You Can Take Your Horse And Cart and Shove It!

Today was a Saturday like any other in the inner western suburbs of Sydney: the ibis were scratching for burger ring scraps in the church grounds, the goths were dressing inappropriately for the warm weather, and the roads that supply cars to King Street were filled with cars trying to get away from the goths, the ibis and the King Street traffic. (Before I go on, I should point out that the the term 'goth' in this instance extends to people that aren't genuine goths but some other peculiar sub category of goth involving a dash more colour and a dash less crushed velvet). I'm not the sharpest sandwich in the picnic, so i assumed it was the blue moon festival or perhaps some other important day of the pagan calendar that had upped the 'goth' ratio in the streets. The likely epicentre of celebrations would be the dismal 'town square' opposite Newtown Station where there is ample shade for sweaty men in three piece suits.

As my bus crawled across the invisible line where Victoria Road becomes Enmore Road and beyond, it seemed that this traffic was even worse than normal... and do you know why? Because there was a horse and cart up ahead of us! On a proper road! On a Saturday! In the morning! When there is always a lot of traffic! When it is a bad time for slow novelty vehicles!

Regardless, there it was... wending it's way to... wherever.

My first thought was 'why isn't their more tooting, or 'parping' as they say on Men Behaving Badly?', but barely had that obscure 90s television reference crossed my mind when I realised that horses were involved, and if we city folk know anything it's that horses startle easily and that they can't be trusted around loud noises and footpaths full of goths. Patiently (and silently) the cars all limped along behind this peculiar spectacle, and suddenly it occured to me that the arseholes that choose to sit alone on a two person bus seat are lower on the dick hierachy than this anachronistic public spectacle business.

Finally, the bus driver overtook the cart in a relatively bold/assertive move and I went about my day (which for those of you playing at home involved a sister, some yum cha, some walking and some car borrowing). I also went and introduced myself to the Goodship Lollipop... (which is the name I really really hope my lil' pal gives his new boat, with a simple little 'HMAS Lollipop' printed on the side).

Can you imagine my surprise when, upon my return almost six hours later, i was stuck behind the same fucking horse and cart, this time descending Enmore Road across the invisibile line into Victoria Road? I was in control of my own destiny, horn-wise, but we were right near our favourite pizza shop and horses still can't be trusted, so I sat behind, patiently (and silently) and unwillingly.

I can glean one positive from this second encounter: I was trapped behind the cart long enough to see it turn a corner ...which revealed that it was a HEARSE horse and cart carrying a COFFIN! What's more about five of the cars immediately behind the cart turned out to be following it in good temper, not bad, as funeral mourners in vintage (not olden day) vehicles. And they were all off to finish their pantomime in Enmore Park in the shadow of the playground rocket. And I was off to wherever they weren't going to be.

I now know that today is halloween (my sandwich has been sharpened) and perhaps that means something to the 'goth' population of the Inner West.

To the ten year olds of Hunters Hill, however, it means an opportunity to put on a black leotard with bunny ears and a fluffy tail and walk the streets asking strangers for candy.

Lost and Found

I found this little treasure on the footpath of the Pacific Highway in Wahroonga, just after the Sydney-Newcastle Freeway offramp. I don't need to know James personally to know that he is totally white and totally driving Mum's Magna without his plates.

Madcap Ideas Conceived by a Younger Me

There were many things I was going to do with this life of mine as a younger, inspired traveller of the world circa 2002. Not big life things - those questions have never been close to resolution - but small projects, like learning to speak Italian and play the guitar. I also had ideas for a number of 'creative projects' that I would produce and sell at an edgy market stall in an undetermined public school playground of Sydney. It wouldn't make me rich, but it would certainly classify me as bohemian and at that stage of my life, that was all i dared hope for.

One such project's prototype ended up on a dear friend's wall for a few months - a felt patchwork triptych... a description which is giving the thing more kudos than it ever deserved. Another idea's protoype is on the wall of my bathroom awaiting improvement on methods of construction before mass production can be commenced. Though I still like the idea and was happy with the aesthetic, unfortunately, the world now knows about prints on canvas, and market stalls are chock full of them.

A third idea hurtled ahead of the others and made it to production stage ... and fifteen completed items have been packaged and stockpiled somewhere in the attic. These will be the items displayed in a basket arranged with tissue paper and uncooked rice on the counter of the stall, sold for $5 a piece. Without a big ticket item to furnish the remaining three dimensions of my stall, in the attic my Sydney skyline matchbook magnets will remain.

And then there were was the idea of a range of unique, musically(lyrically?) inspired gift cards featuring the most poignant of lyrics to meaningfully celebrate the occasions of weddings, birthdays, thank you's, and unrequited love (always a musical tendency of mine). At the time, I was unconcerned about the copyright restrictions of the images and lyrics that I intended to incorporate in the designs, and I still may be (note to self: seek legal advice), but tonight I finally made my first prototype (above) for a condolence card or perhaps, more specifically, a card for somebody called Angie. Is this the way to fund my future and my warehouse dream?

Is this a straightforward word verification or is Google weighing in on the iSnack 2.0 debarcle?

But I want to throw this one out there, because by my reckoning, this really could be a word.

• A species of bed bug found in a futon?
• An inneffective or pointless microscopic insect?
• A pharmaceutical breakfast spread for the treatment of depression?

People are Dicks Sometimes

I'm a bit of an unwitting student of human dickery in that I am both overly aware of 'dick' activity and am fairly broad with the categorisation. For example, I have observed and/or assumed that most bus travellers (I exclude the elderly and infirm, mothers and babies) have a choice of two or sometimes three bus stops that would deliver them as close to their destination as is necessary before continuing on foot (weather permitting). As a result, I get bothered when I see a young fit thing (like the natural enemy of public transport travel, the school student) press the 'request stop' button immediately after a bus has left a suburban stop rather than just taking the hit for the team and walking the two blocks further to wherever they are heading. After all, the bus was stopping anyway... why not get off and save yourself the effort of pressing the button and your fellow travellers the pain of an additional stop? I just think that if we all worked together and coordinated our shared journey, the bus would only need to stop half as often and we would all get where we're going a lot faster and our knees would be pushed painfully into the back of the seat in front for a shorter amount of time. I've questioned others about this phenomenon, as i have felt this way for sometime and as a result of their indifference I now accept that i maybe apply the term 'dick' a little too liberally. I still think i've got a point, though.

But what of these occurences of dickery that I have observed today? Travelling on an almost full bus along King Street at what can be described roughly as 'lunchtime', four separate persons on my bus chose to sit on the aisle side of their otherwise empty two seaters. Now, in principle, I get what's going on here: ALL of us dream of spending the 25-35 minute bus ride to the city with a seat to call our own, but basic social niceties would not allow most of us (I hope) to actively repel a potential neighbour by creating a situation where they would need to ask us to move or worse still, shimmy through the already limited space to access the spare seat. And when I say I get it, I do truly get it: I dread having that spare seat taken so much that at every stop my stomach clenches as I will the Fairies of Personal Space to bless me a little longer with solitude and thighs unflanked by the flesh of strangers. (Strangely, once the seat has been taken, I will the Fairies of the Status Quo to not take away my new companion for the fear that they may be replaced by yet another set of strange thighs). But while I do understand the desire to be alone on a bus seat built for two, what really frustrated me about these aisle people today is that they seemed to assume expressions of entitlement and blissful ignorance as other passengers shuffled between the temporary seating in the wheelchair section into more desirable seats when the opportunity arose. It was like these four people were so special as to deserve a seat to themselves... and I hated them and their (to me) blatant display of dickery.

Fast forward an hour or two to Marrickville Metro as a large man, leaning heavily on his loaded shopping trolley, approached the escalator at the same time as me, though I was outpacing him two to one having just sidestepped a floaty mundane on a magical snails pace saunter through fairyland. He made no acknowledgement of me as he positioned his trolley o' junk fair and square in the middle of the footway and recommenced his tired and overweight lean on the handlebars... snookering me to remain behind him with five heavy shopping bags for the 45 second journey to the top. And I hated him too.

Is it me, or are these reasonable examples of dickery? I observed many more trivial assaults on human decency on my sojourn, but these were the two in particular that my ageing self is getting closer and closer to resolving with a small 'ahem' and then some gentle (aka assertive) notes about politeness, spacial awareness and cooperation in the modern world. Can't we all just get along?

You Know What I Miss?

I miss not being able to say innocent things like 'today i got a blister from wearing thongs' without pause to consider whether the audience for that thought might be better served by a less ambiguous expression. I only lived in the UK for 9 months (extended to a year for the sake of a good story), but it has made a lasting impression.

I also miss Milk Double Choc ice creams and Docs being cool.

Andrew YAY!

Yesterday was a bad day. Whether the attitude shaped the scenario, or the scenario shaped the attitude, I am not sure (yes... I AM dipping my toe into UC Berkeley's Sociology 150A), but I know that today I am making a concerted effort to avoid all elements that may affect a fresh, pristine attitude. Rightly or wrongly, that means shunning technology. Clearly not entirely, for this is not written with pen and ink and put in an envelope addressed to 'Nobody, Nowhere', but I will not be tending my farm on Farmville today, nor greeting tour buses on Roller Coaster Kingdom, nor murdering creeps for the unholy crime of trying to get from 'a' to 'b' in Desktop Tower Defence. Neither will I be checking Facebook for dull status updates ('Natalie is having a late lunch', 'Andrew YAY'), continuing the so far fruitless search for an interesting blog from an unknown author or searching for a skilled stranger to visit my home and fix the oven. Instead, I am going to spend some hours reading a book. A real one... made out of paper.

It's not that I spend a large percentage of my day doing those things on an average (quiet) day, but I suspect that less interaction with the technological world may be the antedote to what ails me... today, anyway. I'm hardly going to be Amish about it, but until tonight when I hope to regroup with a bunch of pals to fight a valiant war of wits against the quizmaster at the Rose of Australia in Erskineville, I am just goin' to be chillin', okay?

Desperately Seeking Sponsors

I have a dream.

I have a dream that one day I will live in the funkiest warehouse apartment ever, and that when I first move in it will be a realio trulio proper warehouse awaiting a little bit of elbow grease and know how.

I have a dream that I will have a number of japanesey screens that I will move around my warehouse apartment to change the room configuration on a whim.

I have a dream that I will live like Tom Hanks in Big, Eddie Murphy in Boomerang, or a lady called Madeleine who lives in the warehouse on the corner of Probert St and Salisbury Rd in Camperdown and has a fantastic dining table made out of old science desks.

This has been a dream for sometime, and tonight... not half an hour ago... my heart skipped a beat as the dream became slightly more attainable. I now feel deflated as I realise the property in question will earn a pretty penny and that we probably could not afford it as is, let alone afford to buy it and convert it into a chic warehouse with an indoor courtyard and a flexible floorplan. But imagine the cosmopolitan lifestyle we could all lead within these walls...

This Is A Post About A Post About A Post About Playgrounds

Nod to Divine Caroline via Swiss Miss, and there's more retro playground fun over there... and here's your ticket to there:

Idea for Blog #1

Tales from Urbia - A photojournal of the peculiarities of life in Urban Sydney. The first photo I need to take is from the nature strip of an older greek couple in a street near the train line, who earlier today were standing in their tiled front yard waving off their adult daughter when I walked past. Their nature strip features two symmetrically carved out circles of grass in the centre of which are planted two saplings. Surrounding their thin trunks, in two complete and nigh on perfect circles, are 200mL bottles with varying lid colours, filled with water and placed in the garden in line with the popular theory of the late eighties that a plastic bottle of water repels dogs seeking a place to urinate. It is the particularity and neatness of this scene that gets me.

A few metres down the road, another house features a galvanised garden sculpture of a thin anchor replica... half buried. I need to return with my camera.

Get A Haircut And Get A Real Job

I think my unemployed days are numbered. How can something be both what you want and desperately don’t want all at once? After all, what’s not to love about being unemployed? There’s time to cook, see friends, take long walks, read fascinating books and sleep in. Bedtime is after you’ve squeezed every useable minute out of the day for all those worthy activities because no alarm clock will disrupt your morning slumber. The digit that leads the clock face when I finally give up on my day is most often a ‘two’ and by then, my little companion is in REM sleep and therefore I cause him no trouble. Surely, this is the way life should be.

But then there’s the reality. I COULD cook, but i don’t really feel like it. I could see friends, but to seek out friends to spend time with during the day is to admit to them or yourself that you need company, and quite frankly, i am far too busy to see all those people all the time – the hours of my time off are, after all, incredibly precious. Long walks... yeah, I like those, but sometimes it’s windy out there and sometimes there is a load of washing you have to wait to finish so that you can put it on the line and then it will be too late in the day to go gallivanting off for an hour and a half. No, really. There are lots of hurdles to progress in my long unemployed days.

To jump ahead and then back again, as I have clearly mastered the ‘sleep in’, the problem lies in the’ reading fascinating books’. It may be true that the ‘me’ that i like the most is the one sprawled on the couch in the afternoon sun reading vital literature and listening to classical music (probably with something delicious shooting aromas in my direction from the kitchen), but the me that gets me through each day is the housekeeping me. The laundry basket is empty the minute it contains enough for a load, the fridge is cleaned out, the beds are all straightened regularly, and then there is the daily grind of sweeping a house with floorboards throughout. My workmanship is sometimes shoddy as i operate a little like the NSW Police Force: ‘Now Targeting Living Room Clutter’, ‘Now Targeting Possum Poo On Deck’, ‘Now Targeting Living Room Clutter Again’. Meanwhile, the pile of discarded clothes beside my bed is my deepest shame, and that mountain of clean washing resulting from an impeccable laundry schedule is just not folding itself – instead, it obstructs me from the sheets on the spare bed that I assume are in need of good straightening under ten loads of clean washing.

I don’t think I am to blame for the worthiness that is incomplete. I have a very active Facebook lifestyle that needs to be maintained, i feel a deep seeded need to crack all 24 levels of Desktop Tower Defence and, as of the last three days, I have a blog to maintain. I also feel like I need to be relaxing... like this is a holiday that I should be enjoying. I refuse to turn on the television during the day and I am determinedly productive, yet the days are slipping from me and I am not wiser, fitter, nor do I feel like I have just been having a wonderful break from the daily grind.

I can draw only one conclusion: i have wasted this time on petty tasks that have kept me occupied rather than satisfied, and my mind and perhaps soul have suffered for it. The only solution is to go back to work.

Unfortunately, if I am working, there will be no time to cook, see friends, go for long walks, read important literature and sleep in ... and oh boy, I could really use some time for those things!

Google Search: 'How Do I Start A Blog?'

The truth is that i never got as far as the question mark... or even the 'a' in 'start'. When you start to type that question into Google, you find that the path has been paved by multitudes of other Jane and John Citizen's suffering from some sort of self indulgent malaise. I am not the first to think 'perhaps personal satisfaction will come from writing to... you know, people'.

But to kick off, my kindly listeners numbering none, try it. Open a new tab, write in the Google box 'how do I...' and be amused by what those people out there are searching for. Any one of 'what', 'why' and 'when' will deliver a similar glimpse into the global psyche, especially when followed with an 'I' as soon as sentence structure next allows. I think of a 20 year old man... let's call him Dylan for the purpose of this exercise... sitting in front of a computer in the library at uni (he doesn't have a laptop because he is from my era of university... before wi fi). He has an assignment to write, but his stomach is in turmoil after a stodgy college meal of sweet and sour pork; all vinegar, pineapple and onion. As he chews the end of his bic, he absent mindedly types into Google 'why do I fart so much?'.

I can also see the intolerant little 14 year old girl in her bedroom (with so much wi fi you can almost see the particles of information flying through the air) typing in 'why do indians smell?'. I assume she means Indians from India and not Native Americans. What's more, I think she is just talking about the Indians you might encounter in the supermarket in conservative largely caucasian nations because i don't feel in my heart that she has travelled to see the Indians in India and is querying the smell of poverty... or the Ganges... or humidity and accompanying sweat. I haven't been to India either, but I've read 'The God of Small Things' and seen 'Slumdog Millionaire' so I'm pretty sure I get it. Taking that into account, I feel no need to continue her search as I think 'spices' and some sort of explanation about perspiration and pores should be all the answer she needs.

But sitting amongst all these questions is the most peculiar 'why do i have green poop?'. I have no picture of the enquirer... just the enquirer's poo...