"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.