Things that are not as big a deal as some would have us believe...

Just sayin' there should be some major footnotes and qualifications added is all...

1. Cameras (with thanks to Roulade Unlimited)


2.



3. 'design' (n)


4. Movies


5.



6. Nostalgia

R 'n' B-lievin'...

Bust in to da club with my flattie pulled lo
Three bumps of Patron and I'm feelin' all my flo
I saw dat girl
I saw them jeanz
I think they auto if y'all knows what I meanz

Them jeanz was aut-O-matic
Them jeanz was aut-O-matic
Them jeanz was aut-O-matic
Them jeanz was aut-O-matic

Clinging to her hips like that denim'z painted on
Seeing how she moved I knew she were the one
Just for tonight (tonight)
Ain't not forever (hell no!)
She wore them auto jeanz like she was wearing leather

Them jeanz was aut-O-matic
Them jeanz was aut-O-matic
Them jeanz was aut-O-matic
Them jeanz was aut-O-matic

(break it down)

I said 'hey yo'
She said dem jeanz was auto
I said 'I know'
She said my style was fo' sho'
I said 'let's go'
'Girl you know I like 'em auto'
I said 'let's go'
'Damn you know I like 'em auto'

I tell ya aut-O-matic jeanz
Know how to pleaze
A playa gets a teaze
From aut-O-matic jeanz

Them jeanz was aut-O-matic
Them jeanz was aut-O-matic
Them jeanz was aut-O-matic
Them jeanz was aut-O-matic

Morning in a house that hit its straps in the '70s...

'Maaattt! Time to get up maaaate! Plenty to do today...'

Matt rolled over, his hand gently cupping what his mum still referred to as his 'meat and two'. He gave his scrotum a firm, open handed massage as he considered whether to heed his mother's call, or simply roll over and sleep for another hour or two. He checked the spherical radio clock next to his bed. A pair of underpants obscured his view of the first digit, but the second digit was a one, and the minute numbers showed three and one respectively. Eleven thirty one or one thirty one.

'My choice', he thought. He was independent like that.

Matt knew that he was in bed, and that yesterday he had been at a LAN-party, which meant that today was Wednesday, because Tuesday night was LAN night at John's. If it was Wednesday, and his mum was shouting at him, it meant that it was eleven thirty one. Wednesdays Patti drove Bert to taping at midday, and met the girls at Crows Nest until Bert had finished filming five episodes back to back.

Matt liked Wednesdays because he had the house to himself for the afternoon. He had a nightclub party to go to tonight. He would use the afternoon to chill out. Maybe watch a DVD. A DVD in the room that prominently featured a glamour shot of his father and k-shaped statuettes.

'Maaaattttyyyy. Gotta get up. I need you to move your car.'

'Shut up Mum! The keys are on the bloody table. You know that.'

Matt shouted at his mother most mornings. If he was honest with himself, which he was not inclined to be, he would have at least considered that living with his parents was not making him happy. Thoughts like that came to Matt only against his will. When his guard was down.

He massaged his scrotum again. He reached across to his clock and picked up the underpants that had up until now prevented him telling the time. He saw now that it was eleven fourty five. He arched his back and pulled up his faded black Rios. The elastic was still strong. That was why Matt kept them by the bed. The elastic made a satisfying snapping sound as he unhooked his thumbs from underneath the waistband.

He swung his legs off the bed, and padded downstairs to the kitchen.

'Hi Matty. Can you move the car now? Before your Froot Loops?'

'Where's Dad?' Matt grunted. He knew the answer, but asked anyway. He knew his father would be in the upstairs bathroom. He spent all his mornings there these days. Matt didn't know what he did in there, and he didn't care. He only asked his Mum because he knew she worried about his father's increasingly erratic behaviour, and Matt enjoyed calling attention to it.

Matt poured Froot Loops into a huge white bowl he refused to let his parents use. Some Froot Loops went on the floor, and Matt smiled as he felt one crunch under his feet. He slid a set of keys across the table to his mother and padded back upstairs to eat his Froot Loops in bed.

Fun presidential facts...

Fact One: Henry Kissinger often had to turn his television up to drown out the sound of Richard Nixon shouting at his wife. He mentioned this to Kruschev in the toilets at the Hague, but Kruschev had problems of his own that day.

Fact Two: Ronald Reagan was well known for his generosity and kindness to the White House staff. He once lost his temper with gardener Rumino Hernandez, after the mower Hernandez was pushing flicked a stone into the window Reagan's dog was sleeping against. Reagan flinched when the dog yelped, and spilled his tea on a photograph of his sister-in-law, who was a spinster.

Fact Three: During a conversation with his Attorney General brother Robert, John F. Kennedy coined the phrase 'race to the moon'. He was referring to a lewd sex act he had overheard a college friend describe years earlier. The Cuban Missile Crisis continued unabated.

Fact Four: Abraham Lincoln spent most of the day leading up to the Gettysburg Address trying to find his wife's best comb. She later remembered that she had lent it to a chamber maid she was fond of. He later complained that the incident 'took the shine off the day a bit'.

Fact Five: It is common knowledge in DC circles that George W. Bush can name all 50 states and their capitals in reverse alphabetical order after a minimum of six drinks, but is reluctant to prove it.

Fact Six: In the years between his non-consecutive terms, Grover Cleveland built a ship in a bottle, but never got around to finishing its paint job. He rediscovered the ship in his declining years, but his hands were by then too arthritic to hold small brushes.

Fact Seven: Barack Obama was 'a real pain in the ass' about letting other people move his stuff into the White House, according to his wife.

Puberty and patriotism...

It was obvious the moment the first note came out of his mouth. The air in the dining hall seemed to get thicker. It would be wrong to say a hush fell over the room, because some of the older boys were still cheering, but a sense of expectation had definitely settled across the long communal tables like deflating hot air balloon. Some of the older boys looked at each other, instantly knowing that the others had noticed it too.

He had pitched it too high.

There was no doubting it. There was no way he could possibly hit the high note on "JOY-ful strains" if he stayed in key. Jamie, who claimed to have perfect pitch, leant across the table and whispered to Mark "He's gonna have to go up to high-D! His range is High C, absolute max."

Bubba knew he had a problem. He had sensed it the moment he started singing. He gripped the podium tightly with his small, first form boy's hands. Randy, who was compering the First Term Trivia Night, stood off to one side with a smirk on his face. Bubba caught his eye and his smirk pushed up his face and morphed into a cruel grin. "It's okay," Bubba said to himself. He was only singing about abounding lands and nature's gifts at this stage. Plenty of time to regather.

By now the whole dining hall could sense what was about to happen. A tense, expectant hush had fallen over the boys for the first time in weeks. The chubby little first former had a high voice, damned high, but no-one could possibly hit that note, not from where he had started it anyway.

Bubba looked across at the table where the basket of fun size chocolates sat. They were the reason he was up here. He silently cursed himself for starting to sing while all the boys were still cheering him. He had been the first to the front. He was still too jazzed from the dash from his seat when he started. He looked out at the sea of blue and cream blazers. Some boys' blazer buttons looked as if they were about to burst off, unable to contain the excitement of their wearers.

Mr Markham started moving over towards the podium. Bubba looked across at him, his eyes pleading for help.

In history's page, let every stage Advance Australia Fair.... ummm.

Mr Markham put his hand on Bubba's shoulder. The boys' heads were on stalks, craning forward, ears pushed to the front, not wanting to miss a sound or an image. Mr Markham raised his free hand in the manner of a great conductor and made eye contact with the Senior Boarder, Gussy. Gussy turned to the others, and as one the senior boys rose to their feet.

IN JOOOOYYYYYFUL STRAINS THEN LET US SING
ADVAAAAANCE, AUSTRAAAAAALLLIA FAAAAAIRRRRRRR!!!!!!!!!

The dining hall erupted into cheers and applause. Bubba, almost shaking from relief, accepted the basket of chocolates from Randy and ran back to his seat, pausing only briefly to drop it in the middle of the senior boys' table.

Cooking dinner: the process...

1. 6.45pm. Get home from work. Peel off shirt while its still damp from the walk from the station.
2. Sit on the couch and feel like crap.
3. Turn on TV. Two and a Half Men is on.
4. Watch Two and a Half Men while feeling like crap.
5. Realise there are five hours of things to do before bed.
6. Realise those things will not be done.
7. Feel hungry.
8. Turn up Two and a Half Men and go to the kitchen to cook.
9. Open fridge.
10. Curse flatmates for
(a) not being home to cook
(b) not ensuring the fridge is fully stocked with the exact ingredients you need to make the two dishes in repertoire.
11. See bread.
12. Cook bread.
13. Rub peanut butter onto the cooked bread.
14. Eat.
15. Sit on couch.
16. Watch Gordon Ramsay.
17. Complain about 'having a shit night' when housemates arrive home.
18. Call girlfriend.
19. Mumble to girlfriend while surfing internet.
20. Sleep.

Obituary...

It's time to note the quiet passing of a once-glorious yet ill-remembered Hollywood star. The star passed quietly, and historians have had trouble pinpointing the exact moment the star burned out finally, after blazing across the cinematic sky since the very inception of the medium.

I refer, naturally, to slapping women on film. In an age where the word 'domestic' could only be paired with 'bliss', writers thought nothing of having their male lead subdue an hysterical woman with a well-intentioned open hand to the cheek. Rarely did the woman in question react with indignation to the corporal sanction dealt her way; usually a feminine hand gingerly placed on the point of contact, coupled with a thoughtful look, was enough to indicate that the lesson had been learned.

Clark Gable did it in Gone With the Wind, Sean Connery did it as James Bond, but since the 1980s the old star found, as many have before it, that times and fashions move on, leaving some by the wayside while leaving others relatively untarnished.

But has the demise of open-handed chastisement led to hysterical female co-stars running wild? The simple answer is no. As anyone who follows film closely will know, Hollywood abhors a vacuum. No trend, fad or star is pushed aside until its successor is known. In this case, the pretender to the crown was a star cast from a cruder, misshapen, but closely related mould.

The advent of realistic domestic violence in film saw the more naive, black and white, Mom and Pop style of wife-beating fade quietly into the Sunset Boulevard. On-screen wives and partners are now kept in line using more brutal means. Nostalgic cinemaphiles can only shake their heads and long for yesteryear when confronted with the sight of Denzel Washington pushing his wife to the ground in He Got Game, or Temuera Morrison violently assaulting his defenceless wife in Once Were Warriors.

It seems obvious that the passing of the open-handed slap between lovers is indicative of the breakdown of human relationships that has taken place in the last 60 years. Gone are the days when differences could be resolved by a means of dispute resolution that made its point but never left a bruise. The harsh reality of the 21st Century requires that inter-spousal disagreements be settled with blood, broken glass and bellowing. One wonders whether the inability of non-brutal means of settling arguments at the personal level is reflected on the national and international stage. Wouldn't the US have preferred a quick and easy option like a quick slap to the cheek, rather than having to chase Iraq down the hall in its underpants and a singlet? Would the world be a better place if disagreements could be settled in a fast and fair manner that left both parties understanding the situation better?

So vale, the open-handed slap. The world is a nastier, more violent place without you.


OPEN HANDED SLAP
1905-UNKNOWN

Good news for the ladies of the Third World...

Oprah:
"Today's show is going to liberate women everywhere."

Excerpt from the New York Times dated 12 June 2008:
"Women around the world were liberated as of 2.30pm yesterday, after Oprah wrapped her daily light entertainment talk show.
A spokesman for the UN Human Rights Commission said the UN had been surprised by how easy it had been to overcome the..."

They go places we can't...

It was 9.30 pm on a Tuesday and Grahame was concentrating. He leaned across his half empty schooner of VB and stared at a corner of the pub the conversation he was listening to wasn't coming from.

"It's crap these days, you know. Where are the Grandmaster Flashes of our generation? Where's our Chuck D or Jam Master Jay? It's all right for us, we're old enough that that stuff was still around for us to listen to, but kids even just five years younger than us are gonna grow up thinking rap music begins and ends with Fiddy, eminem and Flo Rida."

The tall, well-dressed young man was waving his arms wildly at his two quiet female companions. He had been talking for 15 minutes about hip hop music.

"Where's the message behind the music? Where's the commentary? What's its purpose? It cold sucks. All the humour, the fun and the humanity's been sucked out and replaced by sneakers, Hummers and misogyny."

The young man was in full flight. His eyes ranged around the pub, resting only occasionally on the girl Grahame assumed was his girlfriend. She had merely asked who sung the song the jukebox was playing. A procession of four indie rock anthems and six R&B hits had shuffled past since the young man (Grahame guessed an Economics student) had started talking.

Grahame picked up his schooner and prepared to walk over to the man to tell him he was wrong, but the moment he stood up the other girl scooted across from the bar to take his seat. The other two followed her, passing Grahame as he stood, flummoxed, in the no man's land between the tables and the bar.

Grahame got that feeling he got most nights at the pub. A weird combination of humiliation, anger and relief. He felt none of them distinctly, and none separately, rather the feelings piled into his chest and mixed like lemon juice and milk. At a loose end, totally disoriented from the sudden shift in position, he walked around the curved bar and found a seat at an empty table. He settled in and waited.

A cockroach crawled across the wall, some five feet above the heads of the few punters with nothing better to do on a Tuesday night. Grahame noticed it and wondered where it had been before here. He often wondered about the almost unlimited access to the world that insects had. He speculated about the places they could go that he couldn't. Grahame hoped the cockroach had been somewhere amazing before it came to the pub. Somewhere no-one else had seen for years, like the inside of the wall in an old warehouse, full of old magazines, cigarette packets and other rubbish the builders had thrown down the gap between the sandstone bricks. He hoped the cockroach appreciated the things it had that he didn't. He hoped it was buzzing with excitement about the places it had been and the places it would go.

Grahame had been to the pub every Tuesday for five years. He used to go to one up the road, but had been told not to go back. He remembered the bar girl there, and how disappointed she had looked. Vulnerable and unhappy. He'd walked out that night and hadn't seen her since. He'd started going to this pub, which he didn't like. He counted the Tuesdays. About 260 and he'd never brought anyone with him.

He looked at the three empty chairs around his table. He hoped someone would come and ask for one, so that he could start up a conversation.

The cockroach worked its way down the wall slowly. It headed for the gap behind the jukebox and the wall, but before it could get there a bearded man, clearly unhinged, pulled it off the wall and shoved it in his mouth. The old bearded man ate the cockroach, and turned to his desperate looking friends, who all laughed. They were pissed. They were always pissed. At least when Grahame saw them. Old drunk lunatics with nothing better to do than eat cockroaches and laugh like zombies. Grahame had never understood zombies. Why did they feed on human brains? Why did they pick the least available and most difficult to obtain food in the world? At least the zombies here ate cockroaches. They weren't stupid, even though last week Grahame had told them they were. Sometimes they talked to him but Grahame would just fidget around in his seat until he wasn't quite facing them any more, and they would lose interest and play the pokies and call him a wanker. There were shitloads of cockroaches. They should eat them.

A plain, but sweet looking girl slid nervously up to Grahame.

"Excuse me, is anyone using this seat?"

Grahame abruptly said yes, it was taken. He shoved his empty schooner into the hand of a passing bar girl and leant back in his chair. The girl went away and stood awkwardly at a table where her friends were seated. After a couple of minutes, a man at the table stood up and walked over to Grahame's table. The man made eye contact with Grahame, picked up a chair, and took it over to the girl.

Grahame stood up and took his curdled insides outside and walked home with them sloshing around in a congelaed mess inside him. He pushed past his son in the hallway, went upstairs and pulled the door of his bedroom shut.

Video Hizzits...

BRAINSTORM: Video clip ideas for slick new three-piece.

#1: Band on the Run: Clip opens with a shot of an empty stage. Cut to pictures of band in back of tour bus. John is slouched on the back seat, lazily strumming a guitar. Mike and Pete are playing cards and smoking. These bus shots need to be in black and white. Cut back to sped up footage of roadies preparing stage for show. Sped up footage is interspersed with shots of the boys lounging around a hotel room. A television gets thrown out a window (not before second chorus. Thought: can we get a shot of the television smashing, but in slow mo? Check with Jimmy). During the bridge, the boys (now in colour), are on stage doing a soundcheck. The soundcheck needs to synch up with the soundtrack. Cut to shots of the boys in the dressing room before the show. Last chorus must be the full live performance (can we bus in about 50 hot chicks for a close up shot, I'm thinking Mike should throw a scarf into the front row, touch some hands), shot a little grainy to increase the "live feel". As chorus fades out, show a shot (B&W) of the tour bus driving away. "To be continued..." is written across the bottom of the screen.

#2: Cameo: Clip opens to boys playing (eyes front) in a garage. Carpets on the wall (Blur Song 2, that kind of thing, but indie it up a bit). Shots cut in and out of various close ups of the boys (make sure we get the brand names in. Thought: can we get a clothing sponsor for this shoot? Follow up pls.) Halfway through second verse, cymbal stand threatens to fall over. Close up of hand catching it before it falls (make sure this shot synchs up with "catch you before we fall" line). It's Will Ferrell/Steve /Jessica Simpson/Steve Martin. Boys stop playing (should we stop the music and have some dialogue? Perhaps bring the music level down during the middle eight instrumental and get some gags in. Check with Jimmy to see if he can do this.) Celebrity busts out a short drum solo (definitely stop the track for this part) and the boys are amazed. The rest of the clip writes itself. Celebrity jumps between instruments, leans in on the main mike for some back up, hams it up generally. Clip ends with celebrity hugging all the boys and heading out the garage door into darkness, boys are all like "wtf?".

#3: Ballad: I'm thinking we need this for the second single... Opening shot is of Pete sitting on the bed of a Soho loft apartment (call around, see if Mary-Kate has leased that apartment yet). He is wearing jeans and no shirt, the place is a mess. He starts cleaning up. Cut to a shot of him on a train, rain splashing against the window etc, probably with an acoustic (try a cowboy hat as well, see if it flies). Cuts back to apartment, girl running up stairs. Pete opens the door, she sweeps in and throws her arms around his neck. She takes her white t-shirt off and is wearing a black lacy bra. Now they are both shirtless (can we get Levis down on this?) and they make out. Cut back to Pete on the train with the acoustic. He gets off and walks down a deserted city street in the rain, turns into an unmarked door. It is a shady lounge. Mike and John are there. They are smoking. Cut back to apartment, Pete and the chick have had sex and are lying in bed naked. Pete gets up, holding the sheet to him and walks across the room. The girl is crying. They start fighting. She waves her arms around and pushes Pete away when he tries to hug her, grabs her clothes and runs out the door (get as much T&A in here as you can get away with). Pete sits down on the bed again. Cut back to the club. The boys are playing. Final chorus. As song finishes, Pete sees the chick in the front row. He throws the guitar away and jumps down off the stage. They hug and spin around a couple of times while the camera tracks them. Pete puts his cowboy hat on and they walk out the door into the night. John and Mike are left on stage, looking at each other. They nod knowingly.

Update...

It has been a long time since I, the least diligent blogger in the world, directly addressed you, the casually interested blog consumer. I got very sick of that style of blog and vowed never to fall victim to it again.

"It's lazy James, who cares what we're doing?" I'd say.

But my recent output of stories has been pathetic, so I thought I would post the following list of things by way of explanation, in an attempt to mollify you, if indeed you required mollifying.

1. I have been unemployed. Not the good kind either. The kind that puts you in debt to your friends and family in such a fashion as to make it impossible to keep track of who you owe what and when. (If I owe you money, speak now. For some reason I've decided it's your responsibility).

2. I have got a new job. It is very busy. There is no time to blog at this job. It would be considered extremely churlish to knock out 700-odd words of childish narrative while billable hours went to waste (I'm worth $90!).

3. I have moved house. James and I have moved from Glebe to Surry Hills, with our special new friend Kym. He is a Caucasian male of average height and skinny jeans. Junkies have been all over the glove box of my car like Phil Waugh on a Gilbert pigskin ever since I started parking near Central Station. Fools, don't they realise I possess nothing of value? The next step: mousetraps! (Thanks to the old bloke who eavesdropped on the train for providing this suggestion.)

4. I have been reading Clive James. My girlfriend gave me James' book Cultural Amnesia for Christmas. After reading the short essays that make up this book, it is difficult to have enough faith in myself to write my shopping list. In each short essay he makes reference to at least four three-volume works, in languages other than English, that he appears to be intimately familiar with. I'm pretty sure he's a wanker (and the book was riddled with terrible spelling errors), but still, I feel like a little boy with a crayon scrawling on the Gyprock(tm) walls of my parents' one bedroom council flat.


5. I have contracted a comical disease more commonly associated with less-affluent characters in Charles Dickens' novels.
Me: I can't wait for the start of next week. Uni, work, tutoring, work, it's gonna be amazing. I'll love having my routine back.
Family: You look terrible. See a doctor.
Doctor (interrupting from the other table): You have X.
Me: X? What the hell is that?!
Doctor: You might have heard of it as Y.
Me: Y? I thought the last reported case of that was seen in a French soldier with a particularly weak constitution in the trenches on the Somme, who had been eating trench rats raw?
Doctor: Don't go to work, university or the bank for at least a week.
Me: What about my girlfriend? Could I have infected her?
Doctor: She should probably burn her house down.
Me: Bummer.

Self indulgence and Sambuca on the rocks...

Does anyone drink Sambuca on the rocks anymore? I say anymore, because that's how we used to make it happen down Wagga way. Back in the day. Way back in the day when we were young and didn't care what the manufacturer intended. It was hot and we wanted ice cubes in our Sambuca. So we made it happen. Just a room full of single dudes, ice clinking in glasses of magnificently chilled Sambuca. That era ended at a New Year's Eve 2004/5 party at The Ritz when someone spilled an entire skinny bottle of White over the kitchen bench and floor, just before we all crawled to bed. New Year's Day 2005 was 44 degrees and The Ritz the opposite of air-conditioned, so the Sambuca fused itself to the kitchen and had to be scrubbed off. The smell was like licorice that had almost passed through an entire fat man's digestive system before he had vomited it back up. The ice cubes probably would have melted by the time they'd reached his colon.

My Documents/Feature Journalism/Celebrity Interviews/Templates....

Contents of My Documents/Feature Journalism/Celebrity Interviews/Templates folder.

Rolling Stone.doc

My heart is pumping as I climb the fifteen stairs leading off the crowded New York street into the chic loft apartment. This interview has been months in the making, rescheduled twice, changed venues three times, and now I'm late.

XXXXX's publicist ushers me into a minimalist living space scattered with magazines and empty coffee cups.
"You were late so XXXXX ducked out for a cigarette. He/She will be back in five minutes or so," the publicist says, eyeing me coldly over his/her red rimmed Gucci/Oliver Peoples/Valentino glasses.

I mutter a suitably humiliating apology and quickly take stock of the magazines that lie around the angular leather couch I'm sitting on. Vanity Fair, a couple of Who Weeklies and, surprisingly, a copy of November's Wine Investor.

XXXXX casually strolls in wearing a casually thrown together ensemble, and mutters "Hi, sorry to keep you." Our eyes meet for a second, before he/she puts on his/her sunglasses. In that brief second I get a first hand taste of the artist's legendary intensity. He/she seems bigger/smaller in person, and I am surprised by how laidback/uptight he/she seems. It probably doesn't help that I'm as nervous as hell....


The Brag.doc

You haven't been anywhere lately unless you've heard XXXXX's latest club-breaker "XXXXXX". Following up on his/her/their first release "XXXXX", the boys/girls/guy/girl are back again proving that punk/indie/house/breaks/electro/funk is not dead/back with a vengeance. We caught up with him/her/them last week just before he/she/they went on stage at The V Festival/Goodvibes/Big Day Out/Field Day/Candy's/The Metro/Oxford Arts Factory.

So, how does it feel to be back in Australia/Sydney/Insert Festival name?
Did you feel a lot of X to Y after Z?
What are your favourite kind of gigs?
Your look is so cool. What is the secret to a great outfit?
Your new album is great. (Note: not a question. Possibly revise.)
Do you like being in a band/touring?
How much do you love Sydney/fans/80s clothes/street press?

SMH.com

XXXXX believes (something controversial here).
Never afraid to X or Y, XXXXX has been pushing boundaries/breaking the envelope/crossing barriers for (Y where Y>15 years) now.
From the much-publicised drug habit/break up/divorce to his/her/their triumphant return, this/these troubador/lyrical poet/quirky group/rock renegade(s) have learned that the past is the past/music is the X that Y/growth is eternal.
Drawing on such disparate influences as The Beatles. Joy Division, Kraftwerk, Muddy Waters and, of course, Jeff Buckley (DO NOT CHANGE), their/his/her sound has evolved, just as they/he/she has over the years.

Online magazine.doc

Oh.My.God. If you haven't heard him/her/these guys yet, you aren't anybody. After producing for the last five years for names like A-Love, Dizzee Rascal, Lily Allen and Kanye (ONLY CHANGE IF NECESSARY) XXXXX has FINALLY put out his/her own album, featuring the awesome track YYYYYY.
The first time I heard this song I thought I was listening to Akon/Daft Punk on speed. With bass as smooth as chocolate coated velvet and beats as dirrrrty as socks at Splendour, this track blew my mind. BLEW.MY.MIND.
I had to instantly call my bff to tell her to turn on the radio and together we rocked out on opposite sides of the city (ie Darlinghurst and Surry Hills).
I can't believe it's taken him/her/them so long to finally do this. The film clip is directed by YYYYY who was the genius behind ZZZZZZZ's new clip for QQQQQQQ. Check it out here, but be warned, watching this clip at work could get your fired for shakin' that thing too hard!! (Embed Youtube link here).

What did he say back?...

Girl: You're back! How was Jonno?

Guy: Yeah, good. It was pretty good.

Girl: More information please.

Guy: Ummm... we fished a bit. Went to the pub. I had the seafood basket, it was ok. Stuff like that.

Girl: Did you say hi to him for me? And to Julia?

Guy: Yeah... yeah I did.

Girl: And?

Guy: Ummm... and?

Girl: Did he say hi back?

Guy: Yeah. He looked at the horizon for about 20 seconds after I told him hi from you. A single tear rolled down his cheek, and without looking back from the horizon, he said, all huskily, "tell her I say hi back".

Girl: Really?

Guy: No.

It's only words, and words are all I have...

People who use the term "amazing" are people worth emulating. Some people can have amazing coffee in the morning. Their mornings consist of great surprise or sudden wonder. These are strong feelings. Most people's mornings consist of mild irritation and slightly sticky spit. At worst, amazed people are caused great wonder and astonishment at the breakfast table, although a few years ago they could also have been bewildered or perplexed, so thank Goodness they don't live in those times any more. These people can go to live music venues with tickets they bought some months ago to see a band they already know and still walk away with a sense of inspiration, awe and wonder. Truly these people know the stuff that living, real living, is made of.

At the same time I pity people who find things awesome. To be struck dumb with reverence, admiration and fear merely by the experience of watching a film must make life hard. To find someone's car grand, sublime, or extremely powerful must make it difficult to get through the day. If only they could find a way to be amazed instead of awestruck by everyday occurrences they would be happier. But perhaps we can learn something from the humility of these people. Perhaps they see the pure beauty of the simplest parts of the universe and recognise their own place in it. But what an awful burden to bear, when the rest of us can happily kid ourselves that we are important and that a movie might be entertaining, or a car merely a method of transportation.

After understanding that people who regularly use the term "awesome" are really people with a sixth sense about their surroundings, it is easy to spot a sub-category of these enlightened individuals in which the realisation of one's place in the cosmos has mutated into a debilitating sense of insignificance. You can easily identify and reach out to these people by paying particular attention to those who use the term "just". When someone says to you "I'm just a delivery driver" you must instantly start listing the other things they are to them, to widen their perspective on their own lives. Tell them they are not "just" a delivery driver, merely a transporter of goods, only a minion to the exclusion of all other descriptors or identifying labels. Tell them they are also sons, daughters, brothers, footballers, phone-call makers... anything. Together we really can help these people.

But not all people who use "just" are humble. Others, more egocentric and cruel, will apply this explosive term to others. The next time you hear someone say "she's just a bitch", walk away, but not before you remind them that she is also any number of other things (start with human, then get more specific). Don't let these people infect you with their arrogance. Remember, people who see others one-dimensionally are often those capable of the most extreme acts. You can be sure that the senior citizen in his car thought that the Delezio family were "just pedestrians".

Language is a powerful way of forming a world view. By carefully selecting our adverbs and our adjectives we can change the way we, and hopefully others less linguistically vigilant than ourselves, view and interact with the world and the people we live on and with.

Thank you

The Circumstances Christmas Special...

The holly, jolly music drifted across the snow covered field. Every now and then whoops of enjoyment could be heard over the music, punctuated occasionally by the odd breaking glass or the sound of a body hitting the floor. The party was basically going off.

Outside things were far less merry. Rudolph took a long, dejected drag from his cigarette and stared at the misty horizon. It isn't easy for a reindeer to smoke a cigarette, but Rudolph had taught himself because, hey, he was a superstar now and could do what he liked. Rudolph grimaced each time the music got louder or the sound of his colleagues' shrieking laughter travelled across the snow to him. He leant heavily against a tree to support himself, weighed down by the six or seven highballs he'd knocked back the moment he turned up.

It was the North Pole Christmas party. December 23. One night before the big show.

"Hey... Rudybaby! Come back in, we're about to have the pinata," Blitzen called from the brightly lit doorway of the barn.

Rudolph hated Blitzen the most. Even though he was successful now, he would never forget how they had all treated him when he first arrived. Blitzen especially. He had woken after his second night in the barn to find his bright red nose painted yellow, and all his things thrown out into the snow. Blitzen hadn't even tried to pretend he hadn't done it.

Rudolph crushed out his cigarette and turned back toward the barn. He shivered, a little from the cold and a little from disgust. As he stepped through the doorway the party paused as everyone in the room sent up a huge cheer celebrating his return. Rudolph just nodded and headed towards his customary table in the darkest corner of the barn. The party raged on, the music blared and the party lights flickered on and off in an orgasm of colour. Rudolph's now not-so-bright red nose smouldered angrily in dim half-light.

Some things are better left...

There are a lot of things that get left unsaid or unexplored that would undoubtedly be extremely interesting conversation pieces or philosophical points of departure if only we were brave enough to discuss them. They are the things that lurk below the surface of our public lives like Sunday surcharge fine print on a laminated Willoughby Road menu.

Everybody has an idea of what I'm talking about. Those small feelings you get, often on a Sunday afternoon after being presented with a bill 25% higher than you expected, that make you secretly ashamed not just because you thought them, but also because, having thought them, you tend to wallow in them. Often with no tangible beginning, they get drawn out to preposterous lengths as self-indulgence and narcissism take hold.

These flights of fancy may just begin with imagining how bad it would be if something awful was to happen to your significant other/family/friend/pet/treasured trading card. Quickly this train of thought derails into thinking about how sad you'd be, and how much attention people would pay you as a result of the terrible tragedy. You imagine how stoic you'd be. Only your closest friends would realise how torn up inside you were. They'd have to explain to people at parties why you had the thousand-yard stare. You imagine the respect these people would give you when they heard the bad news, saying to each other: "He/she is taking it so well." You imagine walks in parks that don't even exist, and how your inner turmoil would be sharply at odds with the vitality of life around you. You imagine Bittersweet Symphony playing in the background as you watch the ducks move effortlessly across the glassy still water of the pond. Your perspective would be amazing. No one else would realise that the ducks were a poignant symbol that life goes on no matter what. You return to the office job you don't even have much earlier than your colleagues expect and turn in fantastic work with a shrug that says: "Nothing really matters anymore, but I can deal."

But we very rarely talk about these feelings. We talk about the silly dreams we have or how annoying the girl at the check out was today because she said "youse".

We don't mention these thoughts because we just can't take the risk that, although we feel pretty well-adjusted, we are not normal. We worry that divulging these little secrets to others will expose that under our reasonably normal facades we are, in fact, cripplingly and malevolently selfish.

But we aren't. Everyone thinks this way from time to time. We should discuss them. After all, they're quite funny (provided you aren't the person killed in the plane/car/rotunda accident). Openly discussing these foibles could bring us all closer together, by showing us that deep down, we all star in our own movies, and all secretly want them to be dramatic and brimming with pathos.

As I write this, I realise that there is a second category of information we all keep to ourselves. These are those stories or interesting facts we don't pass on because we are ashamed to reveal the source. I'd give an example, but I can't because I heard it at a Young Liberals function.

Justin has few friends, but many laughs...

Justin prided himself on his ability to see a good joke coming. Right now he was watching one approach at a painfully slow speed. He had just finished his half-hourly smh.com.au review. Dr Brendan Nelson had been elected as the new Liberal Party leader. To Justin, this news (hidden between a pic story on David Beckham [he's so down to earth!] and a breaking news blurb about a Chinese man cutting off his own penis to win an argument with his wife "Penis chop: Husband has last word") was a Stuart MacGill full toss.

Like a MacGill full toss, the joke opportunity was not going to arrive quickly, but when it did it was a guaranteed six runs. Probably straight into the M.A. Noble. A fat bloke would probably catch it in one hand without standing up or dropping his pie, his beer or his train of thought. The joke wrote itself.

Justin knew that a good joke needed immaculate preparation and perfect timing. Too many good jokes were ruined because people blurted them out too early, held on to them too long, or messed up their research and turned a potential laugh-riot into a crushing faux pas.

"What is the most popular hors d'oeuvre in Far North Queensland?"
"What?"
"Paul Hogan!"
"I think you mean Steve Irwin mate."

Sad, Justin thought. He was determined not to waste this opportunity. What the joke required was this: the Coalition would have to win back government in 2010. Brendan Nelson would be sworn in as Prime Minister. Then, Justin would be able to say, probably at a dinner party, something intimate, so all attention would be focused on him: "He used to be my GP. It wasn't enough to have me by the balls, now he's got the whole country by the Jatz crackers (pause for riotous laughter)!"

Could probably do with a rewording, Justin thought. Oh well, I've got three years to work on it. Maybe I should also look at turning leftie. The joke would probably go down better in Newtown than Point Piper. Justin wondered whether he should find his old prescription signed by Dr Nelson in case someone at the party was aggressively drunk and questioned his integrity.

Justin felt contentedly impatient. It was like a swingers party. He'd tossed his keys into the bowl, and now it was just a matter of time. He made a note in a small pocket diary he kept for such occasions, grabbed his keys, and marched out the front door towards 2010.

Dinner, drinks, and the end of time...

Paul picked up his phone and scrolled through his contacts list. Finding the number took a couple of seconds, and he hesitated for another three before he pressed the button with the green phone receiver stamped on it. His every action was of monumental importance. He was acting against the wishes of the universe. Every move he made pushed the cosmos further and further out of balance.

The coin he'd tossed had rolled under the couch. Paul was not that interested in meeting Joanne tonight, but he wasn't against it enough to bother crawling under the couch. Finding the coin had been about as much effort as he was willing to put in. He was bored and feeling a little sorry for himself that night, the kind of mood brought on by a Sunday spent on the couch in pyjamas, or a Stanley Kubrick film, or both. He decided to just call Joanne and go to dinner. He was sick of being inside.

Underneath the couch, Queen Elizabeth's profile stared blankly up towards the universe (or at least that part of it that encompassed the thin black fabric stretched across the underside of the couch). As the universe had planned, Paul had tossed heads. Heads he didn't, tails he did. By not checking the coin, by being unable to perform the simple task of throwing a coin in the air without making a hash of it, Paul had set events in motion that he, and the universe, were powerless to stop. (The universe, although powerful, is only able to influence events up to a certain point. Usually this works out, but tonight the universe had gotten sloppy, and was kicking itself. The universe remembered the day Paul had chosen the floor covering for his new flat. Instead of pushing him towards carpet, a surface known for its coin-retaining traits, the universe had been offering God some unsolicited advice as He made some slight adjustments to one of its malfunctioning galaxies in the Gamma-Epsilon 76 quadrant.)

As the universe brooded, Paul met Joanne at a small Thai place in Newtown that had received a favourable review in the Herald that week. He was surprised how good she looked. They sat down and ordered, and apart from a momentary shiver as she mispronounced tofu "toffee", Paul managed to hold a pleasant, interesting conversation until the restaurant had emptied and the effeminate waiter began rudely stacking chairs atop the tables around them. Paul's expectations had been low, but the evening had been thoroughly enjoyable, and he sensed a certain chemistry developing between him and Joanne. Paul congratulated himself for making the effort, in the same way he had after he finally followed up a friend's offer of Sydney Kings tickets.

Outside the restaurant, the universe registered its displeasure by turning on a dreary, icy rainshower. Helpless to stop itself unravelling, the universe had to content itself by making the sky rumble and crackle with lightning and thunder. Depite the storm's awe-inspiring power, the universe was really just placing its figurative head in its metaphorical hands in a pose much like the one struck on February 26, 1995, by the Barings Bank human resources manager who hired Nick Leeson.

St Valentine was basically just a dude in a jail...

The heavens and the stars above
Are nothing compared to our love
That is hideous. It's good that this one came with the paper insert, I'd actually spew if someone gave this to me. Just gotta tear it out without stuffing the rest of it up. Awesome. Now it's blank. Blank ones shouldn't be so hard to find. It sucks when you find a good picture, but then the message is so terrible you can't buy it, but you've already seen the picture you want and the rest of them look like crap. A good business would probably be one where you made them with white fronts with black typewriter-style writing on the front, and when you open them, the same message in the same font would be there. "Cards for Men" I'd call it. Then, when you give someone a card, it would have "Happy Birthday" written on the front, and they'd open it and it would be like "Happy Birthday" again, and you wouldn't have to stand there cringing while they read it.
Anyway, I better write something in this now. That paper come out pretty well. She won't notice. Now, what to say? You know she's going to expect something written inside it. You can't just scrawl "Happy Valentine's Day Love Greg" in it. Because it's an arbitrary day for selling cards suddenly I need to get eloquent. As if driving into the city to pick her up at 4am isn't a good enough indication that I'd pretty much do anything for her. Suddenly I've got to be the bastard child of Mr Darcy and John Donne because it's February 14, whereas in the preceding 364 days I haven't said anything of note that I didn't pilfer from The Simpsons or someone smarter.
That's not helping. What to say? "I love you" is too plain. She'll expect some kind of comparison or qualification to that. Heaps? A lot? More than ever? Lame. What about a reminisce? She likes it when we talk about things we've already done. Ten pin bowling? Sitting on a couch all day instead of going to the art gallery? Arguing in the car for 45 minutes after I didn't introduce her to my friends at that party? It's too hard to know what she liked. Like that time I took her to the aquarium after she'd mentioned wanting to go, and then she stormed around it and would hardly talk to me. Don't want to risk bringing something up that she secretly hated.
Song lyrics? Which song? I've got that stupid Don't Cha abomination from the Pussycats stuck in my head. Maybe I should use that Dire Straits one... "Can't do anything except be in love with you." It all seems so soppy when you tear it out of context and write it down. You can't express the husky, manly voice he has with some wobbly handwriting or something. No good quoting poetry or anything like that I reckon. It doesn't sound like me. It just sounds like I cracked out the first thing I could think of.
Something original then. Why not something honest? "I'm much happier than before I started going out with you." Sounds a little retarded. "In comparison with other girlfriends, you are significantly better across the board." This isn't working. I'm not romantic. Does anyone actually think like this? Would any man in his right mind be able to fill in a card like this and have her gasp a little, and then look at him over the car, a little misty-eyed and say "thank you so much"? That's what I want to happen. Maybe tape a fifty dollar note in there. She's pretty skint at the moment. Not quite the right gesture though.
Come on, it shouldn't be this hard. What did I say the other night? She seemed pretty chuffed with that. Something about not minding that the rest of my life is a bit of a shitheap because she makes me feel like it isn't. I probably shouldn't use the same thing twice in a week though. Maybe something funny. How does that Mountain Goats song go? The way those eyes I've always loved/illuminate this place/like a trashcan fire in a prison cell/like the searchlights/in the parking lots of hell. That's not bad. Maybe "will you be my Valentine?", get a bit cute... Bloody hell. Maybe I should break up with her and save the trouble... Hold on. Got it.

"Dear Anna,

I spent an hour trying to pick this card and then another hour trying to think of what to write on the thing. Enough said?
Happy St Valentine's Day.

Greg."