Philosophy and Seven Shades of Crap

I really should go back to my martial arts training. I’ve been out of it for so long, that I feel that I’m becoming rusty like the old tractor that has been sitting in the field for too long. My steps that were once light and sure are now heavy, dragging and awkward. My stance was once self assured and proud, but is now something of a hunching slouch.

I picked up my katana the other day, only for it to feel unwieldy and cumbersome, whereas before it felt like a natural extension of my arms.

My idle thoughts lately have usually been of everyday worries, monetary problems, spiteful lashes at life and wistful hopes of winning the lottery, whereas before it used to be a touch more philosophical, splashed with replays of what techniques I learned, and of feeling in tune with the surrounding environment.

I’m slowly slothing back into a mainstream life of avoiding discomfort as much as possible – a life that will surely breed a low threshold of emotional tolerance.

A smart kid once directed me to an article on kuro5hin.org that outlined that comfort and pleasure are quite closely related, despite their differences in definition. Put simply, pleasure is that burst of happiness you receive when, say, you eat a big meal after being desperately hungry, or when shagging your partner whom you haven’t seen for months. Whereas comfort is the distinct absence of worry, sorrow or other undesirable vexes.

Therefore, how can one feel a heightened sense of pleasure without having experienced discomfort? Outside of intoxication by either chemical or herbal assistance, that is…

This philosophy rang particularly true when I went on a camp for my martial arts training. It entailed rising at 3am and training until 10pm (with short breaks for breakfast, morning tea, lunch, and dinner). A lot of the time, you were fighting against your aching muscles, and your mind was constantly protesting that the body simply could not take any more abuse.

But I survived. It was a testament to the idea that the brain can become so accustomed to comfort that it seeks it constantly and can forget what it’s capable of. However, the heightened level of pleasure I derived from simply sitting down was immense. And once the camp was finished, being able to have a nice, long, hot shower and then flake out on the couch with a pizza and a beer was akin to drinking ambrosia straight from wherever the hell it comes from…

Angels, help me out here…

It was these realisations, these discussions of philosophy and these chances to learn exactly how the mind and body (and soul, if you believe in the existence thereof) operates that I lament not experiencing. I feel that I must continue with the training so that I can learn more about these things, and possibly enlighten myself further.

One of the black belts is offering private tuition. That might be a good opportunity to ease myself back into it again. I think all of my repressed anger from the separation has dissipated… besides, if it hasn’t then the black belt will ensure I get the seven shades of crap beaten out of me.

Oh, and I want to go back to training because I don’t think I am able to hurt people anymore. I want to learn how to do that again… natch.

Melancholy and the Infinite Apathy

Last Saturday marked the completion of my 27th lap of the sun. So, in true midlife-crisis style, I am going to list my achievements over the course of my life.

• I graduated from High School with low-flying colours.
  
• I have been ranked in the state for volleyball, but missed out on sponsorship because I simply wasn’t good enough.
  
• I have tried out for Norwood Football Club Senior Colts, but wasn’t good enough.
  
• Got a myriad of “Most Improved” trophies from my local football club, which really is “The Guy Who Should Get A Trophy, But He’s Not Good Enough To Get Anything Else”.
  
• Have played tennis, and reached a level where I was good enough to get an opportunity to mingle with people like Jim Courier, Pat Rafter, Andre Agassi, Todd Martin, and Stefan Edberg… due to my playing in a tournament that ran alongside the major men’s international tournament being played at the time… not because I was a that good a player of the game.
  
• Have obtained a green belt in Judo. Haven’t pursued it any further due to injury… from football and tennis.
  
• Have obtained a brown belt in Ninjutsu. I am still studying it, so I’m not sure how far I will go.
  
• I am a Grade 4 CAMS official. Haven’t been going to motorsport events recently, due to lack of real motivation.
  
• I have completed Radio School, but didn’t pursue the career due to my hesitancy to travel beyond my home area at the time.
  
• I have worked in a videogame store. Didn’t stay because I wasn’t good enough to be put on the roll full-time.
  
• I have been employed at an onion farm, where I pulled weeds out of a harvester in 40 degree (Celsius) heat. Left that job because I got another one.
  
• I have worked at a Motor Museum in their events coordination area. They couldn’t afford to employ me for more than 12 months.
  
• I have worked in a Minister’s (politician, not the religious type) office. Wasn’t good enough to stay there.
  
• Started work in a Commissioner’s office. Stayed there for four years, yet through restructures, I was employed by five different organisations.
  
• Been a Project Officer, handling a budget of roughly $200,000. Didn’t feel good enough to continue with it, and moved onto another role.
  
• Have worked in various positions throughout IT. Didn’t get the permanent, good paying job that I had acted in for a year due to my not being as good as someone else in an interview situation.
  
• Have had three relatively mediocre (in hindsight) articles published in Hyper magazine, one of Australia’s most popular videogame publications.
  
• Am working as a Marketing Officer for a Publishing unit.
  
• Am working on a novel, which hopefully will get published, but going from previous experiences, it probably won’t be good enough. Well, that won’t stop me from trying anyway…
  
• I have been to New Zealand twice… both times before those Lord of the Rings movies came out, and before it became trendy to go there…
  
• Have been married.
  
• Have separated from wife, due to my not being as good as the bloke she left me for.
  
• Am dealing with subsequent culture shock. Hopefully I will be good enough to surpass it.
  
• Might be going onto TV, pending whether the show’s producer deems me “good enough”. If successful, I will have used the 15 seconds of fame allotted to everyone, and will move on with life.
  

Funny… it seems like so much more has been achieved when I go over it in my head. But I guess when you see it trivialised into dot points it seems rather under whelming. Also, the significant amount of times that I mention “not being good enough” (or words to that effect) it is rather disconcerting. If I were a pessimistic person, it would be natural to conclude that I am cursed by mediocrity, and that I should stop trying so hard.

But that’s only if I’m pessimistic, which I don’t believe I am.

Having written that, though, I do feel a certain sense of dread when it comes to facing the world. It’s almost as though I’m becoming antisocial, based solely upon the fact that whatever activity I partake in, the end result is ultimately the same:

ie waking up alone, save for a splitting headache and an overall feeling of average-ness.

Another side of me does actually wonder what the point is in worrying about being an everyday schmuck. Well, to answer that… there is no point to it. I know that I simply must keep trying if I am to make anything of myself. On my deathbed, I’m not going to look back and say, “Well, at least I saved myself a heap of suffering by succumbing to shallow self-preservation, and by not taking chances”

I got some luggage for my birthday, which forced a realisation that my travelling overseas isn’t just some pipe dream anymore. It’s becoming very, very real now, and to simply bail out of travelling for the sheer reason of “Why Should I Fucking Bother?” would be letting myself – not to mention the people who gave me said luggage – down in a big way.

Well, here’s cheers to grabbing life by the horns. I would like my tombstone to read something like “Here lays a good man… but not good enough. Yours sincerely, Life.”

Filthy Addicts. The Lot of Us

In true defrag style, I am finding myself deeply fascinated by surveys, and what their findings show about us as a society. The latest one to crop up is telling us something that I’ve suspected all along; we’re all filthy addicts.

I must admit to fitting in with the majority of respondents of this survey, in that I simply cannot function without some form of caffeine coursing through my veins like petroleum through a fuel line (damn Clipsal 500 hangover is dicking with my analogies), and I often shun daily tasks to do something more stimulating.

But that’s not because I’m addicted. I’m just a terminally ill procrastinator. I don’t necessarily buy my morning coffee because I need the kick, but more to do with the fact that walking down to the café, ordering my brew, waiting for it to be prepared and then walking back takes up 15 minutes of my day, which would normally be spent filing crap away into my “general” file or responding to annoying emails.

Much ado was made about the shooting galleries in Kings Cross, in where heroin addicts may receive treatment for their vices – as well as a hit - in a controlled and clean environment. Not to detract from heroin addicts as their dependence can be quite debilitating, but I must ask, where are the facilities to treat us caffeine-whore procrastinators? How I would love to announce to my colleagues, “Hey, I’m just popping out for some ‘treatment’, did you want me to pick you up a Danish or a Croissant?”

But coffee isn’t the only “harmless everyday compulsion” that Australians indulge in. It seems that a fraction of them are addicted to exercise (!).

And if I needed any further proof that this country is largely inhabited by nutbags, then that’ll do nicely. Being addicted to exercise strikes me as being somewhat similar to being addicted to shoving rusty nails through your temples. Sure, it serves a purpose but it’s painful as all hell (the purpose of the nail shoving exercise being that you need a full frontal lobotomy to function in today’s society).

Whilst I do exercise a bit, I can’t exactly say that it is an addiction. It’s more something to do to pass the time when I’m not at work or when I’m not drinking coffee.

The survey also revealed that women are more likely to be shopaholics than men. Amazing revelation, eh? Well, not really when you stop to consider that the words “woman”, “shopping” and “spree” are almost synonymous to the point where we refer to the females of our species as “spree-females”.

Another hapless addict is preyed upon by an opportunistic consumerism pusher

You know how most couples have soppy little nicknames for each other? You know, like snookums, sweetie, baby etc? I’m sure that my little name for the ex was something along the lines of “You bought what now?”

But it’s good that Reader’s Digest comes out with surveys like this. Now I know that the next time I see someone dart over my back fence with my DVD player tucked under their arm, I’ll stop and think, “well, maybe they need to fund their everyday-impulse habit.”

Beer is a Piece of Peace

I love cafés. Just when you thought that it was relatively easy to order some food, and have everything clearly displayed for you, ie contents, price etc, cafes decide that it that display the price to one decimal point.

So a latte isn’t $2.50 anymore, it is simply 2.5. I will note the exact time and date when the waitress tells me that my brew is, “Two and a half dollars, love.” That will be the day that I unsubscribe myself from the Human Sanity Project Newsletter, and conclude that the country has finally purchased its one-way ticket to Hell on Jetstar for $3, not including airport taxes.

Is minimalism some form of increasing a certain panache factor? I don’t know.

On the flip side of the coin, making a withdrawal at a bank ATM requires me to enter in the amount of cents I require… despite the fact that there is no such slot for the dispersal of coinage.

If café owners and the ATM designers met up and had a think-tank, they could quite possibly devise some form of menu design/ATM concept that would actually be easier to fathom. It’d be one small step to a utopian society in where people won’t have to endure inconveniences. After that, we must knuckle down on the task of ensuring there is some kind of universal law on which way the toilet paper is hung.

It’s baby steps, people. But, if we can nail this problem down, then we’re on the right track.

Lets change tack for a second.

I like to think that I go through a week, and am able to make some form of realisation, earth shattering or otherwise. Last week I learned that no matter who you are, what background you have and what your heritage is, you always act the same as every other toolbox when you’re on the turps.

I had the privilege of going to the street party that runs alongside the local motor race, the Clipsal 500. The typical demographic was participating; the redneck yokels who believe their self worth is validated upon the amount of cylinders and litres their fuel-sappers have mounted under the bonnet. They were typically loud, obnoxious types who stumbled around like a fawn trying to walk for the first time.

However, I also had the privilege of attending a food and wine festival down at the beach some weeks earlier. The demographic there was of the cosmo-reading, coffee sipping, art appreciating types, who would only be concerned with their car when it’s a nice day to take the roof off, and cruise down Rundle Street as a poseur. However, they too were loud, obnoxious types who stumbled around like a fawn trying to walk for the first time.


Beer. A big piece of pavement on the road to world peace

I love the possibility that two societal poles could actually harmonise with the excessive consumption of alcohol. Maybe it could resolve some of the world’s major problems if leaders could just sit around a table, down a few drinks of choice, and then marvel at how similar they actually are, and then find a compromise that benefits both parties… maybe world peace is right around the corner.

… unless someone’s religion eschews booze… then we’re all fucked.

But then maybe alcohol could help those afore mentioned leaders to help design an ATM that uses fewer keystrokes…

Just a Job

I’ve noticed I’ve spent far too much time blogging, which could probably be attributed to the lack of scintillating work to be done around here.

Write this, copy that. Provide multiple ideas for simple advert content, update website content. And so forth. Hardly the most stimulating of tasks, and not exactly time consuming.

However, whenever I describe this job to someone I know, or have just met, they look at me with the kind of envy not unlike what was seen on the faces of some women when viewing Princess Mary, or some guys who meet Mark Webber, or from someone who has blissfully slipped into the deepest recess of dementia.

Whether it’s because I somehow make it sound much more glamorous than what it actually is, or whether these people have occupations with a thrill factor that rivals counting exactly 150 M&M’s into a packet, I don’t know.

Or perhaps no one ever believes that their job is great, and that it’s just a job.

If that’s the case, I sometimes wonder whether Mark Webber has aspirations to shun the world of motorsport, and forge out in a career of creative flower arranging.


"Left turn. *sigh* How dreary. This corner could use some bright yellow gerberas to spruce it up..."

People also seem to assume that I’m some kind of genius who has studied at university for a lengthy period of time, and passed with flying colours. Again, fallacy. I’m simply someone who has had cards fall in my favour, over and over again, and now am suffering from the Jack-Of-All-Trades syndrome.

Considering my age, I should be earning more money than I currently am - if I was to do that stupid exercise of comparing myself to others of my generation.

To find an occupation that stimulates would be superb, instead of hopping from one project to another. Hopefully I will find it before I finish this damn novel that I’ve been working on for the past six months (on and off, due to conflicting priorities). At least then I can finish the thing, see if it’s worth publishing, get rejected, and then move on with an entertaining occupation.

If I must take a leaf from my mate, the 18 year old barchick at my local, I wish my goal was as simple as, “I wanna own a pub”.

To know that someone 8 years my junior has clear-cut and concise goals is kinda worrying, and that they can sum up their life goals in five words is disturbing. Ask me right now what my goal is, and I would respond with something along the lines of, “not sleep at my desk, and have one day of not entering crap on my blog.”

Another day, another failed goal. And my goal was still more than five words!

Volleyball is Greener

“The Grass Is Greener On The Other Side” is a hackneyed phrase that is paddled about in a manner not dissimilar to a bunch of beginners slapping around a beach volleyball. It usually relates to people in relationships who often ponder over the possibility of being single again.

Which is funny, because a lot of people who are single are trying to hop the fence to the field of Relationship. Not all people… just a lot.

It’s amusing that when you’re on one side of the fence, you don’t notice that the field on the other side primarily green due to all the weeds…

Last night I decided to take a stroll down the beach. I had no reason other than I simply wanted to do it, which for me is reason enough. As I worked my way past the Grange jetty, I watched the beginners slapping around a volleyball like some hackneyed phrase pertaining to relationships. I stopped to give some small pointers (I played volleyball in my teenage years), and then continued down south towards West Beach.

The wind was cold and sharp. A young couple were walking their tiny dog who immediately ran up to me and yipped. After a few nips on my heels, and a brief chat with them, the coupled smiled and continued on their way. I did likewise, although my ankles did sting a bit, thank you sharp puppy teeth.

The sun slowly submerged beneath the horizon, which I viewed parked on a bench somewhere near Henley Beach. Like a wave lapping up on the shore, a feeling washed over me, cleansing out all the worries and problems that have been needling me lately. It was a reassuring sense that finally awoke a realisation I should’ve made a while ago.

This is freedom. The price of this freedom is a slight form of loneliness.

To be honest, considering where I am at the moment and what my plans are, I’ll take the freedom - with no fries - thanks.

As per an entry I made months ago, I have to appreciate this freedom before it is dead, killed off in a gory display of love and affection from my future partner, whoever she may be.

Oh, and to the joker who subscribed me to the Yahoo Haha list, very funny. Maybe it’s me, but I thought those things were meant to be humorous…

But thank you, nonetheless.

Airport key to better life

If you want to exercise every individual's given right to jingoism, then take heed of a poll that was reported on news.com.

I’m not sure what qualifications or experiential criteria you need to conduct such a survey, but I’m sure they’re something along the lines of “must be able to cast broad sweeping generalisations based upon factors that you’ve read about, also considering the price of a cappuccino in the CBD”.

Which is why I’m sure somewhere like New York would score poorly.

It seems that, for some reason or other (other than bragging rights) people in general seem to take such lists in high regard and therefore identify their value based upon their place of residence. Having lived in Adelaide for all of my life (other than a stint in the Hills as a kid and teenager), I’ve been subject to many little digs at living in what is considered a country town with delusions of grandeur. Well… I think the word “Hole” has been used most often, which serves as an indicator of how inarticulate Adelaide-hitters can be.

But to get annoyed at these little jibes is quite possibly the most stupid thing ever. In fact, it’s probably why Adelaide gets ribbed so often – because we’re the only ones who arc up at any suggestions that we’re inferior. Kinda like the psycho little kid in High School who wants to be taken seriously, but only gets dirt kicked in his face.

But personally, I don’t take it… personally… when someone suggests that the town I live in is not too dissimilar to a concave shape in the ground. Mainly because 1) I didn’t make it this way, 2) I don’t think that my attitude/intellect is reflective of the city (who ever does?) and 3) I can always move.

Because I’m sure that simply moving to Melbourne raises my IQ by 3 points. Judging from the average crowd at the MCG on footy day seems to suggest quite the opposite, although to say as such is to be making a broad sweeping generalisation not unlike what I mentioned before.

I would love to live in Brisbane, even though it has slipped seven places (and is therefore below Adelaide) on this list. Sydney doesn’t strike me as wondrous as everyone perceives it, and Melbourne seems to be pushing me away for some reason. Perth looks okay, and Hobart would be interesting. But that’s just me.

Apparently, according to this article, it takes something as specious as an airport to decide whether a city is liveable or not. Which is funny, because I thought the magic rocks on Sir Donald Bradman Drive were just as effective. But if I am to believe this article, I am seriously irked to know that Adelaide’s new airport is due for completion in October. I curse the fact that my current place of residence will become more “liveable” around the same time I plan to leave for Japan.

Hmph.

But it’s funny. I didn’t stop to think that a city could be made more liveable by building something that would welcome more big-arse and noisy planes to fly over residential areas. How narrow minded of me.


"Flight 318 to Adelaide Airport... your order of 'liveability' is due to arrive at 1300 hours, please block your ears at around that time..."

In frosty territory

It’s good to see that despite the intelligence of the human race, there are still traces of visceral, primal elements in the psyche.

Take my local pub, for instance.

As I mentioned in a previous entry, I’ve been frequenting a local watering hole mainly because… well… because I can. In this process, I befriended a female bartender, as well as her sister. However, the local barflies have their favourite bartenders, and the reception to my presence has been not unlike sitting on an iceberg, during winter, drinking an ice cold can of Coke, given away from the back a Black Thunder.

And don’t I wish that all Black Thunders would crash into an iceberg... but that’s another topic.

Anyway, it probably doesn’t help that these two girls seem to enjoy chatting to me.

So it seems that my presence threatens these males, due to me not being a sleazy 50-year-old fuckwit who wanders around pinching the bargirls on the arse, draping my arms over their shoulders and pecking them on the cheek at every opportunity, so therefore I must be more appealing to these girls. Right?

As a result, these males have been exercising their influence over their “territory”, and have been coercing me to leave. I think it even got to the point where one of them threatened to punch me out.

I just love the territoriality exhibited in these males. I liken it to magpies, hopping from tree to tree, all chattering amongst themselves as they conspire to swoop on the outsider. However, in this instance, they were afraid that I was stealing one of their mates... so that analogy was a little false.

Lets just say it was like a group of dirty old men that chat amongst themselves to intimidate the new guy so that he won’t steal away the girls that they’ve tried propositioning for the past 12 months or so. Well, it was kinda like that, if your definition of “kinda” is something along the lines of “exactly”.

So, rather than stick it to them and challenge their right to intimidate and annoy me, I have simply opted to give the babies their rattle, and I will leave them alone. I think I’ve got far better things to do than hang out in some dank pit and whittle away my years. I’ve got a whole world out there to impact upon, and I can’t do it whilst parked at a front bar, Cheers style.

Besides, she asked for my phone number. So there’s no point in going back there just to be confronted by juvenile, immature, pathetic wankers.

On a different topic, I feel I must offer a retraction to a previous entry I made, in where I inferred that confidence isn’t the only attractive trait, and that other traits can be equally appealing.

It seems I was a bit misguided. Speaking to a myriad of different women over the past few days seems to suggest that a fair majority of them prefer someone with a bit of confidence about themselves. Only a slight minority said that they’d find the challenge in a shy person satisfying.

There you have it. I was wrong. So shoot me. I am only male, after all...

... and for a bit of low-brow humour, here's a picture of Prince William - possibly the most clean, refined, dignified and classy of the British Royals - taking a stack.


"Kemosabe, I can hear horses... a couple of them... about four feet away..." 

To not cop a licking

I have changed the title around a bit lately, seeing as my blog has shifted focus somewhat. Also, it sounded tacky, and I like to portray an air of style, grace and class, lined with just the right dosage of pomp.

Besides, the title was ripped from something that Adam Spencer once said.

So, I welcome the Inane Asylum. Classy, eh? Anyway, moving along:

I really do pity the females of our species. If they’re not being judged, objectified, scrutinised or clubbed over the head and dragged to a cave by their hair, they’re being expected to behave in a certain manner lest they get accused of “leading someone on”.

So many women I’ve spoken to lately seem to lament not being able to simply act “normal”, because they fear that guys (or even some girls for that matter) will simply take their good nature the wrong way. Because males are morons… predominantly.

I learned years ago that just because a woman sits and chats with you, touches you on the arm during conversation, or smiles at you periodically, it doesn’t necessarily mean that they’re contemplating romantic notions. It could just be the way they are. In fact, this could be one reason that most men think that women are totally beyond any form of comprehension.

Of course, this makes it hard to exactly determine whether a girl is genuinely interested. What I’m seemingly suggesting is that unless a girl is sitting on your lap, licking your face, she’s either interested in you romantically, or she’s a damn good sport to help you out with your amateur porn movies.

But I don’t mean that at all. Just licking your face is a sure sign, though… I’m sure… yeah.

My point is that I don’t envy females one iota. To simply instigate a conversation with a new person is a risky process, and it would constantly require a gauging of the guy’s reactions to certain conversation strains, and then directing him to a topic less to do with her, her life, his buff pecs and his convertible.

Then there’re the stories I hear about girls being accosted in car parks when they get off work... usually because some bloke misinterpreted her good nature. But it must be hard to determine which people are the gentlemen, and which ones are the deprived nutbags.

But through the beauty of evolution, social trends and ingrained instinct, women have developed what are commonly known as “razor nails” and “heat-seeking knees”. It is a shame that it isn’t often exercised, as I’m sure it might assuage some fears.

Because I’d imagine it would be hard to think that someone is leading you on when their hooks are in your eyes, and their knees are in your crotch.

Personality Smoke and Mirrors

I’m not writing this in frustration or anything. Nor am I yearning for any kind of relationship, and am in the throes of trying to wrest some coherence in the extreme bewilderment associated with woo-ing the opposite gender.

I am simply amazed at the amount of people… mainly men… who believe that to be successful in obtaining a partner is simple matter of “being confident”.

Okay, sure. You need to have some confidence in order to approach someone and put your ego on the line, but I simply fail to believe that exuding a trait that might not be an intrinsic part of your personality is the key to sending the ladies swooning like insanely fanatical groupies.

Because I am certain that whilst some people might be attracted to someone who is self assured, there are an equal amount of people who might perceive that as arrogance, pompousness and weapons-grade arseholium.

Besides, these people might actually conjecture that you are simply hiding some form of deep-seated insecurity.

Also, seems that defining “confidence” is largely subjective.

I went out with friends on Saturday night. We walked into a bar (said, “ouch”... hawhaw), and I started chatting away to people. I laughed, drank, laughed some more, chatted to people, drank much more and basically had a good, relaxing time.

Yet, one of the people who attended mentioned to a friend of mine that I was “nice, but a bit shy.”

Now, I think I speak for 100% of the males who are currently writing this blog when I say, “Eh?”

Correct me if I’m wrong, but I was always of the opinion that being shy entailed being quiet, reserved and unsure – traits that I wasn’t really exhibiting that night, I don’t think.

I love digression.

Where was I going? Oh yes. Confidence being the only attractive thing. Horseshit. I am sure that some women like a shy guy. To be able to “bring him out of his shell” would be rewarding to some women, I’m sure, and would lend itself to a feeling of empowerment, or even exclusivity.

But, seeing as I’m not exactly qualified to comment on what women feel when in the company of males, due largely to my own male-ness, keep in mind that this is all purely conjecture. However, if I am to act in a manner that is unlike me, then I’m only going to attract someone that I’d probably not enjoy the company of.

But if I am supposed to appear more confident than how I was on Saturday night in order to shake this “shy” tag, then people are asking far too much of me, and should fuck off.

Oh, and yes, I do realise that the fact that I am actually quite shy makes me a hypocrite, but I’m not the one on trial here… leave me alone.

Damn this Insight program. My mind seems to be focussing on relationships now, and I’m sure that there are better things to ponder.

Smacked Around With An Irony Bar

I love the little ironies that life throws at you sometimes.

I haven’t even been separated from my wife for 2 months, but suddenly my opinions on relationships, and what I think women want are somehow valid.

I have been asked to participate in a forum on SBS’s “Insight” program (pending phone interviews to determine my “suitability”) to discuss what men want from a relationship, and what we think women want.

I mean, I honestly think that I’m entitled to ask the cosmos that seemingly mocks me, “What… the… fuck… is… your… game…?”

As if I know... or that my opinion is valid.

I anticipate being in an audience containing a broad cross-section of intellectuals, chauvinists, and/or people frustrated and confused about the fairer gender.

Because there are no set criteria as to what attracts people to each other, I don’t think. My motto for a while has been that life is a lottery in so many ways, and a facet of that is that if you can find someone who compliments you in many different ways, then the balls have fallen with your numbers.

Now, I don’t profess to be Dr Woman’s-Brain, but I’m sure that women want a conglomerate of traits, but with a certain leaning. On one hand they’d want excitement, spontaneity, adventure and intrigue, whereas on the other hand they’d want security, companionship, warmth and a puppy...

Also, I’ve heard that they’d want someone who can articulate their emotions... yet it is still said that they’d like us to contain an air of mystery (?).

We’re walking a fine line here, girls.

But look, if I even get on this show, I will simply take my 15 seconds of fame and be done with it. I figure that if I’m going to head overseas, I might as well make a dick of myself on national television beforehand.

Provided they deem me “suitable”...

Epiphanies from a watering hole

I’m sure everyone out there has – at some point or another – had some kind of mind-blowing epiphany that fills you with a nice warm feeling akin to lying in the sunshine in a full-length wetsuit. It can come to you at any time, in any circumstance, like when watching the sunset slowly plunge into the ocean, or being on a cliff’s edge overseeing a majestic panoramic view, or maybe even sitting on the pot with your favourite magazine…

For me, it was chatting to the 18-year-old chick behind the bar of my local watering hole.

Classy, I know.

For quite a lengthy period of time, I was of the opinion that a fair whack of the population were self-indulgent, selfish, arrogant, ignorant, pig headed, narcissistic, fuck-their-feelings-because-mine-are-more-important types who all deserved a bullet to the head.

My epiphany changed that opinion - maybe their knee instead of their head...

But maybe I’m being far too harsh upon people. People don’t like to be judged. People can try to do the right thing. People can care. I should leave people alone.

Anyway, this girl displayed a measure of generosity that I had long deemed dead, and genuine-ness that I haven’t seen since gazing into the giant pupils of my friend’s Maltese puppy. After her shift, she sat with me and bought me a number of drinks throughout the duration of the evening. My protestations of how “un-gentleman-like” it was of me to accept these drinks were answered with an emphatic, “Do I look like I fucking care?” Ah... touché.

To see such generosity in someone so young is refreshing.

I think I should, at this point, bring note to the fact that I don’t find this girl in any way attractive, and I can obviously see that I’m far from her “type”. The conversation was candid, insightful, colourful, and foremost genuine. Other bar patrons would join in with our discussions, and generally the atmosphere was far removed from the dank pits I’ve sat in. You know the ones, the ones with patrons who have “Anarchy” tattooed across their jugular in some fancy font that my version of MS Word doesn’t have.

But it was during this chat that I just realised that people, in general, aren’t a too bad bunch. I wouldn’t go as far to say that my cynicism has left me, it’s just that it’s watching over me instead of dominating my actions. Kinda like an overbearing parent that knows that you’re an adult now, and must make your own mistakes.

It’s been a while since I’ve mentioned something that could be construed as slightly humorous... so in order to prevent this from slipping into the realm of doe-eyed preachy-ness, I’ll have to throw out something random.

“It takes two flies to screw in a lightbulb... but don’t ask me how the fuck they got in there.”

Ramp Up and Take Off

I need to get the hell out of this country.

Ever since the life change that happened on 1 January 2005, I’ve progressively observed signs that my current place in this country is simply not required at this point in time, and I must ramp up my plans to fuck off for a while.

Sure, I’ll probably carry a myriad of different issues with me into a new country, but who gives a toss? It ain’t here, and that’s the main thing.

Maybe I’ll find some solace surrounded by people who find me a curio, rather than the run-of-the-mill-jack persona that I seem to have entrenched myself into here. As long as they don’t go around prodding me with sticks just to test my reaction, then it has to be a plus.

To think that going to a strange new country, with strange new people, with strange new accents to obtain a fresh start, or a clean slate is somewhat naïve, though. I’m sure that whatever crap is going on in my mind at the moment will somehow find a way to re-emerge whilst overseas, but at least I’m out there, seeing the world, performing the vacuous self-indulgence that is “living for the moment”.

I mean, everyone else does it, and they appear happy...

Besides, whoever said that someone has to be in a stable, happy, and comfortable state of mind in order to piss off around the globe?