Gentlemanly Pursuits

Rewritten from original bender transcripts (that appeared in this blog) in early-2006.
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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."
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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."