I'm getting old. There is now irrefutable proof of this fact and denial is no longer an option.
I know, to look at me you wouldn't think it. I'm still filled with a childish exuberance and have the ruggedly handsome appearance of a young Don Rickles. But, nevertheless, it is true. The fact didn't so much dawn on me, as it was thrust upon me, sneaking up on me in my sleep, grabbing me by the testicles and tossing me out the window. In that situation, as metaphorical as it may be, it's hard to escape the ravages of age with balls that sore. So instead I lay back on the driveway and concede to the fact that, yes, against all odds of it ever happening, I am officially an adult.
What could it possibly have been that launched this realisation upon me out of the darkness, like a spider monkey wearing night-vision goggles? Could it have been looking at the date on my birth certificate and doing a simple mathematical equasion to calculate the years passed between now and then? Sure, if you want to base it on such rudimentary evidence. And, anyways, what has maths really done for me lately? Where's maths after I get home from a long day at work? Suspiciously absent, that's where. I don't trust maths at all, no siree. See, for me, it comes from something far simpler. Or maybe it's less simple. Honestly, I'm not sure what the rating scale is for these things. But suffice to say, the point that I'm taking my time getting to is this: The first of my friends got engaged.
Now, to me, that's just a complete "Holy shit" moment. I've reached that age where the ball begins rolling and people around me are going to start getting married. Which can only lead one to begin to wonder, how long until I find myself attending a baby shower, staring at tiny clothes and getting freaked out, not least of all because, shit, those clothes could almost fit me.
It's not like this is the first person I know to reach either an 'engaged' or 'pregnancy' milestone. Many people I went to high school with have managed it. Hell, I'm from Caboolture, unplanned pregnancy is in the top five teenage past-times in that place. But this is the first of my actual friends that anything like this has happened to. I've never seen myself coming from a circle of friends that this would happen in at a young age. Why? Because we're better than you are (note: we're probably not, I just felt a strong desire to be incredibly arrogant. That and you suck. Seriously.). So this happening really signifies that I'm kickin' it in the adulthood.
The steps were all there leading up to it - the full-time jobs and everyone having to go in separate directions because of them, me angrily and pointlessly abusing the mailbox because it contains bills I don't want to pay, friends actually considering and going ahead with buying houses. These are none-too-subtle signs of the adult world. But come on, you have to admit, if you were standing next to me and the adult world opened its doors and started beckoning me in, you'd be looking around, going "Really? Him? Are you sure you know what you're saying?" I still half suspect that if I went to a public pool, they'd order me to wear floaties. Would this be before or after that order me to wear some - any - sort of swimsuit? I don't know.
Of course, this isn't a bad thing, and I'm incredibly happy for the friend in question. It's just the fact that this was the thing the turned into the big, neon 'You Are Here' sign in my life. And I'm glad all those lights were working, because if it turned into a big 'You Are Her' sign, things may have gotten confusing.
And another thing. This means I'm going to have to go to a wedding at some point. I don't even own a fuckin' suit. Shit.
Rants, Raves, Detailed Descriptions of the Pros and Cons of Various Foot Ointments, Barely Comprehensible Observations, Unpopular Moroccan Recipes & 73 Kinds of Random. All wrapped up in a thinly veiled disguise of Sage-like wisdom. Most Excellent.
Monday, August 27, 2007
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
My New Word For The Day
Colon-isation: (n) - After a person states "Your ass is mine", it is the process in which said person proceeds to, in fact, make the aforementioned ass theirs. Can be used in a sexual or physically violent context.
Sunday, August 05, 2007
Alright, Proceed
On Thursday night, the OK Go Concert was attended.
The votes have been collected, serveys filled out, results tallied, DNA samples tested and the consensus appears to be unanimous - it was kickin' rad. Which, for those of you unfamiliar with the Universal Scale of Radness, is pretty fucking rad.
Admittedly, with the length of time it had been between gigs for me, the band could have came out on stage with nothing but a jug and a kazoo, played a selection of off-key Echo and the Bunnymen covers and, for an encore, took turns kicking me in the crotch and I'd still be sitting here praising it as a shining example of showmanship. So I guess you could be advised to take my opinion with a large and tightly packed ball of salt. Then, proceeding that, you could be advised to see your doctor, because there is no way such a quantity of salt can be good for your heart. What the hell were you thinking?
After letting Amy and Jennie go to town on my hair with a straightener - a rather fruitless task being that I'd had a haircut two days previous, but who am I to spoil their fun? - and sporting the resulting style, affectionately dubbed 'the sex-hawk', we ventured forth into the unknown with a few drinks each under our belts. I honestly thought it would have been more wise for them to be in our stomachs, but what do know? But really not to sound like an alcoholic or anything (would you quit it with the intervention attempts? Seriously) but drinking at concerts really gets you into an even more enthusiastic rocking-out mood. The flip side being that it also leaves you more prone to rock-related injuries, but these are the risks one must take.
Upon arrival, the sex-hawk itself had realised the irony of being atop my head and abandoned it in search of greener pastures, but this was to leave no-one disparaged! In an obviously display of different goals, the girls made a beeline for the merch stand to get T-shirts, whereas me and Steve seemed to find ourselves heading more in the direction of the bar, as if drawn there by some unseen force, suggesting that this was divine intervention. Who are we to argue when faced with the will of the Gods?
Speaking of the Gods, the OK Gods (see what I did there? I'm spectacular) appeared to be frowning upon Amy, who missed out on getting a T-shirt because they sold out. But I think she's dealing with that in a healthy way, repressing her rage until it can no longer be contained and she lashes out at the first person she sees wearing an OK Go shirt in a flurry of violence, profanity and sexual innuendo (the innuendo coming from me, as I stand by and watch the situation play itself out).
The support band for the show now find themselves with the distinguished honour of being the best opening act I have ever seen, closely followed by the secondary honour of being that band whose name I can't remember. Which seems to be to be about right, doesn't it? You go to concerts throughout your life, wading through the plethora of shit support bands who seem to exists solely to prolong your wait to see the band you are actually there for (I'm looking at you Wolf & Cub. You're extended, distortion filled, guitar-wank sessions robbed me of precious time that could have been better spent staring into the sun), plus the occasional decent one scattered throughout, but then when you come across one that you really enjoy, your mind is in such a state of shock that this event is occurring - much like a Solar Eclipse really - that it forgets to recall the name. My ticket, sporting the vague phrase 'Plus Special Guests' is enjoying this, I'm sure. Quietly mocking me and laughing in the spiteful way that only a small piece of paper can. That is to say, not at all. I think I'm hallucinating.
But onto the main event, which is why we were there, and you are here, in the first place. Except for those of you that stumbled across here by accident and are now frantically trying to find your way out, but in a blind panic have forgotten how to use the Internet.
OK Go really were a good act, but I think part of it also comes down to the venue. I'd never been to the Zoo before, only that is a complete lie. I figured I'd throw you a curveball there. Gotta keep 'em guessing, otherwise they might start to like what they're reading, instead of being mildly irritated by it. I had been to The Zoo once (and for those of you thinking I lived a deprived childhood, robbed of the opportunity of seeing caged animals, I'm talking about a concert venue called The Zoo. Idiot) but it was for this small show with a few little-known - and little-remembered - bands, so I wasn't sure how it would be with a real concert. That's right, I'm being completely condescending towards small, local artists. Take that!
As it happens, it's great. By far the best venue I've ever been to. It just seems to have this laid-back vibe to it, which is something I haven't experienced. There was little to no discernible security, allowing people to not only to get up close to the stage (and probably peddle illicit drugs in darkened corners) but also allowed the band to interact more with the crowd. Several times the singer was in amongst the crowd and it seemed that everyone in the crowd actually stuck to a certain code of decency - something I like to affectionately refer to as the "Don't Be A Fuckin' Douchebag" code - meaning that they didn't try swamp him, no one tried storming the stage and there wasn't an out of control mosh pit with people getting crushed and pushed around. And by 'people', I obviously mean me. This also allowed for what was basically the highlight of the show - the band actually coming into the crowd (...wait...) and playing a couple of acoustic numbers right next to where we were standing. It put me entirely within a distance at which I could have touched them inappropriately. I, of course, refrained, as the 'no sexual molestation' rule is somewhat inherent in the code I was referring to earlier.
And, to cap off the evening, the arrival home ended with a failed attempt at five people sleeping in my bed. Don't ask me why anyone thought this would be successful in the first place. But please also let it be noted, especially by all you supermodels out there reading this, this does not mean I'm not willing to give it another go. After all, failure is just another step towards success.
The votes have been collected, serveys filled out, results tallied, DNA samples tested and the consensus appears to be unanimous - it was kickin' rad. Which, for those of you unfamiliar with the Universal Scale of Radness, is pretty fucking rad.
Admittedly, with the length of time it had been between gigs for me, the band could have came out on stage with nothing but a jug and a kazoo, played a selection of off-key Echo and the Bunnymen covers and, for an encore, took turns kicking me in the crotch and I'd still be sitting here praising it as a shining example of showmanship. So I guess you could be advised to take my opinion with a large and tightly packed ball of salt. Then, proceeding that, you could be advised to see your doctor, because there is no way such a quantity of salt can be good for your heart. What the hell were you thinking?
After letting Amy and Jennie go to town on my hair with a straightener - a rather fruitless task being that I'd had a haircut two days previous, but who am I to spoil their fun? - and sporting the resulting style, affectionately dubbed 'the sex-hawk', we ventured forth into the unknown with a few drinks each under our belts. I honestly thought it would have been more wise for them to be in our stomachs, but what do know? But really not to sound like an alcoholic or anything (would you quit it with the intervention attempts? Seriously) but drinking at concerts really gets you into an even more enthusiastic rocking-out mood. The flip side being that it also leaves you more prone to rock-related injuries, but these are the risks one must take.
Upon arrival, the sex-hawk itself had realised the irony of being atop my head and abandoned it in search of greener pastures, but this was to leave no-one disparaged! In an obviously display of different goals, the girls made a beeline for the merch stand to get T-shirts, whereas me and Steve seemed to find ourselves heading more in the direction of the bar, as if drawn there by some unseen force, suggesting that this was divine intervention. Who are we to argue when faced with the will of the Gods?
Speaking of the Gods, the OK Gods (see what I did there? I'm spectacular) appeared to be frowning upon Amy, who missed out on getting a T-shirt because they sold out. But I think she's dealing with that in a healthy way, repressing her rage until it can no longer be contained and she lashes out at the first person she sees wearing an OK Go shirt in a flurry of violence, profanity and sexual innuendo (the innuendo coming from me, as I stand by and watch the situation play itself out).
The support band for the show now find themselves with the distinguished honour of being the best opening act I have ever seen, closely followed by the secondary honour of being that band whose name I can't remember. Which seems to be to be about right, doesn't it? You go to concerts throughout your life, wading through the plethora of shit support bands who seem to exists solely to prolong your wait to see the band you are actually there for (I'm looking at you Wolf & Cub. You're extended, distortion filled, guitar-wank sessions robbed me of precious time that could have been better spent staring into the sun), plus the occasional decent one scattered throughout, but then when you come across one that you really enjoy, your mind is in such a state of shock that this event is occurring - much like a Solar Eclipse really - that it forgets to recall the name. My ticket, sporting the vague phrase 'Plus Special Guests' is enjoying this, I'm sure. Quietly mocking me and laughing in the spiteful way that only a small piece of paper can. That is to say, not at all. I think I'm hallucinating.
But onto the main event, which is why we were there, and you are here, in the first place. Except for those of you that stumbled across here by accident and are now frantically trying to find your way out, but in a blind panic have forgotten how to use the Internet.
OK Go really were a good act, but I think part of it also comes down to the venue. I'd never been to the Zoo before, only that is a complete lie. I figured I'd throw you a curveball there. Gotta keep 'em guessing, otherwise they might start to like what they're reading, instead of being mildly irritated by it. I had been to The Zoo once (and for those of you thinking I lived a deprived childhood, robbed of the opportunity of seeing caged animals, I'm talking about a concert venue called The Zoo. Idiot) but it was for this small show with a few little-known - and little-remembered - bands, so I wasn't sure how it would be with a real concert. That's right, I'm being completely condescending towards small, local artists. Take that!
As it happens, it's great. By far the best venue I've ever been to. It just seems to have this laid-back vibe to it, which is something I haven't experienced. There was little to no discernible security, allowing people to not only to get up close to the stage (and probably peddle illicit drugs in darkened corners) but also allowed the band to interact more with the crowd. Several times the singer was in amongst the crowd and it seemed that everyone in the crowd actually stuck to a certain code of decency - something I like to affectionately refer to as the "Don't Be A Fuckin' Douchebag" code - meaning that they didn't try swamp him, no one tried storming the stage and there wasn't an out of control mosh pit with people getting crushed and pushed around. And by 'people', I obviously mean me. This also allowed for what was basically the highlight of the show - the band actually coming into the crowd (...wait...) and playing a couple of acoustic numbers right next to where we were standing. It put me entirely within a distance at which I could have touched them inappropriately. I, of course, refrained, as the 'no sexual molestation' rule is somewhat inherent in the code I was referring to earlier.
And, to cap off the evening, the arrival home ended with a failed attempt at five people sleeping in my bed. Don't ask me why anyone thought this would be successful in the first place. But please also let it be noted, especially by all you supermodels out there reading this, this does not mean I'm not willing to give it another go. After all, failure is just another step towards success.