The ship sank and so then I just rode the debris in with the tide.

It’s been a while and it’s not something I’ve really addressed here so today I want to talk about something that has always been a curiosity to me, as I’m sure it has been to all of you. I have worked in retail for a long time. Over half of that time was spent working with womens clothing and let me tell you, it does something to a guy, especially one who’s naturally predisposed to being a little camp. Retail fashion is the sort of environment where you are expected to judge and critique someone’s appearance and in this environment it often helps to assume a pose that is non-threatening to the person being scrutinised so closely. Considering that I was more often than not dealing with women, it was easy for me to assume the appearance of being gay, and considering that I was a guy working in fashion, it was almost always assumed of me anyway.  

This opened up a world of possibilities and allowed me to be in situations that would only terrify the women if they knew what was actually running through my head as they stood there in bra and undies idly weighing their boobs in their hands as they considered their next garment to try on. I’ve seen things that I hope I never forget and things I really hope I do. I’ve had women tell me the most intimate details about themselves because of my “non-threatening” demeanour. The amount of times I have said “Your ass looks amazing in that” or “I’m sorry, but that makes your tits look fantastic” and had positive results is, well, it’s actually almost retarded. I’ve said things that I’d hesitate saying to my good friends let alone a total stranger. Actually, that’s a lie. I have no problem telling my friends they look good. And I’ve approached randoms on the street just to tell them how amazing they look, so, yeah. Moving on.

And here’s another thing about being surrounded by women, you begin to notice things about them, like nail polish. I now have fully formed opinions on nail polish. And womens shoes. And dresses, god, don’t get me started, I’ll fag out all over the place. For instance, I was on the tram the other day and there was this Asian girl and she was smoking hot like, untouchable hot, hotter than a two dollar pistol hot, and she was wearing these yoga pants and the sneakers with heels, you know, the whole bit, and the whole time I was looking at here, and trust me, it was a creeplily long time, the entire time I was thinking, “Someone did a really great job on dying her hair” because her hair was indeed dyed purple, but it was really well done. I actually thought, if I was ever to be able to fuck a girl like this can you imagine what the pillow talk afterwards would be? I’d be examining her nails and asking her where she got her hair did.

 So I can hear you asking, how has people thinking you’re gay helped at all, and I’ll tell you some of the times it has come in handy. For instance, this one time this cute girl, she would have been about 21, comes into my shop on a Monday morning. she’s walking around in a bit of a daze and I engage her in conversation, you know, doing the shop thing and then we get to talking and I swear I don’t even know how it came up but she starts telling me about this lesbian orgy she had at this party she went to on the weekend and about hot it was and all the drugs and it was amazing, you know, just watching her relive it and her youth was shinning through like sunlight and it was so lovely of her to share this amazing story with me. I was like, ‘Oh wow, that sounds like an amazing time, I remember one time me and this girl” and she says “Oh, I thought you were gay” and then she got really embarrassed and told me that she wouldn’t have told me the story if she knew I was straight, and the way she said it was like she thought that the only thing I could see in the story was sex and the instant she was gone I was going to close the doors and run out the back and jerk off over the thought of it. I wanted to say ‘Hey, its ok, I just appreciate witnessing someones awakening, I think it’s cool that you’re out there doing your thing and to be honest, I’m a little jealous’ but you know, these things never come out right and so we made some slightly awkward conversation and then she left.

And as soon as she did I closed the doors and ran out the back and jerked off over the thought of it. I’m kidding, I’m kidding. It’s the truth when I say I felt like I owed it to her not to sully this beautiful image of youth and ecstasy with my lecherous horny thoughts, I swear on my life. I can’t pretend that there hasn’t been times when after a long day of summer serving some of the nicest skin this town has to offer, well, at the end of the day the relief is palpable. If the toilets at my work could talk they would say ‘Yes, he masturbated in here. And would take half-hour long shits just because he could’.

This is a terrible follow up sentence to the last paragraph, but I miss the women most of all. As a man who truly adores women, especially those that are easy on the eye, working with womens clothing is, of course, the epicentre of all that is cool and young and hip and hot. I just wish that I had caught a few more in my trap, you know, snared a few specimens for my own private perusal. Maybe I could have asked them where they got their hair did, if only I’d ever got around to asking them their name.

I was just thinking then about how in summer I used to have cold bottles of water or coke for my customers and I’d stand in front of the fan and spray myself with a water bottle and sometimes for hours no one would come in and the day would drag in the languid heat and I’d lean in the door way and look out the insanity that was Smith st and nod to people as they walked by, olde’ shopkeep like. If I look at it in the right light, I think sometimes that they were some of the happiest moment of my life. I remember leaving on Friday nights as the sun was setting thinking that it couldn’t get any better than this. And for a while I was right, but god damn I wish I hadn’t been.  

The perfect resume.

So yesterday I had to write a cover letter to attach to a job application. This is what I wrote and sent and it wasn't until hours later that I actually went "Oh wow, that's fucked up". You can laugh, it's funny, but your suggestions are not necessary, it is what it is and I am what I am, a fuck up with a sense of self sabotage that gives Mickey Rourke a run for his money. And so, without further ado, here's why I won't be getting a job any time soon.

Hi, my name is ---- and I thought I’d just write a little about myself. From my resume it’s obvious that I have a very heavy retail back ground, it’s something that I have enjoyed and that I am pretty good at, I like to pride myself on my customer service and my affability. But retail is not where my heart lies. I have enjoyed writing since I was a child and haven’t really stopped since then. I write mainly for myself but like everyone else now days I have a blog, a tumblr, a twitter and all those other things that distract us from day to day life. I had my own zine for a while and I have written for a few magazines, I did a small piece for an online magazine called Stimulus Respond and last year I wrote the advertising pages in ‘Harriet’, a free local magazine based in Northcote. My pieces were all very well received and I was a happy with how they turned out. My style is probably best described as ‘young and edgy’ with a bit of humour thrown in, but it’s not zany, please do not describe me as zany. In my opinion, zany best describes people who wear clown costumes and drink themselves to sleep at night, trying hard to be funny whilst reeking of booze, their whole image eclipsed by the obvious wretchedness that is their lives.  I’m tempted to say that zany is just a man with a propeller hat on his head and a shotgun in his mouth but I fear that might be inappropriate in a cover letter. We’ll see huh.

So that’s me, my interests include music and video gaming, I like to ride my bike in nice weather and I thoroughly enjoy a good lunch. I have a pretty good knowledge of literature and I’m fairly up to speed on pop-culture. One thing that people always seem to find interesting about me is I generally try to think outside the box. I find that I have a unique point of view and I enjoy seeing things from a different perspective than a lot of other people and I think that people like being presented with ideas that are out of their realm of thinking.

And so now we come to the end of this cover letter. Considering that you are a creative agency I thought I’d give myself a little reign and try to make this not so standard, I am unsure if that’s what you wanted or not but it is what it is and I am what I am. I hope you enjoyed it and if you’d like to see my folio then feel free to ask, you are also more than welcome to call me on (my phone number) or email me at (my email address). I thank you very much for your time and if you have any questions queries or comments then my details are above. 

After re-reading that I realised that even I wouldn't hire me, not even just to have around to keep things interesting. 

The Newsroom. Episode 4. The fucking one with that fucking Coldplay song. A review.

Oh man, does this show suck giant hairy balls. The worst part is, I’m totally hooked and I don’t think I’ll be able to restrain myself and I’ll end up watching the rest of the series, hating every goddamn minute of it. I don’t even know where to start, fuck it, I guess here will do. Alright, so in the first episode there’s this one classic Alan Sorkin walk and talk scene where these two people are, yup, walking briskly down a bunch of corridors, their mouths on rapid fire as other people come into the edge of shot and hand one of them a piece of paper and say things like “The Numbers” and then scurry away looking frantic. The two main characters stride confidently along and everyone bows and scrapes to get out of their way, the whole time having such spirited and enthusiastic engagements that they look like they’ve spent the whole afternoon smoking meth. To be honest, to me everyone just looks like they’ve had too much coke and are just grinding furiously away at what’s left of their teeth.  Also, they all look like they’re dying to take a shit which really helps with the whole coke thing. And speaking of full of shit, lets move on to the characters, whom nobody cares about and we all know I’m only half heartedly going to talk about one of them so let's get this charade over with.  

The main one, the guy, Will Whats-his-name, I don’t know, whatever, I could wiki it but do you care? Anyway, so the premise is he’s had this ‘moment of clarity’ and they (the powers that be) decide to build a news show about good honest truth and seriously, just wiki it, anyway, he sort of wants to become this news pariah or good ol’ fashioned journalist and for Christs sake, have you wikied it yet? Anyway, he sucks, he’s just a rich asshole trying to make good in the world but really he’s just another rich asshole doing things that satisfy his own self-serving needs. I can see people really aspiring to be this character because they want to be a journalist, which is pretty scary because it’s almost like wanting to be a hyena instead of a lion because you prefer the taste of carrion to fresh meat.

Anyway, he’s bullshit, his character is bullshit and the rest of the show is bullshit, and just when I thought they couldn’t lay it on any thicker at the end of the fourth episode they play a fucking Coldplay song, you know the one, it goes ‘And I will try to fix you’ in a really wailing voice and every time I hear it I want to simultaneously vomit and punch a puppy in the face, you know that song? Yeah, well they play that song in its ENTRITY over an overtly emotional scene and the only reason I watched it through is I couldn’t decided whether I’d rather slam my computer on my dick and run screaming through streets or to try and carve my initials into one of my own turds, with my own teeth, than endure another episode of this awful awful shit. I would rather peel my hand and then feed it, still attached, to cats than endure another hour long cat shit smoothie that is The Newsroom. I would rather crawl up a whales dick hole and suffocate than hear another ‘fiery exchange between people who both want the same thing but just don’t realise it yet’. I would rather stick a hungry ferret up my arse than watch one more episode of that, you know what I’m going do, I’m going to list all the things I’d rather do.

I’d rather set fire to my feet and then be made to kick a peacock to death in front of my mother, I’d rather let soldier ants nest in my bladder, I’d rather bats flew out of my pants whenever I took them off, I’d rather cum baby spiders everyday for the rest of my life than watch one more episode of that god damn show. I would rather eat breakfast cereal made exclusively out of dogs teeth, I would rather skin a live lamb in front of a primary school, I’d rather drown a clown at a crèche, I’d rather crash tackle a premature baby in an incubator in front of its horrified family than be subjected to another episode of that so called television show, The Newsroom.

The thing that I’ve enjoyed most about this is calling the writer Alan Sorkin because I know that the only people that it will annoy are people that I’d enjoy annoying.

For the record, I did not enjoy this show. No stars. 

Jack Passion.

I had a job interview the other day and at one stage the lady interviewing me asked me, with all the sunshine in the world in her voice, 'What would you say you're passionate about?'
I sat stumped for a second then threw out a few givens. 'I like music, literature and film. I write, so...' and I let it trail off as if to mean that I was passionate about writing.
I'm not you know. I would give it up tomorrow if it would help, if I thought it would make a difference. I only do it because it's easy and I can and sometimes if I get stoned or angry enough I can bang away at the keyboard for an hour or two and maybe get results. It used to be more often than not something ok would come out but it seems in the last few years the ratio has changed.
But do I need to be passionate about anything? Do I have to get excited? Things happen, people come and go, life moves on. Is it really necessary that I raise my heart rate above resting just to prove that I am alive, that I am participating in life? Huge Laurie once said that he concluded he had a problem when he realised that seeing two cars collide and explode in front of him caused him to be neither excited nor frightened but instead bored."Boredom," he commented in an interview "is not an appropriate response to exploding cars."
Huge Laurie was talking about depression when he said that, but I don't think its me though. I could watch cars explode all day. I dream about explosions, about gunfire.

You know what I dream about? I dream about war. I dream that I am amongst the rubble watching as rockets arch overhead. I dream that the concussive impact knocks the wind out of me and my skin is stung by building materials turned into dust and pushed out at unimaginable velocities. The percussive thud of artillery punctuated by the sharp cracks of small arms fire fringed with the ting of brass casings hitting the ground, like heavy drumming with tiny bells. Did you know that if you catch a 7.62x39mm before it starts to tumble it will punch a tiny hole in you but won't take anything on its way out? To quote, "In the absence of yaw... the load can pencil through lung tissue with relatively little injury".

Sometimes I feel so safe being white and Australian that it kills me.

Do you ever wonder what it would be like to plunge your hands into a wound as you tried to staunch the flow of blood, watch a man bleed out onto the dirt while you apply pressure in a desperate race to save a life? I do. I wonder what it would be like to look up and see a missile slam in to a building overhead, see sky scrapers buckle and twist and cars on fire in the street. What would you do, do you think, if it all went to shit? Would you loot what you could, would you revel in the apocalypse, would you kill yourself and your family so they 'didn't have to suffer'?

On the other hand, I'm reading a book at the moment that is set in Nazi Germany. I rarely read novels anymore. I don't know how authors commit to that length of a piece. Once I start something I can't wait to stop, just to get to the end and be done with the whole charade. I've never written anything that I have wanted to come back to, much like I have never taken a shit and thought 'I could take that again'. Sometimes I think its because my train of thought is never that long but I'm kidding myself, it's because I'm lazy. Whatever, the point is I read this book on the holocaust and it inspired me to watch a few documentaries including one narrated by Alfred Hitchcock which was on the liberation of Dachau. Watching footage of people drag countless bodies to a giant pit and throw them in made me feel a sickness in my soul that I find difficult to describe. But then you hear things, like how they found all those train carriages crammed with bodies yet amongst all the death they found people living, as well as children and in a few rare cases, babies who had been born in the camps. Here's a thought that I could never comprehend as a man who has never been raped and never suffered persecution, if I were one of the women who gave birth to a baby in a concentration camp, could I love it? A child born out of hate and into misery? Possibly, maybe, love would kindle in the darkness like a tiny flame, a life raft that you could throw yourself on so you did not drown in the horribleness of it all.

As you can see, I'm having a hard time reconciling my lust for violent imagery with my disdain for the abject human suffering that it causes. As much as I want to witness wholesale destruction, I am uncomfortable with the idea of its aftermath. Is this what happens when you're raised by action films? The building is always empty, there is never anyone inside and no one ever has to tell the hench mans mum that he's dead. I'm sorry that I find explosions pretty and I apologise for the fact that one day I'd like to be walking down the street and hear gun shots and screaming, but I think the thing I should be apologising for the most is the fact that I'm not willing to stick around and see the repercussions, I guess what I'm apologising most for is weakness.