Election week was last week.

He just had nothing to say at all. They were talking about the election again.
The frustrating thing was, he was a glutton for news. He read the Herald and Telegraph online every day. He could recite by heart every single name of every single child who had been killed by neglected parents. He often rememembered important social calendar dates on the Dianne Brimble Case Index.

---

I had nothing to say at all. I was hanging out with a group of people I kind of knew through an old housemate. They were normal Newtown-y types, just with the political aggression turned up to nine, and the ability to laugh at themselves set to heavy fade. They were about 20 minutes into loudly discussing the federal election in a curious fashion in which they would all argue the same point, with the winner decided by who could affect the loudest, pushiest, high school drama-est manner. When the conversation turned to Richard Neville, Germaine Greer and starting a Oz-like publication RIGHT NOW, I understood it as my signal to do what my colleagues could not, despite four decades of popular culture chanting the word "irrelevant," and move on.

I was not interested in going home just yet. I didn't have to get out of bed for anything in particular the next day, and I was pretty sure none of my housemates were missing me too much. I contently wandered off King St and down Missenden Rd, at least in the vague direction of home. As I passed the RPA hospital and the convenience store I saw a group of jocular young fellows trying to roll a Streets ice cream fridge out through the sliding doors.
"Do you guys go to college?"
"Yeah," responded the bloke in the pastel bonds singlet and white footy shorts with a St Pauls College emblem just above the "CCC" logo.

It was a pretty easy prediction to make, but I was still proud of myself. Whenever drunk, it is generally my philosophy to let people know that they are dickheads in such a way that will probably only irritate them.

A few steps further down the street and I was drawn in by a bouncer of completely normal appearance at the Grose Hotel (actually called the Prince Alfred for as long as I've known it, but the old name stuck, apparently). I passed him and walked straight past various groups of drinkers, mostly unattractive, mostly male. I ordered myself a lonely Reschs (the darker colour of Reschs always makes this beer appear lonelier than say VB or a premium pour would whilst sitting alone) and wandered through to the outdoor area that smelt slightly less like vomit than the enclosed area.

There was only one other person sitting out there. An older bloke, dressed all in denim and with ridiculous hair. He had that rock-a-billy hairstyle that I often joked is considered extremely correct in some areas of Melbourne. Not here though. This could only be one person.
"Don't let me be/Something sour in your coffee," I tested the waters.
"Well it's very flattering that you know my lyrics, but my schooner's still empty."

I wandered back inside to the public bar and ordered another Reschs. Reschs being available on tap in NSW, and being a beverage traditionally associated with working class inner-Sydney, I hoped that my new temporary friend may have included its name in a song I hadn't heard. Maybe one of the demo tracks that was later culled from Hourly Daily? This would undoubtedly stimulate conversation.

I got back to the table where I was greeted as "a gentleman and a scholar," and got ready to chat with this mysterious character of Australian music whose songwriting and lyrics had occupied so much of my attention over the last ten years. Considering that when I found him, he was drinking alone at the Grose Hotel on Missenden Rd at 2:17am on a Wednesday night (Thursday morning), I assumed he would probably want to talk about what inspired him, the meaning behind his work and how little money he has made from it.

"So Tim, I hear you were the school captain of Oakhill College?"

I have hazy recollection of most of the conversation, but he pretty much just talked about the plight of the North Melbourne Kangaroos, and at one stage he uttered the words "Good Sir" and "60 metre drop-punt" in the same breath. We chatted about the various nuances of gentlemanly etiquette and their practical applications, both agreeing that hats should always be removed inside, particularly if ladies are present.

Review of 'Naked', by David Sedaris

Critically acclaimed US humourist and writer, David Sedaris first came to this reviewer's attention via a friend. A google search followed, leading almost immediately to a thorough reading of the entire back-catalogue of the author's New Yorker pieces (or at least all of those available online).

Naked is a collection of short stories and anecdotes from Sedaris' life, ranging from his early childhood obsessive compulsive behaviour to his bizarre encounters whilst hitchhiking across the US. As everything (as far as the reviewer is aware) Sedaris has ever published is written in the first-person, it seems only fitting to continue this review as such.

I more or less inhaled this book in under 24 hours, not literally. Content-wise, Sedaris posesses a deft touch for accessible, self-effacing humour that does not make one draw any comparisons to a book written by Wil Anderson (I am presently unable to remember the name of Wil Anderson's book, but I'm pretty sure the entire thing is written in size 24 Comic Sans). My only major disappointments with Naked:

1. Although it is thoroughly enjoyable to read Sedaris' work, I have always subscribed to the belief that writing exclusively in first-person narrated anecdotes was not a good idea. This has troubled me for some time, my sense of guilt forcing me to write four chapters of a fiction novel before realising that I had actually just typed out Peter Carey's Bliss word for word, all just substituting protagonist Harry Joy's name for "James" (a different James, it's fiction). I now feel that my pain was futile. I also hate Peter Fitzsimons (irrelevant).

2.
Idea: Why don't I just write short stories about my life for the New Yorker?
Reason that this is a bad idea: You are not clever enough to understand the comics that would appear on the pages next to your work, you never hitch-hiked, you are not gay, you don't live in New York.

The end result of the disappointment this excellent book caused me, was that I stayed awake in bed on Friday until 3:30am (approx) trying to think of something else to write about. My main idea revolved around a fictional character called "James" stumbling across a time machine and travelling back to (of all places!) the aggressive 1980s corporate environment. The idea being that "James" would constantly get into arguments with cocky, coked up advertising executives wearing enormous suits. "James" would always eventually cut the men down to size with a quip about having to print documents onto computer paper before having their secretary "peel the perforated edges off, if you know what I mean!"

Overall, Naked by David Sedaris gets 4 stars.

Dear Social Photographer,

I shall never forget the first, unforgettable aural sensation that proved your existence. "Click. Click." "Click. Click." You elegantly pranced from smoking section to restricted area with grace and beauty, most alarming. Then, I saw you front on. Digital SLR partially obscuring your face, you were laughing and talking to a group of people about "gallery space" and the kinds of art that are not very good, but easy to talk about.

I watched you as you stood on the side of the stage, photographing people dancing to a popular song. I watched as you gave your camera to a friend with bright red hair and an arrogant gait while you were indisposed in the toilet. This seemed to make sense to me.

I stood in the background whilst you took an image of two men who play songs for money. You would not notice this on your lonely nights in the darkroom, as your camera is digital, and you could never be lonely.

I smiled as you pointed your camera in my direction. My veins frosted over in anticipation of your aperture inhaling the light around me. Alas, my interpretation of your intention was incorrect. You were photographing the shoes of a tattooed man with an angelic smile.

Blame you, I can not.

Kind Regards,

Xxxxx Xxxx-Xxxxxxx*

*Authors identity obscured.