Early Reflection

I wrote last year about how I don’t fuck with Christmas; it has eerie powers. Well, this year has been relatively painless, what with the whole “Not Having To Buy For A Partner Plus Their Entire Extended Family” thing.

I’d say something like, “It speaks volumes for internet shopping” to somehow outline just how techno-savvy I am, and how my forward-thinking allowed me to avoid being crushed among the throng of iPod desperate teenagers and Soccer-mums bearing suicidal shopping trolleys, if it weren’t for the fact that I simply didn’t do any shopping over the ‘net.

Instead… I got all my shopping done on the weekend, as outrageous as that sounds.

It helps further that the only presents I had to buy were for my parents, my brothers and other miscellaneous friends whom have been there this year.

The idea of spending Christmas by myself is not one I dread, nor do I think it will be odd; Christmas always represented just another party that my ex and I held. We entertained constantly, and I’ve grown accustomed to a definite lack of dinner-parties, involving me cooking on the weber, and consuming vast amounts of wine or beer. Or both.

Faking my interest in conversations with my sister-in-law’s dumb-arse boyfriend is something I’ve definitely enjoyed living without.

Oh Christmas hasn’t got me worried one iota. It’ll be just another day, and I will come out of it bloating with food and brimming with scotch and coke.

It’s New Years that has me more concerned.

The previous New Years saw me spending much of the night drinking with a couple good friends, after having very little to eat beforehand. I had no appetite, due to stress.

It was a time in where the world seemed to spin uncontrollably, dizzying me with bright spotlights, loud music, and promises of uncertain times ahead. It was so confusing, to be out without my wife, knowing she was with someone else. I felt so unrestrained, yet so confused.

It must be how a caged animal must feel when it is returned to the wild.

I left the shin-dig fifteen minutes prior to the countdown to the new year. I was ill from not eating anything that day. I stopped the taxi just before my home so that I could walk off a bit of the alcoholic haze that enveloped me.

As I began my trek home, I heard the commotion from the city. Midnight had just skipped past. Many homes holding their own parties cheered and popped their poppers.

My eyes vehemently stared at their front doors, my mind selfishly wondering why everyone should be so happy, when the world around my shoulders was crumbling.

I cast my thoughts back to happier times, in where I looked forward to holding parties, or heading out with friends and with the wife. I remembered the laughter in my ears, and the antics reminiscent of many mid-twenty Australianites.

But I walked alone that night, with the fireworks at my back.

Further reflection reminded me of her selfishness. How nothing was ever good enough for her. No matter how hard I tried, I could never hope to achieve the lofty heights of her expectations. No matter how much I sacrificed for her, she still spent New Years Eve with another man.

2004 will be remembered by me with the final words I SMS’ed to her that night. I had married the woman, and had tolerated all her quirks. And remembering all the effort I had made, I sent her the text message:

“I am the most stupid man alive”

A Story Without A Story

I had the undying compulsion to torture myself this morning, so I hastily turned on the television to the Today show.

Everyone’s favourite punching bag, Michelle Leslie (for non-Australians, she is an underwear model who was busted in Bali for carrying ecstasy tablets, was sentenced to three months detention – served retrospectively – and is now back in Australia) was being discussed.

I didn’t watch it for very long, but I heard the hostess, Tracy Grimshaw, speak a sentence, which made me want to switch off, run into my bedroom and punch myself repeatedly in the face with my tennis racquet.

Note to people overseas: There has been much talk about her selling her story to media, and the debate centres around convicted criminals selling their story.

Basically, these media pundits were saying that the media is regulating itself by not buying Leslie’s story.

Fuck off.

The only reason the media isn’t buying her story is because the many, many, many polls that news sites have run that ask the question “Should Michelle Leslie be allowed to sell her story?” answer in the negative.

So the way I see it now is that the media is stating:

“Oh no, we’re far too fucking morally grounded to pay Michelle Leslie for her story, because she’s held out on us for long enough, especially when the Corby’s so readily sold their souls to us. Everyone now hates Leslie, so instead of buying her story, we’ll demonise the girl for even contemplating selling her story, we’ll paint her up to be the hellspawn she is… because, hell… it’s what our viewers want to see. Besides, we can do that for free.”

I love how the media constructs these little win-win situations. Simply follow these simple steps.

Find a story of interest.

Investigate story.

If subject of story doesn’t want to talk to you, wait for another time to talk to them.

If story dies down, create a storm around subject.

Throw around some conjecture about their “connections”

When opportunity presents, offer money for story.

Subject wants more money.

Print stories on how they are money-grubbing parasites.

Ask audience if subject should sell story.

Public says no, because subject is money-grubbing parasite.

Print stories to vilify subject, saving thousands in process.

Reap rewards.

I find it odd that the media, who were seemingly interested in paying her money for her story, are now preaching that her actually selling the story is somehow “wrong”.

It seems a little stranger that they can fabricate a story out of someone who isn’t selling (or cannot sell) their story…

Ugh. Personally, I don’t care what she does. I don’t care what she did. The media circus is pathetic enough.

The DR Code

It appears that I am the proverbial meat in the proverbial topical sandwich.

Out my west window is the hotel in which Donald Rumsfeld is staying.

Out my east window is the hotel in where Daniel Radcliffe is staying.

Here I am, stuck in the middle with view.

What a marvelous coincidence that these two have the same initials. It has the makings of a novel on par with The Da Vinci Code, except the story will have more tenuous links to conspiracies, will alienate readers for its excessive attention to detail, yet still contain plot holes the size of the Grand Canyon.

The DR Code is a tale of sordid plots to bring about the apocalypse, all triggered by the uprising of Doctors when two figureheads with the initials “DR” descend upon a small sleepy town that is a mere stone throw away from a large uranium mine.

The Doctors, simply not content with the pomposity and patronage that those two letters afford, end up halting the mail service with a bunch of “Return To Sender” letters, because they were addressed as “Mr Smith” and not “'Dr' Smith MD BA Ph OA STFU”

As the postal service is rendered more useless, it places an extraordinary burden upon alternative forms of communication. Email servers crash, phone batteries explode, and the Internet stops supplying pr0n.

Teenager’s heads explode as their SMS’s begin to be spelt without abbreviations and with full English and grammar.

The white collar workers become manic depressants because no joke emails come through anymore, and they have no excuse to goof off.

Bloggers resort to writing down their journal posts onto scrap paper and sticking them to telegraph poles, bus shelters and on the backs of passers-by. Litter abounds.

This increase in demand for paper causes the logging industry to flourish to the point where they harvest every last tree on the planet, causing irreparable erosion, sends species of animals extinct, and robs uni students of shade to sit under to write songs.

The music industry loses all credibility. Not due to the DR Code… just because its been heading that way for the past fifteen years…

At the middle of this is the sole public servant, and the irritable IT Guy who “Saw It Coming A Long Time Ago, But You Guys Wouldn’t Listen To Me, Dammit” to try and save person-kind.

They fail after the media vilifies them for trying to save the world when it isn’t in their job description.

Oh, and the human race dies. Because there’s no oxygen with no trees around.

Oh and the media dies. Because I hate them.

Pick the Fiction

The topic is old and hackneyed. But I sometimes relish my bus ride into work. It gives me a chance to zone out for a bit, think some things through and maybe even plot out some things going on in my life.

However, this morning I was privy to being approached on the bus by a “Chatter”.

The Chatter is a parasitic creature. It spies you from afar, can tell that you’re irritable from not having your morning brew, and then pounces upon you with the gusto of a cheetah hauling down a wildebeest, feasting upon your irritability, and forced politeness.

“How are you?” it quipped.

I turn my head slowly towards them, slowly lowering my sunglasses to reveal the biggest and best “do I look like a fucking people person?” stare I can muster. I even do a slight twitch of the eye to suggest that I could crack at any minute.

They stare back unflinchingly, their grin almost splitting the top of their head off. I could swear I could see some drool dripping down the side of their chin, such was their deliriously happy visage.

“Fine” I coughed out.

Bad move. This signaled the green flag in front of a green-hating bull.

“Oh that’s good, the weather has been wonderful lately, and I had a lovely walk…”

I faze out, the rest of the sentence becoming vague drawl not dissimilar to how the teachers talk in “Peanuts” cartoons. I feel my eyes slowly leaning back out the window.

“… and you shoulda seen it!” they finished as they bump their shoulder into mine, yanking me out of my haze.

“Mmmmhmmm…” buzzes out my closed mouth. I crack my apathy with the fakest of polite smiles, and I exhale audibly out my nose in an exasperated and exaggerated sigh.

It appears that interpreting subtlety isn’t one of their finer points. They continue on chatting about some inane event that obviously is of import to them. I can’t remember what it was; such was my intense interest in the passing bitumen under the bus.

They laugh at the anecdote that just spilled past their lips, and they pat me on the shoulder lightly.

Right then some ninjas rappel down into the bus, unsheathing their katanas in an aggressive manner. They shout out words in Japanese, with the only words I recognize are “Chatter”, “Removal” and “Squad”.

Their eyes scan up and down the aisles, and all passengers sit bolt upright. The Chatter next to me carries on oblivious to the assassins nearby, a loud and annoying laugh escaping their throat periodically.

One ninja focuses on the Chatter. His eyes narrow. All the other ninjas turn to see what he has spotted.

There is a blur of motion. All the people on the bus scream and duck their heads, shielding themselves with their hands. Sunlight glints of the metal blades as they spin and twirl menacingly.

Then the ninjas are gone. The deafening noise of silence permeates the atmosphere. The Chatter that was next to me is no longer there, with only a small pile of shredded material the single indication that they’d ever existed.

The bus continues to roll on, and I turn my attention to the window, relieved to be simply left to watch what is passing by.

I made a part of that story up. Can you guess which one?

Needless to say, I am extremely irritated. Yes, people are simply being friendly, but it doesn’t mean that I want to be fucking friendly back. Thank you, Chatter, for robbing me of one of the single moments of the day that doesn’t bombard my senses with annoying crap.

Just a Slacker

It’s been a while since I wrote something here.

I would love to cite reasons that are really, really exciting, like “I’ve been working for a secret undercover operation involving national security. Due to my full days of robbing people of their human rights, I cannot find a nearby computer from which to blog”

Or maybe “I’ve been painting the town red, blue, green and any other colour of the spectrum, so lock up your daughters/girlfriends cos I’m out there on the prowl, and cannot write a post”

I’d love to say that, if it weren’t for the fact that it was a filthy lie.

I’ve been scrimping and saving my pennies, like a miserly old bastard with a plethora of shoe-boxes under his bed.

Naturally, it gives me a helluva excuse if I’m ever invited to something I really don’t wish to attend:

“Yeah mate, I’d love to go your club for a round of drinks with your moron friends who eventually turn violent, inciting scuffles with some police officers, as often happens after one of them punches the bouncer after he tried to pull your mate off that girl he groped, which inevitably involves me paying for your bail… but, oh shit, that’s right… I gotta save for going to Japan.”

Actually, that above scenario was a lie - I don’t say “I’d love”.

But this newfound zest for saving has resulted in me throwing myself into work, insofar that I will stay back later, get in earlier and subsequently, impress my bosses.

Of course, this will make it either easier or more difficult when I eventually tell them that I wish to piss off overseas for a year, and can I please have 12 months leave without pay, starting next month, I’ll send you a postcard (not) okay thanks luvya bubye.

This will probably be said just as I have one foot on the plane, and am waving frantically like a drowning swimmer.

Actually, I’m lying again. I don’t say “bubye”.

Anyway, it’s not some bizarre black file mission that I’m on, nor is it my brimming social calendar that is preventing me from blogging properly…

It’s because… you know… I’m saving for Japan and all. Okay? Luvya bubye.

(Actually, truth be known… I’m just a slacker and cannot find a decent topic to write about.)

20 Things

I’ve been tagged by little faerie whom likes to make observations within a small room, whilst residing in a small house. So, here are 20 things about me you may or may not know about me, if you were in any way curious.

1. According to my High School English teacher, I show a “flair in not applying myself”.

2. I hated teachers who had ideas that they were somehow akin to Oscar Wilde; I have nothing to declare but their delusion.

3. My favourite line is from Spike Milligan; “I thought I would begin by reading Shakespeare, but then I thought, ‘Why should I? He won’t read any of mine’”

4. However you may perceive my attitude on this blog, be assured that it is not an accurate representation of my personality… apparently.

5. I’m far less aggressive…

6. I am “competent” at very nearly everything I do, which is kinda depressing in a way. I’d slash my wrists in despair… but I’d probably only be competent at it ie good enough to make a decent wound, but not enough to top myself.

7. I have a tendency to phase out sometimes, often when something important is happening, or is being said. I get frustrated at this quirk, but then I see a fluffy cloud in the sky that resembles a creature from Jim Henson's workshop, and I forget what I was so frustrated with in the first place.

8. Obligatory obvious comment: I am in love with Japan.

9. I am sure that if anyone sees my passport photo, they wouldn't let me into the country. Kinda freaky lookin'

10. I have the photogenia of a vast panoramic view of a sewer channel. No matter how it is set up, I always appear drowsy, hungover, or uncomfortable.

11. My pinkies are bent. Not in the “Maaaan… I just smoked fiiiiive spliffs, and I’m totally, like, bent maaaaan.” They’re crooked. Not in a "politician" crooked way. As in, they’re not straight. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

12. When I’m leaving work, I tell people that “I’m Off”. Then when I tell the cute girl in accounts to “Fuck Off”, I don’t think she gets the joke…

13. Funnily enough, I don't make many friends in the workplace. I think I'm a mistunderstood comic. People think I'm weird.

14. When I was a kid, I wanted to be a cartoonist. But then I realized that I wasn’t anywhere near as funny, artistic, witty or downright talented as another kid in the class. We became good mates, but I would seriously curse him behind his back. I was a fickle child.

15. I have been told that I look like Matthew Bellamy, lead singer of the band, Muse. Personally, I don't see it. I have also been told I look like Freddy Prinze Jr. Personally, I don't wanna see it.

16. I don’t believe you truly know someone until you’re their enemy. I mean, everyone can act nice, but you don’t know their true nature until they dislike you.

17. This is probably a good time to outline that I tend to piss people off. Most of the time, inadvertently. The fact that I don’t know I’m doing it probably incenses these people more. Nothing frustrates like ignorance, I guess.

18. I love filling out those online questionnaires. Mainly because it gives me a chance to act like a child, and everyone thinks it’s funny… as opposed to immature.

19. I hate the final stages of any project. It always involves me having to push just that extra bit of imagination out in order to get over the line. Sometimes I don’t quite make it as I’ve exhausted my brain in the initial stages, when I have unbridled enthusiasm for the task. At the end, I usually just end up jotting some filler down, just to ensure I met the requirements of the task.

20. Um… I like stuff.

So, there you have it. I hate giving these things to other people… so I’ll leave it open to whoever would like to have a crack at it.

Reasons I Am a Moron #1

Petstarr recently lost her phone. There is a lot of pessimism surrounding the loss of such a trinket, usually because everyone believes that when someone picks up a phone that isn’t theirs, they immediately begin ringing phone sex lines in Sweden.

Because, you know… there are no decent human beings left on the planet anymore, and we only want free dirty-talk and smut.

However, I must regale you with a story that is a shining beacon among the mire of stories regarding lost telecommunications-slash-techno-savvy-icon. Also, it is a chance for me to outline how fucking daft I am.

A couple months ago, I decided that I would go for a drive through the Adelaide Hills. No reason, other than I just wanted to go for a trip around the area I grew up.

Just near Mount Torrens, a lovely little town with little discerning features, the car started playing up a little. I’ll spare you the mechanical details, but it involved me pulling over to have a quick check. No major problems with the car (it was a small hiccup), so I continued on my way.

I get home, and realise that I cannot find my phone. I recently got myself one of those spiffy Motorola Razr’s, and I berated myself for losing my spanking new “item-that-obviously-speaks-volumes-for-my-importance-slash-coolness”.

I spent the entire evening walking around the house, ringing my mobile number from the landline, to no avail.

I quickly get on the phone to Telstra to bar all outgoing calls and SMS’s.

I search my car high and low, calling it from the cordless phone. I begin to get distraught. The clouds had rolled in, and a steady rain was falling. I have an awful feeling that it fell out of my pocket when I got out of the car near Mount Torrens.

I decide to not drive out there to look for the truant ring-tone-dispenser. It was dark, it was late, and I was heading that way the following day anyway.

I awoke the next day, after enduring dreams that derived pleasure from highlighting just how stupid I was (my brain likes to torture itself – I think it’s a sadist). I hopped into the car and drove for the forty odd minutes to the location I had pulled over the previous day.

And there, on the side of the road, totally intact, but a little wet and muddy, was my phone. I would probably even say that it looked a little forlorn, and a little incensed at being left behind. Phones can do that, you know. Hell, they can do everything else these days.

The battery was dead, obviously from me ringing it incessantly the night before. The screen was intact, and there were no signs of water seepage. There was a little grit in the hinge, but otherwise it was okay.

After returning home, I took to the hinge and USB slot with a toothbrush, and let it dry. After I was sure it was moisture-free, I apprehensively plugged in the charger.

I expected to hear a pop and sizzle. I await for any sign that I’ve ruined my new phone, and will need to visit my insurance company to lodge the relevant “I’m A Moron” form.

Nothing.

Then the battery icon flashes intermittently as a sign that the phone is charging. Every now and then, it beeps with the sound of a couple missed SMS’s. The phone appears to be working fine.

And looking at it today, you wouldn’t believe that I’m a phone neglecting, abusive, unfit-for-parenting-monster.

Some people would say that I’m incredibly lucky to not have had my phone ruined, stolen or run over by a passing rig. However, I simply cannot help but think that had I put the phone the pocket I usually do, the whole thing could’ve been avoided.

Moral to the story? Don’t change what isn’t broken. And if you’re abusive to something, cover your tracks.