Friday, December 30, 2005

Happy New Year From Quick Tweezerhands

Bloody hell. Three years of sitting on my arse staring at a computer screen, then I go into work with The Dreaded One, deep in the bowels of the Opera House, and my God I'm out of shape. I mean, I can stomp for hours on end and I can do the occasional hill sprint, but when did standing at a kitchen bench chopping things become so gruelling? So utterly gruelling.

AND I only chopped things for eight hours. Tomorrow it's going to be a fifteen hour day... what the hell have I gotten myself into? And get the numbers - 1,200 canape munchers on the forecourt, a private cocktail party for 880, and a three course sit down dinner for another couple of hundred. I've been a forecourt canape muncher in the past, and let me tell you, those people are animals.

So just know that when you are watching on your television the sky above Sydney Harbour explode in a frenzy of dazzling colour, The Dreaded One and I will be slaving away deep inside the Opera House... actually I think at midnight the kitchen staff are sneaking up to the forecourt to ogle at the pretty colours.

But make sure when you see the Opera House, you say Happy New Year, Quick.

Happy New Year everyone.

PS: I'd forgotten how working in food prep makes you smell funny. Right now I have coriander fingers. Wonder what they'll say tomorrow when we have to puck herbs again when I ask, "Cool if I use tweezers this time?"

The Ultimate Cure For Hiccups

Holy fuck. Forget ice cubes down the back and scaring people and paper bags over the head and drinking water upsidedown... have you ever tried any of those? They don't work. They just don't.

However, there is a fail safe way of getting rid of hiccups, and that is to administer orgasm. Fucking brilliant. It was hilarious - hysterical bouts of hiccups followed by light-bulb-over- the-head moment of random inspiration followed by application of said orgasm... and no hiccups!

Man, if I don't get a Nobel Prize for this...

Wednesday, December 28, 2005

Normal Things

I did normal things today.

I finally got around to sending a friend's birthday present to her, which involved a lot more time standing in a post office queue than I would have liked. The thing I am sending her is so utterly at odds with the unbearable humidity here that just touching the thing... just knowing of its existence in the large envelope was enough to make me pass out in the lengthy post office queue. Also, her birthday was last July or something. This perhaps gives an indication of how slack I am. (Expect an abusive coment from her telling me her "birthday was in August goddamnit you retard.")

When they revived me and I sent the damn thing the hell away from this hemisphere, I decided to go and buy a fan. There was me and everyone else in Sydney trying to buy a fan. There were regular sized fans made of shitty plastic and chrome, and there was... there was one enormous fucker that was black and claimed to be industrial strength etc. A heavenly light shone down and there were ethereal harmonies and it looks fucking sensational in our little tiny apartment.

Unfortunately on its lowest level, it means business. Basically, you can't hear the TV over the hum of the motor, which is drowned out by the flapping sound of papers and other household debris tearing about the place like there's a cyclone inside. If you stand in front of it you get that G-force thing going with your wobbly cheeks and freaky eyes.

I may have to take it back.

Dreaded One and I are also getting the plan down for the Turkey trip. Bloody hell - we might be away for five weeks. Five weeks of overseas trip and no job to come back to. Hmm. Not normal... but interesting.

Also, I am trying to make a website for my freelance writing happen. At the moment it feels as funny as when I changed the tyre on the car... I dunno. I reckon I can do it. I changed the friggin' tyre, didn't I?

Tuesday, December 27, 2005

A Christmas Call

Not having much in the way of families close by, The Dreaded One and I spent Christmas pretty much alone in an orgy of food and booze and giggling. I'm not entirely sure what we found so amusing, but we seemed to giggle a lot. Yesterday when everything was open again I had the urge for steamed mussels so we went down to Darling Harbour and drank more booze and I ate a big bowl of steamed mussels. I didn't giggle at the mussels because they were too yummy.

I also didn't giggle at this: sitting at Homebar, my phone rang. I didn't get it in time and I didn't recognise the number. The Dreaded One wanted to know who called. I didn't care. I was more interested in the clouds and the crowds and what a big blue glistening harbour we had spread before us. But The Dreaded One can be a bit of a terrier when it comes to things like this. I didn't really notice that she was fiddling with my phone, but suddenly she handed it back to me looking very satisfied with herself.

"I found it," she told me proudly.

"What?" I frowned at her, absently accepting the phone.

"It's ringing," we both said in unison, one of us pleased, the other less so.

I don't know... booze, giggling, idle musing about silly things, then a call through to my talkative aunt from the bush. God. When I finally established who it was that my phone had just called, The Dreaded One just about fell off her chair laughing and I stood bolt upright and tried to be sensible and chatty and all I'm-going-to-get-you-for-this at the same time. With the noise of the bar and the confusion at both ends of the line (she didn't know why I had called her and was having to ask who I was speaking to) was the most awkward phone conversation in the history of awkward phone conversations.

I must plan my revenge.

Sunday, December 25, 2005

Mini Doof

Went to a little doof in a park in an industrial area of town yesterday. I enjoyed it about as much as I was hoping I would. Really friendly people, lots of talking, laughing and dancing. Kinda good, too, to arrive straight and actually talk to people who you've known for a long time, but who you know little about. Just what they do for a living, that kind of stuff. It was good to have preconceptions dashed as well. One person, I'd kind of developed an opinion of them, and they were straight this time and quite talkative, and I was amazed at what a different person she was to what I thought she was. I thought she was a hopeless trashbag, but she came across as intelligent and a really caring person. Just said little things that implied bigger things. Was very cool. She's heading over to Turkey too.

The people who put on these parties always amaze with the effort that goes into them. Decent sound system that they have to hire I guess, the set up and packing up, decore, BBQ... and they do it because they get a kick out of it.

Right. It's a sensational day out there - mid 30's, clear and sunny, and I think we're heading to a psytrance party in a dingy warehouse somewhere. Hmm.

Oh - apparently our shop, Psydeways, turned two during the week. We've managed to keep going for two years. Pretty damn funny considering how little experience we had. Yay for us.

I would wish you a merry Christmas, but I'm not that kind of person.

Saturday, December 24, 2005


As far as I know, the Herald did not print that leter about the Idiot's Guide To Clubbing. But at the magazine's work party yesterday someone mentioned the article and I said I didn't like it. One of the mag's ex contributors, who I hardly ever see, said, "Yes. I heard that a certain someone wrote about it on their blog."

I thought there might have been some fallout if the letter went to print, but I totally didn't expect any of that bunch to know about this blog. How did they find out about it?

Anyway, doesn't matter. I stand by what I said. Music snobs are pretentious wankers.

Still, it was pretty funny and completely unexpected.

Thursday, December 22, 2005

Normal Household Stuff

I was chatting to my friend in the UK on msn last night. The Dreaded One arrived home after her work christmas drinks thing. I could tell by the way she called out hello from the front door that she had brought someone home with her and was hoping I wasn't watching porn and masturbating or wandering around in my underpants or whatever. She came into the study munching on that drunk person's staple, a doner kebab. I've never seen her do that before.

"Hello," she said brightly around a mouthful of kebab. "We're eating kebabs. We're drunk."

"Ah," I replied, wondering why I found it so amusing that she was scoffing down a kebab.

"I brought Simone home. You haven't met Simone. She's drunk and eatinig a kebab too. We might go out onto the balcony and eat our kebabs."

With that, she turned and left the room, and I noticed that her new hair-do involved having a lightning bolt shaved into the spiky blond hair on the back of her head, right between her multi-coloured fluro dreads.

I heard this Simone person go into the bathroom, so I seized this opportunity to walk quickly into the bedroom to put some pants on. When Simone came out she left the bathroom light on. We shook hands, and her hand was still wet and for some reason that bothered me more than leaving the light on. We said pleased to meet you and she wobbled out to the balcony to join her new kebab-eating friend.

I sat down at the computer to tell my friend what was happening and that I would have to go out and be civil. She wrote: "Say hello to The Dreaded one for me. Kick Simone in the head for me. I don't know who the fuck Simone is. I don't like new people."

I might take a photo of the lightning bolt and post it.

Wednesday, December 21, 2005

More About Quitting

Well that's that then. After three years I'm leaving the magazine in about 12 weeks. Funny - a couple of months back I was going through a low patch, felt I'd lost my sense of humour and my edge and my value to the mag and its readers, and I had been wishing that I had decided to leave when I had been doing well. Leave on a high note, as they say.

Well now my confidence has come back, I have been writing funny stuff with confidence again, I know that the others who work there like my stuff and that management does value my input somewhat, so I'm on a high. And it's a bloody hard time to leave because I have nothing lined up, enjoyment-wise it's without a doubt the best job I've ever had, and it would be easy to cave and stay longer. I have contacts and dance music knowledge (of sorts) and a kind of place in the dance/clubbing scene, and I'm saying goodbye to it.

Pretty hard to be leaving on a high note. But I am going to do it because it is better, I think, to leave them with a favourable impression than to leave them when they think, "Meh, he's lost it." Pathetically, I hope the readers will miss me, or at least notice that I have gone. I was writing my last Acid Tongue column in my head on the way home. It made me sad.

Right at the moment, I'm going to miss that job, and I really hope I'm not doing the wrong thing.

Next post will be funny. Promise.

Random Voicemail

Below are a few messages left on our phone. We publish the more creative ones in the mag I work for (until March - it's official). I made up two of them and one was sent as a standard email by a friend (can you guess which ones?) but the rest are real. Enjoy.

“I actually poured tobacco into my eye and I'm crying outside. I'm coming down the stairs and I'm on a million different levels at the same time and praise the Lord because he smited me good. You wanna talk to Dave? I think you might. Want to come to a tea party?”

“So... is it so wrong to love yourself? I think if we all just loved ourselves a little more there would be a lot less shit in the world. In fact, you know... if you just stopped worrying about trying to get other people to love you and just loved yourself you'd be much happier. Look at me. I'm happy 'cos I love me. I love meeee. I love me a lot. Ooh. Oooh, naughty me, stop it you horny little me...”

“Just a few words of advice for up and coming head bangers: if you're going to run into a fuckin' pen at a hundred k an hour, don't do it with a motor cross helmet on your head, 'cos you're gonna fuckin' hurt yourself.”

“So I went to the Casino, came out after the State Of Origin and someone had broken into me beach buggy. Fuck me! They took me jacket and me bag and I've been chasing them… trying to hunt them down all night to KILL them... well not kill them, I'm not that kind of person. I don't like to hurt anyone. But I'm really cranky.”

“I'd like to report a bald guy lying on the floor. His socks stink. He was the only one out of the 50 or 60 people there who was on the floor. I thought he worked for you, but he didn't. Plus, I wrote to the Ed and he said he loves me. He loves me because I paid out on some people at Coles. Oh yeah - and it was my birthday last Friday. Happy birthday to me...”

“We watched the news on the news last night and went hehee (no one hurt so can laugh) then I went 'GRRRRR DIE HOWARD DIE HOWARD DIE along with DIE BUSH DIE BUSH DIE BLAIR DIE TRIAD OF EVIL DICKS EVIL DICKS.' That is all for now. Toe pie toe pie car pie tennis ko toe coat hanga car pie (I am making up new Maori language I call it Deboraori).”

“I... man... there is a spectacular void. How does that happen? I had it all planned out and it's gone. Where has it gone? I'd better go look for it. If I find it I'll call youse back and let youse know. Bye bye.”

“This Lisa Lashes lady… I would just gently massage the camel toe... oh my god - did I just say that? I'm so, so crazy. I am filled with moisture right now. Oh my pants, they are so moisturised... it's crazy my friends.”

“My friend Ricardo, he's the moist Dutch man, if want, or if you will. Once upon a Wednesday night he produces paste from his eyebrow, secreting into his nose bag. Spreading it over the thigh region. It's crazy. I would not even touch his thighs unless I have dishwashing liquid ready.”

“I'm alonnne/ There's no one here besides meeee... (besiiiides meeee...)/ the trees are pink and orange/ and there's some thing greeeen/ My toes smell like bubble gummm/ and my nipples smell like creammm...”

“What are you on?” “Nothing.” “What are you on?” “Nothing.” “What are you on?” “Nothing.” “What are you on?” “Nothing.” “What are you on?” “Nothing.” “What are you on?” “Nothing.” “What are you on?” “Naaaaaaarthiiiing.”

“What am I talking to you for..?” [Hysterical laughter. Lots of it. Really, LOADS of it]. “I don't have anything to say to Off Ya Dial.” [Barely audible sound of someone mumuring prompts] “Someone bought a new hat.” [Murmurmur]. “And it's pink.” [Murmur]. “Shut up Vanessa.”

“You dirty rotten tooth ridden vagina, you toasted cheese sandwich you... you fucken putrid faggot... faggot... fak... fak... aaaaayyyy mmmmotherfucker... did I say that?”

“Hello. Is that what you expect me to do? The job? Theeee Jooooob. Jobjobjobjobjobjob... joooooob.”

“Maddy, can you please come find your number in my phone so I can ring you. Maddy I really need to speak to you, the sea monkeys have my money. The sea monkeys Maddy, the sea monkeys…”

Tuesday, December 20, 2005

Tampons In The Daintree

Well it looks like The Herald is too scared to publish my letter. Nice to know that The Wrath Of Mee makes major newspapers pooh their nappies.

Actually I am kind of glad they didn't run that letter. It was pretty angry and I didn't include anything about how I do respect TC's knowledge of music, even if I always hope to get really pissed off with commentators who take themselves too seriously.

And speaking of tampons... the person behind the Piehole blog is one seriously funny writer. I am very impressed. Recently she posted something about getting her boy to carry her box of tampons to see just how far his devotion for her goes, and it reminded me of my own boy/tampon story.

Recently I have been getting back into running, and I've had a couple of flashbacks to when I was really hooked. Man, I was completely obssessed. Hard day at work, late finish in the middle of winter, bitterly cold outside? No problem; I'd change into my gear and head out. Crackling lightning and booming thunder? Even better - that kind of shit really got the juices flowing. For a while there I was racking up between 60 and 80 klometres a week.

Anyway, whilst holidaying in the Daintree Rainforest a few years ago, I started getting itchy for a run. It was an amazing place, a luxury eco-resort in the middle of the rainforest right on the coast. Frogs, bats, moths the size of bats, enormous wild boars trampling through the undergrowth, humidity that made you sweat if you thought about moving... God, I can still feel the moisture in the air.

So running was not the ideal activity. But I had that itch. Swimming in the pool was nice (beach was off limits that time of the year due to box jellyfish), but I wanted to cane myself over a few kilometres of road. I think I had been a little too obsessed and knew that telling The Dreaded One I was going to head off in 40 degree heat was going to sound silly, so I just fidgetted and sipped my poolside cocktail.

Until The Dreaded One gave me the excellent news that it was that time of month and she was out of tampons... Happy dance? Fuck yeah!

"It's cool. It's all under control," I reassured her as I leapt out of my deckchair to bolt up to our jungle bungalow to change. "There's a tampon shop ooh... three or four K up the road? I reckon I can be there and back in 25 minutes. 30 tops."

And off I headed.

I fucking loved that run. No traffic. Unbelievable heat. Swimming in perspiration. And it was the first run in days. I can still see the road, smell the air, hear my foot-fall and see the the enormous snakes moving off into the dry grass at the side of the road at my approach. Our bodies are meant to be pushed, and by Christ I pushed.

I arrived at the convenience store that was in the middle of nowhere, a tanned and sweating city freak (naturally I had pushed myself because it was a short run, and I wanted that endorphin hit baby), and the guy behind the counter looked a little surprised as I staggered through the rusty screen door.

"G'day mate. You all all right? What can I do you for?"

"Good. I'm good," I rasped. "Need Tampons."

He tried to look unphased, but I could see he was phased. He looked me up and down and said, "Tampons? We got tampons. Erm, you want regular or - "

"Those ones," I said, pointing at a box I recognised, still out of breath. "That box there. Gimme."

He asked if I wanted a bag. I said no. I paid him. He told me to have a good day. Still a little high from my exertions, I turned and opened the squeaky flyscreen door and headed off into the humid rainforest heat once more.

Sunday, December 18, 2005

Lazy Sunday

This is ridiculous. I have so much to do, and I have been struck down with chronic lazy. I had breakfast with The Dreaded One, she left for work, I put on some music (Protoculture and an assortment of wicked psytrance) to wake me up, and I crashed out on the couch. At one point I got up off the couch and went into the bedroom and lay down on the bed. Then I thought this is ridiculous, got out of bed and went back to the couch.

The only vaguely productive thing I've done is get cranky and write a letter to the editor of The Sydney Morning Herald. An ex editor of the dance mag I work for wrote something called The Idiot's Guide To Clubbing in which his sneering contempt for forms of music outside his own taste was in full flight. I fucking hate that kind of superiority, that elitist music-is-a-science bullshit. Sure, get into it, understand it, but don't make out that you are somehow better than others who like other styles. He basically said that people only like house music because they don't know any better. Dude, shut up and put your head back up your arse.

It will be funny if they print my letter because the ex ed and I know each other, and everyone in the local scene pretty much knows both of us, so yeah, it will be funny.

I also found myself scrubbing the cupboards in the nude and thinking, "Fuck... imagine if I died right now. Like if I had a brain haemorrage or a heart attack and they found me lying on the kitchen floor in the buff with a scourer in one hand and a sponge in the other... at least the cupboards would be clean, and that's nice."

Saturday, December 17, 2005

I Hate Banks

Another lazy post. My Acid Tongue column from the current issue of the mag. Why a lazy post? I really have to write a sample column for the arts mag. And other assorted stuff.

Just briefly though - there was a contributor party last night. Was quite fun. Ironic that now that I've decided to leave I should start getting along with my workmates in a social way. They're good people. We're having our Christmas party at the end of this week, so I get to go out with them again. Should be fun.

What was funny with these contributers was that a couple of them told me who they were, and I'd never heard of them. One of the other Eds said the same thing. What the hell was going on? I only met one of the contributors I deal with. Totally cute blonde came over and asked which of us was Mee, and I said me and we talked and I tried not to keep thinking about how totally cute she was. She was pretty cute. And she is a funny and intelligent writer. And somehow I knew from her writing that she was cute. She was cute.

Anyway, the night got totally shit-faced and started slurring its words and falling over, it got a little flirty and a lot messy. I left with someone from work and a group of her friends who were big, rough looking guys. Waiting at the lights at one point, Broken Tooth Guy turned to me and said, "Quick - ya mind if I ask yer a question mate?"

Somehow I knew what was coming and I couldn't help laughing. "Shoot," I told him.

"Are you gay mate?"

Fucking ironic when back at the bar there was a group of flirtygirls doing the flirty thing. I dunno. Thing is when guys like that ask me that question, I interpret as them basically telling me that I have a good sense of style. I can't help wondering why he asked though. Like, what difference does it make? I reassured him that I am straight, and that if I was gay, sorry but he wouldn't be my type. He didn't seem to think that that was as funny as I did.

Oh - at last week's party. Talking to S and her friend C, S said something about C being a lesbian. They laughed a little and S told me that the company that C had started working for was really conservative and that because she has short hair, she feels like she's the office short-haired lesbian.

Without a pause I said to C too loudly and like a simpleton, "I don't have a problem with lesbians. In fact I like lesbians. I'm the kind of cool guy who even has token lesbian friends. So, you know, if you want to talk about lesbian stuff, you just go right ahead because there's nothing wrong with talking about lesbian stuff in front of a cool and open-minded guy like me. Yeah, hehe, lesbians..."

S thought it was funny because she knows me. C wasn't sure for a couple of seconds.

Crap - I have gone on for longer than I intended. Anyway, here's Acid Tongue#788...

I don’t know about your bank, but my bank feels more like a special friend than a bank. It looks after me the way only a true friend can. And generous? Gosh I wish the rest of my friends were as generous as my bank. You don’t have to ask and they raise the limit on your credit card, sending you one of those chirpy letters they’re so good at writing. That increased limit comes in handy when things go pear shaped and you need to live off your credit card for a bit. Sure, you may find yourself juggling things to make repayments and keep up with the hefty interest charges and all those extra account-keeping charges, but hey, at least they keep your line of credit open. And if things temporarily get really pear shaped and there’s a short delay and you’re temporarily overdrawn by a small amount, in steps your special friend with another of those chipper friendship notes informing you that you’re overdrawn, but that the good news is, they’ve covered you to ensure everything is aaaall right. Brings a tear to the eye, really. Of course, they don’t make much fuss about the penalty they’re going to slam you with because they don’t want to take the edge off the “good news.” After all, what kind of friend is it that rains on your parade? Then the bank makes things easier for you to do all your banking on the internet because it’s cheaper and more convenient for everyone... although they then have to start charging you for internet banking too even though they replace the local branch and its humans with a machine that is always out of order so that you’re forced to use an ATM from another bank which incurs yet more fees... but hey, whatever – they have to make their 800 million dollar (after tax) profit somehow. Speaking of internet transactions – you transfer an amount from your account to pay off some of your credit card, and you see the amount vanish from your account, you see your available credit limit immediately adjust up by that amount, but you’re told it’s going to take a day or two to clear and for the amount you owe do drop. Huh? Where does that money go for that day or two? But that’s just nitpicking. My bank is my special friend, and I want to show my love for my special friend; I really want to bend that jolly green dragon over and fuck the bastard right up the arse.


Thursday, December 15, 2005

Me? Vague?

I think I might have a moderate case of extreme vague. Well known is the story of me walking up the flight of stairs at work to be confronted with a new door, and my resulting bafflement at why no one told me there was going to be a new door, and my insecurity overload at wondering what it could mean that they would put a new door there and not tell me or give me the new code to the new door, only to realise after a bit of investigating that I had been so lost in thought that I'd walked past the regular door and up an extra flight of stairs.

Sadly, I have done this on more than one occasion.

But then today I asked the human across the desk from me if he was going to the contributors' party tomorrow night. "You going to the Dolphin tomorow night?" I asked him.

"What? No. Yes. What? Tomorrow?"

"Yeah," I replied, finding his confusion quite endearing. "The contributors' party."

"Next week?"

"No. Tomorrow. "

"At The World Bar?" he asked.

"What?" I asked, wondering what the fuck he was on about.

"The contributors' party is on tomorrow night at The World Bar."

"Really? Oh. Oh, all right... is there something on at The Dolphin? At some time?"

"That's next week."


Also, I squirmed a bit when someone in the office was talking about all the lots and lots of people who had RSVP'd for the contributors' party and I realised I had not invited any of my writers. So I started emailing out the invitation and telling them not to worry about it being past the RSVP date and I'm really sorry, and one of them wrote back and said "Silly you - you sent this to me last week and I'm coming."

I need to get not vague.


Also, in case you are wondering, yes, I was being a bit of a martyr in that last post: "Ooh ooh ooh, look at me doing some extra house duties." Twat.

Still, The Dreaded One has all of next week off work, and oh man do I expect to be treated like Caligula for the entire week.

Wednesday, December 14, 2005

No Time To Blog

Sorry to disappoint, but I have no time to blog tonight. I finished work at 6, did the shopping on the way home, washed the remaining dishes from the night before (I cooked last night as well because The Dreaded One is not finishing her job until 10 or 11 each night and although The Rule is that the one who doesn't cook does do the dishes, there was no dishwashing liquid because I used the last of it last night doing a post cook-pre-dinner wash), threw a load of clothes in the washer, found myself poking my tummy and being depressed about the weight I haven't officially put on according to the scales but which I am more than capable of convincing myself is there, found myself shortly after the tummy poking episode locked in an enthusiastic bout of arm curls, push ups and sit ups whilst watching the news, quickly juggled some of our meagre funds to pay some bills, waved my clenched fist for a few minutes at the new upstairs neighbours because they are completely horrible people with a child and they make far too much noise and have about ten baths a day and splash about like it's an indoor swimming pool and I wish they'd at least put bath oil in there to stop their buttocks squeaking and making whale song against the ceramic, decided that the mild summer evening with its shining white full moon was perfect for squeezing in a quick run, showered after the run and that brings me almost up to cooking dinner time (crap - it's 9pm already) even though I have to write a CD review, write my list of top 10 albums of the year, write another Acid Tongue column, write a new sample column that I've been promising the arts magazine, and I really should get started on the next feature for Men's Health, and at some point I would like to get pleasantly drunk before going to bed at an earlier time than I bet I do...

So, therefore and ergo, there simply is no time for blogging. Sorry. I am very sorry about that. I do hope you will cope. And I do hope you will find it within your heart to forgive me.


I'm sorry.



Tuesday, December 13, 2005

Madness In The Burbs

Last week a couple of surf life savers got beaten up on Cronulla Beach, so I wrote this Acid Tongue column on Friday for Monday's issue of the mag:

"You know what’s tops? Fighting. Fighting is unreal. You know, when you get a bunch of friends together and you just go out and pick an easy target and you get stuck into the prick. It’s the fucking best. And it’s no fun if you do it by yourself – you’ve got to do it with a heap of friends. Less risk of getting hurt and then you’ve got guys to sit around and laugh about it with when you watch the news reports on TV.

There are soooo many good things about starting fights... it’s free, and you feel tough and you really show people who’s The Shit, and it just makes you feel good to know you’ve put some fucker in hospital. Pricks deserve it because... well anyway, it’s just the best. And the absolute best thing about it is that the media laps it up and they put it out there and the police have ‘spokespeople’ announcing that there are going to be increased numbers and fuck it, if they’re going to increase numbers, so are we.

Everyone gets involved then because it’s us against the police which it makes it even more real. It’s like... it’s fucking a war! They’ve declared war and that makes my balls tingle and my little itty bitty dick go stiff. Shit escalates and it’s on the news again and you get to shout and carry on like a mad fucker and it’s like you’re a celebrity, and you blame everything on society and the police and with any luck we’ll put a few cops in hospital too, because who the fuck do they think they are? They think they’re going to stop us? No fucking way! Cops are the worst because... well they’re just fucked, that’s all. They think they’re so tough with their uniforms and riot protection shit and their reinforcements, and it’s just a great chance to show them and everyone else who’s in charge because we rule the streets and the beaches and we’ll do whatever we want because, you know, we’re, like, warriors...

Meh, it’s no good. I was trying to get inside the feeble minds of the sorry dipshits that beat up the surf patrol guys, and I made myself laugh with the warrior line. Tragedy of it is, I bet it’s not that far from the truth.


I thought something might flare up, but arriving back from the Erisian Fields party, watching the news on Sunday night, I was absolutely appalled at the scale of what was going on out there. Full scale riots, bashings, stabbings... madness in the suburbs. What the hell is wrong with people? This is a peaceful country with (white settlement aside some 200 years ago) a comparitively mild political climate, a general ethos of racial and religious tolerance and acceptance, and now race-motivated riots making world headlines. Over what?

Clearly this place is not as tolerant and as accepting as we like to believe, and it makes me think - not for the first time - that multicultualism, in the long term, cannot work, because there will always be some testosterone saturated moron who needs to vent their aggression, who needs to rail against the insignifigance their shitty little mind has mapped out for them and who will surround themselves with like-minded dolts and lash out at what is different to them.

The scale of stupidity displayed by both sides of this whole sorry affair is utterly mind-boggling.

Sunday, December 11, 2005



Drove to a party called Erisian Fields at about 2am last night. Got there in time to see Hallucinogen play a morning set, which rocked. My funny piece of paper was a bit stronger than expected - have realised that those particular little pieces of paper are perhaps not my friend (although now that it's just about over, there was some fun to be had... no, must be strong; remember the bad bits), and I am sore and sunburned and sore from dancing and the level of dirtiness was hitherto something not forthwith hithertoed to...

My brain is mush my skin is burned there is music in my head it was a gorgeous party... get this: looking for a place in the bushes to go pee, The Dreaded One and I came stumbling through the bushes (which had been decorated with strings and tiny, twinkling mirrors) to find this amazing enchanted clearing with soft green grass and little blue flowers and butterflies everywhere that landed on you and everything. It was really pretty.. And there was a big ostrich in a field which some had tried to make friends with, and survived to tell the story. Seriously, who tries to make friends with a huge angry looking bird in a field when its serenity has been crashed by hippie freaks and psytrance? Trippers.

More later. I have to go try to figure out a way of making the headmusic stop and the words to stop and everything to stop...

Brilliant party, just not sure it was worth the trouble. I don't think... look, I'll go into detail later. Okay? Good.

Saturday, December 10, 2005

I Can't Think Of A Title For This One

I was at a works drinks thing last night and it was nice. I'm a bit reclusive and aloof at work (I like to think of it as being mysterious) and I sort of developed a theory that everyone at work doesn't like me and thinks I'm a snob and a twat and I also thought no one liked the writing that I do for the mag, but it turns out that most of that is wrong.

Anyway, one of the people who I hardly know offered to get me a beer and then they forgot and when I got it myself they said sorry, and I have this thing where I get all hurt and let's-not-make-a-drama-about-thisie, and I tell the person something like, "Fuck you. It's all right. Fuck you. You can just get fucked."

I sometimes forget that the person I am doing it to should ideally be someone I've known for more than half an hour because I'm reasonably sure she didn't realise I was just being silly.

It's like the time The Dreaded One and I were at this slightly hokey pizza place in Byron Bay. We were waiting to be seated and I looked around and realised it was a bit of a theme restaurant, and I quietly said, "I'm not sure about this."

"You want to go somewhere else?" she replied pleasantly.

"No," I replied like I was really angry and at the end of my tether. "We'll eat here, it had just better be really fucking good."

We knew I was just being faux cranky, but Mr Family Man standing next to us didn't. He tried to melt me with death beam eyes. It was pretty funny. I think he couldn't understand why The Dreaded One didn't slap me across the face. Apparently he looked like he wanted to slap me across the face. I was oblivious. The Dreaded One told me how appalled he had been when we sat down.

Also, how's this - the other day when I was going on about how the funniest person on the internet said I was "an excellent funnyman"? Turns out it was a case of mistaken identity. Poo.

Wednesday, December 07, 2005

Tuna Man

I've been doing the shopping by myself because The Dreaded One works such long hours at the moment, and something happens when I wander the aisles of the supermarket alone.

I decide it's way too hot to cook, so I'll throw together a tuna salad, which involves shopping for bits like good fetta cheese, plump olives, an assortment of vegies, and the tuna. The tuna involves an encounter with the kind of guy who you can tell just by sneaking a look at him believes in aliens and wizards. I'm standing there looking at the tins of tuna, and there's a kind of vibe about him and I just know he's going to say something to me. I'm about to reach for a tin of tuna and get the hell out of there when he says, "Uh uh."

I sneak a look at him. Oh yeah - alien dude all right. Thing is though, I pause because he disapproves of my choice of tuna. What's that all about?

"That's the best brand of tuna," he tells me, "but over here, now this is even better."

Oh God. Why me?

"You see..."

Oh fucking bring it on. Whatever.

"I've found they've stopped putting enough oil in the brand you were about to choose. This one has more oil. And you know what else?" he says too enthusiastically, like he's letting me in on some long guarded secret. "The weight varies from can to can. You can feel the weight, and the heavier ones are the ones with more oil in them. You have to be careful about these things."

Then the fucker stands there waiting to see which can of tuna I go for. I pick up one of his brand and feel the weight, and he nods to himself and moves off, satisfied that his work here is done. Like, what the fuck? For a start I'm not buying a can of oil, I'm buying a can of fucking fish. And where does some freaky alien wizard dude get off having the power to make me change my mind?

In an act of rebellion, I put HIS tuna right the fuck BACK and I pick up a tin of MY tuna.

And feel very nervous in the checkout queue in case he catches me red-handed with the wrong tuna.

Tuesday, December 06, 2005

Names And Games

Being so hopeless at remembering people’s names, I tend to try to make a bit of an effort. Even so, there’s no rule; some names and faces lodge in my brain immediately and with ease, others vanish instantly and simply refuse to stick around.

At the club on Saturday night a guy saw The Dreaded One and me and broke into a big smile and said Hello like he was really pleased to see us. I hesitated and did the same, feeling another of those bluffing conversations where you don’t say anything too specific, let them do most of the talking while you stall and hope the details of who the hell they are and how the hell you know them come to you.

“How... um... are you?” I asked. There was simply no hint of his identity or relationship, no mutual friend standing by to jog the memory.

“Yeah good. Really good. Hey - it's really funny - for a second there it looked like you didn't know who I was."

I just didn’t feel mentally sharp enough to play the game tonight. "Um. Actually, that's really perceptive of you. You’re spot on. Who are you?"

He could tell immediately that I was not joking, and he looked totally crushed. I realised that maybe I should have been a little more diplomatic than that. But there you go. Blurt. It was out there. I looked closely but even the crest-fallen expression he was now wearing gave nothing away.

"The name's Michael,” he said wearily, like he couldn’t believe he was having to tell me his name yet again. “Greg and Laura’s friend."

Right. So we definitely knew each other, but I still couldn’t remember anything about him. If I told him that, however, it looked like the prospect of tears might be a very real one.

"Oh yeah,” I lied through my teeth in the name of diplomacy. “Michael. Of course. Sorry dude."

Michael couldn’t even bring himself to look at me now. He looked around at the sea of faces and up into the air as though watching a bird weave about. “Yeah. Well. We've met about, like, 15 times now."

And suddenly I remembered. There was another conversation we'd had maybe 18 months earlier that was almost a carbon copy of this one. On that occasion he had also been hurt that he remembered my name but I drew a blank on his. On that occasion I had reassured him that generally took about four or five meetings before the names of clubbers stayed with me. He had whinged to our friends for weeks about that, and I felt pretty sure they were not going to hear the end of this. At least this was finally one way to make himself memorable, because no fucking way have we had 15 conversations.

A short time later I ran into someone who has always been on the scene, but is someone I don’t particularly like. She needs to be the centre of attention, needs to be popular, fully believes that she is. She also thinks she is awesomely intelligent. She is also mean and if you don’t treat her like the princess she thinks she is, she will make what she thinks are clever and vicious insults that are meant to go over your head but which fall lump-like at your feet. I find her quite dreary.

Nevertheless, I play the game. I act civil and endure her presence for as long as I have to and leave her to it.

We came face to face. We both smiled our plastic smiles and said hello.

“How are you?” I asked.

"I'm great," she replied.

"No you're not," I heard myself saying.

"Yes I am," she insisted, all playful smiles.

"No you're not," I smiled back. "In fact you really should get of that fucking high horse."

It all happened so quickly that it took me a minute to realise I had said it. We both stood there laughing about it like we were chums and this was our little joke, but I think she knew as well as I did that I meant it. Oh yes.

Monday, December 05, 2005

Two Fat Ladies

One of the absolutely funniest bloggers I've come across - so funny it's beyond laugh funny; it's shake-your-head-and-read-it-over-and-over funny - called me an "excellent funnyman". This makes me feel really good and really not good. Really good because... well it's obvious why it makes me feel good. But it also makes me feel bad because these last few posts have not been very funny. So until I get properly funny, if you want funny the best I can offer are the posts are in the archives called Oral Sex Advice, Mr Fix It, erm... maybe Moopert Murdoch (you don't have to read that one, just say Moopert Murdoch out loud. It's fun. Do it. Go on - say it!), umm... Waaaaandaaaa! is okay, Toilet Humour maybe, Ping is a bit funny... that should do for now.

I would figure out how to do the that clever link thing but my brain is not very good at figuring out such things. Plus I have naked mannequins to deal with.

Also, my profile counter appears to have stopped on 88. Why is that? Were only 88 people interested in finding out more about me? Should I be offended by this? Or is it broken? Do such things break? How do they break? And how do they get fixed? 88 is a nice number and everything, but I was kind of hoping to eventually have a much bigger number. Some bloggers have had their profile checked out thousands and thousands of times. 88 by comparison is really pathetic. People are going to see that it's only 88 and think, "Shit this guy must be boring. Let's get out of here."

On the otherhand, it's kind of reassuring, that 88. No matter how crappy things get I can always think yeah, but my profile counter thingy eh? It's 88.

Also, I think it's me. I think I am a kind of curse on the shop. I think people must look in here and see me and go, "Oh, it's him. Let's not go in there today." Maybe the word has spread and they say to each other, "Yeah, he's that 88 dude. Loser."

Also, I think I am hooked on that fizzy pink grapefruit juice. It's excellent. Trouble is it's not all that easy to find, and when you think about it you have to have it. It's annoying. Nothing else quite cuts it once you've thought, "Mmm... fizzy pink grapefruit juice."

Also... oh nothing.

A Girl Called Geoff

What a good Sunday that was. My head problems went away and I just had a really good, relaxed time and was able to be more the me that I like to be.

There is a long distance friend in town who I mostly keep in touch with via email and text messaging, and I went to meet with her at the day club yesterday. There was still a small part of me that wondered if we were going to get along as well in real life as we do electronically. I guess in reality we haven’t really spent all that much time together and it’s a legitimate worry. You hear about it happening, and real life conversations are rarely as neat and witty as written ones. In many ways the written ones are more honest, if you’re an honest person. But they can also be misleading in that you can plan and re-write and this can belie the fact that you’re not really all that funny or all that interesting or interested in them. But I think the last shreds of that concern vanished, and I had a really chilled, relaxed and fun time with her. There was no drama, no effort, no demands. There was lots of talk and lots of laughs, and it was just very cool. I sometimes wonder if I give her the impression that I am better than I am; better with people, more popular, things like that. And I guess when I’m with the right people and that relaxed thing is happening, I guess looking at it I am a little like that (not saying I'm popular, just meaning that I can be a bit of an idiot and get people laughing etc). But I don’t think she really knows how rare that is. (I found out yesterday that she reads this blog, so I guess she now knows).

There were lots of people there who I knew which was good. As the dynamics changed I could drift to another group and join in and it was easy. Had a couple of quite serious conversations which always seem a little out of place in the club envirnoment.

On the other hand, there was another group and I found myself being introduced to someone and it went a little like this:

“Hi. I’m Quick,” I said through the loud music.

“Hi Quick. I’m Jen.”


“No, Jen.”

“Okay,” I replied, hearing but thinking what the hell. “Pleased to meet you Geoff.”

“It’s JEN!”

“I’ve got to say, I’ve never met a chick called Geoff before. It’s a pretty fucking odd name for a girl.”

She gave up and everyone was laughing, realising that I was playing the fool.

I have been missing my silly.

Left early. Was pleasantly surprised that my long distance friend – let’s call her Betty Boop – wanted to come back to mine. But she did. Her and a friend came back and we talked and just hung out and I wish I enjoyed hanging out with people like that more often. You humans can be quite cool.

When The Dreaded One came home she seemed really happy that I had gone out and had such a good time instead of staying home by myself, which is my natural tendency.

Right. That’s enough for now – I have some mannequins to undress.

Sunday, December 04, 2005

I'm A Geek

So I went to Home nightclub last night to see James Zabiela and Sasha. Zabiela was more relaxed and seemed more into having a good time than showing of his (considerable) talent on the decks than the last couple of times I've seen him. It was good to see. And the place was pumping. Sasha was okay, but... I read a quote on a forum a long time ago that went, "Psytrance will make you its bitch." It's so true. If you develop a taste for psytrance, nothing will compare, and so people like Sasha become players of background music.

Don't get me wrong - Sasha is good and one of the most memorable gigs I have ever been to was the Airdrawn Dagger gig at the woodchopping pavilion at the Sydney Olympic site (a seriously magical day), it's just that the energy level of psytrance is so much more intense than any kind of house. And not the way hard house or happy hard or any of those genres are. It's as intricate and complex and 'intelligent', for want of a better word, as progressive, it's just got something that growls at you and gets the juices going.

I've been listening to Juno Reactor since coming back from Earthcore, and holy fuck it's intense. Twisted and crunchy on the surface, with kind of primal undercurrent... hmm, that's all wrong because the primal thing is very pronounced...

Thing is, it's awesome. And apparently I am more of a geek than I like to think I am. Writing about music has in many ways diminished my enjoyment of the music itself. I guess to be fair it's also enhanced my appreciation of it. I dunno. I'd like to just enjoy it sometimes without analysing what it is about it that I am enjoying.

I told my employers that I am leaving. They seemed surprised. I was surprised that they were surprised. I am not made for working in an office. There's something about it that really fucks my head up. I have to get out.

March next year is looking like the time. That's when the Soulclipse Festival happens in Turkey. I could stay with the mag, I probably won't. I don't know what I'm going to do. I'll still contribute a little on a freelance basis, if they want me to (which I think they do), and that will be good. It's actually been an awesome experience, one I never expected. And one I owe to a former editor. I don't think she'll ever know how much I appreciate getting the job. I was a random contributor, and she liked my stuff. A lucky connection.

Crap. It's a brilliant day out there. I'm heading to an outdoor day club. I'm going alone - just dropped The Dreaded One off at the Opera House. She won't finish until 10.30 tonight. I'm gonna be very relaxed by then.

Saturday, December 03, 2005

A List Of All The Things I Hate About Christmas

1. All of them. There are no redeeming features whatsoever.

2. See above.

That was the shortest and most efficient way of doing it. Trust me. There is not one thing about Christmas that I like. The overall aesthetic is ugly in the extreme, the ritual of lying to the children about the existence of that generous fat bastard and his gang of gnomes or whatever they are is illogical in the extreme - do you ever think they get over the fact that you lied to them about Christmas and the tooth fairy and the rabbit and all the rest? No fucking way. They spend the rest of their lives wondering what else you've been lying to them about... and in much the same way that families raised in an atmosphere of violence re-create that very atmosphere of violence with their own families, Children Of The Christmas Deceit go on to lie to their own children, thus perpetuating the whole sorry cycle. Thank god some of us manage to break the cycle.

As for the "ooh but it gives us an excuse to get together with love ones" brigade... blow me. If you loved 'em so much you would have been in touch through the year more often and you wouldn't have that knot of dread siting in your stomach over the confrontation that is Christmas Dinner. You wouldn't be wondering how long you can put off the conflict between you and your mother that you know is going to happen. And it will happen.

Thing is, I don't think I'm alone in my seething contempt for Christmas. No one really enjoys it. Or do they?

Space, Man

Who has time for quality blogging? Really. I've been reading various blogs and some of them are so crafted and well-written and frequently poetic, and who has the time?

Someone left a comment here about the fact that I live in Sydney and they love Oz, and another friend said something about the fact that she appreciates Sydney more than I do because she doesn't live here and therefore how can I possibly appreciate this city as much as she does?

Thing is, I fucking love this city and I do make the most of it, but how to find the time to write in poetic detail about it when life is so full?

Also, have recovered from Earthcore. Have not been to any theatre lately. Have discovered an artist called Erwin Wurm who is exhibiting some quirky stuff at the MCA. Am Going to Home Nightclub tomorrow night to see Sasha. Also, I told the people at work that I am leaving either at the end of the year or in March when I am going to the Soulclipse Festival in Turkey. That was interesting. Oh and Shiney Le Fai from Loonaloop called and my grandmother died and I didn't go to the funeral and I've finally severed ties to the family (I think) and... really. Who can get poetic when so much happens?

I'm going to make some time soon to get into the writing. You know when you kind of go in there... into the rabbit hole... Just need some fucking space, man.

Thursday, December 01, 2005

Doof Polite

Lazy post. Wrote this for the mag for tomorow. Appologies about the layout - I'd do it differently here but it has to fit into a set column space.

Acid Tongue

Why are we so hopelessly shackled by civility? Kicking back at an outdoor festival recently, sipping a drink in the shade of our awning, unwinding between acts, a fellow doofer wanders by and waves. The Dreaded One (she has fluro dreads) and I wave back. He says hello. We say hello back. He comes over and stands in the shade of the awning. He appears to recognise The Dreaded One but says he can’t remember her name, so we introduce ourselves and have the standard doofer conversation: seen you at other parties, when did you arrive etc. All very civil. Uninvited, he sits down. This is okay; it’s hot. Finishing our drinks, we have no choice but to offer him one. He accepts. This is okay because it’s the kind of thing you do and what goes around comes around and surely, I think, he and The Dreaded One have chatted before, thus the friendliness. Conversation’s a bit thin, but that’s okay because not every conversation has to be a work of art. Soon it’s time for another drink, and I don’t know, I just feel we’ve reached the end of this encounter. It seems I’m wrong. The guy picks up his cup to take a sip, but his cup is empty. He smiles and shrugs as he places the cup back on the ground. What else can we do but offer him another drink? This is more or less cool because it’s just a drink after all and I’m sure he would do the same for us... but then he takes his shoes off and stretches out and makes himself just that biiiit too much at home. “Who the fuck is this guy?” I manage to ask with some nifty eyebrow semaphores. “I’m fucked if I know,” The Dreaded One replies in the same language, “never actually spoken to him before.” “What are you two doing?” the random asks with furrowed brow. “We’re talking,” I tell him with an explanatory arch of the left eyebrow, “...with our eyebrows. Cool huh?” Within no time at all, Joe Random settles right the fuck in and when our friends return to camp they assume he’s an odd little friend of ours we’ve never mentioned before, and they are polite and he settles in even more and a lot more eyebrow talking ensues.

My civility stretches to not intruding, picking up signals, not taking advantage of people and giving people their space. I’m going to explain all of this to that intrusive little fucker next time I see him... actually, I bet I don’t. I bet I smile politely, adjust the fit of my shackles and lower my eyebrows in perplexed frown.


Death Row

That previous post was such shit. I'm moaning about dark moods, and there is that guy in Singapore, Van Nguyen, a victim of stupidity and desperation, about to be hanged. A couple of days and his life is over.

Imagine that. Our death could be as close as his is, or far in the distance. We don't know. But he's a young guy who knows that he's going to be hanged before the weekend.

Wonder what he's thinking right now.