When I talk to people who have spent their entire lives in Adelaide I hear “Adelaide sucks – there is nothing to do”. Granted it does not draw the big international acts as some of the Eastern state cousins, or has the best restaurants, and even the supermarkets are closed at 9pm, but the feeling of “nothing to do” stems from not being stuck in traffic for an extra two hours a day. You have more spare time than you know what to do with. “Fuck it, I’ll go and watch Neighbours,” should never be an option.
It gives me the shits because I grew up in a country town where you could do only three things; drink, breed, and move away. Sometimes you would multitask, sometimes too much of option one and two, led to three, but in true country town fashion it was not always in that order.
Teenage pregnancy was rife where I grew up, probably still is but I am avoiding researching more, and it was a problem before the baby bonus. Harvey Norman is doing better for it mind you, even with all the restrictions. Centrelink is not kidding anyone by making the baby bonus come in weekly instalments when you can rent to buy?
A school that I went to from year 8 to year 10 (14-16 years old... give or take... mostly take... wink!) allegedly had eleven cases of pregnancy. The school where I did year 11 and 12 (do the math yourself) now has a creche. It makes sense when you learn that up until 2004 you could only get ABC, SBS, and a bastardisation of Channel 7. Foxtel/Austar helped, but not everyone got it, but everyone was getting it... wink!
It is not because the women have lower standards, or every man that you meet is as smooth as Sean Connery in a room full of Octopussies. It is because everyone is bored, and mate selection has skewed so that even nerds like me get some.
The top pick up lines are as follows:
• I have a job
• I have a girlfriend
• I know Ro... Steve
If you have a job, you have skills that conjure income and to have something to talk about other than your family tree, just to be safe. The bonus with the job pick up line is that you can buy drinks, ergo; you can hide the fact that you have the personality like soiled underpants by blurring your way to victory.
An extension of this pick up line is “I am an operator”. An operator is someone who operates machinery at the local plant. They generally have no transferable skills, but they work 12 hour shifts and earn a butt load of cash.
A more effective pick up line is surprisingly having a girlfriend. By having a girlfriend it tells women that at some stage you were not an arse long enough to theoretically “commit” to a relationship, but you must be good in bed because now you are cheating and still in one... or soon will be... wink! One of my mates swears by this method, and he is clueless to the chicken and the egg scenario.
Having a girlfriend and being an operator makes you a sex god. You work long hours and in shifts, so you, and your partner, can both cheat and still have plenty of time to get the stink off.
The third option is a little obscure but worked a charm. As I did not have a job through school, refused to cheat on my girlfriends (some did not return that favour), and was a nerd, I was lucky enough to be cool by association. One friend in particular, let’s just call him Steve, is a little bit effeminate, but has had more than his fair share of tail. And I mean more than his fair share. The girls love him, and by being one of his mates I was cool and suave by association. Very handy.
Adelaide is not as bad as people think, its residents just lack the practise of finding their own fun. Just be thankful that your daughter, or son, is not coming home to give you the bad news that you are going to be a grandparent before you turn 50. But I do feel sorry for people growing up in the city; with so much more to do they have to entertain themselves... wink!
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Friday, June 17, 2011
Goal Update 3
Half the year has gone, only a third of the way through that rough draft... it is going to be a tight finish. Motivation is not the problem, I am trying to do too many projects at once. I need to step back, do some planning, and re-organise my priorities so that goals are met.
The Chess Hammer stuff is coming, it is just in an editing phase.
On the long Easter weekend I did achieve the third goal. I climbed a real rock. Have a look on the page for a picture.
Is this my shortest post ever?
The Chess Hammer stuff is coming, it is just in an editing phase.
On the long Easter weekend I did achieve the third goal. I climbed a real rock. Have a look on the page for a picture.
Is this my shortest post ever?
Friday, June 10, 2011
Running through the towels
After a long working week my Girlfriend and I decided to go to one of those Chinese massage places that have been popping up all over the place in recent years; I never knew so many people wanted to be touched up by complete strangers... they should try the public transport system in Japan.
It was a cold and wintry sort of autumn day, and every shop had set their heating to 35 degrees in lieu of actually wearing warmer clothes. Every time you walked into a new place you had to strip down to your undies to survive the change in temperature, and then once the browsing was complete you braced yourself and charged into the shitty weather once again.
I do not understand how this is good for business. We make the difference in temperature between the shop and outside so ludicrous that we make every one come into our shop feeling sick. Yeah! Woo! Because there ain’t no business like people associating your goods with the sniffles business. If you continuously go to one extreme temperature to another, inevitably your nose is going to run so fast, conservationists are looking at harvesting the run off.
Massage parlours are no exception. If anything they are worst. Except that new “bikini clad” massage parlour on South Road, I reckon they do not even need to plug in an urn to boil water in that place.
My girlfriend and I both chose a “neck and shoulders” massage from parlour menu. She shouts me as I have no money on me, because she is awesome, and I am led into a curtained off area trying so hard to be a room; my girlfriend is taken into the “room” next to mine. My massage dude tells me to take out my keys, wallet, and phone and to take off my jacket, shoes, lose items and nothing else. He is looking at me dead in the eye as he says this; obviously people have been mistaken about the level of privacy this false room provides. Turns out they use a chamois like cloth over your clothes to massage; no need for nakedness... or fun it seems.
All about the room there are a few chairs about the place, an indoor pot plant looking worse for wear, a tub full of my things (I put them there, they did not rob me), pictures of relaxation imagery, a massage table with millions of towels underneath, and a speaker pumping out the hollow wooden relaxing sounds of a relaxed bamboo flute player. Everyone about me is serene and calm, and as subtlety as I could, I try to snort up the booger trying to escape.
The dude puts a pillow with a face hole over the face hole in the massage table, lays face hole tissue over the face hole, and then motions of me to lie down with my face in the hole. I lay down with my arms dangling down either side of the table, with my face in the face hole, and the dude proceeded to go to town on my shoulders. It was awesome. First he went with the “hello darling let me help you relax” teenage shoulder rub, and bam! I was in the relaxation elevator to heaven.
About halfway through, after he spent more than an acceptable time on my neck, he returned to my back. He started using his forearm to press into the muscles that travel alongside my spine; pressing hard and then slowly working his way up. It was an odd experience. It was pain when he pressed down, but when he lifted I was floating. As he got higher, he pushed down enough to encourage the air out of my lungs. It would have been fine with my mouth open, but it pushed out through the nose and loosened up the thin runny booger hanging about inside.
I feel a drop starting to form.
I opened my eyes in a panic; my head was all foggy from endorphins. Underneath my face and under the table were a bunch of towels and the container of face tissue. I needed to wipe away the booger before it made a break for it. I tried to reach my nose with a hand just to wipe it away, but the table was too wide and all I do is just look like I'm trying to give it a reach around. The man pushes down again, I could feel the booger droplet getting bigger and sliding out of my nose. I had to do something, but I was pinned. My muscles were too relaxed to respond, and my worries and stress started to drift off with the music. The dude pushes down again.
Drip...
There was nothing I could have done. A teardrop of snot lands in the container of face tissues. I can see it discolouring the paper as my germs soak into the paper. That is what the paper was for, but I imagine the company had thought the paper to be in a closer proximity to the face. Never the less, I was getting my fair share of raw materials.
Drip...
The man pushed down again and another droplet escaped from me into the container; no amount of bamboo flute can make you relax after that. “You must relax,” he said to me as I stiffened up. What could I do? Should I have stopped him and told him? I tried to get up, I was more alert than before but I was still powerless. The man pressed harder to fight my building tension.
Drip drip drip...
Faster than before booger is coming out of my nose; I could see the discolouration spreading across the tissue, like the red weed from War of the Worlds.
Drip drip drip
My mind was racing and un-relaxing. All the hard work the man put into the 15 minutes on my back had gone into my muscles, out of my nose, and into the tray beneath me. There was no going back. I then noticed the man had stopped.
“Sit up please.” I got up slowly. I turned to him sheepishly. He looked bored... not what I was expecting. He had not seen my drips. He had not noticed the soiled tissue. How dare he be bored! Fuck him. If there was no professional curiosity as to why all the work he did was going to waste, then fuck him and fuck the container of red weed tissue. Righteousness took over me. This man obviously only took his job for face value and he did not care. Then why should I care? Industrialised massage was what it felt like; rubbing people down on a large scale with no individual considerations. Normally I would have been excited on the prospect, but now it sickened me.
He finished the massage, my girlfriend paid, and we departed walking away floating on cloud nine. She felt better, I felt cheapened but justified. After that first drip I thought I was going to have a guilt riddled evening, I had the clearest sinuses in South Australia, and I did feel pretty good.
It was a cold and wintry sort of autumn day, and every shop had set their heating to 35 degrees in lieu of actually wearing warmer clothes. Every time you walked into a new place you had to strip down to your undies to survive the change in temperature, and then once the browsing was complete you braced yourself and charged into the shitty weather once again.
I do not understand how this is good for business. We make the difference in temperature between the shop and outside so ludicrous that we make every one come into our shop feeling sick. Yeah! Woo! Because there ain’t no business like people associating your goods with the sniffles business. If you continuously go to one extreme temperature to another, inevitably your nose is going to run so fast, conservationists are looking at harvesting the run off.
Massage parlours are no exception. If anything they are worst. Except that new “bikini clad” massage parlour on South Road, I reckon they do not even need to plug in an urn to boil water in that place.
My girlfriend and I both chose a “neck and shoulders” massage from parlour menu. She shouts me as I have no money on me, because she is awesome, and I am led into a curtained off area trying so hard to be a room; my girlfriend is taken into the “room” next to mine. My massage dude tells me to take out my keys, wallet, and phone and to take off my jacket, shoes, lose items and nothing else. He is looking at me dead in the eye as he says this; obviously people have been mistaken about the level of privacy this false room provides. Turns out they use a chamois like cloth over your clothes to massage; no need for nakedness... or fun it seems.
All about the room there are a few chairs about the place, an indoor pot plant looking worse for wear, a tub full of my things (I put them there, they did not rob me), pictures of relaxation imagery, a massage table with millions of towels underneath, and a speaker pumping out the hollow wooden relaxing sounds of a relaxed bamboo flute player. Everyone about me is serene and calm, and as subtlety as I could, I try to snort up the booger trying to escape.
The dude puts a pillow with a face hole over the face hole in the massage table, lays face hole tissue over the face hole, and then motions of me to lie down with my face in the hole. I lay down with my arms dangling down either side of the table, with my face in the face hole, and the dude proceeded to go to town on my shoulders. It was awesome. First he went with the “hello darling let me help you relax” teenage shoulder rub, and bam! I was in the relaxation elevator to heaven.
About halfway through, after he spent more than an acceptable time on my neck, he returned to my back. He started using his forearm to press into the muscles that travel alongside my spine; pressing hard and then slowly working his way up. It was an odd experience. It was pain when he pressed down, but when he lifted I was floating. As he got higher, he pushed down enough to encourage the air out of my lungs. It would have been fine with my mouth open, but it pushed out through the nose and loosened up the thin runny booger hanging about inside.
I feel a drop starting to form.
I opened my eyes in a panic; my head was all foggy from endorphins. Underneath my face and under the table were a bunch of towels and the container of face tissue. I needed to wipe away the booger before it made a break for it. I tried to reach my nose with a hand just to wipe it away, but the table was too wide and all I do is just look like I'm trying to give it a reach around. The man pushes down again, I could feel the booger droplet getting bigger and sliding out of my nose. I had to do something, but I was pinned. My muscles were too relaxed to respond, and my worries and stress started to drift off with the music. The dude pushes down again.
Drip...
There was nothing I could have done. A teardrop of snot lands in the container of face tissues. I can see it discolouring the paper as my germs soak into the paper. That is what the paper was for, but I imagine the company had thought the paper to be in a closer proximity to the face. Never the less, I was getting my fair share of raw materials.
Drip...
The man pushed down again and another droplet escaped from me into the container; no amount of bamboo flute can make you relax after that. “You must relax,” he said to me as I stiffened up. What could I do? Should I have stopped him and told him? I tried to get up, I was more alert than before but I was still powerless. The man pressed harder to fight my building tension.
Drip drip drip...
Faster than before booger is coming out of my nose; I could see the discolouration spreading across the tissue, like the red weed from War of the Worlds.
Drip drip drip
My mind was racing and un-relaxing. All the hard work the man put into the 15 minutes on my back had gone into my muscles, out of my nose, and into the tray beneath me. There was no going back. I then noticed the man had stopped.
“Sit up please.” I got up slowly. I turned to him sheepishly. He looked bored... not what I was expecting. He had not seen my drips. He had not noticed the soiled tissue. How dare he be bored! Fuck him. If there was no professional curiosity as to why all the work he did was going to waste, then fuck him and fuck the container of red weed tissue. Righteousness took over me. This man obviously only took his job for face value and he did not care. Then why should I care? Industrialised massage was what it felt like; rubbing people down on a large scale with no individual considerations. Normally I would have been excited on the prospect, but now it sickened me.
He finished the massage, my girlfriend paid, and we departed walking away floating on cloud nine. She felt better, I felt cheapened but justified. After that first drip I thought I was going to have a guilt riddled evening, I had the clearest sinuses in South Australia, and I did feel pretty good.
Friday, June 3, 2011
Prompt much?
June comes at a busy time this year, but what is important in life?
I have decided to take part in the 30 Day Writing Challenge, an initiative from the cool cats at the Domino Project with Seth Godin.
http://ralphwaldoemerson.me/
Go have a look and take part; it only takes ten minutes a day. Ten minutes to flex muscles that need
I have created a new page on my blog to cater for the event. I may not update it everyday, but I do tackle the prompts in the morning. I will upload them when I can. Have a look, comments are always welcome.
I have decided to take part in the 30 Day Writing Challenge, an initiative from the cool cats at the Domino Project with Seth Godin.
http://ralphwaldoemerson.me/
Go have a look and take part; it only takes ten minutes a day. Ten minutes to flex muscles that need
I have created a new page on my blog to cater for the event. I may not update it everyday, but I do tackle the prompts in the morning. I will upload them when I can. Have a look, comments are always welcome.
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