I Let Go...

Today I participated in our organisation’s strategic planning day in where we mapped out our organisational objectives for the next few years. Fun, fun, fun.

That roughly translated into sitting around getting free coffee and food, whilst the powers-that-be banged on for a day, whilst the rest of us planned our blog posts.

Let go…

At the Internet café that I stopped by, I was asked by the pretty girl behind the counter, “What would you like, Andrew?”

I looked at her quizzically, confused as to how I knew her, or how she knew me. When confused, I sometimes aim to confuse the other people equally, just so there is equal ground.

“I’d like a coffee, thanks.”

She looked at me quizzically… because I hadn’t asked for a double, mocha, soy latte frappe thing, “What kind of coffee, Andrew?”

It was then that I noticed I was still wearing my name badge from the meeting.

Let go…

As the title of my blog suggests, I do spend a lot of time analysing, judging and basically being downright derogatory towards the other people who share my world.

I sit and listen to excerpts of conversations: “You’re a good person, mate” (consoling a broken relationship), “you should eat, if you don’t, you’ll die” (a fraught mother worried about her daughters obvious eating disorder), “Did you walk all this way for me?” (the pair in the blissful stage of the establishment of a relationship).

Why does this fascinate me?

Let go…

It’s been a crazy past five months for me, and people who have been regularly reading would probably know why. If anybody sat down and took the time to read between the lines, they may deduce that I’m simply covering, and dealing with the stress through the veneer of cynicism, ridicule and attempts at humour.

Nice work, Sigmund. Have a cookie.

Let go…

The wife and I broke up in January this year. People have been surprised at how I’ve dealt with it, as they’ve seen people take up to a year to recover and to obtain the confidence to stare back into the eyes of the world. To recover was simple.

Let go.

The house is sold, which since the marriage ended, was a relationship that I probably cherished more than the one with my wife. I move out of the place this weekend, and I will mourn not waking up to the usual four walls. Sentimentalism is easily discarded.

By letting go.

K severed all ties with me, and I did the same since our little episode.

We let go…

These things had a stage where they were perfectly normal – at least for a while. Everything seemed as it should, as though the world had formed some level of equilibrium around these items, and that it would never be brought into question.

Yet, these things that I could hold, touch and inhale somehow decayed - fell apart in my hands, and hissed away through the gaps in my fingers.

They let go.

The easy option for me would to point fingers, yet there is one unescapable fact; there is only one thing constant in these three situations. These three things are all linked by one, sole, single thing.

Me.

And I’m busy hanging onto the idea that paying other people out is somehow therapeutic for me. Just hanging.

I’m not sad about this realisation. I’m not upset by it. And those people who obviously care about me shouldn’t be upset either.

I am lucky enough to have multiple friends, people who would lift me up and embrace me if I needed. To those people, I am truly thankful.

But you can’t pick up what hasn’t come down to earth yet. I am currently clinging onto some vague hook in the sky, something I cannot comprehend, nor explain deeply with mere words.

But I know these friends will be there…

… when I let go.

I am disabling comments on this post, just so you’re assured that I’m not pity-mongering. Words are powerful. I don't use them for manipulation.

Karma is a Drain

Anyone who has received an email from me has probably noticed that my signature contains a certain cynical phrase that was borne from my mind during a phase of extreme cynicism.

“Karma is a fusion of serendipity and either malicious or generous individuals”

Despite that phrase’s awkward… phrasing… it does represent a very venomous mood, after hearing about certain people’s (apparent) success. And it shat me to tears.

It seemed that Karma only really applied to me for a little while there. I mean, I seemed to have things revisit me in some bastardised version of poetic justice, whereas most people I saw actively screwing other people around, spreading malicious lies and basically being proud of their bitchiness seemed to land rich partners, good jobs and… I dunno… mind blowing sex, perhaps.

Hey, knowing my luck, that’s probably the case. The cosmos seems to like mocking me.

Karma – and people’s understanding of Karma – came to the forefront of people’s minds by some Alicia Keys single in where she drivelled out the hackneyed “what goes around comes around”.

Yes… that’s Karma, but my understanding of it is a little different.

Also, I’m sure I heard Alicia thanking God (in the Christian sense) in some speech at some music award soiree in where they celebrate mediocrity. I’m not Professor Karma, nor am I Reverend Christian, but I’m sure that Christianity doesn’t preach the existence of Karma. Bah… that’s outside the scope of what I’m saying today.

Karma, to me, also represents everyday facets of life in that everyday behaviour can sorta cycle and drag you down.

Guilty little pleasures can become addictive, but have extreme repercussions. You might not do the dishes one night, you might leave your clothes on the floor, you might drink milk out the carton, you might even… dare I say it, post to your blog from work, and check personal emails from work.

Yes, people… I’m guilty as charged.

To constantly give in to these little diversions is like a spiral of water, circling the drain, forever trapped in a descending continual loop. You continue to revel in that guilty little pleasure.

Things around you begin to suffer. You lose focus.

And I can tell you; it ain’t easy to break out of the spiral. I'd recommend to everyone that they don't enter the spiral... it will suck you in to the point you can't return.

To me, that is Karma… as well as the whole “Treat others well, because they’ll treat you well also… and don’t be an arsehole, because you’ll get a snot on the nose eventually” method of thinking.

Especially if you’re me… Like I am.

Karma visits me regularly. We do lunch. I’ll tell him you said “Hi”.

This Town's Notoriety

Every Saturday I train my down in Adelaide’s south park lands. This morning it started pretty normally.

My sensei and I had trained for about 10 minutes before cops started rocking up, lights flashing and sirens blaring their song of warning. We both stopped and looked at what was happening.

Policemen and women leapt out of their vehicles, and they started running around the parklands. We didn’t know what to make of it. Before we had both been throwing punches at each other quite enthusiastically for our training.. so we were a little paranoid.

Suddenly one of them standing about 50 metres away from us yells out, “I found it!”. Cops converge onto the one spot, looks of revulsion on their faces.

The detectives arrive, approaching that spot tentatively. At the same time they both recoil, covering their mouths with their hands.

A dead body was found.

Naturally both my sensei and I were asked questions about whether we’d seen anyone suspicious around the place and whether we have been there for long.

Funny… they don’t suspect the two martial artists who are throwing punches at each other…

Nah, we’re not suspicious at all.

Either way, it was a little bit of excitement for a Saturday morning; training with a tonne of cops and a dead body nearby… until that yellow crime scene tape came out and we had to retreat to a “safe” distance.

Ah Adelaide: Murder Capital of the World.

Boom! Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap…

That’s the sound of a million journalists, bloggers, and gossipmongers typing away frenetically at the announcement of Schapelle Corby’s guilty verdict.

Nothing else matters now. Whether she’s a looker, whether the media is trying to sway popular opinion, whether politicians are merely grabbing for attention, and even whether she did or didn’t do it.

It just doesn’t matter.

Appeals will be lodged, news shows will run their special reports, and exclusive interviews. Regardless of the verdict, this circus was always going to happen.

If she were found guilty (which she was), then there would be explosions of outrage, and the media would lap it up as one of our own is shackled in a gruesome display of what it would dub “injustice”.

If she were found not guilty, there would be an explosion of outrage from anti-drug groups in Indonesia, our media would lap it up as Schapelle’s prayers were answered, and that “justice” was found. Cue Indonesian media outlets decrying the Indonesian justice system for being coerced by pressures outside the Indonesian jurisdiction.

It was always going to be lose-lose.

The only difference would be the side of the bars the interviews with Corby would take place.

May her God help her through her ordeal, somehow.

A Rude Awakening

There are times where you are jolted out of a state of torpor, a certain trigger alights your senses and drags you out of your relative state of lull.

And when it does happen, it’s somewhat like waking at 4am with a terrible leg cramp.

Did I say “somewhat alike”… because I meant, “exactly like”.

I hardly remember over exerting myself last night. I took one of my usual hour-long leisurely strolls down the beach. I came home, and sat down with a so-so bottle of Wolf Blass Chardonnay.

A friend popped in to say hello, and we chatted for a while before their departure. At 11pm I went to bed, and slipped away into sleep.

And then at 4am, a muscle spasm like you would never believe gripped my calf, causing an awful jerk reaction. I thank the stars that I don’t share a bed with anyone at the moment, as I’m sure she wouldn’t have taken too kindy to my heel in her nose.

Of all the sensations and feelings to have at 4am, pain doesn’t rank very highly. In fact, I’m sure most of you wouldn’t be surprised to know that it’s probably at the bottom of the list.

I feel back to sleep at around 4.30am. Either that, or I passed out from the pain.

Naturally, as I like to share my experiences with as many people as possible, I regaled this story to my work colleagues when they noticed I was brandishing a slight limp. They all laughed uproariously at my suffering, citing lack of exercise, or that karma was somehow responsible. However, this mirth was cut short by the pregnant woman in the corner.

“Oh, I get them every night.” She quipped, simultaneously stopping the laughter, and painting the area in a sombre tone.

I learned an important lesson today.

For whatever suffering that can be experienced – especially by a male – there will always be a pregnant woman on hand to remind everyone that they haven’t experienced real pain, and never will.

But at that particular point in time, I was reminded of an old country-Australian saying that my mother always used to say to me whenever she felt inconvenienced by someone else’s perspective.

I forget exactly how the saying went… but I’ll paraphrase.

“Fuck off”.

-----

In other news, Schapelle Corby receives her verdict today. Cue tomorrow’s front page: Headline will either be “Guilty!” or “Justice!”

I was watching a feed from news.com, and I really didn’t think it appropriate for the advert for a financial company to be splashed across the bottom of the page. But, whaddayagonnado?

The advert might as well have read: Feeling trapped by debt? Free yourself from the injustice of repaying at super high interest rates! Our interest rates are lower than Corby’s morale!

And Its Beauty Stares Back

Friends. Nope, not that sitcom that went out with a predictable fizz rather than a shocking bang.

To be honest, I really should be thankful for some things.

Most of the topics I post here are related to a conversation I hold with friends, or some other event that a friend had a hand in.

Last night, I had a candid and frank discussion with a friend. I never knew how good this friend was until this conversation, and it shames me to admit that.

It was most surreal, even if it was assisted by fermented grapes in a glass. The kinship I felt was almost to the level of a sibling I’ve never had.

Their strength, their ego and their soul was being presented to me, and for a second, I felt empowered.

For this person to be honest, even though they were as subtle as the gentle brush of a feather, it is something that shouldn’t be taken for granted. That this person shared their innermost feelings, their dreams, their hopes and their personal worries displayed a trust in me that was spell binding.

In my experience, this is hard to come by these days.

This friend shared with me something that seemed – to me – as most sacred, and it was something that they didn’t need to share with anyone.

For a single moment in time, I could see their soul, in a hue of an honest blue aura, staring me intently in the eyes. I was awestruck, I was moved, I was touched as I held their trust in my hands. Cradling it and admiring it, all I could do was stare right back at it blankly.

Because it was beautiful.

To me, it is people like this who are inspirational.

Confessions of a Stat Virgin

I have done something stupid. Yes, that’s right, li’l ol’ me has gone and obtained one of these statcounter things. I don’t have it displayed on the face of this blog, as I think they’re unsightly, and they mock you when they haven’t clicked over to the next number.

So why did I get it? Well, I was curious to know what people searched for when they find my blog. However, it hasn’t been up for very long, so I don’t know, yet… although the one person asking about Big Brother Uncut is definitely looking in the wrong place.

But since starting the thing up a couple days ago, I have noticed how many hits I get, how many are unique and how many people return.

Things that usually are a benchmark for a site’s success.

However, as I’m relatively new to this site stat thingy, this little marvel of technology has planted a seed of paranoia. You know, these people keep returning to my blog, and if I have nothing new for them, I immediately feel guilty… as though I’ve let them down due to my not meeting a daily deadline enforced by my conscience.

Yes, it’s stupid. I don’t need any of you to point that out to me. But I appreciate your steadfast approach to analysing my character. Please fuck off now.

This kind of constant self berating cannot be healthy, though. This statcounter thing must be the tool of Beelzebub, or some other demon that represents the evil side of the moral spectrum. First it tempts you with informing you of your readership’s interests and what part of your site they find most interesting, but after a while you begin to wonder.

F’rinstance, if one blog post got more hits than another… you wonder what you did wrong in that other post. Why was this one post loved more than another? Why dost thou hate it? Why?

And the turmoil goes on.

Each day you try to better yourself, by writing something just that little more insightful, more humorous, or more wacky. Your mind trials over nifty little analogies that you could somehow incorporate into your next post, like a miner chiselling away on a slab of granite.

Never once does it dawn on you that nobody actually cares how good your post is. They just like reading your site.

Of course, if you take slabs of this post and interchange the words “You”, “Your”, and “Yourself” with “I”, “Me” and “my”, you get the point of my post.

In actuality, I had targeted one particular person who reads my blog with this post. They know who they are.

Being Crafty

Recently, I have been humbled by some of the compliments I receive to my writing ability.

No, I am not going to harp on about it to get more compliments, nor am I going to spout out some false modesty. Equally, I will not display some bigheaded bravado.

I’m good at it, and I can admit that hopefully without swelling the head, or coming across as some arrogant prick.

Last night, I scanned over some pieces that I had published some time ago, and I cringed. Even staring at some of my earliest posts on this blog, I stop and wonder how the hell I managed to etch that rubbish out into words, and inflict it upon the innocent blog-o-sphere.

But back then, I thought I was good too.

In about six months time, I anticipate reading over this very entry and wondering what the fuck I was thinking.

There was an issue of Time magazine in about October 2004 that had a full page spread on the blogging phenomenon, and how it could possibly change the face of the print media.

Kinda ironic, coming from one of the most prominent print publications in the world today.

But as romantic and as blissfully hopeful that thought was, I hardly believe that to be true, as blogging will not garner the same credibility in the mass populace as print. Mainly because any schmuck with a keyboard and a phone line can easily and cheaply disgorge out some lines of speculative, groundless horse-shit.

Whereas with print media, you just need to be a talented writer with an interesting quirk to your style (read: be a persistent little shit with editors).

It’s up to the editors to eke out the “talent” from the scrawled.

But the article did raise a couple good points. Writing, and even to a degree journalism, simply cannot be taught in a school. Writing is a craft; something that you develop over the space of time, learning through your mistakes, and harnessing the power of the ever-useful Thesaurus when you’re stuck on a word.

Hell, it’s what most writers who portray some “intelligent” persona do.

Because, I refuse to believe that one person is more talented at writing than another. The only real difference is people who have spent more time writing than others.

… Or… ahem… "I cease to comprehend that certain members of the populace are substantially additionally inscriptively endowed. The sole dissimilarity is that certain strains of individuals occupy their existence with prose furthermore than… others…"

Damn.

The Walls Reply Strange

The furniture that doesn’t belong to me has finally been removed from my humble abode. Hence, making it a great deal more humble.

It is truly amazing how furniture can make a great deal of difference to the overall “vibe” of a house. Whereas before, the place exuded a kind of cosiness that embraced you like a fresh, heavy blanket, but now it feels seemingly indifferent towards me, with my footsteps being the only reply to my empty trudge through the halls.

We “built” this house together, but I am not lamenting the loss of my partner.

And when I say, “built”, I really mean, “paid through the nose, mouth and other such orifices for a licensed builder to construct it”. But I digress.

I visited that place every night during its construction, just to see how it had changed. How it was “growing up”. How it was shaping up to be the home we wanted it to be.

This house became a part of me, a shard of my being if you will. I fondly remember awakening at the crack of dawn so that I may put insulation in the framework just before the builders whacked up the wall panels.

I remember racing down to the site to inspect the new air-conditioning unit and ensuring the ducts were placed in the right area.

To live in the house felt blissful, as the walls warmly greeted you each morning, shielding you from the elements. The tin roof sang to you the tune of a million water droplets.

A nice morning brew was the antidote for ushering out the crisp, wintry morning air and cold wooden floors.

The place had so much potential, both physically and fiscally. To have sold it now, after living in it for a mere two years is not unlike snuffing out a candle before it has burned to a nub.

And now the place feels cold, steely and monochromatic. The echo of all noises whispers back like the frustrated curses of a powerless ghost relative who cannot offer you solace.

Like a lost loved one, the departure of one so cherished, having to leave this house deadens the soul, guts your heart and plays with your head. The overwhelming sense that you may never find a real home like the one you laboured over for a couple years is disheartening. The subsequent lingering memory of my abode is draining to black and white.

Show me another home, another soul… and I will colour it in.

Banging On About Banging On

When you’re chatting away with good friends, having a few glasses, slash, pints of whatever beverage blows your skirt up, sometimes the conversation starts leaning a little towards the act of sex.

Recently I was chatting away to a good friend of mine, and she queried as to my most bizarre location/moment to have done the deed.

Nope. I’m not telling you lot. N’yer. I’m not into over-sharing.

But I will tell you hers… because you will never know her, and as a consequence, she’s fair game. Besides, she never claimed to be ashamed of this.

Most amusingly, she had been “on-the-job” during a phone conversation with her financial advisor.

The conversation might have been most amusing:

Her: “I’m telling you, buy, buy, buy! No… not talking to you, honey. I’m not Bi. Hey, buy stock in… oh… god… god… oh, fuck it!”

Financial advisor: “Er, the shares in OGOD were weak recently, with the announcement they won’t meet target profit projections this fiscal year. Are you sure?”

Her: “Yes, yes, yes!!! Oh God! Yes, yes, yes!”

Financial advisor: “Okay, okay. It’s your money. Hey, I’ve never met someone so enthusiastic about their investments. Are you busy on Saturday night?”

… er… yeah… and so forth. Well, I found it amusing, anyway.

Now these kinds of discussions can be fun, as long as you know the other people quite well, and you know where you stand with each other. This friend and I are purely platonic mates, as I’m not her type, and she ain’t mine.

However, I did go to the Oakbank races (local horse race) last year with TFWNSORAOR and got horrendously drunk from the free booze on hand under the marquee. This was cool until he decided to regale the other women on our table about the myriad of sexual encounters he had, and his girlfriend’s superb knack for fellatio.

Not exactly the best conversation to have with a table of six women you’ve never met before. Not exactly the best picture I wanted of this particular girl (who was like a sister to me), either.

But him flat out asking two of them if they were lesbians was an absolute high point. Oh, yeah… classy.

For the rest of the day, I was branded similarly “classy”… merely by association. It didn’t matter that I outlined excessively that I wasn’t this guy’s “friend” (I never liked this bloke… I merely tolerated him), I was still the obnoxious guy’s associate.

Okay, so there’s no problem with having such discussions with certain people, but alcohol aside, pick your moments.

I mean, I’m hardly going to inform my future kids that their mother was a demon in the sack - I’ll probably have to pay for their therapy bills.

Kids are expensive enough.

Trance Writing

Well, this didn’t take very long. I had said in the past that I was going to lay off analysing blog, because frankly, it’s silly. I mean, why question the medium? It’s like a radio announcer asking why the medium is still popular despite the lack of pictures.

The answer is: Because we can’t see your ugly mug, Kyle Sandilands… (non-Australians won’t know who I’m talking about… but he’s a radio fuckwit).

The previous post on this blog was knocked up in a period of ten minutes, would you believe.

I was struck by a small piece of inspiration and banged out a few lines, and one thing led to another. It was a bewildering state of creativity, even though it never taxed my mind one iota.

I never stopped to contemplate the better word to use, or what would sound funnier. It was an odd time, made even the more odd with my ex-wife shuffling back and forth whilst typing it.

Ugh, that could be construed that my ex is some form of Muse, but that thought makes me ill.

Associating my ex with the best band in the world today (ie Muse) is blasphemous.

Whilst typing it though, I felt as though I was mashing the keyboard of my laptop with a giant club and that the words that vomited out were primitive and ill-defined.

But somehow, the message and the emotions still got across with relative ease.

The egotist in me says that it’s my talent. The innate thinker in me pays tribute to the sharp perception of the people who read this blog. The broad minded part of me is reassured that the English language isn’t as butchered as I initially thought it was.

Whenever I’m writing for a client, I often give myself a 45 minute deadline. If I cannot finish the article in that timeframe, I discard the piece and start again about an hour later. If it takes longer than 45 minutes, then I’m thinking too hard about it and the piece will come out as forced, and amateurish.

I think I’m beginning to have a lot more respect for novelists and authors. I never used to “get” how hard the occupation was, I’m sad to admit.

But I guess this is the whole part about “learning” and “maturing”.

Damn this life. I’m constantly learning that I am often wrong.

What Goes Around, Makes You Dizzy...

As I type this post, my ex is fluttering about the house, moving all the boxes of her crap into the car. She was two hours late earlier today, which was just typical of her. Firstly, I informed her that I was busy until the afternoon, but she said that her afternoon was full, so she wanted to come around in the morning.

So I called off a meeting with a client so that I was in the house when she arrived. She rocked up two hours late.

She packed her stuff up, and then went to her engagement. I stayed home to check emails and blogs and to maybe work a little more on the novel. Also, I spent a bit of time practicing how many times the word “bitch” could be mentioned in the course of a sentence without it becoming contrived.

It’s three times.

Later, she rang to say that she was coming over “now”, from a house that is a two minute drive away.

She turns up half an hour later.

It’s amazing that someone can even get the timeframe for “now” wrong. But she was never one for running on time.

I must admit that the reason behind typing up a blog entry that tears shreds from her is kinda like a bit of revenge for me. Hey, I’m only human.

Right before our break up, she would get incredibly defensive about me walking around when she was typing on her laptop. She claimed that I was being suspicious of her, when all I was doing was getting up to get a drink.

Naturally, I felt bad for making her feel as though I was intruding her personal space. In fact, she cited this as an initial reason for leaving me, ie I couldn’t give her space.

It turns out she was writing love notes to her boyfriend on her laptop at these times.

Bitch, damn, bitch, bitch… b… wait, that’s three times. Crap. Bitch.

Retribution Tourette’s aside, this is actually my little method of getting back at her. I know for a fact that my sister-in-law is aware of this blog’s existence, and I sincerely hope this manages to work its way back to the missus.

That’ll teach her to make me feel bad, even though she was the one doing something wrong.

I think that’s called “Karma” baby… heh heh… no wait, it’s “being petty”.

Meh… semantics.

This is hardly the most poignant, insightful or articulate of entries, but as I mentioned to another blogger… your words, no matter their quality, still capture your mindset at a single point in time. Words are the photos for the imagination.

Revenge of the Spliff

Oh yeah, I did go to see Star Wars last night.

I had outlined my previous ire at having to share a large room with 200-odd nerds, just like the last time I went to see Lord of the Rings, or even Episode 2.

But I think I'm the only person on the face of the planet that thinks that Star Wars was "just a movie".

C'mon, bring on your lightsabers. I reckon I could take on your plastic toy.

Last night didn't fail to deliver, either.

Even standing out the front of the theatre was no refuge from the over-comfortable intelligentsia who were basking in the final hours of their space epic. It seems to me that standing out front places you in the zone with 10,000 other smokers, and therefore classes you as "fair game".

I was approached by one puffing, freckled kid who was beside himself. He began chatting away to me, despite my obvious protestations. I mean, is waving your hands in front of your face, and coughing really loudly too subtle to interpret as "go away"?

It doesn't help that I'm now on day five without a smoke. The kid should count his lucky stars that I didn't kick him in the shins and take his ciggies.

After he left, he was replaced by an older woman who regaled me on how she was looking forward to the movie, and that she was enthralled that there is another Herbie movie coming out.

Nod, smile... fuck off.

Oh sure, they were just being friendly, but I guess I had my guard up last night, and was in no mood for tolerating strangers who breached the perimeter of my comfort zone.

Once in the theatre, I surveyed very little evidence of costume bound freakjobs, and I took a little comfort. I relate this back to my innate fear of clowns, but that's another story.

There were those who were speculating on the events that transpire, and crossing their fingers that this movie didn't suck as much as the last two. The last two sucked so much that the ushers didn't need to vacuum the theatre afterwards (boom tish).

Naturally, as the movie progressed, I could hear them whispering amongst themselves as to how the movie differed from their premonitions and predictions.

But the bantha fodder goes to the guy next to me who, as the immortal words "A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away" graced the screen, whispered quietly to no one in particular, "I think I've seen this one before"...

I think I'll need that spliff to get through this movie... not that I condone marijuana usage.

Guilty Until Proven Beautiful

So much is happening lately. I mean, this post will be a little different, even though I know that speaking on current events doesn't exactly float the boat of most people here.

A local shock jock, Derryn Hinch has caused a ruckus for stating opinions on the Schapelle Corby case that were hinted at on my own blog here, and it has a lot of people in a tizzy.

A lot of the comments left on news.com seem to vigorously defend Schapelle Corby, standing as human shields to protect her from the torrent of criticism that Hinch has (seemingly) launched upon her person.

But, from what I can interpret, he was commenting on the level of exposure she has received, due to her (apparent) looks. He probably also flayed the public because they've been propping up the media by slavering over every snippet of information... because she's a looker.

It doesn’t help that the article on news.com itself paints it as though Hinch has been lambasting the girl herself, as though the media attention she receives is somehow her fault. I quote the article “SHOCK jock Derryn Hinch has launched an astounding attack on accused drug smuggler Schapelle Corby, claiming she has only received so much sympathy because she is an attractive woman.”

Yet, the news.com quote of Hinch’s actual comments reads, “Corby has been getting all this attention because she is young, white, pretty and has big boobs,”

Erm, am I the only person who doesn't read that as Schapelle bashing? I can't see how that is "[launching] an astounding attack on [Corby]", unless Corby is somehow responsible for her "good looks".

I mean, I’m no woman, but I’m pretty sure she can’t help it if she’s “pretty” or has “big boobs”. If the media reacts to that, then is she to be held responsible for the subsequent circus? It's not like she's been pounding pavement over here to rally support. Last time I checked, she was locked up. And in Bali.

The article seems to say that Hinch attacked Corby, and the subsequent comments left seem to indicate that Hinch inferred that she was guilty.

But, I never heard Hinch's broadcast in full, so I'll reserve major judgement.

But, let’s ask a few questions.

Is she getting this media attention because she’s pretty? Maybe. My opinion says yes in that the public relates to her better because of those looks, but that's pure speculation. I don't hold onto that theory like it's the absolute truth.

Is Hinch merely grandstanding to obtain more ratings for his floundering show? Maybe.

Is Schapelle guilty of smuggling drugs into Bali? That’s for the courts to decide. As far as I’m concerned, she’s innocent until proven guilty. Without all the facts (and I am not entirely sure the media here have been giving us ALL the facts of the case), no one can really comment on that.

Based upon the evidence that has been dribbled to us, I believe there is sufficient reason to doubt that she did intend to smuggle these drugs... but we don't have ALL the facts.

A lot of people are drawing parallels between Corby and the Bali 9, who were busted with 8 kilos of heroin, which as I remember was strapped to their person. Now, call me crazy, but there is a difference between 4 kilos of marijuana in an unlocked boogie board bag, and having 8 kilos of another substance strapped to your skin.

"Um... officer, I don't know how that got there. It must've been planted on me... in my sleep."

The link is tenuous at best.

But... at the risk of sounding catty, I have to ask... is she THAT pretty? I'm sure that with a bit of make up, a stylist and some good lighting, she'd be perve-worthy. But the visage of her as the tear drenched, unshowered, unmasked prisoner that we're seeing is hardly flattering.

Hinch, you and I have different tastes in women.

But, that's missing the point entirely. What was I talking about? Oh yeah. Don't do drugs, kids.

Normal wacky services will resume tomorrow... or later... whenever I get off my arse...

****

Ugh... I have read, re-read, edited, re-edited this post a number of times and I can't get it right. First I defend Hinch, then I lambast him. I defend Corby, then ridicule her. The only thing that has stayed constant in this piece... is that News.com sucks. So N'yer news.com. I think I will leave this post alone now, and refrain from current events forever.

Revenge of the Whiff

With the world twitching in the throes of the latest instalment of the Star Wars saga, I felt compelled to write down something that is in some way relevant.

I’m going to see the movie tonight. To be honest, the idea of cramming myself into a cinema with 200-odd wookie-dressed, bad BO’ed, anal retentive, nerdy looking Star Wars nerds fills me with a sensation not unlike when I copped a whiff from my car’s air-conditioner after a cat had pee-ed on the bonnet (hood).

ie A little nauseous.

I’m hardly enamoured with the idea, but friends want to go, and I can’t think of a decent enough excuse to get out of it.

It’s hard to find an excuse when my hair is washed, I don’t have pets to feed, have no sick elderly relatives to visit in hospital, and I speaka da English just fine.

Although I’m sure that my sinuses are starting the clog a little, but then again I’m sure that if there’s ever a time to hang around throngs of nerds with terrible body odour, then the timing of a blocked nasal tract seems to indicate that somebody “up there” likes me.

Because if my memory serves me correctly, the last time I went to a movie that stretched for more than two hours, I was parked in a lonely theatre between one gassy friend, and another one with terrible breath wielding a can of Coke.

That kind of putrid torture would have cracked the Rock of Gibraltar.

In fact, my experiences with movie theatres has been less than favourable.

I cast my memory back to the opening day of Lord of the Rings: Fellowship of the Ring, which seemed like a relatively normal affair. No costumes, no oddities.

Well, until I sat down.

I had managed to pull the seat next to the 50-odd year old boffin who had read the entire series, including the other novels, some 30 years ago. This wouldn’t have been so bad if he hadn’t decided to interrogate me on the saga, and queried as to which part I was most looking forward to.

He was like a kid who just discovered that M&M’s and cookie dough make a great combo.

You should have seen his face when I told him that I hadn’t read the books. I could’ve sworn in a church and not receive the level of scorn this man shot at me. I felt as though I had robbed a seat away from another, more deserving, LotR aficionado.

After that wore off, the movie began. He then began to critique the movie as it progressed through.

“Oh I didn’t think it would have looked like that”, “Ooh, that was well done.” He quipped constantly.

I would have throttled him had he not been so fragile, and if only I had brought my brand new, leather, throttling gloves.

Something similar happened during Spiderman 2, except on the other end of the age spectrum. A screaming kid who questioned everything happening on screen, and had bouts of yanking my (then) wife’s hair.

Where was I? Oh yes, I’m going to the movies tonight. Good ol’ Arndale Greater Union, a source of numerous nutbags displaying odd behaviour… and if you’re reading this blog, and you go to that cinema… I’m not talking about you…

There is a lot to be said about home theatre, I reckon.

Ex Marks The Plot

I’m proud that I’m the reflective type of person, in that I look at myself and the things around me. That’s right, it’s not because I’m proud that I cast a reflection in the mirror. That would indicate that I have some kind of paranoia about being a vampire.

But I’m the reflective type in that I like to look back and feel positive about some of the things that I have done, or the things that indicate a positive swing.

Right now, that’s quite a lot of things.

I mean, it’s probably a reason why I hoard… which seems to be the word of the week. Sesame Street has nothing on The Inane Asylum.

I received an email yesterday that was somewhat heartwarming. It was from an ex-girlfriend. No, not the one I mentioned before, but my very first girlfriend from about 10 years ago.

And before we start cocking eyebrows, scratching chins and nodding in that ever suspicious manner, let me tell you that it was a professional query. She needed some information on some work stuff. I was probably her very last option.

She probably wouldn’t have emailed me if I hadn’t caught up with her months ago, in where I eventually outlined my mortification at the end result of our break-up – total and utter hatred of each other. Well, I was more to blame… with my immature name calling and abuse (hey, I was 17…), but that’s another story.

But after reading her email, I looked back upon the recent things in my life, and realise that I can lay claim to something that not many people can.

I get along with all of my exes. Okay, that’s a lie. There is one I still hate, but after what she put me through, she’s earned my scorn. No, it’s not the wife, either.

Let me revise: I get along with all the exes that count.

Sure, we’re not the closest of buddies, which is probably for the best when I think about it. I mean, the last thing I want to do is put up with some over-bearing, over-protective boyfriend who believes that I want to rekindle old flames.

“Sorry mate, but those were extinguished years ago.” I would tell him, but he wouldn’t believe me and would do his absolute best to phase me out of her life anyway.

Damn jealous, obnoxious, manipulative hypothetical boyfriends… they should grow up… when they exist…

One side of me does wonder whether I am just a total sap in that I can’t hold feelings of resentment towards anyone, let alone girls I have gone out with… bar that one. But to that I say “pshaw” and other such inane methods of signifying contempt.

‘Cos that’s beside the point.

The fact remains that time has healed all wounds, and that damage done by what happened back then can be easily scrubbed over and re-painted. Also, that I’m still regarded as a half decent person that is worthy enough to be contacted.

And for that, I should feel good.

Exes are an important part of the plotline we call life. Even if mine somehow resembles some really, really boring soap opera. Kinda like Days of Our Lives, but without the rampant amnesia.

On a different note, I should inform people of the very few degrees of separation that exists in my city. I’m sure that if I keep divulging information about myself willy-nilly like this, then Adelaide residents who read this blog are likely to discover who I am.

I mean, they don’t know me personally, but chances are they know someone who does. That’s how small Adelaide is. Damn this town.

Tomorrow on The Inane Asylum: General vitriol and curse words directed to the idiocy of everyone else… bar me.

Best Position? Over or Under?

In my last post, I outlined my mania for hoarding away useless crap, and never revisit them. I think a lot of people these days simply don’t hang onto things, both literally and figuratively.

Possibly because everything these days seem to be designed to break, fail or die. Or all three…

Just ask Ikea, or Microsoft.

With my specious reasoning, I could put this down to most people these days simply wanting to “live in the moment” and that to reminisce on the past is somehow to be holding back and not moving forward.

Just ask the moron in this post.

Whilst these people are right to a degree in that we shouldn’t hold onto certain things, and that we should simply “get over it” and move on, it seems to be congruent with their inability to look at themselves when something goes wrong.

Just ask any of Big Brother’s contestants.

But how much should we hold onto the past? A lot of people would cite the “once bitten, twice shy” adage, but I really don’t adhere to that rule. But the past does have an influence on who we are, what our ideals are and what we believe in.

Just ask any of history’s greatest criminals.

However, to harbour the past and use it as a prime motivator in the choices we make, and the decisions we take does seem… stupid… for lack of a better word.

I should ask Websters.

Once again, I may have stumbled onto another one of those fine lines that people must tread in order to be perceived as a well-balanced human being.

I hate that my life and my perceptions of life seem to be a side-act in Cirque du Soleil. This existence would be so much better if I could simply embrace a FIG JAM mentality.

Fuck I’m Good, Just Ask Me.

CDs, DVDs and Options (Oh why...?)

It’s been an odd time, lately.

Some people are, by definition, hoarders. Well, these are the definitions cast by myself, under my judgemental, neurotic eye, and are more often than not inaccurate.

I’m a hoarder. Hoarders like to hoard things away, for no reason whatsoever. Well, there is a reason that makes total sense when you decided to hoard the thing away, but over time you forget what that was.

I mean, you never know when you’ll desperately need that letter you received from a local radio station. I don’t know how many people I’ve shown that obscene email I printed out, due to it’s low-brow hilarity. Oh, that’s right. Zero. Yet, it’s still filed away “just in case”

Speaking with my ex-girlfriend the other night, she revealed that she still had a poem I wrote to her for our one month anniversary (Yes, X, I know that you don’t believe in that crap). I instructed her to grab the closest furnace and toss it in, but she yielded. I guess some people like to grasp onto crap poetry written by melodramatic and over-romantic twenty one year olds.

Anyway, due to my moving out of this house in a matter of weeks, I’ve had to go over some of the crap I’ve built up. Eventually, I made my way to the DVD and CD collection. It made me realise how much I have changed, and how much my outlook has skewed over the past five years.

I sat back and watched American Beauty, Donnie Darko, and The Red Violin. I also had a listen to Ben Folds’ Fear of Pop, Faith No More’s Album of the Year, Muse’s Showbiz and Something for Kate’s cover of Duran Duran’s Ordinary World.

And the memories flooded back.

For a while there, I had lost the ability to comprehend all the beauty that life offers, as each day melded into a long, drawn out haze of paying a mortgage and building capital.

Each scene, each note played and each tone of Mike Patton yanked me out of this current world and back into an era of wide-eyed idealism. Things seemed so much more simpler back when these visions and melodies haunted my being, and plucked at my senses.

These movies and songs represent a great lifestyle that was cast aside.

Now that I have the resources and opportunity to attempt to regain this lifestyle, I am torn between whether I should go back, or to forge out into new territory.

I’m tempted to go with the latter, although I’d be happy with the former. Sometimes in life you are forced along a certain fork in the road, and other times you are granted the luxury of option. When this luxury is staring in your face with wild, hypnotic eyes, it is difficult to stand. Sometimes you just feel like grabbing it by the short and curly eyebrows, shaking it and asking, “Why should I make this choice? Why?”

And this torment is borne from a few things like DVD’s and CD’s.

No wonder Buddhists believe that material possessions contain the seeds of suffering.

See how problematic hoarding is? It’s not healthy. Just say No.

The (Externally) Silent Killer...

I’ve shut up about this for some time, mainly because I’ve believed that I was alone with this problem. But, as it turns out I’m not.

And that’s reassuring. So without delay, will describe my problem to you…

You see, I am suffering from OTNAWS, or Over Thinking, Neurotic, Arrogant Writer’s Syndrome to the layman or even laywoman.

But I’m sure calling a lady a laywoman would have explosive, and possibly violent, repercussions.

Why is a violent tendency always described as explosive? You can still be violent but without resorting to such loud and flaming tactics. Besides, I don’t think the neighbours like it very much.

My neighbours are loud, though. They probably deserve to be woken up at 3am by my strapping C4 to their car’s exhaust. I’m sure that they would accept me into their fold as I’m actively contributing to the loud noise in the area, and then everyone would be happy.

I’m a happy person at the moment anyway. Everything is where it should be.

But… I’m not blissful. I’m not euphoric. Why am I not euphoric? What am I doing wrong to deserve this absence of delight?

Now I’m not happy. I’ve gone and depressed myself with my lack of euphoria.

Euphoria doesn’t sound that healthy, though. To be honest it sounds like a type of amphetamine that seedy blokes with surgical masks toil over until the small hours, so that they can feast upon the spoils of young experimenters and the terminally reliant.

Terminally reliant. To be reliant on something or someone to the point where it is their ultimate downfall. But funnily enough, it sounds like a condition in where you are addicted to putting your tongue on batteries. It just sounds cool, too. “Hi mate, how you going? Me? I’m terminally reliant, thanks for asking.”

Why do people thank others for asking them a question? It’s not like it’s benefiting them in any way. If anything, they are detracting the amount of leisure time you have by asking you taxing questions. I mean, “How are you?” or “What’s happening?” or even “Did you know how fast you were going, sir?” It’s all just too much!

Too much what? I didn’t specify, did I? Can’t I carry any more things, and I am fearful of dropping these things all over the place? I should just relax. Geez, they’re questions, not bushels of apples. Questions, the last time I checked, were fairly insubstantial.

Insubstantial. Definition: Of lightweight, flimsy in stature. Eg, the research conducted by renowned psychologists into the phenomenon of OTNAWS.

I’m suffering from a syndrome that probably doesn’t exist. That’s pretty sad.

Seinfeld is nothing compared to me… except he’s richer than I can imagine. Damn.

There you have it. The train of thought of an OTNAWS sufferer.

OTNAWS is a debilitating condition, if it exists. It taunts you with thoughts you never would’ve thought existed… until you thought of them. And then it’s too late. ‘Cos you’ve thought of it. You can’t unthink it…

Any kind of situation can be blasted out of proportion with just a few seconds of quiet contemplation. As you can imagine, waiting for a girl to call can be water torture.

As the tick-tock laps the clock, each beat drumming into your head, the conscious brain works overtime to distract your thoughts from the silent phone. But the subconscious manages to plant that little feeling of doubt, and your senses are distraught by the niggling sense that the world isn’t okay, but you don’t know why.

And it’s not like it’s easy to unlearn how to think…

Pledge money for those who suffer from OTNAWS (condition pending verification). Send an email to the Inane Asylum with your name and address, and please expect a visit from some big men with dark coats and baseball bats.

OTNAWS sufferers, take heed. You are not alone, and your voice will be heard. That is, if you stop thinking about what you’re going to say next, and stop depressing yourself with your exhaustive self-analysis.

-----

Disclaimer: I’m joking people…also, the “happy but not euphoric” line was pinched from Calvin and Hobbes…Geez, show me a comedian who hasn’t plagiarised from someone else, and I will call you a fucking liar.

Blood on the Bank Floor

Cadiz mentioned on her journal that she donated blood recently.

It’s definitely a good thing to do, and it does provide you with an immense feeling of accomplishment and self-righteousness.

This might be linked to the light-headedness afforded by draining a few litres of blood from your system, and then downing a local beer (because it’s there), but who could say for sure?

I try to donate as regularly as possible, due to my blood type being the most common, O positive. Chances are that in the event of a major travesty, my blood will be the one they most want lying around.

Yes, I do enjoy giving blood, however after remembering the past few times and the events that occurred during said blood giving, I wonder why the hell I do.

I reckon the free beer afterwards probably helps.

The first time I donated, I copped the short, terse nurse who obviously had endured one of the longest days in history, the most thankless customers and a headache so bad it impaired her vision. As a result, she failed to notice the little sign on my person that indicated “this is my first time - be gentle, love”.

I sit down on that chair that raises and reclines automatically, and the nurse bluntly shoves the chisel that doubles as a “needle” into my arm and begins syphoning my ruby red.

Due to this rough n’ tumble behaviour, I feel some discomfort emanating from my arm. Discounting it to being normal, I truck on through the ordeal with no complaint.

But, for the next two weeks, I sport a bruise that begins at my elbow, and carries all the way down to my wrist. It’s not a good look for short sleeve shirts, let me tell you.

For those who don't know, I hate needles. Whenever they stick one into me for whatever reason, I always turn my eyes away. It makes me ill.

I indicated this to the nurse on this other occasion I donated. She was understanding, and was extremely gentle. She instructs me to look away whilst she plugs me. As I turn away as per her instructions, my eyes fall on the guy next to me who is having his needle inserted at that precise point in time. Naturally, I bristle and clamp my eyes shut, repulsed.

I hate those automatic raising and reclining chairs. Well, now I do. Before I was relatively indifferent towards their light buzzing and resemblance to a dentist’s device.

Again, I got a nice, gentle nurse who makes entertaining idle chit-chat. She indicates that it’s her first day with the donation mob, which naturally sends a couple warning sirens off in my head.

But it all goes smoothly. The needle goes in, the blood comes out, no discomfort and no viewing of someone being pin-cushioned. She takes a bit too much attention to maintaining my leisure, queries my level of comfort and asks whether I would like the seat adjusted. Before I assure her that it’s okay, she presses a button.

The wrong button.

The chair begins to straighten up from it’s reclining position, ensuring that I sit bolt upright. It then begins to lower down. The process cannot be stopped or reversed until it is completely done with its cycle.

Sure, that sounds normal, but bear in mind that the needle was still attached to my arm, and I was still bleeding into their satchell. Normally, when you’re reclined in that chair properly, you’re in a good position for the needle and tube, but when you start to sit upright, the optimum seating position is compromised.

So there I was, being slowly erected, my arm gradually being pulled behind me due to it still being drilled for blood. The nurse apologised at length, and I would have tried reassuring her that it was okay, if not for the fact that I was fervently concentrating on slowly contorting my body around so that the needle didn’t get eased out by my snail’s-pace posture change, therefore resulting in me bleeding on their pristine floors.

These torture chambers they call “blood banks” seem to be onto a good thing. Where else could you torture people and have them walk out feeling good about themselves?

I love donating blood. But don’t ask me why… again, I put it down to the dementia caused by lack of blood, and that they give me a free beer afterwards.

******

Update: In a bizarre zen-like moment, not five minutes after I posted this piece, I received an email from the Department Circulation mob who indicate that there is a national shortage of type O positive blood, and that everyone is encouraged to donate, stat! I think my blog is being monitored by the Government...

O Big Brother, Where Art Thou? O There Thou Art...

Well, it seems that reality television (if there is such a thing) is kicking up again in this country, with the launch of the new Big Brother series. I think this is the fifth one now.

Of course, this show manages to effectively split the country into three groups of people.

The kind that watches it religiously for the entertainment and spectacle.

The kind who objects to the voyeurism this show promotes, but watches it anyway.

The kind who doesn’t watch the show at all, and proudly announces it to the world as though their moral standpoint is vastly superior to everyone else’s.

Initially I thought that I fit best into the third category. Yes, it’s hypocritical of me to judge others when I’m the one waving a gavel around with gay abandon. Don’t bother pointing that out. Contrary to popular belief, I’m actually quite human.

Super Andy writes for another blog, and has vast amounts more talent than I. He is Super, after all.

Ahem. I indulged a little bit of Big Brother on Monday night. If by “indulged” you really mean “forcibly pushed through means not unlike The Clockwork Orange”, then you’re not far off the mark.

But I think my perception is changing… a bit.

I can see this show’s appeal, to be honest - if only for the fact that it makes people feel better.

I mean, who wouldn’t like to bitch about someone else when they’re in full view, but unable to respond to your scathing judgement of their guise? The BB housemates are the hapless victims of the scorn of hundreds of thousands of Australians who are comparing their moral fibre against those of people who may or may not be acting their normal selves on camera.

Which is silly. I mean, I constantly compare my life to that of Detective Goran from Law and Order, Criminal Intent, and I constantly feel inferior. Even more so when I compare my life to Vincent D'Onofrio – I mean, I haven’t been granted the privilege of blowing my head off in an iconic Stanley Kubrick film.

So, now what’s my major malfunction with Reality TV, I hear you ask. Well… none, really. Jeez, you’re a presumptuous little ragamuffin, aren’t you?

I have no major bones with Reality TV anymore. It’s just like regular local TV, but instead of talentless, vacuous crazies with perked bodies playing characters as they were written by the show’s scriptwriters, there are talentless, vacuous crazies with perk bodies playing themselves as they are portrayed by the show’s producers.

So, now I just choose to not watch it and I shut the hell up about it… er apart from this blog post. It’s not for some kind of moral objection, and not because I like scripted television. I just don’t need TV to show me just how nutty some people are. I can see it for myself whenever I step outside the house.

So, I’d like to believe that I’ve created a fourth category.

The kind who doesn’t really want to watch Reality TV, despite its endearing foibles, but will refuse to question those who indulge in its ostensible grandeur whenever it’s turned on.

Besides, it’s not like whinging about it will make it go away.

At least I got to use the word Ragamuffin, though. Yay.

Apologies, In Advance...

In this world of the Inane Asylum, I come across a variety of people, each with their own story to tell, each with their own experiences from which to glean wisdom. If, when conversing with these people, I find some kind of parallel between some of them, I quickly identify a “trend” and then bang on about it as though it’s “fact”.

Which raises some eyebrows, I’m sure. Fr’instance, three people with the same problem does not necessarily a trend make, but in the world that is my blog, it does.

N’yer.

I speak to a lot of people, in that I know a lot of people. I don’t just strut up to strangers, introduce myself and start conversing with them at length about their relationships and what not.

No, cos that would be weird.

I seem to have stumbled across a parallel between someone’s looks and the types of relationships they have experienced. Naturally, this being my little world, I will converse at length as though this parallel is indicative of society as a whole, and will subsequently disregard other people’s experiences because they are “isolated cases”.

‘Cos that’s not weird…

I have expressed in this blog previously that I pity the female of our species. This, of course, is regardless of whether females want my pity, and believe that I should shove said pity into an orifice normally reserved for exiting. Sorry girls, you got it anyway.

Preach empowerment, independence and male oppression all you want, I don’t care. You’ve got it rough, and everyday I am thankful for my nads.

Anyway, this little parallel I’ve drawn relates the conventional beauty of a female with the number and/or types of abusive relationships.

Guys who prey upon the beautiful women are usually sharp, charming and able to hide any characteristic shortcomings quite easily… until they snare their victim. It seems that more often than not, these guys are also quite explosive, manipulative and parasitic (which are, funnily enough, traits of a psychopath).

As they are so adept at charming, they often appeal more than someone who is, say, less explosive, manipulative etc.

However, it is also the nice, genuine guys that might have the little “random beautiful woman” shrine in their house, and go about stalking… so either way ladies, you’re fucked.

These superficial manipulators often overlook the less-than-conventionally-beautiful women, mainly because… well… they’re superficial. In turn, it’s the less than conventionally beautiful woman (the ones I know, at least) that have the more genuine, and least abusive relationships.

Advice to all you lookers out there: try going out one night without being dressed up to the nines. No makeup, no teasing of hairs. Wear long, modest pants and a loose fitting shirt. That’d make sure the crazies don’t come pinch you on the arse.

Hell, I won’t talk to you…

Actually, come to think of it, you’ll still probably attract the wrong kinda person. So I reiterate: either way, you’re all screwed. Curse your beautiful features to hell, and good luck with life, okay? Bless.

Wow… what a broad generalisation. Fuck. I’m going to offend someone, one day.

Disclaimer: The Inane Asylum is not responsible if anyone somehow thinks that this is related to them. If you have taken offence, believe The Inane Asylum when they assure you that The Inane Asylum is not talking about you. Really. Also, The Inane Asylum is aware they should not cast sweeping generalisations… blah, blah, blah… small cross section of community… blah, blah, blah… no qualification of any kind, except that small certificate from radio school and the “pen license” from third grade… blah, blah, blah… no correspondence will be entered into… blah, blah, blah… restraining order on you if you do take offense…etc. Fuck off, pansy… blah, blah, blah…

Freer than you...

When you go through periods of change, you begin to notice how some
things can be somewhat related to you.

At the moment, it's the Nina Simone song, Feeling Good… that in turn
was popularised by the best live band in the world today, Muse.

Naturally, I have no idea what Nina was thinking when she did this
song, and I may be totally missing the point of the tune, but really…
this is what I get from it at this point in time, so if anyone is
going to outline my bastardisation of the song's intent… fuck you.

The song is speaking to me now, and this is how I speak back to it…
and to those who have impacted negatively on me. I don't think anyone
needs to guess who I'm talking about.

Birds flying high
you know how I feel
Sun in the sky
you know how I feel
Reeds driftin' on by you know how I feel

The freedom provided by my new life feels refreshing and vibrant. With
the one departure comes new arrivals. With nothing holding me down, I
can fly high in the bright sky, feel the wind upon my face and feel
the worries that once troubled me fall away beneath me into
insignificance.

Fish in the sea
you know how I feel
River running free
you know how I feel
Blossom in the tree
you know how I feel

As I scrape away the deadwood on the outskirts of my life and discard
them into the embers in front of me, I watch the curls of smokes dance
playfully in an amusing manner before climbing out of view. In the
deadwood's place lies fresh green branches upon which a new life will
start, but now the roots are stronger. Stronger without you.

Dragonfly out in the sun
you know what I mean, don't you know
Butterflies all havin' fun
you know what I mean
Sleep in peace when day is done
And this old world is a new world
And a bold world
For me

As a Tom Thumb in front of giants, a new life looms down upon me as
though I am a foreigner in a strange land. Yet you still flutter
oblivious to my turmoil, darting amongst a group totally familiar. You
feel the warmth of the typical, blissfully ignorant of the dank
underbelly that you created.

I stand up to those peering down upon my diminutive figure, staring
directly into their eyes. I will not be a victim, but will instead
buzz around with my own thing. The new world is bold, but I am bolder.

Stars when you shine you know how I feel
Scent of the pine you know how I feel
Oh freedom is mine
And I know how I feel

You can take your life. You don't know any different, nor will you
learn until it is too late. I know how I feel, and I don't wish anyone
to endure what I have. But until your grand trunk is severed in a
spectacular swipe, and the stench of your pain fills our nostrils, you
will never learn to shine like I do.

It's a new dawn
It's a new day
It's a new life
For me
And I'm feeling good

I have control over my life. I do not need to consider anything in my
actions anymore. This is mine.

Freer than you…

Definitely. Definitely freer than you.

Andy: The Fraud

Well, the wife came around to take the cats and some other personal effects.

I was rather terse, and rather rude.

Conversation:

Her: Lets get my TV into the car.

Me: I’m assuming you mean that I should help you then?

Her: Well, yeah…

Me: Don’t you have some other muscle to help out?

Her: My Dad is at [other engagement].

Me: Why should I help you out?

Her: …

Me: Are you going to help me move out?

Her: …

I ended up helping her lift the TV into her sister’s car. It wouldn’t fit the entire way in through the boot (trunk), so I ducked around to the rear door to pull it the rest of the way in. In the process, her finger got jammed between the TV and lip of the car boot (trunk).

She shrieked in pain. I waited for the usual barrage of chastisement that normally accompanies something going wrong, despite it being not my fault.

Silence. Nothing. She walked inside to run cold water over her finger.

The rest of the time she spent sniffling slightly, and strutting around the house saying nothing to me.

I didn’t try to make any amends. She moved the rest of the stuff whilst I hung around the front of the house, smoking.

She asked me to get some other things for the cats that were stored too highly in the garage for her to reach. I obliged.

I treated her with utmost disdain, giving her short, terse replies.

Throughout this whole ordeal, I’ve had to organise the sale of the house. Sure, I was living here, but surely she did have some responsibility to help out. She would say that she would come around and help tidy up before the open inspections, but she would somehow be busy during that time.

I had to do all the footwork in organising an agent. I had to chase up all the loose ends.

She never once made any kind of sacrifice to help out, instead choosing to spend time with her boyfriend. She also expected me to give her some money because she had other expenses to cover. She bled my wage dry, because I was too pliable when it came to her.

She never fully respected me. Ever.

Despite my wanting to work on the marriage and sort things out, she made it clear that the new boyfriend was far too important to her to warrant any time.

Tonight, my mood had swung. I didn’t feel obliged to her in any way. The way that she has treated me was downright disrespectful. She never took responsibility for anything in the relationship, instead instructing me to “deal with it” or “get over it” because it was the “way she was”.

I claimed before on this blog that I feel totally numb when it comes to her. Well, I certainly don’t feel any affection towards her, yet I still don’t hate her.

So, why do I feel like an arsehole?

Kids are intoxicating bliss

Before I was whinging about how little material I had around this town. But thanks to a small trip out grocery shopping, I was able to find something that mildly amused me.

Thank you, Arndale Shopping Centre.

This place is usually a haven of screaming kids, prams and errant shopping trolleys all looking to strike you sharply on the shins.

As I was walking out with my own groceries that largely consist of fresh fruit, vegies, pre made lasagne and souvlaki kits, I was obstructed by a small urchin, looking up at me with enormous green eyes.

“Look where you’re going…” instructed the creature’s mother, “… Kahlua.”

I thought that was brilliant, to name a kid after a nice alcoholic beverage. Talk about giving the kid some complex, and not to mention the expectation to become either the greatest barchick the world has ever seen, or one of the most spectacular drunks.

However, christening one of my kids “Midori” reeks of awesomeness.

I looked at the parents, with a slight smirk on my face. I think it went unnoticed. I could’ve understood the name had their heritage been somewhat exotic, like African, Estonian or even Tasmanian. But they were just like every other anglo-saxon schmoe who attended that bastion of consumerism.

I felt like turning a nod to both the parents, addressing them by name as I did so.

“Shazza… Bazza.” I would’ve greeted them had I not been carrying ten kilos of sprint impeding groceries.

(For those unfamiliar with Australian methods of creating affectionate nicknames, any moniker can be twisted around by taking the first initial or two and adding “azza” to the end. Ie Barry becomes “Bazza”, Shirley becomes “Shazza”. Sorry, Jasmine, but you’re Jazza over here… no, that’s a lie. It’d be Jazzazza, which is another name that reeks awesomeness)

Sometimes, it could be understandable. Baileys could be a perfectly normal name. Drambuie, maybe. Even “Coopers” (South Australian beer) gets a shirt, as long as you remove that awful “S”.

However, if you’re from a particularly bogan area of Queensland, I’d be wary of naming your kid XXXX (a local beer)… or “Four Exx”. That’s just asking for the kids to replace your name with the plethora of four letter words in the English language, because they think your name is censored.

But it could make the kid really popular. For one thing, their name would be near the end of the role (if it were sorted by Christian name… hey, it could happen), and they would be revered because their name is so rebellious, they had to bleep it out.

“Wild Turkey” is pushing the boundaries a bit. “Shiraz” or “Merlot” is simply begging to have them beaten up. “Chivas Regal” is just spelling school yard death.

Just don’t call your kid “Fosters”. We’d deport that shit.

So… if you could name your kids after booze… what would it be? Why?

Andy: Number 1 in Number Two...

I have been accosted/tagged/bailed up by 4Sanity to do a "Turd Poetry". Seeing as poetry was something I used to write when I was an angsty young teenager - as opposed to the angsty mid-to-late twenties bloke I am now - I can categorically say that my skills have been a little dulled over time. So considering that factor, coupled with the classy subject matter, don't go expecting Robert Frost.

Turd in a punch bowl,
Pungeant spiking by defecation
Turd in a punch bowl,
A different worm for tequila intoxication

Hmm... that doesn't really rhyme. Oh well... poetry isn't my area of expertise... at least that's my excuse.

Here's how the tag works:

I suggest 3 other people to follow in my high-brow footsteps... er... ChickyBabe, Kenneth, and... I dunno... Cadiz?

Here are the rules for Turd Poetry:
1. Write a four line poem with the 1st and 3rd lines being "turd in a punch bowl"
2. Make lines 2 and 4 rhyme, using any topic
3. Tag three other snooty beatniks, and suggest they give it a bash on their works of art.

Do it or... er... do... something... classier... :/

Thanks 4Sanity! Just as I thought I was reaching an intellectual, pompous, condescending tone for this blog... ;)

Number two humour, GO!

Normal services will resume later this evening (Central Australian Time).

Ten things Blog has taught me.

I think I’ve done a lot of self reflective things on this blog, in particular analysing blogging itself, which is kinda stupid when you think about it. I mean, why bother getting articulate about the medium?

You don’t hear shock jocks pondering over whether the fact that their face looks like the west side of an east bound dump truck (yes, I’ve used that analogy before, but I like it) prevents them from being any other form of celebrity.

You don’t see current affairs hosts waxing on about theories that their control over mass opinion sways the direction of Government policy, and whether their motives are entirely honourable. Sorry Ray, but you’re crap (Aussie joke).

So, I’m going to lay off blog… for a while… after this post… until next week…

But, if the blogs I read are entirely indicative of society as a whole, I can outline the top ten things I have learnt from Blog.

So without further ado, do, do… adah, dah, dah. Here is what I have learnt.

Out of all the college professors, the ones that are most likely to engage in a relationship with a student teach… wait for it… ethics.

That a picture of me is infinitely more interesting than Michael Stipe from REM.

That, if you wish to hide a picture of yourself, hide it behind a link that apparently will show you one of Freddie Prinze Jnr.

Interns are funny people. Pity that doesn’t apply to our office “trainees” over here. I wish blog was around when I was on my office traineeship (our version of internship).

New York is a wondrous place, despite the grime, people, buildings, restaurants, subways, smell, neighbours, nutbags and the Empire State Building. (To be honest, I will draw absolute conclusions when I see it for myself)

Being a teacher bites. Big time.

85% of society are writers, or want to be writers.

That guys on dating services are totally clueless.

Relationships when abroad are difficult, but enjoyable.

Canadians are wacky.

Well, that was fun. Who knows, I could totally rip off Letterman (or maybe Defrag) and do a Top Ten thingo regularly…

-----

I have had about 5 days of relative normalcy. I figured that something has been askew.

So I went down for one of my routine strolls along Henley Beach, which has always been good for witnessing crazies in the wild.

Nothing.

Apart from the drunken people who thought that walking along a thin stone wall was a top idea… but they weren’t disorderly… so that’s pretty tame. Hardly Inane at all.

What is wrong with this city? It used to be a veritable treasure trove of wackiness. I haven’t been approached by the bizarre, accosted by the odd, nor sold speakers out of the back of a van at 80 kays per hour…

Nor have I done something totally weird. I’m even letting myself down.

C’mon people. Work with me here! I can’t work under these conditions! I’m an artiste with a canvas, and I have no paint! Not even the sake that I’ve taken a liking to is kicking me into gear.

But, who else can I be...?

The high horse is fed, brushed, given blinders and ready to ride back into the blog.

Just be yourself. It’s good advice for anyone, really. Anyone could tell you that simply acting as yourself is to be the best person possible. That to be precisely who you appear to be is reassuring to others, and it engenders a more harmonious environment… in where cute cuddly bears gambol around playfully, with their big blue eyes and soft, furry hides.

Yes, that’s right. However, many seem to have some kind of idea that simply being yourself entails losing all of your inhibitions, not caring what other people think, and disregarding everything.

Okay, yes… fair enough. I don’t judge that. If it’s who you are, then it’s who you are.

I’m not like you, though.

So, in turn, if you want me to like you for who you are, and to accept all your quirks, then you must grant me that same luxury.

For all the hijinx, crazy thoughts, humorous behaviour and amusing analogies, I am at heart a fairly serious person. This doesn’t mean I am incapable of having fun, mucking around, cracking jokes and being a nutbag. Oh hell no. Equally it doesn’t mean that I take everything seriously and that you should be walking on eggshells with your ultra soft, lambs-wool slippers whenever you are near me.

I’m not going to bite your head off, shoot your cuddly woodland creatures and wear them as a nice purple hat if you do something that I interpret as stupid. You’re only human, just like me.

It just means that I have bouts of seriousness. I am self conscious. I am tactful. I am not as blunt and forthright as a howitzer shooting round pellets of rubber. Yes, I am honest with people, but I don’t place a higher value on approaching someone and telling them outright that I think they’re a fuckwit (despite the fact that my vitriol on this blog does do that from time to time… hey it’s the internet. It’s anonymous. Fuck off. Fuckwit).

I would be a little more tactful. I think “idiot” is just as effective at putting my point across (disregard bracketed area in previous paragraph… idiot).

Maybe I could be a little less self-conscious. Maybe I could stand to lose a few inhibitions. But that’s my weight to bear, not anyone else’s.

But anyone who is going to force their method of thinking as somewhat “better” is simply going shut me off.

I don’t judge people’s wacky behaviour, and their profound ability to drunkenly stumble up to someone just so they can announce their opinion of their cute arse. I don’t care that they can waltz up to any stranger and charm them with their impeccable “in-your-face-ness”.

But that’s not who I am. And despite past events, I still think I’m doing okay.

In turn, don’t judge me for being a little shy, a little reserved, and being a bit more contemplative before acting. I could be packing heat, with my eye on that cute bear on your person.

All these people I’ve spoken to about this whole “being yourself” doctrine seem to enjoy outlining precisely who they are, and what traits they exhibit, but none have actually outlined what they’re not. That might be coincidence, though… maybe if I wasn’t so shy, and talked to more people…

Ugh… what’s my point? Oh yeah… you don’t want to be judged by me? Well... don’t judge me back, either... idiotwit.

(but everyone is judgemental in their own way… but that’s another subject for another day)