The Wisdom of Youth

It was early days, and I hadn’t banged her yet. Which explained why I was sitting on her porch drinking a coffee with fucking soy milk and honey instead of the regular milk and three sugars I usually had. She was a kind of a cool hippy chick who believed in the benefits garlic had on your immune system and in the healing properties of fucking goji berries. I was only 19, yeah, so it wasn’t as if I had anything better to do than listen to her droning on and on about how good all this soy milk, mung bean shit was for her. Course, she’d sit and tell you all this while she smoked half a fucking pack of Marlboro lights.

She was a few years older than me and had her own place, which is a god send when you’re still at home. She also had a crazy ex called Keith who must have been around 40. He’d rock round pissed off his nut sometimes and call her a slut, that kind of stuff. He was pretty funny. He never got physical and even if he did I wouldn’t have been that worried. I think he worked in a bank.

So I guess we weren’t exactly a match made in heaven, her and me. But there was something about her. She listened to Tom Waits and could roll these joints that were like works of art. Tumbling, sprawling four paper epics that would have me stoned before we were a quarter of the way through. Then we’d watch the telly or some videos. Like the time we did an Oliver Stone marathon. Born on the Fourth of July, The Doors, JFK and Any Given Sunday on the same fucking day. Man, that was a long day. But I was young and unemployed. What the fuck else was I going to do?

And the sex...

The girl could bang like a shotgun. I mean, she just really, really liked to get fucked. She had a nurses uniform she stole from an old housemate, and she had a pair of handcuffs and a police hat. So, you know, if I wasn’t getting my temperature taken I was being arrested on some misdemeanour.

She was studying massage at the time, she’d always been into it and decided to go to TAFE and get her certificate. She asked me over one Friday night with the lure of Chinese food, beer and a massage. Trouble was, she’d just learnt about 'deep tissue release' and a little technique called ‘trigger pointing’. I’ve had tattoos less painful. A jagged hour later I rose from the table, pulled on my trousers and shirt and thanked her.

“No worries babe,” she said. “It’ll be nice to have someone to practice on.”

Man I liked her though. What I really dug about her was that she had that hippy, stoner vibe going on – but with none of the body hair usually associated with that particular stereotype. She shaved under her arms, her legs. Now, I can deal with a little hair under the arms – if it’s a little wisp like Madonna was showing in the early 80’s, no problem. But anything more than that and you can just get the fuck out of Dodge. Not her though, very well maintained – credit where it’s due. Even gave her sweet little minge the chop on our one and only Christmas together and yes sir, you can tell Santa I was naughty.

The only problem was her somewhat dykey taste in footwear. Not a fucking heel in sight man. Doc Martins, steel-capped Blundstones, Converse – check. But a little stiletto for her man? Not a fucking chance. I mean, let’s get this straight – I’m a leg man. Which by default means that I’m a high heel man, yeah? Let’s jack those puppies up. High heels are mankind’s greatest ever invention. They can make a bad leg good, and a good leg fucking obscene. And they taste terrific.

But try telling her that.

“I can’t fucking walk in those things.”

“I don’t want my feet to get all munted.”

“I get a sore back when I wear those things.”

Like somehow her comfort is my concern.

So I guess you could say it was doomed to fail from the get go. Because as much as I love four-paper joints, imported beer, Tom Waits and uninhibited sex – I like seeing a chick tottering about in sky-scraper heels even more.

So, I did what any self-respecting 19 year old boy would do when confronted with a woman who won’t bend to his every whim and desire. I traded her in for some bottle-blonde, sour-faced cunt I ended up hating within a week. Who had a wardrobe full of patent leather pumps.

We’ll be married six years in June.

Pete

Pete was just a guy I got to know through the gym. He came one or two nights a week, rode this big red motorbike which always looked immaculate. He’d park himself and his bag by the training ring, and have a little stretch. Then he’d throw himself into the skipping, used one of those chunky weighted ropes. The thinner ropes make quite a high whistling sound as they’re spinning but Pete’s rope always made a low-down breathy sound – like bad wind effects in a b-grade movie. Occasionally he’d come in wearing his work clobber, one of those fluoro orange vests over his khaki overalls. A couple of times I spoke to him and found out he worked at the airport as an engineer, some nights he was pushed for time because of the traffic and didn’t have time to go home and change.

Some nights we’d go for our lap round the block together and because me and him weren’t very quick we’d have a chin wag at the back. I’m not real good at talking while I run because it fucks my breathing, but I did my best. I found out that he liked dance music and music festivals and having a boogie. He found out that I liked rock music and drinking beer. Actually, we both liked drinking beer. We talked about how festivals like Summadayze and Parklife were ‘fucking mad for chicks’. Some nights we’d do a little light sparring together, just moving around a little. He always got the best of me – I think he’d fought a little when he was younger. He knew how to use his fists though, had a sneaky little right hand that seemed to find a home on my chin every time I pawed with a little jab. Always pulled his shots though, knew enough to know that I was out of my depth and look after me.

Some weeks you wouldn’t see Pete at all. Then he’d come back with a tan and tell you been up in Broome for a while, or he’d come back with a little bit of pud around the cheeks and chin, and you’d know he’d been putting away a few ales.

Then I hurt my knee from too much running and a physio told me I better give it a rest for a while, so I didn’t go to the gym. I’d had a reconstruction a few years back and had been too lazy to do the proper rehab. So I’d been running and skipping and boxing for 18 months with half a quad on my left leg. Eventually the working half said ‘fuck you’, and I had to take time.

So, I went away and did my work and did what I could to keep the weight off while I was gone. And after Christmas and New Year were by, I decided that it was time for me to head back to the gym. First training day was Monday, January 12, 2009. And I trained hard. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday – working my arse off.

Then on Thursday I’m working out with young Tom and he says:-

“Fuckin’ sad about Pete, hey?”

“Who?”

“You know Pete, the guy who always stood over there, wore a chunky chain.”

“Pete... Pete... doesn’t ring a bell...Oh Fuck! The guy who worked at the airport?”

“He fuckin’ died dude. Car crash, West Coast Highway.”

“Christ, when?”

“Dunno, maybe October, November last year.”

And just like that, the man I knew only as Pete was gone forever. Tom’s going to try and ask some of the older boys who knew Pete a bit better if they maybe had a picture of him that we could frame. Put it over by the training ring, where he always stood, where he skipped with that chunky fucking rope.

And it’s a safe bet that while I was getting my leg right, and in the first three days at the gym this year, Pete didn’t cross my mind once. It’s probably an even safer bet that from my last day at the gym until the day he died, I didn’t cross his mind either.

But tonight, Pete looms large in my thoughts. So, wherever you are, it was nice working out with you.

Life is a highway. You drive alongside people for a while and then you speed up, slow down or change lanes.

The Rolling Stones

The Rolling Stones are a rock band from England who have sold more than 200 million albums worldwide and continue to tour the globe, playing to sell out crowds in massive arenas. The formed in 1962 and are undoubtedly one of the most successful bands in history.

But all this will never change the fact that they suck more balls than Elton John, George Michael, Rupert Everett, Liberace and Freddie Mercury combined.

Mick can't sing.

Keith is the worst 'famous' guitarist I've ever heard.

Ronnie is a funny guy, but listening to him play slide is like rubbing my face on a fucking cheese grater.

I just watched the first four songs of Martin Scorsese's concert film 'Shine a Light' (four was all I could sit through). The people are mad for it, dancing and hanging on every note.

So, this gets me thinking. Long and hard.

And the only thing that I can come up with is that if you are a fan of the Rolling Stones then you are a fucking idiot who has either had, or is in dire need of, a lobotomy.

I teach guitar and the worst students are always the aging fuckwits who tell you the Stones are their favourite band. I feel like telling them to turn on their heels then and there - do not pass go, do not collect $200. If you like the Rolling Stones you've got no business playing a musical instrument. Instead, you should be working for a corporation during the week earning an overblown salary, so that when the Rolling Stones circus rolls into your town once every 5 years you can pay the $10,000 ticket price and drone on around the staff room on Monday about how 'awesome' the 'Stones gig' you went to see was.

Let's face it, that and the Sting concert were the only two times you've been out past 10pm in the last year, right?

I realise that I'm in the minority here. All those hundreds of millions of fans can't be wrong.

BUT THEY ARE.

Consider This

So, I'm doing a sports management unit because I needed to pick up a credit this semester. A far cry from the relaxed, carefree vibe of Curtin's humanities department, this sports management class is run by Curtin's Business School or, as I like to call it, hell.

A hell where the teachers drive Saabs and the students drive Saabs too.

In class the other day we were talking about naming-rights sponsorship of sporting stadiums which led me to wonder aloud just how effective this particular form of advertising is. I mean, has anyone ever taken out an insurance policy with AAMI because that's what Football Park is called now? Has anyone gone back to Telstra because their Friday night footy comes from the Dome? Does anybody even know who or what Members Equity are?

My lecturer informed me that when people are about to make a major purchase or decision they compile a 'consideration set' of three or four brands that they will 'consider' before making the choice. Naming-rights, I was told, is just another (highly effective, according to all research) way that corporations use to try and enter your psyche.

So, just because I hate to think that anybody working in marketing/advertising is smarter than me, even though they all are, I am never going to consider using a product which is is a naming-rights sponsor of ANYTHING. Please do the same.

Because corporations are scum. Marketing people are scum. And the fact that universities have courses where very nice people teach other very nice people how to be scum is disturbing.

It reminds me of my favourite Bill Hicks quote:-

"Fuck you, you fat fucking tourists."

Wait, not that one, this one:-

"If you do a commercial, you're off the aristic roll-call forever. End of story, ok? You're another corporate shill, you're another whore at the capitalist gang-bang, and if you do a commercial there is a price on your head and everything you say is suspect and every word that comes out of your mouth is like a turd falling into my drink."

Don't Go Breaking My Heart

I had just started talking to her when I saw him walking towards us. I couldn’t believe it, I’d had the horn for this girl since the start of semester. Great tits, great arse, legs to die for. Don’t know where she put her sense of humour, but nobody’s perfect. So there’s two weeks to go before the end of the year and I’m finally on first name terms and making eye contact, and here comes this fucking guy. Trouble was, he was blind. Not pissed, yeah, vision impaired is how you might refer to him. Course there’s no way of knowing just how vision impaired the cunt is – you can’t just go up and start giving him the finger right in front of his face, because if he’s only a little bit blind he might just fucking swat you one. I can see him doing his little vision impaired waddle over her shoulder and I clock the fact that he’s got a guide dog.

Uh-oh.

I lose it. I break down, start crying like a baby. Can’t help it, can’t stop it. I’m inconsolable, and she sort of looks at me funny and then just fucking bails. Gone.

See, whenever I see a blind man walking with a guide dog I start crying. Ever since I was little. Perhaps it’s the fact that I think the relationship between a guide dog and a blind person may be the single most beautiful thing in this sorry excuse for a civilisation. Or maybe it’s the fact that one day, more than likely, that guide dog is going to die before it’s master and he won’t be able to see that and he’ll have to bend down and feel that his best mate’s heart is no longer beating.

It’s a relationship based on the purest form of trust.

Beautiful and heartbreaking.

Shame, because I really wanted to suck that chick’s toes and watch the porn channel on Foxtel with her.

Instead I’m going to go drink beer and bleat some more about a blind man and his fucking dog.

Flying Again

He’s flying again, red cape billowing out behind him like an engine fire. He’s looking for crime to fight, damsels needing saved, a cat stuck in a tree. Yet the only time his feet leave the cold, damp earth is when he throws himself off the crumbly wall onto the lawn, arms outstretched. There hadn’t been many days fit to go outside that long Paisley winter of 1985, when a dry one came you had to make the most of it.

He’s standing now with hands on hips, eyes set in a cartoon scowl as he uses his heat vision to scorch some grass, or blow out a forest fire with his super breath. Cheeks puffed, he looks at the vapour leave his mouth for the cold air with wonder as he empties lungful after lungful. The front of his hair has been fashioned with spit into a poor man’s Christopher Reeve curl which he can never manage to keep in. His only motives are truth, justice and the American way – and perhaps maybe to keep out his mother’s hair a while. Later he’d learn that truth and justice had little in common with the American way, and that Warner had a budget of $55 million to keep that damn curl looking crisp. But for now, he was happy. Dinner was ready, and never again would he be so comfortable in his own skin.

He’s flying again, screaming above the pack to unnatural altitude and yet, once there, spilling a relatively simple chest mark. He heard a collective groan upon landing but didn’t give it a thought, rose and sprinted towards the next contest. He was an Australian now, his nationality changed as quickly and easily as an FM radio station. The intervening years had morphed his body, accent and priorities. No longer did his dreams consist of superhuman abilities and a life of fighting crime, though x-ray vision would still be nice. With four months of high school left, and already a veteran of several state youth squads and an under-16 tour of Ireland, the AFL beckoned. Year 12 was spent marking time, classes just distractions between training, weight sessions and beep tests. He’d already been courted by West Coast and Freo, but the papers kept saying he’d go top three in the draft, and if things stayed as they were, that’d mean either Carlton, Melbourne or Brisbane. It was a bummer, but it wouldn’t be the end of the world. He could handle a year or two over east and then ask for a trade home. Brisbane would be best, even though it would mean getting belted every week. Still, at least it was warm and had habitable beaches...

Every 17 year old believes the world is their oyster, but in his case it was true. As he stood, hands on knees, desperately sucking air while the opposing full-forward lined up for goal, he thinks of the Saturday night ahead, Dougie’s party. He’d lined up a pill and Julia was going to be there. Sure, he was playing colts this morning but tonight he’d be playing stallion. He looks up, sees the ball sail through the big sticks and turns round to jog back to the middle.

The madness of the centre bounce is a lot like life. The moment the umpire bounces it, it’s all just random chance. Some blokes try and get the footy, some blokes try and stop those blokes from getting the footy. And some blokes just want to run through you because they like to watch a man hurt.

The umpire slams the ball into the turf and the rucks go at it. The ball is palmed down to him and he accelerates away from the middle to launch another raid inside 50. He’s aware of the tagger behind him but knows his speed will get him clear. From the side of his vision, he sees his team mate Tom charging in to lay the shepherd, and hears the thud as he does, then the groan of the crowd as the bloke goes down hard. Unmoved, he delivers the ball lace out to Dean, his team’s forward-pocket, who marks without breaking stride and lines up for goal. Meanwhile, he walks back to the middle of the ground, sips a drink and glances at the felled rover lying barely conscious and groaning on the edge of the square. He looks for a moment, steels himself before looking away with a mixture of concern and contempt. And he remembers the incredulous words of his Scottish father when he told him he was playing footy at school: “Son, Aussie Rules fitba is a hard game, and ye better keep yir fuckin’ wits aboot ye!”

He’s flying again, slumped over in a worn armchair in a one bedroom flat in Mosman Park as the gear surges through his system. The phone starts ringing its shrill bird call, but he doesn’t register immediately and by the time he does it’s stopped. He hadn’t realised he was still connected.

It had been a hellishly hot summer, and his window was open to try and capture whatever puff of a sea breeze it could. A giant blowfly was amusing itself in the mass of dirty dishes gathered in the sink, swooping in and out of a coffee mug in which the milk hadn’t so much turned as gotten dizzy. Not yet 30, he was growing old rapidly – grey hairs massing around his temples like an army ready to march. He wore faded plaid board shorts, and had a tan belt wrapped around a puny bicep, just below a tattoo which seemed massive, the Chinese symbol for strength. Sometimes he caught sight of it in the mirror and wondered what the symbol for ‘junkie’ looked like. He sat in that armchair for hours, his once formidable legs curled underneath him, long pink scar just under his left knee.

Later, he’d cook himself up another shot and stick Superman in the DVD player, the only movie he couldn’t bring himself to hock. Now, as an adult, he enjoyed it just as much as when he was a kid. He marvelled at how Superman, with all those powers, had almost found himself dead at the bottom of Gene Hackman’s swimming pool. Everybody had their kryptonite, their weak point, and if it could happen to the Man of Steel, it could happen to anybody.

Superman, footy, life, it seemed, was a study in human frailty.

Make Me A Supermodel

Ok, so it's Thursday and I'm watching my first ever episode of 'Make Me a Supermodel'.

It'll be my last.

Don't get me wrong, I'm male - I've got about as big a horn for Jennifer Hawkins as anyone, but Tyson Beckford may be just about the biggest cockhead I've ever seen.

On tonight's episode, Beckford took great delight in ordering the prospective supermodels out of bed at an early hour and telling them to 'dress to impress'. He then took them to an abandoned warehouse with a couple of fires in oil drums. He asked them to take an item of clothing and burn it, to show him how much they 'wanted it'. Of course, not wanting to be outdone, all of the stick figures ended up in their smalls. Pretty decent television.

What would have made better television would be if all the stick figures had developed some brains and a conscience, thought to themselves "wouldn't it be better to give these perfectly fine clothes to the Good Sammy's instead of burning them. And while we're at it, let's tell this egocentric American cunt to fuck off back to the hell hole he came from."