there was the permeating sense that I didn’t know what the heck to do. I mean, honestly… if someone is convulsing on the floor of the bus, there’s not much you can do. And even if I were to try and help, I wouldn’t know where to start.

Then there was the wonder of whether I get involved at all. This was despite the fact that there was no threat to anyone. There wasn’t a reason to be afraid of the ramifications of helping the poor fellow. I just didn’t want to get involved.

Then I felt self-conscious; as though helping him would be reason for ridicule.

So, there I was, frozen to the spot for reasons pertaining to my own ego as some stranger writhed and winced (in what I assume was pain) in front of me.

Fortunately for him, a kindly man approached him as the fit died down. He consoled him as the gentleman gathered himself up, looking quite confused and disoriented. The bus driver radioed for assistance whilst a woman behind me dialed the emergency number for an ambulance.

The rest of us looked on.

I would love to say that I didn’t help on the sole basis that I simply didn’t know what to do, but that would seemingly suggest that if I did know what to do, I would immediately bound to the man’s assistance and save the day.

Even if I knew what to do, I still doubt I would’ve helped him. Not because I’m a callous and heartless iceman who doesn’t want to help others.

But because I’m a disgusting, self-conscious, egotistical coward.

I study a martial art, but what would I do if I saw someone get attacked in the street? Would I come to their aid?

Would I stop a bag-snatcher if he was running towards me?

The only time I’ve used the art was when I (or a friend) was threatened directly.

I’d like to say that I don’t know the answer to those questions, but that’d be lying. I do know… I just hate the answer.

Youth, Exuberance... Synergy...

2006-01-09T15:34:00.000+10:30

My office is replete with gorgeous women. It must be said.

All reek terribly of boyfriend, and many don’t seem to carry themselves with the confidence that normally afford such creatures of grace and beauty.

But all in all, I’m working in a gorgeous place. Top-notch, high-shelf, top sorts.

And no, Andy-a-la-Sleaze has not waltzed in, hairy chest and gold chain puffed out, and mullet groomed to perfection. Firstly, because he wouldn’t have any success with lay-dehs of this calibre. Secondly, because I’m content with my lot in life right now. And thirdly because Andy-a-la-Sleaze doesn’t exist.

I have worked for a number of other organisations, in different buildings, and I don’t think ANY of them has had the hottie:male ratio of this joint.

As for the reasons for this particular ratio, I can only come up with the following: This phenomena does indeed speak volumes for our organization (Ugh, I hate autocorrect’s mania for the letter “z”):

We like to portray ourselves as a sharp and dynamic place in where we pride ourselves of the professionalism in our work, and replicate that with our impeccable grooming and taste.

Or perhaps we celebrate youth and exuberance, bringing new and fresh ideas to the plate of corporate banquets.

Or we are trying to fuse youth with experience to try and shift paradigms, redesign boxes, create synergy and conjure buzzwords so that the organization is taken seriously as a big-time contender.

Or we are embarking on a new era of Public Relations, in where we seduce our clients with alluring class, sophistication and panache.

These would all ring true, and I sincerely hope that the hottie:male ratio ushers in a new world satisfied customers and gleeful finance officers, if it weren’t for the last possible reason I can think of:

Or… the old men in charge are sleaze bags.

Short post today. In summary: Lots of beautiful women. Sleazy men in charge. Me happy. The End.

(Disclaimer: This is not a slur upon the women of this office who no doubt were offered a job on the premise of their credentials… I sincerely do think that the old men around here are sleaze bags)

Kick off to 2006

2006-01-03T10:50:00.000+10:30

I cannot state that my New Years Eve went totally to plan.

At 5.30pm I lit the Weber barbeque, waiting anxiously for the “cool change” to come through so that it didn’t hasten to the quickness of the heat bead toting roast maker.

For those not in the know, a “cool change” at Christmas time in Adelaide, Australia doesn’t involve much of a temperature drop… just an increase in wind speed.

As the kettle was heating, I thought it prudent to rush down to the booze-o to grab a carton of mid strength beer, as guests would be arriving at 7.00ish. That would give plenty of time for everyone to gather around and smell the roasts, just enough to whet the appetite.

I thought I’d left it a bit late to fetch some beer and ice, due to the fact that everyone gets their shit together earlier than me, and maybe that bottle shops might close early on NYE.

Not a chance. Everything was open, and they had plenty of ice bags to fill my bathtub.

Into the bath went various varieties of wine, beer and spirits that I had lying around (I didn’t have enough beer, hence the booze-run), and on top of that went the ice.

A breeze had commenced, which prevented the kettle from getting too hot, too quickly. The coals were ready, so on went the 3 marinated roasts.

Guests arrived fashionably and typically late, but I had bargained on this. The place was well prepped and suitably pristine. Conversation flowed, laughs were had and drinks were drunk.

The roasts turned out beautifully. I left the carving to the group’s alpha male, and he complimented the chef on how the meat fell off the bones. Hearty cheers all around as people scoffed food, leaving only a small carcass of chicken bones and cow leg.

Drinks continued well into the night. At the stroke of midnight, cheers echoed into the breeze and swept through my empty group of flats. Fireworks popped and sizzled overhead from random parties a few blocks away. SMS’s from friends not in Adelaide or Australia surprisingly arrived on the stroke of midnight.

It all continued until 6am. I decided to go the whole way through to the following evening, but the moment I turned my back, everyone had departed. So I went to bed.

All in all, it was a flawless evening, with good times had.

So no. I can’t say that my NYE went to my original plan.

I had originally planned to get stuffed around, get calls late in the day to say that other plans had been arranged, that I would get messages from those I didn’t want to get messages from and that I would spend the evening laying on my roof, staring upwards as whoops and cheers from other neighbouring parties spit at my ears and carried upward towards the indifferent stars.

Not that I’m complaining. :)

New Year!

2005-12-30T16:47:00.000+10:30

here has gotta be something good to be said about this time of year.

It is, for me at least, a time in where everything just grinds to a squealing halt, and everyone (barring the fuckwits in the post before) becomes all placid, and laid back.

For instance, I didn’t actually go to work today. I went to my place of employment, did a bit of the usual rigmarole of answering emails and tidying up some loose ends, and then proceeded to have a few glasses of wine with the office lovelies.

And it is during this time that you get all the low down on the people you work with.

Who’s doing whom. Who’s trying to do whom. Who is really an arsehole when you’re not looking. Finally, who is the office tragic (thankfully enough, it’s not me, at least, they’re not telling me that to my face).

Due to the fact that majority of our clientele and customers are probably gallivanting around the arse end of this country, in remote areas that don’t afford mobile phone (cell phone) coverage, we can all run the risk of getting tanked in the afternoon safe in the knowledge that we have pretty good odds that we won’t get busted.

Yesireebob, there is a lot of good to be said about this time of year. Aside from this stinking hot weather that leaves you lying on the couch, gasping, in a pool of your own sweat.

Anyway, seeing as I won’t have another opportunity between now and tomorrow to knock this piece up, Happy New Year, everyone!

sigh

2005-12-29T13:25:00.000+10:30

It is truly amazing, sometimes, how very few people will admit it when they’re ticked off.

Or how people say that they accept your apology, when in fact, they don’t.

Needless to say, over the past year I have taken stock of my life, looked at my errors, and made moves to make amends. Needless to say, the people who I have wronged in the past have assured me that they’re quite okay with it.

Needless to say, they’re fucking lying.

It has been said that it takes a big man to admit when he has made a mistake, and for all accounts, I’ve believed it. To take a good look at yourself and say, “hey, that time I put my pants on my head and ran screaming through the aged care facility… well hey, wasn’t I just the l’il wrong un then, eh?” seemed character building, and I believed that it would make people appreciate that you’ve foregone the ego and just accepted the fact that you’re not perfect.

No. People don’t do that.

They will focus upon that one little indiscretion you did, and they will remember you by it. They will cite it again and again, twisting the knife that was sharpened by your own confession and apology. Again and again, it will be raised as a trump card in any future arguments, and will be justification for them to look upon you with scorn as they pass you in the street.

They will continue to look down on you for years; their narrowed eyes a sharp reminder of your mistake. Their pursed lips a marker of the scar you left on their soul.

As I’m learning more, and more, it appears that during life you will be known for your faults and failings, but in death people will finally acknowledge what you offered them.

And by then, it’s too fucking late.

As an adult, I have tried to groom myself into being a better man. Why? For personal satisfaction? Yes. For respect? Again, yes (although some would suggest it’s erroneous to value yourself through the perception from others - but honestly, who doesn’t, even in a slight way?). For fun?

Well, it’s not fucking fun. It’s no fucking walk in the park. Admitting making a mistake is not something that is simply scattered about in a manner akin to feeding chickens.

My New Years Resolution? Stop caring. People will only know you for the bad, no matter what.

Oh, and there’s something in my resolutions about reducing the alcohol, and getting into better shape. My wiry thin shape took it badly over Christmas.

Christmas Hyde

2005-12-23T11:43:00.000+10:30

As I’m flanked by laces of tinsel, assaulted by merry tunes and greeted constantly by pom-pommed red hats, I can only feel obligated to send out an obligatory Christmas cheer comment. Or two.

And for those of you in a country that doesn’t celebrate Christmas, this is probably not going to be of much interest to you.

May the holiday season bring joy to your hearts, like the words of many an aching cliché uttered by well-meaning but unimaginative folks. It is a season in where you extend your best wishes to all, and they all extend them back.

It is a time when you put aside all feelings of ill-will, and show the lighter side of your nature. You do something that may be a little different from your normal behaviour, in the hopes of making everyone else’s Christmas just that bit gayer.

Like when your ex wishes you a merry Christmas, you thank her kindly – instead of telling her to get fucked.

When people yell obscenities from their car window as they pass by, you smile and wave an acknowledgement – instead of cracking their rear window with a rock.

When you go to a bar, and a drunken Australian girl says that she loves your accent and asks you where you’re from, you make up a country to humour her – instead of raising your eyebrows and asking her what medication she’s mixing in her refreshment (note: I don’t have an accent – at least, not for a local).

When senior staff don’t bother to thank you for your hard work over the past month, you smile and chat with them when you pass in the corridor – instead of spitting in the water cooler.

When the hot office girl walks past, you nod and greet them – instead of staring open-mouthed, drool escaping down the side of your jaw, a soft zombie-esque moan emanating from your throat.

When people chat to you on public transport, you talk back, agreeing with their conservative attitudes on things like immigration, racism and politics – instead of fantasizing about stabbing them in the face. With a pen. Repeatedly.

When children approach you at a restaurant, brandishing whatever toy it is that has their attention, you smile, nod and talk at length with them about it – instead of suppressing the idea of tipping over their parents who are rocking on their chairs as a result of being three-deep into their bottles of wine.

When waitresses give you shoddy service, you wave off their apologies with a slight hand gesture and give them a tip – instead of waving off their apologies with a slight hand gesture and then staring unabashedly at their breasts.

When carolers start singing in the atrium of your office building, stop and listen to them intently – instead of hurriedly walking past them, hands clamped over your ears as you then catch an elevator to the top floor and start lobbing five cent pieces off the catwalks.

Spread the cheers. Do something that’s different to what you’d do normally. I know I am.

My Ode To Your Ode

2005-12-20T10:03:00.000+10:30

Dear relative

When you decide to take it upon yourself to write a tribute, eulogy or whatever banal thought exits your head and splashes onto paper, please take note of the following things.

We are not interested about you. We do not want to hear about how you’re suffering at the twisted hands of fate and death. We do not care how close you were with the deceased.

Equally anyone with half a brain would recognize this as the typical, flagrant campaign for attention you normally march out on, and would give you no regard whatsoever.

I would be quick to assume that you’re not weeping for the deceased, but the realization that one day, you too will die, but it would be presumptuous of me to do so.

Your piece which you so blatantly and erroneously call an “ode” did little to savor the memory of the recently passed, and subsequently was the reason I avoided speaking with you after the service.

Thank you for taking a slice out of an event which was meant for someone else, and making it a piece for you.

However, perhaps I shouldn’t be so harsh on you. For all your appearances, and for all the snobbishness you administer upon those whom do not meet your lofty and superior standards, I must realize that you are still a child.

Perhaps I didn’t know my grandmother as well as you did. Perhaps I should’ve given my own little written tribute to a wise woman.

Because for a woman who I believe deserved poetry, lyrics and words that brush a wild and vivid image like those she painted, what you offered did not do her justice.

Yours sincerely, Me

PS. Goodbye Grandma. The best tribute we all can give you is through demonstrating and believing what you’ve taught us all.

Sedition Stirring

2005-12-14T14:44:00.000+10:30

I’m not usually one to soap box stand. Actually that’s a lie. I do it all the time. In fact, this is what my blog is all about. It’s probably why you regular readers keep coming back, why some link to me, why most people never come back and quite possibly why people avoid my eyes in the street and walk away hurriedly.

But there’s much ado going on about Anti Terror and Sedition laws with the major conglomerates of mediocrity that we delight in referring to as The Media taking the issue to task.

Oh, the agony they must feel that they are being stripped of their “right to free speech” and how a free press is the bastion of any free society!

“Oh woe is us!” they all cry from the pits of their laptop keyboards, whittling away the USB mouse plug so that it doubles as a sharp, pokey thing, “we cannot write anything against government because they'll chuck our arse in the slammer for seven years, and in there we'll go insane because of all the faeces on the floor!”

Oh, I do feel for their plight.

I mean, how can they practice writing their novel if they can’t put complete fiction on the front page, and then put an apology the size of pin head on page 49?

It must be terrible.

Equally terrible must be the inability to actually read the proposed Anti Terror laws, in particular section 80.3 in where it outlines that a defense can be formed if the articles are written “in good faith”.

I’m no lawyer, and I’m probably wrong to be delving into issues that are far beyond my uneducated brain, but the way I read it is that if an article is published with the intent to incite change through legal (ie peaceful) avenues then they’re okay.

Equally okay is if the media published what are commonly known as… well… you know… “facts”.

I’m sure the media would argue that they DO publish “facts”. Much in the same way our government “interviewed” terror suspects, how Clinton never had “sexual relations” with that Lewinsky chick, my ex didn’t “cheat” on me and how Jews during the holocaust were sent to Auschwitz “summer camp” for “sunbaking” and “frolicking” in the “pool”.

(Sorry, but the media were the first to start using Nazi metaphors regarding these laws.)

I remember thinking that it’s usually a racist who says something along the lines of “I’m not racist, but… [insert vitriol about immigration issues]”, so I’m wary of saying this… but…

I’m no right wing, government supporting, Howard lover, and I believe that these laws are only on the cards to add fuel to increasing fear that lingers on the nation, but frankly… anything which stirs the pot with the media has my thumbs up.

Even Spam Hates Me

2005-12-12T16:31:00.000+10:30

In my hotmail account, I am privileged enough to receive numerous emails from far and abroad. Some of these are filtered through as “junk”, for reasons unknown, as you will read below. Also, my responses can be underneath in italics. Please forgive lack of decent formatting.

DEAR FRIEND,
MY NAME IS MRS.LARISA.SOS. NITSKAYA, PERSONAL SECRETARY TO MR.BORIS MIKHAIL KHODORKOVSKY,THE ARRESTED CHAIRMAN/CEO OF YUKOS OIL AND BANK MENATEPSPB IN RUSSIA WHO IS PRESENTLY IN JAIL. I HAVE THE DOCUMENTS OF A LARGE AMOUNT OF FUNDS WHICH HE HANDED OVER TO ME BEFORE HE WAS DETAINED AND TRIED IN RUSSIA FOR FINANCING POLITICAL PARTIES (THE UNION OF RIGHT FORCES, LED BY BORIS NEMTSOV AND YABLOKO, A LIBERAL/SOCIAL DEMOCRATIC PARTY LED BY GREGOR YAVLINSKY) OPPOSED TO THE GOVERNMENT OF MR.VLADMIR PUTIN,THEPRESIDENT THEREBY LEADING TO THE FREEZING OF HIS FINANCES AND ASSETS.

AFTER SEARCHING THROUGH THE BOOKS OF YOUR COUNTRY'S CHAMBERS OF COMMERCE AND INDUSTRIES HERE IN RUSSIA. I AM CONTACTING YOU TO ASSIST ME TO RE-PROFILE THE FUNDS AND EQUALLY INVEST SAME ON HIS BEHALF. THE TOTAL AMOUNT OF FUNDS TO BE RE-PROFILLED IS FORTY six MILLION DOLLARS(USD$46,000,000.00) AND YOU WILL BE PAID 20% FOR YOUR MANAGEMENT SERVICES.

AS SOON AS I RECEIVE YOUR ACCEPTANCE IN MY PRIVATE EMAIL thus: , I WILL SEND YOU THE NECESSARY DETAILS AND MY IDENTIFICATION.

YOURS SINCERELY,

MRS.LARISA.SOS.NITSKAYA.

ANY FURTHER RESPONSE SHOULD GO TO MY PRIVATE EMAIL ADDRESS FOR FUTURE CORRESPONDENCE.

Dear Mrs Nitskaya (and all the periods in your name)

I sincerely feel for your plight, as your oil and bank company seems to be so fraught with budget cut-backs that your computer seems to have its Caps Lock key stuck, and its spell checker is bust.

Your request for a new computer might possibly explain the current price of petrol, though.

Or, perhaps CEO’s in Mother Russia are liking personal assistants who don’t know good netiquette. But I guess this information is so important, that shouting is definitely required.

I would love to invest “same” of this money, although I am not au fait with my country’s policy on using assets of convicted criminals (regardless of whether they are innocent or not).

Whilst the proposition for a 20% slab of US$46,000,000.00 is enticing, I must refuse on the grounds that I don’t exactly want to get on the bad side of good ol’ Vlad Vlad Putin. I’ve still got his lawnmower, and he’s been harassing me about getting it back. God knows he’s annoying enough without trying to annex my backyard.

Good luck with this. As I like to help however I can, I have forwarded your email to the Australian Federal Police. If they cannot help you, then hopefully they might know someone who can.

Regards

Andy

--------------------------

DEAR FRIEND,

AS YOU READ THIS,DON'T FEEL SORRY FOR ME,BECAUSE I BELIEVE EVERYONE WILL DIE SOMEDAY .MY NAME IS MRS SUSAN KHALID, A WIDOW AND CHILDLESS WOMAN NOW DUE TO A CAR ACCIDENT THAT CHANGED MY WHOLE LIFE ,I AM A MERCHANT IN NIGERIA . I HAVE BEEN DIAGNOSED WITH ESOPHAGEAL CANCER WHICH WAS DISCOVERED VERY LATE,DUE TO MY LAXITY INCARING FOR MY HEALTH. IT HAS DEFILED ALL FORMS OF MEDICINE,AND RIGH NOW I HAVE ONLY ABOUT A FEW MONTHS TO LIVE,ACCORDING TO MEDICAL EXPERTS.I HAVE NEVER PARTICULARLY LIVE MY LIFE SO WELL,AS I NEVER REALLY CARED FOR ANYONE NOT EVEN MYSELF BUT MY BUSINESS.THOUGH I AM VERY RICH, BUT WAS NEVER GENEROUS,I WAS ALWAYS HOSTILE TO PEOPLE AND I ONLY FOCUS ON MY BUSINESS AS THAT WAS THE ONLY THING I CARED FOR BUT NOW I REGRET ALL THIS AS I NOW KNOW THAT THERE IS MORE TO LIFE THAN JUST WANTING TO HAVE OR MAKE ALL THE MONEY IN THE WORLD.

I BELIEVE WHEN GOD GIVES ME A SECOND CHANCE TO COME TO THIS WORLD I WOULD LIVE MY LIFE IN A DIFFRENT WAY FROM HOW I HAVE LIVED BEFORE.NOW THAT GOD HAS CALLED ME THROUGH THIS WAY I HAVE WILLED AND GIVEN MOST OF MY PROPERTIES AND ASSETS TO MY IMMEDIATE AND EXTENDED FAMILY AND AS WELL AS FEW CLOSE FRIENDS.I WANT GOD TO BE MERCIFUL TO ME AND ACCEPT MYSOUL, AND SO I HAVE DECIDED TO GIVE ALMS TO CHARITY RGANISATIONS,AS I WANT THIS TO BE ONE OF THE LAST GOOD DEEDS I DID ON EARTH.SO FAR,I HAVE DISTRIBUTED MONEY TO SOME CHARITY ORGANISATIONS IN THE U.A.E ALGERIA, MALAYSIA AND IDIAN.NOW THAT MY HEALTH HAS DETERIORATED SO BADLY,I CAN NOT DO THIS MYSELF ANYMORE.

I ONCED ASKED MY FAMILY MEMBERS TO CLOSE ONE OF MY ACCOUNTS AND DISTRIBUTE THE FUNDS WHICH I HAVE THERE TO CHARITY ORGANISATION IN BULGARIA AND PAKISTAN,THEY REFUSED AND KEPT THE MONEY TO THEMSELVES.HENCE,I DO NOT TRUST THEM ANYMORE,AS THEY SEEM NOT TO BE CONTENDED WITH WHAT I HAVE LEFT FOR THEM! THE LAST OF THE FUNDS WHICH NO ONE KNOWS OF IS THE HUGE CASH DEPOSIT OF THIRTY FIVE MILLION DOLLARS($35,000,000 ,00) IN EUROPE WITH A CARGO SHIPPING SECURITY FIRM IN FRANCE PARIS .I WANT TO KNOW IF YOU CAN BE OF GOOD HELP TO DISPATCH THIS FUNDS TO CHARITY ORGANISATIONS.I HAVE SET ASIDE 10%FOR YOU FOR YOUR TIME AND PATIENCE.MAY GOD BE WITH YOU AS YOU HAVE DECIDED TO TAKE A BOLD STEP TO HEAL THE WORLD WITH ME OR EVEN IN MY DEMISE...

PLEASE REPLY TO MY PRIVATE MAIL BOX (email address withheld)
AS I WILL ONLY BE BUSY ACCESSING MY PRIVATE BOX WAITING FOR YOUR REPLY.

BEST REGARDS,
SUSAN SAIDIK KHALID

Dear Susan

I am truly blessed to know so many kind people who refer to me as “friend”, and especially ones that like to shout lots. I do feel for your plight, and it is certainly moving that someone could manage to build a successful business without a proficiency in the English language.

I also find it heart-warming that you choose not to write a Last Will and Testament, instead choosing to bring some happiness into a stranger’s life. Surely your name will live through the ages as a beacon of charity floating above the quagmire of greed, corruption and garden gnome stealers.

Your health may have deteriorated to the point that you cannot click some buttons on your internet banking, but you still muster the strength to type a lengthy email and life story – I am in awe.

I do find the idea of a share in thirty five mill very seducing, however I must decline. As chances are that I do not follow the God that you reference in your touching email, I do not feel that I can put this substantial amount of money to the organisations that would most befit your intentions.

I thank you for approaching me. As I know your health is deteriorating, I have taken the liberty to subscribe your email address to many different drug companies. I feel the true potential of Viagra has yet to be discovered, so hopefully my little gesture can help you along the fearful and harsh path you tread.

Regards

Andy

-----------------------
FROM MR ONI ABRAHAM
DIRECTOR:NIGER INSURANCE COMPANY.

My Dear Friend,

I feel quite safe and satisfy dealing with you in this mutual beneficial transaction. Though, this medium (Internet) has been greatly abused, I choose to reach you through it because it still remains the fastest, surest and most secured medium of communication. However, this correspondence is purely private, and it should be treated as such. I guarantee you that this deal is hitch free from all what you may think of and I encourage you to read it to the end so that you can understand it very well for the benefits of both of us.I am MR ONI ABRAHAM.DIRECTOR:NIGER INSURANCE COMPANY, in charge of Claims and Indemnity of the COMPANY. I am contacting you based on Trust and confidentiality that will be attached to this deal for the benefit of both of us.

The Management and the Legal / Treasury Department of this NIGER INSURANCE COMPANY in a recent meeting, recommended that the account of ( MR. ANDREARS SCHRANNER),who maintained a Life Assurance Policy, should be declared Dormant and confisticated hence moving his unclaimed benefits funds to the Treasury according to our Banking and Financial law. Recently, I came across a huge sum of money belonging to a deceased person (MR.ANDREARS SCHRANNER).

He is a foreigner and unfortunately He is now late as he was among those that Died on the recent plane crash during his visit to London with his entire family.

You can confirm through this website below: (link provided but withheld from my blog - Andy)

This man was our client and has a Life Assurance Policy WORTH the sum of Fifteen Million United States Dollars (US$15,000,000.00). Right now, the fund is lying unclaimed in our custody and there is no next of kin mentioned in his file and there is NO HOW we can reach any of his other relatives. All efforts made to establish contacts with any member of his relation has proved abortive and unsuccessful. His Life Assurance Policy will expire in the next few months from the date of this letter. Just last week we received an instruction from Ministry of Social Welfare to forward particulars of all unclaimed benefits that will expire in the next few months.

Upon my personal finding on this matter, I kept this information secret to myself until now that I am contacting you. In view of the fact that the deceased customer is a foreigner (from a different country), it is officially important for the involvement of a foreigner who will pose as a next-of-kin. I will use my exalted position in this Insurance Company to present you as his Next of Kin as you can be his relative, friend or Cousin and the Money (US$15Million) will be safely transferred into your own bank account in your country.

Please include your Telephone/Fax number/ Home Address when replying this mail and I will give you more information as soon as you indicate your willingness to assist in this valuable transaction. I will use my exalted position here to get all internal documentations to back up the claims.

The whole Procedures will last only 7 working days to get the fund retrieved successfully without trace even in future. Please I need the following:
1. YOUR FULL NAME
2. PHONE AND FAX NUMBER
3. HOME ADDRESS/COMPANY'S NAME AND ADDRESS.
4. YOUR AGE AND OCCUPATION

The transaction will be done successfully and smoothly completed via email and phone. Send your full name, address and telephone number to me via email urgently today so and you call me for discussions as we will contract an attorney that will procure the documents that will cover you before the probate office as the next of kin to late MR. ANDREARS SCHRANNER. I PROMISE that you must be happy and shall rejoice greatly soonest for cooperation with me in this transaction. After successful conclusion of this transaction, we shall share the money 50-50 (50% for you and 50% for me).

I await your good response today.

Thanks and remain bless. I require you to maintain the confidentiality of this transaction because it is important due to the fact that I am still in active services to the Niger Insurance Company.
Your earliest and urgent response to this matter is very important.

Call me on my direct phone number for more clearification on this transaction.

I AM WAITING YOUR REPLY TODAY.
Kind Regards,
MR ONI ABRAHAM
DIRECTOR:(NIGER INSURANCE COMPANY )

Dear Mr Abraham, and O exalted one.

I have considered your proposal, and it seems sound to my non-lawyer brain, however I regret to inform you that I receive offers similar to this one, but are for substantially larger amounts.

As I must keep my own interests at heart, I must direct my interests to those that make the best offer.

I do hope that you can find someone more fitting to accept the benefit from someone else dying. As I try to help, I have forwarded your details to the Federal Bureau of Investigation. They might be able to provide some insight into tracking down a better next of kin.

Regards

Andy

-------------------
NOTIFICATION FOR CASH GRANT
This is to notify you that you have been choosen By the Board of Trustees of the above International charity organization based in the Italy as one of the final Recepients of a Cash Grant/Donation for Educational,Economic, social and Research developments in your community.
The Vittorio Foundation has established in 1977 by the Multi-Million group was conceived with the objective Of Human Growth, Educational and Community development. In line with the 28 years anniversary program this year, the Vittorio Foundation in conjunction with the European Council is giving out five Hundred thousand euro as specific Donations/Grants to 150 lucky international recipients worldwide in different categories for Business development and Social uplift of their various communities.

These funds are freely given to use for your business and educational development and your community development at large.
Based on the random selection exercise of internet websites and millions of Super market cash invoices worldwide, you were selected among the lucky recipients to receive the award sum of 500,000.00euro (five hundred thousand euro) as charityÂ donations/aid from the Vittorio Foundation in accordance with the enabling act of Parliament.(note that your email was selected from either theÂ nternet,after absolute viewing of your profile or a Shop's cash invoiceÂ around your area in which you might have purchased something from).

You are required to Contact immediately the OurÂ agent in the United KingdomÂ who is in charge of your grant with the email addressÂ below for qualification documentation and processing of your claims.Also, you are to contact back to this email when you have collected your 500,000.00euro.
Verification Agent
Mr Montero Smith
Email: withheld
Please endeavour to quote your
Qualification numbers
You are by all means advised to keep this whole information confidential until you have collected your donation,to avoid double and unqualified claim, due to beneficiaries informing third parties on cash grant donation.

On behalf of the Board, kindly accept our warmest congratulations!

Yours faithfully,

Mr. Gianni Mattioli.
Foundation officer

Dear Mr Mattioli

It is truly a remarkable age in which we live in where I can make transactions with cash for an item I “might” have purchased and somehow still get on a database and be a lucky receiver of a grant for such a substantial amount of money.

But I guess an organisation such as yours requires some discretion, as indicated by your yahoo email address.

Unfortunately I do not run a business, nor do I actively participate in the community, so I must decline the generous offer for a grant (that I did not apply for), as I don’t feel the monies would be put to best use.

After looking through my inbox, I have used my financial advising qualities (ie none) to analyse that there is a growth *chortle* in the penis enlargement sector. I have taken the liberty to subscribe you to many of their mailing lists, so you can keep abreast of any opportunities.

No need to thank me.

Regards

Andy

---------------------------

MR. WANG QIN.
DAH SING BANK LTD.
19 DES VOEUX RD.
CENTRAL HONG KONG,
HONK KONG.

I am Mr. Wang Qin, senior credit officer of the Dah Sing Bank Ltd.I have a concealed business proposal for you.

After the United State and Iraqi war, our client Hatem Kamil Abdul Fatah who was the deputy governor of Baghdad in Iraq and also business man made a numberedfixed deposit for 12 calendar months, with a value of Fourty Millions Five Hundred Thousand United StateDollars only in my branch.
Upon maturity several notice was sent to him, even after the war late this year. Again after the war another notification was sent and still no response came from him. We later find out that the Governor has been assasinated in Baghdad.
The websites below is a verification of the news abou his death:

(links withheld - Andy)

After further investigation it was also discovered that Hatem Kamil Abdul Fatah did not declare any next of kin in his official papers including the paper work of his bank deposit. And he also confided in me the last time he was at my office that no one except me knew of his deposit in my bank.

So, Fourty Millions Five Hundred Thousand United StateDollars is still lying in my bank and no one will evercome forward to claim it.

What bothers me most is that according to the laws of my country at the expiration three years the funds will revert to the ownership of the Hong Kong Government if nobody applies to claim the funds.
Against this backdrop, my suggestion to you is that I will like you as a foreigner to stand as the next of kin to Hatem Kamil Abdul Fatah so that you will be able to receive his funds.

THE PREREQUISITE OF THE PROJECT

I want you to know that I have had everything planned out so that we shall come out successful.

I have contacted an attorney that will prepare the necessary document that will back you up as the next of kin to Hatem Kamil Abdul Fatah,all that is required from you at this stage is for you to provide me with your Full Names and Address so that the attorney can commence his job.

After you have been made the next of kin,the attorney will also fill in for claims on your behalf and secure the necessary approval and letter of probate in your favor for the move of the funds to an account that will be provided by you.

There is no risk involved at all in the matter as we are going adopt a legalized method and the attorney will prepare all the necessary documents.

Please endeavor to observe utmost discretion in all matters concerning this issue.Once the funds have beentransferred to your nominated bank account we shall share in the ratio of 60% for me, 30% for you and 10%for any expenses incurred during the course of this operation.

Should you be interested please send me your full particulars including your private phone and fax numbers for easy communication, you can write me viathe above email box or fax me with this number

FAX: (withheld)
email me at (withheld),
and i will provide you with more details of this operation as well as my particulars.

Your earliest response to this letter will be appreciated.

Kind Regards,

Mr Wang Qin.

Dear Mr Qin.

After I stopped my puerile laughter at your unfortunate name, which is amusingly alike the word “wanking”, I did stop to consider your offer.

A share of “Fourty millions” dollars is quite tempting, however I am concerned that I may be labelled and possibly charged as a “profiteer of war”, something which I would like to keep off my record.

However, as you have provided me with links to a number of news sites, I can only feel but obliged to forward this email onto several media outlets. I feel they may be interested in what is happening to the assets of assassinated foreign dignitaries.

Perhaps they will be able to organise something for you.

Regards

Andy

----------------

Perhaps I’m wrong about high-falutin CEO-types. Maybe they’re not all corrupt people who delight in scratching each others backs in order to keep their wealth, or become wealthier. Maybe they really like targeting hotmail users as a conduit for laundered money…

Please note, this is all my spam from the past week. As there is a couple common themes running through them (ie "Have some money" and "complete bullshit"), I decided to share them with everyone.

Summer Stories

2005-12-09T09:53:00.000+10:30

Jen S, I know you've tagged me... and I will do that meme shortly... but I've got this other thing stewing away... and it's below.

Story 1

I was speaking to some friends last night. Their respective industries are retail, and construction. They had just finished up a long day, and were completely exhausted.

And because I was sitting down, scotch n’ coke in hand, in my suit, looking rather fresh, they decided it was time I learned their opinion on the working class structure. Of course, it came across in the whole “you office people have got it made” type of way.

“I would love an office job” quipped one.

“Yeah, you’re not on your feet all day” said the other.

Oh, if only they knew. They didn’t realize that the scotch n’ coke I was holding aloft was my medicine for the idiotitis I’ve suffered these last couple days. My suit was clean, although tell tale signs of worry were there, invisible to the untrained eye – loose tie, shirt sleeves rolled up, my normally spiky hair lying flat, and I seemed fresh due to the two minutes of marinating I did in Escada Sentiment prior to the day’s beginning.

I had the whole reply in my head.

“Do you realize how much I would love to be out in the open? I would love to get some exercise whilst I work as well! I spend my days working on as much of my tan that four fluorescent tubes can provide, and my eyes are completely shot after staring at a radiation tube from point blank rage for eight and half hours.

“If management had any idea, we’d all have laptops with wireless broadband, and we’d be doing our jobs whilst sitting out by the river, pina colada in hand.

“But then there’d be the Occupational Health and Safety concerns, what with wind burn, and all. So we’d have to install canopies. Come to think of it, that would stop the sunburn, too. But canopies wouldn’t let light through, so we’d have to get some illumination. But then we’d have young ruffians giving us a hard time, so we’d have to put in some kind of barrier to prevent them from getting near us. Oh yes, and security personnel would need to be employed just to keep our OHS people happy.

“Okay, so sitting outside is a bad idea, but I would still kill for some fresh air and some active work, like you mob have.”

I really should stop inner monologues earlier.

The End

--------------------

Story 2

As the weather gets warmer and the days get longer, the environment in Australia changes somewhat. Oh, not just the beauty of nature and the influx of flies that have been long dormant over winter.

But also, if you’re walking anywhere, you are privy to scintillating conversation with people who don’t have air conditioning in their cars.

Ah yes, the insightful dialogue of a car-full of round men who will stare at you when parked at the lights, and will then voice their constructive criticism of you when they drive off and are a couple blocks away.

Because nothing makes me feel more inspired than a person calling me a “fucking arsehole” when they’re 50 metres away. No really. It’s like listening to the glorious sweep of John Williams’ Star Wars theme. Really. No. Really.

I’m sure women have been exposed to the one-way dialogue of the beautiful, lyrical word, “showwusyatitz!”

But I do realize that these people are far more superior to me, and that I should be thankful that they’ve decided to give me something to strive for. I want to be like them, yes I do. I’ve just remembered that I got a hammer-drill for Christmas last year and I’ve been looking for a way to reduce the number of my brain cells.

Whilst residing in Adelaide, Ben Folds once wrote a song in where he states unequivocally that “There’s Always Someone Cooler Than You”. He obviously didn’t spent too much time walking the streets of Adelaide, because out there are the coolest people In The World™

Pity you’ll never get to speak with them, as they’re far too busy giving you their “in-your-face” attitude from a vehicle traveling 50kph away from you.

Oh how I wish, I wish I could be as cool as them. But instead I will have to make do with simply not spending my thousands of dollars on an object that depreciates like Nikki Webster’s “music” career, and I will have to reserve my in-your-face attitude for people’s face.

But this post makes me sound like some summer-hatin’, pasty skinned, bean pole who would much rather spend time indoors than out in the fresh air, which isn’t the truth. I don’t hate summer.

I cannot deny the red-blooded male in me. I wish I was as cool as these guys, because I really, really, really want to impress the myriad of beautiful women with gorgeous legs… because these car-bound epitomes-of-chic obviously do impress the lay-dehs.

I have no evidence to back this statement up, though… I’m just assuming. But the way they persist in this behavior makes me think that they believe they’re doing something right.

And of course they are. They’re heaps cool.

The End

---------------

Story 3

Dear Blonde Woman Who Frequents My Floor And Has Started Wearing Shorter Skirts Since The Temperature Has Gone Up

Please refrain from drifting lightly past my cubicle, as I am getting distracted. No really, I actually am distracted by your presence.

If I weren’t such a coward with stunning women, and if I weren’t so adept at smelling the stench of boyfriend, I’d ask you out for a drink instead of whining away on my blog.

I realize that prior to meeting you face-to-face, I actually had quite a few business dealings with you, and I was quite the arsehole, but I would like you to put that aside for a second and do me a huge favour.

Cover yourself up. Stop floating gracefully past. Don’t apply any makeup. Stomp around the floor like a Neanderthal. Don’t appear dynamic and sharp, yet delicate and feminine.

It’s intimidating, and you’re distracting me.

So in finishing, BWWFMFAHSWSSSTTHGU, if you could please comply to my request as soon as possible, it would be greatly appreciated.

Yours sincerely

Guy Who Is Kicking Himself For Being a Rude Prick To You In A Previous Role, And Has Suddenly Realised That He Now Encompasses The Stereotype Of The Geek Who Cannot Relate Well To Women.

The Year 2005

2005-12-06T09:17:00.000+10:30

I’ve been tagged by Steph from Much Ado About Sumthin! (link to her is on the right, and I haven’t the enthusiasm to type all that HTML… but I will type this excessively long explanation as to why I’m not putting the link in this post – which is just getting longer, and now it’s longer because I said that… and longer…).

I did have a post prepared on the infallible arguments of David Deutsch regarding silopsism, but then I thought, “Geez, who cares?”. Instead, I will embark on a meme in an effort to keep this blog ticking over, and to cover for my lack of imagination. (Oh, and Steph, I mean this in good humour)

1. What did you do in 2005 that you hadn't done before?

I lived in a year numbered 2005. I never did that before. I don’t think I’ll do it again, either. I did drive to Sydney, but that isn’t as rare as living in the year 2005.

2. Did anyone close to you give birth?

Personally, I’ve birthed the unfortunate ability to shove my foot in my mouth. As for offspring, no. My ex-sister-in-law is about to pop out the next anti-christ, but that wasn’t in the year 2005.

3. Did anyone close to you die?

I once held a soft place for my good friend “respect for the common man”, but I found out this year that it had died some time ago. Smelled a bit, too.

4. Did you travel? Where did you go? Best holiday memory?

I went to Sydney. Met some downright brilliant and charming people. Pity I couldn’t bottle them and bring them back to Adelaide. But knowing border control, they’d have to be quarantined.

5. Best thing you bought?

My ticket to Japan. Oh, and the lotto ticket that got me $25. I drank good coffee that week.

6. Where did most of your money go?

Investments. I got some cash after my house sold. Yes, I am the most boring person on the entire planet; “Oh, what did you do with your money, Andy?”, “Oh I invested it”, “What would you do if you won lottery, Andy?”, “Oh, I’d invest it”. I am a party that never stops. Ladies, call me now on 1800 BORES-A-LOT

7. What do you wish you had done more of?

Cavorting with gorgeous supermodels, driving a Ferrari Enzo, going to New York to have breakfast at Tiffany’s, and generally being a snobbish prat. But due to my never have done that before, and the unlikelihood of it happening at all, I’m going to be a disappointed boy for a few more years.

8. What do you wish you had done less of?

Moping. Drinking. Smoking (of which I am now 4 months without).

9. What kept you sane?

The cats. My family. The little red devil on my shoulder that tells me to burn things.

10. What drove you mad?

The white angel on my shoulder, telling me off for burning things. He should know that positive reinforcement works better on me.

11. What made you celebrate?

Settlement cheque for my house. Getting articles published. Having a vegemite sandwich – you gotta appreciate the small things.

12. What made you sad?

The media. Lots

13. How was your birthday this year?

Uneventful. Ladies, call me now on 1800-BORES-A-LOT.

14. What political issue stirred you the most this year?

Schapelle Corby and Michelle Leslie NUDE! NUDE pics here!!! Come and see!!!! They were good for google hits.

15. Where you in love in 2005?

Love is a state of mind induced from endorphins released when in the presence of a person… so no.

16. What would you like to have in 2006 that you didn't have this year?

An abundance of free time, and great big pile of inventive imagination. It’s what I need to achieve my New Years resolution.

17. What date from 2005 will be etched in your memory and why?

The date my ex moved out. Mainly because I need to remember that 12 months after that date is when divorce can start. However, as I will refuse to pay for it, I don’t see why I need to remember it. Okay, forget that date. Let’s go with March 26… because my birthday was memorable…

18. What song will remind you of 2005?

Like Steph, I have two. Green Day – Boulevard of Broken Dreams – not that I particularly like the song or band, but because it seemed to crop up everytime I turned on the fucking radio. Muse – Stockholm Syndrome.

19. Compared to this time last year are you happier?

Happiness is a state of mind induced from the release of endorphins when contemplating surrounds. So… yes.

20. Biggest achievement this year?

Driving to Sydney, I’d say. Not only for the achievement of travelling thousands of kilometres, but also because I didn’t see one alive kangaroo the entire way.

21. Biggest disappointment this year?

And once again, the winner is “The Media!”.

22. What is the one thing that would have made you more satisfied?

Bigger pizzas from Pizza Haven. A bachelor needs sufficient sustenence

23. Best new person you met this year?

The devil on my left shoulder. We have heaps of fun together. I can’t give details, due to an impending investigation.

24. A valuable life lesson you learnt this year?

That, no matter how hard you try, or how well meaning you are, your life will always be affected by the loud, obnoxious, yet determined fuckwits.

“The problem with the world is that the unintelligent are so certain, and the smart have doubts.” (That's paraphrasing someone else's quote...)

I will refrain from tagging people, as I’m not comfortable with it.

“No, devil! I don’t want to tag people! Leave me alone!! What? Huh…? Okay… pass the matches…”

Early Reflection

2005-11-28T13:26:00.000+10:30

I wrote last year about how I don’t fuck with Christmas; it has eerie powers. Well, this year has been relatively painless, what with the whole “Not Having To Buy For A Partner Plus Their Entire Extended Family” thing.

I’d say something like, “It speaks volumes for internet shopping” to somehow outline just how techno-savvy I am, and how my forward-thinking allowed me to avoid being crushed among the throng of iPod desperate teenagers and Soccer-mums bearing suicidal shopping trolleys, if it weren’t for the fact that I simply didn’t do any shopping over the ‘net.

Instead… I got all my shopping done on the weekend, as outrageous as that sounds.

It helps further that the only presents I had to buy were for my parents, my brothers and other miscellaneous friends whom have been there this year.

The idea of spending Christmas by myself is not one I dread, nor do I think it will be odd; Christmas always represented just another party that my ex and I held. We entertained constantly, and I’ve grown accustomed to a definite lack of dinner-parties, involving me cooking on the weber, and consuming vast amounts of wine or beer. Or both.

Faking my interest in conversations with my sister-in-law’s dumb-arse boyfriend is something I’ve definitely enjoyed living without.

Oh Christmas hasn’t got me worried one iota. It’ll be just another day, and I will come out of it bloating with food and brimming with scotch and coke.

It’s New Years that has me more concerned.

The previous New Years saw me spending much of the night drinking with a couple good friends, after having very little to eat beforehand. I had no appetite, due to stress.

It was a time in where the world seemed to spin uncontrollably, dizzying me with bright spotlights, loud music, and promises of uncertain times ahead. It was so confusing, to be out without my wife, knowing she was with someone else. I felt so unrestrained, yet so confused.

It must be how a caged animal must feel when it is returned to the wild.

I left the shin-dig fifteen minutes prior to the countdown to the new year. I was ill from not eating anything that day. I stopped the taxi just before my home so that I could walk off a bit of the alcoholic haze that enveloped me.

As I began my trek home, I heard the commotion from the city. Midnight had just skipped past. Many homes holding their own parties cheered and popped their poppers.

My eyes vehemently stared at their front doors, my mind selfishly wondering why everyone should be so happy, when the world around my shoulders was crumbling.

I cast my thoughts back to happier times, in where I looked forward to holding parties, or heading out with friends and with the wife. I remembered the laughter in my ears, and the antics reminiscent of many mid-twenty Australianites.

But I walked alone that night, with the fireworks at my back.

Further reflection reminded me of her selfishness. How nothing was ever good enough for her. No matter how hard I tried, I could never hope to achieve the lofty heights of her expectations. No matter how much I sacrificed for her, she still spent New Years Eve with another man.

2004 will be remembered by me with the final words I SMS’ed to her that night. I had married the woman, and had tolerated all her quirks. And remembering all the effort I had made, I sent her the text message:

“I am the most stupid man alive”

A Story Without A Story

2005-11-24T13:41:00.000+10:30

I had the undying compulsion to torture myself this morning, so I hastily turned on the television to the Today show.

Everyone’s favourite punching bag, Michelle Leslie (for non-Australians, she is an underwear model who was busted in Bali for carrying ecstasy tablets, was sentenced to three months detention – served retrospectively – and is now back in Australia) was being discussed.

I didn’t watch it for very long, but I heard the hostess, Tracy Grimshaw, speak a sentence, which made me want to switch off, run into my bedroom and punch myself repeatedly in the face with my tennis racquet.

Note to people overseas: There has been much talk about her selling her story to media, and the debate centres around convicted criminals selling their story.

Basically, these media pundits were saying that the media is regulating itself by not buying Leslie’s story.

Fuck off.

The only reason the media isn’t buying her story is because the many, many, many polls that news sites have run that ask the question “Should Michelle Leslie be allowed to sell her story?” answer in the negative.

So the way I see it now is that the media is stating:

“Oh no, we’re far too fucking morally grounded to pay Michelle Leslie for her story, because she’s held out on us for long enough, especially when the Corby’s so readily sold their souls to us. Everyone now hates Leslie, so instead of buying her story, we’ll demonise the girl for even contemplating selling her story, we’ll paint her up to be the hellspawn she is… because, hell… it’s what our viewers want to see. Besides, we can do that for free.”

I love how the media constructs these little win-win situations. Simply follow these simple steps.

Find a story of interest.

Investigate story.

If subject of story doesn’t want to talk to you, wait for another time to talk to them.

If story dies down, create a storm around subject.

Throw around some conjecture about their “connections”

When opportunity presents, offer money for story.

Subject wants more money.

Print stories on how they are money-grubbing parasites.

Ask audience if subject should sell story.

Public says no, because subject is money-grubbing parasite.

Print stories to vilify subject, saving thousands in process.

Reap rewards.

I find it odd that the media, who were seemingly interested in paying her money for her story, are now preaching that her actually selling the story is somehow “wrong”.

It seems a little stranger that they can fabricate a story out of someone who isn’t selling (or cannot sell) their story…

Ugh. Personally, I don’t care what she does. I don’t care what she did. The media circus is pathetic enough.

The DR Code

2005-11-17T12:52:00.000+10:30

It appears that I am the proverbial meat in the proverbial topical sandwich.

Out my west window is the hotel in which Donald Rumsfeld is staying.

Out my east window is the hotel in where Daniel Radcliffe is staying.

Here I am, stuck in the middle with view.

What a marvelous coincidence that these two have the same initials. It has the makings of a novel on par with The Da Vinci Code, except the story will have more tenuous links to conspiracies, will alienate readers for its excessive attention to detail, yet still contain plot holes the size of the Grand Canyon.

The DR Code is a tale of sordid plots to bring about the apocalypse, all triggered by the uprising of Doctors when two figureheads with the initials “DR” descend upon a small sleepy town that is a mere stone throw away from a large uranium mine.

The Doctors, simply not content with the pomposity and patronage that those two letters afford, end up halting the mail service with a bunch of “Return To Sender” letters, because they were addressed as “Mr Smith” and not “'Dr' Smith MD BA Ph OA STFU”

As the postal service is rendered more useless, it places an extraordinary burden upon alternative forms of communication. Email servers crash, phone batteries explode, and the Internet stops supplying pr0n.

Teenager’s heads explode as their SMS’s begin to be spelt without abbreviations and with full English and grammar.

The white collar workers become manic depressants because no joke emails come through anymore, and they have no excuse to goof off.

Bloggers resort to writing down their journal posts onto scrap paper and sticking them to telegraph poles, bus shelters and on the backs of passers-by. Litter abounds.

This increase in demand for paper causes the logging industry to flourish to the point where they harvest every last tree on the planet, causing irreparable erosion, sends species of animals extinct, and robs uni students of shade to sit under to write songs.

The music industry loses all credibility. Not due to the DR Code… just because its been heading that way for the past fifteen years…

At the middle of this is the sole public servant, and the irritable IT Guy who “Saw It Coming A Long Time Ago, But You Guys Wouldn’t Listen To Me, Dammit” to try and save person-kind.

They fail after the media vilifies them for trying to save the world when it isn’t in their job description.

Oh, and the human race dies. Because there’s no oxygen with no trees around.

Oh and the media dies. Because I hate them.

Pick the Fiction

2005-11-16T09:06:00.000+10:30

The topic is old and hackneyed. But I sometimes relish my bus ride into work. It gives me a chance to zone out for a bit, think some things through and maybe even plot out some things going on in my life.

However, this morning I was privy to being approached on the bus by a “Chatter”.

The Chatter is a parasitic creature. It spies you from afar, can tell that you’re irritable from not having your morning brew, and then pounces upon you with the gusto of a cheetah hauling down a wildebeest, feasting upon your irritability, and forced politeness.

“How are you?” it quipped.

I turn my head slowly towards them, slowly lowering my sunglasses to reveal the biggest and best “do I look like a fucking people person?” stare I can muster. I even do a slight twitch of the eye to suggest that I could crack at any minute.

They stare back unflinchingly, their grin almost splitting the top of their head off. I could swear I could see some drool dripping down the side of their chin, such was their deliriously happy visage.

“Fine” I coughed out.

Bad move. This signaled the green flag in front of a green-hating bull.

“Oh that’s good, the weather has been wonderful lately, and I had a lovely walk…”

I faze out, the rest of the sentence becoming vague drawl not dissimilar to how the teachers talk in “Peanuts” cartoons. I feel my eyes slowly leaning back out the window.

“… and you shoulda seen it!” they finished as they bump their shoulder into mine, yanking me out of my haze.

“Mmmmhmmm…” buzzes out my closed mouth. I crack my apathy with the fakest of polite smiles, and I exhale audibly out my nose in an exasperated and exaggerated sigh.

It appears that interpreting subtlety isn’t one of their finer points. They continue on chatting about some inane event that obviously is of import to them. I can’t remember what it was; such was my intense interest in the passing bitumen under the bus.

They laugh at the anecdote that just spilled past their lips, and they pat me on the shoulder lightly.

Right then some ninjas rappel down into the bus, unsheathing their katanas in an aggressive manner. They shout out words in Japanese, with the only words I recognize are “Chatter”, “Removal” and “Squad”.

Their eyes scan up and down the aisles, and all passengers sit bolt upright. The Chatter next to me carries on oblivious to the assassins nearby, a loud and annoying laugh escaping their throat periodically.

One ninja focuses on the Chatter. His eyes narrow. All the other ninjas turn to see what he has spotted.

There is a blur of motion. All the people on the bus scream and duck their heads, shielding themselves with their hands. Sunlight glints of the metal blades as they spin and twirl menacingly.

Then the ninjas are gone. The deafening noise of silence permeates the atmosphere. The Chatter that was next to me is no longer there, with only a small pile of shredded material the single indication that they’d ever existed.

The bus continues to roll on, and I turn my attention to the window, relieved to be simply left to watch what is passing by.

I made a part of that story up. Can you guess which one?

Needless to say, I am extremely irritated. Yes, people are simply being friendly, but it doesn’t mean that I want to be fucking friendly back. Thank you, Chatter, for robbing me of one of the single moments of the day that doesn’t bombard my senses with annoying crap.

Just a Slacker

2005-11-15T14:06:00.000+10:30

It’s been a while since I wrote something here.

I would love to cite reasons that are really, really exciting, like “I’ve been working for a secret undercover operation involving national security. Due to my full days of robbing people of their human rights, I cannot find a nearby computer from which to blog”

Or maybe “I’ve been painting the town red, blue, green and any other colour of the spectrum, so lock up your daughters/girlfriends cos I’m out there on the prowl, and cannot write a post”

I’d love to say that, if it weren’t for the fact that it was a filthy lie.

I’ve been scrimping and saving my pennies, like a miserly old bastard with a plethora of shoe-boxes under his bed.

Naturally, it gives me a helluva excuse if I’m ever invited to something I really don’t wish to attend:

“Yeah mate, I’d love to go your club for a round of drinks with your moron friends who eventually turn violent, inciting scuffles with some police officers, as often happens after one of them punches the bouncer after he tried to pull your mate off that girl he groped, which inevitably involves me paying for your bail… but, oh shit, that’s right… I gotta save for going to Japan.”

Actually, that above scenario was a lie - I don’t say “I’d love”.

But this newfound zest for saving has resulted in me throwing myself into work, insofar that I will stay back later, get in earlier and subsequently, impress my bosses.

Of course, this will make it either easier or more difficult when I eventually tell them that I wish to piss off overseas for a year, and can I please have 12 months leave without pay, starting next month, I’ll send you a postcard (not) okay thanks luvya bubye.

This will probably be said just as I have one foot on the plane, and am waving frantically like a drowning swimmer.

Actually, I’m lying again. I don’t say “bubye”.

Anyway, it’s not some bizarre black file mission that I’m on, nor is it my brimming social calendar that is preventing me from blogging properly…

It’s because… you know… I’m saving for Japan and all. Okay? Luvya bubye.

(Actually, truth be known… I’m just a slacker and cannot find a decent topic to write about.)

20 Things

2005-11-08T17:20:00.000+10:30

I’ve been tagged by little faerie whom likes to make observations within a small room, whilst residing in a small house. So, here are 20 things about me you may or may not know about me, if you were in any way curious.

1. According to my High School English teacher, I show a “flair in not applying myself”.

2. I hated teachers who had ideas that they were somehow akin to Oscar Wilde; I have nothing to declare but their delusion.

3. My favourite line is from Spike Milligan; “I thought I would begin by reading Shakespeare, but then I thought, ‘Why should I? He won’t read any of mine’”

4. However you may perceive my attitude on this blog, be assured that it is not an accurate representation of my personality… apparently.

5. I’m far less aggressive…

6. I am “competent” at very nearly everything I do, which is kinda depressing in a way. I’d slash my wrists in despair… but I’d probably only be competent at it ie good enough to make a decent wound, but not enough to top myself.

7. I have a tendency to phase out sometimes, often when something important is happening, or is being said. I get frustrated at this quirk, but then I see a fluffy cloud in the sky that resembles a creature from Jim Henson's workshop, and I forget what I was so frustrated with in the first place.

8. Obligatory obvious comment: I am in love with Japan.

9. I am sure that if anyone sees my passport photo, they wouldn't let me into the country. Kinda freaky lookin'

10. I have the photogenia of a vast panoramic view of a sewer channel. No matter how it is set up, I always appear drowsy, hungover, or uncomfortable.

11. My pinkies are bent. Not in the “Maaaan… I just smoked fiiiiive spliffs, and I’m totally, like, bent maaaaan.” They’re crooked. Not in a "politician" crooked way. As in, they’re not straight. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

12. When I’m leaving work, I tell people that “I’m Off”. Then when I tell the cute girl in accounts to “Fuck Off”, I don’t think she gets the joke…

13. Funnily enough, I don't make many friends in the workplace. I think I'm a mistunderstood comic. People think I'm weird.

14. When I was a kid, I wanted to be a cartoonist. But then I realized that I wasn’t anywhere near as funny, artistic, witty or downright talented as another kid in the class. We became good mates, but I would seriously curse him behind his back. I was a fickle child.

15. I have been told that I look like Matthew Bellamy, lead singer of the band, Muse. Personally, I don't see it. I have also been told I look like Freddy Prinze Jr. Personally, I don't wanna see it.

16. I don’t believe you truly know someone until you’re their enemy. I mean, everyone can act nice, but you don’t know their true nature until they dislike you.

17. This is probably a good time to outline that I tend to piss people off. Most of the time, inadvertently. The fact that I don’t know I’m doing it probably incenses these people more. Nothing frustrates like ignorance, I guess.

18. I love filling out those online questionnaires. Mainly because it gives me a chance to act like a child, and everyone thinks it’s funny… as opposed to immature.

19. I hate the final stages of any project. It always involves me having to push just that extra bit of imagination out in order to get over the line. Sometimes I don’t quite make it as I’ve exhausted my brain in the initial stages, when I have unbridled enthusiasm for the task. At the end, I usually just end up jotting some filler down, just to ensure I met the requirements of the task.

20. Um… I like stuff.

So, there you have it. I hate giving these things to other people… so I’ll leave it open to whoever would like to have a crack at it.

Reasons I Am a Moron #1

2005-11-08T11:56:00.000+10:30

Petstarr recently lost her phone. There is a lot of pessimism surrounding the loss of such a trinket, usually because everyone believes that when someone picks up a phone that isn’t theirs, they immediately begin ringing phone sex lines in Sweden.

Because, you know… there are no decent human beings left on the planet anymore, and we only want free dirty-talk and smut.

However, I must regale you with a story that is a shining beacon among the mire of stories regarding lost telecommunications-slash-techno-savvy-icon. Also, it is a chance for me to outline how fucking daft I am.

A couple months ago, I decided that I would go for a drive through the Adelaide Hills. No reason, other than I just wanted to go for a trip around the area I grew up.

Just near Mount Torrens, a lovely little town with little discerning features, the car started playing up a little. I’ll spare you the mechanical details, but it involved me pulling over to have a quick check. No major problems with the car (it was a small hiccup), so I continued on my way.

I get home, and realise that I cannot find my phone. I recently got myself one of those spiffy Motorola Razr’s, and I berated myself for losing my spanking new “item-that-obviously-speaks-volumes-for-my-importance-slash-coolness”.

I spent the entire evening walking around the house, ringing my mobile number from the landline, to no avail.

I quickly get on the phone to Telstra to bar all outgoing calls and SMS’s.

I search my car high and low, calling it from the cordless phone. I begin to get distraught. The clouds had rolled in, and a steady rain was falling. I have an awful feeling that it fell out of my pocket when I got out of the car near Mount Torrens.

I decide to not drive out there to look for the truant ring-tone-dispenser. It was dark, it was late, and I was heading that way the following day anyway.

I awoke the next day, after enduring dreams that derived pleasure from highlighting just how stupid I was (my brain likes to torture itself – I think it’s a sadist). I hopped into the car and drove for the forty odd minutes to the location I had pulled over the previous day.

And there, on the side of the road, totally intact, but a little wet and muddy, was my phone. I would probably even say that it looked a little forlorn, and a little incensed at being left behind. Phones can do that, you know. Hell, they can do everything else these days.

The battery was dead, obviously from me ringing it incessantly the night before. The screen was intact, and there were no signs of water seepage. There was a little grit in the hinge, but otherwise it was okay.

After returning home, I took to the hinge and USB slot with a toothbrush, and let it dry. After I was sure it was moisture-free, I apprehensively plugged in the charger.

I expected to hear a pop and sizzle. I await for any sign that I’ve ruined my new phone, and will need to visit my insurance company to lodge the relevant “I’m A Moron” form.

Nothing.

Then the battery icon flashes intermittently as a sign that the phone is charging. Every now and then, it beeps with the sound of a couple missed SMS’s. The phone appears to be working fine.

And looking at it today, you wouldn’t believe that I’m a phone neglecting, abusive, unfit-for-parenting-monster.

Some people would say that I’m incredibly lucky to not have had my phone ruined, stolen or run over by a passing rig. However, I simply cannot help but think that had I put the phone the pocket I usually do, the whole thing could’ve been avoided.

Moral to the story? Don’t change what isn’t broken. And if you’re abusive to something, cover your tracks.

Doing the Rudimentary Shuffle

2005-10-28T16:51:00.000+09:30

In this day and age in where perils lie everywhere, young travelers are only good for locking away for drug possession and terrorists are hiding in dingy corners and underneath overturned fridge boxes, the idea of taking a trip fills many with a feeling not dissimilar to dread.

Take the word “many” from that last sentence and replace it with “my parents” and you’ll get the gist of what I’m saying.

My parents fret too much. They believe everything on the news. In fact, if I wasn’t such a huge fan of their work, I’d be calling them right-wing-fundies-who-should-chill-out-more.

However, chilling out requires some pill taking these days, and I don’t want a background of substance abusing parents. I’m traveling and don’t need that publicity.

My folks fret at the idea that my brother lives in Sydney. Okay, yes he’s diabetic, but he’s 30 years old and should be able to look after himself. Should.

My folks fretted when I went to Sydney in June. I think that had a lot more to do with the fact that I was driving there, and that Sydney roads are reminiscent of a Mad Max (“Road Warrior” for you State-siders) movie.

It’s the whole “don’t get killed over there, whatever you do” thing.

But I was chatting with my best friend the other day about this phenomenon, and he raised a bloody good point.

“You could get killed by trying to cross the road” he said, and he regaled me the story of when he was in LA trying to cross the road. He instinctively turned his head to the right, instead of the left, to check for traffic. Nearly got sconned.

So, if - heaven forbid – that I decide to up and off this mortal coil, I would much rather have the story of my demise be “Oh, he was caught up in that awful earthquake in Tokyo. He died trying to save a Labrador puppy from a falling piece of billboard” over “he was cracked by the 5.13 Circle Line Bus at Victoria Square”

It’s the difference between dying doing something adventurous or doing something rudimentary.

Okay, I might’ve just jinxed myself. But if anything happens, tell people I just had to save the puppy.

About time...

2005-10-25T15:42:00.000+09:30

No news today… well, except one small thing…

I’ve booked my holiday to Japan today. In March next year, I’m spending two weeks rubber-necking around Tokyo and the surrounds.

The first week is doing the touristy thing. The second week will be spent at the dojo, studying.

You know, it’s never easy to save up for things like this. It’s only until you throw yourself into the deep end do you make yourself adapt to the situation.

Yes, I can afford this trip, but I will need to save a little (not a lot of) spending money, especially to spend two weeks in the world’s most expensive country.

I can feel the excitement returning.

Queries to My Cell

2005-10-24T12:50:00.000+09:30

It is a well known fact that not everyone in the world is very enamoured with their job. In fact, if murder wasn’t illegal, I’m sure many people would be wary of pissing off colleagues in the workplace. Or, for that matter… the people who are trying to help them.

Me: Okay, I will prepare [such and such] for you soon. Where shall I send the [item which the client is seeking]?

Client Who Obviously Doesn’t Want To Do Any More Work Than They Feel They Have To: To the same one as before.

Me: Which one from before?

CWODW2DAMWTTFTH2: You know, the same as before.

(a minute passes as I look scour our archives for any trace that we have dealt with this client before)

Me: The last record we have of your requests to us was back in March 05, in where you were located in [place] and working for the [section] section.

CWODW2DAMWTTFTH2: Oh no, that was ages ago. It was the one I requested after that one.

Me: If you could just give me the details I want, this could be solved.

CWODW2DAMWTTFTH2: No, I don’t think so. I think I’ll torture you for another minute or so.

Okay, so I made up the last couple lines, but if I wasn’t so tactful when representing the organisation that I work for, I would inform this client of the following information. By email, of course.

Deep breath.

“I deal with about one hundred people a day, each of varying ethnicities, emailing style, and general brain power. Not to mention that since March this year, our section has dealt with nigh on thousands of satisfied customers, and some who even have the exact same name another customer.

“So, you could say your name was Tom Jones, and I wouldn’t know if you’re the Tom Jones from 5 Dickheadeville Terrace, or the famous crooner.

“If you had just given me the damn information I asked for in the first place, you could’ve saved me the 5 minutes that Windows spent rifling through our archives for your name, and your problem would have been solved sooner.

“Now I know it may be unreasonable of me to ask a question of you, our beloved customer, because everyone knows we’re psychic, but too morally grounded to effectively predict the $19 million lotto draw. Besides, if we did win lotto, we wouldn’t be able to converse at length with our beloved, yet intellectually enfeebled clients.

“You know, the only reason I asked you a question was to actually hold you up. I like throwing spanners into works, even if I’m following office policy and established procedures.

“After I’ve chased this up, could I please trouble Sir Client for a kick up the arse? I live for moments in where I feel derided despite making my best efforts - I am the department’s whipping boy.

“It’s in my job description. Look. Right there. See?

“Feel free to call on me any time you like. I guess I will now remember your name out of the hundreds of people I deal with week-in, week-out. You’re moron #243. Any more requests similar to the one above will increase your rank a bit. Just so you have something to strive for, the person ranked #1 asks me the same question ten times, despite me giving the exact same answer each time.

“Everyone should have goals, you know.

“Anyway, thanks for your query. I look forward to many more head-bashing-on-desk moments like these. By the time I’m 37, I hope to be committed. Thank you again.”

*sigh*

I feel better now. A bit.

The Blame Shame

2005-10-21T12:04:00.000+09:30

This is a little inspired by the previous post.

Let’s look at a hypothetical situation. But interpret it metaphorically… please. Oh look, just humour me for a second.

You are driving along a main stretch of road. You travel along this road nearly everyday, as it is the quickest way to your destination. Sure there is a slightly longer way by a couple metres, but that defeats the purpose of getting from point A to point B.

Everyone knows a straight line is the way to go.

However, along this road is a bit of a dip – a spoon drain, if you will. Sometimes you don’t notice it and you crash right over it, a loud thump from your suspension the reward for your flighty attention span.

This seems to happen every day, too. It is doing untold damage to your car.

Do you

A) Blame the Department of Transport for laying a spoon drain in the most idiotic of places. You write a letter to the Minister, and gather signatures from their constituents.

or

B) Be a bit more attentive in your driving, believing that the damage on your car could’ve been avoided with a bit more alertness. Maybe you take the slightly longer, yet smoother, road.

Okay, it is a crude metaphor, but it’s Friday and I can’t think of anything else right now.

Anyway, my point is, most people I’ve known would have chosen A. Well… insofar is that they like to blame everyone but themselves, and expect everyone to bend and bow to their whim.

(If you look at that situation literally, most people would probably go around and choose B. Car parts are costly and maintenance is expensive. However… with the cost of fuel these days… Anyway, current economic climate is not my point)

Okay, so the analogy is false. My point is that it is far too easy to blame everyone else for the woes in your life.

The reason people don’t get promoted is because of that arsehole upstairs. The reason that guy has the hot girlfriend is because he’s rich. The reason friends leave us is because they’re jerks.

It’s not because you weren’t the best person for the job, that he spoke kindly and had an intelligent conversation with her, or because you did something wrong… oh no.

It seems far too easy to blame some force which is beyond your control.

Because, hell… if I got the promotion, the hot chick or the abundance of friends, I wouldn’t blame the knob upstairs, my bulking wallet or everyone else’s good nature… oh no.

I’d be patting myself on the back for a job well done.

However, it was said that good leaders are the ones who look outward when things go right, but look inward when things go wrong.

So, basically… if you read on this blog that I’m thinking that I might be to blame, it’s not because I’m being pathetically morose, insipid, or some poor-bugger-me parasite.

It’s because I want to consider all possible… er… possibilities.

Right before I blame everyone else anyway.

I never said I was a good leader. Damn stupid upbringing not giving me leadership qualities…

The Suspicions That Leave Us Cold

2005-10-18T13:54:00.000+09:30

ChickyBabe got inspired by Kenneth, and now it’s my turn.

Over the past eight years that I’ve lived in Adelaide, I have grouped up with people, spent time with them, and then we have all dispersed or fallen out. This has happened due to changing circumstances, relocation, or a misunderstanding.

Let me clarify the final point.

Many years ago [Michael] and I studied together. We used to head out, talk to women and basically lived like the standard 20 year olds we were.

[Michael] eventually met a lovely girl. She was bright, friendly and liked to laugh a lot. Those two were a good match. As a group, we got along famously, providing support wherever we could and enjoying the foundation a friendship should afford. We went out with large groups constantly and held many parties.

However, as time went on, [Michael] grew suspicious of me. He would watch me as I conversed with his girlfriend, picking apart the words said, and making his own interpretation in the subtext of my discourse.

He confronted me one day, citing specific conversations and times, hoping to catch me out in an undeniable prosecution case in the charge of usurping his relationship.

Naturally I denied it. His girlfriend was far from my type.

He was livid with me, thinking that I was manipulating the situation so that I could pick up the pieces of their shattered relationship and live happily ever after. I told him to fuck off and come back when he had pulled his head out of his arse.

He rang me a couple days later to apologise, and that he’d spoken to his girlfriend who told him that there was no threat from me. I accepted his apology. Since then I’ve bumped into them a couple times, chatted briefly and then moved on. I don’t hear from them anymore.

My friend [John] had a nice girlfriend. She was totally besotted with him. She was a girl who was very easy to get along with. One time we bumped into each other in a food court and had lunch.

[John] seemed okay with this when he raised it with me, and everything seemed normal. However, after that there were a number of occasions in where [John] informed me that his relationship may be in trouble. Both times I told him to communicate with his missus, and that everything should be fine.

Later, however, his emails suddenly became terse and aggressive. We no longer speak. I have a feeling he is glad to be rid of me.

I have female friends as well. But now it has gotten to the point where I do not meet up with them unless their boyfriend is with them. This is despite the fact that I was friends with them well before they met said partner.

For as good a friends I know I can be with people, I do know that they will stick with and support their loved one. I don’t expect otherwise.

But on each of these occasions, I had no desire to “steal away” these people’s partners. The funny thing is, when someone actively tried to crack onto my ex-wife (when we were together), I was expected to get over it, and if I snobbed them, I would be the one in the wrong.

But seeing as this whole “losing friends through suspicions” has happened on more than one occasion, I do wonder whether it is something that I am doing wrong, and if there was something I could do to prevent it happening.

So it appears that I shouldn’t see my own female friends without their partners around. If that sustains the friendship, then so be it. If I cannot chat with mates' girlfriends, then so be that, too.

I'm not jealous that girls are "stealing" my mates away. I don't hate that my female friends have found happiness.

I just hate misunderstandings. And naturally... because it has happened more than once, I can only think that I am doing something wrong.

Sophistication Enebriation

2005-10-12T17:08:00.000+09:30

Why was I not told? Huh? Was there an email that went around, and I wasn’t in the list? Was there a memo, and I’m far too paper-phobe to actually have retrieved it from my pigeon hole?

Has the fact that I haven’t had a smoke since August 17 made me an irritable prick?

Piss off.

Sorry, that slipped out.

What am I banging on about? Well, I forget, but you can be sure that it sucks, blows and probably would have a laxative effect if consumed excessively.

Oh yeah. Sorry. My nicotine-deficiency-induced-Tourettes got the better of me.

On the weekend I attended a farewell party (no Chris, not yours. Another one. I had the worst hangover after your farewell party), and I was informed by other peoples’ words and actions a certain startling fact.

You must be loud, obnoxious, and arrogant to be accepted.

Because the centre of the party seemed to revolve around a group of girls who drank to oblivion, yelled every thought that entered their head to all and sundry, and proclaimed as to why their state of being is somehow more enlightened than others.

And that last one is expressed by slurring, “I’m so much better than everyone”. Convincing, eh?

Or maybe she was being ironic. I dunno. If she was, then she is the master of comedy, and her wit and delivery far surpasses my vague understanding of humour.

“You should just believe and act that you’re so much better than everyone else” one advised another, just before taking another swig of Smirnoff.

I guess confidence is one thing - and yes it is good to be confident - however it seems that it is a blurry and distorted line between confidence and weapons-grade arseholism. Or idiocy-induced-cover-for-your-lack-of-confidence… I dunno. I’m not a psychologist.

The way these girls would interject over every conversation with an overbearing, nasal voice, and opine at length got irritating very quickly.

Maybe I’m getting old, and should accept that people aren’t perfect.

Maybe I’m just as bad as these girls when I’m inebriated, and I don’t remember acting that way (thank God).

Maybe if I had a smoke that night, I might’ve found it amusing.

Oh look, some people may like being around another person who unabashedly claims that they’re of a higher being (I’m not joking) than everyone else. I sincerely hope they have a great time in their world.

But I'll think they're a bunch of philistines.

Is sophistication a dying artform?

I’m currently reading Memoirs of a Geisha (I’m late in reading it, I know) and it paints a disturbing picture of a fine art that is disappearing slowly from the face of the planet. It outlines how the geisha is now more a novelty that belies the years of dedication a geisha commits to her being.

Yes, it is erroneous to compare today’s Australian woman to that of last century’s Japanese artisans, but it still seems (to me) that sophistication is slowly fading, much like chivalry in males.

Is sophistication an archaic notion?

Or maybe this is just indicative of the people I’ve been hanging around… Maybe I should get out more. Oh wait. No. There're smokers out there. Boo! Hiss!

Ego is a Pathetic Word

2005-10-04T13:51:00.000+09:30

So, I bumped into some of my ex-wife’s friends the other day. Yeah, it was a little awkward, but soon enough it all came out.

I gushed forth with just how much my life freaking rocks right now, and that my missus screwing me around actually turned out to be the best thing that had happened to me over the past five or so years.

“Yeah, you’re looking so much more happier now” one quipped.

“I always knew that you’d be the one better off” the other remarked in a surprising statement of support.

The warm glow I felt soon subsided after I realised that people can’t help but be supportive of the screwee rather than the screwer.

I regaled them with the various different happenings over the past few months, the trip to Sydney, the plans for Japan, the new (higher paying) job, the article publishing (they knew I wrote for the mag), the better social life and so forth.

I wasn’t three steps away from the departure of ways before my mind stopped and pondered: What the fuck was that?

For one, why should I prove anything to them? For two, since when was I such a gratuitous puppet of self indulgence and ego stroking?

The answer came quickly: Because I’m a petty bastard.

I’m sure many of us have been in that situation before. You know the one. When you strip away the enamel of conversation, you can roughly translate it as such:

“Hi there. Howzit goin’? Yeah, I’m great, and despite the fact that the person whom I considered my closest and deepest friend had been banging someone else behind my back, I’m actually fantastically better off. You know, that last remaining shred of my dignity floated away in the wind many months ago, and I simply must convince you of my state of being ‘over it’ by dot-pointing my various achievements since her exodus.”

It’s quite pathetic really.

But, funnily enough, this paper-thin veneer of relative bliss is surprisingly convincing, as I received an email from said ex-wife this morning.

“[Friend] told me she saw you at [place]. Said you looked happy.”

Correction, tiger. She said I looked “happier”. There’s a difference. That is “happier than I was with you” if you didn’t understand. Yeah. Burn.

See? It’s pathetic.

But oddly satisfying.

Anyway, I guess I should point out that I didn’t do any of these things over the past few months in an effort to spite her, or to prove anything to her. I did them for myself, as soppingly cliché as that sounds.

Because, quite frankly, she probably couldn’t give a rat’s arse about how freaking awesome I am at the moment, probably too enamored with her own reflection, and far too busy finding solace in her reasons for leaving.

So I guess the moral of this story is… when opportunity knocks, don’t forget to pander to your own ego.

Occupying Occupations

2005-09-26T17:07:00.000+09:30

I love meeting new people. Usually, it presents an opportunity to explore others’ ideals and listen to alternative perspectives.

Oftentimes, it’s a great way to see how people embellish on their occupation.

“I work in financial matters” I was told yesterday by a bloke I met at the Bay to Birdwood Classic event.

I thought, that’s a pretty cool way to say that you process accounts, and you enter data on a spreadsheet.

“I’m a project officer” another said, which I thought was one of the most important sounding ambiguities I’ve ever heard. What kind of projects, I pondered. Infrastructure? Employment?

“Just projects”

Ah… an officer gopher, I thought to myself, love your work.

However, for all my hoity-toitiness I present here, I must confess to being guilty. Hell, I never said I wasn’t a hypocrite.

I’ve often informed people that I “assisted in the production of ESL materials and [that] I moonlight as a freelance contributor to magazines”

Truth be known, I proofread and drafted a little, and my “moonlighting” consisted of the odd article here and there… when I found the motivation.

These days, I’m of the impression that when a person is describing their occupation, you can sum up its importance by how few words are used to describe it.

If someone tells you that their job is “being a key asset in the development and drafting of company policy”, it says that they fetch coffee for a policy writer.

If they are a “personal assistant to the Director”, they basically are the Director… but they don’t get paid for it (the Director usually says that they “Are responsible for operation and management of a unit that [benefits society in some way]”).

However when they use single words like “Lawyer”, “Architect”, or “CEO” you simply don’t fuck with them.

Unless they say “prostitute”… in which case it’s your call.

However, please note there are a couple of exceptions to this rule: Breakfast Radio Announcer, News Corp Journalist and Candidate For Presidency. If someone tells you that they do either of these jobs, they’re lying.

Everyone knows those jobs are done by robots.

Celebrity Calamities

2005-09-21T16:42:00.000+09:30

The adulation that some celebrities receive quite often amuses me. There was a heart warming story on news.com.au today of a young girl who had “the best day of her life” when she met a player from the Sydney Swans.

She broke down in tears whilst in his embrace, only to be nonchalantly told “… I just play football.”

Ne’er a truer word a spoken, I think.

I shan’t be harsh upon this girl, as I’m not familiar with the schoolgirl psyche and cannot hope to understand how they can seemingly devote themselves to an icon of prominence. Personally I have met a couple celebrities in my time, and the only thing going through my head is “Don’t do something stupid, don’t do something stupid, don’t do something stupid…”.

This is usually right before I do something stupid.

I don’t think breaking down in tears is an example of not “doing something stupid”, however we all know how soft us guys are on a woman crying… so maybe it worked in her favour.

However, if I was to break down in tears whilst hugging Megumi Okina, I think she’d probably run away quicker than I could say “psycho boy”. And I talk pretty fast.

But I guess that’s the difference between myself and this lovely schoolgirl; I haven’t really met a celebrity female that I admire, so I should reserve judgement. Having noted my previous experiences with fame, I really hope I don’t bump into any female celebrities that I admire.

If I may name drop for a second…

When I was 17 years old, I was standing around at Memorial Drive (tennis complex in Adelaide), waiting for my friends to finish their game in a tournament we were participating in. Pat Rafter (Aussie tennis player who now moonlights as an underwear model/part time nice guy or something) suddenly appears, walks over to me and asks me if I am using the vacant court nearby.

I think I stood staring at him for a couple seconds, akin to a puppy dog trying to comprehend the instruction to “sit”. I then gestured at myself as a wordless method of saying “Are you talking to me?”. He nods, and I then blabber something about how he can use the court and that I’m “just hanging around”.

We chatted for a bit, if by “chatted” you mean “he spoke and I mumbled back whilst shoving my tennis bag in his face for an autograph”.

I once got to hang out with The Tea Party, whilst they were rehearsing and jamming before their Big Day Out appearance. I am a big fan of this Canadian trio.

In my excitement to see them jam, I forgot to bring anything for them to sign. I had come straight from work, so all I had on me was my payslip.

So, I now have a record of my fortnight’s earnings with the autograph of The Tea Party on it.

Afterwards I was in traffic with the windows down (it was a hot day), and I was gushing to my (then) partner about how awesome it was to talk with them.

Next to us in traffic was the band’s Toyota Tarago, each band member and their driver staring at us, grinning.

However, there are the times when you realize that these people are simply human beings, and it brings it all into context.

I once bumped into Hugo Weaving (Agent Smith from The Matrix) on Flinders Street. Having enjoyed his work in The Interview, I felt compelled to simply say hello. However, his body language seemed to show he was irritated. The way he walked close the outer edge of the sidewalk in a vain effort to remain unseen, and the “fuck off” look in his eyes suggested that he wasn’t having a good day. He wanted to be left alone.

He looked at me, and I could see his mind tick over. The idea that he would have to tolerate another aficionado did not appeal to him.

I smiled politely and let him continue on his way.

From these three experiences I think I can conclude that whenever I am faced with a celebrity, I shouldn’t open my damn mouth, as that seems to be the precursor for stupidity to spill out.

So, if you go to a book signing by Tara Moss or Anne Rice, a premiere featuring Megumi Okina or a concert being covered by Maya Jupiter of Triple J, you can pick me out of the crowd.

I’m the one with my mouth sewn shut. Yeah.

Because I don’t want to come across as someone stupid…

"It's Just A Game"

2005-09-19T14:16:00.000+09:30

Well... when you lose, it is.

In the next chapter of what I like to call “Pub Epiphanies”, I was again sitting with Chris from Hello? Is This Thing On at a bar, discussing the behavior of certain strains of sport’s supporters.

Of course, Chris being from the Motherland (AKA England), we have both had different experiences of crowd types.

He’s seen the all-singing, all-dancing Barmy Army, and I’ve seen the padlock throwing, obnoxious and viciously abusive Convict crowd.

But disparities notwithstanding, we did manage to eke out the idea that people seem to obtain pride vicariously through the success of their favorite sports team, and that a team’s loss can be reason to question an individual’s prowess.

It seems that most of the sporting teams from this country do nothing but falter at the finish line, but that really doesn’t make me feel inadequate at all.

It’s not like a girl is going to turn her nose up at me because I’m from a country that has the second best cricket team in the world. I’ve got a cute Australian accent…

But a lot of bitterness can be tasted when the successful team likes to deride their vanquished foe. I mean, it’s hard enough to watch opposition supporters dance gaily in the street, blowing trumpets and gagging on ticker tape, without having one’s personal prowess called into question.

“Australia… rhymes wif failure really, dunnit?” one British reveller spouted out with his plumb accent after the English Ashes victory recently.

Personally, I’ve always been of the impression that it is far better to bask in the glory of victory, rather than revel in the sorrow and disappointment of others.

Mind you, after all the ribbing we’ve given the British over the past few years, what we’re getting now is probably our come-uppance.

To say now that “It’s just a game” seems to suggest the grapes are sour.

So at the end of the day, no matter what sport you’re following, the better team played the better sport, and if the better team won and the better supporters feel good about themselves, then good for them.

As for me… I’m having a beer. So there.

Waving to the rapids

2005-09-12T17:24:00.000+09:30

Oftentimes it feels as though the world is shrinking around my shoulders. The giant concrete pillars in which I toil do not shield me from shadows of my past. This city, this seemingly boundless canyon once seemed great place in which to revel in my anonymity.

People flowed around me like a river of bobbing heads and blank stares.

But it’s not the case now. Not anymore.

Persons whom featured prominently in my past have made the pilgrimage to the city. I don’t have a problem with this, if it wasn’t for the fact that I either have to correspond with them, and that I cannot walk down the mall without glimpsing one of them.

My ex mother-in-law works in my department. So does an ex-girlfriend.

The latter telephoned me today regarding a business matter of import. The feeling of reeling back, even whilst being seated, was a sensation I would not care to repeat.

As it serves as a constant reminder of how much of an idiot I was in a previous life. Also, it highlights how little affect I had on her.

The stunning realization that I have been foolhardy in my consideration of others did not come easily to me. In fact, many an hour had been spent in quiet contemplation, as I stopped and discovered that I had been the perpetrator behind ill-feelings; not the victim.

I would love to grasp a rock and lob it into the river, just to see which skeleton from the past I knock out.

I dunno. There’re many people I have met over the course of my life, many good, many bad. Many I don’t ever want to speak with ever again. Many I lament not remaining on good terms with.

I used to love going along with the flow of this city, but now all I feel is the suction of being dragged under with all these memories of the past standing dry on the bank, waving indifferently as I plunge past.

All I can think to myself is… this world is too fucking small.

Out of Brain. Please check back later

2005-09-09T13:14:00.000+09:30

I cannot gather my thoughts. I think they’re out of season now.

Older men with younger women, but older women often don’t have younger men. Why? Right now, I don't want to conjecture. I'm probably wrong. I'm sure it has a lot to do with perceptions, security, maturity and a whole bunch of morons.

I was having a few beers with Chris from "Hello, Is This Thing On?" last night. Some women were standing and sitting near us. I got up to visit the men’s room, only to find my seat taken upon my return. I had to reach over the girl to retrieve my beer from the counter. She got off the seat, and I said something about how I “felt rude” to take her seat, only to be met with the scorn of her friend who must’ve misheard me.

Fuck off. I don’t have time for petty crap like that. You stole my seat. You were between me and my beer. Grave offense in my book.

This new job is draining me. I spend my entire day explaining things logically to people before they claim they can’t do anything, and that I’m not helping them right. I then tell them that I am trying to help them, and they say I’m not, so then I help them some more, solve their problem mere seconds after I die a little inside.

News.com.au reported that two women in Sydney were sacked by their workplaces after a catfight broke out… over email. As amusing as the transcript of the emails were, I couldn't help but think, “This is news?????????”

I have a wedding to attend tomorrow. I’ll be the guy up the back screeching, “You fools! What do you think you’re doing?! Stop now! Save yourself the pain!” during the ceremony. I’ll then be gang-tackled by the four large groomsmen and dragged out the church doors by my ears. By my ears, if I’m lucky.

My ex-mother-in-law works in my department. I got an email from her expressing her remorse at what happened, and that she hoped I was well. She’s a lovely lady. I wonder where it all went wrong with her daughter.

Coffee doesn’t always cure fatigue. I’m living proof.

Where was I? I forget. My train of thought has de-railed, and all I can see is a bunch of council workers standing around scratching their heads, wondering how the hell they’re going to get it back on the tracks.

I’m consuming an ordinate amount of alcohol lately. I should lay off it for a while. Damn mild drinking weather.

Hopefully I’ll have something with more substance in a couple days.

Lucky Sevens

2005-09-05T15:01:00.000+09:30

Thanks be to Cadiz of Do They Read Obituaries in Hell? for merely alluding to tagging me to do one of these. I did have a small piece on the wake of the Hurricane, but this seemed less depressing...except the celeb crushes part... which is kinda sad, really.

Thanks Cadiz, mate.

before i die i plan to:

1) Drive at least one exotic car
2) Grow my hair into a pony tail, and walk around Adelaide saying the words “Sell, sell, sell!” into my mobile phone.
3) Learn a second language, and be decent at it instead of the fractured grasps of German, French, Japanese and Bogan Australian I currently have.
4) Cook for my parents
5) Provide something worthwhile for my kids
6) Obtain some form of enlightenment
7) Mooch off my kids when I’m 86

i can:

1) Make a fool of myself in public
2) Like Cadiz, analyze an evening/conversation/glance/songlyrics/movie to excess
3) In five minutes, find a DVD that someone has been searching “forever” for
4) cook a mean roast
5) Play tennis like a kid with tourettes
6) Cut through peak hour traffic like a hot knife through butter
7) Be “competent” at everything I do.

i can't:

1) tolerate disrespectful people
2) stand growing my hair longer than a couple inches, which makes one of the “before I die” things harder to achieve
3) see a movie starring Elijah Wood without thinking of Hobbits. This includes his appearance in Sin City.
4) See a movie starring Elijah Wood without feeling like punching something
5) tolerate Elijah Wood.
6) make a decent salad
7) Forgive without apology

say most:

1) cheers
2) mate
3) no dramas
4) Yes, Lady Halifax, I would love a cucumber sandwich.
5) Tool
6) Who did what to who now?
7) Red leather, yellow leather… I’m working on my enunciation.

attract me to someone:

1) Large eyes
2) cute laugh
3) Sense of humour that matches my own
4) Good references
5) Good fiscal assets
6) Good physical “assets”
7) Can be as tolerant of my faults as I am of theirs… but their faults cannot include “completely unfaithful”

celeb crushes:

The last time I did one of these I got reamed. But oh well…

1) Kirsten Dunst
2) Megumi Okina (lets face it, I’m a sucker for Asian girls)
3) Michelle Leslie nude!!! Nude! Pics here! Google search here for Michelle Leslie nude! Nude! Tits! Breasts! Body Paint!!! There… that should be good for some Google hits. Oh, and I’m joking.
4) Penny, from Inspector Gadget the cartoon.
5) Jessica Rabbit
6) Miss October 2002… Um… you know the name. She loved beach walks and wanted world peace… the name escapes me. Nice pair of eyes, though.
7) Kate Winslet… apparently the hottest yummy mummy out there. Apparently.

Realisations of My Naivete

2005-09-02T13:18:00.000+09:30

There has been about five different versions of this post. Most of them have been aggressive or angry, but I think I should just resignedly accept this little facet of my place in the paddling pool of life.

I wrote this a few days ago, but the news of getting an article published sorta superceded it.
----

Have you ever felt that you were right about something, only to be told that you were wrong? Are you then made to feel bad for being presumptuous, or suspicious or something along those lines?

However, later down the track you then discover that you were, in fact, dead-on right?

Have you ever had someone treat you like the gunk they scraped off their shoes, despite the fact that they were the ones in the wrong, and that they should be apologizing to you?

I have. A lot. There have been more instances other than these two posts indicate, some more recent.

It seems that people are so willing to protect their precious little egos, that they will fight tooth, nail, finger, knee, thumb and elbow to protect it, even if it involves degrading the character of an innocent party.

Normally, this kinda thing would sprout the most venomous of vitriol, reminiscent of some ochre waterfall cascading down a rock face and splashing heavily upon the withering and broken remains of those whom this is directed at, but… no, not today.

I’m tired. I’m fairly busy. And I’m getting used to it.

I mean, it is a little presumptuous of me to expect people to apologise to me when they screw me around, isn’t it?

I guess it’s a little naïve of me to think that people will take responsibility for their actions, instead of bullshitting some lame-arse excuse as to why I’m really to blame.

I guess I’ve been a little silly to have such lofty expectations.

Respect. Wow. Not until recently did I realize that I’m not actually entitled to any. I simply must remain as the peoples’ punching bag.

So the Inane Asylum has a deal for the first 50 emailers. You get to abuse me and tell me why I’m the person responsible for whatever it is in your life that is causing you anger, sadness or other feelings on the opposite pole of happiness.

I guess it’s what I’m here for.

If you see me in the street, walk up and punch me in the nose. I probably deserved it. If I punch you back, I’m in the wrong – such is my understanding of my lot in life.

People can lie and cheat me for a finite amount of time. If these people ever change their mind and think that what they’ve done is wrong, it’s not like they’ll ever tell me; Quite obviously I’m not respectable enough for that.

Back in Print... (confirmed)

2005-08-30T15:10:00.000+09:30

I got an email today from my editor. It turns out that a piece I submitted to him will indeed get published in October this year.

It’s good to be back in the game, especially since my last piece published was in December last year. Funnily enough, October was when my first piece was published.

I am sure the moment I mention that the article is for one of Australia’s largest independent videogame magazines, most of my readership will roll their eyes, mutter something about “boys and toys” and then click on.

But hey… it’s a bit of extra money in my pocket, and I get to see my name in print again. I feel validated.

Intelligence = Power?

2005-08-26T13:49:00.000+09:30

Men are smarter than women, it seems.

If I were a chauvinist, I would be leaping up and down with joy and proclaiming that stuff that we’ve known all along is now confirmed true… but I’m not one.

Besides… news.com.au published this story, and that has effectively scuttled any credibility that it might've had.

For nigh on a decade, I’ve been of the opinion that any discussion on which gender is somehow superior is… in a word, stupid.

In two words, fucking stupid.

In a society that pats itself in the back for preaching tolerance, and engendering a harmonious environment so that all people can live in comfort, that we still feel compelled to polarise the populace into two segments seems... stupid. Like, fucking stupid.

Yes, the two genders are different. There are strengths and weaknesses of each. Hell, if my future role is to simply remove the lids from jars and take out the rubbish, I’d be a happy man… as long as I get man’s wages. Heh. Kidding!

But, this whole “men are smarter” thing does rely on some pretty questionable evidence ie an IQ test of 24,000 students. Now, IQ tests in my experience have hardly been an accurate representation of how “smart” someone is.

For instance, I know a man who scored 142 on an IQ test, but he would dig stuck bread out of a toaster with a fork.

Yet, I can’t help but think that the “who is smarter” bit is ultimately pointless. For one, intelligence doesn’t equate to wisdom – which is better? For two, it’s never what you know, it’s who you know. And three, it’s not the intelligent ones who are most applauded in society.

It’s the good looking people who are most revered, respected and honoured. Just compare the coverage of Bali druggie Michelle Leslie (see post below) with the coverage of that bloke who got caught with hashish. Yeah… I don’t know his name; that shows how important he is. There was no news coverage, so he must’ve been ugly.

Ultimately though, the measure of which gender has the power in society can be summed up as thus:

Walking down North Terrace last year, a stunning young woman in a charcoal-grey pinstripe suit was walking the opposite direction on the other side of the road. As it was a safe perving distance, I watched her long, confident strides and her raven black mane with admiration.

… and I nearly walked smack into a bus shelter.

Years ago, I was driving on North East road. It was a hot day. A blonde woman was standing on the sidewalk, talking with friends. She was wearing cut-off denim shorts. I didn’t see much else, because I had to jump on the brakes suddenly to prevent slamming into the car in front of me.

So, are men smarter? Just ask the dopey looking bloke who is staring dumbfounded at passing women, drool slightly trickling out the side of his agape mouth.

---------------
EDIT: I've just been perusing the reader response to the news dot com article, and it's confirmed. We are living in the Dark Ages.

Position Vacant

2005-08-24T15:44:00.000+09:30

Want to see the tropics? Want to experience the fine cuisine that can only be obtained from sitting inside a gaol cell? Want an entire country to be your friend? Want to get your face into the media, both television and print media?

The Inane Asylum has the Job Opportunity of a lifetime*.

As one of the fastest growing drug cartels** in Australia, a vacancy now exists for young, gorgeous girls who wish to embark on a career of landing on the front cover of FHM, or those who wish to become the darling of an entire continent.

As a drug mule, you will be privy to areas of Bali not normally seen by everyday tourists, and you will experience a taste of Balinese culture*** rarely explored by Australians. Your face will become a national icon, and your name - along with many other variations of the word “breast” – will be typed into search engines for months.

Successful applicants will know how to break into tears in front of cameras, must be able to apply makeup within small confines, and must have family naïve enough to believe you would never touch drugs.

Modeling experience not necessary, but would be a bonus.

Please send all enquiries to the Inane Asylum, enclosing photos of the applicant huddled in a corner, tears streaking down their face****. Rich financiers are a bonus. Males need not apply, as you deserve every punishment your drug addled arse can take.

* Almost literally
** no, not really… but for the sake of this post
*** If being held at gunpoint is part of “culture”
**** In a 300 x 200 glossy.

"Journalism"

2005-08-23T13:33:00.000+09:30

Yesterday, right before I left for work, I snuck in a brief look at Channel 9’s Today Show. Normally, watching the Today Show leaves my eyes burning, my head pounding and my ears ringing.

And yesterday was no exception.

I caught the arse end of a story relating to pornography being available in Public Libraries. Now, some of you might think it erroneous of me to comment on a story I didn’t get the full gist of, but hey… the Today Show pisses me off.

They were interviewing a spokesperson for the Public Libraries, who cited lack of proper controls over the internet access, and that adult content could be easily viewed by any ol’ Joe/Joe-ette. This sounded like an interesting and insightful interview, but I didn't count on the attendance of the female prat who was conducting the interview.

I can’t quote her word for word, but this is what she said… paraphrasing is minimal here…

“But here at Channel 9, we’re in the information business… and we don’t have any problems with [people looking at pr0n]” the blonde creature squeaked out the television speakers.

What… the… fuck…?

Of course, what I fail to put across in my post here is that absolute smugness in this woman’s delivery of that question. Obviously it was to incite some kind of back-foot response, so that maybe she can get together with her friends down the vodka bar and they can squeal about how she roasted that Public Library chick.

Ah yes, gotta love the method of interviewing that goes for shock reaction rather than actual intelligent probing.

Back on track… Now, I’m no Dr. Anything, but the last time I checked there was a large difference between a television network that is run by the richest man in Australia, and a Government funded public library.

Did you know why they want people to be quiet in a public library? Because - if you listen hard enough - you can hear the sound of squeaking wheels coming from inside their computers. This squeaking is from the hamsters running around to power the things. That’s right… they can’t even afford grease for their hamster wheels.

Also, the last time I checked, the public don't use Channel 9's computers to look at the internet. I think the worst thing to show up on their search lists would be "ethical journalism", "lefties" and "unbiased opinions without sensationalism"... things which Channel 9 seemingly are vehement in their opposition of.

As far as I know, the only thing stopping the public from accessing questionable sites in libraries is the threat of a wrist slapping... not being fired.

But, I’m not Dr. Genre either, but the last time I checked, Channel 9, or even the Today Show wasn’t in the “info-biz” either. I thought they were more of the “Entertainment Business”. But hey, I guess it’s only semantics.

In order to gain some insight into the “information” that the Today Show offered, I decided to peruse their archives.

And who could do without such valuable information as the following?

Fat Wives Have Their Husbands to Blame

Today show's wedding of the year!

James Bond gadgets

Thank whatever Gods are out there that we are privileged to view such “information”. Thank the other Gods that we have blonde women with long legs and fake tans delivering our “information” to us in such an unintelligible manner.

Hell, if this woman is “informative” enough to make it onto television, then maybe there’s hope for some people out there with “talent”.

Violent Changes

2005-08-18T20:08:00.000+09:30

Gawd, what a crazy couple days.

I’ve started this new job, and it’s going to be hectic. Whereas before, I was huddled over my computer screen, killing time between smoke breaks, now I’m run off my feet and on the phone to all corners of the state.

It’s good to feel useful again.

I wasn’t exactly tops at my last job, and I couldn’t really get enthused about the work. Funnily enough, I was in the business of publishing materials that taught English as a second language… and funnily enough, I want to go to Japan to do just that.

But before I left the last job, I was on the phone to some people from overseas. I just love some of the stereotypes that Australians have as a result of a certain hot headed, knuckle-dragging celebrity.

“Don’t get into any fist-fights…” the guy from our London warehouse told me in departure.

“You’re going to telecommunications, eh? Don’t throw any phones at people!” Another said, the smirk on his face obvious in his voice.

Yeah, thanks Russ.

I’ve also heard a couple quips from some British people on television. If they’re not thinking Australians are a bunch of sheep lovers, they think that we’re violent. All because of an “Australian” who goes about throwing punches at most passer-bys.

For those who don’t know, Russell Crowe is actually from New Zealand.

Of course, I have to let you know my response to these smart-arses who decided to take-the-piss out of me right before I moved onto my new job.

I talked very softly into the phone, so it appeared as though the line was bad. After they said something about the line being bad, I slammed my phone receiver on the table. Repeatedly.

I’m sure their ears are still ringing.

Australians are violent indeed… Pfft…

Oh, X… you guys will win the Ashes.

A list to offend

2005-08-16T13:04:00.000+09:30

Posted on Honeysmack’s blog was a list of 30 things that guys should know about girls. It has some fair points, I believe, and I couldn’t help but throw my hat into the ring.

However, this has seemingly dobbed me into writing my own list, but vice-versa – ie 30 things girls should know about guys. Frankly, I see nothing but a stern dressing down from the females who frequent this blog… but hey… I’m only a male.

Bear in mind that the only qualification I have to forge such a list is my chromosome make up and my two brains, so this list is borne from my personal experiences… expect a little ire… don’t take it personally…

1. If you tell a man that “nothing” is wrong, despite the fact that your body language, red face, livid eyes and shouting tone of voice suggest otherwise, he will only assume that nothing is, in fact, wrong. Men believe verbal language before they believe body language.

2. Do not use the technique known as the “silent treatment”, unless you’re hoping to forge a relationship of spite.

3. Guys like sex. Lots.

4. Guys like lots of sex. Lots.

5. If you want help, ask for it. Guys often dislike being chided for getting in the way, so we sometimes simply stay out of your way. We believe that the female psyche is often volatile depending upon moods, societal concern, stress, political worries and dare I say it, cycle, so we are of the belief that the only time a woman wants help is when she asks for it.

6. The male psyche is quite different to a female’s. There are times of malaise in where a man will simply stare blankly ahead in a momentary period of rest, or a mini-meditation. If you ask a male “what are you thinking about?” during this torpor, he will respond blankly with the word “nothing”. This is the truth.

7. If you don’t believe that he is thinking about nothing, then he is probably thinking about something you don’t want to know about… or sex. Lots.

8. The male ego is a precious thing. Boost it every now and then with some positive reinforcement.

9. Motorsport and ball sports are a sacred right to view for many males. He’ll go to a chick flick with you, but respect the sacred ceremony that is the “weekend footy”

10. If he regales his friends with stories about you, it isn’t to deride you. It’s because he’s proud to have you. Either that, or he’s an ugly prick who will never, ever get a woman as hot as you.

11. If he does something sweet, it’s because he wants sex. Lots of it. The male must remain as appealing as possible to incite the mating ritual. Also, the male is aware that a good cure for a headache is sex. Think of another excuse.

12. Lying about menstrual cycle to negate his lustful advances is not on. Ever. Never… Period…

13. Appearing “pussy whipped” is an innate and primal fear of every male. If he’s ever dismissive of you in public, be assured you’ll get the affection back ten-fold once behind closed doors.

14. He has female friends, and most likely they are ones he finds somewhat attractive (he wouldn’t keep them around otherwise). Take heed that he chose you over all of them, and that is actually a compliment.

15. A guy’s tough exterior is only skin deep. Insults cut him like you wouldn’t believe. Unless he’s an emotionless tool.

16. He looks forward to his birthday, because he knows he can ask for sex without scorn. Be prepared for it. To be honest, it’s probably the only present he wants…

17. If it’s serious and you must meet the parents, his mother is always going to scrutinise you. Smile and be a happy person, and if that doesn’t work, then keep doing it.

18. Before you came along, his head was in a trough full of food, and the vacuum cleaner had more dust on it than in it. Comment on the cleanliness of his unit, and how dinner smells nice.

19. Your paying the entire bill at a restaurant brings his manliness and his ability to provide into question. If the bill isn’t split, then he must pay for it in its entirety. Don’t challenge him on it.

20. If threatened by another member of his gender, especially regarding you, be prepared for the verbal equivalent of elk butting heads. The mountains will echo with the cracking of horns locking. It happens sometimes. Link arms with him.

21. The first outfit you chose was more than good. You looked stunning. You’ll get that exact same opinion even when he’s surveying you from inside the car, honking the horn for you to hurry up.

22. A boy’s night out is equally as important as a girl’s night out.

23. A man’s dog is his best mate. They drink together, play together and sometimes work together. You must get along with his dog.

24. Drive his car with the tentativeness as though you were lullabying a baby to sleep. He’s very precious about it. If you want to show him how brilliant a driver you are, do it in your own car and not his pride and joy. Remember… he’s precious.

25. If you want to surprise him for whatever occasion… just get naked.

26. Nagging may get the job done, but it’s immensely frustrating. Instead, promise him nudity and watch that leaky faucet seemingly fix itself instantaneously.

27. He hates clothes shopping. For either him or you. With a passion.

28. If a female is bothering him, you have every right to scratch her eyes out. This has a two-fold effect; he will be assured that you’re really keen on him, and him watching two women wrestling on the ground will probably turn him on.

29. In a lot of cases, he won’t understand the appeal of some of your music. You will never agree on this. It’s only a small thing.

30. He probably won’t like your cat.

Some of those things are tongue-in-cheek, and some are not. If you’re offended by any of these, then that item is tongue-in-cheek. If you think it’s insightful, I intended it that way.

And naturally, I don’t speak for all males…

Message in the Not Mail

2005-08-12T13:09:00.000+09:30

Has anyone heard of the therapeutic technique in where you write a letter to someone, but not actually send it? It’s good to get things down on paper, just for your own sake. It makes it easier to articulate your thoughts, and then plan on the action you must take.

I’ve tried it, and yes… I can conclusively say that the technique is actually bullshit.

So, I’ve gone and designed my own technique. It’s called, Writing A Letter And Then Blogging It So That The Entire World, Except The People It’s Directed At, Can Read It.

I call it the “Sky Writer Says Fuck You” technique.

So, without further ado.

Dear girl who works in the café down the street from my workplace.

I don’t know who the fuck stoked your fire, but looking at me like I’m failing at suppressing some terminal bout with flatulence doesn’t really enamour me to your business. I’d be tempted to give you a tip if you perhaps didn’t slap my food into my hand as though you were passing the baton in a 100 metre race… but… wait, no that’s a lie. I wouldn’t tip you full-stop. You’re not cute, and I’m shallow that way.

(tipping isn’t customary in Australia…)

Dear Male P Plate Drivers

Just because I drive a car that looks prettier than yours, it doesn’t mean I want to have a drag race with you at every set of lights. I don’t feel like I have to prove my driving prowess, or my car’s power output to little twerps like you. Besides, have you seen the cost of fuel lately? I’m not made of money, you know.

I don’t think Daddy would like it if I told him what you really do with his car when you tell him you’re “ducking down to the shops for some milk”.

As you also have to wear those lovely plates on your car that automatically brand you as a knuckle-dragging, antisocial terror, I know which one of us would get pulled over by cops first. Heh. You may be younger than me… but I’ve got… um… I’ve got… er… hmm.

Fuck off.

Dear The Instructor On Tuesday Night

An instructor is there to inspire others, to teach people the ideals and philosophies behind the subject. They are to encourage, support and provide feedback.

Instructors do not force their pupils to jump through hoops, show off how much better they are at the subject, nor do they portray some “I’m Top Shit” air and show off. Just because you got your black belt recently, it doesn’t automatically mean that you’re some fuckin’ oracle, and that we are all in awe of you.

In fact, I picked up some flaws in your teachings, but I didn’t want to tell you. I’ve seen the way you look with contempt at people of a lower belt than you, so I doubt you’d listen to me. I learned long ago that ability lies with what’s in your head, and not the colour wrapped around your waist.

If you’ve got a problem with this, I didn’t say it. It was the guy next to me. Go beat him up.

----------------
I feel better.

Depp Impact

2005-08-11T14:59:00.000+09:30

Johnny Depp’s work of recent times has been lauded, due to his inexplicable ability to bring something unique to the characters he portrays. From the staid entrance in What’s Eating Gilbert Grape through to the unanimously applauded depiction of Keith Richards in Pirates of the Caribbean, people simply cannot get enough of his talents.

And it is sheer talent, and imagination that he possesses. Let’s face it. He’s changed the way I look at actors, as I was once of the impression that for an actor to be considered “good”, they must play a character that has some form of mental illness.

Forrest Gump, I Am Sam, Rainman, The Hours… need I say more?

He’s made acting into a craft; an artform – instead of merely reciting lines well enough to make it convincing. His ability simply surpasses the vague gestures of the characters played by Hanks, Penn, Hoffman and Kidman et al.

He shows that acting is as much a creative skill as painting, writing or composing political election speeches.

But his uniqueness has brought about a heightened amount of scrutiny it seems.

From the reviews I’ve read about the upcoming Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, his channelling of Michael Jackson has left some people with a… wait for it… bitter taste in the mouth.

Whether you take that line as a neat little play on the chocolate theme, or some other sordid line regarding the allegations of which Jackson was absolved, it’s up to you.

Some people are finding it difficult to fathom that Willy Wonka is some creepy fellow, instead of the chirpy little urchin that dances gaily about in the novel, or the eerily reserved visage from the first movie. But I guess that’s just the thing.

Too many people are comparing this to the first adaptation of the novel that starred Gene Wilder, which was incorrectly named and featured some bogus scene of Charlie and Grandpa Joe flying about, belching.

I don’t remember reading that part… the soda was mentioned briefly in the novel, from what I can remember, but they never participated in drinking the stuff. Either way…

But again, Depp has assumed a persona that he believes befits the character - a rather brash selection of a real person, I’ll admit - but one I believe that is fitting. The subsequent discourse of whether Depp’s portrayal of the confection hermit is befitting has only served to reinforce how great an actor Depp is.

Any piece of art that is revolutionary, forward-thinking, and memorable is often a piece of art that is controversial. Depp’s composition of Willy Wonka has definitely spoken volumes for his aptitude in his art.

Anyone who derides his performance in this movie must have erroneously formed a preconceived idea of what Wonka must be… which is stupid.

I wonder how the people reacted when Picasso first unveiled Les Demoiselles d'Avignon, cos I imagine people would’ve had some preconceived ideas of art in their heads before viewing.

Oh, and one last thing… and this is off on a tangent… but I’ve been meaning to say this for a while; Roald Dahl was a far better children’s author than JK Rowling… there, I said it.

Back In Print. Maybe.

2005-08-10T16:49:00.000+09:30

After much absence from contributing to magazines, I decided to throw my hat into the ring and knock up a quick article.

It’s been nine months since my last piece was published, so I sincerely doubted that the editor would remember me, and subsequent discussions with other freelancers in Sydney didn’t exactly paint an optimistic picture.

The editor had always been most helpful with me in the past, and quite approachable considering the prominence of the magazine. I’d initially thought he would’ve been quite snobby, but I was wrong.

He was on holidays until today, and I didn’t think I’d hear back at all, but I just got an email from him, asking how I was going and that he’ll take a look at my article.

Still… that’s not confirmation of a published article, but if other editors are anything to go by, he didn’t have to reply at all.

Maybe this is the kick I need… I need to get writing again.

I cast my mind back to when my first article was published. Seeing my name in print had a certain… er… what’s the word… geez… uh… I dunno. Gawd… and I’m a writer???

It felt… good. Duh…

Until you realised that it was just text.

Meh. Either way, even if the article gets rejected, the editor’s simple gesture of getting back to me is a tiny piece of positive reinforcement that I should continue on, until I get published again.

Like I said before… one step at a time.

What was everything to me...

2005-08-09T08:41:00.000+09:30

I guess we all need goals to strive for; something to inspire us to keep going to grasp the star that seems just beyond our reach.

For the past month or so I’ve been lying flat on my back, resting on the broken leaves, and soaking in whatever spoils I could obtain from my withered life.

Yet the battered foliage has bore some fruit of desire.

As I cast my eyes around me, I can see the medals of surviving such an ordeal. The new laptop whirs in front of me, beckoning me to resume work on the novel. A myriad of new suits hang on my wall hook, swaying lightly in the breeze of the heater, just wanting to be worn – hoping to make my appearance glossier.

The new car keys sit on the bench, desperate for another drive to inspire.

At the bottom of my laptop screen in the Task Manager, I can see the Excel Spreadsheet that has mapped out the rest of my life financially, even taking into consideration factors simply beyond those who cannot perceive the future.

Photos from my sojourn in June remind me of events afore, and that eerie time of limbo. However, I walked out of that period inspired to surmount many hills and jump gleefully atop the many summits.

But at the moment, I rest.

I stare up at the sky, and I can only see a few stars, but none are within reach at this point in time. They are far too distant to even bother trying to extend my arms.

Long time objects of desire now adorn my walls, a clear reminder of my new path. There are no more forks in the road. There are no more branches in the path. No more choices. No more grasping. Not for now.

Even from the mixed metaphors in this post, I can see the malaise seeping in. But I have chosen the path with less underbrush, and I must tread the dust.

One step at a time.

Is this malaise? Is this boredom? Or am I simply tired… tired of climbing hills?

Muse’s song “Dead Star” blares out of the speakers in my face, which seems relatively apt at this point in time. Where is the muse in my life? Why are all my stars seemingly dead?

The lyrics assault my ears: “You used to be everything to me, and now you’re tired of fighting…”

But in this case “you” isn’t a person… it’s my goals.

Brother... sigh

2005-08-08T11:42:00.000+09:30

Whilst this topic may have been discussed ad-bloody-nauseum, I can’t help but feel that I must say something about an opinion article written today on news.com.au.

And people must know by now that news.com.au is one of my favourite whipping boys.

I must commend Sophie Marchant’s brash and shameless outing of herself as an avid Big Brother fan, as I know that many people hide their affection for the show behind the hoity-toity demeanour that the beast actually repulses them. However, I might merely suggest that she’s might've got the wrong end of the contestants' point stick.

Whilst some of them might actually go on this show in some form of brazen attempt to gain popularity in forging out a career in “the biz”, I cannot help but think that this really isn’t their overall goal.

I mean, where else can you get an all expenses paid trip to the sunny areas of Queensland so you can sit around drinking, playing games and basically acting House with a bunch of other, like-minded people?

People value experiential things more than material ones… so all in all, I think these contestants just want the experience.

The last time I checked, no other holiday agency offered the chance to live like a celebrity for the minimum of one or two weeks… and for free, except for a little cost to the dignity.

So why splash out all your hard earned cash on a trip where you have to watch your finances like an eagle on a field mouse, when you can have a TV network pay for the entire she-bang?

Why do touristy things when you can act like a complete tool, and then have a TV network practically thank you for doing so? You know, “Thanks for being a prick to that girl; the audience lapped it up like a thirsty dog at a dam. Here’s a car for your ‘work’, now run along.”

And the cost of entry, like I said, is the priceless surrender of your pride and dignity.

Is the value of an experience of a lifetime equal to what your giving up? Some say yes.

Big Brother: The Holiday for a New Generation.

Note: This post has been formed solely upon what I've picked up from news articles relating to Big Brother, and I haven't yet sat through an entire show for the past three seasons. Yes, that's right. I like Big Brother for the articles...

Accentuating Cutesy

2005-08-05T14:43:00.000+09:30

In my post flu delirium, I had to catch a bus into the city to go pick up some crap that I needed.

Usually, catching a bus in Adelaide is equally as tormenting as catching the SuperFlu, but today I walked off feeling relatively amused.

There were a bunch of kids of high school age travelling with me. As kids this age are wont to do, they were speaking really, really loudly. Fair enough… I expect that of them. However, one of them seemed to be an exchange student, and she had a fairly thick accent… if I had to gander a guess; German.

She had that German accent tinged with an American one. Obviously had an American English teacher.

Anyways, she made a remark about another passenger’s sunglasses, and then regarded herself as rather “fashion-able”.

No, not fashionable. Fashion able. “Able” pronounced like I was saying “I am able to string two words together”.

However, I did not look upon this linguistic faux pas with scorn, or derision, but one of endearment. Her accent actually made it sound pretty cool.

But then I stopped to think. If I has said the same thing, people would think that my grasp of the English language rather deficient, and that I'm some form of moron.

However, it does make me want to travel to a country that has a language I cannot speak well.

I like the idea that if I say something stupid, people will look at me as though I’m cute… instead of looking at me like I’m deranged.