Wide Eyed Horror

Thanks to the wonders of modern technology today’s post comes to you live from Perth airport! Ta-da!

Actually, I take that back. Despite the fact that I’m fulfilling a lifelong dream with this ‘Look at me I’m an important businessman using my laptop at the airport’ moment, I’m not actually connected to the internet and therefore this will not be posted live from Perth. Instead I’ll upload it when I get back to Melbourne- after I take a packet of expired painkillers and enter a pharmaceutical hibernation for a couple of days.

For the past few months I’ve been completing an internship with a music marketing-slash-events management company. My work tends to induce wild panic attacks followed by stress headaches followed by fits of rage. In these situations my usual reaction would be to turn my back on the stress and run off into the distance with my, arms flailing and screaming wildly; however the experience I’m getting is unbelievable and so I’m clenching my teeth and sticking with it. At the end of this year I may even be able to replace some of the lies on my resume with actual facts. For example I find myself in Perth this week on tour with the Dalai Lama. I should have asked him for a reference.

My boss is the national tour manager for the Dalai Lama’s visit to Australia and I’ve been working behind the scenes for a while now, so when I was asked to come along for the Perth leg of the tour I jumped at the opportunity. Who am I to turn down a free trip to Perth? Especially when it gives me the best excuse I will ever have to avoid study. Flying across the country one week before all your major assignments are due is the ultimate procrastination.

So this is the point where I should go into mind numbing detail about the events of my trip. Believe me I’d love to do that, but unfortunately while in Perth I have been in a highly functioning yet completely anxious and neurotic state. This psychotic state was no doubt triggered by my compulsive desire not to mess things up and reveal myself as a complete fraud, all the while trying to operate on approximately 3 hours sleep. This altered state of consciousness seems to have partially incapacitated the memory functions of my brain. The memories I’m left with are nothing but brief snapshots, completely isolated in time. I can’t recall clearly the circumstances leading up to my fragmented memories and conversely I don’t really remember the repercussions of the incidents.

Here are the brief moments I remember.

Dragging a large road-case weighing approximately 60kgs into the Melbourne Airport freight services office at approximately 6am and being politely informed that it will cost me $6500.00 to get the case to Perth. My blood boils; I throw the road-case up against the wall. Blank.

Waiting to collect my luggage at Perth airport, it’s midday, I was scheduled to arrive at 10am. I see my bag travelling towards me, a complete stranger plucks it off the carousel and heads for the door, I give chase. Blank.

I arrive at the Burswood Dome with the heavy road case. I struggle down a set of 5 shallow steps, awkwardly dragging the case, my eyes search from left to right as I try to figure out how to get into the Dome. I stumble and fall, the case pins me to the ground. I notice my boss and the state manager walking in my direction. Blank.

Standing backstage moments before the first event begins. The Dalai Lama arrives and the other four select people privileged enough to be backstage greet him by bowing slightly, making an unfamiliar gesture with their hands and uttering a word I do not recognise. Clearly unaware of the proper protocol I wave and smile at the Dalai Lama. I notice the wide eyed horror of the four people around me. Blank.

The Dalai Lama is on stage, I’m trying to inconspicuously position a chair in the front row for Jamie Durie. He has just finished introducing the Dalai Lama to an eager 17,000 people strong crowd. I pick up the chair and swing around, trying to move it quickly, unaware that Jamie is directly behind me. He instinctively dodges and avoids a nasty chair to the face injury. Blank.

Take two, I’m backstage waiting for the Dalai Lama to begin his second event of the day. I decide to position myself near a large stack of technical equipment, well back from the small group of people near the stage entrance. The car pulls in, the Dalai Lama exits and exchanges pleasantries with Jamie Durie, he says hello to my boss and to the state manager, then he walks in my direction and says, “Hello. This is quite impressive equipment and so…” I don’t hear the rest of his sentence as I suddenly realise that I know nothing about the “impressive equipment” I’m standing in front of. Blank.

It’s been an interesting couple of days.

(Bad) Artists impression of possible injury.

Ladynails

I really feel like blogging tonight and I have absolutely nothing to write about. Every topic that enters my head seems completely lame, although I do realise that everything I write for this blog has a tendency to be lame the key difference is that usually the idea itself doesn’t seem lame until after I’ve posted it, so I can at least enjoy the writing process.

Maybe my writer’s block is being caused by the anonymous commenter on a previous post who called me a ‘Self obsessed attention whore with bad teeth,’ (The bad teeth part was added for dramatic effect.)

No. That’s not it, I actually happen to agree with Ms. Anonymous. I’m a complete attention whore- this blog is named after me, it’s pretty much all about me, and the person who gets the most pleasure from it is me, can I cram ‘me’ one more time in this sentence… me.

Ok. I still have nothing of interest to write about so I’ll wrap it up now. Lets hope something tragic/hilarious happens to me over the weekend so I have some decent material, otherwise prepare yourself for a post about the uncanny speed at which my fingernails grow, no lie- I’m only ever two days away from having ‘ladynails’.

And now, for those who got all the way through this poor excuse for a post without hitting the little red x, a small audiovisual gift. Enjoy the clip below.

Nice footwork.

Think About It For A Second

I've been told on numerous occasions that I'm going to hell- for many different reasons. With that in mind I thought I'd have some fun on the way and post this rather 'interesting' picture.

Think about it for a second, how did this actually happen?

First someone had to design it, then someone had to print it, then someone had to deliver it, finally someone had to put it in the window.

Nobody thought there was something a little wrong here?

Fluro Green Slap Band

Besides pondering the obvious question, “Why does my hair look like it was cut by a lawnmower?”, I wonder what this little boy is thinking about.

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.

Email Filter Test

Thank god for Internet porn!

I should explain.

Until about an hour ago the highlight of my day was finding a $2 coin in the bottom of my bag. Life is not very exciting at the moment. Then I thought I'd check my email, just in case there was an important chain email that I needed to urgently forward to 10 people to prevent the world from ending. Unfortunately I was not called upon to save the world by forwarding pictures of cartoon kittens holding love hearts- instead I received an email from Senator Steven Fielding.

Steven Fielding is the leader of Family First, a right wing conservative party that should really be called Jesus First. Despite attempts to disguise their close ties to the Australia's Christian community anyone who wasn't dropped on their head as an infant can make the rather obvious connection. The party's policies are entertaining reading, they have very cleverly disguised their self righteous judgements as family focused strategies. Clearly Steven Fielding is not on my Christmas card list, not that I have a Christmas card list, but thats beside the point.

So why am I receiving emails from Stevie? It appears someone thought it would be funny to subscribe me to his mailing list. Very funny. No seriously, very funny!

When I looked more closely tonight I realised that the email came from what appears to be Lil' Stevie's own email address. So for my own personal amusement I decided to put his email filter to the test.

I subscribed the address to every filthy porn mailing list I could find, from 'Grannies and Toys' right through to 'Midget S&M'. The Internet can be so useful.

I know it's childish, but it made me smile.

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

Clothes Made Out Of Curtains

After listening to the smooth vocal stylings of the one and only Desree for the past hour I find myself in a very optimistic mood. Seriously, you gotta be bad, you gotta be bold you gotta be wiser, genius.

So what to do now? When I sat turned on my trusty laptop after a dinner with the extended Italian family who had the crazy switched to high I had fully intended to let the fingers do the ranting. But now I’m completely mellow, I’ve lost the urge to vent my frustration about an uncle who’s attention seeking stupidity hit an all time high this evening when he arrived screaming obscenities at his wife and wearing an eye patch. My contentment in this moment is even preventing me from writing a self loathing post about my distain for headless store mannequins who are infinitely more attractive then me despite the rather obvious lack of a head.

So, in an homage to Julie Andrews and children wearing clothes made out of curtains, I’ve decided to tell you about a few of my favourite things. First and foremost I love Julie Andrews and the word ‘homage’.

My favourite place to be, despite my very limited experience of the world, is Melbourne. I can’t get enough of it and would never live anywhere else. And to those who say I need to experience more before I make that judgement I say this- I didn’t need a vagina to tell me I was gay. I never get bored of wandering through the city discovering new favourite things down ally ways behind Chinese restaurants, racking up credit card debt buying clothes I clearly cant afford, or finding comfy spot to sit and watch the people pass by. We have the best live music scene in the country, the best restaurants in the country and we host the most public, cultural and sporting events- oh and we have Lord Mayor John So.

I really love late night phone conversations with Mona when we are both able to switch off the ‘I hate my life’ section of our brains. During these conversations we can solve all the problems of the world, last Thursday we wrapped up the whole climate change situation in about 20 minutes. This week we’ll tackle peace in the Middle East. Within the confines of these conversations we are also able to tell completely inappropriate and offensive jokes without fear of retribution or judgment. Simply because she knows it bugs me Mona will refer to Julie Andrews as a filthy slut and in return I’ll refer to Mona’s future children as veil wearing religious zealots.

Music is obviously one of my favourite things. I love walking down the street with my headphones in, pretending that I have control over the soundtrack to my life with my trusty iPod in hand. One of my best memories from my U.S holiday- a smile I couldn’t control was plastered on my face as I strolled through Central Park on the clearest New York morning with Stevie Wonder’s ‘Higher Ground’ blaring in my ears. Even without the overblown New York cliché the right song at the right moment can shift my mood from, ‘I want to rip your eyeballs out and use them for Martini olives’ to ‘Lets do tequila shots and dance.’

Going out for breakfast on a Sunday morning always makes me smile, until about 2 hours later when I’m usually hunched over holding my stomach and wishing that I didn’t order the big breakfast with extra bacon and hash browns plus a side of cholesterol. Despite the pain that comes along with my regular order I will no doubt continue to do the same thing every time.

Ok, I thought I could go on and on about my favourite things, but unfortunately all this happiness is starting to freak me out. I’m going to watch some late night televangelists talk about opening my black heart and accepting Jesus into my life. That should get me back to a more normal state of contempt and irrational anger.

Peace be with you.

Attention All Animals

Jaw update:

The bones are healing, slowly but surely. I can now eat some real foods. It is very exciting, I actually ate fish the other day!

Let this be a warning to all animals: my chewing powers are increasing every day. I will not hesitate to kill, deep fry, and eat any living thing that I am able to chew.

Join me for a Bambi Burger?

A Warewolf Has Needs

My jaw has been smashed into lots of tiny pieces.

My drugs are running out.

Fuck.

I suppose I could stop right there and not go on and on about how terrible I feel right now, but after almost a week of eating nothing but mush I want to properly convey my current predicament. I’ll spare you the graphic details of what the so called 'doctors' did to my face. Lets just say after the operation I was left looking like a circus performer- and not the good Cirque Du Soleil kind, those guys are hot, I looked more like the sideshow circus freak that you pay two dollars to point and laugh at. Come to think of it I’m poor at the moment, might be a good idea. Anyway lets skip ahead to the present, over a week without solid foods.

For the last seven days my diet has consisted entirely of yoghurt, soup, and mashed potato. At every meal I sit there eating- correction, slurping, while trying to contain my rage and suppress the urge to throw my bowl of slush at the wall. I don’t blame my parents for eating normal food, it’s just hard to see beautiful meals sitting across the table from me day after day knowing that unless I can blend it, I’m not eating it. Yesterday I seriously contemplated blending a slice of barbeque chicken pizza, but the mental image of what that would actually look like promptly ended that thought.

Last night while on the verge of a nervous breakdown number 11 my sense of smell, which is now reaching heightened warewolf levels of ability thanks to the lack of taste, led me to the kitchen. Chocolate cake. Simple, delicious chocolate cake. This chocolate cake.



The food loving readers will have noticed that there is already a slice cut.

I instinctively grabbed a knife and cut myself a generous slice of the cake, momentarily forgetting the obvious fact, I can’t chew, hell I can only open my mouth about three millimeters. The parents had just left to visit some friends and I stood there, my gaze fixed on the cake, it was still warm. My ‘Better Judgment’ tried to prevail, but it was no match for its opponent, my supremely talented, ‘Bad Judgment’. At this point I thought it would be a good idea to take a photo of the cake, just in case I needed a picture to accompany the epitaph on my tombstone which would surely read, ‘Here lies Michael, smart, moderately funny- and suffocated by chocolate cake.’

Over the next hour and a half I picked apart that slice of cake, squashing tiny morsels into even smaller discs of cake that I could slide between my teeth. It was a painstaking process, but if it wasn’t for that cake right now I would probably be perched high in a tree, naked, pulling off my fingernails one by one and singing Peter Andre’s 90’s classic ‘Mysterious Girl’ in Latin.

This whole ‘healing’ thing is taking far too long.

Time for some white pills, they are the good ones.