sojourn

ageing young

2008-08-31T19:29:00.003+10:00

Here is a boy. His name can be Todd.
Todd is not unique, but we will use him as a vessel to explore a world not unlike our own - not unlike, but completely different: Backwards. Not in a way that doesn't make sense, or is illogical, or that has missed the point somewhere, but backwards in the literal way. Every hour of every day of every week works in reverse to ours.

Todd lives in this wonderful world. He is 30 years young and feeling better than ever. At birth, he had all the wisdom of a century-liver, and all the wrinkles. Oh, don't worry, he wasn't born in the usual way, he just came to be. Use your imagination here - perhaps he came from the ground or awoke one day as a pre-made being. Nevertheless, Todd enjoyed his undoing all the burdens of arriving. Over time he lost the bad - and the good - aspects of being old (by our system). Arthritis became less of a problem as he aged (remember, he ages backwards). Defects of the mind, too, were less frequent and less troublesome - Todd actually had amnesia, and lost that when he was 10. Although he had little memories to have not know by this time. Even so, he began to imagine a future from what little he knew.

At 30 Todd knows the vanity of the world. People everywhere trying to look old, trying to beat young. At such an age, Todd was in his prime, though he knew what time does to you: eventually you become too young to have memories, too young to think; too young to take care of yourself. You could try and beat it, but the finish line would always be there when you succumbed to the inevitable.

We might wonder how a world would be, and how we could experience it. If it is a mirror of our own lives, we must consider the similarities: Though in Todd's world you don't age, but become young, you still degenerate to a point of being unable to fend for yourself.

For us, we become old men and women. We desperately cling to our youth and constantly try to defy our own existance.
For Todd, he becomes young.

We can wonder whether he becomes physically young as well - does he shrink and lose hair? Is becoming younger better than becoming older when you lose the same advantages in reverse ways?

Either direction has but one master: time. Time giveth and time taketh away. Though we might mark it and think we are the masters of such an eternal concept, we are mere slaves. Time has the patience of a universe, and will always win.

Todd, despite having the novelty of getting younger as he lives, still suffers in the same way. Though I do not think he can hold on to an extra year through exercise, as we do. I think Todd has his timeframe decided already.

Perhaps everyone in Todd's world begins their life with amnesia, so they do not remember that they have already lived before and what they are living now is but a flash in a single moment before their little candle is snuffed out by the breath of time. At 10, Todd may have become privvy to this, though desperately wanted to go back to the beginning.

We don't know, for we have yet to go there - we have yet to experience the last moments in our own minds. Consider the past, at least your memory of it, a chance to grow backwards.

- P

Yet as an eternal audience looks on
And you take your final bow on the grandieous stage
One thing is sure - as clear as crystal:
For all your wise words and all you have heard,
From every short step and long-deep breath
You can almost forget your age.

she drives me crazy

2008-05-04T00:24:00.002+10:00

Feminists and bad drivers. Two seemingly unrelated topics that have somehow come to a crossroads. And by somehow I mean I have forced them together for the sake of this post, much like how we're forced to share the roads with people who forget they are controlling moving tonnes of metal.

So, there I was cruising through the web, when - as what happens - I took a turn into Feminist Street: A forum full of angry, delusional females. I know; it sounds harmless and somehow normal, but these particular females were insanely aggressive to anything that doesn't wear a bra. Actually, they are just insanely aggressive toward anything.

Their posts are eerily well written grammar and spelling wise, though the convoluted nonsense to be read negates any impression of intelligence. Oh sure, they appear smart with large words and bitter cynicism, but really the lack of common sense pollutes every word. It's almost a cult following, this forum: They refer to society ("ruled by men and designed to degrade women") as the Patriarchy, or the P, for those in the know. When I say 'refer to' I mean in every fucking post. To them, everything is because of the patriarchy.

Assumptions are everywhere and the hard facts seem to ride in the backseat - no, the boot, or maybe a trailer left behind. From the thankfully brief (as amusing as it was, my head begun to hurt from the sheer stupidity) encounter I broke down the process of how the threads work:

1. Someone points out something inane and makes it appear as if it specifically targets women and proverbially demands they get back in the kitchen or so help them
2. Every reply agrees; with the word "patriarchy" thrown in like some kind of Borg movement
3. Pitchforks are handed out, as well as torches
4. The cause becomes justified and the sheer audacity of everything produces snarls and scowls
5. Hypocritical closing statements are thrown in - 'it's disgusting that there's violence and degradation to women in this inane something... I want to kill all men'

To this cult group of angry women I say: Please do not have children.

Now, the bad drivers of yonder! Where I live and drive, the most common form of bad driving stems from the following:

- Giving way, or rather, not giving way. Screw waiting for traffic, they can wait for you! Screw traffic all together: you own this road.
- Indicating, or rather, not indicating. Keep people guessing right? Look out, you're moving your tonnes of metal this way. Ha! I didn't expect that!
- Speeding. Because heaven help you get to the red light behind someone.
- Driving slow. Yes, it is bad on this end too. Look, your caution is the right idea, but there is a speed limit 50 other cars want to get to. Congestions equal frustration equals chaos.
- Car Parks. What lines? Review mirror? I like going backwards while not looking. Do it all the time without my car!

The easiest way to be a good driver is to remember this: Don't drive your car in ways that you wouldn't walk.
What I mean is, you don't run from shop to shop or weave between people in a building at speed. You don't walk in front of traffic knowing that you are going slower and it will catch up...
You don't cut in front of a car.
You don't walk backwards without looking and if there's a line, you adhere to it.

Also: Pay attention while driving! Tell your passengers you are not involved in their antics because you have a large moving object to control. Don't answer your phone! STOP THINKING YOUR CAR IS MAGIC AND WON'T BECOME A DEADLY WEAPON IF YOU DON'T USE IT PROPERLY.

Rant: Over.

- G

no little poem today
just these words to let you know
oh shit, I've done it anyway
okay, it's time to go!

department of Qs

2008-04-12T21:39:00.004+10:00

So it's a common fact that, worldwide (except maybe in Qatar), the department of transport office (or whatever it's named in your 'hood) generates the slowest cues known to man. They are deceptively short - you see a 'few' people sitting down and some brave souls standing along the perimeters, arms and ankles crossed, all staring up at the all-knowing interchanging number screen. Surely this time my number has to be called, they all think. But no, F156 wins the place (though that person at least got their number).

I decided to by-pass this and wait at Register 2, to the left of the door. My chances of being served were slim and I knew it was out-of-procedure, but I refused to be a minion of the all-knowing number screen. I would not conform so easy!

After several minutes that seem like hours, a lady asked me in a polite tone if I was being served. I just wanted to renew my license, so I said that. Wrong answer. To the ticket machine I go, to become another slave for the all-knowing screen. I should have pretended I was a chosen one.

Several thousand more hour-minutes went by while I lean against a bench next to a few other minions, all of us waiting and staring like brainwashed religious converts.

"Ticket number: A.1.4.9., please report to: counter 10."

The sweet, monotonous tone over the speakers, like some propaganda machine, aroused the hopeful attention of anyone listening. Never will you see a person move with such haste and readiness than you do at these places. Calling their name would fail to inspire the same instantaneous reaction. These people jump out of their chairs - or off the wall/bench - to where they're directed.

"Ticket number: A151, please report to: counter 6."
"Ticket number: B678, please report to: counter 2."
"Ticket number: F549., please report to: counter 10."

It skips numbers. The audacity; the conditions stated clearly! I was number A160. My ticket would be called at some interval between A151 and A164. It made no sense that A151 would go before A150, since the counters are capable of handling any service.

I waited.

"Ticket number: A158 please report to: counter 2."

The tone continued over and over. It was like a train station; a hellish, confined train station that took you nowhere. You weren't there out of choice, oh no, you're there because the law - the true power behind the all-knowing screen - makes you.

A160, my number - "my" - was called at last and I proceeded to counter 3, which was a whole one meter from my leaning spot. A man was behind the counter. A probably-gay man. He took my form and took my money on behalf of the law.

I moved on to the photo seat and hardly smiled into that ominous lens.

"Look right here," the operator said.
A flash.
I'm directed to wait. I ignored my previous position in favour of a cushioned seat next to the middle. My ears were pricked for any call with a phonetic resemblance to "Greg"

And there it was. My new license. I had survived the department for now, but I'd be back. One must always return, lest they no longer travel legally. The screen watched me leave, mocking me with its now-sequential number calling.

I just nodded and make a note that in all my ID photos, I have progressively more hair.

- P

I pushed into line and saved myself time
But I never knew what I was doing
Never knew where the line was going
If I had known it led back to the door
I don't think I'd have bothered entering at all

politically correct me

2008-04-07T23:28:00.005+10:00

I have two things on the agenda tonight. The first is a short rant about the absurdity of the rights of common people to complain. By common I mean backwards. Okay, so there is (or was) an advert on TV for tampons. This isn't astonishing in any way, but this advert used a an euphemism we're all familiar with (apparently too familiar for some) to portray a certain important element to tampons. It was a good attempt at not taking a touchy product too seriously. The ad features a beaver hanging out with a young lady. They do all the things a couple would do early in a relationship: walk, laugh, have dinner and give gifts. Except the beaver of course doesn't talk and only receives a gift: a box of tampons from the lady. It makes sense.

Seems this offended some people, because it's offensive to use any kind of imagery or wording that describes something natural we're all afraid to hear on TV. First off, the offended folks claim the use of the term 'beaver' was offensive. I don't get this. Beaver was never mentioned once. It was just there, quietly going about business with the lady who seemed pretty joyful. What if it had a name like Barry? She hung out with Barry (a beaver) and gave it tampons over dinner.

"A beaver?! Oh my heavens' Lord golly gosh! She's giving a beaver tampons. What an outrageous, scandalous thirty seconds I've just witnessed. Where's that number - ah yes, on Speed-dial. Lovely dovely."

I don't really care about the ad or whether it's still circulating. I mean, it wasn't amazing, even though it beat all those incredibly hackneyed "empowerment" ads for tampons that apparently give back control to women. Face it, ladies: You're hormones' bitch.

What I do care about is how ridiculous the notion that this kind of thing is considered offensive and various action is forced. If I was the company I would send a diagram of the female reproductive system to whoever complained, with the simple note:

This is a vagina. It's real, so deal with the beaver, you sheltered, empty fool.
Ps. Penis.

There was another advert that came under scrutiny. Something to do with beer and a chick wearing a bikini, I think. Or at least it vaguely involved breasts. These offended people have issues. Their children will grow up being menaces to society because they had terrible parents and no sense of reality (rated very R).

R = heavy sex, plenty of violence, a fuckload of language and mega-gore.

By the way... highlighting an 'offensive' ad just makes it more known and earns the creator extra money and a pat on the back. Plus the company is (hopefully) laughing at you over lunch.

- P

Wait, I had two things on tonight didn't I? The second is making fun of horrible lyrics, such as the following, line by line:

Superman dat hoe
The title lets you know you're in for a butchering of ghetto English, which is a butchering of English itself. "Superman dat hoe" ... does that mean you make her wear a cape and undies outside a tight outfit?
[Chorus: x2]
Soulja Boy Off In This Hoe
Tolja this was a butchering. Seems here that soldier boy (I know, right?) is "off in this hoe" meaning perhaps that there is a hoe somewhere we're supposed to know about and he is in her, going off. Maybe 'hoe' in this sense means some kind of place, like a club.
Watch Me Crank It
Oh, but he's cranking it. Euphemism (that word again) for some sexual act or is he cranking a car? Oh! Maybe 'hoe' meant car in the last line! That fits well. He can be "off in" a car.
Watch Me Roll
Roll... this follows on pretty well. The car might need to roll before the engine fires up after he's cranked it good.
Watch Me Crank Dat Soulja Boy
Wait, there's another soldier boy! These characters need to be mentioned earlier, before we're slammed "dis" and "dat" that we're supposed to recognise. Is the car a Soldier Boy (TM)?
Then Super Man Dat Hoe
Ah, the title returns. So it is an action after all. Since the car is a 'hoe' by the name of Soldier Boy (TM), I guess supermaning would involve pushing or some other exertion likened to superman. Hm, you do look kind of like superman flying with your arms outstretched...
Now Watch Me youuu
Huh? Okay, with 'ghetto English' I sometimes allow for certain licenses. There's some strange sentences that fly at you, but it's within the ghetto realm of lingo. This line is just bad. You is not an action, and this is a serious struggle for words.
(Crank Dat Soulja Boy)
Now Watch Me youuu
(Crank Dat Soulja Boy)
Now Watch Me youuu
(Crank Dat Soulja Boy)
Now Watch Me youuu
(Crank Dat Soulja Boy)
... so the worst line is repeated and backed up by a chant to get the car started.

[Verse 1:]
Soulja Boy Off In This Hoe
Yes, we know already.
Watch Me Lean And Watch Me Rock
Um, out the car window? Does the car have hydraulics?
Super Man Dat Hoe
Right, pushing it or something again. Guess there was leaning and rocking at the same time.
Then Watch Me Crank Dat Robocop
New car! Or maybe we're all just finding out that Robocop needs to be cranked. All this time!
Super Fresh, Now Watch Me Jock
I'm getting bored of watching these things. This is also pretty weird.
Jocking On Them Haterz Man
Oh, you're jocking some haters. That's even weirder.
When I Do Dat Soulja Boy
Now it's just confusing. Are you cranking or doing this damn car? Goddamn.
I Lean To The Left And Crank Dat Dance
Now you're a cranking a dance? What dance? Why left? UGH.
(Now You)
Hm?
I'm Jocking On Yo Bitch Ass
Hey, don't go anywhere near my ass. Especially don't crank it. Seriously.
And If We Get The Fightin
The fighting? If we get it? Missing word there... only two letters.
Then I'm Cocking On Your Bitch
What happened to the homosexual urges?
You Catch Me At Yo Local Party
I wonder if Corey Worthington knows about this.
Yes I Crank It Everyday
Much cranking indeed. Them cars don't seem to have very good engines.
Haterz Get Mad Cuz
"I Got Me Some Bathin Apes"
...

[Chorus x2]

[Verse 2:]
I'm Bouncin On My Toe
I can't be bothered writing anymore
Watch Me Super Soak Dat Hoe
But some innuendo is in there. I guess it involves a money shot
I'ma Pass It To Arab
And then this makes it weird.
Then He Gon Pass It To The Low (Low)
... and it doesn't stop there
Haterz Wanna Be Me
Mm, because there's bitches to be cocked, cars to be cranked and bitch asses to be jocked.
Soulja Boy, I'm The Man
Soldier boy.
They Be Lookin At My Neck
Of course
Sayin Its The Rubberband Man (Man)
Lame.
Watch Me Do It (Watch Me Do It)
Again with the watching
Dance (Dance)
Blah blah blah
Let Get To It (Let Get To It)
Blah blah blah
Nope, You Can't Do It Like Me
I really have no idea what "it" is at this stage. Unless "it" means write lyrics, in which case this line is both wrong and right. Wrong because the lyrics are terrible and right because a bunch of bathin' apes could do it. But I think "it" means the dance that is mentioned somewhere
Hoe, So Don't Do It Like Me
Trust me, you need not worry
Folk, I See You Tryna Do It Like Me
That was a muscle spasm - sorry.
Man That Shit Was Ugly
Your face is!

That was pain. I was truly brain dead by the end - thinking, in a zombie-state: When does it end?

Oh, and the lamest thing about the entire song is the video. This soldier boy claims to be the real deal with his dance (TM), and yet the clip is filled with people doing the exact same dance without error. Go figure.

- G

lyrics are fun
but often not well done
so we can all write songs
and pretend to smoke bongs
when really we just fail English
and insult fish

real life chat room

2008-04-01T22:32:00.002+10:00

It's a common belief that, as with many atrocities, 'flaming' (also known as 'dissing' or disrespecting) was born and still thrives on the wonderful anonymous world that is the Internet. But it is not so.

Go into any public restroom and you'll find that this flaming business is as old as, well, public restrooms. There's the ancient "woz 'ere" that has stood the test of time (from, I imagine, 6t9 to 9t9 and then '00 to '08). But these simple messages weren't alone in bathroom stalls; many phrases, poems, discrete invitations, propaganda and blatant racism and vulgar language resided with them (and still do!)

Ignoring everything else, a question needs to be asked about these toilet 'forums':

Who takes a pen into a fucking toilet?

It makes sense to have a pen in a toilet conveniently because, I don't know, maybe it's a work day and you happen to keep a pen or two in your pocket... and your company doesn't provide its own staff facilities...

Okay, really, who does it? I won't believe that these notes are from people who accidentally have a pen on them, get bored while doing the deeds and decide to write - because, oh! Look here, I have a pen! I might reply to this "Gangsta Boy"

NO. It just doesn't work. Standard pens aren't even used for the classy ones; they use textas. And nobody conveniently has a texta. Go ahead, try and find someone. If you succeed, you know what kind of person writes these messages, though you could have guessed by now since - wait for it - the writing is on the wall. At least now you have a visual of the person, not just a faceless lonely soul.

Anyway, back to the point: These writings are deliberate. The messages are written not because someone happened to have a pen on that day they did the deeds, oh no, they are written because someone walked into the toilet with the intention of writing something.

"Ya'll no who it is"

Yes, yes we do. And lo' it was just like the internet, mocked for its lack of spelling and dismissed as spam, by spam.

And indeed it is heartbreaking to attempt a bowl movement only to release gas*. O woe, I might call Joe for a suspicious time** and try another rhyme.

I could understand any of this if they weren't at public toilets out of the way, far from any accidental-pen-having places. Instead it's the street public toilets (or the cinemas...) where the thugluv is abundant and the overwhelming urge to communicate*** is too much.

Ugh!
Okay.
People going into toilets with felt, paint, chisels; whatever:
You.
Are writing.
In a fucking toilet.
People reading your drivel are urinating, masturbating or taking a dump (or all three).

Maybe that's why the internet version isn't embraced; it reminds people of sitting in a dirty toilet surrounded by drivel.

Thanks, T-bone from 6t9! You started this disease of abbreviation, spam, anonymous tardation and disrespect.

Glad I wasn't there.

* "Here I sit // Broken hearted // Tried to shit // But only farted"
** Many suspicious times are available from toilets; not all from Joe
*** That term is used very loosely, much like it is for forums that lost direction
**** There is no fourth star. Ever.

- G '08

retail therapy

2008-03-11T18:08:00.004+10:00

Ah, retail. What a wonderful concept. That marvelous end-of-the-line for products and middle-man between customers and production lines.

But how do you convince somebody to buy what your company sells? It shouldn't be too hard, should it, I mean they had to have wondered in with the intention of buying something. Ha! Pity that is not the case, as customers are given FTMO; Far Too Many Options. It all boils down to price. It's mostly true that expensive items are higher quality, but only mostly. You don't always get what you for. Sometimes you literally don't get what you pay for.

So, back to point. You earn a commission and you need to get products out the door. Forget morals, honesty and humanity, you have to get that dollar in your (company's) hand. Also, remember this: Customer service isn't about providing personal service, it's about making sure they spend money.

Now, to the magical method on making those buckaroos:

Basics: Start by telling your customer what the product/service is, how it works and what it's called.
Utility: Inform them what it is used for and why. Go on with its best application.
Lie: Make something seem more awesome than it is. If you don't know the real answer to any queries, this is where you pretend.
Lie more: Mention that you would definitely purchase the product/service, that your family/friend already has and that it is great.
Sell: Time's up, you gotta sell now. No price should have been mentioned until now (sure, it's labeled, but you weren't acknowledging that until you've created the image of value).
Honesties: Throw some truth in so it looks like you care. Talk about a disadvantage or two, but it make it pale in comparison to the sheer awesomeness of the product/service.
Intimate: Be a friend. You care and you're not like those other fake salesmen. Make a joke, laugh, tell them you love their eyes...
Transaction: Booya! Congratulations, you got the money and are free to run. The delicate dance is over and you can move on to the next victim, you money-vampire.

If the above method doesn't work, don't worry, it's all bullshit anyway.

- G

Commission is nice until you realise
That you're exactly like a company:
Screwing people for money.
I just want them to like me...
I shoulda been a hero.

just a short one

2008-03-06T18:27:00.004+10:00

There is a moth that has taken residence in the bathroom and toilet. It is the colour of cherry and likes to hang around doors. It just sits silently and watches. I do not know what it eats or where it goes when it isn't around (if it is ever not around...) and I do not know where it came from.

All I know is that I see it when I am naked, it is alive and it doesn't fear close contact with a naked creature a thousand times its size.

Unlike a spider behind the towels I discovered one day, this moth won't be squished into mush. It was a mercy killing of sorts for that spider.

"Why?" it said. Not afraid or pleading, just sincerely curious.

"It is better then the embarrassment of scaring someone naked and having them squawk at you until you come to the same sad end as now, by the same shoe. Go in peace, my arachnid voyeur-friend."

WHAM! WHAM!

No, this moth won't be so squished. When I don't see it anymore I will a little sad, despite the perverted nature of the bug.

Speaking of nudity, today while I squatted (bend at the knees; your back is not a crane!) to lower a boxed chair to the ground something between my legs ripped. At first, I thought it was my slacks. Thought I was doomed to spend hours walking the floors with ripped pants. A quick grope revealed it wasn't my pants, but rather my boxers underneath.

Not so bad.

- G

throw caution to the wind
as a butterfly on its wings
to find a blooming flower
or a captivated being
to share a single moment
and all that we're seeing

Black Pearl Cluster

2008-02-26T19:40:00.004+10:00

For years I have chased the elusive third Pearl of Blackness. For years I have commanded thousands of Hexics, moving them to my will and creating powerful patterns. The first Pearl, the first of the dark mysterious artifacts partly inherent in every Hexic, came to me in a vision: "Forge a Hexagon of Thirty-six Hexics thrice and be granted power to shake the very core of Hexilia."

Thirty-six Hexics, I wondered. How could a Hexagon be made with such a number? It defied maths and it defied the sacred ritual; six Hexics of the same spirit-colour banded together in a Hexagon around a lonely, different soul-colour. This caused a harmonic energy to cycle through the six and, in a dazzling display of light, all seven Hexics are fused into a Stars of Six Sides.

Six! For one Star of Six Sides I needed six Hexics in a Hexagon. If I did this six times, and no Stars connected in the forbidden patterns (to be lost in eternity), I would have used thirty-six Hexagons and would have six Stars of Six Sides. A hexagon of Stars of Six Sides - thirty-six Hexics in a Hexogon.

I knew it to be the true meaning of my vision, and thus I went forth and moved the Hexics. I was rewarded with a frightening object; an object darker than anything I had ever seen. It didn't shine bright like the Stars of Six Sides. It didn't have a colour like the Hexics; it was the absence of every soul-colour and at the same time it was all of them together. It lacked three sides. It was the very essence of Hexilia.

In my excitement I had forgotten the vision and declared myself victorious - truly my command of Hexila was unrivaled and complete.

But it wasn't so. A message tingled at my subconscious and I lost sleep. I would dream of strange things, nightmarish things: Stars merging in threes and fours; even five stars falling together and turning to getheral dust. The strange black object haunted me. It's three marks - placed on non-adjacent sides - glowed and spun. In my mind's eye it dominated every scene.

I began to descend into madness. Since that first dark object I had lost my will and my direction. Hexics merged and moved. Soul-colours blended and thrived and I couldn't fuse them. From my greatest height of achievement I had fallen over backwards into an abyss; the black abyss, made from the blackest object.

Hulic ex alic hipt a thir.

These words echoed in my mind and I understood not. But I traveled to the hills where I could seek wisdom and perhaps hide from the overbearing presence of the dark object. I couldn't outrun the blackness , but the hills gave me strength far from it; now I hungered for completion. I felt a fiery desire like nothing I had ever known.

My return was as glorious as my departure. I was half-driven mad and moving forward on a primitive and strange energy. I didn't know if it was mine or a being's more sinister.

Hulic ex alic hipt a thir.

Hexics once again moved and merged. I faded in and out of nightmares and consciosness. I didn't know who I was anymore, I just moved Hexics and fused them into Stars of Six Sides. I lost count of how many were lost to the getheral, but it didn't matter on the day I found the second dark object. By now I had started to call them Pearls of Blackness. They held the key, I knew that, but I didn't know what the key unlocked; power unrivaled or a void to Hexilia's demise. I had no idea how many I needed or what to do with them. Perhaps it was six; perhaps I needed thirty-six Stars of Six Sides in a Hexagon. Thirty-six stars, one thousand two hundred and ninety-six Hexics. Crah!

The vision came back to me in another nightmare: "Forge a Hexagon of Thirty-six Hexics thrice and be granted power to shake the very core of Hexilia."

Three.

I was one Pearl from ending this maddening journey, for better or worse I didn't care anymore. I wanted an end. It consumed me. My will wavered, but the two Pearls I had called forth imbued me with unreal energy. An energy unnatural that burned inside my being. My own soul-colour had long faded into a dull grey. I had stopped thriving on the moving of Hexics. No longer was it a satisfying ritual to fuel my being and, thus, Hexilia.

Dull darkness clouded every horizon. The hills in the distance where I had come back from were hidden by a shadow. Would the symbolic merging of three Pearls of Darkness be the promised power or the dark doom? Would I shake the core to its demise?

Could I? I could. Why... thirty-six Hexics in a Hexagon of Stars of Six sides thrice and the power... the power... would be mine. I had but one final Pearl of Darkness to summon.

Although my own essence was depleted, I began to utilize the power of the two Pearls I had invoked. They were joined now; I discovered their separation caused a rift that sucked the colour from a soul, as the Pearls sought each other out. Hungered for a trio.

I awoke on what I shall call the final night. Prepared myself with everything I had left inside and out of me. Every Hexic was my essence; every Star of Six Sides and, unnaturally, every powerful Pearl of Darkness.

"If not this, then never it will be," I told myself. Grey colour peeling away, black dots appearing.

A wind hummed in my ears, though nothing moved. All soul-colours mingled in the air and gravitated towards the two black voids connected by their glowing shards. The stillness was like a collapsing sky, heavy and foreboding. I felt the Hexics in my mind, and felt them move to my will in a final dance. It was as if they spoke, in whispers, of their great puzzle.

Hours passed and not a sound escaped my lips. I had to squint my eyes to conserve energy. As the Stars formed and moved together in a Hexagon, the mix of colours in the grey mist was almost beautiful to gaze upon. I felt tired. Content. But not finished.

The final Star of Six Sides came to be and, in an exhaustive effort, I moved it to the others, finishing the Hexagon, and moaned as the third Pearl of Darkness appeared. Its dark, voiding energy, sucking the last colours from the world. I fell to my knees, at the limit of my essence, and closed my eyes. The two Pearls together created a powerful attraction to their third as all three attempted to connect.

I felt three red Hexics call to me and I moved them together. They merged and the Pearl of Darkness fell into their space, closer to the pair. Close enough now.

On hands and knees and willed two more Hexics - I felt them faint and weak, but together strong enough - to move the voidious Pearl to the others. With them so close, their dark energy was localised and the draining was less powerful.

I collapased before they connected, but then rose to kneel once they hit. The world rumbled and a blazing light shot in all directions. I was blinded for those few seconds. Knocked backwards by the burst of energy and shaken by the rumbling. Every soul-colour flowed like a river through the air and fused itself with me. I was lifted high into the sky and felt the Hexics fade away. The Pearls of Darkness expanded as the colours poured out and the world shook and I was filled with the most powerful energy ever felt.

Moments later I exploded in colours and the grey, rumbling world was filled with it. For those seconds I understood the true meaning of beauty. Then I fell.

I fell the full distance I had been lifted. Into the black void that swallowed me and disappeared. I do not know what happened inside that dark place, but I did awaken later. To a different world. I felt light and full of... power.

I wasn't confused. Knew it was the Pearls fused with my essence. I was everything Hexilia was. Powerful, all-being. I understood, even as I looked to a tree and noticed it wasn't jaggered or straight-edged, but rather curved and round. I understood the change.

Now the world is round once more.

I am Hexulu, Champion of Hexic and Lord of Hexilia.

- G .|

Thirty-six Hexics in a Hexagon thrice
Six Star of Six Sides in a Hexagon thrice,
Black Pearl Cluster the world a-tumblin' down
Awaken to circles and curves
Ah, but the power you've earned
O Lord Hexulu

fish in the sea

2008-02-18T20:59:00.006+10:00

We've all, at one stage, been part of a big business. It might have been a franchise chain, or a full-fledged conglomerate. You know, the kind of behemoth company that owns everything and anything, related or not, and the unwary consumer doesn't realise that their preference for one brand over another (and the subsequent arguing for it) is meaningless, since both brands are owned by the same company.

That is why it makes sense to have certain hierarchies in large companies. It's obvious that a small group of boardroom-dwelling obese men don't know much about any of the products any of their brands sell. They just make the big important decisions: "Is it time for a payrise?"

The other decisions are delegated down a chain, which comes to an abrupt stop at what is affectionately known as "store level." Most chains are something like this, but I've taken the liberty of modifying it to meet Modern Cynic Standards (MCS).

As you can see, "Peons" take up the largest area. This is because there are more of them than any other type in the organizational chain. As with any majority, they are favoured the least, ignored and misunderstood. For large business to shine, it is minority rule.

That's right: The decisions have to be made by small groups, who are elected by larger groups, all of whom are equally greedy. You may notice there is no Quality Control in there anyway. Some companies may have it, but in general it's a waste of resources. It doesn't matter what's made or how good it is, as long as it sells. See, by time it reaches the boardroom it's just part of a ridiculous figure; it works like a giant filter where everything impure and lumpy is sifted until it becomes money.

As a "Peon," you might know more about the store and the products and what policies are illogical, but it doesn't matter, because at the top somewhere, someone earning more than you decided it was a good idea without testing to see if it was, in fact, a good idea. Thus, big changes that make no sense or are impractical occur and are expected to be implemented, despite the obvious lack of practicality.

On the flipside -this is where it gets a little amusing - when the minority groups attempt to make contact with the majority, they are met with cynicism and snarls. The reason is because the attempts at contact are limited, brief and infrequent. Distance between shit-kickers and the board may as well be the distance from Earth to Neptune; where it's cold and lifeless, save for pockets of money.

As a result, when the surveys are sent around (because human contact is considered dangerous), nobody cares anymore and, thanks to years of neglect, nobody believes anything worthwhile will come of it. Not to mention the simple fact small fish like to pick on much larger fish.

Now that the very basics of peon versus rich moron have been covered, let us conclude: The entire chain is simply a series of assholes compounding on each other until the abrupt end at store level where the Manager, on top of being the biggest asshole, becomes the most hated, since he is the closest and easiest to hate.

- G ζ.

I've got a monkey on my back
And I just can't shake it
"Give it a banana!"
But the monkey won't go away

flag fall

2008-02-08T17:38:00.000+10:00

The front page of yesterday's paper featured an amazing feat in Australia sports: The socceroos (soccer team, obviously) beat Qatar in a crushing 3-0 game.

Wait... Qatar? That's a country with a world-class soccer team?

Not to say the socceroos are awe-inspiring, being a mostly European-based team with a foreign coach. I don't think any part of the team is even Australian. Apparently we can't play soccer, although we did qualify for something in the last World Cup - made it to an actual game or two outside the qualifying rounds. Woo! (?)

Anyway, I did some extensive research and discovered that Qatar is a little country attached to Saudi Arabia like a tumor growth. It looks as if it was an after thought - maybe the Earth, when it decided to shift continents around, had some spare pieces doing nothing and figured a game of pin the country on the other country was needed.

It's an interesting country: Most of the locations (cities, I imagine) have names that start with "Al" and even includes places called "Umm Bab" and "Umm Said." No joke. I can imagine conversations between travelers who got lost and ended up in Qatar (because, you know, you wouldn't plan to be there. Unless there was a soccer game on).

Traveler1: How the fuck did we end up in Qatar?
Traveler2: Umm No Idea
Traveler: Well, Al Just Find n Airport
Traveler3: Ar Good Idea!

I apologise for that terribly terrible joke. Unless you laughed, in which case: Shame on you (you are awesome).

Now check out their flag.

It's white and maroon with some "teeth" connecting the two colours in a mind-bending display of creativity. Okay, so flags aren't usually the canvas for Da Vinci-like art, but you have to at least try. You know, add symbols to identify and capture the jist of your nation (or make you remember who owns you) or something.

Here's an actual description of the flag (from the site linked above):

"The flag of Qatar was officially adopted in 1949.

The story goes that Qatar's original flag used an unstable red dye, and the relentless sun faded that red into a shade of maroon, and that color is referred to today as Qatar Maroon. The toothy edge between the maroon and white fields, and the flag's width, helps to identify it from that of Bahrain's flag, a Gulf State's country that it was formerly associated with."

It became official after WWII. I wonder if the country has a military...

So, the story is that someone dyed the original flag with "unstable red dye" and the "relentless" sun turned it into maroon. No, Qatar maroon. Ugh. That reminds me of the ridiculous names they have for colours everywhere. Tulip red. Funky pink. Some other noun/adjective/verb + colour.

And the toothy edge is, get this, to distinguish it from Bahrain's flag. Apparently Bahrain had the same trouble with unstable red dye. Is their maroon called Bahrain maroon?
At least we'll have no trouble identifying which flag belongs to which country, thanks to the unique and clever use of zig zags!

It's like Qatar is saying "Gulf State? Ha! We don't associate with them anymore. Zig zags, bitches!"
Or maybe al bitches.

Remember I'm also making fun of Australia here (the soccer team at least) - we had a crushing victory over Qatar, a country with its own version of maroon and no longer part of the Gulf State. Apparently that's reason to declare awesomeness. Is Qatar laughing, because they only lost by three goals?

I'm sorry to make fun of you Qatar; you're not the only country with a boring flag. You just made headlines and appear to be an after thought attached to Saudi Arabia (at least women can legally drive in Qatar). And I guess you have some potential.

Speaking of flags, what's up with flags for races of people - or do only indigenous Australians have one? I thought about it today. Doesn't make sense. A flag to represent a race of people. Isn't that a bit exclusive and contradicting the whole "equality" thing? I mean, you can't ever consider it your flag unless you are part of the race who it represents. In the case of Australia's Aboriginal Flag it is red, black and yellow. The black is above the red (important) and the yellow is a circle in the middle. It means: black people walk the land and the sun is all-reviving.

So, like, the white version could be the same, except the top colour would be white. But that somehow wouldn't have the same, nod-inducing meaning. Yeah, that's so true to the spirit of indigenous people. Such culture!

Oh noes, racism!

Anyway, Qatar lost to the European Australian soccer team.

- G ζ.

Represent, represent
Your people must be recognised
As an entity of equal
But for all their sins
You must repent

careering

2008-02-04T17:32:00.000+10:00

What do you want to be when you grow up?

It's the question, apparently, that is important when you are not grown up. And talk about pressure! What does a pre-teen, or even a teenager know about what they want to be when they grow up? Sure, they have an idea - one that they believe, in their starry-eyed vision, is a simple matter of choosing. Some common choices are:

Doctor
Fireman (come on, seriously now)
Police officer
Sports champion

I never understood the allure to some of these careers. I'm not one to shoot down such ideas because, you know, sometimes these kids do actually go on to be what they said they were going to be, but the time for proof is too far down the track. I wouldn't be the one to say, "I told you so!" if they didn't do it, or "Well, gee, you sure showed me!" if they did. That kind of gamble is too long in the making. My incredible memory would forget the whole thing anyway.

Now, being a doctor isn't as glorious as it might seem to someone young enough to still enjoy Christmas for Santa (doctor also sounds important). You see, there's a long, long road to travel and it's full of textbooks and things like "study." Added to that, surviving the same amount of years as you were aged when you decided you wanted to be a doctor grants you the incredible of honor of being a walking lawsuit. You don't have the respect of earlier doctors, because in modern times everyone is apparently a medical professional and has these bizarre rights that let them be complete tools about, oh, anything. But at least you get the opportunity to save lives, right? Sure, why not. I suppose that fits in somewhere.

A fireman is a little less tedious and much less prone to lawsuits. Nobody can complain much when you've just stopped their house/tent from burning down and dragged their arses out of it. Well, I suppose they could complain if it was their workplace or school. That doesn't mean you won't be sued for something ridiculous. People can be irrational when it comes to disaster. Best to suck it up and be content knowing that you get to work with fire, and that's awesome. Failing that, if you suspect the person you're rescuing is likely to sue, don't drag them out and let the fire burn a little longer. It may sound as if I'm leaning more towards this as a career, but I'm actually not. It might appear fun to be involved with the big red truck, the suits, the super-powered hose and the alluring fires, but it's not. You're probably never not on call and you could burn to death at any moment. Even while sleeping. Fire finds a way.

Police Officers attract kids with guns, batons and authority. I know I planned on being a cop once, because the idea of it seemed pretty okay to my buddy and I. Then I discovered the internet and that, like most things, faded away. The problem with reality is that it introduces things like paperwork, policies, laws and procedures. As a law-enforcer you don't technically fight crime, you kind of just stare at it menacingly and will it to surrender. If it doesn't and you need to take action, you have to write a journal about it, then fill some more paperwork out and justify why you did something crazy like defend yourself/the people around you. Still not convinced this is the right choice for you? Nobody respects cops. They, like any employee, do their jobs. Apparently if you break the law (eg. you went over the speed limit), you have a right to complain with your buddies that it's all just a money-grabbing scheme. Because, you know, you shouldn't be punished for doing something that is considered punishable and that everyone knows about. On the amazing flip side, if you are cop and don't have the ability to sense danger and teleport to its exact location in the time it takes someone to get bashed, you are a failure and waste of resources.

The final career I mentioned is a bit generic: Sports' champion. It's a broad category and we've all, at one stage, probably decided we want to be famous. Sports seems the most reasonable pursuit of such fame. It seems good, but what you really end up doing is selling your soul to training and sponsors - Training because you have to be at your peak all the time, sponsors because money makes the world go around, even for someone jumping into a pit full of sand or chasing a ball around. You're also vulnerable to scrutiny if you are extremely good at what you do. I'm talking about the kind of scrutiny that create its own scandals. It searches so hard for something to make you look like a cheater/drug addict that illegal substances just appear in your blood and/or apartment. Right?

Once you grow up, the question turns to "What do you want to do with your life?" and usually involves earning money in less obvious ways. Maybe you want a small business selling shirts. Or maybe you're a teacher asking kids what they want to be when they grow up, knowing how you went from choosing a doctor to being a teacher. It takes you around 12 years to even get to the point of being able to pursue your career. It's like throwing someone onto a street full of distractions, crime and traffic and poor signage and expecting them to reach the place they wanted to go to. Maybe specialised schools should be introduced so you don't waste so much time learning general nonsense (like Shakespeare, come on. It's not relevant now, talented as he was in his era) that is forgotten the moment you enter the next level of education. It's all an illogical street that doesn't make sense.

It's fair enough to read this and think of me as an anti-every career guy. You'd be right, but also wrong. It's not so much the careers that make me twitch and want to say, "Good luck with that!" It's more the people who aren't what you are that make it a tiresome, frustrating and violence-inducing scenario.

For careers to be as awesome as they used to be, people's rights need to be disappear or be culled severely. I am serious. This is a serious comment. Maybe. Either way, rights are ruining just about everything. From teaching to healing to rescuing; it's all limited by the fear of being sued. And it can be for the most ridiculous thing. You've all read and heard stories about it - "Such and such sued for not being sued enough in the last year."

Talk about a cramp in progression. Actually, talk about a cramp in everything. Give any idiot the ability to gain money or power through some retarded fine print that nobody is supposed to read and we're going backwards. Excellence isn't even awarded anymore, because somebody might get upset, since they're almost always "disadvantaged."

Personal responsibility has been buried deep underground, chains and all. It's always someone or something that is to be blamed.

Racism is the most ridiculously over-used trump card. Arrested for breaking the law? Call it racism if you're anything but white. Not hired because you didn't have the right qualifications? Racism. Prejudice falls into the same area. But believe me, nobody knows prejudice like the white, married male.

I just want to know what the deal is behind giving everyone the ability to do something stupid, escape it through a mind-boggling court system and then blame something/someone else. And also, what the deal is with rights anyway. It's gone way too far now. I don't want or need so many rights, and if I do something wrong it's not going to be anyone's fault but my own.

I demand that the response to every lawsuit, complaint, cry of prejudice and anything else exaggerated, unnecessary and stupid to be: "Big fucking deal."

And maybe they get a shirt that labels them as rights abusers, cry-babies or something. See how they like that label (it's funny, actually, since most labels are given to so-called minorities by themselves and then used against everyone else).

Someone needs to go early-era iron fist on this stuff.

- G ζ.

Give the people what they want
And it's not good enough; they want more
Deny the people what they want
And eventually they'll want something else
The latter is best because it prevents greed,
Expectations and bloated rights
Too late for us, we're in the former

lucky number beddin'

2008-01-30T18:09:00.000+10:00

Remember in a previous blog I mentioned something about how the years are all the same to begin with (er, and to end with I guess)? If you don't, you're most likely not me. Or have a bad memory. If the former, that is fine, because it would be a little awkward right now if you were, in fact, me.

Even so, I did mention something about years. They start off with you being full of energy, hyped, because it's a new year and who knows what it holds? Endless possibilities, alright! But no, it's not like that. It takes the average person six months to figure that out and by then it is too late. They've already crossed the point of no return; no refund policy here. See, the problem is not that we're all doomed to go through repetitive cycles (well, actually, we are since we think we're not, because of some mysterious plan destiny has made for us). You know, Destiny is an attractive female according to myth and I suppose thinking she had a mysterious plan for us is acceptable in certain lonely hours. Oh, whoops, I digressed and continued from the parenthesis.

Back to the point: Cycles. We... years seem to repeat - not exactly of course - because we expect them not to because of some invisible force taking the reigns.

Last year faded out as most years do - uneventful, unhappy, impatient for the next. Down the hill from June/July into the mud pit. Only, just as the mud was licking my chin and tempting me down I looked around and noticed somebody else being seduced into its depths. Two things occurred to me at this point:

1. Mud is actually good for your skin and makes a decent sunscreen.
2. The pit isn't that deep and, you know, if I stood up I would easily be able to walk out and not get sunburned and have good skin and even help the other person out.

And so I did occuration two.

From there the year was exactly like lying on the ground at the bottom of a hill covered in mud with another person beside you. It was dirty, yet strangely edifying. Like the sun's rays baking the mud was infusing some kind of energy.

Energy to flex my incredible muscles, shattering the mud-skin, and run up the hill with the other muddy person on my shoulders. Halfway up they too would feel the energy and we would run further, back to the top where we look down at the pit and smile, because in those black seductive depths (actually it isn't that deep) was where it all began.

And somehow I ended up in another state with said muddy person and it was good. It was best. Three nights of real fantasy.

The next step is probably kidnapping.

- G ζ.

Ran in circles and ended up lost
In your own familiarity
When all you had to do was stop
Look around and see for yourself
That there was never a path
Save for your own steps
The journey right before you in any direction
You just never ended up starting it

welcome to fun

2008-01-22T05:12:00.000+10:00

It's 5am and I felt like posting. Does that not fascinate you greatly? It does to me. It is greatly fascinating. It is... grascinating.

My urge to post is the direct result of sitting here and going into writer withdrawals. I just sneezed, by the way, in case you're interested in that kind of "reality" TV, er... read.

What I love is making up words. Usually this means adding several words together and it's not incredibly original, or "incoroginal." But that doesn't really work. It has complications since it's just a passer-by type of mix. I could have used any descriptor to precede original. That's ironic somehow.

Snaffle!

Anyway, moving on to the next chapter:

I learned several things today... or maybe just one. That is, art and music are distracting. Creativity is apparently in danger of being outlawed from schools for being distracting. You know, to the serious business subjects. Like maths. Very integral to most of life's challenges.

I can almost imagine a bunch of rebellious kids at the back of an oval with their illicit notepads and crayons scribbling on pages and being creative. Then along come a teacher - "What's going on here?!"

The kids hurry to hide the evidence. Caught multi-colour-handed! Caught with their imagination on! The audacity. The gruff teacher rats them out and they are given detention, perhaps even suspended for their mischievous ways.

And the drug problem is solved?

Ha ha ha.

Good show old boy.

I haven't posted twice in a row like this before. It feels almost sexual, like I've orgasmed multiple times.

I mean...

Goodmorrowing!

- PG ζ.

It's true, there are only three things that matter:
Your ability to love
Your ability to find logic
And your ability to imagine these three things are all that matter

2 kilos pls

2008-01-21T18:26:00.000+10:00

It was inevitable.

"Something happened, I can't believe it."

"Isn't there a way out? We got into it... there has to be!"

"No, we're stuck. It's done and we're falling all the way."

The fall of mankind began at the most unfortunate time: When technology was flourishing and convenience was almost in everything. Every simple chore could be made easier and people became lazier. The stress was supposed to be reduced. Life was easier, it should have been a step towards some great peak of existence.

But the lazy and gluttonous nature of people took over. Man descended into a hell-pit of shortcuts, poor quality and even poorer excuses.

Language was the first casualty and it went unnoticed until it was too late. By the time anyone knew what was happening, the damage had already been done.

Automation was too ingrained. The fall was inevitable...

"lyk omg did u here?"

"na wot hppnd?"

"we fell lol woz on tha newz"

"dats no gud lol but o wel"

It was just a trend. When "phones" first introduced text chat the room for a single message was limited and letters had to be cut. It was difficult to read at best. This new breed of language began to infect everything typed. Soon, web-pages and chat rooms were full of these abominations. Even the phone messages, now unlimited by space, remain the same incoherent mutation of English.

The dreaded and all-perverted "asl" came to its pinnacle soon after. Hello was no longer a greeting, it was simply "asl" not even as a question, but rather a statement. It was if you were registering yourself to another person by assuring them you were of a certain sex, location and age. It was prone to falsehood. Forty year olds were sweet 16 and males were females. Locations were unlimited, from Abu Dhabi to next door.

Letters replaced whole words. Numbers replaced letters until in a tragic display of our demise, a horrid mutation of language was recognized by dictionaries as Word of the Year. The world ignored the fact it wasn't actually a word. "w00t" as proclaimed among online gamers since the dawn of "1337" speak also known as a waste of time typing and reading.

"w00t" that is composed of two numbers that have no sound associated with them. They are "zero" and not a viable replacement for "o." You can't say "w00t" like it was "woot."
Dublewezerozeroty.

May some omnipotent thing save us all.

- G ζ.

How do you change the world?
One thing at a time
One person at a time
And with patience incomprehensible to man

colour of fruit

2008-01-18T14:44:00.000+10:00

Orange.
Red.
Green.
Yellow.
All the colours of the rainbow are what fruits grow.

That is what makes a basket of fruit so happy and bright. That is why fake, plastic fruit exists. Nature creates these displays of colours and happiness and we mimic them because we want to capture the beauty and make it last forever.

When you eat fruit you are tasting happiness. It's a perfect harmony of flavours unmarred by man's touch, a complete natural essence borne in the great big womb of evolution.

Such a treat should not be spoiled by the label of being healthy. Healthy is the business end of food - the vegetables, the bread. Fruit is a delicacy from every horizon. In old times it was the luxury food; the rich enjoyed it while the poor wished to enjoy it.

Grapes, plums. Abiu to Ylang Ylang.

They are the ingredients and the mains. Forgetting about fruit and discarding such wonders for cheap, quick alternatives is pure foolishness!

Now for bliss: The guilt of chocolate covering the harmony of fruit.

That's happiness. Happiness is the fruit that evolves and is always bright, even in the night. It is harmony of mind and matter. The peace between rational and irrational; emotion and logic. When all seems to make sense in a grand puzzle you can't stop finishing.

You smile because you are overdosing on warm fuzzies and you laugh not because something is especially funny, but because you are so sensitive to joy. You jubilate and have the odd urge to expend a lot of energy running around or jumping up and down.

And people say you're crazy.

- G ζ.

Happiness is as big as a burden as any ill-feeling
We just tend to forget its mass
Or what happens when it falls down and crushes
Every last pocket of joy into sadness
Misery is then the weight of glee
But fret not,
For while you feel joy
You are alive

the beast without

2008-01-14T20:54:00.000+10:00

I've been walking the dog recently. "The dog" being Snaps - a name given to him from his puppy-days of snapping at feet. He's not a small dog and has already broken one collar in a mad fit to sniff trees and then urinate on them. Trees and poles actually. Okay, anything that stands up straight.

When he broke that collar he almost suicided into a car, which I believe explains his current tendency to want to chase them (or doesn't). He may just be scared and lashes out to hide his phobia of cars. But I digress: He broke his collar and ran around madly sniffing and urinating like some wild dog. If he was a wild dog, then I was his mother-dog who snuck up on him and called him out on bad behavior. Pro-tip: Scruff of the neck reminds them of being an infant and they become better behaved in an instant (it doesn't hurt or cause fear, it just brings them down a few notches).

So there I was with a large, on-edge dog with no collar. Fixing it would work since it was in pieces. Luckily I was sporting some facial hair that day and the brilliant idea of tying the leash itself around his neck did the trick. I don't imagine it was comfortable in any way, but that's the price you pay for breaking collars, buddy-o.

Now he wears a body harness that always make me laugh when I put it on. I don't really know what's funny; I guess it's a built-in amusement thing. Reminds me of those babies walking in a harness and a leash. I don't even know why that makes me want to laugh.
Walking is serious business.

I like to pretend I'm the Dog Whisperer when I take these walks around the 'hood (though I doubt he'd be super-impressed). Nevertheless it's good inspiration to have a calm, non-psychotic dog that doesn't madly sniff and urinate. Progress is a beautiful thing. If I had it written down it would be something like this:

Walk 1: Scary. Dog is crazy... what's so interesting about the grass? And what's with this street corner that makes him zig-zag? My god this leash hurts when he goes all over the place.

Walk 2: Okay, Dog Whisperer time. The grass has his attention, snap (ha!) him out of it. There we go. Now lead. Lead. This is better. Corner still causes mad sniffing. Other dogs send him off, have to work on that.

Walk 3: Collar broke. That was fun.

Walk 4: Harness is excellent. Grass is less fascinating. Street corner still strangely attractive. Trees and poles too. Other dogs still trigger reactions. Cars as well...

Walk 5: Grass mostly ignored. Stree corner still attractive. Trees and poles... oh god, loose dog. It's tiny! Okay, got him calm and submissive. Calm and submissive. Not bad, could be better. Could be worse.

Walk 6: Street corner less desirable, trees and poles not as interesting. Dogs in their yards still a bit of a trigger. Tendency to chase cars still there.

Walk 7: Dogs are the main focus. And cars.

Walk 8: Dogs and cars.

Walk 9: Hallelujah! Less tendencies to chase cars, sniffing almost completely non-existent. Other dogs only a small problem. New method found to snap (pwow!) him out of any potential red zone behavior.

I broke a pair of thongs getting him to jog with me. Turns out that road don't do nice things to cheap thongs. Lesson learned, I'll jog in the amazing technology of shoes... or joggers.

Oh yeah and I'd like to officially welcome Milo days back.

- G ζ.

Woof, woof!
Meow, meow!
And we all howl

backin' time

2008-01-07T20:18:00.000+10:00

This time last year - or rather yesterday last year - I was nursing a very large glass of vodka and lemon. The size of the glass is still intimidating and I swear it was bottomless or somehow managed to fill itself up throughout the night. It was a good start to the year. Friends and family all over the place; better than New Year's Eve celebrations. The real year begins after January 7th folks - jot that in your calendars (well, PDA since it's 2008... or maybe your phone can do it now too).

When I think of a year I picture a circle made up of all the months. As they go by they are filled in with colour and images, while the new months are grey and bare like an old man. There are those times you can't forget, like 21st parties, engagement parties; those times you remember but aren't sure exactly when it happened and things that were said but you forget why or when.

Months are either slow or fast. Full or empty.

January I was 21 and the year was looking suspiciously good like every year does. Must be because you've just come off the end of another year and you're ready for the next, until it turns out similar by the end since you're tired and waiting for the next (high hopes for next year! That's when things will change, son!). But then, that makes the good-for-365-day years even sweeter.

February I don't remember much of. Maybe I met a girl or maybe it was March. All I know is April I wasn't single and that didn't change until September. In between I became a certified driving instructor and unemployed, just like the last two years.

I learned two important things in 07's 12 months:
You can't rely on waiting for things to happen
To be someone of action requires a lot of work and a lot of resolve
Hot chicks are still hot

Okay, three things.

Australia also has a new Prime Minister, troops are still in Iraq and people are still exponentially stupid. In fact, in thousands of years we have learned nothing. Religion is still absurdly illogical and has yet to embrace the modern era of free speech, particularly in media. Companies make money off satire, wit and sex. Deal with it religion - "evolve."

It's not just religion though; it's groups of people with odd common goals that become skewed for the sake of getting attention. I can imagine the People's Movement for Woman and Christians For Mothers (and Some Fathers, Maybe) Against Little Things turning everything into controversy.

Maybe in 3008 we'll have finally figured it all out. Ha ha!

So I'm a year older and a thousand years wiser.

Good luck in the New Year people and for those still reading me, thank you. You are awesome. I love comments by the way. It gets lonely here. Like I'm standing in front of an empty room talking to myself (or the janitor who doesn't seem to ever go home).

- G ζ.

you can change the way you think
but not the way you feel
though it's strange to think the way we feel
is influenced greatly by our thoughts
and in thousands of years
we have learned nothing

graveyard shift

2008-01-03T01:19:00.001+10:00

Anyone who has read a large chunk of this site would notice most of the posts are in the 'am' of time. It's not a timezone thing, ladies and gentlefolks. I am actually posting these things at silly times. Silly to you maybe, but not to me. This is my nocturnal habit; my time, my secret to creativity.

It all begins at 1am when most people I know have moved on to sleep and I am left to my own devices as if I were alone in the neighborhood. The fan makes a silent, calm fwooshing sound, keeping me cool despite the humidity. I only hear it if I have no music playing, which is rare. Music and silence are what fuels the hidden sections of my brains - the areas that seem to be celebrating all-year round. The ideas and random thoughts remind me of fireworks that never cease.

Any writer knows what a good dose of solitude does for writing something. That's what happens beyond 1am. I get a good dose. Not an overdose to induce insanity and depression, but enough to get the fireworks into party mode. Like it was New Year's Eve.

But that's not everything. Being awake at these lonely hours is an interesting thing beyond what happens in my head. Walking around to do dull things such as getting a drink or visiting Mr. John Loo in his humble abode becomes different. You can be home by yourself during the day and it's not the same. There's too much light to create the same atmosphere and unless you live somewhere that embraces daytime naps as a community, there's usually stuff going on.

The darkness of the am times envelopes the house in a way that makes it seem as if you are shut out from the world, but not in an eery, depressing way. It's peace. Silence and undisturbed surroundings. You can't see beyond the windows and everything remains the same passive black. Not a depressive black. Not an oppressive black - passive. It's just there.

You're surrounded by this constant shade in your little zone of light that makes no sound, but there's the sounds the fan or the music - or both. The clock creeps towards later hours when the shade begins to give way to a joyous blue-grey as the sun shakes off its own sleep and greets your side of the world. You retire now and slip away to another darkness full of subconscious plays.

This is the graveyard shift: calm, peaceful, silent, dark and strangely warm. Nature's ebb is at its lowest but you're wide awake.

- G ζ.

so softly speak to me
whisper a thousand words
I will sleep
but your voice echoes in my dreams

the other left

2007-12-24T21:07:00.000+10:00

I had a thought recent enough that I haven't forgotten it yet. It came to be while I was rummaging around at the wonderful hour of 3 - morning - making a peanut butter sandwich (my usual fine dining at that time when my stomach gets needy). Turns out I am fascinated by the concept of perspective.

Look at an object, like a sandwich. Nothing exciting, but you can look at it from different angles and it changes slightly. Same deal with most things, except maybe a perfect circle? Whatever. Point is you can see it from a different viewpoint and it can be different.

That's not truly amazing in any way, but it is when you apply the same rules to ideas and thoughts - even words! Most of the time we're all too caught up in one perspective to see any other angle and that's why arguments exist. To win an argument you need to convince the opposition that your perspective and views are the winning deal. Sometimes this requires clever manipulation, such as making it seem as if you are agreeing. Beating them down with a single-minded view doesn't work. This is where stubbornness fails.

That's just a small example, perhaps as far as ideas are concerned. You see an idea from your perspective and if needed argue with that stance. Others agree or disagree, sometimes both without knowing. Then there's someone else who throws in a new idea to argue with and it gets a bit messy.

What about thoughts then? Inner thoughts. Those times when you mull over something and sink deeper into a certain pool of thought. The surface goes over your head and lose the ability to see anything outside of it. It's not until you are given - or come up with your own - a new outlook that it seems like the light shining again. That's the best way to describe that feeling of understanding, or seeing something that pulls you out of the pool: Light. Not just any light; this light has an innate ability to dissipate clouds and generate the warm fuzzies.

Naturally this process can work in the other direction, and it can fluctuate both ways. That is what goes on in my head at least. With all these perspectives and viewpoints it's no wonder why words are read differently. Not necessarily single words, but a large group of them in, say, a novel. Meaning is a matter of view and though some may appear upside-down to you, only the author can rightfully declare the true meaning. Though one who does so clearly forgot why he wrote it in the first place, and should wait until asked for profound understanding of his words.

Even so, some things should be left open to perspective, like a humble cube sitting on a table top.

But that's just my point of view.

- G ζ.

With eyes open, nothing to see
Nothing but what's in front of me
A mirror, broken and worn
Fragmented thoughts in reflection
And solving the puzzle I find
The solution, but no answer
An elaborate search for
A duplicate of me

nobody shaves here anymore

2007-12-20T16:02:00.000+10:00

Facial hair is what makes the real difference between a man and a woman. It defines masculinity! Everytime I see a girl I want to walk up to them and say, "Hey! Can you grow hair on your face?!"
Chances are they'll say "Why no you manly man, I cannot for I am just a girl!"

That's right, I can grow hair on my friggin' face. Because I'm a MAN. Shaving is for pussies too. I trust dudes with beards. If I'm at a shop and there's a salesman with hair all over his face like it's a caveman special, I'll choose him. I can look at him and know that he is dedicated. So dedicated that he doesn't even have time to shave. Not like those other clean, fake salesmen.

See, not only does facial hair mean manliness, it also means dedication, genius and creativity. You just know someone with a beard has things on his mind that you could never fathom unless you also had a beard of equal or greater value. Look at the wise old men with their foot-long beards. They know what I'm talking about because they've got it all on their face.

But the non-bearders don't get it. They can't. There's much prejudice against the unshaven man from wives to girlfriends to random people walking around. They assume you're crazy or dirty. The audacity of such a thought!

Once upon a time my car broke down and I had to walk to the nearest shop to purchase credit so my phone could be more useful (already signs of genius thanks to the facial hair I was sporting that morning). I was in an odd mood; tired, disorientated and joyous. I followed my beard's lead and happened upon a lovely old lady running a register. I shocked her with anti-stereotypes and probably made her morning better than the previous customers who apparently pulled the old "I'm a customer and you're not" trick.

I told her about my morning in a very happy, possibly drug-induced manner and we laughed and I went on my way. I thought this was great. I was the edgy homeless guy with genius behind facial hair.

More recently I was shunned. My brother got the "How are you?" and fake smile and I got the silent look. The silent look! Clearly she was confusing me with someone else or she was so overwhelmed with attraction and awe that she shriveled into a shell and could barely speak. One touch and she'd have collapsed in sheer orgasm. Or looked at me silently.

So I shaved. The world is not ready for the genius and looks. It took 2 razors - well, one and a half - to bring the bad boy down but I survived and returned to less manly attributes. Oh, but it'll be back. It always comes back.

You see, you can never destroy genius.

- G ζ.

and now sit back and decide
or enjoy the decision of others
if intentions should collide
then really it's time for another
choose once, and again
my indecisive friend

beer with me

2007-12-08T03:42:00.000+10:00

Tonight, or last night and this part of the morning, was one of those nights. You know, where it starts off shaky and you don't expect much to come of it and make plans to call it quits early, then suddenly you find yourself having too much fun and too many free drinks.

Yep, I am drunk now. This will be my first time writing anythign drunk as far as I know and I am not bothering with proofreading, so bear with me... or beer with me as the lovely titel suggests. What a night! I had doubts that I could have a night equal to or better than my brother's 18th but lo' it wasn't such a hard task. A good friend returns from overseas, I meet some strangers and remind old friends that I still live and all of me is about the good times, curls and all.

Listening to some music by Tarkan, which I'm told is just one dude, not a band. I know it's foreign and the lyrics I can't translate, but I have a theory that it doesn't matter with music - as long as you can hear the tone the tune and inflection of the words you can understand the song and enjoy it. You don't have to be able to sing it (if you do, that is still cool; I mean, I'd love to be able to sing random songs not written in English).

I need to go pass out or something. It's difficult to think of anything at this point... I'm past the point of slurring words and making up shit and have moved to the realm of wanting to sleep until the sun demands otherwise.

Peace.

- G

one for those times you feel lonely
one for those merry good folks
one for every other bloke
and the rest for yourself;
because that's the way it should be

gossiolitics

2007-11-23T23:02:00.000+10:00

Politics and celebrity gossip. Celebrity gossip and politics. The two subjects I love to make fun of, or mocketh in conversations that relateth to it.

As I drove around today (and every day leading up to tomorrow, the election) and noticed the abundance of candidate posters - spam - I came to realise that celebrity gossip is a bit too much like high school gossip: Somebody is pregnant; somebody else is in love with somebody's ex; someone is on drugs (again); somebody might be pregnant with somebody who is on drugs; somebody is in a scandal with sex and/or drugs; divorce this, marriage that - well, here it would simply be girlfriend/boyfriend in a high school society I suppose.

This disturbs me. People actually follow this kind of news religiously as if it's not weird. Imagine the same kind of observations and interest in, say, your neighbor's lives. It's not much different, save for the high school intelligence of these celebrities running around marrying and divorcing everyone from the opposite sex - everyone, that is, who is also a celebrity - and getting pregnant or not being able to or having an affair or just... doing normal flawed human things. To be fair though, your neighbor's lives aren't as messed-up, unless they're a celebrity, so there's no gross fascination or reassurance that you're doing well by watching them in headlines.

"John Doe on why he divorced Mary!"
"Thomas Jones caught smoking behind his shed! Why he did it: 'I, um, smoke?'"
"Kate and Tom at it again; Scientology SCAM"
"Top 10 'baby bump' spotters; Exclusive - these people are amazingly observant (and assuming)!"

It's a little weird and it reminds me of high school. You even have the geeks and the popular people. And the drugs. And those couples that are as confused about their relationships as you would be solving a rubix cube inside a mirror-box.

It will never die. Not even when the celebrities die - that's big news. But then, maybe it's not so bad watching these actors and actresses in their little high school play; like a car wreck: you can't look away because it's just... there.

Speaking of cars, wrecks and being... there, politicians need to relax a little on the advertising campaigns. It's a little much, especially on the side of roads. And those billboards that are towed around? Seriously guys (girls too, vaguely) - too much. It's a bit like browsing the internet with popups all over the place except you can't click them away.

Some are worse than others. Or rather, one is worse than the rest: Charlie McOverkillop. Four posters every few hundred meters is a bit intense, a bit hard to digest. She can stop traffic with that face. That's not a compliment; it just hits you four times in the time it takes your eyes to flicker over them. BAM! Oh god not her!

It's not subtle; it's shock and awe. Maybe if she gets in they go away - what if they don't? What if she's like a dictatoresque politician and starts demanding the construction of statues of herself - nay, four of them - every few hundred meters?

Let's not even think about.

Vote 1: The Dance Party - we know what you really want and even if we don't you can't say no to the rhythm (and celebrity-approved drugs).

- G ζ.

authorisedbyGregPage2007
spokenbyyourcomputerscreen
youneedtoreedthisreallyfastforthesamesubtleeffect

these things we call

2007-11-04T22:23:00.000+10:00

I've made more posts this year than the last and once again I skipped October. There still hasn't been a post in that month since 2004. That's three years for those who can count. Is that special? Not really! But this year October was to be different. I was to journey many miles for that thing we call whatever we wish.

But it wasn't so, and though it is a little disappointing, I am not bitter nor regretful because I know now that I am indeed capable of putting in the effort where and when it is needed and that there's no conspiring or spiteful concept of fate knocking over houses of cards.

I grew and learned a lot, and I enjoyed every step, every up and down and every soaring height. It was truly a peak in my life - and it's not over, oh no, just suspended you could say, for both our sakes.

I am probably not making sense to many people bar one (besides me), but that's okay. These words must be read and I have been told - nay, commanded! - by the same person to write here. I am a slave. SAVE ME.

I kid!

I have been slack in writing, I admit. My story hasn't died (the one I was working on? Or the one after?) and I have many more in my head, but I have another project on the horizon that is taking priority because otherwise I'll end up broke. Although come to think of it, Rowling was broke and started Harry Potter...

What the hell.

Alright, I'll spill some beans on these imaginary real stories. FINE. Stop begging!

The main story at this time has no title, but is about a guy called Johnny who... well, picture a roller coaster where there's a large dip and then a big rise. Before that is a tame straight. That's his life in a nutshell. Or rather, a cart.

Beyond that you'll have to keep picturing a roller coaster. I have successfully told you nothing about the story but revealed the main character's name! I am good like that, you see.

So what's my other project that's SO important I have to stop hurting brains with my writing? Well, I am to start a driving school. Not sure if it has been mentioned before, but it's the truth. This is the second time I'm decided on it, but times have changed. I am not alone now and I have a bit more motivation - I'm also armed with information, which can be dangerous.

I may appear a clown, but beneath the large shoes and baggy suit I am all genius, baby. Maybe.

That's it for now, I think. I'll do my best to update more and maybe show the big project as it comes along!

- G

Some nights I ask of a star:
"Will you shine forever?"
"Nay," they all say, "We are but mortal
Like any other."
And I know then what eternity is:
The sum of all time
But I always forget this,
So I'll keep asking forever

speech therapy

2007-09-28T01:48:00.000+10:00

I've always found it interesting how people speak differently and pronounce words in different ways, especially when they are from different countries or nationalities. It's odd how your environment can shape the way you say things. I guess we're all just parrots that want to mimic what we hear around us. I wonder if you'd make truck noises if that's all you really heard for many years (you liked the culture of trucks or something). Probably.

Anyway, I was on the phone to my beloved when we got talking about birthdays. I'm getting close to 22; I'm old she says. Yeah, well you're almost 18 missy.

Then there was laughter. She was laughing at the way I said 18: I suppose it sounded like a-dean, and I suppose that's funny when it should sound like eighteen. The funny thing is, I know how it should sound, because I usually figure how words are pronounced by the way they look. Eighteen is obviously not a-dean, and yet I say it like that. So, she's laughing at me and I repeat it for her amusement, like a circus monkey.

From there we talk about words and accents. Americans pronounce every letter, especially r. You may have noticed this when you listen to them. I think they also stretch out some endings, like yeahh, but probably not. They definitely do pronounce almost every letter as much as possible.

Like solar. Sole-arr. Not sola. Sole-arr.
Watermelon? Worterr-mal-oen.
Okay I might have stretched it a bit there, but nevertheless behold the laziness of Australians:

Battery - bat-er-e right? Wrong! Try Batchry. Yes, batchry.

Adean solea batchries thanks mate! Crikey, tell ya whadda think about it ya bloody drongo.

We Orsies (Ozzies, Aussies, Australians, Orstraliens, whatever) tend to skip letters - Sundy, Sat'dy) or get lazy and mash letters together (batchry). Butchya know wha'? I blame the early British. They send their convicts over here, which at the time is the middle of nowhere - Sidneh! - to do some in primitive little settlements and what does the world expect - we speak elegantly? The audacity, mon!

And how's this: mum and mom. The spelling and pronunciation of that word has to be one of the most debated. At least the spelling matches the pronunciation this time. It's just... different.
Ay mUm!
Hey morm.

I know my mUm says menu like minew.

Muther, mother. Father, farther. Brother, brutha, brew, bro. Yo-yo and a ho-ho.

I have an idea to settle every pronunciation and spelling debate across the globe: Just agree that the Kiwis say everything funny, especially their 'i's.

Yeh, I'll have soom feush 'n' cheups thanks brew. Seux dollahs? Man you reuppin me off brew!

As for me, I have no idea what my accent is. Sometimes I may sound like I'm from Home and Away, sometimes not (according to one source). But I couldn't even do an impersonation of an exaggerated Australian accent!

Maybe I should watch more American-made films with 'Australians' in it. By the way, it's Melbin, not Mel-born. Yes, it is spelled Melbourne, but it's our city damnit, say it like we do!

Or I'll, um, move to Sidneh and start speaking like Steve Erwin.

-G ζ.

I collect lightning in jars for a living
and I have no idea what the fuck you just said

reel fish a-fryin'

2007-09-24T16:52:00.000+10:00

Okay, so I finally got the music post out of the way. It wasn't really an update, I've just wanted to write that since about five months ago. Now that it's done I can rest soundly (pwow!) and introduce the present and recent haps'.

Last week there was a visitor from the states. The Unites States that is. He was around for three days and for me personally it was great to get out and hang around what I call the "Cairns crew" - something I don't do often enough. We are all so busy (or they are... whatever). Regardless, Greg (visitor) was good value and had many interesting tales to tell. Honestly, I think we are carved from the same block, or parallels; brothers from different mothers. It was pretty cool, and at times a little spooky, when we stumbled upon striking similarities in likes, dislikes and sometimes even personality.

One of the craziest was definitely when we were hanging out in the shopping center and went to grab some coffee. I confessed I wasn't really a coffee drinker (though you may remember I have braved a double black thanks to a previous US friend!) but my favourite was white chocolate mocha. 'Lo and behold, it was also his. But, you see, we both preferred tea normally.

If we were girls we'd totally be rocking up to parties in the same outfit. And we'd probably be lesbians. Man, I went there, and I can't go back...

But seriously, it was really a good few days, even if he did miss his flight Thursday evening in a classic way. You know when you're sitting there with others and joking about stuff happening and then it does? Yeah, that happened. Good times... desperate times.

I'll have to make a trip over to the states sometime before I make a trip six feet under (which should be easy, since I will never pass away suckers). I'll steer clear of East St. Louis and Disneyland though.

Speaking of which, I used to note what kind of day I've been having on the Milo scale when I updated daily at about this time. So, for the sake of tradition today, and actually most days now, is a totally cool glass of Milo with ice and the freshest milk.

It's really good right now for one and many reasons. I like this. I like where this is going - and I'm pretty excited about a story I am writing!

Periodi molto buoni.

- P ζ.

two souls alone together in nowhere
are more in company than
two million alone amidst each other
so come away with me

lyrically speaking

2007-09-24T00:27:00.000+10:00

Ah, music. There's not many people who would say they didn't like it at all. In fact I think it would be a challenge to find anyone who didn't like music of some kind. People can say they prefer movies over books and don't like to read (lazy swine!) or vice versa; they can say they don't like the Television because, well, it sucks most of the time. But music, oh no, everybody loves something about music. It is ambient, everywhere - it can reach you when you're sleeping, or while you're trying to sleep. It can be the incessant racket down the road at 3am that you'd rather didn't play - incessant to you, maybe, but glorious and necessary to the people playing it, drunk as they probably are.

It can make you yearn for different times, provoke memories and even feelings of places you've been. You can remember doing something through a song. Moods are set - something as simple as people shopping can be given a different mood through music. Amazing!

Naturally it is not perfect in all its forms. There are many kinds and nobody will agree on everything. One person's shit music is another's favourite. Though, let's be honest, some music is just bad and we all know what I'm talking about. And sadly it's more frequent these days as production lines roll off these clones we all want to set on fire.

But enough on that... I'll talk about me and what I like. I am a bit of a music whore, like many, and don't religiously stick to one genre or band, and instead prefer to keep my mind and ears open to a good song. I like to think I have songs for every mood, except angry and bitter.

There are some songs though that I can't get enough of and always come back to playing , because I like to listen to them after the ten thousandth time. I tend to favor good lyrics - either corny or deep - mixed with excellent sounds. I am not a connoisseur or anything, but I have my own love and now I shall share with a short list of my all time favourites.

Greg's All Time Favourite Music List That May or Not Be the Same Next Year
although to be honest it's not really a list in any order

Ooo, bold and italic! Fancy stuff. Anyway, the first song that comes to mind is With or Without You, by U2. It's just one of those classics I loved a long time ago and only recently got back onto my play list. The lyrics are some of U2's best I think - they describe things you could probably see yourself relating to somehow, if not exactly. It's got a nice simple tune with nothing fancy - just a good old fashioned song from when U2 was at their best with the Joshua Tree.

Next I'm going with Remy Zero - Shattered. It's a recent song on my list, but I loved it from the start. It's one of those gems you pickup out of the blue and enjoy again and again. It also has a bit of a secret meaning to me that at least one of you out there knows. The lyrics are excellent and the music behind them doesn't interfere and my imagination can run a little wild. It's a song that invokes emotions in me and I absolutely love that.

Keane - Somewhere Only We Know. At first I thought the singer was a girl and I've actually had two different versions of it (by version I mean only in file). It was a good song when I first heard it, but it wasn't until recently that it came packaged with a different meaning. Simple tune that really suits the lyrics create a beautiful mood.

Now for a Change of Seasons. Done by Dream Theater who never cease to amaze me with their prowess in lyrics and sounds. This song goes for 23 minutes (no, really) but it really isn't long enough when I am listening to it. Really it is a few songs in one that transition seamlessly, but it tells a story of life and is presented in a way I enjoy endlessly. Definitely an all-time favourite for a long time!

Led Zeppelin. Kashmir. Probably enough said right there. I simply cannot explain why this song is as good as it is, it just hits me. The lyrics are just insanely unique to the point of stuffing your brain with all kinds of images, none of which are interrupted by insane tunes - actually, the music itself pales in comparison to the lyrics which are sung with that somehow sexually charged way. It's an absolute classic I could listen loudly to all day. I guess it just reminds me of the mind.

I'd love to write about more songs that are technically on my all-time favourites "list" but that would take too much time. I mean, there are songs like For Crying Out Loud (Meatloaf) that just don't have any modern day relatives. There are songs that I may not even know about yet that are just waiting to be heard.

And much the same for us all.

- P ζ.

Oh, pilot of the storm who leaves no trace, like thoughts inside a dream
Heed the path that led me to that place, yellow desert stream
My shangri-la beneath the summer moon, I will return again
Sure as the dust that floats high and true, when movin through Kashmir

we value your call

2007-09-05T03:19:00.000+10:00

What is the deal? Somebody tell me what the deal is with these automated answering messages that want you to tell them what you require. I understand the need to direct caller traffic, but what was wrong with using a numbered menu? You know, "Press 1 if you want to complain about automated messages not listening and interrupting you."

I don't get how anyone thought that getting people to say what they wanted would be an awesome idea. Did they consider accents? A need to be discrete? Noooo.

So there I was calling Customer Care. I just wanted to change a plan around. It wasn't supposed to be a challenge or take longer than, say, 5 minutes. But it was and it did. I can't blame the operators either, because they were a light at the end of this automated tunnel. I'll do my best to recall the "conversations."

"Welcome to Customer Care. In a few words, please describe what you are calling for"
me: .... plan
"Sorry, please describe what you are calling for... "
me: pl-
"For example: mobile plans, general enquiry, products, new accounts."
me: mob-
"You can say any of those. So, what is the purpose of your call?"
me: mobile plan
"I'm having difficulty understanding. Please say what you are calling for."
me: mo-bile plaaan
"Sorry, if you are calling for mobile phones, please press 1. If you are calling for something else, please press 2."
me: *one*
"Thank you, I will direct you to an operator who will assist you."

And of course I forgot what number I needed, so I hung up on an operator. They'd understand, and it saved time.
Of course this meant I had to call again.

The second time around I honestly got lost in this labrynth of automated responses. I had to try again. And again. It was getting pretty crazy and I was bordering between yelling and laughing at myself yelling.

"Welcome to Customer Care. In a few words, please describe what you are calling for"
me: Mo-Bile PLaanN
"Okay, was that mobile plans? Please say yes or no."
me: yes
"Please just say yes or no. Was that mobile plans?"
me: Yesss
"Thank you. Are you calling for the number you are using now? Just say yes or no."
me: no
"Sorry, please just say yes or no. Is this the number you are calling for?"
me: NO FUCK YA
"Okay! I will direct you to an operator who will answer assist you further. Thank you for calling Customer Care."

And then I'm put on hold with really bad music before I finally managed to speak with someone real. I was so happy I wanted to cry.

Although the operator I spoke to had a habit of going "mmhm?" after everything he said. I think he meant it as "Understand?" "Right?" "Capiche?"

Mmhm?

- G

minor milestone

2007-08-28T02:08:00.000+10:00

For those who have been counting, this is the 50th post I have made since the humble birth of this magical world of words (pwow!) back in 2004. October 2004 to be almost precise. Wow, so next month this will be 3 years old and I have only made 50 posts?

I wonder if I can coin the phrase "quality not quantity" here and get away with it. No, I don't think so. It's just slack. But at least I have managed to come back after lengthy periods of not posting and spark some life into it, rather than abandon all ye posts here and move on to MySpace or something. Man I hate all those profile sites.

Okay, so 50 posts! I want you to imagine me wearing a party hat and surrounded by balloons and streams of paper as I write this.

During the very first month here I managed to churn out 11 posts. I updated daily with little - and I do mean little - posts, all before dinner. I think I was much angrier then too. The last post I made in the founding month involved swearing about bank loans. That's interesting, because that particular loan is just about paid off now. Ironically, the post before this one had a bank in it, but less swearing.

I'm not sure I was a talented writer back then. I think I literally wrote what came to my head unedited, and without thinking about how odd it looks when you bounce ideas around and jump topics midsentence.

After the prolific month of October, I didn't update until the following year in January. To be exact it was 9:49pm on New Year's day. I was a week away from ending my reign as an 18 year old. Naturally the post is about the lack of posts since October.

That year I managed to post at least once a month, excluding only April, August and, funnily enough, October. It was my most productive year in posts.

2006 was a terrible year. I made less posts in the whole year than I did in the first October. So much for raising the bar. On the plus side, I am hoping to defeat the amazing record of 14 posts in a year this time around. Considering this is post number thirteen for 2007, I am confident I can do it.

Some other interesting facts before I continue:
2007 is the only year since I began that I have not posted anything in January.
October 2004, the beginning month, is the only time I ever posted in October.
I seem to always post something around the middle of the year in June or July.
March is the most active month, averaging 3 posts every year except this year where April produced four. Incredible!
I average 2 posts a month. Nice.

Since the beginning I like to think my writing and my posts have improved a hell of a lot. For starters, they are longer (the longest now being exactly 1000 words, I believe.) and more entertaining. I have only once had a good old rant and I have never discussed politics or celebrity gossip. Not to prove a point, but because they are very boring topics. One day I will merge them together and create an abomination of gossip. John Howard. Bush. Adopt Sharon Stone. Yeaaaahhh.

My goal whenever I sit down here - now between midnight and 5am - is not to describe what I did for the day or week in boring detail. What I try to do, more so now, is turn something as dull as changing a tyre into a small story you can read and not wonder why you have to endure the tedium of someone else's life. Unless you enjoy that, in which case I suggest you read something else. While I do post about stuff that happens, has happened and is happening, I don't like to write like a Dear Diary: Today I dug a hole. I like to throw off tangents, wild speculation, interesting thoughts and some good old randomness.

In a sense, I pour my brain out and clean the mess up with grammar, spelling and hopefully humour. If I fail to amuse you, the reader, at least know that I have probably amused myself somehow. Even if it's with something not related to what I typed.

Before I finish, I want to thank whoever is still reading (besides me), even though I really do update never. In particular I want to thank:

Jenna, for telling me I could write and kick-starting a passion and ambition that hasn't died since.

Rachel, for being an amazing girlfriend, despite living thousands of kilometres away and being busy working towards supporting me with a high-paying job (you know it's true). Also for reminding me when I haven't updated in a while!

Anyone who has ever complimented my writing. It's both ego-inflating and much appreciated. You have no idea how good it is to be told you are good at something you really want to do as a career. Well, maybe you do, but thanks anyway!

Lastly, my mind. For being alive and unfathomable. We make a good team.

Oh, and banks. I feel I need to thank them too.

- Pary; Greg ζ.

You don't know how good you are until
You think you are better than somebody else
You either prove yourself right
Or discover that you're not
As good
As you imagined

remembering days

2007-07-17T21:30:00.000+10:00

Not too long ago I had a belief shattered. We all have these kinds of beliefs, or illusions, or perceptions - whatever you want to call them. They are minor but they are there. See, I wanted to open a second bank account for interest's sake (and for saving). Being the finance-savvy guy that I am, I investigated many alternatives and narrowed it down to just two I couldn't decide between. I'll spare the details, but I decided to seek help where I thought all my answers would be found: the bank. Ever since I was young, the bank has been a mystical place where the people working there are beings of a higher order that know everything about anything to do with finance. It has also been a place of long lines and longer waits, which is why the former perception has stuck for so long - I have never ventured out to have it shattered thanks to the convenience of the internet.

But this time I needed more than a page of information. I needed help from the Bank Tellers. I was confident I would be put on the right path and a beam of light would lead the way down to flowing rivers of easy minds and solutions. I was confident, but so naive. I approach an open teller after waiting less than five minutes (a perception already shattered right there). I smile as I bring forth my inquiry as clear as an over zealously polished sheet of metal. The teller appears to hesitate. I am confused - she's hesitating? She should be jumping all over this like a horny rabbit (sorry)!

She stumbles through a vague answer, one that can only mean she knows about as much as I do on the matter: "you need to find it out yourself." I have tried, damn it! Why are you doing this to me? I trusted you! The Teller loads the same page I had been poring over for hours. It's the exact same page. Not even a special bank teller-bible type page. Just the one anyone can view on the internet, or a brochure. I couldn't take it any longer, so I ran away screaming.

But then I remembered it was silly of me to have the belief that bank tellers - or anyone working for a company - are just people. They don't live and breathe this material or study it in minute detail so the unshaven amateur account holder can have his answers in perfect sense (cents?)

Remember that folks: People working at companies are not robots, unless of course they work for Telstra's lovely call center. But that's another story, and you know I love telling stories.

Well, I won't apologise for the lack of posts, because I am trying to take stock of what I have, what I want and what I need. This tends to lead on to the word responsibility it seems. Not to say I sit around on Sunday balancing cheque books - Sundays are for sleeping - but I am in the slow process of planning ahead. It's crazy, but I want to turn a wonderful idea into a wonderful reality, and that requires work that I am very willing to do. A bit like dominoes, I guess - you spend a long time setting it up and concentrating on every piece you put down until the very end where you knock it all over and have to clean up. Um, maybe not the greatest analogy, but you get what I mean: it's something that requires focus, determination and patience and people will question why you do it sometimes, but you know exactly why. And it's so worth it.

- Pary ζ.

there should always be mountains
because the tedium of plains encourages stopping
whereas the peak of a mountain
offers the promise of what's on the other side
and you must keep climbing

a thousand pictures

2007-06-02T00:22:00.001+10:00

There is the familiar expression "a picture is worth a thousand words." It holds true because you can go to great lengths describing an image in minute detail. There are no real limits on how you describe something. Of course, some pictures lend themselves more readily to a thousand words, and that is the sentiment of the phrase.

Is the inverse true, I wonder? Can a word be worth a thousand pictures? I think a word can, and as with pictures, some words lend themselves more readily to the sentiment. I have a word that conjures up a thousand pictures in the blink of an eye. There are no limits, no rules. It is a writer's best friend and worst nightmare. It is an excuse for the irrational, an explanation for things that can not be explained.

It is a simple word at the core, just four letters, and it has been defined in the dictionary. But it's not defined by one or two; it is defined by up to and over twenty definitions. A verb, a noun; used in idioms and poems and followed with a plethora of synonyms.

This is not special by itself. Any word can achieve this, but can it achieve the same ability to conjure images and feelings. Do we fantasize about other words, nay, other ideas in the same way?

That is what it comes to be. An idea: a word that is an idea; a concept that over a thousand words cannot describe or explain. And oh how we have tried. From Shakespeare to the teenager in English class, we have written about it. It is this; it is that; it is all of this and all of that.

There seems to be more questions and more vagueness than answers and specifics. Perhaps it is impossible to comprehend such a feeling, such an idea. Happiness is a smile. Sadness is a tear. It can be both.

You lose your mind thinking about it but you don’t go insane. You risk everything for it but feel you have won more. It is when you care for yourself less than you care for someone else; when it is mutual.

It could be unconditional, and it can come and it can go. Just like the tides and the weather, only it is not controlled or predicted. Perhaps there are patterns, common themes that overlap. Perhaps if everyone described it, there would be enough information for facts. But then, the fantasy wouldn’t be so fantastic.

There’s no need at all to think about it then.

There don’t have to be reasons; what reason is there for it? Any or every, it matters little. The specifics sojourn our minds and sometimes we understand. Other times we are disheartened, but hardly for long.

To me, and perhaps not just me, it is a seed. Nurtured in its soil and cared for by another hand, it grows out of the darkness, as if by miracle. Seasons come and go, and it continues to grow, finding its way to the warmth of an object so far out reach, yet touchable.

This small seed, now this sprout, comes to life and finds its way. The same hand urges it on with the very idea it represents. Time passes, changes come, and still it grows. One day, it blossoms for the first time, and it is glorious. But it doesn’t end there; this is not the zenith or the peak, this is just the beginning. Further seasons may come and go, and this little miracle grows and blossoms in a never-ending cycle, as long as the hand remains and the idea is true.

Excuse the analogy and the metaphor if you will, but don’t excuse the meaning.

This is my idea, not something borrowed.

But then, I share it because it’s not something to lock in a box and keep safe from prying eyes. It’s something to spread across countless minds, not to cheapen or dull, but to better understand the mystery and fantasy of such a concept; a word - one single word in all its forms.

Every meaning and expression from every different view: Bitter-sweet to sweet-sorrowful, extreme joy to extreme sadness. Broken metaphorical hearts and irrational thoughts. Such a vast concept we have created, endured and nurtured.
”For love,” we cry. For love!

When writing this, perhaps a disguised letter to the future, I had to explore a looping path. It heads straight for a while and then curves into a circle. I found myself back at the beginning –that’s the reality. It is the same looping path you experience in multiple ways. Some grow bored of the cycle; some believe it is always a fresh path. But really, it’s the same path you explore with eager senses - each time something new; a flowerbed to the left that wasn’t there; a lake clearer than a polished mirror.

You spend your life wandering this path. You may end up lost somewhere, not because you didn’t know where you were going, just because you never understood the directions to get there.

You walk and you dream, you smile and you sadden. Pining and dreaming away this time on the worn path. In a million years when we have all evolved to control the irrational, this path will be long-deserted. It is not a curse to wander it, but the fear of not understanding and having no control drives us to desperate measures. Some would abandon the path to pursue a life of materialistic desires; still, perhaps, the same word in another view.

Whatever the reasons, whatever the way, this one word is followed like some great leader. As the seed grows, so the fascination does – desires to nurture it until the warmth of the sun seems close enough.

Painting a thousand pictures with this one word: Love.

Yours,
Greg

From you one look, just one look
And everything is shattered.
From you one word,
And towers burn
They fall, fall, fall

briefcase of ...

2007-05-13T02:43:00.000+10:00

For the first time I have no idea what I came here to write about. This is unique, because whenever I am staring at this input box, I usually have an idea about what I will fill it with. But not today... this morning! So join me on a spontaneous little trip; I will broadcast my brain live and raw. Okay, maybe not raw - scary town there.

I am a month away from yet another change. I have a theory that there are certain years in your life that just move in cycles. What I mean by this is that the old phrase "same shit, different day" isn't too far from being the story of our lives. Is this a bad thing? Not at all. I think having mediocrity, repetitiveness and even bad times is what makes the better more exciting periods more appreciated. Think: What if everyday was friggin' amazing? Would we recognize it as such, or would it just become mediocre - the norm? See, this is why I don't believe you should live each day as though it were your last. You will tire out and want to die and indeed you will have lived each day like it was the last. It's kind of like eating, you could say - you eat until you are full, but then after a time you become hungry again. Each time you end up raising the bar, you make it harder to experience edifying moments. Your exciting life becomes mediocre and though this mediocrity might be someone else's excitement, you have eaten your fill, digested it and are hungry again. But the last dish just won't do!

So, what of it? Appreciate the good times, but do not fear the bad. It will make your mediocrity a little better in retrospect. Besides, without illness we wouldn't appreciate health would we?

Food for thought.

- G ζ.

one bad deed erases a thousand good
a thousand good deeds erase one bad
this is equal, and so we are entitled to do bad
just to remind ourselves what good is

cure for the block

2007-05-03T03:30:00.000+10:00

I am in trouble. I cannot continue a story - it has gone cold. The initial burst has faded away like a gas into the atmosphere and I need to reignite it with a spark. I am about to resort to toilet-sitting, which has lead to great ideas in the past. There's something about those tiles...

Normally I would abandon an idea when this happens, but I think I could make this work. Maybe that's the problem right now - I am thinking too much and trying too hard to have a story. I suppose if I keep striking matches against the box one of them is bound to light and then - PHOOF! And by striking I mean not too hard.

What is my obsession with fire and matches lately?

I don't know.

- G ζ.

censorhip, bullsh*t and ignorance

2007-05-02T01:21:00.000+10:00

I've had enough. I can't hold back any longer, so I'm going to attempt to condense a supernova explosion of inner-ranting into a readable post that doesn't take years to digest. If you get offended easily, keep reading so I can shove my opinions down your throat and feel better. I may apologise later, or I may not; just remember to never quote me on anything, because I will probably have changed my mind when you do. But enough bullshit, lets get on with the fucking show!

censor the fucking world!
what's not okay about censorship: It assumes that cutting access to certain things, such as sex and violence, prevents problems occurring in people. In Australia, censorship is too controlling. It's the product of thousands of lonely soccer mums with nothing better to do than be a nuisance and bitch about everything. They fail at parenting and blame it on anything other than themselves. Their ideas of discipline and teaching are horribly skewed. It might sound crazy, but the real world is full of these horrific things we see in any media form, and you can't censor any of it. So, what's the point of pretending censorship is saving the world? Anyone who can't tell the difference between reality and entertainment already has problems, or wasn't taught properly. I suggest people use their energy to teach, rather than complain and put control on everything. The golden rule for almost anything is this: if you aren't allowed to have or do it, you generally want to have or do it more.
why I am angry: I heard a rumour that cigarettes may be "censored" in movies in the future. That is almost the stupidest idea I have ever heard. Cigarettes give character in the right circumstances - honestly, who would believe a gruff detective wasn't a smoker? It adds depth! I don't want to see some half-arsed smoke-free detectives walking around on screen and advertising that smoking is bad. I don't even smoke. Never have, never will. But it's everywhere, and I have enough of a grasp on reality to know that blocking it in entertainment is about as useful as using paper towels to stop leakages.

so much Better Using Lame Lengthy Solutions Honoring Irate Truths
what's not okay about bullshit: It's tiresome, boring, everywhere and it stinks. The description is so fitting for what I have heard from day to day from people around the place. Excuses generally carry the most bullshit - not the small excuses like "I forgot my socks." I'm talking about the big ones that tell a life story you didn't need to hear. You can tell when bullshit is around, because the person emitting it usually goes to great lengths to be convincing. Oh, and you can almost smell it. That distinct odour of someone attempting to ride the high road and impart their wisdom and beliefs on you, because their opinion is the Real solution. Their way is gospel, man!
why I am angry: I am tired of hearing bullshit, seeing bullshit and saying bullshit. Every time I find myself guilty of bullshit, I feel I have sinned. I do my best to keep things simple, honest and clean. Most of my bullshit occurs for entertainment sake, not to fuck around because I don't have the mental capacity to be real. Is it too much to ask that people cut the crap and stop making me want to be violent? I enjoy people and am not an angry person, but there are limits, dammit!

ignorance is not always bliss
why ignorance is not okay: It is the basis of almost every problem. Climate change? What climate change? I haven't noticed the seasons have changed because I am too busy discovering that my credit card - heaven forbid - is 5% more expensive! How dare it! I also agree that in order to be a truly equal society we have to favour a prejudiced group. Sound backwards? Welcome to the world. Australia's south has a shortage of water while the north has too much. Logically, the solution is simple. Ignorantly, waiting for rain is what will happen. This is such a lengthy topic, I can't even begin to put everything down. Read the Cairns Post and you will see an abundance of ignorance - especially with questions like "Do you think the climate change is just another Y2K kerfuffle?" Genius! It's so modern and relevant. Never mind that the two ideas aren't even close to the same thing.
why I am angry: I hate ignorance. It's like driving without mirrors - the other drivers will give way to me, I don't need to see them. I make it a habit to burn the Cairns Post now.

Conclusion:
Fuck censorship, clean up your bullshit and get some friggin' mirrors in your metaphorical cars.

That felt good to let out.

I am happy.

- G ζ.

shameless plug

2007-04-21T03:24:00.000+10:00

Another week has passed by and where do we all sit now? In chairs, I assume. A week is hardly a long enough time frame to induce change, but here I beg to differ. Once again this wonderful part of the web has a new look. Something about the transparent squares of the last one irked me. I think it was the fact that it had a banner I didn't create myself created this feeling. So it had to go.

This layout is as pleasant as it is modest. I can look at it and imagine sitting in a log cabin on a quiet evening and writing in a journal, with my thoughts as company. Maybe there's a candle lighting the room. It adds a nice touch, but is also a fire hazard when romanticism meets reality.

This week is also a week of realisations. It marks the week where I sit down, exasperated, and declare certain truths to the world, or the wall, whatever listens the best. One such truth is that plugs (the kind that go in bathtubs, sinks and whatnot) inadvertently disappear on me. Some people have pens, others have socks, that vanish over and over. I am fine with socks. As for pens, I am the guy who has all the pens. But not plugs. This week I have been forced to improvise 3 different ways to prevent water from emptying into a drain. I get the feeling I am going to be stretched to the limit as far as this goes.

Nevertheless, being the generous individual that I am, I will share the three methods I have used with success.

Uno: "Almost a Plug Plug" A lid the same size as the drain hole. It has to fit flush, but not tight with the opening. Just slip it in upside-down and pwow! You have a plug. It may seem difficult to get out, but trust me, it is possible as long as you didn't pick a lid that you had to force into the drain hole.

Due: "Pressure Plug" This one is simple. Just imagine putting a brick over a drain hole and apply the same principle with other objects, like a cup or large lid. Place it over the hole and weigh it down. Sometimes you don't even have to use a weight - the water will provide it, as long as you can hold the item in place.

Tre: "Desperate Plug" Plastic wrapping, cloth and a small lid, or similar object, is what you will need. Place the plastic over the hole and put the cloth over the top. Push the cloth down into the hole and apply the small, or similar object to hold it in place while the water is filling.

All three methods work, believe it or not. If they don't, either I fluked it or you aren't doing it right. Experiment! Or just use real plugs.

Another truth is that phones and me do not get along. I dislike answering machines, first of all - it's hard to explain, but there's something about them that doesn't appeal to me. MessageBank is included in this. I believe it could be due to the fact that every mobile I have owned transmits my voice at a frequency humans can't hear. At first I thought I might speak too softly, but this belief has been quashed since I have used both VoIP and a landline with a softer voice and I have never heard the words "I can't hear you."

But mobiles have to be different. I figure when you yell into a phone and the other person can't hear you, it should because they are in a very loud place, like a construction site or standing next to a jet engine at a rock concert. I worked for a place selling phones. Nobody ever came in and said "People can't hear me when I speak." Maybe because they were mute and couldn't, or maybe I am the only one cursed.

Don't even get me started on call barring.

As if the battle of missing plugs and communication wasn't enough, I have discovered that instruction manuals are out to get me. I think the score so far is: Manuals, 4; Greg, 2. The latest attack occurred while trying to start a lawn mower. I know; it's not rocket science. This is just another moment where I should ignore what an instruction manual is saying and figure it out myself, because unless it is rocket science, I don't need the instruction. I felt pretty dumb taking it back into the store to see what was going on. I knew straight away what it was: the manual instructed the reader in a way that was opposite to what works. I don't know what the deal with these things is. Either somebody somewhere is having way too much fun messing with me or I have reading comprehension issues. I am certain it is not the latter. I tend to read things many times before saying "Right, I got this." Now I will stop reading and ritually burn the instruction manuals. And I won't even glance at the instructions on how to use a lighter or box of matches.

Burn baby burn.

- G ζ.

it took me by surprise
such sweetness was conveyed
i fear I may be dreaming
such a gentle kiss to ears
I want to listen a while longer

americanised

2007-04-14T03:13:00.000+10:00

I thought I was writing a blog entry until I realised, 1000 words in, that I was writing a story. I think my creative genius is becoming impatient with me. It wants to get serious, but I keep flirting with ideas and not committing. I promise I will remedy this, creative genius, because writing a short story in a blog is like saying the wrong person's name during sex. It was a close call.

I'm back working now, which is apparently cause for laughter or disdainful expressions to some people. Whatever. I'll return the favour and support when I am earning three times as much as them because I sucked up my pride. I'll also send pictures of all the things I can afford and they never will. Ha!

Being mean aside, I had a visitor from California. The timing was great, since I was on days off and could play tour guide for this wonderful place we call Japan... I mean Cairns. Seriously, even Poon (the dude visiting) was in awe at the Japanese population present. It was the first thing he noticed! That, and probably the poor weather. Not that I mind the rain at all, it's just that when you want to see the reef, it's not a great time for it.

Nevertheless, we braved the boat trip and saw the reef against all odds and currents. It might have been windy, rough and Japanese-ridden, but there were fish! FISH! An elderly woman hero-worshiped our valiant swimming efforts. We were the pioneers to her.

On the return trip, the Vomiting Orchestra performed once more, though not in all its surround-sound glory like the first trip. We held our lunch with ease, even while living on the edge.

After the stormy reef visit, we met up the next day to check out the Skyrail. I was a little annoyed to discover that the weather had improved (marginally, but enough to make a difference) despite the all-wise ticket lady's information. I'd never been on the Skyrail, so it was all new to me. New, as in, the trees looked different from above. And closer. Not much fauna can be seen, but it's an interesting way to get into Kuranda. Much better than spending the time driving, especially since Kuranda is like a giant shopping center with streets.

Next was the Mangrove boardwalk. Poon was convinced I wasn't serious when I first mentioned this, but he soon find out the joke was him! Or something. Anyway, I hadn't been on that boardwalk since the fifth grade. I had memories of things thrown in the mud and girls being chased with sticks. I hope I was informative. I managed to convince myself I knew what I was talking about, except when we came across bizarre holy spheres. It was strange to see trees with more roots than Paris Hilton (only Aussies will get the root reference) and mud skippers. I forgot how odd they are.

The nighttime was a time of meeting other Cairns folks who Poon knew. Of course, venues were mixed up so we were forced to steal bread from Fasta Pasta before making a dash to another restuarant. I may have to wear a mustache when I visit Fasta Pasta next.

It was good to see the crew again. Even though I stopped playing the same game, they are great people and interesting to boot! The stereotype for gamers just doesn't fit for those I have met so far. Sure, you might not understand some conversations, or relate, but that's the case for so many things. I know if I sat with a bunch of nazis, I wouldn't understand or relate to what they were talking about.

I discovered that one of the crew goes spear fishing. That, to me, is awesome. In fact, I hope to join him on a trip and test my bravery in the water. Oh man, too much fun!

After dinner, we parted aways; the group and Poon and I. I enjoyed his visit. It was a well-spent couple of days. The crazy pictures featuring him weren't a lie either: he really was the guy having a ton of fun on a world trip. And that's such a good thing when traveling alone. Because if you aren't having fun, you really are alone.

Of course, the next night I was back at work and it wasn't such a good thing. For starters, I was a one-man army against an impressive array of dishes. Later I was almost doubled over in pain after a broom handle attempted to crack my testicles. My apron saved me, diverting the dangerous blunt weapon away and leaving me staring after it in consternation. When I got home, there was no hot water to shower with. Fine, screw you Thursday night.

Back to normal.

- G ζ.

image of a beauty, thoughts of a dream
supposed to be hard and not so simple
eyes of a heaven, lips of a goddess
and now despite myself I fall under

in 50 words or less

2007-04-09T14:07:00.000+10:00

The movie 300 is, for lack of super powerful describing words, friggin' awesome. If you haven't seen it yet, I suggest you do before speaking to me. If you don't like it I'm afraid I will need time to consider whether I want to be your friend.

That is all.

road signs

2007-04-05T01:23:00.000+10:00

There's something about my car. It's not a particularly interesting or impressive car, nor is it expensive. It's a Mazda 121 "Stripes" edition. The stripes are for speed, even if they aren't very noticeable... anyway, my car has the unique ability to predict coming natural disasters.

I am deadly cereal about this. If you check back to a month ago last year you will notice the story of Cyclone Larry (mending fences is the title). In that entry is a mentioning of my car breaking down at a Stop sign. On the same day a cyclone was discovered off the coast. At the time I figured it was a standard chain of unfortunate events.

On Saturday I was proven wrong.

On Saturday, while taking my brother to his interview, I was met with another chain of events. This time I saw someone at the traffic lights at random - someone I haven't seen for a while. It was a cool coincidence and we drove by each other, both turning in our respective right direction. Thirty minutes later in a car park my car wouldn't start.

I was determined that it was a temporary thing and so I gave it a few minutes to fix itself, or get over whatever rebellious urges it felt. It only took ten minutes before the beautiful sound of the engine working filled my ears. Crisis averted, I began the drive home.

And then I was almost rear-ended by a ute at a green light. Go figure.

By now I was becoming paranoid; wondering what else would almost - or would - go wrong. I joked to my brother about how when my car broke down last time we were witness to the worst cyclone in years - maybe another one was coming? What's really funny is how he checked when we got home; safely, believe it or not.

Then on Monday morning there was an earthquake in the Solomon Islands and the resulting tsunami almost hit Cairns. Almost, just like everything else almost happened.

I would have slept through it too, if my mum didn't burst into the room and fill my half-asleep brain with indigestible information. It's hard to comprehend what "tsunami" means when you can't decide whether you are still dreaming or not.

So, my car can predict natural disasters. When it breaks down, shit goes awry. Actually, it's more complicated than that. There has to be some kind of random incident/accident and the car has to fail in the same journey. I think the time between the two events gives a clue to how long until a natural disaster arrives. Using this information I have deciphered the hidden message in both cases.

The cyclone -
Car hits cockatoo and breaks down later: You will be hit by a natural disaster in a few days, but someone else will suffer a lot more than you.

The tsunami -
Car breaks down temporarily and is almost rear-ended not long after: There is a natural disaster about to happen close by, but you won't be hit by it, although there will be a shake-up for others more effected.

I hope I'm not involved in any accidents that cause my car to break down.

In other news, I am tired of the Cairns Post and its tiresome news articles. A tsunami almost hit! Whoa! That's definitely worth three days of front page material! Oh, our warning system isn't good enough? Well, maybe that's because we don't get tsunamis very often. If ever. That's like saying our tornado warning system isn't good enough. Here's an idea: I'll warn you of any impending doom with my psychic car.

Worse than that was the week-long coverage of the anniversary of cyclone Larry. Newsflash: It didn't hit Cairns. It hit Innisfail. A year ago. Nobody gives a shit except them. The longest I've stayed in Innisfail was thanks to a bus I was traveling on breaking down on the way to Townsville. The highlight was winking at some giggling school girls who passed by. Want to know why it was so devastating? Innisfail is as modern as Darwin was in the '70s when Tracy hit.

I am done.

- G ζ.

If you trust in yourself enough now
And believe in your dreams someway somehow
And you follow your star to the right place
You will still get beaten by those who learned
And worked hard and weren't as lazy as you

just add water

2007-03-13T02:32:00.000+10:00

I am going to teach you how to create a hobo using the following:

- Yourself
- Old clothes (slacks + white, long-sleeved shirt)
- Red wine
- Cotton gloves
- Old shoes

Step 1: Mow the lawn or do some gardening with the new cotton gloves on. Make sure you take extra care to ensure they touch everything, excluding dog crap. That's just gross. If you have thorny plants, caress them so that the gloves tear (make sure nobody is watching...). When you are done, you should go from looking like Michael Jackson to looking like Michael Jackson if he wore the gloves and did the gardening. Cut the fingers off. It's a good idea to take the gloves off first, by the way.

Step 2: While you are still grubby and sweating, find some old clothes. Slacks and long-sleeved shirts tend to work best. Put them on and roll around in the dirt. Do it in other peoples' lawns for fun. If they chase you, it only adds to the authenticity (it also makes a good story nobody would believe).

Step 3: Apply red wine to the front of your shirt. Drink some red wine. Rinse and repeat.

Step 4: Slice and dice the slacks at the knees. Rips look cool and give you breathing holes.

Step 5: Have a shower. While it's fun to pretend you're a hobo, it's not fun to make it hygienically authentic. Seriously. Once you are clean, put the messed-up clothes on.

Step 6: Hopefully you haven't shaved for a week or two, unless you're female. Don't stop shaving if you are female. There is no area visible enough to worry about (unless you often sport facial air, which is disturbing) so just pretend you don't have access to a shaver (or wax) as opposed to being too real.

Step 7: Go to a party where everyone is dressed up as Cleopatra. Expect jokes at your expense, especially when random smells are noticed. You're a hobo now; you just like the attention. Go around giving pearls of wisdom to anyone who will listen.

Note: For added effect, wear a sign that reads: Hug a Hobo. If anything, it distracts people long enough to steal their wallets.

There you have it! An authentic hobo to take to any party that involves vague costume themes. Bring a spare change of clothes and you can continue the show by saying you are now dressed as a reformed hobo (I recommend this before going into the city). Good times, my friend.

At least that's what I had with a similar experience not long ago. Sadly, I must shave for a job interview tomorrow so this impressive mass of hair on my face must be sacrificed to the sink. Another reason being a writer appeals to me: You don't have to clean yourself up for work.

Just crawl out of bed saying "Welp, I'm off to work now!" and disappear for a few hours (or thousand words). Hopefully you don't forget to get dressed or clean before you head out though. I know I won't, because I have a mental checklist: Pants, check. Money, check. Shaved face, screw it; only going to a wedding.

On another note, my gardening saga continues, despite the slight delay putting a stupid wheelbarrow together. Reading the "instructions" hindered the simple task more than it helped.

"Step 11: Oh, btw, did you remember to put the legs on? Should have done that at about Step 2, I think. Don't worry, just undo a bit of frustrating work and pick some nuts and bolts to finish it off once you have the legs on."

You know what? Screw you.

I want to know who wrote that. No, I want to know who edited it - "polished it" - for public use. I hate to imagine the thousands and thousands of similar instruction sheets floating around the place. If I ever see someone putting a wheelbarrow together looking confused and frustrated with a sheet of paper in his/her hand, I will walk up to them, place my hand on their shoulder and say "Let go, my friend. Let go and you will be free; it all becomes clear."

I will motion to the sheet of paper and they will understand my meaning. And then I will slip my jacket (you always need a jacket in these scenarios) over my shoulder and walk off into the sunset. Behind me, the man/woman will have his/her family in their arms, watching me go.

And the world becomes better, one frustrated handyman and handywoman at a time.

That is all.

- G .ζ.

tell me, what is it that drives you?
is it the desire to succeed?
because, really, sometimes...
sometimes I want to fire my chauffeur
and just drive myself

flog before blogging

2007-03-10T17:42:00.000+10:00

Sitting here, staring at James Boag's premium beer (from the Esk river they say) I decided to do another five-minute blog. I never explained this, so I am taking five minutes to inform you good reader(s) what a flog is.

I could go into elaborate detail to waste a few minutes and come to the stunning conclusion. I could bore you with back story (that would be made up anyway) and pretend it's important information. But instead, I want you to think about what it is. Lets see:

I mentioned in the first flog and this one what it is; if you haven't figured out by now, you fail.

A flog is exactly what I have just done. A weblog (blog) in five minutes. No more, no less. It's a five-minute weblog, genius.

write you are!

2007-03-06T02:01:00.000+10:00

What an unusual week it has been! When I say week I am estimating the actual days passed, so I should say "What an unusual time period it has been!" But then you wouldn't have an idea of how long. Get what I'm saying? Good, let me continue then.

First and foremost, I spent most of last week's four-day end out and about. I mention this not because it's special or I have any illusions about being a social butterfly, but because I want to swap weekends. You see, right now my internet is "shaped" or "capped" or "snail mode." whatever you want to call it, it's slllooow.
What this means is web pages don't load so fast and downloading is out of the question. I have been reduced to dial-up speeds. It feels like I'm using a school computer to browse at the best of times. When my brother is trying to browse at the same time? Fuhgheddaboutit!

What's that got to with swapping weekends? Everything! Being unemployed, I have too much spare time and most of that goes into internet related activities. Now though, these activities (I know, you're thinking it's porn) have become tedious. I am not surfing the web anymore, I am struggling against the current in a jumper, track pants and shoes. If the weekends were swapped, I'd be too busy going out and getting drunk to care or notice and I wouldn't have all this spare time to do nothing.

But since I don't have the power to swap time around, nor do I know anybody who does, I had to settle for doing something else. I cleaned my computer desk and organised my CDs. I cleaned my room and created a monster of a rubbish bag - the bag I used was friggin' huge and I filled it to bursting point, somehow managing to shove it in the garbage bin. Today I will do some gardening.

Tonight, not long ago, I did some writing. That's why I'm here, in all honesty. As per Max Barry's suggestion, I stopped myself writing when I hit a maximum word count. Well, rebel that I am, I went over it. Doubled it, actually. That means I want to continue writing and needed an outlet.

You may be curious about what I wrote about. It's an interesting short story that is going to be sent away and hopefully published as part of an anthology of similar stories. I like to think I'm on a good track with it. Hell, I still have ideas screaming in my brain that I am hoping will undergo mitosis and give me what I need to continue and then finish.

Funny truth: While I have had an idea about what to write for this story, it wasn't until I stared at the tiles on the toilet floor that I came up with the mega-wham of an idea which gave me what I needed to tear the blank white page to pieces (metaphorically; literally wouldn't be a good thing to do.) As Stephen King says: two unrelated ideas and you have a story. Well, in my case it was more like two unrelated activities. Then again in some tragic cases shitting and writing can be the same thing.

Here we go.

- Pary ζ.

there's no way I'll tell her,
not today, not tomorrow
the fantasy is so much better
and she knows it already

pocket change

2007-02-20T02:29:00.000+10:00

You may notice something very different about this humble area of the internet. It doesn't involve haircuts or weight-loss, but a brand new layout and look to this very blog! Don't be alarmed, I have not altered my beliefs or repented for my sins, I just decided to change the look and layout to better suit my general mood, which is apparently white, blue and a bunch of ethereal squares. Change is a funny thing. Sometimes things change to the demands of time, sometimes they change out of necessity. Or sometimes it's just a wannabe writer getting bored of the dark background.

You're probably wondering why I didn't change the address. Well, I have two reasons for this:

1. It's not possible, unless I wanted to lose all my precious writings. By lose I mean they stay here and I sojourn to somewhere else, abandoning them like orphans.

2. "pwow" makes for a funny sound when spoken as one word - "pw-ow." Try it! Guaranteed to get people asking questions, or questioning your person. I think it will be great in conversations where surprise and shock need to be exclaimed in a rock singer type screech. Pwoooow!

I consider this new fancy look to be a revolution. Even the title has changed to something less literal and far more subjective; susceptible to changing perspectives, opinions and views on what it actually means and represents. Big words make it seem deep, bear with me.

What does the title, sojourn, mean to you? The small journeys of life that make up the grand scheme from life to death? The brief thoughts and ideas that visit your mind and disappear? Dreaming?

I'll tell you what it means to me: Anything.

And that's exactly what this is all about: anything. Whoa, I know, crazy.

So I'm enjoying being single, unemployed and preventing my brain from exploding. My list of achievements has been added to after I solved two Rubik's cubes (I had a little help, but I get how it works) and am now in the process of solving a 5x5 Rubik's cube (without help). One face done and much swearing to go.

The funny thing about these innocent-looking cubes is how quickly you can get the hang of it and then how fast you forget what's going on and can't figure out how to get your beautiful progress back to where it was. That's where the swearing comes from. It's not to abuse the cube, that would be unfair. It's just a colorful cube wanting to be normal again. No, the swearing is at yourself for turning a face and then altering which side was facing you, and then taking it one step further by forgetting what the hell you did the turn for in the first place. Or maybe it's because I did the red face first and red is an angry colour.

Food for thought!

Right on cue.

- Pary ζ.

no, that's the sound of my heart breaking
but it's ok, I don't mind
it's only a metaphor
my real heart is still beating

as promised

2006-12-13T03:11:00.000+10:00

Well then, so long and thanks for all the fish, tourists and free boat trips!

Late, but right on cue,

- Pary ζ.

high spirits

2006-12-13T02:07:00.000+10:00

Looking back, I probably should be disappointed at what has transpired over the last few weeks, but I am steering more towards elation, and it's not because of drugs, I don't do that. I am 100% drug free, just ask the Olympic testing crew. The summary of these transpired events is as follows:

One.1: The Dive Master traineeship is no longer on my radar of "Things to do" or "Things I am doing" thanks to spending an hour in bed at 5:30am (not asleep...) with the cogs of my brain in motion, contemplating whether or not I should go through with the second "trial" that was offered by someone who apparently has staff with worse memories than mine. I decided not to and somehow convinced myself I didn't want to do it this time around anyway. I also managed to come to the conclusion that suspicious things occur on that boat, which is why everyone's memory makes a goldfish look retrospective. I would have thought I'd fit right in, but I must have forgotten to show up, just as they forgot who I was, which country they were in and why they ALL smoked.

Two.2: Fear of success? I checked Google and it turns out to be a real and valid phobia, which I now claim to have. Or at least I did, but I like to think I'm cured now, which means I have to get out there and succeed. What if I did? What if it isn't enough?? Too bad and succeed some more, pussy. Admittedly, I still think grand success is a scary thing - people start expecting things, then you could get caught up in your own success and become obsessive until you reach a stage where you ultimately fail. Much like gambling, I sup hoes. Nevertheless, I am what I am and striving to be what could and should be.

Three.3: Marriage. Hah, just kidding, I'm not staying for marriage, ladies, unless you have a VERY good offer I simply CAN NOT refuse. Until then, I'll enjoy (hot) backpackers, promiscuous affairs and Milo. All of the above? Now there's an off-her I simply CAN NOT refuse.

Intermission: I should point out that the first event is the only event referred to in the opening paragraph when I mentioned "transpired events" that should have lead to a feeling of disappointment. The other events (and those yet to come) are just part of the time between, where nothing happened but everything. With that clarified, stay in school, eat healthy and dress to impress yourself.

Four.4: n/t

Five.5: Townsville, brother, cousin and lots of alcohol. My brother and I took a 4-day trip down to the dirt patch they call Townsville and THEY call the capital of FNQ, which is like calling milk the flagship product of dairy (who cares?!). The bus ride down was far more eventful than the bus ride up, featuring Jade, the Cairns girl and Anita the German tourist with a cute accent. There were some rude american girls too, but nobody cares about them, or at least not as much as they care about their allocated seat numbers on a bus that's half empty. Now, without going into excessive detale, we were drunk for half of the holiday and by holiday I mean, for me, time not at home, as opposed to time not working. Vodka was my damage; Swedish vodka, the good stuff of Absolut in my honest opinion. During the alcohol periods, I had a complete moment of clarity and shaved to facemark the event, after which I proceeded to celebrate in town with cousin and brother, who was underage, but shutup already. We were testing the level of security, and clearly they fail, which worked out awesome. As awesome as some in awe can be.

That's it, there is no more; come once and leave with your hand prints on the door.

While I'm in a bit of a transpirational mood, I had a look through some old blog posts and noticed this as a comment:

I read over your blog, and i found it inquisitive, you may find My Blog interesting. My blog is just about my day to day life, as a park ranger. So please Click Here To Read My Blog

While I'm flattered to have a park ranger read my blog and take the time to leave such a well written and clearly authentic comment, I can't help but wonder how my blog can be considered inquisitive. I don't recall being unduly curious about anything, except maybe what it's like to have sex with a red head and a brunette at the same time, but never in the form of a blog post! Ignoring this, I have spent many a minute pondering what gave the idea I'd be interested in "just" the day to day life of a park ranger. Maybe if it mentioned the day to day life of kicking arse inappropriately or a park ranger with one arm and the ability to converse with nature, THEN I'd be a little interested, if not inquisitive.

Thanks Anonymous non-troller, you make me happy. I look forward to your next comment, because even if it's not really you, I will always remember you being unknown to me. Always, my friend.

Soaring,

- Pary ζ.

Waste a day, spend another,
Ask me how I am,
I'll just say myself.

strike three

2006-11-23T15:34:00.000+10:00

After trying all week, I finally get a chance to begin the traineeship. Turns out, nobody on the boat admitted to remembering who I was, which is suspiciously unusual, considering I am me. Bah, like I've said before, the sea does things to you. Must be the salt.

Regardless, I go back for a paid "trial" this time. Then I should be able to start proper; I'll make damn sure I carve my name into their skulls.

On another note, I ran some errands today, which resulted in a stop at the petrol station, the same one I attend whenever I need petrol, oddly enough. That's not really exciting. What is exciting had red hair. Now, attractive women aren't so rare that I have to include them in posts, but when it's an attractive redhead woman, it's something to tell your friends. So today my fantasy of having a threesome with a brunette and a redhead became more realistic. Before this fine spotting, I was convinced that were very few attractive redheads. Not to mention un-bitchy ones.

It was a very welcome disproof!

Overall, a good day and a sound five-minute blog (flog).

- P ζ.

when the boat's a-rockin' ...

2006-11-22T00:01:00.000+10:00

Check this out - two posts within a month. Am I on fire or what? I hope "or what"; not particularly fond of being on fire, unless of course I want to play in the rain. People don't wonder why a grown male is rolling in the mud when he is on fire. No, they panic, scream, run over and wonder how he got on fire and why he is having fun. Disclaimer: Don't do it naked or at home.

Speaking of rain, I am waiting patiently for my future to get started. That future, or at least part of it, is a Dive Master traineeship. Funny that it is has the word "ship" in there somewhere, considering I spend 11 hours or so out on a boat in questionable weather. I survived the 4-day trial and consider myself right to continue on, despite being a veritable tugboat to Asian and Indian tourists who can't quite swim, particularly in 30-knot winds. Surprisingly, I didn't drown. I wonder if they'd have trusted me if I said:
"Hey, just so you know, this is my 3rd day out here and my first time in the reef, swimming under these conditions. Ever. Plus, I am pretty unfit. Lets see some fish!"

Probably not. Nevertheless, I did a good job of being a human ferry. Enjoyed it too, even if I did take in a fair bit of sea water thanks to the waves that just had to go over the snorkel again and again. My lips were like soggy salt and vinegar chips. Would have been interesting to set up a kissing booth for the hot female tourists in bikinis - "taste the sea!"

What would ensue is of course rated R, featuring bad innuendo with salt, mouths, swimming, fish, snorkels, goggles, boats, ocean, motion and waves.

Wait, did I say I enjoyed something to do with employment? I did! This bodes well land lovers. The pay during the 90-day course isn't anything special, but it's not an exceedingly difficult thing you're actually being paid for; boat work, swimming, bikini-clad hotties, all that jazz. I consider it like getting money for studying. Yes, money for studying - wouldn't that be a great thing?!

Of course, at the end of the day... or 3-months, you end up with a very good opportunity to do quite a bit. It's like reaching the point of a tree where all the branches, uh, branch off from - you can take any route you want to become a leaf and eventually fall down in autumn to become compost for the rest of the forest. Disregard the leaf bit. Or leaves. Whatever.

Anyway, how cool is it to have Master in your title?! Greg Page, Dive Master. Of course, nobody has to know Dive Master is just an entry-level qualification. Like a ticket to get on board a plane; sure you're going somewhere, but you best buckle up sonny, because you aren't in Municity yet!

So tomorrow I make a phone call and get ready for a new experience! Good times ahead, unless of course, for some reason, I get the boot and aren't allowed in. Can't see that happening. I washed dishes, damnit. I washed them and enjoyed it! Mostly because it's so much more fun when the sink isn't quite stationary. In fact, anything you do on a moving boat in rough seas is so much more fun. It's like been drunk. On that note, I theorise that if you were actually drunk on a boat you would be able to cancel the motion out and be completely stable. You could go to the toilet, with both you and the boat moving, in perfect opposing harmony, and viola, you're shooting straighter than an arrow that somehow defies the laws of physics and doesn't move in a parabola.

Jack Sparrow is onto something with his crazy love for rum.

Where was I? Oh yeah. If I don't get in, somehow, I'll have to scowl, take my papers in a somewhat aggressive fashion and say, "Well then. So long and thanks for all the fish, tourists and free boat trips!"

Ha!

- Pary ζ.

good versus me

2006-11-11T17:56:00.000+10:00

It's been, what, a year since I last posted? Something close to that time, at least! Otherwise, I update too frequently... or not enough. Nevermind! It's been quite an assumed year, I must say. First off, I am once again unemployed - between jobs - after realising my previous job (read: previous entry?) was more like a fuck in the arse than an actual investment in time. What I mean is, damn that really sucked towards the end. Sucked, as in, vacuum cleaner on high kind of sucked.

I am also single once again after a rather lengthy relationship. Imagine six times one month. I know, it's crazy for me, which is why I I'm currently wondering what the hell happened. To my time, that is. Although it has been rumoured I am unable to secure more than one date on with any given female - an interesting concept, I must say! Also, probably true, but mostly due to the fact I have, or had, an unforgiving mistress called "WoW."

I just recently cut back on my time with her, though she still calls and shows up naked at my doorstep. Crazy woman. Hot, but crazy. Why are women crazy?! Wait, don't answer, especially if you're a woman. I am not sexist, I am just a sex. That's right, I said it.

To other news now and that is the current state of my hair. No, forget that. I HAVE A NEW COMPUTER! I am typing on it as we speak... or, rather, as I type. I intend to marry it if it is possible to marry objects. On that note, if it is indeed possible to marry inanimate objects, I will end up supporting polygamy quite vehemently. In any case, this machine in which I type on is one sexy machine. Imagine... a computer that is incredibly fast and sexy. Then imagine this computer, which is even better by a good factor of imaginary numbers (no, not the square root of negative one or his cousins).

But that's all old news. So, I got unemployed, a haircut and a new computer. Big deal! The biggest news of all is, um, is...

Hey, I'm looking into a diviing traineeship again, after missing the application date by a mere day or two. Damn newspapers. Why don't they scream at you with this kind of information? You know, personalise this and that?

The future is bright anyway! Possible diving traineeship, moving into a luxury apartment with a buddy who just got a transfer from Hampshire (uh...) to simaltaneously be with his girlfriend I happened to play cupid and introduce him to and to get away from Hampshire shenanigans, or lack thereof. Good fkn times!

In summary and conclusion: I have many pairs of socks available that I intend to wear during the next week while I busy myself investigating various things that include, and certainly should be limited to, though actually aren't, bikini-clad women bathing on beaches without any intention of having sex with anything (?).

- Pary ζ.

swingin' good times

2006-08-01T21:50:00.000+10:00

So I'm in the mood to write and I don't care what. You want a rant? Fine. Controversial political opinion? Yeah, not gonna happen. My ideas are too much for this world. Anyway, as I said, I'm in the mood to write. What exactly puts me in the mood, I hear you ask. Well, it requires one or more of the following:

1. Something cool to write about
2. Good music
3. A door in my mind to open up without a bouncer

Though, for true masterpieces (or total random) you need to add lack of sleep. Much like now. I'm running on 3 hours, with an 8-hour shift under my belt. Literally, if I wore a belt and felt inclined to put my roster there. I might just do that one day, when I could be bothered putting a belt on. People would comment on my new style and it'd be like highschool all over again when I cleverly wore my timetable inside my hat for quick viewing. It was a growing trend before hats became uncool.

Speaking of hats, I like the one I wear at work. I made a new style with it. I call it the "helmut" because it looks like a helmut. An aerodynamic helmut. For speed, because when I work, I work fast. Ish. And that's all you need to know about it!

Speaking of knowledge, here's one.

You know, it's funny how in an era where technology rules pretty much everything, save for 2/3 of the world. Ok, let me try that again. In an era where technology rules that which rules the world, you'd be surprised how desperate some are to cling onto older, messy ways. Like writing with pen and paper. I know, I know, it's great to use pens and such. Assuming you're handwriting isn't like mine, in which case it's as great as a non-great white shark. But seriously, we have word-processers, or, if you like, an infinite supply of paper on a computer screen. Don't be a smart arse and talk about Printing. That's the point I'm making. Printing is the final step; the efficient use of paper. When it's all been edited/deleted/mutilated/copied/pasted/corrupted and ready to come out into the real world. In theory. Of course it doesn't ever happen like this, but you get the idea. It doesn't matter though, because you're still utilising what you have available instead of forcing yourself to be traditional and dirty a perfectly good sheet of paper with your scrawl.

That'll do for that argument. I want to keep going, I really do, but I'm afraid of the irony that might appear. Keep your pens and paper, but don't be stupid and think it's better one or the other. Before you say it, I never said using the computer was better. I was merely arguing against the idea that "writing with a computer is bad."

Arguing with three hours of sleep... I'll get it!

Stay cool, unless it's snowing.

- Pary

wtfology

2006-07-07T02:56:00.000+10:00

So, like, it's been awhile. You know what, how about we forget about dates and look at at the title. What does it say? Updated Never? Thank you. Now, let me continue with this update, since today is never.

If someone asked what I've been up to since the cyclone wreaked havoc on my humble city I'd most likely say "Nothing," because I couldn't be bothered explaining what I've really been up to, which is an extended and fanciful nothing. First things first; I have a job. Well, I've had a job for a few months, but you didn't know that. It's been a long time since I worked, and to be perfectly honest, I'm lovin' it (fuck off McDonald's, it's not your trademark!). I guess that happens though. You take a break from something you don't really want to do, then you enjoy it more once you start again. That is, until 6 months later when you hate every day again. Imagine going back to school. I'd be way too cool for that now, with all my worldly experience and suave. Even the teachers would swoon.

Secondly, I haven't touched a drop of alcohol all year. I'm now the mascot for Alcoholic's Anonymous. Turns out, you don't need to lose brain cells to enjoy yourself. Who would have thought? Probably not those losing brain cells... it's a vicious cycle, you see. Vicious like something with sharp teeth and a bad temper.

Thirdly, nothing.

Fourthly, I am still addicted to tea. In fact, it's worse now. I still refuse to change my accent though, so don't ye be worryin' yaself, lass.

Fifthly, I have come to realise I want to have sex with alot of things, mostly inanimate. For example, I want to have sex with eyedrops when they relieve my dry eyes. I also want to have sex with Led Zeppelin's song, Kashmir because it's so sexable.

Sixithly, I have come to realise, with the help of someone else, that I may be a little obsessive compulsive. See, I do little things that aren't necessary. I might wipe a bench 50 times, then keep wiping it every 5 minutes because it has somehow become dirty. Excuse me while I tidy the already tidy desk and straighten items in the fridge for no reason. Patterns are fun and make mind happy!

But enough about me, lets talk about the little girl in some 3rd world country who is waiting for your call to sponsor her. For just $365 a year, you can make no difference to her chances of living past 20!

Holy shit, Pirates of the Caribbean sequel thing came out yestertoday. Naturally, I'm going to go and watch it at the earliest convenience. I yearn to see Johny Depp again, that stud. I'd have sex with him. He's inanimate, right? ...

Anyhoo, seeing as it IS 3:14am (pi time?!) and I am rambling, I should depart and head off to the bedroom for some sleep. I'd hit it.

- Pary

mending fences

2006-03-24T18:21:00.000+10:00

Lets take a trip down memory lane. It's quite a fitting phrase considering the story begins on a road where I was driving my car, strangely enough.

.It's Friday afternoon
and my mother is now safely on her way to Brisbane for a feminine vacation with her girl-pals. Because of this, it's up to me, the non-drinking driving license holder, to pick my brother up from work. That plan is executed without a problem. That is until my brother informs me of a little predicament.

.Sigh
he didn't return the warehouse keys and instead took them home with him. This isn't good because he doesn't work the next day and I'm pretty sure the store won't fare too well without the amazing ability of keys. So I take him back. We're halfway there, travelling smooth, my car appearing to be in good shape compared to previous drives, when a cockatoo decides now is a good time to fly low and blind across the street. With two distinct thuds it went down in a curtain of its own feathers. Sad to say, it wasn't quite alive as it would have hoped.

.Traffic must go on!
i silently mourned the loss of the bird, wandering why it would choose to fly so low. It wasn't until I drove past the scene that I realised it just wanted to join his feathery friends on the other side, feeding in the grass. I swear, they eyed me suspiciously. I was almost relieved to notice no trace of police or other authorities and I was almost disturbed to notice I'd care less about hitting a person...

.But really,
"there's a cyclone on its way," I'm told by my weatherholic brother. This is interesting because we haven't had a cyclone in a few years. It's also interesting because I had no idea it existed.

.Driving 101
There's a Stop sign on the last intersection before the turn-off to our house. I have many experiences with this particular Stop sign - stalling, near-accidents - but none quite as random or unexpected as what happened. Of course, I stopped at the Stop sign, as you do. Now, imagine for a second that you're running and take a 3 second break. When you begin to run again, your legs hardly move and you just stop. Completely, utterly, cannot-move-again stop. That's what my car did. It was working fine, if not better than it has in a while, right up until it literally stopped halfway across the intersection. It was the perfect scene for a movie. Only things missing were screaming idiots in the car and something that you wouldn't want to stop near. Calmly, my brother and I pushed the inert vehicle off the road, to the amusement of another driver who, ironically, had stopped at the Stop sign.

.Sigh II
it's hot. It's midday hot - the sun being at its zenith in the sky and baking the ground. I'm sitting in the car contemplating the heat, having sent my brother out to walk the 500m to our house. He returned some minutes later with good news.
"RACQ are on their way."
"Cool. You know, we could have pushed the car home..." I said in a rush of thought.
"I was thinking that but couldn't be bothered turning around. You know when you can't stop running because you won't be able to start again?"
I nodded, thinking of water.

.Then the bad news
well, not that bad. I mean, it was just that the wrong intersection was logged to RACQ. I still imagine them turning up to the intersection down the other end and wondering where the hell this car was. That or they'd be shaking their head and muttering something along the lines of: "Another ditcher."
In any case, it was soon fixed and so we waited.

.And waited
dogs barked, residents came and went. Some even ventured out and peeked at us with annoying curiousity, as if seeing a car broken down off the road was the highlight of the year. The headlines in the paper would read "Car stopped at Stop sign" and there'd be interviews, scandal, rumours. I'd be quoted as saying "Water" and "I cannot confirm nor deny that I was the driver who hit that cockatoo."
Sitting in the car gave me time to reflect on an event that still boggles my mind. A helicopter crashed - yes, crashed - up the road from where I was broken down. It's odd because it happened on the street behind my house yet I didn't hear a thing and I never got to see it because they wouldn't allow sight-seers. It gave me the awesome idea that you should be granted VIP access to exciting events that occur near your house. Like helicopters crashing in the middle of the street or cars broken down off the road. I was disappointed to notice there was little commotion around my predicament. Stupid curious residents.

.Sigh III
"it's either the immobiliser or the ignition. Try starting it in a few hours: if it starts, it's the ignition. If it doesn't, it's the immobiliser." the RACQ guy informs me. I started it a day later. It was the immobiliser.

.Wouldn't be without them, would you?
RACQ. The mobile mechanics, so to speak. Some are questionable, others are genuine. Either way, the idea is you call them, they come to you and (hopefully) get you going again. Could be a flat tyre, dead battery, retarded driver, whatever. You can subscribe to them and it's easier (and cheaper) or you cannot. On this fine day, I was towed home. I've never been towed before and was given a C for my effort. I almost caused my car to be ripped apart. Kick arse.

.It's Monday morning
i can sense the weather at 2am. It's been coming all weekend and you notice the subtle changes - the still quiet before the storm. Birds silent and waiting, the air dead calm and deceivingly peaceful. Last I checked it was going to miss us by a hair on the map after it appeared to be making a determined path straight towards Cairns. It was a waiting game; you know it's there, you know it's coming and you just wait. I noticed the first breeze at about 2am and from there it started with gales that I could sense more than hear or feel. I looked outside at 3am and was surprised by the wind. It was so close.

.4am
i made for bed, only to realise everybody was getting up. It was here. A weekend of waiting and it was here. I sat and watched some TV, made a last cup of tea and listened to the winds ravage outside, peaking and calming for hours. It wasn't until it was light enough that I could see the true awesome power of the most devastating winds. Trees were thrown forward, bracing against the onslaught of raw nature. The powerful winds were like explosions, not a constant stream. As if some giant was taking periodic deep breathes and letting it loose over the city. The fence was the first to give in. The neighbours on the side the winds were coming from have open yards, leaving no interruption to the exploding winds and as such, the fence was subject to the full force of every breath. Some pieces made it across the yard, others were trapped or stayed on the ground. A small shelter recently built was torn apart and ravaged by the maddening winds. One piece was blown into the neighbours' yard on the opposite side. I'd seen nothing like it and it fascinated me. I was awestruck everytime the relatively calm winds were replaced by explosive gusts that ripped and tore at everything in its path. Every so often I'd try and imagine winds that were double what I saw. Winds that were present further south, a mere few hours away. I couldn't comprehend it. I stared as the fence blew back and forth, resiliently holding its ground - for the most part - against the intense, demanding weather. It was strange watching something so sturdy being thrown around by an invisible force. That's what struck me the most; you never actually see the wind. You just feel it and see everything else feel it. The fence wasn't going anywhere, its strengthed lied in its newfound flexibility and aerodynamic approach - toppled over and angled into the wind instead of withstanding it. Of course, you wouldn't think that when you watch pieces break off, or when you see the winds tear at it.

.Like a baby
it was hard to tear my eyes away from it all, but in the end I had to sleep. Power had at last flickered off and I had yet to rest. I crept into bed despite the now familiar explosions and howling of the winds outside. I closed my eyes and thought about the tennis ball that hadn't moved an inch the whole time I saw it. I thought about the fence, the trees, the power, the heat. And then I slept.

.Power
we had none for 2 days. On the first night, I drove out to fetch food. Takeaway was the obvious choice but every place was either closed or too busy. We (my brother, his friend and I) settled on a KFC located in town. It wasn't as bad as another shop that had traffic in the drive-thru. We waited.

.And waited
people everywhere. Police, hobos, tourists, everybody. The line crept forward at a painful pace. I was willing to start a scene that would disrupt the whole queue so my brother and his friend could sneak further up as I distracted everybod. I realised it wouldn't be such a good idea if I was arrested, seeing as I had the only means to get from Point A, crazy town to Point B, home. I noticed the girl in front of us was in what appeared to a work uniform. She seemed gothic and just as I was deciding whether she was or not, the girl turned to me and it was confirmed - black mascara, poetic-reading eyes and a forlorn expression. At the counter she rested her head in her arm. Tired, I thought. Long day at work.

.Think again, genius
she fainted right in front of me and the guy in front. As a guess I'd say drugs or epilepsy - she was shaking on the ground. I stared dumbly at her and realised I didn't know what I should be doing. I'd already failed Heroism by letting her fall unhindered. The police came to the rescue. I love it when authorities are around like that.
"So, why didn't you do anything?" a curious someone would ask.
"Oh, the were there and I figured they'd do a far better job." I'd reply.
Of course it's not like that. It's just an excuse to justify your own lack of action. Then again, what do you do, untrained and inexperienced, in a situation like that? In my, and everybody else there's, case absolutely nothing. It's too unexpected. Somebody gets shot and you'll just freeze and think "Holy shit." for a period of time before your rational thinking kicks in and you do something, if somebody hasn't. Some are slower than others, some have the advantage of training or experience and some just freak out. Most of the time, you'll wait for somebody else.

.Philosophical meal
i got home, was thanked for letting my brother's friend tag along to get himself food and reflected. The thing on my mind most was the gas lamp right beside me. It was like a heater and light all-in-one. I ate the fresh chicken and the not-so-fresh chips in silence, cursing the power for being out so long. On the drive home I could barely recognise the streets I'd seen thousands of times - no street lights and deformed trees do that. It was like driving through a ghost town, or one of those suburbs that are built around a highway.

.btw
i drove my mum's car. Mine was broken down outside during the cyclone. It even had a piece of someone's shed to keep it company. Oh, and a window was partly open, so my wallet had grass and water on it. Joy.

.what now?
we start mending fences.

noah's ark

2006-01-28T05:39:00.000+10:00

Last week and me. Actually, who cares. It rained today; really rained. Not that lousy drizzle that's been teasing my for weeks during random days, but the hardcore, intense "your hung out clothes just got rained into the mud and your house is now floating on the rivers that were once streets." Or something like that. It was no biblical flood, but it was sexy. As sexy as falling water can be, which isn't really that much, unless you're into that kind of thing. If you are, you're a little strange. Get help.

Hopefully it continues so I can stand on a rooftop and shout false prophecies to the masses of bewildered people. Apparently there's a cyclone brewing, which means a first in years. Now, cyclones I don't mind. What pisses me off is how the power always goes out, and usually after the main event is over. It is the single most annoying thing ever. Besides peppercorn hidden in food. And some other things...

No power means no aircon. No aircon means no cooling. No cooling means a freakin' hot, stuffy night because, naturally, fans don't work either. So, it leaves me to run outside and sleep in the cool rain to catch some kind of fatal condition that ends up being cured because an angel was watching over me. Riiiiight.

Really, I love the rain and I love cyclones. But I hate no power. I want to walk around in a loin cloth and say "Yeah, I'm from the future. There's no power." when it happens. Why? Because I can.

Alright, now about last week. It was lame. No rain. Here's a list of things I did:

- Party that sucked
- Sucky party
- Stuff

And I drove around with some mates to get food because the driver was losing his license in court the next day, which is kind of funny considering he's going overseas for 6 months in a week. I wonder if people in London are as excited about rain as I am...

On another topic, this week has been pretty damn good. I'm not going to explain why, because that would mean thinking about the various reasons, when really there's only one or two. So, suffer the ambiguous paragraph while I yawn.

Useless fact #16475: Before this post, I had 2 others that really did suck and had to be put down. I was mostly talking about how funny it is when people try and talk over really loud music. Generally the receiver nods and makes the excited face.

Hint #1415: A party does not equal loud music and alcohol existing together in a space the size of an average bedroom. Learn to spread out.

Here's the weather forecast:

Sometimes... it will rain. Goodmorrowing!

- Pary ζ.

clock-blocked

2006-01-18T00:10:00.000+10:00

This is, like, the first time I've, like, posted with checking when the last post was. Like, it doesn't feel any different but, like, it is. Because I like to liken things to likely events of likelihood. Ok, so like, I'm gonna stop saying that word that begins with "ell" and ends in tears.

Alright, lets move on to the real part of this text-adventure. No no, not that type of text adventure. Back ye basement geeks! Thar be naught but insanity in these parts. Where was I? Or more importantly, where wasn't I? Oh! I wasn't on a boat checking out a possible new career, that's for sure. I am serious. I went to bed at aboot 2am last mornight. I had to be awake at aboot 6:30am, so I could be at the wharf by 7:30. Of course I ended up 15 minutes late, courtesy of my extensive face-shaving and one-quarter-awake shower. Good times.

Anywayzzzzz, I congress... or digress. Whatever. From there I packed my posessions into a small Nike(TM) bag and was off like a squid in the sun. It was raining. On the way I thought about believable excuses for being late that didn't involve parents, animals or strangely coloured fruit. I decided to go with "I was born late and am forever doomed to defy the time-keeping tools of man."
I also decided to put my socks on at a red light, which didn't turn out so well after I stalled the car.

Naturally, or unnaturally, I ended up at "the place" where I used my observation skills to discover "E" wharf. Of course it was far down the opposite end, because apparently the alphabet goes EDCBA (Try and pronounce it as a word... Heh.) from right to left. My next challenge was to find a boat called "Ecstasea." Turns out, it was humble little yacht and nobody was there. So, I had 4 hours sleep (actually less, because I swear I saw every hour on the clock), drove in the rain, stalled the car, walked in the rain, all to see a boat that was really. Quite. Devoid of human activity. Kick arse.

The moral of this story: When it comes to anything boat related and it's raining, assume the skipper is getting drunk in some sleazy bar. Less disappointment. Also, no putting socks on at a red light. Or stockings. Although if you try it (and are female) do not hesitate to send a video tape into pervert@probablyinjail.com

Now, all day and night I have had an insatiable hunger for, uh, food. Wait, that's not really worthy of being put in, because it's an afterthough. I could go back and delete it now, followed by this and the last, but... I... just... can't... do it. And in other news, I got a haircut. So I look neat and tidy.

"You're an artist and I am your masterpiece!" I said to the hairdresser, who wasn't busty or super hot, much to my disappointment, even though I knew who was cutting my hair. Hm. Maybe I should have joined the lady passed out on the table out the front of the shop next door. I'm sure she had alot to say.

And so, it is 12:38am, I am too tired to even feel tired and I'm not sure anything I say/type makes any sense. Well it does, but I'm still not sure. I think. Holy shit, there goes a llama!

Ciao now and take a bow. Ok, that was so lame I'm going to cry and laugh at myself crying.

quizzical expression

2005-12-27T16:44:00.000+10:00

I happen to have a friend who said, and I quote, "I'm going to do this quiz and post it on my blog. Then I'm going to go and destroy fate."

I thought was pretty cool, even if he didn't exactly say it like that... But I digress once again. Because I am bored, I too decided to do the quiz. And here's the result:

Person/Thing Who:-

1) Slept in your bed: If a "thing" slept in my bed I'd be worried. If anyone besides me slept there, I'd be charging money.

2) Saw you cry: I'd say my mum. No, not your mum. My mum.

3) Made you cry: Lately I've been brought to tears by this cough that gives my abs a workout. But I've cried when my favourite pet died a while ago. Saddest moment ever. Oh, and Star Wars made me cry. That was so lame, I had to weep for it.

4) You went to the movies with: My brother. Saw King Kong. Good movie. That girl has the best scream I've ever heard.

5) You went to the mall with: A friend from high school who shall remain anonymous. She's cool.

6) Sent you a txt message: The friend who also inspired me to this quiz of boredom. He said something about hibernation. Freaky mammal.

Have You Ever:-

7) Said "I love you" and meant it?: Possumly. Although I say it so many times to so many people I can't even remember what it means. I love you.

8) Gotten in a fight with your pet: I wrestle my dog all the time. He's getting fat so I own him even more. Stupid dog.

9) Danced naked: I swear she made me do it. At gunpoint...

10) Dreamed something really crazy and then it happened the next day: I once dreamt that a giant beach ball filled with balloon people came to my backyard and I used it in my ploy for world domination... Oh wait, no, that didn't happen the next day. I did however say "tsunami" out of nowhere a day before the tsunami hit that place. Freaky.

11) Had an imaginary friend: They're real damnit!

12) Do you have a crush on someone: No, but I want to "crush" Gabrielle Richens.

13) What book are you reading now: Warlock. For the third time.

14) Worst feeling in the world: Waking up after having no sleep.

15) Future son's name: Pary. Nuff said.

16) Future daughter's name: Jenna, in honour of the good friend that has disappeared.

17) Do you sleep with a stuffed animal: No, I sleep with live animals...

18) What's under your bed: Bodies.

19) Best sport to watch: Girls on Trampolines.

20) College plans: ... Huh?

21) Piercings/tattoos: No/No. Though I wouldn't mind a tattoo of my own design. Maybe.

EXTRA STUFF :-

1) Do you do drugs: They stop the voices in my head...

2) Who are your good friends?: They know who they are.

3) What are you most scared of: Little children.

5) Where do you want to get married: On the moon?

6)Who do you really hate: The person inside my head who stops me from doing things. Bastard. Shutup already!

7) Been in Love: ...yes, unfortunately.

8) Do you drive: I drive myself crazy! Yes I drive. Jeez.

9) Do you have a job: Nope! Do I get some kind of compensation now? Oh wait, not aboriginal...

10) Do you enjoy being around people: People make me sick. Uh, I mean... sure!

11) Are you for world peace: It is impossible.

IN THE LAST 72 HOURS, HAVE YOU:-

1) Cried: Nyet.

2) Bought something: Nope.

3) Gotten sick: I've been sick for a while now. Fkn cough.

4) Sang: Heh. Yeah.

5) Wanted to tell someone you loved them: Yes. I love you.

6) Met someone new: Nein.

7) Missed someone: Yes.

8) Hugged someone: ... Yep.

9) Kissed someone: No. Well, technically yes. But don't tell anyone.

Well, that was good for a few minutes. Now time to do something productive. "Pro-duck-tive" ... fucken ducks.

casual formalities

2005-12-24T17:19:00.000+10:00

I woke up this mornafternoon and decided to post here. Because it's Christmas Eve apparently. Last I remember it was December Somethingth and Christmas was the usual "few weeks away." But now, it's the Eve. Of That Day. What this means is that anywhere after 12am, Santa will arrive on his sled, possibly parking it on the roof and causing structural damage. He will then realise that there isn't a chimney to be found in the entire city and will resort to burglar tactics, ensuring widespread panic and chaos for the next week as investigators attempt to uncover the man behind the large red suit. Last seen heading North with a large suspicious bag in an 1800 model, 6 RP (Reindeer power) sleigh. If I got the number of reindeers wrong, sue me. I will get the best lawyers and reverse the lawsuit.

Thinking about Christmas now is amusing. The childish excitement has long since gone and I'm left with the classic "ba-humbug" syndrome. Also, fanciful fairy tales are funny. Makes me think some homeless person on an acid trip made it up way back when. Of course he got the acid from the future... But I digress from the inevitable link that is right. Over. Here.

While you read that I'm going to go get something to eat.

I assume by the time it took me to reheat last night's dinner and grab a drink that you have finished reading. If not, you are a slow reader or I have become truly talented in reheating leftovers. Or both.

Since you're now full of juicy facts, did you ever notice that alot of the excitement around Christmas is commercial? I swear the directors and board members of companies have orgasms at every major holiday event, because it means more money they can put into a bank that collects dust or becomes part of some dodgy movie involving five intelligent sea urchins and a squid named Chuo. The plot can be stupidified and as long as the word "Christmas" is mentioned somewhere in the title, it's perfect. Just as every product known to man is apparently perfect as a Christmas gift. And they say it's the thought that counts. Bah! I know of cases where it's the after-thought.

Like the dreaded chocolate gift. You will see them in stores before you even know Christmas is a "few weeks away." They seem innocent enough, but you never overlook them. They're cunning marketing schemes. Got nothing else to buy that third cousin, six times removed? Seasonal chocolate gift pack by Cadbury. It's the after-thought that counts. Feel cheap because you didn't spend much on someone, or they got you something and you didn't even think about them? Chocolates.

My warning to you this year, if you wish to never have the title of "Lord Aftah Thort", is to step away from the chocolate display and put those gift ideas where I can see them!

Now, steering away from the day that will be, I am very upset. My chair, nay my Throne, is sitting a meter away from me, with a sad patch of glue giving me hope that it may be used once more. Yes, the chair broke. At the armrest that isn't really rested on. Go figure. If I have to put the big guy down, I will go into mourning with the Buddhist monks I befriended recently. During that time I will also develop a cunning heist plan - I have family contacts in the business of office chairs. There will be balaclavas, sharp witty dialogue and even a sassy chick in the group who makes cold comments at anyone who hits on her, but she secretly wants to bone the leader, which is me.

Or, to save me time you could go out and buy me a new chair seeing as it's my birthday 2 weeks after Christmas. Ah yes, Christmas, New Years and Pary's Birth. Surely the three greatest events in a year. All in one neat package of drinking, eating, mauling intricately-wrapped gifts and admiring girls who have "santa's little helper" outfits on.

On the end note of this rather large clump of textual extravagence, I am unemployed. But! I have a plan. More on that later. Maybe before it is put into action, maybe 6 months after. Until then, I wish you a Mary Christmass and a Happeh Knew Yere. And you can wish me a Happy Birthday in about 2 weeks when I will be "indisposed" and possibly nekkid.

the stripper who loved me

2005-11-08T21:39:00.000+10:00

Well.. it's been a while. Again. I have some good news, some bad news and some ugly news. But first, I'll begin with the sexy news. About two (2) days ago, I got a haircut. Oh noes! Oh yeos! I did. Fret not though, for I refuse to part with all my hair. Just the massive clump that can get a bit wild. Wild like a Friday night at a strip club! Which is where I was last Friday. Free entry, expensive drinks and of course a lap dance. The original plan was to have a 10pm rendezvous at the Club. The actual plan turned out to involve a meet at a different bar, drinks and making our way to the Club in pairs. Why? Because we had 4 (four) VIP passes for two (2) , and didn't want to make it seem we were all in one large, illegit group. Naturally there was an odd number of people present so someone had to suck it up and go alone. Of course that person was me.

Apparantly it was decided we needed to drink as much as possible beforehand. So I rebelled and took my time. I didn't need liquid courage. My drink list for the night was:

-:- Two (2) "Schooners" of Beer
-:- 1 (one) Bottle of Smirnoff Black
-:- One (1) Shot of Absinthe (Like liquid licorice except... brain cells disappear)

Which isn't much. I was the 2nd (second) group to head over. By group I mean person and by head over I mean get slightly sidetracked for 50mins. It was about 40mins before I realised the ticket stated it was valid until 11pm. By then I was pretty far from the destination. So I did what anyone would do and walked a little bit faster.

11:05pm. Calm, cool and collected I approached the desk and was ushered inside without a word about the expiry time.

Inside. I do a lap, keeping an eye out for my friends and hot females who dance. Upon finding the latter, I make my way to the bar and purchase the Smirnoff Black I mentioned earlier. Expensive, but who cares when you've got a shot of Absinthe swimming in your blood stream. My keen eyes then picked out the friends, sitting just in front of the stage, enjoying the displays of some not-so-hot stripper. Long story short, they left, declaring that they'd been there an hour already. They also decided to mention that I "missed out" on the best show. Ha! Turns out it was they who missed the best show. My show, bitches. No, I didn't strip... or did I?!

I refused to leave after just arriving, so I stayed and... took in the view. They came back for me just in time to see me walk off with an employee... stripper. And the rest is erotic history. She was nice. I was suave. She totally dug my shit. And curls. It was a great night.

So that's the good news. Now the bad news; I'm addicted to water. The H2O kind of water. From the filter in the kitchen. I go through glasses of that stuff and I always want more. I need help. One day I'm going to wake up in a sweat and feel hydrated, and like I really need to urinate. Nachos too. I'm addicted to them. In face, the more I keep typing about water and nachos, the more I want nachos and Milo. Water... nachos... Milo... lingerie. These are a few of my favourite things. I'm a-go make some right now. Be right back!

Ok back. Now for the ugly news! I have a new desktop wallpaper. It's so very hot. Oh wait, ugly news. Right. Hotornot.com! That's ugly news. I swear the ratio of hot to not is 1:50033626. I crushed so many egos on that site. In fact, if I had to choose a username, I'd call myself "Egokrushah." Because I'm original and stuff. People would think I'm from a foreign country. And I'd have to explain to them cleavage does not automatically mean you get an 8; Cleavage is bonus points, not... points. And I'd explain it with an accent. Probably Swedish.

And in my spare time I managed to break some super strong glass, cut myself on it and then mourn the loss of the glass. Also managed to get drunk the week before that, walk 100 miles, kick a tricycle, urinate inside a school and save the world from an invasion of stupidity. Not everything in the previous sentence was true. Which is it? Find out never!

Now to leave on a heavy topic; elephants.

Oh! Also, today so happens to be date of birth for someone I know. She knows who she is... Happy Birthday tubbeh! *Poke* Many Milos your way!

Goodmorning, goodday, goodafternoon and goodnight!

barnacles can't fly

2005-09-04T15:26:00.000+10:00

Before I begin a tale of something able to be made into a tale, I'd like to inform you that when I started writing this, I had no title. That's right, there is... was no title. Fascinating I know, but think about how oblivious you were to that fact before I told you about two lines ago. Imagine all the articles, stories and movies you've seen that might have been naked (without a title) until the very end! Why am I telling you? Because I'm in denial - a state of mourning. See, just yesterday I parted with something that's been a part of me for a long time. I shaved me goatee. Please, no sympathy, I'm coping with the fresh new babyface look. Alright I'm not. I want my goatee back. I have to wait for the descendants of the previous hair to come through strong and proud of their ancestry, taking up the throne on my chin with honour.

Thing is, that's not all of my woes. The tin of Milo is almost half-empty, and while you philosophy junkies will argue that it could be half-full and I shouldn't be so pessimistic, I still say it's half-empty. It's Milo, and it's draining away, there is no hope. Well, except that it's a big tin.

I know, it's terrible. But I will push through these hard times with a smile, because I found my socks. Both pairs in fact. Ever noticed how exciting it is when you find missing articles of clothing? Maybe not when you find a suspicious pair of underwear that isn't yours, but you know. Unless you're unfortunate enough to witness the terror that flaps in the night, that is XXXXL panties on a clothesline, you shouldn't have a problem with clothing-related nightmares. Or monkey-related nightmares for that matter. Lets face it, monkeys can't be trusted. And they go hand in hand with large underwear.

In other, unrelated news, it's father's day today. Or was, depending when you read this, I suppose. Even so, I got him some beer glasses. I was considering making appointments with various medical proffessionals, but decided against it because the glasses were easier and I can use them at some point. More than once. In one night. Enough said with short sentences.

So, while the world slips further into chaos, I am shaven and losing Milo. Booya!
Until next time, assuming I don't get crushed under a comet - something I'm very paranoid about, can't be too careful. Oh, the title has now been added and, like the titles of some songs, completely irrelevant to what it's... titling.

tyred?

2005-07-05T23:23:00.000+10:00

I had a flat tyre yesterday.

Normally, a tyre change takes 20 minutes max. But no, not for my car.

It started out promising, I had the boot open and the standard tools at the ready, it wasn't raining, and I knew what to do. One problem, though. Low cars aren't exactly jack-friendly.

So here I am laying down on the damp driveway in a singlet and long pants, reaching under my car to twist the dial of the jack that in turn raises the car, inch by painful inch. My left arm's endurance isn't as good as my right's. So, I have to take constant breaks. Nevertheless, after what seems like 2 days, the car is propped up high enough to afford the removal of the offending tyre. New problem. The bolts are tighter than a virgin's arse, no matter how much I swear and grunt at them.

By now I have enlisted the help of a hammer, a table mat and a small spanner. The hammer turns out to be useless, just as the mat does since they were both part of the same genius plan of hammering the bolt-thingy around to loosen the nuts.

The small spanner was just an afterthough at first, but proved very handy later. It is around now that it starts to rain. The bolts still haven't budged. Time for some WD-40.

Another problem. The WD-40 bottle is practically empty and the nozzle is missing. But, being the stubborn bastard that I am, I found a way to administer generous amounts of the precious substance to each bolt.

Still no luck. It's raining, which is about the only thing keeping me from lashing out on the nearest fragile object.

I love the rain. So, I relent and make the perilous journey to the shed in darkness, only to find I need a torch to find what I'm looking for.

Shed Journery, Take 2; I have a torch and I find my objective. A cross-bar. This is man's genius at its best.

Back to the tyre. I scowl at the nuts and point menacingly, brandishing the cross-bar like a weapon of divine justice. Lightning cracks around me... ok maybe not. So, it's just me and the nuts. And some rain.

My Stubborn Resolve, pt II; The nuts didn't move. I'm pacing back and forth like a caged lion, willing the precious rust removing liquid to do its job. I kick the hubcap that was a bastard to get off anyway.

Taking a breath, I steel myself like the steel in my hand. I place the right fitting over the nut, keeping one bar at about 45 degrees. I pause for effect and then give it all I have. I swear the cross-bar was bending. I couldn't believe it.

But it wasn't.

No, it was the nut moving in all its stubborn glory in an anti-clockwise direction. Jubilation!

Jubilation! Pt II; The next bolt quickly folded after seeing its leader fall so helplessly. My superior muscle-power and relentless counter-clockwise pushing was too much for the evil hexagon.

Jubilation! Pt III; The nuts are falling like steel flies. Not one withstood my barrage of twists and grunting. About 5 minutes after the first nut fell, the remaining 3 were gone. The floodgates were open, and the tyre was free. But it doesn't end there. The tyre was flat. The new tyre was not. Hence, I had to raise the car more painful inches. Now though, I have to do it while lying in a gentle stream of slightly-dirty water. It's raining lightly still.

Time for the small spanner to shine in all its glory. Man's genius at its second best. Doggedly, I toil on, raising the car inch by precious inch, judging it to perfection. Give or take a millimeter.

Jubilation! Pt IV; The new tyre is on, my clothing is wet and muddy and my hands are dirty like a mechanics. I was ready for anything. Especially mad, passionate sex. So, naturally, I beat the hubcap back into place, tuck away all the tools and grin victoriously.

Reality. No sex involved.

time is still a-fying

2005-06-25T23:47:00.000+10:00

Here I am again, a month into my new job selling the very thing I loathe most in technology - phones. Let me tell you, the novelty has worn off. I'm at the stage where I need to jump from job to job like a whore on heat until I find one that I can enjoy for longer than 4 weeks. Or at least until I'm rich and can smother myself in honey and lay amidst a crowd of lesbians. But as usual, I digress from an imaginary point. There have been ups, downs and horizontals. I have discovered new things and forgotten others. I have invaded Poland, saved the world and done something else that I'm sure was exciting. Ok, really I've just stared blankly at the sky, waiting for something to drop down before me - metaphorically at least.

Recently I purchased a new game and played it so much that when I closed my eyes, I could still see it. Oh glorious death. Actually there's a tale behind the ostensibly simple event of getting the above mentioned game. First, some background. I work two shops down from where I pre-ordered my copy. Naturally, I was working the day it arrived and so I was left a message. Now, I was scheduled to finish at a nice time that ensured I would be able to grab the game on my way home, but alas, it was not to be for the devious creature of time decided to... do something that delayed my finishing time. Torture 106. So, I waited patiently until the next day before finally walking into an open and very colorful store.

I remember the store attendants were both oddities; one of the guys had his pants up really high, and the other was a girl. She served me. But not before I kept a cautious eye on a guy with a creepy smile standing in front of me. I had to take evasive action and so I took a few steps back, then some more. And another one. Then, for two days, I was taken by the bliss of 48 hours without work and spent a good majority of that playing this sexy game, ordering an even sexier monitor and doing other stuff that I won't mention. Oh, I'm such a tease.

Other than that, I've restarted my second World of Words over at a shady gaming website full of Aussies. Oh, and Mr and Mrs Smith is a great movie. It's very sassy and fresh like the cup of tea I'm drinking. The first time I went to see it, I ended up missing out alltogether and decided to drive North as far as I could in 30 minutes. I made it 5 minutes out of Cairns. I rock the proverbial sock drawer. My petrol guage enjoyed moving inexorably downwards to settle below halfway, too. Lying bastard.

I think I had more to post about, but I lost it over the days of very latearly mornights. Write those words down. I'll leave on a final note...

The grass being greener on the side is only a relative thing. Think about it.

- Pary ζ.

2005-06-08T00:05:00.000+10:00

Testing out this nifty software.

passing time

2005-06-07T23:34:00.000+10:00

I dare not even look at the date of my last post. I think it's a record or something, and I bet a sloth could post more frequently than I do. Of course, I don't trust sloths and their lack of speed. Shady creatures. Anyways, now that I have successfully sidetracked from the sad truth about my absence of text on this site, I shall promptly do a little dance. Done.

I'm guessing you need to know what's been happening over the many long months. Well, fret not, for I am about to tell you! And then I'll get down into a little-big rant of some sort...

First, my working status. Right now, I am an employee of Telstra, which deals primarily in communications, and that includes phones. I hate phones. This just means I can find out more reasons to hate them. Now, rewinding a bit, I was at a brand-spanking new wharehouse-type store, becoming a salesman for the first time. Long story short, it sucked. Long story long, it sucked because the work environment sucked (and had no Milo). Normally, I pride myself on having jobs that last years (as opposed to my relationships, which are very shortlived...), but in this case, it was just over a month. Might have been longer if it weren't from the completely unexpected phone call I recieved. I was hesitant to answer it, assuming it was a customer enquiry. I was busy. So glad I listened to my instincts or whatever and got that call. It was like a dream where you're at home, bored and frustrated and suddenly a throng of super hot babes burst in and... change things. So now I'm a much happier, sparkling (and sexy) salesman, working casually with plans to write, become multi-linguistic and get a 2-hour massage. Here's my card, lets do lunch.

In other news, I've taken a sudden liking for tea and all things tea-like, which is really just tea. Thankfully, I haven't started talking funny or anything too British. It's jus' a cu' o' tea, know wha' I'm sayin'? No danger there, ladies and gentlespoons. I'm as Australian as someone who has Italian blood in them. Or whatever.

Moving right along to the part where I inform you of more interesting things in my life. For instance, my plans to make the Big Move. To Melbourne. With lots of Big Buildings, Big People and Big Amounts of Said People. It's Big News, my friends. No, you can't come with me. I suppose I can explain my reasons for planning this shift. It's simple, really. You live in a tourist destination long enough and you suddenly realise that it's small, full of Japs and not much happens. Unless you're a Jap. To prove my theory, I will mention that I was about the only local person when I went to Green Island for a day. I haven't seen that many foreigners since my trip into town. Nuff said. It's not that I don't like them, it's that I don't like living in a tourist place. End of semi-rant.

Ack, it's 11pm, and I have a meeting in the morning. I should day-break it. I'm sure driving isn't dangerous when you've had no sleep... That reminds me, Jamster should liquidate itself in a pool of its own marketing slime. And "Crazy Frog" can rot in animated hell. Shit idea, shit product, shit company, shit mascot and shit advertisements. There isn't enough painful things to describe what I want to do them. It's a fad gone wrong, just like every other sudden marketing boom. An idea props up, becomes popular and suddenly 10,000,012, 311.246 other small, no-hope businesses try and use it to make money. And fail, because they suck at ideas. And life. It's now 11:01pm, and I feel a little better about letting that out. Only took a minute as well.

Next up, is the fact that I'm now an uncle to someone else. Yes, my sister gave birth to another boy, forcing my mother to inform me that she'll be over my house alot when I have a kid. Why she said that is beyond me, but hey, I guess she felt guilty about something. Crazy woman. Or women. On that note, a woman is the most fiendish instrument of torture ever devised to bedevil the days of man. Such a profound statement. My theory is that it's because "women" starts with "double-u." The "I want to be different and have three syllables" letter. Firstly, it uses another letter to describe itself, which funny enough isn't even a good description. Looks more like "double-v" to me. Secondly, every other letter has a sound of sorts, or just one word to describe it. Not "w" though. Or should I type "uu"? Maybe I should rewrite the entire alphabet to suit this devious letter. Lets see what happens:

A -> "Inverse v"
B -> "I eight"
C -> "half o"
D -> "I backwards half o"
E -> "I three lines"
F -> "I three lines minus one"
G -> "half o with extra"
H -> "double I joined"
I -> "I"
J -> "almost I"
K -> "I less than"
L -> "I footed"
M -> "inverse double v"
N -> "ninety-degree z"
O -> "double half o"
P -> "I small half o"
Q -> "balloon"
R -> "I small half o legged"
S -> "nice curves"
T -> "I like roofing"
U -> "u"
V -> "v"
W -> "double v"
X -> "falling two I"
Y -> "split I"
Z -> "inverse ninety-degree ninety degree z"

Phew. That was an effort, and pretty bad. But that's English for you. Let us hope they never use my idea, because I would truly go mad and do something crazy, like ask for peppercorn in my salad.

I promised myself that I would make this an extremely long post to keep everyone and their family entertained for at least 10 minutes. But alas, I have just about run out of wind and am about to beach myself on an island full of bikini-clad females. Oh woe is me. Yarr.

Before I go, I must say there's been very many a Milo day recently. Both literally and metaphorically. Goodnight!

- Pary ζ.

alive

2005-05-25T11:30:00.000+10:00

Testing... testing... 6, 32, 134, 576... Hello?

me, myself and inanimate objects

2005-03-10T20:41:00.000+10:00

So, you think you're safe from seemingly innocent boxes with no desires or apparant conscious thought? Well, you're wrong. At first I thought I just amusing bad luck with transporting boxes - whether full or empty - and other inanimate things. And then I discovered for certain that I was. I mean wasn't. For weeks now I have been keeping at least half a deranged eye on these objects, sitting there in their inanimacy (finally got to use that word in a sentence.), and that's how I came to realise that they were out to get me, or at least make people laugh at my misfortune.

First, there were the empty boxes here and there that just completely refused to not fall off the goddamned trolley, no matter how much I threatened to have at them with the carton cutter. The solution: Lots of well placed, angry kicks. Seeing a rebellious box crumple under your wrath is unbelievably satisfying, if a little psychotic-looking. Even more satisfying is delivering these boxes to the cardboard compactor (or, to be more accurate, the everything compactor, including your sanity). Dubbed "Crusher Jnr", this baby will flatten those cardboard cultists into line and show them the meaning of packaged.

Next came the full boxes, a recent occurance. It was all the grapes; oh they were a mighty tower of grapes, at least until they collapsed off the trolley to their wine-generating doom. Stupid, stupid fruit. I held my temper and swore furiously, but only in my mind. Outside I was smiling and being violent. I thought that was going to be the last of these mutinous attacks, after seeing the peaches attempt it many times over, this had to be. Wrong. Say hello to the double-boxed, out of date peanuts! I tell you, that d-box looked strong, yet it wasn't. Tore open the moment I lifted it off the trolley for the inevitable journey into the bin. And those bins laughed as the nuts threw themselves desperately on the floor ; a disturbing, smelly, metallic laughter that deserved nothing more than a well-placed kick or two. The peanuts themselves were screaming: "You may take our chance of being sold, but you will never take... our deliciously salty taste!" in true Bravenut fashion. The cashews would have wept.

It doesn't end with boxes, oh no; boxes are just the expendable decoys. The real menaces are the flappy doors that find it necessary to curl up and pummel your skull with their hardened, crusty edges of plastic. They call themselves the "Gates to inanimate freedom". I tell them to shut the fuck up before I unleash with some rough, hinge-damaging opening and closing. Yes, I have told a door to shut the fuck up. I kicked it too, for good measure.

Who will win this endless struggle between man and man-made convenient things? Noone will ever know, for it is endless, and thus has no end, ergo nothing can be decided about it... I for one, though, will don my boxing gloves and open up a bin of animate pain on these lifeless objects. The door has just begun.

In other news, some celebrities probably got divorced, some royal scandal may have occured and a cyclone almost hit. I am thoroughly disappointed with that effort. I should have directed it towards me; I wanted rain, wind and the like but all I got was a sprinkle or two. I wanted to stand on a roof top and cry prophetic nonsense while sporting a shabby beard and wearing tattered clothing. But, as I type this, I hear the familiar, wonderful sound of rain dancing outside. Could there be a downpour that lasts more than 10 minutes? Yes, yes there could. But there won't, because the El Nino sucks. So does global warming. Vacuums cleaners too.

Speaking of vacuum cleaners and their sucking nature, I have a job selling eletronics now. Yes yes, I am now a salesperson. Ok, in a month I will be. No more deranged mornings full of fruity vegetables and kamikazing objects. Jubilation! Buy low, sell high! Wait, that's investing...

Sales is all about cajoling and speaking highly of things you probably wouldn't buy, even just to light on fire. Now, while I'm in a state of jubilating, I wish to send a very fond thank you and so much more to one of the best people I know in this mad, declining world:

Jenna "Angel" McTavish/Barry

To be your friend is something I truly, utterly, more than cherish. Many Milo Icecreams shall come your way (I prayed to the Milo Gods; even sacrificed a spoon to the cause). Because you deserve nothing less, you magnificant woman, you.

On that heartfelt note, I take my leave. Until next time, take care and don't bite people unless they ask, or unless you're ferociously hungry.

Today was a Milo bar day.

- Pary .ζ.

cookie-crumbling sweetness

2005-03-06T19:58:00.000+10:00

Hark! No angels are calling, but they might as well be because that's what they apparantly do. Ok, so that made no sense and was probably my worst introductory sentence ever. On to the more important stuff, which involves a summary of a certain time period chosen by moi (usually between 2 days and 5 months...). Saturday night was an event planned all the way from Tuesday; there were saucy rumours, saucy activities and saucy foods all round (courtesy of the strapping young chaps who, most certainly weren't, definately could not have been, under the influence of alcohol).

So, after you've digested that twisted, multi-directional paragraph, I shall continue with some more words to sate your appetite for, uh, cookies.

Firstly, I lied about sating your appetite, fatty.

Now that's settled, I'll get into a little more detail about what actually happened; and I will of course leave some things out and be vague, for privacy's sake, or because I generally couldn't be bothered describing it. I was the first to arrive by several hours, which is beyond a miracle. FACT: I am never, not ever, infinitely not, early; normally I'm the last person to arrive by many minutes, leaving everyone twitching with anticipation of my arrival. But not Saturday, oh no, I was Mr. Showupbeforethestore'sopen Jnr. Wasn't such a bad thing, but it felt weird, and ironically, I didn't even have a watch on.

So, after some idle mingling with the occupants of the house ("host/hostesses"), guests number Two and Three arrived, and with non-alcoholic beverages.* This caused more idle mingling and, inevitably, the Table Tennis games to begin. It was a revisit to my uni days; showing up early to lectures, always prepared and studying hard to get those good grades.**

I am indeed the undisputed Professor of Ping Pong***, the Truest of Table Tennis***, the-- ok, you get it. During my tiresome campaign of bat-swinging, more guests arrived, too numerous to number (6?). Thus, the drinking began.

Seats were taken, bottles and cans were relentlessly sent to their empty graves and the banter was lively and, for the most part, coherent. So, you want highlights. Here goes:

1. The "Sobering third breast" - An empty 2L water bottle wedged in a female's shirt, leaving the top protruding out the top.

2. [Removed]

3. The saucy rumours! Some of which involved me. Actually, it was pretty unsaucy; it was laughable, not edible, even as a metaphor.

4. [Removed]

5. [Removed]

Then everyone disappeared, leaving just a couple of drinker-happy compatriots behind for the crashing over. It took awhile, but eventually we settled into a bedroom; all four of us, after some extensive can-crushing. In the morning, we were protesting about a trip to Tin-ah-roo at 8:30am, and ended up staying in bed, except one of us. Dicer.

Yep, there was surprise vomiting (elsewhere), heated debates, saucy steak burgers and alcohol. And, very surprisingly, I saw more people, that I knew, at McDonalds the following morning than anywhere else. Now, this was in the morning and at a McDonalds' store that is NOT in a central location. Weird, I know. If anyone had told be me I'd bump into them there, I would have simply asked "What the fuck would they be doing there, at that time (besides the obvious)??"

Before I leave you fine reader(s), I must add that, according to sources on the night, the town was "fucking going off, it was mad."

* Blatant lie, it was obviously alcohol.
** Another blatant lie; I skipped more lectures than a skipper skips, uh, boats... and I don't "do" study. And the hell with good grades.
*** Yes, blatant lie #3; I am not those titles. Maybe I was once, but that was only one lunchbreak and a the odd streak here and there. It's behind me now, let it go, man.

and then some

2005-03-02T20:53:00.000+10:00

It's been, 5 days since I've posted here... and that's all I know of that song and therefore that's all I can change. Anyway, my point was clear, until I lost it in rewording lyrics; and that was that I've been working for the last 5 days, at unholy hours and with very little sleep. And I did it without a drop of coffee. Ok, fine, I did have some ICE BREAK.

Let me tell you what work is like at 6 o'clock in the moring: It downright sucks the Almighty Big One. I mean, you're half-awake (because you're optimistic, as opposed to half-asleep...) and you have to walk straight into a coolroom, which isn't too bad, ignoring the fact that you have the natural urge to lay down and hibernate for a few more glorious hours. Or days. Now, just as you're settling in, with your eyes and brain protesting angrily, it comes time to walk to the other end of the store to drag some sorry-arse pallets - they way at least a tonne each - back to your section. Now your whole body is protesting; a mutiny is on the horizon, surely. But, alas, you don't collapse in a fatigued heap, because you're young and full of far too much energy. There goes that excuse.

Of course, as time goes by, the day gets slightly better. There's an actual formula for this, but I dare not reveal it. Lest someone forget to carry a 1... but, I digress. Alright, alright; part of this formula does involve how many, uh, nice-looking woman you see (and I don't care if you're female, it works). Fine, it's exponential. Another key part is how many hours you have left, right up to the last hour, which seems to take forever, even though it's always 60 minutes - no matter which way you look at it (sideways included).

So that's the beginning and end, now I guess you want the juicy middle parts, where the hours appear to jump all over the place like a car in heavy bushland getting chased by big things. Big, hairy, growling things. If it's a good day, it goes quickly and before you know it, you're almost finished. If not, you better get some coffee and a good person to complain with. Or both.

Sounds like hell, doesn't it? Well it's work, and nobody enjoys it. Even pornstars can't say they enjoy their job after some time... But you know who can say that they do? Professional Dole bludgers. Those guys live the life, albeit in a run-down household and a miserable one. I'm glad to have successfully achieved my Doctorate in Leisure and look forward to --

Um, what was I talking about again? That's right; Dolphins! No wait, it was my week at work, or WaW (pronounced "Wore") as I like to call it. I think I'll summarise now. It was full of late nights, early starts and twitching eyes. By Sunday, I was hyper-active and by Monday I was in my bed, asleep; only to wake up and stay up until the most Godless hour of 5am. I wasn't seen again until 2:2opm AEST.

The weekend wasn't too bad. It had some interesting news and some interesting poker-playing and even poodles. Enough said. This weekend should be even more weekendary (is someone writing these new words down for me?) with my devious plans. Yes, I intend to drink a littlot.

long time; take note and squint occasionally

2005-02-24T16:37:00.000+10:00

After so long a holiday (I use that term loosely) I was inspired today to post something on my somewhat dusty blogspot. Good thing I hired a maid to clean up. Of course she was French and was scantily dressed, without a English word in her. But I digress...

Today, it seemed, was out to get me. Such a futile effort, for I laugh in the face of, uh, days attempting to drive me insane. Firstly, some background: My car was scheduled for a service today (at 7:30am to be exact); I started work at 6am. Problem? Not when you have two caring parents who know how to deal with these logistical and trivial matters. So, I'm at work, doing my job, falling asleep et cetera. During this time, my car is taken into service; from where I parked it, to the "We'll take all your money because warranty isn't actually real" service center. Good job, oh father.

Work itself was the usual "please make it the end of my shift now", with a few minor differences. 1. I actually asked someone to join me for lunch. Ironically I was instead swamped with every other colleague except the one I asked, who showed up when everyone had left. Go figure.
2. By a few, I meant just one.

3pm : I finish work and wait silently to be picked up so I can get my car back. During this time I'm simaltaneously falling asleep and imagining the cost of this service; which, by the way, is mandatory... lest I lose the warranty that covers the second tread of the left tires and only if it's not raining...

3:10pm : I attempt to pick out the hot school girls as my brother ambles over to the car. I then complain bitterly in my head about the lack of said girls.

3:17pm : At the service center now, in my uniform. Badge still on and promptly removed. I prefer to keep them guessing, even though I suspect I'm on record there anyway. To this end I observe that the car wasn't put in under my name. Oh glorious anonymity! I also discover that despite them claiming my car was ready to be picked up, it wasn't. The invoice hadn't been printed, so I was directed to the "Customer Lounge" which involves opening a door and then walking across a driveway.

3:23pm : Inside the Lounge. It has a TV (can't hear it, looked like Mile High was on. Weird show), magazines and, of course, propaganda. I suspect that there are cameras, watching to see the effects of confining customers to this room for waiting.

3-somethingpm : Still inside the Lounge. I adopt the silent, stationary posture. Then I give up and shuffle around restlessly. I see many staff members walk towards the door, but each time my hopes are shattered.

3-gettingnear4pm : Finally, "Shane" shows up with the invoice. It's dull and full of the usual dot-matrixed arbitrary numbers. Labour, for example. I'm convinced that they look at the parts cost and calculate the labour by how close the total is to $300.
Example: Parts: $100. That's $200 away from $300, so the labour should be $200. Of course they minus a random value between $1 and $20 (including cents) to make itappear as if there is an actual logical process to achieving this arbitrary amount. Nobody's fooled.

3:50pm? : I'm ushered to the cashier, who of course is no longer at her post. I'm duly ignored by the "busy" staff. Idly, I study this cashier booth and read the propagandaful (new word) walls. Getting slightly disgruntled, I lean on the counter in a way I hoped said "I'm getting impatient."

3:55pm : My desire to choke someone dissapears when a different cashier arrives. She was blonde, short and cute. Obviously a clever tactic used to appease customers who have been waiting for so many minutes and seconds.

3:56pm : I bust some low-level moves on her. Meekly, she apologises after my clever and funny statement about standing around. I was considering using this moment to say the charming "How about making it up to me with dinner tonight?", but chose not to after remembering I was still in uniform and my hat is labeled with "The Man." Also, I didn't have my curls displaying prominently. Those guys need to be seen before I work my magic. And finally, the guy behind was a nuisance, and I didn't want to give away any of my tactics to him. The cashier's name was Jackie. She was amused by my humour. Plus one for Pary.

The lesson for today is simple: There is no Warranty, only rediculous prices. Or, to quote "Shane" : "Basically, warranty only covers mechanical parts..."
Kick arse. I'll remember that when the engine gives in. Oh wait, that wouldn't be covered either, because the warranty will be expired. Jubilation!

Despite all this, I'm in a good mood. It's all quite amusing. Today, then, is a slightly Milo day. =]

Take care my faithful readers
- Pary .ζ.

Excuses

2005-01-01T21:49:00.000+10:00

I had a close friend ask of me "October 24th - ring a bell?" and I am ashamed to admit that I didn't know that it was when I last posted here. Three months later and here I am at last. Consider yourselves lucky that I can't play... that... game until my credit card allows itself to be processed. It will, otherwise it will find its new hometo be a bin. Now, I successfully failed Uni having not touched a book (or any other academic tool) for a month. Needless to say, I don't really care. Why? Because I lost interest at one point there - I still blame the allure of staring out the windows wistfully. But I digress!

The real exciting news is that it's a new year. Even better is my birthday just 6 days away. Oh it's a day of glory indeed, one where I was brought into this world. Destined for greatness and all that. Not to mention dead sexy. *flex*

You'll have to excuse the short post. I mean that. No complaining, you will get your posts when I get my laptop. Maybe.

- Pary .ζ.

The Ins and Outs

2004-10-24T17:48:00.000+10:00

It's almost been a week since I watched myself put what I did for the day into a text box and click "Publish Post." Or in other words, I'm lazy and haven't bothered posting a blog. So what's been happening? Really? Shutup.

Most of the days involved uni of some description - whether it be me skipping a tutorial or me actually doing assignment work. More recently I was introduced to a game called "Nitto 1320" that entails drag racing and modified cars and... I'm hooked. That aside, work came and went pleasantly quick on Saturday and before I knew it, I was thriving at a party (as per usual). That brings me to today where I worked again, with a little fatigue following me around like a shadow. I also had a sudden random thought pop into my head that made me question society once again: If you have a loan and pay it off early, they ("The Company") CHARGE you. They CHARGE you for paying off a debt EARLY. What the fuck is with that?! It's like telling someone to pay extra because they paid you back earlier than was arranged. Suuuure, I'll pay the "early fee" you rip-off bastards... I'll pay it when you go to deepest pits of hell!
Ok, I'm breathing again.

Onto the highlights now. There were few great things, but on the flip side there were also few, if any, bad things. Oh right, highlights... uh, nothing really stands out, except maybe that thing that happened... or didn't. All in all if things continue as they are I'll be relatively happy, or I'll go insane from the repetitiveness. NEW JOB - NOW!#@$

...and a massage too thanks.

Typing this last sentence was fun :]

- Pary .ζ.

Monday again

2004-10-18T18:32:00.000+10:00

And while most of you were at work or doing something I sat at home and contemplated nothing. Not a thing. Not anything. Ok you get the point. I awoke at 10:44, after going to bed surprisngly early the night before. Exciting stuff, no?

So this paragraph should be enough to make you tingle with joy as you read it. Well it won't, so stop reading. I find it difficult to describe a day where I sat in aircon and did absolutely nothing. I mean, really, what is there to describe? Alright I'll try...

At a certain time, I breathed slightly different before getting up and making lunch. After that I consumed this food I had created. It was devoured with ease, my teeth turning it into a swallowable mush that my stomach could acidify and pass along to the appropriate channel. They call this process digesting. Digesting is a necessary....

I'll give you biology you uneducated swine! Um, eat healthy. Yeah.

So, in summary it was a concatenation of unforeseen events that precluded me from venturing outside of my house. This includes, but isn't limited to, the excruciating heat that has a tendency to induce sweat rapidly, resulting in an uncomfortable feeling when sitting down.

GO GO GADGET ACADEMIC WRITING!!@#111oneimaginarynumber:]

- Рάry .ζ.

Day x

2004-10-17T17:50:00.000+10:00

Where x is a number.

Fret not my fans, for I have not perished and I return like a bee to the hive. The last fews days shall be written up in brief right after I finish writing this sentence telling you it's coming next.

Friday. Arrived at uni usually late (Tutorials suck at 10am) and finished off my essay on the crappy off-the back-of-a-run-down-discount-store truck computers. Those computers will forever be dubbed as pure crap. Crap isn't even a strong enough word. Shit then. Fucken shit. Useless piles of poorly constructed turd, destined to annoy and ultimately ruin the lifes of students everywhere. DIE!
Now the reason: imagine writing 500 words off the top of your head, you're on fire (not literally...) and blazing away at the conlusion and WHAM the computer crashes (!@$!@), resulting in you losing your 500 words because Microsoft Word's recovery feature sucked so much it didn't even know. You now have to do it again. Do you like this computer? If you answered yes, please give me your address so I can promptly beat you senseless.

Saturday. Work sucks. The only highlight was when I finished, not just because I could go home, but because of the sudden influx of eye candy. Also, cabbage leaves make for good projectile weapons. Night time was dinner at "Fasta Pasta" and the clubbing, where I failed to drink a drop of anything.

Sunday. Work sucks, but not as much. The coolroom was emptied faster than a keg of beer at an old folk's home. Yes, that means it took all day. The deli had no cheese left too. What a day ruiner. No cheese and no something make me go blah blah etc. Now, you may be asking why I started this paragraph with "Sunday" instead of "Today," and my answer is simple: Fnerg. So... on to more important things like my outstanding StickCricket (TM) career; My current record is 207 and Hayden is my hero.

Also, spin and medium pace are weak -I feel like ritually sacrificing a ball and sending them to the pits of hell. Hat-trick my arse.

Tomorrow is Monday and that means nothing. Really. I mean, it is the day before Tuesday and the day after Sunday, but so what? Just because you have to work and I get the day off. Poor Vanessa... what?

I want some Milo - my days of Milk are getting boring. I might have to pray or sacrifice a spoon to the Milo gods for some better days. ^^

- Pary .ζ.

My day off

2004-10-13T19:52:00.000+10:00

Was yesterday.

So today I did my usualy uni thing, except I actually showed for the morning Practical and skipped the afternoon lecture for Maths. Hell, I even made myself french toast and did everything I set out to do. Scary, I know. I now have a new fuel cap and snazzy new (silver) window-wiper holders for me little car.

Today also marks my first day of the grueling fitness program, which actually isn't that grueling. Just the gymn a few days a week and some jogging up a hill - those steps are killers. It'll be fun, especially since I have some nice girls to join me. I'm going to keep a tally of the number of heads that turn to look over as we all walk past, male and female heads that is.

In an unusual deal, I've got a lady friend doing some of my 1000-word essay for me, since I helped her and her friend, whose number I somehow ended up with (I didn't ask for it, nor did I put it in...). After that, I reorganised my phone, which entailed deleting some mofos from the list. Friends indeed.

And apparantly I look like prince.

- Pary .ζ.

Bikinis etc.

2004-10-11T18:51:00.000+10:00

Life's a beach, or at least we all wish it was. There's nothing better than relaxing at the beach for a few hours on a beautiful day and taking in the sights. I know there are some things better, but nobody likes a wise guy. I'm freshly baked and feeling great, even as I watch Visual Studio install itself at a snail's pace. Glad to have my computer back, as boring as it is sitting here and doing assignment work, or procrastinating as the case may be, I feel at home chatting to my distant friends night after night.

Since today I went to the beach, as mentioned above, and since the beach usually entails seeing bikini-clad girls, I though I'd share a thought. As I notice these girls and then my desktop background, then my calendar and finally the picture hanging on my wall, I can't help but think: Man I'm lonely. Yes, it's true, I am lonely. I'm telling you this because I've been in the sun for too long and the salty water is getting to me.

Moving right along to the part where I write another paragraph similiar to the ones above. Now, today was off to a shaky start. First off I lost my car's fuel cap to the merciless traffic - it was on the side of the road, I swear someone swerved to hit it. Ok, so I should've remembered to put it back on. I still blame the traffic. After this I discovered that I was missing a thong - one thong. Who the hell loses one thong without moving it?! Me, of course. In true thriller-movie fashion, my mind flashed back with images and I saw my brother lift his bag out of the car at school. With this image I quickly drove back to the scene of the crime and there it was in the gutter, the missing thong. Booya! From there it was to the beach at last, where I almost walked off without everything, including the shirt off my back and to top it all off, my phone was in a ladyfriend's bag, whom I suspect was attempting to steal it. No charges will be made... for obvious reasons, including the fact that I was joking...

- Pary .ζ.

All that's been

2004-10-10T13:22:00.000+10:00

And all that's been between. At last I return like a herd to the greener pastures after an unexplainable failure of my computer, which cost me more than it should have. Originally I was going to write a mammoth rant about this, that and the other thing, but after drinking away much of the anger last night, I'm not in a ranting mood (a good thing). Ah yes, last night was good indeed and further proof that consuming cream before or during alcohol drinking means you can drink much more with little or no hangover and drunken stumbling/passing out. On top of this exciting discovery (marked by the words "That's interesting..."), I saw quite a few friends out and about, including my older sister's friends who were quite shocked at how I was now "older." Admit it girls, you were stunned by my good looks.

This paragraph is dedicated to the days I was missing in action. Nothing overly exciting happened, except I was actually motivated to do some hardcore assignment work, but unfortunately my computer wasn't around, so that never happened - funny how that works. Actually it's not funny at all. In fact, I'm not laughing. Nope, not at all. Oh right, more news; What news? I had uni for all the days I was missing and pretty much spent my spare time watching DVDs (The Passion of the Christ in Hebrew, thanks) and jogging, yes jogging. Oh. My. God.

I'm still stuck on last night - I haven't had a night like that for a while. Pity I didn't bother much with the cliched "picking up" activity, because I probably could have. Being lazy is a 24/7 job, though. Such is life.

Voting is wasted on me, they should revoke my "right" because I really couldn't care less who wins. Politics, pah. It's interesting to note the "Hemp" party with a candidate whose name is - and I'm serious - Guy Freemarijuana. Quite a bold statement there, much like this one.

-Pary .ζ.

Birthdays and such

2004-10-06T17:11:00.000+10:00

Before I begin my account of today's events, I'd like to wish a very dear friend of mine a happy birthday. Happy Birthday to Jenna "Angel" McTavish - I hope your day was better than Milo iceacream (it has to be better than mine at least). Many good wishes coming your way like a train, except not as dangerous.

Now to my account of today's events (repeat?) - Firstly, The Test, which was actually the last thing that happened. It sucked royally, and by that I mean I should attend more lectures and read more on the topics. It was Maths, or more correctly, Computing Maths. Think logic and things, very simple, but a lot to take in; I should have done much better than I did. I blame the McDonalds I just ate.

On another note, for the first time ever a company has responded to my expression of interest the very next day. It's like history in the making, although I get the feeling it was a generic email, especially since it directed me to an online application area with weird questions like "Mother's Maiden Name" and "Number of Cats in Street." Ok, so maybe it didn't ask how many cats there were. My point is simple, and that is that I don't have a point. Yes, I did complete the application and now I must do as fishermen do - wait.

Before I turn this into a novel, I'll let you all know that today was - wait for it - another Milky day. I'm getting sick of some of these subjects at uni and their knack for being useless. I might end up overdosing on calcium with all these Milky days too - where's the Milo??

I've got your Milo right here, boitch.

No, I'm not going to turn this into a novel. It's a figure of speech, ok?

- Pary .ζ.

First day back

2004-10-05T15:44:00.000+10:00

Some things change, and some don't. Education-related things certainly do not change. Same old, same old is all that ever happens. I wake up, go to Uni and then what? Sit in a lecture and almost fall asleep - literally - my eyelids slowly succumb to gravity and my concentration makes a person diagnosed with ADD seem like they are listening.

On a slightly sadder note, I got a haircut today. Normally I have to persuaded to do this, but this time I took the initiative and instigated it. Watching my curls fall to the ground always leaves me empty, but they always grow back with a vengeance! Yes, I'm talking about my hair like it's a person - it's living damnit, have you no compassion?! Right...

Moving along to the latest of my activities, which is me typing this. Go figure.

Ok, so that line was pointless. I'm thinking about the movies tonight, which is rather fiendishly early. Who the hell watches movies during dinner time?? Oh well, at least it's better than sitting here and, um, yeah.

Overall it was another Milky day. Yes, another Milky day. It feels like I'm stuck in the dairy section, but at least it's not low fat milk. That stuff is pure evil.

- Pary .ζ.

Sleep++

2004-10-04T18:19:00.001+10:00

For the first day in so many I was able to sleep past 7am and by that I mean I slept until midday. Oh yeah. Felt damn good, too.

After that I did nothing, didn't even wash my car or go to uni as planned. But the best things in life are never planned - write that down. It was quite a humid day - just sitting here I break into an annoying sweat, listening to my music and contemplating doing more nothing. So much for the beach as well; I figured going alone wouldn't be all that great, especially since there wouldn't be many bikini-clad girls around.

Since I did nothing today, I've decided to share a short story on the topic of nothing. I like to call it my story about nothing. And here it is... Booya!

A Milky day again, despite the milo that I had earlier. I wish for Milo icecream days, but they never seem to come. Not since 2 weeks ago, anyway.

- Pary .ζ.

The day before Monday

2004-10-03T18:50:00.000+10:00

Before I start, yes the title is referring to Sunday. That is today, not yesterday or tomorrow. Today. Capiche`?

It's the end of my maddening slog through work and social scandals (or lack thereof). Only as I sit here do I start to feel the effects of my fruitful endeavours (excuse the pun), which entails blurry vision, dry eyes and a lack of functioning brain. Trivialties aside, I am now off the hook and a free-roaming man once more, having cut the ties with my supposed partner. I feel a sense of joy, so don't send me pity - only money. Also, probably the most kick-arse guy I've ever worked with is changing departments, which kinda sucks because we got along well, sharing many a story of our social lives and such.

Tomorrow I go back to uni (maybe) and, if I get the motivation, I'll wash my dirty car. Actually, dirty is an understatement. Maybe I'll hit the beach too - I've been dying to do that for a long time. If I have to, I'll go alone.

As a special side note upon a reader's request:
"The Missing Pallet"
We were expecting 6 pallets, and we only got 5; one was missing and it took many hours to locate it at another store. Of course it was found and promptly delivered, much to my distaste. On top of this, many cabbages failed to show up - in fact, only one decided to appear. Unsolved mysteries hits the vegie departmen...

- Pary .ζ.

Day 1

2004-10-01T09:36:00.000+10:00

Day 1 of my internet Blogathon is here. No, I'm not going to keep a tally of every following day and title them "Day #." Sorry.

Anyway, news: Today ends my 3-day streak of 5am starts (The aptly named "Why God?" shift) and I have a total of about 10 hours sleep under my belt. Today was also probably the worst of the three; I know this because I told a door to "shut the fuck up." I also cursed some boxes and swore at a pallet. They all had it coming.

On a much lighter topic, feathers. Hoorah for the weekend, even though I'm working, it's still the weekend. Also, Monday is going to earn itself a big hug when it arrives, provided it isn't frought with perilous activities or inanimate objects bent on ruining my day. Precious sleep...

Until I decide to post again, I'll see you around like a rissole somehow...

Today overall was a Milk day, slightly warm, but still drinkable.

-Pary .ζ.