~Idiot's View~

Farewell, My Lovely

2011-09-05T10:53:00.000+10:00

Hi there folks,

It's been a while. What have I been up to?

Seriously getting my arse into gear with this, 'ere writing caper, for a start.

Also, setting up a new website - www.davesinclair.com.au

What will you find here? There’s writing examples, there’s blurbs from yet to be published novels and there’s even, (gasp!) photos.

What does this mean for Idiots View? Well, I've ported all of my posts (and your awesome comments) over to the new place. Posts will be there from here on in. No more Idiots View!!

I've made some awesome friends, had quite a few followers, hundreds of comments and even a few rivalries, but it’s time to move out of mum and dad’s and get my own place.

Pop by the new digs, stick around, kick your shoes off, make yourself at home.

I'll be seeing you.

Housemate madness - Tales From The War Table

2011-04-08T06:50:00.004+10:00

Hi there folks. I've been a bit (alright, VERY) slack on ye olde blog shenanigans lately. The main culprit is a new writing project. I'm about fifty thousand words in and it's shaping up quite nicely. It's all about share houses. Set in Melbourne, it is the tale of a Gen X man thrust into a Gen Y world. There's sex, there's drugs, there's even some saucy language.

Now, I need your help. More specifically, I need your stories. Below are a few sections of the book, based on real life events. Please share your own, either in the comments section or via email (idiotsview@gmail.com) and I will do my best to completely steal your ideas and use them for my own evil purposes. Who could ask for more?

Extracts from Tales From The War Table:

Ian was unemployed and had offered to take the rent to the real estate agent because it was on his way to the city. Now, you’re probably wondering why he had to go to the city if he didn’t have a job. Well, he liked to ‘hang’ apparently. After a few months of this I received a phone call from the real estate agent. They were a little concerned that we hadn’t paid rent in four months. Our helpful little unemployed bum had developed an oh so minor gambling habit and spent most of his spare time down at Crown Casino. Losing. Badly. We confronted him as soon as he came home from a hard day of squandering our hard earned. At first he denied it. Then he told us it was our fault. When that didn’t work he ran away to his room. The sound of the wardrobe being pushed against the door told us he wasn’t in the mood for a chat. He never did come out. And I mean, never. We later realised he’d scarpered via the window and scaled down the wall. Not bad for a little weedy bloke on the second floor. His sister came over the next day accusing us of spreading malicious lies. We promptly showed her the letter from the real estate agent and the rent book. She soon switched the target of her wrath. Her dad showed up later that day with a cheque. Problem solved. Except for the issue of moving a wardrobe away from the other side of the door two floors up.

*****

I wasn’t a radical greenie, but cared enough to make an effort. The housemates had gone along easily enough, though Trev had trouble keeping plastic bags, food scraps and Styrofoam out of the bin. He would have been lynched by some of the ultra greenies I’d lived with. There was one lot in Fitzroy North who used to berate us for leaving the porch light on when we went out, or if we turned on the hall light when we went for a slash in the middle of the night. We thought we were pretty considerate despite the occasional lapse, we even watched the TV in the dark. That didn’t go down as well as we thought, they believed TV was a waste of energy, except for the 7:30 Report and Four Corners; that was it. We eventually grew sick of trying to placate these loons and started leaving lights on at all hours. A little anti-Earth Day act of juvenile rebellion. It didn’t work. They started stealing the globes. After we started replacing them, they nicked the fuses. We had to move out in the end anyway. The stench from the compost bins was what forced our hand. It was zero carbon footprint biological warfare. It was the only time I waived the white flag and admitted defeat. There was no winning against a zealot. You could only minimise your losses.

*****

I was living in a Carlton sharehouse around the corner from the Royal Women’s. We needed to rent out a room to cover the cost of an overeager party where we had accidently knocked down a wall to grant better access to the bar. We settled on a guy in his mid-to-late 40's who seemed a bit weird, but at least he was quiet; which is exactly what we needed. The guy claimed to be ex-army and had a severe buzz cut to match. He apparently had a job at a takeaway joint, and would often bring home calzones and pizzas and leave them in the fridge. Which was fine, except he continually committed the most unforgivable sharehouse crime; drinking beer without asking or replacing it. There’s a special layer in hell for his type, along with anyone who puts used batteries back in the drawer or hangs the toilet paper facing the wall.

After he lived with us for a few weeks, we noticed he didn’t have any sort of set schedule. He came and went at all hours of the day and night. We also figured out he was addicted to – wait for it - Panadol. He popped Panadol like they were tic-tacs. Must have gone through a packet a day.

One day my housemate, Alan, realised there was a problem with his bank account. I was there when he opened his letter from the bank. Staring back at him in black and white were impersonal block letters, ‘Balance $0.00’. It doesn’t get much lower. Alan had always been pretty frugal, not tight, just smart with his cash. It turned out that Private Panadol had searched Alan’s desk, stolen a bunch of checks and was using them to get cash and to buy things, for example; calzones and pizzas. He had no job at all.

We called an emergency house meeting and waited several hours for the guy to show up. When he finally did, we confronted him sharehouse justice style. He sat passively in the chair, popping Panadol the whole time. He denied the whole thing. When anyone asked him a question, he’d give them a Jack Nicolson Shining stare, pop another Panadol and start denying again.

We eventually gave up and adjourned the meeting until morning. Somehow he moved out in the middle of the night without us noticing, but not before stealing half the household crockery and most of the cutlery. How he managed that in the middle of the night is anyone’s guess.

If I use your stories, you'll get a credit and become exceedingly rich and very famous.*

*(Statement not legally binding, fame and fortune may vary between vary from contributor to contributor, may depend on current level of fame and fortune)

Conversations with a hit man

2011-02-10T06:14:00.000+11:00

It’s not every day you get to have a chat with a self confessed hit man. But that’s exactly what I’ve been doing. Well, sort of. Let me explain....

I have a couple of personal email addresses. I have a Hotmail one basically for orders, newsletters and recently, spam. I don’t know why, but all of a sudden, a few months ago I began to be inundated with Spam. Normally it’s the usual, ‘You’ve won the English lottery’, ‘I am an honest businessman from Bakina Faso needing to put $US10 million in your bank account’, or the laziest – this is Microsoft, give us your name, address and bank details, thanks’. But then I received something new. A little email that stood out. Something that said I was a dead man.

Here’s the (edited down) email:

From: Don Gunshot <David-Trujillo>
Subject: ACT FAST!
Date: Wed, 24 Nov 2010 16:17:14 +0000

This is the only way I could contact you for now,I want you to be very
careful about this and keep this secret with you until I make out
space for us to see. You have no need of knowing who I am or where I
am from.I know this may sound very surprising to you but it’s the
situation.I have been paid some ransom in advance to terminate you
with some reasons listed to me by my employer. It’s someone I believe
you call a friend, I have followed you closely for a while now and
have seen that you are innocent of the accusations he leveled against
you. Do not contact the police or try to send a copy of this to
them,because if you do, I will know,and I might be pushed to do what I
have been paid to do.Besides, this is the first time I turn out to be
a betrayer in my job. I took pity on you,that is why I have made up my
mind to help you if you are willing to help yourself.

Now listen I need just $3,000. And you have to send it through western
union or money Gram; I repeat, do not arrange for the cops and if you
play hard to get, it will be extended to your family. Payment details will be provided for
you to make a part of the payment of $2,000 first,which will serve as
guarantee that you are ready to you co-operate,then i will post a copy
of the video tape that contains his request for me to terminate you
which will be enough evidence for you to take any legal action against
him before he employs another person for the job. You will pay the
balance of $1,000 once you receive the tape.

Warning; do not contact the police, make sure you stay indoors once it
is 7.30pm until this whole thing is sorted out,if you neglect any of
these warnings, you will have yourself to blame. You do not have much
time, so get back to me immediately.

Regard
Don Shotgun

For a start, if Don Shotgun (if that’s his real name) was such a nice guy and was offering to disregard his boss, why then would he say he’d go after my family if I refused? And later he says he’s under the control of his boss anyway. It’s almost like someone was making it up as he went along, but we know that couldn’t be true. He’s a hit man – he said it on the internets.

I do like the way he also signs off with ‘regards’. If there’s one thing I demand in my hit men, its politeness.

Also, using the oh so disguised name of “david_trujillo86” would lead me to believe that this bloke is not actually called Don Shotgun after all. A murderer AND a liar? Well, that and bad spelling and grammar. This I could not let stand!

So I responded:

From: Stacy K
Subject: RE: ACT FAST!
To: Don Gunshot <David-Trujillo>
Date: Wednesday, November 24, 2010, 11:21 PM

Oh my god! Thank you thank you thank you!
I'm shaking so much right now. I never would have thought I would be the target of a hit man!
I bet it was those bitches at the wedding when I grabbed to bouquet.
What do I do?
How do I get you this money? I don't want to die!

Stacy.

Those that are paying attention will note I changed names - and gender – to talk to our mate Don. It didn’t seem to bother him.

From: Don Gunshot <David-Trujillo>
Subject: RE: ACT FAST!
To: Stacy K

Date: Nov 25, 2010 at 8:03 PM

Here is the info on you will send the money and you have sent it through the western union with the below stated details and you have just a day to do that or else ..

Name: Donald Mark
Address: calle luna 23, 28675 Madrid Spain
Text Question : For Who
Text Answer : Donald Mark

And immediately you send the money kindly get back to me with these following details.
Sender Name and Address
MTCN Number
Amount Sent.

Madrid? This dude must have the longest rifle scope ever. And yet another name? Don, I’m beginning to doubt your cool last name.

From: Stacy K
Subject: RE: ACT FAST!
To: Don Gunshot <David-Trujillo>

Date: Fri, Nov 26, 2010 at 10:25 AM

Wow, OK.

I'm willing and able to pay up. But $3000 is, you know, a lot of money. I don't earn as much as you'd think between my stripping, can collecting and Denise Drysdale impersonations.

Can you give me some indication if you have the right Stacy? Just to be 100%, you understand. Are you sure they didn't mean Stacy's mom, because she's got it going on?

Here's a question. How come you need my name and address? I thought you had been following me around? Wouldn't you have all that information? Just asking.

Please tell me how long I've got. I don't want to go to work dead tomorrow.

Thank you.
Stacy.

Valid questions, no? Plus a Fountains of Wayne reference, so, bonus.

From: Don Gunshot <David-Trujillo>
Subject: RE: ACT FAST!
To: Stacy K

Date: Fri, Nov 26, 2010 at 9:19 PM

I don't just have enough to say than if you love yourself just go and deposit the sum of $2000 and if you think you are wise just wait and see..

Don

I love myself. But I also loved stringing these guys out.

From: Stacy K
Date: Tue, Nov 30, 2010 at 11:50 AM
Subject: Re: ACT FAST!
To: Don Gunshot

Yo Donnie,

And see what exactly?
Being all ambiguous like that could really mean anything you realise.
You going to place a bomb in my cornflakes? Maybe give me a foot rub? It’s so hard to tell.
OK Wizard of Oz time, let’s draw the curtain and call a spade a spade. Or, more appropriately, a scam a scam.

Has this scam ever worked? I'm genuinely intrigued. I’m sure you have your reasons, but a death threat is going a bit far don’t you think?

Do you get many people actually giving you money because they think they’re going to get whacked?

And he never responded. And that is where it was left. I never even posted it on the blog because it was a bit of an anti climax. It wasn’t until the other day when a comedian was talking about spam that I remembered my mate Don. So, on a whim I decided to open the Stacy email account which I hadn’t touched in months. And this is what I discovered:

From: Don Gunshot <David-Trujillo>
Subject: RE: ACT FAST!
To: Stacy K

Date: Fri, Jan 12, 2011 at 6:23 PM

Dear Stacy K,

You are smart person. Yes no contract on your person.you are safe. However I have question. At which points did we not feel like real? We are poor men looking to make money we do not wish to hurt people; can you tell me when you not believe. We want money quick so dont want misunderstanding.Please help.

Regards and God bless.

Yeah, you read that right. Mr alleged hit man was coming back to me/Stacy and asking advice on how he could better scam innocent folk out of their hard earned. At first I was amused, then quite frankly, pissed off. I had no way of leaping through the screen to punch this guy, but felt like it. I even had visions of sending him a computer virus and really letting him have it, but soon realised I don’t have the technical wherewithal or mates who were that evil. Pity.

We may laugh at how folks fall for such scams, (I’m assuming you’re pretty tech savvy here, you’re reading a blog) but there are genuinely gullible people out there falling for scams every day. I’m sure there are unfortunate dupes under the impression that someone close to them has called in a hit. You wouldn’t wish that on anyone. OK, maybe Daryl Summers, but that’s it. OK, Kyle Sandilands.

The Crisis Bond

2011-01-12T11:35:00.003+11:00

There’s a few certainties about Australian’s.

We will get pissed and become too rowdy at the drop of a hat. We will generally go with whatever the Government tells us. We will become obsessed with whatever sport we’re winning at the time.

But there’s one other thing. When faced with a crisis, we will stare it down and know that we have the rest of the country at our back.

For as much as I can occasionally deride our culture, I am never as proud of my country as when we’re faced with a catastrophe. Bushfires, earthquakes, floods, it doesn’t matter; we'll deal with it. What’s more, we will do whatever it takes to help each other. Whether it’s donating to a cheesy telethon or swimming against a raging torrent to rescue an elderly neighbour. Anyone that’s been watching the floods will have seen jaw dropping acts of heroism and stoicism. No matter what happens in an emergency, Aussies know one thing – we will do anything we can to assist one another.

Compare that with America and Katrina. In the aftermath there was non-stop footage of folks complaining about who was going to look after them. My home. My thirst. My hunger. Then there were the rapes. The murders. America collapsed in on itself and what it exposed was dark. It was ugly.

You won’t see that in Queensland in coming days.

What you will see is strangers standing shoulder to shoulder and not only dealing with the devastation and disaster, but rising above it. Folks will open their homes to people they’ve never met. Strangers will save each other’s lives. People will flock to the aftermath to assist in rebuilding homes of people they’ve never met and will never see again.

I know this. You know this. We’ve seen it before. We’ll see it again. It’s perverse to think that we’re at our best when it at it's worst, but it’s true.

Yes there are certainties about us Aussies. And because of that, I am eternally proud.

Same Same - Why don't we allow gay marriage?

2010-11-23T06:24:00.002+11:00

I’ve chosen not to get married. Not because I don’t love my partner, it’s just that we’re not into the whole big frou frou wedding thing (that and we get to call our daughter a little bastard with impunity). That’s the point though; we’ve chosen not to get married. We could if we wanted to -should we get drunk in Vegas again we just might - but it’s an option we have. At the moment there is a whole subsection of the population that don’t have the ability to make the same choice as everyone else.

A recent poll showed that 60% of the population (I’d call that a majority, wouldn’t you?) support gay marriage (here). And that number is rising. The politicians are slow to come to the party, but are getting there slowly but surely (here). Ironic that we seem to be able to agree on this topic, but have a hard time choosing a government.

For the first time in a while I’m quite proud of my fellow Aussies; and somewhat pleasantly surprised. 60% is a good start and once people realise that allowing gay marriages won’t set their suburb ablaze and modifying the Marriage Act won’t turn their children and pets into one of “The Gays”, we’ll have genuine acceptance.

But we’re not there yet. There’s a long way to go. We’re up against righty Christian’s, who say that marriage is about procreation and furthering the species. OK, fine. If that’s the case, any hetro couple that don’t want kids or are barren can’t marry either. Banned. Old people too. If they can’t create a sprog, then they’re shitcanned as well. I mean, I’m only trying to be consistent here. It’s only fair.

Another argument (and I use the term loosely) is that god created Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve. Which, to give them credit, is kind of amusing and looks good on a t-shirt. But when you examine it as a reasoned argument, it is as based in reality as the Easter Bunny, Santa and Jordan’s breasts. The bible also has sea monsters, giants and unicorns (here), so how about we not use that as an enlightened legal argument in the 21^st century, OK?

Gillard is still opposed, but I’m unable to figure out why. I mean, she’s an atheist, so doesn’t have a book of fairytales telling her gay marriage is wrong, so what’s the problem Jules? Think you’d be seen as too radical to want gay marriages? Well at least we’d see you believe in something.

Let’s take this back to basics. Disregarding the whole gay/straight thing - what if someone told you that the person you loved with all your heart wasn’t allowed to marry you? Everyone else can have a pirate themed wedding or a marriage with fireworks and a pink cake (here), whatever, but you, YOU’RE not allowed to have a wedding. Doesn’t sit that well does it? What if we said anyone Aboriginal wasn’t allowed to marry. Or anyone over six feet tall? What it all comes down to is one simple word - discrimination. Anyone who says differently is either naive or a bare faced liar. Or both.

This debate will drag on for a while. Predictably all the reactionary commentators will be dragged out of the closet (ahem) to say this is the end of Western civilization and that we as a species will die out and that we’ll all be forced to eat AIDS for breakfast. I’ve got an answer to all that. If the likes of Fred Nile and Andrew Bolt don’t like it, then they shouldn’t marry another bloke. Let the rest of us live in a society where discrimination isn’t institutionalised and freedom is a basic right for all to exercise.

What are you in for?

2010-11-15T06:07:00.009+11:00

“What are you in for?” I finally asked, only to be chastised by the other two almost immediately. We had been talking banalities until then, so it must have seemed like the greatest liberty to ask an adult such a direct question.

After much contemplation the scruffy man itched his beard and finally said, “A misfortune of circumstances. I’m like the Birmingham Six or Ronald Ryan, but much prettier”, with an air of appreciation of his own cleverness.

The blank looks on our youthful faces told him he’d lost us.

Tapping the steel bars on the window he said, “I done a lot of bad things, but that ain’t why I’m here. Let’s just say I made some bad career choices.”

We nodded behind the safety of the wooden fence. The early morning summer sun warmed our backs and illuminated our new acquaintance. From the window of our small town’s only police lock-up, he squinted at us. The man with the yellow stained teeth assessed us individually from two metres away, seemingly pleased with someone to talk to. He seemed to linger on Stacy a fraction longer than Nathan or I.

My mind raced with what the stranger could have perpetrated. A knowledge forged by weekend movies rather than the remote world of our parents nightly news fix gave me limited choices. Bank robbery? Sure, he looked the type. Cat burglar? Possible, but his stubby calloused hands seemed ill-suited to stealth and pocketing jewels. Before I had exhausted all plotlines from Magnum P.I. and Get Smart, I was interrupted.

“So you didn’t do it then?” Stacy asked, seemingly relived that the person we’d known for all of five minutes was innocent. The eagerness of the question seemed to betray the thought that he was some sort of Robin Hood character. It was the first time she had spoken to the raggedy man. Nathan nervously shifted his feet on the fence railing.

“What do you know about it little one?” he asked with a slanted leer. Taking out a red rag he began to slowly polish the steel bar.

Stacy’s expectant face slowly evaporated into a frown. She had no way of replying to such an adult question. To an eight year old, nine year olds seemed so much more mature and world-wise. Any adult seemed positively ancient and all knowing. We were never asked to engage in conversations as equals.

Nathan cast his eyes downward. He had been so eager when he rallied the two of us to come see the prisoner he’d spotted. It was during one of his neighbourhood commando missions, which is another way of saying he was traipsing through strangers’ backyards because he had nothing better to do on his school holidays. Nathan seemed to regret bringing Stacy along. As she contemplated a response he kept shooting her sideways forlorn looks.

Puffing out her chest Stacy said, “Well you wouldn’t be in jail for no reason, would you? They must at least think you did something wrong.” Warming to her theme, she added, “You said you’ve done bad things. Maybe you shouldn’t have done them and you wouldn’t be here.”

Rather than take it as an affront, the stranger seemed to like this response.

“Look at you blondey. All piss and vinegar, fresh faced and blue eyes. You’re a sharp one I recon. Bet you break some hearts too don’t you?”

“I’m ten.”

Nathan and my eyes connected. We wondering how exactly Stacy had aged two years in as many minutes.

“Nearly eleven,” she added.

At this rate she’d be my mum’s age by lunch time.

“And I bet you’re getting some grass on that pitch too eh?”

Exchanging glances, none of us knew what that meant. Stacy pressed on.

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

“I did, ah, until quite recently,” he replied tapping the bars. “Why, you applying for a position are you darlin’?”

“We should go,” Nathan said quietly trying to sound authoritative, but he ended up less convincing than a pop star’s acting. His plea so obvious I think Stacy noticed. I wasn’t interested in girls that way, but I knew Nathan had recently started to push girls towards a pedestal. I wasn’t on the Girls Have Germs team either. I was more Girlbivalent.

“But we don’t know his name yet,” Stacy said quite loudly.

“Thomas. Thomas McClain,” our acquaintance offered.

We politely offered our goodbyes and left. We never saw Thomas again. It was only in the past few weeks he had crept back in my memory after a break of twenty years. Scouring the papers of the time I could find no mention of him. No trace of a crime committed by a man of that name. After further digging I did find someone who went by Thomas McClain, though he wasn’t a master criminal. Not even a petty one. No, the only Thomas McClain I could find worked for a short time in our town – as a Municipal cleaner, whose rounds would have included the local lock-up.

Hammett, Bogart, and Me

2010-10-18T09:10:00.001+11:00

I'm guest ~~slutting~~ blogging this week over at Novel Adventurers blog.

http://noveladventurers.blogspot.com/

It's all about travel, noir, bars and writing.

No ninjas this week, sorry.

Check it out here.

Inclusion Exclusion

2010-10-14T06:52:00.004+11:00

It was the great Groucho Marx who said – “Please accept my resignation. I don't care to belong to any club that will have me as a member”.

I’m not a team player. There, I said it. If there’s a team forming anywhere, rest assured I’m in the corner sneaking out to find a pub. I just don’t get a warm fuzzy feeling being ‘one of them’. In fact I’ll lie down and avoid it as much as possible. If there’s a bandwagon to be followed I’ll be the one leading the charge in the opposite direction.

I’m intrinsically anti group. If there’s a team I can be in – I’ll find a way to get out of it. I remember under 16s football. I would find any excuse not to play each week. Throughout the season my excuses became more and more elaborate to the point that by the end of the season I was contemplating faking my own death. At the end of the season I still received an ‘encouragement’ award for turning up occasionally when I couldn’t think of a believable enough excuse. “What is it this week Dave?” “Um, Dutch elm disease?” “Get on the field.” “Aww maaaan.”

There’s very few clubs I’m a member of but have never joined.

There’s the Mini club. I have one of the new Mini’s (as mentioned here and here) and when I first bought it I was puzzled. Unknown to me before purchase, I was buying into some sort of cult. For months, whenever I passed another Mini I received a nod. The nods were friendly, but knowing. It was like some secret society. Whenever I was spotted by a fellow Mini driver at the lights I’d get this inclusive nod that said, ‘Yeah, you’re one of us’. Either that or ‘I just fucked your mum’. They’re very similar nods.

I’m also a member of the Beardy-Man club. I have facial hair somewhere between George Michael (circa 1987) and Grisly Adams (circa feeling old just knowing about that show). The BM club also involved a subtle nod. But this nod signifies something different. Something primeval. The nod between BM members on the street signifies an unspoken acknowledgement that ‘we wrestle bears bare chested and only settle for a mate only if she can first kill a tiger unarmed, preferably bare chested too’.

I didn't join these clubs and if there was somewhere I could unjoin (if that was actually a word), I would.

Ah, say the naysayers, all this anti-group talk is just another group surely. They will say something along the lines that don't I realise I’m as much of a "sheep" as the people I deride. But I don’t hate people in groups. It’s just not for me. It’s like here at work, there’s a clique of folks who hang out every lunch while I sit at my desk and read – or write blog entries nobody ever reads. Ahem....

So, dear reader, are you a team player (it’s OK, this is a safe place) or do you flee a group like an oncoming zombie horde?

If it’s the latter, maybe we could forma club? Probably not.....

Dave Vs Dave - The Decider

2010-09-24T13:29:00.003+10:00

Well, I thought it was over. I thought it was all done with..... But nope. There is still more to this tale.

For one, apparently I'm famous and on The Age website - checkit here - WHAT? How did that happen?

And secondly, I hadn't heard the last of Mr Thorne, despite our last chat (here) and our first tete-a-tate (here). I recieved an email from Daveyboy yesterday. Despite calling me a liar and a fame hound last time, he seems ever so slightly conciliatory. Read on!

From: twentysevenbslash6@gmail.com
Subject: Re: Your payment to David Thorne
Date: Wed, 22 Sep 2010 07:54:16 -0400
To: Dave

Hello Dave,

It would seem that I owe you an apology.

When we changed distributors, 116 orders from several thousand were not fulfilled and it would appear yours was one of them.

My assumption was that these had been completed. And you know what they say about assumptions.

While it would possibly be a cunning plan to trick 116 people out of their hard earned $22.95 and live like a king, this is not the case.

I have only this week received the previous distributors shipping list.

The website relies on people like yourself who purchase products to keep the site going and repaying your support with delayed orders was nobody's intention.

I have sent a request to Kimberly to issue a refund and have ordered you a book gratis.

I am currently in the US and she handles that side of things. Your order number for the gratis copy is below.

I count that as a win, but a hollow one.

Seek first to understand is always a good motto. The guy's called me a liar on a basis less stable than a drunken monkey on a tricycle. When he finally realised his error (hey, it’s only been since March) he apologises with an email and an attempt at some lame jokes. OK, fair enough, he owned up to his mistakes and apologised. Fine, I can accept that. If the guy's big enough to take it on the chin, then I can let it go. But there’s just one small point to be made.

The guy is still, in the words of many of my illustrious readers, a douche.

Anyone want a free book? Anyone?

Farewell My Meathead

2010-09-15T06:06:00.006+10:00

The Expendables was a movie that recently (and I’m using this word deliberately) hit cinemas. In many ways it was a last hurrah of a type of hero that has seen its day. Where big muscled men with penis compensation guns dispensed disproportionate revenge in response to the slightest provocation (or Excuse Plot). A portrait of the Regan era, this breed of hero believed everything could be resolved with a nice chat. It’s just that in the 1980s, a chat was generally expressed via punching anything that moved and blowing shit up.

Watching the mindless violence of Stallone’s last hurrah reminds us of how much we’ve moved on. The hero to the current generation of teenage boys isn’t a flawless and masculine one like decades before. No, to Gen Y their heroes isn’t like Biggles, Batman or Bronson - it’s a cowardly nerdy kid with glasses and a wand.

In the 1970s heroes became less John Wayne and more Luke Skywalker. Male heroes became more human and believable than indestructible. White hatted, square jawed, arms akimbo, American flag waving heroes were seen as unrealistic in the wake of Vietnam. Getting your arses handed to you will do that to a country.

Take a look at the recent crop of movies aimed at the popcorn set and tell me where have all the Meatheads gone? Scott Pilgrim vs the World – has an awkward Michael Cera awkwardly fighting for a girl. Salt is an action spy film, starring Angelina Jolie, who, it has to be pointed out for the sake of clarity, isn’t a man. Hell, Predators had Adrian Brody as its lead. The weedy bloke from the Pianist and the Singing Detective! Even the buddy cop movie The Other Guys stars Will Farrell as a non-action man. Not one Arnie clone among them.

Has the young male appreciation of what is a hero become more astute and insightful? Has their movie tastes become more evolved? Perhaps. I’d like to say that the modern cinema goer is more discerning but the ongoing popularity of the poor excuse for Spoof Movies (Vampires Suck, Disaster Movie, Meet the Spartans, Epic Movie, etc) will attest otherwise.

So, what is it? Why has the lone monosyllabic muscled hero declined in popularity?

In part, girl power. I’m not talking Spice Girls here either. Slowly but surely, from the late 80s onwards, pop culture took on a decidedly feminist slant (let’s take Buffy as a prime example). Women, who had long been a minority in terms of societal zeitgeist were finally getting the voice they deserved and men began to embrace it too. But a change in society’s sensibility meant a change in society’s entertainment. Girl power was in and that meant action heroes, at least as we knew them, were out. Ta ta Van Damme, hello Keanu. Heroes use their minds. Idiots rely on brawn alone.

Have we seen the last of the Meathead? No, not by a long shot. Hero Tropes will ebb and flow and our friend the Meathead will still be around, perhaps even have a fleeting resurgence every now and then but will mostly be relegated to a sub-genre, like ‘Martial Arts’, ‘Zombie Rom-Com’ or ‘Piano Accordion Fetishist’.

So where does that leave Stallone and his buddies? Well, as most are reaching retirement age, a nice quiet chair in the sun and a warm milk might be in order. Just don’t ask them to have a chat.

Dave Vs David – The Conclusion!

2010-08-10T06:45:00.000+10:00

A few of you have been asking did I receive my book from Mr Thorne – in reference to our elongated discussions (here). The simple and short answer is – no. This is despite numerous more emails to the Davemiester, as I’m sure nobody calls him. In fact things took a very interesting turn indeed.

What did I have to do to try and get my ever elusive book to finally arrive and have Mr Thorne get all uppity? I’m glad you asked....

From: Dave
To: david@27bslash6.com
Subject: RE: Your payment to David Thorne
Date: Mon, 12 July 2010 08:33:30 +1000

Dear Dave.

Can I call you Dave? No? OK.

Dear Ethel.

Long time, no abuse. Did you miss me? Because I missed you. Random question, do you like history?

In 1916 Woodrow Wilson promised to keep the US out of World War 1.

In 1940 Franklin Roosevelt promised to keep the US out of World War 2.

In 1987 Bob Hawke promised, “By 1990, no Australian child will be living in poverty”.

In 1988 George Herbert W Bush promised, “Read my lips, no new taxes.”

In 1989 Kim Wilkinson promised me she’d let me feel up her boobs.

What do all these things have in common? They’re all broken promises.

In 2010 David Thorne promised “I am sending you a personal copy, to the Queen Street address.”

So, anyway, getting back to the Star Wars action figure story, after the devastation that was the C3-PO saga, I picked myself up and concentrated on the ones I had left. Now, any budding ten year old at the time would advise that you were obliged to have at least one Luke Skywalker in your collection (mine was the cool black clad one from Jedi). I mean, if you didn’t, it would be like having a porn collection without at least one movie with Ron Jeremy in it. Although, that probably wasn’t an analogy we used at the time. Any kid in the know would tell you Bobba Fett was the shit. Paul Lazarus wasn’t let anywhere near Bobba. I mean, come on, he had a jet pack! Nothing’s cooler than a jet pack. OK, maybe a monkey riding a dinosaur shooting lasers. That’s slightly cooler. Just. No self respecting kid (well, except the ones that grew up idolising vacuum cleaners and the collected works of Barbra Streisand) would ever possess a Princess Leia figure. Although, for an action figure, her breasts were abnormally large.

Which leads us back to Kim Wilkinson.

Anyway, have a nice, you know.

At least I received a quick – if not overly humorous response from our mate Dave:

From:	David Thorne (twentysevenbslash6@gmail.com)
Sent:	Tuesday, 13 July 2010 11:16:56 AM
To:	Dave

3 to 5 days shipping after ordered (working days) plus 10 to 14 days (working days) equals how many days before Mr Sinclair receives his book?

Regards, David.

David Thorne 27bslash6

Now, the astute amongst you will notice something about his reply – it was directed at the publishers....yet it was addressed to me. 10 to 14 days later....

From: Dave
To: david@27bslash6.com

On 08/08/2010, at 7:49 PM,

Hello my old friend!

I've being doing some maths - I know, it does my head in too. Well, you see, in year twelve I received a whopping 35% for maths.....that's good right?

Anyway, back to me.

I did some research on the interwebs and found that the average speed of the Australian tortoise (it's called "tortoise" as it has feet (including webbed feet) while a "turtle" has flippers - and you didn't think you'd learn anything today.......) is .27 km/h. That's around 6.48 kilometres per day.

I ordered your good book (I call it that, but not having received it, it's a bit hard to tell) on the 23rd of March. That's some 4 months, 17 days ago. If you had strapped the book on the back of an Australian tortoise, travelling the 728 kilometres between Melbourne and Adelaide, it would have taken said tortoise (I like to think he would be called Mr Winkey) some 112.4 days. Sure, that's if he didn't stop for a sleep, a cigarette or those notorious tortoise hookers, but that's not a bad way to see the country. Given that it has been some 139 days since I ordered the book, I think the tortoise delivery service (TDS) would be more reliable, and let's face it, a lot more fun.

Some would call me a stickler. Some would say I should just let the whole thing go. But you know me well enough by now (I consider us best friends, I hope you do too!) that a little thing like letting this go is beyond me. You may as well ask me not to picture Chewbacca in a bikini. I bet you are too now, we're so alike!

In the email below, you say, in your warm and fuzzy voice, that 3 -5 days shipping after ordered and up to 14 working days until delivery - well, that by my maths, is August 32nd 2078. But someone here at work pointed out it was actually last week.

Because we're such good buddies, I would also like to point out that in your email below.......well, you did address it to me and not to the book place. (I'm ignoring that you called me Mr Sinclair, but I'll let it slide as you probably didn't want to let them know how close we are) Are you trying to draw this out so we keep in contact? That's so you!

I look forward to hearing from you again and again and again and again.

Your good friend and mine, me.

PS: Mr Whinkey says hi.

All fine and good right kids? Well, this is where things begin to turn nasty.

From: twentysevenbslash6@gmail.com
Subject: Re: Your payment to David Thorne
Date: Sun, 8 Aug 2010 20:31:16 -0400
To: gagfdave@hotmail.com

I have checked your status and apparently your order was processed long ago.

Perhaps the additional few hits per week, by referencing the 27b/6 name, to your blog, is fuelling the pretence of a missing book.

You do not get a third book sent out - your previous emails were more entertaining than this one.

You what?

It took me a few reads to fully realise out what he just said. After gathering myself and pushing down my initial thoughts of reply I went on to answer Mr Thorne....

From: Dave
To: david@27bslash6.com

Subject: RE: Your payment to David Thorne
Date: Mon, 9 Aug 2010 11:37:38 +1000

Davey boy,

Now this is an interesting turn of events isn't it?

Basically, correct me if I'm wrong, you just called me a liar and a fame hound.

Where I comes from, thems fighten words.

"Pretence of a missing book" you say. When a book doesn't show up Dave, that's not a pretence, that's a fact. That the order was "processed long ago", while interesting, is irrelevant. Kind of like Megan Fox. I don't have your book. I never received your book, so I keep asking for your book. See how that works?

As for the oh so subtle insinuation (and by subtle, I of course mean, not) that our little tait-a-tait is being done for hits on my blog, you may notice that nobody actually reads my blog and it is done for the amusement of a few of my friends, so why would I be chasing more hits? And additionally, you’ll notice that I haven’t posted any of our discussions since the initial one. That, of course will now change.

And connected to that - the only way you would have found my blog is if you were searching for references about your good self. How black is that kettle Mr Pot?

For a bloke who has become semi-well known for wit and cleverness, I can see in our little discussions that in real life, the reality just doesn't seem to live up to the pretence. And back to Megan Fox again.

In the absence of your book, I was quite enjoying our little chats, more from my side than your monosyllabic responses, but enjoying them nonetheless.

And then you called me a liar.

I may be several things Mr Thorne, an annoying emailer, maddeningly stubborn, an excellent parallel parker and one hell of a lover, but there is one thing I'm not (two if you count duck wrangler) and that is a liar. It was all very amusing up to that point, but my self respect is worth more than receiving a book I’ve paid for and never received. And because of that, I simply say – fuck you.

I hope you really enjoy your well earned $27.86USD.

To be honest, the books arrival was always going to be a letdown. I had been having far too much fun hassling him that anything else would be a bit of a downer. And then he turned. I can abide many things in this world, but when someone pointedly accuses me of deception and fraud, well, Mr Charming will take a back seat to self respect every time. Nobody gets to impugn my integrity and have me simply let it go.

And Dave, if you’re reading this, and I’m sure you are, I repeat my sentiment with a full and heavy heart – go fuck yourself.

The History of Censorship – and why the internet filter will fail

2010-07-23T06:35:00.006+10:00

In 1384, just before his death, John Wycliffe translated the bible into English, which at the time was considered a crime against civilisation worse than Justin Bieber is to music. Yes, that bad. He died before the church got their hands on him, but in 1415 to show they are the harbingers of peace, love and understanding, the church ordered his body exhumed, burned and thrown in the river just to show there were no hard feelings.

In 1599, the Archbishop of Canterbury John Whitgift, (whose offices had the function of licensing books for publication in England) in an effort to promote free thinking and debate, issued a decree banning satire (here). Those Chaser boys would be in a world of hurt.

In 1954 there was a lyric change to Cole Porter’s “I Get a Kick Out of You” because of a cocaine reference. The lyrics were changed from “I get no kick from cocaine” to “I get perfume from Spain”. Which, ironically, would only make sense if you were actually snorting cocaine.

In 1964 then Indiana Governor Matthew Welsh attempted to ban the Kingsmen’s hit “Louie Louie”, calling it obscene. After review by the FCC, the lyrics were deemed “indecipherable”. If you’ve ever tried to learn that song, you’ll know that the band had no idea what the lyrics were either.

A little closer to home -

In 1929, James Joyce’s Ulysses was banned in Australia (here).
In 1957, Catcher in the Rye was banned in Australia (here).
In 1975, the Australian Censorship Board banned The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (here).
From 1991, American Psycho by Bret Eaton Ellis is still banned in Queensland and is R Rated (wrapped in plastic with enticing warnings) everywhere else (here).

And you know what all these censorship measures have in common? They were all ultimately utterly and completely ineffective. In the internet age, even more so.

A couple of weeks ago, the government shelved making a decision on the internet filter, a mere (coincidentally mind you) 8 days before calling an election (here). The internet filter is just another stumble in the long history of ill-informed and fearful people trying to censor something they don’t understand. What’s going on? I’m glad you asked – oh, and because this is such a serious topic – I’m making it a joke free zone (which will be a surprise to regular readers, who always assumed that was the case...):

What is the Internet Filter?

Led by Senator Stephen Conroy, the proposed filter censors Refused Classification from all Australian’s via an ISP-level filter (such as BigPond, Optus, iiNet, etc). In May 2008, the Government said it would spend $125.8 million over four years on several measures to strengthen cyber safety, including the filter. Basically what it boils down to is that the government will have the ability to block any website it doesn’t like. They have used child porn as the main flag waiver (more on that later), but there’s a lot more to it than that.

The techos know it’s a bad idea (here), so does Google (here). Even the US Government thinks it’s a bad idea (here). And they have Homeland Security!

So what’s the problem?

Why people are complaining about this is because the Government has not made it clear exactly what problem it is trying to solve. As it stands, most Refused Classification material is legal to view and no evidence has been provided that demonstrates that accidental exposure to such material is either common or deleterious (here). During a trial conducted last year, both legal and illegal material was blocked -as well as a Queensland dentist and a couple of bus companies, amongst others (here). There will also be no right of reply - no group will be created to hear please to be unblocked. Last report was that one, yes one, person will be appointed to independantly monitor content (here).

So it will stop child porn, so that’s good right?

Almost all child abuse material produced does not appear on the web. It is traded mainly over peer-to-peer (P2P). Where it does exist on the web, it is usually placed there nefariously by people taking advantage of vulnerabilities in legitimate websites. Hosting companies do not want to be associated with child abuse material and delete it as soon as they are aware that it exists on their equipment. Blacklisting compromised websites is not as effective as notifying the company. The fact is that illegal material on the web has a very short life span.

Indeed, a German study demonstrated how unethical it is for governments to keep lists, when an email to the hosting company can get the material taken down permanently within a few hours (here) . This has all been confirmed by the Australian Federal Police on numerous occasions. The AFP’s National Manager, High Tech Crime Operations, Neil Gaughan, confirmed that most trading occurs over peer-to-peer (P2P), even going so far as saying that filters “don't work at all''.

But saying you’re fighting child porn makes pretty headlines doesn’t it? Here.

Like George W Bush saying you’re either with me or you’re supporting terrorism (here), it‘s a felonious argument. I think the Australian people deserve more intelligent and enlightened arguments than the A Current Affair grabbing headlines. We’re a more intelligent and well informed populous than our pollies give us credit for, but yet we’re being treated like a herd of unthinking and reactionary sheep. I mean, we’re not Scientologists here.

Why shouldn’t we be censoring the internet like we do other mediums?

Again, like the filtering, it sounds OK in theory, but the reality is nowhere near as straightforward. Those that say the internet system needs to brought in line with the rest of the classification system are misinformed. The classification system is not consistent within itself. Radio, television, films and publications all have different systems. Television has three different systems because SBS & ABC were forgotten about when the new code was written. So what should apply to the internet?

I guess you could say it is more like the phone system, the material that is communicated is highly varied. It is inherently a pull medium. Material is not broadcast on the internet, rather users must actively instruct their computers to request information from a connected computer. And like the phone system, any means of censorship is not only unrealistic but a scary and an ill informed attack on our freedom.

OK, so if they do install the filter, will it work?

In a word. No.

Despite the fact that the government delayed any decision until conveniently after the election, there is the very real possibility of this abomination being implemented. Sure, initially it may work, but like the previous efforts (here) it will be circumvented.

There is a saying: “The internet treats censorship as damage and routes around it”.

The whole concept of the Internet was to have redundant means of communication should any number of nodes be destroyed. Circumvention is thus not only possible but exceptionally easy. Both reports from Enex and Telstra made this very clear. Even WebShield was unable to prevent circumvention of their filters and this is their specialty. Thus, this Government proposal will do nothing to stop people seeking out objectionable material.

Here’s my guess as to how this will all turn out (and because I’ve posted this on the interweb, I’m sure some smart-arse will come back and let me know if I was right or not):

In a flurry of publicity the filter will be implemented.
Numerous highly public exceptions will be bandied about to show sizable flaws in the system.
After three to four weeks it will be suspended for “retooling”.
In six to twelve months it will be re-implemented with less fanfare, but again will be shown to be ineffective.
After several more months of ignominy it will be quietly shelved and millions of dollars that could have been spent on social welfare, health or education will be pissed up against the wall for no reason whatsoever.

The purpose of government should be to provide for the people – not censor them. The web filter, despite claims to the contrary, is an attack on freedom, our rights and self expression. No one is claiming that child porn isn’t bad and that any perpetrator or user should be lined up and shot, but this isn’t about that at all. It’s about a government imposing its will on the people, with no right of reply, input or way to refuse. It is the worst form of oppression – that of freedom of thought. Any government that chooses to oppose liberty and free will is one that I can’t support and will fight against with all the strength I possess. Freedom is too important to be left to any government to determine what is appropriate. Like our old friend John Wycliffe (before he was dug up and chucked in the river), the powers that be can try to use their authority unjustly to silence those it wishes to remain quiet, but ultimately, liberty will win in the end.

Dave Vs David – Dave wins!

2010-06-24T16:27:00.001+10:00

I do like it when people are shaken from their humdrum existence and shown a slanted view of the world. There are a few reasons for this, and only one of them is being able to use the word humdrum.

As mentioned on this blog before (here) I do like it when your average Joe Citizen gets their perception of their world messed with, even a tiny bit – be it a flashmob, a random amusing sign, or using a seven legged spider to pay a bill. But what happens when the tables are turned? What happens when someone messes with the messers? And what happens if I just happen to be the one doing the messing? Who was the unsuspecting messee? Mr David Thorne – the man behind the seven legged spider gag that went viral around the world. Read on my friends, read on!

So amused was I with David’s antics with seven legged spiders, real estate agents and drug dealing that I decided to buy his book. In March. I eagerly awaited its delivery, but received absolutely nothing. After two months I decided to follow it up....

From: Dave
To: david@27bslash6.com
Subject: FW: Your payment to David Thorne
Date: Thu, 13 May 2010 13:39:16 +1000

Hi David,

I just realized I haven't received this book. It's been nearly two months.

I'm unsure if it is sent from the States or Adelaide.

Can you please chase up - I was looking forward to delving into your book - but I kind of need it delivered first!

Cheers.

I received nothing back. So......

From: Dave
To: david@27bslash6.com
Subject: RE: Your payment to David Thorne
Date: Thu, 20 May 2010 09:21:30 +1000

Hi,

I didn't get a response to this one. Please advise ASAP.

Thanks.

Nothing again. Soooo.......

On 07/06/2010, at 12:55 AM, Dave Sinclair wrote:

I'm still waiting here. No book. No response.

What's going on?

Not even a bloody 7 legged spider.

Donuts.

Then, finally a response!

Re: Your payment to David Thorne‏

From:	David Thorne (twentysevenbslash6@gmail.com)
Sent:	Wednesday, 9 June 2010 11:10:49 AM
To:	Dave

Hello Dave,

There was a discrepancy with deliveries when I changed distributors from Cafepress to Fonatine Press (the publishers) but I assumed this had been dealt with.

I have forwarded your email and I apologise for the delay, I am in the US on holiday at the moment.

Regards, David.

David Thorne 27bslash6

This email may contain either nudity or highly personal misinformation.

Activities and vehicle modifications appearing or described in this email may be potentially dangerous.

I think you would look nice in a 27b/6 t-shirt. Unless the word sheep™ has been used in its correct context

somewhere other than in this disclaimer, it does not have any purpose and may be ignored.

Follow me at twitter.com/27bslash6 like a fifteen year old schoolgirl.

But alas. No book materialised. So what, my dear reader, is a bored blogger to do? Mess with his mind is the obvious answer....

On 21/06/2010, at 1:18 AM, Dave Sinclair wrote:

Hi David,

I'm not surprised you're living it up in the US. You're obviously swanning about in the lap of luxury bandying about the cash you've pilfered from poor unsuspecting suckers. And by poor unsuspecting suckers, I of course mean me.

I would like to share with you some of my favourite parts of your book....

...oh that’s right. I don’t have your book.

I only ordered it in March. Why would I expect it before now? I can only suspect that you’ve scarpered with my $27.86USD and living it up in some penthouse with your bimbos and your bling and your hi-fi stereo and your Yanni CDs and your Gucci loafers and your Ray Band sunglasses and your ‘Facts of Life’ board game.

I've looked up what $27.86USD can buy you.....

· 1.8" LCD Digital Auto Range Pen Type Multimeter (http://www.dealextreme.com/details.dx/sku.35820)

· Webster's Ferrarese - English Thesaurus Dictionary (http://www.powells.com/biblio/9780497834906?&PID=719) where I can look up words like gyp, rip-off, bamboozle, bilk, cheat, deceive, defraud, dupe, fleece, flimflam, gip, gull, hoodwink, hustle, pull something, rook, scam, swindle, take for a ride and trick.

· An inter Milan Away jersey (http://www.newfootballshirt.com/inter-milan-away-09-10-soccer-jerseys-p-118.html)

· A Hospeco 250/201W Convertible Receptacle (http://www.restockit.com/hospeco-250-201w-convertible-receptacle-9-1-2-x-11-1-2-x-4-1-4-%28250201rec%29.html)

· Pen, memo and business card holder (http://www.hotref.com/Pen--memo-and-business-card-holder-p-5104.html)

All of which I’m sure you would enjoy.

I’m wondering if you enjoyed them as much as I’m enjoying your book?

This reminds me of the 5^th grade when Paul Lazarus asked to ‘borrow’ my C3PO action figure. He said he needed it to re-enact the cantina scene. But he wasn’t. He was recreating the trash compactor scene. Instead of a meticulously crafted diorama where the walls close in, he just gathered a whole heap of Star Wars figurines and sat on them. He was a big boy too. Even by 6^th grader standards. I haven’t heard from him in years, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he isn’t hiring himself out as a small island or defending London against Luftwaffe attack, but the loss of C3PO still hurts. Mrs Larcomb finally made him replace C3PO, but it wasn’t with another C3PO. It was with Muffit, the dog from Battlestar Galactica. I mean, really. Sure, C3PO is the gayest of all robots, but damn it, he was OUR golden gay robot.

So, in retrospect, that story doesn’t have a lot to do with the missing book/$27.86USD, but if it in some ways wasted your time, then hey, it was worth it, because after all, that’s what you’ve been doing with mine.

We’ll speak again when I don’t hear back from you.

Toodles!

Now, with a response like that, there’s two ways this baby could have gone. One involved the phrase ‘Go fuck a hedgehog’, the other he reacts with good humour and shows he can take as well as receive....

Re: Your payment to David Thorne‏

From:	David Thorne (twentysevenbslash6@gmail.com)
Sent:	Tuesday, 22 June 2010 1:00:06 AM
To:	Dave

Hello Dave,

While your email was entertaining to read and well written, I can assure you I forwarded your last email to the publishers.

I am not responsible for orders or delivery personally.

As your email did amuse though, I am sending you a personal copy, to the Queen Street address.

Regards, David

Win!

3am Friends

2010-03-03T06:55:00.003+11:00

Do you have any 3am Friends™?

And by 3am Friends™, I don’t mean a drunken pick up just before you stagger home from the nightclub, or as it’s commonly known – sloppy seconds. No! I mean 3am Friends™ in a positive and not all regret-it-the-next-morning-by-slipping-out-the-window-in-your-undies-and-getting-dressed-in-the-street kind of way.

A 3am Friend™ is a friend, a truly great friend. One you can call at 3am and ask for help and where (this is the important bit) they’ll give it right away, no questions asked. Say you’re broken down and you call said 3am-er their response is, ‘Sure, I’m leaving now’ – no matter what time you call them. If the response is, ‘Ahhh, can it wait until the soccer game I’m watching is finished?’ – they are not a 3am Friend™. Don’t laugh – this actually happened to a mate of mine. She was broken down and called the boyfriend at the time to come help her and that was the response she received – he was watching a soccer match and couldn’t come. It was later she found out it was recorded. Surprisingly she didn’t go out with him for long. I can’t understand why....

A 3am Friend™ is someone you might not talk to often, it might even be a year or two between chats – but you know damn well if you need them, they’ll be there for you – no questions asked.

We all have mates. You can refer to your friends in a Swiss-Army knife kind of way – you’ve got those mates you have a coffee and chat with, or watch sport or penguin porn with, or have a serious put on yer drinking trousers kind of night with – but the 3am Friend™ is a rare breed – and a bloody valued one.

There’s an old saying – Friends help you move house, real friends help you move bodies.

The 3am-ers are body movers. If you’re on the run from the cops, they’ll put you up. If you’re accused of aiding and abetting Japanese Wailers, they’ll believe you if say you were just letting the money ‘rest’ in your account. There’s very little a 3am friend won’t do for you. Short of shagging their wife or taping over episodes of The Wire with Wipeout Australia, they’re going to stand by you no matter what (also depending on much they like their wife).

So dear reader – do you have any 3am Friends™? Or better yet, do you consider yourself a 3am-er?

Do tell.

Smells Like Getting Old

2010-02-24T06:12:00.002+11:00

There is a defining feature we have as human beings. We will get old. You’re getting older. I’m getting older. Just sitting here, reading this blog – we’re getting older. To be honest, I don’t feel old. I can tell you when I will though. I can tell you the exact date in fact - September 24, 2011.

No, it’s not the dreaded 40 mark. Not any birthday, or date of any real significance actually. But on the 24th day of September 2011, I will unequivocally, irreversibly and officially be old. Why? Because this day my friends, marks the 20^th anniversary of the release of Nirvana’s Nevermind.

To this day, I can remember the first time I heard ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’ on the radio. It was the JJJ breakfast show with Mikey Robbins and Helen Razor (yes, that long ago!). My first reaction was along the lines of – What. Was. That. Helen was trying to figure out the last lines Kurt was screeching (‘a denial, a denial...’). I was trying to figure out how I could hear that song again – as soon as humanly possible.

The song and album came along at the exact right moment for me. I was beginning to challenge ideas, extricating myself from the childish influence of my parents and forging my own identity. Nevermind catapulted that idea into the stratosphere. New Dave was born on that day.

I was one of the very few lucky bastards to see these guys play live. It was early 1992 at the now defunct Palace Theatre in St Kilda. The support was the sadly neglected Meanies (anyone remember them?). Nirvana lived up to my expectations – and then blew them out of the water. The raw guttural power of Kurt, Dave and Krist would not be restrained by four shoddy concrete walls. Their brilliance far outstripped the sum of their musical parts.

In some ways, 20 years ago seem like, well, 20 years ago. A lot has happened in those intervening years. I’ve changed a lot since that young kid staring at the radio in his bedroom hurriedly twisting the radio dial in the fruitless hope that a commercial station were playing Nirvana (it would take many months before they would). That Dave had less confidence in himself. He was too eager to please. Reluctant to share an opinion. Oh how times have changed, hey blog reader?! In many ways I don’t think I’d like to meet that Dave, he’d be undercooked. Not yet whole. Nevermind helped leave that Dave behind forever.

I’ve played that album, at a guess, several hundred times. Sure, there are albums that are perhaps technically better – Radiohead, Jeff Buckley or Las Ketchup for example, but none have had the profound effect that this one little album had. Overnight big hair bands like Poison and Warrant became passé. And everyone stopped using the word passé. Instantaneously, garage bands formed, disbanded and reformed without the arsehole lead singer. I won’t even subject you to my (thankfully brief) journey into banddom. Let’s just say at the first day rehearsals there were three drummers and a guy with a flute. Nuff said.

So, this rapidly approaching date – why does it freak me out so much? It’s only a date that will pass most people by as just another day. But for me, it’s not just another day. For me, it’s a date that marks the point at which I have to reach a conclusion - that I’m a sad old bastard.

Oh well, whatever, never mind.

Little jolts

2010-02-17T06:50:00.001+11:00

Do you have those moments in a day, that while not Earth shattering in themselves, give you a little jolt and puts a spring in your step? These tiny moments aren’t ones you’re going to fight a rabid wildebeest bare chested over or stab a member of the clergy for - but they do give you a little fleeting tickle of joy. It’s momentary, but it’s yours. It’s possible you haven’t shared these with others as you may feel they’re so insignificant, but when they come around, they make you grin.

Research has shown (here) that long term happiness is NOT the finer things in life (more money, better employment, the amount of sex we have) . The reality is that most of what makes us happy is pretty prosaic. Minor in fact.

Here’s some things off the top of my head (you ever noticed how long it takes you to create things off the top of your head?) that aren’t going to lead to long term happiness. They may not even last as long as it takes to read the sentence, but they’re little things that give us a little jolt of pleasure.

Opening a new packet of coffee and taking a whiff.

Cleaning my ears with an earbud and having a 1/35^th of an orgasm.

When the train pulls into the station and opens the doors directly in front of me.

When I knock my coffee mug and it doesn’t spill everywhere.

Flicking channels and finding something random I want to watch – and it’s just starting.

Peeling any skin off in a large ‘satisfying’ chunk. (as apposed to unsatisfying I suppose)

This cat.

So what about you dear reader. What supposedly minor things give you a lift? What are the little jolts that make you happy?

Man Logic V

2010-02-10T06:21:00.002+11:00

Man Logic™ is a well honed set of rules all men live by. We just haven’t gotten around to writing them down, until now. Probably because not a lot of them make sense and to actually write the rules down may make us look, well, a bit silly really. It has never been claimed that the ‘logic’ us men apply makes any sense, it’s just the way we’re wired. More Man Logic™ can be found here, here, here and here. Here’s some more things that make us men, well, men:

Men own minimal shoes. One black pair. One brown pair. One pair of sneakers. One casual. One semi casual. Maybe a pair of thongs. That’s it. We don’t need whole cupboards full of slight variations of the same theme. We’re simple people. Too many choices confuse and scare us.

In the kitchen a man will use the largest and most dangerous knife we can find for the job. This goes equally for slicing bread as well as spreading anything on it. If it has to be sharpened before use, all the better.

We think other women are hot. It doesn’t make us love you any less. We just like to look and appreciate (here). Some of us are stupid enough to say it out loud. Sometimes even without appropriate crotch protection.

If out with other male mates we will not, under any circumstances, order a salad.

On the same subject, while out with male mates, we will always finish a steak. No exceptions. We will forgo more beer. We will pass on desert. We will make ourselves feel sick to our very core. But we will never, ever, leave a morsel of beef left on our plate.

Quoting lines from Star Wars (the original trilogy of course), The Adventures of Ford Fairlane (unfricken believable), Top Gun (the gayest movie ever made, that includes Gay! The Musical) and Fight Club (now, a question of etiquette - as I pass, do I give you the ass or the crotch? ) or any other ‘bloke’ movie is not done to annoy our female compatriots. It’s really not. It’s a form of bonding. Annoying, repetitive and unoriginal bonding, but bonding none the less.

Despite what Tony Abbott says (here), no man should wear speedos. No man should ever let a mate wear them unless, A) they are training for the Olympics, or B) they want their mate to scare off any potential females (more for them).

In times of peril a man should not hide. From his girlfriend, from his boss, whatever. Hiding is unmanly. There is an exception though – if he’s French.

Dave's Guide To Building Your Own Cult

2010-02-03T06:31:00.001+11:00

So you’ve decided to start your own cult.

Well done to you. There’s plenty of benefits and fun to be had. You’ll meet new friends, plus with any luck, they won’t all have to die. You’ll amass a fortune in accepting gifts from your followers in the form of money, dole cheques and property (not to mention buying your sarin gas in bulk). There’s tax benefits in creating a new religion, and if it just happens to revolve around you, well, what’s a cult leader to do? Then there’s the wild sex orgies with your followers – of course, for heightened spiritual awakenings only. I mean, you’re helping them reach a higher plain of existence, all that sex with the most attractive and nubile of your followers can become a chore for you. And let’s not forget the fantastic new outfits you’ll all be wearing. You can’t lose!

So, let’s begin…..

Where to start?

Well, you’ve heard about cults and think you’d make a great healer, high priest, guru, Kool-Aid-drinking-nut-job leader. Good on you. The first step is the hardest, but also determines the path of your cult – Define you as a leader.

It is vitally important to build a mystique about yourself. Hire a PR firm (if you don’t have cash, sucker a friend into it) to portray you as someone mysterious, exotic, possessed by supernal powers and above all - charisma. It is important to convince everyone you have a hotline to the big G – God, or something like a (fortuitously vague) ‘spiritual realm’.

Regardless of the back-story, you need to display to others your unique ‘gift’. Chanting is good. Group trance is better. Only having the hotline to a higher power during sexual intercourse – the best. Though if you achieve the last one, you’ll be shunned by the other cult leaders at the annual convention because you will have achieved a level of spirituality in which they will refer to you as – ‘one lucky son of a bitch’.

Create a belief structure -

Absurd beliefs attract far greater investments of emotional commitment than reasonable ones – so, the wackier, the better. People who get mad at the affirmation or denial of god, whatever that might be, do so because part of their own mind severely doubts their professed belief. So, if your belief is way out there and is continually hammered home, there’s more chance of slavish believers.

But what to base your belief on? Well, anything will do – it’s the sell that counts. The holiness (or holey-ness) of cheese, for example. How about the planet is in pain and you can channel it’s thoughts. The secret to the universe is in Tattslotto numbers. Or believe that a disposed leader of a Galactic Confederacy transported billions of people to Earth and exploded hydrogen bombs in volcanos that created disembodied souls that cling to humans and you have to pay for their removal. OK, the last one is just plain crazy, I mean, who’d believe that crap? (hmmm, here). And what does this last belief do to people? Here.

Create the mystique –

Next, have a group of friends circulate stories about you, that you have been away on a long journey, and have returned...’different’...and you have become possessed by some mysterious power. If people are going to adore you – and later die for you (it always gets you cred at the aforementioned cult leader conference), they’re going to believe your spirituality and ‘feel’ your presence. Some more than others...

Stage Manage –

Religion is heartily dependent spectacle and controlling space. Get yourself a raised platform, a throne, an altar, sitting upon oiled up lithe bodies sounds good, but believe me, when you start slipping off those suckers your sense of presence soon diminishes. Create an inner sanctum and some acolytes to open doors for you, or stand around you in formation. The sight of some people being obeisant works wonders!

Make sure leave lots of pregnant, lingering, seductive silences in between your words. Change your tone mid-message from near whispering to shouting. Watch how powerful speakers evoke tears, anger, cheers, shame, and exultation. Play them like a game of Hungry Hungry Hippos. Promise them that you and your new religion will satisfy their inner needs: to be loved, to be happy, to be wealthy, to attain the heights of Spiritual Realisation, or make Britney perform live, whatever they want, you can promise. Make claims of exclusivity and superiority, and actively ridicule other groups or faiths, calling them evil and deluded. Maybe even smelly. Exclaim the perils of transmigration...or worse! Let your apostles do the ground work while you let your mystique grow by suddenly not speaking to anyone other than the "pure ones".

Isolate!

Once the ball starts rolling, retreat to an isolated spot. This will keep you away from the eyes of the authorities and from other charlatans who might try woo away your cult (I mean, they’re your sheep, they shouldn’t be baa-ing for anyone else). If your personal wealth allows it (by now they should have ‘donated’ their pesky worldly possessions) buy an island and go there. If that’s out of your price range – deep DEEP country is good. Bring any followers and let them recruit others. After establishing a self-sufficient community and witnessing a few more miracles, start the decrees. Virgins, more donations, and spiritual marriage are a good start. In no time, you'll be sitting pretty, brainwashing generation after generation. Enjoy! And you're welcome.

If you want to know more, look into your inner self (or your Dave-rah) and send me an email with your photo (full length), bank account details and a copy of your bank statements. Your spiritual enlightenment will commence 48 hours after the bank transfer clears. You must be patient....but know that the answer to ALL your dreams is just one email away.

Worship the cheese!

The Art of Perving

2010-01-27T06:03:00.001+11:00

It’s all very PC to say we don’t perv. It’s all very good and well to say we never sneak a look at another member of the opposite sex. It’s all very good to say we don’t have a Celebrity Free List. Pity it’s all bollocks.

It’s an anthropological fact that as animals – although highly evolved animals that can download ringtones and buy Nickelback albums – we haven’t evolved to the point of being asexual. We like the look of other human beings (here). It’s wired deep without our cortex. Being in a stable and loving relationship doesn’t switch off millions of years of evolution.

Everyone does perve. Sure, some take it to extremes. When it involves ladders, night vision goggles and an elaborate series of keyhole video cameras, it is officially no longer perving it is in fact, six to twelve months with a minimum parole period.

But if we’re talking innocent perving, that is simply a quick look, then there is nothing wrong at all. I know my partner will glance at a bloke, just as she knows I’m inclined to check out an attractive lass walking by. In fact, she has been known to point out a ‘nice rack’ every now and then. You have to love that.

But there are rules to perving. Here’s a few:

Pointing is out. As is yelling, whistling, dribbling and any form of standing ovation. These are considered poor form.

The basic perve is a subtle one – move your head towards your perve, take a quick look, take it all in, continue moving your head in the same arc. Do not stop, open your mouth and breath heavily, while rubbing yourself. See – poor form.

If with a partner that prefers you not to perve, you can be subtle by using a window, but any reflective surface will do. When you see an attractive person approach, turn to the window and observe at your leisure. The chances of being caught are decreased by looking away from your chosen pervee.

Do not under any circumstances perve on a woman breast-feeding. Just because your uncle did it, doesn't make it cool. This is off limits.

When perving, make sure you’re aware that you live in real life and are not watching TV. People in real life can see you perving if you stare too long. The girls on ‘Pillow-Fight TV’ can not. As far as I know, there is no show called ‘Pillow-Fight TV’. All I’m saying is that there should be. That’s all....

In a gym, never stare for more than 2-3 seconds. I know this is difficult given the likely well-builtness of the pervee – but be aware, in a gym, there are mirrors everywhere. You will get caught. And people with muscles live there. Some are angry that their arms are so huge but their testicles are like two underdeveloped sultanas. They’re looking for an excuse. Just don’t let it be you.

So, dear reader, do you have any perve rules and/or stories?

James Cameron is a Thieving Bastard

2010-01-20T06:15:00.002+11:00

The lights dimmed, a message appeared on screen top put on your 3-D glasses now. As one, the crowd dutifully did as they were instructed. As the movie began to unfold I was nagged by a certain sense of déjà vu. And yet, as the movie began to unfold I was nagged by a certain sense of déjà vu. It took about an hour of James Cameron’s blistering blockbuster (and potentially biggest money maker of all time - here) to realise something – I’d seen it all before. James Cameron is a rip-off merchant.

You may have seen a report last week where the Russians are up in arms about the fact that Jim Cameron allegedly pilfered the story from a couple of cold war writers (here). They stated that the name chosen by Cameron for the lush green forest moon used in Avatar was also Pandora. The novels take place in the 22nd century. So does Avatar. Even the names of the species are similar - Na'vi and Nave. But that wasn’t what struck me as similar – I’m surprisingly unfamiliar with Soviet literature from the 1960’s. Who knew?

No, the nagging thought festering in my mind finally coalesced into one binding thought. I had seen this movie before. Why couldn’t anyone else see it? Despite the snazzy effects, despite the ‘ooh-ahh’ 3-D rendering that was visually spectacular, the story, the very core of the movie experience, had already been done.

It struck me so suddenly, I turned to my mate and said, ‘I’ve seen this before’. He half turned from the $300 million epic, unable to unpeel his eyes, he said ‘Huh?’ I went on, ‘Cameron is a thieving bastard. He’s ripped off Fern Gully.’ ‘What’s Fern Gully?’ he asked. Good question.

Fern Gully is a pretty shitty animated movie made in 1992 with a not-at-all subtle environmental message. Basically, the magical inhabitants of a rainforest called Fern Gully fight to save their home threatened with destruction. The only reason I ever saw it was that an ex of mine had nephews and when they came over it was the only kids video to watch. The crappy Disney want-to-be became burnt into my brain. The scar never healed.

How similar are the movies? Let’s have a squiz –

Story - The magical inhabitants of a rainforest called Fern Gully fight to save their home that is threatened by logging and the destructive force of man.	Story - The indigenous inhabitants of a forest moon called Pandora fight to save their home world that is threatened by mining and the destructive force of man.
Zak, the hero, is reluctantly transformed into a fairy.	Jake, the hero, is reluctantly transformed into an Na'vi.
Soon after being transformed Zak becomes threatened by the local hostile environment.	Soon after being transformed Jake becomes threatened by the local hostile environment.
He is saved by a fairy called Crysta.	He is saved by a Na'vi called Neytiri.
The warrior Pips has romantic intentions with Crysta, but is complicated by the appearance of Zak.	The warrior Tsu'Tey has romantic intentions with Neytiri, but is complicated by the appearance of Jake.
Cut off from his people, Zak is forced to learn the ways of the faries.	Cut off from his people, Jake is forced to learn the ways of the Na'vi.
Through trial and error, Zak begins to learn their ways and sees that their life is a good and noble one.	Through trial and error, Jake begins to learn their ways and sees that their life is a good and noble one.
Through teaching the outsider their ways, Crysta and Zak become close and share romantic moments.	Through teaching the outsider their ways, Neytiri and Jake become close and share romantic moments.
This does not please Pips.	This does not please Tsu'Tey.
Once Zak sees the beauty and magic of Fern Gully, he vows to save it. But it may be too late.	Once Jake sees the beauty and magic of Pandora, he vows to save it. But it may be too late.
The diabolical Hexxus is hell bent on illuminating the fairies and destroying the sacred tree.	The diabolical Colonel Quaritch is hell bent on illuminating the Na'vi and destroying the sacred tree.
Zak is responsible for the destruction of the tree by advising the loggers.	Jake is responsible for the destruction of the tree by advising the military.
Zak confesses to the assembled fairies and that he was working with the loggers .	Jake confesses to the assembled Na'vi and that he was working with the military .
They reject him, they eventually welcome him back.	They reject him, they eventually welcome him back.
Zak gathers the fairy forces and mounts a counter attack.	Jake gathers the Na'vi forces and mounts a counter attack.
Zak destroys the leveller, ensuring the forest can not be destroyed.	Jake destroys the bombship, ensuring the forest can not be destroyed.
Crysta strikes the fatal blow to the evil Hexxus.	Neytiri strikes the fatal blow to the evil Colonel Quaritch.
Fern Gully was released in 1992.	James Cameron had the idea for Avatar in 1994.

It may just be me, but come on – isn’t it just a little too similar?

Having written all this up, I thought I’d go looking at the internets to see if anyone else had come up with the idea. Apparently they have. Who knew ideas could be seen as unoriginal? Now all I have to do is turn this blog into a $1.6 billion behemoth I think we’ll all be happy.

Dave’s back and there’s going to be a fight

2010-01-13T11:03:00.003+11:00

Yes, I’m back in Blogland. Hope you’re all well.

It was a sweltering hot day Monday (here). A stinking hot, my eyes are sweating, forty two degree kind of knee trembler. Which is why I sighed with relief when I found a window seat on the train (some weren’t so lucky) and the doors shooshed close with a satisfying kind of shwoosh-iness (it’s a word). It was the end of a long day, I’d been surviving on new-bubba induced lack of sleep, coffee and an almost fanatical obsession with the Rolling Stones back catalogue. So as the train left the station, on went the headphones and I stared lazily out the window.

Then the shouting began.

At first I thought it was someone on a mobile being exceptionally loud. I ignored it and continued on with Mick and Keef goodness. There was more yelling, but that too I chose to ignore. I shouldn’t have.

In a flurry of movement a, what can only be described as, brick-shit-house of a man came bounding up the isle screaming his head off. Spittle flying, he was screaming at some bloke to, and I quote, ‘STOP FUCKING LOOKING AT ME!’ He was obviously extremely pissed off at someone. Unfortunately, that someone just happened to be me.

In his flouro top and stained teeth, Mr Ever-So-Slightly-Aggressive Man leant over the seat and the suddenly distressed middle aged woman next to me and thrust his fist in my face. ‘Stop fucking looking at me you cunt!’ he screamed. Which I thought was reminiscent of Maya Angelou or Samuel Becket, such was the statements mastery of the English language. I took off my headphones. ‘Take off your fucking glasses ya cunt, stop fucking looking at me!’. My response was as brief as it was eloquent, ‘er, what?’ He repeated his assertion, to which I replied, ‘what?’ (I never said I was smart). I told the screaming man in an even voice I wasn’t looking at him and what the hell was he talking about.

He obviously didn’t like the cut of my jib. What was more disconcerting, I don’t know what a jib is. I know what a jab is and this fellow was about to apply one. A quick assessment of the situation told me I had next to zero advantage. He was standing and obviously better built – I was sitting and had a middle aged woman next to me muttering ‘oh dear’ (I didn’t think people actually said that), who by the looks of her, was going to be no good in a rumble. I’ve only been involved in one fight in my life. I came out ahead, so I wasn’t planning on ruining an unblemished record. Plus by the size of him, he could have shredded me like a week old lettuce.

The guy was obviously up for a fight. He must have thought a train full of mostly exhausted business people was just the place for it. I assured Mr Angry Pants that I wasn’t looking at him and stated (in retrospect not the wisest of things to say) I had better things to look at. Discretion being the better part of not dealing with cockspanks and all that, I put my headphones back on, yawned and looked out the window. I didn’t bother putting my sunnies back on - it was too fucking hot to go through that kind of shenanigans again.

Determining that he wasn’t getting more out of me he stormed off to seethe. The woman next to me said under her breath said, ‘What a retched man’. Despite the fact that I thought people had stopped using the word ‘retched’, I had to agree.

About forty minutes later, the train pulled into Mr Spittle Flinger’s station. As he lumbered off the stinking hot train onto the equally stinking hot platform he had on his face the self satisfied smug grin only the truly stupid can pull off. It was then that I picked up my sunglasses and for the first time – stared at him. The grin fell and the anger returned as the train left the station. I may have the good sense to not confront a crazy man in an unwinnable position, but I can also knock that good sense out cold if it means having the last word with a knob.

So, how was your summer?

Welcome to Albania

2009-12-02T06:32:00.002+11:00

Coming into having kids later than a lot my mates has some distinct advantages. For one, we get a whoooole lot of free stuff. Baby seats, toys, things with fiddly bits and handles, which I’m not quite sure what they are, but my partner assures me they're useful (I’m not certain she knows either, but they certainly look effective). But the most common thing I was given from friends once they heard the news we were expecting – was the look.

These looks are hand crafted and handed down from one generation to the next. When I told mates we were going to have a baby, the looks fell into two distinct camps:

1. I just told them I was being stationed in Albania for twenty years.

2. The mates who had kids smiled and said, ‘Welcome to Albania!’

Some mates thought they’d never see me again. The look on their face pretty much said, ‘Well Dave’s never coming out for a beer again, we might as well say goodbye now....’ While others gave me a knowing look – kind of like a smug Roger-Moore raise of an eyebrow – that said, ‘Dude, you don’t know what you’re in for, but welcome to the club’.

The first lot – they’re wrong, well, at least I hope they’re wrong. I have plenty of mates who are loving fathers who still find time to catch up with their mates. Sure, it’s not to the extent as it was, but who wants to perpetually live in their twenties? Not my liver, for one.

The second lot – I guess I’ll find out. Sooner than you’d think. You see, as of Saturday, I became a dad. Quinn Ruby Sinclair was born at 5.58AM, weighing in at 3.45kg's. (and no, you can’t have that in imperial, I believe I’ve said that before....here).

I can’t tell you how unbelievably excited I am about seeing Quinn grow up and watching her take on the world.

I’ll take a couple of weeks off from the blog, but please come back soon, I’ll be posting from Albania soon enough.

The Share House Olympics

2009-11-25T06:11:00.004+11:00

Anyone that has ever shared a house with someone they weren’t, a) related to, or b) shagging on a more-than-casual basis, are well aware of the various games and activities one can participate in with our fellow housemates. Mundane tasks such as choosing what to watch on TV and trying to get the laziest of the housemates to at least try and perform one household tasks (such as taking out the rubbish, doing the dishes or delousing the gimp) are nothing compared to the fun in competing in any of the events in the Share House Olympics. The events of this time honoured sporting institution include:

Rubbish Bin Kerplunk Marathon –

Most likely every share house has played this game, although it may have had no name - until now. There is generally no discussion that a game is even being played, yet the players find themselves in the midst of an exhilarating game of one-upmanship (if they don’t get out much). The rules of the Rubbish Bin Kerplunk Marathon are simple. All you need is a kitchen rubbish bin. Although any bin will do. Fill that baby up to the top….and keep going. Just keep stacking that garbage. It doesn’t matter what the refuse is, just as long as it doesn’t fall off. This event can occur over several days, weeks if the players are sufficiently skilled. See how high you can get, there’s no restriction other than the laws of physics, but there is only one rule – whoever placed the last rubbish on the bin that caused any item to fall on the ground – has to take the rubbish out.

Sure its childish. Sure its unhygienic. But it’s also a spine-tingling thrill ride*. It’s amazing how easy it is to sucker in a housemates. All you really need are at least two participants, some rubbish and lashings of stubbornness.

* Any hyperbole is not legally binding and any resemblance this game has to real excitement is purely coincidental.

The Walk of Shame Steeplechase –

Your housemate has picked up the night before.... If you’re up early enough, you can participate in a round of The Walk of Shame Steeplechase. This basically involves you taking up a prime seating position to await their efforts to sneak out unnoticed. Quietly closing the door behind them, generally shoes and maybe clothes in hand, they slink down the hallway trying to be as quiet as an ant pissing on cotton. A hearty shout of hello and a raise of a coffee mug is usually all that’s needed to win this event – it scares the crap out of them. I have heard of deliberately locking the front door so they’re forced to come back and ask to be let out. That’s gold medal shame right there. It’s also as classy as a whole slab of West Coast Coolers. Yes, that classy.

The Sneaky Shag Decathlon –

If you have lived in a large enough share house environment, then you’ve probably laid (wahey!) down a bet or two on this event. Which set of your housemates are going to shag first? The late night D & M’s over coffees in the kitchen. The snuggling up on the couch that, more often than not, involve massages, playing with hair, and/or play fights. It’s a solid lock that as soon as any of the aforementioned activities suddenly stop – someone’s won a bet.

Greco-Roman Phone Bill Wrestling –

‘I don’t know anyone in Sydney’, ‘Yes that’s my sister’s mobile number, but I didn’t call her fifty seven times’ and the old faithful ‘I don’t even use the phone’ are all familiar to share house veterans. There is nothing more certain to cause arguments, create tension and rip apart fledgling friendships than the monthly discussion around the phone bill. I’ve seen doors slammed and phone books flung across the room in frustration over who owes what. I had a workmate who swore that a former housemate of his (in a drunken stupor, natch) once climbed the outside of their house to cut the phone cable because he was that sick of the monthly squabbling.

I’m pretty certain that would result in disqualification by the judges, but ten out of ten for effort.

So, over to you dear reader. What Share House Olympic events have you witnessed, participated in, or been brought up on charges for? Do tell!

All the pretty people

2009-11-18T05:59:00.002+11:00

Tabitha clapped her hands in delight. Rodney wondered when he could score another hit of smack.

They could see them standing in all their sophisticated glory, a mélange of tuxedos, furs and snobbery. From the balcony Rodney watched the look of annoyance on their privileged faces. The same faces that strode past him on the street, their noses lofted into the air so they didn’t have to look down at the dishevelled man begging for a mere crumb off their golden table.

Some shouted at the equally perplexed waiters, but generally the amassed well-to-do of Melbourne were sedate. Many took the opportunity to smoke or talk on their shiny mobile phones. Rodney could imagine them saying, ‘Buy!, ‘Sell!’, or “Just sack them all!’. Their stupid facile lives weren’t used to a hiccup like this. If the inconvenience went on for much longer they may need to flog one of the staff.

Tabitha was mesmerised. Her beautiful six year old eyes had never seen such finery. Elegant women, who seemed to glide rather than walk, were like dolls. Some of the men were equally as pretty, though most were far uglier than the ornaments at their arm. His daughter looked down at the crowd and giggled. She may not have grown up with Barbie’s, but for a moment this child born of junkie parents had the next best thing. Real life ones.

His pockmarked skin crawled, screaming for another hit. It wasn’t coming for a while. In celebration of a rare night looking after his child, Rodney had splurged his last dollars on chips and lemonade. The remnants of their luxurious feast lay about the barren squat. A sweaty sleepless night awaited him like a gnarling ferocious wolf. Its spittle foamed fangs would gouge his every waking moment tonight. It was a small price to pay.

The night’s entertainment was cheap. The TV had been hocked months ago, so what was a father to do? His grimy lodging crouched apologetically across the road from the Royal Exhibition Building. It’s brown brick veneer an insult to the Victorian finery the other side of Nicholson Street. He had no idea how long it took police to search for a bomb. With any luck it would be past Tabitha’s bed time. His daughter’s entertainment had only cost him the price of a local call from the few remaining public phone boxes in Carlton.

While staring, mouth agape, Tabitha’s tiny hand took her father’s. The man that had seen much, too much, hardship began to cry. They were unapologetic tears. He squeezed the petite white hand in his calloused, dirt stained fist and wished she would never let go.

‘Daddy?’ she asked, not taking her eyes from the social elite in fear of missing something. “Will I be allowed to go to parties like that?’

He knew what he had to say. It was a lie of course. She would never be invited to such sophisticated society engagements. She would never be one of the privileged few. She would never illuminate a room full of stuffed shirts with her radiant smile.

The virus had taken hold. There would be no balls for his little princess.

His former de facto had only allowed him to look after their frail daughter because time was running out. She had months, maybe weeks, left.

Fighting every emotion clawing at his insides, Rodney said, ‘Sure baby, sure. You’ll be the cutest one there. With the most wonderful dress. You’ll be there, honey, you’ll be there. Amongst all the pretty people.’

Turning the phrase

2009-11-11T06:09:00.002+11:00

I’m a language junkie. If I’m reading a book, or a magazine, and a particularly good turn of phrase appears, I generally put the book down and savour it like a good strong coffee or a tasty red wine. In short – I should get out more.

I’m currently reading the new Hitch Hikers Guide to the Galaxy book. When I saw it in the bookstore I was somewhat surprised. It would probably be a surprise to Douglas Adams, the author of the saga, too. You see, he’s been dead for eight years. I know he was hopeless at deadlines (here), but being made to complete a book after you’re dead was really going too far if you ask me. But then I realised this sixth book in the trilogy (don’t ask) wasn’t actually written by Mr Adams at all. It was written by Eoin Colfer, who, given the nature of his name, I determined wasn’t Douglas Adams. I’ve always been perceptive like that.

Giving it a read, my apprehension on someone else writing a sequel to such a beloved set of novels was well founded. Sure, all the main characters are there. There’s shenanigans and some amusing parts, but there’s one glaring omission. Douglas Adams’ brilliant ability to turn a phrase. Lines like:

The ships hung in the sky in much the same way that bricks don't.
The engines howled and whined like tired children in a supermarket.
There is an art, it says, or rather, a knack to flying. The knack lies in learning how to throw yourself at the ground - and miss.

More here.

He was one of the very rare breed of writers who knew how to find the exact illustration or epitaph, to use just the correct word to elucidate the point. Probably without having to use the word elucidate. The type of writer who could play the English language like a cello. There’s so few who have that skill. In short, he’s the type of writer other writers like to meet at literary festivals, then dump them in a hessian sack and beat them mercilessly with reeds. Here’s a few more -

An English Zadie Smith is a novelist who can twist English like a lawyer does the truth.

Ryan's freckles were a join-the-dot's enthusiast's wet dream.
It was a past tense, future perfect kind of night.
He was bookish, she was not; he was theoretical, she political. She called a rose a rose. He called it an accumulation of cultural and biological constructions circulating around the mutually attracting binary poles of nature/artifice.

More here.

David Sedaris is an American humorist who takes self deprecation to a whole other plane.

She is, like most of my friends, a terrible judge of character.
I ain't seen pussy in so long I'd throw stones at it.
After a few months in my parents' basement, I took an apartment near the state university, where I discovered both crystal methamphetamine and conceptual art. Either one of the these things are dangerous, but in combination they have the potential to destroy entire civilizations.

More here.

Adams based his writing style on a much neglected literary great, PG Wodehouse. His extensive (he wrote 96 books) output included lines like:

He was white and shaken, like a dry martini.
‘Do you know, I’ll bet that if all the girls Freddie Widgeon has loved were placed end to end—not that I suppose one could do it — they would reach half-way down Piccadilly.’ ‘Further than that,’ said the Egg. ‘Some of them were pretty tall.’
Honoria, you see, is one of those robust, dynamic girls with the muscles of a welterweight and a laugh like a squadron of cavalry charging over a tin bridge. A beastly thing to face over the breakfast table.

More here.

And of course the inimitable (which is as hard to say as it is to spell) Mr Jeremy Clarkson (who I have a sneaking suspicion has a volume or two of Mr Wodehouse in his library):

The air conditioning in a Lambos used to be an asthmatic sitting in the dashboard blowing at you through a straw.
This car is more fun than the entire French air force crashing into a firework factory.
Much more of a hoot to drive than you might imagine. Think of it if you like, as a librarian with a G-string under her tweed pants. I do, and it helps.
Honestly, I have seen more attractive gangrenous wounds than this. It has the sex appeal of a camel with gingivitis.

More here.

So why am I writing this? Well, a couple of reasons (besides needing a blog topic this week). One, I want to hear from you, dear reader, when you’re curled up with a good book what writers give you the warm fuzzies when you read a clever turn of phrase. And second – to share these authors with others. It is a great thing, as a reader, to open a new world to someone who will appreciate a writer they hadn’t considered before. I did mention I’m a language junkie right?

The Hitler Argument

2009-11-04T06:15:00.000+11:00

Picture this – you’re having a debate of sorts. Maybe an argument. You’re making some good points, your opponent may even have a few of their own. But then the unthinkable happens. They throw in the H-Bomb. They make some sort of linkage to your argument and the all time argument fallback - Hitler. They think they are now have the upper hand. Who wants to be associated with Hitler? Second only to Phil Collins as the most evil man ever? Nobody!

I have a general rule – whoever brings up Hitler in an argument automatically loses. It’s also a pretty good indication that the Hitler user has a weak argument. It’s generally a cheap shot. It’s lazy and it almost always backfires.

There’s even an internet rule called Goodwin’s Law (here). It states as a chat room or comments discussion grows longer, the probability of a comparison involving Nazis or Hitler approaches 1. In essence, when all else fails and you’ve got nothing left – call someone a Nazi.

I’ve even been guilty of using it myself. Like in last week’s blog (here), but that was more comic effect than an argument. And (here), where at the time I justified it by saying I was being deliberately provocative to rouse a response (and I was), but even then I knew the argument was weakened by dropping the H-Bomb.

Religion is not above pulling out the H-Bomb either. If you ever get cornered by a Creationist (they try and pass themselves off these days as believers in ‘Intelligent Design’, but don’t you believe it) – for one, I’m sorry – but secondly, they’ll eventually try and bring play the H-Bomb card. “Hitler believed in evolution and used it for all the atrocities he committed – therefore, evolution is evil”. Yes, but he was also a vegetarian. So, by that logic, we should go to all the organic fruit shops, round up all the emaciated mung bean eaters and hand them over to the Communists for a good seeing to. But there’s a fundamental flaw in the old crackpot Creationist argument. Hitler didn’t adhere to Darwin’s theories. While Hitler uses the word "evolution" in Mein Kampf, it is clear that he is not referring to Darwin's theory – in fact, he never mentions the man. Actually, a look at his writings reveals his sentiments on the subject to be those of an orthodox creationist. Like a creationist, Hitler asserts fixity of kinds:

The fox remains always a fox, the goose remains a goose, and the tiger will retain the character of a tiger. - Adolf Hitler, Mein Kampf, vol. i, ch. xi

Like a creationist, Hitler claims that God made man:

For it was by the Will of God that men were made of a certain bodily shape, were given their natures and their faculties. - Adolf Hitler, Mein Kampf, vol. ii, ch. x

So, the creationists they lose by using the H-Bomb and also by using a fallacious argument. Yes, they are losers.

As far as I’m concerned, Hitler’s name can only be invoked in an argument if:

1. Someone invades Poland.

2. Someone fails out of art school.

3. Someone declares genetic superiority over their opponents.

4. Someone starts a war that ends in the death of over 30 million people.

5. While discussing the plots of the first and third Indiana Jones movies.

That. Is. It.

OK, Jeremy Clarkson can keep at it. Like when he was referring to the German made Mini and stated that the indicators should go up and down, and demonstrated with the Nazi salute. He went on to joke that the car might have a GPS system “that only goes to Poland”.

So unless your last name is Clarkson or come across one of the above five rules, keep your Hitler references to yourself.

(and as a side note, just to show that there’s a website for everything, I downloaded the above picture from the website www.catsthatlooklikehitler.com)

I’ve got a secret, you can’t do everything

2009-10-28T06:33:00.002+11:00

If you put your mind to it, you can do anything.

Really? OK then, here I go....straining now....aaahhhrrrr....really concentrating....phew. OK, I really wanted it, and.... nope. People are still believing in The Secret.

Damn. I mustn’t have wanted it bad enough.

Despite the lumbering idiots that appear on A Current Affair and Today Tonight, we as a society are pretty intelligent overall. Sure, folks still listen to Kyle Sandi-lands and think The Footy Show is intellectually stimulating, but overall we’re doing pretty well. We’ve invented the flying machine, the interweb, been to the moon, created midget porn, yet there’s something we can’t do.

And that something is, well, everything.

Today’s society is constantly bombarded with messages saying ‘you can do it!’, ‘achieve you dreams!’, ‘visualise what you want and it will be yours!’

Any casual watching of the first few episodes of Australian Idol or So you Think You Can Dance will tell you this type of thinking is mere folly. Or to put it another way – it’s complete bullshit. I can sing a little – and by little I mean belt out a ‘brilliant’ Frank Sinatra number on karaoke while drunk at 3am while holding a kebab. I can dance a little – and by little I mean make some moves that don’t embarrass the ladies that were good enough to dance with me and not kill passers by with a flailing lawnmower move. But I know for sure that if I were to apply to either of the aforementioned shows I would be bundled up in compilations labelled ‘what the hell were they thinking?’

And that’s the point. What were they thinking? Well, I’ll tell you. They believed the hype.

It’s with a mixture of abject horror and guilty pleasure when we see the look of shock on the rejected contestants. ‘What? You don’t think I’m the next Kylie Minogue even though I sound like I’ve been gargling hot lava and razor blades and have a face like a madman’s arsehole?’

It used to be the case, before reality TV, where friends or loved ones would tap them on the shoulder and say, ‘Look Johnny, I know you think you’re a great singer and all, but I’ve heard cats fuck with more rhythm,’ and that would be that. But now? Now we’re led to believe WE CAN DO ANYTHING!

Setting your mind to do something will not guarantee success, no matter what the overstuffed shelves of the ‘Self Help’ section (an oxymoron when you think about it) of your local bookshop will tell you.

The bogan philosophy of The Secret caters to this idea of we can do anything – without trying that hard. Just thinking about it is fine. Ask the ‘Universe’ (but not god, because, you know, an all powerful faceless force is a crazy idea!) and it will provide it. Believing in this sort of claptrap is fed to morons who think there’s a shortcut to fame and fortune - and how does that turn out for them? Check it out here and here.

Even working your arse off, making sacrifices and being one minded will not guarantee success. It takes all this, plus talent, plus connections, plus a hell of a lot of luck. Even then there’s no certainties.

I think society should calm down a tad. Yes, striving for goals is a brilliant and noble pursuit. But realising your limitations is just as valid. That way, you can pursue other interests, other goals. Imagine if Hitler had kept up with his painting because no one tapped him on the shoulder and told him he wouldn’t be the next Monet. If they did, we would never have had World War Two.

Wait, did I just kill the argument?

Crap.

Forget I said anything. Just go back to watching midget porn....

Strange Lunch

2009-10-23T14:49:00.000+11:00

Bonus post this week – just because I can.

While we’re at it, everyone knows I’ve cut down to one post a week haven’t they? It used to be every Tuesday and Thursday, but is now Wednesday. The reason being a few – well, one is kinda obvious, I’m going to be a new dad next month (it sounds scary when I say it that way), I’m doing some other writing projects (as well as sending Red Mist ‘out there’) and I’ve just started a new job. Phew. So for the foreseeable future, it’s down to once a week, besides today, er, obviously.

I had three weird experiences at lunch today. Which is odd, as I usually only have one and a half.

1. I was walking in busy lunch hour traffic down Queen street in Melbourne and a bloke turns to me and starts talking. He obviously thought he was talking to someone else who had stopped walking next to him some ways back. The irony being when he turned to me he was saying, 'It just seems like you don't listen...'

2. I stepped in the lift in my building, a woman and a bloke jumped in separately. He looks at her and says, 'Gees, it's like everyone in this building is pregnant at the moment'. He turns to me and asks, 'You're not pregnant are you?' When I told him my partner was and he looked a bit dumbfounded.

3. Once the woman exited on a lower floor, the same guy looks at what I'm carrying. He sees I'm holding a bag of my yearly reminder of why I don't eat McDonalds. He nods to it and asks, 'That an Angus burger?' I say that yes it is. He nods and says, 'You know, I invented that three years ago. I hope you enjoy it.' With that, the doors open and he got out.

They’re not necessarily the most interesting stories ever, but the fact that they occurred within minutes of each other kind of did my head in a bit.

Super Guy

2009-10-21T06:46:00.000+11:00

Super Guy wasn't always super, once he was just a Guy. His mother always told him he was bound for great things, he didn't believe her. Partly due to the fact that while he possessed great physical prowess and skill, he was clumsy and liable to fly into fits of rage that startled children and small animals. The second reason was that he secretly harbored the dream of being an accountant. One day his mother delivered the devastating truth to him, Guy was the descendant of the last Super Guy and the original Super Guy before him, and on this day, his 18th birthday, he himself was to become Super Guy.

Now, the legacy of Super Guy was well known in Capital City. For 70 years Super Guy had been saving the human race (mainly Americans though), damsels in distress and small fluffy white kittens. He defended truth, justice and Coalition of the Willing’s way. With his red cape, white shirt and nifty tie, Super Guy Mk III was unleashed upon the world. His first nemesis was the Avenging Frog which he dispatched with little effort and even less skill. Over the next few months he faced off against the most evil criminal minds in Capital City - the Larrikin Leaper, the Tyrannical Tickler, the Arachnophobic Archer, the Solicitously Succulent Solicitating Seducer, the Human Ping Pong Ball - and defeated them all. Sure, there was some undue maiming, several buildings happened to fall down at inopportune times and a whole suburb went missing for a few days, but overall Super Guy III was living up to his moniker.

All was good until Super Guy faced one adversary he could not defeat. Lawyer Man. Lawyer Man slapped a class action writ on Super Guy so long they had to change three printer cartridges to printing it out. Amongst the list of accusations in the class action were –

Operating within the limits of Capital City without a class four superhero qualification,
Flying drunk without a license,
Illegal demolition of a building with unauthorised heat ray,
Local ordinance breach section 14A subsection B stating super villains shall not be detained on federal land for more than 24 hours,
Hurling cattle into path of oncoming destructo ray,
Impaling the super villain Kieser Von Nasty on the Capital City spire,
Jaywalking (47 counts)

Lawyer Man was a devious and malicious villain, the likes Super Guy had never fought. His powers were useless against him. In the end he succumbed to the inevitable. Super Guy hung up his tights and his socks (that were in the tights). He went into the only other job that could give him a sense of power and authority over his fellow citizens, a job whereby his unfettering sense of right could hold sway over the population, while his unrivaled supremacy would be so absolute that none could question it - he became a parking officer.

The end.

The Potato Salad Story

2009-10-14T06:40:00.000+11:00

Folks, I’ve been blogging on this ’ere internets for 18 months and over 200 posts – and I have an apology to make. I don’t often apologise, so listen up. I’m sorry because I’ve never told you the potato salad story. What’s the potato salad story? Just sit right back and you'll hear a tale,
a tale of a fateful trip...no wait, that’s another story. Here’s the potato one...

A few years ago I travelled a lot for work, spending a good third of the year all around Asia. At the start of this particular little story I was in Malaysia. The Malaysians are fantastic people, I love going there. On this day I arrive at the airport, ready to fly home when I spy a gentleman in a full spittle-flying rant at the taxi drop off point. This little seedy gent was at the airport with two women who were in head to toe burkas under the hot hot Malaysian sun. Between rants he ordered them around to lift all the heavy baggage while he did nothing but preen himself and brush dust from his cheap polyester suit. If I’d given it much thought I would have decided to not like the guy, but as I was just walking past to check in, I didn’t give him a second thought. I should have.

A couple of hours later I sat in my allocated seat on the plane. Along comes a family who sit next to me and I say 'hello' which I tend to think is a customary greeting – I’m odd like that. We all give each other smiles. The husband says goodbye and heads to another part of the plane as he couldn’t get seats next to his family. The gentleman that I am, I suggest he take my seat and I'll sit wherever he was going. A chivalrous act enabling the family unit to stay together. Dr Karma must have been out for a curry, because who should I end up sitting next to? You guessed it – the little seedy guy from Act 1. Oh joy upon joy. My lower intestines danced a little jig of happiness (don't know why, they have a mind of their own sometimes).

OK, slight digression. Been to the cinema before? Stupid question. I don't know if it's a bloke thing or what, but I like to have the arm rests. It's just one of those things. I don't know if it's a throw back to the whole hunting and gathering instinct or what, I just have to. Little seedy guy must have attended the same classes.

So it started.

During the flight, as soon as one of us moved, the other slid in to take the prized place on the battlements of our little war. He'd place his entire arm over the rest, then he'd scratch himself (something he did often) to find my arm in the place previously held by his hairy appendage. Yes I know it's petty. Yes I know I'm in my thirties and should know better. But you’re forgetting one important point. I’m stubborn and ok, I might have been enjoying myself because he was taking it far too seriously. This little tete-e-tete continued over the space of several hours. Well, you have to do something to entertain yourself for 8 hours. All of a sudden his jacket appeared covering all the controls for my TV. 15 love he thinks - I could see it on his little smug face. When the hostess served drinks I ask her if it was possible to put the gentleman's jacket up so it didn't get ruined. 15 points to Dave for cleverness, 15 for karma, let’s call it 15/30.

He knew he has challenger on his hands, so he ignored our game and progressed to abusing his wife in front of their kids. Nice guy. I knew he was a dick, now the rest of the plane knew it too. At one stage I actually thought he'd hit her. Probably an overreaction, but I wasn't sure. My manoeuvre to defuse the situation? I asked them all to move while I went to the toilet. When I came back all was quiet - except his sodding jacket was back. Bastard. 30 all.

So we continued with our little merry arm rest battle. He became more forceful as the flight went on. He began subtly nudging me, then he was virtually punching me with all his might to remove my arm. During the flight he'd also done petty things like not handing over trays when I was in the middle of 5 seats. Sneezing in my direction without covering his mouth. I'd had enough. The arm rest thing, the jacket, the abuse of women, his attitude, everything.

My revenge? Potato salad.

To be more precise, potato salad in his jacket pocket when he wasn't looking.

Game set and match Dave.

Lessons learnt -

Don't piss me off.

Don't subjugate women.

Don't ever challenge my arm rest strategies.

And finally don't leave me alone with a jacket and potato salad - ever.

Can we all just agree?

2009-10-07T06:44:00.003+11:00

Individuality is vital for any society to thrive and evolve. It can define us or it can inspire us. It can create doorways into hitherto unknown destinations (it can also make us use the word ‘hitherto’ for no good reason). However, sometimes, just sometimes, people go too far. Occasionally an act, a trend or an idea can be universally accepted as complete tosh. I’m not one to quash individualism, far from it, but people, really, can we all agree on the following?

Wearing a hoodie in the supermarket or while driving does not make you look cool. It makes you look like a knob.

Perms were a bad idea and should never be allowed to see the light of day. It seems everything from the 80’s has come back at some stage (syth-pop, toys, movies, TV shows) but the permanent wave thankfully isn’t one of them. Talk to any women who lived through it, they’re thankful the perm has stayed in the 80’s – I only wish we could say the same for Daryl Summers.

Anyone wearing sunglasses inside or at night is a git. A pretentious posing git. There’s no UV rays. There’s no sun to protect oneself from, so there’s no reason for it, besides thinking they look badass. Which, of course is as factual as a Chinese government press release. Alright, Stevie Wonder and Ray Charles get a pass, but only because they’re geniuses.

If we can see a blokes undies they need to pull up their dacks. I don’t care what the ads tell you guys, having the top of your jeans somewhere around the scrotal area is just plain stupid and gravitationally inept. Stop it now because in five years you’ll wake up smacking your forehead and you’ll realise what a knobjockey you were. In the meantime you’ll save the rest of us from seeing your skidmarks.

Saying ‘taxi’ when a drink is spilled at a party was amusing from June 1984, right though to October that year. Time to give it a rest and be original.

Repeatedly hitting the button on the traffic lights will not make the lights change any faster. No really, it won’t. So if you can please stop annoying the rest of us it would be most appreciated.

While we’re all agreeing, can we also agree that this is just four kinds of awesome?

Got anything to add to the list guys? Any universal truths people need to know?

Reasons to distrust someone

2009-09-30T06:39:00.001+10:00

Being an optimist, I like to view people in a positive light. Because of this, making a decision to not trust a someone is a big call. People are complex, multilayered and can change over time - so it is best not to judge too quickly. They can also steal your wallet, sleep with your partner and run over your dog. In that order. So, sometimes there are good reasons for the lack of trust. Besides the obvious (the aforementioned thieving, cuckolding and Rover-over-running) are there indicators that we should be aware of that would flag a person with a label of ‘not to be trusted’? Can there be a simple set of rules that, when broken, tells us this person should be viewed with caution? And probably from a distance?

For example, I thought of ‘people who don’t read books’ but I have plenty of mates who’s reading only extends to bus timetables and blurbs describing the dislikes of Ralph girls. One mate in particular has read one book his entire adult life and that was the autobiography of the footballer Greg Williams. But as he’s the kind of guy if you called him up at 2am and said you needed help he’d be there without a question - that was out.

Having given it some thought, I think there are some universally uniform rules that would put an individual on the ‘not to be trusted' list. Such as:

People with no sense of humour. There’s something inherently untrustworthy about those who don’t laugh, or worse still, only laugh at others in pain. Something in a going-to-murder-you-while-you-sleep-with-a-rusty-lady-shaver-then-wrap-you-in-plastic-bin-liner-and-drive-around-with-you-in-the-boot-while-dressed-as-Margaret-Thatcher-and-dump-your-body-in-a-camping-site-to-be-eated-by-wild-badgers kind of way. Maybeit's just me....

People who don’t return waves from small kids waving at them on the train, car, etc. I’m not talking about the smart-arse teenagers on school busses showing off to their mates, no, I’m talking the genuinely thrilled kids who wave like their arms about to fall off and with a face of excitement and expectation. Only a truly heartless bastard would choose to crush a childhood like that. That’s how parking officers are born.

People who say they don’t like Hugh Jackman. Seriously, who doesn’t like ‘Our Hugh ’? Nazis, that’s who. And maybe anyone who’s been punched by him in a pub – but that’s it.

People who don’t say ‘bless you’ when someone sneezes. I’m not religious. I don’t actually want to bless anyone. OK, maybe Kyle Sanderlands, but only to see him burst into flames. It’s just a common courtesy that conveys, in a roundabout way, ‘I hope you’re not going to die from the plague any time soon’. Those that choose not to say ‘bless you’ are basically hoping you’ll die, probably horribly, maybe something to do with yachting. They’re to be viewed with suspicion.

What about you dear reader? Any red flags for you? Let us know. And remember, as Finley Peter Dunne said - “Trust everybody, but cut the cards”.