The Rest of Your Life (v3.0)

OK … so I haven’t updated in ages. So what else is new ? It’s been fairly busy at work, and the other day my boss had a dummy spit about my “always” being online. Granted, I was surfing W1K looking for some new wallpaper for my desktop, but that was only because I was waiting for our dog-slow system to finish running one of my jobs. Regardless, posting to the blog during work hours has become somewhat problematic. Nonetheless, I’ll try my luck today, and hope the boss doesn’t come back early from his meeting !

So anyways, what have I been up to between updates , I hear you ask ?

Well first off, IG and I went to see a band called “Transit Ink” play a gig Friday last at some dodgey pub in Petersham. We got there at about 10:30, and the boys still hadn’t come on. So we saw the last half hour or so of the support act, whose name I didn’t catch. The support band played standard Indie-Rock, nothing very original – all in all, pretty lame. Got to meet some of my girlfriend’s cousins and old mates in the meantime – a bunch of guys from Liverpool who had stood her up on several previous occassions. Talk about testosterone city !

I was definitely the ‘slightest’ individual sitting at that table, with the exception of IG herself. Perhaps this was the reason one of the mates of mates seemed to take an instant disliking to me, and spent most of the night alternating between giving me daggers and staring intensely at my girlfriend from half a metre away – without talking to either of us all night ! I was also conscious of the fact there was a little bit of ‘history’ between her and one of the other dudes at the table, so it didn’t help my state of mind that that particular guy looked like he could have easily squeezed the life out of me with one hand and still have enough muscle power left over to lift a small ute with the other. Bloody Italian-Stallions … they’ll be the death of me, I swear Granted, he came across as a decent enough bloke, I hear he’s marrying a nice Italian girl, and HE wasn’t giving me daggers … but still, it’s a bit weird meeting one of your partners ex’s, especially when looking at them makes you feel a little inadequate ! Strictly my problem mind you – I know IG has no interest in this guy anymore.

Finally, at around 11 o’clock Transit Ink came on to the stage. Like Perregrine, these guys are old friends of Lisa’s, and in addittion the lead guitarist is the brother of a distant relative (gotta love those extended wog families !) – so she’s been to a fair few of their gigs. Apparently they’ve recently changed their sound – I have it on good authority they used to be a sort of Metallica/Van-Halen hybrid. If this is the case they’ve definitely done well at redefining their sound, because the songs we heard on Friday could best be described as ‘funk-influenced Indie-Rock’ … and they were pretty damned good ! Thus it was a bit of a shame that the pub management made them wind the set up after only 45 minutes at quarter to 12 ! Although on the plus side, it meant that once my girlfriend had made her various goodbyes, we could leave the testosterone zone and I could feel like a whole man again instead of a pipe-cleaner figurine. Not to mention, I didn’t have to feel death-stares aimed at the back of my head anymore

OK – that was the Transit Ink gig. Last Wednesday, we went to a pub in Surrey Hills to watch the State of Origin on the big screen. Free steak, cheap beer and a great night of watching the Blues thrash the Marones. It wasn’t a bad night at all, only slightly marred by me spilling some water on the patient IG when I accidentally knocked her glass over. I got a dose of instant-karma for that mind you, when I was sick as a dog later in the night from either (a) the greasy chips that came with my steak or (b) the steak itself. I’m not sure exactly what it was, but either way 1 a.m found me shaking with nausea and projectile vomiting in a handy laundry tub while my girlfriend slept undisturbed in the blissful cocoon of her own bedroom far away in Bondi.

More recently (i.e. the weekend just passed), IG and I went for a romantic trip down to the Hunter Valley. We left Sydney on Friday night, got to the Formula 1 Motel in Newcastle at about 9pm. Now my girlfriend had been putting shit on the Formula One for several weeks, due to the chains unfortunate reputation as a ‘shaggin motel’ in Sydney. A reputation, incidentally, of which I wasn’t aware until I met IG and she pointed it out to me – although since then, a number of other people have confirmed this is the reputation they associate with Formula 1 also. So I’m glad that upon arriving, the Newcastle Formula 1 proved to still be up to the excellent combination of affordability/cleanliness/non-tackiness that I’ve always associated with the chain, from staying at a few different ones in the course of various inter-state/inter-city travels. I think it was one of those very rare occasions where I’ve proved to be more right than my wonderful girlfriend. So I’m glad she was pleasantly surprised !

On Saturday morning we took off for Pokolbin, and spent the rest of the day driving from one winery to the next, admiring the picturesque wine-country views, sampling many delicious varieties of vino, and occasionally purchasing bottles to take back with us. Later we drove back to the motel, picked up some supplies at the well-stocked Wallsend Coles, and had a mini-feast of wine, cheese, crackers and cheese-twists in our motel room, along with some quality … erm … cuddling Not only was it wonderful to spend such a romantic day with my beautiful girlfriend, but it was also a bit of a nostalgia experience for me, having gone on a Hunter trip or two previously in my late teens with Mum & Dad.

Sunday morning found us cruising the streets of Newcastle for some action – or to be more accurate, for a shop that was actually open, for want of anything better to do ! Wearing a pair of bright-green ‘VB’ beanies we’d scored watching the Origin game on the Wednesday, we felt like proper ‘bogans’ – said fact confirmed when we spotted a number of local derros wearing the same beanie on our trip through town. We ducked in to a music / fashion shop called “Rock City”, which was suitably tacky, and also contained at least one other local in a VB beanie. We left after a bit of happy browsing, but not before the geriatric gentleman (sans beanie) hanging out at the front of the store had taken the opportunity to spend some time checking out my girlfriends norgs. Afterwards we went for a bit of a walk by the seaside, and checked out a surprisingly BIG cathedral at the appropriately named “Church Hill”. We followed this up with an exceedingly over-priced (and exceedinly sweet) Indian takeaway, and made our way back to Sydney.

Sunday night finished off with us crashing at my place for a bit, before I spent some time looking in the newspaper for jobs and my girlfriend watched hot lesbian action on tele courtesy of ‘Kissing Jesicca Stein’, then a version of the Cinderella fairytale starring Drew Barrymore. I was planning to make us some dinner, and we were going to settle down to watch BB, when my flat-mate arrived home and made it clear by her actions and her scowl that she was none-too-pleased to see us. Probably something to do with the fact she had her ex-boyfriend in tow again, and was probably counting on having her ‘wicked way’ with him (a mental image I don’t even want to contemplate, given neither of them is particularly ‘easy on the eye’). So IG and I made ourselves scarce and pissed off to her place instead, where we had some good (but rich) Indian takeaway and watched a bit of tele. Finally at around 11 I tucked my darling in to bed and bade her goodnight, and went home to crash.

All in all then – a weekend of pure gold !

Listening To: Something For Your Mind : V/A (Zoth Ommog)

Back in our under-grad days, before weblogs existed, my best friend wrote a rant called “Declining the Beach Invitation”. It resonated deeply at the time – I was a beach-shunning goth, and she was a beach-shunning indie-chick. In the last few weeks, the beach (and my relationship to it) has come up in a few discussions with my girlfriend, and on Friday Wegg started an interesting thread on her blog (‘Ocean Girl Goes to The Mountains’) about the beach, your proximity to it, and the art hanging on your walls. All of which has led me to ponder the beach, and what it means to me.

Today I thought I’d share some of these ponderings with those of you who are interested, and revisit my friends ‘zine article in the process …

I was born in 1977 in Prague, the capital city of the small land-locked European country then known as Czechoslovakia. The closest thing I saw to the ocean in my first year of life were the dirty banks of the river Vltava, on which Prague was first contructed back in medieval times. When I was one year old however, my father won a posting as trade attache to the Czech embassy in Pakistan. We relocated to Karachi in ’78 as a result, and I got my first few years exposure to the beach, courtesy of the balmy Arabian Sea. I don’t recall much from those days of course, being so young, but I do remember we used to go to the beach a lot with my parents and their friends, and these were some of our happiest times.

My mother and the other embassy wives would lie sunbaking in the tropical heat in their string bikinis, unable to go topless because of the ever-present threat of local Muslim men who would often come to the beach to gape at these ‘Western’ women flaunting their shockingly bare flesh. The men would drink beer or hard liquour (though the latter was of course discouraged), crack jokes and cook meat on a fire. We kids would play soccer or cricket, splash around and chase eachother on the sand or in the surf. Sometimes a Suadi or Iranian trading boat would be pulled up on the beach, and if we were lucky we’d get a ride on a camel and once or twice a sinewy Arabian pony.

Other times we’d all watch enraptured as snake-charmers performed their ages-old ritual on the sand, or watch as they released mongoose to chase cobra over the dunes. Once a year, during turtle hatching season, we’d go to the beach before daybreak to watch these ancient, yet fragile creatures slowly drag themselves out of the ocean, and deposit strings of eggs like sticky pearls in hollows they would dig out of the sand. They’d sit on them for a few hours, and then, almost dehydrated, they would painfully make their way back into the water as their leathery eggs hatched and scores of tiny, perfectly formed baby turtles scurried over the sand, sometimes into the water but often-times in the wrong direction. Fascinated I’d pick up these misguided turtle-ings, look them in the eye, then put them down gently nudge them back in the right direction towards the sea.

Karachi also had a beach set aside for the ‘hulks’ of old freighters and military ships which had been allowed to run aground, so that the locals could gradually strip them of metal and all other usable materials to re-use and resell, leaving the shells to rust over years in the oil-stained tide. My parents have a video which must have been shot in the very early 80′s, probably by the communist-party ‘ideological advisor’ to the embassy (since he would have been the only one able to afford the expense of something as ‘cutting edge’ as a video camera), of our visit to this beach. I still remember being completely enthralled by the sight of the huge, pitted orange-metal bulks of the rusted freighters and warships, and begging our parents to be allowed to climb inside and explore with my friend, Peder from the Hungarian embassy. Alas, the smiling Pakistanis in charge of the wrecks told us through the interpreter it was “too dangerous for children to play inside”.

In 1984, my dads ‘tour’ was up and we were slated to go back home. Back then Czechoslovakia was still united in communism, rather than the twin democracies of Czech and Slovak republics it is today, so my parents decided to ‘defect’ to the West in the good old ‘cold-war’ tradition. In their choice of Australia as our new homeland, I’m sure its beaches and my love of the ocean played at least a small part. Unfortunately when we arrived in Sydney, we were too poor to settle in a seaside suburb, and started off living in migrant flats in Epping, moving to our first house in Seven Hills in Sydney’s western suburbs after a year.

In Karachi the beach had a half hour drive away, we’d always gone with friends in a big group, and embassy work-hours the world over are short besides, so getting there was never a drama. Given where we lived in Sydney, and given that 20 years ago none of the motorways which Sydney-siders now take for granted existed, the beach was suddenly a good 90 minutes drive away, if not more. Living in a new country, my parents suddenly had few friends and couldn’t even afford the petrol to make the trip (indeed, we didn’t have a car for the first six months until my dad got a company car as a salesman flogging CB radios). The beach was no longer a routine outing, and became a rare, weekend-only pleasure instead.

The years went on and my parents became busier. Mum got a job in the second year which left her exhausted, and just wanting to relax at home on weekends. We got a second car and mum learnt to drive, but only if it wasn’t too far from home or she made the journey on a regular basis. Family outings to the beach became less and less frequent. After going through a few jobs, dad started working his way up through Sebel furniture and later SGS, and we started being able to afford holidays. So we’d hop in the car during long weekends and school holidays, and journey outside of Sydney. One year we decided to go to Port Stephens on the advice of some family friends, and fell in love with it. After that we tried to go to Port Stephens at least once a year for a week by the ocean … but this more or less replaced going to the beach in Sydney altogether.

A few years of this and I hit my ‘awkward teen’ phase. Being the insecure kid that I was, I didn’t want to be seen with my parents, didn’t want to spend time with them, and started doing anything I could to avoid our annual trip to Port. ‘Embarassed’ by my parents and their ‘woggy’ friends, and embarassed by my own teenage body, I started to hate going to the beach, and to indentify it with my ‘niave’ childhood. I was still avoiding the beach and my family, and generally hating my own looks, when I started uni and hooked up with my first girlfriend. She was a Greek girl, and her migrant parents and relatives, like mine, had raised their kids going on regular beach outings to the South Coast and the like.

By the time we’d met though, Maria had become a lapsed beach-goer like I had. Listening to KMFDM, Souxsie Sioux, Caligula & Def-FX, wearing black eyeliner and PVC, we became birds of a feather, feeding eachothers ‘darkness’ in Sydney’s goth scene. Although she lived at Sydenham, we had a shared history of family beach memories, so we’d often go to Bondi or Coogee, La Perouse or Brighton Le Sands. We’d make out in cars looking out over the ocean to the oil refinery at Kernell, we’d eat seafood at Brighton or we’d just to sit on the beach talking about nothing and everything. But always at night, when the suns rays couldn’t strike us and the cruel eyes of beautiful, tanned beach-goers couldn’t judge us.

We broke up after 6 months, and although I started seeing a girl who initially lived with her parents in Ocean Road at Bondi, just behind where the KFC used to be on the corner, I pretty much stopped going to the beach altogether at that point – too many painful memories. My new girl moved to Drummoyne, and together we shunned the beach like all ‘self-respecting’ goths do, with only a few night-time trips to Bondi here and there. I found I didn’t miss it. A year on, I was offered a place in our university overseas exchange program. After some deliberation I accepted it, and moved to Sweden in August ’97.

I lived in Uppsala for a year, five minutes walk from the river (Fyriss) which runs through the center of town. After 6 months there, and having come back to Sydney over Christmas to discover my Drummoyne girlfriend was sleeping with another guy, I hooked up with a Swedish girl who’d never seen the ocean. For the next 6 months we’d sit by the edge of the river, frozen at first but gradually thawing out as the seasons progressed, talking about politics, music, relationships – and talking about the beach, and what it’s like to live in a city where going to the beach is an actual possibility.

I got back to Sydney and spent another semester finishing my degree. I went to the beach a few times – mostly Collaroy, Narrabeen & Palm, and tried to date a couple of girls including an aussie I’d studied with in Sweden who lived at Coogee, and an Italian goth girl I’d known for a few years who lived at Yowie Bay. For various reasons none of these panned out, so looking at my post-grad options, I decided to move to Melbourne to study multimedia.

I arrived in Melbourne in January ’99, and ended up living there for two years. I’d started thinking about myself and my lifestyle diffierently whilst in Sweden, finally beginning to accept myself for who I was, and trying to repair my relationship with my parents. This process continued in the two years I was in Melbourne on my own, first studying then working, and meeting a girl I ended up seeing for three years (including 18 months long-distance after I moved back to Sydney in 2001). I started to miss the Sydney beaches again while living in Victoria. My then-girlfriend and I would go down to St.Kilda or Brighton … in the day-time … or we’d go for a drive down the Great Ocean Road to Torquay & Geelong.

I finally moved back to Sydney in 2001. Although I was less than thrilled about the move itself – I’d had to make because I’d lost my job and run out of money; I remember I was really excited on the first weekend back when I took myself off to sunbake and swim at Palm Beach. I lived at my parents house in Castle Hill for a year while free-lancing as a designer, before moving to St.Leonards. I went to Bronte a few times with an old uni friend, and I even found myself going to Bondi beach thanks to a client for a CD-ROM project I was working on, and whose house was a stones throw from the Old Southhead Road fire station.

In between then and now, I’ve lived in a few different places, studied again, done a few different jobs, been in two relationships, dated and been single for 8 months. I’ve gone to the beach on off, worked out religiously, visited solariums, been a fat slob and bounced back – all without ‘accepting the beach’ invitation in its full glory, and all that it entails. In all that time, I never really thought about the beach, and what it means to me. It was nice to have the option to go – sure, but I never really thought about the happy times I used to have as a kid at the beach with my family. Coming up to summer 2004, I started this blog, lost my job at the medical recruitment firm I was working at with an ex, and moved back to Castle Hill for a few months because mum had arrived from overseas and the house was vacant as their tenants had just moved out.

Then one fateful day in December, a week after starting back at the company I’d been working for prior to the recruitment firm, I met a lovely lass from Bondi named Lisa. The rest, as they say, is history. I moved to Artarmon, and spent the Christmas / Boxing Day long weekend with my parents down in Port Stephens. It was fantastic … like coming home after a long time away. True – I got an echo of my old teenage embarassment at one point, when my dad started parading around with his sunburn (they’d already spent a week there before I arrived), vodka-gut and underwear-like swimmers near the roadway … but as I drove away from Port later that day I called both my parents and thanked them for a great weekend, and apologised for acting a bit embarassed earlier in the day – something I could never have done as a teenager.

That weekend is what finally got me thinking about the beach, and its meaning to me. We’ve been to ocean a few times with Lisa, although it’s been too cold so we’ve only ‘done’ the beach properly once so far. We’ve talked about the beach in an abstract way, and I’m sure I’ve left my girlfriend with the impression Bondi isn’t my favourite (which is true – too many backpackers). However, I hope I haven’t left her with the impression I’m ‘not really a beach person’. True – from the ‘awkward teen years’ till 2001 I stopped being a fan of the day-time beach experience. However, I could never resist the beach invitation entirely, and slowly for the last four years the beach has been working its way back into my heart, as surely as sand works its way into your bum crack despite your boardshorts. Now I can truly say I’m looking forward to spending summer baking with my Bondi babe on the sand … finally, after all these years I’m ready to accept the beach invitation again like I did when I was a wee lad !

(Shall Be) Listening To: The Hours Count Down : On my loud bedroom clock …

So excited I could ….. burst ! Assuming she made all her numerous connecting flights, and the original plane departing from Roma (knock on wood), IG should be arriving back in OZ tommorrow morning.

YaaaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYY !!!

Woo hoooo !!!

Yippeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee !!!

I’m not sure I’m gonna be able to sleep a wink tonight … like a kid before Xmas or something Have a great weekend guys, won’t you ? I know *I* will !!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Listening To: Linger Fickin’ Good : Revolting Cocks

Allright … I have a confession to make … I *didn’t* get as completely shattered on the weekend as I thought I would ! Not only did I NOT choke on my own vomit, in fact I didn’t even need to vomit at all. Granted, I still got pretty tanked and danced for a fair while … but it ended up being a *positive* night out, rather than the self-destructive maudlin drinking binge I’d originally envisioned.

Oh yes …. in other news … DB has been featured on someone elses site, and they are a completely impartial observer, who doesn’t even know me personally ! No, really !

Go to randomrant.co.uk to read the ‘Overclocking A Llama’ article if you missed it on this blog. A big thanks to Bazz@r for having me as a ‘guest writer’. I’ll even link to you on the sidebar in a bit, when I bother updating me links list again !

Listening To: No-Man’s Land : Ardis

So it’s almost the end of the week … one more work day left till the weekend, and that’s going to essentially a half-day, coz we have a work function on from 2pm in the afternoon (lawn bowls … yeah, tragic, but it’s a ‘team bonding’ thing. If only it was Paintball instead … *that* would rock !).

I’m happy, not just because the weekend is coming up, but more importantly because Sunday is the halfway point in IG’s European Adventure ! Only two more weeks to go till she gets back after that.

Tell you what … it can’t be quick enough for me, grooveriders ! But then, I think we’ve figured this out already, haven’t we ? I’m gonna sound like a broken record by the end of this I’m sure, but I miss her sooooooo much *sigh* From all accounts it sounds like she’s having an awesome time … wish I was with her !

Damn … nothing more creative than that to post, maybe tommorrow

Listening To: Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me : The Cure

Well friends and fans, it’s official – the wonderful IG left Sydney on Sunday afternoon for her Big Meditteranian Adventure, and I’m missing her already For the next four weeks, I’m going to be without my muse, my best friend & lover, my heart & soul. Damn !

I got a bit teary-eyed at the airport after she’d stepped through the exit gate, but it didn’t really hit me until yesterday, when I was at home taking another sickie, and reading various old books. Great big gouts of tears as I got through Fahrenheit 451, then The Cyborg & The Sorcerors, and finally The Wizard & The War Machine … I’m thinking “what the f*ck is wrong with me ?” … and then I realise “aaaahh … sheeeeeiiit … she’s been gone one day, and she’s gonna be gone for another 4 weeks ! noooooo !”

I got to talk to her for a bit in the evening, when she finally arrived in Paris after 25 or so hours travel (good old Australia … arse-end of the world), which was lovely. Shame about the perceptible connection lag, which made the conversation difficult at times … but that’s ‘international roaming’ for you ! Naturally, I hope she has an awesome time ! She’s keeping a travel diary, and may even log in a few times to update her blog, so I’m sure we’re going to hear some interesting stories (already got an SMS saying “have plenty to put in blog”, and she’s mostly been in transit hehe) … but in the meantime I can definitely say I’m missing her :-/

Rock on, IG !

Listening To: Deaf, Dumb & Blind : Clawfinger

Back in ’99 as part of one of my post-grad subjects … Hypertext Authoring I think it was, I created a Rhizome using a bunch of emails from a friend of mine, and some shareware translation software. At the time, I think the original text was translated from English to Swedish, Swedish to German, German to French, French to Italian, and Italian back to the English in a sort of semantic Chinese Whispers. The resulting garble was then edited to resemble something at least approximating sense. These text blocks were then assembled as a series of independent HTML pages, and a pretty f*cked up navigation system constructed in an attempt at non-linearity (within the contstraints of HTML).

I was pretty happy with the result, and earned a HD mark for the project, and the subject as a whole. Sitting around with a bit of spare time on my hands today, I thought it would be fun to revisit the process … hence the new blog, Tales of Idoru – which you’ll also find a link to on my side-bar. I’ll be updating this on a semi regular basis, because I must confess the process still fascinates me. This time round my ‘raw material’ (input) are blog entries – mine, or other peoples. I’m using a slightly different software tool for the machine-side translations, and a lot fewer steps – only English to Japanese & back again this time. Nonetheless, this actually produces a more f*cked up ‘raw output’ than using 5 translations did previously – its probably something to do with the fundamental clash between the linguistic structures of Japanese & English ! After that, once again comes the edit stage where I try to make at least *some* semblence of meaning (or sentence structure) out of the babble.

Check out the results, and tell me what you think. Personally, I love the ‘flavour’ the Japanese translation step seems to impart to it … to me, a lot of the phrases seem to come out like a weird pseudo-haiku.

Incidentally, this is where the reference to ‘Idoru’ comes in. For those of you unfamiliar with the term, an Idoru is one of those strange Japanese memes … an ‘artificial’ / machine-created (pop) idol … kind of like a ‘vactor’ or ‘synthespian’. I think the Japanese actually have a few prototype Idoru around … I remember reading an article a few years back about someone called “Yuki” I think, who was / is a pseudo-manga ‘Pop Star’ voiced by an unknown female singer, and who only ‘appears’ in her digitised representation. Idoru is machine-made cultural artefact. There’s a William Gibson reference in there too, peoples ;P

The other thing I love about my Idoru blog (and I think you’ll agree with me here) is that this time round – Idoru is smutty ! *s* The original texts I’m using aren’t all that risque in themselves … but in between the machine-translations and my editing, even if you can’t make much other sense out of the results, it comes across sounding like theres more phreaky nastiness going on than we started with before the machine stepped in !

Enjoy, grooveriders … and expect a real post *here* tommorrow …. or maybe the day after …

Listening To: More Korean Babble : Thx 2 Another ‘Net Cafe

You know, I’ve been in a few relationships in my time now, and looking back over them compared to my current situation, I think I’ve wound up in circumstances I haven’t encountered before. Shall I share what those circumstances are ? Yeah, why not eh ?

I know that, to various degrees, the majority of my previous partners did have feelings for me, in their own way. But I think it’s safe to say, especially for those familiar with my relationship history, that I’ve never had unconditional love and respect from my partners up to now. Whether it was to be more ‘artistic’, more ‘sensitive’, more ‘romantic’, more ‘in your face’ (read fŨcked up), more ‘corporate’ and a host of other ‘mores’, everyone I’ve previously been involved with has, on a fundamental level, wanted something from me, and wanted me to be something and someone that I wasn’t, or to become that person with time. Yes, even you Meerkat, so don’t argue this one …

In most cases I tried to be that person for a while … especially with the last one, for whom I tried virtually everything to become the man she wanted me to be. Ultimately though I failed in all the abovementioned cases – because you can’t go into a relationship expecting your partner to change, and to be someone they’re not just to fit the template in your head of your ‘ideal mate’.

So how does my current situation differ ? Well, I think it’s safe to say (and *do* correct me if I’m wrong IG) I’ve finally found that elusive ideal we all crave … the partner who loves me for who I am, not a make-believe image she has in her head. I know, I know – our regular readers will probably see this as a sign she’s slightly demented … but I don’t think she is ! I think she’s just a really wonderful woman, with more patience & understanding than most, a fun-loving streak and a lust for life which matches my own. All of which, funnily enough … makes me want to ‘impress’ her all the more, and to make her proud of me.

Maybe it’s the fact that, without a doubt, my partner is the kinda gal who really could get any guy she wanted. The kinda well connected thoroughbred who has relatives trying to set her up with Tom Long fer chrissakes ! Or maybe it’s just because I do find her so (sickiningly to everyone else I’m sure, but phark-U, this is my blog *lol*) fantastic … and find that, in comparison, I could and should try to be an even better ‘catch’ for her.

One things for sure … I know she’s gonna say she’s proud and happy to be with me already – but that’s the funny thing I’ve discovered about unconditional love. Find it, and you suddenly don’t need anyone telling to to do ‘better’ and be ‘more’ of anything … because you’re already gonna drive yourself harder to justify your partners belief in you.

Hats off IG – thanks for a great weekend babe, me love you long time ;P

Listening To: Polysyllabic Babble : The asian dudes at this ‘net cafe …

I’m having a day off work today, in the great Australian ‘sickie’ tradition.

I really couldn’t be arsed going in to the office. I was too tired from the weekend (too many hours driving to the South Coast and back again – my own choice and my own fault), my house needs a good clean, I still need to unpack stuff sitting my wardrobe from moving house back in late December … and really, I just can not be phukt !

One observation I want to share before I jet the duck outta here though, is that I’m a little surprised I haven’t seen *anyone* walking around clutching roses yet, despite the fact I’ve been in Chatswood mall for at least an hour, and there have been plenty of schoolgirls, office wenches and other likely recipients swanning about. Personally, I think Valentines Day is a bit of a consumerist crock, and given my experience last year it’s become one of my least favourite dates … but I know most other people are fully ‘into’ it … so what’s the story, morning glory ? Is the mall full of single people no-one desires today, or is it just a case of the male species being even less ‘thoughtful’ than usual this year ?

Me, I think VD is a bit of a crock, but I’ve still gotten IG a little something or two because let’s face it, you can’t use ideology as an excuse for making your partner feel less ‘valued’ than the people around them ! Not that I think she would anyway … but yeah, I can’t actually pussy out on giving her something for Valentines Day … guess the partners of the people in Chatswood don’t feel the same !

It’s a bit like Christmas … I think that’s a MASSIVE consumerist crock. I’ve been known to wish people a “Happy Bizzare Christian Gift-Giving Holiday”, and one of my favourite songs used to be Snog’s Hey Christian God, with lyrics like “I hate my family, and I beg to be free, of the crap that Christmas brings – an excuse for sellin things”. But you know what ? My kids (assuming I ever find a woman goodly enough to bare my twisted hell-spawn) are going to have the BEST Christmases ever, like I did when I was lad !

That’s my thought for the day, I’m Derryn Hinch.

Listening To: Disposal : Lab Animals

Well guys, it seems time has run away from your faithful correspondant today ! Here I was planning to write a decent-length post, but I’ve had to click “save as draft” and abandon finishing it for today, or I’m going to be late for Trivia Night at the pub

Dammit, it’s all because I had actual work to do at work today. D’oh ! I mean it’s pretty bad when I sit around twiddling my thumbs all day … but it’s even worse when I actually HAVE stuff they want me to do. You can never win ;P

Till tommorrow – adios !