Dancing me down.

I would like to sincerely thank all the "very clever" people that made connections between myself (Simmo's mate James) and the characters that have appeared in the last two postings of this publication. I would also like to let you know that I must be brief as I borrowed this condescending tone from brad-rules.blogspot.com and have been told that I must return it by last drinks or I shall be "knocked down within a poofteenth of a second".

If you keep knocking my stories, dear reader, then I will return to discussing things I did on the weekend, and stuff about people I hate, perhaps in list form.

For example,
THINGS I DID ON THE WEEKEND:
1. Rode on the back of a motorbike
2. Went to a picnic
3. Ran home from The Clare Hotel
4. Drank for 45 minutes on my own at The Rose (out of a jug mind you) because people were late for various reasons including and not limited to "Watching Grey's anatomy DVD".
5. Made a new mortal enemy
6. Found new relevance to The Holdsteady song, "Little Hoodrat Friend"
7. Started reading a book about America.
8. Told a customer at work to "get fucked," except it came out in a girlish shreak, and prompted someone to ask me if "I was alright," in the same fashion a simple, but morally upstanding paper boy would ask a young aristocratic woman after she was struck down in the street by her evil, patronising, older, wealthy husband.

I hope you're all very happy.

look at my range, part 2.

Emaline sat outside on the front door step of the entry way to her house, intermittently sipping Earl Gray between watching the typically torrential, "fuck you for suggesting that summer is on it's way after one blue-skied weekend" rain force leaves and bits of garbage on a fish killing mission, via the stormwater drain. She felt that, had an artistic photographer been present, her lonely door-step dwelling figure in this miserable weather would make a lovely and timeless piece of photography. This was contemplated for a few seconds, and accompanied with a feeling of stoic pride, the same kind she imagined, that depressed songwriters feel when their heartbreak and chemical addiction is harnessed via accoustic guitar for the enjoyment of drunk, happy 20somethings at music festivals in coastal towns. Emaline was certain that she must be suffering for someone, maybe a dirty, old man is undressing her with his eyes from the second floor of one of the terrace houses across the street? She checked. He wasn't. Anyway, comparisons to rock stars were almost completely beside the point, as aside from a strange name, there was nothing particularly wrong with Emaline. Except that she attracted wankers of the opposite sex, almost exclusively. This had not particularly bothered her until the previous day, when a typically drunken and obnoxious male friend had given her some typically drunk, and obnoxious advice. The main concern, aside from the angle of the rain, which was reaching under the cover that normally protected the door-step and surrounding area, was that this particular piece of advice, rather unlike most drunk and obnoxious advice, reeked of something, that smelt like beer and smoke, but was probably truth. When Emaline had explained her relevations re attracting wankers, almost exclusively. Her friend looked at her sideways with a cocky gaze that six beers and no dinner usually blessed him with, and turned around in his stool to face her, reslishing the chance to talk at someone, uninterrupted. "In fact Emaline," he said (this friend didn't care for shortened versions or nicknames). "You don't attract wankers, rather, being an attractive young female, you attract straight males... The problem you have is that the straight males you choose to acknowledge for this, are the wankers. There-fore, rather than wankers being attracted to you, I reckon it is YOU that is attracted to wankers, as they are the people you show initial interest im... Sorted? Now, if you will excuse me, I need to go and flick Matt in the junk while he's talking to that girl, because if she won't go home with me, she's sure as fuck not going home with Matt."
The friend then wondered off to cruelly sabotage his supposed best friend's chances at love, in the name of jealously, truth, justice and the Australian way. Emaline felt comfort that her friend Jeremy's drunken insight could be legally vetoed after his highly hypocritical actions and more disturbingly, use of the word "junk". Unsure of the meaning of the term, "subpoeana", she decided that it would be best not to use it in her next thought. While Jeremy typically had the emotional maturity of a very emotionally immature man, he could be painfully good at analysing the problems of others in a similar field. He has always claimed that he knew J-Lo and Ben Affleck were doomed before they had even got together. If Jeremy could be right about Bennifer, he could potentially be right about Emaline, or was his advice just as stupid as he dressed, acted, and was? Emaline frowned at the remaining ring of residue in the bottom of her tea-cup. She could be such a wanker sometimes.

Look at my range.

Jeremy sat on the balcony pondering nothing in particular, as pondering, he firmly believed, was not the best process for exploring specific events and detail. He sucked slowly on his cigarette, a habit which would allegedly end his life prematurely, before taking a sip of green tea, a habit which would allegedly prolong his life. The irony of these two things together was not completely lost on him, but as someone who keenly observed irony, it did not register high enough to be considered as a highlight to the evenings proceedings. A plastic shoppilng bag slowly floated down street below, dancing with a unique arrogance that seems to be reserved solely to plastic bags that have the freedom to dance after 1am, despite restrictions that generally confine such bags to carrying shopping and lining bins in household kitchens. Jeremy watched it float all the way down the street. He momentarily entertained the thought that it may have been the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. This thought, like other things done momentarily, did not last long as he realised it was a highly unoriginal concept, and he had always maintained that Life Is Beautful was well thought out but, like most bands from Perth's second albums was, "a bit wanky". Jeremy knew that he was no longer pondering, as he had moved onto a more specific topic that the limited definition of pondering allowed. Although, he could not for the life of him ok out how the cocky translucent Coles bag had shaken him out of this state, and forced images from the previous nights television into his head. He made a mental note to have Kyle Sardilands killed, although Australian Idol would probably continuue without him, it would hopefully be considered a "warning shot". Yes, Kyle Sandilands would play the same role the front windows of Gas Nightclub played several weeks ago. In a moment of unprecedented spontaneity, Jeremy extinguished his cigaretre in his cup of green tea. This time the irony was appreciated, as the best irony is usually subtle and symbolic. Jeremy smiled and started rehearsing exactly how he would explain this to his coworkers in the morning. This following thought made him frown in self disapproval. He could be such a wanker sometimes.

Look at my range.

Jeremy sat on the balcony pondering nothing in particular, as pondering, he firmly believed, was not the best process for exploring specific events and detail. He sucked slowly on his cigarette, a habit which would allegedly end his life prematurely, before taking a sip of green tea, a habit which would allegedly prolong his life. The irony of these two things together was not completely lost on him, but as someone who keenly observed irony, it did not register high enough to be considered as a highlight to the evenings proceedings. A plastic shoppilng bag slowly floated down street below, dancing with a unique arrogance that seems to be reserved solely to plastic bags that have the freedom to dance after 1am, despite restrictions that generally confine such bags to carrying shopping and lining bins in household kitchens. Jeremy watched it float all the way down the street. He momentarily entertained the thought that it may have been the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. This thought, like other things done momentarily, did not last long as he realised it was a highly unoriginal concept, and he had always maintained that Life Is Beautful was well thought out but, like most bands from Perth's second albums was, "a bit wanky". Jeremy knew that he was no longer pondering, as he had moved onto a more specific topic that the limited definition of pondering allowed. Although, he could not for the life of him ok out how the cocky translucent Coles bag had shaken him out of this state, and forced images from the previous nights television into his head. He made a mental note to have Kyle Sardilands killed, although Australian Idol would probably continuue without him, it would hopefully be considered a "warning shot". Yes, Kyle Sandilands would play the same role the front windows of Gas Nightclub played several weeks ago. In a moment of unprecedented spontaneity, Jeremy extinguished his cigaretre in his cup of green tea. This time the irony was appreciated, as the best irony is usually subtle and symbolic. Jeremy smiled and started rehearsing exactly how he would explain this to his coworkers in the morning. This following thought made him frown in self disapproval. He could be such a wanker sometimes.