Now contains nuts.

Wednesday, June 29, 2005

Episode II

George Lucas made us wait many years for the conclusion to his Star Wars epic. Get off my case. It’s been only four days. Besides, I’ve had a job interview, car shopping and general errand to run that weren’t completed in my absence. Thank you bro.

Anyway.

Sydney. What a town.

The malaise I had felt when I departed Adelaide had washed away. The flatness of the Hay plain a distant memory as my thoughts tumbled and gambolled over rolling hills and darted in and out of concrete boxes that seemingly held up the sky.

I could not throw a stone without striking some form of construction work. I struggled to ascertain whether the city was in a constant state of evolution, forever adapting to a fast changing world… or whether they were simply patching over the rot and decay.

I asked a friend I met, and he indicated that it was a bit of both teams.

Town Hall station was a mire of mess and filth, which can be initially off putting. But it can be forgiven when you realise that it effectively is the hub, the nerve centre if you will, of the trains in Sydney.

I imagine that it would be used heavily and constantly, and for any cleaners to walk in and start scrubbing, they are effectively taking a huge risk of being trampled to death by public servants who are blinded by the conversation on their mobile phones.

Imagine the miners who are 20 kilometres below the surface, scraping at some vein of ore. Yeah, risk like that. Although I imagine 20,000 tonnes of rock is nothing compared to the fury of an arrogant and ignorant white-collar worker in Gucci shoes.

Well, I guess it’s down to the photos. Naturally, there are going to be the touristy shots of the usual landmarks. Let’s get them out of the way. Besides, it’s not like you lot haven’t seen photos of the Harbour Bridge and the Opera House before.







There. Happy? :)







I liked this building. It reeked of history, and if it had a mouth it would speak many stories of events and people afore. But it would also have a plumb, snotty accent and I wouldn’t listen to it as I’d think it a pompous arse.

The first photo is an attempt at something "arty"




The fountain on Martin Place. Yes, The Matrix fountain. Yes, it’s cooler now. The whole time I was thinking… there is no spoon. No blondes in red dresses either. Just business suits. *purr*




These guys were cool. The sounds of Australia’s indigenous people, set to the backing track of a driving techno beat.

There were other buskers, but none all that interesting. The usual people pretending to be “live” statues, and some kid in a donkey costume that was begging to have his “ass” (haw haw) kicked.




Shot of the Sydney skyline from Darling Harbour. What you can’t see, however, is me climbing atop the benches to get this picture. Classy.

But I know a lot of people who read this might be somewhat interested in Australia as a place. The environment, the weather patterns… and our crazy accents. But crikey… I can’t capture all of that. Bonza, eh?

On the trip to Sydney, I was punching myself repeatedly in the frontal lobe for not having the foresight to possibly fly back to Adelaide. However, it was a most odd, yet inspiring time, to be alone in a car as the world changed before my senses.







Here we have shots of the Three Sisters and the valley just near Katoomba. It’s about an hours drive west of Sydney. Give or take a few minutes.

What these photos can’t tell you is the immense cold that greeted me once I had exited my car. I hadn’t rugged up all that much, and the car’s heater was filling the cabinet with comfortable warmth.

This grand view welcomed me, beckoning me out of the car with its sumptuous panorama. Then it probably laughed, as upon getting out of the car I was smacked in the face with a cold so harsh, my eyes, nose and ears almost let go of my head. The icy wind swept up through this canyon, up the rock face and battered my body like angry warriors.

There was a certain magic in the air, a purity in the breeze that seemed to whisper and hint at the future. Sorry… did I say “magic”…

I had only felt this kind of cold once before. In New Zealand.

Right before it snowed.




Here is some more Australiana. Just outside a little town called Lithgow.




Here is Lithgow. I had always wondered how people could describe a place as “nestled”. Well, here it is. Lithgow. “Nestled” in a neat little valley. Kinda like a little Hobbit village. Cute.

Just outside of Lithgow, something bizarre happened. I cast my mind back to the time spent on the lookout at Katoomba. The feeling of cold.

























Snow. Lots of it… for Australia, anyway. What these photos don't capture is that the snow was falling quite rapidly, floating about me like white butterflies, in a field of lillies. The extreme cold didn't figure into my senses as I stood dumbfounded, frozen to the spot.

Then I realised I had no feelings on my outer extremities. Dressing for Australian winter doesn't account for temperatures below freezing. A Jacket, t-shirt and jeans do little to protect your body from these kind of conditions.

Soon, the snow faded away to a distant memory, as though I had dreamt it. I passed through Bathurst, and I did the normal touristy thing of careening around the racetrack. Yay. I filled the car up with fuel, noticed I missed a phone call, probably from some well-wishers or my parents calling to make sure I hadn’t killed myself somewhere.

From here on in, there are some photos of the landscape Australia has to offer. For years I have thought of this land as unsightly, the dry scapes hardly being the picture of a lush, healthy countryside.

The further and further I got from Sydney, the more I thought the scenery represented my mindset.




Rolling hills. Adventure, excitement. A bit hazy, but nonetheless vivid and inspired.




The hills become smaller… flatter. Hazy...




Flat… maybe a few things worth noting.







Flat… empty. Welcome to the Hay plain. Imagine this scenery for two hours. Yep. I thank Christ I’m not a kid in the backseat.




Sunset over scorched land. This photo doesn’t capture the streams of light that filtered through the clouds, and the tranquillity of the setting.




Another sunset, taken from the driver’s seat. The Inane Asylum doesn’t endorse reckless driving… but I was running short of light, and the next 20 kilometres were heavy scrub. I wasn’t going to stop, and I wasn’t going to get another chance at a shot like that.

Drive safe people. Do as I say, not as I do. Do not lecture me on driving safety and road rules. I’m home safe now.

I spent the night in Mildura, which is about ten hours from Sydney and four from Adelaide.

The next morning, after a restless night of listening to Road Trains and other huge vehicles bashing through a sleepy town, I get going around 5.30am. By about 6.00am, I am greeted by this… which is still representative of my mind.







Foggy. Dark. Unsure.

What have I left behind? Where am I going?




This is just outside Swan Reach, a little town that teeters on the edge of the Murray River. Things are still a bit foggy, but getting brighter.



As I get closer to Adelaide, things become misty. The hills come back, but they feel too familiar. I’ve been down this road many times before.

I know that my place of residence is on the other side of that hill. Fog sits atop that ridge, waiting for me to return.

On the road for fifteen odd hours. Fifteen hours of solitude. Fifteen hours of quiet contemplation. Fifteen hours of nothing but the drone of a car, the beats of the fifteen CD’s I brought and the lyrics in my head.

This road leads back to Adelaide, but does it lead home?

This has been my trip to Sydney.

Thank you.

Friday, June 24, 2005

Beautifully Blind-sided

This is not my Sydney post in its entirety. Nah, I simply cannot hope to cram everything into the space that can still be deemed readable, without it becoming tedious. Also, I have heaps of photos and simply cannot upload them on this abacus I call a home PC.

And whoopsies on the double post before. Hotel internet usage ran out before I could correct it…

So, without further ado:

------

Depart Adelaide. Feel Drained. Dunno if it was my training, or the thoughts of the big trip in front me. Drive around. Mental notes come into my head. Don’t tell people you’re “hitting the road” as you get that annoying song, “Hit the Road, Jack” stuck in your head for 50 kilometres.

I want to get beyond Mildura on the first day. That’ll leave 9 hours drive on the following day. Half an hour later, I think the most head-slapping of ideas. What if I drove to Sydney with this parcel, dropped the car off and then flew back?

Confirmation. I’m a moron.

I still feel flat. The music blazing away on the stereo begins to buzz away to static as I head out of the populated regions. Just me and the road.

Inane thoughts pop in and out of my head. The lyrics of the songs playing on the CD player begins to twist into white noise as my own poetry enters my head, words dancing with each other, emotions being plucked, each one different from the last.

The hills fall away to the flats. My flat mood seemingly a distant memory, perhaps stuck behind a hill it cannot surmount. Excitement. Angst. Hope. Turmoil. My head nods to the melancholic strains of Big Heavy Stuff as if agreeing with the sentiments.

The words in my head become more complex, descriptive… less… flat.

I pass through Victoria, keenly eyeing the differences between South Australia and this new one. I notice the heavy campaigning for Drivers to not drive whilst tired, as “microsleeps” can kill within seconds.

One sign innocently queries before blatantly ordering, “Feeling Drowsy? Power Nap Now!”. The only thought in my head is, “… But stop your car first.”

It was an arduous trek across the Hay Plains. But the weather patterns drew my attention constantly. The low level clouds curled up and around in front of me, like the finger of an excited tourguide beckoning to me, just itching to show me what was around the next corner.

It didn’t stop raining for the entire trip. I was beginning to lament ever taking this damn sojourn in the first place. My brother’s birthday present lay across the back seat, in a position reminiscent of some sloth Roman emperor. I shook my head in disdain, as I believed the thing was mocking me.

Voices in the mind… whilst in the car. I shake my head again.

I arrive in Sydney at around 3.30pm, a day later. My brother’s phone is off, so I am stuck alone in a city I have never been in (the first time doesn't count). I marvel at how crazy the drivers are in the crazy place. I had one theory for their craziness: whilst driving in NSW you are constantly being bombarded with different numbers; phone this for traffic problems... phone that for injured wildlife… phone this, phone that.

I think drivers simply block numbers out of their head when on the road. Unfortunately this translates to speed limits, too.

I survey Sydney from my hotel room. So far, so hum drum.

Then one day I decide to catch a train into the CBD. Just ‘cos I want.

I simply was not prepared for this city. Any initial thoughts that Sydney was just another berg with the typical “awe” feeling were slapped aside violently as my senses attempted to grasp all that was around me.

The vibe, the buzz… the sheer scale of everything just blew my mind. Architecture, people, attitude… it all assaulted me, threatening to overwhelm me.

People stared you in the face as they walked past. Each were immaculately dressed, as though daggy was akin to profanity. Women with sharp suits, confident strides and musky scents marched past me. I followed one unintentionally, enraptured with the way strands of her hair danced lightly around her head to the rhythmic beat of her footsteps.

Men with designer haircuts, pink shirts (ugh) and boisterous laughs convened on street corners in an intimidating display of power in numbers.

Things that you hear about on the news, things that seem ethereal, without essence suddenly became tangible… something you can touch, see… survey.

The Martin Place fountain does seem a lot cooler when you call it The Matrix fountain (from that scene where the woman in the red dress walks past Neo in the training program).

Sydney was a city that seemed so distant, so far away. The skyline was a mere silhouette in my mind, and nothing prepared me for what I would see. Silhouettes became real, and they were most charming.

I caught the train back to “home” after much talking with some friends I met. I found myself intrigued by the cute girl slowly drifting to sleep on the opposite side of the cabin. She leant on the gentleman next to her, and his head rested on hers… both snoozing.

The steady beat of the railway sleepers outside rocked and lullabied collars of white and blue; sleepers inside. They awoke after time, both somewhat embarrassed. They both left at the same station. I wanted to follow them to see if anything more would happen, but I was eager to get back to my room.

… to be continued.

Photos are coming…

Wednesday, June 22, 2005

Teaser

Tonight marks my final night in Sydney

Some of you may be curious as to how a wondrous city captivated a drew me in like a warm embrace. Perhaps even seeking some insight into how awestruck I was to be in a bustling society, rubbing shoulders with the professional elite. Maybe the people I met, and how enamoured I was to speak with such people.

Meh... it was okay.

... to be continued...

Teaser

Tonight marks my final night in Sydney. I depart for home tomorrow morning.

Some of you may be curious as to my exploits in a wondrous city, how the bright lights and dynamic society had rubbed off onto my persona. Maybe the people I met, the rubbing of shoulders with what some would consider the professional elite...

Meh... this place is okay...

... to be continued...

Friday, June 17, 2005

Hiatus, Sabbatical… whatever

I leave for Sydney tomorrow. Should be a good trip. I’m driving a little car from Adelaide to Sydney, which sounds like total and complete fun, fun, fun.

Especially since the car is a rental.

I’m not averse to flying. I find the experience quite exhilarating actually. However, I must drive for a couple reasons, inane as they are.

For one, I must lug my brother’s 30th birthday present across this great big brown hunk of dirt - a framed, autographed jersey of my brother’s favourite Australian Rules Footy team. Thanks go to my ex-wife’s cousin who organised the Port Power boys to sign the wretched thing.

It won’t fit in any luggage, my family is paranoid it’ll get smashed on a plane… and basically… I just felt like driving.

To be out on the open road, surveying the countryside and being alone allows time to reflect, think… and maybe enough forethought to swerve around that errant kangaroo on the road.

They can really do some damage to your car, not that I know from personal experience. I’ve just seen some really bent cars after a collision with one.

And when you see a kangaroo that’s taller than you, it’s easy to understand why.

I should make it to Sydney in a couple days. The trip across the Hay plain will be particularly tedious (nothing as far as the eye can see… maybe the odd shrub), but when I get to the areas around Bathurst, it should become a bit more interesting. I’ll refrain from doing a lap around the Bathurst race circuit (it was an open public road the last time I swung through).

So yeah, the Inane Asylum will probably cool down a bit whilst I’m away. Considering the recent ire directed at my questionable taste in women, this news probably will be greeted with relative indifference.

The open road will serve as my muse over the next few days. My thoughts will drift over the previous couple months, my eyes will survey the beauty that this country possesses. It might even renew my appreciation for this isolated little land I call home.

We’ll see. You’ll see… when I return.

Thursday, June 16, 2005

I'm never last picked...

A few weeks ago, I went to a quiz night. Normally, I associate quiz nights with a bunch of people who should get out a little more, and trivia buffs with bad body odour.

However, this quiz night was about music, so it couldn’t have been all that bad. Music, despite my sheer lack of rhythm, skill and… well… talent, is actually something I follow with some fervour.

I liked Elliot Smith before he decided to top himself. I enjoy the music of Nick Drake, and Muse are still the best fucking live band in the world today.

On the night, despite receiving constant ribbing from the MC, we all had an okay time. I guess the MC just loved the fact that we couldn’t come up with a decent table name, and instead ran with the moniker “Table Pi”. Oh we copped shit about that, despite the team name actually being the idea of the leggy blonde assistant to the MC. Go figure.

I personally wanted “Go Rock Yourself”, but was shunned down by my company.

But then again, our table name allowed us to throw little jokes in on our answer sheet with the numeral 3.142 blah, blah, blah.

And then there was the one way banter between the MC and our table:

MC: And there’s Table Pi, wallowing away in a pool of their own shame.

Me (calls back): Um… that isn’t shame!

MC: Moving along…

Me: *disappears under the table in a pool of shame, or something else*


Where was I going again? Oh yeah.

The various tables covered a myriad of different demographics. You had the music nuts of Three D radio, the table of music nerds, the super alternative we-know-shit-loads-of-obscure-bands-who-you-should-like-otherwise-we’ll-nut-yer people, the girls out for a lark, the young-uns who snuck out when their parents weren't looking, and the early-twenties trying something new.

And then there was us… the one’s with no idea whatsoever. Well, we didn’t come last. We didn’t come first, either.

Naturally, the questions were suitably obscure, befitting a crowd of such dynamic dimensions. Of course, there was something for the kiddly winks, just so they could get a point or two.

However, when going over the answers, something became bleedingly obvious to me, as a result of the subsequent boo-ing and flying insults whenever a pop icon was mentioned (I just edited this in... it was actually an important part of this post, and I forgot it. My bad.):

If something is popular… it must be crap.

I mean, I’m all for the death penalty for Gwen Stefani, but there must’ve been some point in time when people thought she was okay… you know, when she was playing in smoky bars, bouncing along to her music, stopping only to pull out her credit card, chop up some lines of cocaine and skull a whole bottle of cheap bourbon.

But I guess when it comes to music, the moment that someone appears to be about money, they are immediately branded “shithouse”. And in most cases I've agreed with it… U2, I’m looking at you. Take off your iPods for a second and listen to me.

Jeff Buckley was cool until everyone liked him. Perhaps one can only take so much of “Have you heard this song, Last Goodbye? It’s absolutely brilliant.”

“I heard it seven years ago, wanker.”

But I know that I do it, too - and I don't like it. The moment that something appears in the charts, I immediately start banging on about how crap it is. I’m the guy who says that the FooFighters latest drivel of music is a far cry from the brilliance of their earlier stuff, and that desire to sell records has corrupted their integrity.

And people want to punch me in the face.

Hard.

For fuck’s sake, it’s just music. Fuck principles. Fuck integrity. Fuck moneymaking companies and their quest to brainwash the kiddies to steal the pocket money they earned by mowing lawns, washing cars and making Nike sweaters.

I’m trying to turn over a new leaf; Just because something is popular, it doesn’t necessarily mean that it’s crap.

And leave Kirsten Dunst alone.

Wednesday, June 15, 2005

To Dream, Perchance to Compose

I’m usually not one to remember my dreams, let alone recall them to all and sundry so that they may analyse me, scoff or lay claim to never having dreams… but last night I had one so vivid, it stayed in my mind, right up until I got into my brother's car.

----------------

I was at the Final of a Grand Slam tennis tournament. Crowds cheered their never-ending gush of white noise as the players took their places on the courts. The surface was clay, the player’s feet flicking up dust as slowly moved in a back-and-forth dance of athleticism. I was at Roland Garros, yet the people around me were not French.

I marvelled at their ability to hit the ball cleanly and consistently (I’m an avid tennis player), the little yellow orb surgically passing the middle net at the same height.

People were staring at me, as though I was someone of import. People made way for me as I passed by, and big, dark security guards stepped aside with a knowing nod and smile in my direction. I could go anywhere.

I exchanged some pleasantries with prominent people – I identified these people as politicians and actors, although they didn’t represent any real life people in the tabloids. They were celebrities… that’s all that I knew about them.

I took my place, right next to a pretty blonde girl and her brunette friend. They knew who I was, but played it nonchalant. Their classy outfits suggested a privileged upbringing, and their faces were decidedly American. Their accents though, were Australian.

I was of the impression I was meeting these women for the first time. I didn’t associate them with any person I know in real life. They were “new”.

We made small talk. The blonde one in particular enamoured me. Whenever I got up to fetch a drink, I would peck her on the cheek and assure her I’d be “back soon”. Upon my return, I saw she was struggling for a good view of the tennis action, as the tension on court increased to snapping point.

The players were at a most important phase of the game. Their grunts and cries of jubilation at minor successes were like the trigger for sections of the crowd to cheer, the noise of supporters’ celebrations rushed down the stadium and into the court like water flowing down a mountain.

The blonde turned to me, a helpless look in her eye.

I walked to the very front row, sat down and gestured for her to join me. She brought her friend with her. We sat, watching the game for what seemed like a few seconds, and then she did something bizarre… because that’s what happens in dreams.

She started singing. This haunting tune that tickled the back of my neck, like spectral fingers brushing the fine hairs. I can’t remember the song, but in my dream, I felt I had heard it before.

People in the crowd turned to look at her, captured by the siren call of the song she was singing. I initially thought it a bit odd, and I leant away from her in an effort to disassociate myself from her.

Once she had finished, the crowd burst into applause.

------------------

I wake up.

I walked around my unit in a bit of a daze. The tune replaying in my head, over and over again. The haunting melody, the feeling of a lone guitar strumming the minimalist notes, simultaneously strumming the hairs on my neck intrigued me.

I’ve never felt this odd following a dream. I’ve never really remembered many dreams, either.

The song played in my head until I started heading to work, and the noises of the real world washed it away.

I wish I knew how to write music, as I would’ve written it down. The lyrics I cannot remember but I knew they fitted with the music.

But the melody is gone now.

Damn.

Monday, June 13, 2005

Magic Face

I have been told by all and sundry that I look like my brothers. Yeah, that’s fair enough, I reckon. To be derived from the exact same genetic mould would lend itself to some similarities amongst siblings.

Unless there’s a certain milkman in my parents’ area who moonlights as a gigolo, I don’t know… but I’d be sniffing the milk before consumption, I can tell you.

I was having a word to a friend not long ago, and she mentioned briefly something about an interview that she’d organised for my brother. He didn’t get the job. Yet, she intimated to me that he didn’t get the job because he simply wasn’t good looking enough.

I could harp on for hours about the Halo Effect as a means of explaining that more deeply, but frankly, that’s not what’s on my mind.

I look like him, so this person coordinating this interview must equally think that I’m equally not exactly the prime cut of beef from the hide of humanity. This initially makes me think that I should excuse myself, waltz into the men’s room and repeatedly smash my face against the bathroom sink. But hey... I don't know this superficial little twerp.

But then I think, hey… it must be the whole package. The way you carry yourself, the way you speak and the “air” about you that people use to define “attractive”. Besides, smashing my face on a sink doesn’t exactly help my cause.

A friend of mine had a saying: UHOHM. A passage from this saying usually went along the lines of, “Yeah, he was cute… but you know.. UHOHM.

It was an acronym for Until He Opened His Mouth.

If this prospective mark was to stand any chance of picking up this friend of mine, she had to approve of his voice. Don’t ask me why… it was her “thing”.

In previous conversations, confidence has featured highly, which lends credibility to the whole “air” idea, in that a guy has to have a certain “air” about him to warrant being attractive. And guys… I don’t think farting is creating the air that I’m talking about.

Call me ker-azy, but I hardly think cocking the leg and peeling one off is a great way to make a good first impression.

Look at me. Resorting to low-brow jokes. Anyway…

Then there’s the whole “Must have a sense of humour” thing. Yeah, we all want that. Especially from that one that drives the BMW, has a huge bank account, and nice arse.

It’s almost like trying to be a jack-of-all-trades, just so you can make that good first impression, and then you can let go and One Cheek Sneak to your heart’s content.

But, I will leave you with the final anecdote. It’s probably best described in conversation form:

Female Friend: You know, Andy. You’re a cute guy. You’ll be swamped in Japan.

Me: Thanks [FF].

FF: Oh yeah, totally. You just look so different nowadays. It’s like a totally new you has come out since January, and it’s most beautiful.

Me: Yeah. Actually… you look kinda different, too.

FF: Yeah? How?

Me: Yeah. Hey… when did you start wearing contacts?

FF: I haven’t worn contacts. I don’t wear them.

Me: So… you’re not wearing your glasses, either…

FF: No…

Me: So, you’re not seeing that clearly at the moment, are you?

FF: Er… no, not really…

Me: Excuse me

I then exit to go to the Men’s room, figuring that maybe turning my face into one of those Magic Eye things from 1995 would make me more appealing to women.


I forget what my point was. Oh yeah. Don’t fart until later.

Sunday, June 12, 2005

Own best company

This weekend is a long weekend in our country. It's the "Queens Birthday" weekend, so as a result, we get an extra day to sleep in, or consume an alcoholic beverage.

Or five.

I just back from a little sojourn down the Fleurieu Peninsula, to a little town by the name of Goolwa. I'd put up a link to this town's tourist site, but frankly, I can't be fucked. So stiff shit, and I doubt anyone would check it out, anyway.

This past week marked a few significant milestones. For one, I sold my car - the car owned by me and the wife. For two, I got my cheque from the sale of my house, and I'm now officially debt-free. Time to go blow it all on worthless crap, like a shit load of mixed candies, iPods and Telstra shares.

So a trip away was warranted. What beter way to mark a new found freedom than by pinching a friend's car and pissing off down to a small country town? Other than getting blind drunk and announcing to all and sundry that they should get "intercoursed".

Going back about six years, I went by the motto of "Sometimes you are your own best company". This was when I was going through some melancholy bout of lonliness, and I needed something to get me through the phase known commonly as "between girlfriends".

This little trip away did remind me of that little motto I conjured out of my own imagination aka self-righteous bullshit.

To sit down, relax and be at one with my own head was probably the best thing I could've done this weekend. I no longer have any more stresses in my life, and this weekend was a marker of freedom.

Also, that when I don't have anything to do, and that I'm seemingly alone, I can entertain myself with something worthwhile ie going out and writing what I feel, walking down the beach, just hopping in the car... and just being me.

That and eating the fattiest, sloppiest take away that is only available in country areas. YOu know... they just seem to pack on a tonne of everything onto their burgers, which leaves rolling on your back, grasping at the phone in a vain effort to dial the ambulance.

It's a great feeling to know that I'm only accountable to me. I can do whatever I feel like, and not have to worry about ramifications. I can buy what I want, do what I want, and be what I want.

I'm going to Sydney next weekend. Because I want to. Also, to see my brother, but mainly because I want to...

I have no other point to this post other than i'm feeling good.

Oh, and the Goolwa Billy Baxters cafe has the... cutest... waitress...

*purr*

Friday, June 10, 2005

Questions Aired

I’ve been “volunteered” by cadiz to fill out one of these questionnaire thingies. There’s nothing I like more than a good questionnaire to get the creative juices flowing. Oh wait… that’s a lie. Alcohol… too.

Three screen names you have had:
Aph
Little Gilbert
IwishIhadanawesomenamelikethoseotherfuckheadsdo

Three things you like about yourself:
I can totally write stupid answers to questionnaires
The innate ability to forego uncomplicated words when a problematical one will do
I can totally, like, write… stuff.

Three things you don't like about yourself:
The over analysis, neurosis
I’m totally stupid sometimes
I have an unnatural aversion to power outlets that are sitched on without anything plugged into them

Three things that scare you:
Mum
Deep sea creatures
The distinct possiblity that one day I'm going to walk into work just wearing my underwear, just like my worst nightmares

Three of your everyday essentials:
Coffee. Lots of it.
Email. Lots of them.
Starting a sentence with, "I've got a better idea..." right before insulting someone. And by someone, I really mean the "ex"

Three things you are wearing right now:
Three? Like every other male, I sit at the computer in the buff…
I kid. Jeans, CK shirt, and Fila shoes

Three of your favorite songs:
Showbiz by Muse
Eric Remains by Big Heavy Stuff
Whatever the voices in my head sing by Various
(anything that makes me appear more alternative… yes, I’m a pomp music snob)

Three new things you want to try in the next twelve months:
Travel to a totally new country with a different culture and ker-azy people
Go a day without beginning a sentence with "I've got a better idea..."
Tell a funny joke.

Three things you want in a relationship:
Loyalty
Respect
A great big, ginormous pair of… eyes

Three things you can't do without:
Air… boom tish. No wait, laughter
Pen
Paper

Three places you want to go on vacation:
Alaska
Japan…
The States… just to see it, and to say I’ve been. Particularly NY for some reason

Three things you just can't do:
Turn my back on people
Dance
Lick my elbow...

Three kids' names:
John
Paul
Ringo

They’re kid’s names… not my kid’s names. You didn’t specify whose kids. Okay, fine…

Zoe
Sebastian
… and… Stoppit

Three things you want to do before you die:
Meet someone inspirational… or meet Kirsten Dunst.
Travel… excessively
Get a t-shirt printed for my corpse “Lot for sale. Soon to be vacated. Location, location, location!” – that’ll amuse the future generations that dig me up.

Three celebrity crushes:
Kirsten Dunst... did I mention that before? I totally have a crush on her.
Schapelle Corby (just kidding! I just want more people searching for her nude photos to come here. Did I mention that I have people searching for SCHAPELLE CORBY NUDE PICTURES coming here??? SCHAPELLE CORBY NUDE TITS BITS SEX NUDE NUDE! … NUDE!)
In all seriousness… Sarah Blasko
MJ from the recent Hollywood Spiderman movies.

Naturally, I would be compelled to write something which is totally more in line with the spirit of this questionnaire, but it’s Friday - I’ve got a lot of sitting on my butt to do.

Step up to the plate, 4Sanity, X, and Kenneth.

Thursday, June 09, 2005

I failed myself last night...

I saw her across the room, her plumage drawing me, grasping my attention. She was a fiery redhead, with pale skin and an amber skirt.

Just from glimpsing at her, I could ascertain a couple things. She was bad. Like all things bad, she was addictive. I could tell it from the eyes of her company, and the glazed look in his eyes when he kissed her, drew her in and exhaled pleasantly.

Jitters started in my hands. I could feel the compulsion coming on. It had been so long.

I closed my eyes. Blinking hard in an effort to get her out of my mind. But the jitters wouldn’t go away. I just had to walk up and give her a kiss.

Shaking my head to try and expel the evil thoughts from my mind, I call upon all my resolve to refrain from giving into my weaknesses.

Her plumage danced above her fiery top, a blue halo, swirling in temptation.

I couldn’t take it any longer. I just had to go up and ask.

“Mate, can I bum a cigarette?”

I failed myself last night.

Wednesday, June 08, 2005

Quick, Random Thoughts

At the risk of sounding like some whacko cliché machine that sprays hackneyed phrases like a water sprinkler on a hot summers days, when you go through a hard phase of your life, you really, really learn who your friends are.

Last night I had dinner at a friend’s place and tonight I’m off to my sister’s place for another free meal. I’m sure I have to do the dishes, though…

So I will leave you with the prose that has been stuck in my head for the past couple days. Don’t ask me where it’s come from, or why it’s here… I can’t tell you.

“I wring my hands in front of my face, fists of frustration and white knuckled torment clash with the permeating dark mood, and the melancholy blue of your soul. I want to hug, but my arms seem bound. I want to brush away the tears, but my fingers can only dance over patterned boards. I want to soothe and console but a soundproof window mutes my voice. I cannot comfort; a cable around my wrists has numbed my senses.

So I will wring my hands.”

Tuesday, June 07, 2005

Focus!

I think that there have been too many extrinsic factors in my life lately, and I should just cut back and focus on the thing that probably helped me through the toughest stage of this whole “episode” of my life (ie end of marriage).

Japan. I was going overseas for a while, and it was that thought alone that kept me going. It gave me direction.

I think I lost that for a while there.

I got international roaming for my phone today. My trip is becoming very, very real. Exciting… yet scary.

Before, I simply couldn’t wait to get out. I was remorseless in going. I was vehement in my plans for departure, hoping to hold a single finger aloft, whilst marching through the international departures terminal as this country seemingly spat me out.

Now it’s different. I’m still going overseas, that much is clear. But I think I’ll miss this place now.

I’m starting to feel as though I’m supported in my plans. Friends are helping me out, others giving encouragement, and some are even finding it inspiring that I’ve grabbed life by the horns and have usurped control.

It was even easy to ring Telstra (local phone company) to update and obtain international roaming for my mobile phone (cell phone). I wasn’t even placed on hold… just went straight through to an operator.

Because, in Australia, you only need to know three phrases: “My shout” (signifying that you are paying for the next round of drinks), “Your shout”, and “Fucking Telstra” (such is their “exemplary” level of customer support).

(I totally ripped that joke off a local comedian…)

But rather than sitting alone in a cold, grey, empty departure terminal at 5.00am, waiting for the 8.00am flight to Osaka, as I had initially planned and envisaged, I can now imagine friends there, giving me hugs, kisses and wishes of Godspeed. I can even imagine my wife there, telling me that she hopes the door doesn’t hit my arse on the way out, as she doesn’t want arse-prints on the door.

(I totally ripped that joke off Futurama…)

Before a 5-hour layover in bloody Sydney airport, knowing my luck.

(Adelaide’s new international terminal is still being built as I type, so I will probably have to go via Sydney.)

It’s nice to have some level of focus back. It gives you drive, determination and stability. Also, it reassures you that those people whom you told to go have sexual intercourse with themselves will have well and truly forgotten about you by the time you return from that distant exotic country.

I was such an irate little twerp a couple months ago. Good thing it’s getting out of my system, as I reckon that the law of averages would ensure that I ticked off someone who knows lots of big men with baseball bats who have “Mayhem” tattooed across their jugular.

(I totally ripped that joke off Just Shoot Me… geez, that’s going back a while…)

Knowing my luck… it’s probably good I got this focus back. Life was looking like some daytime soap opera love scene...

Maybe I should take the panty hose off my head...


I'm coming... be there soon.

Monday, June 06, 2005

Weathering the Pixie

People can sometimes be easily classed in your head. Yes, it’s wrong to judge people, but there are times when you can simply sum someone up and place them on a certain point of a scale.

For instance, that person who strutted up to you on the street and started gassing on about why some ethereal being placed humankind on a rock and flung it at 30,000 kays per second around a fireball… they’re on the “nutjob” end of the scale.

Or even that guy who told you that you “totally fucked it up” in a bar... yeah, he “ain’t quite right”.

But say, Nelson Mandella, Ghandi, the Dalai Lama, and Kirsten Dunst (I sincerely, sincerely hope… [if you’re reading this, Kirsten, drop me an email, plzkthxbai!]) [/kirstendunststalker] are on the other side ie totally and utterly respectable and admirable, leaving you with a sense of awe.

But with other people, you can’t help but dangle them above the scale as you simply don’t know where they stand. Either they are totally brilliant… or they are totally insane.

Take the weather pixie for example.

On one hand I think that she has the steely resolve borne from years of hardship in war torn Kosovo, and after escaping is revelling in our country’s “mild” weather. I mean, how else could you frock up in this:



… when it’s twelve degrees Celsius… or 53..6 degrees Fahrenheit.



And here she is in 8 degree celcius (46.4 fahrenheit) weather, and as a double whammy, she's in the rain, with a cute little midriff top. Yeah, that'll shield you from the elements...

And yet she’s still there, sultry look on her dial, a slight, ever so appealing smile dissecting her steely visage.

In any language, in any method of measuring temperature, it still is what is commonly known as “fucking cold, guv’nah” or even the more amusing term “brass monkey weather”.

I haven’t seen such a high threshold of pain since driving past one of Adelaide’s popular night clubs at 3am when it was raining cats, dogs and other such domestic animals unfortunate enough to be in the sky. It was ice cold outside and yet I was still seeing a pride of girls standing around as though it were a warm summer’s evening, wearing attire not too dissimilar to what WP is offering.

Not that I was complaining. In fact, I reckon I came close to having an accident from not watching the road. Even then I’m pretty sure I would’ve been approached by all these kids and then asked if I had “any”. I would then profit from selling $20 headache tablets.

And then I would class these people at the “idiot” end of the scale. Which in turn is affecting my interpretation of WP’s spot on the meter.

So she’s either totally strong, or numb from the hair down.

Or… she was designed, drawn and produced by deprived males with no sense of actual winter fashion…

Disclaimer: This post does in no way sum up my opinion on bloggers who implement WP. This post was a concerted effort to try and up the mood from the worryingly depressing tone exhibited over the past few weeks. If I failed… well… who cares? Oh and I’m kidding about the whole Kirsten Dunst thing. Kinda…

Edit: And sorry to those who didn't know who WP was. I have since added a link to where you may survey weather pixie in his or her glory.

Further Edit: Pictures now up... sorry for the delay and confusion.

Sunday, June 05, 2005

I love the smell of must in the morning…

Smells like… freedom.

Yes, I have finally moved out of my humble little abode, and am now finding myself buried amongst piles of crap that I never realised existed, let alone I actually bought. How on earth did I get so much junk?

Oh that’s right. Co-habited with one of those “female” thingies that I seem to obtain an infatuation with.

I hate to deride my current surrounds, as I’ve lived in what some would consider the velvet cushion upon the suede pants wrapped around the lap of luxury, but yet I find myself at a loss of words regarding the little unit I presently occupy.

Oh wait… no… that’s a lie. This place is a shithole.

Yes people, I am an ingrate. Yes, I should be thankful for the roof over my head, the warmth that four walls provide (no matter how thin these ones are), and that I’m not eating gravel and goop that has been scraped off the sidewalk, but… really… let me explain.

I once lived here, years ago. The familiar scent of must, dust and rust greeted my nostrils upon my entry. My brother lives here as well, and I surveyed the wreckage of years of neglect. I’m sure a look of revulsion was splashed across my face, as my brother was looking at me with his raised eyebrows asking the unsaid question, “What’s your problem?”

At least my designated room was empty.

I surveyed the bathroom, which I am completely sure hasn’t been cleaned since I moved out years ago. I imagined myself bent over the tiles with a toothbrush and some weapons grade industrial cleaner, scrubbing away whatever sentient beings he managed to create in my absence. By the way, is it murder or genocide to wipe away some living, breathing fungus that’s slowly writhing on my bathroom floor?

I know that once I’ve unpacked all my shit, the myriad of different pots and pans, the cutlery, the dinnerware, the cooking utensils, the varied and multiple toiletries and skin care products, tissues, wipes, scrubbers and whatever else, I’m going to fucking sterilise this joint.

But you see… I forget what this place represents for me. It’s independence, even though I’m still paying rent to my folks. It’s another slice of freedom, welcoming me back. This smell defined who I am today, and how I behave in the home environment.

But then I cast my eye back two paragraphs, and realise that that’s horseshit. I never had all those cleaners when I was young, single… and let’s face it… rich. This smell is almost sacred to me, and here I am threatening to wipe it away with a foul sweep of disinfectant and aloe vera.

What a horrible realisation… holy shit on a stick…

I’ve been domesticated.

Friday, June 03, 2005

Farewells

Today is the final day I have in the house.

I can approach this in one of two ways. One side, I can lament having to abandon something that I worked so very hard on, and on the other side, I can make light of the situation and get the hell on with life.

Let’s see how it goes.


My old humble abode


One thing that has struck me is how things seem to be mocking me.

When I owned the house, I spent ages digging around in the backyard to make it presentable, but it never really came to fruition. The plants would struggle to grow, due to the reactive soil. I tried treating the ground, fertilizing etc. but I simply deduced that my green thumb had been amputated.

But since the house was sold, the garden started to bloom. Even the things that weren’t native to Australia.

I toiled over the backyard pond, trying all sorts of treatments to get the murkiness out of the water. I couldn’t even see the fish at one point, such was my disgrace.

But since the house was sold, the pond has cleared up. It is now crystal clear.

My toilet had this annoying habit of continuing to flow after flushing. You would have to depress the button on top again to stop the water from simply flowing through (I haven’t described that all too well, but it’s not really important).

But since the house was sold, the thing started working properly.

It’s just amazing how these things just seemed to fix themselves… right after I didn’t own them anymore. The pessimistic would think that somehow they were responsible for these things, and that anything that they were responsible for always breaks…

But I like to think that it’s a coincidence.

The increased rainfall due to winter has watered the plants properly, the wintry sky has reduced the amount of sunshine that hits the surface, therefore not promoting the growth of algae, and the colder temperatures have caused materials in the toilet to contract and function properly.

But the real kicker is relating to the fuckwits over the street that have been holding recovery parties at 4am during the week. They have woken me up numerous times over the past three months, since they first moved in.

I would’ve loved to have called the cops, or to have walked over there and asked them to stop... but… you know… the whole idea of walking up to giant men with no neck doesn’t appeal. You know… the cowardice thing.

However, last night I get a notice in the mail, and I paraphrase:

“This notice is regarding numerous complaints of the noise from a property in your area. We would like to inform you that the tenants in the property located at [address] have been notified that they cannot play loud music between the hours of 10.00pm and 6.00am.

If the noises from this property continue during these times, we encourage residents to contact the local police on [number], and assistance will be provided.”

Yours sincerely

Some policebloke


You’re three months too late, fuckhead…


See ya...

Thursday, June 02, 2005

The Radiant Paradox

Last night was quite, quite odd.

Many things happened that, when I look back at it, was actually quite full-on, but I didn’t seem phased even in the slightest.

I headed out to one of the local raceways to view one of my clients racing his drift car around. He recently came back from Japan, and he brought someone with him.

A little Japanese bloke by the name of Kazuya “Chunky” Bai, one of Japan’s most talented and lauded drift racers.

Despite having seen him on numerous DVD’s, surveyed his ability, and watched it first hand, all I felt whilst trying to communicate with him was of relative nonchalance. Not the euphoria of meeting what some would consider an “idol”.

It probably didn’t help that my brain was racking itself, casting back to the Japanese lessons I had, and wondering why the fuck I didn’t pay more attention.

I even went for a ride in one of the drift cars. Even travelling at 120 kph in a sideways direction left me feeling relatively, “meh”. Oh don’t get me wrong, I was still shitting myself, but once emerging from the cabin, I didn’t feel the bite, the undying desire to get behind the wheel myself and make an arse of myself.

Yes, I can do that anytime, and without a car… but that’s so not the point.

As opposed to that depressing vitriol I vomited out the other day, my mood seems to have balanced.

I move out of my house on Saturday, and therefore I can finally move on with my life. I don’t have to tolerate intolerable people. If I feel like doing something; like travelling, staying out until the small hours, buying my own death machine (ie car)… I can.

But then I feel as though there’s more. It’s like a haze of tranquillity that finally seems to be settling over me. The friends I spend time with, the clients (although few) I write for, the dull nine-to-fiver I trudge through every day… even the intangible people I don’t know personally…

I feel I’m needed. For whatever reason… it doesn’t matter. It’s weird, in a way, because to feel needed, but then only feel accountable to yourself seems at odds. In fact… it is at odds, and I’m really going insane. But don’t tell anyone, okay?

I have read, re-read and brushed over the posts from the past few months, and I’ve noticed a really, really… really, weird pattern of mood swings, emotional outbursts, laughter and good times, and I think I can form a pretty good conclusions as to what’s going on with me.

I must be pregnant.

Disclaimer: No, I am not claiming that I know what it is like to be pregnant. No, this mere male is not trying to steal the sacred female period of blissful gestation. No, I realise that I simply cannot even hope to comprehend even the slightest piece of the paradoxical radiant turmoil that constitutes being pregnant. Please don’t bother to point that out to me.

Wednesday, June 01, 2005

Good People

When I go for my wander along the coastline for exercise… most evenings… I often catch snippets of conversations from walkers who pass by.

It’s not like I’m intentionally eavesdropping. These people must think that they’re the only mob along the beach, and therefore can blare out their personal details in complete confidence.

Either that, or I should stop hiding in the bushes.

I actually alluded to this in a previous post, but a lot of the conversation snippets usually go along the lines of superlatives directed at the forlorn looking walker, assuring them that they won’t be alone forever.

I feel like grabbing these people and telling them, “Firstly, being alone ain’t all that bad! Secondly, out of the billions of people on the planet, someone is bound to find you worthy enough!”

But the question I ask is… if everyone I pass along the beach is a “good person” then why doesn’t everyone just get along with each other? Why can’t good people just waltz up to other such good people and simply have a conversation… because you know… we’re good people. We should get along like a petrol truck on fire… ‘cos we’re good people, you know.

But nah… that’d be weird.

Damn social expectations. Everyone is a good person; giving, gentle, kind, compassionate, smart, insightful, fun, generous, remarkable, inspirational.

One night I went out with some friends. I saw a girl checking me out. I went over and tried to strike up a conversation. She turned her back on me.

My response?

Yelling over the top of the loud music, I lean in closer to her ear so she could hear me, “Hey… I could’ve been the best person that you had ever met…”

She turns to me, a look in her eye as if she is about to give me the line to piss off.

“… and you just fucked it up.” I interrupted.

I walk off.

Further edit to this post: If you ever need proof that Andy isn't perfect, you may cite this post as it is totally admissible.

*shakes head*