Ramblings of the Fatman

Fatman on Fatman

2008-01-13T19:58:00.000+11:00

Interviewer: Howdy folk. Joining me in the studio today is that reclusive writer S.Heazlewood, a.k.a. Fatman, who has not been seen or heard from for quite some time. I know that some of you folks have wild theories about the nature of his disappearance. Theories that have ranged from broken fingers, blunt force trauma-slash-head injuries that may have caused some sort of amnesia, being kidnapped by yetis and the like.

Respondent: (Looking slightly dishevelled as if he's just been mugged by seagulls. He picks at a crumb that he's found on his shirt) Am I on?

Interviewer: We're live.

Respondent: Wonderful. That's great news. I'm a big fan of...uh...the..where am I again?

Interviewer: (Slightly unsure if Respondent's comment is meant in jest or if he's genuinely baffled) Ha Ha.

Respondent: (Grins blankly)

Interviewer: How have you been? It's been a while.

Respondent: Uh...yah. I guess. Er....has it?

(Audience laugh)

Interviewer: Ever so slightly. (Audience laugh) What's been happening? You don't call. You don't write. You fell off the planet there for a while. Are you well?

Respondent: Yeah. I'm totally fine y'know? It's just that...I've been doing things. Stuff. Things and stuff mainly.

Interviewer: (Rolls eyes. Audience laugh) Did you want to elaborate or should we just assume...

Respondent: Oh you want specifics?

Interviewer: Would you?

(Audience laughs)

Respondent: Ha ha. I'm...I'm a bit vague today. Ha. Look, I've been drinking a fair bit.

Interviewer: Who hasn't?

(Applause)

Respondent: What else? (cocking head. Looking baffled) What HAVE I been doing? I bought myself an Xbox 360 around October or November last year so there's been a lot of..uh..that happening. Killing terrorists and zombies. Saving the world. That sort of thing. But recently, and this sorta happened over night, my TV screen started to take on this red shade y'know? So I've stopped gaming for a bit. (Absently) Must get the TV repaired.

Interviewer: The life of a celebrity.

(Respondent and Audience laugh)

Respondent: I lose MONTHS to that fucking machine. Uh...am I allowed to swear here?

Interviewer: If you must.

Respondent: Can I say 'cocksucker'?

Interviewer: Yes.

Respondent: Cocksucker.

(Audience laugh, applaud)

Interviewer: Let's move on shall we? So, you've basically been drinking beer and playing computer games.

Respondent: And working. I'm working heaps of hours.

Interviewer: This would be where exactly?

Respondent: I'm currently working in a bar on Chapel street in Prahran.

Interviewer: (Raises eyebrows) Prahran? That's not exactly your side of the river is it?

Respondent: Well, no. Not really. I'm kinda used to the North side of Melbourne y'know? Which is where your hippie, arty type of person live. I mean, most bars over this side (of the river) don't even HAVE lime to put in drinks. They just...put lime cordial into peoples' drinks if they order a..a...a...vodka, lime and soda. Or maybe they punch the person who ordered it for being a pussy.

Interviewer: I see.

Respondent: Prahran has always been where the (makes quotation marks with his fingers in the air) "fashion conscious" people live. Cool haircuts. Fancy shirts. Y'know...cocksuckers.

(Audience laughs)

Interviewer: How have you gone adjusting to the change in environment?

Respondent: Good. I mean, I like the bar I'm working in. Hell, I've been going there for, like, six years, seven years. And the people there are cool. The staff and the regulars are pretty awesome. Weirdos...but awesome.

Interviewer: So, it's been a good year for you so far?

Respondent: Yeah. Busy but good. I mean what are we...a few weeks in? The heat has knocked me about a bit and being in hospitality I never got that two week break that every other living person in the Free World seems to get. Most people, sorry to generalise, but most people spend this time of year living like a Colombian drug lord. Like, sitting around the beach, drinking cocktails named after cities and smoking cigars. Oh, did I tell you what I'm planning later this year?

Interviewer: What's that?

Respondent: Well, I'm planning another overseas trip later this year. Maybe September or November. It really depends on the finances really. But I've got it in my mind to...to head over to Cuba...

Interviewer: Why Cuba?

Respondent: I think it....when did the idea settle in my head? A few years ago at any rate. I think I saw Buena Vista Social Club and thought it'd be neat to check out the music scene there. Spend a few weeks where they've got all these vintage '60s and '70s cars smoking cigars. Gotta do it before Castro dies y'know.

Interviewer: Just Cuba?

Respondent: Afterwards I want to head over to New York. I think logically the other way would be tons easier. Because the Yanks have a shitty..uh..what do they call it? No Fly List..uh...yeah...No Fly List policy. Because of the TSA who are like bloodhounds...but real dumb ones y'know? Just relentless. I mean, did you hear about this five-year old kid who was detained because his name sounded like a possible terrorist?

Interviewer: This was just recently.

Respondent: Yah. So they've got armed guards...I'm imagining armed guards for this one...who are holding this fuckin' five-year old hostage essentially in case he steers the plane into a building or blows it up or something. I'm getting off the topic.

Interviewer: I didn't want to say anything.

(Interviewer and Respondent laugh)

Respondent: Ha Ha. It's just...it's just so stupid y'know? Anyway..

Interviewer: New York.

Respondent: New York. Reason: It's big and people talk about it. Even people who have never been there. People who have never been there wear T-Shirts that say they love it. Cocksuckers. But I primarily want to go see Letterman because I love that show. Well..."love" is a strong word. I think I love the idea of the show. Some of the episodes are killer but that's like one in...ten or twenty. Depends on the guest and Letterman's mood. And the script writers naturally. From New York [makes dramatic hand gestures]..Barrow!

Interviewer: Barrow?

Respondent: Barrow, Alaska baby!

Interviewer: Is this possibly because of (the film adapted from the comic book) Thirty Days of Night?

Respondent: Well, the town, the area fascinates me. I wasn't such a fan of (the writer of Thirty Days of Night) Steve Niles' stuff. I mean, it was a good idea but it...didn't really grab me by the balls. Which all good literature should. And I haven't seen the film.

Interviewer: Neither have I. But then again, I don't go out much.

(Audience laughs)

Respondent: Well (my friend) Free Beer suggested salmon fishing in Alaska sometime last year and the idea sort of stuck. Though he's probably not going to be able to come along because his wife (Freddy Nunchucks) won't let him. I don't know. Alaska. It seems like such a cool place to check out.

Interviewer: Does it?

(Respondent and audience laugh)

Respondent: I'm into desolate places though. Cold, desolate places. I mean, I've been to Tynda in Russia y'know? Loved it. It was so...

Interviewer: Depressing?

Respondent: Different.

Interviewer: Now, are you planning on travelling alone this time?

Respondent: Nik- who I went on the Trans-Siberian railway with- said he might come along. He's..well...it's money dependant for him as well. Chris probably can't come along because he's off to America earlier in the year for a friend's wedding. Same country but months apart.

Interviewer: Well, it's about time to wrap this up. When did you say this was? The trip?

Respondent: September. Ish.

Interviewer: A pleasure as always. Ladies and Gentlemen, Fatman.

(Applause)

Welcome To My Underground Lay-or

2007-10-23T16:55:00.000+10:00

I recently heard that there was a Titan Class intercontinental ballistic missile base from the '50s, located near Moses Lake (Washington State, U.S.A.) for sale on eBay.

Yes, a nuclear base.

The asking price, according to the article in the London Telegraph, was a measly $1.5 million dollars U.S. Hell, all I'd need to do is round up 15 of my closest friends to chip in and we'd have our own place of business.

For someone like myself - who is secretly convinced that a genetically-engineered plague designed by an aristocrat vampire will one day wipe out most of humanity (except for the lucky few who will survive only to turn into some form of flesh-eating, homicidal, mutant albinos) - this is an ideal place to purchase. I will no longer have to live in fear of zombie invasions, the Four Horsemen, rain of frogs or an attack by crazed vegetable-eating killbots.

What surprised me about the article is that this is only one of many nuclear bases for sale. Although the bases (sadly) do not come with any ICBMs all it would take is a few bribes to a corrupt Chechnyan general and baby we'd be in a position to make ludicrous demands on an unsuspecting world.

Now, to start preparing for a lava-filled moat around the parameters...

Brief Lives

2007-10-15T22:34:00.000+10:00

The phone conversation was unexpected. It was like getting slapped in the face with a fish- it stung my eyes and left a bad taste in my mouth.

'He did what?', I ask, befuddled.

Rupert repeats the story, slowly so that I can digest the information.

The phone call started innocently enough. I'd got hold of Rupert to inform him of when the Deadliest Catch was on. Also, I hadn't spoken to him since the birth of his child a few months back. We ranted on for a while, pleasantly banal tales exchanged like football cards, when he mentioned Shaun Kratzer, from school.

A blink. A pause. A blurry face in the recesses of my brain coming slowly into focus.

'Sure. Kratz. What's happening with him these days?'

'He...died earlier this year. In February.'

The last I'd seen of Kratz was at school and, since I was in the year grade above him, I had taken it upon myself to shove him into walls and trip him over when we passed each other in the corridor.

'Wow.'

'Yeah.'

'Wow,' I said again, for emphasis.

'I know,' agreed Rupert.

'How did he die?'

Rupert then sums up the last decade of Shaun Kratzer's life. He changed a lot, informs Rupert. He had a lot more facial hair for starters. This was because he was too busy doing real things that mattered. He was a photographer, he skied, was an avid climber and was loved by all who met him. Shaving didn't fit into his busy schedule.

On the 7th of February fate - in the form of an avalanche on Gulmarg mountain in the Himalayas - killed him.

My mind wanders.

Morbidly obese people feel that they are trapped in their own lives. For some this is a literal thing since their ample frames will physically not fit through the door frames of their own apartments and these sacks of organs will not leave their filthy rooms littered with chip packets and empty drums of root beer until several weeks after their death, when Emergency Services will have to knock down a wall in order to remove the bloated carcass from the premises. Others blame bad luck, unloving parents, misleading burger commercials, a tragic reincarnation that landed their souls in the body of a slob and not into Matthew Mcconaughey's.

I can only imagine at how scared Kratz would have been in his final moments on this planet of ours. How helpless and lost and utterly fucked he would have felt before being engulfed by a white fist belonging to some mountain god, terrible and without an ounce of passion. Still. No matter how sad it was that he left the stage so early he is truly one of the lucky ones since he probably lived more in a single day than many of us do in our lifetimes.

Sailors Who Get Crabs

2007-10-13T22:30:00.000+10:00

To reach the port of heaven, we must sail sometimes with the wind and sometimes against it,--but we must sail, and not drift, nor lie at anchor.
- Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.

"You go through a couple marriages, smoke cigarettes like it's going out of style, your body aches from the time you get up to the time you go to bed, and you wake up in the middle of the night thinking about where you're going to put the next pot. Yeah, it's a great lifestyle."
- Phil from the Cornelia Marie ,The Deadliest Catch

One day out from Dutch Harbour, Unlasaka. The Bering Sea is unrelenting and vicious like a restaurant critic or a high-powered divorce lawyer. The crew of the ship are being thrown about, stumbling back-and-forwards like actors in a Charlie Chaplain film. The winds scream like banshees. It's a typical day in the life of an Alaskan crab fisherman. The show is the Deadliest Catch and my eyes are nailed to the screen.

It has taken us worthless peons a long time to get it on free-to-air but we finally get to see this amazing documentary from the Discovery Channel. How frickin' insane is this? Why not base a show about THE deadliest profession in the world (besides "suicide bomber")? It's captivating viewing. I'm captivated.

For those who don't share my addictions, or know what I'm talking about, the Deadliest Catch is a show about Alaskan crab fishermen aboard a few of the ships (around ten or so) during the four-day crab fishing season in 2005. Now the sleep-deprived crew spend their time cussing at the "greenhorns" (n00bs) to get out of the goddamn way while trying not to fall overboard themselves. In a hazardous occupation where the death rate is roughly one a week (according to the Bureau of Labor Statistics over 300 fatalities per 100,000 fishermen) and hypothermia is constantly lurking around the corner this behaviours is not only to be expected, but sensible.

By the time the show finishes, I'm drenched in sweat.

Gracie Under Pressure

2007-09-26T15:06:00.000+10:00

"Ei! Fat-a man! Is-a me- Christopher."
"Ah! Christopher ma frien'! Its-a been-a long time without the speaking!"

Whenever Irish Chris and I speak on the telephone we both adopt bad Italian accents. Why do we do this? I honestly don't think either of us remember the genesis of this peculiar phone habit. Do we think it's funny, to speak in a cringe-worthy caricature Italian way?

"You-a horrible fat slob of a man! You no call me anymore. Why is-a this? Is your fingers broken in 18 different-a places? Have I done sumethin' to offend you in-a some-a way?"
"It is-a disgraceful on-a my part-a Christopher. I apologise for my insolence, my-a bad, my-a bad."

It doesn't even sound vaguely Italian. Not really. But we have been talking like this for such a long time neither of us can stop doing so. It is our ritual. Cliche-ridden mock Italian conversations that inevitably contain phrases like "'atsa nice meat-a ball!" will forever be part of our rapport.

Our accents were as convincing as Stefano's...who is an...Italian man

My friendship with Irish Chris basically revolves around drinking beer, playing pool and insulting each others' mothers...like all good friendships I guess. But lately he's been trying to get me involved in his latest hobby: Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu.

'Look. Look at my 'guns' baby,' he'll say when we eventually catch up, casting away his Luigi persona, 'Feel my arms. They are like steel. Like weapons to be unleashed upon an unsuspecting world. This is what perfection looks like.'

Although Chris is prone to exaggeration he is noticeably more muscular. Prior to his martial arts training he has stick-thin chicken arms that looked like they would snap in an arm wrestle.

Arm inspection done, he will then ask me to attack him so he can show me a submission hold he learnt that week. Two seconds after I lunge at his neck I'll be on the floor of a pub while onlookers glance our way wearily.

'Now this chokehold...'
'Gugh...ugh...'
'...is pretty hard to break. It IS possible. For maybe a blue belt. But for the run of the mill mugger, played in this instance by you...'
'..Ugh...grugh...disrupting the...guh...blood supply to my...ugh...brain...'
'Huh? Oh, sorry Fatman.'

As I lay wheezing and plotting revenge I get the uneasy feeling that I may need to take up Jiu-Jitsu soon in order to be able to counter his chokeholds and joint-locks. I still feel that, push come to shove, I could take Irish Chris in a fight. Not a fair fight. I'd hit him over the head with a crowbar when he wasn't looking. But who knows how strong he'd be in a years' time? Could I take him then?

Pirates Get More Booty

2007-09-19T14:19:00.001+10:00

"Avast belay, yo ho, heave to,
A-pirating we go
And if we're parted by a shot
We're sure to meet below!"

J.M.Barrie, Peter Pan(1904)

Pirates certainly are a musical bunch. While they spend most of their time at sea avoiding the Spanish Armada and gigantic, radioactive squids they do have a lot of down time where they get to prance around in colourful garb and belch out their favourite Gilbert & Sullivan medley, swigging rum and throwing up. Sure, there's a bit of raping and pillaging along the way but no more than your average Brisbane Lions football player on a Saturday night. Of course, back in the 17th Century, instead of buying the girls' silence the pirates tended to just kill them and any potential witnesses. Times were simpler back then.

"Bloodthirsty" Mick and his "2 Live Crew" sing their version of Booty-licious

Singing buccaneers are a lot rarer to find these days. Technically one need not be a Barbary Corsair in 1815 to be a pirate as they still exist today (the latest reported incident -Danish bulk carrier Danica White- being in June of this year somewhere near the coast of Somalia) often armed with sub-machine guns and trained dolphins. Let's ignore them for now and instead celebrate International Talk Like A Pirate Day!

How Can I Help Celebrate Talk Like A Pirate Day?

Simple. Although it helps if you haven't bathed for a while to truly get in the mood all you need to do is don an eye-patch and say 'Arrrr' a lot. Oh, and when you ask your friends if they want to join you, you ask them if they want to be part of your lethal seamen.

Won't I Get Fired If I Do This?

It...helps if you take the day off. It is a bit difficult to type wearing an eye-patch and if you work as a diplomat or a switchboard operator for emergency services or an orderly at an asylum you may indeed get fired.

Are There Any Other Dangers Associated With This Day I Should Be Aware Of?

Aside from the gigantic radioactive squids you mean?

Yes

You'll find it really hard to order pizza. Or hail a cab. You have to watch out for those pesky Goonies who are trying to steal your gold. Your pet parrot may attack your eye. If you walk into a bank you will find a deathly silence fall all around you and one of the tellers will probably call the cops and the cops will shoot you down dead.

It Seems Like A Pretty Stupid Day To Celebrate Then

...and you'll have to be on alert for the traditional enemies of pirates: the ninjas.

'I'll let you touch my sack but you have to tell me where those blastard ninjas are.'

Are You Yanking My Chain?

No, no, no. Pirates have been rivals with ninjas for years. There is still a debate as to who will win of the two groups. Personally I think us pirates could beat the snot out of those dorks wearing black pyjamas.

Archives:

Fatman's Talk Like A Pirate Day where we annoy the band Regurgitator
Fatman's Shitty Talk Like A Pirate Day When No-One Showed Up
There's actually a Pirate Supply Store in San Francisco! And Dave Eggers.

Lame Attempt At Getting My Friend Zoe To Come Out For A Few Drinks The Other Day

2007-09-17T11:44:00.000+10:00

Zoe: I really can't.

Me: You really should.

Zoe: I really, really can't.

Me: You're a wuss.

Zoe: Yep.

Me: Why not?

Zoe: Because I have to play netball and finish a 2,500 word essay.

Me: We can find you a substitute for netball. Does it have to be a female netball player?

Zoe: No.

Me: I'll pay a wino to take your place. You may have to give him a back rub later though.

Zoe: Ugh.

Me: I'll write your essay for you.

Zoe: 2,500 words?

Me: Yep.

Zoe: It's about Isadora Duncan. What do you know about Isadora Duncan?

Me: Heaps.

Zoe: You're lying. You don't even know who she is.

Me (defensively) : I do so.

Zoe: Go on.

Me: She...was the founder of Dunkin' Donuts?

Zoe: Not even close.

John Daly

2007-09-15T12:20:00.000+10:00

Golf has never appealed to me. I guess I've been averse to it ever since my father tried to teach me how to play one ordinary day two decades ago (the air was still, the sun was a yellow glob of phlegm lodged in the tired sky, insects had taken a day off, the sprinklers were spinning dutifully) and had gotten himself into an argument with two youths who had narrowly missed his (my father's) head with a golf ball . As he chased the teenagers - who were around the same age I was - around the course with his golf club, yelling obscenities at them, his face eggplant-purple with rage, I had serious doubts that I'd want to return to this sport.

Public conception has changed a lot since the 80s. It is no longer viewed solely as a leisure activity where dentists can meet other dentists on weekends and where golfers would make derogatory remarks about minorities without fear of reprisals. It is now a sport that can be enjoyed by young people and where black guys are allowed to join clubs. And not just as caddies.

Still, the game itself seems dull to me. I don't know how much excitement I can generate where the main objective of the game is to hit a white ball into a little hole far, far away from where you started. Along the way you try to avoid pits of sand, large bodies of water, bodies floating in the water, alligators, trees, my father's head, land mines, lava pits, gophers and lawyers. That's about it. No body tackles, shoving of any kind and most clubs frown upon anyone brandishing firearms in public. You tally your score at the end of the day, lie about it to your friends and spend the night fuming about the putt/s you missed.

There is a golfer that seems larger than life though, in more than one sense. The man in question is John Daly, who is like the town drunk that happens to be a maestro of his craft. He is too good to be true. A thrice divorced golfer with an estimated $50 to $60 million dollar gambling loss weighing on his flabby shoulders? A chain-smoking, chain-drinking slob who'd rather play slots than practice his swing for a tournament? The guy is like an overweight Happy Gilmore.

Daly takes a quiet moment to assess the situation. And have a smoke. And to keep a weary eye on wandering alligators

The John Daly story I'd like to recount is not the one involving a wife attacking him with a steak knife. It is the one that was told to me by Steve Holt about a week ago.

Some years ago John Daly was winning some comp by a few holes. I don't know which tournament or where. As I said I'm not a golf fan. Pebble Beach? Could be Pebble Beach. It doesn't really matter I guess. So, there's John Daly. Winning the game at Pebble Beach at this stage. His ball has rolled into some shitty place where there's a lake in the way. A lake filled with dangerous alligators. The ball has, I think, rolled into the lake. Or something. The mud near the lake perhaps. John Daly is given the (sensible) option of placing the ball in a better place (i.e. not in mud) but he waves this option. 'I can make this shot,' says John Daly. He swings. The ball rolls an inch. He says a few unprintable things. He is again given the option of moving the ball onto solid ground. John Daly shakes his head. He swings again....

...the ball barely moves.

He swings....

...and screws it up.

John Daly has given the game away by now. His fans are aghast. But still he is at it, still he is determined. Finally...SMACK! He hits the ball squarely and onto the green. 'I f-ckin' knew it!' he roars in triumph.

Why didn't you just KICK the ball in you dumb bastard?

In a world where former greenskeepers probably won't become champions, and guys who obsesses about ice hockey won't take up golf, we will probably have to rely on true sportsmen to fight the good fight for the rest of us. People like John Daly who will not budge to pressure no matter what.

A Heartbreaking Post About Dave Eggers, a Pirate Supply Store and Taxidermy

2007-08-25T17:04:00.000+10:00

Very rarely would I go to something like the Melbourne Writer's Festival. If I had to give a reason as to why I wouldn't go I'd say, with a straight face, that I was extremely homophobic and didn't want to be ambushed by gay people who go to "these things". It's fairly childish as far as answers go, but the logic behind it is: If you are a fair, open-minded person you'd stop asking me questions about my taste in literature ever again so I can keep claiming that I'm an illiterate hick. On the other hand, if you agree with the statement we could go to bars where girls take their clothes off for money and avoid any unnecessary conversations where we have to talk about themes and motifs buried within novels written by Gabriel Garcia Marquez for hours on end.

It's strange that, though I love reading, I tend to dislike talking about books or the people who wrote them. I don't like talking about books because I come across as a wanker and I know that most writers are essentially the same as the rest of us: They fall in and out of love. They get mugged on subway platforms. They wonder if they should make macaroni for dinner or just get take away Vietnamese food. They have their dogs neutered. They hatch plots to overthrow the Government. They have petty arguments with their siblings during Christmas. Nothing special.

Having said all that I put my fears aside and went to see Dave Eggers with Second-hand Bookstore Steve on Friday because we're both huge fans of his A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius. We both read it and lent the book to indifferent friends who gave it a so-so review. Our friends are fuckheads. It was an exceptional piece of literature that dealt with death, life, loss and growing up in a touching and poignant way but you try telling that to some of the people we know and you'll be greeted with a blank stare. I think this is what happens when you let your brain rot from apathy.

Eggers, probably fielding questions such as, 'Yes..but what do you do with all that lard?'

When he came on stage (after a short, yet extremely dull intro by a guy who now does the breakfast radio on 3RRR) he was everything I'd expected him to be. Curly hair- looking just like the picture on the cover of his books. And when he spoke it was like listening to the cool, older brother of a friend of yours at a party, albeit with an American accent.

He shows us a slide show. '...and this here is the pirate supply store we opened in San Fransisco.'
Could you please explain why someone would have a pirate supply store? asks the interviewer.
'We had opened up a store in San Francisco. It was meant to be for our McSweeney's publication but the nature of the lease meant that it had to be a retail store. Sell things y'know? And the only thing we knew how to sell was taxidermy supplies (Ed- here, I can't exactly remember why taxidermy supplies were the only thing they knew how to sell)- embalming fluids, glass eyes for the animals, artificial teeth. But we were a real armature outfit. Coincidentally the store just next door to us was also a taxidermist- see? you can see a stuffed mountain lion in the window of the slide here (he points at a stuffed mountain lion displayed in the right-hand frame of the slide)- and we didn't want to create a feeling of...hostility with our neighbours so we made the store a pirate supply store.'
Ah, said the interviewer, to fill the niche market that was so ready for the plucking: the pirate supplies.
'We really didn't know how it was going to work at first but we built a whole series of things we thought a pirate supply store should have. There's flags galore, a fish tank, eye patches, skull dice and also a trap door located above a display right here. In the trapdoor we have eight mop heads which we drop onto people to scare them. The original idea was to have a thousand ping pong balls but the reality of that situation is you have to scoop up the ping pong balls every time you drop 'em on people which would be a real pain in the ass.'

For all yer pirate needs!

Dave is the guy that you'd be if you won the lottery. He seems to have a knack of doing things that shouldn't work. He writes a cult book about coping with the death of his parents that is painfully funny. He opens stores that don't make sense (following the success of the Pirate Supply Store he followed it up with the Brooklyn Superhero Supply Company that provides capes, suction cups that can be used for scaling walls, villain containment chambers, etc. But get this- all the proceeds go to a non-profit organisation that he started up called 826 Valencia which run writing workshops and tutor young kids aged 8-18) He edits the Best American Non-required Reading series which basically collects essays, poetry, short stories and Chuck Norris facts. He did the screenplay for Spike Jonze (Sendak's Where the Wild Things Are)He does all the things you want to do if you knew what that actually was.

We as a society accept mediocrity as the norm. I know I'm guilty of this. Our lives, if not exactly linear, are then like a place mat maze you find in crappy restaurants where you have to try to find the pot of gold in the middle and avoid alligators and other dangers, as if there is only one correct answer to life. I think we've somehow convinced ourselves that if we differ from the norm (buy a car, work hard, get promoted, marry, have kids, avoid eating too much corn chips) that this is a Bad Thing and life can't possibly hold any meaning. We let these feelings act like secret service agents who bustle presidents from limos to hotels to limos, and never let us experience anything outside of what's scheduled.

Hearing Eggers talk, listening to his life condensed into a one hour lecture, makes me realise that there is life outside the world of photo copiers and bad weather and unsatisfying haircuts. A life that's ripe for the pluckin'.

Necrophilia: A Victimless Crime

2007-07-30T11:49:00.000+10:00

(AP) Madison, Wis. Three men who dug up a young woman's corpse to have sex with it after seeing her obituary photo cannot be charged with attempted sexual assault because Wisconsin has no law against necrophilia, an appeals court ruled Thursday.

A judge was correct to dismiss the charges against twin brothers Nicholas and Alexander Grunke and Dustin Radke, all 21, because lawmakers never intended to criminalise sex with a corpse, the District 4 Court of Appeals said in a 3-0 ruling.

From Wcco.com

This is why most people hate the legal system. Because it is so tragically flawed. I'm sure when the first settlers arrived in Wisconsin the last thing on their minds was to establish what the law was regarding non-consensual sex with the mangled remains of motorbike accident victims. No, they were too busy building huts and talking to the natives (who had grown steadily bored since around 9,000 BC when they killed off the last Boaz mastodon and were hanging around and waiting for white folks to turn up to invent the Green Bay Packers so they had something to watch on the weekends). In between then and the copious amount of cheese making that continues until this day, the whole 'necrophilia thing' somehow just got forgotten about. Until now.

(Scene: We are at Red Banks, Wisconsin, circa 1634. Jean Nicollet, explorer, interpreter, armature cook, decides to make a quick speech)

Jean Nicollet: I, Jean Nicollet de Belleborne, humble representative of the Compagnie des Marchands, do 'ereby dec'lare this land to be a part of the glorious French Empire on this fine day. For we shall build a colony here, on the banks of Green Bay, that shall be the envy of the world. This is a brilliant day to be a part of all this: Nouvelle France! Glory to King Louis XIII! Glory to us all! Now, before we start setting up camp and mining for lead sulfide were there any questions? Yup, you at the back.

Phillipe:...er...maybe this can wait.

Jean Nicollet: No, no. We've got time to kill now. It'll be another 129 years before we'll end up giving all this to those stinky English. What's on your mind Phillipe?

Phillipe: I...was just talking to...a couple of the boys about...maybe...if, after we build a townhouse, a few churches and all that...after we...we do all those...um...things first...if we should maybe, maybe, talk about laws regarding what should happen to a bloke if...he decided to exhume a corpse and decided to have his way with it.

Jean Nicollet:....

Phillipe: Sexually, I'm talking about. If he sexually has his way with it.

Jean Nicollet:....

Phillipe: I'm not talking about a really rotten corpse either. Maggot-ridden and all that. Nossir. I'm talking, like this chick has just died y'know? And she's still really pretty. Like, this guy is fairly certain that she still wants to party. In death. Should it be a...crime if a man decides to fill her slowly decomposing body with his semen?

Jean Nicollet:...Phil?

Phillipe: Yes Jean?

Jean Nicollet: How to put this? How...to put this? (he inhales slowly) I'm Jean Fuckin' Nicollet! OK? I've got a splitting headache, I've just opened up Wisconsin officially and you're already hounding me on laws regarding necrophilia? It's always the bloody same with you Phil! Always!

Phillipe: So....we'll just put it on the "Things to do"-pile for now? We'll...we'll work on the laws a little bit later.

Jean Nicollet:...

The thing that gets me about this is the fact that there were three guys involved. Not that I'm an expert in this area, but I'd guess that necrophilia tends to be a solitary activity (not including the corpse). Ted Bundy, Jeffrey Dahmer (from Milwaukee, Wisconsin), Ed Gein (also, coincidentally, from Wisconsin) and John Reginald Christie all did their nasty work solo. I think this stems from the sheer awkwardness of broaching the topic to other people. Unless you live in Wisconsin.

Signs That Your Friend May Be A Racist

2007-07-26T11:55:00.000+10:00

When he says, 'Let's go hit the slopes this weekend.' And he's not talking about skiing.

1,001 Things To Do With A Cadaver

2007-06-29T17:39:00.000+10:00

Let's say you have access to a whole lot of dead bodies. It doesn't matter why. You've just stumbled upon a whole...bunch of them. They are just there. Clogging up the driveway or something, just slowly decomposing. A collection of skin, muscles, limbs, eroding to bacteria as the days go by, organs liquefying, hair and nails and teeth falling out. Do you call the local Council and ask them to arrange a bulldozer to remove these corpses? Do you shed a tear and wish them better luck in the next life? Or do you, like controversial anatomist Gunther von Hagens, decide to make them into works of art before putrefaction sets in?

Gunther von Hagens: Bringing Sexy back!

If seeing skinned humans isn't your thing maybe von Hagens' 'Discover the Human Body' exhibition isn't for you since there are a lot of flayed bodies on show. However there are an increasing number of people who can sit through autopsy videos while munching happily on pop tarts, thanks to shows like C.S.I. that have so desensitised us to the horrors of seeing homicide victims with their guts splayed all over the shop, that teenagers can often tell us what sort of bullets were used to murder someone with by the exit wounds on the body. In my opinion Dr von Hagens displays all the symptoms of the kind of guys who jack off to crime scene photos...but that may have a lot to do with my prejudices on German people in general.

'Aztec priests used to dance around in the flayed skins of victims in fertility ceremonies for their god Xipec Totec. Tell me those dudes didn't know how to throw a bitchin' party!', I say, a little too loudly on the bus. I mention this to Rohani, who has agreed to come along to this thing. She and I had been talking about skinning dead people last Sunday and it seemed only right to watch it done by professionals. Rohani reads the brochure for the Exhibition and mentions some facts about it, 'It says here that there are "...approximately 160 authentic organs, "orgen configurations" (hyuk, hyuk) and a broad collection of whole-body plastinates-"'
'What's a "plasternates"?'
'Corpsy things. Preserved using the...um...plastinisating procedure.'
'Ah.'
'-"offers an unprecedented view of the human body." Do you think there'll be a corpse of a pregnant woman with the baby still inside her? How cool would that be!'

Luke Skywalker was happy resting in the gut of a Tauntuan

The other passengers on the bus stare nervously at each other and edge away, ever so slightly, from Rohani and I. One reason that these folks might have been desperately looking at the outside scenery was that they had no idea where we were heading and may have mistook us for cannibals on the way to the morgue for a bit of brunch. Another reason was they had heard of the 'Discover the Human Body' Exhibition and had heard some of the uncomfortable rumours that surrounded it: namely that Dr. von Hagens used the bodies of executed Chinese criminals. These hurtful, baseless allegations that the eccentric German was buying the corpses of political prisoners such as the Falun Gong (Chinese for: 'Please harvest my organs') by the wagonload hasn't dampened Dr. von Hagens' childlike enthusiasm for his morbid little hobby. Though he has responded publicly to his critics. "Ziss is und outrageous accusation!", replied von Hagens in a press interview, "Vere do these people get off ut saying zese thinks? All my victims..(what's the proper vord?)...subjects gave their bodies willingly. Because they luff. They havink vision. They are luffers of art!"

We step off the bus filled with worried passengers and make our way to the Showgrounds, where the exhibition is taking place. Tickets bought, we go inside....to a pretty lame spectacle. There is fake, plastic vine on the wall. Enya is playing at a low volume in the background. A skinless athlete is in the centre of the room, dead, yet playing basketball. 'Words fail me,' I mention to Rohani who is grinning as she glances around the room.
'I feel like a kid in an abattoir!' she gushes.

Soon we are glancing around at various body parts that have been placed around the edges of the room in glass containers. Most of the display cases have bad descriptions of what these things are followed by a diagram of the body part and (what are presumably) 'WARNING: DO NOT TOUCH!'-type signs written in Korean. Misspelling is rife with most of the exhibits. We stare at shrivelled up bits of liver and think about beef jerky.

Rohani and I come to one of the main exhibits: Skin Man. It is a fleshless guy who is holding his folded skin in one hand, like a matador holding aloft his cape. I stare at- what to my untrained eyes -looked just like a prison tattoo of a knife on his wrist. Rohani reads the description offered out aloud. 'How bad is this? "The skin. This covers your body and prevents your organs from falling to the floor." Well...duh!'

Skinless in Seattle

The rest of the day is spent looking at skeletons riding bicycles, looking at circulatory systems, trying not to bump into kids who were running around while their parents chased them, saying things like, 'Come on Jeremy! Put down that gall bladder right NOW young man!'

Now, I did enjoy myself since I don't often see partly formed children with spina bifida floating around in formaldehyde on a Saturday. But speaking as someone who laid down $23 for an entrance fee, I think the least von Hagens could do would be to supply us with a hobo to bisect on the way out.

Censorship is a Dirty Word

2007-06-17T14:07:00.000+10:00

The world has slowly been corrupted by humourless people. Politicians, legal professionals, Boards of Directors, generally anyone who owns a yacht, have been chipping away at the very essence of humanity for a long time. In their staunch belief that things work better in a sterile environment they have put a lot of restrictions on how we conduct our day-to-day activities. Which may be fine in a theoretical sense but when you put it into practise...well, its just plain annoying.

I am talking about spam filters.

For reasons too boring to get into here I had been after some speaker equipment and a microphone for a client. I'd asked for a quote from a stereo hire place and was getting peeved off that I hadn't received a reply. Unbeknownst to me they had sent a quote three days previously and I hadn't got it in my inbox because of our company's overenthusiastic spam filters. Searching through the emails that had been herded into cyber-quarantine I saw scores of unreceived resumes alongside the three day old quote. No wonder we didn't have many replies for that ad we placed a fortnight ago.

I mentioned this to my friend Free Beer yesterday and he said, Oh yeah that happened at my old company as well. I said, That must have been a colossal pain-in-the-ass. It sure was, he mentioned gravely, it meant we couldn't conduct business in a productive way.

Say you're dealing with a Thai company (which they were). You send them an email and you never get a reply. You send another email later on the week and it also disappears. It disappears because the effing spam filters will filter anything with the word 'porn' in it. Now, how many Thai folks have names that have the word 'porn' in it?

'Heaps,' says Free Beer, 'It's like "John". A really common name.*'

Now we've got this company that won't accept any emails that comes from Nattaporn, Patsaporn or Porntip because the dumbfuck spam filter thinks its protecting the delicate eyes of 40-year old, ex-army, Financial Directors from donkey shows.

Not only that, but what they realised in Free Beer's old company is that the Australian branch swore a lot. Constantly. In nearly every email. They needed to vent their rage on a daily basis so they can conduct their business productively.

'If you need to call someone a fucking idiot because they were, indeed, a fucking idiot, the company shouldn't restrict you.'
'Hear hear,' I say in consent, 'You yell, you get it out of your system and then you get back to work.'
'That's right. Say we have a guy called "Bert" who is in charge of shipping. One day, because "Bert" is suffering from senile dementia or he's a raging alcoholic who gets smashed on gimlets during lunch breaks or just for the effing sake of it, "Bert" sends a shipment of...I don't know...medical equipment to Outer Mongolia. A whole bunch of colposcopes that costs an average of 3,000 bucks a piece. An office memo will surely surface within seconds of the mistake being discovered asking "Bert" why Mongolian goat herders are using specialist equipment that are usually used in finding cervical cancer as fence posts.'
'With spam filters the office memo will sound like something straight out of Ned Flanders land. "Did you know that funny, friendly old Bert made an oopsy that will cost the company thousands and thousands of dollars? Golly! Wowsers! etc".'
'Exactly. What you want to say is: "Bert, the felching, child molester is set to be fired in the most exciting way possible. We will be hurling his useless ass, screaming, off the top floor of the building. Afterwards we shall feed his remains to savage dogs and set fire to all of his worldly possessions. For the more enthusiastic of you, you are more than welcome to hunt down the rest of his family and destroy them to ensure that no one from his genetic line will walk the planet. All Welcome!".'

Productivity went down by 30% in Free Beer's company (I think he's talking horseshit here, but its his story so I'll bite my tongue on this one) until someone found an interesting loophole in the spam filter.

'The Grizzled Old Prospector method,' he tells me triumphantly.
'Whu...?' I ask, because I'm only half-listening.
'Someone discovered that the spam filter wouldn't recognise foul language from the 1880s. So everyone started to email each other like a grizzled old prospector.'

Soon, Free Beer and his colleagues were sending messages to each other that were along the lines of "Did you know what that varmint Mattherson did to my milk?"
"I hear that blasphemous heathen drank the rest of it and didn't replace it."
"Dangnammit! I'll find that treacherous cur and invite him to a duel in the car park. That blackhearted vulture will see what happens when he crosses me!"

'Surreal.'
'It was for a while,' agreed Free Beer, 'but then eventually someone from IT decided that it might just be easier to allow the Australians to swear normally and everyone went back to cussing at each other and downloading pictures from Cats That Look Like Hitler.com.'

*Probably more like "Elizabeth" since it's a female name. Which goes to show that you shouldn't ask Free Beer for information ever.

Jake of Hearts

2007-06-09T13:36:00.000+10:00

My homeless situation continues. Which isn't to say I wake up from lying in between doorways with random dogs urinating on me or that I've been officially labelled a 'vagrant' by the Council (In which case kindly policemen would take me in, let me sleep in one of their drunk tanks and nudge me awake with their batons come morning). No- I'm living in a Backpackers once again.

Ah, the Backpacker life! Sleeping with all your worldly possessions strapped to your body, keeping a machete under ones pillow, having to listen to skinheads masturbating through the night,arm wrestling Dutch guys in order to watch your favourite TV show (One Tree Hill. How do they keep the stories so fresh?). Wonderful.

Currently my roommates are J.P. the Canadian (the French kind) who makes his living by selling...things, a 40-year old Japanese guy who has decided after four decades to see what the rest of the world looks like, Pablo the tattooist who kind of looks like he's stumbled out of a heavy metal concert and wants to bite the heads off nuns (though after 3 seconds of talking to him you realise that he's quite friendly, more like a Buddhist than a mass murderer) and Jake.

Roommates in Backpackers tend to exist solely as a pair of legs jutting out from a bed who steal your shampoo and pornos when you are at work. For me anyway. As much as I enjoy interacting with other human beings, after weeks of meeting Germans who stay for a single night you stop asking people their stories, interesting as they might actually be. The only reason I know J.P. is because he's been there for as long as I have, maybe longer, and Pablo is a living, breathing work of art.

I wake up one day to find that there now resides a person called Jake in our humble room. He and Pablo were having a discussion about the new tattoo on the small of his (Jake's) back earlier that day. It was strange and intricate with all kinds of crazy symbols hidden within. Unfortunately it was stretching his skin in new and painful ways and so Pablo went off to find some cream (Pegapanthenol) for it. 'Give me a look,' I say to inspect it properly. Jake turns and shows me. 'Interesting.'
'Yeah man, I got it last night.'
'Cool,' I yawn, 'where?'
'Here man. In this room.'
I put two and two together. 'Oh, Pablo gave you the tattoo?'
'Who?'
'Pablo. The only guy in this hostel who is a tattoo artist.'
'Yeah. Him. Pablo.'

We lapse into silence. He then says, 'I got something for you.' What the...? This from a guy I have barely spoken to. Is it drugs?
'It's not drugs,' says Jake as he rummages through his belongings. Eventually he locates it in the pocket of his jacket- a playing card. A Queen of Hearts.
'What's this?' I ask, genuinely baffled.
'Queen of Hearts man. May you find her one day.'

My mind is not used to this kind of behaviour. I'm used to encounters where two men will argue about rugby and one of them will end up dead in a ditch somewhere.

'...er...thanks.' I look at the card. Its a standard, shitty playing card that costs about two dollars for a deck that you can buy from a service station. I wonder if I struck him as someone who looks especially like a side show reject who can only find girlfriends who charge by the hour or if he keeps a whole deck of these and gives them to everyone he meets. Either answer wouldn't have surprised me.

'Funny,' I muse as I wave the card about, 'but this is kind of the reason I'm here.'
'In this Backpackers?'
'In this Backpackers. In this country.'
'Where were you before that?'
'In Estonia. Specifically an Estonian Backpackers. I'd just finished my Trans-Siberian Railway journey and sort of gravitated towards there, by way of Frank Zappa's head in Lithuania.'
'Ah, Estonia! Estonian women are the most beautiful in the world.'
'Hm. And what brings you here?'

Jake recounts his story in bits and pieces. I gather he was living happily in a forest for seven years with his fiancee at the time. They break up. He makes the mistake of looking at Russian dating sites ('Russian women! They are the most beautiful in the world.') where he finds his soul-mate who asked for a measly $1,500 so that she can find passage across the seas to his arms. Needless to say, he writes the cheque, she cashes it and is never heard from again. He makes his way back into civilisation where he eventually met a German lass. Two days ago.

'...and over here,' he continues as he arches his back, exposing his fresh tattoo 'is her initials. Underneath the infinity symbol.'
'That's quite a story dude.'
'Yeah. Anyway, I'm going to study German and find this chick. She lives in Stuttgart.'
'I hear their Porches are lovely at this time of the year.'
''Suppose so.'
'Has she left already?'
He shakes his head, 'Nah, leaves on Wednesday. I'd call her but I think she stole my mobile.'

Pause.

'The...love of your life steals your heart and your mobile and you're going to frickin' Stuttgart to find her?'
'I know. Crazy huh?'
I shrug my shoulders. 'Cherchez la femme. They make us all do crazy shit through no fault of their own. All I can say is: To thine own self be true.'

Made out of the Pubic Hair of Migratory Elephants

2007-06-06T15:25:00.000+10:00

As Yawn has pointed out I'm a bit of a Wikipedia whore. When I'm after some basic information fast I turn straight away to that on-line encyclopedia. Can't remember which dates in 1945 when Dresden got bombed? I turn to Wikipedia. Which was the gay Teletubby? I consult the Wiki. What where the specific yo-yo tricks that Abbie Hoffman, author of Steal This Book, did during a court session in front of the House Un-American Activities Committee that deemed him being in Contempt of Court? How on Earth should I know? But Wiki definitely would.

My forays into this cyber pool of knowledge are not undertaken without a pinch of salt. Cretins are free to edit the shit out of it. Vandalism runs rife. But it is this incompleteness that attracts me to it. And so it is when I was told about one of the most frequently vandalised pages that I took a backwards step and said, 'Say what?'

Is it Nazism that is the most vandalised page? Apartheid? Christianity? Abortion? Euthanasia? Apparently not. The page that is one of THE most vandalised?

Cheese.

Poor, innocent cheese[1].

Who the frick would bother editing cheese?

In an effort to understand the situation a little better I consulted my friend Dr Pollard, Cheese Scientist. Now, unlike most people that I make up in a feeble attempt to appear more interesting, I actually do know this guy. We lunch every once in a while and discuss our favourite Simpsons episode (the Monorail one) or My Name is Earl. When I talk about him to people I say, 'Have I ever told you about Dr Pollard? He's very cultured.' Which is a cheese-related joke that seldom gets laughs. I sometimes say, '...he's matured nicely over the years.' as a substitute joke but this usually gets less laughs that the first one so I use it only when I really want to impress chicks.

He greets me outside his work. These days he's slumming it in the world of yogurt instead of cheese but he keeps abreast of new development in the cheese sciences. For instance, he introduced me to Cheddar Vision before it got famous.

Over lunch we talk aimlessly about a few things before I broach the cheese topic. 'I was watching a horrible TV quiz show last night where in one segment of the show the contestant had to name as many elements on the periodic table as possible,' I begin.
'Uh-huh,' he replies,'How many could you come up with?'
'A few.'
'How many?'
'Well, I was watching the show with Cousin Jesse so he helped me out a bit.'
'How many?' he asked persistently.
I paused before I answered. 'Zinc,' I replied, blushing slightly.
'That's it?'
'Well, there was that Simpsons episode where they...'
'The "Imagine the World without Zinc" episode you mean?'
'....yeah.'
'"Come back Zinc!"'
'Heh heh,' I laugh weakly.
'Come on man! You're better than that.'
'OK wise guy. How many elements can you name?' I ask testily.
'By atomic mass, melting point of, boiling point of, The ones that Plato knew about, the ones known by Arabian chemist Jabir ibn-Hayyan, The Robert Boyle era, by symbol, the ionisation energies, the unstable ones? You want me to list all this stuff that I keep in my head?'
'...er...yes?' I say weakly.
'Pffft. I'd know at least a half dozen!' he proclaims triumphantly. Smug bastard.

It turned out that Dr Pollard was amazed that cheese was such an interest to so many people. He'd not turned to the 'cheese' section of Wikipedia since he was an authority of the topic. We shook hands and he left to go back to work, puzzled as I was with this strange knowledge.

[1] Well, that and Nagorno-Karabakh

I Be An Retarded (a post about musical tastes)

2007-06-01T10:51:00.000+10:00

While accountants test keyboards for drool resistance, comedians duck thrown tomatoes, plastic surgeons suck fat out of the thighs of obese billionaires, Pro-Life people set abortion clinics ablaze we waste our existence in the least creative way possible- in a seedy bar somewhere. We are drinking and singing and talking too loudly as usual. Strange bets are made. Attempts at dancing result in broken furniture. Attempts at repairing furniture result in dancing. Expect hangovers tomorrow.

It's not that my group of friends don't try to fit into the quote-unquote real world. But how can we join the rest of civilisation in, oh I don't know, a book club or something when the only books we've ever read are by ex-SAS guys who recount their experiences in the Gulf War? Would you want to spend time with us discussing the works of Milan Kundera whilst listening to Mahler? I didn't think so. We, the unwashed masses, drink in horrible places and strike up conversations with guys called Mungo so you folk can talk about Vikram Seth's 'A Suitable Boy' over a bottle of red.

St.Jerome's is an ideal place for the likes of us. Located down Caledonian Lane, truly one of the worst smelling dank alleys your nose have ever been assaulted by, it remains a great meeting place (since it shuts at midnight) for small groups of alcoholics in Melbourne. Although these days suits crawl through the venue on Fridays and Sundays the rest of the week remains relatively unscathed. There's only six types of beer to choose from, no variety in spirits and you may have to use a milk crate for seating. Its a perfect place to yell insults at your friends, especially if they don't share the same music tastes as you do.

'How could you like Sigue Sigue Sputnik's Love Missile F1-11?'
'How could you not?'
'Let's not even get into your obsession with A-Ha.'
'No. Let's. Let's do it. Let's discuss my obsession with A-Ha. Right here and right now ya crude prick!'

(Brief Interlude as Just What I Needed by the Cars plays in the background)

'...as I was saying...'
'Oh shit. We cannot still be discussing this.'

Musical tastes are a weird one. What makes one person fond of the London Symphony Orchestra and Pink but abhor hip hop? Why will one person sing I Left My Sperm In a Fag Named Cisco quite happily but not a Ramones tune? It can divide friendships and send husbands to sleep on couches if the wrong things are said too often. And most of it is out of our control, so deeply encoded in our DNA are these feelings, entangled with the genetic code that makes some of us left-handed or trombone players or even left-handed trombone players. It's just a part of us. Because of what was playing on the radio when we were young.

The past comes crashing into my consciousness like burly firemen breaking through a wall. Suddenly its the '80s again. Wrinkly old leather-faced Regan rules the Americas. That bold guy with the ink-splotched head is the Russian head honcho. The Berlin Wall is still up. Happy pants are in. "Two all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame seed bun." was a global anthem. Max Headroom told us to buy Coke.

I am going through puberty again. My voice is like a musical instrument suddenly out of tune. There's a taller, hairier version of me struggling to escape the confines of my skin. Masturbating is still a new hobby. I am feigning learning difficulties for cheap laughs. I am an attention-deprived kid. A kid who pretends he's feigning learning difficulties in order to avoid being persecuted for being an idiot. The radio plays Peter Gabriel, Elton John, Morris Minor and the Majors, De La Soul, Queen, Bon Jovi. Years later, when we are adults who buy albums (or, let's face it, assholes who download music) we find ourselves gravitating towards some artists who others find repulsive. Somewhere deep within we are still the same little villains who wish violence upon our teachers who gave us bad marks because of our learning difficulties. And we listen to crap.

In the present day, in St.Jerome's, the musical debate continues between Nik and Chris (my Russian travelling companions), Mark, Russ, Cole and myself. 'Have the Rolling Stones killed,' I say to Nik, 'Seriously.'
'Take that back!' says He of the Bulging Belly.
'They were great. They aren't anymore. I'm kind of disappointed they didn't die a fiery death in a horrific plane crash.'
'Yeah but Keef. Keef is cool. He snorted the group-up remains of his own father with some coke. That's Rock'n'Roll!' insists Nik making the 'devil sign' with his hands.

We come to a compromise.

'You're a dickhead.'
'Fuck you!'

Just then a miracle happens. A song that unites the two factions. Is it? It couldn't be. It is!

'S-Express!' we all squeal in delight. Life is good again. Nik gives me a thumbs up- all is forgiven. I lean over and rub his belly for luck.

The Greatest Comeback Since Lazarus Rose From The Dead

2007-05-26T12:59:00.000+10:00

The envelope please.

...and the award goes to my friend Grumpy Matt for his comeback to Annoying Lady in this scenario;

(The Blue Bar, Prahan. Matt is making a martini at the bequest of Annoying Lady)

Annoying Lady: Excuse me young man. That is not the way to make a martini. I want you to shake the thing, not stir it.

Matt: It's a gin martini. If I shake it...

Annoying Lady: It's MY martini. It's supposed to be shaken. Don't you know anything?

Matt: (with surprising calm) Lady, do I go to YOUR truck stop and tell YOU how to suck cock? Then, shut the f-ck up.

Annoying Lady: (silence)

Annoying Lady: (silence)

Annoying Lady: (silence)

Matt: Now, would you care for some olives or would you like a twist of lemon instead?

Donut Forget To Say Your Vows

2007-05-12T20:00:00.000+10:00

(Cont'd from last post)

Mother and I get to the church via taxi. The driver smelled vaguely of mandarins. He seems a nice enough guy and we chat amicably about his life in Canberra. He looks like he's from India but its entirely possible he's from Pakistan. I wonder if I should ask? Would his manner change suddenly? Would he be disappointed that I couldn't tell the difference? Maybe he'd get angry. Like, inexplicably furious. How would I know how his brain chemistry works? Maybe a murderous wrath would grip his entire body- his breathing would change noticeably, his heart rate would increase dramatically and his catecholamines would play havoc on his survival instinct- and he'd plunge mother and I into a river, head first, killing us all. I avoid the topic anyway. Just for safety's sake. Mother and the driver chat away, unaware of the dangers that I'd saved them from.

It had been a fair while since I had set foot in a church. With the amount of sins culminating in my life I had thought it a distinct possibility that my body would burst in to flames or I'd be turned into a cockroach as soon as I stepped on hallowed ground. But I'd flown all the way to Canberra to witness the marriage of my cousin James and I'd be damned if I allowed my irrational fear of God turn me away at this juncture. I'd survived the irrational fear of a nice cab driver killing himself, mother and I to get here so I think I could survive a few more hours without screaming at the thought of being turned into a bug, then incinerated by a vengeful Deity.

The day is about as typical as you might imagine it to be. The sun is out on a beautiful day. Old people recount events that took place decades ago. The children take turns desecrating graves. The women dress prettily. The men hide their bloodshot eyes with sunglasses. ~~A swarm of doves, supposedly symbols of peace, swoop down unexpectedly and start attacking everybody~~. Yessiree. A typical wedding day. Until the priest started crying mid-ceremony.

The first part of the ceremony had been spent wondering if that was James up at the altar. It had been years since any of the family members had seen him but eventually we were convinced that it must be him since he was the guy in the tux saying the vows. Plus the back of his head was James-like.

I had been spending the latter part of the ceremony fantasising about getting a lap dance from Dita Von Teese. Which is about the time the priest burst into tears. What the heck is going on here?

At the start of the wedding, when I first saw the priest (a fifty-ish lady who looked like she baked cookies), I had thought: How de rigeur for this day and age. No one likes to be married by stuffy old paedophiles. Unbeknownst to me the lovely old lady was the godmother of the bride. 'How cool,' I mumble, 'Do you think she can make pumpkins turn into carriages?'
'Grow up,' snaps mum.

...and the night ends with a whole bunch of people going to the reception hall (the Lakeside) to drink free booze and dance to '80s music. James' federal policefriends* got to cast aside the austere expressions they have to wear during the course of their day jobs that involve solving murders or uncovering drug rings. His new wife gets to bask in the glory of her well-meaning friends who congratulate her on a new surname and a lifetime of servitude. And our family get to sit and talk amongst each other, knowing that the next time we'll all gather like this is at another wedding or a funeral.

* Can I just say here that the wedding cake was pretty funky. Since James is a cop the wedding cake was a stack of Krispy Kreme donuts. When I mentioned to Auntie Lois (James' mum) about how piss funny that was, she told me sadly that only three people of the entire 100+ people got the joke.

Killing Time Before the Ceremony

2007-05-12T14:22:00.000+10:00

My uncle is starting to look like my dad a little. He's gone greyer over the last few years and I'd be hard pressed to tell them apart from a distance. Unlike my father he has a bit more energy when narrating, say, the physics involved when he tripped over a stick the other week. 'My legs had just twisted over this bloody branch when the forward momentum-' he gestured with an open palm, '-just pitched me forward. Now I've got the leash in one hand (my uncle has a pet dingo. No kidding) and I'm struggling to stay upright...'

My mind drifts a little as he goes into more detail about his recent battle- and subsequent victory- against gravity. The Family had gathered for some coffee before the wedding celebrations kicked off and we were talking about nothing. Same as usual. We had trivial conversations about mundane things down to a fine art. The seeming impossibility of finding a spot to park the car, the price of sausages, laundry powders that make your skin itchy, slogans for bad films, the lack of coherent song lyrics in music these days were recurring topics that had been discussed over the years. Many, many times. We once spent an afternoon talking about a particular hammer. Which isn't to say that we don't discuss the Flying Spaghetti Monster or particle physics from time to time. It's just that we are comfortable with the mundane.

Rod (the uncle who almost tripped to his death) ends the conversation abruptly. He walked away from the incident unscathed, is the gist of it I gather, and will file the story away to be a cautionary tale about the dangers of sticks. Auntie Chris (his wife) and cousin Justine (their daughter) wear the solemn expressions of Easter Island statues. Perhaps they have heard the story several times before.

'Did you know that there are more donkey-related deaths than there are plane crash victims?' I say to change the subject.
'Sounds like crap to me,' says uncle.
'How on earth would anyone verify that kind of information?' asks cousin Justine. She is the director of the Victorian Public Archives and is dangerously competent.
'Just saying is all.'
My mother, who is also at the table, mentions that we should head to the chapel.

Canberra: Why Wait For Death?*

2007-05-11T12:52:00.000+10:00

In the middle of nowhere, on the old stomping grounds of the Ngunnawal tribe, squats our nation's capital- Canberra. It was the unwanted offspring that came as the direct result of a disagreement by perpetual rivals Sydney and Melbourne in the late 19th century during Federation when neither city wanted the other one to have the honour of being the Australian capital. A compromised was reached to avoid an outright civil war and the two cities grudgingly agreed to build the most boring place they could think of and herded our politicians there as punishment for being two-faced liars that no-one likes.

The reason I was heading to Dullsville where black-hearted villains made pacts with devils was a family commitment of the highest order- a cousin's wedding (No, not that one). Though I'd rather swallow razor blades or be locked in a box filled with ravenous Gila monsters I did not want to face a swift and brutal excommunication from the Family by not attending the wedding.

The cousin in question-he who had to rent a tux and say vows and such- was James, a detective in the Federal Police. He, his sister Jo (who was now working for a powerful politician) and I used to spend the summer holidays of our youth getting dressed up as superheroes and roamed around town looking for invisible creatures and Mayan treasure. How times have changed. Jo and James are now important people while I....still dress up as a superhero and roam around town looking for creatures and forgotten treasure.

Now, I can only remember going through Canberra three or four times. One of those memories involved my father and I driving from New South Wales to Victoria via the nation's capital possibly as an ill-thought out on his part of a bonding experience. By the end of our journey there was only an icy silence in the car (neither of us had spoken to the other for the last five hours of the ride), the remains of a John Denver cassette tape chewed apart by our faulty tape deck and the vow that we'd never undertake that particular trip again.

The other memory involved a younger version of Yours Truly getting invited by a schoolfriend to stay at his place during the school holidays. We were both around 13 I think. Snot-nosed and arrogant and petty as all 13 year olds are. His parents lived in a luxurious mansion and we spent most of the holidays running around, breaking expensive toys and tormenting the maid. Then one day we had some sort of an argument. I can't remember exactly what over but it must have been major ('Liege Maximo is so the bestest of the Decepticons. He'd so kick Megatron's ass!', 'Would not!', 'He created them all! He can un-create whoever the hell he flippin' well wanted to!', 'Well if he's so powerful why doesn't he show himself huh? Why doesn't he?', 'That's because he's like Kaiser Soze. Just like a robotic Kaiser Soze.', 'Soze is a myth!', 'Is not!', etc.) because I calmly decided to pack all my gear and hitchhike my way back home. I knew this could be done since I'd seen films where a cat, a dog and a Two-headed Bobtail Skink could join forces and make it home by sheer force of will and a little bit of luck.

Unbeknownst to me, my family, the school we went to and possibly even to my schoolfriend was that my school friend's father was part of the Israeli secret intelligence- the Mossad. My disappearance had sparked a swift international incident as fears of a kidnapping circulated the intelligence community. My uncle Rod received a phone call from the Feds much to his bewilderment. 'Hello? Is this Rod Heazlewood?'
'Yes. Yes it is. Who may I ask is calling?'
'This is Agent (blank) of the Federal Bureau (or whatever) calling on behalf of your nephew who has gone missing...'
'I see. Excuse me for just one moment...(starts banging head against wall).'
'Sir?'
'That (bang) Idiot (bang) child (bang)!'
'Sir? Is this a bad time?'

My escape was short lived however. I lasted about an hour or two on the road when I foolishly assisted a mother of two with her stalled car on the proviso that she dropped me off at the state border. She agreed to this and promptly betrayed me by calling the police at the nearest service station while I waited for her to fill her petrol tank. I was vaguely surprised to see a swarm of police vehicles and helicopters arrive along with my friend's father who seemed torn between hugging me and strangling me to within an inch of my petty life.

* p.s. The title comes from Bill Bryson's 'Down Under'- a book I haven't read but possibly should.

Guns Don't Kill People, Seung-Hui Cho Kills People

2007-04-24T05:47:00.000+10:00

After the Columbine shootings, after obese, left-wing guys make films about Columbine shootings, you'd think that there'd be perhaps some tighter restrictions on purchasing weaponry. Nope. Not a blip on the radar. America still fervently grips onto its Second Amendment, the Right to Bear Arms, which was an amendment to the United States Constitution made as a direct result of the Shays' Rebellion in Massachusetts some 221 years ago. It basically gives a man who has had to go through a psychiatric assessment due to his three (3) separate counts of stalking the rights to purchase a .22 caliber Walther P22 semi-automatic pistol and a 9 mm Glock 19 as long as he has enough cash and a valid driver's license. There are probably pizza deals that come with free weaponry. Not every guy who has gone through a court-ordered outpatient treatment at a mental health facility has gone absolutely ballistic and mowed down 32 of his fellow students but in the case of Korean-born Seung-Hui Cho he took time away from his busy schedule to do just this.

Would taking away gun rights from the hoi polloi reduce the amount of these incidents taking place? Australia thought so, along with various other countries around the world. We had our own idiot who decided to open fire in a cafe full of people at a tourist spot which was a former prison colony (but then again what isn't a former prison colony in Australia?) and soon after the Government decided that guns should only be used for shooting people living in the Middle East. Or Germans.

The other side of the flip is the ludicrous notion of giving more people guns. Former U.S. Senator and actor Fred Thompson (you might have seen him on Law & Order or one of its many siblings) thinks that if we had MORE people carrying concealed firearms they could have replied to Seung-Hui Cho's killing spree with hot lead. Now, I'm all for people re-enacting scenes from The Wild Bunch, and perhaps one of Cho's classmates could have retaliated by blowing the killer's head off. But I don't know. Does anyone else see the potential flaws in this way of thinking (i.e. stray bullets?)

There were other victims out there that day. My deepest condolences go to the grieving families and loved ones of the victims but these are not the people I was thinking about. I'm thinking about the serial killers of the world here. I can imagine scores of homicidal maniacs, watching the shootings unfold on TV, being absolutely appalled by what was happening before them. These are dedicated guys who spent their teenage years gratifying themselves over animal corpses while other kids spent time kicking the football or going to movies, the guys who keep half-a-dozen cheerleader parts in the freezer, eating livers of their victims, slowly working their way up the F.B.I.'s Most Wanted List, proud in the knowledge that each murder was thematically linked to the last one, sending cops clues, riddles written in blood, etc. when this pissant show pony decides to steal their limelight, ruin their masterwork in one single day. How are they going to fulfil their life's purposes now?

Truly we live in the era of instant celebrities.

Address Unknown

2007-04-20T14:22:00.000+10:00

When they answered the bell on that wild winter night, There was no one expected -- and no one in sight

Then they saw something standing on top of an urn, Whose peculiar appearance gave them quite a turn.

'Well...I'm homeless again.'

These are the bone-chilling words that my friends have been hearing of late. They will be halfway through watching a TV show, probably a sitcom set in a New York cafe that generates a lot more viewers than it should because of the celebrity guest stars that are contractually forced to appear on them, when they will hear a thumping of fists on their front door. Who could this be? It's a little early for that Portuguese prostitute I ordered, they'll be thinking, and they will open the door to find me urinating on their letter box. And then I inform them that I do not have a place to live. There will be a long, stretched-out pause. 'So...can I come in?'

All at once it leapt down and ran into the hall, Where it chose to remain with its nose to the wall.

It was seemingly deaf to whatever they said, So at last they stopped screaming, and went off to bed.

'I'm expecting...company very soon.'

'Uh-huh. Portuguese prostitute. Got it.'

'My spare bed in infested with fleas.'

'That's cool.'

'My dog is rabid and will tear out your throat on sight.'

'I'll live.'

'I have a shotgun and I will use it on you if you eat my cornflakes.'

'I promise not to eat the cornflakes.'

'I have never liked you.'

'We're still friends though right? Anything cool on the TV?'

It joined them at breakfast and presently ate All the syrup and toast and a part of a plate.

It wrenched off the horn from the new gramophone, And could not be persuaded to leave it alone.

Generally I approach most of life's problems with a certain degree of optimism. I'm one of those people who think things will work out for the better and that one need not be in an Asian massage parlour to have a happy ending. Living with Kittie had been surprisingly pleasant. I think even she was amazed that it didn't end in bloodshed and a hostage situation. Imagine our shock when we get a phone call from the Real Estate Agent telling us that we were being kicked out for for not paying five months worth of rent. We informed them that we had only been living there for two and we'd paid on time.

'Well, there's the five months owed by the previous tenant.'

'So?'

'His name is still on the lease.'

'Not our fault.'

'It's your problem.'

Dodgy Real Estate Agents. No wonder I didn't have to pay bond.

It betrayed a great liking for peering up flues, And for peeling the soles of its white canvas shoes.

At times it would tear out whole chapters from books, Or put roomfuls of pictures askew on their hooks.

Since my return from Estonia last year I have crashed on many a floor. Some stays have only been for a few nights, others a few weeks. I've left a trail of empty pizza boxes, sticky pornos, dead goldfish floating in their tanks, blown light bulbs, ransacked cupboards, emptied beers, missing cds, broken urns of dead relatives, cremated remains of said relatives put in zip lock bags with a hastily scribbled apology note and traumatised neighbours missing lingerie. I'm pure joy to have around.

Every Sunday it brooded and lay on the floor, Inconveniently close to the drawing-room door.

Now and then it would vanish for hours from the scene, But alas, be discovered inside a tureen.

Yeah, its a bitch waking up inside a tureen. Worse yet when you wake up in a moving vehicle. We all have stages in our lives, unavoidable situations, that leave us homeless for a spell and we have to put our dignity aside and ask the ultimate favour of staying on the couches of our friends. The alternative being to join a commune that spend their days drinking soup made from turnips and worship rocks.

It was subject to fits of bewildering wrath, During which it would hide all the towels from the bath.

In the night through the house it would aimlessly creep, In spite of the fact of its being asleep.

It would carry off objects of which it grew fond, And protect them by dropping them into the pond.

It came seventeen years ago -- and to this day It has shown no intention of going away.

(All the italics from 'The Doubtful Guest' by Edward Gorey)

The Joy of Tormenting Loved Ones

2007-03-25T13:53:00.000+10:00

The journey down the aisle seems to be a perilous one. Though so many seem to embark upon this quest to find the right one (sic) and get married there are many dangers facing the couple. Financial difficulties will undoubtedly be a cause of some friction when wedding invites and the cake costs more than the car the couple own. I have been told that stocking up on candles are a good idea as they are a) romantic and b) a source of light when the electricity companies shut down the power to the house.

The other hazards come in the forms of their mutual friends who are bitterly divorced or stubbornly single. Like Satan in various guises these "friends" will try to discourage the couple from getting together by showing things like how much the alimony costs per month (from the divorcees) and photos of wild sex romps involving trapeze artists (from the single people). Even the wizened old priest- pious souls who dedicate their lives to studying scriptures and fondling altar boys- ask on the actual wedding day the question to the bride , 'Do you really, really want to marry this guy?' But if the love is strong and the couple are willing they will avoid these warnings that are lobbed at them like hand grenades and get hitched.

I think E.E., my friend Free Beer's wife, sometimes regrets her decision. Its not that he whips her with a belt or cuts up postmen and keeps them in the freezer or even watches videos where women have sex with Alsatians..its just that he's...so annoying.

Who else would turn off every light in the house and wait patiently in the darkness for fifteen minutes just so that when his wife comes home he can scare the living crap out of her? Or when she has just finished a really hard day at work and wants nothing more than just to vent her frustration he replies, 'You think you've had a hard day? I've been working my ass off levelling up my character (he is playing Lord of the Rings online for about a month) and then, today, I get killed by a band of frickin' orcs! Tell me I'm not going to cry myself to sleep tonight.'

Lately we have gotten into the habit of calling her Freddy Nunchucks. This name is a combination of Free Beer's porn name Freddy Alphington (for those who don't know how you get your porn name it is the name of your pet and your first street name put together. Mine is Cappuccino Johnson. I imagine a pimp-like guy with an afro and gold chains. Who solves mysteries) and a mispronunciation of her maiden name. So now, not only does E.E. have to put up with infantile conversations about a digital world of elves and dragons, she has to put up with us introducing her to people as Freddy Nunchucks. Which she absolutely hates.

Free Beer will say, 'How do you do? This is my wife Freddy Nunchucks.' And she will reply, 'That's not my name!' I interject, 'Sure it is...Freddy.' at which point she will turn at me furiously and say, 'Stop calling me that!'
'Why Freddy Nunchucks?'
'Yeah, why?'
'Why do you have to be like this Chris?' (She insists on calling Free Beer 'Chris' for some reason.)

We're such jerks.

Don't Drop That Bagel!

2007-03-17T11:17:00.000+11:00

Down an alleyway in Collingwood, behind the Nicholas Dattner furniture showroom, a bunch of us surround a hobo. The hobo, an older man wearing sunglasses, a scraggy beard and an expression of profound disinterest, stares back at us. Nothing is said for a moment. The air is still. 'Maybe we should smear some hummus on him,' ventures one of us eventually, 'It'd make him look slightly more homeless. Don't you think?'
We nod in agreement.
'Make sure you get some in my beard as well.' offers the derelict.
We stare at his blackened face.
He stares back.
The sky threatens rain but doesn't.

It's called the 'Fifteen in Fifteen Film Competition' or 15/15 and the basics of it is that you have to make a 15 minute film in 15 hours. It can be an animation or a documentary or whatever as long as you get everything done- the shooting, editing, etc.-in the allotted 15 hour time. To make sure that no one cheats the organisers ask the film makers to put in a secret object (which has to be in 85% of the shots) and a quote which is revealed on the day of the competition.

Why I got involved in this, the competition, the smearing hummus on the homeless guy (I suspect he was an actor playing a homeless person. Maybe), was due to the serendipitous chain of events that had me bump into Evan in Listvyanka (a remote town in Russia that overlooks the famous Lake Baikal where the townsfolk still use goats as lawn mowers) during my Trans-Siberian Railway journey of last year. When he and Kes (the director/ incredibly tall Kurgan look-a-like) were discussing potential candidates for the oh-so-crucial 'Don't Drop that Bagel!'-guy for the 15/15 competition my name happened to leak into the conversation. I suspect the conversation went along the lines of this:

Evan: Let me get this straight. We have all the main characters, locations have been approved, props have been made...BUT WE STILL DON'T HAVE THE BAGEL GUY?
Kes: It's a hard role to fill.
Evan: I'll say.
Kes: (looking all Kurgany) For me, the whole crux of the film relies on this one guy. This one person to point out the struggle between the two main characters and their struggle to keep the bagel aloft...
Even:...while they wrestle intense emotions and even gravity that threatens to wrench the bagel from them.
Kes: He's almost a Cassandra-like figure. Someone who can see the future, the dangers that will befall our heroes due to this one instance. The domino effect that will change the fate of nations. But alas his warnings are seldom heeded.
Even: (Deep silence as his synapses briefly overload)
Kes: What is it?
Even: I...I...
Kes: What man? Speak! Are you choking on something? (Moves to perform the Heimlich manoeuvre)
Even: I got it. I know who can...I know who can....

'You want me to say what?'
'Don't drop that bagel!' they say in unison.
'Don't drop that bagel?'
'See?' says Evan with a smug grin. 'Perfect...my God...that was so perfect.' admits Kes, awed at my performance.

Punch Buggy Variation

2007-03-15T21:48:00.001+11:00

Kids are great at finding ways of alleviating boredom. Back when we were young we'd derive a great amount of enjoyment by licking 9 volt batteries for that electric shock to dance on our tongues and spend hours tormenting kids who stuttered just so we'd feel better about ourselves. What little tyrants we were! It was one way of coping with our own learning difficulties since we had the moral integrity of the Kray brothers. Although we've grown older and have stopped doing some of these childish things (setting fire to cats, etc) one habit still remain to this day. And that is Punch Buggy.

There is something so pure about a game so simple. You see a Volkswagen Beetle, you hit someone. Brilliant. Long car journeys could be the road map to pain if you weren't concentrating. And you'd find yourself involuntarily flinching when you went down streets that you knew were 'bug heavy'.

Currently my arms are a purplish colour due to the popularity of said vehicle and childish nature of my friends who persist on playing this game no matter what the situation ('...and I've just heard that my aunt has been diagnosed with Cervical...,' WHACK! 'Dude! What the fuck?'
'Punch Buggy White! No Returns.'
'Fucker! I was just telling you about my..oh, there's another one! Punch Buggy Green! No Returns!' WHACK!)

And it gets into your system. You get so used to hitting your friends on the shoulder that you find yourself on the verge of hitting absolute strangers on public transport when you see a Volkswagen Beetle. I'm thinking more and more that I should listen to this instinct. Random Punch Buggy. It'll be the next step in the Punch Buggy evolution because even you don't know who you are going to hit. Will it be an 89-year old woman? Will it be a sick child? Maybe even a kick boxing champion or a wanted criminal.

A Peck On The Cheek

2007-03-11T20:48:00.000+11:00

There was an awkward moment the other day as I tried to leave a friend's housewarming. The theme of the party was officially 'South American' but most of the people there were wearing Hawaiian shirts. A Bruce Springsteen cover band (one of the band members also lived in the house) were playing Beatles tunes and most of the guests were attempting to play various objects as instruments. I was due to get up at four in the morning so I had decided to leave early, at around eleven o'clock. As I bid my adieu to Miss B and leaned in to kiss her goodbye she backed off. 'Not on the lips,' she informed me.

'Since when?' I asked, a little bit baffled.

'Since when? Since always.'

'Are you high?'

'No.'

Now, because what I write here is from my point-of-view, I can only recount how I remember things, skewered as they generally are. Two years ago, when Miss B returned from London, we had caught up to recount gossip and she had left a kiss on my lips after our chat. Since then I had generally assumed that that is how the relationship was when it was time for departure. Being a bar guy for about a decade it is generally not unusual for male and female staff (and better yet, female and female staff) to plant platonic kisses on each others lips. It's cool. It's like a different level of friendship.

The equivalent of the kissing-friends-on-the-lips thing, to translate it into guyspeak, would be on par with being able to call a black guy a 'nigga' without it being meant to be offensive. And they in turn would be able to call you a washed-up child molester without meaning you any ill will either. But its a scary step. Make a racist comment too early on in the relationship and you may face a savage beating. Or a drive-by where his "homies" will "pop a cap in yo' ass" with his "nine". Fo shizzle.

Naturally, one can always go too overboard. Just because your friends are cool with being your nigga (or gook, or wop, or hebe) doesn't mean you can take the piss. Too often I will go into 'white plantation owner' mode and start demanding my black friends to pick cotton from the field and refer to them as 'Boy'. Which is going too far. It'd be like trying to stick your tongue down a friend's throat.

Spanish Inquisition

2007-02-10T16:01:00.000+11:00

Like most people who grew up on an unhealthy dose of science fiction growing up I am secretly convinced that I have telekinesis. Powers like this generally manifest themselves during menstruation in the showers after gym class but alas I am a late bloomer and my psychic abilities still remain dormant, no matter how often I menstruate. And yet, to this day I believe. I know that all I have to do is concentrate hard enough on an object and one day I will make it levitate. And when I do events will spiral way out of control and end in a night of being drenched in pig's blood and a prom school massacre.

The first step though, is to levitate small things. A pencil, flames on a candle, changing traffic lights from red to green- something of that nature. I look for an object nearby and spot a salt shaker. OK salt shaker...let's tango. I narrow my eyes and feel my mental tentacles wrap around the object. Now....must....move....salt shaker....
One minute.....
two minutes....
A bead of sweat appears on my brow.
I can....I can feel it....almost.......

' What are you doing?'

Kitie? When did she enter the room? Damn. Must...not...let her...distract me. I'm so close to....

'Are you trying to lift objects with your mind again?'

Aaaak. She's breaking my concentration! My mental tentacles are retracting...going back into my head...

'How old are you? Can't you get some other hobbies? Normal hobbies like everyone else?'
'What would you know about my hobbies?' I snap, frustrated at my lack of success.
'You collect comics, criticise films you've never even seen, spend hours looking for new Chuck Norris facts on the Internet and masturbate to pictures of female inmates.' she replies without hesitation. Her eyes then lock on to mine, homing missiles that have found their target. 'What are my hobbies?'

Um....er....

'W...w..well,' I stammer,'..the...the thing about that is....'
'Name one. That's all I ask.'

Think think think think think think think think.

'OK then. If you can't tell me a single hobby that I have how about you tell me what my favourite colour is.'
'All of them?' I reply weakly.
She rolls her eyes. 'In all the time that we were dating how come you never pay attention to a single thing that I do? I'll bet you don't even know what my favourite TV show is.'
'That's a bet I wouldn't want to take.'
'What's my favourite food?'

A grey slab of nothing.

'Carrot cake?'
'How is it that Jesse has been going out with me for a few weeks and he knows all these things about me and you don't know squat? He's already booked a dinner reservation where they serve my favourite dish and you...you....' fury prevents her from finishing the sentence.

She turns her head from me slowly and says the chilling words that every man dreads to hear. 'What colour are my eyes?'

Oh.

My.

Gawd.

When you get asked the "eye question" and can not reply within the allotted time (about 4 seconds), your chances of leaving the room with your spleen intact is very, very minimal. It is on par with forgetting the name of your own wife at parties. This is the crucial juncture where the person asking the question will discover that every time you said you think they have beautiful eyes that you were in fact staring at their breasts instead.

Luckily for me Kittie was distracted by the salt shaker which hovered across the room.

Life Lessons

2007-02-03T17:38:00.000+11:00

Though I can usually rely on my friend Griff to send me emails of the finest quality: jokes involving retarded people, jpegs of two co-eds pleasuring a black guy, the transcript of a court case where a man admits to having sexual relationships with hamsters (funny, funny stuff. Especially when the mother starts wailing and has to be escorted out of the room and has to be force-fed sedatives)
he will sometimes send me these sweet and fluffy little messages that make you want to retch because of how sweet it is. A fine example being this one, about putting things in perspective;

"When 24 hours in a day are not enough; remember
THE MAYONNAISE JAR AND 2 GLASSES OF WINE:

A professor stood before his philosophy class and had some items in
front of him. When the class began, wordlessly, he picked up a very
large and empty mayonnaise jar and proceeded to fill it with golf
balls.
He then asked the students if the jar was full.
They agreed that it was.

The professor then picked up a box of pebbles and poured them into the
jar. He shook the jar lightly. The pebbles rolled into the open areas
between the golf balls. He then asked the students again if the jar was
full.
They agreed it was.

The professor next picked up a box of sand and poured it into the jar.
Of course, the sand filled up everything else. He asked once more if
the
jar was full.
The students responded with a unanimous "yes."

The professor then produced two glasses of wine from under the table
and
poured the entire contents into the jar, effectively filling the empty
space between the sand. The students laughed.

"Now," said the professor, as the laughter subsided, "I want you to
recognise that this jar represents your life.

The golf balls are the important things - faith, family, children,
health, friends, and favourite passions -- things that if everything
else
was lost and only they remained, your life would still be full.

The pebbles are the other things that matter like your job, house, and
car.

The sand is everything else -- the small stuff.

"If you put the sand into the jar first," he continued, "there is no
room for the pebbles or the golf balls. The same goes for life. If you
spend all your time and energy on the small stuff, you will never have
room for the things that are important to you.

So.........Pay attention to the things that are critical to your
happiness.

Play with your children. Take time to get medical checkups. Take your
partner out to dinner. Play another 18. There will always be time to
clean the house and fix the disposal. "Take care of the golf balls
first -- the things that really matter. Set your priorities.
The rest is just sand."

One of the students raised her hand and enquired what the wine
represented. The professor smiled. "I'm glad you asked. It just goes to
show you that no matter how full your life may seem, there's always
room
for a couple of glasses of wine with a friend."

OK. All well and good. But I think I'd have ended the story with the professor pouring more things into the
mayonnaise jar. Like this...

"The professor then pulled out his hip flask full of gin and started poring the contents into the jar. The students began looking at each other with slight concern. "See, and you can have some gin in there as well. Because everyone likes a bit of gin don't they? And..and...and sometimes wine just isn't enough." As the bell rang the students got up to leave, convinced that the lesson was over. But the professor was determined to try to place more things into the jar, he was suddenly gripped by a ferocity. He was on a mission. He was a zealot, a madman.
As the professor brought out some beers from behind the lectern and started dousing the jar, obviously over-filled, with more and more alcohol. It was then that some students, those closest to him, could see how red his face was, how bulging his eyes. "And it can't stop. Not there. NOT EVER. Because it NEVER STOPS!"-he was yelling now, oblivious to the fear that seemed to be filling the room like a low rumble, the beginnings of a storm. "It NEVER STOPS!"
"Professor maybe you should-"
"I should WHAT motherfucker?" he roared. "What the fuck would you FREAKS know? HUH? WHAT? What would you fuckers know about anything!?!"
Several of the more burly students, linebackers for the Varsity team, slowly inched towards the professor to calm him down. But there was no calming to be done. He pulled out a handgun and shot into the ceiling as if it was the most casual thing in the world. Like it was swatting a fly or parting his hair. The professor then screamed obscenities as he tried to pour more and more things into the jar. Rum, brandy, Jagermeister, heroin. The jar eventually toppled over the table, scattering its contents-golf balls, pebbles, sand and alcohol-all over the floor. Several of the students started crying, confused and hurt at the rage of their teacher, their mentor. The professor then lay on the ground in foetal position mumbling "It's over. It's all over. It's over." as if his chanting alone would keep his darkness at bay."

Cherchez la Femme

2007-01-29T16:59:00.000+11:00

Kittie informed me that Cousin Jesse had been gripped by an unshakable bout of insomnia. His arteries had been clogged with guilt, he was sweating from self-loathing and his eyelids refused to shut at all. It's because he's destined to go to the dankest pits of Hell for going out with my ex-girlfriend, I wanted to say, below cells reserved for murderers, shady Real Estate agents, debt collectors and people who think they can are better than other people just because they own an Art Gallery. Instead I said, 'Yeah, OK. He and I need to talk this through.'
'Are you going to be mature about this?' asked Kittie worriedly.
'...Yes.'
She eyed me dubiously. 'You better not tell him strange, sordid tales about us.'
'I won't.'
'Don't scare him away with your...ways. You know this situation is really eating him up. I don't need you to make it worse. Just act like a normal human being.'
'I promise it will be fine.'

(Later)
'...and you know that morning voice that she has? How shrill and utterly unbearable that is? Well, get used to that. She's annoyingly chirpy upon waking. Every goddamn morning.'
'Really?' asks Cousin Jesse.

We are sitting around and drinking beer in the abandoned portion of the Mount View Hotel. After the initial awkwardness (about 12 seconds) we have gone back to the way things used to be. I figured we would. It would not be a woman that would break up this band.

'Oh yeah. Also expect your phone bill to increase by threefold. Seriously. She texts you messages at all times of the day for no apparent reason.'
'I can handle the odd-', his phone beeps. We stare at it. 'I see,' he mutters.
'Ooh! Ooh! And Kittie can't say "Hot Apple Pie"!'
'What do you mean?'
'She can say the words "Hot" and "Apple" and "Pie" but not all at once. Her brain can't handle it for some reason.'
'Amazing.'

We laugh.

'Look, if you want me to end this relationship with Kittie before it really starts...'
'Meh. Jesse, I don't know how you were expecting me to behave throughout this-' Vats of acid, Blowtorch to the gonads,'- but I love you man. We're kin. We're not going to face each other over this, pistols at dawn.'
'I know, I know.'
'So chill out. Enjoy. Get some sleep my brother.'
'Yeah...'
'You know that if I were given a choice between you and her-'
'Stop it.'
'Nah, seriously. If they had the both of you on platforms above a lava pit and I had to choose between the two of you-'
'Shut up.'
'-I'd absolutely choose your life over hers. Hands down.'

Cousin Jesse and I get up to leave. 'Hey Fatty,' he says in a quiet way.
'Yah?'
'If you were ever going to write about this make sure I don't end up sounding like a cheap, two-dimensional character with absolutely no soul who is relegated to saying dumb stuff.'
'I promise,' I say and flash him a serpentine smile.

Worst Case Scenario Handbook

2007-01-28T19:48:00.000+11:00

There is a creature that resides in the dark recesses of my heart. It is a hideous, sightless thing that is a 1,000 years old. Usually it is chained to the basement of my soul with rusty hooks, its flesh grey like the dust on coffin lids. When it speaks, its voice is like eels that seek to tear apart everything I hold dear. It is my anger. It is Hate.

Kill him, it says, drop his body into a vat of acid. Smash his head in with a cricket bat and leave his carcass for carrion.

This morning I wake up early to head to work only to find Kittie's bed unoccupied. Well, well, well. How interesting. She went out the night before with my cousin, Jesse, and now her bed is empty.

Blood, whisperers the sightless thing, drench the world in blood. Connect electrodes to the genitals of criminals.Tear out the fingernails of strangers walking their pets. Shoot innocent people in cafeterias.

OK. So that "ancient creature of pain and misery" phase lasted only for a few minutes. Maybe hours. But by the time I got the inevitable WE NEED TO TALK text message I was pretty cool about the whole situation.

The situation being: someone I no longer go out with has decided to seek out a relationship with my cousin. Preventable? Sure. But what would be the point? Its clearly obvious that the ex and I were not working as a couple. We were just bad at being together, it brought out the worst in us. And when you break up with someone you break up with 'em. If the relationship is on shoddy foundations, rotten somewhere in the core, then its going to topple no matter how much you try. Don't I want my loved ones to be happy? And if they happen to find joy in each others' company then....well...

By the time Kittie came home I was busy watching a penguin documentary, seeing the momentous journey that these birds were undertaking and saying 'Wow.' every once in a while. This was the BBC version and not the Morgan Freeman one. I couldn't help but think that it would be a better show if someone like Will Ferrell did the voice over.

'Hey.'
'Hey.'

A sea lion grabs one of the young penguins and drags him down the icy depths.

'So....you wanted to talk?'
'Um...yeah.'

Vats of acid.

Intestines as skipping rope.

'Alright. Let's talk.'
'He...er...wants to do it himself.'
'Jesse?'
'....'
'He can call me. I don't hate him. Or you. What is he worried about? That I'd chop him up and feed his remains to carnivores? Ha ha. As if.'

Blowtorch to the gonads.

'I thought you were going to be...you know...weird about it.'
'I am weird about it. He's my cousin.'
'You guys aren't actually related,' Kittie reminds me.
'That's besides the point. Look, you and me, we're through...'
'Amen.'
'Shut up. The point is Jesse's a fantastic guy. Even though he is shorter than me. And got that Bruce Campbell chin. And I'm funnier than he is. And better at Galaga than him. But I'd much rather you be with someone I care about and who'd treat you well than some dipshit goofball. With syphilis.'

It's a strange situation. For me, its a nice way to finish my relationship with Kittie. No. Not relationship. Love life? Something like that. Something tacky and shit and dumb that you'd read in women's magazines (that YOU'D read. Not me. I'm too macho). I can't help but feel like Gene Hackman in the Royal Tennenbaums about the whole situation. Remember that film? Wes Anderson directed it. Gene plays a guy called Royle who was the patriarch of this genius family. One of his finest performances, which is funny considering Hackman didn't actually get the film. He just read the lines and got paid. Anyway, Royle, who fakes a terminal illness and takes up residence with his family that have long since kicked him out for generally shoddy behaviour (constantly reminding his adopted daughter that she's adopted, stealing money from his son's business etc.) tries for most of the film to win back his long estranged wife (played by Angelica Houston). But by the end of the film he slowly realises that he is actually an asshole and that his wife would be better off with a divorce that he had neglected to give her years ago. He talks of his rival, Danny Glover who plays Angelica Houston's accountant/ fiancee by saying, 'I didn't think much of him at first. But now I get it. He's not me.'

And that's how I feel right about now.

Objects Thrown at the Head of Yours Truly

2007-01-26T14:27:00.000+11:00

Kittie goes through a drawer, finds several lighters, feels their weight individually then throws the orange one at my head. She's in a throwing mood today.
'Is this about the washing?' I ask.
She doesn't respond.
'This is because I forgot to bring in your washing for two days right?'
She responds by hurling the house keys at me.
'I already said I was sorry.'
She paces the room to find something heavier to throw at me.
'C'mon Kittie. I bought you a card to say I was sorry.'

I had. I'd bought her a card that had a woman drawn in the style of a 50's dime novel cover on it with the words "How can I miss him when he won't go away?" printed on it and scribbled a few words of apology for the washing-thing on the inside thinking she might find it vaguely amusing. She had not. The tattered remains of the card lay somewhere in the bin.

'Do you even know what this is about?' she finally says.
'It's not about the washing?' I ask feebly.
'It's not about the...well..no it's about the washing as well. That was just careless. How did you...why did you forget for....I asked you for ONE simple thing and you....'
I had been drunk for two days.
'I'm sorry.'
'ANYWAY IT'S NOT ABOUT THE WASHING!'
'Oh.'
'This is about Jesse.'
'Jesse? Cousin Jesse?'
'YES! JESSE! What exactly did you say to him?'

We had gone out for a few drinks earlier this week with my cousin and she had a long and exciting conversation with him about snow boarding. Later, when she and I had returned to our house she said that she thought that he was cute and wanted his number. I said no. Yelling ensured. Fine, I said, have his damn number! And didn't think much of it until the next day when she asked him out for some drinks.

Did she really think he was cute? He's shorter than me for starters. And he's got a chin like Bruce Campbell's. He has Bruce Campbell chin. And he smells funny. An object of ridicule. He and I have a Conversation at the Great Britain, over a couple of games of Galaga (I win both times. Kick his ass. Really shame him in fact)

'Well, what's the deal between you and Kittie my brother? If you want me to back off I will.'
'Pffft. She's so history its not funny.'
'OK.'
'That's not to say we didn't have a deep and passionate relationship.'
'Uh-huh.'
'Now, you're my cousin and I love you (we are not related at all in fact but since I lived with his cousins in a share accommodation for a few years I'd gotten into the habit of calling him my cousin)...'
'Right.'
'...and I'm totally over her. So you can go ahead and do whatever the hell you want with her.'
'Really?'
'Which is not to say that it wouldn't be sooooo totally wrong and evil and not a decent thing to do to me, your distant relative, to even think about asking her out.'
'....'
'Now, you see what I'm saying here?'
'Actually I have no idea wh...'
'Good. Good. I'm glad we talked. Watch out for that incoming alien ship!'

...and so he had decided to not return her calls for fear that I would cut him to bits with an axe and feed his remains to carnivores. Kittie was not happy with that outcome. Not happy one bit.

'You know we've broken up right? That we are never ever ever ever ever ever ever ever going to go out together ever again? Your slow mind can comprehend this, yes?'
'Like I'd want to go out with you again either.'
'Then stop ruining my life. And don't forget the friggin' washing!'

Living Arrangements

2007-01-24T13:18:00.000+11:00

There is a very simple and very logical reason as to why I thought moving in with the ex-girlfriend would be a good idea and that is: I thought it would be funny. Granted, things could go hideously wrong. I could return home one day to find my entire collection of books on fire. She may have switched the contents of the salt shaker with rat poison and waited patiently, oh so patiently, for me to have a Final Supper. Or I'd be walking home one day and get run over by Her who would be driving a jeep or a semi-trailer. Probably a semi-trailer. And this is when we're not fighting.

Most of our relationship consisted of arguments that would erupt suddenly, viciously. Generally over fairly minor things (i.e.

Me: (picking up phone) Hello?
Kittie: Hey, what's the name of that noodle place that cooks things in those over-sized woks on Bridge Road? Was it Noodle Box?
Me: Noodle World.
Kittie: I'm pretty sure it's Noodle Box.
Me: It's Noodle World.
Kittie: Noodle Box!
Me: It's called Noodle World goddamn it!
Kittie: You're an idiot!
Me: YOU'RE the idiot!
Kittie: Grrrr (hangs up phone).
Me: (to no one) Noodle World!*) which would make waiters duck for cover, taxi drivers to head into direct traffic, ushers to raise the fire alarm- depending on where we were at the time.

So why would she even think to invite me to live with her despite the fact that the wounds from our relationship was still fairly fresh and that my very existence annoys her? You bet her friends asked that very same question. They never liked me. Even my friends questioned her sanity at this decision. For her, the fact that I was sleeping on friends' couches or in flea-bitten Backpackers was too much to bear. Even though I can truly be a son-of-a-bitch some times. And she didn't want me to spend months going to house interviews conducted by an endless succession of losers or serial killers or vegetarians.

For me it seemed like the makings of a trite sitcom, the kind of lacklustre show pitched at a lowbrow audience during non-rating season. The sheer monotony of the script (slobbish ex-boyfriend lives with a clean-freak ex-girlfriend. Hilarious! Watch as he spills Coke down her favourite top! Gasp as she reacts by clubbing him to death with a frozen leg of lamb!) would be peppered with a liberal amount ofcanned laughter so the viewers will know how to react.

*Turned out that we were both right. There is a Noodle World and a Noodle Box on Bridge Road.

They Call Me The Gangster of Love

2007-01-23T22:59:00.000+11:00

I have a romanticised version of myself in my head. Whenever I think of myself, which is quite often, the image I conjure up is like a recruitment poster for pilots during the Great War: tall and dashing and having rows of white, white, white teeth that grins in victory. There is an unseen wind that makes my scarf billow in a random direction. Pure libido. Charisma the size of an overly huge pumpkin that wins prizes at country fairs.

I'd like to think that I'm the kind of guy who would travel across town at a moments notice to kill spiders for girlfriends. Since to women spiders are impossibly large and sinister. They are poisonous. They are eight-legged and know karate and can jump across tall buildings. And I will burst into a room and squash these evil things and not ask for thanks. If I am feeling particularly merciful I would grab the spider and throw it out of the window and spare its life. Because I can be a forgiving God when the mood strikes.

Unfortunately this is not me. I'm not the guy who would travel 30 minutes to murder insects. If there is a vaguely interesting show on the TV I may not even walk across the room to get rid of these arachnids. I would turn up the volume and ignore the cries for help from any women in the room, no matter how hot they were.

Perhaps if this was my only crime I'd still be a hit with the ladies. Alas I do not listen to them. At all.

(Walking down the aisle in a supermarket with Kittie the other day. She is in a rush to be somewhere and is already angry at me for making her late.)
Me: (picking up a jar of olives) Yum. Olives (another mildly annoying trait. I point out the obvious)
Kittie: Ugh. You're buying olives?
Me: You don't like olives?
Kittie: You know I don't.
Me: (Did I?)...
Kittie: Remember the other day (about three weeks ago) when we ordered pizza and I specifically asked for no olives?
Me: (I didn't) Uh-huh.

There needs to be a drastic change in attitude and maybe hairstyles in the next few weeks. Valentine's Day (a.k.a. Sucks to be Single Day) is fast approaching and I think I owe it to myself to do something more constructive than to bitch about couples this year.

I have a firm handshake,
Fatman

Demise of the Fluffer

2007-01-15T15:39:00.000+11:00

Long before Internet porn it was almost customary for every household to have a cardboard box brimming with dirty magazines hidden in the basement or the tool shed. The patriarch of the family would know that one day the eldest male would find this stash of pornography, much like a pig finds truffles, and that for the next few years the only way anyone else in the family could have access to the bathroom would be by breaking down the door with an axe. The joy of knowing that your firstborn will undoubtedly be tugging at their member over glossy images of 16-year old runaways dressed as nurses, flight attendants, librarians, etc. is something I can only imagine.

Last night, during a friendly poker session, we had the unique opportunity to ask all kinds of questions of the porn industry to someone in the trade- Tom, the ex-editor of Penthouse magazine. He had met up with one of the poker crew during the "Casino Royale" issue of Penthouse and had asked if he could come along to one of our games. My croupier friends and I took turns asking him all kinds of questions in between hands.

J.J.Botts asks a four-letter question almost immediately. "DVDA (Double vaginal, double anal)."
"Can't be done," replies Tom. "Sure, the woman's orifices can certainly take that many penises at the one time but the fact is it's physically impossible to make it happen. It would all get in the way. Very messy."
We nod, scribble notes.
"I have a question regarding fluffers." says Dean.
"Fluffers are history now."
"Really?"
"We live in a changing world. No longer do porn stars have to resort to ground-up rhinoceros horns and fluffers to get an erection, they just inject themselves with liquid Viagra."
"Fascinating."

Behind locked bathroom doors, with the pages of these dirty magazines spread open to a series of pictures where Little Red Riding Hood is getting penetrated by a wolf, too few of us stop mid-ejaculation to think of the demise of fluffers who were so integral in the making of fine pornography in the years gone by. So, wherever you are guys, this post is for you.

Fridge Rage

2007-01-09T13:45:00.000+11:00

If I could ever be reincarnated as anything I would like to be reincarnated as a Coca-Cola refrigerator repairman. I don't know what they do for a living. Judging by their job title you would expect these guys to repair the occasional Coke fridge. This is not the case. My guess is that they spend most of their time at a golf course sharing jokes with their illiterate mates about condenser fan motors. The only annoying thing about their job would be the incessant ringing of their phones by the same people constantly complaining about the same old problems, which really puts them off a crucial putt that would be needed to get a Birdie for the hole. Grudgingly these slobs would answer their mobiles, hear three-day old URGENT REQUEST messages, pack away their clubs and turn up to the "emergency".

Upon arriving to the source of distress they would be descended upon by hysterical folk who would wail about how important it is that they fix the fridge NOW and why weren't they here days ago? The fridge repair guy will generally would take this wrathful tirade with an aplomb born of apathy, the knowledge that he is dealing with cretins who have no idea how to repair a simple fridge and with ears so clogged with wax that the customer's whining sounds like the muffled cries of hikers buried under meters of rubble.

"Calm down mate," he'll growl. "Now, what seems to be the problem?"
"The first time I called you guys it was because the fridge was freezing the contents within, like a scene from The Day After Tomorrow but less boring. After a four day wait a repairman came over, hit it a few times with a spanner, and left before we could ask him what he'd done. The very next day the fridge stopped working at completely. We placed another call. Three days later another refrigerator repairman came, adjusted things, and left. The fridge is now a block of ice once again. I feel like Goldilocks here; 'This is too cold. This is too warm'."
"No need to be snide about it. Look. I'm going to have a little looksee at the compressor so do me a favour and run along for now. Don't bother me-"

I turn to leave and hear him end the sentence with "-ya cocksucker." The repairman then turns to the fridge not to repair it so much as to turn his back to me. The beauty of this manouver is that he gets to a) look like he's working, b) show his hairy backside to the world at large and c) to not have to listen to the wailing of the likes of me who tend to carry on a bit, waving arms and stomping feet like an extra in a Chinese riot scene.

My First Night Shift

2006-10-04T02:36:00.000+10:00

When you sign up to work at a Backpackers there are several tasks you should expect to perform. You will deal with a horde of malnourished tourists who will ask you where to find the towels, blankets, the timetables for ferries to Helsinki, who one needs to bribe for Russian visas, where the nearest/cheapest pub is, the legal age of consent in Estonia, etc. Every morning there is vacuuming to be done, toothpaste-splatters to be wiped from bathroom mirrors, pubic hairs to be swept away (interestingly enough there is an unusual amount of hair left behind in the upstairs showers. Which leaves me to believe that someone is malting or is secretly a werewolf). And then there is the night shift.

The Backpackers is run by mostly volunteers so there are no strict rules that are enforced. Things need to be done, someone will do it. Karma. Night shifts are determined by rock-scissor-papers or assigned to people who have lost bets. If you are hungover enough you might raise your hand to do a night shift so you can stay indoors and give your liver a rest. John tends to do the shifts when he can sense trouble since he is used to dealing with obnoxious, incoherent, drunk people. Part of being Irish I suppose.

'Who wants to do the night shift today?' he asks a bunch of us sitting around the reception area. The other staff members scurry away like roaches scuttling away from a flashlight beam. 'Guess I'll have to do it.' I mutter as I curse my slow reflexes.

The truth is night shifts aren't usually a bad thing. It just detracts from your drinking time. A bunch of guys will inevitably come back with injuries and say, 'We were running down Pikk street naked and then Bob fell down and split his head open. It was so fun!' and you can't help but feel a touch of envy towards Bob. About the only thing you need to do is check-in late arrivals and let in guests who have forgotten their keys. The rest of the time is spent on the computer looking up Youtube to find the latest Christina Aguilera film clips and blooper reels for amature snuff films.

The first three hours was relatively uneventful. For some reason the reception area was filled with guests wanting to hear me tell jokes. These people need to get out more. Usually if I want to tell a joke to someone I have to tie the them up to a chair, cut one of their feet off with an axe and cauterise their injuries with a blowtorch. If they don't laugh convincingly enough I start amputating fingers. But for some reason the guests kept popping up in front of me, like Nigerian email scams that clog up your inbox.

One German guy kept coming in for a while then leaving to get more beer. He was a little bit annoying to tell you the truth. He seemed like a nice enough guy and maybe it was the language barrier, coupled with my desire to see Christina Aguilera's bosoms, that made me want him to leave the room. He eventually went to the lounge room to check his emails.

About an hour later he came in to the reception area. I was alone, going through the bookshelf where backpackers swap their paperbacks for others. The quality of these books were frankly quite crappy (Do I attempt to read John Grisham's The Broker or a Jeffery Archer novel? Which would suck less?) and I was not concentrating on the German guest's deathly pallor. 'I....I sink I need a cigarette.' he mumbled, as if to himself. He wore this expression like an albatross around his neck.
'Uh-huh,' I mutter.
'My...friend is a wrestler. Greek style wrestling.' he continued.
Now I'm looking at him. What the hell do I care?
'He....was in an accident.'
'Was he hurt badly?'
He nods, an automation. His eyes were coridoors. 'He..damaged his spine. The doctors say that he is para..para...what is this word?'
'Paralysed? Paraplegic?'
He nods again. 'Something like that. He will be in a wheelchair for the rest of his life. His life...ruined now. Why? He was...he is so young. My other friends did not tell me this,' he turns to me, eyes misty with tears, 'Why would they not tell me this? It happened a week ago and I'm finding out today on email.'

I don't know how to reply. My tongue feels like it is cement. I can usually just find something to say in most situations. There is a cupboard where I keep standard responses in cans and I will generally find something appropriate to say. Deep inside the cupboard, past the 'Condolences for your dead cat' and 'Don't worry. She never understood you anyway', I find a few hollow words. 'I'm so sorry.' And I throw in some utterly useless sentiments to the pot. 'Are you going to be OK?'

He shrugged and went outside to smoke his cigarette.

Before You Can Say 'Larry Puglisi'...

2006-10-03T07:30:00.000+10:00

Their chants can be heard streets away as the tune that is familiar, yet out-of-place, dash across the cobblestones like puppies released from an animal testing lab. It feels like listening to a commercial jingle in a foreign language. Or an Ice House song being sung in Sanskrit in a Third World karaoke bar. The mind does a quick double take of the mantra and goes into a quick football huddle with itself before it spits out the inevitable conclusion: Hare Krishnas are singing in the streets of Tallinn.

Hare Krishna Hare Krishna
Krishna Krishna Hare Hare
Hare Rama Hare Rama
Rama Rama Hare Hare

The Krishnas are here? Already? Though I find it a lot easier to accept the cancerous spread of the MacDonald's fast food empire as it ravenously devours the scenery of Tiananmen Square or Moscow's Krasnaya Ploshchad I guess I just wasn't expecting to encounter the fifth largest army in the world. Here of all places.

Hare Krishna Hare Krishna
Krishna Krishna Hare Hare

Not that I knew much about Estonia before I got here. It was just a grey spot in the 'Geography' section in the glob of mucus that serves as my brain. Although I would later find out that I was not the only person who was ignorant of the place. The immediate neighbours (Latvia, Lithuania, Finland) had, of course, heard of the place. Other people who had planned to travel through Eastern Europe with aid of atlas and sextet had a vague idea of where Estonia was, generally as the last stop off point before crossing the Russian border.

Hare Rama Hare Rama
Rama Rama Hare Hare

Jules thought that Estonia was a type of sandwich before arriving here. He confessed that the only reason he knew there was an 'Estonia' was because he happened to meet some Estonians in Melbourne. Rob who also worked at the Backpackers had very little knowledge of the place. His journey basically consisted of grabbing a bicycle and cycling all the way from Austria to India and back. He dropped into Tallinn to grab a bottle of water and had never left.

The Hare Krishnas round the corner. There are four of them, looking snazzy in their saffron dhotis. Evidently there weren't too many takers for the words of A.C.Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada in Tallinn. Still, early days I say. I gaze as the four Krishnas chant and dance, the music of their beliefs bouncing off the walls of old buildings in the Town Square, awakening their souls with the cadence of their steps.

Dum maro dum,
Fatman

Welcomed Back With Open Arms

2006-10-02T01:49:00.000+10:00

Tallinn, Estonia

It is early in the morning. Jewish people around the world are observing Yom Kippur by not eating, washing or having sex- and getting a glimpse into the lives of oil rig workers, creepy guys who rent nothing but porn and Star Trek: Voyager, people on solo polar expeditions, castaways who talk to inanimate objects and unpopular teenagers in the process. People are being searched at airports in various parts of the world and are having things like toothpaste and gel-filled bras confiscated due to inane laws passed by overly paranoid (American) politicians who have released a
No Fly List that prohibits dead Nazi sympathisers and the head of Lebanese parliament from boarding planes. Later on today actress Tamara Dobson, known primarily for her role in the blaxpoitation classic Cleopatra Jones, will die from complications from pneumonia and multiple sclerosis.

For now though it feels cold. Tallinn is much how I remembered it except at this time of the morning (around 5 or 6) it is devoid of people and everything looks like it has been shot with a blue filter. It feels like I've arrived in town after the Rapture has taken place and its too late to repent. I stagger towards the general direction of the Backpackers.

Having arrived at my destination I ring the buzzer in order to be let in. The Backpackers wakes from its sleep, stretches its legs and makes a slight 'click' indicating that the door is now open. I try to open the door. Stuck. I buzz again. Again I hear the 'click'. The door still won't open. Buzz. Click. Stuck Buzz. Click. Stuck This happens once more until I read the sign that informs me I have to pull the handle towards me before it will open. Oops. I am such an idiot.

I climb up the stairs and enter the reception area where the staff member in charge looks at me with bleary eyes. 'Who are choo?' He has a Spanish accent. An accent deprived of much needed sleep.
'I'm Fatman. I'm here to work later on today.'
He looks at me dubiously.
'Honestly. I spoke with John when I was in Vilnius. You know John? Irish. Ill-tempered, foul mouthed...'
'I know who Chon is. He didn't mention nothing about choo. And choo are not on the computer. Nowhere.' He's pissed off with me for waking him up but I can't help but want to order caprihinias with that accent.
'I see.' Brief images of me sleeping at the bus station flash before my eyes.
'Go find a bed anyway. Choo can discuss this with him when he awakens.'
And that's how I met Hector.

Six in the morning is not a normal time to be awake, unless you work in a bakery or plan to break family members out of jail. The upstairs 10-bed dorm resembles an army hospital. The darkened room is filled with unconscious bodies, some emitting noise, some emit foul smells. I pick an empty bed and crash into it, knowing that on the other side of sleep will be a new beginning, a new life where I shall be appreciated for my hard work.

'You're an hour and a half late,' says John, 'Not the best start for your first shift.' Having been the subject of several sackings in the past I'm unfazed by these words but judging by the smile on his face I can tell he's taking the piss. Which saves me from retorting in the usual way ( 'Bite me ya spud-eating, horse marrying thug!'). Instead I say, 'Where do you want me to start chief?'
'Have you ever seen one of these before?'
'It's...a vacuum hose. But where is the rest of the vacuum cleaner?'
John walks to a section of the lounge room wall, opens a latch and plugs the hose into a hole. He pushes the latch forwards and the vacuum hose kicks into life.
'This is a built-in vacuum cleaner. The suction motor is in a central location in the hostel. All you need to do is carry the pickup head around.'
'Awesome.'
'Yeah.....it's....great fun.'

And it is great fun. For about two minutes. Then I'm just a guy vacuuming. It would've been a great adventure if I was, say, a gynoid from Stepford. But as it was my natural instincts are to be a slob. Encoded in my DNA is the urge to litter the world with pizza boxes and empty beer bottles. Not clean stuff up.

Long Way Home

2006-10-01T04:18:00.000+10:00

Money's just something you throw
Off the back of a train
Got a handful of lightening
A hat full of rain
And I know that I said
I'd never do it again
And I love you pretty baby but I always take the long way home

Tom Waits, The Long Way Home

There's something about travelling that is simply addictive. For some this may have something to do with spending months in a seedy opium den while being fellated by underaged amputees. For others its trying the foreign cuisine. Oh the joy of finding blood in their excrement after a crippling bout of diarrhoea they got after eating a soup consisting of decayed mahi-mahi and ground up light bulbs! But I think the fact that no one knows your name, age or what you actually do for a living ('Seriously baby, I'm a private detective who owns a sky diving business.') gives you the freedom to lie through your teeth.

I have decided to return to Tallinn after all. It seems like a great way to break the monotony of my day-to-day existence back in Melbourne (wake up, masturbate to mug shots of incarcerated females in Des Moines' Polk County Jail, watch lawn mower commercials, masturbate again, go to work, work, masturbate, go home, sleep) which was getting too comfortable anyway. And meaningless. My former life, trying to remember it, was becoming increasingly harder every day I've been on my journey. When I try to recall my friends they appear slightly different in my head- hair parted the wrong way, wearing shirts I know they don't own, talking in a Texan accent- they are still familiar, yes. But its a cover version of the original song. The tune sounds a bit wrong to my ears. At the same time I think I'm also becoming less integral to the central plot of their lives as well. I'm a jigsaw piece that no longer seems to fit the overall picture. A remainder in a maths problem. An out-of-focus image.

The two days I spend in Lithuania are spent wrestling with my decision to go to Tallinn. The pros and cons of staying in Estonia for an additional month tumble around my mind, like watching clothes spinning around in a front-loading washing machine. Having this happen behind my eyes obscures my vision of Lithuania. I see the Gates of Dawn and the Church of St.Peter and Paul. I venture into Uzupis, the Republic of Angels, where bohemians have declared the 148 acre district with only one main street an autonomous region. You can even get a stamp on your passport for one day of the year- April Fool's Day. After being swallowed by the city for the two days we reach its heart- Frank Zappa's head- and I touch it. My work here is done. Now...to return to Tallinn, my temporary home.

Contemplating a U-Turn

2006-09-29T10:40:00.000+10:00

The janitor in my head gets up from the hammock he sleeps in, coughs up some phlegm and takes a swig from his hip flask, ready to perform his daily chores. He ambles down the corridors of my mind with a mop and bucket, unhurried. He has the whole day to complete his tasks after all. The janitor sweeps the floor, clearing away junk such as foreign words learnt at a bar, names of people I spoke to for an hour, where I left my keys last night, promises I was never going to keep anyway and a phone number or two. Whistling tunelessly he blows the dust from an embarrassing childhood memory -we´ll keep that for a later date- and tries vainly to put the polish back on to a song I heard on the radio years ago. He then comes across a new object, made of marble. It is a thought that wasn´t there a few days ago. It says: WORK IN AN ESTONIAN BACKPACKERS YOU FOOL!

My body is heading through Latvia but my thoughts are chanting the same things over and over. Go back to Estonia. Go back to Tallinn. Do it. Do it. Do it. Head back now. My eyes aren´t focusing on the landscape at all. Nik and I had managed to hitch a ride with a Polish couple we met a few nights ago. Neither of us can remember their names. Which is a pity because they are very likable but this far into the journey it would be rude to ask them. They are playing a Bollywood soundtrack in the car since they both acted in a Bollywood film when they lived in India. Go back to Estonia. Go back to Tallinn. Turn back. Do it.

We were talking to John the Irish guy in a strange downstairs bar called Juuksur, which means ´hairdresser´ in Estonian, the night before. It is in a cave-like basement and has those 50s era hairdresser chairs and music that costs 50 eek to listen to. ´This isn´t usual lads,´ says John, ´so I´ll buy you the first round of beer.´ Like all foul-mouthed Irish people he is impossible to dislike. At this stage of the night Nik and I were still waiting for the Polish couple to come back on a ferry from Helsinki so we could head to Vilnius. They are half an hour late. Maybe a tidal wave swallowed them?

We talk for some time and say cheers in Estonian a lot. Terribi...something or rather. I feel like I´ve wandered on to the set of a TV show halfway through the third series. All the characters seem well established. We are introduced to a succession of people by John. There´s Ben the eccentric English programmer-type who is working on an internet map. There´s a long-haired Estonian who looks like a drug runner or a grave digger. Maybe both. There is a crazy, wild Swedish guy who is somehow involved in bringing a Japanese all girl punk band to Tallinn. So many characters. So many plots.

The channel suddenly switches and I´m in the car again.

The Sign said: Long-haired, Freaky People Might As Well Apply

2006-09-28T01:54:00.000+10:00

Our next port of call was Vilnius in Lithuania. We were going there for the same reason that most people go to Vilnius- so we can touch the head of Frank Zappa. The weirdo musician\producer was known for his eccentric songs (i.e. like ´Don´t Eat the Yellow Snow´ which is arguably one of the best advice you could ever receive in song form), his expertise in the synclavier, his brief stint as a cultural attaché for Czechoslovakia and strange taste in the naming of his children (Moon Unit, Dweezil, Ahmet Emuukha Rodan , and Diva Thin Muffin Pigeen.) which probably goes to show you shouldn't take acid while your wife gives birth. He was the epitome of the 60s. Although his body resides in an unmarked grave known only to his fans a statue of his head can be found in Vilnius thanks to the Lithuanian Frank Zappa Appreciation Society. Why would a bunch of people erect a statue of a rock star who had never even set foot in Lithuania? When you spend years under a Communist regime anything seems like a good idea I guess. And nothing says "anti-establishment" like Frank Zappa.

We ask Jules, a dreadlocked Maori who was sitting behind the desk in reception, if it was worth it. ´Yeah, it´s well worth having a look at if you go to Vilnius. But its not located in the town square or anything. Its just in a parking lot off a street in the middle of nowhere. Easy to miss.´
´So the statue is just in some parking lot? Wow. I think that´s what that Irish guy was saying.´
´Which Irish guy?´ There were a few Irish people staying at the hostel.
´John I think his name was.´
´Oh him. Yeah he´s the manager here.´
´He´s the manager? I thought he was just a foul-mouthed Irish guy who stood at the front of the building smoking and swearing at tourists.´
´He´s the manager. I manage the other Backpackers. I just came in to chat and the others went off to lunch. Leaving me on my own.´
´So, who actually works here?´ I query.
´Uuuh...there´s Owen the bearded Welsh guy. But he´s leaving tonight. And there´s Jeanine...´
´She´s staff?´
Jules laughs. ´It might not seem it but yeah she´s staff. At least for now. She´s off to Riga. Or supposed to be. She´s missed her bus and so she´s getting another one tonight as well.´
´So no one actually works here.´
´There´s John and Hector. That´s it at the moment. Did you guys want a job? I think they might be looking for people.´

It was certainly tempting. But I had a girlfriend in Australia who was waiting for me. And I could hear Frank Zappa calling my name. It would be Vilnius then. Vilnius would be my destination. At least for now.

The Bacon Factor

2006-09-27T23:24:00.000+10:00

Tallinn. For a city that has been consistently sacked, razed, pillaged and forced to give its lunch money to its neighbourhood bullies- the Danes and the Russians- it has weathered the beatings surprisingly well. Arguably it is still under siege but this time by tourists who assault the town almost daily. They tromp around alone or in groups while unfolding maps and taking endless amounts of pictures of Gothic buildings. You can tell them apart from the locals since all the Estonian women are blond and beautiful and wear glasses and all the guys look like jeans models.

´We´re not tourists,´says Nik.
´Hate to say it brother but we are,´ I inform him.
´Well then we´re not like the other tourists.´
´We´re just like the other tourists. We walk around, jaws open wide, taking the same stupid photos of the same stupid buildings as everyone else. That´s what a tourist does. We want to come home with mugs and T-shirts of cities we barely know.´
´We´re not tourists,´ continues Nik, ´we are severely lost.´
I guess that´s a healthy way of looking at it.

We return to the hostel after a day of wandering around and I bump into a girl I know from Melbourne. ´Jeanine?´
´I´m sorry. Do I know you?´
I flex my muscles.
´Fatman! I didn´t recognise you without your mask on.´

Even in Estonia it seems somebody knows Fatman. I guess working at a popular bar in Melbourne has significantly increased my Six Degrees factor. I know Jeanine vaguely. She´s a friend of my friend B.J. who used to work for me and now makes more money in a single week than I do in two months.

It seems like a great hostel. The hippie within says that the vibe of the place will draw people to it so they can talk about the weird journeys that lead people here. Jeanine had been here for a few months and used to carry an inflatable sex doll into the city to strike up conversations with strangers. I guess that´s one way to do it...

First Impressions

2006-09-26T01:23:00.000+10:00

'Fuck Riga,' I proclaim. We are walking into the Old Town section of Tallinn. The streets are cobbled and it is dark but already I have begun to fall in love with this place. On the bus from St.Petersburg I couldn't help but notice the changes. Here in Estonia the twilight lasts for hours. On shopfronts the Cyrillic alphabet of Russia had slunk away to the distance and had been replaced by a language that was fond of double letters. Stop signs were now Stopp signs. Hotels were called Hotells. Their vowels had dots above them. It was exciting. I immediately wanted to live here.

'Seriously. Fuck Riga. Fuck Latvia altogether. I don' t care for their constant stag parties or the Tectonic knights...'
'Teutonic knights,' corrects Chris.
I stamp my feet angrily. 'I! Don't! Care!'

Perhaps I was a bit hasty in wanting to live in Tallinn indefinitely. At this stage of the night we had yet to find a place to stay for the evening. We wandered around aimlessly down the myriad streets where music seeped out of various bars that were heavily aimed at tourists. I tried to take pictures to capture the mood of the night- the slight mist, people walking around in twos already indifferent to the town around them, the moon that hung limply in the night sky- but every photo seemed to not do Tallinn justice. They were as two-dimensional as you'd expect.

Eventually, after Nik flicked through the book several times, we found the Old Town Backpackers....which was too full. The girl who was on duty asked us to wait outside while she checked on one of the other hostels. 'It seems you're in luck. Number ten, Lai street,' said she, giving us a small flyer where it had a crudely-drawn map of the hostel on the back.

We staggered through the door of Tallinn Backpackers about ten minutes later. It was around eleven at night. We climbed the stairs up to the reception area where a bearded Welsh guy sat. He peered at us from behind the reception desk. 'Hey guys. Come on in,' he says, 'But do you mind taking off your shoes first?'

The Where, The How, The Why, The When

2006-09-25T09:26:00.000+10:00

We ended up in Estonia because of the bus timetables in St.Petersburg. The original plan was to go to Riga (Chris: ´It´s where Albrecht von Buxthoeven established the Livonain Brothers of the Sword, a bunch of German warrior-monks, to force Christianity on to the Eastern Baltic region in the 1200s.´) but the bus heading to Latvia was scheduled so that we´d be leaving Russia two hours after our visas expired. Border guards are a naturally sadistic lot and may have been forced to take a minor donation from our wallets to remedy this problem.

Nik peers at the time tables at the ticket office of the bus terminal. ´We could always go to Tallinn. That would save us the extra cash.´
´What´s that? Talon?` I ask, proud of my ignorance.
´Tee, ei, el, el, eye, en, en. Tallinn. In Estonia.´
´Wait a minute. Isn´t Estonia where that Eli Roth gore fest Hostel takes place? Where horny backpackers are enticed to stay in this hostel where beautiful girls have sex with them and then the backpackers get killed in the most horrific way?´
´The film took place in a Slovakian town. We´re safe,´ says Chris the geography expert.
Nik:´That doesn´t sound too bad. You get to have sex with all these hot women before you get mutilated? What´s the catch?´
Chris and I shudder at the thought, as only people who´ve seen the movie would. So we pay the woman at the ticket office and buy the tickets to Tallinn at twice the price that was mentioned in the Lonely Planet guide. We were such chumps.

I know that there is a place called Estonia but that was about it. I knew nothing of it. Their was a blank in my head where knowledge should be. Was I going into a place that was devastated by war, where children had limbs missing and the building were all crumbly due to tank attacks? Or was it fairly well developed? A city where motorists would drink espressos from Styrofoam cups while yelling into their mobiles at their secretaries, their moods unpleasant and their vehicles angry?

Dr Fatman I Presume?

2006-09-09T17:42:00.000+10:00

Irkutsk - Listvyanka

Have you ever been in a situation where you've been so sick of the same work environment- talking to the same mundane people day in, day out, having to endure the ignominy of wearing uncomfortable work clothes (a business suit for some, an octopus outfit with a big sign advertising a seafood restaurant for others), laughing at the boss' racist comments because you fear you will be fired if you don't, having to sit through slide presentations explaining why the company stocks are so low that even possessing one of them is now a criminal offence- that you felt there was no way out? And the only avenue left for you was to purchase a powerful rifle and find a tower with a good view so you may lay waste to as many innocent lives as possible until the police eventually manage to get an army helicopter to take you down with extreme prejudice? This is the point when you should take a holiday. Before you become this rifle-wielding maniac.

The best part about going on a trip is that nobody knows you or the murderous impulses that you hide within. You can hang around towns in other countries with unpronounceable names and take photos of war monuments and menus with hilarious English translations so when you come back to the office, unshaved and sunburnt, you can force your colleagues to spend an entire lunch break looking at the pictures and feigning interest. It's almost expected that for up to six months after you return you can work travel stories into every single conversation and say things like, 'Sjfkanja? You've never heard of it? What a pity. Got a mild sexual disease after sleeping with one of the fishmongers there actually. Still, beautiful scenery.'

I think the last thing Evan ever expected was to run into someone he knew is Lisvyanka (Yes, I'm beginning my story now). Listvyanka is a small, seaside town in Siberia with a population of about 2,000. It's the kind of town that is slowly becoming a well-known resort. The kind of place where cows walk down main street. Where people paint their houses in their underwear in broad daylight.

He'd just about sat down for an evening meal with his beautiful girlfriend at an out-of-the-way chalet when he hears a familiar laughter. A real annoying laugh. Where has he heard that before? He turns around and sees a figure he recognises spilling beer on his crotch.
'F...Fatman?' he says, a strange feeling coursing down his spine.
I look up. 'Hey Evan.'
'W..What in heaven's name brought you to Lisvyanka?'
'My health. I came to Listvyanka for the waters.'

Yes folks, I'm kind of like that ghostly bar guy from The Shining. I just turn up sometimes when you least expect.

The rest of the evening was spent drinking many a vodka with Evan, his girlfriend and some Dutch guys. We sat around and listened to music and told filthy jokes that would condemn us all to Hell forever.

Chess Games That Lead To Knife Fights

2006-09-08T19:50:00.000+10:00

train to Irkutsk

You know your days may be numbered when your silent cabin mate suddenly decides to pull out a knife and stares at it intently. Chris, Nik and I glance at each other nervously. The blade would have been about 7-inches long. This was not the kind of tool you'd use to cut out coupons from magazines. It was the sort of weapon you'd use to gut elk with. He inspected his blade slowly, wordlessly for hours on end. No one made a sound all night.

The next day our Russian cabin mate came down and barked something at us in his native tongue. We threw our wallets on the table. 'Just take the money pal,' I say as calmly as possible, 'And if anyone comes after you we'll remember nothing about this little exchange.'
He pulls out a plastic bag from his belongings.
'It's probably the heads of his victims,' I explain to my companions.
'I'm too pretty to die!' yells Nik.
The Russian guy looks puzzled at our reactions. He reaches into the bag and....

...pulls out some tomatoes and cucumbers. Ah. It seems he was just trying to be friendly. Offering us breakfast out of the goodness of his...
'He's pulled out his knife!'
'Aieeeeeeeee!!!'
The stranger looks at us blankly and cuts some bread.
'WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU!?!?"
'?' replies the Stranger.
'Knife bad. Scares the shit out of foreigners,' I try to say.
He smiles. 'Is good knife yes? Belong to father.'

The Knife Man turns out to be a guy named Sasha. After a few more hours of silence he gets off at a station and comes back with a newly bought chess set. 'Play yes?' he asks in a friendly manner. Just for the record, although I have the dazed expression of someone who has been run over by a truck, I can play chess fairly well. I point to Nik. 'He play you. He good.' No need to risk having a 7-inch blade jabbed into MY gut.

King of the Hallway

2006-09-07T12:46:00.000+10:00

Severobaikalsk - train to Irkutsk

It's a postcard scenery. The sky is grey like memory loss. Snow falls to the ground like dandruff off a bus driver. We are trapped in a snow globe far from home.

Rashit's wife has come to our apartment to cook us a three course breakfast for the last time while Nik stares at the window excitedly. He has never seen snow. I think to an outsider who is travelling through town in the Russian autumn snow is a beautiful thing. If you're indoors, rugged up and with a screamingly hot cup of cocoa. It looks the same as when a high school drama production has a snow scene- billions of bits of little paper falling gently to the ground- except in real life the snow melts and doesn't have to be swept up by stage hands.

A few hours later the doorbell rings. It is Leo the neighbourhood thug. With him are two cohorts. One of the little miscreants looks like he is fourteen. But a tough fourteen year old. The kind that carries flick knives and hurts pets. They offer me some warm beer but I decline.

We try to talk. Something something something. Oh, Leo wants me to show the kids some coin tricks. I flick a 5 rouble piece back and forth on the flat of my fist. I make the coin disappear. The kids go- How the f-ck...? Then Leo speaks some Russian to me. Something something something. He wants to exchange....dollars for dollars? What the...? Leo says more things that don't make sense to me. 'You want to swap dollars with me?'
'Da. Yes.' He pulls out a Singaporean $10.
'You little rat bastard! That was from my wallet.'
He grins.
'You want to swap an American $10 for a Singaporean $10 that was mine to begin with in the first place?'
'Da.'

I couldn't be bothered arguing with him anymore so I do so. Then he has the gall to ask me for a 100 roubles. 'You join for piva (beer) yes?'
'Go away.'

I spend the rest of the day walking around Severobaikalsk. Apart from almost walking into a brothel that I presumed was a restaurant the day is fairly uneventful. Which gives me time to think about the whole 'kids in the hallway' situation. The girls were fairly nice. They were probably too young to be interested in guys but maybe in a few years they'd hook up with one of the thugs and have little monsters of their own one day. Lack of choice. It happens. And I don't think the little boys would turn out like Leo but who knows what will happen in the future. I hope for the best. But for now there seems that there's not much to do in apartment blocks in Siberia except swigging home brew vodka and hassling foreigners for loose change.

Stairway to Hell

2006-09-06T20:43:00.000+10:00

Severobaikalsk

I wake up from a dream where I find a severed hand and foot in a washing machine. It seems that the mild bit of food poisoning that we got from the bad cheese had leaked into my subconsciousness during the night and had displayed itself in a nightmare theatre involving laundry.

The others were feeling a bit worse. Nik had spent most of the night emptying the contents of his stomach into the toilet bowl. Chris was not too bad but in no mood to be running around. I decide to check my emails at the post office.

Hours later Chris comes to pick me up. 'Anything happening?' he asks.
'Nothing much. There's more news about Steve Irwin. His father doesn't want a state funeral or some such thing.Besides-' I log off the computer, '-I care not. He's getting more recognition than bomb disposal experts who get blown up or rescue workers who fall to their deaths.'

When we get back to the apartment there are about five or six kids who are too young to smoke, smoking. 'He-llo,' says the bravest of them, a girl of about fourteen. 'Privyet,' I say back, the way cool Russians say a casual hello. They are impressed.

Pretty soon there are more of them in the stairway. The leader of the gang is a guy that I'll call Leo purely because I can't remember his name. Being 18 in this apartment block means that he is the king and he rules the others with an iron back hand. But in a friendly way. They like the fact that we are Australians but they don't know where it is.

Nik emerges from his coma to see what all the commotion is on their stairway. He sees Chris and I attempting to communicate with the kids (we taught them how to say 'F-ck off!) and, not to be outdone, grabs the bag full of koala key rings and distributes them to everyone. He's like a Santa Claus that only gives out shitty Korean-made key rings of fat Australian marsupials. One of the kids rips the head off his koala. May I have another? 'Sorry kid. One drunk herbivore per person.'

It's getting dark outside. 'We should grab a drink with them,' I suggest.
'You think it's wise to swig beer with underage children?' ask Chris and Nik, aghast.
'I don't know what the legal age for drinking in Russia is. Well, maybe just with Leo then. Let's get him to show us a bar around here.' We head to a convenience store (I thought we were being led to a bar) and buy some beer. On returning to our apartment and drinking the booze on the stairwell Nik informs us that he is feeling too uncomfortable about the situation and hides in the room. 'Who says I'm comfortable with this either?' I announce, 'It's just that we haven't done enough drinking in days.'
Chris says, 'Let's at least go to that sports bar that has no sports ( he read about this place in the Lonely Planet guide).'
'Leo. Do you know where this bar is?'
'Sports bar? Sports bar-' a whole bunch of Russian words, '-Da?'
'Whu..?'
Leo makes fist motions to his head.
'Are you trying to say we'll get our asses kicked if we go to the Sports bar?'
He nods his head. He lets loose with more Russian words.
'What. Are. You. Trying. To. Say?'
He repeats the words. Louder.

The story starts getting a little uglier from here. First of all, two of the eight-year olds came with us to the bar. That in itself wasn't a hassle since neither of them were drinking. But a couple of shots of vodka in, Leo decides that he's going to lift one of the kids over his head. He does so, and the kid hits the ceiling. That was in all likelihood an accident. But Leo does it again,knocking the wind out of the brat. The kid starts crying. Who the hell was Leo trying to impress- the 8-year olds or the absolute strangers? He then tries to get 300 roubles out of us for the taxi ride home.

'It was only 50 roubles to get here!' says a very annoyed Chris. Leo makes punching motions with his fists. Was he threatening us? We start to dislike Leo immensely. When we first met him he seemed to be a lovable bully, like Alfalfa from Our Gang, but he was turning into an actual bully- a threatening, tyrannical figure who gets drunk and wants to arm wrestle people. The 8-year olds look at us to see what we'd do.

Eventually we do get a cab together (?) and Chris, unaware that we were just in front of our building, hurls a 100 rouble note to the driver and lunges out of the cab in the opposite direction. We get back to the building, Leo in tow. 'No- we do NOT want to drink with you anymore Leo!' we say and close the door, checking three times that it was locked.

In The Den of a Siberian Gangster

2006-09-05T19:32:00.000+10:00

Severobaikalsk

It's been a day since Steve 'Let's grab it by the tail and see what happens!' Irwin has died. A stingray stung the man in the heart mid-documentary. I suppose they were both doing what they were meant to do. He, making documentaries, and the stingray, stinging things they find threatening or annoying. That he had died was not known to us yet.

We were currently entering the city of Severobaikalsk, northwest of the largest fresh water lake in the world- Lake Baikal. Any chance of being impressed by this was quashed by a mild nausea that was tugging at my belly like a lost child who grips a stranger's skirt at a department store. I wasn't feeling well. Perhaps consuming that cheese for breakfast was not the best idea. Still, it wasn't a full blown stomach bug that treats your intestines like a punching bag, so that was good.

Rashit is on the platform waiting for us. He sits Godfather-like in his wheelchair while a woman (who turned out to be his wife) waves us over to him. There is another guy next to Rashit who whispers into his ear. The side of my brain that is convinced that Rashit is a Siberian gangster screeches 'It's his bodyguard!'. Another part of my brain, the realistic side that has been ignored for such a long time, whispers feebly. Something about the person next to Rashit probably being a driver or something. Stupid brain.

We eventually go over to Rashit's house and have a conversation with him. He tells me several times that he is not the criminal mastermind of Severobaikalsk and please would I stop asking him. He does turn out to be a chess master which is kind of cool. When he laughs he laughs like this: 'Tee-hee-hee.' It's a soft laugh. Maybe he actually isn't a gangster.

After Rashit shoves a handful of business cards my way we head back to our apartment. Apparently the others aren't feeling too well either.

Wear the Fox Hat

2006-09-04T18:33:00.000+10:00

Tynda - train to Severobaikalsk

'Severobaikalsk,' says Chris for the fifth time.
'Where?'
'Severobaikalsk,' says Chris, tiredly.

The train passes another rundown train station, the first in about four hours. A couple of kids, brothers perhaps, are watching us as the train goes by. They wave sticks above their heads. One of them salutes us with his middle finger. Up yours train!

'I still don't know where the f-ck that is,' I tell Chris, as if it is somehow his fault that I am completely lost as to where we are. Nick: 'Have you even read the itinerary?'

Back in Australia I have two copies of the Lonely Planet guide to the Trans-Siberian railway (2001 edition). In typical fashion I forgot to bring either of them along. Because I'm the kind of guy who can happily spend a whole day looking out the window of trains with nothing more than the gentle rocking of the carriage, a cup of tea and a liberal dose of sodium pentathol to keep me amused I hadn't needed to know where we are heading. Right now though I feel that I should read up on the next town because I have about 26 hours to kill. I grab Nik's 2006 edition of the Trans-Sib guide which has a Mongolian warlord on the front cover. 'There's a brief mention of our guide in there as well,' says Nik.

Rashit Y____: This experienced full-time travel fixer, guide and ex-BAM worker is quick to reply to emails and always keen to please. He rents a brilliant, central apartment for a negotiable US $15 a night. Since an immobilising stroke he remains disabled and his spoken English can be hard to follow.

'What kind of a name is Rashit?' I ask, mind filled with images of a wheelchair-bound Siberian gangster.
'Dunno. Kazakh?' One of Borat's people.
'The other guy in Severobaikalsk seems kind of fun too. Listen to this. This guy Vladimir is apparently a "proverb-sprouting John Cleese lookalike".'

I'm torn. I want to meet the proverb-sprouting ex-Python as well. The train keeps moving steadily forward.

Chasing Autumn

2006-09-03T17:56:00.000+10:00

Tynda

We catch up to Autumn in Tynda. The train had kept us warm for 36 hours due to a combination of the heater, our body temperatures and constant farting but stepping outside we smack into the bracing Siberian air. Our extremities are numb. A man wearing Cuban heels comes rushing towards us from behind, long strides like that of a stilt walker. He asks us a question that doesn't need to be asked. 'Are you the Australians?'

This man called Alexi is our guide to Tynda. Cut from the same cloth as Mihail, Alexi is an extreme sportsman. It comes as no surprise that the two are good friends. 'We have an envelope for you. From Mihail,' says Chris, words becoming icicles and falling to the ground.
'Mihail?' asks Alexi.
'Mihail. From Komsomolsk.'
'Oh Misha! Misha is my friend.' We hand him the letter.

Perhaps the letter contains sentiments along the lines of:

Dear Alexi,

Hope you are well. It has been too long since last we spoke. My wife sends her best. To the matters at hand. In front of you are three of the most unfit individuals I have met for quite some time. (Alexi looks up from reading. Nods to himself) I notice them sweating profusely and catching their breaths even when they are virtually immobile. Their motives for being in Siberia are obscure. Unlike the other Australians who have come our way (Remember the guys from Adelaide last winter? Boy those guys were fun! I wonder how they are?) these three seem happy to just look at things. Ordinary things. One of them just took pictures of his own leather jacket. Why would anyone do this?

Your Friend,
Misha

This town has the same feel as other decaying, desolate towns. Although it is the closest crossroad town where you can join the Trans-Siberian railway, or head north to the mines (such as the Neryungri coal mines), there doesn't seem to be too much to do- unless you like looking at logs. It seems to be a good enough place for guys like Alexi who derive enjoyment out of climbing vicious mountains where you can plummet to your death but for the non-adventurous it might feel like a life sentence. We see some grubby-nosed kids on the street throw pebbles at cyclists and pick up pigeons with their bare hands and throw them at other pigeons. The trains come to town. The trains leave. Not too many locals seem to leave with them.

We spend most of the day trying not to starve and having a brief conversation with a drunk guy who resembles Robert Patrick. That night we return to Alexi's house and he shows us pictures of his adventures while his wife tucks their kids in. There is a photo of him kayaking down dangerous waterfalls with jagged rocks at the bottom. 'Look, look!' he points excitedly at one photo where his head is submerged in water, 'I'm dying! Ha ha!'

A Long Way From Home

2006-09-02T18:25:00.000+10:00

train to Tynda (36 hours)

Last night I looked out from my bunk and peer at the night sky. I see millions of stars looking back at me, little peep holes thousands of years old. Strange constellations that are supposed to look like animals but don't. Why do I like the night sky but not Planetariums?

We are on a looooooooong train ride to Tynda. The others are sound asleep. Nik will spend most of this train ride commenting on the fact that his facial hair is hairier than his head. He's worried that he reminds people of a fat German tourist. Chris will spend most of this train ride re-reading the Lonely Planet Guide to the Trans-Siberian. He's even read about towns we'll never go to. But for now it's just me listening to their snores and staring at the stars.

Before, when there was thunder and I couldn't see the stars, I'd thought about writing a postcard. I generally like writing about something that has just happened but since I knew I'd write about Mihail and the Nanai at a later date I was stuck for a topic. Do I try to describe the thunder outside? Or perhaps someone we met on the train? The only other person we've had any contact with recently (apart from the guy at the snack bar who asked us where we were from) was the provinitza.

Our provinitza (train lady) was a delightful woman. I'd been dreading our encounters with the provinitzas since I'd first heard about them. Most travellers of the Trans-Siberian (and the BAM) would tell stories of hairy knuckled lesbians who were better suited to be female wrestlers. But our lady was so nice. She loved Australians. She reminded me of a marshmallow. We decided to give her a koala key ring.

I turn over in my bunk, comfortable in my blankets. This trip was still only beginning. I'll write that postcard another day.

Fatman

Finding the Nanai

2006-09-01T17:47:00.000+10:00

Komsomolsk - Verkhnyaya Ekon - train to Tynda

Morning. Our bodies shuffle about like the living dead at a nursing home- slowly and without a specific direction. We pick lint from our bellies. We stare vacantly at Mihail's collection of carnivorous plants. We moan. Hangovers suck.

Mihail is all smiles and energy. He prepares our breakfast at the speed of a TV chef and waits for us to start eating. I'm glad that he's in a good mood. We called him from a bar across the road, obscured from sight by a Lenin statue that's being restored (For this is Russia. Another town, another Lenin statue), at about ten at night bidding him to come over and join us for a drink with our new Russian friends. I remember very little of them except I have several incriminating photos on my digital camera where I have my arms around several girls. My hands are dangerously close to their breasts.

'So,' he begins, 'What would you like to do today. I have three options. We can go sailing down the river. Or we can take you to a village of the Nanai people. Or perhaps you'd like to go hiking?'
'Let's meet the Nanai!' I say, immediately and without consulting the others. I like meeting new people.

The Nanai are one of the early indigenous people of the Far Eastern Siberia. They are known for their extremely versatile usage of fish. They eat 'em (obviously) and make jewellery out of their bones. They even make clothing out of fish. I can imagine a meeting between these gentle tribesmen and I. They'd offer me a smoked salmon or herring like a peace pipe. Come. Join our tribe. Be an honorary member and subscribe to our newsletters. I'd hesitate. The Amur river is still slightly poisonous due to Benzene leaking down from China's Songhua river. Thanks to the corruption in the Jilin province the pollution has spread uncontrolled. Do I eat the fish? Is it sick to the core with Benzene? Am I risking death or at the very least Acute Myeloid Leukemia?'I'll do it!' I'd say and take a bite out of the poisoned fish....

We head off to Verkhnyaya Ekon (pop:400), 10 kilometres upstream of Komsomolsk. As per usual I am expecting to see tents and huts but instead we enter a town that is small yet unprimitive. Mihail drives us to the local school where he introduces us to the principal and town museum curator. 'Hang on. She's the museum curator as well?'

Da. There is an ethnographical museum across the hall from some classrooms. You can walk to the cafeteria in one minute flat. We wander in and look at tribal costumes, shamanistic artifacts, fish necklaces and a piano accordion (?). Yes, but where are the actual Nanai? 'We shall meet them soon,' says Mihail as we walk past three Nanai-looking teachers.

We drive around Verkhnyaya Ekon with the principal in tow. It takes around three minutes. The Nanai are not home so we head back to the school. Apparently the principal/curator is going to her office briefly to pick up some things. In an interesting move Mihail decides to turn the car around in the most dangerous way imaginable. He revs the engine, hangs a left and almost sends the car plunging over the edge of the dirt road that leads to the school. He reverses the car like crazy. We grip hold of seat belts/ each other and feel our breakfast ricochet around internally. But Mihail's fierce determination wins out over gravity and we are once again on the dirt road that heads towards the school. He smiles at us. No problems yes?

After lunch (chef extraordinaire Mihail cooks us up something by sticking carrots, potatoes, beef, mayonnaise in tinfoil and burning it for 45 minutes. It's delicious. Guys like Mihail carry axes in the trunks of their car not to hack limbs off hitchhikers but in order to cut wood anytime, anywhere. He's probably got a dozen recipes that involve cutting up wood, lighting it and throwing something wrapped in tinfoil on it. It'd still come out tasting better than most restaurants) we finally get to meet the Nanai couple. They remind me of Eskimos. Apparently the Nanai lady used to be a doctor but decided that she was going to make clothing out of fish instead. She now gets government grants in preserving the old ways of the Nanai.

There is a train to catch. We bid the Nanai couple adieu. We say goodbye to Mihail and to Komsomolsk. The town does not notice us leave.

Fatman

...But Why Are You Here?

2006-08-31T13:56:00.000+10:00

Khabarovsk - Komsomolsk

The hydrofoil gently cruises into the river dock of Komsomolsk-na-Amur, five hours after its departure. Our journey across the Amur river was fairly pleasant on the whole. Except that we had to get out of bed at six in the morning to get to the sodding hydrofoil because the President of Belarus was coming over to Khabarovsk and so getting from point A (our comfortable, warm beds) to point B (the hydrofoil at Khabarovsk pier) was done at a frantic pace. And as we finally lurched into the seats of the hydrofoil, exhausted, just about to nod off again....we get told that we were in the wrong goddamn seats. We felt like fools. The cinema patrons from Hell who kick up a fuss about allocated seating ten minutes into the film. And on the boat there was a dive bomb squad of mosquitoes. The constant noise of whap, whap as passengers crushed the mozzies to death on their foreheads was equally as annoying as the blood-sucking insects themselves. So...a relatively pleasant journey. More or less.

After a slight confusion caused by people who forgot to get off the hydrofoil at their destination (again, our fault entirely. We sat in our seats as if in a stupor going, 'Is this it? Is this our stop?') we grab our luggage and fight our way off the hydrofoil. We are greeted by Mihail, a tall, good-natured Russian. His hands are gigantic, like those foam hands you get at sporting arenas. With these hands he begins to shake mine and asks, 'Are you Chris?'
'No, no, no. He's the guy behind me fending off the hoard of people trying to get on the hydrofoil.'
'Ah. Good, good.' He waits for the other two to climb over the mob. When they eventually reach us, breathless, Mihail smiles and says, 'Welcome to Komsomolsk!'
After a slight pause he says, '...er...why are you here?'

Komsomolsk-na-Amur was built over swamp lands in 1932. Some generals over in Moscow were looking for a place in the East to build a training ground for the Young Communist League and pointed on a map saying, 'There. That'll do.' Soon steelworks, an aircraft factory and shipbuilding yards were built and Yury Gagarian came into town to officially open things by cutting ribbons and smashing bottles of champagne over stuff. His statues are everywhere, along with another astronaut who was born in the area.

Mihail is an outdoorsy type. Healthy in the way that gym teachers are healthy. His travel company is geared towards other healthy, outdoorsy people who would like nothing better than to spend a week in the mountains with a compass, some string and a spear. People who get in tune with nature. People who have killed many a four-legged beast and swap stories about fishing while eating reindeer heart over an open fire. To him, we are a bit of a mystery.

He had the foresight of organising a tour of Komsomolsk with a translator, Vera, and her assistant/pupil, Natalya. To them, we were an oddity too. 'Most Australians we have met,' begins Natalya, not quite sure how to proceed, 'are...how you say? Stronger. Better fit than you.' I look at my travelling companions. They are the kind of guys who derive an unnatural amount of pleasure reading maps. Nik has a fear of uncut fruit. Not the mountaineering folk that my country produces. Still, we are here because something drew us here. What ever the heck that was.

Born to Run (very slowly),
Fatman

Night Train To Khabarovsk

2006-08-29T16:55:00.000+10:00

Vladivostok - Khabarovsk

At the start of the trip we were talking about spending the last day in Vladivostok basking in the radiation emanating from the nuclear submarines that may be based here, but on the actual day we decided to go to the Poshta (Post Office) to use the internet facilities there. The rest of the day was spent buying groceries (accomplished by a lot of finger jabbing in the general direction of the things we wanted and nodding or shaking of heads according to what the unfortunate shopkeeper may grab). Nik also had the foresight of bringing a sack of koala bear key rings which he distributed to our host, a babushka with very little grasp of English (...and yet about a grudzillion times better than our grasp of Russian).

We boarded our train, the "Okean" (Ocean) bound for Khabarovsk. In the third class carriage there are four bunk beds. After we occupy three of the bunks we say to each other, 'Let's hope that no one else enters our carriage for the rest of our (10 hour) trip. We need to seriously practise the lingo.' Some deity for pathetic travellers must have been listening for no one else entered our carriage.

The "Okean" sets off. Adios Vladivostok. The train rumbles away from the station with a shudder and we head towards to parts unknown. The view out the window is like the view out of most trains. We see graffitis on walls, people going home from work and dogs running on the other side of the tracks. A man carries a sack of potatoes, maybe for a family feed. Five seconds of a football match. It's like an old family movie taken by a Super 8 camera, shaking slightly, telling only a snippet of a story that doesn't end. Russia is a lot greener than I expect it to be.

Afternoon becomes night. The train stops at a station. Chris, Nik and I are going through our 'Teach Yourself Beginner's Russian' book ("Excuse me. Could you ask a hotel porter to come to our room? There seems to be a dead contortionist in the bath tub.") when the door to our carriage opens suddenly. A young man stands on the other side. Peering once again at his ticket he decides that this indeed is his carriage. He asks us something in Russian. We nod politely. A tired smile crosses his face. Great. None of you gap-toothed morons can speak my language, he's thinking.

Minutes pass. Some form of conversation eventually takes place. Pointing, flipping through our phrase books, grimaces signalling no, nods signalling yes and stick figure drawings establish that Raman is an army man. I mime a rifle shooting an invisible target. He nods. Going to Khabarovsk to...teach? Be taught? Something to do with teachers. Makes sense seeing that the city was founded in 1858 as a military observation post. 'Ya iz Afstrali-i.' we say repeatedly, 'I from Australia.' He nods. Got it. Australian, not Yank. He pulls out a 2 litre plastic bottle of beer and some cards. 'Cards?' he asks.

The game is confusing the hell out of us. Who's go is it? Mine? I put down this card. Raman shakes his head in disapproval. Are you not listening to my instructions? Not that card! This one! Did you want to lose foreign people? We smile. A couple of Raman's army mates duck their head in the door. 'Aloha Raman!' they say in Russian, 'Who are your new friends?'
'They are Australian imbeciles who can't play a simple flippin' card game.' says Raman, or words to that effect.
'Australian?'

The carriage now has six people. There is a lot more pointing. Cards thrown angrily at the table. 'How do I lose three games in a frickin' row?' I roar. The others laugh. It's fun to watch people lose! More army guys poke their heads through the door. What's happening here?

A dozen army guys. The corridor is filled with 'em now. Introductions are quickly made. Names are forgotten in succession. Serious drinking has started. Funboy says 'You guys came to Vladivostok from Japan huh? I an uncle in Japan.' His English rocks.
'I'm half Japanese.' I say to them, 'Karate!' I make chopping motions.
'Oooohhhh.' say a half dozen army guys. We're so scared. Kid Carnival laughs and smiles a lot. He takes pictures of the dumb Aussies with Funboy's camera that has an Angelina Jolie wallpaper.

By the time I get back to the carriage with a bottle of vodka the guys are winding down. I show them the drink. Raman groans. 'We've figured out exactly what these guys are.' says Chris, 'They're Russian SAS. They are going to Khabarovsk for officer training.'
'Cool.' I admit as I pour the vodkas for Funboy, Moose (a red-faced guy about 8 ft tall), Goldie (a little guy with a mouthful of gold teeth) and Kid Carnival . Raman politely declines.
'Your friends are thinkers,' says Funboy several drinks later, 'Logic. They logic. But you. You chatty one. Never shut up.'
'I don't even understand the language.'
'This what makes it so funny.' says Funboy. Nik produces his bag of key chains. 'Who wants a koala?'

We crashed out soon after.

Fatman

Bar Americano

2006-08-28T16:54:00.000+10:00

Vladivostok

We wake up in a different city, a different Vladivostok. The Lord of the East seems to be in a better mood today and has allowed us to travel the streets without inflicting upon us weather that resembles the inside of a washing machine on the 'warm' cycle. The streets are now full of people doing Vladivostoky things. There is a shell game going on in one of the main streets where tourists (a.k.a. suckers) are encouraged to pit their eyes against the nimble hands of the busker. Taxi drivers sit in their cars doing the crossword, waiting for their fares. Naval personnel wander around in groups and we even come across some Russian Mormons.

Vladivostok is rebuilding itself. Although the gates of the city had been shut off from the outside world until '92, today it is a hive of activity. Workmen are patching up wounded buildings with bricks. Cheap Korean workers are mending cracked footpaths. But everyone seems so intent on fixing everything today that some building have been half-finished while the builders, carpenters and road workers move on to patch up another part of the city.

Observations on Russian people thus far (WARNING: Cliches ahead!):

The guys in Vladivostok wander around wearing little in the way of clothing. They are either in shorts and t-shirts (it is a hot day) or wearing Adidas tracksuits. Some walk around shirtless. Though at home I'd think the shirtless guys would be just showing off here I think they do it because it is hot. I could be wrong. Most of the men here have short haircuts and are clean-shaven reminding me, with a three-day stubble, that I am an outsider (if i should happen to forget). They all look like they play sports; soccer (what the rest of the world calls 'football') or outdoor basketball. Strangely enough, I counted about eight of them with hand injuries. Nik counted about four.

Russian women are tall and beautiful. But beautiful like...like...someone like Asia Argento is beautiful. A bit distant perhaps. They don't make eye contact on the whole, and those that do look at you seem to see your reflection in a mirror, rather than the you who is wolfing down hot dogs and trying to get a glimpse of their cleavage. They look like they don't wear any underwear. Probably have pool parties where the likes of us are never invited. Not too dissimilar to the chicks on Chapel street, but more Eastern European.

We bump into Konrad the German Chaos physicist again. 'You were not there at Bar Americano last night?' he says. It sounds like a question but it isn't. No, we say, we were tired and damp and besides we didn't know how to get there. 'I shall draw you a map.' says he.
Did he have a fun night without us last night?
'Oh, yes. It was a wonderful evening. I was lost in trying to get to this place and I asked people if they knew where Bar Americano was. After I asked the third one he offered to guide me there as it was diffklut to get there. We found this place and he bought me drinks all night long. Then he introduchted me to some beautiful Russian ladies.'

Holy Crap! This Bar Americano is sounding pretty damn good. They buy you drinks and help you get laid!

So that night we trek off to find Bar Americano. Since we're staying with a little Russian old lady we decide to leave a little earlier than usual so we can return at a decent time (ie- before five in the morning). We follow Konrad's hand drawn map.

...and get lost.

...and get lost.

...and get lost.

By the time we find the place the land is getting dark. The bar is situated inside a block of flats. We know this because, phrasebooks out, we finally decided to ask someone. 'Does thou know Bar Americano?' I ask in my heavily accented Russian to a guy standing outside of his apartment block talking to a lady. 'Da,' he says, 'Over there.'

Bar Americano turns out to be a pool hall. Despite its name, there are no Americans there. No one speaks English. And Alex's brother is not there either. We drink some beer and head home.

City of Rain

2006-08-27T16:51:00.000+10:00

Vladivostok

Outside the porthole is Vladivostok, birthplace of Yul Brynnar. It is surrounded by a curtain of grey. 'Looks like rain,' says Chris simply, 'or maybe dew.'
'Chris. You are not blaming the Jews for rain are you?' I ask angrily.
'No no no. Not that sort of...' he stammers.
'He's toying with you. Ignore him.' advises Nik. Chris looks at me. 'Mm.' he says. His mouth retracts into his beard. He does this when he doesn't want to talk to me anymore.

We step outside, past the dodgy secondhand "car dealers" with Toyota car doors under their arms and a handful of Japanese tourists (will they be the first people on Mars? Time will tell) and into the rainy embrace of Siberia. After going down the rickety stairs (every third one loose), Nik, Chris, Konrad the 26-year old German Chaos theorist and I make our way to Immigration.

(45 minutes of waiting later)

The Custom guys have a look at my passport. 'Ah. Афстралиа (Australia)!' they say. 'Da.' I reply.
'Australia good. America not good.' they nod me through the gates.

We exchange email details with Konrad and bid him goodbye. A van is waiting for us- part of the arrangement with the travel company that organised our visas and accomodation. We are whisked away to the apartment where we will stay for the next two and a half days.

Rain has taken the city hostage. Although it goes way beyond that. It has shot several of the hostages and thrown the bodies from atop a high tower. It is demanding a helicopter with a full tank of fuel NOW before it starts cutting ears off the remaining hostages who are cowering on the floor in their own feces.

The streets are rivers. The mall is a lake. The sky is a broken sprinkler system without an off button. Chris, Nik and I are drenched minutes in to our surveying of the city of Vladivostok. There is rain and rain and rain and rain. A few Russians pass by. 'Does everyone else seem less wet than we are?' I ask. It looks like we have taken a dip inside a hotel pool with our clothes on.

We bump into Konrad again. 'Hello my friends,' he says, 'what a day yes?'
'It's an awful (untranslatable) day here in f(thunder rolls across the skies)ing Vladivostok! Why the (censored) are we even here in this (car passes by, splashing us more)-forsaken, (bleep)-licking place?'
'I'm sorry? What was that?'
'He's just annoyed because we haven't had any food yet.' explains Nik, 'Actually we are getting a little peckish ourselves.'
'Try this food place down this oolitza(street). I had some nice chicken just then. Kentuky-style!'

We agree to follow Konrad's advice. Before we part ways again we invite him to a bar where we were supposed to go later that evening. Bar Americano. Nik's Russian friend, Alex, happens to have a brother who runs this place a few blocks from where we were getting drenched.

After being unable to find the "chicken place" recommended by Konrad and getting further soaked in the process we barge through a random door. It is a Russian restaurant. With a Russian menu. Water-logged phrasebooks out on the counter, we try to decypher the menu before us. Soup and french fries. That's all that makes sense to us. That may be all we will eat for the entire trip. Unless....

A man orders a big plate of roast chicken. 'What's that?' I ask in Russian (Probably more like 'Wat?' followed by vigorous pointing). The counter lady tells me. 'For me. One.' I say. The others agree that chicken will be fine. I try to pay the woman. She stares at the note and says something in Russian. I blink. She waves the note and says something in Russian again. Rain drips from my nose. 'Huh?' I ask, in English.

Minutes later her son, about 12-years of age, is brought to the counter. The Counter lady shoots off a barrage of Russian words at the kid and hands him a note. The kid looks at her, looks at the note, looks outside and his face unfolds into the univeral expression of: You want me to go outside in THAT? To exchange this 1,000 rouble note that this idiot foreigner has handed over and expects change for? He crosses himself and bolts outside, into the rain.

'We are not going to be popular here.' I muse as a steaming plate of chicken is handed to me by an annoyed Russian counter lady.

My Hovercraft is Full of Eels

2006-08-26T17:19:00.000+10:00

Ferry to Vladivostok

Damage report: Chris sustained an unknown head injury from last night and bled for some time, Nik woke up saying, 'Where am I? Where are my glasses?' and the toilet roll in our bathroom was drenched (the result of Nik deciding to have a shower while quite clearly intoxicated). Apart from that all is good.

We spend most of the day in our cabin, away from the gold toothed-mafiosi with toothpicks jutting from their mouths. We assume that the tracksuit wearing guys are Russian mob. We could be wrong of course but they all seem so dodgy. The ferry is so laden with cars without number plates that its not funny. Even the swimming pool has cars in it! The secondhand vehicles cling to every surface of the ship, like metallic leaches. Even inside the ferry we can't seem to get soft drinks from the bar without coming across cardboard boxes with Subaru parts, just sitting in the middle of the walkway.

In our cabin I try to study up some last minute Russian before we dock into Vladivostok tomorrow. There is a black-and-white TV here in the cabin that has been on pretty much constantly since yesterday. There's a Russian police drama (we presume), a game show ('Who wants to win a Thousand Roubles?') and an onslaught of news reports about a mob boss getting gunned down by Kalashnikovs, planes falling out of the sky, a famous church burning down in Moscow and in Missouri tornados are tearing apart the landscape.

I hadn't done as much Russian revision as I'd like to have done. In class, our Russian teacher, Barbra, would sometimes play a video tape shot in the 70's. It was supposed to help us with our vocabulary. So, the whole class would be listening intently to these overacting Russians from thirty years ago, and suddenly they'd burst out laughing. The whole class. I'd look around confused. An hour later I'd still be trying to figure out what was so funny.

Today I am faced with the same problem. As I pour over the books and the notes from months ago I'm trying to recall key words and phrases. Nothing seems to be sticking in my mind. I'll just have to hope that the minimal phrases I know ('Hello'- two different ways; formal and informal, 'Your ferret looks dangerous' and 'How old is your daughter?') and pointing will suffice for the next month.

Fatman

One if by Land, Two if by Sea

2006-08-25T16:38:00.000+10:00

Takaoka - Fushiki - Ferry to Vladivostok

The reason most Japanese people have never, nor ever will, go to Fushiki is that there's nothing much there. The only people who'd ever trek there would be fishermen or people going on the ferry to Vladivostok. We were in the latter category.

Though the ferry was due to depart at around four thirty we had to go through customs at around two. I confess that I'd imagined the customs agent to be a bald guy with a scar running down the left side of his face- the result of a knife fight in Bosnia where he was the victor. He'd have grey eyes that would be sharp as guillotine blades and that could reach into the depths of your soul. 'So,' he'd say as he stubbed out a Vietnamese cigarette, 'do you have anysink to declare?'

We get to the docks. There's a long fence where a half dozen men sell an assortment of semi-legal goods: car stereos, bikes, tires, etc. out from the back of their vans, straight off the boat. I amble over to the man at the gate that separated the outside world and our boat. 'Customs?' I inquire. He looks at his watch. 'You're a bit early. Just head over to the ferry where you can drop off your belongings.' That was about it. A cursory look at our passports and a nod towards where we were supposed to go.

There were a lot of cars between where the guard at the gate was and the ferry. A whole car park full of secondhand Japanese cars that were getting shipped off to Siberia. Due to the law in Japan where ever car on the road could not be older than five years there were a lot of surplus vehicles that had to be sold or destroyed. The Russians buy them for a fraction of the cost and make a bucket load of roubles back home.

Chris, Nik and I lug our stuff up the steps of the ferry. There is a woman behind the counter at the top of the stairs who is collecting ferry tickets and passports. We pass them over to her. 'Minutichko,' she says, 'wait here for wan minute please.' Moment later someone who may be the Captain of the ferry (though in all likelihood not the captain. He dressed like one and had the presence of one. Actually, he reminded me of my high school history teacher, Mr. Mitchell, who would hit me in the back of the head any time I dozed off in class) comes by and says, 'You may take your luggage and wait in your room for the customs to start. This will be in an hour?'

We drop our stuff off in our room, hang about for a bit, get bored and go wandering around the decks. Chris, ever the pessimist, wants to know where the lifeboats are. Nik says, 'I wonder what the Russian phrase for "Everyone abandon ship!"?' We observe a few Russian guys throw some coins overboard and into the sea. About ten minutes later another guy does the same. Chris: 'It must be some kind of custom. To appease the god/s of the sea for a safe passage." I take out my wallet and grab a handful of notes, about $400 worth. Nik: 'What the hell do you think you're doing?'
Me: 'Well, if a few coins are gonna make a boat trip good then a few hundred dollars would make it GREAT!'
Nik: 'Don't be so foolish.'
Me: 'It's the best idea I've had all trip!' Chris and Nik wrestle me to the ground and take my wallet from me.

Later that night...

We are joined at dinner by a German fellow by the name of Konrad. 'You guys speak English?' he asks. It turns out that Konrad is the sole German onboard and had come over to Japan on a conference. He decided to go back to Switzerland (where he works) via Russia and Germany. 'I am going to see my father before I go back to work. He is in Leipzig. You have heard of this place?'
'Yeah I know Leipzig.' I reply, 'Didn't Leibnitz live there for some time?'
'Yes? Also J.S.Bach.'

Konrad was working on trying to predict behavioral patterns of tourists based on ticket prices, weather, travel books and assorted other factors. Chris: 'That seems very complex.Even Edward Lorenz (an early Chaos Theory pioneer) had problems with simulated weather prediction back in the 60's. To add a human equation into the mix is going to make it infinitely harder to predict.'

Konrad: 'Yes? (The way Konrad says 'yes' is with an upward infliction at the end of the word, making it sound like a question rather than a simple statement) It is much more complex to try to predict what a hundred motorists will do than what will happen to the weather.'

Me: 'Hey Konrad. You know that the Russian word for a German person is "Nimitz" right?'

Konrad: 'Yes?'

Me: 'Do you know that "Nimitz" means idiot?'

Konrad: 'Is this true?'

Me: 'Absolutely.'

We all head off to a bar in the ferry where we drink several bottles of Sapporo longnecks. We make a toast to our new friend Konrad. 'Let's grab some vodka!' I yell suddenly.
'I don't know if we should....' someone begins.
'Nonsense! It's the best idea I've had all trip!'

Full of cunning plans,
Fatman

Caveat Emptor

2006-08-24T12:19:00.000+10:00

Roppongi - Takaoka

The sun is a merciless bully with a voice of fire that attacks our eyelids ceaselessly. There is colour, too much colour, that is assaulting our vision so we spend most of the morning groaning and keeping our eyes closed. We are having breakfast at our hotel in Roppongi. Shoving food around really. Not eating anything. Just sitting there sipping an assortment of juices. Literally the last people in the breakfast area. The two remaining waiters hang about, waiting for us to leave.

'Man what a night.' mumbles Nick. Chris and I groan. 'Did we really get that drunk last night? Did I really buy that leather jacket?'
'Yes Nick, you bought that leather biker jacket.' confirms Chris.

Average temperature in Japan: About 31 degrees Celsius.

'Wow. That was stupid of me.' Pause. 'Still, for only $50 bucks Australian, that ain't too bad is it?'
Chris and I look at each other.
'You might want to check your maths there chief.' I warn.
Chris: 'Mm. I think you've got the yen-to-dollar ratio a bit mixed up.'

Realisation hits Nick like surface-to-air missiles.

'Five HUNDRED dollars?!? I've bought a LEATHER JACKET in this HEAT for FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS? Why the HELL didn't anyone try to stop me?!?'
Chris: 'Well, by the time any one of us realised what had happened you'd already bought it. Besides, you really wanted that jacket.'
Me: (laughs)
Nick: 'This isn't funny!'
Me: (laughs harder)

For the rest of the day, all the way to Takaoka (about three hours away from Tokyo), we'd think about the jacket and laugh and laugh and laugh.

I don't not use double negatives,
Fatman

Ice To See You

2006-08-23T13:44:00.000+10:00

Roppongi (continued)

Gaijin Girl would later confess to me that meeting me was 'the most important experience in my (Gaijin Girl's) life thus far. Seeing you for the first time I was stunned...speechless even. You were like a God who had decided to visit us mortals just to see what it was like. The muscles rippling under your shirt was like a couple of weasels fighting over a tuna sandwich. And your commanding voice...so powerful. Like every word that came out of your mouth was carved out of lightning.'

(Gaijin Girl: That is so not the sort of thing I'd say.
Me: Just go with it.
Gaijin Girl: How do you carve words out of lightning anyway?
Me: Shut up.)

So after about a year of corresponding with Gaijin Girl I'd finally caught up with her, in Japan of all places. She was sitting by the front of some bar when Chris, Nick and myself staggered through the door with Hannah, Ceigen's daughter, who was making sure we didn't stumble into anything sharp. 'We been having shots of sake.' I explain drunkenly, 'Thass why the world's wobbly!'

Gaijin Girl and I sit and chat for a while about Japan. I berate her for not speaking Japanese. Talk moves on to my cousin Josh, the microbiologist, who Gaijin Girl knows coincidentally enough and then, inevitably, to the Jacobites.
'Do you know much about the Jacobites?' she asked.
'Oh sure.' I say offhandedly. I turn to Chris. 'Yo Encyclopedia Brown,' I belch, 'Jacobites.'
'They're the guys who supported James VII after he fled England in around....1689 because he supported the Roman Catholic Church. "Jacob" being an alternate name for James, hence Jacobites. It was when William of Orange came from....etc, etc.'

The Absolut Ice Bar: Gaijin Girl, knowing that I'm a sucker for gimmicky things, had booked us into the Absolut Ice Bar, Tokyo. At about $40 a head to get in, the place is like Superman's Fortress of Solitude that serves vodka based cocktails. Made entirely out of ice, customers can only be inside for 45 minutes until they freeze to death so we went straight to the bar and started drinking. 'So...this is what it's like to be an Eskimo.' I muse.
'We're drinking purple things. Did you want one?'
'Does the Pope piss his name in the snow?'
We drink 'em quickly.

Mugambo's: Or Mambo's. Yojimbo's. Or something like that. This was the next bar that Gaijin Girl took us to. Hannah, who had said that she was only going to have one drink, is probably on her eighth by now. After wandering down a few wrong alleyways we find this place. The barmen are Irish and the customers seem to all be English. We order drinks. I look up. 'Whassa?' I ask, pointing upwards. The whole ceiling is covered with polaroids of various grinning customers. 'That's what you get when you buy the entire bar a round of shots.'

I like the idea.

'Nick, Chris. Give me 20,000 yen (about two hundred dollars).'
'W..why?' asks Nick.
'Jes...Jest do it. I'll 'xplain later.'
'This is a stupid idea.' says Gaijin Girl, 'How am I going to afford a taxi home?'
'It's the best idea I've had all night. We'll be immortals Gaijin Girl. Immortals! Our faces will be up there with the thousands of other people up there that no one cares about.'

High Riders: After being escorted out of the bar, without having bought everyone in the bar a drink, I stagger outside followed by the others. Walking down the street we come across a...Biker Bar? No, not a biker bar. A bike memorabilia store that sells alcohol. How bizarre. The owner is having a chat with a long haired customer at the front. Seconds later we are seated at the bar, having a look around the place. There's bike helmets, leather jackets, imitation WWI fighter pilot goggles and assorted other stuff. Ted, the owner, and his wife set this place up because of their love of all this stuff. Adding alcohol in the mix was a touch of genius. We stay, we drink, Gaijin Girl goes on a bike ride through Tokyo with Ted, and we meet the long haired dude at the front, Ko, who happens to live in Berlin. We make plans to see him when we get to Germany.

Then...blurry.

Home James!
Fatman

My Dinner With Ceigen

2006-08-23T12:18:00.000+10:00

Roppongi

We walked into the downstairs restaurant, a place filled with smokey, chickeny aromas, where the man cooking the deceased poultry looks up and yells 'Irashai!'. The word for 'welcome' in Japanese is 'Irashaimase' or 'Irashai', which is a shortened form. The way the chicken-cooking man says it though, is the way you would hurl a boulder at enemies. It is a weapon, an attacking thing. An escaped lion that rrrrumbles the 'r' and launches the rest of the word at its prey. The guy cooking food next to him, not to be outdone by his colleague, rivals now, lets out an 'Irashai!' of his own, a runaway locomotive. An uppercut from a giant. The third guy has his work cut out for him and throws an 'Irashai!' of equal volume and intensity. 'I shall leap over the counter and shove yakitori skewers down your throats!' is what I hear. We back off a pace, startled. I can taste adrenalin in the back of my throat. 'Table for five?' asks the chicken-cooking man. I like this place already.

Ceigen is an old buddy of my mothers and every time I come to Japan I try to look him up. When I told him that my friends and I were dropping past to Nippon on the way to Vladivostok he insisted in taking us out to dinner. He also generously got us a hotel room since we didn't know where we were going to stay in Tokyo.

'Soooo,' says Ceigen (not his real name. I've modified it slightly to protect his identity) ',Russia huh? Going on the Trans-Siberian express.'
'Yes Ceigen. It should be a blast.'
'Make sure you don't come back as Com-u-nists.' Ceigen spent several years in Poland. Several times throughout the night he asks us to be wary of Communism and Communists.

His wife is on the other side of me and pours me a shot of sake, cold. 'Skoal!' I shout and down the sake in one. 'Tra-di-tionally in Japan we sip on our sake.' informs Ceigen.
'Ah.'
His wife pours me another shot of sake. This one is warm. 'Drink, drink.' she insists.

Yakitori chicken skewer after chicken skewer, shot after shot of sake, we progress through the meal. Hanna, Ceigen's daughter, is on the way to join us. Should be here in about twenty minutes, they say. The chicken-cooking man produces something else from atop the hot coals. It looks like mushrooms on skewers. 'Eat, eat.' insists Ceigen's wife. Chris, Nick and I start eating. She then informs me of what it is in Japanese.

'We're eating mushrooms called 'Matsutake'.' I tell them, 'How does it taste.'
'Pretty good.' says Nick.
'Nice.' says Chris.
'The three thin slices that we're eating now; they retail for about a hundred Australian dollars.'

They both stop eating mid-chew. If they're anything like me they are probably thinking the same thing: If I can spit out what's left in my mouth and sell it will I be able to at least get $50? The moment passes. We gulp down the mushrooms. 'Such a silly thing is it not?' asks Ceigen's wife, 'Ten thousand yen for some mushrooms. But it's what we Japanese do to spoil ourselves. More sake?'

You must be 'shrooming,
Fatman

Leave Melbourne in a Rearview Mirror

2006-08-22T14:39:00.000+10:00

Melbourne Airport, Australia - Narita, Japan

I slept the sleep of condemned men awaiting execution the night before. There is a sharp pain that occurs every time I turn my head. It feels like evil chiropractors snuck into the room at night and gave me a crick in the neck, forcing me to observe the world at an unusual angle. This is not the way I want to start my journey- on two hours' sleep and with possible spinal injury. I'm grumpy and I must snap out of it.

On the way to Melbourne airport I try to think of a good beginning for our saga but I can't think of anything worthwhile. During the check-in at the airport I think about somehow tying in the story of Merhan Karimi Nasseri, the real life guy who had been stuck at the Charles De Gaulle airport in France who inspired the abnormally crappy Tom Hanks flick The Terminal. I try to question the notion of 'destination' and how we are all a little bit like Nasseri the Terminal Man, stuck in a strange limbo where there is no end, trapped and yet free at the same time. I think these things but the words don't come.

I'm on the flight now, the QF 179 to Narita, after a minimum amount of fuss. I try a different approach. I think about the person who starts the journey and the person who arrives on the other side. They are essentially the same person but much has changed. This makes me think of the Transporter in Star Trek. In Star Trek teleportation is made possible by a computer scanning a persons body completely and then replicating the data on an alien planet. So far so good. Unless you're wearing a red jumpsuit or something horrific happens to you mid-teleport and mixes your DNA with that of an insect, making you a fly/human hybrid, all is peachy. Not so, according to a discussion I was having with first year philosophy students at uni months before I was turfed out of the tertiary education for malicious ignorance. See, the problem is that the original copy of you left on the Enterprise is destroyed in the process of teleportation. The question then becomes; Who arrives on the other side? Is it you, or a clone of you? What happens to the soul? I talk about it to Chris, who is sitting next to me on the plane adjusting his headset. 'Don't forget to mention Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principal.' he says casually.

About my travelling companions:
Now seems to be a good a time as any to paint a picture of my travelling companions. The guys I'm going to spend the next two months with. Chris, I believe, is the reincarnation of a wise old guru. Before wikipedia, when people wanted hard questions answered, they'd have to travel across dangerous terrain and climb up mountains where guys like Chris would be sitting in a deck chair and enjoying the high altitudes. They'd then ask their questions and the Chris-like gurus would ponder for a moment, scratch their beards and answer the question posed in about a minute flat. The guy would then bow politely, leave his meagre offerings of cola, snail meat and gold bars and head back to civilisation, and possibly bury the bodies of his companions who perished along the way. Nick, on the other hand is a bit more like me. He's a hospitality guy who spends too many nights drinking and too many mornings regretting the previous nights activities. Physically he's a bespectacled gent with a face like a painted egg. They are also both allergic to fish.

Which would make me the dumb, lovable one,
Fatman

Buy the Ticket Amigo!

2006-08-21T13:44:00.000+10:00

'You're pretty sure we're going to Yuma.' 'And you're pretty sure we're not,' Scallen said. 'Well, I've got two train passes and a shotgun that says we are. What've you got?'

Three-Ten to Yuma, Elmore Leonard

Very few people become Mexican wrestlers. As a youngster I thought that it seemed almost a perfect job that married my childhood desire of hurting other people, mainly by kicking them in the balls, and swearing in Spanish. But as the years went by we grow older and the dreams of wearing colourful latex masks and ripping out the tongues of our opponents slowly diminishes. The death knell for this particular dream was when Mr.Hendry, the school guidance counsellor, marched me forcibly out of the office after I asked him what the requirements were for becoming one of these behemoths of the ring. He said mean things to me and shook his head a lot and said 'May God have mercy on your miserable black soul.' before slamming the door in my face.

And so we become things we never intended to be. We become architects and photocopier repairmen and bank tellers, living from one laundry day to the next. Maybe that's a good thing. The world can only sustain so many Mexican wrestlers who enjoy hurting each other and swearing in Spanish.

But if best selling motivational books and Robin Williams movies have taught us one thing, it's that you have to grab each day with your bare hands and tackle it to the ground, like you would a kid brother. There's affection, sure, but you have to be a bit brutal with it as well. Give it Chinese burns. Heap on the wet willies. Kick it while its down until you realise that you may have broken a few of its ribs and it might have internal bleeding. Because one day our destinies are going to be 8-foot tall and wanting revenge for all the times you were mean to it. Its going to be waiting around the dumpster one night with some of its mates, who have been drinking a bit too much and angry at something, and its going to beat the snot out of you when you least expect it.

I've been hell bent on going on the Trans-Siberian for a while now. I've been saving like crazy and not going out and trying to learn another sodding language on Saturday effing morning so...I can catch a train on another side of the planet. Now, the money could probably been better spent on helping rebuilding a poor African village but I want to experience Russia before it gets engulfed by tourists. After the journey is over, once I've regaled everyone with anecdotes involving guys named 'Dimitri', I'll probably go back to my usual self-complaining about pizza toppings and watching late night re-runs of Tommy Lee Goes To College. But for the next two months the Mexican wrestler that I've kept within is out to play.

Smell ya later,
Fatman

Return of the Flip

2006-08-16T12:30:00.000+10:00

About a month ago...

This is what happened when Flip came to town and why everything tasted like wasabi for a while. This is the sort of thing that happens when I go drinking with Flip. Not necessarily with my taste buds being set firmly on 'wasabi' mode but you understand. Or maybe you don't...

I hadn't seen Flip in about a year. Before then he was a regular visitor to our house back when Micah was living with us since they both worked at the Blue Train cafe, which was like a commune for deadbeat hip hop freaks. You could always tell when Flip would visit since he was one of the loudest, clumsiest drunks with the most vulgar foot odours I have smelled in living memory. It is this foul, noxious stench that would seep from his feet and into the walls and carpet of the house for days. Tear inducing. Like exhuming a corpse this smell. Like having your sense of smell be attacked by sinister triangles, their angles all sharp and pointy. Our other housemate Darren hated him.

But it's hard to dislike Flip. For all his faults, which were plentiful, he's a pretty decent guy with a strict code of morals and ethics. He was just him. People would parody his mannerisms and the way he talked all the time because it's impossible to talk about Flip without using a liberal dose of Flipisms. To be honest I think Flip would even parody Flip, making a hyper-real version of himself.

Flip had been in Byron Bay (located in the north coast of New South Wales. A haven for sunburned surfers, hippies and others who want to relax and take soft drugs and have sex with kids who have just graduated from high school) for a year where he had worked as the head chef/ bar guy in one of the biggest bar/restaurants there. It was a fun yet unusual time there for him. He returned with a Canadian girlfriend, not much possessions (what he had accumulated over the year had been destroyed by the owner who was irate at his "sudden" departure) and a 32-year old brother that he never knew he had (long, long story).

He dropped into the Amethyst bar tanned and with a few extra tattoos on his arms. I was just finishing the rest of my beer thinking that it would be a perfect time for me to leave when I saw him walk in with a broad grin and all his worldly possessions (two backpacks and a skateboard). I remember thinking this was not going to bode well.

Beers. Shots of Jagermeister. Beers. Shots of Tuaca- an Italian caramel liqueur. Beers. Vodka. Cigars. Off to St. Jeromes. A long neck of Cooper's. Shots of Jagermeister with the staff. Closing time at St.Jeromes. Stagger stagger.

By the time we had reached e:55 and ordered our drinks it was quite clear that we were well and truly pissed. Why else would we have agreed to a wasabi pea eating competition? And why is English Paul here? Did I invite him? Did he just turn up out of thin air?

Unlike most other nights with Flip where we are manhandled by bar staff out of the premises or have to go for a light jog to avoid being savagely beaten by a rugby team visiting from country Victoria (Flip's tendency to mouth off to the wrong bunch of guys is almost legendary. He would come in some days to work sporting a hideous bruise that he'd receive while in a queue for a burger in a late night fast food joint. There is just something suicidally inherent in his nature that gravitates him towards the biggest, meanest, country bully in a venue. Guys who've grown up on farms where they've learnt how to slaughter cattle before they learn to ride bikes, use outdoor toilets and perform the occasional beheading of a snake with an axe) the night ends peacefully. I offer him the couch at our house to sleep on.

How Flip wound up in a complete stranger's bed is this...

After coming home and giving him blankets for the couch I asked him if he would like anything else. 'Mebbe a dvd or somefin'.' I grab him a copy of Starsky & Hutch. 'Now Flip, now Flip, now Flip,' I say, for I too was intoxicated, 'I'm givvin you a shleeping bag as well so ifyew get too cold jest use that as well.'
'Cheers bro.'
'Sleeping bag.' I point for emphasis. Flip cranks the volume of the tv up to maximum and promptly falls asleep.

...where Darren would find him five minutes later as he is violently awoken from a peaceful slumber to the deafening noise of Stasky & Hutch. Darren stumbles into the lounge room, sees all the lights on, sees the tv, sees Flip, Grrrr. Flip! Turns off the tv and goes back to bed.

Flip wakes up sometime later. His lips are blue. He is dying of hypothermia. His teeth are chattering uncontrollably. Blankets and sleeping bag forgotten he lunges down the corridor of the house in search of warmth. He needs to survive the night. He needs to eviscerate a Tauntaun and crawl inside its stomach cavity for warmth. Anything. In his drunken state he has forgotten that Micah has not lived with us for quite some time and enters a room now inhabited by Secondhand Bookstore Steve. Who has never met Flip.

Steve wakes up. There is a silhouette of a man near the door. A ghostly apparition? 'C-c-c-cold,' says the shadow, 'S-s-so cold.'
'Who are you?' asks a confused Steve.
The man doesn't answer.
'You have to leave here. Go to the couch.'
'C-c-couch cold. D-d-dying.'
The shadow comes closer, closer.....

'And you just let him sleep in the bed with you?'
'Well, he'd fallen asleep almost immediately and he was too heavy to move.' says Steve. We are having coffee in the afternoon surveying the damage that Flip has caused in a single night. ' I honestly thought he was a homeless guy who wandered in from the street. Man, the stench!'
Darren grumbles something.
'That didn't bother you? A hobo crawls into your bed. Could've been dangerous.'
'Maybe.'

For the next few days we'd find pleasant reminders of Flip's visit to our household. He broke a plate (Darren's), microwaved Darren's dumplings till they were shrivelled and inedible, ate all the dips in the fridge (also Darren's), found some Sayos crackers from god knows where and left them behind the couch (we didn't find that one for days) and left behind a pair of mud-encrusted socks in Steve's bed as a souvenir. a little token of his thanks.

With friends like these...
Fatman

Currently Reading...

2006-08-14T11:33:00.000+10:00

I'm currently reading Alain De Botton's 'The Art of Travel' since, heck, I'm in a bit of a travelling mood. This was one of those books that stared at you while you loitered around bookstores with that smug look on its cover that so many pop-philosophy books for the wannabe intelligentsia have. I mean, its called 'the Art of Travel' for Chrissake. I circled around it like a wary shark, picking it up, reading the blurb and putting it down again. This would happen at the rate of once every two months or so for a few years before I finally succumbed and bought it recently, since so few books deal with the 'whys' associated with travel.

The book has some interesting points to make and it is fairly well written (if, like me, you only read books that have plots involving subway terrorism and the kidnapping of the President's only daughter) He introduces the works of Baudelaire, Flaubert, Wordsworth, Ruskin and the like to people who may not have come across them before and incorporates it to his own life to give it a semi-personal feel. On the down side one can't help but shake the feeling that Alain De Botton is a cocksucker of the highest magnitude. Now, it may be possible that my conviction that Mr De Botton enjoys the flavour of penis may be completely unfounded. Perhaps it has something to do with his French-sounding name (He's Swiss) that brings out the hatred deeply encoded in our DNA of all things French. But for my defence I'll quote a passage of his work.

"The building was architecturally miserable, it smelt of frying oil and lemon-scented floor polish, the food was glutinous and the tables were doted with islands of dried ketchup from the meals of long-departed travellers, and yet something about the scene moved me. There was poetry in this forsaken service station, perched on the ridge of the motorway far from all habitation."

Poetry in this forsaken service station? Wanker.

The other book I'm reading at the moment is 'You Shall Know Our Velocity!' by Dave Eggers, the current fave of the lit circuit. Editor of McSweeny's and author of 'A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius', Eggers is actually a delight to read. 'Velocity' is a fun book full of interesting characters as well as the boring people we meet on our journeys. Starting from somewhere in the beginning, it tells the story of Will and Hand, who have recently lost a friend of theirs, and their attempt at travelling the world in order to give away $32,000 to absolute strangers.

I have a misshapen head,
Fatman

Son, Be a Dentist

2006-08-11T12:03:00.000+10:00

(Written 26/06/06)

I get a phone call from the dentist's office about once a year for my annual checkup. Basically the conversation that follows is the caller (the dentist's receptionist) somehow persuades the callee (some sad sap-Yours Truly in this case) to come into a pristine office to potentially get every single tooth in your mouth ripped out of from their roots and pay for the privilege for this to occur. What should, in any other circumstances, be bone-chilling words, are rendered nice and perfectly normal by courteous women in the employ of my dentist. I have a thing for dental nurses. I think we all kind of do. There's something about a gorgeous woman who can get away with hacking into our mouths with machetes that turn normal folks like you or I into masochist of the highest order, like a modern day Leopold Ritter von Sacher-Masoch, who likes nothing more than being bound/ tortured/ humiliated in a dentist's chair.

'Mr. Heazlewood, would next Thursday be a good time for your appointment?,' asks the receptionist sweetly.
'Yes. Yes it would. Will you be pulling out all of my cavity-ridden teeth? I don't know if my jaw can handle it.'
'Don't worry sir this is just a routine checkup.'

Thursday comes along. I find my feet walking towards the dentist's office against my better judgement. Run you fool! cries the self-preservation part of my brain, we can still catch a plane to Honduras! I know that the fear is unjustified. There is not going to be an elderly German by the name of Szell-der Weise Engel- who is going to operate on me, sans anaesthetics, and ask me 'Is it safe? Is it safe?' throughout the whole procedure.

Pretty soon I find myself strapped in a chair. There is the oral hygienist, who's job it is to hack away my diseased gums, and an assistant to suck blood and saliva from my mouth and to cauterise any wounds that may be inflicted during the procedure. After some pleasantries and a promise that I'll stop giggling every time anyone says "oral" the ladies descend upon me.

A while later the oral (snigger) hygienist, who has been stabbing into my mouth with really sharp metal objects asks me if I grind my teeth. 'Grrndd mrugh teergghh?', I ask with a mouth full of weird objects.
'Mm,' says the oral hygienist, 'I can see that you've been grinding your teeth for some time. Maybe you do it in your sleep.'

Maybe.

Ever since I left the dentist's office, spitting blood but smelling minty, I've noticed that I do grind my plaque-encrusted teeth when confronted by an idiot. And this can happen as many as eight or nine times a day.

At work-
Person: Do you guys have Heineken on tap? (He is standing right in front of the beer taps, of which there are only two)
Me: Nope. Just Carlton and Beck's.
Person: So, no Heineken then?

Grind, Grind, Grind

Ordering Pizza-
Me: (after delivery guy has left) Hey! I specifically asked for no pineapple!

Grind, Grind, Grind

Filling out forms-
Me: This is so frickin' confusing. Grind, grind. "Sign not on the dotted line if thou hasn't had a heart condition in't the last three moons"? Grind. What the grind heck does grind that mean?

Not only do I have to adhere to a strict regimen of flossing once a day but now I find that I have to calm myself down and count till ten or something every time I'm confronted with a situation. For the sake of my teeth I need to control my inner rage bubbling just under the surface.

Serenity now!
Fatman

End of Part 1

2006-08-11T12:01:00.000+10:00

Well, I've made the executive decision to put 'Fatman and the Alchemist' on hold for a while. It pains me to do it since it's finally getting to the action bit but I'm about to go on holidays and I don't want to rush the finish. Expect the saga to end sometime around mid-October....which will be a welcome relief to some of you. I'm getting some friends who are worried about my mental health and some who are just bored (quote from an email by Miss Kristy W: "you getting excited about going? i have to actually ask you this seeing as your blog is still in the land of stupid.")

Let's Get Ready To Rumble!

2006-08-09T13:54:00.000+10:00

It is fast approaching 3 o'clock. The agents are getting ready for action. Usually this would mean wearing the darkest suits and clip-on ties, like they are going to a funeral of a distant relative or a work colleague. In dangerous missions they would wear Kevlar vests. Today, although the mission is deadly, the agents have to accommodate for the extremely heavy headgear that they are all wearing to block out the psychic intrusions of the German mercenaries in the employ of our target: Leopold Grimshawe, a.k.a. the Alchemist.

'So, wadda ya think?' asks Agent Oslo Fontina, CIA hitman. He is covering the whirring machinery on his head with an Afro wig. 'You look ridiculous,' I tell him frankly, 'like a Harlem Globetrotter gone wrong. Like Napoleon Dynamite with a gun.'
'Heh. Yeah.' he smiles as he checks out his reflection in the mirror. Some of the other agents do the same. One guy is camouflaging his headgear with a ten-gallon hat. Does he want people to think he's a tourist?

'Fatty,' says Fontina, 'frankly this might be the last time I see ya.'
'Let's hope.' I mutter.
'Nah man,' he says, suddenly deadly serious, 'I mean Roquefort might have you killed.'

My heart feels tingly. An arctic wind rips through my soul.

'...or maybe not.' Fontina continues, 'in any case I want you to have this gun.' He slips a tiny pistol into my jacket pocket. 'Now just in case something goes wrong just head for the hills sahib. They may or may not find ya. That's up to you.'
'Wh...why are you doing this Fontina?'
'I like ya. Besides....if anything were to happen to me I just....could you tell my Ma that....that...I did good? Tell her I was a painter or something. You don't have to say I was successful or nuthin'. Shit, maybe tell her I was a..a..house painter with a mangy dog. I don't know. Just tell her I was happy. I don't want her to know that...I...that I'm....a...anyway here's the address.'
I peer at the scrap of paper. 'You're from Gibsonton, Florida?'
'Born and bred baby!'

He turns back towards the mirror and has already forgotten the conversation.

Plump and plucky,
Fatman

By Hook Or By Crook

2006-08-08T10:42:00.000+10:00

A clock ticks. Seconds pass. There is mildew on the window. A whole room-full of people wearing gigantic mechanical contraptions on their heads stare intently at the leather briefcase at the front of the room. What could TAR BABY be? Is it a bomb? A jack-in-the-box? Elvis' gold jumpsuit? the Ebola virus? Marsellus Wallace's soul?

Finnegan Roquefort, CIA director of European Operations and the human embodiment of Gluttony is beaming with pride. 'Looks just like it don't she?'
'Looks just like what?' I blurt. Eyes turn to face me. Chills. I feel like I'm getting filleted by the sharp looks of the secret agents.
'Like the Liberry son,' Roquefort says with restrained fury, 'like the goddamn Liberry.'

So this is what the infamous Lost Library is supposed to look like. Not a vast subterranean hall filled from top to bottom with mouldy books but something the size that can be carried by monkey butlers. It's so small. How could the sum knowledge of human existance be contained in an attache case?

'The real thing is headin' into town as we speak,' continues Roquefort,' and Grimshawe is going to try to buy it from the seller. An ex-Librarian who wants his thirty pieces. Lucky for us this Librarian decided to shop around for the best offer. He got in contact with our friends in Eng-a-land-' he nods at the representative of MI-6, Peregrine Maltravers, who raises a martini glass,'-who decided to share info with our good selves.'

Roquefort takes a sip of rum, grimaces, continues. 'Here's the deal. 3:45 Librarian comes into town via train. Met there by some Kraut spoonbenders who'll make sure he has the goods. From there (4:00) Librarian will take a "random" taxi driven by Mr. Maltravers to head to the meet with the Alchemist. They'll probably have a Jerry psychic or two in the cab but that's OK. We'll drive 'em to someplace secluded and kill 'em. Thanks to these friggin' heavy headgear we have on they won't see it comin'. Librarian gets off. Adios Librarian. He'll be replaced by cannon fodder boy-'
'The names Heazlewood.' I growl.
'-who is impervious to mental attacks due to some birth defect. The meet is going to be at a small cemetery which is perfect for us since we can see the bastard coming from every direction. Snipers will wait for the sucker to appear. He'll probably have a few spoonbenders as bodyguards but big whoop. If he don't cotton on that we've swapped his Liberry with TAR BABY we'll let TAR BABY do it's...thing. If he does tweak that something is wack we shoot the fuckers then and there. Kill 'em all let God sort 'em out. Party back here at 5.'

Sounds pretty simple.

Bloatus Maximus,
Fatman

To Catch a Spy

2006-08-07T17:49:00.000+10:00

By and by he said, "Well, I expect I got you this time, Brer Rabbit," says he. "Maybe I don't, but I expect I do. You've been around here sassing after me a mighty long time, but now it's the end. And then you're always getting into something that's none of your business," says Brer Fox, says he.

"Who asked you to come and strike up a conversation with this Tar-Baby? And who stuck you up the way you are? Nobody in the round world. You just jammed yourself into that Tar-Baby without waiting for an invitation," says Brer Fox, says he. "There you are and there you'll stay until I fix up a brush pile and fire it up, "cause I'm going to barbecue you today, for sure," says Brer Fox, says he.

Brer Rabbit and the Tar Baby

We are sitting in an upstairs room of a post office in a little known town called Gehenna-on-the-Rhine, Graubünden, which has become the mission central for Operation: TAR BABY. In the room: a dozen CIA agents including Agent Oslo Fontina, Tito Pecorino (the former with a deathly pallor, the latter smelling distinctly of latrines and fish vomit. He sits at the far side of the room) and Dellwood Gruyère. Also in the room are Peregrine Maltravers-an MI-6 Agent-and his long suffering 50-year old secretary Miss Penny Sterling-Pound. They are all wearing ridiculously large, silver headgear that make clanking noises every so often.

The headgears were an invention from one of their sister agencies, Yawning Anus [1], who-unpleasant as they may be- know a thing or two about mind control and telepathy. These devices supposedly block any mental intrusions from German "spoon benders" (Agency parlance for the ex-Bundesnachrichtendienst mind readers in the employ of Leopold Grimshawe- the target of Operation: TAR BABY). Unfortunately these headgears are incredibly heavy and one can only wear them for only six hours at a time before your neck snaps. Finnegan Roquefort, head CIA guy in charge of the operation and looking like a beanbag come to life, enters the room munching on some Bündnerfleisch- a Swiss dried beef delicacy. The headgear fits snugly on his head.

'Dellwood!' he barks. 'Who or what is an 'Allegra'? Ah been hearin' that name all mornin' from thu townfolk.'
Dellwood Gruyère, Swiss expert, linguist and self-confessed Magnum P.I. fan: 'They're probably just talking in Romansh [2] boss.'
Roquefort: 'Say what son?'
Gruyère: 'Romansh. It's a language that's spoken in this region of Switzerland. Is...that not at least mentioned in the briefing documents?'
Agent Oslo Fontina: 'All I know about this region is some dude shot an apple off his kid's head with an arrow [3].'
Agent Tito Pecorino: 'Didn't the Swiss have some civil war that only had about a hundred casualties?'
Gruyère: 'This is fascinating. Does our briefing have any information about events that took place in the last hundred and fifty years?'
Roquefort: 'Quit with the yakkity yak ladies! Ah'm about to show you lasses our greatest weapon 'gainst L.Grimshawe. Allow me tuh present....TAR BABY!'

With the grace of a dying sea lion Finnegan Roquefort heaves a briefcase onto the podium. Talk about being underwhelmed. I was expecting TAR BABY to be a bazooka.

These wasabi peas are making me thirsty,
Fatman

[1] Perhaps they'd claim that to call Yawning Anus one of their "sister agencies" was a bit too much on the chummy side. An "inbred, illegitimate, halfwit second cousin, thrice removed, sticks-pencils-up-their-own-nose, please-don't-let-them-turn-up-for-Christmas-O-Lord agency that has recently been paroled" would be a better term.

[2] A language spoken in Graubünden. The least common language of Switzerland- the others being German (64%), French (19%) and Italian (8%).

[3] Actually a crossbow bolt.

Gehenna-on-the-Rhine

2006-08-02T17:54:00.000+10:00

Instructions for Agents going to Gehenna-on-the-Rhine, Graubünden:

Welcome to Switzerland (Insert Agent name)! The land of chocolate, secret bank accounts and cheese with holes in them! Located somewhere in central Europe, next to France....somewhere, this is a funky place to be sent to, even if it may be the last place you'll ever go to! Did we mention that we are sending you guys up against the Alchemist? Yikes. Sucks to be you!

You will be greeted at the airport on arrival by one of our highly efficient, competent, etc. linguistic experts who shall give you a quick guided tour through the little known town of Gehenna-on-the-Rhine (local name of town currently unavailable) before we get down to business of...er...killing.

A man looking conspicuously like a secret agent waves at me from the taxi rank at the airport, a perfect target for disgruntled postal workers atop towers with high-powered rifles. Mid-30's, wearing a Hawaiian shirt and sporting a pornstar moustache that falls from his face every few minutes, Agent Dellwood Gruyère shakes my hand. 'Wow. You're Fatman? Far out man. I thought you'd be seriously fatter. Like a combine harvester or something.'

I grunt in reply.

'Now, weren't you one of the guys involved in the Vegas Incident of a few years ago?'
'Yup.'
'How'd you do it? What was your secret?'
I lean into his ear.
'Identical twins.' I whisper.
Gruyère lets out a long whistle, impressed. His moustache falls off. Gruyère looks over my shoulders and says, 'So, where are the other dudes? Says here on this slip of paper that I'm supposed to pick up Agents Fontina and Pecorino as well.'
'Agent Fontina got seriously ill from mistakenly chewing on some cyanide capsules that he thought were tic tacs and Pecorino fell through an open sewer pipe in Beijing and hasn't been seen of since. If either of them survive they'll be on the next flight in.'

Once all the members of the team in place your contact in Gehenna-on-the-Rhine will fill you in on all pertinent details.

'Why am I here? Why am I here? Why am I here? Why am I here? Why am I here? Why am I here? Why am I here? Why am I here? Why am I here? Why am I here? Why am I here? Why am I here? Why am I here? Why am I here? Why am I here? Why am I here? Why am I here? Why am I here? Why am I here? Why am I here?'
'Didn't they fill you in with the details back in Beijing?'

Gruyère is driving us down a narrow street dominated by fishmongers and hungry cats. How European!

'Look, sport, they've edited most of the info from my homework and I couldn't sneak a look at any of the other agents' copies of the document because most of the agents had burned 'em before reading it. Why hold a meeting in sodding Beijing when the operation takes place in Graubünden?'
'Because of the German spoon benders that Grimshawe has in his employ.' Gruyère replies, reattaching his moustache.
Me: 'The ex-Bundesnachrichtendienst mind readers. I heard that some of those guys went mercenary after they got booted out of the BND (Germany's Federal Intelligence Service). Rumour is that after they closed down the Psi-Division most of the men extracted revenge by winning an inordinate amount of quiz shows.'
Gruyère: 'True. But some of them were extremely bitter. Way beyond petty quiz show tampering. They sold their services to rebel South East Asian generals and Middle Eastern warlords.'
Me: 'Like ex-CIA agents do.'
Gruyère: 'Your cynicism offends me. We're the good guys. Anyway, we needed the mission to be briefed in another country altogether. Beijing seemed as good a place as any.'
'Skip to the bit where I'm required.'

All Agents will be required to use their skills to the utmost. Not only are we dealing with the Alchemist we are dealing with a lot of other dedicated professionals in his employ. Foreign professionals. With cooler code names than us. Fear them.

'Turns out that some years ago another agency called Yawning Anus,' he spat, 'found that it was having difficulty with some of their mind control experiments. These individuals were labelled 'misfires' by the agency-unaffected somehow by their psychotronic broadcast towers-and filed away for record keeping purposes. Though on one hand misfires could be a potential danger to national, and even international, security, it was decided by the Powers That Be that it may prove useful in the future to know which of these individuals were impervious to mind readers/mind control and to keep close tabs on these individuals.'
'Oh yeah. Psychics have told me that my mind is too chaotic to read properly. Nothing to grab hold of. That's important for this upcoming mission?'

Agent Gruyère turns to face me. 'It's crucial.' he says, and remains silent for the rest of the journey.

Hips don't lie,
Fatman

5:15

2006-08-01T17:15:00.000+10:00

Time stands still.

It is the moment in between heartbeats, a polaroid picture that somehow captures every crime and every sin in that instant. There is a thin mist of blood in the air. This probably has something to do with the bullet that is currently sailing through the head of a secret agent who will tumble to the floor, dead, as soon as time lurches back to its plodding normality. The air smells of cordite- the smell of ejector seats and discharged firearms. And in the centre of this room, sitting casually in an armchair, is Leopold Grimshawe-known also as the Alchemist- who holds in his hands a weapon, an old breech-loading British army service rifle, courtesy of Messers James Paris Lee and William Ellis Metford. A puff of smoke sneaks out from the barrel of the rifle suggesting that the bullet emerged from there.

Grimshawe looks like a retired Oxford professor. He wears a tweed coat and a checkered vest where a fob watch sits snugly in a pocket. He looks utterly at home in this room filled with dead bodies, as if he's listening to a gramophone in a smoking room, puffing on a pipe. The only giveaway to the beast that resides within his soul are his eyes. They are the eyes of a predator-black and merciless with flecks of grey. It is like looking into the face of Azrael. Grimshawe looks up from what he is doing (i.e. killing someone) as if I've interrupted him pondering a crossword clue and says in a slow, deliberate voice, 'So....you've finally arrived.'

Each word feels like its a teak furniture or a Chippendale cabinet being placed in a hallway. I know I am moments away from dying.

Chance Encounter With Eleanor Rigby

2006-07-19T12:07:00.000+10:00

Some kids, regardless of race, intelligence or social status, have an irrational fear of going to sleep at night. They sit up for as long as they can in their beds, wild-eyed with fear, armed with a flashlight and a cricket bat, waiting for some unspeakable horror to emerge from their closets or under their beds once the lights are out and the adults are sleeping soundly. For most, it is a passing phase, brought on by watching horror films the night before where a group of characters are killed in increasingly gruesome ways by serial killers dressed in Santa Costumes/possessed dolls/demons/vampires/men in hockey masks/Vincent Price, etc. For others, the terrors are born from seeing something THEY SHOULD NOT HAVE (i.e. Uncle Rufus parading around the house without wearing any pants and asking the young 'uns if they'd like to "stroke his turkey") and are a lot more corporeal because of this fact.

I guess for me the Monsters Under The Bed are guys in suits who carry silenced firearms in their shoulder holsters. The fear for me is that a) I still don't actually know for sure who I'm working for (CIA? MI-6? NSA[1] ? Yawning Anus?), b) the guy we are supposed to eliminate is apparently a crazed zealot who has killed more people than most tropical cyclones, c) there is no guarantee that even upon the completion of the mission that my life is safe. I may still be found floating down a river with two bullet holes in the back of my head.

Too busy thinking about all these things, I almost barrel straight into a 50-year old lady carrying a tower of suitcases. The lady, following a primal instinct to avoid danger, lunges out of the way as if to avoid a charging buffalo, trips over herself and sends the bags flying over the hotel corridor. 'Sorry ma'am,' I blurt as I regain my composure. I hastily grab some of the bags.
'It's okay deary,' she says wearily, in a tired voice.
'Nonsense. Let me carry theses bags. Some of these are pretty heavy.'
'Thanks dear.'

We introduce ourselves. Penny turns out to be from England who is on the way to the airport as well. She tells me that she is working for a womanising cheapskate who is happy to spend thousands of dollars monthly on tailor-made suits but is reluctant to part with the money required to have a team of hotel staff lug the said suits down 35 flights of stairs. Hence his elderly secretary making the five trips necessary to transport his entire wardrobe downstairs and into taxis.

I take a look at the creaking old woman. It surprises me that a pleasant lady such as Penny should have to work for some asshole. She has a radiant smile-the result of decades of sensible brushing. I'd have imagined that a woman such as her would be making blueberry cakes and comforting grandchildren with runny noses at this stage of her life. 'I never married.' says the spinster.

After a farcical interlude where we try to fit all these suitcases into the elevator we manage to get to the ground floor of the hotel where an army of porters immediately rush towards the lift to extricate the bags. Peregrine Maltravers is sitting impatiently at the lobby, a folded newspaper hiding a gun on his lap. 'Watch out for that bag!' he barks at one of the porters, 'It contains genuine Versaces!'
'Those are your bags Maltravers?' I ask the ghastly secret agent.
'I'm sorry old boy, have we met?'

Penny leans in towards her boss and whispers in his ear.

'Oh sure,' says Maltravers, dim lights lit, 'the short con artist from Australia. I take it you've already met my secretary Miss Pennywise Sterling-Pound. Wise Penny we call her at the office.'
'Peregrine, please don't call me...'
'Hush. Now go see to my luggage. You'll have to hop in the taxi in-' he glances at his Rolex, '-the next four or so minutes if you're to check all my stuff in to the airport on time. I'll be there in an hour....if my blasted limo arrives on time.'

Penny shuffles off to the taxi rank muffling sobs. Peregrine Maltravers winks at me. 'She's quite a sort that one. Used to be quite a tasty tart back in her day I might add. You should see some of the pictures we have of her. Rrrrofff!'

I fight the urge to punch him. This rich, remorseless prick who has absolutely no empathy for anyone or anything. At least when we were kids, cowering under the doona, waiting for creatures that would never come[2], it was because we didn't know much better. But now that we are older we find our monsters are all too real. Not fanged and drooling beast of our imagination, these monsters have human guises like the toff in front of me. And are horrible just the same.

Don't make me send in the flying monkeys!
Fatman

[1] "Reading your mail and censoring stuff you don't need to know since 1952!"

[2]...um. Except for that one time when the nightmare creatures did come out and killed a lot of kids. Quite a story but I'll leave it for another time.

DESTROY UPON READING!

2006-07-13T15:04:00.000+10:00

While the rest of the agents have decided to spend the last night of being in Beijing by being completely intoxicated, contracting strange sexually transmitted diseases from street walkers or impregnating some of the locals (many half-castes around the world owe their illegitimate existence to spies on shore leave. Oslo Fontia, an absent father? Shudder), I have opted to duck away quietly to my hotel room with a smuggled bottle of vodka (in a kooky, flamingo-shaped bottle) and a large sack of pretzels so I can make heads or tails of the document outlying the mission at hand. In any other circumstance I may have joined the spooks in playing mah-jong in seedy opium dens but there were too many things that were gnawing at me about this operation.

I close the door of my hotel room, lock it and, just for the sheer paranoia of it, rig a shotgun aimed squarely for the door. Odds are that if anyone was to open the door it would be a hotel porter barging in to inform me of a fire downstairs. Unfortunately, he would receive a shotgun blast to his chest for his troubles. I'd not like the death of an innocent weighing on my conscience but there was no way in hell that I was moving that shotgun. Though regrettable, I just don't like being interrupted while reading.

I turn on the tv (a badly dubbed version of The Man From U.N.C.L.E. in Mandarin. Or Cantonese, I can never really tell), spread myself over the bed and begin to peruse the document for Operation: TAR BABY. The first three pages are on an ominous black paper with red, threatening letters saying "DANGER! AUTHORISED PERSONS ONLY! TOP CLEARANCE A DEFINITE MUST! READ ONLY IF WEARING LEAD GLOVES AND PROTECTIVE GOGGLES!" in several different languages (English, Spanish, French, German, Sioux and braille). Then there is a dedication to someone's wife. Then, quote from a poem by Yeats [1]. Then, the actual outline of the operation.

(Hey! Hang on a minute! Mine has been censored. Obviously they must have thought that some of the details need not concern me and they have thoughtfully removed them from the pages. Bastards!)

Apparently the operation is to take place in some town called Gehenna-on-the-Rhine (never heard of it), near Reichenau, Switzerland [2]. If I recall correctly, there was a famous scriptorium in Reichenau run by Benedictine monks. Kind of makes sense if we're chasing a man who is chasing a lost Library. Leopold Grimshawe, a.k.a. the Alchemist, and an (unknown number of) mercenaries are currently at the town waiting to enter the Black Library. Strange. Why doesn't he just enter the Library now? Why are they waiting around for a week? Surely a band of hardened ex-Espionage agents (lead by a man who can kill people with just about anything) can break a lock for a simple library.

The document neglects to inform why this hasn't yet happened. Or rather, my version of the document has some vital information omitted. It specifically says that I am to carry the trap (TAR BABY) into a drop which will be then picked up by the Alchemist. Chills. Why me specifically? Why not some other stooge? There's more to this mission than meets the eye. I start reading the document from the start again in the feeble hope that I can find any clues that might reveal itself.

(The Internet) is not a truck. It's a series of tubes,
Fatman

[1]- "Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, the blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere the ceremony of innocence is drowned." W.B. Yeats. Huh?
[2]- Question right there: Why ship all these agents to China when we're going to Graubünden?

The Plot Thickens, As Does The Soup

2006-07-10T12:01:00.000+10:00

The secret agents and I stagger out of the auditorium after a four hour ordeal and head towards the cafeteria of this abandoned Beijing school like zombies in search of brains. Years ago, when this was still a functioning school, there would have been a stampede of school kids rushing towards the very same building with the unbridled energy of the young searching for a sugar hit but we are tired, hungover, older men who just need to get away from being talked at, if only for a while.

My mind is brimming full of data: dates, times, places and code names, and I fear if anyone mentions another "valuable" fact my head will explode, taking anyone within a 3k radius with me. Unfortunately we have all also been given a large stack of papers that is held together by several industrial strength titanium staples, reminiscent of the kind surgeons use during bowel resections in colorectal surgery. The agents and I are supposed to commit these to memory and then destroy the manuscripts. It has also been advised that we scatter the ashes across the globe afterwards.

As I enter the cafeteria I see that some of the agents are already setting fire to their manuscripts. 'Aren't you guys getting ahead of yourselves?' I ask, 'We're only supposed to destroy our homework after we read it.'
'They'll go through the pertinent details right before the op anyway.' mutters Agent Fontina, rubbing sleep from his eyes, 'No one ever reads this shit. Man! What a weird dream. It was so vivid . There was this guy in it with a burned face and a dirty red and green sweater, a battered hat, and a glove with razor-sharp knives....'
'Hello chaps.' pipes a voice from behind.

It is a man wearing a Saville Row three piece, possibly a Gieves & Hawkes cut, who has uttered these words. He sips at a Belvedere martini and continues amiably. 'A smashing bit of briefing eh wot?'
'Yeah, a real roller coaster ride of emotions.' I reply.
'Well said. If it wasn't for the sarcasm-drenched tone.' he offers a manicured hand, 'Peregrine Maltravers of the Six.'
'The name's Heazlewood. Civilian. The imbecile next to me is Agent Oslo Fontina. CIA.'
' 'Sup?' says Fontina.
'Glad to make your acquaintance gentlemen,' purrs Maltravers, 'Any thoughts on the operation at hand?'
'I haven't really had a chance to go through the document properly,' I reply, 'but that Grimshawe seems to be like one hardcore mo-fo.'
'Indeed. It'll make for good bedtime reading at any rate. I mean- how does one catch the Alchemist? The man is an absolute legend. This is a man who has been garroting politicians with dental floss since most of us were still glints in the milkman's eyes.' Peregrine Maltravers says, voice suffused with awe.
'I hear he goes feral every once in a while,' adds Fontina, joining in on what was fast becoming a camp fire tale of the Espionage Boogeyman ,' It's true man. The Alchemist goes out and lives in the jungle and shit. Strangling cheetahs and eating monkey testicles.'

Lunch eventually gets served. The agents dig in after a brief food fight but I haven't got much of an appetite. Partly because of the notion that we have to take on this Alchemist guy who is, by all accounts, Death incarnate. And partly because of Fontina's remark about monkey testicles keeps bobbing to the surface every time I go to eat some soup. But there is the part of my brain, some part that resides somewhere between the sum knowledge I have about pirates and the part that contains accumulated Yiddish swear words, that is telling me that something is not quite right with this operation. Why have three different agencies on this thing?

'Fontina.'
'Mrrffrgghh?' he replies, mouth full of Fried Kwai Teow.
'Who's that guy over there. The one stuffling bread rolls into his jacket pocket when he thinks no one is looking.'
'That's some dude from Yawning Anus I think. Don't know much about them. Creepy fellas.'
'I've only heard bits and pieces about them as well. Some ex-Project MKULTRA guys joined them in the mid-70s and they spend time experimenting with brain-altering parasitic worms, drugging water supplies and using psychotronic broadcasts. It's all rumours so far but it's still unsettling. That makes four agencies so far. Four agencies trying to capture the Alchemist. Doesn't that seem weird to you?'
'Relax man,' says Agent Fontina, 'you think too much.'

C is for Conspiracy,
Fatman

Appleseed

2006-07-07T14:12:00.000+10:00

I snap awake suddenly. The lecture hall is filled with sleeping bodies snoring away merrily. I pop a Benzedrine tablet and raise a wary hand. 'Yes?' asks a startled Hugo Muffington showing a hideous smile- crooked, discoloured teeth, receding gums.
'Was something just said?' I blurt out, still groggy from sleep.
'Poisoned Apple? Is that what you're Mmm-mmm asking about?'
'Yeah. I guess. I think I read about it somewhere...'
'Nonsense.' replies Muffington dismissively, 'It's not something civilians would generally read about. If, indeed, you do read at all.'
'I...read.' I reply, huffily.
'Look, son,' begins Finnegan Roquefort, bloated whale carcass and head of CIA operations, Europe, 'What my esteemed colleague is trying to say is; "Not Fucking Likely". May I?' he gestures towards the podium. Sir Muffington nods and takes a step backwards with his stilt-like legs.
'Thanks Muffins. Alls that's being said, son, is that Poisoned Apple is a fictitious secret society as far as we can tell. Ah have enough trouble dealing with wackos who talk about the Templars, Bavarian Illuminati, Elders of Zion, the Priori de Sion, Discordians, sinister phone companies, etcetera, etcetera that Ah don't want to have to deal with another group of losers who are out to rule the world or gain immortality or whatever. Why do they bother claiming that they are pulling the strings? We are the ones riding black helicopters. That's it. Period. Nobody else but us chickens.' He sips rum. Burps.

'Where were we? Right, Poisoned Apple. So, Leopold Grimshawe, a.k.a. the Alchemist, gets mighty interested in this fictitious-' he locks eyes with me,'-secret society that's supposedly been around since the 1600's. Due to him sniffing copious amounts of glue. Due to dormant crazy genes. Whatever. He gets interested enough that he starts recruiting from both agencies unbeknownst to us at this stage. Smart guys too. By '75 he's constantly going back and forth between the two agencies-simply unheard of usually- but since it's the Alchemist we're talking 'bout he gets complete carte blanche more or less. In '81 he writes papers, shoots it to the cigar-chompin' higher ups who give him the okay to go ahead with a project called FIFTH HORSEMAN. Now I, to this very day, do not have the authorisation to know what this super duper project is about. Folks talk about it in hushed tones like it's supposed to be the end of all our troubles- as if there is such a goddamn thing.' Sip. Burp.

'Grimshawe starts an intensive search across the globe for a particular liberry...'
'Liberry?'
'Where they keep books dunderhead! A Lah-berry! Supposed to have books (or scrolls Ah guess) that were apparently soggy from when Atlantis sunk, books saved from Nazis literature bonfires, papers smuggled from the Vatican, etcetera. Looks all over the globe, in every country, down crumbling alleyways and in places unmarked in maps. Zip. Meanwhile the Agency ain't getting much results from their former Em Vee Pee. Where's FIFTH HORSEMAN? they keep askin' him. Constantly knocking on his door. Grimshawe loses his temper one day and rips one of the bosses' arms off. He calmly packs his things and then leaves to parts unknown.' Sip. Burp.

'He pops up briefly from time to time. In Prague. In Hanoi, In Marrakech, In Melbourne. Never for long. No discernible pattern. Still lookin' for his stupid Liberry presumably. Along the way he kills a couple of dozen of our guys as well as SIS folks. Just 'cos he don't like being looked at. But as of 15:00 hours last Wednesday we have gathered his location. And we will set a trap for 'im. Yes indeedy.'

Raised in Captivity,
Fatman

Lucid

2006-07-07T11:26:00.000+10:00

Dark

All around me, a darkness engulfs me. As black as squid ink. Cavernous. Dark.

Dull.

I must be dreaming.

Where was I before? What caused me to nod off?

Ah, yes.

The briefing.

One by one the espionage agents fall asleep in the auditorium. Sir Hugo Muffington continues the briefing, oblivious. 'Grimshawe excels as a marksman and makes a name for himself for his accuracy (i.e. being able to hit a playing card from around 2000 meters), extreme patience (being able to sit through whole Italian operas without yawning) and his ability to blend into his surroundings (like the geekly Wally from the 'Where's Wally?' books). A CIA recruiting officer thinks that young Grimshawe would make an ideal candidate for the Company and has him shipped for spy training after much haggling with Grimshawe's CO. This would be around,' he glances at the notes on hand, '....'63.'

I can almost hear what's happening in the waking world but it is still too distant to discern. It's like listening to a tape recording of an instruction in a foreign language with the volume turned right down. There's potentially some very important pieces of information that I'm missing out on. Must....wake....up....

' Although Grimshawe would never be known in the public eye, never become a Carlos Hathcock II, his legend in the world of espionage was about to grow incredibly. Mmmm-mmm. Like most snipers Grimshawe tends to avoid open areas, always thinking about where the enemy may be. Which is just perfect for a life in tradecraft. It turns out he has an almost natural gift for killing things as was tragically discovered by his late Unarmed Combat Instructor.'

I'd had a certain expertise in dream control. A deranged teacher from my school days had tried sleep experiments on some of us kids and he forced us to undergo many a nightmare. The Little Oneironauts, they used to call us. The trick was to take control of the sleeping state.

Sir Hugo Muffington takes a sip of water. There is audible snoring in the lecture hall now. 'Ahem. By 1968 Grimshawe is an instructor in torture techniques which, incidentally, is how he got the code name "Alchemist". Mmm-mmm. Because he could extract gold from lead you see? Showing young recruits the gentlemanly art of how to extract information from the enemy by simply removing a few fingernails and attaching electrodes to genitalia may have bored Grimshawe after a while since most people broke down and confessed sins or told secrets after a few minutes of being in the same room as him. They couldn't stand looking into his eyes you see. Like staring into the Abyss, they used to stay. Grey and empty. Hard. Like a Siberian prison camp crammed with condemned writers. Like a merciless older cousin that smashes your presents on Christmas Day and sets fire to cats. Reptilian, even, this look of his.'

Even as I gather my thoughts a restaurant builds itself around me. Poifect. Tables spring into existence, carpets rolled, candles bloom already lit. Diners melt into view to the sound of clinking glasses and dropped cutlery. It's like they have always been there. Amusing to note that my Calm Place is a venue that serves food. Now all I have to do is find an exit.

'It is in July of '73 that he gets shipped into our midst, the SIS, to teach some of our chaps a thing or two about interrogation in a friendly spy exchange we used to have. And it is also the time he was introduced to a....a....a.... another kind of society...'

I am sitting down at a table in this restaurant. Waiting for my meal to arrive. I notice after a while (who can tell how long it actually is in dream-time) that none of the other diners are talking. Couples, friends, families all making the motions of talking but no sound escaping from their mouths. It's like a feast for mimes. Or like being in a restaurant in Italo Calvino's 'Castle of Crossed Destinies'.

Just then a waiter approaches me. He is a rabbit in a little waistcoat. Cute and fuzzy. Bleagh. He places a single apple onto the table. Rippling underneath the surface of the flesh of the apple seems to be a worm, no, thousands of worms writhing inside, trying to get out. The apple, pulsating from the crawling within, resembles a human heart, rotten to the core. 'What the Hell is this?' I ask the rabbit waiter, 'I didn't order this!'
'It's a poisoned apple,' replies the bunny with a malevolent grin.

'...called Poisoned Apple.'

Do not feed after midnight,
Fatman

A Dull, Yet Important, Briefing

2006-06-28T11:59:00.000+10:00

(Unnamed School, Beijing, five or six years ago)

Finnegan Roquefort, the head of European Operations for the CIA, begins the proceedings. It's hard to imagine that this walrus masquerading as a human is a spy master but three decades of espionage makes for a pretty impressive CV. He takes a sip of cheap rum that's been dancing around with a few lime wedges from a dirty glass, burps and begins the proceedings. 'Many of you know,' he begins with a gruff voice, an avalanche of cigarette butts, 'of the target here in question. At least by rumours and such. Hell, he's been around the traps since Ah was a pup.' Sip. Burp. 'But Ah likes to make sure we unnerstand the exact nature of this here monster we're about to deal with. So ferget everything you know about him.'
'Way ahead of you,' I mumble, unheard.
'Target is one Leopold Grimshawe, a.k.a. the Alchemist.'
Heads nod around the room. Some faces blanch quite noticeably.
'Exact age is unknown. We have some sources that cite 'im being born in Nottingham in 1942. But there are others that put 'im about five years either side of that.'

My mathematical skills are pretty non-existent but I creak my rusted mental gears into use. 'He's sixty years old?' I hissed at Oslo Fontina, paint chip-munching CIA operative.
'You really haven't heard of him?'
'I'm not CIA you mo-ron!'
'Will you dudes shut the hell up?', pipes up a fresh-faced Agent, 'I'm trying to listen to this shit.'

'...which is pretty unusual considerin' 'is pappy was Lemuel Grimshawe, the industrialist. So, well known, high-profile family with a son they tried to hide. Whatever. By 1950 the family has emigrated to the US. Where Grimshawe pere and wifey number three die in a horrific car crash. Slide!'

A black & white slide projection of a '50s car crash. Police. Journalists. And a haunted-looking boy, dry-eyed, looking on.

'Yadda, yadda, yadda. Inherited a bunch of moolah. Signs 'imself up to Marines in '58- the year of falling Sputniks, Castro v Batista fight in Cuba, Arturo Frondizi is Argentinian prez and Chucky De Gaulle, former tank tactician who gets airports named after 'im, gets yanked back to lead the Frogs. I digress,' Sip. Burp. 'Surprise, surprise Grimshawe has a genius-level IQ. Mensa candidate volunteers to get 'is head blown off with the rest of the commoners even though he's rich enough to buy Utah and parts of Mexico. Commendable. Sharp eyes and good concentration makes 'im an ideal marksman, so it's sniping duties for Leopold Grimshawe.' Roquefort wheezes, pauses for breath. 'You wanna take over for a minute Muffins? My...er...titanium knee is playing up.'

The other man heading this operation takes the podium. Sir Hugo Muffington, MI-6 higher up and a likely candidate to be the next 'C' (head of the British Secret Intelligence Service). Muffington is as tall as Roquefort is large. Ducking slightly so he doesn't scrape his head on the ceiling Sir Hugo keeps the proceedings going with the most monotonous drone I've ever heard.

The words coming out of his mouth are like sand entering my ears. It is congealed goose blood. It is the vocal equivalent of drying paint. Duller even than the dullest Dharma & Greg episode. It is taking every ounce of willpower not to fall asleep. I concentrate on the zit in the back of Agent Tito Pecorino's (the CIA agent sitting directly in front of me) neck in the vague hope that this will anchor me in the waking world. That horrible, pulsating pimple is a beacon of fading hope. I fall...I fall....

This is exactly why I skim through "briefing bits" in novels,
Fatman

Late Nights and Morning Plights

2006-06-27T14:01:00.000+10:00

One of the most crucial equipments in tradecraft is not, as one might imagine, the hidden microphone or even a Walther PPK, but the humble pair of sunglasses. Not only is it a good device to stop your retinas burning to a crisp should you get close enough unexposed to the Sun but it prevents the outside world from peering into the windows of the soul. So Agents can look grim and menacing while on duty when all they want to do on most days is to keep their bloodshot eyes from revealing too much about last night's activities.

CIA agent Oslo Fontina and I sit in the back seat of our taxi looking grim and menacing. We are gridlocked, have been for about half an hour now, just another metal morsel among many in the digestional tract that leads to the stomach of Beijing. Fontina, slack-jawed assassin, informed me through my hangover blur that we would be meeting the rest of the Virginia Fratboys and the lads from MI-6 in a lecture hall nearby. I sip a soft drink made from celery extracts and inject caffeine directly into my eyeball. 'Sure,' I croak, 'but I think we're running a bit behind schedule.'
'Don't worry dude. They'll all be late and wasted.'

We finally arrive at the destination- an abandoned school- an hour and a half late. Fontina decides that this would be the perfect time to haggle over the price of the trip. Normally this might be a fun thing to do if you're a poor file clerk touring around China on an extremely limited budget but when you're on the Company payroll this is just pathetic. 'Just pay the guy or slit his throat!' I yell, 'We're late enough as is.' Oslo grudgingly complies, handing a wad of notes to the irate cabbie.

Seems Fontina was right. Even though we're reasonably late everyone else seems to be just getting here about now. The Agents file into the auditorium hiding their quiet desperation behind their sunglasses. As I stagger in to the room full of moaning men with alcohol-related brain rot I can't help but imagine I've wandered into a Ray-Ban commercial or a parallel universe where the Blind Boys of Alabama are predominantly white. We all take a seat.

I quickly scan the room. Most of them seem to be Company men (high-fiving each other and muttering things like 'Man, I got wasted last night.') but there are a handful of chaps from the Six. A few scattered individuals, sitting away from the main groups, act slightly different. Could they be from another Agency?

'Yo Oslo, Who are those guys?'
'Who knows? NSA maybe.'
'There's another Agency working on this thing? That's insane. How are we supposed to contain things? Is that where the Man with the Perfect Hair is from? Is he one of the Fort Meade Boys?'

Before Fontina had a chance to reply two men enter the front of the room. These guys must be the Tweedledum and Tweedledee of the operation. One of them grabs the microphone. 'Alright ladies,' he growls, 'let's get down to business.'

Former Champion in the world of Competitive Eating,
Fatman

The Virginia Fratboys

2006-06-22T12:58:00.000+10:00

Spying has never really been my thing. If your job actually entailed helicopter chases across the Swiss Alps, fighting cool villains who had metal fangs/bowler hats lined with razor disks in the rim/golden weaponry, blowing things up and sleeping with countless European women who may or may not be trying to kill you then sign me up. The reality is more Le Carrean I fear. The drudgery of listening to wiretaps, hours of paperwork and having to jab the occasional person with a ricin-tipped umbrella doesn't seem like a life I want to lead. And yet there are those who live for this lifestyle.

'Dude, I so think that chick is checking me out.' This Shakespearean monologue courtesy of Oslo Fontina, CIA wet arts operative and my current guide in the city of Beijing. I'd been met by Fontina at the airport two hours ago and so far the topics have ranged from: hookers, beer, bucket bongs, football scores and the stupidity of rickshaw drivers, but only because our taxi nearly ran into one. Hard to believe that this cement head has a law degree. 'Oh man, I think she might be a dude. Do you think she's a dude? Man she looks hot for a dude though.'

Two Hours Earlier...

(Beijing Airport)
'Please, please, please do not leave me with this halfwit.'
'Oslo will be quite the perfect guide for your stay here in Beijing.'
'Look...mysterious guy... I just don't have a good history with the goons from the CIA,' I whine.
'I know you've had your share of run-ins with the Virginia Farmboys...'
'The Virginia Fratboys more like.'
'...but the Vegas Incident was a long time ago.' continues the Man with the Perfect Hair, unfazed 'Plus you'll be on the same side this time.'
'Admittedly that was THE funniest assassination attempt I've ever been a part of but I really can't stand these guys.'
'You'll be fine.'
'Hey dudes!' interrupts Fontina from afar. We turn to look at the brain dead CIA operative. 'Doesn't that airport tower look kind of like a dong? Seriously. It's shaped like a donkey's penis I friggin' swear!'
I turn back slowly to the Man with the Perfect Hair. 'I hate them all.'

Back to the Present...

Eight beers in and I can still hear Fontina talking non-stop and braying at his own witticism-I use that term very, very loosely- while he ogles women who are in the hotel bar. It's a wonder that the States have any kind of secrecy when all their agents are loud-mouthed yahoos but that's real life for you. 'Yup,' he belches, 'This shore is the life.'
'What exactly do you do for the Company Fontina?' I ask my cud-chewing companion.
He picks at a piece of duck meat jutting out of his teeth. 'Political assassinations mainly. We got to make sure our guys are running the countries we want to, the way we want to.'
'So you go around the globe rigging elections, bribing the proles with sacks of wheat and sugar.'
'Hell yeah! It don't matter to the Dee Dee Oh [1] if it's a tribe that uses punji sticks to catch wild boars or you're an industrial nation. We put the right guys in the right places.'
'And if the other candidate should happen to enter office despite the threats, bribes, kidnapping, etc. you kill them.'
'Damn straight. And then we plonk in some other shmo in his place. The Company can place anyone in charge of anything man,' he waves his beefy arms wildly, 'and I mean ANYONE. I can place a sack of returned mail in charge if I want to man. Would you like that? Would you like to see me make a sack of mail the president of Borneo? Cos I can do it if you want man[2].'
'...er...no thanks,' I reply, nonplussed.

Mad, bad and dangerous to know,
Fatman

[1] The Deputy Director for Operations, or DD/O. The Head of the CIA (Directorate of Operations). Prior to March 1973 the Company was known as Directorate of Plans. This has absolutely no relevance to the story whatsoever.

[2] The awesome powers of the American espionage agencies notwithstanding, this may be beyond the powers of even the CIA. Could they have a bag brimming with envelopes, ranging from the 'You May Already Be A Millionare!' letters to 'Watchtower' magazines, elected as a president? Possibly. If the Mexican elections are any indication of how politics works (voodoo, dancing old geezers, bribe-a-ramama) then you'd think that an inanimate object could one day take office. However, there is no President of Borneo - it is an island divided between two countries - Malaysia and Indonesia - and one Principality. Malaysia has Sarawak and Sabah, Indonesia has Kalimantan, and then the principality. Take that Oslo Fontina!

Uneasy Alliance

2006-06-21T13:21:00.000+10:00

I'm in a wooden crate labelled 'Ace Tomato Company' in the cargo hold of a plane heading to China. With me is the Man with the Perfect Hair- who still hasn't told me what his name is-looking extremely relaxed. Right now he's inspecting his fingernails for any traces of dirt.
'As long as we're going to be stuck in this wooden crate for some time along with the chicken and livestock do you mind telling me what the hell is going on?'
'Most of the information you require is classified.'
'Well, what isn't classified? Who am I going to be working for? CIA? MI6?'
'Both.'
'It's a joint operation? You serious? I thought you guys shared the occasional bit of information and that was about it.'
' There's been a few joint operations that have been quite successful. Overthrowing Mohammed Mossadeq, Patrice Lumumba, etc.'
'When was that? The 50's? 60's?'
'Admittedly there are a few operations that I'm not at liberty to mention. Official Secrets Act and all that. And your average CIA operative thinks that the SIS is filled with communist homosexuals and your average SIS man thinks that the CIA give away state secrets for blowjobs from Malaysian hookers. So apart from the odd bit of distrust, repressed hatred, mild xenophobia and the belief that one agency is far superior than the other, everything is peachy.'

The plane shudders a little from the turbulence and banks a little to the left. A cow moos, defecates.

I keep thinking that the two agencies are like an old married couple who can't stand each other but come from an era where divorce is not a viable option. So they bicker a lot, hide things from each other and have built a strong resistance to arsenic just in case things get ugly.

The result of a wasted life,
Fatman

The Man with the Perfect Hair

2006-06-19T17:47:00.000+10:00

This was about five or six years ago.

I was languishing by the pool at a dodgy, four-star hotel up in the Philippines, a lousy pina colada in hand, when I was approached by the Man with the Perfect Hair. It had been an uneventful couple of days until earlier that afternoon when one of the greeting card salesmen who had been staying at the hotel for the Convention had been repetitively stung by a box jellyfish, or something like it, whilst swimming. The concierge of the hotel, ever the entrepreneur, had decided that betting on whether the hapless victim of the jellyfish attack would survive or not would prove to be a light bit of morbid entertainment for the hotel guests and a fair bit of money had exchanged hands. Since I was up here avoiding persecution for a credit card scam back in Melbourne anyway, I had a bit of money to play around with and had placed a small fortune on the salesman's eventual demise.

'Mind if I join you?' asked the Man with the Perfect Hair. I grunted noncommittally. I had assumed that the greeting card salesman would croak before five but it seemed that his body was a lot more resilient to the nematocyst toxins than I had hoped. 'That's the danger of swimming in a body of water infested with poisonous Cubozoa,' he continued.
'Let's hope he pulls through,' I lied as I glanced angrily at my Tag Heuer replica.
'What do you think it was?'
'What do I think what was?' I ask irritably.
'The thing that stung the man. A hydrozoan perhaps? A Physalia physalis?'
'A Portuguese Man o'war? Perhaps. Let's hope it's not a Carukia barnesi. What's the mortality rate of Irukandji syndrome? Like, two? You get a mild headache, stomach pains and throw up a bit. If that's the case he'll be back swimming by Tuesday.'
'Would that make it a Black Tuesday for you?'

I stare at him. Could he be referring to October 29, 1929- five days after Stock Market Crash in the States that began the Great Depression? Or maybe he's got some knowledge of Bahamian history and is referring to Pindling's actions on April 15, 1965. Maybe it's just an offhand remark made by an idiot tourist. But somehow I know he's talking about my father.

'Who are you?'

To this question he just sat there and smiled smugly. I immediately wanted to hit him in the back of the head with a fire extinguisher but I couldn't risk it. I hadn't seen Dad in a while but I knew then and there that he had been captured.

'He's quite safe. For now. To tell you the truth Bloated Panther (I assume that this was spyspeak for my Dad) had eluded capture for quite some time. But he started to get sloppy with his aliases. Started to use joke names.'
'Harry Balzac (Hairy Ball Sack)?'
'That's the one.'
'Tragic.'
'Quite. But lucky for you he's not our target. Frankly our department do not care about short con operators who habitually beat up Amish people. We are after someone bigger. And you will help us get him.'

Just then one of the porters of the hotel came out to the pool. 'It looks like the dumb foreigner is going to make it,' he informed a bunch of us gravely in Tagalog, 'Now how am I supposed to afford college for my youngest?'
I turn to face the Man with the Perfect Hair. 'Looks like my meal ticket is gone. When do you want me to start?'
'Tomorrow will do,' he says as he gets up to leave, 'No sense in wasting the rest of the day. Be at the airport at 4am. I'll fill you in then.'

Nachoholic Anonymous,
Fatman

More On The Morons

2006-06-13T17:05:00.000+10:00

The new 50's era "Monster Movie" template for Fat Ramblings has generated a fair amount of responses from my friends, most of them along the lines of: "It's really hard to read the writing because of the black background." and "Who the f-ck are those people running around in the picture?". When I first pitched the idea to Darren I just said I wanted a motley crew of people running for their lives from LEVIATHAN. About ten minutes later I came back with a list of characters I specifically wanted (a safari guy, a sinister secret agent-type, Gandhi, etc.) and left it at that for a while but I've since come up with a bit of a back story for each character. And here it is:

(In the Background, destroying things)

JC 271-LEVIATHAN: A cursed creature, LEVIATHAN is the result of a dark experiment that involved cross-splicing mutating sea creature genes with the (alleged) DNA of Jesus Christ himself. His mind is now filled with eternal rage at humans and he will stop at nothing until the world is rid of them. The clumsy scientists that created him are blaming the interns for the whole mess.

(Foreground. From left to right)

Mary-Anne Lubbick: Poor Mary-Anne. Having moved out of the country to avoid a lifetime of milking cows, Mary-Anne came into the city to get a job in journalism. But money has been a bit tight recently and since none of the newspapers have called her back she got herself a secretarial job at the Klaatu Corporation a fortnight ago. Cue: Gigantic monster! As terrifying as the situation is, this just might be the thing she needs to kick start her career in the papers.

"Bob": Usually at this time of the year "Bob" resides in Dobbstown but he just happened to be passing by when chaos struck. While the rest of the city is crazed with fear "Bob" still retains a smile on his face, possibly amused by the ridiculousness of the whole situation.

Secret Agent Guy: (name withheld) has been to (classified) City to have a secret meeting with some subliminal advertising executives to help launch a new brand of cola. But just ten minutes before the meeting was about to commence he was informed that there will be a cancellation due to a whoppingly big sea creature devouring most of the downtown area. The secret agent makes another phone call and says the words, "Cuidado: Piso Mojado," before hanging up.

Chef Pasquale: A notable alumni from the Parisian Cordon Bleu school, Chef Pasquale has expanded his culinary arts (not to mention his enormous gut) by travelling across the globe and learning various dishes from Japan, Thailand, Peru, Germany and New York. However, three cookbooks and a cooking show later, he still can't seem to beat his chief rival, Cornwall Mackintosh, in the soup category at the Annual Lobster Cook-Off they hold every year in his home town. This year he plans to include a "special ingredient" in his Lobster Bisque....but getting this could prove to be at a deadly cost.

Col. Carlton F. Winterblood (Retired): A flatulent ex-army Colonel who has nothing but time on his hands after his retirement three year ago. Ever the expert marksman, he has been hunting all kinds of Big Game in Darkest Africa (including the extremely rare Albino Lion) and is now looking for a new challenge. He is also extremely allergic to carrot-flavoured cookies.

Veronika Fetale: a one-eyed seductress and a saucy minx to boot, Veronika has a nasty habit of playing men against each other for kicks. She also has a shaved pussy.

Mahatma Gandhi (1869-1948): Noted Indian pacifist, vegetarian and Hindu. What Gandhi is doing in this city several years after his death is baffling authorities. And what is this non-violent protester doing with a case full of C2 explosives and a Panzerfaust (German anti-tank weapon)?

ZLK-33: The latest invention from deranged inventor Dr Zachary Ka-Boom. Programmed to feel fear, ZLK-33 is currently trying not to be destroyed by a gigantic Christ-based monstrosity.

Raymond Corpse: It seems that the horrible black ichor that oozes out of LEVIATHAN's tentacles has certain regenerative qualities. Which is a bit of a bonus for amateur golf enthusiast Raymond who died during the monster's attack. Unfortunately he will have to roam the planet as a rotting, undead creature.

Gillie: Life's been pretty boring at the Black Lagoon lately so Gillie decided to trek into big city to make some friends and maybe meet some ladies. What he didn't count on was his ill-tempered cousin (of sorts) was doing a bit of creative demolishing.

Monkeys, an Infinite amount of: I asked Darren if it was possible to have an infinite amount of monkeys with typewriters in the picture. He said that the whole template would be covered with monkeys and I wouldn't be able to see anything except monkeys. I said, Fine, make it three or four then.

All Guts, No Glory,
Fatman

Not Every Problem Can Be Solved With A Hand Grenade

2006-06-04T20:24:00.000+10:00

When I first signed on to be the office bitch I'd assumed that I'd be doing the banal rituals that people in their Orwellian, 9-to-5 purgatories do every day. I'm not averse to a lifestyle where you shuffle paperwork all day long, fantasise about work colleagues and the only way to break the monotony is by hiding other peoples' staplers and drinking photocopier ink on dares. But I was not expecting the sheer number of debt collectors who'd call the bar on a daily basis.

Back when debt collectors were chasing me I'd got into the habit of answering the phone under various aliases and spouting the same stock standard nonsense that most people do anyway (e.g. 'Ringo's Crematorium, Ringo speaking. You kill 'em, we grill 'em.' or 'This is Sydney terminal you are cleared to land.') Which would confuse them (the debt collectors) long enough that you can hang up on them and they'd leave you alone for another fortnight. But this was just one group of debt collectors. Multiply that a few dozen times and you get the idea of what I'm facing every frickin' day.

Phone calls from suppliers, various street publications (like 'xxxx' magazine), garbage collectors, some guy who worked on the website of the bar, xxxx (who it turns out we haven't paid since '02) are now part of my life. The most common type of call I have to field is the one that pertains to a bounced cheque. These folks are fairly easy to placate. All I have to do is promise these dudes that there's another cheque on the way (which hopefully won't bounce) and this calms most of the callers. But some of these boys want to play hardball. These are the suppliers who are (understandably) irate by the lack of money in their hands. They have gone beyond the usual threats of sending in thugs with cricket bats and have instead started to send us severed ears of children in the mail. 'Who's do you think this is?' I ask "Bernie" as I remove the ear from the blood-splattered envelope.
'Just put it aside with the rest of the mail.'

Perhaps we'll need it later as forensic evidence when the police are eventually called in. And if not, it may make a lovely necklace.

Oh the Humanity!
Fatman

Slow Day At The Bookstore

2006-05-31T17:41:00.000+10:00

(Comment overheard at "Kill City" Secondhand bookstore which is currently holding 25% off books about Hitler)

Man: Why do you guys have so many books on sale about Adolf Hitler?

Secondhand Bookstore Steve: (not even looking up from what he's reading) Well....everyone needs a leader.

The Computer Is Speaking In Tongues

2006-05-29T09:37:00.000+10:00

Last Tuesday...

'Kai Shi Li Yin,' says the computer suddenly, making me almost spill my "coffee" everywhere. What the Heck was that all about? At around the same time the printer starts to print something. 'Li Yin Wam Bi,' it proclaims a few moments later before falling silent. I inform "Bernie" about the situation.

'Possessed by demons? I don't think so,' he reassures me.
'It was saying weird things to me just a moment ago.'
'Were you printing something?'
'Just some jpegs of women inserting various fruits in themselves.'
'Well that's it then,' he says, exhaling some nicotine smoke,' some smartass set the computer language on Korean or something years ago. Haven't been able to remove it since. Everyone who has worked in the office for sometime ends up learning a bit of Korean.'

It's amusing to know that there have been a succession of admin girls that have passed through the Gambit Bar who have inadvertently learnt some almost useless phrases in an Asian tongue. Perhaps one day they'll find themselves in Korea and be able to amaze the natives with how fluently they can utter the phrases 'Printing in progress', 'Paper is jammed' and 'Need more ink'.

Its origin and purpose still a total mystery,
Fatman

Note: Due to extreme laziness I haven't checked to see if I've spelled the Korean words right or even if the language IS Korean. If anyone actually knows give me an email.

His Coffee Shall Taste Of Wormwood

2006-05-28T18:46:00.000+10:00

Last Monday...

9:00am. The only way I can cope with the agony of hauling my bloated carcass out of the hammock this early in the morning is by guzzling an inordinate amount of black coffee. Real strong coffee. Coffee with a liberal splash of La Fee Verte -absinthe- and drank out of the skull of Alfredo Garcia (or an ashtray will suffice if said head is unavailable). The amount of absinthe poured in tends to vary from morning to morning and I've found that the older I get the more of that foul, anise-flavoured green liquor I need to kick start my brain. Sometimes I even forget to put the coffee in.

I stagger in to the office after several mugs of "coffee" and hand "Bernie", the other manager-type guy, a cup of my home brew. 'I boucht you shome latte,' I slur. He takes a sip and recoils as if he just sustained a left hook.
'What the hell did you put in this?' he asks, shaken.
'Jus....jus....jusabbit of coffee. Thass goodforyew. Goodforyew.'
'Fatty. Are you drunk?'
'YOU'D be drunk too ifyew haddasmuch coffee as I have this morning!' I quip as my body goes crashing over the table, disconnecting the fax machine.

It has been said that there seems to be an unhealthy amount of thujone in my morning cups o'Joe, and that by the third cup most people who imbibe this concoction have long hallucinogenic episodes and suffer renal failure. Most countries have banned this substance altogether. Yet even the harshest critics agree that the liquid is a good anti-malarial substance. So as I pick my body up off the floor to start the first of my horror 14-hour day sentence I can take comfort that malaria will be one thing that I can be safe from.

Awake the slumbering giant,
Fatman

A New Reign Of Terror

2006-05-28T18:44:00.000+10:00

The Story So Far....

Last Sunday

The Owner of the Amethyst (the bar I work at) and Gambit (our sister bar) has gone on a three week holiday to various parts of Italy thereby handing over the reins of both bars temporarily to "Bernie" (Gambit manager, handyman, janitor, enforcer) and Yours Truly. This basically means my workload has doubled as I have to be the ~~office bitch~~ secretary during the day and a surly bar guy at night. I'm looking forward to being a secretary. It means I get to do all things secretarial- like paint my fingernails for hours on end, answer the phones, shred incriminating documents and get whistled at by construction workers on my way to work.

Fatman

Left For Dead By Snowblind Sherpas

2006-05-27T17:27:00.000+10:00

Well it's nice to know that some people (count 'em. Two) care enough about the lack of posting to complain about it. Writing is akin to climbing a gigantic mountain. You sometimes encounter mountain goats, may suffer from altitude sickness (or hypoxia) and can fall to your death. So as you can clearly see it's a pretty frickin' stupid analogy but I'm trying to work in a "climbing Everest" simile. Basically my point being that it takes a lot of time and serves no purpose. Yes- this blog has been neglected and is suffering from hypothermia like that poor bastard on the recent Everest descent. But it has not succumbed to cerebral edema. Yet. It's.....resting. I have three weeks of 14-hour days so writing is going to be limited to Sundays where I'll hopefully be able to write about the week's events. There are other Everest climbers out there (by that I mean bloggers) who can climb (or write or whatever the f-ck I was trying to say but dammit even I'm confused by my own metaphors) despite their obvious handicaps (ie, being a double amputee, blind, gay, just a head in a jar, a fan of Carry On... films, etc.) manage to be prolific climbers/ writers. I am not one of these people. Know this.

Part-Time Scheherazade,
Fatman

My Pact With The Devil

2006-05-26T18:30:00.000+10:00

'I worked myself up from nothing to a state of extreme poverty.'
Groucho Marx

I dislike talking about money. I'd rather be attacked by a horde of bats than talk about it. Whenever my friends start talking about how my savings for the Russian trip is coming I try to change the topic ('Hey, I got attacked by a horde of bats the other day. Weird huh?'). If they persist I start looking for an oncoming semi-trailer that I can hurl myself in front of. This one time a friend of mine started talking about superannuation and I jumped out of a third-storey window. If it wasn't for a stenographer passing by and breaking my fall (she died instantly) I may have badly fractured my wrists, forcing me to type with my nose.

See, my father has never been good with money. Although he made a large sum of money beating up and robbing Amish people he was very bad at budgeting. He'd spend a lot of cash on useless items, so much so that in certain parts of the South Pacific his name is still synonymous with "bad investments". So although I had a very colourful upbringing surrounded by all sorts of cool things (a jukebox, a personal butler, an African elephant) we'd have to move constantly for fear of having all our belongings repossessed. One day, after my father crashed his third Ferrari, mum collected all the credit cards we had in our house and cut them up, one by one. 'Never,' she said with a sigh, 'get yourself a credit card.'

Now I find myself in the awkward situation of having to get myself a credit card. And once I have my dirty mitts on one of those babies you better believe my first port of call will definitely be to eBay. They've got all sorts of crap there. From broken laser pointers to an 18-year old girl's virginity, everything seems to be for sale. This is where cannibals can buy human body parts. You can get a grilled cheese sandwich with the face of the Virgin Mary. I heard you can even buy New Zealand on that site.

As my mind grapples with the concept of having access to crazy amounts of dough in exchange for your immortal soul I feel a sense of dread descend upon me like a horde of bats. But how can I fight something so encoded in my DNA? And why?

Performs his own stunts,
Fatman

Punch First, Ask Questions Never

2006-05-18T12:21:00.000+10:00

Last night was the Mundine v. Green fight. I know this because several of the regulars at the bar left suddenly, mid-drink and halfway through a sentence, to find other venues with large television screens so they could watch the bout and hurl colourful language at. Who knows? Maybe if I didn't have to spend seven hours in a dank jazz bar I also might have joined them to watch two slabs of meat duke it out. Scores of men around Australia stopped beating their wives long enough to enjoy watching a fight where a couple of grown men punched the snot out of one another and made their opponent's brain slosh around the fluid in their heads.

Which seems to beg the question: Is boxing technically a sport? The Ancient Greeks definitely thought so. It unarguably requires a great deal of physical fitness and training. And you can also bet on it, which is a plus. Sure, repeatedly getting punched in the noggin can cause mild subclinical dysfunction which may or may not result in tremors, slowed motor performances, cognitive deficits, personality changes or even death,but golly, that certainly won't stop you from attaching your name to a Teflon-coated commercial grill which may actually make you more money than your entire boxing career. I say it's a great way for illiterate thugs to make a substantial amount of money. And the losers can take solace in the fact that, should they happen to die in the ring, their corpses will be welcomed by hospital staff who will be more than eager to remove their healthy organs when the hearse stops via the morgue en route to the cemetery.

As much as some of us claim we loathe it, it is hard to look away from a punch on. Many an evening has been lost watching two winos fight over a half-eaten kebab in the car park next door. These bouts tend to be a lot truer in the sense that there never needs to be an army of PR people who have to come up with a better excuse than, "Mr.Tyson was just feeling peckish today" when someone bites their rival's ear off. The added bonus being that since it's not an image bouncing down from the ionosphere you get to feel the warm, morphine-tainted blood on your face and even get to keep souvenirs of teeth at the fight's end.

Even back when I was but a lad in an Upperclass Boarding School, a group of crumbling buildings situated right next door to an oil refinery, fights were fairly commonplace. These future media barons, criminal defence attorneys, surgeons and princes of Industry would take offence from time to time (when some lout would spill a school chum's snuff par example) and soon be engaged in a scuffle. The rest of us would put down our tobacco pipes and our Financial Reviews and race off to watch the pugilists in action. Here we could see humans for what they truly are: savages waiting to be freed.

Knock out the Fat
Fatman

The Non-Adventures Of Casanova

2006-05-15T16:57:00.000+10:00

Though some of my friends can't seem to board a plane without being dragged into a toilet cubicle by females to exchange bodily fluids at high-subsonic speeds thousands of miles up in the air (to the horror and revulsion of the cabin crew) I have been enjoying the misery of celibacy for months. I'd like to say that this is because I'm picky but seriously, if they can remember my name and don't keep disembodied door-to-door salesmen parts in the freezer, then they're OK by me.

A while ago, around the same time I was shovelling dirt on the coffin lid marked "Fatman Having A Relationship", Kire the security guard at the bar tells me that a young blonde girl was asking about me. 'Yeah, she's been coming around every few weeks now.'
What the Hell? What have I been doing while young blonde girls have been lining up at the bar just to see me? Experimenting with intoxicated monkeys that's what.

I ask Amy the day bartender if she knows who this mystery woman is. 'I know who you're talking about. She had her 21st here a few months ago. The one wearing the green dress. She's not the only one you know. There are a few others who drop in to see where you are.'
'What are they like? Lobotomy scars? Police hot on their tails?'
'Not all of them.'

Hm. It seems that while I spend my lonely nights at home masturbating to Veronica Mars episodes a succession of girls have been chasing me. 'You are soooooo oblivious,' continues Amy,' I've seen girls throw themselves at you but you never notice them[1].'

I guess I'm a bit like the coyote in the Road Runner cartoons. It's the chase that interests me. Armed with all sorts of crazy devices (that will ultimately malfunction when I need 'em the most) I chase this elusive pray across the country. But what happens when the bird suddenly stops running? How do I react then?

The guy with a girth defect,
Fatman

[1]
Horny Female Patron: I shaved my pussy for you.
Me: You gave your cat a haircut?

Joe Skeletor....This Is Your Life!

2006-05-11T18:27:00.000+10:00

Several weeks ago my housemate Darren asked me what I thought would've happened to Skeletor later in life. 'Skeletor? From He-Man? That Skeletor.'
'Yeah. Him.'

We'd been sitting at a cafe in North Melbourne at the time and I could see that he was working up....maybe not the courage so much as a coherent way to ask this question. A lot of people, on hearing this question, would have finished taking a sip of their coffee, placed the cup down on the table and backed off quietly into the distance. Then they'd break off into a panicked sprint. As far as their legs could carry them. Maybe change their phone numbers as an added precaution.

But I'm the kind of guy who also asks stupid questions (i.e. the cloning of Jesus) and likes to take them to their logical conclusions. Darren thought that Skeletor, having been robbed of his powers in the very last episode of He-Man, would've settled down and taken a blue-collar job. 'Maybe he's got a really normal first name. Like Joe or something. And we find out that Skeletor is his surname.'
'Would he have kids?' I asked, getting into the spirit of the thing. By the end of our three hour coffee sesh we had quite a lot of backstory for Joe Skeletor, divorcee and father to Christina-Sue and Dwight Skeletor.

This morning Darren asked me if I'd checked Boing Boing recently.
'Nah, not for a while.'
'There's a "Skeletor Show". Someone has actually come up with a Skeletor show using re-edited bits from old tv episodes.'

What I find fascinating about this world is that no matter how apparently wacky an idea is, there is a possibility that someone somewhere else on the planet is thinking along the same lines.

People are strange,
Fatman

Danger: White Trash!

2006-05-10T14:03:00.000+10:00

It happens gradually. One day the globe blows in the living room and you forget to replace it. No big deal. Then you fall behind in paying your phone bill and it gets disconnected. A few months pass. But by then it's too late. You have officially crossed into the category of white trash.

The tell-tale signs being:

You eat nothing but weevil-ridden pasta, past-the-expiry-date beef jerky and rancid meat in the dark.

Repo men regularly visit your domicile.

You can't fall asleep because of all the fornicating vermin in the ceiling.

You frequently find wild boars rummaging through the garbage.

You and your friends derive enjoyment from harassing "dem fancy cidee folk" in hardware stores.

...It's this last point that I'd like to expand on. So I find myself in Blue Bar today after crashing out at Matt's place the night before[1]. We are drinking spicy Bloody Marys and discussing what we should write on our respective blackboards[2]. After spending half an hour on possible quotes Matt suggests, 'I peed blood last night.'
'That's quite good. That'll make an excellent blackboard quote.'
'...er...yes. Blackboard quote.'

Anyway, Matt has to go to the hardware store to get some supplies for the bars that he runs. Now, when most people go to the hardware store to get chicken wire, say, you just go and do it. No problem. But some people seem incapable of doing such a simple task. Matt and I spend roughly ten minutes getting our supplies of nails and such- ample time for an average human being to purchase chicken wire for their (chortle) jewellery display. But not for Scooter Guy who was in a deep argument with the hardware store worker.
'I thought you said it's $3 a metre,' whines Scooter Guy.
'It's $3.75 a metre.'
'$3.75 a metre?'
'$3.75 a metre.'

Arguably these men were not engaging in conversation so much as echoing the same words back and forth. The bottom line being: when Scooter Guy eventually succumbed to the concept that the chicken wire was $3.75 a metre the total cost for all things bought was $8.20 Australian pesos.
'I'll use my bankcard if I could.'
'It's a $10 minimum.'
(silence)
'Huh?'
'$10 dollars minimum. Your purchase comes to $8.20.'
'What are you trying to say?'
(more silence)
'Th...the that, that. The..'

I believe the hardware store guy was having mild seizures trying to come up with a simpler way of saying "$10 dollars minimum." I'm not sure that I can.

'What if I go to my scooter and bring $10 dollars in cash?' offers Scooter Guy.
'That...would work fine,' replies the hardware store guy leaping at the unexpected lifeline thrown to him. 'Or,' he continues, a sucker for punishment, 'you can just get money out here.'
'I can?'

(20 excruciating minutes later....)

The flustered Scooter Guy eventually decides once again to go to his scooter to retrieve the ten dollars. 'Well,' I say glibly, 'at least that was easy.'
'He makes buying things fun,' agrees Matt. We laugh.

Unbeknownst to us Scooter Guy had super-hearing. He marches back into the store enraged. 'I just heard you guys laughing at me!' he yells.
'So?'
'How can we not?'
'Well,' he snarls, 'you guys can get f-cked! I'm taking my business to Mitre 10,' and he exits stage left.

As he scooted off out of our lives on his orange, piece-of-shit,circa 60's scooter I couldn't help but feel sorry for him. Here is a grown man, obviously struggling with his own sexuality[3], who can't even buy something as simple as chicken wire without the whole shop laughing him out the door. The choices that we make define us and sometimes not being able to make choices...well...I guess that defines us too. He was doomed from the moment he bought that scooter. For he will always be labelled a doofus.

Fatman

[1] Matt actually lives like a king. He has a plush apartment that guys like me only see in sitcoms (i.e. populated by annoying New Yorkers who spend entire episodes complaining about bagels) and can actually afford a Lear Jet. I visit him probably once a fortnight and we stay up till five in the morning drinking beer, watching late-night movies that usually has Brian Dennehy in it, eat spoonfuls of mustard/ salsa dips-oh so Fight Club-and complain about bagels.

[2] Note to Self: There are actually a few funny anecdotes involving blackboard quotes and I should expand on this later.

[3] Hardware store guy (as Scooter leaves): (baffled) How can anyone be that confused buying chicken wire?
Matt: I think he's a little confused by a few other aspects of himself as well.
Me: Harsh but fair.
(Matt and I laugh)
Hardware store guy: Huh?
Me (gauging sexuality/ intelligence/ sense of humour of hardware store guy. Noting that Matt and I have already made one sworn enemy today): Nothing.

Fear Him

2006-05-08T12:25:00.000+10:00

Well....the site is called 'Monster in a Wheelchair' which is pretty self-explaintory really. It's basically the plight of crippled monsters. In the form of a song.

Three steps up and out of danger,
Fatman

Speak Softly And Carry a Muddling Stick

2006-05-04T14:06:00.000+10:00

Hospital beds around the world are filled with people who yap off a little bit too frequently. Be it a matter of arguing with someone who has just collided with your car or discussing politics with friends or even asking your neighbours to remove Christmas decorations from their lawn because it's now May and the kids are asking why Santa's head is now a nesting place for crows, one wrong word, a misinterpreted phrase, may lead people to fistfights and thence to the Emergency Room.

I'm proud to say that for most of my life thus far I have managed to dodge trouble like an off-key Asian business man dodges rotten tomatoes hurled at him at rough Karaoke bars. With the suave confidence of a successful riverboat gambler[1] I have extracted myself from many a tense situation. Part Jedi mind trick, part verbal judo, I have been confronted by evil-looking hombres with 'love' and 'hate' tattooed on their knuckles, brandishing switchblades that they use to carve their initials into "meddlers" and end up, ten minutes later, telling jokes and high-fiving these guys. However....

Tuesday Night

( I'm imagining "Roy", the owner of the Amethyst bar, watching this Howard Hughes-like on the surveillance cameras. With Fu Manchu-esque fingernails slowly digging into 350 gallons of Baskin-Robbins banana nut ice cream he stares intently at the screens)

7:20- Fatman arrives slightly intoxicated for his seven o'clock shift. There is no sound but he seems to be singing lewd sea shanties at the top of his lungs. Staff force strong coffee into him.

7:25- Fatman has a few more "quiet drinks" with longtime regular, writer, poet and drunkard (this is one person I'm talking about here) Adam J. Murray.

8:34- Adam leaves the building. Fatman keeps drinking. Alone.

9:20- Chef Steve (who used to work across the road four years ago) enters the bar with two girls and a guy completely startling Fatman who looks as he was asleep at the end of the bar. Lip reading experts would later proclaim with 98% certainty that the first words coming from Fatman's mouth was "poopie trim". Whatever that means.

9:27- Chef Steve's friend [2], an English buffoon, begins to irritate Fatman.

9:32- Fatman's friends Matt and Cammy, from Blue Bar and La La Land respectively, come in for a quiet chat about work.

9:36- Chef Steve's idiot Yorkshire friend interrupts Matt and Cammy's conversation.
Matt (with uncharacteristic restraint) : Sorry pal but we're in the middle of a conversation.
Yorkshire Git (sarcastically) : Oooooooh. It's an important conversation is it? I didn't mean to get in the way of such an important conversation.

9:37- Matt (to Fatman) :I'm going to leave before I hit this guy.
Fatman: I won't stop you.

9:39- Matt and Cammy leave. Fatman cuts off idiot.

9:55- Fatman's other friend Surya comes in after a hard days' work. Just wanting a few beers.

10:12- Yorkshire Git lurches towards the bar. One of the two girls that came in with Chef Steve had ordered too many drinks in the last round and there was an extra bourbon and coke on the bar. The Git snatches it and starts drinking it without asking anyone if it is theirs first.

10:13- Fatman grabs bourbon from the counter and pours it down the sink.

10:16- The Git realises his drink is missing.

10:17- The Git grabs Surya's beer from the counter and starts drinking it much to the surprise of Surya and Fatman.

10:17 and 30 seconds- Fatman snatches the Git's mobile phone that had been lying on the bar counter with cobra-like speed. Says something like: 'OK champ. Here's how it's going to work. You are going to reach into your wallet right now and buy this man a beer. Then there will be no problem. If you do not, there will be a problem. I will dunk your mobile phone into this glass half filled with beer.'

10:17 and 33 seconds- The Git takes another sip of beer.

10:17 and 34 seconds- Fatman dunks the mobile phone into a glass of beer.

10:17 and 35 seconds- A cockroach stares at all this worriedly.

10:18- Fatman shows the Git a muddling stick-a wooden thing half the size of a baseball bat and used for muddling (crushing) limes and such for cocktails. 'Now, I'm going to give you ten seconds to leave the premises. If you do not I will go around the counter and crack your melon-head with this thing.'

10:18 and 10 seconds- The Git has not moved.

10:18 and 11 seconds- Fatman is on the other side of the bar on the verge of caving the Git's head in but one of the girls that came in with Chef Steve is blocking his way.

10:18 and 12 seconds till 10:19- A lot of yelling. Chef Steve, taking in the increasingly violent scene, offers to cart the Git away. 'It's probably for the best,' says Fatman. But not exactly in those words. Surya is laughing at the whole situation.

...And that was pretty much that. Except it wasn't. Twenty minutes later one of the girls storms off from the bar. The other chick, looking bewildered, says 'I...wasn't expecting that.'
'Expecting what?'
'I've just found out that the girl who just left is a lesbian and held a secret crush on me for months. This may become an ugly situation.'

Her phone starts to ring. The first of many other calls that night.

(End Transmission)
Fatman

[1] Needless to say that the less successful dudes end up being tossed overboard and swallowed up by the Mississippi, and eventually, end their careers as the stomach contents of an alligator. Ah, the Circle of Life.

[2] Chef Steve: Nah, he's not my friend. He's my brother's friend's brother. He just came knocking on my door saying that he's in Melbourne for a week and needs a couch to crash on. He's an idiot.

Survival of the Fattest

2006-05-02T14:48:00.000+10:00

A typical day begins. I re-arrange the jars of animal parts preserved in formaldehyde in my bedroom alphabetically, thumb through my favourite bits in a book about Graham Young and add a small dose of thallium in my housemates' chamomile. Just so I have something to write about later. I then flip through the newspaper while I wait for the kettle to boil. There's an article about a couple of miners trapped a kilometre under the surface. Then another. And another. An interview with one of the miner's sister-in-laws. An interview with an expert on geology.

I turn on the TV. Every channel has something about these two guys who have been stuck underground. I phone a friend to see if the same thing is happening to his television. 'Dude, are you getting an over-saturation of this news report about two miners being trapped in a cage without any food or water for six days in the dark?'
'Two minors being left in a cage? In the dark? For almost a week with nothing to eat or drink save a puddle of rainwater and their own urine? Sounds like boarding school.'
'Miners you dunce. Not minors.'

It seems every media source in our country has dedicated at least 30-pages to this 'tragedy' and quality shows (like re-runs of M*A*S*H) are getting invaded by 'updates' of the rescue which generally consists of two solemn looking guys saying things like; "The only way we can get this chicken sandwich to the men down there is to use a blender until it (the sandwich) becomes liquid then feed it to them in a tube."

Now, I'm interested in stories of survival. Be it someone who managed to hack off their own arm that's been trapped underneath a boulder using nothing more than a toothbrush or how the plane crash survivors of Oceanic Flight 815 fend for themselves on a mysterious island with weird number curses and populated by polar bears, monsters etc. But please...can we leave the fanfare until after they get rescued?

Waiting for the kettle to boil,
Fatman

Meet My Friend Bill

2006-04-27T11:09:00.000+10:00

Got the mobile phone bill today. It was for $66.66.

Creepy.

One Step Better Than A Park Bench

2006-04-26T12:09:00.000+10:00

There comes a time in everyone's life where, for one reason or another, you find yourself without a place to live. It doesn't seem to matter who you are- millionaires lose the fortunes, writers get exiled, dictators usurped, chimps released back into the wilderness after decades of captivity- everyone eventually comes home one day to find the house on fire or the locks changed. Sometimes both.

Ever since Piglet returned from Ireland, the snake-less Isle of limericks and car bombings, she'd had a spate of shit luck. It's the age old story: She broke up with her boyfriend, the topless bar she was working at wasn't treating her with respect and she suddenly found that she had no bed to sleep on. Her couch surfing experience has also been unpleasant. The stripper she was staying with apparently turned out to be an insomniatic "crack whore", waking Piglet up every twenty minutes to see if she'd like to partake in dangerous substances, and the guy she's currently staying with seems to be a powder keg waiting to explode. 'Admittedly,' says Piglet, 'I do wake him up at two in the morning to let me in to his room at the hostel. But he really is such a light sleeper.' (I have been informed that Piglet's snore causes ears to bleed, walls to crack and ceilings to tumble. Low-flying bats have been known to explode on occasion)

I hesitate before I say what I say next.

'You could sleep at my house if you'd like.' She looks at me. I know that she'd rather stay at the home of a convicted paedophile or a house adorned with pentagrams but she's a little desperate.
'That's nice of you to offer Fatman but...'
'Look,' I interject ,'I know that under different circumstances you'd happily live in a place where the roommates drink goat's blood and keep photos of dead babies on the fridge but you're a bit starved for choice.'
'Well.....'

Piglet has a strong aversion of nerds. She firmly believes that the interior of our house is decked out like the Starship Enterprise.
'You guys don't have long discussions about the temporal inconsistencies of old Dr. Who episodes do you?'
'No! We are not a household that does that sort of stuff[1]!'
'And I'm not going to wake up one night with a Bowie knife held to my throat/ someone taking pictures of me to download onto the internet/ with syphilis?'
'Piglet. You are not going to come out of a chloroformed torpor with me rubbing scented lotions on your hoof saying; "Ah lahks tuh rub people's feet.". It's not something I'd do. Do I strike you as someone who'd feel up a mongoloid cousin at Christmas?'
'Actually...'
'Shut it! Sleep with a can of mace within arms' reach if you must. And read this Jonathan Stern article from the New Yorker. It'll get you up to speed to what it's like to live with us. Sort of.'

Now, to convince the housemates to let a homeless Irish girl stay with us for awhile.

Mi Casa, Su Casa,
Fatman

[1] 'Anymore,' I add, bitterly and under my breath.