You can make more money working at Boost Juice than singing about Larrikins.

"The first time the term "larrikin" was used in the Australian press, it referred to a group of Australian born gang rapists. That was nearly 150 years ago, here is a song about stacking hundreds of plastic beer cups together at the cricket."

This is what I would say to the crowd, should I ever become a singer/songwriter that performed a song called Larrikins.
---

As Curious an Entity #3 is out soon, 100% print-only material! Let me know if you'd like a copy as they are going to be on very nice paper, so we'll probably only do a small run of 50 or so.

Thanks to all who have read these words all year, I am grateful for your attention.

James.

Excerpt from a cover letter in application of employment.

Outline your experience with the media. How has your interaction with the media effected your life?

I am particularly lucky, as the media has had very little impact on me over the last decade. However, as a child I would frequently pace around the rockery in my backyard, imagining being elsewhere, usually in a situation in which I was the only human friend of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. The details would be extremely specific, down to which bunk in the sewer I would occupy to the exact content of my Mambo backpack - sunglasses, Roald Dahl book, Stussy tracksuit pants et. al. In my mind, the surroundings would not be animated, but live action in the style of the 1990 film Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Master Splinter, the large mutant rat would be present on certain occasions. During these times he would refer to me as "my son," treating me with utmost respect.

April O'Neill, the human female news reporter and Turtles' main contact on the surface was not involved in my dreams. I suspect that my brain may have blocked out the traumatic experience, but I probably killed her. It makes perfect sense, jealousy, lies, red hair. She needed to die.

Several years later I sat down to watching the Australian film The Sum Of Us, starring Jack Thompson and a young Russell Crowe. Crowe plays a knockabout Aussie bloke who happens to be gay, Thompson plays his father. I was late to school the following day, unable to sleep due to crippling paranoia that I was born gay. It was not that I found other males attractive, it was that I could not be certain that I would never find other males attractive. Unable to apply a better litmus test or rule of thumb I consulted my mother. She assured me that gay people were still allowed to play professional football, she may have even cited Ian Roberts as 1995 was a significant year for him. It was not long before my sleeping patterns returned to normal.

The final effect the media had on me occured the year following The Sum Of Us being aired as the Sunday Movie. As a well read child, I was no stranger to the work of the "young-adult" genre's own prize fighter, Paul Jennings. Jennings has released countless novels and volumes of short stories, all of which I managed to read at least a couple of times during my youth. One summer's evening I had been reading a particularly creepy story about a possum with a map of Australia birthmark on it's arm. There was also a dead child somehow weaved in, but I cannot recall details. It was whilst reading this story that I became dizzy, and later threw up.

Post-review pressure.

"I guess I just want to do something really good?"
"Well, yes... But I think you ought to be a touch more specific than that."
"Um, Okay. I have alot of ideas. The problem is in the translation, they get blurred, fractured in a way."
"..."
"Yesterday morning I woke up with the concept for an Australian television mini-series script in my head, then I had to go work. By the time I got home it was gone, and my head was just filled with ideas for writing a fourth series for Arrested Development. Arrested Development was an American sitcom that finished after-
"-Yes, I am familiar with the program"
"Exactly. So you can fully understand that the idea for a fourth series is ridiculous! And even if it was plausible, I couldn't write that. It would take a bigger person. Oh and by the way, you cut me off just before."
"I apologise, but I am struggling here. I am here to help you, but you have to give me something to work with."
"Okay, but why are we wasting time sitting here anyway? I promise that when you get me a job I will go every day and complete it. You will get your commission and I will get paid."
"What about Weight Watchers?"
"That was your fault! That was your fault for sending me to Weight Watchers!"
"Calm down."
"Why would you send me there? Firstly I'm male, secondly I'm skinny, thirdly scanning AFTER photos of women with those aprons of skin was completely crass."
"That was the first temp job I got you and you got fired after two days for not doing what was asked of you. How can you expect me to put my reputation on the line to get you more work when you've already let me down?"
"I didn't let you down. You let yourself down by involving yourself with Weight Watchers. That office is all 30 year old women who just sit around talking about how the Bondi Junction Westfield is a pretty awesome place to spend Sunday. One of them talked about her boyfriend's indoor soccer grand final for an hour. It's the roughest of scenes."
"Don't be pathetic. All you had to do was turn up on time every day for a single week, and you couldn't manage. I'm sure Arrested Development's script writers turn up on time every day."
"What? Don't talk to me. Arrested Development's script writers eat pub lunches for breakfast and spend all afternoon drinking cordial and swimming. It's a REAL job.
And I DID turn up on time to Weight Watchers, the only reason I got fired was for taking an t-shirt from a prize box."
"You mean 'a t-shirt?'"
"Irrelevant, friend."
"What did you take the t-shirt for?"
"There's maybe not one man in a hundred with a pink Weight Watchers 'Prizewinner' t-shirt. It's hilarious. No, I'm hilarious."

Election week was last week.

He just had nothing to say at all. They were talking about the election again.
The frustrating thing was, he was a glutton for news. He read the Herald and Telegraph online every day. He could recite by heart every single name of every single child who had been killed by neglected parents. He often rememembered important social calendar dates on the Dianne Brimble Case Index.

---

I had nothing to say at all. I was hanging out with a group of people I kind of knew through an old housemate. They were normal Newtown-y types, just with the political aggression turned up to nine, and the ability to laugh at themselves set to heavy fade. They were about 20 minutes into loudly discussing the federal election in a curious fashion in which they would all argue the same point, with the winner decided by who could affect the loudest, pushiest, high school drama-est manner. When the conversation turned to Richard Neville, Germaine Greer and starting a Oz-like publication RIGHT NOW, I understood it as my signal to do what my colleagues could not, despite four decades of popular culture chanting the word "irrelevant," and move on.

I was not interested in going home just yet. I didn't have to get out of bed for anything in particular the next day, and I was pretty sure none of my housemates were missing me too much. I contently wandered off King St and down Missenden Rd, at least in the vague direction of home. As I passed the RPA hospital and the convenience store I saw a group of jocular young fellows trying to roll a Streets ice cream fridge out through the sliding doors.
"Do you guys go to college?"
"Yeah," responded the bloke in the pastel bonds singlet and white footy shorts with a St Pauls College emblem just above the "CCC" logo.

It was a pretty easy prediction to make, but I was still proud of myself. Whenever drunk, it is generally my philosophy to let people know that they are dickheads in such a way that will probably only irritate them.

A few steps further down the street and I was drawn in by a bouncer of completely normal appearance at the Grose Hotel (actually called the Prince Alfred for as long as I've known it, but the old name stuck, apparently). I passed him and walked straight past various groups of drinkers, mostly unattractive, mostly male. I ordered myself a lonely Reschs (the darker colour of Reschs always makes this beer appear lonelier than say VB or a premium pour would whilst sitting alone) and wandered through to the outdoor area that smelt slightly less like vomit than the enclosed area.

There was only one other person sitting out there. An older bloke, dressed all in denim and with ridiculous hair. He had that rock-a-billy hairstyle that I often joked is considered extremely correct in some areas of Melbourne. Not here though. This could only be one person.
"Don't let me be/Something sour in your coffee," I tested the waters.
"Well it's very flattering that you know my lyrics, but my schooner's still empty."

I wandered back inside to the public bar and ordered another Reschs. Reschs being available on tap in NSW, and being a beverage traditionally associated with working class inner-Sydney, I hoped that my new temporary friend may have included its name in a song I hadn't heard. Maybe one of the demo tracks that was later culled from Hourly Daily? This would undoubtedly stimulate conversation.

I got back to the table where I was greeted as "a gentleman and a scholar," and got ready to chat with this mysterious character of Australian music whose songwriting and lyrics had occupied so much of my attention over the last ten years. Considering that when I found him, he was drinking alone at the Grose Hotel on Missenden Rd at 2:17am on a Wednesday night (Thursday morning), I assumed he would probably want to talk about what inspired him, the meaning behind his work and how little money he has made from it.

"So Tim, I hear you were the school captain of Oakhill College?"

I have hazy recollection of most of the conversation, but he pretty much just talked about the plight of the North Melbourne Kangaroos, and at one stage he uttered the words "Good Sir" and "60 metre drop-punt" in the same breath. We chatted about the various nuances of gentlemanly etiquette and their practical applications, both agreeing that hats should always be removed inside, particularly if ladies are present.

Review of 'Naked', by David Sedaris

Critically acclaimed US humourist and writer, David Sedaris first came to this reviewer's attention via a friend. A google search followed, leading almost immediately to a thorough reading of the entire back-catalogue of the author's New Yorker pieces (or at least all of those available online).

Naked is a collection of short stories and anecdotes from Sedaris' life, ranging from his early childhood obsessive compulsive behaviour to his bizarre encounters whilst hitchhiking across the US. As everything (as far as the reviewer is aware) Sedaris has ever published is written in the first-person, it seems only fitting to continue this review as such.

I more or less inhaled this book in under 24 hours, not literally. Content-wise, Sedaris posesses a deft touch for accessible, self-effacing humour that does not make one draw any comparisons to a book written by Wil Anderson (I am presently unable to remember the name of Wil Anderson's book, but I'm pretty sure the entire thing is written in size 24 Comic Sans). My only major disappointments with Naked:

1. Although it is thoroughly enjoyable to read Sedaris' work, I have always subscribed to the belief that writing exclusively in first-person narrated anecdotes was not a good idea. This has troubled me for some time, my sense of guilt forcing me to write four chapters of a fiction novel before realising that I had actually just typed out Peter Carey's Bliss word for word, all just substituting protagonist Harry Joy's name for "James" (a different James, it's fiction). I now feel that my pain was futile. I also hate Peter Fitzsimons (irrelevant).

2.
Idea: Why don't I just write short stories about my life for the New Yorker?
Reason that this is a bad idea: You are not clever enough to understand the comics that would appear on the pages next to your work, you never hitch-hiked, you are not gay, you don't live in New York.

The end result of the disappointment this excellent book caused me, was that I stayed awake in bed on Friday until 3:30am (approx) trying to think of something else to write about. My main idea revolved around a fictional character called "James" stumbling across a time machine and travelling back to (of all places!) the aggressive 1980s corporate environment. The idea being that "James" would constantly get into arguments with cocky, coked up advertising executives wearing enormous suits. "James" would always eventually cut the men down to size with a quip about having to print documents onto computer paper before having their secretary "peel the perforated edges off, if you know what I mean!"

Overall, Naked by David Sedaris gets 4 stars.

Dear Social Photographer,

I shall never forget the first, unforgettable aural sensation that proved your existence. "Click. Click." "Click. Click." You elegantly pranced from smoking section to restricted area with grace and beauty, most alarming. Then, I saw you front on. Digital SLR partially obscuring your face, you were laughing and talking to a group of people about "gallery space" and the kinds of art that are not very good, but easy to talk about.

I watched you as you stood on the side of the stage, photographing people dancing to a popular song. I watched as you gave your camera to a friend with bright red hair and an arrogant gait while you were indisposed in the toilet. This seemed to make sense to me.

I stood in the background whilst you took an image of two men who play songs for money. You would not notice this on your lonely nights in the darkroom, as your camera is digital, and you could never be lonely.

I smiled as you pointed your camera in my direction. My veins frosted over in anticipation of your aperture inhaling the light around me. Alas, my interpretation of your intention was incorrect. You were photographing the shoes of a tattooed man with an angelic smile.

Blame you, I can not.

Kind Regards,

Xxxxx Xxxx-Xxxxxxx*

*Authors identity obscured.

Big Coronas or Tiny Men: a tremendous party night ($10)

It has been a difficult year for this blog. The online social networking juggernaut has diverted attention from blogs, particularly blogs that do not have youtube links or information about new Apple products. The 56k dial-up friendly blog has become, not erroneous, but perhaps a touch boring? With the exception of the blogging elite (Sam Brett, Piers Akerman et. al.) a straight-up text blogger has about as much chance of relevance as one of those indie bands that plays at the Hopetoun and only the Hopetoun (Cuthbert And The Et Als, et. al.).

As of the 1st of January, 2008, Big Coronas or Tiny Men(?) will be changing formats. Rather than a (pretty much) weekly blog, BCorTM is becoming a weekly club/party night to be held at Oxford Arts Factory. I can't reveal too many details, but the first show is going to feature some pretty big names: bartender from Cricketers Arms Hotel who always wears tights, Surry Hills Skater #3 (the aloof one that wears the lovely big hat). Does anyone know who books these people?

I thank you all sincerely for being such loyal readers, and I look forward to getting seriously Crunk/Baltimore/Hyphy/Baile Funk with you all in the new year.

Pastoral care

"So shoot four times in the air, then open the cash register?"
"Yes, four times - then go for the cash."
"Where do the bullets go when you shoot a gun in the air, though?"
"Irrelevant. Next question."
"Don't you DARE use those annoying truncated sentences on me!"
"Why? They're amazing."
"Everything's always fucking 'amazing' with you. Why can't you just say that your eggs were 'perfectly acceptable.'"
"Because maybe I mean it every time. Don't judge, you haven't had my life."
"Whatever. But I don't see how shooting a gun in the air could ever be considered 'irrelevant'."
"Because you're just shooting them into the ceiling, they aren't going anywhere important."
"What if there are levels above us? Did you ever consider that I might kill someone?"
- FREEZE!

Workshop discussions about role-play in groups of two or three for 20 minutes before reconvening and discussing as a full group.

SUGGESTED TOPICS FOR DISCUSSION:
1. Peer pressure
2. Adjectives
3. Depression
4. Taking personal responsibility for Actions

Australian History Fan-fiction: Chapter 1

She was a small and mysterious girl. Her hair fell in the manner of an Irish-Catholic, instantly deceiving her Protestant vocal delivery, H's pronounced as hard as her skin appeared to touch.

Colonial children generally have a slightly darker complexion to their British equivalents. They appear at home in the harsher environment of New South-Wales, more athletic, lithe.

My foremost concern with Australian-born youth, is their obvious lack of innocence, discipline and religious virtue. Whilst wandering round the streets of Sydney, I was astonished at the number of young street-urchins frollicking barefoot, selling match-books and generally loitering.

The specific object of my attention, however, was named Hilda. She caught my attention as I walked through one of most notorious areas for Instances of Larrikinism, near The Rocks. I was alarmed to see a girl, aged no older than nine years wandering the streets on her own at dusk. She appeared to be bartering pipe-tobacco in exchange for rum with a group of disreputable members of The Push.

The confidence and appalling language this young Australian spoke to these men with both excited and concerned me.

Better late, hey.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.

Hey everybody! I promised myself I would be more regular with filling you all in, but it's been so crazy here in Sydney!

I'm living in a this kind of villagey place not far from the city called Glebe. It has lots of cafes that are full of people writing in Ernest Hemingway-style notebooks (Simmo you would love it over here!). I really love that I'm getting to know the way of the locals around here, there is a man who dresses like a lady and even a small tribe of Aboriginal people! I'm not sure what specific people they come from, but they seem to speak English pretty well. I asked one of the tribe's female elders at a local tavern if she had any inside knowledge on where I could find some Australian Opals and she replied: "not at the Women's shelter sweetheart." I think I may try the Queen Victoria Building, one of the cities oldest buildings in the heart of the Sydney CBD.

Last weekend we went to the ice bar in Darling Harbour! It's crazy, everything in the bar is made of ice, including the glass you sip your vodka cocktail out of. The cost of $30 included a 20 minute health and safety video, a cocktail and use of cold-resistant jacket and gloves. You're only allowed in the bar for half an hour, as after that the cold gets dangerous...

I don't know what I am doing this weekend, probably do paintball or something! Love to hear from you all.

Love,
James
xox

Guest Post: "Don't ever days go bye!" with Frank Sartor

It's been a while between posts for me, so I'll start by saying hi. Hi!

James called me from his holiday in Newcastle and asked me to write another story because he was "so fucken over writing this shit. It's ALL FUCKED! (bottle breaking and James laughing alot). I don't know where he was but he sounded drunk and sad.

Anyway, things have been going very well for me. Full-time work was makng me a bit too tired, so now I am working permanent part-time. This means now that I work Monday to Friday, but only 10am until 4pm, with a 30 minute unpaid break and one 15 minute paid break or "smoko" (instead of smoking, I usually just skull a 600mL Coke).

Rugby is the main other activity I do, and that's been going fairly well to say the least! New from last time, I have been getting to play a game every week! After several injuries in the round against the Blue Mountains (Roydo: cork, Timmy: broken leg from trying to jump over a Festiva Trio Hatch) I have secured the position of left wing for Fourth grade. There is no number 11 jersey in the kit so I wear 22 because it is two times 11. I can tell you that I'm no David Campese, but I have been working on my goose-step in the backyard. Each afternoon I set up my brother's webcam on top of the outdoor furniture in our backyard at home. I angle it so the camera can see me practising my goose-stepping as I run past with a ball in my hand. I don't usually bother wearing my headgear and mouthguard for this training, but it's important to make it as close to game-day as possible. After dinner I go over the tapes with dad, and we analyse where my stepping can be improved.

I also made a movie of it on the computer using iMovie. I used all my backyard training for footage, and the Foo Fighters new album: Echoes, Silence, Patience & Grace as the soundtrack. The footage ran a bit longer than the album though so I used one extra song: Xecutioners, It's Going Down.

I think that James will tell me when he nexts wants me to write again hopefully. Now I have to go and watch The Chasers.

What a terrible blogger I have been. All not posting for over two weeks.

I have returned to announce that my zine, As Curious An Entity #2 has been completed. The zines are ready, the boys is here, I am six, I am sixty, we are all unbearably happy.

During the process of creating this piece of independent literature (which also features the work of Stephen Lloyd and Jessica Sutton) I struck a problem. A decent portion of the content is derived from either BCorTM of Stephen's blog, It's Alright, I Know You're From Circumstances (iknowyourefromcircumstances.blogspot.com). About half of the content was all ready to go before we even started, yet it took way too long to actually complete. It is a pretty tight production, I think you will find. The connoisseurs amongst you will recognise that a simple sound achieved was not without labour. In our defence, our studio was not particularly up to scratch for the sound we desired. This resulted in Stephen recording all his bits in the laundry of the Wigram Rd studio. It nearly sent him deaf, but he didn't care. Stephen is raw. Our producer was a man of a pleasant nature whose name escapes me. His main downfall being his constant bragging of having worked with Beasts Of Bourbon during "the real druggy times mate. Tex recorded his vocals for the entire album in 43 minutes." My response was usually to smile and say "wow, I can't imagine."

"The most frustrating about making something is that by the time you have finished it and it is ready for public consumption, you can't stand it," I lamented to two of the guys from NZ indie sensations Cut Off Your Hands last week over non-fuss schooners of cheap domestic.

Our bleary-eyed solution was that from now on, all of As Curious An Entity's content will be print-only. Thus, I will be forced to actually do things apart from a weekly 300wd derivative paragraph. Also, this will hopefully result in people buying ACanE, because this blog's creative gene pool will get so shallow that it's reduced to reports on meals, youtube links and maybe even apologies for being a very terrible blogger.

Eric.

It was funny for Eric, watching everyone change around him. He had seen school, work and uni mates floating, often flying, in different directions. Rock solid alliances gradually lost and gained members, until he was surrounded by noone that could remember why screaming "CHICKS!" was funny anymore.

"Of course you've changed, blowjob. You just think you haven't because you still wear those Volley Classic's that cost $10 more than the normal ones. They're completely gay, by the way. Your pants have got tighter, you've lost about 40% of your social conscience and are way more arrogant."
"Don't call me 'blowjob', that's a verb. I'm not a verb. It's like me calling you 'wanking'. Wanker."
"Seeing as you never change, why don't you scream CHICKS! at cars that are probably full of dudes, like you always have then?"
"A Mitsubishi Mirage isn't a car of dudes. A Mirage is a TOTAL girl car! Why don't you go and write some essay on how Maggie Aldersen uses way too much petrol getting a handbag from France? You can even call her a 'blowjob', or one of your fancy terms."
"Oi, CHICKS!"
"I think that it is rad to call people 'a blowjob'."
"I accuse my friends of 'changing', which is completely cliched."
"I'm just upset because my cousin overdosed."

"What? I'm just saying, that's probably why you're upset."

A novelty post.

If you write a blog entry right after you had four beers then watched the Candy DVD in bed on your laptop, you are but a quivery voice away from a Bright Eyes song.

Yours,
Deleted

Guest Post: Frank Sartor's weekend.

I don't normally write in my diary very much. I always mean to but I usually never even remember to write in it.

Anyway, the weekend has been very great thanks for asking! I didn't have a break at work in the morning, so Jenny (manager on Fridays) let me off at 4:40pm instead of 5:00pm. I decided I wanted to get really drunk because I didn't have to work for the rest of the weekend, so on the way home I bought a Linkin Park CD. I didn't end up getting really drunk on Friday night because I watched some football (Bulldogs vs Storm), and I fell asleep and can't even remember who won!

On Saturday morning I got up and mum drove me to play rugby, it was away so we had to commute all the way to Windsor. On the way there was a ute show happening in the carpark of McDonalds, heaps of burnouts. It kind of made me wish I wasn't still on my Ls! When we got there mum left because it was 8:20am and my match wasn't until 1:00pm, but I'm the designated linesman for 5th grade each week so I usually get there early to have a chat with the referee and see if he has any specific hand signals he would like to run me through. Robbo and Timmy turned up soon after me in a taxi. They were still wearing fancy suits and smelt like Johnnie Walker Red Label. Robbo told me to go and buy him some cigarettes across the road - Benson & Hedges Smooth 25s - I always know now!
The rest of the afternoon was fun. 5ths got up 14-12, and 4ths drew 17 all. I warmed up with 3s, and made sure I stretched my neck really well, cos I was playing second row today. But then, just before the game, Tom Flannery turned up to watch, so Jobsy (captain-coach, 3rd grade OCCRUFC) told him to put on some boots and play. Tom Flannery didn't have any boots so had to borrow mine, which meant I couldn't play. You normally aren't allowed to play unless you train, but he is a more talented line out jumper than me. He has good aerial dexterity. I ran on water and Stinger's kicking tee, my socks got pretty wet because Jobsy was wearing my boots.
Even though I was a bit upset I wasn't allowed to play again, it was alright because Old Christian Colleagues were undefeated in all 5 grades today!
After the game we went to the pub, Marto and Shagger made me scull 4 beers in only 15 minutes so I felt sick. They organised everyone to stand in a circle around me so I couldn't get out and sing that William Tell (na-na-na, na-na-na, na-na-na, na-na etc) until I vomited. After that everyone laughed and went back inside the pub, except Benny (3 MOM points in 2s today) who came back out and helped me up. "You OK Frankie?" He said. "Don't worry mate, they're just mucking around. You're one of the boys now."
It's a good feeling to be one of the boys, like Tiger and Flanners and Robbo and Timmy.

Dad came to pick me up from the pub at about 10:00pm. When I got home I vomited again but only once, then I had a shower and some milo and went to bed.

On Sunday I just played XBOX.

Please don't ask me to smile.

I am not normally a person who logs onto blogger, takes a deep breath and then types out my last 24 hours. I am slightly more pretentious than that. I have Opinions about the linear narrative. If I were to send group travel emails they would probably only note my exotic location by the differing standard sizes of coke cans: nb the size of coke cans often differs across continents and regions.

But,
In my most recent, and indeed current, casual job, I am required to work night shifts. These shifts involve punching in (literally, I have a punch card) at 11:30pm and wrapping up (not literally, I have a punch card) at 7:30am. This is understood. I do this two days a week without fuss.

At the moment Bob, the dude who's been living the dream five night shifts a week for 34 years (he started when he was around my age) is on holiday. Bob's one of those guys who make you rethink your own definition of "normal" ambition. He neither loves nor hates his job, he just completes it. It works out pretty well for him money-wise, and after sitting at a desk doing nothing but go bald all night for three decades, what else is he going to do? Join Teenagers In Tokyo?

Anyway, in Bob's absence, I am covering all his shifts plus my regular ones. This equates to myself completing 12 straight night shifts without rest. I am currently on night seven. When I had originally agreed to this job, I was flat broke (still am), and had flicked away the suggestion that "I might get worn out" like pesky lint off fine cashmere (because it was a bad sugggestion). As far as I was concerned this was a gin-in-teacups (good) arrangement.

As a result, I am a tired man, my fingernail chewing refuses to subside, and I have noticed several (only two) occurances of uncharacteristic behaviour in the past week.

1. Irregularity of washing body/clothing
As a main person of hygiene, I regularly wash once daily. However, today I did not shower. This trend has also included but not been limited to clothing. The times of the day/week that usually would see me do laundry have been thrown askew as a result of irregular hours. While stench has not been overbearing, this is not a trend that fills me with happiness/self approval.

2. Failure to engage person I highly respect/idolise in conversation
On Thursday afternoon after rising I ran some brief errands, before making a stop at The Spot to eat the equivalent of breakfast (they were shutting, making a mockery of their sign "all day breakfast". Hell of infuriating.) I turned down my street walking on the other side of the road to my house as to catch the last of the day's sunlight. I noticed a man getting out of a very terrible red sedan. "That man's hair is styled in a rock-a-billy fashion," I thought. "In certain sub-cultures of Melbourne, that would be considered extremely correct." The man was climbing out of the car just as I crossed it's path. I walked on for several metres before thinking, stopping, turning around and staring. Through his denim shirt, which was way too denim and unbuttoned for his age, I noticed his distinctive Spanish-artist inspired chest tattoo. After realising, I stopped and stared at the man, who briefly stared back at me quizzically before turning and walking across the road, through a gate and into the house of a person who knows Tim Rogers better than I.
This is a man who I have never managed to cross paths with, but was (am still) obsessed with. I spend half my life envious that nearly everyone I know has a more comprehensive relationship with him than me. I have a brother who has had a pint with him in Ireland, a girlfriend who has travelled in a car with him in Melbourne, and a mother who works with a lady who knows his mother. Yet I just stood there like the day-sleeper I have become.

The man is paranoid because beer made him bad.

Alright, alright, alright. Think about this, and we can narrow it down.

It probably wasn't anything that happened before midnight, I can remember that all pretty clearly (sort of clearly). I was getting along really well with everybody, I even bought a pretty generous round and had a nice conversation with the bartender.

Oh, fuck. It was outside in the smoking area. It didn't seem like it at the time, but I was probably berating people. I only really remember talking about myself, and the only circumstance in which I do that is to complain. I probably didn't even ask anyone else how they were. Fuck, I probably did the thing where I cut everyone off to make a loud observation about myself disguised as self-deprecation that is obviously designed to come across as cute and endearing - "He's a very funny and humble man" - fuck.

I'd bet everything I own on the fact that I used the phrase "what a cunt act, hey" in an honest attempt to make my own company more enjoyable. Granted, this is quite a funny thing to say, but it's circumstantial! Ah well, it's not that bad. Basically noone will remember, probably. I can vaguely remember politically overcompensating as well though... Yes, I did, almost constantly now I think of it. Fucken idiot, I ALWAYS do this. Why can't I just be a medium level of nice to black people? Why do I have to try and relate to people on their own levels? Why do I always assume the role of judge in all matters relating to how people should be spoken too?

I shouldn't have taken in those palm cards with rude phrases on them. I should not have spent most of the night (all of the night) impersonating Conor Oberst. I should not have used the words "badly injured child"* and "selfish" in the same sentence. I should not have described the man wearing a beret as "shit".

* Authors note
I changed this, it originally said something with far more impact. I was quite happy with it until I slept for eight hours then woke up from a dream where I was getting chased down by Today Tonight for my insensitivity being "beyond a joke." I don't think my explanation that "it was meant to be awful," would have held up under the harsh interrogation lights of the Australian public.
- J

James' Ideas For New 'Zine (TOP SECRET!!!)

1. Commission myself to write a feature article entitled "Zines: Awesome and Totally Raw."
Intro: A 'zine is an informal, self-published, self-distributed form of press. 'Zines are AWESOME and TOTALLY RAW because they don't have to conform to bourgeois demands of the traditional press. Another good thing about 'zines is... (tbc)

2. A story in which two Chinese/French men are saying rude sexual things about an attractive lady (poss. supermodel). The lady turns around in the street to face them, flicking her hair before responding equally rudely in the foreign language. (This is funny because the Chinese/French men were in Australia and assumed that their sexist dialogue would not be understood). Their embarrassment is made only worse when the lady holds up her pinky finger, symbolically according them small penises. (All the while her hair is blowing like she is in a wind tunnel, she looks really hot).

3. A small joke ending in a man suggesting an "over-the-pants-handjob" to another man. Neither of there sexualities should be mentioned, leaving readers to draw their own conclusions.

4. Ambitious and forced opinion/humour piece about Gen Y. (Poss. submit to SMH Radar first).

5. 'Surviving the HSC and beyond'
- Feature article in which I will interview three people who left school in the last 5-8 years. One will now be commencing a PhD (and loving it!), one will have ended up getting a trade/traineeship in hospitality and now be a manager (and loving it!) and one will rave about how eye-opening their GAP year was: so eye-opening.
* NB Commission 300wd piece to be used as sidebar on how to fit in at uni/make the social transition/live in a hilarious sharehouse (poss. Tim Brunero?).

6. Make up a conversation that I had with a narrow-minded person and write it down.

7. Make up a conversation I had with Stephen and write it down.

8. An extract from my House fan-fiction (written under pseudonym, "Frank Sartor")

House is staring out the window, you can tell he has been thinking because he has been tapping his cane against the soles of his Nikes the way he always does. With no warning he snaps out of his coma-like state and gravely states, "the mother's a heroin addict."
"No way! She's the mayor, she's a pillar of the community!" says the girl who deep down is in love with House.
"That's ridiculous," says Billy from Neighbours curtly. "You can't say that about Mayor Robertson! She'll cut our funding and we'll all be sacked!"
"OK, sure pretty boy," says House sarcastically. "We'll do it your way, you can give her the biopsy, the little girl will die and you'll be sacked anyway."
Normally, such a threat would be viewed seriously by Hospital administration, but House followed a very different set of rules to... (tbc)

Gentlemanly Pursuits

Rewritten from original bender transcripts (that appeared in this blog) in early-2006.
---
After post-work indulgence, Lucas knows that the best end to a night is ALWAYS to trespass on the grounds of a prestigious school and make the following comment:
"Shit man, those primary school kids have it fucken sweet. That's the biggest chess-board I've ever seen, hey."

This will always be preceded by the aforementioned waking up the one homeless man in Waverton (usually by creeping up to him on all fours and poking him with a stick. Don't forget, the sun is up, and Lucas is wearing a pair of borrowed Umbro shorts).

He will then giggle, excited that he has woken a man, offering him a cigarette. Annoyed at being rudely woken up, the man will respond with a stern "no mate", pull his blanket back over his head, and go back to sleeping like he was not on a park bench in a wealthy postcode.

This will offend Lucas, who will stand facing the sleeping man for several minutes, arms out at sides, mouth open in half-disgust half-disbelief. He will then commence his verbal address spoken to his peers, but clearly aimed at the sleeping man:
"What kind of bum turns down a smoke?"
"And his blankets look dry-cleaned! What kind of bum has dry-cleaned sheets?"
Any gentle reasoning that the gentleman may not be a smoker is immediately quashed.
"Bullshit. Every bum smokes. Fact. You like you need another shake Ross-Edwards."

As it turned out, I did need another shake (A shake is when a man grabs another, and aggressively shakes him from the shoulders).
Later, Lucas was overheard on the phone to an unknown acquaintance: "It was one of those good violent shakes where you slap them a bit and you almost feel bad about it after."
---

Autobiography part 2

... As we all know the linear narrative is the mouth-piece of the aged, the not-subversive and the literally uncool. The autobiography is an ancient and patriarchal concept, traditionally and contemporarily used for white men in their middle-ages to reflect on their achievements, be they sporting, sciencing, painting or of the various forms of colonising.

With this in mind, writing an autobiography whilst I am only eight years older than the age Drew Barrymore wrote her first, seems a ridiculous and indulgent idea. If I WERE to pass off my remarkable life story in order to fill 15 novel pages I should be very careful to both embrace and ignore the traditional ideas of the autobiography and write my own accordingly.

CHAPTER 1:
The first chapter would take place years before I was born. It would probably start with capitalised onomatopoeia:
CRACK! The saddleman's whip could be heard half-way across the Gundagai property. The young Jackeroo exhibited amazing strength for a kid with windswept sandy-blonde hair who looked like he should still be opening bat for Geelong Grammar's Under 15 side.

I would not immediately suggest that this character was not me but then I would probably drop in a short (yes, truncated) sentence saying "But this was the depression."

The idea of the first chapter is to establish context and history to answer questions such as "where does this boy come from?" An average biographer will simply tell you a story. A complete wanker (the exact opposite to an average biographer?) such as Peter Fitzsimons will take you on a journey, and probably tell inflated stories of exaggerated romance and Australian-spirit (Peter Fitzsimons bought the rights to the ANZAC spirit from the late Weary Dunlop's estate).

The use of the first chapter in this particular account, would introduce my grandfathers, presenting them as strong willed and honest larrikin types of a bygone era. This is done to suggest that, while I never went to war, I have inherited alot from these men. My grandmother's will be presented briefly as strong and practical, yet delicate debutantes. As most readers of autobiographies will know, women are nice, but not essential...

THINGS I DID INSTEAD OF FINISHING THIS SHORT STORY/AUTOBIOGRAPHY:
* Sat on couch, knowing their would be nothing on television
* Watched first half of Friday Night Games
* Refreshed the browser on Facebook eight times

LOL-LIFE: HOW THE BLOG GENERATION DO IT

During the middle of my stint as an unemployed man (not necessarily accurate, as at time of writing, stint has not necessarily finished), I did a one-day temp job for this brilliant company called Nespresso. It is already a raging success in Europe, one of those things that is sure to revolutionise the way we drink coffee. I was hired specifically to fold three seperate pieces of marketing (catalogue, order form and "about" info complete with a magnetic strip that will stick to fridge) into a generic one page letter and place in an A5 envelope. It was during my eight hours of doing this that I decided that it was essential that I wrote a short story immediately. Not just a once a week/fortnight blog entry that I force those around me to read while I stand behind them, staring at their shoulders for signs of laughter. A proper short story, like the ones on TV. Something that would be published in an all-Australian author compilation, edited by Frank Moorhouse and read by very few.

Finally, I folded the last Nespresso brochures into the last A5 envelope. I told the nameless marketing woman that I had finished. She thanked me profusely for doing such a good job, in other circumstances (it's an ongoing hilarious thing I do) I would have said "thanks, I'm glad I went to uni," but I just said something that suggested it was a pleasure. Here is some dialogue.
"No worries at all. The coffee is actually pretty nice."
"I know, it's amazing!"
She didn't say this in the way that young people from the inner-west say it to later describe a brunch conversation either, but in the way the word was intended, like for the description of a prize-winning popular novel about someone who grew up very poor. She then handed me three thick, glossy magazines devoted solely to the specific brand of coffee and coffee-maker.
"Read! Have fun!" She actually said that. It was amazing.
George Clooney is the international spokesperson of this coffee. European photographers and designers get their photos taken with this coffee. San-Pellegrino have collaborated with this coffee. It is really excellent coffee.

On the bus home I looked at some pictures of coffee and decided maybe I would write a short story on an amazing conversation I had at brunch. I sat at down at my computer and could not remember the last brunch conversation. It's hard. Most good short stories are unbearably sad, and my brunch conversations are exclusively not-sad. One time, a man at a table near where I was brunching began to write down every word of my groups conversation. If the transcripts of that conversation were to be published they would probably become a comedy for smart people - everyone at the table had been to university, and we were joking about racism.

A proper short story takes up at least 15 pages of a novel, which I have calculated to be about three to five thousand words.
As we all know the linear...

THINGS I DID INSTEAD OF FINISHING THIS SHORT STORY:
* Googled the definition of the term "gauche", with every intention of including it in the final word count.
* Walked outside to check how cold my wet clothes were. A: V. wet.
* Got excited while outside as I thought I heard people in block of flats across the lane having sex.
* Realised it was just a lady on the balcony, on the phone, probably talking about sex.

I would never believe that they thought I was pretentious, I'd keep imagining them starting a blog in my honour.

Goodness, if my life was televised it would be hilarious. All the witty conversations and bizarre moments? All the well timed inapproprii? All the inventing of new words?
Yes.

If it isn't a dinner table joke between me and Stephen about peering through delicate drapes only to see Joh Bailey being "slammed" by his enormous partner, it's probably the following conversation that detailed how "you probably heard it before you saw it, but looked anyway because you somehow thought it might be beautiful... Can we put that in a zine?" (We don't actually say the bit about putting it in a zine, but I know, we know.)

The cameras could glance over my shoulder as I sat on my bed, typing on my laptop, typing for the benefit of so few readers but with such rare talent and insight. Viewers would be suprised at how low-key but poignant everything I did was. All insecurity washed away. Short, truncated sentences screaming "the guy knows how to make a point." Then silence.

I would probably not indulge the camera with long anecdotes, but would make interesting points about the environment I'm in. Like a chameleon I would reference respected academic work, but in the same sentence use the term "junk". My peers and lessers squealing with glee, my contemporaries nodding with approval. I would probably get invited to talk at high schools about careers. Imagine my arrogance, thinking such a thing - I say with absolutely no doubt that I would plan my "talking at a high school career day outfit" before the first episode had even aired. Me all planning things to say, being nonchalant and condescending: "Oooh, I want to be an lawyer, oooh I want to be a partner at an accounting firm! *SLAMS NOTES DOWN ON FLOOR AND STARES AT FRONT ROW*. Relax. Trust me."

I bet there's maybe not one dude in a million who wrote as many cheques as I did yesterday.

At my latest temp job yesterday I wrote more than two hundred (200!) cheques. I would argue that I was one of very few men walking around that did such a thing. Jane, the other temp, wrote 225(!) but was disqualified as she is a lady.

Me and Jane were a team. People stared up twelve levels from street level through the glass windows at us diligently spelling out dollar and cent amounts and knew that we were the best. Collectively we could have bought probably 10,000 White Stripes albums with the cheques we wrote yesterday. We were ablaze (on fire).

The reinforced glass of the office was the only thing holding us back from shooting over the Sydney skyline, hovering over tiny cars and people, majestic and relaxed in swivel chairs, using the aerial view to plan our route home, all effortlessly listing the street names with verbatim. When it was time to come down we would call the recruitment lady as we didn't have the number of anyone in the office, and you need a building pass to use the lift.

I spent the rest of the afternoon impressing coworkers with my knowledge of licensed premises:
"Name any pub and I'll tell you it's opening hours"
"I don't drink. Please just keep writing cheques."

Extract from the diary of a person seeking employment.

Q: "So it looks like you have done a variety of good and interesting things, but do you understand that the bread and butter of this job is administration?"

A: "From my experience doing admin stuff, I have really enjoyed it, and would love the opportunity to work within the arts at any level"
- Yes, but at this point I don't think I will find a job that involves sitting at Glebe Point drinking gin in teacups and writing verbal essays about Samatha Brett's latest column, so I thought I'd take what I could get y'know. Award wages for that are pretty crap also. I've got a lot of drinks to buy, and I really want to buy one of those Chopper BMXs like the one my friend bought his girlfriend last week. I saw a job on Seek.com.au for being Larry David, I hear that pays pretty well?

Q: "What are your salary expectations? We are a non-profit organisation, so we pay the award."

A: "Obviously I need to pay the rent and bills, but I realise that to working in the creative industries will mean wages are not as high."
- I've never been on a salary in my life, only hourly or weekly wages. It would be great if I could get as much as when I was on the dole, but working full-time cash in hand at a bar? That was so fucken sweet.

Q: "I see you live locally, how did you get here today?"

A: "I caught the bus"
- I walked because I couldn't afford $1.70 bus fare. I threw the last money in the tip jar at a cafe near my house... Gives you a bit of perspective really, I mean the importance of keeping up appearances. He's a nice guy though, he knows exactly how me and Stephen have our eggs and refers to us affectionately as "boys", not in a patronising way either, it would sound funny if he called us "men" though, wouldn't it? (...) Speaking of living, it's getting a little complicated. Our current housing situation may be getting shaky, as several of our household may be moving out, with another possibly leaving town for a few months. I'm sorry to bring this up in an interview, but I've spent a fair bit of time considering different options of what I, or we, will do about it. Do you know anything about breaking leases, and how getting back your bond in those circumstances works? The major issue will be furniture, if the other two move out all we'll be left with is a rear projection TV, a coffee table, a set of knives and an ashtray... I keep getting weird thoughts like 'how will I cope without somewhere to hang my coat?' And we don't even have a coat stand now! It's not really a problem, winter is short in Sydney, winter coats are mainly invented to make us feel like we are part of the EU...

That came out wrong. What I meant to say, is that winter coats, like high heels and fancy corkscrews, are mainly used because they have always been used, it's habitual. I know, I know, I'm happy to sit down and talk about the cultural cringe for hours. Did you know my grandmother's lawn bowls club still sing God Save The Queen?

Q: "Thanks so much for coming in, James. We have had quite a good response for this role, so I hope you understand if we take a few weeks to get back to you?"

A: "Of course, thanks for having me in"
- Of course, thanks for having me in.

---

Andrew G has a blog too.

It was not until yesterday that I started reading Dave Eggers' seminal novel, Heartbreaking Work Of Staggering Genius. It was not until yesterday that I(, in fact,) had been striving my entire life to writing exactly the same as Eggers, just never realised it. Much like when I first read Douglas Adams, it was somewhat of an epiphany. People probably know. People know.

In stark contrast, yesterday was also the first time I have ever been fired from a job. After pouring my heart and soul into scanning 'before' and 'after' photos of 'Slimmer Of The Year' semi-finalists at Weight Watchers HQ, I was informed (on my way to work no less) that they no would no longer require my (borrowed) sensible black shoes. According to Hays Recruitment's Katherine, I had apparently clipped some photos together with a paperclip, and now noone knows where they are supposed to go. I considered offering that once you'd seen one glamour shot of a newly-skinny women with a "skin-apron", you've probably seen them all. I didn't though, I'm pretty intimidated by Weight Watchers personell - (this is lifted directly from a text message I sent this afternoon, sorry to the recipient for being unoriginal/self-plagiarism) white-pants wearing blonde women, all "I'm going to be naughty and dip a strawberry in white-choccy!" ... All watching Rove and commenting on his bravery... All "Pete Helliar is just the best!"

---
LAST FRIDAY:
"If you drink a schooner of mushroom sauce, I'll play a game of rugby"
"Nah, it's not worth it."
"How about an over-the-pants handjob?"

SATURDAY:
Hungover Brad: "These beers just aren't waking me up... I'm going to have to bomb my way out of this mess."

TUESDAY:
W1 on 431 bus: "Can you believe that anyone would sack my baby? Honestly!"
W2: "I know! Although he might have had trouble getting along with the other people."
W1: "Especially the time he got locked in the freezer for the night... Which reminds me, I need to get a new freezer. I'm going to buy a new one as soon as my share money arrives from America, that's what I'll do."

... So many unanswered questions, so little employment.

Act 1 Scene 2

--- HOUSEKEEPING ---
Please come to Wharf 2 in Walsh Bay next Saturday afternoon for the first ever Sydney Writer's Festival Zine Fair. It is there you will find my first pretentious publication, entitled "As Curious An Entity..." I have a table booked to sell stuff with the Sammiches guys and girl, and a few other people selling zines and things. They're well cheap anyway, but I'll give free copies to everybody that has ever left a comment on this blog - you can pay if you want though, my employment status remains shaky. The artwork and publishing stuff was done by our good friends at Crafternoon, and token BCorTM celebrity Steve scored two guest spots (one mentions gay people)... Seriously thanks hey but. J.
--- AND SHIT, HEY ---

THE KITCHEN, 7PM WEDNESDAY: Simmo is propped up at the breakfast bar drinking a PET bottle of Tooheys Extra Dry. He's had a tough day work at Vintage Cellars and is noticeably worn out. $1.40 Coke Man is defrosting a Lean Cuisine lasagne for two.

$1.40: Yeah, I'm just defrosting this lasagne for me and you to eat for dinner, Simmo. You don't need to cook it, just defrost it then put it in the oven, 15 minutes only.
Simmo: (nods, stares at his beer)
$1.40: Some people like to cook dinner out of ingredients.
Simmo: (raises his eyebrow silently saying, "if you don't redeem yourself in the next sentence, you have officially just verbalised the most irrelevant non-observation in the entire universe.")
$1.40: ... I just eat these lasagnes, you just defrost them and heat them up, 15 minutes, that all it takes. Yeah, only 15 minutes."

Simmo gulps the last of his beer before standing, dropping the empty bottle in the recycling bin and walking straight out of the kitchen.

$1.40 is left pacing around the kitchen.

Act 1 Scene 1

Characters/housemates:
- $1.40 Coke Man
- Furiously Masturbating Ice Addict
- Samantha Brett as herself
- Simmo

Vague Premise:
This unlikely foursome all live together in what can easily be described as "the sharehouse from Hell!"

THE LIVING ROOM, 5PM, WEDNESDAY

Samantha Brett: Oh! It is just so hard to keep thinking up topics for my nationally recognised dating blog!

Furiously Masturbating Ice Addict: Could you please just relax a bit Sam? I know, I know, we both grew up in very competetive environments. But the difference between you and me is that I know how to relax and not let stress bother me.

SB: Hang on, that's a perfect topic! "Are us urban dwelling gen-Yers too stressed to maintain healthy relationships?"

FMIA: (a bit distracted) Yeah sounds good. I just think you miss the point with everything you do. I understand that you have the whole Carrie Bradshaw thing you desperately attempt, but you dish out this bland, over-written drivel day after day. Ideally, if you were following the SITC model it would be a bit sexy, a personal account that was really worth a read. But really babe, you just tenuously link statistics in bland psychological reports to a broad "trend" you imagine, cite a made up example then open the forum to a group of online sociopaths.

SB: But -

FMIA: (butting in) And another thing I hate, you always say you were out sharing cocktails with a "highly eligible male colleague." Why are you ashamed to say that you get your best fodder when you're helping me scratch all the imaginary Christmas beetles off my back?

SB: Furious, you know I love you but I can't tell my readers that my column is ghost-written by a man who only sleeps on Mondays. Do you realise that you screamed at my contraceptive pills for over an hour yesterday.

FMIA: Why do you have those things anyway? They're extremely cocky, and I'm pretty sure you don't have sex.

ENTER $1.40 Coke man: (proudly) I'm cooking dinner whether you bitches like it or not!

FMIA: I won't be needing any dinner thank you, on account of my drug dependency of course. Look, my stomach looks like an African child's and I have a huge chunk ripped out of my arm! I don't even know how it happened, I just noticed then! Ha.

$1.40: (Laughs) Wait 'til Simmo sees that!

Using The Digital Scanner

Last week I received a letter of redundancy from my workplace. As of May 28, me and all the people that do my job will be out of shifts. In my case, I will lose all my shifts. I'll spare you a sob story, as I've already written one, which will presumably not get published in the SMH's Heckler, as it is that particular publication who employs me.

Nevertheless, this has got me wondering what function I can now serve to the workplace from the first week of June. The word "function" is even more intimidating in this context as John Fairfax Publication Pty Ltd have just been advised that my current job serves little to no function, whatsoever. It's an interesting concept, as working at the newspaper was my best paid, and widely considered my "most prestigious" job, external advisors have assured my employer that in fact, I am just taking up space.

My first ever job paid just over a third of the hourly rate that the SMH does, delivering pizzas for Belmonte's Gourmet Pizza. I was 17. The only qualification I needed was a driver's licence and the ability to ensure the affable proprietor, Sam that "I wan't full of shit." Around six months later it was proven that I wasn't completely, but on numerous isolated occasions was definetly full, of shit. This job may have been pretty bottom-feeding (as in feeding from the bottom), and I may have been pretty unreliable, but I was unquestionably crucial to the running of the business. If I hadn't been there to deliver the pizzas, one of the other guys would have had to do it, which would have generally made delivery times longer, which is not great for a small, independent business in a competetive environment (Pizza Hut next door).

At Belmonte's and in all the subsequent jobs I have had, I served an active role in producing something. All of a sudden, I get a corporate email address, a building pass and a wheelie chair - useless. They aren't even replacing me with younger, keener immigrants or a computer (probably that cocky c..t from the Mac ads) - they are replacing our department with nothing. Nobody will do a better job than me (this is not a comedy sketch about baseball).

So, now I have to work out what, apart from nothing apparently, I can do for a living. I've ruled out about 99% of jobs already and all I have left at the moment is: doctor, lift operator for old fashion manually driven lift in David Jones (fuck, I hope it's still there), postman and professional cricketer. My lack of appropriate qualifications and skills puts me out of contention for all but one, and I don't really like hospitals anyway. All I can do now is work on improving my skills, like practising writing in the exact style of one of those "irreverent" complain-columnists (You know, like when they resolve there complaint by being mildly self-deprecating and "who-caresy" at the end: "I may be going bald, but at least I have tattoos." Wankers.).

As curious an entity, as bullshit writ on silk.

A text message conversation that occured between 0600 - 0700 yesterday:

James > Stephen
Would you believe that I just a: walked past the PBH (Pyrmont Bridge Hotel) and saw someone I know drinking and b: stopped by and had an eye opening shot of sambuca? Jesus I'm crazy.

Stephen > James
How was it? Confrontingly honest?

James > Stephen
A bit rank. I regretted walking in, then snuck out when they were programming eminem on the jukebox and plotting to steal a bottle of johnnie blue. Breakfast?

Stephen > James
Yes.

James > Stephen
Nice. Do you realisee that if we weren't the staunch heteros that we are, these breakfasts would be considered dates?

Stephen > James
Some of us stauncher than others.

Nikki > James
When are you coming back? Can you please bring oj as well as milk? Thanks.

James > Nikki
Guess what? Steve just admitted he was gay!

---

The weekend came and went in the usual way: the working week winded up on Friday, and commenced again as everyone rose on Monday morning. Not so for James. As a shift worker, he enjoys a variety of working times, sometimes more, but usually considerably less total hours than his normal counterparts.

As a gent who enjoys heavy punctuation, Maggie Alderson's column in the GW and socialising with friends, this life suits him down to the ground. As a result, the routine tasks most people take care of on Sunday afternoons are usually reserved for anywhere between Monday and Thursday, but never ever Fridays.

It is this charmed life that allows people like James to do things like chuckle at his own blog, spend four hours doing one load of washing, and re-read a novel that he didn't enjoy the first time by a very pretentious 20-something from Perth. Note to self: when first novel is published, insist on the author's photo containing myself scowling with a longneck in hand (nothing fancy, maybe Melbourne Bitter). Sometimes James does nothing at all but walk laps of his big bedroom and think about things. James is a lucky boy.

Just Three Shifts, This Week.

I either do a lot, or very little.

In year 4, in Mrs Merrick's class she complimented me on my involvement in extra curricular activities, which, on top of class time included the orchestra (violin, hey), the recorder group (descant, but) and cross country (running). I fit it in easily, while managing to maintain all my day to day activities like paying bills, cooking, banking and catching up with some old accquaintances for a quiet schooner and pub trivia most Wednesday evenings.

Fourteen years on, and I'm struggling to even log into blogger without one of the kids hassling me to take them to the shops, or having to shoot off to watch my partner referee footy on Saturday afternoons. Maybe age has ravaged me. Having coffee with some close girlfriends last week, once we had sarcastically pored over the gossip mags then earnestly discussed David Hicks, the vile issue of time management crept into conversation.

"I s'pose our priorities have just changed," suggested Sam. "My Sunday afternoons used to involve late-brekkie, a trip to the beach, a spot of market-shopping, then dinner and drinks consistently. These days I'd rather just stay in with the paper, and spend the afternoon perfecting my bechamel sauce for a mouth-watering lasagne for Andy and the kids."

"I don't believe it's just priorities, no way," said Jules. I used to be able to dance 'til 4am Friday AND Saturday nights, then be out of bed at 8 on Sundays for Dragon-Boat Racing, and feel like a million bucks. Now the twins drag me up at 9, moaning and hungover from the two glasses of riesling I had before I fell asleep on the couch! My stomach's a mess these days as well. Too many wines and rich foods go through me like the Bondi Tram - oh god, I just showed my age again!"

Maybe it's work. Maybe itself the stress and responsibility. Maybe our bodies are passed the biological used by date that nature set, rendering us obsolete after we fulfil our requirements of creating the younger generation. As the ABC's Doctor Karl Kruszelnicki says, "every year after 25 is just a bonus."

Am I the only one who is mildly depressed at the prospect of slowly losing grip of my youth, falling under the stampeding hooves of the Ipod wielding generation Y? Or should we embrace this feeling, allowing ourselves to grow old with dignity, safely accepting that our booziest nights and wildest sex are behind us? We could spend the rest of our thirties and fourties thinking about this, or we could just settle down on the couch with the Good Weekend and a cuppa, dozing off with a stomach full of lasagne, and a tired mind that still remembers the rattle of the Bondi Tram.

These bland conversations and crap observations will in time outpace and outlive you.

Although I have finished studying, I find that people (mainly older) generally assume that I am still a student. I assume this is due to my surplus in free time, casual dress, frequent drunkeness and lack of obvious career direction.

---

"So how's uni going, James?"
"I've finished actually."
"So what does that leave you with then?"
"Well, I have an Arts degree in Australian history and Performance Studies and half of a postgraduate journalism diploma."
"So you're a bit of an actor?"
"Umm, no, it was more about the study of performance as art and ritual across different societies."
"Did you have to go to the theatre for assignments and things?"
"Not really. I went to Performance Space once, and part of the play was walking in the door through a group of naked people lying on the ground."
"God! They're teaching that in Universities?"
"I know. I probably should have done something more practical."
"But being a journalist is practical. There are alot of journalists on good money."
"Yeah. I don't like journalism very much though. There are way too many people that are better at it, and like it more than me. I don't really like the idea of competing with them."
"So what do you do now?"
"Well, I work at a newspaper, which is kind of journalism... But my job is pretty much me sitting in a room while everyone else is asleep. I quite like it though, haven't been sunburnt hardly at all this summer."
"Is that going to lead to a better job?"
"Well, I thought so. But the guy I relieve at nights is 41 years old and has been doing the exact same job since he was 15... So I don't know that the Arts degree was necessary in the end... But that guy doesn't get to sit and ponder whether Artaud was a madman or a genius at night, so, spirals and staircases."
"Spirals and what?"
"Ummm. I don't actually know what that means, sorry. Ricky Gervais said it once, and I just ram it cheaply into any context... Some people laugh. You're the first person that's ever questioned it actually."
"I think you misheard what he said. That is not a saying at all."
"Oh."
"Have you ever thought of going into the business world?"
"Yeah, but I don't like the idea of people in suits carrying backpacks to work. And I know if I got a corporate job I'd eventually stop carrying a briefcase because it weighs me down on one side, I'll just throw my important files and bottle of water into a backpack - probably won't even wear a jacket in summer. I just can't see myself pulling it off well, you know?"
"There's alot more to the corporate world than backpacks, James. And besides, we live in a humid city, it doesn't make sense for everyone to wear their jackets all year around."
"I know, I know. Look, I'll speak to you for hours about the cultural cringe, but I just feel it completely devalues the suit and the entire image. So, I've ruled out that entire field."
"Everyone ends up in a suit one day young man, look at Peter Garrett."
"Well, yes, but not everyone ends up a Labor MP. Look at Paul Hester from Crowded House."
"He's dead."
"Sad isn't it?"

Applying Sam In The City's "How To Be More Attractive To The Opposite Sex" Guidelines To My Own Life

Being #1 and #2 most influential bloggers in Sydney to have grown up (she still lives there) within a stone's throw of St Ives Village Shopping Centre, it is my pleasure to invite Sam In The City's own Samantha Brett (smh.com.au) to give me a crash course in how to improve my "spunk factor."

As Sam says, being a young upwardly mobile singleton in the city goes both ways. While it's great "being able to shag whoever" and never having to "answer to anyone over who left the milk out or ate the last Tim Tam from the box" (IT WAS SO YOU SAM! LOL, ROFL etc), it's also nice to have someone to "share the mortgage with."

I totally agree with Sam on both fronts. So I thought I'd take on some of her famous advice (Sam In The City, 04/04/07):

#1 Sam says:
Stop whinging and get up off your couch.
No one has ever met the love of their life by watching Simpsons re-runs on a Saturday night - alone. When singles whinge about their situation and stand in corners looking glum, no fellow singleton (who is sober) is going to waltz up and ask to buy them a drink. Why? Because we're attracted to people who smile, laugh and are confident in their own skin. So stand in the middle of the room, dance by yourself, look in control of your life (especially if you feel you're not) and I guarantee your luck will start to change...

J:
Very true Sam, this is especially tough for people without Foxtel (Austar for regional readers). I also like your use of punctuation " - alone".

#2 Sam Says:
Stop trawling bars
Walking around a crowded bar with the stench of spilt beer and too many cigarettes is enough to turn anyone off before they've even set eyes on your new pair of jeans and shiny white shoes. Instead, there are better ways to meet people that don't include drinking yourself into a lull so that your beer goggles make anything on two legs look half decent. Surely if you've learnt anything from this column, it's to make an effort to think outside the box. Take cooking lessons, go salsa dancing, take a course in something you're interested in, go to a bookstore; that's where the likeminded ones (and plenty of hot, sober property) are hanging out.

J:
Until I had read this I was wondering what I was doing wrong, thanks Sam. There is nothing more attractive than a sober man in shiny white shoes fidgetting aimlessly in a bookstore, mincing over a book with a crudely drawn high heel, mobile phone and martini glass on the cover.
A few questions though?
1. How many is too many cigarettes?
2. Where can I find shiny white shoes? Please ask the male colleague we hear so much about next time you do coffee and he falls to pieces in front of a powerful and gorgeously single female colleague.
3. Please define the parameters of "the box". I thought I was thinking outside of it last week, but I kept making jokes about ice addicts "furiously masturbating" and was asked to leave the salsa class.

#3 Sam says
Get a sense of humour
I once dated a guy whom I had to shake every so often in the hope of making him laugh. Ladies and lads, laugh at yourself. I beg you, stop being so serious. Life is meant to be enjoyed, not to be frightened of. Take a quick glance at any Sam and the City poll in regards to what characteristic is most attractive in the opposite sex, and you'll find a sense of humour beats out a tight butt every time.

J:
A sense of humour is just SO IMPORTANT. I don't think the best way to make your partner laugh is to shake them though, Sam. I think this is more a reflection on yourself than your poor ex-boyfriend (probably called Joost). Try a few tricks me and my friends use to laugh:
- Making fun at people of different backgrounds - "he/she's a bit racial"
- The C-word is very degrading and equally funny. Lead into the word with something like "your a stupid," "I hate the" or "she is such a."
- Homophobia eg: "You're a total fag!" or "GAAAAY!" when someone suggests something undesirable.
- If nothing else works, just say the name of a high profile personality who has just either died or been charged with child sex offences eg: "Bob Woolmer" and "Milton Orkopulous" respectively.

I also enjoyed the image of you saying "Ladies and lads, laugh at yourself" as if you were a military operative in the Boer War screaming at the POWs you held captive. You should not make racial fags laugh at themself, they are minorities!

#4 Sam says:
Run. Dance. Swim. Whatever!
Speaking of taut buns, working up a sweat induces endorphins. You feel good, you look good, you get confident and things spiral onwards from there. You don't have to spend hours at the gym (quite frankly that gets rather boring) but 30 minutes a day is all you need to look and feel good. Plus there are a number of hotties at the gym, down at the beach and at the local swimming pool. Don't be shy!

J:
No kudos for the misleading title. Also, things spiral "upwards", not "onwards".
I do agree with working out though. Another good thing to do is join an all-male old boys football team affiliated with a local private school. It's a great way to exercise. You work out a range of muscles in a competetive environment, meet up with friends old and new, there's always heaps of girls watching on the weekends - and only most of them are rubbish! The aggressively-macho but homo-erotic club president is usually the best one to see about signing up.

#5 Sam says:
Get a wingman (or woman)
Lads, never underestimate the power of a good wingwoman. That's because girls love men who already have women interested in them. It's something in our DNA that makes us thrive on the knowledge that this guy has been pre-screened by one of our own kind. Just make sure she isn't secretly in love with you and is trying to sabotage your game. Or if she is, and you're into her too, then lady-hunting problem is solved.

J:
I put this strategy into play last weekend by chasing a female friend of mine until she screamed 'Rape!' and we all had a good laugh.

"Conrad, just get over the small man syndrome!"

Alison was the only person I had ever met who would stay with someone after they had kicked a bar stool from under her colleague, Diane. Diane had got into an argument with him after he had made several comments about "never letting women work in my kitchen." Diane had made the assumption that he was a chef. This was not Diane's first mistake, he was only a sous-chef that probably did not have hiring-firing authority, but a chef nonetheless.

Diane was a card-carrying social worker with a sunny disposition that almost perfectly matched her pant-suit, which no card could authorise. Had she been born 120 years ago, she would be considered by historians today as a 'New Woman' - hair cropped short, smoking a cigarette, astride a clumsy early 20th century push bike. Diane would have swum at the beach during daylight hours.

Conrad was his name, ZOO Magazine was his style guide. He liked to think of himself overall as a new-age kind of guy with a bit of an old-school edge - while he wore white leather loafers, he matched them with a thick white belt holding up his black trousers. In reality, the only thing new-age about Conrad was his bluetooth headset, the only thing he retained from past generations was an Imperial attitude to women and being short.

A Story Of Two Parts.

After over 24-months of blogging, one can grow tired of discussing their own life in the narrative voice. These thoughts have plagued me recently, and I diverted much of that energy to doing a better job listening to the police-scanners at work.

Since doing that, I have noticed a disturbing pattern in late-night street behaviour. It seems that incidents of people (POIs) openly committing acts of self-love/hate (depending on religion) on the streets of Sydney can be directly linked to 75th Anniversary's of Harbour Bridges. Less than 24-hours on, and the masturbation is not letting up. While the fear-mongering mass-media like to blame such behaviour as a side effect of the illicit drug Ice - I am confident that it is a direct result of fireworks and the bridge's closure to traffic yesterday.

---

Yesterday evening I had dinner with my family at my parent's house. I was shocked to learn around the dinner table that my youngest (and only) sister Annabel had fallen victim to a Myspace hacker. This resulted in her being accused of posting a comment alleging that several of her classmates were fond of using illicit drugs (not ice).
The backlash was that some year 10-ers (she's in year 9) demanded she go to Chatswood at the weekend, where said year 10-ers had arranged to have her beaten up by some of their "friends."
This shocked and puzzled me.
In my experience, when someone is invited to Chatswood to get beaten up circumstances would normally suggest that:
1. The aggressor is male.
2. The aggressee is male.
Why would girls from an all girls school enlist out of school help to have another girl beaten, when they could just do it in Pymble (as good a place as any, it has several parks and a great alley for smoking)?
There are several answers:
1. These girls were enlisting male help to beat up my sister.
2. These girls were enlisting more masculine, non-private school girls (apparently from Chatswood) to beat up my sister. Perhaps a female-chapter of the (now defunct) Gordon Freedom Fighters (don't let the name fool you, they mainly fought freedom in Chatswood. There was always more injustice in Chatswood, and there is a really big Westfield there)?
3. These girls planned to beat my sister up on their own, except preferred Chatswood as a location (Chatswood also has more affordable real estate, and the Westfield is second to none for convenience AND access on the upper north shore).

This whole situation frustrated me doubly, as the only thing I care about more than the wellbeing of my little sister, is the good name of Chatswood Westfield. And both seemed to be at jeopardy.

Look, this blog gets over 60 hits a week now, so I'm assuming that the girls that want to hurt my sister are probably reading this now. Here is my message:

By hitting my sister you will be making a huge mistake. My two other brothers aside, don't think I wouldn't hit a girl. Being in year 10, you are probably fully grown women - well I have news for you. Walking from Wynyard to Broadway on Saturday evening, I was yelled at twice. The first time, was from a group of boy-racers in a Daihatsu who called me an 'emo fag.' This was mildly emasculating, in spite of their poor grasp of sub-culture stereotyping. The more correct insult would have been: "skinny male with mild fringe who is different enough to me that I feel contempt towards him, thus will label him gay." About ten minutes later, a different group of boy-racers yelled "poofs!" (this may have said more about my company than myself as an individual).

Do I seem like a self-respecting man to you? Would I walk around, inviting such insults from greater-men in cars if I did? I think not.

I will shamelessly hit woman.

JEREMY: A LOVING REFLECTION

"Six months! You're kidding."
Sancia, was in fact not joking. It had been six months since their particularly pretentious friend Jeremy had passed away - sucked up into a vacuum created from his own verbal masturbation. That was actually a metaphor, his literal cause of death was strangulation. Jeremy was strangled by a hipster in low-slung tracksuit pants. His weapon, the plastic bag that appeared in American Beauty as "The Most Beautiful Thing I've Ever Seen." The result: Jeremy was killed by everything he disliked (perhaps a metaphor).

Sancia, or "Sance" for short, took a few minutes to think about Jeremy and what he would say and think if he could see the state of the world today.

"I reckon he'd think energy saving light-bulbs were for dickheads, hey." Matt offered. "And he'd probably say something really slack about Anna Nicole Smith, like that her baby was retarded or something. Jeremy was a bit of a cunt hey." Matt paused to give Sancia a sidelong glanced that suggested profundity, but just showed off his fake diamonte earring he hadn't taken out since he got it pierced on schoolies. After the pause he spoke again, "I definetly don't think that Jez would've agreed with selling QANTAS overseas."

Sance for short saw straight through Matt's tribute. "You're just trying to prove to me that you read the paper, aren't you?"
"Nah, I know for a fact Anna Nicole Smith died."
"That statement said absolutely nothing."
"Well, she did."
"You're an idiot. I hope you realise that. You are an idiot with an infected diamonte that's only purpose is to warn people via reflective light that you are the kind of person who puts a diamonte stud in their ear then leaves it in for five years after. And they were never fucken fashionable!"

This floored Matt, as he had always suspected that Sance for short had secretly liked the earring. It hurt him that she voiced a strong opinion that suggested otherwise. And he had read the paper that day.

The Summer TV of Blogs

I have suffered from writers-block during this week. Being a blogger that disapproves of non-ironic self indulgence, I already hate myself for the sentence that precedes this one.

The problem with writing this blog in particular is that it is very difficult to be serious, as those who have read previous posts will see this as a precedent of what this blog is. It is surely not appropriate to pour your emotions and worries into the same medium that you once pointed out to readers, "Not all gays have fannies." Sometimes the truth is better left untold (apparently it's correct, they mostly have penises).

Due to this writer's block, I have decided to cleanse my drafts folder of all the things (much like uni) that I have started but never finished in the last few weeks. It's like a compilation album put together of b-sides and rarities that were never mastered or released because it wasn't deemed good enough.

-
The weekend took a turn for the worst after a large group of men in bright-coloured denim cut-offs stole my ID and important cards. This conclusion was drawn when I arrived home from the Good Vibrations Festival to find them missing. Although I didn't see anyone take them (men in cutoffs are notoriously good pick pockets, they also have beautiful tans).
-
Sitting at work this evening I was notably impressed when the radio informed me that a 72 year old indigenous man had ran away from RPA Hospital - he was admitted only moments before, after suffering a heroin overdose.
-
The Man With A Fish's Head sat alone, staring into his beer, his hands propped up against his gills. He could vaguely hear the noise of the Queen Of The Nile mid-feature, making someone a little bit richer and someone else a big bit poorer. The thought of this didn't sadden him any further as The Man With A Fish's Head was a staunch capitalist - most people with non-human body parts usually are.

Draining the last of his beer, The Man With A Fish's Head sat contemplating the ashtray sitting slightly off-centre on the round table, that, tonight, was a table for one. Would he walk out into the main bar and get himself another drink? Someone would probably buy him one anyway. The funny thing about being a novelty was that everyone at your local pub smiles politely, the staff have your drink of choice (in his case, Reschs) waiting for him seconds after walking through the door. Sometimes, people even buy you a drink (usually VB or New though, idiots). But for all the pleasantries and inclusion in fellow-drinkers rounds, The Man With A Fish's Head always ended up sitting alone at a table built for two or three.
-
Wanker Type 1:
Wanker Type 1 (WT1) is in his mid-30s, badly dressed, shocking hair, no friends, hates his job (in IT)/life/you and drinks 15-20 schooners a day for which he would accompany each with 2-3 cigarettes.
WT1 still manages to stare down at you through his nose every day and sneer at your attempts at friendliness. WT1 is so happy being and unhappy alcoholic
-
Not quite, but I am working on it. I was told once by a lecturer that journalists should not write in the first person unless they have been writing for 15 (and that numbers below 20 should be spelled in letters) years. I also learnt that many articles written in the first person can come across a bit self indulgent and arrogant. Then I learnt that a collection of crude paragraphs usually starting with "Oh my God I was so pissed on the weekend" and ending with "but I didn´t pick up" written on a blog are not an "article" and certainly do not make me a "journalist".

Shorter and of lower quality than expected, no kudos.

Having only eaten/drunk soup pre-work this evening, I made a trip to City Convenience to buy a pie. On my way back through the lobby my Little Security Guard Friend (not to be confused with Little Hoodrat Friend) engaged me in some conversation:
"Where'd ya get food from at this hour?"
"City Convenience," I replied. "Not a huge number of options open at this hour," I added, thoughtfully"
"Jeez, they charge like wounded dogs don't they?"
"Yeah."
"You see, you don't buy your cokes there! How much did you pay for it?"
"I'm not sure, I didn't really pay attention."
"Nah. If you go down to the dock, they're only $1.40"
"OK?"
"Sometimes the bloke'll even sling you a free one... Yep, the dock is where to get your cokes from."
"Alright thanks I'll..."
"Yeah... on level 24 they're $1.80, and they're only $1.40 at the dock."
"Thanks."

Suitably underwhelmed with the conversation I returned to level 27 to eat my pie, which was underwhelming, suitably.

Not so underwhelming was the latest on my scanner, which informs me that a POI (person of interest) has "lit his own hair on fire before absconding into the night." Apparently this was the only reason he was a POI in the first place, previous to that he was simply a man in Kings Cross. It is funny how the circumstances of a night can change you. It's a bit like when my friend Wags drunk too much, wet his pants, and wasn't allowed on the boat for our year 11 formal. It actually isn't at all, I'm just interested to know if Wags reads this.

(newsworthy soliloquy)
I pity any ex-employees of the UNSW School of Anatomy who did not "sexually interfere" with body parts.

Boring and irrelevant. No kudos.

Having not blogged in a while, I am at a loss as to where to start. For there has been no shortage of blog-worthy moments/events in this blog-worthy world. Did you hear that blogging is changing the way the current generation gather their information? I did! Look out traditional forms of media!

Where to start:
I could start with going to the Falls Festival, when the evil Simmo emerged from deep within Brad and traded in an entire days live music for a once in a lifetime opportunity of drinking 3 litres of bourbon and mistook a fellow festival-goer for a carbon-neutral festival-toilet.

I could start later that evening, when a sunburnt blogger went missing and two readers attempted to locate him by screaming " www.bigcoronasortinymen.blogspot.com! " Thankfully he was found, URL intact and was returned back into the safe hands of parent-company, Google.

I could start from Melbourne where a hotel room debate raged over whether it was possible to find true love with someone who was
"amazing in every way. But, was only four foot six and was a bit special."
"Head special? Or leg special"
"leg"
"definetly."

Or I could start last week, on holidays in Perth when me and my companions found ourselves out at dinner with about six girls. I found myself placed at a quiet end of the table surrounded by two girls who wore alot of make-up (I was going to make a "wearing the ENTIRE L'Oreal counter" joke, but they have all been taken by Miranda Devine and Maggie Alderson to describe people like them that don't have a column in a weekend liftout.) One of them described what she did as "nothing", and the other one had a fully blown English accent and when asked where she was from said "Perth" - but she's "based" (read, on exchange for uni) in England now, and has just popped back for a spot of holidaying in the colonies. The cultural cringe is still alive and well in Perth, apparently.

Tom provided perhaps my favourite point in the conversation, when he asked a carefully aimed zinger:
"So you girls are all school friends, when did you leave school"
"Umm, what year was it? I can't remember it feels like so long ago now."
"How old are you again?"
"Nineteen."
"...So it was probably the year before last year then?"

One of them was named Evette, which we quickly renamed ciga-vette because you shouldn't inflict her on children - they might catch boring.

It would be a stretch, but what about starting with my interview with a careers advisor in late-2002 where I was given a huge list of careers and was told to tick all the ones I thought I might like to do?:
"You picked pop-star. Do you play music?"
"No, I did play the violin for a while, but not any more."
"Well, why did you pick it then?"
"You said to pick jobs that I would like to do."
"They are meant to be jobs that you could realistically do."
"Well, I could start playing music."


"Ok, working in a bar or nightclub?"
"Yep"
"That's something you would like to do?"
"Yeah, I reckon I'd like that."
"As a career?"
"Maybe not as a career, but while I was at uni and stuff."
"See, we are here to talk about careers, not casual work."
"Okay"

"Professional sportsperson?"
"Yeah, that would be an awesome job."
"What sports do you play?"
"I play rugby for school."
"Is it something you think you could do professionally?"
"well, I'm in the thirds - but the standards are quite high, and I'm pretty sure I deserved to at least be in the seconds, the coach doesn't like me."
...
"Write a novel."
"Yeah, I reckon I'd do that."
"Did you get a good mark in English?"
"Not really, I actually did better in maths, but I don't like maths or science."
"Writers need strong English. And writing a novel isn't really something you can do for a job straight away."
"Then why is it on the list?"
...
"what do you think I should do then"
"leisure management at UTS Kuringai Campus."
"... I was thinking when I went to uni I would rather go somewhere in the city."
"But you live on the north shore."
"Yeah, but I thought it would be good to meet different people and stuff."
"So where do you want to go? Sydney Uni?
"Yeah"
"It takes about an hour to get there you know?"
"Yeah, I wouldn't mind."
"And you can't do leisure management there either."
"I don't think I really want to do that."
"What else are you going to do?"
(silence)
"I bought a video I made for a thing at school, if you want to see that."
"What's it about?"
"Well, it's pretty funny - it's about trying to find an athletics trophy, which we eventually find in a toilet but the voices came out really bad so we put music in instead and used subtitles."
"So you want to be a filmmaker?"

THE START.

Currently listening: Police Scanner