I pack scorn, and I don't care...

Just when I thought I wasn’t a stereotypical male…

Today, I realised that my wedding anniversary was on the 20th of July, and I had totally forgotten about it. There wasn’t a pang of anything on that day, no subtle cue that I had forgotten something.

In fact, if I cast my blog back to that date, I was worrying about how the newspaper used the term “P plater” when it didn’t really apply to the story at all, and I was thinking about applying for that job in Japan.

That was also the day I found out that I got this other job I recently went for.

So that just also shows (to me at least) that my anniversary simply did not register in my mind whatsoever, and that the ex-wife has been cast back to the realm of my mind that contains mathematics, repressed memories of childhood ridicule, lather-rinse-repeat and other superfluous teachings of low import.

Dr Freud, eat your heart out.

So, consciously… and sub-consciously (if you believe in the existence thereof), I totally forgot about the day my ex-wife and I loosely tied the knot of matrimony.

“But you remember it now,” I hear you exclaim, “so that must mean that it registers on some level.”

“Pshaw” I say, or maybe even, “codswallop” or other such pompous terms reminiscent of an old socialite outlining their disdain.

I never pass up an opportunity to reassure myself of how little she meant to me. It makes me feel better. I am only human, after all.

Hey, have I mentioned how much I’m enjoying my freedom? Or how I now have a higher paying job with a wage that I can use to spoil myself, instead of funding the shopping exploits of a disrespectful woman?

Yeah. Take that.

This does, however, point to the existence of my bloated ego, and how I simply must maintain that I’m the better person out of the ex-wife and I, despite the fact that none of you will probably ever meet me, or even her.

But packing scorn onto that woman makes me feel validated.

So... meh. Screw it. I’m telling you anyway.

“I totally forgot my wedding anniversary, and that makes me feel great!”

ET needed an ISP

As a regular reader of The Australian’s IT columnist, Defrag, I discover some nice little gems regarding the ever changing, never stopping world of IT, and the fun new ways that technology is making our world better.

Before, it was the girl who dumped her boyfriend for an internet woo-er, only to find that both people were the same person. Now it’s aliens who may determine whether this planet is worth visiting based upon blogs that are being broadcast into space.

Blogsinspace is a relatively new venture in where, as the name suggests, blogs are beamed right into the flying saucer’s antennae. Provided they exist of course.

But, I can’t help but think that perhaps the blog world isn’t the best way to represent the human race, especially if the aliens are aggressive.

I’m not versed in the art of war, but personally I can’t think of a better planet to invade than one full of melancholy teenagers, funny people, political whingers and people who ask questions about everything.

Besides, I imagine an alien would take one look at my blog, turn to his other tentacled alien colleague, say, “These guys need to be put out of their misery” before his colleague pulled out a gun-like contraption, pumped it in a fashion not dissimilar to Sarah Connor in Terminator 2 and menacingly state, “Lock and load…”

I’d imagine also that it could well serve to confuse the aliens from outta town, too. I mean, they’d read many, many blogs over the period of travelling 20,000 light years, but would fail to grasp what we’re on due to all the typos.

Nothing would amuse me more than if aliens land in Central Park, their “gangplank” extends from their ship, the doors open to a bright light, their silhouette being cast as two large shapes stand on the threshold, and a new era of human-alien relations begins with the phrase

“Grettings humanz. Fair tiddings from across the galxy to j00 all! W00t!”

Perhaps, somewhat ironically, it would be the grammar Nazi’s on some blogs that would pull out their laptops and crack the aliens over the head, killing them instantaneously.

Imagine that. Blogs would have managed to both promote and then nullify a harmonious relationship with our extraterrestrial neighbours.

But sending blogs out to the stars does make me think whether ET got it wrong. Instead of trying to phone home, he should've started a blog to communicate his whereabouts. Then again, the posts would be something along the lines of "ET wants his own damn bike instead of bumming rides of this damn kid. ET swears, this kid won't leave him alone."

But if any aliens are reading this, feel free to comment. I don’t bite. I don’t mind bad grammar and bad English, unless you’re rhyming “2004” with “call”.

Unescapable Truths

Sometimes in life you are faced with certain, unescapable truths. Bills need to be paid, dishes need to be done, and sometimes what you say sounds like it was ripped from that stupid Sunscreen Song that came out years ago.

And the less mentioned about that the better.

Recently, I have awakened to the truth that when people ask me for advice, they really don’t want it. Well, not from me, anyway.

Years ago, I told my ex that she should look into the possibility of doing a massage course, as she seemed to show a flair in that area (on the one or two occasions I got a massage)

“Oh no…” she said, “I simply cannot do that because of [random stupid excuses]”

A year later she begins looking into massage courses, because someone at her workplace suggested it, as she was “good at massage”.

Hmph.

This has happened a few times recently; someone seeking some form of advice comes to me for an outsider’s perspective, and I provide it with honesty, tact and subtle encouragement.

However, there is always an excuse.

They don’t feel confident enough. They don’t think they’d be good enough. They can’t afford to do it. They simply don’t want to…

Until someone else suggests the same thing.

And then it’s Full-Steam-Ahead-Nothing’s-Getting-In-My-Way-Move-The-Fuck-Over-I’m-Coming-Through-And-There’s-Nothing-You-Can-Do-About-It-I-Said-Move-Over-Wanker-Before-You-Get-Squished-As-A-Result-Of-My-Newfound-Zest-For-This-Goal-I-Must-Achieve.

Do these people ask me this just to inflate my ego… just to make me feel like I’m wanted? Do they think I get some form of boost out of providing an outsider’s perspective? Do they believe that I delight in simply filling the silent void with my pearls of “wisdom”…?

Are these people just humouring me, and don’t really care what I think? Are they just asking for my opinion so I can feel included?

Fuck off.

I’ve queried some friends as to whether they simply wanted multiple people to get as many perspectives as possible, but on each occasion they simply shrugged and said, “I just changed my mind.” Yeah. Of course you have.

I am thinking of getting a pad printed with a series of tick-boxes. When someone asks me for advice, I pull out my pad, tick a box and hand it to them before walking off and taking care of my own fucking life.

The tick boxes will have the following next to them:

You should go for that job. What’s the worst they could say?

I don’t think you should have a Shiraz with fish.

Is a new car/house/boat/other-liability sensible considering your other expenses at the moment?

You’re too good for him/her

Just be honest with them

What are you, stupid? Shit, no. You shouldn’t do that.

I’m sure you’d make a great …………………………………….

No really. You should/shouldn’t (cross out where applicable)

What do you enjoy doing? What job would fit that?

But seeing as this outburst of bile is directed at people not listening to me in the first place, I think having a pad printed with only one thing on it should take care of my current vex:

Don’t ask someone whose opinion you actually value.

I know they won’t listen to me anyway…

Happy Nuptials!

Two of my most favourite* people in the world got married on the weekend. Yep, former tennis world number one Lleyton Hewitt and “Actor” Bec Cartwright got hitched.

The blushing bride’s ode to her beau leaves a lot to be desired, but let’s face it… she isn’t well known for her ability with the written word.

Anyone who can rhyme "2004" and the word “call” deserves a gift in my eyes**

Yet this is still indicative of how stupid our newspapers are. If someone prominent decides to get all creative and jot down whatever has blown through their tumbleweed infested head, it makes the “breaking news” segment of the paper.

As I mentioned to a friend of mine today, if she ever manages to release a book containing her “work”, I will most likely top myself***

Frankly, nothing much surprises me these days. I’m still waiting for the official autobiography for Lleyton, outlining how a little brat from West Lakes who delights in being rowdy at local supermarkets with his Adelaide Crow superstar mate, and brags about owning a Ferrari manages to claw his way to the top of the game whilst nailing a local soapie star.

It will probably be penned by the ol’ ball and chain, too, with very little reference to Lleyton’s former partner, and identical twin, Kim Clijsters.

But maybe… just maybe I’m being a little harsh upon the newlyweds. This is a time of celebration for them. They are forging out on a new path together, one of beauty, rolling hills, lush fields and white cropped mountains just begging to be explored.

They should be thankful for each other.

The fathers and mothers of the bride and groom should be thankful that their offspring found something that will be fruitful, both for their finances and their careers.

The bridal party should be thankful that they’ve taken part in an exclusive and momentous occasion that many have dubbed the “Wedding of the Year”, and that - because of the import of the bride and groom - they got to have the Sydney Opera House to themselves.

And the guests should be thankful that at least Cartwright didn’t sing…

*read: actually, quite not my favourite. I was being sarcastic.
** read: Well, a gift in an eye. A black eye. For Bec… oh wait, she already had one at Wimbledon.
***Well, I probably won’t. It’s not worth dying over.

Andy Spice

I was in Rundle Mall on Friday night. I had a raft of things to do, and my mind wandered down many alleys whilst simultaneously considering my to-do list.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, two girls appear directly in front of me.

“Hi, sorry… this is embarrassing.” One started.

Juddered out of my state of mind, I smile and say, “That’s okay…”

“This is a bit random…” the other expanded.

“Rrrrright…” I ventured.

“We are entering this competition, right?” the first one continued, “We need to get photos of people pulling a pose like Posh Spice.”

The brain fired many nerves. These people spoke the words that haunted my brain ever since 1997, the band that was the bane of my existence. The Spice Girls.

“So… like a pout or something?”

“Yeah, that’ll do…” the second one said.

Automatically, I began contemplating the various pieces of vitriol I could spout at the mere suggestion that my visage be somehow tied in with the “band” that caused near irreversible damage to my ear drums in the past.

“Okay.”

I complied. So now, there are two girls wandering around this city with a photo of me pulling off some bizarre facial expression, probably saying to each other, “I can’t believe we convinced this guy to pull a face for our camera!!!”

But still, someone managed to mention the Spice Girls in my presence, and I didn’t clamp my hands over my ears, curl up in a foetal position and shout, “Bah, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, not listening, la, la, la, think happy thoughts, la, la, la!!!!!!!!!”

I think I’m making progress away from being the music snob I am…

An Admission of Fings

I have noticed that ever since I’ve bought my camera in Sydney, I’ve done oddly very little with it, other than take photos of Sydney. It is now gathering dust in my drawer at home. Odd.

I spend more time talking about my photos of Sydney, rather than the camera with which I took them. I also spent more time on bloody Google Earth, plotting my course to and from Sydney, and noticing the landmarks that I saw on the way… but that's kinda sad, really.

There has been evidence which suggests that people often value experiential things rather than material ones, which just happens to preach to that little inner Buddhist in me.

So, now that I actually have the means, and now that I’ve taken delivery of my geek badge (ie spanking new laptop with it’s many cards, RAM bits and DVD burner), I might actually start placing up pictures of the town in which I reside.

I will probably omit the big sign that reads “Welcome to Adelaide - Do not feed the crazies” that I intend to erect on the Southern Eastern Freeway (main entrance to this place), though.

Where was I going? Oh yes… fings.

It is often a rat race in this society to accumulate many, many trinkets in order to denote your standing in society.

Because nothing screams success like a whopping ten foot LCD screen TV, with Dolby Digital 5.1 home theatre, which you intend to use to simply watch Star Wars once or twice before the item becomes part of the background.

Once I found out that I got this new job, I started comprehending buying a car (again) as it appears that I’ll be kicking around this place for another 9 months or so. But then I thought… what for? I seem to be coping okay now, I seem to have plenty of friends who I can bum a ride off anyway, and the longer I don’t have a car, the longer I can actually “save” money… which lets face it… has been a foreign concept for the past five years of my life.

A car would only be a conversational point once or twice before it became a part of my being, and simply fitted into the realm of normalcy.

But not having a car disallows me from bragging to my mates things along the lines of, “Ho, Ho… I so got sideways in my 180SX last night, and I so nearly wiped out that pram pushing lady and I so nearly got away from the cops, and so nearly evaded a $180 fine for reckless driving…”

Because that’s so cool.

Anyway, this post is very random… I was going to comment on experiences being better than things… or “fings” as I’ve labelled them, but this has descended into a ramble.

But to highlight this, I will regale a story that I know one of my readers and I find amusing still to this day.

Our office (in years afore) took delivery of a nifty little program called OfficeView. This program was really, really… nifty, as you could outline where you were and colleagues could see if you were unavailable. Nifty, eh?

It was a conversational point for some time, this niftiness of which I describe. The program became a part of normalcy eventually, until I reached boiling point with a work colleague of mine.

He spent an inordinate amount of time on his email when he had a tonne of work to do.

So, I changed his status on OfficeView to “piss farting about on email”, not realising that it changed his status on ALL office computers instead of solely mine (I thought I couldn’t change other peoples’ statuses… I was wrong)

Five seconds after I did it, I realised that everyone could see it… he saw it, and he got a little funny about it. By “funny” I mean “incredibly embarrassed”… and normally I’m not the kinda person who wanders around inflicting this on people… intentionally… well… not that intentionally…

Anyway, an email went around about how the program should be used professionally… but they never identified the culprit behind said prank.

So… what would you remember? The program… or this little event?

Question to the Cosmos

I’ve asked the cosmos this question many times before, but no more does it apply now.

What… the… fuck… is… your… problem…???

A while ago, I mentioned something about not getting a job that I had an interview for. Well, a mere two seconds prior to me printing out my application for a job in Japan, I receive a phone call from the chair of the interview panel for that job.

It turns out that the guy who got the job doesn't want it, so now they have to give it to number two.

Me.

I’ve spent the last 5 years being treated like number two, so I’m used to it.

But her timing was impeccable. Almost uncanny at how my phone rang just as my mouse was loitering over that little printer icon in MS Word.

To put it bluntly, I would be an idiot to turn this job down. It’s permanent. It’s at the pay rate I want at the moment… and it’s in a field that I enjoyed working in previously.

But… the question still stands. WTFIYP?

It’s a conspiracy, I tells ya. Yep. You heard me.

I’m comforted by the idea that some ethereal force is out there, screwing with my life, as opposed to a sequence of random events that coincidentally occurred during a certain phase of my day.

It’s easier to blame someone for your headfuck, than to blame circumstances.

Besides, I like the idea that when I die, my spirit can walk up to the jerk that has his fingers on my strings and punch him in the mouth. At least then I have something to look forward to in death.

The paper that P's me off

The front page of the local rag has pronounced that cycle rider Amy Gillett was struck down by a “P-plater” in Germany, whilst training for her cycling.

(A “P-Plater”, for those who are unaware, is a term applied to drivers in Australia who are on a probationary license. These drivers must display a “P Plate” on both the front and rear windows of their car. More often than not, a P Plater is someone in their teens and is an inexperienced driver. There has been much press lately about how irresponsible they are)

I’m somewhat irate at the paper, as from what I can gather, Germany doesn’t have “P Platers” so there was no real reason to use this term at all… enough ire has been directed at our young drivers lately, and this blatant attempt to stir the pot and point all social ills at P Platers is stupid, for wont of a better word.

Yes, I know my last post did imply that I think young drivers drive erratically, but it was purely tongue in cheek, and I never once suggested that they were going to kill somebody. I never used the term “P Platers” either.

But I can’t get pissed off at the paper. Not now.

The paper has advertised for jobs in Japan, and I must get busy writing my application…

But I have a topic for tomorrow…

Rules of Peak Hour…

Things I have learned from driving in peak hour traffic.

Swear words can be strung together to make one huge encompassing word that possibly could never end, oxygen allowing.

The car window is not to be used as a form of ventilation, but only so that the gap in the window can be filled with your arm, brandishing your finger in a glorious one-fingered salute.

The car’s “warning device” should only be used as a musical instrument. Despite the fact most/all (legal) horns have only one note, it doesn’t stop the driver from angrily belting out Nirvana’s Smells Like Teen Spirit.

Other drivers are not sharing the commute with you - they are competing with you. Any attempts to change lanes should be blocked with the stoic stubbornness of a bouncer refusing entry to a poorly dressed patron: “Not in those tyres, sonny…”

Indicators are completely and totally optional in their use. Other drivers should have the ESP of a Jedi, and therefore should be able to predict what you’re going to do way before you perform the manoeuvre.

Leaving a space across an intersection only promotes wastage of space. If there is any gap in traffic, it should be filled despite the fact that the lights are green for the cars travelling in the direction perpendicular to you. Traffic Tetris rules adhere, ie fill all the gaps.

You must tailgate in order to prevent anyone from cutting in front of you. If you follow that three-second rule, you will only have to make way for someone else coming into your lane, and you will need to slow down to make a three-second distance between you and the new car in front. This slows you down over time. Tailgating must be maintained in order to keep a constant and quick speed.

Many people think the left lane is the least used (in Australia) as it reduces the risk of becoming stuck behind a parked car. Not true. It is there so that young drivers in their ultra fast cars can swoop around and get to the front of the queue, because they’re in a hurry, and the rest of us aren’t.

If a car does become trapped behind a parked car, it is the driver’s fault and should be ridiculed by method of simply not letting him into the lane. Drive on, oblivious to his or her plight. It’s not like they’ll hunt you down for not letting them in… hell, they should know the rules of peak hour.

It is also a common fallacy that bus lanes are for the sole use of busses. Not so. Again, these are the lanes of the young driver who must make it to the front of the queue. It’s peak hour, so they’re allowed to. My right to do this was taken away the moment I turned 27.

You are allowed to fantasise about pulling out the driver in front and smashing their head on the windscreen of their car, as they brandish some form of lame purple bumper sticker that preaches life is, in fact, a wonderful thing, and that the world is a playground of giant mushrooms, magic, fairies and swirling stars with smiley faces. Repeated participation in peak hour will soon cause that driver to rip off that sticker and chop it up in a ritual reminiscent of the final scene in Apocalypse Now.

If an accident happens, stare at it. Constantly. Do not remove your gaze. Even adjust your rearview mirror so that you can see it when you’ve passed by. Turn to whoever you can and utter, “Did you see that?”.

Emergency vehicles should also adhere to these rules. No one cares who is dying, what house is on fire, or which drug dealer is escaping authorities. Whoever you are, whatever your vocation… you’re stuck in this pit of metal and poison gas like the rest of us.

Ultimately, I have learned from peak hour that no matter who you are, how rich you seem, or whatever you drive… you’re still one of us, and you’re trapped here… like the rest of us.

Unless you’re young…

Meleeing with Malaise

As I don’t have any real epiphanies, insightful thoughts or mind-blowing oddities today, I must regale my weekend’s exploits

Guys don’t usually brag about the bargains they picked up on the weekend, but I’m especially proud of this.

I got two, count em… well count them in your head. I can see you mouth moving… two $400 suits with shirt and tie for a meagre $370 on the weekend.

I think I’ve discovered the benefit of shopping with a woman - the unhindered ability to lock onto victim shops and then fleece them of their merchandise.

Although the charcoal number with brown pin-stripes is rather “not me”, it is still a nice suit. No, the shirt I bought wasn’t pink, either.

Upon placing the garment around my shoulders, and then draping the pants from my waist, I immediately had the odd desire to pick up a Tommy gun and put on a pair of spats.

Unfortunately the attendant informed me that the shop didn’t stock either of those items, so I had to make do with the images in my head.

The other benefit of having this female friend of mine was the reassuring review of my visage…

“Yeah, I’d [hit on] ya…”

I never knew that a suit over the top of a daggy polo shirt and white socks peeking out from under my pant’s hem was so fetching.

And as reassuring her comment was, I sincerely doubt that I could actually get into any establishments of social capacity wearing said ensemble. I’m pretty sure some of those places required shoes.

If I had a Tommy gun, though…

Disclaimer: Please excuse today’s sincere lack of anything decent. Also excuse the disturbing sway towards homicidal tendencies. I’ve finished my detox diet, and am currently in the process of “retoxing”. Also, this is not an excuse for the grotesque dose of writer’s block I have coursing through my lobes. Well, not much of an excuse. Well, if it were an excuse, it’s a poor one. It’s so poor, I once saw it on the corner of George and Pitt Street holding a cardboard sign, trying to sell its… oh wait… crap… I’ve used that one… move along people, nothing to see here. As you were.

Hmph... Women...

Someone once asked me about whether my experiences with the opposite gender has impacted upon how I approach them.

ie “has being cheated on turned me into some kind of woman hating, cynical, chauvinistic cloud of testosterone who whinges at having to constantly take out the rubbish and remove the lids from jars?”

I would love to shake my head and retort to that assertion with the disdain normally reserved for scraping gunk off the sole of my shoe, but I stopped myself and had a think… and no, my brain didn’t start burning from the stress.

It was a woman who asked me this question, so for me to treat her with the disdain outlined afore would only support an answer to the positive.

But just because I’ve been abused by one selfish woman, it doesn’t mean that I’m walking around painting women with that same brush.

Well, I don’t want to. Not intentionally at least.

Besides, I’m sure that being painted by any brush isn’t much fun, especially if the paint isn’t water based.

Anyway, it would be somewhat erroneous of me to immediately assume that all women that enter my life will simply chew me up, take my wage and then piss off with another bloke. I know for a fact that there are appreciative women out there.

Truth be known, I’d love to be a cynical prick when it comes to women. I’d love to play the distant male, who never speaks about what’s on his mind, and immediately turns into a child at the first sign of the sniffles.

I’d love to be able to look at women as mere objects built solely for my titillation.

But they’re too fucking appealing, dammit.

That spell they conjure… what with the whole scent thing, the elegant strides, their diminutive frames, their soft skin, their perfectly placed hair… how can you not respect such elegance?

That’s right. The fairer gender has a hold on me. And it’s not fair. How can I exact revenge on the species if I’ve got this attitude?

So my response to this friend’s question? Has my experience turned me into someone who holds women in total contempt?

Bear in mind that I’m a sarcastic prick.

“Don’t be such a stupid bitch…”

Hosing Out

So, I’m on a Detox diet.

Basically, this means that I have paid $50 for the privilege to swallow awful tasting tablets whilst depriving myself of the very foods and drinks that stand a chance of taking the awful aftertaste away.

And I must keep this up for five more days.

Well, I’m only doing this because my diet has been obscenely poor over the past few months, and it’s about time I started looking after myself.

How poor was it?

It was so poor, I once saw it sitting on the corner of George and Pitt Street, holding a ragged cardboard sign, begging for food money, whilst trying to sell off its Telstra 2 shares.

Anyway, the first thing anyone must do when they’re planning on restoring something to its former glory, they must do the initial nasty job.

Which in my case is: tear the bastard down, gut it and start from a fresh foundation.

So, I started this Detox diet in an effort get all these toxins out of my system. Naturally, being the coffee junkie and struggling-to-quit smoker that I am, the past few days have been akin to hell… except without the coffee and cigarettes, which I’m sure would be in plentiful supply in said plane of existence.

C’mon, I can’t imagine two of the world’s most evil items not being in hell. I’m sure the vending machines with these items are right there next to the pokies, beer vats and the pile of Tickle-Me-Elmo’s.

I feel like I’m shaking like one of those Sesame Street hellspawn toys, too. My hand kkepps jumpingg alll over the kkeyboard. I’mm sure I’mm talkingg with a sslight stutter tooo. My laugh is nowhere near as cute, though.

It’s cold. So very, very cold… maybe a nice warm coffee will snap me out of this. No!

Thanks go to any omniscient being you believe in that I’m not a tattoo artist…

Because that Chinese character you wanted tattooed on your left shoulder blade would roughly translate into “Courage, but needs coffee now! Now dammit!” But it would also be all ragged from my twitching withdrawal symptoms.

Everyone I speak to that has one of those oriental tattoos claims that it translates into “Courage”. Frankly, they all look different to me.

Where was I? I dunno.

If you need me, look for the trembling mess that’s balled up in a foetal position in the corner.

Note: This is an exaggeration of my current state. I’m not that bad. Yeah. I’m not “trembling” at all. I prefer the word “unstable”

Hope borne from disappointment

So I didn’t get the job that I had an interview for. Oh well. Never mind. Now I can focus on getting that Japan job.

On one hand, it’s highly exciting to be comprehending moving overseas for a lengthy period of time.

I get to meet new people. I get to taste new alcoholic beverages. I get to pass out in different gutters. I get to be floored by the absurdity of a whole new piece of dirt, instead of this one that I’ve been balancing on for the past 27 years.

I can’t wait to have hot chicken soup from out of a vending machine… or have to tolerate not having a shower in the morning because the water in the pipes have frozen.

Because that’s rarely a problem in Australia. In fact, if you had to explain frozen pipes to an Australian, they’ll confusedly cock their head in a manner not dissimilar to a dog trying to understand that you’re telling them to not crap on the rug.

But now the other hand…

It’s a pretty damn scary idea. This whole “Japan” thing is becoming dreadfully real, whereas before it was a bit of a pipe dream, a wistful idea, a conversational point.

But then my parents bought me luggage for my birthday back in March. Now I have to go, or else I’ll be letting them down.

Questions enter my head. What if I don’t like it over there? What if I hate the work? What if I can’t integrate into the society that well? What if I can’t pick up the language? What I’ve learned in the classroom is hastily fading from my mind.

But I’m 27 years old now. Once I turn 31, I will be unable to obtain a working visa to go to Japan. Right now I have no debt, few attachments and no obligations. I sincerely doubt that I will ever have a better opportunity to do this.

Over the course of writing this post, I’ve received a few emails from friends assuring me that things will be okay when I’ve reached Japan.

So, in a spat of rash and snap decision-making, I’ve done something totally and completely sensible. I’ve taken all the money I had set aside for purchasing a new car, and put it all on black…

No wait, sorry. I’ve dumped it all into my “Japan” account. I get those two mixed up sometimes.

I figure I’ll need as much money as possible to live over there, as their economy apparently simply delights in robbing people of as much disposable income as possible.

So yeah. Japan has become very real. It’s hard to believe that by this time next year I’ll be swanning around Osaka wondering why on earth there are so many nutbags in Japan, and freaking out about snowfalls…

That is… unless the culture shock makes my head implode.

That is… if I actually manage to get a job over there. I hadn’t actually counted on the idea that I may not get a job…

Damn Cold Feet

What a wonderful feeling, but I must regale you the images in full.

I stood in front of my kitchen sink, leaning over the dishes that were tainted with the remains of bachelor food. I always did the dishes in the past, so for me to be piss-farting about with scrubbing isn’t exactly a new phenomena.

It was early in the day, so the floor was fairly cool. My being barefoot contributed to the chill.

I heard a knock at the door. I didn’t know who it could’ve been, as I wasn’t expecting company.

As I padded my way down the hallway to the front door, I could spy the shadows of the feet behind the door. They were shifting uneasily from side to side, pacing a waltz of nervousness and frustration.

I immediately become suspicious, but for some unknown reason I open the door with the gusto and fervour of someone who is agitated from being drawn away from a pressing issue.

There on the porch stood my ex-wife, tears streaked down her face, her mascara tracing her cheeks like heavy paint. As she looked at me and saw my livid face, she noticeably flinched and leant heavily on the porch to support herself. It was almost as though she was struggling to stand.

“I made a mistake” she claimed softly, her tears cracking her voice slightly, “I shouldn’t have left you like that. I was wrong to do what I did.

“Can you ever forgive what I did? We had something special before, and I want to recapture that. It was beautiful before. I want to hear my thoughts again, to be drawn and pulled forward by my heart and not my ego… I want to speak to the poet inside.”

I reached my hand out and caressed her cheek. Cradling her tiny head in my palm, her hair cascaded lightly across the back of my hand like a pulled curtain.

The sadness appeared all too obvious in her eyes. I stared deeply into their light brown colour. She closed her eyes as I leant in closer to her.

I leant in closer again, closer to her face. Intimately, I exhaled softly but determinedly into her ear:

“Fuck you.”

I wake up.

I feel wonderful inside, like I am finally cleansed of something. The only bit of discomfort I feel is the coldness in my feet… my blanket had been pulled up, and my bare feet were exposed to the crisp morning air.

I think this dream is only representative of my desires, and nothing more. Normally I hate dreaming about my ex-wife like that, though.

I hate it when my feet are cold.

Andy: The Inspiration...

I was having a chat with an ex of mine the other night, and we were talking about inspirational people.

Naturally, I cited many of history’s prominent figures, such as Ghandi, Nelson Mandela and Martin Luther King.

“Why?” she queried, raising an eyebrow somewhat suspiciously. I was wondering where she was heading with this.

“Because they furthered a cause, suffered through adversity and changed the world as we see it.” I concluded with a smug smile.

“Is that the only way to be inspired?” She asked, “Do people have to alter an entire globe in order to be inspirational?

“You were an inspiration to me” she said suddenly, catching me off guard.

“Me?” I ventured, again wondering where the hell she was going with this. I could feel myself shifting uneasily in my seat.

“Oh, absolutely.” She said. “After we broke up, and I had heard through the grapevine that you were buying a house with [wife].”

“Ohh… kay” I tentatively answered.

“That inspired me a lot.” she continued.

“How?” I queried. I was thinking that perhaps she was inspired by my “grab life by the horns” attitude; that I simply wasn’t content to accept a comfortable place in life and I moved ahead, regardless of its fiscal hurdles.

“Well, I heard you were buying the house together, so I went and bought my own house… on my own.” She stated.

“Okay, go on…”

“I wanted to prove to you that I didn’t need to buy a house with someone. That I was okay on my own.” She expanded.

“So… you’re effectively claiming that I was an inspiration to you, simply out of spite. You wanted to spite me, and that in turn inspired you?”

“Yep” she concluded, a satisfied look on her face.

The rest of the evening was a bit hazy, but I think I spent a lot of the time putting my head into a pillowcase and swearing a lot.

It’s not exactly a top feeling to know that someone is actually in a better place in their life because you left them out of yours…

In a way, it’s kinda amusing, though…

Calling London...

I turned the television off at 8.15pm last night. The sensationalist drivel churned out by our commercial networks making my stomach churn and bubble with nausea and frustration.

Conclusions being made, inferences drawn a mere ten minutes into the coverage about the London attacks; pertaining who was responsible despite the “evidence” being tenuous at best.

People were already assuming who were behind this tragic event, but for the journalists to be making such statements with very little evidence made me sick to the pit of my stomach.

I listen to my colleagues chat at length about this event, and I feel sickened as they try to one-up themselves as to who knows more information than whom. Injuries quoted, casualties mentioned, knowledge of Australian nationals in London at this moment, and figures of death…

Vans of white with lights were all I could see from the television last night. Red trucks careened through tight English streets, and people traumatised by the horror they’ve witnessed first hand. Looking into the eyes of a person who has seen hell on their doorstep, but hearing the idiocy trumpeted by the moronic box has a surreal ridiculousness.

With all the pain this event has caused, and for all the suffering being endured, I can only sit and tap away the words in my head. I sicken me.

These people are real. They are brothers, sisters, fathers, mothers. And all we can do is stand around with our coffee cups and regale others with the regurgitation from our local media outlets.

It’s absurd. It’s idiotic. It’s inane.

My thoughts go out to those who were genuinely affected by the events in London. I can say nothing to soothe. Do nothing. Feel nothing.

I know that people grieving sometimes like to be left alone. So I will turn off the television, silence my radio, and light a candle.

Although I don't know you, I am thinking of you.

No reason. Just because...

I have just experienced the blogging equivalent of a slow news day.

Nothing much happened in the past twenty-four hours. Not much interesting has entered my head, save for what I plan on having for dinner tonight, and how the hell I’m supposed to kick around this city without a car.

That’s right. I’m car shopping at the moment.

I could outline the various cars I have in mind, especially since I have spent the past five years of my life driving a car that is somewhat “sensible”, compared to the rest of my friends who fritter about in their two-door turbo coupes, but frankly I sincerely doubt many actually care.

Besides, isn’t it just an extension of some part of my being? Yeah… that’s right, it’s an extension of my personality.

A car represents something about a man. It should be representative of his persona, whether it’s the sleek, smooth lines are indicative of his chic appearance, or if it’s the angular, off-kilter showmanship that endears himself to others.

A car should speak volumes for his approach on life, whether it’s the quiet yet efficient outlook on how he does his business a la a turbo four cylinder, or the rugged, torquey brutality of a huge donk with oct-cylinders.

Or is it a simple person, who just likes to plod along to his own beat and get from point A to B and perhaps C and D on off days.

A car is more than a simple object with which to cart your arse about. It should be a part of a man’s wardrobe, something that preaches his aura, something he can hold in high regard, and something of which he can be proud.

I am… of course… talking shit.

I buy a car because it’s fun to drive. Well… I do now. Before it used to be about practicality. After attending different motorsports, and hanging around a bunch of whacky race drivers, and being bombarded with their constant instructions to buy a sporty automobile… I must succumb.

Besides, I’ve wanted one for years anyway. Now that I’ve done the sensible thing and invested money, it’s time to spoil myself. So there.

This has been a slow day.

So... I had this job interview, right?

I think I’ve indicated before that going to a job interview ranks on the things I most enjoy doing… right next to getting papercuts under my fingernails.

ie down the bottom of said list.

I found out about this job interview right before I departed for Sydney, and I had totally blocked it out of my mind, because… well… when you’re on holiday, you should be relaxing, and not stressing over what things make you ideal in a team environment.

Or answers to questions along those lines. And answers like “Because I’m the shit” just don’t cut it.

However, when they initially contacted me to notify of my interview, they told me that they hadn’t, at that point in time, specified the venue. I assumed it was just because conference facilities were in short supply in their building.

I was probably right, too.

I informed them that I was going away, and that they should contact me on my mobile once a venue had been chosen.

However, it was on Sunday evening that I remembered that I had an interview the following morning at 10am. I hadn’t received a phone call.

I had the most awful feeling that they had sent an email to my work address, detailing venue address, panel members and the rest of the stuff I needed. Heaven forbid they required me to make some presentation… I felt the colour drain from my face.

I rushed into my workplace at 7.30am to check my email, just in case. Nothing.

No phone call. No email. Did they post the details to me? I hadn’t received anything in the mail… but I moved house recently, and maybe the mail redirect hadn’t taken effect yet. The new owners of my house have my new address, though…

I didn’t know where to go.

I quickly shoot off an email to the organisation’s HR consultant to whom I sent my application, telling her that someone should call me soon to pull me out of the swamp of confusion I was currently marinating in.

I can’t believe it.

At 9am I receive a phone call, informing me of where the venue was. I tried to reschedule, and I had originally bargained on being able to… but it was futile.

I quickly pulled on a shirt and tie, grabbed some notes I had jotted down, and swiped the keys to my brother’s car.

I made it to the venue with five minutes to spare.

All in all, the interview went okay. Not my best. Not my worst. Can’t complain really, seeing as I was a bit frazzled from being informed of the venue a mere one hour prior to the interview.

At the end of the interview I queried as to when I might find out the results, and they said I should know something by the end of the week. It is now Wednesday the following week.

Not good.

But it wasn’t until I got out of the interview I discovered that only half the front of my shirt was tucked in. I was wearing a long jacket, so hopefully they didn’t notice.

Anyway, I was with a client later in the day before I realised that I hadn’t informed my referees that I had an interview and that they may receive a phone call. As I said, I found out about the interview just before I left for Sydney, so it didn’t figure into my head.

I try to call my referees, but get voicemails. Ugh.

So, in summary… I had a job interview last week. I sucked.

Andy: The Klutz

My confident strides spoke of my mood. I was a hip, young and dynamic go-getter of Australia’s white collar fraternity.

My tie snug around my neck, my collar adequately starched, my long overcoat wavered behind me slightly as my constant footfalls declared a man of intent, not one to be fucked with. Not today.

I held my chin high; I like to look confident. My eyes peered through the dark lenses of my Tommy Hilfiger sunglasses, averting the eyes of any onlookers I caught staring at me.

My footstep was suddenly interrupted by an askew sidewalk paver. It struck the toe of my clean black leather shoes, causing my weight to shift abruptly and pitch my hips at an angle that could hardly be considered elegant, or confident.

I caught my balance before I plant my nose square on the pavement of King William Street.

I correct my stance. I stare the world directly in the face.

I so meant to do that.

I walk on.

This has been my day.

Thank you.

Author's Cut

Pilfered from whatever footage I can recall.

First there was the Sydney posts. Then there was what I call “The gunk that I scraped from the bottom of the fermenting barrel, including discourse on pink shirts”… now we have “The Deleted Scenes”.

Funnily enough, in text form.

Well, I guess it’s not so much “deleted scenes” but more of what I would loved to have included, but simply didn’t for reasons including either pacing, taste, sheer inability, lack of opportunity, or simply too busy getting drunk with the people I met.

For instance, I would loved to have taken a photo of Australia’s unique fauna, but alas the kangaroos in the wild were too flighty, and the ones I could get close to were either in a zoo, or dispersed in many pieces across the highway after a fateful bout with a truck’s front end.

I don’t think anyone wants to see that kinda gore anywhere.

And that includes the bloody blister on my thumb after hitting golf balls around. :)

And anyone can go to a zoo and see timid roos. I prefer to see the ones that are six feet tall, and are wont to tear your limbs off if they’re cornered.

Well, okay. On the morning of departure from Sydney, there was a gorgeous sunrise over the city. Unfortunately I couldn’t snap it due there being nowhere to park on the Great Western Highway at the time.

By the time I could stop, the sun had risen to the point where I couldn’t photograph it due to the huge lens flare.

There were the sharp people in business suits who were clearly tipsy after their champagne breakfast in a random Sydney restaurant. However, people are usually averse to having their photo taken by strangers from out of town. Especially at 10am. Especially after a few glasses of champagne. Especially by a stranger wearing a long, dark jacket and dark glasses.

The Holiday resort was interesting. Despite having never had Krispy Kreme, and there being one a mere fifty metres away from my hotel room, I still didn’t give it a go. Starbucks coffee is nothing to rave about, though. I think it’s a nice novelty though…

“Hey, where you been?”

“Oh, I was just at Starbucks. You know… Starbucks. The joint that gets constant mention on The Simpsons. That Starbucks. You know. Oh, don’t mind me, I’m from out of town”

Asking a Kebab place if they could make me a Yiros was amusing. They are, effectively, the same thing. Just different regions have different names for them.

Asking for a pint of beer at the Crown on Elizabeth Street was again amusing. Again, regional dialects were in conflict here. If no one was aware of this (but you probably are), if you want a big glass of beer in Adelaide, you ask for a pint. If you ask for a schooner (which is the big glass in Sydney), you’ll get a small one (Sydney’s “midi” or “mini” or whatever it’s called. I don’t know. I only ordered big glasses).

I met some really interesting, intelligent and insightful people, however taking a photo of them didn’t feel right.

StarCity casino looked impressive but I couldn’t bring myself to photograph a monolith that grew and feasted upon the compulsive and terminally addicted. I’m not averse to fluttering on horses, but I have observed some people with gambling addiction, and the dark aura it shows is incongruous with the bright lights and buzzing neon of a casino.

In order to restrict the chances of me falling asleep at the wheel of the car, I consumed an obscene amount of Red Bull. By obscene, I really mean “enough to make the world appear all ‘Bullet time’ as my nerves jittered and bounced all over my body”.

I am seriously considering getting shirt printed;

“I drove to Sydney and back, and all I got was this lousy Red Bull addiction”

Or maybe one of those blue AAPT t-shirts from that advert (Australians will know what I’m talking about here, and I apologise for the in-joke);

“Needs Caffeine Now”

Random Craziness From Beyond The Border

Today is business as usual, but not before I outline some of the craziness from the past week. This is a bit random. Bear with it.

Adelaide has its fair share of nutjobs, but it is kinda reassuring to know that this isn’t exactly the nerve-centre of nuttersville.

The guy and girl who snoozed on each other whilst on the train was particularly amusing. You know what they say about small things amusing certain strains of minds…

In the post before, I mentioned the extreme cold I faced when standing over the Three Sisters at Echo Point, Katoomba. You know, the magic in the air that nearly wiped my head clean off my shoulders.

Well, after hopping back in the car, some schoolgirls walked past.

Wearing short skirts.

?

*shudder*

The people who stand around selling The Big Issue (it’s a magazine published of behalf of and sold by homeless people, for those of you outside Australia) actually approach you on the street, as opposed to here in Adelaide, the people just stand around holding the magazine out in front of them, looking forlorn.

Nothing against the homeless, and I feel for their cause, despite being unable to fully understand their turmoil.

But actively approaching people doesn’t strike me as the best way for them to endear themselves to people. But, I’ll change topic before I offend someone.

Men wearing pink shirts. Sorry, I don’t get it. Maybe I’m not “cosmo” enough. But I don’t exactly reside in the hub of world fashion, so I guess I shouldn’t comment.

Nothing against Americans, but I did notice that out of all the tourists in Circular Quay (where viewing of the bridge and Opera house may be done), they were the ones I could hear the most often.

Their accent sticks out like a sore thumb in this country.

It casts my memory back to the time I was staying on Moreton Island in Queensland. The whole island was populated by Americans. After playing pool with some of them, I was informed that they “loved my accent”.

All I said was, “Mate, you’re in my country… you’re the one with the accent…”

Hearty laughs were exchanged, and life moved on.

Once, I saw my silhouette in front of me. I took a photo, a la CB from ChickyBabeRules. I disfigured my thumb and fingers on the golf driving range near the resort I stayed in; blisters from not doing a proper golf stroke, coupled with trying to whack the ball out of the range. Took a photo of said injury a la Lizzie from girlsohard.net.

Shook my head vigorously. Too much time spent blogging, I think. Those photo’s won’t appear here, I’m afraid. I don’t want to rip people off.

For such a populated city, the sidewalks are really narrow. Well, compared to Adelaide anyway, yet Adelaide doesn’t have anywhere near the amount of people.

It’s a bit baffling. Oh well.

I’m sure more little memories will come to me as the days go on. Until then, it’s back to local nutbags… yes, including me.