10 albums you may not have but should... just cos I said so

I really have nothing to blog about.

I'm sorry.

But for my own enjoyment, and because I'm watching Rage at the moment, here are the top 10 albums that I think have had the most influence on me.

In no particular order:

1. Melissa Etheridge - Self titled
The rest of her albums are pretty much more of the same. But this one is special. There's a lot of anger and angst in the material and the result is both destructive and beautiful.

2. Ryan Adams - Love is Hell
If you listen to this and not feel a thing, then you don't have a soul. Turn the lights off, the volume up and go nuts.

3. Fiona Apple - When the pawn...
Besides holding the distinction of having the longest album title in known history (it's actually a whole poem), When the pawn..., to me, is a realisation of what she started with her first album, Tidal. Eclectic and fiercely original.

4. del Amitri - Change everything
Their self-description as 'esoteric pop' is wonderfully apt. Lots of songs about heartbreak, rain or both.

5. 10,000 maniacs - MTV unplugged
The best live album I've ever heard. By anyone. This was Natalie Merchant's last album before she went solo and became boring.

6. Eminem - The Marshall Mathers LP
The odd album of the bunch. First time I heard it, I was appalled and loving it at the same time.

7. Oasis - What the story [morning glory]
I always marvel at how consistent this album is without ever sounding boring. To me, this is like a distillation of pure rock and roll.

8. Counting Crows - August and eveything after
This is probably the album that first got me hooked to the whole Americana music scene. Mr Jones is my favouritest song ever.

9. Jason Mraz - Waiting for my rocket to come
This didn't leave my CD stacker for a whole year. To me, he's the best vocalist and lyricist among the guitar pop crowd.

10. Ben Lee - Breathing tornadoes
This was the soundtrack of my uni years. It just stuck. And I'm not sure why.

3x7
__________

Signs my life is going good

1. I found new work.

2. I keep bumping into old high school friends. And I do mean ‘friends’. Not just people I went to school with who pretend to like me because we share a circumstantial bond.

3. I lose $80 and I’m not all that upset.

4. I go drinking and dancing and I have a great time despite it not being my own birthday party.

5. There are good TV shows and movies on again. Joan of Arcadia is the type of show I wish I had written. Garden State is a movie I wish I had written. I wish I had written a lot of things.

6. Buffy DVDs are ridiculously cheap.

7. The Happy Cup girl is back.

__________

Things I found while I was cleaning out my desk at Science Press

1. Two packets of SunSilk shampoo samples.

2. An invite to a 21st birthday party. That person is now 25 going on 26.

3. Two empty cans of Slim Fast.

4. One half-full can of Slim fast.

5. Sixty-seven CDs.

6. An envelope full of slides that we should have sent back to the picture library three years ago.

7. Six or seven hand drawings of baboons in various poses.

__________

Things about my first day at my new job

1. My pass photo looks like one of those shots of Iraqi prisoners who claim that they haven’t been beaten up by their captors

2. The toilet smells like Fanta.

3. There’s a hell of a lot of women on my floor. Most of whom have sons.

4. Macintosh computers are stupid. A one-button mouse is even stupider.

5. I think I will like my job.

6. I bump into someone I know on the way back from lunch.

7. Easyway girls just don’t measure up to a Happy Cup girl.

Ciao Marrickville...

Me and Destiny Man were sitting down having a drink and talking about things like old friends do. Except he’s not an old friend. Just a figment of Myle’s imagination that has somehow filtered into mine. We’ve agreed that he does not look like a guy with spiky hair in a headband. But beyond that, there’s not much else to say.

‘So,’ he says. ‘Last day eh?’

No, it’s tomorrow.

‘I see.’

You’ll never guess who’s going to be replacing me once I’m gone.

‘Really now?’

Oh that’s right. I forgot. Of course you can.

It’s hard having a conversation with know-it-all. It’s even harder when he actually does know all. But the truth is, I never had this conversation. It’s made up. I don’t really have conversations with imaginary characters. I just use them as devices in my writing. To set a mood. A tone. Maybe just to make things a little more interesting. Because I’m a wanker.

So anyway, I was walking past my boss’ office yesterday, which at the time was closed because he was interviewing someone who had been suggested for my soon-to-be-replaced position by my work colleague.

So he calls me through the glass and I open the door to his office and he’s saying I believe you two know each other.

And in one of those ‘ohmigod’ moments, it turns out to be Matthew freakin’ Keany. An old high school pal. Bloody hell. What are the chances. And to top it of, his wife also happens to be a high school friend of the boss’ son’s wife.

Chance and coincidence? Or Destiny Man?

We started off in high school doing FRED, the school newspaper. We also both drew comics. He still draws now. I’ve now stopped. So now, eight years down the track, he’s taking over my spot.

He says ‘well you’ve been here five years – there’s gotta be something to that.’

And I say ‘well yes um er yeah.’

Friday morning fun

Today I was reminded of a poem that I found absolutely hilarious the first time I read it in Kurt Vonnegut’s Breakfast of Champions. I’ve also posted it on this blog before. I just can’t be bothered looking for it in my archives right now.

It goes like this:

Roses are red
And ready for plucking
You’re sixteen
And ready for high school

So I passed it around to a few people and some of their reactions to it I found just as amusing as the poem itself.

They went something like this:

It’s funnier if the last word was something else that rhymes with ‘plucking’

It reminds of an episode of the Late Show where they had a fake Arnie talking about his movie, Twins.

He says something like this:

Danny de Vito is great but I think it would’ve been funnier if they found someone who looked more like me

Well, here someone has actually gone through the trouble of explaining why the poem is funny.

I've amused myself enough. I’m gonna go eat now.

They must have been celebrating down Habib’s way last night.

Free chickens for all!

Casey Donovan wins Australian Idol.

Has Bankstown ever been so proud?

So now Australia has an overweight 16-year-old starlet. This would be just too easy. But I can’t muster up the enthusiasm to write too much about it at the moment.

She’s nice. She’s humble. So I can’t dislike her like I do Courtney. But she’s also boring. So I can’t like her enough to care. Anthony’s probably thinking the same too. He wouldn’t be too concerned about losing given that Shannon is doing well enough. But after they made the announcement that Casey had won, Anthony had this smile on his face that tried to look like ‘I’m so happy for you, Casey’ but ended up looking more like ‘I can’t believe they picked the fat girl over me. This is year 7 basketball all over again!’

Speaking of fat idols, Ally gave me a card and got it signed by Courtney Murphy! Thanks Ally! That was one of the best presents I’ve gotten in ages! It just works on so many levels! If he knew the kind of stuff I’ve been writing about him…

On a side note, I told a friend about the Courtney signing and they said ‘Were there any food stains on it?’

Still on music, Gavin DeGraw’s concert at the Metro on Thursday night was fantastic. Judging him solely on his album might lead you to think that he’s middle of the road. Allow him some creative space on the stage, however, and the man really shines. He’s a natural showman. His album is so so, but should he come to Sydney again, be sure to catch his concert. Some musical acts were just meant to be heard live. For me, Ben Folds, Ben Kweller, Jason Mraz, and now Gavin DeGraw, are the ones I’ve heard whose studio recordings just do not do their music any justice.

Yesterday I went to see the Starlight Cup tennis. My brother is a Qantas employee so he got us free tickets. While the intentions are obviously good, it was an incredibly poorly-run event. Firstly, was it ever advertised anywhere? A good third of the people there were the yellow-shirt volunteers and if each of them gets at least two complimentary tickets, it probably means very few (if any) paid to get in at all. The event itself was a collection of B+ grade celebrities matched up with over-the-hill or never-quite-got-on-the-hill tennis stars. Watching Grant Hackett play was cringe-worthy. On the other hand, All Saints’ Ben Tari was trying way too hard. Sure he’s a pretty decent player but he was matched with a tennis legend who is over 40 years (yes, 40) past his prime (Ken Rosewall) and playing against an SBS newsreader and a 16-year-old. And it’s a friggin’ charity game with a 25% capacity audience. Take it easy!

The highlights were Adam Spencer’s play-calling and Glenn Robbins on the court. As were Matty Johns and Powderfinger’s Darren Middleton in the dunk tank. Middleton also possesses a good serve.

What a boring blog entry this turned out to be.

Servants of the Light finish last

I’ve been told before that I’m too nice. I’ve been often reminded too that such niceness may lead to a life-long streak of last-place finishes.

I was playing Star Wars: Knights of the Old Republic a few weeks ago for the second time.

Now, for those of you that don’t know, this game allows you to choose your path between being good (the Light) and being evil (the Dark Side).

The first time I played through the game, I was being good. So I said all the nice things. Killed only the bad guys and even went out of my way to help out a Twi’lek or two.

Logic, then, would suggest that when I play it a second time, I would be evil. So that I may know how it ends if I choose the path of the Dark Side.

But…

I just couldn’t do it.

I couldn’t just strike down innocent characters for money. I couldn’t look at a good natured, albeit cautious, Wookie in his polygonal eyes and tell him that he’s annoying and should just piss off.

Sure I got angry a couple of times, like when that woman tried to rip me off for the droid. I showed her that Jedis aren’t pushovers!

I realise it’s just a game. And that all the characters aren’t real. But I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t be evil. I was just too nice.

How pathetic.

Eventually I did end up seeing the ending of the game as a bad guy. But only after I had finished the game the second time as a good guy. I loaded up the game near the very end and just did a really quick change of heart towards the evil side. Even that was hard. When I had to kill off the damn Wookie and his teenaged Twi’lek sidekick, I was thinking, ‘this can’t be worth it. This just isn’t worth it!’ …

The good

It’s been good the past week. I’m happy. I’ve been recalled to life. I’m finally leaving ye old Marrickville. It feels like I’ve just been released from prison. A huge weight lifted off my shoulders.

It had gotten to the point where I’ve been dreading every single morning and every single Sunday night.

And in three weeks, I’ll be free of that negativity.

I really needed this.

Thank you.

The bad

No matter how much I loathe my current work, I have to say that I was dreading having ‘the talk’ with my boss. He can be a nasty piece of work at times but to me he’s usually been pretty good and I have a lot to be grateful about with him.

He took things well though. The last time someone quit work here, she came out of his office crying. This was amicable. He wished me well.

I’m happy with that.

and The ugly

Not work-related but I need to say this. Out with the bad air, in with the good air, I say.

Now I’ve always been an advocate of self-assuredness. Self-confidence. Even a little bit of cockiness and arrogance. But there is such a thing as taking things over the line, so to speak.

I thought I was quite self-absorbed. But I think now there’s someone who kicks my proverbial arse in this department. Delusions of grandeur, overestimated sense of self-importance, the whole lot.

At first it was endearing, then it became annoying, eventually it became laughable and now, I think, it’s just cringe-worthy. Maybe even a little sad. It’s like watching Jane Fonda act like she’s still appealing to men my age. You wanna ridicule her but you just end up feeling sorry for her.

You do want me! Yay!

Will you still respect me in the morning?

Walking home at 6:30 am, I feel like Death’s younger brother. It’s a struggle just to keep my eyes open and my balance. I feel sick but I can’t be sure if it was the alcohol or the nuggets. I wish the sun would go back down.

On the train, I am draped over my seat over seven or eight stops. A few seats away, a Chinese guy picking his nose is shouting at another Chinese guy, not picking his nose. A third guy is asleep. Just like I want to be. Behind me a girl has an iPod connected to her head. She too is asleep and, surely, is gonna miss her stop. From where I am, she looks rather cute. But then, in my current condition, if the Chinese guy picking his nose had worn a dress, I might think he was cute too.

I push myself against walls in a ten-minute stumble to my door. Once inside, I swallow three straight glasses of water, strip down and lay on my bed like a fish gutted five ways. Head pounding. Ears ringing like an alarm bell. I would be smiling if I could.

Extracting out of the anus

What started out as a logistical nightmare turned out to be a pretty smooth ride on the night. Two double-bookings and the fear of having to run away to Thailand to dodge a potentially unreachable bar tab had me nervous at the start of the night. Nothing gets me worried more than the voice of someone I’ve never met telling me over the phone that I have nothing to worry about. We pulled this one out. I’m glad we didn’t go the ‘safe’ route.

Cone of silence

As they say, what happens at the party stays at the party. Until the incriminating photographs surface. I realise I was exercising about as much restraint as a rabid baboon out of its cage. But, as that annoying catch phrase goes, ‘it’s all good’. And speaking of cages… actually let’s not. I just hope you all had as much fun as I did.

I be thanking youse

Stephen, Lillian, Addy, thanks for everything. Calling around, organising… and that photoshoot. That was just as much fun as the party itself! Addy, you’re a good sport for agreeing to pose for that pic. But let’s just say you might want to continue being nice to me or some of those outtakes might just accidentally fall into the wrong hands… oh and you all owe me $25 now.

Jimmy and friends (Mark and Dave and their groupie), you’re the best! Much appreciated. You guys did good! I just hope you were as happy with the night as I was, James!

Mike and the Jackson’s people, I guess we wouldn’t have had a place without you guys.

Everyone who got me drinks.

Everyone who came.

Ha, for the lift offers.

Matt, Milli, Shuai, Lil for staying back so late and doing nuggets with us.

Yui and Quang, for sticking around right til the end. Thank you boys.

If I have forgotten anyone, I’ll add them to the comments, should I remember or be reminded at a later time.

No thanks to... oh that's right, I'm in a good mood.

Not Another Asian Dance Party Pimpin'

I was hoping I wouldn't have to resort to pimping my party in blog form but it looks like my friend Matt has kindly done that for me on his blog so I'll just have to pimp his.

With the short notice, this is probably a good idea anyway.

Details
Saturday 6 November
9:30 til late
Jackson's on George
FREE entry before 12

I hope this will turn out good. Cos I'm sure not having much fun right now...

Oh and Johnny, if you're still reading my blog, what's happened to Clarence Street? I don't have your email anymore. Email me sometime! Or come on Saturday!

I want you. So if you want me too you'll let me know, yeah?

Stolen stuff

McSweeney's is one of the best literary websites I've ever come across (if anyone has seen other good ones, pass them this way). It's the brain child of Dave Eggers (A heartbreaking work of staggering genius) and is loosely associated with my favourite writer, Michael Chabon (Wonderboys, Amazing adventures of Kavalier and Clay). Here are two of my favourite recent contributions to the site.

Punchlines suggested by Ashton Kutcher for PUNK'D that were rejected for their archaic nature
By Afrooz Family
- - - -
You've been hoodwinked!
You have been beguiled by my cohorts!
You are the victim of our flimflam!
You, unfortunately, are the jestee!
You are the one who was hornswoggled!
It is you the gomeril!
The previous contingency was an apery!

__________


The Von Trapp Children Speak to a Geneticist.
By David Ng
- - - -
LIESL: Why is it that we can all sing very well?

GENETICIST: Liesl, that is an excellent question! And essentially one that boils down to the classic debate of nature versus nurture. Are your genes responsible for this particular talent, or has it more to do with your upbringing? Looking at this scenario objectively, I would have to say that it is both. There have been reports that the ability to have perfect pitch—that is the ability to distinguish musical notes without points of reference—is a hereditary phenomenon, thereby strongly suggesting a genetic basis. This would seem to be supported by your father's musical talent as well. Of course, you've also had the benefit of being tutored by your wayward novice governess with all-world pipes, Maria.
In conclusion, like most things pertaining to our individuality, we are influenced by both our biology and our surroundings.

GRETL: I think Liesl is very beautiful. Why am I not as pretty?

GENETICIST: Assuming no mutational errors occur during the production of sperm and egg cells, there was approximately a 1-in-70,000,000,000,000 chance that you would have been an identical clone of your sister. If you included the multitude of mutational and regulatory events that ensue during this process, that statistic would escalate to an even smaller chance that is, quite frankly, unfathomable to calculate. How did I get to this absurd number? Well, one must realize that your genetic instructions are housed as a collection of 23 pairs of chromosomes (i.e., 46 in all). In other words, it is correct to say that each human has two sets of instructions—one given to you by your father, and one by your mother. If you keep in mind that your parents themselves also have 23 pairs of chromosomes, and you realize that the child may receive only one from each pair, the likelihood of siblings having the same 46 chromosomes is the fantastic number mentioned above.
However, Gretl, do not fret. You are the youngest of the lot and still have a good chance to blossom into a stunning flower like your sister Liesel. Furthermore, cosmetic surgery these days I hear is quite impressive. And then there is always the chance of Liesl having a disfiguring accident—I hear she may be a Nazi sympathizer, which is never a good thing.

FRIEDRICH: Yes, Liesl is hot. Sometimes, even I have feelings for her. Why is it bad for me to feel that way?

GENETICIST: Incestuous relationships, as well as being frowned upon by most of society, are also disadvantageous from a biological point of view. In the genetic world, diversity breeds fitness. One example is to imagine the following. You have a set of genes that determine the ability of your immune system to recognize and combat various pathogens. Your sister Liesl also has a set of genes that do the same thing. And because you and your sister come from the same genetic pool (you have the same parents), Liesl's immunity is quite likely to be similar to yours. Do you not see that the net effect of this is that you would create offspring with a limited repertoire of immune-system genes? Compare that to your having a child with, say, Marcia from The Brady Bunch, and you will note that this union will create offspring that have the benefit of a wider genetic pool (your parents and Marcia's parents), thereby allowing your children to acquire a more diverse and fitter immune system.
Also, dude, she's your sister.

BRIGITTA: Why do all of our siblings have blondish hair and blue eyes, whereas Marta and I have dark hair and dark eyes?

GENETICIST: You are thinking, perhaps, that your mother was a whore? It is true that the disparity in your outward appearances is a mite unusual. However, there is no reason to believe that any adultery has occurred. Here is the reason why. Although it is generally thought—though not confirmed—that extreme blondness (as in the case of Louisa and Friedrich) has a recessive distribution, there are numerous factors that can account for your instances of dark hair and dark eyes. First, hair and eye color are very subjective terms. Is Greta or Kurt blond, dirty blond, or strawberry blond? Genetic characterization is very difficult when the observational characterization is less than strict. Second, the pigmentation of hair is normally attributed to melanin levels, which have been shown to vary greatly during different stages of a person's life. You may have noticed, for example, that a person's childhood hair color tends to be lighter than their adult hair color. Third, the amount of melanin that an individual produces is influenced in part by their environment. For instance, melanin acts to protect the person from the damaging effects of the sun's radiation. In conclusion, I do not feel that there is anything to worry about. Besides, you did not mention Liesl, who herself has dark hair. Did you omit her because you are secretly jealous of her hotness?

KURT: I think I might want to be with another boy. Is this to do with my DNA?

GENETICIST: Unfortunately, the answer is currently unknown. There have been numerous reports that have tried to implicate specific genetic regions to homosexual behavior, but presently those studies, although titillating, are at best only an indication that there is a hereditary factor for this type of sexual orientation. However, there is an abundance of ongoing research in this area, particularly with homosexual men. If you are interested, perhaps you could participate in the scientific process. Of course, it is important to remember that the Nazis do not dig gay people.

LOUISA: Why doesn't anybody remember who I am?

GENETICIST: Alas, it appears that this is because you are the second child. I would not be surprised if there are very few pictures of you. It is not, I assume, because your parents did not love you, but simply a facet of being born after the initial excitement and newness of parenthood has passed. This, of course, has nothing to do with genetics. In order to be taken more notice of, you could try different fashions, or perhaps a new haircut. In truth, Liesl could probably give you better advice, as I am, sadly, only a geneticist.

The one that got away

Last night Australia came within a greasy potato wedge of voting Courtney Murphy off Idol. But ultimately the country decided that the infinitely more fascinating Chanel Cole had to go instead.

And so Courtney lives to fight another day and get his chance at revenge on Mark Holden for questioning his falsetto.

That’s right folks. His Royal Largeness got his ego bruised on Sunday night when Mark told him that his falsetto was not up to the standards he expected. And now he’s angry. Sure, most of the other Idol contestants have been ripped apart with far nastier insults and have gracefully taken them on the chin but this is Courtney Murphy we’re talking about! The Great Fat Hope. It’s one thing to question his viability as a pop star due to his big fat arse. But heaven forbid anyone should question his big fat talent!

I mean, if/when he does get knocked off the top of the proverbial fondue fountain, surely it’ll be because the Australian public can’t see the talent past the bag of doughnuts. Surely it wouldn’t be because of a lack of talent!

Surely it couldn’t be because Anthony is better looking, more likeable and, here’s the killer, a better singer!

After Sunday’s show, Courtney said ‘honestly, I don’t know what else I can give’. Well, maybe that’s telling you something, big guy.

But I guess I have been rather harsh on the big man. And, I admit, if I were ever to record an album, Courtney Murphy probably wouldn’t be buying it either. So I’ve decided to be fair to him, and so without further ado…

Ten thing Courtney Murphy would probably rather do than buy a Christian Harimanow album

1. Eat a screwdriver
2. Eat a six-pack of microphones
3. Put on a padded suit and jump into a cage full of otters to try to steal their food.
4. Polish a public park toilet floor with his arse
5. Consume an entire small-sized camel (cooked)
6. Pump Clag glue into his system via an IV drip
7. Eat a plateful of another person’s earwax
8. Eat chocolate-covered goat faeces
9. Eat Don Pancho (preferably cooked)
10. Drink a bottle of Habib’s garlic sauce

Friendly winds

It’s been a good weekend. And for all the right reasons. I won’t go into what that means exactly. Suffice to say, these are not the kinds of reasons that could fly or fizzle with an email or phone call in the coming days. While certain emails or phone calls in the coming days may dislodge me from my current content state, they would have little to do with why this has been a good weekend.

Friday night drinks was refreshing because it was different. Different because it was new. New because it was old. Whoever was there will know what I’m talking about.

Saturday was good for similar reasons.

Sunday, Escalade won our first (of many) grand final of the ACBA basketball competition. Despite the fact that we were really just the opening act, it’s wonderful to see how our team has grown and matured over all this time. Having been through so many different days together, both bad and good, everything came together today. It wasn’t an easy win. There were moments when I was thinking ‘oh we’re done’ but we kept proving me wrong. I’ve had more dramatic victories, other victories where I’ve been a greater individual factor, and I’ve been on teams that have maximized the sum of their parts to a much greater degree. But this one feels special. Twenty-three teams. Twenty-six weeks. And we end up on top. That’s pretty good in my books. Well done guys. We bloody deserve this one.

Thanks to all who came to support our game. Thanks to all who sent me long-distance well wishes (all two of you!). Thanks to the Mob Red girls for…um… entertaining us. And mostly, thanks to Captain Bill and the rest of the Escalade team. Mark, Andrew, Ian, Guyi, Dennis and MVP Luke. There’s no I in TEAM but there are four in MISSISSIPPI.

No I don’t know what that means either.

Another one bites the dust

With tonight's unfortunate demise of Marty Worrell from the Australian Idol finals lineup goes the last interesting Idol hopeful whose CD I would consider buying.

It also leaves Anthony as the lone contestant with a BMI below 25. Not that the rest are overweight. They’re just big-boned.

The way it’s going, the final Idol show will also become the first Circus Sideshow Idol. The fat guy and the midget.

Anthony is a talent no doubt. Great voice. Good looks. Small stature. A perfect addition to the lineup of Hi-5.

Courtney is also talented but is boring, pretentious, has an ego almost the size of his stomach and, frankly, is just taking up space.

__________

Ten things I’d rather do than buy a Courtney Murphy album

1. Jab myself in the ear with a screwdriver
2. Eat a microphone
3. Put on a padded suit and jump into a cage full of hungry otters
4. Clean a public park toilet with nothing but a bottle of Jiff and my hands
5. Kiss a camel
6. Drink a shot of Clag glue
7. Snort another person’s earwax up my nose
8. Roll around in goat faeces
9. Buy Don Pancho’s album
10. Give up Habib’s garlic sauce for a year

Thank the pig

It’s another dead carcass rotating over hot coals.

It's delicious.

My first full-blown Viet wedding extends into a thank you dinner for the helpers.

I was a helper.

I helped carry the pig.

Inside the house, the men eat around one table. The ladies on the other. I ask her if this was normal. She says it’s always been that way. And I say OK.

The oldies tables. They get all the good stuff.

Out the back is the relatively young table. That’s where I am. Next to us is the really young table.

Our food is still fantastic as always. Mostly unpronounceable to me. But wonderful. Except the salad. There was a lot of that left. I'm not going to say any more than that about the salad.

After dinner the baboon runs around taking pictures of everyone and everything and periodically tells me ‘I can’t believe she’s only 16.’ Meanwhile, Lolita’s even younger sister starts jumping on his back for reasons neither understandable nor apparent to us 25-year-olds.

The baboon also learns tonight the lesson that there really isn’t much you can do when your friend’s intoxicated uncle starts hitting you over the head for reasons apparent but not understandable to us non-intoxicated-uncle-types.

Sometimes I don’t mind just being an observer.

At least it’s less painful.

Eventually we end up on the front porch drinking tea with her. Then the sisters come to join us. And so does the little brother. A little boy in oversized clothes comes in and out and makes bird-like impressions. After a short while, this act no longer amuses us and we stop paying attention. And then he doesn’t come back. Or it may have been the other way around. I’m not sure.

It’s late and we’re talking about the future. Mental fatigue often does produce these kinds of conversations. I should look into that some time.

We’re the last to leave. I get another doggy bag. So I’m happy.

The next day, I’m playing in my basketball semi-finals. I’m tired as hell but I’m giving it my all. We win. Not that I’m suggesting cause and effect. But we’re in the finals now. That’s kinda more the point of this paragraph.

And so after that dreadful end to Friday night, the rest of the weekend was a nice slow-burning contented smile on a tired face.

I like that.

I like that a lot.

Long hot summer

It’s not even summer yet and I’m already hating summer. Bring back the frost, I say. I escaped Indonesia at the tender of six in the hope that I don’t again have to live in 37 degree weather. When summer comes, all I want to do is stay indoors. Or find a shade. And consume copious amounts of liquid. Spring and Autumn are my favourite seasons. Then comes winter.

You see, I’m a big sweater. During summer, I sweat standing still. Even in winter I sweat. All it takes is a little movement. And I hate that. I can only think of three activities where I don’t mind sweating to. For everything else, sweat stinks. Figuratively and literally.

During summer, I never feel clean. Even after a shower. It’s disgusting and I am not looking forward to it. Secondly, in winter, if you get cold you can put on as many layers as you want. In summer, if you get hot, naked is as little as you can wear. And if you go around naked in public, you may get arrested.

So in conclusion, summer means either staying indoors (which, with artificial climate control, is about the same as being indoors during winter) or going out in clothes and sweat and feel disgusting or going out naked, sweating less but risking a police arrest.

There’s really nothing to like about that.

__________

One friend has stopped blogging. Another doesn’t want to blog anymore. I don’t get it. Why does blogging have to be taken so seriously? Why can’t you blog when you feel like it and when you don’t, just leave it there in case you feel like it on a later date? Bloggers need to relax about what they write, how others read it, etc. There are lots of blogs I don’t like reading. I’m sure there are lots of readers who don’t like my blog. So what? We keep writing. In the beginning, most bloggers go through some level of blogging anxiety. Then eventually, if you persist, you get over it and stop caring or you grow an enormous ego and think that everything you write is brilliant.

Just take it easy. And you’ll be fine.

__________

Sleepwalker’s da Vinci Code diary Part 3

I’ve finished. It kinda ran out of steam towards the later parts of the book and the ending was rather disappointing. But still an enjoyable experience overall. It felt similar to when I had just finished reading Silence of the Lambs for some reason.

I’m still sticking with my main criticism, which is that there is absolutely no way a locksmith wouldn’t be able to open a cryptex. As a locksmith once told me, ‘if it can be locked, it can be opened.’ (Actually a locksmith never told me that but it just carries more credibility coming from a locksmith. This, however, just took all that credibility away.) Also, my friend suggested (this one is real) ‘couldn’t you just freeze the vinegar?’

Too right, my friend.

__________

OK, Ricki-Lee is gone. NOW do you believe me that Australians are morons?

Make way for the Pig Bearer

The little brother likes me. He keeps trying to bash me up with a balloon and the sisters insist that it’s a sign of affection. The dad and uncle once threatened me off their front lawn with power tools in their hands. Today, they seem to like me too. The other brother, the groom, is nice to me as well. When I came to their house, he got karaoke started. That’s a sure way to my heart.

At times it felt like I was at a wedding that I wasn’t supposed to be at. Having to wake up at 5:15am and not understanding a word being said during the entire ceremony heightens that effect. Not really knowing the groom and having the bride forget who I was didn’t really help either. But I was glad to be there and I was glad to help. These dead roasted pigs don’t carry themselves, it seems.

This was my first ever Viet wedding. Perhaps if I continue with my little Viet fetish I can aspire towards having one for my own wedding. Perhaps not.

We arrived at the bride’s house, a troupe of tiny girls in pastel coloured see-thru dresses that split at the waist and bearing gifts for the bride’s family, followed by me, Yui and a pig in a box.

We weren’t wearing pastel coloured see-thru dresses that split at the waist. We were wearing regular suits.

I look smashing in a suit by the way. In case you were wondering.

I haven’t had a more interesting and fun Saturday morning in a long while. A delicious roast pig, an eye-opening look at a foreign culture, the company of a friendly family and friends, playing with little kids to keep them quiet during the speeches, being accidentally groped by a little girl (no I didn’t enjoy it you sick bastards!), a very cute bridesmaid (consensus 7/8 on the R scale – unfortunately she didn’t grope me) and other assorted sights and sounds.

Thank you for inviting me to be a part of this special occasion and asking me to help out.

It was my pleasure.

__________

After I exercised my compulsory right to vote, I went along to the second wedding of the day. Although I was far more involved with this wedding and much closer to the couple, I won’t write so much about it (for several reasons).

But I just want to say congratulations to the both of you. I want to say that it was a wonderful service. A nice reception. And I want to thank you so very much for the kind words.

Catherine and Mitchell, you’re possibly the best-looking wedding couple I’ve ever seen. You two were glowing in each other’s company.

You allow me the privilege to still believe in love.

xtn, recording artist

Georgia and I went to the recording studio (otherwise known as 'the living room') today and guess what?

I sound like a weenie.

I've never heard a recording of myself singing and now that I have...

I think I sound like a friggin' weenie.

*sigh*

A minor setback to my music career. I think I just have to get used to this.

Doo wa diddee

What is surely a recipe for disaster is actually coming along quite nicely, after a bumpy beginning.

It's nice.

I like the word nice. It says so much, yet gives away so little.

Of course, knowing us (and especially knowing you), this can only eventually end in tears. And probably mine at that.

But just as I know that Habibs will eventually kill me, I still indulge from time to time (or maybe more than that).

You're charcoal chicken to me.

Just hold the garlic sauce.

My friend has this guy who gives her flowers and presents and stuff all the time. And they're not just gifts for the sake of giving. They're actually quite meaningful gifts. Stuff that he knows she wants.

I'm jealous.

I want my own sugar mamma.

Why can't I get my own sugar mamma?

So if there is anyone out there interested in filling this position, please drop me a line. I am a man of many talents.

I am sure there are plenty of things that I can do for you...

Sleepwalker’s soapbox

da Vinci Code diary Pt.2

350-odd pages into it now and a lot of the holy grail stuff has come out. I dunno about this. All this time, I’ve taken Indiana Jones’ last crusade as the truth and this is just too hard to fathom. I would be interested to find out just how much evidence there is out there for Dan Brown’s version. The lack of a bibliography (at least in the copy I’m reading) is a bit suspect.

This far into the book and I’m still enjoying it. I feel baited by the short chapters, telling me that ‘the next chapter is only a few pages so don’t stop now!’ but that’s fine with me.

There are big gripes that I have though.

One, it reads like a PC adventure game. Find the clues, talk to people, get to the next clue.

Use Priory key on keyhole.

Use Langdon on Sophie.

OK, so it’s not Leisure Suit Larry.

Two, character development so far is pretty much at zero. You’d think 600 pages worth can fit in more characterisation.

Three, I don’t see why two people wanted by the police would waste so much time telling each other about the history of Western civilisation.

That’s all. I’ll happily read on.

__________


TV diary

Granted that it’s not really The Practice anymore. It’s more like the Alan Shore Show. But The Practice may actually be better this season than ever before. Gone, at least, is the annoying Bobby Donnell. He and Lindsay had gotten away with far too much (basically two murders) for the old version of the show to continue. Gone also is the excruciatingly skinny Lara Flynn Boyle. As pretty as she may be, she needs to eat more! In a hurry! The only bad loss from the show is the cute (but ultimately not much use) Lucy Hatcher (Marla Sokoloff).

In their place, James Spader is eating up his Alan Shore character – possibly the best-written, most fascinating character on TV). I’ve always had trouble swallowing the ‘misunderstood bad guy’ characters but Alan Shore I find totally likeable in all his corruptness. Much like my other favourite bad guy, the John Malkovich character in Dangerous Liaisons, you probably wouldn’t want to know him in person but he’s endlessly fascinating to watch.

All the usual David E Kelley madness is still there. I’m lapping this up. And I can’t wait for the Alan Shore spin-off coming after this season’s over.

__________

Georgia diary

I’m going back to basics. Learning the most basic songs that I never really got a full grasp on, the 12-bar blues and so on. I realise now that playing 4 comfortable chords in a few songs over and over will probably get me nowhere.

And I have decided to not buy a new guitar for a while. For all her shortcomings, Georgia has treated me pretty well so far.

My picktures are bwoken

Sand and stars

It used to be we’d go every week to Coogee to play pool. He always looked the better player doing his spins and crap. Always planning three shots in advance. He even had his own bloody cue.

I just like to hit the damn ball.

But somehow I managed to keep up every time. Sneak in wins. Or close defeats. Somehow, I could dog my way to end up being about even.

And then afterwards we would yak about the important stuff. We were a couple of dreamers aiming for a place among the brightest stars in the night sky. A couple of wankers talking about things we knew little about in the manner of a couple of sages. He was the artist. I was the writer. He was more heart. I was more noggin. In the back our minds, we knew that if we ever worked together at something, we could be special. But more often than not we were competitors. With pool. With our own brand of pseudo-philisophy. Perhaps even with women. Silent competition, a knowing nod here and there, and the knowledge that we were always only ever one step ahead or behind the other.

Eventually he left for Stockholm to design a chair or something. And we lost touch. Even when I came to Stockholm, I missed him by two days. Over time, he stayed a dreamer. I became a cynical old man. And then even when he did eventually come home, we’d lost it somehow.

Now, three years down the track, we’re back at Coogee. Five games. Three to two To him.

Bastard.

The dreamer had his dreams shattered. A cynical old man no longer has dreams. Only wishes. But both feeling strangely fine. That’s the way it goes sometimes.

But as we sat by the beach, trying to ignore the aftermath of a drunken brawl and a strange woman drawing strange lines in the sand, we started talking about things we knew little about in the manner of sages.

Some things never change.

‘Maybe it’s time to call it a night.’

At least now we know when to stop.

Maybe we’ve gotten a little wiser. Or maybe just a little bit older.

Or as Winnie the Pooh might say, ‘Same thing.’

Sleepwalker gets trippy

Patience. Calm. Passivity.

I used to dismiss these as simply excuses for laziness and indecisiveness - things I have in abundance.

But now I can see the other side of the picture.

They are also dignity, self-pride, enlightenment.

So I'm going to sit here and watch the clouds roll by for a while.

Not because I await good things to come.

But just because I can.

Two beautiful people eating dead animals

You cooked me a nice meal tonight and I appreciated it. You know, I can be a real dick in the kitchen cos I think I know everything. But I appreciated it. In between the raw bits of the veal and the carrots that refused to cook, it was all very nice.

And then afterwards when we chatted about everything and everyone, that was really nice too. Sorry about my preoccupation with your vibrating stick thing. You know how I get fidgety and end up playing with battery-operated toys.

I just wanna say that I appreciate you. And I just wanna say that here cos if I said it to your face, you’d probably look at me funny.

__________

Sleepwalker's da Vinci Code diary Pt 1

I've jumped on the bandwagon and I'm now reading this damn book. I'm about 100 pages into it so I will either have to buy my own copy or rely on her to shower me with the kindness of an extended loan. This shell which I occupy can only read so fast. And that's not fast at all.

The first thing that pops to mind about Leonardo da Vinci is what my indexing teacher told me at editing school.

You should never put his name under D or V because 'da Vinci' isn't his name at all. He wasn't Mr da Vinci. His name was Leonardo. From Vinci.

Knowing that has not helped me so far. And so far it's been pretty good. Too bad I'm always reading it when this shell is really tired. But it's intriguing and easy to read. Although I sometimes find myself finishing a chapter thinking 'That hardly told me anything at all. Couldn't he have compressed that into three lines? And the whole book into 200 pages maybe?'

I think there's a lot of padding here going on. But then again, I'm just not used to reading such books. It will take some time to adjust methinks.

Let me read some more.

xtn's How-to-Vote card

Australia is a country of morons.

In a span of two short weeks, Australian voters have culled the two most attractive Idol contestants out of the competition. It might be OK if they were really untalented singers but they’re not even the worst singers of the bunch. I put it down to two factors.

1. People think the good looking ones are ‘safe’. They have other voters to keep them in the competition so ‘I don’t need to vote for them.’
2. Guilt. Week in, week out, the audience is told to base their votes on talent. Voters who may otherwise have voted for the good looking ones are now feeling guilty for their votes.

Let’s be honest here. Australian Idol isn’t trying to find the most talented singer. It’s trying to find whoever will sell the most records. Voters should be told this every week.

Don’t vote for most talented. Vote for whoever is most likely to release CDs that you would want to buy.

Why do you think Shannon Noll is outselling Guy Sebastian when Guy reportedly won by a landslide in the final episode?

Have you ever heard Avril Lavigne sing live? She’s absolutely horrendous, yet she’s selling in the millions.

Musical acts aren’t just good singers. They’re entertainment packages. It annoys me that so many people out there are naïve or self-righteous enough to believe that image doesn’t matter.

I’m not saying that Paul Walker lookalike Dan O’Connor and Idol Lolita Amali Ward should be the final two but they should have lasted longer than this. They’re better than this.

Here’s my take on the final 9 as they’ve been performing so far.

Frontrunners
Ricki-Lee: Fun, sexy, utterly engaging. Has been getting the best crowd reactions thus far.
Anthony: Prototypical boy band look and has a fantastic voice when he’s not trying too hard. His drawbacks are his height and a tendency to perform like it’s a local karaoke comp.

Second-tier
Courtney: Great voice, but let’s be honest. How many overweight popstars who sing over-the-hill songs do you know of? I can’t think of any. And for every one you can think of, I’ll name you ten non-overweight ones. Courtney will probably go far but his viability as a recording artist is questionable at best.
Chanel: Not a conventional popstar but she’s foxy and has a unique voice.
Daniel: Best voice in the competition for me but he needs to lighten up, shed a bit of weight and probably should stick to auditioning for musical theatre.

Baseline
Casey: Same deal as Courtney but probably worse. Overweight Caucasian female teen popstars don’t exist as far as I know. Flynn could probably outsell her at the moment.
Emelia: Probably the worst of who’s left, performance-wise. But she is improving every week and her constant crying and single-mum woes wins votes. She’s likable but not realistic.

Bottom feeders
Haley: Has somehow survived the last two weeks. Surely she has to be out next week. She’s, at best, lining up to be the next Amity Dry. You know, the one from the Block.
Marty: It pains me to say this but Marty will last a maximum of two more episodes unless he lifts his game. He’s probably my favourite singer left in the competition but he’s been all dud so far in the final 12. Talent-wise and image-wise, he could be a frontrunner. His rendition of Somewhere only we know had me thinking he could be the next Shannon Noll. But he’s got to pick more suitable songs and tone down his quirks.

Did anyone even bother reading this far?

Flushing out the demons

All this weekend, I've been speaking to no one but the depressed or the depressing. So now by default I have to count myself as one of them. At least right now. Depression rubs off. I can't help it. The balance between contentment and depression seems so fragile these days. A whole lot of my friends are unhappy. With a whole lot of reasons. Most will probably name love/relationships as one of them though. And even the ones who don't seem depressed, all it takes sometimes is someone who is depressed talking among us and the floodgates start to open wide. There's a lot of anxiety among us.

I feel like rolling up into a ball and sleeping into next week.

One good thing is I got a good CD. Jesse Malin's Heat. It's good. Try it. Try Mona Lisa and Swinging man. Did I mention it's good?

Also, I heard that bits of this blog has now been read over the phone. I have no idea what to make of that.

Also also, I may have reason for some bitterness soon.

Of course I could get over this by tomorrow. I'm hoping this catharsis will help with that.

Screw this. I'm gonna go and read a book.

I must say, I was under a lot of pressure to perform last night.

In the back seat of my parked car. Under street lights. Windows fogged up. Making sure I was hitting all the right notes.

You'd tell me if I didn't do OK, right?

Predictions that came true

My friend showed me this and I was amazed at the accuracy of this guy’s predictions. I just feel for the poor saps who will be falling for this (i.e. my mother and brother). However, I don’t think that my own powers of clairvoyance should be overshadowed at this particular time. Judge for yourself.

Here are some of the AMAZING predictions that I have made over the past few years.

I predicted…

- the winner and runner-up of Miss Teen USA 2003
- the winner and runner-up of Miss Teen USA 2004
- the winner and runner-up of Australian Idol 2003
- the winner and runner-up of Popstars Live 2004
- the winner of American Idol 2004
- that Oprah would not be able to sustain her slimmed-down figure (i.e. get fat again) after her first miraculous diet.
- that the Olsen twins would still look like wishing trolls after puberty
- that McDonald’s 30c soft serve cones will eventually not be able to be called 30c soft serve cones.

Speaking of McDonald’s, they’ve finally taken this whole ‘health’ thing way too far. Have you had the new nuggets? It’s made of REAL breast pieces. Which means it’s DRY! And it’s cooked in canola oil so it tastes kinda funny.

This is TOO MUCH! This is an OUTRAGE!

Give me bits of skin, neck, feet, intestines, whatever! Cook it in pure animal-produced McD brand shortening! In Indonesia, KFC used to sell deep-fried chicken skin. Gimme some of that!

Or at least give us a choice. Regular nuggets. Or diet nuggets. We want choice!

Finally, yy, I have your book. I got paid today so I was just about to buy both books and be generous enough to give them both away. But then I found a book that I wanted to buy myself: Under the net by Iris Murdoch. Anyone read it? Well anyway, it’s supposed to be good. And anyone wanting to read Slaughterhouse V or Solitaire Mystery can just borrow my copy. I am overflowing with generosity at the moment.

Patch of green

I see our time as a patch of green. I see you as an apple falling from a tree onto my head and into my lap, during that one enchanted evening. I see myself then under a spell. A bottle of tequila. A worm cut in two. But the real magic is that which lasts long after the spell has worn off. The real magic is an early morning cup of fruit-tinged brew. Absent laughter and other precious things. Notes sent back and forth. La la la la la. Whatever. I was happy. These I will never forget.

But the patch of green has since become a patch of rusty brown.

And you, the apple, are gone.

All I am left with is a copy. An ornament.

A distant memory. Heavier. Duller.

No taste. No Smell. No magic. Just heavy stuff to weigh me down.

This is what I’ve been carrying with me.

But this is me now standing up and leaving the patch of rusty brown.

And this is me leaving behind the ornament.

Not the apple.

It’s not like it’s a choice. It’s not like I ever had any choices.

It’s waking up. It’s living life. It’s walking on.

And where I’m going, I can’t afford the extra weight.

__________

At lunchtime today, I went to the book sale table and saw two of my all-time favourite books for $5.95 each. They were:

Slaughterhouse V by Kurt Vonnegut
The Solitaire Mystery by Jostein Gaarder

I've always wanted to share my favourite books with other people who may be interested but have just never come across them. These two are stellar books. So here's the deal: if you genuinely wish to read one of them on my recommendation, and be willing to discuss it with me at some point in the future, tell me and I'll buy you a copy. First come first serve. That's it.

Just some stuff

Tonight I reconnected with my love for raw cabbage. As I was chopping up cabbage to make my noodles for lunch tomorrow, I started munching on it raw. And as I write this entry, I’m thinking ‘does anyone really want to hear about my love for raw cabbage?’

I decided to make the most of the noodles that my sister bought, which were the wrong ones. (Tip: never buy noodles with no Asian writing on the packaging) and make fried noodles for lunch. It’s turned out OK, actually.

I got home Friday night and was not drunk for once. But I had to drive and I was coughing every five seconds so I didn’t wanna stay out. At 2am Saturday morning, I started to write a song for her and finished up around 3am. Now I just have to find a time and place to sing it for her. Admittedly, it sounded a lot worse when I woke up and played it again than when I was playing it at 3am. But still… it’s doable. Dorky. But doable. Kinda. Maybe I should drink before I play it.

I wrote a few haiku last week and was gonna post them but then pulled them off. There’s something very eerie about haiku. It feels incomplete in its completeness. I think of them as the David Lynch of poetry. I’m very rarely disturbed by my own writing. But I was with these. I’ve written them before but these ones felt like they were written by someone mentally unstable.

A lot of my friends now seem very negative. They’re all disillusioned with life. With love. etc. I’m trying to feed them with positivity. But I think I seem to be depressing them even further. Must be in the delivery. It’s sad to see one of my friends lose faith in there being ‘the one’ for her. She says she no longer believes in it. It must be very jarring to have to let go of something like that and have a paradigm shift. Personally, I’ve never placed so much faith in anything that specific (God is for another discussion). I have a general ‘it’s all gonna work out for the best’ kinda stuff. But I don’t think I ever believed that there is the one person for me in this world. I think mysticism only works when you’re blind to it. It’s like a surprise. You can’t be surprised if you’re looking for it. Personally I’d like to place more power into my own hands. In case that whole fate thing doesn’t take care of me. And if my efforts are futile, I’ll still always be none the wiser.

I once wrote a play that has yet to be produced. In some ways, I feel like I pre-empted a lot of the issues that my friends and I are going though now. Not that we didn’t go through them then (I wrote it about 3 years ago). But it makes more sense even to myself now. That’s strange.

Amali, you put bad, inappropriate thoughts into my head... *shakes head*

I, Moron

Have you ever woken up feeling like a moron and then prove yourself correct by actually doing moronic things for the rest of the morning?

Cut yourself shaving multiple times when you've been doing this for roughly the last 12, 13 years?

Started ironing with a still-cold iron, thus spilling water, that hadn't turned into steam yet, over all your clothes?

And then waiting for the iron to heat up by pressing down on your clothes long enough for the iron's built-in alarm to go off?

Oh and realising you're so late for work that the train is no longer an option, so you drive out to work, knowing full well that you plan to be out drinking tonight?

No?

Maybe it's just me.

Fitting end to a week where I've felt like I've been two steps behind the rest of the world, asking everybody 'What happened?'

Sleepwalker slaps me on the back of my head and says 'You just missed it, you moron.'

Blogburnout

I often sit in front of the computer trying to write a new blog entry and I just sit there and nothing comes out. It used to be I had to stop myself from writing. And when I read my old entries, I like them. I like them much better than these current ones. Try reading some of them yourself. They're good! The difference is, I think, now I write to say something. Whether to tell of how I’m feeling or what I did or whatever. It used to be that I would often write simply for writing’s sake. I think I used to value and enjoy playing around with words a lot more. I took more pride in my writing. The entries didn’t always work but at least I tried different things. I’ve since tried to start new blogs. To try to recapture that feeling. To get my old love back. But I think I’m burnt out. Something like that. Maybe I’m not as much of a try-hard as I used to be and that's, in a way, a good thing. But I miss that old try-hard me. He may have reeked of effort. But I thought he weren’t half bad.

Passing time

When you’re monitoring some progress on a daily basis, sometimes you lose touch of the bigger picture. Every little peak or trough is blown up to astronomical proportions, when over time they can look insignificant and inconsequential. Other times, starts of trends can totally be missed because they looked insignificant and inconsequential at the time. The obvious conclusion would be that I just don’t have a clue what’s going on. The obvious course of action would be to stop monitoring.

So what am I doing? Yup. You guessed it…

But it’s not like I can ever help myself.

And it’s not like I have anything better to do these days anyway.

Rose-coloured glasses (Post no. 150!!!!!!! Yay!)

In the unforgettable final scene of Frank Capra’s masterpiece It’s a Wonderful Life, Jimmy Stewart’s character – a broke and disheartened philanthropist – stood underneath his Christmas tree in the company of his family and good friends.

And he felt like the richest man in the world.

Corny, I know. But it’s an old movie. Give it a break!

There was no guardian angel earning his wings last night, but at times I felt I was in one of those moments.

OK, so I was drunk. But no matter.

It’s the culmination of a couple of weeks of a new lease on life. A mixture of my past and present colliding.

Nothing much has changed. Same job. I’m still broke. I’m still not a rock star. Six of seven days, I’m still a cynical unappreciative old bastard.

But at a time when I could be wallowing about all the crappy stupid people in my life, I will instead say this:

I have a good family.

I have good friends.

I walk in the company of many wonderful people.

I am honoured.

I am thankful.

And I am humbled.

I know this is transitory. And in time I may well forget. By tomorrow, everything can turn to crap. But I want to remember myself this morning. 3am. Sitting up in bed, still awake, still feeding off a drunken buzz, playing my guitar as badly as any guitarist in history and forgetting that I had blown another $80 in one night. For alone in my room, ruminating about my past few weeks to a badly tuned and badly played (and probably badly built) musical instrument, I was a rich man.

Through these rose-coloured glasses, even those gloomy robots can be made to look a perhaps unmanly, yet somewhat happier shade of pink…

The World of Tomorrow

I couldn't wait for a few more posts to celebrate my 150th with a new renovation of this site. But it's pretty much there.

If you can't guess, the banner is a corner of my bedroom. Although normally it's not so gloomy and there aren't any evil-looking robots walking around. I swiped them from a movie I can't wait to see. However, the magazines, comics, books and plastic bags are all real.

As usual, comments are appreciated.

I've removed and replaced a few links and blogs if I no longer look at them or if they are no longer updated on a regular basis.

Cheers

xtn...

There is really nothing to gain by playing a girls team. If you win, well you were always gonna win. It’s a girls team after all. If you lose, then, well, you’re losers. We did win by the way.

I hope Marty goes through Idol Wildcard. He’s good. Got a really nice pop rock voice. He sings the way I wish I could.

It’s been an interesting weekend. Not like last weekend which was really good. This one was alright but there was something really off hanging over it. It feels like having to maintain a polite smile while ignoring someone’s fart in the room. But you can still have an alright time even if you have to smell someone’s fart. If other things are good enough, that is.

It’s getting late. I’m talking crap again. I’m off.

But before I go:

Raikkonnen won his first GP of the season. For a second, I forgot and thought he was Hakkinnen. Meanwhile, Schumacher won his 7th World Championship. I have to admit he’s really good. But I still don’t like him.

My friend Alvina started a blog after all…

OK. Let’s talk feelings.

I am feeling:

Tired, annoyed, bored.

And my leg is itchy. So is my head.

Dear Alvina

Thank you for dinner. And the chat. You should really write a blog. Really. Here are my reasons:
1. You should put yourself out there.
2. You’re probably more articulate than most other bloggers out there.
3. Blogging is free.
4. You actually have a message that you’re (very) obviously trying to spread. Did I mention that Blogger is a FREE and relatively effective medium to do that?
5. Blogging will make you 15% more attractive to the opposite sex and 17% more attractive to the same sex.
6. You should write things down so I can read them and tear them apart like you like to do to my entries [insert smiley face with tongue sticking out].

I hope you do realize that I’m not always like the way I am when I’m around you. This is why I have a lot less to say to you when I’ve been drinking. With drink me brain don’t work proper like. In these times, try talking to me about bunnies. I like talking about bunnies.

xtn

Have you ever had the feeling that maybe you’re barking up the wrong tree? And worse still, that you’ve been barking up this same wrong tree your whole adult life?

Dear Ms Troy

You mean more to me than I will ever admit to your face. But sometimes, you really really piss me off, you know? Considering the fact that you never call me until everyone else you’ve tried calling can’t help you and that I hardly ever see you outside of an alcohol-fueled social situation, please do not assume to know all of me. Not that I’m necessarily saying I am all that complicated, with layers like an onion and such, but I feel like you continually judge me in an acutely unfair and wholly inaccurate manner in aspects of me which you know very little about. I hope some day you will get your head out of your arse and realise that some people actually give a damn about you. One of which is me.

xtn

Sometimes I feel like I am a novelty person. At least in my social bubble. Now is one of those times.

To whom it may concern

It should be noted that despite having a relatively bad memory, there are some things I will never forget.

Take this however which way you like.

xtn

Dullness is a quality for which the phrase ‘it takes one to know one’ does not apply. But like, oh my God, that is so interesting! There are times when I despise pop philosophy so much. It’s like drinking lite milk or listening to Will Smith rap.

More feelings and thoughts to come. For now, I need to sleep. I have to wake up tomorrow morning for our basketball game. We’re playing a team of girls.

I've updated my short story page. I was gonna write a longer story but it wasn't going where I wanted it to so I'm breaking it into parts. I hope you guys give it a go.

I swear I can sing Josh Kelley's Amazing better than this guy! This week's group may have better singers than previous weeks but I don't know if I like any of them. None of the standouts in this group are all that marketable.

I had a really good weekend. And I haven't said that in a really long time.

‘I am feeling very Olympic today.’
Sanka, Cool Runnings

Here’s the thing. I’m sick of Americans. No, I’m not an American hater. I love McDonald’s. I even sort of supported America’s first war on terrorism (Afghanistan). But the hype on American athletes in Athens is ridiculous. ESPN says that Michael Phelps has ‘supplanted Ian Thorpe as the world’s greatest swimmer.’ Er… no. Firstly I still consider all-round nice guy Pieter van den Hoogenband (actually pronounced ‘fun-den-ho-g/hen-bund) the fastest man in the pool. But that’s beside the point.

America had Phelps entered in eight different events, but look at what he’s good at.

1. Individual medley: Ooh. Tell me the last time you heard anyone being hyped for this event. The fact is, no one cares about the medley. True, it’s a test of all-round skill but it’s not dominance at any one thing. So no one cares. I bet if Thorpe actually tried, he’d be good at this too.

2. Butterfly: OK, you won’t agree with me here, but I think butterfly is the stupidest of the four Olympic swimming strokes. It’s a secondary stroke. Most good butterfly swimmers are also pretty good at freestyle. And it makes the least sense. Freestyle, breaststroke and backstroke each offer some sort of practical advantage over the other strokes. Besides working different muscle groups, what do you get out of butterfly that you can’t get out of the other strokes? Hell, dog paddle makes more sense! The other really stupid Olympic event is the triple jump. It’s such an arbitrary event… but that’s for another time.

Anyway, I’m just rambling here. But the point is, not many people will argue that freestyle (especially the shorter distances) is swimming’s glamour events. And at freestyle, Phelps (at least at this time) is no competition for Thorpe.

Now Undercover Angels was horrible. And I hate how he has his own line of jewellery and how after 9/11 he was interviewed about how close he got to death because he was in New York a day earlier. But in the pool, I gotta admit, Thorpe is breathtaking. And every time that Thorpe and Phelps have been in the pool at the same time, Thorpe has been faster.

(As an aside, that 4x200 relay was probably the first time that Thorpe has been less than superhuman. Sure he was still faster than any man in the pool in that race, but he couldn’t get past Klete Keller. I would’ve (if I were a betting man) bet my soul on Thorpe getting past Keller. Thorpe always pulls through. He performs miracles. He’s supposed to.)

But anyway, a note to Phelps and the rest of America: get over it! You’re good but you’re not there. At least not yet. End of discussion.

Beyond the pool now. On to basketball. The men’s US Basketball team annoys me. Firstly, all but three of the team members are replacements for America’s best that, frankly, just couldn’t be bothered coming – citing various excuses (‘injuries’, ‘marriage’, ‘security reasons’ and the ever popular ‘rape trial’ excuse). And now this second-string team refuses to stay in the Olympic village, and instead are living it up on the Queen Mary II surrounded by constant police patrol.

Again, get over yourselves. You’re not the Dream Team anymore. No one outside of the US (except die hard basketball fans) even know who you are. In 1992, Team USA was indeed the Dream Team. There were actual household names on that team (Jordan, Magic, Bird, Barkley and... ahem.. Christian Laettner, just to name a few). This Team USA is peppered with no-names like Emeka Okafor, Richard Jefferson (no, he’s not a past president), Carlos Boozer and Caramello Koala. Even their top players, Tim Duncan and Allen Iverson are only marginal celebrities outside of the basketball world (and America). And on top of that, they’re not even invincible anymore. Hell, they’re not even the gold medal favourites in these games. They don’t need to stay on a friggin’ luxury liner for security reasons!

Americans have to realise that people outside of America don’t care nearly as much about them as they do themselves.

OK. I’m done.

On to other Olympic thoughts…

… bring back Andrew Gaze. I miss him already.
… isn’t Jodie Henry just absolutely adorable? Her anchor leg of the 4x100 relay was incredible! And by tomorrow, she may become officially the fastest woman in the water.
… sexiest female Olympic athletes: beach volleyball. Least sexiest female Olympic athletes: a tie between shot put and shooting.
… I know volleyball is a legit sport, but how come I never see any Olympic volleyballers panting and sweating? They just all look too relaxed.
… please please please place an older age requirement for gymnasts so we won’t have many more of these conversations.
Person 1: She looks 12
Person 2: She is 12
Person 1: Oh
… just for the fun of it, they should show boxing, wrestling and judo matches on TV with a Street Fighter- style clock in the top middle of the screen along with health bars (their names underneath them) with the energy going up each time they score points. And when someone gets consecutive points, they should show ‘6-HIT COMBO!’ in flashing lights followed by a slow motion replay. ‘Fatalities’, however, wouldn’t be in the Olympic spirit.

Away from Olympics…

At work, I wrote a letter to the Bayerische Staatsgemäldesammlungen. Have a look at it. I don’t even know where to begin.

I spent last night doing Debbie. I was a bit apprehensive about it in the beginning. But I’m glad I did. It was really good. Certainly put a smile on my face.

(As a side note - I seem to be having lots of these - someone I invited along thought that Debbie Does Dallas was a band. Well I suppose it's the same kind of name as Death Cab for Cutie but... well... no. Just no.)

Not so long ago, my sister gave me samples of new Lynx deodorants and shower gels. My favourite was the green 'Anti-hangover' and the even newer 'Snake skin' is also really good. While I'm not a big fan of Lynx's usually musky scents, these two both have nice fresh citrus scents. Admitedly, this is a brave move for a product that is so heavily geared towards a hetrosexual male market. Then she told me that 'Anti-hangover' has been really popular (haven't asked about 'Snake skin'). Well that's good. I was afraid I was going to be the only one who likes a not-so-traditionally-male scent.

It confirms my sneaking suspicion that secretly, all men wish they could smell like a fruit.

Don't call me Idol

I have decided that Australian Idol is not for me. I now believe that the show is too mainstream and commercial for my unique talents. I believe that if I were to go on the show next year, it would be a serious compromise on my integrity as an artist and performer.

I shall, therefore, be continuing to establish myself in the underground karaoke scene, where I am allowed to be myself and where I do not have to face unfair public pressure to become somebody that I feel I am not.

Thank you.

I have good taste.

I know this.

Today, watching essential television that is the Miss Teen USA Pageant 2004, my own personal top 3 from the beginning of the show (still 51 delegates) ended up finishing 1,3 and 4 (Louisiana, Nevada and Tennessee respectively). Last year, my pick ended up winning too (Oregon).

I didn’t watch this year’s Miss Universe (despite Australia winning) but as far as I can remember, the Miss Universe delegates are usually far more refined with their answers to questions compared to their Miss Teen USA counterpart. All their responses were littered with ‘like’ and ‘you know’. Louisiana’s answer to everything was that she was being herself (which, I suppose isn’t so bad considering…) while Tennessee’s favourite book is ‘The Great Gapsby’ and her hero is her brother who is in the air force – because he ‘lays his line on the life’ every day.

Hawaii was also a hottie. Somehow she escaped my radar at the start. Just thought I’d mention that.

Meanwhile, why are so many girls/women in the spotlight getting so skinny? Screw the health reasons for a moment. It just looks bad. Buffy looked better when she had more meat on her. And if the Olsen twins ate more, they’d at least be trolls with nice figures. Brandy performed at the Miss Teen USA pageant and she’s gone skinny too. She used to look fit and athletic. It’s such a shame.

King Arthur the movie was a big let down. Another shame. I looked forward to it. I’m a big fan of Clive Owen and they stuffed it. They wanted to make it historic but they only went halfway and the result comes across as a B-Grade Braveheart. Should have just done a remake of Excalibur and put Peter Jackson, Sam Raimi or Gore Verbinski at the helm. Magic, melodramatic music and fancy armour and swords would have been better. They could have just used existing LOTR footage of Gandalf for Merlin and dubbed over the words. That would have been better than this. Although, Stellan Skarsgard was fantastic as Cedric of the Saxons. Such a big presence.

Late night scratchings

I'm trying to write my next short story. But I can't get past the first sentence. I have a concept in my head but these things always sound better than they write. It's not so much writer's block as it is writer's ineptitude.

Today I did something rather important. Tomorrow I'm going to finish what I started. I just hope it works. I haven't had a good night's rest in what seems like years. So I need this. Peace of mind. Once i have that i think I'll have a good cry. Not a sad cry. A good one. Where I smile at the same time. Like a sun shower.

It's also late. And I'm babbling. I'm trying to watch TV at the same time and it's not working. This show is way too heavy for this time of night.

What's the name of that theatre at the corner of City Rd and Cleveland St? They're about to show Debbie does Dallas the Musical. I'm so curious as to what this can be like. Anyone interested in seeing it?

Q Magazine recently released a list of the 100 most powerful people in music. I was surprised to read that Avril Lavigne and John Mayer didn't make the list. On the other hand, Ryan Adams made it at No. 97. Now I own every official album that this genius of a musician has ever released, but even I realise that the amount of influence he wields is nothing compared to Avril. Maybe it refers to other forms of influence. Not just fans and money generated. I don't know.

I finished reading this book called The Wisdom of Crocodiles by Paul Hoffman. It's a long book. Took 13 years to write apparently. It's sprawling. Covering almost every subject matter you can think of. It's one of the longest books I've read in a while. But as I turned the last page, I felt disappointingly empty. It had a lot of good bits in it. But none of them tied together. I kind of get what it was trying to say. And the book didn't drag like a lot of big books do. It just lacked cohesion. I'm very disappointed.

I wish I tried out for Australian Idol. I really do. I'll try to try next year.

I know most of you won't care, but if you follow basketball (and other American sports) you should start reading this guy's column (if you haven't already). I think he's the best sportswriter I've ever read. His NBA draft diaries are especially fun. It could just be because I think he writes a little like me. In that same self indulgent sense.

I'm really getting into Crossing Jordan. It's corny but the characters are likable. I like that. I have mixed feelings about the OC. It feels too try-hardish. Even for a teeny bopper show (and I can appreciate teeny bopper shows for what they are). It feels like Less than Zero on training wheels. Just as the movie Go felt like a teeny bopper Pulp Fiction. Funnily enough, Doug Liman was/is heavily involved with both.

Ryan and Seth look too much like Dawson and Pacey. Marissa needs to eat more. A lot more! Summer, on top of looking skanky, is probably the worst-written character on television. Even worse than Colleen on Home and Away. I must say, though, that Ryan is a pretty well-written character (for a misunderstood bad boy cliche). I still watch it because it's on TV. That's a good enough reason for me. And it's not all bad.

If I were to create my own OC, I would make the kids a little older and here would be my cast (assuming an unlimited budget):

Ryan: Orlando Bloom (I know he's 26 but Luke Perry was 45 when he played Dylan. Give him a shave and he'll be fine)
Seth: Jake Gyllenhaal
Marissa: Mandy Moore (I thought about Katie Holmes but that's just too Dawson. Keira Knightley would be a good choice too except she also needs to eat more and looks too much like Natalie Portman who I've also cast - see below)
Summer: Jessica Alba (or Eliza Dushku - I swear these two are interchangeable in any role they play)
Seth's parents: Antonio Banderas and Michelle Pfeiffer
Marissa's parents: Johnny Depp and Ashley Judd
Luke: Ashton Kutcher (the most unlikable young actor I can think of)
Anna: Natalie Portman
Seth's grandfather: Christopher Walken

Written by David Mamet (State and Main, Spanish Prisoner)
Directed by Steven Soderberg (Ocean's Eleven, Traffic)

Now wouldn't THAT make compelling television!

OK, I've had enough. The goatee's coming off soon.

Miss C

I thought I had one more depressing blog entry in me but I’m gonna hold it off. This blog can do without it. But perhaps I shall turn it into a thinly disguised piece of ‘fiction’ should I need to let it out sometime in the future. So anyway...

One of my favourite memories was my 21st birthday party (with Lil) where we Buffied, danced and sang into adulthood. It was just such a fun party for me and probably something I can never quite do ever again. Our innocence and licence to be silly in public (well, among friends) is gone forever. I’m just glad that I was able to indulge in it when I could.

But a fun memory from that party was when my friend Alwin mentioned in his speech that I had, at that time, um… befriended a 17 year-old girl through IRC (hey, for me it was a phase that is well and truly dead, OK?!). Well it was all fun and games until I pointed out that the girl in question was actually standing right behind him. She got even more red than her then underaged drinking activities that night had made her.

It was very nice of her to come. I appreciated it. And I repaid her by NOT coming to her 21st (sorry…) um… 4 years later. But the greatest gift she ever gave me was to introduce me to Habib’s (Cnr. Greenfield Pde and Restwell St, Bankstown) and to all those that know me well, you would know that Habib’s charcoal chicken now constitutes about a quarter of my regular diet (yes, the chicken and garlic sauce is THAT good!) There is so much I owe her for.

Anyway, just last night I met up with her again at Habib’s. Four years later, our age gap has crept into respectability. We’ve grown up. But we still have stuff to yack about. And neither of us is on IRC anymore. She remembers a lot, remarkably (I remember almost nothing, regrettably).

And it was fun to catch up. Really fun.

So here’s hoping it’s not gonna be another 4 years.

And thank you very very much for the chicken.

From the bottom of my heart (somewhere close to the stomach).

I like funny girls.

It occurred to me a while ago that within my social sphere there is a severe lack of funny girls. Now the thought just depresses me. Yes, there are plenty girls who can go along with jokes. There is certainly an abundance of girls who will laugh and giggle to good (or bad) humour. But there are very few who can generate their own humour. Most of the clowns (proverbially speaking) I know are guys. AND I’m also not including girls who are accidentally amusing. Although they can sometimes be incredibly funny, it’s…well… not what I’m talking about.

xtn’s Superficial attractiveness scale.

In order to try and improve myself, I am attempting to quantify my own superficial attractiveness and find out where I can make improvements. The following figures are based on sweeping generalisations of what I believe are attractive and unattractive within my own social sphere. In no way does this reflect any real and/or meaningful scientific studies. That I know of. It is possible that the figures match up exactly to some respected scientific study but that would be purely by accident and not careful and responsible scientific research.

I will begin by what I call the PA. Your PA is your Potential Attractiveness. This covers everything from your height, face shape, nose, the size of your… um… ears. Basically it’s everything about you that you can’t change without plastic surgery.

For the sake of modesty, let’s just call my PA ‘PA’.

Here are my current attributes, as judged by myself.

Plays basketball: +5
Plays tennis: +3
Aptitude in other sports: -3
Collects comics: -10
Haircut: +4
Facial hair: -3
Slight acne problem: -2
Musical ability: 0
Fashion sense (inoffensive): 0
Flab level: -7
Fitness level: -3
Interesting occupation: +10
Low-paying occupation: -10
Car (Lancer coupe in current unwashed state): +3
Sense of humour: +3
Writing ability: +1
Music taste: +1
Perceived intelligence: +5
Artistic ability: +2
Social skills: +5
Dancing skills: -2
Cooking skills: +2
Moderate level of computer game playing: -2
Aptitude in computer game playing: -1
Mysteriousness scale: -3
Bastard scale: -3
Wealth: -2

By these calculations, I am operating at PA-7. Which means I am underachieving on my potential by 7 points.

Hmmm… at least there’s still improvements to be had.

Here are some Upgrades I had in mind.

Clean car upgrade: +1
New sports coupe upgrade: +5
Guitar playing upgrade: +5
New shaver upgrade: +1
Queer eye upgrade: +5
Celebrity status upgrade: +50
Good-looking girlfriend upgrade: +4

Seriously…

I’m sick of talking about serious things. I really am. I’m sick of having to justify myself. I’m sick of getting advice. I’ll still give advice and listen to you if you want me to. But don’t get me started on myself. And if I do so on my own accord, I would appreciate it if you would just grin and bear it. That will make me stop sooner.

I’d rather talk about funny nonsense. And about pretty girls in ghastly pink jacket and fishnets ensembles.

Warning: This post might not follow much logic. I’m not sure. I haven’t written it yet. I just have this feeling it won’t.

I remember I used to be so full of conviction about a lot of topics. And I was really good are arguing them too. That’s just not the case anymore. I just don’t seem to believe in anything strongly enough anymore. I’m still opinionated but that may be just force of habit rather than real conviction. I can change my mind at any time.

At university, I learnt a whole bunch of stuff. And perhaps my brain just couldn’t handle the overload of information. Especially since my subjects tended to deal with vague generalisations that, while occupying cosmic-level scope, has little real worth in the real world.

There was this one subject called ‘Personal Identity’ that dealt with the question of ‘What makes us the same person today as we were yesterday?’ Through philosophy, psychology, biology, sociology, etc. what this subject aimed to do was to pinpoint the essence of a human person. And you know what we came up with?

Nothing.

The closest thing we could come to a coherent consensus was that I see you yesterday as being the same person as you are today because to me, you seem like you are the same person that I saw yesterday.

Yes, that is entirely circular. But it’s also the only way you can look at it that works on all levels. As is my answer to a lot of things these days – it just is. In the final class, one guy shouted out ‘but there has to be a single essence!’ and then stormed out.

In a way, what I guess I am saying is that the world works in a way that is really too complicated for me (and my lecturer and class evidently) to understand, articulate or use in any meaningful way. It would be far too arrogant for me (yes, even for me) to suggest that there is no absolute truth. All I’m saying is that I haven’t found it (though I may have had at one point… a story for another time) yet.

However, I’m also acutely aware that while it’s all well and good to go along this path, worldly values we put on things, whether they be artificial or not, are perfectly valid. Emotional responses are perfectly valid. Lots of things are perfectly valid.

My cousin used to tell me that she had a lot of difficulty in her philosophy classes because everyone’s viewpoint sounded good to her. At the time, I arrogantly dismissed her as a flake. But she was right. And I was wrong.

It might be the case that every individual is different but judging them and stereotyping them and pigeonholing them isn’t wrong either. We need to make quick superficial judgements in order to function in life, and especially in a society. No matter how correct they are. We can always iron out the creases later.

I now have the belief that the life we live has no real meaning or purpose. I believe in fate but only in a scientific, molecular level sense. But that doesn’t mean that we can’t have meaning in our lives. And it doesn’t mean that that meaning is any more superficial.

After speaking to a friend last week, I realised that she spent over half her conversation talking about what kind of person she is. I think I do a bit of this too. Though not as bad. It’s what people do when they don’t feel like they belong anywhere. They don’t feel like they have a place in this world and so they have to justify their own existence. Having to listen to this can be annoying. But it’s also unnecessary. Why do so many people find it necessary to be so consistent?

Why do I lack conviction in anything now? Because not all the holes can be covered. I sometimes need to contradict myself in order to not shoot myself in the foot. You can cover your holes with good argument techniques but not if you’re going to be truly honest with yourself.

So here is my line for the day:

‘Inconsistency is the only true form of honesty.’

Life isn’t black and white. But neither is it shades of grey. It’s more like a Rorschach inkblot.

Now if only I understood what they are exactly.

Kinda, sorta, maybe

I have a somewhat sadistic friend who always tells me that he prefers reading my blog when I’m miserable. Well I

That’s how I was gonna start my entry after the other two ways that I was gonna start it. I deleted those other ones. But I’ll just keep writing here otherwise I’ll never finish. Even if the end product doesn’t make much sense.

I haven’t written in a while. I just don’t want to be writing self-loathing entries. I enjoy writing my stories on the other blog but it just takes too long sometimes. I’ll get to it soon. I hope those who’ve been reading enjoy them. Please gimme feedback. Even if to say ‘I hate them.’

My 5 days

Mostly I shopped. Slept. Got my car serviced. Got 4 new tyres. Bought heaps of CDs. Some albums I bought for 99c! Riss had been harping on about Dave Matthews for years and I finally bought a non-live album by the band. It’s really good music. Crash into me is so so good for a song that is so so lacking in form and structure. But the song find of my CD shopping spree would be Summer Teeth by Wilco. It’s just a really nice song. Although I suspect the lyrics are rather sinister but I don’t wanna know. I’ve been listening to songs called ‘Excuse me if I break my own heart’. I don’t need any more negativity.

Straight eye for the straight guy

I don’t need a queer eye for my makeover. I just need to buy clothes that I don’t normally buy (which I did) and grow a goatee (which I have). I wanted to grow my hair too but I can’t be bothered. Seriously, if I wasn’t so damn lazy, I could really make something of myself. I should look into it.

In the end I probably don’t look that much different and if anything, I reckon I probably look worse. But at least it makes me feel different, which counts for a lot seeing as I’ve been feeling actual inadequacy for the first time in about 3 or 4 years.

My 2 years

Speaking of years, my blog is now over 2 years old as of May. By the end of August, it’ll be 2 years since it’s been called xtn, etc. It’s quite sad that nothing much has changed. But then again, I guess during these two years Tammin Sursok is still on Home and Away. But then again, she’s a celebrity and I’m still a nobody.

Er… should I write about this?

I cried watching Spiderman 2. Multiple times. Maybe I was just in an emotional state. Maybe it’s that I cry at all the wrong times and don’t cry when I expect to. Or maybe it’s just because the movie is basically a geeky fanboy’s wet dream come true. But um… yeah, not that kind of ‘wet’, but you get the idea.

I’ll write more another time. I’m hungry.

Back in 5...

Days that is...

Gonna take a break. Hopefully do nothing.

I need one.

Degrees of separation

Forgive me.

I've started yet another blog.

This one will be a repository for random stories that I come up with. The concept behind it is that each successive story has a character that appeared or is connected to another character in the last story posted. Basically, this is to anchor the stories in the one 'universe'. A sense of connection between the characters and events. Or it's just another unoriginal gimmick.

Anyway, all are welcome to read and all are welcome to contribute, as long as you follow the above concept. Otherwise, just ignore this and keep reading xtn, etc.

There's just too much going on in the head.

Christian...