Online moral high-ground

I’m all for gay marriage, questioning the 1%, getting rid of hunger, ending tyranny, sorting out Aids and cancer, empathising with bullied children on face-smack; I love nothing more than sharing an online moral high-ground before breakfast. A good cause stirs the blood and prolongs erections.  I just think it’s time we gave them some order. On top of the list has to be ridding the world of nuclear weapons. Two men being recognised by the government as married means nothing if, as they say ‘I do’ they’re bleeding from the nostrils due to radiation poisoning. Missing teeth and a mouth full of vomit tends to take the focus of what should other wise be a happy occasion. As for the remaining order of priorities does it really matter?

By all means fight the good fight but it’s quite clear that the powers that be are lining up to attack Iran because they may be building a nuclear weapon. It will start with an increase on sanctions; this will create tension in the region…actually stop! I need not justify why Russia, North Korea, UK , America, France, Belgium, Germany, Italy, the Netherlands and Turkey need to rid their countries of nukies*. (Israel won’t confirm or deny they have nukies, which is fine as they have a deep respect for international law. South Africa, a country known to have dabbled in nukies, claim they’re nukie free. Again, a tolerant country so lets not dwell.) My point is the lack of grace and understanding shown in all of the just causes mentioned above is the very reason why disarming nukies is of the upmost importance.  It only takes one idiot to push the red button and we’re all toast and I’d put my front teeth on that idiot not residing in Iran. So I guess I’m asking if you like my sentiments feel free to share them and even act on them. Otherwise enjoy your weeties.

*I like to call them nukies because it makes them sound cuter. Some of the countries mentioned store American nukies and are able to deploy them. 

A Real estate tip I never thought I would be qualified to give.

I only ever did it twice I think, as not many people got it but I used to do a bit that went, ‘I recently bought a house. That’s not true I just wanted to say the words.’ Only me and maybe ten other people thought it was funny. One of those ten would later become Lady Wife. I wrote it because the idea of owning a home was so far fetched saying the words seemed - absurd. Therefore it had potential to be funny especially as I knew the majority of my audience were not in a position to buy a house. That’s what I told myself to numb the loser feeling real estate gave me. It turns out most of my audience did own houses and that’s why they couldn’t relate. Nothing has changed since I wrote that bit, except I’m married with a child now. FUUUCK! Don’t worry I’m actually very good at budgeting it’s just that my budget is always centred on the bones of my ass. The good news is my family love me and believe it or not, and I don’t, we went house hunting recently. I’m very much a bystander in some aspects of Lady Wife’s organised and adult life but I like to watch and take notes. So here’s a tip that I never thought I would be qualified to give:

When selling a house waft out some family smells like freshly baked bread or apple pie, or if you can, meld the two together and underscore it with a bit of Christmas. Under no circumstances should you allow prospective buyers to walk in and smell cigarettes and regret. Nothing reeks more than the scent of pending divorce. It hangs heavy in the air leaving the poor real estate agent with nowhere to go. ‘So what do you think?’ ‘I think this is what it smells like when doves cry. My inner child would only want to be here every second weekend. I walked in happy and now I want to throw a vase.’  ‘So have you been looking long?’

No this is my first time. I dared to dream and you ruined it! 

Laugh and Cry

With a candle lodged firmly in a rice cake we sang our first hearty rendition of Happy Birthday to Boy Son.  The significance of the milestone must have interacted with a motherly hormone, as Lady Wife could not stop laughing and crying in unison. I’ve never had the skills to pull off the laugh and cry, or understand it, but nor have I had the vision to marry candles with rice so party hats off to Lady Wife for having the ingenuity and emotional capacity to take Boy Son from nought to one.

Photo by Lady Wife

Eghh's in waiting.

Do you think Diabetes is too happy a word? It doesn’t really convey the severity of the disease. Cancer sounds like a sideways creeping cluster fuck whereas Diabetes  sounds like a secluded Greek island. ‘Where are you going this summer?’ ‘Diabetes, Kath wants to learn how to windsurf’. It should be called ‘eghh!’ because that’s what you say when you see your first necrotic toe. Boom! I spent two hours on a train to try that bit out. It’s a keeper*. I didn’t mind the travel-time as I love what I do but don’t put me on a train for a stupid reason.   

There’s something quite frustrating about having to prove that you speak English when the only language you speak is English. That frustration grows as the people testing your English, use it as their second, or in some cases, third language. I have nothing against folks who are smarter than me but as they are so intelligent surely all that needs to happen is a phone call! ‘Do you speak English well enough to be a nurse?’  ‘Of course I know the following sentences off by heart: Don’t worry I’ve seen it all before; I’ll be there in a minute; please don’t bite my face.’ Great you know the basics, you’re in.’ Alas no. I had to hop on a London bound train surrounded by overweight and illiterate teenage Eghh’s in waiting, with the hope that I’ll get the all clear to nurse their parents to a self inflicted and premature death. But still the positives are of the 7 billion people on the planet many are heading in this direction and one day, in the not too distant future, ignorance will create bliss. And while we’re on the topic of population control, which we all secretly want, poor communication skills in hospitals, is probably the answer.  Night x

* Whilst it is a keeper in certain rooms it can also be used to start a staring competition, which I’m fine with as my auntie was born without eyelids so I’m match fit.

Tunbridge Wells it is then.

We moved into a twee town called Tunbridge Wells, which sits an hour south of London - the not so sleepy hollow where I wanted to live.  I like the idea of getting home, looking in the mirror and saying, ‘I’ve got a dusty nostril’. Who wouldn’t want to live in a town where you can pop ‘dusty nostril’ into conversation and it not be weird? Answer: My lady wife. Yep she was quick with an emphatic ‘no’ on that one. I tried discussing the matter but she has the vagina and that was that.  I did get close to convincing her but then the London riots hit our screen all during our son’s first proper cold. Tunbridge Wells it is then. The irony being now that I’m here it’s obvious that if ever a town needed a riot it’s Tunbridge Wells. It’s like living in a tea cosy. For the first time in my life I miss hookers and junkies. They provide towns with a dash of misery and violence that allows you to appreciate your intact skin. Unfortunately I’m pretty sure they’ve all been strangled here because they’re the first people to go when everything is a bit too nice. All it takes is someone only winning bronze in the local Bloom competition, they react by not cooking their 35 year old son dinner and boom! He’s out slashing skanks. So here I am, building a life that will support lady wife and boy son and the start hasn’t been bad but, I do miss my creatures of darkness. 

Photo by Lady Wife. 

Mars

Nothing to report on the ‘not watching the news’ front, except that I happened to get a glimpse of an article about an abnormal structure found on Mars. I didn’t mean to, I just peered at a computer screen that was on a mainstream news site and ‘boom!’ my year off news is the year Alien life hires a publicist. I’ve always suspected that Mars was once walked upon by creatures as foolish as ourselves and they did a good job of killing it. If I’m wrong then I’m hoping it’s a planet inhabited with intelligent Lizards who have infiltrated our kind here on earth; taken positions in government and have a vested interest in using mobile phone technology to give us brain cancer. The theory goes that tumours are a delicacy for these Lizards so they gave us the gadgets to farm what they most desire. Our best minds are their Foie Gras in waiting. I only hope this one’s true because watching the people who have spent their entire lives with their heads in the sand; watching them find ways to actually hide their heads in the sand would probably be worth having your scull munched out by a scaly stranger.

I’m assuming the abnormal structure on Mars has been denied because if people believed life on Mars was real, I’d be seeing more people relaxing at home during the week. The Tic Tac factories of the world would have a hard time convincing staff to believe in the benefits of mint. In fact having the breath and odour of a human would probably become the latest fashion statement. All these years denying what we are would become an embarrassing chapter in history as we all join team Human. Memberships only available to the imperfect faulty folks who aren’t afraid to smell, fail and shake their wobbly bits whilst dancing to the moon. At least that’s how it goes in my head.

I just finished reading the Adventures of Tom Sawyer and now I’m onto Huck Finn. Twain is the best kind of writer because he gives you back your youth without bossing you about. You want to lose weight and feel younger Tom and Huck are the ones to follow. You won’t find them on Twitter or Facebook as they only get in the way of fishing and being a pirate.  In an un-planned bout of good timing I’ve been reading these adventures and seeking a move to the UK at the same time. I have a young family and the idea of moving country has stirred a lot of bullshit bravado in me. I puff up when secretly I’m shaking. But Mark Twain has let me glimpse my fearless youth and problems have morphed into adventures. And if the Lizards are real and my noggin doesn’t taste up to scratch then I’ll read him again to find my fighting spirit.

So in a-round-about way that’s been the energy of my week: Excitement of extraterrestrial life being mainstream news; dismay that it all fell on sand sodden ears; followed by confidence found in the devilish nature of two 19^th century adventurists. I’ve enjoyed it although it has ended on a sad note as on another young Australian soldier was killed fighting on foreign soil for reasons so twisted and vile they make a clear head cloudy. I didn’t see it on the news but instead heard it from a neighbour and it’s got my feathers ruffled. It could be time to write a letter.

The Shadow

The last time the world was going to end was December 31st 1999 and I was splayed out in Brighton, Adelaide reading Drew Carey’s autobiography, which had a chapter of ‘My dick is so big jokes.’ My favourite; ‘My Dick is so big that if you look down the eye of my dick you will see billions upon billions of stars.’ I laughed so hard I scared myself and phoned my mum. I was moderately high, lounging in a room only 500 metres from my mums actual house, yet still, I bothered her landline and had a serious chat about the genius of Drew Carey, that this is what I wanted to do and for her not to worry because it was going to be alright.  We all phoned our mums that night, all four of us. Four out of work actors and comedians, home for Christmas; off tap; full of certainty yet phoning our mums, asking for approval for the gypsy lives we so desperately wanted.  I have no regrets. Although my world did nearly end that night when assuming my role as a follower, I negotiated my way onto a poorly tiled roof. Whilst wiping the fear from my eyes, I thought I’d lighten the moment by telling my close friends that when you look down the eye of my penis all you see is stretch marks from where, as an eight year old, I filled it with water in a bid to make it bigger. This was met with deafening silence followed by raucous laughter that generated trouser wee.  My legs campaigned for dignity over balance and my confused acid infused brain agreed seeking refuge in a rose bush below. This was the best dick joke I ever did tell. It had truth, context and levels.  

I haven’t seen the news in well over a week now. They throw it over the fence of a morning, they whore it out hourly on TV and radio and the concerned folks feel the need to remind of me of what I’m missing, but I’ve been strong. Friends not aware of my latest venture get a shock when I shout, ‘News’ and then pounce out of the room, like a possessed, lanky and determined Doofas. Nicky has to assure them that I don’t have a mental illness but rather, I’m out to avoid one. It’s a tough sell and whilst she’s doing her best, in their eyes I’ve entered crazy town and bitten the mayor on the ankle.  Be that as it may, (a phrase I think you can only really say whilst wearing a three piece, holding a pipe and carrying a monocle) the fog is lifting and the results have been confronting and amusing.  

I have The Shadow of doubt that has probably always been there but now without the distraction of the news, it reigns supreme. Each morning it vents into the mirror deconstructing the lines on my face.  ‘That crevice in your forehead suggests you haven’t paid your bills Adam...or reached your potential!’ 'That hurt'. ‘Did you...did you pour water down your cock?’ 'Maybe. Jesus Shadow lighten up.' I tried to kill it by buying a meditation CD. After three days of telling my friends that I was 'getting into meditation', that they should try it, The Shadow pointed out that, as usual, I was full of shit. I put the CD in. I closed the curtains. I sat down. I briefly fantasised about becoming a guru. As the Shadow blurted out 'Cockhead' I pressed play. Proving the universe has a sense of humour the CD began to skip and got stuck repeating 'You are' over and over. 'I am what?' I angrily yelled as if my 1998 Sanyo had a divine quality. I soon realised that what I was, was in hysterics.   

How many people, set to rid themselves of insecurity and anger, have ended up being heckled by their own meditation CD? Six people? Maybe seven? Either way I'm in an exclusive group. The best bit is that this all happened on the 21st of May 2011; a day some believe to be the end of the world. So if I was to assess my life by how I handle dooms day prophecies, as is the vague theme of this blog, I'm still the same old me. I even spoke to my mum. It was her birthday the day before and she had to phone me to remind that I'd missed it. 'Doofas'. 'Shut up Shadow.'

To be continued... 

Lifting the fog

In the tradition of making grand statements in May, this year I have decided to avert my eyes and ears from all forms of news media for twelve months*. The reasons behind 2011’s hasty statement, this mind enema, is that I’m convinced the news and all the discussions, arguments and foot-stompings that clamber along with it, are not only filling my head with shit but funnelling me into an emotionally vacuous existence.

The problem is the mind fog that the news creates, the headline driven dementia that distorts my grey matter with waves of horrigraphic** imagery. I don’t react anymore. I can see the world ending one day; a massive earthquake, leads to a tsunami, that encourages a plague of locusts, to fly a commercial airliner into a novelty sized test tube filled with the Ebola virus. I’ll be captivated for a minute before wanting more, like a starving orphan who feeds on the exciting misfortune of others. “Can I have some more planes please sir?’ ‘More! The world is ending and you want more!’ ‘Maybe just another angle sir? Or a deeper sense of impending doom from the Today show host?’

Recently I watched the Wikileaks footage of American soldiers deliberately aiming at, and killing, a group of Iraqi civilians, some of whom were children. I shook my head thinking it was disgustingly abhorrent. I even said ‘Jesus Christ’ under my breath as if he and I are on speaking terms, or as if his name and reputation have a deep connection with my sensibilities. They don’t. Regardless, this was the height of my reaction: A shake of the head and a slight, muffled nod to the J man. Then I asked Nicky to pass me the peas.

Now, if someone murdered my child in the name of ridding the world of terrorists, and then, those horrigraphics were projected into a foreigners lounge room, the very foreigner who didn’t campaign against the initial assault (a day of protest way back when doesn’t count); If that foreigner simply shook his head and asked for more peas, I would make it my life’s work to change that pea eater’s way of being forever.  In fact I’d make pea eating an offensive term. I hope I’d have the strength of character to do this without resorting to violence, but considering that this morning, I threw my shoe at a wall because it ambushed my toe - I doubt it.

It was when teaching my six month old son how to avoid house work, that I had the epiphany - Allowing my government to take part in a war that has killed upward of 100, 000 innocent people, for the purposes of defeating something as intangible as terror, makes me a total pea eater. And I’m not alone. Even if you’ve never glanced at a pea, once you’ve seen the images, heard the stories, sniffed the truths, and not stepped up to intervene, not attempted to lift the news-induced fog and react accordingly, then the title is yours. Does it mean you’re heartless? Does it mean you don’t care? Probably not.  Yet once you’ve witnessed the crime and then passively backed the government that sanctioned it, you’re veering into the realm of an accessory. If a nurse doesn’t come to the aid of someone in need of medical attention, be they off duty or not, they are liable. Surely humanity bares the same responsibility. Which begs the question, if violence is not the answer and getting on with your evening meal is a form of denial: What is the appropriate response? 

I believe the first step would be revisiting the once noble action of empathising with your fellow man. Being shocked and hurt on their behalf.  Looking at your loved ones and, as pain full as it is, and it is, imagine them being shot or bombed by an anonymous sky pilot. If you can do this for more than a minute you are a stronger man than I. (Within 45 seconds I had decided that on some level I had to act.) The second step, the most exciting step, the step that was the impetus for this May’s statement, involves lifting the fog, recapturing our imaginations and embracing our highly evolved ability to think, feel and solve. Ideas are the new frontline.

The manifestations of our imagination are the vehicles of the now and to ensure that I play my part in forging a path into a new and more peaceful world my year of no news begins.

I will update those that are interested with regular, and hopefully lighter, offerings of my progress. 

*This event will not interfere with my current efforts to make good on previous statements in May. Swimming the English Channel and running the New York marathon are still on my to do list. In fact shying away from the news will free me up to do some laps and work on my stride. Wanker.  My original May 2008 statement of ‘I don’t want to make grand statements but Fuck Rules!’ still stands. 

** (Horrigraphic: new word describing horribly graphic images that a bong smoking philosophy student might tout as being, ultimately an illusion. I made it up. Inventing words before noon. Boom.)