Inspiration

I am seeing a nifty new trend in the world of blogs. It is a new twist that I never thought possible from simply spewing your thoughts out to the faceless and nameless people out there.

Inspiration.

The community out there simply does not read a blog and comment on it just so they can draw readership to their blog, and then bask in the glory of commentopia. People are being touched by the simple words of others, and then are inspired to run their own take of the entry.

It's a two-fold benefit. On one hand people are taking the time to reflect upon themselves, and look at blogging as more than a egocentric pastime. On the other hand, the author that originally inspired the idea gets a nice warm fuzzy feeling knowing that they've had a subtle influence on their readership.

Of course, it has lent itself to a certain type of paranoia surrounding their motives for blogging.

But to be building a small community, and therefore a caring and sympathetic audience, can only be seen as a good thing. Yes, a blog should be a personal thing, but inspiration in this day and age seems to be something in short supply.

I've seen far too many selfish, stubborn and flatly narrow minded people simply faking their way through life, that to see reflection and dogged desire to stop and think is very refreshing.

Personally, I have been somewhat inspired myself. Watching people go through their trials, and then come out the other side a stronger person is a good thing to watch and read.

To all you bloggers, keep going. I look forward to the day where you cease to blog because your life is far too satisfying to warrant words.

Forgive my over sentimentality... but this asylum that I call life is not without surprise.

If I Could...

Pulled straight from… okay, ripped off from 4Sanity’s Sake. Cheers!

What follows is a list of different occupations. You must select at least five of them. You may add more if you like to your list before you pass it on (after you select five of the items as it was passed to you).Of the five you selected, you are to finish each phrase with what you would do as a member of that profession. Then pass it on to three other bloggers.

If I could be a scientist...
If I could be a farmer...
If I could be a musician...
If I could be a doctor...
If I could be a painter...
If I could be a gardener...
If I could be a missionary...
If I could be a chef...
If I could be an architect...
If I could be a linguist...
If I could be a psychologist...
If I could be a librarian...
If I could be an athlete...
If I could be a lawyer...
If I could be an innkeeper...
If I could be a professor...
If I could be a writer...
If I could be a backup dancer...
If I could be a llama-rider...
If I could be a bonnie pirate...
If I could be a midget stripper...
If I could be a proctologist...
If I could be a TV-Chat Show host...
If I could be an actor...
If I could be a judge...
If I could be a Jedi...
If I could be a mob boss...

I love these things where you gotta "fill the blanks". Heh.

If I could be a painter… I would paint giant words on the Opera House – something a bit more useful that “No War”. Something along the lines of “No Bec Cartwright!”

If I could be a lawyer… I would get myself out of trouble for defiling a national landmark.

If I could be a doctor… I would mend my broken legs after I fell off the Opera House. Hey, I’m a doctor, not an extreme sports climber.

If I could be a proctologist… I would shoot myself after realising that I spent 5 years of medical school, only to pull the job at the arse end of the doctor spectrum. And my legs would STILL be broken!

If I could be a chef... I would wash my fucking hands, especially after that short stint as a proctologist...

Blog: The Sleaze Joint With A Soft Glow

I did have a different entry lined up for today, but some friends could do with a bit of cheering up. So, if you’re reading, this is for you guys… you know who you are.

It’s my paltry effort to lighten the tone a bit around here. My high horse is in the stable, and doesn’t want to do anymore riding in with pomp and ceremony.

Anyway…

Most of the people who comment on my blog are female, claim to be female, are a female magnet, or claim to be a female magnet.

I’m not inferring anything, people… I’m just covering myself.

I’ve noticed that lot of other guys who blog have a fairly large proportion of their readership in the female spectrum of our species, regardless of the sexual orientation of the blogger.

In turn, I’ve noticed that a lot of females have a fair whack of males, people claiming to be males (but who would honestly falsify their gender to be a male?), male magnets, or claiming to be a male magnet (although all you’d have to do is say “I have breasts” and just watch them come a runnin’, Pa… a h’yuck)

Admittedly, and I don’t think many would actually own up to this, I’d select to comment on a blog because the author was female. Not to say I haven’t commented on a male’s blog, as I regularly throw something out onto I’m an Intern In New York, October 4th or 123 I love you, but I would probably maintain contact with a female’s blog more than a male’s.

I’m only a mere male. Besides, I put this down to my getting along with women better than men… mainly because I constantly get accused of cracking onto people's girlfriends…

No, I wasn’t using blog as a method of meeting women. No, really. I wasn’t. If you’re gonna raise that single eyebrow like that, I’m gonna… gonna… I dunno. Probably flirt with you some more. You know, you’re cute when you raise your eyebrow like that…

But I digress.

I have mentioned before (and many times in the myriad of different articles I’ve written for various websites years ago) about how anonymity over the Internet reduces people’s inhibitions to a level that makes alcohol look like a personality suppressant. As a result of this, I have seen some of the most uninhibited, sleazy, random, and downright disrespectful conversations.

Being on IRC for five seconds seems to reinforce this:

*** Joins channel #such-and-such - Secksy_Chick
(John) Hi Secksy Chick!
(Paul) Hi!
(George) Hi SC!
(Ringo) Hi!
(Pete) Hi!
(Secksy_Chick) Hi guys
(John) Wanna cyber?
(Paul) Wanna cyber?
(George) Wanna cyber? asl?
(Ringo) Wanna cyber?
(Pete) asl? Wanna cyber?
*** Secksy_Chick quits IRC (Fuck off)

To be honest, whilst I enjoy the attention this blog now gets, I would never do the whole “flirting” thing over the phone cable. Rather than being bathed in the soft glow of a PC monitor, waiting for the next jumble of text to appear on the screen, I much prefer being face-to-face with someone so you can actively gauge their responses through their body language, and their conversation.

I like the spontaneity. I like revelling in knowing that anything can happen and you don’t have the luxury of forethought providing a safety net (ie you don’t stop… think… type… edit…retype…and then send your response). It is much more exciting knowing that at any second you could put your foot in your mouth, and fuck everything up.

And believe me… I have… and will in future…

Besides, blog flirting conjures up seedy images that are, whilst probably inaccurate, less than complimentary. Forgive me for playing to the stereotypes.

There is nothing more fun than asking a girl if she likes Shania Twain… grabbing her on the arse and saying, “Man, you feel like a woman”.

It’s just as fun watching the bruise under your eye go down…

Woah, So Deep... Maaan...

No, I'm not commenting on the festival in Nimbin (Pot capital of Australia, folks)

So much is going on in the world at the moment. I would feel compelled to comment on the various different issues that are both here at home, and those abroad, except for one over arching deterrent.

I don’t wanna.

Yes, I could harp on about Schapelle Corby’s case, and my opinion that the press is only on her bandwagon because she’s a bit of a stunner (with makeup on, I’m sure), despite that people who are being detained without charge in Australia remain totally faceless. But frankly, it’s been done.

Besides, you should write what you know.

And for me, that seems to be gassing on about my personal life, and my stunning resemblance to Freddie Prinze Jnr (allegedly).

But I’m deeper than that, honestly.

People I speak to lately seem to hold onto some sorta ideal that a deep conversation is somehow more meaningful (ie better) than a shallow one. However, again… (this is the word of the month, I reckon) it seems to be subjective.

You take something like Corby, and you can converse at length with someone about the “facts” as they’re reported in the news, but all you're hearing is the articles from the paper, regurgitated as dot points into your ears… which is kinda gross, and smells kinda funky.

Then there’s the whole left wing/right wing opinion when it comes to discussing politics. But I find that getting any kind of individual thought out of these people is like pulling teeth… with your fingers… wearing garden gloves… on a Sunday… after a few beers.

However, the person you’re conversing with may think that the conversation is “deep” because you’re not discussing pop music, celebrity goss, chicks, the footy or that funky smell in your ear.

But, I’ve had excessively shallow conversations on topics like religion, politics, foreign policy, economics, and the digitalisation of media.

So, now I’ve devised another formula:

Depth of conversation = level of disagreement

K and I have met twice, face-to-face. We have had four (4 – count ‘em) “fights”, as we call them. It’s not like we’re screaming at each other, but it’s more along the lines that we’re both stubbornly opinionated, and we both look for any possible reason to explain our side of the story. It often involves a lot of conjecture, which probably isn't the best thing...

Whether telling someone they played a “good shot” in pool is technically a compliment, or some shallow form of positive reinforcement can actually be a stimulating conversation. For me, at least. K probably thinks I’m an idiot.

But oftentimes it’s the conversation in where you disagree with the other person that draws the most thinking, and therefore (in my personal definition) more “deeper” discourse.

And it’s all the more fun if the person you’re talking to is of a particular short fuse…

But this has all distracted me from Freddie Prinze Jnr. Oh, and I think I should add in here that you can have a heap of fun with a "shallow" conversation.

I forget my point...

Gawd, I’ve just re-read this entry…my brain has a bizarre train of thought…

Just What Is Art?

Last night I went to the Tight Arse Tuesday gig at the Governor Hindmarsh Hotel (one of the best places for live gigs in Adelaide), in where I had been recruited by a friend to take some photos of her band playing.

Blow Up Betty is their name, and they’re a punk rock chick band thingo. Of course, the drummer is a good mate of mine, so I feel obliged to heap some superlatives onto them and then encourage you to buy their single when it comes out in July… if you’re a local. (end gratuitous plug)

Also, now that I’m writing an article on their performance for either the local rag, or for the local street press (ie low prestige unpaid stuff, but at least I can’t be accused of “selling out”), they are now technically a “client”. So, hooray for me. I’m expanding my clientele, despite the fact that I’m doing it for a friend… er… and for free...

So, I took a myriad of photos of the performance, and it turns out that I like the conventionally crappy photos more than the sharp ones. But I put that down to my bizarre taste and the use of crappy equipment.

But it does beg the question, just what is “good” art, and what is “bad” art?

For instance, ChickyBabe takes some great shots of landscapes and the like, with the kind of depth and sharpness that makes anything I do look stupid (I’m a writer, not a lover… oh wait, no, scratch that… photographer). But sometimes a certain effect can be… er… effective.

I mean, I like this one… I think it gives a good impression of movement, and retains the light well. But looks like I totally fucked it up.


The one I like... but looks crappy...

But this one is sharp, clear… and still looks like I totally fucked it up.


The one I don't like... but most people do...

Which only serves to prove that art is largely a subjective matter.

It recently came to my attention that the Adelaide Index is tracking my blog. It is a site that details what is on the mind of the local bloggers. It also provides a slight insight into just how many nutbags, tormented and intellectually superiors are in this town.

Now, if I can only get this particular entry to feature in their little sidebar thing, it could be classed as art… you know…

“This blog, comments on this site, which in turn comments on his blog. How avant-garde!”

Art is where you find it. Most are horrified at the appearance of a spider, whereas I have oftentimes found myself staring blankly at them, like that freak job in American Beauty. Their intricate construction, and the way their legs move perfectly when they scurry around their web is like beholding an unspoiled canvas... until you tread on them. And if you find that more appealing than a live spider, then I infer that you're more of a "Monet" person. Good for you.

No, I don’t like spiders. In fact I don’t rate them at all, but that doesn’t mean that I can’t find the art in them. Are the intricate movements of a spider so much more different than the rippling muscles of a lean cheetah in full flight?

That was rhetorical.

Oh, and if you want a photo of me, you can see it here.

A Wit Sharp Enough To Mash Potatoes

Train wreck in Osaka… which is the city where I intend to stay. Also, there’s the rising tensions between Japan and China due to atrocities being glazed over in some book thingy.

Damn long-term memories.

Are these warning signs to hold off going to Japan? Or is it some reassurance? I’d figure that because there has been a train crash, the appropriate action will be taken to ensure that it doesn’t happen again.

Which is a typical Government method of closing the gates well after the cows have waltzed out the paddock and trampled on your dog.

But then there’s the whole bizzo with K. So I’m supposed to entertain thoughts of being with someone when I intend to piss off in a matter of 6 or so months? Doesn’t sound like a top idea, does it?

Anyway, we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it, yeah? In the meantime, I’m going to torture myself with retrospective retorts to the cutting remarks made by K the other night…

(Note: parts of this conversation did not happen… well… only the parts in where I spoke. Her parts are repeated as best as I can recall. Feel free to juxtapose my responses below with “yeah, you’re right” and you get an idea of how the conversation actually went. Naturally, as I’m blatantly spouting out responses here that I wish I had said, the conversation below loses some coherence)
-------------
Her: I can see it in your eyes that you’re putting this wall up. Obviously you don’t want to hurt me.

Me: Perhaps, but do you honestly think that I’d willingly hurt people especially after what I’ve been through? The way you’ve been keeping me at arms length makes it clearly obvious that you too have been through a lot, and are wary of getting your hopes up.

Her: Yeah, I know I’m right. When you were in the lounge room with my friends, I could see that you were far too self-conscious. You are too busy worrying about what people think of you. You should just let go. Just fucking let it go.

Me: So you think it’d be easy to simply throw away a trait that has been honed and conditioned over 27 years of my life, just because you say so? I’m afraid it isn’t that simple, deary.

Her: *satisfied look* You’re just so tense! You need to simply have fun.

Me: You make it sound like I’m totally incapable of having this said “Fun”. If I wasn’t so shy and self-conscious right now, I’d…

Her: You’re so scared of me. I can see it.

Me: So, being totally pole-axed from someone who I’ve only met twice is a normal occurrence? Besides, who the hell are you to bang on about being self conscious and scared when you seem to wear modest clothing, and hide your own insecurities behind a wall of disarmingly blunt comments?

Her: *again with a satisfied look* Well, you shouldn’t be scared (barrage of compliments flow).

Me: *blinks* Thank you (Note: I actually said that… not “yeah, you’re right”)

Her: I could tell you were apprehensive when you didn’t kiss me on the first night.

Me: Well, it didn’t feel right at the time (Note: I actually said that… not “yeah, you’re right”), but you fail to recognise that I had smoked ten thousand cigarettes that night and my breath would’ve totally killed a bull (Note: I totally wished I had said that)!

Her: You never know when the right time is, do you? You just don’t let go of your… *clicks fingers in front of my face as she notices my eyes glaze as I try futilely to grasp onto some retort* Oi! Oi! Attention back on me! (she actually did this - I’m not exaggerating) You have too many inhibitions you need to let go of.

Me: Do you think that being attracted to someone like you isn’t incredibly intimidating? Do you think I didn’t want to kiss you? Again, your self-consciousness is seeping through a bit. I’m willing to bet that you wondered why I didn’t make the first move, and it’s only after discussing the situation with your other ultra-intelligent, academic university friends that you managed to define my “psychological profile” in such an accurate and succinct manner.

Her: Well, you can’t just sit there and say “you’re right” all night, you know.

Me: I can say whatever the fuck I like, you know. I’m totally not intimidated by you at all. Honest. Really. Don’t look at me like that.

Her: Stop saying, “You’re right!”
------------------------
Well, like I said… because I’m adding things in there that I wish I had said, the conversation doesn’t make much sense, but I think you get the idea of what I’m getting at:

My wit is as blunt as a bowling ball sitting on top of another bowling ball, wrapped in bubble-wrap which is then trimmed down to get rid of the sharp corners at the edge of the sheet.

Oh, and hindsight is a marvellous thing.

But yeah, this chick so has my number down, and it’s fucking scary.

Ohh..... K. (okay)

What a funny weekend.

For those out of the country, this weekend marked Anzac (Australian and New Zealand Army Corp) Day. It’s a day off work we use to mark the fallen Army blokes who died in Gallipoli, or something. Naturally, the rest of us who are too young to know any fallen comrades use this day as another excuse to have an alcohol session.

Not me, however. I was hauled out to a local race track to help out a friend with his drift car. Naturally my client was out there, checking out his competition as well as the newcomers to the sport. I had a brief chat with him just as a way of continuing contact, as well increasing the chance of doing some work for his no. 2 driver.

It was rather odd when he comes to me to ask for a push, as his car’s starter motor refuses to turn over. There’s a certain sense of irony when you’re push-starting the car of one of the country’s best drifter’s. Just as well it wasn’t his race car – as that realisation may have popped a vein in my head.

I also use these days at the races to try and focus on some writing on my novel, an upcoming project, or possible other ventures. I rarely, if ever, worry about the nine to five job. That’s just time-filler, and steady income.

But, when trying to plan out future interview structures with other drivers, ideas for my story, or articles for the magazine, there was a constant little voice at the back of my head.

“Hello K, how’s your day?”

Well, not that it said that specifically… I just thought it sounded cute. Either way, the point is K featured in my head a quite a bit today.

I met up with her briefly last night. She wanted to head out clubbing, but being thrashed from my day’s exertion (martial art training, chores, saving the world – well, maybe not all that’s true. The chores are being neglected quite badly… geez this material is getting old) combined with the fact that I had to rise at 6am the next day to head out to the track didn’t set well. Also, I know for sure that when I head out with K, it will never be an early night.

So I bailed early. Subsequently - and I probably deserved this - I was similarly bailed up by K on my way out the door.

I would love to regale the conversation in full, but… you know… alcohol, and all that jazz.

In the past with other people, I have always (usually) been a bit of an “oracle”, or something to that effect. After conversing with people for a period of about 15 minutes, I can often determine their background, foibles, idiosyncrasies, phobias, personalities, and in one particular example, the type of guy they were going out with (before I met him). I would say that I’ve picked these in maybe 8 out of 10 cases.

But with K, the role was reversed.

She leant in close to me, her breath pungent with the stench of vodka and citrus, her big brown eyes drilling intently into my soul. Contradictory to some romantic episode like this introductory sentence suggests, she actually assaulted me with her own surgically accurate analysis of my persona.

To every claim she made, I tried to refute – as I usually do, because I like to think that I’m different enough to not be easily picked – but just found my head shaking and my mouth admitting a totally dumbfounded, “Yeah… you’re right”.

Right there and then, in the street behind her house, we outlined our intentions and expectations for any relationship we’re entertaining. The whole time, I’m trying to wrest some level of control back, fervently grabbing at empty air to claim back some dignity, or some equal footing. I’m attempting to analyse her back, to teach her what it’s like to be accurately scrutinised, but the head drew complete blanks. I knew she was far too intelligent for me, and that any observation I made about her would simply be refuted with solid evidence or claims that my notations were simply circumstantial.

I have well and truly met my match in this woman. Quite simply, even in her state of inebriation, she is far too insightful, far too clever, wily and intelligent for me.

Like my friend said to me a while ago, “She makes you feel dumb, mate.” He was totally right. Being around her feels like I’m simply dropping through a hole, and my limbs are flailing around constantly, trying to grab some hand or foothold.

And, I’m totally attracted to it.

Oh, and she’s a great kisser, too.

(Feeling) is…

Well, this is going to be a bit different today. But this lapse is only happening once in a blue moon, so don’t go thinkin’ that I’m losing my edge. ‘Cos I’m not…! *stamps foot indignantly*

Solace is: having the interminable loneliness relieved by the tenancy of your ex-wife’s two cats.

Annoyance is: having to constantly clean up after these two cats.

Vexed is: needing to fetch these cats off the roof if you leave them outside for too long in the evening.

Perturbed is: trying to work the feeling back into your feet after being out in the cold for too long, fearing that your feet will fall off because you’ve been fetching cats off rooves.

Irked is: putting disinfectant on the scratches you receive from simply owning a cat. It’s a fact of life. Cat ownership = cuts and scratches.

Frustration is: putting the headphones of your iPod into your ears, only to find the one of the cats has chewed through the wire overnight.

Vehemence is: redirecting your feelings towards the person who placed the cats in your care in the first place.

Retribution is: conditioning the cats so that when she takes them back, they drive her up the wall.

Amusement is: feeding the cats on the kitchen bench, knowing that the ex-wife hates them on the bench. Now, whenever she feeds them, they’ll climb all over her bench.

Further amusement is: constantly giving the cats something out of the fridge, so that in future, whenever you open the fridge door, the cats go ape-poop.

Hysteria is: giving the cats the top shelf, expensive food all the time so that they refuse to eat the standard stuff. This part is true. Cat’s are finicky and these two will now refuse to eat anything under AU$2.50 per tin

Guilt is: knowing how immature and petty you’re being.

Validation is: knowing that she deserves it. Besides, this is harmless compared to what I could do.

As you can gather, I’m currently babysitting my ex-wife’s cats. I haven’t been much of a cat person in the past, but I like these two cats. They have “character” (don’t they all, ladies?). In fact, I like most animals, so to walk around my house kicking them because they’re in the way seems erroneous, and needlessly cruel to say the least.

Oh, and if that above list paints an unsanitary picture of some unshaven bachelor, strutting around his house in a singlet and boxer shorts with flies buzzing around his head, then you’d be wrong. Honest. Those are moths, not flies. And I can’t afford a singlet.

No, I jest. Really. I’m a clean person. Don’t look at me like that.

The upside of having these cats (there is one) is that I simply do not need television. Watching them both fly around the house whenever they’re in a crazy mood is far more amusing than watching someone’s insides getting punctured by a stiletto high heel shoe on CSI.


"Oi! C'mere! Look at me! Stop watching that TV!" 

But more to the point of this post… (this is the only time I’m going to talk about this, okay?)

I’m sure that the above activities suggest that this author is a tad bitter, and some of you may be wondering about the mental stability of this jilted young man.

I guess now is the time that I outline that I’m not distraught over the separation with my wife. Frankly, as far as I can see, life has improved since that event. Friends look at me with some degree of scepticism when I inform them that I’m actually “quite over” my wife, which totally baffles me. “It’s only been three months!” they declare openly, as though the revelation would have Sherlock Holmes amazed at their brutal powers of deduction. But I guess it’s easy to be baffled when you’re in my shoes… which I was, the last time I checked.

What is so difficult to comprehend about it? I know that I was nothing but the most devoted, yet still respectful, husband, and yet she still turned her back on me. I have absolutely no doubt in my head that it had nothing to do with me, and all to do with her. This is not denial; it’s fact. She acted on what she wanted, and that’s what ended us.

I don’t need to devote myself to people like that.

It’s like building a sand castle, only to have it wash away with the tide. Over time, you’d surely get to a point where you’d have to give up on it. And that’s what I’ve done.

I’ve given up on her. I don’t feel sad about it, nor do I feel happy. There is nothing there. No love. No hate. Just an over arching sense of… “meh”. I have my life back, I am free, and I am accountable to only one person; myself.

Like I said, this is the only time I’m talking about this, because there are far better things to write about than an event that I feel largely indifferent about.

Like Me, Like Them... Whatever

I look like someone else.

It’s a largely regarded belief that for every person on the planet, there is a twin of you, somewhere out there. Whether you believe this or not, is totally up to you. But if you don’t, I’m going to have to politely request that you fuck off. PLZKTHXBAI!!

Narrow minded jerk. Now where was I?

Oh yes, the twin. Or if you’re a particularly paranoid little vegemite, you have a doppelganger – the evil twin. The one that represents everything that you’re not. However, the definition of an evil deed is a largely subjective matter, but if your inclination is towards the homicidal area of the human mind, then I will have to ask that you too please fuck off.

*Sigh*

There have been a number of times in the past that I have been mistaken for someone else. More often than not, someone’s ex-boyfriend. One other particular blogger has also indicated my resemblance to an old flame, which is kinda concerning. She knows who she is.

My ex-wife once told me that I look like Freddie Prinze Junior, which gave me a warm fuzzy feeling inside. Funnily enough, that’s the same warm fuzzy feeling I get right before I want to slit my wrists and hop in the bathtub. But never mind about that.

I went through the drive-thru at McDonalds, ordered my meal and promptly paid with a smile. Upon proceeding onto the ethereal “next window”, I received the most awful, evil stare from the girl holding the bag containing my grease-food.

“What you did to [such and such] was really nasty. I hate you. I hope you fucking rot in hell!” she lambasted me before handing over the food.

I had no idea what she was banging on about.

However, I did double-check my food for any traces of foreign saliva. I didn’t drink the Coke…

I was once approached down Waymouth Street by a guy who claimed I looked like some other guy. He said that I could’ve been his twin. He gave me a name, and asked if I was somehow related. It didn’t ring a bell.

I once played tennis with a girl who claimed that I looked like her ex-boyfriend. I once had to telephone her to check if she was still available to play for our team, and I got her answering machine. Apparently her mother was screening the calls, and thought that this girl’s psycho ex-boyfriend was trying to call her again. My voice was practically the same as his, and I apparently looked heaps like him.

The ultra weird thing was that this girl also looked like my first ever girlfriend… weird.

It does seem rather strange that I have my twin(s) so close by. If not for the whole bizarreness of it all, but the way it seems to suggest that we’re all inbred hicks in this two-horse berg.

However, I am taking a different approach to these people who claim that I look like such-and-such.

“No I don’t! They look like me!!!”

Semantics, I know. But I’d rather think that people are similar to me, rather than me being similar to them. It’s an ego thing.

When it rains, it buckets...

Okay, let's try this again. Just got back from my friends place in where a few glasses of wine were consumed, things discussed, and sushi eating. After such a fine blend of activity, most people usually bugger off to bed at 10.30pm... on a work night, that is.

Not me. I'm a die hard blogger of the highest calibre and simply must regale my readers with every single event of my day. YOu know... today, I had breakfast... went to work... and you know... stuff happened.

And my staying awake has nothing to do with the fuckwits across the road playing ballsports inside their giant tin shed. Nope, nothing at all. Honest.

Further to the entry before, what can I say? I seem to be bearing witness to my own little theory called (pending appropriate patents, copyrights etc) The Stench Of Desperation.

Explained simply, if you go around actively seeking a relationship, you exude a certain awkwardness that makes your prospective woo-ee give you a look that is normally savoured for beholding the dog poop they just stepped in, or when walking past the disfigured body of roadkill.

However, if you're not actively looking for a relationship, you're much more relaxed, and people find you a lot more appealing. You don't make people feel awkward with your own awkwardness. In fact, people might be wondering why the hell such a fine specimen of a human being simply isn't snaffled up by some lucky prick.

Chances are, you already have been. I don't know how many times I was approached by nice girls when I already had a girlfriend... okay, that's a lie. It was thrice, but you get my point.

So, I guess my original point was; if you're looking for a relationship... stop fucking looking!!! When you least expect it, it's going to sneak up behind you, cover your eyes with its hands, say "Guess who" before running of with your wallet and testicles.

If you're a female, replace "testicles" with "sense of dignity".

Disclaimer: Despite the name, The Inane Asylum has absolutely no medical background, or any other evidence of the existence of the Stench of Desperation, other than the sweeping generalisations borne from our experiences. It may not apply to everyone. Oh, and we were kidding about the whole wallet/testes/dignity thing. Really. Give us a break, we're deep into four glasses of wine.

I… Just Don’t Know - Part 1.

Over the space of your life, you constantly have questions hurled at you like a ball being hurled at you at 255 kays an hour from the automated, ball hurling, Question Machine 255.

And you try to swing at all these questions… most of the time.

Sometimes they’re probably better left to go through to the keeper/catcher/ballboy/net/automated ball catching, Question Machine 255 (please circle the sport that most resembles your national pastime, as appropriate).

In other words, just admit that you don’t fucking know, and deal with it later… if you get the opportunity… natch… unless the question is, should I stop driving on the wrong side of the road? In that case, you’d better start complying with local road laws. Trust me.

So, in the spirit of this post, here is a list of things that I don’t know:

Whether I should apply for this job in Japan right now.

Whether I should have sushi or leftover marinated chicken for dinner tonight.

Whether or not your crush is interested in you, or if they’re simply enjoying the whole dicking-with-your-head thing (this doesn’t apply to anyone specifically – but if you planned on asking me, you now know my response).

What I exactly want from K… or from any woman for that matter.

Whether investing in the pessimistic Australian stock market is a top idea.

Whether you should buy that house on the coast.

Whether spending more than AU$100 on your significant other is a good idea.

Whether that’s a pimple or a boil. What am I, a doctor? (for every situation in life, there is a Simpson’s quote to go with it)

Why, that for every situation in life, there’s a Simpson’s quote to go with it.

What you should do this weekend.

How on earth you’re going to pay all those bills.

How on earth I’m going to pay all these bills.

What men and women want in a relationship.

The appeal of the whole Speed-Dating thing especially when the term McSleaze is much more apt.

Whether brain capacity and neck length are somehow related.

Whether brain capacity and arm length are related.

Why people would want to try to lick their elbows.

If you would like the movie “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind” over “xXx 2”.

Whether a nice shiraz is better than a rich cabernet when eating a scotch fillet.

Why I never look good in photos.

Why I just added that item on.

Who killed Laura Palmer (and don’t fucking tell me, either!).

The difference between an ale and a lager. I don’t care, as long as they get me drunk.

Why Lindsay Lohan is so popular.

Why I feel compelled to "help" complete strangers.

Why I think that my blog is the best forum for these thoughts.

I think that this might be an ongoing series…

Andy: Man of Mystery

That’s enough weirdity for one day. Let’s get back into the blog properly.

I had a conversation with a friend recently at the pub, and eventually – thanks to being about 5 pints deep into drunkenness - we got onto the subject of traits that are attractive in a prospective mate.

One word that seemed to feature quite greatly was the word “mystery”.

Yes, I like women to have a mystique about them, however I do wonder whether there is some kind of bunny-boiling tendencies that should be clarified prior to striking up any conversation. However, she was of the opinion that men who carry a certain air of mystery are extremely appealing, and she is often drawn to them like a mosquito to a bug-zapper.

Well, she used the much more romantic term “Moth to a lamp” but going from tales of her previous destructive relationships, I think my analogy is more apt. Besides, it has more panache and is less cliche.

After further discussion with her, pertaining to what made these men much more mysterious, I have devised a formula that can calculate a man’s level of mystery:

Mystery = Length of jacket.

For example:

A non-mysterious man, courtesy of Deirdre of London

A mysterious man, courtesy of some movie…

So, if my formula proves correct, then I’m afraid that I’m doomed. The last time I checked, I wasn’t a poorly realised effigy from a crap movie.

But if it’s the whole broodiness thing, then I can do that. Quite easily. I can wear sunglasses, strut around like I own the joint, and say “woah” at certain intervals – with some prompting, I’m sure.

So, a conversation in a bar would go something along of the lines of:

Me: “Hi”

Pretty girl: “Hi! Nice jacket…”

Me: “Would you believe there is no jacket?”

Pretty girl: “Huh?”

Me: “I don’t believe in fate, you know.”

Pretty girl: “Most guys just want to buy me a drink.”

Me: “I will, but only because I want to be assured that I’m in control of my own fate”

Pretty girl: “Look my boyfriend is just over there” (gestures to empty wall)

Me: “There is no spoon, either, you know.”

Pretty girl: “Get away from me, freak.”

Me: “But… the jacket… mystery, and all that… jazz.”

Pretty girl: “I know security here, and they’ll rearrange your face.” (walks off)

*pause*

Me: “… woah…”

Hoho, I’m so there! I’ll never be bored in a bar again!

(I apologise to those who have never seen "The Matrix")

March 26

I’m “sick” today.

It has nothing to do with sleep deprivation caused by the die-hard rage fanatics across the road who decide that 4am is a great time to hold a recovery party. It equally has nothing to do with the fact that their giant shed acts as a great amplifier, and exaggerates the bass generated by their stereo to levels that would leave Barry White green with envy.

I still have the bass-line to “Clubbed to Death” stuck in my head.

I am... of course... being sarcastic, apart from the Rob D song part.

Whether sleep deprivation can be classed as “ill” I don’t know, but frankly, I’m not here to discuss the semantics of health.

Besides, it makes no difference to you lot, because it still means that there is a blog entry… which is just the same as if I were at work, anyway.

And I now have no idea why I just wasted perfectly good text on the drivel that was the past six paragraphs... oh well, moving on...

One thing that keeps niggling away at me lately is the sheer amount of people I know that share my birthday. At last count there were at least 12 people I know who celebrate their day of emergence on March 26.

I want to sit the parents of all these people down in one room and ask them what it is about the month of June (ie nine months prior to March) that caused them to knock boots. Is it the dastardly frigid Australian weather that encourages close body proximity, blended with the higher fertility afforded the male in colder conditions? Or maybe there's something in the stars that inspires the male to lovingly caress his mate and whisper suductively in her ear, "You awake...? Okay, brace yourself."

It’s just a bizarre circumstance that has graced (or plagued) me. Does anyone else out there share their birthday with so many people they actually know? I mean, the odds are quite good that you’ll know at least one person with the same birthday as yours… but twelve? The mind boggles at the reasoning behind such a bizarre coincidence...

Perhaps us March 26ers are being herded together by our alien overlords to allow easier communication between a certain strain of humans when the invasion and enslavement begins. When all the people of Earth are shackled in chains and building pyramids, maybe us March 26ers are going to be the ones holding the whips…

Sure, we’ll still be slaves, but we’ll be the upper-lower class of slave, which I’m sure has a better union, and higher quality, chafe-free loin cloth uniform.

I sometimes wonder where the fuck my brain goes when I let it off its leash…

I’m guessing it eats that thing that fell under the refrigerator five months ago, judging from this post… and recent posts, now that I look back...

The Agents of Lurve

When walking to the field of Relationships, you have to negotiate the path of Establishment. During this time you must exercise the feather touch of Reason and Caution to ensure you don’t take the action of Over Excitement. This will lead you to step on the landmine of Severe Cock Up, cause an explosion of Humiliation and leave you lying as pieces of Blind Naiveté in the mud of the Remorse ditch.

Yes, establishing a relationship is a perilous thing indeed. No, I haven’t stepped on my own proverbial land mine, but this all has made me think that this whole shebang is a highly political environment. But, I can’t remember who said this, but “politics” is the ability to say “nice doggie” whilst reaching for a rock.

There’s the whole bit of “when do I call?”, “should she call?” coupled with second guessing exactly how serious the other person is. Don’t come across too eager, but don’t be too reluctant.

I’m surprised that more single people haven’t topped themselves.

So what’s the answer to this terrifying and hazardous phase? What can be done to ensure that most people somehow don’t put a foot wrong in this tumultuous time?

I propose Relationship Representation. Or, perhaps the more catchy Agents of Lurve.

Why place your own ego on the line when you can have someone else do it for you? You provide your agent with a brief of the type of partner that you’re seeking, and they scourge the pubs, clubs, bars, streets, websites, and sporting associations in search of someone you might wanna hook up with.

When the agent scopes out their prey, they can approach them and begin the interrogation, or perhaps the more catchy “Lurve Networking”. They indicate that they represent a certain person, and the conversation stems from there. The Agent of Lurve then determines whether the prey (or perhaps the more catchy “Prospect for HOstile TAkeover of Lurve” – PHOTAL for short) is a suitable match for synergy, or the more catchy Lurve Merger.

Of course, if the PHOTAL already has representation, they can give your agent the card of theirs, and discussions can take place… or perhaps the more catchy “Lurve Talks”.

Naturally if the PHOTAL is spoken for, then the agent moves on, marking the file as “Already with Significant Shareholders - Hope Of Love Exacerbated”, or perhaps the more catchy acronym, “ASS-HOLE”.

Of course, this venture needs to have a risk analysis done. Possible risks I see are:

Risk: No guy is going to believe he needs representation, because his ego tells him that he’s a hot stud capable of landing his own partner. To reduce risk, perhaps run heaps of adverts that suggest that all single men are in denial.

Risk: When the agents are “in-the-field”, they are obviously going to keep the best PHOTALs for themselves. To reduce the risk, perhaps ensure that the agent is of different orientation to the client.

Risk: Agents may get punched out by jealous boyfriends. To reduce risk, ensure that agents clearly explain beforehand that they represent someone else. Also, agents must be au fait with legislation pertaining to Assault and Battery.

Risk: This idea takes the fun out of the whole thing. To reduce risk, somehow get the Agents of Lurve idea to feature on Desperate Housewives… or failing that, CSI.

There are more, I’m sure. But I think this needs a business plan. I’ll get back to you.

This idea is reserved by The Inane Asylum. Blah, blah, blah… copyright laws apply, blah, blah, blah, If I see a successful business like this one outlined above after the date marked by this post, you are going to see some perturbed skinny bloke on your doorstep.

------

I just have to add that yesterday was a weird day. Apart from the myriad of strange people that I correspond with on a daily basis, I also had the bizarre occurrence of being approached by a bloke trying to sell me a set of speakers.

Normal you say? Not so normal when you consider that he was riding in the car next to me, and we were still in motion.

Trying to articulate that the speakers you have in your house are more than ample when travelling at 80 kph down Tapleys Hill Road isn’t as easy task. It’s also hard to explain that him trying to sell speakers to strangers out the back of his van appears extremely suspicious. Doing a sales pitch at high velocity gives a certain, “Shit dude, take my speakers quick, the cops are on my tail” vibe to it, which was a bit disturbing…

“You know what they say; you snooze, you lose” he finally yelled over the bellowing winds before accelerating to the car in front of me.

I want a new world. This one is broken.

Internet Flirting and the Apocalypse

Coming from an IT background, I've become quite an avid reader of IT Columnist Kerrie Murphy, aka Defrag. In fact, I've tried to model my writing style off her ability to randomly string together erratic comments. The only difference between her and I is that she's a talented nutbag, and I'm a run-of-the-mill one. Oh, and the fact that she has a regular writing gig, and I'm forever scrounging for new clients... and relying on the boring nine to fiver for regular income.

But this week she reported on the unfortunate events surrounding a suspicious boyfriend. The excerpt from Defrag's column is below (The Inane Asylum is in no way or form associated with The Australian, News Limited or its subsidiaries. The below article is a copy, paste from The Australian website and is in no way or form a result of any work done by The Inane Asylum. Although if we could get paid to write stuff like this, it would rock. What would equally rock is that if we had the talent. The Inane Asylum bidded for some Talent on eBay, but stopped when the price topped AU$10,000. It just goes to show that it's not what you know, it's how much money you have... Perhaps if the Talent was "haunted", The Inane Asylum might've been tempted to go higher...):

"According to the Apple Daily, Huang [Tzu-heng] was unsure whether his girlfriend Hsiao Lan really loved him and since they evidently don't have programs such as The Jerry Springer Show or Cheaters in Taiwan, he was unaware that the correct way to handle such a situation is to surprise them by orchestrating a very public confrontation, preferably in front of TV cameras.

Instead, he decided to test her by assuming an alias and flirting with her on the internet, because there's no way that anything could possibly go wrong with that strategy.

And, in a move that will come as a shock to anyone who has bought a dictionary that had all the definitions for words beginning with I were missing - and thus is unfamiliar with the word "irony" - Huang's girlfriend announced she was breaking up with him because she had fallen for her internet lover.

It's a trick of life almost as cruel as being born a member of the band Maroon 5 that society has evolved to the point where you can actually get into a competition with yourself and still lose. "

After I shaked away the haze of disbelief surrounding this event, and settled down the rising hysteria, I sent this excerpt onto some friends of mine. You know, to share the mirth at someone else's bizarre misfortune. Hey, I'm only human.

There was the usual responses back from friends, "Haha, that's so funny" to "LOL ROFLMAO, dats tooooo funnee!!!1!!!1!!11!"

However, what I didn't expect was one to say, "Yeah, I've heard of that before. I've got friends who said that happened to them."

It is one thing to believe that this happened in the first place. It is another thing to believe that it has happened to multiple people... as in... plural of the singular "person". The story seemed bizarre enough to have happened to one person, as it would take a serious case of paranoia, delusion and jealousy to drive anyone to the level to actually want to test their partner. There must be a lot of mistrust out there.

After a few light slaps to the forehead to knock out the dregs of confusion borne of disbelief, it was one more realisation that just absolutely decked me and left me a quivering mess of despair on the floor.

People actually admitted to it happening to them...

Personally if this kinda thing happened to me, I'd shut the hell up about it. To admit to it seems to suggest that people think that flirting with your partner over the Internet to "test" them is relatively normal behaviour...

Truly, the world is doomed.

A Miasma of Randomness

My mind is a swirling miasma of scintillating thoughts and turgid ideas (Those who know Sam and Max would know where I ripped that sentence from). It saturates me with random things (mainly events in my life at the moment), and sometimes I wish it would simply shut up.

But voices in my head don’t necessarily make me a psychopath, according to Dr Robert Hare. Anyway…

There’re too many things going through my head at the moment, but I simply can't focus on one, so it'd be difficult to discuss any on a deeper level. So, instead I’m going to list them off.

A close colleague of mine is good friends with K. It is awfully difficult to not try and raise the topic of last Friday night… mainly because I'm sure she's got plenty of work to do without having to put up with the twisted soap opera that is my existence.

This colleague sits a mere two metres away from me, so she’d better not look over my shoulder.

Everyone else is such a fucking expert. “Andy, you shoulda pashed her.” – “Andy, you coulda…” – “Andy, she woulda…”

The point is; Andy didn’t, so he couldn’t, and trust me… she’s a smart, classy girl, so she wouldn’t have…

I’ve got a “gentlemanly” persona to maintain, anyway.

However, one surprisingly insightful friend did point out that I’m attracted to her because she makes me “feel dumb”. Not that I’m an overly intelligent person; I’ve just attracted… er… “misinformed” women in the past. The fact that she challenges me is something I find refreshing, invigorating and stimulating.

This damn deposit cheque from the sale of my house better arrive soon. I’ve got plans.

My diet has been shithouse lately. I’m still stick-thin, although I’m sure there’re some handles starting to spawn. I should really do more exercise. *sigh* Bachelor life.

I hate butter on my sandwiches. Those women who work in my local café still have no fucking idea on this quirk of mine…

I thought about doing a post on the afterlife… but what’s the point? If there is one, then there’s something to look forward to. If there isn’t then we’ll be far too busy being dead to worry about it. I hear that death is a demanding mistress.

I should donate blood soon. I’m the most common blood type in the world, and that’s even more reason to do it. I haven’t done it for a while, probably because the last time I donated, I got a bruise along the entire length of my arm. It hurt.

I’ve just realised that this post is beginning to look like one of those 100 Things About Me lists that I derided in a previous post. I’m sure none of you picked me for a hypocrite.

My colleague just came up to me to ask me a question. Click, minimise… safe. Good.

I’m such a slacker lately. I’d use an excuse like: “I’m busy from the exertion involved with selling the house”, “I’m preparing to move house”, or “I’ve been distracted lately” but no one has a problem with my work performance. If anything, I’ve been getting glowing reviews. Huzzah for being in a workplace that practically applauds mediocrity.

The fact that a K (thank you chica for the idea of keeping people anonymous through the use of their first initials) related point has appeared more times than any other subject is indicative of either some bastardised form of transference that I’m suffering, or some whimsical hope that I’m not forced to tread the earth completely alone... for now. I haven’t spoken to her since Saturday morning… Oh well, take it as it comes, and don’t question anything. Maybe I’ll call her tonight.

“Don’t be too eager” one friend says, “Don’t be too distant” says another. “Geez, it’s not as difficult as you make it out to be” says me, “whatever happens, life goes on.”

My brother returned to Sydney this morning. I hadn’t seen him for a year, and he visited for two weeks. I saw him twice for a few hours. He wants me to visit Sydney soon… maybe in May or when the drift racing is on at Oran Park. We're not close brothers... all three of us...

Thank Christ I got the driver's bio done (one pet project that has occupied my time lately - a quick biography on a drift racing driver). He (the driver) is meeting with a major sponsor tonight, so I hope he gets the deal. I'd like to believe that I had a hand in it, and that it wasn't solely because of his talents on the track...

Lately I seem to have a knack of catching women looking at me. It's cute. It's reassuring. I should thank them... just to see their reaction.

I'm sure there's more, but I think I've said enough.

Solution to Emissions and Tubs

There was much ado about our fuel prices before. However, they’re coming down after being in record highs for the past month or so.

A couple months ago, however, there was an equal – if not more - amount of ado about the Australian’s Government’s refusal to sign up for the Kyoto Protocol. This said ado was due to our country being rated as one of, if not the worst expellers of emissions on the gas ball we our globe.

I was watching the news the other night - at the time when fuel was at its most expensive - and I was simply amazed at some of the interviews they had with motorists complaining about the pump prices.

And I shit you not:

“It’s terrible. I’m hesitant to use my car, and I’m having to walk everywhere.”

“I’ve had to use public transport.”

“I’ve had to sell my two first born children into slavery, and my thoroughbred horsey to the violin shop, just so that I can fuel my twin turbo V10 Volkswagen Black Cloud Machine. I need to reach my manicurist who operates just around the corner, and I also need to pop down to the booze-o to pick up my daily bottle of Moet”

Maybe I’ve exaggerated the third one a little. I think it was Moet & Chandon. But the first two were genuine.

I’m sure there are plenty of things in the world that are much worse than walking. Like… catching public transport, in where you run the risk maybe being annoyed by someone’s ringtone. But… ugh… Look, I’m having trouble expressing my incredulity.

But maybe we’re onto something here.

Governments have been trying to address a massive obesity problem lately, and henceforth maybe reduce the rising diagnostics of diabetes. There has been much talk of education programs to teach people the importance of a healthy diet and exercise.

Also, scientists around the globe has been fervently trying to come up with an alternative fuel source, so that we’re not so reliant on the planet’s ever dwindling fossil fuel canyons. Our local government has been running extensive ad campaigns to entice people to use the public transport system, despite the fact that our network of bus and rail is second only to the dusty cart tracks of Nepal.

So much for attempting to discover an alternate fuelling method that doesn’t kill the planet, or instigate wars, as a solution to both these scourges was simple.

Whop up the prices of fuel… Now they should run another campaign: Use our buses or maybe walk. It sure beats paying through the nose for fuel, Tubby.

Obligatory Rant on Mobiles (Celphones ["Cell phones"])

Bracketed segments to translate for any non-Australians who might be reading. Square brackets to denote correct spelling... because I'm really an ignoramus...

The mobile phone (Celphone [er... "cell phone", I've been told it's spelt]). The telephone that you can take anywhere without needing 20 kilometres (twelve and half miles) of extension cord. The other such perk is that they’re also prone to giving you a bit of a tumour.

Of course, the mobile phone (celphone [er... "cell phone", I've been told it's spelt]) rant has been done by all and sundry, due to either their annoying ringtones, or the fact that they serve as an impediment to someone’s driving ability. Naturally, in order to log other people’s derisory observations, I’ve given my mobile a ringtone that sounds like a car horn and someone swearing.

However it might change after accidentally leaving it on during a movie (film). Nothing breaks the masterfully created awe of The Aviator like, “Beep, beep! Move the fuck over arsehole (asshole)!”

But I digress.

The only problem that I have with mobile phones (celphones [er... "cell phones", I've been told it's spelt]) these days is that you simply cannot walk through a crowded area without nearly crashing into someone who has their face buried in their phone as they fervently construct an all-important SMS (text message).

Naturally, I also have a problem that girls with long hair also do this, and I can’t sneak a peek at their faces due to it falling gracefully in the way so that they look like that chick from The Ring. You know... the freaky one. But it’s not that much of a problem, being a legs man, myself.


Like my new hairdo? It came free with my mobile phone (celphone ["cell phone"])

I’m digressing, again.

But when a tool’s purpose is solely to promote easy communication with friends, family, business associates, clients, colleagues, and exes at 4am, it’s a little surprising that they seem to be blinding people to the world around them.

I passed a friend of mine in Rundle Mall (crappy strip of shops in Adelaide), and she was so enamoured with typing out her SMS (text message) that she didn’t notice me walking next to her, or even when I said her name. Hell, I could’ve smacked her over the head with an aluminium (aluminum) bar, and she would’ve continued on with her “wht u wnt 2 do 4 dnr? c u l8r.” (*error: cannot translate*)

And people whinged (complained) that the Internet promoted anti-social behaviour…

Pfft. (Whatever)

Post Use By: Last Month

After spending so many years blissfully ignorant of the changing world around me, due largely to being hitched, rejoining the single-world has been an eye opening experience.

At the risk of sounding like a 60-year-old, things have changed since I was a kid.

Sure, I’m only 26 years old, but I don’t seem to remember all this bizarre-ity when I was 21 years old.

So, here’s a list of what I’ve learned from other people in the space of the last three months:

If you talk to a girl in a pub without the intention of giving her a right ol’ banging, you’re a homosexual.

If you tell a barfly that you don’t want to go out and “get pussy”, you’re a homosexual. This is regardless of the fact that you simply don’t want to hang out with a sleazy 50-year-old toolbox.

If you wear a suit to a pub because you’ve come straight from work, and it’s simpler to not go home and get changed, again, you’re a homosexual.

If you drink something other than beer… yeah, you guessed it.

If you wear an aftershave other than Brut 33…

If you speak well…

If you dress well…

If your haircut isn’t a mullet…

If you have a Jag wallet…

If you drive a four cylinder… (even if it’s turbo)

If you take more interest in the World section of the paper instead of the page 3 girl…

If you don’t have scabs on your knuckles as a result of them dragging on the ground continually…

However if these homosexual inference mongers pat another guy on the arse, and put their arm around them, then they’re virile and fertile heterosexuals. Geez, how ignorant of me. Of course, the fact that these people bluntly proposition girls 25 years their junior (or even more) and get rejected means that they’re some kind of super stud, and that I’m some kind of weakling. Excuse me for not being about to slur, “heybabe-fancee-a-rewt?”

So go ahead guys. Buy drinks for the girls. I really don’t care. Mmmm… I can almost smell the Rohypnol from here.

But, I think this is more indicative of where I’ve been hanging out, rather than of how society in general has changed… either way, it’s definitely confronting, and I don’t think people should go around casting assertions to others’ sexual orientation with… pardon the pun… gay abandon. This is regardless of the actual orientation of the individual as well.

Of course, it may have been naïve of me to think that I could simply go into a pub, grab the newspaper and have a few quiet drinks without a) being approached by the 18 year old bargirls, or b) having to socialise at length with the barflies. How dare I sit down and mind my own business? Geez, I have some nerve. If I were me, I’d give myself a right ol’ talking to, and if I weren’t such a nice soul, I’d give me a nice big punch in the mouth for extra effect.

I wrote this about a month ago, so it’s a little out of date. I haven’t frequented that particular pub for a while, mainly because I believe that I simply don’t belong there. Frankly, I’m enjoying the fact that I have money in my wallet now, and that I don’t have to put up with trying to decipher the phrase, “whaddayadoingwiththatpaper[?]whydontchacometalktousyasnobbyprick[?]whatchadrinkinscotchncoke[?]whaddayasomekindapooftah[?]”

I've edited it as best I could, considering it was one word with multiple upward inflections, which that might've signified a question. Other than that I have no idea what it meant. I can only assume that it’s either an affectionate term for welcoming newcomers, or they’re discussing at length their interpretation of the universe, and how their insignificance scares them.

But I guess I’ll never know, and that will remain a mystery for the ages.

My Philosophy

No, I’m not talking about that Ben Folds Five song, Philosophy either. That song was reportedly about Ben’s penis, and frankly I don’t know you that well, and I’m not that kinda guy… but I’m flattered you asked. If by “flattered”, I mean “a little disturbed” in which case I’d say, “yes”.

Also, the fact that my photo is in here somewhere, and has therefore robbed me a little bit of my anonymity, I don’t feel comfortable discussing such topics.

Now run along.

Anyway, it seems that every blog should have some kind of over arching philosophy to drive it, and I’m sitting back wondering what the hell mine is. A lot of the entertaining ones (ie the ones on the sidebar) seem to keep it concise and focussed upon a particular subject, whereas mine erratically jumps seemingly at random.

F’rinstance, I’m an Intern In New York entertainingly covers a facetious and fractured look upon being the bottom rung in the corporate schematic, and offers a bleak picture that despite Interns possessing superhuman qualities and talents, they will forever be marked as the boil on the arse of the fat pig that is the capitalist world. Also, he has the same name as me, and has subsequently changed his screen name to accommodate the two “Andys” that comment on his blog. This is despite the fact that his blog is so much more brilliant and popular than mine. And that makes him a champ.

1 2 3 I love you is a brilliantly conceived insight into the downward spiral into madness, convincingly masquerading as a journal about an English teacher. The seemingly incessant yet subtle poking and prodding from others, which will eventually cause him to snap, conspires evilly and amusingly to almost guarantee a padded cell, and lifetime supply of anti-depressants.

Blandcanyon is one woman’s desperate cry for normality in a world that gets more and more confusing everyday. The fact that we haven’t seen her face in the news is testament to this woman’s resolve and tolerance, as I’m sure if I put up with half of what she’s had to comprehend, I would’ve gotten a sharp object and done “Bad Things” with it upon random people.

I simply cannot comment on all the blogs that I read, so I apologise if anyone feels left out. Besides, I’ve probably missed the point of all those blogs, anyway. Why make a further dick of myself?

Whereas my blog sweeps over general media analysis, idle thoughts, everyday happenings, conversations with myself, and a huge dosage of over-analysis. I think that this should be trimmed down a bit.

So, in an effort to find what my blogosophy is, I’m going to perform one of those “100 things about me” list thingos that I’ve seen a lot of lately. Please note, there might be a little bit of repetition.

1: I’m a cynical, over-analytical bastard who believes that I can’t quantify my good personality as a sum of its parts. Besides, it’s not like anyone actually cares about my idiosyncrasies, so I don’t see the point in exerting my brain over a list so numbingly huge. Also, any attempts to inject humour into my list would have already been done before by someone else, and would be so passé by now...
2 through 100: see 1.

No, that isn’t a commentary on people who compile lists. Okay, maybe it is, but I don’t want to offend anyone.

Besides, it is certainly better than talking about my penis, which I’m sure would offend more people.

So, it seems that I must comment on the inane. But upon further consideration, even the most trivial of activities can be construed as absurd, in a way. F’rinstance, going shopping for groceries is silly when there’s a whole world of perfectly good earth to grow our own food. Not to mention cute animals to club.

The fact that we’ve poisoned most of the soil to the point of being radioactive is also beside the point. I’m sure with some experimentation; we could breed our own plantations of wine grapes fused with avocados so that café’s can use them to create even more disgusting baguettes for consumption.

So, what have I achieved with this post? What has been yielded from another bout of over-analysis, wrenching and futile grasping?

Absolutely fuck all.

Huzzah! Breakthrough! A blog about fuck all.

Welcome.

Courting at Arms Length

It is currently 4pm, and as a result I herald in the 33rd hour that I have spent wide awake. Well, I'm wide awake enough to type in my blog, but perhaps not awake enough to string together a sentence of coherencevdzzvjflbzdf....

As I needed to get up early today, I went out last night with an intention of coming home early. Around 4am I realised that it wasn't going to happen, and thought that I should truck on through as much as I could.

This lapse in ability to perceive time as a constant occurance, and that blocks of time simply don't stand still because you're talking to someone interesting, I blame the newest addition to my life, she is named K...

For lessons in how to be totally attracted to someone, but still manage to keep them at arms length, please note the following conversations (unedited):

Conversation 1
Me: So what if someone was to give you a compliment, how would you react?

K: Simply thank them.

Me: Okay, so you wouldn't take it on board, and constantly seek this kind of compliment again and again?

K: Would you? You know, you're really quite attractive.

Me: Same you.

*awkward pause*

Conversation 2
Me: If I play any worse at pool, I'm gonna have to do a lap of the table with my strides down. No one wants to see that.

K: Speak for yourself

Me: I will, but know that I have very mainstream tastes.

K: LOL

*awkward pause*

Conversation 3
K: You know, you're really easy to get along with.

Me: Thanks. Yeah, you too.

K: Thank you.

*pause*

Me: You know, one of us is going to have to make the first move some time.

K: I know.

*pause*

Me: Why does it always have to be the male?

K: *thinks* Not always.

*long pause*

Conversation 4
Me: Did you want to walk home from here?

K: Yeah. You wanna come along?

Me: I've spent the last 12 hours chatting you up. What do you think?

K: True.

And this kinda of dialogue featured constantly throughout the night and morning. It was the most weirdest of events in where two regular people bascially admitted in full face of the other person of their mutual attraction. Yet, we didn't kiss, pash nor in any other way grope each other. Well, we had a brief embrace. In retrospect it's a bit cute that our actions are playing things slower than our brains. Normally it's the other way around.

However, it is also somewhat sad.

If only I hadn't smoked about 10 billion cigarettes that night, and probably had the breath of a large raccoon who had been foraging for scraps in a sulphur plant. That would've been good.

Magnetism's Relationship With Idiocy

What is it with being around celebrities that automatically makes normally sane people act like the biggest knobs in the world? Although, being able to overtake David Hasselhoff in the knob-stakes would be beyond the ability of mere mortals, so I retract that statement. However, I think it takes immense power, and a noticeable amount of luck to crack the German music scene.

So, what is it with that afore mentioned celebrity induced dementia?

In the final entry relating to the REM concert, I will regale a story of the most baffling behaviour. Although, I am not acutely aware of these individuals mental capacity (although I can take a well guided stab… just give me a knife), amount of liquor consumed (probably none for reasons that will become obvious later), or whether they were on some “medication”, but I can only assume that their behaviour wasn’t indicative of their everyday persona.

The other support act was the band Bright Eyes from the US. Any alternative band with a twenty something male lead singer is sure to have groupies, and I’m sure that it was this category that these girls slipped into, but I didn’t know that groupies both made themselves appealing, yet repulsive in the space of five seconds.

These two girls made their way to the front, clad in their skimpy little outfits, high heels and million dollar hairdos. Fair enough, I thought. They’re fans, and they’re probably keen to see these guys.

As the band finished a song, there would be a slight pause. It was during one of these breaks that these two girls screamed their undying affection for the lead singer.

“You’re hot!” they yelled at the top of their lungs.

Okay, that’s fairly normal behaviour for avid fans, I thought, without a hint of sarcasm. The lead singer (I’m not au fait with Bright Eyes’ work or their band members) naturally disregarded this outburst, as he’s probably heard it all before. However, it was the next thing out of these girl’s mouths that absolutely floored me.

“We’re fifteen!”

…

Now, unless the band has written a particular song pertaining to their particular fanaticism on fifteen year olds, that statement would have totally repulsed the band and the singer. I’m going to take a punt and guess that there is no such song. I am only going to assume that these girls were so overwhelmed with having been so close to their idol, that they simply spouted out the first thing that entered their head. Pity it wasn’t the least idiotic.

But I guess they were fifteen year olds, and to expect them to discourse at length about the band’s opinion on their current administrations foreign policy is probably a bit unreasonable. In fact, I would’ve totally considered this into the equation, if I wasn’t far too busy biting the collar of my sweater so that I didn’t burst out into fits of hysteria.

Not that sweater chewing is any more sane than confessing your undying love and current state of classification as a minor to rock stars. But the band probably thought that it was nice that someone who was “challenged” was at the concert… front row. Did I mention we were in the front row? Anyway.

However, I’m not exactly one to talk, as I find myself making a total arse of myself when faced with someone I find particularly intimidating.

I’ve met my share of celebrities, both local and international. I’m not going to name-drop, but I can state that on most occasions I said something so stupid, that these people probably thought that I was somewhat… well… stupid.

But it’s not limited to celebrities, either.

I once had this thing for a girl I knew. She wasn’t conventionally attractive, in that she didn’t possess some kind of model qualities. I just found her really, really striking. The voice, the smile, the… interplay of errant strands of hair falling elegantly to frame her fair face, and her large, angelic eyes that seemingly bored into your soul… *sigh*

Ahem. Anyway, I’ve spoken to females before, and have been quite comfortable. Pit girls wearing bugger all, female politicians with the ability to fire you on the spot, and Women of the Year and I can state categorically that none of them overwhelmed me like this girl did.

But I guess animal magnetism is like that. I wasn’t attracted to these other people, and therefore I could discuss things at length with them. Whereas with this girl, I would find that my participation in the conversation would degrade into me mumbling incoherently in monosyllabic words, as my head pounded non-stop, straining to stem the flow of blood and endorphins.

But still, at least I didn’t say something idiotic. I was merely content to portray myself as a simpleton. But I wasn’t a minor at the time…

Guilt and Peasantry

So I went to the concert. There was a slight change in plan, in that I wasn’t going to meet them, but I was allowed in the “photographer’s pit” for the first three songs. It was a great chance to feel important as my “photographer’s pass” was thrown around my neck, and we waltzed through the peasants on the way to the front of the stage.

However, I’m sure there’s something odd about walking with professional photographers with their huge lenses and myriad of parts, and all I’m armed with is a tiny little digital camera. Spot the one who doesn’t belong.

My mate went to our seats, because I said he should take a seat whilst I’m “shooting” (us important photographer types must use the proper vernacular). So I get to the front of the stage, ie with no rail in front of me. The only thing stopping me from getting on stage is a huge step and a huge man with no neck. Then I hear my name called from behind me… it’s my friend, not one metre away. We got front row seats! My wonderful trip into the “photographer’s pit” was a mere one metre closer to stage. Yeah, how privileged…

Anyway, I finish my snapping, and work my way back to my seat… yes, the one that was one metre away… then sit down to enjoy the rest of the show.

As I said before, I’m not the hugest REM fan. In fact, I only own one of their albums, which I bought for probably one song. Of course, I get tapped on the shoulder by a lady behind me, wanting to know how I got into the business and how I got to get close to the stage. I couldn’t answer her at length, because of the loud music, but I indicated that it took a bit of luck.

After the show, she told me about how she bought her tickets as quickly as they came out, and had been planning her trip from the country for months. She also waited for hours at the airport for a glimpse at the stars.

I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I didn’t actually have plans to come to the concert until four hours earlier… let alone that I didn’t pay for my tickets… or the fact that I wasn’t a huge fan of REM. That probably would’ve brought on a lynching, except with rabid fans wielding sharp-edged general admission passes and burning chairs in the place of pitchforks and flaming torches.

But, I felt like such a heel. People behind me would’ve sold their first-born child to be standing where we were. They were singing along to every song, and there I was, leaning on the rail, simply nodding my head like some wallflower, oblivious to the lyrics, except for the popular stuff.

Stipe locked gazes with me on a few occasions. He stared down his nose seemingly with derision at me, as though he knew that I didn’t belong. But then he would grin momentarily before continuing the song. This happened about 8 times throughout the evening.

Anyway, photos are below. I’ve got plenty more, but I figured that I should only show a select few.

Photographer central

Battling for prime position with the professionals

Please applaud the support act...

A highlight of the night... Little Birdy, the support act. They were excellent, despite being on for 20 minutes

Another nifty one

Attempted Glam Shot

This one looks okay, despite it being totally accidental...