Thursday, 26 November 2009


I have a Hecup.

Not an involunatary throatal spasm, but a teacup for blokes. It's very large and it has red poppies on it. It was a present.

It's an oddish gift, a hecup. Strangely masculine or at least,, what's the opposite...asexual? Homocycle? Whatever.

It's big and it's nice. Perhaps I should start drinking tea?


Friday, 20 November 2009's a girl!

After deciding we would keep it a surprise, we changed our minds at this morning's 19 week ultrasound. Q was sure it would be a boy, but I'd been informed by my big sister that every mother thinks it will be a boy as they are preparing for the worst because they secretly all want a girl. And statistically, it 'should' be a boy because most of our parent friends already have girls.

So namewise Q likes...
  • Vivien (or Vyvienne or something, but no-can-do. The kid is going to be a Richards, and I can't bring myself to naming my first-born daughter after a famous, 7ft, West Indian fast bowler. Q doesn't care but my mates will never let me forget it)
  • Alba. Mother-in-law suggestion (*shudders)
  • Violet (I quite like this one)
  • Daisy (why do flowers make nice names?)
  • Emmaline (nice too)
  • Clementine (ok)
I like...
  • Lorna (old-school but awesome. Strong, but lyrical. And yes Ms. Lino, I can say it is in your honour if you like).
  • Phoebe (but Q had a beloved childhood dog of the same name, but that shouldn't matter...right? Apparently it does)
  • I like spacey names, like Astrid and Celeste too
More suggestions please. I can't guarantee we'll like any of them, but the more choice the better.


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Monday, 16 November 2009

...tori amos

Last Saturday I went to Luna Park for my nephew's 8th Birthday Party. As I was waiting in line for my 3rd 'terrifying' ride on the Ghost Train, I realised that the flame-haired woman standing in line next to me was none other than Tori Amos. What a spinout! Q went to see her perform at the Regent Theatre the previous night and gave me a rave review, so I couldn't help myself and told Ms Amos of Q's positive feedback. "Why thankyou! That is lovely. Could you thank her for me?" she replied in her mid-western accent.

A bit later Q showed up and I told her Tori was about, but she said she didn't want to annoy her and wanted to let her have a nice private day out with her kids and partner. But a little later as Q was walking into the Ladies, Tori was coming out, having changed for Saturday night's gig in the toilets. Q couldn't help herself and told Tori how much she enjoyed the show and thanked her for coming to Melbourne. "Why, aren't you a sweetheart!" Tori replied.

It was the cherry on top of a great weekend for Q. It's not often you get called a sweetheart by one of your favourite artists.


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Friday, 13 November 2009

...a public hazard

I was riding my bike down Grattan St. Prahran a few years ago when I saw a couple, completely naked, having sex in the park in broad daylight.

So I did what most guys would do and rode straight into the back of a parked car. They stopped and looked up at me. And I was embarrassed.

Get a room people. What you're doing is dangerous!

Happy Friday!


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Thursday, 12 November 2009

...boom shanka!

A pregnant belly is a magical thing, almost mystical.

I'm so happy to have one, well not attached to me, mine is made of beer, but a real one with our baby inside. One I can touch whenever I want. So round and smooth. So lovely.

Q likes it too. I never thought I'd hear her say "I like having a big belly" but there you go. Demonstrates the power of boom shanka(!); it makes happy drugs for the creators.

Almost halfway through and all is well.


Tuesday, 10 November 2009


I don't understand the media's obsession with bagging Scientology. Sure they are a bunch of rich nutters, but so are the Liberal Party.

They say that it's because Scientologists believe in UFO's and alien races and stuff. So what? I'll defy anyone who says that this is absurd, but somehow immaculate conception, burning bushes and boats with every animal species aboard are perfectly acceptable occurences. To me, all religions are equally mired in the fantastical. Scientology deserves no special attention.

So scientologists don't believe in the healing potential of psychiatry. Nor do the world's other orthodox religions. They'd say make an appointment with your local priest, not Dr. Freud. Scientologists are being criticised in the news today for being "Anti-gay". Hello, Catholic Church/Islam/Orthodox Judaism/Hinduism.

I don't care if your prophet gets around on a donkey, magic carpet or flying saucer. I don't care if you worship at your local Scientology Research Faciltiy, the Craigieburn Mosque or St. Loony up the Cream Bun and Jam. Just becasue your fantasies are 2000 years old and have billions of followers does not make them any more relevant to life in the 21st century.


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Friday, 6 November 2009

...i hope the afterlife isn't run by fish

Elvis has left the building.

Elvis passed away sometime today, after a severe bout of constipation. It's official. I'm a serial killer of Siamese Fighting Fish (Betta splendens).

E was a feisty young male who when we found him he was busy fighting his way out of a paper cup. Now he's just pushin' up the daisies (actually stinking out the wheelie bin). He had been quite bloated, you know, a bit like after you have 6 Coopers Reds and a Rogan Josh. I tried to feed him a green pea the other night, because I read on the net last night that it can cure constipation, and it must be true because its on the net, but he would'nt take a bite. I also read that Bloodworms are bad for Bettas, and he stuffed his face with them a week ago. My bad. I am not worthy.

I blame Q. Elvis was her fish after all. She wanted to buy a fish so one day I took her to the aquarium to buy a fish.

Ooh I like this one
You can't get it. It's a saltwater marine fish.
What about this one?
That one will attack the others.
This one?
That one will get attacked by the others.
I want to get that one.
You can't. It'll eat the plants in the tank.
What about this one?
It needs to be in a big group.
No. It's ugly.
So which fish can I have?
Have a look at these ones.
This one is cute.
It's too expensive. I'm not paying $35 for a fish... unless it's fresh salt and pepper flounder shortly after Happy Hour.
OK. This one.
No. It's Blue. The last one we had, the one that just died was blue.
So, you bastard, are you telling me there is only one fish left in the store that I can buy?
Yes, that is correct.

Good choice. Well done.

I've never lived it down.


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Wednesday, 4 November 2009

...camping with freud

Two nights ago I dreamt I had to skin a whole calf. Only problem is that I soon realised it was still alive, though it had been heavily sedated. Yet I ended the beast's wretched life as I slit open its warm belly with sharpened steel, a torrent of shit and innards smothering my boots.

I didn't want to do it, but I kind of had to. I had to do it to prove to myself that, as an eater of flesh, I would be prepared to slaughter my own animals. I was also doing it to impress a girl. I finished the awful job, but did she have to drug it, allowing it to be skinned alive? Both anger and obsession enveloped me...

I awoke to an immense ball of rolling, stereophonic thunder that amplified as it slowly tore its way around the tall sandstone walls of the great Victoria Valley in the central Grampians National Park, shaking the very ground on which I lay (What the fuck is that roaring monster that has my heart racing! Wow, It's bloody thunder. That's right, I'm in a tent in the Gramps. It's cold, but I'm sweating. My back hurts). And its raining now. I'm reassured by my pregnant wife, who shows no real sign of alarm. The thunder returns. We make contact, but we are united in our discomfort, the cold, uneven ground preventing any meaningul rest.

Dreams. Strange dreams. More an absurdist fable than nightmare. My own heart of darkness mingles with primordial urges, bubbling up to float just below the surface of slumber. It leaves me feeling beastly, grisly, shameful yet triumphant, angry and scared, wallowing in the pits of the darkest jungles of the male mind. Yes, a male dream. A dream influenced by discomfort and the unsettled weather caressing my subconscious. That and the fact I had earlier in the evening cut the fat off a leg of lamb, destined for the camp oven, with my new, extremely sharp knife, the thick layer of white grease peeling off flesh like sticky wax. It is my very first knife, or at least my first outdoorsy knife. A man-knife.

So, man-knife gives me freako dreams? That, and pack an extra sleeping mat next time? Eat less meat? Eat more meat? Kill more? Kill less? I fear a future devoid of personal compassion? A future shirking my manly, perhaps fatherly responsibility? Should I achieve my personal beast, or my pesonal beast? Does propagating the species give one a heightened sense of life, death and the mammalian condition?

Fascinating stuff to ponder, but not something to which I can find a definitive answer. It's probably best that way. Despite how clever we think we are, dreams will always be one of life's little mysteries. Probably best for me to take another slice out of the book of Bob Dylan...

"Some time ago a crazy dream came to me,
I dreamt I was walkin' into World War Three.
Went to the doctor the very next day
To see what kind of words he could say
He said it was a bad dream.
I wouldn't worry 'bout it none though
They're only dreams and theyre only in your head."

Talkin' Work War III Blues
Bob Dylan, 1963