Death's Bedfellow

I love tax time.

Or, more specifically, I love tax time this year. I'd heard rumours in the past of people receiving substantial tax returns, but I refused to believe it and could not understand why people would tell me such blatant lies. I had yet to experience this myth and therefore it could simply not exist. Such is the 'If I can't see it, it's not there' manner in which I live my life.

Then, something miraculous happened - I found myself in the unfamiliar position of having a job where they actually knew how to tax my income properly. I has resigned myself to the fact that financial ineptitude of my superiors was just a normal part of employed life. How was I to know there was a whole other world out there? Sure, I'd heard whispers in the wind, but I simply took that as signs of a burgeoning mental breakdown.

So as a sat myself down for an entertaining evening of tax return-related frivolity, little did I know the revelations in store for me. For, as I reached its conclusion, prepared for the inevitable "You get $100", or "Hey, you owe us money, you bastard", I found myself presented with the taxation equivalent of a omnipresent figure tossing a sack with a dollar sign on it at me. For those who don't understand the symbolism, the sack represents money. I know, it's sometimes difficult decipher the poetry in my words.

Now, I'm not letting the fact that it's actually my money that I'm receiving put a dampner on things. Although, the fact that I wasn't presented with a novelty sized cheque to mark to occasion is a slight sore point, I will admit.

I managed to even be smart about it too. I put away the majority of the cash into my savings before, in all the fiscal excitement, I went crazy and bought several dozen collectible plates. Or a chandelier. Or an extensive supply of fancy toilet paper and ornamental soaps. But with the money I did allow myself to use for shameless splurging, I did something that anyone who knows me will be shocked, gasping and fainting to the floor, over how out of character it was. I donated it to an orphanage.


Hahaha...no. I went on a DVD binge.

I know I must treasure these precious, joyful tax memories, because I'm sure next year I'll be cursing the existence of Australian economic law and calling into question the Queen's honour with a colourful turn of phrase (hint: rhymes with whore...wait...).

Upon Second Viewing...

Damn that play, damn that play to hell.

Tennessee Williams Broke My Heart

You son of a bitch, Tennessee Williams, you son of a bitch.

I saw a play today. You know, actors and a stage coming together in unison, all for the sake of a performance. It was The Glass Menagerie, written by Tennessee Williams close to over 60 years ago. And dammit if that bastard didn't reach his cold, dead hand out from beyond the grave and drag the emotional vulnerability right out of me. Well played, you devious playwright ghoul.

It's as though the play was doing it's darndest to get to me, poking me in the side and going "Come on, you pansy, you can't deny it. Let's face it, you weren't very manly in the first place. Gonna squirt a few, are you?" But the jokes on you, weird, disembodied personification of a play, I didn't squirt a few, or any for that matter. But, even though I wasn't even able to devote my full attention to the performance - I was word checking and editing the script for work, that's the reason I was seeing the play at all - and I could only see half the stage from where I was sitting, at the end I was still left sitting there, cursing death upon Mr Williams for putting a dint in my typically manly and stoic visage. Turns out he's a clever one though and died in 1989 as a pre-emptive strike.

I don't think I can be held responsible for any of this though. The play was carefully orchestrated to manipulate me, I'm sure of it. If you weave me the tale which, at its core, features a beautiful, yet painfully shy and reserved girl, completely - and unjustifiably - lacking in confidence, who also just happens to be a southern belle, then I'm doomed from the beginning. There's something about that accent, not even something I could accurately pinpoint, but something indefinably attractive about it. A girl with that voice could rob me blind and I'd be standing on a street corner, wearing a barrel and eating a piece of cardboard, before I realised it had happened. And even then, I'd probably be cool with it. So check next week's news for stories of me being robbed by a group of women posing as 1930s Southern Belles, and also write in your answers to the readers' question of "Why the hell didn't he see it coming?"

I have to give credit to the actress in the role, she was impressive, to say the least. As much was conveyed in looks and body language as with actual spoken words. By the end of it, after the one brief connection she makes with someone is just as quickly taken away, I was pretty much on the verge of jumping down of the balcony, punching some people in the face and going, "That's it, I'm taking you home". Luckily, seeing as I value my job and my clean arrest record, I managed to suppress that urge. For now...

So there you have it, I've given you all the ammunition you need to label me a big, fat sissy. But seriously, what's with the weight comments? You know I've got a better figure than you, so quit projecting. I've still got to see the show two more times over the weekend for the actual captioned performances, so by the end of the week I'll probably be watching Oprah, knitting some decorative cushion covers and adjusting to life with my newfound vagina. Ch-ch-ch-changes!

With My Rooster Out

There are many things that have been missing from my life in recent times. A bevy of supermodels in my bed, a fortune in gold dubloons stashed in my ceiling, spectacular acts of death-defying heroism and female interaction to name but a few.

Those things? Maybe not so easily rectified without delving into flights of fancy or large quantities of chloroform. But there was something of which the absence could be easily rectified, all it required was a time and a place. In fact, time and place are prime components of this particular thing, of which I will now dispense with the vague and evasive references and admit to be Live Music.

I am a musical man. Not The Music Man, I do not come from far enough away for that, but music is definitely something I tend to submerge myself in. If I'm not listening to it, I am likely to be found singing some kind of tune that is likely to be as off-key as it is completely made up. But it has been a while since I have been to a concert. Rapidly approaching its way towards a year, in fact. On one side, I can trace this phenomenon to the fact that two of my friends who I would be likely to go to see a show with have relocated themselves to parts of the world which create great difficulties in organising a musical rendezvous. If you can find a friend who's willing to fly back from Poland just to attend a concert with you, they your friends have way too much disposable income and I hate you.

So I've been getting the itch. I've been getting it for the past few months. I even went to the doctor and he assured me that it was in no way related to an STD, which was informative, yet odd, considering I went to see him about a cough. But first, there was no one worthwhile touring. And just because I wanted to see a show does not mean I'm shelling out cash for someone like James Blunt just because I now have a job, and therefore the income to do so. Then there was the issue of finding someone to go with. While I am willing to do things like movies on my own, a concert is something at which I require the company of others. There's something about it which makes me feel as though it should be a shared experience. So you can talk about it afterwards, which songs you liked, how there was that drunk, hot chick you saw wandering around in the crowd and, of course, you always need someone with whom you can make fun of all the people who are making their most sad and desperate attempts to convince everyone at the concert of how trendy they are. Plus there's always that safety blanket I need of having somewhere there to drag my tiny and frail body out if I somehow manage to get sucked into the mosh pit.

Then, tonight, the musical Gods aligned in my favour. I found the concert and the company, so on August 2, I am going to see Ok Go, at the Zoo, with Caragh and Amy. High Fives all round (which translates to an only mildly depressing self-five, considering there's no one else here). The chance for me to once again rock out is nigh! While playing Guitar Hero a lot of late has helped to sate my hunger for rocking myself retarded with great enthusiasm, there is only so far bounding around your living room with a plastic, imitation guitar can get you.

Now all there is for me to do is pick out my best concert outfit - which just might include a pair of pants - practice all my awkward, disjointed dance moves and hope that the band bring their treadmills with them. Because, let's face it, my last concert night started with me drunkenly headbanging to The Living End - so much so that it could have easily been mistaken for a particularly vicious seizure and had people trying to stop me choking on my own tongue - and ended with me falling asleep in a strip club. That's a raising of the bar right there. I'm personally setting Ok Go the challenge to beat that. Of course, they will never actually be aware of this challenge, so I'll be happy enough if they show up with their guitars.

Tabula Rasa

Well, I finally made It back. What, it only took about seven months. I'm surprised the blog even took me back. It may take a while to deal with the the separation issues and I'm not sure how long the blog plans to keep screaming, "You left me to die in a shallow grave on the side of the highway!!!" in my ear, but I think, as The Beatles would say, We Can Work It Out. Actually, they'd sing it, but it still means the same thing, just with more melody.

So here I am again, and this time I want to try give it a better shot. Last time I let laziness get the better of me and I barely even put up a fight. Though, I think that if you're suffering from laziness, you're bound to be too lazy too put up a fight. Comes with the territory. But there will be none of that again...I hope. Seriously, I basically managed to reach "Oh, my leg's on fire. Ah well, it'll burn itself out" levels of laziness. I'd rather that not happen again. For one thing, I like my legs. Without them I can't play Hopscotch.

I've decided start from scratch. Metaphorically, obviously, because I can't be bothered creating a new blog. Sure, you may call that a swift descent back into my laziness, but I consider it to be a matter of convenience.

At the least I want to try keep up to some kind of routine of weekly posting, no matter how uninteresting my life may be at the time (which, if history is anything to go by, the good odds are on very uninteresting). I started this thing purely as a means of keeping up some kind - any kind - of displays of creativity to stop my mind from lapsing into a coma or cannibalising itself out of boredom, so it's existence is solely for my own benefit.

So here lies the new beginning, I guess. I, for one, am excited. Well, not really. But if we're speaking in terms comparative to everyone else on the planet, my excitement levels could be considered a little higher. In my pants! BAM!

That's a pretty good example of the quality of wit you should come to expect. Maybe I should apologise in advance. Or maybe I should tell you all to suck it. Yep, I'm gonna go with the latter.