Google Analytics Report #1

The following is a list of things people have typed into Google that have lead them to my blog. Although I hate to look past the "c-word," I think my favourite is the Q-Bar membership enquiry... Or number 20.

1. tiny men

2. "award school"

3. big coronas or tiny men

4. great humanitarians

5. 36cb69faeb2b6cd6b0e14bbb5837401

6. big coronas small me

7. big cunts

8. big women tiny men fuck

9. claudia newstead*

10. exact tiny for men

11. funny pictures of tiny men

12. james ross's t shirt

13. list of great humanitarians

14. men slang-cockpit

15. mens cardigans, in target, nsw australia

16. myf dingo

17. myf dingo magazine

18. myf warhurst dingo

19. myf warhurst dingo magazine

20. sucking big dicks

21. tiny

22. tinymen or

23. vegas lounge membership card qbar

24. waiting for the front door to splinter, waiting all winter

Monty.

If you run out of money, it is important to get some more straight away, before you get Poor.

Due to an extended string of circumstances, I have found myself spending Tuesday evenings back pouring beers at my grandmother's lawn bowling club. The Tuesday 5-8pm or the 'Rotary' shift has been the property of me and my siblings for several years now. I have never been the primary custodian of the shift, rather it has been passed around between my two younger brothers - with me making the occasional guest appearance.

However, they are busy, I am not - so there I am. Each Tuesday I gratefully receive $57 in an envelope and a handwritten payslip. I arrive to each shift the expected 45 minutes late, leaving exactly 15 minutes early. I don't need to turn on the beer lines as Richard (the cook) has already put away three schooners while preparing the Rotarians meal.

Now then. The scene is set, I am free to talk about Monty...

At around 6:30, the Rotarians start plodding in to launch their Schlieffen-esque sub-committee offensive. They approach me at the bar, usually to order a middy of light or a glass of De Bortoli Colombard Chardonnay - direct from the silver handbag, a steal at $2.20. They are mostly from that ever expanding generation of elderly Australians: 60s and 70s, too young for WWII and The Depression but old enough to be casually racist and believe that corrugated gherkins and squares of tasty cheddar are a pretty decent canape.

Monty is my pick of the bunch. Standing around 5 foot 9, he is too large for small man's syndrome, yet demonstrates most of it's characteristics. Moustached and combed over in a short-sleeve-and-tie combination, he resembles an aged, slightly slimmer version of The Office's David Brent.

'Have you pulled one off the light keg yet?'

'Not yet, but it's been on all day. I just got here.'

'It'll be flat then.'

'That's not really how it works, Monty.'

Monty is in Real Estate Sales - which, of course, anyone in the vicinity can read on his name tag. According to him,  he owns the East Lindfield area. He has twice told me this, while gesturing to his wrist: 'it bought me this mate. Biggest Rolex on the market. Solid Gold.' 

I present him his middy and he eyes it suspiciously. 'More head than I'd usually expect.' Unbeknownst to Monty, nearly every comment he makes about beer has a far better use as sexual innuendo.

'Any less and it'd go flat. $2.60.' I say.

He pulls an estimated $30 in 10 cent pieces from his pocket, drops them on the bar and walks away to set up the PA. I'm left to salvage the money in his wake. Monty spends the next five minutes floating around the bar area - at one point embarrassing a man in his 70s by asking (in front of a group of ladies) if his 'new girl's a good root?' Seconds later I overhear him in a completely unrelated conversation use the term 'young jewess.'

Around 6:45 he returns to his drink at the bar and stares at me for attention, lips slightly parted. 'It's disgusting isn't it?'

'What's disgusting?'

He jerks his head in the direction of a man standing a few metres behind him. 'There's no excuse for being that fat... Despicable.'

I stumble. 'Everyone's different.'

'Nope.' Says Monty. 'No excuse. He's a pig. A doctor once told me that you can look as good as you like.'

I try to take the high road of silence, but let myself down. 'Right?'

'I reckon I look pretty good for 65 mate.'

'-'

Our conversation was unfortunately cut short - the official gong told us that it was 6:55PM, which means everyone takes a seat for a series of toasts. Besides, beef stroganoff won't eat itself. After dinner, Monty entered the meeting in an official capacity, in his role as quiz-master. He took his place on the podium and announced that tonight's topic would be tennis. He looked pretty good, too.

-

Extract from my AWARD School Application

1. Why do you want to be involved in creative communications?

A few years ago I worked as an office temp with an older fellow named Gary. Several times each day, he would say the same thing to me: “We’re not numbers people, James! We’re both creatives!” Our job was to proofread financial Statements of Advice for typographical and pagination errors. ‘Is this what being “a creative” is?’ I wondered.

It soon transpired that Gary was using the term ‘creative’ to refer to his place in the universe as a free spirit, rather than his endless string of office temping assignments. Either way, I began to take a fancy to the title. I was jealous of the patronising tone Gary took with all he spoke to. I wanted to be a creative.

After some extensive research I discovered that I was definitely not a free spirit. I’ll never forget the disappointment when I opened that hemp envelope and saw the rustic Free Spirit Society font, informing me that my application was unsuccessful – my spirit was to be forever condemned. The national FSS representative, John Butler, had signed the letter. I noticed later that he had also written the URL for his band’s Myspace page – a final slap to the soul. My fate was decided, I would never call myself ‘a creative.’

Miraculously, the very next hour, a colleague (after seeing my tears) informed me that most advertising agencies have entire departments of people titled ‘Creatives’ – and with a capital, too! Being involved in creative communication in a physical location (rather than across the entire universe) is obviously my new fate.

Also, John Butler suggested that I cut my suit pants into shorts… I think I cut them too short.

-

Here are some other things that weren't playful- yet-on-point enough for Question 1:

* ... This is not to say that I am homophobic. At request I can provide a roster of gay creative friends who will confirm this.

*1992: I turned up to my primary school’s mufti day wearing a vintage fez in favour of the regulation legionnaires or ‘flap’ hat. Though it offered no sun protection, by default I was not in violation of the ‘no hat no play’ rule. I returned home sunburnt and satisfied, a staff room full of confused board of education employees in my wake.

*1996: At the age of 11 I created a three dimensional, interactive installation that explained the difference between irony and paradox, and more specifically, why the Alanis Morisette song Ironic should in fact be called Paradox. The piece received a huge response both locally and internationally.

* 2003-2007: I patronised baby boomers with my smug understanding of postmodernism no more than three times during this entire period.

*I am unique. I am different. I invent new phrases amongst my friends that last. Students at my former high school reportedly still use the term 'get your cunt out, please' regularly.

* While all the other children were playing games, I was in the corner creating. My vocabulary has enormous an enormous range – I use words and sentences to duck and weave my way through life’s maze. Soliloquy: just one example. Postmodernism is my friend and, unlike Charles Dickens, I realise that an omnipotent voice was NOT the best way to represent London during the Industrial Revolution. I am a layered pastiche of voices. I realise that ‘sampling’ is the new ‘original.’ I use short, truncated sentences. They can be very effective.