Walking slowly in front of them
This was a classic "parents are nuts" one for me when I was small. It drove mum bonkers while doing shopping and made dad insane pretty much anywhere but seemed especially severe while walking down the street. To me I was just walking. Sure, I may have been a bit aimless but I was 3 through 8! Stopping to smell the roses was the point of life...Or poke something with a stick...Or lick something...Or just generally meander for no reason...Also to be honest, I've always been fairly aimless naturally. But something about me wandering slowly in front of my parents while they skipped side-to-side trying to get around me made cartoon steam come out of their ears and non-cartoon expletives come out of their mouths.
And now, aged and encumbered with my own aimless children as I am I finally get it. It is utterly infuriating. Especially when carrying shopping down the hallway. But ESPECIALLY when you smell smoke/hear screams/hear the telephone ringing! But it's actually pretty bloody infuriating whenever it happens. Why are you walking so slowly?! Speed up! No don't look at me! Keep walking! No, don't turn around! No, don't try and look in the shopping bag! Yes I can _hear_ the phone ringing! No don't cry, for gods sake! No...Look...Fine, yes, I'm putting the shopping down and picking you up. There. Are we better now? Excellent. I'm sorry. What? Yes I can smell smoke too...
Thursday, December 15, 2011
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Things I'm perversely grateful to my children for: 3
Christmas
Unless you're one of those hugely pro-Christmas nutters with brandy sauce for blood and a "comical" santa hat that is pretty much surgically attached to your head for the entirety of December your relationship with Christmas probably passed through the following phases.
Phase 1: Childhood
You can wet yourself with excitement anywhere from about August onwards at the mere thought of Christmas morning. It doesn't matter what you receive on the day, it will still be enough to have you screaming with joy from approximately 4am til whenever the first toy breaks or runs out of batteries. Your first thought after Christmas will be how soon next Christmas is.
Phase 2: Later childhood
You start to be able to differentiate between good and crap presents. They're still generally OK but it becomes possibly for Santa to bring the wrong thing (No, a Machine Man is not "just the same" as a Transformer. It's just not. Not that I'm scarred. Not at all...). Even with this it's still fairly impossible to have a bad day because of added family, over-eating and the extra shit you can get away with because mum and dad have had a few beers at lunch. Your first thought after Christmas is over is whether you can swap your loot for something better once school goes back.
Phase 3: Teenage years
Christmas becomes a bit of a minefield. Presents become a bit more crap ("A young man such as yourself doesn't want toys anymore! So we bought you underpants!") just as your demands start to get a bit more...demanding ("It's just a car! One car! What's so greedy about wanting one car?!"). Hanging around with family seems pretty lame and you'd rather be doing practically anything else. First thought once Christmas is over is how you're going to spin it to your friends when school goes back so that it sounds even lamer than it was.
Phase 4: Young adult years
You spend each year extricating yourself a little further from your family Christmas until your mum no longer cries when you say you won't be home at all. Your reward for this is sitting around with your friends drinking and bored and making ludicrously complicated plans for New Years Eve. Christmas ceases to have any real importance to you and you get to be all snide and hip as shit about it, which frankly is pretty much what your 20s is all about.
Kids bring back some of the Christmas magic. Sure, you have to explain it to them. I tried the "If you be good Santa might bring you..." emotional bullying technique on my son only to be informed that the thing he wanted was readily available from any good toy store, the proprietor of which wouldn't care whether he'd been good or not. But their general level of excitement about practically every aspect of the day is infectious. Yes, presents are great. No, it doesn't matter that we don't have a chimney. No, you don't get to decide what your sister gets for Christmas. Why is Christmas all about snow when it's actually quite hot? Well, you see the earth tilts...
Anyway. It feels oddly as though your children have given you something back, something you didn't really realize that you missed. And this gift, this giving from child to parent, makes it even worse that I was given a Machine Man when I very specifically asked for a Transformer.
Unless you're one of those hugely pro-Christmas nutters with brandy sauce for blood and a "comical" santa hat that is pretty much surgically attached to your head for the entirety of December your relationship with Christmas probably passed through the following phases.
Phase 1: Childhood
You can wet yourself with excitement anywhere from about August onwards at the mere thought of Christmas morning. It doesn't matter what you receive on the day, it will still be enough to have you screaming with joy from approximately 4am til whenever the first toy breaks or runs out of batteries. Your first thought after Christmas will be how soon next Christmas is.
Phase 2: Later childhood
You start to be able to differentiate between good and crap presents. They're still generally OK but it becomes possibly for Santa to bring the wrong thing (No, a Machine Man is not "just the same" as a Transformer. It's just not. Not that I'm scarred. Not at all...). Even with this it's still fairly impossible to have a bad day because of added family, over-eating and the extra shit you can get away with because mum and dad have had a few beers at lunch. Your first thought after Christmas is over is whether you can swap your loot for something better once school goes back.
Phase 3: Teenage years
Christmas becomes a bit of a minefield. Presents become a bit more crap ("A young man such as yourself doesn't want toys anymore! So we bought you underpants!") just as your demands start to get a bit more...demanding ("It's just a car! One car! What's so greedy about wanting one car?!"). Hanging around with family seems pretty lame and you'd rather be doing practically anything else. First thought once Christmas is over is how you're going to spin it to your friends when school goes back so that it sounds even lamer than it was.
Phase 4: Young adult years
You spend each year extricating yourself a little further from your family Christmas until your mum no longer cries when you say you won't be home at all. Your reward for this is sitting around with your friends drinking and bored and making ludicrously complicated plans for New Years Eve. Christmas ceases to have any real importance to you and you get to be all snide and hip as shit about it, which frankly is pretty much what your 20s is all about.
Kids bring back some of the Christmas magic. Sure, you have to explain it to them. I tried the "If you be good Santa might bring you..." emotional bullying technique on my son only to be informed that the thing he wanted was readily available from any good toy store, the proprietor of which wouldn't care whether he'd been good or not. But their general level of excitement about practically every aspect of the day is infectious. Yes, presents are great. No, it doesn't matter that we don't have a chimney. No, you don't get to decide what your sister gets for Christmas. Why is Christmas all about snow when it's actually quite hot? Well, you see the earth tilts...
Anyway. It feels oddly as though your children have given you something back, something you didn't really realize that you missed. And this gift, this giving from child to parent, makes it even worse that I was given a Machine Man when I very specifically asked for a Transformer.
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Children's literature
I should say at the outset that I believe that reading to children is important. Really important. Like 'if your kid can't recognise a hungry caterpillar at 40 paces by the time they're three you get a smack' important. That being said reading to kids is kind of brain shattering. Much like with their music kids are happy to have the same book read to them on very, very high repeat. And when I say "happy to" I mean "tantrum chuckingly demanding to". The problem with reading the same very short story again and again is that you start to notice problems with it. Inconsistencies and plot holes begin to niggle at you like a sore tooth. Tiny issues, by the 100th reading, eat at you until you simply have to write about it on the internet...
The one that is currently shitting me to tears is the Three Billy Goats Gruff. For those of you who had terrible parents that hated you and never read to you the story goes like this: There are three goats. They've eaten all the grass where they are. Just over a bridge is more grass but underneath the bridge is a troll who eats anyone crossing his bridge. Now, the goats know about the troll and this is important. But they've eaten all the grass on their side and they have to cross the bridge or starve. So they come up with a plan. And the plan is this: The littlest one goes first and the troll tries to eat him but the little one is all, like, "Nah, mate, nah, I'm little. Fatter goats are on their way. Wait for those guys" and then crosses the bridge. And then the second goat does the same. And then the third goat, the biggest goat comes along and smashes the troll. The end. You can see it, right? I'm not mad. There is a glaring issue here, at the planning stage. No?
How about if we investigate the planning meeting:
Big Billy Goat Gruff: We have to cross the bridge or we'll starve. Unfortunately, there's a troll. Fortunately, I can totally smash him so there's nothing to worry about.
Other Two Goats: Yay!
Big Billy Goat Gruff: So what we'll do, right, is this. Little Billy Goat Gruff you cross first.
Little Billy Goat Gruff: Righto. Wait...What?
BBGG: You go first.
LBGG: But...You just said you could smash him...
BBGG: Sure, sure. But you go first and you tell him, right, you tell him that there are bigger goats coming and he shouldn't bother with you.
LBGG: But...Why don't you just go first and smash him and then we'll follow you?
BBGG: But he won't eat you, see? Because he won't want to ruin his appetite with a little goat! See? Genius!
LBGG: Yes. Very clever. Not quite as clever as, say, you going first and smashing him and then me not really being in danger of being eaten at all though, is it?
BBGG: Fuck you. I'm the Big Billy Goat Gruff. Now push off.
The Big Billy Goat Gruff. What a bastard.
The one that is currently shitting me to tears is the Three Billy Goats Gruff. For those of you who had terrible parents that hated you and never read to you the story goes like this: There are three goats. They've eaten all the grass where they are. Just over a bridge is more grass but underneath the bridge is a troll who eats anyone crossing his bridge. Now, the goats know about the troll and this is important. But they've eaten all the grass on their side and they have to cross the bridge or starve. So they come up with a plan. And the plan is this: The littlest one goes first and the troll tries to eat him but the little one is all, like, "Nah, mate, nah, I'm little. Fatter goats are on their way. Wait for those guys" and then crosses the bridge. And then the second goat does the same. And then the third goat, the biggest goat comes along and smashes the troll. The end. You can see it, right? I'm not mad. There is a glaring issue here, at the planning stage. No?
How about if we investigate the planning meeting:
Big Billy Goat Gruff: We have to cross the bridge or we'll starve. Unfortunately, there's a troll. Fortunately, I can totally smash him so there's nothing to worry about.
Other Two Goats: Yay!
Big Billy Goat Gruff: So what we'll do, right, is this. Little Billy Goat Gruff you cross first.
Little Billy Goat Gruff: Righto. Wait...What?
BBGG: You go first.
LBGG: But...You just said you could smash him...
BBGG: Sure, sure. But you go first and you tell him, right, you tell him that there are bigger goats coming and he shouldn't bother with you.
LBGG: But...Why don't you just go first and smash him and then we'll follow you?
BBGG: But he won't eat you, see? Because he won't want to ruin his appetite with a little goat! See? Genius!
LBGG: Yes. Very clever. Not quite as clever as, say, you going first and smashing him and then me not really being in danger of being eaten at all though, is it?
BBGG: Fuck you. I'm the Big Billy Goat Gruff. Now push off.
The Big Billy Goat Gruff. What a bastard.
Friday, November 25, 2011
Confession
I have a confession, of sorts. I like Stephen King. I think he's excellent. His writing, especially his more recent stuff, has the feel of a master craftsman. Each word feels as though it is selected not at random (like, say, my writing) but carefully chosen from a tool chest, each a perfect and precise fit. When I read his work I envisage him not so much drunkenly mashing away at a computer keyboard (again, much like yours truly) but working like a boatsmith, planing long boards of exquisite wood and fitting them together, crafting a thing of beauty and utility. Of course, that boat builder would then have to fill his boat with murderous clowns and blood to make the simile really work but whatever...
The reason that this feels like a confession is that when I was growing up King was pretty much only read by, well, weird kids. Smoking at 13, sleeveless denim jackets, listening to Megadeth rather than Metallica, that sort of thing. When talking about the books they'd fix you with the crazy eye and you could see that they were astounded that someone would write books just for them. Finally, they were clearly saying, someone is putting down on paper all my deepest thoughts and most heartfelt desires, like running over policemen with lawnmowers. I tried to read Cujo when I was about 13 but it felt like drinking Jim Beam straight from the bottle, something that only bad kids did. Reading American Psycho by comparison felt positively urbane and sophisticated. Which all goes to show that even a poor, small town Australian boy is capable of being a literature snob...But unless he wants his ass kicked he'll keep it to himself.
The reason that this feels like a confession is that when I was growing up King was pretty much only read by, well, weird kids. Smoking at 13, sleeveless denim jackets, listening to Megadeth rather than Metallica, that sort of thing. When talking about the books they'd fix you with the crazy eye and you could see that they were astounded that someone would write books just for them. Finally, they were clearly saying, someone is putting down on paper all my deepest thoughts and most heartfelt desires, like running over policemen with lawnmowers. I tried to read Cujo when I was about 13 but it felt like drinking Jim Beam straight from the bottle, something that only bad kids did. Reading American Psycho by comparison felt positively urbane and sophisticated. Which all goes to show that even a poor, small town Australian boy is capable of being a literature snob...But unless he wants his ass kicked he'll keep it to himself.
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Balance
It's been mentioned that I may not be painting the best possible picture of parenthood. I'll try, somehow, to redress the balance. Kids are awesome. More correctly your kids are awesome. Other people's kids look funny and smell weird...Don't get me wrong, your kids look funny and smell weird too...But it's the right kind of funny and an adorable kind of weird. Hmm. Nope still fairly negative. Let me start again.
Kids are...kids are like pulling your heart out of your chest, putting a mop of curls or a pair of Crocs on it and letting it run around. It's awesome because they're like this little embodiment of your love running about and farting. You can never really doubt that you're capable of love while you're looking at them. It's also rubbish because when you pull your heart out and let it run around bad things can happen to it. It can fall over and hurt itself. Or someone else's heart can run up to it and bite it. At that point you want to run up to the owner of _that_ heart and point out that their heart is a monster and they should be either a) ashamed of themselves or b) investing in some kind of muzzle. So. Where was I? Muzzling monster hearts...I seem to have gotten off track.
Kids are rad. They're the best possible evidence that you lived and loved and worked hard and believed in something and someone. Also, when they're a bit bigger, you can train them to get you beer from the fridge. And that, friends, is not nothing.
Kids are...kids are like pulling your heart out of your chest, putting a mop of curls or a pair of Crocs on it and letting it run around. It's awesome because they're like this little embodiment of your love running about and farting. You can never really doubt that you're capable of love while you're looking at them. It's also rubbish because when you pull your heart out and let it run around bad things can happen to it. It can fall over and hurt itself. Or someone else's heart can run up to it and bite it. At that point you want to run up to the owner of _that_ heart and point out that their heart is a monster and they should be either a) ashamed of themselves or b) investing in some kind of muzzle. So. Where was I? Muzzling monster hearts...I seem to have gotten off track.
Kids are rad. They're the best possible evidence that you lived and loved and worked hard and believed in something and someone. Also, when they're a bit bigger, you can train them to get you beer from the fridge. And that, friends, is not nothing.
Monday, November 14, 2011
You may be a parent if...
One of the many, many things that children take from you, that you don't really see coming, is time. What seemed like an utterly unending resource during your 20s (well, my 20s at least. Perhaps you did more with your 20s. Fine. I hope your success keeps you warm at night. It does? Well...fuck. No-one likes a smart-ass, you know. Especially not rich, successful, happy, smart-asses) is suddenly the most precious thing in the world. Whereas previously a successful weekend may have gone something like: sleep, sleep more, eat, sleep, drink, drink more, sleep, stand around for a bit, drink, sleep, now suddenly the apogee of success is if you manage to read the first two pages of the weekend paper. I don't mean to imply that children actually destroy your time (though I'm only saying that because my dissertation proving that that's _exactly_ what they do hasn't made it through peer review yet) it's just that they occupy it. They sit in your time like...like gas. Expanding to fill absolutely every single spare bit of space. Spare space in time? Mixed metaphor or Dr Who homage? You decide!
But that's what brings me to my "You may be a parent if..." because frankly if a resource is that rare you'll do some pretty crazy things to obtain it. Or protect what small amount you have left. Me, I let my children destroy things. Precious things. Things I like. I have sat and watched my daughter rub my CDs on the floor, rendering Rebirth of Cool (volume 2, the good one. No, that's not opinion, that's fact) unreadable forever more. And why? Because it gave me 3 minutes of peace to finish reading the aforementioned first two pages of the paper. I've lain in bed and heard my kids destroying the kitchen and rolled over and gone back to sleep because a little kitchen anarchy is a small price to pay for 15 minutes more sleep. All of these have seemed like perfectly reasonable deals at the time but I'm concerned that it's a slippery slope. How far will I go? A small cat-fire in exchange for an uninterrupted shower? One slightly murdered neighbour as the price for 20 minutes on the computer without a small person implying that the Playschool website may be more enjoyable than whatever I'm currently doing? An existential, planet-busting, humanity-destroying event of biblical proportions in exchange for sleeping in til 11am on a Saturday morning like I used to? Yes. Yes to all those. Damn you, yes.
But that's what brings me to my "You may be a parent if..." because frankly if a resource is that rare you'll do some pretty crazy things to obtain it. Or protect what small amount you have left. Me, I let my children destroy things. Precious things. Things I like. I have sat and watched my daughter rub my CDs on the floor, rendering Rebirth of Cool (volume 2, the good one. No, that's not opinion, that's fact) unreadable forever more. And why? Because it gave me 3 minutes of peace to finish reading the aforementioned first two pages of the paper. I've lain in bed and heard my kids destroying the kitchen and rolled over and gone back to sleep because a little kitchen anarchy is a small price to pay for 15 minutes more sleep. All of these have seemed like perfectly reasonable deals at the time but I'm concerned that it's a slippery slope. How far will I go? A small cat-fire in exchange for an uninterrupted shower? One slightly murdered neighbour as the price for 20 minutes on the computer without a small person implying that the Playschool website may be more enjoyable than whatever I'm currently doing? An existential, planet-busting, humanity-destroying event of biblical proportions in exchange for sleeping in til 11am on a Saturday morning like I used to? Yes. Yes to all those. Damn you, yes.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
This. Is. Camperdown!
My son broke my heart last night. We were talking about his starting pre-school next year and he announced that I would have to come to school with him because I was bigger than him. When we told him that he didn't need his parents at school because there'd be friends to play with and teachers he got a lost, sad kind of look and said "But I need someone to take care of me". And immediately I thought that that was true, concocted insane ideas about enrolling myself in the same pre-school in a 21 Jump St-esque under-cover plan...wait...Have you seen that they've remade 21 Jump St? Seriously What the fuck. Johnny Depp will be rolling in Hunter S. Thompson's grave. Anyway. Where was I? Right. So I start thinking about home schooling while clutching my son and screaming "My baby! Daddy's here!" until my son kicked me off and told me to grow a pair. And so.
And so I am announcing the Spartan Party of Australia. This party will have a number of fairly normal policies: all prospective politicians must be able to complete one sweet jump on a bmx before seeking election, national anthem to be changed to "Louie Louie" as recorded by The Kingsmen in 1963 and the institution of a national nap-time between 12 and 2. But our central, immovable tennet shall be that all children shall be removed from their parents care at birth and placed into military training camps where they shall be raised by ninjas and wolves. Now the Spartan Party of Australia isn't really pro-war so I'm not sure what we'll do with all these highly trained ninja-wolf-assassins when they've completed their training...Send them home again? Whatever. The important fact is that they won't be around to cause their parents unnecessary heart-pain. Also being trained by ninja-wolves is sweet.
And so I am announcing the Spartan Party of Australia. This party will have a number of fairly normal policies: all prospective politicians must be able to complete one sweet jump on a bmx before seeking election, national anthem to be changed to "Louie Louie" as recorded by The Kingsmen in 1963 and the institution of a national nap-time between 12 and 2. But our central, immovable tennet shall be that all children shall be removed from their parents care at birth and placed into military training camps where they shall be raised by ninjas and wolves. Now the Spartan Party of Australia isn't really pro-war so I'm not sure what we'll do with all these highly trained ninja-wolf-assassins when they've completed their training...Send them home again? Whatever. The important fact is that they won't be around to cause their parents unnecessary heart-pain. Also being trained by ninja-wolves is sweet.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Things I'm perversely grateful to my children for: 2
Justine Clarke
Much is made of the staggeringly repetitive music that small children listen to. Don't get me wrong, I grew up a raver, so staggeringly repetitive music is totally fine with me. But a child's capacity to listen to a song again and again and again and again and again and again is enough to put even the most coked up 20 year old in huge pants to shame and enough to give you, the parent, a case of the complete howling fantods. Even when they take to something new and, you think, untouchable it only takes a day for them to destroy it utterly. Sgt Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band has pretty much been ruined for me forever by one small child with just enough height to reach the buttons on the CD player.
But when they aren't destroying your music children have music of their own. And one of the producers of this music is Justine Clarke. Now Justine sings about perfectly normal things: ducks getting lost, dancing dinosaurs, being happy and knowing it and then clapping about it. But, well, just look at her. Look! Do you know who she looks like? She looks exactly like the first girl you ever kissed. It was raining and you could smell her wet school jumper and she tasted exactly like Vegemite sandwich. But then her dad was there and everyone knew he was a drunk and he was yelling and you ran for it but then you got stuck in a bush and then he had to help you out of the bush and he _was_ drunk but really pretty nice and he offered you a drink and you said "No thanks" and he said "Why?" and you said "Because I'm 8" and he implied that he thought an 8 year old who couldn't handle a little afternoon scotch was a bit queer in his book. You know? Exactly like her. Exactly.
Much is made of the staggeringly repetitive music that small children listen to. Don't get me wrong, I grew up a raver, so staggeringly repetitive music is totally fine with me. But a child's capacity to listen to a song again and again and again and again and again and again is enough to put even the most coked up 20 year old in huge pants to shame and enough to give you, the parent, a case of the complete howling fantods. Even when they take to something new and, you think, untouchable it only takes a day for them to destroy it utterly. Sgt Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band has pretty much been ruined for me forever by one small child with just enough height to reach the buttons on the CD player.
But when they aren't destroying your music children have music of their own. And one of the producers of this music is Justine Clarke. Now Justine sings about perfectly normal things: ducks getting lost, dancing dinosaurs, being happy and knowing it and then clapping about it. But, well, just look at her. Look! Do you know who she looks like? She looks exactly like the first girl you ever kissed. It was raining and you could smell her wet school jumper and she tasted exactly like Vegemite sandwich. But then her dad was there and everyone knew he was a drunk and he was yelling and you ran for it but then you got stuck in a bush and then he had to help you out of the bush and he _was_ drunk but really pretty nice and he offered you a drink and you said "No thanks" and he said "Why?" and you said "Because I'm 8" and he implied that he thought an 8 year old who couldn't handle a little afternoon scotch was a bit queer in his book. You know? Exactly like her. Exactly.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Effervescent
When I have a few spare moments (rare enough, see post regarding children) I like to sit quietly and listen to the fizz and pop of my brain cells dying. Impending old age and the attendant memory loss may be a concern for some but when you've done many stupid things (as I have) and if you have a tendency to pick at the scabs of those stupid things (as I do) the gradual disappearance of those stupid events can be a very freeing experience. Pop! Goodbye that time I said I'd do that thing for my mum but then forgot and, yeah, sure it was kind of an annoying thing to do but still it was a dick move to forget to do it. Fizz! Goodbye that time there was that stunning woman in the bar who smiled and then waved and then I waved back and she smiled and then I, for whatever reason, attempted to communicate through raised eyebrows and wiggled fingers the concept "Wow, it's really busy in here isn't it? Should I come over to you? What are you drinking?" which took about two minutes but then realized she was actually waving and smiling at the guy behind me. Because once you forget it, it's really as though it never happened at all, isn't it. It's not like she's going to remember..."Casper and Julian looked at each other with concern. Gran was clutching her sides and rocking about. Laughter was dragging it's way from her aged frame in a way that was almost brutal. Tears of mirth flooded the deep lines at the sides of her eyes. Finally she managed to get, and keep, enough air in her lungs to speak. "Oh my sainted stars, boys. Oh you should have seen him! He thought I was smiling at him! What a fucking idiot!". And then she was lost again, lost to whatever place the memories of the truly aged dwell". I mean really. It's gone forever. It's really rather freeing. If a tree falls in the woods but it was really pissed at the time and doesn't remember falling, then when it wakes up, did it really fall? Well yes, yes of course it did. And these days there are probably pictures on Facebook to prove it. Fucking Facebook.
Friday, November 4, 2011
Observation
There are a lot of utes in Sydney's Inner West all of a sudden. And not the old standard "if I park a rusty piece of shit ute in front of my St Peters hovel it'll give me the cred I so desperately desire from my anarchist hippy mates" ute but great big shiny fuck-off utes. Hiluxs. Hiluxes? Hiluxii? A bunch of Toyotas. All new and huge and sitting about a metre off the ground. Now, I've put a lot of thought into this new phenomenon and there are only two possible explanations.
Possible explanation 1: Due to the current world economic crisis coupled with the insane price of Sydney houses roughly mounted by the sudden Australian fascination with renovating said insanely expensive houses builders have become our new ruling class. They own all the houses and thus all the money (I believe they are then entitled to all the women and/or sugar, whichever way they roll, I don't judge) and thus are our new ute driving overlords.
Possible explanation 2: Much has been made of the "your smart phone has more processing power than all of NASA when it sent a dude to the moon" factoid. And that's a phone. Having done some quick but startlingly accurate maths I have discovered that you could easily fit a million phones into a one tonne ute. Making it a million times smarter than your phone. Those of you paying attention and not wondering when I'm going to start talking about male prostitutes again will already know where I'm going with this. The utes themselves are our new overlords. That's right, shit just got real. Or should I just stop eating cheese and then watching Transformers movies and then going to sleep and dreaming about our knew ute over lords? Is it all Michael Bay's fault? Yes. Yes it is. I hate you Michael Bay and my childhood hates you more.
Possible explanation 1: Due to the current world economic crisis coupled with the insane price of Sydney houses roughly mounted by the sudden Australian fascination with renovating said insanely expensive houses builders have become our new ruling class. They own all the houses and thus all the money (I believe they are then entitled to all the women and/or sugar, whichever way they roll, I don't judge) and thus are our new ute driving overlords.
Possible explanation 2: Much has been made of the "your smart phone has more processing power than all of NASA when it sent a dude to the moon" factoid. And that's a phone. Having done some quick but startlingly accurate maths I have discovered that you could easily fit a million phones into a one tonne ute. Making it a million times smarter than your phone. Those of you paying attention and not wondering when I'm going to start talking about male prostitutes again will already know where I'm going with this. The utes themselves are our new overlords. That's right, shit just got real. Or should I just stop eating cheese and then watching Transformers movies and then going to sleep and dreaming about our knew ute over lords? Is it all Michael Bay's fault? Yes. Yes it is. I hate you Michael Bay and my childhood hates you more.
Thursday, November 3, 2011
Things I am perversely grateful to my children for: Number 1
5pm dinner time...
Sometimes I like to eat a twelve course meal with friends and family, where the conversation and laughter flow like wine and the wine flows like a fucking high pressure water canon. Sometimes I like to have an intimate evening out with my wife when we eat in restaurants the waitstaff know we can't afford but they have to be nice to us anyway. And sometimes I just like to go to the pub and drink and forget about dinner until 11 o'clock at night and then sup on delicious street meats...Street meat means kebabs, right? I thought so...Until I wrote it down. Now I've written it down I realize that it actually sounds like "male prostitutes". Whatever. Kebabs. Or male prostitutes. But the gigolo had better have brought snacks.
But SOMETIMES, sometimes I just want the whole dinner thing out of the way so I can focus on more important things. Like sitting. Or the meaning of 'street meats'. Or...I dunno...world affairs or some shit. And kids let you do that. Sure, sure occasionally you end up eating macaroni and cheese or a plate of sausage and vegetables arranged into the shape of Thomas the Tank Engine but the whole thing is done by 5.20 and the rest of the evening is your own. Nothing to do but sit, put your feet up and attempt to explain to your wife the $400 charge on your credit card for "Sexy Steve's Street Meats - services rendered".
Sometimes I like to eat a twelve course meal with friends and family, where the conversation and laughter flow like wine and the wine flows like a fucking high pressure water canon. Sometimes I like to have an intimate evening out with my wife when we eat in restaurants the waitstaff know we can't afford but they have to be nice to us anyway. And sometimes I just like to go to the pub and drink and forget about dinner until 11 o'clock at night and then sup on delicious street meats...Street meat means kebabs, right? I thought so...Until I wrote it down. Now I've written it down I realize that it actually sounds like "male prostitutes". Whatever. Kebabs. Or male prostitutes. But the gigolo had better have brought snacks.
But SOMETIMES, sometimes I just want the whole dinner thing out of the way so I can focus on more important things. Like sitting. Or the meaning of 'street meats'. Or...I dunno...world affairs or some shit. And kids let you do that. Sure, sure occasionally you end up eating macaroni and cheese or a plate of sausage and vegetables arranged into the shape of Thomas the Tank Engine but the whole thing is done by 5.20 and the rest of the evening is your own. Nothing to do but sit, put your feet up and attempt to explain to your wife the $400 charge on your credit card for "Sexy Steve's Street Meats - services rendered".
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