The Height of Entertainment vs The Bottom of Enetertainment

The Emmys = talent, wit, & charisma

 

The VMAs = butts, butts & more butts

 

 

 

 

The Bump Into

We met inside Joe’s Coffee House. Well, technically, in the doorway of Joe’s Coffee House. She wore a bright blue dress with a decorative floral print (which, by the way, still looks amazing to this day). That morning, I was on my way out, and she was on her way in. I was still jittery after indulging in my second cup of coffee; she was flustered, and struggled to balance her awkward combination of urgency and clumsiness that I too saw in myself. Then it happened. We bumped into one another. She stepped right, and so did I. We both giggled. I smiled and she blushed. Then I went left, and she went left! I made the first move, and nervously apologised. She blushed some more, brushing the hair away from her face and said, softly – ‘It’s okay.’ Not wanting to hold her up (although, secretly hoping to) I stepped left once more, but coincidentally, so did she. We both excused ourselves simultaneously, stammering over the top of one another (which was cute… then) It was as if it was our destiny to bump into each other. Fate had brought us together, in it’s own romantically clumsy way. But after twenty thousand-odd left and right footsteps later, we’re still caught in the same doorway, unable to get out of each other’s way, not unlike an animated GIF.

As time went on Joe’s Coffee House eventually closed down and became a laundry mat, then a beauty spa, followed by a Thai massage parlour, a tattoo parlour, a Starbucks, a KFC, a tax agent, an adult store, and eventually another coffee shop. It didn’t seem to matter what happened either side of the doorway, we remained permanently stuck in our clumsy collision. She grew cold, irritable and sarcastically sinister, while I exchanged my smiles and charming mannerisms for demeaning mumbling slurs (directed mostly at myself). 

As unhappy as we were, our timing remained impeccable. She still shuffled left when I shuffled left. And when I went right, she wearily stepped right as well. Gradually, our apologies subsided to a mere sigh or grunt, then inevitably ceased to exist. Each time she brushed the hair away from her face, I quivered inside with rage. The awkward little nuisances we originally fancied in one another became one gigantic pain in the arse.

Still today, our doorway predicament often draws an audience of onlookers who sigh ‘awww’ in unison. Over the years we’ve featured on multiple news programs and even signed a book deal. The publisher thinks our story could be turned into a movie one day. She calls it ‘Hollywood’s first ‘Doorway Romance’. Together we’ve witnessed all types of things in the doorway. A couple of years ago when the cafe was still a KFC there was a robbery. They managed to escape through the open doorway with the safe and four hostages by walking right between us, without breaking our bind. KFC were so livid they attempted to sue us for neglecting our duty of rescue. The court hearing took place right there in the doorway, where we were forced to demonstrate our bind to the jury, as if we had a choice.

The latest coffee shop is currently undergoing renovations, the owner’s concerned that we’re going to get in his way. How ironic. ‘It’s nothing builders haven’t worked around before’ I told him. If something was to change and either she or I made an unexpected move and broke free, I don’t know what I would do with myself, to be honest. It’s been so long that I’ve grown comfortable, content even. My parents have been married 45 years and they can’t stand each other, but they persist. I guess it’s easier staying together sometimes, even when you have a choice.

When we’re alone at night we often talk about missed opportunities to travel abroad or the fact that we’ve never been intimate. As we grow old the chance that one of us may become too weak to stand is kind of exciting, thrilling even. We’ve even started placing bets on who will go first. She thinks it will be me, because of my arthritis. Hopefully, whoever goes first will still be young and healthy enough to travel, heck, even meet somebody else. As long as it’s not in a doorway that is. 

Our timing is so impeccable that we’ll probably go at the same time: dying in each other’s way. Come to think of it, that would be a fitting way to go. Romantic. A real Hollywood ending, the publisher would say. Like Romeo and Juliet, but nothing like that at all.

Little Like The Fly

I return to the table from a short bathroom break and our eyes meet. My date smiles at me as she elegantly brushes the hair away from her face, while sipping her green tea. I sit down and do the same hoping it will calm my nerves. I don’t have any hair so it doesn’t quite come off. As I’m about to take a sip of my tea I happen to notice a small dark blur floating around in my cup. I catch it in the bottoms of my eyes as it passes beneath my nose and hurries into my mouth.

I try to convince myself that I’ve only swallowed a loose tea leaf that somehow managed to slip through the tight security of the strainer. Then paranoia sets in. Could there have been a fly swimming around in my tea cup? What if I have swallowed a fly? I hate flies; I have a phobia of them, they call it – Pteronarcophobia. It all happened so fast I can’t be sure what I saw. I’m starting to sweat. My date excuses herself from the table and I’m convinced that my least favourite thing in the world is now inside me.

I imagine the fly must have landed in my English breakfast whilst I was in the bathroom earlier. Perhaps it attempted to drink its way out at first, eventually swallowing more tea than it could stomach. Is it possible that the fly was lactose intolerant? Did it drown, or was it still breathing? Meanwhile, the back of my shirt is now completely soaked.

Should I say something? Do I ask the waiter for a new cup? By asking and explaining the situation am I going to embarrass myself? Even if I didn’t swallow the fly, she’s still going to think I did because I mentioned it and made a whole big deal over nothing. She’s going to wish she swiped left rather than right. Tinder hasn’t been kind to me, I need this. I don’t have to tell her, and I won’t. Still, I’m worried about the fly that’s now nesting inside me. My date returns to the table and looks uncomfortable; did she see me swallow the fly? Perhaps she noticed that it was in my tea and didn’t say anything, or tried to, but it was already too late. She starts staring at me, swiping left with her eyes.

We talk about a range of topics, but not the fly. She’s amused that we share the same taste in films, music and food, but not so in our choice of tea; I avoid the topic of tea altogether and steer the conversation elsewhere. She seems to have forgotten what happened and entertains me with her quirky tales of adventures abroad, but all I can think about is this disgusting fly. ‘It’s possible he swam out.’ Says a voice coming from within me. ‘What? No! What did he do? Swim to the side and climb out using the ladder?’ I mutter to myself, earning an odd look from my date. ‘Flies shit wherever they land’ Says another voice. Great, now the voices are back. How common is it to suffer from both Schizophrenia and Pteronarcophobia? I’m not thinking clearly, my body’s having a reaction to the fly. I’ve gotta keep it together.

The voice continues ‘I’ve heard if you swallow a fly it’s like swallowing gum. It clings to your insides for eight years and you’re unable to digest it.’ The other voice butts in. ‘No, that’s ridiculous. Gum stays wherever it lands; it hugs the streets, hides under school desks and resides on the backs of cafeteria seats. I’ve never seen a fly stay anywhere for too long, they can’t sit still.’ I cover my mouth and whisper back ‘When it’s alive that is.’

 The date may as well be over, she waves her finger in the air to signal the waiter for the bill. ‘I strongly believe if the fly is in there, he will fly out and everything will be okay.’ Says the voice. ‘She was the only girl who swiped right! We need this!’ Adds the other voice. I wonder what the chances are that he will fly out of my stomach, up through my throat and out of my mouth? Can a fly escape from an ear? Or nose? Or? Oh no. This is bothering me a little, little like the fly.

Down in Smoke: Passive Beginings

I’ve been a passive smoker since I was 7 years old. At least, that’s as far back as I can remember. I’ve never paid for a cigarette, not once, but I have paid for my fair share in cover charges just so I could stand in the smoker’s lounge of a nightclub. I’m pretty much a 2nd hand smoker of the first degree. My addiction has made me a regular at most pubs; and I hate pubs: beer, whisky and bourbon all sicken me to death. Even so, I persist with pubs, and the stench of pub carpet that wishes that it wasn’t. Because, for me, nothing is more satisfying than walking into a clouded room full of cigarette smoke. It’s like taking in a breath of fresh air. Actually it’s nothing like that at all. People often complain about the smell it leaves on their clothes, but that’s what I savour the most.

Simply catching the scent of a stranger lighting up will set me off on their smoke trail. Which brings me to one of my current dire predicaments: people are quitting. Or at the very least, less likely to light up socially. For years I’ve kept pretty close tabs on every known smoker in my office, and numbers are dropping. My strategy for soaking up other people’s smoke is well-worn, nevertheless, effortlessly effective. My process for fuelling my addiction was this: whenever somebody motioned towards the door for a ‘smoko’ break, I would tail closely behind to join them. Most of the time this would mean forcing pointless conversation about weather, sport, or worse, the uneventful coming weekend. Even the most painfully pointless conversations were worth every second of 2nd hand smoke that blew in my direction. Margaret from accounts was a double-edged sword. She was terribly boring on one hand, while blessed with exquisite taste in branded nicotine on the other. She bought the best ciggies, my absolute favourites – Port Royal. Like inhaling gold; so smooth; so good. The combination of the smoke and her perfume was strangely exquisite. Down right intoxicating.

Margaret’s daughter had just married a Jehovah’s Witness. As a devout Roman Catholic, this worried her. So she had plenty of stress to smoke her way through. The more she stressed, the more she smoked. And the more she smoked and choked, the happier I was. By the end of the day she had gone through a whole pack, and so had I. Her daughter’s marriage was turning her into a pack-a-day smoker, upping my intake in the process. If this kept up, I could avoid spending my passive smoking ciggie breaks with Ian, Arthur and Brody. To me, their conversation was just as deadly as their Winfield Reds and Peter Stuyvesant Blues. By 6pm, I was pretty much all smoked out on a daily basis. So satisfied, in fact, I could probably bypass my usual trip to the pub on the way home.

Just like a regular smoker, I tried to quit passive smoking several times. My personal best was 8 days clear, way back in 2006. It wasn’t like I hadn’t tried things: from patches to gum, quit hotlines to meditation, and hypnosis to lozenges. Eventually I decided to just go it cold turkey, which is especially hard when you’ve purposely aligned yourself with heavy smokers. So I took a trip to the countryside to be on my own, away from the nicotine society I had wedged my way into. It was fantastic for about two seconds.

When I got back things had changed. The smoke was clearing as the ban on smoking indoors at pubs and clubs finally hit in 2007. I knew it would, which is why I escaped to the countryside in the first place. Far far away from Ian, Arthur, Brody and most importantly Margaret. I thought I’d be clean by the time I got back, and the smoker’s ban would only help me break free from passive smoking for good. After all, who really wants to stand out in the cold with terrible company. To my surprise, there was no rioting in the streets. Nobody seemed to kick up too much of a stink about the anti-smoking laws. The idea of standing up to the law and fighting back had sort of petered off. Maybe because the pubs had done such an incredible job of transforming outdoor areas with couches that begged for the stench of cigarettes, and portable heaters that the made the inside of the pub feel Antarctically icy. Prior to the law change, many of these pubs were barely standing in their original decor. The idea of a renovation was laughable. Now the term ‘reno’ was on everybody’s lips. In a way the ban on smoking was the culprit which spearheaded the current landscape of made-over pubs, even the office balcony got a few pot plants. Unfortunately, Margaret was also attempting a make-over. She’d quit smoking, first with patches (unsuccessfully) then with prayer.

On my first day back I stood out on the balcony with Ian, Arthur and Brody as they banged on about the same-old shit that I won’t bore you with here. I kept my eye on Margaret through the window, hoping she’d fall back into temptation and join us outside. I was longing to see her face red with rage come storming through the doors and onto the balcony, Port Royals burning like a motherfucker one after the other. Instead, her face remained calm, creamy even. She was barely recognisable as she stared at her computer screen, neck veins intact. Prayer was working for her, and working against me. Religion had finally found a way to pay me back for all the years of gags I’d enjoyed at it’s expense. God does work in mysterious ways. Rather than strike me down (which he could) he simply takes away my chain smoking supplier of the good stuff.

There was only so much more I could take from the likes of Ian, Arthur and Brody. Fuck. I hadn’t come across the scent of a Port Royal in weeks. That day I complained of stomach pains and got out of the office early – that’s when it happened. While standing by the bus stop, my overly sensitive and desperate nostrils caught a faint scent of Port Royal. As the puff of smoke passed over me it revived my morale and gave my cravings an incentive to follow its trail down a dark alley, which, like any alley in a story, was poorly lit. My experience has taught me to keep a safe distance from smokers; enough space to avoid alerting them of my immediate presence, while remaining close enough to take it in. When I eventually caught up to the guy connected to the end of the cigarette butt I became just like the pub carpet that wished that it wasn’t, and witness to a crime. Cold-blooded murder. That’s what it was.

Acupuncture

Treatment from $60

Real Estate: Buyer Beware

I recently moved into a home I bought on the internet. I found it online, so I got it for a good price. My wife and I inspected the property at Home World a few months earlier and absolutely loved it; sadly it was a little over our budget. Then my good old neighbour told me I could get the exact same house online, for much cheaper. I said, ‘really?’ And he said ‘Yeah.’ and I said ‘No way, really? And he said ‘Yeah.’ A little annoyed by this point. So I was like ‘How do I know it’s not a fake, or, or some kind of imitation?’ My neighbour just laughed. He then told me that the internet was pretty reliable these days. In fact, he’d not only found his wife online, but his daughter and new born son too. Other than the odd piece of small talk, I hadn’t spent much time with his wife or kids, but they did seem pretty real and authentic. So my wife and I decided to just do it. We ordered the house from a site in the U.K that was backed with some great reviews and customer testimonials.

Although the house itself was cheap, shipping costs were incredibly high, especially since it was only a small two bedroom house. I guess that’s where they get you. Then again, we did decide to pay a little extra to express ship it. We also added installation for an extra $50, deciding against the flat-pack option, because neither my wife or I are very handy with instructions. Two weeks later the house arrived right on time. Knowing that we weren’t going to be home I had the house delivered to my work instead. Looking back, we probably should have gone with the flat-pack option.

When the box arrived at work it was massive. So much so, that there was nowhere I could leave it without causing absolute KAOS in the office. The woman at reception was losing her mind. At first I had them drop it in the parking garage. This infuriated security. I ended up getting the delivery guy to take it to our property and install it without us being there, which was risky, considering the rough neighbourhood we lived in. But I didn’t really have much choice.

When we got home that evening we were less than impressed, to say the least. It looked nothing like it did on the website. And I’m not talking about anything cosmetic here. The design was completely different. We had ordered the home with a verandah and cement render finish, this house was fibro and wasn’t only missing the verandah, but front windows too! My wife was pretty pissed off, in fact, absolutely livid. I tried to keep my resolve, or hold on to what was left of it. We slept in the house that night and wrote an email to the website’s customer service team. Within two hours they had gotten back to us, thankfully. To their credit, they were lovely. The woman who handled our complaint was very sympathetic and apologetic. She admitted that there was an error in the warehouse. She ensured us that this was a rare occurrence, and would have the correct house shipped out immediately. We were pretty happy with the result, not knowing that the worst was yet to come.

Two weeks later the correct home arrived and we had just began decorating the interiors when horror struck. At first, we thought we had mice living up in the roof: how wrong we were. We called a pest inspector to come and take a look, to both his and our dismay there were no mice nestled in the ceiling, only people. Yep, there was a family of three living up there. The pest inspector managed to get them down, narrowly avoiding a fist fight with the older gentlemen. The woman had fire engine red hair that she wore in a Ronnettes-era hive. She wasn’t sure what all the fuss was about. ‘We’re part of the package, it’s okay! We don’t cost any extra, we’re free with every house.’ She smiled. That’s hardly the point I thought. Neither my wife or I were aware of this when we purchased the house. At least with Amazon you get an extra screen that allows you to review the details of your order.

It’s been six months since we moved in. The people in the ceiling are still there. We were unable to get a refund, or get rid of them. We haven’t bought anything on the internet since. The worst thing is: the people in the roof have family staying with them, with us. No wonder why the house was so much cheaper online than it was at Home World. I guess that’s where they get you.

Spielberg is a synonym for magic.

The Double Life of a Wattle Bottle

A winter saviour by night. A cold rubbery thing by morning.

Nobody Ever Thanks God On A Monday

A face that says it all.

If there was a voice that summed up Monday it would sound something like Morrisey. If Monday was a face it would look like Daria. If Monday had a flavour it would be Tofu. If Monday had a texture it would resemble Sandpaper. Thank God it’s not always Monday. 

Wednesday at 7PM