meh

I used to care.
But it’s funny how the world waits until you give up to offer help.
I use the word unfairly there. It is not the world’s fault. It is people.
People don’t want to help someone who needs help.
But it seems we have a sick sense to always know when someone is past help. That’s when we pounce.
It’s like we all want to fix what is broken, but we don’t want to risk breaking something.
And maybe that’s how it will happen with the world. When the world is poison to us and we can’t live here anymore, we’ll jump on board and try to fix it. And it will be, of course, too late.
But maybe that’s how it is meant to be. Maybe it’s just how we’re raised.
Maybe it’s my mum’s fault for teaching me values, making me considerate of people. Making me honourable.
Maybe we all get taught stuff that makes it worse.
But, I figure, in the end I’ll dissolve away and people who remember or care will dissolve away and it will all be forgotten, and we’ll poison our own atmosphere until it’s unliveable and the skin covered blight will be gone forever.
So, there’s that.
Kinda makes it seem like less of a big deal than I thought it was.
If we all act like jerks to each other, who’s really going to care in the end?
But it has to be such a big deal. We all have to have morals. What for? What did morals ever do for anyone?
Let’s look at morals from a purely animal perspective: morals = not doing something you want to do.
That sounds overly simple but let’s break it down in an example: I want to do said thing. Said thing will offend some other person I interact with on a regular basis. My moral code tells me not to do said thing. Said person never knows I wanted to do said thing. Nothing is made of the desire.
On the other hand; I want to do said thing. Said thing will offend some other person I interact with on a regular basis. I figure ‘meh’ and do it anyway. Said person is angry at me, and feels justified in insulting me and raising their voice.
And ok so I knew that it was an action which would offend that person, so what?
So f-ing what?
Since we all turn into the dirt we’re standing on, and the dirt doesn’t seem to care, I dunno, doesn’t seem like it matters on any level other than the one we make up.
So I suggest we try this new policy: stop caring.
It’s perfect! And it works on MANY LEVELS! And what’s more, Mark Twain agreed with me!
Try arguing with THOSE facts. BAM!

If I was dead I would not have to go to work

Picture it.
You are alone on a deserted beach.
You are relaxed, covered in sun-tanning oil, the kind nobody sells anymore because it's no longer 'cool' to look good, and wearing the only thing you've ever felt comfortable in; your banana-hammock.
And your mirrored aviators.
But that goes without saying.
As you watch the waves roll in, feel the gentle breeze on your face, take another sip of the luke-warm beer you have been nursing for the last 3 hours, you suddenly realise that this is the happiest moment you have ever experienced in your entire life.
You think to yourself 'Wow. This is really living!'
And suddenly you are happier than you have ever been.
Then you wake up. You realise you fell asleep on the beach. Your beer has spilled on your stomach and some really ugly girl is licking it off. You jump up and awake.
You realise you fell asleep on the beach, and dreamed you had awoken. You look around and the beach is crowded with sexy, scantily clad girls playing volleyball.
You spill your beer on your lap, and you wake up.
You realise you fell asleep on the beach. There is no one around. You now have beer soaking into your lap and it feels cool.
And you smile.

America - fuck yeah!

We were somewhere around Pooraka, on the edge of obscurity, when the disappointment began to take hold.

I remember saying something like 'I think you should drive' when suddenly the air was filled with creatures that seemed like pain-in-the-ass real-estate agents.

'What the fuck are you babbling about?' My partner asked, her head lying back on the headrest, pouring champagne onto her chest to accelerate the tanning process.

Long story short, we didn't get the house.

Actually, it wasn't really a long story at all. That was it.

But I guess I was planning to rant on and on for a while, maybe quote Hunter S. Thompson a bit more, then maybe someone equally horrible. Well... maybe not quite as horrible...

But here's a little song for those of you who are looking for your first house, as I am:

FUuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK!!!!!!!!!

FUCKINGFUCKINGFUCKINGFUCKINGFUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK

FUCK!

FUCK!

FUCK!

FUCK!!!!!!!!!!

FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!

A dream come true

So you know how in.. like... I dunno... movies or something... maybe not... maybe TV.. or... maybe just in my head I dunno...

But see... there's this family and they're looking at houses to buy on a small income... and everything they see is either awful, tiny or both... then then find one which is right next door to a hog fat rendering plant... and the agent says to them 'Once you get used to the smell of rendered hog fat, you'll wonder how you ever did without it!'

and then they find a place which is just perfect and they offer what they can but it's a bit less than what the owners want for it and somehow things fall into place and the young family get this amazing house and everything works out for them and it's just like a dream come true.

You know what I'm talking about, right?

So anyway...

The agent says to us 'Once you get used to the smell of rendered hog fat...'

and we look at each other and we say 'We can't see a single thing wrong with this house, other than where it is'

And we sign a contract.

And you never know, we just might end up living next to the rendering plant!

Or something.

So anyway we've offered less than what the owners want on this place which is just friggin' perfect, other than the fact it's right on a main road where people will speed past and do burnouts on our lawn and such and such.

Maybe we're just stupid and not thinking about the fact that where the house is really sucks, or maybe everyone else is just really stupid.

I dunno.

But this time next week we just might own a house.

Not next to a rendering plant.

But would a rendering plant be better...? Now that's the question.

It reminds me of a joke.

See this kid has a nightmare and he wakes up screaming.

His mum runs in and asks 'what's wrong?'

the kid replies 'i had a dream that grampa died.'

his mum smiles and assures him that grampa is just fine and will live to a healthy old age.

But the next morning she gets a call telling her, regretfully, that her father has passed away in the night.

understandably this shakes her up a little, and her poor son feels like it's all his fault.

So anyway the same thing happens a few nights later.

mother 'what happened??'

son 'i dreamed that uncle joe died!'

mother (somewhat less convincing this time) uncle joe is fine. don't worry about uncle joe.

But sure enough the next day she gets a call advising that her brother was killed in a car accident.

by this stage everyone is pretty shook up.

As you would be. damn blogger no auto caps.

moving on.

So a few nights later the child wakes up screaming again and his mum runs in and, a little nervously, asks what happened.

the child is crying this time and he tells her that he dreamed that his dad had died.

the mother, very nervously, tries to assure her son that everything will be fine.

but then she goes back to bed and tells her husband all about what has been happening.

now this shakes the poor man up and he finds it hard to sleep that night.

the next day he goes to work, bags under his eyes, he looks like hell, and he can't stop looking all around, trying to make sure nothing is going to fall on him or crush him etc.

he's nervous and distressed and finally his boss tells him to just go home and get some rest.

he arrives home, his hair and clothes all messed up, he drops himself onto the couch and tells his wife 'i've had the worst day of my life'

she replies 'you think you've had a bad day? the milkman dropped dead on our doorstep this morning!'

amen

Merry Xmas

Well, it's that time of the year again; post-xmas.

Yes, the presents have been unwrapped, the tree not yet packed away, and santa's only just got home and is right now climbing into his toasty warm bed with a cup of cocoa and a cookie.

It's that time of the year that you start to evaluate what you've been doing the last 12 months, and even for all the years previous.

In 2007 I came a hell of a long way.

I set out with a goal of becoming a public servant. And I have achieved that goal.

I now work full time for the Australian government.

It pays ok, and the opportunities are endless. Not to mention the fact that working for the government means my resume looks damn impressive.

I'm now being paid Around $15000 more per annum than I was this time last year, and that was at the 2nd best job I've ever had.

I started thinking tonight about maths. And not just my increase in income.

My dad wanted me to be an engineer.

The thing is, I know I could have done it. And I think if I had, I would be very happy with myself about the fact. Very satisfied.

But satisfaction seems to come in different shapes and sizes, and I've gotta say, I've never been as happy as I am these days.

Life is good. I have a loving wife to be, two loving children, a family I enjoy spending time with and comfortable income.

If we get a bit lucky and we work really hard, we may be in our own home by this time next year.

I can hardly wait!

But somewhere inside there's this little voice that says 'You're behind.'

I have a good job and I'm sitting fairly well, but I'm doing something anyone could be doing; answering the phone.

It's boring, and repetetive, but they treat me with respect and the pay is enough. I just think that I threw away a lot of opportunities through fear, self-doubt and laziness.

I know I know, no one cares about all that. No one really wants to listen to me ramble on about myself and indulge my whim for self expression.

Too bad.

I guess the thing that I'm thinking right now is that, now that I'm here, I plan to work as hard as I worked this year to get somewhere better.

Maybe I wasted my time and money by going to university.

The thing was, it was easy. It was further delay on making a decision.

And I always felt that going to university is what you do.

I asked my dad once why he had kids and he replied that he thought it was what you did.

I guess that's exactly why I went to uni. I don't really have another reason.

It's strange that, if I knew then what I know now, I'd do things a lot differently. But I didn't. From a kid's perspective things are always a big deal and always easy and always hard and always pointless.

And from an adult's perspective it's much the same, only you are more empowered.

I'm tired. I'm rambling.

One thing that I find difficult is doing what I want to do, because I rarely do.

I tend to do what other people are doing because they are doing it.

I never studied what I thought I'd like to because... well, I don't know if it ever occured to me.

I hated school and I guess it was a bit like choosing the black knife or the grey one for a big fat guy to stab you with..

I guess I'm more cynical now but I certainly wouldn't take things so seriously again, and I wouldn't put such little effort in.

Weird.

I think I'm a very strange person.

This was a good year. I'd say it's been the best of my life so far.

Come on 2008.

I'm gonna kick this one's arse!

:-)

A Fairy Tale

once upon a time there was a young boy named Frude.

Frude was very intelligent and worked very hard to help his parents by milking the cows, feeding the chickens, weeding the garden, planting crops, as well as doing his homework and cleaning around the house.

Like most young boys, Frude had a tendency to find all this work tiresome and occasionally grew irritable and sulky over the list of chores he had. But nonetheless he was a hard working and lovely boy and his parents greatly appreciated his help and company.

Unlike a stereotypical fairytale father, Frude's father Grilog was a charming and funny man with eyes that twinkled and a cheeky smile which always warmed Frude's heart.

But Grilog was impatient, and had a tendency to snap and make bitter comments when disappointed. This led to a tendency to yell at Frude for things that were not always his fault, and to make a bigger than necessary deal out of things that were.

Frude was terribly hurt at these outburts, and would always console himself by saying 'Next time I'll do better and he won't be disappointed!' and each time it happened again, he withdrew into himself a little more and told himself 'Next time... next time...'

Frude grew to understand his father's moods and would even predict what his father would want before his father would even ask. He felt quite proud of his ability to help and took great satisfaction from the moments his father would grunt and say nothing when he'd look up to ask for a spanner and the right spanner would be waiting for him in frude's little hands.

But Grilog would still have angry outbursts about mistakes Frude had made and even problems caused by external forces, and Frude eventually grew to be quite bitter about never being good enough. This was made worse by the fact that Grilog would not listen to Frude when Frude tried to explain what had happened and a wall between they that were once so close began to grow.

Frude's bitterness began to affect other aspects of his life and he had soon alienated himself from all of his friends and teachers and he was finding himself to be miserable most of the time. This led to his complete disinterest in homework and his father attempted to talk to him about it.

Grilog was surprised and a little offended to find his intelligent and hard working son reacting in such a sullen and unco-operative way that he yelled at Frude once again, which made Frude furious.

Frude yelled back at his father that his father was an ungreatful taskmaster and told him that he wished he had never been born.

Frude left school and left home but soon found he could not survive on his own and so returned to his father's home. His father accepted him back but constantly made bitter remarks about his failure of a son which made Frude all the angrier and all the more bitter and resentful.

Frude made a friend who had similiar bitter stories to tell and they soon became firm friends. Frude's new friend, Vlandix, had a simple solution to forget his troubles; he liked to eat magical mushrooms.

Frude tried the drug and found it to create a feeling of sheer joy and happiness. For the first time in many years he laughed and smiled and forgot all his troubles. He very quickly became addicted and ignored everything in his life to spend time with Vlandix and the mushrooms.

Frude's parents could see what was happening to their son but they could not seem to get through to him about it; anything they said to try to help was met with anger and defensive hostility which cut very deep as it was intended to; Frude's natural and instinctive compassion and empathy for others combined with his newfound bitterness was used to strike people where he knew it would most hurt.

He accused his mother of being too forgiving and he accused his father of being incompetent. He hurt them both so deeply that at times they did not want him anymore. But always his mother would forgive him and smooth things over with Grilog.

But this did not ultimately help Frude, who was slipping away from the world and deeper and deeper into his mind's imaginary hell.

The drug, soon enough, stopped help and actually made things worse; as Frude was still angry but disorientated and forgetful he could not remember what he was angry about, and he would lash out at people for no reason and then be angry at them for being confused.

Vlandix grew worried about him and told Frude that maybe he should lay off the mushrooms for a while. Frude was outraged and accused Vlandix of conspiring with his parents to set him back on his old path to conformity.

Vlandix was a natural avoider of conflict so he simply stopped talking to Frude, who was now utterly alone and filled with anger and remorse. The remorse created deep sadness in Frude and the sadness was unpleasant so Frude grew angry all over again and, turning the anger in on himself, he took to the only thing he could think to do; he started to hurt himself.

Small at first, he would punch a wall or bang his head against the car door, but it soon grew. Frude took to cutting himself with anything sharp, he would also punch himself repeatedly all over his head and body, and he would tear his hair out in clumps and crawl up into a ball, screaming and sobbing.

However, something inside of Frude, something beautiful, was still speaking to him, and it would not stop. he would remember things out of the fog in his memory that made him smile; a conspiratorial wink from his father, the day his mother had given him his very first bike and the look of pride and joy on her face, and then he would lay still, smiling while bittersweet tears rolled down his face.

he knew that there was something wrong, but with his memory problems he found it hard to concentrate on fixing it.

he wanted to stop eating the mushrooms but he found he would grow too angry and would just cave and take them again.

Utterly alone, Frude tried to write about his pain and sorrow but everything that he wrote seemed pretentious and whiney and he grew frustrated and gave up the attempt.

He began to spend most of his time listening to music while under the influence of the mushrooms. He found it was a temporary escape from the existence he now considered hell. He liked sad songs, because they made him cry, and he found that when he cried he was almost happy, in a strange way.

But he also began to like happy songs, especially happy songs that cover sad topics. He found them very uplifting and inspiring.

It was while listening to one such song that his life changed. He was feeling his usual inspired and uplifted feeling while listening to this song and he suddenly caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, curled up on the couch, pale and sickly, and he finally combined the uplifted feeling with the reality of his actually existence.

'My god..' he said.

And he just stared at himself, for some time.

He decided he was going to change himself. He knew he had let things get very bad and let everything go so far, but he decided he was going to get his life back on track.

he decided that what he wanted, more than anything else, was happiness in his life.

He threw the last mushrooms he had away and he left them behind. he knew they were not real happiness; he had taken them as an escape from misery and he knew, they had created more misery as a result.

he realised that he had been living for his father his whole life; at first he had lived to please his father, and then he had turned, in bitterneess, he had learned to live to hurt his father. and he knew, by ruining his own life yes, he had hurt his father, but he had hurt himself more.

he only had his father's idea of happiness to go on, so he wasn't sure what it was that he needed for himself, but he had some ideas.

he remember when he was a child he had often walked the fields of his parents' farm and had dreamed of a girl with and endless smile and deep, loving eyes.

this was what he wanted.

after only a few days it was as though he had never taken the mushrooms, wanted them or needed them. he was cured of their addiction so easily that it almost seemed impossible. he just didn't want them anymore and that was that.

he was too old to study now, so he needed a job because everything in this life requires money.

he set himself to the task of getting a job. it was incredibly difficult because he had no usable skills, no experience and no history of work.

he managed to get a job making sandwiches at midnight for drunk party-goers. it was a dirty and hard job, but Frude took great pride in making sandwiches of the highest quality and he always gave the customers a fair amount of ingredients. he was polite and helpful, if still incredibly moody. the customers appreciated him and many came back to thank him for the wonderful job he had done on their sandwich, and this filled Frude with pride.

He kept working on applying for better jobs and step by step, he made it to a place where he was working reasonable hours and being paid reasonably for his efforts. he was a clerk in charge of stock for a department store.

he liked the work as it required organisation and he felt he needed organisation in his life to help him focus.

he took part in a play and made a group of friends which he felt very close to very quickly, and they soon felt like one big family.

and then he met her; the girl with the smile and the loving eyes.

her name was Yinla.

she was the older sister of one of his new friends.

Frude very strange to get to know her because he was worried his friend would be upset. But Yinla made it very clear to her brother that she liked Frude and her brother was thrilled. he said they would make a great couple.

frude moved in with her days later. it seemed amazingly sudden but to them both it felt right and they had no doubts.

yinla proved to be incredibly practical and calm. she had a 'no-nonsense' attitude towards life which she had honed out of being a single mum for a few years, and while she did not understand Frude's strange mood swings, she was very patient with them, and she never made him feel anything but loved and accepted.

The two of them lived together with yinla's two kids and they became a close and loving family.

but despite success, the darkness inside of Frude never left him. Frude was aware of a bittersweetness in this fact; the touble he had been through had made him more considerate of others and made him a very loving and giving partner and parent, however he also realised that occassionally it made him irrationally angry at his family.

Yinla for her part, was occassionally angry but for the most part very understanding of his problems and let him be who he was without judging him.

Frude appreciated Yinla's support and love in a way he could never express, but somehow she would look at him and he wouldn't need words, and he knew that she understood. she appreciated him the same way, despite his gloomy moods.

Frude slowly learned that life is not perfect. he found this a hard fact to accept, but with yinla's love and support, and her patient manner, he eventually accepted it, and he knew he had found that happiness he had searched for.

in his dreams and in his hopes there were no down sides, and no problems, and everything always went perfectly, but reality is just not like that. but the beautiful thing about life is that it is bittersweet, and the bad times are wonderful because they contrast against the good and give you something to compare them too. and being human, we would be bored if every day was the same.

this was the key that Frude had been missing, and the thing he kept forgetting when he eventually learned it, but all of that is a part of the whole, and everything is ok, even things you are not proud of. because life is about experience and about learning and about making mistakes. overall if you do what you can to be happy with yourself, then the external happiness will follow, and what is more, the sadness you experience will be wonderful too, because it means you are alive.

Stewart Liam Butridge had had enough.

Stewart Liam Butridge had had enough.

‘I’ve had enough!’ he said, and the only person who ever listened to anything he ever said ever replied;

‘Yes I have.’

‘I’m going to end it all. Kill myself. Stop living.’ He went on, ‘and I’m going to do it today.’

Stewart had had a short, by comparison, life, and it had been a life filled, he felt, with embarrassment, discomfort, shame, humiliation and disappointment.

Everything he had ever wanted to do, he had not been able to. Everything he had ever managed to do had been awful. And worse, the people he tried to call friends treated him like a personal assistant.

‘Stewie, baby’ Kirsty would say, ‘Be a doll and run to the shop to get me an icecream.’

‘But, I’m busy mopping your floor and looking after your younger brother. Also I spent all my money on your lunch.’

But did she listen? Of course not. They never did. Any of them.

Take sarah, for example.

Sarah constantly complained to Stewart about her hard life, her stern parents and anything else she could think of to complain about. But when Stewart tried to say things like ‘I’m sure you’ll be able to survive with an A- on your test and only a million dollars to spend this month,’ she would simply act as though no one had said anything and indeed, no one was even in the room with her.

Or worse, she’d play her mean little game where she said ‘What was that? I thought I heard something. Must have been the wind!’

That game really got old fast, as far as Stewart was concerned.

No, it was time to end it all. No doubt about it.

The only question was,

‘How?’

Stewart stared at his pimply reflection in the mirror and he thought about it.

He pictured a knife slicing through his wrist, but the image in his head was so graphic he knew he couldn’t bring himself to actually do it.

He thought about hanging himself from the ceiling fan, but then he remembered how easily that had ripped out of the ceiling last time he had tried to swing from the blades like a monkey.

That would never work.

‘If I had a car, I could sit inside it while it’s running and let the fumes suffocate me. That’d be easy!’ he exclaimed, and got temporarily excited while he thought of it, before remembering he didn’t have a car, and then he felt disappointed again.

‘Typical’ he spat, bitterly.

He thought of using his scooter to do the same thing but, he figured, it would probably take too long and he’d get bored before it was over.

Jumping off a cliff?

Too painful.

Shooting myself?

Probably miss.

Being hit by a truck?

Too scary.

‘wait a minute!’ he yelled to himself. ‘Why am I scared of being hit by a truck when I want to get killed? What am I afraid of, that it won’t kill me?’

Then he thought about the possibility that it wouldn’t kill him, merely put him in hospital for years and years.

‘We’ll give that one a miss, too…’ he muttered.

‘There has simply got to be a way! It just cannot be this hard!’

And then it struck him, like a truck striking a pedestrian, only without the bone crushing or the falling over or the serious injury or the truck. But with a pedestrian. Well, not technically a pedestrian but certainly he had been a pedestrian before.

Ok so not so much like the truck.

But nonetheless, the idea came to him in such a snap that he literally jerked upright from the thought of it.

‘my scooter! People get killed on scooters all the time! It’ll be easy to find some moron to knock me off my scooter and kill me! I’ll get my scooter!’

So, with this idea fresh in his mind, he ran to the shed to get his scooter before he forgot his ingenious plan.

He unlocked the shed and, as he always did, carefully checked behind the door for spiders. He picked up his helmet and fastidiously clasped the buckle.

He checked the tyre pressure was ok in both tyres, and then he wheeled himself out to the driveway, stopping twice, to make certain the shed was locked after him and that the back door was locked too.

‘After all’ he told himself, ‘no good mum coming home to a dead son AND a burgled house!’

And then he was off!

Riding like he fully intended to kill himself, he tore up the street at a suicidal 13 miles an hour and, only pausing for a moment to give way to oncoming traffic, he hurled himself towards Rarnaby Hill.

Rarnaby Hill is the windiest, steepest, narrowest road in Frangborough, where Stewart lived. People are forever knocking cyclists over the edge, colliding with oncoming traffic and any number of other accidents on Rarnaby Hill. So Stewart knew he was certain to get himself killed.

With the throttle on full bore, Stewart tore up the hill, tyres squealing from the speed, he blurred his way towards the top.

Stewart’s plan, at this stage, was to make it to the top and then career down without brakes, but he had to admit to himself that he half expected to be hit on the way up. A little disappointed, he made it to the top without encountering a single other motorist, and only one old lady who was walking her dog.

‘Not much chance of not surviving there’ he sulked, and then he was at the top.

Once he was actually there, it was actually much scarier than he had thought it would be.

‘I always forget how high it looks from up here. I don’t know. Maybe I’ll go into the city and see if the traffic is really bad in there.’

With that, he carefully set off back down the hill, making sure to only use the brakes in stints and to watch for oncoming traffic.

‘Wouldn’t do to get killed on my way to killing myself.’ He reassured himself.

He wasn’t wimping out. No way.

So he carefully and methodically made his way into the city.

Traffic was terrible! There were cars everywhere. Lines and lines of cars, buses and trucks and trams and motorcycles all at a complete standstill, waiting for a green light which never seemed to be coming.

‘How am I going to get killed in traffic that is moving this slowly?’ Stewart fumed inside his white with fluorescent yellow stripes helmet. He had put the stripes on himself. ‘All the better to see me with!’ he had joked with himself.

‘I am very funny!’ he had replied, thinking how clever he was for comparing himself to Little Red Riding Hood.

But all of that was a time distant, with a different Stewart.

Today’s Stewart was thinking only about one thing.

Well, one thing other than getting out of the traffic jam he had put himself in.

And that one thing was death.

His scooter crawled its way towards a side street, and with a sigh of relief he turned out of the traffic, straight into more traffic.

‘Oh god I’m NEVER going to die at this rate!’

He was really very annoyed at this stage.

‘But wait!’

Stewart had a habit of thinking out loud.

‘The sidewalk! I can ride on the sidewalk! Someone will probably back out of their driveway and squash me!’

Assuring himself this was a brilliant plan, he wheeled his way up onto the sidewalk, and then he let her rip!

He flew past the line of cars and laughed at his own cleverness and their foolishness. Oh, it wouldn’t be any good at all to be somebody that wasn’t him right now! No siree.

But he made it to the end of the street and not one car backed out in front of him.

As if rubbing his nose in his inability to crash, an elderly gentleman in a four wheel drive stopped well short of the give way sign and waved him across.

‘Thanks for nothing!’ Stewart snapped. ‘I can do it. You’ll see!’

The old man smiled and nodded knowingly while giving Stewart a happy wave.

‘You’ll never do it, you coward!’ he seemed to be saying.

Stewart flipped the old man the bird, and took a slight satisfaction from the shocked look that jumped across the old man’s face.

Then he felt bad. He wanted to go back and apologise to the old man, but the traffic had finally started to move away and there was really no chance for him to do so. He would simply have to live with the guilt.

By this time, the sun was low in the sky, and Stewart was feeling very tired.

‘I’ll kill myself tomorrow’ he said. ‘Right now, I just want to go home.’

So he turned himself around and made his way, slowly and carefully, home.

‘There’ll be plenty of time for suicide tomorrow.’ He thought to himself.

But wait, tomorrow is a school day!

‘Ok.’ He said out loud to no one in particular. ‘I’ll wait ‘til Saturday.’

My Trip Back to the 80s (or ‘What it was like when I payed $90 to go see Megadeth at the Thebby’)

My trip back into the 80s began with a visit to the 40s.

Thebarton Theatre.

I can imagine the name once inspired something other than what we think now.

Thebby.

The good ol’ Thebby.

How many times has it been condemned and ‘fixed’ now?

Anyway…

I walked in to that opulent and overwhelming red and brown time warp and I froze, just for a moment, as I always do, lost in a memory never actually experienced but subtly glimpsed, perhaps in a past life, or by an ancestor or distant relative. Who knows? It’s quite seriously a step back in time and these things always make me a tad nostalgic.

So I walked on fuzzy carpet, picturing myself dressed in tails and perhaps even a monocle, and I noticed another thing to be nostalgic about; smoke.

The venue, for the first time in my life, was not clouded with smoke. Who knew that making something illegal would discourage people from doing it? I mean, concerts have been non-smoking events for years and everyone smoked anyway. Most people smoking cones as well as cigarettes. I continued to enjoy this ‘smokelessness’ throughout the night, and on to the next morning as my hair and clothes did not reek of smoke a day later.

Anyway, having been suitably overwhelmed by tackiness and a lack of smoke, I continued on my journey back to the 80s.

And was nearly bowled over after a few short steps by Captain “get out of my way I have a beard”. Good thing I got out of his way; he had a beard!

Speaking of beards, I watched the, somewhat embarrassing, facial hair competition on stage which by far overshadowed the music playing through the PA at painful levels, for a while before I got completely distracted by the 6^th member of the spice girls – Shorty Spice! Couldn't believe she came all the way to Adelaide to see Megadeth! I tried to take photos of her but none really turned out, dammit. But nonetheless she was awesome. And nonetheless I grew bored and headed towards the bar.

“Jacks and coke, please”

The bartender picked up the smallest cup I’ve seen since the dentist handed me a cup and said ‘rinse and spit’.

“Uhh, just make it two’ I said.

“Do you want one of these?” the lady asked, picking up a pint ‘cup’.

I gave her a look that said ‘Why didn’t you say so in the first place?’ and I replied ‘Yes. Two jacks and cokes in that, please.’

She handed me the drink, and her face said ‘sorry, sir’

I drank the drink and ordered another and her face this time said ‘You’re a drunk’.

I walked back from the bar, somewhat less steadily, in time to witness the swearing ewok. I had to get out. What was with all these weirdos?

I took a walk around the block and then came back in time to see Megadeth begin. (Apparently the only other band I wanted to see played first and were gone. I was bummed, but I wasn’t going to let it ruin the whole 80s for me! The sound tech guy was primed and ready to do that for me.)

Dave Mustaine sneered onto the stage. He started playing something on his guitar.

Somebody please, turn the drums down? Please?

It’s ok, Dave’s sneering at the sound guy, I’m sure they’re going to turn the drums down.

Are you turning the drums down?

Ok, so you’re not going to turn the drums down.

Fine.

I’ll just listen really, really hard.

Hmm. I can hear drums. Oh wait, there’s some really annoying, distorted noise which… no, wait.. that’s drums.

Incidentally, did you ever hear the joke that goes “What’s the difference between a drummer and a kaleidoscope? One makes simple patterns that would amuse a 4 year old and the other you look through”

Megadeth is a guitar assault. The point of the band is the awesome guitar playing. And the guitar playing was awesome. Seriously awesome. The guys stood up there and did things I could only dream about and they made it look easy; like they weren’t even trying.

Simply amazing guitar playing which blew my mind.

Which is especially amazing given that I could hardly hear it.

Whoever was responsible for the sound mix that night should be shot.

Turn down the drums! Just a little, godammit.

Just a little and my trip to the 80s would be complete.

But a Megadeth concert just wouldn’t be right without SOMETHING to sneer about, now would it?