Those kids ALWAYS drag their Ls.

Apologies for not writing anything in a while, but sometimes there is not anything to write. Sometimes the only thing to do is watch the same eight youtube videos over and over again. Sometimes the stimulus pool runs dry, particularly when you have a limited repertoire and you are sick of the things that you normally plagiarise.

This is why I am going back to university - to become a better blogger. Apparently some of my teachers are going to be real-life bloggers, like the ones on TV. I am going to learn how to think up a new blog entry every single day, an entry that will invoke comments, an entry that will inspire opinion and independent thought in those otherwise incapable of this. Sam Brett and Sam de Brito are to smh.com.au/blogs what the Mirage and the Lancer are to Mitsubishi, respectively. I will be the Pajero, bigger, prouder.

The best way to get on smh.com.au is to digitally penetrate a fellow member of the NSW Labor Party (more of a combination-style example rather than a specific reference). The next best way is to blog about social situations, like the two Sams. This is not the only approach - if you are Dom Knight, you simply refer to yourself as a "Chaser writer" in the byline, then write something not controversial. If you are Peter Fitzsimons then you write in rhetorical phrases including "how good is that?" and then refer to one of your two favourite things: GPS schoolboy rugby, the ANZAC spirit. If you are Miranda Devine, you write whatever you feel like and then get all flustered and scream, "there, I said it! You aren't going to like it but I said it!" at the end of every piece. The sub-editors remove this from the end of every piece (apparently Miranda still has the gall to invoice them the extra $13 for every column she submits. She earns a dollar per word, you see.)

--- ALSO,

I was lucky enough to get a visit last Tuesday afternoon from my mate, Chuckos. He is the head cocktail chef at the Harold Park Hotel in Glebe. The conversation was a bit strange, as I wasn't sure why he had dropped over. Our conversation:

Me: (opening the door) Chuckos! What it do?
Chuckos: (goes in for complicated handshake followed by hug) Jimmy-Jay! I'm all good little brother, had the whole day to myself so I thought I'd check in with some of my local boys.

Me: Yeah nice! You want a cup of tea or something?

Chuckos: (makes funny face, and makes throat cutting gesture) Nah bro, I'm detoxin' over February hey. No alcohol, caffeine, or bizzo 'til the first of March.

Me: What bought that on, you're always chemically enhanced!

Chuckos: (looks around suspiciously and shuts the door, whispering) Is anyone else home?

Me: Nah just me, what's going on?

Chuckos: (brightening) I'm just playing with you little man! Nah, it's all good, I'm just looking after myself. I took out some of my younger crewmembers a few weeks ago and it got a bit loose (whenever Chuckos says 'loose', he points his head to the sky and sings it in a stiff falsetto, dragging the L in the style of a kid from Adelaide who really likes Aussie hip-hop.)
Me: Yeah? What happened?
Chuckos: (gets defensive suddenly) Nothing, why?
Me: Um, don't worry - want something to eat? I might go get a muffin or something from down the road.
Chuckos: (a little bit disgusted) Muffin? Nah man, I just got my special pistachios I ordered from the Blue Mountains yesterday. I'll just rip into them before I get to my shift. Actually, I better go now - I need to talk to the big man about one of the glassies I'm not happy about. That kid is gonna get his ass kicked if he ever leaves my back bar that sticky again.
Me: Righto, I might pop in for a beer later on then.
Chuckos: Alright Mr Jimmy-Jayenstein, I'll see you later brother boss man (hugs me again before leaving).
Me: (shuts door.)

I wandered through the house, like a small child at an open house inspection. I nearly ran into a pane of safety glass, as I noticed a shiny object in the backyard, perhaps a bird, perhaps a toy bird. The glass was very clean. The poison from the DIY cockroach bomb had settled all over the crockery and food, the dead insects would be ready to vacuum in several hours. The kitchen smelt like a mixture of rain and headache. My only choice now was to wait for the villagers to come to my door, application form and cash deposits drawn like pistols, talking about power points and saying "cute", the man is wearing glasses, the women are getting angry, the baby is just for show. They probably don't even own the baby.

When the villagers come to door, I will hide underneath the table in the dining room, knees drawn up to my chest.
When the villagers come to my door, I will breathe shallow breaths from up in my stomach.
Waiting for the front door to splinter.
Waiting all winter (summer).

Guest Post: Jon Valenzuela

Every now and then it is correct to help a fellow out. Like a lady or gentleman of age who can only take baths, or a young lady frothing at the mouth due to amphetamine use. In both cases, assistance is required in the smallest room of the house/St Johns tent at an outdoor music festival. My father once knew a man forced to roll in a chair due to inactive legs. A man of principle and charity, my father allowed this man to let the ball bounce twice rather once in a game of tennis. The result was not suprising, but my father has always been a very capable tennis player.

The following was written by Jon Valenzuela. Jon cannot afford his own blog.

---

Hugh Hefner shuffled slowly across the lobby of the Playboy Mansion, grumbling all the while. He was on his way to the kitchens in search of a plastic bag – one of the bunnies had taken a shit in the Grotto again. Normally, the mansion would be swarming with servants, all of whom would be eager to help restore the Grotto to its former glory, but it was Labour Day weekend and most had gone home to see their families, leaving a skeleton staff. Hugh didn’t mind though. Of late, he had grown tired of the endless pampering and celebrity parties. When a weed crazed Matthew McConnaughey got into a fight with a novelty lawn flamingo and had to be repeatedly tasered at the last Superbowl party, Hugh had merely sighed. His joie de vrie had fled over the last few years. The slapping of his carpet slippers on the marble floor broke the hush of the empty house.

When he reached the kitchen, Hugh stopped short. He was rarely entered this room and had forgotten the sheer size of it. Cupboards and drawers stretched into the distance under the buzz of fluorescent lights. While hardly the adventure he had hoped for, he started to methodically search for the bags. In his mind, he was on the hunt for a great treasure. He had barely made it past the first sink when Julio entered the kitchen, his broad, brown body bent double under the weight of two garbage cans. He had elected to stay at the mansion over the weekend, as most of his family was still down south, waiting for their chance to cross the Rio Grande.
“Meester ‘Efner, hwhat are joo dooin?” Julio asked, his thick Mestizo accent garbling his words. Hugh glanced up.
“Trying to find a goddamn plastic bag. Who the hell organized this kitchen?”
Julio set down the garbage cans and wandered to a drawer chosen seemingly at random. Tugging on the handle, a thick wad of plastic bags leapt out and slapped onto the ground. Julio stooped to pick them up, and then cradled them protectively to his chest.
“Hwhat joo need thees bag for? Joo need some help?” Hugh felt anger growing inside him.
“Goddamit, just give me the bags. One of the bunnies messed up the Grotto and I need to go clean up”. Julio’s placid eyes filled with good humour as he realised he had a chance to impress his employer. Maybe, after this, he could speak privately with his boss about sponsoring his sister to come up legally and work as a maid.
“Oh Meester ‘Efner, joo don’ need to worry about dat. ‘Ulio will clean de Grotto for joo. Joo go relax, drin’ some scotch.” In his mind, Julio knew that all rich men drank scotch. He hoped to try it one day.

Hugh felt the rage drain from him. He knew that Julio held him in awe for his riches – he had used the Mexican fascination with scotch to drive many Playboy imitators out of business during his sporadic trips to Mexico. To get his hands dirty would crush Julio’s spirit, and Hugh couldn’t bare the thought of another man feeling as empty as he did.
“Alright Julio, it’s fine. There is a shit in the Grotto. When I was there it was floating, but it may have sunk by now. Get it out of there and chlorinate the water.”
Julio lumbered off happily. He loved any chance to enter the Grotto. Though he had never been there during one of the famous parties, he swore to his fellow workers that during clean up, if you listened hard enough, you could still hear the slapping of ‘las tetas de las conejas”, the breasts of the Bunnies.

Hugh leaned against a kitchen counter and sighed deeply. He was the architect of his own downfall. Through his successful business practices, he had constructed the golden cage he now lived in. Oh, how he longed for the early days, when the entrepreneurial spirit filled him with vigour. He was lost in his thoughts when a crashing cacophony came from the direction of the lobby, followed by the screams of Julio.

Hurrying from the kitchen, Hugh found himself at the scene of a terrible and bizarre accident. The front doors of the Mansion lay shattered across the other side of the lobby. Twin flaming tire tracks lead in from the front lawn and ended in a snarled skid in the middle of the marble floor. Standing on top of the injured, twitching Julio was a silver car, its rear half covered in complex electronics that released wisps of steam as they cooled. Hugh recognised the car and his heartbeat quicked. The signature 80s styling of the DeLorean was interrupted as the driver’s door gullwinged open. Out stepped a gangly figure, clad in a hawaiian shirt with a lab coat over the top, his grey hair frizzing wildly around his head like a thunder cloud.
“Great Scott!” he yelled, his eyes darting around the lobby. Spotting Hugh, he rushed over to him, treading on Julio’s chest on the way. Julio breathing became shallower, and blood started to bubble from the corners of his mouth.
“Mr. Hefner, you have to come with me. The human race is in grave danger”. The man grasped Hugh by the shoulders, his wild eyes focusing on Hugh’s face.
“What is the problem?” asked Hugh.
“Mr. Hefner, in 1953 you established a magazine that would grow to encompass a world-wide empire of softcore erotica, sparking a sexual revolution that liberated millions of young men and women. However, something has gone wrong in the past. Marilyn Monroe, your first pictorial, is having second thoughts about posing. Without Playboy, sexual repression would continue unabated. The Love Generation would never exist. Eventually, sex would cease all together, bringing about the end of the human race. Mr. Hefner, this must not be allowed to happen. I need you to come back with me to 1953.”

Hugh, in one deft move, undid the belt holding his signature red dressing gown. As it fell from his shoulders, it revealed a stylish safari suit. Hugh was ready for adventure.
“Doctor Brown, let’s go.”
“Please, call me Doc” he said, beaming as they moved toward the time machine.

Guest Post: Chuckos.

Editors note: Chuckos works in hospitality. He's one of those guys that looks pretty slick at twenty paces, a handsome and stylish bartender. On closer inspection you notice that he is wearing black brothel creepers with a silver buckle, a tattoo of an Indian Brave is showing through the sleeve of his cheap business shirt along with the unforgiveable outline of a pack of Holiday Slims 30s on his breast pocket. Everyone knows people like this.

Chuckos says:
So, my mate James asked me to pen a few words for his internet webpage that he regularly does. As a mixologist by trade, the only thing I really look on the web for is the odd cocktail recipe or for tax-deductible supplies (bar blades, wine knives, regulation blacks etc). I told James this and he just said "yeah nah, just write about what you do and stuff. Bartender stories are a hit with my demographic." Fair enough.

As the head cocktail-chef at the Harold Park Hotel, my work is demanding. I'll usually start my days at around 5pm, and often won't get out of there until as late as 3am on weekends (if we get slammed and have a difficult close). I'm very fortunate to be surrounded by an excellent crew, complete with some pretty decent looking women. My weekend starts on a Sunday afternoon (at whatever time I wake up!), and I like nothing more than spending my Sunday arvos kicking back with a few drinks - on the OTHER side of the bar for a change. I'll usually head into town and meet up with a few of the work crew for mid-afternoon drinks usually at Loft, Bungalow or sometimes the Tillbury. We smash that action up for a few hours, always shouting crew members drinks, always tipping our bartender. Once it gets to about 9pm, it's inevitable that we are gonna be Up The Cross pretty soon.
After tipping our taxi driver we will observe a moments silence for the late and great Barons. Some of us will stop for smokes and gum, then we wander over the road to Peppermint Lounge where my boy Danny makes us something vodka-based and potent - it's amazing what a good bartender can do with a middle-range pour like Absolut, and Danny is no exception.
It is usually around the second or third of Danny's concoctions that text messages are exchanged and The Business arrives. Now I'm not as crazy as I was in my youth, I'm right off pingers these days - they're all bloody ketamine and speed these days. The last time I can remember feeling the cool rush of an MDMA-based Gary, I think I was at a bush-doof out near Peats Ridge or something - would have seven or eight years ago, back when I was working at Bunnings... Anyway, the point is that cocaine is the only drug for me these days.