I’m one of those people who has no affinity for balancing on bladed contraptions.

Give me both feet planted on one board and I’m perfectly at ease, but anything that requires both feet operating independently of one another in some kind of zen-like dance; and it’s a bit like I’m trying to rodeo on cement mixers. One foot talks to the other, there’s a brief pause while they chatter amongst themselves, followed by the inevitable raucous laughter as my arse takes the brunt of the joke.

Roller-blades, ice skates, ski’s; each is its own type of masochism.

The engineering of an ice rink, however, is a feat of marvel. Its round, has no real exits, and forces people to act like mice on a perpetual wheel. For anyone who’s been to a sushi-train, there are some similarities here that one might draw worthy of metaphor.

I’ve come to appreciate that trying to pick up at the rink is a bit like the “extreme sport” of how speed-dating must be.

Typically, you have three seconds to introduce yourself, state your intentions, ask for courting permission, and swap contact information. Unfair as that may sound, three seconds is all you get – because by the second pass on the rink they’re no longer skating on the outer edge and have decided you’re some kind of looney. To be fair, that’s probably true – so the real challenge, then, is in the delivery.

Try it out some time.

Games are temporarily out of the equation and as a consequence, I’ve run out of all the excuses that usually keep me from writing.  So, without more ado, commence ye glorious blabber:

A mate just got back from his three-month training stint in Malaysia with the Reserves.   And truth be told, the whole affair looked far more like a government-funded Cancun vacation than a term of national service.   After sitting through what could just have easily been a Balinese tourism brochure for an hour, I’ve come to the conclusion that I need a holiday.  Bad.

Somewhere amid the reckless succession of picturesque glamor – each photo rife with its ancient temples, sandy white beaches, and oodles of unfamiliar flora and fauna – was a good time that I’d apparently missed out on.

Now, I’ll admit, I’ve never been to Malaysia, Singapore, Bali or Thailand. And even if every second of my mate’s photos were just hot pics embossed with a young lass, followed by the caption, “that chick has big cans”, I’m now tempted to visit them on aesthetics alone.  Bar New Zealand, and a short stint to Europe as a kid, I haven’t done a lot of travel abroad. I’ve never really felt the need to – there’s more beaches right here at home than I’ll ever have days off to visit.

So normally, a night of happy-snaps wouldn’t have phased me.

Normally, my idea of a top getaway is a good surf, hot chips on the beach, sand between my toes and a stormy front coming through.  Yep, that’s right.  A storm.

The kind of storm that sets your teeth on edge.  The one where looming clouds roll eerily on up from the south; where there’s a snap-change in the air and every fiber of your being crackles with anticipation; and the deep calm that settles before it hits.  The kind of calm that even birds daren’t disturb.  And later, the giant metronome that thunders against the rock shelf while lightning plays out across a black sky bay.  Good company and a few half-empty bottles of red.  The kind of bottles that you watch through the flicker of a log fire with a stupid grin on your face.  A warm bed.  Yep, I could set my life-beat by that shit.

So I put it to you, puppets: where, of your holiday picks would you go (or go again)?

Before I delve into the finer points of conspiracy theory, I’d first like to direct your attention to this fine article I came across at lunch today.

Now, I’m all about headlines (or, rather, reading between them), but this undeniable claim:

scatmars.jpg

highlights some of the wonders of investigative journalism in its prime. I’d also like to make special note of their image name – just, you know, in case the catch-phrase didn’t spell it out for you.

Now I assume everyone’s had a keen eye on the developments of the martian lander, and so you don’t need me to bust out my moves and tell you what it’s all about. Like about how it could take samples of things on the ground and investigate their composition in order to determine all softs of cool shit, as its scientifically known.

Initially they just wanted to find out if the red mass could sustain life, by locating ice samples and essentially boiling them in a miniature bucket-bong in order to provide a component-level breakdown of the soil. This so “they”, the scientists, could all sit around afterwards and scrutinise over the geology of the planet. Probably while listening to Bob Marley; and probably while muttering “huhuhuh” between mouthfuls of Cheezles.

However, after today’s announcement, rather than release their findings to the general scientific community, which one would expect from such an enterprise (and has been the case up until now) – they’ve opted play hidey-seeky with the White House. This inevitably leads to my first question:

Does the White House really have a bathroom where tourists take happysnaps of their favourite US pollies?

And secondly, what’s with all the hush-hush?

ARE THEY COMING TO GET US? ..

THEY’RE COMING TO GET US AREN’T THEY!

Crimes of Passion

I don’t know what it’s like for the rest of you, toiling away in our lucky lands; but for some of us, being those shifty-eyed Sydney-siders who loiter about the place, the rental property market at the moment seems to shift in leaps and bounds.

We had mates of ours recently, who are more of a western suburbs (hills district) persuasion cop some pretty hefty rental rises – to the extent of 20-25%. As a consequence, they’re now once again wading into the murky waters of newspaper clippings and online cork boards in an attempt to hunt for that perfect bargain.

We, on the other hand, already pay a fairly high price for our accommodation, and so the generalised 5% increase is now on the cards come our new lease date, which isn’t too far off – and that’s ok. By contrast, we’re in a position (I live with a workmate and his Mrs.) to afford it. Plus it’s like 5mins from work. Win.

However, our friends, who I’d mentioned previously, had raised the issue of pooling our resources together (seeing as we together pay a considerable sum of money each week in rent) and sharing some kind of “party mansion”. My guess is “party mansion” means big house with lots of space, a patio, a big fuck-off kitchen and one bathroom.

Which, while its an entertaining prospect, isn’t really practical or pragmatic when you’re late-20′s odd and like your “quiet” time. So when our new lease came up, we applied the diplomatic approach and said “no thanks”..  and that is when the sky shattered and the sirens began their distant wail.

It’s like the world tore asunder, and some ghastly beast has crawled out from the cracks of reality. It’s as if a personal affront has been committed, and by saying no, we’ve now taken our finely-honed bed-and-breakfast razor, and sliced through the slime-encrusted umbilical chord of an otherwise cheerfully agreeable mateship.

And so it leads me to the questions of the day:

To what extremes do you seek the perfect abode?
Or, to what extent have you sacrificed your personal needs to share a place with others?

Have we now breached an era, due to our society’s communal walls closing in around us, where your ability to hovel in small spaces is an expectation and asset? Or do we still, as Australians, dream of those sparse open plains and relative solitude from our neighbors?

I raise this in interest, as I hear you Mexicans and our Darwinians up north aren’t that far behind.

That’s right. It’s Monday, it’s night – and you know what that means!

That means it’s the day before Tuesday!

I hear, however, that Phonic has stolen Mondays for Kara.  So if we don’t get something going, maybe we can re-schedule for last minute Tuesday madness.  We’re still the “Monday nighters” though motherfuckers, Phonic doesn’t get to take that shit away from me.

The Monday Nighters. That’s tonight, 7-8pm AEST. Death by Tray.

Do you have tray?

Stay tuned for irresistible anecdotes.

Condolences; chin up, thoughts are with you champ.

And the word of the day is: belligerence
Meaning: a warlike or aggressively hostile condition or attitude.
“It’s belligerence because I say it is, motherfucker.”

And the word of the day is: subterfuge
Meaning: an artifice or expedient used to evade a rule, escape a consequence, or hide the truth.
“The trojans fell before the subterfuge of greek reins.”

“Looking darkly upon Hector, swift footed Achilles answered:
I cannot forgive you. For as there are no trustworthy oaths between men and lions, there can be no love between you and me. One or the other must fall before then to glut with his blood; Aries, the god who fights under shield’s guard.

Remember every valour of yours. For now the need comes hardest upon you to be a spearman and a bold warrior. There shall be no escape for you. You will pay, in lump, for all those sorrows of my companions you’ve killed in your spear’s fury.” Homer, the Iliad.

And the word of the day is: incandescence
Meaning: the emission of visible light caused by combustion at high temperature.
“Today we learned that hooking a mini-vac up to a rack-mount UPS produces incandescence that can be seen from space. Go you huskies.”