'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.
Stone cold Circumstances
Monday, April 6, 2009
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
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.
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.
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.
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