Anabolic Rhetoric

The two day White House environmental 'summit' concluded today with President George W. Bush outlining his plan to achieve what his environmental minister James Connaughton describes as the 'aspirational' goal of reducing greenhouse gas emisions.

When asked to clarify exactly what was meant by this definition, Bush declined, saying that while he aspired to answer the question directed at him, in reality he had no intention of actually doing so.

2 days to go, and officially shitting myself

Things To Do Before I'm 30
(23rd September)

1. Champagne breakfast in a hot air balloon Lacking ballooning skills and suitable romantic counterpart
2. Invent hover board (c) Universal Studios ergo high litigation potential, not to mention lack of technical know how concerning hovering
3. Get married / have kids One week not long enough - blame late generational awareness
4. Go to Oktoberfest in Munich and determine requisite answers through the bottom of an impressively large glass.

One out of four aint bad 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.

MIA

Very sorry for my absenteeism of late, I've been well and truly lost on Mykonos, in the Greek Islands. My hard won programmers tan is looking a very unhealthy brown.

On a lighter note, I did see my friend pay good money last night to don a crash helmet and get struck solidly on the noggin with a fire extinguisher.



Don't let anyone tell you that this end of the world is gimmicky.



Some stories coming soon.

Cap't Buzzkill and the Aftermath

[Buzz and Cold Pimpin' are in an alehouse, at the business end of beery afternoon]





An' ye know what tha' worst thing is? She's gone an' put a restrainin' order on me. I canne' contact 'er even if aye wanted too!







To be fair, you did attempt to feed her to the crocodiles.








Aye merely ORDERED it, ya' lily livered genteel!







I'm afraid, good sir, that in her eyes the difference may be negligible.






She bloomin' got away, didn't she? So where's the 'arm? Ay've been tryin' ta' think of another way of talkin to 'er, you know, to tell 'er bout me feelins'. So aye wrote 'er a poem, aye did.






Oh capital. Please impart your distilled wisdom on mine ears sir, though I surely consider them unworthy to receive the impending script.






Put a cork in it ya' dandy, and jus' 'av a listen.

let go me son, let go, aye say
for rope stretched taught will break
those learn'd knots will fault aye say
regardless sweet sail make

ye boughs are warped
ye keel askew
ye mast bereft asunder

tha' water leaks
tha' floorboards creek
tha' crew make known their wonder

'oo knows these tides that break our front
each wave widows anew,
of monsoon scale
this evenin' gail
that 'opefuls sail into

Rubbish.

Aye think me metaphor might be a
lit'le 'eavy 'anded.











I think you should give serious consideration to never writing poetry again. Tell me, have you given limericks a crack? I believe their construct might be a little more malleable to your talents.










Ta' be 'onest, it be an old poem anyway, so aye prob'ly shouldna' use it. Aye just dunne' know what else ta' do mate.










Listen, my fish fouled friend, I have a proposal. Quite recently I have become the sole proprietor to a large fortune of engagingly proportioned 'hoes'. Perhaps you would consider accompanying me to get 'jiggy'? It has been my experience that nothing settles a partitioned mind quite like the embrace of a well endowed biatch.









Nay, nay. Ye a generous soul, aye grant ya', but me mind shan't know no rest until its 'ad its parlay.









Well said sir. Perhaps then, you might consider breaking your silence and just talking to the maiden?









An' say what exac'ly? That me bones ache to tha' point of agony from tha' drought that 'er absence 'as created? That aye'd do anything ta' be with 'er? Cap't rowboats for a livin', 'ave a 'alfwit theivin' scoundrel for a boson an' ne'er speak a word to 'er but 'appy ones?








Well, quite, although perhaps with one or two less pirate references. The sentiment is nice though.











Ay've always 'ad a 'abit of 'oldin that "to 'ave an' to 'old" 'oo 'aa in 'igh esteem.













Never would have guessed.

Job Description: Boring

Life when you're a computer programmer sure is sweet. You get to stare at a lifeless computer screen for the majority of your working life, talk in a completely justifiable nasal voice, and understand those strangely unsettling jokes on the Internet referred to as 'nerd humour'.

Yep, the fun never stops for us code monkeys. There's just one thing that I'm yet to get a proper handle on: being able to to discuss my job in a social setting. Take the following as a rough example. The scene could be any bar where you have just recently been happened upon by a comely lass of questionable virtue. It happens a lot, trust me. Us programmers must give off some kind of musky scent that attracts 'da ladiez'. An 'odor de coder' if you will.


her: So, what do you do?

you: I'm a uh... a computer programmer.

her: ...

you: Which has many additional benefits such as knowing the quick-key to bringing up your desktop.

her: Do you know the quick-key for escaping without ever having to talk to you again?

you: ...alt-e?


You see my predicament. Its not that I can't be thoroughly engaging, its just that I can't be engaging on any social, personal, emotional, or theoretical level. Like, big deal!

Recently I've decided that the best way to combat the problem is to engage in a little process I like to call 'complete dishonesty'. Originally I was just going to reinvent myself as a Harley Davidson riding bounty hunter called 'bruiser' who wears cutoff denims with the reckless abandon of someone who 'just doesn't give a crap about having warm arms', but lately I've come to the realisation that the whole thing will be so much easier if i just steal someone else's identity. It will give the ruse an air of realism, and has the added benefit of saving me countless hours in development time. Everyone gets ice cream!

So, thanks to Jared's Dad and a great story that he told us over daintily held scotches in the Soho district of London last night, I am now a courageous firefighter who used to work in the second response truck in the fire department of Hobart, Tasmania. Pretty cool, eh? Here's some background on my coolness:

One night while we were sitting around playing cards in the station, the alarm suddenly sounded: A fire had broken out during the renovations of the Theatre Royal. Being part of the second response truck, we arrived at the scene to see that things were slowly sliding out of control. The fire was being fought hard on the lower levels of the building by the first team, but it wasn't hard to see that the flames were climbing toward the roof at an alarming rate. The dense, hot air forming toward the top of the building needed to be cooled, and quickly.

Noticing that the outside of the building was covered in scaffolding due to the renovations, I immediately signaled to the rest of the team to get the hose ready for a roof-based position. It seemed an obvious choice at the time, I knew my way around these kind of structures from working odd jobs in construction over the last few years. Once I'd climbed to roof level, I threw down the retrieval rope and pulled up the hose as soon as it was safely secured. By this stage, the fire had vented through the roof and the air around me was a howling wind of sucking , super heated oxygen. Corrugated iron sheets were being torn off indiscriminately and thrown skyward by the thermal currents, coming precariously close to shearing me in two. Kneeling down, my eyes a blur from the chocking clouds of black smoke, I turned on the hose and pointed the flow of water down the flaming turret.

After 6 intense hours (that seemed like 1), we managed to save the Theatre. During the struggle, a opportunistic photographer from the local paper took some pictures of the 'hero on the roof' who managed to 'thwart the fire and single-handedly save the historic Theatre'. I'm sure the boys at the station would have been none too pleased had those photos ever come to light. To this day I still haven't seen them.



You know what, this is never going to work. I think I'll just stick to 'single handedly saving the database' from the evil grasps of the 'stored procedure bug'.

I'm more of your 'ones and zeros hero' kinda guy anyway.


Small article on the Theatre

Cap't Buzzkill and the Breakup

Buzz, honey, I'm sorry to pull you out of your 'Captains with hatpins' meeting like this, it's just that I really needed to talk to you about something.






Oh ferchrist. 'Ere it comes.






I've been offered a position on another ship Buzz, I'm leaving you.







Ack! Bajesus! I be gobsmacked. Of all the scurvy... lowdown... Lily livered..

Why by thunder? Why?






Well, he just offers me such great opportunities Buzz! We'll be involved in all sorts of legitimate trading opportunities in the West Indies, he's been good friends with my family for years, and well, he's just.. so.. educated.. Buzz.






Educated? Blow me down. EDUCATED? I be educated too ya know!






You took night school Buzz.







I BE LEVEL FOUR IN SHIVERING TIMBERS BY THUNDER!







The board expelled you when they learned you'd been selling bootleg liquor to minors moonshined yourself in the mixed dorm bathtubs Buzz. Three of those kids got acute alcohol poisoning!






I thought they be just POSING as minors. And anyway, those hypocrites on the board would 'av 'ad nay'r a problem if I'd 'av plundered the grog meself! "Pirates don't brew" they told me. Scoundrels!






Really honey, this is all beside the point. I've made up my mind. It's not that I don't love you, it's just that all this nefarious behavior has to end at some point, and I just don't see you wanting the same things as me. Remember last week when I told you I thought our relationship needed more spark? You bought me a new canon. You just never listen Buzz.




That canon cost me 50 doubloons.

*sniff*






I'm sorry Buzz. I'm leaving now. Too many people will be hurt if I stay.








I be understandin' completely. Allow me tha' honour of sayin' just one more thing.






Of course Buzz.







I hope ye taste good. I wouldna' be wantin' to give acute scallywag poisonin' to tha' crocodile.

FEED HER TO 'EM ME HEARTIES!






Aye Aye! *shove*

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.

I still don't get it

Waking up in San Sebastian to find the day outside a bit overcast, we quickly decided against going to the beach. Ryan and I filled in the morning doing the obligatory internet and email thing before quickly getting bored and deciding that we needed to get out of the house. By this stage, our host Morten had groggily entered the lounge room and after a very involved eye rubbing session, suggested we go for a drive. His football training didn't start until five after all. We had wanted to go and check out the Guggenheim museum in nearby Bilbao, and since we did not mind at all being chauffeured around in his brand new, football club provided Mercedes, we happily accepted. To Bilbao sir, and don't spare the mustard!

The Basque region of Spain really is jaw droppingly beautiful. Green rolling hills, pine trees everywhere, and those little tunnels that go through mountains like the ones you see in model train sets.



I tried to take about a million photos, but only too late did I realise that I had stupidly set the camera to 'incredibly blurry'. I should have had it set to 'Awesome pictures to make your friends back home jealous', but what can I say, it's an easy mistake to make.

Truth be told, I didn't really know a great deal about the Guggenheim. If i was asked during Trivial Pursuit two weeks ago in what country it was located, I would have answered 'Germany', quickly followed by a 'Well it sounds German!' remark to deflect any patronising guffaws. After taking in it's stainless steel kitchen-esk exterior, my first impression was that the architect was a bit of a prankster - reason being that the stairs leading to the entrance are the kind whose length is configured so perfectly that they result in being uncomfortably long. You even have to do a feet switcharoo halfway up to give each leg a turn at climbing. Strange thing to notice, hey? It's true, we are a culturally deficit mob of yokels.


But at least we are street wise enough to be visibly afraid when flower-cyclone death is imminent.

The museum was exhibiting an artist called Anselm Keifer that I'd seen before while working at the Art Gallery of NSW, so I immediately began gloating to my comrades at having an extensive taste in cultivated arts. Of course, as soon as I was asked for further information about him I had to reluctantly back down from my effrontery, due to knowing absolutely nothing about him. We were finding it difficult to understand his work too; large metal-bolstered concrete stair structures secured one by one up a high wall. An engineering marvel to be sure, but quite unintelligible to the likes of the yokel party.

Looking at one of his massive, 20ft high collage works, I started to imagine what his neighbours must think when he began putting one of these things together. "Oh Anselm," they'd chuckle, shaking their heads and having another sip of their morning coffee. "What in Gods name are you creating now? Hey Anselm! Quit fucking around and go and trim that hedge like we asked you last week!"

After reading one of the descriptions posted on the wall, I discovered that he lives as a hermit in an old converted factory in Barjac, France. The place has numerous interconnecting warehouses, living quarters and greenhouses that he uses to create these massive constructions. The place has got loads of secret tunnels and rooms connecting the different areas. He has spent the last decade fashioning the place into a living piece of art, piling up fragile concrete structures and letting the elements do the rest. Calls himself an alchemist. Cooool.


I'd probably go a little bit loopy in that environment. I'd start wearing a 24-7 monocle, developing a cackle, and answering the door saying things like "So doctor! We meet again, at last!"

Not ol' Anselm though. He's still keeping it real, driving his big construction cranes (I assume, otherwise he's just REALLY strong) and waxing lyrical about life.


The book, the idea of a book or the image of a book, is a symbol of learning, of transmitting knowledge.. I make my own books to find my way through the old stories.

-- Anselm Kiefer

Propaganda

Speaking of Copenhagen's general aversion to anything non-law-abiding, have a crack at this:

Can you spot the two things wrong with it? Here I'll help you.. you're taking too long.

1. People would not idly stand by without trying to immediately turn ducks into duck pancakes. Even if they were Danish. As everyone knows, it's contrary to human nature.
(formula being: life = willingness to eat duck pancakes x Pi)

2. People would not be smiling at this blatant disregard for the Dansk pedestrian road processes! They would be CHASING them with STICKS and singing viking war songs loud enough to chill the blood in your veins. Believe me, it's fuckin frightful.


No disrespect to Hans Christian Anderson, or indeed, any of his subsequent offspring; I'm sure they're all delightful. But it has to be said here and now that the man was A CHARLETON.

I think the abundance of evidence here clearly speaks for itself.

Four fucked cars and a skatepark

Auntie warning - indiscriminate drug references and usage of big words like 'dichotomy' that know one really uses anymore but have the ability to give you the appearance of being a bit of a wanker at dinner parties. Not that I'd know.


Copenhagen is a city of opposites, a hotbed of dichotomy if you will (bam). The scale is skewed between an obstinately law abiding public spurning even the most pedantic of criminal discretions, and the hash hazed underbelly of the little suburb republic known as 'Christania town'.

Our interest in this differential anomaly spurred us into further research. The public had to be informed! Unfortunately, our overall knowledge of the scientific method was a little rusty, so we had to improvise a little. This improvisation basically meant we hung out in all the seediest areas of town and jaywalked a lot. Wouldn't you know it? At the time we weren't even aware that we were conducting field research! That's called avoiding the observer uncertainty my friends. Our lot don't do things by halves.

Firstly, let me describe jaywalking in Copenhagen. Happy as Larry, you arrive at the road in question, humming along to 'Road Trippin' by the Chilli Peppers because the Eftpos machine you just used was called a 'Blu Chippen', so you started substituting that into the lyrics for your companion's supposed amusement (she WAS laughing, so it was funny, ok?). Everyone is waiting by the side of the road, patiently awaiting the little green man to do his walking thing. Due to the street being completely empty, you decide to make like Young MC and bust a move. Whamo! Everyone turns on you faster than a backbencher in a prostitute scandal. They pursue you for streets, and it is only through utilising your expertise in Judo that you manage to beat your non-too-hasty retreat. Immediately afterwards you get a "thug fo' life" tattoo on your bicep, and feel quite chuffed at the penmanship and the way the colour of it matches your eyes.

Then there's Ye Olde Christiania town. We'd gotten wind that it was a marvelous place to pick up some embroidery gems and that the local fauna was quite charming, so you can imagine our horror when we discovered some of the local dignitaries openly selling blocks of hashish in full view of anyone who happened to look. Biting off chunks for sale with their blemished incisors no less! In their defence, there did seem to be a very strong anti HARD drug stance, as we discovered when a foolhardy wastoid deemed to presume that our chunk biting trafficker might be holding anything *stronger* than the sticky brown stuff. The uncomfortable atmosphere that ensued following his inquiry positively gave us the willies.

Fortunately we managed to regain some of our composure by regaling a young gent skateboarding with uncharacteristic skill in the local skateboarding emporium located not far from our former scene of barbary. Patrick, one of the more vivacious in our fellowship, did not appear to be joining in with the general euphoria and seemed quite inconsolable after the incident.

"What's up dude?" One of our party inquired of him. "Feelin bummed or somethin?"

Patrick eyes blurred dreamily. "I used to skate." he explained sadly. "Probably would have been better than that dude too, back in the day."

Ah yes. That old chestnut. Numerous times have the vintage 'Thrasher' and 'Skateboarder' magazines showing Patrick's younger motif been presented to us during the early hours of a particularly intensive research trip. Quite impressive really; Unequivacably radical was his form, his demeanor authority challenging.

As it turned out however, our chum was creating a devilish ruse. His dispondance was simply a mechanism for which to present us his whimsy.

"I mean, whose bright idea was it to take me to a skate park?" He bellowed in Australian twang. "I'm bloody turning 30 in under five hours! Here's this little blonde dude systematically ripping the skate park a new one, and I'm stumbling around goin 'Got any hard drugs mate?'"

Don't stress Patty, I'm pretty certain that even at 14 you were still a crack toting scumbag. There there.




Names, places, faces and facts have been changed to protect, well, me really.

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.

Once this baby hits 88 mph

Marty and the Doc used to get in all sorts of zany hjinx when it came to getting jiggy with that ol' chestnut, the space-time continuum. Steal a Sports Almanac here, criminal infested death town trouble there. If I had a dollar for every time THAT'S happened.

It was during a quiet moment recently reflecting on Back to the Future that I starting to think about what the world would have been like had certain plants never been invented by Issac Newton or by those guys from the curiosity show. Imagine the possibilities!

You know, evolution is a crazy old girl sometimes, and the kaleidoscopic forms that life takes is generally a reflection on the economy of design and the ability survive and reproduce, rather than whether a particular species will tickle the interest of the human race. Or so say the science nerds in those Washington think tanks (perhaps more eloquently however, or even differently, how the hell should I know?).

In any case, I'm calling their bluff. I've managed to invent an amazingly complex time machine out of some old boxes I found in my garage. Cool huh? I'm a fricken genius!! Who knew?? My plan is thus: Go back in time and remove some of the more useful species of plants to gauge the effect it has on the human race, then go forwards in time and pick myself up a dope hoverboard. I'll be back for high fives faster than you can say biscuits.

These are the plants I'm targeting:

Davey's Top 5 Plants - without which the world would be a terribly different place.

---

Plant 1: The Cotton Plant
Potential Substitutes: Polyester, Spandex, Taffeta
World difference potential: Substantial, particularly in under-garmentry.

---

Plant 2: Rice Grass
Potential Substitutes: Polenta, Cous Cous, Turnip Mash
World difference potential: Drastic, due to the lukewarm reception of Sweet and Sour Pork on a bed of polenta. Turnip mash crackers not such a big hit. World unrest sure to follow.

---

Plant 3: The Chilli Plant
Potential Substitutes: Horseradish, Malic Acid, Hot Warheads (myth?)
World difference potential: Hot to very hot. Keep in mind we would also be missing that episode of the Simpsons when Homer goes on an spirit-animal guided acid bender due to eating to world's hottest chilli. The mind boggles!

---

Plant 4: Cacao Tree / Cocoa Bean
Potential Substitutes: Carob, which is a crap substitute at best. Remember when Mum used to do the ol' switcharoo thing thinking you wouldn't notice? Nice one Mum. How about next time you don't make it taste like shit?
World difference potential: Just imagine. Close your eyes and conjure up all the times over all the years that you've blissed out over chocolate. All the different, varied varieties. Now think about Charlie and the Chocolate factory. SCARY huh? Mind you, when that fat kid fell in the drink it was hilarious. Swim fatty!

---

Plant 5: Tobacco
Potential Substitutes: Marijuana (obviously), Corn Silk, Banana Skins
World difference potential: Bars become completely unusable due to the now unmasked odors of stale beer and BO.

---

Plants I'm still considering: Coca, Rubber Tree, Poppy, Chernobyl, Robert.


Wish me luck. Let me know if you want me to bring you back any dinosaurs. x

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.

To Do List

1. Fall out of love
2. Buy Socks





I can't work our whether this is self indulgent and depressing or emancipating. Might buy the socks first and see how I'm travelling.