Back in August I did something bad to my coccyx. No, I didn't step naked out of the shower and forget about "insert semi-insertable device here". I went down a slide and landed with a bump in the gap between segments. Ever since then the region around my coccyx has hurt.
Today it flared up big time. Both cheeks are aching with pain radiating like iron filings on a piece of white paper inserted over a magnet in a shit-house year nine science experiment*.
I had to rub voltaran on my arse cheeks and I spent the day sitting on a pillow.
I feel like Nobby Piles from Viz...
Why can't I catch a friggin' break when it comes to my bod?! If I don't have sore feet then I have bad guts (like I also have at the moment), am throwing up, or have a sore ahnus. It - my general poor health, not my ahnus - bites the big one big time.
Stupid health issues. It's not like I'm not trying either. I am eating better, downing lots of fibre, and still walking every day. Maybe it's just because my bad health is like a super tanker and even though I've switched the screw to reverse, momentum is such that I'm still heading for the rocks?
*During sex-ed in science our science teacher started off with a joke - what's got six legs and goes around in circles? A ram doing a ewie. Our science teacher also expected us to maintain good book hygiene in that our exercise books needed title pages for new segments of science, and that our many handed out bits of paper should be glued in. You actually got marked on this. One of his favourite tricks was to shake someone's book and watch all the paper that had not been glued in fall out. During sex-ed my title page was what I thought was the male and female symbols entwined. I had it wrong. I had two male symbols - with one reversed. I wonder what that means? The panel beater kids - the dudes who left in year 10 to become apprentices only to be sacked when the govt money ran out - decided to have a p0rn collage for their title pages. When their books got marked they found the title pages had been excised with the words "see me" scrawled in the tattered remnant.
Monday, November 23, 2009
One of the many books available at Oz Post
I really detest the 'minimum expenditure' effort some businesses apply to using a credit card in Australia. One of these businesses, and I use that term loosely, is Oz Post.
On occasion I've been forced to buy shit I don't need solely to get myself up to their $10 minimum.
One of the items you can buy from well positioned stands on the counter as you discover this $10 minimum is a series of Australiana Fauna themed kids books.
Although this one kind of creeped me out.
On occasion I've been forced to buy shit I don't need solely to get myself up to their $10 minimum.
One of the items you can buy from well positioned stands on the counter as you discover this $10 minimum is a series of Australiana Fauna themed kids books.
Although this one kind of creeped me out.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Out and about
When I was a poor struggling garret bound would be writer I naturally enough attended a post grad course on how to be a writer.
Turns out I suck. And you're better off reading Stephen King's On Writing and saving yourself several thousand dollars.
Anyway, one of the tricks we were taught is to pay attention to your surroundings because you would get good material that way.
So ... the three stand outs from my trip to town are...
The tiny middle aged man dressed in new blue jeans, a shirt which still had the package creases on it, with his ensemble topped with a shiny blue Harlem Globetrotters hat ... walking along next to (I presume) his ten year old son ... who was taller than him.
The man on the street whose hands were filled with bags who elected to store a red petal fake flower between his teeth like he was about to, once he put his bags down, climb some sort of ivy clad lattice work and present the flower to a would be beloved.
And finally the young dad and his eight year old son in the toilets - the boy too short to reach the liquid soap dispenser - holding his cupped hands up to receive the soap squirted by his dad. His dad shouting out comically 'Are you ready for the cleanliness explosion?!'
Gold. All stored in the old memory bank when my self esteem recovers enough like a computer game health bar to actually try and put finger to key and finish off one of my many projects.
Turns out I suck. And you're better off reading Stephen King's On Writing and saving yourself several thousand dollars.
Anyway, one of the tricks we were taught is to pay attention to your surroundings because you would get good material that way.
So ... the three stand outs from my trip to town are...
The tiny middle aged man dressed in new blue jeans, a shirt which still had the package creases on it, with his ensemble topped with a shiny blue Harlem Globetrotters hat ... walking along next to (I presume) his ten year old son ... who was taller than him.
The man on the street whose hands were filled with bags who elected to store a red petal fake flower between his teeth like he was about to, once he put his bags down, climb some sort of ivy clad lattice work and present the flower to a would be beloved.
And finally the young dad and his eight year old son in the toilets - the boy too short to reach the liquid soap dispenser - holding his cupped hands up to receive the soap squirted by his dad. His dad shouting out comically 'Are you ready for the cleanliness explosion?!'
Gold. All stored in the old memory bank when my self esteem recovers enough like a computer game health bar to actually try and put finger to key and finish off one of my many projects.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Domestic Minutia with Harrangueman
TheWife and I came of age in the late 80s. Yes, puffy hair; denim; all-brown outfits of velvet, corduroy and desert boots were ours to have, music like the Fine Young Cannibals was ours to listen to and, for me at least, the seminal most oft-quoted movie of my high school years was Lethal Weapon II.
As for seminal teev, The Young Ones was our bread and butter. We may not have got alot of it, but man we quoted it.
Now, as adults, with a young squirmy boy, occasionally we pepper our parenting with lore from our past.
One such thing is Snot Patrol.
Snot Patrol is when theNoo has, as my older brother describes it "Housing Commission Nose", where thick goobs of snot are heading on a slow passage south, like pioneering snails striking out to settle the south west of the garden. When he is seen with snot a'hangin' we sing out to him 'Snot patrol, snot patrol' and he (hopefully) comes a runnin' - and, as he does, he counter sings back 'doo doo'.
Where is it from?
The theme to Nozin' Aroun' from The Young Ones.
As for seminal teev, The Young Ones was our bread and butter. We may not have got alot of it, but man we quoted it.
Now, as adults, with a young squirmy boy, occasionally we pepper our parenting with lore from our past.
One such thing is Snot Patrol.
Snot Patrol is when theNoo has, as my older brother describes it "Housing Commission Nose", where thick goobs of snot are heading on a slow passage south, like pioneering snails striking out to settle the south west of the garden. When he is seen with snot a'hangin' we sing out to him 'Snot patrol, snot patrol' and he (hopefully) comes a runnin' - and, as he does, he counter sings back 'doo doo'.
Where is it from?
The theme to Nozin' Aroun' from The Young Ones.
The US national anthem -by Glee
Say what you like about the US of A, but its anthem is one of the most kick ass, hairs on the back of your neck upstanding musical patriotism pieces on the planet.
PS Glee rawks.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Coolgardie head
I sweat a bit - and I am balding. It's not an action-reaction otherwise sporty people would all be bald fuckers.
But, when I sweat, the few remaining hairs on my crown get drenched and spike up. They marinate under my hat.
My bodgy old car's AC is fucked - and it's worth more than the car's value to fix it. Which means when I drive home on hot days I have the windows down.
I had to take my hat off lest it blew away in the car.
So ... my sweaty head had window air rush over it ... and my scalp froze.
I'd inadvertently Coolgardie'd my noggin.
Chalk one up for thermodynamics.
But, when I sweat, the few remaining hairs on my crown get drenched and spike up. They marinate under my hat.
My bodgy old car's AC is fucked - and it's worth more than the car's value to fix it. Which means when I drive home on hot days I have the windows down.
I had to take my hat off lest it blew away in the car.
So ... my sweaty head had window air rush over it ... and my scalp froze.
I'd inadvertently Coolgardie'd my noggin.
Chalk one up for thermodynamics.
Peter Cundall arrested in mill protest
See the story here.
I can just imagine how that went down.
'Come on lads, let's sing! We shall not, we shall not be fooking moved. We shall not, we shall not be fooking moved.'
'Keep your fooking hands off me you plod fooker. Do not mess with me mate, I know how to break a body down in the ground with a simple solution of quick lime, ash, charcoal and the cuttings from a Gardinia boosh. That's it! You laid your hands on me fooking over-alls. You're doon me fookin sune. I will fook you up with a kick to your fooking fork and it's going to be fooking marvellous.'
I can just imagine how that went down.
'Come on lads, let's sing! We shall not, we shall not be fooking moved. We shall not, we shall not be fooking moved.'
'Keep your fooking hands off me you plod fooker. Do not mess with me mate, I know how to break a body down in the ground with a simple solution of quick lime, ash, charcoal and the cuttings from a Gardinia boosh. That's it! You laid your hands on me fooking over-alls. You're doon me fookin sune. I will fook you up with a kick to your fooking fork and it's going to be fooking marvellous.'
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Action figures - a gripe
I played with action figures as a kid. Action figures were the shizzle. They were hard plastic, and about 10cm tall.
Starwars Figs - The first fig I had was Luke Skywalker from the swamp planet. He had a kewl safari like khaki suit and a holster. I played with him so much that by the time I put childish things away and became a man (but not really, sorry Corinthians) his neck was extended like a Burmese ring woman by about half a cm from the constant re-gluing of his head back on (it snapped off like a dozen times, usually because I'd stuck an action man head over his), and the top half of his left foot had been gnawed off by Patch 1#. The joins on his limbs were loose from constant play and he could no longer stand unassisted. He needed some sort of Zimmer frame accessory.
Eventually I collected about 60 Starwars figures and then, for some unknown reason I sold them to one of my brother's friends for $50. I kept my saggy Luke however, a Darth, and an Imperial no name.
The gripes.
One - the limbs were straight. They could only move in a motion that is best described as 20% of the ping pong paddle man at the airport's welcome routine. It kind of limited the "action".
Two - the vinyl capes some of the characters had shredded after 10 seconds. My fake granny had to make me new ones out of offcuts and they kind of looked like beyond-broadway attempts at Vanilla Jason and his plain one coloured Dreamunitard.
Three - the light sabers for relevant figs were stuck in a groove in their fucking arm with the tube protruding into their hand. Which meant when you lost the piece of plastic that represented said sabre it looked like the figure was now tooling around with a hollowed out fleshlight.
Four - When you tried to have the figures have sex - and disturbingly it was always Luke and one of the Leias - their legs would not part for Mr Man and his Man Part and you had to threaten the structural integrity of the Leila toy in the pelvic area as you forced Luke into her nethers.
GI Joe Figs - these belonged to my younger brother, but I appropriated them ... in year nine ... when I still played with action figures. Yep, I was having erotic dreams by night and making machine gun noises by day as I played with my figs, Dark Helmet style.
The GI Joes had articulated limbs (no kung fu grip on the 10cm figs however). They also came with kewl guns. I used to use Beachhead as my Luke in disguise when enjoying a bout of rigorous play given Luke's fragile condish.
The gripes
One - they had moulded guns on their hips - ie handles of pistols that were part of the fig. Which could not be removed. Which means they could never be disarmed. Which means when you're indulging in hard core fantasy play involving them being taken prisoner, then the suspension of disbelief was hampered by the fact they were STILL PACKING HEAT
Two - while their limbs were very advanced - with knee joints, hip joints, elbows and shit (no sex probs there) it meant that the then piece of plastic that served as their "groin" between their legs typically snapped off ... leaving them with the fig equiv of ... a woo hoo.
I think I kept the snapped off pelvis betweens and used them as currency in my fig play.
A Team Figs - These were about 15cm tall, and wide.
The gripe
They were shithouse. The limbs were like Starwars figs and only went straight out in a "me smash" double downward fist caveman manner. They were much bigger than the other figs in my "collection". Their weapons - machine guns - could only be held straight outward in one hand. It's almost like the designer didn't give a flying monkeys and the toy company was more concerned with the merchandising profits from flogging useless Krusty the Clown esq crappy merchandise than making a decent toy.
Masters of the Universe figs - These too were about 15 cm tall. The male figs were built like steroid raging greco-roman wrestlers. I didn't have any, but friends had them.
The gripe.
They could not stand up without angling their torso at about a 10 degree angle forward. It looked like they were pushing out a fart. It ruined the atmos. They too could only move their arms up and down - but at least they had a waist that could turn.
Now this is just figs - hard solid plastic. The "dolls", about the height of a barbie, were a different matter. I won't go into it here. But geez the Six Million Dollar man with its girder in his back shat me.
I eventually stopped playing with action figs at the end of year ten. No, it wasn't a Corinthians style road to Damascus realisation of impending manliness. It was because in my house up until the end of year 10 we had a kewl loft above the garage that was our "play room". I was the only one who played up there, and had my world all set up (typically it was a rebellion scenario against insert evil overlord here). With the action figs were standard Vietnam era toy soldiers (you know, each pack had four mine sweepers and three flame thrower guys), playmobil figs, assorted rubber plastic el-cheapie sword and sorcery type dolls and various others. It was my world and I loved it. I even named some of the soldier toys - my favourite was Sergeant McCoy, a British Paratrooper ... that was later KIA courtesy of my older brother and his air rifle - me finding McCoy's headless body outside by the big tree in the backyard that served as our backdrop to leaden air powered fun. I can remember dropping to my knees like Elias in Platoon and silently mourning his loss, my head upturned to the sky.
The loft was the most awesome playroom and I blame its location, location, location for my extended dalliance with toys.
In year 11 we moved out of town. I got the box room next to my parents. No play room in the house. I tried recreating the magic in my tiny room but it just wasn't the same. I finally became a man! Not because of that though. Because after two years of erections I finally learned how to make it go off.
Yee-ha. You see Corinthians doesn't mention the whole "put away childish things" is largely due to the fact that now you have some ready access to operable man meat of your own to play with, you don't need no stinkin' toys.
Unless of course ... you're a lady.
QED.
Starwars Figs - The first fig I had was Luke Skywalker from the swamp planet. He had a kewl safari like khaki suit and a holster. I played with him so much that by the time I put childish things away and became a man (but not really, sorry Corinthians) his neck was extended like a Burmese ring woman by about half a cm from the constant re-gluing of his head back on (it snapped off like a dozen times, usually because I'd stuck an action man head over his), and the top half of his left foot had been gnawed off by Patch 1#. The joins on his limbs were loose from constant play and he could no longer stand unassisted. He needed some sort of Zimmer frame accessory.
Eventually I collected about 60 Starwars figures and then, for some unknown reason I sold them to one of my brother's friends for $50. I kept my saggy Luke however, a Darth, and an Imperial no name.
The gripes.
One - the limbs were straight. They could only move in a motion that is best described as 20% of the ping pong paddle man at the airport's welcome routine. It kind of limited the "action".
Two - the vinyl capes some of the characters had shredded after 10 seconds. My fake granny had to make me new ones out of offcuts and they kind of looked like beyond-broadway attempts at Vanilla Jason and his plain one coloured Dreamunitard.
Three - the light sabers for relevant figs were stuck in a groove in their fucking arm with the tube protruding into their hand. Which meant when you lost the piece of plastic that represented said sabre it looked like the figure was now tooling around with a hollowed out fleshlight.
Four - When you tried to have the figures have sex - and disturbingly it was always Luke and one of the Leias - their legs would not part for Mr Man and his Man Part and you had to threaten the structural integrity of the Leila toy in the pelvic area as you forced Luke into her nethers.
GI Joe Figs - these belonged to my younger brother, but I appropriated them ... in year nine ... when I still played with action figures. Yep, I was having erotic dreams by night and making machine gun noises by day as I played with my figs, Dark Helmet style.
The GI Joes had articulated limbs (no kung fu grip on the 10cm figs however). They also came with kewl guns. I used to use Beachhead as my Luke in disguise when enjoying a bout of rigorous play given Luke's fragile condish.
The gripes
One - they had moulded guns on their hips - ie handles of pistols that were part of the fig. Which could not be removed. Which means they could never be disarmed. Which means when you're indulging in hard core fantasy play involving them being taken prisoner, then the suspension of disbelief was hampered by the fact they were STILL PACKING HEAT
Two - while their limbs were very advanced - with knee joints, hip joints, elbows and shit (no sex probs there) it meant that the then piece of plastic that served as their "groin" between their legs typically snapped off ... leaving them with the fig equiv of ... a woo hoo.
I think I kept the snapped off pelvis betweens and used them as currency in my fig play.
A Team Figs - These were about 15cm tall, and wide.
The gripe
They were shithouse. The limbs were like Starwars figs and only went straight out in a "me smash" double downward fist caveman manner. They were much bigger than the other figs in my "collection". Their weapons - machine guns - could only be held straight outward in one hand. It's almost like the designer didn't give a flying monkeys and the toy company was more concerned with the merchandising profits from flogging useless Krusty the Clown esq crappy merchandise than making a decent toy.
Masters of the Universe figs - These too were about 15 cm tall. The male figs were built like steroid raging greco-roman wrestlers. I didn't have any, but friends had them.
The gripe.
They could not stand up without angling their torso at about a 10 degree angle forward. It looked like they were pushing out a fart. It ruined the atmos. They too could only move their arms up and down - but at least they had a waist that could turn.
Now this is just figs - hard solid plastic. The "dolls", about the height of a barbie, were a different matter. I won't go into it here. But geez the Six Million Dollar man with its girder in his back shat me.
I eventually stopped playing with action figs at the end of year ten. No, it wasn't a Corinthians style road to Damascus realisation of impending manliness. It was because in my house up until the end of year 10 we had a kewl loft above the garage that was our "play room". I was the only one who played up there, and had my world all set up (typically it was a rebellion scenario against insert evil overlord here). With the action figs were standard Vietnam era toy soldiers (you know, each pack had four mine sweepers and three flame thrower guys), playmobil figs, assorted rubber plastic el-cheapie sword and sorcery type dolls and various others. It was my world and I loved it. I even named some of the soldier toys - my favourite was Sergeant McCoy, a British Paratrooper ... that was later KIA courtesy of my older brother and his air rifle - me finding McCoy's headless body outside by the big tree in the backyard that served as our backdrop to leaden air powered fun. I can remember dropping to my knees like Elias in Platoon and silently mourning his loss, my head upturned to the sky.
The loft was the most awesome playroom and I blame its location, location, location for my extended dalliance with toys.
In year 11 we moved out of town. I got the box room next to my parents. No play room in the house. I tried recreating the magic in my tiny room but it just wasn't the same. I finally became a man! Not because of that though. Because after two years of erections I finally learned how to make it go off.
Yee-ha. You see Corinthians doesn't mention the whole "put away childish things" is largely due to the fact that now you have some ready access to operable man meat of your own to play with, you don't need no stinkin' toys.
Unless of course ... you're a lady.
QED.
Dub Tee Eff (question mark)
Today I was passing the lovely ladies on "the other side". So called because they work on the other bend of the horseshoe of the open plan work stations in my area (with the centre of the shoe being offices of people paid way more than more to go to way more meetings - the poor bastards).
Earlier that day they had accosted me on my not shaving off for Movember. I replied 'Someone has to stay bushy. Therefore call me Mr Bush.'
As I was passing this second time they called me over.
'We want you to come and sit down on the floor between us so we can pat your tummy like the fat Buddha'
Um ... yeah. I know we have a rapport and all - and the other day one of them accidentally named my junk, Esteban - but that's a big call to assume A) I am Dharmic in my outlook and B) I enjoy others making references to my weight.
So naturally I photo shopped up a statue of said semi-divine figure with a backwards baseball cap and a Pimp bling clock and sent it to them with the subject PHAT BUDDHA.
You know what. I ask for this.
Oh, later I worked out that with the power of my pseudonyms combined, I was now Esteban Bush.
I think there's something in that for all of us.
Earlier that day they had accosted me on my not shaving off for Movember. I replied 'Someone has to stay bushy. Therefore call me Mr Bush.'
As I was passing this second time they called me over.
'We want you to come and sit down on the floor between us so we can pat your tummy like the fat Buddha'
Um ... yeah. I know we have a rapport and all - and the other day one of them accidentally named my junk, Esteban - but that's a big call to assume A) I am Dharmic in my outlook and B) I enjoy others making references to my weight.
So naturally I photo shopped up a statue of said semi-divine figure with a backwards baseball cap and a Pimp bling clock and sent it to them with the subject PHAT BUDDHA.
You know what. I ask for this.
Oh, later I worked out that with the power of my pseudonyms combined, I was now Esteban Bush.
I think there's something in that for all of us.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Australia post - adapting itself to the modern world
Today I had to go to Oz Post. Recognising I wasn't going to make it it to a 5pm close, I hunted down a 6pm closing Post Office. I used the Oz Post website.
I turned up at 5.20. Where a sign greeted me saying it was closed. It was one of those sub post offices within a larger shop. So I said 'Um, the website said you close at 6.'
The woman responded. 'Er no ... it's now 5.'
As I left I snarled out 'well ... that was a huge pain in the arse.'
She responded with a cheery and likely sarcastic 'see ya!'
Yeah ... because as a white collar worker whose core hours are 830 - 5pm I am surely going to use their fucked service in the future.
I turned up at 5.20. Where a sign greeted me saying it was closed. It was one of those sub post offices within a larger shop. So I said 'Um, the website said you close at 6.'
The woman responded. 'Er no ... it's now 5.'
As I left I snarled out 'well ... that was a huge pain in the arse.'
She responded with a cheery and likely sarcastic 'see ya!'
Yeah ... because as a white collar worker whose core hours are 830 - 5pm I am surely going to use their fucked service in the future.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Nursey's open mouth should be shut
It's movember season in my office. For those not in the know movember is a recent charity innovation where men attempt to grow a mo for the month of November, sponsored by their colleagues, with money raised going to the fight against Prostate Cancer.
Hey, it was either that or trademark the colour brown and get it hashed across every product in the land like the Pink of Breast Cancer.
I am not participating as I could not be arsed (ho ho - prostate cancer - geddit).
Someone mentioned my full beard and mo and noted that it was not too late for me to join in with a quick shave.
Me?
'Yeah, that's true. If I shaved it all off now, I could probably still win. And, even if I was running behind, I could simply transplant the hair from my arse.'
I yelled that out across the work station corrals of my work-place. A second later, as bemused heads turned in my direction given the tumbleweed clanger just dropped, I added 'man, that was inappropriate'.
All agreed.
Later that day, at afternoon drinks, us younger types were playing celebrity guess with fantale wrappers. For some reason the topic of Hugh Jackman as a possible woman came up. We were making lady boy jokes, scrotal pouch references, then, later, discussed genital origami.
I think it's time for a refresher for Mikey as to his workplace EEO policies...
Hey, it was either that or trademark the colour brown and get it hashed across every product in the land like the Pink of Breast Cancer.
I am not participating as I could not be arsed (ho ho - prostate cancer - geddit).
Someone mentioned my full beard and mo and noted that it was not too late for me to join in with a quick shave.
Me?
'Yeah, that's true. If I shaved it all off now, I could probably still win. And, even if I was running behind, I could simply transplant the hair from my arse.'
I yelled that out across the work station corrals of my work-place. A second later, as bemused heads turned in my direction given the tumbleweed clanger just dropped, I added 'man, that was inappropriate'.
All agreed.
Later that day, at afternoon drinks, us younger types were playing celebrity guess with fantale wrappers. For some reason the topic of Hugh Jackman as a possible woman came up. We were making lady boy jokes, scrotal pouch references, then, later, discussed genital origami.
I think it's time for a refresher for Mikey as to his workplace EEO policies...
Testasquishaphobia
The fear you have as a man that when you sit down on the toilet that you're accidentally going to park yourself on one of your balls.
I know for one that I re-arrange or even manually shield as I lower myself just in case.
Hey, when you have old balls*, this danger is a genuine threat.
*When your balls have descended well past your nob. As ably demonstrated by the extended descent of the balls of Cecil the Ram
I know for one that I re-arrange or even manually shield as I lower myself just in case.
Hey, when you have old balls*, this danger is a genuine threat.
*When your balls have descended well past your nob. As ably demonstrated by the extended descent of the balls of Cecil the Ram
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