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.)