Train Pain

I am a recent convert of the I-drive-my-car-to-work brigade. Wow. I had no idea it was like this. Dog eat dog. Or, dog ate dog - and then spat it out. There is a real 'not if I can cut you off first' mentality in the mornings. It's Sydneyesque. Chill the hell out people - it's only work you're rushing to and risking everyone's lives for. Some of those red lights that you guys run are almost green again....Sheesh..

Street Cred. Part 1.

I've decided that I should carry a guitar when walking around the streets. Or, at the very least, a guitar case. At this point the plan is to definitely carry one pretty much anywhere I go on the weekends, and to probably carry one to work with me during the week.

Why, I hear you ask? Yes - I definitely heard you ask, let's not digress unnecessarily.

Because it looks cool (that's why). Ever so freakin' cool. Dress it up with a suit (yeah, I have big plans), dress it down with jeans; or shorts. Just take that baby with you. Everywhere. Playing tennis on the weekend? Don't forget the guitar. Ducking into the (in)convenience store for milk? Don't forget the guitar. Dropping 'round for a booty call? Don't forget the guitar. Important meeting at work with the boss reviewing KPI's and discussing xmas bonuses? Don't forget the god-damn guitar.

It's so simple. Why haven't I been carrying one up to now? More importantly, why haven't you?

Winter 2010

Well then. Now that it's mostly over, I feel safe in the following remark: Is that your best Melbourne? That all you got? You can't make winter any colder, wetter, windier; any more disagreeable, distressing or just plain, downright torturous?

Is it that I had come off a 12 month sojourn in Brisbane and have thus become a little 'soft'? Was I, in the male athletic world's vernacular, a little 'gay' to begin with? Perhaps it was due to me being squirrelled away each day in a Southbank office block doing the 9-5 slog, and getting smashed by the frigid winter winds every time I ventured outside?

Or, was it the three nights each week that I spent outdoors as a sports coach, exposed both to the elements and the nightly tribulations foisted upon me by my athletes?

Just why the heck did I find winter 2010 such a damn struggle?

No matter really. It was freezing. All winter. Every night. Far too cold. Not happy Jan.

Mind Games for Foodies

I thought, you crafty little so-and-so. OK, this is war.

I will not be outplayed at the water cooler, and certainly not by THAT girl from the Account's section. I mean, who wears Culottes anymore - it's not the eighties honey...

"Crushed walnuts are OK" I replied, "but are they the Persian or Butternut variety? Did you know the butternut ones are extremely high in fat?" I watched her smile wobble for a moment before she regained her smugness.

"Oh, definitely the Persian ones" she replied, a little too gaily. "They're sooo expensive - but then all my greengrocer's produce is organic - do you buy organic?" Now it was my turn to falter. She stared at me evenly, as I withered ever so slightly. Temporarily beaten, I retreated to my usual fall back position of delivering the truth in economical portions. Sometimes, intemperate people call this lying.

"Oh yes. Have done for years." She tilted her head thoughtfully, seemingly awake to my every move. "Hmmm" she uttered softly, while her eyes screamed 'liar, liar'.

"Have you tried Goji berries?" Unshackling myself from the burden of honesty, I was inspired to turn defence into attack. "I've had so much more energy after eating a scoop of these every morning".

She brought her glass to her lips and drank. Was she now playing for time? I quickly pushed on, growing in strength, like a young lion circling a fallen prey. "It's really hard to get the genuine berries, I have them flown out from Tibet for me each week".

"Really", she replied, drawing the word out in preparation for her ambush: "I suppose the Dalai Lama brings them out for you in person?"

Bitch. I'm sure the colour drained from my face before I realised I'd thought it and not said it. I then opened my mouth to assail her with a witty rejoinder - but found myself bereft of anything approaching prudence.

"Bitch". The word escaped from my mouth, but I did manage a half-smile in a forlorn attempt to soften the invective. Surprisingly, she smiled in self-satisfaction as she turned, wordlessly, and strode the walk of the winner back to her desk.

Accounts girl 1, arrogant charlatan Nil.

And the magic number is 8.

Everyone uses it, everyone needs it. No, it's not internet porn. Well, not in my story - maybe in yours?

Supermarkets. Not a place for much planning and thinking, unless you're one of those obsessive types, with a list, who mutters to herself as each item is ticked off. The rest of us are too busy manouvering our wonky-wheeled trolleys, while talking (loudly) on our mobile phones and simultaneously shaking our heads at the stale produce that our supermarket duopolists provide for us - fresh food indeed.

But we should. Think that is. About our public actions and what others would conclude from them. Let's face it, while we go about our supermarket business quietly, every now and again we take a peek into someone else's trolley just to see what they have. And what they're about. And then we can rush to judgement in an "Oh, I see you have potato chips and soft drinks - not going to help you with that big bottom is it?" kinda way.

It's for this reason that I have a strict three item trolley limit rule on generic or home branded items. I will NOT have anyone review my purchases and conclude that I am a tight-arse. Sometimes, mainly as a pick-me-up if I'm feeling down, or alternatively, as a f-u all if I am feeling mischievous, I will perch a forty dollar bottle of olive oil high in my trolley, as a beacon of ostentatious wealth, and wheel that baby around for a bit before quietly returning it to the shelf immediately prior to check out.

But, I digress. Let's cut to the chase here.

Have you ever reflected on the type of statement you make when you haul that 24 pack of toilet paper through the aisle and hoist it onto the checkout conveyor belt? Consider, for a moment, the thoughts of your fellow shoppers and/or checkout operators:

"Hmm. That's a lot of toilet paper - why on earth would they need that much." Or perhaps, "I wonder if he/she/they use that much toilet paper every week?". And hopefully not, "Geez, I wonder if they have a problem with their 'plumbing' - that is a serious amount of toilet paper - he/she/they must have issues".

We pondered this at work the other day (5thcorner.com.au). Agreement was quickly reached that purchasing a 24 pack was, quite simply, a very brave call indeed.

I'm just asking you to think about it.

Do the math people..

Let me return now to a topic requiring immediate attention. I'm figuring that a national summit of the finest minds in the country won't be enough, we will have to cast our net further afield. To continental Europe perhaps, or beyond? I have drafted the below document for international and possible intra-galaxy release.

Attention: Baristas of Melbourne

A take-away coffee cup is a different sized vessel to the standard latte glass. Please adjust your ingredient portions accordingly so that my take-away latte does not taste like hot milk alone and thus make me gag.

Thank you. Surely it's not that hard.

Net Worth Zero

I have recently returned to Melbourne after a one year mis-adventure in Brisbane. Gosh is it good to be back. I feel more relieved than anything else. Happy days.

Through a complicated series of events I am presently performing a quasi house-sitting role for my friends and one set of their parents. I am thus "in charge" of a $2 million house in Brighton, a $700,000 apartment, also in Brighton, and three automobiles. My first task, of course, was learning to say the word "Brighton" just so - getting the correct intonation on the second syllable is a devil of a job thank you very much....

What to do, what to do. With 6 bedrooms, 5 toilets, 4 bathrooms, 4 fridges, 3 washing machines and a cubby house. And more passwords, keys, codes and responsibilities than any man should have to bear.

None of it is mine of course. Other than one modest vehicle. So an all-care but no responsibility rule applies. Which doesn't mean that I'm a recalcitrant friend without any sense of accountability, far from it. I'm just saying that when I leave the gas/iron/sandwich maker on and the house/apartment/cubby house burns to the ground they shouldn't really blame me. There, it's always best to get those things off your chest.

Footy mad - It's crazy

I live in Melbourne and I don't follow the AFL. You are all being taken for a ride.

There, I said it. Now, after a confident statement like that, where do I go and hide? For this is far more than a simple pronouncement of sporting (non) allegiance, this is an outright rejection of the city and its culture. When I tell them that, well, the footy simply bores me, Melbournites stare blankly at me until they realise I am serious. And then they regard me with that pitying stare normally reserved for an injured animal or a fallen-down toddler.

Of course, reactions vary. But disbelief, condescension and frustration are the constants. And the most common question is, why?

It's too long, for starters. The game goes all freaking afternoon for chrissakes. Make it shorter already.

Or, actually, don't bother. Because it would still be boring. The game has too much reliance on size and brawn. The physicality of the contest appears far more important than any application of mental acumen. When I want to watch gladiators strut around an arena I watch Ben Hur. Or Russell Crowe. Or UFC.

Moving on, and quickly now, because I sense a posse being formed, what the heck is it with the odd shaped ball? No guys, that doesn't add a 'glorious unpredictability' to the game - it makes it clumsy and erratic. The game doesn't flow; it stumbles along, like a tottering drunk at midnight.

I could go on - rabid fans, silly shorts, a 'siren'. But then you would think I am some namby-pamby cravat wearing artiste who rails against sport in general. Not true - I haven't worn a cravat in ages, and I appreciate the incredible skills that most sports encourage. And watching mere sport 'transcend into theatre' still gives me goosebumps.

But AFL? No thanks. I ain't buying what they're selling.

Caffeine Culture

My friends looked at me afresh, contemplating what I'd just said. And then, as couples sometimes do, they looked at each other, exchanging bemused looks.

"So", she said "Let's get this straight, you're saying the coffee in Brisbane is as at least as good as Melbourne and at times possibly even better?"

I detected the makings of a smirk on her face as she spoke, but considered my tenuous position and chose to ignore it for now.

"Yes" I replied evenly, knowing that I had now crossed the line and should prepare myself for a battle royale.

"Pah" she spat, and then leant back contentedly in her chair as if she had just administered the closing argument of a Queen's Counsel. A head-shake and roll of the eyes confirmed her position. She then shot me a concerned look, as if I might be ill, or perhaps even intoxicated. Silence took control. I started to feel uncomfortable.

"L..Look" I stammered, "I'm not saying it's better overall, it's just that there are some places in Brisbane, well only a few really, but their coffee is really very good indeed - well, most of the time anyway, and..." Despite what I knew to be be the truth, I started to falter under their combined glares and wondered about what I had started.

Sensing my weakness, he offered his own conclusion:

"So, it's OK, but not as good overall", and then allowed himself a smug glance at his wife.

"I guess", I said, my capitulation now complete.

"Well", she said, the self-satisfied victor, "You had us going for a minute there. Fancy a cuppa tea?"