Now all I have to do is figure out how much of it I want to share, if any.
"Sanity calms... but madness is more interesting."
- John Russell
Monday, October 08, 2007
Interesting
I'm writing again. I'm writing a lot.
Now all I have to do is figure out how much of it I want to share, if any.
Now all I have to do is figure out how much of it I want to share, if any.
Monday, July 23, 2007
Intense Sarcasm
Dear Readers (all 4.3 of you),
It took me forever and then an extra hour to churn out that last superb post about my desire to wear cool clothes. (Note the intense sarcasm.) Lately my efforts to sit down and write have not been very successful.
It’s a shame to end with such a beige post but I’m going to be taking a break from blogging.
I’m very busy at the moment trying to find my marbles.
I’ll be back soon or possibly soon-ish, I haven’t decided yet.
x
Michael Who?
It took me forever and then an extra hour to churn out that last superb post about my desire to wear cool clothes. (Note the intense sarcasm.) Lately my efforts to sit down and write have not been very successful.
It’s a shame to end with such a beige post but I’m going to be taking a break from blogging.
I’m very busy at the moment trying to find my marbles.
I’ll be back soon or possibly soon-ish, I haven’t decided yet.
x
Michael Who?
I went to see the Guggenheim Collection at the National Gallery of Victoria and saw, among other things, Felix Gonzalez-Torres' "Untitled (Public Opinion)" which is a continually replenished 300kg-pile of cellophane wrapped licorice candy. It was tasty.
Geek Waiting For a Musician
A quick glance in my wardrobe and you will soon see proof that I strongly believe in the traditional Melbourne philosophy that black is the new black. Sometimes I worry that my penchant for black, or at least dark, clothes gives off the wrong impression about me. I imagine if a pack of rabid little emo kids opened up my wardrobe their mascara ringed little eyes would fix on me with a judgmental stare as they said,
“Seriously dude, you need to lighten up a little.”
Firstly let me say that I don’t consider myself to be an overly superficial person... but, as I meander through my day to day life I do take notice of what people choose to wrap themselves, and so I wonder, do people form detailed opinions of me based solely on how I look? I seriously hope not, because my ‘geek face’ complete with braces and glasses and my pre pubescent body, which all the 12 year old Russian gymnasts are completely jealous of, is not exactly a work of art- and despite my efforts I don’t think any combination of clothes is going to change that.
I love people who have a sense of personal style that they carry off with effortless confidence. It’s less a materialistic concern on my part and more about how people chose to express themselves, I don’t care if you are wearing a designer t-shirt, I want to know why you chose that particular t-shirt. Concise descriptions of my thoughts and opinions are rare; I’m more of a rambler; however I’ll spare you my thesis entitled,
‘Michael’s Opinion on Every Piece of Clothing He Has Ever Seen: The Extended Version,’
and simply say that I love a little bit of creative quirk in fashion. I tend to spend my days admiring people I am impressed by from afar, secretly wishing I could be their geeky best friend who gets cooler simply by associating with them. Unfortunately I have absolutely zero confidence in wearing anything other than homogenized shopping centre ‘fashion’. So I spend my days sitting around wearing overpriced and somewhat ill fitting jeans wishing that my life would turn into an offbeat teen movie where an awkward yet loveable geek is befriended by a free spirited, and impeccably dressed, musician who takes the geek under his wing and teaches him how to express his inner self, of course by the end of the film the musician has secretly fallen in love with the geek and realised that there is more to life than how you look on the outside.
Clearly I’ve given this way too much thought, and upon reflection I’ve realised that simply prefacing a completely superficial post with the line ‘I’m not superficial’ achieves nothing at all, except possibly making me sound like a superficial hypocrite.
Enjoy the following pictures of people whom I would stalk if I saw them in the street.
“Seriously dude, you need to lighten up a little.”
Firstly let me say that I don’t consider myself to be an overly superficial person... but, as I meander through my day to day life I do take notice of what people choose to wrap themselves, and so I wonder, do people form detailed opinions of me based solely on how I look? I seriously hope not, because my ‘geek face’ complete with braces and glasses and my pre pubescent body, which all the 12 year old Russian gymnasts are completely jealous of, is not exactly a work of art- and despite my efforts I don’t think any combination of clothes is going to change that.
I love people who have a sense of personal style that they carry off with effortless confidence. It’s less a materialistic concern on my part and more about how people chose to express themselves, I don’t care if you are wearing a designer t-shirt, I want to know why you chose that particular t-shirt. Concise descriptions of my thoughts and opinions are rare; I’m more of a rambler; however I’ll spare you my thesis entitled,
‘Michael’s Opinion on Every Piece of Clothing He Has Ever Seen: The Extended Version,’
and simply say that I love a little bit of creative quirk in fashion. I tend to spend my days admiring people I am impressed by from afar, secretly wishing I could be their geeky best friend who gets cooler simply by associating with them. Unfortunately I have absolutely zero confidence in wearing anything other than homogenized shopping centre ‘fashion’. So I spend my days sitting around wearing overpriced and somewhat ill fitting jeans wishing that my life would turn into an offbeat teen movie where an awkward yet loveable geek is befriended by a free spirited, and impeccably dressed, musician who takes the geek under his wing and teaches him how to express his inner self, of course by the end of the film the musician has secretly fallen in love with the geek and realised that there is more to life than how you look on the outside.
Clearly I’ve given this way too much thought, and upon reflection I’ve realised that simply prefacing a completely superficial post with the line ‘I’m not superficial’ achieves nothing at all, except possibly making me sound like a superficial hypocrite.
Enjoy the following pictures of people whom I would stalk if I saw them in the street.
I can't think of a witty remark to write about these photos.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Cassingle
3am.
Insomnia is a condition invented by weak sycophants with nothing better to complain about. I’m not an insomniac; I actually enjoy staying up all night long slowly descending into madness.
My night usually begins with me using MySpace to systematically stalk every person I’ve ever met, then I like to clean things that don’t need cleaning, such as my phone charger and electrical extension cord.
Sometimes I like to curl up in bed and watch some quality late night television. Recently I have learned a lot about developing a proper skincare regime, after watching heartfelt testimonials from Jessica Simpson AND Kelly Clarkson I think I’m ready to invest in some Proactiv solution. Despite my lack of acne I really feel that I too am a caterpillar waiting to emerge from my cocoon, and for just $69.95 (+ postage and handling) I can finally fly free. Wait- I think butterflies only live for two days, cancel my order, I’m sending my money to Benny Hinn Ministries. Benny Hinn told me that if I accept Jesus as my lord and saviour he will take charge of my life and lead me not into temptation, especially if I give him my credit card information or something like that. The whole thing sounded really exciting and people were totally fainting when he touched them on the head so I think he’s the real deal. The only flaw in this plan is my complete lack of money, sorry Jesus.
Being awake in the dead of the night really isn’t that bad. You do have to throw on an extra layer, or five, of clothing to compensate for the fact that unless you are asleep in bed Melbourne winter nights are like a bitch slap to the groin with a slab of frozen meat. Once I’m rugged up in a style I like to call ‘Eskimo tracksuit chic’ I can actually be quite productive. Just last night I alphabetised my entire music collection- including my prized collection of cassingles. For those of you who are starring quizzically at the screen thinking ‘Cassingles?!? What are they? Did Michael get a bad batch of speed’ a 'cassingle' is a cassette tape single popular in the early 90's. Other useful tasks completed in the still of the night include cataloguing the freckles on my left arm, planning global domination, and arranging the clothes hanging in my wardrobe accorfing to their potential resale value.
There is no better opportunity to spend some quality time with myself than in the middle of the night. Sometimes I like to play little games, like, ‘Can you open a bottle of wine at 2am without the sound of the popping cork shattering the silence of your suburban home where you live with your parents who are sleeping nearby?’ Another of my favourites is the ‘Where did I go wrong?’ game. The aim of this game is to recount and replay in your mind all the stupid things you have done in your life, the catch is you have to do it without having a complete nervous breakdown, complete with tears and simultanious hysterical laughter.
After a few nights things do tend to get a bit repetitive so I like to spice things up with some good old fashioned screaming into the pillow and begging for sleep. I might actually give that a try now.
Let me restate, I’m not an insomniac.
Convinced?
Insomnia is a condition invented by weak sycophants with nothing better to complain about. I’m not an insomniac; I actually enjoy staying up all night long slowly descending into madness.
My night usually begins with me using MySpace to systematically stalk every person I’ve ever met, then I like to clean things that don’t need cleaning, such as my phone charger and electrical extension cord.
Sometimes I like to curl up in bed and watch some quality late night television. Recently I have learned a lot about developing a proper skincare regime, after watching heartfelt testimonials from Jessica Simpson AND Kelly Clarkson I think I’m ready to invest in some Proactiv solution. Despite my lack of acne I really feel that I too am a caterpillar waiting to emerge from my cocoon, and for just $69.95 (+ postage and handling) I can finally fly free. Wait- I think butterflies only live for two days, cancel my order, I’m sending my money to Benny Hinn Ministries. Benny Hinn told me that if I accept Jesus as my lord and saviour he will take charge of my life and lead me not into temptation, especially if I give him my credit card information or something like that. The whole thing sounded really exciting and people were totally fainting when he touched them on the head so I think he’s the real deal. The only flaw in this plan is my complete lack of money, sorry Jesus.
Being awake in the dead of the night really isn’t that bad. You do have to throw on an extra layer, or five, of clothing to compensate for the fact that unless you are asleep in bed Melbourne winter nights are like a bitch slap to the groin with a slab of frozen meat. Once I’m rugged up in a style I like to call ‘Eskimo tracksuit chic’ I can actually be quite productive. Just last night I alphabetised my entire music collection- including my prized collection of cassingles. For those of you who are starring quizzically at the screen thinking ‘Cassingles?!? What are they? Did Michael get a bad batch of speed’ a 'cassingle' is a cassette tape single popular in the early 90's. Other useful tasks completed in the still of the night include cataloguing the freckles on my left arm, planning global domination, and arranging the clothes hanging in my wardrobe accorfing to their potential resale value.
There is no better opportunity to spend some quality time with myself than in the middle of the night. Sometimes I like to play little games, like, ‘Can you open a bottle of wine at 2am without the sound of the popping cork shattering the silence of your suburban home where you live with your parents who are sleeping nearby?’ Another of my favourites is the ‘Where did I go wrong?’ game. The aim of this game is to recount and replay in your mind all the stupid things you have done in your life, the catch is you have to do it without having a complete nervous breakdown, complete with tears and simultanious hysterical laughter.
After a few nights things do tend to get a bit repetitive so I like to spice things up with some good old fashioned screaming into the pillow and begging for sleep. I might actually give that a try now.
Let me restate, I’m not an insomniac.
Convinced?
The first person who suggests I try a glass of warm milk and counting sheep will recieve a Croatian axe kick to their head.
Thursday, July 05, 2007
Bad Lighting
Last Thursday I had a truly a horrible day at work which involved me spending 6 consecutive hours photocopying like a crazed secretary on a cocaine binge, at one point I had to fight off another would be photocopier who took issue with me using 3 machines at once. The poor guy probably didn’t deserve the verbal abuse I spewed at him but unfortunately at that point I was 4 hours into my photocopying session having only eaten a packet of butter menthols since dinner the previous night and nothing short of a priest wielding a crucifix and holy water could calm me down.
Needless to say when I finally returned home that evening I was definitely not in the mood to go out, and the bitterly cold Melbourne night was doing nothing to change my mind. Alas I had no real choice on this particular evening, it was the final night of ‘Q&A’ (‘Queer and Alternative’ night at ‘A Bar Called Barry’ in Collingwood) and I had promised friends I would be in attendance for one final night of alcohol flavoured antics.
I approached the venue only to be greeted by a line that was 10 people wide with a tail stretching farther than MY eyes could see: which is almost 'as far as the eye can see'. Needless to say I laughed quietly to myself, turned around and started looking for a taxi to take me home. I don’t do lines.
Then my phone rang, it was my friend Paul. In his infinite wisdom he had scoured the line for people he knew and squirmed his way in with them, effectively bypassing the majority of the crowd. Then through a series of tactical manoeuvres he managed to find other people even closer to the front and join them, eventually positioning himself mere steps away from the entry, very impressive.
I crossed the road and approached the sea of writhing homosexuals anxiously, despite having Paul directing me over the phone I could not see him through the crowds. Then suddenly- like a frog’s tongue snatching a fly from mid air Paul’s arm shot out of the masses and pulled me into the crowd. As I regained my orientation I quickly realised how much of the line I had actually skipped, let’s just say that the brief time I spent waiting in line with my face crammed into the back of bad polyester wig was a sinch compared to the marathon the poor fools behind me had to endure.
Finally inside I cloaked my jacket. Then it began, my Q&A ritual, the battle of the voices in my head.
Needless to say when I finally returned home that evening I was definitely not in the mood to go out, and the bitterly cold Melbourne night was doing nothing to change my mind. Alas I had no real choice on this particular evening, it was the final night of ‘Q&A’ (‘Queer and Alternative’ night at ‘A Bar Called Barry’ in Collingwood) and I had promised friends I would be in attendance for one final night of alcohol flavoured antics.
I approached the venue only to be greeted by a line that was 10 people wide with a tail stretching farther than MY eyes could see: which is almost 'as far as the eye can see'. Needless to say I laughed quietly to myself, turned around and started looking for a taxi to take me home. I don’t do lines.
Then my phone rang, it was my friend Paul. In his infinite wisdom he had scoured the line for people he knew and squirmed his way in with them, effectively bypassing the majority of the crowd. Then through a series of tactical manoeuvres he managed to find other people even closer to the front and join them, eventually positioning himself mere steps away from the entry, very impressive.
I crossed the road and approached the sea of writhing homosexuals anxiously, despite having Paul directing me over the phone I could not see him through the crowds. Then suddenly- like a frog’s tongue snatching a fly from mid air Paul’s arm shot out of the masses and pulled me into the crowd. As I regained my orientation I quickly realised how much of the line I had actually skipped, let’s just say that the brief time I spent waiting in line with my face crammed into the back of bad polyester wig was a sinch compared to the marathon the poor fools behind me had to endure.
Finally inside I cloaked my jacket. Then it began, my Q&A ritual, the battle of the voices in my head.
SNIDE MICHAEL: Look at all these pathetic people, desperately scouring the room looking for their next conquest. So glad we’re not like that.
SELF EFFACING MICHAEL: Whatever loser! You’re just jealous because no one here would look twice at any of us.
SNIDE MICHAEL: You may have a point. But at least we are smart and funny and can hold a conversation about something other than designer sunglasses.
SELF EFFACING MICHAEL: Are you forgetting that we have designer sunglasses? We’re such a hypocrite. And let us not forget that ‘conversation’ wont keep you warm at night.
MELODRAMATIC MICHAEL: Yeah! Who is going to want a skinny white guy with braces and glasses? We’re going to be alone forever. FOREVER!
SNIDE MICHAEL: … *rolls eyes*
CALCULATING MICHAEL: Get it together everyone! Smile. Laugh at peoples jokes. Act confident. Hang around with your friends and try to seem as interesting as possible.
MELODRAMATIC MICHAEL: Aaargh!
SELF EFFACING MICHAEL: Why did we even come here?
BAD JUDGEMENT MICHAEL: Enough! Listen carefully. First go to the bar. Second order something dangerously alcoholic. Third, drink! Repeat these directions until I am the only voice you can hear.
Fast forward three Jager Bombs, a few beers and more mixed vodka concoctions then I care to remember and I’m heading home in a cab holding up my head with both hands, completely convinced that if I let go it would fall out the window to be lost forever on the Tullamarine freeway- leaving the cabdriver in quite the odd predicament.
It was a long night...
I made some new friends, fellow bloggers R*yan, D.U.P and Dave, who endured my bad dancing and drink stealing, shared a few laughs with some old friends who introduced me to the gay scene, I bumped into a blast from the past and served up some long overdue verbal abuse, witnessed some dramatic antics from drunken friends, met up with an old crush and flirted shamelessly, and thanks to the bad lighting in the venue I kissed a cute guy who is completely out of my league.
An uterly chaotic night. The perfect final chapter for Q&A.
The role of 'Michael' in this story will be played by... this guy from Heroes who's name I dont know, but it doesn't matter because he is insanely attractive, and I'm madly in love with him, take another look-- he is painfully good looking. Yes- I know how gay that sounds, no- I'm not embarrased to admit that I'm obsessed with this photo, yes I will stop rambling now.
Monday, June 11, 2007
Wide Eyed Horror
Thanks to the wonders of modern technology today’s post comes to you live from Perth airport! Ta-da!
Actually, I take that back. Despite the fact that I’m fulfilling a lifelong dream with this ‘Look at me I’m an important businessman using my laptop at the airport’ moment, I’m not actually connected to the internet and therefore this will not be posted live from Perth. Instead I’ll upload it when I get back to Melbourne- after I take a packet of expired painkillers and enter a pharmaceutical hibernation for a couple of days.
For the past few months I’ve been completing an internship with a music marketing-slash-events management company. My work tends to induce wild panic attacks followed by stress headaches followed by fits of rage. In these situations my usual reaction would be to turn my back on the stress and run off into the distance with my, arms flailing and screaming wildly; however the experience I’m getting is unbelievable and so I’m clenching my teeth and sticking with it. At the end of this year I may even be able to replace some of the lies on my resume with actual facts. For example I find myself in Perth this week on tour with the Dalai Lama. I should have asked him for a reference.
My boss is the national tour manager for the Dalai Lama’s visit to Australia and I’ve been working behind the scenes for a while now, so when I was asked to come along for the Perth leg of the tour I jumped at the opportunity. Who am I to turn down a free trip to Perth? Especially when it gives me the best excuse I will ever have to avoid study. Flying across the country one week before all your major assignments are due is the ultimate procrastination.
So this is the point where I should go into mind numbing detail about the events of my trip. Believe me I’d love to do that, but unfortunately while in Perth I have been in a highly functioning yet completely anxious and neurotic state. This psychotic state was no doubt triggered by my compulsive desire not to mess things up and reveal myself as a complete fraud, all the while trying to operate on approximately 3 hours sleep. This altered state of consciousness seems to have partially incapacitated the memory functions of my brain. The memories I’m left with are nothing but brief snapshots, completely isolated in time. I can’t recall clearly the circumstances leading up to my fragmented memories and conversely I don’t really remember the repercussions of the incidents.
Here are the brief moments I remember.
Dragging a large road-case weighing approximately 60kgs into the Melbourne Airport freight services office at approximately 6am and being politely informed that it will cost me $6500.00 to get the case to Perth. My blood boils; I throw the road-case up against the wall. Blank.
Waiting to collect my luggage at Perth airport, it’s midday, I was scheduled to arrive at 10am. I see my bag travelling towards me, a complete stranger plucks it off the carousel and heads for the door, I give chase. Blank.
I arrive at the Burswood Dome with the heavy road case. I struggle down a set of 5 shallow steps, awkwardly dragging the case, my eyes search from left to right as I try to figure out how to get into the Dome. I stumble and fall, the case pins me to the ground. I notice my boss and the state manager walking in my direction. Blank.
Standing backstage moments before the first event begins. The Dalai Lama arrives and the other four select people privileged enough to be backstage greet him by bowing slightly, making an unfamiliar gesture with their hands and uttering a word I do not recognise. Clearly unaware of the proper protocol I wave and smile at the Dalai Lama. I notice the wide eyed horror of the four people around me. Blank.
The Dalai Lama is on stage, I’m trying to inconspicuously position a chair in the front row for Jamie Durie. He has just finished introducing the Dalai Lama to an eager 17,000 people strong crowd. I pick up the chair and swing around, trying to move it quickly, unaware that Jamie is directly behind me. He instinctively dodges and avoids a nasty chair to the face injury. Blank.
Take two, I’m backstage waiting for the Dalai Lama to begin his second event of the day. I decide to position myself near a large stack of technical equipment, well back from the small group of people near the stage entrance. The car pulls in, the Dalai Lama exits and exchanges pleasantries with Jamie Durie, he says hello to my boss and to the state manager, then he walks in my direction and says, “Hello. This is quite impressive equipment and so…” I don’t hear the rest of his sentence as I suddenly realise that I know nothing about the “impressive equipment” I’m standing in front of. Blank.
It’s been an interesting couple of days.
Actually, I take that back. Despite the fact that I’m fulfilling a lifelong dream with this ‘Look at me I’m an important businessman using my laptop at the airport’ moment, I’m not actually connected to the internet and therefore this will not be posted live from Perth. Instead I’ll upload it when I get back to Melbourne- after I take a packet of expired painkillers and enter a pharmaceutical hibernation for a couple of days.
For the past few months I’ve been completing an internship with a music marketing-slash-events management company. My work tends to induce wild panic attacks followed by stress headaches followed by fits of rage. In these situations my usual reaction would be to turn my back on the stress and run off into the distance with my, arms flailing and screaming wildly; however the experience I’m getting is unbelievable and so I’m clenching my teeth and sticking with it. At the end of this year I may even be able to replace some of the lies on my resume with actual facts. For example I find myself in Perth this week on tour with the Dalai Lama. I should have asked him for a reference.My boss is the national tour manager for the Dalai Lama’s visit to Australia and I’ve been working behind the scenes for a while now, so when I was asked to come along for the Perth leg of the tour I jumped at the opportunity. Who am I to turn down a free trip to Perth? Especially when it gives me the best excuse I will ever have to avoid study. Flying across the country one week before all your major assignments are due is the ultimate procrastination.
So this is the point where I should go into mind numbing detail about the events of my trip. Believe me I’d love to do that, but unfortunately while in Perth I have been in a highly functioning yet completely anxious and neurotic state. This psychotic state was no doubt triggered by my compulsive desire not to mess things up and reveal myself as a complete fraud, all the while trying to operate on approximately 3 hours sleep. This altered state of consciousness seems to have partially incapacitated the memory functions of my brain. The memories I’m left with are nothing but brief snapshots, completely isolated in time. I can’t recall clearly the circumstances leading up to my fragmented memories and conversely I don’t really remember the repercussions of the incidents.
Here are the brief moments I remember.
Dragging a large road-case weighing approximately 60kgs into the Melbourne Airport freight services office at approximately 6am and being politely informed that it will cost me $6500.00 to get the case to Perth. My blood boils; I throw the road-case up against the wall. Blank.
Waiting to collect my luggage at Perth airport, it’s midday, I was scheduled to arrive at 10am. I see my bag travelling towards me, a complete stranger plucks it off the carousel and heads for the door, I give chase. Blank.
I arrive at the Burswood Dome with the heavy road case. I struggle down a set of 5 shallow steps, awkwardly dragging the case, my eyes search from left to right as I try to figure out how to get into the Dome. I stumble and fall, the case pins me to the ground. I notice my boss and the state manager walking in my direction. Blank.
Standing backstage moments before the first event begins. The Dalai Lama arrives and the other four select people privileged enough to be backstage greet him by bowing slightly, making an unfamiliar gesture with their hands and uttering a word I do not recognise. Clearly unaware of the proper protocol I wave and smile at the Dalai Lama. I notice the wide eyed horror of the four people around me. Blank.
The Dalai Lama is on stage, I’m trying to inconspicuously position a chair in the front row for Jamie Durie. He has just finished introducing the Dalai Lama to an eager 17,000 people strong crowd. I pick up the chair and swing around, trying to move it quickly, unaware that Jamie is directly behind me. He instinctively dodges and avoids a nasty chair to the face injury. Blank.
Take two, I’m backstage waiting for the Dalai Lama to begin his second event of the day. I decide to position myself near a large stack of technical equipment, well back from the small group of people near the stage entrance. The car pulls in, the Dalai Lama exits and exchanges pleasantries with Jamie Durie, he says hello to my boss and to the state manager, then he walks in my direction and says, “Hello. This is quite impressive equipment and so…” I don’t hear the rest of his sentence as I suddenly realise that I know nothing about the “impressive equipment” I’m standing in front of. Blank.
It’s been an interesting couple of days.
(Bad) Artists impression of possible injury.
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Ladynails
I really feel like blogging tonight and I have absolutely nothing to write about. Every topic that enters my head seems completely lame, although I do realise that everything I write for this blog has a tendency to be lame the key difference is that usually the idea itself doesn’t seem lame until after I’ve posted it, so I can at least enjoy the writing process.
Maybe my writer’s block is being caused by the anonymous commenter on a previous post who called me a ‘Self obsessed attention whore with bad teeth,’ (The bad teeth part was added for dramatic effect.)
No. That’s not it, I actually happen to agree with Ms. Anonymous. I’m a complete attention whore- this blog is named after me, it’s pretty much all about me, and the person who gets the most pleasure from it is me, can I cram ‘me’ one more time in this sentence… me.
Ok. I still have nothing of interest to write about so I’ll wrap it up now. Lets hope something tragic/hilarious happens to me over the weekend so I have some decent material, otherwise prepare yourself for a post about the uncanny speed at which my fingernails grow, no lie- I’m only ever two days away from having ‘ladynails’.
And now, for those who got all the way through this poor excuse for a post without hitting the little red x, a small audiovisual gift. Enjoy the clip below.
Maybe my writer’s block is being caused by the anonymous commenter on a previous post who called me a ‘Self obsessed attention whore with bad teeth,’ (The bad teeth part was added for dramatic effect.)
No. That’s not it, I actually happen to agree with Ms. Anonymous. I’m a complete attention whore- this blog is named after me, it’s pretty much all about me, and the person who gets the most pleasure from it is me, can I cram ‘me’ one more time in this sentence… me.
Ok. I still have nothing of interest to write about so I’ll wrap it up now. Lets hope something tragic/hilarious happens to me over the weekend so I have some decent material, otherwise prepare yourself for a post about the uncanny speed at which my fingernails grow, no lie- I’m only ever two days away from having ‘ladynails’.
And now, for those who got all the way through this poor excuse for a post without hitting the little red x, a small audiovisual gift. Enjoy the clip below.
Nice footwork.
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Think About It For A Second
I've been told on numerous occasions that I'm going to hell- for many different reasons. With that in mind I thought I'd have some fun on the way and post this rather 'interesting' picture.
Think about it for a second, how did this actually happen?
First someone had to design it, then someone had to print it, then someone had to deliver it, finally someone had to put it in the window.
Nobody thought there was something a little wrong here?
Monday, May 07, 2007
Fluro Green Slap Band
Besides pondering the obvious question, “Why does my hair look like it was cut by a lawnmower?”, I wonder what this little boy is thinking about.
*If you don’t have fond memories of the ‘Garbage Pail Kids’ I can not be your friend anymore. There is no room for negotiation.
Unless you recently suffered from a serious head trauma you will have figured out that the picture is of me. I came across it again this evening while my mother was digging through a box filled with old photos. She was looking for my pre-school photos to determine if a young boy romantically linked to a close family friend was in fact a classmate of mine back in the 80’s. Mums ‘research’ skills both impressed and distressed me. If she was more internet savvy I’m sure she would be conducting a MySpace search right now, at least I know where my stalker tendencies come from.
As mum furiously flicked through the photos one was inadvertently flung across the room in my direction, it landed at my feet. I picked it up and looking back at me with a vacant glare was myself at age 5. Instantly a few things occurred to me.
Firstly I thought that my parents either had a sadistic sense of humour or my hair was literally cut by a lawnmower. I don’t care what anyone says regardless of the fact that it was the 80’s I’m pretty sure this was never in fashion. While I’m talking about fashion- acid wash denim? Seriously, this time period was not kind to anyone, it does seem however that I did make some attempts to look cool, after all what other 5 year old do you see with his collar ‘popped’? 10 points for effort young Michael.
What really struck me about the photo was the vacant look on my face. It was probably just taken at a bad moment, it’s highly likely that I was just daydreaming I was one of the ‘Garbage Pail Kids’*. Nonetheless- in the photo it appears I have very little going on upstairs. Rather than being horrified at my slightly handicapped appearance all I could think as I starred at my 5 year old reflection was- I would love to return to those ignorant days. I have always been a great believer in the cliché, ignorance is bliss.
Unfortunately I’m a chronic thinker and of late my mind has been in overdrive. Thanks, in large part, to a late night philosophical conversation with my good friend Rob. A casual catch up session quickly descended into a discussion about the complexities of the universe and the meaning of life. Before having the conversation with Rob my deranged nocturnal routine went as follows: first I would begin by thinking through my less than extraordinary problems, then I'd wallow in self pity for a while, followed by figuring out a way to solve all my problems, then once again I would think through the less than extraordinary problems again and finally wallow in self pity until I fell asleep. Now I am forced to go through this entire routine followed by wondering if my life actually has any meaning beyond moving around a bunch of atoms. This usually results in me determining that there is no meaning to life, at which point I have a mild panic attach and lay perfectly still in bed until I pass out from exhaustion.
Some people have told me that I need to get a grip… on another person. As ashamed as I am to admit it, I see some validity in that point. My prolonged (23 year) lack of a serious boyfriend allows me plenty of time to contemplate my navel. Trust me, there are plenty of things I’d rather be doing in my bed than giving myself a headache night after night, but rather than living in fantasy land I have come up with a much more realistic soloution- time travel!
After looking at the photo I’ve decided that I’m going to somehow regress to my 5 year old self. It is the perfect way to circumvent all this self indulgent ‘thinking’ that does nothing but depress me. I want to go back to the days when my greatest concern was if I could afford a Push-Pop AND a packet of Hubba Bubba from the Milk Bar. The days when all it took to make me happy was watching an episode of He-Man followed immediately by an episode of She-Ra. The times when my most prized possession was a fluro green slap band. The days when my most important relationships were the imaginary ones I was having with the rest of the Garbage Pail Kids.
Alternatively I could just drink myself into a coma.
Goodnight.
As mum furiously flicked through the photos one was inadvertently flung across the room in my direction, it landed at my feet. I picked it up and looking back at me with a vacant glare was myself at age 5. Instantly a few things occurred to me.
Firstly I thought that my parents either had a sadistic sense of humour or my hair was literally cut by a lawnmower. I don’t care what anyone says regardless of the fact that it was the 80’s I’m pretty sure this was never in fashion. While I’m talking about fashion- acid wash denim? Seriously, this time period was not kind to anyone, it does seem however that I did make some attempts to look cool, after all what other 5 year old do you see with his collar ‘popped’? 10 points for effort young Michael.
What really struck me about the photo was the vacant look on my face. It was probably just taken at a bad moment, it’s highly likely that I was just daydreaming I was one of the ‘Garbage Pail Kids’*. Nonetheless- in the photo it appears I have very little going on upstairs. Rather than being horrified at my slightly handicapped appearance all I could think as I starred at my 5 year old reflection was- I would love to return to those ignorant days. I have always been a great believer in the cliché, ignorance is bliss.
Unfortunately I’m a chronic thinker and of late my mind has been in overdrive. Thanks, in large part, to a late night philosophical conversation with my good friend Rob. A casual catch up session quickly descended into a discussion about the complexities of the universe and the meaning of life. Before having the conversation with Rob my deranged nocturnal routine went as follows: first I would begin by thinking through my less than extraordinary problems, then I'd wallow in self pity for a while, followed by figuring out a way to solve all my problems, then once again I would think through the less than extraordinary problems again and finally wallow in self pity until I fell asleep. Now I am forced to go through this entire routine followed by wondering if my life actually has any meaning beyond moving around a bunch of atoms. This usually results in me determining that there is no meaning to life, at which point I have a mild panic attach and lay perfectly still in bed until I pass out from exhaustion.
Some people have told me that I need to get a grip… on another person. As ashamed as I am to admit it, I see some validity in that point. My prolonged (23 year) lack of a serious boyfriend allows me plenty of time to contemplate my navel. Trust me, there are plenty of things I’d rather be doing in my bed than giving myself a headache night after night, but rather than living in fantasy land I have come up with a much more realistic soloution- time travel!
After looking at the photo I’ve decided that I’m going to somehow regress to my 5 year old self. It is the perfect way to circumvent all this self indulgent ‘thinking’ that does nothing but depress me. I want to go back to the days when my greatest concern was if I could afford a Push-Pop AND a packet of Hubba Bubba from the Milk Bar. The days when all it took to make me happy was watching an episode of He-Man followed immediately by an episode of She-Ra. The times when my most prized possession was a fluro green slap band. The days when my most important relationships were the imaginary ones I was having with the rest of the Garbage Pail Kids.
Alternatively I could just drink myself into a coma.
Goodnight.
*If you don’t have fond memories of the ‘Garbage Pail Kids’ I can not be your friend anymore. There is no room for negotiation.Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Email Filter Test
Thank god for Internet porn!
I should explain.
Until about an hour ago the highlight of my day was finding a $2 coin in the bottom of my bag. Life is not very exciting at the moment. Then I thought I'd check my email, just in case there was an important chain email that I needed to urgently forward to 10 people to prevent the world from ending. Unfortunately I was not called upon to save the world by forwarding pictures of cartoon kittens holding love hearts- instead I received an email from Senator Steven Fielding.
Steven Fielding is the leader of Family First, a right wing conservative party that should really be called Jesus First. Despite attempts to disguise their close ties to the Australia's Christian community anyone who wasn't dropped on their head as an infant can make the rather obvious connection. The party's policies are entertaining reading, they have very cleverly disguised their self righteous judgements as family focused strategies. Clearly Steven Fielding is not on my Christmas card list, not that I have a Christmas card list, but thats beside the point.
So why am I receiving emails from Stevie? It appears someone thought it would be funny to subscribe me to his mailing list. Very funny. No seriously, very funny!
When I looked more closely tonight I realised that the email came from what appears to be Lil' Stevie's own email address. So for my own personal amusement I decided to put his email filter to the test.
I subscribed the address to every filthy porn mailing list I could find, from 'Grannies and Toys' right through to 'Midget S&M'. The Internet can be so useful.
I know it's childish, but it made me smile.
Until about an hour ago the highlight of my day was finding a $2 coin in the bottom of my bag. Life is not very exciting at the moment. Then I thought I'd check my email, just in case there was an important chain email that I needed to urgently forward to 10 people to prevent the world from ending. Unfortunately I was not called upon to save the world by forwarding pictures of cartoon kittens holding love hearts- instead I received an email from Senator Steven Fielding.
Steven Fielding is the leader of Family First, a right wing conservative party that should really be called Jesus First. Despite attempts to disguise their close ties to the Australia's Christian community anyone who wasn't dropped on their head as an infant can make the rather obvious connection. The party's policies are entertaining reading, they have very cleverly disguised their self righteous judgements as family focused strategies. Clearly Steven Fielding is not on my Christmas card list, not that I have a Christmas card list, but thats beside the point.
So why am I receiving emails from Stevie? It appears someone thought it would be funny to subscribe me to his mailing list. Very funny. No seriously, very funny!
When I looked more closely tonight I realised that the email came from what appears to be Lil' Stevie's own email address. So for my own personal amusement I decided to put his email filter to the test.
I subscribed the address to every filthy porn mailing list I could find, from 'Grannies and Toys' right through to 'Midget S&M'. The Internet can be so useful.
I know it's childish, but it made me smile.
Wow, I'm so popular, 213 new emails!
Monday, April 23, 2007
Clothes Made Out Of Curtains
After listening to the smooth vocal stylings of the one and only Desree for the past hour I find myself in a very optimistic mood. Seriously, you gotta be bad, you gotta be bold you gotta be wiser, genius.
So what to do now? When I sat turned on my trusty laptop after a dinner with the extended Italian family who had the crazy switched to high I had fully intended to let the fingers do the ranting. But now I’m completely mellow, I’ve lost the urge to vent my frustration about an uncle who’s attention seeking stupidity hit an all time high this evening when he arrived screaming obscenities at his wife and wearing an eye patch. My contentment in this moment is even preventing me from writing a self loathing post about my distain for headless store mannequins who are infinitely more attractive then me despite the rather obvious lack of a head.
So, in an homage to Julie Andrews and children wearing clothes made out of curtains, I’ve decided to tell you about a few of my favourite things. First and foremost I love Julie Andrews and the word ‘homage’.
My favourite place to be, despite my very limited experience of the world, is Melbourne. I can’t get enough of it and would never live anywhere else. And to those who say I need to experience more before I make that judgement I say this- I didn’t need a vagina to tell me I was gay. I never get bored of wandering through the city discovering new favourite things down ally ways behind Chinese restaurants, racking up credit card debt buying clothes I clearly cant afford, or finding comfy spot to sit and watch the people pass by. We have the best live music scene in the country, the best restaurants in the country and we host the most public, cultural and sporting events- oh and we have Lord Mayor John So.
I really love late night phone conversations with Mona when we are both able to switch off the ‘I hate my life’ section of our brains. During these conversations we can solve all the problems of the world, last Thursday we wrapped up the whole climate change situation in about 20 minutes. This week we’ll tackle peace in the Middle East. Within the confines of these conversations we are also able to tell completely inappropriate and offensive jokes without fear of retribution or judgment. Simply because she knows it bugs me Mona will refer to Julie Andrews as a filthy slut and in return I’ll refer to Mona’s future children as veil wearing religious zealots.
Music is obviously one of my favourite things. I love walking down the street with my headphones in, pretending that I have control over the soundtrack to my life with my trusty iPod in hand. One of my best memories from my U.S holiday- a smile I couldn’t control was plastered on my face as I strolled through Central Park on the clearest New York morning with Stevie Wonder’s ‘Higher Ground’ blaring in my ears. Even without the overblown New York cliché the right song at the right moment can shift my mood from, ‘I want to rip your eyeballs out and use them for Martini olives’ to ‘Lets do tequila shots and dance.’
Going out for breakfast on a Sunday morning always makes me smile, until about 2 hours later when I’m usually hunched over holding my stomach and wishing that I didn’t order the big breakfast with extra bacon and hash browns plus a side of cholesterol. Despite the pain that comes along with my regular order I will no doubt continue to do the same thing every time.
Ok, I thought I could go on and on about my favourite things, but unfortunately all this happiness is starting to freak me out. I’m going to watch some late night televangelists talk about opening my black heart and accepting Jesus into my life. That should get me back to a more normal state of contempt and irrational anger.
Peace be with you.
So what to do now? When I sat turned on my trusty laptop after a dinner with the extended Italian family who had the crazy switched to high I had fully intended to let the fingers do the ranting. But now I’m completely mellow, I’ve lost the urge to vent my frustration about an uncle who’s attention seeking stupidity hit an all time high this evening when he arrived screaming obscenities at his wife and wearing an eye patch. My contentment in this moment is even preventing me from writing a self loathing post about my distain for headless store mannequins who are infinitely more attractive then me despite the rather obvious lack of a head.
So, in an homage to Julie Andrews and children wearing clothes made out of curtains, I’ve decided to tell you about a few of my favourite things. First and foremost I love Julie Andrews and the word ‘homage’.
My favourite place to be, despite my very limited experience of the world, is Melbourne. I can’t get enough of it and would never live anywhere else. And to those who say I need to experience more before I make that judgement I say this- I didn’t need a vagina to tell me I was gay. I never get bored of wandering through the city discovering new favourite things down ally ways behind Chinese restaurants, racking up credit card debt buying clothes I clearly cant afford, or finding comfy spot to sit and watch the people pass by. We have the best live music scene in the country, the best restaurants in the country and we host the most public, cultural and sporting events- oh and we have Lord Mayor John So.I really love late night phone conversations with Mona when we are both able to switch off the ‘I hate my life’ section of our brains. During these conversations we can solve all the problems of the world, last Thursday we wrapped up the whole climate change situation in about 20 minutes. This week we’ll tackle peace in the Middle East. Within the confines of these conversations we are also able to tell completely inappropriate and offensive jokes without fear of retribution or judgment. Simply because she knows it bugs me Mona will refer to Julie Andrews as a filthy slut and in return I’ll refer to Mona’s future children as veil wearing religious zealots.
Music is obviously one of my favourite things. I love walking down the street with my headphones in, pretending that I have control over the soundtrack to my life with my trusty iPod in hand. One of my best memories from my U.S holiday- a smile I couldn’t control was plastered on my face as I strolled through Central Park on the clearest New York morning with Stevie Wonder’s ‘Higher Ground’ blaring in my ears. Even without the overblown New York cliché the right song at the right moment can shift my mood from, ‘I want to rip your eyeballs out and use them for Martini olives’ to ‘Lets do tequila shots and dance.’Going out for breakfast on a Sunday morning always makes me smile, until about 2 hours later when I’m usually hunched over holding my stomach and wishing that I didn’t order the big breakfast with extra bacon and hash browns plus a side of cholesterol. Despite the pain that comes along with my regular order I will no doubt continue to do the same thing every time.
Ok, I thought I could go on and on about my favourite things, but unfortunately all this happiness is starting to freak me out. I’m going to watch some late night televangelists talk about opening my black heart and accepting Jesus into my life. That should get me back to a more normal state of contempt and irrational anger.
Peace be with you.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Attention All Animals
Jaw update:
The bones are healing, slowly but surely. I can now eat some real foods. It is very exciting, I actually ate fish the other day!
Let this be a warning to all animals: my chewing powers are increasing every day. I will not hesitate to kill, deep fry, and eat any living thing that I am able to chew.
The bones are healing, slowly but surely. I can now eat some real foods. It is very exciting, I actually ate fish the other day!
Let this be a warning to all animals: my chewing powers are increasing every day. I will not hesitate to kill, deep fry, and eat any living thing that I am able to chew.
Join me for a Bambi Burger?
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
A Warewolf Has Needs
My jaw has been smashed into lots of tiny pieces.
My drugs are running out.
Fuck.
I suppose I could stop right there and not go on and on about how terrible I feel right now, but after almost a week of eating nothing but mush I want to properly convey my current predicament. I’ll spare you the graphic details of what the so called 'doctors' did to my face. Lets just say after the operation I was left looking like a circus performer- and not the good Cirque Du Soleil kind, those guys are hot, I looked more like the sideshow circus freak that you pay two dollars to point and laugh at. Come to think of it I’m poor at the moment, might be a good idea. Anyway lets skip ahead to the present, over a week without solid foods.
For the last seven days my diet has consisted entirely of yoghurt, soup, and mashed potato. At every meal I sit there eating- correction, slurping, while trying to contain my rage and suppress the urge to throw my bowl of slush at the wall. I don’t blame my parents for eating normal food, it’s just hard to see beautiful meals sitting across the table from me day after day knowing that unless I can blend it, I’m not eating it. Yesterday I seriously contemplated blending a slice of barbeque chicken pizza, but the mental image of what that would actually look like promptly ended that thought.
Last night while on the verge of a nervous breakdown number 11 my sense of smell, which is now reaching heightened warewolf levels of ability thanks to the lack of taste, led me to the kitchen. Chocolate cake. Simple, delicious chocolate cake. This chocolate cake.
The food loving readers will have noticed that there is already a slice cut.
I instinctively grabbed a knife and cut myself a generous slice of the cake, momentarily forgetting the obvious fact, I can’t chew, hell I can only open my mouth about three millimeters. The parents had just left to visit some friends and I stood there, my gaze fixed on the cake, it was still warm. My ‘Better Judgment’ tried to prevail, but it was no match for its opponent, my supremely talented, ‘Bad Judgment’. At this point I thought it would be a good idea to take a photo of the cake, just in case I needed a picture to accompany the epitaph on my tombstone which would surely read, ‘Here lies Michael, smart, moderately funny- and suffocated by chocolate cake.’
Over the next hour and a half I picked apart that slice of cake, squashing tiny morsels into even smaller discs of cake that I could slide between my teeth. It was a painstaking process, but if it wasn’t for that cake right now I would probably be perched high in a tree, naked, pulling off my fingernails one by one and singing Peter Andre’s 90’s classic ‘Mysterious Girl’ in Latin.
This whole ‘healing’ thing is taking far too long.
Time for some white pills, they are the good ones.
My drugs are running out.
Fuck.
I suppose I could stop right there and not go on and on about how terrible I feel right now, but after almost a week of eating nothing but mush I want to properly convey my current predicament. I’ll spare you the graphic details of what the so called 'doctors' did to my face. Lets just say after the operation I was left looking like a circus performer- and not the good Cirque Du Soleil kind, those guys are hot, I looked more like the sideshow circus freak that you pay two dollars to point and laugh at. Come to think of it I’m poor at the moment, might be a good idea. Anyway lets skip ahead to the present, over a week without solid foods.
For the last seven days my diet has consisted entirely of yoghurt, soup, and mashed potato. At every meal I sit there eating- correction, slurping, while trying to contain my rage and suppress the urge to throw my bowl of slush at the wall. I don’t blame my parents for eating normal food, it’s just hard to see beautiful meals sitting across the table from me day after day knowing that unless I can blend it, I’m not eating it. Yesterday I seriously contemplated blending a slice of barbeque chicken pizza, but the mental image of what that would actually look like promptly ended that thought.
Last night while on the verge of a nervous breakdown number 11 my sense of smell, which is now reaching heightened warewolf levels of ability thanks to the lack of taste, led me to the kitchen. Chocolate cake. Simple, delicious chocolate cake. This chocolate cake.
The food loving readers will have noticed that there is already a slice cut.
I instinctively grabbed a knife and cut myself a generous slice of the cake, momentarily forgetting the obvious fact, I can’t chew, hell I can only open my mouth about three millimeters. The parents had just left to visit some friends and I stood there, my gaze fixed on the cake, it was still warm. My ‘Better Judgment’ tried to prevail, but it was no match for its opponent, my supremely talented, ‘Bad Judgment’. At this point I thought it would be a good idea to take a photo of the cake, just in case I needed a picture to accompany the epitaph on my tombstone which would surely read, ‘Here lies Michael, smart, moderately funny- and suffocated by chocolate cake.’
Over the next hour and a half I picked apart that slice of cake, squashing tiny morsels into even smaller discs of cake that I could slide between my teeth. It was a painstaking process, but if it wasn’t for that cake right now I would probably be perched high in a tree, naked, pulling off my fingernails one by one and singing Peter Andre’s 90’s classic ‘Mysterious Girl’ in Latin.
This whole ‘healing’ thing is taking far too long.
Time for some white pills, they are the good ones.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Get Out!
There comes a time in every man’s life when he has to sit his parents down and tell them that he is gay-
Unless of course he happens to be straight-
Which I am not-
So what I’m trying to say is that I had to sit my parents down and tell them that I’m gay-
Because I’m gay.
Ok, I’m glad that I straightened that out.
Considering my current mental state I feel that I should warn you, it is highly likely that this story will be completely incoherent. So if you intend to read on might I suggest a comfortable chair and a bottle of vodka to wash down the out of date prescription painkillers that will be necessary to complete the arduous task of sifting though the scattered contents of my brain.
I’ve been avoiding the awkward coming out conversation for a while now. In actual terms: a while = 6 years. My family has always been a magnet for melodrama, much like the unfortunate Salinger family from 90’s TV classic ‘Party of Five’ who just couldn’t seem to last one week without someone getting pregnant out of wedlock or careering their car through a crowd of innocent bystanders while driving drunk because they needed to drink away the pain caused by discovering that their sibling has a terminal illness - needless to say, I always found it easy to convince myself that it was in the best interest of my family to postpone coming out until the current melodrama had settled down. Fortunately the last six years have been very unsettled. Every time things looked like they were settling down another family drama would arise just as I began to seriously consider coming out.
Then on Saturday morning I suddenly realised, my family wasn’t in the midst of turmoil, and after all these years of always having the perfect excuse to stay in the closet I couldn’t think of any legitimate reasons to hide the truth anymore. Shortly after making this realisation I seriously contemplated setting fire to the house, one last drama to delay the inevitable, but then I thought about all the clothes in my wardrobe that I would be sacrificing and I just couldn’t do it.
All the turmoil associated with my sisters wedding had died down and my parents had stopped having constant conversations about guest lists, the cost of sugared almonds and the frightening possibility of a bloody- no holds barred- knife fight breaking out between my Nonna and Nanna at the reception. In the wake of the wedding my family actually seemed to have become closer, we were all voluntarily spending more time together, my sister and her new husband seemed blissfully happy, my parents were proud of us all, and I was starting to forgive my brother for behaving like an insensitive redneck while we were in America. So if ever there was a time when they could deal with my announcement this would be it.
I was having an impromptu breakfast with Mona, my best friend and partner in insanity. While I attempted to eat a bland deep fried orange substance that was imitating the hash browns I had ordered we discussed coming out to my family- it was the same conversation we had been having for the past 5 years but today it felt different, instead of having butterflies in my stomach it felt like there was an ecstasy fuelled rave going on in there. I returned home to find mum sitting at the kitchen bench, I made an extra strong cup of coffee and drank half the cup in my first gulp, I was hoping to scald and drown the ravers still partying in my stomach.
As I sat down across from her I wondered if in some way she could predict what was coming, or would my announcement be a complete surprise. We talked for an hour about the usual stuff, my brother and sisters lives, Nonna’s health problems, and peace in the Middle East. I was beginning to think that I wouldn’t be able to do it, the prospect of chickening out seemed like a great idea. Then I made a comment about how despite the fact that I’m 23 years old I still feel like a kid. Mum innocently asked,
‘Do you feel like that because you don’t have a partner?’
I answered, ‘Yeah, partly’.
My brain began to race, I was not concerned with the actual question, and rather I was fixated on her use of the word partner. Why didn’t she say girlfriend? Did she already know that I was gay? Is this her way of letting me know that she is ok with me being gay? Was I reading too much into everything? There was an awkward silence.
I opened my mouth to speak buy nothing came out- pardon the horrible pun.
I tried again, this time I managed three words.
‘Mum. I’m gay.’
Tears welled up in her eyes, and she hugged me- she didn’t want me to see her cry.
I had always imagined that in this moment I would be crying uncontrollably, I wasn’t. I was very calm and still, I can remember thinking to myself, ‘You should be crying right now.’
The conversation that followed was as I expected it to be, Mum really wanted me to know that she loved me. She had suspected on occasion that I might be gay but never given it any real thought because she didn’t want it to be true. She said that she would never have chosen this life for me and went on to say that it was going to take her some time to adjust. I could tell that she was devastated and even a little bit scared, but everything she did and said showed that she was trying to make the situation easy for me. Just as mum stopped crying my sister arrived for a surprise visit. Good timing sis.
I had already told my brother that I was gay shortly before we went overseas. He took it well, but considering his visible discomfort upon hearing the word ‘gay’ I don’t think he’ll be attending Mardi Gras anytime soon. So now I was faced with the less than exciting task of giving the ‘Guess what? I’m Gay!’ speech to my sister, then I would have to perform a final encore for my father later on. I was tired just thinking about it, however, in another brilliantly timed entrance, my father walked through the door.
SCENE 2: KITCHEN CONVERSATION INTERIOR - KITCHEN
Four family members sit around the kitchen bench. The mother has obviously just been crying. The (devastatingly handsome) son sits silently his gaze fixed on a blank wall to his right. The father sits opposite his wife and son- looking confused, he realises something is amiss. The daughter rambles on unaware of any disturbance.
DAUGHTER: (Speaks quickly) We had such a good time. We were so happy to see everyone there, it seemed like everyone had a really good time. I hope everyone had a good time. Did everyone tell you they had a good time?
FATHER: …
MOTHER: Ok. (Sombre tone) Sorry to interrupt, but while you are both here Michael and I, I mean Michael, has something he wants to tell you.
SON: Ok. Well. This is hard to say. (Pause) I’ve been adopted by Angelina Jolie.
I’m not making it up. That is exactly what happened. Mum had given me a none to subtle push, much like Elaine used to shove Seinfeld as she barked the words, ‘Get out!’. I knew she wanted me to tell them I was gay, but I just thought I’d lighten the mood a little; she didn’t appreciate my comic timing. Abandoning what I thought was a hilarious joke I went on to tell Dad and my sister that I’m gay, they reacted similarly to my mother. I went back into a state of shock and let them say all the things they needed to, interrupting occasionally to remind them that I was still the same person, I wanted them to know that everything they knew about me was still true, and I had not been harbouring a secret gay personality they were unaware of. I was not about to come to dinner wearing a full face of makeup and a miniskirt- although I do have great legs for it.
Since coming out my whole family has been fantastic, constantly making an effort to show their love and support for me. I have to consider myself lucky, though they are watching me a little more closely these days and I often see sadness in their eyes I know that through it all they are trying to do the right thing by me, and that is a great feeling. Now all I have to do is endure thousands of questions and awkward conversations without getting too defensive.
On Sunday morning Mum named practically every one of my friends and asked if they were gay and Dad decided to raise the topic of AIDS over breakfast. I just reminded myself that it’s going to take some time for them to adjust and get all those questions and conversations out of their system. After all- they are trying to do the right thing and its ok, I can get used to having vodka and orange juice with my toast.
Congratulations, you made it to the end of this massive post.
Here is a completely unrelated photo of me in New York. I was sad because my coffee was empty.
It was a really good coffee.
Monday, March 12, 2007
At Least I'm Not Drinking
I spent my day keeping busy, so I didn’t have to think about thinking.
Then the random soundtrack of my life, provided by my trusty iFriend, offered up its first song for the evening, and it seemed alarmingly relevant.
I had just slipped beneath the sheets and selected ‘Shuffle Songs’ on my iPod, hopeful that a few quick tunes would help me descend into a coma like sleep. This was to be the final step in my well executed plan to avoid spending any time alone with my thoughts. It didn't work.
Instead, all the thoughts I had been trying to avoid were provoked.
Of all the songs in my collection…
Amy Winehouse - Wake Up Alone
It’s ok in the day,
I’m staying busy,
Tied up enough so I don’t have to wonder where is he.
Got so sick of crying,
So just lately,
When I catch myself I do a 180.
I stay up clean the house; at least I’m not drinking,
Run around just so I don’t have to think about thinking.
That silent sense of content that everyone gets,
Just disappears as soon as the sun sets.
I know my clichéd middle of the night melancholy will probably seem ridiculous in the morning, but I wanted to document this moment for a reason. Despite how embarrassed we may all be to admit it, a simple song played at the right moment has the power to make people feel like it was written just for them. Thinking logically we know that the song was probably written as a result of someone else’s very personal experience, and that countless other people may be having the exact same feeling about the song- but in the moment it’s our song, no matter how irrational that may be.
I’m completely rational, ‘Wake Up Alone’ was written just for me.
I’m off to scrub the bathroom tiles.
Then the random soundtrack of my life, provided by my trusty iFriend, offered up its first song for the evening, and it seemed alarmingly relevant.
I had just slipped beneath the sheets and selected ‘Shuffle Songs’ on my iPod, hopeful that a few quick tunes would help me descend into a coma like sleep. This was to be the final step in my well executed plan to avoid spending any time alone with my thoughts. It didn't work.
Instead, all the thoughts I had been trying to avoid were provoked.
Of all the songs in my collection…
Amy Winehouse - Wake Up Alone
It’s ok in the day,
I’m staying busy,
Tied up enough so I don’t have to wonder where is he.
Got so sick of crying,
So just lately,
When I catch myself I do a 180.
I stay up clean the house; at least I’m not drinking,
Run around just so I don’t have to think about thinking.
That silent sense of content that everyone gets,
Just disappears as soon as the sun sets.
I know my clichéd middle of the night melancholy will probably seem ridiculous in the morning, but I wanted to document this moment for a reason. Despite how embarrassed we may all be to admit it, a simple song played at the right moment has the power to make people feel like it was written just for them. Thinking logically we know that the song was probably written as a result of someone else’s very personal experience, and that countless other people may be having the exact same feeling about the song- but in the moment it’s our song, no matter how irrational that may be.
I’m completely rational, ‘Wake Up Alone’ was written just for me.
I’m off to scrub the bathroom tiles.
Hey Amy- can I get some royalties?
Thursday, March 08, 2007
Kick Her In The Face
Apparently there is a drought or something at the moment. The farmers seem to be really upset. The honorable premier of Victoria, Stevie B, is urging us all to conserve water by showering in groups of three. I think we’re only allowed to water our gardens on the 5th Sunday of every second month, and I’m sure I heard someone suggest that we should all brush our teeth with left over ‘Egg Flip’ flavored Big M from 1993, because lets face it- no one bought that shit.
Although I was probably the last person in the greater Melbourne area to admit there is a severe water shortage I have recently joined the hoards of other Melbournians praying for rain. I’ve always been fiercely proud of Melbourne and seeing so many of our beautiful parks and gardens turn brown was the catalyst for my sudden environmental concern. So much so that in recent weeks my prayers for rain have turned into a fully choreographed rain dance, I keep expecting to see Daryl Somers approaching me with a bejeweled microphone in hand.
Like a lot of people I’ve been watching the nightly news, listening to endless promises of rain and looking up at the sky waiting for the downpour. Despite the false hope provided by those few brief showers we’ve experienced recently I remain melancholy, wishing and waiting for some rain. So it may come as a surprise to know that today during the few brief moments when the sky’s opened up and gave the CBD some mush needed moisture I was not rejoicing in the streets and hugging my fellow dancers, I was starring up towards the sky, screaming profanities at the rain…
What began as a simple trip into to the city to sort out some minor enrollment issues at university quickly turned into a cross country walking event worthy of a Commonwealth Games bronze medal, (I’m trying not to exaggerate.) I was experiencing what I call ‘Administrative Redirection,’ this occurs when office administrators, paid to carry out extremely difficult tasks like stamping forms, redirect you from one office to another because they are incapable of answering a question without involving six other admin workers. It was on my third trip from the Bourke Street campus to the Cardigan Street Campus that the rain began to fall.
By this stage I was somewhat tired and aggravated as a result of all the ‘Administrative Redirection’. I was hastily rushing across Bourke Street, eager to get back to see Carmen in the Cardigan Street admin office so I could kick her in the face for making me run back and forwards all afternoon. I hadn’t really noticed the rain, until I placed my right foot on a metal drain cover which was now glistening with its fresh layer of rain droplets.
Can you see where this is going?
I slipped.
My entire body was airborne for what felt like 10 seconds. Then I hit the pavement like a load of bricks- a load of bricks wearing really expensive jeans.
The embarrassment of situations like this usually prompts the adrenaline to kick in so you can get up and walk away quickly. Pretending nothing has happened despite the fact that you have immense pain shooting up your spine and half of the Bourke Street Mall is pointing and laughing at you. In this instance I laid on the ground for a few moments, oblivious to everything around me, every thing except the rain. In a moment of sheer insanity I laid there in the street, looked up into the clouds and screamed profanities at the rain.
Almost instantly the rain stopped, I can’t help but feel responsible. I haven’t been able to shake my guilt or the debilitating pain in my back, all day. So it’s back to praying and dancing for me, feel free to join in.
Five, six, seven, eight...
GRAPHIC REPRESENTATION OF PLANNED ATTACK:
Me: Violent Yellow Kicker
Although I was probably the last person in the greater Melbourne area to admit there is a severe water shortage I have recently joined the hoards of other Melbournians praying for rain. I’ve always been fiercely proud of Melbourne and seeing so many of our beautiful parks and gardens turn brown was the catalyst for my sudden environmental concern. So much so that in recent weeks my prayers for rain have turned into a fully choreographed rain dance, I keep expecting to see Daryl Somers approaching me with a bejeweled microphone in hand.
Like a lot of people I’ve been watching the nightly news, listening to endless promises of rain and looking up at the sky waiting for the downpour. Despite the false hope provided by those few brief showers we’ve experienced recently I remain melancholy, wishing and waiting for some rain. So it may come as a surprise to know that today during the few brief moments when the sky’s opened up and gave the CBD some mush needed moisture I was not rejoicing in the streets and hugging my fellow dancers, I was starring up towards the sky, screaming profanities at the rain…
What began as a simple trip into to the city to sort out some minor enrollment issues at university quickly turned into a cross country walking event worthy of a Commonwealth Games bronze medal, (I’m trying not to exaggerate.) I was experiencing what I call ‘Administrative Redirection,’ this occurs when office administrators, paid to carry out extremely difficult tasks like stamping forms, redirect you from one office to another because they are incapable of answering a question without involving six other admin workers. It was on my third trip from the Bourke Street campus to the Cardigan Street Campus that the rain began to fall.
By this stage I was somewhat tired and aggravated as a result of all the ‘Administrative Redirection’. I was hastily rushing across Bourke Street, eager to get back to see Carmen in the Cardigan Street admin office so I could kick her in the face for making me run back and forwards all afternoon. I hadn’t really noticed the rain, until I placed my right foot on a metal drain cover which was now glistening with its fresh layer of rain droplets.
Can you see where this is going?
I slipped.
My entire body was airborne for what felt like 10 seconds. Then I hit the pavement like a load of bricks- a load of bricks wearing really expensive jeans.
The embarrassment of situations like this usually prompts the adrenaline to kick in so you can get up and walk away quickly. Pretending nothing has happened despite the fact that you have immense pain shooting up your spine and half of the Bourke Street Mall is pointing and laughing at you. In this instance I laid on the ground for a few moments, oblivious to everything around me, every thing except the rain. In a moment of sheer insanity I laid there in the street, looked up into the clouds and screamed profanities at the rain.
Almost instantly the rain stopped, I can’t help but feel responsible. I haven’t been able to shake my guilt or the debilitating pain in my back, all day. So it’s back to praying and dancing for me, feel free to join in.
Five, six, seven, eight...
GRAPHIC REPRESENTATION OF PLANNED ATTACK: Me: Violent Yellow Kicker
Carmen: Unconscious Blue Victim
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Deep Fried Desk Lamp
"Yes, I had a good time."
"New York was amazing."
"No, I’m still skinny."
These are the three phrases I have found myself repeatedly uttering in the few short days since I’ve returned from my trip to America. I feel that these practically meaningless sentences, so obviously devoid of any real depth, are perfectly appropriate responses to the less than challenging questions people seem compelled to ask me.
"Did you have a good time?"
"How was New York?"
"You didn’t put on any weight? Even around all those fat Americans?"
Thanks to everyone for showing such genuine interest in my trip overseas.
Next time instead of asking me how I managed to retain the figure of a pre pubescent 12 year old girl while traveling through a country where they would deep fry a desk lamp and sell it with a large fries and coke, how about you spare me the effort it takes to curl my face up into a sarcastic smile and shut your fucking mouth.
Ok… clearly I’m not in a great mood at the moment.
Could my bitterness stem from the fact that upon going through the photos from my trip I realized that I have hardly any pictures of me in any of the awesome places I visited because my brother refused to stop for 3 seconds and take a photo? Possibly.
Maybe I’m just a little on edge because although I had a great time I’ll be paying it off for the next 11 years. That is if I’m able to get a job, because nothing says ‘Your poor!’ quite like returning from an expensive overseas trip paid for primarily on credit card only to discover that your job no longer exists.
Or I suppose some of my anxiety could be attributed to the fact that I’ve just booked in my second jaw operation and discovered that the recommended recovery time is a somewhat inconvenient period of TWO BLOODY MONTHS. (I feel the need to point out my brilliant ‘bloody’ pun.) So two months that should be spent completing my final year of university will now be dedicated to laying in bed drooling blood and eating through a straw.
Another possible factor contributing to my current less than joyous mood could be the fact that I stepped off the plane and into the hurricane of my sisters wedding. It turned out to be a beautiful event full of Kodak/Hallmark moments, however the image burned into my brain is one of my parents smiling gleefully and embracing my sister and her new husband followed by a similar moment later featuring my brother and his beautiful new girlfriend. The closest I got to a hug was getting entangled with a particularly nasty shrubary while trying to rewire the speaker system.
I’m the first person to admit that I can be as crazy as Britney Spears on ice, but despite everything going on at the moment I have managed to resist the urge to get out the clippers and go for the Sinead O’Connor look. I’ve been trying really hard to keep my shit together, and I’ve actually been doing OK. Until an hour ago.
This is the start of the conversation I just overheard between my parents.
"Something is very wrong with Michael."
…
I’ll fill in the blanks. They think I’m an unstable loser with no direction in my life.
They haven't even seen the begining of unstable Michael.
It’s good to be home.
"New York was amazing."
"No, I’m still skinny."
These are the three phrases I have found myself repeatedly uttering in the few short days since I’ve returned from my trip to America. I feel that these practically meaningless sentences, so obviously devoid of any real depth, are perfectly appropriate responses to the less than challenging questions people seem compelled to ask me.
"Did you have a good time?"
"How was New York?"
"You didn’t put on any weight? Even around all those fat Americans?"
Thanks to everyone for showing such genuine interest in my trip overseas.
Next time instead of asking me how I managed to retain the figure of a pre pubescent 12 year old girl while traveling through a country where they would deep fry a desk lamp and sell it with a large fries and coke, how about you spare me the effort it takes to curl my face up into a sarcastic smile and shut your fucking mouth.
Ok… clearly I’m not in a great mood at the moment.
Could my bitterness stem from the fact that upon going through the photos from my trip I realized that I have hardly any pictures of me in any of the awesome places I visited because my brother refused to stop for 3 seconds and take a photo? Possibly.
Maybe I’m just a little on edge because although I had a great time I’ll be paying it off for the next 11 years. That is if I’m able to get a job, because nothing says ‘Your poor!’ quite like returning from an expensive overseas trip paid for primarily on credit card only to discover that your job no longer exists.
Or I suppose some of my anxiety could be attributed to the fact that I’ve just booked in my second jaw operation and discovered that the recommended recovery time is a somewhat inconvenient period of TWO BLOODY MONTHS. (I feel the need to point out my brilliant ‘bloody’ pun.) So two months that should be spent completing my final year of university will now be dedicated to laying in bed drooling blood and eating through a straw.
Another possible factor contributing to my current less than joyous mood could be the fact that I stepped off the plane and into the hurricane of my sisters wedding. It turned out to be a beautiful event full of Kodak/Hallmark moments, however the image burned into my brain is one of my parents smiling gleefully and embracing my sister and her new husband followed by a similar moment later featuring my brother and his beautiful new girlfriend. The closest I got to a hug was getting entangled with a particularly nasty shrubary while trying to rewire the speaker system.
I’m the first person to admit that I can be as crazy as Britney Spears on ice, but despite everything going on at the moment I have managed to resist the urge to get out the clippers and go for the Sinead O’Connor look. I’ve been trying really hard to keep my shit together, and I’ve actually been doing OK. Until an hour ago.
This is the start of the conversation I just overheard between my parents.
"Something is very wrong with Michael."
…
I’ll fill in the blanks. They think I’m an unstable loser with no direction in my life.
They haven't even seen the begining of unstable Michael.
It’s good to be home.
Can you tell this photo was taken in the USA?
Friday, January 26, 2007
Inappropriate Terrorist Jokes
To Whom It May Concern,
I sit here tonight with only hours to go before I depart the country. I will be travelling to the US of A for a short sightseeing holiday with my brother.
I have neglected this blog over the past couple of weeks for many reasons, the main one being my paralysing laziness. My lack of posting in no way indicates a new found sanity- quite the opposite. I have been crazier then ever, and as always my inner turmoil has provided me with countless opportunities to blog. I've actually half written about 8 posts, but I'm hesitant to finish and upload them for your viewing pleasure, they are completely manic and incomprehensible.
When I return in a few short weeks hopefully I'll be in the right frame of mind to share my thoughts again.
That's it for now, if I can manage to refrain from making inappropriate terrorist jokes I should be back by the end of February.
Peace, love and dolphins.
...Michael
I sit here tonight with only hours to go before I depart the country. I will be travelling to the US of A for a short sightseeing holiday with my brother.
I have neglected this blog over the past couple of weeks for many reasons, the main one being my paralysing laziness. My lack of posting in no way indicates a new found sanity- quite the opposite. I have been crazier then ever, and as always my inner turmoil has provided me with countless opportunities to blog. I've actually half written about 8 posts, but I'm hesitant to finish and upload them for your viewing pleasure, they are completely manic and incomprehensible.
When I return in a few short weeks hopefully I'll be in the right frame of mind to share my thoughts again.
That's it for now, if I can manage to refrain from making inappropriate terrorist jokes I should be back by the end of February.
Peace, love and dolphins.
...Michael
Dolphins
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
Gay Scene
Its three days since the beginning of the new year and the Christmas decorations have finally been packed away.
My mother has a strange obsession with festive trinkets and every year she insists on cluttering up our otherwise minimalist home with musical Santa Claus figurines, dozens of shiny baubles and glitter coated plastic leaves- which as far as I can tell have absolutely nothing to do with Christmas. This year there was a new addition to the house of many decorations, a nativity scene. My family have not been practicing Catholics for many years now, however in a moment of retail induced religious nostalgia my mother purchased the nativity scene, and she was thrilled with her purchase.
Not wanting to rain on the baby Jesus’ parade I kept my mouth shut and refrained from pointing out the irony of a nativity scene in a house occupied by people who, aside from Weddings and Funerals, haven’t been to church in at least 5 years. I kept quiet while she unpacked the angel and the wise men. I helped remove the bubble wrap from Mary and Joseph. I even smiled when Mum looked lovingly at the baby Jesus- but when the Shepard came out (that pun will be funny in a few seconds,) I broke my silence…
“That is one gay shepherd.”
In all seriousness either that shepherd was gay or he was a guy in drag- dude really looked like a lady. I’m not one to promote the use of sweeping generalizations but it’s difficult not to draw gay conclusions when you are faced with a limp wrested figurine wearing what can only be described as a pink dress and more makeup than a drag queen at Mardi Gras.
My mum was somewhat taken aback by the suggestion that her perfect nativity scene was besmirched by a homosexual shepherd, although when I pointed out the make up and general stance of the figurine in question she found it hard to disprove my point. However she still took great pleasure in setting up the nativity scene, giving it pride of place in our lounge room, I didn’t protest.
Next year I’m going to paint the shepherd’s nails and see if mum notices.
My mother has a strange obsession with festive trinkets and every year she insists on cluttering up our otherwise minimalist home with musical Santa Claus figurines, dozens of shiny baubles and glitter coated plastic leaves- which as far as I can tell have absolutely nothing to do with Christmas. This year there was a new addition to the house of many decorations, a nativity scene. My family have not been practicing Catholics for many years now, however in a moment of retail induced religious nostalgia my mother purchased the nativity scene, and she was thrilled with her purchase.
Not wanting to rain on the baby Jesus’ parade I kept my mouth shut and refrained from pointing out the irony of a nativity scene in a house occupied by people who, aside from Weddings and Funerals, haven’t been to church in at least 5 years. I kept quiet while she unpacked the angel and the wise men. I helped remove the bubble wrap from Mary and Joseph. I even smiled when Mum looked lovingly at the baby Jesus- but when the Shepard came out (that pun will be funny in a few seconds,) I broke my silence…
“That is one gay shepherd.”
In all seriousness either that shepherd was gay or he was a guy in drag- dude really looked like a lady. I’m not one to promote the use of sweeping generalizations but it’s difficult not to draw gay conclusions when you are faced with a limp wrested figurine wearing what can only be described as a pink dress and more makeup than a drag queen at Mardi Gras.
My mum was somewhat taken aback by the suggestion that her perfect nativity scene was besmirched by a homosexual shepherd, although when I pointed out the make up and general stance of the figurine in question she found it hard to disprove my point. However she still took great pleasure in setting up the nativity scene, giving it pride of place in our lounge room, I didn’t protest.
Next year I’m going to paint the shepherd’s nails and see if mum notices.
Here is an example of a much more heterosexual shepherd, although I am concerned by the way he is looking at that lamb.
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