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.
Stone cold Circumstances
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
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
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
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
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..."
"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..."
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
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.
"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.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
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.
#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.
Monday, March 3, 2008
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.
"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.
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