I either do a lot, or very little.
In year 4, in Mrs Merrick's class she complimented me on my involvement in extra curricular activities, which, on top of class time included the orchestra (violin, hey), the recorder group (descant, but) and cross country (running). I fit it in easily, while managing to maintain all my day to day activities like paying bills, cooking, banking and catching up with some old accquaintances for a quiet schooner and pub trivia most Wednesday evenings.
Fourteen years on, and I'm struggling to even log into blogger without one of the kids hassling me to take them to the shops, or having to shoot off to watch my partner referee footy on Saturday afternoons. Maybe age has ravaged me. Having coffee with some close girlfriends last week, once we had sarcastically pored over the gossip mags then earnestly discussed David Hicks, the vile issue of time management crept into conversation.
"I s'pose our priorities have just changed," suggested Sam. "My Sunday afternoons used to involve late-brekkie, a trip to the beach, a spot of market-shopping, then dinner and drinks consistently. These days I'd rather just stay in with the paper, and spend the afternoon perfecting my bechamel sauce for a mouth-watering lasagne for Andy and the kids."
"I don't believe it's just priorities, no way," said Jules. I used to be able to dance 'til 4am Friday AND Saturday nights, then be out of bed at 8 on Sundays for Dragon-Boat Racing, and feel like a million bucks. Now the twins drag me up at 9, moaning and hungover from the two glasses of riesling I had before I fell asleep on the couch! My stomach's a mess these days as well. Too many wines and rich foods go through me like the Bondi Tram - oh god, I just showed my age again!"
Maybe it's work. Maybe itself the stress and responsibility. Maybe our bodies are passed the biological used by date that nature set, rendering us obsolete after we fulfil our requirements of creating the younger generation. As the ABC's Doctor Karl Kruszelnicki says, "every year after 25 is just a bonus."
Am I the only one who is mildly depressed at the prospect of slowly losing grip of my youth, falling under the stampeding hooves of the Ipod wielding generation Y? Or should we embrace this feeling, allowing ourselves to grow old with dignity, safely accepting that our booziest nights and wildest sex are behind us? We could spend the rest of our thirties and fourties thinking about this, or we could just settle down on the couch with the Good Weekend and a cuppa, dozing off with a stomach full of lasagne, and a tired mind that still remembers the rattle of the Bondi Tram.
Monday, April 23, 2007
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
These bland conversations and crap observations will in time outpace and outlive you.
Although I have finished studying, I find that people (mainly older) generally assume that I am still a student. I assume this is due to my surplus in free time, casual dress, frequent drunkeness and lack of obvious career direction.
---
"So how's uni going, James?"
"I've finished actually."
"So what does that leave you with then?"
"Well, I have an Arts degree in Australian history and Performance Studies and half of a postgraduate journalism diploma."
"So you're a bit of an actor?"
"Umm, no, it was more about the study of performance as art and ritual across different societies."
"Did you have to go to the theatre for assignments and things?"
"Not really. I went to Performance Space once, and part of the play was walking in the door through a group of naked people lying on the ground."
"God! They're teaching that in Universities?"
"I know. I probably should have done something more practical."
"But being a journalist is practical. There are alot of journalists on good money."
"Yeah. I don't like journalism very much though. There are way too many people that are better at it, and like it more than me. I don't really like the idea of competing with them."
"So what do you do now?"
"Well, I work at a newspaper, which is kind of journalism... But my job is pretty much me sitting in a room while everyone else is asleep. I quite like it though, haven't been sunburnt hardly at all this summer."
"Is that going to lead to a better job?"
"Well, I thought so. But the guy I relieve at nights is 41 years old and has been doing the exact same job since he was 15... So I don't know that the Arts degree was necessary in the end... But that guy doesn't get to sit and ponder whether Artaud was a madman or a genius at night, so, spirals and staircases."
"Spirals and what?"
"Ummm. I don't actually know what that means, sorry. Ricky Gervais said it once, and I just ram it cheaply into any context... Some people laugh. You're the first person that's ever questioned it actually."
"I think you misheard what he said. That is not a saying at all."
"Oh."
"Have you ever thought of going into the business world?"
"Yeah, but I don't like the idea of people in suits carrying backpacks to work. And I know if I got a corporate job I'd eventually stop carrying a briefcase because it weighs me down on one side, I'll just throw my important files and bottle of water into a backpack - probably won't even wear a jacket in summer. I just can't see myself pulling it off well, you know?"
"There's alot more to the corporate world than backpacks, James. And besides, we live in a humid city, it doesn't make sense for everyone to wear their jackets all year around."
"I know, I know. Look, I'll speak to you for hours about the cultural cringe, but I just feel it completely devalues the suit and the entire image. So, I've ruled out that entire field."
"Everyone ends up in a suit one day young man, look at Peter Garrett."
"Well, yes, but not everyone ends up a Labor MP. Look at Paul Hester from Crowded House."
"He's dead."
"Sad isn't it?"
---
"So how's uni going, James?"
"I've finished actually."
"So what does that leave you with then?"
"Well, I have an Arts degree in Australian history and Performance Studies and half of a postgraduate journalism diploma."
"So you're a bit of an actor?"
"Umm, no, it was more about the study of performance as art and ritual across different societies."
"Did you have to go to the theatre for assignments and things?"
"Not really. I went to Performance Space once, and part of the play was walking in the door through a group of naked people lying on the ground."
"God! They're teaching that in Universities?"
"I know. I probably should have done something more practical."
"But being a journalist is practical. There are alot of journalists on good money."
"Yeah. I don't like journalism very much though. There are way too many people that are better at it, and like it more than me. I don't really like the idea of competing with them."
"So what do you do now?"
"Well, I work at a newspaper, which is kind of journalism... But my job is pretty much me sitting in a room while everyone else is asleep. I quite like it though, haven't been sunburnt hardly at all this summer."
"Is that going to lead to a better job?"
"Well, I thought so. But the guy I relieve at nights is 41 years old and has been doing the exact same job since he was 15... So I don't know that the Arts degree was necessary in the end... But that guy doesn't get to sit and ponder whether Artaud was a madman or a genius at night, so, spirals and staircases."
"Spirals and what?"
"Ummm. I don't actually know what that means, sorry. Ricky Gervais said it once, and I just ram it cheaply into any context... Some people laugh. You're the first person that's ever questioned it actually."
"I think you misheard what he said. That is not a saying at all."
"Oh."
"Have you ever thought of going into the business world?"
"Yeah, but I don't like the idea of people in suits carrying backpacks to work. And I know if I got a corporate job I'd eventually stop carrying a briefcase because it weighs me down on one side, I'll just throw my important files and bottle of water into a backpack - probably won't even wear a jacket in summer. I just can't see myself pulling it off well, you know?"
"There's alot more to the corporate world than backpacks, James. And besides, we live in a humid city, it doesn't make sense for everyone to wear their jackets all year around."
"I know, I know. Look, I'll speak to you for hours about the cultural cringe, but I just feel it completely devalues the suit and the entire image. So, I've ruled out that entire field."
"Everyone ends up in a suit one day young man, look at Peter Garrett."
"Well, yes, but not everyone ends up a Labor MP. Look at Paul Hester from Crowded House."
"He's dead."
"Sad isn't it?"
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
Applying Sam In The City's "How To Be More Attractive To The Opposite Sex" Guidelines To My Own Life
Being #1 and #2 most influential bloggers in Sydney to have grown up (she still lives there) within a stone's throw of St Ives Village Shopping Centre, it is my pleasure to invite Sam In The City's own Samantha Brett (smh.com.au) to give me a crash course in how to improve my "spunk factor."
As Sam says, being a young upwardly mobile singleton in the city goes both ways. While it's great "being able to shag whoever" and never having to "answer to anyone over who left the milk out or ate the last Tim Tam from the box" (IT WAS SO YOU SAM! LOL, ROFL etc), it's also nice to have someone to "share the mortgage with."
I totally agree with Sam on both fronts. So I thought I'd take on some of her famous advice (Sam In The City, 04/04/07):
#1 Sam says:
Stop whinging and get up off your couch.
No one has ever met the love of their life by watching Simpsons re-runs on a Saturday night - alone. When singles whinge about their situation and stand in corners looking glum, no fellow singleton (who is sober) is going to waltz up and ask to buy them a drink. Why? Because we're attracted to people who smile, laugh and are confident in their own skin. So stand in the middle of the room, dance by yourself, look in control of your life (especially if you feel you're not) and I guarantee your luck will start to change...
J:
Very true Sam, this is especially tough for people without Foxtel (Austar for regional readers). I also like your use of punctuation " - alone".
#2 Sam Says:
Stop trawling bars
Walking around a crowded bar with the stench of spilt beer and too many cigarettes is enough to turn anyone off before they've even set eyes on your new pair of jeans and shiny white shoes. Instead, there are better ways to meet people that don't include drinking yourself into a lull so that your beer goggles make anything on two legs look half decent. Surely if you've learnt anything from this column, it's to make an effort to think outside the box. Take cooking lessons, go salsa dancing, take a course in something you're interested in, go to a bookstore; that's where the likeminded ones (and plenty of hot, sober property) are hanging out.
J:
Until I had read this I was wondering what I was doing wrong, thanks Sam. There is nothing more attractive than a sober man in shiny white shoes fidgetting aimlessly in a bookstore, mincing over a book with a crudely drawn high heel, mobile phone and martini glass on the cover.
A few questions though?
1. How many is too many cigarettes?
2. Where can I find shiny white shoes? Please ask the male colleague we hear so much about next time you do coffee and he falls to pieces in front of a powerful and gorgeously single female colleague.
3. Please define the parameters of "the box". I thought I was thinking outside of it last week, but I kept making jokes about ice addicts "furiously masturbating" and was asked to leave the salsa class.
#3 Sam says
Get a sense of humour
I once dated a guy whom I had to shake every so often in the hope of making him laugh. Ladies and lads, laugh at yourself. I beg you, stop being so serious. Life is meant to be enjoyed, not to be frightened of. Take a quick glance at any Sam and the City poll in regards to what characteristic is most attractive in the opposite sex, and you'll find a sense of humour beats out a tight butt every time.
J:
A sense of humour is just SO IMPORTANT. I don't think the best way to make your partner laugh is to shake them though, Sam. I think this is more a reflection on yourself than your poor ex-boyfriend (probably called Joost). Try a few tricks me and my friends use to laugh:
- Making fun at people of different backgrounds - "he/she's a bit racial"
- The C-word is very degrading and equally funny. Lead into the word with something like "your a stupid," "I hate the" or "she is such a."
- Homophobia eg: "You're a total fag!" or "GAAAAY!" when someone suggests something undesirable.
- If nothing else works, just say the name of a high profile personality who has just either died or been charged with child sex offences eg: "Bob Woolmer" and "Milton Orkopulous" respectively.
I also enjoyed the image of you saying "Ladies and lads, laugh at yourself" as if you were a military operative in the Boer War screaming at the POWs you held captive. You should not make racial fags laugh at themself, they are minorities!
#4 Sam says:
Run. Dance. Swim. Whatever!
Speaking of taut buns, working up a sweat induces endorphins. You feel good, you look good, you get confident and things spiral onwards from there. You don't have to spend hours at the gym (quite frankly that gets rather boring) but 30 minutes a day is all you need to look and feel good. Plus there are a number of hotties at the gym, down at the beach and at the local swimming pool. Don't be shy!
J:
No kudos for the misleading title. Also, things spiral "upwards", not "onwards".
I do agree with working out though. Another good thing to do is join an all-male old boys football team affiliated with a local private school. It's a great way to exercise. You work out a range of muscles in a competetive environment, meet up with friends old and new, there's always heaps of girls watching on the weekends - and only most of them are rubbish! The aggressively-macho but homo-erotic club president is usually the best one to see about signing up.
#5 Sam says:
Get a wingman (or woman)
Lads, never underestimate the power of a good wingwoman. That's because girls love men who already have women interested in them. It's something in our DNA that makes us thrive on the knowledge that this guy has been pre-screened by one of our own kind. Just make sure she isn't secretly in love with you and is trying to sabotage your game. Or if she is, and you're into her too, then lady-hunting problem is solved.
J:
I put this strategy into play last weekend by chasing a female friend of mine until she screamed 'Rape!' and we all had a good laugh.
As Sam says, being a young upwardly mobile singleton in the city goes both ways. While it's great "being able to shag whoever" and never having to "answer to anyone over who left the milk out or ate the last Tim Tam from the box" (IT WAS SO YOU SAM! LOL, ROFL etc), it's also nice to have someone to "share the mortgage with."
I totally agree with Sam on both fronts. So I thought I'd take on some of her famous advice (Sam In The City, 04/04/07):
#1 Sam says:
Stop whinging and get up off your couch.
No one has ever met the love of their life by watching Simpsons re-runs on a Saturday night - alone. When singles whinge about their situation and stand in corners looking glum, no fellow singleton (who is sober) is going to waltz up and ask to buy them a drink. Why? Because we're attracted to people who smile, laugh and are confident in their own skin. So stand in the middle of the room, dance by yourself, look in control of your life (especially if you feel you're not) and I guarantee your luck will start to change...
J:
Very true Sam, this is especially tough for people without Foxtel (Austar for regional readers). I also like your use of punctuation " - alone".
#2 Sam Says:
Stop trawling bars
Walking around a crowded bar with the stench of spilt beer and too many cigarettes is enough to turn anyone off before they've even set eyes on your new pair of jeans and shiny white shoes. Instead, there are better ways to meet people that don't include drinking yourself into a lull so that your beer goggles make anything on two legs look half decent. Surely if you've learnt anything from this column, it's to make an effort to think outside the box. Take cooking lessons, go salsa dancing, take a course in something you're interested in, go to a bookstore; that's where the likeminded ones (and plenty of hot, sober property) are hanging out.
J:
Until I had read this I was wondering what I was doing wrong, thanks Sam. There is nothing more attractive than a sober man in shiny white shoes fidgetting aimlessly in a bookstore, mincing over a book with a crudely drawn high heel, mobile phone and martini glass on the cover.
A few questions though?
1. How many is too many cigarettes?
2. Where can I find shiny white shoes? Please ask the male colleague we hear so much about next time you do coffee and he falls to pieces in front of a powerful and gorgeously single female colleague.
3. Please define the parameters of "the box". I thought I was thinking outside of it last week, but I kept making jokes about ice addicts "furiously masturbating" and was asked to leave the salsa class.
#3 Sam says
Get a sense of humour
I once dated a guy whom I had to shake every so often in the hope of making him laugh. Ladies and lads, laugh at yourself. I beg you, stop being so serious. Life is meant to be enjoyed, not to be frightened of. Take a quick glance at any Sam and the City poll in regards to what characteristic is most attractive in the opposite sex, and you'll find a sense of humour beats out a tight butt every time.
J:
A sense of humour is just SO IMPORTANT. I don't think the best way to make your partner laugh is to shake them though, Sam. I think this is more a reflection on yourself than your poor ex-boyfriend (probably called Joost). Try a few tricks me and my friends use to laugh:
- Making fun at people of different backgrounds - "he/she's a bit racial"
- The C-word is very degrading and equally funny. Lead into the word with something like "your a stupid," "I hate the" or "she is such a."
- Homophobia eg: "You're a total fag!" or "GAAAAY!" when someone suggests something undesirable.
- If nothing else works, just say the name of a high profile personality who has just either died or been charged with child sex offences eg: "Bob Woolmer" and "Milton Orkopulous" respectively.
I also enjoyed the image of you saying "Ladies and lads, laugh at yourself" as if you were a military operative in the Boer War screaming at the POWs you held captive. You should not make racial fags laugh at themself, they are minorities!
#4 Sam says:
Run. Dance. Swim. Whatever!
Speaking of taut buns, working up a sweat induces endorphins. You feel good, you look good, you get confident and things spiral onwards from there. You don't have to spend hours at the gym (quite frankly that gets rather boring) but 30 minutes a day is all you need to look and feel good. Plus there are a number of hotties at the gym, down at the beach and at the local swimming pool. Don't be shy!
J:
No kudos for the misleading title. Also, things spiral "upwards", not "onwards".
I do agree with working out though. Another good thing to do is join an all-male old boys football team affiliated with a local private school. It's a great way to exercise. You work out a range of muscles in a competetive environment, meet up with friends old and new, there's always heaps of girls watching on the weekends - and only most of them are rubbish! The aggressively-macho but homo-erotic club president is usually the best one to see about signing up.
#5 Sam says:
Get a wingman (or woman)
Lads, never underestimate the power of a good wingwoman. That's because girls love men who already have women interested in them. It's something in our DNA that makes us thrive on the knowledge that this guy has been pre-screened by one of our own kind. Just make sure she isn't secretly in love with you and is trying to sabotage your game. Or if she is, and you're into her too, then lady-hunting problem is solved.
J:
I put this strategy into play last weekend by chasing a female friend of mine until she screamed 'Rape!' and we all had a good laugh.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
"Conrad, just get over the small man syndrome!"
Alison was the only person I had ever met who would stay with someone after they had kicked a bar stool from under her colleague, Diane. Diane had got into an argument with him after he had made several comments about "never letting women work in my kitchen." Diane had made the assumption that he was a chef. This was not Diane's first mistake, he was only a sous-chef that probably did not have hiring-firing authority, but a chef nonetheless.
Diane was a card-carrying social worker with a sunny disposition that almost perfectly matched her pant-suit, which no card could authorise. Had she been born 120 years ago, she would be considered by historians today as a 'New Woman' - hair cropped short, smoking a cigarette, astride a clumsy early 20th century push bike. Diane would have swum at the beach during daylight hours.
Conrad was his name, ZOO Magazine was his style guide. He liked to think of himself overall as a new-age kind of guy with a bit of an old-school edge - while he wore white leather loafers, he matched them with a thick white belt holding up his black trousers. In reality, the only thing new-age about Conrad was his bluetooth headset, the only thing he retained from past generations was an Imperial attitude to women and being short.
Diane was a card-carrying social worker with a sunny disposition that almost perfectly matched her pant-suit, which no card could authorise. Had she been born 120 years ago, she would be considered by historians today as a 'New Woman' - hair cropped short, smoking a cigarette, astride a clumsy early 20th century push bike. Diane would have swum at the beach during daylight hours.
Conrad was his name, ZOO Magazine was his style guide. He liked to think of himself overall as a new-age kind of guy with a bit of an old-school edge - while he wore white leather loafers, he matched them with a thick white belt holding up his black trousers. In reality, the only thing new-age about Conrad was his bluetooth headset, the only thing he retained from past generations was an Imperial attitude to women and being short.
Monday, March 19, 2007
A Story Of Two Parts.
After over 24-months of blogging, one can grow tired of discussing their own life in the narrative voice. These thoughts have plagued me recently, and I diverted much of that energy to doing a better job listening to the police-scanners at work.
Since doing that, I have noticed a disturbing pattern in late-night street behaviour. It seems that incidents of people (POIs) openly committing acts of self-love/hate (depending on religion) on the streets of Sydney can be directly linked to 75th Anniversary's of Harbour Bridges. Less than 24-hours on, and the masturbation is not letting up. While the fear-mongering mass-media like to blame such behaviour as a side effect of the illicit drug Ice - I am confident that it is a direct result of fireworks and the bridge's closure to traffic yesterday.
---
Yesterday evening I had dinner with my family at my parent's house. I was shocked to learn around the dinner table that my youngest (and only) sister Annabel had fallen victim to a Myspace hacker. This resulted in her being accused of posting a comment alleging that several of her classmates were fond of using illicit drugs (not ice).
The backlash was that some year 10-ers (she's in year 9) demanded she go to Chatswood at the weekend, where said year 10-ers had arranged to have her beaten up by some of their "friends."
This shocked and puzzled me.
In my experience, when someone is invited to Chatswood to get beaten up circumstances would normally suggest that:
1. The aggressor is male.
2. The aggressee is male.
Why would girls from an all girls school enlist out of school help to have another girl beaten, when they could just do it in Pymble (as good a place as any, it has several parks and a great alley for smoking)?
There are several answers:
1. These girls were enlisting male help to beat up my sister.
2. These girls were enlisting more masculine, non-private school girls (apparently from Chatswood) to beat up my sister. Perhaps a female-chapter of the (now defunct) Gordon Freedom Fighters (don't let the name fool you, they mainly fought freedom in Chatswood. There was always more injustice in Chatswood, and there is a really big Westfield there)?
3. These girls planned to beat my sister up on their own, except preferred Chatswood as a location (Chatswood also has more affordable real estate, and the Westfield is second to none for convenience AND access on the upper north shore).
This whole situation frustrated me doubly, as the only thing I care about more than the wellbeing of my little sister, is the good name of Chatswood Westfield. And both seemed to be at jeopardy.
Look, this blog gets over 60 hits a week now, so I'm assuming that the girls that want to hurt my sister are probably reading this now. Here is my message:
By hitting my sister you will be making a huge mistake. My two other brothers aside, don't think I wouldn't hit a girl. Being in year 10, you are probably fully grown women - well I have news for you. Walking from Wynyard to Broadway on Saturday evening, I was yelled at twice. The first time, was from a group of boy-racers in a Daihatsu who called me an 'emo fag.' This was mildly emasculating, in spite of their poor grasp of sub-culture stereotyping. The more correct insult would have been: "skinny male with mild fringe who is different enough to me that I feel contempt towards him, thus will label him gay." About ten minutes later, a different group of boy-racers yelled "poofs!" (this may have said more about my company than myself as an individual).
Do I seem like a self-respecting man to you? Would I walk around, inviting such insults from greater-men in cars if I did? I think not.
I will shamelessly hit woman.
Since doing that, I have noticed a disturbing pattern in late-night street behaviour. It seems that incidents of people (POIs) openly committing acts of self-love/hate (depending on religion) on the streets of Sydney can be directly linked to 75th Anniversary's of Harbour Bridges. Less than 24-hours on, and the masturbation is not letting up. While the fear-mongering mass-media like to blame such behaviour as a side effect of the illicit drug Ice - I am confident that it is a direct result of fireworks and the bridge's closure to traffic yesterday.
---
Yesterday evening I had dinner with my family at my parent's house. I was shocked to learn around the dinner table that my youngest (and only) sister Annabel had fallen victim to a Myspace hacker. This resulted in her being accused of posting a comment alleging that several of her classmates were fond of using illicit drugs (not ice).
The backlash was that some year 10-ers (she's in year 9) demanded she go to Chatswood at the weekend, where said year 10-ers had arranged to have her beaten up by some of their "friends."
This shocked and puzzled me.
In my experience, when someone is invited to Chatswood to get beaten up circumstances would normally suggest that:
1. The aggressor is male.
2. The aggressee is male.
Why would girls from an all girls school enlist out of school help to have another girl beaten, when they could just do it in Pymble (as good a place as any, it has several parks and a great alley for smoking)?
There are several answers:
1. These girls were enlisting male help to beat up my sister.
2. These girls were enlisting more masculine, non-private school girls (apparently from Chatswood) to beat up my sister. Perhaps a female-chapter of the (now defunct) Gordon Freedom Fighters (don't let the name fool you, they mainly fought freedom in Chatswood. There was always more injustice in Chatswood, and there is a really big Westfield there)?
3. These girls planned to beat my sister up on their own, except preferred Chatswood as a location (Chatswood also has more affordable real estate, and the Westfield is second to none for convenience AND access on the upper north shore).
This whole situation frustrated me doubly, as the only thing I care about more than the wellbeing of my little sister, is the good name of Chatswood Westfield. And both seemed to be at jeopardy.
Look, this blog gets over 60 hits a week now, so I'm assuming that the girls that want to hurt my sister are probably reading this now. Here is my message:
By hitting my sister you will be making a huge mistake. My two other brothers aside, don't think I wouldn't hit a girl. Being in year 10, you are probably fully grown women - well I have news for you. Walking from Wynyard to Broadway on Saturday evening, I was yelled at twice. The first time, was from a group of boy-racers in a Daihatsu who called me an 'emo fag.' This was mildly emasculating, in spite of their poor grasp of sub-culture stereotyping. The more correct insult would have been: "skinny male with mild fringe who is different enough to me that I feel contempt towards him, thus will label him gay." About ten minutes later, a different group of boy-racers yelled "poofs!" (this may have said more about my company than myself as an individual).
Do I seem like a self-respecting man to you? Would I walk around, inviting such insults from greater-men in cars if I did? I think not.
I will shamelessly hit woman.
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
JEREMY: A LOVING REFLECTION
"Six months! You're kidding."
Sancia, was in fact not joking. It had been six months since their particularly pretentious friend Jeremy had passed away - sucked up into a vacuum created from his own verbal masturbation. That was actually a metaphor, his literal cause of death was strangulation. Jeremy was strangled by a hipster in low-slung tracksuit pants. His weapon, the plastic bag that appeared in American Beauty as "The Most Beautiful Thing I've Ever Seen." The result: Jeremy was killed by everything he disliked (perhaps a metaphor).
Sancia, or "Sance" for short, took a few minutes to think about Jeremy and what he would say and think if he could see the state of the world today.
"I reckon he'd think energy saving light-bulbs were for dickheads, hey." Matt offered. "And he'd probably say something really slack about Anna Nicole Smith, like that her baby was retarded or something. Jeremy was a bit of a cunt hey." Matt paused to give Sancia a sidelong glanced that suggested profundity, but just showed off his fake diamonte earring he hadn't taken out since he got it pierced on schoolies. After the pause he spoke again, "I definetly don't think that Jez would've agreed with selling QANTAS overseas."
Sance for short saw straight through Matt's tribute. "You're just trying to prove to me that you read the paper, aren't you?"
"Nah, I know for a fact Anna Nicole Smith died."
"That statement said absolutely nothing."
"Well, she did."
"You're an idiot. I hope you realise that. You are an idiot with an infected diamonte that's only purpose is to warn people via reflective light that you are the kind of person who puts a diamonte stud in their ear then leaves it in for five years after. And they were never fucken fashionable!"
This floored Matt, as he had always suspected that Sance for short had secretly liked the earring. It hurt him that she voiced a strong opinion that suggested otherwise. And he had read the paper that day.
Sancia, was in fact not joking. It had been six months since their particularly pretentious friend Jeremy had passed away - sucked up into a vacuum created from his own verbal masturbation. That was actually a metaphor, his literal cause of death was strangulation. Jeremy was strangled by a hipster in low-slung tracksuit pants. His weapon, the plastic bag that appeared in American Beauty as "The Most Beautiful Thing I've Ever Seen." The result: Jeremy was killed by everything he disliked (perhaps a metaphor).
Sancia, or "Sance" for short, took a few minutes to think about Jeremy and what he would say and think if he could see the state of the world today.
"I reckon he'd think energy saving light-bulbs were for dickheads, hey." Matt offered. "And he'd probably say something really slack about Anna Nicole Smith, like that her baby was retarded or something. Jeremy was a bit of a cunt hey." Matt paused to give Sancia a sidelong glanced that suggested profundity, but just showed off his fake diamonte earring he hadn't taken out since he got it pierced on schoolies. After the pause he spoke again, "I definetly don't think that Jez would've agreed with selling QANTAS overseas."
Sance for short saw straight through Matt's tribute. "You're just trying to prove to me that you read the paper, aren't you?"
"Nah, I know for a fact Anna Nicole Smith died."
"That statement said absolutely nothing."
"Well, she did."
"You're an idiot. I hope you realise that. You are an idiot with an infected diamonte that's only purpose is to warn people via reflective light that you are the kind of person who puts a diamonte stud in their ear then leaves it in for five years after. And they were never fucken fashionable!"
This floored Matt, as he had always suspected that Sance for short had secretly liked the earring. It hurt him that she voiced a strong opinion that suggested otherwise. And he had read the paper that day.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
The Summer TV of Blogs
I have suffered from writers-block during this week. Being a blogger that disapproves of non-ironic self indulgence, I already hate myself for the sentence that precedes this one.
The problem with writing this blog in particular is that it is very difficult to be serious, as those who have read previous posts will see this as a precedent of what this blog is. It is surely not appropriate to pour your emotions and worries into the same medium that you once pointed out to readers, "Not all gays have fannies." Sometimes the truth is better left untold (apparently it's correct, they mostly have penises).
Due to this writer's block, I have decided to cleanse my drafts folder of all the things (much like uni) that I have started but never finished in the last few weeks. It's like a compilation album put together of b-sides and rarities that were never mastered or released because it wasn't deemed good enough.
-
The weekend took a turn for the worst after a large group of men in bright-coloured denim cut-offs stole my ID and important cards. This conclusion was drawn when I arrived home from the Good Vibrations Festival to find them missing. Although I didn't see anyone take them (men in cutoffs are notoriously good pick pockets, they also have beautiful tans).
-
Sitting at work this evening I was notably impressed when the radio informed me that a 72 year old indigenous man had ran away from RPA Hospital - he was admitted only moments before, after suffering a heroin overdose.
-
The Man With A Fish's Head sat alone, staring into his beer, his hands propped up against his gills. He could vaguely hear the noise of the Queen Of The Nile mid-feature, making someone a little bit richer and someone else a big bit poorer. The thought of this didn't sadden him any further as The Man With A Fish's Head was a staunch capitalist - most people with non-human body parts usually are.
Draining the last of his beer, The Man With A Fish's Head sat contemplating the ashtray sitting slightly off-centre on the round table, that, tonight, was a table for one. Would he walk out into the main bar and get himself another drink? Someone would probably buy him one anyway. The funny thing about being a novelty was that everyone at your local pub smiles politely, the staff have your drink of choice (in his case, Reschs) waiting for him seconds after walking through the door. Sometimes, people even buy you a drink (usually VB or New though, idiots). But for all the pleasantries and inclusion in fellow-drinkers rounds, The Man With A Fish's Head always ended up sitting alone at a table built for two or three.
-
Wanker Type 1:
Wanker Type 1 (WT1) is in his mid-30s, badly dressed, shocking hair, no friends, hates his job (in IT)/life/you and drinks 15-20 schooners a day for which he would accompany each with 2-3 cigarettes.
WT1 still manages to stare down at you through his nose every day and sneer at your attempts at friendliness. WT1 is so happy being and unhappy alcoholic
-
Not quite, but I am working on it. I was told once by a lecturer that journalists should not write in the first person unless they have been writing for 15 (and that numbers below 20 should be spelled in letters) years. I also learnt that many articles written in the first person can come across a bit self indulgent and arrogant. Then I learnt that a collection of crude paragraphs usually starting with "Oh my God I was so pissed on the weekend" and ending with "but I didn´t pick up" written on a blog are not an "article" and certainly do not make me a "journalist".
The problem with writing this blog in particular is that it is very difficult to be serious, as those who have read previous posts will see this as a precedent of what this blog is. It is surely not appropriate to pour your emotions and worries into the same medium that you once pointed out to readers, "Not all gays have fannies." Sometimes the truth is better left untold (apparently it's correct, they mostly have penises).
Due to this writer's block, I have decided to cleanse my drafts folder of all the things (much like uni) that I have started but never finished in the last few weeks. It's like a compilation album put together of b-sides and rarities that were never mastered or released because it wasn't deemed good enough.
-
The weekend took a turn for the worst after a large group of men in bright-coloured denim cut-offs stole my ID and important cards. This conclusion was drawn when I arrived home from the Good Vibrations Festival to find them missing. Although I didn't see anyone take them (men in cutoffs are notoriously good pick pockets, they also have beautiful tans).
-
Sitting at work this evening I was notably impressed when the radio informed me that a 72 year old indigenous man had ran away from RPA Hospital - he was admitted only moments before, after suffering a heroin overdose.
-
The Man With A Fish's Head sat alone, staring into his beer, his hands propped up against his gills. He could vaguely hear the noise of the Queen Of The Nile mid-feature, making someone a little bit richer and someone else a big bit poorer. The thought of this didn't sadden him any further as The Man With A Fish's Head was a staunch capitalist - most people with non-human body parts usually are.
Draining the last of his beer, The Man With A Fish's Head sat contemplating the ashtray sitting slightly off-centre on the round table, that, tonight, was a table for one. Would he walk out into the main bar and get himself another drink? Someone would probably buy him one anyway. The funny thing about being a novelty was that everyone at your local pub smiles politely, the staff have your drink of choice (in his case, Reschs) waiting for him seconds after walking through the door. Sometimes, people even buy you a drink (usually VB or New though, idiots). But for all the pleasantries and inclusion in fellow-drinkers rounds, The Man With A Fish's Head always ended up sitting alone at a table built for two or three.
-
Wanker Type 1:
Wanker Type 1 (WT1) is in his mid-30s, badly dressed, shocking hair, no friends, hates his job (in IT)/life/you and drinks 15-20 schooners a day for which he would accompany each with 2-3 cigarettes.
WT1 still manages to stare down at you through his nose every day and sneer at your attempts at friendliness. WT1 is so happy being and unhappy alcoholic
-
Not quite, but I am working on it. I was told once by a lecturer that journalists should not write in the first person unless they have been writing for 15 (and that numbers below 20 should be spelled in letters) years. I also learnt that many articles written in the first person can come across a bit self indulgent and arrogant. Then I learnt that a collection of crude paragraphs usually starting with "Oh my God I was so pissed on the weekend" and ending with "but I didn´t pick up" written on a blog are not an "article" and certainly do not make me a "journalist".
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Shorter and of lower quality than expected, no kudos.
Having only eaten/drunk soup pre-work this evening, I made a trip to City Convenience to buy a pie. On my way back through the lobby my Little Security Guard Friend (not to be confused with Little Hoodrat Friend) engaged me in some conversation:
"Where'd ya get food from at this hour?"
"City Convenience," I replied. "Not a huge number of options open at this hour," I added, thoughtfully"
"Jeez, they charge like wounded dogs don't they?"
"Yeah."
"You see, you don't buy your cokes there! How much did you pay for it?"
"I'm not sure, I didn't really pay attention."
"Nah. If you go down to the dock, they're only $1.40"
"OK?"
"Sometimes the bloke'll even sling you a free one... Yep, the dock is where to get your cokes from."
"Alright thanks I'll..."
"Yeah... on level 24 they're $1.80, and they're only $1.40 at the dock."
"Thanks."
Suitably underwhelmed with the conversation I returned to level 27 to eat my pie, which was underwhelming, suitably.
Not so underwhelming was the latest on my scanner, which informs me that a POI (person of interest) has "lit his own hair on fire before absconding into the night." Apparently this was the only reason he was a POI in the first place, previous to that he was simply a man in Kings Cross. It is funny how the circumstances of a night can change you. It's a bit like when my friend Wags drunk too much, wet his pants, and wasn't allowed on the boat for our year 11 formal. It actually isn't at all, I'm just interested to know if Wags reads this.
(newsworthy soliloquy)
I pity any ex-employees of the UNSW School of Anatomy who did not "sexually interfere" with body parts.
"Where'd ya get food from at this hour?"
"City Convenience," I replied. "Not a huge number of options open at this hour," I added, thoughtfully"
"Jeez, they charge like wounded dogs don't they?"
"Yeah."
"You see, you don't buy your cokes there! How much did you pay for it?"
"I'm not sure, I didn't really pay attention."
"Nah. If you go down to the dock, they're only $1.40"
"OK?"
"Sometimes the bloke'll even sling you a free one... Yep, the dock is where to get your cokes from."
"Alright thanks I'll..."
"Yeah... on level 24 they're $1.80, and they're only $1.40 at the dock."
"Thanks."
Suitably underwhelmed with the conversation I returned to level 27 to eat my pie, which was underwhelming, suitably.
Not so underwhelming was the latest on my scanner, which informs me that a POI (person of interest) has "lit his own hair on fire before absconding into the night." Apparently this was the only reason he was a POI in the first place, previous to that he was simply a man in Kings Cross. It is funny how the circumstances of a night can change you. It's a bit like when my friend Wags drunk too much, wet his pants, and wasn't allowed on the boat for our year 11 formal. It actually isn't at all, I'm just interested to know if Wags reads this.
(newsworthy soliloquy)
I pity any ex-employees of the UNSW School of Anatomy who did not "sexually interfere" with body parts.
Sunday, January 21, 2007
Boring and irrelevant. No kudos.
Having not blogged in a while, I am at a loss as to where to start. For there has been no shortage of blog-worthy moments/events in this blog-worthy world. Did you hear that blogging is changing the way the current generation gather their information? I did! Look out traditional forms of media!
Where to start:
I could start with going to the Falls Festival, when the evil Simmo emerged from deep within Brad and traded in an entire days live music for a once in a lifetime opportunity of drinking 3 litres of bourbon and mistook a fellow festival-goer for a carbon-neutral festival-toilet.
I could start later that evening, when a sunburnt blogger went missing and two readers attempted to locate him by screaming " www.bigcoronasortinymen.blogspot.com! " Thankfully he was found, URL intact and was returned back into the safe hands of parent-company, Google.
I could start from Melbourne where a hotel room debate raged over whether it was possible to find true love with someone who was
"amazing in every way. But, was only four foot six and was a bit special."
"Head special? Or leg special"
"leg"
"definetly."
Or I could start last week, on holidays in Perth when me and my companions found ourselves out at dinner with about six girls. I found myself placed at a quiet end of the table surrounded by two girls who wore alot of make-up (I was going to make a "wearing the ENTIRE L'Oreal counter" joke, but they have all been taken by Miranda Devine and Maggie Alderson to describe people like them that don't have a column in a weekend liftout.) One of them described what she did as "nothing", and the other one had a fully blown English accent and when asked where she was from said "Perth" - but she's "based" (read, on exchange for uni) in England now, and has just popped back for a spot of holidaying in the colonies. The cultural cringe is still alive and well in Perth, apparently.
Tom provided perhaps my favourite point in the conversation, when he asked a carefully aimed zinger:
"So you girls are all school friends, when did you leave school"
"Umm, what year was it? I can't remember it feels like so long ago now."
"How old are you again?"
"Nineteen."
"...So it was probably the year before last year then?"
One of them was named Evette, which we quickly renamed ciga-vette because you shouldn't inflict her on children - they might catch boring.
It would be a stretch, but what about starting with my interview with a careers advisor in late-2002 where I was given a huge list of careers and was told to tick all the ones I thought I might like to do?:
"You picked pop-star. Do you play music?"
"No, I did play the violin for a while, but not any more."
"Well, why did you pick it then?"
"You said to pick jobs that I would like to do."
"They are meant to be jobs that you could realistically do."
"Well, I could start playing music."
"Ok, working in a bar or nightclub?"
"Yep"
"That's something you would like to do?"
"Yeah, I reckon I'd like that."
"As a career?"
"Maybe not as a career, but while I was at uni and stuff."
"See, we are here to talk about careers, not casual work."
"Okay"
"Professional sportsperson?"
"Yeah, that would be an awesome job."
"What sports do you play?"
"I play rugby for school."
"Is it something you think you could do professionally?"
"well, I'm in the thirds - but the standards are quite high, and I'm pretty sure I deserved to at least be in the seconds, the coach doesn't like me."
...
"Write a novel."
"Yeah, I reckon I'd do that."
"Did you get a good mark in English?"
"Not really, I actually did better in maths, but I don't like maths or science."
"Writers need strong English. And writing a novel isn't really something you can do for a job straight away."
"Then why is it on the list?"
...
"what do you think I should do then"
"leisure management at UTS Kuringai Campus."
"... I was thinking when I went to uni I would rather go somewhere in the city."
"But you live on the north shore."
"Yeah, but I thought it would be good to meet different people and stuff."
"So where do you want to go? Sydney Uni?
"Yeah"
"It takes about an hour to get there you know?"
"Yeah, I wouldn't mind."
"And you can't do leisure management there either."
"I don't think I really want to do that."
"What else are you going to do?"
(silence)
"I bought a video I made for a thing at school, if you want to see that."
"What's it about?"
"Well, it's pretty funny - it's about trying to find an athletics trophy, which we eventually find in a toilet but the voices came out really bad so we put music in instead and used subtitles."
"So you want to be a filmmaker?"
THE START.
Currently listening: Police Scanner
Where to start:
I could start with going to the Falls Festival, when the evil Simmo emerged from deep within Brad and traded in an entire days live music for a once in a lifetime opportunity of drinking 3 litres of bourbon and mistook a fellow festival-goer for a carbon-neutral festival-toilet.
I could start later that evening, when a sunburnt blogger went missing and two readers attempted to locate him by screaming " www.bigcoronasortinymen.blogspot.com! " Thankfully he was found, URL intact and was returned back into the safe hands of parent-company, Google.
I could start from Melbourne where a hotel room debate raged over whether it was possible to find true love with someone who was
"amazing in every way. But, was only four foot six and was a bit special."
"Head special? Or leg special"
"leg"
"definetly."
Or I could start last week, on holidays in Perth when me and my companions found ourselves out at dinner with about six girls. I found myself placed at a quiet end of the table surrounded by two girls who wore alot of make-up (I was going to make a "wearing the ENTIRE L'Oreal counter" joke, but they have all been taken by Miranda Devine and Maggie Alderson to describe people like them that don't have a column in a weekend liftout.) One of them described what she did as "nothing", and the other one had a fully blown English accent and when asked where she was from said "Perth" - but she's "based" (read, on exchange for uni) in England now, and has just popped back for a spot of holidaying in the colonies. The cultural cringe is still alive and well in Perth, apparently.
Tom provided perhaps my favourite point in the conversation, when he asked a carefully aimed zinger:
"So you girls are all school friends, when did you leave school"
"Umm, what year was it? I can't remember it feels like so long ago now."
"How old are you again?"
"Nineteen."
"...So it was probably the year before last year then?"
One of them was named Evette, which we quickly renamed ciga-vette because you shouldn't inflict her on children - they might catch boring.
It would be a stretch, but what about starting with my interview with a careers advisor in late-2002 where I was given a huge list of careers and was told to tick all the ones I thought I might like to do?:
"You picked pop-star. Do you play music?"
"No, I did play the violin for a while, but not any more."
"Well, why did you pick it then?"
"You said to pick jobs that I would like to do."
"They are meant to be jobs that you could realistically do."
"Well, I could start playing music."
"Ok, working in a bar or nightclub?"
"Yep"
"That's something you would like to do?"
"Yeah, I reckon I'd like that."
"As a career?"
"Maybe not as a career, but while I was at uni and stuff."
"See, we are here to talk about careers, not casual work."
"Okay"
"Professional sportsperson?"
"Yeah, that would be an awesome job."
"What sports do you play?"
"I play rugby for school."
"Is it something you think you could do professionally?"
"well, I'm in the thirds - but the standards are quite high, and I'm pretty sure I deserved to at least be in the seconds, the coach doesn't like me."
...
"Write a novel."
"Yeah, I reckon I'd do that."
"Did you get a good mark in English?"
"Not really, I actually did better in maths, but I don't like maths or science."
"Writers need strong English. And writing a novel isn't really something you can do for a job straight away."
"Then why is it on the list?"
...
"what do you think I should do then"
"leisure management at UTS Kuringai Campus."
"... I was thinking when I went to uni I would rather go somewhere in the city."
"But you live on the north shore."
"Yeah, but I thought it would be good to meet different people and stuff."
"So where do you want to go? Sydney Uni?
"Yeah"
"It takes about an hour to get there you know?"
"Yeah, I wouldn't mind."
"And you can't do leisure management there either."
"I don't think I really want to do that."
"What else are you going to do?"
(silence)
"I bought a video I made for a thing at school, if you want to see that."
"What's it about?"
"Well, it's pretty funny - it's about trying to find an athletics trophy, which we eventually find in a toilet but the voices came out really bad so we put music in instead and used subtitles."
"So you want to be a filmmaker?"
THE START.
Currently listening: Police Scanner
Sunday, December 24, 2006
THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS
I know exactly what you are thinking... Hang on, if it's Christmas Eve, all the journalists are on holiday. What if something huge happens? Who is going to decipher newsworthiness for the country's most widely-read broadsheet in the middle in the early hours of Christmas morning?
Residents of NSW, fear not. I am here.
Alot of stuff actually happens on Christmas Eve. It isn't usually stuff you can publish, most commonly families beating each other up, and people threatening to do use themselves as a tree decoration. Dark humour aside, here is an example of a vital newspiece that only I am privy to:
"We have one POI - male, 18-25 wearing a pink shirt and a pink truckers hat running in front of traffic on the Pacific Highway in front of The Greengate Hotel."
From that description alone I can almost guarantee that I went to school with, or the private school two kilometres down the road from that guy. He is happy as shit because "everyone is here!" So happy that he even decided to match his shirt and cap. He is letting all the cars on the road know, that when is drunk he is invincible - and trying to stop him enjoying his evening jog is useless. He has been waiting all year for this and nothing will stop in, counting down days from August, and saying to everyone he runs into: "Greengate Christmas Eve? Gonna be huge!"
Anyway, as there is no paper to be released on Christmas day, I am the only one here. 27 floors of building, and I am on the top of these in my little room, flanked by darkness - If I walk to the window I can see the distinct mist of hopeless addiction rising out of the vents at Star City Casino. My regular security brother-in-darkness is rostered off, so I exchanged brief banter with a different man in a similar uniform who suggested I didn't fall asleep - to which I replied "I'll try not to!" Disappointed with my own wit I excused myself, returning to Sam In The City's yearly wrap-up post (I have since discovered that with my public holiday penalty-rates, I made over $15 reading it - which is more than I have ever made writing anything, kudos Sam).
Hurstville Channel has just informed me that two 20 year old females are fighting out the front of a pub somewhere. The bouncer believed that they were fighting over the attention of a male, I prefer to think that they were arguing over what the guy listening to the police scanner would think of it all. He thinks that girls fighting is a cliche fantasy championed by the likes of Al Bundy and Tim "The Toolman" Taylor. He would be interested to see, but is pretty sure you a both complete DON'Ts - the kind of folk who seem to be always in the regional train terminal at Central Station.
Eastwood Channel has piped up, letting me know that a man (I didn't get any earlier details) is standing on a street with his (tracksuit) pants down masturbating (probably furiously, I'll chase it up). The hardest part of my job is to know when something is important enough to wake up the Pictures Editor and Chief Of Staff to get them out there. I'm a bit worried that if I get them out of bed, by the time they get there he may have climaxed and the front page would be lost.
Merry Christmas from everyone currently in the Fairfax Building (just me).
-
If anyone needs to get in touch with me over the Christmas and new year period, I'll be the guy at Falls Festival wearing yellow zinc, footy shorts, an Australian flag and a t-shirt reading
Residents of NSW, fear not. I am here.
Alot of stuff actually happens on Christmas Eve. It isn't usually stuff you can publish, most commonly families beating each other up, and people threatening to do use themselves as a tree decoration. Dark humour aside, here is an example of a vital newspiece that only I am privy to:
"We have one POI - male, 18-25 wearing a pink shirt and a pink truckers hat running in front of traffic on the Pacific Highway in front of The Greengate Hotel."
From that description alone I can almost guarantee that I went to school with, or the private school two kilometres down the road from that guy. He is happy as shit because "everyone is here!" So happy that he even decided to match his shirt and cap. He is letting all the cars on the road know, that when is drunk he is invincible - and trying to stop him enjoying his evening jog is useless. He has been waiting all year for this and nothing will stop in, counting down days from August, and saying to everyone he runs into: "Greengate Christmas Eve? Gonna be huge!"
Anyway, as there is no paper to be released on Christmas day, I am the only one here. 27 floors of building, and I am on the top of these in my little room, flanked by darkness - If I walk to the window I can see the distinct mist of hopeless addiction rising out of the vents at Star City Casino. My regular security brother-in-darkness is rostered off, so I exchanged brief banter with a different man in a similar uniform who suggested I didn't fall asleep - to which I replied "I'll try not to!" Disappointed with my own wit I excused myself, returning to Sam In The City's yearly wrap-up post (I have since discovered that with my public holiday penalty-rates, I made over $15 reading it - which is more than I have ever made writing anything, kudos Sam).
Hurstville Channel has just informed me that two 20 year old females are fighting out the front of a pub somewhere. The bouncer believed that they were fighting over the attention of a male, I prefer to think that they were arguing over what the guy listening to the police scanner would think of it all. He thinks that girls fighting is a cliche fantasy championed by the likes of Al Bundy and Tim "The Toolman" Taylor. He would be interested to see, but is pretty sure you a both complete DON'Ts - the kind of folk who seem to be always in the regional train terminal at Central Station.
Eastwood Channel has piped up, letting me know that a man (I didn't get any earlier details) is standing on a street with his (tracksuit) pants down masturbating (probably furiously, I'll chase it up). The hardest part of my job is to know when something is important enough to wake up the Pictures Editor and Chief Of Staff to get them out there. I'm a bit worried that if I get them out of bed, by the time they get there he may have climaxed and the front page would be lost.
Merry Christmas from everyone currently in the Fairfax Building (just me).
-
If anyone needs to get in touch with me over the Christmas and new year period, I'll be the guy at Falls Festival wearing yellow zinc, footy shorts, an Australian flag and a t-shirt reading
"The Boys' Falls Trip '06
Beers, Bitches, Blunts & Biccies (sic)
GET A HAIRY DOG UP YA!"
Sincerely,
The Boys
Sunday, December 17, 2006
working on Sunday...
Seemed like a great idea, it's not like it's Saturday night, I can still go out and sleep in on Sunday morning (which I did).
However, being horribly hung over after Saturday night means that I will feel like this until I get home from work at approximately 6:30am on Monday morning... around 24hours after I got physically removed from the Judgement Bar and sent out into the beautiful Crown Street morning: birds were chirping, the sun was shining people in a new-romantic state of dress were trying to remember where their phone was... so they could call their dealers, and I was having a laugh (not at women, with women).
Nina's birthday (why is it always Nina's birthday?) was good cause for food and longnecks to be consumed. After that we went to The Brag's Christmas party where I made my job sound far more important than it was to the door-list people - "I just didn't think I would need to RSVP... I am James from The Music Network!"
After our group managed to all get in (cool, much?) it wasn't long before I found myself in one of those states where the only thing going through your mind is "how did I get this drunk, I was just making fun of Ng today for falling asleep at dinner last night... And I'm not even Asian!"
At risk of turning this into "holy shit I got drunk last night, it was off the hook, you don't even know!" story, I will end it as I do not have the energy - it took everything I had to muster the energy to read Sam In The City tonight... Lucky I did, it turns out confidence is in and urinating on partners chest's is out.
The night was really summed up when, a touch before 7am I strolled through the door at home to dicover that our house now had a Christmas tree with presents underneath. I wrote a note to my flatmates expressing how impressed I was with the tree.
It read:
Nikki + Gerar(scribble)
You tree so beaatiful I wanted ta cry
- Here I signed some kind of name, I couldn't read it but I'm pretty sure the word "wanker" was in there.
However, being horribly hung over after Saturday night means that I will feel like this until I get home from work at approximately 6:30am on Monday morning... around 24hours after I got physically removed from the Judgement Bar and sent out into the beautiful Crown Street morning: birds were chirping, the sun was shining people in a new-romantic state of dress were trying to remember where their phone was... so they could call their dealers, and I was having a laugh (not at women, with women).
Nina's birthday (why is it always Nina's birthday?) was good cause for food and longnecks to be consumed. After that we went to The Brag's Christmas party where I made my job sound far more important than it was to the door-list people - "I just didn't think I would need to RSVP... I am James from The Music Network!"
After our group managed to all get in (cool, much?) it wasn't long before I found myself in one of those states where the only thing going through your mind is "how did I get this drunk, I was just making fun of Ng today for falling asleep at dinner last night... And I'm not even Asian!"
At risk of turning this into "holy shit I got drunk last night, it was off the hook, you don't even know!" story, I will end it as I do not have the energy - it took everything I had to muster the energy to read Sam In The City tonight... Lucky I did, it turns out confidence is in and urinating on partners chest's is out.
The night was really summed up when, a touch before 7am I strolled through the door at home to dicover that our house now had a Christmas tree with presents underneath. I wrote a note to my flatmates expressing how impressed I was with the tree.
It read:
Nikki + Gerar(scribble)
You tree so beaatiful I wanted ta cry
- Here I signed some kind of name, I couldn't read it but I'm pretty sure the word "wanker" was in there.
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
Those who can, do. Those who can't, go into advertising.
"Is it unAustralian to watch cricket just because it makes Weiss Bars taste better?" I mused from my couch yesterday afternoon. Not having to work made me very happy indeed. The answer came to me quicker than Will Gilroy (you probably don't even read this) at a 'short tailored shorts and all-white canvas shoes' sale. "
Don't be a bloody idiot James," Australian Idol Damian Leith sneered at me from across the couch. "The simple fact is, Weiss Bars make watching cricket far more enjoyable. When was the last time you enjoyed watching cricket without one?"
"Well Damian, I can't really think..."
"Of course you can't! Dumb Fuck. That's the whole point. Weiss Bars make cricket more enjoyable."
"I get it now! Weiss Bars make everything more enjoyable!"
"That's right" (launches into song about Weiss Bars, entirely falsetto)
Considering that I may get sick of working in the middle of the night at some stage, I decided to start freelance ad-writing. The above was the script for a TV ad for Weiss Bars based loosely on a true experience I had yesterday. In reality, the afternoon panned out very smoothly. Steve shared a few of his innermost thoughts with me.
The first was not so controversial, being that he found "something very attractive" about the girl in the MBF ad that is aired frequently during Nine's coverage of the cricket. Observation number two proved far more newsworthy. After a minute or so silence during a seperate ad-break, I was just about to resurrect an earlier conversation discussing the pros and cons of a particular individual ("he's just a fucken' cunt," being most notable contribution) when I was interrupted with, "I really like the jeans Pat Rafter wears in that undies ad." He quickly pointed out that it was not so much the sight of Rafter in the jeans that he enjoyed, rather the thought of owning and wearing them himself.
I made him a cup of tea and suggested that he contacted someone from Bonds or Pacific Brands to find out where he could accquire said pants. If anyone knows, I think they are placed at number two on his Christmas wishlist, just under a pair of Mark Weber's driving gloves (signed preferably). My second day off lacked the same sheen. After an early sleep in I decided to do my washing.
"Who Cares?" you say, doing a bad Simmo impersonation.
"You do," I say (nodding).
In an attempt to wash my sheets and towels, I managed to also wash my mobile phone. My annoyance at being uncontactable on a boring Tuesday off work was only enhanced by the fact that I would also be unable to source a pair of jeans for my close friend and sometimes broadcast partner.
I also read an unauthorised biography of Ricky Gervais. Good read, no major suprises, he's still a comic genius, that feels nearly nothing for BB06 contestants:
Don't be a bloody idiot James," Australian Idol Damian Leith sneered at me from across the couch. "The simple fact is, Weiss Bars make watching cricket far more enjoyable. When was the last time you enjoyed watching cricket without one?"
"Well Damian, I can't really think..."
"Of course you can't! Dumb Fuck. That's the whole point. Weiss Bars make cricket more enjoyable."
"I get it now! Weiss Bars make everything more enjoyable!"
"That's right" (launches into song about Weiss Bars, entirely falsetto)
Considering that I may get sick of working in the middle of the night at some stage, I decided to start freelance ad-writing. The above was the script for a TV ad for Weiss Bars based loosely on a true experience I had yesterday. In reality, the afternoon panned out very smoothly. Steve shared a few of his innermost thoughts with me.
The first was not so controversial, being that he found "something very attractive" about the girl in the MBF ad that is aired frequently during Nine's coverage of the cricket. Observation number two proved far more newsworthy. After a minute or so silence during a seperate ad-break, I was just about to resurrect an earlier conversation discussing the pros and cons of a particular individual ("he's just a fucken' cunt," being most notable contribution) when I was interrupted with, "I really like the jeans Pat Rafter wears in that undies ad." He quickly pointed out that it was not so much the sight of Rafter in the jeans that he enjoyed, rather the thought of owning and wearing them himself.
I made him a cup of tea and suggested that he contacted someone from Bonds or Pacific Brands to find out where he could accquire said pants. If anyone knows, I think they are placed at number two on his Christmas wishlist, just under a pair of Mark Weber's driving gloves (signed preferably). My second day off lacked the same sheen. After an early sleep in I decided to do my washing.
"Who Cares?" you say, doing a bad Simmo impersonation.
"You do," I say (nodding).
In an attempt to wash my sheets and towels, I managed to also wash my mobile phone. My annoyance at being uncontactable on a boring Tuesday off work was only enhanced by the fact that I would also be unable to source a pair of jeans for my close friend and sometimes broadcast partner.
I also read an unauthorised biography of Ricky Gervais. Good read, no major suprises, he's still a comic genius, that feels nearly nothing for BB06 contestants:
"I watch reality shows to hate the people in them. Desperate wannabes. What will you do for fame? Anything. I'll show my fanny and wank off a pig. Well done."
I thought Gervais was particularly out of line with this call. Not all gays have fannies.
Monday, November 27, 2006
The Veronicas, Max from Big Brother and Myf Warhurst (myfwar-HURST)
INTRO - Irrelevant My security guard mate did not greet me with his regular warmth as I arrived for work tonight. I feel something may be on his mind. If I was a regular day time worker, I would ask him if he is alright. However, it is my strict duty, as a fellow night-shift worker to only talk about working at night, usually with jokes
'NUB PAR' AND END OF INTRO:
A commonly used example of one of these jokes is simply: "good morning!" This is hilarious as it is 10pm, and not morning at all. Regular "day-folk" (as we have come to know them) may use a variation, say, "good evening" when a co-worker arrives at 9:15am instead of the regular starting time of 9:00am.
CONCLUSION: I have recently discovered that having membership cards to nightclubs in Sydney make you a better person. Until last Friday I always assumed that this law of thumb was limited to members of the Cargo Bar/Bourbon ideology, who invariably preach the following:
1. Losers in pastel tsubis (ksubi?)/popped collars/both go upstairs
2. Bigger losers in pastel tsubis/popped collars/both with no female company downstairs
3. Females are usually granted entry, on which level will depend on various things: calibre/lack of male company, looks AND age
4. Ethnic minorities need not apply, unless they are a) Of Asian appearance, but "ok, because you talk like us and play sport"*
- Example 1: Yumi Stynes
- Example 2: Richard Cheequee (former NSW cricketer and rhythm guitarist in Brett Lee's musical side project "Six And Out"
- Example 3: Anyone that works in high-end street fashion retail
b) The exception in a group
- Example 1: The one Indian male that seems to inhabit every cricket team
- Example 2: Akmal Saleh hanging out with Shane Bourke, Tom Gleisner and Fifi Box after filming Thank God You're Here nb Tony Martin and Arj Barker both agreed that a night club was "a bit much for a weeknight."
- Example 3: The singer from Bloc Party
c) Refreshingly not-white, but popular with white people
- Example 1: Jessica Mauboy
- Example 2: Ernie Dingo
- Example 3: Singer from Bloc Party
*Special thanks to Simon Ng for use of that brilliant quote from unnamed ex-student of a school that has a girl in it's cricket team.
... Well, having been given a members card to Vegas, which lives just above Q-Bar, I met up for my scheduled date with The Veronicas on Friday night. Having heard great things from Lowie (unemployed) I was a bit disappointed to here them use the "c" word so many times in each sentence. Apparently they learnt it from a Channel V presenter of Asian descent who, funnily enough, gets the nod for upstairs Cargo on even the busiest Saturday night. My spirits were lifted when I finally (see previous post) got to meet Myf Warhurst (read: Myfwar-HURST) as she was sans security for the evening. The conversation laid itself out in the following way:
Pierced lip Veronica: "James, this is Myf"
Alan Borough's opposing captain in Spicks and Specks: "Hi, nice to meet you"
Simmo's oldest and most loyal subject: "Hello Myf! I know you from television!"
As I watched my chances of being on Myf's team during next series evaporate into the busy smoke-vents of the Vegas Lounge I shrugged, turned, and went searching for a TV personality stupid enough to appreciate the level of conversation that the evenings consumption had left me with.
This didn't take long at all, as just as we spilled out onto Oxford St, after exchanging quick hugs with the most huggable member of Roshambo, we ran into Max, the not-at-all-loveable intruder from BB06, who (and I don't have a fact checker handy, my security guard friend downstairs firmly takes no interest in the cult of the celebrity, and decries the idea of fame for fames sake) I believe pashed Camilla.
My line worked far better this time, and resulted in not only one, but three photos. The best of which I have pictured here.
The Veronicas and BB06s very own Max.
'NUB PAR' AND END OF INTRO:
A commonly used example of one of these jokes is simply: "good morning!" This is hilarious as it is 10pm, and not morning at all. Regular "day-folk" (as we have come to know them) may use a variation, say, "good evening" when a co-worker arrives at 9:15am instead of the regular starting time of 9:00am.
CONCLUSION: I have recently discovered that having membership cards to nightclubs in Sydney make you a better person. Until last Friday I always assumed that this law of thumb was limited to members of the Cargo Bar/Bourbon ideology, who invariably preach the following:
1. Losers in pastel tsubis (ksubi?)/popped collars/both go upstairs
2. Bigger losers in pastel tsubis/popped collars/both with no female company downstairs
3. Females are usually granted entry, on which level will depend on various things: calibre/lack of male company, looks AND age
4. Ethnic minorities need not apply, unless they are a) Of Asian appearance, but "ok, because you talk like us and play sport"*
- Example 1: Yumi Stynes
- Example 2: Richard Cheequee (former NSW cricketer and rhythm guitarist in Brett Lee's musical side project "Six And Out"
- Example 3: Anyone that works in high-end street fashion retail
b) The exception in a group
- Example 1: The one Indian male that seems to inhabit every cricket team
- Example 2: Akmal Saleh hanging out with Shane Bourke, Tom Gleisner and Fifi Box after filming Thank God You're Here nb Tony Martin and Arj Barker both agreed that a night club was "a bit much for a weeknight."
- Example 3: The singer from Bloc Party
c) Refreshingly not-white, but popular with white people
- Example 1: Jessica Mauboy
- Example 2: Ernie Dingo
- Example 3: Singer from Bloc Party
*Special thanks to Simon Ng for use of that brilliant quote from unnamed ex-student of a school that has a girl in it's cricket team.
... Well, having been given a members card to Vegas, which lives just above Q-Bar, I met up for my scheduled date with The Veronicas on Friday night. Having heard great things from Lowie (unemployed) I was a bit disappointed to here them use the "c" word so many times in each sentence. Apparently they learnt it from a Channel V presenter of Asian descent who, funnily enough, gets the nod for upstairs Cargo on even the busiest Saturday night. My spirits were lifted when I finally (see previous post) got to meet Myf Warhurst (read: Myfwar-HURST) as she was sans security for the evening. The conversation laid itself out in the following way:
Pierced lip Veronica: "James, this is Myf"
Alan Borough's opposing captain in Spicks and Specks: "Hi, nice to meet you"
Simmo's oldest and most loyal subject: "Hello Myf! I know you from television!"
As I watched my chances of being on Myf's team during next series evaporate into the busy smoke-vents of the Vegas Lounge I shrugged, turned, and went searching for a TV personality stupid enough to appreciate the level of conversation that the evenings consumption had left me with.
This didn't take long at all, as just as we spilled out onto Oxford St, after exchanging quick hugs with the most huggable member of Roshambo, we ran into Max, the not-at-all-loveable intruder from BB06, who (and I don't have a fact checker handy, my security guard friend downstairs firmly takes no interest in the cult of the celebrity, and decries the idea of fame for fames sake) I believe pashed Camilla.
My line worked far better this time, and resulted in not only one, but three photos. The best of which I have pictured here.
The Veronicas and BB06s very own Max.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
A lesson in not caring.
Having a job that starts at 10pm and finishes at 6am, with only minimal tasks to complete leaves alot of time for getting things done. So far, I have spent most of my downtime in the toilets thinking: "wow, Sam Brett has probably urinated in here". It took me two full weeks to realise that I was in the men's, and that Sam Brett probably saves all her urine for the chest of her older lover. She's very sexually open minded, you see.
I've also managed to make friends with the security guard down stairs. When I ask him how he's been going, he usually replies:
"Good mate, finished work this morning, few bourbon and cokes, few ciggies, read a magazine, watered some plants. Slept like a baby mate." I tried to explain to him, that if he is listing things with commas in between, he should say "and" between the last two: "read a magazine (AND) watered some plants".
He wasn't interested. This is part of the reason we are so close, it is a friendship built on working during the night, and continually justifying to other people why working all night is awesome, and that you wouldn't be doing anything else. When really, people work during the night because the people that are better/more experienced at the job, prefer to work during the day.
Last night, in between listening to licence checks and whispering sweet everythings to my security mate, I decided to write a blog entry. An hour and a half later, I had covered nearly everything: Nina's party last Friday, wanker dress policies at shit pubs in Double Bay that you didn't want to go to anyway AND why Myf Warhurst had five female body guards surrounding her at all times at said party. Alas, blogger.com failed me, and I ended up losing it all. Rather than recreate what I lost last night, I thought I might to a textual tribute to the career of Ian Thorpe. This proved harder than I initially thought, as you really can't do Thorpie justice with text only, pictures are essential. Nevertheless, I did a few "20 to 1" style interviews with people on what they thought about Thorpie, his career, his early retirement AND what his future held for him. The only people that were available to comment were Molly Meldrum, Tracey Grimshaw AND Simmo. Here for your reading pleasure is the only one of the three subjects that really captured what the "20 to 1" format is really about.
TOP SECRET: BCorTM's INTERVIEW TRANSCRIPTS WITH SIMMO RE IAN THORPE'S CAREER.
BCorTM: So Simmo, what does the name Ian Thorpe mean to you.
Simmo: I think it's fair to say, without any reservation, that Thorpie was not only a bloody fantastic swimmer, but also a fine ambassador for this country in every sense of the word.
BCorTM: I hear you are quite close to Ian?
Simmo: Well, I'm not gay like you if that's what you're suggesting. You probably need to leave the interview early to go set up for the Mardi Gras you're so gay.
BCorTM: What about...
Simmo: (cutting in) Where's this interview going anyway. My agent said that this gig would just be a few "kicking arse" quotes, then shots of me saying "Pie-Powerade-Bed". I only came here to plug my book, this shit would have never happen if fucken Rove hadn't cancelled his show. You probably haven't even read Simmotown... Who do I have to root in this city to get some publicity? Fucken Borat has taken all allotted "novelty alter-ego" attention and there is nothing left. Well, fuck this, there are too many unopened beers in this world for me to be fucking around with this publication. You aren't worth me wasting any quotes of pre-packaged suburban cricket vernacular on. Welcome to first grade, I don't think you'll last long.
INTERVIEW END
Simmo was seen later that day yelling "WHO CARES?" at terminally ill children out the front of Randwick Children's Hospital.
I've also managed to make friends with the security guard down stairs. When I ask him how he's been going, he usually replies:
"Good mate, finished work this morning, few bourbon and cokes, few ciggies, read a magazine, watered some plants. Slept like a baby mate." I tried to explain to him, that if he is listing things with commas in between, he should say "and" between the last two: "read a magazine (AND) watered some plants".
He wasn't interested. This is part of the reason we are so close, it is a friendship built on working during the night, and continually justifying to other people why working all night is awesome, and that you wouldn't be doing anything else. When really, people work during the night because the people that are better/more experienced at the job, prefer to work during the day.
Last night, in between listening to licence checks and whispering sweet everythings to my security mate, I decided to write a blog entry. An hour and a half later, I had covered nearly everything: Nina's party last Friday, wanker dress policies at shit pubs in Double Bay that you didn't want to go to anyway AND why Myf Warhurst had five female body guards surrounding her at all times at said party. Alas, blogger.com failed me, and I ended up losing it all. Rather than recreate what I lost last night, I thought I might to a textual tribute to the career of Ian Thorpe. This proved harder than I initially thought, as you really can't do Thorpie justice with text only, pictures are essential. Nevertheless, I did a few "20 to 1" style interviews with people on what they thought about Thorpie, his career, his early retirement AND what his future held for him. The only people that were available to comment were Molly Meldrum, Tracey Grimshaw AND Simmo. Here for your reading pleasure is the only one of the three subjects that really captured what the "20 to 1" format is really about.
TOP SECRET: BCorTM's INTERVIEW TRANSCRIPTS WITH SIMMO RE IAN THORPE'S CAREER.
BCorTM: So Simmo, what does the name Ian Thorpe mean to you.
Simmo: I think it's fair to say, without any reservation, that Thorpie was not only a bloody fantastic swimmer, but also a fine ambassador for this country in every sense of the word.
BCorTM: I hear you are quite close to Ian?
Simmo: Well, I'm not gay like you if that's what you're suggesting. You probably need to leave the interview early to go set up for the Mardi Gras you're so gay.
BCorTM: What about...
Simmo: (cutting in) Where's this interview going anyway. My agent said that this gig would just be a few "kicking arse" quotes, then shots of me saying "Pie-Powerade-Bed". I only came here to plug my book, this shit would have never happen if fucken Rove hadn't cancelled his show. You probably haven't even read Simmotown... Who do I have to root in this city to get some publicity? Fucken Borat has taken all allotted "novelty alter-ego" attention and there is nothing left. Well, fuck this, there are too many unopened beers in this world for me to be fucking around with this publication. You aren't worth me wasting any quotes of pre-packaged suburban cricket vernacular on. Welcome to first grade, I don't think you'll last long.
INTERVIEW END
Simmo was seen later that day yelling "WHO CARES?" at terminally ill children out the front of Randwick Children's Hospital.
Saturday, October 28, 2006
Great Humanitarians Of Our Time: Garret, Healey , Ross-Edwards
From: James Ross-Edwards
To: savebarkercricket@hotmail.com
Cc: reception@barker.nsw.edu.au, jeremy_von_einem@barker.nsw.edu.au, prudence_rogers@barker.nsw.edu.au, matthew_macoustra@barker.nsw.edu.au, hm@barker.nsw.edu.au, heather_graham@barker.nsw.edu.au, john_mock@barker.nsw.edu.au, peter_miller@barker.nsw.edu.au, colin_reid@barker.nsw.edu.au, len_nixon@barker.nsw.edu.au, newsdesk@smh.com.au, newsdesk@theage.com.au, newsroom@news.com.au, hugh.martin@news.com.au, Peter.Garrett.MP@aph.gov.au
Subject: SAVING BARKER CRICKET?
Sent: Tuesday, 24 October 2006 9:06:53 AM
To those campaigning to SAVE BARKER CRICKET,
Never have I received an email forward that has been sent to such a high calibre of Barker personalities, it really is the who´s who. Kudos, savebarkercricket@hotmail.com. I also liked what you did with the red sign, I honestly nearly shed red and blue tears of nostalgia. What a great idea to let Peter Garret know about your valiant crusade as well. I´m not sure about the MPs politics now, but I'm pretty sure I remember a Midnight Oil song that championed the tradition of a male-only cricket team, or was it Indigenous land rights?... I always forget, great band though!
I'm frightfully concerned to hear that Barker cricket is under attack, when I read the subject I thought it may have been terrorists or (far less likely) a lack of funding and resources. Imagine my shock when I read that Barket cricket needs to be saved by... a schoolgirl who happens to be talented enough to play with the boys.
Is this particular girl going to really destroy the game? Or just bruise a few egos of old, conservative Barker/cricket tragics who can't seem to see the role of the female on No. 1 Oval as venturing past The Marks Pavilion cutting oranges.
Perhaps still being in a post-adolescent stage of rebellion, I don't like to say this to the school I went to (and loved, nearly always), but to whoever is in charge of cricket - good on you. I'm sure this girl deserves her place in the team, even if it means a few whingeing old boys, and one poor kid feels emasculated for a few weeks in the seconds... It's probably a good lesson anyway, it happens alot in the future - just try studying any tertiary level humanities.
I thank you for alerting me to this problem. And in the future if Barker cricket ever comes under serious threat again: fire/flood/famine. Please, do not hesitate to contact me, I will gladly help: water/bucket/bread.
Yours sincerely,
James Ross-Edwards, Class of 2002
To: savebarkercricket@hotmail.com
Cc: reception@barker.nsw.edu.au, jeremy_von_einem@barker.nsw.edu.au, prudence_rogers@barker.nsw.edu.au, matthew_macoustra@barker.nsw.edu.au, hm@barker.nsw.edu.au, heather_graham@barker.nsw.edu.au, john_mock@barker.nsw.edu.au, peter_miller@barker.nsw.edu.au, colin_reid@barker.nsw.edu.au, len_nixon@barker.nsw.edu.au, newsdesk@smh.com.au, newsdesk@theage.com.au, newsroom@news.com.au, hugh.martin@news.com.au, Peter.Garrett.MP@aph.gov.au
Subject: SAVING BARKER CRICKET?
Sent: Tuesday, 24 October 2006 9:06:53 AM
To those campaigning to SAVE BARKER CRICKET,
Never have I received an email forward that has been sent to such a high calibre of Barker personalities, it really is the who´s who. Kudos, savebarkercricket@hotmail.com. I also liked what you did with the red sign, I honestly nearly shed red and blue tears of nostalgia. What a great idea to let Peter Garret know about your valiant crusade as well. I´m not sure about the MPs politics now, but I'm pretty sure I remember a Midnight Oil song that championed the tradition of a male-only cricket team, or was it Indigenous land rights?... I always forget, great band though!
I'm frightfully concerned to hear that Barker cricket is under attack, when I read the subject I thought it may have been terrorists or (far less likely) a lack of funding and resources. Imagine my shock when I read that Barket cricket needs to be saved by... a schoolgirl who happens to be talented enough to play with the boys.
Is this particular girl going to really destroy the game? Or just bruise a few egos of old, conservative Barker/cricket tragics who can't seem to see the role of the female on No. 1 Oval as venturing past The Marks Pavilion cutting oranges.
Perhaps still being in a post-adolescent stage of rebellion, I don't like to say this to the school I went to (and loved, nearly always), but to whoever is in charge of cricket - good on you. I'm sure this girl deserves her place in the team, even if it means a few whingeing old boys, and one poor kid feels emasculated for a few weeks in the seconds... It's probably a good lesson anyway, it happens alot in the future - just try studying any tertiary level humanities.
I thank you for alerting me to this problem. And in the future if Barker cricket ever comes under serious threat again: fire/flood/famine. Please, do not hesitate to contact me, I will gladly help: water/bucket/bread.
Yours sincerely,
James Ross-Edwards, Class of 2002
Monday, October 02, 2006
The end for Jeremy.
Jeremy, yet again, sat on that balcony, judging everything that walked by, from plastic bags to men dressed solely by Material Boi. Before he could even think about pondering and analysing who was a wanker, and who was not, his life flashed before his eyes. The reason for this was uncertain, but soon became relevant. Jeremy was dead. He had been killed by a man, dressed solely by Material Boi, mind, who had made use of the most beautiful plastic bag he had ever seen to strangle him. Jeremy's last thought was about nothing, as he was pondering, because, as many had picked up on, Jeremy was a wafty character with a rubbishy name, and deserved death.
Noone cared. People were relieved to know that Jeremy had nothing to do with James Ross-Edwards, a great man, who just happened to share the same balcony in a parallel universe with a fictitious wanker whose rapid shoot to prominence was matched equally with his demise.
Noone cared. People were relieved to know that Jeremy had nothing to do with James Ross-Edwards, a great man, who just happened to share the same balcony in a parallel universe with a fictitious wanker whose rapid shoot to prominence was matched equally with his demise.
Monday, September 25, 2006
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.
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.
Saturday, September 09, 2006
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.
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.
Monday, September 04, 2006
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.
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