Intense Sarcasm

Dear Readers (all 4.3 of you),

It took me forever and then an extra hour to churn out that last superb post about my desire to wear cool clothes. (Note the intense sarcasm.) Lately my efforts to sit down and write have not been very successful.

It’s a shame to end with such a beige post but I’m going to be taking a break from blogging.

I’m very busy at the moment trying to find my marbles.

I’ll be back soon or possibly soon-ish, I haven’t decided yet.

x
Michael Who?

I went to see the Guggenheim Collection at the National Gallery of Victoria and saw, among other things, Felix Gonzalez-Torres' "Untitled (Public Opinion)" which is a continually replenished 300kg-pile of cellophane wrapped licorice candy. It was tasty.

Geek Waiting For a Musician

A quick glance in my wardrobe and you will soon see proof that I strongly believe in the traditional Melbourne philosophy that black is the new black. Sometimes I worry that my penchant for black, or at least dark, clothes gives off the wrong impression about me. I imagine if a pack of rabid little emo kids opened up my wardrobe their mascara ringed little eyes would fix on me with a judgmental stare as they said,

“Seriously dude, you need to lighten up a little.”

Firstly let me say that I don’t consider myself to be an overly superficial person... but, as I meander through my day to day life I do take notice of what people choose to wrap themselves, and so I wonder, do people form detailed opinions of me based solely on how I look? I seriously hope not, because my ‘geek face’ complete with braces and glasses and my pre pubescent body, which all the 12 year old Russian gymnasts are completely jealous of, is not exactly a work of art- and despite my efforts I don’t think any combination of clothes is going to change that.

I love people who have a sense of personal style that they carry off with effortless confidence. It’s less a materialistic concern on my part and more about how people chose to express themselves, I don’t care if you are wearing a designer t-shirt, I want to know why you chose that particular t-shirt. Concise descriptions of my thoughts and opinions are rare; I’m more of a rambler; however I’ll spare you my thesis entitled,

‘Michael’s Opinion on Every Piece of Clothing He Has Ever Seen: The Extended Version,’

and simply say that I love a little bit of creative quirk in fashion. I tend to spend my days admiring people I am impressed by from afar, secretly wishing I could be their geeky best friend who gets cooler simply by associating with them. Unfortunately I have absolutely zero confidence in wearing anything other than homogenized shopping centre ‘fashion’. So I spend my days sitting around wearing overpriced and somewhat ill fitting jeans wishing that my life would turn into an offbeat teen movie where an awkward yet loveable geek is befriended by a free spirited, and impeccably dressed, musician who takes the geek under his wing and teaches him how to express his inner self, of course by the end of the film the musician has secretly fallen in love with the geek and realised that there is more to life than how you look on the outside.

Clearly I’ve given this way too much thought, and upon reflection I’ve realised that simply prefacing a completely superficial post with the line ‘I’m not superficial’ achieves nothing at all, except possibly making me sound like a superficial hypocrite.

Enjoy the following pictures of people whom I would stalk if I saw them in the street.

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

Cassingle

3am.

Insomnia is a condition invented by weak sycophants with nothing better to complain about. I’m not an insomniac; I actually enjoy staying up all night long slowly descending into madness.

My night usually begins with me using MySpace to systematically stalk every person I’ve ever met, then I like to clean things that don’t need cleaning, such as my phone charger and electrical extension cord.

Sometimes I like to curl up in bed and watch some quality late night television. Recently I have learned a lot about developing a proper skincare regime, after watching heartfelt testimonials from Jessica Simpson AND Kelly Clarkson I think I’m ready to invest in some Proactiv solution. Despite my lack of acne I really feel that I too am a caterpillar waiting to emerge from my cocoon, and for just $69.95 (+ postage and handling) I can finally fly free. Wait- I think butterflies only live for two days, cancel my order, I’m sending my money to Benny Hinn Ministries. Benny Hinn told me that if I accept Jesus as my lord and saviour he will take charge of my life and lead me not into temptation, especially if I give him my credit card information or something like that. The whole thing sounded really exciting and people were totally fainting when he touched them on the head so I think he’s the real deal. The only flaw in this plan is my complete lack of money, sorry Jesus.

Being awake in the dead of the night really isn’t that bad. You do have to throw on an extra layer, or five, of clothing to compensate for the fact that unless you are asleep in bed Melbourne winter nights are like a bitch slap to the groin with a slab of frozen meat. Once I’m rugged up in a style I like to call ‘Eskimo tracksuit chic’ I can actually be quite productive. Just last night I alphabetised my entire music collection- including my prized collection of cassingles. For those of you who are starring quizzically at the screen thinking ‘Cassingles?!? What are they? Did Michael get a bad batch of speed’ a 'cassingle' is a cassette tape single popular in the early 90's. Other useful tasks completed in the still of the night include cataloguing the freckles on my left arm, planning global domination, and arranging the clothes hanging in my wardrobe accorfing to their potential resale value.

There is no better opportunity to spend some quality time with myself than in the middle of the night. Sometimes I like to play little games, like, ‘Can you open a bottle of wine at 2am without the sound of the popping cork shattering the silence of your suburban home where you live with your parents who are sleeping nearby?’ Another of my favourites is the ‘Where did I go wrong?’ game. The aim of this game is to recount and replay in your mind all the stupid things you have done in your life, the catch is you have to do it without having a complete nervous breakdown, complete with tears and simultanious hysterical laughter.

After a few nights things do tend to get a bit repetitive so I like to spice things up with some good old fashioned screaming into the pillow and begging for sleep. I might actually give that a try now.

Let me restate, I’m not an insomniac.

Convinced?

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

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

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.