Tuesday, 28 October 2008

Is it really all that simple?

What makes a good person? Today someone said to me:

"You are a good man."

Just exactly like that. No contraction of the 'you are' to a 'you're'. No slang. It's a definite statement. And all because I showed some guy in a supermarket where the pesto was.

If only I could believe him.

Thursday, 23 October 2008

If I found a really good hairdresser I would probably marry her

I got my haircut today: a grisly task that requires much mental preparation. Haircuts are a hit-or-miss affair, and most of the time you end up looking like a ridiculous man-boy. And even if by some miracle you've pleased the Gods enough to somehow incur a good haircut, it's likely that some work jerk or another will give you shit for it. Even if he is balding. And has disgusting looking psoriasis on his exposed scalp.

So after a lot of childish whining, I sucked it up and went down and got my haircut. It hasn't turned out too bad this time. Which is pretty good considering its likely to be the last haircut I have for at least 6 months. That's my style by the way, cut hair really short, then wait several months until it gets long enough to annoy me. Thus limiting the hairdressing experience as much as possible.

Anyway, I'd probably marry a good hairdresser if I found one. It would make my life so much easier. I wouldn't have to go through the psychological ordeal of going to the hairdresser, as I could get a cut in my own home. Also, she'd be awesome at it, so she could make me look halfway decent, and prevent me going into a hair-induced shame spiral. All sitting in the bath, biting down on the soap to hide your wails from your brothers in the next room.

Ooh, and she would tussle my hair, and give my scalp a good scratching. Man that feels good. There's some sort of ancient genetic coding inside me that loves a good head scratch. Maybe I was a dog in a past life. Dogs have it pretty good.

Monday, 20 October 2008

Ok, so I secretly love going to IKEA

I admit it. Think of me what you will. I went down there on the weekend with my friend Todd to pick up a few things for his place. I haven't actually been to IKEA since they slightly changed the location, but I must say I was impressed by the new store. It was enormous. Cavernously huge. Almost inescapable. When it came time to leave, we asked two female staff members if they knew how to get out of there, and they said they had no idea. They told us they had been stuck there since they started working at IKEA and told us we were doomed to wander forever unless we were pure of heart. For only the pure can find the path to the enchanted carpark.

It's such a fun place. The nice food in the IKEA restaurant. The cheap IKEA coffee with the free IKEA refills. The tiny, yet efficient IKEA pencils used to write the cute IKEA Swedish names on the convenient IKEA shopping list forms. The self-serve IKEA warehouse with the fun IKEA trolleys which you can ride down the enormous aisles as if they were IKEA go-carts. I love it.

So Todd needed a few things, large and small. He needed some pots and pans (long story, involving Todd's former roommate stealing his old ones and holding them hostage in an attempt to gain access to Todd's new place). I wanted to get the Skänka cooking kit, but we agreed that in the end it would probably only disappoint him by being cooked with by another man, and might even leave him a 'nasty surprise' after it left.

In the end we did pretty well. Got some pots and pans, a dishwashing holder thingy, and a set of desk drawers. We did however miss out on the main event, a chest of drawers or wardrobe for Todd's clothes. The one he wanted was sold out when we got to the warehouse section. It's a shame, but I don't mind so much. It gives me an excuse to return to IKEA.

Thursday, 16 October 2008

So I've been thinking about Italy

Rome, specifically. I'm going to be there next year, sometime in March probably. I'm pretty excited about the whole traveling thing, though to be honest it's getting hard to keep up the optimism when every single person you interact with asks you the same question. I can't even like get on a bus these days in case the driver asks me where I'll be staying in America, or what I think of the financial crisis. In fairness though, I can't really get on a bus without asking the driver how his life came to this, so I guess it's probably even.

But yes, Rome has been on my mind lately. I think it's worrying me on a subconscious level, more so than any other place on my to-go list. Well maybe not Rome but more the Vatican. Yes, it is definitely the Vatican that is worrying me. It's really just because of the Pope. The idea of being in the general vicinity of the Pope is really wiggin' me out. It's not like an irrational fear of papacy or anything. It's just that if I'm in the same sovereign nation as the Pope, that means there is a definite slightly higher than normal chance that we might cross paths. Which in turn means that the opportunity might arise for me to, you know, assassinate him.

Now the Pope isn't really all that high on my list of popular assassination targets. I mean, you kill a Pope and a new Pope grows back. I definitely wouldn't go out of my way to kill a guy like Ratzinger, but if the opportunity presented itself, I'd really have to think about taking it. It'd be much the same as if you stumbled drunkenly into a cheap motel and found Barack Obama inside. You'd just have to make love to him, otherwise you'd probably regret it for the next seven years. He's just too cuddly.

Wednesday, 15 October 2008

Memorable roasts

So last week I went to work and while I was talking to the boss I noticed a book on her desk entitled 'Memorable Roasts'. It looked to be your basic instructional cook book alright. But just what in the hell is a memorable roast? How many roasts have you eaten in your life, and can you even remember any damn one? I had one tonight. It was pretty good I guess, but will I remember it? No. Tomorrow I'll get up and go about my daily life and the roast that was will fade away, blurring and merging into the pleasant brown memory that is every roast you've ever had. Filed away in the brain's reference library, never again used except to conjure up the mental picture of what a roast is, in the event that you forget, or need to explain it to a hungry German backpacker whose English is "not so goot."

How can a roast be memorable? Maybe the occasion itself could be memorable. Like a particularly good Christmas which just happened to involve a roast. I guess a roast could be memorable if you got salmonella, or a similar enterobacteria from it. All attached to the toilet for several days, crying out curses at Yellow Jack as you check your stool for blood.

A memorable roast might be feasible if something outrageous happened at the time. A knife-wielding maniac enters the room, declares his love of the Scissor Sisters, then insists you feed him his share. Your sister confirms the family's worst fears: she has become a Freemason but refuses to share the secret handshake with any of you except Cousin Dale. You know, the usual family stuff.

All these possibilities sure would be memorable, but not because of the roast itself. And certainly none of that sort of material would be in that book. God, what secrets could that book contain? I better Google this.

Tuesday, 14 October 2008

Little ducks

Today I watched ducks in the park. Little adolescent ducks, doing the usual things they do. Nipping at each others heels. Flap-running across the water. All following their mother around, asking for gas money. There's something soothing about little ducks. Here and there, quack-quacking. Come to me little ducks. Follow me. Together we will take over the world, one bread crumb at a time.


In four weeks time I'll be heading off on a great journey: 6 months abroad, totally alone in another hemisphere, where I know almost nothing and almost nobody. And as a loafing, Generation Y guy who lives at home, and doesn't cook or clean much of anything, this is a pretty big deal. There are going to be some massive changes.

Personally I love change, even though it frightens me. A little fear is good sometimes. It annoys me the way most people try to resist change, even in its simplest, most inoffensive forms. I guess it's just easier sometimes to cling to a comfortable past, even if that past isn't relevant anymore. I guess I've been guilty of this at times, but no body's perfect. I think coping with change is the greatest thing you can ever do. Anyone who wants to fight the signs of aging should be big on change. It seems like the older people get, the harder it is to deal with it. I guess that's why I get so annoyed when my parents get me to help them with the computer, or other simple tasks that your average supermarket employee could perform. Nobody should give up on learning something new. No-one should get stuck in their ways. And my parents shouldn't act like oldies when they're still in their 40s.

I feel sometimes like I need to go to the extremes of change. I struggle with myself constantly. I want to break every expectation I've ever had. I want to challenge everything I've ever believed. It's the only way I can live with myself. I can't rest until I've looked at everything, I can't know myself until I've pushed me to all my limits.

I love change.

If the stubborn, changeless types ran the world it would be awful. Governments would never get anything done. Fax machines would rule the world. Beck would remake Odelay over and over and over again.

Monday, 13 October 2008


Hello there.