Michael Who?

Awkward silences

2011-12-19T16:23:00.003+11:00

I've made the decision to revive the blog, with all the enthusiasm of an overzealous office manager giving CPR to a training dummy at two day first aid course.

Expect some broken imaginary ribs and awkward silences.

Before I start writing I’m going to spend some time cleaning out the archives. I feel like I should get rid of the posts that are pure nonsense and the ones that don’t makes sense as standalone pieces of writing.

I reserve the right to change my mind if it looks like there won’t be anything left. In the future you can expect self indulgent rants with a blatant disregard for proper grammar and correct spelling.

Come with me on this journey of self discovery and poor life choices.

- Michael Who

In other news apparently Kim Jong Il died today. Wow.

Personal

2010-06-27T14:23:00.003+10:00

26 year old introvert with extroverted tendencies and low self esteem seeks same (or different) for hand holding and inappropriate displays of humanity.

Random acts of violence

2010-03-03T22:54:00.002+11:00

People might think it’s strange that I have so much love and admiration for a person who has spent a considerable part of the last 26 years hitting me across the back of the head. However these random acts of violence were just my Nonna’s strange way of saying “I love you”. Or more specifically, ”I love you- now do what I say.”

Nonna’s reasons for delivering this swift justice varied. Sometimes I would be mid conversation with an uncle or auntie and suddenly... thud. Her heavily bejewelled hand would strike the back of my head and I’d involuntarily lunge forward in an all too familiar motion. And what was my crime? I had spoken to other relatives before saying hello to her. On other occasions a whack might be prompted by the decision to wear a pair of ripped jeans or waking in to family dinner with newly bleached hair. Regardless of the motivation for the swipe one thing was always the same, the brutal force. This unassuming five foot nothing Sicilian signorina was a powerful lady, and that is precisely why I loved her.

Nonna passed away a few days ago and I already miss her.

Her feisty personality began to fade towards the end of her life but I will always remember a strong willed woman who knew what she wanted and wasn’t afraid to make it happen. She valued family above all else, raising eight children and revelling in her position as the matriarch of a big Italian family.

A lot of my favourite memories of time spent with Nonna took place at Footscray Market and Forges of Footscray, two of her favourite stomping grounds. She was practically a celebrity at

Forges and I remember countless lunch times spent at the cafeteria with my brother and sister where Nonna point out random people in the store and tell us that they were undercover policeman who would take us away if we misbehaved. We believed her. And I can proudly say that my siblings and I have never been arrested. I choose to believe these are not unrelated facts.

At one stage or another I’m sure each of her eight children, 18 grandchildren and, 22 great grandchildren have been on the receiving end of a disapproving look or some angry words from Nonna, she certainly wasn’t reserved in her opinions, another reason I admire her. And truth be told we probably deserved it more often than not.

I will miss her secretive handshakes- not because of the five dollars she would covertly hand me, but because of the cheeky grin and sly wink she would deliver with the crumpled note.

Thanks for making me feel so loved Nonna.

Francesca Caminiti

27^th February 1922 – 28^th February 2010

An excessive portion of cheese

2009-07-15T22:39:00.004+10:00

My primary source of physical activity over the last year has been typing.

I’m no health expert but fingers tapping away at the keyboard isn’t exactly a well rounded exercise regime.

As my exercise levels decreased my food intake has increased. A large part of this increase is due to my new habit of eating two dinners per night. Typically I eat my first ‘conventional’ dinner at 7pm and then at 10pm I go for another round.

Dinner number two usually consists of something that involves a drive-thru, or alternatively the combination of a random ingredient from my pantry and an excessive portion of cheese.

Needless to say there has been a complete change in my body shape over the last three months, and it’s not pretty.

I’ve always described my body type as ‘pre-pubescent female gymnast.’ I’ve tried unsuccessfully to get a laugh out of this lame self deprecating joke for at least the last five years, and while it is clearly not funny- it was the truth. Aside from a little meat on my legs (genetics, thanks mum) I was always a skinny bitch. Now I’m just a bitch.

My slim frame was incredibly annoying at times, but it was one of my only genetic advantages. I could eat anything I wanted and there were no visible signs of my gluttony, although I’m sure my arteries have probably seen better days.

As someone who is defective in practically every way, (read past posts RE: defective lungs, eyes, skin, jaw, ears, teeth,) I generally appreciated not having to count calories or exercise.

I had an understanding with my body that although the decision not to exercise meant I would never have muscles or a particularly ‘desirable’ body- my laziness would not result in me getting fat.

Alas this paradigm of indulgent guilt free deep fried contentment has ended.

I have put on weight in the most hideous fashion possible, and my body is now a mismatched disproportionate mess.

I’ll let the dot points do the talking.

- My face maintains a gaunt look that is reminiscent of a 90s crack whore. (Think Whitney during the bad ol’ days)

- My legs are chunky (My knees may actually disappear any day now)

- My ass is beyond chunky, it’s actually fat (For someone who invested way too much money in slim/skinny jeans this is a real problem)

- I now have muffin top and blobs of back fat. (I like muffins, not such a big fan of muffin-top)

- My arms are still twig shaped appendages that would send anorexic girls into fits of jealous rage (I may have crossed the line- but it’s so far back that I can’t actually see it)

- I have a gut! (This is very distressing because I used to have abs, and they were the one thing I didn’t hate about my body, THEY WERE ALL I HAD AND NOW THEY ARE GONE DAMN YOU!)

If more than two people actually read this blog I’d probably have to brace myself for a barrage of criticism from people battling weight issues.

Of course I know I’m not actually fat, but the flabby truth is that I’m not comfortable in my skin, I’m the heaviest I’ve ever been, the majority of my pants don’t fit me, (even my non-skinny pants don’t do up at the waist) and for my body type, I’m overweight.

So what now? According to a friend it’s a simple case of calories in and energy out. I think I’ll focus on the calories in part of that equation and when I am comfortable with that I’ll start to consider the energy out part.

On the plus side, I’ve always wanted to buy a moo-moo.

Good muffin.

The Girl From Tomorrow

2009-05-22T16:53:00.000+10:00

The following email conversation takes place in two separate offices on separate sides of Melbourne’s CBD.

Names and places have not been changed because the editor is too lazy.

Despite taking place during ‘office hours’ the editor would like to point out that both parties involved are dedicated, hard working employees. Both were very productive on the day of the exchange included below.

The editor has chosen to upload this post comprised predominantly of emails because he feels it gives a little glimpse into an odd yet enduring friendship- and because it is easier than coming up with new material.

The editor has mixed feelings about writing in the third person.

Read on.

------------------------------

Michael – 7:34am
I’m so emotional today. I started crying in front of my boss without realising I was doing it.
I think I have a man hormone cycle.
Help.

Mona – 9:25am
HHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! You're so funny!
By the by I was in the middle of writing you an email!!
Please Michael control yourself... why the hell did you start crying? Are you deranged?
You need booze. Fast.

Michael – 9:27am
Just out of curiosity… when did you get that email? I sent it before at 7:30.
Think we might be having tech problems.

Mona – 9:30am
I got it just after 9am.

Michael -9:33am
All that talk of my cycle must have raised the eyebrow of our mail marshal and delayed it getting to you.

Mona – 9:36am
I’m hungry. Is it too early for lunch?

Michael – 9:37am
I just ate three chocolate biscuits, and I’m on to my third coffee for the day.
Clearly I have no food boundaries anymore.

Mona – 9:40am
I’m seriously worried about you. Maybe you have Prader-Willie* syndrome.

*Prader-Willie Syndrome: Characteristics include hypotonia, insatiable appetite, obesity if food intake is uncontrolled, mild mental retardation and incomplete sexual development.

Michael – 9:42am
Prader-Willie, haven’t heard a reference to that in a while

Mona 9:50am
Thought you'd enjoy.
But I’m actually serious.

Michael – 9:54am
Did you know beside the obesity issue another symptom of Prader-Willie is incomplete sexual development?
I’m not sure I like this disease. Can’t I have something more trendy like bulimia?
bxcg gtgnjfb
That was actually me typing with my face. That’s right I just bashed my head on the keyboard in the middle of the office.
Not even 10am yet. Cowabunga.

Mona – 10:12am
Is it alarming that rather than be concerned for my dear friend who appears to be having some sort of breakdown, I sit at my computer laughing my head off at the email. Do you have to be so funny in your craziness?
I love you. Cowabunga.

Michael – 11:10am
In a desperate effort to make his work day go faster Michael decided to drink as many cups of coffee as humanly possible between the hours of 8 and 6. His next decision was to detail the effects of this excessive coffee consumption in an email to his dear friend Mona, all the while referring to himself only in the third person.
As this is being written Michael is not shaking uncontrollably or bouncing off the walls as one might have expected given the steady caffeine intake. Having consumed one take away latte, two instant coffees and two small cups of strongly brewed percolated joy, the only noticeable effect is a well worn path between Michael’s desk and the bathroom.
Will our hero make it through the day without irreparable damage to his bladder? Will he disprove common logic and fall asleep at his desk? Will anyone notice that the office coffee supply is rapidly depleting? Will Mona tell Michael to shut the f*ck up and stop sending her emails?
All these questions and more will probably never be answered because Michael needs to do some work, as soon as he makes another coffee.
Is it home time yet?
P.S- Your lack of concern for Michael’s mental health has been noted. In response you will not be invited to the ‘Girl from Tomorrow’ DVD marathon planned for late June.

Mona – 11:56am
Mona's response to Michael's rather deranged email is again quite simply to laugh out loud. Who would have thought?
Mona is this time actually concerned about Michael's caffeine intake. It reminds her of the time he burned himself with the cigarette and it got infected. *Michael may now be getting Mona's drift*
Mona is most definitely amused by Michael's reference to The Girl from Tomorrow and will do anything, absolutely anything (even fake concern) to get invited to said DVD marathon.
Mona loves Michael but he REALLY NEEDS TO STOP DRINKING COFFEE!!!!!!!!

Michael – 2:47pm
Apologies for my delayed response. I have been very busy injecting coffee directly into my eyeball as well as attending classes to give up my ‘third person’ addiction. So far so good.
Your last email made me laugh, I knew you hadn’t completely lost your ability to be funny. Here’s hoping you’ll be back to 100% soon because I need a good laugh and your husband’s jokes don’t make any sense. Bless him for trying though.
I think I’m done with the coffee thing. It’s becoming more tiring than my actual work. Which might I say is actually getting done today. It seems I’m having a highly functioning breakdown. Manic depression and rewriting client case studies seem to go hand in hand.
How are you travelling today? I’m guessing that you are about to indulge in a lunch of lettuce leaves and shredded carrot. Please consider something more substantial because I want to drink irresponsibly tonight.
Quick lawyer question - if I change the time on my computer so it says 6:00pm do I have legal recourse to leave work now?
Feel free to bill me for the time it takes you to answer this question. In turn I will be billing all the time I’ve spent emailing you to some large evil company who deserves some Michael flavoured karma.

Mona – 3:15pmI don’t think I want to answer that question.

Michael – 3:55pm
The person you have dialled cannot answer his phone because he is busy making a collage out of chocolate bar wrappers and saliva. Please check the number and try again.

------------------------------

I love that I don’t have to hold back the crazy with you Mono.

Seven years, no itch.

Happy unhealthy relationship anniversary.

x

Pikel.

Catch

2009-04-07T19:24:00.006+10:00

The most annoying thing about being single is the comments people make when I show even the slightest displeasure with my current status. My perpetual status. Singledom.

I am fully aware that no one wants to hear me whinge about crawling into a cold bed every night crying myself to sleep with nothing to keep me warm. If at this point you are thinking to yourself, “Buy an electric blanket loser!’ then congratulations. Comments like this constitute a well measured and appropriate response to any remarks a single person might make that include the term or terms:-

- Cold beds
- Empty hearts
- Aching of any kind
- Long nights
- Long days
- Longing
- Being lonely even when surrounded by people
- Tears on/ tear soaked, pillows (or tears associated with any soft furnishings)

I have at one stage or another used all of these phrases, and no doubt on occasion I have used such unashamedly painful combinations of the above terms that could land a job writing for ‘The Bold & the Beautiful’.

**Brief pause while I update my resume**

So please, feel free to call me a fool when these words fall out of my mouth without being filtered through the proper self censoring parts of my brain. Hell- you can even slap me if you like, but please, I beg you, don’t join the pity party. Don't try to make me feel better with a sappy sympathetic remark. This will prompt one of two disastrous outcomes. I will spiral quickly into a melodramatic tirade about how horrible it is being all alone in the world, I will cry uncontrollably- probably in public, and the person stupid enough to attempt a sympathetic reply will be a party to my humiliating outburst and henceforth never be able to look me in the eyes again. The other, more likely option, is an irrational violent outburst from me in response to a well intentioned clichéd comment. For example…

“Don’t worry Michael, when you least expect it someone will come along and sweep you off your feet.”

Response. “Really? When I least expect it. Gee thanks. I’m always expecting it fucktard.” This would be followed by me literally sweeping that person off their feet, preferably with a deck chair.

Or...

“I don’t know why you are still single Michael, you are funny and nice. Such a CATCH.”

Response.

“I’m not 7 years old you condescending shit-for-brains. I understand that funny and nice is code for hella ugly.” This would be followed by me shouting ‘catch’ and throwing a lamp at their head. Preferably an art deco lamp, lots of glass.

So please, on behalf of myself, I beg you. don't do it. I am not your typical single person, I do not want your sympathy. I want a cold hard reality check. When I’m having a depressing moment do not put your arm around my shoulders, unless you want some time off work and can put up with the pain of a broken collarbone.

Ah, bitterness in the evening.

I feel better having that off my chest. But I'm still all alone in this horrible, horrible world.

Woe is me.

Oh sorry, did that heavy lamp shatter in your face? Let me get you a band aid.

Wallpaper*

2009-01-08T15:04:00.003+11:00

Booking a flight to Sydney that involved a stopover in Canberra was the beginning of a yet another less than stellar New Years Eve experience for seasoned cynic and all round pessimist Michael Who?.

Travelling to Sydney for the dreaded eve was a decision brought on by a combination of ambivalence on my part and three days of constant nagging from my dear friend Mona. It was a last minute decision so I knew flights were not going to be cheap, however in a cost cutting option that begs the question, “Canberra?”, I chose to make the short Melbourne to Sydney trip via our nations capital. Effectively saving myself $80, an amount that could also be saved if I refrained from drinking six tequila shots every Saturday night. That reminds me of another story, I’ll tell it another time. After I have six tequila shots.

Resigned to my fate, I left home in the wee hours of December 29, fully prepared for a needlessly long 4 hour journey to Sydney. I arrived at the airport to find a monstrous queue of people winding around the check in area, looping back on itself so many times that I was having trouble finding the end. (This may have had less to do with the size of the queue and more to do with the repercussions of my unhealthy relationship with tequila.) So after an exhaustive check in process I was still in fairly good spirits, I had made friends with two people in the queue and decided that I would start this trip, and in turn 2009, with a positive outlook.

It all went wrong as I boarded the plane, the expressions of the flight attendants should have alerted me to the trouble ahead. As I stepped into the cabin I noted a pungent stench, the airplane smelt like poo, there was no mistaking it. While it was not unbearable, it was definitely noticeable. I decided that I could put up with it for the short flight; I just wanted to get this show on the road.

No such luck.

The captain informed us that we would have to get off the plane due to the “mystery” odour. My reaction was immediate; it’s not a mystery, the plane smells like shit, poo, number two, crap, whatever you want to call it. Mystery solved morons.

In what I thought was a humorous and completely implausible solution to the problem the customer service manager (AKA bitchy flight attendant) announced to the passengers that Qantas was trying to find another aircraft for us to travel on. Yeah, just wheel out one of those other aircrafts you keep on standby ready to fly, I’m sure it’s that simple. Not surprisingly after about an hour we reboarded the same plane, only now it smelt like shit and ammonia, delightful.
Desperately clinging to my last fragments of optimism I convinced myself that there are far worse things in life than having to tolerate an unpleasant smell on a short flight, and I was right.

It’s much worse to be wedged in between two well fed travellers who don’t understand the concept of personal space. To a certain degree there is nothing they can do- we were in economy class- its not exactly roomy and they were not exactly small people, but for the love of Oprah- stop elbowing me. Stop moving your seat up and down. Don’t knock over my drink. Don’t do your morning stretches at thirty thousand feet!

Touch down in Canberra, I peel myself out from between the biggest losers, take a moment regain composure and head to the boarding lounge for flight number two. As I wait for the tiny tiny, and I mean really tiny, plane to start boarding I noticed a cool indie musician type sitting across from me, a bit scruffy but undoubtedly attractive, and undoubtedly gay. Usually this would induce pangs of self hate and depression but at this point I was still trying to keep the snide cynicism at bay, so I smiled to myself and took a second look at the guy and returned my gaze to the pages of Wallpaper magazine, (Wallpaper* magazine is my new god. I have not been paid for this indorsement.)

Fast forward. I take my seat. Next to cute muso. Who I shall henceforth refer to as Dylan because I think that name suits him. While some guys would consider this a lucky break I do not, I really don’t respond well to being in the company of extremely attractive people, but I managed to repress the insanity, that was until Lucifer got involved. Lucifer is how I shall refer to the evil flight attendant because I think that name suits him. I was avoiding eye contact with Dylan and happily reading my magazine (Do yourself a favour, pick up a copy of Wallpaper* magazine, you wont regret it.) I did not ask to be involved in the emerging love story of Dylan and Lucifer. But there I was, trapped in my aisle seat, the only physical barrier between Lucifers groping hands and Dylan’s gropable body. I witnessed some horror on that flight. Lucifer worked hard to brush up against Dylan’s arms at every chance possible, which is not exactly subtle when there is someone (ME!) sitting in the way. By the end of the flight they had planned a first date and I had planned their accidental deaths.

Needless to say I arrived in Sydney as bitter and twisted as ever. After taking two trains and walking uphill for 20 minutes in searing heat to find my accommodation optimism was a meaningless word.

The rest of my stay in Sydney was tainted by my mood so the highlights don’t read like fond holiday memories. This brings me to a section I like to call,

“Things I learned while I was in Sydney”

People in Sydney really like tanning, to the point of achieving an unnatural shade of 70’s style mission brown.

The harbour is really beautiful. It doesn’t compensate for the rest of Sydney’s ugliness.

It’s hard to find a restaurant that isn’t designed to rob tourists of their life savings while serving average food. Although Thai-Foon is officially one of my favourite restaurant names ever.

Sydneysiders enjoy being rude and obnoxious to visitors from Melbourne.

In turn- I enjoy littering on the streets of Sydney.

The overwhelming majority of people on Oxford St and at Bondi beach are gorgeous. The normal people must be too scared to visit these places and the ugly people must be living in their basements.

Drinking won’t raise my self esteem but it will stop me thinking about self esteem.

New Years Eve fireworks are pretty but after 10 minutes of colourful explosions you can’t help but wonder if spending five and a half million dollars on fireworks is a bit frivolous.
So much for a positive and optimistic outlook on 2009.

Wait, wait… there was a positive aspect to this trip. I read the new issue of Wallpaper magazine, it was really good. Seriously I really enjoyed it. I think I’m going to subscribe. You can also experience the life altering wonders of Wallpaper magazine, simply follow the link below and start your subscription today!

http://www.magazinesubscriptionsipc.com/ipc/subs/subsorder_XWP.asp?promcode=I8JB

Completely unrelated image.

"Hotshot"

2008-11-01T20:00:00.004+11:00

Just over a month ago I took advantage of a momentary imbalance in the universe and managed to con someone into giving me a full time job.

It’s now been a month since I started this job and I’ve spent a lot of time trying to figure out how to paint an impressive picture of myself as a “young corporate hotshot” at the beginning of a successful career, but the words just wouldn’t come to me. It seems that describing myself as a young corporate hotshot is so far of base that even a well seasoned “creative writer” like me can’t pull off that kind of hyperbole. Not that I didn’t try.

So as I reach this remarkably unremarkable one month milestone what do I have to say for myself?

Honestly?

I smell like piss.

No strange metaphor, no attempt at humour.

I’m sitting in my office and at this very moment I smell like piss. Don’t know why, don’t know how but I smell like a urinal at the MCG after half time.

It’s disturbing enough walking around the office smelling like I’ve been rolling around in a urinal but what really makes me mad is that I didn’t actually pee myself this morning, if I had I’d at least know who to blame. Maybe I stepped in a funky piss puddle this morning, maybe I unconsciously rubbed up against a homeless person, who knows. So I’m going to assume that all my efforts to make a good impression in the workplace have gone down the toilet. Embarrassing pun not intended. In all honesty suppose the smell it isn’t actually noticeable, but it’s still devastating.

I should try not to worry. This is nowhere near as embarrassing as spending the last year having to tell to people that after years of university I was working in retail- or as I sometimes described it the “fashion industry.”

EDITORS NOTE: At this point I would like to apologise for the overuse of “quotation marks.” Obviously Michael Who? is one of those infuriating people who always uses “air quotes” and makes those annoying gestures with his fingers. Idiot.

After months of rejection, which is the theme of my year for so many reasons, I somehow landed a great job. I’m working at a consultancy firm that specialises in public and corporate affairs, but I just say it’s a PR company. That way I avoid awkward conversations where I ramble ad nauseam about my job and people give me that blank stare usually reserved for conversations with the crazy uncle who tells you the same story every time you see him.

After the first week of being plagued by panic attacks and insomnia I think I’ve settled in quite well. The people I work with are all down to earth and treat me really well, especially when you take into consideration the fact that I immediately lose 80% of my social skills when I walk into the office, and subsequently make the most awkward, unfunny, cringe worthy small talk. I attribute my diminished social capacity to the amount of effort it takes to keep up a façade that I’m actually qualified for the job. It’s hard work.

It’s just hit home time o’clock. I’m going to tidy up my office and wrap up this urine drenched story at home.

The biggest problem with public trasnport is the public.

So I’m home, and I’ve discovered the source of the unfortunate smell. I clearly stepped in something funky this morning. As I type this my shoes have been sent to the furnace and my feet are soaking in a bucket of ammonia.

I’m feeling a lot better about myself now that the stench has been dealt with, I almost feel good enough to rewrite this and try and fool everyone into thinking that I am indeed a young corporate hotshot, (sans quotation marks), but I think I should focus on trying to figure out how to casually slip the following monologue into conversation at work on Monday morning…

“Hi all how was your weekend? Good, great. Mine too. So I stepped in piss on Friday morning, sorry if you happened to smell it. Just to clarify- I STEPPED in it, I did NOT lose control of my bladder, no sir, not adult diapers for me. Glad we could clear that up, and I’m sure we can all agree that there is no need to speak of this ever again. Ever. Again. Thanks.”

Subtle enough?

Square Eyes

2008-06-27T18:27:00.006+10:00

Since completing an Arts degree last year my search for gainful employment draws painful parallels to the days I spent playing Nintendo in the early 90's.

Generally I would be relegated to sitting on the floor watching my brother and sister play; they would spend hours killing various pixilated monsters and telling me I could have a turn once their infinite lives ran out. Occasionally I managed to snatch the controls from my siblings after a series of violent attacks culminating in some vicious scratching and biting. So finally it’s my turn, I’d position myself dangerously close to the TV screen, wipe the blood from my hands (I’m not kidding about the violence), smile my crazy 7 year old smile, and start up a new game of Mario Brothers. Cue the delightfully irritating theme music.

Then... nothing.

It was no fun at all.

Instead of utilizing valuable waiting time learning how to play the game I’d been sitting there cursing at my brother and sister for not letting me play and telling myself that life wasn’t fair. This distraction left me so ill prepared that I couldn’t even defeat the lame pseudo-baddies that inhabited level 1. So very disappointing.

To make matters worse it seemed that whenever I began developing the slightest bit of gaming talent I’d hear,

“Enough of that for today, your eyes will go square!”

Mum’s voice booming from the laundry where she was scrubbing grass/blood stains out of our clothes.

Well years later, my eyes aren’t square, but I do have glasses, and I’ve been gazing blankly at my computer screen for the last 3 hours trying to find a job.

Despite that confusing and completely misguided metaphor the fact remains, I was no good at being a kid- I couldn't play Nintendo, and I’m no good at being an adult- I cant find a job.

The last six months I've spent working as a retail whore have dulled any potential I previously had to secure a job I wouldn't be ashamed of.

“Can I interest you in a pashmina scarf for the low low price of $10? The kids in the sweatshop have really outdone themselves this time.”

My soul has been dissected into little pieces and neatly packaged so that each time I smile and greet a customer who would rather be left alone, I can hand a piece over.

“How are you today? Can I help you with anything? I’m hear to make your retail experience as close to perfect as possible. Here- take a piece of my soul, this one is my dignity, I wont be needing it anymore.”

I’d like to think that after 3 years at university spent working harder than Christina Aguilera’s make up artist my job would involve something more than fighting with pre-menstrual middle aged women who want a further discount on a $10.00 pair of ill fitting pants.

“Give it up lady. Unless you plan to take a time machine back to 1999 and stop eating there is no way you are going to fit into those pants.”

On further contemplation my lack of success on the job front could be due to my less than desirable attitude. For example, my responses to application questions might not exactly be perfect…

Do you have a friendly and sociable nature?

No, but it would appear that I’m both friendly and sociable. You could say that I’ve spent the last 24 years mastering the art of doing all the superficial things that make someone appear friendly and sociable- which is basically the same as being friendly and sociable. So… yes… can I change my answer to yes?

I suppose if I really want to get a job I should increase the number of positions I’m actually applying for. What have I achieved today?

Jobs advertisements browsed – 231.5
Jobs applied for – 0
Misguided Nintendo themed metaphors created – 1

Enough of this for today, I really don’t want my eyes to go square.

My face already looks weird enough with my new giant sized chin.

...

To be con-chin-ued.

I know. It makes no sense. Just go with it.

I have nightmares that look just like this.

Just Because It's Monday

2008-04-07T16:22:00.002+10:00

Some have called this the best poem ever.

Discuss.

Knives Are Not Toys

2008-03-27T16:32:00.008+11:00

TO: Michael Who c/o 1991
SUBJECT: Wise words of wisdom and wiseness.
FROM: You.
DATE: 27th March 2008

Dear Michael,

This letter should be reaching you at the beginning of the 90’s and I’m sure that by now you have begun wondering if there is more to life than your treasured set of Derwent coloured pencils so I, your future self, have decided to send you some advice. My first instruction is simple: guard that tin of Derwents with your life, Felicity P is a thieving kleptomaniac bitch and she will attempt to steal them every time you turn your back.

First and foremost, don’t sit there and pretend you can’t understand what you are reading, I am acutely aware that you are much smarter than you let on. Sure you can’t spell, but that really isn’t important, here in the future we have a thing called spelchek so you wil neva need 2 worry about dat. I understand why you put a great deal of effort into trying to hide your superior intellect. I know it’s because don’t want to seem like a geek, you want to be popular and have heaps of friends like your brother and sister. I hate to break it to you but it’s not going to happen at primary school or even high school. Trust your initial judgment, the vast majority of the people you meet at school are idiots, don’t bust your balls trying to impress them.

Be yourself.

By now grown ups have probably started asking questions like, “And what do you want to be when you grow up?”. Although your answer to questions like this will evolve over the years one thing will remain the same- you will still be inventing fake aspirations to appease people. You do deserve a big pat on the back for coming up with the whole “I’m going to be a palaeontologist because I love prehistoric dinosaurs,” lie. People love that answer because it is far fetched, yet brainy and cute. Even at 7 years old you have begun to develop the manipulative skills that will serve you well in later life, one small tip. Ask to go to the movies for your 8th birthday. Otherwise you are going to end up at an exhibition of life size animatronic dinosaurs that will give you nightmares well into your teenage years and blow that ‘palaeontologist’ lie out of the water.

Don’t be talked into doing anything you don’t want to. Trust your instincts.

Ok big ears lets talk health. First and foremost, stick with your plan to get those huge ears pinned back. Mum and dad totally believe the schoolyard bullying stories you are telling so a few more months of ‘schoolyard trauma’ and those extra large flappers will be stapled to your skull and never ruin a photo again. While we’re on the subject of vanity related health concerns can you please get your jaw checked out before the age of 15? Trust me, if you don’t get this fixed before you hit 20 you’ll need operations painful enough to make a deranged masochist blush.

In more serious news can you please eat something that’s primary ingredient isn't sugar. The list of medical conditions/incidents/traumas and experiments that can be avoided by simply taking better care of your body is staggering.

Take care of yourself, stop waiting for someone else to do it for you.

Now to the big issue, it’s about boys and girls. No actually it’s just about boys.

.

On second thought, you’ll figure it out for yourself.

I’ll just leave you with a few quick tips before I sign off. Blonde hair does not suit you, knives are not toys, never get into bed with a bass player, and finally- NEVER GET INTO BED WITH A BASS PLAYER!

Lots of love,

Me.

?

If there is a heaven, it's filled with Derwent pencils.

Bag Full Of Bags

2008-03-09T17:41:00.003+11:00

Here is a photo of me standing in front of my wardrobe. Note the horrified expression on my face. Note the bottles of Vodka on the shelf. Read on.

Fact. Store mannequins are large inanimate objects that are often missing facial features and sometimes even missing the entire head.

Fact. Store Mannequins look far more attractive in the clothes they advertise than I ever will.

Possible Fact. Mannequins are probably more attractive than me when out of clothes as well but I’d rather not lead into a conversation about my genetils.

I often get told that my grip on reality isn’t too tight and that my self esteem is lower than hell’s basement but I generally just dismiss these comments with a random self deprecating joke and then proceed with my day. However even I can recognise that I’ve got problems when I get mannequin envy to the point where I’m evoking violent fantasies similar to those I experience when I meet evangelical Christians.

Out in the city on my last shopping trip I was engaging in some casual banter with a sales assistant about an ill fitting pair of jeans. It went something like this.

SALES ASSISTANT: Those jeans look totally hot on you.

ME: I’m not entirely convinced about the cut.

SALES ASSISTANT: Those jeans look totally hot on you.

ME: What are your thoughts on renewable energy sources as a means of reducing greenhouse gas emissions?

SALES ASSISTANT: Those jeans look totally...

At this point I was distracted from our riveting conversation by a mannequin that I spotted out the corner of my eye. The mannequin was faceless; its skin colour could best be described as asylum wall grey; it only managed to stand upright with the assistance of a metal pole crudely bolted to its lower back, and most notably, it was wearing the same jeans as me- and it looked hot.

So what’s the real problem with this situation? No, I don’t have sexual fantasies about mannequins, although I did have a strange obsession with that movie ‘A Mom For Christmas.’ The real problem is that I bought the overpriced jeans despite feeling completely inadequate compared to the mannequin. I bought them in what can only be described as a reactionary and spiteful gesture towards the mannequin, the shop assistant, the shop assistants sniggering friend who was not previously mentioned in this story, and anyone who happened to make eye contact with me that day.

This is just one of the many convoluted reasons I use to justify my spending. At the moment I’m basically living on credit. I don’t actually have any of that stuff you use to buy things, you know what I mean, um, you give it to the person in the shop and they give you goods and or services, oh what’s it called, money? Yeah that’s it, money! So here are some of the completely logical reasons I’ve used to justify swiping the plastic and giving my autograph to retailers all over town.

You can never have too much black in your wardrobe.
You really need some colour in your wardrobe.
That fits perfectly.
That doesn’t really fit well but it’s cool.
That does not fit you at all but it’s a good price.
That t-shirt is a piece of art don’t deny your creative side the freedom of expression.
That sales assistant has been really helpful and nice, you should buy something.
That sales assistant is a fucking bitch, you should definitely buy something.
A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.
And so on and so forth.

As I cleaned out my wardrobe recently I made a startling discovery. A large black bag, filled to the brim with bags of every shape, colour and size. I steadily filled the bag over the last year, depositing bags one by one after each stupid purchase. Standing alone in my bedroom face to face with the bag full of bags I was completely overwhelmed. The bag was a horrific reminder of my mounting credit card debt, and it also prompted a horrible realisation that I was far shallower than I’d ever care to admit, this really upset me.

I had to get it out of my house. Like a man possessed I swept up the bag, ran outside to the bin, threw it inside and before the lid had even slammed shut I was on the phone with a friend provoking an intellectual conversation to reassure myself that I was more than a retail whore.

The next morning as I attempted to finish cleaning out my wardrobe I stumbled made another shocking discovery; I found something so horrific that I can’t even write a lame joke about it in an attempt to soften my shame.

I found ANOTHER bag full of bags.

It's times like these I remember why I keep vodka in my wardrobe.

Cheers.

Marcs shirt $120.

Ksubi jeans $300.

A life of prostitution to pay off the credit card, priceless.

Rhetorical?

2008-01-21T17:50:00.000+11:00

Let me share one of my current concerns. I’m worried that at some point in the not to distant future medical researchers are finally going to realise that the appendix is actually a necessary organ, and that despite years of chopping them out of people with seemingly no harsh consequences the humble appendix is actually very important. Is it possible that the appendix holds the key to the meaning of life? Is it possible that I’ve just put forward the most ridiculous rhetorical question in history? The answer to at least one of these questions is yes.

Oh and another question- has anyone ever seriously considered the possibility that just because humans don’t shrivel up and die when the appendix is liberated from a tender abdomen it could actually be of some use?

Sure I’m being irrational, but I have good reason. I actually have two good reasons. Firstly, I had my appendix removed on New Years Day and since then my journey towards personal enlightenment has become considerably more difficult- thus conclusively proving that the appendix does in fact directly affect my mental state. Secondly the medication I’m taking at the moment lists “Lowered brain function” as a probable side effect. Other side effects of the pills include “Increased sensitivity to light,” plus “An intolerance of dairy products” and “An increased urge to hurl abuse at the teenage population who seem determined to burn out my already weary retinas with their current fluorescent clothing obsession.” While I’m on the topic, can someone over the age of seventeen please tell these little wannabe glow sticks that even in the days of parachute pants and hypercolour t-shirts nothing was anywhere near as bright as today’s “clothes,” and I use the term loosely.

Ok, I’m glad I got that out of my system, but unfortunately I’m still distressed by my lack of an appendix and what effect it will have on my life. As 2007 drew to a close I declared 2008 would be “my year!!!!!” much like I have done for the past three years. Only this time I made my declaration with much more determination and gusto- hence my use of numerous exclamation points to demonstrate the aforementioned gusto.

How good can a year be when it starts in the emergency room of Sunshine hospital with me listening to illegal fireworks exploding outside while I convinced the doctors to give me some of the top shelf drugs? And why do stupid fucking doctors feel the need to repeatedly point out that being in hospital is the worst way to spend New Years Eve? And how many rhetorical questions can I pose before it starts to get annoying? Just what is in store for Michael Who? In 2008?

I’ll endeavour to answer these and even more ridiculous questions in the not too distant future* here at the home of illogical rambling, Michael Who?.

(*Note the total ambiguity of this phrase.)

No.

BONUS FEATURE:

Today’s post has a bonus feature for anyone who can be bothered getting interactive.

It’s been months since I’ve shared any stories here and therefore I have a lot of random memories stumbling around in my head like Amy Winehouse after a quiet night of boozing and shooting up. I could probably shake out some ideas and arrange them into some kind of written thingy using my impressive literary skillz. So here’s where the interactivity comes in, I’ll give you a few options and you can leave a comment at the bottom of this post and tell me why you want to read about your chosen topic. If you give me a good reason I’ll get typing, simple as that.

Here are your choices;

“You Aren’t a Doctor, You’re a Vet.”
The story of my hatred for doctors, specialists, nurses, orthodontists, surgeons, etc etc...

“Guys You Shouldn’t Fall in Love With.”
This sounds like a list that I should be on, but it’s not, it’s about my stalker tendencies.

“Bag Full of Bags.”
What happens when you give an unemployed homo with self esteem issues a credit card limit of $20,000?

“3 Degrees of Education.”
I finally finished a university degree, now what? Seriously, suggestions are welcome.

Or any other ideas you have...

Interesting

2007-10-08T22:07:00.000+10:00

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.

"Sanity calms... but madness is more interesting."
- John Russell

Intense Sarcasm

2007-07-23T01:30:00.000+10:00

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?

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

2007-07-23T00:30:00.000+10:00

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.

I can't think of a witty remark to write about these photos.

Cassingle

2007-07-11T03:21:00.000+10:00

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?

The first person who suggests I try a glass of warm milk and counting sheep will recieve a Croatian axe kick to their head.

Bad Lighting

2007-07-05T23:56:00.000+10:00

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.

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.

Wide Eyed Horror

2007-06-11T17:08:00.000+10:00

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.

(Bad) Artists impression of possible injury.

Ladynails

2007-05-17T22:49:00.000+10:00

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.

Nice footwork.

Think About It For A Second

2007-05-13T12:14:00.000+10:00

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?

Fluro Green Slap Band

2007-05-07T21:41:00.000+10:00

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.

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.

*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.

The New Black

2007-04-27T14:13:00.000+10:00

I finally found the perfect way to describe what goes on inside my head after I pop a couple of top shelf pain pills and wash them down with a dirty martini.

Bjork - 'Earth Intruders'

Insanity is the new black. Love it.

Email Filter Test

2007-04-24T22:20:00.000+10:00

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.

Wow, I'm so popular, 213 new emails!

Clothes Made Out Of Curtains

2007-04-23T22:59:00.000+10:00

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.

Attention All Animals

2007-04-17T21:33:00.000+10:00

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.

Join me for a Bambi Burger?

A Warewolf Has Needs

2007-04-10T18:57:00.000+10:00

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.

Balance

2007-03-23T17:22:00.000+11:00

My last post was far too long and serious. So in the name of balance let me give you something short and ridiculous.

Here are some of my favourite from American news shows. I’m ashamed to admit that I laughed most at the last clip.

‘This little guy’ is not having fun you stupid woman.

I actually feel sorry for the cockroach, that guy was screaming like a two year old girl.

Yeah. You laughed.

Get Out!

2007-03-21T18:18:00.000+11:00

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.

At Least I'm Not Drinking

2007-03-12T23:04:00.000+11:00

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.

Hey Amy- can I get some royalties?

Kick Her In The Face

2007-03-08T18:20:00.000+11:00

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

Carmen: Unconscious Blue Victim

Deep Fried Desk Lamp

2007-02-25T23:07:00.001+11:00

"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 actually do something for someone besides himself? 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?

Inappropriate Terrorist Jokes

2007-01-26T02:11:00.000+11:00

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

Al Qaeda's newest recruits.

Gay Scene

2007-01-03T21:23:00.000+11:00

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.

Here is an example of a much more heterosexual shepherd, although I am concerned by the way he is looking at that lamb.

Free Gift

2007-01-03T21:01:00.000+11:00

I feel a little guilty for not buying anyone Christmas presents this year, but lets face it I'm cheap. If I did buy presents everyone would have ended up with chocolates purchased from the Reject Shop that expired back when the Power Rangers were still cool.

So with that in mind here is an audiovisual (Translation:- Free) gift for all my friends, dont say I never give you anything. Enjoy.

Proof

2006-12-20T00:07:00.000+11:00

Numerous people have recently accused me of having no Christmas cheer. In an effort to disprove this misguided assumption I decided to decorate my bedroom.

So here it is, proof that I am indeed filled with the Christmas spirit. As you can see I pulled out all the stops when decorating my room.

I had to cut off the head of a small stuffed toy to get the Santa hat for my artist's dummy.

Excludes Albinos

2006-12-19T21:55:00.000+11:00

Being the whitest person on the face of the earth* is not easy. Especially when you are not blessed with a ‘milky’ white complexion like the flawless Cate Blanchett. Rather you are bespeckled with odd clumps of freckles, bags under your eyes and blotchy red patches of skin. My mother is Italian and was blessed with olive skin, a blessing that she passed on to my two siblings. On the other hand I tend to look I’ve just been rescued from a child predator who kept me locked in a basement away from sunlight for the past 11 years.

This all changed recently. I accepted a last minute invite to the Derby Day races with a group of friends. Having retained at least part of the ‘Slip, Slop, Slap’ message taught to me by Sid the cartoon seagull in the late 80’s, I applied what I thought was sunscreen before heading outdoors. Clearly the campaign, and more specifically Sid himself, did not care about people with poor eyesight. Having to remove my glasses to ensure effective application of sunscreen to my entire face had disastrous results. What I actually applied liberally to my face was in fact moisturiser, not being the type of guy who uses moisturiser or sunscreen regularly it was an easy mistake to make. I blame Sid the seagull. Instead of ‘Slip, Slop, Slap’ the catchphrase should have said:

Slip on a shirt, Slop on some sunscreen- but if you wear glasses make sure to check what you are actually applying before you smear moisturiser all over your face, and slap on a hat.

In the hours that followed I basically fried my face in the sun, all those pigs that I have fried up over the years to provide my breakfast plate with tasty tasty bacon must have been looking up from piggy hell laughing hysterically- but I suppose my face frying in the sun is hardly as bad as frying them up and eating them… I digress.

My face was so sun-burned that I had to visit a doctor, who prescribed me medication to combat possible skin infections, recommended an ointment to reduce the redness once the skin had healed and actually had to place a dressing over my nose because it had shed so many layers of flesh. Having an important event coming up four days later increased my stress levels dramatically and my anger towards Sid the Seagull grew each morning as I looked in the mirror and was confronted with a face that looked like a Spanish omelette.

As time passed my face healed and the burns left me with a slightly darker complexion which seems to have lingered for the past month. Just the other day three different people commented on my ‘healthy’ complexion. Each time I replied, “Thanks, I have a great moisturiser.”

*Whitest person on earth claim excludes albinos.

Sid The Seagull: The ugly face of eyesight prejudice.

Low Brow Humour: 3

2006-12-11T20:36:00.000+11:00

Time for another exciting edition of 'Low Brow Humour'.

Laughing uncontrolably at the misfortune of others, we've all done it.

I remember one particular occasion when I was ice skating with some friends. One of the girls facnied herself as a dancer and therefore felt qualified to attempt a 'trick', clearly she felt skating round in circles like the rest of us was far too easy. Needless to say she had the most spectacular crash I have ever witnessed. I laughed like a crazy person at a carnival. I had tears streaming down my face- until I realised no one else was laughing and there was someone rushing onto the ice with a first aid kit.

I'm a bad person. Please join me.

"It aint funny Janice!"... Or is it?

The Heart Of The Matter

2006-12-08T11:33:00.001+11:00

It was my first time so I was a little nervous about it all, I suppose everyone is a bit scared of the unknown. She dimmed the lights and gently guided me through the whole process and before I knew it we were finished.

"How are you?", she said as she stood up and slowly walked away from the bed.

I replied, "Great. You did all the work and I just had to lay back and relax."

She smiled politely, threw me a box of tissues and told me to get cleaned up and put my clothes back on. As soon as I was dressed she put her arm around my shoulder and ushered me into the brightly lit room next door.

When my eyes finally adjusted to bright white light I scanned the room and realised she was gone, I was in an office and a grubby little man was asking me for payment. I handed over the cash and left quickly.

Slightly dazed and confused I strolled back to my car- feeling every beat of my heart more than ever before.

I suppose now is an appropriate time to point out that I had an Echocardiogram (ECG) this morning.

My test today involved a woman, who I can only assume was a doctor, squirting some gel on my chest and prodding my ribs with an ultrasound camera. Clearly this isn't as interesting as my initial description may have led you to believe.

Despite my melodramatic self diagnosis of a broken heart I have been assured everything is fine.

Lesson #3: Don't Ignore Chest Pains

2006-12-07T21:36:00.000+11:00

When I decided to stop blogging back in September I had no idea that life was about to get so interesting. Had I realised that the next few months would present me with endless opportunities to exploit myself for other peoples entertainment I would never have shut down the blog.

So where did I leave off?

Oh that's right, I left with the promise that when I eventually returned to the blog I would no longer be censoring myself. Clearly that was a lie, partly because I dont want to incriminate anyone who happens to stumble into my life, and partly because I'm lazy. One hundred percent honesty is too much work.

This post was supposed to be full of all the hilarious stories about the events of the past few months but after eating enough pasta to feed a family of four I'm feeling bloated and lazy. So instead I'll follow the tradition of the 'MichaelWho Blog' and summarise. Here are some of the lessons I have learned recently.

Lesson #1: No one likes a drunken skank.

After three solid months of frequenting 'A Bar Called Barry's' on Thursday nights for their Queer & Alternative night I felt myself turning into someone I didn't like. That sounds pretty deep but actually its quite simple, I was beginning to act like a skank. Which is just like being a skank but without all the sex. Anyway, I took a break from the Q&A scene and spent some time tormenting myself for being an idiot, soon thereafter I vowed not to be an idiot ever again.

Lesson #2: When the going gets tough, I become a towel throwing expert.

For those of you can't translate my odd mixed metaphor, let me explain. Since leaving high school I have taken up numerous academic pursuits, but every time the pressure became too much, like when I actually had to do something besides drink coffee and have pretentious conversations, I would quit and move on to something else. Through the latter half of this year I was faced with an unrelenting workload that beat me down like a polar bear bitch-slapping a penguin. After seriously contemplating faking a nervous breakdown to get out of yet another course I decided to burry myself in study and actually finish the year. When I finished I proceeded to pat myself on the back, it wasn't as rewarding as I had hoped.

Lesson #3: Don't Ignore Chest Pains

I'm not going to turn this into a lung related complain'a'thon. I'll break it down- my lung spontaneously collapsed, the doctor yelled at me for not taking it seriously and the nurses thought I had an eating disorder. I spent 5 days in hospital, the lung was fixed, I feel fine and people continue to subject me to random seemingly unrelated tests which are sending me bankrupt. Stupid lung.

I haven't spent this much time typing since completing my last assignment- I'm having unwelcome flashbacks so I'm going to stop here. Please enjoy this completely random photo of me with a helmet stuck on my head.

I Call this photo, "Random Photo Of Me With Helmet Stuck On My Head"

28,000 Words

2006-11-22T01:21:00.000+11:00

Due to underwhelming, somewhat non-existent, demand I'm bringing the blog back to life.

I just finished my final assignment for the year. After writing 28,000 words I'm not really in the mood for an epic post about everything that has been going on since my self imposed exile from the blog. I'm actually in the mood to watch reruns of Widget while drinking a cup of apple cider, go figure.

Anyway, I'll be back after I finish recovering from nervous breakdown number 38.

Cultural icon or obscure purple cartoon character?

Thursday

2006-09-17T20:47:00.000+10:00

I think that the time has come to give the blog a rest and start a pen on paper journal again.

I have really enjoyed writing about the insignificant tales of my daily existence and posting all of it here. There is something oddly therapeutic about putting my thoughts out there to be read by anyone who cares to look. Some people might say that my blog is an egotistical exercise- and to some degree I have to agree. Now I just want to have a record of my life that can be 100% honest.

I'll return to the blog at some stage, and when that time comes I won't be censoring myself or leaving out any details. Then shit will really get entertaining.

As I sign off I will leave you with the beginning of my new journal.

Hey Journal,

Long time no speak mother fucker!

Where do I begin? Thursday- that's a good place to start...

GAME OVER

Something Stinks

2006-09-11T22:19:00.000+10:00

Today I found myself in a place I like to call "The Last Minute Twilight Zone".

It's a strange but familiar place, I find myself here on the eve of every major deadline in my life. Today is the day before yet another giant assessment task is due. I awoke this morning with a headache that could have tranquilized an elephant and I realised I was headed for another journey into the twilight zone, filled with caffeine hallucinations and piles of notes that seem to be written in a language that only Mel Gibson could understand.

Every day that I stumble into school to hand in a piece of assessment that is the result of frantic last minute keyboard bashing I promise myself that next time I wont let this happen, next time I'll start working on the project earlier, next time I'll remember how horrible I felt, next time I won't waste time downloading the Paris Hilton sex tape instead of doing my work. But just like my New Years resolution to volunteer at a shelter for blind cats, it just never seems to happen.

Last time I found myself on a 20 hour assignment marathon in the last minute twilight zone I managed to craft quite a convincing string of bulls***. With the assistance of numerous 'Energy Drinks' and approximately 19 freddo frogs I put together a 33 page document that I'm proud to admit wasn't bad- in fact I got my highest mark all year for that last minute piece of work. This time I don't think there will be a happy ending.

Today I got so desperate to generate some content that I resorted to 'reworking' pieces of old assignments into this one. While digging through my old work I discovered a interesting trend. A lot of my assignments this year have been plans and proposals of some type, and a lot of times I've had to come up with fictitious staff names to put in these documents, if you look at the names as they appear in chronological order you get a concise list of all the people I've wanted to 'get to know better' over the last 8 months- interesting list.

I also discovered that jamming pieces of old work together and tacking on some new bulls*** is probably not the smartest idea, but I sit here now looking at a 24 pages of work neatly stacked on the desk in front of me. Although the quality is questionable to say the least. My mother just entered the room to say goodnight and as she left she turned back screwed up her face and blurted out-

'Something stinks in here!'

Good observation Mum, what you can smell is the steaming pile of s*** that I'm handing in tomorrow. It's either that or the pungent stench of a man who has just spent a day in the personal hygiene free world of the last minute twilight zone.

Help me Mel!

Crikey!

2006-09-06T21:38:00.000+10:00

"Australians are embarrassed by me because there is a little bit of me in everyone." - Steve Irwin

Rest in peace you crazy bastard.

Sex On A Plate

2006-09-03T16:05:00.000+10:00

Today I had the best pancakes of my life.

Buckwheat pancakes with sugar coated strawberries, fresh cream, and drizzled with honey- sex on a plate. What made them even better was the cute waiter that served them to me, actually the cute waiter/restaurant owner that served them to me.

I have recently become obsessed with a new restaurant in my area called 'Dimples'. It's a rare to find a well designed restaurant with reasonably priced interesting food and a cute waiter/owner.

My obsession began by chance, while falling asleep on the early morning tram ride to school. I was rudely elbowed by a witch like woman attempting to apply her eighth layer of makeup, as I repressed the urge to punch her in the face I looked past her out the window and noticed a funky new addition to the otherwise familiar streetscape.

'Dimples: A Suburban Eatery'

After one visit I was hooked, and let me state for the record that cute waiter/owner was not there on this first trip. However he was there for five subsequent visits and on all occasions he has been just responsive enough to my flirting to guarantee my repeat business.

This morning I was there for a Father’s Day brunch and he managed to subtly charm me, while being careful not to draw any unwanted, (Oh My God Michael is flirting with a male waiter) attention from my oblivious family, that’s impressive.

I’m not stupid, I’m sure that the charming smile he flashes is simply a well refined skill. I don’t actually believe that there is any chance of living happily ever after and adopting Cambodian children together. Nonetheless, I’ll no doubt be back there soon for another serve of Dimples’ fantastic gnocchi with meatballs and ricotta, served with a side of the cutest waiter /owner on earth.

Mmm.

Rinse and Repeat

2006-09-02T14:38:00.000+10:00

It's been 3 long months of looking like a redneck hillbilly and sounding like a mentally challenged child with a lisp the gap between my teeth has finally closed.

Braces are incredible. Don't get me wrong I still hate everything that is going on in my mouth but at least now I can see some kind of positive progress.

The downside to all this progress is that now I have become obsessed with my teeth, more specifically brushing my teeth. At first I was paranoid about having food stuck in my metal so I would brush after every meal. It then developed to brushing after every meal and then again half an hour later. Now I'm at the point where I stop for a quick brush of the teeth every time I walk past the bathroom.

The actual brushing routine has also become way more involved. I start with a rinse , then I brush with fluoride toothpaste, then I rinse with Listerine, then I brush with whitening toothpaste, then I with water again.

I know I'm a little bit manic. There is nothing wrong with wanting to maintain good dental hygiene.

I'm off to buy some more toothpaste but before I go let me share something with you.

I can post it now because the trauma associated with seeing this photo has disappeared along with the gap.

No trick photography- no photoshop- just gap.

Don't Be Jealous

2006-09-02T13:50:00.000+10:00

Last Friday after a day which of feeling sorry for myself, avoiding homework, and eating every sugar based foodstuff in my house, I decided to start my weekend in spectacular fashion. I attended a trivia night- with my parents.

Don’t be jealous, I know that it must crush you to know that at the age of 22 I have such a thriving social life. I’m a lucky man.

The local community centre was decked out in the best decorations $2.50 can buy and the crowd of middle aged trivia enthusiasts was buzzing with anticipation- on second thought the buzzing could have been coming from the 1970’s PA system.

I was thrilled to learn that my team would not only include my parents but also an esteemed member of the local council who, I am honoured to say, sat next to me. Due to her constant twitching, inability to maintain eye contact, and the fact that she was having a conversation with herself for most of the night I drew the conclusion that she had probably lived under a staircase for the first 20 years of her life, but she sure came in handy for those questions about Stockholm syndrome.

A professional trivia company was hired to run the event; they specialized in adding a multimedia component to the night. During the ‘Guess That Song’ portion of the evening the host, dressed in his best parachute pants, pressed play on the portable boom box and held his microphone to the speaker- very high tech.

I never got bored because there was always someone new and interesting to chat to. It was refreshing to meet such an honest group of people, not afraid to ask me if I had any ‘special friends’, and more than happy point out how strange it is to see someone my age with braces.

Unfortunately my esteemed team didn’t with the trivia night, but that’s ok. It’s far more important to have a good time. My parents sure enjoyed themselves; I was designated driver for the evening so they were free to have few drinks. It was good to see them relax, it’s not every night you get to hear the story of your accidental conception- they are such a funny pair.

It’s hard to put into words just how much fun I had that night. The memories will stay with me... FOREVER!!!

I just broke the ‘!’ button on my keyboard.

Choose Your Own Adventure: Part 2

2006-08-25T17:31:00.000+10:00

A blank piece of paper is said to be the worst enemy of a writer. I see a blank piece of paper and I have the sudden urge to make an origami crane, I could never make those little paper birds properly. I digress, my worst enemy at the moment is the "Create New Post" button on my blogger control panel. Some days it glares up at me as if to say,

"Click Me, come on, JUST CLICK ME! You don't actually have anything funny or informative to say but it's not like you have something better to do with your time."

Today I gave into to the taunts from the little orange button- I thought I would make a conscious effort to post something entertaining to counter balance the tone of my previous post, as you may have guessed I'm not in the best mood today. So here you go, back due to no demand at all is, "Choose Your Own Adventure: Part 2"

Today you have the choice between two fantastic music videos from another of my all time favorite artists, Lauryn Hill.

First up is her song 'Everything Is Everything', as well as being a great pick me up song the video clip is very clever.

The alternative choice is a song called "Ex-Factor". Fantastic song about the complexities of relationships. This is a song that I can listen to on repeat for hours.

Put Down The Chicken Wing

2006-08-25T16:27:00.000+10:00

Let me begin by stating the obvious- I'm a thin guy.

I need to take a moment to address the ugly-slut-salesgirl who recently told me,

"...if a size 28 pair of jeans are too big you must be anorexic..."

I hope you choke on a chicken bone, I hope the bone cuts into your throat, I hope the ambulance called for you breaks down, and I hope you die a slow painful death on your kitchen floor surrounded by the KFC Family Feast you were eating all by yourself.

Its not ok for me to tell an overweight person to "Put down the chicken wing", and I would never dream of doing that. So why do people feel that's its ok to tell me that I look sick and should be eating more. I eat plenty you nosy c***s.

The only person who can tell me to eat more is my Nonna because she carries a flick knife and I really don't want to mess with her.

I just needed to get that out of my system.

"I'll take the large bucket of cholesterol and a small diet coke."

Numbers Don't Lie, But I Do

2006-08-20T18:24:00.000+10:00

After much deliberation I decided to install a web counter on my blog today.

I had to fight back the urge to set the initial reading on the counter at 678. Why 678? Well I thought it was a number that would make it appear as if I was popular- but still be somewhat realistic. Instead I settled on 21 as a starting point, it's my favorite number and a much more conservative lie.

While I'm on the topic of lies let me address one other issue. A few reader may have had the opportunity to read a post that I wrote after returning home traumatized on Friday night. This post has since been removed. It involved me being stalked by an 'interesting' character on Friday night which resulted in me weaving a tangled web of lies to avoid having to be blunt and honest with the 'interesting' young man who was very eager to 'have coffee' with me.

I just wanted to point out that the post was not removed to spare myself any complications relating to the web of lies I told. I removed it because I got a sudden case of the guilts, I had posted the real name and image of someone without their permission- and although this 'interesting' character would probably never have seen the blog it just didn't seem right.

For those of you who missed the post don't feel left out- many stories are sure to emerge as a result of my 'truth interpretation' that night. Stay tuned.

This is not a great photo of me. Bad lighting.

Strange Obsession With Vests

2006-08-18T17:03:00.000+10:00

I often find myself thinking, at what point did Disney stop making good cartoons?

There was a golden era during my childhood- The Little Mermaid, Aladdin, Beauty & The Beast, The Lion King. So many good memories. I actually think seeing Aladdin shirtless made me realize I was gay, it also started my strange obsession with vests- but that's a whole other story. These four movies in particular still stand up today as classics, sure they are crude and watered down versions of classic stories, but they are classics none the less.

In recent years there has been the obvious success of the Disney/Pixar films and I'll admit that I have enjoyed some of these movies, but lets get one thing straight they are not Disney movies. Disney made a very clever decision and paid a s***load of money to put their name on some cutting edge kids movies that weren't steaming piles of c***.

It is possible that my ill feelings towards the Disney corporation soured during the time when it was being run by arrogant conservative moron Michael Eisner, but putting that aside has anyone seen a good Disney cartoon in the last 5 years? Did anyone actually watch 'The Emperor's New Grove' or 'Treasure Planet'?

I rest my case.

The most entertaining Disney related cartoon I've seen in recent times is posted below.

And finally, there is no way I could finish this post without a picture of my perfect man.

It is perfectly normal to be in love with a cartoon character.

Don't Drink The Water

2006-08-18T15:25:00.000+10:00

Can someone lend me some self-esteem? I seem to have run out.

On three separate occasions today I have been beaten down/insulted. If it happens one more time there may be an unfortunate incident involving me poisoning Melbourne's water supply.

#1 The optometrist:

If I were to show you a picture of me standing with my older brother and sister it would be blindingly obvious that I got the left over DNA from my family. I'm basically the defective child, case in point- my eye sight. To quote my optometrist, I have the eyesight of a 60 year old woman, which considering I'm a 22 year old man- is quite distressing. This fact is not new to me, so when I went to get my glasses updated today I was expecting the usual eyesight related insults. However I didn't expect to hear this,

"You should probably get some thick rimmed glasses to help cover those dark bags under your eyes."

#2 The Workmate:

Later in the day I thought I'd stop past my old workplace to see what was going on. I bumped into to Larraine, the slightly deranged woman who works on Fridays. As I approached the counter I was greeted with this,

"Hi Michael, wow you look thin. I mean you were always skinny but you look really sickly. How are you feeling?"

#3 The Hairdresser:

In other genetic defect related news I was also blessed with an unattractive receding hairline as well as having many grey hairs at the age of 22. It's something I am aware of, and I'm used to hairdressers commenting on it, I'm accustomed to their complete and utter lack of tact. Today the lovely young lady cutting my hair went one step further,

"Ooo, look at all your grey hairs, I've never seen this many on someone so young before! Candice- come over here and look at how many grey hairs this guy has!"

Why do people feel the need to put others down to make themselves feel better?

...

The optometrist can barely walk upright, she has these little stumpy legs that struggle to support her bodyweight so she waddles around like a drunken penguin bumping into everything in her path.

Nice work Larraine, lets state the obvious, I'm thin- and your a f***ing loser. At 50 years of age I hope my life involves more that serving popcorn to senior citizens. No one likes you.

As for the hairdresser how is she supposed to know right from wrong? She obviously spent all her time at school giving $2 blowjobs behind the canteen until dropping out at the age of 16 to pursue a lucrative hairdressing career in the western suburbs.

...

That didn't make me feel any better.

Thirsty?

UPDATE!

After this fantiastic trio of insults I honestly thought I had reached my quota for the day. How wrong I was.

Enter Nonna.

Within 30 seconds of my dear old Nonna arriving at my house she had managed to reiterate all three insults in her own special brand of aggressive broken English.

"Ah Michello, why you look so tired and sick, you no eat enough skinny! Ahh- what is this ugly hair?"

This warm greeting was accompanied by a sharp blow to the back of my head.

I love you too Nonna.

(Brackets)

2006-08-15T20:36:00.000+10:00

Approximately 5 - 10 times a day I find myself on the phone to my friend Mona, we tend to chat about everything, ranging from the ignorance of the Howard government to the latest Happy Meal Toy available at McDonalds.

One evening last week while engrossed in a conversation about the importance of sushi in modern Australasian cuisine my focus temporarily shifted away from our discussion and I realised that I was sitting in my wardrobe, with the doors closed. In other words I was literally in the closet.

When I interrupted the sushi debate to tell Mona that throughout our phone conversation I had unconsciously wandered into the 'closet' sat down and pulled the door closed she reminded me that I actually did this all the time. As I sat there and thought about it I realised that she was right. I often hang up the phone and crawl out of my closet without giving it a moments thought.

This habit started back when I was living at my previous residence. For 2 years I enjoyed the luxury of a walk in closet. It had enough room for all my clothes and shoes, a chest of drawers, a lamp and a bean bag- so it was actually a mini dressing room. I began taking phone calls in the closet because it was so cozy and it was more insulated and private- this was during the time when I was too scared to say the word gay in my house for fear of my family hearing me. So from that point on I have been spending a lot of time in the closet, despite the fact that it is much more cramped in my new house.

So that brings me to an interesting question. Am I simply in the closet (sitting next to my shoes,) because I'm still in the closet (not out to my family)? Or am I in the closet (not out) because I like being in the closet (with the shoes)?

Any thoughts or comments- besides telling me I used too many brackets- are welcome.

For authenticity purposes I wrote this while sitting in the closet with my laptop. I think I may have discovered the reason for the constant dull pain in my left hip... but on the bright side I found a set of cufflinks that have been missing for six months.

Oprah's closet. Money can buy happiness.

Everyone Dies

2006-08-14T21:11:00.000+10:00

A am a changed man. I managed to keep away from the blog during my critical assignment period.

I resisted the urge to write about numerous things, like the fact that my mobile phone is a piece of s*** (never buy a phone from e-bay), and the joys of cutting my toenails (I think I actually wore out a set of nail clippers.) Don't be fooled, I still did a lot of procrastinating- it just didn't involve any blogging.

Those of you who know me well will be aware of my love for 'stuff', and more specifically my love for 'free stuff'. This weekend I was lucky enough to be given free tickets to the theatre, which provided me the perfect opportunity to abandon my studies for a couple of hours and still feel like I was being intellectual, how is this possible you ask? I saw me some Shakespeare on the Saturday! I went to see the Bell Shakespeare Company's production of 'The Tempest' and I loved it, but more importantly I actually understood it without having to read the idiots guide.

I've always liked Shakespeare, the stories are so juicy. Take for example Macbeth, its basically The Bold & The Beautiful without the daytime censorship. Hamlet is even better, everyone dies! Death is so much better when its happens repeatedly and in quick succession.

After seeing 'The Tempest' I was telling a friend (loose interpretation of the word) about my love for the juicy/slutty/violent nature of Shakespeare and suddenly he began to berate me for my, and I quote;

"...Over simplified uneducated interpretation of classic literature..."

He went on that I,

"...Only appreciate the lowest common denominator in humour."

Then added that,

"Being crass and childish wouldn't get me through life."

and finished with,

"Ner ner ne ner ner," ...or something like that.

I didn't reply. I just smiled and nodded, poor guy is obviously suffering the crippling after effects of having and incestuous relationship with his father.

So in the spirit of that conversation I present to you the following clip entitled,

"Grandma Teaches Us How To Give Head."

Enjoy.

'Great quantities of saliva'. That was educational.

3.2 Lucky Readers

2006-08-08T20:02:00.000+10:00

So I haven't Blogged in a while.

It's not like my life has stopped providing me with endless moronic stories and random thoughts to share with you, it's just that living in the real world temporarily distracted me from the blog.

It will never happen again. Ok that's a lie it definitely will happen again at some stage.

I suppose that in this instance I'm using the "busy life" excuse just like when I bump into friends that I have neglected for months. Sure life is busy, it's always busy, but the bigger issue is my (sometimes socially crippling) laziness.

Luckily for the 3.2 people who now read this blog my laziness has been overtaken by a much more powerful force- procrastination. I have an assignment due in a couple of days so stay tuned for lots of posts written in the time I should be spending putting together a major piece of assessment.

Peace Out.

Looking at this picture makes me want to sit down and do some serious thinking about where my life is headed. It also makes me want to sit down and eat a large bowl of potato salad- go figure?

Violent Hand Gestures

2006-07-28T22:43:00.000+10:00

I have a propensity to constantly describe myself as crazy, mentally unbalanced, emotionally unstable etc- all of which I believe are accurate descriptions depending what time of day you talk to me. However, from this moment forth I shall refer to craziness as "Beyonce and Celine" moments.

REASON #1: Beyonce Video Clip

I actually love this clip, its like a promotional video for lunatics. Who would have thought that a record company would agree to such a fantastically erratic video clip for a major international pop star like Beyonce. When I heard her new single 'Deja Vu' I was expecting the typical booty busting dance clip, I severely underestimated Ms.B. This clip has it all- some crazy Shakira'esque re-growth, running aimlessly through a field, the ugliest couture clothing I have ever seen, dance moves that replicate an epileptic fit, and general Beyonce lunacy. Perfect.

REASON #2: Celine Dion Interview.

Celine Dion is f***ing bonkers. I totally agree with the point she is trying to make in this interview- and I just love her even more for the melodramatic and incoherent delivery. Watch out for the violent hand gestures. Crazy b****.

In summary, insanity is the new black.

S.eeking M.ore S.anity

2006-07-24T22:13:00.000+10:00

As you may or may not have noticed I have added a fancy image to the top of my blog. I hope you appreciate the effort I went to- I'll have you know that I actually scanned in a screwed up piece of paper to create that graphic.

The more observant readers will also note that the image has changed slightly as of today. In my first attempt to upload the new heading I subconsciously left out the 'mental illness' section of the tag line, this was purely a coincidence however one reader pointed out my omission- and demanded that it be added immediately. I was offended at first, but then I realised that my dear friend had a good point, let me explain.

So fragile are my emotions that when I accidentally deleted my all the stored SMS messages from my mobile phone yesterday I actually shed a tear. Not the best indication of a strong grip on ones sanity- I mean the cure for cancer wasn't embedded in a bunch of 4 line text messages, there is no cultural significance in the way I choose substitute the @ symbol for the word 'at', and there were no moments of literary brilliance contained within drunken messages sent at 3am. So what was the real loss? Sadly, now there is no concrete evidence that I actually have friends, but I'll get over that. As a result of this self analysis the 'mental illness' tag has returned to the top of the blog and I have decided to work on my issues- by work on my issues I mean stop acting like a frekkin' lunatic.

Luckily I didn't delete the video of the funny little hampster that screams profanity, that would have been a real tragedy.

I Googled 'Crazy Guy' - to find this picture. Sometimes they get it so right its scary... very scary.

Is Jesus A Small Minded Fool?

2006-07-23T14:36:00.000+10:00

What do I have in common with Batman, Superman and Spiderman? I don’t have the desire to wear tights in public and unfortunately I don't have any of those nifty superhuman abilities, otherwise I’d be doing something more exciting than sitting here blogging. However I do have a secret identity, well sort of... it’s actually just a secret... so I suppose the superhero connection is a bit of a stretch.

Over the past few years I have gone through the process of ‘coming out’ to all of my friends I have not yet had that awkward conversation with my family. I’ve played the conversation out in my head numerous times and it just never seems to end well, in fact it often ends with police knocking at the door. For me its just one of those annoying things I keep putting off, like untangling the wires behind your television- which reminds me I have an electrical hazard behind my TV at the moment, I must get round to fixing that.

Though I do feel guilty about keeping this a secret I try to maintain some kind of honesty policy; in the last 6 years I have never lied to anyone who has asked me if I was gay, I don’t make up girlfriends, I don’t intentionally do anything to lead people to believe I’m straight- I just don’t feel the need to. Nor do I feel the need to announce my gayness,

“Hi. I’m gay. Did I mention I was gay? My name is Michael. I’m a gay gay man.”

The truth is I’m just too lazy to have the ‘gay’ discussion with people, especially with my family. If all goes well and I don’t get kicked out of home or sent to a weird church camp to ‘un-gay’ me I predict many painful hours of discussion, my family tends to get into these marathon debates that have no real end. It would be a lot easier if I could just get it all over and done with a couple of pointed sentences,

“I’m gay. You didn’t do anything wrong when I was a child. It’s not unnatural. Jesus can suck my c*** if he doesn’t agree.”

(Attention Religious People: Don’t get your knickers in a twist… notice how I said ‘If he doesn’t agree’, so it’s not actually offensive unless Jesus is a small minded fool who doesn’t agree with me.)

However I just can’t see this happening. So until I have built up the stamina required to endure the marathon conversation with my family I continue to live somewhat of a double life.

My two worlds almost collided on Thursday night. As far as my family knew I was out having dinner with some friends in the city, I was actually having ‘pre-drinks’ at a friends house before heading out to a gay club. Unbeknownst to me as I strolled down Sydney road alone my sister was enjoying herself at a bar on the very same street. Later in the evening I had an awkward conversation with her that went something like this.

SISTER: Hey Michael where are you?

ME: Out with friends. Where are you? (Notice how I haven’t yet lied.)

SISTER: I’m just leaving The Spot on Sydney road. Where exactly are you? (The interrogation begins.)

ME: In the city. (So now I’m stretching the truth a little.)

SISTER: Are you sure? (Typical older sister.)

ME: Yeah. (Lie. At this point I’m slightly intoxicated and failing to make the obvious connection that she saw me on Sydney Road.)

SISTER: Ok then. Have fun in the city. (The lie has been observed and saved in her memory bank for future interrogation.)

When my brain finally put the pieces together about an hour later I began to get an uneasy feeling in my stomach. I know that I wasn’t spotted having sex in an alleyway, but I know my sister well- she has caught me on a lie, she will want to get the real story.
Looks like I may be having ‘the conversation’ sooner than expected. But for now I have more important things to worry about- I’m off to untangle the cables behind my television. If you don’t see another post for a few days I’ve either been electrocuted to death- or sent to ‘Father Hetero’s Camp for the Sexually Unclean.’

Jesus/Fool ?

Low Brow Humour: 2

2006-07-21T15:42:00.000+10:00

I have listened to the many (2) requests and finally, it's time for the second installment of 'Low Brow Humour'.

As im sure you will all agree laughing at other people is a great way to put yourself in a better mood. So today I am providing you with three great videos to help put a smile on your dial without having to encounter the scornful looks from family and friends as you laugh at their misfortune/stupidity.

The basic premise for the clips is as follows, unspecting victims are tricked into playing a computer game that requires maximum concentration on the screen, however the 'game' has nothing to do with the 'game'... that makes no sense, just watch the videos.

Going Down?

Slow Mo.

This one is definately worth the wait... 00:30

Mariah Carey On Crack

2006-07-21T14:38:00.000+10:00

Something that you may not know about my blog is that I actually write a lot more than you actually see posted here. I have at least ten complete posts that have never sent the light of day, for various reasons. The main reason for withholding these phantom posts- besides the fact that they are boring and unfunny- is the constant changes in my mood.

I have more moodswings than Mariah Carey on crack. The changes my seem subtle to the untrained eye but I have learned that my outlook can change dramatically from one minute to the next. Sounds complicated and a bit disconcerting I know, but actually it just makes my days more interesting.

So how does this affect the blogging process you might be wondering... (if at this point you are not 'wondering' in the least you might want to return to doing something productive because I'm about to start rambling.) Well what happens is, I spend twenty minutes writing a post about something that has annoyed me or made me laugh and when I go back to read through it I no longer feel that way. This has happened numerous times when I've written something and not posted it straight away. For example, I got my braces fitted two days ago, below is an excerpt of the post I wrote soon after.

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned- not true. Hell, and Earth for that matter, has bigger problems- 22 year olds who have just had braces fitted.

Today was the big day, the braces went on. Knowing that I still have the metal jaw stretching device in my mouth, it has been there since the operation in May, just imagine how metallic my mouth is at the moment. All jokes aside I'm confident that I would actually set off metal detectors, which is the only fun thing I can associate with the current f***ed up state of my mouth.

etc... (Its started to get a bit graphic and violent at this point.)

I was too tired to finish the blog that night so I saved it, when I returned to post it the next day I just didn't feel so angry about the whole situation anymore. Actually I felt a bit embarrassed for complaining about braces, I mean children have braces without being so melodramatic. I distinctly recall having a conversation with a 12 year old girl in the orthodontists office (don't judge me, I'm just a friendly person,) she was about to have braces put on and much to the disgust of her mother I was telling the girl how much I hated the idea of having braces. She responded simply,

'Get over it. They don't stay on forever.'

She has a good point, and her shrill little voice echoed in my head as I decided to refrain from posting yet another bitter story.

So there you go, because of my moodswings you miss out on some great rants and even some interesting declarations of love (sorry Mona), because I just cant seem to maintain any kind of emotional stability.

It's hard work being this unstable. Time to go, one of the voices in my head wants a green tea and a new pair of pants.

Platinum Sunday

2006-07-19T00:39:00.000+10:00

My Sunday morning typically begins with me looking for ways to delay getting out of bed for as long as possible. I will read anything I can get my hands on- including the payment instructions on my credit card bill. I'll call and SMS everyone I know, including people I actually dislike. I sometimes count the freckles on each forearm in an attempt to discover which is the more speckled arm.

This past Sunday morning I turned to my trusty friend, television, in the hope that some quality music videos would provide the perfect excuse to spend another hour wrapped up in my doona like a kebab in tinfoil- ok bad analogy. Unfortunately, due to a long night of partying I had slept through all the music video shows. It appeared I would have no choice but to drag my lazy a** out of bed, change out of my cowboy pajamas into some respectable 'real world' clothes and face another day- but then suddenly my luck changed.

Every once in a while the television God's smile on you, offering up programming perfection. At midday today I had my miracle, a fantastically terrible movie called 'Double Platinum.' Let me set the scene- the movie was made in 1999 and stars Diana Ross and Brandy, this alone is more than enough to satisfy me- but let me give you the rundown on the mostly irrelevant storyline. Olivia (Diana Ross) leaves her unsupportive husband and newborn baby girl to pursue a her dream of being a singer. Years later a mega-successful Olivia returns to find her daughter Kayla (Brandy) and to reveal herself as the mother she never knew. Surprise, surprise-Kayla (Brandy) is an aspiring singer- you do the math, that's right lots of singing, or should I say terrible lip-synching.

The film was a 'Television Movie Event' that was screened around the time of Brandy's rise to fame. Her song 'Have You Ever' is featured at least 7 times throughout the film, I'm not exaggerating- just when you think you have seen it for the last time the film clip pops up in the background or the song plays on a nearby radio. The interesting 'behind the scenes' fact is that the sappiest song in the history of recorded music, a duet called 'Love Is All That Matters', was supposed to be the big single from the film, this never happened. At the film's climactic conclusion there is an emotional mother daughter performance of the song, but all I could think was, get off stage Diana I want to hear Brandy sing 'Have You Ever' for the 22nd time!

Poor Ms.Ross, she really comes off second best in this one. Although Brandy's acting is as wooden as...well...wood, you just cant help but love her! Hell, she's Brandy-and Moesha- and that dumb chick from 'I Still Know What You Did Last Summer.' Diana just cant compete with that, maybe I'm being too critical of her, after all the giant hair was very entertaining, it deserved a credit all of its own- as do Queen Latifa's breasts in the movie 'Chicago'.

'Double Platinum' took me on an emotional rollercoaster- joy, sadness, laughter, tears and laughter with tears. Some may criticise the terrible acting, the lower than low production values and the countless holes in what was supposed to be a plot- I on the other hand give it three thumbs up for sheer C-Grade brilliance.

The 90's never looked so 80's.

Puppet Love

2006-07-16T15:00:00.000+10:00

There is something about watching a 'banned' film that makes it more special. This amusing short played at the 2002 Sundance Film Festival before being issued with a cease and desist from 'Sesame Workshop'.

Enjoy, 'Ernest & Bertram'.

One is the loneliest number.

Legal Action

2006-07-15T18:58:00.000+10:00

I will be taking legal action against the producers of the movie 'Saw 3'. An unauthorised photo of me has somehow made its way to those responsible for creating this new promotional poster for the film.

In other tooth related news I have managed to trick my orthodontist into speeding up the process of fixing my teeth/jaws. Through some clever appointment cancellations and re-bookings I cut down the recommended 'healing' time by almost two weeks. Then last week I managed to come out of a 'check up' and squeeze myself in for my first 'braces preparation' appointment later that day, one more week cut out. My overall goal is to be on the operating table for operation number two at least a month before scheduled. So far I am on target.

Michael - 1

Othodontist - 0

Tequila?

2006-07-15T18:37:00.000+10:00

So imagine you have a blog, you enjoy writing mildly amusing tales about the mildly amusing events of your day to day life, and then there comes a time when the events of your life seemingly urge you to tell a tale that involves real life, not quirky stupidity. When I say ‘real life’ what I’m alluding to is people problems, more specifically two people, one is you, one is a special friend, and by special I don’t mean handicapped.

What do you do when rejection inevitably rears its ugly head? In this hypothetical situation let’s say that not only does it rear its head, it leans in and takes a bite out of your ear- Mike Tyson style.

Do you blog about it and follow your first, slightly deranged, impulse, crack open a bottle of your 2nd favorite wine, crank up some Boys II Men tunes and create a post titled, ‘I Choose To Be Single, I Like It That Way, I Love Myself And I Don’t Need No Man To Complete Me: Part 1.’ Or do you do the mature thing, keep the details to yourself and post a video of a cat beating up a small child?

If you have managed to read between the blatantly obvious lines you will have realized that I presently find myself in a similar (read: the exact) situation to the one described above. I have spent a significant amount of time pondering my blog options, I’m not sure if there is any standard ‘reality:humor’ ratio for blogging- so I will attempt to find my own middle ground.

I have a poorly researched theory that in every relationship there is one person who is more emotionally invested; this is the person who feels more for their partner than the partner does for them- otherwise known as the person who ends up drinking a lot of tequila when the relationship ends. I think this is true for relationships in all the various stages, from the first date right through to marriage. I wish this wasn’t true, but I am yet to see substantial evidence to the contrary.

Luckily, I enjoy tequila.

That’s all I’m going to say.

The fisrt step is admitting you have a problem.

Scrabble Hallucinations

2006-07-10T23:21:00.000+10:00

I have taken pain-killers to stop the throbbing in my mouth- that sounded like the begining of a tacky porn novel.

I should explain myself. I had to go to the fancy dentist man again today for phase two of 'Operation F*** Up Michaels Face', hence there is a significant amount of orthodontic related tenderness requiring pain medication. So once again there will be no significant blogging today as the Mersyndol Forte has started to kick in and my keyboard is starting to look like a game of scrabble- ahh hallucinations.

I have found a little video for you to enjoy in my absence.

Praising Jesus never looked like so much fun- you can even enjoy this clip without sound!

It's nice to know there is always someone crazier than you.

Bette Davis Eyes

2006-07-09T20:01:00.000+10:00

There is nothing like seeing an old friend for the first time in over a year and being told, 'Don't you look older.'

I think it was a compliment, kind of.

I've been functioning on dangerously low levels of sleep lately... can you tell?

Dot Point Stupidity

2006-07-09T19:22:00.000+10:00

I have just spent the last hour and a half writing the most boring and incoherent blog post ever. It's really hard to produce a follow up to my last post- unfortunately its not every day you are involved in tram related violence!

After 7 days of only getting small amounts of sleep and doing WAY to much self- indulgent thinking, (Translation: Wallowing in self pity), it seems that everything I try to write at the moment turns into an analysis of bad decisions that I've made in the past week. So rather than subjecting you to a 10,000 word essay I have edited my stupidity into to dot points.

Examples of some questionable decisions I have made in the past week include:

- Trying to give myself a haircut with a handheld mirror and kitchen scissors.
- Pointing out to my mother that she hasn't cooked a good meal in weeks.
- Attempting to complete 300 sit-ups immediately after eating approximately 2kg's of spaghetti and drinking half a bottle of wine.
- Unsuccessfully limbo-ing under a bridge made by two people's legs in a nightclub.

And most recently,

- Deciding to walk (alone) from Collingwood to Flinders St Station at 1am on a Saturday night/Sunday morning to catch a cab. (I clearly didn't learn my lesson after the Route 59 incident.)

I don't need to document the consequences that followed each of these misguided decisions- you can safely assume a high level of unpleasantness for all the examples. The sheer stupidity of each action speaks for itself.

I hope you enjoyed the idiot's guide to being an idiot. Hopefully I'll be back with a less idiotic post in the near future.

My assistant struggled to file the original un-edited version of this post.

19 Ten-Cent Pieces

2006-07-07T15:33:00.000+10:00

Warning: The following post contains low level violence, strong language and adult themes. Parental guidance is recommended for readers under the age of 29.

Since the theft of my ever reliable 1991 Nissan Pulsar Hatchback, affectionately named Habib-Mufassa, I have been incredibly reliant on friends and family to take my lazy ass from point A to point B regularly. Recently this has become quite a heavy burden for my team of dedicated drivers as I am going through an oddly sociable faze, so I have resorted to catching public transport into the city on a couple of occasions in the past few weeks.

The trusty 59 tram has always served me well; and although its timetable is more erratic than Whitney Houston I still love it. So last night at 7.00pm I jumped on board, slinked into the least stained seat I could find and set the iPod to play my favorite mix of 90’s one hit wonders. As the tram rattled into the CBD I noticed a rather scattered young man stumbling down the tram in my direction, I foolishly hoped that the white iPod earphones would deter him from any attempt at conversation. I was wrong.

He motioned for me to take out the earphones, I begrudgingly complied. He proceeded to ask me for some spare change- not only did I not have any spare change; I had no change at all. I had paid for my 2-Hour Concession ticket with 19 ten-cent pieces that I scrounged from various sources around the house. So I apologized as politely as I could and went to put my earphones back in. Not yet content to leave me alone the boy then barked,

‘You must have money, your rich- you have an iPod!’

I desperately wanted to reply,

‘No actually I’m not rich, I won’t be buying lunch for the next six months so I can pay for this iPod. Now take a step back- you smell like crazy.’

But instead I said,

‘Sorry mate, I don’t have any money on me.’

It was at this point he got a sad look on his face and slunked down in the seat next to me. Suddenly I began to feel guilty because I couldn’t help out the poor guy, this feeling didn’t last long. He asked to have a look at my iPod, I showed him the screen and gave a nervous smile- then things began to get interesting.

He attempted to snatch the iPod out of my hand and leap out of the as we pulled up outside the Victoria Market. I think he severely underestimated my love for the iPod and the violent undercurrent that is always lurking just below my calm surface.

We struggled over the iPod for a moment, then he leaned in and grabbed me by the chain around my neck- at which point some strange 'Tram Ninja' powers were awoken within me. I managed to use one hand to free the iPod and the other to perform an arm twisting move that brought the guy to his knees. He was still holding on to my chain, and screaming,

‘Let go of my arm!’

I gave his arm an extra little twist and replied,

‘Let go of my f***ing chain!’

He let go of the chain and I let go of his arm, while giving him a shove in the direction of the door that was just closing. Next thing I hear is-

‘Tickets please!’

Ticket inspectors- great timing.

One inspector approached me, seemingly oblivious to what had just happened, I was in a bit of a daze but I managed to produce my ticket. The young man- who’s arm I hope I f***ing broke- hadn’t been able to escape the moving tram, and as I hopped off a couple of stops later he was still being harassed by three unfriendly inspectors… instant justice.

I know its daunting to get involved in these types of situations and I don’t blame people who are traveling alone for staying out of it, but to the group of four people (two adult couples) who sat there and did nothing- I hope you all get the bird flu.

There is a little bit of 'Tram Ninja' in all of us.

Michael Brody

2006-07-06T16:18:00.000+10:00

I must send my friend Emma a basket of fruit. Her educational blog alerted me to this wonderful site where you can upload an image of yourself and use "State of the Art Face Recognition Technology" to determine which celebrity you look like. I love using complex technology for my own childish amusement.

I uploaded a photo of myself hoping that the results would give me the confidence boost I desperately needed having just seen myself in the mirror after being abruptly awoken from an afternoon nap. The results were- well- lets take a look at them one by one. Let me just say for the record that these results are not forged, "I am prepared to swear on a box of Krispy Kreme Doughnuts."

My best match, coming in at 74%, is Rachel Weisz. I'm not sure that I look much like her- and I'm not sure how I feel being told that I look like a girl, but I suppose at least I look like a hot girl. An Oscar winning hot girl!

Ahh, this is more like it, Clearly I bear a striking resemblance to former N*Sync member Justin Timberlake. Those long days spent rehearsing the dance steps to 'Bye Bye Bye' may come in handy should I ever want to join an N*Sync tribute band.

Madonna, 64%? Is this some kind of sick joke about the gap between my teeth? It's not natural ok, I had a frekkin jaw operation- the gap is closing!

Finally technology got it right. The website says I bear a 57% resemblance to Adam Brody. *Sigh* That's enough for me to walk away from this experiment with a smile on my face. For the record I would turn straight to be with Rachel Bilson.

Use the link below to try this for yourself, leave your results in the comments section.

Be honest- unless you are told you look like Paula Abdul, in that case I don't want to know about it.

FACE RECOGNITION WEBSITE

Choose Your Own Adventure

2006-07-02T15:31:00.000+10:00

When I was young I used to love ‘Choose Your Own Adventure’ books. The books let you make decisions throughout the story that changed the course of the narrative, I recall countless occasions where I ended the book with all the characters stuck down a well- I think that was the generic ending if you made all the wrong choices.

Today I present my first ‘Choose Your Own Adventure’ post.

I recently bought the new CD from one of my favorite artists, India.Arie. She is a neo-soul singer from the states and I am completely besotted with her music.

So here are your choices;

Option one, is a live performance of her breakthrough single ‘Video’. It’s an upbeat and empowering song, performed with a cheeky attitude. This song always makes me smile.

Option two, I definitely can’t describe this as upbeat. The song is called ‘Ready For Love’ and it’s a haunting performance. I usually listen to this song in the middle of the night in a quasi-depressive state.

OPTION 1:

OPTION 2:

Paula Abdul Killed My iPod

2006-06-30T18:40:00.000+10:00

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

2006-06-26T01:06:00.000+10:00

If you have a spare 7 minutes you should watch this clip.

Seriously f***ed up, and a little bit scary.

Watch out for the crazy guy hitting a pillow with a tennis racquet yelling, "Mom, mom, mom, mom, WHY!!"

This guy really needs a blowjob.

It's A Miracle

2006-06-25T23:24:00.000+10:00

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

2006-06-24T16:53:00.000+10:00

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

2006-06-19T21:08:00.000+10:00

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

2006-06-18T21:16:00.000+10:00

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

2006-06-17T00:27:00.000+10:00

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

2006-06-15T21:18:00.000+10:00

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

2006-06-12T23:38:00.000+10:00

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.

Low Brow Humour

2006-06-11T16:58:00.000+10:00

I was once told that laughter is actually good for your health, I dont really care about my wellbeing- I just like laughing at the misfortune of others occasionally.

So today I present to you some low brow humour, spend a few minutes watching the video below and help me prove the theory that there is nothing funnier than people falling down.

Cause Of Death: Drowning

2006-06-11T15:17:00.001+10:00

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.

Double The Crazy

2006-06-08T20:54:00.000+10:00

From time to time I will endeavor to share with you some random tidbits that I find while surfing the web, its amazing what you stumble across while looking for porn.

What do you get when you inject a little Michael Jackson into Celine Dion? Press play to find out.

The pelvic thrusts really take this performance to a whole new level.

Madonna Aint Got Nothing On Me

2006-06-08T20:18:00.000+10:00

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?

2006-06-07T20:22:00.000+10:00

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.