Paula Abdul Killed My iPod

Anyone who rides a train tram or bus regularly will agree with me that the main problem with public transport is in fact the ‘public’. There are obvious problems with the ‘transport’ aspect of the public transport equation- for example the published timetables are now completely fiction, I have now come to expect the randomness of my tram and I plan ahead, what I cannot prepare myself for is the sheer stupidity of the commuting public. Hence the unbelievable success of the iPod, I truly believe that the large majority of people buy iPod’s as a $400 dollar billboard that says, ‘F*** off! Don’t even think about disturbing me’. I know from experience that those little white headphones have saved me from many public transport “incidents”.

Beyond helping to remove the ‘public’ element of my daily commute to school my iPod meant so much more to me, I had named it iMichael and filled it with music spanning the musical landscape; from commercial pop to political art rock. My iPod was lovingly referred to as my child, and I loved it more than I love most people. I could rely on trusty iMichael to provide the perfect soundtrack to my mood a moments notice; this is particularly helpful for a schizophrenic like me. It went with me everywhere and helped get the party started at countless parties. Knowing all this I’m sure you will understand why I shed a tear when iMichael died.

It happened on the tram coming home from uni. It was a typical day; I was enjoying my eclectic collection of songs 3000 songs completely at random when all of a sudden iMichael presented a less than appealing track by Paula Abdul, I pressed skip… iMichael died.

The sad iPod picture appeared on the screen and no amount of resetting would fix the problem, iMichael was gone. When I took him to the service center the gargoyle working behind the desk informed me the sad iPod picture was the end of the line- he almost seemed pleased, I resisted the urge to bludgeon him to death with the cold steel of my now lifeless iPod.

And so a new chapter begins in my life, much the same as the last one but now with a shiny black Video iPod that I really can’t afford. Some may say I moved on too quickly, they might say I didn’t mourn the loss of iMichael for long enough, but I know in my heart that this is what he would have wanted- and as a final sign of respect I will bludgeon Paula Abdul to death should I ever bump into her.

Sign Me Up

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It's A Miracle

It’s over.

My semester has finally finished, and I just endured what was possibly the most stressful week of my year so far. Now all that’s left to do is hand in the MASSIVE assignment that I finished literally seconds ago.

There is something so gratifying about pressing print after completing an epic 35 page assignment, the only thing I can compare it too is taking a leak after holding it in on a long car trip- although that doesn’t really encompass the joyous feeling, or highlight the significance of the occasion. As the last page slid out of the printer I felt the sudden urge to sprinkle holy water around the room- which probably wouldn’t have been out of place considering the fact that my piece of s*** printer managed to get through a whole assignment without chewing up half a ream of paper- now thats a f***ing miracle.

Now that I’m officially on holidays I’ll have time to go to church. I worship at the altar of daytime television- all kneel before out lord and savior Oprah Winfrey.

You dont want to know how long I just spent looking at pictures of Oprah trying to find this.

Tales From The Band Wagon

There is nothing Australians like more than a good sporting victory, and while I generally scoff at our nation’s obsession with all things sport I have fallen under the spell of the World Cup.

This post has no real purpose other than to invite you all to jump on the band wagon, its fun, I'm driving with one hand- and waving a flare with the other.

As a good friend of mine recently pointed out, it’s the only time I'm going to be excited about the same thing as John Howard.

Kewell scores against Croatia: At this exact moment I leap out of bed, have a small seizure, and almost lose control of my bladder.

Don't Watch This Space

Due to my pending nervous breakdown I will not be posting anything for the next couple of days. I know my 2 loyal readers will be vaguely dissapointed so I felt the need to inform them about my leave of absence.

My school workload has hit an all-time high, I'm so stressed that I feel physically ill. Not only do I have a shitload of work to do but to make things more interesting I have no f***ing idea how to do any of it- I thought I was paying attention in class, clearly not enough attention.

Wish me luck, if I survive the week you may want to steer clear of me over the weekend- I'm likely to be a ball of unstable energy. Hopefully I'll be back soon to provide more opportunities for random internet losers to abuse me. (Take a look at the comments from my 'Don't Call Me Will' post.)

POSSIBLE UPCOMING POSTS-

'Why Hitler would have made a great ice dancer.'

'Pencil Sharpeners: The Silent Killer'

'Why I Love People With No Middle Names.'

Ahh, the perfect answer to my stress headache.

Cry Me A River

Back in my high school days I thought of myself as quite the creative young man, I even considered buying myself a beret. Thankfully P resisted the urge. It was during this odd phase in my life that I decided to study Art, Media Studies and Drama in my final years of high school.

The Art thing never really worked out for me, my timetable couldn’t accommodate all my creative pursuits and so Art got the chop. However that early setback hasn’t stopped me from purchasing $10.00 canvases from the local ‘Reject Shop’ and creating abstract (read: crappy) paintings that adorn my bedroom. My favourite is the brilliantly titled ‘Number 2’, which is a white number two painted on a black background- pure genius.

Media studies did make the cut; I enjoyed two years of dissecting the most trivial of details from some of the most overanalysed movies of all time. Let me say for the record that I didn’t need to watch Alfred Hitchcock’s ‘Psycho’ eleven times to figure out that Norman Bates had serious mother issues. Completing media studies has placed me well for adult life; I can now have pretentious conversations about ‘cinema’ with beret wearing experts everywhere. Nowadays I like to sip red wine and talk about ‘mise en scene’ and ‘disjointed narrative sequence’ as much as possible.

My real passion was of course, Drama. Being serious for a second here I must admit that I only grew a personality because of drama class and my fantastic teacher, before that point I was basically void of any creative thought- not the best conversationalist. Out of all the great experiences I had while studying drama and all the things I learned there is one thing that plagues me to this day. While pretending that I was a serious actor I came across a technique that I used to teach myself how to cry on cue. After only one week of practice I could sob, weep, slobber, and completely loose it on command. It was a fantastic party trick, but with a nasty side effect that I never expected, I now cry at the thought of anything that is even remotely emotional. I have long since lost the ability to cry on cue however the connection between my brain and my tear ducts seems to have suffered irreparable damage, and its making daily life a little bit embarrassing.

Most people have had the occasional TV cry when one of their favourite characters dies, I don’t know anyone who didn’t shed a tear when Molly died on ‘A Country Practice,’ that was some seriously sad shit. I, on the other hand, am moved to tears far too frequently, recent examples include:

- Felicia dying on ‘The Bold and the Beautiful.’ (But she’s not really dead.)
- Bree finding out she was adopted on ‘Neighbours’.
- Dino being evicted from ‘Big Brother.’

…the list goes on.

Even emotional commercials set me off, the other day I wept at the sight of a mother holding her baby, I don’t even know what the ad was for- I couldn’t see through my tears. In an effort to avoid anymore unnecessary crying I will always remain in control of the remote when watching television. As soon as any music featuring string instruments begins to play I will immediately change the station. Music is much harder to avoid, but I have made changes where possible. I have had my moments on the tram while playing the iPod on random, a sad song will begin and before you know it I’m welling up on public transport. To be safe I have removed all music by Toni Braxton and Babyface from my iPod- lets just say there was a nasty incident involving their duet ‘How Could An Angel Break My Heart’, I don’t want to talk about it.

I only hope that my story can act as a stern warning to all hyper-sensitive pretentious 17- year-old gay male drama students trying to teach themselves to cry. It’s a dangerous game.

Deleted: Toni Braxton

Whiskers

Young Michael had such a bad case of the munchies that even the cat food began to look like a good option.


I would like to point out that I am not really unconscious in this photo, it was completely staged. My cousins and I thought we would take some stupid photos in an effort to make the party look more outrageous than it actually was. Little did we know that there was no need to set up crazy photos because as the night wore on we all naturally embarrassed and incriminated ourselves in various ways. And it is all captured on film.

The more outrageous photos can not be shown here due to a sacred cousin oath that was taken that evening, also I wish to avoid any legal proceedings that may arise from the publication of said photos. Quick word of advice, never try to climb into an oven when you are drunk; actually that piece of advice also applies when you are sober.

I Have A Dream

I apologise in advance for the post you are about to read, it is a perfect example of what I fear is quickly becoming the ‘theme’ of my blog- me having a bitch about things that piss me off. Today’s topic is dreams, and I don’t mean dreams and aspirations, I’m referring to those peculiar little movies that play in our head as we sleep.

I have no problem with dreams, in fact I quite like some dreams- especially those ones where you can fly and have magical powers and are really rich and can beat up all the people you don’t like and have amazing sex with hot celebrities… ok you get the point. I have always been fascinated by the fine line between waking up and realizing that didn’t actually happen, however putting all that aside it is important to remember that dreams are an entirely personal experience which no one else can understand seeing as its not their brain doing the dreaming. This brings me to my point, I DON’T GIVE A F*** ABOUT YOUR DREAMS.

When was the last time you were enthralled by a person recounting their previous night’s epic dream about plucking out belly button lint? I’m going out on a limb here but I’m guessing that you don’t have treasured memories of friends telling you about their fantastic dreams. ‘Why is this?’ I hear you ask. It’s actually very simple, although you may consider yourself a great friend and an active listener you simply don’t give a f***. And why would you? Basically the person explaining the dream is trying to pour out the contents of their head onto the table for you to sift through without the proper medical training. Dreams only mean something to the person who dreamt them, except in the case of people who have dreams where Satan orders them to kill people, in these rare cases the dreams also matter to the people on the death list.

It would be nice for everyone to take a second and think twice before uttering the phrase, ‘I had a really interesting dream last night.’ I would rather be slapped in the face then hear about your dream, seriously just slap me, I’ll thank you for it.

Do twins even care about each others dreams?

Dont Call Me Will

Why do people have the obsessive need to put a label on everything? I don’t think every mother daughter living together are just like Kath and Kim, I don’t tell my solicitor cousin that she reminds me of Ally McBeal nor do I refer to my vampire slaying friend as Buffy. So why on earth do my friend Mona and I constantly get compared to Will & Grace?

I am gay and she is straight, not the most complex observation. Now I’m a tolerant person, I can smile politely and let people have their moment as they make what I’m sure they think is a perceptive and witty statement.

You and Mona are EXACTLY LIKE Will and Grace!

It’s actually quite humorous watching them as they grin and think to themselves,

Wow, I’m so gay friendly, I’m so hip, I just love those gays.

But I have recently noticed a disturbing trend, now some people have started referring to Mona as a fag hag. Correct me if I’m wrong but calling someone I love a ‘hag’ isn't very nice- and while I’m ranting let me just say that calling me a ‘fag’ isn’t a great idea either. Our relationship isn't defined by the fact that I’m gay and she is straight, just as my close friendship with my male friend Rob isn’t. In the case of my close male friends girls constantly ask me if I am secretly in love with them, the answer is obviously yes, I have a secret crush on every male that I have ever come into contact with.

To combat this issue I have come up with two options:

Option 1) I will refer to all straight couples as Brad and Angelina, all sets of girlfriends as Paris and Nicole, and constantly imply that any two people standing within 10 feet of each other are secretly in love.

Option 2) I can gather up all the ignorant people in a big canvas bag and give them the unwanted kitten treatment.

If you have never had a ‘Will and Grace’ moment with me, continue your day unencumbered.

If you are reading this and feeling guilty, don’t worry, admitting you’re an idiot is the first step, I’ll forgive you.

If you are reading this and feeling angry that I’m an oversensitive fag who can’t take a joke, watch out for strange men with canvas bags.

End of rant.

Cause Of Death: Drowning

I know it’s a sad cliché to write about the fantastic party you just went to, the same thing can be said about telling drunken stories to your friends... no one really cares. But this story is different, its a story about family bonding and artistic expression- well actually its just about getting drunk and doing bad karaoke.

Last night I attended the inaugural 'Cousins Night', what is 'Cousins Night' you may ask? It is a night where all my cousins (of legal drinking age) get together and partake in drinking related stupidity. A highlight of the night was the Sing Star competition, for those of you who don’t know Sing Star is a Playstation game that is basically competitive karaoke. The initial trepidation from all the cousins was short lived; the Italian blood soon took over and we became very competitive belting out each successive tune with more and more gusto. We were playing with the 'Sing Star - Rock Edition' and at the conclusion of the night we decided that what we really needed was a 'Sing Star - Wog Edition' with all the Italian classics. This brilliant idea was spawned after a 3am backyard performance of ‘That’s Amore' led by my brother, I'm not sure if I should be proud or ashamed that I know ALL the words by heart.

Being the youngest cousin present I took it upon myself to set the drinking standard for the night, after consuming 1 bottle of Vodka by myself I came to the very astute conclusion that this might not have been the best idea. Subsequently there are significant portions of my memory that are missing, however its probably for the best because I vaguely recall performing 'La Vie Boheme' from the Musical RENT to a captive audience including my sister, who I have never seen look so horrified.

After crossing the point where it is no longer appropriate to call it night time, approximately 4am, the red wine came out, and yes, I continued to drink. Unfortunately my better judgement had died earlier in the evening. Cause of death: It drowned in Vodka.

Madonna Aint Got Nothing On Me

After years of putting up with a recurring jaw ailment which results in my jaw spontaneously locking, (Could be seen as a good thing in some peoples opinion,) I decided that it was time to break my 11 year drought and take a trip to the dentist… this was my first mistake.

It’s never a good sign when a dentist looks in your mouth and begins to chuckle, at this point I was scarred but it was when he started actually laughing I had the sudden urge to bite off his fingers and spitting them at the dental nurse. Long story short- he was laughing because my jaw was “completely and obviously out of alignment”, I personally don’t see the humor in this situation but I suppose he could he could have been laughing because he was about to screw me out of $20,000.

The treatment plan that I am currently undergoing to correct this “obvious” problem seems like a form of torture created by the Catholics back during the good old days when they were doing God’s work… with the help of a whip and a few burly guys with anger management issues.

Basically I have had my top jaw broken in three places, and now I have a metal device bolted into my mouth that I wound every day for a week to slowly ‘expand’ my upper jaw. ‘Expand’ is the dentist’s word, I like to describe the process as ‘Ripping apart things that were not designed to be ripped.’

The end result:- I have a 'temporary' gap between my two front teeth- not a good look. If one more person says to me, “It’s OK Madonna has a gap between her teeth,” I am seriously going to bite off their fingers and spit them at the nearest dental nurse. My gap is approximately 8 times bigger than Madge’s and I don’t have the consolation of international pop super stardom.

I never thought I would be looking forward to getting braces, now I say bring on the metal!

On the left, Madonna with her gap. On the right, Madonna with my gap.

Michael Who?

Hello fellow bloggers and internet savy friends, I have resisted the urge long enough, the time has come... it is time for Michael to blog. Hopefully that will be the last time I refer to myself in the third person, however I make no promises.

Let me begin by saying that I'm not sure what the theme of my blog will be, should there even be a theme? The majority of my posts will probably not make sense to anyone but myself... welome to the incoherient ramblings of a mentally unbalanced 22 year old.

If you are wondering where the supremely creative blog title "Michael Who?" came from allow me to elaborate. If you dont care then I suggest you stop reading here and go back to doing something more productive.

Anyway, 'Michael Who', no it's not my real name- I was blessed with a 12 letter surname that I couldn't spell until midway through Grade 5- "Michael Who?" reffers to the phrase uttered randomly throughout my primary school years due to the fact that there was an obsene number of children named Michael in my year level. One day when asked by another teacher to send 'Michael' to the office my grade three teacher replied,

Michael Who?

Upon hearing this for the 4ooth time that week I proceeded to correct my teachers grammer,

Miss, shouln't you ask 'Which Michael?' instead of saying 'Michael Who?'

To this day I'm not actually sure if I was right, but the moral of the story is dont backchat to your teacher the day of Parent - Teacher Interviews.