While They're Young

A friend of mine Ben has a little brother who has just started going to primary school. Alongside learning about the wonders of numbers, letters, and Transformers, he has also been exposed to a variety of new social structures. Specifically, he's started bringing home the sailor talk.

Unfortunately for him the lesson plan for discussing the different applications of the verb 'to ho' falls a bit short around the playground, which leaves our wee protagonist a bit confused most of the time.


"Ben, what does gay mean?"

"What do you think it means?"

"I don't know."

"Why do you ask?"

"Well all the kids at school call me gay. And each other. That call everyone gay."

"What do they think it means?"

"They don't know either. Their brothers call them gay."



Lo, another generation indoctrinated into sexual ambiguity.



I don't wanna start nothin, but Humor Blogs has been asking difficult questions about your sexuality too. Better go there now and set them straight.

Airport Tales: and Other Hijinx

Arriving at Sydney airport on departure day and sporting the niftiest in high-flying attire, I sauntered up to the arrival desk and proudly presented my passport. No sooner had I begun loudly exclaiming how well travelled I had become in recent times that I was interrupted by the attendant with some shocking news. My Vietnamese visa had expired!

"That's not right." I angled lamely, my stomach descending rapidly. "It starts today."

"Well according to your passport, it ends today." offered my observant but unavoidably hateful attendant. Snatching my passport back, I confirmed that the Vietnamese embassy in London had assigned me the wrong dates for my visa. That dastardly embassy -- The same embassy who had closed for Chinese new year knowing full well I harboured suspicions that Vietnam was another country altogether. The same embassy who only 3 days before I was due to leave had hung up in my ear when I demanded that Ho Chi Min himself track down my missing passport. The same embassy who had now conspired to ruin me at Sydney airport and who no doubt had a camera trained on me this very second to enjoy the spectacle of my destruction.

Despite suspecting worse, I summed their provable indiscretions to be two - hanging up on me, and foiling my visa. So while this was only strike two for them, I was nonetheless happy to dispense with tradition altogether and forever relegate them to the category of 'you're out'. Unfortunately this did little to balm my rising frustration, and I began making what I now affectionately refer to as 'a spectacle' but could more accurately be described as 'a tantrum'.

Clearly taking pity on those within my close proximity, Singapore airlines hatched a plan; fly to Singapore, my original stopover, and fix my visa at the embassy there. Even if this couldn't be done, I could still stay in Singapore for 6 days and catch my return flight out, meaning that I wouldn't have to fork out for extra flights. Ingenious! I vigorously shook the hand of the helpful staff member, who eyed me with barely concealed dread and encouraged me to leave them alone immediately. I agreed, and turned to the nearest camera to begin scowling menacingly.

"Thought you had me that time, eh? Look whose laughing now!"

I broke into a rumbling cackle that quietened the room. When I eventually concluded laughing and had wiped the tears from my eyes, the only murmurings I heard came from the helpful attendant who was busy whispering some recommendations into her handset that might have included the word 'security' and definitely included the word 'risk'.

I trundled off happily, knowing that adventure awaited.

The Stumblor Guide to: Communication (updated)

The Belated Birthday Text

I'm completely hopeless. For 10 years I have followed a rigorous process of carrying a diary with everyone's birthdays neatly highlighted in yellow for visibility, but do you think it helps? Forget everytime. The only thing it really achieves is not leaving enough room in my diary to jot down the days I'm supposed to be doing things, like winning the Nobel Prize, karate fighting the ghost of Bruce Lee or taking my delusion inhibitor medication. It's so annoying it makes me want to eat the Eiffel tower.

Happy belated birthday! This message, contrary to appearance is not in fact late, but is instead from the FUUUTURE (belated due to technology not being 10o% accurate). I am pleased to say that you are happy, healthy, and more radiant than ever. Also, Israel and Palestine have settled their differences, petrol cars have become passé and John Farnham is actually not doing any more shows. Ever.

The 'Missed Connections' Gumtree Message

I love these things. I could read them for hours. Does anyone truly meet people this way? And by 'people' I'm not referring to doll collecting weirdos called Festus Jude Lewdbody, although I would totally meet someone who was called that. I expect we would bond over the middle ground of series one Star Wars figurines and their role in modern day nerd culture. Did I mention we wouldn't have any friends? Totally no friends.

Looking For: Pregnant Lady who Stole My Heart
You were the beautiful pregnant lady who got onto the central line tube at Liverpool street. I was the middle aged gentleman in blue slacks who refused to get up for you; despite the verbal lambasting I received from the other standing passengers. Was it just me, or did we share a moment?

The Party Invite

I'm heading back to Australia in a few weeks and am completely giddy with the excitement of it all. One of the first things I'm going to do is see my toddler nephews and bring them up to speed on London drug culture. Although this is a weighty responsibility in itself, I also intend to get plastered with my mates.

Heyas!

As you may already know, I'll be back in Australia in a few weeks time. Although an empty bait packet to the tides of responsibility, I have been allowed some small windows to do with as I please -- and what I please is to see all you guys in a dingy bar type setting having one too many drinks with the potential for boozed up emotional outbursts. Doesn't that sound ace? I'm veritably psyched!

Gaslight Inn
278 Crown St, Darlinghurst
xpm xxxx, xxth Feb

The Gassy is like our old hangout. It's a bit like a big kids clubhouse but with less porno. We laughed so hard at a joke once that the owner heard us from two floors down. We've tried to explain the joke a few times since, but it always falls flat; apparently you have to be manically depressed to appreciate the subtle nuances. Sounds unlikely though, as I don't even know what a nuance is.

I would ask you to bring some Dippity Bix, but the Gaslight culinary specialty is Cheezels in Tabasco; as pioneered by Will during his 'cheese snacks from south of the border' phase. Personally, I try to avoid anything that is south of anything; it almost always leads to Tasmania.

Please come.

(I have a bet going that you will so don't let me down)
D A V E Y

The Phony Rockstar Reply

Step 1.
Find a kickass Led Zeppelin poster at the Camden markets you just know a certain friend back in Australia will burst over.

Step 2.
Remember that she told you once in drunken confidence that as a kid she sent the band a fan mail letter full of her hopes and dreams, to which she got no reply.

Step 3.
Send the poster to Australia, along with the following letter:





Happy Communicatin'



UPDATE

The bastard post office returned the Led Zeppelin poster! I assume because all the gaffer tape made it look like a large pipe bomb. Pussies. But what am I going to do now? Wait until I get to Australia and then go over to my friends house saying "Oh hi! Hey, look what I found on your front step! Heh Heh." And then I have to be there when they open it and... ahh its ruined.

I'm Big Kev Excited

Hey tigers. Guess what day it is on Saturday? I'll give you a hint: It's the best flippin day in the whole world.

Now if you answered 'Doris Day' to the previous question, congratulations. You're an idiot. I would continue chastising you, but I'm way too excited because Saturday is, in fact, AUSTRALIA DAY! Kaboom!

It's actually a bit of a sad day this year as I'm usually getting burnt to a crisp at the Big Day Out music festival in Sydney and discussing in increasingly slurred tones the hilarity of BDO organisers inadvertently turning the Australian flag into a symbol of rebellion.

Last year also had double decker layers of ace because I was involved in one of the coolest festival fence jumps ever: I helped my boss at the Art Gallery, a 10 year member of Australia's notorious subterranean exploration gang Cave Clan and 15 of his screwball mates break into the festival through the sewage tunnel next to the main arena.

I *know*. And I seemed like such a quiet, polite boy.

Once we had arrived at the festival, my friend Bud, who had initially agreed to help me lift the heavy iron grating blocking the tunnel, was starting to have reservations.

"I dunno man. Lots of people about."

Although not necessarily keen to incriminate myself either, I was preoccupied with the thought of getting retrenched because I left my boss wallowing in effluent. "Listen," I cajoled. "I'll shout you a bourbo if you help me do this."

"Done." He said, skulling one of the bourbon and cokes he was carrying. You can also get him to eat BBQ grit using the same tactic.

We eventually found the grate near to the entrance of the main arena. Three pairs of white, pleading eyes stared up at us from the depths below. Bud and I looked at each other, looked down, swallowed hard, and then purposefully walked over to a nearby pylon to put our drinks down. A hand tapped me on the shoulder.

"You gonna break into the storm water drain?" asked the 14 year old Fear Factory fan, his eyes wide in anticipation. Observant kid.

My dry mouth minced the words. "Not exactly. Watch."

We walked over to the grating and yanked it open with surprising ease, expecting it to be heavier. Nothing happened for 5 long, heart thumping seconds, but when the first head popped out through the hole an excited cheer erupted from the surrounding crowd and people ran over to help pull out gate dodger after gate dodger -- as fast as they could climb the ladder. When all 16 were out, everyone cheered and clapped and slapped backs and then immediately dispersed.

The only person left hovering around the grate was a yellow shirted security guard, frantically looking left and right but finding nobody to grab by the shirt collar. The mob had won.


And we had a courageous story to tell for the rest of the day.

How to Win at eBay and Influence People

1. Decide that a beautiful new sunburst lawsuit-era Ibanez guitar with pretty pictures on it will exponentially increase your quality of life and your chances of hooking up with babes.
   
   
2. Studiously scour eBay during office hours until such a guitar appears.
   
   
3. Notice with disdain as two hateful eBay novices start a bidding war for the object of your affection, paying no heed to the eBayers code of last-minute engagement.
   
   
4. Decide to balk convention yourself and immediately contact both members, kindly pointing out that bidding on an item 6 days out is fruitless and serves only to increase the final sale price. Feel confident that you are being helpful and avoiding unnecessary condescension.
   
   
5. Receive no reply from the first member, and the following message from the second:
   
   
   
   
   
   
6. Wrinkle nose at lack of punctuation and civility. Shake head at overly clichéd war-cry. Begin devising cunning retaliation.
   
   
7. Download eBay sniping program Auction Sentry. Marvel at application's ability to automatically place winning bid on item 30 seconds before auction close. Configure winning snipe on lusty guitar and cackle in pre-emptive glee.
   
   
8. Win guitar.
   
   
9. Send following message to Strummer69:
   
   
   
   
   
   
10. Take receipt of guitar at work from long haired death metal rocker that smells of Vicks Vapour Drops. Impress pink haired ladies at the front desk with less than adequate rendition of Stairway to Heaven. Receive no reply from substandard rival. Live happily, guitar playingly, ever after.
    

From May 2007, no chance I could afford this now.

And the Winner Is..

I managed to catch up with Will briefly over MSN yesterday, which I regretted almost immediately as he begun talking about the 2007 Music Oz Awards show that he had recently been asked to present an award for. In my opinion, a close friend like Will should have been far more sensitive in the way he broached the news, considering that being an awards host is a lifelong dream of mine. In fact, it's Lifelong Dream #208; right behind playing a game of life-sized ten pin bowling using people as pins. Which is of course right behind owning an island shaped like a giant butt, you know, so that anytime a helicopter tried to land you'd be effectively mooning them with the entire island.

Anyway, sulking, as it turns out, is a highly ineffective battle tactic when the only form of emotive communication at your disposal is based around the smiley methodology. Furthermore, *pouts* just wasn't cutting the mustard. I begun trying to point this out to Will, but he obviously had far more pressing issues to talk about. Sure, pressing to HIM.



Will (avenge my life):
So I'm presenting the award for Excellence in Dance Music.


Davey (smells):
Excellence in Dance Music... Isn't that an oxymoron?


Will (avenge my life):
You're an oxymoron. The issue is that I need a gag to say before I present the award. You know. They always do these 'gag' things. I'm fairly sure it has something to do with humour.


Davey (smells):
Surely the award itself is funny enough.


Will (avenge my life):
I was thinking something along the lines of: "You know, it really irritates me that everyone thinks that as a DJ my life revolves around taking drugs and partying all weekend."


Davey (smells):
Good so far.


Will (avenge my life):
"Well it's simply not true. For instance, sometimes my dealer is out."


Davey (smells):
Yeah, and sometimes you're so wasted you have no idea whether today actually falls on a weekend or not.


Will (avenge my life):
Haha, Awesome! I'll say that.


Davey (smells):
Yeah. I mean, standing up in front of a room full of your colleagues and peers -- how could a joke about drug abuse NOT go down well?


Will (avenge my life):
My thoughts exactly. Now.. powder blue rayon suit, or that hot little number I wore briefly at the Bathurst B&S ball?



Obviously the suit, considering that the other outfit had been (thankfully) impounded and (hopefully) incinerated. Clothed in this regal ensemble and armed with the new material, Will took to the stage and gave it his awards-hosting all. I was told later that despite my reservations, the joke went down a treat, with music aficionados and band cool kids hooting in self-depreciating approval. How about that! I suppose you should never underestimate the music industry's capacity to see the funny side of drug induced catatonia.

Easy mistake to make though.


The Oz Music Awards screens Wed Dec 5th on Channel V. See Will make some jokes up about Whopper value meals, and all kinds of other exciting stuff.

Will Styles for Cleo Bachelor of the Year

Will received this email in his inbox the other day:

Hey guys,

See below re: Cleo’s Bachelor of the Year.

It’s always good to have some DJs in this competition, so if you’re interested & single (see requirements below), please get back to me & I’ll be happy to forward your details onto Jo @ Cleo.

It’s a bit of fun also, so don’t be embarrassed :)

Thanks, Angie x

-------

So CLEO Bachelor is about to start up yet again.

We’ll be locking down this year’s crop of 50 bachelors over the next month and shooting around Australia in early December.

I’m sending this to you in the hope that you’ll suggest any suitable talent who you think are CLEO Bachelor material.

Looking for young-ish (no older than 35), unattached* boys who are not only hot, but successful and have a bit of charisma. All we need is a happy snap and a few basic details:

• Name
• Age
• Occupation
• City they reside in
• Contact phone and email or publicist contact
• Plus a few words (100 max) on why they’d make a great CLEO Bachelor.
  

(NB: * by ”unattached” we’d prefer single, but if they’re dating someone and it’s not too serious – i.e. they’re not living together or haven’t been together for a few years – then they will be considered).

Email any suggestions to xxxx@xxxxxx.com.au and please circulate to anyone you think may be interested!

Thanks!

He contacted me pretty soon afterwards, and we began a thorough investigation of the material in earnest. Although we both agreed that morally we could not condone a competition that so ruthlessly grades one man's worth over another, we still could not deny the fact that Will had a fairly solid shot at the title. He had placed very well in Mad Magazine's Alfred E Nueman Lookalike of the Year competition only a few weeks prior, indeed, had almost gone home with the coveted sash. We decided to go for it.

To allay our ethical concerns, we promptly concluded that the amount of good Will could accomplish after being crowned El Macho Bacho would eclipse any harm done in promoting the event. After all, there were still all those starving kids in like, that country with all the dust. It was common knowledge that most of them didn't even have decent iPods!!

Concentrating on this fact, we got down to the persnickety business of constructing Wills application.

To whom it may concern,

Will Styles, Sydney DJ and cafe socialite, is spry, entertainingly dim-witted and turns a distinct shade of mauve when shaken violently. His antics as the last guy to leave every party are only matched by his susceptibility to lose an argument with a chair for 3 days straight.

Although he would love to win the competition, I am sure he fears that all the attention would distract him from his true calling of collecting arm-pit fungi. A keen amateur biologist, Will breeds them into new strains of super-fungi, such as his favourites Parisite Hilton, Sir Scratchalot and Allyourhairis Allfalloffus.

Will would be a great choice for Cleo Bachelor of the Year because there is no doubt in my mind he will be a bachelor for the rest of his life, and when she reads about him, I'm sure your reader will definitely agree. [Singular intentional.]

Warmest personal regards,
David.

We're still waiting for a response. They were probably just so beguiled by Will's 'come hither' look that they're still trying to find the words to express their infatuation. Anyway, I expect that any day now they'll send the limo packed with babes, so I'll keep you posted.

Moshzilla

It was no co-incidence that the day I finally realised the true potential of the internet coincided directly with me stumbling across the moshzilla phenomenon. Although there was a secret shame in finding someone else's complete and utter humiliation funny, it was, never the less, pretty fuckin funny. It transcended funny. It had to power to render adversarial work colleagues temporary allies, with your sworn enemy ambling meekly up to your screen to see what all the fuss was about. I've found that these internet moments are rare, and should be treasured for their puerile purity. After all, life is fleeting; infamy is ageless.

The repercussions on my life after this event were all too predictable. For a while, no-one could get much sense out of me, and any photos that happened to stray into my neck of the woods were immediately seized and then painstakingly grilled for potential photoshopping opportunities.

My boss at the Art Gallery Craig, knowing better, should never have asked me to backup his recent holiday snaps from Thailand. That's like asking a glue sniffing addict to to be captain of the scrapbook team. My eyes saw red. Not being able to stop my primal urges, I grabbed the following image and went to work.



I considered not sending the result in a company wide email for about 5 seconds. Then I got distracted by a butterfly that landed on the mouse, causing the click to engage and in turn sending the email. "Oh well," I thought "At least I can always blame the butterfly."

157 people in four departments received the following email:

To: All Staff
From: David Price (Art Gallery Society of NSW)
Subject: Up, up, and a Craig.

Amazingly, the whole affair was deemed a hilarious caper, and I was crowned First Class Photoshop Artisan for that week. It may have helped that my boss had a bit of a thing for The Man of Steel, but this could only be attributed to blind, dumb luck considering that I found it out after I could have been fired.

I wish I could say that my bosses also had a pet interest in experimental cryogenics. That could have saved me so much explaining two weeks later when I actually did get the boot. Live and learn I guess.

Play that funky music

Things were not always this grim. I used to have a very interesting job. Once upon a time was a very popular Sydney DJ.

Don't laugh, it's true.

Well, I may be stretching the truth slightly, considering that maybe five percent of the people I ended up talking to about it had actually heard of me, but that's beside the point. What was most noticeable during these exchanges was the veritable tirade of questions that could be launched as a result of mentioning my occupation.

"Oh really! What clubs do you play at?"
"Oh really! What style of music do you play?"
"Oh really! You must be really worried about your future, yeh?"

I could never really understand the general fascination, but was always pleased with amount of conversational attention it elicited. I mean, most of the DJs I knew, while being completely lovable in their own right, were at heart music nerds of the highest order. Not unlike computer nerds in many respects.

Eventually, I made the decision to give it up. There were a multitude of reasons for doing so, but I very quickly found myself explaining them ad nauseum to a throng of incredulous scensters each time I went out.

"But why?" they would lament, shaking their beer to enunciate the point.

"I simply couldn't do it anymore." I would respond defensively. "Working 9 to 5 during the week, and then going out every Friday and Saturday night. Being forced to go to clubs when you didn't want to, missing peoples birthdays, going away parties, weddings. Hanging out with people younger than I was, who weren't my friends. And look, even if I did make it big, I really couldn't see myself being a travelling musician and being away from my (very hypothetical) wife and kids."

"I see." they would say, scratching their chin and nodding solemnly. "But tell me this, why did you quit?"

It wasn't long before the momentum of such conversations led me to feign drink emptiness and back away slowly, trying unsuccessfully to avoid eye contact.

It was pretty tiresome. The interesting thing was, no-one in the industry who was working a similar circuit to me ever questioned the decision. They understood completely, perhaps even better than I did. I think my closest friends Will and Spook were disappointed, mainly because it meant that they would have one less friend to heckle, draw texta on the face of, and buy indigestible concoctions of alcoholic beverages with questionably inspirational titles (The flaming funktrust, the kanga cricket, etc). But as they were well aware, there's only so long that your stomach allows you to drink something that was previously on fire.

During my last few months of DJing I began working at a place called Cargo, which was to all appearances a swish Darling Harbour nightclub. In reality, it was an arse pinching thoroughfare of oily haired bogans with delusions of class. It was here that I met Mikey, a beer swilling, sailor-talking ray of sunshine in this womanising wasteland. We had a simple approach to dealing with the place: Drink a lot of beer and make up jokes at other peoples expense.

It was during one of these cycles that I was approached by a girl of extremely questionable age who was obviously about to request something I'd never heard of, as was the usual fare in the place.

"Hi," She said, attempting to catch me in her doe eyed tractor beam. "Can you play [something I'd never heard of but five bucks says she saw it on video hits that morning]?"

"Sure," I said "Or alternatively, you could just wait until your next blue light disco and then hear it there."

I then erupted in peals of laughter, slapping Mikey in the stomach and retelling the story paying particular attention to my brashness and wit. When I turned around, she was still there, scowling at me. She raised her hand to her head, formed the letter 'L' with her finger and thumb, the international teen-symbol for 'loser'.

"Oh my God!" I bellowed, spilling my beer. "Could you BE any more from high school? You're like a really bad parody of yourself!"

By this stage Mikey and I were having the time of our lives; jumping around and spilling drinks all over ourselves. The track on the turntable could have been running out for all I cared, I was beyond doing anything but hoot with delight. I'm pretty sure the girl wasn't having quite as good a time as us, she made another offensive hand to mouth gesture (which made me almost die, I can tell you) and then left, never to be seen again.

Needless to say I didn't play her track. Looking back now, you'd be forgiven for assuming that I'm an arrogant, opinionated bastard. But you gotta admit, I'm a bastard who comes up with some pretty damn good drunken quips.

I'm going to pay for that night one day, I'm sure.

The 'Bow and Leave' Technique

My Mum's great. She has an abundance of artistic and creative talent, cooks a mean Bolognaise, and gives great but often unwarranted advice. Yep, you sure can say a lot of things about my Mum, except for maybe one thing: Her comedic faculties are a little skeewiff.

Don't get me wrong. She laughs a lot. In fact, I've seen the whole team of Kenyon floozies in uncontrollable dinner table hysterics that would rival any 6 year old hearing his first ever fart joke. So, it's not that she doesn't love fun, it's just that she hasn't really been known to make up any jokes. Good ones anyway.

Until last Christmas holidays that is.

It was getting toward the end of a quiet night. Dad had trundled off to bed and Mum and I were spending the last remaining hours finishing off a bottle of red wine and watching Mum's VHS copy of Pride and Prejudice (BBC version of course). As embarrassed as I am to admit it, P&P has become a bit of a security blanket for me over the years. I once saw that a guy that had created a support group on Facebook called 'I know every line to the BBC version of Pride and Prejudice' and I was like 'Oh, what a great idea'. I guess for me it represents all the good things in life: Love, unrequited love, family, intelligence, quick-wittedness, Miss Eliza Bennet... meow.

But most of all: massive, rich, decked out, county estates. With lakes to fish in and horses to appear gallant on. My kingdom for such lavishness. I swear.

Anyway, enough discussion of such things. I can feel what small grasp I have left on my manliness slipping through my callous-free fingertips.

As we were watching the video, I was playfully giving Mum shit about the degradation of the film quality due to it's overuse. 'Dust!' she proclaimed, but I wasn't buying a word of it. Why would dust collect specifically around the area where Darcy asserts how much he 'ardently admires and loves' Lizzy? You can't fool me you old romantic.

During a ball scene, we watched a socially uncomfortable Darcy leave mid conversation by bowing stiffly to his contemporaries and simply walking away.

"Wouldn't that be great?" mused my Mum. "Imagine being at a dinner party and being stuck in a boring conversation. You could just bow, then leave!"

What. A. Concept.

Still rude to be sure, but so noble. Back in Sydney, I spread the word immediately. The Bronte crew thought it was the most inspired thing they'd ever heard of, but then they're easily amused. Particularly when it comes to new inappropriate ways to conduct themselves.

We began practicing the technique at a rather morose barbeque, and everything was progressing nicely until someone deemed to question my behavior after what I assumed was a perfectly executed bow and leave.

"What are you doing?" He asked, looking very confused.

"I'm bowing." I said. "Then leaving. It's a new thing we're doing."

"Well it's weird. And very impolite." He shook his head and walked away.

"Oh fine, just leave then!" I bellowed after him. "No wonder they say gallantry is DEAD!"

I quickly wanted to gesticulate just how much this breakdown of social formalities had affected me, but considering I'd already bowed once, I kinda just turned and skulked away.

My 'turn and skulk' technique definitely needs work.

Don't look.. I'm hideous!

Inspired as I was by the lovely Miss Bloom's foray into pop art inspired cartoonery, I thought it wise to show my own efforts in contorting the public image of myself:


That's right, read it and weep suckers. The story behind this frankensteinal monstrosity was that I was attempting to demonstrate to my friend Leah the intricacies of a particular outfit I had planned for a friend's engagement party. What's that? Well yes, OF COURSE it was during work hours, as if I would have bothered otherwise?

Anyway, I suppose it had the desired effect. She immediately printed it out onto A3 paper and stuck it up in her team's shared cubicle space, thereby turning it into their unofficial mascot. For all I know my poor characture is currently sporting 3 cheap plastic darts sticking out of his obliviously smiling cranium.

Everything happens for a reason I guess.

Ladies and Gentlemen..

Introducing, my mate Will:



A face only a mother could love you say. Well I've asked her, and she's on the fence.

The above is his inspired getup for his upcoming gig at Splendor in the Grass in Byron. Will's quite proud really. He was telling me that this is now the second animal suit that he has in his collection.

"Although it is somewhat of a cliché to dress like a chicken," he said "I simply couldn't go past the amazing design of this number."

I suspect that it will have just as fine an impact as last year's Panda suit my friend, and will garner you just as many hugs. Good luck to you sir, and god speed.

You're only in Young once

Young. Famous for their cherries. We did only go once, but that may of had something to do with standing up on a barstool and repeating in strong slurring tones the amended proverb shown above. That and being chased out of town immediately after by pitchfork wielding natives. Either or, really.

Below is an excerpt from an email I received from my wonderfully observant and hilarious friend May - transcribed here for the shared enjoyment of all.

--

Last night was called Granny Flat, and a friend of mine has been putting it on at the Longueville Hotel for a while now. This being the last one, I thought I should probably head down there for the first time. Not bad really, cool crowd, lots of our friends there, most of whom I haven't seen in AGES, pretty good music. And I was lucky enough to witness this on the bus on the way there:

*bus shuts doors, goes to pull out*

Drunken Youth: Buddyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!!

Peeved Bus Driver: Are you getting on or not?

Drunken Youth: Yep... Yeah... *removes mobile from ear* Um. What station are you going to?

PBD: Chatswood. [leaves out the "like it says on the front"]

DY: Ok, that's cool. I'll go to Chatswood.

*looks down at wallet, causing him to sway gently*

DY: Do you accept EFTPOS?

PBD: .........!!

DY: That's cool, man. I'll just get the next one.


Brightened my night right there.

--

And, in turn, my dreary rain soaked misadventure to the corner store net cafe.

More stories from May to follow. Comments concerning her being funnier than me discouraged.

Relationships are for sissies

It seems that these days no relationship starts off clean. Particularly for us late twenty-somethings. We've all had a number of serious relationships, most often with people who we're still trying to be friends with or who are at least within the same friendship circle as us, and i betcha everybody can share an empathetic shudder at the mere mention of *that* breakup.

I've recently embarked on a most-inopportune romance; 6 weeks before leaving the country for god knows how long and with someone whose life is already complicated with love. It is a seriously unoriginal storyline, and one I've heard a million times before from people who have traveled themselves. You know the one: fell in love, couldn't stop thinking about them, spoiled the trip, should have packed more undies, Ibiza is overrated, blah blah BLAH.

So it's a well-used plot. So what? Just because I already knew the ending to King Kong didn't mean that I didn't enjoy the movie. Well, actually i didn't. But that's not the point. The point is that killing monkeys is wrong. Oh no, wait, the REAL point is that when it comes to love you sometimes just have to see things through to their conclusion. Even if that conclusion is hurtful awfulness wrapped in disaster pie. Actually, ESPECIALLY if it's that, because as Newton's second law states: all pie is good pie.

I was discussing this conundrum to my wonderful friend Katie Snowball at the party on Saturday (which RULED by the way - more stories to come later). I was all: isn't she wonderful, so glad you guys like her, isn't she hot and funny, what the hell are we doing ARE WE FUCKING LUNATICS kinda thing. In an effort to reassure me, she told me a story of what happened when her and Paulie got together.

Now first, I'm afraid we need a bit of 90210 background info.

* Katie's 'that breakup' was with a guy called Charlie. It happened a million years ago.
* Charlie is someone we all love dearly, and is still around at all the big things
* Paulie and Charlie have been best mates for ages (Buh-bowwww)
* Paulie and Charlie are sweet now, most likely due to they're being built from radness 2000 awesalium alloy which as we all know is asshole-resistant. Still took an 8 hour conversation and loaaaads of booze, but then, most important things do.

So anyway, it's 3 weeks after the fateful first smooch and Katie's freaking the fuck out. She's in Europe, 8 hours due east of nowhere, alone, and wondering whether pursuing things with Pauly is the right thing to do. She decides to give the universe 24 hours to cough up something poignant - Either she will have a dream about him, get an email from him, or a 'P' shaped meteor will burst through the atmosphere making a 'paaaaaaaaaulieeeee' sound as it careens ground ward.

That night, no dream. No email the next day either. The following night, feeling quite glum and despondent, she meets a random Australian guy and they decide to have dinner together. It was nice, they get along well, and Katie bravely manages to avoid talking about her disintegrating love life. Dinner finishes, and random Australian guy has a bus to catch so makes his farewell; only to return 15 minutes later with a backpack and a quizzical look on his face.

"Just one thing I need to ask you," He ventured mysteriously. "You know Paul Renault, yeh?"

Katie was dumbstruck. "Yes, umm.. shit.. Yes! How would you know that?"

"I knew Paulie when I lived in Canberra, you were in a few of the pictures he had hanging on his wall. I remember your face. He always said the most lovely things about you, and I got the impression he always had a secret sweet spot for you."

Sold, to the weird co-incidence dude who probably travels in an Arabian lamp. You just sealed a romance there buddy, nice job.

Not *quite* as cool as a meteor screaming 'Paaaaaaauuuulliiiiieee' that shoots out of the sky creating love heart shaped smoke rings as it plummets, but it will do in a pinch.



* transcribed (with hideous omissions I'm sure) for the beautiful science nerd of a girl that has crashed my life. It wasn't insured either, cheers.

Goodbye, Porpoise Spit!

I'm not sure if you've read the memo yet, but the town is abuzz with the news that we're throwing another party. It's a going-away party. MY going-away party. It's supposed to be a joint party since my flatmate Fish's parents rather annoyingly ill-timed his birth to coincide 27 years later with my party - but who really cares about that because haven't you heard, IIIIIiii'm going away.

Our last party was a soirée of gargantuan proportions. We themed it Russian, due to us having a surprising number of Russians within our circle at that time and because by god, didn't it sound badass to be necking vodka by the Cossack hat-full.

We cooked all kinds of Russian delicacies for the occasion. Incidentally, there are numerous dishes you can choose from when undertaking a Russian night; but for some reason they all contain shaved egg. Will, our resident dessert sergeant-at-arms pulled out all the stops and made a white Russian slice cut into little Tetris pieces. I'm sure you don't need reminding that Tetris was invented by a Russian, because like, that's just elementary stuff really. We met up in the afternoon to start the cooking, but even still it took Will most of the night to put this dally of a dessert together. He was so wasted on vodka by the end of it that he wiped out mid conversation, causing him to injure his coxis (arse bone). My biggest regret of the night was that I missed it - that and the incident where I abused a wall for not being perpendicular enough. Ah regrets. *sniff*

Anyway, like I was saying, we're having another one. This time the theme is 'English High Tea'. Just this afternoon I sent out a very clever text message invitation where I used lots of adequately themed phrases such as 'dear chaps' and 'ever so grateful' and poncy shit like that. You know, the REALLY funny stuff. When I told Monny two days ago what the theme was, she misheard me and sent out an invitation to a party where the theme was 'English I.T.'; so you know it's going to make for a pretty interesting night.

But here's the thing; because it's my see-you-later-thanks-for-all-the-fish going away party, there's no real way of avoiding incongruities in attendance. To put it another, significantly less nerdy way:


Ex-girlfriends are coming.



A few actually.




Bout 5.


..



But fear not dear reader, because like any other dull-witted group of males bent on their own survival, my mates and I have concocted a FOOLPROOF plan. It goes like this: We're going to tell them that the party starts an hour earlier than it actually does. When they arrive, I'll sit them all around in a circle, introduce everybody, point out the ones who had sex with me and the ones who didn't obviously because they had unreconciled self-esteem issues, and say:



"I got everyone together like this because I just didn't want anyone feeling unnecessarily uncomfortable. Nowwww discuss."




As I said, foolproof. It should be around this time that Will falls over again in the kitchen, thereby making the circle of hilarity complete.





Man, if only everything was this easy.




(Pre-emptive disclaimer to current lady l'armoire: You're looking very pretty today and i love you)

Weddings, parties, anything

On Saturday night I accidentally invited all of my friends home to my apartment after a great wedding. It was completely out of my control really; we'd had an absolute cracker of a time, the speeches we're unforgettable and I was drunk not only on booze, but on the love of friends I hadn't seen for a gazillion years. Mostly on booze though.

The way we like to get 'jiggy' at this time of night (couldn't reaaaally tell you, shall we say 3?) is to play guitars and sing our little lungs out. Group hugging optional. Songs of choice are currently:

* Zombie - Cranberries
* Toxicity - System of a Down
* More than words - Extreme
* Babe I'm gonna leave you - Led Zeppelin
* Hit me baby one more time - Britteny Spears (!)
(change 'baby' to 'davey' for added effect)

... you can see where this is going, right? Anyway, not long after we starting torturing these songs with our fumigated lungs, I started receiving text messages from my previously-asleep-and-dreaming-of-people-not-playing-guitar roomie. He's not real good with noise, it's got to be said. A TV in the other room is enough for him to lose precious hours. At that time, we would have been the equivalent of about 20 TVs and a medium sized Bobcat Goldthwait. That's in decibels mind, personally I likened our sound to that of angels being squeezed.

I wasn't very understanding to his woes. My thoughts at the time were along the lines of "it's Saturday damnit" and "my best friends are here damnit" and "Ooo I wonder if there is any wine left in the fridge, damnit?".

The following night, he enters my room explaining that we 'have to' have a talk. I apologised profusely. I still didn't think I was *that* out of order, but couldn't be bothered having any antagonism during my last 3 weeks in Sydney.

Because I'm so thoughtful, I've decided to make it up to him with some presents. I'm confident he'll recognise the ironic humour in my gifts of:


* A fine bottle of Sav Blanc
* My latest demo tape


If he doesn't, I'm in for a rough 3 weeks.

Finger's crossed.

The quality of graffiti round here is PLUMMETING

Now call me a stickler for tradition, but surely graffiti had a bit more spunk in the good ol days? Example:



I mean, come ON. What is that? That my friends, is the most uninspired defacing of property since someone drew a penis on my letterbox. Now my letterbox seems like a work of creative genius.

Seriously, if this is the way graffiti is going then count me out sir. It's things like this that give vandalism a bad name.